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?

“This is fake,”

I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

“I didn’t write any of this.”

“I know.”

Griffin reached into the box and pulled out a stack of papers. Contracts, real estate agreements, loan documents.

All of them on my company letterhead, all of them bearing my name, my signature.

“Keep looking.”

He handed me a manila folder. Inside, bank statements from an offshore account.

The account holder was listed as Graham Whitfield. The balance: $487,000.

I stared at the numbers. I’d never opened an offshore account.

I’d never even heard of the bank listed on the statement, someplace in the Cayman Islands.

“This is insane.”

I stood up, pacing in the small space, running my hands through my hair.

“Someone’s framing me. Someone’s trying to… embezzlement, fraud, money laundering.”

Griffin’s voice was grim.

“That’s what it looks like.”

I turned to him.

“Did you see him? The man with Margot?”

Griffin nodded. He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen, then handed it to me.

“I took this through the crack in the door. Didn’t want them to know I was here.”

I looked at the photo. A man, early 40s, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing an expensive suit.

Charcoal gray, perfectly tailored. Dark hair slicked back, strong jawline.

He was standing next to Margot, one hand resting casually on the small of her back. In his other hand, a professional camera.

And he was smiling. Not nervously, not guilty. Confidently.

Like a man who knew exactly what he was doing. Margot was smiling too, looking up at him with an expression I hadn’t seen on her face in years.

An expression she used to save for me.

“Do you know who he is?”

Griffin asked quietly. I shook my head, unable to look away from the photo.

“No, I’ve never seen him before.”

“Mrs. Whitfield called him by name. I heard her.”

“What name?”

Griffin hesitated.

“Damian.”

The name echoed in the cold basement air. Damian.

I scrolled through every conversation I’d had with Margot in the past year. Every dinner, every weekend, every quiet moment.

She’d never mentioned anyone named Damian. Not once.

“Who the hell is Damian?”

I muttered. Griffin didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

I pulled out my own phone and started taking pictures. The duffel bag with the cash, the ledgers with my forged signature, the USB drive, the offshore bank statements, the contracts.

Every piece of this nightmare captured in grainy smartphone photos. My hands shook so badly I had to retake several shots.

Griffin watched me, his face drawn with worry.

“Mr. Whitfield, what are you going to do?”

I stopped, phone halfway raised, and looked at him. This quiet man who mowed my lawn and trimmed my hedges; he’d just saved my life.

If I’d walked through that front door tonight, if I’d come home like I always did, this evidence would still be sitting here waiting. Waiting for someone to find it. Waiting to destroy me.

“I can’t go to the police,”

I said finally.

“Not yet. They’ll think I planted this. They’ll think I’m trying to cover it up.”

“Then what?”

I looked back at the photo of Margot and Damian, at the way his hand rested on her back, at the way she smiled.

“I need to find out who he is,”

I said quietly.

“And I need to figure out exactly what they’re planning.”

Griffin nodded.

“Whatever you need, I’m here.”

I met his eyes.

“Why are you helping me?”

He was silent for a moment. Then,

“Five years ago, my son got hit by a car riding his bike home from school. Shattered his leg in three places. The surgery, the physical therapy, the hospital bills… it came to almost $40,000. Our insurance covered maybe half. I was drowning, Mr. Whitfield. I came to you, hat in my hands, and you wrote me a check that same day. No interest, no contract. You just said, ‘Pay it back when you can.'”

I barely remembered the exact amount. I just remembered Griffin standing in my office, his eyes red, his voice breaking as he asked if there was any way I could help.