Make Me Beg, Daddy

Chapter 5

“I saw a notification,” I continue. “Didn’t have a chance to look yet. It’s been nuts in here.”

Vivian’s face goes the color of the royal icing.

She laughs to cover it up, but it’s too late. I saw it all.

Proof.

“Oh,” she says. “God. No. That’s—that’s just that stupid syncing thing. It’s so annoying. Don’t even bother looking.”

“Ah. Okay. I’ll probably never get to it anyway,” I reassure her.

“Right.” She nods far too many times. “Right, no, you’re so busy. Okay. Okay, love you, thank you for the cookies.”

The bell rings one final time.

She came in like a movie star and left like a track star. Through the glass, I watch her get to the car, hurl the boxes into the back seat, and get in.

She sits in the driver’s seat for a while without starting the engine. Her thumbs are a blur over her phone.

Then the car pulls out.

Priya comes up a moment later. “Was that your sister?”

“Yeah.”

“She didn’t pay.”

“She never does.”

A second later, my phone vibrates in my apron pocket.

I pull it out, already knowing what I’ll find. And sure enough...

Vivian Dorsey removed three videos from the Dorsey Sisters shared album.

I open it.

The grid loads. Once again, I see the dog in the sweater, the champagne on the yacht, the villa in Tulum, the bathtub with the rose petals.

And then the bottom of the album, where those three tiles used to be, is just where the album ends.

Gone. All three of them.

Or at least, that’s what Vivian thinks.

I dump the screenshots I took earlier into a new folder, along with the backed-up copies of the videos I saved.

My phone asks me to name the new folder. I don’t have to think long to come up with an answer.

Dorsey Family Christmas Eve 2026: Slideshow.

I smell smoke before I even reach the front door of my house.

My day started at 12:15 this morning—or was it yesterday morning? I can’t even remember—so my brain offers up the dumbest theory available first:

The house is burning down.

I hurl myself inside in a panic. Inside. As in, I go into what I believe to be a house fire.

I am not smart right now. Between the longest workday ever and the traffic on the Belt Parkway, with everybody and their mother doing some extremely last-minute gift shopping, I’m fried from top to bottom.

But it’s not a fire. Well, not a fire like I was imagining.

Connor is at the kitchen sink with his sleeves shoved up past the elbow, feeding paper into a tidy little fire in the basin. He hears the door and turns the tap on. The fire dies with a hiss. By the time he turns around, he’s smiling like this is perfectly normal behavior.

“Hey, Dee.” He dries his hands on a dish towel. “You’re home early. I thought you said you were staying late tonight.”

“I did stay late. It’s almost seven.”

“Right.” He’s standing weirdly between me and whatever’s in the sink. “Right, no, of course.”

I try to peer around him. “What are you burning?”

“Year-end junk,” he blurts hastily. “Old tax stuff. I’ve been meaning to clear the office out and I finally found some time to get it done.”

“Oh, yeah?”

He nods. “Yeah. The accountant told me I could shred the whole box two years back and I never got around to it. No time like the present, am I right?”

An important fact about my husband is that he’s a hoarder. In ten years of marriage, Connor has never thrown anything away.

I put my bag down, hang my coat up, and walk over toward him, though I keep the island between us.

“Long day?” he says.

“Longest.” I roll one ankle and something in it pops. “Three hundred orders. I did nineteen dozen cookies before the sun came up.”

“You’re a machine.”

“No, I’m a blob.” I crane my neck to look at the sink again. “Kinda like how that looks, actually.”

The basin is full of gray paste. Whatever it was, it’s soup now. There’s a scorch ring on my stainless steel and a bonfire smell coming up out of the drain.

Again, he rushes to explain. “Gotta burn this stuff. You can’t put this kind of thing in recycling, you know? Identity theft is a huge thing now.” He tosses the towel in the trash. “Besides, do you know what a shredder costs?”

“Like thirty dollars.”

“For a good one? A cross-cut? Well, whatever. This is easier.” He laughs at nothing in particular. “Anyway, have you eaten? I can make you something.”

I yawn and shrug. “I’ll just heat up some leftovers.”

“No, no, seriously. You’ve been on your feet since the middle of the night. I’ve got this.”

