All Chapters of A Night In Daddy's Bed: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

HARRISON'S POV I had been staring at the same square of light for so long that even when I closed my eyes, it refused to disappear. It lingered, etched against the inside of my eyelids, bright and unwavering. The window sat high on the wall above the door yet somehow it had become the only thing anchoring me.Footsteps echoed intermittently along the corridor. Each time, the small observation flap in the door creaked open, and a pair of eyes studied me in silence. Seconds later, it snapped shut again, leaving me alone with the dim light and my thoughts. I always returned to staring at that same window.Time had become meaningless. My watch, belt, and shoelaces had been taken from me, exchanged for a coarse grey blanket that scratched against my skin like sandpaper. The only constant sound was the slow, irritating leak of a cistern in the next cell. It dripped steadily, marking time in a way I couldn’t.The noise had died down after the last of the drunks were dragged in. That must ha

HARRISON'S POV My most vivid childhood memory of Christmas had always been tied to the nativity play at St Mark’s Anglican School, where I had been cast as one of the three wise men. It should have been a proud moment, something sentimental and warm to look back on. Instead, it had become unforgettable for all the wrong reasons.Russell Cochrane, who had played the baby Jesus, had been so nervous that he wet his pants on stage. It hadn’t been subtle. The evidence had spread visibly, seeping through the fabric and dripping down the front of the Virgin Mary’s blue robes.Jenny Bond, our Virgin Mary, and easily the prettiest girl in school had not taken it well.Her face had gone from saintly serenity to pure outrage in a matter of seconds. Without warning, she had dropped Russell straight onto his head and followed it up with a swift, vicious kick to his groin.A collective groan had rippled through the audience, quickly overtaken by Russell’s high-pitched howls of pain. The entire pro

HARRISON'S POV Ruiz had been waiting for me. A cigarette burned slowly in the ashtray between us, its thin ribbon of smoke curling upward as though it had all the time in the world. He stared at it with unnerving concentration, watching the paper blacken and the ash lengthen into a fragile, misshapen tower that looked as though it might collapse at the slightest disturbance.“I thought you were quitting,” I said.“I am,” he replied without looking at me. “I like to watch.”The ash gave way and toppled in on itself. Ruiz nudged the ashtray aside with a small, dismissive movement, as though the moment had served its purpose. Then he nodded, almost to himself.With only the two of us in the room, the space felt larger, emptier, the silence stretching out between us like something tangible. Ruiz leaned back in his chair and propped his feet on the table. His black brogues were worn at the heels, the leather creased and tired. Above one sock, on the pale skin of his ankle, there was a car

RUBY'S POVI woke up to chaos.My phone has been beeping none stop and reluctantly I reached for it. The screen lit up, and for a second, I just stared at it, my vision still blurred from sleep. Then the notifications loaded fully, and whatever calm I had woken up with disintegrated instantly.Missed calls. Dozens of them.Messages, some from people I knew, most from numbers I didn’t recognize.And then the notifications I couldn’t ignore.Trending posts.Tagged headlines.Stock alerts.My chest tightened as I tapped into one of the messages, my thumb hesitating just briefly before committing to the mistake. The article opened, and there it was—my face, frozen mid-laugh from some event weeks ago, now twisted into something scandalous simply by association.“Richard Scott’s Daughter Linked to Alleged Criminal Figure.”Another headline.“Ruby Scott Affair With Suspected Trafficker Sparks Outrage.”My stomach dropped.The words blurred together as I scrolled—phrases like dangerous man,

HARRISON'S POV Ruby filled the electric kettle in silence, the sound of running water unusually loud in the stillness of the kitchen, and then took out two mugs from the cupboard as though the movement itself gave her something to hold on to. She was wearing dark leggings and an oversized sweater I had once bought for her at Camden Market. I had told her it was for myself at the time, pretending it was an impulse purchase, but even then I knew the truth of it. I had known she would end up wearing it. She always wore my sweaters. She said she liked the way they smelled, as though fabric could carry a person’s presence more faithfully than memory ever could.“Where’s Madison?” I asked quietly, though I already feared the answer.“Asleep,” Ruby said without turning around. “It’s nearly eleven.”When the kettle boiled, she poured the water into each mug with careful precision and dropped the tea bags in, stirring them gently until the liquid darkened. The smell of peppermint rose between