All Chapters of A Night In Daddy's Bed: Chapter 121 - Chapter 130

HARRISON'S POV George Woodcock once described the ticking of a clock as a kind of mechanical tyranny, a system we had built ourselves only to end up enslaved by it. According to him, we became servants to our own invention, living in quiet fear of a monster of our own making—rather like Baron von Frankenstein and his creation.I had a patient once, a widower who lived entirely alone, who became convinced that the clock above his kitchen table wasn’t just ticking. He believed it was speaking. Not metaphorically, not imaginatively—but literally forming words.It began with simple commands. “Go to bed.” “Wash the dishes.” “Turn off the lights.”At first, he ignored it. Anyone would have. But the clock persisted, repeating itself in the same flat, unwavering phrases, over and over again, until resistance felt less like defiance and more like exhaustion.In time, he began to obey.Slowly, the clock expanded its authority. It told him what to eat for dinner, what programmes to watch, when

RUBY'S POV The television would not stop screaming Harrison’s name.Every station.Every headline.Every disgusting reporter with fake concern in their voice.“Harrison Blackwood remains wanted for questioning—”“More evidence continues to surface regarding Catherine Thompson’s murder—”“Sources close to the investigation claim—”I grabbed the remote and switched the television off so hard that the batteries nearly flew out.Silence finally filled the living room but it did nothing for the storm inside my head.I stood there breathing heavily before reaching for my phone again.Calling him and it went straight to voicemail again. My chest tightened painfully.I ended the call and dialed again immediately.Voicemail. Again.I was beginning to lose my mind.For days Harrison had barely spoken to me properly. The few times he picked my calls, he sounded distracted. Cold. Like his mind was somewhere else entirely. And now?Now he wasn’t answering at all.I paced around the living room b

Ruby’s POVMy heart was beating so hard that it felt painful.I stood there surrounded by armed men while Natalie smiled at me like she had already won. Madison stood beside her quietly, avoiding my eyes completely, and I swear that betrayal hurt more than the guns pointed at me.I looked at Madison again, still unable to believe it.“Why?” I asked brokenly. “Why would you do this to me?”Madison crossed her arms slowly.“Because unlike you, Ruby, I understand how the world works.”My chest tightened.“You used me.”She laughed bitterly.“Oh please. Stop acting innocent. Everybody uses everybody. You just happened to trust the wrong person.”I shook my head slowly.“No... no, you were helping me.”“I was helping myself,” she snapped. “Natalie offered me more money than you could ever imagine.”Natalie smirked proudly beside her.“And unlike you,” Madison continued coldly, “she actually keeps her promises.”I stared at both women in disbelief.“So all this was planned?”Natalie laughed

HARRISON'S POV I began by proving who I was, listing my full name, home address, National Insurance number, and employment records. They couldn’t be allowed to dismiss this as some elaborate prank. They had to believe that I was Harrison — the man accused of murdering Catherine Thompson and Elisa Velasco.It was a little after four in the afternoon. Somewhere across the country, editors were finalising tomorrow’s headlines and deciding which stories deserved the front page. I needed to change that. I needed to throw Bobby off balance, force him to second-guess himself for once.Until now, he had always stayed ahead of me — two steps, sometimes four. Every act of revenge had been methodical, imaginative, and terrifyingly precise. Bobby didn’t merely assign blame; he sculpted it into something almost artistic. Yet no matter how brilliant he believed himself to be, he remained human. Humans made mistakes. Even Bobby had slipped once — knocking a woman unconscious simply because she rese

HARRISON'S POV This part of the Grand Union Canal had nothing graceful about it. The towpath was cracked and uneven, the asphalt broken apart by years of neglect. A rusted iron fence leaned drunkenly beside the water, barely separating the narrow canal from the cramped back gardens of the terraced houses. Nearby, a caravan covered in graffiti rested on bricks where wheels should have been, looking abandoned long ago. In a patch of overgrown vegetables, the rusted frame of a child’s tricycle jutted from the earth like some forgotten relic.Since stepping out of the car behind St Pancras Station on Camley Street, Bobby hadn’t looked back once. By now I knew the cadence of his walk, the steady rhythm of his stride. He passed the Lock Keeper’s cottage without hesitation and continued along the canal. The looming gas works stretched shadows across the abandoned factories lining the southern bank. A weathered redevelopment billboard promised a future industrial estate, though it looked mor