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 closed my eyes. Thought of Marlo at 10 years old asking me why I always checked things twice.

Thought of her smile, her laugh, the way she’d hug me and whisper, “You’re the best dad ever.”

“Send it,”

I whispered. My phone pinged.

I opened the file and my world shattered. The video was 3 minutes and 42 seconds long.

It opened on a fixed shot of a small, dim room. White walls, no windows.

A single chair centered beneath harsh light. Marlo sat there, hands folded in her lap, face pale and streaked with tears.

She wore the gray sweater I’d given her for Christmas two years earlier. Her hair hung loose around her shoulders.

She looked young, terrified. Off camera, a man’s voice spoke, smooth, calm, bored.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Marlo wiped her eyes, drew a shaking breath, and looked straight into the lens.

“My name is Marlo Whitfield,”

She said softly.

“I’m an associate attorney at Brennan and Cole in Manhattan. On November 12th, 2024, I embezzled $85,000 from client trust accounts.”

She stopped, tears spilled down her face again. The voice said,

“Without crying.”

Her mouth trembled.

“I can’t.”

“Again.”

She closed her eyes, swallowed hard, and began again.

“My name is Marlo Whitfield. I’m an associate attorney at Brennan and Cole. On November 12th, 2024, I embezzled $85,000 from client trust accounts. My father, Graham Whitfield, had nothing to do with it. He didn’t know. He never knew.”

Her voice broke on the last word.

“Cut,”

The man said, irritation creeping in.

“If you keep crying, we’ll be here all night. One more time. Say it like you mean it.”

“Please,”

Marlo whispered.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

“One more time.”

The Confession on the Kitchen Table

I couldn’t watch after that. I slammed the laptop shut, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped it.

My breathing turned shallow and fast. The motel room felt too small, the walls closing in.

I stood, paced to the window, back to the bed, back again. My vision blurred.

$85,000. My daughter had embezzled $85,000.

And Damian had recorded her confessing until she broke. And he’d forced her to say I was innocent.

Because if I somehow escaped prison, he’d destroy her instead. Release the video, ruin her career, her life.

I couldn’t breathe. My fist hit the wall before I realized I’d moved.

Pain exploded through my knuckles. I hit it again and again.

Plaster cracked. Blood smeared the wallpaper.

I didn’t care. A hard knock snapped me back.

“Graham?”

Vernon’s voice.

“Open the door.”

I stared at my bleeding hand. At the dented wall.

At the closed laptop on the bed. I felt hollow.

Another knock.

“I know you’re in there.”

I unlocked the door. Vernon pushed inside, holding a white plastic bag from the drugstore.

He took one look at my hand.

“Jesus,”

He muttered.

“I watched the video.”

His jaw tightened. He grabbed my wrist, examined the damage.

Two knuckles split, swelling fast.

“Sit.”

I sat. He cleaned the wounds in silence.

Gauze, antiseptic, tape. The same steady hands that had patched me up years ago in college.

“Talk,”

He said quietly.

“He has her on video,”

I said.

“Confessing. $85,000. He made her repeat it until it was perfect. And if you go to the police, he releases it. She loses her license, maybe goes to prison. Her life’s over.”

Vernon wrapped the bandage tight.

“Then we get her out.”

“How? She won’t talk to me.”

“Then we make her talk. She’ll run.”

“Not if we do it right.”

He met my eyes.

“She’s scared, but she’s still your daughter.”

My throat tightened.

“We tell her we know,”

He continued.

“We tell her we can protect her. And we convince her to help us stop Damian.”

“And if she won’t?”

“Then we try anyway.”

My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

I recognized it immediately. Marlo had changed her number months ago.