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?

“You saved my family,”

Griffin said.

“Now I’m saving yours.”

I stared down at the evidence one more time. The cash, the forged ledgers, the USB drive with my initials on it.

This wasn’t just about money. This wasn’t just about an affair or a divorce.

This was about erasing me. And whoever Damian was, he’d done this before.

I could feel it. The way everything was so carefully arranged, the way my signature had been perfectly forged, the offshore account with my name on it.

This was the work of a professional. I couldn’t go home.

Not tonight. Maybe not ever again.

Griffin and I stood at the top of the basement steps, the tool shed dark and silent around us. Through the trees, I could still see the glow of my kitchen window.

Margot was probably finishing her wine by now. Maybe scrolling through her phone. Maybe texting him.

The thought made my hands curl into fists.

“What are you going to do?”

Griffin asked quietly.

“I don’t know yet,”

I said.

“But if she finds out I know, she’ll move faster. I need time to think.”

Griffin nodded.

“You need a place to stay. I’ll figure it out.”

I pulled out my phone, typed a quick message to Margot: “Got caught up with a work issue, staying at the office tonight. Don’t wait up.”

I hit send before I could second-guess myself. Griffin watched me, his face tense.

“Be careful, Mr. Whitfield.”

“You too, and Griffin,”

I met his eyes.

“Thank you for everything.”

He just nodded. Then he slipped back into the shadows, heading toward his truck parked down the block.

The Skyline Motor Inn

I waited until his taillights disappeared around the corner before I moved. My phone buzzed as I reached my car.

“Okay. Don’t work too late. Love you.”

I stared at the message. Love you.

Two words she’d said to me a thousand times over 26 years. Two words that now felt like a knife between my ribs.

My hands shook as I typed back, “Love you too.” I threw the phone onto the passenger seat and started driving.

I didn’t have a plan. I just knew I needed to disappear for a few hours, somewhere Margot couldn’t track me, somewhere I could think clearly.

I drove east, away from Brooklyn, crossing into Queens as the city lights blurred past my windows. The streets were nearly empty at this hour, just the occasional taxi or delivery truck rumbling through intersections.

I found what I was looking for on a quiet stretch of road near the airport. The Skyline Motor Inn.

A squat two-story building with flickering neon and a parking lot full of pickup trucks and beat-up sedans. The kind of place where you paid cash and nobody asked questions.

Perfect. I parked around back, grabbed my laptop bag from the trunk, and walked into the lobby.

The air smelled like stale cigarettes and industrial cleaner. Behind the counter, a bored teenager with headphones barely looked up as I approached.

“Room for the night,”

I said.

“80 bucks. Cash or card?”

“Cash.”

He slid a registration card across the counter. I scribbled a fake name—John Marshall—and handed him four twenties.

He gave me a key attached to a plastic diamond-shaped tag.

“Room 24. Checkout’s at 11,”

He muttered, already back to scrolling on his phone. The room was exactly what I expected: thin carpet, a sagging double bed, a TV bolted to the dresser.

But it had a desk, a chair, and a Wi-Fi password taped to the nightstand. That was all I needed.

I locked the door, dropped my bag on the bed, and opened my laptop. The photos Griffin had sent me filled the screen.

Stacks of cash. Forged ledgers.

The USB drive. The offshore bank statements.

And the photo of Damian. That smug, confident smile.

That expensive suit. The way his hand rested on Margot’s back, like he owned her.

Like he owned my life. I opened a new browser window and started searching.

“Damian Cross fraud.” Nothing relevant.

Just a few LinkedIn profiles, a Facebook page for a guy in Texas who definitely wasn’t him. “Damian Cross financial crime.”

Still nothing. I tried variations.

“Damian Cross embezzlement.” “Damian Cross Boston.”

“Damian Cross New York.” Dead ends.

Whoever this guy was, he’d covered his tracks well. Then I remembered what Griffin had said:

“This was the work of a professional.”

If Damian had done this before, maybe he’d used a different name. I searched “Financial Fraud Boston 2018.”

A dozen news articles popped up. I clicked through them, scanning headlines.

Most were about corporate scandals, insider trading, nothing that fit. Then halfway down the second page, I found it.

“Boston architect sentenced to 8 years for embezzlement fraud.” I clicked the link.

The article was from March 2019. A man named Albert Mitchell, a respected architect, married, one daughter, had been convicted of embezzling over $200,000 from his own firm and laundering money through offshore accounts.

The evidence was overwhelming. Forged documents, hidden bank accounts, recorded conversations.

He’d maintained his innocence throughout the trial, but the jury hadn’t believed him. He’d died in prison two years later.

“Heart attack,” the article said. I kept reading.

Buried near the end of the article, a single line caught my eye: Mitchell’s wife, Susan, had filed for divorce three months before his arrest. She was represented by attorney Daniel Crowley, who also served as a financial consultant during the investigation.