All Chapters of Let Me Go Daddy, I Am Engaged To Your Son!: Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

Iris's POVThe first thing I did after Marcus went to bed that night was delete every message Victor had ever sent me. I sat on the bathroom floor with my phone in my hand and my back pressed against the cold tile, and I went through every thread, every text, every voicemail from every unknown number he had used to reach me. There were dozens of them, stretching back months, a digital record of an obsession that had consumed my life and destroyed my marriage and very nearly cost me everything I had left.My phone buzzed while I was deleting the last thread. A new message from a number I didn't recognize. "You've been silent for three days. Call me. Now."I deleted it without responding and blocked the number. Another message came through ten minutes later from a different number. "Iris, this isn't a game. Pick up your phone."I blocked that number too. Then another. Then another. He kept creating new accounts and new numbers and new ways to reach

Marcus’s POVThe video arrived on my phone at 3:47 in the afternoon while I was reviewing quarterly reports in my study, a task that had become rote and mindless enough to let my thoughts wander. Roland's updates had been coming in all week without anything alarming to report. Iris had gone to the grocery store exactly as she said she would, had met Maya for coffee at the time and place she mentioned, had attended a meeting at her publisher's office with no deviation from the itinerary she volunteered the night before. Every detail checked out, and some small part of me had begun to believe that maybe this could work, that maybe the surveillance and the tracking and the quiet verification of her every move were temporary measures that would eventually become unnecessary.The notification chimed and I opened it without urgency, expecting another routine confirmation of something she had already told me. What I saw instead made me set my phone down on the desk and stare at the wall fo

Iris's POV The voice on the other end of the line was female, clipped, and entirely unfamiliar. She said my name like we were old friends who had fallen out of touch, though I was certain I had never heard her speak before in my life. "Iris Hale? My name is Camille. I'm calling because I have information about your father-in-law that I think you're going to want to hear." I almost hung up. The words father-in-law had become a reflex, a trigger that made me want to throw my phone into the nearest body of water and disappear from the grid entirely. But something in her tone stopped me. It wasn't the breathless excitement of a journalist or the smug certainty of a blackmailer. It was calm and deliberate, the voice of a woman who had been waiting a long time to make this call. "I'm not interested in talking about Victor," I said. "Whatever story you're working on, whatever information you think you have, I'm not the person to give you a quote." "This isn't about a story. At least not

Iris’s POV The coffee shop I chose was deliberately unremarkable, one of those chain places wedged between a dry cleaner and a pharmacy where no one lingered long enough to recognize anyone. I arrived early and took a seat near the back with my hands wrapped around a cup I had no intention of drinking, watching the door with the kind of detached focus that comes from knowing something terrible is about to happen and being powerless to stop it. Victor walked in ten minutes later. He looked different than the last time I had seen him in that parking garage, less composed, less certain. His tie was slightly askew and his jaw was tight, and when he spotted me in the corner his expression flickered with something that might have been relief or might have been dread. He ordered nothing and sat across from me with his hands folded on the table like we were about to negotiate a business deal. "You came," he said. "You asked me to." "I've asked you to do a lot of things. You haven't alwa

Victor's POV The coffee shop door swung shut behind her, and I stayed in my seat long enough to watch her through the window as she crossed the parking lot with her shoulders squared and her chin lifted, performing conviction she didn't entirely feel. I could always tell when Iris was performing. Her spine got too straight and her hands got too still, and she walked like someone who had rehearsed the exit in her head a dozen times before actually making it. She had been rehearsing exits from me since the day we met, and she had never once managed to make one stick. I finished my coffee at a leisurely pace, unhurried and undisturbed. The barista was wiping down the counter with a rag that had seen better days, and a young couple in the corner was arguing about something trivial in the hushed, aggressive tones of people who hadn't yet learned how to fight properly. None of them knew who I was or what had just transpired at the back table. None of them knew that the woman who had just