Part 2: Ultimatums, Floods, and a Floral Tea Party

In Part 1 of my polyamory cautionary tale, I told the story of how I fell for Marco, the Italian man with the flowers, the Dracula readings, and the kind of romance I’d longed for, only to discover that the “non-hierarchical” polyamory his wife preached was nothing more than smoke and mirrors.

Part 1 ended with banshee wails, hospital visits, and a lasagna that never materialised. This chapter picks up from there and takes you deeper into the chaos, the ultimatums, and the eventual end.

Because if Part 1 was about falling in, Part 2 is about getting out.

Floodwaters and False Friendships

While Marco was in Italy visiting his sick mother with his eldest daughter, a storm ripped through Tasmania and flooded their farm. His wife put a call out on Instagram for help.

Without hesitation, I messaged: Do you need me?

She asked me to come watch their youngest daughter while she coordinated the cleanup. I didn’t think twice. I jumped in the car. If there was ever a chance to show goodwill, to prove I wasn’t the enemy this was it.

When I arrived, the locals had already descended, and most of the work was done. So I entertained her daughter, keeping her out of the way of the chaos.

By the time the mud was cleared, only one woman lingered: a friend of hers I’ll call Jenna, who I’d met at the infamous mushroom-fuelled Sunday lunch. Jenna was polite, but she looked at me the way people look at intruders in small towns, as if I were something to be tolerated, not welcomed.

And then came the strangest twist.

The Garden Tea Party

His wife asked me to stay. Before I knew it, she was pulling out dresses and announcing we’d have a tea party. She tossed me a floral frock, as if this was some whimsical countryside bonding ritual.

So there we were: tea and biscuits in the garden, dressed like characters in a Jane Austen knock-off. But the atmosphere wasn’t light-hearted. The air was thick with tension, unspoken barbs hidden behind polite smiles.

After what felt like an appropriate amount of time, I excused myself and left.

As I drove out, I had to pass Jenna and the wife, standing together, watching me. Talking about me. The look on Jenna’s face was icy, cutting, the kind of look that doesn’t just exclude you, it condemns you.

All I’d wanted was to help. To support her in a moment of crisis. To build some kind of bridge. But instead, I felt more like an intruder, a curiosity they couldn’t wait to dismiss once my usefulness expired.

Marco’s Return: Ultimatums and Chaos

Marco was so grateful when he heard what I’d done. He thought it was a turning point, a sign that things might finally settle.

But when he returned to Tasmania, there was no warm homecoming. Only chaos. His wife threatened to leave him, to take the children.

Here’s what matters: she was a spoiled rich kid from a very wealthy family. He was an immigrant with no relatives or support system in Australia. The power imbalance was brutal. She held all the cards, and she wasn’t afraid to use them.

Nearly two weeks passed before I saw him. During that time, we spoke on the phone. He sounded desperate, insisting things would settle down. He wanted me, but he also wanted to keep his family. I understood. And I wasn’t going to be the woman who forced an ultimatum. I was prepared to walk away if that’s what it came to.

Eventually, he was “allowed” to see me. He came bearing gifts, including one very expensive Italian handbag, a peace offering, a symbol, maybe even an apology. We spent the evening together, holding onto something that already felt like it was slipping away.

I didn’t know it then, but that night would be the last we’d spend together.

The Final Straw

After that, her threats escalated again: divorce, custody, the nuclear options. The pressure on Marco was unbearable. And I knew, deep down, that I couldn’t keep living in the orbit of her chaos.

More importantly, I couldn’t bear to watch the man I loved risk losing his children because of me.

So I ended it.

I told him it was over.

The Begging

What followed were essays in my inbox, long emails professing his love. Text messages, desperate pleas not to give up. And I’ll admit: the temptation was strong. I loved him. I wanted to believe we could somehow find a way.

But I also knew the truth. The chaos would never end. The tests, the ultimatums, the power games.

I am not a woman who can be controlled. And his wife would never be satisfied until she held ultimate control over both of us.

Just Before 40

Just before my 40th birthday, Marco asked to see me. He claimed his wife had suggested it because she felt “sad” seeing him devastated without me. In hindsight, it was just another move in her game.

We talked for two hours. He asked that we take some time apart, and in a few months, see if things could be rebuilt. I told him it wasn’t possible. Not unless I had direct assurances from her that she’d stop interfering. I told him I thought he was in an abusive relationship.

And then, at 4am, she messaged me. Playing the victim.

By then, my empathy was gone. I told her straight: she made us play by rules we didn’t know existed, and then punished us for following the rules we thought we had.

I told her I had never asked for more than what was outlined at the start.

And then I was done. I wanted no more contact. Not from him. Not from her.

The Goodbye

Months later, a message came from Marco: he had to let me go.

I felt everything at once.

Sadness, because I’d lost a man who had shown me love in a way I’d never known.

Anger, because I’d asked him to leave me alone for months, and now he had the audacity to act as if it was his choice.

Relief, because I could finally move on.

What Polyamory Really Was

I would never try poly again.

In theory, it sounds liberating. Expansive. Full of love, freedom, and endless possibilities. But in reality? It was a mess. At least in the version I lived through.

What I saw were middle-aged people, married for twenty-plus years, unwilling to give up their couple privileges. Divorce was off the table, too messy, too costly, too confronting. So instead, they quenched their need for passion, novelty, and sex by seeking out others, dressing it up as polyamory.

They wrapped it in a progressive bow, called it “relationship anarchy,” and pretended it was enlightenment. But the truth was simpler: it was just another way to control the narrative, to have it all without ever risking their foundations.

And if you weren’t part of the inner circle? You were disposable.

Closing the Chapter

That was the end of Marco. The flowers, the Dracula readings, the promises, the handbag (which I gave back to him), all of it swallowed by the tidal wave of her ultimatums.

It broke my heart. But it also set me free.

Polyamory promised freedom. What I got instead was someone else’s marriage politics, power struggles, and ultimatums dressed up as progress.

Part 2 of my origin story isn’t just about losing him. It’s about reclaiming myself. About recognising that love without freedom is just another cage.

And it’s about why I write this blog. Because if I can turn chaos into story, heartbreak into humour, then I get to own the narrative.