Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

72. The Audacity Of This Bitch

CHAPTER 72

THE AUDACITY OF THIS BITCH

MARGAUX

J ust as the conversation grows calmer, I recall him sending the ‘I am in jail’ texts to multiple contacts in my phone. Rage bubbles up as I confront him.

“How could you do that to me?” I yell, my voice raw.

“I was drunk,” Timmy says, shrugging, as if that’s some kind of defense. “I was angry, and you hurt my feelings!”

I gape at him. “So you… you impersonated me to humiliate me? Do you even realize that’s illegal? My lawyer says that tampering with communications is a felony.”

I’ve finally been appointed a lawyer. By some fluke, I don’t just have a run-of-the-mill public defender—they’ve appointed me a private lawyer who used to be an Assistant District Attorney for the state. During our brief consultation call, we’d discussed Timmy’s text tampering.

His face turns pale. “A… a felony?” he stammers. “Please don’t have me locked up,” he begs. “I can’t go to prison.”

The audacity leaves me breathless. “You can’t be serious,” I say, my voice flat.

He shrinks under my glare, but I can feel his self-preservation kicking in. “I’m sorry,” he says, his tone pitiful. “I wasn’t thinking straight. Please, don’t get me into trouble.”

I shake my head, disbelief washing over me like a tidal wave. “You’re unbelievable. You’re not sorry for what you did—you’re sorry for the consequences.”

Timmy flinches, but he doesn’t argue. He reaches for me, and instinctively, I step back.

“You fractured my skull,” I say again. “And then you fabricated a story about me being violent. And you went into my phone, violated my privacy, and messaged my friends. Do you even understand how completely insane all of that is?”

“I wasn’t thinking straight,” he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve said sorry more times than I can count,” I snap. “But sorry doesn’t mean anything if you keep doing the same things over and over.”

He nods, tears streaming down his face. “You’re right. I’m going to change. I promise. Therapy, AA meetings—whatever it takes. Just don’t give up on me.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “You’ve promised all of that before. And look where we are.”

He stammers, searching for a defense, but I’ve stopped listening.

The numbness returns, shielding me from the chaos of his existence.

He reaches out again, pulling me into a hug. This time, I don’t flinch. I let him hold me, his arms wrapped tightly around me. But I don’t hug him back.

In his embrace, I feel nothing.

No love.

No safety.

Just a hollow echo of what used to be.

Later, I sit on the bed, staring at the cracked glass pane in the window and thinking about the life I’ve built with him. The thought of leaving fills me with fear, but the thought of staying fills me with something worse.

I pull out my phone and message Alice.

Me:

I think I’m done.

Alice:

Good. It’s time.

I draft an email to Timmy.

I’ve made a decision.

I don’t want to be with someone who spends their time hanging out with known drug users in homeless tents

I don’t want to be with someone who is constantly volatile, vindictive, and who will take items out of our home that I paid for on a regular basis.

I will not be with someone who fabricates narratives against me to support their own delusions.

And most of all, I will not be with someone who fractured my skull and then proceeded to call me an abuser when ‘your mood changed.’

I’m sick of the constant stories and false narratives, and I am done.

You cannot stay here for two months. You are not on the current lease, and you can move out straight away.

There is a cast mate on one of the shows I watch, and he runs away and everyone makes fun of him for it to the point there are gifs and memes about it.

Now another castmate does it, too. He was described as a man child.

You described yourself to me as a man child.

I apologize for not picking up on all the signs you gave that you were unsuitable and did not meet my requirements in a partner.

I wish you the best, but I know in my heart that you’re not the one for me.

Because the right person for me would not treat me, gaslight me, or manipulate other people about me, the way that you do.

Before hitting send, my friend messages me.

Jo:

Hey, it’s Jo. I just got the weirdest voicemail from your phone.

Your fiancé called me the n word…

Oh my god.

She sends it to me—he’s texted her and also left her a voicemail. The tone in the voicemail is cold… chilling, in fact.

“Fucking cunt…you’re a fucking worm. If you want to know what my Facebook is it’s TimmysHatDesignz with a fucking Z, you fucking n-word.”

Full of pure rage.

Directed toward my friend, who did absolutely nothing to deserve his wrath.

I turn to Timmy, who’s sitting on the bed, contributing nothing to society as usual.

“Why did you do that?” I’m fuming. The audacity to break into my phone through my computer and send my friends abusive messages while I’m in jail on false charges that he filed against me.

“What?” he asks.

“Message my friend.” I play the recording.

I have no time for the back and forth where he feigns confusion, so I start with the receipts.

“Oh…” he frowns. “I’m so sorry, Margaux. I thought she was a man, and you were going on a date with him.”

My friend Jo. As in Josephine, a woman. Who lives on the other side of the country.

I resist the urge to throw my phone at his head. “In what world would she be a man? And why would you think that?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “I guess I misread something she’d said earlier in your conversation.”

I sigh. “Well, what you sent is completely inappropriate. Please stop contacting people pretending to be me, or from my phone, without my permission. Please stop saying the n word. You’ve promised to stop saying it. Please don’t call my friends cunts. Please just stop.”

“Okay, okay,” he puts his hands up in surrender. “I was just upset, and my feelings were hurt, and I thought you were cheating on me.”

My mouth opens involuntarily. “How could I cheat on you in jail ?”

He looks down. “Well, I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.”

“Please, just stay away from my things,” I plead. “Like I said, I spoke to my lawyer and what you did is a felony. So I strongly suggest that you stop it immediately.”

He flinches again at the word ‘felony’. “Okay, yeah, I guess I really fucked up, doing that.” He looks scared. “Please don’t get me in trouble. Please. I really don’t want to go to prison.”

I shrug. “Stop doing dumb shit, then.”

He nods. “Okay. I really am sorry.”

He pulls me into a hug, and this time it’s me who flinches.

I let him hug me, but I can’t stomach returning his embrace. I’m happy to be back at home, but I’m still so angry he put me in jail.

It was traumatic, and the whole thing was just insane.

Finding out he’s fractured my skull has reopened old emotional wounds related to that attack.

Plus, he tried to strangle me.

He thought he’d killed me. Checked my fucking pulse.

And now it’s all about a pity party for Timmy.

The audacity.