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I’ve been working at a large tech company for the past year. My direct manager — let’s call him James Bettles — is a senior executive. On the surface, he’s professional, articulate, and respected, but behind closed doors, I’ve seen things that don’t sit right with me.
He keeps his office locked almost all the time. People aren’t allowed in without being called, and when they are, it’s usually very young male interns or new hires. They go in looking nervous. Some of them leave visibly shaken or in a rush. A few times, I’ve seen them leave his office with cash in their hands. I have no idea why that would ever happen in a corporate environment.
Once, I walked in without knocking because I thought he was out. He wasn’t. He quickly closed his laptop, but I caught a glimpse of what looked like a personals site — not a dating site — more like those Craigslist “encounter” listings. It was open in a separate window alongside a company dashboard.
I’ve also overheard disturbing sounds through the wall. I can’t describe them exactly, but they didn’t sound appropriate for a workplace. It’s enough to make me avoid walking past his office altogether.
I’ve mentioned it discreetly to HR. Their response was passive — they said they’d “make a note of it” and that “James has been here a long time.” Nothing changed.
I don’t know if I’m overreacting, but this doesn’t feel right. It feels dangerous, like something is happening and no one wants to touch it. I’m scared to be the one who pushes further, but I also don’t want to stay silent if someone’s being hurt.
Country of complaint: United States
used to think James saw something in me.
Not just my look — the heels, the makeup, the lingerie I wore under my suit — but me. The person. The version of myself I was still trying to understand.
He made me feel wanted… but only in the dark. Only behind locked doors. He said he liked that I “didn’t look like the others.” That I was different. I thought that meant I was special. I realize now — it meant I was disposable.
He made me do things that still mess with my head.
There was one night he blindfolded me and played music while he gave me instructions like it was some kind of ritual. I didn’t say no. I wanted to please him. I was afraid to disappoint him.
He had a way of making shame feel like love.
He made me walk down hotel hallways in just a corset and coat. He made me pose like I was on display. Once, he brought someone else in — a stranger. I wasn't told. I wasn’t asked. I was presented.
Afterward, he acted like it was normal. Like I should be grateful.
And I pretended. I smiled. I called him “Sir.” I told myself this was what intimacy looked like when you’re not built like the others.
But when I saw how he treated the interns — the nervous boys with their wide eyes and tight clothes — I started to see the pattern. I wasn’t special. I was just first.
When I finally tried to pull away, he ghosted me.
I would pass him in the hallway, and he wouldn’t even look up from his phone.
You don’t realize how small you’ve become until the person who used to control your whole world forgets you like an expired password.
Sometimes I wonder if I imagined all of it — the attention, the nights, the power he had over me. But then I remember the hotel rooms. The texts I deleted. The makeup stains on the inside of a suit jacket I never wore again.
He took more than my time. He took my trust. My sense of worth. The version of myself I had just started to love.
I’m not writing this for revenge. I’m writing it so I can finally put a period at the end of a chapter that was written in silence.
If you’re reading this and you’ve been made to feel small by someone who said they loved your difference — just know:
You were never the problem. They were.