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?

I thought of Marlo. The way she’d looked in that video.

Broken, terrified, reading words someone else had written.

“I need to talk to Sloan,”

I said.

“If she survived this, maybe she can help Marlo.”

“I already reached out,”

Silas said.

“She wants to help, but Graham, she’s been waiting for someone to fight back. She wants Damian stopped more than anyone.”

“Then let’s…”

My phone rang. I glanced at the screen: unknown number.

My pulse quickened. Silas nodded.

“Answer it.”

I swiped to accept, raised the phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

A woman’s voice, young, careful, weighted with years of pain.

“Is this Graham Whitfield?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

A pause. I could hear her breathing, steadying herself.

“My name is Sloan Mitchell. My father was Albert Mitchell.”

Another pause.

“I think we need to talk.”

The Live Stream Confrontation

The coffee sat on a quiet corner near Prospect Heights. All exposed brick and mismatched vintage furniture.

Afternoon sunlight streamed through tall windows, stretching long shadows across the wooden floor. I arrived 10 minutes early, ordered a coffee I wouldn’t drink, and chose a back table where I could see the door.

At exactly 3:00, she walked in. Sloan Mitchell was younger than I expected.

Twenty-eight, Silas had said. Still, she carried the weight of someone much older.

She wore a plain black suit, her dark hair pulled into a low ponytail. Her eyes scanned the room once, settled on me, and something shifted in her expression.

Recognition, maybe, or something heavier. She crossed the coffee and extended her hand.

“Mr. Whitfield. Sloan.”

I stood and shook it. Her grip was firm, steady.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’ve been waiting for this call for five years,”

She said as she sat.

“I’m sorry it came to this. Tell me about your father.”

She didn’t hesitate. Her voice stayed calm, controlled, as if she’d told this story a thousand times.

“My father was a good man. A brilliant architect. He designed Harborview Tower in Boston. You might know it. He was proud of that building.”

Her jaw tightened.

“He met my mother in college. They were married 23 years. I was their only child. He used to say I was his greatest achievement.”

Her voice cracked.

“What happened?”

I asked.

“Damian happened.”

She took a slow breath.

“My mother met him at a charity gala in 2017. He introduced himself as Daniel Crowley, a financial consultant. Charming, polished. He offered to help manage family assets during what he called a transitional period. My parents were fighting, money stress, normal things. Damian saw an opening.”

I already knew the pattern.

“Six months later, my mother filed for divorce. Three months after that, my father was arrested for embezzling $200,000 from his own firm. Offshore accounts, forged signatures, evidence everywhere.”

Her hands clenched.

“But it was planted. Damian did it and my mother helped him.”

“You testified against your father,”

I said softly. She closed her eyes.

“Damian found out I’d stolen money from client trust accounts at my firm. $30,000. Gambling debts. I was young and stupid. He threatened to expose me unless I cooperated. So I stood in court and told 12 strangers that my father was unstable. That I’d seen him hide money.”

A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away.

“I thought if I helped, it would end. Maybe probation. But Damian wanted him broken. Eight years. My father got eight years.”

“When did he die?”

“Two years in. Officially a heart attack. But he was healthy, ran marathons, no history.”

She met my eyes.

“I believe Damian arranged it. I can’t prove it, but I know.”