Page 6 of Daddy Knows Best

That's when I saw it. Wick & Whim, nestled between a yoga studio and a shop that sold seventeen-dollar greeting cards. The window display featured candles arranged like a garden, all soft pastels and cream-colored wax in vessels that belonged in a museum.

Just smell some testers, my brain whispered. Scent therapy. Basically self-care.

The door chimed with expensive subtlety as I entered. The assault began immediately—lavender mixing with sandalwood, vanilla threading through cedar, rose petals drowning in bourbon. A symphony designed to bypass logic and mainline straight to the pleasure centers of the brain.

"Welcome to Wick & Whim!" A sales associate appeared like a eucalyptus-scented fairy. "Our signature collection is thirty percent off today only!"

I should have run. Should have remembered Dr. Whitlow's voice talking about trigger recognition. Should have thought about my envelope with its carefully guarded cash.

Instead, I picked up a tester labeled Midnight in Havana.

One sniff and I was gone. Not in Havana—better. In a world where I didn't fuck up client campaigns, where Harrison Kline didn't exist, where I was the kind of woman who burned expensive candles while reading Proust in a velvet robe.

"That's from our Wanderlust collection," the fairy informed me. "It pairs beautifully with our Capri Dreams."

She placed another candle in my hands. Then another. Soon I was cradling possibilities: Library at Dusk, Greenhouse Morning, Santal Haze. Each one a perfect life I could buy for just . . .

"Five for sixty dollars?" I heard myself ask. "The flash sale?"

"Today only! And they're usually twenty-four each, so you're basically saving sixty dollars."

Saving.

The word lit up my brain like a Vegas marquee.

Saving was responsible.

Saving was what Dr. Whitlow would want.

Saving was good, just like me.

I followed her to the register, arms full of my new emotional support candles. The envelope in my purse felt heavier with each step, but I'd already gone too far to stop. That's when I saw it: a rose gold wick trimmer displayed like jewelry.

"Oh, that's our limited edition," the fairy cooed. "Only seventeen ninety-five with any purchase. It makes such a difference in burn quality."

Of course it did. Of course my candles needed a seventeen-dollar accessory to reach their full potential.

"I'll take it."

The words escaped before I could stop them. She rang everything up with practiced efficiency while I stood there, watching the numbers climb. Sixty dollars became seventy-seven ninety-five. My envelope—shit, I couldn't use the envelope. Not for this much.

"How will you be paying?"

My hand moved without permission, pulling out my phone. Apple Pay. The cards I'd hidden were still there, digitally waiting. One double-click, face scan, and done.

Easy.

She wrapped each candle in tissue paper like precious cargo, placing them in a bag that smelled strongly enough to fumigate a city block. I took it with numb fingers, the weight of glass and wax and terrible decisions.

"Enjoy your new collection!"

The bus ride home stretched into eternity.

The bag rustled every time the bus turned, releasing fresh waves of rose-sandalwood-vanilla. The scent of my weakness. By the time I reached my stop, nausea had joined the shame party in my stomach.

Sir Reginald greeted me at the door, then immediately backed away. Even he could smell the failure.

I dumped the candles on my kitchen counter like contraband, which is essentially what they were. Five glass vessels that would smell lovely while reminding me that I couldn't be trusted with basic adult responsibilities. The wick trimmer gleamed accusingly in its plastic prison.

My laptop sat open on the coffee table, Dr. Whitlow's receipt folder waiting for updates. I took the photos—receipt crumpled from my death grip on the bus, items arranged like a crime scene. Upload. Process. Complete.

Except nothing about this felt complete. It felt like standing at the edge of a cliff I'd just thrown myself off, waiting for the ground to arrive.

I lit one of the candles—Midnight in Havana—and watched the flame dance. At least my apartment would smell expensive while I faced the consequences. The smoke curled up like a question mark, asking what the hell I thought I was doing.

I wish I had an answer.

T hursday came around quickly.

My hands wouldn't stop shaking as I clutched the zip-lock bag of receipts.

Suite 4B's waiting room hummed with its usual calm—that damn waterfall tinkling away, the velvet chairs positioned just so. The toy kitchen in the corner mocked me with its plastic foods, all pretend consumption with no real consequences.

"Emily, honey." Ms. Delgado looked up from her computer, and I swear her expression held the specific sympathy reserved for death row inmates. "He's ready for you."

