cissa

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.

-

— I am pleased, — he said, his voice flat, devoid of any vestige of heartache. — It is always good to see people get what they want. Success suits you.

— Thank you, — she shot back promptly, with a light, gelid smile, sustaining his gaze without blinking. — Success is what happens when you decide not to settle for what Birmingham has to offer. Some lives simply become too grand to fit inside this city.

Thomas tilted his head slightly. His face remained a stone wall, yet his blue eyes grew a fraction colder.

— A grand life in France, — he commented, his tone laced with an almost cutting pragmatism. — Funny. I have been to Paris, Eleanor. All I saw there were people desperately trying to forget the past through luxury. But if the applause of the French is enough for you, who am I to judge?

Eleanor felt her stomach tie itself in a knot at his dig. Trying to forget the past, yet she refused to yield. She took a few steps forward, facing him closer. She was so near she could catch his breath in a mixture of whiskey and tobacco. The gazes of the two of them flashing against each other.

— It is more than enough for me, Thomas. I had the career I planned, the place I wanted, and the freedom I chose. I didn't need to build a betting empire or buy half a city through fear to feel safe. — She shook her head, delivering the final blow with a devastating calmness. — Now, if you will excuse me... Have a good night. The ball is impeccable. Mrs. Shelby must be missing you in the ballroom.

She turned her back on him, keeping her stride firm, without looking back, leaving him alone in the dim light with his whiskey glass in hand.

Eleanor's urge was to scream. To strike him. To demand what he was thinking and what he wanted with all of this.

Six years since the last time they had spoken, and he had the nerve to address her with irony, as if time had not passed, as if he had not built a family with another woman. How dared he invite her to that cursed party, agree to have her settle into the routine of his business using his wife's goodwill, and still go after her to ask about Paris? Thomas Shelby was an absolute scoundrel.

When she finally arrived home, Eleanor went straight to her bedroom. She stripped off the black dress, removed her makeup, and stepped into the shower. She let the hot water cascade over her hair while wrapping her arms around her own body. The alcohol from the champagne was beginning to take effect. Her skin turned numb and her vision began to blur, causing the bathroom to spin.

About twenty minutes later, she turned off the shower and slipped into a white nightgown, seeking refuge beneath the sheets of her bed.

Yet sleep seemed impossible. Eleanor sat up, pulling her knees to her chest while her mind insisted on betraying her. It was a tangle of thoughts that always led back to the same place: Thomas.

The images in her mind came in disconnected blurs, traveling between yesterday and now. She relived the months spent by Thomas’s side, their hidden encounters, the intimacy, the declarations of love. And then Grace would appear, with her pregnancy belly drawing every eye, his hand sliding across it as he pressed a kiss upon his wife. She remembered the nights she had spent wide awake in Paris, following nightmares that haunted her for days: ones where she realized she had made the wrong choice.

Tears burned behind her eyes before streaming down her cheeks. They were silent, yet deafening on the inside. Every drop that traced her face was proof that Eleanor would not be able to sustain the lie to herself, the lie that she had moved on.

But she had tried. Fuck, how she had tried. She had forced herself every single day in Paris to do just that, but it had been futile. Thomas, who had remained hidden from her thoughts for six years, was now returning to orbit them as though he had never left.

Eleanor wiped her face with violence. She refused to accept that this was happening. Perhaps it was just confusion from returning to the city after so long. She lay back down in bed and closed her eyes, repeating this to herself over and over.

Going down for breakfast was the very first battle Eleanor needed to win. She did not want to leave her room, she did not want to see her brother, and she did not want to speak of the previous night’s ball. Three things that seemed impossible to avoid. She even managed to sit up in bed to get up, but sank right back beneath the sheets, covering herself up to her face. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, wishing to fall back asleep.

The four knocks on the door were followed by the voice of the house housekeeper:

— Eleanor? Is everything alright?

— Hi, Martha, — her voice came out low, almost in a groan, as she uncovered her face, returning to the real world. — Yes, yes… I’m fine.

— I grew worried since you hadn’t come down yet. The table is still set should you wish to have breakfast.

— I will change and come down for breakfast. Don’t worry. Thank you.

Without a shred of willingness, Eleanor got out of bed and made her way to her private bathroom. She washed her face, trying to erase the weariness her countenance revealed, brushed her teeth, and returned to the bedroom. She chose a long-sleeved, light blue dress, discreet, which had absolutely nothing to do with the attire from the night before.

It was already past eleven in the morning. She took a deep breath before opening the door and slipped through the hallway, descending the stairs slowly, almost in a protest. She dragged herself against her own will to the dining room, where Elliot sat at the head of the table reading the newspaper.

— Morning, sleeping beauty, — he looked at his sister over the newspaper before lowering the paper and placing it on the other side of the table. — I was getting worried, you always wake up so early.

— I just wanted to sleep in a bit later, Elliot, — she poured the coffee into the porcelain cup, shrugging. — You didn’t need to worry.

— Oh, I wanted to as well. I have quite a headache, — he said with an amused smile upon his lips. — They know how to drink like no one else. I don't even know how I managed to get home.

— Did you drive yourself? — It was a question disguised as an assertion, since Eleanor already knew the answer. She rolled her eyes before continuing. — You could have crashed. And then, besides our father, I would have to worry about your funeral too.

— Heavens, El! — Elliot shook his head, making the sign of the cross over his body. — Don’t worry, little sister. I arrived in one piece, with no limbs missing.

Eleanor did not answer. She kept her eyes fixed upon the steam rising from her porcelain cup, her fingers wrapping around the warmth of the coffee, without looking at him.

— By the way, you were quite a hit yesterday! — Elliot began, enthusiastically, as he spread jam onto his toast. — Several people came to ask me about you. Important people, you know? Wanting to know about Paris, the ballet…

— I am glad that people in this city now take an interest in ballet, — she replied, her velvety tone of voice laced with a subtle irony that went completely unnoticed by her brother.

— Speaking of which, El… Grace asked me to talk to you about the classes at the Institute…

Eleanor set her cup down upon the saucer with a sharp clatter, cutting him off before he could continue.

— Oh, Elliot, I would like to have my coffee in peace, without having to talk about business.

— No, El! Seriously, listen, — he insisted, leaning forward across the table. — Grace was enchanted by you, by your talent and your background. And the Institute is such a noble thing…

Grace was enchanted by you. The phrase echoed in Eleanor’s mind like a distorted eco. The irony of it almost made her laugh out loud. The woman who was bearing the child of the man she loved, the woman who wore the surname that had been offered to her, was enchanted. Grace was so genuinely good and charitable that it made everything even more unbearable; it was impossible to hate her, which turned her very existence into a perfect torture.

— Elliot, please... — Eleanor tried to intervene, her voice a fraction lower, yet he continued, obstinate.

— You yourself complain that people here don’t care for ballet and art, this is the chance to change that. It is the perfect job for you. El, it wouldn’t just be about teaching, it’s about transforming the city’s relationship with ballet… And I am certain you will hate staying home all day, doing nothing. There, besides being able to dance, you will get paid for it. It will be like the Opera, only with less pressure, with you leading and in Birmingham.

Eleanor averted her gaze toward the window, watching the thin, gray rain that was beginning to fall. Comparing the rooms of the Shelbys' charity foundation to the splendor of the Paris Opera was almost an insult, yet she remained in silence, feeling the perimeter close in around her.

— Besides, El... — Elliot lowered his tone of voice, adopting an almost confidential and emotional air. — Think of our family. Of the children you will have, and the nieces and nephews too. Thomas is madly in love with his wife, if you accept this request from Grace, he will sign the contract with us. I have no doubt.

The world seemed to stop for a second.

Of the children you will have. The phrase struck her like a physical blow. Elliot sketched that idyllic future with a cruel ease, completely blind to the fact that Eleanor could never imagine herself building a legitimate family while her mind remained chained to the past. And then, the coup de grâce: Thomas is madly in love with his wife.

Eleanor’s stomach turned in a violent, real, and physical nausea. The taste of the coffee grew bitter in her mouth. Hearing from her own brother’s lips, with such naturalness, the blatant confirmation of Thomas’s love and devotion for Grace was like watching a blade being twisted in her chest. She was being reduced to a bargaining chip; a bait to soften the gangster through the whims of his perfect wife. Thomas would use Grace’s desire to grant Elliot the contract, and she would be the pawn forced to wander the corridors of that Institute, watching from up close what should have been left behind.

She closed her eyes for two seconds, breathing deeply through her nose, forcing the bile and the pain back down into her stomach. When she opened her eyes, the fragility was gone, replaced by a gelid coldness.

— You truly have no scruples, do you, Elliot? — she said, her voice coming out cutting, cold as ice. She pushed her breakfast plate aside, completely losing her appetite. — You are using my career and my face to soften the city’s gangster and secure your signatures.

Elliot blinked, caught off guard by the rawness of his sister’s words, and straightened his posture, looking uncomfortable.

— El, I am only thinking of our future... of what is best for us. It is what our father would do.

Eleanor let out a short laugh, devoid of any hint of humor, and rose from her chair with her usual haughty elegance. She adjusted her hair over her shoulders, looking down upon her brother. She knew she was cornered. If she refused, Elliot would keep insisting and she would look like a spoiled, proud woman to the rest of the city. If she accepted... well, she would play Thomas’s game. She would enter his territory, but it would be under her own terms.

— Fine, I accept, — Eleanor decreed, keeping her chin high and her voice perfectly controlled. — I will structure the classes for the girls at the Institute. But warn your precious business partner, Thomas Shelby, that it will be under my rules.

— Brilliant, El! Thank you. I can go with you to sign the contract and…

Before Elliot could continue, Eleanor spun on her heels and left the dining room, her firm steps echoing through the hallway as she mentally prepared herself to walk, headfirst, straight into the lion's den.

Walking up the stairs toward her bedroom, the sound of her own heels against the wood felt like a countdown. Since she was going to enter this game after all, it was better to settle it now. But she would not go to the Institute, for she knew he wouldn’t be there. To seal the agreement that would save her family and make Grace adore her, Eleanor would have to go straight to the source. To the Shelby Company. To Thomas’s office. But she would do it alone. Without Elliot meddling and making her act once more for the sake of the family instead of herself. If Grace and Thomas insisted on her classes at the Institute, she would give them. But it would not be easy, and it would not be under their rules.

Eleanor opened her wardrobe doors with a controlled urgency. She needed her armor. No fluid silk or flashy dresses like the night before; she wanted to be taken seriously. She chose a tailored skirt suit in dark tweed, impeccably cut and structured, drawing a silhouette that was haughty and inaccessible. While buttoning her coat and adjusting her black kidskin gloves, her thoughts waged a silent battle. She looked at herself in the mirror, fixing her hair with narrowed eyes. Autonomy, she repeated to herself. If Thomas thought he could use her as a decorative pawn to please Grace’s charity projects, he was tragically mistaken. She would enter that office and face the man who occupied her thoughts disguised as a businessman, but not as the girl he had left behind—rather as a Montague who demanded irrevocable terms.

An hour later, the black car pulled up in front of the family mansion.

— The taxi is waiting, El! — Elliot’s voice echoed from downstairs, anxious, almost childlike in his ambition. — Are you sure you don’t want me to come along? I understand contracts, I know Thomas, I can help negotiate…

— I understand ballet, Elliot. Worry about the family business, not mine.

She walked past her brother and crossed the main door, stepping into the car that awaited her.

The journey to the commercial heart of the Shelbys cut through Birmingham in a way that made Eleanor’s stomach contract. Sitting in the back seat of the taxi, her eyes fixed upon the window blurred by the morning's smoke and fog, she watched the city pass by like a reel of an old film.

Passing through those streets was like leafing through a diary she had tried to burn. There was the gray corner where she used to wait for him while hiding from the rain, her heart racing at the mere sound of a horse’s hooves. Further along, the peeling outline of the Small Heath warehouses, which once smelled of coal, sweat, and the cheap tobacco Thomas used to smoke before he struck it rich. She remembered when she was young, terribly young and naive, walking along those very same cobblestones without fear of shootings or razor blades, because Thomas Shelby’s hand was firmly locked in her own. In those days, danger felt like a romantic adventure, and his love, a fortress. What folly. The Birmingham of her youth was an illusion that had cost far too much.

The taxi slowed down, bringing her abruptly back to the present.

— We have arrived, Miss Montague, — the driver announced, looking at her through the rearview mirror with a hint of fearful respect as he faced the imposing building of the Shelby Company.

Eleanor blinked, banishing the ghosts, and took a deep breath. His office was no longer a wooden door amidst crumbling buildings; it was a structure of dark brick, immense smoked-glass windows, and iron beams that exuded power and legitimate money. Men in flat caps and long coats guarded the entrance, yet their posture now was that of corporate security, not alleyway thugs.

The ballerina stepped out, holding her handbag against her body, her coat perfectly aligned and her hair brushed over her shoulders. She raised her chin, adjusted her bag beneath her arm, and walked toward the grand entrance doors.

The secretary at the reception of the Shelby Company barely raised her eyes from the paperwork when Eleanor crossed the threshold, completely alone. The environment exuded the heavy bureaucracy of a consolidated empire: the mechanical clatter of three typewriters working at the same time, the scent of strong coffee, letterhead, and cigarette smoke that seemed embedded in the dark wood walls.

Eleanor introduced herself at the reception and watched as the woman followed the corridor to the large oak door and returned seconds later.

— Miss Montague, — she said, her voice devoid of any warmth, gesturing toward a worn leather Chesterfield sofa near the wall. — Mr. Shelby is finishing the review of some contracts. Please wait. He will call you as soon as he is through.

Eleanor sat down, keeping her back rigidly away from the sofa’s backrest, her dark tweed skirt perfectly aligned. Without her brother to fill the silence with anxious murmurs or impatient pacing, the emptiness of the reception seemed to swallow her. She was entirely on her own.

The minutes began to drag with a sadistic slowness.

Coming from the heavy oak door of Thomas’s office, just a few feet from where she sat, not a single note of a voice leaked through the gaps in the wood. The silence emanating from within was absolute, dense, and impassable. Eleanor knew he was there, locked away alone with his papers, yet the absence of any sound—no scraping of a chair, no clearing of a throat, no indication of movement—made his presence even more oppressive. It was as if Thomas operated in a vacuum of power, perfectly focused, untouchable, letting the void of the corridor do the work of wearing her down.

The pendulum clock on the reception wall emitted a loud, mechanical tick-tock that seemed to hammer directly into Eleanor’s temples. She crossed her legs, keeping her hands firmly clasped over her lap.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then, half an hour.

The tension in the room grew to the point of making the air almost suffocating for Eleanor, yet she remained motionless, the impeccable posture of an Opera ballerina. Her brown eyes fixed upon the minute hand of the wall clock. She saw the exact moment when a full hour of waiting was completed.

It was there, staring at that dark wood and that calculated, deathly silence, that it finally clicked. A wave of heat mixed with disdain rose through Eleanor’s chest.

Thomas Shelby was doing this on purpose.

There was no complex analysis of contracts that justified that absolute isolation. There was no real bureaucratic emergency that would keep a Montague waiting on a reception sofa for sixty minutes without a single sign of life coming from inside the room. This was a power play. It was the most purely Thomas Shelby tactic in existence: he was using time like a rope, tightening it slowly around her neck to remind her of who ruled that city, of who owned the chessboard. He wanted her to wait. He wanted her to grow anxious, to lose her composure, to falter before the door even opened. He wanted to remind her that, in his world, time ran under his command.

Eleanor took a deep breath through her nose, her lips pressed into a thin line and her fingers gripping the strap of her handbag tightly. Thomas thought he knew her, thought that this silent waiting game would make her bend her knees or enter that room unprepared. But if he wanted a war of attrition, she would show him that ballet had taught her the art of patience.

The oak door finally opened with a heavy click, and the secretary nodded toward her, announcing:

— Mr. Shelby will see you now, Miss Montague.

Eleanor rose from the Chesterfield sofa without haste, adjusted the hang of her coat, and walked toward the office entrance. Each of her steps was an exercise in self-control. As she crossed the threshold, the room that opened before her eyes made her falter for a fraction of a second.

Thomas’s new office was a silent declaration of war against the past.

It was visibly far more luxurious than that small room in a crumbling building in Small Heath. The hardwood floor was now covered by thick, dark Persian rugs; the walls were paneled in polished rosewood and illuminated by sconces of genuine bronze. Yet, above all, the place was colder. There was none of the chaotic warmth of the old days, no trace of coal dust or the rowdiness of bookmakers at the door. It was terrifyingly more organized, with files lined up down to the millimeter upon the dark bookshelf, and it exuded something far more dangerous: power. A legitimate, corporate power, shielded by the law and by mountains of money. It was the den of a man who had learned to get what he wanted using pens and contracts, rather than razor blades.

But, as Eleanor took her first steps into the center of the room, the shock of luxury began to give way to a much more subtle realization.

Beneath all that aristocratic opulence, the office still held his traces. The details that money could not erase.

At the corner of the immense wooden desk, a spiral of gray smoke rose from a cigarette burning alone in the crystal ashtray, exactly as he always did when he was focused on something. Behind the desk, the imposing leather backrest of the chair was the same old, worn model he refused to replace. On the sidewall, the very same clock, whose hurried tick-tock she would recognize with her eyes closed, dictated the rhythm of the room. And, at the far end, the same typical high colonial window, looking out over the gray chimneys of Birmingham, where he used to lean to smoke in silence.

An uncomfortable, electrifying sensation shot up Eleanor’s spine. That office was the living proof of a disturbing paradox: Thomas Shelby had changed drastically, yet, deep down, where it mattered, he remained exactly the same.

He remained seated behind the immense desk. He did not even raise his eyes when Eleanor took her final step into the room, keeping his attention fixed upon the paper before him, his fountain pen gliding with surgical precision.

The office’s silence was almost total, broken only by the scratching of metal against paper and the ticking of the clock. But it was not just their presence that filled that void. There was a third person there besides the two of them, an invisible, yet suffocating presence that seemed to occupy every single millimeter of the room without needing to be physically present.

Grace was everywhere.

Eleanor’s eyes, trained to catch the subtlest nuances of the stage, began to scan the room, and every small piece of evidence felt like a clean cut to her pride.

Upon the desk rested a small, gleaming silver picture frame: a photograph of Thomas and Grace on their wedding day, their heads slightly tilted toward each other. Near the window, a porcelain vase displayed a fresh arrangement of white lilies—delicate, romantic flowers that clearly would never have been chosen by his brute, pragmatic taste. On the backrest of the corner Chesterfield sofa, a poetry book with a worn spine had been left open face down, as if someone had been interrupted in the middle of reading. And the quietest blow of all: a woman’s coat of light wool hanging casually from the coat rack near the door.

They were small markings of territory. Everyday, domestic evidence that there was a woman occupying spaces that, in another life, could have been hers. Eleanor said nothing. She did not knit her brow. She merely tucked that realization deep within her chest, feeling the air grow a fraction heavier.

It was then that Thomas finally set down the pen. The clatter of the object against the wood echoed through the room.

He leaned back in his ancient leather chair, his long fingers intertwining over his abdomen. His blue gaze rose slowly, focused, yet completely devoid of the predatory fire from the night before. There was an indifference so exaggerated in his posture that it bordered on the theatrical. He stared at her as if he were facing a customs inspector or a London tax collector.

— Miss Montague, — he said, his voice coming out perfectly formal, dragging her surname as if raising a stone wall between the two of them.

He did not rise from his chair. He made no gesture to offer a seat or to show the slightest courtesy that the Montague name usually demanded.

— I apologize for the delay, — he continued, pulling the black leather folder to the center of the desk, treating the meeting as a mere business formality. — I believe you have come regarding the position of dance instructor at the Grace Shelby Institute. I have the contract here. Can we be brief? I have other commitments with the board of a distributorship in twenty minutes.

The theater was set. Thomas Shelby wanted to play the game of corporate coldness, feigning that the woman in dark tweed before him was nothing more than a new hire in his empire.

Eleanor took a slow step forward, the subtle sound of her heel against the Persian rug breaking the rigidity Thomas was trying to impose upon the room. She looked at the black leather folder he had pushed forward with such indifference and, then, raised her eyes to meet his gaze directly.

There was no surprise in his face. Not a glimpse. In fact, the folder was already there, meticulously positioned upon the desk before she had even crossed the threshold. Thomas Shelby had not only anticipated her move; he had waited for it with absolute certainty. He knew she would accept.

That silent self-confidence, that pretension that he could still predict her every step, made Eleanor’s blood boil beneath her skin. Yet she did not falter. Instead of being intimidated by the ice he threw across the table, she allowed a thin, purely ironic smile to trace the corner of her lips.

— I thought you would at least feign respect after six years, Thomas, — she shot back, her voice coming out calm, yet laced with a cutting audacity. She ignored his “Miss Montague,” letting his first name echo through the room as a reminder that no walls could erase what they once had been. — But I see that the high-society etiquette your wife praises so highly has yet to strip away the old habits of Small Heath. May I sit?

Thomas’s jaw moved minutely, the ember of the cigarette in the ashtray glowing as the silence expanded. He reached out, picked up the fountain pen, and offered it to her with a mechanical gesture.

— You may, of course, — he replied expressionlessly, ignoring the brush between them as she took the pen from his hands. — And do not worry, Miss Montague, I respect my employees very much.

Eleanor looked at him, swallowing hard upon hearing him refer to her as an employee, yet she did not answer. Thomas picked up the leather folder from the desk once more and extended it toward her.

— The contract is ready, you may read it before signing, — he said, his voice drawn out, his blue eyes fixed upon her, cold and knowing.

— I am afraid you will need to draft another one. There are a few clauses I would like to add, and since Mrs. Shelby insisted so much on me being the teacher, I believe you won't object, will you? — Eleanor crossed her legs and returned the pen to the desk, ignoring his outstretched hand with the folder in midair, a dry smile upon her lips. He would have to play her game now. — It would be a pity to have to tell her that I won't be giving the classes due to the contract offered to me.

Thomas dropped the folder onto the desk and leaned back in his chair, staring at Eleanor.

— I demand total autonomy in my space, — she dictated, each word coming out measured, firm, and sharp. — That room will be my territory. I do not want the Peaky Blinders or anyone else interfering in my dance studio. The arts pavilion will be a strictly technical and private environment, Thomas; I presume your business schedule does not include visits to my routine. Oh, and you will sign the coal mines contract with my brother. Have you recorded each of my demands, or do you need me to repeat them?

Thomas remained leaning back in his ancient leather chair, maintaining the same unshakeable pose of a businessman. He did not move, he did not lean forward, and he did not even take his hands out of his trousers pockets. However, the silence that settled over the office following Eleanor’s words was almost palpable, stretching to the absolute limit before he decided to break it.

He picked up the cigarette from the ashtray and drew from it one last time, letting the red ember consume the remainder of the tobacco, and exhaled the smoke slowly through his nose, creating a thin mist between the two of them. His blue eyes, cold and calculating, narrowed subtly as he absorbed her audacity.

The corner of Thomas’s lips moved into an almost imperceptible, dark half-smile—that very same look of someone who has already foreseen the checkmate long before the opponent even touches the first piece.

— I have an excellent memory, Miss Montague, — Thomas replied, cutting through the air with a calmness that contrasted with the rawness of his words. — Each of your... conditions is duly recorded. The arts pavilion is yours. My men know how to read the signs of Birmingham and they will not cross your threshold, just as my business schedule is, indeed, far too busy for me to waste time watching ballet rehearsals. As for your brother... the coal mines contract is already in the folder, with the terms he so desperately begged to secure. I honor my agreements.

Thomas tilted his head slightly, his gaze dropping deliberately to the fountain pen resting between them, before rising once more to lock onto her brown eyes with a gelid intensity.

— The only thing missing from this room for your brother to get what he wants... is your signature. We won't waste time, will we?

Before Eleanor could answer, Thomas reached out and pressed the button on the intercom upon the desk. The beep echoed short in the room's silence.

— Come in, — he commanded, his husky voice devoid of any haste.

The office door opened almost instantly, and the secretary crossed the threshold with a notepad in hand and an impeccable posture. Thomas did not even look at the woman; he kept his eyes fixed upon Eleanor as he dictated the new orders.

— Prepare a new document for Miss Montague. Include a clause of exclusivity and total autonomy for the arts pavilion. No employee of the company or the distributorship is authorized to wander through the rehearsal rooms without her express permission. And attach her brother's coal mines draft to the main package. Maximum priority. I want it printed in ten minutes.

The secretary nodded with a quick bow, noting the instructions with precision before spinning on her heels and leaving the room, closing the door with a muffled click right behind her.

The moment the latch clicked shut, a dense and deathly silence descended upon the office.

The atmosphere became almost suffocating. Eleanor remained static, her hands firmly clasped over her handbag, sustaining Thomas’s gaze with a cutting coldness. They stared at one another fixedly, without uttering a single word, in a mute contest of wills where blinking first would seem like a surrender. The tick-tock of the wall clock seemed to count the seconds of that psychological impasse.

Breaking the rigidity of the moment, Thomas pushed his leather chair back and rose to his feet. He walked with slow, measured steps to the sideboard in the corner of the room, where crystal bottles gleamed beneath the dim light. The sound of cut glass echoed as he removed the stopper from one of the decanters and poured a generous pour of amber whiskey into a low glass.

Before bringing the glass to his lips, he turned his body halfway, discreetly raising the bottle in her direction in a mute invitation.

— No, thank you, — Eleanor denied promptly. She did not even blink, refusing any vestige of intimacy or hospitality that came from him.

Thomas accepted the refusal without altering a single line of his expression. He took a slow sip of the whiskey, feeling the liquid burn his throat, and walked back to his desk. He sat down again in the old leather chair and, without haste, set the glass aside.

Then, he leaned slightly forward, his shoulder dipping toward the large side drawer of the desk. The sound of wood sliding on its tracks echoed through the office as he opened the deep compartment and began searching for something inside, feeling the bottom with his long fingers, brushing aside some old papers and spare cigarette packs, searching for something with a surgical, almost indifferent calmness.

Eleanor froze for a second, her silhouette rigid yet curious. She turned her body slowly, lifting the bag that had previously rested on her lap and adjusting it beneath her arm, just to have something to do, feigning that his action did not matter to her. She knit her brow slightly when he closed the drawer with a firm nudge of his knee, causing a dull thud that seemed to vibrate in her stomach, and returned to her initial posture. His hand rose to the top of the desk, bringing a small piece of dark fabric, carefully folded. He extended it toward her.

Her brown eyes traced the object still in his hands. Her heart raced with violence as she took the cloth from his grasp and recognized the black lace.

— I thought I had lost this on the way home that night, — she said, her voice coming out in an almost involuntary whisper, her guard dropping for a millisecond.

It was her black lace gloves. The gloves she wore six years ago.

The visual impact was like a punch to the solar plexus.

— You didn't.

Eleanor was left completely shattered. His answer, so short and definitive, was the trigger that was missing. Instantly, without needing to think, Eleanor’s mind was hurled into the past. She remembered, with terrifying clarity, that night. She remembered the scent of rain mixed with sweat on skin, his delicate and desperate touch against her body in the darkness of that tiny office, and the way they had undressed with the urgency of those who knew time was running out. And she remembered, above all, the chaotic haste with which she threw her clothes back on, the fear of arriving home too late and being caught, which had made her leave the office so hurriedly she never even realized she had left the glove behind. She remembered every single detail. And the fact that the memory came with such devastating immediacy was living proof that she, too, had never forgotten.

She thought time had put an end to it. But no. Thomas had kept it. For six years.

Thomas did not look at the glove. Not for a single second. He did not stare at the fabric with nostalgia, he made no emotional speech, and he did not explain why it was kept in the drawer of his new and luxurious corporate office. He simply delivered it, his face completely stoic, treating the piece of lace with the same rawness he would use to hand over a stack of receipts.

Eleanor swallowed hard, forcing her armor to rebuild itself over her aching chest. She slipped the gloves into her coat pocket as though they did not matter, though her fingers were slightly trembling.

— Did you keep this to use against me one day? — she questioned, her voice cutting. — To remind me of what I used to be before I gained some sense?

— I kept it because it was mine. It was in my building, — Thomas said, leaning back in his leather chair, his blue eyes narrowing subtly through the haze of smoke from the cigarette he had just lit. He paused before continuing. — You spent years in Paris pretending this place never existed… You changed your accent, changed your clothes, lived your freedom… But the moment your brother needed money to keep your family afloat, you came right back to my office. Your Montague pride has a very convenient price.

Eleanor felt the blow, yet she did not allow her posture to waver a single millimeter. Instead, she deliberately averted her gaze across the room, letting it pass over the light wool coat hanging on the rack and the poetry book forgotten on the sofa, until locking it upon the gleaming silver picture frame where Grace smiled by his side.

— I wonder what Mrs. Shelby would say if she knew what you hide in that drawer… — she barbed, arching an eyebrow with disdain.

Thomas’s jaw tightened. His gaze hardened instantly, and he set the glass of whiskey that had almost reached his lips down upon the desk with a thud a fraction firmer than he intended.

— My wife, — Thomas began, his voice dropping to an almost whispered, yet steadfast tone, — has my respect, my surname, and my love, Miss Montague. What was in that drawer is merely a piece of old cloth that fell onto the floor of an office that doesn't even exist anymore. Do not alter the importance of things. That is the past. And the only person in this room who seems frightened by the weight of it, is you.

Eleanor merely stared back at him, impassive. She noticed the defensive gleam in his eyes, the haste in trying to diminish the glove precisely because it meant everything. She smiled from the corner of her lips, with a devastating superiority.

— If it were merely a piece of old cloth, you would have thrown it in the trash six years ago, Thomas. But you kept it. And that makes all of this rather pathetic.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the rhythmic sound of papers being organized on the other side of the door broke the tension hanging in the air. The secretary re-entered the room, bringing with her the subtle aroma of fresh ink and newly printed paper. She walked with discreet steps to the desk, deposited the new contract perfectly aligned before Thomas, and, with a silent nod, withdrew from the office, closing the door behind her.

Thomas wasted no time. With a mechanical movement devoid of any sentimentalism, he slid the redrafted document across the rosewood tabletop, making it stop exactly before Eleanor. Beside the sheets, he positioned the cold metal fountain pen.

— Your autonomy clauses and the coal mines agreement, — he said, his voice husky and firm, his blue eyes fixed upon her as if challenging any further hesitation. — It is all there. You may sign.

Eleanor looked at the paper. The black ink drew her destiny and officially bound her to the Shelbys' orbit for the coming weeks. She felt her stomach contract and, for an instant, the haughtiness of Paris seemed to waver before the weight of that signature.

She extended her hand clad in the kidskin glove, grasping the metal body of the pen. Before touching the nib’s point to the paper, Eleanor hesitated for a fraction of a second. She raised her chin, fixing her brown eyes upon an invisible point on the wall, and voiced the thought in a low, firm tone, which served much more as a shield and a reminder to herself than as a justification for the man before her:

— I am doing this for my family.

