Page 95

CHAPTER 95

WEAPONIZED KINDNESS

DEX

T he truck is a piece of shit, but it’s where Margaux feels safe enough to take her therapy calls. That alone tells me everything I need to know.

The mildew, the roaches, the lingering stench of tobacco and damp, all of which my associate reported to me when he installed the tracking device and cameras in the truck—none of that compares to her fear of Timmy overhearing.

Not after what he pulled during her intake session.

I mean, I guess I’m technically doing the same thing—eavesdropping on Margaux’s therapy. Tracking her 24/7, and gaining access into her innermost thoughts.

But it’s different—Timmy uses it against her, whereas I’m using it to gain insight into how I can push her closer to breaking away.

If she ever finds out, though, I’m not sure she’d see it that way.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the security monitors, catching glimpses of her in the truck. Her voice is low, earnest, tinged with vulnerability as she speaks to her therapist. She looks like she’s baring her soul, and for a second, I hate that it’s happening in that goddamn truck instead of a quiet, safe room with soft lighting and a therapist she can see in person.

But I’m pleased. Her therapist seems sharp—smart enough to see through Timmy’s bullshit and recognize the warrior Margaux really is. She’s giving Margaux the nudges she needs, affirming her worth in ways that no one else in her life seems to do anymore.

It complements Alice’s raw, no-BS encouragement beautifully. Between the two of them—as well as Josephine and Stacey, Margaux has a shot at remembering who she is—who she was before Timmy began siphoning the life out of her.

Her session finished, she steps out of the truck, her shoulders hunched, moving toward the apartment.

I flip back to another feed, watching Timmy in the kitchen. He’s clattering dishes with an air of exaggerated care, the performative kind of noise he makes when he’s pretending to be a decent person.

My jaw clenches. I know what’s coming.

“How was it?” he asks as she walks in. His voice is deceptively light, like he isn’t waiting for an answer that’ll justify his next tantrum.

Margaux replies carefully. Too carefully . She knows better than to let him catch a hint of what she really discussed.

But it doesn’t matter—he’s already sulking, muttering something about how she ‘always makes him look bad’.

My fists tighten around the armrests of my chair. He eavesdropped once, and now he thinks he owns her therapy sessions. He thinks he has the right to be a part of them, to tell her what she can and should not talk about.

What kind of monster violates someone’s safe space like that?

I watch him throw a shirt at her. She doesn’t react, just places it to the side like she’s handling a mildly annoying fly.

He puts a blanket on Sabre and she calmly removes it.

He presses harder, sprinkles water on her, smirks when she sighs and walks away.

And then, like the insecure, small man he is, he takes it further. He throws food into the trash. Perfectly good food that he knows she likes.

Every time he does something like this, I think I can’t hate him more than I already do. And then he proves me wrong.

Later, Margaux starts researching reactive abuse and DARVO. She’s been texting Alice about it, piecing together the patterns of Timmy’s manipulation. I feel a flicker of hope as she types furiously on her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration.

She’s seeing it. She’s finally seeing it.

The gaslighting, the lies, the way he flips the narrative to make himself the victim—it’s all clicking into place for her. I can practically hear Alice’s voice in her head, telling her she’s not crazy—that Timmy’s the problem.

But then he walks in. And of course, he notices her typing.

“Who are you talking to?” he asks, his tone sharp, already accusatory.

“None of your business, bruh,” she shoots back, not looking up.

Good. Keep him out. Don’t let him poison this small, sacred space you’ve carved out for yourself.

But he doesn’t stop. He hovers, trying to read her screen, muttering insults under his breath. “Ugly crusty Ron Weasley,” he sneers.

I laugh bitterly, shaking my head.

That’s the best he’s got? What an absolute moron.

But then again, that’s Timmy—small-minded, petty, incapable of real wit.

The worst of it comes when he calls his mother, twisting Margaux’s words into some grotesque fabrication. I can’t hear her voice through the feed, but I can imagine her panic, her disbelief. And Margaux —Margaux looks like she’s been gutted.

Her kindness was weaponized. Her compassion turned into ammunition against her.

I watch as she screams at him, desperate for him to stop, her face red with anger and hurt. But he just smirks, hanging up the phone like he’s won some twisted game.

“You’re a monster,” she whispers, and I can see the exhaustion etched into her face, the cracks in her armor.

Timmy grins. Of course he does. He feeds on this—her pain, her frustration, her despair.

He thrives on it.

I slam my fist onto the desk, the echo sharp in the empty room. I want to rip him out of that apartment, throw him into the ocean, and watch him sink under the weight of his own cruelty.

But I can’t. Not yet.

Because Margaux still isn’t ready.

But she’s getting there.

And when she is, I’ll be there to pull her out of this hellhole—to remind her of who she is.

Of what she’s worth.

And as for Timmy?

He won’t know what hit him.