Page 9 of Daddy Knows Best

T he envelope in my hand felt like a diploma.

The glass doors reflected a woman I barely recognized.

Same curly hair, same work blazer, but something had shifted in the way I carried myself.

Straighter maybe, or just less apologetic about existing.

Seven days of staying within budget had done that.

Seven days of whispering "Needs before wants" every time my credit cards called from their digital grave.

My body remembered things my mind tried to ignore.

The ghost of heat across my bottom when I'd sat at my desk Monday morning.

The way certain movements sent phantom tingles through skin that had learned a new language.

Punishment and pleasure tangled together until I couldn't separate the sting from the sweetness.

The lobby hummed with professional purpose—lawyers checking phones, doctors in scrubs grabbing coffee from the cart.

None of them clutching evidence of their ability to adult.

None of them probably needed a behavioral therapist who used paddles and praise to rewire broken patterns.

I pressed the elevator button with unnecessary force, watching the numbers descend.

"Hold that!"

A woman in pharmaceutical sales attire slipped in beside me, all perfect teeth and commission breath. She pressed three. I pressed four. My finger lingered on the button, remembering how I'd stabbed at it desperately last week, late and panicked and about to disappoint him.

Not today.

When I arrived, Ms. Delgado looked up , like she had radar for anxious clients. Today's lipstick was burgundy, her smile a shade warmer than professional.

"Right on time, Emily. How was your week?"

Torturous. Triumphant.

Full of moments where I'd stood in Target with a throw pillow that would definitely fix my life, only to put it back and walk away empty-handed.

"Good," I managed. "Really good."

Her eyes crinkled with something that might have been pride. "He's finishing up notes. Have a seat, honey. Water's fresh if you need it."

I didn't need water. I needed to hand over this envelope before my sweaty palms destroyed the evidence. The indigo armchair embraced me like an old friend, too soft for someone wound this tight.

My phone buzzed—Sara again. She'd sent approximately forty-seven texts since I'd confirmed making it through the week, each one more enthusiastic than the last. The latest was just emoji: champagne, stars, and inexplicably, a crab.

I silenced it. This moment belonged to me and the man behind that door. Sara's celebration could wait.

It wasn’t long until the office door opened. Dr. Whitlow—Nate, though I'd never dare call him that aloud—stood there, looking straight at me.

"Ms. Carter." His voice held professional distance, but his eyes—those storm-gray eyes that saw too much—warmed at the sight of me. "Please, come in."

His office welcomed me with its familiar shadows and leather and that Swiss cheese plant. Everything the same except for how different I felt standing in it.

"How was your week?" He moved behind his desk with that economic grace, settling into his chair like a king taking his throne.

"Challenging." I set the envelope on his desk with shaking fingers, careful not to wrinkle it. "But I did it. Seventy-five dollars, not a penny over."

His expression didn't change, but something in the air shifted. Like the moment before lightning strikes, when everything holds its breath.

"Show me."

Two words that shouldn't have made my knees weak.

I was here to present a budget, not perform.

But my hands moved without consultation, opening the envelope with the reverence of ceremony.

Each receipt emerged in chronological order because of course I'd organized them.

Bus fares in one stack. The single coffee purchase.

Groceries. The book. Even the cat litter that Sir Reginald had needed desperately.

He took them with those careful hands, spreading them across his desk like tarot cards. I stood there, trying not to fidget, trying not to stare at the way his fingers moved with surgical precision. Trying not to remember how those same hands had spread cooling lotion over heated skin.

The silence stretched, broken only by the whisper of paper and my own too-loud breathing. He examined each receipt carefully.

"Utilities?" he asked without looking up.

"Prepaid last month. Not due until the fifteenth."

"The book purchase. Tell me about that."

Heat crept up my neck. "I—it was used. Stephen King, from the clearance rack. I checked the budget three times before buying it. And I didn't go in the main part of the store, just straight to used books and out."

"Why that book?"

The question caught me off guard. I'd expected queries about the coffee or why I'd chosen name brand cat litter. Not this.

"It was about writing," I admitted. "About making something from nothing. I thought maybe—maybe if I could learn to create instead of consume . . ."

