Hi everyone! Me and @lau219 decided to team up after seeing this photo, since we agreed it reminded us of our dear Robert Fischer. We wrote a smutty oneshot where a female reader and Robert are just married, but our reader feels a little neglected. She takes things into her own hands in letting him know, causing him to wait for her at home as seen above. We'd love to hear what you think! I tagged my Peaky Blinders taglist, let me know if you'd like to be added or removed.
Five weeks.
Five Goddamn weeks.
It’d been five weeks since they’d last had any quality time together. Five weeks since they’d had an actual conversation, shared a meal together, or gone to bed with each other. And that meant feeling like she was an acquaintance being kept at arm’s length rather than like a wife. Missing out on the closeness and connection of their periodic nights of cuddling and pillow talk, or of relaxing and unwinding together after busy work days or on a rare lazy weekend.
It also meant it’d been five weeks since they’d even properly kissed, let alone had sex. And seeing as they’d only gotten married three months ago, this was not how Y/N planned on their marriage starting out.
This wasn’t the first time this had happened — quite the contrary. Even back when they were dating and then eventually engaged, Robert often got into periods of time like this that were a product of both his own doing and commitments and business trips inflicted by his job. He had enough of a say in his schedule, though, that the “workaholic” title would come up and was the gasoline for the fire whenever the two of them got into an argument about it.
Y/N felt he would prioritize work over their relationship at times. She would accuse Robert of not caring enough about the right things, and he would say she was being unreasonable and needed to be more understanding of the demands placed on him. But once it would bring her to the verge of tears and she’d state that she simply missed him, didn’t want him spreading himself too thin, and didn’t want them drifting apart, the argument would fizzle and Robert would finally concede that he worked too much. He’d then keep himself in check with work for a while, until the whole cycle would inevitably start again, because no matter how much he loved Y/N, that workaholic gene was impossible to obliterate.
He’d never been so absent — physically, mentally, emotionally — for this long before, though, and the fact that she couldn't even remember the last time he'd said “I love you” without it being an autopilot response when he was quickly ending a phone call between them was a new low. And this time, Y/N wasn’t sad, wasn’t on the verge of tears.
No.
She was pissed.
Not only at the fact that it had occurred, but that Robert seemed to be completely oblivious to it, and that apparently, getting married seemed to make him think that he could pay even less attention to their relationship now.
As a reminder displayed on her phone’s calendar that she and Robert were supposed to have dinner with an important investor from Fischer-Morrow that evening, Y/N narrowed her eyes in resentment at the notification. But then she got an unexpected message from Robert a few minutes later, and when she saw what he’d texted, she was furiously dumbfounded.
I’ll meet you at the restaurant at 7. Don’t be late.
Y/N gave a loud scoff of offended disbelief and was ready to throw her phone across the room. The first time he’d contacted her all day, and it was to condescendingly tell her to be on time for his work dinner? Did he even realize that this was the first time they’d communicated today? That this was no less distant sounding than the brief two minutes she’d gotten him on the phone yesterday when he was between meetings? That he hadn’t noticed or apologized for his absence lately and that his expectation of her to now still show up and appear as if everything was normal had her feeling not like his partner and the woman he loved, but like a trophy wife? Her heart hurt, and she suddenly had a hard time believing it had only been three months ago that she’d so happily walked down the aisle to this man, and now he was treating her like she was transactional arm candy.
Quickly, Y/N marched to the front door and then grabbed her bag from the glass table in the large entryway.
Well, she thought bitterly as she looked down at Robert’s message again, if he wants a trophy wife, then that’s what he’s going to get.
*******
It was odd for Y/N to not reply. He’d sent her the message about dinner right as his meeting had begun an hour and twenty minutes ago, and now as Robert looked at his phone again as he exited the building, he saw she still hadn’t answered.
He hoped she wouldn’t be late. He'd forgotten to remind her about it when they’d talked on the phone briefly yesterday, and with his schedule completely overfilled, they had yet to physically cross paths at home, since Robert hadn’t been there to do anything but sleep over the last few weeks. Along with his typical workaholic tendencies, things at the company had been particularly busy and tense, and the last thing he needed was for Y/N to arrive late for dinner. A good impression needed to be made for this investor, and Robert had promised that his new wife was as eager to meet this couple as they were to meet her.
At the thought of Y/N, Robert looked down at his left hand and fiddled with the wedding band that had resided on his finger for the last three months. A smile slowly spread across his face as he recalled the elation he’d felt when she’d so happily accepted his proposal, and then when he’d seen her walking down the aisle towards him at their wedding.
His cell phone ringing distracted Robert from his current thoughts, and his driver pulled up along the curb as he answered it. Getting into the vehicle, Robert continued his conversation all the way to his office building, and when he got to his floor, he saw that his secretary, Pauline, was waiting for him at the reception desk.
She clearly had something to tell him, and when Robert finished his call, he looked up at the older woman expectantly, taking the documents she was holding out to him as she spoke.
“Your next meeting's been moved from the bank to the Neiman building. Something about a maintenance issue in the bank’s conference room,” Pauline said as she walked with Robert towards his office. He had forty-five minutes to kill before leaving for the meeting.
“What else?” Robert asked as he looked down at the papers she’d given him.
“Your wife called,” she said, and the oddity of that fact made Robert lift his head.
“What? When?” he asked, furrowing his brow.
“About ten minutes ago,” Pauline replied.
Robert’s frown deepened. Why had Y/N called his office instead of just replying to his text or calling him directly?
“What did she say?” he asked, still confused.
“She told me to tell you that she won’t be able to meet you for dinner tonight.”
“What?” Robert asked again, having heard Pauline, but not believing it.
“She told me to tell you that she won’t be able to meet you and the Hannock’s for dinner tonight,” Pauline repeated. “She didn’t say why.”
“Are you sure?” Robert asked, his brow still furrowed and immediately wondering what was going on.
Pauline nodded.
“Did she say she’d been trying to reach me?” Robert asked then, wondering if perhaps Y/N had tried but somehow failed to get a hold of him.
“No,” Pauline now shook her head. “She didn’t say anything other than to please tell you that she won’t be at dinner tonight. When I asked her if she wanted me to have you call her, she said that wasn’t necessary.”
Still completely confused, Robert simply turned and headed into his office. Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket again, he opened his contacts and quickly called Y/N’s number. When she didn’t answer after several rings, he hung up, then tried calling again right away, and when she still didn’t answer, he left a voicemail.
“Pauline just told me you’d called and said you’re not coming to dinner. What’s going on? Call me back.”
But after waiting ten minutes and getting no response, Robert wasn’t sure whether to be worried or frustrated, and he then opened the messages between himself and Y/N and sent her another text.
Robert: Where are you? What’s going on? Why aren’t you coming to dinner?
After about five minutes, Robert felt relieved as his phone chimed with a response message, but that relief was quickly vanishing when he saw Y/N’s message, which didn’t make anything clearer.
Y/N: I’m not coming.
Robert then tried calling her again, but once more, she didn’t answer, so he texted another message.
Robert: Why aren’t you answering your phone? What’s going on? Are you alright? Y/N: You of all people should know what being unavailable looks like.
Robert shook his head to himself as he typed.
Robert: What are you talking about? What’s going on? I need you to be at dinner. Y/N: That’s unfortunate. For you. Robert: Would you just call me? I don’t have time for this.
But after sending that message, Robert didn’t get another reply, and as the time came and went before he had to leave for his next meeting, he was getting more and more agitated. Now that he knew Y/N was clearly safe and well, he wanted to know what the hell she was up to. Today was not the day for her to pull whatever it was she was trying to pull.
As he rode in the back of the car to his next meeting, Robert was debating what to say to Y/N next when he suddenly saw a message from her appear where he was poised to type. Actually, it wasn’t a worded message, but rather a picture.
Squinting as he looked down at the photo, Robert soon realized it was an image of a receipt. Tapping on the picture to enlarge it, he saw that the merchant at the top of the receipt was Gucci, and when he looked down to the line that showed the total spent, his eyes briefly widened.
$5,768.67
What the hell?
Glancing up the lines again, he saw that that amount had been the sum of only three items: a tote bag, a pair of shoes, and a single dress.
But before Robert could even finish fully processing what he was seeing or write her a reply, Y/N was sending another receipt photo, this time for Chanel, and with a total of $11,948.17
What the hell was going on? She’d never done something like this before. In the entirety of their relationship so far, Y/N had never gone on any kind of crazy shopping spree or spent this kind of money, and whenever she did intend to make a hefty purchase, they’d always discussed it first. Of course, Robert had basically no financial limitations, but Y/N had never been so fast and loose with his money, and despite the fact that they were now married, she still had been very considerate about money and had always discussed it with him before making any big purchases.
Still in shock, Robert quickly sent a message.
Robert: What are you doing?
But rather than words, Y/N simply sent another receipt.
Dior. $8,936.97
Robert tried calling her again, but it just rang.
Robert: Would you answer your damn phone!
Another receipt. Hermes. $6,762.77
Robert: What the fuck is going on, Y/N?
Finally, she typed back an actual answer.
Y/N: If I’m just going to be your trophy wife, then I ought to have the proper items to play the part. Robert: What the hell are you talking about?
But the car had arrived at the destination as Robert had sent that message, and he was forced to temporarily refocus as he exited the car and headed inside the building. Once again, Y/N had gone silent, and he was feeling incredibly agitated as he entered the room.
All throughout the meeting, Robert kept glancing at his phone while simultaneously trying to understand what the hell Y/N was doing. What the hell was she calling herself a trophy wife for? When had he ever made her feel that way? Sure, he sometimes worked more than she wanted him to, but he had never made her feel like she was just his accessory. Had he?
When he got another message from her with the buzz of his phone, Robert’s eyes practically popped out of his head when he saw what she’d apparently spent at the jewelry store.
Cartier. $42,347.29
Muttering an apology, Robert excused himself from the meeting and stepped out into the hallway to message Y/N again.
Robert: I don’t know what the hell is going on, but you better not spend another cent until you actually talk to me. Y/N: How ironic that YOU’RE demanding we actually talk. Robert: What are you upset about? I just asked you to come to dinner for Christ’s sake. Y/N: Clearly, I haven’t spent enough for you to get the point. Robert: Just go home. I’ll meet you there and you can explain it to me. Y/N: I shouldn’t have to explain anything. Robert: Go home. Y/N: I’ll go home when I’m good and ready. Robert: Go home NOW. Y/N: I feel another purchase coming on. Robert: I’m gonna be at the house in a half hour. I expect you to be there when I get home.
Robert then re-entered the meeting room, but it was only to apologize once again and then excuse himself from the meeting. After heading back to his awaiting car and getting in, he also called the Hannock’s and apologized for the short notice, but explained that he and Y/N would have to reschedule their planned dinner, as something very unexpected had come up. After ending his call, Robert looked and saw that Y/N hadn’t replied to his last message to her, and he was cursing as the car made its way towards their house.
His agitation only grew tenfold upon arriving home and quickly noticing Y/N wasn’t there. Walking into the large living area, Robert pulled back the heavy drapes of the huge picture window to look out onto the back patio and driveway that curved around the house.
Removing his suit jacket and tossing it over the piano bench, Robert then reached one hand up to loosen his tie around his neck as he retrieved his phone from his pocket with his other hand and checked it again.
Still no response from her.
Robert: Where are you?
No reply.
Robert: I’m already home and I better see you pull up in the next 10 minutes.
But rather than a verbal answer, he was yet again receiving a screenshot of a receipt.
Yves Saint Laurent. $24,273.09
Quickly doing the math, Robert noted that at this point, Y/N had spent just over $100,000.00
He made one final attempt to call her, already knowing she wouldn’t answer, and after ending the ignored call, he typed her a final message of his own.
Robert: HOME. NOW.
But fifteen minutes later, Robert was still waiting and watching for her at the window, and he was just about ready to get in his own car and go find Y/N when he finally heard the sound of her car gradually slowing up the drive. When he looked through the window again, he watched as her white convertible came into view, and Robert felt a rush of anger as he could clearly see by Y/N’s pointedly aloof facial expression that she was deliberately taking her time and knew that he was watching her from somewhere in the house as she got out of her car.
But that anger was accompanied by a wave of arousal that coursed through him as he watched her and knew she was purposely exuding her bratty attitude with her confident, taunting body language as she sauntered towards the house.
Robert saw as their butler went out to greet Y/N and helped her gather the array of shopping bags from the backseat of her car. As they made their way towards the back door, Robert was already turning and moving across the room to intercept Y/N once they got inside.
While Y/N maintained an air of careless confidence as she walked up to the house, she was admittedly nervous to face Robert. She knew by his messages that he was pissed to all hell, and she also knew that she’d taken this whole thing a little bit too far. But with him being so arrogantly clueless about what exactly she was mad about, she had given into the impulse to keep pushing him. After all, it served him right to be sassed, ignored, and given this harsh spending surprise when he’d essentially abandoned her for the last five weeks, especially when that was only a third of the amount of time that they’d even been married.
Walking through the back foyer, Y/N paused to remove her sunglasses and set her handbag down. Their butler then relieved her of the bags she was carrying and assured her that he’d take everything up to her and Robert’s bedroom. It was when they made it to the threshold of the living room that Y/N saw Robert standing near the sofa in her peripheral, his eyes narrowed and glued to her, and she tried to disguise the nervous skip of her heart as she addressed their butler.
“Thank you. You’re welcome to head home for the evening once you come back down.”
As the butler made quick work of depositing her bags upstairs, Y/N said nothing and kept her eyes forward towards the staircase, intentionally ignoring Robert and then shifting to remove her sandals from her feet as she waited for the butler to return. Of course, Robert knew Y/N was intentionally ignoring him, but he still kept his position by the couch and his gaze squarely on her as they waited for their privacy.
“Have a good night, Mrs. Fischer. Mr. Fischer,” the butler politely nodded to each of them as he made to leave, and after voicing a final thank you to him, Y/N still kept her gaze in his direction until they heard the sound of the back door closing and locking, and then both she and Robert knew they were finally alone.
Still trying to maintain her aloof confidence, Y/N swallowed and drew in a breath before she remained at the threshold of the room but slowly turned to face Robert. Something in his eyes sent an odd combination of arousal and anger through her, but she maintained her also present annoyance with him and defiantly crossed her arms in front of her chest as she finally looked at him.
Robert turned toward her. In his right hand, he nursed a glass tumbler, half-filled with what Y/N assumed was inevitably his favorite, very expensive whiskey. Their eyes locked for a tense moment before he spoke to her.
“So,” he mused, still maintaining their stare. “Gucci. Yves Saint Laurent. Cartier. Am I supposed to be amused?”
The words were cold. Harsh, almost. Uttered in the same tone he used when speaking to businessmen during work hours, when he intimidated and negotiated to get his way. It annoyed her. She wasn't one of his company colleagues. Or business competition, for that matter. She was his wife.
“Like I said,” Y/N replied, upholding her attitude, “if you treat me like a trophy wife, then I’d better look the part.” She then shrugged carelessly and turned to go upstairs, but Robert stopped her almost immediately with another statement.
“We’re not done,” he said matter-of-factly, and when Y/N hesitated but didn’t turn around, he finished. “Look at me when I'm talking to you, missy.”
At his words, Y/N slowly turned back to him, partly offended and partly aroused as Robert was growing clearly even more frustrated with her. When she met his eyes once more, her heart skipped, but she quirked her brow.
“Don't you give me that look,” Robert said then. “Do you have any idea what your dramatics cost me today? Besides that pathetic little shopping spree you shoved in my face? How unfocused I was, thanks to you? I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now.”
“Oh really? I didn’t think anything could break your focus from your precious work,” Y/N said with bitter sarcasm. “But maybe next time, you'll think twice before going weeks without noticing me.”
Robert glared. “What did you say to me?”
“Maybe next time you'll think twice before going weeks without noticing me,” she repeated, slower, more enunciated.
Robert narrowed his eyes, then lifted his glass slowly. After he took a sip, he let the liquid roll around in his mouth as he processed her words and continued to glare. His behavior, the whole thing, made Y/N nervous. He was evaluating her as if she was just another one of his clients awaiting his willingness to even address her.
“I'd say inviting you to dinner is the opposite of not noticing you,” Robert finally remarked dryly.
“You didn’t invite me, you ordered me,” Y/N countered, crossing her arms over her chest. “And a business dinner with your investor? Oh, such romance. Help me, my knees are weak,” she finished sarcastically. “I’m your wife, Robert, not your business associate.”
At that, Robert tilted his head.
“This is what comes with being a Fischer,” he said with a scoff. “If you were hoping for Prince Charming, you should have married someone with less responsibility on his shoulders.”
“So, you’re saying that expecting more than a passing glance from my husband in over five weeks is asking too much? Well, maybe we should never have gotten married!” Y/N spat back. “I'm not a chore, Robert!”
Robert took a deep breath, his glare deepening.
“You don't mean that,” he said in a raspy voice, his expression one of anger accented with pain. Y/N felt bad seeing him like that, her words obviously hitting close to home, but she was too ticked off to stop now.
“Oh, don't I? Maybe you didn't mean it, when you said 'I do'," she finished.
At that, Robert slammed his glass down on the piano top, which made Y/N jump.
“Say that again,” he demanded, his voice low and commanding as he slowly stepped toward her. His movements were predatory, ready to strike when pushed too far.
Watching him, Y/N stammered a little. She felt sure of herself at first, but seeing Robert radiate with anger, the intensity obvious, her confidence faltered. As she stammered again, her heart skipped as Robert shot forward and roughly grabbed her, pulling her by the crook of her elbow.
“Ow! Robert! Hey! Stop it!” Y/N yelped and tried to pull away, but Robert wasn’t having it. He continued moving, dragging her up the stairs behind him, to their large and opulent bedroom.
As he pushed open the door, Robert could see that the butler had put Y/N’s shopping bags on the bureau next to the bed. Still holding her arm, he dragged Y/N towards them, then yanked her in front of himself and shoved her forward, pointing at them.
“Is this the gratitude I get, after you bought all that?” he demanded, nearly shouting. “Is this treating you like a chore? Is it? Letting you blow money left and right on whatever the fuck you want and mocking me about it?”
Y/N scoffed.
“This means nothing to you; don't pretend like you’re suddenly on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“No, but that dinner you caused us to miss might be the start of it!” he said agitatedly as he backed away from her and then paced back and forth a couple times. “Do you even comprehend the weight on my shoulders?! No! You just complain and go shopping!”
Y/N felt hurt at Robert’s words. Was that all he cared about? After all the theatrics and stress and anguish, still all he thought about was work and not the point she was trying to make.
“What do you expect me to do?! I have to call my husband’s secretary just to get his attention!” Y/N said, clearly on the verge of tears. “And even then, I can only get you to respond when it involves money or when you want me present for a business deal. So, if I’m going to be just your trophy wife, then you can just be my ATM card.”
At that, pain and regret flashed in Robert's eyes, but then his look changed to one of cold anger.
“An ATM card? Is that so?” he said in a cool, stern voice.
Upon hearing him and seeing his darker expression, Y/N felt her arousal increase as he used that tone on her, which wasn't very often. As he continued, her pulse quickened.
“Well then, that means this thing between us is…transactional. That means you, dear wife...” he practically spat out the words, “...that means you do what’s expected in exchange for my money.”
Y/N rolled her eyes and huffed.
“You wouldn’t have even noticed if I hadn’t sent you the receipts,” she said, and she began to walk past him, toward the bedroom door. “Good night, Robert.”
But before she had cleared his path, Robert shot his hand out and grabbed her wrist tightly, then yanked her back to him. As he did, Y/N shrieked.
“But you did send me the receipts” Robert said lowly, their faces close. “You intentionally made me mad. And since I served as your ATM card, it’s now your turn to uphold your end of the transaction, and you know that the first part of that includes addressing me a certain way.”
Y/N’s heart was pounding and her lower half throbbing now, unable to deny the way it affected her when Robert got like this. Respectively, Robert could feel his heart pumping and his cock already twitching as he looked at Y/N and could feel both the defiance and the passion coming from her, but also the hint of nervousness.
“Robert…” she began, her voice slightly unsteady.
“Wrong answer,” Robert said, and then he was causing her to shriek again as he quickly, unexpectedly turned them and whipped Y/N forward, flinging her onto the bed and watching as she landed on her back with a bounce, then tried to compose herself as she hoisted herself up on her elbows to look at him as he stood before her near the mattress.
“Better try again, and if you’re smart, you’ll include an apology with it,” he said.
Y/N looked back at him, her eyes narrowed.
“Why should I?” she taunted, knowing it would push his final button.
At that, Robert only responded with a clench of his jaw, and in the next second, he stepped to the bed and reached out, violently grabbing Y/N’s hips. As she squealed at the pain of his tight grip, Robert flipped her over onto her stomach and then grabbed a fistful of her hair with one hand. He heard Y/N gasp, and then he used his free hand to sharply spank her three times.
Y/N’s heart skipped yet again, and after each strike, she let out a sound that was part pain and part arousal, which she foolishly hoped Robert didn't hear. But even if he hadn’t heard, the telltale action of Y/N subtly yet obviously arching her back and lifting her ass in search of more gave her away, and Robert smirked to himself as he released Y/N’s hair to roughly push her deeper into the mattress and then spank her ass again. He smirked once more as Y/N released another gasp and needy moan.
“Now, what do you have to say to me?” Robert said, his hand threateningly pressing her into the mattress again.
“I’m sorry!“ Y/N cried out, but Robert roughly fisted her hair again and then smacked her ass a final time, then pulled her head back to speak in her ear.
“You’re forgetting something,” he whispered darkly.
“That’s better. You're learning. And here you had me thinking all you were capable of was swiping a credit card,” said Robert tauntingly. “Speaking of which...” He then briefly released her for a moment, reaching over to grab her shopping bags and tossing them on the bed near her head, causing Y/N to flinch. “Let’s see what all that swiping got you, shall we?” He then reached back down to Y/N’s thighs and grasped the hem of her dress, lifting it up over her backside and smirking when he saw the white, lace-trimmed panties she wore underneath that he’d bought for her. They were innocent. Virginal. Just what he liked on her. “I sure hope you got yourself some fresh panties,” he murmured as he glided his hand over the soft fabric on her ass and noticed the sheen of her wetness on them, “because you’ve completely ruined these.”
“Siiirrr,” Y/N whined at Robert’s words and the feel of his hand caressing her ass, at which Robert smirked to himself again as his cock stiffened even more.
“Take them off,” he ordered Y/N as he pulled his hand away from her ass, and when she hesitated for a moment, uncertain if he would touch her again first, Robert spanked her again, causing Y/N to let out another needy sound.
“Now,” he demanded.
With a whimper, Y/N shifted on the bed on her stomach to reach beneath herself and pull the panties off. As soon as they cleared her hips, Robert reached out and grabbed them, yanking them the rest of the way down her legs and off her. He then lifted them to his face, inhaling her scent and feeling her wetness against his mouth, rumbling out a sound of intensely aroused satisfaction. He then stuffed them in his pants pocket as his eyes returned to Y/N’s bare lower half.
“Already so wet, aren’t you, darling?” he murmured, spreading Y/N’s legs apart and then kneeling on the floor between them. “Seems like you enjoy the idea of being a trophy wife a lot more than you want to admit.”
Robert leaned forward more then, his shoulders pushing against the back sides of Y/N’s knees as he lifted his hand and reached out to stroke his fingers through her pink, glistening folds. He chuckled darkly as he heard her whimper and squirm, and he stroked her again and teased her entrance by prodding his fore and middle finger just barely inside her, her arousal generously coating his digits. When he pulled out and then slid his finger down to find and tease her clit, Y/N writhed and mewled in need.
“Please, Sir! Please! I need more!” she panted.
“That's your problem, isn't it?” Robert replied, his voice controlled despite the throbbing of his cock inside his pants. “You always want more. More of my time. More of my attention.” He rubbed her clit with his thumb again in tight circles, and Y/N moaned and whimpered, arching her back. She already felt at the very edge of her peak, but then Robert pulled back and watched with satisfaction when she thrashed around for more friction.
“Siiirrr, please!” she whined out pathetically.
“This is how frustrated you made me today, making me wait, making me wonder,” Robert taunted, rising to lean over her on the bed and speak in her ear. He then reached down and stroked over her folds again, intentionally avoiding her clit that time. In response, Y/N reached beneath herself and tried to touch herself, and at the sight of it, Robert undid his tie, tugging it from his collar and swiftly grabbing Y/N’s wrists to bind them. When she was snug and secure, he let her tied hands fall to the small of her back again.
As she twisted her wrists and felt the fabric of Robert’s tie against her skin, Y/N’s heart pounded and she whimpered again. He’d never done this to her before, but there was no denying the additional layer of arousal that it brought her as she felt him yank the knot to ensure she was helpless.
“All those texts, no answer. All those calls, no answer. Leaving me wondering, not being able to focus on work...” Robert admonished her. He reached down and grazed over her clit with his fingertips again, using his free hand to hold her hip and keep her in place.
At the touch, Y/N let out a moan that was downright pornographic, and then she exhaled a sob of frustration as she felt Robert shift himself lower again.
“Please, Sir! Please!”
“You need me, don't you? Say you need me, like a good girl,” Robert murmured, and he blew cool air over her folds as he knelt between her legs once again. At the feel of it, Y/N gasped and bucked her hips, trying to chase the sensation.
“I need you! I need you, Sir!” she whimpered, and then she almost sobbed in relief when she suddenly felt Robert lap at her folds with his tongue and then found her clit. Again, he brought her nearly to her edge, only to cruelly pull away again at the very last second. As Robert heard her whine of frustration, he smirked against her pussy.
“You didn't give me any reprieve, did you? What makes you think you deserve it now?”
Y/N shook her head against the bed, ashamed and aroused to the core, her tears of desperation wiping on the duvet. She both loved and hated that Robert made this mixture of extremes so exquisite.
Standing up once more, Robert unzipped his pants and took his cock out, stroking himself lazily as he looked down on Y/N, his precum dripping onto his hand.
“The tables have turned, haven’t they? Hmm? Not quite so sure of yourself anymore, are you? Maybe I shouldn't let you run around all by yourself anymore. Maybe I should always keep an eye on you,” he murmured as he used his fingers to tease her folds again, then play with her clit.
Her hands still bound, Y/N squirmed around, whimpering and moaning.
“Please! I need to cum!” she panted, her cheeks flushed with both her arousal and also at the shame of how much this treatment turned her on. Turned them both on. But she couldn’t help it.
“I know, sweetheart. But you were so high and mighty all day and look at you now, reduced to begging and crying on my sheets,” Robert said, stepping closer between her legs. “But I’m afraid you forgot the most important part.”
“SIR!” Y/N practically screamed then as Robert taunted her and hesitated. “SIR, PLEASE! I need to come!!!”
At her outcry, Robert smirked again, then positioned himself behind her. He reached out and grabbed the first shopping bag and held it near Y/N’s face.
“You need to thank me,” he corrected her. “Tell me what's in here.”
As Y/N tried to answer, Robert slid the head of his cock just inside her entrance, making her moan instead, but a sharp slap to her ass again made her focus.
“The Gucci!” she cried out. “It’s the Gucci!”
“The Gucci,” Robert nodded with confirmation. “I’m waiting.” He then roughly rutted forward, bottoming out inside of her, then thrusting in and out once, but then not moving again.
Y/N moaned pathetically, as if this treatment was making her even more wet. She needed him to keep moving.
“Thank you, Sir!” she panted, squeezing her eyes shut as she clenched around his cock.
Upon hearing her, Robert let out a sound of approval and then a groan as he felt Y/N clench around him, but he resisted the insane urge to move inside her again and he reached out for the next shopping bag.
“Yves Saint Laurent,” he said. “So classy for such a pathetic little thing.” He rutted against her ass and smacked her again. “Do you think the shop workers had any idea of the truth? That the oh so confident Mrs. Fischer is actually a whiny brat who thanks her husband with her pussy?”
Robert roughly thrusted in and out of her again, once, twice, three times, and then he stilled for a moment, his fingers hovering over Y/N’s clit.
“Say it,” he demanded lowly, panting as a lock of his hair fell over his forehead. He looked down to see Y/N’s arousal shining on his cock, and he gave a near growl as he felt her squeeze around him again, sensing how close his fingers were poised near her clit.
“Thank you, Sir!” she said weakly, her voice muffled by the covers as she pressed her face into the mattress in desperation.
“I can’t hear you,” Robert tormented her.
“Thank you, Sir!!!” Y/N forced herself to turn her head so her voice was clearer. As she laid her cheek against the duvet, Robert felt that familiar rush of affection and arousal course through him as he saw the shimmer of the tear at the corner of Y/N’s eye, but also noted how she wantonly bit her lip and arched her back yet again.
“How about where you decided to really push it?” Robert said then, and the bag he grabbed with his free hand was the one with the Cartier logo scripted across it. He then used the hand still poised by Y/N's cunt to give her clit a harsh pinch.
“Ahhhh!” she shrieked out, and Robert nearly fell forward atop her back at how tightly she squeezed and tugged around his cock at the pinch he gave her. In response, he gave a single violent thrust in and out of her in retaliation.
“Oh God! Sir, please! I need—”
“You know what you need to do,” Robert cut her off. “After everything you pulled today.
He gripped her hips and pulled out nearly all the way before slamming back inside her. “I want another thank you, and then an apology.” He leaned forward to hover his mouth near her ear once more. “And it better be a damn good one.”
With that, Robert fully pulled out of Y/N, then grabbed her hips again and roughly flipped her over, seeing her eyes widen as she landed on her back beneath him, he hands behind her. As their eyes met, Y/N’s heart pounded, and when Robert grabbed her hips and pulled her to him and positioned himself at her entrance once more, she couldn’t stop the plea that left her mouth.
“Please, Sir,” she whined out, bucking her hips.
“That doesn’t sound like a thank you or an apology,” Robert gave her a taunting smirk, prodding her folds with the head of his cock but not penetrating her.
“Thank you, Sir!” Y/N cried out, looking at Robert with a pounding heart, wishing he’d lower his handsome face and violently kiss her and slip his cock back inside her. “Thank you for everything, Sir!”
Finally, Robert slowly sank himself back inside Y/N, relishing the slick, tight warmth of her, but not giving her what she fully wanted just yet. He harshly squeezed her hip, causing her to squeal in pain.
“Where’s the apology?” he said.
“I’m sorry, Sir!” Y/N quickly obliged, bucking her hips again and squeezing around him as Robert released her hip. “I’m so sorry! I was a bad girl, and I’m so sorry!”
At that, Robert hoisted Y/N’s lower half higher, lifting her thighs and positioning her at the perfect angle. His mind was clouded by his insane arousal, and he reached out to tweak and rub circles on her clit again before he then was pistoning in and out of her at a rate that had them both panting and gasping for air. With fumbling fingers, they each took turns working Y/N’s clit until she was squeezing her eyes shut and crying out in pleasure as she came, clenching around Robert with a near debilitatingly pleasureable tug on his cock that had him releasing a guttural roar as he thrusted several more times and then spilled himself inside of her.
After several moments of nothing but panting breaths from each of them, Robert could feel Y/N’s pussy still fluttering around him, and as he looked down at her, he could see the bounce of her heart in her chest.
“There's my good girl,” he panted and nearly smiled as he pulled back from her.
Still shaking, Y/N let out a quiet sob, her body on complete overload. Robert then moved so that his cock was right near her mouth, and he encouraged Y/N to sit up, then he untied her wrists.
“A final show of gratitude would be for you to clean me up,” Robert said then, and without hesitation, Y/N scooted to the edge of the mattress and parted her lips, licking and suckling on Robert’s cock, tasting their mixed juices as he guided himself inside her mouth while she looked up at him. With a soft chuckle, Robert lifted a hand and stroked her cheek, and at the affectionate gesture, Y/N began to cry real tears.
At the sight of her tears, any remainder of Robert's harsh demeanor melted away, and he quickly reached out to encourage Y/N to lay back down on the bed, going with her. Laying down next to her, he then gathered her in his arms, and Y/N immediately curled into him, burying her face in his chest and continuing to softly sob, her tears a mix of emotions.
“Don't cry, baby. I don't want to fight,” he whispered softly.
“I’m sorry,” Y/N rasped between sobs. “I didn’t mean what I said. I was upset. I just want you to pay attention.”
“I know, I know,” Robert replied, stroking the back of her head. “I’m sorry, too. We'll talk. Really talk. Things’ll be better. I promise.”
He then moved his mouth to kiss her temple, and after he did, Y/N shifted to meet his eyes.
“I love you,” they both said at the same time.
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This was too much fun. I mean our favorite billionaire definitely had it coming. lol But if that's the way he solves marital disputes, I'd quickly become the biggest brat this side of Cartier. Just saying. 😈😈😈
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Beginnings had an irritating flaw. They never, in fact, started from scratch.
There was an almost childish illusion in the word restart, as though life were a blank sheet waiting for fresh, untouched ink. Yet reality was a scrawled-upon paper. Because you, no matter how hard you tried, could never truly leave everything behind. The body retains the weight and memory retains the trace. There will always be a fragment of what once was stuck to the soles of your shoes, accompanying every new step. And that, Eleanor realized as she stared into the vanity mirror, was the true problem.
The problem with returning to Birmingham was not genuinely encountering the past again. It was discovering that it had been waiting all along.
Her past had not disappeared; it stood there, static, with the very same sharp blue eyes, the same heavy silences, and the same broken promises, waiting for her at the exact millimeter where she had tried to sever the knots. Thomas had built another life, had an entire future brightening before him, yet, even so, the essence of what they had shared had not moved. It remained there, staying intact with the chronic patience of things that are eternal.
There was a painful irony in all of it, a mismatch that suffocated Eleanor’s chest. During her years in Paris, she devoutly believed she was moving forward. She thought that every choreographed step, every new performance, and every line of applause in France drew her further from the soot of Birmingham. Yet setting foot upon the gray streets once more was all it took for a sense of lag to overpower her. The city had rushed ahead. People had changed, her family’s business had nearly collapsed, marriages had taken place, new lives had been brought forth. The world around her seemed to have advanced a century, leaving her with the distinct and bitter impression that, while building a successful career abroad, she had been left behind. In absolute contrast to this frantic movement of the city came the terrifying echo that her deepest wounds remained untouched. Time had moved for everyone, yet the past still held her place, demanding that she return to occupy her post of pain.
This duality laid bare the fact that there existed versions of ourselves that only survived in certain places, nourished by the atmosphere and the people surrounding us. Paris knew the ballerina. The untouchable woman, shrouded in tulle and mystery, the principal dancer who enchanted the Opera’s audience with smooth, precise movements, millimetrically calculated to hide any trace of human fragility. In France, she was art. Yet Birmingham... Birmingham ignored the French poses and the aristocratic haughtiness. The city insisted on searching for the girl who had departed six years before with frightened eyes and empty hands. The gray cobblestone ground seemed to demand the return of the Eleanor who belonged to the imposing mansions of the elite, but also to the secrets and clandestine whispers she tried to conceal.
She wanted to believe that, by leaving, she had chosen her own life. And she believed it for six years. Yet, in a way, the lack would always accompany her. It mattered not whether she stood upon the most glorious stage in Europe or in a converted warehouse at the heart of English misery; she would always be visited by the anguishes of the choices she did not make. By the roads she decided not to tread. And of this, Eleanor knew all too well. Every “what if” of her trajectory seemed to possess a face and a pair of mesmerizing blue eyes.
Eleanor wondered, with a silent bitterness, if she had done the right thing at every major crossroads of her existence. The “no” she had spoken to Thomas Shelby six years ago, in that empty hallway, still echoed within the walls of her mind as though it had been uttered yesterday. She had chosen to save herself, refusing to be merely another piece within his ambition, yet the price of that choice seemed to charge far too high an interest now. After all, had all of that been her salvation, or the beginning of a disguised exile? Had she conquered freedom and glory, or merely an elegant escape?
Doubt was a persistent creature, whispering in the dark, asking if independence on French soil had been worth the solitude that came in the package. She had spent six years undoing the ties of Birmingham, only to realize that the primary knot had perhaps never loosened.
Yet the doubts were no longer confined to the ghost of Thomas. They now crawled through her most recent decisions, demanding an immediate price for every surrender. Looking back, Eleanor questioned whether it had been right to pack her trunks and abandon the French company, to give up international stages of prestige only to bury herself in that city once more. Elliot’s urgency, their father’s illness, and the Montagues’ financial desperation had pushed her into an abyss she had sworn never to leap into again. Yielding to her brother’s pressure, swallowing her own pride to sign that corporate marriage contract disguised as charity... it all felt like a terrible, agonizing self-sabotage. She had left the only life where she was truly mistress of herself to become a bargaining chip in the hands of others, swallowing the bitter sensation that her choices, in the end, were never entirely her own.
Now, analyzing her own situation before the mirror, the lines between right and wrong seemed completely blurred by the city’s smoke. There was no longer the clarity of Paris, only the fog of Birmingham. The contract was signed and destiny, mapped out. For the first time in six years, she would step onto a stage where no one expected applause. And for the first time, she would not know precisely which choreography to dance to survive this new beginning.
As if things were not going wrong enough already, she could not even manage to fix the hair bun she had done by herself every single day for six years. Perhaps it was a warning not to proceed with it. They say life always sends certain signals disguised as intuition. Yet she had already signed the contract; giving up would only sink her family deeper. And she could not do that.
Eleanor drew a deep breath and removed the bobby pins from her hair, letting the strands fall over her shoulders. She picked up the brush from the vanity and brought it to her head, pulling her hair with a rigidity that almost hurt her scalp. As she secured the pins, the ancient anguish throbbing within her chest, she rolled her eyes at her reflection in the mirror.
— You are being pathetic. Simply do what must be done, you have survived far worse, — she said to herself, absorbing the harshness of her own words as she observed the hair bun firmly in its proper place.
Eleanor rose and walked over to the wardrobe where her shoes were stored. She picked up her soft ballet slippers and stuffed them into her canvas bag, took a deep breath, and stepped out of the room.
As she crossed the hallway toward the stairs, she encountered Martha coming up with a breakfast tray.
— Good morning, Eleanor, — Martha smiled, stopping in the corridor facing her. — The breakfast table is already set.
— Good morning. All I need today is that very strong coffee and that strawberry jam. Is this for my father? — she asked, pointing toward the silver tray. — Let me take it.
— Will the young mistress not be late? It is your first day…
Eleanor arched an eyebrow, and Martha swallowed hard, fearful that she had said something she ought not to have.
— Elliot happened to mention the job…
— No, Martha. Do not worry, I have time, — Eleanor extended her arms to take the tray. — I will carry his coffee to him.
— Very well, — the housekeeper handed over the tray, yet did not step away. She leaned in to check if everything was indeed there, then pointed toward the pills. — You need to give him the pills first, they are for his heart.
— Leave it to me.
With the poise and precision that years of ballet had granted her, Eleanor walked down the long corridor holding the tray with ease. Upon reaching the bedroom door, she turned sideways, pushing the wood open with her hip. Ever since her father’s heart attack, the door was never left locked. Especially when he was alone.
He was already awake when she entered. His eyes were scanning the room, as if already waiting for Martha, yet his face illuminated and a smile escaped his lips when his daughter appeared. Eleanor walked over near the bed and set the tray and her bag upon the sideboard, approaching her father, who was still lying down.
— Good morning, Father, — she adjusted a few pillows at the headboard so he could lean back, helping him sit up immediately after.
— Good morning, my dear. You didn't need to bring my coffee, I do not wish to give you trouble.
Before answering, she walked over to the windows and drew the curtains open, allowing the bedroom to be illuminated by the sunlight.
— It is no trouble at all, Father, — she replied, bringing the tray and setting it on the edge of the bed. She picked up the glass of water and the pills, one in each hand, and handed them to the man. — Drink all the water. It helps the blood circulate better.
— Who would have thought that one day you would be the one giving me orders, — he said with a faint laugh, drinking the water and swallowing the medicine right after.
Eleanor laughed.
— Is today your first day?
— It is… — her voice seemed to lock for a few moments, and she smiled, attempting to disguise it. — By the looks of it, Elliot has already told everyone.
— He told me last night. Your brother was happy for you.
— Of course he was.
— Are you not?
The question caught Eleanor off guard. She did not answer. Instead, she straightened her spine, as she did every time she was nervous, and handed the cup of coffee to her father.
— Eleanor?
— I am, Father. Of course I am happy.
He observed her over the rim of the porcelain cup. His eyes, though tired, still retained the sharpness of someone who knew every micro-expression of his daughter. He set the cup upon the saucer with a soft clink and extended a trembling hand, touching Eleanor’s rigid fingers.
— You didn't need to abandon your life.
— I didn't abandon it, — Eleanor replied promptly, sustaining her father’s gaze with a firmness that bordered on obstinacy, using her pride as a shield. — I chose to stay and work at the Institute. You know I do nothing I do not wish to do.
— Your mother was a teacher too, you know? Of piano. She gave lessons to my sister; that was how we met.
Eleanor averted her gaze to the window for a brief second, allowing the mention of her mother to soothe the tense vibration that had settled within the room.
— I didn't know she had given lessons.
— She was the finest pianist in Birmingham, — he smiled, genuine pride illuminating his face, — just as you are the finest ballerina and will be the finest teacher. I suppose it is a trait of the women in this family. Being the best at whatever they decide to do.
— I do not know if it will be quite like that, but I shall exert myself, — Eleanor responded, a fine irony returning to outline her lips. — Ballet demands a certain rigidity to teach; I do not know if the girls of Small Heath are prepared for it. There is a considerable chance my pupils will hate me and I shall end up dismissed on my very first day. Yet I made a point of warning Thomas’s wife — the phrase passed through her throat like a shard of glass, yet she maintained an impeccable posture — how dance truly works. I do not intend to soften the floor for anyone.
Her father’s smile faded gradually, replaced by a somber expression, his brow furrowed with the old disdain the local aristocracy held for the new owners of power.
— That gipsy… — he muttered, his voice heavy with bitterness. — He truly managed to conquer an entire city. Now everyone must bow to him and to that family.
Eleanor felt her jaw lock instantly. The weight of everything she had sacrificed the day before — the sealed letter to Paris, her pride thrown to the ground in front of Elliot, the confrontation in the Shelby Company office — surged like a warm wave. She looked at her father with a cutting glint in her brown eyes.
— Indeed, Father. Are you happy to have a daughter employed by the Shelbys? — she fired back, the words laden with irony. — I suppose not even you would have imagined this six years ago, not in your worst nightmares, when I was merely Ada’s friend… — her teeth clenched tightly. She knew perfectly well it had never been merely that, and that her connection to them had gone far beyond her friendship with Ada — and had no relation whatsoever to the rest of the family.
Her father stared at her, her sharp tone bruising his pride.
— Do not speak like that, Eleanor.
— And do not speak of Thomas, or any of the others, in that derogatory tone, — she countered immediately, her voice soft, yet firm enough to sever any attempt at interruption. She straightened herself, the elegance of a ballerina transforming into rigid armor. — I did not care for it six years ago, and I continue not to care for it today. Even more so now, Father, when their signatures are the sole reason we still hold the right to drink coffee from this expensive porcelain. They saved our family from bankruptcy with an exclusive coal contract. So, please... measure your tone.
The man sustained his daughter’s gaze for long, tense seconds. The mention of the exclusive coal contract brought no surprise to his face; as patriarch, he was perfectly aware of the ruin surrounding them. What wounded his pride was not the fact itself, but the raw cruelty with which Eleanor threw that reality onto the table.
He let out a heavy sigh, his weary chest rising and falling beneath his fine silk pajamas.
— I know precisely what that signature represents, Eleanor, — he said, his voice low, stripped of its former bitterness, leaving only exhaustion. — I know that the coal from our mines will now feed every factory, every foundry, and every fireplace the Shelbys control. I spent a lifetime dictating the rules on this side of the city, and to see the tables turn to the point where we require their exclusivity to avoid bankruptcy... it is not easy for a man in my position. Yet you are right. It is not for me to bite the hand that sustains what remains of our roof.
Eleanor felt her defensive anger drain from her chest, replaced by that familiar melancholy that had accompanied her since setting foot in Birmingham. Seeing her father yield, accepting the pragmatism of survival and their dependence on the Shelby Company without slamming a fist upon the table, was the definitive sign that the golden age of the Montagues had changed forever.
— I didn’t wish to sound cruel, Father, — she confessed, stepping a little closer to the bed and gathering the empty cup and saucer. — Yet we must be practical. They now dictate the tempo of Birmingham. If I must give lessons at that Institute to ensure our mines remain operational, I shall do so with the finest posture Paris has taught me.
Her father nodded slowly, resting his head back onto the pillow, his eyes fixed upon the elaborate ceiling of the room.
— Merely take care, my dear, — he murmured, his voice nearly vanishing as the fatigue of sitting began to take effect. — Thomas Shelby gives nothing away for free. If he agreed to close this monopoly to use only our coal, it is because he already knows precisely what he wishes to extract from us in return. And I fear the price will be far higher than a few dance lessons.
Eleanor did not answer. She merely adjusted the blanket over his legs with a gentle touch, turned her back, and walked toward the door with the tray in her hands. Her father’s words echoed like a prophecy she herself had already deciphered in the dark of her bedroom. She opened the door with her elbow and stepped into the corridor, knowing that, from that minute onward, the clock was already ticking against her.
The taxi pulled up before the building at exactly nine forty-five. Eleanor stepped out of the vehicle with her spine perfectly aligned, yet, the instant her shoes touched the cobblestones of Small Heath, she felt the air shift. The smell of soot mixed with the lime of the building’s freshly painted walls invaded her nostrils, a definitive warning that the world of glamour and French accents had been left on the other side of the ocean. Before her, the Grace Shelby Institute rose with its red brick walls in the very heart of Peaky Blinders territory.
As she crossed the double iron doors, the rattle of the latch seemed to sound far too loud. The moment Eleanor stepped into the lobby, her bag pressed close to her body as she attempted to act with naturalness, the rhythm of the environment sutilmente altered. Two women organizing stacks of registration forms interrupted their conversation; a man carrying a toolbox checked his step, and even the lady in charge of cleaning slowed the movement of her mop upon the damp floor. The gazes held no overt hostility, but rather a silent, heavy, and vigilant curiosity. The first day of work was only just beginning, and it already carried a heavy and uncomfortable atmosphere.
Eleanor felt her stomach contract. She tried to keep her step firm, her shoulders locked in the flawless posture her body had memorized years ago, yet the sensation of psychological inadequacy was suffocating. It was the discomfort of perceiving oneself as a foreign body invading a perfectly regulated ecosystem. Every inch of that building, from the smell of fresh paint to the reverent silence of the employees, exhaled the Shelby surname. It belonged to them. It was funded by their whiskey, their betting, and their blood. Standing there, wearing an elegance that clashed with the rawness of the neighborhood, made her feel like an impostor occupying a space meticulously molded for another reality. She was not from there; she was merely a Montague under contract, a concession of prestige that the local dynasty had purchased to ornament their community projects.
Normality there seemed a one-way street. The lobby of the Grace Shelby Institute carried a solid and modern prominence, a structure born after the complete demolition of the old, rotten brick tenements that had previously occupied that lot in Small Heath. The high ceiling, supported by robust cast-iron beams painted a dark shade of graphite, gave an almost solemn amplitude to the room, where the echo of any whisper seemed to float before vanishing. The walls displayed an elegant combination of new, perfectly aligned red bricks and columns of light plaster, exhaling a lingering aroma of lime, fresh varnish, and beeswax. The floor had been paved with large slabs of polished gray slate, so clean that the pale reflection of daylight, filtered through the immense arched windows of flat glass, drew geometric lines upon the ground. In the center of the hall, a reception desk of solid mahogany with gleaming brass details divided the space with authority, while double doors with clear glass panes led the gaze directly toward private rooms, isolating the refinement of that flawless construction from the dust of the street.
— Good morning, — Eleanor’s voice came out trembling, laden with an anxiety that caused her stomach to burn.
The employees did not respond. Somewhat lost, still in the center of the lobby, Eleanor scanned the room with her eyes, attempting to find some place where she might take refuge. Yet as she spun her body, a tall silhouette blocked her view of the end of the hallway.
Thomas Shelby stood there. He wore his habitual dark overcoat, his hands tucked into his pockets, and his blue eyes fixed upon her from the very moment she had crossed the hall.
This must be a joke, Eleanor thought, the thought echoing sharp and bitter in her mind. The anxious burning rose up her throat, yet she did not falter. He offered a smile, as though he knew precisely what he was doing.
— Good morning, Miss Montague, — Thomas said, his voice in that low, drawn-out tone, almost a whisper that cut through the room. — My wife intended to come in person to welcome you on your first day, yet the morning sickness of pregnancy kept her in bed this morning. I came to represent her.
My wife. There was something in the tone of his voice as he uttered it that made Eleanor want to laugh. Not because it was amusing, but because it felt far too ironic. How could he call another woman his wife with such naturalness when he had practically begged for her six years ago?
And there was something in the way Eleanor averted her gaze every time Thomas spoke of Grace that gave him a sadistic sting of pleasure to say it. Not out of pride in his own marriage or because it was the reality, but because the discomfort was blatant upon her face, and that was the physical proof that, despite the distance and the time, Eleanor Montague still cared.
Eleanor raised her chin imperceptibly, offering him a corner smile that carried the exact dose of a fine, contained irony. Her voice came out soft, devoid of any fanfare that might feed the gossip of the corridor.
— An unexpected kindness, Thomas. I am flattered you restructured your appointments, — she commented, the polite tone concealing the blade of her words. She stopped two paces from him, sustaining his gaze. — I recall you mentioning yesterday that your schedule was far too occupied to waste time on ballet lessons. I am glad to learn the Shelby Company gave you a respite so you could exercise the duties of receptionist at the Institute.
Thomas did not move a single muscle of his face in response to the jab. He merely withdrew one hand from his pocket and indicated the corridor behind him with a measured gesture.
— There are things that demand direct supervision, Miss Montague. I came to ensure you had everything you require for your first day.
Eleanor did not reply. She brushed past him, entering the long corridor and turning her back to him. Thomas followed closely behind, walking calmly, with no need to overtake her.
— The piano was tuned yesterday afternoon, and the floor of the room was cleaned this morning.
The two stopped before the glass door which bore a hanging sign: Dance Room. Eleanor turned to look at him one final time before speaking:
— Excellent. Then your work here is finished, — she kept her tone perfectly under control, though her brown eyes held a cutting rigidity. — I know precisely what to do on the inside of that door. And, as we discussed yesterday, I prefer that the business on the outside does not interfere with the tempo of my lessons.
Thomas stared at her for a long second, the intensity of his blue gaze testing her boundaries. There was a dense subtext hovering between them. Eleanor felt that at any moment he would say something to destabilize her, yet he spoke nothing. He remained in silence, observing her, as though studying her every micro-expression.
Before the silence could become impassable, the sound of swift footsteps coming from one of the inner rooms shattered the rigidity of the corridor. Ada emerged into the opening, wearing a dark coat and carrying in her arms a generous bouquet of white tulips, whose perfume immediately competed with the scent of plaster and paint in the lobby.
— Eleanor! — Ada exclaimed, with a warm smile that seemed to bring a breath of oxygen into the environment. She approached with long strides, extending the bouquet toward her friend. — Damn it. I was organizing the sewing rooms in the back and missed your entrance. Look, these are for you.
Eleanor blinked, momentarily disarmed by the gesture, and held the bunch of flowers. The wrapping paper bore a small note written in a round, neat handwriting, with Grace’s signature: “May your first day be the beginning of something beautiful. Thank you for being here, Eleanor.”
Eleanor’s stomach churned. She looked down at the perfect white petals of the tulips, feeling the weight of that kindness crush her chest. If Grace were a cold, calculating shrew, or an arrogant wife who wished merely to flaunt power, it would be infinitely easier to deal with the situation. But no. Grace truly cared about the Institute; she genuinely wanted those lessons there and saw in Eleanor an admirable artist, not a bargaining chip. And perceiving the purity of that consideration caused an overwhelming, painful wave of guilt to surge up Eleanor’s throat, rendering her breathing difficult to regulate.
Feeling the weight of the bouquet in her arms, Eleanor raised her eyes slowly and met Thomas’s gaze.
They exchanged a silent gaze over Grace’s flowers. Thomas observed the Montague’s reaction, his analytical blue eyes catching the exact fraction of a second in which her ironic facade crumbled beneath the weight of remorse. He knew what his wife’s kindness caused within Eleanor. He knew that Grace’s innocence was the cruelest trap of all for her pride. Yet there was no triumph upon his face. On the contrary, his jaw clenched, knowing that the bouquet had struck her without intent, but the ricochet of the blow wounded them both in equal measure.
— Grace made a point that I bring them myself, said Thomas wouldn't take proper care of them, — Ada continued, oblivious to the static electricity cutting through the space between the two. — She was devastated that she couldn't come. But she made me promise I would help you with whatever you needed today.
— Yes... they are beautiful, Ada. Please, thank her for me, — Eleanor managed to reply, her voice coming out a little lower, her Paris pose subtly fragmented by the note in her hands.
— But enough small talk in the corridor. Come, I want to show you the official dance room.
Ada took a step forward, passing between her brother and her friend, turning the knob and pushing the door open. Eleanor followed her, yet the sound of firm footsteps close behind indicated they were not alone. Thomas entered right after, removing his cap with a slow movement, his blue eyes already scanning the perimeter of the studio.
The room was, in fact, impressive. The space was wide and airy, bathed in the dull Birmingham light that entered through three large arched windows. The scent of new wood exhaled from the perfectly waxed oak floor, polished until it gleamed. Fixed with millimetric precision along the side walls, the ballet barres displayed the smooth texture of treated wood. At the back, an immense mirror covered the entire length of the wall, sharply reflecting the three silhouettes. In one of the corners rested an imposing black grand piano, its wood glistening under the daylight. It was a flawless studio, one that would easily rival the rehearsal rooms of expensive companies.
Ada walked to the center of the hall, looking around with open arms.
— What do you think? Grace fought with the contractors three times because of this floor. She insisted it needed to be the smoothest wood on the market so as not to hurt anyone’s feet.
Eleanor approached the barre, sliding her fingers across the oak surface. The cold touch made her skin prickle.
Before she could answer her friend, Thomas took a few steps, stopping exactly in the center of the studio. He looked at his own reflection in the mirror at the back and, slowly, turned his body to face Eleanor. There was a glint of defiance in his pupils.
— Is everything as you expected, Miss Montague? — he asked.
The question floated through the wide hall with a soft echo. His voice was polite, the tone of a zealous administrator before a prestigious employee. Yet Eleanor caught the subterranean strike at once. She knew he was not speaking of the quality of the wood, the barres, or the piano. He was testing the span of her endurance. He was asking if that reality—the smoke of Small Heath beating against the clean windows, his wife’s charity dictating the course of her days, and the leash of the contract binding the Montagues—was the scenery she expected to find.
Eleanor sustained his gaze, forcing a flawless smile upon her lips and adjusting her posture with the haughtiness of someone who had already trodden the most demanding stages in the world.
— Better than I imagined, — she replied, her voice perfectly linear.
