Page 30 of Daddy Knows Best

"Transaction declined. Please contact your card issuer."

I stared at the screen, vodka making the words swim. Tried again. Same message. Switched cards—the store brand Visa with its pathetic $500 limit. Declined. The ancient Discover I'd forgotten existed. Declined.

My laptop screen glowed with the evidence: Order confirmations flooding my inbox. PayPal receipts. Credit alerts.A number at the bottom of my bank app that made my stomach lurch: -$1,318.74.

Negative. I'd gone negative.

"No." The word came out broken. I refreshed the app, certain it was wrong. But math didn't care about my feelings.

I slid off the couch onto the floor, laptop crashing beside me. Sir Reginald meowed in alarm, but I couldn't comfort him. Couldn't comfort myself. The confirmation emails kept coming—cheerful subject lines about shipping dates and exclusive offers for loyal customers.

Loyal to what? Self-destruction?

I curled into myself on the scratchy carpet, surrounded by the digital wreckage of my spiral. Somewhere in Chicago, Dr. Nathan Whitlow was probably updating his notes. Writing about the patient who'd proven exactly why she needed behavioral intervention. The patient who'd destroyed progress with wanting, just like always.

My final thought before the vodka pulled me under was that he'd been right to push me away.

I really did ruin everything I touched.

Chapter 6

Theheadachewasn'tjustin my skull—it had colonized my entire body, setting up drum circles behind my eyes and bass lines along my spine. I peeled my cheek off the leather couch, yesterday's mascara gluing my lashes together like some discount bondage experiment. My mouth tasted like I'd been sucking on batteries dipped in wine.

Daylight stabbed through the windows I'd never closed, illuminating my apartment's transformation into a late-stage capitalism crime scene. Empty bottles stood like glass soldiers on the coffee table—two wines, the vodka I'd thought was for emergencies, even the cooking sherry I'd forgotten existed.

My lingerie from yesterday—the expensive set I'd worn to seduce my therapist—clung to my body. The lace itched against skin that felt too tight, like I'd been inflated past capacity and left to slowly leak.

Three sharp raps on the door sent my heart into my throat.

The sound echoed through my apartment like gunshots, each impact making my temples throb harder. My body went rigid,fight-or-flight flooding my system with adrenaline that mixed badly with the lingering alcohol.

Debt collectors.

Already.

They'd found my address, probably bought my information from whichever algorithm tracked financial destruction in real-time. Any second they'd start yelling through the door about court orders and wage garnishment and all the legal ways they could dissect my future.

Sir Reginald bolted from behind a shipping tube, orange fur puffed to maximum volume. His hiss carried more authority than anything I could muster as he disappeared under the bed, leaving me alone with my panic.

The pounding came again. Harder this time, rattling the cheap lock.

I forced myself upright, the room tilting like a funhouse. Each step toward the door felt like walking through pudding, my bare feet catching on receipt papers and bubble wrap. My breathing went shallow, chest tight with the specific terror of consequences arriving in person.

At the door, I pressed myself against the wood, trying to become invisible through sheer will. Maybe if I didn't move, didn't breathe, they'd assume I'd died and leave me to decompose in peace among my poor choices.

"Who is it?" The words came out as a croak, barely audible.

No answer. Just the weight of someone on the other side, waiting.

My hands shook as I rose on tiptoes to look through the peephole. The fisheye lens warped everything, but I could make out broad shoulders in a charcoal coat. No uniform, no clipboard—just an expensive coat that didn't belong in my building's hallway with its flickering fluorescents and suspicious stains.

I backed away slowly, hand over my mouth to muffle my breathing. Professional debt collectors wore cheap suits and desperation. This was something else. Something worse. Maybe the kind of people who collected debts with baseball bats instead of phone calls.

"Emily Marie Carter."

The voice hit me like a physical blow, deep and controlled through the thin wood. My knees buckled, and I had to catch myself against the wall.

No.

---