Is It Wrong That I Asked My Boyfriend For An Open Relationship

Retaliation and Threats

As I drove home, my phone rang. Derrick’s name appeared on the screen.

I let it go to voicemail, but he called again immediately and again. On the fourth call, I answered, my heart pounding.

His voice was calm and controlled, the same tone he’d used when he taught me how to handle difficult customers. He said he’d heard I’d been spreading lies about him at work, trying to damage his reputation.

He reminded me that defamation was a serious legal matter. He had resources, he said, like lawyers who specialized in protecting people from false accusations.

I tried to speak, but he continued over me. He knew I was hurt, he said, and he understood that rejection could make people do desperate things.

But he was concerned about me and about what this behavior said about my mental state. He’d already documented my instability, my inappropriate sexual behavior with Tyler, and my demands for an open relationship.

If I continued down this path, he’d have no choice but to protect himself. The threat was clear, even through his veneer of concern.

I hung up without responding, my hands shaking so badly I dropped the phone. It immediately started ringing again.

Derrick’s name flashed on the screen over and over. I turned it off and threw it in my glove compartment.

When I got home, there were flowers on our doorstep. They were expensive roses, the kind Derrick used to buy for special occasions.

The card read, “I’m worried about you. Please don’t make me take action.” It was signed with a “D”.

My mom found me sitting on the porch steps staring at them. She read the card and immediately called my dad.

Within an hour, they’d installed a security camera and changed the locks, even though Derrick had never had a key to their house. That night, I couldn’t sleep.

I kept thinking about Catherine’s words and about how long it had taken her to rebuild. I thought about the other women Linda had mentioned, the ones who’d simply disappeared rather than fight.

I thought about how Derrick was already three steps ahead, already painting me as the unstable ex who couldn’t handle rejection. I pulled out the notebook with Derrick’s advice again, reading through it with new eyes.

Every piece of wisdom was about isolation, control, and dependence.

“You don’t need friends when you have a partner who truly understands you,” it said. “Family means well, but they can’t see your potential like I can. Other people will try to poison what we have because they’re jealous.”

It was page after page of manipulation disguised as mentorship. My laptop dinged with an email notification.

It was from Derrick’s personal account sent to my work email. The subject line read, “Concern for your well-being.”

I opened it to find a lengthy message detailing his worries about my mental health, complete with dates and times of my erratic behavior. He’d cc’d HR, my new supervisor Linda, and several other department heads.

The email was a masterpiece of manipulation. Every sentence dripped with false concern while painting me as unstable and potentially dangerous.

He mentioned my sexual acting out with Tyler, my delusional accusations, and my harassment of his neighbors. He even expressed worry that I might harm myself or others if I didn’t get help.

At the bottom, he attached what he called documentation of concern. There were screenshots of text messages taken out of context and photos that seemed to show me in distress.

He even included a video clip of me crying in my car outside his building. I realized he must have been recording me for months, maybe years, building a case for exactly this moment.

I forwarded everything to Linda with shaking hands. Within minutes she called me, her voice grim but not surprised.

She told me to come to her office first thing in the morning and to bring any documentation I had. She also told me to consider getting a lawyer.

The next morning, I arrived at the warehouse to find Derrick’s car in the parking lot. My stomach lurched.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t his department or his building, but there he was, standing by the entrance in his perfectly pressed suit, looking every inch the concerned supervisor.

He approached me before I could change direction. His voice was soft, meant only for me.

He said he was worried that my behavior was escalating and that he only wanted to help. He reached for my arm and I jerked away.

That’s when I noticed Linda watching from the doorway, her phone in her hand, recording. Derrick noticed her too.

His demeanor shifted instantly, becoming more professional and more distant. He said he was just checking on an employee who seemed to be struggling and hoped I would get the help I needed.

Then he walked to his car, every movement calculated to project calm authority. Linda ushered me inside quickly.

In her office, she showed me her phone. She’d captured the entire interaction, including the moment he’d reached for me and I’d pulled away.

It wasn’t much, but it was something. She’d also been busy; she’d found contact information for one of the other women, someone named Catherine who’d left seven years ago.

Finding the Others

I spent the morning documenting everything I could remember: dates, conversations, and the gradual changes in my life. Linda sat with me, asking careful questions and helping me see patterns I’d missed.

She showed me Derrick’s employee file with the commendations and the glowing reviews. But hidden between the lines were gaps, transfers, and departures that didn’t quite make sense.

By lunch I was exhausted. My phone had been buzzing all morning with messages from numbers I didn’t recognize.

When I finally checked, they were from colleagues at the main office. Derrick’s email had done its job; people were concerned about me, but not in the way I’d hoped.

They thought I was having a breakdown and that I needed help. Tyler texted asking if I was okay.

