I’m 32 years old, and my name is Anna. I’m a paralegal, which means my entire life is about organization, documentation, and making sure every ‘i’ is dotted and every ‘t’ is crossed. I’m the person who reads the fine print. Which is what makes it so ironic that I never read the fine print on my own relationship.
This happened last year, but I still think about it every day. I’m not proud of how long I stayed, or how much I let myself ignore. But I am not ashamed of how it ended.
I was with my ex, Zach, for three and a half years. We lived together in a small one-bedroom near Worthington, here in Columbus, Ohio. We met through my coworker, Dana, who used to date one of Zach’s friends. It was supposed to be a casual hangout at her apartment—pizza, drinks, nothing serious. But Zach and I “clicked” fast. He was funny, he was polite, and he seemed genuinely interested in everything I said. He’d ask me about my work, about my family, about my day, and his eyes would never leave my face.
Looking back, I realize now it wasn’t real interest. It was research. I was vulnerable. I had just lost my mom a few months before we met. She was my best friend, and the grief had cracked me wide open. I was soft, tired, and didn’t ask for much. I think Zach saw that. I think he liked that.
In the beginning, he was the perfect boyfriend. He texted me “good morning” every day. He’d leave sweet notes on the fridge. He told me he’d never met someone who actually listened the way I did. I, desperate for a foothold in a world that suddenly felt empty, believed all of it.
But over time, the polished surface began to tarnish. He always had a reason why he couldn’t come to my events. My niece’s birthday party? “Babe, kids aren’t my thing.” My best friend’s engagement dinner? “That place is too expensive, let’s just order in.” My cousin’s funeral? “It’s a long drive, and I’m swamped at work.”
But I always showed up for his stuff. I went to his friend Corey’s birthday at a loud, grimy bar where I didn’t know anyone and he left me at a table for an hour. I waited in the car, reading a novel, while he played basketball with his friends Nick and Jake for three hours. I even helped his mom move after her surgery, spending a whole weekend packing her kitchen while Zach “supervised.” None of it felt like a big deal at the time. I thought that’s what you do when you love someone. You support them.
He was never physically abusive. I need to make that clear. But he was mean in small, insidious ways. He’d mock my job as a paralegal, calling me a “glorified paper-pusher.” When I brought up how hurt I felt, he’d sigh and say I was “too sensitive” or “trying to start something.”
His friends were no better. Corey, Nick, and Jake were like a pack of frat boys who had somehow failed to graduate for fifteen years. They’d make fun of me to my face. They called me “Wifey,” but not in a sweet way. It was a joke, a label for the woman who cleaned up, paid for things, and didn’t complain. One time, Corey asked, “Does she make you wear a leash at home, Zach?” They all laughed. Zach laughed, too. Another time, I overheard them call me “Home Base.” When I asked Zach what it meant, he kissed my forehead and said it was a joke about me being the one who always took care of him, the one he could always come home to. It sounded almost sweet. I let it go.
I should have known that “Home Base” is just the place you touch before you run off to the next thing.
The money was the worst part. I paid for groceries when Zach was “between jobs,” which was often. I “loaned” him money for his gas, his phone bill, even some mysterious “debt” he said he owed a friend. That debt, I later found out, was just a stack of unpaid credit card bills. I paid off almost $1,500 for him. He never paid me back. I convinced myself it didn’t matter. We were a team.
I was tired all the time, but I thought that was just what adult relationships were like. I thought I was being supportive. I was just being used.
It was a Saturday in June. He asked if I wanted to go to the mall. This was strange. Zach hated the mall. But he said he wanted to “treat me to lunch” and “get me something fun.” I was so desperate for a sign that he still cared, I latched onto it. I remember I wore a blue dress that used to be my favorite. I hadn’t worn it in months. I curled my hair. I even put on eyeliner. I thought maybe, just maybe, something good was about to happen.
We walked around for a bit, then he steered us toward the food court. It was 2 PM, the lunch rush was over. It wasn’t crowded, maybe six or seven tables occupied. We sat near the edge, by a Sbarro. He got us burgers and fries from the little grill place. I thought maybe this was just his weird way of making a casual memory. I didn’t expect anything big.
Until he stood up.
He wiped his mouth, stood up from the plastic chair, and dropped to one knee. The sound of the food court—the distant whir of the smoothie blender, the chatter of a few high school kids—seemed to fade. People turned to look. My stomach flipped.
He pulled a small, plastic ring out of his hoodie pocket. It looked like it came from one of those 50-cent toy machines by the arcade. It was bright pink, with a massive, cloudy fake gem, the kind a five-year-old would wear for dress-up.
He said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “Will you marry me?”
At first, I smiled. I thought it was a joke, a funny, goofy lead-in before he pulled out the real ring. I looked around, half-laughing, embarrassed, waiting for the real moment.