— Heavens, what unnecessary formality, Tommy, — Ada rolled her eyes while shaking her head. — You have known her for years.
— Here, I am merely an employee, Ada.
The phrase kept echoing inside Eleanor’s mind. Here, I am merely an employee. What a ridiculous choice of words. As though out there, she were anything more than that.
— I am glad to hear it is better than imagined, — Thomas ignored his sister, taking a slow step in Eleanor’s direction, keeping his hands behind his back. — We exerted ourselves so the environment would remain faithful to a ballet studio. I hope it feels as familiar as possible to you. We know how important comfort and security are for someone who has spent so much time away from home.
— Comfort is a matter of perspective, Thomas, — she countered promptly, her tone sweet, yet her brown eyes fixed upon him. — But the studio is excellent. The structure is solid enough to withstand any kind of pressure.
Thomas tilted his head millimetrically, absorbing the reply without being shaken. He took another step, halting at a distance where Eleanor could catch the subtle scent of tobacco he exhaled.
Ada, who was observing the grand piano in the corner, looked at the two with a slightly impressed expression.
— My, I am relieved that everything is perfect! — Ada commented, smiling between her brother and her friend. — I was afraid something might go wrong and the first lesson would have to be postponed.
Thomas looked at his sister and then returned his blue eyes to Eleanor. He remained in silence for a second far too long, a silence that seemed to read every line of fatigue and doubt she had tried to conceal beneath her light makeup. Then he took a step back, reclaiming the formal distance and resetting his cap over his brow with a calm movement.
— The girls arrive shortly, — he limited himself to saying, his voice returning to the protocol tone he used with the Institute’s employees. He looked at Ada and then gave a courteous nod of his head to Eleanor. — Have a good day of work, Miss Montague. May your first rehearsal be as productive as our business affairs.
— I am certain it shall be, — she responded, sustaining her chin high.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the exit. The sound of his firm footsteps echoed across the oak floor until the studio door closed with a definitive click.
Eleanor released her breath and then faced her friend, her eyes slightly wide.
— My God, I am so nervous! I do not know if I can truly do this.
— Of course you can, — Ada said, stepping closer and placing her hand upon her shoulder with a deep affection. — Those girls who are about to walk through that door... they have never seen anything like what you have to teach. Forget any negative thoughts. Do it for them. And do it for yourself.
Eleanor looked at her own reflection in the mirror. The ballerina of Paris was still there, hidden beneath the light green dress. She nodded slowly, swallowing the knot in her throat.
— Right, — Ada said, clapping her hands with enthusiasm, breaking the silence. — Let us put these flowers in water before your little pupils begin kicking the doors down.
Ada helped Eleanor place the bouquet of white tulips in a glass vase atop the grand piano and, immediately after, bid her farewell with a warm wave, rejoicing in leaving her to organize the space. When the door closed, the studio plunged into a brief silence. Eleanor stood alone with her own reflection in the immense mirror, the perfume of Grace’s flowers floating in the clean air.
Eleanor undressed, revealing the tight black leotard against her body and the black tights. She opened her canvas bag and pulled out the wrap skirt in a shade of antique rose; the fluid fabric draped her body with lightness, falling just above her knees. Next, she took her soft ballet slippers of the same color and slipped them on. There, she was the pure definition of dance: long lines, an irreproachable posture, and her feet protected by the supple leather slippers. She drew a deep breath, testing the oak floor with a light pressure on the balls of her feet, attempting to banish the fog Thomas had left within her thoughts.
Yet the silence did not last long. The sound of small footsteps rushing down the corridor and the murmur of high, anxious voices announced that the time for the lesson had arrived. The door opened slowly, revealing a group of about ten girls in front of Ada, who smiled enthusiastically. They were around six years of age.
Upon seeing them enter in a line, timid and wide-eyed, Eleanor felt her heart skip a beat. Looking at those round little faces, at cheeks flushed by the cold of Small Heath and hair bound in clumsy braids, an unexpected and painfully familiar wave of tenderness surged through her chest. If destiny had drawn different lines, if the choices had been other... a nameless absence danced within Eleanor’s mind, yet she swallowed the knot in her throat and forced a genuine smile, lowering herself millimetrically to be closer to their height.
The girls wore no ballet attire. They were dressed in their ordinary, everyday clothes: simple wool dresses, skirts of thick, patched cotton, and frayed cardigans their mothers had buttoned up to the neck to protect them from the biting morning wind. On their feet, there were no ballet slippers; they were all in socks, mostly of thick, dark wool, ready to slide upon that unfamiliar floor. They stared at Eleanor with a mixture of awe and wonder, fascinated by the perfectly fitted leotard, the elegant silhouette, and the aura of mystery the new teacher exhaled. It felt as though they had just seen a fairy appear in the middle of Small Heath.
— Good morning, girls, — Eleanor said, her voice sounding soft and musical in the wide hall. — You may come closer, there is no need to be afraid. My name is Eleanor Montague.
One of the little girls, who had freckles scattered across her nose and a slightly loose braid, took a step forward, staring fixedly at Eleanor’s slippers.
— Are you the lady who used to dance on real stages? Where there are colored lights? — the girl asked, her voice in a timid whisper.
Eleanor felt the corners of her lips rise in a welcoming smile, disarmed by the pure innocence of childhood that Small Heath rarely managed to preserve.
— Yes, I am, — she replied, crouching down completely before them, resting her hands upon her knees. — I used to dance in France, in a very grand theater. But now I have come here because I want to teach you to dance like true ballerinas as well. What do you think?
The girls exchanged glances and, immediately, the ice broke. A chorus of excited whispers and toothless smiles filled the room. They took to her instantly, captivated not only by the prestige surrounding her, but by the unexpected sweetness with which that so elegant woman treated them. There was none of the disdain the elite customarily directed toward the children of that part of the city; there was respect and even a sudden affection.
— Right, let us begin near the mirror, — Eleanor guided, rising with the fluid lightness that was natural to her. — I want you all to form a line and look at your own reflection.
The first rehearsal began with basic steps. Eleanor walked among them, demonstrating the first position of the feet and the correct curvature of the arms, while the fabric of her own skirt moved with the wind of her steps. Nevertheless, ballet demanded a coordination that those six-year-old bodies, wearing heavy winter clothes and sliding in socks, still struggled to comprehend.
— How old are you, ma'am? — the curious question arose out of nowhere, while a blonde little girl observed Eleanor’s skillful movement with her feet. The timid compliment followed immediately, leaving her chubby cheeks flushed. — You look like a princess.
— I am twenty-five, — she answered. Eleanor approached the pupil, crouching by her side, and indicated the reflection in the glass with her chin. — And you are the one who looks like a princess. See for yourself.
At the left end of the line, the little freckled girl—whom Eleanor soon discovered was named Mabel—was trying desperately to imitate the movement. She attempted to bring her heels together in the first position and raise her arms in a semicircle, yet her wool socks slipped slightly on the waxed oak, causing her legs to falter. Mabel lost her balance and nearly tripped over her own knitted coat. The girl’s little face began to turn red with frustration and her eyes welled with tears, her tiny lips trembling, ready to cry upon realizing she was the only one who could not secure the step.
Eleanor noticed immediately. Instead of drawing the room’s attention or demonstrating the severe rigidity she had received from her masters in France, she walked calmly to the corner of the studio. She knelt upon the perfectly polished floor beside Mabel, feeling the cold touch of the wood against her knees.
— It is quite all right, Mabel, — Eleanor whispered, her voice sounding like a solace, surprising herself.
Delicately, she extended her hands and held the girl’s small, trembling hand. The texture of the childish skin, so soft and warm, caused Eleanor’s fingers to relax. With a gentle touch, she helped Mabel find her point of balance, guiding the girl’s arms upward until they formed the perfect frame above her head. Then, with her other hand, she millimetrically corrected the position of the little feet covered by the wool socks, aligning the heels with infinite patience so she would no longer slip.
— Look there in the mirror, — Eleanor requested, tilting her head close to Mabel’s. — See how beautiful you look now. You see? You did it!
Mabel looked at the reflection, her tears drying instantly as a radiant smile illuminated her face. She looked up at Eleanor, her eyes shining with a deep, pure, and devout gratitude.
— Ballet is not about making it perfect right from the start, darling, — Eleanor continued, wiping away the trace of a tear on the girl’s cheek with her thumb, allowing herself for a second to feel the warmth of that childhood. — It is about trying a little bit every day. And I will be here to help you.
Mabel nodded vigorously, reclaiming her confidence, and Eleanor rose slowly, feeling a strange and beautiful lightness settle beneath her skin.
The rest of the lesson flowed like music. Eleanor conducted the little ones through the first exercises with absolute dedication, correcting each one with light touches, timely praise, and a sweetness that transformed the environment. There, surrounded by those simple clothes, colored wool socks, and childish laughter, Eleanor found a refuge.
For the first time in six years, she stood upon a stage without the applause of an aristocratic audience in Paris. Yet, looking at the happy little faces of those girls dancing around her, she realized that this new wooden floor might perhaps offer her something the Opera had never been capable of giving: a piece of peace in the midst of her own hell.
Thomas’s driver awaited him, smoking as he leaned against the fender of the car parked on the side street of the Grace Shelby Institute, ready to take him to the Shelby Company. When his master appeared, he threw the cigarette butt to the ground and extinguished it with the sole of his polished shoe.
Thomas entered the car without uttering a word, keeping his mind in an unsettled silence. His fingers tightened around the brim of his cap on the back seat with an unnecessary force, attempting to quell the urgency rising through his chest as he stared down at his own hands, thinking of Eleanor.
He knew that at that exact moment, she was inside that brightly painted room, standing before the immense mirror, doing what she loved.
Doing what had made her leave and abandon him. Dancing and repeating the very same steps that were the reason he had been forsaken. Because that was precisely what she had done: she had abandoned him. Fled from him after declaring she loved him. She preferred to dance.
As the driver turned the corner onto the main avenue, Thomas turned his head slightly backward, watching the building he had ordered erected grow smaller with every passing second.
— Stop, — he commanded, shattering the silence within the vehicle and startling the driver. — Stop the car.
— What? Mr. Shelby…
— Are you deaf? Stop the fucking car. I am getting out.
The driver obeyed, reducing speed as he pulled up to the curb. Thomas stepped down from the vehicle, slamming the door hard behind him. He adjusted the cap upon his head and spun on his heel, walking with swift steps and in absolute silence back toward the building he had just left.
Thomas did not enter through the main door. He walked to the side of the Institute and opened the iron door that led to the long corridor housing the private rooms. He had memorized every shortcut in that building; after all, he had approved the blueprints. He halted before the glass door of the dance room. It was made of frosted glass in the center, yet the edges were of clear, impeccably clean glass. He stayed there, in the shadows of the dimly lit hallway, adjusted the brim of his cap, and peered through the transparent gap.
What he saw caused the breath to lock within his lungs.
The truth was that he had never actually seen Eleanor be a ballerina. Six years ago, when discretion was the absolute rule between them, he could not fully immerse himself in the world of that girl from the Birmingham elite. That—which he now saw with stark clarity—had been an intimacy stolen from him. A part of Eleanor he was never permitted to access, and which he would discover was everything to her.
That sight was a blow to his pride. She had changed, and now he saw it. That obstinate girl with whom he had shared secrets, clandestine whispers, and a promise that ended up broken, no longer existed. Yet his mind, six years later, still seemed to insist upon the image of Eleanor frozen in that youth.
Only that woman on the other side of the glass... the woman commanding that entire room with a magnetic authority was a complete stranger to him.
Eleanor was without the green dress and the black high-heeled shoes. She was stripped of any armor she had worn to face him in the corridor. She wore only the black leotard and the fluid pink skirt that moved like water around her legs. She was not merely beautiful; she was light. The impact upon Thomas was far deeper, almost violent. The precision with which she moved her body, the natural haughtiness, and the absolute confidence with which she led the studio denoted years of a disciplined suffering he had not witnessed. She now inspired those girls. She praised, corrected with firmness, and dictated the rhythm of the place with a simple snap of her fingers. Thomas felt his stomach churn as he processed the reality: he had lost six whole years of her life. He had missed the transformation of the girl into the woman who now dominated the space with breathtaking ease.
Suddenly, Eleanor walked to the center of the waxed oak and, with a calm movement, removed her leather slippers. She stood barefoot.
Thomas fixed his eyes upon her bare feet touching the wooden floor. That sight through the glass dragged his mind straight back into the past, to a raw intimacy, devoid of pride. It recalled vulnerability. It recalled the late nights when defenses crumbled and they were merely two young people attempting to find a safe harbor in one another. Seeing her skin against the bare wood of that place was a painful contrast to the coldness she exhibited outside.
His eyes drifted to her shoes discarded in the corner of the room, remembering how, hours earlier, she had crossed that hall in them, perfectly mistress of herself. That was not the girl he had allowed to leave. Paris had sculpted her, had granted her a pride he had not witnessed. He realized, with a violent pang in his chest, that Eleanor had grown in a world where he did not exist. He could not touch the history she had built in those six years, he could not touch the mind of that woman, and worst of all, he could not touch the lightness of that smile she distributed so easily to the girls, yet which vanished the instant he walked into the room.
As the group of girls attempted to imitate the final step, stumbling over their own everyday shoes and clothes, one of them halted in place. Out of breath, her childish curiosity overcoming her fatigue, the girl looked up and blurted out:
— Does your husband like it when you dance?
Eleanor looked at her for a few seconds, her body still accompanying the gentle rhythm of the music in the background as she processed the question. Then, she tilted her head to the side before answering:
— I am not married, Mabel.
Behind the glass, the sound of the music arrived muffled, yet Eleanor’s reply felt far too clear. Thomas remained motionless. That line never crossed weighed heavily upon the room; he could have been the man in that question. He would have possessed the right to see her dance every day, to be a part of that routine. Yet reality was the silence of that room. She had left for Paris because, at the time, what he offered seemed not to suffice. Now, listening to Eleanor’s clean denial to the little girl, there remained only the uncomfortable glimpse of that alternate life. A life that did not exist because neither of them knew how to yield.
Eleanor returned her attention to the mirror. Her bare feet slid with millimetric perfection as she executed a movement, tracing an invisible line through the air. Upon finishing, she paused before the girls and then smiled once more.
It was a genuine smile.
Thomas’s jaw locked. Eleanor away from him seemed... at peace. There was none of the defensive rigidity, the cutting sarcasm, or the electric tension that always sparked whenever his blue eyes crossed her brown ones. Near the children, she breathed. And that bothered Thomas in a way he could scarcely manage. The perception that his proximity was what brought the fog to Eleanor’s eyes was a steep price his ego exacted in silence.
The image of that room, bathed in light and the promise of a future for those girls, brought to Thomas’s mind the face of Grace. His wife, pregnant, responsible for his happiness, who had envisioned that place with a naive sweetness, wishing to save Small Heath with white tulips and music. Yet it was Eleanor who stood before him, barefoot upon the oak floor. Thomas sustained his gaze, his face impenetrable. There was no regret in having encouraged her to occupy that place; her presence there, now, seemed to satisfy the Thomas of six years ago. And that sensation, so gratifying, was all that mattered during those long minutes. Even so, seeing Grace’s dream serve as the scenery for Eleanor brought an uncomfortable noise to the room. It was a calculation far too subtle, one he preferred not to rationalize.
Inside, the classical music continued to play, and the girls attempted to imitate the steps—which appeared so natural to Eleanor—with fascination in their eyes. One of the pupils stopped abruptly and approached the teacher, clutching the fabric of the skirt with her small fingers.
— Is your skirt a real ballerina’s skirt? — she asked, causing Eleanor to stop and look down at her.
— It is, my dear. Do you like it?
The girl nodded, her eyes shining. Eleanor crouched swiftly, placing herself in front of the pupils and inspecting the simple clothes and wool socks they wore.
— Girls, let me ask you something, — Eleanor’s voice came out calm, yet with an intonation indicating she already knew the answer. — Do you have leotards at home? Or ballet slippers tucked away?
The little girls exchanged confused glances and shook their heads in negation. Eleanor sighed lightly, a crease of worry appearing between her brows as she looked at the little feet covered in wool.
— I see... that is a small problem, — she murmured, almost to herself, keeping her tone soft so as not to frighten the little ones. — The oak is far too smooth. In socks, you will continue to slip, and the heavy clothes prevent me from observing your posture. But I shall resolve this; I will find a way.
Behind the door, Thomas Shelby took a step back, moving away from the glass to avoid the risk of being seen by the reflection. He thrust his hand into the pocket of his overcoat, his blue eyes still guarding the image of the barefoot ballerina.
He did not need to hear the rest of the conversation. As he walked down the corridor toward the second floor of the Institute, his mind was already operating with the surgical swiftness of business. He would send a telegram straight to the suppliers in London. He would order ten, twenty, thirty complete sets of black leotards and genuine leather slippers of the finest sizes for six-year-old children. He would ensure that nothing was lacking in that room.
Not out of Grace’s charity, nor for the girls of Small Heath. But because he needed to keep Eleanor Montague dancing in that studio, beneath his roof, under his eyes, even if watching that new version of her hurt more than any bullet he had ever taken.
The rehearsal was already more than halfway through when the vibrant energy of those six-year-old legs began to yield to fatigue and the smooth studio floor. The girls, still in their wool socks, were beginning to sit along the corners of the oak, pulling their cardigans close to their bodies.
Eleanor, noticing the tempo slow down, clapped her hands twice with a soft touch, the sound echoing sweetly through the hall.
— Very well, girls. Let us take a break so you may rest a little and catch your breath, — she announced, with a welcoming smile.
Immediately, the studio transformed into a whirlwind of small canvas bags being opened. The girls scattered across the floor: some pulled out small pieces of bread with jam wrapped in brown paper to eat, while others, encouraged by the playful activities Grace’s foundation promoted, fetched drawing pads and colored crayons to draw, lying on their stomachs upon the polished wood.
One of the girls approached her, holding a package in her hands that smelled deliciously of strawberry.
— Can a ballerina eat cake?
Eleanor laughed at the question, pitching her spine forward and resting her hands upon her knees covered by the tights.
— Yes, she can, my dear. If you do not eat, you will have no energy to dance.
Taking advantage of the interval, Eleanor walked over to the grand piano, and as she extended her hand to reach for her water bottle, the group of more curious girls surrounded her right there, following the other pupil and sitting down at her bare feet. It was then that the questions fired off, without filter.
— Miss Montague! — a dark-haired girl with her front teeth missing tugged lightly at the fabric of her pink skirt. — Who taught you to dance so beautifully? Was it a queen?
Eleanor released a melodious laugh, lowering herself slightly.
— No, it was not a queen, my dear. I learned a great deal here in Birmingham, yet it was very strict teachers at a very grand school in France who taught me to do it so beautifully.
— Do you know how to do a pirouette? One of those where you spin so fast the skirt turns into a disc? — another girl asked, her eyes wide.
— Indeed I do. In our next lesson, I shall show you an entire sequence. All right?
It was at that precise moment, while responding to the agitation of the little ones, that a familiar and violent shiver surged up Eleanor’s spine. A persistent sensation of heat upon her skin, the uncomfortable weight of a scrutiny that instantly triggered her defenses. The rhythm of her heart gave a lurch, and her brown eyes, led by an uncertain hunch, cut across the hall toward the frosted glass of the room's door.
She felt she was being watched, a persistent intuition that brought to mind a specific pair of blue eyes—the only ones capable of unsettling her in such a manner. Yet, when her gaze finally fixed upon the glass, the corridor stood completely empty. There was no shape, no shadow, nor any sign that someone had been there seconds prior. She swallowed hard, staring into nothingness, unsure if it had merely been the echo of the past playing a trick on her mind. Forcing herself to breathe, she undone the knot in her throat and returned her attention to the girls.
Mabel, the freckle-nosed little girl, took advantage of the brief instant of silence to tilt her head and blurt out the question with the most cutting innocence in the world:
— Miss Montague... do you have children?
The studio seemed to lose all sound completely. Time, for one terrible second, froze.
She remembered Grace. Her prominent belly beneath the light silk dress. Thomas’s hands smoothing over that womb with a caution one would never expect from a man like him.
Eleanor’s posture stiffened, the air growing thin within her lungs. She swallowed hard and felt the ancient wound slice open in a fine, painful cut, yet the relentless discipline of ballet operated as her mechanical miracle. She kept the smile upon her lips—a smaller smile, slightly paler, yet still tender.
— No, Mabel... — Eleanor’s voice came out a little lower, an echo that scraped the back of her throat. — I have no children.
She rose slowly, needing to reestablish physical distance so the weakness would not seep through her eyes. She clapped her hands again, calling them all back for the final ten minutes of simple arm exercises, concluding the first day with a formal révérence.
When the lesson finally ended and the girls began to put on their heavy winter shoes and gather their belongings, Eleanor remained standing near the piano, drawing a deep breath, feeling physical exhaustion finally exact the price for the morning's tension.
It was then that the little girl who had spent the entire break focused on the crayons walked up to her in silence. Her wool socks slid softly before coming to a halt right before Eleanor. With flushed cheeks, the child held out a slightly crumpled piece of paper.
— This is for you, Miss Montague, — the girl said, displaying a proud smile.
Eleanor’s gaze softened, disarmed by the gesture. She accepted the paper, unfolding it with care.
— Oh, thank you, my dear. Let me see...
She looked at the childish stroke drawn forcefully in crayon. In the center of the drawing, painted with a pink and black stroke that attempted to imitate the leotard, stood the prominent figure of Eleanor. Around her, several smaller stick figures represented the pupils in colored socks. The studio was there, rendered in crooked lines.
Yet Eleanor’s stomach churned completely when her eyes moved to the right edge of the paper.
Set apart from the rest of the group, drawn right in the gap representing the studio entrance, was a tall figure, painted entirely in black and dark gray crayon. Upon the head of that shadowy figure, the girl had drawn a very distinctly marked geometric rectangle: a flat cap. He stood positioned precisely behind the door frame, static, watching the scene.
Eleanor’s blood ran cold. She attempted to keep her voice perfectly linear, yet the paper trembled imperceptibly between her fingers. She pointed toward the dark stroke in the corner of the sheet and looked at the girl.
— What a beautiful drawing, my love... but who is he? — she asked, pointing toward the man in the cap.
The little girl blinked her pure eyes, oblivious to the gravity that had settled upon her teacher’s expression, and answered with the most devastating naturalness in the world:
— It is the man who kept watching you dance, Miss Montague. He was right there at the door, very quiet. He kept watching the whole time and then he went away.
The child turned her back, running to join the other pupils with the lightness of someone who had merely made an innocent record of the day.
Eleanor remained motionless in the center of the hall. She looked down at the paper in her hands once more. The revelation fell upon her like a direct strike to her pride: Thomas Shelby had been there. He had seen her without the armor of Paris, had seen the vulnerability of her bare feet upon the floor, and worst of all, had seen her smile with the lightness he was no longer capable of extracting from her. And the child did not even know who he was; to the little girl, he was merely a shadow in a cap watching in the dark.
— Right, girls, — she announced, her voice regaining its firm cadence, though a little more contained. — Your mothers must already be waiting in the lobby. You may gather your bags and walk in a line, all right?
The command dissolved the room’s trance in the blink of an eye. The sound of hurried steps and childish chatter echoed across the oak floor as the girls ran to the corner, gathering coats, shoes, and small colorful bags. One by one, they crossed the glass door toward the corridor, filling the building with a noisy and joyful farewell that gradually drifted away.
One of them, however, did not follow the flow. Mabel remained standing near the barre, observing the movement with her arms hanging at her sides. When silence finally settled back into the space, the little one walked slowly to the center of the hall. Her ordinary shoes made a soft sound against the waxed wood. She stopped a few paces from Eleanor, looked up with those curious eyes, and pressed the straps of her little bag against her chest, awaiting the proper moment to speak.
— Will you come back tomorrow? — the little one asked, breaking the silence of the empty room.
— I will. I shall be waiting for you right here, — Eleanor answered with a tender smile, lowering herself slightly to be at her height.
Before Eleanor could rise, Mabel took a step forward and, on a swift impulse, wrapped her small arms around the teacher’s bare legs, hiding her face against her stomach for a long, tight moment. The sudden gesture disarmed Eleanor, who rested her hand lightly upon the girl’s hair.
Mabel pulled away slowly, looking up with a childish seriousness that tightened Eleanor’s chest.
— How good. I thought you were going away like the other teacher. Are you going to stay here forever?
The question floated in the air, echoing off those walls in a way Mabel would never comprehend. Eleanor sustained her pupil’s gaze for a second longer than intended, with the promise of “forever” weighing tons against everything surrounding her there. She swallowed hard, forcing a light tone as she tucked a strand of hair behind the girl’s ear:
— I shall stay for as long as necessary, Mabel. Now go, your mother must be waiting.
Mabel nodded with a quick wave and ran toward the exit, her shoes beating hurriedly against the wood until her silhouette vanished down the corridor. The sound of the heavy door closing isolated the hall in absolute silence. She released the breath she had not realized she was holding and lowered her gaze, returning her attention to the slightly crumpled sheet of paper she still held.
Eleanor pressed the drawing against her chest, her eyes fixed upon the now closed door, feeling that, in Birmingham, every glass wall was merely one more pair of Thomas Shelby’s eyes ensuring she would never escape him.
The sound of Eleanor’s high-heeled shoes echoed rhythmically against the gray slate slabs of the lobby. She had left the dance room for a few minutes to fill her water bottle at the brass filter located near the mahogany counter. She wore the green dress once more, over her leotard and wrap skirt. The fluid silk piece, with a cut that subtly hugged her silhouette and flowed in clean lines, highlighted her flawless posture as she walked. The color brought a vividness that contrasted with the gray sobriety of Small Heath, its fabric capturing the pale light from the arched windows with her every movement.
She was about to screw the cap back onto the bottle when the sound of the heavy front door opening caught her attention.
Michael Gray entered the Institute wearing a modern, tailored suit, carrying that silent confidence of someone who knew precisely what he was seeking. When his eyes crossed the lobby and met Eleanor, he slowed his pace, permitting himself a pause to absorb the sight of the green dress before a contained smile, yet laden with intent, appeared upon his lips.
He walked in her direction with his hands in his trouser pockets, stopping at a distance that marked the exact boundary between gallantry and provocation.
— Good morning, Teacher Montague, — he said, his voice soft, his eyes shining with a genuine interest as they traveled down the details of the dress before returning to her face.
Eleanor sustained his gaze, raising her chin millimetrically. She rested the bottle against the mahogany counter, crossing her arms with a relaxed elegance that disarmed any formality.
— Good morning, Michael Gray, — she responded, allowing a calm smile to outline her lips. — Have you come to submit your resume for the backstage assistant position?
Michael released a low laugh, leaning his body slightly forward, closing the distance between them just enough for the flirtation to hang suspended in the air of the empty lobby.
— Is the position still open? — he asked, arching an eyebrow, his tone of voice laden with a polished audacity. — Because I am very interested in occupying it. I assure you I am excellent at following instructions.
Eleanor narrowed her brown eyes, amused by the swiftness with which he accepted the game. There was a lightness in Michael’s presence that operated as an antidote to the heavy fog Thomas always left behind.
— I shall be a rather demanding boss, Michael. I do not tolerate tardiness and I demand absolute perfection, — she countered, her voice soft, yet perfectly firm. She took half a step toward him, challenging his proximity. — I do not know if you are prepared for the tempo of my studio.
Michael held her step, his smile widening at the corners of his lips as he withdrew one hand from his pocket to subtly adjust the lapel of his own suit, keeping his eyes fixed upon hers.
— I deal with the business of all of England for the largest gangster in the city, Eleanor. I believe I can manage a demanding boss, — he returned, his tone dropping into a deeper pitch, nearly a secret shared between the two of them. The mention of Thomas caused a throb in the ballerina's head. — Particularly if the boss in question knows how to reward hard wor—
— Michael! — Ada’s voice echoed through the lobby, interrupting his sentence before its conclusion.
The Shelby woman appeared through the side door of the reception with a stack of papers in her hands, shattering the subtle magnetism that had held the two so close. She carried an amused smile upon her lips and narrowed eyes, capturing in that very instant their posture and the nature of the conversation she had just severed.
— What a surprise to see you here at the Institute, — Ada greeted her cousin, approaching with calm steps.
Michael composed himself with the swiftness of someone adept at disguising intentions, though he did not retreat a single millimeter from where he stood.
— Hello, Ada. I came for the accounts payable reports, — he explained, yet his eyes immediately drifted back to Eleanor, with an intensity that made it perfectly clear what his true motive was for being there.
Ada looked from Michael to Eleanor, her eyebrows arched in an expression of pure, conspiratorial mockery. She knew precisely what was taking place and took delight in the notion.
— The accounts payable report, I see... — she let slip, her tone laden with irony, holding back a laugh.
— I manage all accounts associated with the Shelby Company, Ada, — Michael countered with a protocol seriousness that only rendered the scene more comical. — Therefore, I must verify that everything is in order with the calculations for this building.
— Naturally, I believe you entirely, — Ada returned at once, crossing her arms and shifting her weight onto one leg, adopting a distinctly provocative posture. — I merely find it amusing that you decided to do so today, for the very first time since we inaugurated the place.
Michael subtly adjusted the lapel of his jacket, maintaining his pose.
— Thomas always carries the files to the company building, yet this time he did not. So I came to retrieve them.
Ada did not buy the excuse for a single second. She turned her gaze toward her friend, who remained with arms crossed, observing the clash of the cousins with a contained smile and eyes gleaming with amusement. Eleanor was finding humor in the theatricality, and Ada made a point of giving the situation a gentle push.
— I shall go fetch them for you, Michael, — she said, turning toward the stairs and winking conspiratorially at Eleanor, securing a few more minutes of privacy for the two. — No need to go upstairs. Stay right there.
As soon as Ada’s footsteps faded upon the wooden steps of the staircase, silence settled once more in the lobby. Yet it was not the suffocating silence Eleanor was accustomed to; it was a light stillness, filled with a distinct expectation.
Michael took a step to the side, approaching the mahogany counter where Eleanor rested her water bottle. He was in no hurry. He glanced toward the glass doors in the corridor before returning his eyes to her.
— They seemed disciplined, — he began, his voice soft, breaking the ice with a natural composure. — The little girls I saw leaving earlier. Are they all your pupils?
Eleanor relaxed her arms, resting one hand upon the edge of the counter. A contained smile appeared upon her lips at the sight of his interest.
— Indeed they are. The first group of the week, — she answered, observing his clean profile and the flawless cut of his suit. — Most of them had never had any contact with ballet prior to today.
Michael nodded slowly, turning his body to face her directly. He crossed his arms, allowing his brown eyes to fix firmly upon hers. There was a handsome seriousness in his expression now.
— And tell me something... — he lowered his tone of voice, rendering the question almost solemn. — Do you believe any of them will be as great as you are in ballet? That they too might conquer France?
Eleanor held her breath for a second. The question caught her off guard, not through audacity, but through reverence. There was no irony in Michael’s tone, no trace of the mockery typical of the men of Small Heath. He had used the word great not to refer to the magnitude of the Shelby enterprises or the territory of the Peaky Blinders, but to her career. He was enshrining her journey.
— Ballet is a very specific path, Michael, — she explained, choosing her words slowly, feeling her chest warm subtly upon touching the subject. — It demands a surrender most people are not prepared to give. It is not merely talent. It is a kind of... obsession. Yet if they dedicate themselves, they shall be as good as I am.
Michael leaned his body slightly forward, closing the distance between them in a subtle manner, demonstrating that every word issuing from her lips possessed his absolute attention.
— An obsession of how many hours a day? — he asked, with a genuine curiosity gleaming in his eyes. — How many hours did you train in Paris to reach such a level?
Eleanor stared at him in silence for a brief moment, processing the weight of that question. How many hours a day.
That was a silent jolt within her mind. No one in Birmingham ever asked that. To her father, ballet had been an expensive rebelliousness; to Thomas, it was the reason she had abandoned him, a bitter rivalry against his world. No one there understood effort unless blood, coal, or money were involved. Yet Michael... was looking beyond. He saw the artist. He saw the sweat, the sacrifice, and the dedication that existed behind that flawless posture and the fluid movement of the green dress. He had become the first person, in years, capable of perceiving the part of Eleanor she loved most in herself.
— Six hours, — she answered, her voice coming out a little softer, disarming her defenses. — Sometimes eight, when we were in performance season at the Opera.
— Eight hours a day, — Michael repeated softly, impressed. A corner smile, laden with admiration, outlined his lips. — It is the entire shift of a foundry worker in the factories. Yet performed with an elegance they could never achieve.
He took another step, his proximity now bringing back the warmth of the flirtation, yet anchored in a respect she had not experienced in a very long time.
— You truly belong to another world, Eleanor Montague, — he whispered, his eyes gleaming with the promise of the night awaiting them.
Eleanor felt the magnetism of that phrase and released a low laugh, a genuine amusement rising through her throat. She narrowed her brown eyes, regaining control of the game of seduction.
— I believe you are attempting to impress me, Mr. Gray. And employing rather refined tactics, I must add.
— I am merely stating the obvious, — he returned in the same tone, his eyes fixed upon hers, without retreating a single millimeter. — And attempting to ensure that I am your partner for the dance tomorrow evening.
— In Paris, gentlemen rehearsed for weeks to possess such a privilege, — she countered, her tone flawlessly polished and provocative. — Leading a ballerina demands firmness, Michael. Ensure you know precisely where you step when you come to fetch me tomorrow at eight.
— Here it is, Mr. Efficiency, — Ada announced, appearing around the bend of the corridor with a considerably high stack of leather folders and expense reports in her arms.
She walked up to the two with a subtle smirk, clearly aware she had interrupted something good by the way Michael cleared his throat and adjusted his posture in a swift reflex. Ada dumped the heavy bundle of papers directly against her cousin’s chest, forcing him to catch the stack with a dull thud before a few sheets nearly slipped free.
— The accounts payable for this building, Small Heath, Boston, and wherever else you wish to invent to justify your presence at the Institute, — Ada teased, dusting her hands off imaginarily upon her skirts and casting a conspiratorial glance at Eleanor, who merely observed the scene with her water bottle in hand and amusement plain in her eyes. — Happy reading, Michael.
Michael adjusted the considerable stack of reports against his chest, using his chin for a second to pin one of the leather folders that threatened to slide. He looked at Ada with a falsely outraged expression, yet his eyes soon sought Eleanor’s over the thick bundle of papers. There was a silent promise gleaming in those brown pupils, an absolute certainty of something that was only just beginning.
— Your hospitality is always touching, Ada, — Michael ironized, his soft voice reclaiming the corporate tone of someone who knew precisely how to comport himself. He took a step back, giving a subtle nod of his head to the two of them. — Ladies, have an excellent day of work. I trust the numbers shall align.
He turned on his heel and walked toward the grand wrought-iron doors of the lobby. The sound of his leather shoes echoed rhythmically across the slate slabs until the heavy latch clicked shut, isolating the Institute once more from the outside world.
Eleanor and Ada remained motionless, their eyes fixed upon the glass of the facade as Michael’s silhouette crossed the Small Heath pavement and vanished into the gray morning fog. The silence that settled lasted no longer than three seconds.
Ada turned slowly toward her friend. She crossed her arms over her dark coat, shifted her weight onto one leg, and narrowed her eyes, sustaining a massive smile that was beginning to tug at the corners of her mouth.
— “Leading a ballerina demands firmness, Michael”? — Ada repeated the phrase, imitating Eleanor’s velvety tone with comical perfection. She released a muffled laugh, shaking her head. — For God’s sake, Eleanor Montague. Tell me that means what I think it means and that I have just witnessed the beginning of something very interesting.
Eleanor held her breath for a moment. The flawless posture ballet imposed upon her seemed to yield subtly; she relaxed her shoulders, looking down at the water bottle in her hands before facing her friend. The warmth she felt rising to her cheeks was no longer from the physical exertion of the rehearsal.
— It means what you are thinking, Ada, — Eleanor confessed, her voice coming out a little lower, abashed. — I have a date. With your cousin. Tomorrow evening.
— Oh, my God! — Ada took a step forward and seized Eleanor’s forearms, releasing a contained squeal of excitement that echoed off the high, solemn ceiling of the lobby. The austere composure she customarily maintained at work crumbled in a second. — Finally! I knew this was going to happen. Michael is going to become insufferable with pride, yet I do not mind in the slightest.
Ada released her friend’s arms and began to gesticulate, her eyes shining with a purely genuine energy.
— Yet wait. We must focus on what matters now. What are you going to wear? Have you thought of the dress? It must be something that completely destroys whatever remnant of good sense that young man still possesses.
Eleanor widened her brown eyes, the reality of the engagement crashing down upon her shoulders. She looked down, inspecting her own green dress and the fluidity of the silk, then raised her eyes to the vastness of the empty hall, a pang of genuine panic mingling with the amusement bubbling within her chest.
— Oh, my God, Ada... I have not the slightest idea! — she brought her free hand to her forehead, releasing a loud, disarmed laugh. — My Paris clothes are far too formal for Birmingham, they look made for the Opera, and everything I left in my old wardrobe seems... old. From another life. I have nothing suited for a date at eight in the evening with a businessman.
She paused, glancing at the clock upon the lobby wall, calculating the time she still had left.
— You know what? I shall make use of my lunch break. I will run to the city center and attempt to purchase something for this date. Then I shall return straight here to finish organizing a few things in the rehearsal room.
— A shopping mission during lunch hour? I give my absolute support, — Ada decreed, lacing her arm firmly through Eleanor’s and pulling her back toward the side corridor of the rehearsal rooms, their heels striking the floor in unison.
Eleanor permitted herself to be led, yet paused for a second at the mouth of the corridor, looking at Ada with an incredulous smile upon her lips.
— Heavens, look at the two of us, — Eleanor murmured, shaking her head while laughter still vibrated in her throat. — We look like two teenagers in a school corridor, gossiping in secret about the boys from church. Acting like this right in the middle of our workplace.
— And where is the harm in that? — Ada countered immediately, squeezing her friend’s arm with affection and letting out a conspiratorial laugh. — God knows we deserve five minutes of futility and gossip in this gray city. If we do not laugh at these things, we shall go mad with the routine. Now come, you are going to tell me word for word what he said to you while I was upstairs hunting down those reports before you leave.
Minutes later, Ada was organizing the last registration forms on the reception desk, the sound of thick paper sliding between her fingers bringing a bureaucratic calm to the lobby following the whirlwind of the morning. She was about to put away the fountain pen when the sound of firm, deliberate footsteps echoed down the side corridor.
She raised her eyes and saw Thomas walking in her direction.
He was already wearing his dark overcoat, his shoulders slightly arched under the weight of the fabric. He carried an unlit cigarette between his fingers and his usual impenetrable expression, though his blue eyes subtly searched the opening of the hallway leading to the dance rooms. The silence emanating from there seemed to disquiet him.
Thomas came to a halt before the desk where his sister stood. He did not light the cigarette; he merely rotated it mechanically between his thumb and index finger, a rare tic revealing that his mind was running faster than customary.
— Heavens, Thomas. You startled me, — Ada said, bringing one hand to her chest before returning her attention to the papers. — I did not know you were still here. Were you not supposed to be at the Shelby Company settling the export contracts?
— Business can wait half an hour, Ada, — he replied. His voice was linear, devoid of any haste, almost far too casual for Thomas Shelby’s standards of urgency. He rested his knuckles against the mahogany counter, his eyes fixed upon the desk. — Has Eleanor left?
Ada continued tapping the sheets of paper against the wood of the desk to align them, answering without giving much weight to her brother’s tone.
— She has. She left about twenty minutes ago. She went shopping for her date.
Thomas halted the movement of his fingers. The cigarette stopped rotating.
The silence that settled over the reception lasted merely a second, yet it was enough for the air to feel suddenly denser, like the atmosphere preceding a storm. His blue eyes abandoned the desk and fixed upon his sister with a cutting intensity, his brow furrowing the slightest millimeter beneath the brim of his felt cap.
— What date? — his voice dropped to a harsh whisper. A tone of cold authority mingled with a sudden, uncomfortable rigidity in his posture.
Ada stopped what she was doing in time to capture that shift. She perceived the weight of the atmosphere; she knew her brother far too well to ignore when his composure morphed into a threat. She swallowed hard, his eyes demanding an answer that slipped from her nearly unbidden:
— ...With Michael.
Thomas did not move a single muscle, yet his jaw locked in a noticeable fashion, a hard line etching itself beneath the skin of his face.
The mention of his cousin’s name ignited a dangerous, almost glassy glint in his icy pupils. Eleanor had returned to Birmingham because of her father’s ruin and illness, yet her presence there, moving through the very corridors he inhabited, had seemed predictable under his control. Knowing that Michael was advancing into that space, crossing an invisible line Thomas maintained in silence, caused an immediate short-circuit in his opaque expression.
— Michael was meant to be taking care of the accounts today, — Thomas said, his voice coming out even lower, almost drawn out, yet carrying a cutting weight. — I was unaware he had time for dates.
— Well, it appears he made time, — Ada commented, attempting to ease the tension that seemed to saturate the new brick walls. — Yet Eleanor said she would return later to finish organizing a few things in her room, should you need to speak with her, you need only wait.
Thomas averted his gaze from his sister, staring at the opposite wall of the lobby. In his mind, the image of the white tulips Grace had sent collided head-on with the knowledge that Eleanor had just departed to prepare for his cousin. The silent contradiction of it all weighed heavily upon his shoulders.
He returned the cigarette to his waistcoat pocket in a mechanical movement, a dry gesture that put an end to any pretense of indifference.
— Very well, — was all he said, his voice sharp and stripped of any manageable emotion.
Ada watched her brother adjust his cap with a quick touch to the brim. She gathered her own bag, eager to cut through the ice Thomas had left in the room.
— Well, I must be off in any case. Karl’s nanny is leaving shortly, and I promised I would not be late today. Goodbye, Tommy.
Thomas did not answer with words. He merely gave a brief, rigid nod of his head toward his sister, spun on his heel, and walked toward the side staircase leading to the administrative offices. His steps, which were usually silent, struck the gray slate slabs of the Institute with unnecessary force, echoing through the lobby like a silent warning of the magnitude of the trouble Michael had just invited upon himself.
Upon entering the room, he did not turn on the lights. Thomas walked over to the frosted glass window, resting both hands upon the dark wood sill as he observed the noisy movement of Small Heath below. His fingers tightened around the brim of the cap he now held, his knuckles turning white from the force of the grip.
The bitter truth eroding Thomas’s chest was that, despite all he controlled in Birmingham, that woman who had just crossed the lobby to teach in his Institute was beyond his reach. There existed a distance forged of six years of silence and a pride that now functioned as an invisible barrier between the two. Eleanor was no longer the adolescent who kept his secrets in dark corners; she had returned mistress of herself, protected by an elegance he could not simply lay claim to.
Yet Michael was free to try. And the mere mention of that possibility caused Thomas’s blood to run hot.
His cousin carried no ring upon his finger, bore not the weight of that unfinished history, and possessed the audacity of a young man who believed he could simply lead her. A deep, cutting irritation surged up Thomas’s spine. The fact that Eleanor had accepted struck a deep blow to his pride. She had gone to purchase a beautiful garment. She would smile for Michael. She would be light with him.
He closed his eyes for a brief second, and the image of Eleanor in the green dress invaded his mind with a painful clarity. The cut of the silk that hugged her silhouette, the contrast of that vivid color... she had chosen that piece to be seen.
And now it would be Michael who would see her by candlelight. It would be Michael who possessed the right to reach out and touch the exposed skin of her back, to catch the perfume he knew so well, to hold her waist during a dance and share in her smiles. The thought of another man, especially one of his own blood, occupying that space caused a spasm of fury at the base of his stomach. His teeth ground together, his jaw rigid to the point of aching.
Thomas released his breath slowly through his nostrils, forcing his heartbeat to slow down. His eyes narrowed as he stared at the smoke from the factory chimneys outside.
That was a warning of danger.
Michael was the future of the family’s enterprise, far too valuable to the Shelby Company. Young and ambitious, yet completely ignorant of what Eleanor Montague was capable of doing. She had already taken everything Thomas possessed in the past—his cleanest promises—and vanished into the world without looking back, leaving only the void in Birmingham. A businessman could not permit a distraction of such magnitude to destabilize the most vital link in an expanding empire. It was a matter of damage control. Someone needed to intervene before the young man was ruined by a whim of Paris.
Thomas set the cap down upon the desk and retrieved a cigarette, finally lighting it. The red ember glowed in the dim light as he drew deeply, his eyes fixed upon the door. He was going nowhere.
The metallic sound of the main door, on the ground floor below, interrupted the building’s silence. Thomas approached the window that overlooked the first floor. Eleanor had returned. Her firm, decided footsteps echoed through the empty lobby, and he could watch her cross the corridor.
Thomas placed the cap upon his head, opened the door, and descended the steps without haste. Every step of his was calculated, yet there was a dark internal urgency dictating the tempo. The Institute’s silence was dense, broken only by the rhythmic beat of his own pocket watch and his shoe against the floor. Everything he would do next would be for Michael. It had to be.
He pushed open the door of the dance room without knocking. Eleanor was with her back to the entrance, near the grand piano. She was organizing some sheet music upon the instrument’s wooden lid, right beside Grace’s vase of tulips. Upon hearing the sound of the door, she did not start; she merely rotated her body slowly, and her brown eyes met his with the customary barrier of coldness.
— I forgot that the Shelbys possess not the habit of knocking before entering, — she began, her voice flowing with a clean cadence, devoid of the Birmingham rush. — The Institute is already closed, Thomas. I only returned to organize the girls’ material for tomorrow.
Thomas halted a few meters from her. He removed the felt cap, keeping it firm between his hands, his long fingers caressing the gray brim in an almost imperceptible manner. His blue eyes, cold as the winter of 1919, swept over her silhouette, detaining themselves for a millisecond at the neckline of the green dress before rising to her face.
— I received word that you are going out tomorrow evening.
Eleanor released a huffed laugh, a sound short and destitute of any real humor. She turned sideways, tapping the stack of sheet music against the piano wood to align them, the dry impact echoing in the empty room. Then, she crossed her arms, adopting her defensive posture.
— Ada possesses a tragically large mouth. And yes, I am. I was unaware that the terms of the contract for my family’s coal mines included a curfew clause for me or a report of my social life for the company’s chairman.
— It has nothing to do with coal, Eleanor.
Her name came out low, nearly a breath. It was the first time he had pronounced it aloud since she had set foot back in Birmingham, and the sound seemed to vibrate in the space between the two. Thomas took a slow step in her direction. His eyes narrowed subtly.
— It has to do with Michael. You are not going to that date. I came here to ensure you understand that he cannot afford to have this kind of distraction right now.
— I beg your pardon? — Her chin rose instantly, Paris polish cracking to yield space to genuine indignation. She took a step forward, closing the distance he was attempting to control. — Have you gone completely mad, Thomas? Who do you think you are to dictate what I do once I set foot outside this door?
— I am saying this for Michael’s sake. For his career, — he uttered. His voice dropped to an even lower, deliberate, and almost didactic tone, the cadence he employed to close business with dangerous men in smoke-filled rooms. — Michael is young. He has just assumed control of crucial accounts for the company. He is handling sums he has never seen in his life, with men who do not forgive the slightest misstep. His moment at the Shelby Company is pivotal, Eleanor.
— And what does a date with me have to do with his ability to sum numbers? — she countered, narrowing her eyes, her lips tightening into a tense line. She could perceive the lie behind his eyes, and the audacity of such cynicism enraged her.
— Everything, — Thomas continued. He took another step, invading her personal space until Eleanor could see the tension in his jaw and the unusual rigidity in his broad shoulders. The scent of tobacco and rain that always accompanied him now dominated the air around her. — You are a distraction. A sophisticated distraction, arriving from Paris with a baggage Michael lacks the maturity to manage. He is easily impressed. If he begins losing sleep thinking of dates, he will make errors in the reports. And errors committed by Michael cost my family dearly.
— So you have never gone out with any woman while working? — she fired back, her tone rising in a cutting provocation. — I thought the Shelbys were adept at doing two things at once, you see? Mixing business and pleasure. Or does this rule of distraction apply only when the control is not held in your hands?
Thomas halted his step. The provocation struck its mark with surgical precision. He slowly raised his chin, his face transforming into a stone mask that revealed nothing, yet his fingers tightened around the felt of his cap with a force that nearly deformed the piece. When he spoke, his voice was a murmur devoid of any warmth, yet one that caused the air in the room to freeze:
— I know precisely where to direct my attention, Eleanor. Michael does not. If he looks at you too long, he forgets to look at the ledger books. And at the Shelby Company, a wrong number costs lives.
She sustained his gaze, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Neither receded a single centimeter. In the tense silence that ensued, the ticking of Thomas’s pocket watch seemed to mark the countdown of a bomb both knew would explode, sooner or later.
— For Michael.... — she whispered, slowly shaking her head. A smile of pure derision, bitter and sharp, appeared upon her lips. — Are you attempting to convince me of that, or yourself? You are unbelievable, Thomas Shelby. You truly manage to construct an entire lie and don this cloak of a zealous leader merely to avoid admitting what is taking place here.
— It is the reality of business, Eleanor.
His voice came out low, yet his fingers tightened around the brim of his cap with such force that the felt yielded under the pressure. Thomas attempted, with every ounce of his willpower, to focus on the logic of his own excuse so as not to reach out and shorten the distance separating them. Yet his discipline failed for a millisecond when his gaze slid to the contour of her neck, where her pulse beat fast and warm against her skin.
— I protect my men. I protect my cousin’s focus, — he continued, his voice slightly rasper. — Cancel the dinner. Say your father has taken a turn for the worse, invent whatever excuse you wish. For the sake of the company’s stability. For Michael’s sake.
— Stop saying his name! — Eleanor cut in, her voice rising a tone, her ballerina’s polish transforming into a raw and disarmed fury. She took two swift steps, shattering any social distance, halting inches from him. The proximity was such that she could feel the heat emanating from his body beneath the heavy overcoat. — You do not give a damn about Michael’s focus, Thomas. You are not doing this for him, and we both know it. You are doing this because you cannot bear the thought of me being in this city and not being under your absolute control. You cannot bear to see that I might have a life, a smile... or be with anyone other than you!
Thomas swallowed hard. His chest rose in a rigid motion. Eleanor’s breath, warm, swift, and slightly erratic, struck against the curve of his neck, disarming the icy air of the room.
— You do not understand, Eleanor, — he said, his voice growing denser, the control he so boasted of beginning to leak through the cracks. — You do not belong to this family.
She laughed. It was a sharp sound, nearly hysterical, echoing off the empty walls of the dance room.
— I thought that had been precisely the problem six years ago.
The mention of the past acted as a trigger. Thomas took half a step forward, a physical invasion so sudden it forced Eleanor to recede a centimeter, feeling the wood of the grand piano against her back. Her perfume, something floral and clean, struck him head-on, mingling with the persistent scent of cold tobacco that saturated his clothes.
— Michael does not know you, Eleanor, — Thomas whispered, his voice growing raspier, the corporate armor failing under the pressure of the truth he attempted to bury at all costs. — He does not know who you are.
— I introduced myself.
— Do not be ironic, — he countered, his blue eyes sparking in the dim light. — That is not what I meant.
— And do you know me, Thomas? — she confronted him, her brown eyes suddenly welling with rage and an ancient heartache that his proximity caused to burn with full force. — I am no longer that girl from six years ago. That adolescent who accepted your whispers in the dark died in Paris. I have changed. I have built my own life, and it pains you to see that I no longer need you.
Thomas sustained the blow without averting his gaze. The mention of the whispers in the dark seemed to resonate in the empty room.
— Michael may bear another surname, Eleanor, yet that does not alter who he is, — he said, his voice dropping into a harsh whisper that scraped against the icy atmosphere. — He is family.
Thomas did not answer immediately. He kept his eyes fixed upon her, his body taut, tracking every micro-expression upon Eleanor’s face like a predator unsure whether to advance or retreat. His hands, still holding the cap at hip level, trembled slightly against the gray felt brim, the sole visible sign of the violent battle raging behind his blue eyes.
— And now you have resolved to protect the women from the Shelbys? — she countered, with a short laugh completely devoid of humor, hatred gleaming in her pupils.
— You vanished once, Eleanor, — he weaponized the past against her, his blue eyes fixing upon hers with an almost physical intensity. — Do not do that to him. Do not enter his life if you are to disappear again.
— Did you come here to speak of Michael... or of me? — she cut in. Her voice was soft, yet sharp as a blade, exposing his final line of defense.
Eleanor averted her face for a second. Her chest rose and fell rapidly as she attempted to reclaim air from that suffocating proximity, before turning back to face him with all the strength she had remaining.
— Yet it is amusing... — she continued, her voice trembling with frustration, her eyes gleaming with the purest resentment. — You spent six years without asking where I was. Without sending a single letter to learn if I was alive in France. And now you are concerned with who is to dine with me? — She took a subtle step to the side, breaking the defense and keeping her chin raised high. — I am going out with Michael.
The sentence was a decree of independence, every syllable pronounced with a measured firmness that echoed through the hall.
— No.
The word issued from Thomas’s mouth before he could filter it.
It was a dry snap, devoid of any business varnish, familial excuse, or political calculation. Merely a "No," possessive and authoritative, that seemed to freeze the damp air between the two.
The silence that settled afterward was absolute and suffocating.
Thomas continued to stare at her, yet the stone mask of his face cracked. His own eyes betrayed the physical shock of having allowed that word to escape; he had been caught red-handed by his own impulse. For the first time in years, Thomas Shelby possessed no ready answer, no strategic exit, nor any rational excuse. The instinct of possession and the desperation of losing her again stood exposed right there, stripped of any defense, in the middle of his wife’s charity room. He opened his mouth, yet the words simply would not come.
— You spent ten minutes hiding behind your cousin, — she said, her voice trembling with frustration, distilling a longing that mingled with hatred for still feeling that humiliating attraction. — Yet the truth is we are not speaking of him. We are speaking of us. We are speaking of the fact that you cannot bear to see me move on. We are speaking of six years ago, Thomas. And you forfeited the right to care about whom I go out with the moment you allowed me to leave.
— I did not let you leave because I wanted to, Eleanor, — he countered.
His voice finally came through, yet it sounded hoarse, harsh, completely stripped of the habitual authority of the Peaky Blinders' leader. Thomas took a swift step toward her and, in an impatient movement, tossed his cap onto the piano lid without so much as looking where it would land. The control he so prized was slipping between his fingers like sand.
— You made your choice in that house. You packed your bags and left for Paris.
— And what did you expect me to do? — she fired back, turning to face him directly, her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into the skin of her hands. — Stay here to be controlled by you? To be just another wife spending her days praying for her husband to return home without a scratch?
Her brown eyes drifted from his for a second, sweeping through the room's twilight. Eleanor swallowed hard as her gaze hovered over the piano and, with a trembling gesture, pointed toward the vase of tulips upon the wood. Her voice cracked imperceptibly for the first time:
— Grace sent me flowers today. She was sweet, she was genuine... And you put me in here, in the middle of her dream, merely so you can watch me through the glass of the door? That is sick, Thomas.
