He pretended to be broke to test his wife… But the hidden camera caught her plotting with his best friend to steal everything.
“I’ll pretend to be poor. Let’s see how the relatives dance! But I could never have imagined what I’d discover…”
Oliver Whitmore pressed the doorbell of his luxury estate with unusual force, a cold smirk playing at his lips. His wife Charlotte greeted him at the door, immediately sensing something was wrong.
“Darling, what’s wrong? You seem tense today,” she said, concern flickering across her face.
“Lottie, we need to talk.” Without removing his coat, Oliver strode into the living room where crystal chandeliers cast light across marble floors and imported Italian furniture.
“What happened?” Charlotte froze in the doorway, dread creeping down her spine.
“Business trouble…” He sank into an armchair, covering his face with his hands. “One of the major projects collapsed. We’re facing massive losses.”
“How—collapsed? What losses?” She perched beside him, gripping his hand tightly.
“I laid off half the staff today. I can’t pay their wages. The project we invested millions in… The council froze construction. Found violations…” Oliver sighed heavily, unable to meet her eyes, staring instead at the marble floor as if answers might materialize there.
“What does this mean for us?” Charlotte asked cautiously, her pulse quickening.
“Two bits of news: good and bad. Which do you want first?” He avoided her gaze, feigning calm while a storm of calculation churned inside.
“The bad.”
“We’re nearly broke. All my accounts are frozen. This morning, I was questioned by investigators…” His voice was hollow, as if he couldn’t believe it himself.
“What could possibly be the good news after that?”
“Well… I won’t be going to prison,” Oliver joked weakly, finally looking at her.
“Brilliant!” Charlotte scoffed bitterly. She marched to the bar and poured herself a generous measure of single malt whisky.
“How are we supposed to live with frozen accounts? Did you even think about that when you started this reckless scheme?” She drained the glass in one gulp, her hands trembling slightly.
“Who could’ve predicted this?” Oliver shook his head, as if justifying himself to an invisible jury.
“Oliver!” She swore under her breath. “The turkey didn’t know its fate till it was boiling in the pot!”
“Exactly how much will we have to live on now?” Hysteria edged her voice, her carefully maintained composure cracking.
“Three to five hundred thousand a month… But the exact sum needs working out…” Oliver scratched his stubble, staring blankly out the window where three tall pines stood on the estate grounds.
“What?! Three hundred thousand?!” Charlotte’s voice rose to a shriek. “My expenses alone are over half a million! Manicures, salons, chauffeur, gym, skincare treatments… That’s not even counting new dresses!”
She refilled her glass and knocked it back with shaking hands.
“Easy on the whisky,” Oliver warned quietly. “You’ll regret it tomorrow. And soon, we won’t be able to afford luxuries like this.”
“How long will this last? How long must we play paupers?” Rage simmered beneath her words.
“I don’t know, love. I’m still processing it myself… Time will tell…” He took a small sip, shaking his head slowly.
“Time? You call this living? Because of your idiocy, we’re reduced to scraping by!” She slammed the glass onto the coffee table, the sound echoing through the vast room.
“Thank God we never had children. How would I explain this disaster to them?” She stormed off to the bedroom, leaving Oliver alone with his thoughts.
“Expected nothing less,” Oliver muttered, smirking to himself. “Let’s see what her mother says tomorrow…”
The next morning, Oliver woke to his mother-in-law’s insistent calls. Margaret always rose early, and after reading Charlotte’s dramatic message about their “new life,” she wasted no time cornering him.
“What do you mean, ‘you’re poor now’?” she snapped the moment he answered. “Who’s paying my mortgage?”
“Take out a loan or sell your old flat. It’s just sitting there empty,” Oliver replied lazily, stretching in bed.
“How dare you! Have you lost your mind?” Margaret shrieked through the phone. “What am I supposed to do? You reckless fool—we had a perfect life!”
“That was my goodwill, Margaret. I had spare cash and helped your family move to London. I wasn’t obliged to do any of it.” He put her on speaker, heading to the bathroom.
“Obliged? You churn out those houses like widgets! Housing us was the least you owed!” Her screeches echoed from the bedroom where Charlotte still slept.
“When will the money return? Answer me!” she hissed.
“No idea, Margaret. I’ve got to go.” He hung up, continuing his morning routine completely unperturbed.
Charlotte wasn’t home when he finished breakfast. Oliver left for the office to quietly run his still-thriving company—though an afternoon surprise awaited him.
Horrified, he discovered missing valuables when he returned: his watches, golf clubs, crocodile-leather briefcase, even some artwork.
“Lottie, where are my things?” The more he searched, the more was gone.
“Sold them, Oliver. I need to live,” she said coolly, counting £5,000 notes in the lounge, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency.
“My golf clubs? My favourite watch? Seriously?” Rage boiled inside him, but he maintained control.
“Golf can wait, Oliver. Fix your business first. Your phone tells time perfectly well. No room for vanity now,” she said sternly, not looking up from the cash.
“Then why just my things? Sell your designer bags—they’d buy a London flat!” Oliver clenched his fists, restraining himself.
“My things are irrelevant. This is your mess, not mine!” She licked her finger, stacking cash methodically.
