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

Jennifer took charge of the legal strategy, started drafting documents, researching precedents, building a case that would be bulletproof. Britney, despite her trauma, volunteered to help with the tech side. She worked in it, knew how to preserve digital evidence, how to make sure nothing could be deleted or destroyed. Jessica and I took point on finding the remaining women, the ones we hadn’t identified yet, the ones whose names were just initials or first names. We need them all, Jessica said. Every single one. The more of us there are, the harder it is for him to deny, the more powerful we become. But first, I needed to get more evidence.

And I needed Marcus to trust me completely. So, I did something that made me feel dirty, even though I knew it was necessary. I stayed with him.

Marcus came back from Seattle on a Thursday. I met him at his apartment with takeout from his favorite place.

Thai food, spring rolls, and pad thai, and mango sticky rice for dessert.

You’re amazing, he said, kissing me at the door. I missed you so much. Missed you too, I said. The lie tasted like ash. We ate dinner on his couch. He told me about Seattle, about the clients he’d met, about a potential contract that could be really big for his business. He was excited, animated. His hands moved when he talked, the way they always did when he was passionate about something.

I watched him, really watched him, trying to see the monster underneath the mask, but he just looked like Marcus, normal, charming, the man I’d thought I loved. How does someone do this? How do you live two lives so completely? How do you kiss someone good night and then watch videos of them without their knowledge? After dinner, he brought out gifts. a necklace from some boutique in Seattle. Artisan chocolate, a coffee table book about Portland architecture because he knew I love design. I saw this and thought of you, he said, handing me the book. Thought we could look through it together, maybe find inspiration for when we finally move in together. When we move in together, I repeated. My voice sounded normal, steady, like I wasn’t dying inside. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, he said.

About us, our future. I want to marry you, Amber. Maybe next summer. Small wedding, just close friends and family.

What do you think? He was looking at me with those eyes. The ones that used to make me melt, now they just made me cold. I smiled, reached across, and squeezed his hand. I think that sounds perfect. Inside, I was screaming. That night, we went to bed. He wanted to be intimate. Of course, he did. Another video for his collection. Another entry in his spreadsheet. Getting closer to his goal of 50 by year’s end. I couldn’t do it. I told him I wasn’t feeling well.

Headache. Too much wine at dinner. My stomach was off. He was understanding.

Concerned even. Brought me water and aspirin. Tucked me into bed like he actually cared. Get some sleep, babe, he said, kissing my forehead. I’ll be right here if you need anything. I lay there in the dark, knowing cameras were watching me even now. wondering if he recorded women sleeping too, if that was part of his collection. I pretended to sleep, kept my breathing steady, waited until I heard his breath even out until I was sure he was really asleep. Then I opened my eyes just a little. Looked around the room in the darkness. The alarm clock was still there, red numbers glowing, the smoke detector on the ceiling, the charging dock on the dresser, all of them watching, all of them recording. I wondered how many times he’d lain here next to me, knowing what he’d done, knowing what he planned to keep doing. Did he feel guilty? Did he feel anything at all? The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee.

Marcus was already up making breakfast.

Eggs and toast, orange juice, everything perfect. Feeling better? He asked, handing me a mug. Much better. I lied.

Thank you. I was thinking, he said, sitting across from me at the kitchen table. Why don’t you bring some of your stuff over this weekend? Start transitioning. We don’t have to move everything at once, but maybe just the essentials. Clothes, toiletries, whatever you need to feel at home here.

This was it. He was trying to lock me down. Make me more dependent, more accessible, more controllable. That sounds nice. I said, “Let me think about what I’d want to bring. Take your time.” He said, “I just love you. Want you here. I love you too, I wanted to say.

Except I didn’t. I love the person I thought you were. The person you pretended to be. The real you is a monster. But I said, I love you, too.

After breakfast, I told him I needed to use his computer again. Mine was still acting up, I said. Could I just check my email and work on a few projects? Of course, babe. He kissed my forehead.

Password’s the same. You know where everything is. He had a client meeting at 10:00. Would be gone for a few hours.

