Page 143

CHAPTER 143

CUTTING THE CORD

MARGAUX

W hen I hear Timmy has been arrested shortly after our breakup, I’m shocked—but not for the reasons one might think. His return to jail was inevitable—he’s a ticking time bomb who’s sure to end up in prison or dead.

But the speed of it—within a week of his move—is what catches me off guard.

The details trickle in slowly, and each revelation feels like a punch to the gut. His record stretches far beyond what I knew.

It turns out there are restraining orders filed against him in Montana too, as well as an outstanding arrest warrant from his previous visit.

Another state, another chapter of chaos he failed to mention. If these are the big lies—the glaring, documented truths he withheld—what other untruths did he spin daily? How many more pieces of his fabricated reality have I yet to uncover?

No wonder I feel so unmoored, so deeply confused. He lied about everything. Hell, he couldn’t even admit he liked cats before he met mine. So why would I expect him to be honest about the big things—his child, his history of abuse, or the real reason for those protection orders?

He weaponizes everything.

When someone is as good as Timmy at twisting reality, at spinning every failure into someone else’s fault, it’s disorienting.

At first, it’s hard to pinpoint the issue He was so convincing, redirecting every doubt, throwing out ‘whataboutisms’ until I started doubting myself instead.

Is the way I remember it really how it happened?

Because he seemed so sure, so confident in his version of events.

Now, with distance, I see it clearly—he knew exactly what he was doing.

Exploiting the natural fragility of memory to reshape the narrative.

Making me look like the crazy, desperate, toxic mess he actually was.

The amount of pain he caused me bubbles away under the surface, insidious and rotting. Therapy can help, sure, but it won’t be enough for me.

I need more.

I need vengeance .

My phone buzzes, jolting me from my thoughts. I glance at the screen.

Phil.

The sight of his name sends a burst of anxiety through me. My heart races, blood pounding in my temples. My entire body feels like it’s vibrating with tension.

It’s as if the sight of his name on my phone screen just set me back weeks in my healing.

“Why’s he calling?” I mutter. “What does he want now?”

Maybe it’s to ask me not to tell the truth about his son, because he’s not getting any dates, and it’s making it impossible for Phil to get Timmy off his hands.

I let it go to voicemail, too anxious to answer. When the notification dings, I hesitate for a moment before pressing play with a trembling hand.

His voice is gruff, but he’s clearly trying to keep it calm and fake cordial. “We’re about to head to Costco,” he says, as if I care. “And when we get back, I’d appreciate it if you could call me.” There’s a pause, the faintest edge of menace creeping into his tone. “Actually, you will call me back.”

I shudder at the implication, my stomach turning.

The man is just as controlling as his awful son.

No wonder Timmy turned out the way he did.

I scoff at his mention of Costco. “Predictable,” I mutter.

I glance at my watch. It’s the 6 th of the month. Of course it is .

Food stamp money just came in, and now Phil’s dragging Timmy to the store to recoup whatever he can.

I imagine Timmy tagging along, trying to act like the dutiful son. Is he making his father pay for his contribution in other ways, just like he did with me? Is he micromanaging every step they take in the store, obsessing over which cart they grab, painstakingly massaging each onion to ensure it’s ‘perfect’?

The thought sends a wave of nausea through me. I don’t want to dismiss his food insecurity—that’s a legitimate struggle. But when it’s weaponized, used as another tool of control, it becomes something else entirely.

With Phil, I bet Timmy’s playing it differently. “Yes, Daddy, look at the perfect onions I curated just for you.”

I used to think that kind of behavior was just Timmy being thorough, that maybe I could learn something from his attention to detail. But now I know it was just a control flex.

A power play.

And this is why I need to cut all of them off. Permanently. No second chances, no lingering connections. It’s the only way to protect myself.

A couple of hours later, my phone buzzes again. Another voicemail.

This time, Phil’s tone is venomous. “I’m calling about getting Timmy’s things,” he growls. “You need to call me back.” His voice breaks at the end, the cracks in his patience starting to show.

The demand hangs in the air, heavy with entitlement. He sounds beside himself that I haven’t yet returned his earlier call.

“No, Phil,” I say out loud, my voice firm in the quiet of my apartment. “I don’t need to do anything.”

I sit down, my hands trembling as I call the police non-emergency line. My voice is steady as I explain the situation. The TRO is crystal clear—third parties are not allowed to contact me on Timmy’s behalf.

This is a violation, plain and simple.

The dispatcher on the other end sends officers to take my report, their tone professional and reassuring. “We’ll handle this,” they say.

A sense of calm washes over me. Timmy and Phil may think they can still control me, manipulate me, but they’re wrong. They have no power over me anymore.

They can’t get to me.

And if they try? There will be consequences.