It hits me then—he’s been spying on me. He must have left the door ajar just enough to watch me while pretending to sulk.
The realization is chilling.
“Who is he? Who are you cheating on me with?” His words drip with manufactured outrage.
I blink, utterly floored. “Cheating? Are youserious?I’m textingSheryl. Myfriend. Awoman. InNew York. Not that it’s any of your business.”
He doesn’t let up. “I don’t believe you. You’re lying. I’ve been watching you.”
My frustration boils over. “Timmy, for the love of God, I’ve broken up with you. You’re moving out. Who I talk to is none of your business. And for the record,I’m not cheating on you.”
That’s when it happens. His eyes narrow, dark and predatory, and he spits on me.
The wet glob lands on my arm, and I freeze.
It’s not the first time he’s done this, but it doesn’t make it any less jarring. The sheer disdain you must feel for another human being tospiton them… it’s beyond comprehension.
It’s dehumanizing.
“Wow,” I whisper, shaking my head.
This ‘man’ is truly delusional.
He stomps to the back room, and I start to walk down the hallway to clean the spit off me, when he suddenly flips around andchargesat me. His shoulder slams into mine, knocking me off balance.
His eyes are different now. Reptilian.Dead.
I’ve seen this look several times before, and it terrifies me every time.
It’s the look of a man who has no humanity left, who is running purely on rage and hatred.
He could kill me in this moment, and I know he wouldn’t feel a shred of remorse.
But he doesn’t grab a knife. He doesn’t make a death threat—though I’m absolutely certain those will come soon.
Instead, he storms out, slamming the door so hard that the walls shake.
I stand, frozen for a moment, trembling, covered in his spit and the weight of his words. My heart pounds in my chest, the adrenaline coursing through my veins.
And then I move.
I grab my fanny pack and shove my essentials into it. I lace up my shoes with shaking hands.
There’s no time to process, no time to cry.
I’m done waiting for him to calm down. I’m done hoping he’ll pack up and leave quietly.
Timmy is dangerous.
If I don’t act now, I’ll become another statistic in a story that far too many women share.
And I know one thing with terrifying clarity: if I don’t get a restraining order today—and make sure the police serve it properly this time—I won’t be alive by Tuesday.
CHAPTER 132
MELTDOWN
MARGAUX