Page 2 of Daddy Knows Best

"Fine." I let her lead me toward whatever bar she had in mind. "But if this professional turns out to be some judgmental money bro who tells me to stop buying lattes, I'm out."

Sara's laugh carried a note of mischief that should have warned me. "Oh, honey. Dr. Whitlow is many things, but a basic money bro isn't one of them."

The way she said his name—like she was savoring expensive chocolate—sent an unexpected shiver down my spine. But I was too exhausted from shame to analyze it. All I knew was that my best friend was buying me drinks and promising help, and right now, that was enough.

T he Tipsy Peach wrapped around us like a Pinterest board come to life—all Edison bulbs and exposed brick, succulents spilling from macramé planters that probably cost more than my weekly grocery budget.

Sara navigated to a corner booth with the confidence of someone who'd never had a card declined in her life. The reclaimed pine table held enough character to be featured in a design blog, its surface scarred with the kind of artful imperfections that definitely cost extra.

"Two Lavender Palomas," she told our server without consulting me or the menu. "And keep them coming."

I sank into the cognac leather banquette, grateful for the dim lighting that might hide my still-flushed cheeks. "Since when do you drink tequila on a Tuesday?"

"Since my best friend had a financial meltdown outside a lingerie store." She shrugged off her coat with practiced ease. "Desperate times, desperate measures."

The drinks arrived with suspicious speed—pale purple concoctions that smelled like a spa day. Sara raised her glass in a mock toast before reaching into her bag with her free hand.

"But first, the main event." She produced a pristine linen napkin from somewhere and laid it flat with the precision of a poker dealer. "Watch carefully."

With a magician's flourish, she flipped the napkin to reveal what lay beneath. A business card slid across the table, stopping just shy of my cocktail. The weight of the cardstock alone screamed expensive—thick, cream-colored, with raised lettering that caught the candlelight.

I squinted at the elegant font. "Dr. Nathan Whitlow." My eyes skipped down. "Behavioral Therapy & Kink-Aware Coaching."

The tequila I'd just sipped threatened to come back up. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Read it again." Sara's smile could have powered the entire restaurant. "Slowly this time."

"Kink-aware?" I grabbed the card, holding it closer like the words might rearrange themselves into something less insane. "What do frilly handcuffs and riding crops have to do with balancing books?"

An older couple at the next table glanced our way. I slid lower in my seat.

"Keep your voice down." But Sara's eyes danced with mischief. "And it's not about handcuffs. Well, not just about handcuffs."

"Oh good. That's so much better." I took a larger gulp of my drink, the lavender and lime barely registering. "Please tell me this is some elaborate prank where you filmed my reaction."

"It's not a prank." She leaned forward, elbows on the table, suddenly serious. "Dr. Whitlow specializes in behavioral modification through consensual power exchange. He helps people with impulse control issues, addiction patterns, financial dysfunction—"

"Using kinky shit?" The words came out as a squeak.

"Using evidence-based therapeutic techniques that happen to incorporate BDSM dynamics.

" Sara sounded like she was reciting from a website, which she probably was.

"He's got a PhD from Northwestern, published papers on dopamine regulation and reward systems. This isn't some dude with a paddle and a dream, Em. He's the real deal."

I stared at the card, running my thumb over the raised letters. Dr. Nathan Whitlow. Even his name sounded commanding. "And you know this how?"

"Research." She sipped her cocktail with studied casualness. "My coworker's sister saw him for her shopping addiction. Went from maxed-out cards to a perfect credit score in eight months."

"By doing what exactly?"

Sara's lip gloss caught the candlelight as she smiled. "Radical accountability. Structured discipline. Consensual consequences for breaking agreed-upon rules."

Heat bloomed low in my belly, which made absolutely no sense. I pressed my thighs together under the table. "That sounds . . ."

"Intense? Terrifying? Exactly what you need?" Sara supplied. "The rumor mill says he's gorgeous too. Six-two, shoulders like a swimmer, voice that could melt butter."

My brain unhelpfully supplied an image: a tall man in an expensive suit, holding a leather paddle with the same precision Sara used for spreadsheets. The heat spread upward, warming my chest and neck.

"This is insane." I downed half my cocktail in one go. "Even if I wanted to—which I don't—therapy's expensive. Specialized therapy with a hot doctor who apparently spanks people? That's got to be like, what, three hundred a session?"

"Two-fifty actually. I checked."

"Sara!"

"What? I'm thorough." She flagged down our server for another round. "Look. I’m gonna pay for you.”

“What?”

“Mhmm. I consider it an investment. One day, when you’re rolling in cash, you can pay me back.”

“You can’t.”

“I can. That’s what friends are for. You need help.”

The business card sat between us like a dare.

"He probably has a waiting list," I said weakly.

"Six weeks normally." Sara's grin turned wicked. "But he had a cancellation. There's an opening for an initial consultation Thursday at four."

My jaw dropped. "You already called?"

"I made an inquiry. On your behalf. Which you can totally ignore if you want to keep playing financial Russian roulette with your future."

The second round of drinks arrived. This time I didn't hesitate, taking a long sip while my mind raced.

Everything about this was crazy. Seeing a therapist who incorporated kink into treatment?

Letting some stranger—some apparently hot, terrifying stranger—essentially dominate me into financial responsibility?

But another part of me, the part that had stood outside that boutique drowning in shame, whispered: What if it works?

"He's legitimate?" I fingered the card again. "Like, this isn't going to end up on some weird documentary about women who disappeared after answering sketchy ads?"

"He's got a whole office in that medical building on River Street. The fancy one with the fountain." Sara clinked her glass against mine. "Completely above board. Reviews online are stellar, if cryptic. Lots of 'changed my life' and 'wish I'd found him sooner' with strategic details left out."

"For obvious reasons," I muttered.

"Look." Sara's voice gentled. "I know this sounds out there. But Em, what you're doing isn't working. You need someone who can get through to you in a way traditional therapy hasn't. Someone who can work with your specific . . ." she paused, choosing her words, "response patterns."

"My response patterns?"

"You crave structure but rebel against it. You want someone to take control but only if you trust them completely. You respond better to external accountability than internal motivation." She ticked off points like she was giving a presentation. "Sound familiar?"

Uncomfortably familiar. Like she'd been taking notes on my personality since we met.

Maybe what I needed was exactly what Dr. Nathan Whitlow was offering.

"Thursday at four?" I heard myself ask.

Sara's smile could have lit up all of Chicago. "Thursday at four."