— I did not plan the bankruptcy of the Montagues, Eleanor, — he confessed.
His tone dropped into a low register, almost an intimate, defensive murmur he would never employ with anyone else in Birmingham.
— The coal mine contract was legitimate business. Elliot came to me.
— Yet you did not accept it because you are a good person who merely wished to help. You accepted it because you knew the price I would have to pay, — she countered, approaching him once more, closing the gap until electric tension sparked in the air between their bodies. — You knew that one day I would return.
He halted, his jaw locking in a noticeable manner. The raw possessiveness and accumulated resentment finally mingled within his words, stripping him of any disguise.
— If you believed the price to save your family was far too steep... why did you sign the contract? — his voice held a challenging edge.
— You practically cornered me, — she replied.
Eleanor’s voice attempted, desperately, to regain the cold composure she had brought back from France, yet the disguise crumbled before the frantic pace at which her chest rose and fell. She swallowed hard, feeling the tightness in her throat.
— Yet that matters no longer. My hours at the Institute ended thirty minutes ago, and what I do outside that door belongs neither to you nor to the Shelby Company. You possess no right whatsoever to tell me whom to see.
— Is that so? — he challenged.
He approached, closing the distance until the shared air grew scarce. Thomas’s voice was now so low it reduced to a warm, dangerous, and damp whisper against her lips.
— No, — she sustained, though the sound came out nearly as a sigh.
Her chest pressed against his. The space separating them simply ceased to exist. The latent rage, the accumulated frustration of six years of silence, and the contained desire collided in the heavy air of the dance room.
Before she could recede, Thomas’s right hand rose and gripped the curve of her hip. His fingers tightened into the fine fabric of the green dress with a possessive, firm, and desperate strength—a physical mark Eleanor made no attempt to push away. On the contrary, she leaned millimetrically in his direction.
They were so close that the room's twilight seemed to close in around them both. Their lips nearly brushed with every gasp of air; Eleanor’s feverish breath was consumed by his in a torturous cycle. It was the pure hatred of still wanting each other so fiercely, the humiliation of realizing that time had healed absolutely nothing.
Thomas tilted his face slightly. His lips grazed hers—not a kiss yet, but a slow trail of heat, a painful promise testing the boundary of sanity for them both. Merely a millimeter remained. A fraction of a second before the kiss that would shatter every barrier and justification they had constructed while apart. His mouth pressed softly against the corner of hers, eliciting a trembling sigh from Eleanor.
In the outer corridor, the dull thud of a metal bucket striking the stone floor echoed through the empty structure of the building, followed by the dragging sound of heavy footsteps.
They broke apart abruptly, as though an abyss had opened beneath their feet. Both were entirely out of breath, their hearts beating violently, their chests rising and falling in an erratic tempo. They stared at one another with a profound hatred—a hatred directed not at each other, but at themselves, for having lost control in so pathetic a manner, for still feeling this way, and for being incapable of overcoming the past.
Eleanor shoved Thomas’s chest with both hands, stepping away from him as if she had touched red-hot iron. Her hair was slightly disheveled, a few strands falling over her breathless face. Her brown eyes were wide, gleaming with the absolute panic of what had nearly transpired right there—beneath the roof of the Institute that bore, in gold lettering upon the facade, the name of his wife.
With trembling hands, she attempted to brush the hair from her face, while her other hand adjusted her dress with swift, restless movements, trying to reclaim a dignity that had already evaporated.
— This will not happen again, — she said in a trembling whisper, which she attempted to coat with firmness.
— Is that what you are going to tell yourself? — Thomas countered.
His voice was extremely hoarse, nearly a scraped whisper. His chest rose and fell heavily beneath his jacket as he fought to gather the fragments of the control that had just been shattered across the floor of that room. Thomas cleared his throat, averting his gaze from hers for a second while adjusting his overcoat with abrupt, dry, and defensive movements. He drew in a sharp breath and faced her once more, the icy mask attempting to rebuild itself over his rigid features.
— You ought to cancel that date.
— And you ought to be at home, Thomas. With your wife.
— Do not confuse matters, Eleanor.
— You have already confused them for the both of us, — she countered. Her voice was finally reclaiming its firm cadence, though the heartache still vibrated, warm and painful, beneath the surface.
— This has nothing to do with Grace, — he hissed. His teeth were clenched, his jaw rigid as stone, his eyes fixed upon her as though attempting to silence her by sheer force of gaze.
— It does, — Eleanor answered. Her voice was soft, cold, and definitive.
She turned toward the piano, retrieved her canvas bag and shopping parcel, her movements now deliberate and precise, as if gathering her own pieces from the floor. She walked toward the studio exit, yet paused before touching the brass handle, looking at him over her shoulder one final time.
— Because everything you are doing here... you ought to be doing there.
Thomas did not answer. He remained precisely where he stood, a dark and motionless silhouette against the room’s twilight, the shadows seeming to prowl around his broad shoulders.
Eleanor sustained his silence for a second, her chin held high. She required no answer from him; Thomas’s silence was already his greatest confession. With her hand upon the handle, she delivered the first decisive strike, stripping him of whatever authority still remained:
— If you wish the date to be canceled, go to Michael’s accounting desk and order it, — she challenged, her eyes fixed upon his, gleaming with a bitter courage. — Tell him you cannot sleep knowing another man shall touch the woman you once wished to marry.
She turned toward the door, yet looked back at him once more, making a brief pause. Silence fell heavy, almost physical, between the two of them before she delivered the coup de grâce:
— Is your marriage everything you hoped for? — she began, turning the brass handle, her voice dangerously soft as she took a slow step to the side to open the door. — Actually, there is no need to answer. If it were, Thomas... you would not be standing here right now.
The door of the dance room opened and clicked shut with a soft latch. Thomas Shelby remained motionless. His chest rose and fell in a heavy breath he no longer needed to conceal. There, in the sepulchral silence that remained, he lowered his gaze to his own hand—the very hand that, minutes prior, had gripped Eleanor’s waist with a desperation nearly uncontrollable—and realized that, at no point during that conversation, had he managed to lie to himself.
He loved Grace. He loved the clean life they were building, the light his wife represented, and the child on the way. Yet what he felt for Eleanor was visceral, an untamable darkness embedded in his very veins.
And what caused his blood to boil was absolute, sheer impotence.
Eleanor was everything he could no longer touch. Because of Grace. Because of six years of distance. Because of the life that had proceeded relentlessly for them both while they were apart. The boundary had been drawn by his own choices, and the frustration of realizing that the empire he had built served not to return her to his arms was driving him mad from within.
His blue eyes fixed upon the piano. More specifically, upon the pristine vase of white tulips Grace had sent. The embodiment of the perfect life that now seemed to suffocate him.
A primitive, blind rage took hold of his body. Unthinking, driven solely by the violent instinct of his own frustration, he swept his arm across the wooden lid and sent the vase crashing off the piano.
The crash of crystal shattering against the floor was deafening. Water, soil, and white petals scattered across the dark boards, ruining the peace and the untouched scenery of the Institute.
Thomas stepped over the shards of glass, the crunching sound breaking the room’s echo, and retrieved his felt cap. He adjusted his overcoat over his tense shoulders. He would not order Michael to cancel the evening. He would swallow his own pride and allow the date to happen.
Yet, much like the destroyed crystal beneath his boots, his control had shattered completely. And Thomas Shelby was not the kind of man who respected boundaries for long.
New update added to ABSENT if you are reading it over on AO3.
Thank you again for the shares, likes, and the interaction over on AO3. It's really encouraging. It seems like the film has reignited some interaction in the PB fandom and it has brought in some new readers for the repost which I appreciate loads!
Summary: The search for you comes to its brutal end. And as your husband descends into madness, you plot your way home. But when dawn breaks over Arrow House, love becomes the only thing left worth fighting for.
Arrow House had seen and endured many things throughout Tommy Shelby's reign under its slate coveted roofs.
Weddings. Hearts bound. Hearts broken. Lost children. Lost wives.
But what she hadn't seen, what she wasn't built to withstand, was a master who had gone out of his fucking mind, ready to burn the whole country down to find the one thing he never meant to lose sight of.
You.
For Tommy was not only hellbent on finding his wife, he'd be heaven-bound, born again into believing anything if it meant you returned unscathed to the safety of her walls and his arms.
And as I sit here, watching his tyres tear up gravel and grit as he flew back down the drive, functioning on fury and a bottle of John Jameson finest Irish, there's not a shred of doubt in me that your husband wouldn't run headlong right into hell and fight the devil one handed, heart on his sleeve just to get you back.
“ I want men on every street. On every road out of the county, from here to Hadrian's wall” Tommy's voice boomed through the foyer as the Shelby siblings followed a foot behind looking worse for wear after a night of carrying the grief-stricken gangsters orders out.
It was unfeasible. Impossible. It was bloody madness.
And now, it was his brother's job to follow through, or face his fury.
“ We've got everyone out there, Tom” Arthur ran a hand down his face as he came to a stop, watching his brother march towards the pile of maps that had driven him into an obsession over every ridge, bridge and overpass.
“ Our boys have their orders. Been called back from the search for Arney. Everyone's out there looking for her, you hear me? ” Arthur's jaw worked tight against the bone, slowly losing patience with his brother who wouldn't listen to anyone, wouldn't answer to anyone but the rabid worry in his own head.“ Tom?”
“ Every town, Arthur. No excuses. No exceptions” Tommy remained locked on the map of the River Trent, eyes unable to tear themselves away from every route leading out of the West Midlands.
“ They're looking, Tommy. Been looking. Every night for three days straight” John attempted to reason with a man rapidly losing all sensibility, a man fueled by every fear that tired head of his had ever conjured.
“ Then look harder” Tommy's voice took on something dangerous, daring his brothers to talk back, daring them to breathe even a single syllable against his orders.
“ Hadrian's wall. Go”
He was ready to snap.
He was gonna bloody snap.
And of all the idiots in Warwickshire, the perfect prat stepped forward and gave Tommy every reason to erupt.
“ Here to Hadrian's wall? We don't have enough men” Finn, the youngest Shelby scoffed. Yes, scoffed, at a man that was rapidly losing his mind in search of the woman he'd married, warred with, and widowed all in the space of a mere month.
“ What did you just say?” your husband's voice dropped into a low gravel, eyes fixed on the twenty something year old.
Brother be damned. Blood be fucking damned.
“ Shut the fuck up, Finn” Arthur growled, half way to pulling the posturing pup out of Tommy's warpath before he got bit.
“ I said, we don't have enough men” Finn's final words of foolishness came with contempt, ignoring every chance he'd been given to get out of dodge before Tommy lunged at him.
“ It's mental. You're fucking mental”
The youngest Shelby barely had time to move before Tommy whirled on him, slamming him into the foyer wall with the strength of a dozen men, with an anger that had been simmering to a boil for three days straight.
“ Then I'll call in every favour…” Tommy's voice dropped to a whisper against Finn's ear, fist curling into his shirt as Arthur and John moved towards him before he murdered their baby brother.
“...on every bastard that owes me his life” his voice twisted, face turned into something dangerous as Arthur's heavy hand yanked him away.
“ Starting with you, Finn” Tommy pointed, breathless, every muscle straining against the quiet fury coiling around his spine like a death grip as he was dragged backwards.
“ Starting with you…”
Half mad, half gone, Tommy’s exhausted mind had been tricked into conjuring every possible image of you without a flicker of mercy, without even an ounce of sympathy for his slipping sanity.
Dead body. Beaten body. Body in a ditch. Body degraded. Body missing.
Every minute that passed was another without you.
Every order unanswered was another attack against his authority.
He'd lost it.
Arthur knew it. John knew it. And Tommy, God help him, knew it too.
“ Enough, brother. That's enough” Arthur hauled him aside, straining to snap him out of it, snap him out of grieving a wife he believed he'd already lost to his own way of life.
Breath coming heavy, chest heaving hard, Tommy scrambled to regain control, to reign in that sharp, calculating composure that had kept him alive for so long.
“ Do as I say. The lot of you” he pulled free, dragging a hand down his face as he forced the madness behind something manageable.
“ Or start picking out your funeral suits” The threat had been made. His body already retreating. Boots carrying him to the only place where you still lingered. Where you'd let him hold you like a husband should. Let him be the one you grieved for your uncle against.
Bedroom door swung open, he was met with nothing but silence. No sharp words. No witty woman staging a coup against his whiskey or weary mind. Just a strained silence, and a silk gown laid crumpled across the bed.
Body finally giving in, Tommy sank heavily onto the mattress, tired eyes red raw as he tried to focus, tried to think through the thick fog clouding his mind.
If he didn't find Arney, he'd have to live with the guilt until his dying breath.
And if he didn't find you…
…it would kill him before he ever drew that last lungful.
Fist clenched around your muddy dressing gown, Tommy released the pressure from his knuckles, thumb turning his signet ring around and around again, twisting every tortured worry into the worn gold until a quiet prayer finally found its way from his lips.
Not to God. Not to some otherworldly realm beyond his reach. But to you. Just for you.
“ Come home to me, darling. Come home”
It was bold. It was brazen. Frankly, my dear, it was exactly how your own husband operated.
Because while Tommy was running himself rabid, thinking big, thinking beyond the county's borders, you had been hauled away and hidden right there. In the belly of the beast.
See, you weren't just in the West Midlands. Weren't just in Warwickshire. You were a mere four fucking miles away.
It was wicked. A cruelty you were feeling the full force of as you sat shivering in the groundkeeper's hut in the neighbouring farm’s field, Arrow House lighting up like a beacon in the fading evening light through the weathered slats of wood.
Three days, going on four, you had sat there in nothing but a cotton slip, cold to the bone as your three captors drank themselves halfway to an early date with the Devil down in ol’hell.
“ Got nothin’ to say today, lass? Nae smart-arse remarks for us, eh?”one of the Glaswegians drawled, digging deep in a battered crate for another bottle of whisky next to a sprawled-out, sleeping Scotsman.
“ If I did, you wouldn't understand it anyway” you muttered, hauled up in the corner of the hut, looking like some wild thing that had run straight out of England's muddy moors.
“ Are ye callin’ me thick?” he spluttered, swaying where he stood, all six feet of him looking, well…thick as a bloody brick.
“ Away with ye, Fraser. Sit yeself down” McConnell, the one who was seemingly in charge barked. The same one who had slowly been drinking himself into oblivion, while he waited for the Billy Boys to find a route into Warwickshire your husband hadn't blocked or barricaded.
“ Wasn't slow when I gave ye that wee little mark to yer face now, was I?” Fraser's face flashed with a smugness that made you feel sick, the sting to your cheek, where he'd struck you for one remark too many, throbbing hot with hatred.
You'd been riling them up. Winding them up.
And I would say, hammer them to hell with every witty concoction of words imaginable, darling.
But I'm worried, you see. Fearful that the fuel feeding your resilience was about to snuff itself out.
Because that head of yours, that traitorious noggin, had started thinking too much. And thinking too much made for false thoughts. Thoughts I could hear loud and clear...
He'd given up. Given you in. He'd abandoned the wife he'd been burdened with to save his business.
And as you shrank in on yourself, watching the Scotsman slump in front of your only way out, you didn't think of your husband who was supposed to save you. Your thoughts turned to the man who was supposed to always keep you safe.
Arney.
Dad.
“ Where is my father?” your voice came quieter now, careful not to rouse the emotions you'd choked down with every spent tear for your uncle.
“ Dinna fash about that deadbeat dad o’ yours, lass. He's long gone now” McConnell murmured lazily, limbs loosening after the near liter of whisky he'd consumed within the past couple of days.
“ Life's dealt ye a rotten hand. Da sold ye out. Uncles dead. Husband dinna care” he lifted the bottle in his hand, as Fraser, the fucker with a problem for women who knew their worth glared at you like he wanted to give you another wallop for good measure.
“ The bastard is long gone, lass. They're all gone”
Gone. Was that it? Was that truly it?
Every call for justice unheard? Every demand for retribution unanswered?
For every life story came with a villain. Be it drink. Be it drugs. Be it the mind. Be it yourself. Or the ones that claimed to love you.
Some would be conquered, some overcome. And some…some just simply slipped away. An anomaly in life where everything felt like fate.
“ Aye, yer a misfit of misfortune, lass. We've all been there” McConnell murmured as he watched you swallow back the bitter realisation that awful Arney, dad, was one of the ones who got to slip away.
“Sleep. The telegrams been sent out. McCavern is coming for those Liverpool lines” he muttered before the whisky took him and he slumped back against the barn, eyes shut and off guard, leaving you with the woman hating wanker.
“ He who can't handle his liquor, makes for merrier men” Fraser, Franky, whatever the fuck he was called nabbed McConnell's bottle, guzzling it down his gullet like some show off to his own stupidness.
“ Well done. You're almost house-trained” you praised the prick, sarcasm slipping through the fatigue of four nights locked in limbo.
Civilised, darling. I think your best bet was the word civilised.
Though if your intention was to insult the fool, then house-trained appears to have struck a nerve.
Because would you look at that? The Six foot tall Scotsman was halfway to murdering you.
Splendid work, dear.
“ Ye callin’ me a beast now?” He slurred, stumbling forward from the door, clearing the way for an escape.
“ I dinna care for yer words, lass. I weren't a bairn born in a barn” he puffed out his chest, words coming out…wobbly.
Christ.
Clearly, domestication, barns and being born in one were a touchy subjects for the drunk Scotsman who was now slumped against the wall, glaring at you like he could send your royal Arrow House arse straight to the gallows.
So be it.
Two down one to go.
Drink up you devil. Drink up.
Lined up. One by one. The staff of Arrow House had been herded into the foyer looking as though they were about to face the firing squad for acts of treason against the Crown.
Because standing before them was a man who looked every bit the executioner. Down to his waistcoat, shirt sleeves rolled up his forearms, face filled with nothing but fury.
Tommy was a King. A battle weary King without his Queen.
And he was pacing. Prowling. Looking for a fight. Looking to pick on anyone that showed even a flicker of disloyalty.
“ You” Tommy turned on the groundskeeper, boots marching across the foyer floors towards the fifty year old stood, cap steady in his hand.
“ A week ago. No…two weeks…” your husband interrogated then corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose as his eyes squeezed shut, trying to fight through the fog of exhaustion that had clouded his memory.
Christ. He was exhausted. Arthur stood in the shadows, exhausted. John, head lowered, leaning against the door, exhausted.
Everyone. Every connection. Every debt owed. Every man who had ever promised Thomas Shelby a favour. Exhausted.
“ You were seen. Walking the grounds with my wife's father” Tommy stood there waiting, like the next words out of the grey-haired man's mouth would be the ones that brought you back to him.
“ Speak”
“ Aye, sir. A fortnight ago. He was enquiring as to how many acres Arrow House holds” his Black Country accent came out thick, without pause, without so much as a flicker of that disloyalty Tommy had gone full bloodhound in search of sniffing out.
Before the groundskeeper had even drawn another breath, your husband had already moved on, turning his attention to the maids stood trembling under the tyrant's temper.
But Frances, with ten years of dealing with angry gangsters on her résumé, wasn't about to let Tommy bully the youngest of the household staff into saying what they thought their master wanted to hear simply to ease the pressure.
“ Yes, sir?” she dutifully stepped forward, unblinded by the fear that had etched its way into every line of his face when came the last voice your husband wanted to hear. One that made far too much sense, far too often.
“ Thomas”
Polly. Polly Gray.
With something that sounded close to a growl, Tommy spun on the heel of his boot, outright ignoring his aunt in favour of barking more orders.
“ Arthur. John. With me” the words had barely left his mouth before he was already in motion, already out the foyer and onto the steps, when a lad, no more than three foot tall came hurtling down the drive with another telegram clutched within his hand.
McCavern. It had to be Jimmy McCavern. Finally making his demands, finally giving Tommy something he could work with.
“ Telegram for you, Mister” the young messenger skidded to a stop, the very picture of youthful innocence with muddy knees and dimpled cheeks, blissfully unaware that the Glaswegian group had used him as nothing more than a paper boy, unknowingly putting his own life at risk.
Seal torn beneath Tommy's thumb, his eyes raced across the page then widened in complete and utter horror as the second verse to the nursery rhyme sat staring back at him.
Last night as I lay on my pillow. Last night as I lay in my bed. Last night as I lay on my pillow, I dreamt that my Bonnie was…dead.
The telegram slipped from his fingers, feather-like to the ground where it settled once again, without fuss, without fanfare as your husband stood silent. Still.
“ Tom…?” Arthur carefully ventured as he stepped forward, eyes searching his brothers face when Tommy suddenly turned, took three unsteady steps towards the stone pillar beside the door, and retched.
Nothing came.
Four days of whiskey, cigarettes and sleeplessness, had left nothing to give. Nothing to quiet the terror. Nothing to loosen the grief that had gripped him by the throat.
And as panic rose behind him, the muffled voices of his brother's insisting McCarvern was playing games, playing with Tommy's head, feeding the paranoia already eating him alive, your husband lifted his eyes.
And there, beyond the gates, a lone figure stood stoic amongst the low-lying miss rolling across the fields of Arrow House.
Greatcoat buttoned high. Service cap pulled low. Hands clasped neatly behind his back. A soldier, taking the watch.
“ Richie…” Tommy stumbled forward, trembling hands finding the cold stone as it guided each faltering step, boots dragging across the grit of the drive.
“ I've got her. I’m standing watch…” his voice cracked, the promise he'd made beside your uncle's body, to you, no longer sounding like the unwavering pledge of a soldier. But the desperate plea of a broken man.
“Rich…I've got her” he muttered, eyes red raw and unblinking as Richie turned into the mist, into No Man's land, where promises either died, or were delivered at the break of dawn.
“ Thomas…” the steady voice of Polly pulled him from the depths of despair, her firm hand guiding him away from the dead man's silent judgement.
“ Tommy, you're no good to her like this” she followed his gaze to the empty fields of Arrow House, thick with morning mist and frost bitten dew.
“ You must rest. You must sleep”
Sleep.
A foreign word. A word that finally, after four relentless days, made Thomas Shelby snap before his aunt, his siblings, his men and staff who'd never once seen their master so completely undone as he stormed back into the halls of his great home.
“ I will not sleep until my wife is in bed with me!”
True to his word, Tommy found no sleep. No slumber came to ease his exhausted mind.
He'd searched through the night, and when nothing came of it, when no trace of you turned up, he stayed awake on whiskey and willpower, searching through endless rolls of maps until dawn steadily broke over the hills of Arrow House, where he sat slumped on the edge of your bed, head buried in his hands.
He could feel himself slipping closer to madness with every minute that passed. Roused only from the limbo he'd been living in for five days straight, when he heard your voice.
It was a whisper at first. Then louder and louder, a torturous taunt from a mind pushed beyond its limits.
“ Stop…” he mumbled beneath his breath, to himself, to his own thoughts, as the muffled call of his name began to break through the morning mist.
“ TOMMY!”
It screamed for him. Screamed for help.
“TOMMY, PLEASE!”
There It came again. Louder now. Loud enough to make him lift his head, for his brow to furrow, his spine to straighten as every instinct in him violently snapped awake.
“ HELP ME!”
It cried, you cried. Sprinting down Arrow House's long drive barefoot in nothing but a thin slip against the winter morning, hair wild in the wind as you ran like you'd never run before.
Shooting to his feet, Tommy grabbed his gun as he flew from the bedroom bare-chested, barefoot, suspenders hanging low against his trousers.
“ RUN TO ME!” his voice tore from his throat as he raced out the front doors, down the drive to your frantic figure running through the morning mist, headlights burning behind you.
“ DON'T STOP!”
“Tommy…” your cry broke, as your head whipped over your shoulder to see your captors gaining on you, windows rolling down as Arthur and John tore out the house behind their brother, guns already raised.
“ No…” your husband's eyes widened in horror, as the barrel of a gun appeared from the car window. "NO!”
“ GET DOWN!” Tommy's roar ripped across the grounds, face twisting in fear as shots fired from both sides, tearing through the crisp air as you raced towards each other.
You didn't listen, didn't stop, couldn't stop. Not when you were running towards the place your heart had finally found its home. Not when you were running towards your husband, now meters away. And not when you finally collided into his arms, a strangled sob breaking against his chest.
“ I've got you” his voice broke against your hair, eyes squeezing shut as his arms wrapped tightly around you with relief. “I've got you, darling”
The men still shouted. The sound of tyres still screeched. The sharp whistle of bullets passed through the air, still, after everything you'd survived. Every mile of distance, every wounding word, every quiet goodbye.
Surely, surely now the world owed you a moment's peace?
And to anyone else it may have seemed impossible, but somehow, in and amongst the chaos, it was only him. Only you.
Only the two of you sharing one breath after believing there wouldn’t be another.
Every tender touch slowed beneath the steady beat of his heart as he cradled your face in his hands, pressing a soft kiss against your lips until your heavy breaths settled into rhythm with his.
And there, in the arms of his wife, forehead pressed against hers, as chaos raged around them, Tommy understood something he'd spent a month running from.
If he was ever granted another dawn. Another chance to leave words behind on paper.
It would not bear his initials. Not be signed with the coldness of a man who kept the world at arms length.
It would carry the only words he had left. The only ones that mattered.
Love, Tommy.
The End.
* A huge thank you to every one who stuck with me throughout this whirlwind series. Every read, reblog and show of support kept me going through all twelve chapters. I'm very sad to say goodbye to this story, but I hope you'll stick around for my next Tommy series. I'll be posting its trailer and masterlist very soon! Thank you once again for all your love and support 🖤.*
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood
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☾ Warnings: time travel/time-slip, disorientation, fear/panic, 1919 Small Heath, sexism/misogyny, unwanted male attention, intimidation, alcohol, smoking, swearing, Tommy/Thomas being suspicious and intense, brief physical restraint/grabbing of the wrist, memory flashes, blood mention, Grace/Vera tension, Grace being cold, police questioning, Inspector Campbell, threats of arrest/questioning, being taken by police, emotional distress, implied past betrayal, major cliffhanger
The watch was closed tight in her fist, the metal still cold against her palm, the edge of it pressed hard enough into her skin that she could feel its shape. The photograph was hidden inside. Her face. Thomas’s face. The date. The warning in her own handwriting.
Do not let him remember you.
The words had not left her mind. They seemed to have lodged behind her ribs, sharp and impossible, making every breath feel too small.
Thomas looked from her face to her hand.
“What have you got?”
Vera’s fingers tightened.
“Nothing.”
It was a bad lie.
She knew it before his expression changed, and it barely changed at all. That was the worst of it. Thomas did not need to scowl or raise his voice to make the room feel smaller. He only looked at her as if he had already found the weak seam in her answer and was waiting to see how long it took her to split open.
“You found nothing in my wall?”
Vera glanced toward the fallen panel before she could stop herself.
His eyes followed.
Stupid.
She drew in a breath and made herself look annoyed because fear had never done her any favors. “Loose wood. Dust. If that belongs to you, I’m sorry for disturbing it.”
Thomas stepped into the room.
Vera’s body reacted before her mind did, shifting back half a step. He noticed that too. Of course he did. He noticed every small thing and kept each one like a coin placed in his pocket for later.
He closed the door behind him.
Not hard enough to be called a threat. Quietly enough that it felt more like one.
“Open your hand,” he said.
“No.”
The answer came out too quickly.
Thomas tilted his head slightly. “No?”
“I heard myself.”
His gaze remained on her fist. “You’re standing in my private room with something you took from my wall.”
“I didn’t take anything.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Then open your hand.”
Vera’s pulse beat hard in her throat. She could feel the watch against her palm as if it were alive. She had the awful thought that if he came any closer, he would hear it ticking. He would hear it and know. He would know before she understood what there was to know.
She moved toward the door.
Thomas stepped into her path.
Vera stopped.
There was still space between them, but not enough. The room held its breath around it.
“Move,” she said.
He did not.
“Vera.”
She hated the way he said her name. Quiet. Measured. Like he had already decided she belonged among his questions.
“I said move.”
“You’re frightened.”
She laughed once, though it sounded wrong even to her. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
“And what a brilliant detective you are.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Open your hand.”
“No.”
This time, when she tried to move around him, he caught her wrist.
Not roughly enough to bruise. Not violently enough for the kind of pain that would make a person cry out. But his hand closed around her with purpose, his fingers firm beneath the bone, stopping her so suddenly that she drew in a sharp breath.
The room changed.
Or maybe she did.
Smoke seemed to thicken in the air where there was no smoke. The dying fire flared too bright. She felt another hand around her wrist, the same and not the same. Thomas’s voice, closer than it should have been, telling her to look at him.
Vera, look at me.
Her breath caught.
Thomas looked down at where he held her, then back at her face.
“Open it.”
For a moment, she could not answer. The memory from the night before pressed against the present until she no longer knew which version of him she was standing in front of. This Thomas with suspicion in his eyes. That Thomas with blood at his collar and fear stripped bare across his face.
If I remember you, I lose you.
Vera pulled once against his grip.
He held.
“Let go.”
“Then show me.”
“No.”
“Vera.”
Her voice broke sharper than she meant it to. “Let go of me.”
Something shifted in him.
Not softness. Not guilt. Thomas Shelby did not look like a man easily moved by either. But his eyes dropped once more to his hand around her wrist, then returned to her face, and he seemed to understand that her fear was not behaving the way guilt should.
His grip loosened.
Vera tore her wrist free and stepped back, holding the watch behind her hip with a clumsy movement she hoped he did not see. The place where he had touched her burned with the memory of pressure more than pain.
Thomas watched her.
“You found something.”
“I found out you don’t like being told no.”
“That isn’t new.”
“No,” she said, breathing too hard. “I imagine it isn’t.”
His gaze moved over her, slower now. “Whatever it is, you’ll hand it over.”
“I don’t have anything.”
“You’re getting worse at this.”
“Then stop asking.”
Thomas looked toward the wall panel, then at her hand. Vera shifted before she could stop herself, and his attention sharpened.
The door opened somewhere beyond the room, far off in the pub. A footstep overhead. Harry, maybe. The sound broke the hold of the moment just enough.
Vera moved for the door again.
This time, Thomas let her pass.
She did not mistake that for mercy.
As she reached the door, his voice came from behind her.
“Vera.”
She stopped with her hand on the knob.
“I’ll know what was in that wall.”
The watch seemed to grow heavier in her palm.
Vera did not turn around. “Then I suppose one of us has something to look forward to.”
She opened the door and stepped out before he could answer.
The Garrison was dark and empty beyond the low fire. Harry’s footsteps moved somewhere overhead, but he did not come down. Vera crossed the room quickly, careful not to run, careful not to look like what she felt.
She made it to the small room behind the bar before her knees threatened to give.
Only then did she open her hand.
The watch sat there, dull and old and impossible.
Vera stared at it until the metal blurred in her sight.
Then she hid it inside the lining of her coat.
She did not sleep.
Not properly.
She sat in the same chair near the fire with her coat wrapped around her, one hand pressed against the place where the watch was hidden, and listened to the Garrison settle around her. Every creak became Thomas returning. Every distant step became Harry finding her. Every breath of wind at the windows became the year itself trying to get in.
At some point before morning, Vera closed her eyes and saw Grace standing in a doorway.
Not the Grace she knew now, composed and careful behind the bar.
Another Grace.
Her face wet. Her voice shaking.
“I didn’t know he would take her.”
Vera woke with her hand clenched around the fabric of her coat.
The fire had gone low. Her neck ached. Her mouth was dry. Gray morning pressed weakly at the windows, and for a moment she could not tell whether the memory had been a dream or another piece of whatever broken thing was happening inside her.
She only knew that when Grace arrived an hour later, Vera’s stomach turned.
Grace stepped behind the bar without greeting her.
That was new.
Or maybe it was not new. Maybe it was only the first time Vera had noticed the absence of warmth. The neatness was still there. The calm hands. The quiet attention. But the softer tone Grace had used with her before had gone.
She hung her shawl on the hook and looked at Vera’s coat.
“You stayed again.”
Vera tied her apron. “So did the building.”
Grace did not smile.
Harry moved past them carrying a crate. He glanced from one to the other and seemed to decide immediately that he had lived long enough not to stand between two women with that kind of silence on their faces.
Grace reached for the clean glasses. “Did something happen last night?”
Vera felt the watch tucked into her coat like a second pulse.
“No.”
Grace lined up two glasses. Then a third. “You don’t look as though nothing happened.”
“I didn’t realize you’d made a study of my face.”
“I don’t have to study people who make themselves obvious.”
Vera’s hands slowed.
There it was.
The cold under the courtesy.
Grace did not look at her when she said it. She did not need to. Vera heard it perfectly well. Yesterday, Grace’s questions had been dressed as concern. Today, they arrived stripped down, bare and sharp, with none of the pretense that Vera might mistake them for kindness.
Vera looked at her. “Then stop looking.”
Grace set another glass down. “That would be easier if you stopped drawing attention.”
“Whose?”
Grace’s eyes moved to her then.
For half a second, Vera saw something in them she could not name. Irritation, yes. Suspicion. Something more personal than either, though neither of them had earned anything personal between them.
“You should be careful with Thomas Shelby,” Grace said.
Vera’s mouth tightened. “You first.”
Grace went still.
The words had come before Vera measured them. Too quick. Too pointed. And with them came another flicker.
Grace’s hand on her arm.
Grace whispering, “Do as I say for once.”
A door closing.
Vera’s own voice, younger in its fear, saying, “I thought you were helping me.”
Vera blinked hard.
The bar returned.
Grace was watching her now with open suspicion.
“What did you mean by that?” Grace asked.
Vera picked up a cloth and began wiping a counter that was already clean. “Nothing.”
Grace stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Whatever happened with him last night, it would be wise not to pretend it didn’t.”
Vera looked at her. “Nothing happened that concerns you.”
Grace’s expression hardened.
“Everything in this pub concerns someone.”
The words settled strangely.
Vera felt them before she understood them. A tightness low in her stomach. A warning without shape. The sound of Grace’s voice in a place that was not this one, saying a word Vera could not fully hear.
Inspector.
Vera looked down at the cloth in her hand and made a decision with a calmness that surprised her.
She would tell Grace nothing.
Not a guess. Not a fear. Not a single strange thing that had happened since the alley. If Grace asked whether the sky was gray, Vera would look out the window before answering.
The day crawled toward afternoon.
Thomas came in before the pub filled.
Vera felt him arrive the way the room did, in the small changes people made to survive being noticed by him. Harry’s shoulders lifted and settled. One of the early drinkers became interested in his glass. Grace’s spine straightened, though she did not turn immediately.
Vera refused to look up.
That refusal lasted three seconds.
Thomas stood near the end of the bar, cap in hand, rain darkening the edge of his coat. He looked first at Harry, then Grace, then Vera’s hands.
Not her face.
Her hands.
Vera curled her fingers around the cloth before she could stop herself.
A trace of satisfaction passed through his eyes, faint enough that she might have imagined it.
“Harry,” he said.
Harry came over quickly. “Tommy.”
“Any trouble?”
The question was ordinary. It did not feel ordinary.
Harry looked toward Vera for the briefest second.
“No,” he said.
Thomas let the pause sit. “Good.”
Grace moved to pour his drink. Her movements were controlled, but Vera saw the tension in them now. Yesterday she might have missed it. Today she noticed every small tightening. Every silence. Every careful glance that went in Thomas’s direction and returned with less than it wanted.
Thomas accepted the whisky and did not drink.
His eyes moved to Vera.
“Sleep well?”
Vera set the cloth down. “Beautifully.”
“In the chair?”
“It has many qualities.”
“That why you’re shaking?”
Her fingers stilled.
Grace looked at her.
Harry looked away.
Vera leaned one hand against the counter, refusing to give him the satisfaction of checking whether she really was. “It’s cold.”
Thomas’s gaze dropped briefly to her coat, hanging behind the bar.
The watch seemed to drag at its lining from across the room.
“Is it?”
Vera’s jaw tightened.
Before she could answer, the door opened hard enough to announce Arthur before his voice did.
“Tommy,” he called, stepping inside with John just behind him. “Tell John he’s a daft bastard.”
John looked offended. “I won the money.”
“You cheated a drunk man.”
“That’s called business.”
Arthur pointed at him with the hand holding his cigarette. “That’s called being a daft bastard who’ll get stabbed.”
John grinned. “Only if he sobers up.”
The noise should have relieved Vera.
It did, in a way. Arthur and John filled the room with something easier to understand than Thomas’s quiet. But it also brought the Garrison closer to life, and with life came eyes, ears, bodies, questions.
John’s grin found Vera almost immediately.
“You look worse.”
“Good afternoon to you too.”
“Did you rob a church last night?”
Vera reached for a glass. “If I had, I wouldn’t be here.”
Arthur laughed, but he was looking at her harder than John was. “Tommy’s got you jumpy.”
“I was born delightful.”
John leaned on the bar. “That’s not a no.”
Vera poured without being asked and slid a glass toward him. “That’s because I’m learning not to answer Shelby questions.”
Arthur laughed again. John looked delighted.
Thomas did not.
He had taken a seat near the private room, close enough to see her without making a show of it. Vera hated that he did not need to stare. His attention had weight even when turned slightly aside.
Grace noticed too.
Of course she did.
As the afternoon wore on, the pub filled in uneven waves. Men came in from the damp street shaking rain from their caps, calling for whisky, talking too loudly about work, horses, war, women. Vera moved through the work with the watch hidden close and her body wound tight around the secret.
Every time someone brushed too near her coat, she felt sick.
Every time Thomas moved, she felt the watch beneath the fabric as if it were responding.
Grace was colder than before, but not openly cruel. She did not have to be. She simply stopped making space for Vera. She stopped explaining things unless Harry told her to. When Vera reached for the wrong bottle, Grace corrected her in front of a customer. When a man made a comment about the new girl’s mouth, Grace did not intervene. She only watched to see what Vera would do.
Vera learned quickly.
Not the work.
The woman beside her.
Grace’s kindness had been a door. Now it was shut.
Near dusk, Vera saw her slip out.
It should not have mattered. Grace could step outside. Anyone could. The air inside the Garrison was thick enough to choke on, and Vera herself had gone out the day before to breathe.
But Grace did not leave through the front.
She moved toward the side door near the back, shawl pulled around her shoulders, her face composed in that careful way that now made Vera’s instincts sharpen. Harry was arguing with a man over a short payment. John was telling a story to three men who appeared to be enjoying it against their better judgment. Arthur had gone to the private room with Thomas.
No one else noticed.
Vera did.
She waited ten seconds.
Then she followed.
The narrow passage beside the Garrison was wet and dim, the brick slick beneath a smear of evening light. Vera stopped just inside the side door, keeping herself mostly hidden. Grace stood near the mouth of the alley with her back turned.
A man waited there.
Not close enough for Vera to see his face clearly.
She heard only one word.
“Inspector.”
The alley dropped away for half a breath.
A hard-lit room flashed through Vera’s mind.
Grace standing near a desk, twisting gloves in her hands.
A man’s voice, old and cold, saying something Vera could not make out.
Then the moment vanished before she could catch any more of it.
Grace turned.
Their eyes met.
Neither of them spoke.
The man at the mouth of the alley shifted, and Vera saw enough of him now: older, rigid, watchful in a way that made the hairs along the back of her neck rise. Not a drunk. Not a worker. Not a man who belonged to the street in any ordinary way.
Grace’s expression changed.
Not fear.
Calculation.
Vera stepped back inside before Grace could call out.
Her hands were shaking by the time she returned to the bar.
Inspector.
She did not know what any of it meant.
She knew enough.
When Grace came back several minutes later, she did not look at Vera at first. She removed her shawl, hung it up, and returned to the bar as if nothing had happened.
Vera was pouring whisky for a man with half his attention on John’s story.
Grace came to stand beside her.
“You shouldn’t follow people.”
Vera did not look at her. “You shouldn’t meet men in alleys.”
Grace’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what you saw.”
“No,” Vera said. “But I know you don’t want Thomas to know I saw it.”
That hit its mark.
Grace turned her head slightly, eyes on Vera now. “Be careful.”
Vera gave a small, humorless smile. “There it is again.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
Grace’s voice lowered. “You are making enemies in a place where you have no friends.”
Vera looked at her then.
For a second, the anger inside her slipped, and something older moved beneath it. Hurt without a memory attached. Grief with no story. She did not understand it, and because she did not understand it, she hated it.
“Funny,” Vera said quietly. “I could have sworn you were trying to sound like one.”
Grace looked away first.
Before Vera could decide whether that meant anything, the front door opened.
The room quieted in a way it had not even for Thomas.
Not fully. The Garrison did not go silent all at once. It resisted, voices dragging to a stop in pieces. A laugh died near the window. A chair scraped. Harry looked toward the door and went pale in a way Vera had not seen before.
The man from the alley stepped inside.
Inspector Campbell looked around the room as if every person in it had already disappointed him.
He was not alone. Two uniformed policemen stood behind him, broad in the doorway, rain on their coats, hands resting where men rested hands when they wanted others to notice what they carried.
Grace’s fingers curled once around the edge of the bar.
Vera saw it.
Thomas emerged from the private room before Campbell had taken more than three steps.
Arthur came behind him, shoulders already tense. John’s grin had vanished.
“Inspector,” Thomas said.
“Mr. Shelby.”
The words carried enough dislike to sour the air between them.
Campbell removed his gloves slowly. “I trust I’m not interrupting.”
Thomas looked around at the pub, at the drinkers, at Harry, at the policemen in the doorway. “You are.”
Campbell smiled faintly. “Then I’ll be brief.”
No one believed him.
Vera stood behind the bar with the cloth in her hand and the watch hidden in the coat behind her. She felt suddenly exposed without it on her body, as if leaving it even a few feet away had been a mistake.
Campbell’s eyes found her.
She knew then.
Whatever Grace had said in the alley, whatever had passed between them, had been enough.
“You,” Campbell said.
The room seemed to tilt toward her.
Vera did not move.
Thomas did.
Not much. Only half a step, but it shifted him between Campbell and the bar in a way that was difficult to mistake.
Campbell noticed.
So did Vera.
That was worse somehow.
“What is your name?” Campbell asked.
Vera set the cloth down. “Vera Hart.”
“Hart.” Campbell repeated it like he was testing the weight of a counterfeit coin. “And where is home, Miss Hart?”
Vera felt Thomas’s gaze without looking at him.
London would not survive this.
She said it anyway.
“London.”
A pause.
Campbell’s smile deepened at the edges. “London is a large city.”
“So I’ve heard.”
John looked toward the floor as if suppressing the urge to laugh. Arthur did not. He looked ready to hit someone and was deciding how much he cared about the uniform.
Campbell took another step. “Which part?”
Vera’s mouth went dry.
Grace stood beside her, still as a figure in a painting.
Vera could feel her there. Feel every unsaid thing. Every cold glance. Every question tucked behind polite words.
“East,” Vera said.
Campbell’s brows lifted. “East London.”
“Yes.”
“Where, precisely?”
Vera had no answer.
The silence stretched.
Thomas’s jaw tightened.
Campbell looked pleased.
“Do you have papers?”
Vera stared at him. “Papers?”
“Identification. Employment record. A letter of reference. A family name that can be confirmed. Anything at all that proves you are who you claim to be.”
Vera could feel the walls again.
Not the Garrison walls. Worse ones. Legal ones. Social ones. The kind that had existed before she arrived and had no reason to bend for her now. She had no papers. No home. No family here. No person who could stand up and say where she came from without lying.
“I work here,” she said.
Campbell glanced at Harry. “Does she?”
Harry opened his mouth.
Thomas answered first.
“She works here.”
The room held still around the words.
Vera looked at him despite herself.
It was not warm. It was not gentle. It was not enough. But it was something placed down between her and Campbell, and she hated that part of her wanted to lean toward it.
Campbell turned slowly to Thomas. “Since when do you employ women whose names cannot be checked?”
Thomas took his cigarette from his mouth. “Since I bought the pub.”
A faint laugh moved through a corner of the room and died quickly.
Campbell’s eyes hardened. “I am asking about the girl.”
“And I answered.”
“No, Mr. Shelby. You claimed her employment. Not her innocence.”
Vera’s stomach twisted.
Claimed her employment.
Not her innocence.
The distinction hurt more than it should have. It should not have hurt at all. Thomas owed her nothing. He did not know her. Not this Thomas. Not in any way that mattered now.
But the watch said otherwise.
The photograph said otherwise.
Some version of him had held her wrist in smoke and told her to look at him like he was afraid she would disappear if she didn’t.
This Thomas looked at her like a problem.
Campbell stepped closer to the bar. “Are you in the habit of sheltering strangers, Mr. Shelby?”
Thomas’s eyes did not move from him. “Only when police come sniffing after them.”
Arthur shifted near the private room door.
One of the policemen at the entrance shifted too.
The air thinned.
Campbell seemed to enjoy it. “A young woman appears in Small Heath with no address, no papers, no family, and a story too poor to be called a lie. She sleeps in your pub. You take an interest in her. I’m merely curious.”
“Curiosity doesn’t bring two officers.”
“No,” Campbell said. “Experience does.”
Vera’s heart beat harder.
Thomas looked at her then, only briefly.
That glance was enough to make something inside her break loose.
Because there was still suspicion in it.
Even now.
Even with Campbell turning the whole pub into a courtroom, even with Grace standing beside her too quiet, even with Vera feeling as if the century itself had found a way to put hands around her throat, Thomas still looked like he wanted an answer from her before he decided how far to go.
She almost laughed.
She almost told him everything right there.
The watch. The photo. The warning. His hand around her arm outside the Garrison in 1919, both of them caught in a moment neither one of them remembered properly.
Instead, Campbell spoke again.
“Miss Hart,” he said, “you will come with me.”
“No.”
The word left her before she knew she would say it.
Campbell’s attention sharpened. “No?”
“No.”
“You are not being arrested.”
“How comforting.”
“You are being taken in for questioning.”
“That sounds like arrested with better manners.”
John muttered something under his breath. Arthur’s mouth twitched once, but his eyes stayed on the police.
Campbell’s face cooled. “You are a very careless young woman.”
Vera felt Grace move beside her.
Not toward her.
Away.
Only a small shift, but Vera noticed it because every part of her was searching for the blade.
Something in her stomach tightened.
Grace had stepped away like that in the alley too. Calmly. Carefully. As if distance could make her innocent. As if silence could keep blood off her hands.
Vera looked at her.
Grace did not look back.
That was when Vera understood enough.
Not everything. Not even close. But enough to know that Grace had not been surprised when Campbell walked through the door. Enough to know that the coldness in her had not come from fear.
It had come from being caught.
The anger rose so fast it nearly choked her.
“Why ask me?” Vera said.
Every head turned.
Grace’s hand stilled on the edge of the bar.
Vera did not know why the words felt older than the moment, only that once they started, she could not swallow them back.
“Ask Grace,” she said. “She’s the reason you came.”
The room went so quiet it felt dead.
Grace’s face emptied.
Campbell’s expression changed so quickly that Vera knew she had hit something real. Not enough to understand, but enough to wound.
Thomas turned his head toward Grace.
Slowly.
That was worse than if he had snapped.
Grace recovered first, because of course she did. “She’s frightened.”
Her voice was steady, but Vera heard the strain beneath it.
“She doesn’t know what she’s saying,” Grace continued.
Vera laughed once, soft and ugly. “Funny how everyone says that when I’m right.”
Grace looked at her then, and for one second Vera saw something break through the cold. Not guilt exactly. Not memory. Something that looked almost like pain.
Then Campbell moved.
“This girl is clearly unstable.”
Thomas’s gaze remained on Grace a moment longer before returning to Campbell. “Careful.”
“I would say the same to you.” Campbell gestured toward one of the officers. “Bring her.”
The first officer stepped forward.
Arthur did too.
The whole pub shifted with him.
Chairs scraped. Men rose without fully standing, caught between loyalty, fear, and the knowledge that violence in the Garrison had a way of becoming everyone’s problem. John moved quietly to Arthur’s side, all humor gone from his face.
Thomas did not raise his voice.
“No.”
Campbell looked at him. “No?”
“She stays.”
Vera could not breathe around the sudden, terrible relief that tried to rise inside her.
Campbell’s eyes sharpened. “On what grounds?”
“She works here.”
“We have established that employment at the Garrison now requires no background and no truth.”
Thomas stepped closer. “You don’t take people from my pub.”
Campbell smiled then, and there was nothing pleasant in it. “Your pub is not a country, Mr. Shelby.”
“No,” Thomas said. “It’s mine.”
For a moment, Vera thought the room might truly erupt.
Arthur’s hand lowered near his side. John’s eyes moved to the officers. Harry looked like he might be sick. Grace stood very still, caught between Campbell and Thomas and whatever Vera had just dragged into the light.
Campbell leaned slightly toward Thomas.
“If you prevent me from questioning her, I can return with enough men to turn this place over floorboard by floorboard.” His eyes moved toward the private room. “I wonder what I might find.”
Thomas said nothing.
The silence that followed was not weakness.
Vera understood that even through her panic. It was calculation. Thomas was measuring the room, the officers, the risk, the secrets hidden in the walls or under ledgers or in men’s pockets. He was deciding what could be lost if he turned one woman’s questioning into a war in the middle of his own pub.
One woman.
A stranger.
A liar.
Vera saw the decision before he made it.
Something inside her went cold.
Campbell saw it too.
“There we are,” he said softly.
Thomas’s eyes cut to him.
Campbell gestured again. “Miss Hart.”
The officer came around the bar.
Vera backed up once and hit the shelf behind her. Bottles rattled.
John took one step forward.
Thomas lifted a hand.
John stopped, but not happily.
The officer took Vera by the arm.
She jerked away on instinct, but there was nowhere to go. The bar hemmed her in. Grace stood to one side, pale and silent. Harry looked at the floor. Arthur swore under his breath. John stared at Thomas like he was waiting for the order that did not come.
Vera looked at Thomas.
His face gave away almost nothing.
Almost.
There was something in his eyes now that had not been there before. Not trust. Not even belief. But doubt had entered the room and found him. Vera could see it working behind his stillness, turning over what she had said about Grace, what Campbell had known, what Vera should not have known at all.
It was not enough.
The officer pulled her toward the end of the bar.
As she passed her coat, Vera’s hand shot out.
Thomas noticed.
So did Campbell.
Vera caught the coat in her fingers and dragged it down from the hook, clutching it to her chest before the officer could stop her.
“Cold out,” she said.
Her voice sounded distant to her own ears.
Thomas’s eyes dropped to the coat.
For one terrible second, Vera thought he knew.
Then the officer pulled her onward.
The room moved around her in fragments. A man stepping aside. Harry whispering her name like he regretted learning it. Grace’s breath catching as Vera passed. Campbell turning toward the door with the satisfaction of a man who had taken exactly what he came for.
At the threshold, Vera stopped fighting the officer’s grip.
She looked back.
Not at Grace.
At Thomas.
The words rose before she could make them softer.
“You really don’t know me.”
Thomas went still.
The pub seemed to hold the sentence after she said it.
It did not sound the way she meant it to sound. It did not sound like anger. Not only anger. It sounded like grief, deep and old and impossible, and Vera hated herself for giving him even that much.
Thomas said nothing.
But his expression changed.
Not enough for the room to read.
Enough for her.
The officer pulled her out into the rain.
The door shut behind them, cutting off the warmth and smoke of the Garrison all at once.
Outside, Campbell’s motorcar waited at the curb, dark and wet beneath the gray evening. The officer kept hold of Vera’s arm as he led her toward it. She clutched her coat tightly with her free hand, feeling the hidden weight of the watch inside the lining.
The watch was still there.
Still hers.
Behind her, the Garrison remained closed.
Vera did not look back again.
If Thomas Shelby wanted answers, he would have to decide she was worth following for them.
Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F
Warnings: Explicit sex, oral (f rec), breeding kink (inferred), HEA
When Alfie Solomons pays a surprise visit to your home, Tommy has a serious *talk* with you about dealing with dangerous men...
Disclaimer: The author of this work claims no ownership of characters aside from the reader, and original secondary characters mentioned. This work is not intended for those under the age of 18 due to explicit sexual content and darker themes. By reading this work or any works on my blog (jtargaryen18), you agree that you are at least 18 years of age. I do not consent to have my work hosted on any third party app or site.
Sunday morning should’ve been quiet, allowing him time for his family. Just one day.
Tommy had been in London for the last three days. Instead of staying in that city for one more night, he travelled home overnight, arriving in Birmingham in the early morning hours. Unable to sleep after that and not wanting to wake his wife and baby son, he came down to his office to get some work done.
Tommy had been working at his desk for about an hour when the door opened with no preamble. He was hoping it was his beautiful wife, already smiling.
But it was Rory who stepped in.
“He’s here,” Rory said meaningfully.
Tommy didn’t need to ask who. Somehow, he knew Alfie Solomons would turn up soon. Just not at his home.
Reluctantly, he said, “Bring him in.”
Only a moment later, Rory returned with Alfie at his shoulder.
He wasn't sure if Alfie was an ally or an enemy. The man took one step into the room before stopping, measuring the place. His hat was still atop his head, his cane tapping the floor as he walked.
“Right,” he muttered, glancing around. “So, this is where you do your thinking, yeah? Bit tidy for my liking, Tommy."
Tommy had no intention of rising to it. “I'm sure you’ve seen worse.” Gesturing to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Sit.”
But Alfie didn’t sit. Turning ever so slightly, he glanced back towards Rory. Tommy's new business partner took his time, sizing up his brother-in-law, the young man who had earned a reputation for himself as one of the most deadly men in Birmingham.
Rory stood by the door, too calm and still for a man his age. His gaze didn't leave Alfie for a second.
“Interesting one, that,” Alfie said, almost to himself.
Rory didn’t react at all. He just stood there, motionless and waiting.
Alfie smiled faintly. “Go on then. You can leave us. I promise I won’t rob him blind in the next five minutes.”
Rory still didn’t move, his gaze shifting to Tommy.
When Tommy gave him a small nod, Rory left without a word, closing the door behind him.
And in the silence of his exit, Alfie watched the door a moment longer. Letting out a slow breath, he turned his attention back to Tommy as he finally took a seat in front of his desk.
“Bloody hell,” Alfie muttered.
Tommy lit a cigarette. “Problem?”
Alfie shook his head, making himself comfortable in the leather-backed seat. “No, no problem. Just didn’t expect him, is all.”
Tommy didn't answer. Alfie kept talking.
“That one’s cold, Tommy.”
Tommy didn’t answer.
“I’ve met lads like that,” Alfie went on, his hands moving as he spoke. “War leaves ‘em like that, yeah? Takes everything soft out and leaves… something else.” Alfie frowned faintly now. “Thing is, I’d usually say war did that, yeah? Seen it a hundred times. But he’s too young for that, isn’t he mate?”
Tommy exhaled smoke, letting Alfie work his way through it. “He’s seen enough.”
Alfie gave that a moment. “Right, so it’s not war.”
Tommy watched him nod to himself, like he’d just solved a puzzle he didn’t enjoy solving.
“Because war, yeah?” Alfie continued. “War’s simple. You know what did it. You know where it came from.” Tapping his temple, he said, “But when it’s not that. What's in that lad was built. Bit by bit.”
