My husband had to work late, so out of boredom, I picked up his tablet to play a game. Suddenly, a WeChat notification popped up. It was from an account I had never seen before. The group chat was named "Veteran Mechanics Maintenance Station," and new messages were pouring in: "Test drove a '75 vintage model today. 1.6L naturally aspirated. The intake was incredible. Handled all kinds of high-difficulty maneuvers with ease. Only downside is the engine knocks a bit, and it leaks a lot of fluid." "Be grateful it still has fluid at that age!" "Respect, man. Was it your personal car, or a rental?" "I haven't driven a classic that old yet. Mind if I take it for a spin? I'll pay for the maintenance!" I was about to close the app when I saw my husband's reply. "Classic cars can't beat the new models. I just drove an '01 off the lot. Slammed the gas pedal to the floor, the engine roared twice, and the whole system stalled." My fingers trembled. The only car our family owned was a nearly ten-year-old SUV. 1. As my finger scrolled to the very last page of the tablet's Notes app, it suddenly stopped. "WeChat Alt Account: rong0525, Password: 20180520." That was the day we got our marriage license. I vividly remembered Mark holding up our marriage certificate, smiling brightly. "From now on, all my passwords will be this date, so you can unlock everything in my life whenever you want." But right now, this password unlocked a world I had never seen before. The moment the login was successful, the WeChat homepage exploded with "99+" unread message notifications. The group chat was called "Veteran Mechanics Maintenance Station," and every member's profile picture was a car logo. New messages kept popping up. "Test drove a '75 vintage model today. 1.6L naturally aspirated. Handled all kinds of high-difficulty driving maneuvers with ease. Only downside is the engine knocks a bit, and it leaks a lot of fluid." Someone quickly replied: "Be grateful a car from that year still has fluid!" "Was it your personal car, or a rental?" "Mind if I take it for a spin? I'll pay for the maintenance!" ... At the very bottom of the chat was Mark's reply. "Classic cars can't beat the new models. I just drove an '01 off the lot. Slammed the gas pedal to the floor, the engine roared twice, and the whole system stalled. Headlights were blindingly white. An unforgettable ride..." In a daze, I bumped the desk next to me. A framed photo rattled. It was taken on our anniversary last year. I was leaning against Mark's shoulder, and parked behind us was our seven-year-old black SUV. He had said that day, "My wife is number one, and my car is number two. One is my safe harbor, and the other is the roar of my soul." But the "cars" he was discussing in this group chat were models I didn't recognize. The safe harbor was still here, but his soul was roaring somewhere else. I heard keys jingling at the front door. I quickly logged out of the tablet, shoving it under a sofa cushion just as Mark pushed the door open. He walked straight toward me with a wide smile, opening his arms for a hug like he always did. I stiffly hugged him back. As I did, a single, light-brown strand of long hair slipped from his collar—a stark, almost comical contrast to the pin-straight, jet-black hair I had kept for five years. Mark always said black hair was the most beautiful and grounded. "Had to drink with Mr. Davis today. His old Audi A8 keeps stalling, so we spent half the night talking about car repairs." Mark rubbed his temples, offering a helpless smile. "I wanted to come home early to be with you, but he just wouldn't stop talking. You know how these business dinners are. You can't leave until the very last second." He sighed and reached out to playfully ruffle my hair. "Company retreat next week. We're staying overnight out of town this time. I'll talk to the guys tomorrow and see if I can pay out of pocket to bring you along. Otherwise, I'll go crazy missing you for a whole night." With his movement, the long, light-brown hair slipped from his collar and fluttered silently onto the rug. I suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe. All I could think about was the strong scent of gardenia perfume he smelled like when he came home from a "work dinner" last week. It was the exact same scent filling my nose right now. I jokingly asked if he had been out stealing kisses. He casually shook his head. "I took the car in for maintenance, and the shop owner recommended this new air freshener. I'm not used to the smell. It probably rubbed off on me." Thinking back on it now, he told that lie so effortlessly. 