My Narcissist Boyfriend Recorded Me Without Consent. Until I Hacked Him And Found Shocking Videos.

Normal stuff. Missing me. Can’t wait to see me. Sending heart emojis like he was a regular boyfriend and not a predator who’d violated 47 women. Miss you, too.

I texted back, “Drive safe, coming home.” My hands shook as I typed it. I texted back, kept it light, acted normal because I was forming a plan and I needed him to think everything was fine.

On day four, I started reaching out to the women. I began with the ones I could identify easily. Full names, phone numbers, social media profiles. I spent hours cross- referencing Marcus’ notes with Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn. Some women were easy to find, others took more work. Jessica Rodriguez, the first name on his 2022 list, her profile was public. She lived in Portland, too.

Worked at a marketing firm downtown. She had photos from her New Year’s trip in 2022. The hotel Marcus mentioned in his notes was visible in the background of one photo. It was her. Definitely her. I crafted a message, rewrote it 20 times.

Too aggressive, too vague, too accusatory, too soft. Finally, I settled on something simple. Hi, Jessica. My name is Amber. You don’t know me, but I need to talk to you about Marcus Chen.

It’s important. It’s about your privacy and safety. Please call me when you can.

I know this sounds crazy, but I promise I’m not a stalker or anything. I just found something you need to know about.

I attached my phone number, hit send, immediately wanted to delete it. What if she thought I was insane? What if she showed Marcus? What if this whole thing blew up in my face? But I couldn’t stop now. I sent similar messages to 22 other women that first day to the women whose information I could find. Facebook messages, Instagram DMs, texts to phone numbers from his spreadsheet. Three women blocked me immediately. Probably thought I was some crazy girlfriend stalking Marcus’ exes. I didn’t blame them, but five women responded. The first was Jessica. Jessica Rodriguez.

She called me within an hour of getting my message. What’s this about? Her voice was cautious. Scared maybe. Are you somewhere private? I asked. Where you can talk? I’m at home alone. What’s going on? Did something happen to Marcus? The concern in her voice killed me. She still cared about him. After 2 years, she still wondered if he was okay. Marcus is fine, I said. Physically fine. But I need to tell you something about him. About what he did to you, to me. To a lot of other women. Silence.

Then I don’t understand. Are you sitting down? I asked. Should I be? Yeah, I said. You should be. I heard her move.

Furniture creaking. Okay, I’m sitting.

What’s going on? I told her everything.

About the cameras, the videos, the spreadsheet, about how I’d found her name, her notes, her file, about the hotel. About New Year’s 2022. The silence on the other end lasted so long I thought she’d hung up. Jessica, I need you to tell me you’re not making this up. Her voice was shaking. I need you to tell me this is real because if it’s real, then I’m going to She stopped, took a breath. Tell me exactly what you found. I told her about the hidden cameras, about the dates that matched when she’d been with him. About the notes he’d written about her, the ratings, the comments. He wrote that I was very loud. She sounded sick. Yeah, I said. And he gave you five stars. Oh my god, she was crying now. Oh my god, I thought when we were together, I always felt like something was off. Like he was performing, you know, like he was watching us instead of being present.

But I told myself I was being paranoid.

You weren’t paranoid, I said. He was literally watching and recording. What are we going to do? She asked. Did you go to the police? Not yet, I said. I want to find the other women first. I want us all to know. To decide together what happens next. There are others. 47, I said. Including us. She made a sound like she’d been punched. 47. We stayed on the phone for 2 hours. She told me about her relationship with Marcus, how they’d met at a photography workshop, how he’d seemed perfect, attentive, interested in her career, her dreams, her life. He took me to that hotel for New Year’s. She said it was a surprise.

It had a view of the city. We watched the fireworks from the room. It was one of the most romantic nights of my life.

He planned it. I said he knew that hotel, knew the room layout. Probably had cameras already set up. You think he’s done this before? She asked. At that hotel specifically, I pulled up his spreadsheet. Searched for the hotel name. Found three other entries.

Different women, different years, same hotel. Sometimes the same room number.

Yeah, I said. He’s used that hotel at least four times that I can see. He has a system, she said. It wasn’t a question. He has a system, I confirmed.

