Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

1. Imposter Syndrome

CHAPTER 1

IMPOSTER SYNDROME

MARGAUX

I feel him leaning down next to me, his breath hot and shallow as he presses his ear close to my mouth and nose. My heart pounds as I realize what he’s doing—checking my pulse. His trembling hand lingers near my neck for a moment too long, as though he’s weighing something darker in his mind.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice cracking with something that might almost sound like remorse. Almost.

I stay limp, forcing my breathing to remain steady as his arms slide under me. “I’m so sorry,” he repeats as he lifts me, as if I weigh nothing, cradling me like a child, and carries me across the room. My disorientation makes it hard to gauge where he’s taking me, but when he lays me down on the bed, I feel the softness beneath me.

His hands withdraw, and I squint just enough to see that he’s stepped back. A surge of adrenaline jolts through me. Without a second thought, I scream—loud, piercing, primal. My voice bounces off the walls, filling the room with a cacophony of desperation.

I lunge for the nightstand where I left my keys, my heart pounding so loudly it drowns out the chaos around me. My hands shake as I snatch them up and, in my panic, I glance around for my phone. It’s nowhere in sight. A fresh wave of terror grips me—I can’t waste time looking for it.

I make a break for the door. His hand shoots out, catching mine with a vise-like grip. He yanks at the keys, and I hold on with a ferocity that surprises even me. The jagged metal digs into my palm, sending a sharp sting up my arm. But it’s nothing compared to the chaos screaming inside my head.

Somehow, I pull free, stumbling into the outdoor hallway and slamming the door behind me. I don’t stop. My bare feet pound against the pavement as I race toward the security shack, each step fueled by the primal need to escape. The humid night air clings to my skin, heavy and suffocating, but I don’t care.

I see the flashing blue and red lights before I hear the commanding voices. Relief floods through me, tangling with the adrenaline coursing through my veins. Someone must have heard my screams—a neighbor, maybe—and called for help. They ask me questions—too many questions—but my words tumble out like jagged stones.

“He hit me,” I stammer, my voice trembling. “He smacked me in the face.”

“What started it?” the officer asks, his tone detached, procedural. The words hit me like a slap.

What started it? What kind of question is that? I glance at the floor, biting back the bile rising in my throat.

“I was listening to a song,” I manage. “By Machine Gun Kelly.” My laugh is bitter and jagged. “He hit me because I was listening to a Machine Gun Kelly song.”

The officer’s eyebrows twitch, his expression unreadable, but he nods and takes down my words. They take pictures of my injuries—my swollen lip, my black eyes, my bruised arms, the red marks around my neck.

“Is he still in the apartment?” he asks.

I nod, though my body trembles uncontrollably. “He’s... he’s back there,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

The officers exchange a glance, then spring into action, moving swiftly toward my apartment. I collapse onto the small bench outside the shack, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. My words tumble out like jagged stones as another officer kneels beside me, asking more questions.

I glance back toward the flashing lights, my heart still racing. Relief and fear war within me, each battling for dominance as the weight of what just happened settles heavily on my chest.

“He jumped the fence,” one officer pants as he returns to the group. “He’s on the run.”

Of course he is. Nothing motivates Timmy more than avoiding consequences.

They escort me back to the apartment, and we take a brief look around. Money is spilling out of the safe in the back room.

“Does anything seem to be missing?” one of the officers asks.

I take a quick look. “Some cash, I think,” I say. “And my phone.” And then I notice what else isn’t there. My diamond and platinum engagement ring from my second marriage, which I designed myself, as well as the matching platinum wedding band. “And some jewelry.”

Why the hell did he take those?

“Anything else?” he asks, his tone patient.

I shake my head. “No, not that I can tell. I’ll take another look in a bit, though.”

“Do you want to press charges?” another officer asks.

I hesitate, the words sticking in my throat. “No,” I whisper. “Just… make him stop.”

The next two days pass in a haze. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional weight pressing down on me. The mirror is a cruel enemy, reflecting back the swollen lip, the purple shadows around my eyes, the finger-shaped bruises on my arms. Each time I glance at my reflection, I feel more like a caricature of myself—a battered, broken version of the woman I used to be.

I call the domestic abuse hotline at the number listed on the card the police officers once again gave me, the little yellow rectangle a reminder of what I endured. A woman with a calm, soothing voice answers, and I share what I can remember of the other evening.

“This is serious, and you should consider leaving,” she implores me. “Men who strangle their partners are seven hundred and fifty times more likely to kill them. There’s a real chance he could come back and end your life.”

I feel simultaneously terrified and numb at her words. The statistic is shocking. But Timmy wouldn’t really try to kill me, would he? This was another aberration, a result of drinking too much and misunderstanding my laughter at a stupid song. Still, her words prickle at the edges of my mind. Seven hundred and fifty times more likely to kill their partner.

I google strangulation, and am upset to learn that when someone does try to strangle you, there’s a risk that down the line—weeks or months or possibly years—it could lead to you having a stroke. Timmy’s actions have potential long-term health consequences for me, and his penance is a couple of measly nights in jail. It doesn’t seem right. But I’m too defeated to even think about going through the court process again. It’s too much.

As a small respite, I drive over to the side of the island where my friend Rebecca lives with her boyfriend, Jetson.

We hop into her car and drive further to the part of the shore where people hang out around bonfires. She’s sympathetic and supportive as I share my experience, and as a small act of warped defiance we blare Machine Gun Kelly songs through her speakers, singing them as loudly as we can.

We meet up with Jetson, who is hanging out with some of his friends over that way. The mood is relaxed, a stark departure from what I’ve just been through.

Later in the evening, the three of us sit on fold-out chairs down on the sand.

“You know, he’s actually crazy,” says Jetson, his tone grim. “He’s likely to hurt you again. I know it’s hard, and that you care about him, but I think you need to leave him.”

“I agree,” says Rebecca, her tone nonjudgmental. “Being with him is going to be a constant roller coaster of highs and lows. I know some people are into that, and if that’s what you want, that’s fine,” she shrugs, “but he’s dangerous, and I personally don’t want to have anything to do with him ever again.”

“Same,” Jetson nods.

I sleep on the couch at their place, and for once I don’t feel afraid. I don’t fear the sound of the door beeping and swooshing open. He doesn’t know where I am, and he can’t access me because he’s locked up.

I feel a sliver of freedom and, for the first time in a long time, I sleep well. But I know it won’t last.

The next morning, I enjoy the long drive back to the apartment, listening to music and podcasts that I enjoy, that Timmy would only have negative things to say about.

For once, I feel like I’ve regained a tiny semblance of control over my life.