2. When I walked out of the bedroom clutching the edges of the tablet, Mark shifted in his sleep. Moonlight slipped through the gap in the curtains, falling perfectly across his arm resting outside the blanket. A fresh, jarring scratch mark—clearly made by fingernails—was starkly visible. I held my breath and tiptoed toward the home office. Right before bed, he had been constantly texting on his phone. When he saw me looking, he openly waved the screen at me. "Just talking about cars with the guys from work. It's the only hobby we men have left." The moment I clicked on the desk lamp, the group chat messages flooded in. The "Veteran Mechanics Maintenance Station" chat jumped to the top of the screen. Someone posted: "Just put custom lace seat covers in the new car. Feels silky smooth to the touch, but they snag easily." A reply quickly followed: "They snag because you're too rough. If it were me, I wouldn't ruin anything except the oil filler cap." Scrolling down further, I quickly spotted Mark's reply, glaringly obvious among the sea of text. "Lace seat covers are nothing. Why dress up the outside when you can upgrade the chassis? Decals, little bells... I'm telling you, that's what makes a ride truly thrilling!" A flurry of responses flooded the screen below. "Mark the legend! You always have the wildest tricks!" "They don't call you 'Iron Mark' for nothing. Hard as steel from head to toe." "Flowing water crashing against ringing bells. Sounds like poetry, man!" Mark was practically glowing with pride in his texts. "Exactly! You gotta be bold and try new things. Once you've driven a new car off the lot, you realize old cars are just pure nostalgia. Men are wired to love the new and get bored of the old. It's just human nature." I stared at the words "little bells," my fingertip pressing hard into the screen. Last month, while checking our joint credit card statement, I noticed Mark had spent $800. The merchant was listed as "Midnight Allure." There were several similar charges. I had confronted him about it immediately. We had never been the type of couple to use toys or lingerie. More accurately, Mark refused to. Whenever my friends got together, they would talk about their sex lives with absolute enthusiasm. I never joined in. They thought I was just too shy to discuss it, but when I finally admitted we never spiced things up, they all scoffed. "Even a monk would lose his mind over fishnets! Emma, is your Mark made of stone or something? Try it out. I guarantee you'll see a whole different side of him!" On the way home, I couldn't resist stopping by an adult boutique and picking out the most conservative lingerie they had. But after I showered and finally worked up the courage to walk out wearing it, Mark just gave a helpless smile and draped a robe over my shoulders. "We've been married for years. What's all this for? Don't catch a cold." "Don't all men like this kind of thing?" I asked stubbornly, pulling the robe off. I did Pilates three times a week. My figure was famously fit at my gym. "I don't care what other men like. I only know I don't want to objectify my wife." "It's not objectifying. It's just having fun..." He gently kissed the corner of my mouth, cutting me off. "We don't need 'fun' between us. I can rise to the occasion for you anytime." He pressed his hips forward against me. "We'll skip the outfits. Remember, a knight's duty is simply to serve his queen." He really gave it his all that night. I could see a repressed lust in his eyes that felt different from usual, but the next day, I could never find that lingerie again. After that, our sex life settled into a routine of twice a month—once at the beginning, once at the end—as punctual as clocking in for a shift. I didn't have an overly high sex drive either. Just like Mark said: Our souls are already perfectly intertwined. Why does it matter how much we immerse ourselves in the physical? But when I saw those charges from "Midnight Allure," I was so furious I could barely breathe. Sensing something was wrong, Mark quickly grabbed my phone, scanned the screen, and laughed out loud. "Honey, is this what you're mad about?" He quickly dialed a number. "Hey, Sam. Explain this to your sister-in-law. Why the hell is a reputable auto shop called 'Midnight Allure'?!" The guy on the other end laughed loudly. "Don't be mad, Emma! I opened an auto detailing shop on the East Side. Business was slow, so I thought changing the name might bring in more foot traffic!" "Mark's been a lifesaver. He sent a bunch of customers my way. I told him I'd detail your car and do a full vinyl wrap for free, but he absolutely refused. He scanned my QR code and sent the money when I wasn't looking! Mark, this is your fault! Now Emma thinks you're up to no good!" I had met Sam before. He did indeed run an auto shop on the East Side, and Mark had taken me there once. Calling it an auto shop was a stretch. It looked like a massive, empty box from the outside. Inside, there was barely enough room for a single row of cars, but the entire back wall was lined with shelves. It felt claustrophobic, and it definitely didn't look like a booming business. Before hanging up, Sam repeatedly insisted on taking us out to dinner—first to say thank you, and second to apologize for the misunderstanding. The issue was brushed under the rug. But I never imagined that a month later, when I opened Mark's credit card statement again, there would be exactly seventeen identical charges. Did our single family SUV need maintenance every other day? 3. It felt like a wad of cotton was shoved down my throat. I gripped the tablet and stood up, planning to back up the chat history to the cloud. But my lower back bumped into the bookshelf, and a heavy Clinical Anatomy textbook hit the floor with