Page 1 of Daddy Knows Best

T his was exactly what I needed.

The lavender lace felt gorgeous between my fingers, each delicate scallop edge a tiny rebellion against my sensible cotton collection.

Silk & Sass hummed with that particular energy of expensive lingerie boutiques—soft lighting that made everyone look like they stepped out of a boudoir painting, lo-fi pop trickling from hidden speakers like auditory honey.

I lifted the balconette bra to catch the light, watching it shimmer from lilac to silver depending on the angle.

"Finding everything okay?" The sales associate materialized beside me, all glossy ponytail and commission-hungry smile. Her name tag read Madison in curly script.

"Just browsing," I lied, already mentally rearranging my underwear drawer to make room for this set.

The matching garter belt hung from my other hand.

Together they whispered possibilities: the woman who wore these pieces wouldn't eat cereal for dinner three nights running.

She'd have her life together. She'd be desired.

I drifted toward the fitting rooms, but the mirror outside caught me first. Even holding the lingerie against my work blazer, I could see the transformation waiting.

The color would make my skin glow, turn my curves from something to hide into something to celebrate. I checked the price tag and winced.

Eighty-five dollars, marked down from one-twenty.

Still brutal, but thirty percent off meant I'd be losing money not buying it, right?

That familiar rush warmed my chest, the one that always came with finding the perfect piece.

It wasn't about the lingerie, not really.

It was about possibility. About becoming the kind of woman who owned French lace instead of faded Target multipacks.

The kind who had her shit together enough to hand-wash delicates.

"That color is gorgeous on you." Madison had followed me like a well-trained predator. "We actually have the matching robe in the back if you're interested."

"Just these today." My voice came out breathy, already lost in the fantasy. Tomorrow I'd wear this under my blazer to the Monday morning meeting. Every time Brad from accounting droned on about metrics, I'd shift in my seat and remember the silk against my skin. My secret armor.

The register counter gleamed marble-white under pin lights that made the sterling silver jewelry display sparkle like tiny stars.

Madison folded each piece in tissue paper with the reverence of a priestess preparing offerings.

The ritual of it made my pulse quicken—the soft crinkle, the way she smoothed each crease, the burgundy shopping bag with silk rope handles waiting to cradle my prizes.

"Will that be all for you today?" She held up the matching robe, a last-ditch effort.

"I'm good." I slid my PlatinumPlus card across the counter, already composing the Instagram post in my head. Something about self-care not being selfish, maybe with a strategic shadow hiding the price tag.

Madison swiped the card with practiced efficiency. The machine beeped. She frowned, swiped again.

"Hmm, it's not going through. Let me try once more."

The warmth in my chest curdled. "That's weird. I just used it at Whole Foods this morning."

Another swipe. Another angry beep. The machine's little screen flashed a single word that might as well have been in neon: DECLINED.

"Would you like to try another form of payment?" Madison's smile had shifted to that particular retail expression—still professional, but with an undertone of 'please don't make this awkward.'

My hands fumbled through my wallet like it might spontaneously generate a different card.

The clear slots showed my driver's license, my work ID, three maxed-out store cards, and a coffee shop punch card with two sad stamps.

Behind me, I heard the soft click of heels—other customers waiting, witnessing.

"I—let me try again. Sometimes the chip acts up." The lie tasted metallic. I rubbed the card on my blazer like that might resurrect my credit limit.

Madison's fingers hovered over the machine. "Of course." But her eyes had already started scanning for the next customer, the real customer, the one who could actually afford to shop here.

DECLINED.

The word seemed to echo through the boutique, bouncing off mirrors and multiplying. A mother-daughter duo behind me shifted, their Hermès bags rustling with impatience.

"I'm so sorry." The words tumbled out as I pushed the lingerie back across the counter. "I must have—there's probably a hold from the hotel last weekend. I'll come back."

We both knew I wouldn't.

Madison's smile recycled itself into something sympathetic but dismissive. "No problem at all. I'll hold these for twenty-four hours if you'd like?"

"That's okay." I backed away from the counter like it might attack. "Thanks anyway."

The warm, summer air hit me the moment I pushed through the door. My reflection in the shop window showed what everyone inside had seen: a twenty-something playing dress-up in a world she couldn't afford.

