“Well,” he says smugly, “you must be professional at work, especially in HR. And you should do that now.”
Oh. Hell. No.
“You want me to apply myHR skillsto ourrelationship?” My voice is rising, and I don’t care. “Are you fucking kidding me?Do you know how absurd that sounds? If I were applying HR policies, I’d have fired you on day one! Serious misconduct! Assaulting another employee! Misrepresentation of facts! Lying on your resumé! Zero tolerance! Investigation complete—termination with no severance!”
He blinks at me, confused. “I just meant you should be professional and calm.”
“When you’re poking at me, insulting me, criticizing and screaming at me, I’m supposed to stay calm and take it?”I yell.
“Jesus, you’re sooo dramatic.” He rolls his eyes, his indifference like gasoline on my fire.
My whole body is tingling, my pulse pounding in my temples. For a moment, I wonder if this is what will kill me—an aneurysm brought on by Timmy’s bullshit.
CHAPTER 52
TIMMY’S TOOLS OF TERROR: CHAINSAW MASSACRE - THE SEQUEL
MARGAUX
THE NEXT DAY
The sound of my phone buzzing breaks the tense silence in the apartment. I glance down at the screen. It’s a message from my friend, David.
David:
Have you been surfing yet?
Me:
No.
David:
Isn’t your fiancé like a surfer? Isn’t that his whole thing?
Me:
Well, he says he is. But I’ve never seen him surf before.
David:
Oh my god. The guy can’t surf. I knew it.
Me:
Lol, you’re silly.
I laugh at David’s playful jab, but his words stick with me. Timmy has always branded himself as the quintessential laid-back surfer dude—board shorts, sun-bleached hair, and endless tales of catching waves. But after months together, I’ve never seen him even touch a surfboard. It’s just another crack in the carefully constructed image he’s tried to sell me.
My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of Timmy rummaging in the back room. A chill runs through me—that sound usually means trouble. Moments later, he emerges, and my blood runs cold. He’s holding his yellow-and-black chainsaw—the one he’s always bragged about, the one he polishes like a trophy.
My chest tightens.Not again.
“I’m going to chop your head off with this fucking chainsaw!” he screams, his voice full of venom, his face twisted with rage. “Fuck you, you dumb bitch!”
The room seems to shrink, the air thick with terror. He’s not just holding it like he did last time—he’s gripping it with both hands, his knuckles white, like he might actually switch it on.
Though it’s not running, the sight of it—the jagged teeth, the weight of it in his hands—is enough to send me spiraling into panic.