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

A Life Reclaimed

The EEOC investigation intensified over the next weeks. More women came forward, not just from our company, but from Derrick’s previous job.

The pattern went back 15 years: always young women, always interns or entry-level employees, and always the same tactics. The company launched its own investigation.

Linda was promoted to lead it, given full access to personnel files and email records. What she found was damning.

Derrick had been flagged by HR multiple times over the years, but the complaints had always been buried. He had allies in high places, people who’d benefited from his ability to develop young talent.

Jessica, the intern who’d called me, filed her own complaint. She’d recorded Derrick suggesting they discuss her career over dinner at his apartment.

When she’d declined, he’d become cold and critical of her work. She’d documented everything, learning from our mistakes.

Three weeks after the restraining order hearing, Derrick was terminated. He wasn’t quietly transferred or allowed to resign; he was terminated for cause.

The company sent out a carefully worded email about their commitment to a safe workplace. They implemented new policies about supervisor-subordinate relationships and brought in consultants to conduct training.

It wasn’t enough; it would never be enough to undo the damage. But it was something.

I started therapy with someone who specialized in coercive control. The first session I could barely speak; the second I cried for the full hour.

By the third I was beginning to understand how thoroughly Derrick had rewired my thinking. “It’s not your fault,” my therapist repeated. “You were 17. He was 36. The power imbalance was insurmountable.”

Slowly I began to rebuild. I applied for jobs at companies where Derrick had no connections.

I reached out to old friends, apologizing for disappearing and explaining what had happened. Most were understanding; some were angry that I’d chosen him over them.

I couldn’t blame them. Tyler and I went to coffee regularly, but just as friends.

I wasn’t ready for anything more and might not be for a long time. He understood.

He’d started dating someone age-appropriate, someone who wasn’t carrying the weight of a five-year manipulation. Sarah and I resumed our friendship like no time had passed.

She introduced me to her friend group, people my own age who did normal twenty-something things: game nights, happy hours, and weekend trips that weren’t orchestrated by someone else. The warehouse job turned out to be a blessing.

Linda advocated for me to be transferred to a different department at my original pay rate. I worked in marketing now, using skills I didn’t even know I had.

My new supervisor was a woman in her 50s who took no nonsense and made sure I was included in projects that would build my resume. Catherine and Catherine stayed in touch.

We formed a support group of sorts, meeting virtually once a month to check in. More women joined over time; some were Derrick’s victims, others had their own Derricks.

We shared resources, validated each other’s experiences, and celebrated small victories. The legal battles continued.

Derrick sued for defamation; we counter-sued. The EEOC found cause to believe discrimination had occurred.

The company settled out of court, admitting no wrongdoing but paying damages to seven women. Derrick’s portion was garnished to pay his mounting legal fees.

Six months after leaving Derrick, I enrolled in community college. Just two classes to start, paid for with part of the settlement money: business management and psychology.

I sat in classrooms with people my age and younger, feeling ancient and naive at the same time. My professor for the psychology class was a woman who’d left corporate life to teach.

After class one day, she pulled me aside. She’d recognized something in my essays, she said—the careful way I wrote about power dynamics, about manipulation, about control.

“I’ve been where you are,” she said simply. “It gets better, but it takes time.”

I moved out of my parents’ house into a small apartment with Sarah. We decorated it with thrift store finds and plants that I somehow managed to keep alive.

I cooked meals that Derrick would have said were too simple. I wore clothes he would have called unprofessional.

I made choices without asking anyone’s permission. The restraining order expired after a year.

Derrick had violated it twice, both times earning him arrests and fines. He’d lost his professional reputation; his LinkedIn was now a ghost town of removed connections.

Last I heard he was working as a consultant, struggling to find clients who hadn’t heard about the scandal. But I knew he’d find new victims eventually; men like Derrick always did.

They just got better at hiding it. I graduated from community college with a 4.0 GPA.

My parents cried at the ceremony. Sarah cheered embarrassingly loud when I walked across the stage.

Linda sent a congratulations card with a job offer inside: a junior management position at a company she’d moved to. I took the job.

My new office had a window. My colleagues were diverse in age and experience, and my supervisor was professional and boundaried.

No one offered to mentor me over private dinners. No one suggested I was too special for normal career development.

On my 25th birthday, I celebrated with 15 friends at a karaoke bar. We sang badly and laughed loudly and acted our age.

I thought about the birthdays I’d spent with Derek, quiet dinners where he’d chosen the restaurant and ordered for me. He had reminded me how lucky I was to have someone who understood me so well.

My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. I almost deleted it without reading, but something made me open it.

“Happy birthday Madison. I hope you found peace.”

There was no signature, but I knew who it was from. I blocked the number and went back to singing.

My friends were waiting, and I had a life to live—a real one this time, one I’d chosen for myself. The next morning I filed a police report about the contact.

Officer Martinez took my statement, adding it to Derrick’s file. “The pattern continued,” he noted.

Even after everything, Derrick couldn’t resist trying to maintain some threat of control. But I was done being controlled.

I had a career, friends, and a life that belonged to me. The scars were still there and might always be there, but they no longer defined me.

I was 25 years old and I was finally free.