THE THINGS HE NEVER DOUBTED
Samuel Kade had never doubted himself.
Doubt, in his view, was a weakness reserved for people who lacked conviction. He believed that certainty was proof of righteousness—that a man who questioned himself too often would eventually lose authority. From an early age, he had learned that the world rewarded decisiveness, not kindness.
And Samuel was decisive.
He woke each morning with a clear sense of order. His life was structured, efficient, admirable. The chaos of others confirmed his superiority. Elena's quietness, her careful movements, her shrinking presence—these were not failures to him. They were evidence that his system worked.
He told himself this often.
At breakfast, he corrected the way she placed his cup. Not sharply. Casually. As one corrects a child who has not yet learned.
"It goes on the right," he said without looking up.
She moved it immediately.
That small compliance pleased him more than he cared to admit. It reassured him that nothing had changed. That he was still in control.
Samuel liked to believe that his authority was natural, even benevolent. He provided the house, the money, the reputation. He believed Elena owed him gratitude for stability, for protection from a world he considered chaotic and unkind. If she appeared unhappy, it was because she failed to understand the value of what he gave.
Men like Samuel rarely see themselves as villains. They see themselves as misunderstood custodians of order.
When Elena withdrew further into herself, Samuel interpreted it as stubbornness. When she stopped explaining herself, he saw disrespect. When she grew silent, he heard defiance.
And defiance, in his mind, required correction.
"You're distant," he said one evening, his voice deceptively calm.
"I'm tired," she replied.
He studied her carefully. He always did. Her eyes no longer searched his face for approval. That unsettled him.
"You've been tired a lot lately," he said.
The statement was not concern. It was accusation.
Elena said nothing.
Silence irritated him more than argument. Silence suggested independence—thoughts he could not access, feelings he could not manage. For the first time in years, Samuel felt something unfamiliar stir beneath his certainty.
Uncertainty.
It passed quickly, replaced by irritation. He told himself she would return to normal. They always did. People bent eventually. That was the rule he lived by.
What Samuel did not understand was that Elena's silence was no longer submission.
It was preparation.
And while he remained convinced of his permanence, the foundations beneath him were already shifting—quietly, patiently, waiting for the moment when his certainty would finally betray him.