On our first date, he smiled softly and said, “You’re the best girl I’ve ever met.” I almost believed him—until he accidentally revealed his phone screen. A spreadsheet… packed with women’s names, photos, dates, and notes like we were products. I asked quietly, “What is this?” He flinched and snatched the phone. “You’re misunderstanding.” I didn’t cry. I simply sent that file to myself. Because if he turned women into a game… I was about to turn that game into a sentence.

On our first date, he smiled softly and said, “You’re the best girl I’ve ever met.”

His name was Evan Mercer, and he said it like he meant it—eyes steady, voice warm, the kind of charm that makes you relax without noticing you’re doing it. The restaurant was dim and expensive, candles flickering, jazz playing low enough to sound intimate. He asked the right questions. He laughed at the right moments. He even remembered a detail I’d mentioned in a message three days earlier.

It was almost… perfect.

Almost.

Because I’ve learned something about perfect: it’s usually rehearsed.

When the waiter brought the wine, Evan reached for his phone to show me a photo of his dog. He angled the screen toward me, smiling.

But for half a second—just a blink—I saw something else before the photo loaded.

A spreadsheet.

Not a budget. Not work.

A spreadsheet packed with women’s names.

Columns. Rows. Dates. Notes.

And thumbnails—faces.

My stomach tightened so fast it felt like my body slammed on the brakes.

Evan didn’t notice my expression at first. He kept smiling, scrolling quickly, and then the dog photo appeared as if nothing happened.

“Cute, right?” he said.

My throat went dry. I forced my smile to stay in place, because I didn’t want him to know I’d seen it. I didn’t want his instincts to switch from charming to strategic.

I waited until he looked away—until he was telling a story about “how crazy dating is now.”

Then I asked, quietly, like I was genuinely curious.

“What was that spreadsheet?”

His fingers froze around the phone.

For one second, his face dropped—just a flicker—and then he snapped it back into a grin.

“You’re misunderstanding,” he said, too fast.

I kept my voice calm. “It looked like… a list.”

“It’s nothing,” he insisted, snatching the phone back like it had burned him. “Just some stupid thing my friends and I made. Like… a joke.”

A joke.

With women’s faces.

With dates.

With notes.

Like we were inventory.

My pulse thudded in my ears. I could’ve stood up right then. I could’ve thrown my drink in his face and walked out.

But I didn’t.

Because I didn’t want drama.

I wanted truth.

So I smiled, nodded, and let him keep talking—while I watched him like a person watching a magician’s hands.

At one point, he went to the restroom and left his phone face-down on the table.

That’s when I moved.

I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t shake.

I flipped the phone, opened the last app—because he’d left it unlocked.

And there it was again.

The spreadsheet.

I didn’t cry.

I simply sent the file to myself.

Because if he turned women into a game…

I was about to turn that game into a sentence.

I didn’t confront him at the table.

Not because I was scared of him—but because I understood people like Evan.

They don’t panic when they’re caught.

They pivot.

They deny. They charm. They twist the story until you question your own eyes.

So I stayed calm.

When he came back from the restroom, I smiled and asked him about his “work projects,” letting him feel like he still controlled the room. He didn’t notice anything. He was too busy performing.

On the drive home, my phone buzzed with the email attachment I’d sent to myself.

I waited until I was inside my apartment, door locked, shoes off, heart still pounding.

Then I opened it.

The spreadsheet wasn’t casual.

It was organized.

Color-coded tabs: “Active,” “Backup,” “Ghosted,” “Recycles.”

Columns labeled:

• Name

• Age

• City

• Instagram

• First Date

• Second Date

• “Likelihood”

• “Cost”

• “How Easy to Manipulate”

• “Red Flags”

• “Boundaries”

• “Best Tactics”

I sat down hard on my couch.

My hands didn’t shake.

My stomach did.

Because the notes weren’t just cruel.

They were calculated.

One woman’s entry read:
“Daddy issues. Compliments work. Push fast.”

Another:
“New in town. Isolated. Invite to ‘group hang’ = easy.”

