I lean back in my chair, cracking my knuckles. Time to take this up a notch—to dive into the next phase of my plan. If Timmy wants to play games, I’ll show him what a real game looks like.
I scour the internet, digging into every sordid detail of Timmy’s past. His criminal record is a smorgasbord of offenses in multiple states—assaults, DUIs, a parade of failed relationships and restraining orders, shady connections, allegations of child abuse in Montana. He even has an arrest under an alias.
The more I find, the more disgusted I become. How Margaux ended up with him, I can only chalk up to her big heart and his calculated manipulation.
And then there’s the bombshell: he has a child. A child he’s abandoned.
No child support. No contact. Nothing.
What a lucky escape for that kid. Imagine having a father like Timmy.
The idea of this deadbeat, this parasite, playing house with Margaux while neglecting his own flesh and blood makes me want to break something.
This isn’t just about Margaux anymore. It’s about righting every one of his wrongs, starting with the way he’s hollowed her out.
The texts start small. Cryptic. Anonymous. Little messages designed to plant seeds of paranoia in Timmy’s tiny, inadequate brain.
Anonymous:
Montana remembers you, Timmy.
Some records never disappear. Isn’t that funny?
You’ve always been good at running, but you can’t hide forever. Tick tock.
Does Margaux know about the child?
I make sure they’re timed sporadically, just enough to keep him on edge.
Too frequent, and he might explode in a way that puts Margaux in danger.
Too infrequent, and he might just brush them off.
It’s a delicate balance, but I’m good at balancing.
And I’m even better at breaking people who deserve it.
Hours later, I get what I want—a glimpse of his unraveling.
Timmy’s texts to Margaux grow more frantic, more disjointed.
He’s trying to act calm, trying to keep up the charade of control, but I can see the cracks forming.
Timmy:
Do you know anyone from Montana who might have my number?
Have you been talking to anyone about me?
If someone reaches out to you about me, tell them to fuck off.
His facade of control is disintegrating. He’s scrambling, trying to piece together a narrative that keeps him in power, but I can see the fear creeping in.
Good.Let him stew in his paranoia. Let him feel the weight of his past bearing down on him.
But even as I relish his growing desperation, a cold knot forms in my gut. This kind of agitation in a man like Timmy could turn dangerous quickly—I can’t let him spiral too far, too fast. I have to tread carefully. A ‘man’ like Timmy, cornered, will lash out. The last thing I want is for Margaux to become his outlet.
So I shift tactics.