I asked my boyfriend about a one-sided open relationship, and he broke up with me

The Proposal, The Betrayal, and The Escape

I asked my boyfriend about a one-sided open relationship and he broke up with me. I’m 27 and my boyfriend is 41. We’ve been together three years, meeting when I started at his company. He was my supervisor. Trained me my first two weeks. We hit it off immediately.

So many common interests. Nothing happened initially, but after a month, I asked him for coffee. Six months later, I moved in. That first year was incredible. Travel, restaurants, shows.

He taught me about life, really listened, asked tough questions that changed my perspective. He taught me to stand up for myself. The more time together, the more I loved him.

Then COVID hit. He’s a workaholic. During lockdown, he worked 14 to 16-hour days. For six weeks straight, he worked 36 consecutive days. Come home, kiss me, workout, shower, sleep, repeat.

“I have to advocate for our team,” he’d say. I was desperately lonely. When I told him, he tried. He decorated our dining room like a Chinese restaurant. Ordered takeout to simulate going out. Sweet.

But I was still alone. An old college friend reached out on Facebook. We started texting. He gave me attention I craved.

Asked to meet for drinks.

I said yes. Boyfriend wasn’t home anyway. I drank too much. We kissed. It felt good.

I gave him oral. No sex, but still. Next day, I asked my boyfriend to talk.

“I’ve been lonely. What are your thoughts on an open relationship?” He listened as I explained. I loved him but needed attention he couldn’t provide. This would be safe, easy.

“What brought this on?”

I mentioned my friend, how I wasn’t interested in a relationship with him, just distraction, but it would be one-sided.

“I’m not comfortable sharing you with anyone.” “It’s different for me. I’m alone more. Need connection. You work constantly. Have no time for other partners.” He sat silent for minutes. Then I saw the hurt in his eyes.

Ice water poured over me. I hadn’t once thought about him. Before I could speak.

“You need to leave.”

“Wait.”

“I’m not emotionally able to communicate effectively. I need space.” He left. Asked me to be gone when he returned.

Two hours later, a text.

“We need time apart. We shouldn’t be in a relationship right now.”

That was two days ago. I’m at my parents. Can’t eat or sleep.

Then this morning, my phone rang.

“My coworker Jolina, did you see the email?”

“What email?”

“Check your work account and companywide announcement.”

My boyfriend had resigned effective immediately. I called him. Voicemail, texted nothing. Called his best friend, Marcus.

“Is he—”

“You seriously asking that?”

“I messed up.”

“But you don’t know, do you?”

“No. What?”

“Check his Instagram.”

His account was gone, but Marcus sent me screenshots from before deletion. A post from three weeks ago I’d never seen.

“Planning something special for our anniversary. 3 years with the love of my life.”

Photos of a ring custom designed comments from his friends congratulating him.

He was going to propose. Marcus said the whole thing planned.

“Your favorite restaurant reopened for limited capacity. He booked it two months ago this weekend.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“There’s more.”

Marcus continued, “The open relationship thing?” “His ex-wife did the same thing. One-sided open relationship while he worked to support her through medical school. She ended up leaving him for one of her friends.”

“Took him 3 years of therapy to trust again until you.” “I didn’t know the friend you mentioned, Jake Whitmore.”

“How did you—”

“He knew him. Jake’s his ex-wife’s husband now.” My blood went cold.

“That’s impossible.”

“Jake reached out to him last month, bragging. Sent him screenshots of your texts, your photos, told him history was repeating itself.”

“Jake said he didn’t know I had a boyfriend.”

“He targeted you specifically. Found you through your boyfriend’s social media. It was revenge for some work thing from years ago.”

“Oh god.”

“Your boyfriend didn’t tell you because he thought you’d shut Jake down. Instead, you asked for permission to him.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“I’m sending you something. Check your email.” A video file. Security footage from our apartment building’s garage. Dated last week, the night I met Jake.

It showed me coming home at 2:00 a.m. But I told my boyfriend I’d been home by 10:00, asleep early.

“How did you?”

“Your boyfriend knew. The building manager sent it to him the next morning. He was going to talk to you about it after the proposal. Give you a chance to explain.” “Instead, you asked to sleep with other men while keeping him exclusive.”

“I need to fix this.”

“There’s nothing to fix. He’s already gone.”

“Gone where?”

“His company offered him a position in London. He took it. His flight left an hour ago.”

I hung up and drove to the airport. Ran to international departures. His flight to London. Departed.

I called him again. This time it rang differently. International tone.

Then a text came through.

“I loved you more than you’ll ever know. The ring is in our apartment top drawer. Keep it or sell it. I don’t care anymore.” “I’ve blocked your number after this message.”

“Don’t contact me again. Be happy with Jake or whoever else. You won.”

I raced home. Found the ring box. Inside, a stunning vintage inspired ring. Must have cost thousands.

