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Chapter Text

A young lady sat alone on a train looking out the window as each tree and field passed by, looking onwards in a daze almost falling asleep.

"Little miss is this seat taken?" she broke out of her daze right away, turning her head to find an elder woman with a cane standing by the door of the compartment.

"No ma'am, please have a seat" she replied getting up, to help the woman sit down, she returned to her seat as soon as she made sure the woman was comfortable. 

"Thank you, little miss, you're so kind," the older woman said, smiling and looking at the girl her voice was coarse but had a calming tune to it. 

"Not at all, I didn't do anything'' she said to the woman, she went back to the window again seeing clouds invade the sky, feeling the eyes of the woman still observing her, making her clutch the book in her lap.

The woman kept studying the little girl infront of her, in all her life she had never seen someone that looked like a princess out of a children's storybook, and she had seen many things, but many not good things, she couldn't help but feel a little worried for this young stranger.

"Are you traveling alone?" she asks, the girl looked at her silent for a moment, eventually she nodded, "How Come? you are so young" she asks the girl, clearly worried.

Roseline smiled at the old lady. "Thank you for your concern, madame," she said, looking down at her book. "But I'm of age." She could understand the other woman's concern. Some people have assumed that she is younger than her actual age, though she knew she was still considered young even if she was of age.

The older woman's worries only grew, not sure this girl would survive Birmingham.

"Are you planning on staying in Birmingham?" she asks again, narrowing her eyes at the girl.

"I hope so" Roseline answered, she really hoped that she would stay in Birmingham for quite a while, it seemed like the best place for her at the moment.

The older woman knows it is not her place to say something, she doesn't want to be rude or nosey "I hope you know what you're doing, girl" she said acting tough and serious "Birmingham is no place for naive young girls " hoping a warning like this would steer her away from unfortunate incidents, though the girl didn't appear to be moved by this.

"I understand. I truly do," Roseline said, putting her hands on top of each other "but I think it'll be good for me." looking at the window again the sky seemed to be grayer and grayer, the woman surprised by her answer, she laughed, hitting the compartment floor with her cane.

"Never in me life living in Birmingham, someone said it'll be GOOD for them." the woman continued laughing, tears in her eyes "I'll hold you up to that, you aren't allowed to change your mind" She pointed the cane at the girl, a grin plastered on her face.

Roseline shook her head "I wouldn't dream of it." as the woman put down her cane muttering about her words, she stopped after a few minutes, Roseline felt the atmosphere change a bit, and the cloudy sky making the compartment darker and colder, the woman looked at her again, this time her expression completely changed.

The woman wanted to help this naive girl even just for a little bit. 

The elder woman frowned ''Listen very carefully," she whispered, leaning closer to the girl "Stay away from the peaky blinders." she went to sit back comfortably in her seat, the girl looked confused and she could tell, poor girl, she sympathized with her but she'll leave it up to her, she seems smart enough to not go looking for trouble, "you're an interesting one that's for sure" she said more relaxed now, " I'm Abigail, what's your little miss?" she asks, grinning. 

"I'm Roseline, it's a pleasure to meet you," she said, holding out her hand, Abigail sighed but shook her hand anyway, this girl wouldn't survive this place no matter how much she looked at it, her hands were proof of that, they were small and so soft, like they have never seen a day of work.

Abigail reached for her pocket, "Here, this will help you" she held out a card ", they'll help you get a flat," she said as she handed Roseline the card, "tell them Abigail sent you." the older woman started to light her cigar.

Roseline was shocked by the gestures of this older woman "I can't possibly accept this-" she said worried, she didn't want to use someone to get something so simple, especially not an older woman.

"You must, I don't take no for an answer" Abigail replied, as she puffed a little smoke, "Just follow my earlier advice" Roseline guessed she was talking about staying away from the peaky blinders.

Roseline didn't know who the peaky blinders were, she wanted to ask more about them, they did sound a bit ominous, but she decided against asking, she didn't want to ask unnecessary questions and bother the older woman, after all, curiosity was never her friend no matter where she went, it's best to stay discrete this time away from prying eyes or she'll try to be, at least. She opened her book flipping to the page she left and started reading to pass the time.

Roseline alighted from the train, clutching her briefcase tightly in both hands. A hat veiled her hair and obscured her face from curious onlookers as she navigated the streets in search of her new residenceThe buildings appeared big and intimidating under the gray sky. She looked at the card in her hand and followed Abigail's instructions closely. When she saw the people waiting to hire a driver, she decided to walk instead. She felt more comfortable using her own feet.

Although she was tired, Roseline found comfort in walking. It helped her adjust to her new surroundings. The local people looked tough, with faces showing signs of hard lives. Drunks lay scattered on the ground, overlooked by those passing by, including children who walked around them. She kept her eyes on the ground, especially when she felt someone following her.

A gruff voice broke her focus. "Little girl, come here," a man slurred, his hand gripping her shoulder. Roseline’s eyes remained fixed on the ground as she steadied her nerves. "Won’t ya help me with my problem?" he mumbled drunkenly.

Before he could utter another word, Roseline’s heel came crashing down on his foot. His grip loosened with a howl of pain, and she seized the moment to flee into a shadowy alley. His threats echoed behind her, but she was swift, disappearing behind a wall until the coast was clear.

Once she was certain he was gone, Roseline slipped back onto the main path, eager to avoid further confrontation. The day was dimming, but she finally reached her destination—a modest building that offered her sanctuary. Merely mentioning Abigail’s name granted her access to the flat, a testament to the elder woman’s influence.

Tired, Roseline lay down on the bed. Today was hard, but it ended well, and she hoped for more good days ahead. She thought about her upcoming job as a nurse, which she got despite being only eighteen. This job was her chance to escape an arranged marriage to a stranger and to shape her own future. She let out a tired sigh, closed her eyes, and wished for sleep without nightmares this time.

A car drove on the fields, "I thought you said we were going to the fair" Arthur Shelby said looking at the scene in front of him, as they stopped near multiple wagons.

''We have business first" answered the sky blue-eyed man as he got out of the car, "come on, Bring your wits" he beckoned his brothers to get out out 

"What kind of business?" Arthur asked, confused by his brother.

"That's the Lee family" John commented getting out.

"Tommy!" someone yelled getting close to them.

"Johnny Dogs" the blue-eyed man yelled back, lighting his cigar.

''How the hell are ye?" Johnny asks, shaking the man's hand.

"All the better for getting the city's smoke out of me lungs" he answers, he never really thought about it, he was surprised that he even got back.

"Thought you became a bit too grand for us" Johnny jokes, showing his teeth, tommy shook his head, looking around the field when a white horse caught his attention.

"So, this is the horse." Tommy walked up to the horse, and he laid his hand on it, it's one of the most beautiful horses he had seen in a while since the war at least, he grabbed the horse's hoof, continuing to check on the horse's health.

"And this is the car!" Johnny said checking out the car, Arthur quickly got into action

''Hang on a minute-'' Arthur said "You're not swapping the family car for a bloody horse!" frustrated by the idea, Tommy sometimes questioned if his brother truly knew him.

''Of course, we are not swapping it," Johnny said walking up to Tommy.

"We are going to play two up," Tommy said, he and Johnny both pulled out their coins and flipped them in the air, the coins fell to the ground both faced heads.

"Here you are," Tommy gave the car key to Johnny.

"I knew it!" Arthur exclaimed seeing the interaction infront of him "Tommy, you bloody idiot!!" he said, he can't believe his brother would give up their car!

"Shut up Arthur, I won," Tommy said, impatiently "I promised Johnny, I'd let him have a spin in the car if he lost" he jerked his head for Johnny to go to the car, he didn't care if they lost the car anyway. If his plans go well and they will, this'll be nothing, hearing the men near the lake laughing, he looked at them.

"Are you Lee boys laughing at my brother?'' he asks getting close to the men, they didn't answer, of course. "I asked you a question" his intimidating gaze never left them, even if the men didn't know it they were most likely shivering.

"Come on, Tommy. It was a crack," Johnny Dogs caught up to them to soothe things between the dangerous families "Take your family before they start a war," he stood between them, and he turned to the Lee boys "Go on, go!" he urged them to leave "they're from good people, their grandad was a king" Johnny didn't want something bad to happen, thinking he said enough he turned to leave.

"but their mom was a whore," Tommy was about to let what happened slide but this...

He took off his hat and slashed it across the man that said this across the face, the sound of flesh tearing apart was music to his ears. No one insults his family, this man will be a lesson for everyone since they have forgotten the peaky blinders are back in business, the other men also screaming in pain as his brothers beat them up, the man's face is bloodied and his pained screams were heard by everyone but they were too afraid to do anything against the king of Birmingham.

~2 weeks later~

"Rosaline get the hot water!" "The bleeding won't stop!" "We have to get Painkillers!" "What do you mean there are no more bandages?!" "Rosaline Get more bandages!!"

It was her second week as a nurse in this hospital yet it has been so hectic, she can't blame them though, there aren't that many nurses. She has been running around the hospital for days now, yes it is tiring but it makes her feel alive knowing she is working and helping people, instead of lazing around. It's her break today though and she feels like she earned it, she's walking around the city, and she can feel the stares and whispers she gets from the people around her but it doesn't bother her.

Rosaline's day had been nice as she wandered through small shops, picking up little luxuries and essentials for her new start. But as night fell, the once friendly streets began to feel unsafe in the growing darkness. She felt a shiver as she walked past a scary alleyway, just as two people ran out, their footsteps echoing as they hurried away.

Rosaline felt her heart race as an unexplainable urge pulled her toward the darkness they were trying to escape. The alley was dark, a place that felt threatening and alive. Every logical thought told her to turn back, but a deeper, instinctual force moved her forward.

That was when she saw him

Amidst the gloom, a solitary figure loomed, his presence an anchor in the swirling mists of fear. His body was a tapestry of violence, marred by a gunshot wound that wept crimson and bruises blooming like dark flowers. A cigarette dangled from his lips, its ember a defiant star against the encroaching night. He seemed an apparition of apathy, his wounds mere afterthoughts.

"Hello?" Roseline’s voice was a hesitant whisper, revealing her anxiety as she leaned in closer. "Sir! Can you hear me?!"

The man lifted his head, and his pale blue eyes focused on hers through the darkness. He didn’t say anything, but his nod showed that he was aware.

It was her first holiday, but instead of relaxing today, there was a man laying on her bed, injured. She carefully took off his hat and saw a shiny razor hidden under it—a mystery to think about later. She removed his shirt and saw a bullet graze on his skin, which was a small relief since it hadn't gone inside him. With steady hands, she bandaged his wounds, trying to keep her heart calm.

Rosaline thought about why she acted the way she did. One look at this stranger revealed the chaos he carried, almost like a shadow. Yet, he lay there, an impressive figure that stirred strong feelings within her. She sank into the chair and sighed heavily. This risky feeling was familiar to her; it was a tune her heart easily followed. However, her mind was filled with doubt and confusion. Giving in to her emotions, she rested her head on the table, overwhelmed by her troubling thoughts.

Tommy slept soundly, free of dreams, resting in a comforting emptiness that kept his fears away. When he woke up, the bright sunlight hit him hard, feeling very different from the darkness he had in his sleep. His surroundings were new to him, but the neatly wrapped bandages on his wounds showed that someone had taken good care of him.

The room was filled with warm sunlight that made it feel comforting. Books filled the shelves, showing a love for stories. A violin sat next to the bed, ready to create beautiful music. Plants added life to the room and filled the air with a pleasant smell that helped calm his restless spirit.

He looked around the room until he spotted her, sitting with her head down on the table. Her blonde hair shone in the light, creating a bright halo around her that nearly matched the sun. When she moved slightly, it revealed her almost glowing skin.

As she turned to face him, fuck. He had known beauty, but she—she was ethereal. Her green eyes, wide and innocent, seemed to peer into the very depths of his soul. If this was heaven, he was a willing captive.

Her voice, soft and laced with concern, broke the spell. "Are you feeling okay?" she asked, moving towards him with a grace that belied her urgency. 

"Where am I?" His voice was rough, the words scraping against his throat as he sought to anchor himself in reality.

Roseline’s smile was a balm, her eyes twinkling with mischief that belied the seriousness of their situation. "Still in Birmingham," she assured him, her hands deft as she unwrapped his bandages. "My apartment," she added, She spoke softly as she treated his wounds, a sharp contrast to the precise way she worked.

He felt the sting of the alcohol, which should have made him react, but he stayed calm. The hint of a smirk briefly crossed his face before he returned to a neutral expression.

His piercing pale blue eyes showed a soul that had seen too much but refused to look away. They revealed a deep sadness that was both haunting and captivating. 

Even though he was in pain, he held himself with a quiet strength. He seemed to be a man who had faced many challenges and came through them not without scars, but still standing strong. He carried the signs of his struggles like badges of honor, showing that he was a warrior in his own way.

"How are ye so good at this?" he inquired,He watched her hands as they moved skillfully, despite their delicate appearance.

These hands seemed better suited for nurturing life than for handling death, yet they worked with a precision that was even better than that of experienced nurses in the battlefield.

"I’m a nurse," Rosaline replied, her focus unwavering as she tended to the bandages, confirming his silent guess.

"All done!" Her proclamation was cheerful, a stark contrast to the gravity of his injuries. "Please, don’t exert too much pressure on them," she advised as she rose, her movements imbued with an effortless grace that captivated him. How had fate guided such a creature to Birmingham’s chaos?

As Tommy settled more comfortably on the bed, a sense of tranquility enveloped him—a feeling alien yet deeply craved. Rosaline approached once more, offering a cup of tea with a tenderness that seemed to echo through the room. "Drink it, it’ll help with the pain," she urged with a voice that seemed to caress his very soul. Compelled by an unknown force, he accepted the tea, its warmth spreading through him as he took a hearty gulp.

"My clothes," he demanded abruptly, the tone of his voice slicing through the calm like a blade. Rosaline’s response was measured, her actions unflustered as she retrieved his garments, draping them neatly beside him.

"Why didn’t ye ask for help?"Tommy’s question lingered, a weighty silence enveloping the room. His broken memories showed a thin figure walking beside him. Her heels clicked steadily against the cold pavement as she helped support him through the dark night.

"Was I supposed to, when you didn’t even cry out for help while those men assaulted you?" Rosaline’s retort was laced with a subtle defiance, her gentle voice belying the steel within.

"You could find yourself in trouble, speaking so boldly," Tommy warned, his tone half-serious as he slipped into his jacket. The bandages, expertly applied, were a comfort rather than an irritation.

"I might," she conceded, settling into a chair with a posture that mirrored her resolve. "But I must care for my patients and they need their rest."

"A patient, am I?"Tommy’s smirk was a mix of amusement and challenge, but Rosaline merely arched an eyebrow, her expression painting him as the most foolish man alive. With a shake of his head, he strode past her, the tension between them unspoken but palpable.

As he reached the door, he paused his back to her. "You have my thanks," he offered, the words simple but heavy with gratitude. Donning his cap, he stepped out into the world beyond her flat, leaving her in the quiet aftermath.

Rosaline exhaled deeply, the departure of the strange man leaving her with more questions than answers. He was a walking enigma, a dangerous puzzle she knew she should avoid. Yet, curiosity gnawed at her—how had he found himself in such a state? He seemed more than capable of handling any threat, perhaps even lethal if pushed. But it was none of her concern. She was here to forge a new path, not to be ensnared by the shadows of old chapters.

Tommy’s departure from the flat was as silent as his arrival, a shadow slipping through the cracks of dawn. The clerk, returning from a brief respite, caught the tail end of his exit. Recognition dawned, eyes wide and mouth agape, but the words lodged in his throat as an irate voice shattered the moment. "Oi! Are ye ogling my wife?" The clerk snapped back to reality, confronted by a fuming husband and his wife’s reassuring grip.

As Tommy walked down the street, people nodded and whispered in respect. He ruled the streets like a king, though he was not officially recognized. He lit a cigarette and let the smoke fill the air, but it couldn't hide his memory of the mysterious nurse who had helped him heal.

The beating by Billy Kimber’s men was a planned risk. It aimed to make them seem weak while he gained the upper hand. He didn’t expect a woman to intervene. Her touch was healing, and her presence was intriguing. She might have seen everything, but she didn’t interfere with his plans.

Yet, Tommy couldn’t afford the luxury of curiosity. She represented a potential distraction, a siren call to a man with ambitions that towered like the city’s skyline. She possibly posed a dangerous omen for men.

Before he knew it, the familiar building of the Garrison was right in front of him. Maybe a bottle of whiskey might help him forget her, but Tommy understood that things don’t always go as planned.

Chapter Text

Ada Shelby loved her family deeply, but it often frustrated her. They meant everything to her, yet she felt trapped, like she was in a gilded cage that kept her from pursuing her dreams of freedom and adventure. Freddie was the escape she wanted, representing her deepest desires and unspoken hopes.

Her return from their usual meet-ups in the dark, each step carefully measured to avoid rousing the sleeping household. But the quiet was shattered by Polly’s knowing voice, her presence as commanding as the fire that flickered in the hearth.

"Stop this reckless behavior, Ada," Polly commanded, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames rather than her niece.

"I am my own person, Polly," Ada countered, her glare sharp, a silent plea to end the conversation.

"A grown woman doesn't fuck in some alley with god knows whom!" Polly retorted throwing her cigarette in the fireplace.

"How did you?-" Ada stuttered blushing, how did her aunt know something like that when she had been so careful?

The older woman walked up to Ada, "Stop this, before one of your brothers knows , god forbid if tommy knew."

"Not everything has to do with them! I have my own life too!" she whisper yelled, "I'm not hurting anyone."

she can't believe Polly would blame her over these things, she's allowed to see whoever she wishes, but now it's all about the peaky blinders business and not what she wants.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking doing it in a fucking alley?! Where anyone would see?!" she sighed putting a hand over her face, "fuck who you want Ada , but at least try to make it a secret." 

"Why should I?" she glared at Polly, she loves Polly. Polly has been there for her since forever, but no one in her family understands her right now, all they care about is business.

"For your safety" Polly galred back, Ada hated that disappointed look "There is a new copper in town and if he finds the right opportunity, he will try to take us down"

Polly cares for all of them and she did her best to be there for them when they had no parental figure, But no matter how smart the Shelbys were, they still had a streak of stupidity. At least some of them.

Ada remained silent, the gravity of Polly’s words sinking in. She had witnessed the brutality visited upon Arthur. The stakes were high, and the consequences of her actions could ripple far beyond her own heart’s desires. What if they discovered Freddie? What if her brothers found out? What if Tommy knew?

"Say, Roseline, do you have a lover?" Kaitlyn inquired, her seasoned eyes peering over the rim of her glasses as she leaned casually against the desk.

Roseline glanced up, a small smile playing on her lips. "I’m afraid not," she replied, her hands meticulously organizing the array of medicines before her.

Kaitlyn tsked softly, her gaze lingering on Roseline with a mix of fondness and concern. "Don’t end up like me, love. The life of an old nurse can be quite lonely."

Roseline thought about Kaitlyn’s unwanted advice. Kaitlyn was an important nurse at the hospital, with many years of service. However, even with her experience, her personal life was a mystery. She had few family members and no partner.

"You know, there was a time I extracted a bullet on the battlefield," Kaitlyn began, her voice taking on the cadence of a well-rehearsed tale.

"We’ve heard this story a million times, Kaitlyn. Please, spare us," groaned a nurse as she passed by with an armful of linens. Roseline couldn’t help but empathize with their weariness; Kaitlyn’s stories were as much a fixture of the ward as the beds and IV stands.

Kaitlyn chuckled, unfazed by the playful protests, and lobbed a crumpled paper in the direction of the complaining nurse.

As Roseline’s shift drew to a close, she gathered her belongings, her movements signaling the end of another long day.

"Be careful out there, love," Kaitlyn called out, stifling a yawn with the back of her hand. "I’d hate to have to operate on one of our most skilled nurses."

"I’ll do my best not to give you that trouble, boss," Roseline quipped, a twinkle in her eye as she adjusted her hat. Kaitlyn could only shake her head, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth at the younger nurse’s playful retort.

Roseline found solace in her night shifts at the hospital. It was a quiet space where she could immerse herself in the rhythm of her duties and enjoy the company of her fellow nurses. Kaitlyn, although sometimes a bit overbearing, provided a wealth of stories and laughter, making the long hours pass more easily.

On her day off, Roseline wanted to relax at Small Heath Park. She admired how nature can thrive despite tough conditions. While looking for a quiet place to write, she heard soft crying coming from behind some trees.

Roseline gently approached a young woman who was alone and sad, much like herself. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her voice breaking into the girl’s sadness.

Ada was caught up in her emotions and hardly heard the words being spoken. When she looked up, she saw a face that looked almost otherworldly, topped with a hat that couldn't fully hide the youth beneath it.

"Get lost," Ada snapped, her words a shield against unwanted intrusion.

Roseline felt worried and decided to stay. She stood at a respectful distance, offering silent support among the trees that surrounded them. In this quiet place, Roseline hoped her presence would bring some comfort and show empathy in someone else's time of distress.

Ada’s frustration was palpable as she demanded solitude, yet the girl before her remained unfazed, her pencil dancing across the pages of a notebook. The audacity was almost admirable; did she not recognize Ada Shelby, or was she simply oblivious?

"Are you deaf or stupid?" Ada snapped, her patience wearing thin.

Roseline glanced up, her eyes alight with an artist’s curiosity. "May I draw you?" she asked, her voice betraying none of the intimidation Ada’s name usually commanded.

Ada’s irritation gave way to amusement. This girl was either incredibly bold or blissfully ignorant. "Fine, but don’t make me look ugly," she conceded, a smirk playing on her lips.

When Ada finally smiles, it's a powerful change. This rare moment shows a softer side to her usually serious face. The smile comes unexpectedly as a response to Roseline's sincere and open attitude. As Roseline lifts her head with her own careful and hopeful smile, Ada lowers her guard. A slight twitch at the corners of her mouth shows she is fighting the unusual feeling, but Roseline’s genuine warmth has a strong effect on her.

It’s a smile that reaches her eyes, crinkling the edges, and for a brief moment, the burdens of her name, her family, and her expectations lift, and she’s simply Ada, a young woman in a park.

"Don’t worry, I can’t alter a beautiful face," Roseline replied with a smile, her pencil resuming its work.

Minutes ticked by in comfortable silence until Ada’s curiosity broke the stillness. "What’s your name?" she inquired, her gaze fixed on the hat that shrouded the girl’s features.

"I’ll share mine if you share yours," Roseline countered with a playful tilt of her head. The woman looked like a cornered cat, one that hissed at anyone they came across.

"Ada," she declared, "Ada Shelby." She expected a reaction, but Roseline simply nodded and continued her sketching. The mysterious girl must be stupid.

"Roseline," the young artist replied, her focus never wavering. "Pleasure to meet you." She was well aware of the Shelby reputation, but that didn’t deter her.

"Pretty name," Ada commented, "though it’s quite the mouthful."

"It might be," Roseline agreed, her attention still on the drawing. It was just a name, it never bothered her.

Right?

"Take off the hat," Ada instructed abruptly. She needed to see the face of the person who wasn’t wary of her, the girl must be someone important to be this brave.

Roseline hesitated, the hat her shield against the world, but eventually, she complied, revealing the youthful beauty hidden beneath. 

Ada was taken aback. Roseline’s features were delicate, almost ethereal—a stark contrast to the hardened faces of Small Heath. She has never seen a girl like her before, her face isn’t one she would forget, almost like a doll.

"Chuck them on boys!" Tommy threw a picture of the king into the blazing fire, everyone laughing around him and throwing more pictures.

"I hope to God ye know what you’re doing," Arthur said gulping the bottle of whiskey

Tommy gazed at the scene before him, a vivid display of despair and defiance. Men, women, and children, their faces marked by the unmistakable signs of betrayal, tossed pictures into the flames—a silent testament to the ravages of war. He wondered if his own eyes reflected that same haunted look, that same depth of loss.

He noticed a woman standing alone away from the crowd, her face hidden by her hat. She seemed calm in the middle of the busy scene. Feeling an unspoken connection, he wanted to go to her.

''You’re Mr. Shelby?" A man asked behind him, Tommy didn't bother to look behind him 

"I am," he stated, his gaze unwavering as he watched the woman. The flames surrounded her, creating a bright halo that made her glow. The more he looked, the more she seemed to blend with the flames, almost like a figure made from the fire itself.

"You said I would be protected." The reporter declared, his voice tinged with a nervous edge that betrayed a meeting not just with a man, but with a force as intimidating as the devil himself.

"You’re protected." To some extent but the reporter didn't need to know that, he only had one job.

"What’s going on here?" the reporter asked looking at the fire. He wanted to leave this place, but it could make a good story in the newspaper.

"There are some things I want you to write down." He said still having his eyes on the woman who seemed to pick something up and hand it to a kid 

"Now, first of all," He started looking at the people here, laughing, joking, speaking with each other like it’s a little party, "it’s not that people round here are disloyal to the king."

"It’s the opposite." he continued. "You see, we don't want our beloved king looking down and seeing the things that are being done to us," he inhaled the smoke "so we are taking down his pictures."

''But why are you burning them?" the reporter asked confused, never understanding the idea of doing such things.

"We went through hell for our king, walked through the flames of war." Suddenly the fire started to consume his vision, the anger burning in his veins. "And now we’re being attacked in our homes." 

"These new coppers over from Belfast, breaking into our homes" his vision cleared seeing the woman on the other side, wrapping a bandage over another woman’s hand, "and interfering with our women, we don’t think our king would want to see that happening."

"So we are lightning fires to raise the alarm," he smirked.

"May I ask you, in what capacity do you speak?" The reporter really seems clueless, it’s starting to annoy Tommy 

"No capacity, I am an ordinary man," Tommy answered inhaling the cigar’s smoke, "I won gallantry medals at the Somme."

"I want you to write in your paper what’s going on here," he finally looked at the man, with a threatening look on his face, the reporter nodded quickly and hurried away 

Tommy’s attention returned to the spot where the woman had stood, but she had disappeared, leaving only the hypnotic dance of the fire before him. The mystery of her presence lingered, tugging at his mind like a siren’s call. He recalled a memory of a green doe-eyed girl, a stark contrast to the shadows of night. Absentmindedly, his hand brushed over the bandage on his shoulder, a tactile reminder of wounds both fresh and faded. Shaking his head, he dismissed the visions as the deceit of opium or perhaps simply missing having sex.

As Roseline walked through the empty streets, she felt alone, which highlighted the events of the night. The fire set by the Peaky Blinders left a strong impact on her. In the middle of the chaos, she saw their leader talking tensely to a reporter who was trying to get away. For a brief moment, she thought his eyes, deep like the ocean, looked into hers. But maybe it was just a trick of the light, with the fire's glow creating illusions in everyone’s eyes.

Roseline smiled thinking of the fire filling her entire body, it might be the only thing that was lighting her dark path so she wouldn't get lost.

Chapter Text

Roseline had anticipated many things from her newfound friendship with Ada Shelby, but escorting her home in a drunken state was not one of them.

Yet, there she was, supporting Ada who was leaning on her, one arm draped around her shoulder, mumbling incoherently about someone named Freddie. Roseline could only hope that this Freddie was prepared for whatever was to come.

"Shhh, Ada, someone might hear you," she whispered, trying to soothe her intoxicated friend. "Just how much did you drink?"

Ada’s response was a string of nonsensical words, prompting Roseline to sigh. "So much for a fun night out," she thought, silently thanking the heavens that Ada had mentioned her address earlier. Otherwise, she might have had gangsters knocking on her apartment door at any moment.

"My house~" Ada slurred, pointing at a building not too far away. Despite her inebriated state, she seemed to be somewhat aware of her surroundings. Roseline could feel Ada’s weight increasing as she started to doze off, drooling on her shoulder.

As they approached the house, Roseline took note of the nearly deserted street. A few passersby and children playing were the only signs of life. The street felt melancholic, as if it was missing something, unlike the vibrant nights when they lit up the king’s pictures.

"I’ll… I’ll go in myself," Ada insisted, pushing herself away from Roseline as they neared her home. She staggered towards the house as if it was her first time walking.

Roseline couldn’t help but giggle at her friend’s attempt to open the door. She stepped forward and helped Ada, who grumbled, "I’m not stupid~!" before stumbling inside.

"Sleep well," Roseline called after her, just as Ada slammed the door shut with an indignant huff.

Roseline turned her attention back to the street where the children were playing. A pang of nostalgia hit her as she watched them. Suddenly, a ball rolled into the middle of the road and a small girl ran after it.

Her heart leapt into her throat as she saw a car speeding towards the girl. Without thinking, she sprinted towards the child, scooping her up like a precious doll and darting to the other side of the road just as the car zoomed past.

Roseline glared at the retreating silhouette of the car. Whoever was driving was either drunk or had malicious intent. "Miss?" a small voice brought her back to reality. She looked down at the girl cradled in her arms.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Roseline quickly set her down, dusting off the little girl’s dress. "Are you hurt?"

The girl shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "There, there, it’s okay," Roseline comforted her, wiping away her tears. "What’s your name?"

"Katie," the girl hiccuped. Roseline smiled and patted her head.

"Hello Katie, I’m Roseline," she introduced herself, extending her hand. "You have such a beautiful name." Katie blushed and shook Roseline’s hand.

Soon, the other children gathered around them, asking if Katie was okay. One of the older boys seemed angry, getting closer to Katie. "I told you it was a bad idea. I’m supposed to take care of all of you."

The boy was trying to act older than his age. "I’m sure Katie is sorry and was just trying to be helpful," Roseline said, trying to calm the hot-headed boy. He looked at her, his face turning red before he huffed and turned his head. He definitely reminded her of Ada.

She felt a tug on her skirt and looked down to see a child, barely five years old, looking up at her with awe. "So pretty," he said.

Roseline picked up the child, placing him in front of her. "Thank you!" she said, patting his head as she stood up.

Suddenly, all the children ran towards two men approaching them. "Arthur! John!" they shouted. "Dad!!" Roseline reached for her hat, but it wasn’t on her head. She felt a moment of panic.

Katie ran to John, crying and hugging him, her face buried in his shirt as she mumbled apologies. The man, presumably her father, patted her head, looking confused

"A car almost hit Katie!" the boy blurted out. "I told her not to chase the ball, but she didn’t listen!"

"What?! Are ye hurt?!" John yelled, frantically checking his daughter for any injuries.

"Damn reckless drivers," Arthur cursed, turning to Finn. "Did ye see who was drivin’ that fucking car?" Roseline wondered if it was appropriate to use such language in front of children, though she herself wasn’t the best role model in that regard.

"No, I only saw a beard and a hat," Finn replied, clearly disappointed he couldn’t provide more help.

"Dad! I’m okay, I promise!" Katie interjected, trying to get her father to stop fussing over her. "The beautiful lady saved me," she pointed at Roseline.

Arthur and John turned to look at Roseline. Arthur whistled appreciatively. "Are my eyes playin’ tricks on me, or are ye an angel?"

John shook his head at his brother’s antics. "Thank ye for savin’ me daughter," he said, taking Roseline’s hand and kissing the back of it. Now that’s how you charm a lady.

"I didn’t do anything," Roseline demurred, smiling at Katie. "I’m just glad that no one got hurt."

"I’m Arthur Shelby, and these are me brothers," Arthur introduced, referring to Katie’s father as "John" and the young boy as "Finn". Roseline could definitely see the family resemblance. So much for trying to keep a low profile.

"It’s nice to meet you, gentlemen," Roseline replied, looking around for her hat. "But I’m afraid I have to go." One of the children handed her the hat, a big smile on his face. "Thank you," she thanked the small child.

"Why don’t ye come have a drink with us?" John invited her. "It’ll be on us as a thank ye gift," he added, gesturing to himself and his brother.

"You really don’t have to thank me. I did what any person would do," Roseline sighed as she put on her hat. "By the way, the car was a Pierce Arrow 38," she added as she left.

"And I thought I’ve seen everything," Arthur smirked, lighting his cigarette. "That’s an angel if I’ve ever seen one."

"And ye couldn’t keep it in your pants," John laughed at his older brother.

"You’re the one who invited her to get drunk with us," Arthur retorted, slapping his brother’s shoulder.

"Can ye blame me, brother?" John smirked, watching the children playing a little distance away from them.

"For that angelic face?" Arthur grinned. "Never."

His expression turned more serious. "What are ye going to do about the car?" he asked his brother as they walked towards their house.

"What we always do," John replied, smirking. "Remind them never to mess with the Peaky Blinders."

That night, Tommy found himself trapped in a vivid dream that pulled him deep into the labyrinthine tunnels beneath the earth. The air was thick and stale, weighed down by the metallic scent of blood that mingled incongruously with the damp, cold mud beneath his feet. He felt an overwhelming sense of suffocation, like an invisible force closing in on him, robbing him of breath as his chest tightened painfully. It was as if flames flickered just beneath the surface of his skin, igniting a desperate need to escape.

The darkness of the tunnels felt heavy, closing in like a bad dream. Each turn in the passageway increased his fear. He saw shadows in his side vision that seemed real, and he could hear whispers in the distance that mocked him. This frightening feeling stuck in his mind and wouldn’t go away, leaving him uneasy long after he woke up.

He woke up sweating and gasping for air like a madman,  he wanted nothing more than to smoke and drink whisky.

''Tom! Tom!" He heard someone yell outside his window. "You better come quick, Tom!" He saw Curly waving and signaling for him to come.

They hurriedly made their way to the stables, their hearts racing with concern. As Tommy stepped inside, a wave of hay-sweetened air enveloped him, but his focus immediately shifted to the sight before him. The horse stood quietly in its stall, its leg awkwardly tied up and trembling slightly. Tommy approached cautiously, kneeling down to inspect the injury. The horse’s gentle eyes reflected a mix of trust and pain, and it let out a soft whinny as Tommy gently probed the swollen leg, realizing just how much discomfort the creature was in.

Curly lingered at the entrance, peering in with worried eyes. As he caught sight of the horse’s distress, he instinctively drew back, his heart pounding.

“Curly, tell me,” Tommy urged, his brow furrowed with worry as he glanced at the tired horse. He could see the gentle creature’s coat was matted, its eyes dull, and the concern in his voice was palpable. 

“It’s a curse, Tom,” he suddenly replied, clearly shocked and scared. He was starting to freak out; his head was a mess, and he couldn’t form the right words.

Tommy left the horse "Shhh," trying to calm the other man. "Curly, tell me what’s wrong with the horse?" he repeated the other man’s name to grab his attention.

"The Lee family put a bad seed in his hoof," the man stuttered trying to calm himself down, "they got an old woman to put a curse on it." 

"So those Lee bastards cursed him." Tommy looked at the poor horse, he put his hand on his face not knowing what he should do.

"Whatever it is, he said it spread to the other feet," Charlie said disappointed with a pitiful look in his eyes.

"It’s going to his heart by tomorrow I say!" Curly exclaimed as he took in deep breaths, "Seen curses like this twice! Can’t take them back, Tom!" 

If Curly doesn’t stop talking, Tommy might do something he might regret. He needed to think.

"I told ya, Tom," Charlie said to the man, "better to not have enemies of black blood Gypsies."

Tommy didn't look up, his mind racing with a million thoughts. Would he really have to kill the horse? For the first time since returning from the war, he hesitated. His thoughts suddenly shifted to that girl.

He doesn’t know why he thought of her or how she is going to help in this situation but he knows he has to do something.

"I have to do something," he suddenly said looking at the men in front of him, "don't leave the horse for a fucking moment, I'll be right back." 

Tommy didn't wait for their answer and quickly got out of the stable to head towards a certain blonde's flat.

Roseline had a peculiar fondness for rainy nights. It wasn’t that they frightened her, quite the contrary. They brought her a sense of peace and joy she’d never felt before. She sat by her window, a book in hand, watching the rain fall when a knock at the door startled her.

Who could be awake and knocking at people’s doors at this hour? She opened the door to find none other than Tommy Shelby, soaked to the bone. He looked at her with those striking ocean eyes. "Might I come in?" he asked in a gruff voice.

She stepped aside to let the man in, perhaps she should’ve taken him straight to the hospital at that moment. She sighed, fetching a towel.

"What sort of wound have you got now?" she asked, handing him the towel. He merely held the towel, not using it. She could’ve sworn she saw a smirk on his face.

"Not me this time," Tommy answered, his eyes wandering around her room as if searching for something.

"Please be straightforward with me, Mr. Shelby," Roseline said impatiently, sensing the man wanted something.

"So ye know who I am," Tommy smirked. This girl was sharp, he had to give her that.

"After our encounter, yes," she replied. Men like Tommy Shelby were too ambitious and too clever, and that’s what often landed them in trouble. She didn’t have a reason to dislike him, but something about him made her uneasy.

"Do ye know about horses?" he suddenly asked, not exactly the question she had expected.

"Yes, to some extent," she answered, wondering where this conversation was heading.

"I have a horse, I want ye to take a look at it," Mr. Shelby said. He wasn’t sure if this was the best course of action, he had started questioning why he came here when he reached her door.

"Right now?" she asked. Mr. Shelby didn’t say anything, but his silence was answer enough. She sighed, "I’m not a miracle worker, Mr. Shelby."

"Will ye look at it or not?" he asked impatiently. Perhaps this was a mistake, how could a young girl help him in this situation?

Roseline didn’t answer and simply grabbed her coat and hat. "Lead the way," she sighed.

Mr. Shelby walked her into a stable. In front of her stood a beautiful grey horse, but her eyes were drawn to its injured leg, which was tied up. The more she looked at the horse, the more she could tell it was in pain.

"Tom! Where did ye go?" This broke her out of her thoughts, making her aware of her surroundings. The man moved closer to Mr. Shelby.

"I had business to take care of, Curly," Mr. Shelby answered the man. Another man approached them, looking at Roseline.

“Who is this Tommy?” the other man asked, gesturing to her. He seemed to be in his 40s and was clearly suspicious of her.

"This is Roseline. She'll be looking at the horse," Mr. Shelby said, focused on the horse. Wait, how did he know her name? She never told him her name before.

It doesn't matter; she's just here to find out what's wrong with the horse.

"Nice to meet you, gentlemen," she quickly said, taking that as her cue to check over the horse.

"Nice to meet ye too," the older man said as she looked over the tied-up hoof and then back at the men.

"How long has he been in pain?" she asked the men. They looked at each other and then back at her.

"Since the evening," the man answered her, she guessed his name was Curly.

“Well?” Mr. Shelby asked, wondering if the girl had reached a conclusion. “What do ye think?”

"I believe that if you leave him like this for much longer, he will die," she said, looking at Mr. Shelby as she stroked the horse's coat. "I need to remove the layers of its hoof before the condition spreads, but I need you to help hold it down for me."

“Ye heard the lady, bring the damn ropes!” he barked, his voice cutting through the tense air. The men scrambled to obey, their expressions a mix of urgency and determination. As they moved, she observed how deftly they secured the horse, twisting the thick ropes around its sturdy frame.

Horses usually resist when tied up, kicking, and bucking in protest. However, this horse stayed unusually calm. Its shiny coat reflected the fading sunlight, as if it had given up the fight long before the men arrived. She wondered how much weariness was hidden beneath its calm appearance.

She took off her hat and gloves, placing them on a barrel, and quickly got to work. The horse groaned and shifted a bit, but it didn’t cause her much trouble. Ever since she removed her hat, the two men had been watching her, but she didn’t mind, as they seemed nice enough, asking if she wanted water or needed help.

The real problem was that he was standing behind her, watching her work like a hawk. However, she had to give the man some credit; he helped her before she even asked and calmed the horse down. It was clear that he loved horses, and she couldn’t blame Mr. Shelby for that—they’re beautiful creatures.

"All done!" Roseline said with a smile as she patted the horse. "What a good boy you are!"

"A miracle!" Curly exclaimed happily grabbing her by the arms, "Ye lifted the curse!" it caught Roseline by surprise honestly.

"That's enough curly, you'll scare off the girl." Charlie said stopping Curly from basically carrying her, "We thank you miss, truly."

"It's nothing, please make sure he eats very well and gets the rest he needs for at least two days," she said, giving more instructions for them to follow, the men listened to her enthusiastically and took a mental note of everything she said.

Tommy didn't know how to react if he was being honest, but he was glad the horse would get better he really didn't want to kill him. He wasn't so sure that the girl would actually heal him, there was something telling him even if she didn't heal the horse he would still be glad, but that's not possible he got her here because she was useful.

He also didn't expect these two would react well to her, when Curly grabbed her by the arms he felt something in himself move. He was glad Charlie was there to stop Curly. He sighed watching the girl and his men who were clearly charmed by her, talking for a little while.

"I'll walk ye home," Tommy said, as he watched the woman put on her hat and fix her coat.

The men watched their boss and the girl leave the stable into the dark streets of Birmingham, "I think I've seen everything now, Curly" Charlie said relaxed remembering the girl, "that was an angel no one can convince me otherwise" 

"She lifted the curse!" Curly nodded happily going back to take care of the horse.

The rain had ceased, leaving the sky clear and open. It was as if they were the only souls in the world. Roseline wasn’t certain if she liked those odds.

"So ye ain’t a miracle worker, eh?" Tommy smirked, casting a glance at the girl beside him.

"Sadly, no," she returned the smile, her eyes distant. "He’s a fine horse, though. I’m sure once he recovers, he’ll be full of miracles."

"I was about to put him down," Tommy confessed, looking down, his cigar hanging loosely between his lips.

"An act of mercy, so he wouldn’t suffer anymore," she sighed. Tommy looked at her. "I’m glad you didn’t," she smiled at him.

"I’m glad I didn’t either," he said, looking up at the moon. "Curly said someone cursed it."

"I don’t know much about curses," Roseline admitted. "But don’t curses get lifted one way or another, at least in stories?"

"Isn’t that a bit naive, eh?" Mr. Shelby chuckled. "Life isn’t a story."

"Maybe so, but life is no different than a story," she smiled. "If it’s not a story, then why do we have history books and museums?"

"Ye have quite the mind there," he pointed out. This girl was a surprise. She was unlike anyone he had met, and he truly couldn’t predict her. "If someone heard ye saying these things, they might call ye mad."

"Some might call you mad for wanting to kill the horse," she retorted, curious about his reaction.

"Would ye call me mad?" he asked, thinking he might know the answer for once.

Roseline was silent for a minute as if she was contemplating her answer. Death was a mercy to those who had the pleasure of dying.

"I suppose I wouldn’t."

They finally reached the building. "You can stop here now, Mr. Shelby," Roseline said, looking at the man in front of her. "Thank you for walking me to my flat," she smiled at him.

Before she could turn around, he grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it. "Good night, Miss Rose," he said, smirking. "And when ye’re hanging out with my sister again, don’t let her get drunk."

He turned around and left. Tommy suddenly felt a sense of loneliness, like something was missing. He usually walked alone, but now it felt different. Anyway, he got what he wanted; nothing else mattered now. He didn’t even know why he kissed her hand, not that it was bad.

He huffed more smoke. Maybe he should check her past history.

So he knew about her friendship with Ada. Roseline sighed as she entered her room. She took off her hat and coat when she felt something. She checked her pockets and found coins. These weren’t hers. How did…?

Oh, he must have put them in when she wasn’t paying attention. Roseline sighed. Enough with the Shelbys for the day. She didn’t need to see one for a full year.

"ROSE! Please, I need your help!" There she was, just two days later, standing at her door in the middle of the night. Ada was in tears, clutching onto her as if her life depended on it. Behind Ada stood a woman with short, dark brown hair, her face etched with a look of disappointment.

Chapter Text

Roseline sat rigidly, her hands clasped tightly under the table. Across from her, two women held her gaze; one’s eyes flickered with concealed panic, while the other, an elder with a steely countenance, scrutinized Roseline as if she were an open book. The air was thick with tension, and despite her resolve, Roseline couldn’t shake off the unease that crept up her spine.

Ada’s eyes were downcast, her hands fidgeting in her lap as the weight of Roseline’s confirmation bore down on her. "I’m not ready for this," she murmured, her voice tinged with a sadness that seemed to echo off the walls.

Polly’s concern was immediate, her sharp features softening as she leaned in. "Ada, talk to me," she urged, her voice low and protective. "Who’s the father? We need to ensure you’re safe."

Roseline, ever the friend and confidante, stepped in with a gentle hand on Ada’s back. "Let’s give her a moment," she said, her voice soothing. "This is a lot for anyone to process."

Ada lifted her gaze, her eyes meeting Polly’s. "I love him, Polly," she started, her confession halting. "I didn’t think it would lead to... this."

Polly reached out, her hand enveloping Ada’s. "We’ll take care of you," she promised, her tone resolute. "You’re not alone in this."

Roseline nodded in agreement, her presence a silent vow of support. "Whatever you need, I’m here for you, Ada," she offered, her words a lifeline in the storm.

In the midst of the uncertainty and tension, Roseline’s thoughts were a beacon of tranquility and compassion. She stood by Ada, her mind clear and focused on providing comfort and understanding. As a friend, she felt a deep empathy for Ada’s predicament, and she was determined to be the pillar of support Ada needed.

The room’s atmosphere grew tense as Polly’s insistence pierced the heavy air. "Ada, you must tell me who the father is," she pressed, her voice firm and unyielding. "We can’t protect you if we don’t know everything."

Ada’s composure began to crumble under the weight of her aunt’s persistent questioning. Her frustration, simmering beneath the surface, finally boiled over.

"It’s fuckin’ Freddie Thorne," she snapped, the anger in her voice a sharp contrast to her earlier vulnerability. "Are you happy now?"

Polly’s face flushed with anger, her voice rising with each word. "Ada, how could you be so reckless? With Freddie Thorne, of all people!" she exclaimed, her hands clenched in frustration. "You know the bad blood between him and Tommy. What were you thinking?"

Ada stood her ground, her own temper flaring in response. "I was thinking of myself for once!" she shot back, her defiance clear. "I’m tired of always considering Tommy’s feelings. Freddie and I... we have something real, and I won’t apologize for it."

The air crackled with the intensity of their emotions, each woman entrenched in her position. Roseline watched the scene unfold, her heart heavy with concern for both Ada and the family’s unity.

"Enough," Roseline finally said, her voice a calm force amidst the storm. "Arguing won’t solve anything. We need to figure out how to move forward from here, together."

The room fell silent, the echo of their heated words hanging between them. It was clear that the road ahead would be difficult, but it was a path they would have to walk together, for better or worse.

Polly’s demeanor was as sharp as ever, her eyes piercing through the tension like daggers. "Ada, you’ve always known the stakes of being a Shelby," she said, her voice carrying the weight of the family name. "Freddie Thorne is a liability we cannot afford."

Ada’s spirit, though dampened by the gravity of her situation, was not broken. "I’m well aware of who I am, Aunt Polly," she retorted, her chin lifted in defiance. "And I’m also aware that Freddie’s not the enemy you make him out to be."

The room felt smaller as the two strong-willed women faced off, their familial bond strained by conflicting loyalties. Roseline, ever the mediator, knew her role was to bridge the divide. "We’re all on the same side here," she interjected, her voice a calm amidst the storm. "Let’s not forget that."

Polly paced the room, her mind a whirlwind of strategy and concern. The revelation of Ada’s pregnancy with Freddie Thorne’s child was not just a family matter; it was a Peaky Blinders matter. She knew the news would reach Tommy eventually, and the thought of his reaction sent a shiver down her spine.

"Tommy can’t stay in the dark about this," Polly muttered to herself. "But how and when to tell him... that’s the delicate part."

Ada watched her aunt, the fear of Tommy’s potential wrath clear in her eyes. "Please, Aunt Polly," she pleaded. "Let’s think this through carefully."

Roseline stood by, her reassuring presence a comfort to Ada. "We’ll find the right moment," she said, her voice steady. "And we’ll face it together."

Polly’s expression hardened with resolve, the matriarch within her rising to the fore. "Will Freddie marry you?" she asked, her voice cutting through the tension.

Ada’s eyes filled with uncertainty, a mix of hope and fear. "I don’t know," she admitted, her voice faltering. "I don’t even know where he is."

Roseline watched the exchange and smiled calmly. "Sometimes, the deepest connections are those we don't say out loud," she said gently. "The strength of our relationships isn’t about how close we are, but about how well we understand each other and how brave we are in facing the unknown."

Polly considered Roseline’s words, finding a sliver of comfort in their wisdom. "We’ll need to be resourceful," she conceded. "And we’ll start by finding Freddie."

Ada nodded, drawing strength from Roseline’s calm assurance. The path ahead was uncertain, but with the support of those around her, she felt a flicker of hope.

Polly’s eyes were alight with a sudden realization, her voice carrying a newfound urgency. "Tommy might be the only one who knows where Freddie is," she declared, the gears turning in her head.

Ada’s fear was palpable, her voice laced with urgency. "You can’t tell Tommy, Polly," she implored, her eyes wide with the gravity of the situation. "He’ll kill Freddie if he finds out. We have to keep this between us."

Polly’s stance was unyielding, her voice firm with the authority of her position. "Ada, we can’t keep this hidden," she insisted. "Tommy will find out eventually, and it’s better he hears it from us than from someone else."

Ada’s frustration was evident, her plea tinged with desperation. "But Polly, you know what Tommy’s like," she argued. "He won’t listen to reason where Freddie’s concerned. He’ll go after him without a second thought."

The air was thick with the tension of their disagreement, each woman steadfast in her belief. Roseline, caught in the middle, could only offer a silent prayer that cooler heads would prevail and that they could find a solution that protected both Freddie and the fragile peace within the family.

The standoff reached its peak just outside Roseline’s door, the tension palpable in the air. With a final, defiant glance at Polly, Ada turned on her heel, her movements brusque with anger and fear. She reached for Roseline, her grip firm, pulling her along as she stormed away from the threshold that had borne witness to their confrontation.

Roseline’s thoughts were a quiet storm of bewilderment and weariness. She found herself reflecting on the tangled web of circumstances that had led her to this moment, entwined with the Peaky Blinders and their labyrinth of troubles.

Ada is not at home; she’s at the cinema with Roseline. The lights dim and the film rolls, casting flickering shadows over the audience. Suddenly, the silhouette of Tommy Shelby cuts through the darkness as he walks in and takes a seat beside Ada.

Tommy leans over, his voice low but firm, "what's the man’s name?"

Ada, unfazed, replies with a hint of mischief, "Rudolph Valentino."

Tommy’s eyes narrow, a mix of annoyance and disbelief flashing across his face. Without another word, he stands up and strides out of the room. Moments later, he re-enters, his presence commanding the space.

"Stop the film," Tommy orders, his voice echoing through the hall. The projector grinds to a halt, and the audience, sensing the tension, quickly files out, leaving only whispers behind.

Everyone departs, their steps hurried and anxious, except for Roseline. She remains seated, her eyes observant and calm, ensuring the situation doesn’t escalate.

In the dim light of the cinema, Roseline sat quietly, her eyes not on the screen, but on the unfolding drama beside her. She watched as Tommy Shelby, a storm dressed as a man, took the seat next to Ada. His voice, though soft, carried the weight of thunder, demanding answers only Ada could provide

Tommy’s gaze locks onto Ada , "I said, tell me his fucking name."

She meets his stare fear and anger in her eyes, "Freddie fucking Thorne."

The name hangs in the air, heavy with implications. Tommy’s jaw clenches, and without another word, he turns on his heel and storms out of the cinema. Roseline watches him leave, her expression unreadable, the quiet observer to the end.

Tommy’s departure was a gust of wind that left a chill in its wake. Roseline remained seated, her exterior serene, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of concern and resolve within her.

The room was thick with the smell of smoke and whiskey as Tommy Shelby poured another drink. The amber liquid glinted in the low light, a small comfort in the vastness of his thoughts.

Polly Gray watched him, her eyes sharp and knowing. "So, have you given them back the money?" she began, her voice steady.

Tommy nodded, his gaze fixed on the glass in his hand. "Already did," he replied, the words heavy with the weight of his actions.

Polly leaned forward, her intent clear. "Then fix the race without Kimber’s permission," she urged.

Tommy scoffed, a short, humorless sound. "And what? Start a war?"

Polly’s anger flared, her patience thinning. "Don’t punch above your weight, Tommy. I took care of the business for five years while you were at war."

Tommy’s eyes met hers, a spark of defiance in their depths. "I learned to strike when the enemy is weak," he countered.

The conversation shifted, the mention of Ada hanging between them like a specter. Polly handed him a letter, her expression solemn. "Ada wrote this for Freddie. Give him a chance to do the right thing."

Tommy took the letter, his fingers brushing over the paper before he tossed it into the fire. "Freddie only sees machine guns and rifles when he looks at Ada," he said, his voice cold.

Polly’s fury was palpable, her hands clenched at her sides. "You’re blinded by your own pride," she accused, her voice rising.

The tension in the room was like a live wire, sparking and dangerous. Polly’s anger and Tommy’s stubbornness clashed, an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object.

The fire crackled, consuming the letter as if it were nothing more than a scrap of unwanted memories. Tommy watched the flames dance, the light reflecting in his eyes, a silent testament to the burning bridges between him and Freddie.

Polly stood across from him, her body tense, her eyes ablaze with a fury that matched the fire before them. "You think you’re doing the right thing, Tommy? Burning letters, burning chances?"

Tommy turned to face her, his expression unreadable. "I’m protecting this family, Pol. That’s what I do."

"You’re tearing us apart!" Polly’s voice broke through the room, a sharp contrast to the soft crackling of the fire. "Ada deserves a chance at happiness, and you just took that from her."

Tommy’s gaze didn’t waver, but his voice softened, a hint of regret seeping through. "This isn’t about happiness, Pol. It’s about survival."

The room was thick with unsaid words, with the weight of decisions made and the consequences yet to come. Polly’s anger simmered, her next words a whisper, "You may have learned to strike when the enemy is weak, but you’ve forgotten how to care when your family is hurting."

Tommy looked away, the shadows playing across his face. The moment stretched on, a delicate balance between the heat of anger and the cold of unresolved pain.

As the last embers of the letter curl into ash, Tommy and Polly stand in a silence that is heavy with the weight of unspoken thoughts. Polly’s eyes are still fiery, her stance rigid with indignation, but there’s a softening around the edges, a reluctant understanding of the burdens Tommy carries.

"The Peaky Blinders can’t afford division-not now." Tommy breaks the silence, his voice low and resolute. 

Polly’s gaze doesn’t waver, but her voice is less sharp, more contemplative. "But at what cost, Tommy? At the cost of our own kin?"

He turns away, the lines of his face etched with the many battles he’s fought, both in the trenches and on the streets of Birmingham. "Sometimes, the cost of leadership is making decisions no one else wants to."

The tension begins to dissipate, replaced by a grudging respect and the acknowledgment of the complex web of family and power they both navigate.

Polly steps closer, her next words a whisper meant only for Tommy. "Just remember, you’re not alone in this. We’re all Peaky Blinders."

Tommy nods, a silent acceptance of Polly’s support. As he looks into the fire, he knows that the path ahead is fraught with challenges, but it’s a path they will walk together, as a family, as a gang, as Peaky Blinders

The room was quiet, save for the occasional rustle of fabric as Ada shifted in her seat. Roseline watched her friend, her eyes filled with concern. Ada’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap, a clear sign of her inner turmoil.

"Ada," Roseline said softly, breaking the silence. "You’ve been carrying this burden alone for too long. Talk to me."

"It’s just... everything’s a mess, Roseline." Ada looked up, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. "The pregnancy, Freddie, the family… I feel like I’m in the middle of a storm."

"You’re stronger than you know, Ada." Roseline moved closer, her voice soothing. "You’ve always been the brave one."

A small, sad smile tugged at Ada’s lips. "Brave? I don’t feel brave. I feel scared. Lost."

"Being scared doesn’t mean you’re not brave," Roseline countered gently."It means you’re human. You’re facing everything head-on, and that takes courage."

Ada’s gaze fell to her hands again. "But what if I make the wrong choice? What if I ruin everything?"

"You won’t," Roseline assured her. "Because no matter what you decide, it will be out of love and strength. And I’ll be here, no matter what."

The words hung in the air, a promise of unwavering support. It was then that Roseline asked the question that had been weighing on her heart. "Do you want to keep the child?"

Ada’s response was a whisper, laden with the weight of her uncertainty. "Polly suggested… she suggested I should get rid of it. But I just don’t know."

Roseline reached out, her embrace a safe harbor in the storm of Ada’s emotions. "Whatever you decide, I’ll be here. You’re not alone in this.”

As the embrace between Ada and Roseline lingers, the warmth between them grows, a silent strength in the midst of uncertainty. Ada pulls back slightly, her eyes meeting Roseline’s, a silent question passing between them.

"Let’s go for a walk," Roseline suggests her voice a gentle nudge. "Clear your head a bit."

They leave the confines of the room, stepping out into the cool air of the Birmingham streets. The city is alive around them, but in their shared silence, there’s a world apart.

As they walk, Ada’s thoughts begin to settle, the chaos of emotions finding order. "I’m scared," she admits, "but there’s a part of me that wants this child, a part of me that feels this is right."

Roseline nods, her support unwavering. "Then trust that part of you, Ada. Trust your heart."

They stop by a small park, the greenery a stark contrast to the industrial backdrop. Children play in the distance, their laughter a reminder of simpler times.

Ada watches them, a decision forming in her heart. "I want to keep the baby," she says, her voice firm with newfound resolve.

Roseline smiles, her relief evident. "Then that’s what you’ll do. And I’ll be with you every step of the way."

The two women stand side by side, looking out at the city that’s shaped them. For Ada, the path ahead is uncertain, but with Roseline by her side, she knows she won’t face it alone.

The train station was busy with people arriving and leaving. Ada, Roseline, and Polly moved together through the crowd, each lost in her own thoughts. Then, Ada stopped. She saw someone she recognized across the platform.

Freddie Thorne stood there, a smile breaking across his face as he waved a letter in the air. "Tommy sent me this," he called out, his voice carrying over the din.

Polly’s brow furrowed with concern. "Tommy will have your head for this," she warned, her voice barely above a whisper.

But Freddie’s smile only widened. "No, it’s Tommy who’s given me his blessing," he said, stepping closer. "He wants us to marry and leave Birmingham."

Ada’s heart leaped, her eyes shining with tears of joy. Freddie took her hands in his, and before the eyes of the bustling crowd, he knelt down. "Ada Shelby, will you marry me?"

Without hesitation, Ada nodded, her voice a joyful affirmation. "Yes, yes, a thousand times, yes!"

The train station, a crossroads of countless stories, becomes the stage for a defining moment between Ada and Freddie. As they stand amidst the hustle and bustle, Freddie’s gaze meets Ada’s, his resolve clear.

"I’m not afraid of Tommy," Freddie states firmly, his voice cutting through the noise of the station. "We’ll stay in Birmingham, and we’ll marry here, where our roots and hearts lie."

Ada’s eyes light up with a mixture of surprise and admiration. She nods, her decision made in the space of a heartbeat. "Then let’s start our life together, right here, right now."

Hand in hand, they turn away from the trains bound for distant places, their backs to the tracks that will not carry them away. They step out of the station, leaving behind the echoes of steam and steel, stepping into the Birmingham streets that have borne witness to their story.

As they walk away, the station fades into the background, a mere setting for the beginning of their shared journey. Ada and Freddie, united in their defiance and love, move forward to forge their future in the heart of the city they call home.

As Roseline watched Freddie take Ada’s hand, her heart swelled with a joy that was almost overwhelming. The proposal, so full of hope and promise, was a beautiful moment that she knew would be etched in Ada’s memory forever.

Yet, as the couple embraced, a shadow passed over Roseline’s heart, a whisper of something like envy. She couldn’t help but wonder what such love felt like, if she could even feel such love towards someone.

Roseline turned away, her smile still in place, but her eyes searching the crowd, the longing hidden within their depths. She was genuinely happy for Ada, for this new chapter in her life, but she knew this wasn’t going to be easy for her friend.

Chapter Text

The evening light filtered through the sheer curtains of Roseline’s apartment, casting a warm glow over the cozy space. Polly Gray sat comfortably on a chair, a cup of tea cradled in her hands, courtesy of her host. 

"I must say, I didn’t expect Freddie to propose," Polly mused, her voice betraying a hint of surprise. "Especially not in such a public manner."

Roseline, seated across from her on a matching sofa, responded with her usual calmness. "It was quite the surprise. But there’s something beautiful about being so open and certain about one’s feelings."

Polly nodded, her eyes softening. "Ada’s made her choice, and it’s a brave one. Marrying Freddie… it’s going to change things for her."

"They’re strong together," Roseline added, her voice steady. "And they’ll need that strength, especially now with a child on the way."

The two women shared a moment of understanding, their thoughts on the future of Ada and Freddie mingling with the steam rising from their teacups. The tension in Roseline’s apartment was palpable as Polly Gray sat, her posture rigid with the weight of the family’s reputation on her shoulders. She fixed Roseline with a steely gaze that had seen more than its fair share of betrayal and hardship.

"This isn’t just about keeping a secret, Roseline," Polly said, her voice low and fierce. "It’s about the survival of the Shelby family. If Tommy finds out that Freddie and Ada are marrying here against his wishes, it won’t just be a slap in the face—it’ll be an all-out war."

Roseline stood her ground, her calm demeanor a stark contrast to Polly’s intensity. "I’m well aware of the stakes, Polly. I may not be a Shelby by blood, but I’ve come to care deeply for Ada and her well-being. You have my word—nothing will come from me to endanger that."

Polly leaned forward, her eyes boring into Roseline’s. "Your word, eh? Your word is a drop in the ocean of promises this family has seen broken. You’ll need to do better than that."

"I’ve stood by Ada through her darkest hours, and I’ll stand by her now." Roseline met Polly’s gaze unflinchingly, her voice steady. 

Polly’s expression hardened, the lines of her face etching deeper with the gravity of the moment. "It better, because if it doesn’t, we’ll all pay the price. And I won’t let the Shelby name be dragged through the mud because of one naive nurse’s mistake."

The air crackled with the unspoken threat, the shadows of the evening stretched across Roseline’s apartment as Polly Gray’s interrogation grew more intense. She leaned in, her eyes sharp as flint.

"Why should I trust you, Roseline?" Polly demanded, her voice a low growl. "I don’t even know your last name. For all I know, you could be a spy for the Lee family or worse."

Roseline’s smile didn’t falter, her voice as calm as a gentle stream. "I don’t have a last name," she replied with a serene grace. "We are known by our deeds, not the names we carry."

Polly’s eyes searched Rose’s face for a sign of deceit, but all she found was the unwavering tranquility of a still pond. "No last name..." Polly murmured, the concept foreign yet oddly fitting for the mysterious girl before her.

"No last name," the blonde affirmed."I understand your suspicion, Polly. But I assure you, I am here only to help Ada and to support her in these trying times."

Polly stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "Help? Support? Pretty words from someone who could just as easily be an enemy in disguise. You expect me to believe you, to trust you, when you’re nothing but a shadow?"

Roseline remained standing, her demeanor as still as the surface of a moonlit lake. "I expect nothing, Polly. I only offer my sincerity and my silence. My actions will speak for me, louder than any last name ever could."

Polly’s gaze bore into Roseline, searching for any crack in her facade. "If you betray us, if you cause harm to this family, there will be nowhere on earth you can hide from me."

Roseline met Polly’s intense stare, her green eyes clear and resolute. "There will be no need for hiding, Polly."

And if she did hide, it would be in the waters.

Polly’s eyes, still locked onto Roseline’s, seemed to search for the truth in her words. "And what of Freddie?" she asked, her tone a mix of curiosity and challenge. "He’s a thorn in Tommy’s side, a complication we can ill afford."

Roseline’s response was immediate, her conviction clear. "Freddie loves Ada deeply. Their relationship will bring strength and not problems. I believe in them, Polly, and I believe in the future Ada will build."

Polly considered this, her expression softening ever so slightly. "I want to believe that too," she admitted. "For Ada’s sake, I hope you’re right."

With a nod of understanding, Roseline offered, "Time will reveal the truth of my words. Until then, I ask for your trust, not for my sake, but for Ada’s."

The room fell into a heavy silence after Roseline’s plea for trust. Polly’s eyes, once filled with suspicion, now held a glint of resolve. "I’ll tell Tommy," she said, her voice carrying the finality of a closing chapter. "He needs to learn the truth from the family, not from secrets in the dark. This is the only way we can manage how things unfold."

Roseline’s calm facade remained unbroken, but her eyes reflected the gravity of Polly’s decision. "I understand," she replied, her voice steady. "It’s better that it comes from within, from someone he trusts."

Polly straightened herself, her silhouette framed by the fading light. "This family, we’re on a razor’s edge. One wrong move, one slip of the tongue, and it could all come tumbling down."

As Polly stepped out into the cool night air, her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts about Roseline. Despite her initial skepticism, there was something about Roseline’s unwavering calm and the sincerity in her eyes that gave Polly pause. She couldn’t help but admire the nurse’s composure under pressure, her ability to remain serene in the face of Polly’s pointed questions.

Yet, Polly knew the dangers of their world too well to give trust freely. Roseline was still an enigma, a wildcard that could either strengthen their position or become a chink in their armor. Polly respected her for standing her ground, but the matriarch’s instincts warned her to tread carefully. Trust had to be earned, and Polly would be watching Roseline closely, ready to protect her family at the first sign of betrayal.

For now, Roseline remained a question mark in Polly’s ledger, a potential ally or adversary whose true nature would reveal itself in time.

After the intense conversation, Roseline remained in the quiet of her apartment, reflecting on her interaction with Polly Gray. She respected Polly’s fierce loyalty to the Shelby family and understood the matriarch’s guarded nature. Roseline knew that trust within the Shelby circle was hard-earned, and Polly’s scrutiny was a testament to her dedication to her kin.

The night had deepened, and the world outside Roseline’s apartment was silent, save for the occasional distant echo of Birmingham’s nightlife. Inside, the stillness was palpable, a stark contrast to the day’s earlier tensions.

As Roseline sat by the window, lost in thought, a soft knock at the door startled her. Approaching cautiously, she found an envelope slipped beneath the door, its presence as mysterious as the night itself. With delicate fingers, she opened it to find a letter penned in a familiar hand. 

Dear Roseline,

In times like these, true friends are the rarest of gems. You’ve been there for us, more than anyone could have asked for. Now, as Freddie and I are about to embark on a new chapter, we can’t imagine doing it without you by our side.

Would you be our witness at the wedding? It would mean the world to us to have you there, sharing in the moment that changes everything. The ceremony will be held tomorrow morning, beneath the same bridge in Birmingham where Freddie and I once promised ourselves to each other in secret.

Hoping for your ‘yes’,

Ada

Roseline’s eyes lit up with joy as she read Ada’s letter, her heart filled with happiness for her dear friend’s upcoming union. The news of the wedding being tomorrow morning brought a smile to her face, imagining the love that would fill the air as Ada and Freddie exchanged their vows.

Yet, amidst her joy, a hint of concern crept in. She knew the weight of Tommy’s orders and the tension that lingered over the Shelby family. As a nurse, she was no stranger to caring for others in times of need, and she felt a deep sense of responsibility to ensure her friend’s special day would be as perfect as possible.

With a happy sigh, she resolved to be there for Ada, to witness and support her during this significant moment, all while silently preparing to offer her strength and comfort should any challenges arise.

The hush of early morning is broken only by the soft murmur of the river as it flows under the bridge. The industrial heartbeat of Birmingham is a world away from this secluded spot where Ada and Freddie stand, hand in hand, their future hanging in the balance.

With a quiet sense of pride, Roseline stands as their devoted witness. The fabric of her nurse's uniform is concealed beneath a long, dark coat that seems to absorb the shadows around her. The coat wraps around her like a protective shell as she observes the unfolding scene with attentive eyes, ready to respond to whatever may come.

As the secret wedding unfolds, Roseline’s recent memories of her arrival in the city blend with the present moment. She recalls the first time she met Ada, the immediate bond they formed, and how quickly she was embraced as a friend. It’s a testament to the depth of their connection that she now stands as a witness to such a pivotal event.

As the officiant declares them husband and wife, Freddie and Ada turn to Roseline, their eyes seeking her approval. She steps forward, her movements graceful and deliberate. "Congratulations," she says, her voice a soft caress against the cool air. "May your life together be strong and true, just like the promises you made today."

Freddie, aware of Roseline’s short time in Birmingham, gives her a nod of appreciation. "Rose, in just a few months, ye’ve become part of our story," he says, his voice carrying a warmth that transcends the cool air of the morning. "Thank ye for being here, for being part of our new beginning."

Roseline nods, her smile tender yet tinged with the knowledge of the life they must navigate. "Freddie, you’ve chosen a remarkable woman. Cherish her," she advises, her tone gentle but firm. "Your bond will be tested, so stay strong. Don't let it weaken."

Ada’s hand tightens around Freddie’s, her silent vow to uphold their love echoing in the space between them. Roseline’s blessing, a blend of joy and a subtle warning, lingers in the air as they prepare to step out from under the bridge and into the light of their new life together.

As the clandestine ceremony under the bridge concludes, Roseline steps back into the shadows, her heart a mix of elation and apprehension. The image of Ada and Freddie, united in defiance and love, is etched into her memory—a stark symbol of hope in these trying times.

Roseline recalls the moment Ada asked her to be the bearer of news to Polly Gray.

"Polly must know, but Freddie mustn’t suspect we’re telling," Ada had said, her voice laced with urgency. "It’s a delicate dance, Rosie, and I trust ye to lead it."

The gravity of this task is not lost on Roseline. She knows the matriarch’s influence and the delicate balance of power within the family. "I’ll tell Polly with care," she promises herself. 

As she makes her way from the bridge, Roseline’s thoughts are with the newlyweds, with Polly, and with the intricate web of family ties that she’s now a part of.

As Roseline sorted through the medical supplies, Kaitlyn lingered by her side, her presence a comforting constant in the bustling ward.

"Ye know, Roseline, I’ve seen many nurses come and go," Kaitlyn began, her voice soft but carrying the weight of years. "But there’s something about ye, love. Ye’ve got that spark—the kind that can light up this place."

Roseline paused, her hands stilling over the neat rows of medicine bottles. "Thank you, Kaitlyn. That means a lot coming from you," she said, her eyes meeting the older nurse’s with genuine respect.

Kaitlyn smiled, a rare expression that softened the lines etched into her face. "Just remember, this job... it takes more than just skill. It takes heart, and ye’ve got plenty of that."

"I’ll remember that. And I hope to carry on the legacy you’ve built here." The younger nurse nodded, absorbing the wisdom in Kaitlyn’s words. Having a heart, was one way to put it. Though, she did like the job.

With a chuckle, Kaitlyn waved off the compliment. "Legacy, eh? Just make sure it’s one worth telling. And maybe, just maybe, don’t wait too long to find someone who appreciates that heart of yers."

Roseline blushed, a smile tugging at her lips. "I’ll keep that in mind. But for now, I’m content with where I am here, learning from the best."

Kaitlyn’s gaze lingered on Roseline a moment longer before she turned back to her work.

"Good girl. Now, let’s get back to it. These medicines won’t sort themselves, and Lord knows we’ve got a long day ahead." Together, they fell into a comfortable rhythm, the hum of the hospital around them a backdrop to a newfound mentorship and friendship.

The day wore on, the rhythm of the hospital a familiar cadence to the two nurses. As they moved from patient to patient, Roseline’s grace and efficiency were evident, her every action infused with a compassion that spoke volumes of her character.

Kaitlyn watched her protégé with a sense of pride. "See that young man over there?" she pointed to a soldier sitting quietly in the corner, his eyes distant. "He’s been through the wringer, back from the front just last week. Hasn’t said much since he arrived."

Roseline followed her gaze, her heart tugging at the sight. "I’ll go speak with him," she said, her voice resolute.

As she approached, the soldier looked up, his eyes meeting hers. "Hello, I’m Nurse Rose," she introduced herself with a gentle smile. "Is there anything you need, anything at all?"

The soldier shook his head, but there was a softening in his eyes. "Just tired, miss," he murmured.

Roseline pulled up a chair, her presence a quiet comfort. "You’re safe here," she assured him. "And when you’re ready to talk, I’ll be here to listen."

The soldier nodded, a silent acknowledgment of her kindness. And as Roseline returned to her duties, she knew that sometimes, the most profound healing came not from medicine, but from the simple act of being there for someone in their darkest hour.

Kaitlyn observed the exchange, a knowing smile on her lips. "That’s the spark I was talking about," she said softly, more to herself than anyone else. "That’s what makes a true nurse."

As the shift came to an end, the two women gathered their things. "Thank you, Kaitlyn," Roseline said, her eyes bright with the day’s experiences. "For everything."

Kaitlyn placed a hand on Roseline’s shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "No, thank ye, Roseline. Ye remind me of why we do what we do. And that’s the best thing anyone could ask for."

They parted ways, each carrying the day’s lessons with them, the bond between them strengthened by shared purpose and the unspoken promise of many more days just like this one.

Roseline walked through the vibrant park in Birmingham, enjoying the beauty of nature. The old trees, with their twisted trunks and wide branches, seemed to tell stories from the past. As the leaves rustled in the breeze, they created a soft music. Looking for a peaceful spot, she sat beneath the large branches of an old oak tree. Its rough bark showed that it had survived many storms and enjoyed many sunny days.

She sat in the shade, wearing a wide-brimmed hat to block the sunlight. From her satchel, she took out a well-loved book. The pages were yellow and slightly worn, fluttering as if they wanted to escape. As she started to read, the sounds of laughter, playful dogs, and distant conversations faded away. This let her immerse herself in the captivating world of words in front of her.

The laughter of children broke her reverie, a sound as lively as the brook nearby. They approached with the hesitance of deer in the woods, their eyes wide with recognition. "It’s her, the pretty lady that saved me!" one exclaimed, a young girl with auburn curls and a mischievous glint in her eye—Kaite Shelby, daughter of John Shelby.

One by one, the children introduced themselves, their names a chorus of hope. There was Finn Shelby, the youngest of the notorious siblings, his cap askew and his grin infectious. And their friends, a motley crew of bright-eyed youths, each with a story etched into their features.

As Roseline sat under the tree, her book momentarily forgotten, the children’s curiosity grew. They circled around her, their youthful energy palpable.

"Miss, what’s yer name?" asked a boy with a cheeky grin, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"I’m Roseline," she replied, her voice gentle.

"And what do ye do?" inquired a little girl with pigtails, tilting her head to the side.

Roseline pondered for a moment, trying to find the right way to call a nurse for small children. "I help people," she said simply, a smile playing on her lips.

The children nodded, accepting this answer. "Miss, would you take off yer hat?" they implored, their voices a blend of curiosity and awe.

In a moment of spontaneity, Roseline paused and slowly removed her hat, revealing the cascade of blonde hair that shimmered like spun gold in the sunlight. Her green eyes, bright and clear as the first leaves of spring, sparkled with life and laughter. 

The children’s reactions were a mixture of surprise and delight. As Roseline’s hat came off, their playful chatter ceased, replaced by gasps and whispers of admiration. Their eyes followed the gentle sway of her hair, and some reached out as if they could catch the sunlight in her locks.

One little girl’s mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of wonder, while a boy’s eyes shone with the unspoken wish to hear tales from someone who looked like a princess from his storybooks.

"Ye look like a princess under this tree," declared Finn Shelby, his youthful innocence making Roseline chuckle.

"Do I?" Roseline teased, playing along. "Well, every princess has a story to tell."

The children, now completely enamored with the idea of a princess in their midst, begged her to share a story. "Please, tell us one of your princess tales!" they pleaded.

Roseline looked at the eager faces around her and set her book aside. "Alright, gather around. Once upon a time, in a kingdom filled with laughter and light..."

The children settled down, their eyes wide with wonder as Roseline wove a tale of adventure and magic. They laughed at the funny parts, gasped at the surprises, and cheered for the heroes. For a moment, the park transformed into a realm of enchantment, with Roseline as their guide.

As Roseline’s voice carried through the park, weaving a tale of knights and dragons, more passersby began to pause and listen. The children, already captivated, scooted closer, their eyes wide with wonder. One by one, adults joined the semi-circle, their expressions softening as they stepped into the world Roseline created with her words.

A couple with a picnic basket set it aside to sit on the grass, their curiosity piqued. A gentleman walking his dog found a bench nearby, the dog curling up at his feet as both settled in to listen. A group of teenagers, initially hesitant, leaned against a nearby tree, their postures relaxing as the story unfolded.

Lost in the world of her story, Roseline was oblivious to the crowd that had gathered. The children, sitting cross-legged and enraptured by her tale, were the only world she knew at that moment. Her voice, rich with the cadence of adventure, filled the air, painting pictures more vivid than the blooming flowers around them.

As the story reached its crescendo, with the brave knight triumphing over adversity, Roseline’s eyes were closed, her expression one of serene contentment. It was only when she opened her eyes, expecting to see just a handful of children, that she noticed the sea of faces surrounding her. There were men and women, young and old, all who had been drawn in by the magic of her storytelling.

A blush crept up her cheeks as she realized the extent of her audience. The children giggled, seeing her surprise. "You’re a wonderful storyteller," a woman said, her voice warm with sincerity. 

Roseline, still a bit flustered but touched by the kind words, smiled. "I’m glad you all enjoyed it," she said. "Stories are for sharing, after all."

The children, not wanting the moment to end, clamored for more. "Please, Miss Roseline, just one more story?" they pleaded.

Looking at the hopeful faces in the crowd, Roseline nodded. "Alright, one more," she agreed, her heart light. As she began another tale, the crowd settled in, the park once again transformed into a place of wonder and community.

As the afternoon sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the park, Roseline delved into her second story. This time, it was a tale of a curious fox named Fenwick, whose thirst for knowledge led him on an extraordinary journey across mystical lands.

Fenwick, with his fiery red fur and eyes as bright as the stars, was unlike any other fox. He sought not the thrill of the hunt, but the wisdom of the world. His quest took him through enchanted forests where trees whispered secrets of the earth, over mountains that touched the sky, and across rivers that sang melodies of ancient times.

