PART ONE
Chapter Three: David the Provider
To the outside world, David was a good man.
He was spoken about with respect—sometimes even admiration. Colleagues described him as disciplined, focused, reliable. Neighbours nodded politely when he passed, commenting on how well he carried himself, how fortunate Margret was to have such a hardworking husband.
David liked that version of himself.
He wore it carefully, like a tailored suit—pressed, spotless, convincing.
Every morning, he rose with purpose. He shaved precisely, never rushing, never leaving a cut. His shirts were ironed to sharp perfection, his shoes polished until they reflected light. He liked order because order obeyed. Disorder asked questions.
Margret used to admire his discipline. In the early years of their marriage, it had felt reassuring—proof that she had married a man who knew where he was going. A man who could build a future.
Now, she watched him with a different awareness.
David left early and returned late. He said it was work. It was always work. Meetings, conferences, travel, responsibilities that grew larger every year. His ambitions stretched far beyond the walls of their home.
At the dinner table, when Lucia asked what he did all day, David smiled and said, "I make sure we're taken care of."
And that was true, in the simplest sense.
The bills were paid on time. The fridge was full. Lucia attended a good school. Margret never worried about rent or groceries. David made sure of that.
But provision, Margret was beginning to understand, did not always mean presence.
David moved through their home like a visitor who knew where everything was but did not belong to it. He spoke when necessary, listened when it suited him, and withdrew without explanation. His phone was his constant companion, its screen lighting his face more often than Margret's smile ever did.
One evening, as Margret folded laundry in the bedroom, David stood at the mirror adjusting his cufflinks.
"You're late again," she said carefully.
He didn't turn around. "Things are busy."
"They've been busy for a long time."
David sighed, finally meeting her eyes through the mirror. "This is how progress works, Margret. You don't build something by standing still."
She folded a shirt slowly. "I'm not asking you to stand still. I'm asking you to be here."
"I am here," he said sharply. "Aren't I?"
Margret didn't answer. The silence that followed felt heavier than any argument.
David's irritation faded as quickly as it came. He disliked conflict at home—it distracted him. He leaned down, kissed Margret's forehead, and picked up his jacket.
"I'm doing this for us," he said, as if that explained everything.
Margret watched him leave, unsure when "us" had begun to sound like "me."
At work, David was in control.
He commanded attention without raising his voice. People listened when he spoke. They trusted him. That trust had been built carefully over years—through calculated generosity, strategic alliances, and the careful concealment of inconvenient truths.
David knew how power worked. It was not seized loudly. It was accumulated quietly.
When colleagues spoke of integrity, David nodded in agreement. When they spoke of loyalty, he smiled. When they spoke of sacrifice, he let them believe he had made plenty.
No one questioned him.
At home, Lucia tried to understand her father the way children try to understand storms. She knew he brought safety. She also knew he brought distance.
When he came home early one rare afternoon, Lucia lit up.
"Daddy!" she exclaimed, dropping her pencil and running toward him.
David caught her easily, lifting her off the ground. "You're getting heavy," he said, though there was a hint of warmth in his voice.
Lucia grinned. "Mama says that means I'm growing."
"That's good," David replied.
He set her down gently, but his eyes drifted almost immediately toward his phone as it vibrated in his pocket. Lucia noticed.
"Will you stay for dinner?" she asked.
David hesitated. "I'll try."
Lucia nodded, trying not to show how much the answer mattered.
He did stay that night. He sat at the table, listened as Lucia explained a story she'd read in class, nodded at the right moments. Margret watched the scene unfold like a performance—convincing, almost tender.
But when Lucia excused herself, David's attention snapped back to his phone.
"You don't have to pretend," Margret said quietly.
David looked up. "Pretend what?"
"That everything is fine."
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. "It is fine."
Margret met his gaze. "Is it?"
David's eyes hardened. "You worry too much."
Later that night, as Margret lay beside him, she felt the space between their bodies—small but unmistakable. She remembered a time when they had fallen asleep tangled together, breath shared, skin warm against skin.
Now, even in the dark, there were boundaries.
David stared at the ceiling, thoughts racing ahead to plans Margret knew nothing about. He had always been like this—thinking five steps ahead, calculating outcomes, weighing risks.
What Margret did not know was that David had begun to see his home not as a refuge, but as a liability.
Secrets required space. Lies required distance. And distance, once established, was easy to justify.
He told himself he was doing nothing wrong. Men in his position had needs, pressures, temptations. It was natural. It was manageable. It was contained.
He told himself he was careful.
That night, his phone buzzed softly on the bedside table. Margret stirred.
"Who is it?" she asked, half-asleep.
"No one important," David replied quickly, silencing it.
Margret turned away. Something in his voice had shifted—too fast, too defensive. She felt the familiar tightening in her chest.
Lucia, awake in her room down the hall, listened to the sound of the house settling. She had learned the rhythm of nights like this—the silence broken only by distant murmurs, by vibrations through walls.
She hugged her pillow tightly.
David fell asleep believing he had everything under control.
Margret lay awake, questioning things she didn't yet have the courage to name.
And Lucia, watching from the quiet edges of her world, began to understand that being provided for did not always mean being protected.
The house remained quiet.
But beneath the surface of routine and respectability, something dangerous was growing—fed by ambition, secrecy, and a man who believed that power could shield him from consequences.
He was wrong.