Tommy just waited while Alfie’s gaze shifted to the door again.
“Which means,” he said, almost conversational now, “he didn’t end up like that by accident. No, he chose it.”
Finishing his cigarette, Tommy crushed it in the tray. “He’s loyal.”
Alfie let out a short breath through his nose.
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Looking back at Tommy, he went on. “Until he isn't anymore. What happens then?"
Tommy wasn't about to engage in the conversation. Alfie was posing the question of what would happen if Rory ever turned on him, went against him. It wasn't impossible Rory would ever challenge him, just not in the way Alfie was thinking.
Finally, Alfie straightened, realizing Tommy wasn't going to take the topic up.
“I like him,” he added, lighter now. “I don’t trust him, obviously... but I like him.” A faint grin. “I wouldn’t turn my back on him, mind you.”
Tommy’s voice was flat. “No one asked you to.”
Then Alfie clapped his hands once, like shaking it off. “Right. Now we’ve done the introductions, let’s talk about London.”
Tommy leaned back in his chair. Finally.
“Camden’s not Birmingham,” Alfie said slower now. “You don’t just walk in and take a piece, yeah? You negotiate the air before you breathe it.”
Tommy leaned back in his chair, another cigarette between his fingers. “I’m not asking permission."
Alfie grinned. “Course you’re not. That’s why I’m here instead of sending someone else to tell you you’re wrong.”
Before he could say anything else, his study door opened again. No one knocked, and Tommy’s head snapped up instantly.
And there she was. His stunning wife was smiling and happy to see him. with the soft light from the hallway catching on her hair as she crossed the threshold.
“You came back last night,” she said, already moving toward him. “You didn’t wake me—”
She stopped short when she saw the man sitting across from her husband. A stranger in his black clothes and hat, running a hand over his beard as his gaze swept over her.
Tommy was already on his feet, but it was too late. There was a single moment of silence as Tommy walked over to his wife.
That's when Alfie lit up.
“Well now,” he said, slow and delighted. He was already out of the chair, stepping forward. His manner wasn't threatening as much as it was just inevitable.
Tommy moved, subtle but firm, placing himself just enough between them.
“This is my wife,” he said, tone controlled.
Alfie nodded like he’d expected nothing less. “Yeah. I can see that.” To her, his smile widened. “Though I'm not so sure I expected Thomas to find a wife that could put up with him and that looks like... you."
At the faint smile on his new partner's face, Tommy tried to guide her quietly from the office with a hand at her lower back. It was bad enough Alfie had gotten a look at her. He certainly didn't want her to linger.
“And there it is," Alfie said loudly. "You’ve got the lad's eyes.”
Tommy cut in, sharper now. “Alfie.”
Of course Alfie didn’t stop.
“No, hold on,” he said, lifting a hand. “Because now I’ve got it, yeah?” Gesturing loosely toward the door, he said, "That one, Rory, cold as winter, barely says a word...” Back to her. “Then you walk in smiling... Brother and sister, right?” he asked with no small amount of satisfaction.
Tommy didn’t confirm it, but his graceful wife nodded at his side.
Alfie was pleased with himself. “Right,” he said. “That makes sense now.” When he glanced at her again, he said, “You’ve got his way of standing your ground. You just look a lot better.”
That had her smiling. Goddamn it.
Tommy stepped in fully now. “That’s enough."
She didn’t shrink away from Alfie or retreat. She wouldn't. His wife had held her own alone with Luca Changretta. It wasn't really a surprise she wasn't intimidated by the latest stranger in front of her. Still, smiling, she met Alfie's gaze calmly.
“I'm sorry,” she said. “I didn't mean to interrupt. I just wanted to welcome my husband home.”
Alfie’s expression shifted just a fraction. He remained respectful. “Yeah, I imagine you did.”
Tommy wasn’t smiling, steering her towards the door.
"I'll find you as soon as I'm done here," he told her quietly, willing her to leave the room. Now.
Alfie just chuckled under his breath.
“Right, right. Business first,” he said, moving back toward his chair. “I’ll behave. Lovely to meet you, Mrs. Shelby. I have to say you're a strong reminder of why men make poor decisions.”
Tommy glared him down, but Alfie just grinned.
Nodding, she quietly made her way out of the office, leaving the two of them to talk business. The door closed behind her, but Tommy didn’t move right away. For a moment, he just stood there wishing his wife hadn't come looking for him.
And wishing he'd been alone so she could have. She would have kissed him, pressed her body against his like soft fire. He wouldn't have had a problem with it becoming more. All the way home last night, he'd considered that he'd only ever had her once on his desk. He was thinking he wanted a repeat of that...
Later.
Behind him, Alfie let out a low whistle. “Right, that’s… something, that is.”
Tommy got himself under control, slowly turning to face his unexpected guest. “Say what you came to say.”
“So,” Alfie said as he returned to his chair, his cane tapping. “Let me get this straight, yeah?” Gesturing toward the door, he said, “You’ve got that walking around your house. And then you’ve also got that cold little bastard for a brother-in-law.”
To Tommy's annoyance, Alfie was mapping out his family.
“Now I’m trying to work out, who came first?” He paused. “The beautiful wife? Or the cold lad?”
Tommy’s voice cut in, low and lethal. “Enough, Alfie.”
Alfie stopped, just looking at him. His smile was faint, but deliberate. “Yeah, you don’t like that, do you?”
Tommy moved closer now, slowly and quietly. There was nothing casual about it.
“My wife isn't your concern,” Tommy finally said.
Alfie let out a soft, almost amused breath. “No.”
The silence dropped like a weight, as Tommy regarded him coldly. Internally, he was cursing the bastard for just showing up to his home. His home was his private life. Not business. She was not part of his business.
Alfie held up a hand before it went any further. “I’m not after her, Tommy. I’m not suicidal. But I can't unsee a woman who looks like that."
Tommy didn't blink, still staring Alfie down.
“Didn’t you realize what you did, Tommy?” Alfie asked. “You went and married a woman who looks like that. Now you're building everything around her. And your son. I hear you have a boy with her.”
When would the man realize, he wasn't going to discuss his family and bloody get on with it?
Alfie’s voice dropped, sharper now. "Now I understand something I didn’t before.”
Tommy’s gaze lifted to his.
“Luca Changretta,” Alfie said.
Tommy exhaled loudly. He didn't want to talk about the Changrettas. He wanted to move on to any subject that didn't involve his family. Her.
“All that noise. All that obsession.” Alfie shook his head. “The stories got really fucking loud, yeah? Territory, revenge, some girl your lot didn’t want near Angel Changretta. Some other girl.” His gaze locked onto Tommy’s. "That wasn’t just about business, was it? No, it was her.”
The man's words hung there, ugly and true.
"Luca Changretta is dead," Tommy said quietly.
Alfie didn’t argue that. “Yeah. And a good thing that is. But he won’t be the last man who notices her.”
Tommy stepped back then, just enough to reclaim the space. He lit another cigarette with steady hands.
Alfie watched him, but he wasn't smiling now. “That’s the problem, Thomas. It appears you’ve got something real. And men like us? We don’t get to have those things without someone trying to take ‘em.”
After one long, tense moment, Alfie clapped his hands, snapping the moment in half.
“Right,” he said, voice lighter again. “Now that we’ve established you’ve made your life unnecessarily complicated…” A smirk. “Shall we get back to discussing London?”
Tommy walked back to his desk and sat in the chair behind it. Finally.
“Sit down, Alfie.”
But the man's warning lingered in the back of his mind.
***
Since your husband was busy, you decided to tend to your roses while Malachy was asleep upstairs. You'd been trying to make time for days, but something else for you to do always arrived whenever you remembered. If you didn't do something about them soon, they'd be out of control. The men of your house could care less about the garden outside. Tommy would always tell you to leave it to the servants.
But when you'd been a girl, you loved books about fairytale princes and their castles. The princess who spent her days in beautiful gowns, wandering her garden and sipping tea. It had been fun to dream about anyway.
Now? Tommy was certainly not a prince, nor you a princess. But you'd never expected to live in a house like this, with so many rooms and staff to help maintain it. Only they weren't really staff to you. They were your friends. You certainly never imagined having a huge, beautiful garden either. But you were grateful, spending time there each day when you could. You were particularly fond of the roses and had, over time, taken over their care. Sure, you could have asked the gardener to do it for you. But it wasn't the same.
You loved the silence of the garden, an escape from the voices, footsteps, and constant movement of the house. Kneeling in the dirt with your sleeves pushed back, you carefully worked around the stems. The blooms were coming in strong in deep reds and soft pinks. There were white blooms but not many this year. Clipping one branch cleanly, you leaned back to inspect your work.
“Delicate work, that.”
You stilled at the sound of that unfamiliar voice, turning your head slightly to see a man standing a few feet away. You hadn't heard him approach, and that was something.
The man your husband had just been talking with didn't look like someone from Small Heath. The cut of his coat, the way he held himself, was deliberate and commanded authority. In that regard, he reminded you of Tommy.
But Tommy had just been talking business with him in his office. What was he doing out here? He was studying you.
With the shears in your hand, you slowly rose to your feet. “I suppose so,” you said, keeping a polite tone. “It took me a while to get the hang of it.”
That got a flicker of amusement from him. “I imagine it was the same with your husband.”
Oh, it was. But that was a little too familiar from a man whose name you didn't know.
You met his gaze fully now. “And you are?”
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering how much to say. “Someone your husband’s been spending time with."
"So you're curious about me, but you won't tell me your name," you pointed out.
He was fighting back a smile, trying to hide something that looked suspiciously like approval bleeding through his expression.
“You're a sharp one, yeah?” He shifted his weight slightly, hands casually gripping his cane before him. “Names are a bit of a commitment, aren’t they?”
You didn't answer right away. You'd watched Tommy do it enough times. He'd wait until the other person resumed talking just to fill the void. You started working on another branch.
“Alfie Solomons,” he said a couple of moments later like it really didn’t matter.
You introduced yourself.
“And you’re right. I am curious.” Another moment of silence, and there was mild tension in that quiet. Alfie moved closer but still kept a respectable distance. “You don’t seem particularly concerned, Mrs. Shelby."
You kept pruning. You weren't dismissing him, but you were hardly welcoming him to stay either. “Should I be?”
He paused behind you. “Depends."
You worked on clipping another stem. “On what?”
“On whether you know what kind of man your husband is,” he replied.
You were smiling now. Turning around, you met his gaze again. “I do know.”
“And what kind of man is that?” he asked.
You considered him for a moment. "Not the kind who allows strangers to wander into his garden."
Alfie smiled properly then. “But here I am.”
“For now," you said, still grasping the shears in your hands.
Interest sharpened his expression. “You’ve got a way about you. Like none of this troubles you.”
Glancing down at your hands, at the dirt under your nails, you spotted a small thorn mark along your finger. You thought about how you wanted to answer. “It does. But there's little point in letting it show.”
“That’ll either serve you very well,” he murmured, “or not at all.”
You looked back up at him. “I guess that depends on the day.”
That was when you heard Tommy’s voice. “Step away from her.”
His tone was calm, but for you, it only made it sound more menacing.
Turning, you already knew what you would see. You husband had entered your space as silently as your visitor, every line of him was braced and locked in. He wasn't looking at you, but the man a couple of feet away. And that told you everything.
For whatever reason, the man mattered. Was he dangerous? Was he trying to do business with your husband? Did he intend to harm him?
Glancing back at your unexpected visitor, you said, "Excuse me.”
Alfe inclined his head slightly. “Of course.” Then, as if he couldn’t resist, he added, "Didn’t mean to overstay my welcome.”
You stepped forward, passing Tommy. You were close enough to feel the heat of him and the tension he held just beneath the surface.
“Inside,” he said, quieter but no less firm. "Now."
You didn’t argue. You just nodded and kept walking. And as you crossed the threshold into you home, leaving the garden behind, you realized that you hadn't been afraid. But Tommy's reaction made you wonder if that was the wrong response.
reaction made you wonder if that was the wrong response.
***
Tommy's attention focused on Alfie even as the door shut behind her. For a long second, neither man spoke.
“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Tommy's tone was low and even.
Adjusting his coat, Alfie looked like he had all the time in the world. “I listen fine. I just don’t always agree.”
Tommy stepped closer. “You don’t come to my home and make yourself comfortable.”
Alfie glanced around the garden. “Comfortable’s not the word I’d use. Bit tense, if I’m honest.”
"You were supposed to have left. Now I find you still at my home, in my garden, with my wife. So why are you really here today, Alfie?"
"Just wanted to see exactly who I'm doing business with," Alfie said simply. "That's what we do in our world, innit?"
Unmoved, Tommy continued to stare him down. His wife was not part of his business. He'd already ended the Changrettas for her. He wasn't above making that list longer.
“You won’t speak to her,” Tommy told him, "or come near her again."
Alfie looked at him then, really looked. "I know what I needed to know.”
It was then that Tommy realized exactly what that meant.
Taking a step closer, Alfie looked him in the eye. “Your reactions say a lot about who you are.”
Tommy’s voice dropped another degree. “You’re done here.”
Alfie gave a small, humorless smile. “I am.”
Finally stepping back, Alfie adjusted his hat. “Nice garden, by the way. Worth protecting.”
Tommy didn’t respond, just watched Alfie turn and walk away.
***
You were quietly looking through the cabinets for Polly's emergency bottle of whiskey. You knew she probably took it with her when she moved into her new house, but it was worth a try. You'd just checked on Malachy who was still napping. Now, you just needed something to calm your nerves. It was rare for you to turn to spirits to do that, and you weren't proud of it.
You didn't immediately realize your husband was silently watching you from the doorway. As you closed the last cabinet, you noticed a slight tremble to your hands. You blew out an exhale, trying to center yourself.
“That bad?” Tommy's voice alerted you to his presence.
You didn’t turn right away. "Oh, I'm okay."
“Yeah,” he replied. “I can see that.”
You really hadn't sounded very convincing. “I just... need a minute.”
When you turned to face him, Tommy's gaze was intent on you.
It was all very odd. A man he was doing business with showed up at your house unexpectedly. That never happened. The same man found you in the garden by yourself. You'd handled yourself well enough, at least you thought you did. But you had to wonder how their second conversation went after you were told to go into the house. Tommy didn't look furious just now. But, as you knew well, that didn't necessarily mean anything.
“If it’s a drink you want,” Tommy said, calmer now, “come with me.”
The way he'd so easily guessed your intentions stopped you cold. His office door shut behind you once you reached it. You watched as he moved to the cabinet and pulled out two glasses. His hands were perfectly steady, unlike yours, as he poured even measures. It was the whiskey he favored, and it was a bit strong for you. But when he handed you a glass, you took it. You took a couple of drinks right away, closing your eyes as it burned its way down into your stomach.
Tommy's gaze stayed on you. “Sit.”
Taking a seat in the same chair where Alfie Solomons had been sitting, you took another drink. For a moment, neither of you said anything.
“What did you think of him?” Tommy asked.
That got your attention. Tommy wasn't asking if you were okay or if you were scared. No, he was asking what you thought of the man.
Looking down into the glass in your hand, you could only be honest. "I wanted to like him. But he made me uneasy."
Tommy didn’t react. “Why?”
Taking another small sip, you continued. “I mean... He was polite and charming... It's hard to explain."
Tommy crossed in front of you, sitting on the edge of his desk as he drained his own glass and placed it next to him. Then his attention was right back on you, watching you closely.
And you knew, you knew, Tommy used small silences like that to prompt you into saying more. To expand on what you were saying. And damn it, you did it anyway.
“I just felt like there was something under all the charm and conversation,” you continued.
Tommy pulled out a cigarette and lit it, taking his time. “And what was that?”
You considered that carefully. “The only thing I can say for sure is that it was really about you." Draining your glass, you leaned forward and placed it on the desk next to his. "Now when I think about all the questions he didn't ask..."
Tommy exhaled smoke before grabbing your glass with one hand, bringing the cigarette to hold between his lips with his other. "And what did he learn?" he asked, refilling your glass and bringing it back to you.
You took the glass back, meeting his gaze solidly. "There are things you care about. Your family."
Your husband's expression didn't shift. "And does he view that as a weakness?"
The whiskey had eased the tension in your body that the man's visit started. You took another sip.
"It's not a weakness." You shook your head. "The way you protect your family, Tommy? It's you at your most dangerous."
"No, I asked if he viewed that as a weakness."
Your husband's cool blue eyes took you in as you took another drink. The burn was less now, and warmth spread through your body.
"I don't know for certain what the man was thinking," you had to say.
Exhaling slowly, Tommy held your gaze for a moment. "Exactly."
You frowned. "I don't understand."
"No, you don't, and you can't." Tommy leaned back slightly, cigarette balanced between his fingers. "That's the point."
You watched him carefully.
"I held my own with Luca Changretta." Folding your arms across your chest, you said, "And despite that, he was civilized with me."
"Civilized?" Tommy actually laughed. A short, disbelieving sound. "Changretta wanted you."
Where was he going with this? "Yes, but—"
"No." His voice remained even. "He wanted you."
The room fell quiet.
You lifted your chin. "He never laid a hand on me, Tommy."
Tommy leaned forward, his gaze locked with yours."You were less than a month from having a babe. He threatened you, ordered his men to hunt a pregnant woman. Laying a hand on you is the only thing he didn't do because he never got the chance."
You opened your mouth and closed it again. Was he right?
Tommy's expression softened slightly. "I need you to adjust your beliefs when it comes to our world."
Our world now?
Your answer came immediately. "I guess you're right. I'm your wife after all."
A corner of his mouth twitched.
"That's only one aspect of it." Your husband took a final drag on his cigarette, taking his time to expel a plume of smoke.
You drained your second glass of liquor, realizing it was spinning your mind. The drink went straight to your head, making your skin warm.
"Solomons wasn't interested in me, Tommy." You shook your head, but the movement made you a little dizzy. Your hands gripped the arms of his heavy leather chair to steady yourself.
And your husband watched you like a predator the entire time, catching every movement.
"It doesn't matter. You don't understand how men like him, like me, think." The intensity of his gaze froze you to the spot. "You don't understand how we evaluate risk, how we choose targets... I need you to be smarter in how you handle yourself. I need my wife, and Malachy needs his mum.”
While your heart squeezed in your chest at that last thought, Tommy was still studying you in a way that set your nerves on edge.
Snuffing out his cigarette in the tray on his desk, he turned that high-powered perception back on you. “You will not be talking to anyone I do business with from this point on. Not unless I'm there and only if necessary.”
You tilted your head slightly. "How is that going to be possible, Tommy? I get the feeling that you didn't know Mr. Solomons was coming to our house today. I'm supposed to just hide when something like this happens?"
Tommy shook his head, still entirely focused on you.
You frowned. "What?"
Tommy sighed, looking at you like he was trying to decide how to explain something impossible. “If you were a man, you’d understand it.”
Understand what?
Tommy’s gaze held yours. "You look in the mirror every day and you don't see it.”
"Really?" That pulled a nervous laugh from you. But it was false bravado and he saw right through it. “Luca was one man."
“His brother Angel was another.” There was no humor in his expression now, and all you could do was stare at him. His gaze dropped to your lips, slowly roamed over the rest of you. “There will be others. The Changrettas weren’t even the worst.”
Confusion had your brow furrowing. "Who was?"
Something darker bled into his eyes. “You married him.”
His words settled heavily between the two of you. You married him.
Your breath caught at that. But Tommy continued before you could answer.
“I remember the first time I ever saw you,” he said quietly. “I had a coat that needed mending. Arthur gave me the address of your mum's shop. Said the girl on Gray Street could fix it proper.”
You remembered that day. It had been terrifying enough when Arthur Shelby started bringing his mending to your mother's shop. Still, from his first visit, Arthur had been kind to you. In time, he became just another customer. Until the bet...
Tommy Shelby had been another story. You'd recognized him standing in your doorway with his expensive clothes and unreadable expression, light winking off the razors sewn into his cap. The energy in the entire room changed the moment his gaze found you.
You'd been polite and brief, trying your damnedest not to draw more of his attention. But he'd lingered, his gaze intense on you. Much like it was right now.
“I saw you,” Tommy went on. “And I wanted you.”
His admission had your heart racing in your chest. He wasn't even trying to soften it or paint himself in a better light.
“I put Arthur up to that wager with Sean O’Grady,” Tommy admitted. "I gave him the idea of making a night with you his prize."
You knew the entire story now. But the two of you had just never talked about it before. The dark greed in his gaze sent just a hint of fear racing through you.
“I knew Arthur would win. I also knew I'd never let him claim that prize." Tommy straightened, taking the glass from your hands just like he did that first night, and placing it on the desk behind him. “I took Arthur a bottle from the Garrison that afternoon and I made sure he wouldn't be upright for long.”
The room felt smaller now. You remembered John Shelby and another blinder, Liam, escorting you from Gray Street to Arthur's apartment that night. You hadn't been there long when Arthur passed out cold. Hope had swelled in your chest, had you thinking you could run from the most dangerous men in Small Heath.
"I knew you'd run." Your husband's icy blue eyes stayed locked on yours. “All I had to do was wait.”
You remembered that too. The fear and panic you felt darting out of that apartment, praying that no one saw you. You'd planned to claim that the deed was done, praying Arthur would assume you had since he'd been so drunk.
But you'd run right into Tommy. He'd caught you so easily.
"You remember that night." His voice dropped lower. “I caught you. Then I took what I wanted.”
The honesty of his words hit harder than if he’d tried making excuses.
Your gaze searched his face. Yes, you remembered all of it. He'd taken you that night just because he could. But to have him lay it out so baldly?
“I'm no different than the Changrettas," he said, "or any other man who will take one look at you and make the same decision."
Slowly, your husband pushed off from the desk. Planting his hands on the arms of your chair, he invaded your space. Crowded against the back of the chair, your heart hammered away in your chest so loudly he could probably hear it.
His gaze never left yours.
"Look at you. All alone with me and a locked door." His gaze shifted to the whiskey bottle on the desk and back. "You've had two glasses now, sitting here proving my point."
The silence between you felt electrically charged.
"If I weren't the man you know," he said with unbearable calm, "well, you've already given me every advantage. You trusted me enough to follow me in here, to drink with me. You've allowed me to get this close to you." He skimmed a hand up your arm to cradle the side of your face in his warm hand, his thumb brushing covetously along your cheek. "You don't have your brother here. You don't have Polly... You don't even have a clear head anymore."
Just like you had that first night with him. You had more experience now than the scared girl you'd been in that quiet apartment. Yes, your stepfather had put you up as a wager in a bet, an agreement you hadn't consented to. Even though it was hard to push thoughts through the haze of the whiskey you drank, you understood now. You'd just gone along, assuming you had no other choice than to allow Tommy Shelby to just take anything he wanted from you. And he had.
"That's what concerns me. Because there are men in this world who would see every one of those things as an opportunity... They don't even have to force their way in." Tommy's face was mere inches from yours when he leaned in. "You're trusting and kind. But those are qualities dangerous men know how to exploit. And I need you to be more aware of that."
You swallowed hard. The words felt like the ending to his lesson. So why was he still staring at you like he was ready to strike any second?
"You took me home with you after that." Your voice sounded as small as it had that night. "After you got what you wanted. Why?"
Tommy didn't back away, his expression didn't soften. "Before the war, I wanted what any lad did. To find a pretty girl to marry. Start a family, have a simple life."
His kiss was slow and deceptively careful. But you could feel the restraint behind it.
"But I came home from the war a different man," he whispered against your lips. "I'd watched soldiers become corpses and I'd watched officers make decisions that buried entire sections alive. I saw men who did everything right but died anyway. Good things didn't just come to good people who waited their turn... I watched good men die waiting their turn."
Tommy very rarely spoke so intimately about the war, how it changed his views on life. You didn't dare interrupt.
"If the world wasn't going to play fair with me," he went on, "I was going to respond in kind."
Anyone who didn't know him would think Tommy's greatest desire was power. He'd built so much from pure ambition, from the betting shop and street gangs to the expansion and all the violence holding it together. But now, looking into the haunted depths of his eyes, you realized power was never his goal. It was security. Everything he'd done was to protect his family, to keep all threats away. To ensure Malachy never in his life faced the fear his father knew.
You were now part of the family he worked so hard to protect. You'd given him a son. And in rare moments like this one when he opened up just a sliver, you realized Tommy would never crown himself king. Your heart ached to realize that scared young soldier who returned from France was still in there, believing that if he became powerful enough, he could protect those he loved from tragedy.
"I rejected that simple life I once wanted." His plush lips pressed soft kisses over your forehead, over your mouth. But you felt the raw need just beneath the surface. "Until I saw you."
Lifting a hand, you smoothed it over the back of his arm. The lean muscle beneath his crisp shirt shifted powerfully beneath your touch as you kept listening.
"I knew you were scared of me," Tommy said in a deeper tone. "I knew I didn't deserve you. But that didn't stop me. All I could think about was how you'd look sleeping in my bed, walking the halls of my house every day, waiting for me to come home."
When he kissed you again, there was heat and need. You welcomed it.
"I took you home with me. And the next morning, there you were, sleeping away." His lips blazed a trail over your jaw, seeking out all the spaces that made you tremble, the way only he could. "You were the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. You'd never learned a woman's artifice. You'd never known another man's touch."
His tongue tasted the salt of your skin, his lips teasing your flesh in a way that left you shivering.
"I promised myself another night with you," Tommy explained. "Then another. But it was never enough."
His palm was rough and warm as it skimmed over your face and hair. Slowly, it dropped to the front of your blouse, undoing each tiny button efficiently.
You sucked in a desperate breath, making no move to stop him.
"I convinced myself that I wanted to send a message to Small Heath," he said finally. "I wanted everyone to know what happens when you cross the Shelbys. But the truth was... I just wanted you. Guilt pushed at me every day to give you back. But I left selfishness win."
Faster than you could blink, Tommy snatched you out of the chair. He roughly dropped you onto the hard surface of his desk, sending one of the empty glasses flying off the desk to shatter on the floor. Your breath came out in a rush when he pushed you onto your back, his impatient hands grabbing your blouse and ripping it open. The tiny white buttons he hadn't undone flew everywhere.
When your husband ripped open your chemise, you just stared up at him in alarm, excitement running through your veins.
Tommy's expression was dark and feral. One rough hand slid possessively over your breast before sliding up to wrap around your neck, squeezing lightly.
"This is what men like me want," Tommy whispered, pinning you in place. "To claim and take... And you're so fucking beautiful."
You knew you should have been embarrassed to be as turned on as you were in that moment. The flesh between your thighs was slick, your body was literally humming in need.
"I took you that night," Tommy whispered, dropping quick scorching kisses over your skin. Teasing your nipple with his lips and tongue. "And I'm going to take you again now."
The moan his words pulled from you was a desperate plea. You were pushing yourself into his palms, up for his mouth. The hand on your neck didn't move, even when his other hand yanked up your dress until it could slide into your drawers to find you wet and aching for him.
"Please, Tommy," you whispered.
"You survived Luca Changretta because he underestimated you." Your devilish husband chained more kisses over your chest, blazing a trail down your body.
"I survived you." You could barely breathe to talk, taking all the challenge out of your statement. You just writhed under him in need.
"You survived me," Tommy's words were muffled against the warm flesh of your tummy, "because I fell in love with you."
And you could read the truth of his words in the deep blue of his eyes. You felt it in the possessive way his hands explored your body like it was his as much as yours.
"No other man will ever touch you," he said heatedly, tearing your drawers away from what he wanted. "No one touches what's mine."
All you could do was nod, everything else was forgotten. You were struggling to breathe, focusing on the devilish touch of his fingers on your clit.
The hand at your throat slid down to play with your breasts as he buried his face between your thighs. Your hands scrambled for something, anything, to hold onto as he took you apart in the most intimate way. While his tongue twisted in your folds, lashed at your clit, your hands grabbed at the edge of the desk, his strong shoulders, and the short black locks of his hair. Pleasure rose fast and intense, he was relentless. Your high cries filled his study when you came on his tongue, his tight grip keeping your hips immobile.
Those blue eyes stayed on you, enjoying the sight of you drowning in pleasure. Tommy lifted his head, triumph bleeding into his expression as you lay there trying to breathe.
"As much as I enjoyed how needy you were when you carried my boy," he said, swiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, "I forgot how much I love watching you scream for me like this."
Your husband dove back in, this time wrapping his arms around your thighs to hold them open for his torment. With the whiskey still running through your veins, you were somewhere between trying to escape his sensual torment and pushing yourself at him, begging for more without words. The second time you came with his fingers sliding against your front wall and his tongue a barely-there flutter against your clit that had you begging for me.
Tommy left you wilted on the desktop as he stood, his hands fumbling with his fine leather belt. Once he'd pushed down his trousers, he took himself in hand, red and swollen. Your gaze was riveted on the movement of his hand, the sight of his cock. You needed him so much.
He let go of himself only long enough to grab your thighs and drag you to the edge of his desk. Pulling your thighs over his hips, he positioned himself at your entrance. Tommy roughly grabbed your hips with his hands. You weren't sure if he was thrusting roughly into you or working you back and forth on his cock.
All you knew was that you craved being filled by him, and he gave you what you wanted. You arched your back, pleading like a mindless thing atop his desk as he fucked you like he never meant to stop. Your thighs clamped around his slim hips, your slick inner walls trying to grab him with every pass. You moaned and pleaded, an indecent chorus that kept in time with the rhythmic sound of slapping flesh.
Tommy kept shifting his thrusts until he found that space inside you that shattered your sanity and sent you sailing over the edge. At some point during your release, your husband captured your hands, pinning them to the desk on either side of your head. Now he hovered over you, watching your face as he fucked you harder and faster. The expensive fabric of his waistcoat was a cool slide against your breasts. The chain of his pocket watch was a cold shimmer against your heated skin.
"Want you to feel me for days," he whispered hotly into your ear as his lips seared the side of your neck. "I want to keep coming in you until my spend is dripping out of you."
You wanted to grab him, to hang onto him, but his hands held yours to the desk. His thrusts came harder and faster as he chased his own release.
"Want you full with my child again," he whispered as his lips and tongue teased the shell of your ear. "Swollen and beautiful... needing my cock to split you open every night. You begged me so sweetly..."
His eyes squeezed shut as he came, pumping into you with everything had. His lips parted as he struggled to breathe, furiously pushing into you over and over until he gave you everything he had. Until he had you trembling under him, making you take everything. All of him.
***
Ledgers lay open across his desk, untouched. The fire had burned low and the midday sun was dimming as clouds began to gather in the sky beyond his study windows.
Tommy sat in his chair with his six-month-old son asleep against his chest, one impossibly small fist wrapped around the fabric of his waistcoat.
For once, business could wait.
A quiet knock at the door drew his attention.
"Come."
Frances stepped inside carrying another stack of correspondence, but paused when she saw them, smiling. The older woman he'd hired to help run his house was more than capable, but she was also caring.
"I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You haven't," he said.
Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling. "Mrs. Shelby is asleep."
Tommy glanced upward instinctively.
"She usually isn't at this hour," Frances added. "I hope she's feeling well."
A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "She's tired."
Frances smiled knowingly. "The little master keeping everyone awake?"
Not the little one. Tommy looked down at the sleeping boy. "Something like that."
The woman hesitated. "I could take him if you've work to do."
"No." Tommy shook his head. "He'll stay with me."
Frances nodded, leaving the correspondence she brought where she always did. "As you wish, Mr. Shelby."
Once she left, the room settled back into silence.
Tommy watched his son sleeping. Malachy stirred, making a tiny dissatisfied sound before settling again.
With a hand smoothing against his son's back, he said, "You've no idea where you've landed, have you?"
Another sleepy sigh.
"You'll meet dangerous men one day," he explained, watching the tiny fingers flex against his waistcoat. His thumb absently stroked the boy's back. "Men like Alfie Solomons. They'll make you laugh. That's the first thing."
His smile faded as he thought about Alfie catching him off guard today. Showing up at his home, getting an eye full of his wife.
"Never mistake a sense of humor for harmlessness," he continued, shifting the baby higher on his shoulder. "Men like Alfie want you comfortable because comfortable men stop paying attention."
Tommy watched the dying embers of the fire for just a moment.
"He'll tell you a story, and half of it will be true. The other half's there to stop you asking the questions that matter."
Malachy's eyes fluttered open, gazing up at him for just an instant before closing again. Eyes that looked much like his own.
"If a clever man starts talking too much..." He quietly chuckled. "...listen to what he isn't saying. And don't underestimate him. The moment you do, you've made a mistake."
Tommy thought of his wife sleeping in the safety of his bed. The moment he had with his son, knowing the devils were far from his gates. For now. That security was earned through hard work and calculation. He'd teach his son what do and he'd adapt to whatever path life took him on.
"Respect dangerous men, Malachy," he said slowly. "Never admire them."
Admiration clouded judgment, and he'd seen men become fascinated by power, reputation, and charisma. Alfie Solomons possessed all three.
"You'll like him," Tommy went on. "Most people do."
His wife had although she'd also feared him on some level. Not enough. But he'd teach her too.
"That's what makes him dangerous."
A long silence followed.
"But you'll learn," he told his son with quiet certainty. "I'll teach you."
Tommy chuckled under his breath. "You'll think your father's suspicious, probably tell your Mum I'm impossible. And she'll agree with you."
His wife still believed there was good to be found in most people and somehow married a man who searched every room for exits.
Tommy sincerely hoped he inherited his mother's heart. But he intended to give him his eyes.
He sat there without moving for a little while longer, the warm weight of his son in his arms, something he wanted burned into his memory. His ledgers remained untouched.
For once, there was no business more important than the ones sleeping in his arms and in his bed.
Summary: As Tommy finally learns what it means to be your husband. To make a promise to a fallen soldier as he prepares for your uncle's final farewell. He'll learn at the sight of an empty bed, and a note left behind, what it means to have everything worth protecting, taken away from him.
Warnings: Language, angst, arranged marriage.
Word Count: 3K
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How do you tell someone that the man who was meant to teach you right from wrong did something so irrevocably, so unforgivably wicked?
That the one who was supposed to cherish and love you until his dying breath, stole that of another?
How on god's fucking green earth does that conversation go?
Oh darling, I'm so sorry, your father killed your dear uncle. But I'm here now.
Is that up to scratch?
No?
Perhaps…
Sweetheart, your uncle Richie was found dead this morning. We believe your father is responsible. We're doing all we can.
Still not enough?
Let me rephrase it then. Let me give you the harrowing, unfiltered reality…
Your diabolical father had murdered your uncle in cold blood yesterday. Shot him in the chest at point-blank range, then left him to bleed out alone in the dirt. The rotten, soulless bastard has vanished. Slipped away. Gone missing.
Missing.
That's right. Your father had either charmed his way out of Birmingham or made a deal with the devil himself at some deserted crossroads between counties.
Awful Arney was gone. Like dust in the wind. Like a wave breaking over the perfect pipe dream before dragging it back to the sea.
And there was not a single, goddamn, bloody thing Tommy could say nor do to stop your heart from racing itself raw within your chest.
You were not just sat in that bay window again, tears tracking down your flushed cheeks as you waited for one of your husband's men to return with news that would relieve your heart. You had outright, outrun, and outmanuvered every single one of Tommy's attempts to comfort you. When frankly, darling, you needed more than even he knew how to give right now.
“ How's she holding up?” Arthur murmured quietly beside Tommy, as they stood behind the threshold of your resolve, threading thinner with each passing minute.
“ She's not” Tommy answered carefully, quietly, not to spook you from the solitude you had sought. The distance you'd put between you and everyone else as disbelief had you asking how your own father could do something so fundamentally, unforgivablly fucked up.
“ She's drowning, Arthur. Gone somewhere In that head of hers i can't reach” Tommy watched as you sat perfectly poised, just like uncle Richie had taught you. Just like you had been raised to conduct yourself.
It was beautiful. Believable. It was a desperate lie, unmasking itself bit by bit as your fingers fought each other under the guise of stillness. Pulling and twisting. Searching for something to hold onto, to anchor your aching heart that had gone adrift.
“ Arthur” Tommy turned, voice dropping low, stripped clean of the calm he'd worn for your sake. “ Find him. Find the bastard and bring him to me”
“ Tom, we've got men looking as far as Huddersfield” Arthur kept his words just as hushed, as your solemn figure sat looking out at the winding roads of Warwickshire. “Ain't a single fucking trace of him anywhere, brother”
“ Then go north” Tommy's order came clipped, every pretense of control leaving him as anger coiled up his spine. “ Burn down every county line from here to Glasgow if you have to”
“ He's been talking. Making connections” he leaned in with a low whisper, keeping how truly depraved your father was, safely from your knowledge.
“ Scotsmen from the Smethwick brewery. Glaswegian groups that answer to no one but their own. Billy Boys, Arthur. He's been talking with the Billy Boys”
“ Christ” Arthur exhaled a raspy breath deep from within his lungs, as he dragged a hand over his hardening face.
“ Go. Before he sells his own daughter out. Before he trades my wife for another pretty penny” the words came with complete and utter disgust, leaving a bitter taste of bile at the back of his throat.
“ Right. Leaving” Arthur murmured, turning on the heel of his boot, fingers snapping at the Peaky soldiers stood waiting on their orders as Tommy turned his attention back to you, pained with questions that demanded he be patient.
What would he have to do for you to trust him after he'd given you every reason not to?
To let him close the distance when for a month he'd put miles between you?
To let him hold you. To let him shoulder even a fraction of your heartache?
To let him be your husband?
I could shout. I could curse Cupid sat high in heartbreak heaven for not intervening. For not granting you one moment of relief away from mourning.
Believe me, faithful reader, I'd wish for nothing more.
But even I can't force your feet to move in front of you. For you to seek the only man left in your life and let him take the weight off your heavy heart.
For as you sat separated by nothing but the terms of your arrangement in adjacent rooms, while night drew in once more, blanketing the bereaved. Arrow House mourned another man.
The lilies under her alcoves remained.
Heavy cloth draped over every reflection remained.
But sitting still, alone and aching in grief, was a heavy toll for anyone to pay. Even for you, whose stubborn resolve had finally drawn its last desperate breath.
With one quiet foot after the other, you crossed the room to the wooden door that had remained a line drawn since the day of your wedding, as you tentatively pushed it open into darkness.
And there he was. Sat on the edge of the bed. Jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, elbows to his knees, head bowed heavy under the weight of another impossible day, as a cigarette burned forgotten between his fingers.
Your husband. Your Tommy.
Head lifting slowly between slumped shoulders, he turned.
And there you were.
Stood by the door, hand to the handle, every inch of you looking as uncertain as you did the day you said ‘I do’.
His wife. His girl.
“ Come here, darling” his voice was a soft sanctuary as he held his hand out for you to take, to trust him and let him be what he'd tried to be in his own broken way.
Your husband.
Feet crossing before you had time to think, Tommy met you halfway, fingers curling gently around yours, steadying you before drawing you down onto the bed and into his chest as the dam broke and the tears for an uncle lost, finally freed themselves in the safety of your husband's arms.
“ Tommy…” you wept, his name breaking apart on your lips as grief finally gave way and you pressed your face into his shirt.
“ It's alright” he murmured softly, anchoring you further into him with a gentle hand to the back of your head. “ You're alright”
“ You stay here, eh? You stay right here with me, sweetheart" He hummed quietly into your hair, lips pressing a fierce kiss of tenderness to the crown of your head.
And so you did.
You stayed. He stayed. You let your husband hold you, let him take the weight off your shoulders and give you both a moment where your marriage finally felt like it meant something more than a merger on a contract made a month ago.
And as the night sky slipped into a quiet twilight of twinkling stars over Arrow House, Tommy threaded his fingers through your hair, stroking softly until you settled fully beside him on your marital bed.
“ I’m sorry” the words caught in his chest, raspy, gravelled, a month in the making, and finally coming to surface.
“ I've made a lot of mistakes” he continued quietly, allowed now in the comfort of dark, in his own bed, beside his wife, to be something other than what the world demanded of him.
“ A lot of wrongs I'm trying to make right…” His fingers gently curled a lock of your hair, as the slow pitter-patter of your heart steadied something in him he didn't know was still running rabid.
“ If you let me” he murmured, head tilting down to yours resting in the crook of his neck. “ Will you let me? Darling?”
But no response came. No hitch in your breath at the confession you'd once convinced yourself you'd never hear.
Because you. Yes, bloody you. Were out for count weren't you?
Your husband had done such an expert job at relaxing you, calming the chaos within, that you'd completely missed the monumental moment where Thomas Michael Shelby, notorious hard man, had said ‘sorry’.
Goodness gracious, girl. Of all the times you should be sleeping, now is not one of them.
“ Of course…” a rasp of disbelief, of quiet amusement rattled in his chest as he shifted enough to see you, eyes shut, deep in sleep.
Christ.
“ I bleed my bloody heart out…” he murmured, a fondness curling at the corner of his lips as he drew you closer. “ and you've gone and dozed off”
“ You sleep then” he drawled, settling deeper into the duvet, as the weight of the world eased, just for a moment, so he could finally hold his wife.
“ Sleep, sweetheart”
Richie had been a good man. An honest man. A father figure to a woman whose lot in life handed her a deadbeat dad.
A business man. A just man. An Uncle that had spent a lifetime keeping you safe, until the day he placed your hand in your husband's.
And Tommy, for all his flaws and fractured morals, intended to give him the send-off he deserved.
The most honourable of farewells. One final salute before the drums beat slowly. Before they played the fife lowly. Before they sounded the Last Post and lowered him down.
A soldiers burial.
“ The watch is over now, Rich” Tommy murmured beside your uncle's body laid out upon the cold mortuary slab, hat in hand, head bowed.
“ I'll take the next watch” he promised, pledged not to the dead, but the living Richie had left behind. To you.
“ Stand down, soldier” his hand settled firmly on your uncle's shoulder, before he straightened, eyes drifting to the window, west to Warwickshire and the woman that waited there. The woman who had made him a husband.
“ I've got her now”
Hat fixed low, Tommy turned on his heel to the undertaker stood respectfully waiting for each mark your husband would make to your uncle's funeral.
“ That man…” Tommy murmured, slipping on his leather gloves, as the stitching creased under the stretch of his hands. “Is a soldier of the Great War. And will be honoured as one”
“ Church service. Buried beside his brothers in arms. Key Hill Cemetery”
“ Horse-drawn hearse, sir?” The funeral directors pencil poised over paper, each request to be recorded with meticulous care.
“ Horse drawn hearse. Oak coffin. Draped in the Union Jack. Dressed in his uniform. Full military honours” Tommy reached into his coat for his cigarettes, his own medals long gone to the cut and every curse he'd given them.
“ Very good sir” the undertaker listed each request, as Tommy watched word for word, making sure without an ounce of uncertainty that nothing had been overlooked.
“ Find me the best bugler in the West Midlands” he nodded to the notes, cigarette smoothing over his lips before it slipped into the corner of his mouth. “ I want the Last Post played properly”
“ You have my word, sir” the funeral director closed his book, a heavy silence settling over them with the weight of what had been decided.
Satisfied every honour had been accounted for Tommy turned to leave, only to come to a slow stop, hand heavy on the handle of the door.
“ Flowers” the word came quieter, as his eyes drifted past the undertaker to the still form behind him. “ My wife requested flowers”
The only request you had made that morning before he left for Bradley & Sons.
The only flowers a man would ever receive in his lifetime, set to be laid in front of his grave.
“ Roses. After her mother”
Rose.
Now, I may have previously stated that as much as I would've liked to, I couldn't physically force your feet to move when we all watched, hearts breaking as you chose solitude before finally letting your husband hold you.
Well, I've changed my mind.
And even if I did sprinkle a little hop into your step, gave your toes the gentlest of tugs to get you going, I hereby revoke, as of this very moment, your walking privileges.
Because leaving you alone in Arrow House, with nothing but your own thoughts for company and a husband nowhere in sight to anchor them, has you wandering these halls like a woman personally intent on tempting fate with every step she takes.
So, for the love of God, sit down, girl. Before you give this woman in the prime of her life, pebbles in her bloody gallbladder.
But no matter how fast I pen these furious words, you still refused to listen.
You continued your little conquest into the labyrinth of Arrow House, with every member of staff indisposed, leaving no one to witness the lady of the house who, as I write this, had decided a solitary stroll across the lawn was the remedy to her woes.
Dressed in nothing but a silk gown and slip to shield you from the crisp air, you welcomed the winter breeze if only to cool your cheeks from the heat of a hundred unshed tears burning your face.
But as your bare feet grounded themselves in the earth, feeling a brief moment of steadiness, the sound of tyres rumbling along mud and stone cut through the calm.
“ No. You need to go around the front” you muttered, marching across the lawn towards the delivery truck, as three men, burly and broad stepped out.
“ Deliveries are to the front door” you repeated your husband's order, one out of the many rules he'd inundated you with mere hours after your wedding a month ago.
“ Ye’er sure about that, lass? We've orders to pull around the back” the biggest stepped forward, accent thick enough to catch the edge of every sentence.
“ Yes, I'm fucking sure” your response came clipped, irritated that you'd even been questioned.
“ Would ye listen to the lip on this wee one, McConnel” the stockiest smirked, eyes flicking to his friend as he stepped forward, boots sinking into the grass.
“Yer husband ken you talk to strangers like that, lass?” The third man moved closer, crossing the unspoken line of politeness.
“ Aye. Blasphemy’ a sin. And Mr McCavern sees to sins…poppet”
Poppet.
A pet name. A sweet, honeyed British term given to daughters by their mothers…their fathers.
Your father.
Eyes widening, heart picking up faster than your feet could carry you, the realisation that your father had sold you out to the Scots for another penny, left you too slow to flee from the heavy frame that seized you from behind.
“ Get off me, you bastard!” You screamed as you were lifted from the ground, silk gown slipping off your shoulders in the struggle.
“ Dinnae fret, lass. Ye’ll not be harmed” the biggest fought to keep you under control as you kicked, twisted and turned.
Thrown into the back of the truck, your screams for help were quickly silenced by a reeking rag clamped over your mouth until you went limp at the limbs, and the world turned.
Fingers sweeping down to collect your muddied silk from the ground, McConnell thrusted the garment into the chest of the stocky fellow Scotsman, along with a carefully written note and a single worded order.
“ Quick”
Barely an hour had passed, when the sound of Tommy's Bentley pulled up in front of Arrow House. The swing of the front door announced his arrival before he'd even stepped in, and the house answered as it always had.
“ Mr Shelby” Frances appeared, dutiful as ever, greeting him as she gathered his affairs into her arms.
“ My wife?” he immediately asked, eyes scanning the foyer, as they took note of anything that looked even a fraction out of place.
“ Resting, sir” your loyal housekeeper replied without question, without hesitation, knowing no different.
“ Deliveries?” Tommy asked, demanding a rundown of the day already, as a cold draft from the back door drifted through the halls into the foyer.
“ Out back, sir”
“ Out back? Since when?” Tommy's head snapped towards hers, the colour draining from her face, leaving her a ghostly white as the realisation hit her.
Arney. Since Arney had changed Tommy fucking Shelby's orders is when.
He didn't wait for further explanation. Didn't ask. Didn't interrogate. He took two steps at a time to the master bedroom as his chest heaved violently, boots thundered heavily until he reached the wooden door left ajar.
Heart hanging on a thread with a sickening feeling of dread, of a threat he hadn't yet accounted for, Tommy pushed the bedroom door open and found…
Nothing. Nothing but your muddy dressing gown and a note neatly pinned to it.
Fingers closing around the edge of the paper, his eyes flew across each word, trying to make sense of it, when his chest suddenly folded in on itself so violently it stole the very air from his lungs, until there was only one sound left in him.
“My wife…” his voice broke, note slipping from his fingers as he began to turn, began to move into motion.
“They’ve taken my fucking wife!” he roared, tearing out the room with a ragged breath, as the paper settled steadily behind him on the floorboards with no urgency at all but the echo of a nursery rhyme.
My Bonnie lies over the ocean. My Bonnie lies over the sea. My Bonnie lies over the ocean. Oh, bring back my Bonnie to me.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part (final)] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood
Summary: As the Shelby brothers fight their way home, grief settles over Arrow House as she descends into mourning. But survival comes with a cost. And as one family is reunited, another is torn apart forever.
The ancient ritual one endures when death drains the life from the living.
When society expects solemn reflection in the face of a screaming soul.
Where the grieving unfurl their hearts amongst hyacinths and heather.
And where a home becomes an heirloom of hushed memories, losing its breath a little more each day dawn breaks.
Arrow House's heart had disappeared beneath cards of condolence scattered throughout her halls. Each mirror, each window into another realm, draped in heavy cloth, to spare the living the cruelty of finding their loved one in its reflection, as maids, bereaved and dressed in black, quietly arranged lilies beneath her alcoves.
And as grief gripped each wife in different ways, in different fashions, the two-year ritual society expected you to endure felt like its own quiet death when you could scarcely survive two minutes.
Mourning.
The breaking, the complete shattering of one's heart.
“ I called Father Philips about funeral arrangements” Linda's voice broke through the silence on the fourth day since the disaster as you sat in the bay window of the drawing room, looking west to Ireland. West to where you believed your husband and his brothers had been crushed under five thousand tonnes of steel when the Valkyrie hit her sister ship.
“ My John won't have a fucking thing until I see him laid out on a cold slab with my own eyes” Esme shot back, dismissing Linda's plans to save each Shelby soul, as she tossed back whiskey doubles a dozen.
“ They'll have Romany funerals. If, and when, their bodies return to us, Linda” Polly settled the solemn matter before retreating once more into quiet contemplation.
“Nothing” Finn appeared quietly at the drawing room door, empty-handed, carrying the same cursed word he'd returned with for four days straight.
No more news. No more telegrams. No more fucking anything.
And yet there you remained. Still.
Every day, silently watching west, the widow of one month, waiting for a husband your cruel mind insisted you had no right to grieve. No right to mourn like the wives of his brothers as you clutched his last letter to you like a lifeline.
“ I can sit with you if you like? Watch with you?” Finn came up beside you, cautious not to spook you out of the solitude you'd shrouded yourself with as Frances appeared with yet another cup of England's remedy for every earthly sorrow.
“ Mrs Shelby, you must drink something at least” Frances tried where Polly had failed and where she would also fail, as she and Finn were met with a wall of silence and six cups of untouched tea neatly lined up beside you.
“ I need to have Arthur's best suit pressed” Linda, ignoring all logic in the face of grief, bargained with her own mind to make sense of the impossible as she tucked a frayed handkerchief beneath her sleeve, rising to her feet.
“ Can't press a suit with no dead body to dress it in, Linda” Esme stepped into her path, voice snapping beneath the weight of her own sorrow as her hazel eyes hardened.
“ Esme. Get out my way”
“ Girls” Polly's voice lacked its usual weight as her tired eyes turned to you, looking west for a husband three hundred feet under water.
“ Finn, go check the post” Polly sent her hovering nephew away from you, away from the fragile silence of a wife whose grief had yet to find its footing, who had yet to allow herself to feel anything at all.
“ I've already checked, Aunt Pol. Twice” Finn's unfiltered frustrations, his lingering longing for the girl he lost to his brother filled the room.
“ Then you'll check again. And again, until I say otherwise” Polly fiercely protected the fragile start to yours and Tommy's marriage, as you watched and waited for your husband to appear down Arrow house's winding road.
But as you did, eyes drifting beyond the line of larch trees to the open horizon, as if it was the Irish Sea your husband now haunted, nothing came.
No motorcar. No telegram. No Tommy.
Body heavy, you moved for the first time in four days as the room turned to see you silently slip away.
And as each slow footstep carried you through the foyer, past every small act of war you'd once waged against your husband, you didn't stop. You didn't falter. You walked steadily to his room, door closing softly behind you as you slipped under the covers, burying your face into his pillow as tears finally soaked through the Holland linen.
And only then did the ritual begin. Only then did you let yourself mourn.
Oh, my dear. My sweet, sweet, dear.
“ Blankets. Warm water. And keep those reporters away from my ward” The head matron in Holyhead moved through the corridors, herding nurses ahead of her through the hysteria of a hundred new survivors dragged from the sea that morning.
“ Yes, Sister”
The white-frocked women replied in unison before disappearing behind curtained corners to tend to those hanging on by a heartbeat.
“ Matron Hughes” a young doctor, fresh out of school with a polished accent and an eagerness to prove himself, appeared beside the seasoned sister with his clipboard. “How many did we lose during the night?”
“ Thirty seven, doctor” she replied without pause, a number that now belonged to history. To every classroom that would learn of the maritime disaster that saw more souls sink to the sea bed than pulled to the surface.
“ And these three?” he stopped beside the frozen bodies of three men, blanketed in heavy wool and Hessian.
“ Found hypothermic, and half dead the morning after she went down, doctor”
“ Hm” He gave a humming half-reply, stethoscope slipping between his fingers as he listened to the water-locked lungs of the closest man.
“Ex military. Soldiers” He straightened slightly, respect rising in his chest as his eyes scanned the pale arm inked with the scars of the Great War.
“ They said anything yet?”
“ Nothing much we can make sense of, doctor. My girls did their best taking their names” The head Matron stepped forward, eyes drifting from each man until they settled on the shivering soldier in front of her.
“ Though this one…won't stop asking for same person”
“ Who?” The doctor looked up from his clipboard, pen pausing over the page.
“ His wife” She replied, the hardened years of dealing with death and sickness softening for a moment, at the simplest of requests a man could make.
“ Right” The young professional cleared his throat, composure settling back over him as he returned to the rigidity that kept him from caring too much.
“ Have their families been informed? Telegrams sent?
“ Yes. Though whether it will reach them in all this chaos…” The head matron sighed heavily, her words trailing away beneath the weight of an overwhelmed hospital.
“ See that it does” The doctor returned to his notes, reading through the details the exhausted nurses had managed to gather from each man in the mayhem.
“ Mrs Shawley has been informed of your safety by telegram, sent to your home in Warwick. Rest now” the young doctor's duty of care met every guideline given as he and the matron moved to the next ward, missing the mans weak protests in their wake.
“Shel…by. Mrs…Shelby”
Now, in any other circumstance I would tell the fool to sit down, shut up and get back in his bloody bed. But with you in mourning, and the mad bastard hell-bent on reaching Arrow House before Father Philips buried his belongings in a sixty foot coffin, I feel rather inclined to indulge his own particular brand of pratness.
“ Arthur. John. Get up” Tommy dragged the words from his lungs like sandpaper over wood as stiff joints carried him across the ward towards his brothers.
“ Wake up, you bastards” he grunted, bracing against the bedframe before his legs threatened to give way, as an unsuspecting Arthur stirred from sleep.
“ Can't feel my fucking legs, Tom” he mumbled, blinking awake to find a madman looming over him like something dragged straight out of a nightmare.
“ Oh, yeh?” Tommy groaned, sibling sympathy entirely absent as rigid muscles reached for the metal bedpan beside the bed.
With zero mercy and a plan that didn't wait for numb legs or frostbitten feet, Tommy dropped the heavy piss pot onto his brother.
“ Christ, Tommy!” Arthur yelped, startling a snoring John straight out of hypothermia like it was 1917 all over again.
