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 clicked again. Another email.

September, then October, then November. Each one more damning than the last.

Instructions on forging my signature. Bank account numbers.

Timeline for planting evidence. When to call the police.

All of it right there on the screen for 6,800 people to see. Margot was crying now, full-on sobbing.

“Please, please stop. I’ll explain everything. Just turn off the cameras.”

“No.”

That one word hung in the air. She looked at me, really looked at me.

And maybe for the first time in months, maybe years, she saw me. Not the husband she’d gotten tired of.

Not the obstacle in her plan. Just me.

“How long have you known?”

She whispered.

“Long enough.”

“Does Marlo…?”

“Marlo knows everything. She’s the one who gave me the evidence.”

Margot’s face crumpled.

“Oh, God.”

“Yeah.”

I clicked the remote one more time. Next slide: a list.

Names, dates, cities. Albert Mitchell, Boston, 2018.

Matthew Prescott, Philadelphia, 2021. Graham Whitfield, Brooklyn, 2025.

“You weren’t the first,”

I said quietly.

“And I wasn’t going to be the last.”

The doorbell rang. Everything stopped.

Margot’s head snapped toward the door. Vernon tensed.

Even I froze for a second.

“Who the hell…?”

It rang again. Loud.

Insistent. The comment section exploded.

“At the door!” “OMG is it him?” “This is better than any movie!” “Answer it!”

I stood up, walked to the door. Every camera in the house tracking my movement.

Nearly 7,000 people watching me reach for the doorknob. My hand closed around the cold metal.

I pulled it open. Before I continue, I need to know you’re still here.

Have you ever been betrayed by someone you trusted? Maybe not like this, but betrayal comes in many forms.

If you’ve been there, drop a comment below. Tell me your story.

You’re not alone. And one more thing: the story ahead contains some fictional elements; it may not be entirely real.

If that’s not for you, feel free to close the video now. No hard feelings.

But if you’re ready to see what happened next, let’s keep going. He stepped into the living room like he owned it.

Damian didn’t know that 8,000 people were watching him. The live stream counter ticked upward in the corner of the screen: 8,200… 8,500… 8,700.

Comments flooded in faster than anyone could read them. “Who is this guy?” “Is this real?” “Someone call the police!”

Margot stood frozen near the couch. Her face had gone pale.

Damian glanced at the camera mounted on the bookshelf, then at the laptop on the coffee table. His smile faltered for just a second.

“Quack him,”

He said slowly.

“You’re making a mistake. Turn off the cameras now.”

I didn’t move.

“No.”

His jaw tightened. He turned to Margot.

“Kate,”

He said.

“Let’s go.”

“Kate? Not Margot? Kate.”

I reached for the remote control on the arm of the chair.

“Before you leave,”

I said.

“There’s something everyone needs to see.”

I pressed play. The screen on the TV filled with footage from the basement.

February 3rd, 8:30 in the morning. The angle was perfect.

Silas had hidden the camera inside an old box of Christmas lights on a shelf near the furnace. You could see everything.

Damian and Margot stood near the black duffel bag. The one stuffed with cash.

The one with my forged signature on fake ledgers sitting right next to it. Damian’s voice came through the speakers, clear as day.

“Make sure his fingerprints are on the documents.”

Margot’s hands, steady, deliberate, pressed my fingers against the edge of a manila folder. Then the ledger.

Then the offshore bank statements.

“Done,”

She said. On the live stream, the viewer count jumped: 9,000… then 10,000.

I glanced at Damian. His smile was gone.

I pressed the remote again. Another file.

Audio this time. No video.

Just Damian’s voice. Recorded three days ago in his apartment.

Marlo had left her phone on the kitchen counter while he talked in the next room.

“I’ve done this twice before. Albert Mitchell, Matthew Prescott. Both of them are dead now. Graham Whitfield will be next.”

A pause.

“The wife always helps. They think they’re getting freedom. What they get is a cut of the estate and a new life with me. Until I’m done with them. Well, Marlo’s the key. She’s scared, she’ll do exactly what I say. And when it’s over, Graham goes to prison, Margot gets everything, and I disappear.”

The living room was silent. Damian’s face had gone white.

On the screen, the comment section exploded. “Busted!” “Call the cops right now!” “Justice for Albert Mitchell!” “Is this guy serious?” “Someone do something!”

The viewer count hit 10,500. Vernon stood near the door, arms crossed.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to.

Then the TV screen split. A woman appeared in a small window on the right side.

Late 20s, short dark hair, glasses. She looked directly into the camera.

“My name is Sloan Mitchell.”

Her voice was steady, calm, but you could hear the pain underneath it.

“Damian Cross, also known as Daniel Crowley, destroyed my family. He seduced my mother. He framed my father for embezzlement. He forced me to testify against him in court.”

She paused.

“So my father died in prison two years later. He was 53 years old. He had a heart attack in his cell. Alone.”

Another pause.

“Chak Graham Whitfield is the third victim. There are others. Damian has done this for over a decade. He targets architects, developers, professionals with assets but no public profile. He makes them disappear legally.”

Sloan leaned closer to the camera.

“If you’re watching this, please help us stop him.”

The screen split again. Two more women appeared.

Older, both in their 50s. Susan Mitchell, Albert’s widow.

Susan Prescott, Matthew’s widow. Both were crying.