It was her protective mantra. The certainty that no whim of the past was bringing her back, but rather a duty of blood.

With a swift, elegant, and perfectly controlled penmanship, she signed her own name at the foot of the page. The final scratch echoed like a verdict in the office's silence. She set the pen down with a sharp clatter upon the desk, gathered her copy of the document, and adjusted her handbag beneath her arm, ready to turn her back on that place once and for all.

She straightened her posture, turned about, and walked resolutely toward the exit. Yet, just before touching the doorknob, Thomas’s voice reached her, cutting through the space like a military command.

— Miss Montague, one more thing.

Eleanor stopped, but she did not turn around completely. She merely looked in profile over her shoulder. Thomas had risen to his feet. He stood behind the desk, his hands resting in his trousers pockets, his dark silhouette framed by the chimneys of Birmingham through the window. His blue gaze was narrowed and dangerously focused upon her.

— Do not look at me that way again in front of my wife.

The silence that followed was dense. Eleanor processed the phrase, feeling the absurdity of that demand mix with the anger that was beginning to replace the shock of the memory. The man who kept her Small Heath gloves in his drawer was trying to dictate the rules of her glances to protect the facade of his perfect marriage.

Eleanor let out a short, purely sarcastic laugh, shaking her head negatively as a wave of absolute disdain rose through her chest.

— You are unbelievable, Thomas, — she shot back, her tone of voice steeped in a refined mockery. — If your ego needs you to believe that in order to sleep at night, be my guest. I have better things to do.

She did not wait for a response. Eleanor simply turned the doorknob, threw the door open firmly, and stepped out, slamming the heavy oak shut right behind her and leaving Thomas Shelby talking entirely to himself in the dim light of his office.

The heavy click of the oak door shutting behind her back seemed to cut off the oxygen in the corridor. Eleanor took only three steps away from Thomas’s office before her legs threatened to give way.

She stopped abruptly in the middle of the deserted hallway, leaning lightly against the plaster wall. The impeccable posture she had sustained with such effort before him crumbled completely.

Eleanor closed her eyes, a sharp, sudden dizziness making the corridor seem to spin. She drew in air sharply through her nose, yet her chest rose and fell in a chaotic rhythm, suffocated by a wave of anguish rising from the pit of her stomach. She raised her right hand to steady herself against the wall and noticed, with a mixture of anger and dread, that her fingers were trembling violently inside the black kidskin.

The impact had not been his arrogance. It had been that cursed glove. The fact that he had kept it for six years had shattered her inside.

Feeling a terrible chill run through her veins, Eleanor thrust both hands deep into her coat pockets. Her fingers fumbled through the fabric until they found the rough, ancient lace of the recovered glove. She squeezed the cloth tightly against the palm of her hand, and the touch of the embroidery was the trigger for the barriers of her mind to give way for good.

The memory of that first night did not come merely as cold images; it came as an overwhelming sensory avalanche that buried her right there, in the middle of the corridor. She felt the suffocating heat of that old office, the harsh scent of tobacco mixed with the raw desperation with which his hands had pulled her in. She felt the avassalating intensity of the surrender, the chaotic haste with which she gathered her clothes, in a trance from the weight of what had just occurred. A night she knew all too well where it had led her.

That night... that exact sequence of events and the state in which she had left that place had triggered far too many things. They had changed the course of her life in a way Thomas Shelby could not even fathom. To remember all of it so brutally, brought back to the present by a whim of his, was far too painful. It felt like an old wound being reopened in cold blood.

A solitary, hot tear escaped the corner of her eye, and Eleanor wiped it away quickly with the back of her gloved hand, horrified by her own vulnerability.

Compose yourself, she demanded of herself, her teeth digging into her lower lip until she tasted the metallic tang of blood. You will not crumble here.

She forced her lungs to accept a slower flow of air, counting the seconds in her mind as she fought to push the ghost of that night back into the cellar of her memories. She felt the trembling of her fingers gradually subside inside her pocket, though her heart still hammered painfully against her ribs.

Eleanor swallowed hard, straightened her spine vertebra by vertebra, and raised her chin, forcing the rigidity to bond to her face once more like a porcelain mask. She adjusted the hang of her tweed coat, ensured the contract papers were secure beneath her arm, and began to walk again.

Upon reaching the main lobby, Eleanor fumbled with the bag under her arm, attempting clumsily to open the metal clasp to tuck the recovered gloves inside. The subtle tremor that still remained in her fingers betrayed her. The clasp slipped, the bag tilted, and the folder with the newly printed sheets slid out from under her arm, scattering the papers across the polished floor of the reception.

— Damn it, — she muttered between her teeth, closing her eyes for a second.

She crouched down quickly to gather the sheets. Yet, before she could touch the first paper, a man’s hand reached out and picked up the main page.

— You know, on the continent they usually use elastic folders to prevent this kind of tragedy. But perhaps in Paris the laws of gravity work a bit differently.

Eleanor raised her eyes.

Michael Gray was crouching right in front of her. He wore an impeccably tailored gray suit, modern and perfectly fitted. The light strands of his hair and his pair of eyes gleamed with a spontaneous vivacity. There were no shadows beneath his eyelids, nor the weight of the world crushing his shoulders. He was smiling—a smile that was easy, charming, and genuinely open.

When he finished gathering the remaining papers, he rose to his feet, extending his hand to help her stand.

— Michael, — Eleanor said, her voice wavering for a brief second, still trying to recompose herself from what had happened earlier. — Would it be strange if I said I didn't expect to run into you here?

— I think I should be the one saying that, — he replied, his eyes scanning her face with a genuine and enthusiastic surprise, ignoring the coming and going of employees around them. He handed the organized folder back into her hands. — If I had known the Shelby Company would count on your presence today, I would have come to work much earlier.

The naturalness with which he spoke, stripped of any power play or subtext, acted as a balm on Eleanor’s mind. The contrast with the man she had just left upstairs was stark.

— I came to sign my contract with the Institute, — she explained, adjusting her posture, though the tone of her voice was visibly lighter now. — I am the new ballet teacher there.

Michael’s eyes lit up instantly, and his smile widened, laced with a genuine charm.

— Dance classes? At the Institute? — he repeated, leaning his body slightly in her direction, as if the rest of the lobby had vanished. — Well, that means Birmingham has just become an infinitely more interesting place, now that you are staying in the city.

Eleanor blinked, absorbing a flirtation so direct and untethered. She arched an eyebrow slowly, measuring his gray suit with an elegant slowness, before locking her brown eyes onto his.

— I did not know your attention was captured so easily, Michael, — she shot back, her voice soft, almost a whisper that forced him to lean in even further to listen. — But I am flattered. I only hope your concept of interesting includes patience... because I tend to demand absolute dedication from whatever I choose to lead around here.

Michael swallowed hard, his corner smile widening at the veiled challenge. Her magnetism, which blended the technical coldness of the ballerina with a silent promise in her gaze, enveloped him completely. He took a step closer, entirely oblivious to the weight of the minefield he was stepping into.

— Absolute dedication is one of my greatest virtues in business, Eleanor, — he returned, his voice dropping a register, entering perfectly into her game of subtext. — If you ever need someone to carry the pianos, organize the sheet music, or simply applaud standing up from the back of the room, know that my resume is at your disposal. I am an excellent backstage assistant, Eleanor. I swear I learn quickly.

A short, clear sound escaped Eleanor’s throat. She laughed.

It was a genuine, spontaneous laugh, the kind that rises through the chest without asking for permission and that she hadn’t been able to let out in a very long time. She covered her mouth lightly with her black kidskin-gloved hand, her eyes truly shining for the first time that afternoon. The terrible tension that locked the muscles of her back simply evaporated with his lightness.

— I am being serious, — he countered, his eyes fixed on her smile, visibly pleased to have managed to break the ice and dispel whatever fog had been troubling her. — Now that you are staying in the city, I was wondering… do you dance in pubs too, or only in theaters? — he asked, with an almost youthful curiosity, before flashing a corner smile, his eyes gleaming with a charming audacity. — Because if your talent isn't exclusive to the stage, I know a place with good music, where people actually know how to have a good time. I would love to be your partner on one of those nights, Eleanor.

The words came out easily, wrapped in an innocent pretense, yearning for a positive response. Eleanor felt a jolt in her chest, yet, for the first time since she had set foot in Birmingham, the anxiety that gripped her did not stem from fear. It was an electric, vibrant, and strangely welcoming butterfly in her stomach. The proposal ignited an enthusiasm in her that she hadn’t experienced in ages. It was the feeling of being wanted and admired. Looking at his open smile, she realized she wanted to accept.

— Michael.

The voice cut through the lobby like the crack of a whip.

Polly Gray crossed the archway of the reception with firm steps, her heavy fur coat swaying around her imposing silhouette. Her eyes, dark and implacable, shifted from her son to Eleanor in a matter of seconds. The family matriarch was tense. The rigidity in her shoulders and the way she gripped her handbag against her body betrayed the controlled panic of someone who had just seen a child running toward a cliff.

Michael turned, caught off guard by his mother’s abrupt interruption.

— Mum? I was just...

— The committee from the distributorship is waiting for you in the meeting room, Michael. Now, — Polly interrupted, her voice low, yet vibrating with an authority that brooked no reply.

Michael blinked, confused by the sudden shift in atmosphere, but Polly’s tension was so palpable that he merely nodded, disarmed. He looked back at Eleanor, reclaiming his charming smile before taking his leave.

— It seems duty calls. Will I see you around, Eleanor?

— Assuredly, — she replied, forcing her voice to maintain its politeness, though her stomach had contracted once more.

Michael gave a brief nod and walked away, heading toward the inner corridor with the same spontaneous lightness with which he had arrived.

The moment he vanished from sight, Polly took a step forward, closing the distance to Eleanor. The silence between the two women was dense, bordering on uncomfortable. The dark eyes, half-hidden beneath the brim of her hat and locked onto Eleanor, carried a rawness that was far too reminiscent of Thomas.

— What have you come here to do, Miss Montague? — Polly asked, her voice low, yet perfectly audible. She arched an eyebrow, her gaze dropping fleetingly to the leather folder beneath Eleanor’s arm. — Has your brother given up on business and sent his sister to sign the papers in his stead?

— My brother continues to manage the family business, — Eleanor replied, her soft voice laced with respect for the woman before her. — I came for myself. I have just signed the contract. I am the new ballet instructor at the Institute.

The silence that followed was cutting. For a fraction of a second, Eleanor could have sworn she saw Polly’s pupils dilate. The rigidity in the older woman’s expression became almost tragic. She did not see merely a contract, she saw the fuse of a bomb being lit right at the center of her family. The shock struck her full force upon realizing that six years of distance, silences, and a meticulously constructed life seemed to mean absolutely nothing to her nephew. It had taken only Eleanor’s reappearance for his old, destructive obsession to stir in the shadows, proving that the current calm was a farce. Eleanor was a threat, real, living, and immediate.

As if the danger with Thomas were not enough, seeing Michael orbiting the young woman seconds earlier ignited a desperate red alert in Polly’s mind. Thomas playing with fire and Michael acting like a fool oblivious to the minefield were the exact ingredients for a family disaster. Swallowing hard the urgency to contain the blaze, Polly took a step forward, narrowing the space between them. Her voice dropped to a tense, yet controlled whisper, playing directly with the ballerina’s pride.

— A dance instructor... in a charity warehouse in Small Heath, — Polly repeated, each word coming out slowly, as if she were weighing the value of that choice. She looked into Eleanor’s brown eyes with an almost painful complicity. — Are you going to leave Paris for this, Eleanor? It is a massive step backward. You should not stay in Birmingham.

Eleanor felt her chest swell subtly. She did not know that Polly was aware of the haunting she represented to Thomas’s marriage and the family’s peace. She herself did not. Yet the ballerina’s pride read those words as a tribute to her success in Europe. She thought the woman was merely stating that the city was far too small for her talent.

— Sometimes we must make temporary concessions for the family, Polly, — Eleanor countered, with a thin, confident smile. — Birmingham is nothing, I know, but these classes will not diminish what I became in France.

Polly let out a short sigh, a sound that seemed to carry a genuine hint of lamentation. She tilted her head, looking at Eleanor with an almost magnetic softness, touching precisely upon the most sensitive spot of an artist’s ego.

— I remember you six years ago, Eleanor. You were a girl full of dreams, with your eyes set on the world outside... you did not strike me as the type to leave them behind for the sake of family obligations.

The phrase echoed through the lobby, making Eleanor’s smile waver slightly. Polly took another step, her voice dropping to a confidential whisper, like a mentor advising a protégée.

— Paris changed you. It gave you the bearing of a queen. The stages of Europe saw you shine beneath royal lights... and now you are going to waste your best years teaching basic ballet steps to ragged children who barely have anything to eat? Wiping the dust from your skirts on the floors of Small Heath?

Polly made a surgical pause, letting the decadent scenery gain weight in Eleanor’s imagination.

— You are far too grand for this place, Miss Montague. And you know it, — Polly continued, her voice soft and persuasive. — An artist of your caliber should not accept the crumbs of a charity Institute just to prove something to Birmingham. You belong to the grand theaters. If you accept to lock yourself away in this city once more, you will end up forgetting the taste of true applause.

Eleanor swallowed hard. Her Paris armor remained intact on the outside, yet Polly’s words had penetrated the cracks. A trace of uncomfortable reflection settled in her chest. She looked at the contract papers beneath her arm, feeling, for a brief second, the weight of a true doubt.

Perceiving that she had planted the seed of doubt with precision, Polly took a step back and adjusted her fur coat around her neck. The glimpse of softness vanished from her face, giving way to the old, stone rigidity of the family.

— Think carefully on whether this contract is worth the sacrifice of your future, Eleanor, — Polly concluded, her gaze turning cold once more. — And God protect your pride. Because in this city, concessions usually demand far too high a price.

Without waiting for a response, Polly spun on her heels. The heavy fabric of her coat cut through the air with a snap as she walked toward the stairs, leaving Eleanor alone in the lobby, with her mind suddenly noisy and the contract weighing three times heavier beneath her arm.

The door closed, emitting a dull thud, yet it left behind a heavy silence and the subtle aroma of Paris perfume, which still lingered in the air, intermingled with the tobacco smoke of the office.

Thomas did not move immediately. He remained standing, his eyes fixed upon the dark wood of the door that had just shut in his face, still absorbing what had just occurred. Slowly, he walked around the desk and sat in his leather chair. His movements were slow, almost mechanical. He reached out, his fingers touching the metal handle of the side drawer—the very one that had guarded the secret of that night for six long years.

With a gentle pull, he opened it. The dark velvet space inside now held only old papers and a few cigarettes. The rough, black lace of the ancient glove was no longer there.

His blue eyes, always so focused on the future, drifted to the picture frame upon the desk. The photograph of his wedding to Grace. He stared at the static smile of his wife, the suit he had worn at the altar, the promise of peace and love he had made.

He reached out, grasping the frame tightly, his calloused fingers marking the silver, and laid it face down against the desk with a dull thud, so that Grace would not have to look at him. That image of purity, of redemption, felt like a bad joke.

His features crumbled in the dim light of the office, his shoulders yielding beneath the weight of an exhaustion he would never show in public. Anger rose hot up his neck. Not for having returned the glove. But for the fact that he—the man who ruled Birmingham—had fallen into his own trap. Eleanor had accepted the contract. She was staying.

Thomas lowered his head, resting his elbows upon the desk and intertwining his fingers against his forehead. In the suffocating silence of that room, he exhaled slowly, and a nearly inaudible murmur escaped his lips:

— Six years... and I am still the same fucking, bloody bastard from Small Heath. Nothing changes.

For the first time in his life, the man who planned every step with the precision of a general, the man who never looked back and never regretted his moves, sat there entirely alone, staring into the emptiness of a drawer and questioning his own sanity. He believed he could control everything, yet Eleanor’s permanence in Birmingham proved that, this time, he might have paved the way to his very own hell.

The cold Birmingham air collided with Eleanor’s face the moment she crossed the glass doors of the company, yet it was not enough to clear the suffocating sensation she carried in her chest. She needed to walk. Her legs, accustomed to the rigorous and millimetric rhythm of the stage, moved now without an exact destination along the gray sidewalks, driven by an almost primitive need to put distance between herself and that building.

The conversation with Polly Gray had opened deep cracks in her Paris armor. Each of the matriarch’s words echoed in her mind with the weight of a sentence: “Are you going to waste your best years teaching basic ballet steps to ragged children? Wiping the dust from your skirts on the floors of Small Heath?”

Eleanor pressed the contract folder against her body, feeling the cold paper through the fabric of her coat. The pride that had sustained her before Polly was beginning to give way to an uncomfortable vulnerability. Polly had read her with surgical precision. Yes, she had been a queen in France. The principal ballerina. She had known the inebriating taste of true applause, the scent of the velvet in the wings of the Paris Opera, the glorious exhaustion of six to eight daily hours of rehearsals that culminated in performances for the continent's aristocracy. She had lived the dream. She had touched the top of the world she had always wanted to conquer.

But at what cost? she thought, her steps slowing down as the soot from Birmingham’s chimneys covered the horizon.

The truth, the one she tried to mask with the haughtiness of her French clothes, was that her family’s reality in Birmingham had knocked on her door relentlessly. The Montagues' business, now under her brother’s responsibility, was no longer the same; the structure that sustained them needed support, and Eleanor could not simply turn her back and continue floating in a fairy tale of pointe shoes while her own people sank into the mud of that city. She had already had her chance. She had lived the apex. Now, responsibility and Montague blood claimed their price. It was her turn to hold the weight of the world on her back, even if it meant burning her own costume.

Without fully realizing where her feet were leading her, Eleanor turned a familiar corner and stopped.

Before her rose the discreetly worn facade of the old studio where she used to rehearse before Paris. The wooden sign was slightly faded by the elements and the city’s acid rain. She took a few slow steps and approached the large glass window that looked into the main room.

The studio was completely empty.

The hardwood floor, once marked by rosin dust and the constant gliding of dozens of pointe shoes, now reflected only the pale, diffuse light of the afternoon. The iron barres fixed to the walls seemed cold, abandoned to the silence. There was no music, no piano in the background, no sound of the rhythmic breathing of dozens of ballerinas seeking perfection. It was merely a skeleton of memories.

Eleanor brought her face closer to the glass, resting her black kidskin-gloved hand against the cold surface. She closed her eyes for a second, letting her forehead rest against the windowpane, and allowed herself to plunge into the emptiness of that room.

When she opened her eyes again, the image of the deserted studio began to transform in her mind, yet not with the memories of what had once been. Her imagination, fueled by the subtle enthusiasm Michael had ignited and the challenge Polly had thrown in her face, began to redraw the space. She did not see the Paris Opera, nor the velvet stage she had left behind. She saw the warehouse of the Grace Shelby Institute.

Through the reflection in the glass, the empty room seemed to fill with life. Eleanor imagined the frayed curtains being drawn open to let in the Small Heath sunlight. She imagined her future students entering timidly through the door: working-class girls, their cheeks flushed with the cold, wearing improvised skirts and simple ballet shoes, perhaps hastily stitched by their mothers. Faces marked by the city's rawness, yet carrying in their wide eyes the very same hungry gleam of a dream that she herself had years ago.

She could see herself in the center of that makeshift studio. No longer as the principal ballerina isolated in her own perfect technique, but as the force that would guide those girls. She saw herself straightening a young girl’s back with a touch firm, yet patient; demonstrating the precision of a plié on the rough wooden floor; clapping her hands to the rhythm of the piano to dictate the exact timing of the movement. “One, two, three... stretch your points, chin up. Forget the street, inside here you are queens.”

She visualized the dust rising from the floor as those children’s leaps gained height. She imagined the sound of genuine laughter, like the one Michael had drawn from her in the lobby, filling the iron beams of the warehouse after a silly tumble, transforming the rigid discipline of ballet into a breath of dignity and beauty in the middle of Small Heath.

That was not a step backward. The pride Polly believed would be wounded began to mold itself into something far more resilient, far more Montague. If Birmingham was gray and devoid of art, then Eleanor would be the one to drive beauty into that soil by sheer force. She would teach those girls to walk like queens even before they learned to dance, so that no man in that city could ever look down upon them.

Eleanor took a step back, moving away from the glass. Her shoulders aligned and her chin rose, reclaiming the impeccable posture Paris had given her, yet which now belonged entirely to her new purpose. She looked down at the folder beneath the crook of her arm once more. The contract no longer felt like a burden or a concession of crumbs. It was her new stage.

She adjusted her tweed coat, spun on her heels, and began walking through the streets of Birmingham once more, this time with steps that were firm, resolute, and absolutely conscious of the value of every single line she had just signed.

Eleanor diverted her path from the main avenues and allowed her steps to guide her by instinct toward Blythe Street. As she drew nearer, the air seemed to carry the echo of old laughter, from a time when life was not yet dictated by contracts, strategic marriages, or exiles on the other side of the English Channel. It was there that she used to meet with Ada. Thinking of those days of youth brought a bittersweet warmth to Eleanor’s chest. They used to walk arm in arm, sharing secrets that seemed monumental at the time, making audacious plans for the future while trying to ignore the growing shadow the men of their families cast over them.

A sudden and urgent longing hooked her. Eleanor stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk, looking at the row of red-brick houses. She did not want to return to the Montague mansion and lock herself in her room with her thoughts; she needed a safe harbor, someone who knew her before Paris, yet who would not look at her with Thomas’s ulterior motives or Polly’s veiled warning. She was going to visit Ada. And she was going now.

Before heading to her friend’s house, Eleanor spotted a small corner market nearby, whose wooden crates displayed fresh vegetables and spices that defied the grayness of the street. She stepped inside, letting the scent of earth, herbs, and fresh bread envelop her. With a readiness she hadn’t felt in a long time, she began choosing the ingredients: sprigs of rosemary, firm potatoes, and a generous cut of beef. She paid the shopkeeper with a few coins, settling the groceries into the basket he offered her, feeling the solid, real weight of the food in her hands.

Upon leaving the market, her eyes were drawn to the window of a toy shop right next door. Wooden rocking horses, lined-up tin soldiers, and miniature trains rested beneath the dim light of a kerosene lamp. Thinking of Ada’s son, she decided to step inside. The air smelled of fresh paint and sawdust. Eleanor walked among the shelves until her eyes landed upon a small wind-up train, painted a vivid blue.

As she extended her hand to touch it, time seemed to slow down. Her fingers hesitated for a fraction of a second before wrapping around the metallic toy. A sudden wave of silence flooded her, an inexplicable emptiness that settled right at the center of her chest, making her stomach contract slightly. Eleanor stared at the small object in her palm and, for a moment that felt like an eternity, her mind drifted to a hazy place, to an absence she carried in her memory without ever giving it a name, a blank space that had never come to be filled. She swallowed hard, her eyes fixed upon the bright color of the metal, forcing the air into her lungs until the strange sensation receded. She blinked, brushing away the fog, and walked to the counter. The toy was for Karl.

With the package wrapped in brown paper beneath her arm and the grocery basket in her other hand, Eleanor crossed the final blocks toward Ada’s house. Her walk now possessed an almost domestic lightness, a stark contrast to the rigidity with which she had left the Shelby Company.

Upon arriving before the door, she took a deep breath and rang the bell. The sound echoed inside and, after a few seconds of muffled footsteps, the lock clicked. Ada threw the door open. Her dark hair was slightly disheveled and she bore a tired expression that dissolved instantly into shock upon catching sight of Eleanor standing on her threshold.

Before Ada could formulate any question, Eleanor raised the basket of food with a genuine, warm smile upon her lips.

— I thought it would be more fun if we made dinner together, — she said, her voice vibrating with the reclaimed intimacy of the old days.

Ada blinked, looking from the basket filled with vegetables and meat to Eleanor’s radiant face, her eyes scanning her friend’s impeccably tailored coat and haughty posture. The shock soon gave way to that sarcastic, amused gleam that was the Shelby trademark. Ada rested one hand against the doorframe and let out a nasal laugh, delivering a sharp, yet affection-filled jab:

— Wow... you know how to cook now? — Ada arched an eyebrow, stepping aside to make room for her to enter. — Paris truly changed you, Eleanor Montague. Get inside before this cold ruins your costume.

Eleanor crossed the threshold, letting the warmth of the entrance hall begin to dissipate the gelid Birmingham wind that still battered her skin. She looked around, absorbing the details of that house which, unlike the previous one, was larger and more luxurious. It exuded a personality that belonged entirely to Ada; there was none of the suffocating opulence of the Shelby business there, but rather the simple comfort of a true home. Eleanor set the contract folder down upon the entryway sideboard alongside the grocery basket and her handbag.

— Karl! — Ada called out, her voice echoing up the stairs the moment she shut the door and rid Eleanor of the cutting wind from the street. — Come down here, we have a visitor!

While she waited, Eleanor let her eyes wander through the room, absorbing the details of that new space. It was no longer the damp, suffocating hovel of Small Heath, where the scent of coal saturated even the exposed brick walls. That house possessed a different dignity; the windows were larger, allowing the pale Birmingham light to brighten the well-waxed floorboards, and there was a silent, mature order in the arrangement of the furniture, far from the makeshift chaos of their youth. Ada’s life had changed drastically. She was no longer the girl who hid in the city's corners; she was a woman who had carved out her own space, sustaining a home that exuded a proud independence and a calmness the previous years would never have allowed.

Every small object seemed to tell the story of this transition. A bookshelf in the corner boasted books on politics and literature with spines worn from constant handling, and a Persian rug covered the center of the hallway. Ada had transformed that house into a sanctuary of sobriety, a territory that belonged only to her and her son, far from the violent gears of the family. Looking around made Eleanor realize how much time had molded the two of them in distinct directions, and how this new Ada, despite carrying the same Shelby blood, had managed to build a fortress of normalcy in the midst of the storm.

The sound of small, hurried footsteps was not long in coming from the upper floor, followed by the uneven rhythm of a child descending the wooden stairs. Karl appeared at the turn of the staircase, holding onto the banister, his curious eyes fixed upon the elegant woman waiting in the hall. He stopped on the bottom step, suddenly timid before Eleanor’s impeccably tailored coat and imposing posture.

Ada smiled, stepping closer to her son and resting her hands lightly upon his shoulders, nudging him forward with gentleness.

— Karl, this is Eleanor, — Ada said, her voice softening into an affectionate tone. — She is an old friend of Mummy’s. You can think of her as your aunt. She spent the last few years living in a very beautiful place called Paris.

Eleanor felt her chest contract subtly at the word aunt, yet the discomfort was immediately buried beneath a wave of tenderness. She crouched down, bringing herself to the boy’s eye level, unconcerned with the expensive fabric of her skirt brushing against the floor, and opened her arms with a genuine smile.

— Hi, Karl, — she said, her voice soft and welcoming.

The boy glanced at Ada, who nodded her head, and then took the remaining steps, allowing himself to be enveloped by Eleanor’s embrace. His scent, a mixture of bar soap, childhood, and the warmth of the hearth, flooded Eleanor’s senses. She pressed him against her chest for a second longer than strictly necessary, closing her eyes to absorb the feel of that small, fragile body in her arms.

As she pulled away slightly, still on her knees, Eleanor retrieved the package wrapped in brown paper she had brought beneath the crook of her arm.

— I brought something for you. Right from the window, — she extended the parcel, her eyes shining as she watched the boy’s timidity vanish instantly.

Karl took the package with both hands, tearing the paper with the typical urgency of children. When the blue metal of the wind-up train appeared, his eyes went wide. He turned the small key on the side of the toy and set it on the floor; the mechanism clicked and the little train dashed across the hallway rug, buzzing loudly.

— Thank you, Aunt Eleanor! — he exclaimed, with a pure enthusiasm that cleared any residue of the turbulent morning at the Shelby Company from her mind.

Without waiting for a second order, Karl dashed after the toy toward the living room, his knees hitting the floor as he began to guide the train along imaginary tracks between the furniture.

Eleanor rose slowly, dusting off invisible dust from her skirt, her eyes still fixed in the direction where the boy had vanished. Ada let out a long sigh, crossing her arms as she watched the scene, the corner of her mouth tilted up in a tired, yet deeply proud smile.

— Sometimes it feels like his energy never drains, — Ada commented, resting her shoulder against the wall, her tender gaze still turned toward the living room. — Being a mother in this city... let me tell you, Eleanor. It is a twenty-four-hour-a-day, seven-day-a-week job. You spend half your time praying they don't break an arm, and the other half trying to ensure they have a future far from Small Heath. It is terrifying, it is exhausting, but... it changes everything inside you.

Eleanor kept staring down the empty hallway where Karl had run. Ada’s words floated in the space between the two of them, heavy, bringing back that very same silent fog that had struck her at the toy shop. The emptiness in her own chest pulsed faintly.

She swallowed hard, forcing her throat to relax before turning her face to her friend, offering Ada a calm smile, yet one that carried a subtle opacity in her brown eyes.

— I can't even imagine, Ada, — Eleanor replied, her voice coming out a little lower than she intended, yet perfectly firm. — Truly. I can't even imagine.

Ada stared at her for a brief second, catching the almost solemn tone of the response, but before the silence could stretch, Eleanor broke the trance. She walked back to the sideboard and picked up the basket filled with ingredients, changing the subject.

— Now, show me where your kitchen is. We have beef to sear before Karl decides his train needs a proper station in the middle of my potatoes.

The warmth coming from the gas stove began to fill the kitchen, bringing with it the comforting sizzle of the potatoes browning in butter and the aroma of the fresh rosemary Eleanor had bought. The familiarity of the setting and the simple task of chopping the vegetables helped Eleanor lower her guard, yet the tension from what had transpired earlier still pulsed beneath the surface. She gripped the knife firmly, her eyes fixed upon the wooden board, and released the piece of information that had been weighing on her chest:

— I was at the Shelby Company today. I am officially the ballet instructor at the Institute.

Ada, who had been facing away arranging the plates, spun on her heels, her eyes gleaming with genuine surprise. She dropped what she was doing and took a step forward, a wide smile illuminating her tired face.

— So, you came here to stay? Oh, Eleanor! You are going to love that place. Grace pours such an immense love into it, it does an enormous amount of good for the city, you know? I think if there had been something of the sort when I was a child, perhaps my life and my brothers' lives would have been different.

Eleanor felt a slight tightening in her chest upon hearing Grace’s name pronounced with such tenderness and admiration. The guilt and the subtext of her conversation with Polly seemed to float back into the kitchen. She wiped the knife's blade on the borrowed apron and replied, attempting to sound as casual and professional as possible:

— Yes… In truth, I only accepted because she insisted quite a bit.

— Ah, Grace, — Ada commented, letting out a light laugh as she leaned against the counter, her eyes lost in a sisterly fondness. — She certainly knows how to get what she wants, she is rather like you, did you know? She is lovely, the two of you would get along well.

