Desperate for peace, I buy a singing bowl and a smudging kit. I’ve always wanted these things, but now I feel like Ineedthem.
The first time I try the bowl, the vibrations send chills down my spine. They’re calming, centering.
Timmy notices, instantly curious. “Let me try,” he says, snatching it from my hands. He runs the mallet around the rim, producing a haunting hum. “Look how good I am at this,” he says, grinning.
I smile weakly, glad he’s found something positive to distract him from chaos. But soon, it becomes another competition. “I’mwaybetter at this than you,” he boasts. “Admit it.”
I nod, swallowing my irritation. “You’re very talented, babe.”
He beams, satisfied.
It’s such a small thing, but even here—where I’m trying to find peace—he finds a way to assert control.
I sit at the edge of the bed, staring out the window. The ocean sparkles in the distance, a sharp contrast to the darkness in my chest.
I’m in one of the most beautiful places on Earth, and I feel trapped.
I spent six months living by the ocean and never went in. Depression kept me away, a weight I couldn’t lift.
“There was nothing stopping you,” Timmy had said, mocking me. But there was.
My mind, my fear, my exhaustion.
Now, I’m not sure if it’s my depression or him—or both—that’s keeping me from fully living. At least I go in the water again now.
I close my eyes, the hum of the singing bowl still ringing faintly in my ears.
And I wonder if I’ll ever feel peace again.
CHAPTER 121
“LEVERAGE”
MARGAUX
Iwake in the middle of the night, my body heavy and damp.
Confused, I shift, and a chill runs up my spine as I realize the dampness isn’t sweat—It’s concentrated, sticky, and cold against my skin.
Jesus.
I sit up, the realization dawning on me in pieces. It reeks unmistakably of urine.
Did I piss the bed?
The thought horrifies me. I’ve spent so long judging Timmy for his complete lack of control, and now… am I becoming him?
Am I breaking down, too?
But as I reach back to feel the source, I realize it isn’t me. The dampness is on the back of my underwear, down my leg, and spreading across the sheets.
Timmy.
My fiancé, my supposed partner in life, has pissed on me while I slept.
“Timmy!” I yell, my voice slicing through the darkness. “Wake the fuck up!”
He groans, turning over like I’ve just asked him to do the impossible. “What,” he mumbles. “Don’t wake me up. I told you before—don’t wake me up!”