Page 13 of Daddy Knows Best

"No." He gripped my waist harder, lifting me off his lap like I weighed nothing. My feet hit the carpet gracelessly, dress twisted and riding high. "Stand over there. Don't—don't come closer."

The rejection hit like cold water in the face. I stood there swaying, lips swollen from kissing him, body still pulsing with want. "I don't understand. You kissed me back. You wanted—"

"What I want is irrelevant." He shot to his feet, putting the chair between us like a barrier. His face had gone pale beneath the tan, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "This is—Christ. This is exactly what can't happen."

He strode to his desk with jerky movements, nothing like his usual liquid grace. His hands shook as he yanked open a drawer, rifling through files with increasing desperation. I watched him unravel, this man who was always in control, and felt my stomach drop toward my shoes.

"Daddy, please. We can talk about—"

"Doctor Whitlow." The correction cracked like a whip. "And no, we can't talk about it. We can't do anything about it."

He found what he was looking for—my intake folder, thick with consent forms and behavioral contracts. The papers scattered across his desk as he searched for one specific page, and when he found it, his whole body went rigid.

"'I understand that this is a professional therapeutic relationship.'" His voice had gone clinical, each word precise as a scalpel. "'I agree that any romantic or sexual contact between therapist and client will result in immediate termination of treatment.'"

Each line landed like a physical blow. He kept reading, my own initials mocking me from the bottom of each paragraph.

"'I acknowledge that boundary violations may result in professional consequences for my therapist, including but not limited to loss of license.'" He gripped the paper hard enough to crinkle it. "'I consent to these terms to protect both parties.'"

"I know what I signed." My voice came out small, defensive. "But that was before—"

"Before what?" He finally looked at me then, and I wished he hadn't. His eyes were winter-cold, professional distance slamming back into place like armor. "Before you developed feelings? Before you decided my career was worth less than your impulses?"

The words cut deep enough to steal my breath. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "You're right. It's not fair. None of this is fair. But it is what it is."

He set the contract down with deliberate care, then moved to stand behind his desk like a judge delivering a sentence. When he spoke again, his voice had flattened into something I'd never heard from him—empty of warmth, empty of everything.

"Therapy ends immediately." Each word fell like a stone into still water. "This is non-negotiable. What just happened represents a catastrophic boundary violation that compromises any therapeutic benefit."

"But I need—" The protest died in my throat at his expression.

"What you need is a different therapist. One you haven't—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "One with whom appropriate boundaries can be maintained."

My eyes burned with sudden tears. "Nate, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't." He held up a hand, still refusing to look at me directly. "Apologies don't undo actions. You knew the rules. You agreed to them. You broke them anyway."

Just like with money, the comparison hung unspoken between us. Just like every other promise I'd made to myself and shattered. The parallel hurt worse than his coldness.

"So that's it?" My voice cracked. "Three weeks of progress, and you're throwing me out because of one mistake?"

"One mistake that could cost me my license. And could cost you all the progress you’ve made. Everything you’ve worked for." He finally met my eyes again, and the sadness I saw there made me want to disappear. "So yes, Ms. Carter. That's it."

Ms. Carter. Not Emily. Not even "little one" like when I'd worn the romper. Just the formal distance of someone who'd already forgotten my first name.

He moved to the door with sharp efficiency, yanking it open hard enough to make it bounce against the wall. The message was clear: get out.

My legs moved on autopilot, carrying me toward the exit on unsteady feet. I had to pass close to him in the doorway, close enough to catch his scent one last time, to see the way his knuckles had gone white where he gripped the door handle.

"Your final envelope." He grabbed it from his desk without looking, shoving it at me like it was contaminated. "I'll email a list of alternative therapists who specialize in financial behavioral therapy."

I took the money with numb fingers. Seventy-five dollars that meant nothing now. "Nate—"

"Session concluded early. Reflect on the rupture." He stared at a point over my shoulder, voice mechanical as a recording. "Ms. Delgado can process any paperwork."

The door to the waiting room had never looked more like an escape hatch. I stumbled through it, wrap dress still askew, lips still swollen from kissing my therapist. Ex-therapist.

Ms. Delgado looked up from her computer, and her expression shifted immediately—from professional welcome to something soft with sympathy. She'd probably seen this before. Other patients who'd crossed lines, who'd ruined everything with wanting too much.

"Oh, honey," she said quietly.

But I couldn't handle her kindness. Not when I could still taste spearmint on my tongue. Not when my body still thrummed with interrupted arousal. Not when I'd just destroyed the only therapeutic relationship that had ever helped me.

I ran. Through the waiting room, past the stupid koi photos, into the elevator that had carried me up with such hope twenty minutes ago.

The mirrors reflected a woman I didn't recognize—mascara smudged, cheeks flushed with humiliation instead of desire, clutching an envelope full of money she'd inevitably waste.

As the elevator descended, one thought echoed through my head in his cold, professional voice: "Reflect on the rupture."

Like I'd be able to think about anything else.

T he cork came free with a wet pop that sounded like my last shred of dignity evacuating. I didn't bother with a glass—just tilted the rosé straight to my lips and let it burn down my throat. Sweet, cheap, exactly what I deserved.

Sir Reginald lifted his head from the couch, took one look at my destroyed makeup and trembling hands, and went back to sleep. Even my cat knew a lost cause when he saw one.