“£380,000. Enough for my first month.” She smirked, tucking the bundles into her designer bag with practiced movements.
“Your first month? What about me?” Oliver exclaimed. “How’d you get so little? That watch alone was worth £700,000!”
“Again—your problem. Solve it yourself. I’m a fragile woman suffering because of your mistakes. And sort my mother out—she’s been sobbing all day!” With a glare, she grabbed her keys and drove off in her Mercedes.
Oliver met his best mate, James, at their usual pub that evening.
“Jamie, she’s lost it completely. Sold my stuff like I’m rubbish… I knew she was only after the money…” He took a long swig of beer, looking defeated.
“But Ollie, she loved you when you had nothing. Stuck by you for years building the business…” James said carefully, his voice measured.
“I don’t excuse her behavior, but maybe try understanding her panic…”
“Nothing to understand.” Oliver tore off a bite of beef jerky, waving it for emphasis. “She’s ungrateful. I expected support, not a bloody meltdown and her selling my possessions.”
“What did you want her to say?”
“‘We’ll get through this together, love.’ Instead, just nagging and accusations.” He rested his head on his hand, staring blankly at passing waitstaff.
“Give her time. She’s scared. She might come round…” James offered weakly, avoiding Oliver’s eyes.
“I set this test because she’s been ice-cold for months. Never satisfied, always wanting more. Now I know the truth. My lawyers spent a month ensuring she’d get nothing in the divorce…” Oliver checked his phone absently.
“Gotta run, mate. Work to finish.” He paid the bill, hugged James briefly, and left.
The moment Oliver vanished through the door, James pulled out his phone and called Charlotte, his voice urgent.
“Lottie, listen! It’s a test. He’s not actually broke—he’s deciding whether to dump you. Play sweet, or we lose everything!” James hissed into the phone, glancing around nervously.
“Once I find where he’s hidden the money, file for divorce. We’ll take half and live like kings. I love you!” He hung up, cursing Oliver under his breath.
Meanwhile, an inconspicuous man at the next table slipped out quietly and approached Oliver’s Bentley parked nearby.
“Mr. Whitmore, confirmed. They’re conspiring against you. Got their entire conversation recorded.” The man played the audio—James’s frantic voice clear despite the pub noise in the background.
“One thing I don’t get, Leonard…” Oliver sat in the backseat, crushing a water bottle in his hand. “Why hint at the money? Now they’ll dig deeper. Complicates the divorce…”
“Precisely my plan, sir. They’ll hunt forever and find nothing. Even if they discover something, it’s looped through offshore shells—completely untouchable. You paid that accountant £1 million for a reason.” Leonard chuckled, adjusting his glasses.
“The house and cars are company-owned assets. Your personal account holds exactly £30,000. You’ll burn through it fast maintaining appearances. Trust the process, Mr. Whitmore.” He shook Oliver’s hand firmly and exited the vehicle.
“Package the evidence for the finale?” Leonard grinned through the window.
“Do it. End this today.” Oliver leaned back against the leather seats, eyes shut, finally allowing himself to feel the weight of betrayal.
That evening, Charlotte and James awaited Oliver in the lounge, flanked by six security guards. Fear plastered their faces as Oliver entered calmly, Leonard behind him with a briefcase.
“One thing baffles me…” Oliver sneered at his soon-to-be ex-wife. “You had everything: wealth, holidays, gifts, your mum’s flat paid for… Why ruin it? Was I such a terrible husband?”
He’d suspected her affair for weeks but never imagined it was with his best friend.
“And you, Jamie… Childhood mates since we were ten. How many times did I bail you out? Paid your debts, gave you jobs, supported your family. Never saw this coming. Were you just jealous I’m a hundred times richer?” Disappointment laced his tone, cutting deeper than anger.
Charlotte tried to speak, but Oliver raised his hand.
“This isn’t a chat. My final word: I’m not heartbroken. You didn’t steal my love, Jamie.” He paused, his eyes cold.
“A true love can’t be stolen—it can only be given. You just took a very expensive problem off my hands. Enjoy each other.” His laugh was sharp as a blade.
Leonard stepped forward, placing documents on the table. “Divorce papers, Mrs. Whitmore. You’ll receive nothing. The prenuptial agreement is ironclad, and we have evidence of adultery. Sign now, or face a public trial.”
“And Mr. Foster,” Leonard turned to James, “lawsuits for fraud and breach of fiduciary duty are being filed. You used confidential information from Mr. Whitmore for personal gain.”
As security escorted them out, Charlotte’s designer bag spilling cash, Oliver poured himself a quiet drink. He stood at the window, watching the sunset paint the sky orange and gold.
Finally free of gold-diggers and fair-weather friends, Oliver raised his glass to the empty room. The silence had never felt so peaceful.
VIDEO PROMPT: Wealthy businessman sits in dimly lit study, dramatic shadows across his face. He leans forward intensely: “I’ll pretend to be broke. Let’s see who really loves me.” Cut to his wife’s face changing from concern to rage as he reveals “financial ruin.” Later, hidden security footage shows her conspiring with his best friend in hushed tones: “Once we find the money, we’ll take everything.” Final shot: businessman reviews footage on laptop, cold smile spreading across his face. Cinematic noir lighting, tension-building orchestral score.
