129. Fallback Fiona
CHAPTER 129
FALLBACK FIONA
DEX
I t’s late evening when my phone buzzes on the counter, Timmy’s name lighting up the screen as his phone’s contents are revealed to me. Against my better judgment, I glance at it. A message preview: I’m on the island. It’s your evil twin.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t even bother opening this Pandora’s box of idiocy, but the sheer audacity compels me.
Sure enough, Timmy’s latest mess involves Low-Value Linda—the human equivalent of toxic sludge in a bikini. And here she is, back to haunt Margaux’s life like a low-budget ghost that won’t stop rattling its chains.
My jaw tightens as I piece together what’s happening. Timmy, ever the emotional opportunist, must have been nurturing Scraplyn’s delusions on the sly. I’m not privy to every pathetic detail, but I don’t need to be. I can picture Margaux’s expression when she finds out—tight-lipped, brow furrowed, exhaustion pooling behind her eyes.
She doesn’t deserve this. Not again.
And Timmy? He’s eating it up. He thrives on triangulation, turning the people around him into pawns in his perpetual chess game of victimhood. He’ll act like a helpless idiot—“What could I do? She’s persistent!”—while secretly relishing the chaos. It’s pathetic. No, it’s beyond pathetic. It’s fucking laughable.
But Fallback Fiona isn’t even the worst of it.
The real tragedy? Watching Margaux’s excitement over the MasterChef opportunity evaporate because Timmy couldn’t bother to handle his shit.
Thirty grand in back child support. Thirty. Thousand. Dollars.
A debt that renders him unable to get a passport and destroys their shot at the show.
And he didn’t tell her until the last possible second. In fact, he didn’t tell her at all. She figured it out for herself.
I’ve overheard enough to paint the picture—Margaux, practically vibrating with hope, giddy about filming with Gordon Ramsay. Then Timmy—dead-eyed, fidgeting—mumbling some excuse about the ‘system’ being unfair.
Timmy painting himself as the victim once again.
“Unfair?” I mutter to no one. “You’re lucky the universe doesn’t slap you every time you open your mouth, Timmy. Now that’s unfair.”
When she mentions it to Alice, her words are brittle with disbelief.
Margaux:
He knew. He knew the whole time and said nothing. Now we’re out of the running. I can’t even look at him. But worse than that, I can’t travel.
Alice:
I’m not shocked.
But Timmy couldn’t survive five minutes in front of Gordon Ramsay, anyway. You know that.
Margaux lets out a small, exhausted laugh.
Margaux:
You’re probably right. Ramsay would rip him to shreds.
Still, it’s enough to cheer her up. I can feel the weight pressing down on her, the realization that this—this constant cycle of disappointment—is her life now.
Or maybe—just maybe—this is the final nudge she needs to break away.