Eleanor’s stomach knotted.

The irony of that statement almost stole her breath away for a second. Ada spoke with genuine innocence, without having any idea she was placing Thomas’s current wife and the woman who had nearly occupied that place in the exact same sentence. Eleanor swallowed hard, feeling the weight of the contract left out in the hallway echo in her mind. She forced a polite smile, trying to shift the focus away from Grace’s invisible presence.

— Yes, she does… But I do not know if I will be a good teacher, we shall find out. I begin tomorrow.

— You will be a wonderful teacher! How can you think otherwise? — Ada countered immediately, filled with conviction, pointing a wooden spoon in her direction. — I think I might even go down there to see your first day.

Before Eleanor could answer, still trying to process the internal panic of imagining Ada watching her first interaction within Grace’s territory, her friend turned toward the refrigerator.

— Michael had this delivered to the house and said you would understand, — Ada said, pulling out a perfectly chilled bottle of wine and setting it upon the table.

Eleanor stared at the label. His invitation to dance and the electricity of that subtle flirtation in the lobby came rushing back with full force. She exhaled, allowing herself a welcome distraction from all the opacity that surrounded Thomas.

— So, he is the long-lost cousin? Michael, — she repeated the name, while the image of him smiling rushed back to her mind. — He is different from what I imagined, you know?

Ada picked up the corkscrew, arching an eyebrow with interest.

— Different how?

— Your cousin is… charming, — Eleanor chose the word with care, a corner smile surfacing upon her lips as she recalled his youthful audacity. — He talks quite a bit.

— Ah, that is because you met the wrong Shelbys first. And not because he grew up with another family…

Eleanor stopped what she was doing, her curiosity regarding the dynamics of that dynastic family speaking louder.

— Did he truly spend years away from here?

— He did, — Ada’s expression softened into an ancient melancholy. — The last time I saw Michael before he returned, he was five years old.

— Goodness. Yes, one can tell he was away for a very long time, — Eleanor commented, resuming her work with the spices. — He doesn't possess that… Peaky Blinder aura like the rest of you.

Ada laughed, a clean and relaxed sound, and Eleanor laughed too, feeling the environment grow lighter. However, Ada’s laughter ceased abruptly. She stopped rattling the glasses, stared at the ballerina with narrowed eyes, and arched one of her eyebrows, teasing her with that sharp instinct every Shelby possessed:

— You like him.

Eleanor felt her face flush subtly and tried to avert her gaze, adopting her best defensive posture.

— What? I do not.

— Liar, — Ada took a step forward, laughing at her friend’s reaction. — You certainly do.

They remained in silence for an instant. Eleanor sustained Ada’s narrowed gaze until she could no longer hold the pose; she let out a contained laugh, shaking her head and silently confirming her interest.

Ada smiled warmly, a glimpse of a beautiful future crossing her mind. She reached out and lightly touched Eleanor’s arm.

— I would love to have you in the family.

The phrase struck Eleanor like a physical blow. She felt a gelid shiver run down her spine, her blood seeming to freeze in her veins. The weight of that statement nearly crushed her right then and there. She thought of the overwhelming intensity of six years ago, of the fact that she had almost become part of that family in the deepest, most definitive way possible. And the most painful part was realizing that Ada remained completely oblivious to the past; she believed she was merely suggesting a fresh, promising romance with the newly arrived cousin, without suspecting that Eleanor already carried the Shelby name branded onto her history.

Trying to gather the pieces of her armor before Ada could notice the shift in her face, Eleanor cleared her throat and wiped her hands, forcing her voice to maintain its neutrality:

— I only said he is charming.

Ada shrugged, picking up the wine bottle to pour for the two of them, entirely oblivious to her friend’s internal storm.

— At least you chose someone easy.

Silence.

The sound of the wine falling into the glass seemed deafening in the quiet that settled. Eleanor froze completely, the knife stopping millimeters from the board. The air in the kitchen seemed to vanish.

Ada had not the slightest intention of causing harm, yet her words drew a cruel parallel. Eleanor knew exactly whom she herself was comparing Michael to. The word “easy” echoed like a painful realization. Michael was light, he was simple, he was a safe ground devoid of hauntings. The exact opposite of the implacable man who ruled that city from the upper floor of the Shelby Company.

Ada continued to pour the wine, oblivious to the minefield she had just stepped upon, and completed her train of thought with a nostalgic sigh regarding her own history:

— Look at my situation with Freddie, we had to hide until I got pregnant…

Ada stopped speaking abruptly, the weight of her own sentence locking in her throat as the memory of how it all began collided with the reality of his absence. Eleanor turned off the stove with a swift movement and stepped closer, breaking the physical distance that separated them. She enveloped her friend in a tight, sincere embrace, offering her shoulder as a refuge at the exact moment Ada let a silent tear escape.

— I am so sorry, Ada. Freddie truly was a special person, I still cannot believe he is gone.

— Neither can I, — Ada murmured, her voice muffled against the fabric of Eleanor’s coat. She pulled away slightly, wiping her face with the back of her hand, yet keeping her tearful eyes fixed upon nothingness. — I look at Karl every single day and… I see him. My God, I promised myself I wouldn't cry anymore… Polly says it perturbs the soul of those who have departed, but Lord, sometimes it is still so difficult. As though it had just happened.

Eleanor held Ada’s hands, feeling her friend’s fingers tremble slightly.

— You can cry if you want to. It is alright. He was your husband and you love him, of course it is going to hurt.

— The trouble is that…. sometimes loving someone doesn't stop life from happening, — Ada poured her heart out, letting out a shaky sigh and looking at the two forgotten wine glasses on the counter. — It doesn't stop choices from being made, nor losses from arriving. In the end, love seems like the most fragile part of it all.

Eleanor felt her stomach contract once more, yet this time it was not at the mention of Grace or Michael. It was because of the brutal echo Ada’s words found within her very own soul. She squeezed her friend’s hands, her brown gaze darkened by a melancholy that went far beyond sympathy for Ada’s grief.

— Sometimes... love is the thing that demands the greatest sacrifice, Ada, — Eleanor said, her voice soft, almost as if she were testing the gravity of an ancient truth upon her own lips. — We think that loving someone gives us the right to fight for them, but the truth is that some stories are born condemned by the world around them. By the surnames we carry. By the choices others make for us... or that we find ourselves forced to make.

Ada raised her eyes, catching the uncommon intensity in Eleanor’s voice. For a second, Freddie Thorne’s widow glimpsed something in her friend that went beyond the untouchable ballerina of Paris; she saw a pain she recognized all too well.

— You speak as though you know exactly the taste of it, — Ada observed, her tone dropping to a complicit whisper while the kitchen's sizzle seemed to fade away. — The taste of having to bury a life before it even truly begins to bloom.

Eleanor averted her gaze for a fraction of a second, swallowing hard. The invisible scar upon her chest throbbed, bringing forth the ghost of her departure six years ago, the weight of the returned glove, and the silent memory of a life she could not live. An impossible love she had been forced to tear from herself in order to survive.

— I know what it is to look toward the future and realize that the only choice left is to leave, — Eleanor replied, turning back to face Ada, her eyes shining with a painful firmness. — Even if leaving means leaving your heart driven into the soil of this gray city. Freddie and you had the courage to face the impossible, Ada. You lived it, even if for a short while. But there are loves that... if you insist upon them, they destroy everything around you. Nothing remains. Not you, nor the person.

Ada studied Eleanor’s face, absorbing the subtext her friend delivered in droplets. She realized that the Paris that changed Eleanor was not crafted merely of applause and velvet stages, but of a silent exile shaped by a loss she still could not name.

— And now you have returned, — Ada punctuated softly, picking up one of the wine glasses and handing it to Eleanor, like a silent pact of survival. — Returned to the place where it all began to hurt. Are you certain you are ready for the choices Birmingham will demand of you now?

Eleanor accepted the glass, her fingers touching the cold crystal. She looked toward the hallway, where the sound of Karl’s wind-up train still echoed in the background, a living reminder that life, one way or another, keeps moving forward.

— I had no choice before, Ada, — Eleanor concluded, with a sad, yet perfectly linear smile, reclaiming her posture. — But now I do. And if I must burn my feet upon the soil of this city to do what is right, I will. At least this time, the script is mine.

The weight of their previous conversation gradually dissipated into the steam of the pot, leaving between the two of them that comfortable atmosphere that only old friends can reclaim. Eleanor helped drain the potatoes while Ada arranged the beef in the serving dish. Together, in a silent synchronization, they moved through the kitchen to set the table, distributing the ceramic plates and cutlery beneath the lamp's glow.

— Karl! — Ada called toward the hallway, raising her voice. — Wash your hands, dinner is on the table!

The sound of the wind-up train ceased immediately, replaced by the racket of the boy's quick steps rushing toward the bathroom. When he joined them, properly settled in his chair, Ada served the portions and the chatter finally began.

— So, Eleanor... Paris, — Ada began, resting her elbows upon the table after taking a sip of her wine. — I want the details. I want to know everything you didn't put in the letters. Is it true that people walk along the banks of the Seine as though they were on a theater stage all the time?

Eleanor let out a light laugh, cutting a piece of the beef.

— Nearly so. In the beginning, it feels as if everything has a golden filter. The lights of the Opera, the cafés on Boulevard Saint-Germain... People dress with a pretension that borders on charming. Yet underneath it all, the rehearsal schedule had me looking at the studio ceiling far more than the Eiffel Tower.

— But you danced for the aristocracy, — Ada insisted, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. — Did you have dinners with counts and duchesses? What are they like?

— Tedious, — Eleanor shot back with a corner smile, pouring a little more water for Karl. — They converse about operas they do not understand and buy paintings merely for the status. The food is marvelous, I confess, but the conversation... I prefer the seasoning of your potatoes a thousand times over.

Ada laughed, flattered, while wiping the corner of her son’s mouth.

— And the stages? Is the audience there as demanding as they say?

— If you miss a single count of a grand jeté, the silence in the theater becomes mortal, — Eleanor explained, her eyes momentarily lost in the memory of the Opera's immensity. — They do not forgive technique. But when you nail it... The applause feels like a wave that lifts you from the floor. It is inebriating.

Ada watched her friend for a few moments, swirling the stem of the glass between her fingers. The next question came naturally, almost unpretentiously, yet loaded with that typical sagacity of someone wanting to read between the lines.

— And amidst so much applause, theaters, and dinners... Did you not meet anyone? No French man with beautiful eyes to make you lose your posture?

Eleanor stopped her fork mid-air. The knot in her stomach threatened to return, yet she swallowed it down along with the wine, keeping her expression perfectly controlled.

— I did... After a fashion. A violinist from the company, we spent a few months going out. But... It didn't make sense, Ada.

— Why not?

— Because something was missing, — Eleanor replied softly, looking at her plate. — It was a beautiful feeling, light, yet it seemed to float upon the surface. Deep down, I knew I was living something that had a delimited time. And when that time ran out, the distance simply took care of the rest.

Ada nodded slowly.

— It is strange how life does that to us, — Ada commented, leaning back in her chair and looking around at the simple walls of her home. — If anyone had told me six years ago that I would be living here, a widow, raising Karl alone, I would have laughed. Our lives changed completely, Eleanor. We took such opposite paths, yet it seems the changes molded us in a way that we can no longer go back to being who we were.

— I feel precisely the same, — Eleanor agreed, her gaze softening as she faced her friend. — In Paris, I changed my bearing, I changed my speech, I won the world I always wanted. But when I set foot in Birmingham, I realized I changed on the outside to manage to protect what was left of me on the inside. The two of us were adults before our time, Ada.

— We were, — Ada extended her hand across the table, touching Eleanor’s fingers with affection. — But look at us now. We survived Birmingham, we survived the distance... And we still know how to make a decent dinner.

Eleanor smiled truly, feeling her chest finally breathe a sigh of relief. The future in Birmingham was still a dangerous chessboard filled with shadows, yet there, at that table with Ada and Karl, she held a piece of firm ground to plant her feet.

— John got married, can you believe it? — Ada commented, serving another portion of potatoes to Karl, while maintaining a light, nostalgic tone. — To Esme. At first, I thought it would be a tragedy, but she put the reins on him. And Finn... well, Finn grew up. He is no longer that boy who ran after us begging for coins. Now he wants to walk with the men, wear the same caps... It is a test of my patience.

Eleanor offered a corner smile, listening to the news of the city that seemed to move to its own rhythm, even in her absence.

— And Arthur? — Eleanor asked, raising the wine glass to her lips.

— Arthur remains Arthur. Stubborn, loud, yet he has his moments, — Ada let out a short sigh, her gaze shifting subtly to something softer. — But the one who truly changed... the one who genuinely surprised me was Thomas.

Eleanor froze with the glass just inches from her mouth. His name, pronounced with such casualness, made the air in the dining room feel suddenly denser. She lowered her hand slowly, setting the glass upon the table with millimetric care so as not to betray the subtle tremor in her fingers.

— Thomas? — Eleanor forced her voice to come out linear, nearly disinterested.

— Yes, — Ada replied, leaning back in her chair with a genuine smile, the kind from someone who truly rooted for her brother’s well-being. — Thomas is much happier now. The marriage, the baby... I have never seen him so radiant.

The phrase floated through the space between them and, for Eleanor, it struck her chest with the force of a blade. It was a clean, deep stab, the kind that cuts off the breath before the pain even begins to spread.

Ada spoke without a single drop of malice. There were no ulterior motives upon her face, no trace of provocation or irony; it was merely the affectionate observation of a sister who saw, at last, a truce in her older brother’s darkness. She did not know. She had no way of knowing that every single one of those words—marriage, baby, happy, radiant—tore the skin from a wound Eleanor had spent six years trying to cauterize in France.

— He deserved a bit of peace, you know? — Ada continued, entirely oblivious to the upholstery of ice that had settled on the other side of the table. — After the war, and everything that happened here in Birmingham... Grace brought a light we thought he would never see again. He smiles, Eleanor. Truly. It is almost strange to see Tommy acting like an ordinary man, a family man who cares about the color of the curtains in the new house.

Eleanor felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Her pupils contracted subtly and she needed every ounce of the physical control training Paris had given her not to crumble into her chair. Her hands, hidden beneath the table, dug her nails into the palm of the opposite hand to focus the pain elsewhere.

Radiant. The man who had left her in the hallway of that empty house, the man whose silence had accompanied her across oceans, was now a happy man. And worst of all, what caused Eleanor’s stomach to churn in a bitter nausea, was knowing that the foundation of that happiness was the exact scenery she had once dared to imagine for herself and decided to remove from her own life.

She looked down at her plate of food, yet her appetite had vanished completely. The blue metal of Karl’s wind-up train, still visible in the corner of the room, seemed to mock her untouchable posture.

— How wonderful, — Eleanor managed to say. Her voice came out in a perfectly polite whisper, her French armor sustaining the tone with surgical precision, though inside everything lay in ruins. — I am... I am happy for him. Thomas was always a man to carry burdens far too heavy. It is good that he has found someone to share the load.

— Yes, Grace is wonderful, — Ada concluded, taking the final sip from her glass, failing to notice the nearly imperceptible crease upon Eleanor’s brow or the tragic rigidity that had molded her shoulders. She leaned a bit further over the table, her elbows resting upon the wood, completely surrendered to the warmth of that family routine she so loved to share. — You should have seen the scene, Eleanor. When they learned of the pregnancy, Tommy changed completely. There was this one day... ah, the silly things are the ones that most show how he became another person. He became obsessed with the idea that the baby’s crib had to be crafted from the finest wood in the region, sent for the pieces, and decided he would assemble it himself.

Eleanor kept her eyes fixed upon her own glass, her fingers squeezing the stem so tightly that her fingertips turned white. That hurt far more than the grand tales regarding the Shelby empire. Hearing about Thomas’s power was routine; she knew the gangster, the strategist, and, above all, she had known Thomas the lover—the man of clandestine nights, of feverish whispers between four walls, of encounters driven by danger and urgency. But that... that was Thomas the husband, the father. A man she never had the chance to know.

— He stayed locked in that room for two weeks, building the crib, — Ada continued, letting out a nostalgic laugh, entirely oblivious to the silent torture she was inflicting upon her friend. — Thomas Shelby, his hands covered in calluses from business and weapons, holding tiny screws, hammering carefully so as not to crack the wood, swearing softly in the dark because one of the drawers wouldn't fit right. Grace would walk in with tea, give him a kiss on his forehead, and he would simply disarm. He looked like an ordinary man. A real husband.

Each of Ada’s words fell into Eleanor’s chest like a drop of molten lead. The mental image of Thomas—the very same man who had begged her to marry him—dedicating weeks of manual effort to the nest of a child with another woman was a refined violence. Eleanor felt her throat dry, her breathing turning short behind her aristocratic facade.

— He... he assembled it himself? — Eleanor managed to articulate, forcing the words to come out with a rehearsed lightness, though her lips were taut.

— Every single bit, — Ada smiled, clearing the plate of Karl, who was already beginning to yawn in his chair. — And it didn't stop there. Last month, Grace took it into her head that she wanted white tulips in the front garden, yet it is nearly impossible to make those bloom properly in the soil here because of the soot from the factories. Well, Tommy spent an entire Sunday on his knees in the yard, with his sleeves rolled up, digging the earth with his bare hands and mixing fertilizer just to ensure his wife had those damn flowers at her window when she woke.

Eleanor swallowed hard, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten to the very edge of nausea. The Thomas she had kept in her memory for six years was crafted of tobacco, whiskey, and broken promises on the floors of Small Heath. Knowing that he now possessed a domestic patience, a dedicated sweetness, and a routine of care for the most banal details of a life together was the definitive proof that she had been merely a torn draft in his biography. The redemption she had once believed she would give him, another woman had delivered in fertile soil.

— And you know what? — Ada added, tilting her head with a glint of complicity, shifting her tone to an excited whisper. — Grace thinks it is going to be a girl, because of the shape of her belly and all the superstitions the women here tell. But me? I look at the way Tommy protects that house and I am certain it is a boy. Another little Shelby man to cause trouble and inherit those blue eyes. Tommy doesn't say a word, but every time I say it’s going to be a boy, he gives that corner smile, very discreet, you know? The same smile he gives when he knows he’s won a difficult bet.

— A boy... — Eleanor repeated softly, her voice nearly vanishing into the dimness of the kitchen. She raised her glass and took a long sip of Michael’s wine, letting the alcohol burn her throat to dissipate the fog that threatened to rise to her eyes.

The emptiness in her chest seemed to scream in the face of that domestic prophecy, a heavy absence she kept locked away under lock and key, far from the eyes of anyone in that city. Thomas would have his child. He would have the boy with his eyes, he would have the lineage, the wife, and the garden of white tulips. Everything that had once seemed a possible future now belonged to another.

When she set the glass down, her Paris armor was standing once more, rigid and impeccable. She wiped the corner of her lips with the napkin and faced Ada with a perfectly rehearsed smile.

— The Shelbys always find a way to get what they want, don't they? — Eleanor concluded, her tone of voice balancing between polite admiration and a subtle coldness. — I am certain that, whatever it may be, Thomas will have exactly the family he planned for.

— It is what he does best, — Ada agreed with a short sigh, rising to gather Karl’s plate, the boy having already rested his little head upon the table, conquered by sleep. — Planning the world around him until everyone does exactly what he wants.

Eleanor seized the moment her friend moved away to catch a deep breath, trying to dissipate the opacity that had settled within her chest. The warmth of the dining room, once welcoming, now felt nearly suffocating. She reached into the pocket of her tweed coat in search of a handkerchief or simply to occupy her trembling fingers, yet what she found inside made her stop.

Her fingers brushed against the rough fabric, the ancient and familiar lace she knew millimeter by millimeter.

Slowly, beneath the light, Eleanor pulled the glove from her coat pocket.

The black lace looked like an exposed wound upon the light wood table. It was the very same object that had been locked inside Thomas Shelby’s dark drawer for six long years, the psychological bargaining chip he had returned with such coldness hours before. Seeing that piece there, so far from the Shelby Company office and so close to Ada, brought an almost phantasmal atmosphere into the room.

Ada returned to the table and, the second she was about to sit, her eyes landed upon the scrap of lace. She froze with her hand on the back of the chair, her eyebrows knitting immediately in a mixture of surprise and nostalgia. She recognized the accessory at once; after all, Eleanor rarely parted from that pair in their youth.

— I thought you had lost that years ago, — Ada commented, her voice dropping to an intrigued tone, her eyes alternating between the object and her friend’s face.

A heavy, dense silence settled in the kitchen, shattering the domestic rhythm they had built during dinner. Eleanor stared at the intricate patterns of the lace, feeling the invisible weight of everything that glove carried—the nights in Small Heath, the promises, the trail of destruction that her love for Thomas had left behind.

— I thought so too, — Eleanor replied. Her voice came out almost like a breath, stripped of any affectation, heavy with a truth that bruised.

Before her friend could reply or begin asking questions that might cause her facade to crumble for good, Eleanor hastened to mend the breach. She swept up the glove with calculated agility, forcing a casual tone and a light, though purely mechanical laugh:

— It was lost in the pocket of this coat, I only noticed it when I left the Shelby Company... It sat forgotten at the bottom of the lining all this time, can you believe it? A relic of Birmingham I didn't even remember taking to Paris.

Ada narrowed her eyes for a brief second, suspicious of the sudden shift in the ballerina’s rhythm, yet the explanation seemed plausible enough to someone who knew nothing of the hidden secrets within the company's rosewood drawers.

— Well, winter coats guard more secrets than the drawers of this city, — Ada commented with a corner smile, deciding not to press. She picked up the bottle and poured the remaining wine into both glasses. — Keep it safe. It is good to have something from the past that hasn't been completely destroyed by time.

Eleanor nodded, tucking the lace back into the dark fabric of her pocket, feeling the invisible metal of the contract and the touch of the glove act as two opposing anchors upon her body. She was back on the chessboard, and the game in Birmingham was only just beginning.

Ada turned her back for a few moments to take the dishes to the sink, yet the silence that followed the story of the glove did not last long. The Shelby nose for a good mystery remained intact, but she preferred to channel that energy back into a considerably lighter and more amusing subject. She spun on her heels, leaning against the sink frame with a mischievous smile turned toward Eleanor.

— But returning to what truly matters... — Ada arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms. — You haven't given me the details about the wine. Michael having this delivered with a coded message means his welcoming committee was rather more interesting than the rest of the family's?

Eleanor felt the tension in her shoulders yield a little at the shift in focus. She swirled the wine glass between her fingers, allowing a genuine smile to break the rigidity of her expression.

— Well... he sort of asked me out, — Eleanor confessed, feeling her face warm subtly beneath her friend’s attentive gaze. — We were talking in the lobby, he was exceedingly gentle, and suggested we go to a place in Birmingham where people could dance…

— He did that? — Ada gave a short laugh, distinctly impressed by her cousin’s audacity. — The boy loses no time. And what did you answer?

— I didn't have time to answer, — Eleanor let out a dramatic sigh, shaking her head. — Right then, Polly appeared. The atmosphere shifted in a second, and he left before I could say anything. It left that unfinished situation hanging in the air.

Ada took a step forward, her eyes gleaming with an almost youthful curiosity. She leaned over the table, resting her chin upon her hands, closing the distance between them.

— And were you going to accept?

Eleanor shrugged, averting her gaze to the dark liquid in the glass while a contained laugh escaped her lips. She sustained the suspense for two seconds before looking back at her friend, her brown eyes shining with an amused honesty.

— I wanted to.

It was enough to send Ada into a loud burst of excitement. She let out an enthusiastic exclamation, clapping her hands against the table and pointing a finger in Eleanor’s direction, laughing heartily at the ballerina’s surrendered expression.

— I knew it! — Ada exclaimed, nudging Eleanor’s shoulder lightly. — Look at you, Eleanor Montague! The grand star of Paris, untouchable, full of French poses, disarmed by the smile of a boy from Boston who just arrived in town! I want to see how you are going to maintain that posture of steel in front of him tomorrow at the Institute.

— Oh, my God, Ada, stop! — Eleanor pleaded, covering her face with her hands as she laughed, feeling her cheeks truly burn at the teasing. — It was nothing major, I only said I wanted to. He is a handsome man and knows how to converse, merely that. Do not start planning the future in your notebook.

— Oh, but I will plan it! — Ada countered, her voice overflowing with a legitimate joy, mixed with that deep affection of someone who wanted, from the bottom of her heart, to see her loved ones in a safe place. Her smile softened, turning warmer and less mocking. — Do you know why? Because I want to see you happy, Eleanor. Truly. I want to see you loving someone without having to hide, without shadows, without the weight of the world upon your back.

Eleanor lowered her hands, looking at her friend with a melancholic tenderness.

— Who knows... — Ada continued, her dreaming eyes losing themselves in the kitchen ceiling for an instant. — Who knows, a real wedding? One of those with music, light dresses, and no armed gangsters at the door. And who knows... some friends for Karl to run after down this hallway? A house filled with children's laughter would do a hell of a lot of good for this reality of ours, and for this family. You deserve to build something of your own, Eleanor. Something beautiful.

The mention of marriage and young children caused Eleanor’s smile to freeze slightly at the edges. Nevertheless, the warmth of Ada’s wish was so pure and genuine that Eleanor did not allow the darkness to take hold of the moment. She extended her hand across the table, squeezing Ada’s fingers with affection.

— One step at a time, Ada, — Eleanor replied, her voice soft and firm. — First, I need to survive my first day as a ballet instructor beneath the gazes of Small Heath. After that, perhaps, I will accept that invitation to dance.

Eleanor looked up at the wall clock in Ada’s kitchen and realized the hours had flown by amidst the wine glasses and confidences. The physical exhaustion of the day and the emotional toll of so many revelations were beginning to claim their price.

— I must head home, Ada, — Eleanor said, rising and gathering her handbag and the contract from the sideboard. — Tomorrow will be a long day, and I need to be whole for those children at the Institute.

Ada accompanied her to the door, giving her a warm, parting embrace. Eleanor walked back through the streets of Birmingham, feeling the gelid night air strike her face, yet her mind remained fixed upon what she would encounter upon crossing the threshold of her own home.

The moment she opened the door to the Montague mansion, the familiar silence of the residence welcomed her. Martha, the housekeeper, appeared in the entrance hall with her ever-obliging expression, ready to prepare something in the kitchen.

— No need to worry, Martha. I have already dined at Ada’s house, — Eleanor informed her with a mild smile, unbuttoning her coat heavily.

She began to ascend the steps toward the upper floor. As she walked along the silent corridor leading to the bedrooms, the study door opened and Elliot appeared in the doorway, clutching a stack of financial reports against his chest. The dim light of the wall sconce revealed the deep dark circles on his face and the constant crease of worry that seemed to have permanently settled upon his brow.

Eleanor slowed her pace. She observed him for a second, swallowing her exhaustion, and let out a sigh loaded with a sharp, acidic grace.

— Put the books aside for tonight, Elliot. You can breathe. Thomas Shelby is going to sign the coal mines contract.

Elliot froze in his tracks. He blinked once, twice, and the stack of reports in his hands faltered. He already knew she had gone to the company to yield to Grace's request; after all, the image of her growing irritated at breakfast before leaving the house was still fresh in his mind. Yet hearing that the gavel had finally fallen was another story entirely.

— What? — his voice came out in a trembling whisper, hoarse with incredulity. — You managed it? He accepted our terms? Eleanor, the monopoly of the canal routes and the main supply are officially ours?

— Yes, my dear brother. The canal is ours, the warehouses are saved, and the men at the docks will be paid, — Eleanor said, taking a few steps toward him, crossing her arms with a corner smile perfectly molded in irony. — Though, of course, as nothing in life involves the Christian generosity of Thomas Shelby, the deal was sealed under that... shall we say, rather artistic condition. The very same one you spent the entire morning hammering into my head.

Elliot dropped the papers onto the hallway sideboard with a dull thud and took a step forward, his eyes wide, completely ignoring his sister's sarcastic tone.

— So you signed the paper with the Institute? — Elliot asked, an almost feverish urgency in his voice. — You are officially the new ballet instructor?

— Exactly, — Eleanor responded, tilting her head in a theatrical, exaggerated bow. — The great gangster of Birmingham will only put his signature on the paper that will make us the primary coal suppliers for the company if I spend my days wiping away dust and teaching basic steps to children in his warehouse. Who would have thought, right? My training at the Paris Opera serving as a bargaining chip because you wouldn't stop repeating that this was our only salvation, before I lost my patience with you and walked out that door.

Elliot ignored the jab. The financial desperation that would have suffocated the family spoke far louder than any matter of wounded pride or the friction they had shared earlier. He took a step forward, grasping Eleanor’s hands tightly, his eyes shining with an immense relief upon seeing that his insistence had worked.

— Eleanor... thank you. You had to do this, — Elliot said, his voice thick with the relief of having confirmation that her sacrifice had been worthwhile. He pulled her into a quick, clumsy embrace of pure gratitude before stepping back and holding her by the shoulders. — You have no idea what this means. The mansion, the Montague name... it was all about to collapse. You are doing more for our family than I ever could. It is only going to be a few dance lessons, you will manage easily!

Eleanor sustained her brother’s gaze. The irony upon her lips softened for a second, giving way to a cold, calculating rigidity. Elliot believed it had been "merely accepting a few dance lessons" because of Grace’s persistent request and his own pressure. He had not the slightest inkling of the minefield that Institute represented, of the true psychological game Thomas was playing by letting her enter that exact place.

— "Only a few lessons," Elliot? — she repeated, her voice soft, yet cutting. She pulled away from his touch, adjusting her posture with the elegance that was her best defense. — It is fascinating how desperation clears a man’s pragmatism. Very well. No need to continue with the speech. The sacrifice is made. I have already signed the contract with the Institute.

Elliot exhaled the air that seemed to have been trapped in his lungs for months, his shoulders yielding beneath the weight of absolute relief.

— Thank you... thank you, El. I swear I will make it up to you. I will make the port and the coal supply yield double.

— Spare me the promises, Elliot, — she cut him off with a light, disdainful wave of her hand, reclaiming her sarcastic tone. — Just ensure that the coal for the Shelby Company is transported with the exact same precision with which I am going to have to correct those children’s posture. Now, if you will excuse me, I need to rest. After all, tomorrow I debut on my newest and most glorious stage, the one you begged me to ascend: the rough wooden floor of Small Heath.

Elliot nodded, still dazed with happiness, and gathered the papers from the sideboard before returning to his study, feeling that the family’s future was finally secure.

Eleanor turned the knob of her own room. Upon entering the dark chamber and closing the door behind her, she leaned her back against the wood. The irony she had used with her brother evaporated instantly, leaving only the heavy silence of the night. She reached into her coat pocket, her fingers touching the texture of the black lace glove. She had made the choice Elliot begged for, yet she knew that, on the chessboard where she now stood, the true price of that dance was about to begin.