“ Felt that though, didn't you, eh?” Tommy drew a full breath, leaning heavily against the welded bedframe, exhausted by the smallest of movements.
“ Your legs are working just fine, Arthur. Now, get up. Both of you. We're leaving”
“ Leaving? Bloody hell, Tommy, we can barely move” John's protests were heard loud and clear and completely ignored by your husband who'd inconveniently become an optimist now it suited him.
“ Barely’s better than bedridden” he muttered, reaching with a pained growl for his water-soaked socks and boots.
“ And where's it we're going, Tom?” Arthur hauled himself upright, every bone whining and wincing under his weight.
“ Home. We're going home”
And so they did.
The three brothers, bred in the muck of the West Midlands city that made them, commandeered a motorcar and got the hell out of Holyhead for home.
But as the rumbling engine fell silent on the frost-hardened drive early the following morning, each Shelby brother was left momentarily speechless by the sight before them.
“Christ…would you look at that” Arthur exhaled heavily, a rough hand dragging down his face as he stared up at Arrow House.
“ They're in mourning…” John's voice carried equal parts disbelief and dread as his eyes travelled from the black-draped windows to the bouquets of flowers gathered at the front door.
“ Easy, lads. We're dead men walking here” Tommy's warning came low, careful. For even he wasn't quite prepared to face a wife who believed she'd been widowed.
As his heavy hand pushed open the door to Arrow House, the three brothers were met with silence.
Not a single soul in sight, only the flicker of candlelight guiding them back into a home that had become a mausoleum of mourning.
That was until steady footsteps walked into the foyer, then the sharp crack of porcelain crashing to the floor followed as Frances stood frozen, staring at the Shelby brothers as if the rituals of mourning had conjured them into being.
For a moment, she would have sworn she was looking through grief into the faces of three ghosts, if not for the sound her shock had summoned.
Polly. Richie. Arney then Finn. One by one, they emerged into the foyer, halting as their eyes widened in disbelief as the three brothers stood before them, weak, weary and very much alive.
But it was the sound of a woman's cry that suddenly brought life back into Arrow House.
Linda. Rounding the corner, collapsing with a pained wail as her husband caught her mid-fall, gathering her against him with trembling arms.
“ Linda, love”
The sound of hurried footsteps flying into the foyer that lifted the shroud of sorrow.
Esme. Running to the man she'd spent four days believing lay beneath the Irish Sea as she collided into his open arms.
“ Easy, Es”
And while the two brothers stood reunited with the women who had mourned them, Tommy remained where he was. Alone. Eyes searching the halls of his home.
“ Where's my wife?”
For a long breath nothing could be heard but the heavy gallop of his own heart, when quietly, slowly, a door creaked open and you appeared.
Now, I could have written some long-awaited reunion where two fools finally faced their feelings for one another, crashing together like the final page of one of Cupid's long-lost romances, he tossed aside the day he became a cynical little shit.
But that's not what came to pass when, for the longest of beats, you stood rooted to the floor, staring at Tommy as though he might disappear if you dared to breathe. Dared to believe he was anything more than a cruel figment of your grieving mind.
Until, that was, when he softly said…
“ Come here. Come here, darling” Tommy's hand reached out slowly, the words little more than a whisper, as he waited with the kind of patience few would ever believe him capable of.
Slowly blinking through the glaze that had clouded your eyes, your feet carried you forward before your mind ever caught up as Tommy met you half way, wrapping his arms around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck, as he breathed every familiar inch of you in.
Then it hit. Every piece of him you'd mourned without ever realising you'd committed it to memory.
The weight of his hand at the back of your head. The familiar scent that had lingered in his empty bed. The steady strength of his body sheltering you safely from the world.
Grounded once more in something undeniably him, you finally lifted your hands, resting them against his broad frame as your arms settled around him in return.
Content to have held you for hours given half the chance, Tommy finally drew back.“ Let's sit down” he murmured lowly, guiding you to the drawing room with a steady hand to the small of your back as the rest of the family drifted after you, each carrying their own relief into a room that, only moments before, had been dressed for mourning.
After fifteen minutes of almost furious fussing over each of her nephews, cursing them for the chaos they'd caused, until she'd made every last one of them swear in blood never to darken her days with their deaths again, Polly finally released them to their waiting wives.
Bundled beneath thick wool blankets before a roaring fire, the brothers slowly recounted the ordeal that had held an entire nation's breath.
“ Thrown straight into the sea when she hit the hull” Arthur murmured over his whiskey, warmed by the spice and oak and his wife's body, nestled close beside him.
“ Feels like a knife to the chest when your’e tossed into water that fucking cold” John muttured around his cigar, as Esme grabbed his cheeks, stealing the smoke from his lungs with a ‘shut up’ and a snog.
They'd found their way back to their wives. Back to the mundane, meaningless little things that anchored them to one another
Linda's unwavering presence that kept Arthur tethered to normality.
Esme's spirited nature that kept John grounded to his roots.
And then there was you and Tommy.
Where do I even begin with the pair of you?
Because as each wife settled back into marriages that had been years in the making, there sat you and your husband of only one month, watching them under the weight of a blanket and the pressure to perform when you'd spent four weeks at war with one another.
“ How long did you wait, until rescue ships came?” Linda looked up at Arthur, eyes open and bright as you remained unsettled, searching for something under the heavy wool to distract yourself.
And that's when you found it, an unconscious little fidgeting of a ring.
Tommy's ring.
Without even a thought as to what you were doing, you spun your husband's signet ring around his little finger like a carousel that slowed the frantic turning of your chaotic heart.
He didn't stop you. He didn't even mention it. He simply shifted a little closer beneath the blanket, giving your restless fingers easier access to your own anchoring.
“ Lost count, love” Arthur finally answered, looking down at his wife as he absent-mindedly wound one of her curls around his finger.
“Never leaving land again. Not for King. Not for country. And not for no bloody Billy Boy” The chuckled remark should have drifted over everyone's head. But it didn't.
For the mention of the gruesome Glasgow gang had one man suddenly still. His ears prick with practised casualness. His thumb pause over a well-worn penny, flicking between his fingers before disappearing into his pocket.
Your father.
Slipping away, the sly old fox fancied himself clever enough to go unnoticed as conversation resumed, the room settling back into stories of survival while he edged quietly towards the door.
Though the fool had forgotten one important detail.
There was still a soldier in the room.
One who had never truly hung up his uniform. Never once lowered his guard where the bastard he blamed for his sister's death was concerned.
Your Uncle Richie.
Tommy's eyes swept the room, taking quiet stock of those gathered.
Arthur and John, buried once more in the story of the wreck, their wives tucked safely against their sides.
Polly, sat beside Finn, finally silencing the incessant click of his lighter with a bone-crushing squeeze of his hand.
Then, his eyes searched for your missing father, finding Richie instead. Already watching. Already an understanding forming between the two men where words were not needed.
While the king had been away...the court jester had been at play.
“ Stay here. Stay right here for me, love” Tommy murmured low into your ear, turning your hand in his with a steady, reassuring squeeze before he rose and slipped from the room with unhurried ease.
Halfway down the hallway, your father came to a halt as Tommy stepped into his path. A man entirely familiar with his own house, and every back corridor that would lead him to a stray.
“ Tommy” Arney nodded, slipping on charm as he closed the distance, intent on moving past your husband before he became the topic of conversation.
“ You mistook my wife's hospitality for a new home” Tommy stopped him with a handful of words, as your fathers eyes flicked up to see whatever tolerance that had once existed between marriage and family had already worn thin.
“Was just keeping watching, son. Keeping everything in order while you were gone”
Son.
Now that, that landed very wrong.
Tommy was already a son to one bastard of a man. And he had absolutely no intention of being claimed by another.
“ Collect your belongings, Arney. A car will be waiting out front for you” Tommy murmured, his boots already turning back toward you, back toward where he could feel the pull of your presence waiting for him.
But before he left, before he bothered to even look back, he gave one last warning.
“ If you ever come to my home, speak to my wife without my authorisation, my invitation, you'll learn exactly how i keep my house in order”
The sun over your family's brewery in Smethwick had already begun to set later that day when your uncle stepped out from beneath the loading dock rafters, winter light dappling through the rustling trees that bordered the quiet yard.
But as Richie walked the perimeter of the property, checking each lock, each gate with the efficiency of an old soldier, he didn't account for the one man who believed he'd been wronged by his dead wife's family.
“ Righteous, Richie” your father drawled, hands buried deep in his pockets as he pushed himself from the weathered fence into your uncle's path.
“ Arney” Richie murmured, stride unfaltering for some fuck that thought his stupid words and stupider thoughts meant something to him.
“ Always interfering aren't you, Rich? First my wife, God rest her soul…and now my daughter” your father didn't budge, didn't let your uncle bypass him with that composure, that control he held over everyone's head.
Boots coming to a stop, a feud that had simmered for over a decade finally came to the boil as your uncle stepped closer.
“ You killed my sister, Arney. Killed her with your affairs. Your disrespect. And the chokehold you had over her, everytime you told her you loved her”
“ I did love her!” your father snapped, clinging to the belief that a roof overhead and a full pantry were enough to excuse every night he'd disappeared into another woman's bed.
“ No. You loved the money. Loved the life I broke my back for her” Your uncle moved closer, control rapidly unraveling itself at the seams, as your fathers face twisted into something sinister.
“ You're a chancer, Arney. A con artist. You'd sell your daughter out for a…”
A gunshot suddenly shattered the winter air, as your uncle staggered then fell to the frostbitten ground, blood pouring from his chest turning the earth crimson in colour, with each gasp for a breath that wouldn't come.
“ You're right, Rich. I’m a chancer. And I've taken my chances with the Billy Boys” Arney tucked the revolver back into his trouser pocket as Richie's weakening eyes drifted high into the blue skies.
“But I loved your sister, and I love my daughter. But one's gotta make a living, no, Richie? Gotta provide?" Your fathers corrupt concept on what makes a family man, fell on deafs ears as he loomed over your uncles dying body.
“ Don't mind if i do, brother” he hummed, as he crouched down, slipping his worn, practiced fingers into Richie's suit pocket.
Wallet pulled from the dying warmth of a body, your father folded the bundle of notes into his pocket before tossing the empty leather on Richies bleeding chest as he stretched his back under the winter skies your uncle was losing his last breath to.
“ Almost forgot” Arney reached deep, pulling out the old penny he'd kept like a trinket, a talisman, for ten years.
“ For the ferryman, Rich” Arney folded Richie's stiffening fingers around the coin before he turned on his back, leaving by the old train track out of the brewery with hands loose in his pockets, and a conscious as clear as the yard he'd let your uncle die alone in.
With the last of his strength, Richie closed his hand around the penny before the wind carried away the final breath of a good man.
He had spent his life trying to control those he loved. Not because he believed women belonged beneath men. Or because he thought obedience made a family. But because love had scarred him one time too many to never trust it again.
And when a month ago, he'd arranged a marriage between you and Tommy without a second thought. To keep things strictly business. Structured with no expectations beyond the terms of a contract. It was done in the memory of your mother who had been failed by love. Done with the protective instincts of an uncle who had tried with all his might to keep the most precious thing in life safe.
You.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood @lycanbeks92
This chapter is brought to you by the puddle formerly known as Alex, who tragically melted in the 36C heat 🙈 Fahrenheit users, please convert this yourselves, I am too melted to look it up. Anyway, enjoy! It’s a long one, xx
As ever, Cassie belongs to my darling twin and beta reader, @peakyscillian and you can read Cassie and Sean's story HERE
Summary: Bella races to the hospital to see her brother and spends a long 24 hours dealing with her complicated family as Steve faces questions at Stanton.
Warnings: Usual warnings for themes of drug abuse and infidelity, with added warnings for alcohol abuse, childhood neglect and some truly terrible parenting. I promise it's more fun that all that sounds! 🙈
Word count: 13,578 PART 9 | SERIES
10. Wounded
"You didn't have to be so mean to him," you mumbled as Celia raced through the city towards the hospital.
"He's lucky he was still standing," she snapped, zipping through an amber light on the cusp of turning red. "But we were in a hurry."
Chuckling softly, you leaned back against the headrest. "Owen is going to have a lot of questions."
"Do you seriously think they don't already know?"
"They don't. Andy's theory is Steve and Amanda are sleeping together."
Celia burst out laughing. "Wow… he's so old that not even your colleagues think he'd be able to get you."
"Fuck off," you mumbled, warmth climbing your face.
Celia dropped you as close as she could get to the entrance of A&E letting you rush ahead while she found somewhere to park. For a Wednesday night it was surprisingly busy, most of the hard, orange plastic chairs taken. You fidgeted with your coat, jigging slightly on the spot as you waited for an elderly gentleman to finish talking to the woman at the reception desk; apparently he was determined to list every single symptom known to man. And perhaps several others as yet undiscovered by science. The receptionist flicked a severe glance at you when your agitated hovering was accompanied by an accidental huff of irritation as he launched into a whole new set of ailments.
Noticing her no longer held her rapt, undivided attention he turned to look at you and you pasted on your most winning smile.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt," you said, still beaming tightly at him before turning it on the receptionist, "but I had a call that my bother was brought in earlier, and I was told he was being taken for surgery. Please, can you tell me where he is?"
"Excuse me, I wasn't—"
"Just a moment, Mr Radley," said the woman behind the desk. "Name?"
You rattled off Ash's full name, as well as your own for good measure.
"He calls me Birdie," you added, now leaning on the desk, a thoroughly unimpressed Mr Radley tutting to himself beside you.
"Any news?" asked Celia, appearing at your other elbow, slightly out of breath.
"He's been moved upstairs to theatre," said the woman. "Floor three."
Racing to the lifts you were practically vibrating with anxiety.
"This is taking too long," you muttered, casting around for the door to the stairs. Why were hospitals always so bloody disorienting??
Celia linked her arm through yours to hold you still before you could bolt.
"Just wait, it'll be here in a sec."
As if on cue, the lift furthest from you chimed, wide doors peeling open. Stepping aside barely long enough to allow two orderlies to wheel out an empty bed, you hopped in, punching urgently at the button for the third floor.
"Can you hold the door!"
Cursing under your breath you stuck out your hand to stop the door, pinning on a polite expression, Celia's arm tight through yours as a man wheeled an old woman in a wheelchair through the doors.
"Which floor?" asked Celia.
"Two, please."
It took everything in you not to scream as she calmly reached across and pressed the button.
"You should've let me take the stairs," you mumbled and she nudged you in the ribs as the old woman shot you a disapproving look. With effort, you smiled back apologetically.
The lift ascended slowly, mercifully not stopping at the first floor and in no time at all your fellow riders disembarked. Finally chiming it's arrival at the third floor, you practically squeezed through the doors before they could fully open, frantically scanning the signage for directions, your brain whirring too quickly to take in any useful information, looking without really seeing.
"This way!" called Celia, grabbing your hand and pulling you along behind her.
"How do you know?"
"I spend half my fucking life here, don't I," she said, confidently turning left and leading you down another corridor until it spilled out into a larger waiting area with a ragged handful of people sitting around, talking in hushed tones. Without pausing, Celia marched you both up to what looked like a nurses' station, where an exhausted looking man in scrubs was scribbling on a chart.
He didn't look up at your arrival.
"Excuse me," you said quietly and he was busy blinking in surprise at your interruption when you heard your name behind you.
"Gran??" you mumbled as you turned, seeing her climbing to her feet in the corner of the waiting area, her winter coat bundled on over what looked like her nightdress tucked into a pair of soft trousers. With a jolt, you saw her for what she was - a little old lady, lost and confused in this place in the middle of the night. She burst into tears at the sight of you and you hurried over to wrap her in a tight hug leaving Celia to charm information from the man in the scrubs.
"Oh Birdie," she wailed into you, arms locked around your waist and you couldn't stop yourself from crying too.
"It's ok, he'll be ok," you mumbled damply, squeezing her.
Taking a deep breath, Nellie let go of you but stopped on her way to sit down to reach and cup your face, a deep frown between her brows.
"Goodness, Birdie…you look terrible, love."
A laugh bubbled out of you, and you gently moved from her hold to sit down. "Thanks, glad to hear it."
"What's happened? What's the matter?" she asked as she sat down next to you.
"Can we talk about Ash please? Have you seen him? Do you know what happened?"
Her bottom lip disappeared as she fought to control her emotions.
"Only for a minute before they took him in. I'm not sure he even knew I was there."
"I'm sure he did," you whispered, taking hold of her hand, but she shook her head, staring off into the middle-distance.
"He's in a very bad way, love."
"What happened??"
"I don't know. He went off out around half nine and you know what he's like, out to all hours. I went to bed and then next thing the phone's ringing and they're telling me he's here. Been in a fight they said but from the look of him, it wasn't a fight." She pursed her lips, shaking her head. "It was a beating."
Cold, solid guilt settled in your stomach.
"Mickey…"
"Now sure why would Mickey be bothered with kicking seven shades of shite out of our Ashley?"
You shook your head, bile rising in your throat. This was all your fault.
"He's in surgery," said Celia softly, taking the seat on the other side of you, the three of you huddled in the corner. "He said they think his spleen had ruptured - which is bad but very fixable - and he'll probably be there for a while. He was stable when he went in." You nodded and she squeezed your knee. "Hi Nellie, I'm so sorry. Can I get you both anything? Tea?"
"Yes please," you said and your Gran nodded too.
The two mugs sitting on the side in the Stanton kitchen flashed into your head; teabags already in them waiting for water that wouldn't come.
Oh don't be so melodramatic, you scolded yourself. No doubt Steve and Owen had them the moment you left.
"She's a good girl, that one," smiled Nellie as Celia disappeared down the hall.
"She is. She came to get me from work." Running a hand over your hair you cleared your throat. "Have you told Bonnie yet?"
She shook her head. "I left in such a rush I didn't bring my book and I don't have the number for her new place."
"Her new place?"
Your Gran squinted at you. "She's moved in with the new boyfriend - didn't you know?"
"No I— I mean, I knew she was there a lot, I just didn't realise she'd moved in properly. I have Sean's number though, I'll go and find a phone."
She caught you gently by the arm before you could get up.
"It's after midnight, Bird. Let her sleep. There's nothing she can do from London anyway, she might as well get the rest and come down in the morning."
"She'll be furious we didn't tell her."
"When is she not furious, hey?" Nellie laughed, patting your arm. "Now then, sit down and tell me: what did you mean before about Mickey?"
Shaking your head you pulled away from her, arms wrapping around your middle, doubling over in your seat.
"It's my fault," you mumbled hoarsely.
"Oh Birdie, will you stop that. Not everything in this life that happens to Ashley and Cassandra is your fault."
"No, but this really is my fault," you replied, tucking your head down into your hands. "I should have got him out of here on Monday. Sunday night even. I shouldn't have let him just go back to yours. Something like this was bound to happen."
"Birdie, love, I can't hear you properly, what did you say? Why would he need to go somewhere?"
Uncurling slightly, you stole a glance at her, the worry in her eyes stabbing you in the guts.
"I… at the weekend—" Blowing out a long breath you sat up, rubbing your hands over your damp cheeks and cleared your throat. "I was in trouble at the weekend and I asked Ash for help but it all went wrong and he…"
You clammed up, rocking slightly in your seat.
"And he what? What kind of trouble? Mickey trouble??"
You nodded.
"But why would you be having anything to do with Mickey? You don't…" Her eyes widened and she mumbled your real name in a low voice, the full Sunday version with bells on.
"No, no, not for me, I promise you, Gran. I'd never."
"You were buying drugs for someone else then?" Her eyes flashed. "For your mother, was it? I knew it was too much to hope that she'd stay clean this time."
"No, not mum," you said quickly, resting a hand on her arm. "I— god, Gran, I've got myself in such a fucking mess…" you sighed, fresh tears leaking silently down your cheeks.
Leaning awkwardly to wrap an arm around your shoulders, she pulled you down into her, face in her chest like when you were a little girl.
"Hey now," she murmured, "I'm sure whatever it is, we'll work it out. And whatever's happened tonight isn't your fault, love."
Sucking a shaky breath you shook your head, pushing gently out of her hold to cradle your head in your hands.
"It is."
"Who were they for?"
Glancing up at her, your stomach turned over. "A guy I was seeing."
Nellie's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "What guy?? Why did you never say anything?" Her stare narrowed slightly. "Was it because of the drugs?"
You shook your head, swallowing. "No. No, I—he—"
"Ok then," announced Celia coming back, awkwardly carrying three steaming cups. "French, grab that one will you before I burn myself."
Clearing your throat you relieved her of the third, the liquid hot through the thin plastic, and she passed the other to your Gran before dropping back down into the seat next to you.
"Sorry it looks like shit, but it's the best I could find." She blushed slightly. "Sorry, Nellie."
"What for?" your Gran asked, eyes still fixed on you.
"Swearing…"
Blinking away from you, she looked at Celia with amusement. "Celia, love, you'll have to try harder than that to shock an old cunt like me."
"Gran!" you exclaimed as Cee cackled, Nellie grinning wickedly.
"I've seen you knock Ash's head off for that!"
"Yes well, it's different when one of you does it. I've earned it." You opened your mouth object but she shook her head and turned to Celia. "I don't mean to be rude, love, but could you give me and Birdie a minute please?"
"Of course."
"There's no need," you sighed, grimacing as you sipped at the wishy-washy liquid that was purporting to be tea. "She already knows everything."
"It's ok," Celia said gently, gathering her coat and bag, and squeezing your shoulder. "I should go and call Mark and let him know what's going on. Do you want me to ring anyone else for you? I could call Cass?"
"No, it's ok, we'll ring her when we know more and she should hear it from one of us." You turned to your Gran abruptly, embarrassment flaming through you at the fact you hadn't thought of it sooner. "Does mum know?"
"I've no idea."
"I should call her…" you mumbled.
"What's the point, do you think anything here would be improved by your mother - or worse, Frank - making an appearance?"
"They're his parents…"
"Not that you'd know," your Gran snorted with an air that invited no further discussion on the subject, turning pointedly to Celia. "We'll see you in a minute, Cee."
"I'll just be downstairs when you need me," she smiled, squeezing you one last time before she disappeared down the corridor again.
"Birdie…"
Nodding, you automatically took another fortifying sip and immediately wished you hadn't. Setting the cup on the floor, you twisted your fingers together.
"I've been sleeping with my boss," you whispered, unable to look her in the face. The sudden intake of breath beside you was enough.
"Did he…" She paused, her hands knitting together in her lap all you could see. "Did he… make you?"
"What?? No!" you exclaimed, sitting up and meeting her eye. "No. It's nothing like that… he's nice, Gran. You'd like him."
"Would I now?" she replied coolly and you shifted under her stare. "And he's single, is he, this boss of yours?"
Your eyes dropped back to floor and she hissed your real name again.
"I raised you to be better than that."
"I know."
"I'd expect this sort of behaviour from your sister, not from you."
"Don't say that," you said quietly. "She tries."
Nellie sipped her tea in silent judgement for a long moment.
"So what has sleeping with your married boss got to do with Ashley and drugs and Mickey Tomlinson?"
"He was in a car accident a few years ago - he's in pain all the time. He's always taken pills at school to manage it. But we went away for the weekend—" You felt rather than saw her eyebrows arch at this. "—and he'd not brought enough medication… I didn't know…" you finished in a whisper, burying your free hand in your hair, staring at your shoes.
"Didn't know what?"
"He's an addict."
A volley of curses hissed out of your Gran like blue air escaping from an inflatable.
"I didn't know… he always seemed so, I don't know… normal? Nothing like mum and dad, nothing like Bon…"
"So you asked Ash for help?"
"I'd tried everything else I could think of. All I needed was just to get something to tide him over - he was in agony and crashing and it was awful. I didn't know what else to do." Chewing your lip, you looked up to find her staring sadly at you. "But it all went wrong when we met up with Ash. Mickey was there and he was saying all this stuff about Cass and me and…"
You trailed off, Mickey's stale breath still warm against your bare skin.
"And what..?"
"Ash thought I was in trouble. I don't know, maybe I was, but he pulled a gun on Mickey."
"He fucking WHAT!?"
Another family huddled together, their quiet and anxious murmuring inaudible from where you sat, looked over in alarm. You lifted a hand in apology as your Gran carried on.
"Where the fuck did he get a GUN!?"
"Gran, please," you mumbled, glancing around nervously, "keep your voice down."
"I can't believe it…"
"Neither could I and I don't know where he got it, he just had it out of nowhere. But it worked, 'cause Mickey backed off and left, but of course he wasn't just going to let something like that go…"
Groaning guiltily, clutching your head, you sank lower into yourself.
"So it's all my fault he's here. If I hadn't asked him, he wouldn't have been there and it wouldn't have happened and—"
"Birdie, stop," Nellie said more gently, reaching to ease your hand from tugging at your hair, taking it between her soft, wrinkled pair. "You didn't do this to him."
"But I should have known something like this would happen. I should have got him out of Bristol. I've been so wrapped up in my own mess since Sunday night, I didn't think about him."
"The mess with this man..?"
"Steve…his name's Steve," you mumbled. "Not that it matters really because we broke up."
"Can you really break up with someone who's married to someone else," Nellie mused into the middle distance, blinking back towards you when you sat up to look at her.
"He was going to leave his wife."
She sighed, patting your hand gently. "No he wasn't, love. They never do."
You tugged your hand away from her sharply. "Yes, he was. We'd made a plan. He's not happy with her."
"Doesn't sound like he's happy either way if he's got a mistress and a drug problem."
Frowning, you tucked your arms around your middle and stared at the floor.
"Don't huff with me, Birdie, you're too old for that."
"You don't know anything about him."
"I know that you broke up with him because you know you deserve better than that."
You turned slowly. "How did you know..?"
"Because you're many things, my girl, but you've never been stupid. You know as well as I do what it's like to love someone with addiction. How hard it is."
"He won't even admit he has a problem," you whispered and Nellie smiled sadly. "I couldn't do it again."
"I imagine that means work is tricky now?"
Chewing at the side of your thumb, yours eyes dropped back to the floor and you heard her sigh.
"Tell me."
"I've had to resign," you whispered, eyes closed, hot shame and mortification crawling over your skin like ants.
"Oh Birdie…"
"I didn't want to. But I can't… I can't work there, not after this. If I stay I'll get trapped into helping him, into trying to fix him, to save him, because I won't be able to stop myself. I can't sit there and watch him suffer and do nothing. I—" You swallowed a choking sob, scrubbing angrily at the damp on your cheeks— "I love him. And I wish I didn't."
Slipping her arm around your hunched shoulders again, Nellie coaxed you back into a hug, stroking your hair as you lost yet another battle with your emotions, sobbing quietly into her chest.
"It's alright, love," she mumbled soothingly, cradling you against her like when you were small, hushing your cries until at last you were able to sit up, hiccuping as you patted your pockets and sleeves for a tissue. She produced one before you could find one of your own and you took it gratefully, dabbling at your eyes and blowing your nose with a noisy snort.
"I don't know what I'm gonna do, Gran," you mumbled once you'd regained control of yourself, worrying the soggy tissue between your fingers. "I've said I'll work until they've found someone but I don't have anything else lined up and it's the wrong time of year to get another teaching job that'll start before September."
"Don't worry about that now, hey? That's not a worry for tonight. Once we get Ash home, we can figure it all out together, alright?"
Nodding slowly you wiped your face again, your skin hot to the touch. "Will you be alright for a minute if I go and find Celia and get some fresh air?"
"I'll be fine. Just don't be too long in case they have any news."
***
Celia was already outside on a bench when you went back downstairs, menthol cigarette dangling elegantly between her long fingers. She looked up as you approached, smiling softly, offering the packet before you could ask, shifting up so you could perch beside her.
"What are you doing out here in the cold? Isn't there a smoking room?"
She shrugged, both of you squinting as the flash of flame dazzled your eyes in the dark. "Your smoking ban in the house has conditioned me. Besides, there was a weird bloke in the smoking room."
You chuckled softly, drawing in a long, steadying lungful, your head swimming slightly with the rush of nicotine.
"How much did you tell her?" she asked.
"Everything. More or less."
"What's the less so I don't put my foot in it?"
You sent another breath of artificially minty smoke high above your head. "She knows Steve's married but I didn't mention that he has kids and she didn't ask. I told her about Ash and the gun but not what Mickey said or what he did to provoke Ash. I didn't tell her everyone at work now knows I've been fucking the boss."
"You don't know that."
You snorted a dry laugh, taking a brief puff. "If they didn't, they do now. I made such a fool of myself earlier with him in front of Owen."
"You were upset - you are upset," she countered softly, leaning her shoulder against yours. "And I didn't say it earlier, but I'm sorry for making it worse. I'm just so cross with him for he did to you."
"He didn't do anything to me," you sighed.
"He's been lying to you for months!"
"He's been lying to everyone, not just me. Himself most of all."
Celia shook her head at you, toeing out the end of her smoke on the ground.
"See, this is why I'm so angry. Because you're not nearly angry enough. I'm doing it for both of us."
You let your head drop against her shoulder and she shifted to wrap her arm around you.
"I almost let him kiss me yesterday."
"Dickhead."
"Who? Me or him?"
"Him, obviously! I assume he made a pass at you?? Wanker."
You smoked in silence, trying to blow the smoke away from her while not moving from where you rested comfortably against her.
"I think part of me wanted him to. But I told him no." Swiveling slightly, you cracked a smile. "Are you proud of me?"
She laughed, pushing a light kiss into your hair. "For not kissing your pill-head, married boss? So proud."
With a chuckle that was more of a groan, you pushed yourself back up straight, taking one last drag before dropping it to the ground, stamping it out as you exhaled up into the night.
"I'd better get back to Gran. You don't have to stay here, you know? It's late and you'll have work tomorrow."
"I'm not going anywhere," she said firmly, copying you when you stood. "Work can live without us both tomorrow."
Tears sprang to your eyes but you blinked them away, so sick of weeping constantly.
"Thanks, Cee, I love you."
"Love you too, you noodle. Come on, it's fucking freezing."
***
"You're smoking again??" Nellie frowned disapprovingly the moment you sat down, but you met it without flinching.
"Don't. It's been a long week."
"It's only Wednesday."
"Exactly."
Nellie turned to Celia, "Did you meet this Steve fella?"
"Gran!" you spluttered as Celia flashed you a grin.
"Might have."
"What's he like?"
"It doesn't matter what he's like because it's over," you interjected.
"Old," Celia said at the same time and you shook your head, Nellie's eyebrows raising.
"He's not that old."
"He is… well, older anyway."
"How old is he??"
"Forty-eight," you mumbled.
"Ah, he's only young," said Nellie, waving it away and you shot Celia a look of triumph. "Well, compared to me at least. Bit old for you though, isn't he, love?"
"No," you muttered through gritted teeth. "Anyway, it doesn't matter because it's over. Has there been any news on Ash?"
"Nothing yet."
Reaching across to take her hand, you squeezed it gently. "He'll be ok."
"Yes," Nellie whispered, squeezing your fingers back.
"You should get some sleep," you said. "There's bound to be a day room or something around here with comfier chairs."
"I'm fine where I am."
"Gran, it's late, you should—"
"Don't argue with me, Birdie."
The hours ticked by at a glacial pace and your conversation dried up, the three of you just sitting close together in anxious silence. Somewhere around two thirty, Celia went in search of better hot drinks and somehow managed to charm her way into three proper mugs of tea from an orderly somewhere. Wrapping your hands around the mug, you let the warmth and the soft, milky tannins suffuse into your exhausted body.
Finally, a little after three, a tall man in green scrubs appeared, making his way over to where you sat.
"You're Ashley Peters's family?"
"Yes," you said quickly, gently nudging your Gran, who had finally succumbed and nodded off. She mumbled something incoherent, blinking foggily at the doctor.
"What's happening?" she said hoarsely, coughing into her sleeve.
"The doctor's here, Gran. Is he ok?" you asked, turning to the man.
He took a seat by Celia, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped loosely together as he leaned forward to speak. Nellie grabbed your hand and squeezed it almost painfully hard.
"He's going to be fine," he began and all three of you let out a collective breath you hadn't realised you were holding. "But he's going to need a lot of care and bed-rest for at least the next month. His spleen had ruptured and we were able to repair it, but he lost a lot of blood and he's got a number of broken bones as well. It's going to be a while before he's back on his feet."
"But he'll be ok? He'll make a full recovery?" you said.
"He should be just fine," he smiled.
"Can we see him?" asked Nellie, still crushing your fingers in hers.
"He's being moved to recovery at the moment. Someone will come and get you when he's ready," he replied, slapping his knees lightly before he stood.
"Thank you," you whispered, giving him a watery smile. He shrugged with an awkward half-smile and mumbled his departure.
"Oh thank God," sighed Nellie, pulling you into a sideways hug.
"I should ring Cass," you said, pressing a kiss into her violet-tinted curls.
"It's three in the morning, French," said Celia.
"I've already left it too long, she'll want to be here when he wakes up."
"Let's see him first, hey?" said Nellie, hand on your arm to stop you getting up. "Give Sean a little more sleep before Bonnie demands he drives through the night for her."
"Ooh, do you think she'll bring him with her?" said Celia, eyes wide with glee.
"If only so he can help her dispose of my body when she finds out how long we've taken to call her," you mumbled darkly. "I'm calling her at five whether we've seen him or not."
***
It took almost an hour for anyone to come and fetch you, and when they did only two visitors were allowed at a time.
"You two go, I'll mind our stuff," said Celia, shooing you away and with a grateful nod you followed the nurse deeper into the wards.
"He's very woozy from the anesthetic and he can't talk much because they've had to wire his jaw because of a fracture," she warned kindly as she ushered you both towards the cubicle at the end, next to the window, pulling back the yellow curtain just enough for you to pass through.
"Oh my poor little lad," Nellie mumbled, moving ahead of you to the side of his bed, pulling up the plastic chair beside it and settling down to take his hand in hers.
But you couldn't move, a fist closing around your heart, your throat constricting in horror at the mess lying in front of you. He was almost unrecognisable, his face cut and swollen, one eye so puffy it was completely closed, stitches running along his jawline and above his eye. You couldn't see his legs, but his left arm was in a cast, and his chest and abdomen were wrapped in heavy white gauze, and what little you could see of his skin was covered in dark, livid bruising.
Slowly, his good eye flickered open, seeing your Gran first.
"Alright, sweetheart? Do you know where you are?"
He tried to speak and grimaced, eyes sliding to where you stood.
"Hey," you mumbled. "How're you feeling?"
He grunted, clearing his throat and you finally managed to creep closer, moving to the other side of the bed to take his other hand.
"Do you remember what happened?"
He nodded, eyes closing with the effort.
"Was it Mickey?"
"Birdie, not now," Nellie scolded softly, but Ash nodded again, eyes fixed on you.
"I'm so sorry," you whispered, a tear sliding down your cheek. His fingers squeezed around yours.
"M'ok," he mumbled, more of a grunt than a word.
"Does it hurt?" He rolled his eyes at you and you chuckled weakly. "Yeah ok, stupid question."
His eyes slid closed, the grip on your hand slackening.
"Get some rest, love," your Gran murmured, leaning to gently press a kiss to his forehead. "We'll be right here for as long as they'll let us stay."
***
You took it in turns to sit in the single chair by his bed so he wouldn't wake up alone, Nellie demanding to take the first shift and so you went back to Celia.
"How is he?"
"Awful," you sighed, flopping into the seat beside her, sliding into a sideways hug. "Looks like he's been run over."
"I'm so sorry, darling," she murmured, cheek resting on your head.
"I'm going to go and have a smoke and call Mum and Cassie."
"Are you sure? It's still the middle of the night."
"I can't wait any longer, it's not fair. I'd be furious at the them if they kept something like this from me."
You felt her nod and drop a kiss into your hair. "Good luck. Do you want me to come?"
"No it's ok," you yawned, hauling yourself back into a sitting position and scrubbing your hands down your face. "Do you mind waiting just in case something happens? I don't want Gran being on her own and not knowing where we are."
"Course not."
"Thanks, what would I do without you?" you smiled, dragging yourself vertical and heading for the lift with your coat and cigarettes.
***
Leaning against the wall, the heavy black receiver of the payphone cradled against your ear, you punched in Cassie's - well, Sean's - number. To your surprise, you'd scarcely had time to draw breath before it was answered.
"What??" said a terse male voice, thick with sleep.
"Hi, Sean, it's Birdie," you said, hearing your sister mumbling in the background. "I'm so sorry to ring in the middle of the night but—"
"Birdie??" Cassie's panicked, sleep-laced voice filled your ear. "What's happened? Is it Gran?"
"No, she's fine—" Emotion squeezed in your throat again, tears pricking in the corners of your eyes, and you sucked in a breath, trying and failing not to let your voice wobble. "It's Ash, he was attacked, he's in hospital."
"Ash?? Attacked by who?! Is he ok??"
"He's just got out of surgery but he's alright, he's going to be fine."
You could hear her moving around, Sean's voice in the background as she relayed the message in snippets.
"Just out of surgery?? For what?? Wait…how long have you known?!"
"He had a ruptured spleen but they've fixed it. He's a bit of a mess but say he'll be fine. We wanted wait until we'd seen him before we called. Gran said—"
"I'm on my way," she snapped. "Which I should have been hours ago. Which hospital?"
"The Royal," you mumbled. "I'm sorry Bon, I wanted to call earlier."
"You should have."
"I'm sorry—"
"I have to go, Bird. We'll be there in a few hours. I— what?"
You heard Sean say something in the background and suddenly he was speaking to you.
"Hi Birdie, I'm really sorry about your brother. I've got a car phone so if you need to speak to us, if anything changes with him or if you need us to pick up anything, just ring us ok? Have you got a pen and I'll give you the number?"
"Hold on," you replied, patting at your coat pockets, huffing with frustration when you found nothing. "Can you give me one minute, I'll get one from the desk, I'll ring you back in a sec."
Sean's number finally inked onto the back of your hand, you said goodbye for a second time and rested your forehead against the cool wall, checking your watch.
Four thirty-five.
If you called your mum now would she even be sober enough to be conscious?
The idea of having to try and deal with her at all right now made you want to lie down on the floor and never get up again. And really, what good would it do anyone for her and Frank to turn up half-cut and aggressive. It certainly wouldn't do Ash any good.
Plucking another cigarette from the box in your pocket, you abandoned the rank of payphones and went back outside.
***
Six o'clock came and went and from the window at your post by Ash's bedside you could see the faint streaks of morning building into another cold, grey day. He stirred a couple of times and you leaned forward, squeezing his hand and he settled again.
“French?”
You turned at Celia’s soft murmur, seeing her hovering at the gap in the curtain, caught between avoiding looking at Ash and not being able to stop herself from looking.
“Everything ok?”
“Can I borrow you?
Standing, stiff after hours on a variety of unforgiving plastic chairs, you leaned over Ash and kissed his forehead, his eyelids fluttering at the touch.
“Sorry, go back to sleep, I’ll be back in a minute. I just need to talk to Cee.
With a mumble, his head slumped to the side and you followed Celia out into the corridor.
“Is everything ok? Is Cass here already??”
“No, no, everything’s fine. I’m just going to take Nellie home. She’s done in.”
“She’s letting you?”
“She knows he’s not on his own.” She chewed at the inside of her lip. “Why don’t you come too though? He’ll he fine for a couple of hours. You could have a shower, get changed? Maybe have a nap?”
“No,” you said firmly, glancing over your shoulder towards the ward. “I’ll stay. I've got my overnight stuff from work." You tried and failed to stifle a yawn. "We’ll need some of his things."
Running your hands tiredly over your face, up into your hair, she gently rubbed your arms.
“We can get him some stuff later. But you’re shattered, you need to rest too.”
“I’ll stay until Cass gets here.”
She compressed her lips but didn’t argue with you.
“Thank you,” you murmured, tugging her into a hug. “I’m sorry I ruined your night."
“I can pack up some of my stuff,” she said, squeezing you before she pulled back. “So Sean and Cass can use my room at the house."
“You don’t have to do that, it’s your room. I’m sure we can find them somewhere."
“It’s fine, I need to start moving my stuff over to Mark’s house anyway.”
“I think you’re going to have to start calling ‘your house’ soon,” you chuckled softly and she smiled. “But seriously, don’t. Cassie’s so cross with me I’m not sure she’ll want to stay anyway.”
“She’ll come round, she’s your twin.”
But you weren’t so sure. It had been over three years since you’d seen her in person - the longest since she'd run away eight years earlier - all contact conducted sporadically over the phone and almost always on her terms. The only time she’d been back to Bristol at all since she’d left Mickey was after your Grandad died. There was no saying what being back would evoke in her… but is was probably nothing good.
***
You heard your mother before you saw her, arguing with one of the nurses in the corridor outside Ash's ward. He'd fallen back to sleep about half an hour earlier and to try and spare him a rude awakening, you quietly slipped out of his cubicle, heading towards the noise.
"Mrs Peters, as I've explained he—"
"Don't take that fucking tone with us," snarled Frank, toying with an unlit cigarette.
"Mum," you said gently, a look of gratitude painting the young woman's face when all three of them turned to look at you.
"What the fuck are you doing here??"
"They called me, he gave them my number before he lost consciousness," you lied, hoping you'd get the chance to tell Ash so you could get your stories straight.
"And you don't ring me?? I'm his fucking mother!"
"It was very late… we didn't want to worry you until we knew he was ok. I was going to ring you soon."
"We?? Who's we?!"
Cursing inside your head you tried to decide how much of a lie you should tell. But the truth would probably come out anyway so you opted for honesty.
"Me and Gran."
"Oh right, of course my fucking mother would be here with my son instead of me. Her idea not to ring us was it? I should've known you wouldn't've had the backbone for that sort of thing on your own."
"I'm going to have to ask your to keep your voices down, there's very sick people here," an older nurse said tartly; clearly the one who had experienced the joy of dealing with your mother and step-father had called in reinforcements. "There's a visitor's room at the end of the hall.
"I want to see my son," snapped your mother.
"Me too," added Frank, glaring belligerently at her.
"I can show them," you said with a small smile of apology, once again tasked with mollifying others thanks to your family.
"I can't have all three of you in there - you can show them in but it's a maximum of two visitors at a time. And if there's anymore of that racket, I'll have to ask you to leave."
"You can't stop us seeing our boy," snapped Frank, and seeing him attempting to use his lumbering frame as a threat, you slipped in between him and the nurse.
"Come on, I'll show you." Leading them away from the nurses' station you glanced behind. "How did you know he was here if Gran didn't call you?"
They exchanged a glance and you stopped at the door, not letting them pass.
"We were down the pub last night and heard there was some commotion with one of Mickey's lads," said your Mum tentatively, glancing at Frank the whole time she was speaking. "But we didn't know it was him. Had an answering machine message this morning from Big Phil saying it was our Ashley. We didn't hear the phone."
Didn't hear the phone. You knew well enough what that was code for. They stank so much of last night's booze it was a wonder they were even awake this early.
"Needed to pop out for fags," said Frank, as though reading your mind and when you peered closer you realised they were both still drunk. "Now get the fuck out of the way, Bird, and let us see him."
But you blocked the doorway instead.
"He was asleep when I left and he'd in a bad way. He's had major surgery in the night and he's in a lot of pain. Don't upset him."
"Don't upset him," Frank mimicked rudely. "Listen to this one, Cath."
"Fuck off, Birdie," hissed your mother, shouldering her way past you. "You're not his mother, I am. And I'll speak to him - to all you ungrateful little shits - however I damn well please."
They stomped past you and you had no choice but to chase after, cringing as they flung open curtains looking for Ash.
"Excuse me! No one is allowed in here at the moment!" shouted another nurse, in the middle of changing bandages on another patient.
"He's in the corner, on the left by the window," you said, murmuring apologies and straightening curtains as you passed.
"Ash!" Cathy bellowed, at the sight of her youngest child, startling him from sleep.
"Mum?" he mumbled. Or at least you assumed that's what he meant but it came out more as a mhmm through his wired jaw.
"Why can't he speak properly?!" she said accusingly, whirling to face you.
"His jaw was broken, they've had to wire it to help it heal. They said he should be able to talk better in a few days when the swelling starts to go down."
The nurse from the bay nearer the door appeared beside you.
"I'm going to have to ask you to lower your voice please, madam. There are very sick people here trying to rest."
"Oh fuck off you officious little prick," said Frank, sending her eyebrows to her hairline.
"I'm sorry, we'll be more quiet," you said hurriedly before she could chuck them out. With a face like thunder she nodded.
"Don't make me ask you again."
The curtains twitched closed and you were left alone with your family once more.
"Please," you urged quietly. "If you don't want them to throw you out, can we just take it down a bit. Mum, come here and have a seat."
Chuntering obscenities about you only barely under her breath, Cathy sat down in the chair by the bed, reaching for Ash's hand.
"Right…I'll leave you to it," you murmured, catching your brother's pleading eyes before you pulled the curtain to leave. With both their backs to you, no longer of use or interest, you mouthed 'sorry' at him and retreated back to the waiting area.
You hadn't been on your own for more than five minutes before a burly man whose shirt loudly proclaimed him as SECURITY hurried past you. Sighing, you closed your book and waited.
Three…
Two…
One…
"This is fucking ridiculous!" Frank's voice echoed towards you, apparently not one for believing in going quietly.
They hoved into view being roughly escorted by the security man.
"Birdie, tell them we should be here!" shouted your mother, spotting you in the waiting area. "He's my son, I have every right—"
"They with you?" he said to you, ignoring her.
For a brief moment you considered denying all knowledge of them.
"Yes."
The pitying look he gave you spoke volumes.
"Get your fucking hands off me," spat Frank, wrestling himself out of the man's hold and he let go of Cathy too.
"Any more outbursts like that and I'll have to see you off the premises, do you understand?"
"Anything," you mumbled reflexively and she shot you a venomous look. "Sorry," you said, but not to her, nodding apologetically at the security man.
With a curt nod, he disappeared back down the hall.
"Why don't you two go and get a cuppa and some breakfast," you said, rooting in your bag for your purse, pulling out a crumpled tenner. "Bring me back a coffee?"
You mum plucked the note from your fingers without looking at you and stormed off toward the lifts but Frank stayed still, glaring at you.
"Why do you always have to be such a smug little bitch?" he snarled softly, teeth bared, beer and vodka on his breath. "You and that fucked up cunt of a sister - you ain't better than us."
"Yeah? Well only one of us is sober and hasn't been thrown out of a hospital ward for causing a disturbance this morning, so I'd beg to differ."
Not waiting for a reply, you shouldered your bag and left him standing, fists clenched at his sides, as you headed down to the ward and back to Ash's bedside. He was awake when you got there, slumping back against the pillow with relief when he saw it was you and not his adoring parents slipping through the curtain.
"Wy'd'yu ring 'em f'r," he mumbled, face sallow with exhaustion.
"I didn't. Big Phil down the pub told them, apparently."
He rolled his eyes - well, his one good eye. "I don' wan' see 'em."
"I'll try and keep them to a minimum. And let's be honest, if they're true to form they'll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow and we won't see them again." You slipped your hand into his and squeezed his fingers gently. "Get some rest. Bon'll be here soon and we'll both need our strength for that."
A half smile cracked awkwardly across his face and he squeezed your hand before his eyes slid shut and his grip slackened, sleep claiming him once more.
***
You gasped in shock at the hand shaking your shoulder, body tensed, heart trying to leap from your chest.
"Sorry," smiled the young nurse your mum and Frank had been giving a hard time earlier. "There's some more of your family here, I thought you might want to speak to them first. They're in the family room. On your right at the end of the hall."
"Thanks," you mumbled, coughing slightly, the syllables thick on your tongue. Shaking the cobwebs from your head, you blinked hard, eyes dry and gummy. You hadn't meant to fall asleep and your neck was going to make be making its displeasure known for some time to come you felt.
She smiled again and disappeared and you rubbed at your face, trying to sharpen up. As you climbed wearily to your feet, Ash stirred, his one-eyed blink groggy from the pain medication.
"Brace yourself, I think Cass is here," you smiled and amusement flickered uncomfortably across his ruined features.
Trudging towards the family room, you caught sight of yourself reflected in the windowed door of one of the staff areas. Smoothing your hands over your hair, you straightened your top; three years of not seeing your sister and this was the state you had to be in when you did.
Hand on the door handle, you took a deep breath, puffing out your cheeks and letting it go before you let yourself in.
Two faces turned in unison as you entered, an expensively handsome man perched on the wooden arm of a faded blue armchair, his hands on the hips of your mirror image, who was jigging slightly on the spot, chewing the side of her thumb. She looked somehow exactly the same and completely different at the same time. And like she'd got dressed in the dark. Which, in fairness, she probably had. Either way, it made you feel better about how much of a state you looked.
"Birdie," she mumbled in a rush of breath, launching herself at you.
She still smelled like Bonnie and you wrapped your arms around her, the warm, familiar weight of her body against yours, bound together since you came into being, immediately soothing.
And you promptly burst into tears.
Cassie pulled back in alarm, hands on your shoulders, running over your hair.
"What's the matter?? Is he ok??"
Overcome, you waved away her worry with a shake of your hands and head but she still clutched you, eyes wide with concern. Sucking in a breath you fought to regain control.
"Sorry," you spluttered, fishing a half-used tissue out of your pocket. "I'm ok, he's ok - well he's not but he will be. It's just been a really long night." Dabbing your eyes, you turned, embarrassment licking up the back of your neck. "You must be Sean." Tucking the tissue away you went to stick out your hand, realising too late it was probably a bit grotty.
"It's really good to meet you," he smiled, catching you off guard when he leaned in to give you a brief hug instead. "I'm sorry it's not under better circumstances."
"Oh yeah, Birdie, Sean. Sean, Birdie," Cassie said hurriedly, wafting her hand between you vaguely. "If we're done with the pleasantries can you hurry up and tell me what happened? I want to see him."
Dropping into the nearest chair with an exhausted sigh, you relayed the little you knew about what happened the night before.
"But why would Mickey do that?? It doesn't make any sense. Was it 'cause Ash is trying to quit??"
Swallowing thickly, you shook your head and told her a shortened version of the same story you'd imparted to your Gran earlier. As you stumbled to a stop, Cassie was clutching Sean's hand like she was in the throes of labour.
"What did he do to you?" she whispered. "Ash doesn't just pull a gun on someone like Mickey without cause."
"Nothing— I mean, it doesn't matter. It's not important."
"Our baby brother is lying in a hospital bed because of it so I think it probably is fucking important," Cassie snapped, and Sean ran a soothing hand down her back.
"Can we not do this right now, Bon?" you replied tiredly. "Don't you want to see him before you interrogate me?"
She flashed you a vicious glare but Sean cut in before she could reply. "I think that sounds like a good idea." Climbing back to his feet, he held out a hand to your sister. "Come on, you'll feel better once you've seen him."
Giving them brief directions on where to find him, you were left alone in the small room. And with nothing else to do - fuck knows where your mum and Frank had disappeared off to but you hadn't seen any sign of a cup of coffee - you curled up in the least uncomfortable looking armchair and fell into a dreamless sleep.
***
Steve swallowed, the cold of the night air still chilly in the hall after the door had slammed shut. The look on Owen's face after Celia's vicious parting retort would have been hilarious had it not been for the fact that it was now entirely obvious that there was more going on between you and he than met the eye.
"Sooo…" Owen said, dark eyes alive with curiosity.
"Go and check on the boys, will you? I thought I heard Bella say Shy's name."
Nodding reluctantly, he lumbered off towards the stairs and Steve slumped into the office, dropping into his chair with his head in his hands, which is where Owen found him a few minutes later on his return.
"They're all accounted for. Do you want a tea? Bella was just making one when the hospital rang."
Sitting and having a friendly chat over a brew was the last thing Steve wanted.
"I think we should probably turn in, it's late."
"Right you are, boss" Owen smiled knowingly.
And now it was barely ten in the morning and he had no doubt it would be round everyone from Andy to the cleaners by now. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he fought the urge to take another pill.
"Have you heard from Bella?" asked Amanda, coming into the office, pouring coffee into her mug.
"No," he mumbled.
"She's not called in?"
"She'll be at the hospital, or have been there half the night. I wasn't expecting her in."
"Still… I'll give her a ring," she mused.
"No, it's ok. I'll do it."
Amanda frowned at him but let it pass, drifting back out into the corridor, the noise from the boys' common room suggesting that either everyone was having a great time, or killing each other; it wasn't always easy to tell. And, realistically, it could be both.
Why didn't he just let her contact you? It would be much easier, and would you even want to speak to him anyway?
But the way you'd clung to him the night before, rushing into his arms like something out of a cheesy romance novel, kept a small flicker of hope alive in his chest. Though there was an uneasiness slithering in his guts too; the more people who knew about you two, the greater the chance there was of Helen finding out and he hadn't fully decided what he was going to do about that yet.
With a deep sigh, he fished the packet of pills from his pocket, quickly sinking two before Amanda could come back.
***
The hand that shook you awake was much less gentle than the nurse had been. Blinking groggily, your mouth dryer than the desert, you tried to sit up, your mother's furious face looming over you.
"Why didn't you tell me your fucking sister was coming?" she hissed.
You wondered how long you'd been asleep for, the little, windowless room a strange liminal space that offered nothing to illuminate you. There was a clock on the wall but unless you'd been asleep for a very long time it was unlikely it was actually six forty-three.
"I wasn't sure you'd still be here when she got here," you mumbled, hauling yourself vertical so she had no choice but to step back away from you. "I wasn't even sure you were still here."
Cathy opened her mouth, no doubt to to rebuke you, but the door crashed back on its hinges before she had the chance.
"You're fucking unbelievable!" Cassie shouted at your mother, spinning toward you, eyes drawn into furious slits. "Why the fuck didn't you say they were here?!"
Swiping your hands down your face you closed your eyes, hoping that perhaps when you opened them again, you'd wake up in the staff bed in Stanton and this whole night would have been just a terrible dream.
Sadly this did not happen.
"I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was responsible for relaying everyone's whereabouts," you sighed, though your stomach twisted guiltily at the look on your sister's face; you really could have given her a heads up. "Bon, Mum and Frank are here. Mum, Bonnie's here. With her new boyfriend— actually, where is Sean?"
"Getting coffee," Cassie snapped.
"Running for the hills probably," snarked Frank, sidling in behind her, lighting a cigarette that you were fairly certain wasn't allowed. "If he's got any sense."
Cassie swivelled towards him, hands balling into fists, and bared her teeth.
"Like she should have done the minute you came sniffing around, you useless fucking waste of oxygen."
"Cassandra!" exclaimed your mother.
"Bon…" you murmured, reaching for her hand to tug her away from where they were beginning to square up. "Don't. Not here. He's not worth it."
"What did you just say!?" shouted your mother, advancing half a step before Frank elbowed her aside, face slowly turning puce.
"You watch your fucking mouth, you stuck up little bitch, or I'll—"
"Or you'll what, Frank? What're you gonna do?" taunted Cassie, using your hand in hers to slightly move you behind her. "Gonna hit her? Hit me? Get one in for old time's sake? It's been a while after all."
