My Toxin

Chapter 29

The drive back to Oxfordshire felt lighter than I'd expected. After an incredible joint birthday celebration in Chelsea, where we danced under the stars and celebrated with our closest friends and family, things between Marjorie and me felt... right. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of expectations didn't hang over us so heavily. We were serious about each other now—committed to making things work, both for ourselves and together. The summer had been a rollercoaster, but we'd come out of it stronger, more aligned, and for the first time in a long time, I felt hopeful about what lay ahead.

When we pulled up to our student apartments, the sight of the familiar building brought a sense of relief. It was our space, our sanctuary away from the pressures of family and the outside world. I grabbed Marjorie's bags before she could argue and followed her up to her apartment.

"Thanks," she said softly, flashing me that smile that always managed to take the edge off my day.

"Anything for you, Princess," I replied, returning her smile.

Her apartment was as spotless as ever, freshly cleaned and neatly arranged, reflecting her need for order amidst the chaos of her life. My own space, a few floors down, had the same pristine starting point, though I knew it wouldn't take long before I left my mark—textbooks on the counter, gym gear by the door, and a faint smell of coffee lingering in the air.

The first few days back were a whirlwind of unpacking and settling into the rhythm of the new academic year. Marjorie threw herself into her new role as president of the Debate Society. She was already organizing meetings and planning events with her trademark precision and passion. Watching her dive headfirst into a role she'd worked so hard to achieve made me proud, but I could also see how much pressure she was putting on herself.

I, on the other hand, returned to my gym routine with renewed focus. It felt good to push my body again, to sweat out the lingering frustrations of the summer. But even as I racked weights and ran miles on the treadmill, my thoughts kept drifting back to Marjorie. I could see how much she was juggling, and while she was good at hiding it, I knew the cracks were there.

One evening, after a particularly long day, we sat together on my couch, the remains of dinner scattered on the coffee table. She leaned her head on my shoulder, and for a moment, we just existed in the quiet.

"Alex," she said softly, breaking the silence, "thank you for everything. For being patient with me, for helping me through... everything."

"Always," I said, tilting my head to kiss her temple. "You'd do the same for me."

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm taking too much from you. If I'm just... too much."

"You're never too much, Marjorie," I said firmly, turning to face her. "You're everything to me. And if you think I'd ever give up on you, you don't know me as well as I thought you did."

Her lips curved into a small smile, but her eyes glistened. "You're going to make me cry."

"Then cry," I said, brushing a tear that had escaped down her cheek. "Cry, laugh, scream—I don't care. As long as I'm the one standing beside you through all of it."

We'd committed to weekly therapy sessions on Saturdays, and while the initial weeks felt like treading water, I could see that we were starting to break through the surface. Slowly, Marjorie began opening up more, not just about us, but about her parents, her constant need to meet their impossible expectations, and the toll it was taking on her mental health.

Outside of therapy, life didn't slow down for her. Between her classes, the Debate Society, and her academic tutor, Dr. Jameson, she was running herself ragged. It didn't take long for me to notice that her anxiety attacks were becoming more frequent, often following her sessions with Jameson.

One night, after another particularly rough episode, I sat beside her as she lay in bed, her breathing finally steady.

"This can't keep happening," I said gently but firmly. "You've been having more attacks since you started with him. Something's not right."

"I know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But what choice do I have? My parents hired him. If I tell them I don't want to work with him, they'll think I'm slacking."

"I don't trust him," I said bluntly. "Something about him feels... wrong. I'm going to have my dad's PI look into him."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Alex, that's... a lot. Don't you think that's a bit extreme?"

"Not when it comes to you," I said, my tone leaving no room for argument. "If something's off about him, I'll find out. And if there's nothing, at least we'll know."

She sighed, her resistance softening. "Okay. But don't make a scene."

"Me? Make a scene? Never," I teased, leaning down to kiss her forehead.

While I waited for the PI's report, I did everything I could to take some of the weight off her shoulders. I helped with Debate Society planning, proofread her essays, and made sure she had at least one meal a day that didn't come from a vending machine. She teased me for being overprotective, but I didn't care.

When the report finally came back, it confirmed what I'd feared. Jameson wasn't just demanding—he was manipulative, with a history of overstepping boundaries with students. I didn't wait to show Marjorie the findings, and though she looked shaken, she also seemed relieved.

"We'll figure this out," I promised her. "Together."

Through all of this, our bond only deepened. We weren't perfect—far from it—but we were learning, growing, and building something real.

One evening, as we sat on the couch after another long day, Marjorie curled into my side and whispered, "You know, I never thought I'd find someone who made me feel... safe. But you do."

I kissed the top of her head, holding her closer. "You make me feel the same way, Princess."

And in that moment, despite all the challenges we were facing, I knew we'd be okay. Together, we could take on anything.