Page 29 of Daddy Knows Best

Like I'd be able to think about anything else.

Thecorkcamefreewith a wet pop that sounded like my last shred of dignity evacuating. I didn't bother with a glass—just tilted the rosé straight to my lips and let it burn down my throat. Sweet, cheap, exactly what I deserved.

Sir Reginald lifted his head from the couch, took one look at my destroyed makeup and trembling hands, and went back to sleep. Even my cat knew a lost cause when he saw one.

"Cheers to me," I told his turned back, taking another long pull. "To Emily Carter, who ruins everything she touches."

The wine hit my empty stomach like a depth charge. When had I last eaten? This morning? Last night? Time had gone elastic since Nate's hands pushed me away, since his voice turned to ice and called me Ms. Carter like my name was poison.

I kicked off my heels, letting them land wherever. The wrap dress—the stupid, trying-too-hard dress I'd worn to seduce my therapist—peeled off like shed snakeskin. I stood in my living room in expensive lingerie no one would ever see, clutching wine like a lifeline.

My laptop called from the coffee table. Just a quick check of email. Just something to fill the silence that pressed against my eardrums. Sir Reginald cracked one eye as I collapsed next to him, his judgment radiating through orange fur.

The screen blazed to life, and there it was—top of my inbox like a neon sign from the universe: "MIDNIGHT FLASH SALE - Bloom & Vine - 40% Off Everything!"

Forty percent off.

My finger hovered over the delete key. Nate's voice echoed in my head: "What you need is a different therapist." But what I needed was to stop feeling like my chest had been scooped out with a melon baller.

I clicked.

The website bloomed across my screen in soft pinks and greens, every image curated to whisper "you deserve this." A satin robe caught my eye first—blush-colored, trimmed with ivory lace. The kind of thing someone loved would buy you. Someone who'd hold you after, not push you away.

"It's self-care," I told Sir Reginald, already adding it to my cart. "Therapy is over. I need to process. Processing requires comfort items."

$120 turned to $72 with the discount code. Practically free. My credit card autofilled with muscle memory, and before I could think twice—purchased.

The dopamine hit immediate but thin, like diet soda when you need whiskey. I scrolled deeper, wine sloshing as I shifted. An artisanal tea set appeared—delicate porcelain painted with cherry blossoms. The kind of thing stable women owned.

"I'll have tea parties," I informed the cat, who'd started purring despite himself. "Very refined. Very un-messy. Very different from the disaster you're looking at."

$88 became $52.80. Still reasonable for a whole new personality. Click. Process. Confirm.

But the ache in my chest just spread wider. Nate's face flashed behind my eyelids—the disgust when he'd looked at me, the way he'd wielded that contract like a weapon. My therapist. My Daddy. The one person who'd made me feel safe enough to be small, pushing me away like I was contagious.

"His loss," I slurred, wine empty now. I reached for my emergency vodka, the bottle I kept for breakups and bad days. This qualified as both.

The website kept offering solutions to problems I didn't know I had. A limited-edition fountain pen—for the writer I'd never become. Click. A cashmere throw—for the couch I couldn't afford. Click. Bath bombs that cost more than my groceries. Click. Click. Click.

Each purchase was a middle finger to the Emily who'd counted receipts. Who'd been proud of her $14.10 remaining. Who'd thought she was healing instead of just postponing the inevitable collapse.

My phone buzzed with the first warning: "Unusual activity detected on your PlatinumPlus card."

"Fuck off," I told it, switching to the next card. The Emerald Rewards—lower limit, higher interest. Perfect for someone determined to destroy herself in style.

More items flew into carts across three different websites. A silk pillowcase for better skin—like that would fix the fact that I'd sexually assaulted my therapist. Designer candles to replace the ones from Wick & Whim—because apparently I collected overpriced wax. A leather journal for the feelings I'd never process without professional help.

The second warning came gentler: "You're approaching your credit limit!"

But gentle had pushed me off his lap. Gentle had read legal documents while I stood there shaking. I didn't need gentle.

I needed oblivion.

The shopping frenzy blurred into a fever dream. Websites flashed past—Sephora, Nordstrom, some boutique that sold handcrafted ceramics. My fingers moved without my brain's permission, typing card numbers from memory, clicking through confirmations without reading totals.

The monster I'd drawn with crayons had taken the wheel. Its dollar-sign teeth gnashed as it devoured my future in $50 increments. Every purchase pushed Nate's voice further away, buried his rejection under shipping confirmations and tracking numbers.

Until the fun stopped.

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