Perfect. I waited until I heard his car pull away. Counted to 100. Then I went to work. I needed more than just the videos and the spreadsheet. I needed his communications with Derek, his browsing history, any evidence that he’d shared these videos with others or worse, sold them. I found it all. Messages with Derek going back three years, detailed conversations about their projects. They called it the hobby, like it was photography or woodworking, like it was normal. Got another one last night Marcus had written in July. Blonde, early 20s. Super innocent. Great footage. Nice, Dererick replied. I’m up to 65 now. Trying to hit 70 by Christmas. It’s not a competition, Marcus wrote. But then he added, but if it was, I’d be winning in quality. They shared tips about equipment, about technique, about how to manage multiple women at once without them finding out about each other. The key is keeping them separate, Dererick wrote. Different restaurants, different bars, different social circles. Never let them meet.

What about social media? Marcus asked.

Private accounts only. And never tag them in anything. You want their friends to know you exist, but not know enough to connect dots if they start comparing notes. It was a manual, a playbook for predators. But there was more.

References to other men. Other cities.

They had a whole network, a guy named Chris in Denver, someone called TJ in Miami. Marcus mentioned someone named Alex in San Francisco who’d been doing this since 2015. They looked up to Alex, called him the expert. They had a private forum, password protected, encrypted. Marcus had the password saved in his browser history. I accessed it and immediately wished I hadn’t. The forum was called the archive. Hundreds of members, thousands of posts, men from around the world sharing stories, tips, and sometimes files. I found evidence that Marcus had uploaded some videos, just short clips. Nothing that showed faces clearly samples. He called them teasers. But Dererick had gone further.

He was selling full videos. $20 each, $50 for a bundle. He had a whole catalog. Women reduced to prices and packages. My stomach turned as I realized some of these videos were labeled with price tags. Marcus hadn’t started selling yet according to his messages with Derek, but he was considering it. Need the extra income he’d written 2 months ago. Business has been slow. Do it, Dererick replied. Easy money, and it’s not like they’ll ever know. I downloaded everything. Every message, every transaction, every piece of evidence that proved this wasn’t just Marcus. This was bigger. This was an organized network of men violating women and profiting from it. I took screenshots of the forum, of the member list, of the posts where they bragged about their conquests. One post from Alex in San Francisco made me particularly sick. Tip for newbies.

Coffee shop girls are easy targets.

They’re trained to be nice, to smile, to engage. They can’t be rude or they’ll lose their job. Ask them out a few times. Be persistent, but not creepy.

Eventually, they’ll say yes to get you to stop asking. Then you’re in. That’s how he got Melissa. I was sure of it. I kept digging. Found more names. More cities. More women who had no idea they’d been recorded and cataloged and shared. When Marcus came home, I was on the couch reading a book. Perfectly normal, perfectly calm. How’s your laptop? He asked. Still acting weird, I said. I think I need to take it in. Can I borrow yours for work tomorrow? Sure thing. He sat next to me, put his arm around my shoulders. Actually, I was thinking, why don’t you just move in for real? We’re together all the time anyway. Doesn’t make sense to pay for two places. There it was again. The push to move in to be here all the time.

Accessible. Let me think about it. I said it’s a big step. Take your time. He kissed the top of my head. I just love you. Want you here? Over the next week, I played the perfect girlfriend. I came over every day, brought groceries, cooked dinner, watched movies on his couch, slept in his bed. Every moment felt like a performance like I was the one recording now documenting his behavior gathering evidence of normaly that would make the contrast even starker when the truth came out. He talked about the future about the wedding about buying a house about kids.

I want three. He said one night we were lying in bed his arm around me. Two boys and a girl or two girls and a boy.

