My Wife Of 26 Years Framed Me To Die In Prison. I Found Her Secret Stash In Our Basement And Realized She’s Working With A Serial Conman. Now, I’m Planning A Date Night She’ll Never Forget. How Should I Execute My Revenge?
“Dad, I know you know. We need to talk. Tomorrow, just you and me. Please.”
Vernon read it.
“Could be a trap.”
“I don’t care.”
“Graham.”
“She’s my daughter.”
He exhaled.
“I’m coming.”
“No. She said just me.”
“I’ll wait outside.”
I nodded. Another message appeared: “My apartment, tomorrow, 9:00 a.m. Please don’t tell Mom.”
“Please don’t tell Mom.” I typed back, “I’ll be there.”
Three dots appeared, vanished, then returned: “Thank you, Dad.” I set the phone down and stared at my bandaged hand.
The blood on the wall. The laptop holding proof of a monster’s control.
And I made a promise. I was going to save her, even if it destroyed me.
I woke at 6:00 Thursday morning to my phone buzzing. A text from Marlo: “Dad, something came up. I can’t meet today. I’ll text you later to reschedule. I’m sorry.”
I stared at the message, my chest tightening. No time, no place, just “I’ll text you later.”
Part of me wanted to call her immediately, demand to know what was wrong, if she was safe. But I knew better.
If I pushed too hard, she’d pull away completely. I typed back, “Okay. Whenever you’re ready. I’ll be here.”
Three dots appeared, then disappeared. No response.
I set the phone down, rubbed my face with both hands. One more day.
Maybe two. Maybe she’d never be ready.
But at least now I had time to prepare. I needed to understand who I was fighting before I faced my daughter.
At 11:00 that morning, I sat across from Silas in a small coffee shop in Brooklyn. One of those hole-in-the-wall places with mismatched chairs and indie music playing too loud.
The kind of place where no one paid attention to anyone else. Silas had his laptop open, two cups of black coffee cooling on the table between us.
“Before you meet Marlo,”
He said.
“You need to see this.”
He turned the screen toward me. Two faces stared back.
Two men I’d never met, but whose lives mirrored mine in terrifying detail. Albert Mitchell, Boston, 2018.
The first profile showed a man in his early 50s. Graying hair, kind eyes.
Architect. The photo captured him standing in front of a modern glass building, arms crossed, smiling with quiet pride.
He looked like someone I could have been friends with. Someone who loved his work.
Someone who trusted the wrong people.
“Albert Mitchell,”
Silas began.
“Ran a mid-sized architecture firm in Boston. Married 23 years to Susan Mitchell. One daughter, Sloan, 28-year-old lawyer at a Boston firm.”
He clicked to a news article: “Boston architect sentenced to 8 years for embezzlement.”
“In 2018, Albert was convicted of embezzling $200,000 from his own firm. Offshore accounts, forged documents… the whole playbook. His wife filed for divorce three months before his arrest. She hired a financial consultant to help with asset division. That consultant was Daniel Crowley. Damian.”
“Sloan testified against her father at trial,”
Silas continued.
“Damian had discovered she’d been skimming money from client trust accounts. About $30,000 to cover gambling debts. He threatened to expose her unless she cooperated. So she got on the stand and told the jury her father had been acting erratically, hiding money, lying to the family.”
My stomach turned.
“What happened to Albert?”
“A heart attack. Died in prison two years into his sentence. Official cause of death, anyway. Sloan believes Damian arranged it, but she has no proof.”
I stared at Albert’s photo. A good man, a father, destroyed.
Matthew Prescott, Philadelphia, 2021. Silas clicked to the second profile.
Another man in his 50s. Dark hair, confident smile.
A real estate developer.
“Matthew Prescott owned a commercial development firm in Philadelphia. Married 19 years to Susan Prescott. Same story, different city. Wife has affair with Damian, this time using the name David Preston. Damian helps with the divorce, plants evidence. Matthew gets convicted of laundering $500,000 through shell companies.”
“The daughter testified against him,”
Silas continued.
“Damian had evidence of insider trading at her law firm. Small-scale stuff, but enough to destroy her career. She cooperated. Matthew went to prison, died in 2023. Another heart attack.”
Two men. Two daughters forced to choose between their fathers and their futures.
Two wives who walked away with everything.
“How many others?”
I asked. Silas closed the laptop slightly.
“At least four more cases I can trace. Chicago, Seattle, Miami, Denver. But records are sealed, buried under NDAs and legal fees. Damian’s been perfecting this for over a decade.”
“Why architects and developers?”
“Because you have assets. Houses, businesses, retirement funds. But you’re not billionaires. You don’t have security teams or PR firms. You’re successful enough to be worth the effort, but quiet enough to destroy without anyone caring. Perfect targets.”
“What happened to the daughters after?”
I asked quietly. Silas reopened the laptop, pulled up a document.
“Sloan Mitchell lost her law license for two years. She’s working as a paralegal now, trying to rebuild. The other daughter changed her name, moved across the country. Both of them have to live with what they did. Both of them were forced to betray the people who loved them most.”