He’d heard rumors that I was stalking Derrick and that I’d been harassing him since our breakup. Even Tyler, who’d seen Derrick’s controlling behavior firsthand, was starting to doubt what was real.

Derrick’s narrative was taking hold, spreading through the company like poison. I sat in my car during lunch, wondering if Catherine had been right to disappear.

Fighting Derrick meant fighting not just him, but the entire image he’d cultivated over 15 years. It meant being labeled as crazy, unstable, and vindictive.

It meant risking my career, my reputation, and everything. But then I thought about the next girl, because there would be a next girl; there always was.

Some bright young intern with potential would be eager to learn and grateful for attention. Derrick would see her, target her, shape her into what he wanted, and the cycle would continue.

I made my decision. I drove to a lawyer’s office that Linda had recommended, one who specialized in workplace harassment.

The consultation was free, but the retainer would wipe out most of my savings. Derrick had always handled our finances, insisting it was easier that way.

I’d never questioned why he wanted me financially dependent. The lawyer, a woman named Katherine, listened to my story without judgment.

She’d seen this before, she said. Older men in positions of power using mentorship as a hunting ground, the gradual isolation, the financial control, and the documentation of instability when the relationship ended.

It was textbook, she said, which made it both easier and harder to fight. She explained my options: filing a formal complaint with the EEOC, pursuing a civil case, or getting a restraining order.

Each path had risks, costs, and challenges. Derrick had been smart and careful; he’d stayed just within the bounds of legality while systematically destroying my autonomy.

But patterns mattered, she said. Other victims mattered, and documentation mattered.

I signed the retainer agreement with a hand that barely shook. Katherine told me to document everything from now on: every contact, every threat, and every instance of retaliation.

She also told me to be prepared. Derrick would escalate; men like him always did when they felt their control slipping.

I drove back to the warehouse to find my access card deactivated. The security guard looked embarrassed as he explained that there had been a safety concern and I would need to wait for Linda.

I sat in the lobby watching through the glass doors as my co-workers went about their day, unaware of the battle I was about to fight. Linda emerged after 20 minutes, her face grim.

HR had received another email from Derek. This one suggested that I might be a danger to myself or others.

He’d recommended administrative leave pending a psychological evaluation. Linda had pushed back, but Derrick had allies—people who trusted his judgment and saw him as the stable veteran employee concerned about a troubled young woman.

Linda handed me a temporary badge and walked me through the security doors. Her office was cramped, filled with filing cabinets and stacks of paperwork.

She closed the door behind us and pulled out another folder, this one thicker than the first. “Catherine finally agreed to talk,” she said, sliding a phone number across the desk. “She’s scared, but she’s willing to share her documentation. She kept everything.”

I stared at the number, my hands trembling. Linda continued pulling out papers: emails, performance reviews, and transfer requests.

Each document painted the same picture. Young women, always between 17 and 20 when they started, were always transferred or terminated within 3 to 5 years.

My phone buzzed with another email from Derek, this time to my personal account. The subject line read, “Final warning.”

I didn’t open it. Instead, I called Catherine and read her the subject line.

She told me to forward it unopened and to let her handle all communication from now on. That afternoon, I met Catherine at a diner 40 minutes outside town.

She was older, maybe early 30s, with nervous hands that kept rearranging her silverware. She’d brought a laptop bag stuffed with printed emails, recorded conversations, and even security footage she’d somehow obtained before leaving the company.

Catherine’s story started like all the others: 17, eager, and grateful for Derrick’s mentorship. But she’d been smarter than the rest of us; she’d started documenting everything from the beginning, sensing something off about his attention.

She showed me emails where Derrick had declined a full scholarship to State University on her behalf. He had told the admissions office she’d decided to focus on her career instead.

“I never even knew I’d been accepted,” she said, sliding the rejection letter across the table. “He intercepted my mail for two years.”

“I only found out because my high school counselor called my parents’ house to congratulate me,” she continued. She’d confronted Derek and he’d convinced her the university was trying to poach talented employees, that they didn’t really want her for her potential but to fill diversity quotas.

She’d believed him. We’d all believed him.

Catherine had saved everything: screenshots of Derrick telling her which friends to block and recordings of him explaining why her family didn’t understand their connection. She even had a video she’d secretly taken of him going through her phone while she pretended to sleep, deleting contacts and messages.

“The worst part,” she said, gripping her coffee mug, “is that I thought I was special. I thought I was the only one. When I found out about Catherine I felt sick. When I heard about you I knew I had to do something.”

She slid a USB drive across the table. “Everything was on there,” she said. There were seven years of evidence, enough to establish a pattern that even Derrick’s lawyers couldn’t explain away.