Page 32 of Daddy Knows Best

He'd stopped it.

Saved me from myself in the middle of the night while I'd been passed out in my own spiral.

My knees gave out. I hit the floor hard, carpet burn on bare skin, and the tears came like a dam breaking. Ugly, body-shaking sobs that had been building since he'd pushed me off his lap. Since I'd ruined the only therapeutic relationship that had ever helped me.

"I'm sorry," I gasped between sobs. "I'm so fucking sorry. I ruined everything, and you had to—at three in the morning—I'm so sorry—"

"Enough." He shrugged off his wet coat, hanging it carefully on my door hook like this was normal. Like saving disasters was just part of his routine. "Listen very carefully, Emily."

The use of my first name made me look up through tears. He stood there in his white shirt and charcoal slacks, looking like control itself while I knelt on my floor in lingerie and shame.

"Standard therapy boundaries are paused under the emergency intervention clause." Each word came measured, weighted with meaning. "You're exhibiting self-harm through compulsive spending. Without immediate intervention, you would have caused irreversible financial damage. I'm here to stop that cycle. Now."

He moved through my apartment with purpose, not disgusted by the chaos but cataloguing it like symptoms. His hand went to his sleeve, rolling the white cotton higher with movements I'd watched so many times across his desk. The other sleeve followed, revealing forearms I'd tried not to stare at during sessions.

"The intervention protocol allows for temporary suspension of normal boundaries to address acute crisis." He picked up his tablet, checking something on the screen. "For the next ninety minutes, I'm not your therapist. I'm your crisis counselor with expanded authority to implement immediate behavioral corrections."

From beside the door, he lifted something I hadn't noticed—a small canvas tote bag, the kind yoga moms carried to farmer's markets. But the way he held it, the careful way he set it on my cleared coffee table, made it seem like something else entirely.

"Stand up." The command cut through my tears. "Wipe your face. We have work to do."

I struggled to my feet, using the couch for support. My hands shook as I wiped at my cheeks, probably just smearing the mascara worse. But I was vertical, which felt like an achievement.

He reached into the tote with deliberate movements. The first item emerged—a bar of lavender soap, handmade from the look of it, wrapped in cotton string. Then a pacifier clip, adult-sized, pale pink silicone. Finally, a leather strap, worn smooth with use, maybe eighteen inches long.

My breath caught. I knew what these were. Had seen variations in my late-night research spirals, reading about domestic discipline and behavioral modification. The soap for lies. The pacifier for self-soothing. The strap for . . .

"We correct." His voice had dropped to that register that bypassed my brain and went straight to my body. "Then we care. That's how we fix what's broken. Do you understand?"

The items sat on my coffee table like promises or threats. Maybe both. But underneath my shame and exhaustion, something else stirred. Relief. He'd come for me. Even after I'd destroyed everything, he'd spent his pre-dawn hours saving me from myself.

"Yes," I whispered.

"Yes, what?" The prompt came automatic, testing.

I swallowed hard, tasting wine and regret. "Yes, Daddy."

Something shifted in his expression—satisfaction mixed with resolve. "Good girl. Now we begin."

He guided me to the kitchen with a hand between my shoulder blades, firm pressure that kept me moving when my legs wanted to fold. The sink loomed like a monument to my failures—dishes from days ago crusted with shame, wine glasses bearing lipstick fossils from my spiral.

"Last night, when you bought those items, you were lying to yourself, weren’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy. I told myself that if I bought those things, I would fix me.”

“But you knew that was a lie, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“No more lies." He turned the water on, testing the temperature with methodical care. "Those behaviors poisoned your progress. We clean them out first."

The lavender soap emerged from his hands, paper wrapping crinkling as he revealed the pale purple bar. The scent hit immediately—floral and astringent, nothing like the synthetic sweetness of store brands. This was punishment disguised as aromatherapy.

"Open." The command came soft but absolute.

My jaw trembled as I parted my lips. He steadied my chin with one hand, clinical in his touch, then pressed the bar between my teeth. The taste exploded immediately—bitter flowers flooding my tongue, coating my mouth with consequence. My eyes watered, nose burning from the intensity.

"Two minutes." He set his phone on the counter, timer already running. "Don't bite down. Let it rest on your tongue. Think about the lies it's washing away."

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