I was at a networking event, sipping lukewarm wine, when a woman approached me. She looked elegant but terrified, constantly glancing at the door.
“I’m leaving the country tomorrow and I will never meet you again so can I share something with you,” she said quickly.
I was taken aback but nodded. She told me all about her husband. It started like a fairy tale. He started out protective, then became controlling. She described how he slowly isolated her. By the end, he had destroyed her credit, tracked her constantly, and made her financially dependent.
I felt a cold shiver, not of fear, but of recognition. My husband, Daniel, checked my location often. He handled our finances because I was “bad with numbers.”
I tried to rationalize it to her, saying “Daniel – my husband, also does it”. I told her he just worried about me. He just wanted me to be safe.
The woman looked at me with sad, knowing eyes. “You’re defending him the way I did,” she whispered. Then she walked away and vanished into the crowd.
I went home, shaken. That night, my husband searched my bag the moment I walked in. He claimed he was looking for gum, but his hands were aggressive. He asked why I was fourteen minutes late. Not fifteen. Fourteen. He had been timing me.
I went to take a shower to wash off the stress. After showering, my phone flashed: “Unknown AirTag Detected.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. I grabbed my purse and dumped it out. I felt the lining. There was a hard lump sewn into the bottom seam. I found it stitched inside my purse. He had been tracking me.
The stranger was right.
While Daniel was downstairs watching TV, I crept into his home office. I went to his desk. I opened the bottom drawer, usually locked, but he had gotten sloppy.
A manila folder. My name.
I opened it. Inside wasn’t a love letter. It was a dossier. There were credit card applications in my name I never signed, maxed out to ruin my score. There were printed logs of my text messages. And there was a document titled “Custody Strategy,” detailing how to frame me as mentally unstable using my “paranoia” about being watched.
I didn’t confront him. I didn’t scream. I took photos of everything, put the folder back, and packed a bag. I left that night while he slept. The stranger at the bar saved my life—I just wish I could thank her.