Doesn’t really matter as long as they’re healthy. Three is a good number. I said my voice was steady empty. We’d be good parents. He said you’re so patient so kind. Our kids would be lucky. I imagined having kids with him. Imagined him recording them. Recording me pregnant, vulnerable, trusting. The thought made me want to scream. Yeah, I said they’d be lucky. During that week, Jessica and I kept working. We found six more women, reached out, explained, added them to our group. The video calls became regular. Every few days, all of us checking in, sharing information, supporting each other. Jennifer had finished drafting our legal documents, police reports ready to file, victim impact statements, documentation of everything. Britney had secured all the evidence, multiple backups, cloud storage, external drives, even physical copies printed and stored in safe deposit boxes. If Marcus somehow deleted everything, we’d still have proof. And I had mapped out his entire network. 15 men, seven cities, over 300 women that we knew of. Maybe more. This is bigger than we thought, Jennifer said during one call. This isn’t just Marcus. This is organized, systematic. So, what do we do? Asked Katie. We burn it all down, I said. That weekend, the women and I put our plan into action. We’d created a website. Jennifer had found a friend who worked in web design, someone trustworthy, someone who understood. The site was called Marcus Chen, the truth, and it laid out everything. The first page had his photo, a nice one, professional, the kind he used for his business. Underneath, a single sentence.

This man recorded 47 women during intimate moments without their consent.

The next page detailed the evidence, the cameras, the videos, the spreadsheet, blurred screenshots showing file names and dates and notes. Nothing explicit, nothing that would get the site taken down, but enough to prove this was real.

Then came the testimonials. 14 women willing to go public with their faces and names. Each one telling their story, how they met Marcus, how he’d gained their trust, how they’d found out about the recordings. Jessica went first in the video testimonials. She sat in her living room, looked directly at the camera, and spoke clearly. My name is Jessica Rodriguez. I’m 30 years old. I met Marcus Chen in January 2022 at a photography workshop. We dated for 6 months. The whole time he was recording me without my knowledge or consent. He raided me, made notes about me, treated me like I was inventory. I trusted him.

He violated that trust. And I want everyone to know what he did. One by one, the others followed. Britney, Melissa, Katie, Jennifer, women from all over, different ages, different backgrounds, different lives, but all saying the same thing. Marcus Chen is a predator. The last page listed his business information, his studio address, his professional photography accounts. A warning, if you’re considering hiring Marcus Chen as a photographer or entering into any relationship with him, please know what you’re getting into. We’d also compiled information about the network. Derek in Austin, Chris in Denver, TJ in Miami, Alex in San Francisco, everyone we’d identified from the forum, their names, their cities, their patterns, separate pages for each one. Dererick Martinez, the truth. Christopher Lee, the truth.

All the way down the line, Jennifer had consulted with a criminal lawyer friend.

Made sure everything was legal. We weren’t posting the actual videos.

Weren’t showing anything explicit, just telling the truth about what happened to us. Truth is a complete defense against defamation, Jennifer explained. As long as everything we say is accurate and provable, we’re protected. We’d sent the link to everyone in Marcus’ professional network, his clients, his colleagues, the photography association he belonged to, every company he’d worked with, his entire social media following. We’d also sent it to local news stations, major blogs, anyone who might care about a story of systematic violation. Then we waited. Marcus was at my apartment that night. We were watching a movie, some action thing he’d picked. I wasn’t paying attention. I was watching my phone, waiting. At 8:47 p.m., his phone started buzzing once, twice, constantly.

He picked it up, frowned. “What the hell?” He started scrolling. I watched his face change. Confusion, disbelief, realization, panic. The movie played in the background, explosions, and car chases, but all I could hear was his breathing getting faster. “What is this?” he said. “What the Amber? Someone hacked my stuff. Someone is posting lies about me online.” I paused the movie, turned to look at him. “Are they lies?” He looked at me. Really? Looked at me and I saw the moment he understood.

“You,” His voice was flat. “You went through my computer. I found your cameras,” I said. All of them and your cloud storage and your spreadsheet and your messages with Derek. Amber, you don’t understand. I understand perfectly. I stood up. You recorded me without my consent. You recorded 46 other women. You cataloged us, raided us, shared videos of us, sold videos of us. It’s not like that. It’s exactly like that. I was shaking now, but not from fear, from rage. Pure focused rage.