Page 20 of Daddy Knows Best

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 itto 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 bodyremembered 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.

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