Page 20 of Hero Daddy

"I came here to learn to protect myself," I said, my voice thin and strained. "Not to be treated like I can't take care of myself."

"This isn't about inability," Chad countered, a note of gentle insistence entering his voice. "Quite the opposite. It takes tremendous strength to recognize when you need care, to allow yourself to receive it. Some of the most capable people I know find balance and renewal here."

His words made a terrible kind of sense, a logic that pulled at something deep inside me even as another part frantically pushed it away. The conflict created a pressure in my chest that expanded with each heartbeat, threatening to crack my ribs from the inside.

"I showed you this because I sensed you might benefit from knowing all the options available," Chad continued, his voice softer now, clearly perceiving my distress. "There's no expectation, no pressure. Just information. A possibility, if it speaks to you."

But it was too much—too intimate, too threatening to the carefully constructed identity I'd built for myself over years. The panic that had been building reached a critical point, a boiling over that consumed rational thought.

"I can't," I whispered, shaking my head violently, backing toward the door. "This isn't . . . I'm not . . ." My hand found the doorknob behind me, clutching it like a lifeline. "I have to go."

Chad's expression shifted, concern etching lines between his brows. "Daliah, wait. Let me explain—"

"No," I cut him off, fumbling with the doorknob. "I need to leave. Now."

Before he could say another word, before my own conflicted feelings could pull me back, I yanked the door open and burst through it.

Chapter 4

Iburstthroughmyapartmentdoor and slammed it shut, turning both locks with trembling fingers before sliding down to the floor, my back pressed against the wood like it could shield me from what I'd just learned. My chest heaved with each ragged breath as if I'd sprinted the entire way home instead of driving in a daze. The image of that room—all soft pastels and plush toys—burned behind my eyelids when I squeezed them shut, but Chad's words echoed even louder: Daddy Dom. Little side. Sanctuary.

"This is insane," I whispered to my empty apartment. My voice sounded foreign, high and brittle like cracking glass.

I hugged my knees to my chest, making myself smaller. Was that what he'd seen in me all along? Not a student, not even a woman, but some kind of... child substitute? Heat crawled up my neck and bloomed across my cheeks. Had I inadvertently sent signals I hadn't even known existed?

"I'm not like that," I said louder, as if volume could make it true.

But his words played on repeat in my head: ". . . the way you respond to structure. To guidance. To praise."

I pushed myself up from the floor, legs wobbly beneath me. My reflection caught in the hallway mirror stopped me cold. Hair wild from frustrated fingers running through it. Cheeks flushed. Eyes wide and lost. I looked exactly like what I felt—someone whose world had just tilted on its axis.

"Get it together, Daliah," I muttered, turning away from my scattered reflection.

I paced the small confines of my living room, five steps one way, five steps back, like a caged animal. My thoughts raced in disordered circles.

Chad. The man who'd saved me in the park. The instructor who'd been teaching me to protect myself. The person whose approval made me stand straighter, try harder. Now he was . . . what? Someone who thought I needed to be babied? Coddled? Dressed in onesies and given a pacifier?

I stopped pacing and pressed my palms against my eyes until colors exploded behind my lids. But the pressure couldn't block out the memory of Chad's voice, deep and steady, explaining concepts that should have repulsed me: "It's about providing a space where they can experience unconditional care without the constant pressure to be strong for everyone else."

A treacherous whisper uncurled somewhere deep inside me: Wouldn't that be nice?

"No," I said aloud, dropping my hands. "That's not me."

But another memory surfaced—Chad calling me "Little One" for the first time, the warmth that had spread through my chest at the endearment, how I'd leaned toward it like a flower seeking sunlight. I'd called him "Sir" on the phone without even thinking about it.

The moment I'd laid eyes on the rocking chair, I'd imagined myself curled in his lap, safe and protected. That image hadn'tcome from nowhere. It had sprung, fully formed, from some hidden part of me.

My pacing accelerated along with my pulse. Five steps became four, then three, my turns sharper, my movements more agitated.

"He's wrong about me," I insisted to the empty room. But a small, persistent voice whispered back:What if he isn't?

I stopped abruptly and stared at my laptop on the coffee table. It sat there innocently, closed and dormant, but suddenly it felt like a challenge. A dare.

Minutes passed as I stood frozen, caught between the urge to know and the fear of discovery. Finally, I sat down on the edge of the couch, pulled the laptop onto my knees, and flipped it open. The screen glowed to life.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, uncertainty making them tremble. What did I even search for? The terms Chad had used seemed both clinical and intimate, sterile and charged all at once.

"Just information," I whispered. "Just to understand."

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