The children listened, their imaginations alight with images of Fenwick’s adventures. They saw themselves alongside the fox, feeling the rough bark of the talking trees and the cool mist of the singing rivers. Roseline’s words were not just spoken; they were an experience, a journey that none who listened would ever forget.

As the story concluded, with Fenwick finding the greatest treasure of all—understanding and friendship—the park was bathed in the soft hues of twilight.

The day had turned to evening, and as the stars began to twinkle above, the people slowly dispersed.  Roseline packed her things, her lips broke into a frown. She understood that not many people enjoyed reading stories, but stories are a part of their lives.

As she strolled, the sounds of the city evening enveloped her—the distant hum of factory machines winding down, the clop-clop of horses drawing carriages home, and the soft chatter of families gathering for dinner. The war had ended, and the city was alive with the spirit of renewal and hope.

The architecture around her was a mix of old and new, with Edwardian buildings standing shoulder to shoulder with newer constructions, reflecting the city’s rapid growth. Roseline passed by shop windows, their displays a testament to the era’s innovation and style, with mannequins dressed in the latest fashions—flapper dresses and dapper suits.

The cobblestone streets echoed with the soft taps of Roseline’s footsteps as she made her way home, unaware of the pair of eyes tracking her every move. It was only when the echo of her steps was accompanied by another set, heavier and deliberate, that she felt a prickle of awareness. Someone was following her.

She quickened her pace, her heart thumping in her chest, but the footsteps kept up. Finally, at the corner of an alley, she spun around to confront her pursuer. There, under the dim light of the street lamp, stood Tommy Shelby, his cap pulled low over his eyes, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips.

"Evenin’, Miss Roseline," Tommy greeted, his voice carrying the distinct lilt of his Irish roots. "Don’t mean to startle ye."

Roseline’s eyes narrowed, her initial fear giving way to caution. "Mr. Shelby, to what do I owe this... unexpected escort?"

Tommy took a step closer, the smoke from his cigarette curling up into the night air. "It’s about that horse ye tended to, that night ," he said, his gaze steady. "He’s doin’ better now, thanks to ye."

Roseline’s relief was palpable, her voice soft but filled with genuine concern. "I’m glad to hear the horse is doing well," she said, her eyes meeting Tommy’s with a sincerity that matched her words.

Tommy nodded, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Charlie and Curly wanted me to pass on their thanks, too," he said, his Irish accent coloring each word. "They’re quite fond of that horse, and they reckon ye’ve got a way with animals."

Roseline’s curiosity was evident in her gaze, a silent question lingering in the air. "What else is it that you want, Mr. Shelby?" she asked, her voice steady despite the uncertainty that shadowed her features.

As Tommy Shelby walked away from Roseline, the streets of Birmingham seemed to quieten, as if in respect for the thoughts swirling in his head. He was a man accustomed to reading people, to anticipating their desires and fears, yet Roseline had presented a challenge, a refreshing departure from the usual predictability of those around him.

In the solitude of the evening, Tommy allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. Roseline was calm, her composure unshaken even when confronted with the unexpected. She was beautiful, not just in appearance but in the way she carried herself, with a grace that seemed to transcend the grimy streets of the city. And intelligent—Tommy couldn’t help but admire the quick wit and sharp mind that had so effortlessly matched his own.

He thought of the red dress she would wear, a vivid splash of color that would ensure all eyes were on her. It was a strategic choice, a visual statement that would serve his purposes at the races. Yet, he couldn’t deny the anticipation he felt at the thought of seeing her in it, of witnessing the reactions she would draw.

As Tommy Shelby walked down the quiet street, he felt a rare sense of worry. He was used to being in control and predicting outcomes, but now he faced a feeling he couldn't understand.

He couldn’t pinpoint the cause, couldn’t fathom why the well-being of a nurse should matter to him. It was a vulnerability he hadn’t allowed himself to feel, not since the war, not since he’d built his empire.

As the night air touched his skin, Tommy realized that Roseline had gotten past his defenses without even trying. Maybe it was her spirit or the way she viewed the world, as if she had no fear and could heal more than just a horse's wounds.

He shook his head to push away the worry. Tommy Shelby had important tasks to focus on that needed all of his attention. However, as he stepped into the shadows, he couldn't shake the thought of Roseline. Her calm presence and smart eyes stayed in his mind, a puzzle he still needed to figure out.

Chapter Text

The cobblestone streets of Birmingham were bustling with the usual midday crowd when a sudden commotion stirred the air. People began to run past Tommy Shelby, their faces etched with urgency. Tommy's stride didn't falter; his eyes, sharp as ever, scanned the chaos with a calculated calm.

"Tommy!" The familiar voice cut through the noise, its Birmingham lilt unmistakable. John Shelby was making his way towards him, his expression tense.

"What the hell has been happening?" Tommy asked, his voice steady despite the growing tumult.

"The police, they raided a rally at the factory," John panted, catching up to him. "They think Freddie Thorne is back in town."

Tommy's lips curled into a sardonic smile. "I know he's back," he replied coolly. "Freddie's with Ada. How hard could it be to find the only girl in Birmingham that wears four-inch heels?"

John's face was serious now, a stark contrast to Tommy's nonchalance. "You need to talk with Arthur," he said, urgency creeping into his voice.

Tommy's demeanor shifted, a hint of concern breaking through. "What's wrong with bloody Arthur?"

John sighed, the weight of his words heavy in the air. "He's got the Flanders blues again, Tommy. It's bad this time."

The hushed silence of the church was a stark contrast to the clamor of the streets outside. Stained glass windows cast a kaleidoscope of colors across the pews, where Arthur sat alone, lost in thought until Tommy’s presence broke his solitude. Tommy entered, his presence a silent pillar of strength, and took a seat beside his brother, offering a wordless solidarity.

Arthur’s eyes were hollow, reflecting the stained glass stories of saints and sinners. "They’re asking questions, Tommy," he said, his voice a low murmur. "Questions I can’t answer."

Tommy sat silently, his presence a steady anchor in the sea of Arthur’s unrest.

"Is it true your Ada got married?" Arthur’s voice was barely audible. "I say I don’t know."

"Where is she living then?" He continued, his gaze fixed on the altar. "I don’t know."

Arthur’s hands clenched and unclenched in his lap, a physical manifestation of his inner conflict. "Arthur, who killed the paddy from the Black Swan?" he asked the silence. "What paddy?"

"Is it you Peaky Blinders who stole the guns from the BSA?" The questions poured out, each one a heavier burden than the last.

Arthur turned to Tommy, desperation etched into his features. "What guns, Tommy?"

Tommy remained quiet, his eyes on the flickering candlelight, giving Arthur the space to voice his turmoil.

Finally, Tommy spoke, his voice a soft command in the hush of the church. "After the beating you got, I thought you needed a break," he said, his words measured and deliberate.

Arthur’s frustration boiled over. "What bloody guns, Tommy?!" His voice echoed against the stone walls, a cry for truth in a world of shadows.

Tommy’s response was a whisper, a balm to soothe the raw edges of Arthur’s soul. "You’ve had a hard time these past few years, everyone knows you have. You deserve some rest."

He rose, his silhouette tall and resolute against the light. "We’ve had some luck," Tommy revealed, a spark of hope in the dim church. "We have the bloody guns, and they are in the mud."

Tommy extended his hand, a silent offer of brotherhood and support. "Come on, Arthur. I have a surprise for you."

The Garrison’s doors swung open to the familiar cacophony of laughter and clinking glasses.As the brothers stood in the Garrison, the air was thick with the scent of ale and tobacco, a testament to the many nights spent within its walls. Arthur’s gaze swept over the pub, taking in the worn bar stools and the laughter of the patrons.

"Surprise? Where is she?" Arthur’s voice held a tinge of hope, his eyes searching for something—or someone—unseen.

Tommy leaned closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. "What is it you’ve always wanted, Arthur?" he asked, a hint of nostalgia coloring his words.

The realization hit Arthur slowly, his eyes lighting up as he took in the familiar surroundings. "You’ve gone soft,Tommy" he accused, though his voice betrayed his delight.

Tommy’s smirk was all the answer he needed.

Arthur’s practical side quickly surfaced. "How do we know it’s for sale?" he questioned, his mind already racing with the possibilities.

"Everything is for sale for us," Tommy replied confidently, his eyes scanning the room with the sharpness of a businessman. "We’re making a lot of money these days. We need a legitimate business to pass the money from the shop."

Uncertainty flickered across Arthur’s face. "I wouldn’t know what to do," he admitted, the weight of responsibility settling on his shoulders.

Tommy’s smirk turned into a full-fledged grin. "You’ve spent two-thirds of your life in pubs, Arthur," he reminded him. "It’s about time you poured it instead of drinking it."

A laugh escaped Arthur, the sound mingling with the pub’s ambiance. "I can still drink it, right?" he joked, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

"It’s your pub, Arthur. You do what you want," Tommy said, clapping him on the back.

As the night wore on, the brothers talked of plans and dreams, the Garrison a backdrop to their ambitions. Arthur, once lost in the fog of his past, now saw a future as bright as the polished bar before him. And Tommy, ever the strategist, knew that this was more than just a pub—it was a new chapter for the Peaky Blinders, one where they played by their own rules.

The morning sun cast a gentle glow through the curtains of Roseline’s apartment, the light a soft caress against the chaos of the night before. A persistent knocking roused her from her thoughts, and she moved swiftly to the door. Upon opening it, she was met with the sight of Ada Shelby, her face etched with panic and pain.

Ada’s voice trembled as she spoke, "Roseline, have you seen Freddie? Or Tommy? I can’t find them anywhere!"

With a nurturing calm, Roseline ushered Ada inside. "No, Ada, I haven’t seen them," she reassured her, guiding her to a chair with a comforting hand. "Please, sit down. You’re safe here."

As Ada took a seat, her body language spoke of her inner turmoil. Roseline set about making a pot of warm tea, the familiar ritual bringing a sense of order to the disarray of Ada’s fears.

Ada’s worries spilled forth. "I’m so scared, Roseline. Tommy will kill Freddie, and I don’t know what to do!"

Roseline set the teapot down, her movements graceful and deliberate. She took a seat opposite Ada, her eyes full of compassion.

"Ada, listen to me," she began, her voice steady and reassuring. "Mr shelby has a good head on his shoulders. He won’t let his emotions dictate his actions, not when it comes to family."

Ada’s eyes flickered with a mixture of hope and skepticism. "But the tension between them, it’s palpable. You know how they are, how quickly things can escalate."

Roseline reached across the small table, her hand covering Ada’s. "I know," she acknowledged, "but I also know that Mr shelby values you and your well-being above all else. He won’t risk harming Freddie if it means putting you or your baby in jeopardy."

Ada took a deep breath, the warmth from Roseline’s hand seeping into her own. "I just feel so helpless," she admitted, her voice cracking with emotion.

"You’re not helpless, Ada," Roseline countered softly. "You’re one of the strongest women I know. And right now, the best thing you can do is stay safe and protect the life you’re carrying."

The room fell into a comfortable silence, the tension slowly ebbing away. Roseline’s words had a way of doing that—calming the storm, offering a port in the chaos of life in Birmingham.

After a moment, Ada spoke up, her voice stronger than before. "Thank you, Rosie. For everything."

Roseline smiled, a gentle, knowing smile. "Anytime, Ada."

As the morning wore on, the two women sat together, their bond fortified by the trials they faced. Outside, the world of the Peaky Blinders continued to turn, but inside Roseline’s apartment, there was peace, if only for a little while.

The bell above the door chimed softly as Roseline stepped into the quaint clothing shop nestled in the heart of Birmingham. The shop was a capsule of time, its walls lined with wooden shelves that bore the weight of history and fashion. A young man was diligently sweeping the floor, his movements careful not to disturb the quiet sanctity of the place.

Behind a sturdy oak desk sat a woman, her glasses perched on the bridge of her nose as she poured over ledgers with a feathered pen. She looked up, startled by the arrival of a customer, her eyes widening behind the round spectacles. The shop might have shown signs of age, with its faded wallpaper and creaking floorboards, but to Roseline, it whispered stories of elegance and days gone by.

"Welcome, miss," the woman said, her voice tinged with surprise. "Please, take a seat." She gestured to a plush velvet couch that had seen better days but still held an air of dignity.

Roseline moved gracefully across the room, her gaze drifting over the mannequins dressed in the latest fashions, their silent forms standing sentinel in the shop. She removed her hat, revealing locks of golden hair that cascaded in gentle waves, framing her face and her bright green eyes that sparkled with kindness.

Both the woman and the young man paused in their tasks, taken aback by Roseline's beauty, a faint blush coloring their cheeks. Roseline offered them a warm smile, the kind that reached her eyes and made the room seem a little brighter.

"What's your name?" Roseline inquired, her voice as soft as the morning light.

"Emily," the woman replied, her voice catching slightly. "Emily Hargreaves."

"Do you have any beautiful red dresses?" Roseline's smile was infectious, and Emily found herself smiling back despite the nerves.

"Of course! Right away, miss," Emily said, turning to the young man. "Jack, bring out all the red dresses we have."

Jack hurried to the back, his steps quick with newfound purpose. The shop might not have been bustling with customers, but the care put into each garment was evident. The quality of the fabric, the meticulous stitching—it all spoke of a passion for fashion that money couldn't buy.

When Jack returned, he carried an array of red dresses, each one a different shade and style, but all undeniably beautiful. Roseline's eyes danced over the selection before settling on one—a stunning crimson dress with delicate beading along the neckline and a skirt that promised to sway with every step.

She tried it on, and it fit as if it had been made just for her. The dress was a masterpiece , with its dropped waistline and intricate lace overlay that spoke of sophistication and grace.

Roseline paid for the dress, the coins clinking softly as they exchanged hands. Emily's gratitude was palpable, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

"Thank you," she whispered. "You've no idea what this means to us."

As Roseline prepared to leave, she turned back to Emily. "I might just become a regular customer here," she said, her voice sincere. "I hope I'm not intruding."

Emily's response was immediate, her joy uncontained. "Intruding? Miss, if you ever want a dress custom-made, I'd be honored to create it for you."

Roseline's giggle was like music, a melody that lingered even after she stepped out of the shop, the bell chiming once more in her wake. 

Charlie stood by the car, his face etched with concern as he eyed Tommy Shelby. "This car only fits four, Tommy. You'll need more than that to come back alive."

Tommy, unfazed, adjusted his cap. "It's just me and the girl, Charlie," he said, a hint of finality in his voice.

Charlie let out a resigned sigh, his worry for Tommy's safety lingering in the air as he watched him drive away.

Outside the Garrison, Roseline stood waiting. The dress she wore was a vibrant splash of color against the drab surroundings, her coat and hat adding an air of mystery. People passing by couldn't help but glance her way, their curiosity piqued by her elegance.

As Tommy's car approached, she stepped in with a grace that belied the tension of their endeavor. "Just the two of us going to the races?" she asked, her voice light.

"Something like that," Tommy replied, his eyes on the road ahead.

Roseline didn't press further; she understood the unspoken words. Tommy Shelby always had a plan, and she was sure that somewhere close behind, a little army was making its way to the races. She smiled to herself, the thrill of the day ahead sparking a light in her eyes.

The racetrack was a hive of activity, but Tommy and Roseline took the path less traveled, slipping through the back door with the ease of shadows merging into the twilight. 

Roseline leaned in, her voice a hushed thrill, "It feels like we're doing something illegal, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy's reply was a soft growl, "I prefer to come to the races the backway. Keeps me out of trouble."

The racetrack was alive with the buzz of excitement and the scent of anticipation. Roseline, her eyes reflecting the vibrant energy around them, turned to Tommy with a mischievous glint in her gaze.

"Shall we lay bets then?" she asked, the corners of her mouth tilting upwards in a playful smile.

Tommy shook his head, his Birmingham accent thick as he replied, "No, gambling is for mugs."

Roseline's laughter tinkled through the air, light and carefree. "What a shame, it could be quite fun," she teased.

"Losing?" Tommy raised an eyebrow, a challenge in his tone.

"Yes, watching others lose," Roseline quipped, her eyes dancing with amusement.

Tommy chuckled, the sound rich and warm in the cool air of the evening. "You're lucky you're with me," he said, the smirk on his face matching the twinkle in her eyes.

The racetrack loomed ahead, a fortress of high stakes and higher tensions. Tommy turned to Roseline, his voice low and urgent. "Now, you'll do the talking."

Roseline, though not surprised, arched an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

He leaned in, "You'll introduce yourself with a different name. And me," he gestured to himself, "I only speak Prussian, not a word of English."

A moment of silence passed as Roseline processed the charade. Then, with a determined glint in her eye, she halted.

"Mr. Shelby," she said firmly, "I will do this my way. You just follow my lead."

Before Tommy could protest, Roseline strode ahead, her confidence commanding the space around her. She approached the guard with a grace that belied their deceit.

"Hello," she greeted the guard, her voice laced with feigned distress. "I'm afraid I've gotten a bit lost. My fiancé is waiting for me."

The guard, clearly flustered by her presence, blushed deeply. "Not to worry, miss. You can go right in."

His gaze shifted to Tommy, suspicion knitting his brows. "Do you know him?"

Roseline glanced at Tommy, then back to the guard, her expression one of mild exasperation. "Yes, he's my servant. A gift from my fiancé. He can't speak English."

Tommy stood, momentarily at a loss, the role of mute servant unfamiliar territory.

Once they were out of earshot, Tommy broke the silence. "Good acting," he admitted, a touch of respect coloring his tone.

Roseline's reply was swift and playful. "You're lucky you're with me," she said, a smile tugging at her lips as they disappeared into the crowd.

As the lively music of the racetrack dances filled the air, Tommy Shelby found himself momentarily lost in thought, wondering how Roseline had so effortlessly taken control of their ruse. He watched the dancers with a detached air, his mind never straying far from the business at hand. Yet, he couldn’t help but admit, "I still prefer the Garrison."

His gaze shifted to Roseline, her presence commanding even in stillness. "Do you dance?" he asked, a rare hint of curiosity in his voice.

Roseline met his eyes, a spark of playfulness in her own. "With the right person," she replied, her words a subtle challenge.

Tommy leaned closer, the intensity of the moment drawing them together. "Am I the right person?" he asked, his hand outstretched in invitation.

Her smile was the answer he hadn’t realized he’d been hoping for. "You might be," she said, her hand slipping into his.

Together, they stepped onto the dance floor, the world around them fading into a blur as they began to move. The dance was elegant and refined, yet filled with an undercurrent of something more raw, more real. Roseline moved with a grace that belied the strength beneath, her steps sure and her posture impeccable. She had removed her hat, and her hair like a golden waterfall that caught the light with every turn.

Tommy, ever the guarded leader, found himself entranced by the freedom and joy that seemed to emanate from her. As they spun, her dress flared around her, a crimson tide that ebbed and flowed with the rhythm of their movements. The onlookers watched, some with envy, others with appreciation, but all captivated by the sight before them.

For a moment, Tommy allowed himself to simply feel the music and the movement, to see the woman who danced beside him not as a nurse or an ally in his schemes, but as Roseline—beautiful, carefree, and utterly captivating. It was a dance he would remember, not for the steps or the music, but for the way it made him smile, genuine and unguarded, in a world where such moments were a rare luxury

The dance continued, the pair moving in sync with the music, their steps taking them further from the crowd.

Roseline’s voice broke the rhythm, her tone light yet probing. "I hope Mr. Shelby isn’t being shy now, or does this involve razor blades?"

Tommy’s response was smooth, his voice barely above the music. "I’ve decided to move up in the world, become a legitimate businessman." His eyes never left hers as they approached a door, secluded from prying eyes.

Roseline’s smile was enigmatic, her words laced with a mix of hope and skepticism. "I hope you know what you’re doing."

As the door swung open, Arthur Shelby stumbled through, his face a canvas of bruises and exhaustion. He dropped a heavy bag on the floor with a thud, panting, "We chased the Lees across the track, right the way down Devon Road."

Roseline’s concern was immediate, her nurse’s instincts kicking in as she took in Arthur’s battered state. "Do you want me to bandage that?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine worry.

Arthur managed a weary grin, his Birmingham accent thick. "Thanks, angel. Just looking at you is healing enough." His eyes held a glint of gratitude and something more profound.

Tommy watched the exchange, a flicker of emotion crossing his features before he suppressed it. He handed Arthur a wad of notes, his command clear. "Buy a drink for yourself and the boys."

The engine of the car hummed softly in the background, a stark contrast to the turmoil that churned within Tommy. He sat motionless, save for the white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, his thoughts a tumultuous sea. Why had he allowed Roseline to go with Kimber? The question echoed in his mind, unyielding and persistent.

Roseline’s image haunted him—the curve of her smile, the vibrant green of her eyes, so full of life and defiance. It was a stark juxtaposition to the vile touch of Kimber’s hand upon her, a touch that ignited a fury in Tommy he hadn’t known he possessed.

The silence in the car was broken by the woman’s voice, tentative and probing. "So, Is she a prostitute?" The word hung in the air, jarring and crude.

Tommy’s reaction was visceral, a snarl forming on his lips before he could catch it. "She’s supposed to be a nurse," he corrected sharply, the words laced with a bitterness that surprised even him.

The woman fell silent, sensing the raw edge in his voice. Tommy’s gaze remained fixed ahead, but his mind was elsewhere, with Roseline, wondering what battles she was fighting in his absence.

The room was opulent, a testament to Mr. Kimber’s wealth, and he was not shy about it. "I spare no expense for the finest things," he boasted, gesturing grandly at the lavish decor.

Roseline’s smile never wavered, her feigned shock and awe perfectly played. "Mr. Kimber, I’m impressed," she said, her voice laced with just the right amount of wonder.

As the evening wore on, Mr. Kimber’s voice filled the room, his words laced with pride as he spoke of his wealth. "You see, it’s not just about having money—it’s about having the means to do whatever you want, whenever you want," he boasted, swirling a glass of expensive brandy in his hand.

"Take this brandy, for example," he continued, holding up the glass for emphasis. "It’s not just any brandy—it’s aged, rare, and costs more than most men make in a year. But for me, it’s just another pleasure."

He gestured around the lavishly decorated room. "Everything you see here, every piece of furniture, every work of art, it’s all the best money can buy. And why? Because I can afford it, because I’ve made myself into a man of means."

Roseline listened, her smile never faltering, though she knew the true cost of such wealth. Mr. Kimber was a man who prided himself on his possessions, on the power his money bought him. But she also saw the emptiness behind his eyes, the void that no amount of wealth could fill.

"And it’s not just material things," Mr. Kimber added, leaning in closer. "It’s influence, power, respect—those are the true currencies of wealth. And I have them all in spades."

His voice was a mix of arrogance and a deep-seated need to prove his worth, not just to Roseline, but to himself and the world. It was clear that Mr. Kimber’s wealth was more than just a means to an end—it was his identity, his armor against the world.

As they conversed, Roseline’s eyes caught sight of a grand piano in the corner. "May I?" she asked, her request innocent yet deliberate.

Mr. Kimber hesitated, his gaze meeting hers. Something in her eyes, a spark of genuine passion, swayed him. "Go ahead," he conceded.

The music that flowed from the piano was enchanting, notes weaving a lullaby that soon had Mr. Kimber’s eyelids drooping. He didn’t even notice as he succumbed to sleep, the couch cradling him.

The abrupt opening of the doors startled him awake. Tommy stood there, his expression unreadable as he took in the scene—Roseline at the piano, poised and shocked, and Kimber, disoriented on the couch.

"What the—what happened?" Mr. Kimber blurted out, his voice groggy.

"The two hours are up" Tommy stated plainly, his eyes fixed on Roseline.

"How?" Mr. Kimber demanded, his confusion evident.

Roseline offered an apologetic smile. "Sorry, Mr. Kimber. The music must have been too soothing. You looked so peaceful; I didn’t want to disturb you."

Mr. Kimber’s embarrassment was palpable, but he managed to muster some grace. "You play beautifully," he admitted, his tone a mix of admiration and chagrin.

The brown-haired woman beside Tommy shared a look of confusion with him, both equally baffled by the unexpected turn of events.

The afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the countryside as Tommy and Roseline sat in the car, the silence between them filled with unspoken thoughts. The rural landscape offered a tranquil backdrop, a stark contrast to the tension that lingered in the air.

Roseline broke the quiet, her voice carrying a hint of playful reproach. "You lied, Mr Shelby. It wasn’t two hours."

Tommy’s eyes remained on the road, unpaved and dusty beneath the afternoon sky. “That man wouldn’t even know if he lost a fucking eye,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips despite the firm grip he had on the steering wheel.

A smile played on Roseline’s lips, a silent acknowledgment of Tommy’s tactic. His concern was palpable when he asked, "Did Kimber do anything?"

Roseline’s smile was knowing, her gaze drifting to the fields rolling by. "He was too busy trying to seduce me by flaunting his wealth," she said, her tone light but with an underlying edge.

"And what were you doing?" Tommy asked, glancing her way with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"Playing the piano, Mr. Shelby," she replied, her eyes meeting his with a spark of mischief.

Tommy let out a chuckle, the sound surprising in the quiet of the car. "You’re full of surprises, Miss Rose."

 "You’re not too bad yourself, Mr. Shelby." Roseline’s reply was tinged with warmth.

As they arrived at her building, Tommy’s voice softened, a rare note of concern in his words. "Be careful."

"I always am," She assured him, as she stepped out of the car, before disappearing into the building.

Tommy didn’t drive away immediately. He sat there, staring at the door she had entered, a storm of emotions brewing within. He made a silent vow, a promise fueled by a mix of anger and something he couldn’t quite name.

"Once I get my hands on Kimber, I’ll fucking kill him myself." And with that, he drove off , the image of Roseline at the piano lingering in his mind.

Chapter Text

In the late afternoon glow, the Shelby family home stood as a silent testament to the empire they had built a fortress in the heart of Birmingham. Inside, the kitchen was steeped in the rich aromas of tobacco and brewed tea, a comforting scent that belied the tension of the conversations it often contained.

At the kitchen table sat Roseline, her posture poised and her eyes reflecting the sharp intellect that had made her an invaluable part of the Shelby enterprise. Across from her, Polly Gray, the matriarch of the family, her features etched with the wisdom and weariness of a life spent navigating the treacherous waters of their business.

The ledgers lay open between them, a map of numbers and names that told the story of the Shelby’s ventures. Polly’s fingers traced the columns, her voice a low murmur as she spoke of balances and bets, of coppers too close for comfort and the new laws that threatened their carefully constructed facade.

"We need to be cautious," Polly said, her eyes never leaving the page. "The betting shops are under scrutiny, and we can’t afford any missteps."

Roseline nodded, her mind already calculating the moves they would need to make. "What about the export routes?" she asked, her voice steady. "Are they secure?"

Polly leaned back, her gaze meeting Roseline’s. "For now. But we’ll need to keep the palms at the docks greased if we want it to stay that way."

The conversation shifted to the Garrison, the distillery—a dance of strategy and risk that had become their daily rhythm. But as the sun dipped lower, casting amber light through the windows, Roseline’s thoughts turned to a member of the family not present.

"I miss Ada," she said softly, a rare crack in her armor of composure. "She always had a way of cutting through the fog."

Polly’s expression softened, a rare glimpse of the heart beneath the hardened exterior. "We all do. She’s got the Shelby fire, that one. But she’s doing what she believes is right for her and the child."

Roseline sighed, the sound carrying a mix of longing and respect. "I just hope she knows she’s not alone, no matter how far she goes."

Polly reached across the table, her hand briefly covering Roseline’s. "She knows. And when she’s ready, she’ll come back to us. Family’s family, after all."

The late afternoon sun filtered through the curtains, casting a warm, golden hue over the Shelby family kitchen. The air was still, heavy with the scent of tobacco and the rich, earthy aroma of freshly brewed tea. At the table, Roseline and Polly Gray were hunched over the ledgers, their conversation a low hum of figures and plans, the lifeblood of the Shelby business.

As the last note of their discussion on Ada faded into the quiet, the door creaked open, and John Shelby entered. His silhouette was framed by the doorway, the light casting long shadows that seemed to echo the tension in his stance.

"We need a family meeting at the Garrison," John announced, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken troubles. "Tell the others."

Polly looked up, her eyes narrowing slightly as she took in John’s demeanor. "I’ll let them know," she replied, her tone steady. "What’s this about, John?"

John’s eyes darted away for a moment, a flicker of hesitation that did not go unnoticed. "It’s business," he said, but the simplicity of the word belied the complexity of what lay behind it.

Roseline observed John quietly, her gaze sharp and discerning. There was a restlessness about him, a subtle shift in his energy that spoke of more than just the usual Shelby concerns.

As John turned to leave, a question hung in the air, unasked yet palpable. Roseline gave voice to it, her inquiry gentle but firm. "John, are you alright?"

He paused at the threshold, his back to the room. "Just tired, that’s all," he responded, his words falling flat in the space between them.

But Roseline knew better. She shared a glance with Polly, both women aware that the Shelby men were rarely just tired. There was a storm brewing on the horizon, and as John’s footsteps receded, the sense of foreboding settled over the kitchen like a shroud.

In the quiet sanctuary of the Shelby family kitchen, where the business of the family often mingled with the aroma of tea, Polly Gray regarded Roseline with a newfound appreciation. The late afternoon light streamed through the window, casting a soft glow on the ledger between them, a testament to the day’s work.

"You’ve got a sharp mind, Roseline," Polly began, her voice carrying a warmth that was seldom heard. "I’ll admit, I had my reservations about bringing you into our world, but your friendship with Ada… it seemed like destiny had its own designs."

Roseline’s lips curved into a gentle smile, one that spoke of grace under pressure and the quiet strength that had become her hallmark. "Even the smallest of things can make the biggest changes," she mused, her eyes reflecting the wisdom of her words.

Polly nodded, her gaze lingering on Roseline with a mixture of respect and contemplation. "And the Kimber incident," she continued, "the way you handled that, it took guts. You’ve earned my respect."

At the mention of Kimber, a fleeting shadow crossed Roseline’s otherwise composed visage, a subtle shift that might have gone unnoticed by anyone less perceptive than Polly. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and Roseline’s response was as smooth as silk. "It was nothing," she said, downplaying the gravity of the situation. "I simply aimed to perform the job I was given to the best of my ability."

Polly’s smile deepened, a silent acknowledgment of Roseline’s modesty. She was about to speak further when the door swung open Tommy and Arthur walked in. They said nothing, their presence alone enough to change the air, thick with unspoken words and the weight of the day’s burdens.

Arthur’s eyes found Roseline, and a smile broke through the tension. "Angel, how are ye?" he asked, his voice carrying a rough warmth.

Roseline returned the smile, a beacon of calm in the charged room. "I’m alright, and how about you?" she replied, her tone light.

Arthur’s chest puffed with a pride that couldn’t be contained. "Doing way better after beating up the Lees," he boasted, the ghost of the fight still lingering in his stance.

Tommy’s gaze turned to Roseline, his brow furrowed with a question that seemed out of place among the family. "What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice betraying a hint of concern that he couldn’t quite place.

Before Roseline could answer, Polly interjected, her voice firm and sure. "She’s helping me with the business for a bit," she stated, leaving no room for argument.

Tommy felt a discomfort stir within him, not entirely for himself but for Roseline. It was a concern that he couldn’t quite understand, an unease that settled in his chest and refused to budge.

Arthur, oblivious to the undercurrents, turned to Roseline with a hopeful grin. "Angel, could you help me with the numbers in the pub?" he asked, his request innocent but laden with implications.

Tommy’s hands clenched at his sides, a surge of protectiveness, or perhaps something more, rising within him at the thought of Roseline in the pub, amidst the chaos and the danger that it entailed.

Roseline, ever the picture of grace, simply nodded to Arthur. "Of course, I’ll help when I can," she assured him, her voice steady and her smile unwavering.

The room held its breath for a moment, the tension palpable, until Roseline’s calm response seemed to ease the air. Tommy’s protective instincts remained, The Shelby kitchen was a tableau of the family’s complexities, with Polly at the helm, her eyes scanning the room, taking in Arthur’s lighthearted stance and Tommy’s furrowed brow.

"John’s called for a meeting at the Garrison," she announced, her voice cutting through the thick air.

Tommy’s confusion was evident, his eyes searching Polly’s for an explanation. Arthur, sensing the tension, quipped with a grin, "Maybe he’s finally found a way to put us all in the same room without a brawl, eh?" His joke elicited a few reluctant smiles, lightening the mood for a moment.

Roseline, her hands still on the ledger, spoke up without looking up, "I’ll finish up here and then head to my shift."

Tommy’s protective instincts flared, the thought of Roseline alone or walking alone unsettles him. He opened his mouth to voice his concerns, but Polly was already on her feet, her hat in hand. “Alright,” she said decisively, "Scudboat will stay in the house."

She turned to Tommy, her gaze firm. "And after John’s said his piece, he’ll take over with Scudboat."

Arthur chuckled, "At least Scudboat’s good for something other than losing at cards." His jest was a welcome distraction, but Tommy’s unease about leaving the shop lingered, a silent shadow in his expression.

Roseline felt a chill, an intuition that something was amiss, a premonition of trouble brewing on the horizon. Yet, amidst the quiet dread, only Roseline seemed to truly sense the storm approaching, her unease a silent scream in the cacophony of the Shelby household.

The Shelby family's departure left a silence in the kitchen that was almost tangible. Roseline lingered for a moment, her fingers brushing over the ledger's leather cover before closing it with a soft thud. She glanced up to find Scudboat still standing there, his presence a reassuring constant.

"Scudboat, are you certain you'll be alright here by yourself?" she asked, her voice carrying the sweet timbre of concern. "The Garrison can be a rowdy place, especially in the afternoon."

"Aye, I'll manage," Scudboat replied, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate with the wooden floorboards. "No need to fret over me."

A smile tugged at the corners of Roseline's mouth. "I'm off to Mrs. Clancy's for a loaf and some of her sweet buns. Fancy anything?" she inquired, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mirth and kindness.

The question caught Scudboat off guard, and a blush crept up his cheeks, visible even in the low light. "Nah, I'm good," he muttered, his gruff exterior momentarily slipping.

Her smile was radiant, reflecting the light that filled the room. "If you're sure... But just shout if you fancy something later," she offered, slipping into her coat with a graceful ease.

Scudboat cleared his throat, his blush deepening. "Actually, if you wouldn't mind... one of those buns wouldn't go amiss," he conceded, his voice betraying a hint of sheepishness.

"Consider it done," Roseline declared with a playful nod to Scudboat, Roseline opened the door to the bustling streets of Birmingham, the sounds of the city in the throes of the afternoon rush greeting her. She stepped out, leaving behind a kitchen filled with the lingering sweetness of her presence and the silent gratitude of a blushing Scudboat.

The streets of Birmingham were alive with the hustle and bustle of post-war life. Roseline, with her coat buttoned against the chill of an English afternoon, made her way through the throng of people. Her presence was like a ray of sunshine, drawing admiring glances from gentlemen in tweed caps and nods of respect from women in practical skirts and blouses.

Children playing with simple wooden toys stopped to watch her pass, their games momentarily forgotten. Roseline offered them a smile, her kindness reaching out like an embrace to the young ones who had known little but hardship.

As she entered the bakery, the warm scent of fresh bread and the sweet aroma of pastries enveloped her. The bell above the door announced her arrival, and she was greeted with a chorus of warm welcomes. Mrs. Clancy, the baker's wife, beamed from behind the counter, her hands dusted with flour.

"What can I get for you today, my dear?" Mrs. Clancy asked, her voice as comforting as the baked goods that surrounded her.

"Just a loaf of your finest bread and a few of those delightful scones, please," Roseline replied, her voice gentle and her manner gracious.

The bakery was a hub of activity, with neighbors exchanging news and sharing stories. Roseline chatted amiably with those around her, her laughter mingling with the sounds of the bakery. Her sweetness and concern for the well-being of others shone through in every word she spoke.

A young boy, no older than eight, approached timidly, clutching a small coin. "Miss, could I have a bun?" he asked, his eyes wide with hope.

"Of course, you can," Roseline said, her heart touched by the boy's simple request. She paid for the bun and handed it to him, ruffling his hair affectionately. "Enjoy it, lad," she added, her smile genuine and warm.

With her purchases in hand, Roseline left the bakery, the door closing softly behind her. She continued her walk through the streets, her thoughts on the Shelby family and the meeting at the Garrison. Yet, even as she contemplated the serious matters at hand, her heart remained light, buoyed by the simple joys of human connection and the shared smiles of a community slowly rebuilding itself.

The air was thick with tension as the Shelby family convened in the dimly lit backroom of the Garrison. The meeting, however, was cut short by the sudden intrusion of a breathless boy, his news sending a shockwave through the room "Tommy we've been done over!"

In an instant, the family was a flurry of motion, Tommy's mind singularly focused on Roseline's safety. They arrived at the shop to a scene of disarray; the aftermath of a violent storm. Amidst the chaos, Scudboat sat with a bloodied head, his expression a mix of pain and defiance.

"Jesus Christ," John whispered his eyes wide at the sight.

Arthur, ever the force of nature, barked, "What the bloody hell happened here?"

Gathering his strength, Scudboat looked up, his voice a gravelly echo. "The Lees... they came in force. Cousins, nephews... even the bastards."

Tommy's voice cut through the commotion, "Where's Roseline?"

"She's gone to the bakery," Scudboat managed, his words laced with regret." before they came in"

Relief surged through Tommy, though he allowed none of it to show. His eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail. Polly, meanwhile, assessed the losses. "Four cash boxes gone," she announced, her tone betraying no emotion.

It was then that Tommy's gaze landed on a pair of wire cutters left carelessly on the counter. "They left these," he said, holding them up for all to see.

Polly frowned, puzzled. "Wire cutters? Why would they leave wire cutters?"

"Nobody move." Arthur's instincts kicked in. 

Tommy pieced it together. "They're playing the game."

"What bloody game?" Polly's confusion was evident as she moved towards the other room.

John's hand shot out, stopping her. "Aunt Pol, don't touch anything!"

Tommy's voice was low, almost a growl. "Erasmus Lee was in France."

Scudboat's eyes snapped open, realization dawning. "Shit."

"When we gave up ground to the germans , we'd lay traps set up with wires" Tommy continued, " we left behind wire cutters as part of the joke."

John's face paled. "There's a hand grenade somewhere in here."

"Holy Jesus." Polly's voice was barely a whisper, 

At that moment, Roseline burst in, her concern palpable. "Stop! Don't move any further," they all yelled , making her drop the bag of freshly baked goods.

She froze, taking in the sight of Scudboat's injury. "What happened?" she asked, her voice shaking.

"There's a grenade," Polly said, her voice strained.

Roseline's shock was evident, but she moved to Scudboat, her hands gentle. "Sit down, let me see," she urged.

The men searched desperately for a wire, but Tommy stood still, a realization washing over him. "There's nothing here," he said finally. "It was my name on the bullet, The trap was for me."

Roseline's eyes met Tommy's, fear etched on her face. "Mr. Shelby, Finn was playing in the car," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Tommy's heart raced as he sprinted outside, the family's collective breath held in suspense, the threat of unseen danger looming over them all.

The cobblestone streets of Birmingham were silent, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of the industrial city. Tommy Shelby moved with a predator's grace, his eyes fixed on the family car where his younger brother Finn played, unaware of the danger he was in. Roseline, her heart in her throat, followed close behind, her concern for the Shelby brothers evident in her every step.

As Tommy approached the car, the memory of France, of wires and traps, played in his mind. He knew the Lees' message was clear; this was personal. Roseline reached out, her hand brushing against Tommy's, a silent offer of support. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her without shifting his focus from Finn.

"Finn," Tommy called out, his voice calm but authoritative. "Don't move, little brother."

Finn looked up, confused as he met Tommy's intense gaze. "Tommy?" he whispered.

"Just stay still," Tommy instructed, reaching for the car door with a steady hand. Roseline stood by, ready to spring into action at the slightest sign of trouble. 

The tension in the air was palpable as Finn, caught in the throes of youthful defiance, ignored Tommy’s stern command and reached for the car door. Roseline’s instincts kicked in, and she pulled Finn into a protective embrace just as the door swung open, revealing the ominous shape of a grenade.

Tommy’s reaction was immediate and decisive. "Grenade!" he bellowed, the urgency in his voice prompting everyone to drop to the ground. Time seemed to slow as he lunged forward, his hand closing around the cold metal of the grenade.

With a swift motion borne of desperation and courage, Tommy hurled the grenade away from the gathered family and onlookers. They huddled together, bracing for impact, as the grenade sailed through the air and detonated with a deafening roar, sending a shockwave rippling through the streets of Birmingham.

Tommy turned back to the car, his eyes catching a glint of metal on the floor—a wire cutter. "They're sending a message," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Roseline's eyes widened in realization. "The Lees," she murmured.

Tommy nodded, his jaw set. "They want us to know they can get to us, even here, even to Finn."

Roseline's gaze shifted between the Shelby brothers, her mind racing with the implications. "What are you going to do Mr.Shelby ?" she asked, her voice steady despite the fear that gripped her heart.

Tommy looked at Finn, then at Roseline, with fierce determination in his eyes. "We're going to fucking end this, once and for all."

Under the cloak of night, the alleyway was a cavern of shadows and whispered secrets. The only light came from the flickering gas lamps that lined the distant streets, their glow barely reaching the two figures who stood in the heart of the darkness. Thomas Shelby's silhouette was edged with the soft light, his cap casting a shadow over his eyes, while Inspector Chester Campbell's form was a darker mass, his stance rigid with authority.

The night air was cool, carrying the sounds of the city's nightlife as a distant murmur. Campbell broke the silence, his voice echoing off the brick walls. "You have information for me, Shelby?"

Tommy's response was a slow exhale of smoke from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a warning. "I do," he said, his tone even. "But it comes with a condition."

Campbell's hand instinctively rested on his baton, a subtle reminder of his power. "I'm not in the habit of making deals with criminals," he spat out.

Tommy's voice was steady, his gaze unwavering. "I'll give you the address of Stanley Chapman," he began, the name hanging in the air like a promise. "But only if you let Freddie Thorne and Ada leave the city unharmed."

Campbell's eyes, cold and calculating, fixed on Tommy. "You think you're in a position to bargain with me, Mr. Shelby?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

 "I know I am," he retorted, Tommy's stance was resolute,  "Because you need what I have."

Campbell's breath caught, the mention of the guns pulling him taut like a bowstring. "You're playing a dangerous game, Shelby."

"Aren't we all, Inspector?"Tommy's laugh was a soft sound, almost lost in the alley's stillness. 

Campbell's jaw clenched, his mind racing with the implications of letting the Thorne couple go. But the need for Chapman's address, the need to regain control, was too great. "Fine," he conceded, the word tasting like bile. "They can leave. But this isn't over, Shelby. You will tell me where those guns are."

The two men stood there, the balance of power shifting imperceptibly as they each contemplated their next move in the dangerous game they were playing. For now, a truce had been called, but both knew it was only a matter of time before their conflict would erupt once again.

Tommy flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushing it under his boot. "You'll have your address," he promised, his gaze never leaving Campbell's. "And you'll have your war. But remember, Campbell, in this city, we play by my rules."

As Campbell turned to leave, the alley reclaimed its silence, the inspector's footsteps fading into the night. Tommy remained still, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. The game was set, the pieces were moving, and he was ready to play.

Inspector Chester Campbell sat in the stark confines of his office, the only light emanating from a lone desk lamp that cast long shadows across the room. Papers were strewn about, maps of Birmingham with pins and strings creating a web of connections, all leading to one man: Thomas Shelby.

Campbell's fingers tapped a staccato rhythm on the wooden surface of his desk, his mind racing with strategies and contingencies. He was a man possessed with the singular goal of dismantling the Shelby empire and recovering the missing guns that threatened the city's fragile peace.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and his gaze settled on a photograph of Tommy Shelby, the edges worn from frequent handling. "I will bring you down, Mr. Shelby," he whispered, the words a vow spoken into the silence.

As he pondered his next move, a file caught his eye, one that had been buried under the avalanche of reports and dossiers. It was a new name, a fresh lead: Roseline. Campbell's interest piqued as he read through the notes. She was a recent arrival to Birmingham, a mysterious figure who had quickly ingratiated herself with the Shelbys, particularly Ada.

"Who are you, Roseline?" Campbell mused, his detective's intuition telling him that she could be the key to unraveling Tommy Shelby's defenses.

He summoned his officers with a sharp rap on the door. "I want you to find this woman, bring her to me," he ordered, his voice leaving no room for questions. "Roseline may just be the thread that unravels this entire tapestry."

The officers nodded, their faces set with determination as they took the file and left the office. Campbell turned his attention back to the map, his finger tracing the routes that crisscrossed the city. Somewhere out there were the guns, and now, perhaps, he had the means to find them.

The night grew deeper, the clock ticking away the hours, but for Chester Campbell, time was a luxury he could not afford. His mission was clear, and he would stop at nothing to see it through.

The midday bustle of Birmingham's streets was a cacophony of hawking vendors and clattering hooves, but above it all, the firm voices of two officers cut through as they approached Roseline.

"Miss, you'll need to come with us," one of the officers stated, his tone brooking no argument.

Roseline paused, her eyes meeting theirs with a calm that seemed out of place amidst the urgency of their request. "Is there something amiss, officers?" she inquired, her voice the epitome of composure.

The second officer, a hint of impatience in his voice, interjected, "No questions, just come along, please."

A smile then graced Roseline's lips, serene and unfazed, as if the request were an everyday occurrence. "Alright," she acquiesced, her demeanor unshaken.

It was a simple response, delivered with a poise that was disarmingly charming. The officers, taken aback by her grace under pressure, felt a warmth rise to their cheeks, a blush they couldn't quite suppress. With a nod, they escorted her, the enigmatic woman who faced the unexpected with a smile.

The office was a stark, uninviting space, with only the harsh light from an overhead lamp illuminating the room. Inspector Campbell sat behind his desk, his eyes fixed on the young woman seated across from him. Roseline's beauty was undeniable, even in the sterile environment of the police station, and for a moment, Campbell found himself caught off guard.

"Miss Roseline," Campbell began, his voice a mix of stern authority and begrudging admiration. "You find yourself in quite the predicament, associating with the likes of the Shelbys."

Roseline met his gaze, her expression serene. "Inspector, I assure you, my intentions have always been innocent," she replied, her voice steady.

Campbell leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "A young woman of your situation could do far better than this... this Birmingham slum. Why involve yourself with Ada Shelby?"

She shifted slightly, a sad smile touching her lips. "Loneliness makes us seek companionship in unlikely places. I didn't know who Ada was when we met, just that she was kind to me."

"And the Peaky Blinders? What do you know of their dealings?"The inspector's intensity didn't waver. 

"I'm afraid I don't follow the business of men, Inspector." Roseline's calm was unshaken."My concerns are much simpler."

"You expect me to believe you know nothing?" Campbell's frustration was palpable. "That you've seen nothing?"

With a poise that seemed to fill the room, Roseline stood, her eyes locked with Campbell's. "It's quite unbecoming, Inspector, to keep an innocent girl locked away in an office. People might talk."

Campbell was momentarily speechless, her words striking a chord. He stood, straightening his jacket. "You may leave, Miss Roseline. But this isn't over."

Roseline's smile was gracious as she nodded her thanks. "Good evening, Inspector," she said, her voice a gentle chime in the tense atmosphere.

As she exited the room, Campbell sat back down, the echo of her words lingering in the air. He had pushed hard, but her calm demeanor a stark contrast to the intensity of his interrogation.

The betting shop was abuzz with the usual cacophony of shouts and the rustling of papers when Polly, with a stern look in her eyes, approached Roseline. "You need to be out of sight, love. Mr. Kimber is coming," she instructed.

Roseline's brow furrowed in confusion. "Why should I hide?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and defiance.

Polly's response was gentle but firm, "Sweet angel, just hide." It was clear there was no room for argument.

Though Roseline was far from naive, she couldn't fathom why her presence would be an issue. Nevertheless, she trusted Polly's judgment and retreated upstairs, out of sight. From the window, she watched as Mr. Shelby led Mr. Kimber and his assistant into the shop. A sigh escaped her lips; she was not one to sit idly by.

Curiosity piqued, Roseline decided to explore. She pushed open a door, only to be greeted by a cloud of smoke that made her cough. As the air cleared, she realized she was in Tommy's room.

The room was a stark contrast to the chaos of the shop below. Tommy's desk was a landscape of organized chaos, papers neatly stacked and an ashtray overflowing, evidence of the many hours spent working—and worrying—here. The walls were adorned with maps and racing charts, each marked with meticulous notes that spoke of Tommy's strategic mind.

Roseline moved through the room, her touch light on the back of the leather chair, imagining the weight of decisions made in this very spot. She noted the single photograph on the desk, a rare glimpse into the private world of a man who kept his emotions guarded.

Her eyes lingered on a small, locked drawer. She knew better than to pry, but it piqued her interest—what secrets did it hold? Roseline's thoughts were a calm sea amidst the storm of Shelby business. She was an observer, a thinker, not easily swayed by the tumult around her.

As she stood there, surrounded by the essence of Tommy Shelby, she couldn't help but wonder about the man behind the name, the complexities of his world, and where, if at all, she fit into it. With a final glance, she stepped away from the room, closing the door behind her, the secrets of the room safe with her—for now.

Roseline stepped out of Tommy's room, a soft click echoing as the door shut behind her. It was time to return downstairs, her curiosity sated by the glimpse into his private world. As she descended the staircase, Tommy's voice, clear and resonant, halted her mid-step. He was announcing something important.

She slipped into the betting shop area, where a crowd had formed around Tommy. He stood there, a paper in hand, his face alight with a rare, unguarded joy. "I have here a legal betting license," he declared, "issued by the board of control. The Shelby family now owns its first legal race track pitch."

The room erupted in cheers, the sound thunderous in the confined space. Polly, Arthur, and John enveloped Tommy in a group hug, their congratulations loud and heartfelt. The air was electric with celebration, the sense of achievement palpable.

Roseline stood on the periphery, her hands coming together in applause, a smile spreading across her face. She was happy for them, for this remarkable family.

Tommy's gaze found hers across the room, and for a moment, the noise and the crowd faded away. They looked at each other, and it was as if they were the only two people in the world. His eyes, usually so guarded and calculating, were soft with triumph and something more tender. Her smile, in response, was one of genuine happiness for his success, her eyes reflecting the pride and connection she felt.

It was a look that spoke volumes, a silent conversation between two souls who, despite the chaos of their lives, had found a moment of peace and understanding in each other's gaze. It was intimate, it was profound, and it was a testament to the bond they had formed, one that went beyond words and was felt deep in the heart.

The night was draped in silence as Tommy Shelby stood before Roseline's apartment door, his firm knock echoing in the stillness. He waited, a sense of urgency hidden beneath his composed exterior. Inside, the sound of shuffling feet hinted at a presence, yet the door remained closed. Restraint overruled impulse, and he knocked again, more insistently this time.

The door creaked open, and Roseline's face appeared, etched with confusion. "Is everything okay?" she asked, her gaze lifting to meet his.

"Everything's fine," Tommy assured her, stepping past the threshold into the modest apartment. The room was awash with memories of their previous encounter, the day he had sought her help with the horse.

Roseline gestured towards a chair, her hospitality unfaltering. "Please, sit down. Don't just stand there," she said, her voice a soft melody in the quiet of the room.

Tommy took a seat, the leather creaking under his weight. He was unsure of his reasons for being there, but he knew they needed to talk. Roseline sensed the gravity of the moment and offered a glass of water, knowing his aversion to tea.

As she sat down, handing him the glass, Tommy began to express his gratitude. "I wanted to thank you for everything you've done for the family and the business," he said, his voice carrying a sincerity that was rarely heard.

"Mr. Shelby It's nothing," she replied, Roseline dismissed the thanks with a wave of her hand. " I was happy to help in any way."

Tommy interrupted, a hint of warmth in his tone. "Tommy, that's my name," he corrected her gently.

Her smile was knowing, a silent acknowledgement of their growing familiarity. "I was waiting for the invitation, Tommy," she teased, her words light and playful.

Tommy felt a blush creep up his neck, a rare show of vulnerability, but he managed to keep it from his face. They were two souls, caught in the intricate dance of unspoken emotions and the complexities of their lives, finding solace in each other's company.

The night had settled over Birmingham like a thick blanket, and in the quiet of Roseline's apartment, the conversation between her and Tommy Shelby took a turn towards the future.

"My business is expandin', and I need some assistance," Tommy said, his voice serious. "An assistant with your talents would be just right for the job."

Roseline shifted slightly in her seat, the offer catching her off guard. "I'm a nurse," she reminded him, a note of hesitation in her voice. "I can't just leave my job."

Tommy nodded understandingly. "It would only be part-time, for now. I'm sure it won't be too much trouble, and ye can handle it," he reassured her, confident in her abilities.

A sigh escaped Roseline as she divulged her recent encounter with Inspector Campbell. Tommy's anger flared at the mention of the interrogation, his protective instincts kicking in. "Did he do anything to you?" he asked, his tone edged with concern.

"No, he just wanted information," Roseline said, shaking her head. "He found out nothing, I made sure of it."

A smile broke through Tommy's stern demeanor. "You're not the prodigy child for nothing," he said, admiration clear in his eyes.

Roseline's reaction was a brief freeze, a momentary lapse that she quickly masked with her usual composure. Tommy sensed her discomfort but admired her ability to remain calm under pressure.

Roseline's smile held a touch of mischief as she leaned forward, her eyes reflecting the dim light of the room. "How long have you known about... that?" she asked, her tone light yet probing.

Tommy's response was immediate, his gaze never wavering. "Not that long ago," he admitted, his voice a low rumble in the quiet of the apartment.

"I should've guessed," Roseline mused, a playful yet resigned sigh escaping her lips. "A man like Thomas Shelby would leave no stone unturned, especially when it comes to potential allies—or threats."

Tommy's expression softened, understanding the undercurrent of her words. "Aye, I investigate everyone," he said, his tone even. "But let's just say, not all investigations are strictly business." He paused, a rare vulnerability flickering across his features. "There's more to you than what's written on paper, Roseline."

Her smile widened, a spark of warmth in her eyes. "And I'm well aware there's more to you than the stoic facade you present to the world, Tommy." she countered.

The corner of Tommy's mouth twitched into a smirk, but it was the violin resting silently in the corner that captured his attention next. "Play for me," he requested, an unspoken yearning lacing his words.

With a graceful nod, Roseline rose and approached the violin. Her fingers caressed the polished wood and strings with a familiarity that spoke of a deep connection to the instrument. She returned to her seat, the violin cradled against her shoulder, and offered Tommy a playful warning. "I hope you're not expecting this to lull you to sleep," she teased.

Tommy shook his head, a chuckle escaping him. "I wouldn't dream of it."

As Roseline drew the bow across the strings, the first notes filled the room, pure and hauntingly beautiful. The melody was a poignant one, weaving through the air like a gentle caress. It spoke of longing, of memories untarnished by the harshness of war, and of a peace that seemed just out of reach.

Tommy found himself transported by the music, each note a key unlocking doors to the past he had long since closed. The laughter of his family, the warmth of summer days, the simplicity of life before the world had erupted into chaos—all of it came flooding back, brought forth by the tender serenade of Roseline's violin.

The music continued, a bittersweet symphony that held both the promise of tomorrow and the nostalgia of yesteryear. And in that moment, as the notes danced in the space between them, Tommy Shelby felt something stir within—a feeling he thought had been lost to the trenches. It was a reminder that even amidst the shadows of life, beauty remained, waiting to be rediscovered in the most unexpected of places.

As Roseline’s violin filled the room with its poignant melody, Tommy Shelby’s expression was a canvas of introspection. His usually guarded visage softened, allowing a rare glimpse into the depths of his soul. His eyes, often sharp and calculating, now reflected a gentle warmth, touched by the beauty of the music.

There was a subtle relaxation in his features, a loosening of the tightness that typically held his jaw, as if the notes were unraveling the knots of tension that bound him. His gaze was fixed on Roseline, but it was clear that his thoughts had drifted, carried away on the wings of the melody to places of quiet reflection.

In the stillness of the moment, the corners of his mouth might have turned upwards ever so slightly, hinting at a contentment that was seldom seen. It was not a smile of amusement, but one of appreciation, a silent acknowledgment of the artistry before him.

Tommy’s face, often a mask of stoicism and control, now betrayed a touch of vulnerability. The music seemed to have pierced through his armor, reaching a part of him that few had the privilege to see. It was an expression of someone who, despite the hardness of life, could still be moved by the simple grace of a violin’s song.

As the music flowed from Roseline's violin, her thoughts were a tumultuous sea, each wave crashing with newfound revelations about herself and Tommy. She was scared, but not of him or the danger that clung to his world like a shadow. No, it was a different kind of fear that gripped her—a fear of the emotions he stirred within her.

The realization that Tommy had taken an interest in her past, that he had sought to uncover the layers she had so carefully built, should have alarmed her. Instead, it sparked a warmth, a flicker of joy that someone wanted to look beyond the facade she presented to the world. It was this desire to be seen, truly seen, that frightened her.

Roseline had never felt this way before, never had the inclination to share the depths of her soul with another. Yet, here she was, with a man who commanded armies and walked through fire, considering the possibility of letting down her walls. It was a testament to the enigma that was Tommy Shelby, a man who could inspire such conflicting emotions with nothing more than a glance or a word.

Chapter Text

In the dim glow of the car’s interior, Lizzie Stark’s eyes were red and puffy from tears. She sat beside Tommy Shelby, who was as still as stone, his hands clenched around the steering wheel. The silence that filled the car was heavy, laden with the echoes of a past that refused to be buried.

Tommy broke the silence, his voice devoid of warmth. "So the past is not the past," he declared, a statement that hung in the air like a verdict.

"Tommy, please...I’m so sorry. It was never my intention for things to go this way." Lizzie’s voice was laced with desperation as she implored him,  " It was all just a terrible mistake."

Without a glance, Tommy responded, "Mistakes have consequences, Lizzie. You knew the rules. We all did."

In a last-ditch effort, Lizzie reached into her purse and extracted a thick envelope of cash. "Here, take this. Just let me explain—"

"Keep it," Tommy interrupted, his gaze never wavering from the road ahead. "Get out of the car."

Lizzie’s frustration boiled over into anger. "You’re heartless, Tommy! I’m trying to change. Give me another chance, please."

Tommy finally turned to look at her, his eyes cold and hard. "Sentimentality won’t save you," he said quietly, the words tinged with an edge of sorrow. "But if you’re truly changing, prove it."

With those final words, Lizzie opened the car door and stepped out into the night, leaving Tommy Shelby alone with the stark reality of his choices.

As the afternoon sun cast a warm glow over the city of Birmingham, the Garrison pub stood as a beacon of respite for the weary. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of tobacco and the murmur of conversation. At the bar, a man known to command both fear and respect, Tommy Shelby, poured a drink with a steady hand. His gaze, sharp and discerning, settled on the woman before him.

Roseline sat with an air of tranquility that belied the chaos of the world outside. Her blonde hair caught the light, and her green eyes held a depth that many found disarming. She was the calm in the storm, a nurse whose hands had healed and soothed the wounds of both man and beast. Her charm was effortless, and her intelligence was evident in the way she observed the world—a world she had stepped into just three months prior, yet had already left an indelible mark upon.

Tommy slid the glass across the bar towards her, the amber liquid catching the light. "Drink up," he said, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken stories. "You’ll need it."

Roseline regarded the glass but did not reach for it immediately. Her composure was unshaken, her curiosity piqued. "Why did you invite me here?" she inquired, her tone even and calm.

"Because I have something for you," he replied. Tommy reached into his pocket and produced a folded piece of paper, which he handed to her with a gesture that was both an offering and a challenge. "Read it."

Unfolding the paper, Roseline’s eyes moved over the words, "Bookkeeper for Shelby Brothers Limited." She smiled slightly at the title, her focus lingering on the word 'Limited.' "You’re worried about that part?" she asked.

Tommy lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his stoic face. "That’s what I’m worried about," he admitted. "The 'Limited' means we’re legitimate now. No more backroom deals and razor blades."

That was a lie and they both knew it.

Roseline’s smile broadened at his confession. "The end of an era, then. It must be the end of the world if Tommy Shelby is worried," she teased gently.

"You’ve got a sharp tongue, Roseline. But I like it," he said, A smirk tugged at the corner of Tommy’s mouth. Handing her an envelope. "Your first job for the company."

Roseline examined the envelope with a look of curiosity. "And what’s inside?" she asked.

"Deliver it to Ada," Tommy instructed, leaning in slightly. "She goes to the bathhouse on women’s day."

Roseline raised an eyebrow, her playful demeanour shining through. "I’m a friend before a bookkeeper," she stated firmly. "Why does Ada need an invitation?"

"It’s an invitation to John’s wedding. You’re invited too," he revealed, Tommy leaned back, a hint of admiration in his eyes.

Roseline’s smile became more relaxed as she accepted the envelope. Then, with a twinkle of mischief, she looked at Tommy and asked, "Does John know about the wedding?"

Tommy’s response was a silent smile, a rare glimpse of warmth in his usually guarded expression.

The steam from the hot baths filled the air with a comforting warmth as Roseline stepped through the arched doorway. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the misty interior, and there, amidst the echoes of water droplets, she spotted Ada, her figure silhouetted against the tiled wall.

Ada's hand rested gently on her rounded belly, a protective gesture that spoke volumes. She looked up, her expression a mix of surprise and caution as she recognized Roseline.

"Ada," Roseline began, her voice steady and sincere. "I know trust isn't given lightly here, but I assure you, you have mine."

Ada studied her for a moment, the uncertainty in her eyes giving way to a tentative smile. "It's not easy, you know, deciding who to trust," she admitted, her hand still cradling her unborn child.

Roseline nodded, understanding the weight of Ada's words. "How are you feeling?" she asked, changing the subject to something more personal.

"The little one keeps me up at night," Ada replied with a weary chuckle. 

"That's wonderful, Ada. Soon, you'll have a new life to cherish," Roseline said warmly, her gaze softening.

She then reached into her coat, retrieving the envelope Tommy had entrusted to her. "Speaking of new beginnings," Roseline said as she handed it to Ada.

Ada's eyes widened with curiosity as she opened the envelope. "John's getting married?" she exclaimed, her previous reservations forgotten in the wake of such unexpected news.

Roseline nodded with a smile.

Ada's expression softened, a mix of joy and nostalgia. "I wouldn't miss it for the world," she said. "And you, Roseline, you'll be there too?"

"Of course," Roseline replied, her promise as solid as the ground beneath their feet. "I wouldn't miss it for the world either."

In that moment, the bond between them strengthened, sealed by the shared anticipation of celebration amidst the trials of their lives. And as they continued to talk, the steam around them seemed to carry away the last remnants of doubt, leaving only the warmth of their friendship.

The sun hung low, casting a golden hue over the gathering. The garden, adorned with ribbons and flowers, had transformed into a place of promises. Ada Shelby, now Ada Thorne, stood at the edge of the crowd, her eyes fixed on the makeshift altar. Beside her, Tommy Shelby—the man who had orchestrated this union—stood tall, his gaze equally intent.

"Your husband couldn't make it?" Tommy’s voice was low, a hint of curiosity lacing his words.

Ada’s lips tightened. "He doesn’t speak to me," she replied, her voice barely audible. "And when he does, he calls me a fucking Shelby, when I am a Thorne now."

Tommy’s eyes softened. "A thorn in my side, that’s for sure," he mused, a rare smile tugging at his lips. 

Ada’s smile was bittersweet. “My God Tommy, you admire him." she said. "don’t you?” 

Tommy’s gaze shifted to the center of the garden, where John Shelby and Esme Lee stood. Their hands were clasped, bloodied from the ritual of cutting their palms and binding their fates. John’s nervousness had melted away, replaced by a fierce determination. Esme’s eyes held both vulnerability and strength.

As Johnny Dogs announced, "You may kiss the bride," cheers erupted. The crowd, a mix of family and allies, watched as John leaned down, sealing their promises with a kiss. Esme’s veil fluttered, and in that moment, love defied the darkness that hung over Birmingham.

Roseline clapped, her hands stinging from the force of her joy. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting shadows over the garden, Roseline wondered if redemption was possible—for her, for them all. Perhaps, in this union, they had found a way to defy fate.

And so, amidst the cheers, John Shelby and Esme now Shelby stepped into their shared future.

Roseline, standing beside Ada, leaned in. "Beautiful, isn’t it?" she whispered.

Ada nodded, her eyes never leaving the newlyweds. “Beautiful and dangerous,” she replied. “Just like us.”

The wedding of John Shelby and Esme Lee was a scene straight out of a storybook, with the golden hues of the setting sun casting a warm glow over the gathered guests. Roseline, her arm linked with Ada's, approached the newlyweds with a gentle smile that reflected the joy of the occasion.

The garden seemed to hold its breath as Roseline and Ada approached the newlyweds. John’s eyes crinkled at the corners, and he enveloped Ada in a hug.

"You made it," he said, his voice gruff yet filled with affection. "I was worried you’d be too busy with the little one." 

Ada chuckled, her hand resting protectively on her belly. "Even if I’m pregnant, I’ll always join my family in these moments," she replied. "Besides, this is a celebration worth witnessing."

He turned to Esme, his hand finding hers, and introduced them. "Esme, this is my sister Ada, and her friend Roseline."

Roseline's eyes sparkled with delight as she took in the couple. "This wedding is so beautiful," she said, her voice carrying the charm that had endeared her to so many. "I hope your life together will be even more beautiful."

Esme, charmed by Roseline's warmth, thanked them both for coming. "Your presence means the world to us," she said, her eyes reflecting the sincerity of her words.

John, ever the pragmatic Shelby, leaned in. "Enjoy the party, Ada," he said, his voice low. "And Rose, keep an eye on her. She’s stubborn, but she’s family."

Roseline grinned. "I promise," she said. "And congratulations, both of you."

As the evening wore on, the celebration continued. The air buzzed with laughter and music. Roseline watched as John and Esme danced—their steps tentative yet full of promise. Ada, her hand in Roseline’s, leaned closer.

"Roseline," Ada said, her voice soft, "sometimes family isn’t just blood. It’s the people who stitch us back together when we’re falling apart."

Roseline squeezed Ada’s hand. "And sometimes," she replied, "family is the one who dances with us when the music starts."

The garden was alive with laughter and music. Roseline twirled, her skirts billowing, as she danced with everyone—the Peaky Blinders, the allies, and even the children who spun around like dervishes. The night was a celebration, and Roseline reveled in it.

Tommy Shelby stood at the edge of the dance floor, his eyes fixed on her. He couldn’t explain the rage that simmered within him. Roseline, with her carefree spirit and infectious laughter, seemed to defy the gravity of their world. She was a nurse, a healer, but tonight, she was something more—a sprite who danced with abandon.

Finally, he couldn’t resist. He stepped forward, his hand extending toward her. "Roseline," he said, his voice low, "may I have this dance?"

She looked surprised but nodded, slipping her hand into his. They swayed to the music, and Tommy found himself studying her—the way her hair caught the moonlight, the curve of her lips as she laughed. She was different from anyone he’d ever known.

"I thought you only danced with the right person," Tommy said, his tone half-teasing.

Roseline’s eyes sparkled. "I bend the rules for special occasions," she replied. "And tonight is special."

He admired her—how she seemed unburdened by the weight of their world. "You’re carefree," he said. 

Roseline grinned. "Carefree or reckless, depending on who you ask."

And then, she smiled—a genuine, unguarded smile that reached her eyes. Tommy’s breath caught. "You're beautiful," he blurted out, surprising himself.

Roseline’s confusion was evident. "Why—" she began, but he cut her off.

“I had fun,” he said abruptly, stepping away. "Enjoy the rest of the party."

And just like that, he left her standing there, bewildered. Roseline watched him go, her heart a jumble of emotions. But then, she smiled. 

Tommy Shelby sat down and composed, his eyes scanning the crowd. He was a pillar of strength, the man who had led his family through the darkest of times. Polly, his aunt, approached him with a look of concern etched on her face.

"Tommy," she whispered, "you need to speak with Ada. She’s pushing herself too far."

Tommy’s gaze found Ada, his sister, who was laughing a little too loudly, her movements a bit too erratic. She had been confined for weeks, and now the freedom of the night seemed to intoxicate her more than the drink in her hand.

"Do you think she’ll bloody listen to me?" Tommy asked, his voice tinged with doubt.

Before Polly could reply, Roseline, the family’s trusted confidante, joined them. Her eyes were filled with worry as she spoke of Ada’s reckless behavior.

"Tommy, she's not stopping. She might hurt herself," Roseline said, her voice barely above a whisper, filled with concern.

Polly shook her head, her voice rising above the music. "After being cooped up in that basement, what do you expect? She’s a Shelby, after all."

Tommy rose from his seat, his movements decisive. He approached Ada, his presence commanding her attention. "Ada, take a rest," he urged, his voice firm yet gentle.

But Ada was beyond reason, her words slurred as she addressed the crowd. "Come and see, Esme! The family you’ve joined, the man who leads it," she cried out, her voice laced with bitterness. "Tommy chooses his brothers’ wives, hunts his sister like a rat, and tries to kill his own brother-in-law."

Roseline and Polly rushed to Ada’s side, their hands reaching out to steady her. "Calm down, Ada," Roseline pleaded. "You might hurt yourself."

It was then that they noticed it—Ada’s dress, soaked at the hem. Polly’s eyes widened. "Holy shit, water."

Arthur, ever the protector, yelled, "Not now, Ada! You always pick your bloody times."

Roseline’s calm voice rose above the commotion. "We need to get her to the car," she instructed, supporting Ada, who towered over her.

Tommy settled Ada in the backseat, her pain etched across her face. Roseline climbed in beside her, her hands steady as she assessed the situation. Polly took her place, her eyes locked on Tommy.

"Drive," Polly ordered, and the car surged forward. The wheels skidded on the slick road, and the engine’s growl drowned out Ada’s cries. The Shelby family—criminals, survivors, and blood-bound—raced toward salvation.

Inside the car, Roseline’s hands worked miracles. "Hold on, Ada," she said. "We’ll get you through this."

The Shelby house, with its familiar red brick facade, stood as a testament to the family’s resilience. The windows, curtained against the prying eyes of Small Heath, glowed with a warm light that spilled onto the cobblestone street.

Inside, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation. The parlour, where so many of the family’s schemes had been devised, had been transformed. The heavy furniture pushed aside to make room for the impending arrival.

Tommy Shelby, the man who had turned the Peaky Blinders from street thugs into a force to be reckoned with, watched as Roseline, the nurse whose hands were as skilled with a bandage as they were with a blade, prepared for Ada’s delivery.

"Take care of her," Tommy instructed, his voice betraying none of the concern that flickered in his eyes.

Roseline nodded, her smile reassuring in the dim light. "I will, Tommy. She’s in good hands."

As the second car pulled up, John Shelby emerged, his face flushed from the drive. "The car’s running smooth, Tommy," he reported, a note of pride in his voice.

Esme, her wedding dress now replaced by something more practical, hurried inside, her eyes wide with worry.

Polly, ever the matriarch, stepped out onto the stoop, her gaze sweeping over the men. "You’re out here talking about cars while your sister’s bringing new life into the world," she chided.

Tommy’s response was calm, measured. "There’s not much us men can do now."

"Except go and get drunk." Arthur, his brother, laughed—a short, barking sound. 

Tommy was about to agree when Polly interrupted. "One man should be here," she insisted.

"you're right, Freddie should be here," Tommy said 

"Is that a heartbeat I hear in your chest, Tommy?" Polly’s eyes sparkled with something akin to mischief.

Tommy’s lips quirked into a half-smile. "The truce lasts till sunrise. Freddie’s safe, on my oath."

"Then let’s get him here." Polly’s laughter was a rare sound, one that seemed to echo through the house. 

And so, as the night deepened, the Shelby family gathered in the house that had seen them rise and fall. The men took to the streets, their laughter and threats fading into the night, while the women stayed, their strength the backbone of the Shelby name.

Tommy Shelby sat at the bar, his eyes distant. The Garrison was his domain, but tonight, his thoughts were with Ada and the child that was fighting its way into the world. He poured another drink, the amber liquid a sharp contrast to the turmoil in his heart.

Arthur, his brother, was less contemplative. He threw darts with a ferocity that matched his temperament, each thud against the board a release for his pent-up energy. "To the new Shelby!" he bellowed, raising his glass in a toast that was echoed by the men around him.

John, quieter by nature, sat at a table with a deck of cards, shuffling them with practiced ease. "Shouldn’t we be there?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the din.

Tommy shook his head. "There’s nothing we can do. Roseline’s with her. She’s young, but she’s capable."

Back at the Shelby house, Roseline the nurse, moved with a confidence that belied her years. Her hands were steady as she prepared Ada, her voice soothing. "You’re doing beautifully, Ada," she encouraged. "Just a bit longer."

Ada, caught in the throes of labor, clung to Roseline’s words as if they were a lifeline. Polly, ever the matriarch, stood by, her presence a comfort. "You’re a Shelby," she reminded Ada. "You’re stronger than you know."

The interaction between them was a dance of strength and vulnerability, a testament to the bonds of family. Roseline, though young, had been thrust into a role that demanded everything of her. And she rose to the occasion, guiding Ada through each contraction with a maturity that went beyond her years.

As the night wore on, the men at The Garrison grew louder, their attempts to distract themselves more desperate. 

The streets of Small Heath blurred as Freddie Shelby sprinted toward the house. His heart pounded in sync with his footsteps, each beat a desperate plea to whatever gods might be listening. The news had reached him—the birth of his child—and he couldn’t wait any longer.

Roseline, the young nurse stood at the threshold. Her eyes met Freddie’s, and she held up a hand. "Calm down," she said, her voice steady. "You’ll see them soon."

Freddie’s chest heaved, but he nodded. He followed Roseline through the narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking under his weight. The room was dimly lit, the curtains drawn against the morning sun. And there, on the bed, sat Ada—his wife, his love—her face etched with exhaustion and pain.

"Freddie," Ada whispered, her voice fragile. "Our child."

He stumbled forward, his knees hitting the edge of the bed. Ada’s hand was warm in his, her grip surprisingly strong. And then he saw the tiny bundle in her arms—a miracle wrapped in swaddling cloth.

Their child.

Freddie’s eyes blurred with tears. "Is it a boy or a girl?" he asked, his voice breaking.

Ada smiled, her gaze never leaving their baby. "A boy," she said. "Our son."

He reached out, his fingers trembling as he touched the soft curve of the baby’s cheek. The weight of responsibility settled on his shoulders, and he vowed to protect this fragile life with everything he had.

Roseline stepped back, giving them space. "I’ll leave you," she said, her voice gentle. "Rest, Ada. You’ve done well."

As Roseline left, Freddie sank onto the bed beside Ada. He kissed her forehead, tasting the salt of her sweat. "You’re incredible," he murmured. "Our son is lucky to have you."

Ada’s eyes fluttered closed, exhaustion pulling her under. "Freddie," she whispered, "we did it."

He looked down at their child, his heart swelling. "What should we name him?"

Ada’s lips curved into a tired smile. "Karl," she said. 

Freddie nodded, his throat tight. "Karl Thorne," he repeated, committing the name to memory. "Our son."

The Shelby house, once a sanctuary, now echoed with the harsh footsteps of the law. The coppers—uniforms crisp, eyes unyielding—stormed through the door, their boots leaving muddy prints on the worn carpet. Freddie Shelby, his face etched with fear and defiance, stood in their path.

"Freddie Thorne," the lead officer barked, his voice devoid of sympathy. "You’re under arrest."

Ada, still weak from childbirth, clung to the bedpost, her knuckles white. Her son, Karl, lay swaddled beside her, oblivious to the storm that raged around him. Polly, her eyes aflame, stood by Ada’s side, her loyalty unwavering.

"No!" Ada cried, her voice breaking. "He’s done nothing wrong!"

But the coppers were unyielding. They seized Freddie, their grip bruising, and dragged him toward the door. His eyes met Ada’s, and in that moment, a lifetime of love and promises hung suspended.

"Fight it!" Ada pleaded, tears streaming down her face. "Come back to us!"

Freddie’s voice cracked. "I love you," he whispered, and then he was gone, swallowed by the darkness beyond the threshold.

Outside, the rain fell—a cruel accompaniment to the tragedy unfolding. The coppers shoved Freddie into the waiting carriage, the wheels grinding against the cobblestones. He glanced back at the house, at the window where Ada stood, her hand pressed against the glass.

"Karl!" Freddie shouted, his voice raw. "Tell him about me. Tell him I love him."

The carriage pulled away, and Ada collapsed onto the bed, her sobs echoing through the empty room. Polly, her own tears unheeded, held Ada close. "We’ll fight,"” she vowed. "For Freddie, for Karl."

But the house felt emptier now, its walls closing in on the broken family left behind. The baby stirred, as if sensing the loss, and Ada cradled him, her heart shattered.

In the streets, Freddie’s eyes met Roseline’s—the young nurse who had witnessed both life and death. She nodded, her gaze filled with compassion. "I’ll look after them," she mouthed.

And as the carriage disappeared into the mist, the Shelby family fractured. The coppers had taken more than a man; they had torn a father from his child, a husband from his wife.

And the rain kept falling, as if mourning the injustice of it all.

The door to The Garrison slammed open, and Polly stormed in, her fury a living thing. "It’s a boy,"she declared, her voice shaking with anger. "But the coppers took his father away."

Tommy looked up, startled. "What? I didn’t—"

Before he could finish, Polly was upon him, her hands raised as if to strike. Arthur and John leapt up, holding her back. "Polly, stop!" John shouted.

"Don’t you look at me like that, Thomas Shelby," Polly hissed, venom in her voice. "You’re a liar!" And with that, she spat at him, the droplets of her disdain marking his cheek.

Tommy sat frozen, his mind racing. He hadn’t told the police about Freddie. He hadn’t planned any of this. "Polly, I swear," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Roseline ran in, breathless from the streets. "Polly, Ada needs you," she implored, trying to draw her away from the brewing storm.

