Beautiful Terror (Burn It All Down Duet #2)

131. （If I’m Alive To） See You Next Tuesday

CHAPTER 131

(IF I’M ALIVE TO) SEE YOU NEXT TUESDAY

MARGAUX

I ’m texting my friend Sheryl, a fellow Kiwi with a heart of gold and a voice that could make angels jealous. She came to the States on a singing scholarship, and we bonded instantly over our shared homeland and mutual tendency to find humor in the chaos of life.

I tell her about life in Sunset Cay and update her on my breakup with Timmy. I vent about the exhausting tension in the apartment,and my hope that we can ride out the next five days peacefully as he packs and leaves.

But that hope? Utterly misplaced.

Timmy has been muttering and glaring from the back room all morning, darting out and slamming back in like some demented jack-in-the-box. His energy is suffocating, his presence a storm cloud blotting out any light or peace.

I feel his eyes on me long before I see him. He emerges from the back room, his movements deliberate and cold, and strides toward me.

“Give me your phone,” he snaps, reaching for it. “ Who have you been messaging with all morning?”

I tighten my grip, my pulse quickening. For the first time in a long time, I feel a jolt of real fear. He’s not just trying to take my phone—he’s trying to sever my lifeline—my connection to the outside world, to safety, to anyone who could intervene.

“I’ve seen you chatting with someone for the past thirty minutes,” he accuses, his voice low and venomous.

It hits me then—he’s been spying on me. He must have left the door ajar just enough to watch me while pretending to sulk.

The realization is chilling.

“Who is he? Who are you cheating on me with?” His words drip with manufactured outrage.

I blink, utterly floored. “Cheating? Are you serious? I’m texting Sheryl . My friend . A woman . In New York . Not that it’s any of your business.”

He doesn’t let up. “I don’t believe you. You’re lying. I’ve been watching you.”

My frustration boils over. “Timmy, for the love of God, I’ve broken up with you. You’re moving out. Who I talk to is none of your business. And for the record, I’m not cheating on you. ”

That’s when it happens. His eyes narrow, dark and predatory, and he spits on me.

The wet glob lands on my arm, and I freeze.

It’s not the first time he’s done this, but it doesn’t make it any less jarring. The sheer disdain you must feel for another human being to spit on them… it’s beyond comprehension.

It’s dehumanizing.

“Wow,” I whisper, shaking my head.

This ‘man’ is truly delusional.

He stomps to the back room, and I start to walk down the hallway to clean the spit off me, when he suddenly flips around and charges at me. His shoulder slams into mine, knocking me off balance.

His eyes are different now. Reptilian. Dead.

I’ve seen this look several times before, and it terrifies me every time.

It’s the look of a man who has no humanity left, who is running purely on rage and hatred.

He could kill me in this moment, and I know he wouldn’t feel a shred of remorse.

But he doesn’t grab a knife. He doesn’t make a death threat—though I’m absolutely certain those will come soon.

Instead, he storms out, slamming the door so hard that the walls shake.

I stand, frozen for a moment, trembling, covered in his spit and the weight of his words. My heart pounds in my chest, the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

And then I move.

I grab my fanny pack and shove my essentials into it. I lace up my shoes with shaking hands.

There’s no time to process, no time to cry.

I’m done waiting for him to calm down. I’m done hoping he’ll pack up and leave quietly.

Timmy is dangerous.

If I don’t act now, I’ll become another statistic in a story that far too many women share.

And I know one thing with terrifying clarity: if I don’t get a restraining order today—and make sure the police serve it properly this time—I won’t be alive by Tuesday.