Let Me Go Daddy, I Am Engaged To Your Son!

　　Iris's POV

　　I should have known from the day I met my fiancé's father that I would end up sleeping with him. The attraction was so fierce and it was obvious it went both ways.

　　I didn't go out of my way to seek him out and I even avoided him, but there was no escaping this.

　　I write romance for a living. The steamy and forbidden kind that makes readers clutch their phones at 2 a.m. and whisper "just one more chapter."

　　I've written about billionaires who pin heroines against penthouse windows, older men who teach innocent girls exactly what their bodies were made for, slow-burn tension that snaps into raw, desperate sex on silk sheets. I know every beat, every trope, every line that makes pulses race.

　　And yet, when it happened in real life, I still froze like a debut author on her first signing day.

　　It happened at a brunch.

　　Marcus had been buzzing about it for days. "Dad's finally home from Singapore," he said over breakfast, scrolling emails while I stirred my oatmeal. "You're going to love him, Iris. He's very intense but in a good way."

　　I smiled the way I always do when Marcus talks about his father, like I'm interested but not too interested.

　　I'd already pictured Victor a dozen times in my head, mostly because Marcus had shown me old photos: a man in his late forties who looked like he could walk off the cover of Forbes and straight into one of my manuscripts. He had dark hair and eyes that promised trouble even in still images. I told myself that it was research and writers pay more attention to details.

　　The morning of the brunch my stomach was already in knots. Meeting the parents of the man you plan to marry carries its own particular weight, especially when you have spent your entire adult life trying to be the daughter everyone can point to with pride. I stood in front of the mirror in our apartment bathroom, smoothing the soft yellow sundress over my hips for the third time, wondering if the neckline was modest enough or if the hem was too short for a first impression.

　　My palms felt damp even though the air conditioning was humming steadily. What if Victor found me too quiet, too bookish, too much of a dreamer who lived inside her head and her laptop instead of out in the real world? What if he looked at me and saw the cracks in the good-girl facade I had polished so carefully over the years? I wanted him to like me, not just tolerate me as Marcus's choice, but genuinely approve, the way a father should when his son brings home the woman he intends to build a life with.

　　Marcus came up behind me while I was still fussing with my hair, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pressed a quick kiss to the side of my neck. His reflection smiled at mine in the mirror, easy and warm, the same boyish grin that had first made me feel safe enough to say yes to forever.

　　"You're nervous," he said softly, resting his chin on my shoulder.

　　I exhaled a shaky laugh. "Is it that obvious?"

　　"Only to me." He turned me around so we were face to face, hands gentle on my upper arms. "Dad's going to love you, Iris. He already does from everything I've told him. You're kind, you're smart, you make me happy. That's all he cares about. Just be yourself."

　　I searched his eyes, looking for any hint of doubt, but there was none. Marcus had always been steady like that, a calm harbor when my mind spun in too many directions. I nodded, letting his reassurance settle over me like a warm blanket, even though the butterflies refused to stop fluttering against my ribs. He squeezed my hands once, kissed my forehead, and we headed out.

　　We arrived at the house that always feels more like a private retreat than a family home. It has a long driveway, manicured lawns and the faint scent of money. Marcus parked and took my hand as we walked up the steps.

　　The door opened before we could knock.

　　Victor stood there in a navy button-down with sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms and dark trousers tailored to perfection.

　　He is deliciously attractive with tanned skin from whatever sun he chased on business trips and those hazel eyes of his seemed to suck me into their depths.

　　"Marcus," he said. His voice was low and smooth. "Good to see you, son."

　　He pulled Marcus into a quick hug then turned to me. His hand came out.

　　"Iris," he said. "I have heard a lot about you."

　　I put my hand in his. His palm was warm and dry. His fingers wrapped around mine. Then his thumb pressed right on the soft spot where my pulse jumped. He held it there for one second longer than normal. His eyes flickered. Something dark and hot moved through them. My skin went warm all over. My stomach dropped like I had missed a step on stairs.

