The package arrived on Emma's eighteenth birthday. Pink wrapping paper. Glitter. A card that reeked of cheap perfume and read simply: "Time to join the family business, babes. Love Auntie Stace x"
My blood went cold.
Stacey. My fucking sister. Twenty years of silence and this is how she reaches out—through my daughter. She had nearly destroyed out family... once she found those magic boots. The same boots she'd just gifted Emma
"Dad, look!" Emma held up the boots. Black leather. Knee-length. Chunky heels with zips running up the sides. The kind of boots you'd see on a slag smoking outside a Wetherspoons. "They're so... trashy."
"Don't put them on."
But she was already laughing, already sliding her foot inside—
The change was immediate.
"Oh... ohhhhh..." Emma's voice dropped, roughened. Her posture shifted. Shoulders back. Tits out. That innocent smile twisting into something harder. Meaner.
"Emma, take them off. Now."
"Nah." She popped the word like bubble gum she wasn't chewing. "Don't fink I will, actually."
Her accent. Christ. That wasn't my daughter's voice anymore. That was pure council estate. Pure Stacey.
I watched her body ripen in real-time. Hips widening. Arse inflating into something obscene—round, hard, built for attention. Her modest chest swelled and swelled, ballooning into heavy, bouncing tits that strained against her birthday blouse until buttons popped.
"Fuckin' hell," she breathed, cupping her new assets. "These are well massive."
Her hair was changing too—brunette bleeding out, replaced by harsh bleached blonde. Roots already showing. Perfect chav.
"Emma, please—"
"It's Emz now, yeah?" She turned, and those eyes—my daughter's beautiful blue eyes—were different. Harder. Crueler. Lined with thick black liner. "And you can shut the fuck up, Dad. I'm done being your boring little princess."
She strutted to her room. When she came back down, my heart broke completely.
Black micro skirt—barely covered her arse. White crop top cut high to show her flat tummy and the glint of a new belly piercing that hadn't been there minutes ago. White puffer jacket hanging open, framing those ridiculous tits. And those boots—those fucking black boots zipped tight to her knees.
She looked like every chav slut I'd ever warned her about.
She looked exactly like Stacey had at eighteen.
Her fingers were already on her phone. Scrolling. Swiping.
"What are you doing?"
"Textin' Tyrone. You know—Tyrone from the estate? Big lad. Really big." She licked her glossed lips. "Auntie Stace says I should start wiv someone who'll properly stretch me out, innit."
My stomach dropped.
"You don't even know a Tyrone—"
"I do now." That cruel smile widened. "Boots gave me all of Auntie's contacts. All her... skills." She winked. "Can't wait to try 'em out."
She pushed past me, heels clicking on the hardwood. At the door, she paused, adjusting her puffer jacket.
"Oh, and Dad? Tell Mum I ain't comin' back. Gonna stay at Auntie's place. Learn the business." Her tongue traced her lower lip. "Apparently I've got a natural talent for... customer service."
The door slammed...
---
Three weeks later, I saw her on the high street.
Hair even blonder now. Bigger hoops. Same outfit—the black micro skirt, the white crop top, the puffer jacket. Those fucking knee-high black boots. Tits even bigger somehow, bouncing with every step.
She was on the arm of a massive Black guy. Laughing. Loud. Obnoxious. Hand stuffed in the back pocket of his trackies.
She saw me looking.
Blew me a kiss.
Grabbed his bulge through the fabric.
And walked away, arse swaying, boots clicking, my daughter completely fucking gone.
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