A 31 male thought I was taking my girlfriend Monica 29 out for a 3-year anniversary dinner last Saturday. Fancy seafood place downtown. The kind where they don’t put prices on the women’s menu. Made the reservation 2 months ahead. Should have seen the red flags when she insisted on this specific restaurant after her coworker Natalie went there with her husband.

We get there and Monica’s dressed to kill. Not for me, apparently. The second our waiter Diego, probably mid-20s, objectively good-looking guy, introduces himself, she lights up like Times Square. Diego, that’s such a sexy name, she purrs. I’m sitting right there. Throughout appetizers, she’s touching his arm when he pours water, laughing at literally nothing, doing this hair twirl thing she stopped doing for me 2 years ago.

When he asked about drinks, she goes, what would you recommend for someone who likes adventure, while looking him up and down. Poor Diego’s trying to stay professional, just listing wine options while she’s basically eye-humping him. Main courses come. She ordered the whole lobster thermidor, 200-plus dollars, most expensive thing on the menu.

I got the salmon, 45 dollars. She takes one bite, then waves Diego over. This is good, but I bet you know how to handle seafood better than whoever’s in the kitchen, she says. Then, and I swear on my mother’s grave this happened, she looks at me and goes, I bet you’re better at a lot of things than my boyfriend here.

Diego goes red. I’m sitting there with my fork halfway to my mouth, watching my 3-year relationship implode over crustaceans. Monica, what are you doing? I ask quietly. She rolled her eyes. Oh, stop being so insecure, Garrett. I’m just being friendly. Diego doesn’t mind. Do you, Diego? The kid mumbled something about checking on other tables and practically sprinted away. That’s when I made my decision.

I I out my wallet, counted out $60 cash, enough for my salmon plus tip, placed it on the table, and stood up. “Where are you going?” Monica asked, suddenly interested in my existence. “Probably home,” I said, echoing her word choice from earlier. “Enjoy your lobster.” Her face went from confused to panicked real quick. “Wait, you’re not.

” “I’m not what?” “Paying for your $200 lobster while you openly hit on our waiter.” “Correct.” I walked out, calm as could be. The valet got my car, I’d driven us there, and I left. My phone started blowing up before I even got home. 23 calls by the time I pulled into my driveway. The first voicemail was pure rage.

“Garrett, you get back here right now.” The fifth one was different. “They won’t take my card. It’s declining. Please come back.” The 10th, “I had to call Natalie to bring money. This is humiliating.” The last one, “You’re a pathetic little man who can’t handle a confident woman. We’re done.” “Cool. Save me the trouble.” Update one, 3 days later.

The entitlement hurricane hit full force Monday morning. First, Monica showed up at my apartment at 6:00 a.m. Mascara from 3 days ago still smeared under her eyes. She clearly’d been crying, but the anger was stronger. “You humiliated me,” she screamed through the door. I didn’t open it.

“You humiliated yourself,” I called back. “And our relationship? It was our anniversary. You don’t abandon your girlfriend on your anniversary.” “You literally told another man he was probably better than me while I was sitting there, on our anniversary.” Silence for a second. Then, “I was just being nice. You’re so controlling. You can’t handle me being social.

” I laughed. Actually laughed. Monica, there’s being social, and there’s telling our waiter he probably handles everything better than your boyfriend. That’s not social. That’s foreplay. I want my stuff back. Here’s the thing. Monica had been basically living at my place for the past year, though she kept her studio apartment.

Half her wardrobe was in my closet. Her expensive skin care routine had colonized my bathroom. Her Peloton bike was in my spare room. I’ll pack it up. You can pick it up Thursday at 6:00 p.m. I want it now. Thursday at 6:00 or I donate it all to Goodwill. She left after screaming some more colorful opinions about my manhood.

Then came the social media assault. She posted this whole novel on Facebook about how I financially abuse her by trapping her in expensive restaurant with no way to pay. How I was threatened by her confidence and couldn’t handle a woman who was friendly to service workers. The comments were incredible. Half her friends are team Monica calling me trash.

The other half were like, wait, you were flirting with a waiter on your anniversary? My buddy Trevor screenshotted one exchange. Friend, girl you deserve better. Other friend, didn’t you say last week you thought your waiter at lunch was hot and wished Garrett looked like that? Monica, that’s different. Then her mom called me.

