David was once the kind of man people trusted without question.
He woke up early, ironed his shirts carefully, and believed that being a good husband meant being present—at least physically. On Sunday mornings, he brought fresh bread home and teased Jennifer about how she always woke up before the alarm. He had a steady job at a small logistics company and dreams that were modest but sincere: a better apartment, a child someday, stability.
Jennifer loved him quietly but deeply. She admired how he spoke little yet listened carefully. In those early days, there was nothing reckless about David. Nothing broken.
The first crack appeared so gently that neither of them noticed.
It was after work, with colleagues who laughed too loudly and drank too much. Someone offered something "just to relax." David hesitated, then smiled awkwardly. He didn't want to seem weak. He didn't want to be different.
That night, he came home late.
Jennifer pretended to be asleep. She smelled something unfamiliar on him—not alcohol, something sharper. She told herself she was imagining things. Love often makes excuses before it asks questions.
David lay awake, staring at the ceiling. His heart raced, his thoughts scattered, but there was also a strange sense of freedom. For the first time in years, he felt weightless. The world felt distant, manageable.
He did not know he had just opened a door that would one day swallow everything behind it.