Under the ring, a note in his handwriting.

“3 years ago, you changed my life. You helped me believe in love again after I thought I never would.”

“Every day with you was a gift. I’m sorry I worked so much. I was trying to save enough so we could take a year off together after the wedding. Travel the world like you always dreamed.”

“I guess I should have just told you instead of trying to surprise you.”

“The house in Vermont is yours. Deed transfer is with my lawyer. It was going to be your wedding present. Be happy. You deserve more than I could give.”

The house in Vermont, the one I’d fallen in love with online, said was my dream home. He’d bought it for me.

My phone buzzed.

“Jake heard your boyfriend left. Want to grab that drink?”

I threw my phone across the room. Another buzz. Different phone. My work phone. Email from HR.

“Please report to human resources Monday at 9:00 a.m. regarding your relationship with a supervisor.”

Then another email from an address I didn’t recognize.

“You don’t know me, but I’m your boyfriend’s ex-wife. Marcus told me what happened. I need to tell you something about Jake. Meet me tomorrow. Urgent.”

I sit in my parents living room staring at Jake’s text message, my hands shaking so hard I nearly drop my phone. The casual cruelty of, “Want to grab that drink?” after destroying my entire life makes something shift inside me from devastation to cold rage.

I screenshot the message and block his number. My first clear decision in three days. My thumb hovers over the delete button for a second before I save it to a folder labeled evidence that I create right there.

I don’t know what I’ll need it for yet, but some part of me knows I’m going to need proof of what he’s done. My parents are asleep upstairs and the house is quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

I pull my laptop from my bag and open it on the coffee table, the blue light making my eyes hurt after three days of crying.

Marcus’ words keep playing in my head on repeat about Jake targeting me, specifically about how this was all planned. I pull up Jake’s Facebook profile and start scrolling back through years of posts, looking for any connection to my ex-boyfriend I might have missed.

His profile is mostly public, full of gym selfies and political rants and check-ins at restaurants. I scroll past photos from last year, the year before, going back further and further. My stomach turns when I find a photo from six years ago tagged at my boyfriend’s company holiday party.

Jake’s arm is around a woman I now recognize as the ex-wife. Both of them smiling at the camera. The location tag says it’s at some hotel ballroom downtown.

I zoom in on the photo and see my ex-boyfriend in the background. Younger but definitely him talking to someone I don’t recognize.

Jake and the ex-wife look happy together, her hand resting on his chest. The comments are mostly generic holiday wishes, but one catches my eye from someone named Greg.

“Glad you two finally made it official.”

I click on the ex-wife’s profile, but it’s private now.

Just a generic profile picture of a sunset. I go back to Jake’s photos and keep scrolling, finding more pictures from that same time period. There’s one of him and my ex-boyfriend standing together at what looks like a work site, both wearing hard hats.

The caption says, “Last day before the big project launch,” and it’s dated seven years ago. My chest tightens as I realize they weren’t just co-workers, they worked closely together. I screenshot everything I find and save it to the same evidence folder.

The email from the ex-wife sits in my inbox like a bomb I’m afraid to open. After two hours of staring at it, I finally click and read her message three times, trying to understand why she would want to meet with me.

She says she has information about Jake that I need to know, that she made the same mistakes I did, and that she’s been where I am now. Her email is short and direct, giving me her phone number and suggesting we meet Sunday morning at a coffee shop called Brewer’s Corner on the east side of the city.

She signs it just Rebecca with no last name.

I type out a response saying, “I’ll be there.” My fingers moving automatically while my brain tries to process what’s happening. I hit send before I can second guess myself.

I spend the entire night researching everything I can find about Jake Whitmore online. His LinkedIn shows he left my boyfriend’s company seven years ago after some kind of dispute and there are hints in old forum posts about a project that went wrong.

I find an article in a local business journal from seven years ago about a construction project that was delayed due to safety concerns. The article doesn’t name anyone specifically, but it mentions that several workers were reassigned and one supervisor was let go.

I cross referenced the dates with Jake’s LinkedIn and they match up perfectly. The more I dig, the more I realize this revenge plot has been years in the making.

I find a Reddit thread from six years ago where someone with Jake’s username is complaining about being fired unfairly, about how his boss threw him under the bus to save his own career. The details are vague, but the anger is clear.

Comment after comment about how he’s going to make things right someday. I screenshot that, too. By the time the sun starts coming up, I have a folder full of evidence that Jake has been planning this for years.

My eyes burn and my head pounds, but I can’t stop looking. I find his ex-girlfriend’s Instagram, a woman named Sarah who posted about their breakup three years ago. She hints at him being controlling and manipulative, about how he isolated her from her friends.

I send her a message asking if she’d be willing to talk, knowing she probably won’t respond, but needing to try anyway.