Night in Birmingham seemed to possess the power to slow down time, rendering the silence within the Montague mansion almost solid. Eleanor did not light the lamps. She remained standing for long minutes in the center of the room, bathed only by the pale moonlight that cut through the half-drawn curtains.

The contrast between the cold opulence of Paris and the gray rawness of Birmingham was right there, materialized in the leather trunk that still occupied the corner of the bedroom, untouched since her arrival. Until that night, that trunk was not merely luggage; it was an insurance policy. A physical reminder that her stay here was a visit, a brief interval before returning to the world of velvet and applause where she had reconstructed her identity.

But the contract with the Shelbys was signed. The script had changed.

Eleanor walked over to the writing desk and, at last, lit the lamp. She pulled open the drawer and retrieved the letterhead, the dip pen, and the crystal inkwell.

The blank paper beneath the yellowish light felt like a provocation. At the top of the sheet, the official embossed seal of the Paris Opera gleamed with a golden prominence, bearing the name of the company’s director—the man who had extended his hand to her when she was nothing but a Birmingham girl with a dream and a broken heart.

Writing that letter was going to hurt. And it hurt even before the first drop of ink touched the paper.

Eleanor positioned the pen over the sheet, yet her hand hesitated. Her eyes remained fixed upon the director’s name, tracing the elegant letters of the French typography. Ever since before her arrival, she had repeated to herself the comforting lie that her return to Birmingham was temporary. But Thomas Shelby’s gaze that afternoon, Ada’s innocent laughter, and her brother’s pleading had shattered the illusion.

The "temporary" had died on the upper floor of the Shelby Company.

With a sigh that scraped against her throat, she began to write. The handwriting, once perfectly fluid and flawless, came out rigid, almost aggressive. Each line was a nail in the coffin of her own freedom. She was not merely drafting a professional correspondence; she was writing, in definitive and irrevocable terms: I cannot return.

As she signed her name at the bottom of the page, Eleanor’s stomach contracted. She folded the paper with an almost funereal slowness, melted the red wax, and pressed the signet ring with the Montague crest onto the envelope. The snap of the seal closing sounded like the click of a cell door. She was surrendering the only place in the world where she had managed to be just Eleanor, the artist, to go back to being Eleanor, the Montague.

She dropped the pen and rose from the chair, finding the bedroom suddenly far too small. Her gaze drifted to the trunks in the corner.

For the first time since she set foot in that city again, Eleanor began to undo her own escape.

She walked over to the leather trunk and unbuckled the metal fasteners. The sound of the leather snapping in the silence broke the trance. Slowly, she began to remove the garments that represented her life in France. Dresses of pure silk, wool coats with modern cuts that the women of Birmingham would never see in local shop windows, blouses with delicate lace that seemed to insult the soot drifting through the cracks in the window.

The dark wooden wardrobe, which still held pieces from before her stardom, began to receive her new costume. Eleanor hung the garments, one by one. Each hanger that struck the rod made a dry echo in the room. Hanging those clothes was accepting that they were going to gather the dust of Birmingham. It was admitting that the perfume of Paris would slowly be replaced by the scent of coal smoke and cheap whiskey.

She returned to the trunk and, at the very bottom of it, found what she most feared to touch: her pointe shoes.

Eleanor picked up the pink satin pair, holding them by the silk ribbons she had so often bound around her ankles with millimetric precision. The fabric was worn at the toes, marked by rosin and the sweat of European stages—the marks of a glory that now seemed so distant. She caressed the satin with the tip of her fingers, feeling a wave of melancholy so intense she had to close her eyes for a few seconds.

She walked over to the dresser and opened the middle drawer. She arranged the pointe shoes side by side, lined up like defeated soldiers, and stored alongside them the signed contract with the Shelby Company. The parchment of the port and the satin of the dance sharing the exact same dark space.

A strange, almost ugly sensation settled beneath her skin. Organizing that room, transforming that temporary space into a permanent home, was the final act of her surrender. She had spent six years running, flying high enough so that the ghosts of Birmingham could not reach her. And now, of her own volition—and through the weakness of her family—she was clipping her own wings and storing them away in a drawer.

Eleanor went to the window, pressing her forehead against the cold glass, just as she had done hours earlier in the abandoned studio. Outside, the chimneys of the Shelby factories continued to spew black smoke against the stars. She reached into the pocket of her coat, which now rested upon the armchair, felt the bulk of the black lace glove, and retrieved it.

The letter to the Opera was ready. The room was tidy. The escape had ended, and the first rehearsal in hell would begin at dawn.

Eleanor stepped away from the cold window, the silence of the room weighing like lead upon her shoulders. The letter to Paris sat sealed upon the writing desk, the silk clothes hung from the dark hangers, and her family’s fate was temporarily salvaged. Everything was in its proper place, locked beneath the facade of control she insisted on maintaining.

With slow steps, she walked to the side of the bed and extended her hand toward the drawer of the rosewood nightstand. The bronze handle creaked slightly in the silence of the night as she pulled it forward.

She held the rough fabric for an instant, feeling the ghost of Thomas Shelby’s fingers still impregnated within the texture of that piece which had spent six long years in the darkness of a drawer. Involuntariamente, as she stared at the accessory, she wondered if when everything grew difficult, if when he thought of her, if when he missed everything that had transpired six years ago, for even a single second, he would open that drawer and hold her gloves. Slowly, with an almost ritualistic solemnity, Eleanor deposited the glove at the bottom of the empty drawer.

She pushed against the wood to close it.

Yet her fingers froze halfway. The drawer remained open by a mere millimeter, a dark crack exposing the black lace inside. Eleanor tried to apply pressure, but she simply could not bring herself to close the drawer.

Her hand recoiled, trembling, and she stood merely staring at the half-open piece of furniture, her breath suddenly trapped in her throat.

Because at that moment, staring at the scrap of lace Thomas had guarded for six years in his own office, the realization finally struck. Eleanor perceived, with a gelid panic that surged up her spine, that the second she accepted that glove back, the second she allowed Thomas’s subtext and the Shelby heritage to invade her thoughts, she had willingly descended back into the very same hell she had spent six years fleeing from. The contract that would save her family was not a victory; it was a leash. She was exactly where Thomas Shelby wanted her to be six years ago: trapped upon his chessboard, breathing his soot, sharing his ghosts. Yet without a ring upon her finger.

And worst of all, what caused her heart to hammer violently against her ribs in the darkness of the room, was the overwhelming perception that a small part of her — the most dangerous and destructive part — was desperate to see just how far that fire would be capable of burning her all over again.

_

No matter how hard she tried to lie to herself as she closed her bedroom door and faced the silence of the room, the truth was that the thought of seeing Thomas again terrified her. It wasn’t like six years ago, when she was just a girl confronting him inside her own house, giving sharp retorts to a man who had never been challenged.

She was no longer a stranger. For a few months, he had known her far too well, better than anyone else ever had. And perhaps her fear stemmed precisely from that. From the dread that when he fixed those blue eyes upon her, he would have access to that Eleanor once more, when not even she did.

Yet she also feared the unknown. Among the thousands of letters she had exchanged with Ada, her friend had never spoken of her brother, and she had never asked either. She was afraid of the answer. Afraid that Ada would reveal something she did not wish to read.

But there, sitting before her vanity as she done her hair, she wished she had asked. She wished she hadn't been such a coward with her own past, because now she would cross those doors completely disarmed, without knowing what kind of man she would find on the other side.

Through the reflection in the mirror, she stared at the crumpled black envelope upon the bed. What did Thomas want by inviting her? If it were merely for the business with her family, it made no sense to call for her. She had no connection whatsoever to it, nor did she care. He knew that ballet was the only thing that mattered to her. Thomas was also not the type of man who would invite her just to please his sister. But it was difficult to believe that after the last time she had seen him, the last time they had spoken, after she had said no to that marriage proposal, he simply wanted to see her. Perhaps it was just a gratuitous display of power, a way to remind her that he controlled every single inch of that city. Perhaps it was something purely selfish: a deliberate test to see if her time in France had truly transformed the girl who once told him no. Every single move Thomas Shelby made was calculated three steps ahead, and she hated the fact that she could not predict his checkmate.

The Montague siblings were running late. Eleanor took an eternity in her room under Elliot’s impatient knocks on the door. His car was already waiting downstairs, yet time inside the bedroom seemed to move differently, dragged out and tense.

She unzipped the first dress, a modest blue silk model she had brought in her luggage, and tossed it aside. It wouldn't do. It was far too dull. She changed into a black one with a neckline that fully showcased her collarbone. Before the mirror, she undone the elaborate updo she had begun to pin. The hairpins fell onto the wood of the vanity with sharp clicks.

She wasn't going to hide behind a ballerina’s severe bun. Eleanor brushed her hair with force, letting it fall loose and voluminous over her shoulders, framing her face in a way she would have never dared to wear in Birmingham six years ago. Then, she glided the red lipstick across her lips.

Despite being ready, she almost didn't go. She thought of faking a migraine, of using their father as an excuse, but the possibility of Thomas gloating that he still affected her irritated her. Rage and anxiety mingled, waging an internal battle within her. Your turned stomach and the fingers that trembled slightly as she adjusted her earrings made it clear that nervousness held dominion over her.

However, as she faced her final reflection, Eleanor swallowed the panic. If Thomas Shelby thought he would find the same girl he had left behind crying in that house, he was about to have a reality check. She looked breathtaking, and she knew it. Paris had transformed her into a woman who commanded the attention of any room she stepped into, and she would make sure he noticed every single detail.

If he wanted to play games with her through that invitation, she would play right back. And her principal weapon would be the most absolute indifference. She would cross that ballroom, hold his gaze, and act as though Thomas Shelby’s presence were nothing more than an insignificant detail in the room. Even if, on the inside, every controlled beat of her heart were pure pretense. She grabbed her purse, turned off the bedroom light, and headed down the steps.

Downstairs, Elliot paced back and forth near the door, huffing as he looked at his pocket watch for the third time. The sound of Eleanor’s heels against the wood of the staircase finally made him stop.

— About time, El! We are already nearly twenty minutes la...

The words simply vanished from his mouth. Elliot froze in place, instinctively straightening his posture as he scanned his sister from head to toe. His brow, furrowed with irritation, gave way to absolute shock. He blinked, as though he were trying to recognize his own sister in the imposing woman stepping down the stairs.

Eleanor had never dressed up like that in Birmingham. Elliot let out a huffed laugh, pocketing his watch in his dinner jacket in a somewhat clumsy manner and shaking his head, genuinely impressed.

— Wow… — he began, his voice a notch lower from the surprise, before cracking an amused smile. — Whether you'll manage to secure a respectable husband, I don’t know, but with that look, I guarantee there won’t be a shortage of men wanting to fill that position in that ballroom tonight.

Eleanor finished descending the final step. She was not rattled by the tease; instead, she adjusted the strap of her purse on her arm and looked at her brother with a half-smile, loaded with that polished disdain she had learned in France.

— Men wanting the position have never been the problem, Elliot. The problem with Birmingham is that none of them possess the slightest capability to fill it.

Elliot let out a loud laugh, the echo reverberating through the entrance hall, finding amusement in his sister’s haughtiness.

— Yeah, Paris truly made you insufferable, — he joked, extending his arm to her, brotherly pride now written all over his face. — Shall we? Birmingham is definitely not ready for the ballerina of the Opéra Garnier tonight.

Eleanor hooked her arm into his, raised her chin, and held his gaze.

— Shall we.

The forty-minute drive felt like an eternity. As he drove, Elliot recited his monologue about the family business and the importance of the Shelby Company signing the contract with them. Eleanor impatiently fiddled with the golden rings that adorned her fingers, giving limited responses of murmurs and nods to her brother. She stared intently at the tree-lined landscape. They were not heading to Small Heath. Of course not. Thomas Shelby had become far too big to continue living in the shadow of industrial smoke.

She hadn’t opened the envelope. She knew nothing about this so-called gala.

— Did you hear what I said? — Elliot asked, his voice louder than usual.

Eleanor turned to her brother. Her expression gave away that she hadn’t heard a single word.

— Of course.

— You didn’t hear a thing, did you? — he laughed, shaking his head. — Fine. Just use your ballerina charisma and no strong opinions on women’s rights, all right?

Eleanor rolled her eyes, but did not answer.

— What is it? — Elliot questioned, pulling the car up in front of the hall where the gala was taking place. — Did something happen, El? You seem so distant.

— Nothing happened, Elliot, — she replied, opening the car door and stepping out.

— It’s just a party, El. With people you know. You don’t need to be nervous, — Elliot walked around the car, stopping beside his sister and offering his arm to her. — What did Paris do to you, anyway? You used to be braver.

— Shut up, — she said firmly, taking her brother’s arm while tossing her brown hair behind her shoulders. — I did not spend six years in Paris to feel intimidated by Birmingham.

The ballroom's double doors pushed open for the Montagues, revealing a new reality of Birmingham to Eleanor. She stared at her brother one last time before they stepped inside.

The room was a wall of stimuli. The sound of loud laughter mingled with the constant clinking of crystal glasses and the echo of a jazz orchestra that dictated the night's rhythm. Waiters crossed the space carrying trays laden with expensive champagne, while cigar smoke drifted beneath the immense chandeliers of warm light. There were people everywhere — politicians, wealthy bookmakers, and the city's new industrial aristocracy, all competing for space.

As Elliot guided them through the crowd, Eleanor barely paid attention to the people who came to greet them. Her voice was perfectly calibrated in indifference during her replies while her brown eyes swept the room, searching for the single pair of blue eyes she knew would be looking for her.

And then, she saw him.

Thomas Shelby stood near the marble fireplace, surrounded by a small group of businessmen. Eleanor caught her breath for a millisecond, absorbing the impact of seeing him after six years.

He was different. Time and power had wrought changes in him. Thomas looked visibly older; the lines around his eyes and the crease upon his brow were deeper, marked by the responsibilities of an empire. He was infinitely wealthier, the impeccable cut of his evening suit and the gold watch gleaming from his waistcoat left no doubt that he now played in a different financial league.

But what struck Eleanor most was the coldness that emanated from him. His blue gaze was completely distant, almost devoid of humanity, as he listened to a man speak. He did not need to raise his voice or make sharp gestures; Thomas was more respected than ever. Eleanor watched, in silence, as he took a step forward and the crowd around him subtly parted, opening up space for him to pass, as if they did so out of pure survival instinct.

He was definitively the man who commanded Birmingham.

But then, Thomas’s rigid, distant countenance yielded. The corner of his mouth curved into a subtle smile, that very same rare, focused smile that the Eleanor of six years ago knew exactly how to draw from him. He began to walk in her direction. Every step he took closer made Eleanor’s heart race and her hands sweat. He was approaching, his blue eyes fixed ahead, smiling directly at her. Eleanor almost took a step forward, completely disarmed by the reflex of the past.

Then, Thomas raised his arm. But before she could react, a blonde woman, dressed in elegant, light silk, emerged from the crowd and naturally slipped her hand along the fabric of his overcoat. It was when the woman turned in profile that Eleanor noticed: the fabric of the dress outlined an already evident pregnancy belly. Thomas subtly leaned his body back, an automatic protective gesture to give space to that belly as he guided her through the ballroom. She was expecting his child.

The floor beneath Eleanor’s feet seemed to vanish. The reality check came like a bucket of ice water. It wasn’t at her that he was smiling. It wasn’t her he was approaching.

The pregnant woman slotted in beside him, returning his look of complicity, as Thomas continued to walk, passing right by Eleanor’s side as though she were merely another anonymous shadow in the ballroom.

It was when his hand shifted position, resting with care upon the woman’s arm, that the golden detail caught the chandelier's light and hit Eleanor full force. A gold wedding band gleamed on Thomas’s left ring finger. Thick, polished, definitive. The glimpse of that belly and that golden metal hurt more than his smile; it was the final testament that time in Birmingham had marched on without her, and that the space she had left vacant had been completely filled.

Thomas and the pregnant woman continued forward, vanishing into the midst of the guests, but the damage was already done.

Eleanor felt a violent tug in her stomach, a sudden nausea that made her legs falter for a second. The air in the ballroom, which before had been merely warm, suddenly felt thin, heavy, difficult to swallow. The noise of the jazz orchestra and the clinking of champagne glasses grew louder in her head, turning into a deafening hum that left her dizzy.

She blinked rapidly, fighting against her blurred vision. Her hand, steady until five minutes ago, gripped the strap of her purse so tightly that her knuckles turned white. She wanted to run. She wanted to turn her back on that part of Birmingham, catch the first taxi, and lock herself in the dark bedroom of her house.

— El? Are you all right? — Elliot’s voice surfaced beside her, muffled by the distance her mind had created. Her brother furrowed his brow, noticing the sudden rigidity in her body. — You went pale out of nowhere. Do you want to sit down?

Eleanor swallowed hard, feeling her throat scratch. She forced her facial muscles to move, trying to reassemble the pieces of the mask that Thomas had shattered without even knowing she was there.

— I am fine, — she lied, her voice coming out a notch higher than normal before she managed to regain control of her tone. — The room is far too hot. I need a drink, Elliot. Please.

While her brother edged his way through the crowd in search of a waiter, Eleanor remained there. Her brown eyes involuntarily searching for Thomas and his wife. Her own mind torturing her, wishing to find them.

And, unfortunately, she found them again.

Thomas and the blonde woman were now a bit further away, near one of the corner tables, talking with Arthur, who was gesturing with a glass in his hand, laughing at something. So intimate. Being a family. But Eleanor could barely look at the eldest Shelby brother. All her attention was locked onto Thomas’s minor movements.

It was the first real blow, and it hurt more than any indifference.

The man Eleanor observed with such scrutiny was not the Thomas Shelby the city was accustomed to, nor the one she had once known. He was not the leader of the Peaky Blinders, not the calculating gangster who dictated the rules of Small Heath, not the ruthless businessman. He was merely a husband.

Another woman’s husband.

It was in the brief moments. Everyday occurrences that would pass unnoticed by anyone else, yet for her, they were impossible to miss. When the woman made a move to sit, Thomas took a short step forward and adjusted her chair with a firm touch, ensuring she was comfortable before returning his attention to Arthur. As he leaned in to whisper something to his brother, Thomas’s free hand rested upon the blonde woman's back, an automatic gesture of presence and protection. And when she decided to move again, he held her arm with care as they crossed the crowd, clearing a path with his own body so that no one would bump into his wife’s prominent belly.

None of it was exaggerated. There were no theatrical public displays of affection, nor forced smiles for the newspaper cameras. It was natural.

And precisely because it was so genuine, it hurt in an unbearable way.

A bitter realization rose in Eleanor’s throat, bringing with it a clarity to her doubt: this was exactly why he had invited her. It was not a gesture of mere formality or longing; it was a calculated move to shove that new reality in her face. Thomas wanted her to see, with her own eyes, that another woman had stayed. That he had built the perfect family and had moved on without looking back. Feeling her pride waver beneath the weight of that silent humiliation, Eleanor swallowed the knot in her throat, turned her back on the scene, and walked resolutely into the crowd, anxious to find her brother and escape that self-torture disguised as analysis.

Thomas continued listening to Arthur speak about the dock shipments, keeping his head slightly tilted, the impeccable posture of a man who commanded every single inch of that ballroom. His gaze automatically scanned the room, tracking faces, movements, the flow of the guests. An old habit that the war and the streets had never allowed him to lose.

It was in the middle of his brother's sentence that Thomas's blue eyes locked.

The shift was almost imperceptible. The cigarette he was bringing toward his lips stopped midair, a few inches from his face, freezing for a fraction of a second. The short reply he was about to give Arthur vanished from his mind, leaving a vacuum of silence that lasted only a single heartbeat.

There, moving away toward the bar with her dark hair loose and her back draped in the black fabric of the dress, was Eleanor.

She had truly come, and she was different. It wasn't the restrained silhouette he kept in his memory; her steps possessed a certain arrogance, her chin raised, and a presence that reverberated through the room. Thomas blinked just once, his eyes narrowing as he watched the curve of her shoulders disappear among the suited men. He raised his hand slowly, dragging on the cigarette with a feigned calmness, but the rigidity that settled in his jaw betrayed that something had caught his attention.

Beside him, Grace noticed the subtle shift in focus. She tried to follow her husband's line of sight, stretching her neck slightly and scanning the crowd of guests, but she hadn't noticed anything out of the ordinary. Not understanding what had just happened, she lightly touched Thomas's arm, drawing him back.

— Tommy? — she asked, her voice gentle yet curious. — What is it? What are you looking at?

Thomas released the cigarette smoke to the side, his face instantly reverting to that stony, cold, and unreadable expression. He didn't even look at his wife as he answered, keeping his eyes fixed on the spot where Eleanor had vanished.

— I thought I saw one of the London contacts, but I was mistaken. Arthur, what were you saying?

Eleanor cut through the crowd toward the bar with quick strides, her mind still trying to process the image of Thomas with his pregnant wife. The room seemed to be spinning faster, the air of the place being choked by the scent of expensive perfume and cigar smoke. She just needed a second to collect herself.

— Eleanor?

The female voice came from the side, firm and full of genuine surprise.

Eleanor stopped and turned. A woman with dark hair and a modern cut, wearing an elegant dress that exuded the sophistication of life in London, was coming toward her with widened eyes.

It was Ada.

Before Eleanor could formulate a single sentence to greet her friend, Ada closed the distance and pulled her into a tight embrace. The gesture touched her emotional core, but the second Ada’s arms wrapped around her shoulders, the armor she had been trying to sustain since her bedroom crumbled for good.

Eleanor closed her eyes for an instant and returned the embrace with force. It was the first moment, in all that torturous night, that she finally managed to draw breath and truly breathe. In the midst of a ballroom full of ghosts from the past, Ada was a safe haven.

Thomas’s sister pulled back slightly, holding Eleanor by the shoulders and looking her from head to toe, a massive smile upon her face.

— For God's sake, Eleanor! When did you return from France? Why didn’t you seek me out? — Ada asked, an amused indignation shining in her eyes, before glancing over her shoulder in the direction where her brothers usually stood. — That bastard Thomas didn't tell me a single word! Did he know you were in the city?

— He knew, — Eleanor replied, with a faint smile that attempted to mask the weight in her chest. She adjusted a strand of her loose hair, seeking to regain her posture, and held one of her friend's hands. — But I only arrived a day ago, and I swear I was going to look for you! You were the one I wanted to find most, Ada. Elliot showed up with the invitation for tonight, and I had no way to refuse…

— Oh, men and business, — she laughed weakly, shaking her head. — I can’t believe Thomas went to my house yesterday and didn’t tell me you would be here.

— It wouldn’t have been as impactful to see me if he had told you. It’s a good thing he knows how to keep secrets.

— But forget about my brother. Look at you, El. Paris has done you an unbelievable amount of good. You look breathtaking. This dress, your hair… you've completely vanished with the best friend I had six years ago!

Ada’s sincere compliment was like a balm, yet it also brought a bittersweet echo. Eleanor looked down for a millisecond, adjusting the rings on her right hand.

— Six years… — she began, her voice coming out a notch lower, forcing a nostalgic tone to disguise her inner turmoil. — It feels like an entire lifetime ago. So much has happened. And you look breathtaking as well, you look nothing like the girl I met back then. My God, I missed you so much!

— So much really has happened, — Ada agreed, touching her arm with affection. — And that is exactly why you have to come to my house. We are going to have dinner, drink some good wine, and you will tell me everything about France. Without all these people, just the two of us and… Karl.

— How is he? Did you bring him? I am anxious to meet him and finally be a good aunt.

— Karl stayed home with the nanny. He is huge, Eleanor. Running all over the house, breaking everything in his path. Being a mother is complete madness, it drains every single drop of sanity I have, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Eleanor felt her smile freeze on her lips for a fraction of a second. An invisible knot tightened in her throat, and she had to fix her gaze on a glass gleaming at the bar just to keep from faltering. She and Ada had shared so many expectations six years ago. They had discovered life at almost the exact same time, yet their paths had been brutally different.

Before Eleanor could reply, two male figures cut through the crowd in their direction.

— Ada! — the younger one called out, with the typical energy of someone who was thoroughly enjoying the free drinks of the event.

Eleanor blinked, surprised. The skinny, red-cheeked little boy she remembered from Small Heath had vanished. In his place stood a grown young man, wearing a well-cut, tailored suit, with a thin mustache beginning to form and that sharp Shelby gaze.

— Finn? — she asked, genuinely impressed. — For God's sake, you’ve become a man!

— Eleanor! — Finn broke into a wide smile, proud of the recognition. — I told John I saw you walk in. You look... wow. Paris really changed you, didn’t it? — he pointed to the young man beside him. — Oh, this is our cousin, Michael.

Eleanor shifted her gaze to the man beside Finn, and his presence functioned as a true breath of fresh air amidst all those suffocating ways of the other men in the family. He didn’t look a thing like them.

— Michael Gray, — he introduced himself, holding her brown gaze with a magnetic ease. — It is a pleasure to finally meet the Eleanor Finn wouldn't stop talking about on the way over here.

Eleanor shook his hand, feeling the tension accumulated in her shoulders evaporate a little.

— The pleasure is mine, Michael, — she replied, letting out a genuine laugh for the first time that night, turning to Ada with raised eyebrows. — I confess I spent years away, but I didn’t know Polly had a son this size tucked away in secret.

Michael let out a chuckle, adjusting his overcoat.

— Neither did she, until recently. It’s a long story, — he commented, with a half-smile that carried a well-timed charm. — I’m still getting to know the family. But I’m glad Finn dragged me over here tonight. He swore he saw you walk in and didn't stop talking about the Eleanor who went to France until we crossed the ballroom. It seems he was entirely right to insist.

His tone was light, a flirtation so subtle it almost passed for mere courtesy, but his eyes remained fixed upon her for a second longer than necessary. Eleanor smiled back, feeling the air finally return to her lungs completely.

At that exact moment, Finn’s cheeks turned a violent shade of red. His eyes widened, looking from Michael to Eleanor, feeling completely betrayed by his cousin in the middle of the ballroom.

— Michael! — Finn grumbled, his voice cracking slightly with nervousness before he tried to recover. — I only said I saw her walk in, you don't have to make it sound like I came running after her!

Ada let out a loud laugh, the kind she hadn't given in a long time, bringing her hand to her mouth as she shook her head, thoroughly enjoying the scene.

— Oh, Finn, it’s no use trying to fix it now, — Ada teased, giving her younger brother a light nudge with her elbow.

— I was just being a good host, Ada! — the boy protested, indignant, crossing his arms and looking away, though the smile at the corner of his lips gave away that he found amusement in his own embarrassment.

Eleanor let out a laugh, the first of the night that did not come loaded with pure pretense. The dynamics among the three of them were so light, and so distant from Thomas’s machinations, that it worked as a true miracle within her chest. She took a short step toward Finn, wanting to save him a little from the teasing.

— Don’t mind them, Finn. I found it lovely to know that you missed me, — Eleanor said, winking at the young man before shifting her brown eyes back to Michael, holding his gaze with that natural elegance Paris had given her. — And thank you, Michael. It’s good to see that Finn found a cousin with such good taste to accompany him.

Michael Gray was charming, with an impeccable posture that mixed the ambition of Birmingham with the lightness of someone who did not carry the scars of the family's difficult times. He gave a half-smile, tilting his head slightly, visibly entertained by her response.

— Eleanor! — Elliot appeared, clearing a path through the crowd, with two glasses of champagne in his hands. — You vanished! I went crazy looking for you. Are you feeling better?

— I haven’t left yet, Elliot, — Eleanor took one of the glasses from his hand, taking a sip of the drink right after. — Don’t worry.

— Are you feeling unwell? — Ada asked, genuinely concerned.

— I’m better now. I think it was just my blood pressure.

Away from the crowd, leaning near one of the ballroom’s marble columns with an elegant cigarette holder between her fingers, Polly Gray watched the scene.

Her dark, sharp eyes cut through the room, locked directly onto Eleanor. She had seen her arrival with Elliot, the moment the Montague girl stepped away visibly shaken, and the encounter with the three of them.

Polly dragged slowly on her cigarette, the smoke rising in spirals while her analytical mind processed what was before her. She noticed the way Eleanor used her conversation with Ada, Finn, and, most notably, Michael, as a shield. Michael’s subtle interest had not slipped past his mother’s eyes, and she immediately raised a warning flag upon seeing her son so close to that dangerous orbit.

Polly removed the cigarette holder from her lips and averted her gaze. She didn’t need to look long at Thomas to know what he was doing; she had known her nephew since his very first cry and knew how to read every single one of his calculated silences. And there, scanning the room with her sight, she caught him. Thomas maintained his businessman facade, yet his blue eyes were fixed on the exact same spot as hers: on the girl in black who was smiling at Michael.

Exploiting the moment Grace stepped away, Polly walked with firm, silent strides over to her nephew. She stopped beside him, her eyes fixed on the crowd ahead, maintaining an impeccable posture.

— I didn’t know the Montague girl had received an invitation, — she commented, her voice low, almost casual, yet loaded with second intentions. — Wasn’t she in France?

Thomas took a slow drag of his cigarette, without averting his eyes from the room for a single second. His jaw tightened slightly, the only clue that the question had struck him.

— Business changes, Polly. Her brother is now part of the expansion plans, — he replied, his tone of voice icy, perfectly controlled.

The woman let out a short, irony-laden laugh, subtly turning her face toward him.

— Elliot is the one trying to secure a contract with us, Thomas. You don’t need to please him by inviting his sister. He is the one who needs to please us to get what he wants.

Thomas remained in silence, his blue gaze cutting through the smoke, refusing to bite the bait. Knowing exactly where to press to see just how far her nephew's self-control would go, Polly took a step back, adjusting the shawl over her shoulders before saying:

— Grace looks radiant tonight, — Polly commented, glancing briefly at his wife before locking her eyes on her nephew. — The white of her silk suits her, it brings a lightness. But the trouble is, black swallows any other color in the room, don’t you think? — she continued, staring at Eleanor from afar. — Pull yourself together and go stand by your wife.

The ballroom's marble restroom was silent, and Eleanor used the time before the mirror to take a deep breath, touch up her lipstick, and shield her mind once more. She only needed to survive this night for a few more minutes and then she would be free. She stared at her own reflection in the mirror, taking a deep breath. She was ready to go back, grab her brother, and leave this party once and for all.

But Birmingham's chessboard never played in Eleanor's favor.

She was walking back down the side corridor, adjusting her hair one last time when she felt a firm hand wrap around her arm. It was Elliot with an enthusiastic smile.

Before she could suggest they leave, her brother gently pulled her toward a more private recess of the main hall.

— Come, El. We must greet the hosts.

And there, the peace vanished from Eleanor's night for good.

