Husband’s Plan: Frame and Destroy Me

At 2:00 AM, Henry Smith calls his wife for a ride, claiming he is stranded after working late. She drives to the isolated location he describes, but her husband is nowhere to be found. Instead, a threatening stranger watches her from the shadows. Terrified, she texts Henry for help, only for him to reply that he is waiting outside. But as soon as she steps out of her car, an unseen attacker strikes her from behind, knocking her unconscious.

Chapters

Chapter 3

After disconnecting the call, I silenced my phone, tossed it aside, and cocooned myself in the comfort of the blankets. My daughter was nestled close. Sleep claimed us once more.

Pick him up? Not a chance.

This time, my focus was singular: to shield my daughter and myself from harm.

Half an hour later, my phone buzzed incessantly.

Yet, sleep held me in its gentle grasp.

Dawn broke, and I awoke to the natural light, refreshed. After the morning rituals, I checked my phone.

Eighty-seven missed calls from Henry lit up my screen, accompanied by an avalanche of text messages.

He demanded my whereabouts, questioning my delay.

Eventually, his frustration and embarrassment fused into anger, and in one heated text, he lashed out with curses. Henry: [Are you fucking messing with me?]

I pondered his words, struggling to reconcile this man with the tender husband I once knew.

It was a stark reminder: people could wear masks.

Love could be feigned.

After breakfast, I crafted a reply to Henry.

Nicole: [I'm sorry. My car broke down on my way to you. It's only just been fixed. Where are you now? Should I come to get you?]

Daylight now bathed the world.

Even the remote road would be alive with activity.

The likelihood of him lashing out at me once more seemed nearly insurmountable.

As expected, Henry swiftly replied. Henry: [No need. I've managed to hail a taxi.]

A smile played on my lips as I set the phone down.

Henry wouldn't be coming home just yet.

He sent yet another message, informing me that there were matters at the company demanding his attention, and only after wrestling with those would he make his way back home.

Ignoring his excuses, I ventured downstairs to the supermarket, where I purchased two cameras and two voice recorders.

The cameras were strategically placed in the living room and bedroom, and their feeds were linked directly to my phone.

The recorders, one in my bag, the other in my pocket, were my constant companions, ready to capture any evidence.

Not content with passive measures, I reached out to a private detective, Jerry Short, offering a substantial sum for his services.

His mission was clear: to watch the private villa and document any intimate moments between Henry and Selena.

This was my new battlefield, and Henry was my adversary.

I would ensure he left this house with nothing but disgrace.

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