Somewhere inside, Madison was probably sanitizing the counter where my poverty had touched it. The mother and daughter were probably bonding over their shared relief at not being me.

My phone buzzed with cheerful cruelty: "Fraud alert! Was this you? Reply Y or N." As if the real fraud wasn't pretending I belonged in places like Silk & Sass in the first place.

" Y our available credit is... fifteen dollars and forty-two cents."

The robotic voice on the phone delivered my financial death sentence with all the emotion of a GPS recalculating. Fifteen dollars. Not even enough for the clearance thong that started this whole humiliation parade.

"Seriously?" The word burst out before I could stop it. An elderly woman walking her Yorkie gave me a wide berth, probably thinking I was one of those people who argued with parking meters. Which, to be fair, wasn't far off—I was shouting at an algorithm.

My eyes burned with the specific brand of tears that came from being twenty-eight and still failing at basic adulting. Other women my age were buying houses and maxing out 401ks. I couldn't even max out a Victoria's Secret credit card without triggering a fraud alert.

"Emmy?"

I jerked my head up so fast my glasses slipped down my nose. Sara Bennett stood three feet away, looking like she'd stepped out of a LinkedIn success story. Her signature red wool coat and perfect bob looked like they’d survive an atomic bomb.

"Oh. Hey." I tried for casual and landed somewhere between constipated and guilty. "Just, you know, checking my . . . messages."

Sara's dark eyes narrowed the way they did when she spotted a calculation error. She took in my flushed cheeks, the death grip on my phone, the way I'd pressed myself against the building like I was trying to become one with the architecture.

"Uh-huh." She shifted her leather tote—probably worth more than my car—to her other shoulder. "And does checking messages usually involve looking like you're about to vomit on your Uggs?"

"They're knock-off Uggs, actually." The words tumbled out before I could stop them. "So technically I'd be vomiting on lies."

"Emily." Her voice gentled. "What happened?"

I opened my mouth to lie. To say I was fine, just tired, maybe coming down with something. But I couldn’t, not to Sara.

"My card got declined." The confession came out in a whisper. "At Silk and Sass."

Sara's expression shifted through several stages—surprise, concern, and then something that looked dangerously like pity. I'd rather she'd laughed.

"How bad?" No judgment in her tone, just that analytical assessment that made her so good at her job.

I showed her my phone screen, still displaying the pathetic balance. She winced.

"Okay, that's . . . suboptimal." Sara had a gift for understatement. "When's the last time you looked at your full financial picture?"

"Define 'looked at.'" I shoved my phone in my pocket, fingers encountering a receipt I didn't remember. "Because I definitely glance at the bills before I hide them in my junk drawer."

"Em." She stepped closer, voice dropping. "How long has it been this bad?"

The concern in her voice almost broke me. I'd kept this secret for months, pretending everything was fine while my credit score plummeted faster than my dignity in that lingerie store.

"Since August?" My voice cracked. "Maybe July?"

Sara pulled out her phone with the efficiency of someone who solved problems for a living. "You need professional help."

"I tried that budgeting app you recommended—"

"No." She looked up from whatever she was typing. "I mean actual professional help. Someone who can address the root cause, not just the symptoms."

I laughed, but it came out bitter. "What's next, financial therapy? 'Tell me about your relationship with your credit card?'"

"Actually . . ." Sara's lips curved into a smile that made me nervous. "That's exactly what I'm thinking. But first, we need alcohol. Lots of it."

She linked her arm through mine, steering me away from the scene of my retail crime. "I'm buying, obviously. Your fifteen dollars can stay right where it is."

"Sara—"

"Nope. No protests. You're in crisis, I'm in rescue mode. It's what we do." She squeezed my arm. "Besides, I have someone in mind who might be able to help. But I'm not discussing his methods while you're sober."

"His methods ?" I stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, Sara's grip the only thing keeping me upright. "Why does that sound ominous?"

"Because you have a dirty mind." She said it matter-of-factly, like she was stating the weather. “Which is one of the million reasons that I love you.”

I wanted to argue, to insist I could handle this myself. But the phantom weight of that declined card pressed against my chest, and I knew she was right. I needed help.