“I’m having a panic attack,” he says, bolting from the theater like a martyr on parade. It’s such a transparent ploy for attention, such a blatant attempt to overshadow Margaux’s joy, I can’t help but laugh. Not because it’s funny, but because it’s so predictable.
He’s punishing her. For not buying him whiskey. For not making the day after his birthday all about him.
For daring to enjoy something he didn’t control.
Margaux doesn’t let him win this time, though—not completely. She stays, enjoying Chelsea’s set despite his antics. And I’m proud of her for that.
But the damage is done. Timmy’s tantrum has cast its shadow, and I can see her struggling to keep it from consuming her night.
The next day, it’s the same old Timmy. The foot shaking, the moaning, the endless stream of petty, calculated disruptions. Sleep deprivation as a weapon. Psychological warfare in its most insidious form.
And when Margaux calls him out, when she dares to ask him to contribute, he turns it back on her. “You make me feel guilty for existing,” he says, dripping with faux vulnerability. “You push my buttons. You make me violent.”
My hands are trembling now, my fists clenched so tight my nails dig into my palms. I’ve read about narcissistic personality disorder—studied it, dissected it—and Timmy is the textbook case. Love bombing, devaluation, projection. It’s all there.
He’s not just a bad partner—he’s a goddamn predator.
But the part that really gets me? The part that makes me want to smash through the screen and rip him apart?
It’s the fucking smirk. That smug, self-satisfied grin he wears when he thinks he’s won. The way he twists words into a bludgeon to silence her.
And yet, through it all, Margaux stays. She forgives.
Not because he deserves it, but because she’s better than him. Because she’s holding onto the hope that the man she fell in love with is still in there somewhere.
I’m torn. Torn between my sorrow for her and my delight at seeing his mask fall again. Because every slip, every crack, every moment of exposed truth brings her closer to seeing him for what he really is.
And when that day comes, when she finally breaks free, he won’t just lose her.
He’ll lose the one person who ever saw anything good in him.
Until then, I’ll keep observing. And when it’s time, I’ll help her to build something real, something strong—something he can’t touch.
CHAPTER 119
PETTY REVENGE AND PTSD
MARGAUX
THE PAST
Timmy: You’re emotional. But that’s okay, because so am I.
I’m a Cancer, you know.
Me: I’m actually not that emotional, unless I’m triggered.
Like… loud noises trigger my PTSD.
Timmy: Oh no, I didn’t realize.
I’ll be extra mindful of that.
I never want to hurt you, Margaux.
THE PRESENT
His foot shakes, and the whole bed trembles. The rhythm is relentless, unyielding, and impossible to ignore. As usual, it starts as a faint vibration and crescendos into an insistent, deliberate disturbance, like a jackhammer attacking my sanity.