Page 1 of Daddy's Rules

Prologue

Tugging at my blackskirt, I sit on the plain gray upholstered chair. It’s a standard waiting room chair with a metal frame like at a doctor’s office or the employment center, but the blip in my gut reminds me it’s neither of those places. My heart pounds so loudly I’m sure it’s audible. Not that anyone else sits in the empty room but me. Thank God! Yeah, just me and the million butterflies erratically fluttering in my belly.

A shuffle behind the office door makes me lick my dry lips and swallow hard. There’s a twinge low in my abdomen. Frisson. My breath sticks and I watch the door handle with the intensity of a deer in headlights. Is it moving? I decide it’s not and nibble my lip. It would be easier if it was.

The wait is killing me.

I’ve never done anything like this before. I close my eyes and concentrate on breathing. In out, in out. Slow and steady. My gut is as tumultuous as the sea during a storm, but it’s nothing compared to the weakness I feel in every limb. There’s something else too. An exhilaration. A secret thrill I’d be embarrassed to admit. Hell, I’m finally taking control of my life. True, in a peculiar sort of way, but one I’m confident will work.

Mr. Smith is a disciplinarian.

I gulp air out loud just thinking the word. Disciplinarian. I’d seen his ad while drowning my sorrows at Expressions Tattoo Parlor. As the buzz of the gun vibrated my chest and stung my shoulder, I’d read:

Lacking self-discipline? Longing for help getting your life together? Need a strict, stern, and encouraging leader to motivate you to meet your goals? I’m The Disciplinarian and I guarantee results. Email Mr. Smith for a no-obligation consultation.

And here I am. In The Disciplinarian’s waiting room having hot flashes like a menopausal woman instead of a twenty-eight-year-old being held hostage by my father’s will and the basic living allowance I’ve been given for one year. After that, if I can’t prove I’m a woman capable of taking care of myself, I lose every penny of his millions.

Clenching my teeth, I look toward the exit. Part of me doesn’t want to fulfill the will’s clause. Part of me wants to fail simply to prove he and his money can’t control me. But the truth is, I’ve been on a path of self-destruction for years. I should have grown up a long time ago. So I’ll meet the requirements of my father’s will and then... I don’t know what then, but it’ll be something epic—something to show him I win.

I win? What the hell? How do I win against a dead man? I feel a wave of grief hit so hard I can’t find my breath. But I don’t grieve for a loss; I grieve for what I never really had. A throat clears in the next room and I find the air I’ve been depriving myself of. I straighten my back in the chair. With Mr. Smith’s help, I’m going to prove that I can take care of myself.

After our initial email, Mr. Smith and I came up with a plan. He’d made a list of simple rules and I’d agreed to them all. They were things he didn’t compromise on. My health and safety were non-negotiable, but with the rest we’re starting slow. My first goal—make a realistic budget and stick to it for a week.

At the time, the idea of punishment was theoretical, abstract. With the threat of discipline, I figured I’d get my act together. I certainly didn’t expect to fail, let alone so soon, but now here I am. In a room waiting to be called into Mr. Smith’s office to be punished. Another noise behind the wall makes my gut dip and my breath quicken and then I recall how I earned this session with Mr. Smith.

Emily Wellard had been looking down her perfect nose at me, pleading for the dying whales and with my too-tight designer gown squeezing me like a sequined boa constrictor and the flashing cameras, I made the quick decision to donate. But it wasn’t until I saw Owen Holloway, my father’s friend, lawyer and my secret crush, talking with my stepmother, the former supermodel Denzi Marlow, that the donation became sizable.

How could I not agree to give a donation? One way bigger than Denzi’s. One that made me look better in my gown than I felt. One that made Owen look at me instead of my nemesis. It didn’t matter that his look was a raised brow and pressed lips.

I let my face fall into my hands. I had let one stupid decision eat up my condo fee allowance for the next six months. How long did it take to get evicted from a condo?

Finally the door opens.

“Miss Jones?”

I can’t look up. My chest constricts and I stare at my expensive shoes that do nothing to hide my chubby ankles. You can do this, I coach myself. Blood pounds in my ears and I stand but still look at my feet. My mouth is so dry I can’t swallow. What will he do? Will he simply lecture me? Or will he bare me, bend me across his desk, and strap my ass?

“I believe young ladies need a firm hand, Miss Jones. I also believe in corporal punishment. Spankings, Miss Jones, paddlings, strappings, and even switchings when they’re necessary.”

The thrill low in my abdomen at the thought of being spanked turns to a low thrum or a deep flutter maybe. Whatever it is, it’s sexual and I’m mortified.

“I don’t have all day, young lady. Let’s go. In my office, now.” His words sound distorted, but they erase the arousal and my nerves spark to life again. The voice is familiar even with blood pounding in my ears. No, it can’t be, I tell myself. I’m only imagining it.

My knees shake, but I stand tall. This is what I need to get my life on track. This will help me become a woman who doesn’t need to rely on her inheritance to live. A woman who can make her own way in the world instead of walking in the shadow of her famous father.

“Miss. Jones, I’ll be pulling out my dawdling paddle if you don’t move more swiftly.”

That’s when I look up...

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