Page 7 of Sins of the Hidden

I wanted to argue, but exhaustion crushed me like a physical weight, and Dad's expression told me I wouldn't get anything more from him tonight.

We walked silently down the street toward his black Escalade parked in front of Hellbound. He pulled his keys from his pocket, the jingle sudden and jarring—too normal for a moment like this. His mouth was set in a rigid line, jaw locked as though restraining a flood of words he couldn't let escape.

Dad opened the door to his vehicle. My body melted into the seats, the leather interior feeling like luxury after the concrete floors of V's domain. But even here, in this supposedly safe space, I could feel the haunting pressure of V's hands, the weight of his gaze.

"Fucker's lucky I don't crash my car through this damn portal to Hell," Dad muttered as he slid behind the wheel. Scarlet droplets from his forehead spattered onto the steering wheel, but he didn't seem to notice. He winced as he reached up toadjust the rearview mirror, painting streaks of red down the side of his face.

My stomach churned. I looked away, focusing on the dashboard instead.

His fury vibrated through the space between us—quiet, volatile. I knew he had every right to it, but it unsettled me anyway. It wasn't just his rage. It was that I'd never seen him like this. And now that I had, I couldn't unsee it.

He wasn't like V. Not in ways you could point to. But maybe the real difference was how well he'd learned to hide it.

The heaters fired up, their low hum oddly calming. The soft purring of the engine worked to dispel some of the lingering tension, but we both knew this wasn't over. This was just the beginning of something neither of us fully understood.

The car began to move slowly, and something deep inside me yearned to look back. I knew with bone-deep certainty that V would be watching. Dad's touch found my skin—familiar, like when he used to hug away nightmares. But he didn't look at me when he promised, "I'll protect you from him, Oakley."

My lips moved, but it wasn't a smile. Just a hollow reflex I didn't believe in. No one could save me from V.

Because the truth was, something was born where things were supposed to die.

I closed my eyes, letting my father drive me home while trying to ignore how part of me had stayed behind in that basement—chained there, waiting for him.

The cold leaked through the paper gown, stiff and scratchy against my thighs. Every shift made the paper crackle like guilt. The overhead lights caught every flaw. Dr. Marshall didn't look up—just flipped through my chart, mouth drawn in that same line I'd seen on every face: disappointment.

Sweat pooled in the crease of my knees and under my arms, sticky and sour. His pen clicked, sharp and steady, syncing with my pulse. The sheet scraped like sandpaper against skin that already felt too exposed.

"Your PCOS symptoms would improve significantly with weight loss," he said without looking up, like I was just a case to fix, like I was not even a person sitting here. "I can suggest a few diet programs that have worked well for other patients dealing with... similar challenges."

I stopped hearing him after that.

My nails bit into my skin, holding me still. I wanted to curl up, to disappear. I shouldn't have worn this gown.

I shouldn't have come.

My throat constricted painfully as unshed tears burned behind my eyes. If I had a dollar for every time I'd heard that same condescending "solution" to a battle they didn't even see, I could afford designer clothes that weren't made for bodies like mine. Not that those fashion houses thought women like me deserved to wear their labels.

"Yes," the word barely audible, "I've tried it all."

He didn't even blink. He wouldn't believe me. They never did.

Everything. Weight Watchers. Keto. Intermittent fasting. Pills that promised miracles but only delivered heart palpitations and trembling hands in the dark at three AM. Creams that supposedly melted away fat but just chipped away at my savings and left my self-worth in pieces. Cleanses that left me lightheaded at work, unable to think, speak, or even remember why I was punishing myself in the first place. Waist trainers that compressed my lungs until breathing felt like punishment.

The proof lay in my bedside drawer—five years of food journals, every page stained with self-loathing. Calories tracked to the decimal. Workouts planned like battles. Weight that never dropped the way it was supposed to. Five years of "Day One" entries, each one whispering the same lie: this time would be different. And every one ended the same—with me hating myself a little more than before.

His words faded into white noise as my hands found familiar territory—the stretch marks striping my arms like scars I didn't get to outgrow. Yesterday's shopping trip forced its way up: being directed to that separate section at the back of the store. "Plus sizes are over there," the clerk had whispered, her voice dropping on the word 'plus' like it was contagious.

His look did what everyone did—darted to my stomach first, carrying judgment masked as professional concern. I folded myarms tight against my sides, aware of every inch that spilled where it shouldn't. The stretcher creaked beneath me—a sound that sent my pulse racing as I calculated whether it'd hold me, a skill sharpened by every time I'd had to wonder. I didn't dare shift. Not with him watching.

"Well, clearly you're not doing enough," The doctor's words yanked me back to the table. "Your bloodwork shows?—"

I tuned him out, my eyes fixing on the BMI chart mocking me from the wall—the same chart that'd haunted me since childhood, always reminding me how far I'd always been from what they wanted. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I traced the numbers, each one a familiar enemy. Through blurred vision, I caught fragments of my reflection in the window glass–a stranger wearing my face, taking up space in this sterile room designed for smaller bodies.

I didn't recognize her anymore.

"Are you listening?" His voice cut through my fog. "This is serious."

I nodded, but I wasn’t here. A hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up–as if I didn't know. As if the mirrors, the shopping trips, and the waiting rooms hadn't already taken pieces of me. Every appointment ended the same—me crying so hard I couldn't breathe. It congealed in my throat like something I swallowed too long ago.

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