Polly turned her wrathful gaze from Tommy to Roseline. "Ada needs me because of him!" she yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Tommy."You’re no better than the bloody  coppers who took Freddie away!" And with that, she snatched the coat Roseline held out, leaving the garrison in a whirlwind of fury.

The brothers looked at Tommy, their expressions a mix of betrayal and confusion. "We’ll leave you to it," Arthur said, his voice cold.

The brothers exchanged glances, their loyalty fractured. "If you want a ride to your apartment," John said to Roseline, "we’ll take you."

"No, thank you" She declined, her gaze lingering on Tommy. He still hadn’t spoken, his confusion etched into every line of his face.

Roseline’s eyes were empty of judgment, yet they bore into Tommy with an intensity that made him ashamed. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was eerily calm. "What happened, Mr. Shelby?"

Tommy winced at the formality of her address. He missed the familiarity in her voice, the way she used to say his name. It was a stark reminder of the chasm that had opened up between them.

He reached for a glass, the contents forgotten, and took a sip. The liquid burned down his throat, a poor balm for the guilt that gnawed at him. "I don’t fucking know," he muttered, his voice low and rough.

The words hung in the air, a confession of confusion and helplessness. Roseline’s expression didn’t change, but her silence spoke volumes, condemning him without a single word.

Tommy’s hand tightened around the glass. The Garrison felt like a prison, the walls closing in on him. He was trapped by circumstances beyond his control, by decisions he hadn’t made, and yet the blame was his to bear.

Roseline’s voice cut through the silence, her words a stark warning. "Be careful, Mr. Shelby," she said. "There are many windows around you."

Tommy’s gaze flickered to the windows, the glass panes revealing the darkened streets of Birmingham. "And?" he prompted, his voice hoarse.

She held his gaze, unflinching. "Close the blinds soon," she advised. "You never know who might be watching."

The implication of her words settled over Tommy like a shroud. The Garrison, with its exposed windows, was a vulnerability—a place where eyes could pry and ears could listen.

He stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. "Thank you, Roseline," he said, his voice betraying none of the turmoil within.

She nodded, her duty done, and turned to leave. "Take care of yourself, Mr. Shelby," she added before stepping out into the night.

Tommy moved to the windows, his hands methodically closing each blind. The clicks were a countdown, a reminder that in the world of the Peaky Blinders, safety was an illusion, and trust was a luxury they could ill afford.

The pub was now a fortress of shadows, the only light coming from the embers of a dying fire. Tommy Shelby, the man who had faced down gangsters and politicians alike, now faced an enemy he couldn’t see—an enemy that had infiltrated the very heart of his family.

And as the last blind snapped shut, Tommy Shelby was left alone in the darkness, the weight of the family’s future resting squarely on his shoulders.

Chapter Text

The Shelby home was heavy with tension, the air thick with unspoken words. Roseline, Esme, and Polly sat in the dimly lit parlour, their faces etched with worry. Ada, once the heart of the family, had retreated into silence, her grief a palpable presence.

Polly’s anger simmered just below the surface. She slammed her hand on the table, rattling the teacups. "This is your fault, Tommy!" she spat, her eyes blazing. "Freddie’s gone, and Ada won’t even look at us."

Esme looked bewildered. "What happened?" she asked, her voice small. "Why would Tommy—"

Roseline interrupted, her calm demeanour a stark contrast to Polly’s rage. "Esme," she said, "sometimes things happen beyond our control."

Polly scoffed. "Beyond our control? Ada’s our family! We protect our own."

Roseline’s gaze never wavered. "And sometimes protection comes at a cost," she replied. "We don’t know everything."

"But why would Ada blame us?" Esme fidgeted with her teacup. 

Polly leaned in, her voice low. "Because we’re Shelbys," she said. "And sometimes being a Shelby means making impossible choices."

"Ada needs time," she said. Roseline stood, her movements deliberate "We can’t force her to speak."

"Time? Freddie’s in jail, and Ada’s alone with a newborn." Polly’s anger flared again. 

Roseline’s eyes softened."We’ll find a way," she said. 

"What do we do now?" Esme looked from one woman to the other, confusion etching lines on her face. 

Polly stood, her resolve unwavering. "We bloody fight," she declared. "For Freddie, for Ada, and for our family."

Roseline nodded. "And we wait," she added. "Ada will find her voice again."

As they left the parlour, the echoes of their conversation lingered. Ada’s silence was a void they couldn’t fill, and the weight of their choices pressed down upon them.

The morning sun cast a gentle glow over the city, its rays filtering through the curtains of Ada’s small flat. Roseline stood at the door, a basket filled with food and necessities in her arms, a symbol of the family’s continued support.

She knocked softly, the sound muffled by the wood. “Ada,” she called out, her voice laced with concern. "Please, let me in."

Inside, the cries of baby Karl cut through the stillness of the morning. Roseline could picture Ada, overwhelmed with frustration and exhaustion, yet she remained the epitome of calm.

The door finally opened, revealing Ada, her face a canvas of anger and fatigue. "What do you want?" she demanded, her voice sharp.

"I’ve brought some things for you and Karl," she said, placing the basket on the table. Roseline stepped into the modest living space, her eyes taking in the disarray. 

Ada’s gaze flickered to the basket, then back to Roseline. "Charity?" she scoffed, her pride wounded, "I don't bloody need it."

"It’s not charity, Ada," Roseline replied softly. "It’s family."

Ada’s anger flared. "Family?" she spat. "Where was my family when Freddie was dragged away?"

Roseline’s calm demeanour wavered. "We’re doing everything we can," she insisted. "Tommy—"

"Tommy!" Ada’s voice cracked. "He’s the reason Freddie’s in jail. He’s the reason I’m alone with Karl."

Roseline’s worry deepened. "Ada, we need you," she said. "Karl needs you."

Ada paced, her steps uneven. "I can’t," she whispered. "Not now."

Roseline reached for her, her touch gentle. "Talk to us," she pleaded. "We’re here."

Ada’s eyes were haunted. "Talk?" she scoffed. "What’s left to say?"

Roseline’s resolve hardened. "Everything," she said. "We’ll find a way to bring Freddie back. But you can’t shut us out."

The baby’s cries intensified, a chorus of need. Roseline glanced at the crib, then back at Ada. "He’s your son," she said, "and he deserves more than silence."

Ada’s shoulders sagged. "I’m tired," she admitted. "Tired of fighting."

Roseline took her hand. "You need to stay strong, Ada" she said. "For Freddie, for Karl, just let us help you."

As the baby’s cries softened, Ada’s gaze met Roseline’s. "And Tommy?" she asked.

Roseline hesitated. "Tommy’s not the enemy," she said. "I think he’s just as lost as the rest of us."

Ada looked down at Karl, his cries now soft whimpers. "He needs his father," she said, her voice breaking.

"And we’ll do everything we can to bring Freddie home," Roseline assured her. "But right now, Karl needs his mother strong and supported."

Ada’s resolve seemed to waver, her anger giving way to the reality of her situation. "I just… I miss him," she confessed.

Roseline pulled her into a gentle embrace. "And he misses you," she said. 

As the morning light grew stronger, casting away the shadows of the night, Ada’s flat felt a little less like a prison and more like a home. The Shelby family might be fractured, but Roseline’s visit was a step toward mending the cracks—one morning, one conversation at a time.

Roseline stepped out of Ada’s flat, the door closing softly behind her. The morning air was crisp, carrying the promise of a new day. She paused for a moment, her mind racing with thoughts of how to mend the fractures within the Shelby family.

As she walked down the street, her steps were measured, each one taking her closer to a decision that seemed inevitable. Her thoughts turned to Tommy, the man at the center of the storm. With a determined breath, she made her way to The Garrison.

The pub was unusually quiet, the usual patrons absent, leaving the air still and heavy with the scent of stale smoke and whiskey. Roseline pushed open the door to Tommy’s office, finding him there as she expected—alone, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers, a half-empty glass of whiskey on the desk.

Tommy looked up, his eyes meeting hers. There was a weariness in his gaze, a silent acknowledgement of the burdens he carried.

"We need to talk," Roseline said, her voice steady.

Tommy nodded, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray. "I know," he replied, gesturing to the chair across from him.

Roseline took a seat, her posture relaxed yet attentive. "Your family’s hurting, Tommy," she began. "Ada’s shutting down, and Polly’s anger is growing. You can’t let this continue."

Tommy took a sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. "I’m aware," he said. "But it’s not as simple as making a few decisions and expecting everything to fall into place."

Roseline leaned forward, her hands folded in front of her. "But we have to start somewhere," she insisted. "We need a plan."

Tommy set his glass down, his eyes locking with hers. "I’m open to suggestions," he said.

Roseline’s gaze didn’t waver. "First, we need to clear your name with Ada," she said. "She believes you’re behind Freddie’s arrest."

Tommy’s jaw clenched. "I had nothing to do with it," he stated firmly.

"I believe you, Tommy." Roseline said. "But belief isn’t enough. We need proof, something concrete to show Ada and the rest."

Tommy nodded slowly. "I’ll find it," he promised. 

Roseline stood, her resolve clear. "And I’ll be here," she said.

"I do need your help, Roseline," he admitted, his eyes meeting hers with a clarity that spoke of purpose. "To know what happened."

Roseline’s response was immediate, her nod decisive. "I’ll help," she said. "Tell me what you want me to do."

Tommy leaned back in his chair, the creak of the leather punctuating the silence. "It’s not safe here," he said, glancing towards the door. "Too many ears, too many eyes."

Roseline understood the implication. "Your place or mine?" she asked, a hint of a smile touching her lips.

"Yours," Tommy replied. "Less predictable."

They stood, a mutual understanding passing between them. As they exited the office, the quiet of The Garrison enveloped them, a stark reminder of the gravity of their conversation.

The walk to Roseline’s apartment was a silent one, each lost in their thoughts, formulating plans and considering possibilities. When they arrived, Tommy surveyed the modest living space with an appraiser’s eye.

"Thank you for this," he said, his voice low.

Roseline shrugged off her coat, her movements deliberate. “I'm your assistant," she replied. "Now, where do we start?"

The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. Roseline and Tommy sat opposite each other, a small table between them, papers and notes scattered about. The morning light streamed through the window, casting a warm glow on their serious faces.

Roseline leaned forward, her eyes locked on Tommy’s. "Have you brought anyone new into the fold recently?" she asked, her voice steady.

Tommy rubbed his chin, thinking. "A few faces from London, but they’ve been vetted," he replied.

"But what about someone new to Birmingham?" Roseline pressed. "Someone the Peaky Blinders might not know much about?"

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. "It’s possible," he conceded. "A new resident could have slipped in unnoticed."

They pondered this, the idea of an unseen spy within their ranks—a mole who had infiltrated their tightly-knit community. It was a disturbing thought.

"Could be someone trying to curry favour with the police or a rival gang," Roseline suggested.

Tommy nodded, his mind racing with the implications. "We need to review everyone," he said. "Find any connections they might have outside of our circles."

Roseline’s gaze was unwavering. "We start with the newcomers," she said. "Trace their steps, their acquaintances."

The discussion continued, each suggestion leading to another, each idea building upon the last. They were two calm minds against a storm of betrayal and deceit.

As they reached the conclusion that the spy must be someone new, Roseline allowed herself a small smile. "Be careful, Tommy," she warned. "Now I’m one of your suspects."

Tommy looked at her, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You would make a good spy," he said. "But I trust you."

Roseline’s smile widened. "Good," she said. "Because we’re going to need all the trust we can muster to get through this."

The room was dim, the air heavy with the residue of their conversation. Tommy Shelby stood by the door, his coat draped over his arm, ready to leave. But something held him back—an instinct, a warning.

Roseline, her green eyes still sharp from their discussion, watched him. She had always been the calm one, the logical mind amidst chaos. But now, as Tommy turned toward her, she sensed a shift—an undercurrent of danger.

"Come closer," Tommy said, his voice low, the Birmingham accent thickening the air. His fingers were cold as they closed around her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "Listen carefully, Roseline."

She swallowed, her surprise masked by years of training. Tommy Shelby was a force of nature, a man who commanded loyalty and fear in equal measure. But this—this possessiveness, this intensity—was new.

"If you ever wanted to betray me," Tommy continued, his grip unyielding, "I’ll hunt you down myself. No corner of Birmingham will be safe for you."

Roseline’s mind raced. She had never considered betrayal, but now it loomed before her—an abyss she hadn’t known existed. "Tommy," she began, her voice steady, "I—"

His eyes bore into hers, a predator assessing its prey. "Don’t think I won’t know," he warned. "Green eyes like yours—they don’t forget."

She blinked, her mind racing. How had he seen through her calm facade?

"You would be a good spy," Tommy said, his tone almost admiring. "But remember this: I am better."

Roseline’s heart pounded. She had entered a dangerous game—one where loyalty and betrayal danced on a razor’s edge. "I won’t betray you," she whispered.

His grip loosened, and he stepped back. "Good," he said. "Because if you do, Roseline, there won’t be a place in this world where you can hide."

As Tommy turned to leave, Roseline touched her chin—the imprint of his fingers still there. She had glimpsed the darkness within him—the same darkness that fueled her own determination.

And as the door closed behind him, Roseline knew that loyalty was a fragile thing—a thread that could unravel with a single choice.

The hospital corridors buzzed with activity—the shuffle of nurses’ shoes, the distant hum of machinery, and the occasional murmur of patients. Roseline moved gracefully among the chaos, her white uniform pristine, her green eyes sharp and observant.

The nurses adored her. They whispered about her calm demeanour, her gentle touch with the patients, and the way she seemed to know exactly what was needed even before it was asked. Roseline’s presence was like a soothing balm in a world scarred by war and uncertainty.

The hospital corridor was a hushed theater of secrets, its walls echoing with the footsteps of doctors and nurses. Roseline moved silently, her eyes scanning the faces of the staff as she went about her duties. But it was the low murmur from the supply closet that caught her attention—an exchange of words that seemed to carry weight.

She paused, pretending to adjust her uniform, and listened.

"...Inspector Campbell," one of the men said, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "He’s good at what he does."

The other man chuckled. "Good? He’s bloody brilliant," he replied. "Organizes his files like a bloody general. No one gets near his office."

Roseline’s pulse quickened. Inspector Campbell—the name was a legend in Birmingham. A man who operated in the shadows, whose reputation was whispered in dark corners. But what had he to do with the hospital?

"Did you hear?" the first man continued. "He’s the reason they infiltrated the Peaky Blinders."

Roseline’s mind raced. The Peaky Blinders—a gang that ruled the streets, their name synonymous with violence and power. How had Inspector Campbell managed to penetrate their ranks?

The second man leaned in, his eyes darting around. "They say he can smell a rat from a mile away," he said. "And he’s got connections—higher-ups who owe him favors."

Roseline’s curiosity burned. "Why infiltrate the Peaky Blinders?" she whispered to herself.

As Roseline moved away, her mind whirring, she wondered about the enigmatic inspector. What drove him? What secrets did he hold? And how had he managed to infiltrate the very heart of Birmingham’s underworld?

Only time will tell.

The gas-lit streets of Birmingham stretched out before Roseline, their cobblestones worn by years of footsteps—some desperate, some determined. She walked with purpose, her mind focused on a singular goal: to meet Inspector Campbell. The man was a mystery, a spider at the center of a web, and she needed to unravel his secrets.

As she turned a corner, the familiar silhouette of a dark alleyway caught her eye. Roseline smiled—a perfect opportunity. She stepped into the narrow passage, the walls closing in, the air thick with dampness and decay. Her footsteps echoed, each one a heartbeat of anticipation.

And then it happened—the ambush. A man materialized from the shadows, his breath hot against her skin as he pinned her against the cold brick wall. His eyes were hungry, his intentions clear. Roseline’s heart raced, but she didn’t panic. She had planned for this.

"Let me go," she pleaded, her voice trembling. But the man only tightened his grip, his fingers digging into her arms."Stay still," he hissed, his foul breath mingling with the stench of the alley. He fumbled with the buttons of her coat, his touch invasive, violating.

Roseline’s training kicked in. She twisted her wrist, breaking free from his hold, and delivered a swift blow to his jaw. The man staggered, fury contorting his features. He retaliated, striking her cheek with brutal force. Pain exploded across her face, leaving a fiery imprint.

But Roseline was not defenseless. She reached into her sleeve, her fingers closing around the hilt of a knife—a weapon she carried for moments like these. She pressed it against the man’s throat, the blade cold and unforgiving.

"Don’t move," she warned, her voice steady. "If you know what’s good for you."

The man’s eyes widened, fear replacing desire. "Crazy bitch!" He stumbled back, and fled into the night. Roseline watched him go, her heart still racing, adrenaline coursing through her veins.

She wiped the blood from her cheek, her expression shifting from defiance to vulnerability. She mussed her hair, tore at her clothes, and let fear seep into her eyes. The transformation was complete—a scared woman in a dark alley, a victim.

And as she stepped back into the lamplight, Roseline knew that Inspector Campbell would see her as just that—a frightened soul caught in the web of Birmingham’s underworld.

Roseline’s footsteps echoed in the empty corridor of the police station, her heart pounding against her chest. She clutched her coat closer, trying to cover the bruises that marred her skin. Her hair was a tangled mess, and her eyes were wide with feigned terror.

She approached the front desk, where a young officer sat, his uniform crisp and his expression one of mild interest. "Please," she whispered, her voice quivering, "I need to speak with Inspector Campbell. It’s urgent."

The officer looked up, his gaze softening as he took in her dishevelled appearance. "Miss, are you alright?" he asked, concern etching his features.

Roseline nodded, a single tear trailing down her cheek. "I just... I need the inspector," she managed to say.

Moved by her pitiful state, the officer stood up. "Alright, I’ll take you to him. Just wait here a moment," he said, stepping out from behind the desk.

He led her down a narrow hallway, stopping before a heavy wooden door. After a soft knock, he entered, leaving Roseline to collect herself in the hallway.

"Sir, there’s a girl outside," the officer said to the inspector. "She seems quite desperate to speak with you."

Inspector Campbell, a man known for his stoic demeanour, let out a weary sigh. "Let her in," he commanded.

The officer opened the door, gesturing for Roseline to enter. As she stepped into the room, Inspector Campbell’s eyes widened in shock at her condition.

"Please, take a seat, Miss," he said, indicating the chair across from his desk.

Roseline sat down, her hands trembling in her lap, silent tears streaming down her face. She looked up at him, her green eyes meeting his with a silent plea for help.

The dimly lit office seemed to close in on Roseline as she sat across from Inspector Campbell. Her bruised cheek throbbed, and her eyes remained downcast, the tears still clinging to her lashes. She had played her part well—pitiful, desperate, a woman in need.

Campbell leaned back in his chair, studying her. "Tell me what happened," he said, his voice softer now, devoid of the usual sternness.

Roseline took a shaky breath. "I was walking home," she began, her voice trembling. "And he—he came out of nowhere. Pinned me against the wall, demanding—"

Campbell held up a hand. "I don’t need the details," he said. "Just describe him."

She nodded, grateful for the reprieve. "Tall, broad-shouldered," she said. "Dark hair, stubble. His eyes—they were cold, calculating."

Campbell’s gaze never wavered. "Did you recognize him?"

Roseline shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I’ve never seen him before."

He sighed, reaching for a napkin from a nearby tray. "You shouldn’t be in a place like this," he said, dabbing at her bruised cheek. "You don’t fit here."

She met his eyes, her gratitude genuine. "I have no choice," she replied. "You know my situation."

Campbell’s expression softened. "I do," he said. "But desperation can lead to dangerous decisions."

As he stood, Roseline’s heart raced. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"To give this information to the officer," he said. "Wait here."

She nodded, watching him leave. As the door closed behind him, her expression shifted. The tears dried, and a smile tugged at her lips. She had played her part well, but now it was time for the next act.

Quickly, she scanned the room—the desk cluttered with files, the shelves lined with dusty books. Her eyes settled on a drawer—the one she had noticed earlier. She slipped it open, rifling through the papers until she found it—the file labeled 'Classified.'

Her fingers trembled as she tucked it into her pocket. She had what she needed—the spy’s identity, the key to unraveling the truth.

When Campbell returned, he found her still in her seat, tears in her eyes. "Thank you," she whispered.

Chapter Text

The air in Polly's parlour was thick with the scent of tobacco and the undercurrent of rebellion that always seemed to linger around the Peaky Blinders. Roseline sat across from Polly, her posture relaxed yet attentive, a silent strength in her calm demeanour.

"So, you've found the spy," Polly began, her voice a controlled blend of curiosity and command. "The one who's been leaking our plans."

Roseline nodded, her expression serene. "Yes, the matter has been dealt with."

Polly's eyes narrowed, a glint of satisfaction flickering within. "Good. We can't afford loose ends. Not now."

The conversation shifted, the topic of betrayal put to rest as easily as one would extinguish a cigarette. "Tommy's been under a lot of pressure," Polly confided, her tone casual but probing. "The war's over, but the battle for Birmingham's just begun."

Roseline's gaze met Polly's, a silent understanding passing between them. "He's strong. He'll see us through."

Polly leaned back, her eyes appraising the young nurse. "You've become quite the asset to us, Roseline. Your work doesn't go unnoticed."

A faint blush coloured Roseline's cheeks, a modest response to the compliment. "I do what I can to help."

"And you do it well," Polly acknowledged. "Ada's taken quite a liking to you. You've been good for her."

Roseline's smile was genuine, her respect for the Shelby family evident. "Ada's been kind to me. It's the least I can do."

Polly's expression softened, a rare occurrence for the matriarch of the Peaky Blinders. "We need to keep spirits high. With everything that's happening, the good news is like a rare coin."

"I agree," Roseline said. "Hope is a powerful medicine."

Polly's eyes lingered on the empty fireplace, the unlit coals a stark reminder of the warmth that was missing from her life. Roseline sat opposite her, the space between them filled with the heavy silence of unspoken sorrows.

"I won't let Ada go through the same thing," Polly said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence like a fragile glass shattering.

Roseline looked up, her expression a mixture of confusion and concern. "The same thing as what, Polly?"

Polly's hands trembled slightly as she clasped them together, seeking strength in her touch. "I had children," she confessed, her voice a mere whisper as if the words were being pulled from her soul. "Anna and Michael. Anna was just three, and Michael was five."

The sadness in Polly's eyes was a deep well of pain. "They were taken from me," she continued, her voice growing firmer with the weight of her memories. "The police—they said I wasn't fit to be their mother. They said the life I led was no place for children."

Roseline's heart ached at the revelation, her own eyes now mirroring Polly's grief. "Polly, I—I had no idea."

Polly looked away, her gaze lost in the past. "They're out there somewhere, my babies, thinking their mother abandoned them."

Roseline reached across the small table, her hand hesitantly covering Polly's. "You are a good woman, Polly. And an even better mother. No one can take that away from you—not even the police."

Polly's eyes met Roseline's, and for a moment, they shared a bond of mutual understanding and compassion. "Thank you," Polly said, her voice steadier now. "But I have to be strong. For the family. For Ada."

Roseline nodded, her touch gentle but firm. "You're not alone, Polly."

Polly's lips curved into a sad smile, a glimmer of gratitude shining through. "Thank you, Roseline. For listening. For caring."

The room was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. Polly and Roseline remained seated, the atmosphere heavy with the weight of confessions and secrets.

Polly leaned forward, her curiosity piqued by the nurse's enigmatic presence. "What about your own family, Roseline? You never speak of them."

A shadow passed over Roseline's face, her eyes momentarily clouded. "I have no family," she said quietly, "or at least, none worth mentioning."

Polly's confusion deepened, but before she could probe further, the door opened, and Tommy stepped in. His entrance was like a gust of wind, stirring the stillness and redirecting Polly's thoughts.

The room was steeped in the quiet aftermath of shared confidences when Roseline glanced at the clock, its hands inching towards her inevitable departure. "It's time for me to leave," she announced, her voice carrying a note of reluctance. "I promised to go for a stroll with Esme."

Tommy, who had been a silent observer until now, stepped forward. "I can drive you there," he offered, the rough timbre of his Birmingham accent not quite concealing the concern in his offer.

Roseline offered him a polite smile, her eyes meeting his for a fleeting moment that seemed to hold a world of silent conversations. "Thank you, but I wouldn't want to impose," she declined gracefully, her independence shining through.

As she moved towards the door, Tommy's gaze followed her, intense and unreadable. Polly watched the exchange, a knowing look in her eyes. She saw the unspoken tension, the subtle shift in Tommy's demeanour—a side of him rarely seen.

Roseline paused at the door, turning back to look at Tommy. In that brief glance, there was a quiet acknowledgement, a recognition of the bond that was forming between them, undefined but unmistakably present.

And then she was gone, leaving the room feeling emptier in her absence. Tommy stood motionless, his eyes lingering on the closed door, while Polly observed him with a mixture of curiosity and understanding.

Polly's eyes softened as she regarded Tommy, the earlier tension dissipating like smoke in the wind. "Tommy, I'm sorry for doubting you," she said, her voice carrying a rare note of contrition.

Tommy's gaze was steady, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "It's fine, Pol," he replied in his distinctive Birmingham drawl. "Don't worry about it. I've taken care of Freddie. He'll be back soon."

A smile broke through Polly's usually stoic demeanour, a glimmer of relief in her eyes. "Thank you, Tommy. Ada will be over the moon," she said, her gratitude evident.

Tommy just nodded, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "I hope this means no more nagging, eh?" he quipped, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement.

Polly chuckled, but her mind was elsewhere, recalling the moment Tommy's eyes had met Roseline's. "That look in your eyes when you saw Roseline," she mused aloud, "I've never seen that before."

"Tommy," Polly finally broke the silence, her voice gentle, "she's different, isn't she?"

Tommy's response was a mere nod, his usual guarded expression back in place. But Polly had seen enough, had recognized the subtle softening in his eyes, the slight unguarded moment when he looked at Roseline.

"She might have opened that heart of yours," Polly mused, half to herself.

Tommy turned to her, a ghost of a smile flickering across his face, a rare glimpse of the man behind the leader of the Peaky Blinders. "Maybe," he conceded, before quickly masking his emotions with the familiar stoic facade.

Polly watched him, a mix of affection and concern in her gaze. She knew the risks of letting someone in, the dangers of vulnerability, especially for a man like Tommy Shelby. But she also knew the value of having someone who could see past the armor to the person beneath.

As Tommy walked away, his steps measured and deliberate, Polly couldn't help but feel a spark of hope. Perhaps Roseline was the key to unlocking a part of Tommy that even he had thought lost.

The cobbled streets wound ahead of them, and Roseline and Esme continued their leisurely stroll. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows on the pavement. Esme’s laughter echoed through the narrow alleyways as she pointed at a street performer juggling oranges.

"Look at that bloke!" Esme exclaimed, her eyes alight with amusement. "He’s got more balls in the air than Arthur Shelby after a night at The Garrison."

Roseline chuckled, her gaze following the juggler’s antics. "Impressive," she agreed. "But I’d rather juggle medical supplies than oranges."

"You’re a practical one, Roseline. I like that." Esme nudged her playfully. 

They passed a bakery, the scent of freshly baked bread wafting out. Esme’s eyes sparkled. "I could eat a whole loaf right now," she declared. "And maybe steal a few pastries for John."

"I’ll be your lookout. But don’t blame me if we end up in a brawl with the baker." Roseline grinned.

They continued their walk, passing by a vendor selling colourful fabrics. Esme ran her fingers over the silks, her expression thoughtful. "These would make lovely dresses for the races," she mused. "What do you think, Roseline? Fancy a day at the tracks?"

Roseline nodded, admiring the vibrant patterns. "It would be a welcome change from the hospital wards," she admitted. "A bit of colour does wonders for the spirit."

As they strolled, their conversation flowed from the trivial to the heartfelt, touching on everything from the latest fashion to the best remedies for a hangover. Esme's boisterous nature complemented Roseline's more reserved charm, and together they navigated the lively streets with a sense of camaraderie.

At one point, Esme stopped to purchase a paper cone filled with roasted chestnuts. "Here, try these," she offered, handing one to Roseline. "They're John's favourite."

Roseline accepted the warm treat, the nutty aroma reminding her of simpler times. "Delicious," she said after taking a bite. "It's the small pleasures that make life sweet."

Esme nodded in agreement, her gaze following a couple dancing to a street musician's tune. "That's the truth. We get so caught up in the big moments, we forget to enjoy the little ones."

The two women shared a smile, a silent acknowledgement of the bond forming between them. As the sun set, casting a golden hue over the city, they found themselves at a small park. Esme suggested they sit for a while, and they found a bench near a fountain.

The sound of the water was soothing, and for a long moment, they simply sat and watched the world go by. It was a rare moment of peace in the chaotic world of the Peaky Blinders—a moment that both women cherished.

As the evening drew on, they rose from the bench, their spirits lifted by the shared laughter and the simple joy of each other's company. "We should do this more often," Esme said as they made their way back to the Shelby residence.

Roseline agreed, feeling a sense of belonging that had eluded her for so long. "Yes, we should," she said. "It's good for the soul."

And as they disappeared into the growing dusk, the streets of Birmingham seemed a little less daunting, the challenges ahead a little less insurmountable, for they had each other—and that was no small thing.

The sun dipped lower, casting a warm glow over the cobbled streets. Roseline and Esme stood at the crossroads, their laughter still echoing in the air. The market stalls bustled around them, but in this quiet corner, time seemed to slow.

Esme adjusted her scarf, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Roseline," she said, her voice soft, "it’s been a pleasure. You’re not like the others."

Roseline’s smile was genuine. "And you, Esme," she replied, "are a force of nature. John is lucky to have you."

Esme leaned in, her cheek brushing against Roseline’s. "Take care," she whispered. 

"I’ll keep that in mind. Farewell, Esme." Roseline chuckled. 

They hugged, a brief but heartfelt embrace. Then Esme stepped back, her eyes lingering on Roseline. "Don’t be a stranger," she said. "We’ll cross paths again."

Roseline nodded, watching as Esme disappeared into the crowd. She felt a mix of gratitude and melancholy. Esme had been a bright spot in her day—a glimpse of warmth in the midst of shadows.

The narrow streets of Birmingham stretched before Roseline, their worn cobblestones echoing the footsteps of countless souls who had walked these same paths. The evening sun dipped low, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls of the surrounding buildings. Roseline’s steps were measured, her nurse’s uniform swaying gently with each movement.

As she walked, a subtle shift in the air caught her attention—a prickling at the back of her neck, an awareness that she was being observed. Roseline had learned to trust her instincts, honed by years of tending to the wounded and the desperate. But this sensation was different. It wasn’t the furtive glances of curious passersby or the hungry eyes of those seeking trouble. No, this was something else entirely.

She glanced around, her gaze sweeping over the faces of the people she passed. Ordinary folk going about their business—buying bread, haggling over vegetables, children chasing after stray cats. Yet, none of them held the intensity she felt—the weight of scrutiny that bore down on her like a silent question.

Roseline’s mind raced. Who were these watchers? And why had Tommy Shelby sent them? She knew the man’s reputation—the cunning leader of the Peaky Blinders, a web of secrets and alliances woven around him like armor. But why would he have eyes on her?

A smile tugged at Roseline’s lips. Perhaps it was a matter of trust. Tommy Shelby didn’t trust easily, and she was an enigma—a nurse with a past she kept well-guarded. Or perhaps it was something else—an acknowledgement that she was more than just a healer, that her presence in the Shelby world had stirred ripples.

She continued walking, her pace steady. The watchers remained discreet, blending into the crowd. They weren’t there to harm her; that much was clear. Instead, they observed, assessed, and reported back to their employer. Roseline wondered what they saw—the calm facade, the eyes that missed nothing, the heart that held its own secrets.

As she approached the hospital, the grand facade looming ahead, Roseline made a decision. She wouldn’t react. She wouldn’t confront them or demand answers. Instead, she would continue her path, her purpose unwavering. If Tommy Shelby had sent them, then he had his reasons. And perhaps, in this strange dance of trust and suspicion, she had earned a place in his intricate world.

The hospital doors swung open, and Roseline stepped inside. The scent of antiseptic and linens enveloped her, grounding her. She glanced back once, catching a glimpse of the watchers lingering on the street. Their eyes met hers briefly, and then they turned away, melting into the crowd.

Roseline’s smile remained—a secret shared with the shadows. She had work to do, and lives to mend. And if Tommy Shelby’s eyes followed her, well, she would stitch together her own answers, one thread at a time.

The last light of day had faded, leaving the sky a canvas of deep blues and purples as Roseline stepped out of the hospital. Her shift had been long, filled with the steady rhythm of healing and hope. The weight of her responsibilities lingered on her shoulders like a well-worn cloak.

She walked through the streets of Birmingham, her steps echoing in the quiet of the evening. The Garrison loomed ahead, its windows glowing with the promise of warmth and respite. Roseline's thoughts drifted to the patrons inside—men and women seeking solace in the bottom of a glass, laughter and music spilling out into the night.

As she approached the pub, the sound of lively conversation and the clinking of glasses grew louder. She paused at the door, taking a deep breath. Inside, the world was different—a world of camaraderie and escape, where the troubles of the day could be drowned or forgotten.

Roseline stepped through the doorway, her presence like a gentle ripple across the still waters of the pub. Heads turned, not because of any notoriety or infamy, but simply because her beauty was undeniable—a serene countenance that spoke of both kindness and strength.

She moved with an effortless grace, her nurse’s uniform replaced by attire that was both modest and flattering, accentuating her natural elegance. The patrons of The Garrison, from the labourers to the businessmen, found themselves pausing mid-conversation, their gazes drawn to her as if by some unspoken charm.

Roseline was aware of the attention, the subtle shifts in posture and the quiet hush that followed her path to an empty table. She chose a spot near the back, away from the prying eyes and the soft murmur of intrigue that her arrival had sparked. There was no Tommy Shelby here tonight—no sharp blue eyes to cut through the crowd, no enigmatic leader to observe her from a shadowed corner.

As she settled into her seat, a server approached, a smile playing on his lips as he took her order. Roseline’s response was polite, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to brighten the dimly lit space around her.

The evening wore on, and Roseline remained a solitary figure amidst the throng of The Garrison’s patrons. She sipped her drink, her thoughts her own, her gaze occasionally wandering to the door as if expecting someone.

The door to The Garrison slammed open with a force that silenced the room. Tommy Shelby strode in, his eyes sweeping over the crowd with an intensity that commanded immediate attention. "Everyone out," he barked, his voice brooking no argument.

Patrons scrambled for the exits, their drinks forgotten, their conversations cut short. The air was thick with tension, the kind that precedes a storm. Roseline, who had been about to leave, paused at Tommy's sudden entrance. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp and clear. "Not you, Roseline. Stay."

Confusion flickered across her face, but she nodded, her training as a nurse kicking in—remain calm, assess the situation. "What's the special occasion, Tommy?" she asked, her voice steady despite the chaos.

Tommy's lips thinned into a line. "Two IRA men will be here any minute," he said, his tone low and dangerous.

Roseline's mind raced, but her expression remained composed. She opened her mouth to ask more, but Tommy cut her off, pressing a gun into her hands. "Hide behind that door," he instructed, pointing to a nondescript wooden door near the back. "When I make a toast, come out pointing the gun at them. Don't shoot."

A smile touched Roseline's lips, a brief flash of humor in the grim setting. "I hope you're planning to raise my pay after this," she quipped.

Tommy's response was cut short as he ushered her towards the door. "Go now," he urged.

Roseline slipped behind the door, her heart rate steady, her breath even. She peered through a crack, watching as Tommy prepared the stage for the night's drama. He placed three glasses and a whiskey bottle on a table, then sat down with the poise of a king in his court.

The door burst open, and two men barged in, their eyes fixed on Tommy. The atmosphere crackled with electricity, and every muscle in Roseline's body tensed for what was to come.

Tommy's voice was smooth as he greeted the men, but there was steel beneath the velvet—a dangerous edge that promised violence. "Gentlemen," he said. 

The Garrison had transformed into a theatre of shadows and whispers, where every movement was a prelude to something dire. The two men, emissaries of the IRA, took their seats opposite Tommy, their faces etched with lines of tension and resolve. Roseline, hidden from view, watched through a sliver of space, her breath a silent count against the beat of her heart.

The men spoke in low tones, their words danced around the subject of peace—a peace that hung by a thread. Tommy listened, his face a mask of indifference, his eyes sharp and calculating. "I'll make peace," he said, his voice a growl of defiance, "but on my terms."

He stood, the scrape of his chair a harsh note in the quiet symphony. Lifting his glass, he toasted, "To roses in the dirt," a phrase laden with meaning only he understood.

At that signal, Roseline emerged, her figure a sudden spectre in the dim light, the gun in her hand an extension of her will. The man with the gun, his intentions laid bare, squeezed the trigger—a shot that went wide, a miss that sealed his fate.

Roseline's response was swift, a single shot that found its mark, the man collapsing as if strings had been cut from his limbs. Chaos erupted, Tommy and the other man locked in a deadly tango, fists and fury colliding with the sound of shattering glass.

Tommy’s rage-fueled him. He seized a nearby vase, its ceramic surface cold against his palm. The room blurred as he swung it, the vase becoming an instrument of vengeance. Each blow landed with a sickening thud, Bryne’s face a canvas of pain and desperation. Blood sprayed, mixing with the shards of glass that littered the floor.

The man staggered, his eyes wild, but he fought back. Desperation lent him strength, and he lunged at Tommy, fingers clawing for purchase. Tommy dodged, narrowly avoiding a punch that would have shattered bone. The room spun, and he swung the vase again, this time aiming for the man’s temple.

The impact echoed through the room. Byrne crumpled, knees buckling. Tommy didn’t relent. He struck again and again, a primal force unleashed. The vase cracked, then shattered, leaving jagged edges that sliced his skin. But he didn’t care. Blood dripped from his knuckles, mingling with the crimson pool forming around the fallen man.

Finally, the other man lay still, his face unrecognizable, features obliterated by Tommy’s fury. The room smelled of iron and violence. Tommy’s chest heaved, and he dropped the remnants of the vase. His gaze swept the room, taking in the wreckage—the overturned chairs, the broken glass, the blood-soaked floor.

Tommy wiped blood from his face, meeting Roseline’s gaze. There was no triumph in his eyes, only the cold fire of survival. He knew the cost of power, the price of peace. And as they regarded each other across the expanse of the pub, there was an understanding—an acknowledgement of the roles they played in this world of grit and shadows.

The night hung heavy around them, the air thick with the scent of blood and the weight of secrets. Tommy Shelby stood before Roseline, his clothes stained crimson, the evidence of violence etched into every fiber. His face was a canvas of brutality—bruised knuckles, a split lip, eyes that held both defiance and weariness.

Roseline’s gaze met his, her expression a mask of calm. She had seen him—the true Tommy Shelby—the man who moved through Birmingham’s underworld like a phantom, leaving chaos in his wake. But she didn’t flinch. Instead, she stepped closer, her nurse’s instincts kicking in. Blood—she could smell it, taste it in the air. It was a familiar scent, one she had encountered countless times in the hospital wards.

Tommy pulled her into a hug, and for a moment, they were two souls clinging to each other in the aftermath of violence. His grip was tight, desperate, as if seeking solace in her presence. "Now you’ve bloody seen me," he murmured against her hair, his voice raw. "The real me."

Roseline didn’t respond. Her face remained blank, her emotions locked away. But she returned the hug, her arms wrapping around him. She was no stranger to the darkness—the shadows that clung to Tommy Shelby like a second skin. And in this shared silence, they understood each other—a nurse and a gangster, bound by secrets and survival.

But their fragile cocoon shattered as the door swung open. A copper—a disruption in their private world—strode in, his uniform crisp, his eyes sharp. Tommy argued with him, words sharp and clipped, but Roseline didn’t listen. Her focus was on Tommy—the bloodied man who had pulled her into his orbit.

He snapped her out of her trance, his voice urgent. "I’ll drive you home," he said, concern etching lines on his face. Roseline nodded, her mind still spinning.

The car ride was quiet, the engine’s hum a backdrop to her racing thoughts. Tommy stole glances at her, worry etched into every line of his face. He wanted to talk, to break the silence, but he held back. Roseline was in shock, he realized—a witness to his brutality, a silent accomplice.

They reached her apartment building, and Tommy’s voice snapped her back to reality. She looked at him, confusion clouding her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice distant. And then, before he could react, she kissed his cheek—a fleeting touch that left him stunned.

Roseline stepped out of the car, her movements mechanical. Tommy watched her, torn between following her and giving her space. As her door closed, he touched his cheek, feeling the warmth of her lips. She was a puzzle—a nurse with secrets, a woman who had seen him at his most brutal.

And as he drove away, Tommy Shelby wondered if Roseline would ever look at him the same way again.

The dimly lit hallway of Roseline’s apartment building seemed to close in on her as she stumbled through the door. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, her chest heaving with the remnants of adrenaline. The lock clicked into place, and she leaned against the door, her legs giving way. The cool wood pressed into her back, grounding her in this moment of chaos.

Her hand flew to her face, fingers trembling as they hid her blushing cheeks. Roseline had seen Tommy Shelby—the man behind the legend, the orchestrator of violence and power. His image was etched into her mind—the bloodied knuckles, the fire in his eyes, the raw brutality that had unfolded before her.

And yet, as she slid down the door, her breaths slowing, there was a smile—a secret smile that danced behind her trembling fingers. It wasn’t the violence that thrilled her, nor the danger that clung to Tommy like a second skin. No, it was something deeper, an understanding that defied reason.

Roseline had stitched wounds and tended to broken bones, but this was different. This was Tommy—the man who moved through Birmingham’s underworld with the grace of a predator. She had seen him at his most primal, and instead of fear, there was something else—a fascination, perhaps, or a recognition of shared darkness.

His face haunted her—the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes held hers. Roseline wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Did he glimpse the nurse—the calm facade she wore—or did he see the woman beneath? The one who didn’t flinch, who returned his hug, who had witnessed the storm and remained standing.

Outside her window, the city hummed with its own secrets, the footsteps echoing in the alleyways. Roseline pushed herself up, her legs wobbly, and crossed the room. She caught her reflection in the mirror—a flush of colour on her cheeks, eyes wide with something she couldn’t name.

Tommy Shelby, the man who could break bones and hearts with equal ease—had left his mark on her. And as she sank onto her bed, the smile still playing on her lips, Roseline wondered if she would ever forget the way he looked beating the man. Not fear, not revulsion—something else entirely.

Chapter Text

Tommy Shelby stood at the center of the dimly lit room, the Peaky Blinders gathered around him like loyal hounds awaiting their master’s command. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and anticipation. The oak table bore the weight of secrets, and tonight, it would carry another burden—the fate of Billy Kimber.

"Tonight," Tommy’s voice was a low rumble, "we turn the tables on Billy Kimber. He’s under the impression we’re his to command against the Lees." A smirk played on his lips, the irony not lost on him. “But thanks to John and his lovely new wife Esme, the Lees are now our kin ."

Laughter filled the room, a cacophony of mirth that spoke of their shared contempt for Kimber’s ignorance. Arthur’s booming laugh rose above the rest, his hand slapping the table with glee. "John’s been busy, eh?" he jested, winking at his younger brother.

John, his cheeks reddening under the ribbing, shot back with a grin, "Sacrifices must be made for family, right?" The men roared, their bond unbreakable, their loyalty unwavering.

Tommy waited for the laughter to subside before continuing. "We’ll stand with the Lees against Kimber’s boys. We’ll strike hard and fast, leaving nothing but the bookies trembling." His eyes glinted with the thrill of the upcoming challenge.

"What about Kimber himself?" Polly’s voice cut through the din, her sharp gaze fixed on Tommy. The room fell silent, the question hanging in the air like smoke.

Tommy’s eyes met Polly’s, a silent understanding passing between them. "I’ll handle Kimber," he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "He won’t even see the shadow before the knife."

The men nodded, their faces set with grim determination. They knew the stakes, the risks, and the rewards. As they dispersed, their steps were measured, their minds already plotting the downfall of a king.

As the meeting drew to a close, Tommy’s voice cut through the lingering tension. "Any other questions?" he asked, his gaze sweeping across the room.

Polly stood, her eyes twinkling with a mix of mischief and pride. "Yes," she declared, her voice carrying the weight of something momentous. "If you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce a newcomer to our meeting."

The door creaked open, and in the threshold stood Ada, cradling a bundle in her arms. The room fell into a stunned silence before erupting into applause. Polly beamed. "I present to you the newest member of the Shelby clan."

Tommy’s expression softened, a rare sight. "Welcome home, Ada," he said, his voice warm.

Ada, her eyes shining with unshed tears, replied, "We’ve named him Karl." The name hung in the air, a new legacy in the making.

The men crowded around, eager for a glimpse of the future. Arthur, with a grin, took the baby into his arms. "He looks just like me," he joked, and laughter filled the room, a light-hearted reprieve from their usual grim affairs.

Tommy approached Ada, his demeanor serious. "Am I forgiven?" he asked, searching her face for absolution.

Ada’s smile was radiant. "If what Aunt Polly says is true, then yes, you are." Her words were a balm to the wounds of the past.

Tommy nodded, a silent vow passing between them. "It’s true," he assured her.

The warmth in the room was palpable as Ada stepped forward and embraced Tommy, her gratitude evident in her embrace. The Shelby family stood united, their bonds strengthened by the joy of new life amidst the shadows of their world.

As the Shelby family reveled in the joy of Ada’s return and the introduction of baby Karl, Tommy’s voice once again commanded the room. "Right then," he announced, his eyes sparkling with a rare hint of merriment, "to the Garrison! Tonight, we celebrate, and the drinks are on the house!"

A cheer went up among the Blinders, a sound that carried the weight of their shared triumphs and tribulations. They clapped each other on the back, their faces alight with smiles as they prepared to leave the meeting room.

"First round’s on Tommy, but the second’s on John!" Arthur bellowed, nudging his brother playfully. "After all, he’s the one with the new wife to keep happy!"

John rolled his eyes, but his grin was infectious. "Only if you promise not to sing, Arthur. We want to keep the customers, not scare them off!"

The men laughed, their banter a testament to the camaraderie that bound them. Polly, holding baby Karl, shook her head with a smile. "You lot are impossible," she said, though her affection for them was clear as day.

As they made their way to the Garrison, the streets of Birmingham became a stage for their jubilation. The locals, drawn by the commotion, watched as the Peaky Blinders passed, their curiosity piqued by the unusual display of cheer.

Inside the pub, the atmosphere was electric. The barman, well-versed in the ways of the Blinders, began pouring pints with a speed born of practice. The patrons raised their glasses, toasting to the health of the Shelby family and the newest addition to their ranks.

As the room emptied and the echoes of the meeting faded, Polly approached Tommy, her footsteps silent on the wooden floor. "Does Roseline know about what’s happening?" she asked, her voice low, tinged with concern. "We might need her after the fight."

Tommy avoided her gaze, his eyes fixed on some distant point. "No, not yet," he muttered, the words barely a whisper.

Polly’s worry deepened, her keen intuition sensing the unspoken troubles. "Tommy, what did you do?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing. “You didn’t scare the girl away, did you?”

Tommy’s silence was answer enough. "I don’t bloody know," he finally admitted, his voice hollow.

Anger flared in Polly’s eyes, her hands clenching into fists. "Fix it, Tommy," she commanded, her voice sharp as a blade. "Rose is exactly what this family needs." With those final words, she turned on her heel and left, leaving Tommy alone with the weight of his actions.

The hospital doors swung open, and Roseline stepped out into the crisp morning air. Her eyes squinted against the sunlight, and for a moment, she wondered if she’d stepped into a different world—one where the walls weren’t sterile white, and the scent of disinfectant didn’t cling to her skin.

And then she saw him—Tommy Shelby, leaning against the wrought-iron fence, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored coat. His eyes, those stormy eyes that held secrets and shadows, were fixed on her. She blinked, momentarily disoriented. Why was he here?

"Good morning, Tommy," she said, her confusion evident. "What brings you to the hospital?"

"I will walk you to your apartment." he said, avoiding her gaze. 

She tilted her head, studying him. "As long as you don’t deduct it from my paycheck," she teased. "I’ve got bills to pay, you know."

His smile was a revelation—a glimpse of the man behind the gangster facade. "I’m not that type of man," he assured her. "Besides, you wanted a raise after all, yeah?"

Roseline fell into step beside him, their shoulders brushing. The streets of Birmingham woke up around them—the clatter of carts, the shouts of vendors. It felt oddly normal, this walk with Tommy Shelby, as if they were just two ordinary people navigating life.

He cleared his throat. "Today, we take down Billy Kimber," he said, his voice low. "And we might need you after the fight."

"Of course,” Roseline replied. “I’m glad you told me."

When they reached her apartment building, she paused. "Be careful," she said, her eyes searching his. And then, catching him off guard, she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

Tommy blinked, stunned.

"Be careful," she repeated, her smile mischievous. "And don’t let that brain of yours get you killed."

As she disappeared into the building, Tommy stood there, his hand pressed to his cheek. The Peaky Blinders’ leader, caught off balance by a nurse with a penchant for kisses, watched her go.

And for the first time in a long while, he felt something akin to hope.

The small, cozy apartment was filled with the comforting aroma of freshly brewed tea. Roseline sat on the worn-out armchair, her fingers wrapped around the delicate porcelain cup. Across from her, Ada perched on the edge of the chair, her eyes tired but determined.

"Roseline," Ada began, her voice soft, "I’ve been meaning to tell you something."

"Go on." Roseline raised an eyebrow, intrigued. 

Ada hesitated, then blurted out, "I’m glad you’re my friend. You’ve helped me more than you know. With everything—the family drama, the secrets, the chaos. You’ve been a rock."

Roseline chuckled. "Ada, I think I’m the lucky one here. Meeting you and getting to know your family—it’s been an adventure. And you, my dear, are a force to be reckoned with."

Ada laughed, a genuine sound that echoed through the room. "Force? More like a hurricane. But thank you, Rose."

Their laughter faded, and the room settled into a comfortable silence. Roseline swirled the tea in her cup, watching the steam rise. "Ada," she said, her tone serious, "the fight with kimber is going to start soon."

Ada’s expression shifted. Worry creased her forehead, but there was a glimmer of determination in her eyes. "We’ll win," she said firmly. '"Tommy won’t let us down."

"Yes," Roseline agreed. "The Peaky Blinders will win. But at what cost?"

"What do you mean?" Ada looked confused. 

Roseline leaned back, staring at the ceiling. "The men—they’re used to death. It’s part of their world. But what about their families? Their children? They don’t sign up for this life, Ada. They don’t choose it."

Ada’s gaze dropped to her hands, clenched in her lap. "I’ve never thought about it that way," she admitted. "I suppose I’ve been too caught up in our own struggles."

Roseline reached across the small coffee table, touching Ada’s hand. "It’s not wrong to fight for what’s right," she said softly. "But sometimes, we have to consider the collateral damage. The innocent lives affected by our choices."

Ada stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the wooden floor. "I’m going to do the right thing," she declared. "I’ll find a way to help those families, Roseline. Even if it means going against Tommy."

Roseline watched her go, moved by Ada’s determination. "Where are you going?" she called after her.

Ada glanced back, a fierce resolve in her eyes. "To make a difference," she said. "For them."

And with that, she left, the door closing softly behind her. Roseline sat alone in the dimly lit room, her tea growing cold. But she couldn’t help but smile. Ada might be a hurricane, but she was also a beacon of hope.

And as Roseline sipped her tea, she knew that sometimes, even in the darkest of times, friendship and compassion could change the course of history.

The mist hung low over the cobbled streets of Birmingham, casting an eerie glow on the figures that emerged from the shadows. Billy Kimber, the notorious gang leader, stood at the center of his men—a sea of flat caps and clenched fists. His eyes narrowed as he watched the approaching group. The Peaky Blinders.

But something was different this time. The Lees, once loyal to Kimber, now stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Tommy Shelby’s gang. The air crackled with tension, and the dampness seemed to seep into their bones.

Tommy stepped forward, his face a mask of determination. "kimber," he said, his voice low and steady, "it’s over. This is your fall."

Kimber’s laugh was a rasp—a sound that echoed off the grimy walls. "You think so, Shelby? We fucking outmatch you, even if all of you are against us."

Tommy’s gaze flickered to the Lees—Arthur and John. Their eyes were hard, their loyalty unwavering. "Do we?" Tommy asked. "Or have you forgotten something?"

And then, two figures materialized behind Kimber’s men. Freddie Thorne, scarred and battle-worn, held a rifle with a steady hand. Danny, the quiet one, his eyes filled with a fire that burned brighter than the gas lamps lining the street, stood beside him.

Kimber’s bravado faltered. "What’s this?" he spat. "A trap?"

Freddie’s grin was feral. "Call it what you want, Billy. But we’re done with your bullshit"

Danny’s voice was a whisper, but it carried weight. "You’ve taken enough from this city. It ends tonight."

Kimber’s men shifted uneasily, glancing at each other. Fear danced in their eyes—the realization that they were outnumbered, outgunned. But Kimber himself remained defiant.

"You think a couple of traitors change anything?" he sneered. "I’ve faced worse odds! You're a coward Tommy Shelby, especially after starting that fuckin' fire in my own bloody house."

Tommy’s gaze never wavered. "I started no fuckin' fire," he said. "If I were a coward, you wouldn't have already lost, eh?"

Kimber’s jaw clenched. "Bullshit," he muttered.

"Is it? Look around, Mr kimber. Your men—they’re scared. They know it’s over. And you?" Tommy’s voice dropped to a dangerous whisper.  "You’re fuckin' cornered."

And then, as if orchestrated by some unseen conductor, the Lees stepped forward. Arthur’s knuckles cracked and John’s fingers twitched near the blade hidden in his coat.

The narrow alley reeked of desperation and gunpowder. The Peaky Blinders faced off against Billy Kimber’s men, the tension thick enough to slice with a razor blade. The cobblestones bore witness to countless brawls, but this one—the final reckoning—was different. Ada Shelby, clad in mourning black, stepped into the fray, pushing a stroller before her. Her baby slept, blissfully unaware of the chaos that surrounded them.

The gangs eyed each other warily, muscles tensed and hands ready to draw weapons at a moment’s notice. Freddie Thorne’s eyes darted between Ada and the opposing gang, confusion etched on his face. "Ada, get out of here!" he hissed, but she stood firm, a solitary figure of defiance.

Tommy Shelby, his face etched with weariness, stepped forward. "Ada," he said, his voice a low rasp, "this isn’t—"

"Stop fighting!" Ada’s voice cut through the air like a blade. Her eyes blazed with a fire that belied her delicate appearance. "This isn’t the war anymore. We’ve lost too many. Our women, our children—they’ve paid the price."

Kimber’s men sneered, their knuckles white around their brass knuckles. "Step aside, woman," one of them spat. "This ain’t your fight."

Ada’s hand tightened on the stroller’s handle. "It is," she said. "I’ve buried brothers, husbands, friends. I’ve dressed in black too many times. No more."

But before she could finish, Kimber’s hand moved with lethal precision, his gun drawn and fired without a word. The shot rang out, a deafening crack that echoed off the walls. Tommy Shelby staggered, a red bloom spreading across his chest, but he remained standing, his eyes locked on Kimber.

Kimber, smirking, began to speak, his voice dripping with contempt. "You think you can take me down, Tommy Shelby? You and what bloody army?"

Tommy’s response was not with words but with action. As Kimber spoke, Tommy’s own gun appeared in his hand, the movement almost a blur. With a single, precise shot, he silenced Kimber forever, the gang leader’s body crumpling to the ground.

The alley fell into a stunned silence, broken only by the distant sound of industry and the soft whimpering of Ada’s baby. Tommy, blood seeping through his clothes, stood tall and imposing, his Birmingham accent cutting through the shock.

"I’ve won the fight against kimber," he declared, his voice resonating with authority. "Now go back to your families. Leave this life behind."

Kimber’s men, their leader fallen, hesitated. They looked to one another, the reality of their situation dawning on them. With a collective, resigned sigh, they began to disperse, dragging Kimber’s lifeless body with them.

The Peaky Blinders watched them leave, their expressions a mix of triumph and sorrow. Ada, tears streaming down her face, rushed to Tommy’s side, her hands trembling as she touched the wound.

Tommy, ever the leader, gently pushed her away. "I’m fine," he lied, his voice barely a whisper. "Take care of the little one."

The air was thick with tension and the sharp tang of blood. The Peaky Blinders, their faces grim and set, converged around Tommy Shelby. He stood silent among them, his strength waning but his spirit unyielding. Blood seeped through his shirt, a stark contrast to the pale skin beneath.

John Shelby, his eyes scanning the horizon, spotted Finn racing towards them. His younger brother’s face was etched with urgency, a silent testament to the gravity of the situation. “Finn!” John called out, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "Get Roseline. Tell her she needs to be at the Garrison. Now!"

Finn nodded, his resolve hardening. He turned on his heel, sprinting back the way he came, his mission clear.

The men formed a protective circle around Tommy, their movements deliberate and synchronized. Arthur’s hand was steady on Tommy’s back, guiding him forward. "Easy, brother," he murmured, his voice barely audible over the distant cries and whispers of the city.

Tommy’s lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes, however, spoke volumes—flashing with the same fierce determination that had led them to victory. The Peaky Blinders moved as one, their steps echoing in the empty street as they made their way to the Garrison, their sanctuary and stronghold.

The atmosphere was charged with a mix of triumph and trepidation. Each man was acutely aware of the weight of the moment, the significance of their actions. They were not just gang members; they were brothers, bound by blood and battle.

Tommy was guided into the dimly lit Garrison, his steps faltering but resolute. The room smelled of ale and tobacco, a familiar scent that mingled with the copper tang of blood. The Peaky Blinders formed a protective circle around him, their faces etched with weariness and determination. John and Arthur eased him into a wooden chair—the same chair where countless plans had been hatched, where laughter had once echoed.

Tommy’s eyes flickered to the door, waiting for her. Roseline, the nurse who had stitched his wounds before. She would come, he knew. She always did.

And then, as if summoned by fate, the door swung open. Roseline, her medical bag clutched tightly, rushed in. As Roseline entered the room, Tommy’s gaze immediately found her. Despite the pain that clouded his senses, his mind sharpened at the sight of her. Her blonde hair seemed to capture the dim light of the Garrison, giving her an ethereal glow, while her green eyes held a depth that always seemed to see right through him.

In his mind, he acknowledged her beauty—a stark contrast to the grim surroundings. But it was more than that; it was her strength, her calm amidst the storm that truly captivated him. She moved with purpose, her medical bag in hand, ready to mend what had been broken.

Her eyes scanned the room, assessing the situation. "How long has he been like this?" she demanded, her voice both calm and urgent.

The men exchanged glances, but Tommy rasped out, "Not too long." His eyes locked onto hers, defiance and pain warring within them.

Roseline sighed, her gaze softening. "You were supposed to listen to me," she scolded, her fingers deftly unwrapping the makeshift bandage. "Stubborn man."

Tommy’s lips curved into a half-smile. "I don’t take orders from anyone," he replied, his voice a rasp. "Especially not from a—"

"—from your assistant and doctor," Roseline finished for him, her tone firm. She cleaned the wound, her touch gentle yet efficient. "You’re lucky I’m here."

Tommy’s eyes never left her face. "Luck has nothing to do with it," he murmured.

Around them, the other men watched—the Lees, Finn,—all charmed by Roseline’s presence. She was a paradox—a delicate woman with a steely resolve, a healer who had stitched their wounds and whispered hope in the darkest hours.

Roseline finished stitching Tommy’s wound, her movements precise. "Anyone else injured?" she asked, her eyes scanning the room.

John stepped forward, his cheek bruised. "Just a few scrapes," he said, his voice gruff. "Nothing serious."

Roseline nodded, her gaze lingering on each man. "Take care of yourselves," she instructed. "And listen to your bodies. No more antics like this."

"Yes, ma’am." Arthur grinned. 

As Roseline packed her medical supplies, Tommy watched her—the woman who had stitched his wound and held his life in her hands. "You’re something else," he said, his voice low.

Roseline met his gaze, her eyes steady. "I’m just doing my job," she replied. "And you, Mr. Shelby, need to take better care of yourself."

Tommy leaned back in the chair, exhaustion settling over him. "I’ll consider it," he said, his voice a whisper.

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the small apartment. Roseline sat quietly, her mind replaying the events of the past few days—the tension, the fear, the relief. She pondered if she should bring something for Tommy, a token of gratitude, perhaps. Her gaze drifted to the violin resting in the corner, its wood gleaming softly. She reached out, her fingers tracing the curves of the instrument, the memories of the first time she played flooding back—a melody of simpler times.

A knock at the door jolted her from her reverie. She stood, smoothing her dress, and opened the door to find Tommy Shelby standing there. In his hand was a single red rose, its petals vibrant against the grey backdrop of the city. "Good morning," he said, his voice carrying the familiar Birmingham lilt.

Roseline took the rose, her fingers brushing against his. "I didn’t know you were a romantic," she said, a smile playing on her lips.

Tommy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. "There are many things you don’t know about me," he replied. "Get read, I’ll wait for you outside."

With that, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. Roseline closed the door, the rose held gently in her hand. Confusion mingled with a flutter of excitement in her chest. 

She moved to her dresser, her mind a whirl of questions. What did Tommy have planned? Why the sudden gesture? Despite the uncertainty, she couldn’t suppress the smile that warmed her face. She chose her attire carefully, anticipation building with each passing moment.

The countryside road stretched ahead, a ribbon of dust and possibility. Roseline followed Tommy Shelby, her steps hesitant yet eager. The air smelled of earth and freedom, and the sun peeked through the clouds, casting a golden hue over the landscape.

Tommy glanced at her, his eyes assessing. "Do you know how to ride a horse?" he asked, his voice low, intimate. His gaze held a challenge—a silent invitation to step beyond the ordinary.

Roseline’s confusion melted into a smile. "No, never had the chance." she admitted.

He nodded, leading her toward a weathered stable nestled by the roadside. The wooden beams creaked as he swung the door open, revealing the most magnificent creature Roseline had ever seen—a black stallion with eyes that seemed to hold secrets. Its coat gleamed, its muscles taut with restrained power.

Tommy patted the horse’s flank, his touch reverent. "Good," he said, his voice a murmur. "This one doesn’t have a name. But he’s sure-footed and steady."

Roseline’s heart raced. "He’s beautiful," she whispered, her fingers brushing the horse’s mane. The animal nuzzled her hand, as if sensing her awe.

Tommy stepped closer, their breaths mingling. "I’ll help you get on," he said, his gaze lingering on her face.

"I hope you won't let me fall, Mr. Shelby." She laughed, her cheeks flushing. 

His eyes flickered to her head as she took off her hat, and surprise danced across his features. There, nestled in her blonde hair, was the single red rose he had gifted her. He shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "You keep surprising me," he said. "But don’t worry—I'll catch you if you fall."

With gentle strength, Tommy helped her onto the horse. Roseline settled into the saddle, her legs to the side, feeling the warmth of the horse’s body beneath her. Tommy mounted behind her, his presence both protective and intoxicating. She felt small compared to him—the leader, the fighter—but also strangely safe.

As they rode along the countryside road, the wind tousling Roseline’s hair, she stole glances at Tommy. His jaw was set, his eyes focused on the horizon. The world blurred around them, and for a moment, it was just the two of them—a nurse and a gangster, bound by something unspoken.

"Where are we going?" Roseline finally asked, her voice carried away by the breeze.

Tommy’s lips brushed her ear. "Somewhere," he replied.

Tommy’s gaze remained fixed ahead, his eyes scanning the horizon. The horse moved with a steady rhythm, its hooves kicking up dust. Roseline felt every muscle of the animal beneath her—the power, the life. She wondered if Tommy felt it too—the pulse of existence, the fragility of mortality.

The world around them was a canvas of vibrant greens and blues, the beauty of nature unfolding as far as the eye could see. Roseline, her hand resting lightly on the mane of the horse, sighed contentedly. "It’s so beautiful," she murmured, "and it’s a shame many people take it for granted."

Tommy, riding beside her, turned to look at the landscape through her eyes. "In the war," he began, his voice tinged with a distant sorrow, "all the men ever dreamed of was a peaceful moment like this. The beautiful greenery that wasn’t destroyed by poison gas and grenades."

Roseline glanced at him, noticing the faraway look in his eyes, the shadows of memories long past. She reached out, her hand finding his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "People only realize the importance of something when they lose it," she said softly.

Tommy looked at her, surprised by her words and the warmth of her touch. "As a child, Whenever I performed in front of all those people," Roseline continued, "I imagined one thing—running between the trees and plucking the flowers."

A smile broke through Tommy’s somber expression. "I’m glad to finally know your secret for being the famous prodigy child," he said, his voice light.

Roseline laughed, a sound that mingled with the rustling leaves and the gentle clop of hooves. Then she felt Tommy’s hand on her waist, steadying her. "If I told you to perform for me, would you do the same thing?" he asked, his tone playful yet earnest.

Roseline fell silent for a moment, considering his question. Then she turned her head to look at him, her green eyes meeting his. "No," she said firmly. "I would play whatever you wanted with all my heart."

And with that, she leaned up and kissed Tommy on the lips. It was a kiss of promise, of shared dreams and unspoken understandings. Tommy, taken aback, responded in kind, his kiss a seal on their unspoken pact.

Their lips met—a delicate collision of longing and vulnerability. The world around them blurred, reduced to the warmth of skin against skin, the softness of breath shared. Roseline’s heart raced, her fingers instinctively tangling in Tommy’s hair, pulling him closer.

Tommy responded with a hunger—a pent-up desire that had simmered beneath the surface. His kiss was both gentle and urgent, a promise of more to come. His lips moved against hers, exploring, seeking solace in the connection they shared. The taste of him—the faint hint of tobacco, the rawness of survival—seeped into her senses, branding her.

And in that stolen moment, amidst the greenery and the whisper of leaves, Roseline felt something shift—a bridge crossed, a boundary breached. Tommy Shelby, the man of shadows and secrets, had become more than a patient, more than a mystery. He was a heartbeat against her own, a promise of passion and danger.

Their kiss deepened, and the world ceased to exist. It was just them—their pasts, their scars, their unspoken dreams. Roseline pressed closer, her heart aching with the weight of it all. She tasted his vulnerability—the war he carried within him, the battles he fought even now. And yet, there was tenderness too—a tenderness that surprised her.

Chapter Text

The betting shop was a place of quiet industry, where the rustle of papers and the scratch of pen on ledger were the only sounds that filled the air. Polly Gray, the matriarch of the Shelby family, sat behind her desk with a stern focus, her eyes scanning the numbers that told stories of wins and losses. Across from her, Roseline, the nurse whose reputation for calm and charm had quickly spread through Birmingham, was carefully sorting medical supplies.

"Make sure the bandages are on top. We never know when the boys will come back with more than just empty pockets." Polly's voice, sharp yet not unkind, cut through the silence. 

"Of course, Polly. I've learned to be prepared for anything in this town." Roseline offered a smile, warm and reassuring, as she replied.

Roseline’s intuition was like a whisper in the wind, a subtle yet persistent feeling that something was amiss. As she sorted through the medical supplies, her hands moved with practiced ease, but her heart was uneasy. There was a tightness in her chest, a sense of foreboding that she couldn’t shake off. It was as if the very air in the betting shop had grown heavy, laden with an impending storm.

She tried to focus on Polly’s words, to find solace in the routine tasks, but the feeling of dread lingered, casting a shadow over her thoughts. Roseline had always trusted her instincts, and they had never led her astray. This time, though, she wished they were wrong.

Their exchange was a dance of mutual respect, a silent acknowledgment of the roles they played in this world of shadows and light. But the rhythm of their routine was shattered as the door flew open with a bang, and Ada Shelby rushed in, her face streaked with tears, her breaths coming in short, panicked gasps.

"Polly! Roseline! It's Freddie... something's terribly wrong with him!" Ada's voice was a desperate plea, her usual composure lost to fear.

When Ada burst into the room, her fears were confirmed. The panic in Ada’s eyes, the tremble in her voice—it was all the proof Roseline needed that her premonition had been a harbinger of reality. As she listened to Ada’s frantic pleas, Roseline’s resolve hardened. She knew they were in for a trial, one that would test their strength and their bonds.

In an instant, Polly was on her feet, her concern for family overriding all else. "Ada, what happened? Tell me everything," she demanded, her tone commanding yet filled with worry.

Roseline moved towards Ada, her nurse's instincts taking over as she gently guided her to a chair. "Let's sit you down. Take a deep breath, and we'll figure this out," she said, her voice a soothing balm.

As Ada sobbed out her fears, Polly's mind raced with plans and possibilities, her eyes hardening with determination. Roseline listened intently, her thoughts already turning to the medical supplies she would need.

"We'll take care of Freddie. Roseline, grab your kit. Ada, lead the way. We're family, and we look after our own," Polly declared, her voice steady and resolute.

The three women left the betting shop, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving the quiet room to wait for their return. The story of the Shelbys continued to unfold, each moment a thread in the tapestry of their lives.

In the end, Roseline’s intuition proved accurate.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Roseline stood amidst the sea of black-clad mourners, the somber sky above mirroring the grief that weighed heavily on her heart. She watched from a respectful distance as Tommy Shelby stepped forward to deliver his eulogy, his voice steady but carrying the unmistakable tremor of loss.

As Tommy spoke of Freddie’s courage, his dreams for a better world, Roseline’s thoughts drifted to Ada. She remembered the light in Ada’s eyes when she spoke of Freddie, a light that was now dimmed by sorrow. Roseline’s hands ached to reach out, to offer solace, to weave comfort from her own heartache. But she held back, understanding that some wounds needed silence before they could accept the touch of empathy.

With each word of Tommy’s speech, Roseline felt the finality of Freddie’s absence. She wanted to apologize to Ada, to say that she wished she could have done more, healed more, been more. Yet, she knew that apologies were mere whispers against the howl of grief. Ada needed time, time to find her way through the labyrinth of her thoughts, to emerge with the strength to face the days ahead.

The open sky above them stretching wide and gray. The funeral had drawn to a close, and the mourners had begun to disperse, leaving behind a silence that was almost tangible. Roseline held Ada’s child, Karl, close to her chest, his small body a warm presence in her arms.

Ada approached Roseline, her steps slow, each one seeming to take more effort than the last. She stopped before Roseline, her eyes searching the horizon as if looking for answers in the distance.

"Ada," Roseline began softly, "what do you plan to do now?"

Ada took a deep breath, her gaze returning to Roseline. "I’m free now," she replied, her voice steady despite the tears that threatened to fall again. "It’s time I found what I want to do. Time to live for myself, and for Karl."

Roseline nodded, her empathy a silent bridge between them. "Freddie would be proud of you," she said. "He always believed in your strength."

Ada’s smile was bittersweet. "Oh, Freddie," she whispered. "He loved this city, you know? Loved it with all its flaws and contradictions. And he loved me, even when I didn’t deserve it."

Roseline’s heart ached. "You’ll miss him," she said, more statement than question.

Ada’s eyes welled up again. "Every day," she confessed. "His laughter, his stubbornness, the way he’d read poetry to me in the quiet hours of the night."

Roseline’s grip on Karl tightened. "I wish I could have done more," she murmured. "I wish I could have saved him."

"It’s no one’s fault, Roseline. Not yours, not mine. It was the sickness, the cruel twist of fate." Ada shook her head. 

Roseline’s fingers brushed Karl’s tiny cheek, and she spoke, not just to Ada, but to the universe itself. "Perhaps," she said, "the good people are like stars—too radiant. They burn fiercely, illuminating the darkness, until their light becomes a memory etched into eternity."

They embraced then, a hug that spoke of shared loss and mutual support. As they parted, Ada glanced back towards the gathering. "Polly and Tommy might need you at the Garrison," she said, her voice carrying a note of gratitude.

Roseline’s brow furrowed in confusion. "The Garrison?" she echoed, unsure of what Ada meant.

The street was chaos, the air thick with dust and the cries of alarm. The copper, a stout man with a thick Birmingham accent, was already there, his face grim as he approached Tommy.

"We didn’t see who did it," he said, his voice rough with urgency. "Our patrols weren’t 'round this part, Mr. Shelby. Any idea who might’ve done this?"

Tommy’s response was terse, his voice barely concealing the rage that simmered beneath. "It was somethin’ to do with the gas," he said, slipping a wad of notes into the copper’s hand. "Make sure it’s sorted."

Roseline stood a few paces away, her gaze fixed on Tommy. She could feel the fury radiating from him, a silent storm that threatened to break. She wanted to reach out, to offer some word of comfort, but she knew it was not her place—not yet.

Polly’s eyes met hers, a silent communication passing between them. "Oh good, you're here," Polly said, her voice steady.

Tommy turned, his eyes locking with Roseline’s for a fleeting moment. There was a shift in his expression, a crack in the armor he wore so well. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, his face settling back into the hard lines of the Shelby resolve.

Polly took note of the change, her gaze lingering on Roseline. 

The remnants of the Garrison pub lay scattered across the street, a grim mosaic of destruction. Amidst the debris, Roseline's gaze caught an incongruous splash of color. "why is there confetti?" she said, pointing to the bits of paper that fluttered in the breeze like a macabre confetti.

Polly, with a furrowed brow, stepped cautiously over the threshold of the ruined pub, heedless of the copper's warning. "It's dangerous in there, Madam," he called after her, but Polly was undeterred.

She emerged moments later, her hand holding the colorful fragments that Roseline had spotted. "Sharp eyes, Roseline," Polly acknowledged with a nod as she handed the confetti to Tommy.

Tommy examined the pieces, his face unreadable. The confetti—a stark contrast to the ashes and soot—was a silent testament to the day's tragic turn. And in that moment, Roseline understood that the smallest details often held the deepest significance.

The air was still thick with the acrid scent of smoke as Polly announced her departure. "I've got work to do at the betting shop," she said, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken understanding that life—and business—must go on.

Tommy and Roseline lingered in the shadow of the ruined pub, the silence between them heavy with the day's events. It was Roseline who broke it, her voice low and steady. "Whoever did this, wants something from you, Tommy."

Tommy's eyes, sharp as flint, met hers. "And why'd you think that?" he asked, his Birmingham accent coloring each word.

"If they were after revenge or to hurt you, they would've done worse," Roseline reasoned, her gaze never wavering from the charred remains of the Garrison.

Tommy looked out over the destruction, his expression unreadable. "Expect more things like this in the future," he said, the warning clear in his tone.

Roseline offered him a small, brave smile. "It's a small price to pay," she replied, her resolve as clear as the sky after a storm. "I need to help Polly for a bit."

She glanced around, ensuring they were alone, before stepping closer to Tommy. With a quick look into his eyes, she kissed his cheek softly. "I'm sure you've got places to be, Tommy. But try not to kill anyone," she whispered, a hint of jest in her voice.

With that, she turned and walked away, leaving Tommy standing amidst the rubble, a solitary figure etched against the backdrop of his empire.

The betting shop stood as a silent witness to the day’s calamity. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of smoke, and the usual hum of activity had been replaced by a hushed tension. Roseline sat in a worn wooden chair, her presence a calming force amidst the chaos. Her eyes, the color of storm clouds, held a serenity that belied the turmoil outside.

Beside her, Esme paced restlessly. Her fingers twisted the edge of her shawl, the fabric fraying under the strain. "I can’t believe it, Rose," Esme murmured, her voice trembling. "Who would do such a thing? Blowing up the pub... It’s got me scared, it has."

Roseline patted the seat next to her, urging Esme to sit. "Come," she said, her accent soft and lilting. "Fear has a way of clouding our minds, but we mustn’t let it control us."

Esme hesitated, then sank into the chair, her eyes seeking solace in Roseline’s gaze. "We’re all shaken by what’s happened," Roseline continued, her voice a soothing balm. "But we’re not alone in this. We have each other, and that’s a powerful thing."

"But what if they come back?" Esme’s voice trembled. "What if next time, it’s not just the pub?"

Roseline took Esme’s hands in hers, their warmth a fragile connection. "I'm sure that won't happen," she said, her words steady. "The Shelbys are no strangers to adversity, and neither are you."

Esme’s eyes filled with tears, and Roseline’s smile never wavered. "You’re stronger than you know," she whispered. "And whatever comes your way, you’ll meet it with the same strength that’s carried you this far."

Esme’s voice was a fragile thread, weaving a story of shadows and whispers. "I’m not strong," she confessed, her eyes downcast. "When my mother carried me, the healer promised a boy. But I came instead, a girl, and he said I consumed the soul meant for another."

Roseline’s expression remained calm, her presence a steady anchor as Esme’s words flowed like a mournful river. "They called me cursed," Esme continued, her voice barely above a whisper. "After mum went, it got even worse, y'know. Stones and dirt turned into their scornful 'gifts', and their words... they cut deeper than any rock, Rosie."

Esme paused, her past laid bare in the dim light. "I went a bit wild like they said, wanting any touch that weren't hate. It were proper attention I wanted, summat like affection, at least I thought it were."

Roseline leaned closer to Esme, her voice a gentle murmur. "Listen, Esme" she said, her accent soft as the evening breeze. "Being born into this world signifies that you are interwoven into its tapestry—a fabric composed of innumerable threads, some vibrant and others worn."

Esme’s eyes searched Roseline’s face, seeking solace. "But the bad things," she whispered. "The curses, the stones..."

Roseline’s fingers brushed Esme’s cheek, a touch both tender and resolute. "Those are but knots in the weave," she explained. "They don’t define you. What matters is the thread you choose to pull—the choices you make."

"And what if I’ve made mistakes?" Esme’s breath hitched. 

Roseline’s gaze softened, her eyes tracing the lines etched on Esme’s face—the map of a life marked by both sorrow and resilience. "Esme," she said, her voice a gentle current, "it’s not wrong to crave affection. Every person yearns for it, like a seed seeking sunlight."

Esme’s tears flowed freely now, her vulnerability laid bare. "But I wanted more," she confessed. "I wanted good affection, not just scraps."

Roseline leaned closer, her breath a whisper against Esme’s cheek. "And maybe," she murmured, "because you dared to want more, fate wove a different path for you."

