All Chapters of Let Me Go Daddy, I Am Engaged To Your Son!: Chapter 131 - Chapter 140

Marcus’s POV I fumbled for the door lock, my fingers clumsy with adrenaline and terror, and then I stopped because something cold clicked into place in my brain. My father's voice was still coming through the phone, telling me to stay calm and wait for his people to arrive, but I wasn't listening anymore. I was looking at the headrest of my seat and remembering a video I had watched years ago, one of those survival tips you scroll past at two in the morning and think you'll never need. The headrest was designed to detach. You pressed the button at the base and pulled upward, and the two metal rods that held it in place came free with it. They were sharp at the ends and solid enough to do real damage, and I wrapped my fingers around the leather cushion and pulled it loose with a single hard yank. The rods slid out of the seat with a metallic scrape that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet of the wrecked car. The men outside were still walking toward me with their measured, unhurrie

Iris’s POVI was standing at the window watching a gardener trim hedges into perfect squares when the door opened behind me and two women walked in like they owned the place. They probably did. Everyone here seemed to own the place except me. The bath had been drawn at precisely eleven in the morning, though I had stopped asking how they knew when I would be ready for it. I had stopped asking a lot of things. How they knew my dress size and my shoe size and the exact shade of green I had once told Marcus I wanted for our guest room. How they knew I took my coffee with cream and no sugar and preferred peonies to roses. How they knew the name of the obscure perfume I had worn on my wedding day and then never been able to find again. It was sitting on the vanity now in its frosted glass bottle, waiting for me like it had always been there. The two women didn't ask if I wanted a bath. They didn't ask anything. The older one, a severe woman with iron-gray hair and hands that looked stro

Victor's POV I stood in the corner of the basement with my arms crossed and my back pressed against the wall, watching my son do something I had spent thirty years trying and failing to teach him. The two men who had run him off the road were tied to metal chairs in the center of the room, their faces swollen and their wrists bound with zip ties that had already cut deep enough to draw blood. One of them was still bleeding from the wound Marcus had given him with the headrest, a slow trickle of red that dripped onto the concrete floor in a rhythm that matched the pounding in my temples. Marcus had been at this for almost an hour, and he hadn't raised his voice once. That was the part that kept catching me off guard. I had expected him to rage and threaten and lose control the way he always did when his emotions got the better of him, the way his mother used to when she was still alive and still felt things deeply enough to let them show. But the man standing in front of these two

Iris's POV The dining room was exactly as extravagant as I had expected, which meant it looked like someone had robbed a palace and decided to redecorate with the spoils. A chandelier dripping with crystals hung over a table long enough to seat twenty people, though only two places were set at the far end, and the candlelight flickering across the silverware gave everything a soft, almost dreamlike quality that felt entirely at odds with the fact that I was a prisoner in this house. Margaret had stopped at the door and gestured for me to enter alone, her face pale and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. "He's waiting for you," she said, and then she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her with a soft finality that made my pulse jump in my throat. I stood in the doorway for a long moment, scanning the room while my mind raced through every possible scenario. I had spent hours imagining this moment, picturing the man who had orchestrated all of this, trying to piece togethe

Iris’s POV "Then who is my enemy? Victor? Marcus? The tabloids? Everyone wants a piece of me, and I'm tired of being carved up and passed around like I don't get a say in who takes what." "You get a say. That's what I'm trying to give you. Time and space and safety to figure out what you actually want without being pressured or pursued or forced into a choice you're not ready to make." He stopped a foot away from me, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "I'm not asking you to forgive me. I'm not asking you to trust me. I'm asking you to let me prove that I'm not the man you think I am." I looked at him, at the sharp lines of his jaw and the intensity in his eyes and the way his hands were still curled into fists at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for me. He was beautiful and intense and possibly just as dangerous as Victor, but there was something in his voice that sounded like truth. Or maybe I was just exhausted and