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?

Vernon volunteered for security.

“If Damian finds out early, he might try to interfere.”

Susan agreed to open the stream with her confession. Marlo would go last.

By 6:00, everyone began to leave. Sloan and Susan went to prepare.

Silas left to gather equipment. Vernon said he’d return early.

Marlo went upstairs to lie down, said she needed time. I stayed in the kitchen, staring at my laptop, at the USB drive, at the evidence that could end everything.

My phone chimed. New email, unknown sender.

Subject: Think carefully. I opened it.

“Graham, I know what you’re planning. Walk away. If you don’t, Marlo pays the price. I’ve been patient. Don’t make me change that. D.” My blood ran cold.

He knew. I forwarded the email to the group chat.

Responses came instantly.

Vernon: “He’s watching us.”

Silas: “Home networks clean.”

Sloan: “Doesn’t matter. We move faster.”

Marlo: “Dad, maybe we should stop.”

I called her immediately.

“He’s bluffing,”

I said.

“He wants us scared.”

“But what if he’s not?”

“Then we make sure he can’t act. We go live tomorrow night. Once it’s public, he’s finished.”

Silence. Then she said,

“Okay. Tomorrow night.”

I hung up and looked at the email again. “Marlo pays the price.”

No. Not this time.

This time, Damian Cross was going to pay. Three days.

That’s all we had. Three days to set up cameras, write statements, rehearse, prepare to blow up my entire life on the internet.

Let me walk you through it. Saturday, February 9th.

Silas showed up at my house at 7:00 in the morning with a duffel bag full of equipment. Cameras, microphones, wireless transmitters… stuff I didn’t even know existed.

“We need four angles,”

He said, pulling out a camera no bigger than a quarter.

“Living room, kitchen, hallway, and basement. That covers everywhere Margot might go when she realizes what’s happening.”

Vernon helped him run cables through the walls, tested sight lines, made sure nothing looked suspicious. By noon, we had four hidden cameras installed.

You couldn’t see them unless you knew where to look. And trust me, I knew where to look and I still couldn’t spot them.

Silas set up his laptop on my kitchen table, pulled up a split screen showing all four camera feeds.

“Tester,”

He said. Graham walked through the living room.

“I did.”

On his screen, I watched myself move across the frame. Crystal clear, high definition.

“Audio check,”

Silas called out.

“Testing, one, two, three,”

I said. My voice came through the speakers.

Perfect quality. Vernon whistled.

“That’s good gear.”

“My Navy taught me well.”

Silas clicked a few more keys.

“Okay. Streaming software is configured. YouTube, Facebook, TikTok, Instagram, all set to go live simultaneously at 8:00 p.m. tomorrow.”

“How many people do you think will watch?”

I asked. Silas shrugged.

“Hard to say. But I’ve seeded some hashtags, sent out some anonymous tips to true crime forums. If we’re lucky, few thousand.”

Few thousand people watching me confront my wife. Great.

No pressure. Sunday, February 10th, morning.

I couldn’t sleep. Got up at 6:00, made coffee, stared at my phone.

At 9:00, I called Margot. She was at her sister’s place for the weekend.

Perfect.

“Hey,”

I said, trying to sound casual.

“Want to do dinner tonight? I feel like we haven’t had a real date in months.”

“Oh,”

She sounded surprised, pleased.

“That would be lovely. What time?”

“8:00. I’ll make reservations somewhere nice.”

“Perfect. I’ll see you at home around 7:30 to get ready.”

“Sounds good. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

I hung up. Felt sick.

Sunday afternoon, 2:00 p.m. Sloan called from her apartment in Boston.

“I just got off the phone with my mother and Susan Prescott. They’re both in. They’ll join the live stream via Zoom at 8:15.”

“Do you… are they ready?”

“As ready as they’ll ever be. My mom’s been waiting five years to tell the truth. She’s not backing out now. And Susan Prescott, same. She lost her husband to Damian. She wants justice.”

“Okay. Good. That’s good.”

Pause.

“Thank you, Graham,”

Sloan said quietly.

“Are you sure about this?”

“No. But we’re doing it anyway.”

Sunday evening, 6:00 p.m. The team assembled at my house.

Marlo, Vernon, Silas. Sloan drove down from Boston.

We sat in the living room, the same room where we’d go live in two hours, and ran through the plan. Sloan would speak first, introduce herself, explain what happened to her father.