CHAPTER 1
IMPOSTER SYNDROME
MARGAUX
Ifeel him leaning down next to me, his breath hot and shallow as he presses his ear close to my mouth and nose. My heart pounds as I realize what he’s doing—checking my pulse. His trembling hand lingers near my neck for a moment too long, as though he’s weighing something darker in his mind.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking with something that might almost sound like remorse. Almost.
I stay limp, forcing my breathing to remain steady as his arms slide under me. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats as he lifts me, as if I weigh nothing, cradling me like a child, and carries me across the room. My disorientation makes it hard to gauge where he’s taking me, but when he lays me down on the bed, I feel the softness beneath me.
His hands withdraw, and I squint just enough to see that he’s stepped back. A surge of adrenaline jolts through me. Without a second thought, I scream—loud, piercing, primal. My voice bounces off the walls, filling the room with a cacophony of desperation.
I lunge for the nightstand where I left my keys, my heart pounding so loudly it drowns out the chaos around me. My hands shake as I snatch them up and, in my panic, I glance around for my phone. It’s nowhere in sight. A fresh wave of terror grips me—I can’t waste time looking for it.
I make a break for the door. His hand shoots out, catching mine with a vise-like grip. He yanks at the keys, and I hold on with a ferocity that surprises even me. The jagged metal digs into my palm, sending a sharp sting up my arm. But it’s nothing compared to the chaos screaming inside my head.
Somehow, I pull free, stumbling into the outdoor hallway and slamming the door behind me. I don’t stop. My bare feet pound against the pavement as I race toward the security shack, each step fueled by the primal need to escape. The humid night air clings to my skin, heavy and suffocating, but I don’t care.
I see the flashing blue and red lights before I hear the commanding voices. Relief floods through me, tangling with the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Someone must have heard my screams—a neighbor, maybe—and called for help. They ask me questions—too many questions—but my words tumble out like jagged stones.
“He hit me,” I stammer, my voice trembling. “He smacked me in the face.”
“What started it?” the officer asks, his tone detached, procedural. The words hit me like a slap.
What started it? What kind of question is that?I glance at the floor, biting back the bile rising in my throat.
“I was listening to a song,” I manage. “By Machine Gun Kelly.” My laugh is bitter and jagged. “He hit me because I was listening to a Machine Gun Kelly song.”
The officer’s eyebrows twitch, his expression unreadable, but he nods and takes down my words. They take pictures of myinjuries—my swollen lip, my black eyes, my bruised arms, the red marks around my neck.
“Is he still in the apartment?” he asks.
I nod, though my body trembles uncontrollably. “He’s... he’s back there,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
The officers exchange a glance, then spring into action, moving swiftly toward my apartment. I collapse onto the small bench outside the shack, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. My words tumble out like jagged stones as another officer kneels beside me, asking more questions.
I glance back toward the flashing lights, my heart still racing. Relief and fear war within me, each battling for dominance as the weight of what just happened settles heavily on my chest.
“He jumped the fence,” one officer pants as he returns to the group. “He’s on the run.”
Of course he is.Nothing motivates Timmy more than avoiding consequences.
They escort me back to the apartment, and we take a brief look around. Money is spilling out of the safe in the back room.
“Does anything seem to be missing?” one of the officers asks.
I take a quick look. “Some cash, I think,” I say. “And my phone.” And then I notice what else isn’t there. My diamond and platinum engagement ring from my second marriage, which I designed myself, as well as the matching platinum wedding band. “And some jewelry.”
Why the hell did he take those?
“Anything else?” he asks, his tone patient.
I shake my head. “No, not that I can tell. I’ll take another look in a bit, though.”
“Do you want to press charges?” another officer asks.
I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. “No,” I whisper. “Just… make him stop.”