Connor is not a bad man to live with in the day-to-day sense. He’s funny at parties. He remembers people’s kids’ names. But in ten years of marriage, he has cooked me dinner without a birthday or an apology attached to it, maybe... six times?

This isn’t how I imagined lucky number seven.

Vivian must’ve gotten to him. I’m not surprised. I’m sure she texted him right away.

fuck, the videos got uploaded on accident. but i think i deleted everything. dont freak out

I guess this is Connor’s version of not freaking out. Personally, I wouldn’t call “burn the evidence like the feds are kicking in my door” the same thing as “not freaking out,” but hey, to each their own.

It does beg the question: What exactly is he burning?

On TV, cheaters get exposed when a jilted wife finds lipstick on her husband’s collar and the whole house of cards comes tumbling down in forty-two minutes plus commercial breaks.

In real life, I’m not exactly working with an abundance of evidence here.

Yes, I have videos, but they’re not perfect. I don’t know much about divorce court. Is this enough to prove infidelity?

I just feel like I need more.

The fact that Connor seems to feel like there’s still stuff to hide makes me think that there is in fact plenty more to find.

Those are the thoughts swirling through my head as I watch him make his half-assed pasta dish, which he loves to brag about. Pasta alla Connor, he calls it. Such a cute, funny joke, am I right? Right? Right?!

I still can’t decide whether to laugh, cry, scream, or follow Connor’s lead and just start setting s**t on fire.

“Your mother called earlier,” he says as he salts the water and starts to boil it. “She says you’re running the slideshow tomorrow?”

“Yeah. I offered.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“Somebody has to plug it in and press play.”

“No, I mean it.” He dumps the noodles into the water. “It’s a nice thing to do.”

“Sure, yeah. Dad’s not here to do it, so...” I shrug. “Next batter up.”

I’m having a hard time keeping a straight face. An actress, I am not. This stuff ain’t easy.

“What time do we need to be there?” he asks.

“Dinner’s at seven. I’m going out in the morning to set up the projector. Then I’ll come back at four with the rest of the stuff.”

“Three trips? Is that a good use of your time?”

I spread my hands wide. “It’s my mother. You know how she is.”

“Fair enough.” He turns the burner down. “You want a glass of wine?”

“I have to be up at four.”

“One glass won’t kill you.”

“Connor.”

“Okay, okay.” He puts the bottle back. “Oh, also, your mom asked if you’re bringing anything. She said Viv’s handling dessert and wanted to know your contribution.”

“She asked you that?”

“Well, she asked me to ask you.”

I roll my eyes. “Of course she did.”

“Go easy on her. She’s going to be a mess tomorrow,” he scolds lightly. “First Christmas without your dad.”

“I’m actually pretty aware of that.” I sound bitchy and instantly regret my tone of voice. As with Vivian’s visit this morning, I have to remind myself again to play it cool, don’t get dragged into old resentments.

Connor comes over and nudges me gently in the shoulder. “You okay about that?”

“Ask me tomorrow night.” Then, to change the subject, I mention, “Viv came by the shop this morning.”

He freezes, but only for a second. Guess he’s a better actor than me. Then he saunters ever-so-casually back over to poke at the boiling noodles. “Oh, yeah? How’s she doing?”

As if you don’t know.

“Same old Viv,” I say out loud. “Seems fine.”

“Good, good, good,” he mumbles distractedly. Through the thin fabric of his white t-shirt, I can see the mole underneath his shoulder blade. I cringe as the memory of the video rolls through my head again unprompted.

His hand on her hip, gold wedding band glinting.

The headboard.

My sister’s moan.

I shudder and excuse myself to the bathroom.

By the time I come back, Connor has the food plated and on the table. We eat in silence until he kicks me playfully under the table. “Someone’s quiet tonight.”

“Sorry. I’ve been up since midnight.”

“Jesus, Dee.” He sighs. “You work too hard.”

“That’s what everybody keeps telling me,” I say, “and yet, the show goes on.”

I make myself eat, even though I’m not hungry and I can still hear Vivian’s voice calling me fat. You can tell, a little, in your face. It’s probably the stress, honestly. Stress does that.