　　"Nice to meet you," I said. My voice sounded small.

　　He let go but the heat from his touch stayed on my skin.

　　"Come in," he said. "Brunch is ready on the terrace."

　　We followed him through the house. Marcus chattered the whole time about work and the wedding plans. Victor listened and nodded but his eyes kept sliding back to me. I felt them like fingers on my neck.

　　The terrace opened to perfect gardens. Flowers in every color. A fountain that trickled softly. A long table waited with silver plates and crystal glasses. We sat down. Victor poured water for all of us then picked up a bottle of white wine.

　　"Too early?" he asked with a small smile.

　　Marcus laughed. "Never too early for good wine, Dad."

　　Victor filled my glass first. His fingers brushed mine when he handed it over. The touch was light but it sent a spark straight up my arm. I pulled my hand back too fast. He noticed. Of course he noticed.

　　"So Iris," he said as he sat down. "Marcus tells me you write books."

　　I nodded and took a quick sip of wine. It tasted cold and crisp.

　　"Yes," I said. "Romance novels."

　　His eyebrows lifted just a little. "The kind with older men and innocent young women? The kind where the tension builds until it snaps?"

　　My cheeks went hot. He had read the blurbs or Marcus had told him, either way he knew.

　　"Something like that," I said.

　　He leaned back in his chair. His eyes stayed on mine. "Tell me how you do it. How do you write desire that feels real? Do you research every scene or do you imagine it?"

　　Marcus was already checking his phone under the table. He did not hear the way Victor's question curled around the words.

　　I swallowed. "I imagine most of it. The characters come to me and I just follow where they want to go."

　　Victor smiled slowly. "And your heroines always start so pure saving themselves for the right man but turn bad when the older man comes along."

　　"Do you ever wonder what that would feel like in real life? To want someone you know you should not want?"

　　The question sat between us. It had two edges: one for the book and one for me. I felt both of them cut.

　　"Sometimes," I said quietly. "But in my books the heroine always chooses what is right in the end."

　　Victor refilled my wine even though I had barely drunk any. His fingers brushed mine again. This time he let them linger for half a second.

　　"Interesting," he said. "But in real life choices are not always that clean. Sometimes the wrong man feels too right to ignore."

　　Marcus looked up from his phone. "Dad, you are going to scare her off with all the deep questions."

　　Victor laughed softly. "I am just curious, Marcus. Iris has a gift and I want to understand it."

　　I excused myself before I could say something stupid. "Bathroom," I mumbled.

　　I walked inside on shaky legs and stopped in front of the mirror to stare at my reflection. My cheeks were pink and my pulse still raced where his thumb had pressed.

　　Stop it, I told myself. He is your fiancé's father. You are getting married in three months. You love Marcus. You are the good girl. You do not feel things like this.

　　I splashed cold water on my face. It did not help much. When I stepped back onto the terrace Victor's eyes found me right away.

　　"Everything alright in there?" he asked. His voice was polite but his eyes said something else. "You look a little warm."

　　I sat down fast. "Just the sun," I lied.

　　The rest of brunch passed in a blur. Victor asked more questions about my childhood, my dreams and the heroes in my books. Every question felt like a secret test.

　　Marcus kept checking his phone and smiling at me like everything was normal. He did not see the way his father watched me or maybe he did not want to.

　　Finally the plates were empty. Victor walked us to the car. The sun was lower now and the air felt cooler. At the driver's side he shook Marcus's hand. Then he turned to me.

　　"It was a pleasure, Iris," he said.

　　He slipped something into my hand. A business card. Thick paper. Gold letters on the front with his name and company. On the back he had written in strong black ink: Anything at all. Anytime. V

　　I closed my fingers around it before Marcus could see.

　　In the car Marcus started the engine and grinned at me.

　　"Dad really liked you," he said. "That is huge. He does not like anyone."

　　My stomach turned over because the romance writer in me, the one who knows exactly how these stories end knew that this wasn't going to stay on the page.