Automatically, I gulp in air, and the hiccups come.
“See, you’re drunk,” he says with that awful smirk. “You dumb fucking cunt.”
The tears well up in my eyes before I can stop them.
He mocks me immediately, his tone taunting and high-pitched. “Oh boo hoo, I’m so sad. Shut the fuck up.”
I try to stop crying, but the effort just makes the tears come faster.
“Oh, fuck you. You’re so fucking stupid,” he spits, his words sharp and venomous. He stands, unsteady on his feet, towering over me. His shadow falls across me as I cower instinctively. He smirks, satisfied, then turns and stomps to the door. The door swooshes open, and the beep of the lock feels like a hammer driving into my skull.
I sit in the quiet, trembling as the adrenaline courses through me. My limbs tingle with the aftershocks, and the tears keep coming.
Eventually, I calm enough to take a deep breath. At least now I can watch something on TV without him complaining.
But can I, really? If he comes back and sees that I’ve watched something he doesn’t like, that could spark another argument.
Even when he’s not here, I feel his presence like a prison guard, controlling my choices, dictating my actions
I am a captive, even in the moments when he’s gone.
CHAPTER 124
SPIRITUALITY IS NOT A CONTEST, BRUH
DEX
Iwatch from afar, the feed of Margaux’s life playing out in a maddening mix of heartbreak and fury. The edges of my vision blur as the details sharpen, my jaw tightening with each new piece of evidence of Timmy’s cruelty.
The bastard knows exactly how to manipulate her—to push her to the brink and then reel her back in with hollow promises and superficial gestures.
I’ve seen it all before, and yet every new low he sinks to somehow surprises me.
The moment he lunges at her, shouting“BOO!”with that smug, malicious grin, my blood boils.
Her startled scream is the kind of sound you don’t forget. It’s raw, primal, a direct manifestation of the trauma she’s worked so hard to manage.
And Timmy? He shrugs it off, as though her fear is just a passing inconvenience.
On the surface, it’s a vindictive act of revenge.
But revenge for what?
For being woken up accidentally?
For living with a woman who’s trying—desperately—to make things work despite his unrelenting sabotage?
I grip the edge of my desk, knuckles white. I’d like to show him what revenge really looks like. The kind that doesn’t just startle you, but leaves a lasting impression—preferably on his thick skull.
Later, he apologizes, but even through the screen, I can see it for what it is—a performance. Just like when he took the truck creep’s football outside with solemn compassion, only to return with it moments later to torment her with.
Margaux calls him out on it, her words laced with sarcasm that cuts like a knife. I can’t help but feel a twisted sense of pride. She sees through him, even if she’s not ready to act on it.
But his reaction—the darkening of his eyes, the tightening of his jaw—tells me everything I need to know. He’s calculating, planning his next move.
The apology isn’t about making amends—it’s about resetting the scoreboard so he can hurt her again without guilt. It’s a cycle I’ve seen too many times, and each repetition leaves her more broken.
Margaux’s attempts to find peace are heartbreaking. The singing bowl, the smudging kit—they’re futile symbols of hope, of grasping for something tangible in a world that feels uncontrollable.