My legs moved on autopilot. The hallway stretched longer than usual, those koi photos watching my walk of shame with their fishy eyes.

The door to his office stood closed. Solid wood between me and whatever came next. I knocked once, heard his low "Come in," and entered my judgment day.

He stood behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, wearing charcoal gray that made him look like an extremely attractive executioner. The afternoon light caught the silver in his beard, and I had the inappropriate thought that disappointment looked good on him.

"Ms. Carter." Not Emily. The formal distance hit hard. "Please, sit."

I perched on the edge of the wingback chair, the leather creaking under my nervous energy. The zip-lock bag crinkled in my lap, broadcasting my failure in stereo.

"Your receipts?"

Two words, but they carried the weight of expectation I'd shattered. Obviously, he’d already checked the online paper trail. Still, he wanted to see the had evidence. I handed over the bag with trembling fingers, watching him examine the contents.

He spread them on his desk with methodical precision. The coffee purchase, the bus fare—those innocent first receipts—and then the Wick & Whim disaster, its crumpled receipt smoothed flat under his palms.

"Three days." His voice held no emotion, just fact. "You maintained discipline for three days before spending..."—he calculated with horrifying efficiency—"seventy-seven dollars and ninety-five cents."

"There was a flash sale," I heard myself say, then immediately wanted to crawl under the chair. "I mean—that's not an excuse. I just—"

"No." He held up one hand, and I shut up instantly.

"Explanations come later. First, we need to establish facts.

You spent your entire weekly allowance plus twelve percent.

You used digital payment to circumvent the cash-only rule.

And you purchased..."—he lifted the receipt to read—"a seventeen-dollar wick trimmer. "

Each word landed like a precise cut.

"Yes." My voice came out smaller than intended. "All of that. Yes."

He set the receipts aside and finally, finally looked at me. Not with anger or disgust, but with something worse—professional assessment. Like I was a problem to be solved rather than a person who'd failed.

"This jump-start relapse requires escalation." He pulled out my file, flipping to the behavioral contract I'd signed last week. "According to our agreed-upon structure, we’d normally begin with a verbal warning.”

Verbal warning. That didn’t sound too bad.

“However. This is a serious breach of out rules, therefore I’m going to escalate. In my professional opinion, this calls for impact correction. You consented to this consequence. Do you maintain that consent?"

The words hung between us, clinical and precise. This was it—the moment where playing at submission became real. Where theoretical consequences turned physical.

"I need verbal confirmation, Ms. Carter."

My mouth felt desert-dry. I thought about running. About making some excuse and fleeing to continue my cycle of financial self-destruction in private. But then I remembered the relief of that first swat last week. The way it had cut through all my mental noise and left blessed silence.

"I consent." The words came out steady, surprising us both. "I mean—yes. I maintain my consent to the agreed consequences."

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite approval, but recognition maybe. He nodded once, crisp and professional.

"Your safeword?"

"Sunshine."

"Use it at any point, for any reason, and we stop immediately. No questions, no judgment. Understood?"

"Understood."

He stood with that same liquid grace I'd noticed last week, moving to his desk drawer with purpose.

The leather paddle emerged first—small, maybe eight inches total, the business end no bigger than his palm.

Beside it, he placed a bottle of what looked like aloe lotion.

The casual preparation made everything surreal, like watching someone set a table for dinner.

"Before we begin." He returned to stand in front of me, the paddle resting against his thigh.

"This is not about shame or humiliation.

Physical correction serves as a circuit breaker for destructive patterns.

The discomfort creates new neural pathways, associating overspending with immediate consequence rather than delayed anxiety. "

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The technical explanation should have made it less charged, more clinical. Instead, the careful way he framed everything—therapeutic, boundaried, controlled—made my body hum with anticipation.

"We'll do ten strikes total. You'll count each one aloud and repeat the phrase 'Needs before wants.' If you lose count or fail to repeat the phrase, that strike doesn't count. Questions?"

Ten. The number echoed in my head. Last week had been one. One casual swat that had haunted my dreams. Ten felt like . . .a lot.

"What if I—" I swallowed, tried again. "Position?"

"Over the desk. Skirt raised, undergarments lowered. You'll need to lift your skirt yourself—I won't be adjusting your clothing."