Esme’s eyes widened. "John," she whispered, as if invoking a secret spell. "And the family we built together."

Roseline nodded. "Maybe," she said, "it was fate after all. The loom of existence, weaving threads of chance and choice. You pulled the right one, Esme—the one that led you to love."

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The room was steeped in shadow, save for the faint glow of a solitary bulb that dangled above. Tommy Shelby sat rigid in a chair, his eyes piercing through the gloom. Beside him stood a towering man, his hand nonchalantly resting on the grip of a pistol holstered at his side.

Across the table, Irene O'Donnell sat with an air of quiet authority, her gaze locked on Tommy. The silence was heavy, laden with unspoken tension.

Tommy broke the stillness, his voice steady but laced with a hint of mockery. "Your son, Sean," he began, "he's got irons on his legs, hasn't he? Comes last in every race. Poor boy, especially if the race is important."

Irene's expression remained unreadable, but her eyes narrowed ever so slightly.

Tommy leaned forward, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. "Irene O'Donnell," he continued, the name rolling off his tongue like a challenge. "What's the game here?"

The man beside Tommy shifted, his impatience tangible. He leaned down, his breath hot on Tommy's ear. "Irene, please," he growled, "just give me the word, and I'll put a bullet in this scum's head."

Irene raised a hand, silencing him with a gesture. "No," she said firmly. "he has been chosen."

Tommy's eyes flicked between the gun and Irene. "I am Chosen?" he echoed, a frown creasing his brow. "Can the chosen one smoke?"

With a sigh, Tommy pulled out a cigarette, the flame of his lighter briefly illuminating his stoic face. As he inhaled, the smoke curled around him like a shroud, a temporary barrier between him and the uncertain fate that awaited.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The office door swung open with a force that echoed off the walls. Tommy Shelby entered, his face a mask of barely contained fury. He moved to his chair with purpose, the sound of his heavy footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Without a word, he sat down, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it, the smoke swirling around him like a storm cloud.

Roseline appeared in the doorway moments later, her presence like a calm after the tempest. "Tommy," she began, her voice a mix of concern and curiosity, "what took you so long? How did your meeting go?"

Tommy took a long drag, the ember glowing in the dim light. "A few threats and a good smoke," he replied tersely, the words hanging in the air.

Roseline stepped closer, her eyes searching his. "I hope you didn't involve an innocent in your so-called threats," she said, the edge in her voice softening into a sigh.

Tommy remained silent for a moment, then spoke with a cold finality. "It's business, Rose. It's how things work around here."

She sighed, a sound of resignation. "Maybe," she conceded.

Tommy's gaze locked onto hers. "Come here," he commanded softly.

Confusion flickered across Roseline's face, but she obeyed, moving around the desk to him. In one swift motion, Tommy pulled her onto his lap. Her breath hitched, a mix of surprise and nervousness.

"What if someone comes in?" she whispered, trying to adjust on his lap to a more comfortable position.

"Don't worry," Tommy murmured, his arms encircling her. "If anyone walks in, they'll just know you're mine."

Roseline's smile was tentative at first, then grew bolder. "You're playing a dangerous game, Tommy," she said, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest.

Tommy's response was a smirk, confident and defiant. "Isn't that what we do best, eh?" The man is a gangster, danger is like breathing to him.

She turned to face him, her expression serious. "Tommy," she began, her voice carrying a note of concern, "you need to talk with your family about the business. They're getting anxious with your new plans."

The room seemed to close in around them, the air thick with tension. Tommy’s grip on Roseline’s waist tightened, his fingers digging into the fabric of her dress. "Where did you fucking hear that?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Roseline met his gaze, unyielding. "I didn’t need to hear it from anyone," she replied. "I can feel it—the restlessness, the unease among your family."

Tommy’s jaw clenched. His family—the Shelby clan—was both his strength and his vulnerability. They’d stood by him through bloodshed and betrayal, but now, with London on the horizon, their loyalty wavered.

"What do you think of the expansion to London?" he asked abruptly, changing the subject. His eyes bore into hers, searching for answers.

Roseline leaned back slightly, her expression thoughtful. "I’m not ambitious," she said, her voice steady. "Despite my past, I don’t hunger for power or wealth. But I’ll support you, Tommy. Always."

He studied her, the smoke from his cigarette curling between them. "London is dangerous," she continued. "They’re not afraid to take down what they deem as a threat. And you shouldn’t underestimate anyone."

Tommy smirked, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Sounds like you know many things," he said.

Roseline’s smile was enigmatic. "I’ve seen many people," she replied, her gaze distant. "Despite being very young."

The office was a cocoon of intimacy, the outside world fading away as Tommy and Roseline remained locked in their private moment. With Roseline still perched delicately on his lap, Tommy reached into the drawer with a knowing smile. "I found this in one of the shops I was passing by." He pulled out a small, velvet box and opened it to reveal a stunning bracelet, its gems catching the light.

Roseline's eyes lit up, a genuine smile spreading across her face. "It's absolutely beautiful," she breathed, her fingers brushing over the intricate design as she fastened it around her wrist.

Tommy's gaze was tender, yet fierce with promise. "Once this plan succeeds," he vowed, "I'll get you everything you've ever dreamed of, and more."

In response, Roseline leaned in, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was both a seal of their bond and a whisper of shared dreams. "I don't want anything," she murmured against his mouth. "I just want Tommy Shelby himself."

A smirk played on Tommy's lips, a rare display of vulnerability. He pulled her in closer, their lips meeting once more in a kiss that spoke of passion, danger, and the thrill of the unknown. It was a moment of pure romance, the kind that could only exist between two souls entwined by love and ambition.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

In the heart of the bustling hospital, Roseline moved with purpose. Her white uniform was crisp, and her steps were light, as if she floated through the corridors. Patients turned their heads, their eyes following her—a nurse who seemed to carry a touch of magic.

And then, Irene appeared—a woman with a quiet strength etched into her features. Her eyes held a story, one that Roseline longed to unravel. "Nurse Roseline," Irene said, her voice soft, "how have you been?"

Roseline smiled, warmth radiating from her. "Irene," she replied, "it’s good to see you. And how is young Sean?"

Irene’s son, Sean, stood beside her—a boy with iron braces on his legs, yet a spirit unyielding. His eyes sparkled as he looked up at Roseline. "My legs are fine," he said, his voice filled with determination. "And everything’s alright."

Roseline knelt down, her fingers brushing over the metal supports. "You’re a brave one, Sean," she said. "And you know what? You’re an amazing boy."

Sean’s hug was fierce, as if he wanted to convey all his gratitude in that simple embrace. Irene watched, her eyes softening. "He loves you," she murmured. "Won’t even let the other nurses near him."

Roseline chuckled. "I’m flattered," she said. "But Sean is the amazing one."

Irene’s gaze lingered on the iron braces, and Roseline understood. "Sean is a lucky boy, and I’ll always take care of him." she said. 

And then, impulsively, she kissed Sean’s cheek, leaving behind a promise. "And here’s a little snack," she added, pulling out a piece of chocolate from her pocket.

Sean blushed, his eyes wide. "Thank you," he whispered.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The hospital's white facade gleamed in the afternoon sun as Irene stepped out, her mind preoccupied with thoughts of Sean's upcoming appointment. She approached her car, the driver holding the door open, when a familiar silhouette caught her eye.

Tommy Shelby stood a short distance away, his back to her, engaged in a hushed conversation with a woman. Curiosity piqued, Irene paused, her gaze narrowing as she tried to discern the identity of the woman. As she drew closer, the woman's profile came into view, the brim of a hat casting a shadow over her features.

It was Roseline.

Irene's heart skipped a beat. The nurse who had been nursing her son with care, was now in close conversation with the most feared man in Birmingham, the same man they needed for their plans . She watched, unnoticed, as Tommy's hand gestured animatedly, Roseline nodding in response, her posture relaxed despite the gravity of the man before her.

A swirl of emotions churned within Irene—surprise, intrigue, a hint of concern. But she said nothing, choosing instead to slip quietly into the car. "Drive," she instructed the driver, her voice steady.

As the car pulled away, Irene's reflection stared back at her from the window, her thoughts a tangled web. What was the nature of Roseline's relationship with Tommy Shelby?

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The cobbled streets of Birmingham were slick with the evening drizzle, a soft mist that wrapped the city in a shroud of secrecy. Roseline stood close to Tommy, her hat pulled low to shield her from the prying eyes of passersby.

"Rose," Tommy began, his voice breaking the silence, "I'll be going to London for a few days."

She nodded, her expression calm. "I understand," she said, London was a big step for the peaky blinders, and she had no objections towards improvement. And if something were to happen, Tommy most likely would have a trick up his sleeve... or cap.

"Look after Polly and Esme, Make sure they have everything they need." Tommy turned to face her, the light casting shadows across his sharp features. He wasn't sure who will take care of who, he knows Rose is good for the family, but Polly and the others are becoming more fond of her.

"Of course, You don't even need to ask, Tommy." Roseline's smile was gentle, and reassuring. 

He took a step closer, the concern evident in his furrowed brow. "And you," he said, "take care of yourself as well."

Roseline's eyes flickered with recognition. "Inspector Campbell has quite the hold on you, these days, Tommy" she said softly. "Or should I say, Major Campbell?"

"How did you know about that?" Tommy's gaze sharpened, knowing that Roseline has no contact with the police after she moved to Birmingham.

She met his stare, unflinching. "I have my ways," she replied, a hint of mystery in her voice.

Tommy studied her for a moment, the gears turning in his head. Roseline was full of surprises, a woman who saw more than she let on. "Be careful, Roseline," he said finally.

"I will," she promised. "Just make sure you do the same."

The promise hung in the air, a vow that Tommy intended to keep. With a final nod, he stepped away, melting into the fog that had begun to settle over the city.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The night wrapped around Roseline like a cloak as she made her way through the deserted streets of Birmingham. The distant echo of her footsteps was a steady rhythm in the otherwise silent world. She was aware of the shadows that moved just beyond the reach of the street lamps, the silent watchers sent by Tommy to ensure her safety.

As she walked, a sudden cry of distress sliced through the quiet. Roseline's instincts kicked in, and she followed the sound, her nurse's training propelling her forward. She rounded a corner and found herself in a narrow alley where a man leaned against the wall, his face contorted in pain, clutching his hand close to his chest. A ring, ornate and seemingly out of place on his roughened finger, caught the flicker of a nearby lantern's light.

A few steps away, a woman stood, her lighter casting long shadows on the ground. Her clothes were in disarray, her eyes wide with fear, and her lips parted as if she had been interrupted mid-scream.

"Ungrateful whore!" The man's voice was a harsh snarl, his words aimed at the woman, accusing and venomous.

Without a moment's hesitation, Roseline stepped into the fray, placing herself between the injured man and the frightened woman. "Sir, you need to leave," she said, her voice firm and authoritative.

The man's anger pivoted towards Roseline, his eyes narrowing as he assessed this new obstacle. "And what if I don't?" he challenged, his tone menacing.

Roseline met his gaze unflinchingly. "Then I think you might enjoy staying the night in a cell," she replied coolly, her confidence unshaken.

The threat hung in the air, and the man's bravado faltered. With a huff of frustration, he spat on the ground near Roseline's feet, a final act of defiance before he turned and stumbled away into the night.

Once he was gone, Roseline turned her attention to the woman, who still seemed rooted to the spot. "Are you alright?" Roseline asked, her voice softening.

The woman nodded, her breath shaky. "Yes, thanks to you," she managed to say, her voice a whisper.

Roseline offered a comforting smile and extended her hand. "Come, let's get you somewhere safe," she said.

The woman hesitated for a heartbeat, then placed her trembling hand in Roseline's steady grip. Together, they walked out of the alley, leaving behind the darkness and the echoes of a confrontation that could have ended so differently.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The silence of the night was broken only by the soft clinking of Roseline's keys as she unlocked the door to her apartment. The woman followed her inside, her eyes darting around the unfamiliar surroundings, a silent question in every glance.

"Please, have a seat," Roseline said, gesturing to a cozy chair by the table. The woman sat, her posture rigid, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

As the kettle began to whistle, Roseline prepared the tea with practiced ease. The aroma filled the room, a comforting scent that seemed to soften the edges of the night's earlier events.

"You didn't have to do this," the woman murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Roseline turned from the stove, a gentle smile on her face. "It's no trouble at all," she assured her.

She placed a small box on the table and opened it, revealing medical supplies. The woman's eyes widened slightly, a mix of confusion and distrust flickering across her face.

"My name is Lizzie Stark," she said, as if the name itself was a shield.

"It's nice to meet you, Lizzie. I'm Roseline," she replied, taking out a bandage. "May I see your arm?"

Lizzie hesitated, then slowly extended her arm. Roseline carefully rolled up the sleeve, revealing a dark bruise that marred the skin. With gentle fingers, Roseline wrapped the bandage around the injury, her touch light but sure.

Lizzie Stark regarded Roseline with a mix of suspicion and curiosity. The girl’s calm demeanor and unwavering resolve intrigued her. She had seen enough in Birmingham to know that people rarely acted out of pure kindness. There was always an angle, a hidden motive.

Once finished, Lizzie looked up, her eyes searching Roseline's face. "Do you know what I do for a living?" she asked, a challenge underlying her words.

Roseline simply smiled and poured the tea into two cups. "Yes, I do," she said, handing one of the cups to Lizzie.

Lizzie stared at the tea, then back at Roseline, who had taken the opposite chair. "Why help me, then? Knowing what I do?"

Roseline's smile didn't waver as she cradled her own cup. "Whatever someone's profession might be," she said, "I believe in offering help when it's needed." She took a sip of her tea, the warmth spreading through her.

Chapter Text

In the dimly lit alleyway, shadows danced like malevolent spirits. Tommy Shelby, bloodied and battered, struggled to stay on his feet as the blows rained down upon him. The men surrounding him were faceless, they looked like dark bottles of whiskey.

As Tommy’s vision blurred, a figure stepped forward—a man with sharp features and eyes that held both malice and familiarity. "Tommy Shelby," the man said, his voice dripping with disdain. "Missed you at my club. I was at the races."

"Sabini," Tommy spat, his mouth filling with blood. The name hung in the air like a curse, a reminder of past alliances and broken loyalties.

"Don’t say my damn name," Sabini warned, his accent thick with menace. "Franco take it out of his mouth."

Franco, one of Sabini’s men, stepped closer to Tommy. His gloved hand gripped Tommy’s jaw, forcing his mouth open. The pain shot through Tommy as Franco extracted his tooth, the familiar taste of iron filled his mouth.

Sabini stepped forward, his eyes boring into Tommy’s. "You take up with the Jews now," he sneered. "Think you can just come down and pick a side?"

Tommy’s breath came in ragged gasps. "I pick my own bloody side," he managed to say.

Sabini’s laughter was cold. "A Fucking clown," he said. "That’s what you are, Tommy Shelby. My face will be the last thing you see on this earth."

The other men closed in, their fists raised, ready to finish the job. But then, the unexpected arrived—a pair of uniformed policemen. A gunshot echoed through the alley, and the attackers scattered like rats, as Tommy crumpled to the ground.

The sterile hospital room was a stark contrast to the chaos of Thomas’ life. Tommy Shelby lay on the narrow bed, his face bruised and battered. Roseline moved with quiet efficiency, her nurse’s uniform crisp and white. She had seen enough injuries to know that Tommy’s wounds were something he dealt with before.

As she tended to his cuts and bruises, Tommy stirred, his eyes fluttering open. The room came into focus—the pale walls, the harsh light of the sun. And there, leaning over him, was Roseline—the nurse who seemed to be everywhere he went.

"What a coincidence," Tommy mumbled, his voice thick with pain. "Was dreaming of ye."

Roseline’s smile was gentle. "Sweet words won’t save you from my anger right now," she teased, her accent softening the edges of her words. She wasn't angry, not at him, not even at the men who did this.

Tommy’s eyes crinkled at the corners. "Such a shame," he replied, his accent mirroring hers. This man loved making fun of her. Would he still feel the same if she did the same to him?

She handed him a glass of water, and he drank a little, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. As he set the glass down, a knock echoed through the room—a nurse announcing a visitor.

"Mr. Shelby, you ready for a visitor?" the nurse asked.

"No," Tommy said, but the door swung open anyway.

Major Campbell stepped inside, his presence as unwelcome as ever. "I’m afraid, I’m here on the king’s orders," he declared, his voice dripping with self-importance.

Tommy’s gaze shifted to Roseline, who stood by the window, her expression unreadable. Campbell’s eyes lingered on her, then on Tommy. "I see you paid extra for daylight and the beautiful nurse," he remarked, a sneer tugging at his lips. "Aren’t you going to thank me for saving your life?"

"Pass the cigarettes," he said, Tommy’s fingers twitched, longing for a cigarette. Rose grimaced at the mention of cigarettes, these people had a serious problem.

Campbell glanced at the cigarettes, then at Roseline. "You can go," he ordered.

"She stays." Tommy shook his head. He acted like she would just follow whatever he said, and he was right. She would follow whatever he said, as well as ignore him.

The air was thick with tension as Tommy Shelby sat up on the bed with the blonde's help, his body a map of bruises and cuts. Major Campbell loomed over him, his cane pointed at Thomas’ neck. That cane would look better in the man’s arse.

"I know it was you, Tommy," Campbell’s voice was a low growl, "You were the one who carried out the murder of Mr. Duggan." He withdrew the cane, the threat lingering like the aftertaste of smoke, and took a seat beside the bed.

Tommy, ever defiant, drew on his cigarette, the smoke curling up towards the ceiling. "I got shot once and got a medal," he rasped, "Bet you didn't get one, did you, Campbell?"

Campbell’s response was swift, his cane slamming against the floor as he stood. He leaned in close, his breath foul with the scent of victory. "This reunion," he hissed, "is part of a carefully worked out plan. I have enough information to charge you with murder whenever I want."

In a sudden move, Campbell’s hand shot out, gripping Tommy’s throat, squeezing with a promise of pain. "You’re on my hook now, Mr. Shelby."

Roseline could no longer hold her tongue, she didn’t mind having the front view of this 'battle', but she had a job to do. "Major Campbell," she said, her eyes steely, "I will not allow you to harm my patient. If you do not release him, I will have you removed from this room by force, if necessary."

Campbell's eyes flicked to Roseline, a momentary flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. But he held firm, his grip unyielding. "This is beyond your concern, little nurse," he spat. As if a broke girl would order him around, especially not a girl from that infamous family.

Roseline stepped forward, her stance unshakeable. "It is precisely my concern," she countered. "And I will not ask again."

The standoff was palpable, the room charged with the electricity of impending action. Campbell released Tommy, he had to. Causing problems in a hospital will only cause problems for him.

Tommy coughed, drawing in a ragged breath, his eyes meeting Roseline's. This woman usually had a soft voice, but now her voice rang strong in his ears. 

As Major Campbell reached the threshold of the hospital room, he paused, casting a final glance over his shoulder at Tommy Shelby. "Get well quickly, Shelby," he said, his voice laced with a mock concern that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll be in touch once I hear you can piss standing up." With that parting shot, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

Tommy lay back against the pillows, the pain a dull roar in the back of his mind. As the door clicked shut, Tommy knew the battle was far from over. He faced a war before, this was nothing.

Roseline rushed to Tommy's side, her nurse's uniform whispering against the floor. Her hands were gentle but quick as she examined his neck, searching for bruises.

"I'm really worried about you," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper. It wasn’t a lie, he made her worried about many things.

Tommy looked up into her doe-green eyes, a mix of affection and something else in his gaze. "I need to go to London soon," he said, a hint of urgency in his voice.

Roseline's expression turned stern, her worry morphing into disapproval. "Not until you've rested. At least three weeks," she insisted.

Tommy remained silent for a moment, then relented with a simple, "Alright."

But Roseline knew him too well. She could tell he wasn't being truthful. "Promise me, Tommy" she pressed, seeking his eyes for sincerity.

He avoided her gaze, a clear sign of his intentions. "I promise," he said, but the words felt empty.

Roseline knew he was lying, yet she chose not to confront him. Instead, she offered him a smile, warm and filled with unspoken understanding, and kissed his cheek. "I'll bring you some soup," she said, her tone light but carrying the weight of her concern.

As she turned to leave, Tommy watched her go, the warmth of her kiss lingering on his skin. He promised and lied a lot but he never felt guilty, it was business.

The hospital’s night shift had cast a hush over the usually bustling corridors. The only sounds were the distant echoes of footsteps and the occasional murmur of a nurse’s voice. In a secluded room, the dim light barely touched the edges of the bed where Tommy lay, his figure shrouded in shadows.

Roseline stood by his bedside, her nurse’s uniform a beacon of white in the gloom. She had just helped Tommy finish his soup, the spoon clinking softly against the bowl as she set it aside. "Sleep well, Tommy," she whispered, her voice carrying the warmth of a lullaby.

Tommy’s response was a gruff murmur, "I could get used to this." But his eyes followed Roseline’s retreating form, a silent acknowledgment of her care.

Once he was sure she had left, Tommy swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as pain shot through his bruised body. He dressed quickly, his movements deliberate and quiet. With his coat draped over one arm, he limped out of the room, his resolve a stark contrast to his physical state.

Outside, the night air was cool, and the moon hung low in the sky. Roseline, hidden in the shadows, trailed behind Tommy, her steps light and cautious. She watched as he made his way towards the stables, she knew it. The man was the biggest liar if she had ever seen one, after all it takes one to know one.

Curly and Charlie were busy tending to the horses when a figure emerged from the darkness. Charlie’s hand went to his gun, his voice tense, "Who’s there?"

As the figure stepped into the light, Charlie’s grip on the gun loosened. "God, Tommy," he breathed out, relief washing over him. "They said you were supposed to be in for another three weeks."

Tommy’s face was set in a grim line. "Get the oil for the legs," he ordered Curly, ignoring Charlie’s comment.

Charlie hurried to fetch a chair, helping Tommy sit. "You need to rest," he insisted, but Tommy’s eyes were distant, his mind already miles away.

"I need to get on a boat to London tonight," Tommy stated, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Roseline, witnessing the exchange from her hiding spot, felt a pang of frustration. She knew arguing with Tommy was futile, but she couldn’t let him go without trying. Stepping forward, she made her presence known.

"Tommy," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside her. "You’re not well enough for this."

Surprise flickered across Tommy's face, quickly replaced by a mask of annoyance. "Since when were you bloody following me?" he demanded, his voice low and gravelly.

Roseline stepped into the dim light, her expression unyielding. "Since the moment I realized you were leaving," she replied, her green eyes locking onto his. "You’re not well, Tommy. Going to London now is madness."

Charlie, who had been busy oiling the stable doors, straightened up. His eyes widened when he saw Roseline. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "What’s she doing here?"

Roseline shot Charlie a wry smile. "Perhaps you should have warned your boss," she said, nodding toward Tommy. "He’s not one to stay put."

Tommy scowled. "If I stayed in that fuckin' hospital, Sabini would've sent his men after me," he retorted. His jaw clenched, and Roseline could see how desperate he was.

Curly, approached them, a jar of liniment in his hand. His eyes widened when he saw Roseline. "Angel," he breathed out, his voice filled with awe. "You’re here."

Roseline greeted Curly with warmth. "Can you hand over the jar, please?" she instructed, her attention still on Tommy. Curly obeyed, seemingly entranced by her presence.

Tommy’s anger flared. "Don’t fuckin' get involved in this," he snapped at Roseline. "It’s bloody dangerous."

She leaned closer, her breath brushing against his cheek. "I know you won’t change your mind," she murmured. "But at least let me go with you. I can be helpful."

Tommy’s brows furrowed. "Helpful?" he echoed, torn between frustration and concern. "You’re risking—"

"—my own safety," Roseline finished for him. "I’m aware. But Let me help you, Tommy. I know my way around London." Her voice softened. 

He wanted to argue, to push her away, but the pain radiating from his ribs silenced him. Instead, he muttered, "Mad woman." The fact she knew his destination, should have raised his suspicion. Oddly it comforted him.

Roseline giggled, a rare sound that echoed through the night. "Madness runs in good company," she teased, her fingers deftly applying the liniment to his bruises. "Now, sit still. We’ve got a boat to catch."

Curly and Charlie exchanged glances, both charmed by Roseline’s audacity and respect for Tommy. They knew better than to question her presence. 

The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a soft glow on the boat as it cut through the water. Tommy stirred from his slumber, the gentle rocking of the vessel coaxing him back to consciousness. He rose, his movements stiff and deliberate, and stepped out onto the deck.

Curly was at the helm, his hands steady on the wheel, guiding them through the calm waters. Roseline sat on the ground, her gaze fixed on the rippling surface. She turned as Tommy emerged, a smile breaking across her face."You’re finally awake," she exclaimed, relief evident in her voice.

Tommy’s response was a silent nod. He approached Curly, his voice carrying the weight of command. "Give me the steer," he said. Curly complied without hesitation, murmuring about putting something in the pan for breakfast.

Roseline stood, brushing off her skirt. "I can do that," she offered, her tone gentle.

Curly, a blush creeping up his cheeks, shook his head. "No need to bother the miss," he said, retreating inside.

The air was thick with tension as Tommy took the wheel, his jaw set in a hard line. Roseline watched him, amused at the sight of his silent fury. "It’s very quiet here," she ventured, hoping to bridge the gap between them.

Tommy’s grip on the wheel tightened. "You shouldn’t be here," he snapped, his anger barely contained. His eyes bore into hers, a mix of frustration and concern. 

Roseline let out a weary sigh. "I just want to help you," she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do all this alone."

Tommy’s voice was sharp, the edge of his temper showing. "I don’t need your fuckin' help," he growled, though his words held a hint of vulnerability. He cared for her, but admitting it was a weakness he couldn’t afford. This was his business to take care of, he wasn’t supposed to drag her along.

Roseline remained calm, her green eyes searching his blue ones. "Do you do everything yourself because you don’t trust anyone, or because you don’t want to get them hurt, Tommy?" she asked, wanting to press his buttons as far as she could.

Tommy fell silent, the question hanging in the air between them. He turned away, unable to face the truth in her words.

The hotel lobby was steeped in the quiet, with its grand chandeliers and polished marble floors. Tommy Shelby approached the front desk, his presence commanding attention despite the late hour. He booked two rooms with a curt nod, the clerk handing him the keys with a deferential tilt of the head.

Roseline stood a little way off, her nurse’s bag clutched tightly in her hand. She watched Tommy, her eyes tracing the familiar set of his shoulders. As he turned to her, she stepped forward, accepting the key he offered.

"Your room is right beside mine," Tommy said, his voice low. "If you need anything."

Roseline’s eyes softened. "Thank you," she murmured. "And I’m sorry for bothering you."

Tommy’s expression remained unreadable, but there was a hint of something more in his gaze. "I’m going to meet someone," he told her, a warning edge to his tone. "Don’t follow me. It’s a lot more dangerous."

He reached out, his fingers gently lifting her chin, forcing her eyes to meet his. "Don’t fucking follow me," he repeated firmly.

"Alright," she agreed, her voice steady. "Just come back safe."

If he can be a liar, why won’t she do the same? It was business, after all, he had his reasons and she had hers.

Tommy’s hand lingered for a moment longer than necessary before he let go and turned away, his footsteps echoing in the silent lobby.

Tommy Shelby sat in the dimly lit room, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and tension. Across from him, Alfie Solomons placed the bottle down on the table, the amber liquid catching the light. The flicker of candle flames danced in his eyes as he leaned forward.

"I heard, You got saved by a bloody policeman," Alfie drawled, his accent thick with disdain.

Tommy’s response was curt. "I have policemen on my payroll," he said, his voice steady. "They’re useful when needed."

Alfie’s eyes narrowed. "Never liked Policemen," he retorted. "They can’t be trusted."

Tommy leaned back, his fingers tapping against the arm of the chair. "Sabini uses policemen all the time," he said. "That’s why he’s winning the war in London."

Alfie’s laughter was sharp. "The war isn’t over until it’s over," he said, "what do you want?"

Tommy’s expression didn’t change. "We join forces," he said.

Alfie’s hand paused on the drawer. "Fuck off, You’re the man who shot Billy Kimber," Alfie said, his voice a low growl. "You bloody betrayed him, mate."

"He got what he deserved." Tommy’s voice was quiet, dangerous. "I know You keep a gun beside the whiskey. I know You offer a deal or death."

Alfie’s eyes met Tommy’s, a silent challenge passing between them. Slowly, he pulled out the gun and pointed it at Tommy. "It would be entirely appropriate to do what I’m thinking right now," he said.

The tension was palpable, a standoff that could end in bloodshed. But before either man could move, a knock at the door shattered the moment.

The tension in the room was palpable as a nervous voice from behind the door announced an unexpected visitor for Alfie. Tommy remained a picture of composure, his eyes fixed on Alfie, who was now spewing curses in his thick Cockney accent. The door burst open, and a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Alfie! it’s been a while," Roseline declared, her presence commanding the room. A perfect dramatic entrance, she was an expert in this type of field. 

Alfie’s confusion was evident as he looked at her, a mix of surprise and recognition flashing across his face. "Doll face?" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here? Look how much you’ve grown!"

Tommy’s reaction was immediate; he rose from his chair, his hand instinctively reaching for his gun. But Roseline’s laughter, light and carefree, filled the room, disarming the situation.

"Many things happened, Alfie," she said with a smile. "And now I’m here as Tommy’s assistant."

Alfie’s gaze shifted between Roseline and Tommy, his brow raised in question. "The little man’s assistant?" he asked, his tone laced with disbelief.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Roseline. "An assistant that wasn’t supposed to be here," he muttered under his breath, his voice a mix of irritation and betrayal. Had she been working against him all this time? how did she know Alfie Solomon? How could she lie to him?

Roseline and Alfie’s easy familiarity with each other was not lost on Tommy, who felt a twinge of something he couldn't explain. Now, instead of wanting to work with Alfie, he wanted to see a bullet in his head.

Alfie Solomons watched Roseline with a mixture of fondness and curiosity. "Sit down outside, doll," he instructed, his voice carrying a gentle firmness. "We’ll talk after I finish here."

Roseline’s smile didn’t wane as she nodded in agreement. "Of course, Alfie," she said, her voice light. With one last glance at Tommy, she turned and left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Alfie watched her leave, then turned his attention back to Tommy. He walked back to his desk, the weight of his steps resonating in the quiet room. He settled into his chair with a heavy sigh, the leather creaking under his frame.

His eyes, sharp and assessing, fixed on Tommy. "So, tell me your plan," Alfie asked, his tone now all business. If doll face worked for this man, he could make an exception.

Tommy’s hand, which had been resting near his gun, relaxed. He leaned back in his chair, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

Tommy Shelby stood in the shadowed corner of the room, his eyes fixed on Roseline and Alfie Solomons as they spoke with an ease that belied the tension of the meeting that had just concluded. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

The low murmur of their conversation was a distant hum in his ears, drowned out by the rush of blood that seemed to pulse louder with each passing moment. He watched as Alfie laughed at something Roseline said, his head thrown back in genuine amusement. Roseline’s smile was radiant, her eyes alight with so much warmth.

They seemed so familiar with each other as if they had known each other for years. Thomas never knew someone like Alfie would be able to have that look on his face, he wanted to grab Rose and leave. He knew he wasn’t thinking straight, Rose was years younger than him, which meant too young for Alfie to have had a relationship with.

Unless....

No that was impossible, no woman would treat her abuser the way Roseline was doing at the moment, but if that was the case....

Tommy would have more unfinished business with Alfie than he originally thought.

He questioned everything in those moments—the nature of their relationship, the secrets they might share, and the extent of Roseline’s loyalty to him. But Tommy Shelby was not a man to wear his heart on his sleeve. 

As Roseline and Alfie continued to talk, Tommy’s mind raced with dark thoughts. Had she betrayed him? Was she an ally to Alfie now? The questions circled like vultures, each one a sharp talon digging into his trust.

But he said nothing. He simply watched, his blue eyes cold and hard, a silent observer of the scene before him.

The cobblestone streets were bathed in the fading light of dusk as Tommy and Roseline walked side by side. The street lamps flickered to life, casting long shadows that stretched out before them.

"It’s getting quite dark," Roseline commented, a note of observation in her voice.

Tommy, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, exhaled a cloud of smoke that mingled with the cool evening air. His brow was furrowed, and his voice was laced with barely contained anger. "You took your time talking with Alfie," he said, the accusation clear in his tone.

Roseline’s response was measured, her voice calm. "It didn’t feel that long," she said, almost teasing the man who was clearly agitated about something.

As they passed a dark alley, Tommy’s hand shot out, pressing Roseline against the brick wall. His eyes were intense, the ember of his cigarette glowing in the dim light.

"What is your relationship with bloody Alfie Solomons, eh?" he demanded, his voice a harsh whisper.

Roseline’s eyes widened in shock, taken aback by his sudden outburst. "Alfie helped me a lot in the past," she explained, trying to maintain her composure.

"I am the boss here, Rose" Tommy pressed for more, "When I say tell me, you will fuckin’ tell me." his gaze unrelenting. Roseline began to feel the weight of his scrutiny, the discomfort creeping in, but she kept her expression neutral.

Sensing her unease, Tommy’s features softened slightly. "We should go somewhere more private," Roseline suggested, her voice steady despite the tension.

Tommy took a moment, his eyes searching hers, then nodded in agreement. He stepped back, allowing her space, and together they continued down the street.

In a secluded quiet street, away from prying eyes and ears, Roseline and Tommy Shelby found a space to talk.

Roseline’s voice was low but clear as she began to unravel the threads of her past. "Alfie used to come to my performances a lot," she said, a hint of nostalgia in her tone. "He was a regular, always kind, always gave me gifts as a child."

She turned to Tommy, her eyes meeting his. "I’m sure you know what happened to the Marshall family," she said, her voice steady. She didn’t like saying their name, but she knew she had to at some point.

Tommy nodded, the smoke from his cigarette curling up into the air. "It got out that they were involved in illegal business—selling drugs, weapons, and valuable information durin’ the war," he acknowledged, his voice a deep rumble. "they were arrested, most of them"

Roseline smiled, though it was tinged with sadness. "No one would help someone related to that kind of family," she continued. "But Alfie… Alfie helped me a lot. He’s the reason I made it to Birmingham."

Her gratitude was evident, her words painting a picture of a debt that couldn’t easily be repaid. "I owe him a lot," she admitted.

Tommy remained silent, his blue eyes locked on her face. He said nothing, but his gaze spoke volumes. He was glad, so glad that the reason was just that. 

Tommy took a deep drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling up into the darkening sky. "Shouldn’t have scared ye like that," he said, his voice tinged with a rare hint of regret.

Roseline’s smile was gentle, forgiving. "You deserved to know," she reassured him, her eyes reflecting the street lamps’ light. Yes, he shouldn’t have done that, but something tells her this won’t be the first time.

Tommy exhaled slowly, his frustration with Sabini evident in the tension of his shoulders. "He’s getting under my skin," he confessed. "I need to fucking get rid of him soon."

Roseline stopped walking, turning to face him. "Maybe you’re reaching too high too fast," she suggested, her voice a soft contrast to his gruff tones. 

Tommy looked at her, his blue eyes sharp in the dim light. "I’m going at a very reasonable pace," he insisted.

"Go one step at a time, Tommy." Roseline reached out, her hand briefly touching his arm. "Instead of wanting to crush him right now, maybe you should corner Sabini instead." 

Tommy’s smirk was a flash in the night. "And where should I start?" he asked, a challenge in his voice.

Roseline’s smile didn’t waver. "Start with your family, Mr Shelby," she said confidently. "If you solve the family problems one by one, Sabini won’t be able to find a weakness to exploit. And with your partnership with Alfie, it will work out in the end."

"You’re a mad woman," Tommy said with a chuckle, acknowledging her insight. Then, with a more serious tone, he added, "I’ll work with Campbell too, but I’ll use him to my advantage."

Roseline glanced up at Tommy, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "What are you planning to do with Campbell?" she asked, her voice a mix of concern and intrigue.

Tommy took a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling into the cool air. He turned to her, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. "You’ll know when the time comes," he said, his tone both dismissive and reassuring.

Chapter Text

In the bustling corridors of the Birmingham hospital, Roseline’s hands moved with practiced ease as she bandaged a patient, who couldn’t help but be captivated by her gentle grace. Kaitlyn, on the other side of the room, administered medicine with equal skill, her presence a comforting constant for those in her care.

Once their tasks were complete, the two women walked side by side through the hallway, their footsteps echoing softly. Roseline’s voice broke the silence, her question laced with a hint of hesitance. "Do you know of any nice houses fit for a family in Birmingham?" she inquired, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

Kaitlyn cast a playful glance at her friend, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. "Thinking about starting a family, are we?" she joked, nudging Roseline gently.

A blush crept up Roseline’s cheeks, a bloom of color that betrayed her embarrassment. "No, no," she stammered, "it’s for a friend."

Understanding flickered in Kaitlyn’s eyes as she handed Roseline a piece of paper. "This address will take you to a very nice neighborhood," she said, her voice warm with sincerity. "Perfect for starting a family," she added with a knowing wink.

Roseline’s denial came quickly, her blush deepening. "Stop teasing me about this," she pleaded, her discomfort clear.

Kaitlyn’s smirk widened, her amusement evident. "How could I stop, when my best pupil is red as a tomato?" she teased, her laughter a light note in the air.

They continued down the hallway, their conversation a blend of banter and earnest discussion, the bond between them as steadfast as the walls of the hospital they served.

The narrow streets of Birmingham gave way to a quieter neighborhood, where the air seemed to hold its breath. Roseline walked along the cobblestone path, her footsteps muffled by the fallen leaves. The houses stood shoulder to shoulder, their brick facades softened by ivy and climbing roses. Each window held a story—a glimpse into lives lived behind closed doors.

The houses were different here. No longer the cramped, smoke-stained dwellings of the city center, these homes had space to breathe. Their gardens spilled over with blooms—roses, daffodils, and forget-me-nots. The scent of earth and greenery hung in the air, a promise of renewal.

Roseline paused in front of a white picket fence, its paint chipped but still standing proud. Beyond it, a cottage nestled under a canopy of ancient trees. The windows were wide, inviting the sunlight to spill inside. A swing hung from a sturdy branch, its ropes frayed but still holding memories of laughter and lazy afternoons.

She imagined Polly here—the matriarch of the Shelby family. Polly, with her sharp tongue and fierce love. Polly, who had seen too much and lost even more. Roseline hoped that this place would make her happy, that the quietude of the neighborhood would soothe her restless spirit.

The evening air was crisp as Roseline approached her apartment building, the fading light casting long shadows on the pavement. She noticed a familiar figure leaning against the brick wall near the entrance. It was Tommy, his presence both unexpected and unmistakable.

As she drew closer, her steps slowed, a mixture of surprise and delight softening her features into a beautiful smile. "Tommy," she greeted, her voice a gentle melody. "What brings you here? I thought you had business to attend to."

Tommy pushed off from the wall, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that belied his casual stance. "I did," he admitted, "and I came to see you, but you weren’t here."

Roseline’s smile didn’t waver, though a hint of apology crept into her tone. "I just finished my shift at the hospital," she explained. "It ran a bit late today."

"That was two hours ago," Tommy pointed out, a touch of concern threading through his words.

"I was actually looking for a gift for Polly." She sighed, a small frown marring her brow as she confessed, "I wanted it to be special."

"Alone?" Tommy’s question was sharp, his protective instincts flaring.

"Yes," Roseline replied, her independence shining through. "I found a beautiful house not far from here. It seemed perfect."

Tommy’s sigh was audible, a mix of frustration and resignation. "Let’s go inside," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. As they ascended the stairs,  "I’ll look into the houses," Tommy’s voice was low but firm.

Inside her apartment, the warmth of the room enveloped them. Roseline turned to Tommy, concern etching her features. "How is Ada? Did she like the house?"

Tommy lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around him like a shield. "I gave Ada the address," he said, his gaze distant.

"Why didn’t you let me come with you to talk to Ada? I miss her." Roseline’s heart ached with longing. 

Tommy’s eyes finally met hers, a storm brewing in their depths. "Ada was attacked not too long ago," he revealed, his voice barely above a whisper.

The room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the fireplace. Roseline’s voice broke the silence, her words laced with concern. "How did it happen, Tommy?"

Tommy’s jaw tightened, a shadow passing over his face. "Ada was almost taken by Sabini's men, but my men were there. They stopped those fuckers," he said, his voice low and steady.

Roseline’s hand moved to her arm, her fingers lightly scratching, a habit barely noticeable. But Tommy saw it, his sharp eyes catching the small action. He said nothing, choosing instead to focus on her question.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" she pressed, her gaze searching his.

"If I had, you’d be more worried, and you’d want to go there," Tommy replied, his lie smooth as silk. Roseline caught the deception, a flicker of understanding in her eyes, but she let it pass without comment.

"Is Ada doing better now?" she asked, changing the subject.

Tommy nodded, a hint of pride in his voice. "She has a gun now. Not afraid to show it in public either," he said.

Roseline’s giggle was light, a sound that seemed to brighten the dim room. "That sounds just like Ada," she remarked.

The conversation shifted, Roseline’s curiosity turning towards Tommy. "Have you seen your family yet?"

Tommy shook his head, his hands fidgeting with the cigarette pack. "Been too busy writing a bloody letter," he admitted.

Roseline’s smile was gentle, encouraging. "Can I see the letter?" she asked, her interest piqued but respectful of his privacy.

Tommy hesitated, then handed her the folded paper. As Roseline unfolded it, her eyes scanning the words, Tommy watched her. He admired the way her golden hair framed her face, the green of her eyes vibrant against the soft light. He remembered those same eyes, just days before, when she spoke of her past. They had been blank then, her voice trailing off, avoiding the memories that lingered in the shadows.

The morning light filtered through the smog of Birmingham, casting a soft glow on the Shelby betting shop. Polly, clad in her usual sharp attire, pushed open the door, only to be met with an unexpected sight. The shop was alive with the sound of clapping and the bright smiles of the Peaky Blinders, all there to celebrate her.

"Happy Birthday, Polly!" they cheered in unison, their voices echoing off the walls.

Polly’s eyes widened in surprise, her usual composure slipping for a moment. "What’s all this?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief.

Tommy stepped forward from the crowd, a rare, genuine smile on his face. "Happy Birthday, Pol," he said, his tone warm.

Polly’s confusion deepened. "When did you get here?" she asked, her gaze narrowing slightly.

"I wouldn’t miss your birthday," Tommy replied, his eyes meeting hers with an intensity that spoke volumes of his respect for her.

Polly shook her head, a laugh escaping her. "No one ever remembers my birthday,"she said, though the evidence to the contrary surrounded her.

"This year is different," Tommy insisted, turning to signal John. "John, Start up the car."

Polly’s curiosity was piqued as she followed Tommy’s gaze to the sleek motor idling outside. "Where are we going?" she asked, her voice a mix of suspicion and excitement.

And then, like a well-choreographed play, two figures stepped into the spotlight. Roseline, her green eyes dancing with anticipation, wore a hat adorned with a bright ribbon. Esme, practical and no-nonsense, had a matching hat perched on her head. They were a study in contrasts—Roseline’s warmth and Esme’s no-frills practicality.

"To unwrap your present, of course!" Esme declared, her grin wide. Polly’s confusion deepened. Presents? For her? Birthdays were usually quiet affairs, marked by a solitary glass of whiskey and memories she’d rather forget.

Roseline stepped closer, her smile infectious. "Happy birthday, Polly!" she said, her voice a melody.

The car pulled up to a stately house, its facade a testament to the grandeur of times past. The Shelby family spilled out, their faces a mix of excitement and anticipation. Polly stood at the foot of the steps, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her.

Arthur, ever the gentleman despite his rough exterior, swung the door open and gestured for Polly to enter first. "After you, Aunt Pol," he said with a grin.

Polly hesitated, her confusion apparent. "Is this ours?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tommy, who had been watching from the back, stepped forward. "It’s yours, Polly," he said, his voice firm. "You deserve it."

Polly’s eyes flickered to Tommy, searching for some sign of jest. "I thought you bought a house for Ada," she said.

Tommy’s smile didn’t waver. "I had some cash left," he replied, his tone light.

As Polly stepped inside, the house seemed to welcome her. The spacious rooms were bathed in sunlight, the wooden floors gleaming. "What will I do with all these rooms?" she mused aloud.

Finn piped up from behind her, his youthful energy infectious. "you can come over on the weekends," he suggested.

Esme, who had been quiet until now, added, "You can have a piano, Polly. Imagine the sing-songs we could have here."

John chuckled, his laughter echoing through the hall. "God help the bloody neighbors," he joked.

Arthur’s voice cut through the banter, his words laced with the Shelby brand of humor. "Fuck the neighbors," he said, handing Polly a set of keys. "Welcome home, Pol."

The Shelby family gathered outside the grand house, a collective air of satisfaction among them. Tommy had just ushered everyone out, leaving only himself and Polly within the walls of the new abode.

Outside, Arthur leaned towards Roseline, his voice carrying a hint of jest. "You’re an angel, you are," he said with a chuckle. "Got a knack for picking out the right gifts."

Roseline’s smile was modest, her cheeks tinged with a soft blush. "Oh, it was all Tommy’s idea," she demurred.

Finn, ever the supportive boy, nudged her playfully. "But you’re the one who chose it, right?" he pointed out.

Roseline let out a small sigh, her eyes betraying her concern. "I just hope Polly likes it," she murmured.

Esme’s laughter rang out, clear and confident. "Of course, she likes it. How could she not?" she said, her hands on her hips.

Feeling a touch out of place, Roseline glanced down at her feet. "I’m sorry I’m here," she began, her voice soft. "I shouldn’t be intruding on these moments."

John stepped forward, his expression earnest. "You might be Tommy’s assistant, but by now, you’re practically family," he assured her.

Esme, with a twinkle in her eye, mused aloud, "Wonder what Polly and Tommy are talking about in there."

The group shared a laugh, the warmth of their camaraderie enveloping Roseline. She was loved by the Shelbys, though they remained unaware of the depth of her relationship with Tommy.

Inside her mind, Roseline pondered the conversation happening indoors. She knew the topics that would arise—the difficult ones about Polly’s children. It was a tender subject, one that Roseline felt deeply for Polly. Yet, she held her silence, respecting the private moment between aunt and nephew.

The room was bathed in a soft, golden light—the kind that seemed to seep through the cracks in the curtains and settle on the worn upholstery of the couch. Polly Gray sat there, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze fixed on the empty fireplace. The years had etched lines on her face, each one a testament to the battles she’d fought, the losses she’d endured.

Tommy faced her, perched on a wooden chair. His eyes held a rare vulnerability, a rawness that he rarely allowed anyone to witness. "I’ll find them, Polly," he said, his voice steady. "Your son and daughter and I’ll bring them home."

Polly’s gaze dropped to her trembling hands. Her children—the ones she’d lost, torn away from her by forces beyond her control. The memories of their laughter, their warmth, their innocence, flooded her mind. Tears welled up, but she blinked them back. She was a Shelby, after all—strength ran in her blood.

Tommy leaned forward, bridging the gap between them. His hand found hers, rough and steady. "This house," he continued, gesturing to the room around them, "it’s for you. So you can bring your family home where they belong."

Polly’s heart clenched. The walls seemed to whisper secrets—the echoes of her children’s footsteps, their laughter, their whispered secrets. She wondered if they’d remember her, if they’d know the sacrifices she’d made.

Her silence spoke volumes, and Tommy understood. He squeezed her hand, the unspoken promise hanging heavy in the air. "We’re moving up, Polly," he said.

A small smile tugged at Polly’s lips. "I should thank Rose for this," she said, her eyes flickering to the doorway where Roseline had stood earlier. "She brought back the light in your eyes."

Tommy didn’t deny it. He simply held her gaze, the unspoken understanding passing between them. In that quiet room, surrounded by memories and the promise of a future, Polly felt something she hadn’t in years—a glimmer of possibility, a chance to reclaim what had been taken from her.

The morning sun streamed through the windows of Polly’s new house, casting a warm glow over the rooms that were still settling into their new life. Roseline and Esme had rolled up their sleeves, ready to tackle the task of cleaning and tidying up the place. Polly, who was more accustomed to giving orders than scrubbing floors, watched them with a mixture of amusement and gratitude.

"Esme, love, you don’t have to polish the doorknobs until they shine like a chandelier" Roseline teased, her eyes twinkling as she watched Esme buffing away with a vigor that was both unnecessary and endearing.

Esme paused, her gaze mock-serious. "If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right," she declared, brandishing her rag like a flag. "Besides, when was the last time you saw anything shine in this family, apart from our guns?"

Polly chuckled from her perch on the couch, where she was sorting through a box of old photographs. "She’s got a point, Rose," she said, her voice rich with mirth. "Though I’d prefer if my house didn’t remind me of weaponry."

The banter continued as they moved from room to room. Roseline, with her gentle touch and eye for detail, arranged the books on the shelves, her methodical approach a stark contrast to Esme’s whirlwind energy. They dusted, swept, and laughed, their voices echoing off the walls, filling the house with life.

At one point, Polly found an old record player and put on some music. The room was alive with laughter and movement. Roseline, her eyes sparkling, couldn’t resist the rhythm of the old record player. She stood up, her feet tapping to the scratchy tunes of the '20s. Esme, always up for a bit of fun, followed suit, her practicality giving way to the sheer joy of the moment.

"Come on, Esme!" Roseline called, her hand reaching for her friend’s. "Let’s dance!"

Esme hesitated for a moment, then grinned. "Why not?" she said, allowing herself to be pulled into the impromptu dance. Their steps were a mix of grace and exuberance, their laughter filling the room.

Polly watched them, her heart light. "I haven’t been this happy since.... well, since ever," she admitted, her eyes softening.

As the day wore on, the house transformed under their care. It wasn’t just the cleanliness; it was the laughter, the shared stories, the moments of silliness that turned the building into a home. And as they collapsed onto the couch, exhausted but satisfied, Polly looked at Roseline and Esme, her eyes filled with warmth.

"You two are a right pair," she said, her voice thick with affection. "Thank you, for all of this."

Esme smiled, her cheeks flushed from the day’s exertions. “It’s what family does,” she replied, her gaze meeting Polly’s.

The shop was bustling with the usual midday rush when Tommy strode in, his face set in a grim line that immediately caught Roseline’s attention. She watched from behind the counter as someone approached him, their conversation brief and urgent. Tommy’s reaction was immediate; he headed straight for the office where Finn and his friend sat, their nervousness palpable even from a distance.

Roseline’s concern grew as Tommy emerged from the office moments later, his anger evident in the tightness of his jaw and the sharpness of his movements. He stormed up the stairs, only to come back down looking like he’d been through a fight, his fury a silent storm as he exited the shop.

Confusion swirled within Roseline, but she sensed that this had something to do with Arthur. With a resolve to help in whatever way she could, she set about making a calming tea, her hands steady despite the unease that knotted her stomach.

Climbing the stairs, she found Arthur alone, slumped in his chair, his body racked with sobs that shook his frame. The sight of such a strong man undone was jarring, and Roseline’s heart went out to him.

"Arthur," she said softly, approaching with the steaming cup. "Talk to me. Why are you crying?"

Arthur’s voice was a raw whisper, his words tumbling out. "I’m fucking all over the place," he confessed, his eyes haunted.

Roseline offered him the tea, her voice gentle. "This might help calm you down," she suggested, hoping the warmth of the drink could provide some small comfort.

As he took the cup, his hands trembling, Arthur’s defenses crumbled. He spoke of the war, of the things he’d seen and done. And then, the admission that he’d killed a boy today—a confession that left a heavy silence in its wake.

Roseline was at a loss for words, the gravity of Arthur’s pain beyond anything she could mend with platitudes. She knew she needed to talk to Tommy, to seek his guidance on how to navigate this delicate situation.

The office was a place where the air was often thick with tension, but today it was pierced by the sharp sound of yelling. Roseline, with her usual calm demeanor, approached Tommy’s office, her curiosity piqued by the commotion. As she opened the door, the sight that greeted her was one of controlled chaos.

Polly, her face a mask of fury, had a gun pointed at Tommy, who sat unflinchingly behind his desk. "Polly, what are you doing?" Roseline asked, her voice steady despite the gravity of the situation.

Polly turned to Roseline, her expression unreadable. Without a word, she raised the gun and fired a single shot into the ceiling. Plaster rained down as she stormed out, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

Tommy let out a weary sigh. "You aren't afraid of guns," he observed, a hint of respect in his tone.

"Apparently not," Roseline agreed, her confusion giving way to concern as she approached Tommy. "What happened?"

Tommy’s gaze was distant. "I found Michael and Anne," he said, his voice heavy with unspoken implications. He didn't exactly find them, he made sure of their existence.

Roseline’s heart sank. "You didn’t give Polly their addresses," she stated, more than asked. Despite all the questionable things he did, she knows he has his reasons, though more villainous they might make him out to be.

"No," Tommy confirmed, his eyes darkening. "I didn’t give Polly Michael’s address. And Anne… Anne is dead."

A sadness passed over Roseline’s features. "She must have been really young," she murmured. "I hope she’s in a better place now." The younger the child is, the more likely they won't survive without a good parental figure.

Tommy nodded, his expression softening for a moment before he turned the conversation back to Roseline. "Why aren't you asking more?"

"I trust you know what you’re doing, Tommy." Roseline offered a small smile."But I’m worried about Arthur." 

She trusted that he wanted good things for his family, but Tommy's ambitions are what caused her to worry. How far he will push himself and others to satisfy his greed?

"What about bloody Arthur?" Tommy’s brow furrowed. His older brother has become more of a headache recently, Thomas had too much to deal with right now.

"The war took a big toll on him," Roseline said, her voice laced with empathy. The war took a toll on all of them, but everyone had their own ways of dealing with it. The Shelbys aren't a good example with these things, or feelings in general.

"I was in the war too," Tommy pointed out, his posture rigid. "As you can see, I’m fine." 

Roseline sighed, a gentle challenge in her eyes. "How did you cope?"

"I shut the fucking door," Tommy replied, his words cryptic.

"And drank whiskey," Roseline added, a knowing look in her eyes. There was no point in arguing with him, he had already set his mind on it.

Tommy’s lips quirked into a half-smile. "You don’t drink whiskey, Rose."

"No, I don’t," she conceded, her smile fading. "Just... be careful, Tommy. Don’t underestimate Arthur’s state. Whiskey and smoking aren’t always the answer."

With a final glance at Tommy, Roseline excused herself, mentioning her upcoming shift. As she left, Tommy’s attention returned to the files on his desk. Among them was one about the Marshalls, set apart from the others. He pondered over Roseline’s knowledge of the Marshalls’ activities before their arrest, wondering just how much she understood about the darker aspects of the world.

The grand opening of the Garrison was a spectacle—the air thick with anticipation, the crowd buzzing like bees around a honeyed hive. Roseline stepped through the entrance, her dress swishing around her ankles, the fabric a rich burgundy that complemented her blonde hair, now styled in an elegant bun. She’d taken care to pin a few loose curls around her face, and the result was a timeless beauty that turned heads as she walked.

All eyes were on her—the patrons, the waitstaff, even the musicians playing a lively tune in the corner. The Garrison had never seen such grace, such effortless allure. Roseline’s presence was like a spell, casting everyone under its enchantment.

Her gaze swept the room, and there, by the bar, stood Ada. The years had been kind to her—her eyes still held that spark of mischief, her smile genuine and warm. Roseline approached, her heart lifting.

"Ada!" she exclaimed, pulling her into a hug. "It’s been far too long."

Ada returned the embrace, her laughter tinkling like wind chimes. "Rosie," she said, "I’ve missed you. And look at you—more beautiful than ever."

Roseline blushed, her fingers brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I’m sorry I didn’t come to visit you," she admitted. "I didn’t know about what happened."

Ada’s expression softened. "It’s not your fault," she reassured. "Life has a way of pulling us in different directions."

They talked, catching up on lost days. Roseline doted on Karl, Ada’s son, who clung to her like a curious kitten. The boy had his mother’s eyes—bright and inquisitive—and Roseline found herself answering his questions about the Garrison, about the people who frequented it, about the world beyond its walls.

The Garrison was alive with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation, but at a corner table, a different sort of entertainment was unfolding.

Esme, Ada, and Roseline sat huddled together, their eyes fixed on Polly, who was engaged in a rather animated conversation with a young man at the bar.

"Look at her," Esme whispered, a smirk playing on her lips. "Polly’s still got it, doesn’t she?"

"She’s like a cat with a mouse—watch her play with him." Ada leaned in, her eyes dancing with mirth. 

Roseline couldn’t help but giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. "Do you think she’ll teach us her ways?" she asked, her green eyes sparkling with amusement.

"What would you do with such powers, Rosie? You’ve already got all the lads tripping over themselves." Esme snorted. 

"True." Ada nodded in agreement. "But Polly—she’s in a league of her own. Look, she’s got him laughing now." 

The three women watched as Polly tossed her hair back, her laughter ringing clear across the room. The young man seemed utterly captivated, hanging on her every word.

"I give it ten minutes before he’s offering to buy the whole bar a round," Roseline wagered, a playful glint in her eye.

"I’ll take that bet." Esme chuckled."But only because I want to see Polly’s face when he does."

"You’re both terrible. But I have to admit, it’s the most fun I’ve had all week." Ada shook her head, her smile wide.

The trio continued to watch, their laughter mingling with the sounds of the Garrison.

Tommy found Roseline near the bar, her eyes taking in the transformation of the space. He leaned in, his voice just above a whisper. “What do you think of the place?” he asked.

Roseline turned to him, her green eyes reflecting the soft lighting. "It’s beautiful," she said, her voice equally low, ensuring their words were just for each other. "It feels like the start of a new era."

Tommy nodded, his gaze lingering on her face. "A new beginning," he replied, his voice low. "You look stunning."

She smiled, her lips curving in a way that made his heart skip a beat. "And you don’t look too bad yourself," she teased.

Tommy’s gaze darkened. "I’m a jealous man," he admitted, his eyes following the admiring glances that trailed her. "I don’t appreciate how everyone here is looking at you."

Before Roseline could respond, Finn appeared at her side, his enthusiasm contagious. "Play the piano for us, Angel!" he urged, tugging her toward a small instrument tucked in the corner.

Arthur’s voice boomed from across the room. "Come on, Angel," he called, his eyes twinkling. "Give us a tune!"

Roseline hesitated, her fingers brushing the keys. The room fell silent, every eye on her. And then, with a smile, she began to play—a melody that wove through the air, filling the space with its haunting beauty. The notes danced, and everyone listened, mesmerized by the magic of her music.

Tommy stood near the piano, his gaze never leaving her. The warmth of the room, the soft glow of the chandeliers—it all faded into the background. There was only Roseline, her fingers coaxing the piano into submission, her presence casting a spell over everyone.

Chapter Text

The cobblestone streets of Birmingham were slick with the evening's gentle drizzle as Tommy Shelby escorted Roseline to her apartment. The dim glow of the gas street lamps cast long shadows, giving the night an ethereal quality. Roseline's laughter echoed softly, a stark contrast to the usual silence that Tommy preferred.

"Did you see Arthur's face when the whiskey bottle turned out to be water?" Roseline chuckled, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Tommy's lips twitched into a rare smile. "I did. Nearly choked on his cigar, he did," he replied, his voice low and laced with amusement.

As they walked, Tommy's gaze constantly swept the surroundings, a silent sentinel guarding his charge. His hand rested casually near the inside pocket of his coat, where a hidden blade lay—a secret protector, just like him.

Roseline, blissfully unaware of the dangers that lurked in the shadows, continued to regale Tommy with tales from the party at the Garrison. Her voice was light, her spirit infectious, and even the hardened gangster found himself drawn into the warmth of her joy.

"You're awfully quiet tonight, Tommy," she observed, nudging him playfully with her elbow.

"I'm just enjoying the sound of your voice," he said, the truth of his words surprising even himself.

They arrived at her doorstep, and for a moment, they stood there, the world around them fading into insignificance. Tommy's protective gaze softened as he looked down at Roseline, his Roseline, who had somehow become the calm in his stormy life.

"So, you enjoyed the party at the Garrison, didn't you?" Tommy asked as they reached the doorstep of Roseline's apartment.

"Yes, it was good fun. I had a great time," Roseline replied, casting a smile at him.

"Everyone was fucking looking at you out there," Tommy said as he leaned in and kissed Roseline tenderly on her lips. "You are mine," he whispered, his hand sliding up to cup her face.

Roseline felt her heart skip a beat at the possessive tone in his voice. Tommy and Roseline's kissing became more passionate as they entered her apartment. Tommy's hands roamed over Roseline's body as they stumbled towards her bed. He laid her down gently and laid beside her. "Say you're bloody mine," Tommy whispered huskily into her ear, his hand sliding under Roseline's dress.

Roseline gasped as Tommy's hand found her warm center, but she didn't stop him. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. They continued to kiss and touch each other intimately as Tommy whispered more possessive words into her ear. Suddenly, their moment was interrupted by loud crashing noises coming from outside the apartment.

Despite the noise that startled them, Tommy and Roseline didn't break their intimate moment. Instead, they continued to kiss and touch each other with growing passion. The feeling of their bodies intertwined was overwhelming. Roseline's mind was clouded with desire as Tommy's hands explored her body. She could feel his hard length pressing into her thigh, and she moaned softly.

Tommy kissed her neck and whispered sweet nothings into her ear as he began to unbutton her dress. Roseline had never felt so alive. She knew she wanted Tommy, but she also knew that she wanted to wait until the time was right.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The first blush of dawn was painting the sky as Polly Gray approached the betting shop, her sanctuary of numbers and odds. The morning was unusually quiet, save for the distant hum of the awakening city. As she reached for the door, a young man's presence halted her—a silhouette framed by the soft light.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he began, his voice carrying a mix of uncertainty and resolve. "I'm looking for Elizabeth Gray. I was told she might be here."

Polly's hand froze on the doorknob, the name striking a chord deep within her. "Elizabeth Gray?" she echoed, her eyes narrowing as she studied the young man before her. "What business do you have with her?"

He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping before meeting hers again. "I believe... she might be my mother."

The keys slipped from Polly's grasp, clinking against the cobblestone. The young man, quick to react, stooped to retrieve them. As he stood, handing them back to her, Polly's breath caught. There was something familiar in his eyes—a reflection of her own.

"Come inside," Polly said, her voice softer now. She unlocked the door, leading him into the dim interior of the betting shop.

The room was steeped in the scent of ink and old wood, the walls lined with ledgers and the day's racing forms. Polly flicked on the lights, and the space came alive with the promise of fortunes made and lost.

"I'm Elizabeth," Polly admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "But you can call me Polly."

The young man—Michael, he introduced himself—looked around, absorbing the essence of the place that had shaped the woman he hoped to call mother.

"I've spent years imagining what you might be like," Michael confessed, his voice tinged with a lifetime of questions. He has faint memories of his mother, but he was aware that he was taken from her.

Polly offered a wry smile, the matriarch's mask slipping to reveal the woman beneath. "And I've spent years wondering if you were out there, looking for me."

They sat across from each other, two strangers bound by blood, each studying the other—a dance of discovery and recognition. It's sad really, they were mother and son, yet they barely knew each other.

"So, Michael," Polly began, her tone businesslike despite the emotion she worked to keep at bay. "Tell me about yourself. And then, I'll tell you about Our family."

The Shelby betting shop was quiet, the only sound being the soft murmur of conversation between Polly and Michael. 

"The man who came to me," Michael leaned back, a thoughtful look crossing his face. "he drove a posh car, he looked rich."

"Sounds like Tommy," Polly smirked, "He deals with horses. Makes a pretty penny from it."

Polly doesn't want him to know their actual business just yet, she only got him back. She doesn't want to lose him to their reality's cruelty. 

Michael's eyes lit up. "I've got a bay mare back home. Ride her every chance I get." 

"It's in the blood," Polly said with a nod. "Shelbys and their horses." 

At least now there's some assurance that they won't be strangers, in the long run...hopefully.

As if on cue, the door burst open, and in stumbled Arthur and John, locked in a mock scuffle, oblivious to the world around them.

"Oi, watch it!" Arthur bellowed, as he narrowly avoided toppling a chair.

John laughed, ducking another playful swing. "You're getting slow in your old age!"

The commotion caught Michael's attention, and he watched, bemused, as the two brothers continued their play fight.

Polly rolled her eyes. "Boys, we've got company," she said, her voice cutting through their laughter.

Tommy followed behind, a wry smile on his face as he observed the scene. "What's all this then?" he asked, his tone light but commanding.

Arthur and John stopped, finally noticing Michael. They straightened up, trying to regain some semblance of composure.

Tommy extended a hand towards Michael. "Gentlemen, this here is Michael," he said, "Your cousin."

"Another Shelby, eh?!" Arthur's eyes widened. "As if we didn't have enough trouble already!"

John chimed in, "Hope you're ready to join the bloody madness, cousin"

The room erupted into laughter, the tension of the morning dissipating into a warm sense of camaraderie. As the brothers shared stories and jokes, Michael found himself feeling more at home than he ever had before. The Shelby family was as mad as they came.

The Shelby betting shop was a cacophony of family banter, with John's boisterous voice rising above the rest. "We'll show you how it's done, Michael! You'll be a proper Shelby in no time," he declared, slapping Michael on the back with a grin.

Polly's eyes narrowed, her maternal instincts kicking in. "John, don't you start filling his head with your nonsense," she chided, though a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

Tommy stepped in, the ever-watchful leader. "Leave the lad be, for now," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. "He's got plenty to learn, but it's not all going to be from you lot."

With a mock salute, Arthur chimed in, "Aye, aye, captain!" causing John to erupt into laughter. The three men made their way out, their playful jostling a familiar sight in the shop.

Once alone, Polly turned to Michael, her expression softening. "Let's go to my house. We can talk more there, away from all this... Shelby chaos."

Michael nodded, his mind still reeling from the whirlwind of family he'd been thrust into. "Is there a telephone I could use? I need to make some calls," he asked, his voice hopeful.

"Of course, you'd ask for a telephone." Polly let out a laugh, the sound rich and warm. "There's one at the Garrison. But be warned, it's probably the most overheard phone in Birmingham."

Michael raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk forming. "I'll take my chances. After all, I'm learning from the best."

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The hospital's sterile halls were a stark contrast to the warmth of the memories flooding Roseline's mind. As she moved from bed to bed, her hands were steady, but her heart was elsewhere—lost in the echoes of a night spent in Tommy Shelby's enigmatic presence. They hadn't crossed the threshold of intimacy, yet the intensity of their connection left her in a daze, her thoughts adrift in the 'what ifs'.

Kaitlyn, the older nurse with eyes that missed nothing, approached Roseline with a knowing look. "You alright, love? You've been miles away all morning," she said, her voice a blend of concern and curiosity.

Roseline felt the heat rise to her cheeks, a blush that betrayed her inner turmoil. "Oh, it's nothing, really. Just been busy these days," she replied, her voice a little too quick, a little too bright.

"Busy, eh?" Kaitlyn raised an eyebrow, her gaze softening. "Well, make sure you're not too busy for a cuppa later. You look like you could use one."

"I'd like that, Kaitlyn. Thank you." Roseline nodded, grateful for the older nurse's gentle prodding. 

As the day wore on, Roseline found herself caught in the push and pull of her duties and her daydreams. Each patient brought her back to the moment, their needs anchoring her to the here and now. But in the quiet moments, in the seconds between the chaos, her mind wandered back to Tommy—his sharp blue eyes, the curve of his smile, the promise of something more.

It was during one of these reflective pauses that Dr. Loughran, the stern-faced physician, caught her attention. "Nurse Roseline, we need to discuss Mr. Donnelly's treatment plan," he said, his tone brooking no argument.

Roseline straightened, her professional mask slipping back into place. "Of course, Doctor. I have some thoughts on his medication adjustments."

Together, they delved into the intricacies of patient care, Roseline's expertise shining through. And for a while, the memory of Tommy Shelby receded, replaced by the satisfaction of a job well done.

But as the shift ended and the hospital's relentless rhythm slowed, Roseline's thoughts returned to the man who had so thoroughly captured her attention. She wondered what the future held, what secrets lay behind those piercing eyes. And as she walked the quiet corridors, she realized that, despite the uncertainty, she was eager to find out.

The alleyway was a narrow vein in the heart of Birmingham, hidden away from the bustling streets. It was here that Roseline found Lizzie Stark, her figure crumpled against the cold brick wall, sobs wracking her body. 

"Lizzie," Roseline called out, her voice laced with concern as she knelt beside her. "Oh my God, What happened to you?"

Lizzie's eyes, red-rimmed and haunted, met Roseline's. "Just leave me fuckin' alone, will ya?" she whispered, a stubborn edge to her words despite the tremble in her voice.

"I can't do that, Liz." Roseline shook her head, her resolve firm. "Let me take you to my place; I'll help you with those injuries."

She knew Lizzie could handle herself, but it was wrong to leave her here alone. This place was truly making her question herself but despite all 'the chaos', she felt an odd sense of comfort or to be exact 'relaxed'.

After a moment's hesitation, Lizzie nodded, allowing Roseline to help her to her feet and guide her through the labyrinth of streets to her apartment.

Once inside, the warmth of the room enveloped them, a stark contrast to the chill of the alley. Roseline gently tended to Lizzie's bruises, her touch careful and soothing.

"Why aren't you fucking disgusted by me?" Lizzie asked suddenly, her voice small.

Roseline paused, her hands stilling on the bandage. "Disgusted? Liz, there's nothing about you, that would ever disgust me," she said, her tone earnest.

The vulnerability in Lizzie's eyes was heart-wrenching. Roseline wrapped her arms around her, pulling her into a hug that was both a comfort and a promise. Lizzie's tears flowed freely then, but so did the tension from her shoulders.

As they parted, Roseline moved to the small kitchen counter, assembling a sandwich with practiced ease. She returned to find Lizzie watching her, a mix of gratitude and despair in her gaze.

"I'm trying to change, Roseline. But I need the money to live," Lizzie confessed, her voice breaking.

"I know you're smart, Liz." Roseline handed her the sandwich, her smile gentle."I see it in your eyes. Have you ever used a typewriter before?"

Lizzie shook her head, taking a tentative bite of the sandwich.

"Don't worry," Roseline said, her smile widening. "I'll teach you. There's more to you than the life you've known, and I'll help you find it."

In that small apartment, with the hum of the city beyond the walls, a new hope was kindled. Roseline saw an opportunity in Lizzie a chance for a new beginning, and she was determined to help her seize it.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The cozy living room of Polly’s new house held an air of both familiarity and tension. Michael sat across from his mother, the years of separation etched into their features. They avoided the topic of work—the murky world of Shelby business that had kept them apart for so long. Instead, they delved into the past, the memories that had shaped Michael’s life.

"When they took you away," Polly began, her voice soft, "I thought I’d lost you forever."

"The Johnsons. They raised me well," Michael nodded, his gaze distant. "Taught me discipline, loyalty. I owe them a debt."

Polly leaned forward, her eyes searching his. "And what about love? Did they teach you that?"

"They were lovely people, they treated me as their own." His lips quirked into a half-smile. Michael still believed, that they are his parents in one way or another, but he won't tell Polly-his mother.

A knock on the door shattered the fragile peace of their conversation. Michael rose, his curiosity piqued. “I’ll get it,” he said, striding towards the door.

As he swung it open, a cascade of books tumbled to his feet, and a woman with blonde hair bent down in a flurry of apologies. "I'm so sorry, I'm in such a hurry," she said, her voice tinged with urgency.

Michael crouched to assist her, gathering the fallen books. As he stood, their eyes met—his dark and intense, hers a striking green. For a moment, time seemed to stand still, Michael caught in the gravity of her gaze.

The woman, confusion etched on her features, opened her mouth to speak, but before she could, Polly's voice rang out. "Roseline!"

The moment Roseline's name pierced the air, Michael felt as if he'd been wrenched from a dream. He stepped aside, his heart still racing from the unexpected encounter. Roseline's smile was like a beacon in the dim hallway, and it took all of Michael's will not to stare.

"I brought the books you wanted, Polly," Roseline said, her voice a melody that filled the space between the walls. "I wasn't sure if you'd be home."

Polly's face lit up with gratitude. "Thank you, dear. And this," she gestured towards Michael as he inched closer, "is Michael, my son."

The revelation struck Roseline like a summer storm, sudden and overwhelming. She embraced Polly, her joy genuine and infectious. "I'm so happy for you, Pol" she exclaimed, pulling back to look at Michael. "You have her eyes."

Michael, caught in the whirlwind of emotion, could only offer his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice betraying the faintest tremor.

Roseline's handshake was firm, yet her touch sent a jolt through him. "I'm sorry I can't stay," she apologized, her gaze flitting between mother and son. "I've been so busy these days."

"I understand," Polly replied, her tone soft with empathy. "Take care of yourself, Roseline."

As Roseline waved goodbye, her eyes met Michael's once more. "Nice meeting you, Michael," she said, her smile lingering.

Michael watched her leave, the image of her bright smile and green eyes etched into his memory. 

Polly glanced at Michael, noting the curiosity etched on his face. "Rosie," she began, "she’s a good family friend and has been a great help to us. She’s also an assistant, involved in various tasks that keep this family... well, functioning as it does."

Michael nodded, the image of Roseline’s bright smile and earnest eyes still fresh in his mind. “She seems... different,” he remarked.

"She is," Polly agreed with a soft smile. No words were needed to describe how different Rose was, maybe different was what they needed.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The air in Tommy’s office hung heavy with the scent of cigars and secrets. Roseline stepped inside, her eyes narrowing playfully as she surveyed the room. "Well, well," she said, her voice a low purr, "how was your little trip with the hundred men, Tommy?"

Tommy leaned back in his chair, his smirk a challenge. "Much more enjoyable than if you’d been there," he replied, his eyes tracing the curve of her lips.

Roseline settled into the chair across from him, her gaze never leaving his. "I’m sure," she said, her tone dripping with mock offense. "But let’s talk about something else. How’s business?"

Tommy’s expression shifted, the lines around his eyes deepening. "Business is business," he said, evading her question. "And you? How’s life outside these walls?"

Roseline leaned forward, her elbows on the desk. "Busy," she admitted. "But that’s not why I’m here. Tommy, I don’t like the idea that you sent that young, innocent boy to jail."

Tommy’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk. "It’s just a week," he said, dismissing her concern. "Don’t worry your pretty head over it."

"But I feel something bad is going to happen," Roseline persisted, her eyes searching his.

Tommy leaned back, his gaze piercing. "That’s why you shouldn’t get bloody involved," he warned. "And speaking of getting involved, Campbell wants a meeting with me on Sunday. And I’ll be attending the Doncaster Bloodstock auction to get a horse."

Roseline’s eyes widened. "Don’t go," she blurted out, her concern genuine. 

Tommy’s laughter was sharp. "Last time I checked, I was the fucking boss," he reminded her. "And all of us men are going to that auction."

Roseline sighed, her fingers tracing the edge of the desk. "At least leave Arthur behind," she pleaded.

Tommy’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the air between them shifted. "I’ll consider it," he said, his voice low.

Roseline stood, her resolve firm. "Just be careful," she said, her lips brushing his in a fleeting kiss. "For me, at least."

Tommy’s eyes met hers, and in them, she saw the storm that raged within—a tempest of duty and danger. He pulled her close, his kiss a silent vow to heed her warning. And as she walked away, Tommy watched her go, the taste of her lips lingering—a promise of something more, something dangerous and irresistible.

He let out a weary sigh, the weight of leadership pressing down on him. The file on the Marshall family lay open on his desk, a litany of crimes laid bare under the harsh light of his lamp. But it was the unspeakable horror of their trade that ensnared his focus—children, innocents, bartered like chattel, and the brothels that stained London's hidden corners.

Tommy’s hands clenched into fists, the paper crinkling under his grasp. A cold fury settled in his chest, a protective instinct that flared with the intensity of a thousand fires. Roseline, with her light and laughter, seemed suddenly fragile in a world capable of such darkness.

Did she know? The question gnawed at him, a relentless beast. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let harm befall her. Not while he drew breath. Not under his watch.

Chapter Text

The rain fell in a relentless drizzle, casting a gray shroud over the mourners gathered at the cemetery. The Digbeth Kid—Harold Hancox, as his mother tearfully whispered—lay in the simple wooden coffin, his life cut short by a knife as warning for the peaky blinders.

Tommy, stood with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes, as sharp as the razors hidden in his cap, scanned the faces around them—the grieving sister and mother looked at him, with suspicion. Tommy’s suit was impeccable, but the mud on his shoes spoke of the gritty reality they all inhabited.

Beside him stood Roseline, her blonde hair peeking out from beneath a modest hat. Her green eyes held a quiet empathy, a well of compassion that seemed to overflow. She held an umbrella over her head, shielding herself from the rain, but her attention was on the mourners.

As they got closer, a woman stepped forward. She wore a black veil that concealed her features, but her anger was palpable. She pointed a trembling finger at Tommy, her voice breaking through the solemnity.

"You’re the reason my Harold’s dead!" Her accusation hung in the damp air, a raw wound exposed.

Tommy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t flinch. He had faced worse than a grieving mother’s wrath. Still, when her hand swung out, the slap echoed like a gunshot. Roseline gasped, her umbrella slipping from her grasp.

Tommy did something unexpected. He took a step back, his cheek stinging, and raised his hands in surrender. "I’m sorry for your loss," he said, his voice low.

The woman’s anger crumbled into tears. She collapsed against a nearby tombstone, her grief consuming her. And that’s when Roseline stepped forward.

She knelt beside the woman, her gloved hand resting on the mourner’s shoulder. "Let it out," Roseline murmured. "he was a strong boy."

The woman’s eyes met Roseline’s, and for a moment, they shared the weight of loss. Roseline didn’t offer empty platitudes; she simply listened. The woman’s sobs echoed through the graveyard, blending with the rain.

Meanwhile, Tommy reached into his pocket. He pulled out a thick envelope, its contents a bittersweet salve. "For your trouble," he said, pressing it into the woman’s hand. 

