121. “Leverage”
CHAPTER 121
“LEVERAGE”
MARGAUX
I wake in the middle of the night, my body heavy and damp.
Confused, I shift, and a chill runs up my spine as I realize the dampness isn’t sweat—It’s concentrated, sticky, and cold against my skin.
Jesus.
I sit up, the realization dawning on me in pieces. It reeks unmistakably of urine.
Did I piss the bed?
The thought horrifies me. I’ve spent so long judging Timmy for his complete lack of control, and now… am I becoming him?
Am I breaking down, too?
But as I reach back to feel the source, I realize it isn’t me. The dampness is on the back of my underwear, down my leg, and spreading across the sheets.
Timmy.
My fiancé, my supposed partner in life, has pissed on me while I slept.
“Timmy!” I yell, my voice slicing through the darkness. “Wake the fuck up!”
He groans, turning over like I’ve just asked him to do the impossible. “What,” he mumbles. “Don’t wake me up. I told you before—don’t wake me up!”
“Oh, I’m waking you up, alright. You pissed on me!”
There’s a pause as he rubs his eyes, and then, to my utter disbelief, he smirks. “Oh yeah,” he says casually, rolling onto his back. “That’s the only leverage I had against you. All I had to use was to piss on you.”
I stare at him, my mouth open, the words caught in my throat.
Did he actually just say that?
“What the actual fuck? You’re disgusting!”
He smirks again, satisfied, then rolls back over and falls asleep like nothing happened.
I want to scream, to throw something, to physically shake him awake and demand an explanation. But instead, I retreat to the bathroom, peeling off my urine-soaked underwear. The mirror reflects my flushed face, and for a fleeting second, I don’t recognize myself.
I can’t take this anymore.
The shower water rushes over me, washing away his filth. It’s scalding hot, but I don’t care. I need to feel clean again, to reclaim my body from the sheer indignity of what just happened.
By the time I step out, my rage has simmered into a low boil, steady but more manageable.
I lay a thick towel over the soiled spot on the bed and climb back in. I’ll deal with this tomorrow.
Right now, I just want to sleep.
When Timmy finally stirs in the morning, his eyes fall on the towel covering the bed.
“Did you piss the bed, Margaux?” he asks, grinning. “Did you join the club?”
My jaw tightens as I turn to face him. “You pissed on me, you fucking asshole! And then you laughed about it, saying it was the only ‘leverage’ you had against me!”
Timmy throws his head back, laughing. “I really said that? That’s pretty fucking hilarious.”
My blood boils.
I can feel the rage coursing through me, my hands trembling as I clench them into fists. “It’s not funny, Timmy. It’s disgusting. You’re disgusting.”
He stops laughing for a moment, sensing the edge in my voice, but then shrugs it off. “Well, I’ll clean the sheets,” he says breezily, climbing out of bed.
And to his credit, he does. He changes the sheets, tosses the soiled ones into the washer, and then spends the rest of the morning cleaning the apartment. By midday, the place is spotless, the air filled with the faint scent of citrus cleaner.
“Look what I can do!” Timmy announces proudly, gesturing to the pristine apartment. “I made the place all nice again!”
I cross my arms, narrowing my eyes. “Thanks for cleaning, but you pissed on me. Remember?”
He waves a hand dismissively. “This is how I’m making it up to you,” he says, flashing a charming smile. “I don’t know why I did that, and I’m sorry. That’s really gross of me.”
At least he’s acknowledging it now.
At least there’s some semblance of self-awareness.
But as the day wears on, my frustration lingers.
It’s not just the urine.
It’s the pattern.
No matter how much I pour into this relationship—my energy, my resources, my patience—Timmy keeps taking.
Wasting.
He doesn’t just drain me financially, though that’s part of it. He drains me emotionally, spiritually.
He always needs the next thing—the latest piece of outdoor equipment, a video game, something frivolous from the grocery store. And when I’m not looking, he’s taking coins from the laundry money, or trading items I didn’t even know were missing.
It’s despicable.
