“Well, somebody had a good time last night,” Hannah announced.

Liam forced his eyes open, groaning as his heavy, mascara-crusted lashes peeled apart and fluttered. Hannah was leaning directly over him, a glass of water in her hand, looking entirely too chipper for nine in the morning.

Everything hurt. His head throbbed with a dull, chemical ache from the MDMA comedown, his feet felt like they had been put through a meat grinder, and the glued skin in the centre of his chest felt tender and raw. He shifted his position on Hannah’s mattress, feeling the iron-like grip of the leopard-print bodysuit still clamped between his legs.

“What happened?” Liam croaked. He reached up to rub his eyes, but the sight of dangerously long acrylic nails stopped him in his tracks. He stared at his French manicured talons, the memories of the night rushing back in a dizzying, neon blur. The drinking, the dancing, the club, Zane!

Liam let out a muffled whimper, rolling over to bury his makeup-streaked face in his pillow. “Oh my god. Tell me I didn’t.”

“Oh, you did, babes,” Molly chirped, popping up over Hannah’s shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “Necking on with Zane like there was no tomorrow. If me and Han hadn’t wrestled you two apart you’d be waking in his arms now. You were like a dog in heat.”

“Shut up,” Liam hissed, his swollen lips lisping around the words. His stomach violently twisted; he had made out with another man. He’d let Zane run his hands all over his hairless body, and the terrifying part was… under the influence of the drug, he hadn't fought it.

“Don’t stress it,” Hannah said, passing her brother the glass. “He texted Molly’s phone this mornin’ asking for your number. Said you were ‘proper fit’. You played a blinder, honestly. No one suspected a thing.”

Liam slowly sat up, wincing as he sipped at the water. He caught his reflection in the wardrobe mirror across the room. The blonde hair was a tangled rat’s nest, his lip gloss was smeared, and his mascara had run down his cheeks. He looked like a tragic, cheap mess, and it was at that moment he remembered what today was.

“I don’t think I can do this job today, Han,” Liam groaned, looking up at his sister with pleading eyes. “I don’t feel good.”

"You’ll feel better after a shower, so up you get," Hannah ordered, taking the glass from his trembling hand. “You reek of Sambuca, sweat, and cheap aftershave, and Uncle Gaz wants us ready by two."

Liam didn’t argue. He carefully pushed himself off the mattress, his legs wobbling as he staggered toward the bathroom. The shower helped but was an ordeal in itself as he tried to scrub away the grime and the lingering shame of the night before. His hands, tipped in rock-hard acrylic claws, fumbled with the soap. He couldn't wash his hair without snagging the thick keratin bonds glued to his scalp, and he kept his eyes fixed firmly on the cracked ceiling tiles, desperately avoiding the sight of his painful cleavage and tucked anatomy.

Twenty minutes later, he shuffled back into the bedroom wrapped in a fluffy white towel. Hannah and Molly immediately descended on him. The next hour was a blur of loud blow-dryers, aggressive brushing, and suffocating clouds of hairspray as they dried and styled his blonde locks into a sleek, glossy curtain cascading over his right shoulder. Hannah then applied a basic layer of makeup onto his face—foundation, shadow, and a touch of lip gloss—before Molly thrust a massive pair of gold hoops through his earlobes.

"Right, time to get dressed," Hannah announced, opening a drawer to reveal a heavy-duty, nude-coloured garment lined with rows of hook-and-eye closures.

Liam stared at it, his arched brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell is that?”

"It’s a Colombian faja," Hannah stated matter-of-factly, stretching the thick, rigid elastic. "It’s got built-in padding to give you some actual hips and an arse, and will suck in your stomach, giving you a proper figure.”

“You’re joking?” Liam asked, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open.

They weren’t!

It took ten agonizing minutes of yanking, tugging, and squeezing, but they finally managed to force the thick, restrictive fabric up Liam’s thighs and over his hips. Hannah stood in front of him, violently pulling the sides together to snap the rows of metal hooks shut, inching her way up his torso. With every snap, the faja compressed his ribs, carving an impressive hourglass shape out of his male frame.

When they finally finished, Liam stood frozen in the centre of the bedroom, staring miserably at his completely feminised silhouette in the mirror. His hips flared out beneath an impossibly snatched waist, throwing his centre of gravity off, while the rib-crushingly tight corset meant he could barely draw a full breath.

================

Two hours later, the suffocating grip of the faja was the least of Liam’s worries.

He was out in the open, tottering down a bustling high street, and utterly terrified. There was a crisp chill in the autumn air, but that wasn't why Liam was trembling. The outfit Hannah and Molly had assembled from Vicky’s stolen stash was designed to turn heads, and for a young man unaccustomed to the restrictive fabrics, it was a sensory nightmare. It was like nothing he had ever worn before—rubbing, swishing, and clinging to him like a second skin.