The woman stared at the money, torn between gratitude and bitterness. But she nodded, her anger fading. "He was my boy," she whispered. “My Harold."

Roseline helped her stand, guiding her away from tommy. “He’ll be remembered,” she said softly. "not as a boy, but a son"

The rain had eased, leaving behind a damp world that clung to Tommy Shelby’s coat. As he walked away from the cemetery, the weight of Harold Hancox’s death settled on his shoulders. Roseline followed, her footsteps soft on the wet ground.

"Tommy," she said, her voice barely audible above the distant rumble of traffic. "You shouldn’t go to that meeting with Campbell."

He glanced at her, his eyes narrowed. "Why not?"

Roseline hesitated, her green eyes searching his face. "Your anger," she began, "it’s a fire that burns too hot sometimes. You can’t let it consume you."

"I’ve survived this long because of that fire." Tommy’s jaw tightened. 

"But at what cost?" Roseline’s umbrella bumped against his arm as she stepped closer. "You’re not just a gangster, or a just a business man, Tommy. You’re a man. And sometimes, your anger blinds you."

He scoffed. "What do you know about it, eh?"

"More than you think." She smiled, a gentle curve of her lips. 

He shook his head. "After what happened in these few days, I won’t ignore your warnings."

"Good." Roseline’s hand brushed his, a fleeting touch. "Then don’t let Arthur work—not when he’s like this."

"Arthur? What’s he got to do with—" Tommy’s brow furrowed.

"He’s drowning, Tommy," Roseline said softly. "His pain echoes louder than any gunshot. If we don’t intervene now, it’ll consume him."

Tommy studied her, the lines etched on her face telling stories he couldn’t fathom. "You’re asking a lot."

"Am I?" She tilted her head. 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a crumpled cigarette. "We’ll talk later about this," he muttered, lighting it with still hands.

"Tommy," she said, her voice barely audible above the distant rumble of traffic. "I want to go with you to the meeting."

"No, you can’t." He glanced at her, suspicion flickering.

"I can be your eyes and ears, Tommy. I can help." Roseline’s green eyes held determination. 

"It’s too dangerous." His jaw tightened. 

"But I’m not helpless," she insisted. "I’ve seen enough. I know how this world works."

"Not this time." Tommy shook his head. 

She stepped closer, her umbrella forgotten. "I won’t be a liability. I’ll be an asset."

"Rose, this isn’t a bloody game." His gaze bore into hers. 

"I know." Her voice was steady. "But I care about you. Let me prove myself."

"Roseline," Tommy’s voice was firm, unyielding. "You’re not coming."

She met his gaze, her green eyes holding a quiet resolve. "I understand." There is no point in arguing with Tommy.

"This isn’t a place for you. It’s dangerous." He didn’t soften.

Roseline nodded. She wouldn’t push him. Not now.

The rain whispered secrets to Roseline as she walked beside Tommy Shelby. Each droplet carried a weight—the weight of Birmingham’s underworld, the weight of loyalty, the weight of choices made and unmade.

She knew Tommy wouldn’t listen—not because she was a woman, but because he didn’t listen to anyone. His stubbornness was both his strength and his Achilles’ heel. She admired him, in a way. His unwavering determination had kept the Peaky Blinders alive through countless battles. But it came at a cost—the cost of shutting out the world, of building walls so high that even the rain couldn’t breach them.

The meeting with Campbell loomed ahead—a dangerous dance of power and secrets. Roseline hoped it would go well. Hoped that Tommy wouldn’t get hurt or hurt someone else. But hope was a fragile thing in Birmingham, where alliances shifted like smoke in the wind.

And then there was Arthur—the volatile brother whose feelings doubled, whose violence escalated. Roseline felt sorry for him. She’d seen the haunted look in his eyes, the way he drowned his demons in whiskey and rage. Tommy would try to avoid discussing Arthur; his plans were set, his mind focused on the next move.

But Roseline knew better.

She might anger Tommy. She might push him beyond his limits. But she cared about this family—a tangled web of loyalty and blood. She cared about Tommy, too. His ambition consumed him, business his refuge from the war’s ghosts. But ambition could be a double-edged sword.

Arthur was different. His pain wasn’t a fire to be harnessed; it was a tempest threatening to engulf them all. Roseline’s heart ached for him. She’d seen the tremor in his hands, the way he stared into the abyss and wondered if it stared back.

As they walked, she wondered if Tommy saw what she did. Perhaps he did, but ambition was a relentless tide. It swept them forward, leaving little room for sentiment.

The rain dripped from the brim of Tommy Shelby’s hat, each drop a reminder of the murky world he navigated. The meeting with Campbell loomed ahead, and he knew—instinctively—that the Inspector was up to something. Campbell had never been a friend; his alliances shifted like smoke in the wind. But this time, it felt different. More dangerous.

Roseline’s words echoed in Tommy’s mind. Don’t let your anger get the better of you. She’d said it softly, her green eyes holding a quiet resolve. Roseline understood him—the fire that burned within, the ambition that drove him.

What did Roseline know about this meeting that he didn’t? Tommy clenched his fists. Campbell wanted him gone. The Inspector’s hatred ran deep, fueled by old wounds and vendettas. But Tommy wouldn’t go down without a fight. He’d play the game, read the room, and keep his anger in check. Roseline’s warning was a lifeline—a reminder that sometimes survival meant more than ambition.

As he stepped into the dimly lit room where Campbell waited, Tommy wondered what secrets lay hidden in the shadows. Roseline’s face flashed before him—the way she’d touched his arm, the way her voice had held both concern and determination.

He’d listen to her. Not because she was a woman, but because she saw what he couldn’t. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to keep him alive in this treacherous dance.

The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a desk lamp casting shadows on the typewriter. Roseline sat across from Lizzie Stark, her own fingers tracing patterns on the cover of a worn book. The room smelled of ink and damp wool, a comforting blend that cocooned them from the world outside.

Lizzie squinted at the keys, her brow furrowed. "Roseline, this is harder than it looks."

"You’re getting better," Roseline said, her voice calm. "Each time, your rhythm improves."

"But how will this help me?" Lizzie’s voice held a hint of frustration. "I need a job, not a bloody dance."

Roseline leaned back, studying her. "Typewriters are more than just machines. They’re the gatekeepers to opportunity. Office jobs, secretarial positions—they all require this skill."

"You’re probably the worst teacher." Lizzie huffed, her fingers hovering over the keys. "You just sit there, reading your book.”

Roseline chuckled. "Knowledge doesn’t only come from writing, love. Reading is equally important."

"But I need a job," Lizzie insisted, her voice weary.

Roseline’s gaze softened. "How do you feel about working as an assistant?"

"An assistant?" Lizzie blinked, caught off guard. 

"Yes," Roseline said. "Not just typing, but organizing, managing schedules, handling correspondence. It’s a role that opens doors."

Lizzie’s tired eyes met hers. "You really think so?"

Roseline nodded.The typewriter sat silent in the corner, its keys like a row of obedient soldiers waiting for orders. Roseline leaned against the table, her gaze fixed on the rain-streaked window. The room smelled of ink and possibility.

Being Tommy Shelby’s assistant was both an honor and a challenge. He was a man of precision, his mind a well-organized filing cabinet. But Roseline knew that being an assistant to Tommy wasn’t just about typing memos or scheduling meetings. It was about navigating the labyrinth of his ambitions, anticipating his moves, and sometimes—just sometimes—softening the edges of his ruthlessness.

She cared about him, more than she’d ever cared about any man. But this wasn’t a clandestine romance; it was a delicate dance of secrets and shadows. Roseline wondered if she was taking this opportunity away from someone who needed it more—a struggling widow, a desperate father. But life had taught her that opportunities rarely knocked twice, and she’d be damned if she let this one slip through her fingers.

Lizzie Stark, with her good heart and strong spirit, was a prime candidate. Roseline had watched her learn the typewriter, her determination unwavering. Maybe Lizzie could be more than an assistant—maybe she could be a lifeline for others, a bridge to stability.

As she looked out the window, Roseline made a silent promise. She’d teach Lizzie everything she knew about being an assistant. She’d show her the art of discretion, the power of observation, and the resilience required to survive in Tommy Shelby’s world.

The cobbled streets of Birmingham were slick with rain, and Roseline’s heels clicked against the stones as she hurried toward Tommy Shelby’s office. The papers in her hand were damp, but their contents were crucial—a delicate balance of information that could sway the fate of the Peaky Blinders.

As she walked, she caught snippets of hushed conversation. Two women stood under a dripping awning, their heads close together. Roseline’s name floated on the rain-soaked air. She wondered what they were saying—gossip, perhaps. But she didn’t care. Her focus was on the task at hand.

Tommy’s office door stood slightly ajar, the light within casting a warm rectangle onto the corridor. She pushed it open, her breath catching as she stepped inside. Tommy sat at the desk, his eyes scanning a file. His suit was impeccable, every crease sharp, every button in place. He looked up as she entered, his expression unreadable.

"You took your bloody time," he said, his voice low.

"Hospital work, Tommy." Roseline smiled, her heart fluttering."You know how it is.”

"Always saving lives, eh?" He sighed, leaning back in his chair. 

She placed the papers on the desk, their edges curling from the dampness. "How did the meeting go?"

Roseline stood by the desk, her presence both a comfort and a complication. She was smart—too damn smart for her own good. But she was also innocent, untouched by the darkness that clung to him like a shadow.

"Do you need to ask that?" Tommy’s gaze held hers, a strange intensity in his eyes. 

Confused, Roseline straightened. "Of course I’ve been worried. You know that."

"You always bloody know when something’s out of place." He leaned forward, his fingers tapping the file. 

"What are you talking about?" Roseline’s pulse quickened. 

"Roseline," Tommy’s voice was low, measured. "Did you know?"

He saw the way her eyes widened when he mentioned the mission—the small task Campbell and the Republicans had requested. Tommy knew better than to drag her into this web of intrigue. Roseline was his—more than a secret lover, more than an assistant. She was the compass that kept him from veering off course, the one who sensed danger before it arrived.

She turned, her expression calm. "About Campbell and the pro-Treaty Irish Republicans? I guessed it after the bar was blown up and Campbell showed up."

"And you didn’t tell me." Tommy’s jaw tightened. 

"I might have guessed they’re working together," Roseline said. "But their objective—I don’t know."

He leaned back, closing the file. "They wanted me for a small mission. Nothing to worry about." this time, he wouldn’t tell her the truth. Not about the mission, not about the risks. She deserved better than this life—a life of secrets and shadows. He’d protect her, even if it meant keeping her in the dark.

Roseline didn’t push, didn’t demand answers. She simply stood there, her loyalty unwavering. And in that moment, Tommy wondered if he was the one who needed saving.

Tommy’s eyes lingered on the paper, his gaze sharp as a blade. "You changed your writing style," he said, his voice low.

"I didn’t think you’d notice." Roseline’s smile was a delicate curve. "I hope it doesn’t bother you."

"It’s alright. Adaptability is a useful skill." He waved a dismissive hand. But then he leaned forward, his expression shifting. "I want you to do a little task for me."

The streets stretched before Roseline, their wet cobblestones reflecting the dim light of the gas lamps. The rain had ceased, leaving behind a world washed clean. She pulled her coat tighter, the fabric clinging to her skin. The dampness seeped through, but she hardly noticed. Her thoughts were elsewhere—entangled in the web of secrets and shadows.

She stepped onto the wet pavement, her footsteps echoing in the empty street. Guilt gnawed at her insides. She’d kept secrets from Tommy—secrets that could unravel the fragile threads of trust they’d woven. But she knew Tommy kept secrets too. His mind was a vault, locked tight against the world. And now, this new mission—the whispers in the corridors, the urgency in his eyes—it threatened to drive a wedge between them.

As she walked, the whispers of the city swirled around her—the gossip, the rumors. Did they know about her and Tommy? Did they sense the fragile threads that bound them together? Roseline wondered if she was the only one who felt the tremors—the way their world shifted with each passing day.

And as she reached the corner, the betting shop loomed ahead. Roseline hesitated. Would Tommy become distant? Would the lines etched on his face deepen, his gaze linger elsewhere? Was it her fault? Had she pushed too far, delved too deep?

The betting shop’s dim interior gave way to the crisp morning light as Roseline stepped outside. Esme greeted her, her eyes bright with curiosity. But it was the woman beside Esme who captured Roseline’s attention—a tall figure in expensive clothes, her presence commanding.

Esme leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "She says she’s here to train Thomas’s horse."

"I’m Roseline, Tommy’s assistant." Roseline extended her hand, her smile polite. "He asked me to meet you instead."

The woman’s handshake was firm, her disappointment thinly veiled. "May Carleton," she said. Roseline knew the name—the Carletons were old money. She knew their daughter was married and became a widow after the war, this must be her.

Roseline led May outside, the cobbled street slick from the recent rain. The horse stood there, its coat gleaming in the weak sunlight. Roseline touched its flank, her fingers tracing the curve of muscle. "When will your box van arrive?"

"Near midday," May replied, her gaze assessing. "You seem good with horses."

"Animals are beautiful creatures." Roseline smiled, feeling the warmth from the animal. 

The Garrison hummed with secrets, its wooden beams sagging under the weight of whispered alliances. Roseline, her blonde hair pinned in a neat bun, stood by the entrance. The air smelled of tobacco and anticipation.

"May," she said, her voice a soft breeze, "come inside. The rain won’t relent, and the van box won’t arrive until dusk."

May hesitated, her eyes scanning the dimly lit room. Charlie Strong, leaned against the doorframe. His warning was unspoken but clear: tread carefully.

They stepped over the threshold, and May’s breath caught. The Garrison was a sepulcher of memories—of laughter, blood, and whispered deals. The mahogany bar gleamed, its surface etched with tales of men who’d lost more than they’d won.

"Impressive, isn’t it?" Roseline’s green eyes followed May’s gaze. "What would you like to drink?"

May nodded, her fingers tracing the intricate carvings. "Gin, perhaps?" she said, her voice a hesitant melody. "It’s early, but I’ve always been partial to gin."

Roseline’s smile held secrets. She poured the gin, the crystal glass clinking against the bottle. A splash of tonic water followed, measured precisely. 

May sipped, the juniper dancing on her tongue. "You were that famous child performer," she said suddenly. "Before that incident."

"What gave me away?" The shadows deepened in Roseline’s eyes. 

"Your face," May replied. "Your beauty—one of a kind. My late husband adored your music."

The room held its breath. Roseline’s fingers tightened around the glass ."Perhaps now he hears the notes in the wind." she said softly.

May nodded, Remembering her late husband's simle. she asked. "What’s it like working for Tommy Shelby?"

"A challenge, But you’ll get used to it." Roseline admitted. She sipped water, her gaze distant. "And he pays well."

May smirked. "I’m sure he does."

The cobbled streets of Birmingham held secrets—secrets woven into the very fabric of the city. Roseline walked, her footsteps soft as forgotten promises. Her blonde hair caught the fading sunlight, and her green eyes held a quiet defiance.

The women huddled near the market stall, their voices like rustling leaves. They glanced at Roseline, their gossip a venomous dance. “Poor girl,” one whispered, her breath carrying judgment. “Too young, too beautiful to be tangled with rough people like them.”

Another scoffed, her lips curling. “Girls like her thrive on attention,” she said. “They seek danger, flaunt their charms. No shame, that one.”

Roseline heard every word, each syllable etching itself into her skin. But she didn’t falter. Gossip is a way for people to run from their own lives, she can't blame them. Everyone wants to survive, even if they're petty.

Her gaze flickered to the Garrison, its windows like watchful eyes. Tommy Shelby—the man who wore shadows like a second skin—waited inside. His secrets were hers, and his touch ignited her veins.

The Garrison hummed with life, its wooden beams echoing laughter and secrets. Friday—the day when the world outside blurred, and the Shelby clan gathered like cogs in a well-oiled machine.

Tommy Shelby, sat at the head of the table. His eyes, as sharp as the razors hidden in his coat, surveyed the room. Roseline flitted about, pouring whiskey into crystal glasses.Her dress, a midnight blue that clung to her curves, whispered secrets. Its silk brushed against her skin, and the neckline dipped just enough to reveal the delicate curve of her collarbone. The fabric seemed to absorb the room’s warmth, holding it close.

"Angel," Arthur called, his voice a gravelly melody. "We can pour our own damn drinks, you know."

She winked, her green eyes dancing. "And miss the pleasure of serving the finest gang in Birmingham? Never."

John leaned back, his chair creaking. "Michael’s birthday today," he said, raising his glass. "Nineteen, and already knee-deep in our bloody business."

And then, like a shadow slipping through the door, Their cousin walked in. Polly’s son—the boy who’d straddled the line between loyalty and rebellion.

"Happy birthday, Michael," Polly said, her voice softening. "Nineteen. You’re a man now."

"Time to find you a lady, eh?" Arthur leaned over. 

"Arthur, you’re a bloody idiot." Polly’s glare could melt steel. 

Tommy, ever the strategist, slid a gold pocket watch across the table. "To never be late for work," he said. "Time is money, Michael."

Michael held the watch, its weight a promise. "Thank you, Tommy."

The brothers raised their glasses. "To Michael," they chorused. "Welcome to the business."

The Garrison’s dim-lit corners held secrets—secrets that danced like smoke rings above the patrons’ heads. Roseline, her blonde hair a cascade of spun gold, stood near the window. The rain tapped against the glass, a melancholy rhythm.

Esme, her laughter as fiery as her hair, leaned in. "Roseline," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "you’re amazing ."

And Roseline, her green eyes alight with mischief, replied, "Esme, I would never reach your level."

Michael Shelby, the boy who’d stepped into the Shelby legacy, watched them. His gaze traced the curve of Roseline’s neck, the delicate slope of her collarbone. She was a vision—a nymph who’d wandered into their murky world.

Tommy, sensed Michael’s gaze. His fingers tightened around his whiskey glass, but his expression remained impassive. Michael was just a kid—a Shelby by blood, but still a kid.Yet, as Roseline laughed, her lips parting like petals, Tommy’s possessiveness stirred. She was his—always had been. The nurse who’d stitched his wounds, the lover who’d whispered secrets in moonlit alleys.

Michael’s admiration was innocent, but Tommy’s jealousy simmered. 

Chapter Text

The apartment breathed—its walls soaked in secrets, its floorboards creaking under the weight of unspoken words. Roseline sat on the bed, her notebook open like a fragile wing. The pen in her hand trembled.

Lizzie Stark, the typewriter’s mistress, clacked away at the table. Her fingers danced over the keys, weaving stories into existence. But Roseline’s own story—the one that bled ink and heartache—remained unfinished.

Tommy had left for Camden Town, his departure as silent as the moon slipping behind clouds. He hadn’t told her. Hadn’t whispered a goodbye against her lips. The room echoed with his absence.

She never wanted to pry. Never wanted to unravel the threads that held them together. But now, as the days stretched like shadows, she felt the distance. His touch—the one that ignited her skin—had become a memory.

He was distracted, she knew. The new mission—the whiskey, the deals—had consumed him. But Roseline couldn’t help but feel like it was her fault. Had she not been enough? Had her love—quiet, steadfast—failed to anchor him?

Her pencil gripped the paper, its tip threatening to tear through. The words dragged, like wounded soldiers crawling home. She wrote, erased, and wrote again.

"Roseline," Lizzie said, her voice a soft echo. "You’re quiet today."

"I’ve just been thinking, Liz." Roseline said, her voice a soft breeze.

Lizzie nodded, her fingers pausing mid-sentence. "Finished," she said, pointing at the paper on the table.

Roseline rose, her skirt—a shade of blue—rustling. She closed her notebook, its pages cradling her musings. The room held its breath.

She walked to the table, where Lizzie sat, her accent weaving stories. Roseline picked up the papers, her eyes scanning the words. Lizzie fidgeted, her nervousness palpable.

"Now," Roseline said, her smile like sunlight breaking through clouds, "you’re officially qualified as an assistant."

"Thank you so fucking much," Lizzie beamed, her gratitude spilling over. She hugged Roseline, their embrace a tangle of ink and warmth.

Lizzie, tall and lanky, had to lean down. Roseline giggled. "You did all the work," she said, "I didn't do anything"

"But how will I find a job now?" Lizzie asked pulling away, worry etching her features. 

Roseline pondered."I have an offer," she said, "Just...wait a little, alright?"

Lizzie’s understanding smile was a balm. "You don’t have to do all this," she said. "Helping me, caring—"

"It’s nothing," Roseline interrupted. "Friends look out for each other."

She’d help Lizzie find her path. And maybe, just maybe, she’d find her own way too.

Camden Town—the heart of industry, where smokestacks belched their secrets into the gray sky. Tommy Shelby stood amidst the chaos, his eyes tracing the men hauling crates of whiskey. The air smelled of oak and ambition.

Johnny Dogs, his face etched with years of loyalty, leaned against a barrel. "Tommy," he said, his voice a gravelly echo, "how’s life treating you?"

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette. "On the up, Johnny," he replied. "On the up."

"But really, Tommy," he pressed, Johnny’s eyes narrowed. "how is it? You’re not even married yet."

"I’ll find my match," he said, evading Johnny’s scrutiny. Tommy’s jaw tightened. Marriage—the one territory he hadn’t conquered. Not knowing if he wants to.

"Ah," Johnny grinned, "I’ve got a fine-looking cousin. She’ll make your life hell, Tommy. You deserve her."

Tommy shook his head. His thoughts strayed to Roseline—the nurse with Forest-colored eyes. Her laughter, like a hidden brook, echoed in his memory.

"And that very good-looking angel?" Johnny prodded, nodding toward the door.

Tommy’s pulse quickened. "Roseline," he said, her name a prayer. "She’s alright."

Johnny raised an eyebrow. "Too good a heart that girl," he said. "Staying in Birmingham of all places"

Tommy’s possessiveness surged. Roseline—the calm amidst chaos. Her smile, like sunlight breaking through clouds, haunted him.

"It’s been a while," Johnny mused. "Since we had a good old wedding." 

Tommy ignored the ache. "Rather, Look inside the boxes, Johnny," he said, changing the subject.

"Why look at car parts when I don’t even have a car?" Johnny smirked. 

Tommy’s gaze lingered on the whiskey. "Faith in family," he said, "is a fine thing, eh?"

The bar’s backroom was a fortress of secrets, the air thick with tobacco and tension. Thomas, his eyes sharp as razors, poured over the books. The numbers whispered tales of clandestine deals and silent battles.

"Six hundred pounds on bloody olives?" Thomas’s voice cut through the silence, his gaze fixed on Arthur. "Explain."

Arthur, his frame a hulking shadow against the dim light, fumbled for words. "It’s for the drinks," he said, his voice a rumble. "Olives and onions, you know?"

Thomas’s stare was unyielding. "We’re not in the business of selling groceries, Arthur," he said. "We take a cut from the cocaine, nothing more. The Home Secretary’s got his eye on us."

Arthur poured himself another drink, the liquid amber and deceitful. "It’s under control, Tommy," he said.

"I put you down here because they are scared of you," he said. Thomas slammed the book shut, the sound a gunshot in the quiet room. "But if you can’t straighten up, I’ll give the fucking position to John."

Arthur’s hand trembled, the glass a chalice of his failures. “I’ve got it, Tommy,” he said. “It won’t happen again.”

The Shelby name carried a weight, a gravity that pulled at the threads of the city. Thomas Shelby, the man who bore that name, stepped into Ada’s London home with the authority of a king entering his court.

James, with the curiosity of a cat and the posture of a scholar, watched the newcomer. "Who are you?" he asked, his voice a blend of intrigue and caution.

Thomas, his eyes scanning the room like a hawk, barely acknowledged the question. He moved to the living room, where Ada sat, the newspaper rustling in her hands.

James followed, insistent. "I asked you a question," he said, a challenge woven into his words.

Ada looked up, her gaze a mix of annoyance and affection. "James, it’s alright," she said. "This is my brother, Thomas."

Thomas’s gaze finally settled on James. "who is he?" he asked, the edge in his voice softened by Ada’s presence.

"He rents a room," Ada explained, folding the newspaper. 

Thomas raised an eyebrow. "You’re renting out rooms now?" he asked, a hint of disapproval in his tone.

"Actually, She doesn’t charge me rent." James interjected, 

Ada’s eyes met Thomas’s. "James is a writer," she said. "Means he’s skint."

Thomas’s expression shifted, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. "You get up late," he observed, looking at Ada.

"What do you want, Tommy?" Ada asked, her patience thinning. Thomas’s eyes lingered on James, sizing him up. Ada cut in, "God, Before you start sizing him up for a wedding suit, he’s not interested in me—or any girls, for that matter."

At that, Thomas relaxed. His posture eased, the tension unwinding from his shoulders.

James, sensing the shift, excused himself. "I’ll go and change," he said, retreating.

Thomas called after him, "James." When the writer turned, Thomas extended his hand. “I’m Thomas,” he said, and they shook hands, the gesture sealing a new understanding between them.

Ada sat on the couch, her posture relaxed yet alert. Thomas entered the room, his presence commanding even in silence, and took a seat opposite her.

"James doesn’t know I’m a Shelby," Ada said, breaking the quiet. "What do you want, Tommy?"

Thomas’s gaze was steady, his mind on matters of legacy and blood. "I don’t have any kids," he began, "so I’ve set up a trust fund. John’s kids and Karl will benefit, but I need your signature for Karl."

Ada took the paper, her eyes scanning the lines. "Are you sick?" she asked, concern lacing her words.

"Just putting my affairs in order," Thomas replied, his voice a low rumble. "Like any other man would."

Ada’s eyes narrowed slightly. "What about Rosie?" she asked. "Things not working out with her?"

"Did she tell you about us?" Tommy said, caught off guard.

"No," Ada said, a softness in her tone. "Rosie isn’t that type of girl. I just guessed."

"You’ve always been perceptive," Thomas conceded, a hint of pride in his voice.

Ada sighed and signed the paper, her signature a swift stroke. "Roseline’s a good girl, Tommy," she said, handing the document back. "Don’t play with her."

Thomas took the paper, his thoughts momentarily drifting to Roseline—the nurse with the gentle hands. He nodded silently, acknowledging Ada’s words and the unspoken plea within them.

The engine’s growl was a familiar symphony to Tommy Shelby as he navigated the streets, his hands steady on the wheel. The car, a sleek beast of steel and speed, was an extension of his will, a vessel carrying him through the night.

Work was a relentless tide, its currents pulling him deeper into a sea of shadows and danger. The new mission—to eliminate Henry Russell—loomed over him, a specter of what could be his most perilous undertaking yet. The thought that it might be his last was a whisper in the back of his mind, a murmur he couldn’t silence.

As the city lights blurred past, Tommy’s thoughts drifted to Roseline. Her image, the sun in the chaos of his world, filled him with an aching mix of resolve and doubt. Their moments together—the softness of her touch, the warmth of her laughter—were pockets of peace in the tumult of his life.

The possibility of letting her go, of severing the tie that bound her to his dangerous path, was a battle within him. To release her from the web of his world, to spare her the pain that might come, was a thought that both tormented and tempted him.

The hospital was a sanctuary of healing, its white walls echoing with the silent prayers of the sick and injured. Roseline, her nurse’s uniform pristine, moved through the halls with a grace that belied the gravity of her work.

Kaitlyn, the seasoned nurse whose eyes had witnessed decades of pain and healing, approached with an unusual hesitance. "Roseline," she began, her voice betraying her concern, "there are two young men here who want you to patch them up."

Roseline sensed the nervousness in Kaitlyn’s stance. "Lead the way," she replied, her heart already bracing for what she might find.

They navigated the sterile maze to a small room where Michael and Isaiah sat, their youthful faces etched with the aftermath of violence. The sight struck Roseline, her professional detachment warring with a personal concern that surged unbidden.

"What in the world..." Roseline’s voice trailed off as she took in the bruises marring their skin. She moved swiftly to their side, her hands reaching for gauze and antiseptic with practiced ease.

Isaiah attempted a dismissive shrug, his pride a flimsy shield. "It’s nothing, really," he insisted, though his wince told a different story.

"These wounds clearly beg to differ," she chided softly, Roseline’s gaze was gentle but firm, her touch light as she began to clean the abrasions.

Michael’s account came reluctantly, his eyes downcast. "A bar fight," he admitted. "A man wouldn’t drink with Isaiah in the bar."

Isaiah’s eyes met Roseline’s, a silent plea for understanding within their depths. She offered a reassuring smile, her words imbued with a quiet strength. "People with such narrow minds will find themselves left behind," she assured him. As she bandaged Isaiah’s hand, his cheeks colored with a blush that had nothing to do with the alcohol that had fueled the brawl.

Turning her attention to Michael, the flush that had risen on his cheeks, not from embarrassment but from the proximity to her nurturing presence. "They backed down once they realized we were Shelbys," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.

Roseline finished securing the bandage, her sigh conveying a mix of relief and frustration. "A Shelby name may grant you safety," she reflected, "but changing hearts and minds is a far greater challenge."

In the quiet of the hospital room, Roseline’s concern deepened as she regarded Michael and Isaiah. "Does Polly know about this?" she asked, her voice carrying the weight of unspoken fears.

The boys exchanged a glance, their silence a heavy shroud in the air. Roseline pressed on, "Does anyone in your families know?"

Again, silence was their answer, and Roseline let out a weary sigh. "Just be careful next time," she admonished, her eyes soft but stern.

Michael attempted levity, a crooked smile on his bruised face. "Well, we’ve always got you to patch us up," he joked.

Isaiah nodded, his gratitude genuine. "Rose is the best," he agreed, his gaze warm.

Roseline shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the situation. "Just try not to make a habit of this," she said, her tone light but her message clear.

Kaitlyn’s hands, weathered from years of tending to the ailing and the broken, paused in their work. Her eyes, which had seen the ebb and flow of life within the hospital’s walls, now watched Roseline with a mix of admiration and concern.

In Birmingham, the name ‘Peaky Blinders’ was spoken in hushed tones, a shadow that loomed over the city. Kaitlyn knew them well—their reputation, their deeds—and had learned to keep her distance. The hospital was her haven, a place where the struggles of the outside world were left at the door.

Roseline had become the heart of this haven. Her compassion, her skill, and her unwavering dedication had earned her the respect and affection of all. Kaitlyn had come to think of her as a daughter, a bright light in the sterile corridors of their shared battleground.

But whispers of Roseline’s connection to the Peaky Blinders stirred unease in Kaitlyn. What was a woman of such grace and goodness doing entangled with men of violence and shadow? It was a question that hung in the air, unspoken but heavy with implication.

Kaitlyn’s thoughts were a tangle of worry and confusion. The Peaky Blinders were not the sort to cross paths with without consequence. And Roseline, dear Roseline, was too good, too pure to be sullied by their world. Yet, there she was, her life somehow intertwined with theirs.

The Birmingham air was thick with the scent of industry and the undercurrent of danger that always seemed to follow Thomas Shelby. He had just returned to the city, the streets whispering his name like a dark hymn as he made his way to meet with Campbell.

The room where they met was sparse, the only decor being the shadows that played across the walls. Campbell sat on a chair, his posture rigid, his eyes cold. Thomas entered, his footsteps silent but his presence filling the space with an unspoken threat.

"Shelby," Campbell greeted, his voice devoid of warmth.

"Campbell," Thomas replied, his tone equally frosty.

The details of the assignment were laid out like a map to the underworld. Names, places, and the ultimate target: Henry Russell. Tommy listened, his face betraying nothing of the thoughts racing through his mind.

"And if I’m killed?" Tommy asked, his gaze locked on Campbell’s.

"Then you’ll be dead, Shelby." Campbell’s lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. 

"If I’m killed, know this, Campbell—I’ll have you killed in return." Tommy leaned forward, the threat in his voice as sharp as a razor blade. 

The tension in the room was a tangible thing, a serpent coiled and ready to strike. But Thomas Shelby was no man’s prey. He was the predator, the leader of the Peaky Blinders, and he would not be cowed.

With the details etched into his mind, Thomas stood, his movements deliberate. "I’ll do your dirty work," he said. "But remember, Campbell—cross me, and it’ll be the last thing you do."

The office was a sanctuary of solitude amidst the chaos of Birmingham’s streets. Tommy Shelby, the man who commanded both fear and respect, entered and poured himself a glass of whiskey. The whiskey in his glass caught the light, casting amber reflections across the mahogany desk. He settled into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and surveyed the files that dictated the rhythm of his empire.

A knock at the door punctuated the silence. "Come in," Tommy’s voice commanded, a blend of authority and anticipation.

Roseline appeared at the threshold, her presence a soothing contrast to the day’s tensions. "Hello, Tommy," she greeted, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to soften the room’s hard edges.

Tommy’s response was almost imperceptible, a slight upturn of his lips that he quickly masked. "How are things here in my absence?" he inquired, his tone betraying none of the effect her presence had on him.

"You don’t need me to tell you that," she retorted playfully. "You already know it all," Roseline’s smile was a silent challenge. 

Tommy’s smirk broke through, a rare slip of his guarded demeanor. "I am your boss rose," he teased, leaning back in his chair "You are supposed to tell me these things."

"Are you?" Roseline, undeterred, pressed on. "How were things in London?"

Tommy shook his head, a gesture that conveyed both exasperation and affection. "Visited Arthur and Ada," he said, the names of his siblings carrying a weight only family could understand. "Handled some business."

"And how are they?" Roseline pressed, her concern genuine.

"They’re both alright," Tommy assured her. "Ada’s renting out rooms now."

Roseline’s laughter was a melody that danced through the tension. "I hope you didn’t scare off her tenants," she said, the tease in her voice clear. This girl knew him better than anyone without knowing.

Tommy’s chuckle was a rare sound, one that he allowed only in her presence. He extended his hand, an invitation that needed no words.

Roseline accepted the silent offer and moved closer, her steps measured and graceful. She sat on his lap, a small box in her hands, and Tommy rested his head against her neck, allowing himself a moment of vulnerability.

"Tommy, we need to talk about something," Roseline said, her voice suddenly laced with seriousness.

Tommy lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. "What is it?" he asked, his voice steady despite the unease that began to creep in.

Roseline hesitated, her gaze drifting away from his. "I want to quit my job as your assistant," she revealed, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tommy’s reaction was instantaneous, a freezing of his features that betrayed his shock. His hand instinctively tightened around Roseline’s waist, The room seemed to grow colder, the warmth of moments ago replaced by a sudden chill.

Chapter Text

The dimly lit room held secrets as thick as the smoke that curled from Tommy Shelby’s cigarette. Roseline perched on his lap, the wooden box cradled in her hands like a fragile secret. Her green eyes, usually calm and steady, now flickered with uncertainty. His grip tightened around her waist, possessive and protective. The Peaky Blinders’ leader rarely allowed vulnerability, but with Roseline, he was different. She had stitched him back together, not just his flesh but the frayed edges of his soul.

Roseline took a deep breath, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns on the box. "I’m not cut out to be your assistant," she confessed. "You need someone who obeys without question, who doesn’t challenge your decisions."

His jaw clenched, and she could feel the tension radiating from him. "I don’t give a fucking damn about obedience," Tommy snapped. "As long as it's you."

Her heart fluttered, caught between fear and desire. His touch was both a lifeline and a trap. “Tommy,” she whispered, "this can’t work. Whatever this is between us." She hesitated, her gaze searching his stormy eyes. 

His anger flared. "Who the fuck put this in your head?" he demanded. "Did someone make you uncomfortable? Threaten you?"

"No," Roseline replied, her voice steady. "No one forced me. But—"

"But what?" Tommy’s fingers dug into her hips, and she winced. "Tell me."

"Tommy," she said, her voice steady, "what are we?"

she leaned up closer, her fingers brushing against the lapel of his suit. "I want to be here for you," she continued, her words a fragile thread. "Not because of your money or your power. Because I want you, Tommy."

He blinked, caught off guard. Roseline —wanted him. Roseline’s confession echoed in his mind—a revelation that had shaken the very foundations of his guarded heart. For years, love had been a distant specter, a luxury he couldn’t afford. The War had taught him brutality, cunning, survival—but not tenderness. Not the kind of love that made a man vulnerable, that stripped away the armor he wore like a second skin.

Greta had been a fleeting flame—a desperate attempt to feel something other than the cold grip of power. But it had burned out, leaving only ashes and regret. He had buried the idea of love alongside her, convinced that it was a luxury for other men, not for a Shelby. And then came Roseline—a nurse with eyes like galaxies, who stitched wounds and whispered secrets. She wanted him, not for his money or his power, but for the fractured soul he kept hidden.

But did he deserve her? He was a man of blood and shadows, haunted by ghosts and vendettas. Roseline deserved more—a life untouched by violence, a love unmarred by danger. He didn’t mind physical intimacy—the kissing, the fucking, even if he still didn't go all the way with Rose. But love was different. It was a promise, a commitment. And Roseline made him feel things no other woman could—a warmth that seeped into his bones, a longing that defied reason.

The mission loomed over them—a storm on the horizon. Tommy knew the risks—the bullets, the betrayal. He could die, leaving Roseline behind. Would she mourn him? Would she move on, find solace in another’s arms?

"What do you want, Tommy?" she pressed, her vulnerability laid bare. 

But Tommy’s mind raced through shadows—the vendettas, the alliances, the blood-soaked streets. His mission loomed over them, a specter that threatened to tear everything apart.

Roseline’s hurt was palpable, a bruise on her heart. Yet, she didn’t judge him. She understood the weight he carried—the ghosts that haunted him. And then, in a moment that hung suspended, she kissed him. Her lips were soft, desperate, a plea and a farewell. Tommy tasted salt—the salt of tears unshed, of promises broken.

"This is my resignation," she murmured against his mouth. "Come to me when you have you answer."

He didn’t stop her. Instead, he pulled her closer, his hands on her waist. His kiss was a surrender—a silent agreement. They were both tied down, bound by duty and desire.

But Tommy Shelby was never one to let go easily. As She got up, he leaned back in his chair, his mind racing. He needed her—her sharp mind, her unwavering loyalty. And if she wanted to play games, he would play along.

"Roseline," he called after her, his voice low and dangerous. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. "Before you go, answer me this: Do you have anyone in mind to replace you?"

"Of course," she said. "I always take responsibility for my actions." Her smile was both heartbreaking and infuriating.

"And how would I know if this replacement is qualified to be my assistant?" Tommy leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. 

Her response caught him off guard. "Remember those papers I gave you not long ago?" she asked. "The ones you said had a different style?"

He frowned, recalling the incident. "What about them?"

"I didn't write them," she said. Roseline’s green eyes held a challenge. Tommy was torn between anger and admiration. She had tested him, and he hadn’t even realized it. 

She stepped closer, her breath warm against his skin. "I’ll bring the person here in the afternoon," she said. "You can decide if they’re up to the task."

And just like that, Roseline slipped away, leaving him with questions and regrets. Roseline’s departure had been swift—a door closing, a heartbeat silenced. Her footsteps had faded into the night, leaving behind an ache that clawed at his chest. She had confessed—those words still echoing in the room like a gunshot: “I want you.”

Anger surged—a tempest of possessiveness and protectiveness. He had never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but Roseline had slipped past his defenses. She had stitched not only his flesh but also the frayed edges of his soul. And now she was gone. The glass slipped from his grip, crashing against the wall. Shards exploded, a constellation of pain. Whiskey splattered, staining the faded wallpaper—a metaphor for his fractured heart. The room trembled, as if mourning alongside him.

He didn’t say a word. Words were futile—a feeble attempt to capture the storm raging within. Instead, he clenched his fist. Possessiveness surged—an instinct to claim her, to keep her safe. But what could he offer? Blood-soaked streets? Betrayals that stretched beyond the horizon? His mind raced. Should he chase after her? Beg her to stay? Or let her slip away completely? 

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Roseline stood before the run-down building. Its crumbling facade seemed to sag under the weight of forgotten dreams and whispered secrets. She had followed a trail of rumors, each step taking her deeper into the heart of Birmingham’s shadows. As she pushed open the creaking door, the smell of damp wood and old tobacco enveloped her. The narrow staircase groaned under her weight, and she climbed, her footsteps echoing in the dimness. The walls bore faded graffiti—a testament to lives lived on the edge.

Reaching the top floor, Roseline hesitated. The hallway was dimly lit, the flickering bulbs casting elongated shadows. She knocked on the door—the one that held the answers she sought. Her heart raced, anticipation and anxiety warring within her.

The door swung open, revealing a woman who looked like Lizzie Stark but weathered by life’s harsh winds. She was shorter than Liz but carried an air of defiance. A cigarette dangled from her lips, its ember glowing like a distant star.

Roseline greeted her with a smile, but the woman’s annoyance was palpable. "How much will you pay?" she snapped, her eyes assessing Roseline’s worn coat and blonde hair.

"No payment," Roseline replied. "I just need to talk with Lizzie Stark."

The woman’s eyes narrowed. "A bloody respectable wife, are you?" Her tone dripped with sarcasm. "If you’re here to nag, take it elsewhere."

"I mean no harm," she said. "I just need to talk with Liz." Roseline’s smile didn’t waver. 

The woman sighed, her resolve softening. "Better be true," she muttered, stepping aside to let Roseline in.

The apartment was a time capsule—faded wallpaper, peeling paint, and memories etched into every crack. Roseline’s gaze swept over the worn furniture, the threadbare rug. This was a place where dreams had been deferred, where survival trumped comfort.

"Who is it, Mary?" A voice echoed from one of the rooms. 

"A girl came to see you." The woman—Mary, Roseline assumed—called back, 

And then Lizzie Stark emerged—a taller version of the woman Roseline had expected. Surprise flickered in Lizzie’s eyes, quickly replaced by suspicion. Roseline stood there, drenched in sunlight, a new friend who.

Roseline’s smile remained steady. "I’m here about the job," she said. "I talked to my boss, and he agreed to meet you."

Lizzie’s expression shifted—a mix of happiness and uncertainty. She led Roseline into one of the rooms, the floorboards creaking under their weight. "Thank you, Rose" she whispered, gratitude etching lines on her face. But then worry clouded her features. "But what should I wear? How should I act?"

Roseline’s smile softened. "You don’t need to worry about that," she assured Lizzie. 

The sun bathed the streets as Roseline led Lizzie toward the quaint clothing shop. The bell above the door tinkled as they entered, and the air smelled of freshly cut fabric and hope. Emily—the seamstress—stood behind the counter, her eyes lighting up as she saw Roseline.

"Roseline!" Emily exclaimed, crossing the room to embrace her. "It’s been too long. How have you been?"

Roseline returned the hug. "Busy," she replied. "But I’m glad to see your shop thriving."

Emily beamed. "Ever since you started buying from me and giving advice, business has picked up." She glanced at Lizzie, curiosity dancing in her eyes. "And who’s this?"

Roseline gestured toward Lizzie. "This is Lizzie," she said. "She needs some new clothes."

Lizzie looked bewildered, caught off guard by the unexpected shopping trip. "I don’t—"

Emily cut her off. "Nonsense!" she declared. "Let’s find something perfect for you." She disappeared into the racks, leaving Lizzie flustered.

"But I don’t have the money," Lizzie protested, embarrassment coloring her cheeks.

Roseline’s smile remained unwavering. "Don’t worry about it," she said. "I pushed you into this, remember? Consider it my treat."

Lizzie hesitated. "But—" Kindness was a rarity in her world—a currency exchanged only among the desperate. But Roseline had given it freely, without asking for anything in return. Lizzie’s heart swelled with gratitude and confusion. Why would anyone care about her? Why would anyone go out of their way to help?

Roseline leaned closer. "You can pay me back someday," she whispered. "For now, focus on choosing the right clothes."

As Emily returned with an armful of dresses, Lizzie’s eyes widened. "I can’t—" she stood amidst the racks of dresses, her fingers grazing the fabric as if testing its reality. The sun slanted through the window, casting a warm glow on the worn carpet. She had never expected this—kindness wrapped in practicality, a lifeline thrown to her from an unexpected source. Roseline—the girl who had appeared like a guardian angel—hovered nearby, her eyes assessing each dress. Lizzie watched her—the way she moved, the way she smiled. It was as if fairy tales had spilled into reality, and Lizzie was caught in their enchantment.

Roseline interrupted. "You’ll look stunning," she assured Lizzie. "And besides, it’s not every day you get a chance to reinvent yourself."

Lizzie glanced from Roseline to the dresses. "I don’t know what to say."

Roseline’s voice softened. "Say yes," she said. "And let’s make today a new beginning."

Roseline glanced at her, her eyes soft. “You’ll look stunning,” she said. “And besides, it’s not every day you get a chance to reinvent yourself."

Reinvent herself. The words echoed—a promise of transformation. Lizzie had worn her scars like armor, but now she wondered if there was another way—a path toward something brighter. But how could she repay Roseline? She had no money, no favors to offer. The girl’s kindness was a debt Lizzie couldn’t quantify. She felt both unworthy and blessed—a beggar at a feast.

As Roseline chatted with the seamstress, Lizzie’s mind raced. Maybe she could repay her someday—maybe find a way to be someone’s guardian angel in return. But for now, she would choose the clothes, step into a new skin, and hope that fairy tales didn’t always end at midnight.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The sunlit corridor seemed to stretch infinitely as Roseline led Lizzie toward Tommy Shelby’s office. Lizzie’s heart raced, her mind a whirlwind of confusion. She had been dressed in new clothes, transformed from the woman she didn't like, who now stood on the precipice of an unknown future.

Roseline knocked on the door—a simple, unassuming gesture. The wood yielded, and she stepped inside, her gaze locking onto Tommy. He sat behind a desk, papers spread before him like a battlefield map. His eyes lifted, and for a moment, the world held its breath.

Roseline smiled, her resolve unwavering. "I’ve brought the candidate," she replied. "The one who could be your new assistant."

Lizzie stepped forward, her heart pounding. She had no idea whose office this was—only that Roseline had led her here. And then she saw him—Tommy Shelby, the man who ruled Birmingham’s shadows. Shock rooted her to the spot. This was the man whose brother she wanted to marry, the man who had changed everything.

Tommy’s expression mirrored her surprise. He rose from his chair, words caught in his throat. "Thank you," Tommy said, his voice rough. "Wait outside, while we have the interview."

Tommy Shelby’s eyes narrowed as they fell upon Lizzie Stark—the woman who had materialized in his office like a ghost from the past. He had never expected this collision of worlds, this intersection of secrets. Roseline had brought her here, and Tommy’s mind raced to connect the dots.

Roseline nodded, her eyes lingering on Lizzie. She whispered, "Good luck," before slipping out, leaving them alone. How had Roseline met Lizzie? The men he paid to watch over Roseline had never mentioned anything about this. And now, Lizzie stood before him—a woman with a history he had tried to bury. She had been more than a client, more than a transaction. But that was before John wanted to marry her, before Tommy had severed their ties.

The afternoon sun slanted through the window, casting elongated shadows across Tommy Shelby’s office. His desk bore the weight of papers—contracts, secrets, and the tangled threads of Birmingham’s underworld. The air hung heavy with tension as he looked up, his eyes narrowing on the unexpected visitor.

Lizzie Stark stood there—a woman with secrets etched into her skin. Her gaze met Tommy’s, defiance warring with vulnerability. She hadn’t expected this confrontation, hadn’t known whose office this was. But now she stood before the man who had once been her client—a man who had left scars on her soul.

"Why are you fucking here?" Tommy’s voice was a low growl, anger simmering beneath the surface. He had no patience for surprises, no tolerance for disruptions.

Lizzie’s anger flared. "I didn’t fucking know," she snapped. "I didn’t know this was your bloody office, and I certainly didn’t know you were Roseline’s boss."

Tommy sighed, rubbing his temples. "Does she know?" he asked, his gaze piercing.

Lizzie hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "Yes," she admitted. “She knows I used to be a Bloody prostitute”

"Not that," Tommy interrupted. "Does she know about us?"

Lizzie’s heart skipped a beat. "No," she said. "I never told her."

Tommy’s anger eased, replaced by something else—a mix of relief and regret. "Good," he muttered. "Keep it that way."

He picked up a stack of papers from his desk, handing them to Lizzie. "Do you recognize these?" he asked.

Lizzie glanced at the typewritten pages—her practice papers, the ones Roseline had taught her to write. "Yes," she said. "They’re mine."

Tommy smirked, admiring Roseline’s intelligence. "You’re hired," he said. "Start tomorrow. But remember one thing: Never mention our past to Rose, eh?"

He hadn’t even crossed the threshold of physical intimacy with Roseline yet. Their relationship was a delicate dance, a tension that hung between them. Tommy’s mind raced. He couldn’t let Roseline discover their history. Not now, not when their own relationship was strained. He had to keep the past buried, even if it meant denying a truth that lingered in Lizzie’s eyes.

Lizzie nodded, understanding the unspoken pact. She had secrets, and so did Tommy. And in this tangled web, Roseline remained blissfully unaware.

Roseline stood outside Tommy Shelby’s office, her heart a tempest of conflicting emotions. The sun filtered through the window, casting squares of warmth on the worn carpet. She had brought Lizzie here—a woman with secrets and scars—unaware of the tangled threads that connected them all. Tommy and Lizzie—the way they looked at each other—spoke of a history Roseline couldn’t fathom. She sensed it—the unspoken tension, the shared moments.

Roseline felt guilty for quitting her job at this crucial time. But she couldn’t continue as Tommy’s assistant—not when her heart was a battlefield, not when she had glimpsed something deeper in his eyes. Their connection was fragile—a dance of secrets and longing. Roseline had no idea what kind of history they shared, but she respected their unspoken boundaries. She wouldn’t pry, wouldn’t annoy Tommy with questions.

Lizzie stepped out of Tommy Shelby’s office. Her heart fluttered with a mix of relief and disbelief. She had done it—secured the job that promised a fresh start, a chance to escape the shadows that had clung to her for far too long.

Roseline waited by the door, her eyes lighting up as Lizzie emerged. The nurse’s smile was infectious, and before Lizzie could say a word, Roseline enveloped her in a tight hug. "Lizzie!" she exclaimed. "I knew you could do it!"

Lizzie returned the hug, feeling the weight of the past lift from her shoulders. "Thank you," she whispered. "I couldn’t have done it without you."

Roseline pulled back, her eyes dancing. "You deserve a treat," she declared. "After all this, you need something special."

Lizzie’s cheeks flushed. "I don’t know what to say," she admitted. "I’ve never had someone believe in me like this."

Roseline’s laughter tinkled like wind chimes. "Well, get used to it," she said. "Because you're my friend."

As they walked down the sun-drenched street, Lizzie felt a warmth she hadn’t known in years. Roseline chattered about the little victories. And Lizzie listened, grateful for this unexpected friendship.

The night wrapped Roseline’s apartment in a cocoon of solitude. The dim light from the streetlamp outside cast elongated shadows on the walls, and the air held the faint scent of ink and memories. She sat on the edge of her bed, the mattress sagging under her weight, a notebook open on her lap.

Her pen moved across the pages, weaving words into existence. The hum that escaped her lips was a melody of solace—a lullaby for a world that had grown harsh and unforgiving. Roseline had always found solace in writing—the way ink could mend wounds, the way paper could hold secrets.

But tonight, the words felt heavy. The pen scratched against the paper, leaving behind fragments of her thoughts. She wrote of love and loss, of secrets buried deep. And as she hummed, the room seemed to hold its breath, as if waiting for her to unravel the threads of her own story.

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The air inside Alfie Solomons’ distillery hung heavy with the scent of aging whiskey and secrets. The flickering candlelight cast elongated shadows on the rough-hewn walls, and the wooden floorboards creaked underfoot. A long table dominated the center of the room, its surface scarred by years of use. Alfie had arranged it meticulously, each place setting adorned with a tarnished silver goblet and a piece of unleavened bread.

Alfie Solomons stood at the head of the table, his eyes sharp as broken glass. His salt-and-pepper beard framed a mouth that could charm or condemn with equal ease. He wore a threadbare suit, the fabric clinging to his wiry frame like a second skin. His gaze shifted between the two men who sat before him, their fates hanging in the balance.

Alfie gestured toward the center of the room, where a goat stood tied to a post. Its eyes were wide with fear, and its bleating echoed off the distillery walls. Alfie had named it Thomas, after their absent leader, Tommy Shelby. The irony wasn’t lost on anyone.

"Meet Thomas Shelby," Alfie said, his voice a low rasp. "Our sacrificial lamb tonight. Or should I say, goat."

With a swift movement, Alfie drew a knife from his pocket. The blade glinted in the candlelight as he slit the goat’s throat. Blood spilled onto the floor, pooling around Thomas’s hooves. The animal shuddered and collapsed, its life draining away.

Alfie pulled out a revolver and shot him point-blank in the head. Billy crumpled to the floor, blood seeping into the cracks between the floorboards.

Arthur’s shock turned to rage. "Fuck!"

"Language, Arthur," Alfie chided. "We’re in the presence of the Almighty, remember? Now, my men will take care of Billy’s body. As for you..."

Two burly men grabbed Arthur, tying his hands behind his back. Alfie leaned in, his breath hot against Arthur’s ear.

"You’re going to jail, Arthur. For Billy’s murder. The police will find you here, covered in his blood. It’s a shame, really. But business is business." Alfie walked away, leaving Arthur struggling against his restraints. 

"You’ll Fucking pay for this, Solomon!" Arthur spat.

"Maybe," Alfie said, smiling. "But tonight, my friend, we’ve all got sins to atone for."

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The air thickened as Darby Sabini stepped into the pub—the same one he had lost to Tommy Shelby. His men flanked him, their eyes cold, their knuckles white around their weapons. The room fell silent—the patrons frozen mid-drink, the smoke hanging like a shroud. Sabini’s gaze swept the room—the familiar faces, the memories etched into the walls. He had been king here once, and now he was a ghost—a specter of vengeance. His footsteps echoed, each one a death knell.

He raised his gun, the barrel gleaming in the dim light. The patrons cowered, their eyes wide with terror. Sabini fired—a single shot that shattered the silence. The bullet lodged into the ceiling, raining plaster onto the floor. The room erupted in chaos—the screams, the overturned chairs, the desperate scramble for cover.

"Listen up, you bloody rats!" Sabini’s voice cut through the panic. "You’re all fired! Every last one of you!"

Sabini’s men moved like shadows—swift, merciless. They dragged Tommy’s men from their posts, their knuckles cracking against flesh. Sabini himself waded into the fray—his fists raining blows, his rage unbridled. He had lost everything—the pub, his reputation, his pride. And now, he would take it back, piece by broken piece.

"You thought you could oust me?" Sabini’s voice was a snarl. "You thought I’d fade away?"

He smashed a bottle against the bar, the shards glinting like teeth. Blood sprayed—the crimson testament to his wrath. Tommy’s men crumpled, their bones snapping, their faces unrecognizable.

"You’ll go back to Tommy Shelby in many pieces," Sabini spat. "Tell him I’m not done. Tell him I’ll haunt his bloody dreams."

And as the pub trembled—the walls bearing witness to the violence—Sabini’s eyes found the mirror behind the bar. His reflection was fractured—a man torn between vengeance and madness. He wiped the blood from his knuckles, his breath ragged. The pub was his once more—the throne reclaimed. But the cost was steep—the broken bodies, the shattered loyalty.

Sabini turned toward the door, his men following. The pub would remember this night—the night Darby Sabini had risen from the ashes, a phoenix with vengeance in his heart.And as he stepped into the streets, Sabini vowed—he would tear down the world to reclaim what was rightfully his.

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The room was suffused with the warm glow of candlelight, casting elongated shadows on the faded wallpaper. The table was set for dinner—simple china plates, a loaf of bread, and a jug of water. Polly Gray sat at one end, her eyes fixed on her son, Michael, who sat across from her. His dark hair fell over his forehead, and his eyes held a quiet intensity—the same eyes that had seen too much, too soon.

The door splintered open, and the room was flooded with harsh electric light. Campbell led the charge, his face a mask of cold determination. Behind him, uniformed officers spilled into the room, their boots scuffing the wooden floor. Polly’s heart pounded in her chest, and she pushed back her chair, rising to her feet.

"Polly Gray," Campbell sneered, "your son is under arrest for burning down The Marquis of Lorne pub."

Polly’s gaze darted to Michael, who remained seated, his expression unreadable. She hadn't known about this'. Michael’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t move. The officers surrounded him, their hands rough as they pulled him from his chair. He stumbled, and Polly’s heart shattered. She lunged forward, her fingers clawing at Campbell’s lapel.

"You bastard!" she spat. "You won’t take away my son! Not again!"

Campbell’s eyes narrowed. "He’s a criminal. A bloody arsonist. And you’ve been hiding him."

Polly’s rage surged. "He’s my son! My Damn blood!"

The police car door slammed shut, trapping Michael inside. His face was pale, eyes wide with fear. Polly Gray stood on the pavement, her knuckles white as she pounded on the window.

"Michael!" she screamed, her voice raw. "Listen to me! Not a word! Tommy will get you out!"

Michael’s breath fogged the glass, and he pressed his hand against it. His lips moved, but the words were lost in the chaos—the officers barking orders. Polly’s heart clenched. She had to make him understand. The police car pulled away, tires screeching against the cobbled street. Michael’s face disappeared from view, and Polly sank to her knees. Her fists pounded the ground, gravel digging into her skin. She couldn’t lose him—not like this.

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The room was bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, casting elongated shadows on the faded wallpaper. Roseline sat on the edge of her bed, her back straight, her pen gliding across the paper. The notebook lay open on her lap, its pages filled with secrets, dreams, and fragments of a life she had left behind.

Outside, the night was calm—the city’s chaos muted by the thick walls of her apartment. Roseline’s breaths matched the rhythm of her writing, each stroke of the pen a release, a confession. She wrote of love and loss, of whispered promises and stolen kisses. Her heart spilled onto the pages, ink bleeding into the fibers. Her humming had been a fragile thread connecting her to sanity, but now it unraveled, leaving her exposed.

As her pen glided across the paper, the room shifted. The walls leaned in, the floorboards groaned, and the air tasted metallic, like blood. And then it happened—the sudden rip, a jagged tear that echoed through the silence. Roseline’s hand froze mid-sentence, her eyes widening. The paper tore, revealing a blank expanse—a void where her words had been. The ink bled into the fibers, staining her skin like a bruise.

She stared at the ripped edge, her heartbeat a frantic rhythm. The room seemed to pulse, its walls breathing, its corners harboring secrets. The lamp flickered faster, casting grotesque shapes on the walls—the shadows of things unseen. Roseline’s humming ceased, replaced by a hollow silence.

Something was wrong. Something happened. Roseline clutched the notebook to her chest, her knuckles white. The torn page whispered to her—a language she couldn’t decipher. The ink blurred, forming shapes—an ethereal dance of despair.

Chapter Text

The air hung heavy with incense—a veil between the sacred and the profane. Thomas Shelby, the cunning leader of the Peaky Blinders, stood at the threshold, his eyes ablaze. The church had always been a place of refuge, but tonight, it was a battleground—a sanctuary desecrated by the presence of Inspector Campbell.

Campbell stood by the altar, his silhouette sharp against the flickering candles. His face was a mask of indifference, but his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—held a venomous promise. He had thrown Arthur and Michael in jail, not out of duty, but as a chess move—a gambit to force Thomas’s hand.

Campbell’s voice was a blade. "Your brother, Arthur, awaits the noose. Your cousin, Michael, faces five years for arson. And I have your entire organization is in disarray. Birmingham, London—they’re both crumbling."

Thomas’s jaw tightened. His brother—the brute with a poet’s heart—was a pawn in this deadly game. Michael was caught in the crossfire. "What do you want?" Thomas’s voice was a low growl. 

Campbell tilted his head, the candlelight dancing on his bald scalp. "Your family is your weakness, Shelby. You’re not afraid to die. But them? They’re your Achilles’ heel."

"I already agreed," Thomas said, his voice ice. "That I’ll do your fucking killing."

Campbell’s lips curved into a cruel smile. "Ada Shelby, primrose hill, London. A lovely address, wouldn’t you say?"

"You threaten them," Thomas spat, "and you’ll find out just how far I’m willing to go."

Campbell stepped closer, the candlelight casting shadows on his face. "My father used to say, 'To make sure your dog obeys you, you have to show ‘em the stick once in a while."

Thomas’s rage ignited. He lunged, his fingers closing around Campbell’s throat. The detective’s eyes widened, but he didn’t struggle. Instead, he whispered, "The stick, Shelby. The stick."

And as Thomas squeezed, the church walls seemed to close in—the sacred and the profane merging into one. The devil had come to collect, and Thomas Shelby would pay the price.

Tommy released the detective’s throat, but the weight remained. His brothers—Arthur and Michael—faced their own fates. And Ada—the firebrand who had defied convention—was a pawn in this deadly game. Thomas’s anger simmered—a tempest waiting to break. 

The morning light filtered through the stained glass windows, casting fractured colors on the cold floor. He stepped outside, his breath visible in the crisp air. The world seemed to hold its breath—the streets awakening, the secrets buried deeper.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The room smelled of tobacco and secrets. Thomas , the enigmatic leader of the Peaky Blinders, sat at the head of the table. His brother John—flanked him. Polly, the matriarch with eyes like flint, stood by the fireplace, her gaze unwavering. The news was grim. The coppers had tightened their grip—their raids relentless, their greed insatiable. John cleared his throat, his knuckles white around his whiskey glass.

"Tommy," he began, "The Eden Club, all our bloody pubs—they’ve been raided. Sabini’s men are back in business."

Esme Shelby, the fiery sister in law who had married into the family, shifted in her chair. Her eyes held a mix of defiance and fear. "I’ve got news, Tommy," she said, her voice trembling. "I spoke to Johnny Dogs—”

Polly interrupted, her voice sharp. "This meeting is for family only. Esme’s not blood."

Esme’s cheeks flushed. She had always been the outsider—the one who had wed John, the one who had borne his child. But she had also been loyal—a Shelby by choice, if not by blood.

Thomas leaned back, his fingers tapping the table. "Speak, Esme."

Esme took a deep breath. "I spoke to Johnny Dogs. The Lees—they’re kin. They can give us men."

Polly’s voice was a blade. "It’s men who’ve done the damage, Tommy. Men who’ve put us in this bloody position."

Tommy turned to Esme, “We need men,” he said, his voice ice. “We’ll take up the Lee family’s offer.”

"Michael’s in prison, for God’s sake!" Polly scoffed. 

"Tommy," she said, "maybe Rose can help me get Michael out of prison."

Thomas’s jaw tightened. Michael, who had been caught in their web of violence. But Rose—his former assistant, the woman who had danced on the edge of their world—was no longer part of their game.

"She quit," Thomas replied, his voice deceptively calm. "Yesterday morning."

The room fell silent. Finn—the younger brother, the one who had always been on the fringes—stared wide-eyed. Esme, her hands trembling. She had never understood how fast everything was unraveling—the Peaky Blinders, their empire, their very lives.

Polly’s anger flared. "If Michael ever gets out of prison," she said, her voice low, "I’ll take him away from this family—for good."

Polly dragged Finn , the younger brother who had always been on the fringes, with her. And with that she stormed out of the betting shop

Finn stumbled, his confusion evident. "Aunt Polly," he said, his voice trembling, "what are we doing? Where are we going?"

Polly’s grip tightened on his arm. Her eyes held a mix of determination and desperation. "Just Shut up and walk," she snapped. "We’re taking matters into our own hands."

Finn tried to pull away, but Polly’s strength surprised him. Polly walked—her steps measured, her spine straight. The streets blurred—the shadows dancing. Polly’s anger was a tempest—a storm that threatened to tear her apart. She would never lose her son again, not like last time. The prison walls had held him, the bars mocking her helplessness.

Tommy Shelby, her nephew—the man who had risen from the gutters, who had built an empire on blood and smoke—had ignored her. His eyes had glazed over as she spoke of Michael, her son, the boy who had been caught in their treacherous web. Business, he said. The Peaky Blinders, the empire—they were his obsession. But Michael was her heart, her blood, her very soul.

She clenched her fist. She would do whatever means necessary—without the help of anyone. The Lees—the kin who had offered men—were irrelevant. Polly Gray was a force—a mother with vengeance in her veins, and she would do whatever it took to free her son.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The hospital corridors hummed with life—the scent of antiseptic, the shuffle of footsteps, and the distant echo of moans from the wounded. Roseline moved with purpose, her white uniform pristine against the muted walls. She was a nurse—a healer of bodies and keeper of secrets.

As she adjusted the bandage on an elderly man's wrist, the whispers reached her ears. The kind of whispers that slithered through cracks, carrying tales of trouble and desperation. Michael Gray, Tommy's cousin and Polly's lost son, had been arrested for arson. 

Kaitlyn, the elder nurse, Rose's mentor and has a penchant for gossip, leaned against the wall. Her eyes darted toward Roseline, curiosity etched in every line. "Did you hear, Roseline? Michael Gray—arrested. And Polly? Oh, she went mad, lashing out at the officers like a cornered lioness."

Roseline’s hands didn’t falter. She smoothed the bandage, her mind racing. Polly, with her fire and her broken edges. They were part of this tangled web—the Peaky Blinders’ legacy that stained Birmingham’s streets.

"People like them," Kaitlyn continued, "they’re always in trouble. It’s in their blood, I reckon."

Roseline glanced at the window, where rain tapped against the glass. Their pain ran deeper than any police report could capture. Michael’s desperate act—what had driven him to it? And Polly, fierce and unyielding, would tear down the heavens if it meant protecting her own son.

"Trouble," Roseline murmured, her voice barely audible. "Sometimes, it’s the only way people know how to survive."

Kaitlyn laughed, oblivious to the weight of her words. "Survive? Maybe. But they leave chaos in their wake."

Roseline’s gaze lingered on the door. Polly Gray wouldn’t back down. She’d storm the gates of hell itself if it meant freeing her son. And Michael? He carried secrets like stones in his pockets, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

"Roseline," Kaitlyn said, nudging her, "you’re too quiet. What do you think?"

Roseline met Kaitlyn’s eyes, her calm façade unyielding. "I think," she said softly, "that it's not my business at the moment."

Kaitlyn shrugged. As Roseline turned away, her heart clenched. She hoped that they could mend what violence had torn asunder. Polly and Michael—two souls entwined in a dance of danger. She whispered a silent prayer for their safety, for the fragile thread that bound them.

Roseline watched Michael Gray from the edges of her world—a quiet flame flickering in the shadows. His eyes held secrets, and ambition simmered beneath his skin. Not the kind that blazed like Tommy Shelby’s—a wildfire consuming all—but a quieter hunger, like embers waiting for the right wind.

Ambition. The word clung to Michael like smoke. He wasn’t content with the scraps life offered. No, he wanted more—a seat at the table, a voice that echoed through Birmingham’s smoky alleys. Not as audacious as Tommy, but perhaps that was a blessing. Tommy’s ambition was a double-edged blade, cutting through enemies and allies alike.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The cobbled streets of Birmingham held secrets—whispers woven into the very stones. Roseline walked, her footsteps soft, her green eyes scanning the shadows. Polly. The name echoed in Roseline’s mind. The lioness of Small Heath, fierce and wounded. Roseline had seen her—rage etched into every line of her face, sorrow hidden behind the bravado. And now, Polly walked—nervous, sad—into the dim-lit pub. What had happened?

Roseline hesitated. She could walk away, pretend she hadn’t seen. But compassion tugged at her—a thread that connected her to this fractured family. She sat on a bench, the wood cool against her palms. Her bag held a book—an escape, a shield. She’d read, pretend to be lost in words, while Polly’s world crumbled.

The pub door swung open. Polly stepped inside, her red hair a flame against the gray. Roseline’s heart clenched. People walked by. Some glanced at Roseline—her beauty, her calm—but no one stopped. Birmingham had its own rhythm—a dance of survival. Roseline opened her book, the pages whispering secrets of their own. She read, but her eyes strayed to the pub’s entrance.

The book lay forgotten. Roseline watched the rain outside—the droplets tapping against the window, a symphony of melancholy. She’d wait. Not as Tommy’s assistant, but as a witness to their pain. Polly’s anger—they were strands in this tangled tapestry.

Roseline stood. She’d wait no longer. The pub’s door swung open, revealing the dim-lit interior. Roseline stepped inside. The air thickened—a blend of smoke, spilled whiskey, and desperation. Evening had settled, casting long shadows across the worn floorboards. The patrons—drunk, weary, lost—were silhouettes in the dim light. Drunk men. They leered, their eyes tracing Roseline’s curves. She hated their hungry looks—the way they dissected her beauty, reducing her to an object. But she was no stranger to this world.

She ignored them. Polly mattered more. Roseline pushed through the crowd, her steps steady. The men’s comments—crude, insistent—slid off her like rain on a windowpane. She focused on Polly, her green eyes scanning the room.

There she was. Polly Gray, once a queen of chaos, now a fallen star. Her head rested on the sticky bar, her breaths uneven. Roseline called her name—soft, urgent—but Polly’s response was a garbled mess of vowels and consonants. It reminded Roseline of Ada, her friend.

Roseline knelt beside Polly. The woman was taller, her limbs heavy. Roseline wrapped Polly’s arm around her neck, the weight pulling her down. But she was determined. Polly needed help, and Roseline wouldn’t falter.

"Come on, Polly," she murmured. "Let’s get you home."

Polly’s eyes fluttered open—a stormy sea. "Roseline?" Her voice was a whisper, the syllables slurred. "Michael..."

Roseline adjusted her grip. "Yes, Polly. We’ll take you home."

The pub’s patrons watched—their gazes curious, judgmental. Roseline ignored them. She’d seen worse—blood-soaked streets, broken bodies. This was just another chapter in Birmingham’s dark tale. Polly’s scent was filled with Whiskey and regret. Roseline guided her toward the door, their steps unsteady. Polly leaned on her, and Roseline wondered if this was how angels felt—bearing the weight of souls.

Outside, the night was cool. The cobbled streets welcomed them—the same stones that held secrets. Polly’s house wasn’t far not for her. Roseline half-dragged, half-carried her, their breaths mingling in the darkness.

The narrow cobbled street lay silent under the moon’s watchful gaze. Roseline, her footsteps muffled by the soft drizzle, guided Polly Shelby toward her modest home. The air smelled of damp earth and distant smokestacks—a familiar scent to those who called this city their refuge.

Polly, her arm looped through Roseline’s, swayed like a ship caught in a tempest. Her once-immaculate hat now perched askew, and her eyes, usually sharp as a blade, held a glassy glimmer. The pub had been generous with its spirits tonight, and Polly had imbibed more than her share.

"Roseline," Polly slurred, her voice a velvet rasp, "you’re a good girl. A bloody good girl." She patted Roseline’s hand, her fingers clumsy. 

Roseline smiled, her heart fluttering. Polly’s affection was a rare gift—one she treasured. "Thank you, Polly. You’re too kind."

They reached the wrought-iron gate of Polly’s house. Polly fumbled in her pocket, retrieving a tarnished key. She held it up, her eyes squinting at the tiny metal teeth.

"Here," Polly said, her voice conspiratorial. "Roseline, my dear, open it for me." She gestured toward the door, its wood worn and chipped. 

Roseline accepted the key, its edges cool against her palm. She inserted it into the lock, turning it with practiced ease.

The door creaked open, revealing a dimly lit hallway. The air inside smelled of old books, lavender, and secrets buried deep.

Polly swayed again, her balance precarious. "I need a bath," she declared, her eyes narrowing. "A hot one. To wash away the sins of this godforsaken city."

Roseline guided Polly toward the bathroom, the floorboards creaking under their combined weight. The tub, porcelain and chipped, awaited its weary occupant. Roseline adjusted the taps, the water hissing to life. Steam rose, wrapping Polly in a cocoon of warmth.

"Rest, Polly," Roseline murmured. "I’ll fetch towels and a fresh nightgown."

A mother’s love is something that nothing can amount to. Roseline had seen it—the fierce devotion etched into Polly’s every line, the way she guarded her children like a lioness. But tonight, Polly’s vulnerability was a chink in her armor—a glimpse of the woman behind the matriarch.

The flickering candle on the bathroom windowsill cast elongated shadows across the worn tiles. Roseline stood by the door, her gaze fixed on Polly, who sat in the claw-footed tub, her eyes distant as if she were unraveling memories. The water, now lukewarm, lapped gently against Polly’s skin.

Roseline leaned closer. "What happened, Polly?" The room held its breath—the flickering candle, the rain’s soft patter against the window, and Roseline’s racing heart. Polly, still in the bath, seemed both fragile and unyielding. Her eyes, once sharp as flint, now held a vulnerability Roseline had never witnessed.

But Polly only shook her head, her gaze slipping away. "Some things are better left unsaid, my girl. Even to you."

Before Roseline could press further, the door swung open, and Ada Shelby stepped inside. Her eyes widened at the sight of Roseline, her surprise quickly replaced by genuine delight.

"Roseline!" Ada’s voice held the warmth of a hearth. "What brings you here? And in Polly’s company, no less."

Roseline hugged Ada, her cheeks flushing. "I found her in one of the pubs. Thought it best to bring her home."

Ada chuckled, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re a saint, Rosie. A bloody saint." She perched on the edge of the tub, her skirts pooling around her. "Now, Polly, where have you been? I was worried."

Polly squinted at Ada, her brow furrowing. "Where is karl?" She waved a hand vaguely. 

"He’s sleeping. Like a cherub." Ada’s laughter tinkled. "And how many glasses did you have, Polly? One? Two?"

Polly’s lips curved into a wry smile. "Three," she confessed. "Or perhaps four. Or five. Who’s counting?"

Roseline stifled a giggle. "Six," she whispered, her eyes dancing. "Definitely six."

Ada raises an eyebrow. "Only six? You’re losing your touch."

"Did you meet the maid?" Polly asked, her voice low.

Ada nodded. "I tried to engage her in conversation—politics, you know. But she looked as if I’d recited the alphabet backward. Bored out of her wits, that one."

Polly chuckled, the sound echoing off the peeling wallpaper. "Our Ada, discussing politics with the help. You’re a marvel, my dear."

"But that’s not all," Ada leaned closer, her eyes gleaming. "I spoke with James. He’s been in touch with the lawyer. The lawyer will take Arthur's case and he will get Michael out-"

Polly raised her hand, cutting through Ada’s words. "No need," she said firmly. "They’ll get Michael out in the morning."

Ada blinked, Polly’s words echoed in her mind: We’ll get Michael out in the morning. But how? Ada’s confusion gnawed at her. She had seen the lawyer, heard the promises, but the mechanics of freedom remained elusive.

Polly’s eyes snapped open. "go to bed, Ada," she said. "if Karl wakes, ring the bell. The maid will tend to him."

Ada nodded, her thoughts drifting to her baby, as Ada departs and Polly remains in the bath.

When Polly declared they’d get Michael out in the morning, Roseline understood. The pieces clicked into place, Polly would move mountains for her son, even if it meant dancing with shadows and secrets. Roseline grasps the weight of her sacrifice. And in that quiet room, , Roseline gazes at her—a silent acknowledgment that Polly’s choices, however painful, stem from a mother’s unwavering devotion. Polly’s tears hover, unshed, and Roseline knows she’ll never judge her for the battles fought in silence.

Ada’s departure left the room hushed. Roseline approached the tub, her footsteps muffled by the threadbare rug. Polly’s eyes met hers—blue like the stormy sea, yet softer now, like a lullaby.

"Polly," Roseline said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, "you’re a good mother."

Polly’s throat worked, and for a moment, Roseline feared she’d break. But Polly’s gaze held hers, unyielding. She didn’t need to speak; her eyes said it all—the weight of sacrifice, the ache of love, the battles fought in silence.

Polly’s fingers trembled as she clutched the towel. "Roseline," she said, her voice raw, "I’ve made choices. Some I regret, some I’d make again."

Roseline knelt beside the tub, her hand brushing Polly’s wet hair. "We all have ghosts," she said. "But love—love is the light that pierces the darkness."

"Rose," Polly’s voice cut through the silence, "rest here tonight."

Roseline’s heart fluttered. “But i don't want intrude-"

"No arguments," Polly said firmly. "I won’t let you go out alone in the night. Besides, you’re not intruding. Not in this house."

Gratitude swelled within Roseline. "Thank you," she whispered. "Truly."

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The guest room cradled Roseline in its quiet embrace—the faded wallpaper, the creaking floorboards, and the lingering scent of lavender. She woke as she always did, her heart racing from the remnants of a nightmare—a tangle of shadows, whispers, and faces she couldn’t quite place.

The window revealed a gray morning—the rain’s soft patter against the glass a soothing lullaby. Roseline dressed quickly, her movements precise. Outside, the hallway lay hushed. Roseline stepped into the corridor, her footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. The Shelby household slept—their dreams and secrets cocooned behind closed doors.

Downstairs, the kitchen waited—a realm she hadn’t visited in quite awhile. The maid deserved rest, and perhaps a good breakfast would lift the Shelby spirits. Roseline’s guilt lingered—the resignation from her role as Tommy’s assistant, the ache of unspoken feelings.

And so, in the dim light of morning, Roseline prepared breakfast—the clatter of pans, the sizzle of bacon, and the scent of coffee. The kitchen welcomed her—the heart of Polly’s home, where secrets simmered and love brewed.

The kitchen stirred with life—the clatter of pans, the sizzle of bacon, and the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Roseline, sleeves rolled up, hummed a tune as she flipped pancakes. The room, bathed in morning light, felt like a sanctuary—a place where secrets simmered and laughter brewed.

And then the door swung open, and Emma, the maid, stood frozen on the threshold. Her eyes widened, and she clutched her apron as if steadying herself against a storm.

"Miss!" Emma’s voice cracked. "What—what are you doing?"

Roseline turned, her smile unwavering. "Cooking breakfast, of course," she said.

Emma’s gaze darted from the stove to Roseline’s face. "But—Miss, you’re—"

"Roseline," Roseline corrected gently. "And don’t worry, Emma. I won’t dirty my hands too much."

"But—"

"Emma," Roseline interrupted, "you’ve been working tirelessly. Let me help."

Emma hesitated, torn between shock and gratitude. "But, Miss—"

"You can help," Roseline said, her tone firm. "If you want."