Thomas and his wife were standing just a few paces away, talking with a couple of investors who soon said their goodbyes, leaving the space open. As Elliot approached with Eleanor, the woman turned around, and the Montague girl had to admit to herself, in a mixture of admiration and pain, that she was absolutely enchanting.

Up close, the light silk of her dress seemed to float around her already evident pregnancy belly. Grace maintained a smile so sweet and warm that it made it impossible to hate her immediately. There was no arrogance in her; there was the grace of a woman who knew exactly how to make people feel welcome.

— Eleanor, what a pleasure to finally meet you, — Grace said, taking a step forward with open arms in a welcoming half-embrace. — I am so glad you came! Elliot was telling me about your family. I wanted to say that I hope Mr. Montague recovers soon. I know Birmingham can seem far too cold at times like these, but I hope you feel very welcome back.

Grace’s words were gentle, her tone of voice soft and comforting. Eleanor forced a polished smile, feeling her knuckles freeze.

— Thank you, Mrs. Shelby, — Eleanor replied. The surname almost caught in her throat, coming out with the same sensation of swallowing shards of glass. — It is very kind of you, — she continued, her voice perfectly modulated, though her brown eyes had captured, from her peripheral vision, the figure of Thomas. He stood a step behind his wife, whiskey in hand, his face unperturbed.

Grace tilted her head subtly, her smile expanding in a genuinely curious way as she analyzed the black dress and the guest’s impeccable posture.

— Please, call me Grace. So, you are the famous ballerina?

The word famous echoed in Eleanor’s mind like a deafening gong. Her chest tightened. Who had spoken of her? Eleanor’s eyes sought Thomas’s for a millisecond, but he did not move a single muscle in his face.

Noticing the brief silence, Grace laughed lightly and hastened to explain, dissipating the tension she didn’t even know existed.

— Ada showed me some letters and postcards you sent her right when you arrived in France. She keeps them all with great affection, — Grace continued, oblivious to the static electricity that cut through the air among the four of them. — I was fascinated. I confess I am incredibly curious to see one of your performances at the Opera. Thomas promised me we would go to the theater more often this year. I’ve been pressing him about it for months.

Eleanor swallowed the bitter taste of her pride and sustained her chin high, channeling all her Paris grandeur.

— I am flattered, — Eleanor said, her voice firm and velvety. — I would love to have you and Thomas in the audience. It would be an honor to show you both what I learned abroad.

Thomas took another slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes narrowing minimally at the Montague girl's veiled challenge. He knew what she was doing.

Grace, completely oblivious to the subtext guiding the dialogue, let out a casual laugh. She looked at her husband over her shoulder, lightly touching his arm, a gesture of intimacy so natural and everyday that it operated like a direct blow to Eleanor’s stomach.

— Did you hear that, Tommy? Now you are out of excuses, — Grace teased, dividing her knowing glance between Eleanor and her husband. — You will have to take me. The trouble, Eleanor, is that Thomas isn’t exactly the most romantic man in the world when it comes to art and theater. If it were up to him, we would spend every night discussing dock shipments or horse betting. To give you an idea, when he proposed to me…

Eleanor stopped hearing the rest.

Grace’s voice continued to pour from her perfectly shaped lips, but it transformed into a muffled hum, distant and nonsensical in Eleanor’s mind. The ballroom seemed to lose its focus. The words “when he proposed to me” kept spinning in her head, heavy, suffocating.

The image of the thick, gleaming gold wedding band on Thomas’s left ring finger seemed to grow before her eyes, shining brighter than anything else in that cursed place. Thomas Shelby had knelt for another woman. He had made promises, he had placed that ring and agreed to build a life, a family, a future. Everything Eleanor had once refused, he had given to Grace.

Eleanor fixed her eyes upon a random spot on the carpet, the static and artificial smile frozen on her lips while, on the inside, she felt every single piece of herself crumble. Beside her, Elliot nodded smilingly at Grace’s story, completely blind to the silent torture his sister was bleeding right there, before Thomas’s impassive eyes.

When she collected herself, Eleanor was startled by the ease with which the conversation flowed between Grace and Elliot. She didn’t possess the rawness that Birmingham usually demanded of the women in the Shelby family; she spoke with a lightness that seemed to float above all that cigar smoke and scent of whiskey.

— I confess the first few months back were somewhat chaotic, — Grace was saying, with an amused smile as she adjusted her posture, resting one of her hands protectively over her prominent belly. — But when I became Grace Shelby, I understood that time in this city moves at an entirely different pace.

Grace Shelby. The surname hit Eleanor’s chest with the force of a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs for a fraction of a second. She kept the static smile on her face, but on the inside, the floor gave way. That surname. That signature. The weight of that family had been offered to her first, six years ago, in an empty hall with a Thomas who seemed to beg her not to leave him. Now, it belonged to the smiling blonde woman in front of her.

— I imagine so, — Eleanor managed to reply, her voice coming out in a velvety and perfectly controlled tone, her Paris armor acting as her shield. — The Shelbys have always had a very... distinct rhythm of conducting things.

— Oh, without a doubt! — Elliot intervened, letting out a short, anxious laugh, wanting to keep himself relevant in the hosts' circle. — The family's dynamism is what most impresses in this city. The Institute, for instance... the structure is impeccable.

Grace looked at Elliot, her eyes shining with a genuine pride, completely clean of any arrogance.

— Thomas built everything from scratch, — Grace explained, subtly turning her face toward her husband, who remained a step behind her. — Every brick, every investment fund for the children of the foundation. He dedicated himself day and night so that place would be ready. It is a charity project, a foundation aimed at providing assistance to the children of Birmingham, but I made it a point to include music and theater rooms. They need art, they need to see that there is a world beyond the factories…

In that exact instant, Eleanor’s mind was hurled six years into the past. A suffocating memory echoed in her head: Thomas’s husky voice, his desperate blue gaze crossing hers as he made that definitive promise: “I’ll buy the theater. I’ll hire the musicians.” At the time, Eleanor thought it was merely the delirium of a man trying to retain his most precious possession. But looking now at the seriousness with which Grace spoke about the Institute, and at the respect Thomas now commanded from high society, the truth hit her like a bucket of ice water. He truly would have done it all. If she had said yes, that entire empire would have been built for her.

— It is an extraordinary achievement, Grace, — Elliot praised, enchanted by the philanthropy.

She nodded with affection and turned her light eyes back to Eleanor, tilting her head slightly.

— But tell me, Eleanor... Are your plans to remain in Birmingham, or do you intend to return to Paris soon?

For the first time that night, without disguising where he was looking, Thomas’s blue eyes abandoned the periphery of the room and locked directly onto Eleanor’s mouth. He took a step forward, closing the distance between the two of them in a way that was almost imperceptible to the others, yet suffocating for her.

— She belongs to the stages of Europe now, Grace, — Thomas said. It was the first time he addressed her directly. His voice was that low, husky, drawn-out note Eleanor knew by heart, yet the tone was of an impeccable courtesy. — Anyone who knows the brilliance of Paris can hardly adapt to the smoke and silence of Birmingham for long. People change addresses when they find something greater. Isn’t that so?

Eleanor sustained his gaze, her chin high, her brown eyes flashing against his blue ones. To Elliot and Grace, it seemed like nothing more than a polite commentary on an international ballerina’s career. But Eleanor felt her blood burn. She understood the message. It was a subtle dig, a veiled reckoning.

Elliot made a move to reply, but his sister cut him off.

— It is difficult to grow accustomed to Birmingham again when one has the freedom to go live in other places. You both should try it.

The weight of the ballroom seemed to increase with every passing second, transforming the air around that small circle into something dense and suffocating. Eleanor held the champagne glass she had taken moments before with a rigidity that was beginning to ache in her knuckles, praying internally for anyone there to change the subject.

But fate seemed determined to wring from her every last drop of pride.

— Well, if Paris is half of what your letters described, I perfectly understand your reluctance to stay here, Eleanor, — Grace continued, her gentle voice cutting through the silence that had settled after the exchange of barbs. She let out a light laugh, her eyes shining with genuine satisfaction. — But I confess that, lately, I have plenty of reasons to prefer the warmth of Birmingham.

With a slow and entirely natural gesture, Grace slid the palm of her right hand over the light fabric of her dress, flattening it with care over the evident curvature of her belly. The movement drew everyone’s eyes, but it was upon Eleanor that it operated like a sharp blade.

— We are in a rather noisy phase, to be quite honest, — Grace commented, looking down at her own belly with a smile that overflowed with a sweetness almost painful to witness. She raised her eyes to her husband, sharing the intimacy of the moment with the guests. — This baby does not sit still for a single second. But it is impressive... he always kicks when Thomas is around. It seems he recognizes his father's voice even before being born.

Thomas, who until then had maintained the rigid posture of a soldier on guard, softened his features in a way Eleanor never thought herself capable of witnessing. There was no gangster there. There was no leader of the Peaky Blinders.

Taking a half-step forward, Thomas extended his free hand and rested his long fingers over Grace’s hand, covering his wife’s womb. His touch was devoid of any hesitation; it was an instinctive gesture of possession, of protection, and of an affection so profound that it made Eleanor’s stomach turn in a sudden nausea. Thomas’s blue eyes lowered to the belly for a brief instant, and the corner of his mouth curved into that focused, private smile he used to direct only toward the things that mattered most in his life.

Beside his sister, Elliot let out an enchanted sigh, completely absorbed by the image of the perfect family.

— That is marvelous! — Elliot exclaimed, moved. — An heir for the Shelbys. Congratulations to you both, truly. It is a fantastic blessing.

Eleanor felt the floor beneath her feet vanish once and for all. The image of Thomas with his hand flattened against that woman’s belly worked the cruel miracle of shattering the very last wall of her Paris armor.

Thomas didn’t just have another woman; she was generating a life. A bond that no journey, no resentment, and no past would ever be capable of breaking. His future was right there, growing beneath the light silk of that dress, while she was nothing more than a shadow wearing black, watching her own replacement from the front row.

The nausea rose in her throat, real and violent. The noise of the jazz orchestra in the background turned once more into that deafening hum, and the room's warmth seemed to burn her skin. She needed to get out of there. If she stayed one more minute beneath the scrutiny of those blue eyes that were now returning to fixate upon her with an impassive calm, she would collapse onto the floor.

Forcing every single muscle in her face to obey, Eleanor blinked rapidly, swallowed the dry knot in her throat, and offered a smile.

— It is truly... lovely news, Grace, — Eleanor said, her voice coming out a notch lower than usual, yet still sustained by what remained of her Montague pride.

Before the tension in the air could become obvious, Grace extended her hand to the side, without averting her eyes from Eleanor. It was an entirely blind, mechanical movement. In that same millisecond, Thomas broke eye contact with Eleanor, lowered his arm, and delivered the glass of water that sat on the side table straight into his wife’s palm, anticipating what she wanted before she even had to ask.

— Darling, do you know if the mayor has arrived for the announcement yet? — Grace asked, her voice gentle.

Thomas didn’t need to think. He already knew the answer, controlling the entire evening's schedule inside his head.

— He is ten minutes late, Grace. He is finishing a dinner at the club, — he replied quietly.

Upon hearing the answer, Grace leaned back subtly, touching the fabric of Thomas’s overcoat with her fingertips. Automatically, like a reflex conditioned by time, the gangster's rigid body yielded; he tilted his torso forward, lowering his head so his ear was exactly at the height of her lips, attentive to any whisper his wife might want to confide.

They were small habits. Tiny, everyday gestures that could not be bought with bookmaking money, nor improvised from one moment to the next. They were things built upon years of living together, of nights shared in the same bed, of silences shared over breakfast.

It was in that moment that Eleanor realized something absolutely horrifying: Thomas loved Grace.

A love that translated into care. Into listening. Into protection. Into respect. He protected her from the noise of the ballroom; he listened to her whims; he respected her presence as the matriarch of this new phase of his life.

This realization destroyed the very last fantasy Eleanor kept in the depths of her chest. Because, during all those years in Paris, it had been much easier to face the pain by imagining that he had never forgotten her. It was comforting to think that he spent sleepless nights embittered by her absence, that no other woman would ever touch that heart the same way she had.

To discover that Thomas Shelby had, in fact, moved on and built a real, functional life without her was the true blow to the stomach. The ghost was not him. The ghost here, wearing black and holding a champagne glass, was her.

Eleanor thought she was going to throw up. She took a step back, handing the glass to her brother, needing to free her hands which were beginning to tremble.

— If you will excuse me, I have just remembered that I promised Ada I would find her upon returning from the restroom. I would not want to keep her waiting.

Elliot furrowed his brow, surprised by his sister’s sudden departure.

— El? But we are about to speak about the coal mines contract with Thomas…

— You understand business far better than I do, Elliot, — Eleanor cut him off, with a firmness that left no room for dispute, though her brown eyes were fixed on a neutral spot upon the wall to avoid Thomas’s face. — Stay and tend to the family business. I am certain our hosts will appreciate your undivided attention.

Grace nodded with a sympathetic smile, oblivious to the internal collapse of the woman before her.

— Of course, Eleanor, we won't keep you. Go find Ada, we shall speak later.

Thomas did not say a single word. His gaze followed Eleanor as she turned her back and began to walk toward the crowd. Her posture remained erect, her chin was still held high with the arrogance she had brought from France, yet Thomas knew the rhythm of those steps. He knew that, behind that pose, Eleanor Montague was running to save what was left of herself.

The ballroom seemed to have shrunk. Eleanor walked among the guests with quick strides, her heart beating right in her throat and the air escaping her lungs as though her black dress were far too tight. She could barely see the people around her; the image of Thomas’s hand flattened against Grace’s belly remained vivid, burning behind her eyelids. She needed air. She needed Ada, an exit, anything that would wrench her away from that nightmare in shades of white silk.

It was then, as she swerved around a group of men discussing horse betting near the bar corridor, that she nearly collided head-on with someone.

— Whoa! Steady, Miss Montague. Birmingham can be dangerous for those who walk without looking ahead.

Eleanor blinked, the sudden start cutting through the flow of her thoughts. It was Michael.

He held a fresh glass of whiskey in his hand and a half-smile perfectly molded onto his face. His posture, leaning lightly against the dark wood counter, emanated a calm that operated like an instant balm. Michael was handsome, confident, and most importantly of all, completely oblivious to the subterranean currents that had nearly drowned Eleanor in the ballroom's recess.

He knew nothing. Looking at her, he saw only a breathtaking woman who had just arrived from Paris.

— Michael, — Eleanor said, and the very sound of his name came out like a sigh of relief. She forced her shoulders to drop, taking a deep breath for the first time in minutes. — My apologies. I was... looking for Ada.

— Ada was just dragged away by Arthur to arrange the family photos with the newspaper photographers, — Michael commented, tilting his head slightly to scan her face. — If I were you, I wouldn’t go over there right now. Arthur is trying to make Finn look like a serious businessman, and the result is turning into quite a noisy disaster.

Eleanor let out a short laugh, but it was a legitimate one. Michael’s amused tone broke the ice and dissipated the suffocating knot that tightened her chest.

— Then I think I will take your advice and keep my distance, — she replied, crossing her arms and allowing herself to lean her back against the column beside him, adopting a more relaxed posture.

— A smart move, — Michael teased, taking a slow sip of his drink, keeping his brown eyes fixed upon her with a genuine, magnetic interest, yet without any rush. — You know, I was here thinking... Finn swore to me that you spent years in France, but you don’t strike me as the type of person who trades the Paris Opera for this city. What does Birmingham have that France failed to match?

The flirtation came disguised as curiosity, in a way so polite and light that it caused Eleanor to relax completely. There, beneath Michael’s interested, untainted gaze, she was not a ghost or one of Thomas Shelby’s regrets. She was just Eleanor. An interesting, desired, and free woman.

— Let’s just say that Birmingham has a unique capacity to pull us back, no matter how far away we go, — Eleanor replied, returning his gaze with a softer smile, feeling the warmth return to her cheeks. — But, at the moment, the best thing this city has presented to me was this quiet corner of the ballroom.

Michael smiled back, the brightness in his eyes making it clear that he had understood the space she was offering. Thomas Shelby could have his empire, his perfect wife, and his guaranteed future over on the other side of the party, but here, with Michael, Eleanor had finally found her breath of fresh air. And she would make a point to enjoy every single second of that truce.

Michael leaned his body slightly in her direction, sharing the counter space with an enviable naturalness.

— A quiet corner at a Shelby event is practically a biblical miracle, Eleanor. You should play the lottery tomorrow morning, — he joked, gesturing with his glass toward the frantic movement of the waiters. — Though I confess I share the credit with you. I was about to escape into the garden just to avoid hearing Arthur explain, for the tenth time, how one chooses a winning horse by the shape of its shins.

Eleanor covered her mouth, letting a genuine laugh escape.

— Please, tell me he didn't use technical terms, — she begged, her brown eyes gleaming with amusement.

— He did. And worse: he tried to make me demonstrate the movement using my own leg, — Michael confessed, feigning an air of suffering. — Boston prepared me for many things, but Small Heath’s equine anatomy was definitely not in the accounting books.

— Boston? — Eleanor raised her eyebrows, genuinely intrigued, letting her body relax even further against the marble column. — So Birmingham’s fog is a novelty to you as well. What is a well-educated lad from Boston doing in the middle of this nest of gangsters?

Michael took another sip of his whiskey, sustaining her gaze with a challenging, amused glint.

— Let’s just say I came to bring a bit of order to the chaos. This family’s accounting looked as though it had been written by pirates before I arrived. But what about you? — He shifted the focus, narrowing his eyes in a charming way, as if deciphering a very interesting mystery. — Finn told me you’re a ballerina. You have that posture of someone who can intimidate an entire room just by stepping into it. Is it a French trick, or were you simply born that way?

The compliment came wrapped in a lightness so unpretentious that it never felt forced for a moment. Eleanor felt her cheeks warm, but this time, it was a welcome sensation. Michael’s flirting was a well-played game of tennis: fast, clever, and devoid of the weight of expectations.

— A good artist never reveals her secrets, Michael, — she countered, tilting her head with a half-smile that carried a hint of mystery. — But I will take it as a compliment. In Paris, one learns that the best armor against the world is a pair of tightly laced pointe shoes and a high chin.

— It’s a good armor. Though here in Birmingham, people usually wear actual metal beneath their coats, — he commented, with a fine irony, glancing briefly at the girl’s empty hands. — Are you no longer drinking? Has Paris left you too demanding for the Shelbys' palate, or are you just saving room for Ada’s dinner?

— A bit of both, perhaps, — Eleanor admitted, looking at the waiters passing by, balancing glasses. — The champagne here is a bit... aggressive for someone who grew accustomed to the Loire Valley.

Michael smiled, his eyes fixed upon her, catching every nuance of her relaxed expression.

— Well, I may know nothing of ballet, Miss Montague, but I do understand numbers and importation. If you promise to survive this ball without escaping through the back door, I can guarantee that a bottle of the finest French wine is mysteriously diverted from the docks straight to Ada’s dinner. What do you say? A fair trade?

Eleanor looked at him. Michael was the company she needed to remind herself that the world kept spinning, full of possibilities, smiles, and easy conversations.

— It is a very tempting proposal, Mr. Gray, — Eleanor replied, accepting the game. — Consider it a deal. But if the wine is bad, I am going to tell Polly that the new accountant is overcharging for the stock.

— Fair enough, — Michael laughed, staring at her once more. — A business agreement. My absolute favorite kind.

On the other side of the ballroom, Thomas Shelby’s world continued to spin at its relentless pace. He was surrounded. The mayor of Birmingham had finally arrived, accompanied by two prestigious investors from London and three members of the municipal committee. Grace was by his side, her hand elegantly resting upon his forearm, smiling and leading the conversation with the perfect diplomacy that the family’s new status demanded.

Thomas spoke. He nodded. He dragged on his cigarette and gestured with his free hand, answering questions about whiskey export quotas and the paving deadlines for the streets around the Institute.

But he was not there.

To anyone looking, he was the businessman of always, the focused leader. But the truth was that Thomas Shelby’s brain functioned like a military radar, dividing itself into two entirely distinct frequencies. On the first, he responded to the politicians. On the second, the loudest and most violent one, he monitored Eleanor Montague.

Thomas avoided looking directly at the bar. He knew that every second his blue eyes spent locked onto Eleanor’s black silhouette would be a second of ammunition handed to Polly, or worse, a doubt planted in Grace’s heart. Because of this, he kept his face rigidly turned in the mayor’s direction.

But he knew. He always knew.

Even while feigning total attention to the papers the London investor was gesturing with, Thomas noticed the exact moment Eleanor crossed the side corridor. From the corner of his eye, without moving his head a single millimeter, he registered when Michael relaxed against the counter. He saw the shift in Michael’s shoulders. He saw when Polly’s son changed his posture, adopting that precise angle of someone focused on holding a woman’s attention.

— ...and we believe the port subsidy will be approved before the winter recess, isn’t that so, Mr. Shelby? — the London investor asked, seeking approval.

— Yes, — Thomas replied, his husky voice coming out on autopilot, perfectly calm. — The committee has already given the green light.

On the inside, Thomas’s stomach constricted. Eleanor had just laughed.

The sound of her laughter did not reach the center of the room audibly because of the noise of the jazz orchestra and the chatter of the guests, yet Thomas saw the movement. He knew the tilt of her head when her laughter was genuine, the way she subtly brought her fingers near her face. She never laughed like that for Elliot’s business. She hadn’t laughed like that with Ada.

She was laughing for Michael. For Boston’s lightness. For the cousin who carried none of the scars that he, Thomas, had carved into her soul.

The smoke from Thomas’s cigarette came out dense, cutting through the light of the chandelier. Grace lightly squeezed his arm, raising her eyes with affection.

— You are very quiet, darling. Are you tired? — she whispered, her sweet voice full of care.

Thomas lowered his eyes to his wife, forcing his features to relax in that very second, covering her hand with his own.

— Just thinking about the dock numbers, Grace. Don’t worry, — he lied, his voice coming out calm, the tone of protection he now mastered with expertise.

He returned his attention to the mayor, who was beginning an impassioned speech about charity, but his mind continued tracking the bar. Thomas noticed when Michael leaned in. He noticed the proximity between the two of them, the narrowed space between his cousin’s well-cut suit and the dark dress.

Thomas knew that what he and Eleanor had lived through belonged to a Birmingham that had already been burned and rebuilt. He loved the peace Grace brought; he protected the child soon to be born with every single drop of his blood. His chessboard was won.

But to see Eleanor completely relax her shoulders beneath the roof of the ball he was hosting, using the smile that had once been his to disarm another man, caused a dull, acid burn within his chest. Thomas took a final drag of his cigarette, letting the ash fall to the floor, knowing that, as much as he controlled every single inch of that city, the corner of that bar was the only territory in Birmingham where he possessed no power at all.

The mayor continued his chatter, but the sound of his voice was suddenly swallowed when the orchestra's musicians changed their repertoire. The frantic rhythm of jazz gave way to a slower arrangement, led by the melancholy sound of a violin that paved the way for a dense, drawn-out, and deeply familiar piano melody.

It was an old song. One of those tunes that used to echo from the phonographs of Small Heath's pubs before the war, when Birmingham's smoke still seemed romantic and the future was nothing more than a distant promise.

The music floated through the high ceiling of the ballroom, heavy as a warning.

In the exact second the first piano note echoed, Thomas Shelby's body locked completely. The ash of his cigarette fell forgotten upon the carpet. On the other side of the room, at the bar counter, Eleanor's laughter died instantly on her lips. Her brown eyes fixed onto nothingness while the melody worked the cruel miracle of collapsing the walls of Paris she had spent six years building.

There was no calculation, strategy, or rationality. Driven by the pure reflex of the past, both raised their heads at the exact same time.

Thomas's blue eyes crossed the ballroom and met Eleanor's brown ones.

The world around them simply disappeared. The mayor talking about the subsidy, Grace nestled by his side, Michael gesturing with his whiskey glass at the bar, the investors, the crystal chandeliers, everything became an unimportant blur. Under the sound of that music, only the two of them remained.

Thomas sustained her gaze. It was not the look of the leader of the Peaky Blinders or of the respectable businessman; it was the look of the Tommy from six years ago, the man she had left broken in the room of that house when she said no. There was an absurd intensity in that line of sight, a silent grievance, a possessiveness that seemed to pierce through the crowd merely to claim the right to disturb her. He stared at her with the rawness of someone who remembered every single inch of her skin to the sound of those very same notes.

Eleanor did not look away. She held his gaze with the rigidity of someone who was bleeding on the inside, yet refused to fall. Her brown eyes returned all the heartache, all the weight of wounded pride, and the painful realization that, no matter how hard she tried to flee to the stages of Europe, that cursed city and that specific man still knew exactly how to disarm her.

It lasted for only five seconds. Five eternal seconds where the ballroom's air seemed to freeze and the secrets both tried to bury screamed louder than the orchestra.

Then, the spell broke.

Thomas was the first to look away. He blinked slightly, drawing air sharply through his nose and turning his face back toward the mayor with surgical quickness, bringing the cigarette to his mouth to mask the invisible tremor of his features. Eleanor lowered her eyes right after, fixing her sight onto the dark wood of the bar, swallowing hard as she forced her heart to slow down inside her chest.

No one else noticed. Grace kept smiling at the London politicians, and Michael merely finished his sentence, leaning forward to try and recapture the Montague girl's attention. The room kept moving, blind to the fact that, in the middle of that waltz of appearances, Thomas and Eleanor had just destroyed and rebuilt each other in a single glance.

The old song still vibrated in the air like a persistent echo when Eleanor decided her time in that ballroom had run out. The five-second gaze with Thomas had been the absolute limit of her endurance. She needed to leave, she needed the safety of her home or anywhere far away from him.

— Michael, I must apologize, but I think the journey from Paris has finally taken its toll, — she said, forcing the most natural and charming tone of voice she could muster, offering a parting smile. — I need to rescue my brother and go get some rest.

— The wine agreement still stands for Ada’s dinner, Miss Montague, — Michael replied, dedicating to her that restrained, perfectly polished smile that had made her relax minutes before. — Go get some rest.

Eleanor nodded and stepped away from the counter. To leave the main hall, however, there was only one path: the central corridor. And the Montague girl's bad luck seemed to be the only constant of that night. Thomas, Grace, and Elliot remained in the exact same recess, now saying their goodbyes to the mayor.

She tried to pass by quickly, keeping her eyes fixed upon the double oak doors at the far end, the skirt of her black dress cutting across the carpet with haste. She almost made it. She was two paces from passing the group when Grace Shelby’s gentle, melodious voice cut through the space.

— Eleanor!

Fuck. There was no pretending she hadn’t heard. The ballroom was noisy, but Grace’s call had been clear and direct. Eleanor froze her steps. For a fraction of a second, her back stiffened beneath the fabric of her dress, but she took a deep breath, spun her body with the calculated elegance of a stage veteran, and faced the trio with a smile.

— Grace, — Eleanor said, approaching with an impeccable posture, though on the inside, she felt every single muscle ache.

— I am so glad I caught you before you left, — the blonde woman said, taking a step forward. Her smile was so warm and welcoming that it made the situation even more painful. She lightly touched Elliot’s arm before turning her attention back to the Montague girl. — Your brother was just telling me some wonderful news. He said you won't be returning to France anytime soon. That your plans are to remain in Birmingham for quite a while.

Eleanor shot a fleeting look of reproach at Elliot. Her brother offered a sheepish smile, clearly proud to be extending the conversation with the wife of the most powerful man in the city, without having the slightest clue of the crime he was committing against his sister's mental health.

— Yes, El needs some time to sort out our father's affairs, — Elliot rushed to explain, gesturing with his glass. — And, well... Birmingham will always be her home, won't it?

— I think it is an excellent decision, — Grace continued, her eyes shining with a genuine and charitable excitement. — A woman with your talent and European background is exactly what this city needs. In fact, Eleanor, I was thinking... Perhaps you could visit the Institute one of these days. The girls at the foundation would be absolutely enchanted by a performance of yours. Something simple, in the new auditorium. What do you think?

Before Eleanor could formulate a polite response that would allow her to refuse without seeming rude, Elliot, driven by the blind enthusiasm to embed himself even further into the Shelbys' circles, took a step forward, his eyes wide with the sudden "brilliant idea" he had.

— You know what, Grace? I think a performance would be too little, — Elliot suggested, his voice overflowing with a corporate eagerness that caused Eleanor's stomach to plummet. — Eleanor could teach ballet classes at the Institute. Once or twice a week. She has the technique of the finest dance school, spent years performing... It would be a golden opportunity for the foundation's children.

Grace clasped her hands together at her chest, her expression lighting up completely.

— Oh, Elliot... that would be simply perfect! — she exclaimed, genuinely touched by the proposal, turning to her husband with shining eyes. — Thomas, did you hear that? Eleanor teaching dance classes to our girls. It would be an extraordinary gain for the Institute.

The silence that followed seemed to last an eternity.

Eleanor felt the blood freeze in her veins. The idea of teaching there, of becoming an employee or a frequent collaborator in the empire Thomas had built for his new family, was the coup de grâce. It would be a weekly torture. She looked at Thomas, hoping that he, in his usual cold and calculating pragmatism, would cut the idea at its root. He wouldn’t want his past wandering the corridors of his project of redemption. He would say no. He had to.

Thomas took a step forward. He set his whiskey glass down, leaving it aside on the side table, and took his hands out of his overcoat pockets. His blue eyes locked onto Eleanor.

There was no looking away, no previous indifference, and no businessman's mask. His gaze was a straight, heavy line that seemed to pin Eleanor's feet to the floor with an absurd force.

— It is an excellent idea, — Thomas said.

His voice came out in that drawn-out, husky note, yet with a clarity that cut through the sound of the orchestra in the background. He was not looking at Grace, nor at Elliot. He spoke exclusively to her. And the tone he used... dear God, Eleanor knew that tone.

It did not sound like a job offer. It did not sound like philanthropy, bureaucracy, or a business contract.

It sounded like a silent command. A disguised plea.

Accept. The word was not spoken, but it was drawn in the intensity of that ice-blue gaze that refused to let her go. Thomas Shelby was using his own wife's charity and her brother's ambition to build a perfect trap in the middle of the ballroom. He was closing the exit doors of Birmingham, one by one, right before her.

Eleanor felt the air catch in her throat. The weight of Thomas's gaze was almost physical, a force attempting to drag her back into a territory she had sworn never to step into again. The trap was set, and worst of all, Grace herself held the key to it, with an innocent smile full of good intentions.

Desperately needing to create distance, Eleanor forced a short laugh, a light and self-deprecating sound that attempted to mask the panic rising in her chest.

— I am immensely grateful for your enthusiasm, Elliot, and for your kindness, Grace, — Eleanor began, her voice coming out a bit faster than planned, though she kept her eyes fixed upon the woman, refusing to look back at Thomas. — But the truth is, I don't know if I would make a good teacher. Spending years on a stage is very different from having the patience and didactics necessary to teach children. Ballet demands an almost military discipline, and I fear I might be far too rigid for the girls at the Institute.