Another:
“Waitress. Low self-esteem. Gifts keep her hooked.”

Then I saw the part that made my skin go cold:

There was a column titled “Evidence.”

And inside that column were links.

Folders.

Screenshots of messages.

Private photos.

Audio clips.

He wasn’t just keeping notes.

He was collecting leverage.

I scrolled and my throat tightened when I found my name already entered—even though it was our first date.

“Lena.”
“Smart. Watch her.”
“Might be trouble if she catches on.”

I stared at that line until my vision blurred.

So he knew what he was doing.

He knew it was wrong.

And he tracked women like he was running an experiment.

I didn’t call my friends to scream.

I didn’t post it online.

Because I didn’t want a messy fight.

I wanted consequences that couldn’t be laughed off.

I took screenshots of everything.

I copied the file into a secure folder.

Then I did the next step carefully—because I wasn’t going to break laws to expose someone who lived on bending them.

I found three women from the list whose profiles were public. I messaged them one by one:

“Hi. I’m sorry to reach out like this. I think we may have been targeted by the same man. If you’re willing, I have proof.”

Within an hour, one responded:

“Oh my God. I thought I was crazy.”

A second replied:

“He has my pictures. He threatened me.”

My chest tightened.

This wasn’t just gross.

It was dangerous.

And suddenly I understood why Evan had looked so calm at dinner.

Because he believed no one would ever compare notes.

But they were about to.

The next morning, Evan texted me like nothing had happened.

“Last night was amazing. Can’t stop thinking about you.”

I stared at the message and felt a strange calm settle in.

Because his sweetness was no longer flattering.

It was evidence.

I didn’t respond right away.

I scheduled a consultation with a lawyer who specialized in digital privacy and harassment. I showed her the spreadsheet, the “evidence” column, and the notes about leverage.

She didn’t blink.

“This is predatory,” she said, voice firm. “And depending on what’s in those folders—especially if there are private photos shared without consent—there may be multiple legal issues here.”

She advised me to do three things:

1. Preserve the evidence (metadata, screenshots, timestamps).

2. Avoid direct confrontation where he could delete or retaliate.

3. Encourage victims to report together—because patterns carry weight.

That afternoon, the women I contacted agreed to join a group call—six of us by the end of the day.

Different cities, different backgrounds, same story.

The “perfect” man. The fast compliments. The pressure. The sudden coldness when boundaries appeared.

One woman started crying when she saw her own name on the spreadsheet.

“It’s like he’s been keeping me in a drawer,” she whispered.

Another woman whispered something that made my stomach drop:

“He told me if I ever spoke up, no one would believe me because I sent him pictures.”

That’s when I realized the spreadsheet wasn’t just a game.

It was a weapon.

So we did the one thing Evan never expected women to do:

We coordinated.

We documented.

We refused to be isolated.

We created a shared evidence folder, and each woman added her screenshots, her dates, her messages, her receipts. We built a timeline so clear it looked like a case file—because that’s what it was.

Then my lawyer helped us draft formal notices demanding removal of private material and preservation of evidence. Another woman—who worked in compliance—guided the group on how to report it properly without turning it into “internet drama” that could be dismissed.

Evan texted again that night.

“You okay? You got quiet.”

I replied with one sentence:

“I know about the spreadsheet.”

Three dots appeared.

Then vanished.

Then he sent:

“You’re misunderstanding.”

I didn’t respond.

Because I wasn’t going to argue with a man who believed truth was negotiable.

Two days later, his dating profiles disappeared.

A week later, one woman messaged the group:

“He’s deleting everything. He knows.”

I looked at my screen, heart steady.

Good.

Let him panic.

Because this time, the game wasn’t private anymore.

And when someone turns people into a system…

the only way to stop them is to turn the system into accountability.

If this story hit you…

Have you ever realized someone wasn’t dating for connection—but for control?

Drop your thoughts in the comments, share this with someone who needs a warning, and tell me:

If you saw a spreadsheet like that—would you walk away quietly… or gather proof and make sure it could never happen again?