13. The Game Is Just Getting Started
CHAPTER 13
THE GAME IS JUST GETTING STARTED
DEX
E very time I look at Margaux’s phone records, my jaw tightens. The threads of her life, tangled in abusive text messages and missed calls from Timmy, make my blood boil, each one a thread in a tapestry of cruelty and manipulation.
The way he speaks to her—devoid of any semblance of respect—makes my temples throb.
His toxic cocktail of emotional abuse, sprinkled with half-hearted compliments and fake apologies, is maddening. I can see the pattern: he pushes her, prods her, taunts her until she breaks—and then uses her reaction as ammunition against her.
He pushes her too far, then pulls her back in with just enough to re-hook her. Rinse. Repeat.
The sheer audacity of his words is only matched by his chicken-shitness.
This isn’t the Margaux I know. The woman I’ve watched grow over the years doesn’t snap like this. She’s warm, kind, resilient. But she’s been dulled by this parasite. Timmy’s worn her down, and even the strongest people have limits—he seems hell-bent on finding and crossing hers at every opportunity.
She’s stuck in survival mode, trapped with a predator who masquerades as a partner.
He pretends to love her, but I know better.
He dares to think he’s untouchable. But Timmy doesn’t love anyone but himself. And even that’s questionable—he seems to loathe himself as much as he loathes the world.
Good.
He should.
I lean back in my chair, cracking my knuckles. Time to take this up a notch—to dive into the next phase of my plan. If Timmy wants to play games, I’ll show him what a real game looks like.
I scour the internet, digging into every sordid detail of Timmy’s past. His criminal record is a smorgasbord of offenses in multiple states—assaults, DUIs, a parade of failed relationships and restraining orders, shady connections, allegations of child abuse in Montana. He even has an arrest under an alias.
The more I find, the more disgusted I become. How Margaux ended up with him, I can only chalk up to her big heart and his calculated manipulation.
And then there’s the bombshell: he has a child. A child he’s abandoned.
No child support. No contact. Nothing.
What a lucky escape for that kid. Imagine having a father like Timmy.
The idea of this deadbeat, this parasite, playing house with Margaux while neglecting his own flesh and blood makes me want to break something.
This isn’t just about Margaux anymore. It’s about righting every one of his wrongs, starting with the way he’s hollowed her out.
The texts start small. Cryptic. Anonymous. Little messages designed to plant seeds of paranoia in Timmy’s tiny, inadequate brain.
Anonymous:
Montana remembers you, Timmy.
Some records never disappear. Isn’t that funny?
You’ve always been good at running, but you can’t hide forever. Tick tock.
Does Margaux know about the child?
I make sure they’re timed sporadically, just enough to keep him on edge.
Too frequent, and he might explode in a way that puts Margaux in danger.
Too infrequent, and he might just brush them off.
It’s a delicate balance, but I’m good at balancing.
And I’m even better at breaking people who deserve it.
Hours later, I get what I want—a glimpse of his unraveling.
Timmy’s texts to Margaux grow more frantic, more disjointed.
He’s trying to act calm, trying to keep up the charade of control, but I can see the cracks forming.
Timmy:
Do you know anyone from Montana who might have my number?
Have you been talking to anyone about me?
If someone reaches out to you about me, tell them to fuck off.
His facade of control is disintegrating. He’s scrambling, trying to piece together a narrative that keeps him in power, but I can see the fear creeping in.
Good. Let him stew in his paranoia. Let him feel the weight of his past bearing down on him.
But even as I relish his growing desperation, a cold knot forms in my gut. This kind of agitation in a man like Timmy could turn dangerous quickly—I can’t let him spiral too far, too fast. I have to tread carefully. A ‘man’ like Timmy, cornered, will lash out. The last thing I want is for Margaux to become his outlet.
So I shift tactics.
My next move is calculated. I make sure my messages to Timmy don’t escalate too quickly.
Instead, they shift focus—keeping his attention on the anonymous ‘threat’ haunting him.
Anonymous:
How’s the kid doing, Timmy? Still pretending they don’t exist?
Remember that night in Missoula? You should.
Karma’s coming for you.
Each message is a scalpel, cutting away at his fragile sense of control. The goal isn’t just to distract him—it’s to make him doubt himself, to question every shadow, every glance, every interaction.
If he’s busy looking over his shoulder, he’ll have less time and energy to target Margaux.
But I know Timmy isn’t smart. He’s not clever enough to fully grasp the implications of these messages.
And that’s where the danger lies. When cornered, he reacts with blind aggression, like a wild animal.
I have to be ready for that.
I have to anticipate his moves and counter them before he can hurt her. Before he can use her as a punching bag by proxy.
I can’t let my anger cloud my judgment. This isn’t about revenge—it’s about Margaux.
Keeping her safe.
Giving her the space and clarity to see Timmy for what he really is.
I sit back and take a deep breath.
This is a game of strategy, and I’m in it for the long haul.
Timmy doesn’t know it yet, but his days of hurting Margaux are numbered.
One way or another, I’ll make sure of it.