— Nonsense, El! — Elliot interrupted her, letting out a dismissive laugh, entirely unaware of the thin ice his sister was walking on. — You are excellent with details. I am certain you would do incredibly well.

Grace took a half-step forward, touching Eleanor’s arm with a softness that made the Montague girl feel even more guilty for her own rejection.

— Don’t be so hard on yourself, Eleanor, — Grace insisted, her tone of voice overflowing with genuine warmth. — The Institute isn’t looking for an instructor from Berlin to breed soldiers. We want someone who brings passion, someone who shows these girls that their world can hold beauty and movement. Your brother is right, your knowledge would be a gift to them. Please, think upon it with care. Birmingham has very few pure things, and this project is one of them.

Grace’s plea was so sincere that it disarmed Eleanor’s defenses. She looked at Mrs. Shelby, seeing the truth and pride she invested in that institution, and then, inevitably, her gaze drifted for a brief second toward Thomas. He remained static, his countenance impassive, yet his blue eyes seemed to burn, watching her attempted escape with a predatory patience. He knew she was cornered.

Swallowing hard, Eleanor adjusted her handbag against her body, using the movement to break eye contact once and for all.

— It is a very noble proposal, Grace, — Eleanor replied, forcing the most polished and professional tone Paris had taught her. — Given such insistence from you both, I promise I will think about the matter. I will look over my schedule and give the foundation an answer soon.

— That is a start, — Grace smiled, satisfied, withdrawing her hand from Eleanor's arm. — I will hold Elliot to an answer next week.

— Absolutely, Grace. She will think about it, indeed, — Elliot guaranteed, smiling.

— Now, if you will excuse me, I truly must leave. I am still weary from the journey. Elliot, don't worry, I will catch a taxi, — Eleanor hastened to say, taking the definitive step backward that freed her from that circle. — Good night, everyone.

She did not wait for them to respond. Eleanor spun on her heels and walked toward the grand oak doors of the ballroom, without looking back a single time. Her strides were firm, carrying a haste she could no longer contain.

But, as she advanced through the crowd, the room seemed to begin to shrink.

The air grew thin, heavy, thick with cigar smoke, whiskey, and the expensive perfume of high-society women. Eleanor felt her throat tighten. A violent sensation of suffocation rose through her chest, and every step she took seemed to demand a superhuman effort.

Everything around her, absolutely every detail of that cursed place, represented a choice.

She glanced at the marble walls, at the crystal chandeliers, and at the crests of the Shelby company. An Institute. A solid, grandiose structure, dedicated to art and to the future.

She thought of the gleaming wedding band she had seen on Thomas’s finger, of the mention of them being in the audience, of the surname Grace had pronounced with such naturalness and pride. Grace Shelby. And, finally, she recalled the most brutal image of all: Thomas’s hand flattened with such affection and ownership over his wife’s womb. The baby. All of it existed. It was real, palpable, an empire of power, respect, and family. And all of it had only come to life because a woman had decided to stay. A woman had said yes.

And she, she had said no.

A wave of dizziness made her falter for a millisecond near one of the drink tables. She pressed her fingertips against the wood just to keep from falling. Looking over her shoulder, one last time, her gaze crossed the distance of the room and focused on Grace’s silhouette, who was now laughing again at some nonsense Elliot was saying, while Thomas surrounded her with that unperturbed body, attentive to his wife’s every need.

It was there, in the middle of that asphyxiation, that the truth stripped itself bare before Eleanor in its cruelest and most definitive form.

Grace was, simply, the woman who stayed.

She had been the woman brave enough to accept Thomas Shelby’s darkness, to extend her hand in the middle of Small Heath’s mud and say “yes” to the man whom Eleanor, in her pride and fear, had refused.

The significance of that night collapsed upon her head like the roof of a church in flames.

She could bear no more. She could not bear the scent of that city, she could not bear Grace’s torturous sweetness, Thomas’s silent audacity. She quickened her pace, nearly running, pushing through the double oak doors with a desperate strength, stepping out onto the damp pavement.

The cold, biting wind of the Birmingham night struck her face with the violence of a slap, messing the strands of her hair and freezing the silent tears that, finally, were beginning to burn her cheeks. Eleanor drew in air sharply, filling her lungs as the ballroom door closed behind her, leaving her alone in the street’s darkness, with the weight of knowing that some doors, once closed, never open again.

The night was over. She had made it. She had survived that gala ball, and now she would return home.

As she wiped her face, a voice she knew all too well echoed behind her, coming from the ballroom door. The low, gentle, and dangerously drawn-out tone asked:

— Was Paris everything you hoped for?

...

Jean's last sentence hit Eleanor like a punch to the stomach. The mere mention of her hometown transported her back to memories she wished she could forget.

Besides freedom and self-love, Paris had taught Eleanor one other thing that she had learned all too well: how to pretend Birmingham had never existed. And now, there was a cruel, sadistic twist of fate in her past choosing to return at the exact moment she had finally conquered everything she wanted.

She looked at the envelope in the boy’s hand and took a deep breath before replying,

— Leave it on the vanity, Jean. Thank you.

Eleanor was alone once more. She reached across the vanity for the cotton to remove her makeup, all the while glancing sideways at the letter on the other side of the table. It took a massive amount of self-control to keep her heart rate from spiking and to prevent that familiar suffocating feeling from rising. She refused to let Birmingham and everything tied to that city dictate her heartbeat ever again.

She removed the white silk bodice of her costume and the jewelry she wore, slipping into a long black skirt and a beige blouse instead. As she pulled on her boots, she ceased to be the principal soloist of the Ópera Garnier and became simply Eleanor Montague. Her eyes swept over the vanity once more, and along with her pointe shoes, she grabbed the letter and tossed it into the bottom of her purse before leaving.

The black Renault dropped Eleanor off at the entrance of her building on Boulevard Saint-Michel. It was already past ten o’clock at night, yet on that day, the avenue was still bustling. As if fate wanted to mock her, showing that people would go on living the best of the city while she carried in her purse, inside that envelope, her return ticket to Birmingham.

She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Ever since Jean had left her dressing room, she had been ignoring the letter on purpose. She knew that the moment she opened it, the world would crumble before her. Once she broke that seal, Eleanor the ballerina, free and fulfilled, would cease to exist.

When she finally locked the door to her apartment, the silence of the Parisian night cornered her. As she turned on the lights and tossed her keys onto the table, she tried to think positively. Perhaps the letter meant nothing. Perhaps it didn't require all this torment. But deep down, she knew with a cutting clarity that she was only trying to deceive herself. The simple red urgency stamp on the paper already spoke volumes.

She sat on the living room sofa and with an almost painful slowness, pulled the letter from the bottom of her purse. She stared at the envelope for a few minutes, trying to delay the inevitable. Her hands trembled as she recognized the handwriting and her older brother’s name on the back of the paper, and with a heavy sigh, she tore open the envelope, pulling the letter out.

“Eleanor,

I hope you are well. I hesitated a great deal before writing this letter to you, spending the last few days staring at the blank paper, but I know you wouldn’t forgive me if I didn’t.

Our father is very ill. He suffered a severe cardiac collapse two nights ago, a heart attack, and the doctors say his heart is far too weak. They don’t know if he has much time left. Perhaps you should come back home to say goodbye.

Please, Eleanor. Come quickly.

With love,

Elliot.”

Eleanor lowered the letter slowly, letting the paper rest on her lap. The selfishness she had clung to and the fear that had made her ignore the letter in her dressing room now suffocated her with a devastating certainty: her father was dying. And, like a good daughter, it was her duty to return home. Tomorrow, she would buy a ticket to Birmingham.

The ship would depart from Calais at eight in the morning. It would be a quick journey to Dover, about an hour and a half, and then she would catch a train to Birmingham.

She had refused a closed cabin, preferring to travel out on the deck. She felt the biting sea wind mess her hair and whip against her face. A restlessness was gnawing at her chest. She felt as though she were in limbo. The coast of France had already vanished into the mist, and ahead of her, the horizon was still an uncertain line.

Six years.

Eleanor felt the weight of every single day she had lived in Paris fall upon her shoulders. She remembered the euphoria, the sleepless nights, the suffering she had transformed into loud applause. She had built her own world during those years.

But no matter where you go, what you conquer, or how much you change. Your past can always come back to haunt you.

She took a deep breath, trying to reorganize her thoughts. She wanted to be prepared for whatever lay ahead. She thought of her father, and her chest tightened. The delay before Elliot wrote the letter, the journey to Paris, the hours of stubbornness where she had resisted opening it, and the time it took to buy the ticket and finally reach Birmingham. Would she still be in time to say goodbye? Was her father even still alive? She rehearsed what she would say to him, and what she would say to Elliot.

Yet returning to the city didn't just mean seeing her family. It was also the moment to find everyone she had missed. She thought of Ada. She thought of the dozens of letters they had exchanged over those six years. Letters where Eleanor wrote about the exhausting rehearsals at the Opera, the applause, and Parisian life, while Ada poured out the news from England. Eleanor loved that exchange, but every envelope seemed to carry, along with the longing, an invisible anguish.

“Ada, I missed you so much!” she rehearsed mentally, imagining the embrace she would give her friend upon seeing her at the doorstep. She would meet Karl in person, and would give him a present she meant to buy when she arrived in London. They would sit on the sofa while the boy played, and they would drink a glass of white wine.

But Eleanor’s mind was a treacherous territory. The imagination inhabited by Ada and her son vanished, replaced by the image of Thomas Shelby. Her chest burned, and her hands gripped the ship's railing tighter. What would she say if she ran into him on a street corner in Small Heath?

“Hello, Thomas. My father is dying, and I came back to see him.” The mere necessity of rehearsing a line for him, of predicting the reaction of that man she had tried to tear out of herself, left her furious.

— No, — Eleanor whispered against the wind, opening her eyes abruptly. — That is not going to happen.

A wave of cold determination, mingled with pure panic, washed over her. She straightened her posture, wiping the sea mist from her face. Her decision took shape right then and there, beneath the gray sky of the English Channel: that journey was not a return, it was merely a visit. She would arrive, see her father, say her goodbyes like the good daughter she was, support her brother, embrace Ada to ease the longing, and take the very first ship back to Paris. Two weeks, at the exact most.

Eleanor looked ahead and saw the first outlines of the White Cliffs of Dover emerging through the English mist. She adjusted her woolen coat and took a deep breath, wishing those two weeks would pass quickly.

It was a two-hour train ride from London to Birmingham. Eleanor held her suitcase tightly, dodging the hurried crowd. The city looked different, just as she did.

As she stepped out onto the busy street, the cold, damp English air hit her face. Eleanor raised her hand, hailing one of the taxis lining up along the sidewalk. The driver got out of the car and took her luggage, putting it in the trunk. The woman slid into the backseat of the vehicle. The interior had a strong smell of old upholstery, cheap tobacco smoke, and motor oil.

— Where to, miss?

— Edgbaston.

The taxi pulled away quickly. Eleanor kept her eyes fixed on the window, watching the chaos of the sidewalks she had once known so well. The traffic was chaotic, and the car had to stop several times.

Stuck at the intersection, Eleanor looked across the sidewalk. Amid the crowd of laborers leaving the afternoon shift, a figure caught her attention. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man, wearing a heavy, dark overcoat that seemed to float around his legs as he walked. But it was the flat cap on his head that nearly made her heart stop. She pressed closer to the opposite window to get a better look.

The measured stride, the hands shoved into his pockets, the predatory presence that commanded the space around him without even trying… it was him. Six years later, he was right there, walking on the sidewalk beside her. An overwhelming wave of panic mingled with a sharp pang of sadness.

— Thomas… — the voice came out in an almost inaudible whisper.

But then, the man on the sidewalk turned in the direction of the car. Eleanor felt her body slump back against the seat.

It wasn’t him.

The taxi jolted and began to move again, leaving the man behind. The realization of her mistake hit her with a mix of relief and a deep rage at herself. In less than an hour in the city, the mere glimpse of a cap through the mist had been enough to shatter her entire control.

What an ironic way Birmingham had found to welcome her back.

When the black taxi finally pulled up before the iron gates of the Edgbaston manor, Eleanor hesitated before opening the vehicle door. The Montague property loomed against Birmingham’s gray sky exactly as she remembered it. The facade of dark brick, the tall windows with wooden frames, the perfectly manicured yet lifeless garden.

She paid the driver, grabbed her leather suitcase, and walked toward the entrance. As she pushed open the heavy main door, the sound that echoed through the hall was the very same sharp click from six years ago.

The house felt like a museum.

Everything inside was intact, perfectly clean, as though six years had never passed. The oak grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked at the same sluggish pace; the Chinese porcelain vase occupied the exact millimeter of the coffee table; even the scent of beeswax mingled with her father’s pipe tobacco clung to the velvet curtains. It was as if the family’s history had been frozen the split second she boarded the train to Paris. Nothing had changed, except Eleanor herself.

— Eleanor?

She raised her eyes toward the main staircase and saw Martha, the housekeeper, who had worked for the family since before Eleanor was even born and who had practically raised her after the loss of her mother. The woman hurried down the steps, forgetting the usual rigid posture she had always maintained. Her gray uniform was slightly wrinkled, and her hair, now completely white, escaped her bun.

— Martha!

Eleanor dropped her suitcase onto the floor and rushed toward the woman with open arms. The housekeeper wrapped her in a tight embrace, stroking her long hair. When they pulled apart, Martha’s calloused and loving hands moved up to Eleanor’s face, cupping her cheeks, inspecting every inch of her features with the same worry as when Eleanor used to fall and scrape her knees in the yard.

— Look at you… My goodness, you are so beautiful. A woman! — a tear escaped her misty eyes, rolling down her cheek before being wiped away with the back of her hand. — But you are so thin! Do they not feed you properly in that France? Let me see those hands, they are frozen!

The persona of an international ballerina from the Paris Ópera Garnier crumbled in the blink of an eye. Eleanor felt a tight knot form in her throat and her eyes sting. The entire armor of coldness she had tried to wear on the ship and in the taxi collapsed before the only genuine, selfless affection Birmingham still held for her.

— I am fine, Martha. I swear I am fine, — Eleanor said, her voice breaking, allowing herself to be a protected girl in someone else's care for just a few seconds.

— This house became so empty without you, my dear… — Martha confessed, her lower lip trembling. — When you left, it felt as though life walked out that door right along with your suitcases… Elliot showed me your pictures on stage, I was so proud!

— You must come see me dance, Martha! Officially now, as a professional ballerina. I promise I am much better than when I used to make you stop your work just to watch me dancing in my bedroom.

— You were always wonderful, my dear. The best ballerina this world has ever seen.

— Thank you, — Eleanor took her trembling hands once more, gently stroking the back of them, — for supporting me and believing that I would make it.

— I always knew you would, — she drifted her eyes toward the upper floor, and then to Eleanor’s suitcases on the hallway floor, — you must be so tired, I will take your bags up to your room.

— No need, Martha. I will carry them myself.

She turned around, picked up the suitcase from the floor, and began to walk up the staircase.

— I didn’t know when you would return, but I had the maids keep your room clean at all times.

— Thank you.

The wood of the staircase creaked beneath Eleanor’s steps, the weight of the leather suitcase heavy in her right hand. Martha followed close behind, her pace slower, her eyes fixed on the girl, fearing she might vanish at any moment. As they reached the second floor, Eleanor’s feet froze upon the rug. She looked toward the bedroom at the end of the corridor, where a sliver of light escaped through the half-closed door. It was her father’s room.

She felt her stomach tie into a knot. Eleanor released the handle of the leather suitcase onto the hallway floor; the dull thud the object made against the wood echoed off the walls, yet no one answered from inside.

Martha stopped right behind her, keeping a respectful silence, knowing exactly what was running through her girl’s mind.

Eleanor walked hesitantly, moving away from her suitcase, and approached the crack in the door. She rested her trembling hand against the wooden frame and peered inside the room. From within came a subtle, unsettling smell of medicinal ether, alcohol, and damp compresses.

He lay there, flat on his back, with the sheets pulled up to his chest. His face, which Eleanor always remembered as stern, imposing, and haughty, seemed smaller and pale. His breath was weak, audible in the deathly silence of the room, yet rhythmic and serene. He seemed at peace, completely oblivious to the pain, the medicine, and the collapse that had nearly taken him. A fragility so peaceful it made the girl’s chest tighten.

Eleanor carefully took a step back, drawing her eyes away from the crack. She looked at Martha, who was watching her with misty eyes, and shook her head in an almost inaudible whisper:

— He is sleeping. It is better if I don’t disturb him.

— Since the heart attack, he has been very tired. But, he remains stubborn, sometimes he even comes downstairs for meals.

— He is still the same, then, — she replied, joking, trying to lighten the heavy mood.

Alongside the housekeeper, she walked to the beginning of the corridor, stopping in front of her bedroom door. She turned the doorknob slowly and pushed open the wooden door.

It was exactly as she had left it six years ago. The patchwork quilt stretched across the bed, the untouched poetry books on the shelf, and, in the corner near the window, the old full-length mirror where she used to spend hours practicing her first ballet steps. There was not a grain of dust upon the wooden surface. Martha had kept her promise; the room had been maintained like a sanctuary, waiting for the day its owner would decide to return.

— Thank you, Martha, — she whispered. — It is as it always was, perfect.

— Get some rest, my dear. I will prepare some tea for you, — the housekeeper said, placing the suitcase Eleanor had left in the hallway onto the floor, before walking away toward the stairs.

A strange sensation washed through the girl’s body. She sat on the bed, her eyes sweeping the room with care. The space held the most innocent version of her soul. It was the only place in the world that remembered who Eleanor Montague was before Paris.

Beside the mirror, hanging by an already faded satin ribbon, was an old pair of pointe shoes, worn and misshapen by the form of her feet from back when she still danced out of pure whim. On the iron coat rack, a light linen dress she had worn to a summer picnic seemed to wait for the twenty-year-old girl to return and wear it.

Suddenly, looking at all of it began to ache. It was a museum of memories far too dangerous. Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself, feeling her chest burn with an unbearable melancholy. She wanted to cry for the girl who used to dance on the rug in the center of the room. The innocence of that space suffocated her because it functioned as a cruel mirror, showing everything she no longer was.

Trying to ignore the discomfort, Eleanor made her way to the bathroom. The hot bath served to wash away the dust of the journey and the dampness of the English Channel, yet it failed to ease the tension in Eleanor’s shoulders. She dressed in one of her Paris outfits — a dress of a simple cut, yet elegantly structured —, fixed her hair, and headed down to the first floor just as dinner was usually served.

As she crossed the living room, the figure sitting on the sofa stood up.

It was Elliot.

The impact of seeing him again made Eleanor freeze for a fraction of a second. The brother she had left behind in 1920 was gone. He had changed drastically. The young man of hesitant shoulders and idealistic gaze had given way to a man nearing his thirties, with impeccable posture in a well-tailored, custom suit. His jawline was sharper, his gaze firmer, and, above all, there was an aura of ambition and coldness around him that Eleanor recognized immediately — it was the weight of someone who had taken over the family business. Time had hardened Elliot too.

— Eleanor, — he said, his voice much deeper and more measured than she remembered.

— Elliot…

He walked around the coffee table and stepped toward his sister. The embrace they shared was tight, a mutual recognition of the blood that bound them, yet there was a new rigidity to it, as though they were both feeling out the ground to discover who the other had become over those six years. Eleanor caught the scent of expensive cologne mingled with the faint smell of tobacco on him.

As they pulled apart, Elliot held her shoulders, assessing her with an analytical gaze, one that still held a hint of brotherly affection.

— You look different. Paris did you good, — he remarked, and a faint, restrained half-smile appeared on his face. — I am glad you came quickly.

— You look different too, I suppose time has been good to both of us, — Eleanor replied, smoothing her brother's arm over the fabric of his suit. — I came as soon as I received your letter. I passed by the corridor earlier... I saw that he was sleeping. How is he doing now?

Elliot sighed, his expression suddenly turning bleak, revealing the coldness of someone who deals with facts, not emotions.

— His heart is weak, Eleanor. The doctors say it was a miracle he even survived the first forty-eight hours. He needs care and rest, — he shrugged, shaking his head. — But he is stubborn, you know that all too well. He insists on coming downstairs to dine with us today, even against all medical orders.

Elliot adjusted his shirt cuffs, glancing toward the dining room door before turning his eyes back to his sister.

— Dinner is almost ready. I will go let our father know you are here, so he won’t have any surprises when he comes down, — he said, his tone of voice calm and precautionary. — His heart wouldn't take the shock of seeing you at the table without warning. Stay here, I will be right back.

He gave a polite nod and passed by her, his leather shoes clicking firmly against the floor as he walked up the staircase. Eleanor headed into the dining room, staring at the table set for three, and sat in her usual place.

She spent her time alone watching the reflection of the chandelier light upon the polished silver cutlery, drawing her attention away from them when the sound of slow footsteps and the discreet scuff of shoes in the hallway announced the arrival of her father and brother. Elliot entered first, serving as a firm support for their father.

Upon seeing the patriarch cross the threshold, Eleanor felt a knot form in her throat. The imposing man with thunderous steps who populated her memories from 1920 had given way to a figure weakened by the heart attack, yet whose gray eyes flashed with a touching vivacity the moment they found his daughter.

— Eleanor… my daughter, — Mr. Montague said, his voice coming out rasper and more strained than usual, yet loaded with genuine emotion.

Eleanor stood up from her chair immediately and walked toward him. The embrace they shared was unlike anything they had ever experienced. There was none of the rigidity of the past, nor the demands regarding posture or family names. He pressed her against his chest with what strength he had left, as though he were holding onto the certainty that she had truly returned.

— I missed you so much, — he confessed softly, pulling back just enough to hold her face with both hands, his rough palms brushing against Eleanor’s cheeks. — Elliot showed me the newspaper clippings from Paris... the reviews of your performances. You have no idea how proud I felt, my dear. You have become the jewel of this family. And... forgive this old father for being so harsh, so rigorous in the past. I only wanted you to be strong enough for what the world would demand of you.

Silent tears rolled down Eleanor’s cheeks. That confession disarmed any remaining trace of hardness she had packed away in her suitcase.

— It is all right, Father, — she replied, covering his hands with her own and kissing his forehead. — I am here now.

Elliot helped their father sit at the head of the table with the utmost care and then took his place at the side, exchanging a warm, complicit smile with his sister. The meal was served by the maid in an atmosphere of lightness and affection that Eleanor no longer believed possible to find in Birmingham. Elliot poured her wine, made jokes about how the manor felt like a barracks under Martha’s orders in her absence, and their father followed it all with a serene countenance, sipping small gulps of water and appreciating the presence of his two children together.

— You are much more mature, — Elliot commented, pointing his glass toward his sister with a gleam of admiration. — Paris has given you an elegance that, frankly, leaves anyone around here in the dust.

— The Ópera demands a lot, but life there is a constant learning experience, — she replied, laughing, feeling genuinely welcomed by this new family dynamic. — Paris has a different rhythm from Birmingham. People there breathe art, theater, cafés... It is a world in constant motion.

— The French public seems quite impressed with you. I read all the reviews of your performances that you sent through the mail.

Eleanor adjusted the linen napkin on her lap, forcing her voice to sound light, the very embodiment of the untouchable ballerina she had built in France.

— I think I can say that ballet is truly my talent.

It was then that Mr. Montague, after a long sigh, touched his daughter’s hand upon the table. His tone of voice shifted, becoming more fatherly and less imperative, yet still loaded with that old moral rigidity:

— You know, Eleanor… now that you are here, I find myself thinking about your future. You have conquered the world with dance, and that is admirable, — he paused, looking her in the eyes. — But the stage is for the youth, Eleanor. And youth passes quickly. You are already twenty-five years old, you need to think about what you will do when your legs begin to fail you, — he drank a small sip of water before firing, casually, in the middle of dinner, — there is still time to build a proper life. A good marriage to a respectable man, a home… That is what I would wish for you before my eyes close.

The impact of the word marriage hit Eleanor like a physical blow.

Instantly, her mind betrayed her, and the image of Thomas Shelby invaded the dinner table. She thought of him. She thought of the house he wanted to buy for them, of the desperation in his hands as he proposed, of the ring he had thrown at her feet. To think of a marriage to a respectable man in her father’s eyes felt like a sick joke after what she had lived through six years prior. To sit at a table with an ordinary man and feign a safe affection felt like an unbearable lie.

She lowered her eyes to her wine glass, swirling the dark liquid to disguise the turmoil that threatened to crack her facade of calm.

Elliot, noticing his sister’s heavy silence and wanting to shift the focus away from their father, let out a loud laugh, shaking his head.

— Leave her be, Father! She has only just arrived. Besides, respectable men in Birmingham are in short supply, — Elliot commented laughing, trying to bring the lightness back to the table. He looked at his sister. — In fact, you should see the Shelbys now, Eleanor. They walk around as if they own the country.

Eleanor caught her breath, the name of that family ricocheting off the walls of the Montague dining room.

— They aren’t just bookmakers and horse owners anymore, — Elliot continued, pouring himself more wine, — now they have offices in London, factories, members of Parliament… Thomas Shelby bought half the city, and the rest he governs by fear. If you want a proper marriage around here nowadays, you’d have to ask permission from the Shelby Company.

Eleanor forced a polite smile, but the mention of his name made the air in the room feel like pure lead. The comfort of the reunion with her family was still there, but Elliot’s observation merely stamped her worst fear: Thomas Shelby had become far too big to be avoided.

— Well, I have no intention whatsoever of marrying right now, — Eleanor set her glass on the table and left her cutlery upon the empty plate, — I am exhausted from the journey, it was so many hours on the train that I thought I would never arrive. I am going to bed. Good night.

Mr. Montague nodded with a sympathetic, tender gaze, placing his hand gently over her arm.

— Rest, my dear. You are home now.

Elliot stood up in a polite gesture, offering a nod of his head.

— Sleep well, El. Tomorrow we will talk with more calm.

Eleanor forced a final affectionate look at the two of them, turned around, and crossed the threshold of the dining room. As she climbed the oak steps toward the isolation of her bedroom, the silence of the manor seemed to whisper the name she so desperately tried to silence. She closed the door to her room, locked it for good measure, and leaned against the wood, staring into the dim light of her childhood sanctuary.

The first night in Birmingham had begun, and Eleanor knew that, from then on, exhaustion would be the least of her problems.

She stripped off her Paris dress, packing it away in her suitcase as though she were trying to protect that French identity from the Birmingham mist. She slipped into a light silk nightgown and lay down in the bed of her youth.

She turned off the lamp, but sleep did not come.

The room haunted her. The silence of that house was strange, dense, and almost deafening to someone accustomed to the nightly hum of the Parisian boulevards. In the darkness, the shadows of the furniture seemed to shift, whispering far too many memories. Lying there, beneath the plaster ceiling she had stared at for twenty years, Eleanor felt a terrifying sensation: that she had become once again exactly that defenseless girl from 1920.

But she was no longer. Her body carried the rigidity of ballet discipline, and her soul held scars that the girl of the past wouldn't even dare to imagine.

Suffocated by that chronological illusion, Eleanor threw the blankets aside. Her bare feet touched the cold wood of the floor. She walked over to the large sash window, unlocked it, and pushed it upward with force.

The freezing, damp air of the Birmingham night rushed into the room instantly. Eleanor leaned against the sill, resting the weight of her body.

Leaning there, she listened to Birmingham in the dead of night. It was a completely different sound from Paris. Far away, the distant, rhythmic echo of hydraulic presses and factory hammers working the night shift cut through the silence, mingled with the long whistle of a freight locomotive. It was the mechanical, raw pulse of a city that never truly slept.

Determined to quiet her own mind, she walked over to the desk. She needed something to read, any distraction. Her fingers brushed against the row of old books on the shelf and pulled down a worn volume of Lord Byron's poetry. She intended only to flip through the yellowed pages to occupy her eyes, but, as soon as she opened the leather cover, something fell from inside and drifted down onto the rug.

Eleanor bent down and picked up the objects with trembling fingers. Her heart skipped a violent beat.

The first object was a flower, perfectly dried and pressed by time, its once-purple petals now reduced to a melancholy shade of brown. The second was a small piece of folded brown paper.

With her breath caught in her throat, Eleanor unfolded the paper. Written in pencil, in that firm, swift, and striking handwriting that she would recognize anywhere in the world, was a short, direct message, yet one that carried all the contained intensity of that man:

“For when you miss me during a rehearsal.

I certainly shall miss you.

— T.S.”

Eleanor stared at the letters etched in dark graphite, feeling her eyes sting instantly. Thomas.

A rare and almost poetic confession from a man who seldom allowed himself to be vulnerable. She had tucked that flower and that scrap of paper inside there six years ago, like a secret amulet, a promise that perhaps there was a future for them outside the violence of Small Heath.

Eleanor traced the tip of her thumb over the initials “T.S.”, feeling the rough paper against her skin as a solitary tear finally escaped and hit the back of her hand. An overwhelming wave of frustration and clarity washed over her.

That room was a trap. The ghost of Thomas Shelby was not merely stained upon the streets or in Elliot’s conversations; he was locked away in the deepest, most guarded corner of her heart. And finding that message only made everything far more dangerous.

She snapped the Byron book shut, hiding the flower and the note back into the darkness of the pages, and stared at her own pale reflection in the mirror. The realization was absolute: she could not stay there. Looking at those words was an invitation to crumble, and she could not afford to falter.

The morning light of Birmingham did not bring the golden glow of Paris; it entered the window of the Montague manor as a gray beam, filtered through the industrial mist that seemed never to completely dissipate from the West Midlands. Eleanor awoke with a heavy body, the reflection of an entire night of interrupted sleep and the echo of those few words written in pencil on the back of the ballet pamphlet she had found in the Byron book.

She went down to the breakfast room trying to maintain her usual impeccable posture. She wore a fine wool ensemble in a dark blue shade, her hair secured in a tight bun that left not a single strand straying. At the table, Martha had already served the black coffee, toast, and a red berry jam. Eleanor had barely touched her cup when the sharp thud of the newspaper being thrown against the main door echoed through the hall. Seconds later, the housekeeper entered the room, leaving the morning edition of the Birmingham Post beside the young woman's plate.

Eleanor reached out and opened the page, still smelling of fresh ink. Her stomach turned instantly.

On the front page, stamped in black and white, was the photograph of a man walking with firm strides through the streets of London, surrounded by reporters. He wore an impeccably cut overcoat, a pocket watch fastened to his waistcoat, and a hat that, though more sophisticated than the old flat caps of Small Heath, maintained the same aggressive tilt upon his brow. The headline beneath the image read in capital letters: “The Shelby Empire: From the Mud of Betting to the Automobile Expansion in the Midlands.”