Snugly encircling his widened hips and cinched waist was a black leather mini skirt that rode dangerously high with every mincing step. Above it, a cream-coloured ribbed bodysuit kept his manhood firmly secured, featuring a cut-out panel that showcased his cleavage. Layered over this was a cropped black faux-fur jacket, completing a look that made him feel like an overdone mob wife. But the strangest sensation by far was on his lower half. For the first time in his life, his hairless legs were sheathed in silky black tights. The sheer nylon felt disturbingly fragile, gliding across his smooth skin in a way that was incredibly distracting.

Every time a pedestrian glanced his way, Liam’s heart hammered against his constricted ribs. He felt like a hyper-feminised imposter hiding behind a mask of heavy foundation, thick lashes, and a glossy pout, just waiting to be outed and humiliated.

To make matters worse, his left hand was securely locked in Gary’s firm grip. Walking hand-in-hand with his uncle felt deeply wrong—a bizarre, uncomfortable throwback to when he was a little kid, only now he was pretending to be the man’s glamorous, bimbo fiancée on their way to commit a crime.

Gary, to his credit, looked the part of a high-rolling sugar daddy. The rough, intimidating ex-con had vanished, replaced by a sharp, clean-shaven gentleman. Fresh from the barbershop with a neat cut, Gaz was wearing the tailored charcoal suit and black turtleneck Hannah had sourced from Vicky. Striding forward in his polished brown shoes, he remained completely oblivious to the sheer panic radiating from the blonde teetering beside him.

Click. Clack. Click. Clack. The sharp sound of Liam's heels echoed off the pavement. Keeping his eyes focused straight ahead, just like Hannah had instructed, he fought the urge to look down at the black leather boots wrapped around his aching calves. Between the thick platform and the six-inch stiletto heel, every step was a gamble. Gripping his uncle’s hand firmly, he navigated the street with uncertainty, petrified that a single misjudged step into one of the cracks would send him tumbling to the ground.

“Alright, listen up, Tiff,” Gary muttered, leaning in as they approached the target. His tone was low and strictly business. "We're almost there. I need you to focus."

Liam glanced over and gave him a stiff, jerky nod.

"When we get inside, I’ll do the talking, alright?" Gary instructed, guiding them smoothly past a betting shop. "You just stand there and look pretty. If the jeweller tries to make small talk with you, keep it brief. Act a bit dumb, giggle a lot, and look properly excited. You’re supposed to be a spoilt rich girl about to get a massive rock on her finger, understand?"

Liam tried to swallow, but his throat was bone-dry. “Sure thing, Gaz,” he croaked. The feminine pitch slipping past his plumped lips sounded utterly wrong to his own ears as the sparkling windows of the jeweller loomed ahead.

“You ready?” Gary asked, pausing outside the frosted glass entrance.

Liam took a deep breath through his nose and replied with a quick, stiff nod.

Gary pushed the door open, and they stepped inside. The noise of the high street was instantly severed, replaced by the hushed calm of the showroom. The space smelled of air freshener and window polish, mostly empty apart from a single older couple murmuring over a display case at the far end of the shop. Liam suddenly felt lightheaded. With no crowd to blend into, there was absolutely nowhere to hide.

Gary marched straight for the main counter, keeping Liam's hand firmly locked in his own. Liam forced down a grimace as he struggled to keep pace—his six-inch stilettos hammering against the hardwood floor, each loud impact driving a sharp spike of agony up through his strained, exhausted calves.

As promised, Gary took total control. Slipping effortlessly into the wealthy sugar-daddy persona, he flashed the saleswoman a charming smile and asked to see her premium selection of engagement rings. Liam played his part, batting his heavy Russian volume lashes and offering a vacuous, glossy smile.

"Right this way, sir. Madam. Please, make yourselves comfortable," the saleswoman purred, gesturing toward a pair of chairs positioned at a viewing counter to her left.

Surviving the journey from the house in those ridiculously tall heels had been bad enough, but sitting down presented its own unique challenge. While it wasn’t quite as humiliating as the struggle to bend his corseted frame into the back of the taxi earlier, it still required intense concentration. As Liam lowered himself onto the cushioned seat, he felt his leather miniskirt slide up his nylon-clad thighs, riding up several inches. Fighting a spike of panic, he quickly crossed one leg over the other to preserve what little modesty he had left.

The smiling saleswoman returned moments later to present a black velvet tray lined with dazzling diamonds.

"Go on then, babe," Gary urged, leaning over from the adjacent seat to pat Liam's knee. "Try one on."

Liam hesitantly pointed at the one closest to him, causing the saleswoman’s smile to brighten. She said it was an excellent choice as she reached down to gently take his hand, complimenting his nails before sliding a massive, square-cut diamond onto his ring finger.

Liam pulled his hand back and rested it on his lap, staring down in a total daze. A profound, out-of-body experience washed over him as his brain struggled to process the visual.

Resting against the sheer nylon stretched over his thighs was a woman’s hand, inch-long French acrylics protruding from the black fur cuff. A large diamond glittered on the ring finger beneath the harsh showroom lights. Beyond it, a designer purse sat wedged between the arm of the chair and the leather miniskirt hugging his widened hips, while an impossibly arched, red-soled platform boot hung in the air.

The sight simply didn’t match the image in his head of what he should be seeing—that of an eighteen-year-old boy who usually spent his days in a dark bedroom playing video games.