a loud thud. Footsteps immediately echoed down the hallway. My heart stopped. In a panic, I shoved the tablet into the storage bin on the highest shelf. Just as I turned around, the office door was pushed open. Mark stood in the doorway. He didn't turn on the light. The hallway illumination cut his face into sharp halves of light and shadow. He stared at me intently. "Honey? What are you doing in the office in the middle of the night?" I stretched my back. "I have an aortic dissection surgery tomorrow. Just reviewing some anatomy charts." I bent down to pick up the book, my fingertips trembling so badly I almost dropped it again. "The top surgeon at City General still gets nervous?" Mark walked in, resting his hand on the edge of the desk, his thumb brushing over the surgical diagrams in the open book. "I heard a crash. I thought someone broke in." I slid the book back onto the shelf, deliberately letting the spine hit the wood with a soft clatter. "I was rushing to find some reference material and knocked it over." When I looked up, my eyes met his. There was a cloudy look in his eyes—I couldn't tell if it was confusion or suspicion. I took the initiative and asked, "Why are you awake? Did I make too much noise?" He didn't answer. Instead, he took two steps closer to the bookshelf. Sweat instantly soaked the back of my pajamas, making the fabric cling to my skin. The tablet was right above his head. The silver edge was glaringly obvious nestled among the row of books. But he suddenly stopped and reached out to tug at my hair. "Your hair is a mess." His fingertips brushed behind my ear, carrying the scent of his usual aftershave. But I couldn't shake the feeling that underneath it was the faint smell of massage candle wax, exactly like the kind the guys in the group chat were just discussing. "Let's go back to sleep. Getting enough rest is the most important thing." He wrapped his arm around my waist and guided me toward the door, his hand sliding up and down my waistline, almost as if he was checking to see if I was hiding anything. As we reached the doorway, he suddenly looked back at the bookshelf. His gaze swept over it like a searchlight. I wasn't sure if he had spotted the tablet. If he had, he would have caught me red-handed looking at his chat history. What would I even say? Confront him directly? "Let's sleep. I'm exhausted." I let out a fake yawn, flicked off the office light, and naturally took his hand, leading him back to the bedroom. He didn't notice the tablet and followed me back to bed. When we lay back down, he turned his back to me, but his breathing never leveled out. I stared at the ceiling, my mind flooded with memories of him dropping to his knees, begging me to be with him. 4. When I woke up the next morning, Mark had already made breakfast. He wore a deliberately relaxed smile on his face, but the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes betrayed his tension. "Honey, have you seen my tablet?" "I have a quarterly report for work. I need to use it to send some files." He poured me a glass of soy milk, asking the question far too casually. I shook my head. "Haven't seen it. Didn't you leave it in the living room yesterday?" "Weird." He scratched his head, turning toward the living room, his footsteps noticeably faster than usual. "I distinctly remember leaving it on the sofa..." I followed behind him, watching as he tore the sofa cushions apart. I crouched down to help him pick up a throw pillow, keeping my voice as natural as possible. "Wait, didn't you use it for a video call in the bedroom the day before yesterday?" He let out an "Ah!" like he just remembered, and immediately turned and headed for the bedroom. Taking advantage of the noise he was making rummaging through the bedroom drawers, I sprinted to the home office, grabbed the tablet, took several rapid screenshots, cleared the recent app usage history, and then bolted back to the living room to shove it deep between the sofa cushions. The sound of cabinet doors and drawers slamming open and shut echoed from the bedroom. Mark was starting to panic. "Where the hell is it?!" I slowly sipped my soy milk, watching him pace through every room in the house like he was conducting a grid search. Soon enough, I heard Mark shout from the living room: "Found it! That's so weird, I swore I just looked here!" When I walked over, he was holding the tablet and smiling, but his fingers were swiping frantically across the screen. When he saw the screen was completely clean, his tense shoulders finally dropped. He looked up at me and laughed. "My memory is getting worse every day." When I wasn't looking, he quickly found WeChat, switched accounts, and logged out. But I couldn't stop the corners of my mouth from curling up into a smirk. He thought he was safe now, completely unaware that I had already set a trap. I knew he would eventually realize he needed to log out of WeChat. So, on my way home from work yesterday, I stopped by a convenience store and bought a prepaid burner phone and SIM card. I registered a new WeChat account with the burner number. The profile picture was a vintage motorcycle, and the display name was "Classic Ride." The