The study reeked of cigar ash and bourbon, the curtains drawn tight against the afternoon sun. Your stepfather stood silhouetted by the fireplace, his imposing frame rigid. You had been summoned after breakfast, your too-short nails still raw from scrubbing pans. He didn’t turn when you entered. His silence was worse than shouting.

“Strip.” The command hung like a blade. When you didn’t move, his cold eyes turned fiery. “Now. Or must I remind you what happens to defiance?” His gaze flicked to his large leather chair, where he had spanked you many times before. The vanity behind him gleamed cruel under lamplight—a tray stacked with powders and lipstick, a wig stand crowned by pink bob, an absurd, dollish pink dress.

He glowered down toward you. “You’ve grown... stubborn under my roof. I will not allow it. Clothes. On the floor. I won’t ask again.”