You ask her if she got daddy issues, finding her weakness

You don't move. Your mind, which moments ago was a jumble of lust and self-pity, snaps into a different kind of focus. A colder, more clinical focus. The predator in you is bruised, but it's not dead. It's learning a new tactic. If you can't dominate with money or age, maybe you can dominate with insight.

"Of course," you say, your voice losing its heat, taking on the cadence of a psychologist, or a cop. A former chat friend words echo in your head, a twisted parody of care. "It all makes sense now."

She raises an eyebrow. "What does?"

"This. All of it." You gesture to her, to the room. "The tough-girl act. The self-destructive choices. You've got some classic daddy issues, don't you?"

For a split second, the mask slips. You see it. A flicker in her eyes, a micro-expression of raw hurt before it's buried under a mountain of contempt. It's all the confirmation you need.

You press your advantage, stepping forward again, your voice soft and insidious. "Was he absent? Abusive? Did he leave? Or was he worse? Was he always *there*, but just never saw you? Never told you you were smart, or pretty, or... good enough?" Each question is a probe, an attempt to find the wound and press your thumb into it.

She laughs, but it's a brittle, ugly sound. "Wow. You figured me out, Dr. Phil. You should have your own show." She turns away, heading for the window, peering out through the gap in the cheap curtains at the parking lot lights.

"You're looking for him in every man you meet," you continue, relentless. "Someone to give you the approval he never did. But it's never enough, is it? Because you're not looking for love. You're looking for a transaction. You're trying to buy back the love he didn't give you for the price of a hotel room."

She's quiet now, her back to you. She's small and still, and for a horrifying moment, you see Kyler in the rigid line of her shoulders. The thought is like ice water in your veins.

Then she speaks, her voice flat and empty. "You don't know anything about me."

"I know more than you think," you say, your confidence surging back. "And I know that this..." you gesture between the two of you, "this isn't about me. It's not about the money. It's about you. You're not doing this for money. You're here to earn an older man's attention. To use that to patch the hole that your father left in your life."

She spins around, her face a mask of fury. "Fuck you."

"A classic projection. I'm your dominant fugure for the night," you say. "Let me fill that void."

You see the fury warring with a deep, bottomless well of pain in her eyes. But she doesn't try to hightail it towards the door.

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