"You saying you don't deserve it? My boy's lying in a fucking hospital bed because of you!"
"I know," you mumbled but nobody seemed to hear you over Cassie's shout of disbelief.
"MY fault?! How'd you figure that exactly when I've been living fucking hundreds of miles from this shithole."
"You're the one who brought scum like Mickey Tomlinson into this family."
Your sister's expression tightened at his name. "No. You're not going to blame me for this. I'm not the reason Ash started working for him. You don't want your son dealing drugs for the likes of Mickey then maybe you should take a closer look at yourself. You're not exactly winning any Father of the Year awards for parenting or, I dunno, even giving a single fucking shit about your kid, are you, Frank?!"
Face like thunder, he stepped closer, pointing the glowing end of his cigarette right in her face and for a heart-stopping second you thought he was going to press it into her skin or eye. And maybe he would have had it not been for the fact that the door opened again and Sean appeared, holding a cardboard tray of three coffee cups. He glanced around the unfolding melodrama in the little room with an impressively unperturbed expression.
"Fuck off, this is family only," snapped Frank, flicking Sean the barest glance, his cigarette still hovering near Cassie's cheek.
"He is family," Cassie snapped, not backing down. By the door, you saw Sean gently set down the cups on a low table. "My family."
Frank laughed roughly, the sound changing mid-flow to a yowl of pain as Sean stepped forward and in a movement so fluid it seemed almost like sleight of hand, he'd plucked the smouldering cigarette from Frank's fingers and twisted his arm up behind his back. The butt landed in a half-empty mug of tea left by some unknown previous occupant, hissing to a quiet end.
Unlike Frank, who was yelling. "Oi! Ow! Get the fuck off me, you cunt!"
You saw Sean's eyes flick to your sister, a ghost of a smile on his lips.
"You threaten her again and you're going to have bigger problems than a twisted wrist, do you understand me?"
The part of you brain that wasn't rooted to the spot at how quickly things had escalated, amused itself by imagining what Steve might have done in a similar situation. Probably treated Frank like Jamie or Riley when they were spoiling for a fight.
Let's all just take it down a level, ok?
"I said, do you understand me? Or do you need me to break it?" Sean repeated, accent smooth with evidence of an expensive upbringing, as conversational as though he was discussing the weather. "At least we're already in the hospital so they can fix you up, good as new."
"Fucking yes! Let me the fuck go!" shouted Frank, hissing and cradling his arm when Sean immediately let it drop.
There was no denying that Sean's approach was more effective than Steve's usually was, but such methods were usually frowned upon in an educational setting.
"Mum, why don't you go and say bye to Ash?" you said quietly and she cut both you and Cassie a murderous stare.
"I see your taste in men hasn't changed, Cassandra," she spat, ignoring you. "Looks rich this one but no different to the rest. What's he doing with a little tart like you though, eh?"
"I love her," Sean said simply, eyes fixed on Cassie.
You mother barked a cough of dry laughter. "Give it time. No one can love that one for long."
"Mum," you said sharply, seeing Cassie's eyes fill with tears. Pushing past everyone, you yanked the door open. "Come on: out. Now. We're not doing any more of this here. It's a fucking hospital and Ash is hurt and he doesn't need his family making a fucking scene in the middle of it."
Cathy practically shoulder-barged you on the way past.
"Frank, go with her. Say goodbye and leave."
"You don't tell me—" He stopped at the look Sean gave him and you were glad it was him here and not Steve.
"Yeah, you'd better go," called Cassie, recovering herself as he left, "you'd hate to be late for pub opening!"
"Bon…" you mumbled but she just shrugged, looping her arms around Sean's neck and stretching up for kiss.
"My hero," she giggled, pecking his lips once more.
"Sorry," he smiled, somewhat sheepishly you thought, at you.
"Nothing for you to be sorry for," you replied. "It's us who should be sorry about our awful family."
"Trust me, he gets it," Cassie said darkly. "It's not the same but if you think our mum is bad, you should meet his."
"Cassandra, behave," he murmured but the admonishment was undercut by the look of loving amusement in his eyes and your sister simply beamed in response, kissing him again.
"Is one of those coffees for me by any chance?" you asked, hoping to head off what looked like might become a scene unsuitable for younger viewers.
"Hope you still just have it black, one sugar?" said Cassie as Sean untangled from her to extract cups, easing the plastic lids off carefully to check their contents, passing you a still steaming cup of dark liquid.
"Thanks. I need about twenty-six more of these," you sighed, crumpling back into the armchair you'd been napping in. Though that was probably the last thing you needed; you were almost dizzy with exhaustion, both shattered and wired in that strange way of being up all night that you used to get at uni when you'd left finishing an essay to the last minute.
"Could just sort you out with a line instead," chuckled Cassie, coming to rest on Sean's lap on the chair beside yours. "Perk you right up."
You flashed her a withering look which bounced right off her.
"Can you hang around here and make sure Mum and Frank don't burn the place down while I go and have a smoke?"
"I could murder one too," said Cassie, smoothing a hand over Sean's hair. "Can you watch out for fireworks?"
He nodded, patting her bum as she got up to follow you to the door.
"But don't kill Frank without me though, yeah? I want to be here to see that."
***
You perched with Cassie on the same bench you'd shared in the dark with Celia, what felt like several millennia earlier.
"Sean seems nice," you ventured; she hadn't spoken since you'd left the room, accepting your lighter in silence.
She blew smoke above her head.
"Why did Ash pull a gun on Mickey, Bird?"
Delaying the inevitable, you took a deep draw on your cigarette, eyes on your scuffed trainers. She waited expectantly beside you.
"He - Mickey - pretended he thought I was a grass. Said he thought I was wearing a wire for the cops so he made me take my top off. I made Ash leave the room."
Without looking, you felt Cassie turn to look at you.
"He kept making all these comments about you, about us, about how we're so alike…"
"Did he hurt you?" she whispered and you shook your head sharply.
"That was when Ash came back."
"Yeah, alright, I think I forgive him."
"It's my fault," you mumbled, hunching down in on yourself. "I shouldn't have involved him."
"Sounds to me like it's actually Steve's fault," she muttered.
"Ash being here is my fault, not Steve's. It was my idea to go to him for help."
Cassie turned sharply, grabbing you by the shoulders to make you look at her. "Yes. But only because your married boyfriend - who is probably only using you for sex because he's bored of his wife - has a drug problem. And he's such a shit addict that he couldn't even go away for one fucking weekend without making a mess of it and making it your problem. This is his fault, not yours."
"He wasn't just using me for sex," you mumbled, shaking yourself free of her grasp, pulling harshly on the final drag of your cigarette.
"No more than you were using him."
You blinked at her. "At first maybe…"
"Come on, Birdie… did you really even want him to leave his wife??"
You pushed yourself to your feet, throwing your cigarette butt to the ground, stamping it out.
"You're being spiteful Bonnie."
"And you're being a naive little martyr. Which was already irritating enough when we were kids but I thought you'd have grown out of it by now. This is his fault - not yours. Why do you always have to assume the guilt of everyone you meet."
"Wow… well fuck, I'm really pleased you decided to come back and grace us all with your presence. Anything else I should know about myself before you disappear and I don't see you for another three years?"
"You've always known where I am, it's not my fault you never visit."
"Come off it, Bonnie," you scoffed. "You don't want me in your life! You couldn't have made that any clearer."
"No!" she shouted, on her feet, shoulders squared. "You don't want me in your life, Birdie. You're ashamed of all of us - ever since you went away to uni it was like we were beneath you. I'm sorry that me and Ash are such embarrassments to you!"
"What are you even talking about!? I'm the one who's still fucking HERE. Dealing with them and their mess and this whole fucking shitshow, while you pissed off to London and never looked back, with your new family."
"And here we go again, Saint Birdie, everyone's fucking lord and saviour."
"You can't have it both ways, Cassie!" you shouted. "Either I'm always pissing you off trying to help everyone I love or I'm ashamed of everyone but it can't be fucking both!"
"Can't it?!"
Staring at each other, mirror images, hands balled at your sides, a quiet cough drifted towards you.
"Sorry to interrupt…" mumbled Sean, glancing nervously between you as your heads whipped toward him in uncanny unison. "Birdie, the doctor wanted to have a word with you."
"Why her and not me?" snapped Cassie.
He shrugged apologetically. "I dunno, probably because she's been here all night."
"Which I wasn't given the chance to be!"
"We'll both go," you mumbled, a wave of exhaustion rolling over you so heavily you thought you might collapse. "They probably just want to talk to family and didn't spot that they had two of us."
This managed to raise a suggestion of a smile from your sister. "As if I'd be caught wearing whatever the fuck that's supposed to be," she said, waving a hand vaguely at your clothes.
Rolling your eyes, you let her lead the way back inside, Sean's arm slung casually around her shoulders.
***
By noon, Sean insisted that you went home and you had no energy left to argue with him. Leaving Cassie with Ash, he followed your directions, driving you back to your little house.
"She's not really angry with you," he said quietly as you waited at the lights by the park.
"She's pretty angry with me," you muttered, still smarting from her accusations.
"She's scared. Being back here, I mean. And the fact that it involves Mickey."
You looked across at him in surprise. "You know about that?
He shrugged slightly, engine gunning as he pulled across a gap in the traffic to turn right. "We don't have secrets."
Well, well, well, may wonders never cease: Cassandra was actually in a proper grown up relationship.
"What is it that you do, Sean?"
"Construction, housing development, that sort of thing. We're doing a lot of work down around Canary Wharf, the docklands, you know?"
You nodded. "I hope you don't mind me saying this, but for someone who works in housing development and sounds the way you do, you seemed pretty comfortable with Frank earlier. I've heard about strong-arming clients before, but that seemed a bit literal."
Amusement flickered across his handsome face and you could see why she liked him.
"We might have a few other business interests. Wallace Organisation has quite a… shall we say, diverse portfolio."
"Meaning, guns and drugs?" you said as the traffic slowed again and laughed but without any shred of embarrassment at your accusation.
"You don't beat about the bush, do you?"
"My sister's in love with you. I want to to know who you are."
He turned his head to look at you properly. "I'd never let anything happen to her. I promise. I'm not Mickey Tomlinson."
"I'd kill you myself if you did, do you hear me?"
A wide smile split his face, which wasn't quite the reaction you'd been aiming for.
"Fucking hell, you two really are alike, aren't you," he laughed.
Feeling heat climbing your cheeks, you cleared your throat. "It's the next left, number forty-two."
***
When you woke up you could hear voices downstairs, the unmistakable sound of your sister laughing. Groping blindly at your bedside table you downed the glass of water you'd left there before you'd collapsed, fully clothed, onto your bed, goodness knows how many hours earlier. Rubbing sleep from your eyes you squinted at your alarm clock, it's red display proudly proclaiming it to be 16:57.
A quick shower and a brush of your teeth and you almost felt like a person again. Or at least, a slightly less disgusting version of what you'd been before. Traipsing downstairs you found Cassie, Sean and Celia all in the living room, an open bottle of wine on the coffee table, though only the girls had glasses.
"Hiya lovely," smiled Celia, getting up to give you a hug. "Do you want a drink?"
"It's barely five o'clock," you mumbled. "Don't we have to go back to see Ash?"
"Yeah but we've been up since the middle of the night so who the fuck knows what time it is. And Sean's driving," said your sister, draining the end of her glass, holding it out for more.
"Have you heard from Gran or the hospital?"
Cassie rolled her eyes at your disapproval.
"She's back there now. They were moving him to a ward when I left and they've got stricter visiting hours apparently. We can go and see him but they'll be kicking us out again by eight."
"How was he when you left?" you asked, perching on the edge of the armchair, accepting a glass of red from Celia.
"Much the same. Maybe a little more alert. They've got him on the good shit so he's not in too much pain. You know, the stuff your druggie grandad of a boyfriend is into."
You set the glass down so hard on the coffee table, the slender stem almost broke.
"Don't. Just fucking… don't."
"Christ, Bird, it was only a joke," she muttered.
"Yeah?? Well I'm glad me having my heart broken by a man I trusted is so fucking entertaining to you! I'm fine by the way, not that you ever fucking asked!"
Flouncing out of the room, swiping Celia's cigarettes from the counter near the back door, you stomped outside, flashing one to life before the door had even swung closed behind you.
You were two-thirds down your second one when it creaked open.
"Bird..?"
"Fuck off, will you please just fuck off, Cassandra? I can't go another twelve rounds with you tonight, I'm too fucking tired. I know you're angry with me, but can we please, please just save it for another time."
She sat down on chair beside you, tugging it closer to yours as she snagged a smoke from the packet.
"Urgh," she grumbled as she took her first inhale. "I hate fucking menthols. If you're gonna smoke, do it properly."
"They're Cee's."
"Of course they are," she replied dryly and you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling.
"I'm sorry," she said, reaching across to link her fingers with yours. "I shouldn't have said that in there. I didn't realise you were that serious about him."
"What? The whole 'we're in love and he's leaving his wife' thing didn't give you a clue?" you snapped, not ready to be placated.
"Honestly? I didn't really think you'd ever actually go through with that," she said, leaning back, disappearing for a second behind a cloud of smoke. "Every time we talked about it you sounded so… I dunno, like you were trying so hard to convince me because you weren't really convinced yourself. Like were talking yourself into it, Bird, rather than because it was something you actually wanted."
Releasing a long breath of smoke over your head you stared up into the sky - twilight was coming but it was finally light past six in the evening, the early promise of long summer evenings to come - and wanted to refute what she'd said. But unfortunately you were cursed to know each other better than anyone else alive. Sometimes better than you knew yourselves.
"I thought I did want it," you said quietly, stubbing your cigarette out on the saucer in front of you, immediately lighting another.
You smoked in silence for a few minutes before you cleared your throat.
"I'm sorry too," you mumbled. "You were right, what you said earlier."
"No, I shouldn't've… I was upset—"
"I am ashamed of where I'm from… of who that makes me. When I got out to go to uni, I never wanted to come back here. I wanted to run and run and run and never look back." You turned to her, squeezing her hand earnestly. "But it was never you or Ash I was ashamed of. It was her, and Frank. And dad too, what happened to him. That whole place and what it made us do, what it took from us. But never you. Never Ash. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel like that…" Leaning forward, you tapped ash into the dish. "Especially because the truth is that I've always been jealous of you both."
Cassie's eyebrows shot up, lips pursed around her cigarette, the tip glowing in the dwindling light.
"Jealous?? Why the fuck would you be jealous of us?"
"You've always done exactly whatever you wanted and you never cared what anyone thought about it, and neither does he. You were always the one to stand up to her and I just…" You spread your hands, groping for the right words. "I let her walk all over me."
"Yeah, which is why she hates you less."
"No, she hates me just the same. I just turn up every few weeks with stuff for their freezer so she tolerates me more."
Cassie pulled a face. "What do you do that for??"
Sucking in a drag of smoke, you shrugged. "It was for Ash at first, and then I suppose I just got in the habit of it."
"You're such a soft sod. You should let them fucking starve - let them see how that feels," she added in a vicious whisper, eyes glittering as she stared into the distance, and you knew she wasn't seeing the wall at the end of your garden.
"I was jealous that you got away," you said quietly and she blinked back into the present. "Not because of why you had to go, but you got to go."
"You didn't have to stay, nobody was making you stay," she said, the defensiveness of the morning slipping back between her teeth.
"No, don't," you said quickly, reaching for her hand and squeezing. "I don't mean it like that. Of course I could have left, I could have gone back up north and no one would have stopped me. I even applied for some jobs back at schools I'd done subbing at. But I couldn't bring myself to leave Ash, not again."
"He'd have been ok, he had Gran and Grandad."
You shook your head. "You don't know what it was like Bon. It wasn't like when we were kids and we could run away to Gran's. Frank wouldn't let him go. I couldn't just leave him there on his own like that. And I'd left before and look what happened to you. I was so scared if I left again, something awful would happen to him." A dry laugh slipped out with a plume of smoke. "And then it did anyway."
"He's not a kid anymore, Bird. He should have known better than to pull a fucking gun on Mickey whether he was worried about you or not. Doing something that stupid was always going to end like this. He was lucky you were here when I wasn't."
A half-hearted smile crooked your mouth. "The shame for him is that he got stuck with me when he always liked you better."
"Oh come off it, you can't seriously think that's true. It's not me who read him bedtime stories and tried to get him to do his maths homework."
"Yeah, exactly."
She laughed throatily and, against your will, so did you.
"I mean it though, Bon," you continued. "I feel like all I've ever managed to do is piss you both off trying to help. I ever wanted was for us all to be ok, to fix things, but I always just seem to get it wrong or annoy you."
"That's your problem though, Bird: you can't fix everything. Me and Ash, we're not things to be fixed by you," she said, her words resonating uncomfortably close to what your Gran had said to you weeks earlier. "We're always gonna be messy and a bit fucked up, just like you."
You frowned. "I'm not—"
Cassie cackled into the evening air, tapping ash from the end of her cigarette. "Yes you fucking are. Jesus christ, Birdie, look at you! You haven't had a single healthy relationship in your life. You think normal, well-adjusted people are out there fucking their boss and uncovering his addiction issues? You chase highs just as much as me and Ash but instead of sticking it up your nose, yours come from finding the next broken bird - pun intended - to try and fix."
"Since when did you get so insightful," you mumbled, sitting back in your chair, turning it over in your head, an uncomfortable sense of the truth in her words already churning in your guts.
"Mum and dad - and Frank - did a number on all of us," she said bitterly. "You should get out of here, Bird. It's not good for any of us being in this place."
"We can't leave Gran…"
"Nellie Jennings is tough as old boots," she said sternly. "She doesn't need you minding her and I'm sure she'd be the first to tell you so."
Grinding out the end of your smoke on the saucer, you chewed the inside of your cheek.
"When he's well enough, can you take Ash back to London with you?"
"Of course, if he'll let me. You should come too. Cee said you've quit your job?"
"I don't know when I'm finishing yet and I'd have to give the landlord notice here and—"
The back door squeaked open and Celia's head appeared around the doorjamb.
"Sorry, French…" she began, flicking an uncertain glance at Cassie, "but Steve's here."
"What??" you said, chair legs scraping loudly against the flagstones in your hurry to get to your feet. "Steve??"
"This I have to see…" mumbled Cassie, following you into the house.
He was hovering in the hallway, hands shoved deep in his pockets, studying the ancient blue and cream swirling carpet. A relic of before the house was tenanted and not something you'd have chosen yourself.
"Steve?"
His head snapped up, winding you with those stupidly pretty blue eyes of his.
"Hi," he mumbled. "Sorry to…" He stopped, glancing over your shoulder, lines appearing between his brows.
"That's my sister, Cassie," you supplied, turning to catch your twin scowling at him.
"Right…" he nodded, slowly dragging his focus back to you.
"Bon, can you give us a minute?" you mumbled but she pretended not to hear you, eyes trained on Steve.
"What are you doing here?"
"I…umm…" He couldn't seem to stop looking between you and your sister.
"Yes, we are identical, please move past it," you snapped and Cassie giggled when he flushed and cleared his throat.
"We hadn't heard from you, and I knew you'd be busy with the hospital but I just wanted to… make sure you were ok," he said, trailing off weakly.
"Sorry, I should have rung this morning. I was up all night, I don't know which way's up."
"It's fine, we were all just worried about you. How's your brother?"
"He's not great, but he'll be ok—"
"Were you really going to leave your wife?" Cassie interrupted, coming to lean against the banister beside you, arm looped lazily around the newel post, watching the colour drain from Steve's face. "Or were you just having her on?"
He swallowed, wetting his lips carefully, eyes darting between you. "It was real."
"Bonnie, please," you mumbled.
"But thank god you hadn't before she found out about your little pill popping problem though, right? Because now you can avoid all that mess and stay in your nice cushy life with your wife and kids, and pretend none of it never happened at all. Never mind that Birdie has to leave the job she loves just so she can get away from you."
"Cassandra," you hissed.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't've come," Steve murmured, face tight with mortification. "Take all the time you need, Bella. We'll see you when you're back."
He shuffled back towards the door and was on the far side of it so quickly it was almost as though he'd walked through it like a ghost.
"Why did you have to do that??" you sighed, leaning against the wall.
"Because I'm the one who stands up for us, aren't I?" she smirked and you rolled your eyes. "Besides, he deserves it, the dickhead." Pausing, she frowned. "And who the fuck is Bella??"
Ok, ok I know that was a lot of just Bella and her fucked up family but it’s important to her character and where she goes from here so thank you for sticking with me. We’ll be having more Steve in the next one, I promise. I hope 🙈
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Summary: As disaster strikes in the Irish Sea, the Shelby brothers fight to survive while those at Arrow House are left to wait for news that may never come. But in the long hours of uncertainty, old wounds start to split open, hidden truths begin to surface, and one telegram threatens to change your life forever.
Warnings: Language, angst, arranged marriage.
Word Count: 3.5K
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Ghost Ship.
That's what they were calling it. Dead in the water. Dead to communications. Dead men and women in waiting.
LMS service from Dublin to Holyhead had been named, damned and doomed the moment ink stamped the words into existence.
The maritime miscalculation that had seen four hundred souls left adrift somewhere in the foggy frontier between Ireland and Britain, had darkened a nation's doorsteps the very next day with headlines set to shock.
And as the winter sun rose way out west in Warwickshire, where the morning dew glistened across the galloping grounds of your home, you had yet to learn of your husband's predicament.
That was of course, until three women on varying levels of ferocity stormed through your front door with urgency, and even more dire news for those more than a thousand feet from Davy Jones's locker.
“ Where is she? Where's the bastard's wife?”
Linda. Ah, lovely Linda.
And just behind her, came an enraged Esme, followed by a poised Polly who'd seen and survived every Shelby shitshow up to date.
“ Ease up on the girl. Not her fault she's married to the prick” Esme's no-mess, matter-of-fact voice cut through the room as she twisted the top off a bottle of gin, before Linda landed the blame on your shoulders by sheer Shelby association.
“ Your husband dragged my Arthur across the Irish sea…” blondie began, newspaper rolled between her wedding ring and palm, you half expected to be hit around the back of the head with.
“ Nobody dragged anyone, Linda” Polly sat, voice and posture entirely blasé about the current situation, as you remained uninformed and looking absolutely bloody useless.
“ Arthur does in fact possess fully functioning limbs. Whether his brain is currently participating is highly debatable” The matriarch casually chastened her nephew's inner workings through an elegant tendril of smoke as she lit her cigarette.
As you sat there, looking between the three of them, Polly's knowing eye waiting to see if you'd join the other wives panic and Linda's righteous fury aimed at a man you called husband one hundred miles away. It was Esme who finally relieved you of the sudden wave of worry.
“ The three bastards have only gone and got themselves lost at sea” she held your eye across the room, voice catching your heart mid-plummet to your stomach.
“The ship's gone missing”
Missing. Not off course. Not steered into another harbour. Fucking missing.
But that wasn't all. It was never just all. For when it came to the Shelby brothers, disasters lined themselves up like bullets. Each one another chamber loaded, another spin of the cylinder. A game of Russian roulette in predictability, outcome and ending.
“ Show her” Polly murmured, sharp eye watching your chest rise tighter, heavier, rattled despite the unwavering front you kept on everything Shelby. Everything Tommy.
Newspaper rolled out before you, fingers curling around the printed words, the headline didn't speak of your husband's missing ship. It spoke of another. A larger one. One whose engine had failed in the cold snap, in the freezing fog swallowing the Irish Sea. One whose anchors hadn't taken hold. One now believed to be moving blindly through the darkness on a collision course with the brothers vessel.
And her name?
The Valkyrie.
Chooser of the slain. Decider of who lives and dies.
Your breath didn't just stop in your chest. Hands didn't just pull away from the paper. You physically recoiled, as something unsettling unfurled inside you. Something that continued to shadow every corner of your thoughts, every inch of a motherless child's mind.
Grief.
You felt both your brain and body scrambling to prepare and punish you with the worst of outcomes. And as the other wives watched you, unified in the same level of urgency, Polly's eyes drifted to the door, where a set of ears were listening in, unexpectedly there to comfort you in the chaos.
Arney. Your father.
“ Right” Polly pulled herself up from the upholstered chair, stubbing her cigarette out, prepared to give a tough-love lesson in keeping one's wits about oneself.
“ We're no use to anyone sitting duck, frightening ourselves, ladies” she looked to each of you, with the demanding eye of a woman who'd raised enough of her kin to know no Shelby ever went down without a fight or a fuck load of money to either bribe or bludgeon someone into making sure they came out unscathed.
“ Let's see what the clever bastards been hoarding in the great big bloody safe of his” Polly turned for the door, mother hen fully expecting her three deflated little ducklings to follow suit.
“ Miss Polly” Arney murmured with that characteristic charm, entirely lost on Polly as she strode out of the room, wise with years of dealing with wankers.
As the three of you followed, so did your fathers gaze as it swept past the distress on his daughter's face to the far end of the hallway where Tommy's study and safe sat.
“ What good is money going to do when my Artie is missing in the middle of the Irish sea, Polly?” Linda's heels clicked sharply through the foyer, as Polly pushed open the study door, brass bell you'd fastened to the fixture weeks prior during your waging marital war, jingling joyously.
Christ.
“ Pay for their funerals and the bairns they've left behind for us to rear on our bloody own” Esme's words felt like a sharp knife of reality to a deep cut already weeping with worry.
“ Esme” Linda turned on her sister-in-law, face scrunched up red like a slapped arse, as Polly spun the safes dial.
“ She's not wrong, Linda. Although her delivery could do with a little more tact” Polly murmured, back to the bickering room, as you stood there in the middle of family dynamics you had yet to learn after a mere month of marriage.
“ If the worst happens, we'll need money. And if it hasn't, then we'll need contacts” Polly's pragmatism kept the room from spiralling, as each spin of the Iron vaults dial failed to free itself open. “He's changed the bloody code”
All eyes suddenly snapped to you. The wife. Because isn't that what wives should know? The codes, the numbers to the heart of their husbands daily life.
What to do. Where to go. The safety net any man who cherished his wife's worth had put in place in case of a day, just like today.
“ Frances…” you murmured quietly, swallowing back what felt like a sharp piece of shrapnel, that your husband had failed to entrust you with the codes to his safe, and instead, left them with the housekeeper.
But the reality of it was a little more complicated, my dear. And watching you stand there feeling the heat of humiliation, I feel the irrepressible need to set the record straight and shake any silly thoughts out of you before they sowed themselves bone deep.
Calling on Frances. Somebody please fetch the wearied woman before miss misery makes a mountain out of a molehill.
“Can I help, Ma'am?” Frances appeared at the threshold, passing the prowling presence of your father in the foyer, as she stood like a divine intervention sent to you via courier by Cupid himself.
“ The code for the safe, Frances. It appears my idiot nephew decided to change it without having the common sense of informing his wife” Polly's patience for every prat in her life was threadbare as she waited by the welded vault.
“ Yes, Ma'am” Frances stepped into the room, professional in every sense but undoubtedly sharing the sentiments of the Shelby matriarch. “Mr Shelby changed the code a week after the wedding”
“ To what?”
“ To Mrs Shelby's birthday, Ma'am”
Mrs Shelby's birthday.
Now, before you start over-analysing every syllable, before you tell yourself Frances had ill-informed you and it was, in fact, the birthday of a previous Mrs Shelby, I would urge you to move your arse and find out for your bloody self.
“ Well. That's rather stupid” You cleared your throat, head tilting a little higher like you wasn't entirely affected by the implications of it all.
“ Stupid. How romantic of you, love” Polly was halfway to shaking her head with amusement at your own flaring ferocity as she watched your heels strike closer to the iron vault.
“ Yes. Anybody that knows me, knows how to get into his safe. Frankly, It's completely impractical and highly idiotic” you murmured with a tone that said you were completely unaffected by the gesture, as your hovering hand, shaky over the silver dial, did not, and would not, ever prove anybody's point as long as you lived that you were anything other than unbothered.
There. I think I made the point clear enough for you, darling.
You absolutely were affected.
Dial turning right, then left, then right again, your fingers curled around the handle, bracing yourself for further humiliation when it wouldn't open.
But the heaviness of embarrassment didn't come. Instead, a cold breeze met your heated cheeks as the door swung open and your breath quietly left your lips.
“ Move, child” Polly murmured gently as you absent-mindedly stepped aside, eyes fixed on the safe, willing it to bloody well explain itself for this sudden show of sentiment that had knocked you off your axis.
Stood with far away thoughts, stretching as far as the Irish sea where the man responsible for your sudden slip in composure waited for a way back home to you, Polly crowded the safe, hands pulling out bundles of cash, address books, telephone numbers, shipping contacts and emergency names. When her fingers suddenly stilled over a file named…
Billy Boys.
“ Christ, Thomas” Polly muttered under her breath, all but a whisper in a room full of worry and three wives waiting on her next word.
The Billy Boys weren't news to Polly. She knew of the Protestant group rising in the north. The steady drip of dock trouble slipping down south to Liverpool, where the Shelbys held the quayside with a dozen armed men.
But what she didn't know, what she hadn't anticipated, was just how heavy a file your husband had compiled on the gang of men who killed with the grandiose belief that God was on their side.
Door slammed shut. Dial spun. Polly turned around to you with half a thought already forming, when the finery of your father's polished shoes stepped into the study.
“ Poppet?”
There it came again.
The heavy sound of the Valkyrie’s horn, cutting through the fog and freeze of the Irish Sea, answering the stranded passenger ship not with a rescue call, mercy, or relief from the rabid fear that had taken hold of the vessel. But a warning.
A blind, useless fucking warning no one could see coming, yet felt creeping ever closer through the thick white wall of fog.
Death.
It was death.
Just like the papers had predicted.
And as four hundred passengers broke into panic, scrambling for lifeboats, for wooden like coffins that would be crushed under the Valkyrie’s hull if the two ships met in open water, the three Shelby brothers stood at the stern.
And watched.
Waited.
“ What's the plan, boys?” Arthur’s chest rose sharply, teetering on the edge of fight or flight, as his sharp blues swept over the chaos. Children screaming for safety, women clutching their husbands as terror took over the deck, while the Valkyrie blew her horn again, bristling the neck of everyone aboard.
She was close. Very close.
“ Fuck!” John shouted, teeth bared, fisting the iron railings as a surge of men pushed up against the metal beside him, squinting through the fog in a futile attempt to find her flagpole. “ We're sitting ducks out here!”
“ The plan boys?!” Arthur's head snapped back to his brother, yanking John from the railings as Tommy stayed silent.
For as commotion unfolded around him, your husband had come to the harrowing calculation that they couldn't bargain their way out of this one.
They were at the mercy of something that didn’t care about names or reputation.
For the seas abyss had a place for everyone, even those named Shelby. And for a man who had spent a lifetime waiting for a way out, to be offered one without consequence, without burden, Tommy had suddenly found the only reason he wanted to stay.
You.
The thought of you, his wife, back home in Warwickshire didn't leave him or soften into something sentimental. It sharpened and surged, with a reason to survive as his eyes drifted homebound through the fog, east towards England.
“ Arthur”
“ Tom” Arthur’s attention snapped to his brother, the Sergeant surfacing in him in the face of survival, ready with orders to pass down the line.
“ Stop the lifeboats. Nobody leaves until we can see her”
“ On it” Arthur took off immediately through the crowd of frantic families, rushing for safety, for something more than a fool's hope.
“ John”
“ Tommy” John spun, straightening instinctively, standing to attention with the confidence that his comrade in arms, his brother, would see them through.
“ Go down deck. Make sure no one panics the passengers into the water”
As the brothers moved, Tommy remained at the stern, eyes fixed into the thick fog before slowly closing, waiting for the Valkyrie’s cry.
“ One. Two. Three. Four. Five…” He counted each beat between, each breath, as she came closer.
“ Six” Tommy whispered as she blew again, the sound rolling across the hull, swallowing both time and distance.
It wasn't random anymore. It wasn't just a warning. She was counting them in, counting them down until there was nowhere left to go.
For anyone else it would have sounded like a death call. Something to be feared, to flee from. But to Tommy, whose mind worked like a well oiled machine, it was familiar. It was fact.
“ I’m coming home” He opened his eyes to Arrow House, to you, through the fog and the hundreds of miles between.
“ I'm coming home to you, darling”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
You counted each stroke of the grandfather clock in the drawing room as it ate up time entirely, swallowing the space around you until it became the only thing loud enough to block out the room.
Linda's sobs had fallen silent in your ears around ten o'clock that morning. Esme's pacing to and from the window, at noon. Polly's fingers drumming against the armrest at two. And your uncle's thumb turning the pages of the morning's paper, reading every sentence, every word, over and over again until it was seared somewhere deep in the mind of a soldier, had finally fell silent at four o'clock.
The headlines from previous days had predicted it. The Valkyrie had hit.
And as the fog parted the next morning like some cruel curtain call after a night of iron crushing steel, of wood splintering and souls screaming for a saviour, the country waited to hear how many had perished in the cold, watery deep
“ Go lay down, girl” your uncle's steady voice came from behind you, hand settling on your shoulder with a gentle squeeze, urging you to rest your tired eyes away from the clock and sleep.
But no reply came.
No reaction rendered itself beyond a slow blink as your thoughts remained submerged somewhere deep beneath the Irish Sea with your husband as Richie's hand left your shoulder, eyes hardened, back straightened, turning for the hallway in search of Arrow House's stray.
The words did not wash over me, ladies. I was not ignorant to your rebel yell, your thirst for blood as you chanted, “Fuck Arney” in spectacular succession.
And while I'm partial to a good culling of deserving cunts, this particular one is about to show his true colours.
It is imperative, my dear, that you watch closely. Because depravity rarely announces itself with fanfare. More often than not, it walks into a room with all the characteristics of a charming man.
“Fuck” your father muttered quietly, stood in Tommy’s office, fingers spinning the dial of your husband’s safe. The frustration of failing to open it for the tenth time heating his blood like hellfire.
“ Five…no twenty, twenty…shit” he mumbled, jaw working as that casual charm curdled into something ugly and undignified. “ One, eight…come on you bastard. Come on”
“ What's wrong, Arney? Can't get it open?” your uncle's voice cut through the room, disgust deepening it into something that rarely surfaced.
His own daughter. He didn’t know. Didn’t bother to remember his own daughter’s fucking birthday, so he could rob her blind while her husband’s fate hung between heaven and earth.
“ Richie…” Arney turned, arms unfurling, trying to summon charm from something already charred inside of him.
“ Your daughters in the other room” Richie stepped forward, steady as a soldier now.
“ Her husband is lost at sea”
Another step.
“ And here you stand. Awful Arney. Monetising off your own bloods misery”
Another.
“ You never did notice her. Never did notice my sister…”
“ You're not so righteous yourself, Richie” your father stupidly stood his ground, suddenly struck by some sense of superiority when he spat the words...
“ Don't talk to me about my own child when you've killed how many children, ay? How many sons in the Battle of the Somme did you kill, Rich?”
Richie lunged forward, slamming your father against the safe, losing every inch of composure he’d constructed since the end of the war, the one he'd built so he’d never, never be haunted by another dead man’s face.
“ I should have killed you when my sister stopped sleeping” your uncle hissed, fist twisting into your father’s shirt, tightening like a tow rope dragging something back from the sea.
"When she stopped eating. When she cried herself sick waiting for you to come back” Richie's grip tightened again, watching you father writhe beneath him without a flicker of mercy.
“ When she walked out the door for the last time onto those tracks and..."
Your uncle stopped, breath hitching, lungs dragged air like it physically hurt to hold the words as he let them hover there instead, trembling on the edge of saying something irreversible.
Not here Richie. Please.
Not today. Not like this with her in the next room. Not when she still believed her mother had simply been taken by illness.
But as one man's grief buried itself deeper, the wail of another's tore through the empty halls of Arrow House.
Linda.
Head snapping towards the sound, your uncle's grip loosened, let go as his boots followed the cries of a wife back into the drawing room, where Linda stood weeping, crushing her cross to her chest.
Where Esme’s eyes wide and haunted, folded to the floor in a single breath.
Where you stood. A telegram trembling in your hand. Shaken into a thousand-mile stare as the printed words settled over every woman in the room.
Presumed dead.
Yet even as the words hung over Arrow House like a burial cloth, as tears fell and hearts broke, somewhere beyond Warwickshire sat another telegram. Undelivered and waiting.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood
Summary: As business pulls Tommy away from Arrow House once more, a church sermon and a single overheard conversation shatters the fragile balance of your marriage. But this time, it's not jealousy or pride that drives your reaction, it’s something far older, buried in your bloodline. And as “just business” echoes between you and your husband, the past quietly begins to make its voice heard.
Warnings: Language, angst, infidelity.
Word Count: 3.5K
[Masterlist] [Previous Part] [Trailer]
You're my wife.
Three words. Three bloody words.
He heard himself say them. The way he said them. The weight of how he said them. And Arrow House, unforgiving and unmerciful, heard them too.
It wasn't some romantic, everlasting declaration of love, it was panic. The unfiltered and completely uncalculated panic of a man under pressure.
You hadn't struck one nerve, my darling, you'd struck three. Three questions, simultaneously asked and entirely unanswered.
Where did you stand in your husband's emotional hierarchy?
Where did you rank between business and his brooding mind?
And just why had your husband disappeared the moment those three damned words echoed off the walls of Arrow House last night?
Because you, brilliant, strong and beautiful you, had managed to strike the one place Thomas Shelby never liked to be struck.
That stupid bloody thing in his chest.
His heart.
But Arrow House remembered. The words still chimed from champagne glasses. Still lingered in the walls. And God love him, the poor bastard hoped they'd gone up in smoke alongside the endless noughts you'd burnt bright and mighty into the night sky.
But In the quiet that followed, as you stood stunned into silence, and he ordered you to bed in a desperate attempt to restore order to his rapidly unravelling world, Tommy slipped away with paperwork to file, phone calls to be made. Excuses rattling out one by one on deaf ears.
Because you and I are no fools, dear. Cupid up above in his candy-floss kingdom, no fool.
For the only fool in the West Midlands that night was Thomas Shelby. Foolish enough to believe his words had gone unheard. Foolish enough to think nobody noticed. Foolish enough to forget that Arrow House, always remembered.
There he stood, the brooding bastard caught in the crossfire of his own heart's betrayal, lingering at the threshold of your bedroom door watching you sleep in sunlight as dust motes glittered around you, driving the point painfully home of how he'd always found his wife.
For poised and polite, were the biggest lies you had ever told yourself you were.
Because as Tommy watched with the weariness of man hoping you wouldn't wake, hoping he could keep these mornings, these moments greedily to himself, he had, and always would find his wife…
Beautiful. Untouchable and completely unwilling to abide by his rules, his rigidness, his relentless need for control.
Perfect. You were fucking perfect.
And that? That was the bloody problem.
Go on then, you prat. Go fuck it up with more buffonary.
One step into your room, another step away from his iron control. Away from pretending he didn't feel an ounce of anything real.
Your husband's hand reached for the pen resting on the bedside table, scratching out yet another note that was beginning to look suspiciously like a roadmap to one man's increasingly doomed state of mind.
“ Gone into the city on business. Won't be back until late tonight. Ask Frances for an aspirin. And eat. Make sure you eat.
Yours sincer…”
Steady on Tom, what was that?
Not the bit about business. Your late return. The remedy to a hangover, or the growling demands of your wife's stomach.
That little flicker that escaped your thoughts and bled into the fountain pen.
You sure you wanna put that?
As Tommy's hand lingered over the last syllable yet to be scrawled, he reminded himself of his day's plans. The plan to prove to himself that the title of ‘Wife’, was but a mere note in the margin of his business books. A namesake assigned by law.
So, with a sharp scratch of the pen, he crossed out and erased any sign of sentiment he held for you and ended his note with a simple…
“T”
T. T for bloody twat, more like.
Look. It’s not my fault the frolicking fuckboy had found himself in yet another hotel room. I am but the mere pen to the treacherous little tart’s misgivings.
Believe me, my long-suffering sweet child, I am as mad as you are.
But before we call for his head on a spike, his heart the central ingredient in every hex we could ever curse the heathen with, let us pause. Let us clear our minds of the noise, the fury, the fog. And take one daring step into the seedy hotel room he was currently sat in.
“ Mr Shelby” she cooed, swaying her hips with each sultry step towards him, as he sat sprawled on the velvety lounge settee, like a businessman hungover on power, like a god who no longer enjoyed what stood before him. Or worse, like a man trying too hard.
Kneeling between his legs, hands sweeping up his tailored trousers, her nails traced the seams, eyes fluttering under his steel gaze as she played surrender, played the role of something that once gave him pleasure when his hand suddenly shot out, catching her chin.
“ What's your name?” His voice was rid of its usual control, the composure he armoured himself, fracturing under the pressure of performance.
He sounded hollowed out. He sounded tired. He sound utterly, completely, fucking exhausted with himself.
“ Whatever you want it to be” she purred, hands continuing their work, already assuming when Tommy's grip tightened, halting her half a second away.
He could do it. Let himself stoop that low. Let himself replay his wedding night with another woman and your name on his lips. Could perform, could pretend it was you under him, that he hadn't thought about that night every single night since.
But as his thumb swept slowly over her cheek, eyes shuttering a fraction to have your face appear in front of him instead of hers, he found himself wanting more than a replacement to warm his wrecked heart.
“ Leave” his voice dropped low, eyes snapping open, rising to his feet away from her to the window, away from the illusion of something he had almost convinced himself might prove he didn’t think about you every waking second of the fucking day.
“ But…” she began, uncertain, whether from the threat of an unpaid encounter or the sudden fear she was somehow lacking in what men were supposed to want.
“ Did I do something wrong?”
“ No” the word came out sharp, clipped, control snapping back into place before she believed he was anything more than the man he'd let you see. The one that cracked after a week of marital warfare. The one that had seen him suffocating in nightmares of the Somme. The one that couldn't even shag the stupidity out of himself.
“You didn't do a thing wrong. You did exactly what you were supposed to” he gave her some half-arsed form of an excuse as he nodded to the bundle of cash on the counter.
“But she didn't…” he murmured quietly to himself, eyes returning to the window, looking for the man he'd suddenly lost, when his tired gaze caught the wink of his wedding band.
But she didn't.
There it was. That nameless presence behind everything.
She didn't do as she was told. Didn't follow the rules of the arrangement. Didn't sit still, the obedient wife. Didn't stop his heart from thundering every time she walked by. Did absolutely everything wrong and somehow everything right to make Tommy realise that after three encounters, three women, third time truly wasn't a charm.
Go home, Thomas.
So, Polly was pissed off.
Not just with you, but with her harloting nephew you called husband.
And although I will always be partially biased on your behalf, darling, I can also see why the Shelby matriarch was currently knee-deep in damage control as she dealt with you two divs and the fallout from your spectacular firework display.
You see, Tommy did go home after his hotel visit that saw him come to the rather inconvenient realisation that the only woman he wanted was his wife. A revelation that, unfortunately for everyone involved, still existed entirely inside his own bloody head.
But alas, we'll do the mental arithmetic on that particular disaster another day. Because currently, word had travelled well beyond high society's circles about your little outburst.
Yes. That's right.
The word on Warwickshire's roads, stretching all the way to Birmingham's grotty gullies, was that the Shelby marriage was already in trouble, a mere month in.
Still with me? No?
Alright. The bloody maids had started yapping about your marital misery.
Christ.
And Christ was exactly the theme of today's little plan.
Because that's who you, Tommy and a grumbling, gangly-legged Arthur were currently being dragged off to visit. Like a trio of misbehaving children, under threats of God's judgement and one woman's wrath should you so much as dare put a foot wrong.
Heaven help us all. Polly was taking you to church.
It was suspiciously sunny when the four of you stepped out of Tommy's Bentley dressed in your Sunday best. Polly looking elegant in emerald as the church bells tolled for everyone to take their seats. Arthur looking awkward, like the church roof might collapse if he crossed the threshold. Tommy looking smart in Savile, with his hand to the small of your back. And then there was you, dressed in white, the wife of one month, being guided by Tommy into a sky-high building made out of granite and village gossip.
“Smile, darling. Play the part” Tommy hummed quietly in your ear, fingers flexing against the fabric of your dress, eyes cast down at you with, was that...a boyish smile?
No. It can't be.
Nobody made that man blush unless it was red with fury.
But as he walked you down the aisle, all eyes on the newlyweds who'd already made a name for themselves thanks to one maid's lack of discretion and love of distilled cider, that's exactly how Tommy felt.
A bloody boy.
Walking a tightrope, now he'd made a decision. Had constructed a new life plan without even informing one fundamental, and rather important, factor of said plan.
You, his wife.
“Why the fuck am I here?” Arthur murmured quietly beside Tommy as you found your seats, Polly bracketing the other side, containing you and Tommy into something manageable in case either of you decided on mischief during Sunday mass.
“Because these two idiots have made a holy show of their marriage. And you are well overdue a seat in God's house of repentance” Polly leaned across you, hushing her halfwit nephew before she had to deliver a backhand of damnation to his skull.
“ Pol” Tommy breathed heavily, irritation threading through his voice at the reminder of the current state of his marriage. Not because he wanted to distance himself from the mess. But because he'd already made his decision, already resolved to turn this thing between you into something more than an arrangement, to stop running from it, while you remained ten steps behind, still believing he'd spent the week hopping between brothels disguised as hotel rooms.
But before Polly could snap back, and double down on every reason why she'd hauled you two here this sunny Sunday morning, the priest began what would become an hour-long sermon, carefully chosen and precariously pointed.
The sanctity of Marriage.
Blimey. Clearly the gossip had made its way to the pulpit as well.
As each word droned out across the congregation in that same practiced, lifeless cadence, a man speaking on vows he’d never once had to live, Tommy found himself shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Wanting.
Or rather, wanting your attention that was.
Because as the priest spoke of duty and devotion, the sacred bond between husband and wife, Tommy’s gaze, despite himself, kept drifting back to you.
“ Still waiting on that call from Holyhead, Tom?” Arthur murmured quietly beside him, or at least, as quietly as Arthur Shelby was physically capable of being.
“Mm” came Tommy's mumbled reply, eyes drifting back to you for the fifth time in as many minutes, while above him, the priest's voice rose a fraction for those in his flock he found seemingly distracted.
“Marriage, is not a convenience of the flesh nor a passing arrangement of comfort, but a covenant forged before God Himself”
“The Scots are putting pressure on the Liverpool line” Arthur returned under his breath, all whiskey-laced and tobacco-tongued, entirely unconcerned with the holy man now looking increasingly offended by the Shelby side of his congregation.
“ It's handled, Arthur” Tommy murmured, eyes fixed on you sat poised and perfect beside him as he fixed the cuffs of shirt, while the priests rose an exasperated octave above the brothers.
“For in the vows exchanged at the altar, there is no clause for selfishness, nor amendment for betrayal”
“ What did our man say at the docks…”
“ Would you two pack it in” Polly cut through Arthur's hushed whispers with a sharp tongue and even sharper eye. “You idiots would do well to listen”
Told off and halfway to being grounded despite having outgrown shorts by three decades, the two brothers straightened in their seats as Polly shot them one final formidable look.
Feeling the weight of the priest's eyes, his aunt's, and every gossiping granny in a five-mile radius waiting for him to prove Sandra the maid right, Tommy did what any husband under public scrutiny would do.
He staked his bloody claim.
“ Don't fight me on it. People are looking” he murmured against your ear, halting your little grumble before it could evolve into a fully formed growl as his arm slipped around your shoulders while the sermon rattled on.
"It is a wife's sacred duty to honour, obey, and esteem her husband above all earthly men. Not challenge him, but support him faithfully in all things”
Christ almighty. This man was a breath away from a bludgeoning.
Had he forgotten he was preaching to West Midlands wives and not law-abiding ladies of London?
But before you could react and get yourself hauled to the witch's pyre, Tommy did you the service of putting his own two bloody cents in.
“ Here that, darling? Honour and obey. No challenging me” Tommy grunted beside you, as an increasingly dangerous grin began to emerge on his smug face. “You've been slacking on your wifely duties”
Look at him. Thoroughly enjoying himself now he'd finally found a sermon that supported his argument.
The bastard.
But then…
"The Lord asks far more of husbands than obedience. He asks for devotion. Fidelity. Self-sacrifice and patience. For a wife is a fragile creature, to be handled with care and love”
Ah. Now that tasted scrumptiously sweet.
And as Arthur snorted with amusement, like he'd just been informed the Pope himself was making a pilgrimage to the holy land of Small Heath, a thoroughly smug smile flashed across your face now.
“Dont start getting a big head. You're far from fragile, sweetheart” Tommy whispered low and gravelly against your ear, thumb coming up to steal that smile straight off your face.
“ Careful now, Tommy. Handle me with care” you replied quietly, brow cocking in a challenge that looked nothing like a fragile woman, and everything like one looking to pick a fight.
“ Of course there are many ways to honour, or even worship, a husband beyond supporting him” Tommy shifted closer, voice hushed, though not quite hushed enough for Polly to miss as she readied herself to smack the boy into next Sunday.
“ I’m sure there are” you replied in an equally quiet whisper, indulging his little game as you turned your head and caught the mischievous twitch at the corner of his mouth.
This was good. You were flirting. This was flirting, right?
And for one brief moment, it certainly looked like it. Until you opened your mouth and decided to scandalise the entire Shelby pew just to watch your husband squirm.
“Just don't forget, Tommy” you murmured sweetly, as you gazed adoringly into his blue eyes before you went for the kill. “A woman only needs to get down on her knees to worship. A man, on the other hand…”
“ Must bow much lower. Onto his…stomach”
Holy mother Mary of God, girl.
The silence that shrouded you four was almost deathly loud, the kind that rang in the ears, thundered in the heart.
Arthur, bless him, nearly choked on his own breath.
Poor Polly closed her eyes and prayed for the salvation of your soul.
And Tommy, who had faced guns, knives, and the Somme itself, suddenly found himself completely unprepared for the woman sitting beside him.
You had quite literally, dear, taken the air from his very lungs.
And you weren't done.
Because just as Tommy was trying to recover from the racy implication you'd just forged permanently into his mind, you decided to hammer another thought into it.
“ I was thinking, while you were away on business” you leaned into him now, voice warming his ear now.
“See, I might not ever be able to take a lover physically. But I can in…thought.
“ What did just you say?” Tommy's head snapped towards you, his body going rigid beneath the weight of your words.
“ I said, in thought” your voice remained sweet, conversational and composed. “Could be the man two pews down. Could be one of the workers on Arrows Houses grounds. Could be anyone”
“ I have a very vivid imagination” Your eyes drifted lazily around the church as Tommy tracked every movement, every glance that landed anywhere but on him.
“ Enough” he breathed, a one worded command balancing on the edge of a growl as possessiveness flared in his eyes, like he could simply will the words back into your mouth and erase them from existence.
Because here he was, having finally abandoned the easy release he'd sought in Soho hotel rooms. The terms he'd once agreed with your uncle now quietly cut from the contract in his own mind.
His wife had just calmly informed him that she'd live her life fantasising in a way he couldn't stop her. Reach her.
And despite every mistake he'd ever made, despite every hotel room and every act of stubborn self-sabotage, the thought of you imagining anyone but him warming your body and bed, felt like a physical blow.
The rest of the sermon passed in complete silence. As silent as the ride back to Arrow House, where Tommy smoked his way through a packet of cigarettes, carrying the weight of every fuck-up he’d managed to make in the month he’d been married to you.
He wanted to fix it. Wanted to reach for you and tell you he’d worship you in every way imaginable if you’d just forgive him for his own cowardice.
But that’s not how it works, Thomas.
You can’t scramble to salvage the wreckage you created simply because you finally realised you were too afraid to feel anything beyond business.
No. Now Tommy would have to wait. Watch. Endure. For however long it took for you to want something other than the arrangement he’d once so adamantly insisted on.
You’d only made it three steps into Arrow House when the phone in Tommy’s office shrilled, and business came calling.
You shouldn’t have listened in. Should’ve stayed in your wing and kept to yourself, like you’d managed to do for most of your marriage.
But when you overheard his plans to travel with his brothers, not to London, not to Manchester, but to Holyhead in Ireland via passenger ship, all poised politeness drained out of you, and you walked straight into his office, a wife frankly fed up with her husband’s fuckery.
“ You're leaving. Again” Your voice was sharp now, void of any softness or care you took with your words. Because this wasn’t just a weekend away. This was Tommy crossing countries, leaving you, the wife, behind with nothing but sharp words and threatened thoughts of imagined men to keep her company.
“ I don't have a choice” his voice answered differently this time, no sharpness, no constructed words said to placate you. Only regret, and a softness that showed he truly did care.
For as you stood there staring at him, afraid you were about to lose him to someone else’s warmth, Tommy stood there afraid he had already lost you to his own stupidity.
“ It's just business, love” he murmured gentler, quieter. And he meant it, he meant every single bloody word of it as he took a careful step towards you.
But all you heard was something older, familiar. Something inherited.
Words spoken to a woman not so different from you as she stood on a doorstep and watched her husband disappear down the road without looking back.
Words that had shaped your world into something that went so dreadfully wrong once before.
“ That's what my father used to say…”
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood
Welcome back sports fans, I hope you’re ready for a whole lot of YELLING! As ever, I live for your reactions so if you enjoy, please do let me know - comments are love 🤍 Thanks as always to my beta reader and bestie in crime, @peakyscillian for all her help! xx
Summary: After the disastrous end to their weekend, Steve and Bella return to school. But if they thought things were bad already, they are about to get much, much worse.
Warnings: themes of drug addiction and infidelity.
Word count: 10,894 PART 8 | SERIES
9. Resignation
It took a long time for you to recover enough to be able to tell Celia what had happened with Steve. You hated smoking in the house - it always reminded you of your mother - so, wrapped in coats against the coolness of the evening, you sat in the back garden and smoked your way slowly and deliberately through an ill-advised chunk of your remaining cigarettes, while giving her the edited lowlights of the day, your words coming in fits and starts as waves of emotion stole your ability to speak time and again.
"Fucking hell…" Celia murmured as you finally lapsed into an exhausted silence. "I can't believe… but he's a headmaster?? How is that even possible?"
You shrugged, lighting a fresh cigarette, offering the dwindling pack to her, which she declined with a flick of her scarlet manicure. "He's not completely wrong when he says it's under control, I suppose. He knows how much he can take without anyone being able to tell. Even I couldn't tell…"
"But still…" Celia shook her head with a sigh, reaching for the packet after all, sparking one to life. "Did you really mean it about handing your notice?"
Nodding tightly, you sucked hard on your cigarette, holding onto the smoke until it burned.
"I can't stay there, not after this," you whispered, the words cloudy in front of you. "How am I supposed to go to work with him every day after..?" A sob caught in your throat and you covered your mouth with your hand, shoulders shaking. Celia dragged her seat even closer, wrapping her arms around you.
"You shouldn't have to lose your job because he's a fucking druggie. You should report him," she mumbled against your hair.
"I can't do that to him," you hiccuped. "I love him."
She pulled back, covering your free hand with hers, studying you as she smoked.
"But what are you going to do?"
