Page 47 of Tame Me Daddy

I wanted to hug her for that, for claiming me so easily as someone worth protecting.

Amber finally moved forward, slipping slightly away from our parents. "I'm sorry," she whispered when I caught her eye. "They found your location from the photo backgrounds. Opened my phone without my permission. They’ve been the ones sending you messages. I’m in trouble, too. I didn't tell them. I swear."

I believed her. Amber had always been caught in the middle—loving me but unwilling to openly defy our parents. I couldn't blame her for that, not really.

Grant moved closer, his posture still formal, professional. "Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, perhaps this conversation would be better continued privately."

My father turned to him with thinly veiled contempt. "And you are?"

"Grant Warwick. I own this ranch." The simple declaration carried weight, reminding everyone whose territory this was.

"Then you're her employer," my father said with a dismissive glance. "This is a family matter. Charlotte has some . . . issues we're addressing."

Issues. Tendencies. Problems. Never just who I am.

I felt myself shrinking under my father's words, old patterns of shame resurging. The confidence I'd built at Warwick began to crack and crumble. Here, I was Cherry—capable ranch hand, Grant's lover, a woman discovering her strength. But under my father's gaze, I became Charlotte again—broken, shameful, wrong.

Grant's jaw tightened, the only outward sign of his anger. "As Cherry's employer, I have an interest in her wellbeing. My office might be a better place to continue this discussion."

My father looked like he wanted to refuse, but a glance around at the ranch hands who had begun to notice the tense gathering changed his mind. "Fine. Lead the way."

As we moved toward the main house, Maya caught my arm. "Want me to come?"

I hesitated. Having her there would be a comfort, but this ugly family business wasn't something I wanted to expose her to. "No. But thank you."

She squeezed my arm. "I'll be right out here if you need me."

Grant's office felt smaller with five people in it. My father positioned himself near the window, my mother perched on the edge of a chair, Amber hovering uncertainly by the door. Grant moved behind his desk, the wooden barrier providing some semblance of order to the chaos I felt building inside me.

I remained standing, unwilling to sit and make this feel like a normal conversation. Nothing about this was normal.

"Now," my father began, his tone the same one he'd used during childhood scoldings, "let's discuss this rationally. The program starts next week. It's a six-month commitment. Your uncle has vouched for you, called in favors."

Like this was something to be grateful for. Like being sent to have myself erased was a gift.

"I have a job," I said, the words coming out smaller than I intended. "I have responsibilities here. I have a life."

My father waved this away. "Mr. Warwick can find another ranch hand, I'm sure."

Grant's face remained impressively neutral, though I saw his knuckles whiten as he clasped his hands on the desk. He was giving me space to fight my own battle, I realized. Not jumping in to rescue me. In any other circumstance, I would have appreciated that respect for my agency. Now, I just felt exposed and vulnerable.

"It's a good program," my mother added eagerly. "Very reputable. They've helped many young people with . . . similar struggles."

Similar struggles. My mind flashed to the stories I'd read online about conversion therapy, about programs designed to "fix" people who didn't fit the expected mold. Is that what they'd signed me up for? A place to crush my little side out of existence?

The room seemed to close in around me. The walls of confidence I'd built here at Warwick were crumbling under the familiar weight of my parents' disapproval. I glanced at Grant, seeking anchor in the storm, but he maintained his professional distance.

I was losing myself again, becoming Charlotte with each passing second. The girl who hid her stuffed animals and pacifiers in locked boxes. The woman who'd been told her needs were shameful, her desires perverted. I could feel my shoulders curving inward, my eyes dropping to the floor—physical manifestations of the shame seeping back into my bones.

"I haven't agreed to any program," I said, but my voice had lost its certainty.

My father's expression hardened. "This isn't a request, Charlotte. This is what's happening. We're your family. We know what's best for you, even if you can't see it right now."

Six months in a military-style program. Six months of being shaped, molded, corrected. Six months away from the ranch,from Maya's friendship, from Grant's acceptance and love. Six months of being told that the most authentic part of me was a disease to be cured.

"The program has an exceptional success rate," he explained, as if selling a timeshare instead of my imprisonment. "Six months of structure. Discipline. Character building."

Each word hammered against my skull. Structure. Discipline. The same words Grant used, but twisted into weapons instead of tools for growth. In Grant's world, structure meant safety—knowing boundaries so you could feel secure exploring within them. Discipline meant consistency—the comfort of expectations clearly communicated and lovingly enforced.

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