Eleanor fixed her eyes on the photo. His features were more mature, the lines around his blue eyes — which she could picture perfectly even in the gray image — seemed deeper and more implacable. He was no longer just the gangster who ruled Small Heath with blades and blood. As Elliot had said the night before, he now walked the halls of power. She snapped the newspaper shut abruptly, her heart beating at a disordered pace that irritated her deeply.

Thomas Shelby felt like a force of nature; no matter where she tried to look, the city found a way to shove his existence in her face.

It was difficult to get through breakfast, but when she finished, Eleanor rose from the table and walked toward the house's study, where she imagined her brother usually spent the first hours of the day. She pushed open the heavy wooden door and found Elliot deep in concentration before a pile of balance sheets and ledgers.

Upon raising his eyes and seeing his sister, Elliot’s tense, hardened expression melted away in a second. He dropped his fountain pen, walked around the mahogany desk with quick strides, and wrapped her in a strong, tight, almost desperate embrace — as though the dinner from the previous night hadn’t happened and this were the first time he was truly touching his sister in six years. It was the embrace of a boy who, behind the facade of a businessman, was on the verge of collapsing.

— Good morning, El, — he whispered, pulling back slightly but keeping his hands firm upon her shoulders. — I am glad you came down. I was thinking... today I will sign a check in your name. I want you to go downtown, buy new dresses, coats, jewelry, change the bedroom decor… anything you want. I want you to feel that this place is truly yours again.

Eleanor felt a tightening in her chest at her brother’s anxious generosity. She touched his arm, trying to gather the softest, most rational voice she could muster.

— Elliot, please, there is no need for any of that. I appreciate it, truly, but... I am not staying. My life is entirely in Paris now. I came because of the letter, to say goodbye, to spend these days with father and with you. But in two weeks, I will take the ship back to France.

The effect of her words on Elliot was devastating. The color drained from the young man's face, and the pose of a mature, ambitious man he was trying to sustain crumbled completely. His eyes widened in a mixture of panic and pure despair.

— You cannot leave, Eleanor! — his voice rose a notch, breaking. He held her hands with a trembling strength. — You don’t understand... he is our father. The doctors said it is a very delicate situation… and I-I am pretending to be the man of the house, trying to take care of the business, but the truth is, I don’t know what to do. When he closes his eyes for good and I am here entirely alone... I won’t know how to act with him dead, Eleanor. I need you here. The house needs you. Please... do not leave me alone.

Her brother’s despair hit Eleanor like a punch to the stomach. She looked into Elliot’s misty eyes and saw the boy he had been years ago, the young man who had stayed behind to bear the weight of a lineage bankrupt of affection. All the cold determination she had cultivated on the English Channel crumbled before her brother’s pain. She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of filial responsibility crush her plans.

— All right… — she yielded, her voice coming out in a defeated sigh. — All right, Elliot. I’ll stay. I will stay until everything is resolved, until Father passes.

Elliot released the breath he was holding, closing his eyes for a second in pure relief, and kissed the top of his sister’s head.

— Thank you, El. You have no idea what this means to me.

He stepped back, trying to regain his previous composure and professional stance. He walked back to his desk, adjusting the cuffs of his suit with a nervous rigidity.

— I will need to leave shortly for a business meeting with your friend's family.

Eleanor arched her eyebrows, assuming she hadn’t understood correctly.

— What friend?

— Ada Shelby. Thorne, actually. She doesn’t like it when people use her maiden name to refer to her.

— You are going to negotiate with the Shelbys? — she questioned, taking a step forward, her voice thick with incredulity. — Have you lost your mind?

— The market in Birmingham is aggressive. To keep the Montagues standing, I have to play by the city's new rules.

— Our father always hated the Shelbys. He always called them criminals… This is ridiculous, Elliot. You are going against everything he envisioned for the family business.

— Our father was the one who initiated this alliance… Things have changed, Eleanor. You have been gone a long time. The Shelbys are no longer the corner criminals our father used to ignore.

Eleanor stared at her brother, stunned. While six years ago, being friends with Ada was a reason to forget she was a Montague, today her family had a commercial relationship with the Peaky Blinders.

Elliot leaned over the desk, signing a paper and handing it to Eleanor. It was a check for a massive sum.

— Buy yourself a beautiful dress. Tonight there will be a gala to celebrate the opening of the Shelbys' new venture. I need you to come with me.

Eleanor felt the blood freeze in her veins. Go to his party? Stand in the same room as Thomas Shelby, beneath the watchful eyes of the entire city? It was a nightmare turning into reality. She straightened her posture, raising her chin and covering her face with a mask of pure indifference and Parisian coldness.

— I have absolutely no interest in galas, Elliot. So, please, send my regrets to the organizers.

— I can’t, El, — Elliot said, slipping the black envelope that lay on the desk into Eleanor’s trembling hands. — Your invitation didn’t come from the company, it came from Thomas himself.

A light rain was falling when she stepped through the door of the building in the center of Birmingham. During the dead of night, the Shelbys' place of business was their safe haven. The click of the girl's heels contrasted with the silence of the dimly lit room. She slipped off her black gloves and placed them on a nearby chair.

— I thought you weren't coming, — Thomas appeared with a glass of whiskey in his hand, closing in on the girl.

— My father decided to put in overtime in the drawing room today.

The first few minutes together were always the same: they spoke with an air of detachment, as if they were being watched, only to later let the desire to be together surface.

— One day you're going to get caught, Eleanor, — he said, wiping a trace of rain from her face, — and what will I do when your father comes to settle the score?

— You will hide me, — she replied with a smile on her lips, so close she could feel his breath, — and you will tell him that his little girl already has a history with a Peaky Blinder, and now it's far too late...

— That now you're going to stay with me.

Eleanor let out a low, short laugh. Not because it was funny, but because it was unthinkable. Perhaps they were destined to hide forever. Nothing would ever be easy for them. Not together.

— I like that when we’re together, everything is possible.

— I can make anything you want reality, — Thomas said with a certainty that sent a shiver down her spine, his blue eyes staring into her with sheer depth.

She couldn’t hold back any longer. Eleanor gripped the fabric of his shirt, pulling him to her, desperately seeking those lips that made every worry vanish for a fleeting moment.

Thomas held her face gently yet kissed her with urgency, as if she might slip away at any second. But he knew she wasn’t going anywhere.

As the kiss ended, he took her hand and guided her into his private office, closing the door behind him and leaving the chaos of Small Heath outside. She had been there before, but even so, Eleanor always felt as though there was something new to discover.

She turned to face him, leaning her hips against the heavy wooden desk.

— How many women have you brought in here?

The question caught Thomas off guard. He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or being serious.

— Come again?

— You heard me, Thomas, — she rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest, — how many women have leaned against this desk or sat in that chair?

— Aside from you? Polly and Ada.

— Don’t lie to me.

Thomas let out a short sigh, almost a dry chuckle, and stepped close enough for her to feel the steady thud of his heartbeat.

— I’m not lying, Eleanor. I don’t like to mix business with women.

Eleanor’s heart felt the sincerity in his words, and it stilled. She had never thought of Thomas with other women before, but that flicker of a thought, at such an inopportune and intimate moment between them, made her stomach turn.

Silence hovered in the room. Thomas looked at her with a soft, knowing smirk on his lips, one that had nothing to do with the man Eleanor had met at the Shelbys' house months ago. Seeing the spark of jealousy in her eyes seemed to validate something for him, making their bond feel dangerously real.

— I need to get back before dawn, — the girl stated, bringing the harsh reality of their relationship into the room, — let's make the most of the time we have. Forget that stupid question.

Nothing more needed to be said. Thomas wrapped his arms around her, kissing her once again. It was tender and warm, yet charged with a passion that bordered on desperation. It was an absolute surrender, something that made everything she had ever lived through before seem like a pale shadow compared to the intensity of a Shelby.

The sensation of Thomas's kisses sent a whirlwind of thoughts through Eleanor's mind. But it also bred an overwhelming need to go further. Without breaking the heated kiss, she stopped touching him, bringing her hands back to herself to remove her coat, letting it fall onto the floor.

— Eleanor... — Thomas watched every single inch of her face. He knew what that meant.

— I want this, Thomas. I want it now.

The certainty in her voice made him kiss her again. Carefully, he brushed her hair away from her neck, tracing a path of slow, precise kisses that started from her lips and moved down to her collarbone.

— I will be gentle, — he promised, his voice raspy against her skin. In that moment, the man who ruled the streets of Birmingham vanished, giving way to the Thomas only Eleanor was allowed to know.

Thomas’s words, that promise of gentleness which seemed so foreign coming from a man who lived by force, were the final seal of trust Eleanor needed.

The touch of his lips on her neck sent a shiver through Eleanor’s entire body. Gently, he slid his hands over the girl’s shoulders, bringing down the strap of the dress she wore. The contrast between the half-light of the room and Eleanor’s bare skin beneath the moonlight created an almost sacred image. Feeling a wave of shyness from being naked in front of someone for the first time, the girl turned her head to the side, breaking eye contact with Thomas. He continued to kiss her skin, moving down to her breasts, making her body tremble.

Thomas brought his attention back to his lover's face, and carefully cupped her chin, forcing her to look at him again.

— Beautiful, — he whispered, his lips brushing against hers, — no need to be ashamed.

Eleanor smiled, releasing a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. When all their clothes were cast aside, falling onto the wooden floor of the small office, the raw reality of Small Heath dissipated entirely, as though only the two of them remained in the world. Everything that mattered was right there, in that room.

Thomas guided her away from the desk and laid her down on the rug with a calmness Eleanor never imagined he possessed. His blue eyes darkened with desire as he traced the curves of her body, where the moonlight filtered through the cracks of the window, drawing silver lines upon her bare skin. He climbed over her slowly, pinning her beneath his weight, yet supporting his body on his arms so as not to hurt her.

In that moment, he was just a man who seemed to rediscover the meaning of tenderness through love.

He slid his calloused hands down her ribs, moving up to squeeze her breasts with a possessive firmness, while his mouth descended toward her already hardened nipples. Eleanor arched her body upward, letting out a low moan as his tongue began to tease her, sucking and biting gently. A wave of heat turned into liquid, pooling between her legs.

Thomas trailed his kisses down her belly, making her shiver. His skillful hands parted the girl’s thighs, and when his long fingers touched her intimacy, wet and warm, Eleanor caught her breath, fearful of the unknown. Patiently, he began to caress her, his fingers gliding over her clitoris as he watched every single inch of her face so as not to miss a single reaction, before then penetrating her slowly, one finger at a time, preparing her body while listening to the needy whispers she let out.

— You can stop at any time, — he murmured against her skin, his voice low, raspy, — I will stop.

Thomas looked at her as if she were something too rare to be touched without care. Eleanor raised her eyes to him, slowly bringing her hand to his face, her fingers tracing the rigid line of his jaw.

— I don’t want you to stop.

Something shifted in his blue eyes at that exact instant. He leaned closer to her and kissed her again, slower this time. Eleanor felt her heart race as he pulled her closer, his hand spread across the curve of her waist while the world shrank around them.

Thomas positioned himself between her legs, holding her thighs, lifting them slightly to align their bodies. The rigid tip of his cock pressed against her entrance, already soaked by her own desire.

— Look at me, — he commanded softly, and when Eleanor opened her eyes, he pushed his hips forward with care.

The initial penetration was slow, filling her millimeter by millimeter. Eleanor let out a sharp moan and gripped his broad shoulders as she felt the stretching and the sharp sting of being penetrated for the first time. Thomas stopped immediately. He locked his arms and pressed his forehead against hers, breathing deeply, controlling his own instinct to give her time. He kissed her lips, a deep and wet kiss, while moving his hips in tiny circles, until he felt her muscles relax and mold to his size.

— Alright? — he asked, his chest rising and falling heavily.

She merely nodded, pulling him by the nape of his neck. With the green light, Thomas began to dictate the pace. The thrusts, once restrained, became deeper and firmer. The sound of sweat-slicked skin slapping against skin echoed in the stuffy room. Eleanor twined her legs around his waist, pulling him inside her with a desperation that surprised her. With each harder drive, he hit the exact spot that made her roll her eyes and scratch his back, leaving red marks upon his skin.

Everything about Thomas, in that moment, contrasted. The hardness of his posture with the gentleness of his touch. The firm way he held her, yet at the same time, the almost absurd care not to hurt her. On the other side, Eleanor surrendered herself not just to desire, but to love. Each touch from Thomas was heavy with a silent reverence, as if he were touching something precious that the world had not yet managed to corrupt.

The rhythm quickened as both reached their limit. Thomas increased his force, thrusting fast and relentlessly, making Eleanor’s moans echo through the shadows of the office. She buried her face in his neck, the spasms of the orgasm beginning to contract the walls of her vagina around him. Feeling the tightness of her climax was the trigger for Thomas; he let out a raspy growl, sinking as deep as he could inside her as he spilled his warm semen at the depths of Eleanor’s body.

He collapsed over her, holding her tightly against his chest with both of them panting. When finally the outside world returned, the post-war silence, which used to be a torment for Thomas, became a sanctuary. He remained there, his fingers abstractedly tracing Eleanor’s bare skin, as if he still needed confirmation that she was truly there.

Eleanor’s heart was still beating erratically. Sweat cooled against their bodies as they lay tangled on the office rug. She was still processing what had just happened. Thomas kissed the crown of her head and carefully moved to reach for his cigarettes and lighter on the small side table. The girl lifted her head so he could grab what he wanted, and that was when she saw it. The scar on his right shoulder.

— This one… was it in France? — she asked softly, gently tracing the raised texture on his skin.

— A piece of shrapnel at the Somme, — he replied, slowly blowing out a stream of smoke, — barely felt it at the time.

Eleanor propped herself up on an elbow, allowing herself to look deep into Thomas’s eyes, which seemed to hide so many things.

— People don’t know, but what hurts the most in the war is the sound, — she listened intently as the look in his eyes shifted, letting a raw vulnerability slip through. — The shovels digging, the screams of despair, the noise of the mines… they never stop. It keeps echoing in here, even after you come back.

Thomas seemed to have transported himself back to the Great War. As he spoke, he didn’t truly seem to be there. His blue eyes were heavy with an anguish she couldn’t even begin to imagine. Since they had started meeting months ago, it was the first time she had been granted access to this Thomas Shelby. Vulnerable, bearing scars of a past that still ached.

Eleanor wrapped her arms around him, pressing a kiss against the mark.

— But now… with you here… the noises have stopped. It’s the first time the silence doesn’t haunt me.

Leaving her no time to reply, he turned away to place his cigarette in the ashtray, and then came back. His eyes traveled down the girl’s body until they reached her feet, and with a gentle touch, he ran his hand over them, feeling the bruised skin.

— And these bruises? Is this what the ballet does to you?

Eleanor nodded in agreement.

— The dance is unforgiving, Thomas. The stage demands everything from you, and if you stumble, the floor consumes you, — she sighed, feeling the weight of the final rehearsals pressing down on her shoulders. — Sometimes, it hurts so much that I forget how to breathe without feeling my muscles burn. But I need it to be perfect.

He looked at her before concluding,

— We are two soldiers, then. Each in our own trench. But you… you are the only thing that makes me forget I’m still in one.

Eleanor moved closer to him and kissed him.

— I have a performance coming up in a few days, — she stated, hoping he would understand it was an invitation, even though she knew he couldn't go, — so, if we are two soldiers, you need to come watch me fight.

The sound of a siren from one of the factories near the office wailed, indicating that the city was beginning to wake. Eleanor locked eyes with him, feeling the weight of reality crash into the room.

— I have to go.

Thomas caught her hand, stopping her from standing up.

— One day, you won’t have to leave before dawn anymore, — he leaned in, touching her face and brushing away a stray hair clinging to her forehead. — I will wake up in the morning, and you will still be by my side. No need to hide, no secrets.

Thomas's words warmed the Montague girl's heart. But, as she stood up and began to dress, the euphoria gave way to a cold lucidity. It was complete madness to even allow that thought to take root. With so much standing between them, this love had no way to survive the light of day.

​Eleanor dressed in a rush, so fast she nearly left her coat on the office floor. Time was precious. If she returned and her father and Elliot were already awake, it would be the end of the line for her and Thomas. Even so, before leaving the building under Shelby’s watchful eye, they said goodbye with a slow, lingering kiss. Neither of them knew when their next meeting would be.

The soft sheets wrapped around her as she turned, yet they were nothing compared to Thomas’s arms. She was still wearing the clothes she had worn to meet him. His scent flooded the bedroom whenever the fabric shifted. Eleanor’s eyes were heavy, and every time she closed them, she remembered what had just happened. She had been loved. And she had never imagined it could feel so good.

She wanted to scream it to the world. She wanted to tell someone. She thought of Ada, and then, all the euphoria consuming her body slowly turned into a faint anxiety. If she couldn’t share this with her best friend, who could she share it with?

Sleeping with Ada’s brother, without her knowing. Did that make her a traitor? If she confessed now, months later, would she understand?

Eleanor covered her face with the heavy quilt, blocking the sunlight from her eyes and trying to fall back asleep. She was stopped, however, by Elliot shouting her name as he bounded up the stairs to the second floor.

Left with no choice, she let out a heavy sigh as she stood up and threw on her robe, tying the sash tight so Elliot wouldn’t see she wasn’t wearing her pajamas.

— What is it, Elliot? — she asked as she opened the door, leaning against the wooden frame.

— It’s here! — he said excitedly, a massive grin on his lips. Before she could even ask, he extended a white envelope toward her, — The letter from the Opera arrived!

It was as if the Earth had stopped spinning. Eleanor stared at the envelope as anxiety began to consume every single cell in her body. The information that would decide her entire life was right there. The piece of paper that would tell her if she was good enough, or just a Birmingham girl with dreams too big for her own good.

— What’s with that face anyway? Didn’t you sleep last night?

— I just… couldn’t catch a wink, thinking this letter might arrive today, — she lied, her skin prickling as she remembered the real reason she hadn’t slept.

Her stomach turned. Eleanor wetted her lips and took the envelope from Elliot’s hand.

— This is it, Elliot… — she said in a whisper, her fingers carefully, and with a deliberate slowness, tearing open the envelope.

— God, Eleanor, just open it already! — he exclaimed, letting out a nervous laugh while shifting his weight impatiently, — I’m so tense it feels like this letter is going to decide that I’m the one wearing a leotard and pointe shoes in Paris.

The girl couldn't help but laugh at Elliot’s reaction. A pocket of relief in the midst of so much anxiety. Closing her eyes, she pulled the paper from the envelope, feeling the raised texture of the school’s official seal. She took a deep breath before opening them, her eyes scanning the formal lines until they halted at the word that would change everything: Admise.

— I… I was accepted, Elliot, — her voice came thick with relief as her eyes began to well with tears of happiness.

— I knew it! I knew those Frenchmen wouldn't be crazy enough to let you slip through their fingers!

Elliot caught her by the waist, lifting her off the ground in a tight embrace.

— They want me there in two weeks. My God, — she smiled in pure ecstasy, — Elliot, I did it!

The world felt different now. Eleanor pictured herself on the stages of Paris and in the corridors of the Opera. A whirlwind of thoughts took hold of her. It was the pinnacle. Her long-awaited moment. The floor would not consume her, it was going to launch her into the stars.

Two weeks. Fourteen days.

That was all that separated her from beginning to live her dream and the life she had always wanted.

Eleanor walked back into her room, her legs still shaky with euphoria as she remembered all her grueling effort in rehearsals to achieve the result inside that envelope. But when she sat on the bed, the news began to carry a different weight.

She thought of Thomas. In two weeks, their secret meetings would come to an end. His smile, the one only she knew, would become a memory.

The envelope that decreed her happiness was also a sentence of farewell.

It was already past three in the afternoon when Polly Gray cut through the crowd of punters and walked into the building where the Shelbys did business. She paced between Arthur and John, who were counting stacks of bills with a frantic rush, and with her eagle eyes and a cigarette between her fingers, she watched the men with caution to ensure no one would rob the house.

When the last punter left, she headed toward the back with a wad of cash in hand. Polly walked in without knocking, breaking the silence Thomas used to analyze papers and contracts. Her presence, and the noise, didn’t bother him. He didn’t even look up from what he was doing. He was used to his aunt’s comings and goings.

Polly tossed the money onto the desk, about to make a comment regarding the bets, but stopped before speaking. Between the export reports and racing maps, a piece of paper of heavy, expensive stock and clean edges gleamed like an affront. Polly pulled it away with the tips of her fingers, arching her brows as she read the contents.

— I didn’t know you took an interest in ballet, — she commented with a sharp snap, turning over the flyer that announced a performance at a theater, with Eleanor’s name in block letters, — or are we trading in satin and pointe shoes now, instead of horses and ammunition?

Thomas didn’t move, keeping his eyes locked on the contract in front of him.

— It’s just a piece of paper, Pol. You needn’t care so much. Don't look for meaning where there is none.

— Oh, I need to care, — she shot back, tossing the flyer back onto the desk, — I need to because you’ve started doing things without thinking of the consequences. I know exactly what this paper means, Thomas. It’s an invitation to disaster. Do you think I am as naive as Ada? That I don’t see the way you look at that girl when she’s around? Or that I don’t notice your late-night outings?

Thomas finally looked up, but he remained silent. And that answer told Polly everything. It was the worst kind of confession.

— She isn't one of your rent girls, and you know it, — she continued, shaking her head with a sudden melancholy, — this doesn't end well, Thomas. It doesn't end with a friendly goodbye. If anything happens to her, we are going to bleed for weeks. And the scent of a Shelby's blood always attracts the bigger sharks.

— Nothing in this world ends well, Polly. You know how things work here.

— Our world doesn’t work like hers.

Thomas averted his eyes to the flyer, but Polly wasn't finished. She leaned over the desk,

— You're going to ruin this, — she said, almost in a whisper, — you're going to ruin her. Walk away from Eleanor before her father decides Birmingham is too small for the Montagues and the Shelbys to share the same air.

It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

When the sound of Polly’s heels faded into the betting shop, Thomas ran his hands over his face. His aunt’s words seemed to weigh tons on his shoulders. He let out a slow sigh, and with a swift movement, picked up the flyer from the desk. His calloused fingers, marked by brawls and gunpowder, gently traced Eleanor’s name.

He knew Polly was right. He knew their relationship was a danger to the Shelbys, and he knew there was only one way to ensure it wouldn’t be a problem anymore. Instead of backing down, Thomas folded the paper carefully and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit jacket, right against his heart. To protect her from the world, he would bring her definitively into his own.

Eleanor found it strange when Johnny Dogs stopped her in the middle of the street, right in front of the ballet studio, to hand her a note. Even without looking, she could feel the curious stares of the people around them. He was filthy, which in itself drew attention, and he had a horse with him, holding it by a lead like a dog. He didn't say a word, simply handed her the folded paper and walked away.

She knew it was an order from Thomas, which made it all the stranger because he had always been so careful to remain discreet.

The scrap of paper, torn without caution, had a handwritten address. The ink had smudged upon being folded, but it was still legible. Eleanor slipped the note inside her purse once she arrived at the location.

It was a tree-lined street, far from the coal stench of Small Heath and the noise of the factories. The gate of number 16 was ajar, and inside, Eleanor came face-to-face with a beautiful garden, its flowers refusing to wither despite the weather and the pollution.

The house was hidden behind high walls, so tall she had to tilt her head up to see the top. The Birmingham sun, rare and pale, tried to cast a shadow on the concrete ground in front of the door, which stood open. As she stepped inside, she took in every corner of the property. It was a massive house, with paintings scattered across the walls and a gleaming wooden floor.

Thomas was standing by the window, his back to the door. He wasn't wearing his cap, and the sunlight caught his dark hair.

— What happened? — she frowned as she approached. The click of her heels made him turn to look at her, — What are we doing here? I thought we needed to be discreet in the light of day.

Without answering either of her questions, he took her hand and guided her to the center of the room. From there, Eleanor could see the staircase leading to the second floor and the massive dining room in the back.

— Why did you bring me here? — she asked, taking in the light that flooded the drawing room, — Why are we looking at a house? Whose is it?

Thomas stood beside Eleanor, his hands in his pockets, watching how the sun illuminated her face.

— What do you think of it? — he asked, observing every single reaction from the girl, as if her approval were the only verdict that mattered.

— It's beautiful, Thomas, — she replied, looking around, — truly very beautiful.

— The house doesn't belong to anyone yet, — he said, his voice low and steady, — but the owner is waiting for an answer. The ceilings are high, the floors are sturdy, he said it's good enough for dancing. Do you think you can practice your choreography here without feeling suffocated?

Eleanor stopped, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. She looked down at the polished wooden floor, at the vast space that seemed perfect for a rehearsal, and then looked back at him.

— What are you saying?

She clutched her purse, with the Opera’s envelope tucked inside, so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The leather fabric, pressing against her skin, felt as though it were burning like hot coals.

— I am saying that, if you like what you see… — he took a step toward her, the distance shrinking until he could feel her hesitation, — I will sign the papers today. I want you out of that office, Eleanor. I want you to stop slipping out of your house in the dead of night just to meet me.

There was a determination in his gaze that Eleanor had never seen before, a clarity that terrified her. She walked through the room as if in a bad dream. She knew she only had two weeks, she knew the ticket to Paris was already in her drawer. Every step taken in that house was a step toward a lie she didn't know how to sustain.

The tears were already trapped in her throat, burning, begging to be released. She could only think that this house was the most beautiful monument to a dream she was about to destroy.

He didn't drop to his knees, Thomas Shelby was not a man for theatrical gestures. But the way he stepped close and held Eleanor’s hand, with an urgency that bordered on desperation, said it all.

— What do you say, Eleanor? Can you see yourself walking up those stairs every single night by my side?

Eleanor looked at his face, and for a moment, the image of the Paris Opera seemed to vanish. Thomas was staring at her with a glimmer in his eyes, heavy with hope. He was offering her another future. One she had never even considered.

— Marry me, Eleanor. And I promise you that here, you will be the happiest woman in the world. Nothing and no one will ever be able to hurt you.

The floor seemed to have vanished beneath her feet. Tears burned the back of her eyes as she forced a smile that was, in truth, a farewell.

— Thomas, I can't… — she felt her heart shatter as she forced the words out, — Look at me, I am only twenty years old, and I just received the letter. My life hasn't even begun.

Thomas frowned slightly, a movement so subtle it was almost imperceptible. 

— What letter?

— From Paris. From the Opera. I am leaving in two weeks.

The silence that followed was cutting. Thomas didn’t move, but Eleanor felt the air turn cold. He didn’t know. He hadn’t even known she had applied. To him, their future was being mapped out right there, in that room, while to her, the future was already on its way to another country.

— Paris is far, Eleanor, — he said finally, his voice devoid of any emotion as he still stared at her, — and Birmingham is a difficult place for a woman on her own.

— I want to be a ballerina, Thomas, — she stated, hoping it would sound like a justification to him, — I trained every single day of my life to get into that school. So I wouldn't have to be just another Birmingham wife, waiting for her husband to come home.

Thomas didn’t lose his temper. He began to pace around her, circling her with his presence.

— You want to dance? I’ll buy the theater. I’ll hire the musicians. I’ll put together an orchestra. I'll give you the finest costumes. You will have whatever stage you want, Eleanor.

— No… — she said, shaking her head as tears rolled down her cold cheeks, — that’s not how it works…

She pulled away, walking to the opposite side of the room, terrified that looking at him would make her change her mind.

— That is exactly how it works, — he interrupted her, — You say you’re young? I’ll wait. You want Paris? We will go to Paris after we marry.

— It’s not just about the stage, Thomas! — she shot back, her voice vibrating. — There is my family. My father… he would disown me the second I mentioned your name. He would never accept a Shelby. I would be thrown out of the house with nothing, my family name dragged through the mud. It would ruin Elliot's future.

Thomas didn’t blink. He stepped closer, invading her personal space with a predatory confidence.

— Let him disown you. I will face your father, Eleanor. I will face anyone for you. If he takes away your money, I will double the amount. If he takes away your name, I will give you one that will be worth far more in this city. — She didn’t answer. Thomas held her face gently, his blue eyes locked onto hers, without raising his voice, — I will speak with your father, Eleanor. He is a businessman, and I have business that might interest him. I can turn his disgust into gratitude. As for Elliot… he will have a seat at my table. No one would touch a single hair on his head if he were a Shelby's brother-in-law. I can solve all of this. You wouldn't need to break away from anything. I would just… adjust the path for you.

Eleanor took a step back. His logic was flawless, and that was exactly what terrified her. He was offering solutions to every single obstacle, but every solution came with his seal on it.

— You are trying to negotiate my life as if I were one of your horses, — she whispered, her voice trembling, — you are suggesting I trade the Opera for a stage you will buy… And if I accept, I will never know if I am a ballerina by merit or because you moved the right pieces on the board. I cannot be just another project of yours.

Her heart raced, but not with passion, instead with sheer terror.

Thomas remained silent for a moment, watching her. He didn’t beg, he didn’t insist.

— The world out there is difficult, Eleanor. And it doesn't care about merit.

— If I marry you, I lose everything that I am.

— You gain me, — he shot back, as if that were the ultimate solution to the universe.

— But I lose myself, Thomas! — Her cry echoed against the wooden walls.

— Pride is a dangerous thing in Small Heath, Eleanor. It leaves people lonely.

— Then I prefer to be lonely in Paris than to be a piece on your board in Birmingham, — she said, holding his gaze. — The answer is no.

Thomas took a step back, breaking the connection. He merely gave a slight nod, a gesture of icy acceptance.

— Then go, — he said, his voice suddenly devoid of any warmth. — Take the ship to Paris. But don't forget… the world out there is cruel. And when you realize that freedom is worse than my surname, don't expect me to still be here waiting for you.

In a gesture of wounded pride, he pulled the ring from his pocket and tossed it onto the floor. The jewel spun and clinked against the wood for a few seconds before coming to a stop at Eleanor’s feet. Thomas turned his back without a word and walked toward the door without hesitation. Eleanor remained motionless in the center of the room. Her heart ached, and the tears still hadn’t stopped falling.

As he stepped through the wooden frame, the word escaped before Eleanor could stop it.

— Thomas…

Low. Faint. Painful.

He stopped.

For a single second. Long enough to make her believe, just for an instant, that he would look back, and that they would fix this.

But he didn’t look back. And that hurt more than any answer ever could.

The door closed. The sound echoed through the empty room, dry, definitive. Eleanor stood there, not knowing what to do. Trying to ignore the absurd sensation growing slowly inside her chest.

As if she had just lost something far too important to comprehend at that moment.

But she would comprehend.

Six years later, she would still comprehend.

Ada said this as if it were a distant possibility. Eleanor was not so sure.

Even so, she agreed when Ada asked for help to hide her romance with Freddie.