You'd been asking yourself that since the M4 when the doubts about your circumstances had begun to whisper in the back of your head. But unfortunately you hadn't yet managed to come up with a compelling response.
Avoiding her worried eyes, you tapped your ash into saucer on the table. "I don't know," you whispered.
***
Lying in bed that night, Helen's soft, rhythmic snores beside him, Steve wasn't sure which was worse: the fact he'd come home higher than he'd ever been around his family, or the fact that Helen hadn't even seemed to notice. She'd wrinkled her nose at the vague smell of smoke on his clothes and he'd fumbled an excuse that people had been smoking in the conference he'd told her he was at. Another event to promote what they were doing at Stanton.
I can't do this…I'm sorry…
Your words plagued him as he lay in the dark. He couldn't stop picturing the look in your eyes in the moment you had decided it was over. Like you'd looked into him and knew he was beyond help. Or worse: that you had finally understood that he didn't deserve your kindness, or your love. Not after what he'd done.
But it still burned all the same. As the excessive amount of oxy he'd taken in the car began to wear off and the pain seeped back in, the aching loss of you was raw in his chest. How was he supposed to just carry on like everything was normal? How was he supposed to be without you? The very idea of it sent something like panic flickering through him, not as intense, but not unlike the feeling that morning when he couldn't find his pills.
My resignation will be on your desk in the morning…
It had barely been a year but he couldn't remember what life at Stanton had been like without you. Being without you, being without being able to hold you, to touch you, was going to be bad enough, but how was he supposed to keep turning up at work without knowing you were there?
And there were the lads to think about too. For all their teenage bravado, he didn't like to think what the damage it would do to them if you left suddenly. They trusted you, relied on you.
No, it simply couldn't be allowed to happen. He had to change your mind. If not about him, at least about leaving Stanton, for the sake of the boys.
And if you were still there, then at least maybe…maybe…there was a chance for him too.
Pressing his fingers deep into his eyes, he tried to block out the events of the day. If he tried hard enough, maybe it would all just turn out to have been a bad dream. Maybe he was about to wake up beside you in Wales and everything would be how it was supposed to be. He'd roll over and there you'd be; lying on your side with that sleepy smile you gave him in the mornings, before reaching out to tuck yourself against his chest. The warm weight of your body on top of him in the soft silence of morning, movements slow, unhurried, because you had all the time in the world.
Despite the pain in his back, and the misery of facing life without you, he was hard as a rock. Sliding out of bed, he padded towards the door, intent on taking care of the problem in the spare room.
"Y'ok?" Helen mumbled, and he shifted so she wouldn't be able to see the tent in his underwear, even though he knew she probably couldn't anyway in the dark.
"Just my back playing up after the drive," he whispered. "Go back to sleep, I'm fine."
***
The next morning you were like a zombie. Despite your exhaustion from the day you'd spent most of the night tossing and turning, finally giving up the fruitless attempt at sleep to write your resignation letter. Trudging into the building, it was like a lead weight in your bag. Or perhaps more accurately, like a time bomb primed to explode. Pausing outside the office, you gripped the handle and sucked in a deep breath to steady yourself. But he wasn't there, just like he said he wouldn't be, and you couldn't decide if it was actually a relief or not.
"Busy weekend?" asked Amanda as you practically downed a full mug of the terrible staff coffee, immediately filling it again. "How was your sister?"
If you didn't know better, you'd have described her tone as 'pointed'. But perhaps she was just narked that you'd had a whole weekend to yourself when she'd been left to manage the lads without Steve to share the load.
"Yeah, just… a lot. It was hard work. She was ok though. How was it here?"
"Oh you know, idyllic," Amanda yawned, pouring coffee for herself. "Can we have a word later on?"
"Uhh…" you stammered, anxiety bubbling in your stomach, "yeah of course. I don't think I have a free period until after lunch though."
She waved this away airily but her eyes were steely. "Not to worry, I'll find you."
***
The building hummed with the usual sounds of Stanton when Steve got there shortly before lunch. Down the corridor he could hear you raising your voice, laughter punctuating what was probably an attempt to restore order. The office was empty when he let himself in, but his relief at this fact was fleeting when he saw the envelope on his desk, his name in your neat, cursive handwriting. Bag thumping to the floor, he eyed it as he rooted automatically in his desk drawer for the box he'd so foolishly left behind for the weekend. Popping out a pair of tramadol, he threw them back, before eyeing the little pack of oxy.
If he was going to get through this, he thought, he needed all the help he could get, and one tiny white pill followed the other two a moment later.
Dropping down into his chair with a sigh, he lifted the envelope carefully, turning it over between his hands, as if weighing its contents. For a second he considered just tearing it up and denying all knowledge of its existence, but it would be no good. You'd just write another one. Tearing it open, bracing in the same manner one might when ripping off a plaster, he unfolded the single sheet of paper that nestled within.
Dear Steve,
It is with regret that I must give notice of my intention to leave Stanton Manor due to unforeseen family matters. I appreciate my contract requires one full term's notice and I do not wish to put you, or the students, in a difficult position. However, my personal circumstances are complex and urgent, so if it was possible to enable me to leave more quickly, I would greatly appreciate you help in doing this. I will, of course, be available until a replacement can be found.
I'm deeply sorry for the difficulties this will bring. My time at Stanton has been the highlight of my career so far and I will carry it with me always.
Yours,
Staring at the page, he found himself somewhat caught by surprise in seeing your real name signed across the bottom. As if this was all happening to someone else, that this letter was from some other, unfamiliar, woman. Not you. Not his Bella.
Letting the page fall to the tabletop, he covered his face with his hands, willing himself to wake up from this nightmare he'd somehow stumbled into.
"What's that?"
Amanda's voice made him jump, spinning the chair towards her as she closed the door. "Nothing," he said quickly, stuffing your letter quickly back into the envelope. "Is everything alright?" he added, frowning when she twisted the lock. It was a rare occurrence that they kept the office just for themselves.
"Good weekend away with Helen?" she asked as if he hadn't spoken, coming to rest against the side of the conference table, her arms folded.
"I…uhh… yeah, not bad. Y'know what those things are like. Loads of people you only ever see at weddings, christening and funerals."
"Still," she said, her eyes trained on him with an unusual and uncomfortable intensity, "nice to get away just the two of you, without the girls."
He swallowed. "Yep… yeah. Makes a change." Clearing his throat, he forced a chuckle and immediately wished he hadn't, the sound ringing hollowly between them.
"Yes, always nice to have an excuse for a dirty weekend," she continued, laughing when he inhaled sharply. "Don't look so shocked, isn't that what it was?" Her lip curled without amusement as she slowly set a little tape recorder on the table beside her.
Cold trickled down his spine. "It's not really something I'd want to—"
"No, me neither," she snapped before he could finish. "But unfortunately I wasn't given the choice."
Pressing play on the device beside her, a voice filtered reedily into the room, immediately recognisable as yours:
"You're such a weirdo. Why can't you just leave her a written list like normal people?"
Why did he remember you asking him that..? When had you..?
"How dare you, a simple list can't possibly convey my many, many, important and detailed thoughts."
He was sitting right here, making a tape for Amanda and you came in and... oh… Oh, FUCK!
"Faster though."
"Amanda…it's not…"
There was a strange thud and when they carried on, the voices had retreated but were, unfortunately, still entirely audible.
"I prefer taking it slow." On the recording, you let out a light hum he knew so well, and he pushed himself out of his chair, face burning.
"Alright, that's enough…"
"That's a shame…because I was kinda hoping you might be interested in something hard and fast."
His past-self groaned from the tape recorder and he lunged to switch it off but Amanda got there first, glaring at him furiously.
"You unbelievable fucker," she hissed.
"It's not…I can explain…"
"I don't think you need to fucking explain why you - a forty-eight year old man - might want to fuck our very lovely English teacher, Steve. It's fairly fucking self-explanatory."
Pinching the bridge of his nose he avoided meeting her thunderous stare.
"The bigger question is why someone as clever as her would risk her whole career for the sake of sleeping with her boss."
"It's not like that…" he mumbled.
"You were with her this weekend weren't you? All that fucking song and dance about her sister moving house… it was all just cover so she could get the weekend off so you could have a fucking dirty little weekend, wasn't it?"
Hanging his head, he didn't reply and she banged the tape player off the table, making him jump.
"Wasn't it!!"
"Yes," he whispered.
"How long has it been going on for?"
He shuffled his feet, not looking at her.
"Answer me!"
"Since the Christmas party."
She gasped, clutching her head between her hands.
"Since Christmas!? Jesus fucking Christ, Steve!"
"We didn't mea—"
"How could you do something like this to Helen?? To your family??"
Caustic laughter began bubbling up within him, rising higher, forcing its way out against his better judgement.
"Do you think this is fucking funny?!"
But he didn't reply, mirth still spilling out between his lips.
"How can you stand there and fucking laugh when your wife—"
He slammed his hand so hard on his desk the pain ricocheted from his palm to his shoulder to his spine.
"My wife wouldn't even notice if I brought Bella home and fucked her in front of her," he hissed. "I could go home tonight and tell her everything and she'd barely fucking look up from whatever else she was doing. So don't you stand there and fucking judge me when you don't know a single fucking thing about my marriage!"
Amanda stepped closer, glowering at him as she slapped away the finger he had pointed at her and prodded him firmly on the chest.
"Said exactly like a man who's trying to justify sleeping with another woman. I don't care how disinterested your wife might be in you - you don't get to go around fucking whoever you like. And especially not when the whoever you like also happens to be our fucking employee! You could lose your fucking job! You both could! And then where would we be?!"
Grabbing the envelope from where he'd dropped it when she arrived, he shoved it at her.
"You don't need to worry, it's already over," he snapped.
"What's this?" she asked even as she tugged the letter from inside and unfolded it. Eyes scanning quickly down the page, she looked up, open-mouthed.
"Are you fucking joking me? She's leaving?!"
He dropped heavily into his seat, scrubbing a hand down his face as he nodded.
"And all this guff about family trouble is just a lie, is it?"
"I think so, yes."
"Fucking hell…" Your letter crumpled slightly in her fist. "Fucking hell, Steve! She's the best fucking teacher we've had here and you just had to go and fucking ruin it, didn't you?! Christ, I could kill you with my own hands. Do you have any idea what this'll do to the boys?!"
"I tried to change her mind…"
Amanda scoffed, stuffing the letter back into the envelope. "Not hard enough, clearly."
"I'll talk to her again later, it's all happened very suddenly."
"No, she can answer to me about this."
"Amanda, just leave it. Let me talk—"
But it was already too late, the lock clicking as she flung open the door, storming off down the corridor just as the bell rang for lunch.
***
"Just a second!" you shouted, having to raise your voice over the scraping of chair-legs against the wooden floor of your classroom. "Take one of these on your way out and I want answers on my desk on Friday."
The boys groaned in near-unison but you stood by the door with the pile of handouts and refused to let them pass until they'd taken on.
"Oi!" you said, grabbing Riley by the collar as he tried to bounce out past you without a copy.
"Bellaaaa…" he whined but you blocked the doorway, holding out the page towards him.
"Fucking hell, Riley, just take it before Jamie eats all our lunches," grumbled Benny, still stuck behind him with a few of the other lads.
With a huff that suggested you'd asked him to sit down and pen his own hit Shakespearean play, Riley took the page and you smiled as if the ordeal hadn't happened.
"Friday, ok? You know where I am if you have questions."
The others filed past, taking their sheets with only minor grumbles of discontentment and as they disappeared towards the dining hall you leaned against the door frame, eyes slipping closed in exhausted relief at having made it through class.
"Bella!"
Amanda's sharp tone startled you into straightening up, seeing her marching towards you.
"Everything ok..?" you stammered, walking backwards and she shooed you into the room, slamming the door behind her.
"Is everything ok? Is everything OK!? What the fuck do you think you're playing at!"
"I— what?? I don't know—"
"Oh don't give me all that wide-eyed innocence shit," she snapped. "I know you've been fucking Steve."
You froze, half-formed words still on your lips.
"Don't insult me by trying to deny it."
"How did you..?" you breathed, panic crackling up your spine, tightening around your chest like a band.
She slapped a small tape recorder down on the nearest desk.
"Maybe next time you sleep with your boss on school property, you should make sure he's not fucking recording it."
You stared at the little device in horror. "No…"
"Trust me, yes. I've heard things I will never be able to unhear."
You sat down - involuntarily - on the nearest chair, your legs turning to jelly.
"How could you?? He's your boss. He's married!"
"I don't—" You studied your hands, fingers twisting together in your lap, you head cloudy with shock. "It wasn't supposed to be…"
"Wasn't supposed to be what?"
"Nothing," you murmured.
"Did you even think about the fact he has a wife? A family??"
"Of course—"
"How could you be so selfish."
Your head snapped up, the clouds parting to allow angry to ride in between them. "Right, I see. I'm the whore, aren't I? I did think about his family but y'know what? They aren't my family. I didn't make him do anything he didn't want to. If he chose to cheat on his wife with me, that's his business."
She stared at you, mouth agape. "You can't really think that. You're better than this."
"Apparently I'm not."
She shook her head, brows drawn. "No... no. You're not this stupid. I know you and you love this job, you wouldn't risk it over something so trivial. So come on, tell me: what did he promise you?"
"Nothing." You cleared your throat roughly. "I am that stupid. It was just sex… and now it's over."
"He told you he'd leave her, didn't he??"
You shifted in your seat and she sighed heavily.
"Oh Bella…"
"It doesn't matter. It's over," you mumbled.
"Yes, so I gather." She set your resignation letter on the desk beside you. "But only cowards run away from their mistakes, Bella."
You stiffened. "I am not a fucking coward."
"Really? Because this looks a lot like a little girl running away from her problems to me."
"Fuck off, Amanda! You have no idea what you're talking about. I'm doing this for the best."
"The best for who though, Bella?? What's for the best for the lads who depend on you every day, eh?? If you had any guts, you'd stay and face the mess you've made. At least until the end of the school year."
"The mess I've made?? So it's not his fault at all then, is it?? After all, he's only the one who's older and more senior than me at work. Yes, I can see how you'd think the power all lies with me."
Amanda faltered, dropping into the chair at the desk across from you. "He's been through a lot these last few years."
"That doesn't make this just my fault. He's a fucking adult, Amanda. He made his choice. Which, by the way, included him pursuing me."
"I'm sorry…" she sighed, rubbing tiredly at her forehead. "For what it's worth, I'm livid with him too."
You chewed at the side of your thumb, eyeing her carefully. "Are you going to tell the Trust?"
She studied you and you struggled not to squirm under the scrutiny.
"No," she said eventually. "You're both so fucking stupid I could kill you, but telling tales to those twats won't fix anything. But you can't just leave, Bella. We need you."
"I'm sorry, I know it's terrible timing…but I can't stay here. Not now."
"If you weren't prepared to handle it like adults if it ended, why did you start it at all?"
Her words stung like a slap and your retaliation was out of your mouth before you could stop yourself.
"You really don't know him at all, do you? How much of a fucking mess he is?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Covering your face with your hands, you groaned quietly.
"Bella?"
"I just mean that he's not alright. He's not coping."
"His back—"
"Is an excuse," you said firmly. "I'm not saying he's not in pain - he undoubtedly is - but it's more than that, isn't it?"
She avoided your eyes. "We're all under a lot of strain…"
With a frustrated huff, you got up, unable to keep still a moment longer.
"He's drowning, Amanda. He's drowning right in front of us."
"What do you mean?"
"Can't you see it?? What am I saying… I couldn't see it and it was right in front of my face. But you've known him years, surely you can see that he's not ok??"
"How can you expect him to be ok after what he went through, Bella? Of course he's not ok. And this place puts us all through hell, but none moreso than him. But he gets on with it, like we all do. Because he has to."
You stared at her, fingers curling into your palms as you fought to keep your voice steady.
"But he's not just getting on with it, Amanda. You have to open your eyes and really see him. He's—"
You cut yourself off, chewing your lip and she frowned.
"He's what?"
"I—" You silenced yourself, fingers to your lips. "No, I shouldn't. It's not mine to tell. You'll have to ask him."
"Tell me right now or I'll go and report you both for fucking on school property."
You stared mutinously at her but her stony expression remained unmoved.
"Bella."
"Fucking… alright fine!" You threw up your hands in defeat. "You want the truth? Fine. He's an addict, Amanda."
Her mouth dropped open. "You fucking what?? No he's not."
"Yes. He is."
"Bella, my love, listen to me. I know it looks like he takes a lot of pills but—"
"Yeah! He does! You think it looks like a lot?? You don't even know the half of it! And they don't even all come from his fucking doctor! So don't talk to me like I'm five years old, Amanda, it's insulting. Particularly because when I actually was five years old, I probably already knew more about addiction than you do sitting there today."
She followed your pacing with a narrow-eyed stare, forehead puckered in confusion.
"What do you mean they don't come from his doctor? Where the fuck else would they come from??"
Coming to an abrupt stop, hands on your hips, you fixed her with a withering look. "Where do you think those kinds of drugs come from when they don't come from a doctor? The magic opioid fairy?"
"No…" she whispered. "That's no possible. None of this is possible… you're…" She floundered, shaking her head, eyes darting as she appeared to struggle to find the words. "Are you making this up because he finished things with you? You want him to get fired, is that it??"
It was your turn to stare incredulously. "You think I'm lying?? You think I could lie about something like this just because what? Because I'm a bitter little bitch? A woman scorned?? Are you serious??"
"I don't know, Bella. Are you?" she asked coldly.
"Fuck you, Amanda! Get out of my classroom! I've done things I'm not proud of but I own those, and I'm not going to let you sit there and accuse me of telling lies. Why don't you go and ask him about yesterday, when I had to go and score him drugs because he left his stash at home. Why don't you ask him where he gets his oxycodone from. All those fucking pills in his desk. Then we'll see who's fucking lying around here!"
You stalked to the door, dragging it open, and waited for her to leave but she didn't move from her seat.
"Close that."
"No, we're finished here. You don't get to call me a liar and then we just carry on."
"How long has he been…" She trailed off, eyes on the open door, the racket from the boys echoing from the dining hall, the familiar sound jarring in the tension of the room. "Please, Bella. I apologise."
Slowly, you let it swing shut again, the usual sounds of Stanton disappearing once more.
"I'm not sure. A long time, I think. The more he takes, the more he needs to feel normal."
"Are you saying he's high at work?"
You watched your fingers twist together, guilt beginning to twinge in your guts as the anger subsided, but there was no going back now.
"I'm not sure he's ever not high."
Amanda swore softly, covering her face with her hands.
"But he's high-functioning," you continued. "It's not like he's getting off his face. The fact that none of us could tell shows he has it vaguely under control." You swallowed, the irony of his words coming out of your mouth in his defense not lost on you. "I only knew there was a problem because I spent more time with him than any of us ever do. And he got sloppy around me. He's very, very good at hiding it."
"You swear to me you're telling the truth?"
"I wouldn't lie about something like this. I—" You took a deep breath, forcing yourself to continue. "Addiction has been a problem in my family since I was born, Amanda. This isn't something I'd ever joke about. And for the record, he didn't break up with me out of some chivalrous attempt at saving his marriage, I ended it. Because of all this. Because he won't even admit he has a problem and I can't try and fix another addict, I just don't have it in me."
Amanda pushed herself to her feet with a small groan of exhaustion and slowly made her way to you, resting her hands on your shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Bella. Truly."
You shook your head briefly, curling your nails into your palms as you pushed down the ball that was building in your throat.
"What are you going to do?" you asked hoarsely.
"I'm going to make him tell me the truth."
***
The moment Amanda left the room he threw back another pair of tramadol, tucking the slim packet of oxy into his shirt pocket. Really, he should stop her confronting you. He could leave the room right now and catch her, tell her to leave you alone. That this was his mess, his mistake, not yours.
Instead, he slipped back into his chair and stared, unseeing, at the stack of paperwork that was waiting for his attention. The minutes ticked by and she didn't return. He should go and help with lunch duty, give Owen and Andy a break but he couldn't seem to move. Had it not been for the fact he had a science lesson to teach after lunch, he might have stayed, rooted to his office chair, for the rest of the day.
The afternoon passed blurrily; Jamie was being particularly disruptive but he hardly did anything to stop him, and sensing his weakness, the others joined in, the class falling apart completely about twenty minutes before the bell rang. Admitting defeat, he sent them back to the common room and left the building, making a bee-line for his car.
Tucked underneath the passenger seat was the small cardboard box you'd given him yesterday.
Gathering it up, careful not to jostle its precious glass cargo, he draped his jacket over it and went back into school, slinking in through the caretakers entrance, well away from the busy mayhem of the boys. Following the corridors down to the laundry room, he let himself in and rested against the closed door.
The last time he'd been in here was with you and the memories hit him so hard in the chest that he could scarcely breathe. He could practically smell you, feel the plush heat of you pulsing around his fingers, the taste of your skin as he dragged his tongue over your neck and your hands locked in his hair.
With effort, he propelled himself back into motion, scanning the room for a suitable hiding place, eyes alighting on the tumble-dryers to the left of the door. An alcove was blocked in by the ancient machines, creating a small void behind them. Leaning over, trying not to topple headfirst into the space, he peered down in the gloom and cobwebs, spotting what had once upon a time been a mop-bucket but had long since ceased in providing viable service. Well now he had a new commission for it; flipping it over, he set the little box on top.
He couldn't just leave it like that though, out in the open for anyone to find. Hauling himself back to his feet, he pinched a hand towel from the racks above and leaning over again, his back making its displeasure known, gently dropping it on top of the box. Cocking his head, he took in the tableau; to the casual observer it would look as though the towel had simply fallen off the machine and been forgotten to time.
Nodding quietly to himself, he pushed himself vertical once more and dusted down his shirt. The little packet of oxy crackled cheerfully in his pocket and before he knew that he'd done it, a little pill was sailing down his gullet, bound for his bloodstream.
Oh well, too late to take it back now.
Heading back up to the main part of the building he heard the commotion before he got there.
"Where the fuck have you been?" snapped Amanda, holding Tarone by the scruff of his jumper, blood seeping from a cut above his eye.
"I— I just…what's happened?"
"Jamie lamped him with a textbook. He nearly took his fucking eye out."
"Which textbook?"
Amanda fixed him with a cold stare and he cleared his throat.
"I'm taking him to get fixed up, you can deal with Jamie. They were supposed to be with you anyway."
"Yep…yeah, ok."
"And I need to speak to you later."
"Ooooh, Steve's in trouuuuble," Nabz teased in a sing-song voice and the other lads who were still hanging around - never ones to miss the aftermath of a brawl and see someone who wasn't them getting told off - laughed and joined in.
He coughed again, his guts slithering at her tone, and nodded. "Right. I'll see you in a while."
She disappeared with a still dripping Tarone, the boys continuing their impression of jeering budgies.
"Alright, give it a fucking rest!" he shouted and, to his immense surprise, they stopped. "Jamie, get the fuck up to your room, I'll be up in a minute. The rest of you have places to be, so move it."
The room cleared with only a minimal rumble of complaining and as they disappeared to their various classrooms, he rested his forehead against the doorframe and sighed heavily.
"Steve?"
He looked round to see Owen hovering in the corridor near the office.
"You alright, boss?"
"Yeah… yeah I'm fine," he said, forcing a smile. "I'm just going up to deal with Jamie. Can you tell Sarah to just hang on in the kitchen and I'll be down as soon as I can?"
***
"Bella..? Are you alright?"
Shy's soft voice made you jump and you grabbed another tissue from the box on your desk, dabbling hurriedly under your eyes.
"No— I mean yes, I mean… I'm fine. What do you need?"
He frowned at you, still lingering nervously in the doorway. "We have tutorial time?"
Fuck…
"Of course we do, sorry," you said, blowing your nose quickly and trying to pin a smile to your face.
"We don't have—"
"Ah no - no way you get out of it that easily."
He cracked a lopsided smile and sloped into the room, taking the empty seat beside your desk.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I'm fine."
"Why was Amanda yelling at you?"
Closing your eyes for a second, you wished the floor would swallow you whole. When you opened them, he was staring expectantly at you.
"She wasn't yelling at me."
"Sounded like she was."
"Oh you know Amanda, her bark's worse than her bite."
"She sounded pretty pissed off."
"Well, working with you lot will do that to a person," you shot back, forcing a chuckle and he rolled his eyes. "Come on, books out, let's make a start."
"Have you listened to the tape yet?" he asked quietly as he dragged his battered copy of Shakespeare out of his backpack.
"I have! It's great! Thanks again for making it for me."
"Are you lying?" His eyes gleamed teasingly.
"Do I look like I'm lying?"
He shrugged, fiddling with his headphones that hung around his neck. "Thought it might be too hardcore for you."
You shook your head, shuffling papers on your desk. "I'm not as pathetic as I look, y'know. Now come on, let's talk about Hermia and Lysander."
***
Steve had successfully managed to avoid Amanda until the boys went for dinner but with Owen and you there he had no excuse when she appeared at his elbow and drew him away to the office.
Once again the door was locked.
"Good news is it?" he muttered darkly, settling in his chair, bouncing a tennis ball repeatedly off the floor.
"Stop that," she snapped and he did.
"Amanda, whatever she's told you—"
"How many pills have you had today?"
He sat back in his seat. "What?"
"You heard me. Answer the question."
"The same I always have. What's this about?"
"Where do you get the oxy…oxydone? Oxy…something 'own'?"
"I don't even know what that is, Amanda."
She shook her head at him. "You're lying, Steve."
"How am I lying?? You don't even know the name of the drug you're asking me about!"
"Show me your pills."
"Why?" he snapped, his heart beating much too fast, hammering against his ribs so hard it was a wonder she couldn't hear it. "Why are you suddenly so interested—"
"Since you had Bella meeting with a fucking drug dealer to get your fix!"
He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dryer than the desert. "Is that what she told you?"
"Unlike you, she had no reason to lie about that."
"Unlike me?? Jesus fuck, Amanda. How long have you known me?? How long have we worked together? Do I look like a fucking smackhead to you??"
She stared at him, unmoved. "If you've nothing to hide, show me your pills."
"Amanda, c'mon…" he said, almost laughing with the absurdity of it all.
"Fine," she snapped, marching over to where he sat and dragging open his desk drawer, rifling through its contents.
"Oi!" He was on his feet in a heartbeat, trying to move her without actually manhandling her. "It's none of anyone's fucking business!"
But it was too late; she'd found another little packet of oxy buried under some permission slips.
"Oxycodone! That's exactly what she said you'd have," she crowed, waving them in his face.
"Having fucking painkillers isn't a fucking crime! I'm in pain!"
"And you didn't these from some scumbag drug dealer in town then?"
"Bella's having you on, Amanda. We broke up and she's afraid you'll tell the Trust and she'll be out of a job—"
"She's already fucking quit!"
"But if the Trust found out we'd been sleeping together - on school property no less - they'll probably make sure she doesn't get a very good reference, won't they?"
"Tell me what happened yesterday."
"Nothing happened…"
"Well something must have happened otherwise you two wouldn't have gone from sneaking off for a dirty weekend to having split up in the space of forty-eight hours."
He sat down again, pulling a hand down his face with a heavy sigh.
"Alright, ok. We had a fight. And I'd stupidly forgotten to bring enough medication to last the weekend so I was awful to her because I was in agony. She finished with me and she's angry, so she's making things up to get back at me."
"I thought you just said she was worried I'd tell on her? Now she's making things up to get back at you? You want to get your story straight, mate."
He swallowed, feeling colour climbing from his collar to his cheeks.
"I don't know why she's saying it, I'm just guessing."
"Just tell me the truth: where did you get these?" she said, shaking the flimsy little slip of plastic at him.
"From my GP," he replied, holding her eye.
"And you promise me that's the truth? You promise me you don't show up here high every single day?"
"I take the pills I need to get by," he replied sharply. Which wasn't technically a lie.
"And those pills are the ones your doctor says you should be taking every day, are they?"
"Amanda, I can't even believe you're asking me this. We're friends. You really think I'd have been able to lie to you for what? Fucking, years?? Do I look high to you?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "If you're telling the truth then that means Bella is lying and I'm not sure I believe that she was."
"She comes from a family of addicts and drug dealers. Trust me, she's got all the experience she needs to make it sound believable."
Amanda rubbed tiredly at her forehead. "She was very convincing."
"Well then I suppose it all comes down to who you're going to believe. The woman you've known for less than a year who has a much more colourful background than we knew when we hired her or me, who you've known for over a decade."
She nodded slowly, eyes cast down, turning the little packet over and over between her hands.
"You're right," she said, slowly looking up at him, her eyes cold. "I believe her."
He froze, the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding still trapped in his lungs.
"No…" he mumbled finally, the word spilling out of him in a desperate low rush of air. "No. You can't seriously— Come on, Amanda, this is ludicrous."
"After everything you've been through, I can see how you might have got here."
The air cracked with his cold burst of laughter. "This is a nonsense!"
"Is it? Because from where I'm standing, it actually makes a lot of sense."
"I'm not a fucking drug addict, Amanda!!"
"Then tell me once and for all: what happened yesterday? Did you ask her to get you drugs?"
"No!" he said firmly, dropping into his seat, head in his hands. "No."
"Steve…"
"I forgot my pills, alright?! We were in the middle of fucking nowhere in Wales and I'd left my pills here. I was a mess and there was nowhere we could go to get replacements that would give me them, or not take twelve fucking years to do it, and I'd promised Helen I'd be home."
"Jesus fucking christ," she muttered, pulling up her own chair.
"We had no other choice. Bella's brother is a dealer for some nasty piece of shit from round where she grew up and she called him and asked him to help. Just as a temporary fix." His fingers locked together in his hair, his eyes screwed shut against the memory of you by the river, tears rolling down your face. "And she's convinced I have a problem so she broke things off afterwards."
"And that's the first and only time you've been to a dealer to get pills?"
Tugging hard on his hair, he didn't reply.
"Steve?"
"I have it under control."
"Fucking look at me and say that again."
Lifting his head slowly, he met her stony stare. "I have it under control, Amanda, I promise you. You've never worried about me like that before, have you? Have I ever seemed like I'm not myself?"
She got up, pacing restlessly around the room, whispering curses as she moved.
"Amanda…"
"Don't! Don't say another fucking word. Don't even breathe!" She whirled around to face him, pointing an accusing finger. "You sat there and said that girl was a fucking liar! How dare you!! She puts herself on the fucking line for you - she's leaving a job she fucking loves because of you!"
"It's not—"
"I said shut up!" She covered her face and let out a furious groan. "I can't even fucking look at you. I should report you to the Trust right this fucking minute."
He stood, light-headed with panic, taking tentative steps, his hands stretched out towards her. "Please, Amanda… please. I'll lose my job. I'll never get another one, not with that on my record. My kids…"
She glared at him, eyes burning. "Don't you fucking dare bring your kids into this. You've been cheating on their mother for months and you clearly didn't stop to consider the damage that would do to your kids if it came out."
"This isn't having an affair though…I'll never work again if you tell them. How'll I look after them?"
They stared at each other, the silence as taut as every sinew in his body.
"Please," he begged in a whisper.
Finally, her shoulders slumped and she covered her face with her hands for a moment, a great sigh sliding from her but he held his breath.
"Fine," she said wearily, dropping her hands to look at him. "I won't do anything tonight. But I want to sleep on it. I can't believe you've put me - all of us - in this position. You're a fucking selfish prick."
"Thank you," he grovelled, shame oily in his throat. "Thank you. I understand, I'm so sorry—"
"Bella was right to break it off with you." His apologies dried on his tongue and he stared slack-jawed at her as she headed for the door, turning the lock. "She deserves much better than you."
Wrenching the door open, she disappeared back out into the building, the noise of the lads rushing into the space she'd left behind. Wilting down into his chair, he cradled his head in one hand, the other rooting into his breast pocket before a small, white pill landed on his tongue. For a second he paused, allowing the acrid chemical taste to fill his mouth before, finally, he swallowed.
***
"You told her about the pills??" asked Celia when you related the conversation later, a bottle of wine and a fresh packet of cigarettes between you. Even though spring was allegedly coming, the weather had turned even colder, a frosty wind driving horizontal rain towards your windows and you'd lifted your self-imposed 'no smoking in the house' ban, just for the night.
Or maybe the week.
"I had to. She said she'd report us for the affair if I didn't," you replied glumly, the guilt weighing heavily in your stomach. You'd heard them yelling at each other in the office that evening as you passed to leave for the day, their shouts only just drowned out by the hollering coming from the common room as the lads played a particularly vicious table-football tournament after dinner.
"What do you think she'll do?"
"I don't know… they've been friends a long time but something like this? I'm not sure. She might be forced to tell the Trust." You hunched forwards, hissing a curse as your free hand pushed into your hair. "I shouldn't have told her."
Celia reached across to squeeze your arm. "You did the right thing, darling. He's working with kids while out of his tree, I'm not sure he shouldn't lose his job."
"He's not out of his tree," you argued, warming under her disapproving stare at your defense of him. "He's not… he's not ok, but he's functional. No one's in any danger under his care." You reached for a new cigarette, flashing it to life. "The only person he's a danger to is himself."
"Oh well I suppose that makes it all ok then," she replied, rolling her eyes as she tapped ash into the saucer between you. "What are you going to do, Frenchie? I completely understand wanting to get out there, but how are you going to afford to stay here without a job..?"
Under the table, your knee jigged anxiously. "I'll figure it out."
"I mean, I can help for a bit. I could still pitch in for next month—"
"No, no, no, I can't let you do that. You and Mark need to save for the wedding."
"It's ok, we can—"
"No, Cee," you said firmly, gripping her hand. "Please. I'll be fine. I have some savings, and Ash will be here—"
"Ash?? You mean the lad who's only allowed to move in if he stops selling drugs? What kind of money do you think he's going to have??"
"I don't know!" You tugged your hand free of hers, pushing it through your hair again, with a sigh. "I don't know. But I do know that I can't stay there until I find something new. I'll stack shelves or whatever if I have to until I find another teaching job. Me and Ash both will."
Celia spluttered a giggle at this and you smiled; you weren't looking forward to breaking that particular piece of news to your baby brother.
"But, look, it's not immediate crisis stations, I'm not leaving just yet. I have to work at least some of my notice and I promised I'd wait until they'd found someone new."
"Just promise me you'll ask for help if you need it, ok?"
Taking the hand she had stretched towards you, you smiled and nodded, with the absolute certainty that you never would.
***
It was inevitable that you'd have to face him after your betrayal, but you had hoped you might at least make it to break-time before the shouting started.
"Bella, can you hang on a minute?" he said briskly as the morning meeting broke up and you all prepared to go your separate ways to man the barricades.
Or, teaching, as it was more commonly know.
Amanda was the last to leave, catching your eye as she lingered in the doorway; apart from the basic necessities of setting everyone up for the day, she and Steve had barely exchanged one word since you'd arrived.
It clicked shut and you were left alone with him. If this had been last Tuesday, you'd have been taking the opportunity for a sneaky fumble on his desk.
But not today. Today he was standing, taut with rage, his eyes like two chips of ice.
"You fucking told, Amanda?!" he hissed.
You were forgoing with pleasantries then apparently.
"She made me."
He scoffed derisively. "'She made me," he mimicked in a mean, high voice. "You're not usually this fucking pathetic, Bella, own your fucking actions."
"What? Like you do, you mean??" you shot back, voice raising. "You're the one who gave her a fucking tape of us having sex!"
He glanced at the door. "Keep your fucking voice down, someone will hear you."
"She said she'd report us to the Trust if I didn't tell her, so yeah, I did tell her. And frankly, I should have told her anyway because you need fucking help, Steve."
"Oh I see, throw me under a fucking bus to save your own skin, is that it? Jesus christ, you really aren't who I thought you were."
Hurt, frustrated tears pressed behind your eyes and you balled your hands into fists.
"Yeah?? Well same here, I suppose."
You stared furiously across the room at each other, the air thick between you.
"Is she going to tell them?" you mumbled, caving first.
"I don't know," he replied flatly, raking a hand through his hair. "She wanted to sleep on it."
"She won't tell," you said with more confidence than you felt. "You're her friend. She hates the Trust… she'll come round. You just need to take more care of yourself."
"What do you care about the care I take of myself," he spat, but his face spasmed guiltily a second later when you just stared silently at him.
"Of course I care," you said quietly.
"Not enough to stay though. I got your letter."
"Yeah, I know."
"You don't have to do this. We can make it work."
You raised a brow at him. "You mean like today? Because I'd not say we're getting off to a very promising start."
"That's not fair and you know it."
"We can't do this Steve," you sighed, "it won't work."
"But you're not even giving it a chance," he said, scrubbing a hand down his face. "You can't stand there and tell me that on Saturday you were in love me and ready for us to be together - for me to leave my wife - and today you feel absolutely nothing."
"That's precisely why it won't work!" you exclaimed and his eyes flicked nervously towards the door. "I can't stay here and watch you self-destruct because I care about you too much to do that. But I can't stay here and stop you from self-destructing because…well, you know why."
"I am not self-destructing," he replied hotly, glowering when you simply snorted in reply. "I'm not! I was doing fine - you didn't even know there was anything to worry about until—"
"So you finally admit there is something to worry about."
He narrowed his eyes. "No. Look, I understand why you'd think that but I told you. I have it under control. So what that I need a bit of extra help? Do I look out of control to you?"
"No, but—"
"See! I'm fine, Bella. You have nothing you need to do for me except love me."
You cocked your head at him. "I thought this was just about me staying at Stanton?"
"I— yes, it is. Of course it is."
"Because it's over, Steve. I can't come back from what I had to do for you on Sunday."
"I understand… just please, don't leave…"
"How can you ask me to stay?" you said softly. "Can you honestly say that would be any good for either of us?"
He closed the space between you, hovering just out of reach but close enough you could feel the warmth of him spilling towards you and everything in you yearned to pull him closer.
"I don't want to come to work everyday and you're not here," he mumbled.
"You lived without me for ages before I got here."
A half-smile tugged at his lips. "You know it's not the same now."
"No," you murmured, dropping your head to avoid his eyes.
"And the lads really need you, Bells. They'll be lost without you."
"You'll get someone else. Someone good."
"But we don't want someone good, we want you," he replied and when you looked up he was smirking slightly.
"Fucker."
"I'm not sure that's really how you're supposed to speak to your boss."
"Yeah, well you're probably not supposed to go on dirty weekends or score him drugs either."
Pink tinged his cheek as he bit the end of his tongue. "Probably not, no. Definitely not something we can put in the 'essential criteria' section of the job ad anyway."
Despite yourself, you laughed and he reached for you, solid fingers warm on your neck, thumb tracing a path across your cheek.
"Don't," you whispered.
"Stay. Please?" he replied, not moving his hand, the familiarity of his touch causing an unbearable pressure to build in your chest until you had to step back to put space between you.
"I can't. This - that - is why. We can't go back, not after everything. It'll be better for us both when I'm gone."
His hands curled into themselves at his sides until his knuckles turned white, his eyes no longer filled with cold fury, instead their soft blue was filmed to glassy pools. Clearing his throat roughly, he nodded.
"We'll get started with the recruitment on Monday. Take the weekend and think it over. Make sure it's right."
***
He was pulled from pillar to post all morning and it wasn't until well into the afternoon before he managed to get Amanda on her own, spotting her having a smoke out near the lake. Seeing him coming, she shook her head and tuned away.
"Amanda…"
"Oh do fuck off, Steve. I'm trying to have two sodding minutes of peace before I have to go back in there."
Huddling deeper into his coat, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Please, I'm sorry, but I need to know what you're going to do."
She turned towards him, drawing slowly on her cigarette. "And you don't think hounding me about it might make me less inclined to cover for you?"
"Mate…"
"Don't you 'mate' me. Not when you're asking me to lie for you. Twice!"
"I'm sorry," he said quietly, staring at the ground, last year's leaves still damp and mulchy underfoot.
"Yeah, me too," she sighed, dropping the end into the leaves and squishing it with her toe before picking up the butt. "I can't believe you'd keep something like this from me. Sleeping with Bella I can understand, but this?? I could have helped you. Does Helen know?"
He shook his head quickly. "I took too much on Sunday after Bella—" he cleared his throat roughly, "—Helen didn't even notice."
"And how often do you take too much?"
Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he smiled wryly. "I don't. That was a one-off. It was a very… testing day."
"We have a lot of very testing days here. How can I trust you when you've lied to me for so long?"
"I'm not lying to you, I swear on my girls."
"Don't… don't do that. Don't use them when you can't—"
"I mean it, Amanda. I promise you - I'm always careful. I'd never put anyone any risk. I'm not even taking that much more than I have done in the past, right after the accident."
"Steve, you were practically bed-ridden for months after the accident, this isn't the same. There was nothing and no one you could hurt being on that much morphine back then."
"I swear it to you: I'm fine. I'm not doping myself up to the eyeballs, I'm taking enough to let me do what I need to do. To do this, here, with all of you."
She compressed her lips, arms wrapping around her middle, though whether in comfort or against the cold he couldn't say.
"I want to know every time you take something from now on. All of it out in the open. And I want you to start reducing down to whatever your doctor thinks you should be taking."
"My doctor doesn't—"
"Don't argue with me! If something happens and the Trust finds out about this and it comes out that I knew and covered it up - which it will because it always does - then we're both for it. I am not going down for you, do you hear me? I am not going to let you ruin the career of everyone here who works so fucking hard to keep this place afloat because they'll be tainted by association with you. So I won't rat you out, but you're going to get yourself help. Get yourself back on the straight and narrow and so help me, Steve, if you ever do something like this again, I don't stay quiet."
"Ok," he mumbled, dizzy with relief. "Thank you. I'll do my best."
She nodded firmly and let out a deep breath. "Right, I have to get back."
"Can I have one of those before you go?"
Squinting at him, she pulled the packet out her coat pocket, plucking the lighter from inside it. "Have you been drinking?"
"What?? No—"
She cracked a smile as she handed him a cigarette and let him light it.
"You going to take up smoking instead?"
"You gonna report me for that?" Her amusement dried up in an instant and he stammered an apology.
"Too fucking soon, Steven."
Heat climbing his face, he nodded and she set off back towards the school.
"Oh, and Steve?"
He turned towards her, cigarette poised halfway to his lips. "Yeah?"
"You ever fucking sleep with one of our staff again and I'll cut it off, do I make myself clear?"
He cleared his throat and tried to force a chuckle. "Abundantly."
"Good," she snapped, marching on on her, and he turned slowly back towards the lake releasing long sigh of relief, the smoke mingling with the iron-grey skies above.
***
Wednesday's nightshift was unbearable. The freezing weather howling through the crumbling old building and all the boys were grumpy and unpleasant with the cold, complaining about how it whistled past the old single glazing in their rooms. It look an age and extra cups of tea and hot chocolate to get them to settle down for the night. Exhausted, you traipsed downstairs where Owen was locking up.
"Are they all in or do you need me to go and bash heads?" he asked with a grin.
"Finally," you yawned. "I'm going to make a brew and then turn in, do you want one?"
"Please, it's fucking baltic in here."
He followed you into the kitchen, grabbing mugs as you filled the kettle.
"Did you hear Steve and Amanda knocking seven bells out of each other on Monday?"
Setting it on the burner, you hoped he didn't see how your hand wobbled.
"Yeah, I heard them as I was leaving."
"What d'you think's going on?"
"No idea," you replied quickly, fetching tea bags from the enormous caddy on the side.
"Andy reckons they've been having an affair. Trouble in paradise and all that."
You spluttered a laugh. "Seriously??"
"I don't see it myself." In the distance the office phone began to ring. "Who the fuck calls a school at half eleven at night," he muttered. "I'll get it, you make those."
The kettle was slowly burbling towards the boil when you heard Owen shout your name.
"Bella!" he shouted again and you set off at a jog, almost colliding with him in the hall.
"What's the matter??"
"The hospital's on the phone for you."
"The hospital..?" A cold fist wrapped around your heart and you dashed towards the office. You were always telling Gran she needed to be more careful in the cold.
"Hello??"
"Hello? Is that…umm… Birdie?"
You swallowed. "Yes, that's me. What's happened?"
"I'm Suki from the Royal. We've had an Ashley admitted to A&E, he asked us to call you."
"Ash?? No you mean my Gran? Nellie Jennings?"
The woman on the other end of the line paused. "Your Gran? No, I'm calling about Ashley, Birdie. He says he's your brother? He's hurt."
You sat down heavily in Steve's office chair, clutching the phone.
"Ash? What's happened?"
"We're not sure exactly but it looks like he's been beaten up. He's sustained some quite severe injuries and is bleeding internally. We need to take him up for surgery shortly."
"Surgery…" you whispered.
"I'm sorry, I know this will be a shock."
"Please tell him I'm on my way."
"Of course."
You mumbled goodbye and the line went dead. Looking up, your thoughts swirling too quickly to catch, you saw Owen hovering at the door.
"Is everything ok?"
"No… I have to go to the hospital. My bother's been in an accident."
"Just go, I'll look after things here."
Dragging your hands over your hair you blinked hard, trying to get control over you racing heart and thoughts.
"No, if something happened…"
"It's fine, I'll call Steve."
"I'm not allowed to leave you on your own, Owen."
"Bella, go and get your stuff and I'll call him now."
His instructions finally gave you a purpose and direction and you took off upstairs to get your bag, stuffing your belongings back into it from around the little staff bedroom. As you clattered back down the corridor towards the stairs, Shy's bedroom door cracked open.
"Bella?"
"Go back to bed, Shy."
"Are you ok?"
"Just do as your told!" you shouted and his eyes widened, the door slamming shut a second later.
But you didn't have time to think about that now, racing down the stairs two at a time.
"He's coming. He said to sit tight."
"I need to call my Gran," you said, pulling on your coat.
"Bella…" Owen gently rested his hands on your shoulders. "Hey, look at me."
"He's got internal bleeding," you whimpered, tears beginning to slip down your cheeks. He bundled you into a bear hug and held you tight.
"Just take a breath, ok? Come on, do it with me. Nice and slow in… good girl. And out again… that's it, nice."
With each shaky breath your heart rate began to slow and he pulled back, smiling at you.
"Call your Gran, Steve'll be here in a minute."
Dialling with a shaking hand, you let the line ring and ring but there was no answer. Hoping that meant she was already on her way to the hospital, you called Celia instead.
"Hello?"
"Mark?"
"Alright French." You could hear Celia's mutter of surprise in the background and the phone being dragged away from him.
"Frenchie? What's the matter? Aren't you at work?"
"Cee, it's Ash. Something's happened to him… I don't know… he's in hospital. He's going for surgery." The tears began to leak from your eyes again. "I can't leave here until someone comes to replace me."
"Fuck that! I'm on my way to get you. Don't move, I'll be there in fifteen minutes."
***
Both Steve and Celia must have committed a plethora of traffic violations to reach you in the time they did, both screeching into the car park within in minutes of each other. Steve got there first, rushing into the hall where you were waiting, clutching a soggy tissue, your bag at your feet.
Without thinking you rushed to him, letting him wrap you in his arms.
"Shhhh… hey hey, don't cry, it's ok. What's happened??" he soothed into your hair, stroking your back.
"Her brother's been rushed into A&E. It sounds bad," said Owen and when you peeled yourself away from Steve he was looking between you with undisguised interest.
Another thing you didn't have time for tonight.
"I have to go," you mumbled. "Thanks for taking over."
"No, I'll take you there myself. Owen'll be fine, they're asleep."
"But the protocol says—"
"Fuck the protocol, Bells," said Steve, catching your face between his hands and you covered them with your own. "I'm taking you, let's go."
"She's not going anywhere with you."
Celia marched in, somehow looking as shiny and put together as she always did even though she must have been half-way to bed when you called. If looks could kill, Steve would have been dead on the spot with the daggers she was shooting him.
"Cee," you murmured, rushing to her and she hugged you.
"Come on, darling, let's go," she said, ushering you towards the door, stopping to grab your bag that Owen proffered towards her.
"I can take her—"
She whirled towards Steve, stepping closer, tall enough that he had to lift his chin to meet her eye.
"You stay the fuck away from her, do you hear me? You've done more than enough damage already."
"Cee," you whispered, shivering at the main door.
"I'm sorry, Bells," Steve said hoarsely as Celia stalked towards you, slipping an arm around your shoulders. "I hope he's ok. Will you let us know in the morning?"
You looked back towards him just before you left, standing there with Owen behind and undoubtedly some awkward questions to answer, when a shadow moved in the background.
"Shy?" you mumbled, but the flash of green hoodie was gone almost as quickly as you'd seen in.
"Come on, French, we need to go," Celia said, gently tugging you by the arm and you let yourself be led out the door and into the freezing night air.
Eeeeeep! How we doing team?? Come scream at me in all the usual ways. If you need inspo, Laura’s primary comment during beta reading was ‘SHUT UP STEVE, DICKHEAD’ 😂 It’s hope you enjoyed as much as she did 🤭 xxx
ohhh haven't participated in tag games since forever
so I go with green flag military man and his space blob clone (I read the movie script, there actually should have been TWO space blob Oscar Isaacs, we were ROBBED)
sloppy collage bc i was making a playlist for him and needed a cover
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Summary: While suspicion quietly brews beneath the rafters of Cape Hill Brewery, you and your husband continue your private war on the grounds of Arrow House. But when Tommy returns from London for a second time, you unveil the ultimate act of retaliation, forcing him to confront the possibility that, in your eyes, you may only ever be third in line.
They say keep your friends close and your enemies closer.
But what about family?
Husbands and wives. Parents and children. Brothers and sisters.
What about those tied not by blood, nor rings, but history?
A history that ran deep and rotting beneath the pretense of keeping appearances, keeping order, keeping everything aligned to one man's lifelong mantra.
Composure over chaos.
And where exactly does one draw enemy lines once love, resentment and history begin merging into one another?
Where exactly had connections soured into something barely passing as polite civility?
And where exactly was the man whose rigid rules oversaw a hundred and one men?
Where was your Uncle Richard?
There. Right there.
Up in the rafters at twenty seven, Cape Hill, Smethwick, Birmingham. Stood stoic and still, looking down at one man out of a hundred and one.
Arney.
Your father.
Brothers by law only. Your uncle watched the ease Arney carried himself with, watched charm slip effortlessly into conversation around the huddle of men below.
His men. His workers. Workers that should be minding machinery. A brother-in-law that should be minding his own business.
And above them all stood an old soldier dressed in a three-piece suit, a uniform never truly hung up and forgotten, merely stitched into something different. Something socially acceptable.
And he was watching.
Now, I could make a joke here. One that’d earn a giggle, a gasp from the old biddies, set their tongues a’wagging.
Something along the lines of,
A military man, an Englishman and a Scotsman all walk into a bar…
But with Richie stood there looking the fun sponge to every possible gag I could ever make, we should, for the sake of paying attention, follow that unwavering stare of his instead.
Because that, dear reader, is where every question and every answer you wish to know begins.
Dad knew he was watching.
Shit.
Actually, Arney didn’t know he was being watched. He felt it. A pressure. A pull. Perhaps even a fucking promise. One that made your father stop mid-sentence, glance over his shoulder, and find his brother-in-law staring down at him from his watchtower, with a different kind of ease, one that quietly said…
Finish up and follow.
Your uncle turned without a word and disappeared back into his office, fully expecting Arney to comply with the silent command that had just come down the line.
Jaw working, your father's head swung back around, face relaxing into a boneless smile as he felt the weight of being measured for his mettle beneath the hardened eyes of the Scotsmen.
“ Duty calls” Arney slipped back into that effortless ease to mask the irritation, the frustration of being ordered about by a man who held no authority over him beyond a claim through blood.
“ See that it does” the Scotsman murmured lowly, all Govan docks and Glasgow grit as he rolled a tightly coiled cigarette between the calloused pads of his thumb and forefinger.
Hands slipping into the pits of his trouser pockets, your father gave a slow nod, a subtle jerk of his chin, before swivelling on his Sanders Derbys, heading up the stairs. Up into the rafters.
“ Richie” your father announced himself through familiarity as he slinked into your uncle’s office, settling into the leather chair opposite his desk.
But Richard didn’t sit. Didn’t respond. Didn’t so much as look Arney’s way.
He stood exactly where he had before, still as stone beside the glass window, eyes sweeping over his business, his brewery, and every bastard under his pay until they settled once more on your father’s new friend below.
“ We leave in five” he finally spoke, all calm control, as Arney's eyes followed his brother-in-law’s silent scanning, the merciless sorting through indispensable to dispensable.
“ Right, right…” your father charmed away your uncle’s rigidness, easing deeper into the curve of the leather chair, legs crossing loose as his hand slipped into his pocket for a cigarette.
“ Richie. I was thinking…the deliveries, east into Warwickshire…”
“ Thomas Shelby's solliciter is overseeing the deeds” your uncle cut clean across your father’s attempted offering of advice, eyes fixed on the Glasgow-born worker hauling a barrel of whiskey onto his shoulder below.
“ Right…” your father murmured through a cloud of smoke, idle fingers finding the hand-stitched tailoring of his trouser pocket, and the King George penny tucked deep within.
“ The route into the east though, I was…”
“ We're leaving” Your uncle finally turned, letting the command settle into silence as he stood there watching your father, watching the man who spoke to his workers like he already had an understanding with them.
For a long beat, the brothers bound only by law stared each other down. Arney’s lower gaze strained beneath the unwavering eyes of your uncle holding him firmly in place, as a very different understanding began to seep through the civility between them.
Richie didn’t trust his workers. History had taught him not to trust your father. And he sure as hell didn’t trust himself to stand down from the watch long enough to finally hang that uniform up for good.
The retired soldier hadn’t known a day’s rest since before the war. And as control and composure became the rhythm of his life, he expected every man to fall in line beneath his command.
“ On your feet, Arney”
“ Move”
Mr Paisley was a fumbling sort of man, whether by personality or practice dealing with demanding gangsters, one could never truly tell.
But as he laid out the deeds to Arrow House before you, that shaky hand of his steadied just enough to pass you his silver-plated pen beneath a set of unwavering blues.
“ On the dotted line, Mrs Shelby” he guided your gaze beside Tommy’s scrawled signature, the very bastard in question looming over you like a storm cloud moments from raining on your parade.
That magnificent, spectacular, petty parade of yours, if I do say so myself. One momentarily stalled to sign your name onto Arrow House.
“ What are the terms again?” You queried, a completely justifiable question that was absolutely, irrefutably not asked solely for the purpose of winding the wanker up for a second time in the space of five minutes.
“ If I keel over first…” Tommy murmured, slipping a cigarette between his lips, cupping the flame, the words practically dragging themselves out through a puff of smoke as he took in another heavy lungful. “You get Arrow House”
“ Ah. Yes. Then I look forward to your demise, husband” you replied cheerfully, back straightening as the pen scratched your name into the deeds while a very nervous-looking Mr Paisley glanced between you both with what should’ve passed as laughter, but came out rather squeaky instead.
“ Thank you, wife” Tommy replied just as merrily, flicking ash onto the pristine floor like some bloody hooligan violating his own house rules. “God knows I could do with five minutes peace”
What a simply splendid, premeditated murdering married couple you two made.
Move over Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. The Shelbys were making marital executions a recreational pastime.
