Page 118

CHAPTER 118

PREMEDITATED PREDATOR

DEX

I ’m watching again. Margaux, in her unrelenting resilience, trying to keep her world from collapsing under the weight of Timmy’s endless games.

And Timmy, the master manipulator, still clinging to his shattered mask like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat.

He doesn’t know I see him.

He doesn’t know I’m watching every cruel move, every calculated word, every moment his mask slips further to reveal the pathetic coward underneath.

For three-and-a-half months, he kept it up. Sober, helpful, almost… tolerable . A facade so convincing it almost fooled me into thinking he might have changed.

Almost.

But here we are again, watching the same act play out, the same cracks spider webbing through his polished exterior.

This time, it starts with a fucking movie. Of all things.

Margaux’s relentless effort to give him something—anything—is met with his typical brand of entitlement. The cinema, her least favorite place, becomes his hill to die on.

He milks her willingness for all it’s worth, turning her act of love into another stage for his self-importance.

Her joy in making him happy, in enduring her own discomfort to see his excitement, is what makes her extraordinary.

And it’s what makes me hate him even more.

He doesn’t see it. He’ll never see it.

He’s too wrapped up in himself, too obsessed with his own reflection to notice the light she shines on him.

When he takes her to Target before the movie, my stomach churns.

His face lights up when Steve the Horse Cop calls, and he talks about Darren visiting him in his dreams. For a second, I think perhaps Timmy is capable of genuine sorrow.

And then, moments later, the real Timmy steps in. The Timmy who eyes the wine bottles like a kid in a candy store and casually drops the bomb—he’s off the Anabusin, and has been for two weeks now.

Right before his birthday.

Of course.

My fists clench as I watch Margaux’s face fall. She’s calculating, connecting the dots faster than he can spin his excuses.

The smug smile he wears when he delivers the news is infuriating, like he’s proud of his deceit.

Like he thinks he’s clever.

The movie itself is fine. Margaux laughs, genuinely for once, and I feel a prickle of joy for her.

She deserves these moments, free from his weight.

But it’s short-lived. The moment they’re out of the theater, he starts again. Pouting about dinner, angling for wine. He doesn’t just want her to bend—he wants her to break.

And I’m gripping the edge of my desk, wishing I could reach through the screen and end him.

Then comes Chelsea Handler’s show. Margaux has been looking forward to this for months, and he knows it. So what does he do? Makes it about him.

The ‘what if she picks on me?’ nonsense is bad enough, but it’s his exit right before the opener that really gets me.

“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.