Page 48 of Tame Me Daddy

In my father's mouth, those same words meant rigidity. Conformity. Breaking of will.

"Colonel Davis runs a tight ship," my father continued. "Military background. No tolerance for nonsense. He's helped dozens of young people with . . . similar issues."

Similar issues. The euphemism hung in the air like a bad smell. I stared at my hands, calloused now from rope and reins. Hands that had learned to be strong. Hands that sometimes, in private moments with Grant, needed to be small and held in his larger ones.

My mother leaned forward, her perfume too sweet for the earthy ranch office. "We just want you to be normal, sweetheart. Think of your future."

Normal. The word sliced through me. I'd spent my whole life trying to be normal, hiding pacifiers and stuffed animals, locking away parts of myself until I felt hollow. Until Grant had shown me that normal was a useless standard, that wholeness was what mattered.

"I have a future," I said, my voice smaller than I wanted. "Here. Doing work that matters."

My father scoffed. "Playing cowgirl? This isn't a life, it's running away. You need help."

"I have help," I replied, finding a thread of strength. "I have people who accept me as I am."

My mother's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, though everyone could still hear her perfectly. "Honey, we found your things when we packed up your apartment. The childish toys. Those . . . inappropriate adult items. It's not healthy."

Heat flooded my face. Words caught in my throat. I saw Amber look away, embarrassed for me, and that somehow made it worse.

"There's nothing wrong with me," I insisted, but my voice wavered.

My father stood, looming over me. His height had always been his power play. "This isn't a debate, Charlotte. This is an intervention. We've let this go on too long already, hoping you'd grow out of it. But clearly, you need more help than we realized."

"Mr. Morgan," Grant finally spoke, his voice controlled but with an edge I recognized. "Cherry is an adult. This decision should be hers."

"With all due respect," my father turned to Grant, "you don't know the whole story. You don't know what's best for my daughter. You don't know what she is."

What I am. Not who. What. Like I was a thing, a problem, a mistake to be corrected.

The words landed like a physical blow. I felt tears spilling despite my best efforts. Everything I'd built here—my confidence, my sense of belonging, my budding relationship with Grant—felt suddenly precarious.

"I know she's earned the respect of everyone on this ranch," Grant replied evenly. "I know she has a natural gift with difficult animals. I know she completes every task assigned to her with thoroughness and care."

"Professional competence isn't the issue," my father said dismissively. "Charlotte has always been smart. But she has problems that require intervention."

"What kind of problems would justify forcing an adult into a program against their will?" Grant asked, his tone still professional but cooler now.

My mother answered before my father could. "She acts like a child. Deliberately. For gratification." She could barely get the words out, her face pinched with disgust. "She has adult relationships with this this sickness at the center. It's not right."

The shame was overwhelming. To hear my little side described this way—as sickness, as something dirty and wrong—made me want to disappear. I'd spent years believing exactly what they were saying, hating myself for needs I couldn't eliminate no matter how hard I tried.

Until Grant. Until I found a place where those needs weren't shameful but simply another way of being human.

"I see," Grant said, his voice carefully neutral though I saw the flash of anger in his eyes. "And this program—it's designed to eliminate these aspects of Cherry's personality?"

"To help her overcome them," my father corrected. "To develop healthy adult behaviors."

Grant nodded slowly. "I see. And has Cherry consented to this program?"

"She doesn't understand what's best for her," my mother said.

"So that's a no," Grant replied. His eyes met mine briefly, communicating something I couldn't quite grasp through my haze of shame and confusion.

My father stepped forward, planting his hands on Grant's desk. "We're leaving tomorrow morning. Charlotte's coming with us. End of discussion."

The ultimatum hung in the air. I felt dizzy with panic, trapped between the past I'd escaped and the fragile present I'd built.

"That's enough." Grant's voice cut through the atmosphere like a knife. For a moment, his professional mask slipped, revealing the protective Dom beneath. He caught himself quickly, but not before I saw my father's eyes narrow with suspicion.

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