Page 13 of Daddy Knows Best

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.

Thursdaycamearoundquickly.

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?"

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