Deborah called me. Garrett, sweetheart, Monica told me what happened. You need to apologize. For what, Deb? For embarrassing her. She had to wait 40 minutes for her friend to bring money. She embarrassed herself by openly hitting on our waiter. She was being friendly. You men always think everything is flirting.

She literally said he was probably better than me at things. That’s not friendly, Deb. Well, maybe if you paid more attention to her, she wouldn’t need validation from strangers. The mental gymnastics were Olympic level. She got all the validation she wanted in a $200 lobster bill. Deb hung up on me. Tuesday afternoon, I get a Venmo request from Monica for $200.

The note says, “For the dinner you invited me to.” I declined it and sent back a request for $1,800 with a note, “3 months of utilities, internet, and groceries you haven’t contributed to while practically living in my place.” Radio silence on that one. Update two, 1 week later. Thursday pickup day was supposed to be simple.

I’d boxed everything up, had it sitting in the lobby of my building. The doorman, Jerry, was briefed. Monica comes, she takes boxes, she leaves. No apartment access. Monica showed up with reinforcements. Natalie, the coworker who had to bail her out of the restaurant, and her sister, Sophia. Jerry called me. “Mr. Garrett, Ms.

Monica says there are items missing. She wants to check the apartment.” Everything she owns is in those boxes, Jerry. She’s not coming up. I could hear Monica shrieking in the background about her grandmother’s earrings. They were literally in the jewelry box in box number two, and her emotional support weighted blanket.

She bought it 2 weeks ago. Natalie got on Jerry’s phone somehow. “Garrett, this is Natalie. You need to let her check. She has rights. She has boxes. That’s it. You know what? You’re lucky she’s not suing you for that restaurant stock.” For what? Not paying for her food after she publicly humiliated me? Good luck with that.

“You left her stranded with a $200 lobster she ordered. Actions meet consequences.” Then Sophia grabbed the phone. “You’re going to regret this. Monica knows people.” What people, Sophia? The waiter she was hitting on? Click. I took the boxes after Jerry threatened to call security. Friday morning, I wake up to 17 missed calls.

Not from Monica, from my credit card company. Someone had tried to use my card number for a $3,400 purchase at Nordstrom. Then tried again at Louis Vuitton for $5,600. I’d frozen the card immediately when fraud protection called. Lol, but I knew exactly what happened. Monica had my card info saved from when she’d borrowed it for emergencies.

Three emergencies in two years, all legitimate, all paid back eventually. Guess she thought she’d give herself a severance package. I filed a fraud report. When I asked if I knew who might have done it, I said yes and provided Monica’s full name and the receipts showing the attempted purchases were at her favorite stores.

Saturday afternoon, Detective Harrison called me. They’d reviewed security footage from Nordstrom. Clear as day, Monica at the counter trying to buy a pile of designer goods with my card number she’d written on a piece of paper. “Want to press charges?” he asked. Absolutely. Credit card fraud over $3,000 is a felony in this state. I’m aware.

Monica was arrested at her studio apartment Sunday morning. Her sister called me screaming about ruining Monica’s life over petty revenge. She committed felony fraud, Sophia. That’s not petty, that’s criminal. She was hurt. You abandoned her. And that justifies trying to steal 10 grand from me? She didn’t steal anything. The charges didn’t go through.

Attempted fraud is still fraud. Talk to a lawyer. The best part? Monica had texted Diego. She’d somehow gotten his number that night trying to set up a date. He blocked her after she sent him 12 messages in 3 hours about how connected they were. My friend who works at the restaurant showed me the screenshots Diego posted in their work group chat with the caption, “Why do I attract the crazy ones?” Update three, two weeks later.

Monica’s lawyer reached out. Not a criminal lawyer. Deb hired her some bottom-feeder civil attorney who specializes in relationship disputes. This walking Law & Order reject, Dennis something, actually tried to shake me down. “Mr. Garrett, my client is willing to drop all civil claims against you for emotional distress and financial abandonment if you drop the criminal charges.