Emma glanced at the stove, then at Roseline. "I—I suppose I could."

Roseline chuckled. "Reluctant, are we? Don’t worry, Emma. We’ll make this breakfast a symphony."

And so, side by side, they cooked—the seasoned nurse and the bewildered maid. Emma fumbled with the whisk, her movements hesitant. Roseline guided her, showing her how to fold the batter, how to infuse love into every crevice. And theen Ada Shelby walked in, her eyes widened at the sight of Roseline—the nurse who now wore an apron, her hair tucked behind her ears.

"What’s with all the noise?" Ada asked, feigning surprise. "And why does the kitchen smell like a bakery?"

Roseline grinned. "We are cooking breakfast," she said.

Emma blushed. "I—I tried to stop her ma'am!"

Ada leaned against the counter, her eyes twinkling. "Roseline’s food," she teased, "might taste like Burnt wood."

Roseline played along. "And a dash of coal," she added.

The morning sun bathes the kitchen in a warm glow—the clatter of plates, the aroma of breakfast, and the unspoken hope that hangs in the air. Ada, her eyes searching, leans forward.

"Do you know where Polly is?" Ada asks, her voice low.

Roseline glances toward the window, where sunlight spills across the floor. "Maybe she went to get Michael," she says.

Ada sighs, her fingers tracing the edge of her teacup. "Emma," she calls, turning to the maid, "have you heard anything from Polly?"

Emma shifts nervously. "Sorry, ma’am," she stammers. "I haven’t."

Ada’s frustration simmers. "I still don’t understand," she mutters. "How they will let Michael out."

Roseline, her gaze steady, remains silent. She knows the weight of Polly’s sacrifice—the choices made in shadows, the battles fought for family. But some secrets are not hers to reveal. And then, as if summoned by their thoughts, the house door swings open.

The hallway, dimly lit, held its breath—the air thick with tension and unspoken words. Ada Shelby, her eyes sharp as ever, stood by the doorframe, her gaze shifting from Polly to Michael. Roseline, the nurse who had become an unexpected fixture in their lives, hovered nearby—a silent witness to the drama unfolding.

Polly , the indomitable matriarch, stepped inside, her eyes darting like a cornered animal. Guilt etched lines on her face, and her fingers clenched the edge of her coat. Beside her, Michael, her son, bore bruises—the aftermath of a battle fought in shadows.

"Speak of the devil," Ada quipped, her voice a razor’s edge. "Polly, Michael."

Roseline, ever the diplomat, greeted them both. "Good morning," she said, her smile unwavering.

Michael’s surprise was palpable. His eyes widened, and a blush crept up his cheeks. But no one seemed to notice—Polly too preoccupied, Ada too focused on the situation.

Polly, her guilt now etched on her face, cut to the chase. "Roseline," she said, her voice low, "is it okay if you patch up Michael?"

Roseline nodded. "Of course," she replied. "I was planning to anyways."

Polly’s gratitude was a fragile thing—a nod, a flicker of her eyes. "Thank you," she murmured.

Roseline guided Michael toward the guest room—the door a threshold between pain and healing. The room, modest and unassuming, held a bed with a quilt worn thin by time. Roseline sat him down, her touch gentle as she examined his bruises. Michael flinched, but he didn’t protest. His eyes met Roseline’s—a silent plea for understanding, for redemption.

And so, in that quiet room, Roseline began her work. Polly lingered in the doorway, her guilt a storm cloud.

The room settled into a quiet rhythm—the soft hiss of the stove, the gentle rustle of bandages, and the unspoken understanding that hung between Roseline and Polly . Polly had left, her guilt trailing behind her like a shadow. Michael sat on the edge of the bed, his face bruised and battered. His eyes, once fierce, now held vulnerability—the kind that comes from being broken and stitched back together. Roseline worked methodically, her touch gentle as she cleaned the wounds. She didn’t need words to understand.

"Roseline," he began, his voice a whisper, "I—"

She met his eyes, her intuition sharp. "Michael," she said, "your mother loves you. More than you can imagine. She’d move mountains for you."

"But—" His voice cracked. "What she did—"

Roseline leaned closer, her touch unwavering. "Listen," she said, "you’re lucky. Not everyone has a mother who will do anything for her children. Don’t take it for granted."

He swallowed, the weight of gratitude settling on his chest. "I won’t," he whispered.

And so, in that small room, where bruises faded and trust bloomed, Roseline tended to Michael. She didn’t know about his crush, didn’t sense the blush that stained his cheeks. 

The kitchen hummed with life—the clatter of cutlery, the aroma of freshly brewed tea, and the warmth of shared moments. Around the table sat an unlikely trio—the indomitable Polly Gray, the witty Ada Shelby, her eyes sharp as ever; and the unassuming Roseline.

Karl, Ada’s two-year-old son, perched in his high chair, his chubby fingers exploring the world one crumb at a time. Roseline, ever the caretaker, scooped him up, her touch gentle as she whispered soothing words. Ada watched, her exhaustion evident—the sleepless nights, the endless demands of motherhood.

"Roseline," Ada said, her voice half-joking, "you’re a lifesaver. I need a break from little Karl."

Roseline chuckled. "It’s my pleasure," she replied. "Besides, he’s quite the charmer."

Polly, her eyes crinkling, leaned back in her chair. "Roseline," she said, "you and Ada—friends despite being apart for so long. It’s a rare bond."

Ada nodded. "We’ve weathered storms," she said. "And now Karl’s our anchor."

Roseline shifted Karl to her hip, feeding him bits of scrambled egg. "Where’s Michael?" Polly asked, her gaze sharp.

Roseline glanced toward the hallway. "He went to his room," she said. "He’s tired, I’m sure."

Polly sipped her tea, her eyes never leaving Roseline’s face. "And you," she said, "quit your job as Tommy’s assistant. Why?"

Ada nearly choked on her toast. "What? Why?" she demanded. "Roseline, what made you—"

Roseline hesitated, her gaze flickering. "It was for the better," she said. "For everyone."

The breakfast table held its collective breath—the clatter of cutlery, the steam rising from teacups, and the unspoken questions that hung in the air. Ada Shelby, her eyes sharp as ever, leaned forward.

"Tommy," Ada began, her voice low, "did he do something?"

Roseline, her gaze steady, cut her off. "No," she said firmly. "Tommy didn’t do anything."

Polly, her expression inscrutable, leaned back in her chair. "The rumors," she said, "are they why you quit?"

Roseline shook her head. "I don’t listen to rumors," she replied. 

"Roseline," Polly said, her voice low, "who will be Tommy’s assistant now?" her fingers wrapped around a delicate teacup, leaned back in her chair.

Roseline’s smile was a sunbeam. "Lizzie Stark," she replied.

Ada Shelby, mid-sip, choked on her tea. Polly’s teacup clattered against the saucer. "Lizzie Stark?" Polly echoed, her shock palpable. "did tommy suggest her?"

"—but Tommy doesn’t know her," Roseline said, a little confused. "I suggested her myself."

Polly’s eyes widened. "You did what?"

Ada, her napkin slipping from her lap, stared at Roseline. "Why?" she demanded. "Why Lizzie Stark? How did you meet her?"

Roseline’s happiness was infectious. "It’s not my story to tell," she said. "But Lizzie and I became good friends. She’s sharp, resourceful, and she is fit to be Tommy’s assistant."

And so, in that cozy kitchen, Ada and Polly exchanged glances. Roseline’s innocence—the way she met their eyes, oblivious to the storm she’d stirred—was both endearing and infuriating.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The night clung to Roseline’s skin—the weight of endless hours, the scent of antiseptic, and the echo of distant cries. Her apartment, a refuge in the heart of Birmingham, welcomed her—a dimly lit haven where shadows danced on the walls.

She kicked off her sensible shoes, the leather worn thin by countless shifts. The mirror reflected her exhaustion—pale skin, unruly hair, eyes that held too many stories. Roseline stripped off her uniform, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. She needed rest, silence, and perhaps some tea to chase away the ghosts.

The soft scratch of Roseline’s pen against paper filled her small apartment. The notebook lay open on the worn wooden table, its pages a canvas for her thoughts—a refuge from the chaos of the world outside. She wrote of healing, of pain, of the fragile threads that bound humanity together. And then, a knock—a sharp interruption to her solitude. Roseline glanced toward the door, her curiosity piqued. Who would visit her at this hour? She set aside her notebook, the ink still wet on the page, and crossed the room.

And there he stood—Tommy Shelby, the man who wore danger like a tailored suit. His eyes, usually guarded, held a strange intensity—a hunger that sent shivers down her spine.

"Tommy," she said, her voice steady, "do you have the answer now?"

His silence spoke volumes. Tommy stepped inside, closing the door behind him. His hands—rough, capable—framed her face, pulling her toward him. His kiss was a storm—a tempest of need, of possession. Roseline’s pulse raced, her senses overwhelmed.

He tasted of smoke and anger—the kind that could unravel worlds. And as he pressed her against the wall, his body a shield, Roseline understood—the way he held her, the way he claimed her lips—it was more than desire. It was protection, possession, and a promise.

Chapter Text

Roseline smiled as Tommy pressed his lips against hers. She could feel the heat rising up in her body as he deepened the kiss, and she let out a soft moan. Tommy's hand slid up her leg and his kiss became more intense as he pinned her against the table. Roseline reached up and grabbed Tommy's shirt, pulling it off him and tossing it onto the floor. She could feel his toned chest beneath her hands as they explored his body. Tommy's kiss was intense and passionate as he continued to pin Roseline against the table.

After a few moments, Tommy lifted Roseline into his arms and carried her towards the bed. He laid her down gently and resumed kissing her as Roseline unbuttoned her nightdress.Tommy leaned in closer and started kissing Roseline's neck. His hands were tightly gripping her waist while Roseline slowly gave into his seductive touch. She wrapped her fingers in Tommy's hair, pulling him closer.

"Tommy, w-wait," Roseline moaned, breathing heavily, "not yet."

Tommy immediately stopped, looking at Rose's flushed face. His breath caught in his throat as Roseline took control of the situation. He watched as she moved on top of him, kissing him with such passion that he was helpless to resist. He realized that she was taking things to the next level, and his body responded immediately.

Tommy's hands roamed over Roseline's body, exploring every curve and dip as she continued kissing him. He could feel himself growing more and more aroused as Roseline reached down and touched his manhood. He groaned softly as Rose started to stroke him, Tommy's breaths became deeper and faster as he gave himself to the pleasure. He closed his eyes, letting the sensation wash over him. Roseline's touch was electric, and he felt the familiar sensation of desire pooling within him.

He placed his hand on Roseline's, not wanting her to stop. He could hear his own soft moans of pleasure and the sound of their breathing entwining in the air.

In the dimly lit haven of Roseline’s apartment, where time bends and secrets linger, Tommy Shelby perches on the edge of the bed. The room smells of lavender and old books—a sanctuary carved out of chaos. Across from him, Roseline sits on his lap, her legs entwined with his, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes, those green pools of mystery, bore into his soul.

"Tommy," she whispers, her voice a fragile thread. "What brings you here tonight?"

Tommy’s gaze is heavy, burdened by the weight of sleepless nights and fractured memories. "Nightmares," he confesses, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.

Roseline’s lips curve into a half-smile. "which ones?," she muses.

"All of them."

Roseline’s eyes dance with mischief. "And still," she says. "you didn't answer my question from 2 days ago."

He studies her—the lines etched around her eyes, the way her fingers trace patterns on his chest. "Roseline," he murmurs, "I’m a broken man."

Her eyes soften, sympathy and love swirling in their depths. "What makes you say that?" she asks, her touch gentle.

"Whiskey?" Tommy’s voice was a low rasp, almost as if he wants to avoid this conversation.

Roseline shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. "You know I don’t drink," she replied. "And tonight, I want you sober—for this conversation."

"France," he sighed. "It changed me."

"Tell me," Roseline whispered against his mouth, "what were you like before France?"

Tommy’s eyes darkened, memories flickering like candle flames. "Alive," he said. "I was alive."

Her smile was a fragile thing, like sunlight filtering through leaves. "And now?"

The war had been a crucible, forging men into weapons, their souls tempered by the relentless rain of bullets and the screams of comrades. Tommy Shelby, once a boy with dreams of a different life, had emerged from those blood-soaked trenches a different man. The memories were etched into his bones—the mud, the stench of decay, the faces of men he’d killed and those he’d failed to save. The war had stripped away illusions, leaving only the raw truth: survival at any cost.

"Blood," he confessed, "stains my hands. The choices I’ve made—the empire I’ve built—it’s all soaked in crimson, I won't stop." He’d built an empire on violence, on the broken bodies of rivals and the loyalty of those who feared him. And he wouldn’t stop—not until he’d carved his name into the very fabric of this world.

Roseline leaned closer, her touch searing against his skin. "Who’s there to stop you?" she whispered, her fingers grazing his bare chest.

He chuckled, a low sound that echoed through the room. "You’re a mad woman," he said, "I've never seen someone like you before"

Tommy Shelby found himself ensnared by her gaze. Her fingers, delicate yet determined, traced the contours of his face.

"Tommy," she breathed, her voice a fragile thread, "I want you. Do you want me? A woman like me." Roseline’s eyes held galaxies of pain and longing. 

He wanted her more than she could ever understand. But he couldn’t have her—not now, not when people wanted him dead, right after his mission. He wouldn’t tell her the full truth. Not now. Not when danger lurked in every shadow. Roseline was a flame, and he was the moth drawn to her light. But he wouldn’t risk her safety—not for anything.

He kissed her—a desperate hunger, a plea for salvation. "How are you broken?" he asked, his breath mingling with hers.

She pulled away slightly, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I know," she said, her voice barely audible. "That you Investigated my past."

Tommy’s shock was palpable. "How did you—"

"Because you’re Tommy Shelby," she interrupted. "And I understand why you did it."

"But," she continued, her gaze unyielding, "You didn’t find anything, other than me being a protege, my 'beauty' and that I'm a poor orphan, that they graciously took in."

"How?" Tommy’s voice was a low rasp, a blade unsheathed. "How come I didn’t find anything about you?"

Roseline’s smile was a fragile thing, like a porcelain doll teetering on the edge of a shelf. "Because," she whispered, "the Marshalls didn’t want anything other than little loyal dog that brought them money, there’s nothing else to find.”

Roseline stirred, her movements graceful as she slipped off Tommy’s lap. He watched, confusion etching lines on his forehead, as she crossed the room to her dresser. Roseline’s fingers danced over the polished wood, seeking something hidden. She pulled out a small, wrapped box—a delicate package tied with a satin ribbon. Her eyes met Tommy’s, and he saw uncertainty there—an unspoken question.

"I didn’t know what to get you," she said, her voice a fragile thread. "Thought this would be alright."

Tommy’s curiosity flared. He’d never been one for gifts, for sentimentality. But Roseline—the enigma who’d slipped into his life—was different. She’d seen the blood on his hands, the ghosts that haunted his sleep. And yet, she’d chosen this moment to offer him something—a token of her understanding.

He took the box from her, the paper crinkling under his touch. The ribbon fell away, revealing a pocket watch—a gleaming timepiece with intricate engravings. Its weight in his palm spoke of craftsmanship, of history. Beside it lay a fountain pen—a sleek instrument that promised words and secrets.

He looked at her, his throat tight. She stood there, vulnerable, waiting for his reaction. And in that moment, he knew—he wanted her more than anything. But he couldn’t tell her—not now, not when danger lurked in every shadow. He wouldn’t risk her safety—not for anything.

So he kissed her—a silent promise, a confession. Roseline responded, her lips yielding against his. And as their breaths mingled, Tommy Shelby vowed to keep fighting—to wield violence like a blade, to carve his name into the city’s flesh. But Roseline—the enigma with fire in her veins—was the one thing he couldn’t risk losing.

The room was a cocoon of quietude, where the walls held secrets and the air tasted of lavender—a fragrance that clung to the worn curtains and the frayed quilt. The small bed, barely wide enough for two, cradled Tommy Shelby and Roseline in its embrace. They lay there, entangled in dreams and each other, their breaths synchronized—a fragile respite from the tumult of the world beyond.

The early morning light tiptoed through the window, casting a gentle glow on Roseline’s face. Her lashes rested against her cheeks, her lips slightly parted—a vision of serenity. Tommy watched her, his heart a pendulum swinging between longing and resignation.

He eased himself out of bed, careful not to disturb her slumber. The floorboards creaked under his weight as he moved to the dresser—a relic from another time, its mirror slightly tarnished. His clothes hung there—plain, functional. He dressed quietly, his movements deliberate. The pocket watch and pen lay on the dresser, gleaming in the morning light. Rose had chosen them, for him. He looked back at her—the sleeping Roseline, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with the universe. How had he earned this?He stood there, admiring her—the curve of her cheek, the flutter of her lashes. This could be the last time he’d see her. 

He leaned down, brushing his lips against hers—a kiss that tasted of longing and regret. She stirred, but her dreams held her captive. He pulled away, his gaze lingering. Then he took out an envelope—a letter written in ink. He placed it on the counter. Hopefully, Roseline would find it when she woke.

His cap hung by the door, waiting. He picked it up, the fabric rough against his fingers. One last look at the sleeping Roseline, and he stepped into the corridor—the world outside pressing in. The door closed behind him, and he was gone.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The morning tiptoed into Roseline’s small apartment, its fingers brushing against the faded wallpaper and the worn wooden floor. She stirred, her lashes fluttering open, and for a moment, she lay there—a tangle of sheets and dreams. But then her gaze swept the room, and her heart skipped a beat.

Tommy was gone.

The bed held only the imprint of his body. She sat up, her fingers tracing the quilt’s frayed edge. He’d slipped away like smoke, leaving behind a void—an ache that settled in her chest.

But then she saw it—the gift she’d given him—the pocket watch and pen. They were gone too. Tommy had taken them with him. The realization made her smile. Roseline swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet meeting the cool floor.

She dressed quickly, her movements purposeful. And then she saw it—an envelope, plain and unassuming, sitting on the counter. Confusion furrowed her brow. What was this? It hadn’t been there last night.

She picked it up. The paper was crisp, the ink well-formed. Roseline tore it open, her pulse quickening. Tommy’s handwriting danced across the page.

The hospital corridors echoed with the urgency of Roseline’s footsteps. Her white uniform billowed around her, a flurry of purpose. The early morning shift had already begun.

Kaitlyn, the seasoned nurse with graying hair and kind eyes, glanced up from her paperwork. Roseline’s arrival was unexpected. She’d seen enough in her years at St. Jude’s Hospital to recognize when something was amiss.

"Roseline," Kaitlyn said, her voice a gentle inquiry. "What’s happened? You’re not due for your shift."

Roseline’s breaths came in hurried bursts. She leaned against the nurses’ station, her fingers gripping the edge. "Kaitlyn," she began, "I need someone to take over my shifts today. Something urgent has come up."

Kaitlyn’s brow furrowed. "Urgent? Is everything alright?"

Roseline cut her off. "Everything’s fine," she assured, though her eyes betrayed her. "Just a personal matter. I promise, it won’t affect my work."

Kaitlyn sighed, her gaze unwavering. "You’re a good nurse, Roseline," she said. "And a good person. If you need time, take it. We’ll manage."

Roseline’s gratitude swelled. She reached across the counter, squeezing Kaitlyn’s hand. "Thank you," she whispered. "I owe you."

She didn’t wait for more words. The hospital doors swung open, and she stepped into the morning light—the city awakening around her. Tommy Shelby might be elusive, but Roseline was relentless. She’d find him.

The narrow streets of Birmingham seemed to conspire against Roseline as she hurried from one corner to another, her footsteps echoing with urgency. Lizzie had vanished like smoke in the wind.  She reached the door of Lizzie and Mary’s apartment, her knuckles rapping against the wood. Mary, with her graying hair and a perpetual air of concern, opened the door. Her eyes widened at the sight of Roseline, as if she sensed the urgency in her gaze.

"Mary," Roseline began, her voice breathless, "where’s Lizzie? I’ve looked everywhere."

Mary’s confusion was evident. "Lizzie?" she said. "She’s not here. She’s in Epsom for Darby Day."

Epsom—the races, the crowds, the flutter of anticipation. She thanked Mary and turned, her steps quickening. Back in her own apartment, she shed her nurse’s uniform, exchanging it for something more fitting—a dress that whispered of determination.

The smoky haze of the betting shop clung to Roseline’s skin as she pushed through the door. The air hummed with whispered hopes and the rustle of betting slips. And there, amidst the crowd, stood Polly Gray—the indomitable matriarch of the Shelby clan. Her eyes widened at Roseline’s urgency.

"Roseline," Polly said, her voice sharp, "what’s got you running like the devil himself is after you?"

Roseline’s smile was both apology and determination. "Polly," she replied, "I need your help. The Darby—it’s today. Why don’t we go together?"

Polly’s eyebrows shot up. "Darby Day?" she echoed.

Roseline leaned in, her voice low. "Tommy’s playing a dangerous game, and I need to be there." she confessed. 

Polly’s lips curved. "Tommy," she murmured. "Always weaving his web."

"Exactly." Roseline nodded. "So, what do you say, Polly? Let’s step into the fray together."

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

"Tommy," Arthur said, his voice gruff, "how the fuck did you get me out of there? I was ready to face the noose."

Tommy Shelby, the master of secrets and alliances, met his brother’s gaze. "I pulled some strings," he replied, his words cryptic. "Connections in high places, Arthur. You’re family."

Tommy’s smile was a razor’s edge. "We’re heading to the races," he said, changing the subject. "The Lees are waiting. But before we get there, listen up."

The Peaky Blinders and their Gypsy allies leaned in, their eyes fixed on Tommy. He was the spider at the center of the web, weaving threads of power and danger.

"We’re taking over Darby Sabini’s race track licenses,"Tommy continued. "I’ll create a diversion—a smoke screen for our real play."

"Tommy," John said, his voice gruff, "what’s this diversion of yours?"

Tommy’s smile was a blade. "Just trust me, brother" he replied,

Johnny Dogs, the wiry man with eyes like a hawk, saluted Tommy Shelby with a grin. "Aye, captain," he said, his accent thick as molasses.

Tommy arched an eyebrow. "Captain?" he echoed.

The other Peaky Blinders chuckled, their laughter a low rumble in the smoky room. Johnny leaned in, his voice conspiratorial. "Well, Tommy," he said, "we’ve decided to promote you. No more Sergeant major antics. You’re more like a captain now."

Tommy’s lips curved. "Well, I’ll take it as a compliment," he replied, "as long as you lot don’t bloody shoot me."

The Epsom racecourse buzzed with anticipation—the air thick with the scent of horses, the rustle of silk, and the murmur of bets. Tommy Shelby, had a plan—one that involved more than the thrill of the races.

As he adjusted his tie, the weight of his intentions settled on his shoulders. Henry Russell, was his target. But then, amidst the crowd, Tommy’s gaze snagged on a certain blonde. Roseline—her golden hair catching the sunlight, her eyes scanning the faces. She was talking to a group of men, her laughter a melody in the chaos.

Tommy’s instincts flared. He moved, swift as a predator, and grabbed her by the arm. Roseline’s eyes widened, her surprise palpable. "Tommy," she said, her voice low, "what’s gotten into you?"

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled her away, away from the crowd, away from the noise. They found a quieter spot, and Roseline’s confusion deepened.

Tommy’s anger simmered. "Rose," he said, "what the fuck are you doing here?"

She blinked. "I came with Polly," she replied.

Tommy’s gaze flickered. His target—Henry Russell—was moving. But Roseline was here, and his priorities shifted. "Stay near Polly," he instructed. "At all times."

Polly, ever the strategist, appeared. "What’s wrong?" she asked.

Tommy’s eyes bore into Roseline’s. "Keep an eye on her," he told Polly. "And don’t let her out of your sight." And then, without another word, Tommy Shelby slipped into the crow. Roseline watched him go, her heart racing. 

Roseline stood next to Polly, the air thick with anticipation. Polly’s eyes met hers, a silent understanding passing between them. "Roseline," Polly said, "you can follow him."

Roseline’s worry surfaced. "What about you?" she asked, her voice low.

Polly laughed, her laughter a warm breeze. "Don’t worry about me," she said. "Worry about yourself more."

Roseline smiled, gratitude swelling. "Be careful," she told Polly, "and thank you." Roseline slipped into the crowd, her eyes on Tommy’s retreating figure. The Darby awaited, but so did something more—a game of danger and secrets.

Roseline’s eyes followed Tommy’s figure through the crowd, her heart a pendulum swinging between worry and curiosity. He was talking to Lizzie, their heads bent close, words exchanged in hushed tones. Her gaze lingered on Tommy and Lizzie, their heads bent close in conversation. Business, no doubt—the kind that left scars and secrets. But the more she looked, the more Lizzie’s expression shifted. Uncomfortable, yes, but also angry. What was Tommy telling her?

Roseline’s worry surfaced. Lizzie was no stranger to danger, but this—this felt different. She hoped Lizzie would be okay, that the shadows wouldn’t swallow her whole.And so, Roseline watched from the sidelines, her heart a pendulum swinging between curiosity and concern.

The afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting elongated shadows across the grounds of Epsom Derby. Roseline, her senses attuned to danger, trailed behind Tommy Shelby and Lizzie Stark. The air crackled with tension, and Roseline’s intuition whispered that trouble loomed.

Tommy and Lizzie parted ways, their paths diverging like fate’s cruel jest. Roseline hesitated, torn between loyalty and instinct. But it was Lizzie who drew her focus. Roseline’s heart clenched; she sensed impending doom.

Lizzie’s hushed conversation with a stranger sent alarm bells ringing. Roseline’s eyes narrowed as she studied the man—the field marshal. His presence exuded menace, and Roseline knew he wielded power that could shatter lives. Lizzie, oblivious or desperate, leaned in closer. As the man and Lizzie retreated to a secluded corner, Roseline followed, her steps silent. But the bodyguards formed an impenetrable barrier. Panic surged within her; Lizzie’s safety hung by a thread. Roseline needed a way in.

And then, fate intervened. A young policeman, barely older than Roseline, crossed her path. His uniform crisp, his eyes wide with innocence. Roseline’s past skills kicked into gear. She collided with him, a calculated accident. “Apologies,” she murmured, her touch lingering. The young officer blinked, disarmed. Roseline slipped away, her pulse racing. In her palm, a cold weight—a gun concealed beneath her attire. She sought an alternate route, eyes scanning for gaps in security. And there it was, hidden from prying eyes. Roseline stepped into the shadows, her resolve unwavering.

The air in the dimly lit bar thickens, charged with anticipation. The crowd, a sea of eager faces, parts like the Red Sea as the race’s commencement echoes through the room. The clatter of glasses and the hum of conversation fade, leaving only two figures standing amidst the hush: Thomas Shelby and Major Campbell.

Thomas, his eyes as sharp as the razors sewn into his cap, locks gazes with the man who embodies everything he despises. Campbell stands there, his spine rigid. The war may be over, but their battle rages on. The room’s shadows cling to Tommy’s tailored suit, accentuating the scars that map his skin—a testament to the trenches, the blood-soaked fields. His fingers twitch, yearning for the weight of a gun, but he restrains himself.

Campbell’s smirk is a blade unsheathed. His righteousness, a shield he clings to even as it rusts. "Shelby," he drawls, the title dripping with disdain. "Still playing your dangerous games?"

Tommy’s lips curve, a predator’s smile. "Today," he says, each syllable a promise, "it’ll be me dead or you. But whoever it is, they’ll wake up in hell tomorrow." His voice, a low rasp, carries the weight of countless sins—the stolen fortunes, the broken bodies, the lives extinguished.

"You think you’re untouchable, Shelby?" Campbell’s eyes narrow. 

"Untouchable?" Tommy leans in, his breath a whiskey-laced threat. “No, Major. I’m just the one who knows how to dance with the devil and emerge unscathed." His fingers brush the edge of the table, where secrets lie buried. 

The room holds its breath. The race outside—the horses thundering toward destiny—is a mere backdrop to their duel. Tommy’s gaze never wavers; he sees the tremor in Campbell’s hand, the flicker of doubt. The field marshal, once feared, now stands on the precipice.

Campbell’s laughter grates like nails on a chalkboard. "You’re a gangster, Shelby. A common thug."

"And you?" Tommy leans closer, their noses almost touching. "You’re a wolf in sheep’s clothing, Major. The war may have ended, but our war continues."

The bar’s smoky haze clung to Thomas Shelby as he stepped out into the cool afternoon. His mind raced, fueled by equal parts anger and worry. Lizzie Stark, she had vanished into the labyrinth of Epsom Derby. Tommy’s gut churned; danger lurked in every shadow.

And then, a touch—a soft hand on his arm. Tommy’s muscles tensed, ready to strike. But when he turned, surprise etched across his features, it was Roseline who stood there. The woman who had stitched him up more times than he could count. Her green eyes held a determination that defied her delicate appearance.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Tommy snapped, his anger flaring. "You were supposed to be with Polly."

Roseline shook her head, her blonde hair catching the moonlight. "I know where Lizzie is," she said, her voice steady. "Follow me."

Tommy hesitated. Roseline had no place in this dangerous game. But her gaze held a resolve that matched his own. She led him away from the bustling crowd, toward a secluded corner

The tent loomed. Tommy surveyed the place, his instincts screaming caution. "Stay out," he ordered Roseline. "Make sure no one sees you."

But she stopped him, her small hand gripping his arm. "Tommy," she said, her voice low, "take this." From the folds of her dress, she produced a gun—a weapon that shouldn’t be in her possession.

His confusion flared into anger. "Where did you find this?" Tommy demanded.

"Later," she whispered. "For now, go. Find Lizzie."

And then, before he could protest, she kissed him—a soft press of lips against his. "For luck," she murmured, her breath warm. And just like that, Tommy Shelby, stepped into the abyss.

The canvas of Epsom Derby’s chaos unfurled before Roseline, her heart pounding in sync with the thundering hooves. The air tasted of fear and desperation, and as she waited outside, her gaze fixed on the tent’s entrance, she knew that fate was weaving its cruel tapestry within.

And then, the flap lifted—a scene of violence and desperation. Lizzie Stark, crumpled on the ground, her pain etched across her features. Roseline’s nurse’s instincts surged; she ran to Lizzie’s side. "Lizzie," she whispered, her voice a fragile thread. "Hold on."

But the real battle unfolded within. Tommy, the man who wore danger like a second skin, grappled with the stranger—the field marshal. Their fists collided, a symphony of rage and vengeance. Roseline’s breath hitched; she had seen Tommy fight before, but this—this was different.

And then, the gunshot—a thunderclap that echoed through her bones. Tommy’s eyes met hers, his anger a tempest. "Go," he ordered, his voice raw. "Both of you. Before the bloody policemen arrive."

Roseline helped Lizzie up, her arms trembling. Lizzie’s pain radiated through their shared touch. "We can’t leave you," Roseline protested.

Tommy’s gaze bore into hers. "You’re not a part of this," he snapped. "Stay the fuck out. Make sure no one fucking sees you."

The afternoon sun bathed the Epsom Derby grounds in a golden hue—a stark contrast to the chaos that unfolded within the tent. Roseline, her dress stained with dirt and determination, emerged from the canvas flap. Roseline’s touch is gentle as she helps Lizzie sit. Her fingers brush against bruises, and she imagines the stories they hold. Lizzie’s pain is more than physical; it’s the ache of a woman who has fought battles in the shadows, whose worth has been measured in coins and cruelty.

Lizzie crumpled on a chair outside, her sobs echoing through the tumult. Without hesitation, Roseline knelt beside Lizzie, her touch gentle. "Lizzie," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm. "You’re stronger than you know."

Lizzie’s tear-streaked face turned toward Roseline. her arms enveloped Lizzie. "Shh," she whispered. "You deserve better,"

As the dust settled, the Shelby brothers approached—their footsteps heavy with victory. Arthur and John, their grins wide, knew Lizzie’s past. But they held their tongues; Roseline was there, and her presence was a shield.

"Roseline," Arthur greeted, his voice gruff. "Our angel of mercy."

John clapped Lizzie’s shoulder. "Cheer up, love," he said. "We took Epsom. The world’s ours."

Roseline, still hugging Lizzie, finally let go. She offered water to the wounded woman, her fingers brushing Lizzie’s trembling ones. "Drink," she urged. "It’ll steady your nerves."

And then, like a tempest, Arthur erupted. "We are kings!" he bellowed, his arms flung wide. "Kings of the Fucking world!"

Roseline chuckled, her laughter a rare melody. "More like kings of chaos," she teased. "But I’ll take it."

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. "Where’s Tommy, then?"

"I’ll find him," she promised. "He can’t be far." Roseline’s gaze flickered toward the tent’s entrance. 

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the world blurred at the edges. Rose, her heart a frantic rhythm, searched—each step a prayer, each breath a plea. But Tommy, the man who held her heart in his scarred hands, remained elusive.

And then, there it was—a hat, crumpled on the ground. Tommy’s hat. The one he wore like armor, like a badge of defiance. Roseline’s fingers brushed the fabric—a touch that bridged the gap between them. But where was he? Why had he left this behind? Roseline’s eyes scanned the shadows, her dress trailing in the dust. She’d handed him the gun, kissed him for luck, and now—now she stood alone, her heart a fragile constellation of fear and determination.

"Tommy," she whispered, her voice lost in the gathering dusk. But the wind carried no reply. Only the hat remained—a silent testament to their shared battles, their whispered promises.

Roseline stepped away from the chaos of Epsom Derby, her heart still echoing Tommy’s absence. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows, and she found herself drawn to the stables—the place where secrets were whispered among the horses.

And there, amidst the hay-scented air, stood May Carleton—a woman whose elegance matched the thoroughbreds she trained. Roseline had seen the way May’s eyes lingered on Tommy, the way her fingers traced the bridles as if imagining them around his neck. But Roseline held her silence; respect was a rare currency in their world.

"May," Roseline greeted, her voice soft. "The horse is magnificent."

May turned, her eyes—blue as the summer sky—meeting Roseline’s. "And you," she said, "who tends to the wounded."

"More like the one who stitches up the reckless." Rose giggled. 

May’s laughter danced—a melody in the dim stable. "Tommy," she said, her voice low, "is a wild stallion. Hard to tame."

Roseline leaned against a stall, her gaze on the chestnut mare. "He’s more than that," she murmured.

May’s eyes softened. "You’re a rare breed," she said. 

May , her eyes reflecting the amber hues of the setting sun, leaned against the stable door. Roseline, her dress dusted with hay, and cleared her throat.

"May," Roseline began, "I have a favor to ask. Do you happen to have a car I could borrow?"

May’s lips curved—a knowing smile. "A car?" she echoed. "And what does a nurse need with a car?"

Roseline’s laughter danced—a rare melody amidst the chaos. "To tame a stallion," she quipped. "Or perhaps to chase after one."

May’s gaze lingered on the distant horizon. "Ah," she said. "Tommy Shelby, then."

Roseline’s cheeks warmed. "Perhaps," she admitted. "But don’t tell him."

May’s laughter joined Rose’s—a shared secret in the twilight. "Take the car," she said. "And may it carry you wherever your heart desires."

The bar hummed with secrets—the clink of glasses, the murmur of patrons, the smoke-laden air. Polly Gray, her eyes aflame with vengeance, moved through the dimly lit space. Major Campbell was her quarry—a man whose treachery had left scars on her and her family.

And there he was, ensnared in a phone booth—the field marshal who’d danced with the devil and emerged unscathed. His voice, honeyed and self-assured, flowed through the receiver. Winston Churchill listened, ignorant of the predator closing in. Polly’s fingers traced the outline of her gun—a promise etched in steel. She’d waited for this moment—the chance to silence the man who violated her.

The phone booth’s glass fogged as Polly stepped inside. Campbell’s eyes widened, his bravado faltering. The gun’s cold muzzle pressed against his chest. "Your successes," she whispered, "end here."

Campbell’s bravado faltered. "You wouldn’t do it here," he stammered. "Not in public."

Polly’s eyes bore into his. "Oh," she said, her voice low, "I would. Do you see any coppers?"

And then, the shot—a thunderclap that echoed through the bar. Campbell slumped. Her eyes aflame with a wrath that had simmered for years, stood over the fallen Major Campbell, blood blossoming on his uniform.. The gunshot’s echo still reverberated through the bar, but it was drowned out by the cacophony of her rage.Polly stepped out, her dress stained, her heart unburdened.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The abandoned field stretched before Thomas Shelby, its soil cracked and unforgiving. The sky, a bruised canvas, threatened rain. He stood there—hands bound, heart unyielding—facing the inevitable. Death had stalked him much of his life; it was only fitting that it would find him here, in this desolate place.

The three men who’d carted him out here were shadows—faceless, nameless. Their eyes held no remorse, no pity. Only duty. Tommy’s anger simmered—a tempest contained by the iron bars of acceptance. He’d cheated death before; perhaps he’d do it again.The grave yawned—a pit of darkness waiting to swallow him whole. Tommy’s gaze lingered on the freshly dug earth. How many souls had found their rest here? How many secrets lay buried?

And then, the cigarette—a final indulgence. The tobacco crackled, its smoke curling like memories. Tommy inhaled, savoring the bitterness. Death tasted like nicotine and regret.

But then—the gunshot. A thunderclap that echoed through his bones. Tommy staggered, expecting pain, expecting oblivion. But it didn’t come. Instead, the two assassins slumped—life extinguished in an instant. The third man—the one who’d pulled the trigger—stood there, gun still smoking.

"At some point," he said, his voice low, "Mr. Churchill will want to speak to you in person, Mr. Shelby. He has a job for you."

Tommy’s confusion warred with his weariness. "A job?" he rasped.

The man stepped closer, his eyes inscrutable. "Go home," he said. "For now."

The abandoned field stretched before tommy, its soil cracked and unforgiving. The sky, a bruised canvas, threatened rain. He walked forward  and then, there she was—Roseline—running toward him. Her dress billowed around her, a whirlwind of fabric and determination. Tommy’s breath caught; relief and happiness surged within him. She was alive, and in this desolate field, that was everything.

Roseline’s arms enveloped him, pulling his face down to hers. Their lips met—a collision of longing and survival. Tommy kissed her back, his hands finding her waist—their touch a promise etched in skin.

They pulled back, breathless, and looked into each other’s eyes. Roseline’s smile was a sunrise after a storm. "I’m so happy you’re alive," she whispered.

Tommy smirked, teasing her. "Thought you were done with me?'

She kissed him again—a promise, a lifeline. And then, he peppered her face with kisses—each one a testament to their defiance of fate.

"What’s up with you?" Roseline asked, surprised by his actions.

Tommy’s eyes held hers. "I just found my perfect rose," he said.

Roseline giggled—a rare sound in this desolate place. "Well," she replied, "you’re stuck with me now."

His fingers trace the contours of her face, memorizing every curve. He stands guard, a shadow at her back. The world may be ruthless, but Roseline will always be his sanctuary. He imagines her laughter—a melody that drowns out the gunshots and screams. She is fragile yet unyielding, a paradox he cannot unravel.

From this moment on, Roseline is his and his only. The words echo through his veins, etching themselves into his bones. He will shield her from the darkness—the battles, the blood-soaked betrayals that stain Birmingham’s cobblestones. His enemies may wear suits and wield guns, but they know better than to cross the line he’s drawn around her.

He will make all her dreams come true, Tommy imagines them—a garden of roses, each petal unfurling under a sun that never sets. He will plunder the stars if need be, bring her constellations in silk and moonlight. Roseline deserves more than this underworld—more than whispered confessions in hidden corners. She deserves a life beyond the smoky haze, where love blooms like wildflowers. His love is adark sacrament, sealed in blood and whispered vows. Tommy’s eyes, once cold and calculating, now blaze with a primal fire. He will paint the streets crimson if it means Roseline remains untouched by the chaos that engulfs their world.

Killing is his currency, and he spends it freely. Each life extinguished is a tribute to their love—a twisted devotion that defies morality. The blade against skin, the gunshot in the night—it all echoes his promise: Roseline is his. No rival gang, no betrayal, Nothing will pry her from his grasp.

A madness that consumes him. He imagines her laughter, the way it dances across her lips. She is his redemption, his salvation—a fragile bird with broken wings. And he, the wolf at her door, will tear apart anyone who dares threaten her. The darkness seeps into his veins, intoxicating. He’ll dismantle empires, topple kings, if it means Roseline’s smile remains unmarred. The world outside may tremble, but she will always be his sanctuary.

Chapter Text

In the dimly lit, smoke-filled pub, the air was thick with anticipation. The Shelby family, the Lee family, and the entire Peaky Blinders crew had come together for a rare moment of celebration. The wooden tables groaned under the weight of tankards, and laughter echoed off the walls.

Arthur, fueled by the whiskey, climbed atop a sturdy table. His boots thudded against the worn wood, commanding attention. With a glass raised high, he bellowed, “Ladies and gents, gather 'round!I'd like to raise a toast!” The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices merging into a cacophony of joy.

“To the Small Heath Rifles!” Arthur shouted, and the crowd echoed, their voices thundering against the peeling wallpaper. The Small Heath Rifles, loyal allies, raised their glasses in salute.

“To the bloody Lane boys!” he cried, and the room erupted once more. The Lane boys, grinned toothily and downed their drinks.

“To the Peaky fucking Blinders!” Arthur roared, and this time, the response was deafening, the room truly came alive. The crowd surged forward, their cheers drowning out the clinking of glasses. Tommy, enigmatic as ever, stood at the back, a half-smile playing on his lips. Leaning against the wall, his eyes on Rose.

Her blonde hair caught the flickering light, and her green eyes sparkled. She hated tight spaces, so she lingered near the edge of the crowd, a safe distance from the throng. But her smile was wide, and her applause genuine.

In the dimly lit corner of the pub, Tommy slipped through the crowd. He stepped behind her, his presence a familiar warmth. His hand settled on her waist, and she leaned into him, her back against his chest. No one noticed—everyone was too busy raising their glasses, lost in their own revelry.

His breath ghosted over her ear, and in that accent that held promises, he whispered, “I’ll see you in the betting shop after I’ve talked with Michael.”

Roseline’s pulse quickened. The betting shop—the place where secrets were traded, where their stolen moments unfolded. She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. His gaze held a thousand unspoken words, and she knew—they were bound by more than blood and danger.

Her hand found his, fingers intertwining. “I can’t wait,” she murmured, her voice lost in the chorus of cheers. For in this tangled web of family and love, they had carved out their own sanctuary

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, Tommy stepped out into the cool night air, leaving his rose in the protection of the people he trusts. Roseline found herself in the company of John and Esme. The air buzzed with camaraderie, and for a moment, the weight of Birmingham's underworld lifted.

John leaned against the bar. His eyes crinkled as he teased Roseline. “You know,” he said, his accent thick, “Tommy's never been like this with anyone. Ever.”

Roseline arched an eyebrow, her response elegant.“Am I supposed to feel privileged?” she asked, genuinely confused.

Esme’s laughter bubbled forth, and John clapped Roseline on the shoulder. “You’ve got him wrapped around your little finger,” he declared. “And that’s no small feat.”

But as John wandered off to join his brother, Esme’s expression shifted. Worry etched lines on her face, and she leaned closer to Roseline. “Moving up in the business,” she murmured, “it’s dangerous. Riskier.”

Roseline met Esme’s gaze, her green eyes steady. “Esme,” she said softly, “no matter where we go—up or down—the path is never smooth. There are setbacks, dangers. But isn’t that the nature of our world?”

Esme’s hand trembled, and Roseline covered it with her own. “Don't worry, We will get through,” she whispered. “hopefully.”

Esme leaned in, her eyes soft with nostalgia. “I miss your music, Rose,” she confessed. “Your melodies would fill up this place.” Roseline’s smile wavered. Music was a piece of her heart that only exits throught that violin that sits in the corner of her apartment.

“Sadly,” Roseline replied, her voice gentle, “there’s no instrument here.” She glanced toward the corner where Arthur held court, his voice rising above the din. “But perhaps Arthur’s voice will suffice for now.”

Esme laughed, the sound like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Arthur’s voice?” she teased. “Well, it’s got the gruffness of a sea shanty, that’s for sure.”

And then, with a conspiratorial glint in her eye, Esme asked, “What about singing? you must have sung before.”

“Maybe next time,” Roseline said, her smile masking the tremor within.

Esme’s hand found hers, warm and reassuring. “We’ll hold you to that,” she said.

“Esme,” Roseline began, her voice low, “have you seen Polly? After the chaos?”

Esme’s eyes held shadows. “She left immediately,” she replied. “Back to her house. She looked—shaken.”

Roseline nodded, understanding the weight of it all. Polly—the indomitable matriarch of the Shelby clan—had faced danger head-on. But even the strongest had their breaking points.

“I’ll go visit her,” Roseline said softly. “See if she’s all right. Would you like to come?”

Esme hesitated, then shook her head. “I can’t,” she confessed. “I need to—relax. After everything that’s happened.”

Roseline smiled, her hand finding Esme’s. “You deserve it,” she said. “Take care of yourself, Esme.”

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Roseline stood on Polly’s doorstep. Her knuckles rapped against the wood, echoing through the quiet house. The door creaked open, revealing Ada, her eyes shadowed with worry.

“Rosie,” Ada breathed, relief flooding her features. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Roseline stepped inside, the warmth of the hallway enveloping her. “What happened?” she asked, her voice hushed. “You look tired.”

Ada’s gaze flickered toward the living room, where the air hung heavy with tension. “It’s polly, ever since she got back she didn’t say a word, We’ve tried talking to her,” she confessed. “All of us. But Polly—she just started drinking, maybe you can talk to her.”

Roseline’s heart clenched. She placed a comforting hand on Ada’s shoulder. “Where is she?”

Ada led her down the narrow corridor, past faded photographs and memories etched into the wallpaper. The living room door stood ajar, revealing Polly—disheveled, broken. She sat by the fireplace, a half-empty glass in her hand, staring into the flames. The room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the flickering flames in the fireplace. 

Roseline stepped closer, her footsteps muffled by the worn carpet. Polly’s eyes were hollow, her spirit fractured. “Polly,” Roseline said softly, “it’s me. Roseline.”

No response. Just the flicker of firelight dancing across Polly’s face.

Rose sat quietly in a worn armchair, her eyes fixed on Polly Gray. Polly was lost in her own world, her gaze distant, staring into the amber depths of the whiskey glass she held tightly. Roseline’s heart ached for the woman before her. Polly, usually so strong and unyielding, seemed fragile tonight. The weight of her burdens was etched into every line of her face, and the firelight cast shadows that deepened the hollows of her cheeks.

Polly’s eyes were unfocused, her thoughts a million miles away. The glass in her hand trembled slightly, the liquid inside catching the light and casting a golden glow. She took a slow, deliberate sip, her movements mechanical, as if she were on autopilot.

Roseline didn’t speak. She knew that sometimes, words were unnecessary. Instead, she simply watched, her presence a silent offer of support. She could see the turmoil in Polly’s eyes, the ghosts that haunted her. Polly’s eyes flickered, momentarily focusing on the flames. She took another sip of whiskey, her grip tightening around the glass. Rose remained still, offering her silent companionship.

The room held its breath, the fire’s flicker casting shadows across the worn carpet. Polly Gray, her eyes hollow and haunted, clutched the glass as if it were a lifeline. She’d done it—the deed that had been gnawing at her soul. The man who’d hurt her, who’d threatened her son—Campbell—was gone.

But Polly’s anger simmered. The glass of whiskey in her hand trembled, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Her eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were now blazing with fury. “I shouldn’t have given him a quick death,” she spat, her voice low and venomous. “That fucking bastard Campbell deserved to suffer.”

Polly’s anger was a palpable force, radiating off her in waves. Her hands clenched and unclenched around the glass, the knuckles white with the effort. “He took everything from me,” she continued, her voice rising. “He hurt my family, my son. And I let him off easy. I should have made him pay. I should have made him feel every ounce of pain he inflicted on us.”

Her words were laced with bitterness, each one a dagger thrown into the silence of the room. Polly’s face was a mask of fury, her eyes glinting with unshed tears. She stared into the fireplace, the flames reflecting in her eyes, memories of Campbell’s cruelty flashing through her mind.

“I let him take advantage of us,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. “I let him think he could control us. And for what? A quick death? He deserved so much worse.”

Polly’s anger was a living thing, a beast that clawed at her insides. She raised the glass to her lips, but her hand shook so violently that she nearly dropped it. Just as she was about to hurl the glass into the fireplace, Roseline, who was sitting in front of her, calmly and gently held Polly’s hand, stopping her.

“Polly,” Roseline said softly, her voice a soothing balm. “You don’t have to do this. Holding onto this anger will only hurt you more.”

Polly’s eyes met Roseline’s, the fury in them wavering. “He deserved to suffer,” Polly whispered, her voice raw with pain.

“I know,” Roseline replied, her tone gentle and understanding. “But you deserve peace. Let it go, for your sake. You’ve been through so much already.”

Polly’s grip on the glass loosened, and she let out a shuddering breath. “I jus... I can’t stop thinking about it,” she admitted, her voice breaking.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Roseline insisted, her voice firm yet gentle. She leaned closer, her green eyes locking onto Polly’s with unwavering sincerity. “It will never be your fault. People like Campbell—they thrive on fear and prey on perceived weakness. They manipulate and control, feeding off the pain they inflict. But they can’t destroy strong people like you, Polly.”

Roseline’s hand tightened around Polly’s, her touch warm and reassuring. “You are resilient, courageous, and fiercely protective of those you love. Campbell saw that strength in you, and it terrified him. That’s why he tried to break you, to make you doubt yourself. But he failed, Polly. He failed because your strength is unyielding, and your spirit is indomitable.”

She paused, letting her words sink in, her gaze never wavering. “You’ve endured so much, and yet here you are, standing tall despite everything. Don’t let his darkness overshadow your light. You are so much more than the pain he caused. You are a beacon of hope and strength for everyone around you.”

“Remember, Polly, his actions were a reflection of his own flaws and insecurities, not yours. You did everything you could to protect your family, and that’s what truly matters. You are a survivor, and no one can take that away from you.” Roseline’s voice softened, filled with compassion. 

Polly looked at Roseline, her eyes softening. “You have a way with words, Roseline. It’s a bloody gift,” she said, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

Roseline smiled warmly. “My words are here because you inspire them, Polly. Your strength and resilience are what guide me.”

Polly chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to lighten the heavy atmosphere in the room. “Thank you, Roseline,” she said, her voice filled with genuine gratitude.

Roseline squeezed Polly’s hand gently. “Anytime, Polly. Anytime.”

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Roseline stepped out of the cool night air and into the dimly lit betting shop. The place was eerily quiet, the usual hustle and bustle replaced by an almost oppressive silence. Shadows danced on the walls, cast by the flickering light of a single gas lamp. Tommy had told her he would meet her here.

She took a deep breath, her footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor as she made her way to the staircase. The creak of each step seemed louder in the stillness, but she pressed on, her heart beating a little faster with each step. She reached the top of the stairs and paused for a moment, her hand resting on the banister. Tommy’s room was just ahead, and she felt a strange mix of anticipation and comfort.

Roseline pushed open the door to Tommy’s room, and as she stepped inside, she was enveloped by a sense of calm. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of a lamp casting a warm light over the space. It was a stark contrast to the darkness outside. She closed the door behind her and took a moment to take in her surroundings. The familiar scent of Tommy’s cologne lingered in the air, mingling with the faint smell of tobacco and leather.

Her eyes wandered to the bed, its neatly made sheets and thick blankets inviting. She remembered the last time she had been here, how the room had comforted her in an odd way. It was as if Tommy’s presence was woven into the very fabric of the space, subtle yet undeniable.

She stood in the middle of the room, taking in every detail. She loved the silence, the way it wrapped around her like a comforting blanket. The quiet hum of the city outside was a distant murmur, barely audible through the thick walls. Here, in Tommy’s room, she felt safe and protected, surrounded by his essence.

She walked over to the desk, running her fingers lightly over the surface. The room was filled with little touches of Tommy—his favorite books on the nightstand, a half-empty glass of whiskey on the dresser, a photograph of his family on the wall. Each item told a story, a piece of the man she cares about.

Roseline stood in the middle of Tommy’s room, lost in the comforting silence and the subtle presence of Tommy that seemed to permeate the space. She didn’t notice the door quietly opening behind her. Tommy stepped inside, his eyes locking onto her as she moved around the room, taking in every detail.

“If I didn’t recognize you, I would have thought you were a spy,” Tommy’s voice broke the silence, a hint of amusement in his tone.

Roseline snapped out of her trance, turning to see Tommy standing in the doorway, a smirk playing on his lips. She smiled back, her eyes sparkling. “If I were a spy, I wouldn’t get caught,” she replied with a playful glint in her eye.

Tommy chuckled, closing the door behind him as he walked into the room. “Should I be worried that you know where my room is?” he asked, his voice low and teasing.

Roseline tilted her head slightly, considering his question. “That depends on you, Tommy. Do you like the odds?” she responded, her tone equally playful.

Tommy’s smirk widened as he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close. “What are the odds?” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear.

Rose smiled, her heart fluttering at his touch. She leaned in and kissed his cheek softly. “Easier access,” she whispered, her lips brushing against his skin.

Tommy’s eyes softened, and he tightened his hold on her, resting his forehead against hers. “I like those odds,” he said quietly, his voice filled with affection.

As they stood there, wrapped in each other’s embrace, Roseline touched Tommy’s hand softly. “Never do it again,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tommy looked at her, confusion flickering in his eyes. “Do what?” he asked, his tone serious and direct.

“Leaving me like that,” Roseline replied, her voice trembling slightly. “You don’t have to pull away from me, Tommy.”

Tommy’s expression hardened, his jaw tightening. “My job is bloody dangerous, Roseline. I am fucking dangerous,” he began, his voice low and intense. 

“You were about to die today, Tommy,” she said, her voice breaking. “And I wouldn’t have known if I hadn’t followed you. I want to be there for you, all of you.”

Tommy’s eyes softened as he looked at her. He leaned in and kissed her on the lips, a tender and reassuring gesture. “Yes, I was about to die,” he admitted quietly. “But here I am. This is my chance to continue everything, and I will do it all with you, Rose.”

Roseline knew that Tommy wouldn’t always be honest with her about his business, but it didn’t matter. As long as he understood that she would be there for him, it was enough.

Tommy Shelby had faced death countless times, but today had been different. As he stood in the field, the weight of the day’s events pressing down on him, he was certain he was dead. The gunfire, the chaos—it all seemed so final. He had accepted his fate, a cold resignation settling in his chest. But as he walked through the field, the world around him felt surreal, as if he were caught between life and death.

He wasn’t sure if he was truly alive or if this was some cruel trick of the mind. The fields stretched out before him, a vast expanse of uncertainty. His thoughts were a whirlwind, memories of the war mingling with the present. He felt detached, as if he were floating, untethered from reality.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure running towards him. At first, he thought it was a bloody hallucination, a figment of his imagination. But as the figure drew closer, he recognized her—Roseline. She was a sudden ray of light in the darkness, her presence cutting through the fog of his thoughts.

Roseline reached him, her arms wrapping around him in a tight embrace. The warmth of her touch, the softness of her voice as she called his name—it all felt so real, so grounding. In that moment, Tommy felt more alive than he had ever felt, before the war or after. The sensation was overwhelming, a rush of emotions flooding through him.

He might not be a believer in God, but in that moment, Roseline was his angel. His beautiful, lovely angel. She had brought him back from the brink, her love and presence a lifeline he hadn’t known he needed. As he held her close, he realized that he would do everything for her. Tommy tightened his hold on Roseline, his heart swelling with a fierce determination. He would protect her, cherish her, and make sure she never had to face their dark world. She was his light, his hope, and he would do whatever it took to keep her safe.

Tommy and Roseline sat on the edge of Tommy’s bed, the soft glow of the lamp casting a warm light over the room. The silence between them was comfortable, filled with the unspoken understanding that had grown between them over the past year.

“How did the talk with Michael go?” Roseline broke the silence first, her voice gentle. 

Tommy leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful. “Michael decided to stay. He’ll continue working with us.”

Roseline smiled, a look of relief crossing her face. “Polly will be happy to hear that. She deserves something to ground her right now.”

Tommy nodded, his gaze distant for a moment. “It could be worse,” he said, his tone pragmatic.

Roseline giggled softly, the sound lightening the mood. “I think Michael looks up to you, Tommy.”

Tommy raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Is that so?”

Roseline nodded, her smile fading slightly. She just hopes his admiration is just that and won’t turn into some kind of obsession, she thought to herself, but didn’t voice aloud. 

Tommy’s expression softened. “He’s young, and he’s got a lot to learn. he’ll grow out of it soon.”

Roseline looked at Tommy, her eyes filled with affection. “You know, you’re not exactly a bad role model.”

Tommy’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Roseline continued, her tone sincere. “You were a soldier, you’re an ambitious man, you have a business, and you’re very attractive.”

Tommy chuckled, a deep, warm sound. “If you’re trying to seduce me like this, it might just fucking work.”

Roseline blushed, her cheeks turning a delicate shade of pink. “I’m just stating facts,” she said, her voice a bit shy. “if only you would stop smoking so many cigarettes.”

Tommy’s amusement turned to curiosity. “Is that what you’re concerned about?”

Roseline nodded, her expression serious. “Of course, I care about your health, Tommy.” There might be another reason, be she won't admit it not now at least.

Tommy leaned in and kissed her softly, his lips lingering on hers. “You’re such a mad woman,” he murmured against her lips, his voice filled with affection.

Roseline smiled, her heart swelling with love. “Maybe I am,” she whispered back, her eyes shining with emotion.

They sat there for a moment, wrapped in each other’s presence, the world outside forgotten. Then, Roseline’s curiosity got the better of her. “Tommy, have you ever been in love before?”

Tommy was taken aback by the question, but he nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly.

Roseline’s curiosity deepened. “Who was she?”

Tommy sighed, his gaze distant. “Her name was Greta.”

“What happened with her?” Rose asked gently.

“Greta got sick. Very sick,” Tommy said, his voice heavy with old pain. “I stayed by her side until she died. After that, I joined the war.”

Tommy’s thoughts drifted to Greta. He had loved her deeply, with the naive intensity of a young man who believed in forever. Greta had been his world, and her damn illness had shattered him. She deserved so much better than the bloody, cruel fate that had befallen her. He had stayed by her side, watching helplessly as the sickness took her away from him. When she died, a part of him died with her.

In the aftermath of her death, Tommy had joined the war. He could say it was to forget his pain, and in many ways, it did. The horrors of the battlefield filled his mind, pushing aside the memories of Greta and the life they had planned together. He had convinced himself that love was no longer for him, that he had no time for it in the brutal reality of his existence.

But then Roseline had come into his life, and everything changed. She made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years, something he hadn’t even known he was capable of feeling again. With Roseline, it was different. She awakened a part of him that he thought was long dead. He wanted her—all of her and more. The depth of his feelings for her surpassed anything he had ever felt for Greta.

Roseline’s heart ached for him. “I’m so sorry, Tommy.”

She didn’t know if she would ever be able to fill the void in his heart, the one left by Greta and the war. She knew the war had changed him profoundly, leaving scars that ran deep. Sometimes, he was unrecognizable even to his own family, a shadow of the man he once was.

Roseline didn’t know if what she felt for Tommy was love or not. Love was a concept she had never truly explored, never allowed herself to indulge in. But she knew she wanted him to be happy, or at least at peace.

“It was a long time ago,” Tommy replied, his tone dismissive.

Roseline understood that Tommy would never admit or acknowledge the extent of his pain. He carried it silently, a burden he bore alone. But she saw it in his eyes, in the way he moved, in the moments of quiet vulnerability he rarely showed. 

Roseline shook her head. “Even if it is, the dead will always be with us one way or another. I’m sure Greta was a lovely woman who deserved the best.”

“Most people would be jealous of their lover’s past partners.” Tommy looked at her, a hint of surprise in his eyes. 

Roseline smiled softly. “I am jealous in a way, but I have nothing against the happiness of two people.”

Tommy went quiet for a minute, contemplating her words. Then he asked, “Have you ever been in love, Roseline?”

Roseline thought for a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think so. I hadn’t really had the time before to think about it.”

She had never felt this way for a man before, she never thought she will. The intensity of her feelings for Tommy took her by surprise. She had always been focused on her music, her performances, never allowing herself the luxury of love. But with Tommy, it was different. He was the only man she actually wanted to get close to, the only man she wanted.

Tommy understood this from his previous reports on the Marshalls. Roseline most likely spent her days after being adopted taking lessons.

After their heartfelt conversation, the room fell into a comfortable silence. The soft glow of the lamp cast gentle shadows on the walls, creating a warm and intimate atmosphere. Tommy and Roseline lay side by side on the bed, their bodies close, finding solace in each other’s presence.

Tommy’s arm was draped protectively over Roseline’s waist, his hand resting lightly on her hip. The steady rise and fall of his chest was a soothing rhythm, a reminder of his presence and the life they shared. Roseline nestled against him, her head resting on his shoulder, her hand gently placed on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.

The room was filled with the quiet sounds of their breathing, a peaceful symphony that lulled them into a sense of calm. The world outside seemed distant, the troubles and dangers of their lives momentarily forgotten. Here, in the sanctuary of Tommy’s room, they found a rare moment of peace.

Roseline’s eyes fluttered closed, her body relaxing into the warmth and security of Tommy’s embrace. She felt a deep sense of contentment, a feeling she had rarely experienced before. Tommy’s presence was a balm to her soul, a source of strength and comfort.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

In the shadowy depths of an abandoned warehouse, two men stood in a secluded corner, their faces obscured by the darkness. The air was thick with the scent of damp concrete and decay, the only sound the distant drip of water echoing through the empty space.

The first man, tall and imposing, leaned in close, his voice a low, menacing whisper. “You know what you have to do,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Break into the apartment and kill the girl.”

The second man, shorter and wiry, shifted uneasily. “What's in it for me?” he asked, his voice barely audible, a hint of fear creeping into his words.

The tall man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a thick wad of cash. He handed it to the other man, the bills rustling ominously in the silence. “This is the first half of the payment,” he said, his voice cold and detached.

The shorter man took the money, his eyes widening as he counted the bills. A slow, sinister grin spread across his face, the greed in his eyes unmistakable. “Consider it done,” he said, his voice now filled with a twisted eagerness.

The tall man nodded, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “Make sure there are no mistakes,” he warned, his voice a chilling reminder of the consequences of failure.

The shorter man pocketed the cash, his grin widening. “Don’t worry,” he said, his voice dripping with malice. “I’ll take care of it, it's just a little girl.”

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Roseline walked briskly towards her building after finishing her shift at the hospital. The evening air was cool, and the streets were beginning to quiet down. By now, she was used to Tommy’s men following her, even if Tommy thought she didn’t know about them. 

As she entered the building, she greeted the clerk with a warm smile. “Good evening,” she said.

“Good evening, Miss Roseline,” the clerk replied cheerfully. “Long day at the hospital?”

“Yes, it always is,” she responded, her smile never wavering.

She made her way up the stairs, her footsteps echoing softly in the empty stairwell. As she climbed, a sense of unease began to creep over her. It was a feeling she couldn’t quite shake, a nagging instinct that something was wrong. She felt an inexplicable urge to turn around and leave, but she pushed it aside and continued upwards.

When she reached her floor, she paused, her eyes fixed on her apartment door. With one look, she knew something was off. The door seemed slightly ajar, a detail that sent a chill down her spine. She walked up to it, sighing softly. Her hand hovered over the doorknob as she contemplated what to do.

Taking a deep breath, she decided to face whatever awaited her. She turned the knob and pushed the door open, stepping inside cautiously. It happened so fast. A man, who had been hiding behind the door, lunged at her. One of his hands clamped over her mouth, while the other squeezed her neck.

“Be quiet,” he hissed, his voice low and threatening.

Roseline struggled fiercely, her heart pounding in her chest. In her frantic movements, the man stumbled, hitting his back against the mirror hanging on the wall. The mirror cracked, and shards of glass fell to the floor. Desperation fueled her actions, and she bit down hard on the man’s hand.

He yelped in pain, releasing her. “Crazy woman!” he shouted, glaring at her. His eyes roved over her, and he sneered. “They didn’t tell me you were beautiful.”

Roseline felt a wave of disgust but tried to stay calm. She needed to find something to defend herself. Surely, Tommy’s men would have heard the commotion by now. The man advanced on her, his intentions clear. “Be good, and I won’t hurt you. Not much,” he said, his voice dripping with malice.

In the corner of her eye, Roseline spotted her violin. She made a split-second decision and dashed towards it. The man lunged after her, but she reached the violin first. As he stood over her, ready to grab her, she swung the violin with all her might, smashing it against his head.

The man crumpled to the ground, blood trickling from a wound on his head. He was still alive but unconscious. Roseline stood there, panting, overwhelmed by what had just happened.

Suddenly, the door burst open, and two large men, Tommy’s men, barged into the room, guns drawn. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?” one of them asked urgently.

Roseline shook her head, trying to steady her breathing. “I’m alright,” she managed to say.

The men looked at her, then at the unconscious man on the floor. They quickly picked him up, one of them muttering an apology. “We’re sorry we didn’t come sooner.”

Roseline nodded, her voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. “It’s fine,” she said, her eyes hardening with resolve. “Just make sure he doesn’t come back.”

The men nodded, carrying the intruder out of her apartment. Roseline stood there for a moment, taking in the shattered mirror and the broken violin.

Roseline sat on the ground, her breath still coming in ragged gasps. As the adrenaline began to fade, a sudden, urgent thought pierced through her mind, screaming, “No!” Her heart pounded as she scrambled to her feet and rushed to the bottom drawer of her dresser.

Her hands were shaking uncontrollably as she pulled the drawer open and removed the added layer of wood she had carefully placed there. Beneath it lay a small, unassuming box, hidden from view. She lifted it out, her fingers trembling as she held it in her lap.

For a moment, she just stared at the box, her mind racing with fear and anxiety. The weight of its contents seemed to press down on her, a reminder of the secrets she kept hidden. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and then, with a sudden resolve, she put the box back where it belonged, closing the drawer firmly.

Rose sighed, a wave of relief washing over her. The immediate danger had passed, and the box was safe. She leaned back against the dresser, closing her eyes for a moment to gather her thoughts. 

Chapter Text

The room was a silent chaos—the aftermath of violence and fear. Roseline stood amidst the shards of her shattered violin, the delicate wood now splintered and broken. The mirror on the wall bore the impact of the struggle, its surface cracked like a spider’s web. But Rose moved with eerie calmness, as if the chaos were an everyday occurrence.

She picked up the violin fragments, each piece a memory of music and beauty. The glass shards, too, caught her eye—they glimmered like fallen stars. She placed them carefully on the dresser, arranging them in a pattern that only she understood. Perhaps it was defiance or a desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of order. 

Rose sat down in her chair sighing looking at the door of her apartment. If she actually cared, she would have that sorry excuse of a door change, but frankly money is a luxury, and she could spend the money on more important things. she mused, her fingers brushing against the splintered wood of her table, maybe she became quite accustomed to tommy's world. 

An hour slipped by, marked only by the soft ticking of the clock. Roseline’s heartbeat steadied, and her head clearer than before. But then the door swung open, and Tommy stormed in—a tempest of concern and fury. It really is a poor excuse of a door, but she could give the door some credit, seeing as tommy is strong. Rose quickly got up, She watched him scan the room, assessing the damage—the broken violin, the cracked mirror. But her thoughts were oddly detached, as if she were observing from a distance, as His eyes scanned the room, assessing the damage, and then locked onto hers.

“What the fuck happened?” His voice was a low growl, and he grabbed her face, searching for answers. “Are you hurt?”

Rose met his gaze, her own eyes steady. “I’m alright,” she said, her voice calm. “Just caught off guard.” she softly reached up to touch his hand. 

Tommy’s grip tightened, as he glanced around the room once more. “You’re not bloody staying here anymore,” he declared, determination etched into every line of his face. He led her out of the apartment, closing the door behind them.

The early morning air felt cool against Roseline’s skin as Tommy led her out of her apartment. Her heart raced, and questions churned in her mind. What did he mean? Why was he so insistent? But she knew better than to press him when he was in this mood.

“Tommy,” she began, her voice cautious, “what do you mean? And where are we going?”

He didn’t answer immediately, his jaw clenched. Instead, he gestured toward his car—a sleek, black machine that seemed to hum with tension. “Get inside,” he ordered, his tone sharp.

Roseline sighed, recognizing the futility of arguing. She climbed into the passenger seat, the door closing with a decisive thud. As Tommy revved the engine, she glanced back at her apartment building

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The hazy morning made the greenery of polly's garden stand out, the little droplets on the flowers makes them look like sparkles. Rose just wishes that she could draw the scenery infront of her, but sadly she couldn’t bring her notebook. Tommy stood there, his knuckles rapping sharply against the door. 

The door creaked open, revealing the stern face of Polly’s maid. She glanced at Tommy, then at Roseline, her expression unyielding. The poor woman couldn't say a word, sensing Tommy's intense presence. Tommy stepped aside, allowing Roseline to enter first. She hesitated, glancing back at him, but he merely gestured for her to go ahead.

Inside, the air smelled of old wood and secrets. Before she could voice her questions, Tommy barged in behind her, shutting the door with a force that rattled the windows. His anger was palpable, radiating off him like heat from a furnace. Roseline turned to apologize to the maid, but the woman had already retreated, leaving them alone in the narrow hallway.

And then, like a specter descending a grand staircase, Polly Gray appeared. Her eyes widened at the unexpected guests—Tommy, always brooding, and Roseline. What were they doing here so damn early in the morning? She expects this thing from Thomas as he is alway like this, but Rose here too? something must have gone wrong.

“What brings you two to my doorstep so bloody early?” Polly drawled, her voice like whiskey over ice.

Tommy’s jaw clenched. “Just fucking watch her,” he said, his words sharp as shards of glass. “Never let her out of your sight.”

Polly’s confusion was evident. She glanced from Tommy to Roseline, then back again. “Watch her? Why?"

Roseline shifted uncomfortably. She doesn't like being ignored, especially by tommy or polly. Tommy’s possessiveness both flattered and infuriated her. But she held her tongue; defiance was a luxury she couldn’t afford.

Tommy’s frustration spilled over. “Just bloody do it, eh?!” he snapped. “I have some fucking business to take care of.” 

Roseline watched as Tommy turned on his heel, his anger a tempest. He didn’t look at her as he stormed out, leaving her standing there. caught between confusion and frustration. She watches the dust motes dance in the sunlight. Tommy, with his clenched fists and stormy eyes, has left her with more questions than answers. Why bring her here? Why the urgency? And why treat her like a fragile artifact to be safeguarded? whatever is going in tommy’s head is causing her’s to spin like a dancer dancing on needles.

Polly, ever the matriarch, approaches. Her gaze is shrewd, assessing. As they walk into the living room. “He’s always been like that,” she says, her voice a low rasp. “Tommy—half brute force, half cunning. But he’s got his reasons.” 

Roseline nods, her mind racing. Maybe it’s best to leave it at that, even if she doesn’t like not understanding what the other thinks, especially someone close to her like Tommy. He is still a grown man and way older than her, he does what he wants in the quiet without explaining, that's who he is, she thinks.

Polly gestures toward the worn armchair. “Sit,” she says. “Tea?”

Roseline accepts, sinking into the faded upholstery. The china clinks as Polly pours. “Thank you, Polly ” Rose murmurs. “I’m truly sorry for the intrusion, Tommy was adamant that we come.” She truly feels sorry, the other night was hard for polly and she just wants the older woman to rest. 

Polly leans in. “It’s alright, Rose,” she says, her gaze filled with warmth. “of all the people Tommy could bring so early in the morning, you are actually the only one I might be happy to see.” Polly has seen many types of women, and Roseline is truly a treasure. She has always been fond of her, maybe she feels closer to her now because of the other night. But it doesn't matter, she already sees her as family, she just hopes Thomas doesn't let the girl slip through his fingers.

Roseline, blushing sips the tea, its warmth seeping into her bones. “I really appreciate it,” she says, her voice steady. She is speechless, well maybe not fully speechless, But she doesn't want to bother polly anymore than necessary.

“So, what happened?” Polly’s voice is whiskey and gravel, and she leans in, as if expecting secrets to spill forth. She wants to know what got that nephew of hers so riled up, and why the girl infront of her clearly uncomfortable, at least Polly thinks she is.

Roseline sighs, her calm momentarily disrupted. “Someone broke into my apartment,” she confesses. She Knows she can’t lie to polly about something like this, even if she wants to forget about the whole thing. 

Polly’s concern flares. “You were there? Bloody hell, girl! Are you hurt?” That wasn’t what polly expected, how is Rose so calm? the girl clearly never had faced trouble like this before, she should be more fearful and panicked at the moment.

Roseline shakes her head. “No, not hurt. But...” She hesitates, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “I might have—well, I might have hit the intruder in the head a little too much.” The man did deserve it, someone clearly paid him to do it, Rose isn't sure if it was because her connection to tommy or something else entirely.

Polly blinks. “Hit him? You mean like a proper bashing?” Did polly mishear? is her age finally catching up to her?

Roseline nods. “Yes. I panicked, and my instincts kicked in. He won’t be bothering anyone else anytime soon.” 

Polly’s laughter erupts—a throaty, genuine sound that echoes off the walls. “Roseline,” she says, wiping her eyes, “you’re of a completely different breed, you know that?”

Roseline shifts, torn between pride and awkwardness. “Is that good or bad?”

Polly leans closer, her gaze fierce. “Good, my dear. Very good.” she would defiantly pay to see a small woman like Rose bashing a grown man's head. “Well, that explains why Tommy barged out of here like he was about to kill someone,” she says, Polly, with her sharp eyes and knowing smile, watches Roseline closely. 

Roseline, still sitting on the armchair, fidgeting with her tea, her worry evident. “I just hope he’ll be alright,” she murmurs, her voice tinged with anxiety.

Polly smirks, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Don’t you worry 'bout Tommy, love. He can handle himself. It’s you who should be more concerned about.”

Roseline tries to steady her breathing, but the knot in her stomach tightens. She tried to steady herself, to push away the worry gnawing at her insides. But it was like trying to hold back the tide. Every thought circled back to Tommy—his intense gaze, the way his jaw clenched when he was angry, the rare moments of vulnerability he showed to her. She had never felt this way about anyone before, and it terrified her.

She didn’t know what to expect or how to act. The rules of their relationship seemed to shift with every passing moment, leaving her grasping for stability. She wanted to be there for him, to support him, but she also feared making a misstep that would push him further away.

And then there was the fear of his anger. Tommy’s temper was a force of nature, and the thought of being the cause of his ire made her stomach churn. She didn’t want to be the reason for his frustration, didn’t want to add to the burdens he already carried. Rose closed her eyes, willing herself to find the strength she needed. She couldn’t control Tommy’s actions or his emotions, but she could control her own.

The sun cast a warm glow through the windows of Polly Gray’s parlor, illuminating the room with a soft, golden light. Roseline and Polly sat across from each other, the air filled with the scent of freshly brewed tea and the faint hum of the bustling streets outside.

Roseline, trying to distract herself from her worries about Tommy, asked, “How is Michael? Is everything alright with him?” Michael might be a sensitive subject for Polly, But the mother and son must have made up by now.

Polly’s expression softened at the mention of her son. “Michael decided to stay here,” she said, a hint of pride in her voice. “Even after I offered him money to leave.” Her son is all grown up, she can't wrap her head around it, she just got him back and she is already seeing him as an adult that doesn't need her.

Roseline smiled, her green eyes twinkling. “He is, after all, your son, Polly. You shouldn’t be so surprised.” Polly is quite a stubborn woman, and she respects polly for that. Micheal might have not been raised by polly for quite awhile, but blood is blood you're bound to have something in common.

“I know, but I just want to keep him safe. Not after I lost my daughter, and not after what happened.” Polly sighed, her gaze distant. Loosing Anna was like loosing apart of herself, she lost her for the first time to the coppers, because of an idiotic mistake. And she lost her the second time before she even go to meet her to God. Polly just hopes her daughter would forgive her for everything, even if she knows she doesn't deserve it.

Rose reached out, placing a comforting hand on Polly’s. “You’re a good woman, Polly, and an even more amazing mother. But Michael is already an adult. You won’t be able to control him.” Rose can’t understand polly’s well, but the facts are bright as day and she will be frank about it.

Polly’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “I still remember when he was a baby boy, so protective of his little sister. He might not remember, but I do.” It is like a one sided relationship, and polly can’t force him to remember, he was just a child. But she will always try to remind him of the little things, so he will know where he came from and who his real family is.

Roseline’s smile softened as she squeezed Polly’s hand. “Now you’ll have more memories with him.” She just hopes that Polly won’t be obsessive that could drive her child away.

Polly’s smile lingered, but a shadow of discomfort crossed her face. “Roseline,” she began hesitantly, “you’re an orphan, right?” That might sounded insensitive but she needs to ask.

Roseline nodded, her heart tightening at the familiar ache. “Yes, I am.” Not that Rose is ashamed of the fact, and it was pretty known after that family advertised her as their charity case infront of the public.

Polly’s eyes searched Roseline’s face. “Did you ever try to find out who your parents were?”

Roseline leaned back, the question stirring old wounds. She took a moment to compose herself before answering. “Every child wants to know their parents. But as I grew older, I stopped thinking about it.” 

Polly, sensing the detachment in Roseline’s voice, pressed gently. “Did you ever look for them?”

Roseline’s gaze grew distant, her emotions a tangled web. “No,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Michael walked in, his presence immediately filling the room. “Good morning,” he said, his voice warm and familiar. Clearly still tired from the other night’s activities, eyes barely open.

Polly’s face lit up as she stood and embraced him, planting a kiss on his cheek. “Good morning, Michael,” she greeted, her tone filled with maternal affection. She always wanted to see her son resting comfortably in their home.

Roseline rose from her chair, offering a polite smile. “Good morning, Michael.” It was thing polite to do, and she wants to get out of the house in the most polite way. She cant stay cooped up here, despite what Tommy said.