Gary’s calm voice cut through Liam’s rising panic. “It’s a beautiful piece,” he told the saleswoman, “but I think my girl deserves something a little more special. Something custom-made. Do you offer that service?”

“We do, sir,” the woman answered. “I can bring you a sample of the diamonds and the bands we offer, if you’d like to see?”

“I would,” Gary said with a calm nod.

A fresh spike of adrenaline surged through Liam's veins. This was it. He braced himself, silently running through the steps of the distraction they had rehearsed. When the right diamond was produced and his uncle gave the signal, his job was to fake a violent sneeze and clumsily knock the gem to the floor, buying Gary enough time to swap the stone with the cubic zirconia replica tucked away inside his pocket.

“Of course, sir. Please excuse me for just a moment while I fetch the samples from our vault,” the saleswoman said, turning and walking toward the back of the showroom.

The moment she was out of earshot, Gary leaned in, giving Liam’s knee another pat, accompanied by a quick, reassuring wink. "You’re doing great, Tiff," he murmured. "Get ready."

“Thanks,” he squeaked, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he watched for the saleswoman to reappear with the diamonds.

But she returned with empty hands.

"Sir, Madam," she said, her voice dropping to a discreet, hushed tone. "My manager believes our exclusive loose stones are best viewed under the proper lighting in our VIP viewing room. If you’d like to follow me?"

Gary stood up and offered his arm. Liam unfolded his pantyhosed legs and rose, gritting his teeth as his weight settled back onto the balls of his sore feet. Threading his manicured hand past his uncle's elbow to link arms, he allowed himself to be led across the showroom floor. They exited through a door behind the main counter and took a few steps down a narrow hall, stopping in front of a solid oak door. The saleswoman opened it, gesturing for them to step through.

Liam knew something was wrong the instant they crossed the threshold. The heavy door clicked shut behind them, sealing off their escape. Gary stopped dead in his tracks. His hand slid down Liam's arm, gripping his manicured fingers so viciously that Liam gasped, the pressure grinding his bones together.

Standing directly in front of a polished mahogany desk was a man Gary recognised instantly: Ronnie "The Razor" Davies. The aging gang boss looked older but just as intense with his deeply lined, weathered face set in a hard, unamused scowl. He was dressed impeccably in a tailored, blue-grey herringbone three-piece suit over a crisp black shirt, his arms crossed firmly over his chest. An expensive silver watch glinted on his wrist, and his cold eyes were locked dead onto Gary.

Standing right next to him was his wife, Sharon—the absolute definition of mutton dressed as lamb. Her towering strawberry-blonde bouffant hair looked as stiff as a crash helmet, and her face was plastered in harsh, heavily contoured makeup. She glared at them with her hands planted firmly on her hips, her aging figure poured into a body-hugging leopard-print midi dress. Layers of chunky pearl necklaces rested against her cleavage, and massive rings flashed on her fingers. The gaudy dress clashed spectacularly with her patterned tights and the leopard-print kitten heels adorned with little bows.

“Gary. I ‘ardly recognised you," Ronnie said. His tone was deceptively warm, a thin smile stretching across his wrinkled face. "How long ‘as it been? Eight, nine years?”

Gary swallowed hard, his Adam's apple rising and falling above his black turtleneck. “More like eleven, Ronnie,” he said, fighting to keep his voice steady.

“Has it been that long? Well, you're looking good,” Ronnie replied. His cold eyes drifted slowly from Gary to the panicked, blonde figure trembling beside him. “And who’s this young lady with ya? You must be doin’ well for yourself to attract someone as lovely as this.”

Gary released Liam’s hand before gripping his waist and pulling him closer. "This is Tiff. My fiancée,” he announced proudly.

“Fiancée,” Ronnie repeated, letting out a harsh, grating laugh.

“Yeah,” Gary said, his jaw clenching. “That’s why we’re ‘ere, innit? To get ‘er a ring.”

“Is that right?” Ronnie chuckled, dropping act. “Well, if that’s true, you won’t mind if I search ya, then will ya?”

He gave a subtle nod and a massive, suited man stepped out of the shadows from the corner of the room.

“Now hang on a minute, Ron…” Gary started, raising his free hand, but the protest was useless. The brute grabbed Gary by the lapels and slammed him roughly against the wood-panelled wall.

Liam gasped, stumbling back on his stilettos, narrowly avoiding a tumble. Frozen with fear, he clutched his designer purse to his chest, holding his breath as he watched the heavy-handed bodyguard aggressively pat his uncle down.

It only took a few seconds for the bodyguard to find the loose cubic zirconia in Gary’s jacket pocket. Without a word, he released his grip on Gary and marched over to present the fake diamond to his boss.

Gary went pale. “Ronnie, listen,” he stammered, his earlier confidence shattered. “It’s not what you think.”

Ronnie held the loose stone up to the overhead light. A harsh chuckle rumbled in his chest as he squinted at the rock. "The old switcheroo, Gaz?" he sneered. "This cheap piece of glass was gonna replace my three-carat stock, was it?"