most crucial step was what I did while he was asleep last night. I opened the group chat, tapped the "Invite Friend" button, scanned the QR code with my new WeChat account, and immediately deleted the invitation record from his tablet. So, even though he had logged out of WeChat, he had absolutely no idea that a new pair of eyes was permanently watching his group chat. Mark put the tablet away, stood up, and patted my shoulder. "I'm heading to work. I might have to work late tonight." The moment the door clicked shut, I immediately pulled out my phone and opened my new WeChat account. The little red notification dot for the group chat was bouncing wildly. Mark had just sent a voice message. "Went a little too hard the day before yesterday and scratched up the paint. That '01 model needs some serious maintenance. The 'Classic Ride' at home is throwing a tantrum and won't let me drive for the next couple days. Boys, if you're taking the cars out, remember to bring me along." He continued messaging the group, complaining that his "old car" at home needed to be "repaired." I couldn't resist tagging him. "How are you going to repair it? Aren't you worried the 'old car' might find a new owner?" "A new owner?" "I could give her all the courage in the world, and she still wouldn't have the nerve to leave me!" I honestly didn't understand. Just a second ago, this man was acting like he couldn't bear to part with me for a single night, and the moment he walked out the door, he was dragging my name through the mud. He quickly revealed the answer himself. Mark typed, radiating arrogance. "You guys don't know the full story. When I bought this 'old car,' not only did I not pay a dime, but it actually came with a free house and a career attached!" I bit down hard on my lip. The metallic taste of blood instantly exploded in my mouth. The guys in the group were immediately interested. "Damn, deals like that actually exist? Where did you buy it? Can you hook me up with one?" It was a painful memory I thought I would never have to revisit. But Mark's reply dragged me straight down into an inescapable abyss. I recognized every single word he typed. But pieced together, they felt like countless daggers plunging directly into my eyes. "You gotta be smart about it, boys. You scratch up the paint in the dark yourself, then you show up like a savior. A little pity, a little heartbreak... not only do you take over the lease with zero down and zero monthly payments, but the idiot actually thanks you for it." "You played the villain and the hero?!" "Absolute genius, man!" ... Mark soaked up the group's praise, then quickly deleted his previous message. "Men are the sky, and women are the earth. The earth must obey the sky, and women must obey men. We men are born to conquer the world on horseback. Everyone talks about passing down traditional virtues, but somehow they conveniently forgot about the tradition of having multiple wives and mistresses! "The 'old car' should be grateful I don't throw her out for being worn down! Haha!" My grip on the phone was so tight the screen nearly cracked. Originally, I just wanted to gather enough evidence to divorce him with my dignity intact. But now, I wanted him to drown like a maggot in the filthy sewage he had poured all over me, never to see the light of day again. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see how a man like this "conquered the world." He pushed me into the abyss, then stood on the edge and threw down a frayed rope, expecting me to grovel in gratitude as I climbed up? Pathetic. Men might think they conquer the world on horseback, but women give birth to life. We bring new life into this world, and we absolutely will not allow the animals born beneath our skirts to stab us in the back! 5. I had been busy the last few days. I dug up the background of every single person in that group chat. The guy calling himself "Muscle Man Drives BMWs" was Mark's college buddy, Jason. "Pedal to the Metal" was his coworker, David. "Premium Insurance Guy" was a former auto insurance salesman named Kevin. "Motor Oil Walk-In Closet" was Sam, the guy who ran the auto shop. There were many others. Some were invited by friends, while others joined through word of mouth, just like I did. Some were just there to talk big and live out their fantasies in the chat. Simply put, the group was a collection of society's most disgusting, discarded scraps from every industry. My phone screen was still flashing with group chat notifications. Jason sent a message: "Just drove a Mini Cooper. Handled beautifully, incredibly thrilling. The acceleration pins you right back in your seat." Someone immediately replied: "I drove a Mercedes C-Class last week. Burns through gas like crazy, but damn, she was gorgeous to look at." The guys who just liked to talk immediately chimed in. "Hoping to meet a generous 'green-hat' brother who's willing to share. Let me admire your ride, absolute secrecy guaranteed. I love other people's cars, especially the ones aged 28 to 45. They have the most charm, gives you a real sense of conquest. But if I can't find one, that's fine too. [Facepalm] PM me if you fit the bill, serious inquiries only. No