But my sanctuary was short-lived.

At precisely 7:18 on Wednesday morning, a violent, percussive pounding shook the frame of my newly secured front door.

Not a knock. A demand for entry. I slipped my silk robe over my shoulders, cinched the sash tight, and walked deliberately toward the foyer. The rhythmic pounding echoed again.

Had Ethan discovered his plastic was dead? Had his paradise collapsed in record time? I leaned forward and peered through the brass peephole, braced for war.

But the two faces staring back at me didn’t belong to a cheating husband or a traitorous friend. They belonged to the police.