But then he added, his voice dripping with a casual cruelty I’ll never forget, “You’re not worth a real one. You’re just convenient.”
I froze. My smile died on my face. His friends—Corey, Nick, and Jake—jumped out from behind the smoothie kiosk. They were all filming me with their phones, laughing. Full, loud, braying laughter.
“Yo, look at her face!” one of them yelled.
Zach stood up, still smirking. He took the plastic ring, dropped it into my large cup of soda, and pushed it toward me. “You want it? Fish it out.”
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I could feel the stares of everyone in the food court. My hands were shaking. I could hear their laughter. It was all a prank. A public, calculated humiliation. He hadn’t brought me here to propose. He had brought me here to be the butt of his joke.
I stood up. I looked at Zach. I looked at his friends, still filming. I looked at the plastic ring floating in my drink. I didn’t say a word. I picked up the 44-ounce soda, and I calmly, deliberately, dumped the entire sticky contents into his lap.
The cold liquid hit him with a splash. He yelped. His friends roared with laughter, this time at him. I said nothing. I just turned and walked out of the food court, out of the mall, and sat in my car for almost an hour, shaking, before I could even find the strength to put the key in the ignition. He didn’t call. He didn’t come after me.
I was still sitting in my car, parked in the outer reaches of the lot, when someone knocked on my window. I jumped, startled. It was a woman, maybe in her early forties, wearing a neat business-casual suit. She looked nervous.
“Sorry to bother you,” she said, her voice low. “I saw what happened in there. It was disgusting.”
I just nodded, my throat too tight to speak. I didn’t want to talk.
She hesitated, then said, “That man, your… that man. I’ve seen him before. I work in compliance at Cotman Logistics. One of his friends, Jake, is under internal investigation for fraud. And I’ve seen him.”
That got my attention. “What?”
She told me that Zach had been using a company credit card, one issued to Jake, and making a string of suspicious purchases. She said there was an active investigation, and she had recognized Zach from the surveillance footage they’d been reviewing. “He’s not smart,” she said. “He’s been using it for DoorDash.”
Then she handed me a sticky note. It had a name and a phone number written in neat, precise handwriting. “David Kroll, Head of Internal Investigations.”
“If you have anything that connects him to those purchases—texts, messages, Venmo requests—call this number. But don’t tell him. Wait a few days. Be smart. He’s not.” She didn’t give me her name. She just walked away and disappeared into a different section of the parking lot.
I sat in the car for a long time, just staring at that little piece of paper. I didn’t call right away. I went home. The apartment was quiet. His things were still there. I took a garbage bag and swept every trace of him—his toothbrush, his clothes, his video games—and threw it all in the dumpster behind our building. Then, I changed the locks.
Finally, I sat down at my laptop. As a paralegal, I live by documentation. I deleted every trace of Zach from my phone, but not before I backed up everything. Everything. Texts. Photos. Venmo screenshots. I created a new, encrypted folder. I made a spreadsheet of every dollar I’d ever sent him. Every message where he’d bragged about “Jake’s magic card.” I had more proof than I even realized.
Three days later, I dialed the number on the sticky note. A woman answered, David Kroll’s assistant. I told her everything. She asked me to email the documents. I sent over 27 screenshots, a full PDF of my spreadsheet, and a timeline.
A week later, she followed up. “Our team found additional purchases linked to Mr. [Zach’s Last Name]’s accounts,” she said, her voice crisp and professional. “Including several electronics, and yes, a suspicious number of DoorDash orders made using Mr. [Jake’s Last Name]’s login. Thank you for your cooperation.”
I didn’t hear from Zach for two weeks. I was just starting to feel safe. Then, he called. I didn’t recognize the number.
“You called the company?” he screamed. No hello. Just rage. “You called the f—ing company? Are you serious right now?”
I didn’t say anything.
“I got fired! Jake got fired! They’re saying it’s theft! What the hell did you tell them?”
I hung up. He called back five times. He left three voicemails. The first was more yelling. The second was quieter, pleading. The third one, he was crying.
“You ruined everything,” he sobbed. “You were supposed to be my person. You were my backup. My guarantee. You don’t do this to someone you love.”
That voicemail made me sick. Backup. Guarantee. Like I was some spare tire he kept in the trunk in case of a blowout.
That night, I got a DM from a girl named Amber. Pretty, maybe mid-twenties. “Hey, not trying to be weird, but I’m Zach’s girlfriend. We’ve been together since April. I just saw the food court video on TikTok. Is that real?”
I stared at her message. Since April. We’d still been living together in April. I told her yes, it was real. I sent her the screenshots of his texts. I told her about the fraud, the stolen credit card, the company investigation. She read every message and didn’t reply for a full day. Then she sent back: “I had no idea. I’m done with him. I am so sorry you went through that.” She blocked him that same day.