Michael’s eyes widened in surprise, a blush creeping up his cheeks. “Good morning, Roseline,” he stammered, clearly taken aback by her presence. As Michael stood before Roseline, his heart skipped a beat. The morning light streaming through the window seemed to catch her just right, illuminating her blonde hair with a soft, golden glow. Her green eyes, vibrant and full of life, held a depth that drew him in, making it hard to look away.

Polly watched the scene unfold before her, her sharp eyes missing nothing. As Michael stood there, blushing and clearly captivated by Rose, Polly felt a pang of mixed emotions. She couldn’t blame her son for being drawn to Roseline—her beauty was undeniable, with her blonde hair catching the light and her green eyes sparkling with life. Rose had a presence that was hard to ignore, a blend of strength and grace that made her stand out in any room.

Polly, turned to Roseline with a stern look. “Sit down, love. Don’t get up from that chair.” That girl is too careless with her health, and she is a nurse too. A soft heart like her’s who hasn’t lived in Birmingham for awhile must be traumatized by the break in. 

Roseline opened her mouth to protest. “I’m fine, Polly.” She really wants walk in the park or garden, but she can’t tell her that.

But Polly’s gaze was unwavering. “Sit down and don’t argue.”

With a sigh, Roseline complied, sinking back into the chair. She didn’t want to cause any more tension.

Michael, still blushing but now confused, looked between the two women. “What brings you here, Roseline?”

“Someone broke into Roseline’s apartment.” Polly answered for her, her voice serious.

Michael’s expression shifted to one of immediate concern. He rushed to Roseline’s side, his worry evident. “Are you hurt? What happened?”

As Michael stepped closer, Roseline felt a strange discomfort settle over her. It was an odd sensation, one she hadn’t experienced in a long time. Since coming to Birmingham, she had grown accustomed to the presence of men—Tommy, with his intense gaze and protective nature; John and Arthur, with their rough edges but undeniable loyalty; even the men Tommy sent to follow her, thinking she didn’t notice. She had never felt uneasy around them.

But with Michael, it was different. She couldn’t quite put her finger on why. He was kind, respectful, and clearly concerned for her well-being. There was no logical reason for her to feel this way. Yet, as he moved closer, her body tensed, and her heart raced in a way that had nothing to do with attraction.

Roseline tried to shake off the feeling, reminding herself that Michael was Polly’s son, a part of the family she had come to care for. But the discomfort lingered, a shadow she couldn’t quite dispel. Maybe it was old habits dying hard. She glanced at Michael, his face flushed with concern, and forced a smile. She didn’t want to hurt his feelings or make him think he had done something wrong. But inside, she was grappling with emotions she thought she had left behind.

As Michael asked if she was hurt, his voice filled with genuine worry, Roseline felt a pang of guilt. He didn’t deserve her unease. He was just trying to be kind, to make sure she was alright. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself, to push past the discomfort.

“Thank you, Michael,” she said softly, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. “I’m fine, really.”

Polly watched the interaction with a mixture of amusement and concern. “She’s tougher than she looks, Michael. But we need to make sure she’s safe.”

Polly observed the way Michael looked at Roseline, her heart ached for him. She knew that look all too well—the look of a young man smitten, his heart laid bare. Polly felt a deep sense of sorrow for her son, knowing that he was chasing a dream that could never be. Roseline’s heart belonged to someone else, and Polly feared that Michael was setting himself up for heartbreak.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The man jolted awake as a bucket of cold water splashed over him, the shock of it sending a shiver down his spine. He gasped, sputtering as the icy water dripped from his hair and clothes. Panic surged through him, and he struggled against his restraints, his mind racing.

“Where the fuck am I?” he screamed, his voice echoing off the walls. “Let me go! You bastards, let me go!” His head throbbed, and he could feel the rough texture of the chair beneath him.

As his senses sharpened, he became acutely aware of the silence that enveloped him. The air was thick with tension, and the only sound was his own ragged breathing. He tried to move, but the restraints held him firmly in place.

The blindfold pressed against his eyes, blocking out any hint of light. He felt vulnerable, exposed, and utterly helpless. His mind raced with questions. Who had captured him? What did they want? And most importantly, how was he going to get out of this?

His curses filled the room, each breath a mix of anger and fear. The blindfold pressed tightly against his eyes, adding to his disorientation. He strained to hear any response, any sign of his captors, but the silence was deafening.

“Who the hell are you?” he shouted, his voice raw. “What do you want from me?”

Tommy Shelby stood in the dimly lit room, his eyes cold and calculating as he stared at the sorry excuse of a man before him. The man was drenched, shivering, and blindfolded, his hands bound tightly behind his back. Tommy’s men stood silently around the room, their presence adding to the oppressive atmosphere.

With a slight gesture from Tommy, one of his men stepped forward and threw another bucket of ice-cold water over the man. The shock of the freezing water made the man gasp and curse, his body convulsing from the cold. Tommy waited patiently, his expression unreadable, as the man struggled to regain his composure.

“Who sent you?” Tommy’s voice was calm but carried an edge of menace. The man, still disoriented, continued to curse, not realizing the gravity of his situation or who he was dealing with. Tommy’s patience wore thin, and he stepped closer, his presence looming over the man.

“I asked you a fucking question,” Tommy said, his voice low and dangerous. “Who sent you to that apartment building?”

The man, finally seeming to understand the seriousness of his predicament, let out a bitter laugh. “What’s in it for me?” he sneered, his bravado masking his fear. Tommy’s frustration was palpable, and with another gesture, one of his men stepped forward and began to beat the man mercilessly.

The man’s screams of pain echoed through the room as he was struck repeatedly. He coughed and cursed, his defiance slowly crumbling under the relentless assault. “Alright, fuck alright!” he finally gasped, blood trickling from his mouth. “I was paid good money to do whatever I wanted to the pretty blonde in that apartment.”

Tommy’s eyes darkened with fury at the mention of Roseline. He moved closer, his face inches from the man’s. With a swift motion, he drew a knife and slashed it across the side of the man’s mouth, leaving a deep, bloody gash. The man screamed in agony, his curses turning into desperate pleas for mercy.

“Who bloody sent you?” Tommy demanded again, his voice a deadly whisper.

The man, writhing in pain, finally broke. “Sabini!” he screamed. “It was Sabini!”

Tommy’s expression remained cold as he threw the knife aside. He glanced at the man’s hands, remembering the dark bruises on Roseline’s neck when he found her. Without a word, he took a larger knife from one of his men and approached the man once more.

“You won’t be needing these anymore,” Tommy said, his voice devoid of emotion. With a swift, brutal motion, he severed the man’s hand, the room filling with the man’s agonized screams, he took the man's other arm and cut through the flesh. Tommy stepped back, his eyes never leaving the man as he writhed in pain on the floor, both disgusting hands separated from his body. One hand a warning for sabini and the other a statement.

“Take him away,” Tommy ordered his men. “Make sure Sabini gets the message.”

Tommy Shelby walked out of the warehouse, his footsteps echoing down the streets. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. The rage he felt towards the man who had dared to harm Roseline and the hatred for Sabini who orchestrated it all burned fiercely within him. He wanted to do so much more to that man, to make him pay for every bruise on Roseline’s neck, for every moment of fear she had endured.

As he made his way to his office, the weight of his responsibilities pressed heavily on his shoulders. He knew that if he didn’t stop now, he might never stop. with each passing day, he feared that their relationship was a mistake. The longer she stayed with him, the more danger she faced. Yet, the idea of letting her go was unbearable. He couldn’t imagine his life without her, He knew he couldn’t lock her away.

As he reached his office, Tommy paused at the door, his hand resting on the handle. He took a deep breath, trying to push away the doubts and fears. He had to protect Roseline, no matter the cost. He couldn’t let her go, wouldn’t let her go. She was his.

Tommy walked into the office, his expression as cold and unreadable as ever. The weight of his recent actions hung heavy on him, but he showed no sign of it. As he entered, he found Lizzie seated at her desk, diligently working on the typewriter. The rhythmic clacking of the keys filled the room, a stark contrast to the turmoil in his mind. Lizzie looked up, her expression professional and composed.

“Good morning, Mr. Shelby,” she greeted him, her tone respectful yet warm.

Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Lizzie, I told you to take a break for a few days,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of irritation.

Lizzie straightened in her chair, her resolve evident. “I appreciate the concern, Mr. Shelby, but I wanted to work today,” she replied firmly, leaving no room for argument.

Tommy studied her for a moment, his gaze icy and penetrating. He knew better than to push further. “Suit yourself,” he said curtly, before turning and walking into his private office, closing the door behind him with a decisive click.

Inside his office, he moved to his desk, the weight of his responsibilities pressing down on him. As he sat down, he glanced at the papers and documents scattered across his desk. The world outside was relentless, and he had to stay one step ahead to get what he wants.

After meeting Roseline and falling into a relationship with her, Tommy Shelby found himself changed in ways he hadn’t anticipated. He hadn't had the urge to fuck any women, including lizzie. Roseline’s presence in his life brought a sense of stability and purpose that he hadn’t felt in years. Her intelligence, beauty, and calm demeanor captivated him, maybe some people would call him broken, but fucking wasn't really something he was obsessed with like some people he knows, it was something he just did.

Lizzie, on her part, had taken her job very seriously. Tommy could see the effort she put into improving herself, her dedication evident in the meticulous way she handled her tasks. She was determined to prove her worth, and so far, she was doing well for herself. Her professionalism and commitment to the job were commendable, and Tommy respected her for it.

However, there was an unspoken understanding between them. As long as Lizzie kept their past interactions a secret from Roseline, she would remain employed. Tommy knew that any revelation of their history could complicate things, and he valued the peace and stability that Rose brought into his life too much to risk it.

The air was thick with the scent of leather and paper, mingling with the faint aroma of tobacco. His desk was cluttered with files, documents, and blueprints, each representing a piece of his expanding empire.

He picked up a thick folder labeled “Race Tracks,” flipping it open to reveal detailed plans and financial projections. The race tracks he had taken from Sabini were a significant acquisition, and he was determined to transform them into the most profitable venues in the country. He studied the blueprints, noting areas that needed renovation and improvements. His mind raced with ideas on how to enhance the facilities, attract high-profile events, and ensure the security of the premises.

Tommy reached for a pen, his fingers deftly making notes in the margins of the documents. He wrote with precision, outlining his vision for the tracks. He considered everything from the quality of the stables to the amenities for the patrons. He wanted the tracks to be a symbol of prestige and success, a testament to the Shelby name.

As he worked, he paused to light a cigarette, the flicker of the match briefly illuminating his face. He took a deep drag, the smoke curling around him as he exhaled slowly. The cigarette was a momentary respite, a brief escape from the relentless demands of his work.

He turned his attention to another stack of papers, this one detailing the logistics of running the tracks. He reviewed the staffing requirements, the security protocols, and the marketing strategies. He knew that Sabini’s men might try to retaliate, and he needed to be prepared for any eventuality. He made notes on hiring additional security personnel and implementing stricter access controls.

Tommy’s eyes flicked to a ledger, the columns of numbers representing the financial health of his various enterprises. He meticulously reviewed the figures, ensuring that every penny was accounted for. He made calculations in the margins, planning investments and reallocating resources to maximize profits.

His thoughts drifted to the broader scope of his business empire. He considered expanding into new ventures, diversifying his investments to secure the Shelby family’s future. He made notes on potential opportunities, from legitimate enterprises to more clandestine operations. Each decision was weighed carefully, the risks and rewards meticulously analyzed.

As he worked, the room remained silent, save for the occasional rustle of paper and the soft exhale of smoke. Tommy’s focus was unwavering, his mind a relentless machine of strategy and ambition. He knew that the path ahead was fraught with challenges, but he thrived on the pressure. Every obstacle was an opportunity, every setback a chance to prove his resilience.

Tommy took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly in the dim light. He glanced at the clock, noting the late hour but feeling no fatigue. His determination was a driving force, propelling him forward. He would build an empire that no one could topple, a legacy that would endure long after he was gone.

The door to his office creaked open, and he looked up to see his brothers, John and Arthur, walking in. Their presence brought a slight shift in the atmosphere, a mix of camaraderie and tension that always accompanied their interactions.

“Tommy,” John greeted, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Arthur, ever the more intense of the two, nodded curtly, his eyes scanning the room before settling on Tommy.

“John, Arthur,” Tommy acknowledged, his voice steady and composed. He gestured for them to take a seat, and they did, settling into the chairs opposite his desk.

“Busy day?” John asked, his tone casual but curious.

Tommy leaned back in his chair, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. “Busy enough,” he replied, his eyes flicking to the stack of papers on his desk. “We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

Arthur leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “What’s the plan, Tommy? What do you need us to do?”

Tommy took a deep drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly in the dim light. He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around him. “First, the race tracks,” he began, his voice calm but authoritative. “We’ve took ‘em from Sabini, but now we need to get ‘em sorted. I want both of you lot to keep an eye on the refurb and make sure it all runs proper.”

John nodded, his expression serious. “We’ll make sure it’s done right, Tommy. No corners cut.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And security? Sabini’s men might try something.”

Tommy’s gaze hardened. “I’ve already thought of that. We’ll up the security, maybe get some more lads on if we need to. I want them tracks to be secure.”

“Consider it done,” Arthur grunted in agreement. 

Tommy shifted his focus to John. “John, I need ya to sort the logistics. Make sure we've got the best horses an’ the top trainers. I want these tracks to be the proper prestigious ones in the country, alright?”

John’s eyes lit up with determination. “You got it, Tommy. I’ll make sure we get the best of the best.”

Tommy nodded, satisfied with their responses. “Good. Now, there’s another matter. We’ve got some new business opportunities coming up. I need you both to be on top of it. No fuckin' mistakes.”

Arthur and John exchanged a glance, their expressions serious. “We’ll handle it, Tommy,” Arthur said firmly.

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He glanced at Arthur, who raised an eyebrow, sensing his brother’s unease.

“Tommy,” John began, his voice a bit hesitant, “there’s somethin’ else I need to talk to you about.”

Tommy looked up from his papers, his piercing blue eyes locking onto John’s. “What is it, John?”

John took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. “It’s Esme. She’s been on about wantin’ a house in the countryside. Says she wants the kids to have more space, fresh air, all that.”

Arthur let out a bark of laughter, leaning back in his chair. “Women, eh? Always wantin’ somethin’ new. Next thing you know, she’ll be askin’ for a bloody castle.”

“Oh, shut it, Arthur. At least Esme’s got some sense. Unlike some of the women you’ve been with.” John shot Arthur a playful glare.

“Fair enough, fair enough.” Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “But seriously, a house in the countryside? Sounds like a right pain in the arse.”

Tommy, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke. “If Esme wants a house in the countryside, we’ll get her a house in the countryside.” His tone was matter-of-fact, leaving no room for argument. Just to keep his family bloody and not cause him a headache, make the women happy, everyone will be happy.

John’s eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Really, Tommy? You’d do that?”

Tommy nodded, his expression serious. “Why not? We’ll find a place that suits her needs. Somewhere safe, away from all this.”

Arthur leaned forward, his tone more serious now. “You sure about this, Tommy? It’s a big move.”

Tommy took a deep drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing brightly. “I’m sure. Esme and the kids deserve it.”

“Thanks, Tommy. Esme’ll be over the moon.” John’s face broke into a relieved smile. 

“Looks like you’re gonna be a country gentleman, eh, John? Better start practicin’ your posh accent.” Arthur clapped John on the back.

John laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, right. I’ll leave the posh talk to you, Arthur.”

As they left the office, leaving Tommy alone with his thoughts. He extinguished his cigarette and returned to his work, the determination in his eyes unwavering. His mind wandered to the task of finding a house for John and Esme. The idea of a countryside retreat seemed practical, a place where the family could escape the chaos of Birmingham and find some semblance of peace. He envisioned a sturdy, spacious home with plenty of land for the children to run around, far from the prying eyes and dangers of the city.

Tommy stood by the window of his office, the city of Birmingham sprawling out before him. The dim light of the room contrasted with the bustling streets outside. He took a moment to reflect, his mind still processing the conversation with his brothers.

“A house, eh?” he muttered to himself in his thick Birmingham accent, the words carrying a mix of contemplation and resolve.

He turned away from the window, his gaze falling on the glass of whiskey waiting on his desk. He picked it up, the amber liquid catching the light. With a steady hand, he brought the glass to his lips and took a slow, deliberate sip. The warmth of the whiskey spread through him, a brief respite from the relentless demands of his life.

Chapter Text

Roseline sat in the cozy living room of Polly’s house, the soft light filtering through the lace curtains casting a warm glow. The room was filled with the scent of freshly brewed tea and the faint aroma of lavender from the garden outside. Polly was seated at the large wooden table, her brow furrowed in concentration as she sifted through a pile of letters.

Rose watched her for a moment, noticing the frustration etched on Polly’s face. Curiosity got the better of her, and she finally spoke up. “Polly, what are you doing?”

Polly glanced up briefly, her eyes sharp but softened by the familiarity of Roseline’s presence. “I’m looking for a letter,” she replied, her tone clipped with irritation.

Roseline tilted her head slightly, intrigued. “Who is the letter from?”

“It’s from the church. Important business.” Polly sighed, her fingers still rifling through the stack of envelopes. 

“Can I help you look?” Rose asked, wanting to help the woman. It’s a mess, envelopes everywhere, polly won't be able to find anything without some help.

Polly paused for a moment, considering the offer. Then she nodded, her eyes returning to the letters. “Alright. Just be careful with them.”

Roseline moved to the table, gently picking up a handful of letters and beginning to sort through them. The two women worked in silence for a few minutes, the only sounds being the rustle of paper and the occasional sigh from Polly.

Roseline’s curiosity got the better of her again. “What business do you have with the church, Polly?”“

It’s about Arthur. You know how he is these days.” Polly’s expression turned serious. “Struggling with his demons. I thought maybe the church could help him find some peace.”

Roseline nodded, a soft smile on her lips. “I understand. Arthur’s been through a lot. If the church can help, it’s worth a try.”

After a few more minutes of searching, Roseline’s fingers brushed against an envelope that seemed different from the others. She pulled it out and examined it closely. “Polly, could this be the one?”

Polly looked up, her eyes narrowing as she took the envelope from Roseline. A slow smile spread across her face as she recognized the handwriting. “Yes, this is it. Thank you, Roseline.”

“I’m glad I could help.” Roseline smiled back, feeling a sense of accomplishment. 

Polly nodded, her expression softening. “You did well. Now, let’s see what the church has to say.”

Polly’s eyes lit up with a rare smile as she read the letter. “The church is willing to help Arthur,” she said, her voice filled with relief. “They want him to visit tomorrow.” she is so glad that there is a way to help Arthur a bit, with tommy focusing on the buisness so much, he is ignoring what Arthur needs right now.

Roseline smiled warmly. “That’s wonderful news, Polly. We need to tell Arthur.”

At this, Polly’s expression shifted, and she didn’t meet Roseline’s gaze. Roseline’s smile faded as she realized the implication. “Polly, you haven’t told Arthur about any of this, have you? How will we tell him?”

“All the Shelbys are so stubborn. I haven’t seen him for a while.” Polly sighed, her frustration evident. “He’s been avoiding everyone.”

“Should I go and try to talk to him?” Rose’s concern deepened. She knows Arthur needs help, but it’s not easy to convince him to go to church.

“You know Tommy asked me to look after you, Roseline.” Polly looked at her sharply. “You’re not going anywhere.” she can’t let Rose out and about after everything that happened, the girl is trying to look strong, but she doesn’t have to. Something like that can scare any gentle woman.

“I just want to help, Polly.” Roseline sighed, feeling a mix of frustration and helplessness. She really wants to help, Arthur not getting the help he needs will cause so much problems for himself.

“I know, love.” Polly’s expression softened slightly. “But Tommy’s right. It’s too dangerous for you to be out there. We’ll find another way to get through to Arthur.”

Roseline glanced at the clock, realizing she had to leave soon for her evening shift. She turned to Polly, who was still focused on the letter from the church.

“Polly, I have to leave at some point. I have a shift in the evening,” Roseline said gently. She took her work seriously, she can’t be sitting around doing nothing.

“Fine, but before you go, you need to talk to Arthur.” Polly sighed, her frustration evident. “He might listen to you.” It is no use to argue with the girl, she is almost as stubborn as Thomas.

Roseline nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. “Don’t worry, Polly. I’ll talk to him. I’ll do my best.”

Polly looked at her, a mix of hope and concern in her eyes. “Thank you, Roseline. Just be careful. Arthur’s been… difficult lately.”

Roseline gave Polly a reassuring smile. “I will. I’ll find him and talk to him.”

Roseline stepped out of Polly’s house, the warm afternoon sun casting a golden hue over the streets of Birmingham. She walked with purpose, her blonde hair catching the light and her green eyes scanning the familiar surroundings. As she made her way to the Garrison, she couldn’t help but notice the glances she received. Some people recognized her, nodding in acknowledgment, while others simply admired her beauty, unaware of her connection to the Shelby family.

Entering the Garrison, the atmosphere shifted. The dimly lit pub was filled with the murmur of conversations and the clinking of glasses. As Roseline walked in, heads turned, some patrons whispering to each other, recognizing her as Tommy Shelby’s ex assistant. Others simply stared, captivated by her presence.

She spotted Arthur at the bar, slumped over and clearly drunk out of his mind. The bartender, a burly man with a thick Birmingham accent, leaned over and whispered to her, “Be careful, miss. Mr. Shelby’s been drinkin’ too much.”

Arthur, hearing the bartender, turned and glared. “Fuck off, or I’ll blind yer eyes,” he slurred, his words barely coherent. the man won’t fucking shut up.

“Well, this is a nice greeting.” Roseline sighed, a hint of sarcasm in her voice. He is so drunk she can smell it, maybe because its a bar.

Arthur squinted at her, his expression softening as he recognized her. “Angel, what are you doin’ here?” he asked, his words still slurred.

Roseline stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Arthur, we need to get you out of here.” more like get herself out of here.

Arthur shook his head stubbornly. “No, I won’t be leavin’ my whiskey,” he declared in his thick accent. Anyone can bloody try, he isn't leaving his seat anytime soon.

Roseline laughed softly, turning to the bartender. “I’ll take him off your hands.” drunken Shelbys were fun to deal with, at least most of them, Ada one of them. Though, she hasn’t seen Tommy very drunk, he drinks and smokes, yet she hasn’t really seen him act very drunk.

“Thank you, miss.” The bartender nodded gratefully. Poor man, he needed an escape from a drunken Shelby, She can’t blame him.

As Arthur continued to drink, Roseline leaned in closer. “Arthur, Tommy wants to see you now.” She almost feels bad for her little lie, but getting out of here was her top priority at the moment.

Arthur’s eyes widened in panic, and he cursed under his breath. “I saw Tommy this mornin’.” Fuck, what does Tommy want from him now? he thought he will only see him in the mornin’ so he drank as much as he wants.

“Tommy’s at the betting shop right now.” Roseline smiled, trying to calm him. “He said he has some important business for you.”

Arthur cursed again, struggling to get up. Roseline moved quickly to help him, her hands steadying him as he swayed on his feet.

“Come on, Arthur. Let’s get you to Tommy,” she said softly, guiding him towards the door.

As they left the Garrison, Roseline couldn’t help but feel a mix of relief and determination. She had managed to get Arthur out of the pub, but the real challenge lay ahead.

As Roseline guided Arthur into the betting shop, he stumbled, barely able to keep his balance. His eyes were bloodshot, and his words slurred as he looked around, searching for his brother. “Where’s Tommy?” he demanded, his voice thick with alcohol.

Roseline took a deep breath, steadying herself. “Arthur, I’m sorry, but Tommy isn’t here.” she’s glad she sounded convincing, even if it might be because Arthur is drunk and isn’t in the right headspace.

Arthur cursed loudly, his frustration boiling over. He collapsed into a chair, burying his face in his hands. “I should never believe women,” he muttered, his voice muffled by his hands.

Roseline approached him cautiously, her heart aching at the sight of his despair. “Arthur, I needed to get you out of there.” she might be happy she was able to get him out of there, but she does’t want to see him like this.

Arthur’s head snapped up, his eyes wild with desperation. “I need it, Roseline! I need it, or my head won’t shut up!” His voice was hysterical, filled with a raw, unfiltered pain. He can’t live without the bloody whiskey, he can't.

Roseline’s eyes softened with empathy. She moved closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Arthur, this isn’t the answer to your problems.”

Arthur looked at her, his expression a mix of anger and hopelessness. “What is the bloody answer, eh?” he spat, thick and biting. There isn’t a Fuckin’ answer to his problem, and there will never be. He already feels his head exploding, and his ears ringing.

Roseline sighed, knowing this was a delicate moment. “Polly made an arrangement,” she began, but Arthur scoffed, interrupting her.

“Of course, you side with Polly,” he said bitterly, his words dripping with sarcasm. Polly is always gettin’ in men’s buisness, now she drags a girl into this.

Roseline took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. “Arthur, please listen. Polly wants to help you. The church is willing to help you find some peace.”

Arthur’s face twisted with anger as he stood up, his voice booming through the betting shop. “I won’t let some man in the sky believers near my fuckin’ head!” he shouted, his words slurred but filled with conviction.

Roseline remained calm, her eyes steady on Arthur. “Arthur, you can do what you want, but at least think about it.”

Arthur scoffed, his frustration boiling over. “Think about it? Those believers are crazy! They think some invisible man in the sky is gonna fix everything. It’s all bullshit!” He cursed loudly, his hands shaking with rage.

Roseline didn’t comment on his outburst, knowing that arguing would only escalate the situation. Instead, she took a deep breath and tried to reach him on a different level. “Arthur, I know you don’t believe in all that. But this isn’t just about faith. It’s about finding some peace, some way to quiet your mind.”

Arthur’s eyes flickered with a mix of emotions—anger, fear, and a hint of desperation. He looked away, his jaw clenched. “I don’t need their bloody help. I can handle it on my own.”

“Can you, Arthur?” Roseline stepped closer, her voice gentle but firm. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re struggling. And there’s no shame in asking for help.”

Arthur’s shoulders slumped, the weight of his struggles pressing down on him. He let out a heavy sigh, his anger slowly dissipating. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

Roseline placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Just think about it, Arthur. That’s all I’m asking. You don’t have to decide right now.”

Arthur sat in the dimly lit room, the weight of his memories pressing heavily on his shoulders. The war had left scars that ran deep, both physically and mentally. He often found himself lost in the past, haunted by the faces of fallen comrades and the sounds of battle. The whiskey was his only solace, a temporary escape from the relentless torment of his thoughts.

“I’ll think about it,” he had muttered, more to appease her than anything else. But the truth was, he didn’t want to go. He didn’t need some crazy man telling him that dead men would fix his problems. He had his whiskey, and that was enough. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

The idea of going to church for help seemed absurd to him. What could some preacher possibly say that would make any of this better? The dead couldn’t be brought back, and no amount of prayer would change what he’d seen and done.

Roseline smiled softly, relief washing over her. “That’s all I ask. Thank you, Arthur.”

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Roseline arrived at the hospital for her evening shift, the familiar scent of antiseptic and the hum of activity greeting her as she walked through the doors. She made her way to the nurses’ station, where Kaitlyn, an older and experienced nurse, was already busy organizing charts. Her own mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. Tommy had been insistent, as had Polly, that she stays indoors after the recent events. The tension in Birmingham had reached a boiling point, and they were worried for her safety. But Roseline couldn’t just sit idly by. She needed the fresh air, the sense of purpose that came with her work.

“Evening, Kaitlyn,” Roseline greeted with a warm smile. Kaitlyn in a way, always provided her a sense of comfort.

Kaitlyn looked up, her eyes crinkling with a smile of her own. “Evening, Roseline. Ready for another busy night?”

“Always.” Roseline chuckled softly. “How’s everything been so far?”

Kaitlyn sighed, glancing at the clock. “The usual. A couple of emergencies, but nothing we can’t handle. How about you? How’s life outside these walls?”

Roseline shrugged, her thoughts briefly drifting to the earlier encounter with Arthur. “Busy, as always. But it’s good to be here, doing something meaningful.”

“That’s the spirit.” Kaitlyn nodded in agreement. “We need as much hands as we can get.”

As they chatted, Roseline began to organize her own charts, preparing for the shift ahead. The two women worked side by side, their conversation flowing easily. Kaitlyn shared stories from her years of experience, offering advice and insights that Roseline always found invaluable, She felt a mix of determination and anxiety. She knew Tommy might be furious when he finds out she had defied his wishes, but she couldn’t help it. The hospital was where she felt most herself, where she could make a difference. The thought of staying cooped up, doing nothing, was unbearable.

As Roseline continued to organize her supplies, Dr. Harris lingered nearby, clearly not ready to give up. He leaned casually against the counter, watching her with a keen interest.

“You know, Roseline,” he began, his voice low and smooth, “I’ve noticed how dedicated you are to your work. It’s quite admirable. But don’t you think you deserve a little fun now and then?”

Rose kept her focus on her tasks, her hands moving efficiently as she responded. “Thank you, doctor. I do enjoy my work, and I find it very fulfilling.”

Dr. Harris took a step closer, his tone becoming more insistent. “Surely, you must get tired of the same routine. A drink with a friend could be a nice change of pace.”

Rose felt a slight tension in her shoulders but maintained her calm demeanor. She turned to face him, her green eyes meeting his with a steady gaze. “I appreciate your concern, but I have my own ways of unwinding.”

Dr. Harris’s smile wavered, but he quickly masked his disappointment. “Of course, Roseline. I didn’t mean to overstep. Just thought you might enjoy some company.”

“I understand, doctor. Thank you for the offer.” Roseline nodded politely, she refuses to say his name, the man is too forward. She knows at some point he most likely forced other nurses to do God knows what, it explains why some nurses quit so suddenly.

Kaitlyn, who had been observing the exchange from a distance, approached with a reassuring smile. “Roseline, could you help me with a patient in room 204? I could use an extra pair of hands.” the doctor gave her the creeps, she didn’t want her pupil to be subjected to this kind of attention.

“Of course, Kaitlyn. Let’s go.” Grateful for the timely intervention, Roseline smiled at Kaitlyn.

As they walked away, Kaitlyn gave Rose a knowing look. “You handled that with such grace. It’s not easy dealing with someone like Dr. Harris.”

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Tommy stormed into Polly’s house, his face a mask of barely contained fury. He moved quickly from room to room, his eyes scanning for any sign of Rose. The sitting room was empty, the chairs neatly arranged as always. He checked the kitchen, the faint smell of tea lingering in the air, but no Roseline. His frustration grew with each empty room he encountered.

Polly, sensing the commotion, stepped into the hallway, her expression calm but wary. “Tommy, what’s all this about?”

“Where is she, Polly?” Tommy demanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Where’s Rose?”

Polly crossed her arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “She’s not here, Tommy. She left.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed, his anger barely contained. “You let her go? After everything that’s happened?” He thought his aunt would be able to convince Rose to stay inside.

“I couldn’t keep the girl here against her will.” Polly’s expression hardened. “She’s not a prisoner, Tommy. You have no right to control where she goes.”

“Where did she go, Polly?” he asked, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. Tommy’s fists clenched at his sides, his frustration boiling over. She was supposed to to stay where he could see and know that she is safe.

Polly sighed, her tone softening slightly. “She went to the hospital. She said she had a shift.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering just below the surface. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the house, slamming the door behind him. Polly watched him go, a mixture of concern and frustration in her eyes. The Shelby’s are truly a stubborn lot.

Tommy got into his car, the engine roaring to life as he sped towards the hospital. His mind raced with a mix of worry and anger. He couldn’t understand why Roseline would defy him, why she couldn’t see the danger she was putting herself in. But beneath the anger was a deep-seated fear, a fear of losing her. As he pulled up to the hospital, he took a deep breath, trying to steady his emotions. He needed to find her, to make sure she was safe.

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It was midnight when Roseline finally stepped out of the hospital, the cool night air a welcome relief after the long shift. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and began walking towards the street, only to stop abruptly. There, leaning against his car and smoking, was Tommy Shelby. The glow of his cigarette illuminated his face, and even in the dim light, she could see the anger simmering in his eyes.

Confused, she walked up to him. “Tommy, what are you doing here?” she asked, her voice a mix of surprise and concern.

Tommy took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly before speaking. “Get inside the car,” he said, his tone calm but with an edge that made it clear he wasn’t asking.

Roseline hesitated, glancing at the car and then back at Tommy. She could sense the tension in the air but decided to comply, opening the door and getting in. Tommy flicked his cigarette away and got into the driver’s seat, starting the engine without another word.

As they drove through the quiet streets of Birmingham, Roseline broke the silence. “Where are we going, Tommy?”

“Polly’s,” he replied curtly, his accent thick with irritation. It is the safest place for Rose at the moment.

Roseline frowned. “I want to go to my apartment,” she said firmly. She knows that she might be sounding childish but she has to make some kind of statement.

Tommy’s grip on the steering wheel tightened, and he shot her a furious glance. “I told you to stay indoors. You can’t just go out whenever you please. After what happened, you have no say in where you’ll be fucking staying.”

“You can’t decide what I want, Tommy.” Roseline’s eyes flashed with defiance. “I’m not your assistant anymore, and we’re not related in any way. You can’t order me around as you please.”

Tommy’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, he said nothing. The car was filled with a heavy silence, the tension palpable. Finally, he made a sharp turn. Fuck, she makes him a possessed man.

He pulled up to Roseline’s apartment building, the car coming to a smooth stop. Roseline, surprised by the destination, glanced at Tommy but said nothing. She opened the door and stepped out, the cool night air brushing against her skin. To her surprise, Tommy also got out of the car, his movements deliberate and purposeful. What is he doing?

Confused, Roseline turned to him. “What are you doing, Tommy?” did he forget something?

Tommy met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “You wanted to go to your apartment.” he replied, his Birmingham accent adding a rough edge to his words. He won’t let her stay in here alone, he brought her here again, He won’t let her out of his sight.

Without waiting for a response, Tommy walked towards the building entrance. Roseline, still puzzled, followed him. They climbed a few flights of stairs, the sound of their footsteps echoing in the quiet stairwell. When they reached her door, Rose unlocked it and stepped inside, Tommy close behind.

Her apartment looked exactly as she had left it. The familiar sight of her belongings brought a sense of comfort, but the tension between her and Tommy was palpable. She turned to face him, her confusion evident.

“Why did you come up here, Tommy?” she asked softly, she began to sense the depth of his possessiveness. It was in the way he watched her every move, the intensity of his gaze, and the way his words carried an unspoken command. She could feel the weight of his need to protect her, to keep her close, and it stirred a mix of emotions within her.

Tommy didn’t say a word as he stepped into Roseline’s apartment. He methodically took off his coat and hat, hanging them neatly on the hanger by the door. Without hesitation, he walked over to her bed, sat down, and began to remove his shoes. He unbuttoned his vest, his movements deliberate and calm. The dim light of the apartment cast shadows on the walls, but his focus was entirely on Roseline. He watched her move about the room, his eyes following her every step with an intensity that bordered on obsession. He couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that had settled in his chest.

Roseline watched him, a smile playing on her lips as she realized he intended to stay with her. She moved to her dresser, pulling out a few items. “Don’t look,” she instructed softly.

Tommy raised an eyebrow but complied, turning his head away. Roseline quickly changed into her nightgown, the soft fabric a comfort after a long day. She then picked up her notebook and pencil, a familiar routine that helped her unwind.

Walking over to Tommy, she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Roseline’s mind raced as she tried to reconcile these conflicting feelings. She didn’t know if Tommy’s possessiveness was entirely good or bad, but she knew one thing for certain: she loved him. And with that love came a willingness to accept every part of him, even the parts that were difficult to understand.

Tommy turned to look at her, his blue eyes softening. He pulled her close and kissed her lips gently. “I don’t want you to get hurt,” he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of worry and affection.

“Tommy,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “I’m safe. You don’t have to worry so much.”

They sat beside each other on the bed, the room filled with a quiet intimacy. Roseline glanced at Tommy, her curiosity piqued. “How long were you waiting for me outside the hospital?”

Tommy didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he closed his eyes, the exhaustion of the day catching up with him. Roseline smiled at his silence, understanding the depth of his concern without needing words.

She opened her notebook and began to draw, the pencil gliding smoothly across the paper. The rhythmic motion was soothing, a way to process the day’s events. Tommy’s presence beside her, even in his silence, was a comfort. They didn’t need to speak to understand each other; their connection was deeper than words.

Chapter Text

1922 June 4th

Dawn

The early morning light filtered through the thin curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Tommy stirred, feeling the warmth of Roseline’s body beside him. He opened his eyes, taking in her peaceful, sleeping form. Her blonde hair was spread across the pillow, and her serene expression made him question his beliefs.

Carefully, he slipped out of bed, not wanting to wake her. He reached for his cigarettes on the bedside table, lighting one with a practiced flick of his lighter. The familiar taste of tobacco filled his lungs as he took a deep drag, exhaling slowly.

Tommy moved to the chair by the small table, his eyes never leaving Rose. She looked so calm, so beautiful, and he knew that if he stayed in bed, he wouldn’t be able to control himself. He sighed, taking another deep drag from his cigarette.

As he turned his head, something on the table caught his eye—a notebook, with a pencil still tucked inside. Curious, he picked it up, flipping it open. The first page made him pause. It was a detailed pencil drawing of his face, capturing every line and shadow with remarkable precision. He glanced back at Roseline, still sleeping, then returned his gaze to the drawing, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He turned the page and found a sketch of a garden, lush and vibrant even in black and white. The drawings were impressive, each one more detailed than the last. He spent a few moments flipping through the pages, admiring her talent.

Tommy continued to flip through the pages of the notebook, captivated by the intricate drawings. As he turned another page, he heard a soft rustling infront of him. Roseline stirred, slowly waking up. She opened her eyes and saw Tommy engrossed in her little sketches.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice gentle and warm.

Tommy looked up, the cigarette still in his mouth. He decided to put it out, stubbing it in the ashtray on the table.“You can draw.” he replied, his voice low. 

“Do you like them?” Roseline smiled, sitting up and pulling the blanket around her shoulders. She looks at the older man sitting on the chair, his ocean eyes focused on her notebook.

Tommy glanced back at the notebook, then at her. “They’re detailed. Very detailed.” he says, remembering the first drawing he saw, of his own face.

“I try to capture every little thing I see,” she explained, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. Rose pulled down the blanket from her shoulders, and folding the blanket on the bed.

Tommy nodded, flipping through a few more pages. “You don’t add colour.” he pointed out.

“Colours are better used on canvases. They’d ruin my notebook.” Roseline shook her head.

He thought about her words “Do you want a canvas?” he asks, looking at the now confused girl on the bed.

Rose finally broke from her confused state “No, I cant have drawing equipment here,” she giggled, looking at the apartment, “the apartment is too small.”

Tommy looked at the apartment around him, he frowned. He can see how much effort Rose put in the little apartment to make it liveable, but after that incident, this apartment can no longer provide Rose safety and sanctuary. She looked out of place, she has always looked out of place.

Roseline stretched and yawned, then looked at Tommy with a sleepy smile. “What do you want for breakfast?” she asked.

Tommy shook his head. “I won’t stay long. I have a meeting.”

She got up from the bed, still in her nightdress. “At least have some tea before you go,” she insisted, moving to the counter in the corner of the apartment. She pulled out the kettle and placed it on the stove, her back turned to Tommy.

Tommy watched her in silence, admiring how the nightdress hugged her curves. He could only imagine what she would look like naked, but sadly he hasn't been granted that privilege, yet. The sight before him made it hard to focus on anything else. Breaking the silence, “Polly wants Arthur to go to church.” he mentioned.

She paused, “Where did you hear that?” then asked, surprised with how fast news travels to Tommy.

Tommy took a deep breath. “The betting shop has whisky,” he answers, as he finally puts down the little notebook, “lots of whiskey.”

Rose continued making the tea, her movements calm and deliberate. “Polly thinks the church might help Arthur. She said there are people there who can help him.”

“Do you believe they will help?” his eyes followed her every move. 

“I believe there are many ways to help a person.” Rose turned to him, two cups in hand. “As long as Arthur wants to get better, he will get better.” 

She handed a cup to Tommy. He didn’t usually drink tea, but because the blonde woman made it, he took a sip. He feels a warmth spread through him that has nothing to do with the drink’s temperature. Rose sat on the opposite side of the table, across from him, drinking from her own cup, the silence between them was not awkward or strained, but rather a shared moment of peace.

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Rose as she brought the cup to her lips. The way she held the delicate porcelain, her fingers slender and graceful, captivated him. He watched as she took a slow sip, her lips parting slightly. Tommy’s gaze lingered on her lips, her fucking lips, the way they curved into a gentle smile as she savored the warmth of the tea. He has seen many beautiful women, and he fucked many of them, but he never thought he would focus on a woman's lips so much, just one wrong move and he could lose control. Like a little lad who just saw a bloody woman for the first time, fuck.

“Rose,” Tommy began, his voice steady and commanding, “go with Arthur to church this afternoon.”

Roseline’s eyebrows arched in surprise, a small smile playing on her lips. “Tommy, Arthur is your older brother. Why on earth would you want me to take him to church?”

“I need someone to watch him. Make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.” Tommy’s gaze didn’t waver. 

Roseline set her cup down gently, her amusement giving way to confusion. “But, Arthur is a grown man. And he’s your brother. Shouldn’t you be the one to take him?”

Tommy’s expression remained impassive, his tone unwavering. “I’ve got other matters to attend to. You can handle Arthur.”

Rose sighed softly, her calm demeanor never faltering. “Tommy, I understand you have responsibilities, but this is Arthur we’re talking about. He might not take kindly to me babysitting him.”

“Just do it, Rose. Arthur will listen to you.” Tommy leaned forward, his eyes narrowing slightly. 

Seeing that Tommy wasn’t going to budge, Roseline relented, but not without one last question. “Why should I be the one to go with Arthur to church, Tommy?”

“Someone with faith should take him. Polly’s busy, so it has to be you.” Tommy’s response was almost dismissive, as if the answer was obvious. 

Roseline’s confusion deepened. “Do you think I’m a woman of faith, Tommy?”

Tommy didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at her, his gaze softening in a way that spoke volumes. Roseline giggled at his silent affirmation. “Where did you get that idea?” she asked, her tone light and teasing.

Tommy shrugged slightly. “Many things,” he said, as if it were the most obvious conclusion. He thought about how they still hadn’t slept together, how Roseline didn’t drink whiskey, how she wore clothes that were always a bit too big for her, and how she kept her distance from men. To him, it made perfect sense that Roseline was a good Christian, and he couldn’t help but feel that he had somehow tainted her.

“Tommy, I’m not a Christian.”

Tommy’s surprise was evident in the brief flicker of his eyes, though his face remained impassive. “How come?” he asked, genuinely curious.

Roseline shrugged lightly. “It wasn’t something I was taught, and I’m not interested in it at the moment.”

Tommy’s thoughts wandered back to that morning when he had stumbled upon Roseline’s art. He had found her sketches, delicate and intricate, hidden away in her little sketchbook. She had never mentioned her art to him, and it was just another piece of her that he had discovered by chance. Every time he found something new about Roseline, he was caught by surprise.

His mind drifted to his upcoming meeting with Winston Churchill. The weight of the encounter pressed heavily on his shoulders. He knew that meeting Churchill was not just a matter of business; it was a chess game where every move had to be meticulously planned.

As he thought about the power dynamics at play and the potential outcomes, a dull ache began to form at his temples. The stress of his responsibilities, the constant need to stay ahead, and the ever-present threat of failure all contributed to the growing headache. He rubbed his forehead, trying to ease the tension.

But then, he glanced across the table at Roseline. Her calm demeanor, the gentle way she sipped her tea, and the soft light reflecting in her green eyes had a soothing effect on him. Despite the chaos in his mind, her presence brought a sense of peace. It was as if her very being could quiet the storm inside him. Tommy took a deep breath, allowing the calmness she exuded to wash over him. The headache began to recede, replaced by a feeling of tranquility.

Tommy stood up from the table, his movements deliberate and measured. He walked over to Roseline, who remained seated, her eyes following him. He leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a tender kiss. It was a moment of quiet intimacy, a rare softness in Tommy’s otherwise hardened demeanor.

“Take care,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with unspoken emotion.

Roseline nodded, her eyes never leaving his. “You too, Tommy.”

With one last lingering look, Tommy turned and walked towards the door. He paused to grab his coat and hat, slipping them on with practiced ease. The sound of his footsteps echoed softly in the apartment, each step a reminder of his departure. He opened the door, pausing for a brief moment before stepping out into the hallway. The door closed behind him with a quiet click, leaving Roseline alone in the stillness of the room.

Roseline sat in her chair, her eyes scanning the apartment that once felt like a sanctuary. The familiar surroundings now seemed to close in on her. The soft morning light that filtered through the lace curtains cast long shadows, adding to the sense of unease that had settled over her.

Her gaze drifted to the cracked mirror above the dresser in front of her. The jagged lines spider-webbed across the glass, distorting her reflection into something unrecognizable. An ominous feeling crept over her as she stared at the fractured image, a sense of foreboding that she couldn’t shake.

With a determined sigh, Roseline rose from her chair. The floorboards creaked under her weight, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. She walked over to the dresser, her movements deliberate and slow. Reaching up, she carefully took down the hanging mirror, its weight heavy in her hands. She placed it behind the dresser, out of sight, so she wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.

As she straightened up, her eyes fell on the glass shards scattered across the dresser’s surface. She had left them there the day before, a reminder of the mirror’s sudden shattering. The sharp edges glinted menacingly in the light, a stark contrast to the delicate lavender bouquet beside them. Roseline knew she needed to get rid of them; their presence only added to the sense of danger that now permeated her once-safe haven. She carefully gathered the shards, their cold, hard edges biting into her skin. She carried them to the waste bin, dropping them in with a finality that echoed in the quiet room.

Roseline sat back in her chair, her thoughts drifting to the task Tommy had given her. Taking Arthur to church. The idea weighed heavily on her mind, not because of the task itself, but because of what it represented. Arthur, with his haunted eyes and erratic behavior, was a man deeply scarred by the war. She had seen the signs before, in other men who had returned from the front lines, their spirits broken and their minds tormented by memories they could never escape.

She thought about Arthur’s need to be sober for the church visit. It was a daunting challenge, given his reliance on alcohol to numb the pain. Roseline knew that for Arthur to get any real help, he needed to face his demons without the haze of whiskey clouding his mind. She felt a deep sense of empathy for him, understanding that his outbursts and violent tendencies were not truly who he was, but rather the manifestations of his suffering.

She had never found much solace in the church herself. The few times she had attended, the rituals and sermons had felt distant and unrelatable. It wasn’t that she was opposed to faith; it just hadn’t been a significant part of her life.

But as she thought about Arthur, she couldn’t help but hope that he might find something in the church that she hadn’t. Arthur’s suffering was palpable, a constant shadow that darkened his every step. The war had left him broken, and his reliance on alcohol was a desperate attempt to escape the memories that haunted him. Roseline understood that he needed more than just physical sobriety; he needed a sense of peace, a way to heal his fractured soul.

Maybe, she thought, the church could offer him that. Perhaps the quiet reverence of the sanctuary, the soothing cadence of the hymns, and the sense of community could provide Arthur with a respite from his inner turmoil. She would take Arthur to church, not because she believed it would be a miracle cure, but because she believed in giving him every possible opportunity available to find peace.

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1922 June 4th

Morning

Arthur Shelby stumbled into the dimly lit betting shop, the early morning light barely penetrating the grime-covered windows. The air was thick with the stale scent of tobacco and sweat, remnants of the previous night’s activities. Arthur’s head pounded with a relentless headache, each throb a painful reminder of the whiskey he had consumed in excess.

He made his way to the counter, his movements sluggish and unsteady. His eyes were bloodshot, and dark circles marred his usually sharp features. He cursed under his breath, the words slurred and barely coherent. “Bloody hell... need some water.”

Arthur reached for a glass, his hand trembling as he filled it from a pitcher. The water sloshed over the rim, splashing onto the counter, but he didn’t care. He brought the glass to his lips, taking a tentative sip. The cool liquid offered a brief respite, but it did little to alleviate the pounding in his head.

“Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his temples with his free hand. The pain was relentless, a dull ache that seemed to reverberate through his entire skull. He took another sip of water, hoping it would help clear the fog that clouded his mind.

Arthur’s body felt heavy, each movement a Herculean effort. He leaned against the counter, his eyes half-closed as he tried to steady himself. The betting slips and ledgers scattered across the surface blurred together, their numbers and names meaningless in his current state.

“Why do I do this to myself?” he groaned, the question directed at no one in particular. He knew the answer, of course. The war had left him broken, and the bottle was his only escape. But mornings like this, when the hangover hit with full force, he couldn’t help but curse his own weakness.

He took another sip of water, the glass now half-empty. The liquid felt like a lifeline, something to cling to in the midst of his misery. Arthur’s thoughts drifted to the day ahead, the tasks he needed to accomplish, and the people he needed to face. The prospect was daunting, and he felt a wave of nausea at the thought.

“Get it together, Arthur,” he muttered, trying to summon the strength to push through the haze. He knew he couldn’t afford to be weak, not in this world. But for now, all he could do was drink his water and hope the headache would eventually subside.

Suddenly, a loud knock echoed through the shop, startling Arthur. He cursed under his breath, the sound grating against his already throbbing head. “Who the bloody hell is knockin’ this early?” he grumbled, pushing himself away from the counter.

He staggered to the door, his movements slow and unsteady. He yanked it open, ready to unleash a tirade on whoever dared to disturb him. But his words caught in his throat when he saw Roseline standing there, her expression a mix of concern and determination.

Arthur grumbled something unintelligible and left the door open, turning his back on her and walking away. Roseline stepped inside, closing the door gently behind her. The betting shop felt even more oppressive with the door shut, the air thick with the remnants of last night’s debauchery.

“Arthur,” Rose began softly, her voice carrying a note of apology. “I’m sorry about the other day.”

Arthur didn’t turn around. He just grumbled, his voice rough and tired. “What are you doin’ here, Roseline?”

“I came to check on you. Tommy asked me to take you to church this afternoon.” She took a few steps closer, her eyes filled with empathy. 

Arthur’s expression hardened slightly as he looked at her. “You lyin’ to me again, Roseline?”

Roseline shook her head, her eyes earnest. “No, Arthur. You can ask Tommy yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“Church, eh? Tommy’s got some bloody nerve.” Arthur let out a bitter laugh, the sound harsh and devoid of humor. 

She reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “Arthur, I know you’re struggling. I just want to help.”

“Help, huh?” Arthur finally turned to face her, his eyes bloodshot and filled with pain.“You think takin’ me to church is gonna fix me?”

Roseline met his gaze steadily. “No, but it’s a start. You need to be sober, Arthur. You need to find some peace.”

Arthur sighed heavily, the weight of her words sinking in. He knew she was right, but the path to sobriety and peace seemed insurmountable. “Alright, angel. I’ll go. But don’t expect miracles.”

She nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. “I don’t. I just want to help you take the first step.”

Roseline looked Arthur up and down, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Arthur, you can’t go to church looking like that.”

“What’s wrong with how I look?” Arthur frowned, glancing down at his rumpled clothes. 

Rose sighed, trying to keep her patience. “You’re still in yesterday’s clothes, and they smell like a distillery. You need to clean up a bit.”

“Clean up? I had a wash last week.” Arthur scratched his head, clearly confused. 

She couldn’t help but chuckle at his earnestness. “Arthur, you need to wash up again. And put on some fresh clothes. You want to make a good impression, don’t you?”

Arthur grumbled, still not entirely convinced. “What’s the point? It’s just church.”

Roseline shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “It’s not just about church, Arthur. It’s about showing that you care. Now, go on, get yourself cleaned up.”

“Alright, alright. But don’t expect me to look like a bloody prince.” Arthur sighed heavily, the effort of moving seeming monumental. 

Roseline laughed softly. “I wouldn’t dream of it. Just try to look a bit more presentable.”

Arthur shuffled off towards the back room, muttering under his breath. “Bloody hell, all this fuss over church…”

Roseline watched him go, a mix of amusement and sympathy in her eyes. She knew it was a small step, but it was a step nonetheless. And for Arthur, that was progress.

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1922 June 4th

Afternoon

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as Rose and Arthur made their way to the church. The streets of Birmingham were bustling with activity, but the church stood as a serene sanctuary amidst the chaos. Arthur, dressed in a hastily thrown-together suit, looked distinctly uncomfortable. His tie was slightly askew, and his hair, though combed, still bore the signs of his earlier dishevelment.

Roseline walked beside him, her demeanor calm and composed. She wore a modest dress, her blonde hair neatly pinned back under her hat. Despite her outward serenity, there was a hint of distraction in her eyes, as if her thoughts were elsewhere.

As they approached the church, Arthur tugged at his collar, his discomfort evident. “Bloody hell, angel, do we really have to do this?” he muttered under his breath.

She glanced at him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Yes, Arthur. It’s important. Just try to relax.”

Arthur grumbled something unintelligible but followed her up the steps. The heavy wooden doors of the church creaked open, revealing the cool, dimly lit interior. The scent of incense hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of polished wood and old stone.

They found a pew near the back, and Roseline slid in gracefully, motioning for Arthur to follow. He sat down heavily, his eyes darting around the room. The stained glass windows cast colorful patterns on the floor, and the soft murmur of prayers filled the air.

Roseline folded her hands in her lap, her posture perfect. Arthur, on the other hand, fidgeted, his fingers drumming on the back of the pew in front of him. He glanced sideways at Roseline, who seemed completely at ease.

“How can you be so calm?” he whispered, his voice tinged with frustration.

Roseline turned to him, her green eyes gentle. “It’s just a place, Arthur. Try to find some peace.”

Arthur snorted softly. “Peace, right. Easier said than done.”

The service began, and the congregation rose to their feet. Arthur followed suit, albeit reluctantly. The hymns echoed through the church, and Roseline sang softly, her voice blending with the others. Arthur, however, remained silent, his discomfort palpable.

As the service progressed, Rose noticed Arthur’s growing restlessness. She leaned over, her voice barely above a whisper. “Arthur, just breathe. It’s almost over.”

Arthur nodded, though he still looked like a fish out of water. When the time came for the congregation to kneel, he hesitated, glancing at Rose for guidance. She gave him an encouraging nod, and he awkwardly lowered himself to his knees.

The priest’s voice droned on, and Arthur’s mind began to wander. He glanced around the church, taking in the ornate decorations and the solemn faces of the other attendees. His gaze eventually settled on Roseline, who was kneeling beside him, her eyes closed in prayer.

Despite his discomfort, Arthur couldn’t help but feel a flicker of admiration for her. She seemed so composed, so at ease in this environment. He envied her ability to find peace in such a place.

When the service finally ended, Arthur let out a sigh of relief. He stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. Roseline rose gracefully, smoothing out her dress.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” she said, giving him a reassuring smile.

Arthur grumbled, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”

Roseline laughed softly. “I won’t. But thank you for coming, Arthur.”

Arthur nodded, his expression softening. 

The priest approached them, a warm smile on his face. “Good afternoon. I’m Father Gabriel,” he introduced himself, extending a hand.

Roseline shook his hand politely. “Good afternoon, Father. I’m Roseline, and this is Arthur.”

“Arthur Shelby, I presume? Polly’s nephew?” Father Gabriel’s eyes twinkled with recognition. 

Arthur’s eyes widened slightly. “You know Polly?”

Father Gabriel nodded. “Indeed. Polly has been very generous to our church. She sent me a letter recently, explaining your situation. She asked if we could offer some help.”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting to Roseline. “Help? What kind of help?”

Father Gabriel smiled kindly. “Polly mentioned that you might benefit from some guidance. I have someone I’d like you to meet.”

He gestured towards a woman standing nearby. She had a warm, welcoming smile and an air of quiet confidence. “This is Linda. She’s been a member of our congregation for many years and has a lot of experience helping others find their way.”

Linda stepped forward, extending a hand to them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Arthur. And you too, Roseline.”

Roseline shook her hand, her smile genuine. “Thank you, Linda. It’s nice to meet you as well.”

Arthur, still looking slightly bewildered, shook Linda’s hand. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you.”

“I’ll leave you in Linda’s capable hands. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.” Father Gabriel excused himself with a nod. 

As the priest walked away, Linda turned to Arthur and Roseline. “Shall we find a quieter place to talk?”

Arthur glanced at Roseline, who gave him an encouraging nod. “Sure,” he said, his voice gruff but more relaxed than before.

They followed Linda to a small, cozy room at the back of the church. The room was filled with comfortable chairs and soft lighting, creating a welcoming atmosphere.

Roseline took a moment to observe the woman who had been introduced to them. Linda had short blonde hair that framed her face neatly, and her blue eyes were sharp and perceptive. She was taller than Roseline, and there was an air of maturity about her that suggested she might be a few years older.

“Please, make yourselves comfortable.” Linda gestured for them to sit. 

Arthur sank into a chair, his shoulders relaxing slightly. Rose sat beside him, her presence a calming influence.

Rose could sense Linda’s intelligence and confidence in the way she carried herself. There was a quiet strength in her posture, a certainty in her movements that spoke of someone who was comfortable in her own skin. Linda’s demeanor was warm and welcoming, yet there was an underlying firmness that indicated she was not someone to be easily swayed.

As she observed Linda, a subtle sense of discomfort began to creep into her thoughts. Linda exuded both confidence and intelligence. She was clearly a sensible woman, someone who commanded respect and attention. Yet, despite Linda’s warm demeanor and genuine willingness to help, Roseline couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that settled in her chest when she looks at the woman. There was no logical reason for Roseline to feel uneasy around her. Yet, the feeling persisted, a quiet but persistent whisper in the back of her mind.

Linda leaned forward slightly, her blue eyes focused on Arthur. “Did you join the war, Arthur?”

“Yeah, I did. Fought in France.” Arthur nodded, his expression darkening. 

“That must have been incredibly difficult. Many of our congregation members have served as well. It’s not easy to come back from something like that.” Linda’s eyes softened with sympathy. 

Arthur’s gaze dropped to the floor. “No, it’s not.”

Linda reached out, placing a hand gently on his arm. “Arthur, it’s important to find ways to cope with the memories and the pain. Faith can be a powerful source of strength. Have you ever considered turning to prayer or seeking solace in the teachings of the church?”

Arthur looked up, his eyes meeting Linda’s. “I... I don’t know. I’ve never been much for religion.”

Linda smiled gently. “That’s okay. It’s never too late to start. Sometimes, just having a place to reflect and find peace can make a world of difference. We can work together to find what helps you the most.”

As Roseline sat quietly, observing the interaction between Arthur and Linda, a myriad of emotions washed over her. She watched as Arthur, who had been so resistant and uncomfortable earlier, now seemed captivated by Linda’s presence. It wasn’t just the words Linda was saying; it was the way she said them, with a blend of compassion and authority that commanded attention.

Roseline’s green eyes softened as she took in the scene. Arthur’s posture had relaxed, and he was leaning slightly forward, his eyes fixed on Linda. It became clear to Rose that Arthur wasn’t just listening because he wanted help; he was drawn to the woman in front of him. Linda’s confidence, her intelligence, and her nature had a magnetic effect on him.

A small, knowing smile played on Roseline’s lips. She realized that Arthur’s newfound interest in the church had less to do with seeking solace and more to do with the person offering it. The thought amused her, but it also filled her with a sense of relief.

For the first time in a long while, Rose felt a sense of optimism about Arthur’s future. 

As Arthur and Roseline stepped out of the church, the afternoon sun greeted them warmly, casting a golden glow over the cobblestone streets. Roseline walked with her usual grace, her demeanor calm and composed. Inside, however, she was quietly amused by the events that had just transpired. She stole a glance at Arthur, who was doing his best to hide his flustered face.

Arthur’s cheeks were tinged with a faint blush, and he kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, avoiding Roseline’s eyes. He tugged at his collar, trying to compose himself. “So, uh, about these visits…,” he began, his voice a bit gruff.

“Yes, Arthur?” Roseline couldn’t help but smile knowingly. 

Arthur cleared his throat, still avoiding her gaze. “How often do I have to come here?”

“You’ll have to ask Polly about that. She’s the one who arranged it.” Her smile widened, though she kept her tone light. 

Arthur’s blush deepened, and he glanced at her, clearly embarrassed. “Can’t you ask her for me?”

Roseline raised an eyebrow, her amusement barely concealed. “Why, Arthur? Are you afraid to ask Polly yourself?”

“It’s not that. It’s just...you know how she is.” Arthur grumbled, his discomfort evident. 

“Yes, I do. But I think you can handle it.” Rose chuckled softly. 

“Come on, angel. Just this once. eh?” Arthur sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

Roseline pretended to consider it, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Alright, I’ll ask Polly for you. But only this once.”

“Thanks, angel. I owe you one.”Arthur let out a relieved breath, his shoulders relaxing slightly. 

Roseline nodded, her smile gentle. “Don’t mention it.”

As they walked, Roseline glanced at Arthur, who was still trying to hide his flustered face after their encounter with Linda. Rose had always trusted her instincts, and they had rarely led her astray. She couldn’t help but feel that whatever attraction Arthur had for Linda, it was likely to develop into something more significant. She smiled inwardly, knowing that Arthur’s emotions were genuine and unguarded. It was a stark contrast to Tommy, who would have handled the situation with cool indifference, never letting anyone see what he truly felt.

Arthur’s face was an open book, his feelings written plainly for anyone to see. Whether it was anger, sorrow, or joy, Arthur couldn’t hide what he was feeling. His eyes, his posture, even the way he spoke—all of it betrayed his inner state. Unlike Tommy, who could mask his thoughts behind a calm exterior, Arthur wore his heart on his sleeve.

She could almost hear Tommy’s voice in her mind, calm and authoritative. “Arthur, you need to stay focused. We can’t afford any distractions right now.” Tommy would emphasize the importance of maintaining a clear head, especially given the volatile nature of their business. He might even suggest that Arthur keep his distance from Linda, at least until things settle down.

Despite Tommy’s often cold exterior, she knew that he cared deeply for his family. His actions, though sometimes harsh, were always driven by a desire to protect them. She believed that if Tommy saw that Linda could be a positive influence on Arthur, helping him find some stability and peace, he might be more accepting. But that acceptance would come with conditions, ensuring that Arthur’s personal life didn’t interfere with the family’s interests.

Chapter Text

1922 August 17

Morning

Arthur Shelby stood outside the church, his fingers fumbling with his tie. The usually confident and brash man was a bundle of nerves, muttering curses under his breath as he struggled to get the knot just right.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbled, tugging at the fabric. “Why’s this so damn hard?”

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The church loomed before him, a place of solace and peace, but today it felt like a battleground. He was about to meet Linda, and the thought made his heart race.

Finally, with a frustrated sigh, he managed to get the tie in place. He straightened his jacket, took another deep breath, and pushed open the heavy wooden doors. The cool, quiet interior of the church greeted him, a stark contrast to the chaos in his mind.

Linda was already there, standing near the altar. She turned as he entered, her face lighting up with a confident smile. “Arthur,” she greeted warmly, her voice steady and calm.

“Linda,” he replied, his voice a bit shaky. He walked towards her, feeling every step echo in the vast space.

“Shall we start our prayers?” she suggested, her eyes kind and understanding.

Arthur nodded, grateful for the structure and routine of prayer. They knelt side by side, the silence of the church enveloping them. As Linda began to pray, Arthur tried to focus, but his eyes kept drifting towards her. She seemed so serene, so composed, and it only made him more aware of his own nervousness.

He glanced at her, noticing the way the light from the stained glass windows played on her features. She caught his eye and gave him a small, reassuring smile. Arthur quickly looked away, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks.

As they finished their prayers, Linda turned to him. “Arthur, are you alright?” she asked gently.

He nodded, though he knew she could see through his facade. “Just… a bit nervous, I guess,” he admitted.

Linda reached out and took his hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. “There's no need to be nervous infront of God, Arthur.”

“Thanks.” Her words and touch calmed him, and he managed a small smile. 

He sat in the quiet church, the soft light from the stained glass windows casting colorful patterns on the floor. He stared at the altar, lost in thought, the weight of his past pressing heavily on his shoulders. Linda sat beside him, her Bible open on her lap, sensing his turmoil.

“I can see the anger and pain in your eyes.” she began gently, breaking the silence, “The war has left deep scars on you.”

“It’s bloody hard, Linda.” He sighed, his hands clenching into fists.“ The things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done… they haunt me. The nightmares, the rage… I can’t escape bloody them.”

Linda placed a comforting hand on his arm. “I know it’s difficult, Arthur. But holding onto that anger and pain will only destroy you. You need to find a way to let it go.”

“How? How do I let go of somethin’ that’s become a damn part of me?” Arthur looked at her, his eyes filled with anguish. 

Linda turned to a passage in her Bible. “In Matthew 11:28-30, Jesus says, ‘Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.’”

Arthur listened, the words slowly sinking in. “But how do I find that rest? The nightmares… they won’t bloody stop.”

“Prayer can be a powerful tool, Arthur,” Linda said softly. “Before you sleep, try reading a few prayers. Ask God for peace and comfort. It might help calm your mind and ease the nightmares.”

He nodded slowly, considering her words. “And what about the anger? The rage in me?”

Linda’s eyes were filled with compassion. “In Ephesians 4:26-27, it says, ‘In your anger do not sin: Do not let the sun go down while you are still angry, and do not give the devil a foothold.’ It’s natural to feel anger, but you mustn’t let it control you. Find healthy ways to release it. Talk to me, pray, or even find a physical outlet like exercise.”

Arthur took a deep breath, feeling a small sense of relief. “I don’t know if I can do it, Linda. But I’ll try.”

“That’s all God asks of us, Arthur. To try, to repent, and to trust in His forgiveness. Let’s pray together.” Linda smiled, her eyes filled with love and hope. 

They bowed their heads, and Linda led them in prayer, asking for God’s guidance and peace. As they prayed, Arthur felt a sense of calm wash over him. For the first time in a long while, he felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to heal.

After finishing their prayers, Arthur and Linda walked out into the garden of the church. The evening air was cool and refreshing, and the garden was a peaceful haven with its blooming flowers and neatly trimmed hedges. They strolled along the path, the soft crunch of gravel under their feet the only sound breaking the silence.

Linda glanced at Arthur, her expression thoughtful. “Arthur, there’s something I want to share with you,” she began, her voice gentle.

“What is it?” He looked at her, curiosity in his eyes. 

She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “I haven’t always been a good Christian. There was a time in my life when I was lost, making choices that I regret now. But finding the path of God changed everything for me. It gave me a sense of purpose and peace that I never had before.”

Arthur listened intently, his eyes softening with understanding. “What happened, Linda? What made you turn to God?”

Linda paused by a bush, gently touching one of the blossoms. “I was going through a very dark time. I felt alone and hopeless. One day, I walked into a church, much like this one, and something just… clicked. The words of the pastor, the sense of community, the feeling of being part of something greater—it all resonated with me. I started reading the Bible, praying, and slowly, I found my way back.”

Arthur nodded, his respect for her growing. “That must have taken a lot of strength.”

He watched her with a mixture of admiration and awe. Every word she spoke seemed to resonate deeply within him, and he was struck by her strength and grace. Her gentle smile and the way she touched the rose petals with such tenderness made his heart swell with affection.

“It did,” Linda admitted, her eyes meeting his. “But it was worth it. I found a peace that I never thought possible. And I believe you can find that peace too, Arthur. It won’t be easy, but with faith and perseverance, you can heal.”

His gaze softened, his usual hardened exterior melting away in her presence. He felt a deep sense of peace and contentment just being near her.

Arthur took her hand, squeezing it gently. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Linda.”

They continued their walk through the church garden, the tranquility of the evening wrapping around them like a comforting blanket. Arthur’s mind raced as he glanced at the vibrant flowers surrounding them. He spotted a delicate white tulip, its petals glistening with dew, and an idea formed in his mind.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and carefully plucked the tulip. His heart pounded in his chest as he turned to Linda, the flower held nervously in his hand.

“Linda,” he began, his voice a bit shaky,  “I… I want to give you this.”

Linda turned to him, her blue eyes widening in surprise. She looked at the tulip, then back at Arthur, a blush creeping up her cheeks. “Arthur, you didn’t have to…”

Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a bit awkward. “I know, but… you’ve been so kind to me. Helping me find some peace, showin’ me a different way to cope. I just wanted to thank you.”

Linda’s eyes softened, and she reached out to take the tulip from him. Her fingers brushed against his, sending a warm shiver through him. “Thank you, Arthur. This means a lot to me.”

Arthur watched her, mesmerized by the way she held the flower, her cheeks still tinged with pink. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Linda. You’ve given me hope when I thought there was none left.”

Her blush deepened, and she looked down at the rose, clearly flustered. “I… I appreciate it, Arthur. Really, I do.” She glanced around, searching for an excuse. “I just remembered, I need to check on something inside the church.”

Before Arthur could respond, Linda turned and hurried back towards the church, her heart pounding. Arthur stood there, watching her retreating figure, a mix of confusion and admiration in his eyes. He sighed, hoping he hadn’t made her uncomfortable, but also feeling a small sense of accomplishment for expressing his gratitude.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

1922 August 17

Afternoon 

Roseline sat beside a young boy in the bustling hospital ward, her gentle hands carefully preparing the bandages. The hospital, with its white walls and the faint smell of antiseptic, was alive with activity. The boy, no older than eight, looked up at her with wide, tear-filled eyes, his broken arm resting on a pillow.

“Hi there, sweetheart,” Roseline said softly, her voice soothing. “What’s your name?”

“Charlie,” the boy replied, sniffling a little.

“Well, Charlie, I’m Roseline, and I’m going to take good care of you,” she assured him with a warm smile. “I know it hurts right now, but we’re going to make it all better, okay?”

Charlie nodded, trying to be brave. “Okay.”

“You’re doing great, Charlie. Just keep looking at me, alright? Can you tell me about your favorite game to play?” Roseline gently lifted his arm, her touch as light as a feather. 

Charlie’s eyes brightened a bit. “I like playing ball with my friends.”

“That sounds like a lot of fun,” Roseline said, her fingers skillfully wrapping the bandage around his arm. “I bet you’ll be back out there in no time, running around and having fun.”

“Really?” Charlie watched her, his fear slowly melting away as she spoke. 

“Absolutely,” Roseline said, finishing the bandage with a neat knot. “There we go, all done. You’re a very brave boy, Charlie.”

Charlie looked at his newly wrapped arm, a small smile forming on his lips. “Thank you, Miss Roseline.”

“You’re very welcome, Charlie,” she said, giving his shoulder a gentle pat. “Now, make sure to rest that arm and listen to your parents, alright?”

“I will,” Charlie promised.

“Good boy. And remember, if you ever need anything, you can always come to me.” Roseline stood up, her heart warmed by the boy’s courage. 

After the family left, she turned to tidy up her supplies, she felt a chill run down her spine. Dr. Harris was approaching, his footsteps eerily silent on the polished floor. His presence seemed to cast a shadow over the bustling ward, and the usual background noise faded into an unsettling quiet.

“Roseline,” Dr. Harris said, his voice smooth but with an unsettling undertone, “you did a wonderful job with that boy. Your touch is truly magical.”

Roseline looked up, her discomfort growing as she met his gaze. His eyes were dark, almost predatory, and his smile didn’t reach them. “Thank you, Dr. Harris,” she replied politely, focusing on tidying up her supplies.

Dr. Harris moved closer, his proximity making her skin crawl. “You know,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper, “it’s not just the patients who notice your kindness and beauty. It’s hard not to be captivated by you.”

“I appreciate the compliment, Dr. Harris. It’s important to make the patients feel comfortable.” Roseline felt a knot of unease tighten in her stomach, but she maintained her composure. 

“Indeed,” he said, his eyes never leaving hers. “But perhaps we could discuss patient care over dinner sometime? I’d love to get to know you better… outside of work.”

Before Roseline could respond, Kaitlyn, the older nurse, called out from across the ward. “Roseline! We need you over here, quickly!”

Relieved for the interruption, Roseline turned to Dr. Harris with a professional smile. “Excuse me, Dr. Harris. Duty calls.”

“What do you need, Kaitlyn?” She hurried over to where Kaitlyn was standing, her heart pounding slightly from the encounter. 

Kaitlyn gave her a knowing look but didn’t comment on Dr. Harris. “We have a new patient who needs immediate attention. Let’s get to work.”

Roseline nodded and followed Kaitlyn to a bed where a man lay, clearly in pain. His clothes were dirty and torn, and his face was pale with shock. “What happened?” she asked, already assessing his injuries.

“He works in a factory,” Kaitlyn explained. “There was an accident with one of the machines. His arm is badly injured, and he has some deep cuts and bruises.”

Roseline’s heart went out to the man. “Alright, let’s get him stabilized. Sir, can you hear me?” she asked gently.

The man nodded weakly. “Yes… it hurts.”

“I know it does,” Roseline said softly. “We’re going to take care of you. Just try to stay still.”

She worked quickly and efficiently, cleaning and dressing the wounds with Kaitlyn’s help. “You’re doing great,” she reassured him. “We’ll have you feeling better soon.”

After they finished tending to the injured factory worker, Roseline and Kaitlyn stepped aside to wash their hands and take a brief moment to catch their breath. The ward was still bustling, but they had a few minutes to talk. The sound of patients murmuring and the occasional clatter of medical instruments filled the air.

“Poor Dr. Harris, eh?” Kaitlyn, with her thick accent, glanced over at Roseline with a knowing smile. “The man’s gonna get a head full of grey hairs with all the rejectin’ he’s gettin’ from you.”

Roseline shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’ll be fine, Kaitlyn. He’s resilient.”

“I know he’s a bit pushy, but he seems like a good, respectable man. And he’s a doctor with a bright future ahead of him. You could do worse, you know.” Kaitlyn chuckled, drying her hands with a rough towel. 

“Yes, he is. He’s very dedicated to his work.” Roseline nodded, agreeing with her.“Always the first to arrive and the last to leave.”

“So why do you keep turnin’ him down, then? A man like that, you’d think any girl would be over the moon.” Kaitlyn raised an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. 

Roseline felt her cheeks warm, a blush creeping up her face. She looked down, fiddling with the edge of her apron. “Well, the truth is… I’m with someone at the moment.”

“Oh, really? And who might that be?” Kaitlyn’s eyes widened in surprise. 

Roseline hesitated, not wanting to reveal too much. “It’s… it’s a bit complicated. But he’s very special to me.”

“Complicated, eh? Sounds intriguing. Is he from around here?” Kaitlyn leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

Rose glanced around to make sure no one was listening. “Yes, he is. But we have to keep it quiet for now.”

Kaitlyn nodded, her expression softening. “I see. Well, as long as you’re happy, that’s what matters. Just make sure he treats you right, love.”

Roseline smiled, grateful for Kaitlyn’s understanding. “Thank you, Kaitlyn. I appreciate that.”

“Anytime, Roseline. You’re like a little sister to me.” Kaitlyn gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder.“Now, let’s get back to work. These patients won’t take care of themselves.”

As they walked back to the ward, Roseline couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. She valued Kaitlyn’s friendship and was glad to have someone she could confide in, even if only a little. The two nurses moved efficiently, tending to the needs of their patients with practiced ease.

Rose approached a bed where an elderly woman lay, her breathing shallow and labored. “Hello, Mrs. Thompson. How are you feeling today?”

The woman smiled weakly. “A bit better, dear. Thank you for asking.”

Roseline checked her vitals, her touch gentle and reassuring. “That’s good to hear. We’re doing everything we can to make you comfortable.”

Kaitlyn, meanwhile, was helping a young mother with her newborn, showing her how to properly swaddle the baby. “There you go, love. Just like that. You’re a natural.”

Roseline finished her shift and stepped out of the hospital, the cool evening air a welcome relief after the long, hectic day. As she walked down the street, she spotted a familiar figure standing by the corner. It was Polly Gray, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings.

“Polly! What a surprise to see you here.” Surprised but pleased, Rose approached the older woman. 

Polly turned, a small smile playing on her lips. “Rose, love. I was just walking by and thought I’d stop here for a moment.”

“Where are you headed?” Roseline nodded, her curiosity piqued. 

“Got a few errands to run. Thought I might pick up a few things for the house.” Polly glanced around, her accent adding a familiar warmth to her words.“Care to join me?”

“I’d love to.” Rose smiled, feeling a sense of camaraderie. 

They began walking together, the streets of Birmingham bustling with activity. Polly led the way, her stride confident and purposeful. As they walked, Roseline couldn’t help but admire Polly’s strength and poise.

She thought about how Polly had stood outside the hospital, waiting for her, much like Tommy had done that night a few months ago. It was a gesture that spoke volumes about their protective nature and their deep sense of loyalty. Both Polly and Tommy had a way of making their presence felt, a silent but powerful reminder that they were always watching over their own.

Yet, despite these similarities, there were stark differences too. Polly’s approach was more maternal, her wisdom and experience guiding her actions. She had a nurturing side that balanced her fierce protectiveness. Tommy, on the other hand...

“So, how was your day at the hospital?” Polly asked, her tone casual but genuinely interested.

“It was busy, as always,” Roseline replied. “But rewarding. We had a few tough cases, but everyone pulled through.”

Polly nodded, her eyes scanning the shops they passed. “You’re doing good work, Rose. It’s not easy, but it’s important.”

“Thank you, Polly. That means a lot coming from you,” Roseline said, feeling a warm glow of appreciation.

They continued their walk, chatting about various things—work, life in Birmingham, and the latest happenings with the Shelby family. Polly’s presence was both comforting and invigorating, and Roseline felt grateful for the unexpected company.

As they reached a small market, Polly stopped and turned to Roseline. “I need to pick up a few things here. Care to help me choose?”

“Of course,” She said, following Polly into the market. They browsed through the stalls, selecting fresh produce and other necessities. Polly’s discerning eye and practical nature made the task efficient and enjoyable.