— You truly love him, don't you?

— I do, — Ada replied with a spark in her eyes, — but I don't want to, and I won't, spend the rest of my life hiding. I want to get married, have children, and build my own family, do you understand? I gave Freddie an ultimatum. Either he faces my brothers and asks to be with me, or, well, damn him too.

Eleanor stared at her with a certain admiration. Ada was so resolute. She couldn't imagine loving someone so much that she would want to build a family. That had never been her dream.

— What about you?

— Ballet already takes up too much of my time, — she replied, shrugging as they walked once again toward Blythe Street, — it’s impossible to date anyone right now. My plans are all in Paris, my goal is the Opera School. If I get involved with a man now, I would have to give up everything I’ve achieved so far. And I don’t want to give up on myself.

Ada pondered, her gaze sweeping over the red-brick houses before turning back to her friend.

— So you’re going to deprive yourself of living, of meeting someone, until this dream comes true?

— When you put it that way, it makes me sound like an idiot.

— No. I think you are committed to yourself. What could be more important than being the master of your own life?

Eleanor opened her mouth to answer, but she was interrupted by the unexpected approach of a man. With agility and speed, he caught Ada’s face, kissing her cheek.

— God, Freddie! — Ada gasped, drawing in a breath as her chest rose and fell violently, — you startled me!

— I'm sorry, — he replied, a bit sheepishly, — you looked so beautiful while you were talking, I couldn't help myself.

Ada shook her head as she flushed.

— This is Eleanor, — she said, touching the girl's hand and intertwining their fingers, — my best friend.

That title, so simple, spoken with such naturalness and sweetness, had made Eleanor’s chest warm. In that instant, the venom of Elizabeth’s words seemed distant and insignificant. She felt a wave of gratitude for having trusted her own instinct; if she had given in to prejudice, she would have lost a great friend.

Eleanor didn’t know exactly where she was going when she stepped outside. She only knew she needed to leave the house before that suffocating feeling of being trapped returned.

The cold night air wrapped around her, making the hairs on her arms stand on end and tossing her hair. She wiped her face roughly, stopping the tears from spilling over.

She had left him speaking to an empty room. She walked out before he could finish his sentence, and before she could say something that could never be undone. When he wanted to be, her father knew how to be cruel. Eleanor knew what he was going to say: if she didn’t stop seeing Ada, she could forget she was a Montague.

She walked so deeply immersed in her thoughts, the argument replaying in her mind, that she only noticed the presence when he spoke:

— It’s no time to be walking out here alone.

When she turned, he was already too close to have just arrived. Thomas stared her down, a cigarette caught between his lips.

— I didn’t know I needed permission, — she shot back without thinking, turning her face forward again.

He didn’t reply, nor did he walk away. Eleanor could hear the sound of his footsteps behind her as she walked along the pavement.

— Are you going to keep following me?

— It’s dangerous for a woman on the street alone at this hour, — he stopped beside her, taking note of her smudged makeup. She crossed her arms and looked away. — I would want someone to do the same for Ada.

— I didn’t ask for your opinion.

— No, but you’re getting it anyway.

Eleanor rolled her eyes. She was having a dreadful night, and not even her friendship with Ada would force her to be pleasant with Thomas.

— You are my sister’s friend, if anything happened to you, she would be upset, — he said, keeping pace with her, now side by side, — I don’t want that.

— Oh, thank you, Thomas! — the words came dripping with irony as she brought her hands to her chest in mock devotion, — for your deep concern for your sister's feelings. My life thanks you.

The silence lasted for only a few seconds, and the question, blunt and direct, took her by surprise.

— What about Freddie Thorne?

Eleanor straightened her spine, trying not to let him notice her tension. Freddie’s name was a pinless grenade within the Shelby family. She didn’t know what Thomas meant by bringing him up, but she would play his game.

— What about him? — she replied, indifferent.

— Jeremiah saw you and Ada with him...

— Do you post lookouts to monitor all of your siblings, or just Ada because she’s a woman?

He ignored her.

— Freddie is a communist...

— So what? Perhaps I am too.

— An elite girl who has always had everything handed to her on a silver platter, Eleanor... — he said, tilting his head slightly, observing the almost imperceptible tremor in her hands, — wanting me to believe she fights for the poor workers? You know nothing about fighting.

That left her speechless. She quickened her pace, leaving Thomas behind.

— I’m not here to judge, Eleanor, — he continued, his voice rising right behind the girl's shoulder, low and steady, — only to say that, just as I have eyes all over Small Heath, the police do too. And they aren’t looking for ballerinas. They are looking for Reds. It’s dangerous.

She rolled her eyes.

— You’ve already mentioned that word twice in less than five minutes. What isn’t dangerous for a woman in Birmingham? Just breathing the air in this city is a risk.

— Eleanor, I don’t care if you want to risk your own life by staying out late at night or meeting with communists. But Ada is always with you. And if you care so much about women being subjugated, you should know that the weight on Ada is twice as heavy because of who she is. Don’t act as if she shares the same privileges you do. If you fall, your father pays the bail, and the Montague surname wipes the slate clean.

Thomas took a step forward, closing the distance between them until Eleanor could feel the warmth of his breath mingled with the scent of smoke. The girl’s hands broke into a cold sweat, as much from his proximity as from the anxiety of saying anything that might betray the secret Ada had entrusted to her. He tilted his face slightly, his icy blue eyes locked onto hers, driving every word home with an almost physical rawness.

— For you, it will just be a scare. It will be looked at as the eccentricity of a rich girl, — his tone dropped to a harsh whisper, the irony whipping through the air, — for Ada, it’s the end of the line. Our surname is already a target on our backs. Any wrong spark you bring near her, the Shelby name will burn my sister alive.

— Thank you for the advice. You are entirely right. It weighs far more on her, I know, — Eleanor admitted, and the honesty in her voice seemed to soften the tension for a fleeting second. — May I give you some advice too? You should let your sister take the reins of her own life. She is much smarter than you think.

— I know how to look after my sister.

— Are you always like this? Do you always think you know what’s best for people instead of letting them choose for themselves?

— Only when I'm right.

— Apparently, you always think you are. But I wouldn’t be so sure.

He didn’t answer, merely continuing to walk by her side.

— Are you going to follow me all night?

Thomas looked away, before saying,

— I'll walk you home.

— I'm not going home.

— Right.

He didn’t move. He stood there, now facing her, analyzing her. His lips were slightly chapped from the cigarettes and the cold.

— I can walk by myself.

— I know.

Eleanor rolled her eyes, shifting her gaze to the other side of the street as if the whole thing were ridiculous. But she didn’t stop walking.

— God, are you going to stand by my side like a personal bodyguard?

He laughed. A laugh so genuine, as if she had just cracked a joke.

— What is it? — he asked with a faint smirk, — did your father refuse to buy you a new dress?

The words felt like an insult. His assumption that her problems were shallow, that her pain amounted to nothing more than elite whims, made her blood boil.

— You don’t know me, Thomas, — she shot back sharply, — you know nothing about me. You can be certain that every single one of your assumptions is wrong.

The temperature seemed to drop, or perhaps the adrenaline after the argument had finally faded. The coat she wore no longer felt like enough. Eleanor wrapped her arms around herself, trying to keep warm.

It was the perfect moment to put an end to this. To turn around and head back home.

She sighed and started walking again. Being out in the street in the cold felt more welcoming than going home and having to face her father.

A few more steps in complete silence. Thomas almost seemed to ignore her with ease, as if he were walking down the street entirely alone. Then, he turned down the next street. Without warning. Without explanation.

Eleanor stopped, unsure of what she should do. A mixture of apprehension and anxiety. He noticed. From a few yards away, Thomas turned to face her.

— I need a drink. I'm going to the pub, — he said, pulling a cigarette from his coat pocket and cupping his hands around it so the wind wouldn't blow out the flame of his lighter, — you can leave, if you like.

Eleanor knitted her brows, understanding exactly what he was playing at. Reverse psychology wouldn't work on her.

— Of course, — she replied, her tone far too light to be sincere, — because that doesn’t sound at all like you trying to make me go.

— I don’t need to try. If you want to leave, you leave.

Silence settled over them once again. The two stood there, locking eyes, until she took a step toward him, her arms crossed tight over her chest, before brushing past him and leading the way forward.

The pub’s storefront came into view before she could change her mind. Light escaped through the windows. The muffled noise. Nothing like anywhere she had ever been before.

Eleanor slowed her pace while Thomas stopped at the door.

— What if I say I don’t want to go in?

— You already did, — he stared her down for a few seconds before continuing, — and yet you’re still here.

The girl let out a short sigh, more irritated than she should have been. She looked at the door, at the street behind her, and then at him.

— Seriously? — she said, more to herself than to him.

This time, he didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back around and walked into the pub, as though he already knew she would follow.

And she did.

The heat hit her first as she wove through the crowded tables, trying not to lose her footing amidst the loud noise, the blurred conversations, the clinking of glasses, and a Thomas Shelby who didn't even bother to look back.

The chaos of the place didn’t bother him. On the contrary, he walked as if he owned the place. As if it were a part of him.

Thomas sat at a table in the very back of the pub. Before Eleanor could even settle into her seat, a man brought over a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.

She arched her brows as she watched Thomas fill both glasses.

— I didn’t say I was going to drink.

He looked at her as if she were a petulant child.

— You didn’t say you wouldn’t, either, — he pushed the glass toward the girl, — that’s what a pub is for.

Eleanor picked up the glass. Not because she wanted to, but because of the provocation.

A small sip won't hurt me, she thought. The liquid went down like a relief for her dry throat. When she set the glass back on the table, she noticed. He was looking at her.

Not like before. Not assessing, or provoking.

It was a genuine look. As if he wanted to read her thoughts.

— What is it? — she asked, holding his gaze longer than seemed comfortable.

— Nothing, — he stated, shaking his head before continuing, — I’m just trying to understand.

— What?

— You.

Eleanor didn’t know if it was the drink that had caused a shiver down her spine or the way that single word had slipped from his lips.

She let out a small laugh, playing with the drink in her glass, and looked at him again.

— Good luck with that.

— Rich. Raised to obey, yet that doesn’t seem to work very well. — His gaze remained locked onto hers. — You know exactly what you’re getting yourself into, and yet you chose to stay. — He leaned in, closing the distance between them. — You say you don’t need anyone, yet you’re still here.

She held his look for far too long. His faint smirk caught her attention, and her eyes, betraying her will, drifted down to his mouth. It was an involuntary movement, but Thomas noticed.

— Have you reached your final conclusion? — she asked, her voice lower than before.

He tilted his head slightly. As if that question didn’t matter nearly as much as what came next.

— Not yet.

Thomas leaned in a little closer. Near enough to feel her breath, and for Eleanor to clearly see the freckles just beneath his eyes. A human detail, almost vulnerable, hidden beneath the hard face of the Peaky Blinders' leader. He was inches away.

— But I'm close.

The girl didn’t answer. She couldn’t think straight. Her thoughts didn’t seem to make the slightest bit of sense.

She could pull back. She should pull back.

But she didn’t know if she wanted to.

And then, he kissed her. Quick and direct. As if the decision had been made long before that very moment.

His hands found the nape of her neck, taking full control of the kiss. Eleanor gripped the fabric of his coat, tugging him slightly and erasing any remaining distance between them.

Until she pulled back, stopping the kiss abruptly. As if she had just remembered something important. Her breath was still ragged, and his gaze was locked onto hers.

— Is this part of your analysis? — she asked, not meeting his eyes completely.

When Eleanor looked up again, he was still there. Close. Calm. As if nothing had spun out of control.

— I should have left, — she said, cutting off any chance of a reply from him.

The air in the pub grew too heavy. Eleanor stood up and walked away, for real this time. Leaving him no room to say a single word. She threaded through the tables until she reached the exit, feeling the cold wind embrace her once again.

She didn’t look back. If she had, perhaps she would have realized that Thomas Shelby was not the kind of man who left things unfinished.

And, on that night, she had just become exactly that.

​— I am serious, Elizabeth. I cannot, — she insisted firmly, handing her bag to Janice, the shop assistant, who had just appeared with a bottle of champagne in hand. — After the performance, I shall drink so many glasses that you won’t want to see me here anytime soon.

​Elizabeth laughed.

​— So, what are you looking for today? — the woman asked, guiding her toward the clothing racks.

​— Something that won’t vex my father, — Eleanor replied, rolling her eyes. — He is hosting a dinner and, as he so elegantly put it, my presence and Elliot's are mandatory.

​Elizabeth studied her for a few seconds, then arched her brows, as though struck by a brilliant idea:

​— Forget these racks, — she said, pulling her toward the back. — Janice, bring that blue one I finished earlier.

​The dress looked as though it had been made for Eleanor. It complemented her skin and heightened her beauty. It was made of silk, and the sensation was that of having one's body caressed.

​— You are looking more like your mother every day, — the words came laden with nostalgia and melancholy. The two had been close friends, and the shop owner had followed all of Eleanor’s mother’s struggle against rheumatic heart disease when she was still just a child

​Elizabeth touched the girl’s face, her eyes shining like a religious devotee touching the image of a saint.

​She pressed her lips together, forming a shy smile.

​— Thank you for the compliment.

— She would be very proud of you. You know that.

— I know.

The atmosphere grew awkward for a few moments. Speaking about her was still painful. Not for Eleanor, but for Elizabeth, who had shared half her life with her.

​Eleanor offered a mental thanks when another customer entered the shop, drawing Elizabeth’s attention to her. The good mood of that day had been saved. At least, that was what she thought.

The girl standing at the door wore a beige dress and a lilac cardigan. She was pale, with straight brown hair, so dark it was nearly black, falling just below her ears. There was a simplicity to her appearance, and her face betrayed a slight shyness. She observed the backdrop of silks, lace, and mannequins with the curiosity and fascination of a child.

​Elizabeth, however, seemed to see something entirely different from Eleanor. Her elegant, welcoming posture gave way to a hardened expression, as though something had just ruined her day. She let the pins drop to the floor, without a single trace of the gentleness with which she had held them only seconds before.

​— It must be because I left the house without praying today, — she muttered. — The less I pray, the more ghosts come to haunt me.

​Eleanor stared at her, bewildered. The girl remained standing near the door, watching as Janice approached the two of them with uncertainty in her eyes, as if it were her very first day on the job.

— Ma'am, will you assist her?

— I am busy. Assist her yourself, Janice. But make sure she doesn't take anything.

​Elizabeth’s voice was laced with a venom she made no effort to conceal. The wanton cruelty shocked the girl who had known her since she was a baby. It was the first time she had ever seen Elizabeth speak that way instead of welcoming a customer.

​As Janice approached the newcomer, Elizabeth spoke softly, ensuring only Eleanor could hear:

— They think they can walk among us as if they were people.

— What? — she asked, confused by the sudden change in behavior.

​Elizabeth glanced with disdain at the girl and turned her attention back to Eleanor, continuing in a whisper as if mentioning a contagious disease.

— The Peaky Blinders... — the girl’s expression shifted to a mixture of surprise and curiosity, staring at the other customer over Elizabeth’s shoulders. — Filthy gypsies who believe the world owes them something just because they learned to wield blades. That family is a stain on this neighborhood.

​Eleanor had already heard stories about the Peaky Blinders. It was impossible to live in Birmingham and not have heard them. But until then, she had never crossed paths with one. And the girl before her defied all the violent mythology one imagined when thinking of them. She was, quite simply, normal. As ordinary as any other girl from the ballet studio or etiquette classes.

​Her smile appeared when Janice greeted her. The shop was not that small, but since there were only the four of them, it was possible to hear what she said:

​— I would like something pretty for a date.

Janice cast a cautious glance toward Elizabeth, wetting her lips in a nervous gesture before continuing:

— We have some good options on this rack.

​She guided the girl closer to where Eleanor stood. The treatment was cold, distant. There was no effort to please her—service entirely unlike what the other was receiving. The girl caught a glimpse of Eleanor, and their eyes met. She gave a faint, guarded smile, and as if through some telepathy, the other could sense her discomfort. Slender hands brushed over the hangers with hesitation, scanning the options, until she pulled a light green dress from among the other clothes and looked at Janice, waiting for an opinion that never came.

— It is very beautiful, — Eleanor said, not because she wished to help the shop, but because Janice’s silence was growing far too cruel.

​The girl smiled. Even though she already knew the answer, the other inquired:

— Is it for a party?

— A date, — she held the hanger with care, observing her. Her eyes drifted down Eleanor’s neckline, taking in every detail of the navy blue dress she wore. As the girl's gaze sparked with genuine admiration, Eleanor looked down at the garment she was wearing. It truly was beautiful, and she had thought so too.

​— You know what? You should try this one on, — she said on an impulse, her hands moving to her neck to unbutton the clasp at the nape.

— What? — Elizabeth questioned, looking at her as if she had lost her mind.

— Just a moment.

​Eleanor stepped down from the dais, ignoring Elizabeth’s rigid posture, and went behind the silk screen. She changed with the agility expected of a ballerina and, upon returning to the showroom, handed the garment to the girl.

​When the girl emerged, already wearing the blue dress, Eleanor could not disguise her awestruck expression. If before she thought the piece had been made for her, she had now changed her mind.

— It looks perfect! — she said with a smile, approaching slowly, almost as if asking for permission. Elizabeth and Janice exchanged glances. — Excuse me, — she reached toward the nape of the girl's neck, carefully fastening the buttons. — You are going to take it, aren't you?

​— How much is it? — she asked, barely in a whisper.

​— Three hundred pounds, — Elizabeth replied dryly. The girl’s bright, happy face withered instantly.

​— I don’t have that much, — she said, her voice a mere thread. — I will just take the green one instead.

​Eleanor swallowed hard, feeling a pang of pity for the girl. Janice glanced at Elizabeth, who, with a cold wave of her hand, authorized the sale of the green dress. It was better for her to pay and leave quickly than to take the blue one for nothing, as she had heard the Peaky Blinders were prone to do.

​Janice escorted the girl to the door just as Elizabeth handed the bag with the blue dress to Eleanor. She gave her a quick hug, visibly unsettled by her friend's daughter's attitude, and returned to the divan before the girl’s silhouette could even fade from the display windows.

​Still digesting what had just transpired and the side of Elizabeth she had never known, Eleanor saw her again. She was a few meters away, standing before a shoe display with the very same fascination she had shown upon entering the dress shop.

​— They are beautiful, — she said, approaching carefully so as not to startle her.

​She turned toward the girl and merely nodded, reserved. Her guard was up, as if she expected a word of contempt to be directed at her at any moment.

​Eleanor gripped the handle of the shop bag tightly as a decision took shape in her mind.

​— Here, — she said, extending the bag toward the girl. She stared at it in doubt. — I think you should wear it.

— But you just bought it. It’s yours.

— Yes, but you have a date. It’s just a dress, — she shrugged, taking a step forward to bring her closer to the bag. — I don’t mind. You can wear it and return it to me later.

​The girl stepped back in a mixture of surprise and doubt. She scanned the other’s face, searching for any sign of mockery, but her expression remained unchanged.

​— Are you serious? You don't even know where I live.

​— Then I guess you'll have to find me to give it back, — she replied with a sincere smile, disarming the girl’s guard.

​Her eyes brightened. She took the bag carefully, as if it were made of glass.

— I'm Ada, — she held out her hand for the other to shake, as if sealing a pact between them.

​— Eleanor, — she introduced herself, shaking her hand.

​The two hit it off immediately. Ada possessed a wonderful sense of humor and was a regular at the Blythe Street art fair, which sat just two blocks from the ballet studio—and it was there that the two met for nearly the entire week. Yet, just as the friendship with Ada escalated all too quickly, so did the rumors. And it did not take long for them to reach Eleanor’s father.

​— Have you lost your mind? — he demanded furiously. — Do you wish to ruin your family’s reputation?! Walking about with that Peaky Blinder as if...

​— As if what, Father? — the girl dropped her fork onto the table, lifting her gaze toward him and speaking firmly. — Ada is my friend now. And she is a lovely girl, kinder and more intelligent than even the girls at the Institute...

​— You still call her a friend! — he brought his hands to his head, covering his eyes while shaking his head in disapproval. — You truly have lost your senses, Eleanor! Look at what they say about that family and what they do... Do you not care about the reputation you will gain?

​— Ada is not to blame for being a Shelby. She didn't choose it, just as I didn't choose to be a Montague.

​— Can we not have lunch in peace for once? — Elliot questioned, intending to drop the subject.

— Why don't you complain about Elliot?

— Oh, no. Leave me out of this, Eleanor, — he replied, cutting her off.

— He has friends just as bad as the Peaky Blinders. What’s the difference? — she crossed her arms over her chest, waiting for an answer. — Is it that they have money?

​Neither of them answered.

​— Why do I need to worry about my image or the family reputation while he doesn't? Is it because I am a woman?

— Oh, Lord. Here we go again, — Elliot said, taking a sip of his drink and returning his attention to his plate, as if to say that if that was what Eleanor was going to talk about, he would simply ignore it.

​This was a frequent debate. Since she was a child, Eleanor had understood: morality was selective in her house. Elliot held the privilege of chaos; she, the duty of caution. While he lived by his own will, she lived under her father’s vigilance. Any gesture, any word, any action came hand in hand with the feeling that paralyzed her: the fear that that single act could tarnish not only her, but the weight of the surname she carried. This had haunted her for long years, until she decided to take the reins of her own life.

​Both her father and Elliot had no idea what that was like. So, it was clear they did not take her seriously. To be the only woman meant not being heard.

​But women listened to women. Women understood women. So, Eleanor did what any other would do: she sought out a friend.

​When the girl asked Steve, the man who tended to the family’s horses, how to find the Peaky Blinders, he looked at her as if she were speaking another language. Eleanor knew he knew where they stayed, and she would insist until he spoke.

​— You’re going to get me into trouble, Eleanor, — he said seriously, avoiding eye contact. He knew that if he looked at her, he wouldn't be able to say no.

​— I’m not asking for much. I don’t want you to take me there, I just want the address.

​— And you would go there alone? It’s madness, — he stood up from the bench, walking through the stable. Eleanor followed him.

​— And what could happen to me? Would they harm a little girl? — Eleanor said with humor, making him chuckle. — I can look after myself. I want to see the girl, Ada.

​— Eleanor, please, I like working here and I need this job.

​— I won’t tell my father you told me. Come on, Steve! You can trust me.

​He sighed and stared at her with that look that said she had gotten what she wanted.

​Eleanor slipped her hand into her coat pocket, pulling out the scrap of paper Steve had given her. It didn’t say much beyond the street name and “fabric shop” underlined. It made her life a bit difficult because it could be anywhere there. But he had said she would know it when she found it.

​The street reeked of a mixture of urine and cigarettes, and there was garbage strewn almost everywhere. A little further ahead, from where a line of men had formed, she approached apprehensively.

​— Want to buy some fabric too, sweetheart? — one of the guys asked in a mocking tone, laughing afterward.

​And then she understood. She had found it.

​A man stepped out from inside the building and threw the door open. He shouted for the men to come in, and Eleanor swept inside along with the crowd.

​It was a strange, suffocating place, thick with the strong scent of liquor. The men spoke so loudly that the girl wondered if she would even be able to hear her own thoughts. She had never seen anything like it.

​— It’s not every day we welcome a pretty girl, — a man approached her with paper and pen in hand. — Which horse do you want to bet on, sweetheart? — he brought his right hand to his face, covering his mouth so no one else could hear. — Silver Wind will be the winner, but don’t go around saying I told you.

​— I didn’t come to bet, — she replied, scanning the room as her eyes searched for any sign of the girl, before turning her attention back to the man in front of her. — I want to speak with Ada Shelby.

​He looked her up and down, arching a single brow.

​— What do you want with my sister?

​— We are friends, — she answered, and as much as she was telling the truth, her voice came out as though she were merely trying to sound convincing. — I am Eleanor Montague.

​And for the first time, she wished her surname were enough. As it always used to be.

​— John! — he shouted. The blonde man quickly approached the two of you. — Take her to Ada. She’s a Montague, — he concluded, as if delivering a strict instruction.

​The walk to the house was silent. Eleanor and John exchanged sidelong glances, but neither opened their mouth. She wished she knew what was crossing his mind because hers was a whirlwind of thoughts. And she didn’t want to admit it, but she was a little afraid. What had she gotten herself into?

​Before she could ask where they were, John stopped in front of a brick house and opened the door.

​— Ada, you’ve got a friend here! — he shouted from outside. He nodded toward the interior of the property, signaling for Eleanor to enter.

​Ada emerged from within the house, filling the doorway with a calm that contrasted sharply with Montague’s internal turmoil. She smiled upon seeing her friend, a mixture of joy and surprise.

​— Eleanor! — she greeted, pulling her inside. — How did you find me?

​— You have a rather famous surname, it wasn’t very difficult, — she looked outside, her eyes meeting the boy's. — Thank you, John.

​— Bye, John! — Ada smiled at her brother, closing the door behind her.

Eleanor had not been invited there, but that did not seem to bother Ada. Quite the contrary, she appeared genuinely happy with her presence. As she walked down the hallway of the house, the ballerina immersed herself deeper and deeper into the world of the Shelby family.

​It was a simple house with a strong ancestral touch, present mostly in the photographs on the walls that seemed to watch over anyone who entered. Eleanor tried not to stare too much, afraid that Ada might misinterpret it, but a white line traced with precision on the windowsill caught her attention.

​— It’s salt, — Ada said, as if reading her friend’s mind, then shrugging as though it were of no importance—yet her gaze was apprehensive, fearful that she might not understand. — To ward off the evil eye. It’s a gypsy thing.

​Eleanor looked at her with understanding, free of any judgment, and Ada smiled in relief.

​— And does it work for everyone, or just for the Shelbys?

​— It works for everyone, actually. But you also need to filter who comes in. If we relied on salt alone, my family and I would need an entire ocean to keep us safe.

​She let out a short laugh, turning toward the end of the hallway, expecting Eleanor to be following her. In the next instant, the sound of something rigid sliding across the wood shattered the silence. Ada stumbled, letting out an exasperated gasp as she stepped on a toy car left right in the middle of the way.

​— Finn! — she shouted upon regaining her balance. — Heavens, there is no peace in this house. I've barely cleaned everything, and they're already making a mess again.

​— It must be hard being the only girl in the midst of four men, — Eleanor remarked, remembering one of the conversations they’d had where Ada had mentioned their household dynamic.

​— You have no idea! — she rolled her eyes and sat down on the red sofa in the living room. With her left hand, she patted the empty spot beside her, inviting her friend to join her. — They drive me mad.

​— It must be chaos, — she replied, feeling her fingers brush against the upholstery as she sat down. — Living with just my father and brother already tests my patience at times; I can’t even fathom sharing a roof with four men.

​— It’s a daily test of patience, — she shook her head in a slow sigh, then looked toward Eleanor. — By the way, since you’re here, let me go get the dress you lent me. I washed and ironed it; I was planning to bring it to you tomorrow.

​She made a move to stand, but the girl touched her arm, stopping her.

​— No, I didn’t come for the dress. Truth is, I came because I was feeling lonely and wanted to talk. I’m not interrupting you, am I?

​— Of course not, Eleanor. It’s been so long since I’ve had a friend over. I’m so glad you came.

​— Tell me more about your date. I hope he showered you with compliments, because you looked stunning in that dress. — Ada turned as red as a beetroot, and Eleanor bit her lip to keep from laughing. — Is he your boyfriend? What is his name?

​— His name is Freddie. I’m not sure if the word "boyfriend" is quite right, but...

​The crimson blush did not linger for long on Ada’s cheeks. A sudden paleness washed over her face, her eyes widening in horror, forcing Eleanor to turn around and see the cause of her frightened expression.

​He stood there, poised on the threshold between the hallway and the living room, filling the entire space without having to utter a single word. His watchful eyes scanned the stranger, as if suggesting that Eleanor had no business being there, before shifting to Ada, as though the girl were of no consequence.

​He was smeared with grease, his suit covered in dust, and he reeked of a mixture of gunpowder and iron. The silence was broken by a steady dripping on the floor. Dark, fresh blood seeped slowly down his fingers, finding its place upon the wooden floorboards.

​— God, Thomas! — Ada nearly shrieked, rising with a start and closing the distance between them. — What happened to you?

​— Ada, pull yourself together. You have company.

​The last word rang ironic. It did not sound like a concern for what Eleanor might think, but rather with her very presence there. Thomas ignored Ada's approach, moving away toward the leather armchair in the far corner of the room. As he sat, he let out an exasperated sigh, as if the weight of the world had settled along with his body.

​Ada let out a worried sound and vanished down the hallway, leaving the two of them alone. Silence once again became the language of the room, interrupted only by the rhythmic sound of blood striking the wood: tick, tick, tick.

​That did not seem to bother Thomas. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, shifting his bleeding arm to the other side, tracing a trail across the floor. With his hand resting on the armchair, the blood now dripped freely down the upholstery and onto the rug.

​It did not bother him, but it bothered the girl sitting across from him. Her gaze remained fixed on the stain that was forming, before shifting back to him.

​— It’s dripping onto the rug, — she said calmly, merely stating the fact.

​He didn’t answer.

​— It will be difficult to clean later, — she continued, hoping he would take the hint.

​Thomas lifted his head and looked at her. He didn't understand why that was her immediate concern, and he was in no mood for small talk.

​— It’s not my problem right now, — he said at last, hoping his firm tone would deter any further attempt at conversation.

​Eleanor paused for a few seconds, digesting the sharp rebuff. But she did not back down, staring at him with a certain perplexity. What an idiot.

​— I understand. But your sister will have to deal with it when she returns. She doesn’t seem to have enough hands to care for both you and the house at the same time.

​Her reply seemed to take him by surprise. He narrowed his eyes, observing her intently for a beat too long, expecting her to grow uncomfortable, but she didn’t.

​— You are very certain of things for someone who has never set foot here before.

​— I have eyes, that is all, — she countered calmly. — Besides, the blood will continue to stain the rug, and someone will have to get down on their knees to clean it—and I doubt it will be you.

​Before he could answer, Ada returned, carrying a basin of water and clean cloths. The two of them stared at her, and she looked from Eleanor to Thomas, absorbing the silent tension in the air.

​— It seems you’ve already introduced yourselves, — she said, trying to break the ice. She placed the basin on the floor near her brother, and before she could wet the cloth, Thomas snatched it from her hand.

​— Go sit down, Ada. Entertain your company, — he commanded, his voice like the crack of a whip. — I know how to clean my own blood.

​— Come, Eleanor, — Ada called her, trying to prevent the atmosphere from growing even stranger. — Let’s go upstairs.

​The girl rose calmly from the sofa and walked toward Ada, but before disappearing down the hallway, she looked at Thomas one last time:

​— It’s still dripping.

​He remained motionless, in silence, looking first at the space she had left empty on the sofa and then at the trail he himself had left to the armchair.