Page 6 of Daddy Knows Best

I managed a nod. “Doctor. Hi.”

He offered his hand, and I nearly dropped my folder getting to it. The handshake was deliberate, not the pump-and-release of a job interview. His palm was cool, but the grip held just enough pressure that my bones had to pay attention

“Please, call me Nate. Or Dr. Whitlow, if you prefer.” He released my hand, but not my pulse. “Have a seat, Ms. Carter.”

He gestured to the leather wingback opposite his desk. The chair looked older than me, but it glowed in the amber light like it had a secret. I perched on the edge, thighs clenched, as he rounded the desk and sat. He didn’t check his watch, or shuffle papers, or even look at the computer. Just leaned forward, elbows on the arms, and gave me his full attention.

The office was a study in quiet flex. Walnut shelves, a large Swiss cheese plant in the window, a thick, dark rug. There was a toddler-sized table near the wall, covered in scented markers and a tub of crayons. So the crayons in the online comments weren’t metaphorical—he had actual crayons.

He caught me looking. “I keep them for clients who benefit from tactile engagement. Would you like some?”

“Oh, uh, I’m good.” Why did my voice go up two octaves? “I’m—fine.” My hands were already twisting the patient folder into a tube.

“Then let’s review your intake.” He steepled his fingers. “I see you’ve consented to my behavioral accountability program.” The words rolled out like rain. “Any questions before we begin?”

“I don’t think so?” It came out as a question. For some reason, I felt likehewas the only one qualified to answer any questions here.

His gaze dipped to the folder in my lap. “May I?”

I handed it over, our fingers brushing. I tried not to imagine his hands anywhere else.

He scanned my paperwork, humming once in approval. “You’ve chosen Sunshine as your safeword. Good—simple, and not likely to come up in casual speech.”

I didn’t trust myself to answer. I focused on the banker’s lamp, the way it glowed gold and green, making the whole office feel like autumn.

“Let’s start simple,” he said. “You tell me what brings you here.”

That was the million-dollar question. Almost literally. Sara had coached me to be honest, but the words turned to glue.

“I spend money I don’t have,” I blurted. “It’s like—I know it’s wrong, but I can’t stop. I want to, but the wanting isn’t enough. It’s not like I don’t try—there’s budgets, and apps, and advice, but none of it sticks. I just . . . fall back into it.”

His expression didn’t shift, but something in the air did.

“Impulse control,” he said, confirming what I’d just admitted. “How long has this been an issue?”

I thought back to the Silk & Sass incident, the years of hiding purchases in my closet, the low-level dread that bloomed every time I opened a credit card bill. “Since college, maybe longer. But it’s gotten worse the last year.”

“Any particular trigger?”

I shrugged, twisting my hands together. “Loneliness, I guess. Stress? Sometimes just boredom. Other times, almost nothing.”

He nodded, jotting something on a yellow legal pad. “Have you ever worked with a therapist before?”

“Not since the campus counseling center.” I risked a glance up. “It didn’t do much.”

“Different approaches work for different people. You won’t have done anything like this before.” He set the pen aside. “What is it you hope to get from this process?”

Control. Structure. Permission to stop being the screw-up for once.

“Just . . . not being a disaster? Maybe to stop hating myself every time I buy something I don’t need.”

A tiny line formed between his brows, gone in an instant. “You’re not a disaster, Ms. Carter. You’re a person with a habit. Habits can be changed. Sometimes it takes more than willpower.”

He leaned back, eyes never leaving mine. “That’s what we’ll do here. Change the pattern. But it requires honesty, vulnerability, and commitment to the process. Not everyone is prepared to do that.”

The warning was clear: back out now if you’re a coward.

“I’m in,” I said, before my brain could overrule my mouth.

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