Over the next week, I found 19 more women. Each phone call was harder than the last. Each time, I had to explain.

had to tell another person that their privacy had been violated, that their trust had been betrayed, that they were part of a collection. Some reactions were immediate, crying, screaming, rage, others were quiet, a long silence, then a soft okay, and a click as they hung up. Those ones worried me more, the quiet ones, the ones processing trauma in silence. Britney, the yoga instructor, threw up when I told her. I heard her gag, heard the phone drop, heard wretching. When she came back, her voice was hollow. I need to see it, she said. The notes, what he wrote about me.

Are you sure? I asked. It’s not good. I need to see it. I sent her a screenshot, blurred out the other names, just showed her entry. She called back 5 minutes later. “Flexible,” he wrote that I was flexible. Like that was the most important thing. Like I was a yoga pose he was reviewing. “I’m sorry,” I said.

It felt inadequate. “Don’t apologize for him,” she snapped, then softer. “Sorry, I’m not angry at you. I’m angry at him.

I’m angry at myself for not seeing it.

You couldn’t have seen it,” I said.

“That’s the point. He made sure we couldn’t see it.” Melissa, the coffee shop girl, was the hardest call. She was 19, barely out of high school. Marcus had been 34 when he’ recorded her. “I knew something was wrong,” she said. I felt sick after, like I’d done something bad. He was so much older and I thought maybe I was being stupid. That this was what grown-up relationships were like.

This isn’t what relationships are like, I said. What he did was wrong. None of this is your fault. I dropped out of college, she said. After we broke up, I couldn’t concentrate. Kept having these panic attacks. My parents think I’m wasting my potential. They don’t know about Marcus, about any of it. You’re not wasting anything, I said. You’re surviving. By the end of week 2, I had contacted 31 women. 14 agreed to meet.

Not all of them wanted to talk. Some blocked me. Some told me to leave them alone, that they didn’t want to know, and I understood that sometimes ignorance feels safer than truth. But 14 women agreed, wanted to know, needed to know. We set up a video call. All of us in different states, different time zones, different lives, but connected by this one horrible thing. I showed them the evidence, the spreadsheet, the file names. Some of their faces appeared in the thumbnails I’d captured. Blurred enough to protect privacy, but clear enough to prove this was real. The reactions varied. Crying, rage, shock, silence. One woman, Britney, ran off camera. I heard her being sick. Her roommate came on instead. demanded to know what was happening. “We told her.” She swore. Called Marcus names I’d never heard before. Held Britney when she came back. “So, what do we do?” asked Jennifer. She was a lawyer, interestingly. “Corporate law, not criminal, but still.” She was older than most of us. Late30s, had a teenage son.

Marcus had recorded her at a conference in Boston 3 years ago. “We take this to the police, right? We could,” I said.

“But I’ve been researching. Oregon law is complicated on this. Recording someone without consent during intimate acts is illegal. Yes, but getting a conviction is hard.” He’ll argue he thought we knew that the cameras were visible. that we implicitly consented by being in his space. “That’s insane,” said Melissa. She looked tiny on the screen, young and scared and hurt. “I never consented to anything.” “I didn’t even know he had cameras.” “I know,” I said. “But that’s what his lawyer will argue. And even if we win, what does he get? A few years? Maybe probation if he gets a good judge. So, what are you suggesting?” Jennifer asked. She was sharp. I could see her lawyer brain working. Vigilante, justice. I’m suggesting we make him face consequences that actually matter. I said, “We make sure every person who knows him, works with him, could potentially be victimized by him, knows exactly what he did.” “You want to destroy his life,” said another woman. “Katie, she was a nurse, lived in Seattle.” Marcus had recorded her during the trip he was supposed to be on right now. She didn’t sound judgmental. Just clarifying. I want to protect other women, I said.

Everything else is just a side effect.

We debated for hours. The call went from early evening to past midnight for some of us. Some women wanted to go straight to the police. Others wanted blood. Most wanted both. We compromised. We’d document everything, build an airtight case, then we’d expose him publicly before going to the authorities. That way, even if the legal system failed us, the court of public opinion wouldn’t.