I drove to my mom’s house with my hazards on and my hands shaking on the steering wheel. My name is Tessa Monroe, I’m thirty-one, and an hour earlier my boss had called me into a glass office and said, “We’re investigating a serious complaint.” He wouldn’t tell me details. He didn’t have to. I’d already seen the anonymous post online—my name half-censored, my face from an old company photo, and a caption that made strangers feel entitled to judge me.
I didn’t go to a friend. I didn’t go to my apartment. I went to the one place I’d always believed would be safe: Marilyn Monroe’s kitchen, where the coffee was always too strong and the fridge always had leftovers in labeled containers.
Marilyn opened the door, took one look at me, and said, “Come in.”
I started talking the second my foot crossed the threshold. “It’s not true. I didn’t— I mean, they’re twisting—”
“Sit,” she said, not unkindly. But there was something in her tone that stopped me.
I sat at the table like I was twelve and had broken something expensive.
Marilyn didn’t hug me. She didn’t say, It’ll be okay. Instead, she walked to a cabinet above the microwave and pulled down a thick folder sealed with tape, like it had been packed for storage. She set it on the table and slid it toward me.
“Before you say another word,” she whispered, “read it.”
My throat tightened. “What is that?”
“Insurance,” she said. “For moments like this.”
I stared at the folder. My name was written on the front in her handwriting, along with a date—three years ago.
“Three years?” I repeated. “Mom, why would you make something about me three years ago?”
Marilyn’s eyes didn’t flinch. “Because I saw the pattern,” she said. “And I knew you’d need protection.”
Protection from who? From what? The fear in my chest shifted into something colder.
I peeled back the tape and opened the folder.
Inside were printed screenshots, emails, and a timeline with bullet points. The first page had a bold header:
“IF TESSA IS ACCUSED — START HERE.”
My mouth went dry. “Mom… what is this?”
Marilyn’s voice came out low and steady, like she’d rehearsed it. “It’s the truth,” she said. “The version people won’t let you tell.”
I flipped the next page and saw a name I hadn’t heard in years—Dylan Cross—followed by the words:
“PRIMARY SOURCE OF FALSE ALLEGATIONS.”
Then my phone buzzed on the table. Unknown number.
A single text appeared:
“Your mom’s folder won’t save you.”
And Marilyn whispered, barely audible, “He found you again.”
PART 2
My skin went cold. I turned the phone so my mom could see the message. “Who is ‘he’?”
Marilyn’s jaw tightened in a way that made her look older. “Dylan,” she said. “It’s always been Dylan.”
I swallowed hard. “Dylan Cross was a summer fling when I was twenty-two. He was annoying, not dangerous.”
Marilyn shook her head. “He was charming around you,” she said. “He wasn’t charming around consequences.”
I flipped through the folder with trembling fingers. It wasn’t random gossip. It was organized like a case file—dates, names, and printed emails between Dylan and different people. Some were old, some were recent. There were screenshots of messages that looked like Dylan trying to bait me, twisting my words, pushing for an apology I didn’t owe him.
“You’ve been collecting this?” I asked.
“I’ve been preserving it,” Marilyn corrected. “Because people forget. Screenshots don’t.”
One page showed a complaint email addressed to HR—sent a week ago—from a burner address. It referenced a “pattern” and “multiple witnesses.” Another page was a social media post drafted like a script, with suggested hashtags and the note: “post at 9 a.m. for max traction.”
My stomach flipped. “This is coordinated.”
Marilyn nodded once. “He’s done it before,” she said quietly. “Not just to you.”
I found a section labeled OTHER VICTIMS and my breath caught. There were two names I recognized from my old college circle—women who’d vanished from group chats after messy breakups, women I’d assumed had just “moved on.”
“I thought they just… disappeared,” I whispered.
“They were pushed,” Marilyn said. “Dylan dates, he demands, he retaliates when he doesn’t get control. And he’s good at making it look like ‘community accountability’ instead of revenge.”