"Cheers to me," I told his turned back, taking another long pull. "To Emily Carter, who ruins everything she touches."

The wine hit my empty stomach like a depth charge. When had I last eaten? This morning? Last night? Time had gone elastic since Nate's hands pushed me away, since his voice turned to ice and called me Ms. Carter like my name was poison.

I kicked off my heels, letting them land wherever. The wrap dress—the stupid, trying-too-hard dress I'd worn to seduce my therapist—peeled off like shed snakeskin. I stood in my living room in expensive lingerie no one would ever see, clutching wine like a lifeline.

My laptop called from the coffee table. Just a quick check of email. Just something to fill the silence that pressed against my eardrums. Sir Reginald cracked one eye as I collapsed next to him, his judgment radiating through orange fur.

The screen blazed to life, and there it was—top of my inbox like a neon sign from the universe: "MIDNIGHT FLASH SALE - Bloom & Vine - 40% Off Everything!"

Forty percent off.

My finger hovered over the delete key. Nate's voice echoed in my head: "What you need is a different therapist." But what I needed was to stop feeling like my chest had been scooped out with a melon baller.

I clicked.

The website bloomed across my screen in soft pinks and greens, every image curated to whisper "you deserve this." A satin robe caught my eye first—blush-colored, trimmed with ivory lace. The kind of thing someone loved would buy you. Someone who'd hold you after, not push you away.

"It's self-care," I told Sir Reginald, already adding it to my cart. "Therapy is over. I need to process. Processing requires comfort items."

$120 turned to $72 with the discount code. Practically free. My credit card autofilled with muscle memory, and before I could think twice—purchased.

The dopamine hit immediate but thin, like diet soda when you need whiskey. I scrolled deeper, wine sloshing as I shifted. An artisanal tea set appeared—delicate porcelain painted with cherry blossoms. The kind of thing stable women owned.

"I'll have tea parties," I informed the cat, who'd started purring despite himself. "Very refined. Very un-messy. Very different from the disaster you're looking at."

$88 became $52.80. Still reasonable for a whole new personality. Click. Process. Confirm.

But the ache in my chest just spread wider. Nate's face flashed behind my eyelids—the disgust when he'd looked at me, the way he'd wielded that contract like a weapon. My therapist. My Daddy. The one person who'd made me feel safe enough to be small, pushing me away like I was contagious.

"His loss," I slurred, wine empty now. I reached for my emergency vodka, the bottle I kept for breakups and bad days. This qualified as both.

The website kept offering solutions to problems I didn't know I had. A limited-edition fountain pen—for the writer I'd never become. Click. A cashmere throw—for the couch I couldn't afford. Click. Bath bombs that cost more than my groceries. Click. Click. Click.

Each purchase was a middle finger to the Emily who'd counted receipts. Who'd been proud of her $14.10 remaining. Who'd thought she was healing instead of just postponing the inevitable collapse.

My phone buzzed with the first warning: "Unusual activity detected on your PlatinumPlus card."

"Fuck off," I told it, switching to the next card. The Emerald Rewards—lower limit, higher interest. Perfect for someone determined to destroy herself in style.

More items flew into carts across three different websites.

A silk pillowcase for better skin—like that would fix the fact that I'd sexually assaulted my therapist. Designer candles to replace the ones from Wick & Whim—because apparently I collected overpriced wax.

A leather journal for the feelings I'd never process without professional help.

The second warning came gentler: "You're approaching your credit limit!"

But gentle had pushed me off his lap. Gentle had read legal documents while I stood there shaking. I didn't need gentle.

I needed oblivion.

The shopping frenzy blurred into a fever dream. Websites flashed past—Sephora, Nordstrom, some boutique that sold handcrafted ceramics. My fingers moved without my brain's permission, typing card numbers from memory, clicking through confirmations without reading totals.

The monster I'd drawn with crayons had taken the wheel. Its dollar-sign teeth gnashed as it devoured my future in $50 increments. Every purchase pushed Nate's voice further away, buried his rejection under shipping confirmations and tracking numbers.

Until the fun stopped.

"Transaction declined. Please contact your card issuer."

I stared at the screen, vodka making the words swim. Tried again. Same message. Switched cards—the store brand Visa with its pathetic $500 limit. Declined. The ancient Discover I'd forgotten existed. Declined.

My laptop screen glowed with the evidence: Order confirmations flooding my inbox. PayPal receipts. Credit alerts. A number at the bottom of my bank app that made my stomach lurch: -$1,318.74.

Negative. I'd gone negative.

"No." The word came out broken. I refreshed the app, certain it was wrong. But math didn't care about my feelings.

I slid off the couch onto the floor, laptop crashing beside me. Sir Reginald meowed in alarm, but I couldn't comfort him. Couldn't comfort myself. The confirmation emails kept coming—cheerful subject lines about shipping dates and exclusive offers for loyal customers.

Loyal to what? Self-destruction?

I curled into myself on the scratchy carpet, surrounded by the digital wreckage of my spiral.

Somewhere in Chicago, Dr. Nathan Whitlow was probably updating his notes.

Writing about the patient who'd proven exactly why she needed behavioral intervention.

The patient who'd destroyed progress with wanting, just like always.

My final thought before the vodka pulled me under was that he'd been right to push me away.

I really did ruin everything I touched.