Her dad notices she is only wearing body paint.

They heard the bathroom door open. Sofie squared her shoulders, pasted on a bright smile, and walked out to face her fate.

They settled in the living room. Mr. Henderson was telling a story about his conference, and Sofie, sitting on the edge of the chair, legs crossed, was nodding along, pretending to be a normal daughter in a normal outfit. She was almost starting to believe it herself.

"...and so I told the guy, 'If you think that's a disruptive technology, you haven't seen my daughter's phone bill!'" he finished with a hearty laugh. He stood up, beaming at her. "Anyway, it's so good to see you, sweetheart. You look... healthy.

"Thanks, Dad," Sofie mumbled, her smile feeling brittle and fake. She just needed to get through the next few hours. Just act normal. She stood up, intending to escape to the kitchen for a glass of water, to put some space between them. As she walked past him, heading for the doorway, he reached out and snagged her arm, pulling her into a sudden, tight side-hug.

"Whoa, hold on there, speedy," he chuckled, pulling her flush against his chest. His other arm wrapped around her, trapping her. "I'm not done hugging my girl yet."

Sofie's breath hitched. This was it. The moment of contact she had been dreading. His arm was a band of steel across her back, his hand resting flat between her shoulder blades. She could feel the rough cotton of his shirt against her painted skin. He held her for a second, then his hand began to move in a slow, paternal rub, up and down her spine.

And then he stopped.

His hand, which had been moving in a comforting rhythm, paused mid-stroke. He was no longer rubbing; he was feeling. His palm was flat against the small of her back, his fingers pressing gently, testing the surface. There was no fabric. No seam. Just the smooth, warm give of muscle and skin, coated in a thin layer of paint.

"Sofie," he said, his voice losing its jovial tone, becoming quiet and sharp. "What is this? What is this material?"

Her mind raced. "It's... it's a polymer blend, Dad. It's supposed to feel like a second skin."

He made a low, disbelieving sound in his throat. He let go of her arm but kept his other hand firmly on her back, preventing her from escaping. He leaned in closer, his shortsighted eyes squinting as he examined the paint job up close. He brought his other hand up and gently traced the painted "seam" that ran down her spine. His fingertip followed the line from her neck all the way down to the waistband of her blue "shorts."

"This is very good work," he murmured, his voice now a strange mix of curiosity and condemnation. "Remarkably detailed. But it's not fabric, is it, Sofie?"

Tears of humiliation pricked her eyes. "No, Daddy," she whispered, the word barely audible.

"It's paint," he stated. It wasn't a question. He looked over her head at Robin and Viki, who were frozen on the couch, watching the nightmare unfold. "Did you do this to her, Robin?"

Robin looked like he might be physically sick. "I... uh... it was for an emergency, sir."

"An emergency," Mr. Henderson repeated, his focus returning to his daughter. He turned her slightly, his hands moving to her hips to hold her in place. His thumbs rested on the soft, painted skin of her stomach, just inches below her breasts. "So this is what you do when I'm not here. You let a boy paint you. Like this."

He wasn't angry. That was the worst part. He was calm, methodical, and utterly, devastatingly disappointed. He kept her close, his body a solid wall she couldn't retreat from. His eyes dropped to her chest, to the bright yellow paint covering her breasts.

"And this top," he said, his voice clinical. He reached up with one hand, his fingers hovering just below the swell of her breast. Sofie flinched, a sob catching in her throat. "Hold still," he commanded gently. "I'm just trying to understand."

His fingers made contact. He didn't grab or grope. He brushed her underboob the way someone might inspect a piece of clothing at the mall, feeling it's texture. He gently pressed the painted surface, then let his thumb brush just below the peak of her nipple. The sensation, her own father's thumb so close to the most sensitive part of her breast, sent a jolt of horrified electricity through her. She whimpered, trying to pull away, but his grip on her hip tightened.

Her breasts bounced responsively.

"It's just paint," he confirmed, his voice grim. "There's nothing underneath." He looked her in the eye, his own filled with a sorrow that was worse than any anger. "You've been lying to me, standing here, in front of me... topless?"

"Dad, please," she begged, the tears finally spilling over and tracing hot paths down her cheeks. "Don't."

"I'm not mad, Sofie," he said, his hand moving from her breast down to her waist. "I'm just trying to understand my daughter. The one I thought was so modest and shy." His eyes traveled down, to the blue paint covering her shaved mound. He hooked his thumbs into the painted "waistband" of her shorts. Of course, there was no waistband, just the curve of her hipbones. His thumbs pressed into the soft hollows there.

"And this part," he said, his voice dropping even lower. "This is especially immodest, don't you think? It's so... wait... is this paint as well?" He pinched gently at the painted hem line on her upper thigh, the motion pulling at her bare skin. "It leaves nothing to the imagination. In fact," he added, his gaze sweeping over the entire humiliating scene, "it seems designed to invite the imagination."

He finally let her go, but only to step back, realizing she might be entirely naked. He wasn't done. He was just changing his vantage point. He gestured toward the couch. "Let me sit down. Here stand in front of me. We're not finished. You, Robin, Viki... you're all part of this. You can stay and listen. I think we all need to be on the same page about what behavior has been normalized in this apartment."

Sofie sank onto the couch, curling into herself as much as she could, which wasn't much at all. She felt raw, exposed, and dissected. Her father hadn't yelled. He hadn't grounded her. He had simply inspected her naked body, piece by piece, and declared her a disappointment in front of everyone. And somehow, that was a thousand times worse.