I message Alice again.
Me:
I’ve been thinking about it.
He behaves like this, but he gets all the smart ladies and nobody knows why.
Alice:
Charisma.
Society tells women that they must settle inherently.
And are conditioned to often accept any man who shows affection.
Me:
Yeah. I think… you know, I don’t have a family, really.
And this guy says all the right things when he wants to and has charisma, as you say.
But he’s a flawed fuck and nobody knows why I’m with him.
But it’s hard having nobody.
And I thought I was strong, but maybe I’m really actually weak and felt like I needed someone and picked the wrong one.
Timmy notices me typing furiously and storms over, trying to peek at my screen.
I switch windows, shielding my conversation with Alice.
As if to retaliate, he pulls out his phone and starts messaging someone on Instagram, holding the phone at an angle that makes sure I notice.
It’s petty, juvenile, and pathetic. But that’s Timmy in a nutshell.
I’m getting tired of playing these games.
Something has to give. And soon.
CHAPTER 95
WEAPONIZED KINDNESS
DEX
The truck is a piece of shit, but it’s where Margaux feels safe enough to take her therapy calls. That alone tells me everything I need to know.
The mildew, the roaches, the lingering stench of tobacco and damp, all of which my associate reported to me when he installed the tracking device and cameras in the truck—none of that compares to her fear of Timmy overhearing.
Not after what he pulled during her intake session.
I mean, I guess I’m technically doing the same thing—eavesdropping on Margaux’s therapy. Tracking her 24/7, and gaining access into her innermost thoughts.
But it’s different—Timmy uses it against her, whereas I’m using it to gain insight into how I can push her closer to breaking away.
If she ever finds out, though, I’m not sure she’d see it that way.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the security monitors, catching glimpses of her in the truck. Her voice is low, earnest, tinged with vulnerability as she speaks to her therapist. Shelooks like she’s baring her soul, and for a second, I hate that it’s happening in that goddamn truck instead of a quiet, safe room with soft lighting and a therapist she can see in person.