I guess everyone has a story about that boss. The one who made you question everything, the one who stole your sleep, the one who made every Monday feel like a death sentence. I’ve read all the confessions, the stories of micromanagers, screamers, gaslighters. Mine… mine is all of those, and so much worse.
I started that job with such hope. Fresh out of a situation that had left me feeling small and invisible, I was desperate for a new beginning. This company, this role, it felt like a lifeline. And then there was them. My boss. Charismatic. Brilliant. Intense. They saw something in me, they said. Potential. Drive. I hung on every word.
At first, it was incredible. They were a mentor, pushing me, challenging me. I’d never felt so engaged, so seen. I’d stay late, pour myself into every project, just to earn their nod of approval. Their praise was like a drug. It filled the empty spaces inside me, silencing the doubts that had always whispered.
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Then, slowly, subtly, things changed. The praise became conditional. A project I’d worked on tirelessly would be dismissed with a wave of their hand, followed by a casual remark about my “lack of foresight.” Or a sudden, public dressing-down in front of colleagues that left me shaking, only for them to pull me aside moments later, a hand on my arm, whispering, “You know I only do it because I believe in you. You can do better.” And I believed them. I truly did.
The lines blurred, then vanished. We started staying late together. Long discussions about work turned into long discussions about life, dreams, fears. The intensity between us was undeniable. I knew they were… involved. Married, actually. But they made me feel like I was the one they truly saw. The one who understood them. The promises came in hushed tones, after office hours, in dimly lit restaurants where no one knew us. “I’m not happy. You know that. This… this is real.”
I fell. Hard. Deeper than I ever thought possible. Every cruel word at work, every public humiliation, I rationalized it away. It was a test. It was tough love. It was because they cared so much about my growth. And because we were keeping our relationship a secret, they had to be extra hard on me to avoid suspicion, right? That’s what I told myself. That’s what they told me.
The office became a minefield. One moment, they’d be tearing apart my work in a team meeting, their voice dripping with disdain, making me feel worthless. The next, a text would pop up: “Thinking of you. Can’t wait for tonight.” My heart would actually ache with the push and pull. I was constantly on edge, constantly trying to anticipate their mood, to please them, to earn back the approval they seemed to dangle just out of reach.
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My friends started noticing. I was losing weight. My eyes were always shadowed. I cancelled plans constantly. “Work is just… really demanding right now,” I’d mumble, avoiding their gaze. How could I tell them the truth? That the person making my life a living hell from 9 to 5 was also the person I spent my nights with, the person who made me feel, for fleeting moments, like the most important person in the world? How could I explain that I was sacrificing my sanity, my self-respect, for a love that felt so toxic yet so vital?
I was trapped. I had poured everything into this job, this person. I had debts, heavy family responsibilities that needed this salary, this stability. And they knew it. They knew everything about my vulnerabilities. My sick parent, the mortgage I was helping my sibling with, my desperate dream of finally saving enough to go back to school. They’d often say, “You need this job. Don’t mess it up.” It wasn’t a warning; it was a threat.
The abuse escalated. Not just professionally, but personally. They’d question my loyalty, my dedication. They’d make veiled remarks about my competency, then pull me close, swearing they were just trying to push me to my full potential. I was an emotional wreck. I cried myself to sleep most nights, but every morning, I’d pull myself together, put on my game face, and walk back into that office, back into their orbit, hoping that today would be different. Today, they would see how hard I was trying. Today, they would love me openly.
One day, I just broke. A particularly brutal public humiliation, followed by a text message that night saying, “You need to decide if you’re cut out for this. You’re becoming a liability.” It was like a switch flipped. The gaslighting, the emotional manipulation, the constant fear – it all coalesced into one undeniable truth: This wasn’t love. This was control.
I quit. I didn’t have another job lined up. I didn’t care. I walked out of that office and never looked back. I ended the affair. It was messy, painful, full of accusations and empty promises from them. I didn’t respond. I blocked them everywhere. I grieved the job, the person, the future I thought I was building. I grieved the naive, hopeful person I used to be.
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It took months to rebuild myself. Therapy. reconnecting with friends, finding a temporary job just to keep my head above water. Slowly, the fog lifted. The scars remained, but I was healing. I was finally starting to feel like myself again.
Then, a few weeks ago, I got a call. It was my sibling. Their voice was shaking. The mortgage payments they’d been relying on from me – the ones that had been coming in regularly, keeping our family home safe – had suddenly stopped. The bank was threatening foreclosure.
I was confused. I hadn’t missed a payment. I’d set up an automatic transfer months ago from a special savings account I’d been painstakingly building for this purpose. A separate account, because I wanted to surprise my sibling, to take that burden off their shoulders without them worrying about me. An account I only ever discussed with one person.
I logged into my online banking. The account was empty. I felt a cold dread creep up my spine. My hands started to tremble. This wasn’t right. I called the bank. They informed me there had been a series of large, international transfers, authorized through a third-party payment service, all within the last year. Transfers I didn’t recognize. Transfers I never would have authorized.
My mind raced. Who knew about that account? Who knew how much was in it? Who knew my financial vulnerabilities, my family’s situation, my desperate need for that money?
Only one person.
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I started digging. It wasn’t hard to find the digital breadcrumbs once I knew what to look for. The third-party payment service, the destination accounts… it all led back to shell corporations, offshore accounts. And with a sickening lurch, a name popped up, a familiar signature on some of the documents. Not my boss’s name, but their spouse’s name.
My boss had groomed me. Not just professionally, not just romantically, but financially. They knew everything about my savings, my plans, my desperation. They didn’t just break my spirit and betray my love. They meticulously drained my life savings, the money meant to save my family’s home, using their spouse’s identity and their knowledge of my personal accounts, all while keeping me close, distracted, and utterly dependent. They made me believe I was in a forbidden love affair, enduring their cruelty for a chance at a future, when all along, I was just a mark. A source of funds. A distraction from their own illicit financial schemes, for which they needed a fall guy, or just a scapegoat for their own internal machinations.
And the reason they started being so terrible at work? It was when they realized I was close to discovering what they were doing, or when they felt I had served my purpose. They started to drive me away, knowing they’d already taken what they wanted.
I wasn’t just an employee with a bad boss. I was a puppet. A victim. And the cruelest part? They didn’t just take my money. They took my ability to protect the very people I sacrificed everything for.
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I’m standing in a courtroom next week. Not for a labor dispute. Not for emotional distress. For criminal charges. And the person sitting across from me won’t just be my boss. They’ll be the person who systematically dismantled my life, piece by agonizing piece. And the hardest part? I still have to pretend I didn’t know their spouse was involved. Because if I admit I knew, then it complicates everything. So I keep that secret too. ALL THE SECRETS.