I know, because he called me that night, screaming again. “You told her lies! You’re obsessed! You’re just bitter because I moved on!” Then he said the part I’ll never forget. “You think you hurt me? You think this is over? You don’t even know what I’ve got on you.”
That’s when it turned. I didn’t know what he meant at first. What could he have on me? But the next day, I got a call from my job. Someone had emailed them from an anonymous address, claiming I was involved in “fraudulent legal work” and had helped Zach commit his credit card theft. Luckily, I had already given my supervisor a vague heads-up about a “bad breakup,” so they dismissed it. But it terrified me.
A week later, my sister got a text from a random number, saying I was “mentally unstable” and “obsessed with my ex,” that I was “dangerous” and “needed help.” Zach was unraveling, and he was trying to take me down with him.
Then, Corey, his best friend, showed up at my apartment. It was late, almost 9:30 p.m. I heard a knock and looked through the peephole. He was standing there, holding a six-pack, like nothing was wrong. I didn’t open the door.
“Yo, Anna!” he yelled, loud enough for my neighbors to hear. “Just want to talk! Zach’s losing it! He says you ruined his whole life, but like, he’s not wrong, is he?” I told him to leave, that I was calling the cops. He laughed and walked away, but not before saying, “You picked the wrong one to f— with!”
The next day, I got another message, this time from a woman named Rachel. “I don’t know you, but I used to date Zach. He told me once that he had a ‘file’ on every girl he’s ever dated. Stuff to use later if they ever ‘got crazy’ on him. I just thought you should know.”
I was shaking as I read her message. He wasn’t just a jerk. He was dangerous. And he had made me his target. But he forgot one crucial thing. He wasn’t the only one who kept files.
After Rachel’s message, I went back. Not to my text messages, but to an old, shared Dropbox account Zach had used on my laptop when we first moved in together. He never logged out. I found folders with girls’ names. Bri. Amber. Rachel. And me. Inside were screenshots of our private conversations, cropped photos, even screen recordings of video chats. My stomach turned. He was a collector.
I reached out to all three of them. I sent them proof. They were all stunned, disgusted. Two of them cried. Bri, the one who dated him before me, told me he had convinced her Jake’s card wasn’t stolen, but that Jake had given it to him as part of a plan to “skim a little from the company.” Jake wasn’t just a victim; he was a co-conspirator.
I made a new fake account and messaged Jake. I sent him just one thing: a screenshot of a text Zach had sent me six months ago. “Jake’s got this company card they don’t track. He’s too dumb to notice, he’ll take the fall if it ever gets bad.”
Jake left me on “read.” Three days later, Zach called me from a blocked number. He was frantic, scared. “You think this is funny? Jake’s freaking out! He’s talking about going to the company with everything! You’re going to make people do things they regret!” He hung up. He wasn’t the puppet-master anymore. He was the one dangling from a thread.
And I still hadn’t used the worst thing I had. The women I’d contacted, we had a group chat now. We called it “The Home Base.” One of them worked for a local advocacy group. Together, we built a file. My evidence of the fraud, combined with their evidence of his systematic harassment, his “insurance” folders, his threats. It was no longer a personal dispute; it was a criminal pattern. We went to the police.
A week later, a local news channel ran the story. “Columbus Man Arrested in Connection to Digital Harassment and Fraud Investigation.” Zach’s mugshot was right there. The investigation had connected him to multiple online folders containing private images and data of at least six women, which had been shared in private group chats. Guess who those group chats included? Corey, Nick, and Jake. One of them, probably to save their own skin, had forwarded the entire chat history to the investigators.
It’s been a year. Zach took a plea deal. Faced with felony charges for identity theft, cyber harassment, and conspiracy to commit fraud, he crumbled. He got 18 months in state prison. He’s a registered cyber offender and lost his right to own a computer for five years. His reputation is nonexistent. Jake also got probation for his part in the fraud. Corey and Nick, as far as I know, are just… gone.
I got a letter from Zach from prison. He called it all a “mistake,” said he “got caught up,” and blamed Jake, his friends, his job, and even me. He said I was the only person who ever stood by him. I never answered.
I moved out of that apartment. I got my own place in a quiet neighborhood. My firm, impressed with my documentation and resilience, promoted me to a senior paralegal position, which came with a significant raise. I’m in therapy. I’m healing.
And the vending machine ring? I kept it. It sits in a little black box in the back of my desk drawer. Not because I want to remember him, but because I need to remember me. The girl who got humiliated in front of strangers. The woman who, when pushed, meticulously and legally built a case that took down a ring of toxic men. He called me “convenient.” He called me his “backup.” He had no idea that my “convenience” was his downfall. He forgot that the “home base” is the most important, and most powerful, piece in the entire game.