I stared at her. “How do you know all of this?”
Marilyn’s eyes shimmered. “Because he tried it with me,” she admitted. “After you left him. He showed up at my workplace, said he wanted ‘closure.’ Then he started hinting that he could ‘help’ you or ‘hurt’ you depending on how cooperative you were.”
My throat tightened. “You never told me.”
“I didn’t want him to become your obsession,” she said. “I wanted you to live.”
Another text buzzed in:
“If you deny it, I’ll release the ‘receipts.’”
I felt nauseous. “What receipts?”
Marilyn reached across the table and tapped a page in the folder—an old email from Dylan to someone else: “I can make her look guilty with half a story. People love half a story.”
My hands shook. “So what is your ‘ace’?”
Marilyn slid a smaller envelope out of the folder. “This,” she said. “A certified statement from someone who worked with him. And a copy of messages he deleted—saved by the person he used.”
I stared at the envelope. “You’ve been waiting for this moment.”
Marilyn nodded, voice steady. “Because the first time he came for you, you were too young to know how to fight back.”
My phone buzzed again—this time an incoming call from the same unknown number. Marilyn didn’t even look at it.
“Don’t answer,” she said. “We answer with evidence.”
PART 3
I let the call ring out. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it could bruise. “Mom,” I said, “I can’t believe you kept all this.”
Marilyn’s expression softened just slightly. “I can,” she said. “Because I’m your mother. And because I’ve seen what happens when women try to defend themselves with only their word.”
I opened the smaller envelope with careful fingers. Inside was a signed affidavit from a former coworker of Dylan’s—Casey Bennett—stating Dylan had bragged about “ruining” women who rejected him and had used burner accounts to file complaints and stir online outrage. There were also printed screenshots showing Dylan coaching someone on what to say in a report, plus a timeline that matched the dates in my folder.
My mouth went dry. “This is… huge.”
“It’s useful,” Marilyn said, practical as ever. “But only if we move smart.”
We spent the next hour doing what panic couldn’t do: organizing. I made a digital folder with everything scanned and backed up. Marilyn wrote down names of anyone who might corroborate: Casey, two old friends, and a former HR rep who’d once warned her “Dylan is a problem.” I drafted an email to my employer requesting the opportunity to provide evidence and asking that all communications be preserved. No emotional language, no rambling—just facts.
Then I called my company’s employee assistance line and asked for legal resources. I also scheduled a consultation with an attorney who specializes in defamation and workplace investigations. The goal wasn’t revenge. It was protection: my job, my reputation, my sanity.
Marilyn insisted we file a police report for harassment if the messages continued. “Even if they do nothing,” she said, “it creates a record.”
My phone buzzed again—another text:
“You can’t outrun me. Tell your mom to stop.”
I stared at it, hands cold. For the first time that day, I didn’t feel like a hunted animal. I felt like a person with options.
I typed a single response and showed Marilyn before sending:
“Stop contacting me. Further messages will be documented and sent to my attorney.”
Marilyn nodded once. “Good,” she said. “No debate. No emotion. Boundaries.”
That night, I slept on her couch with the folder on the coffee table like a shield. I didn’t sleep well, but I slept knowing I wasn’t crazy, and I wasn’t alone.
The next morning, my boss replied to my email: “Thank you. Please provide any documentation relevant to the investigation.” It wasn’t an apology. It wasn’t vindication. But it was a door opening.
I realized something uncomfortable: I’d come to my mom expecting comfort—warm words, reassurance, a hug. Instead, she handed me the thing I actually needed: a way to tell the truth in a world that loves a scandal more than a person.
If you were in my shoes, would you go public with Dylan’s pattern to protect other women—even if it risks more backlash—or would you keep it strictly legal and private to protect your own peace first? Tell me what you’d do, because I think a lot of people discover too late that “being quiet” isn’t always the same as being safe.
