Page 5 of Daddy Knows Best

“First time?” The woman at the desk glanced up, glasses perched halfway down her nose. She was fifties, Latina, with lipstick the color of grenadine and a voice that could probably shush a rabid dog. The name badge read C. DELGADO, OFFICE MANAGER.

“Yeah. I’m—uh—Emily Carter. Four o’clock?”

She nodded, sliding a clipboard my way. “Welcome, Emily. Here’s your forms, just initial the starred parts. Dr. Whitlow runs right on time, so don’t wander off.”

No chance of that. My legs were full of cement.

I signed in, she gave me a patient folder and pointed to the waiting area. “Relax. Drink water. There’s snacks if you need.”

I clutched the packet to my chest and scanned the room. Two armchairs, indigo velvet, each big enough to swallow a person whole. A low table stacked with magazines: Psychology Today, GQ, Bon Appetit. A toy kitchen set in one corner, kid-sized, the plastic stove crowded with wooden eggs and a loaf of bread.

I slid into a chair, exhaling through my nose in an attempt at mindfulness.

The velvet was too soft, the color too royal. I didn’t belong here.

My phone buzzed in my purse, setting off a full-body spasm. I fished it out, ignoring Sara’s seventh “you there?” text, and pulled up the Intake Confirmed email for the fifteenth time.

There it was again—the silver-and-navy crest at the top, some Latin motto I couldn’t parse, and the word Fiducia stamped below. The appointment slot was highlighted in the kind of yellow reserved for warning signs or chemical spills. It didn’t say what would happen if I chickened out.

My screen was still cluttered with tabs from last night’s panic research. The first was a JSTOR article on “externalized reinforcement in impulse disorders”—I’d made it four sentences before my eyes glazed over. Tab two: Reddit thread, /r/bdsmcommunity, “What’s your go-to safeword?” Fifty-six comments. Half said “red,” the rest suggested something ridiculous like “bananas” or “Zoidberg.” Tab three was Yelp reviews. Only two were for Dr. Whitlow. Both five-star. Both raved about his ability to “cut to the chase” and “retrain bad habits fast.” One included a weird aside: “Ask about the crayons!” That was it. No horror stories, no exposés.

No stories, period.

Somehow that was worse.

I turned my attention to the patient folder. The first page was the usual HIPAA boilerplate. The next was a consent form in clinical, oddly blunt language. My thumb caught on a stickynote: Emily, please complete and return to front desk before intake. —C. Delgado

Preferred Safeword: _______.

I stared at the blank line like it might fill itself in. The word that came to mind—Sunshine—made me cringe. Cheesy, but at least it wouldn’t escape my lips by accident. I scribbled it in, then nearly tore the paper in half stuffing it back into the folder.

To keep my hands busy, I double-checked the folder. Last page: Goals for Treatment.

- Financial literacy

- Curbing impulse spending

- Healthy coping strategies

I hesitated, then added: Accountability. Structure. Maybe even the word Obedience, but I chickened out and left it at A and S.

“Ms. Carter?”

I jerked upright. Ms. Delgado stood at the threshold between lobby and back hallway, holding the door open. She smiled—not condescending, not smug, just warm, which was almost worse. “Dr. Whitlow is ready. Bring your forms, sweetheart.”

My knees went wobbly as I stood. The velvet chair seemed to grab my skirt, reluctant to let me leave. I smoothed my hair, tucked my phone away, and followed her down the hallway, the walls lined with more koi photos.

At the end was a heavy wooden door. Ms. Delgado rapped once, opened it, and gestured me in.

“He doesn’t bite,” she whispered. Then she winked, turned on her heel, and left me standing in the doorway, clutching the folder to my chest like a security blanket.

I took a breath, and stepped inside.

He was already standing—I got the impression he wasn’t one for sitting. Six-foot-two, maybe more, built like the kind ofrunner who didn’t care about his finish time, just the ritual of it. Navy shirt, sleeves rolled once at the forearms. Charcoal vest, tailored perfectly. His skin was tan, and his beard was salt-and-pepper, trimmed to a science.

But it was the eyes that did me in: focused, yes, but with a warmth that made all sense fall out of my head.

“Ms. Carter?” His voice was lower than I’d imagined, a vibration more than a sound.

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