I trailed off, embarrassed by the confession. But his eyes lifted from the receipts, finding mine with an intensity that made my breath catch.

"That's very good, Emily."

My name on his lips. Not Ms. Carter, not the formal distance of last week. Emily, like I'd earned something more than professional courtesy. The warmth in those words spread through me like good whiskey, pooling low and dangerous.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Zero overage," he said, writing the words in careful script. "Excellent impulse control."

The praise hit me in the chest, warm and glowing. I wanted to frame that progress sheet. Wanted to take a picture and send it to everyone who'd ever called me irresponsible. Wanted to earn more words like "excellent" from his mouth.

He signed the bottom with a flourish, then set the pen aside. "This calls for advancement in your treatment plan."

Advancement.

What did that mean?

He rose from his chair with that fluid grace, moving to a section of the wall I hadn't paid attention to before. What I'd taken for wood paneling was actually a fitted wardrobe, the cedar door opening on silent hinges.

"Today we'll introduce regression work." His tone stayed clinically neutral, but his movements held a different energy. Careful. Deliberate. Like handling something precious or dangerous. "Are you familiar with the concept of age regression in therapeutic contexts?"

"Not really." My voice came out smaller than intended. "I mean, you mentioned it last week, but—"

"It's a tool for accessing pre-trauma emotional states." He reached into the wardrobe, his back to me. "Before harmful patterns calcified. When you were young, what messages did you receive about money?"

The question caught me sideways. "That there was never enough. That wanting things meant being selfish. That good girls didn't ask for seconds or new shoes or—" I stopped, surprised by the rush of memory.

"Exactly." He turned, and my brain short-circuited.

In his hands lay a romper. Mint green cotton with puffed sleeves and—God help me—ruffles at the leg openings. Beside it, folded with the same precision, a pair of ankle socks printed with tiny bumblebees. The outfit belonged on a toddler, except it was clearly adult-sized. My size.

"I—what?" Words failed. My face burned with heat that had nothing to do with the afternoon streaming through his windows.

"This outfit serves as a external cue." He laid the garment on his desk with the same care he'd shown my receipts. "Wearing it helps access a psychological state where you can examine your relationship with want and need without adult defenses."

I stared at the romper like it might bite. The snaps at the crotch gleamed silver in the light, and I had to look away from the implications. "You want me to dress like a child?"

"I want you to dress in clothing that cues a specific mindset." His voice gentled but didn't apologize. "You remain an adult, fully consenting, fully aware. The clothing simply helps your brain shift into a space where we can do deeper work."

My thighs pressed together involuntarily. The idea of wearing that outfit—of being that vulnerable in front of him—sent conflicting signals through my body. Embarrassment. Fear. And underneath, that treacherous heat that seemed to accompany everything in this office.

"What would I have to do?" The question escaped before I could stop it.

His eyes found mine, steady and assured. "Color at the children's table. Use the markers or crayons to express feelings about money that words can't capture. You may find yourself speaking differently—third person sometimes emerges naturally. That's normal and encouraged."

He moved closer, not quite crossing into my space but near enough that his cologne wrapped around me. "Most importantly, this is earned nurture. No physical correction today. You've shown excellent control, and that deserves recognition."

No punishment. The relief that flooded through me was tinged with something that might have been disappointment. My body remembered last week's consequences too well, the way pain had transformed into something else entirely.

"What about boundaries?" I forced myself to ask the responsible question. "The professional—"

"Remain intact." His interruption was gentle but firm. "I'll guide the session, provide prompts, ensure safety. Nothing we do crosses therapeutic lines. This is about healing your relationship with wanting, not . . . anything else."

But the "anything else" lived in the space between us, unspoken and undeniable. The way his pupils dilated slightly when he looked at me. The way my breath caught when he said my name. The careful distance he maintained that only highlighted how much we both wanted to close it.

"If at any point you feel uncomfortable," he continued, "you use your safe word. No questions, no judgment. We stop immediately and process what came up."

"Sunshine," I whispered, the word familiar on my tongue now.

"Good girl."

God damn I loved hearing him say that.