The clinic had never felt so hostile. The same hallways, the same pale lights, the same white walls that once offered calm now seemed to tighten around Elena like a fist. She carried her folders pressed too hard against her chest, but they didn’t anchor her. Nothing did.
She had obeyed.
Her clothes looked ordinary—neat skirt to the knee, a cream blouse buttoned to the collar, jacket fitted over her shoulders. To any colleague, she was the same Dr. Chase they had passed a hundred times. But beneath the professional armor there was only bare skin. No bra, no panties. Each step reminded her. Every brush of fabric against her body was a secret, a violation, a brand of shame.
She stopped outside the therapy room, her hand trembling on the handle. She thought of her son, of Kevin’s laugh echo
