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My husband, Edward Harris, had been to the newly-opened cake shop downstairs a staggering eighteen times in a single month. I bided my time, keeping my suspicions to myself, before finally deciding to pay the place a visit. The proprietress was a single mother. Decked out in a dress that exuded a blend of innocence and allure, and with her hair casually gathered up by a lacy ribbon, she greeted me with a warm, inviting smile. "Mrs. Harris, glad you're here at last," she said. It was our first encounter, but her confident use of my married name sent a shiver down my spine. There was no mistaking the veiled challenge in her words and the look in her eyes. "I knew you'd come eventually. You've got more self-control than I gave you credit for," she drawled.