Page 28 of Daddy Knows Best

"Doctor Whitlow." The correction cracked like a whip. "And no, we can't talk about it. We can't do anything about it."

He found what he was looking for—my intake folder, thick with consent forms and behavioral contracts. The papers scattered across his desk as he searched for one specific page, and when he found it, his whole body went rigid.

"'I understand that this is a professional therapeutic relationship.'" His voice had gone clinical, each word precise as a scalpel. "'I agree that any romantic or sexual contact between therapist and client will result in immediate termination of treatment.'"

Each line landed like a physical blow. He kept reading, my own initials mocking me from the bottom of each paragraph.

"'I acknowledge that boundary violations may result in professional consequences for my therapist, including but not limited to loss of license.'" He gripped the paper hard enough to crinkle it. "'I consent to these terms to protect both parties.'"

"I know what I signed." My voice came out small, defensive. "But that was before—"

"Before what?" He finally looked at me then, and I wished he hadn't. His eyes were winter-cold, professional distance slamming back into place like armor. "Before you developed feelings? Before you decided my career was worth less than your impulses?"

The words cut deep enough to steal my breath. "That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. "You're right. It's not fair. None of this is fair. But it is what it is."

He set the contract down with deliberate care, then moved to stand behind his desk like a judge delivering a sentence. When he spoke again, his voice had flattened into something I'd never heard from him—empty of warmth, empty of everything.

"Therapy ends immediately." Each word fell like a stone into still water. "This is non-negotiable. What just happened represents a catastrophic boundary violation that compromises any therapeutic benefit."

"But I need—" The protest died in my throat at his expression.

"What you need is a different therapist. One you haven't—" He stopped, jaw clenching. "One with whom appropriate boundaries can be maintained."

My eyes burned with sudden tears. "Nate, please. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't." He held up a hand, still refusing to look at me directly. "Apologies don't undo actions. You knew the rules. You agreed to them. You broke them anyway."

Just like with money, the comparison hung unspoken between us. Just like every other promise I'd made to myself and shattered. The parallel hurt worse than his coldness.

"So that's it?" My voice cracked. "Three weeks of progress, and you're throwing me out because of one mistake?"

"One mistake that could cost me my license. And could cost you all the progress you’ve made. Everything you’ve worked for." He finally met my eyes again, and the sadness I saw there made me want to disappear. "So yes, Ms. Carter. That's it."

Ms. Carter. Not Emily. Not even "little one" like when I'd worn the romper. Just the formal distance of someone who'd already forgotten my first name.

He moved to the door with sharp efficiency, yanking it open hard enough to make it bounce against the wall. The message was clear: get out.

My legs moved on autopilot, carrying me toward the exit on unsteady feet. I had to pass close to him in the doorway, close enough to catch his scent one last time, to see the way his knuckles had gone white where he gripped the door handle.

"Your final envelope." He grabbed it from his desk without looking, shoving it at me like it was contaminated. "I'll email a list of alternative therapists who specialize in financial behavioral therapy."

I took the money with numb fingers. Seventy-five dollars that meant nothing now. "Nate—"

"Session concluded early. Reflect on the rupture." He stared at a point over my shoulder, voice mechanical as a recording. "Ms. Delgado can process any paperwork."

The door to the waiting room had never looked more like an escape hatch. I stumbled through it, wrap dress still askew, lips still swollen from kissing my therapist. Ex-therapist.

Ms. Delgado looked up from her computer, and her expression shifted immediately—from professional welcome to something soft with sympathy. She'd probably seen this before. Other patients who'd crossed lines, who'd ruined everything with wanting too much.

"Oh, honey," she said quietly.

But I couldn't handle her kindness. Not when I could still taste spearmint on my tongue. Not when my body still thrummed with interrupted arousal. Not when I'd just destroyed the only therapeutic relationship that had ever helped me.

I ran. Through the waiting room, past the stupid koi photos, into the elevator that had carried me up with such hope twenty minutes ago. The mirrors reflected a woman I didn't recognize—mascara smudged, cheeks flushed with humiliation instead of desire, clutching an envelope full of money she'd inevitably waste.

As the elevator descended, one thought echoed through my head in his cold, professional voice: "Reflect on the rupture."

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