Chapter 2The "Mechanics" Club

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?