” Financial abandonment? Is that even a thing? “She was placed in severe distress due to your actions. She tried to commit fraud.” That’s an actual crime. “Allegedly.” On camera. With my credit card number written in her handwriting. “She was in emotional distress. A jury would be very sympathetic to a woman scorned.

” Scorned? “She literally told our waiter she bet he was better than me on our anniversary.” “That’s hearsay.” “The waiter provided a written statement to the detective. So did three other diners who heard her.” Silence. “Then, my client is prepared to offer a settlement. She’ll pay you $500 for any inconvenience if you drop the charges.

” I actually laughed. “She tried to steal $10,000 and you’re offering 500?” “She’s also willing to sign an agreement to not contact you further.” That’s called a restraining order, which I’m getting anyway. Pass. Dennis got nasty then. “You’re going to destroy her life over dinner? She’ll have a record. She could lose her job.

” Should have thought about that before committing fraud. “You’re a vindictive little man and your bargain basement lawyer tried to intimidate me.” We done. But Monica wasn’t done. Oh, no. She escalated. Tuesday, I get a call from my boss, Robert. “Garrett, need you in my office.” My stomach dropped. Monica worked in marketing three floors down in our building.

We’d met at a company mixer. I knew this was coming. “Got an interesting complaint from HR,” Robert said, closing the door. “Monica is claiming you’ve been harassing her.” “She committed credit card fraud against me. She’s facing felony charges. Robert’s eyebrows shot up. That’s not in her complaint. Of course not. What’s she claiming? That you’ve been stalking her at work, sending threatening messages, and created a hostile work environment.

I pulled out my phone, showed him everything. The blocked numbers, the police report, the fraud attempt, the text where she threatened me, all of it. Robert leaned back. Jesus. She tried to charge 10 grand. Yep. And now she’s trying to get me fired. Forward all of that to HR. Now. I did. HR called Monica in.

She apparently broke down crying, claiming I was twisting everything, and she was the real victim. Then they pulled the security footage from Nordstrom that the detective had shared with me, with permission to use for civil matters. Monica was suspended pending investigation, which turned into termination when they also discovered she’d been using the company card for personal purchases and altering expense reports.

Turns out I wasn’t the only one she was stealing from. Thursday, Deb showed up at my apartment building. Jerry wouldn’t let her up, bless him, but she stood outside screaming into the intercom. You’ve ruined her life. She has nothing. She has a criminal charge and a termination for cause. She earned both. Over dinner? You destroyed my daughter over dinner.

No, Deb. She destroyed herself when she tried to commit fraud. The dinner was just the appetizer. She was hurt, and now she’s facing three to five years. Choices have consequences. I’ll ruin you. I know people. You’ll regret this. Added to the list of threats I’m documenting for the restraining order. She left after Jerry called the cops.

Update four, one month later. The preliminary hearing was yesterday. Monica showed up in a conservative suit, hair in a bun, looking like she was auditioning for innocent defendant number three in a Lifetime movie. Her public defender, Dennis, dropped her when the checks stopped clearing. Tried everything.

Monica was emotionally vulnerable. She was temporarily impaired by heartbreak. She didn’t understand the consequences. The prosecutor, a no-nonsense woman named Grace, methodically destroyed each argument. Your Honor, the defendant attempted to make purchases totaling $9,000 using stolen credit card information. She had the victim’s card number written down, showing premeditation.

When the first attempt was declined, she tried again at another store. This shows clear intent to defraud. Monica’s lawyer countered, my client was in severe emotional distress after being abandoned at a restaurant with a bill she couldn’t pay. Grace pulled out receipts. The defendant has a history of financial irresponsibility.

Seven maxed credit cards, two previous employers reporting missing funds, and three former roommates with small claims court judgments for unpaid rent. I didn’t know about any of that. Monica had always said her ex-roommates were crazy, and she’d left those jobs for better opportunities. The judge wasn’t buying the sob story.

The defendant clearly attempted to commit fraud. The emotional state argument doesn’t hold when she made multiple attempts at different establishments. Monica lost it, started sobbing, wailing about how I’d ruined her life. How she loved me. How she made one mistake. The judge literally said, “Ma’am, attempting to steal $9,000 is not a mistake. It’s a felony.