“ All seems to be in order, Mr Shelby. I'll have my secretary send copies to your London office for your review on Thursday”
Woah. Hang about. What was that? London, Thursday.
Was the roaming Romeo about to fuck off for yet another bout of fuckery in Fulham?
Yes he was. Yes he absolutely bloody was.
Bastard.
“ London” the capital left your lips too quietly to be a question, too precise to sound like a wife probing for answers.
“ London for business” Tommy clarified...twice “Business”
Once because he wasn't wrong. And a second time, because despite the warring rhythm you’d found with one another, despite the gentle touch you’d once pressed to his pulse to ease him through troubled sleep, he needed the reminder.
Needed you to remember that your union, your marriage, was still a matter of…business.
Your chair instantly scraped back.
“ Leave. Now” Tommy’s voice came out low and absolute, head snapping toward the solicitor as you slowly rose to your feet.
The rest would have to wait. Your uncle’s meticulous eye over the remaining papers now suspended for another day because Tommy needed Mr Paisley out of Arrow House before Mrs Shelby decided poised perfection in front of company was a standard belonging to a past and rapidly pivoting personality.
“ London” you murmured a second time, almost amused. Almost in awe at the audacity of your harloting husband if it wasn’t for the sharpened edge beneath the word as your heels struck marble out in the foyer where an audience awaited.
John and Arthur.
Fan-bloody-tastic.
Tommy needed to contain this before chaos truly ensued. Before you deemed tampered whiskey, Christmas carnage and passive-aggressive agony aunts unworthy of your wrath.
And more importantly, before the two amused idiots he called brothers decided this was one for the Shelby history books.
“ London” the word seemed to climb an octave higher toward one man’s long-awaited oblivion as you spun on your heel, stopped, then marched away. Whiplashing Tommy straight into following you through the foyer and out into the gardens.
“ Arthur. John. Leave” Tommy ordered, though both brothers were already half a step behind him while his eyes stayed fixed firmly on your swaying hips, your rigid spine cutting across the gardens.
“ Nah. Think we'll stay, brother” Arthur’s wolfish grin only worsened matters, forcing Tommy to choose between throttling one of his bastard brothers or chasing after his brazenly beautiful wife currently storming across his pristinely cut lawn in heels.
What an odd little fella. Somebody fetch the lawn mower and give this man a coronary with a two-centimetre-too-short turf.
“Oi. Not another step” Tommy’s voice dropped low, fingers lifting with a cigarette trapped between them like he was barking orders at one of his men instead of his maddening wife whose hand had just curled around a potted marigold.
“ You wanna have it out, eh?” Tommy shifted his weight onto one foot, hand pausing midair as his eyes dropped to the threat of being pelted with a ceramic flowerpot.
“ Come on then, wife. Let's have it out, then” he shoved the cigarette between his lips, muttering through smoke as he shrugged off his jacket, rolling his sleeves like he was about to wrestle you beneath the wisteria.
“ Yeh…I dunno about this, brother. She's looking proper pissed off” John observed from where he’d slouched against the brick wall while Arthur smoothed down his moustache, ready to make a wager on the war currently unfolding in the back garden of a Warwickshire house.
“ Tenner says she's lobs at it him” the eldest Shelby held out his palm, ready to secure both bet and his next brandy down the pub.
“ Done” John shook on it, as both brothers watched your knuckles whiten around the terracotta pot.
“ You bastard, leching little lordling with the emotional depth of a concussed pigeon!” you shouted across the lawn, the colourful and imaginative insult leaving Arthur and John staring on in pure delight.
Well.
You’d finally cracked, dear. Poise and perfection be damned. Might as well commit to it now.
And you did. Rather dramatically, in fact, when the flowerpot went sailing through the air straight at Tommy’s head, he ducked with considerably more finesse than you’d managed upon first launch.
“ You're gonna regret that” Tommy stalked forward, voice dropping low enough to dare you into escalating beyond the petty warfare of the past few weeks.
“ Yeh. Already do…” your voice tightened. Eyes tightened. That wandering bloody hand of yours tightened too around, you guessed it, another fucking flowerpot.
Christ.
“ Because I missed!” you hurled back as the second pot went soaring across the gardens, narrowly missing all three Shelby brothers when they collectively hit the ground.
“We're under fire, men!” Arthur shrilled with barely contained amusement as decades-old training kicked in, years spent fighting in France nothing compared to one furious female with a penchant for launching flowerpots.
“ Take cover, comrades! She's got a swing on her!” John barked through a grin, flipping the garden table onto its side to shield himself and his fellow soldiers from the incoming shrubbery.
“ Enough!” Tommy shot to his feet behind the garden table now repurposed into trench cover, foolish enough to believe his oh-so-scary presence might bring a ceasefire to the chaos.
And what did he get for his troubles?
Yep.
Another flowerpot.
“ Christ woman!” he bellowed around the cigarette, somehow still clinging on for dear life at the corner of his lips as he ducked back down.
“ Her uncle's gonna turn up any minute, and see I can't handle my own fucking wife. I need a plan” Tommy muttered darkly, squinting through the slats of wood to see his beautiful and absolutely bloody mental wife waiting patiently for one of them to surrender her husband for the greater good.
“ Thank fuck. We need reinforcements. The enemy is advancing” Arthur whispered with the excitement of a man having the time of his life while beside him John had entirely abandoned combat readiness in favour of unapologetic laughter.
“I’m gonna write this in me memoirs” John announced between wheezes, his future book bound to bankrupt Tommy when he'd buy every copy to save his bloodline's reputation.
“Battle Amongst The Buttercups. The Great War Of Warwickshire”
“ Terror comes in flying terracotta.The West Midlands War Over One Wanker's Wandering Cock” Arthur immediately supplied with a snort of laughter, as Tommy slowly turned to stare at both brothers like he was genuinely considering which one to sacrifice first in exchange for safe passage across the lawn.
“ Shut up. The pair of you”
“ Darling...love” Tommy attempted affection, only to make an absolute cock-up of it when he followed with…
“ How about you just calm down, eh?”
Idiot. Absolute idiot.
There exists at least one singular, universal phrase known to mankind that should never, under any circumstance, be uttered in the presence of an already furious woman when your odds of castration are looking increasingly favourable.
And that is, calm down.
Where's that butter knife?
“ What did you just say?” Your eyes narrowed on the garden table, focus sharpening into something dangerous, already armed with more ammunition when steady, unhurried boots stepped into the warzone.
Richie.
Uncle Richie.
Too blinded by the blaze of fury aimed at your bastard of a husband, you were spared the full weight of your uncle’s stare, watching you systematically fall short of every lesson he had ever drilled into you, as you lost yourself to emotion in real time.
“ Put it down” Your uncle’s voice carried across the lawn, calm, controlled. Composure over chaos. Always.
Because where Tommy provoked emotion, your uncle condemned it. And as you turned your head to find him standing still and unyielding at the edge of the garden, your father stood in his shadow, the flowerpot suddenly slipped from your fingers.
Everything went silent.
Slowly rising to his feet, Tommy watched his furious, fire-eyed wife settle back into herself, into that poised perfection he had begun to resent.
That wasn't a composure born of you. It was one that had been taught and maintained. A reflection of the man Tommy himself had learned to become as the version that felt too much, hurt too much, could never afford to be seen.
“ Go inside, and gather yourself” your uncle ordered as Tommy’s hand lifted, as if to interrupt, to say something, to tell him to let his wife breathe, let her feel, when he himself had spent years suffocating under the same form of survival.
But he didn’t. Instead, he stood in the wreckage of your retribution and realised Richie had kept you reserved for a reason.
And for the first time, he asked himself the question he hadn’t thought to ask before…
Just what had his wife survived?
Here we are again.
Look, I won't sugarcoat it for you, darling, but your husband was currently mid-fuck.
Back in Soho, with a Soho girl, having a Soho shag.
Six days had passed since war broke out in your Warwickshire garden, when flowerpots became a form of artillery, where composure finally cracked under pressure.
And now Tommy was back in London for business. Just like he said. Just like he warned you.
Only the release he’d come for was turning out to be more of a chore than a relief.
“ Yes, Mr Shelby” she moaned, each thrust met with rehearsed perfection.
“ Quiet” Tommy snapped, voice clipped, irritation cutting through as her performance became increasingly unbearable.
And don’t doubt yourself, dear. Because it wasn’t lost on him. And it won’t be lost on you either.
For your wedding night, a mere month ago, still echoed in his head. Only then, the sound hadn’t annoyed him. It had undone him. Made him feel something beyond what was supposed to be a marriage of means.
“ Enough” he ordered as he looked down at her properly now. Wrong hair. Wrong eyes. Wrong body. Just fucking…wrong.
With a final thrust he finished, feeling as unsatisfied as he did when he began.
How long was he going to keep doing this?
Proving a point? That he didn’t care?
That he wasn’t affected? That the day he met you in his office, and you gave him nothing, was the day he gave you everything.
“ Get out. Get out now”
As the door to his hotel room shut, Tommy sat in silence and let himself think of Arrow House. Of his wife. Of his wedding night. Keeping the memory untouched now that he was alone with it.
But back in Warwickshire, you sat in the darkened hush of the grand estate, staring out across the grounds, knowing your husband was somewhere in London making a mockery of your marriage under the convenient guise of business.
Petty didn't cover it anymore. You felt vengeful. A woman pushed too far, too long, under one house and one man’s rules.
And what came next would be your grand finale.
God help Thomas Shelby.
Well.
No one was going to stop you.
Not even Cupid, perched somewhere up in whatever heathen heaven he presided over, watching romance like it was sport.
This was either masterful. Or complete madness.
And as Polly, Arthur, John and Finn stood in the foyer of Arrow House with more than forty guests and their plus-ones behind them, none of them looked particularly inclined to be the ones to intervene either.
“ Tommy's gonna lose the plot when he walks through that door, Pol” Arthur murmured low over his whiskey tumbler, eyes sweeping across the preparations unfolding around him while MP’s, aristocrats, businessmen and unsuspecting guests mingled beneath the chandeliers.
“ Serves him fucking right” Finn muttered before Polly could answer, earning himself a sharp clip on the back of his skull from his older brother John.
“ Bitter much, Finn? John hissed quietly, firm hand locking around the nape of his younger brother’s neck before he could slip away from the consequences of his own stupid mouth. “ You’ve been encouraging her all bloody day, you little shit”
“ What?” Finn shrugged him off with barely contained resentment, that Tommy had wed and bedded you before he even managed a second date.
“ Fucks off to London every other week. Should have been me to take her home that day”
That landed. And not a single Shelby missed it.
“ Don't let Tommy hear you say that” Arthur warned, voice lowering, all amusement gone as he fixed Finn's envious eye with a steady look.
“ Why because it's true? He don't even like her”
Ah. There it was.
The dangerous thing about youth and younger brothers that thought they knew the way of the world.
Because with age comes understanding. And the mistake boys like Finn made, and would soon come to learn was, silence did not mean absence.
“ That what you think, eh?” Arthur muttered, frustration with his thick-headed brother bleeding through every irritated inch of him.
“ He just added her name to the deed of this house, you prat”
“ Arthurs not wrong” Polly cut in over her wine glass of Bordeaux red. “ Keep that to yourself. Last thing we need is a battle between brothers over a woman”
“Where is the bloody woman?” John muttered, brow furrowing as his eyes swept the foyer searching for his serpentine sister-in-law who'd slipped away without warning.
“ Standing with the best view in the house” Polly smirked, as her eyes lifted. Then Arthur’s. Then John’s. And lastly Finn’s.
All of them looking up to find not some simpering little wife beaten down by a bastard determined to call marriage business, but a Queen.
And she was about to teach the King a very valuable lesson.
Happy wife.
Happy life.
Wheels crunched on gravel. The lights dimmed.
A car door slammed. Voices quietened.
Boots marched up the stone steps. Bodies vanished.
The front door swung open and Tommy demanded…
“Frances? My wife?”
And the room erupted.
“SUPRISE!”
The band instantly kicked in. Streamers flew. Confetti rained down over him as guests surged forward offering handshakes, congratulations and cheerful wishes of…
Happy birthday.
Yep. That’s right.
Thomas Shelby, gangster, wartime relic, Member of Parliament, had just walked into his very own surprise birthday party.
Two months too early.
This was, quite possibly, Tommy's very definition of hell. A living nightmare where he now found himself trapped into politeness, forced to mingle well into the early hours without hunting down and throttling his fucking wife.
And just where was his dear wife?
Tommy’s gaze swept sharply across the sea of bodies as he suffered through half-hearted handshakes from every bastard in Birmingham who’d arrived for the free…
Was that Fabergé caviar?
The low growl barely escaped him before his eyes snapped upward toward the second-floor landing.
Found you.
And there you stood. A Queen presiding over her court looking utterly devastating, with a wicked smirk ghosting the corner of your lips as you slowly raised your glass of Dom Pérignon toward Don Dickhead himself.
You little fucking…
“ Easy, birthday boy” Arthur moved in quickly before Tommy took it upon himself to empty the house of everyone and everything except him and his wife.
“ I’m going to murder her, Arthur” Tommy muttered, eyes locked on the upper floor as his brother shoved a glass of whiskey into his hands before they found your throat.
“ Yeh, well, it's gonna have to wait. Birthday cakes coming”
And just like that, one enormous frosted monstrosity appeared as the guests gasped in awe at the lavish rosettes and iced ruffles.
Someone had clearly ransacked her husband's bank account.
Well done, darling. Hit him where it hurts.
“ Speech! Speech!” Some overfed toff called out across the room, urging Tommy to address his guests, as your husband's focus stayed entirely on you and your descent down the stairs.
“ Speech…” Tommy muttered absently, sharp eyes sweeping, losing your circling prowl somewhere in the hoard of bodies.
“ My wife? Someone find my wife” the order came down, demanding you be found. For if he couldn’t pull you out of your game, then he'd drag you into his.
The crowd’s heads turned, bobbing as they searched for the missing member of their celebration, when, like something out of a gunslinging western, you emerged through the shifting bodies of party goers.
“ Ah. There she is. My wife” Tommy's voice dropped low and gravelled, eyes narrowing in on your slow approach as his hand stretched out for you.
“Come here darling. Come stand beside your, husband”
Barely within an inch of him, his hand come around your back, clamping over your waist as he anchored you into his side.
“ Thank you all for coming to my surprise birthday party” Tommy addressed the room, calm, controlled composure firmly in place, and a subtle death grip around your waist.
You weren't going anywhere. Not tonight.
He was going to make sure you endured this the same way you’d forced him to endure the whole fucking thing.
“ Of course, I'd like to express my gratitude to my family for helping facilitate this celebration” Tommy continued, gaze cutting across the room one by one to Arthur, John, Polly and Finn. Each of them now considered complicit in the ambush.
“ And finally…i’d like to thank my wife” his eyes dropped to you, held captive by a clamp to your waist as you sipped calmly on a glass of champers. “ Who went out of her way to make this day special for me”
“ You shouldn't have. Really” he gazed down at you, with marital bliss in his eyes…
No. Forgive me. I meant…
“... with murder in his eyes”
“ Make a wish! A wish!”
A chorus of birthday hecklers rang out as the colossal sized cake was wheeled into view.
Hauling you in with him, Tommy held you tight, bending over to blow out his candles, as you murmured quietly through the last tendrils of smoke…
“ What did you wish for, darling? Another woman to warm your bed?”
“ No. For you to behave”
“ Mmm” you hummed fondly, as you locked eyes in a lovers gaze to every else but Tommy's family, who watched in silence as the last flicker of flame died down, all of them aware they were standing on the edge of something none of them could stop.
Your grand finale.
More mingling. More monotoned conversations about money and motorcars. Tommy endured every last bit of drivel these dandies considered interesting, all while his eyes tracked your every movement through the room.
“ Enjoying yourself, wife?” The voice came low behind you, hand sweeping around your stomach as he pressed into your back, anchoring you in place at the grand foyer window overlooking Arrow House’ grounds.
Waiting. Patiently waiting.
“ Having the time of my life, husband” you murmured, laced thick with enough sarcasm to poison the rest of his year into January.
“ Now, listen…” Tommy's voice dropped an octave, grip tightening at your hip as he leaned in, chin settling on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.
“ When everyone leaves. You and I are going to have a civilised conversation about…”
The words were cut short. Not because of you. Not because of some of eager toff. But because out in the garden came a whizz. Then a crack. Then one mighty fucking bang.
Fireworks. You'd brought fireworks.
Good god, girl.
The room surged forward to the windows in a wave of gasps and cheers as the brightly coloured display lit up Arrow House in all its glory, while the gangster behind you froze into something very unfestive.
“ How much?” Tommy muttered, one breath away from a growl as he watched his money go up in flames.
“ Oh I forget. Lost count after the third nought” you lightly mused, tilting your head in thoughtful reflection. Or what passed as it, that was.
“ Look, darling! There goes another hundred” you gasped in delight as another rocket tore into the sky.
“ Right. That's enough” Tommy turned you sharply in his grip, reaching to put an end to the spectacle when you stopped him mid-pivot.
“ Wait. Wait…the grand finale”
And there it was, in all its horror.
Yours and Tommy’s names, lit up in an obscene heart-shaped catastrophe of sparklers and smoke, an arrow punched straight through the centre like Cupid himself had taken poor aim in a drunken fit of enthusiasm.
Well done, dear. You'd made the chubby little cherub very proud.
“ Look…” you cooed over the sparkling spectacle of pinwheels and jumping jacks currently making a mess of his pristine lawn.“ We're so in love”
“ When everyone leaves. You'll have nowhere to hide from the conversation we're going to have about the rules of this house and your role as my wife” Tommy drawled low against your neck, spinning you with him to face the room.
“ Thank you for coming, everyone” he addressed the guests smoothly, charm slipping back over him like his freshly tailored suit from Savile Row.
“But it's been a long evening. And we're newlyweds” The statement was suggestive enough to earn a few chuckles from politicians, businessmen and the country bumpkins too dazzled by fireworks and free whiskey as they collected their coats and gloves.
“ Arthur, see everyone safely out. Now”
“ Tommy, don't do anything stupid” the eldest Shelby muttered quietly, sensing the streak of madness in his brother after an evening of his wife's warfare.
As the last guest filtered out and the front door of Arrow House slammed shut behind them, only you and Tommy remained amongst the wreckage of your Warwickshire home.
“ I’m going to bed”
“ You stay right there, Mrs Shelby” Tommy turned toward you, shoulders rigid, stance immovable beneath the weight of a conversation long overdue.
“ You knew the terms. You walked down that aisle knowing every one of them. And yet, I've spent the last week being punished for something you already understood” Tommy stalked closer, eyes hardening into those of a husband depleted of patience.
“ This…” his hand cut between you both, to the wreckage of his mansion, his marriage, the entire month of warfare waged beneath his roof.
“ Is a temper tantrum over a business arrangement, you agreed to”
“ No” your voice cracked despite your scrambling attempts to keep your composure.
“My hand was forced to keep your business running. To stop scandal stripping you of everything you’ve worked for while I drew the short straw”
“And now I’m supposed to smile sweetly while my husband disappears to London every other week to warm someone else’s bed while I sit here like a footnote in your fucking ledger?” your chest heaved, heart thundered behind your ribs as you stared him down across the marble foyer floors.
“ Short straw?” Tommy scoffed a laugh, mocking in every way that made your back straighten like steel.
“ You have everything you could ever wish for. And still, it's not enough for Mrs Thomas Shelby, is it?”
“ I didn't wish for a husband that beds women on a bi-weekly fucking rota!” you hurled across the room, wild-eyed and without restraint as fury licked up your spine.
“ Well that's what you fucking got! That's what I am!” Tommy roared, marching toward you hard enough steps to shake the four walls of your home.
“ I’m the man that pays for everything. The houses, whores…
wives!”
The last word hit harder than the rest. Not because he meant to say it. But because somewhere in the midst of his anger, Tommy Shelby had stopped sounding like a businessman trying to defend an arrangement, and started sounding like a husband furious his wife was hurt by him at all.
Wives. One among three.
The last in line on a list of women Tommy had paid parts of himself to in various ways.
But in what way had he paid for you?
How do you tally up and slap a prize tag on a moment? A split-second decision to save someone from a snowstorm. From scandal. From ruin.
How much of a man’s life should that cost him?
“That's what I am to you? You stepped forward, eyes searching for something, anything, that would tell you otherwise.
“Something you paid for?
Another step.
“One out of three?”
“ This is a business arrangement”
His finger came up with a warning.
“ Third prize?”
“ You agreed to this”
His jaw tightened.
“ Third in line, Tommy?”
A final breach into his space, and your husband snapped.
“ You're not third anything!” his thundering voice ripped through the room, eyes wild, body heaving as his hands held you in place.
“ You're my fucking wife!”
And there it was. A claim as clear as bloody day. Not business, not an arrangement, not the terms and rules he repeated to himself so he could sleep at night. But…
His wife.
*I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter in the comments below 🖤*
[Next Part] coming soon!
Tag list: @imyourlittlechaos @cillianinlove @kmc1989 @awanood
☾ Warnings: pregnancy, hidden pregnancy reveal aftermath, home invasion and threats discussed, betrayal of medical confidentiality, reader injury and mentions of blood, protective/possessive behavior, violence and implied off-screen retaliation, emotional distress, crying, arguments and raised voices, controlling behavior, complicated relationship dynamics, angst with comfort.
The doctor came sometime after midnight, when the rain had settled into a quiet tapping against the windows and your body had begun to give in to the exhaustion you had been fighting since you ran from your home.
Polly had taken charge of Thomas’s bedroom within minutes of arriving. She sent Arthur away for hot water, then sent him away again after he returned with it and remained hovering near the doorway, looking as though he needed someone to blame before the night was over. Frances laid clean towels beside the washbasin and brought another blanket for your legs.
Thomas did none of it.
He stood near the window with his sleeves rolled to his forearms, his coat laid over the back of a chair and his cap resting beside an untouched glass of whisky on the dresser. He had taken a cigarette from his case a little while earlier, but it remained unlit between his fingers.
Every time you looked toward him, his attention was already on you.
The knock at the door came softly. Frances opened it, and the man who entered carried a familiar black leather bag beneath one arm.
You recognized him before he could offer a polite greeting.
“Dr Pritchard.”
He stopped just inside the room.
The pause was brief, but it was there. Then he recovered, smoothing concern into his expression as if he had only just understood the seriousness of what had happened.
“Miss Y/n,” he said. “I understand you have had a bad fall.”
Thomas turned his head from the window.
“You know him?”
You nodded, suddenly feeling less steady beneath the blankets. “He was the doctor I saw before.”
Thomas’s gaze remained on Dr Pritchard a moment longer than necessary.
“Then you already know what you are checking for.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “Yes, Mr Shelby. Though I will need a little room to examine her.”
“You have room.”
Polly gave Thomas a sharp look. “She does not need you making the man nervous while he tends to her.”
“I’m staying.”
“Tommy,” you said quietly.
His eyes came to you immediately.
You had no strength for another argument. Not while your hand throbbed beneath the hastily wrapped cloth, not while every unfamiliar ache in your body made panic threaten to rise all over again.
“Just stay out of his way.”
The cigarette shifted in his fingers as he nodded once.
Dr Pritchard approached the bed and set his bag down. When he took your injured hand, his fingers were cold. His eyes lowered to the cut across your palm and the small pieces of glass still caught near the base of your thumb.
“There are fragments remaining,” he said. “Removing them will hurt.”
“It already hurts.”
“Yes,” he murmured. “I expect it does.”
He cleaned your hand slowly. The first sharp pull made you tense beneath the blanket, and Polly moved to sit beside you, resting one hand near your knee without crowding you. You concentrated on the steady pressure of her hand and the sound of the rain rather than the sting in your palm.
Thomas stayed where he was.
He did not pace. He did not interrupt. He barely seemed to breathe whenever you winced. Once, when you pulled your hand back slightly, his shoes shifted against the floorboards before he stopped himself from coming nearer.
The doctor wrapped your palm in a fresh bandage and began asking questions about your escape. Whether you had landed hard. Whether the cramp had returned. Whether you had seen any blood after the fall.
“No,” you said. “I saw blood on my dress, but it was only from my hand.”
Thomas lowered his eyes at that. His thumb ran slowly along the cigarette he had ruined without ever lighting.
The rest of the examination seemed to take forever. You kept your gaze on the blanket, afraid that if you looked too long at Thomas you would remember his hand resting over the curve of your stomach earlier, the hurt still in his face even while he tried to touch you carefully.
Eventually, Dr Pritchard stepped back and closed his bag.
“I see no sign tonight that the pregnancy has been harmed,” he said. “She needs quiet and rest for the next few days. No lifting, no unnecessary stress and certainly no more climbing out of windows.”
Thomas’s jaw tightened at the last remark.
“The baby is all right?” he asked.
“As far as I can determine tonight, yes.”
A breath left Thomas so quietly you might have missed it if you had not been watching him. He lowered the unlit cigarette to the dresser beside his cap and pressed his hand briefly against his mouth.
You closed your eyes.
The baby was all right.
For one small moment, the room loosened around you.
Then Polly, who had reached for your torn coat at the end of the bed, made a low sound beneath her breath.
Something had slipped from the ripped seam near the shoulder and fallen onto the rug by her shoe.
A small folded square of paper.
Thomas saw it before anyone could speak. He crossed the room and picked it up, opening it beneath the bedside lamp.
You watched his eyes move across the page.
His expression emptied so suddenly that your relief vanished with it.
“Tommy?”
He folded the note again.
“What does it say?”
“Nothing you need tonight.”
Your throat tightened.
“Give it to me.”
Instead of answering, Thomas looked toward the doctor.
Dr Pritchard had stopped fastening his bag. His hand remained on the clasp, fingers still, and the look he gave Thomas was over too quickly to be innocent.
You understood before anyone explained it.
“What does he know?” you asked.
The doctor turned back to his bag. “I am afraid I do not know what you mean.”
Thomas’s voice became very quiet.
“Arthur.”
Arthur appeared in the doorway so quickly he must have been standing close by the entire time. “What is it?”
“Take the doctor downstairs.”
Dr Pritchard stiffened. “Mr Shelby, I have completed my work here. I need to return home.”
“You will,” Thomas said. “After we have spoken.”
Arthur stepped into the room, his gaze moving between Thomas and the doctor until his confusion sharpened into suspicion.
You pushed yourself higher against the pillows. “Give me the note.”
“Y/n, lie back.”
“Do not tell me to lie back while you hide something from me.”
Thomas finally looked at you, and in his eyes you saw the mistake already taking shape. He thought he was sparing you something. He thought because you were hurt and shaken, the truth had become his to decide when you were ready to carry it.
Polly stood from the bed.
“Hand it to her, Thomas.”
His gaze cut toward her.
“You have already made one poor choice tonight by assuming what she needed,” Polly said. “Do not make another.”
Arthur glanced toward the floor, his mouth pressing briefly into a line. Even under different circumstances, Thomas would not have appreciated being corrected in front of his brother.
But after a moment, he brought the note to the bed.
You took it with your uninjured hand and opened it.
The writing was large and dark.
TELL SHELBY CONGRATULATIONS.
For several seconds, you could not speak.
Your fingers tightened slowly against the page, bending one edge into your palm. You read the words again even though there was nothing difficult to understand about them.
“They knew,” you said.
Thomas stood beside the bed, silent.
“Those men knew about the baby.”
Dr Pritchard did not meet your eyes.
The sickness that rose inside you was different from anything the pregnancy had brought. You remembered sitting in his surgery alone, your hands twisting in your lap while you tried to explain that the father did not know. He had spoken kindly. He had assured you that nothing discussed there would leave the room.
You had trusted him because you had been too afraid to trust anyone else.
“They knew before he did,” you whispered.
Arthur turned slowly toward the doctor.
“What the fuck does she mean by that?”
Dr Pritchard took one step backward.
Thomas’s voice cut through the room. “Downstairs.”
Arthur moved before the doctor could object. He seized him by the upper arm and pulled him toward the door hard enough that his bag struck the frame on the way out.
You looked at Thomas, the note still crushed slightly in your hand.
“Where are you going?”
“To find out what he told them.”
“And after that?”
His eyes lowered to the paper.
“You do not want an answer to that tonight.”
“That is why I asked.”
His face tightened, but he did not answer.
He reached for his coat and shrugged it on before taking his cap from the dresser.
“You told me you would listen,” you said.
Thomas stopped with his back to you.
“I heard you.”
“That is not the same thing.”
For a moment he stayed there, one hand around the brim of his cap, his shoulders held too firmly beneath his coat.
Then he put the cap on and walked out.
The bedroom door closed softly behind him.
You stared at the message in your hand until the sound of his footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Polly sat on the bed beside you, but she did not reach for the note or tell you Thomas would set everything right.
“I thought it was private,” you said eventually. Your voice sounded distant even to yourself. “I thought at least that much belonged to me.”
Polly looked at the folded paper, then toward the bedroom door through which Thomas had vanished.
“Nothing remains quiet for long when men decide it is useful to them,” she said.
A car engine started outside.
You turned toward the window, knowing Thomas was inside it without needing to see him.
The note remained in your hand long after the car had gone.
༺ ☾ ༻
Dr Pritchard lasted seven minutes in the back room of the betting shop before Arthur put his fist through the cabinet beside his head.
The doctor flinched so violently his chair scraped against the floor, one hand coming up to protect his face while splintered wood dropped onto his shoulder. Arthur stood over him, breathing through his nose, his injured knuckles already beginning to redden.
Thomas remained seated across the table.
His coat was folded neatly over the back of his chair, his cap placed beside the glass of whisky he had not touched. He had said very little since leaving the house, and that silence had only made Arthur worse. Thomas’s anger rarely needed volume to fill a room. It sat in the careful way he watched the doctor, the stillness of his hands, the cigarette case resting unopened beside his drink.
“You examined her tonight,” Arthur said, voice rough with disbelief. “You sat in that bedroom telling her she were all right while knowing bloody well why those men had gone after her.”
“I did not know they would go to her home,” Dr Pritchard said quickly. “I swear to you, I never thought they would lay a hand on her.”
Arthur made a sound in the back of his throat and stepped closer.
Thomas lifted his eyes. “What did you tell them?”
The doctor looked toward him at last. Blood had not been drawn yet, but fear had already taken the strength out of his face.
“They came to me over debts,” he said. “The Hanleys knew I had treated men connected with your family before. They asked for names. Information. Anyone close enough to be useful.”
“And you gave them hers,” Thomas said.
“They threatened my wife.”
Arthur caught the back of the doctor’s chair and turned it sharply, forcing him to face him. “So you handed over another woman instead, did you?”
“I did not hand her over. I did not give them her address.”
“You told them enough.”
“Arthur,” Thomas said.
Arthur’s grip stayed tight for another second, then he let go with a hard shove that made the doctor rock forward in his seat.
Dr Pritchard clutched his hat in both hands. “I told them only that a young woman known to have been seen with you had come to my surgery. That she was pregnant. They asked whether the child was yours, but she had not told me that.”
Thomas looked at him steadily. “You did not need her to tell you.”
The doctor’s mouth opened, then closed again.
“She came to you alone,” Thomas continued. “She kept my name out of your office because she believed that would keep her life private. You looked at her, understood enough, and sold it to men who knew what to do with it.”
“I had no choice.”
Arthur laughed once, sharply. “No choice.”
Thomas did not look away from the doctor. Upstairs, you would still have the note with you. He could see the way your fingers had folded over it, the words doing more damage than the broken glass in your hand. He had spent weeks believing your distance was something you had chosen against him. Now he understood how hard you had fought to keep even one part of your life out of reach of his enemies.
“The Hanleys,” he said. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
Arthur seized the doctor by the collar and jerked him halfway out of the chair.
“You don’t know?”
“I know they have a place near Bordesley!” Dr Pritchard blurted, grabbing at Arthur’s wrist. “Men go in and out at night. I have treated one of them there before. That is all I know, I swear.”
Arthur stared at him, breathing hard. Then he let go with enough force that the doctor collapsed back into the chair.
Arthur struck a match with unnecessary force and lit a cigarette, hands unsteady with rage. “Say the word, Tom. Give me five minutes with him.”
Dr Pritchard went rigid.
Thomas took his cap from the table and rose to his feet.
“No.”
Arthur turned toward him. “No?”
“He has given us the Hanleys.”
“He gave them Y/n.”
“Yes.”
“And you are letting him walk away from it?”
Thomas buttoned his coat slowly before walking around the table. Dr Pritchard pulled himself as far back in the chair as he could, but there was nowhere left for him to go.
“You will close your surgery,” Thomas said. “Tonight. You will take your wife and leave Birmingham by tomorrow evening. You will never speak Y/n’s name again, and you will never mention the pregnancy to anyone, not in confession and not with a gun at your head.”
The doctor nodded desperately.
Thomas leaned down only slightly, his voice dropping further.
“If I hear that you have spoken about either of them, I will send Arthur to find you, and this time I will not be there to say no.”
Dr Pritchard’s breath left him in a shudder. “Yes, Mr Shelby.”
Arthur exhaled smoke through his nose, still staring at the doctor as if Thomas’s decision had cheated him of something necessary.
“Should’ve given me the five minutes.”
Thomas pulled his cap low over his eyes.
“Save it for the men who put their hands on her.”
Arthur went quiet then.
His cigarette lowered slightly between his fingers, and for a moment his anger seemed to settle into something uglier, more focused. He reached for his coat.
“John will want to know.”
“Get him,” Thomas said. “We are going to Bordesley.”
Arthur headed for the door, then paused with one hand against the frame.
“She going to forgive you for this?”
Thomas took his cigarette case from the table, though he made no move to open it.
“No.”
Arthur turned partly back toward him. “Then why do it?”
Thomas’s face remained unreadable, but his eyes shifted once toward the ceiling, as though the distance between the betting shop and his bedroom were nothing at all.
“Because I cannot ask her to understand it.”
Arthur watched him for another second, then opened the door.
Outside, the rain had begun to fall harder. Thomas stepped into it without putting up his collar, and Arthur followed him toward the car.
You slept only because your body eventually stopped giving you a choice.
When you woke, the room held the grey, tired light of early morning. The bed beside you had never been slept in. Your hand ached beneath its dressing, and the note lay on the table near the window, folded carefully now but no less cruel than it had been in your fingers during the night.
You rested your hand over your stomach and stayed quiet for a minute. Dr Pritchard had said everything was well. Whatever he had betrayed, whatever Thomas had gone out to do because of it, you held onto that one fact.
When you sat up, movement beyond the glass caught your attention.
Two men stood outside the house. One remained near the gate, cigarette between his fingers, while the other crossed slowly along the pavement and returned to the same place again. When his coat shifted, you caught the outline of a gun beneath it.
You stared at him until your chest began to feel too tight.
Thomas had not waited until you woke. He had not sat beside you and asked what would make you feel secure. He had simply filled the outside of the house with armed men while you slept inside it.
A soft knock sounded at the bedroom door before Polly entered carrying a tray.
She followed your gaze to the window and sighed.
“Where is he?” you asked.
“Out.”
“Still?”
Her silence answered you.
You pushed the blankets aside and lowered your feet to the floor.
“You ought to remain in bed longer,” Polly said. “You have had no proper sleep.”
“I cannot sleep in here.”
“Y/n—”
“I woke up to men with guns outside the window, Polly.”
Her mouth closed.
“He stood in this room and told me he would listen,” you continued, reaching for the dress Frances had left folded on the chair. “Then he waited until I was asleep and did precisely what I said I could not live with.”
Your bandaged hand made the buttons difficult. You tried once, then again, jaw tightening when the fabric would not cooperate.
Polly set down the tray and came closer.
“I can do it,” you said.
“I know you can.” She held out her hand for the dress rather than taking it from you. “But unless winning an argument with a row of buttons improves the morning somehow, let me help.”
You looked at her for a moment before loosening your grip.
Polly fastened the dress quietly, her fingers quick and practical. When she was finished, you reached for your shoes.
“What do you intend to do?” she asked.
“Leave.”
“You cannot go back to your home yet.”
“I know.”
“There may still be men searching for you.”
“There are men outside already. The only difference is which Shelby told them to be there.”
Polly glanced toward the window again. When she spoke, there was no scolding in her voice.
“Where will you go?”
You shook your head. “I do not know.”
“Yes, you do.” She turned toward the wardrobe and pulled down a warm coat. “You will go to Ada.”
You looked at her. “Ada?”
“She will not turn you away, and she is the one person in this family Thomas cannot intimidate by going quiet in a doorway.”
Despite everything, a small, tired breath of laughter escaped you.
“He will blame you.”
Polly helped you slip one arm into the coat, carefully avoiding your wrapped palm. “Thomas has blamed me for most things since childhood. I should miss it if he stopped.”
“And the men outside?”
“I will tell them I have sent you somewhere on my instructions. If they take issue, they can come inside and explain it directly to me.”
You glanced toward the table and the note resting there.
For a moment, you considered leaving it behind. You wanted nothing else to do with it. You did not want to carry those words into another house and allow them to follow you any farther than they already had.
But it was yours, in the same terrible way the wound on your hand was yours.
You tucked it into your coat pocket.
Polly brought you downstairs by the back staircase. Frances already had a car waiting behind the house, the driver an older man who barely lifted his eyes before opening the door for you.
“You are not coming?” you asked.
“No.” Polly straightened your coat collar once, the movement brief and neat. “If Thomas comes back to an empty bedroom and an empty house, Arthur will not be the one foolish enough to stand in front of him.”
You almost smiled.
Then the emotion rose too quickly, and you looked away before it could show too plainly.
Polly gave your arm a gentle squeeze.
“Go on, love.”
You climbed into the car alone.
As it pulled away, you looked back once at Thomas’s house. The men outside turned at the sound of the engine, but neither attempted to stop you.
Thomas returned shortly after nine.
Arthur followed him through the front door, his coat marked with mud and his expression drawn with the dull aftermath of violence. Thomas had washed his hands before coming home. He had changed nothing else. There was still a dark stain near the cuff of his shirt, hidden only until he removed his coat.
Frances met them in the hall and immediately lowered her gaze.
Thomas noticed.
“Where is Polly?”
Frances hesitated. “In the sitting room, sir.”
He turned toward the stairs instead.
His bedroom door was ajar.
The bed was empty. The breakfast tray sat untouched near the window. Your torn dress had been removed from the chair, but the blanket remained rumpled where you had slept beneath it.
The note was gone.
Arthur came up behind him and looked past his shoulder into the room.
“Oh, fuck.”
Thomas turned.
Polly was standing at the bottom of the staircase, hands folded in front of her.
“Where is she?”
“With Ada.”
His expression hardened. “You let her leave.”
“I helped her into the car.”
“She is injured.”
“She is not imprisoned.”
“There are men who know about her.”
“And she woke to find armed men outside this house without having been told a word about it.”
Thomas descended the stairs slowly.
“They were there for her protection.”
Polly held her ground. “Did you expect that to matter once she looked out of the window and saw precisely the life she had begged you not to give her?”
His jaw flexed.
“She cannot be left without protection.”
“That does not mean you decide how she lives before she is awake enough to object.”
Arthur scrubbed a hand across his mouth, then gestured toward the empty room upstairs.
“She were terrified last night. The men came into her home, the doctor gave her away, and all she kept telling you was that she did not want to live surrounded by this. Then she wakes up and finds your men outside every door.” He shook his head. “What did you think would happen?”
Thomas’s stare turned colder. “You believe I should have done nothing?”
“I believe you should have spoken to her before making her feel like she could not breathe in your house either.”
The words struck harder coming from Arthur, perhaps because he rarely found such careful accuracy when angry.
Arthur stepped down from the stair behind him, voice roughening.
“You cannot close your fist around every person you love and call it protection, Tom. Not if you want them to stay.”
For a moment, Thomas did not answer.
Then he reached for his cap from the entrance table.
“Bring the car.”
This time, Arthur went.
༺ ☾ ༻
Ada opened the door in her dressing gown with a cigarette between two fingers, annoyance already settling across her face at the interruption.
Then she saw you standing on the step alone.
The cigarette lowered.
“What has happened?”
You had managed the car journey without crying. You had managed the walk from the curb to her door, one hand tucked in your coat pocket around the folded note and the other resting lightly near your stomach.
But you could not answer that question.
Ada looked at the bandage around your palm, the coat Polly had wrapped around you, the exhaustion you knew must be plain on your face, and immediately opened the door wider.
“Come inside.”
You followed her into the front room.
She did not question you until she had brought you tea and found a blanket to put across your knees. Then she dressed quickly, tied her hair back and settled into the chair opposite you with her cigarette case near her elbow.
Once you began speaking, the story came out in pieces at first and then all at once.
You told her about discovering the pregnancy and sitting alone with it for weeks. About pulling away from Thomas because you knew exactly what would happen once he learned there was something more important than you for his enemies to threaten. About the men outside your building, the broken door, your escape through the window. About being found in Thomas’s bedroom with nowhere left to hide the truth.
Ada remained quiet, listening.
You told her about his anger, the doctor, the note that still seemed to weigh down the pocket of your coat, and waking to find men stationed around the house while Thomas was out answering danger with blood.
When you finished, your tea had gone untouched.
“He will come here,” Ada said.
“I know.”
“Do you want me to keep him out?”
You stared into the cup in front of you. “I do not know.”
“That is an answer for now.”
You drew the note from your coat pocket and set it on the table without unfolding it.
“I love him,” you said after a moment. “That is the worst part. I knew what he would do once he found out, and still some part of me wanted to tell him.”
Ada rested her cigarette in the ashtray.
“Loving my brother does not make you foolish. It only means you have unfortunately become acquainted with his way of handling anything he cannot bear to lose.”
“I wanted one thing that was not tangled up in all of this. Something nobody else could take and turn against him.”
Ada’s eyes moved briefly toward the folded note.
“Tommy loves like a man preparing for war.”
You looked down at the bandage around your hand. “I don’t want to be another war.”
“Then do not let him make you one.”
A car stopped outside before you could answer.
Ada glanced toward the front window and sighed.
“That will be him.”
Your stomach tightened.
She rose and took her cigarette with her. “Stay where you are. He does not come through this door unless you decide he may.”
A knock sounded a moment later.
Ada opened the door only partway.
Thomas stood on the step with his cap in one hand. Arthur remained near the car, smoking and looking deliberately away from the house.
“Where is she?” Thomas asked.
“Inside.”
“I need to speak to her.”
“You need to consider whether everything you want becomes necessary simply because you have decided so.”
“Ada.”
She looked down briefly at his cuff and then back to his face.
“You look exactly how she feared you would.”
His mouth tightened. “Move.”
“No.”
Thomas took one slow breath.
“She is in danger.”
“She is aware of that. She was rather thoroughly informed of it when men came through her door last night.”
“Ada—”
“She got away from the men who came after her, Tommy. She should not have to escape the house you put her in as well.”
The silence that followed reached all the way into the front room.
You closed your eyes briefly, then turned toward the doorway.
You could ask Ada to send him away. You knew she would do it without hesitation and stand there until he understood that no amount of fury would get him past her.
But you needed to hear what happened after he left you. You needed the truth, even if it only gave you more reason to be angry with him.
“Let him in,” you said.
Ada held Thomas’s gaze for another second before stepping aside.
He came into the room slowly. His eyes found you on the sofa almost immediately, moving over the blanket, the bandage around your hand and the folded note resting beside your cup.
He began to step toward you, then stopped.
Ada remained near the doorway behind him.
“What happened to Dr Pritchard?” you asked.
Thomas looked at the note rather than your face.
“He told the Hanleys you had seen him. Told them you were pregnant.”
The words still landed sharply, even though you had already known.
“Did he tell them where I lived?”
“He denies it.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No.”
You drew a slow breath through your nose.
“What did you do to him?”
“He will no longer practise in Birmingham.”
“That is not really an answer.”
“It is what I can give you.”
Your eyes shifted to the cuff of his shirt.
“And the men who came into my home?”
His silence was brief, but it was enough.
A sick ache moved through you.
“So you left me in your bed after I told you what this life does to me, and you went out and did exactly what you always do.”
“They broke into your home.”
“I know what they did.”
“They laid hands on you while you were pregnant.”
“And I was there, Tommy. I do not need you to make it sound worse so your choices seem kinder.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
“What would you have had me do?”
“Tell me.” Your voice rose despite your attempt to keep it controlled. “I would have had you tell me about the note without Polly making you. I would have had you tell me where you were going. I would have had you wait until I woke before arranging my life around your fear.”
“My fear?”
“Yes. Your fear.” You pushed the blanket aside enough to sit forward. “You did not put men at that house because I asked you to. You did it because you could not stand the thought of something happening where you could not stop it.”
“I will not apologize for trying to keep you alive.”
“I have not asked you to. I am asking you to understand why being loved by you feels so much like being watched.”
He turned his cap once in his hands, his composure narrowing around anger he was trying, and failing, to contain.
“Do you understand what I found last night?” he asked. “Your home torn apart. Your belongings on the floor. Blood across the window. I believed they had taken you, and I had no way of knowing whether I would find you alive.”
His voice had gone rougher, but you did not look away.
“Then I found you upstairs and learned there was even more to lose than I had known. You expect me to wake the next morning and pretend the danger has not changed?”
“No. I expect you to remember that I am standing inside that danger too.”
“You will be protected.”
There it was again: the decision already made, the sentence with no place for you inside it except obedience.
Your eyes filled.
“You do not even hear yourself.”
“I hear you perfectly well.”
“No, you hear the part where I could be taken from you. You do not hear what it would cost me to spend my life kept in place by your fear of losing me.”
His face hardened, hurt moving too quickly into the words that followed.
“It stopped being only your decision when you kept my baby from me.”
The room went silent.
Ada did not move behind him.
Thomas seemed to realize what he had said only after it was already between you, as if his own anger had handed him a weapon he had not meant to use until it was too late.
You stared at him.
“My baby,” you repeated quietly.
“Y/n—”
“You said it was ours last night.” Your hand moved beneath the blanket, resting instinctively where the small curve of your stomach was hidden. “Now you are angry, and suddenly it is yours. Suddenly I lost the right to choose for myself because I did not trust you soon enough.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“It is what you said.”
He stepped forward.
You moved back without thinking, your shoulders pressing into the sofa.
Thomas stopped immediately.
The hurt in his face should not have mattered in that moment. You wished it did not.
“Then I was right not to tell you,” you said.
He lowered his gaze for a second, his fingers tightening around the cap in his hand.
When he looked at you again, there was no anger left in him that could defend what he had said.
“I am sorry.”
You shook your head, the tears finally slipping loose. “Not now.”
“Y/n—”
“Please leave.”
Ada stepped forward and opened the front door.
Thomas remained where he was for another moment, his chest rising with one controlled breath. You knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to speak until the words were less final. He wanted to stay in the room until you understood that he had said it from hurt, not because he truly believed you belonged to him.
But staying after you asked him to leave would only prove the very thing he had been trying to deny.
He put on his cap.
At the door, he turned once.
You held his gaze, crying quietly now, but you did not ask him back.
Thomas stepped outside.
Ada shut the door behind him.
You remained still until the sound of his footsteps faded from the path. Then your breath broke, and you pressed your good hand over your mouth as a sob escaped you.
Ada returned to the sofa and sat beside you, pulling you against her shoulder without trying to speak too soon.
“I wanted him to be different about this,” you managed after a while.
Her hand moved slowly through your hair.
“I know.”
“I wanted him to choose me before he chose the fight.”
Ada held you a little more firmly.
For a long moment, the room was quiet except for your breathing and the faint sounds of the street beyond her windows.
Then something strange moved low in your stomach.
You drew back from Ada suddenly.
She looked at you at once. “What is it? Are you in pain?”
“No.” You pressed your hand carefully over the place where you had felt it. “I don’t know. It was just…”
You waited, hardly breathing.
There it was again, a soft fluttering sensation, so delicate you might have mistaken it for nothing if every part of you had not been paying attention.
Your eyes widened.
“I think the baby moved.”
Ada’s expression softened completely. “Oh, love.”
Another tear slipped down your cheek, but this one carried something different with it. Wonder rose through the grief so quickly it was almost painful. You kept your hand there, feeling for it again, a small laugh breaking weakly through your tears.
It was beautiful.
And it hurt, because the first person you wanted to turn toward was the same man you had just sent out of the room.
Ada seemed to understand without needing to ask. She rose quietly and moved to the front window, lifting the curtain only far enough to look into the street.
After a moment, she let it fall back into place.
“He is still outside.”
You looked up. “What?”
“He is sitting in the car across the road. Arthur has gone. Tommy has not.”
You stared toward the window.
For all his faults, for all the ways he had hurt you, Thomas had listened when you asked him to leave. He had managed the distance from Ada’s front door to his car and no farther, because leaving the room was the most he could force himself to do while you remained inside it.
Your hand stayed over your stomach.
“You do not owe him this moment,” Ada said quietly.
“I know.”
“Then only ask for him if it is what you want.”
You nodded once, gathering a breath that still trembled on the way in.
“Will you bring him in?”
Ada studied your face before reaching for the door.
“Yes.”
Thomas entered without his coat.
Either he had removed it because of the stain at his cuff or left it in the car because he did not trust himself to leave again once he came inside. His cap was held loosely in one hand. His hair had been dragged slightly out of place by his fingers, and there was a careful stillness in the way he stopped near the doorway.
Ada closed the door behind him.
“She asked for you,” she said. “Do not mistake that for permission to hurt her again.”
Thomas gave one restrained nod.
Ada left the room, though you knew she had only gone far enough to give you privacy without leaving you alone entirely.
Thomas did not move toward you.
“You asked me to come in.”
“The baby moved.”
His face changed at once.
“What?”
“Just now.” Your hand remained beneath the blanket, over the slight curve of your stomach. “I think it was the first time.”
For a moment, he looked stripped of every prepared sentence.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” You almost smiled, despite yourself. “It is a good thing.”
He nodded, his grip tightening slightly around his cap.
“Good.”
The answer was so quietly Thomas that your mouth trembled with a breath that might have become a laugh under easier circumstances.
You moved the blanket aside a little and held your uninjured hand toward him.
He approached slowly, sitting beside you only after you shifted to make room. His body remained rigid at first, as though he was afraid the smallest wrong movement would end whatever mercy had brought him back into the room.
You took his hand.
His fingers were warm against yours.
When you guided his palm to your stomach, his breath caught softly.
For several seconds, nothing happened. Thomas kept his hand entirely still beneath yours, watching where it rested as though looking hard enough might make him understand the life changing quietly below his palm.
“You may not feel anything,” you whispered. “It was very faint.”
“I can wait.”
You looked at him.
He meant it, and not only about the baby.
Then the flutter came again.
Thomas froze.
His eyes lifted to yours immediately, and for once there was no guardedness in his expression, only a quiet astonishment that made your throat tighten all over again.
You nodded.
“That was it.”
He looked down, his fingers spreading gently beneath your hand.
For a while, neither of you spoke. The note was still on the table. His words were still between you. The men who had come into your home had not disappeared from your memory simply because Thomas was now sitting close enough for you to feel his warmth beside you.
But this moment was yours to give, and you had wanted him in it.
“I am sorry,” he said eventually.
Your eyes remained on his hand.
“What I said before was wrong.” His voice stayed low and steady, but you could hear what it cost him to say each word plainly. “You carrying this baby does not mean your life belongs to me. It does not mean I can decide what happens to you because I am angry you did not tell me.”
“No,” you said quietly. “It does not.”
“I wanted to punish you for keeping me outside of something that mattered more than anything has mattered to me in a very long time.” His thumb shifted almost imperceptibly over the fabric of your dress. “That does not excuse what I said.”
You swallowed hard.
“I cannot be scared to tell you things because you might use them against me when you are hurt.”
His jaw tightened, but he nodded.
“No.”
“You cannot put men around me without telling me and expect me to call that love.”
“No.”
“I know there is danger now,” you said. “I know the note changed things. I know you will not simply leave me with no protection at all.”
“I cannot.”
The honesty of it mattered, even though it was not the answer you would have wished for.
“But I cannot wake up to guns outside every window,” you continued. “I cannot feel as though I have simply gone from being watched by your enemies to being watched by you.”
Thomas looked down for a moment.
“You will not see them at your home,” he said. “No men at your door. None outside the window. I cannot leave you without someone close enough to help if trouble comes again, but they will not be placed where you have to live with them in every room.”
You considered him.
“And you will tell me.”
“Yes.”
“Before you decide.”
“Yes.”
“You say that easily now.”
His mouth moved slightly, the shadow of something tired and rueful rather than quite a smile.
“I have recently learned what happens when I do not.”
The answer did not erase the fight. It did not pull the hurt cleanly from you.
But it made room for the possibility that he understood it.
“I am still angry with you,” you said.
“You should be.”
“I do not forgive you simply because you apologized.”
“I know.”
“And I do not know what happens after tonight.”
Thomas lowered his eyes to the place his hand still rested beneath yours.
“Then I will not ask for after tonight.”
The baby moved again.
This time, he was ready for it.
His breath caught in a small, involuntary sound, and the look that crossed his face made fresh tears gather in your eyes. Not because everything had been repaired in one conversation. Not because the danger outside Ada’s house had disappeared, or because the man sitting beside you had suddenly learned all the right ways to love someone.
But because, for the first time since you had discovered you were pregnant, you were not alone with the enormity of it.
Thomas lifted his eyes to yours.
“I love you,” he said.
There was nothing theatrical in the way he spoke. No softness put on for your sake. He said it like a truth he had held back too long and had finally understood he no longer deserved to keep unspoken.
Your lips parted, but he continued.
“I should have told you before this. Before you believed there was no place beside me that would not cost you more than you could bear. Before you had to decide whether it was safer to have our baby without me.”
Tears slipped quietly down your face.
“I love you too,” you said. “That does not make this easy.”
“No.”
“It does not make me yours to manage.”
“No.”
“And it does not make what happened disappear.”
Thomas shook his head once.
“No.”
Your hand remained over his, holding him to the place where the baby had moved beneath his palm.
“May I stay?” he asked after a while.
You looked at him for a long moment.
At the cap forgotten against his knee. At the bruising across his hand. At the man who had hurt you and angered you and still left when you told him to go. He had returned now only because you had asked for him.
“Tonight,” you said.
Something eased in his face.
“Tonight.”
From the next room, Ada called, “The sofa remains the only place available to you, Thomas.”
The smallest laugh escaped you through your tears.
Thomas closed his eyes for half a second. “Of course it does.”
You leaned your head gently against his shoulder.
He remained very still at first. Then, carefully, his cheek rested against your hair and his hand stayed beneath yours over the small curve of your stomach.
Outside, Birmingham had not changed. The men who bore Thomas Shelby’s name or hated it had not become kinder. The future had not been made simple by an apology, and neither of you was foolish enough to pretend otherwise.
But Thomas did not order a car. He did not tell you where you would sleep or what tomorrow would require. He did not try to take the moment from you simply because he loved what it held.
He sat beside you in Ada’s front room, quiet and careful, his hand warm beneath yours when the baby moved once more.
This time, you let him stay because you wanted him there. And for the first time since he learned the truth, Thomas understood that loving you would mean waiting to be chosen.