But worse than the theft is the manipulation. Every time I call him out, he acts shocked, as if my expectations are unreasonable, as if I’m the problem.
And I pity him for it.
I’ve done enough research to know that he can’t help himself, not entirely.
A father who enables him, who justifies his behavior, has set him up for this.
But pity isn’t enough to erase the resentment building inside me.
Later, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, the events of the past twenty-four hours playing over and over in my mind.
The man I fell in love with is gone—if he ever truly existed.
In his place is someone I don’t recognize. Someone who smirks while pissing on me, who laughs at my discomfort, who takes and takes without giving anything back.
And yet, I stay. I forgive him.
Not because he deserves it, but because it’s easier than facing the truth—that I’ve tied myself to a predator.
That I’ve allowed him to strip away parts of myself, piece by piece.
But the cracks are widening, and I’m starting to see the ugly reality beneath the thin veneer.
The deeper I dive into learning about narcissism, the more I see Timmy’s reflection staring back at me in every word I read.
Love bombing.
Devaluation.
Triangulation.
Hoovering.
Flying monkeys.
Each term feels like unlocking a secret code to my own life. It’s like I’ve been handed a dictionary for a language I didn’t realize I’d been speaking fluently this entire time.
The literature is clear—never tell a narcissist that they’re a narcissist. They won’t accept it. Worse, they’ll flip it on you.
But I don’t heed the advice.
“I think you have narcissistic personality disorder,” I say, my voice careful but resolute.
Timmy’s eyes narrow, and the next thing I know, he’s furiously Googling on his phone. I watch as his brow furrows, then relaxes into smug satisfaction. He looks up at me, triumphant. “This is you! ” he declares, jabbing a finger at his phone. “ You’re the narcissist in this relationship!”
“What article are you even reading?” I demand, trying to grab the phone.
He tilts it away, protective, as if guarding sacred text. “It says here— controlling ! You’re controlling! Sure, maybe I’ve got some tendencies, but you’re the real narcissist!”
I can’t help but scoff. “Do you know how much I’ve researched this? I don’t control you, Timmy. I set boundaries—there’s a big difference. If you’d actually read anything substantial, you’d see your own behavior reflected back at you.”
He shrugs, a glint of mockery in his eyes. “What the fuck ever, Margaux. You’re a terrible person, and this article just proves it. I knew it wasn’t me. I knew it was you.”
It’s not even about him believing it—it’s about winning. He’s turned my observation into an attack, weaponizing it and shifting the blame back onto me. And the worst part? For a fleeting second, I wonder if he’s right. I have some narcissistic tendencies—we all do. And he’s owning that he does, too. That seems adult and like he’s taking ownership.
Maybe there’s something to what he’s saying.
Maybe I’m the one with the issue and I’m projecting onto him.
But cognitive dissonance—a term I’ve also recently learned—feels like it’s shredding my sanity.
Timmy is good and bad.
Loving and hateful.
Open-minded and rigid.
He loves me, but he hates me.
How can I reconcile these contradictions?
How can anyone?
The mental gymnastics are exhausting.
He doesn’t get up and work.
He doesn’t make an effort to provide.
He accuses me of things I’ve never done, dredges up past mistakes I’ve apologized for countless times, and refuses to acknowledge his own faults.
My heart feels heavy, my mind clouded, and I realize that I’m approaching a breaking point.
I can’t keep going like this.
The more I read, the more I understand the core of it all—for a narcissist, your only value is how you feed their ego right now in this moment . Past love, sacrifices, or good deeds? Those are irrelevant.
Everything is transactional, momentary.
And the saddest part? Narcissists are stuck with themselves. Forever. While their victims eventually heal, they are bound to an endless cycle of self-loathing and emptiness, desperately trying to fill a void that will never close.
Even if they appear to move on, they’re doomed to repeat the same patterns with the next person. Their mask will slip again, and their true selves will resurface.
It’s a prison of their own making.
It’s tragic, really.
But that doesn’t mean I have to stay locked in that prison with him.