catfish. [Eye Roll][Eye Roll][Eye Roll]" "I'm not much of a player. Just have a little fun manually washing my car for fifteen seconds, spraying some wiper fluid, putting it in gear for an hour, and then spraying some more. It's useless, but at least I'm only driving my own car and keeping it clean. [Dazed]" After being in the group this long, even an idiot would understand that these codes were the disgusting tags they slapped on women. Kevin, the guy with the car insurance profile picture, suddenly popped up: "Just got a new batch of 'Electric Vehicle' profiles. Passenger seat is usually empty. Whether you can actually drive it depends on your skills, but the success rate is pretty high. PM me if you want in." Someone immediately asked for pictures and an estimated price. A photo of a woman from behind was sent to the chat. Slender legs, round hips. It left plenty to the imagination. "You can tell just by looking that the acceleration is going to push you back in your seat. The Camry has a low stance, and the headlights swing up and down. Incredible!" Jason critiqued. "You sly dog, acting like a saint at home and a total degenerate outside. You're really living the dream, huh?" Mark replied quickly. "By the way, you didn't forget we're swapping 'cars' tomorrow, right? I told my wife I have a company retreat. Make sure you don't slip up at home." I had just seen Jason's Facebook post, checking in at a high-end luxury mall. "Bought a little something for myself. Love you, wifey." The attached photo showed his wife smiling happily, holding a brand-new Patek Philippe watch. The Buddha says it's better to tear down a temple than to destroy a marriage. But nowadays, the monks in the temple had built themselves an express lane out of their vows, turning enlightenment into a checklist for infidelity and greed. So, the Buddha can't be trusted. If these men were forming a club to "drive cars," then us women... Well, we'd just have to unite and chop off their gearsticks! 6. I stared at the messages about swapping "cars," re-reading them over and over. My fingers typed out a line on the screen: "Take me with you, boys! Seeing you guys swap looks like so much fun. I want to test the handling too." The message sat in the chat for three hours before an avatar popped up: "New recruit?" I immediately sent three large red envelopes (digital cash gifts) to the chat, keeping my tone incredibly subservient: "The old car at home is dead weight. I've never actually experienced this kind of fun, and I feel pathetic. I'm not asking for much, bro, I just want to join the party." When I specifically tagged Mark, my words oozed with "admiration": "Mark, man, I respect the hell out of you. You're the freest guy in this group. You're a real man. I'm a rookie, I've never driven a luxury car before. Just let me watch from a distance. I swear I won't cause any trouble." Two minutes later, Mark's message popped up, practically radiating smugness: "This is nothing. I've had my hands on at least eighty to a hundred steering wheels in my life. Since you're so sincere, I'll bring you along." Then he sent two photos. Side profiles of two young women looking at the camera. It was Lily and Chloe. "These two are the ones we're swapping tonight. Giving you a lot of face here, rookie." I quickly replied: "You're too generous, boss! I can't just show up empty-handed. Which hotel should I book? Secret romance theme or the erotic waterbed suite?" He got even more arrogant, sending a location pin and an invite to a smaller, private group chat: "We've had our fun. I'll let you touch the steering wheel tonight." The private group chat contained the meticulous details of his and Jason's plan. They had even calculated the exact milligram dosage of the drugs they were going to slip into the girls' drinks, ensuring they would be "passed out drunk with no side effects." In the main group, Mark's coworker David suddenly sent out an SOS: "Played too hard! I threw up inside!" Someone replied instantly: "What happened? Weren't you driving your boss's car?" David sent an irritated emoji: "Don't fucking mention it. She was crying, saying she felt sick. She's been nauseous lately. You don't think she's..." The group chat exploded: "Dude, is she actually pregnant?" "Legend! You're making your boss raise your woman and your kid?" I stared at the screen and sneered. Following the breadcrumbs in David's chat history, I had figured it out ages ago—six months ago, he hooked up with the CEO's secretary, manipulated her into leaking insider bidding information and client lists, and used it to force out his supervisor and get a massive raise. Evil people deserve to be tortured by other evil people. I took screenshots of his chat logs admitting to leaking corporate secrets and sent them anonymously to the CEO, Mr. King. After finishing that, I locked my phone. Looking at the hotel name in the location pin, my fingers scrolled through my contacts to find the phone numbers for Lily and Chloe, which I had paid a private investigator a small fortune to track down. It was time to let the hunters know that the prey knew how to build traps, too.
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