Page 19 of Daddy Knows Best

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 . . ."

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