As Roseline and Polly continued their walk, Polly glanced at her with a thoughtful expression. “You know, Arthur’s been going to church a lot these days. I don’t know how you convinced him, but I’m grateful.”

Rose smiled, knowing Arthur’s newfound devotion wasn’t because of her, but she kept that to herself. “I didn’t do anything, Polly. Tommy played a part as well.”

Polly shook her head “Tommy wouldn’t have agreed if it weren’t for you, Roseline. You’ve got a way with people.”

Roseline blushed, feeling a mix of pride and embarrassment. “Tommy knows his brother best. I’m just a messenger.”

Polly gave her a knowing look, but didn't say anything else.

As they continued to walk and buy things, Polly suddenly turned to Roseline, her expression serious. “I want to thank you, for that night.”

“I didn’t do anything, Polly.” Roseline’s heart skipped a beat as she realized what Polly was referring to. 

Polly smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “You say that a lot, despite having a way with words.”

“I try to be honest, Polly.” Roseline looked confused, she only said the truth or at least her thoughts of the truth.

“Honest or not, you’ve got a gift. That night, you helped more than you know.” Polly chuckled, shaking her head. 

Roseline felt a warmth spread through her chest. “I’m just glad I could be there.”

As they continued their walk, Rose turned to Polly, her curiosity getting the better of her. “Polly, why am I still so close to the family? Shouldn’t you be wary of me since I’m a stranger and no longer Tommy’s assistant?”

Polly looked at her, a thoughtful expression on her face. “The fact that you’re asking that question is enough reason to trust you, Roseline.”

“Even so, Polly…” she felt a pang of worry. 

Polly sighed, not letting her finish. “Once you get involved with this family, it’s not easy to leave. We look out for our own, and you’ve proven yourself time and again.”

“Is it also because you did a background check on me?” Rose smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. 

“That’s one other reason, yes. We like to know who we’re dealing with.” Polly smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. 

“Polly, what if your background check was wrong and I was some kind of spy?” Roseline then asked, a hint of curiosity and concern in her voice, “What would happen then?”

Polly stopped in her tracks, turning back to look at Roseline with a piercing gaze. She walked closer, her presence suddenly more intimidating. Leaning in, she whispered in Roseline’s ear, her voice low and chilling, “If you were a spy, Roseline, not even the darkest corners of hell would be able to hide you from our wrath. We have ways of finding those who betray us, and trust me, you wouldn’t want to know what happens next.”

Roseline felt a chill run down her spine, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t say anything, a little shocked by the intensity of Polly’s words.

Polly straightened up, her expression softening slightly as she turned away. “Come on, love. Let’s move along,” she said, her tone returning to its usual warmth.

Roseline stood there for a moment, processing the intensity of Polly’s words. A blush crept up her cheeks, her face warming with a mix of emotions. Despite the slight shock, a small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Her green eyes sparkled with a newfound respect and understanding for the formidable woman who had just issued the warning.

With a final glance at Polly’s retreating figure, Roseline composed herself and followed, her steps light but purposeful.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

1922 August 21

Afternoon 

The church was quiet, the only sound the faint echo of footsteps as Linda and Arthur walked down the aisle. The dim light from the stained glass windows cast colorful patterns on the stone floor, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere. They had come here to talk, away from the prying eyes and ears of the outside world.

Linda turned to Arthur, her expression serious. “You’ve been so… conflicted lately. I’m worried about you.”

“I know, Linda. I’m tryin’ to find my way, but it’s bloody hard.” Arthur looked at her, his eyes dark and intense. 

“I understand, but you need to find a way to reconcile it. For your sake.” Linda reached out, placing a hand on his arm. 

Arthur’s gaze softened slightly as he looked at her. “I don’t know what I’d do without you. ”

“I’m here for you, Arthur.” Linda smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes.

Arthur suddenly stepped closer, his eyes locked on hers. Without warning, he leaned in and kissed her, cutting off her words. Her eyes widened, and for a split second, she froze, her mind racing to process what was happening. The unexpectedness of the kiss took her breath away, and she felt a rush of emotions flood through her.

But then, almost instinctively, she began to kiss him back. Her hands gripped his shirt tightly, pulling him closer as she surrendered to the intensity of the moment. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she felt a warmth spread through her body, mingling with the coolness of the church’s stone walls.

The kiss grew more passionate, and Linda found herself lost in the sensation, her worries and doubts momentarily forgotten. She felt Arthur’s hands roaming over her back, his touch both desperate and tender. When he pushed her against the wall, the impact made her gasp, but she didn’t pull away.

Instead, she deepened the kiss, her fingers tangling in his hair. The world outside seemed to disappear, leaving only the two of them in that sacred space. It was a mix of raw emotion and physical need, a connection that felt both forbidden and irresistible.

She promised herself that she wouldn’t let this happen again. But as the intensity of the moment peaked, a voice in the back of her mind reminded her of where they were and what they were doing. With a great effort, she broke the kiss, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Arthur,” Linda whispered, her voice breathless. “We can’t do this.”

Arthur’s eyes were wild with emotion as he looked at her. “Why the hell not? I need you, Linda. I need this.”

Linda shook her head, her hands on his chest. “Not here. Not like this.”

“Did I do somethin’ wrong, Linda? Do ya even like me?” Arthur’s eyes were filled with worry as he looked at Linda, his voice trembling slightly. 

Linda could see the panic in his eyes. She reached up and held his face gently, her thumbs brushing his cheeks. “Arthur, I do like you. But I can’t have this kind of relationship unless we’re married.”

Arthur’s eyes widened with a mix of relief and determination. “Alright, then. Let’s get bloody married,” he said, leaning in to kiss her again.

“Wait, Arthur. What do you mean?” Linda was taken aback, pushing him away gently. 

“I mean it, Linda. I want to marry ya.” Arthur looked at her, his expression earnest. 

Linda was shocked, her mind racing.

As she stood there, looking into Arthur’s earnest eyes, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirled within her. She knew that she might be taking advantage of Arthur’s feelings for her, but she couldn’t help but see the practical benefits of their relationship. Arthur clearly had good money, and despite his rough exterior, he was surprisingly soft and a bit clueless at times. He wouldn’t be able to lie to her, and she could handle him. More importantly, he would listen to her.

Linda wanted a good life, one where she had control over her own destiny. She didn’t want to be dominated or controlled by anyone, and Arthur seemed perfect for her in that regard. He was strong and protective, but he also had a vulnerability that made him malleable to her influence. She could guide him, help him find his way, and in return, she would have the stability and security she craved.

She suddenly remembered the girl who had come with Arthur a few months ago. “What about that girl who came with you a few months ago?”

“What does this have to do with Rose?” he asked, looking confused. 

Linda blushed, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Aren’t you in some kind of relationship with her?”

“If we were, I’d be a dead man. Roseline is just a family friend.” Arthur laughed, shaking his head. 

Linda felt a wave of relief wash over her. “Oh, I see.”

“Linda, I want to be with ya. I want to do this right.” Arthur stepped closer, his eyes softening. 

“Alright, Arthur. But we need to take things slow. We need to do this properly.” Linda looked into his eyes, seeing the sincerity there. 

Arthur nodded, his expression serious. “I promise, Linda. We’ll do this right.”

He leaned in and kissed her again, this time with a gentleness that made her heart swell. Linda kissed him back, feeling a sense of hope and excitement for the future.

Chapter Text

Dark

So dark

It wrapped around her like a heavy cloak, shrouding her in its impenetrable blackness and leaving her disoriented about her surroundings. She felt a peculiar sensation of movement, as if her body was being propelled forward without her conscious volition. Her vision was clouded with confusion, and she struggled to make sense of her disorienting surroundings.

Looking down, she noticed her feet, covered with dirt and marked with bruises, carrying her forward as if driven by an unseen force. Despite her efforts to regain control, her feet seemed to possess a will of their own, defying her attempts to command them. The ground beneath her shifted from soft grass to treacherous rocks, further adding to her sense of fear and helplessness as she stumbled forward, unable to halt.

The eerie howl of the wind pierced the silence, twisting through the barren trees, sending a shiver down her spine. The bushes rustled with an unsettling, ghostly whisper, adding to the sense of foreboding.

Feeling lost and disoriented, she couldn't help but wonder how she had ended up in this unfamiliar place.

She felt an oppressive force constricting her airways, causing her breath to shallow and her chest to tighten. Panic surged through her as she gasped for air, only to find it slipping away. Her vision dimmed, plunging her into a suffocating darkness, and she was gripped by a chilling sensation of weightlessness, as if she were being pulled into an abyss.

The darkness slowly gave way to a soothing grey-blue hue, allowing Roseline to make out the outline of the grey ceiling above her. Gradually, she became aware that morning had arrived. The warmth of the pillow beneath her head felt almost oppressive, and her nightdress clung uncomfortably to her skin. Gazing downward, she noticed the thin blanket still draped over her, its delicate fabric bathed in the gentle light streaming in through the window.

Her head spun with disorienting speed, as if it had been struck by an invisible force. A sharp, throbbing pain shot through her neck as she reached up to touch it, feeling uninjured skin. Each breath came in heavy, ragged gasps, as if she had been sprinting for miles, and her heart hammered against her ribcage. Her legs throbbed with a dull ache, and despite just waking up, she felt an overwhelming wave of fatigue washing over her.

Roseline shifted in her bed, gradually rising from her slumber. As she extended her arm to remove the covering blanket, her eyes caught sight of a faint scratch on her left upper arm. Exhaling wearily, she realized that she must have unwittingly done it again.

With deliberate care, she used her right hand to uncover her bare, unscathed legs, a sharp contrast to the turmoil of her recent dream. As she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, the wooden floor beneath her emitted a soft creak, bearing witness to the subtle movement.

As she walked towards her dresser with a serene gait, the soft rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow on the room. She opened the middle drawer of the dresser and ran her fingers over the soft fabric of her clothes, carefully selecting a new outfit. While changing, she made a mental note to wash her nightdress, she folded it and placed it in the laundry basket.

A dull ache began to throb at her temples, and she let out a weary sigh as she made her way to the quaint little stove in the corner of the room. She reached for the familiar tin of dried chamomile and carefully measured out the fragrant petals, watching as they swirled and settled in the kettle. The soft hiss of the boiling water filled the room, mingling with the comforting aroma of the chamomile.

The symphony of sounds from the stove and the kettle began to blend together, creating a soothing rhythm that enveloped her senses. As she turned off the stove, the sudden silence seemed to amplify the ringing in her ears.

With a steady hand, she lifted the steaming kettle, feeling the warmth seep through her fingers, and carefully positioned a delicate strainer over her cup, its delicate floral pattern catching the light. With a steady pour, the fragrant tea filled the cup, swirling in mesmerizing patterns as it settled, ready to offer its soothing embrace.

Roseline gracefully glided over to the wooden chair and sank into it, cradling her delicate cup of tea. With each carefully measured sip, the warmth of the tea spread through her, coaxing her muscles to unwind and her mind to ease.

As she placed the cup back on the table, her gaze lingered on the intricate ripples in the tea, her forehead creasing with concern. She then turned her attention to the bed, its disheveled sheets and tousled pillows no longer offering the familiar solace they once did.

It had been quite some time since she had a dream like that. The memory of such vivid dreams felt distant, as if they were relics of a bygone era. Since her relocation to Birmingham, her dreams had become increasingly rare, almost as if they were slowly slipping away from her consciousness. Yet, just as she began to accept their absence, her dreams returned with an unexpected intensity, leaving her utterly perplexed by their sudden return.

It's been a while since she last saw Tommy. She wonders how he's been doing, especially with his new partnership with Winston Churchill, the influential figure in the British government. Tommy is deeply involved in secret operations for the crown. It's highly likely that he will handle secret missions and important tasks for the royal establishment.

While she knows Tommy is very good at these roles, she can't stop worrying about him. As Tommy becomes more involved with the crown, his ambitions would grow, pushing him to rise in power and influence. However, she stays concerned, knowing that the higher he climbs, the harder he might fall.

Roseline's eyes fixated on the dresser, and from behind it, the fractured mirror she had taken down months ago lurked in the shadows, almost as if it were watching her. As she savored her tea,  she found herself drawn to the vacant space where the broken mirror had once hung.

She felt it might be time to pay a visit to Tommy; she longed for his presence. Strangely, she believed he was the only one who could offer her any solace.

Roseline finishes sipping on her warm chamomile tea, feeling its soothing effects as she gets ready to head out. She reaches for the elegant purse that Tommy had picked out for her, and a smile slowly spreads across her face as she runs her fingers over its smooth surface. Lately, it seems that Tommy has been showering her with gifts every time they manage to steal a moment together, despite her repeated assurances that she doesn't require anything.

As she prepares to leave, she carefully selects a stylish hat and a coat, ensuring she is well-equipped for the weather outside. After securing the door of her cozy flat, she takes a moment to ensure it is locked before stepping out of the building into the bustling city streets.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

1922 August 19

Morning

An unusual sense of calm enveloped her as she strolled to Tommy's office. The city streets, shrouded in smoke, surprisingly offered a breath of fresh air compared to the suffocating atmosphere of her own apartment. It was as if the isolation of her apartment had amplified her discomfort, making the bustling city feel like a sanctuary.

Rose finally arrived at Tommy's office building. As she stepped through the entrance, she was surrounded by the sight and sound of people engrossed in their work. After exchanging warm greetings with a few familiar faces, she ascended a staircase that led her to Tommy's office door. Upon entering, she was met with the sight of Lizzie, who was deeply absorbed in her work at a vintage typewriter. The room was filled with the sound of the keys clacking as Lizzie's frustration was palpable in her aggressive and rapid typing.

The angry woman looked up, her eyes blazing. "Who the bloody–" Lizzie’s words caught in her throat as she recognized the figure standing in the doorway.

Roseline smiled softly, her presence a calming contrast to the stormy atmosphere. "Hello, Liz," she greeted, her voice gentle and soothing.

Lizzie’s tense shoulders relaxed, and she let out a long sigh. "I’ve never been this happy to see someone, Rose," she admitted, sinking back into her chair. "That fucking devil in there, will be the death of me."

"Maybe he’s under a lot of pressure, but that’s no excuse for treating everyone like this." Roseline moved closer, placing a comforting hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. 

Lizzie looked up at her friend, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. "You always know what to say, Rose. Maybe you could talk to 'im? he might listen to you."

"I’ll see what I can do. In the meantime, why don’t you take a break? You deserve it." the blonde said, trying to provide some comfort. Roseline is aware that Tommy's mere presence exudes intensity, so it's safe to assume that working for him is probably even more emotionally and mentally demanding to some, despite his fair compensation.

Lizzie nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. "Thanks, Rose. I don’t know what I’d bloody do without you."

As Roseline watched Lizzie depart from the office, she couldn't help but feel amazed by Liz's remarkable progress. It was clear that Lizzie had come a long way and made significant improvements. According to the latest news, Lizzie had even purchased a new apartment for herself and her sister.

Rose turned around, her gaze fixed on the door where Tommy was hard at work. A heavy sigh escaped her as she weighed the decision of whether to enter unannounced or to knock. Given the palpable tension in the air, she opted for the latter. As she rapped on the door, a gruff, clearly irritated voice instructed her to enter. A sly smirk played on her lips as she pushed open the door and stepped inside.

Roseline was taken aback by the scene in front of her. Tommy sat at his desk, engrossed in reading a file, a glass of whiskey within reach. His sleeves were casually rolled up, and his tie hung in a relaxed, haphazard manner around his neck. Oblivious to her presence, much to Roseline's relief, he remained immersed in his work. She was thankful that he didn't witness the intense blush that had crept into her cheeks, rendering her momentarily flustered.

Tomy made the decision to glance up and confront the intruder in his workspace. As his gaze met those captivating green eyes, a wave of tranquility swept over him, and he couldn't help but let out a sigh.

"Good morning, Mr. Shelby" Rose greets him, in a playful manner, She walks up to his desk and finds herself standing in front of him. She wonders if she can convince him to take it easy or if he will distract her, just like he is doing now so effortlessly.

She observed Thomas with keen interest as he meticulously concealed the file he was perusing, ensuring that she wouldn't catch on to what he was reading. She couldn't help but anticipate that this kind of behavior would continue to happen in the future.

"Rose. What brings you here?" Tommy leaned back in his chair, his intense gaze never leaving her face. 

"Would you believe me if I said I missed you?" Roseline's bright smile lit up her face as she gracefully approached his desk, her eyes sparkling with warmth and sincerity.

Tommy lit his cigar, the flame briefly illuminating his chiseled features. He took a slow drag, exhaling a cloud of smoke that curled lazily in the air. "I’d ask how I got to heaven so bloody fast," he replied, a rare, soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Roseline chuckled, the sound light and musical. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Shelby,” she teased, leaning slightly over his desk. "but I do want something, Tommy."

"Ask away, love." he says, As Tommy carefully removed the dust from the cigar in the ashtray, he took a moment to savor the aroma of the rich tobacco. He raised the glass of whiskey to his lips, feeling the smooth liquid warming his throat. People always seemed to have requests for him, but the one person he longed to ask him for something, never seemed to do so. However, at long last, the chance had presented itself.

"Would you like to join me for a stroll?" She asked, tilting her head a little, as she looked at the pen on the desk, the one she had bought for him. The gesture seemed innocent enough, but to Tommy, it felt like a deliberate ploy to push him over the edge.

He had expected a request for money, protection, or some favor that only he could grant. Instead, she simply wanted his company. The simplicity and sincerity of her request left him momentarily speechless.

As he sat there, watching her with a mixture of confusion and admiration, he couldn’t fathom why a woman like her would be interested in someone like him. Yet, the more he thought about it, the more he found himself more in love with her.

"I have some unfinished work," Tommy grunted, looking at the pile of papers and files on the desk.

Roseline is determined to ensure that Tommy gets the rest he needs. "I'll wait for you until you finish!" she exclaimed eagerly. Tommy raised his eyebrow at her.

"Sit wherever you like," he says, going back to his work. He covertly observes Rose, he notices her selecting a spot close to the bookshelf. Retrieving a pen and notebook from her purse, the one he had gifted her, he watches as she endeavors to settle into a comfortable position.

Roseline sits comfortably in the chair, writing in her notebook. She doesn't like to call it a diary, her focus is consumed by the vivid recollection of her dream, the ink flowing effortlessly as she captures every detail. Oblivious to the world around her, she remains unaware of Tommy's intense and longing gaze, fixated on her from across the room.

He gazes at Rose, observing how she appears to be completely absorbed in her own world as she writes. Her intense focus renders her oblivious to everything happening around her.

"You write a lot," Tommy pointed out, his voice interrupting the peaceful silence of the room. His eyes were fixed on the paper. Roseline, deeply engrossed in her own thoughts, was startled by his remark. She turned her gaze towards Tommy, who seemed to be focused on the paper, completely absorbed in the text.

"Ah, I've noticed that you do that quite frequently too," she replied with a subtle nod, before returning her attention to the pages of her notebook, her pen poised to capture her thoughts.

"It's business, Rose," he responds abruptly, his pen swiftly moving across the check as he prepares to send payment to the organizers of the new races he recently secured.

"Don't worry, Tommy, the business won't slip away from you," Roseline teases as she continues jotting down notes in her notebook.

Tommy is not worried about his business slipping away; he finds it manageable to plan and oversee, but he constantly worries about his people making stupid mistakes, every fucking time. However, what truly terrifies him is the possibility of Roseline slipping away.

"Do you talk like this with anyone?" he asked, his jealousy building up. Even though he knows how Rose acts with others, he wants her to admit it.

She gazed at him, a smile playing on her lips. "So, how are the new race tracks?" she inquired, deflecting his question.

Tommy’s lips curled into a frown. “I’ve got people in place, people I trust to handle the day-to-day operations. But I’ll be overseein' everything, makin' sure it all runs smoothly. The key is to keep the races fair but excitin', draw in the crowds, and keep the money flowin'.”

Rose consciously avoids giving a direct response to his question, almost as if she is deliberately provoking a reaction from him. Her subtle actions seem to test of his patience, perhaps in ways she is not fully aware of. Tommy, who is accustomed to eliciting fear from those around him, including his own family, is intrigued by the fact that he cannot seem to intimidate Rose. He finds himself contemplating the potential consequences if he were to change his approach and tone with her.

"It's no wonder you've been cooped up in here," Roseline said, her voice filled with concern as she leaned on the armchair, her eyes fixed on her notebook.

Tommy finished signing the last of the papers, his frustration mounting as he glanced at the clock. "Where the hell is she?" he muttered under his breath, his patience wearing thin.

Roseline stood up from the armchair, her expression gentle but firm. "I told Lizzie she needed to take a rest. She looked exhausted."

Tommy rubbed his temples, his irritation was evident. "You can’t just bloody interfere as you like, Rose."

"I agree, Tommy. But Liz is my friend, and she really needed the rest." She approached him, her gaze steady."What did you need her for?"

"I needed her to sign these. I told her to come in after a few hours." Tommy pointed to the stack of files on his desk. 

Roseline smiled, picking up the files. "That’s easy enough. I’ll finish these with Lizzie and bring them back."

Tommy observed her departing with the files clutched in her hand. He didn't want to admit it, but he couldn't refuse her. From the moment he encountered her in that dimly lit alley five years ago, it seemed as though she possessed an unspoken hold over him, much like a leash guiding his every move.

He extended his hand towards the whiskey bottle, pouring a fresh round into his now empty glass. Taking a measured sip, he then resumed the task of composing a letter to Mr. Churchill. The ticking of the clock provided a steady background rhythm as Tommy wrote in hushed concentration, using the pen that had been gifted to him by Rose.

The peaceful atmosphere was shattered by the abrupt swing of the office door. Tommy didn't have to glance up; he recognized the four individuals who had a habit of barging in like that, and they happened to be his own bloody kin.

“What do you want, Arthur?” Tommy asked, his voice cold and detached.

Arthur hesitated for a moment before sitting down in the chair opposite Tommy’s desk. He fidgeted with his hands, clearly nervous. "Tommy, I… I have somethin' important to share."

Tommy stopped writing and sighed, setting his pen down. He reached for the bottle of whiskey on his desk, pouring a generous amount into two glasses. He handed one to Arthur, his expression unreadable. "I’m listenin'," he said, before picking up his pen and resuming his work.

Arthur took the glass, his hands shaking slightly. He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Tommy, you are my brother, I wanted you to know first, before anyone else. It’s...fuck...it’s important."

Tommy didn’t look up, his focus still on the papers in front of him. "Get to the point, Arthur," he said, his tone sharp.

Arthur swallowed hard, his nerves getting the better of him. "I’m goin' to get married, Tommy."

At this, Tommy’s pen stopped mid-stroke. He slowly looked up, his cold blue eyes locking onto Arthur’s. The room seemed to grow even quieter, the weight of Arthur’s words hanging in the air. 

"Married?" Tommy repeated, his voice low and measured. "To who?"

Arthur took another deep breath, his eyes meeting Tommy’s. "her name is Linda, she is a good woman, she is. We are in love and we've planned to get married around this or the next month"

The deluge of information was truly overwhelming; his brothers had a knack for causing him headaches. He savored his cigar, taking in its rich aroma, and indulged in another sip of whiskey, yearning for his brother to fucking leave so that he could once again bask in the tranquil and serene atmosphere that existed before.

"How long have you known this woman?" Tommy asks, as he takes a deep breath of the smoke.

Arthur took another deep breath, avoiding Tommy’s piercing gaze. "Uh, met 'er at church."

Tommy’s patience wore thin. "Does she know our work, Arthur?"

"She’s made me better, Tommy." Arthur shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting around the room. "She’s... she’s different. Good for me."

Tommy’s patience was thinning. He stood up, his chair scraping against the wooden floor. "Arthur, you don’t know this woman. You’re leading her into our world without her knowing."

Arthur’s face flushed with anger. "John didn’t know Esme until his fuckin' weddin'."

"That was different," Tommy snapped. 

"Because you saw and chose his bloody wife!" Arthur stood up, his chair almost toppling over. “I will choose my own wife, Tommy.”

"A woman you’ve barely known for three months?" Tommy’s voice was calm, but the steel edge was unmistakable.

Arthur moved closer, his face inches from Tommy’s. "Unlike you, brother, I’ll marry the woman I love and I won’t make her wait, for years."

Arthur turned abruptly, storming towards the door. He flung it open with such force that it banged against the wall. Behind the door, Roseline stood, her hand poised to knock. She looked surprised, her green eyes wide. Arthur cast her a quick glance before storming out.

Tommy let out a heavy sigh, the sound echoing through the now silent room, as he reached for the whiskey bottle and poured himself another generous measure. Meanwhile, Rose, her expression a mix of concern and confusion, quietly entered the office and gently closed the door behind her, observing the scene before her.

"I put the papers in the other room, Tommy," she said softly. She could tell that the man was tired from the way he drank his whiskey.

"We have to prepare for a bloody weddin'," Tommy grunts, looking at the window while holding his glass, "Arthur is gettin' married."

Roseline is very surprised. Arthur getting married so soon is something she never expected. She wonders what the rest of the Shelbys think. Arthur isn't the type to settle down, and Tommy has him busy with work so he won't hurt himself, a failed attempt in her opinion. She had expected Arthur to have some kind of relationship with the woman they met in church. Is it the same woman?

Rose took a tentative step closer. "Arthur? Married? Are you sure, Tommy?"

Tommy nodded, his eyes never leaving the window. "Met some woman at church, Linda. Says she's made 'im better. But he doesn’t know what he's draggin' her into."

Her heart ached for Arthur. She knew he was searching for something, someone, to ground him. But the Shelby world was a dark, consuming place. "Maybe... maybe she'll be good for him, Tommy."

"You know the woman, don’t you?" Tommy looked at Roseline, his eyes searching hers. 

Roseline smiled softly, "I don't know her personally, but I've seen her."

Tommy sat back down in his chair, Roseline now standing directly in front of him. "You knew this would happen," he said, a hint of accusation in his voice.

"I didn't know, Tommy. But I did expect something similar." Roseline denied it, shaking her head.

Tommy grabbed Roseline by the waist, pulling her onto his lap. "And you didn’t tell me," he said, disappointment lacing his words.

Roseline laughed, a light, musical sound. "It's none of my business who your brother fancies, Tommy."

"I put you in charge of Arthur that day." Tommy had one hand on her waist, the other gently threading through her hair.

Roseline smiled, her eyes twinkling with reassurance. "Don't worry, Tommy. I think Linda will be good for Arthur. She seems smart and a woman of good faith."

Tommy sighed, resting his head on Roseline's neck, his breath warm against her skin. "Bloody hell," he muttered, cursing under his breath. "Polly will be happy."

"I think Polly will like Linda," Rose said softly, her voice breaking the silence. "They do share the same beliefs."

"What we need is more people making me swear on the Bible." Tommy sighed, a hint of frustration in his tone.

"You’re always so cynical, Tommy." she smiled, fiddling with her sleeves. 

"Faith is for those who never lost anythin', love," he lifts up his head, his arm tightening around her waist. "the one luxury I can't afford."

"But you do possess the luxury that every man and woman desires," Rose looks at the hand holding her waist, "you have confidence in yourself."

Tommy straightens up in his chair, gazing intently at Roseline's back. He can't help but notice the way the sunlight plays off her neatly arranged blonde hair, which is elegantly pinned in a bun. "Do you believe in a god?" he inquires, genuinely intrigued, realizing that Roseline has never fully disclosed her thoughts on the matter.

Roseline shifted her position to directly face him, remaining seated on his lap. She gently held his face in her hands, her gaze intensely searching his eyes. "If you asked a few years ago, I would’ve said no. But now... I’m not so sure."

He lifted his gaze to meet hers, unable to utter a word, captivated by the depth of her emerald eyes, which appeared to peer into the depths of his soul. It was in that moment that he realized. Arthur had been right about one thing: perhaps Tommy had waited too fucking long.

"If there was nothing out there, Tommy, I don’t think I would’ve been able to meet you." Roseline's smile radiated warmth, her fingertips trailing lightly, bringing comfort with every caress. Leaning in, she closed the distance between them, her lips meeting his in a tender embrace.

One of Tommy's hands gripped Rose's hair, pulling her closer, while the other hand rested on her back to keep her in place. The kiss continued to deepen as if they had been neglecting each other for years. Tommy may not believe in a god, but he believes in a goddess, and she is right here on his lap, completely his.

Chapter Text

1922 September 4th

Afternoon

Here she stood in front of two large doors. Behind them awaited her future and her soon-to-be husband. Linda had insisted on having a proper wedding in a church, officiated by a priest; she refused to have a nonsensical gypsy wedding. She had expected the Shelbys to be offended by her decision, but surprisingly, they welcomed it. Linda wasn't sure if this was because they approved of her or if they simply didn't care.

The delicate white veil draped gracefully over her face, softening her features but not entirely concealing them. Linda took a deep breath, aware that crossing the threshold would mark a profound shift in her life. Clutched in her hands was a stunning bouquet of lilies, their vibrant white petals contrasting beautifully against the green of the stems. They had arrived that morning, accompanied by a heartfelt note stating they were from Arthur.

"Linda," a deep voice called out to her. She turned around to see her uncle, Jacob—the man who raised her—looking at her with tear-filled eyes. "You look so beautiful, sweetheart."

This was the same man who had taken on men twice his size, never shedding a tear, and rarely smiling in public. Now, he seemed on the verge of breaking down. Linda smiled back at him, "Thank you, Uncle."

The older man walked closer to her, reaching to hold one of her hands. "Are you sure about this?" he asks, looking her in the eyes, "That family is dangerous. It's never too late to back out, you know. You won’t even need to explain; just say the word, and we'll be off, yeah?."

"No uncle, I'm marrying Arthur today" Linda says firmly, she understands her uncle's worries, But she has already made up her mind. "I'm marrying him, not his family."

"Such a stubborn woman," He sighed. Jacob prided himself on knowing what his niece was thinking, but at the moment, he wondered what was going on in that smart head of hers. That family was dangerous; he would even consider calling the lot of them demons, but he couldn't say that to their faces. For his niece, however, he would do anything.

"Don't worry, I'll be fine. Arthur won't hurt me." She made sure of that, and if he tried she would make him regret it. "I'll beat the devil out of him if I have to."

Jacob tried to look at her with stern eyes, but she wouldn't back down or cower, so he backed down instead. It's useless to try to change her mind at the last minute."I never imagined I'd live to witness my lovely niece's wedding before God, your mother would be so proud."

Linda smiled, looking down at the lilies, "If only she were here," she mumbled, as her uncle leaned down to kiss her forehead gently. "Let's go in, uncle. There won't be a wedding without the bride."

The man hesitantly nodded and offered her his arm. She eagerly took it with her right hand, while her left hand held a beautiful bouquet. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Linda looked up as they approached the large, intricately carved wooden door.

With a soft creak, it swung open, revealing the interior of the church bathed in a warm, golden light. Sunbeams streamed through the expansive stained glass windows, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the polished floor and illuminating her with a soft, glow.

Although she wore a veil, Linda could see the shadow of her soon-to-be husband standing nervously next to the priest, fidgeting slightly. As she walked down the aisle, she watched her relatives and the Shelby family stand up, she watched her relatives trying to keep their children in check and her uncle's wife almost in tears. Linda told Arthur that only family would attend the wedding, she is glad he honoured her wishes. 

The Shelbys were showing very few emotions, with the exception of the children. They didn’t have grim expressions, which was a positive sign. On the far right side of Arthur, two men stood together, one of them looking particularly youthful and eager. As Linda scanned the crowd, her eyes caught sight of Polly in the front row, beaming at her with an encouraging smile that felt like a warm beacon in the bustling room.

Although she recognized that they were quite different, Polly was the only woman Linda could relate to. When Linda first saw Polly, she doubted they would ever get along. Polly had a tough demeanor and scrutinized Linda as if she were a criminal. However, after that initial encounter, Polly helped Linda and Arthur with the wedding preparations, even assisting her in choosing her wedding dress. She respected the older woman, Polly didn't judge her for her demands and said that it was her right to do so. 

As Linda approached the altar, the weight of the moment pulled her from her thoughts, grounding her in the reality of their union, all her attention was drawn to Arthur. He stood there, waiting for her, his eyes filled with a mix of profound love and an insatiable longing. In that moment, surrounded by the quiet beauty of the ceremony, everything else faded away, leaving just the two of them suspended in a world that felt entirely their own.

"We are gathered here today to witness the union of Arthur Shelby and Linda," the priest began. "A union of love, commitment, and faith."

Tommy sat next to Polly, tuning out everything being said around him. He felt he could be doing more important things, but his brother insisted he stay. Tommy had met Linda once and had to admit she was smart, even though he hadn’t spoken to her directly. He wasn't sure if she was using Arthur, but that didn’t matter much to him. It was clear that Linda had some influence over his brother, as long as it didn’t interfere with the business.

The new racetracks have exceeded expectations in terms of success, generating a significant influx of revenue at an impressive rate. Initially, he had anticipated that it would take at least seven months before he could see any profits from this venture. However, the reality turned out to be much more favorable than he had imagined. With the profits now rolling in, he has secured a good amount of cash, which puts him in a strong position to move forward with his next project.

Despite this promising development, he found himself contemplating whether Churchill might have any new assignments for him. Given his recent completion of a significant task, he suspected it might be some time before another mission would come his way.

Tommy glanced at Michael, who was sitting next to Polly on the other side. The young man had quickly grasped the intricacies of the legal business. He would be a valuable asset to their other ventures, but Tommy had promised Polly that he wouldn't include her son in them.

"I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride." Tommy watched his older brother leaning down to kiss the new Shelby woman, Tommy reached for the watch in his pocket to look at the time.

He held the watch that Roseline had given him as a gift the night before he went to the Epsom racetracks. As he studied it in his hand, he noticed the empty side of the watch. It could become quite dull after a few years, he should add a small picture to it.

He put the watch back in his pocket as everyone stood up and started clapping. Polly stood up with Michael following her along "Let us give them a proper congratulations." She said, walking toward the couple who was walking down the aisle.

Polly was the first to step forward, a proud smile on her face. "Arthur, you’ve done good. Linda, welcome to the shelby's." she said, pulling Linda into a warm embrace.

Linda laughed softly, "Thank you, Polly." She has come to understand that she can occasionally count on Polly for support during difficult times. she is such a strong woman.

John, with a mischievous glint in his eye, clapped Arthur on the back. "I never thought I’d see the day, Arthur! You, married! What’s next, a baby on the way?"

Linda observed John closely, recognizing him as fundamentally harmless—not in terms of physical strength, but rather when placed alongside the other, more volatile members of the Shelby family. His demeanor exuded a sense of calm that contrasted sharply with the intensity surrounding him.

Nearby, his wife, Esme, while undeniably intelligent and perceptive, was wholly engrossed in the challenges of motherhood. Linda watched intently as Esme effortlessly scooped one of their children into her arms, the little one giggling and squirming with delight.

Arthur chuckled, rolling his eyes. "Slow down, John. One step at a time, eh?"

"Can’t believe it, Arthur! You got yourself a wife! Linda, you sure you know what you’re gettin’ into?" Finn, the youngest, his excitement barely contained.

Linda grinned, her eyes sparkling. "I’ve got a pretty good idea, Finn. Thanks for the warning." Finn is quite young, he has the energy of any young boy his age.

Ada stepped forward next, her eyes shining with genuine happiness. "Arthur, Linda, I’m so happy for you both. It’s about time you found someone who can keep you in check, Arthur."

Arthur grinned, his eyes twinkling. "Thanks, Ada. I'm glad you could make it."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, brother" She laughed, as she took Karl's small hand into hers.

Linda nodded, smiling at Ada. “Thank you, Ada. It means the world to us." 

Ada shares many qualities with Polly, particularly her commanding presence that seems to fill the room. There's an undeniable magnetism about her that draws people in, captivating their attention. Linda found it difficult to put her finger on exactly what made Ada stand out so much, but she knew there was something special about her demeanor and the way she interacted with others.

“Congratulations, Arthur. Linda, welcome to the family. We’re glad to have you.” Michael said as he stepped forward and shook Arthur’s hand firmly.

Linda smiled warmly at him, recognizing that he was Polly's son. She had always anticipated that he would be bright, given his mother's sharp mind. However, her encounters with the young man had been infrequent, as he and Polly rarely engaged in meaningful conversations.

Arthur pulled Michael into a brotherly hug. “Thanks, Mikey. Means a lot.”

Arthur let go of Michael who left to join the Shelby family that separated from the couple, "Quite the big family we have here, Arthur" Linda said, looking at the family.

"You ain't had a chance to see the Shelbys at a party, have ya?" The groom chuckled, kissing his wife's cheek.

Linda smiled, she could live with this. Though it won't be easy, she will make it work, even if she has to force it.

"Congratulations, brother." The moment between the newly married couple was broken as Tommy offered his congratulations to Arthur. Linda looked at the man in front of them, she had to fight the urge to glare at him.

"T-Thank you, Tommy." Arthur looked at his brother with a little admiration in his eyes, "You've done a lot for me, for us."

Linda felt a deep, instinctive dread at the thought of being anywhere near Thomas Shelby. To her, he resembled a force of darkness, the man took a path of no return, he is someone who had irrevocably embraced a life void of redemption or mercy. She could still vividly recall the moment they first met; his gaze pierced through her, laden with an unsettling familiarity, as if he held all her secrets within his knowing eyes. It sent shivers down her spine. 

Determined to help her husband, Linda understood that the first crucial step was to extricate him from Tommy's sinister influence. However, she braced herself, knowing that this would be a gradual and difficult process.

Before Tommy could answer, Linda's uncle walks to them."Congratulations to my beautiful niece!" He said happily, interrupting Tommy "Take good care of her, Mr. Shelby." Jacob looks at Arthur seriously.

"I will sir. She is everything to me." Arthur answers smoothly, looking the man dead in the eye, if it was possible he would have dug a hole in the older man's eyes.

Jacob looked at Thomas who was watching the exchange, "Ah, sorry Mr.Shelby, I didn't see you there." he apologized offering his hand to the man. Tommy looked at said hand and shook it.

Linda tuned out the rest of the conversation, her gaze fixed on her uncle's demeanor. He was a towering figure, his broad shoulders and well-defined muscles exuding a false sense of confidence. Yet, despite his imposing presence, she could see the subtle signs of unease flickering beneath the surface. The way he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and occasionally rubbed the back of his neck hinted at his anxiety. At that moment, Linda couldn't help but wonder that if she weren't his beloved niece, he might have already packed his bags and fled to a distant country.

"I prepared a small gift for this occasion." Linda broke out of her trans as Thomas spoke, she softly griped Arthur's arm as she watched the man take out something from his pocket.

She wanted nothing from this man, but she couldn't create a scene in front of everyone on her wedding day. She felt stupid as Arthur remained unaware of her discomfort.

Tommy took out an envelope and handed it to Arthur. "What's this, brother?" The older man asked, looking at the envelope in his hand.

"An address to your new house," Tommy answered, if Linda hated the man before, now she despises him. She gripped her clueless husband's arm tighter, his brother was really testing her patience.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

1922 September 4th

Evening

Nurse Kaitlyn, was a strict woman with the younger nurses, yet she was kind. In all her years in this field, she could point out the good nurses, the bad ones, the ones that last long, and the ones that wouldn't stay. It might not be a big ability, but she was proud nonetheless.

Though there is one nurse she couldn't put her finger on, nurse Roseline, one could argue that the young woman is perfect at everything she does. She is always on time, does extra shift, kind to all the patients, listens well to the older nurses and the doctors. Kaitlyn knows all these attributes make a nurse very well respected and successful, But there was something just not right.

Something about the young nurse feels out of place, and Kaitlyn doesn't know what it is.

As the older nurse made her way down the long, sterile hallway, she felt the weight of the day slowly lift from her shoulders with each step. The sterile scent of antiseptic faded, replaced by the comforting aroma of brewed coffee wafting from the nearby lounge. Upon entering the cozy retreat, she was greeted by the sight of the blonde nurse nestled in a chair, carefully running her fingers through her silky locks, a few stray strands falling gracefully around her face.

"Hello, dear," Kaitlyn greeted Rose as a relaxing scent filled the air. She moved to the counter to identify its source: a small pot on the stove, steam still rising from it.

"Hello, Kaitlyn," Roseline said warmly as she rose from her chair, carefully placing her purse and a few other items on the nearby table. She glanced over and caught sight of Kaitlyn leaning in to inspect the pot on the stove, curiosity evident in her expression. A smile crossed Roseline's face, and she added, "I made some hot cocoa; I hope you don't mind. It has been a long day, and I thought it might be nice to warm up with a sweet treat."

"Dear, this lounge is for all of us nurses. Besides, it smells lovely!" the older woman exclaimed as she carefully poured the steaming chocolate into a delicate cup, she took a moment to savor the comforting scent. After taking a sip, a look of pure delight spread across her face. "It tastes so divine! What did you put in this?

Rose shook her head gently, a slight smile playing on her lips, as she bent down to organize her belongings scattered across the table.

"Oh, it’s nothing special. Just the regular recipe," she replied, with a practiced hand, she slipped on her delicate small earrings, the silver glinting softly in the warm light of the room.

"Keep tellin' yourself that, you could make quite the pretty penny brewin' these, y'know!" Kaitlyn really enjoyed the taste of the chocolate; it had a unique flavor that was different from what she was used to.

Although many people overlook her keen eye, Kaitlyn is well aware of her observant nature. As she stands nearby, she carefully watches Roseline as she gets ready to leave. Kaitlyn’s attention is drawn to the delicate earrings adorning Roseline’s ears; though they are small in size, the intricate design and subtle shimmer suggest they might have cost a pretty penny. Likewise, her handbag catches Kaitlyn’s eye. The luxurious material and stylish silhouette indicate that it, too, is quite expensive.

She generally refrains from judging others for embracing a life of luxury and indulgence, but she finds it hard to believe that Roseline could truly sustain such a lavish lifestyle. When the young woman first entered the workforce, her appearance was unassuming and humble.

Despite the young nurse's striking beauty, which turned heads when she entered a room, her wardrobe outside of her nurse uniform consisted of understated, simple pieces that reflected a modest sensibility. She would see the young nurse casually drape a plain coat over her uniform to shield herself from the cool air. Roseline’s style never hinted at an affinity for expensive fashion.

Kaitlyn must admit that the extravagant life suits Roseline. However, she wonders what has caused this sudden yet subtle change.

"It was lovely talking to you, Kaitlyn." The blonde said as she put on her coat and hat, bidding the older nurse goodbye.

"See you soon, love," Kaitlyn lifted her half-empty cup as steam curled upwards. She watched as Rose left the lounge.

Roseline had a longer shift today than usual. Although she didn’t mind the extra hours, her mind was preoccupied with several thoughts. One of her main concerns was the wedding taking place today. She hoped that nothing would go wrong, as Arthur and Linda deserved a perfect day. Arthur had been through a lot, and he truly deserved this celebration.

She walked outside the hospital, it was getting dark. The wedding must have ended by now, she wondered if she should go to Tommy's office. Tommy is usually in there at this time of the day, buried in his work, even if it was a day meant for family. Tommy would still find a way to work, this could become a problem in the future.

"Nurse Rose! Wait a minute!" Roseline was jolted out of her thoughts when she heard someone calling for her. She turned around to see who it was, but the dark shadows of the alleyway made it difficult to see clearly.

As the person in question got closer, she could finally see them. It was Dr. Harris, Rose Knew instantly that she had to get away from this man. As fast as possible. "I'm so sorry doctor-" She tried to say.

"Don't worry! I came here because I forgot to invite you." The man smiled, getting closer to Rose. The young woman knew that this was his normal voice, but something felt off.

"invite me? where?" She asks, curious more than confused.

"There is this place, that serves excellent food," he says casually, making Rose wonder how many times he has done this, "my friends and their wives will come, I thought I should ask if you would like to come with me?" 

Roseline contemplated what her answer should be, or if she should just run. "I'm sorry doctor, I'm busy," she says, trying to dodge his continuous invites.

"busy with what?" he asks moving a little closer, Rose knew that they were moving to dangerous territory. She wonders how this man was smart enough to be a doctor, if he didn't understand when he was being rejected, multiple times.

"I really have to go n—" She whirls around to continue her walk, but an excruciating pain suddenly slams into her head, making her vision swim and darken. Panic surges as she tries to move her hands, only to discover they are caught in an unyielding grip, pinned tightly against the wall. Fear creeps in as Roseline realizes she is trapped, every instinct screaming for her to escape, but there’s no way out. The oppressive silence envelops her, amplifying her heart's frantic pounding, each beat echoing her dread.

She tries to look up, only to find the doctor has finally lost control and is starting to reveal his true intentions. Roseline wondered before how long it would take for him to show his true colors. She doesn't know if it’s due to the hit she took or the darkness of the alleyway, but she can’t see her attacker’s face. She knows who he is, but she is unable to see him.

"Quite the mighty whore you are," he whispers in her ear, breathing down her neck, "leading me on by undressing me with your eyes."

"Acting all fucking innocent, wearing that uniform," he licks the side of her neck, making her breath faster, "hiding your bloody vulgar body."

"L-let me go," She tried to say, as she could still not see the man's face. Eventually, she felt the man let go of one of her hands, Rose relaxed a little bit knowing she could use this to her advantage.

The false sense of security quickly evaporated like smoke in the wind, when she felt that same disgusting hand on her breast, It was no light touch.

"I can not wait to take these clothes off you," Why won't it get out? She made sure before leaving that it would get out easily when she needed it. "you would bloody love a good cock in you to keep you happy."

Roseline tried to struggle, "Stop!" she was cut off by the man's lips on hers. This situation was escalating too fast, she was supposed to be away from this man by now.

The blonde tried to push the man away and started to struggle as he tried to force his tongue in her mouth. She wanted to scream but she refused to give him any opening, no one would hear her in this alley anyway. She tries to give herself some time to get that damn thing out of her sleeve, But she has only one hand free.

The man bit her lip so hard it drew blood, but Rose refused to open her mouth even from the pain.

"Fucking Bitch! I'll force my cock down your-" Finally, she managed to pull the blade of the knife out of her sleeve when her attacker was slammed away from her by a sudden force.

She looked at her saviour and found familiar ocean-colored eyes gazing directly at her. Though the eye contact was brief, she detected something primal in those eyes. The man quickly shifted his focus back to the man he had thrown to the floor. She decided to slip her blade back inside her sleeve.

"FUCKING HELL!!" The doctor groaned in pain, he held a hand to his head "What the fuc-"

He couldn't finish his sentence as his head was slammed to the ground again. A strong kick to his stomach left him unable to speak. Disoriented, he struggled to understand what was happening, as he could no longer feel his face. He thought he might have been punched several times, but he wasn't sure. Eventually, the attacks stopped, but he felt a hand, maybe hands on him. He could sense the ground beneath him shifting.

Roseline watched as Tommy brutalised the man with no mercy, she watched as he ordered men, whom she didn't know were there, to drag the man across the ground to who knows where. Tommy finally decided to acknowledge her presence and looked at her.

For the first time, Roseline sensed that the man didn't know how to proceed. He stepped closer to her, taking small, cautious steps, as if he were testing the waters. Although she couldn't see her attacker's face in the dark alleyway, she could clearly see Tommy's face.

The man stepped closer to her, his presence enveloping her as he reached out to gently lift her chin. His eyes, filled with concern, landed on her swollen lip, a vivid reminder of the recent turmoil she had faced. Taking a moment to study her disheveled appearance—the tangled strands of hair framing her face and the faint tremor in her jaw—he felt a surge of protectiveness.

With a tenderness that contrasted the urgency of the moment, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss on her lower lip where the skin was bruised, a silent promise to soothe her pain. The world around them faded into a distant hush as he tilted his head and pressed his lips fully against hers, a merging of shared warmth and unspoken connection.  Roseline surrendered to the moment, allowing him to guide the kiss, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. The softness of his lips against hers ignited a warmth that enveloped her entirely.

Before she knew it, Rose was lifted from the ground, her senses overwhelmed by the sudden change. Tommy cradled her like she was a fragile bird, his strong arms providing a surprising sense of safety and comfort. She found herself welcoming this unexpected development.

Tommy's stride was confident and purposeful as he carried her towards the car parked a short distance from the alleyway. The city sounds seemed to fade into the background, leaving only the rhythmic sound of Tommy's footsteps and her own heartbeat pounding in her ears.

With her arms wrapped securely around Tommy's neck, Rose leaned in closer, her lips almost brushing his ear. She could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, each breath he took resonating through her. The moment was intimate, filled with unspoken words and emotions.

"Thank you," she whispered, and everything faded to black.

Chapter Text

1922 September 4th

Night

Tommy remained silent throughout the entire night following the incident, the weight of the traumatic experience hanging heavily between him and Roseline. The air was thick with unspoken words, and he could barely even hear her soft breaths in the darkness. Roseline had nestled against him, finding comfort in his embrace as they walked to the car, and he gently settled her into the passenger seat beside him as he drove.

With each passing mile, he felt his anger simmer just below the surface, a storm threatening to break. He focused intently on the road, determined to keep his emotions in check so he wouldn’t disturb the fragile calm surrounding the woman next to him. The quiet stretch of the night wrapped around them like a heavy blanket, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the engine.

After several minutes of solitude, Tommy stole a glance to his side. To his surprise, he found Roseline wide awake, her gaze fixed blankly on the inky blackness beyond the window, lost in her thoughts. The haunting stillness between them was palpable, each lost in their own turmoil.

As she gazed out the window, her expression was vacant yet introspective, lost in a labyrinth of thoughts. Soft light filtered through the glass, casting gentle shadows that highlighted her furrowed brow and slightly parted lips. There was something unsettling about her calm amid the chaos, as if she inhabited an inner world he couldn't reach. This stillness made the moment feel surreal, charged with an underlying tension. 

He needed to check her for any injuries, but she appeared uninjured, with no hint of discomfort etched on her features. If he hadn’t arrived just in time—his lips pressed firmly together, the normally stoic mask of his face giving way to a deepening frown—Tommy didn't want to imagine the consequences that could have unfolded.

Tommy sat in thought, considering where to take Rose. He knew she craved the comfort of familiar surroundings, away from the chaos of the world. The noise of crowds would overwhelm her; she needed a safe, nurturing space, ideally one where she could connect with another woman. However, he came to realize that what she truly needed was solitude.

Tommy eased the car to a stop just outside Roseline's apartment building. After a heavy silence filled with unspoken thoughts, Roseline finally turned to him. "Thank you, Tommy," she said softly, her voice breaking the stillness. "You really don’t have to follow me any longer; I’m sorry for the trouble."

With a grateful smile, she opened the door, the cool night air rushing in as she stepped out. Tommy watched as the golden strands of her hair caught the light, swaying gently as she walked away, creating a stark contrast against the dimly lit street.

It would be unimaginable for him to leave her on her own after that man had touched her. The very thought churned in Tommy's stomach as he watched her from the driver's seat of his car, his heart racing with a mix of anger and concern. With a deep breath, he finally stepped out of the car and began to follow her, his footsteps soft against the pavement. 

She walked ahead, seemingly lost in her own world, completely unaware—or perhaps deliberately ignoring—his presence behind her. Her shoulders were tense, and for a brief moment, he wondered what thoughts occupied her mind. As she entered the building, the door closing swiftly behind her, he quickened his pace to catch up, pushing past the threshold just as it swung shut.

He navigated the dimly lit lobby and ascended the stairwell, a few steps behind her. The faint sound of her heels clicking against the floor echoed in the narrow space, and he felt a surge of urgency to reach her before she slipped away completely. Each step felt heavy with unspoken words, as he desperately tried to understand her reluctance to acknowledge him.

Roseline stopped near her door and turned to face the older man who had been shamelessly following her. She wanted to argue with him and tell him to leave her alone, but she knew it would be of no use; this man would have his way.

“Why won't you let me be on my own, Tommy?” she whispered softly. For the first time in quite a while, she almost sounded vulnerable and confused.

Tommy had to hold back when he heard this. He leaned down so they were face to face, his hand reaching out to grab her by the nape. His fingers pulled on her hair, tilting her head back. Before she could realize it the man's lips were on her, devouring her.

She gasped as the older man let go, but his hand was still fisting her hair. "How many fucking times, has this happened?" he asked his voice rough, "How did he fucking think he had the right to touch you?"

Rose turned her gaze away from him, focusing instead on the empty hallway. She could gaze into those ocean-blue eyes every day, but not at this moment. His grip on her tightened, urging her to pay attention again. Instinctively, she knew she should push him away and reach for the blade hidden in her sleeve, as she had done with that doctor.

With a sense of urgency, she extended her right hand behind her, fingers brushing against the cool, textured surface of the wall as she searched for the doorknob. After what felt like an eternity, her fingertips finally made contact, and she grasped it tightly. In one swift motion, she turned the knob, its metallic surface cold against her palm, and the door creaked open with a soft, almost mournful groan. A dim, golden light from the apartment spilled out like honey, illuminating the edges of the threshold and casting long, flickering shadows over Tommy.

"We should get inside," Roseline said with a small smile. Tommy looked at her, almost searching for something. He let go of his hold on her, causing Rose to hurry inside.

The man entered the room behind her and closed the door. He watched Rose as she faced away from him. Was she angry with him, or was she scared? He realized he should have gone to Polly; she would know how to handle the situation.

He watched as she took off her hat and placed it on the table. Her graceful, pale hands lingered on the hat, and the dim light reflected beautifully off her hair, making it resemble golden silk. Tommy noticed how hesitantly she withdrew her hand away from the hat. 

Tommy watched as her coat gradually slid off her shoulders and onto the floor, unveiling her nurse's outfit. What was she planning to do? Before he could process it, she turned to the side, quickly opening the buttons of her outfit as if it were on fire.

After the clothes came off slowly, revealing bare shoulders and the bra strap sticking to her skin, the clothes were on the floor with the coat, and she stood in the dimly lit room in her underwear. 

It was as if her green eyes almost lit up the room, her stockings clung tight around her thighs, and her waist was one of the areas he was prone to grab, only now he knew why he did. Her disheveled braid fell to the side of her chest, like she was teasing him. Her chest filled out the bra nicely, her curves accentuated by the tight-fitting fabric.

"Do I have a vulgar body, Tommy?" Roseline asked as she had a look in her eyes he couldn't describe, but he understood one thing.

He carefully removed his cap and coat, hanging them on a nearby hook with a gentle tug. He rolled up his sleeves as he approached the blonde, revealing strong forearms that glistened in the light. He wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling the softness of her skin beneath the delicate fabric of her underwear. Her curves fit perfectly into his embrace, pulling her closer to him.

"Tu san jekh devlikani," He said, before capturing her lips with his. It was his fucking fault; he had gotten too busy and left her alone.

He allowed his men to fool around at the wedding when he should have ensured someone stayed with her. He should have been by her side right after Arthur's wedding, it was his fault for not claiming her sooner for the world to see. No one could touch a Shelby woman, and definitely not his woman.

He slowly started to go lower from her neck, giving her collarbone a few kisses. He slowly started to go lower to her neck, giving her collarbone a few kisses. While he stroked her leg, he found the strap of her bra, pulled it by his teeth, and flicked it against her skin, making her moan and grab his head.

"T-Tommy," She moaned, it felt so good, she wanted more, "p-please,"

Tommy lifted his head after planting a few bites on her neck, he looked at her face which was flushed with beautiful shades of red and pink, her eyes unfocused yet looking at him. "What do you want, Kamipen?" he murmured, "Did ya lose your voice, eh?"

"W-Wait!" She yelped as she was lifted from the ground, the man's hands firmly squeezing her arse.

Before she could react any further her back hit the mattress of the small bed, a shudder ran through her as she watched the silhouette of the peaky blinder on top of her pinning her to the bed, his eyes lighting her hazy vision.

Oh.

How glorious he looks, is this the beauty of men her books speak of? Do these acts of intimacy reveal someone's nature? Her eyes almost rolled back to her head as she looked up at her pinned arms above her head, one hand holding them firmly in place, the other stroking her thigh and playing with her stocking.

Yes, it does. It reveals so much, Tommy is rough, in control, and gets what he wants. She wants to be under his control, she wants to feel all the pleasure and pain he could give. She moaned as she felt him take off her stocking, she tried to meet his eyes. He looked at her with eyes filled with hunger, and she was the feast. His feast.

"I-Is this how you treat your w-women?" she panted, as she felt him kiss her now naked calf. Roseline doesn't know whether to call the women this man has been with, lucky or unfortunate. She feels quite jealous. Jealousy is a green-eyed monster, after all.

"Woman," he grunted, correcting her. He removed the other stocking and lifted the leg to kiss the calf. His hand moved upwards, caressing her thighs. "You are the only woman I need."

"Oh! T-Tommy!" he bit her inner thigh, she was turning into a blubbering mess. A fool is who she always was, and always will be.

Thomas drinks whiskey and smokes just as any other man, maybe more at times. But for the first time in his 32 years of living, he is truly drunk. He wants more and more of this woman, in every way. She was his, she was made for him.

"You're mine, love," he growled, gripping her thighs tightly as he bit on the other inner thigh, marking her, "Say it, Rose, say you're mine."

She gripped the pillow under her head, whimpering her face flushed. Is she a whore for being so wet? Is she a whore for wanting more? Tommy's grip tightened around her more, as he landed another bite on her body, she could almost see stars.

This handsome devil will be the end of her, she is sure he will be her rise and her fall. Yet, the thought of it is comforting for some reason. She grabbed his head moaning, as she felt him planting more marks on her. Roseline had bruises on her skin before, but she didn't feel attached to them. These marks though... she would love to keep forever.

"Y-Yours, I'm yours, Tommy," she whimpered. Whether she confirmed it or not, she knew she was his. His love or his property, Rose didn't know. She didn't mind either way; it was almost as if she thrived under his attention.

Now face to face with the man on top of her, Rose was doomed. His eyes stripped her naked both body and soul, despite her already almost naked state. "Good girl," his tongue entered her mouth almost effortlessly, her moans now muffled as he explored her mouth.

Tears welled up in her eyes, and one thought ran into her mind. Is this what it feels like to finally give up control?  She should have done this sooner.

Tommy's hand explored her body, soon he would be marking her for the world to see. He went down to her chest, the bra blocking his touches, he would rip it off, but he didn't want his Rose to be scared. His fingers clutched the waistband of her panties, pulling them down.

"Wait!" Roseline finally returned to reality, trying to close her legs. Not now, they can't do this right now. "I can't, Tommy. I-It's not right."

"Alright," she felt him remove his hands away from her, "sorry if I scared you, love."

He gave her a small peck on the lips, she felt confused. Tommy apologized? For what? She felt the bed shift as the man started to pull away from her. Wait.. no, no, no! She didn't mean for him to leave her completely! anxiously she quickly wrapped her legs around his waist.

"Please, stay the night," she murmured blushing, her head turning to the side not wanting him to see her face, griping the sheet of the bed for dear life.

"Already a demanding woman, eh?" Tommy chuckled, he lifted her left leg that was wrapped around him, kissing her pale leg.

They were cramped together on the small bed, Roseline's head resting on Tommy's bare chest. Her finger circled the tattoo on his chest as she felt peaceful listening to his heartbeats.

"Do you know that man?" Tommy suddenly asked, his hand running through her messy hair. 

Rose stayed quiet for a minute, she would have preferred if he didn't bring up the subject."He's Doctor Harris, works at the hospital." She sighed, looking at the window beside the bed.

"I will take you to work from now," he said, she felt him tighten his hold on her hair, "If I'm not around, one of my men will take you."

It sounded more like a command, a statement than an offer. This was it, If it wasn't already, after today her world would be intertwined with Tommy Shelby's world. The risk is too great, yet it was so addicting.

"Alright," she whispered, pressing a kiss to the tattoo on his chest. She then continued to circle the tattoo with her finger, "It looks like the sun, but incomplete."

"It is," he answered, letting her trace the ink on his skin, Rose stopped her movements and lifted her head. The curious look in her eyes was enchanting as if she was studying him, she then seemed to focus on his right bicep.

"What does that one mean?" she asked, her eyes still trained on the tattoo where it spells 'Forrard'. It had to mean something to Thomas, but she hadn't heard such a term before.

"For my service, in the war," he answered, looking at her. His fingers again played with her blonde hair, he lifted a few strands of her hair and kissed it, "We had nurses your age now and much younger, brave women they were."

Roseline both felt admiration and pity for these women, pity because the world put them in such a dangerous position and admiration for their bravery in facing this dangerous side of the world. "Did you come back, Tommy?" she asked.

"No man who comes back from a war is the same man," he said, the war changed him, made him know the truth, the bitter truth. Sometimes he could still see himself in those tunnels, many soldiers lost their lives for the lack of air, or just because of the filth of those places.

"Do you regret it? joining the war?" Roseline asked him, wanting to know if it was worth losing the light that might have once been in his eyes.

"No point in regrettin' what’s already happened," Tommy said softly, caressing her cheek. "What was your life in the war like?"

She smiled and laid her head back on his chest. "I remember being 14 when the war started," she said, her hand resting once more on top of the tattoo on his chest.

"Did it scare ye?" he asked, remembering that she was a child when the war started.

"There was no need to be afraid of something I didn't understand," the blonde shook her head, as she continued tracing the tattoo, "I heard about the war in one of my performances."

"Did it change your life?" he asked looking out the window. Thomas remembers childhood ignorance and innocence, he also remembers the fears.

"The Marshall family seemed to benefit from it at the time," she said, her eyes looking over to where her violin used to be, "the demands for my performances increased, and my musical talents got popular. I was playing sad tunes every day, they are still engraved in my head."

"They called ye a child prodigy," he said, remembering the past files he picked up to investigate Rose and her adoptive family.

If it was possible the blonde was about to curl into herself, "Many wealthy people requested my performances at their parties or gatherings." she explained, the war didn't affect her o̴r̴d̴i̴n̴a̴r̴y̴ life a lot. Maybe she wasn't paying attention, or maybe there was nothing to change.

"Did ye enjoy it?" he asked, Tommy had banned music in the garrison for a while until Rose came along. He understood why those people loved her music; the sound of digging in the wall was muffled by her tunes.

"I neither enjoyed nor hated it," she said; it made no difference to her. However, the music did help her in many ways. "It felt like a job, something they wanted me to do."

Tommy looked at her as she was curled against his chest. "What about your job now, eh?" he asked, carefully testing the waters.

"It's my job, Tommy," she said, her eyes looking over the books on her shelves, "it helps."

In the dimly lit apartment, he will make sure that Rose will never have to worry about money again; he will take care of everything. She won't even need to think about how much she spends.

"Tommy," Roseline broke the silence in the room, "how was the wedding?"

Maybe it was time to sleep.

Roseline opened her eyes to a blurry vision of her surroundings, her head resting on a smooth surface. It didn’t quite feel like a pillow; it felt different—almost as if it were moving. She lifted her head quickly and found Thomas Shelby half-naked and asleep in her bed, just as she was. She recalled what had transpired that night and realized she must have slept too well.

It must still be early; it was too dark. She made sure Tommy was fast asleep as she got up slowly to avoid making any noise. Her bare feet touched the ground, and the cold of the floor spread through her body. She looked down at herself, she was only wearing her underwear, and saw small purple bruises scattered across her skin.

Roseline was grateful that summer was over; otherwise, the Peaky Blinders' boss would have another enemy to deal with. She glanced at the clothes scattered on the ground, a mix of her own and Tommy's. Moving closer to her coat, she bent down to pick up the sleeve.

She quickly took out the blade she had hidden in her sleeve, considering whether to replace it in the future since it hadn't been much help today. But that was a thought for another time. The young woman slowly approached the drawers, opened one of them, and hid the blade underneath some clothes.

Rose gazed at the man on her bed, the scene before her was so perfect that she felt the urge to sketch it. However, she decided to hold off on the drawing for now; she wanted to keep this image stored in her mind for a while. She walked back to the bed and curled up once again against the older man's chest.

Chapter Text

1922 September 5th

Morning

The second time she woke up, it felt different from the first. She sensed fingers gently brushing through her hair as if someone were combing it. The touches were so soft that it almost felt strange.

Why hadn’t he left yet? She was sure Tommy had things to take care of by now. Instead, he ran his rough fingers through her hair, and she couldn’t help but get closer. How many people had been hurt by these fingers?

Will she be one of them?

"A clingy woman, eh?" she heard him chuckle above her, the light touches continued through her hair.

Roseline finally raised her head, her eyes locking onto the man's face as she gently pressed her lips against his cheek. In a sudden move, he wrapped his hand around the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, and captured her lips with his in a fervent kiss.

"As long as it's a free hairbrush," she replied, pulling away before they went any farther.

Although she wouldn't mind repeating last night's events, but she wasn't sure if she would be able to control herself.

She watched as Thomas lifted a strand of her hair, and brought it to his lips.

"You keep your hair long," he said, her golden strand still in his hand.

"Don't you like it, Tommy?" Rose tilted her head to the side, a small smile graced her face.

The man knew she was teasing him, she had this subtle mischievous look that no one seemed to see.

Just how it should be.

He grabbed her again, kissing her. The sound of her moans was muffled as his tongue explored the interior of her mouth. His hands gripped her waist as he pulled her closer, straddling her on his lap.

"Fuckin' love it," he practically growled, the word love sounded so foreign, yet so right. 

Rose gasped for air as they let go. She looked into his cold ocean eyes, searching for lies in his words. She didn't know which would be scarier: believing a manipulative man or the manipulative man being truthful. She needed to get up before she did something she would soon regret.

"Good," she whispered, giving him a peck on the lips, before she got up from his lap.

Thomas watched her stand up her back turned to him, giving him a beautiful show. Her long blonde hair fell to her back, his eyes moved lower, watching her ass sway a little as she moved. She bent down to pick up their clothes from the floor, this woman was testing his patience. He eventually had to look away, if he looked any longer, she would be pinned under him on any available surface.

He glanced at the small bookshelf in front of him; the wood appeared worn and fragile as if it could break at any moment.

"Here are your clothes, Tommy," he heard Rose say as she placed the garments on the bed. Standing up, he slipped on his trousers and buttoned his shirt.

Roseline took her time as she put on her nurse outfit, "you off to work today?" Tommy asked, watching her button her clothes. 

"Yes," she nodded as she popped the last button in place. "However, it won't start until ten."

She acts as if nothing happened last night. If Tommy hadn't been there, he would never have known what took place. The anger and rage he felt were overwhelming as he remembered that bastard. He didn't want his woman to return to work in that place. His gentle, beautiful woman should be somewhere he can always keep an eye on her.

"I'll drive you there, love," he said as he walked over to her. He put his hand on her cheek, stroking it. She closed her eyes, nuzzling closer to his hand."I’ll drive ya back to the apartment once you've done yer shift. Y’can’t leave the hospital till I get there, alright?"

It was all his fault; they didn't know she belonged to him, but he would fix it. He had waited too long, and his patience was running thin—if he had any left. No one, absolutely no one, was allowed to lay a finger on her or even breathe near her, and he would make sure of that.

"Tommy, you don't have to—" she tried to reason. Roseline knew this moment was coming; she was aware that these were the last days of her freedom before Tommy would take control of everything. Despite this knowledge, she continued to want him.

He moved his hand to grip her chin, making her look at him."You agreed, love," he whispered, like signing a deal with the devil. "If I'm not there, I will send one of my men to drive you."

Roseline agreed, didn't she? There was no backing out now; she would be the fool, even if she had to pretend. "Thank you," she said, leaning up to kiss him. He repeated the same words from last night, leaving no room for argument, reminding her of her choice.

"How do you feel about breakfast?" she asked, pulling away from him. Rose walks over to the small counter and stove, pulling out the appliances.

"I drink in the morning," he smirked, as he heard her sigh. "I usually go to work early, love."

Tommy watched her as she turned her head toward him; she had an almost disappointed look on her face, her brows slightly furrowing and her lips pressed together in a subtle frown. It was amusing; he didn't know she could make a face like that.

“You will eat breakfast today,” she said firmly. The man watched her work with a determined look on her face, curious about what she would prepare for him.

He walked over to the shelves, looking over the small collection. "Is this what you spend your pay on?" he asked taking a random book off the shelf.

"Yes, among other things," Rose glanced over her shoulder, a playful smile tugging at her lips as she reached for a smooth, wooden spatula resting on the countertop.

Tommy flipped through the pages of the history book in his hand. He turned the cover and read the title: it was about Queen Victoria. After putting the book back in its place, he picked up another one, this time a story. He looked over the other books; although there weren't many, they were of different genres.

"You've got quite the collection, haven't ya?" he remarked, placing one of the books back on the shelf. Reading and writing were not activities he typically engaged in unless necessary, or related to his business or other work.

"I only purchase books I have time to read," she said, as she placed the egg and vegetables on the plate, the aroma filling the room. "It would be sad to buy things I wouldn't use."

"Where do you purchase your books?" he asked, moving to sit at the small dining table.

"It's just a small bookshop not far from here," Roseline said as she walked to the window, opening it to let in fresh air. "The seller is a kind old man."

Thomas continued to admire the woman as the wind blew gently through her hair. Her golden strands fought to dance in the breeze, but her tie kept them in place. In the morning, she looked brighter than the sun, and he felt he could live this way every day. He envisioned going to sleep at night with her by his side and waking up to her warmth before heading off to work.

Rose quietly placed the plates and teacups on the table. Tommy watched as she approached him to pour the tea. As soon as her cup was filled, he gently held her wrist. He looked into her beautiful confused eyes as he set the kettle down on the table and lifted her hand to kiss it.

A young woman who has always acted elegant and mature, is now living up to her name. Her cheeks were red, and her hand trembled. He will enjoy watching her come apart slowly.

"Haven't you had enough already, Tommy?" she asked, blushing. She knew she needn't ask such questions to a greedy and ambitious man. This was what made him attractive to most women; personally, she found it amusing, even entertaining.

"I will never get enough of you, love," he said, placing a kiss directly on her wrist pulse. She turned her head to the side, almost as if she tried to hide her blushing face. The young woman looked at the empty wall where the mirror used to be.

Maybe, Roseline was delaying the inevitable but it was necessary, she wasn't ready yet. Tommy is clearly an experienced man, and he isn't exactly lacking with women either. Would he go to another woman if he gets bored of her?  The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.

"We need to eat before we're late for work," she exclaimed, leaning down to kiss his cheek as she pulled her hand away. She moved to the other side of the table to take her seat; this distance felt better for now.

Thomas decided to take the first bite of the breakfast she made, and it tasted better than he had expected. He wasn't someone who was particularly interested in food; he ate merely to avoid hunger, as if it were just a necessity. He took a sip of his tea while glancing at the young woman in front of him.

Rose looked down at her breakfast with an odd expression. For a moment, she seemed detached, but the look passed as quickly as it came. He observed her as she slowly reached for her tea and then began to eat.

"Last night," she broke the silence, sensing the man’s gaze on her. She tried to distract both him and herself from that gaze. "You spoke Romani, didn’t you?"

"You’ve heard it before, eh?" he asked, setting down his cup. He wondered if she understood what he said; it wouldn’t make a difference either way.

He observed the younger woman as she hesitated to reply, but eventually nodded. "Although I don’t fully understand it," she admitted, looking down at the teacup while her finger began to trace the rim.

"It's a language we learned growing' up with gypsies," he explained, finishing his breakfast and reaching for the cup. "Our mother and Polly taught us."

"Your mother was a gypsy too?" Rose asked, suddenly the food became an afterthought. She hadn’t expected Tommy to open up to her about these things; none of them mentioned their mother, maybe just Polly.

Tommy nodded as an answer, offering no further explanation, much to Roseline's disappointment. She knew not to interfere too much with someone else's life; it was none of her business.

The man walked over to the bed to grab his waistcoat and put it on quickly. Rose smiled behind her cup as she watched him pick up the pocket watch that she had bought, she might need a new excuse to get him something.

"Let's get you to work, eh?" he said, glancing at his watch. It was already nine o'clock; time had passed too quickly. Suddenly, he acknowledged the work he needed to do that day.

"If it's not too much trouble," she said as she set down her empty cup and stood up. She adjusted her hair and clothes while Thomas put on his suit jacket. Her gaze fell on the cap hanging on the hook by the door. She walked over, picked it up, and returned to the man who was busy with his coat.

He put on his heavy coat, the fabric making a soft rustling sound. She held his cap with her pale slim fingers, which stood out against the sturdy cap. When he looked up, her bright smile filled his face with warmth. He gently placed the cap on his head, making sure it fit well.

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The car ride was quiet, with only a few words exchanged here and there; it felt peaceful. Roseline was uncertain about all this treatment. She had felt unsure since meeting the Shelbys. Initially, she could explain it away by saying she was Ada's friend or that she was Tommy's assistant. Now, however, she had no solid connection to the family or Tommy. While she might still consider herself Ada's friend, but Ada lived in London now.

Thomas wasn't the type of man to give this much special treatment to a woman, just because he had slept with her. If that were the case, he wouldn't be doing all this since they hadn't had sex. Maybe it was wrong of her to think that Tommy was the dead wearing the living's body, not that she blamed the man. Living is quite hard, especially for people who saw death as often as he did. 

The car came to a stop in front of the hospital. "Thank you again, Tommy," she said to him. "I appreciate it."

"Like we said, yeah?" he asked her seriously, "You'll wait till I or one of my men comes to pick ya up."

Roseline nodded; she didn't need him to say it more than once. "See you soon," she smiled before exiting the car.

Tommy watched her as she walked towards the building, waiting until she safely entered. Once he was sure she was inside, he decided to start the car again and make a turn.

He drove back to the street where Roseline's apartment building was located. He remembered her vague mention of a bookshop nearby. Searching for the bookshop, he finally spotted a small, old shop just around the corner, just as Rose had said. Thomas got out of the car to look at the books on the shelves by the window. He took out a cigarette and lit it.

Tommy walked inside the small shop, the smoke from his cigarette filling the air quickly. The strong smell made the shopkeeper look up from his reading. Tommy looked at the shopkeeper, an old man wearing glasses.

"Morning," the old man had a gruff stern voice, but despite that, Tommy could feel the man's fear as he got closer.

He momentarily forgot about this reaction to him when he stayed with Rose, that woman shows no fear, would the look of fear look beautiful on her as well?

The shopkeeper felt uncomfortable with this man's gaze. He had lived a long life and knew how dangerous men looked. He watched as the man clearly surveyed his small shop. He wanted the man to leave, but he had to stay calm.

"A woman comes here often," Tommy broke the silence, removing the cigarette from his lips. "Blonde hair and green eyes, she's a nurse, yeah?"

Gerard, the shopkeeper, had few buyers and even fewer regular customers. However, whenever he did have customers, he made sure to keep track of them. Few women visited his shop, but the woman the man described, was one of his regulars and among the more pleasant ones.

He remembered that her name started with 'Rose' and that she visited his shop quite often. However, he hadn’t seen her this month.

Her taste in books varied, but he had to admit she always picked good ones. They had an engaging conversation about one of the books, and he respected her bright young mind. Many young people these days don’t seem to appreciate a good book.

"Yeah, she visits the shop," he told the man, not wanting to say too much. 

Tommy looked at the old man, who was clearly hostile. He examined the books and inhaled the smoke from his cigarette. Before the shopkeeper knew it, cash was thrown on the table.

"If she looks at a book for too long, give it to her without charge, eh?" Tommy said, watching as the man's shaking hands reached for the money. "This amount should pay for six months' worth of books."

Gerard stared down at the stack of cash cradled in his trembling hands. He could hardly believe the staggering amount; it was more than he had ever seen at once. This sum had the potential to provide him a year of comfort.

His throat tightened as he tried to muster even a simple thank you, but the words were lodged somewhere deep inside him. As the door clicked shut behind the mysterious benefactor, Gerard remained frozen in place, the weight of the money feeling both liberating and burdening. 

Tommy's office was unnaturally quiet. As he walked in, he glanced at the chair where Roseline had sat a few days earlier, deeply focused on her notebook. He realized that spending his time like this was unproductive, so he settled into his desk chair. The next shipment was scheduled to arrive in London tomorrow, and the items were too important to trust anyone else with, which meant he had to go there himself.

"Tommy," he heard his name being called as the door opened, "You wanted to see me, did ya?"

John was calmer than Arthur and followed instructions much better. While Arthur might have the strength to get the job done, John knew when to stay quiet. After all, their oldest brother was currently enjoying his honeymoon, just one headache away for the moment.

"Johnny boy," Thomas greeted his younger brother as he poured whiskey into the glasses, "come, sit brother."

Tommy handed the glass to him as he sat down in one of the chairs. It had become a routine to watch his brothers choose the same seats every time, even if one of them wasn't in the room. Some habits die hard; this had always been the case in the past. As children, they had unconsciously designated specific chairs at the dinner table.

While having breakfast with Rose, he recalled a distant memory. He had forgotten about the family gatherings around the dinner table; instead, those moments became replaced by small meetings at the garrison. The dinner table had become a hassle, consuming most of his time.

Today, breakfast was easy and didn't take much of his time. The morning was peaceful; there were no loud noises or arguments, just a calmness he never thought he would experience again after the war. It was the first time he started his day without drinking whisky.

"Mornin'," John said as he took a sip of the whisky. "what's this about, brother?"

Thomas grunted as he got up, his anger building as he remembered why he had told his brother to come here. His hand gripped the glass tightly, trying to control his fury.

"I’ve got a man tied up in the shed by the river," he sighed, swallowing the whisky as it went down his throat.

"A man?" his younger brother asked, confused. John thought their enemies would decrease as they moved higher up; he believed it would be quieter than before. "Who's he?"

"It doesn't matter," Tommy gritted his teeth and walked closer to his brother. "I want you to keep that bastard in the shed until I get back."

John had seen his brothers angry, but Tommy was the scariest. His glare could make grown men shiver. "Where are you going?" he asks, trying to avoid his older brother's gaze.

"London, I have business to take care of," Thomas answered vaguely, he moved back to his chair and sat down. 

"You could have told our men to handle him, brother," John said, frustrated. He didn’t understand why he had to keep watch over some man in the shed when they had others who could do it.

However, the expression on Tommy's face was enough to silence him.

"Don't give him any food, just water," he said, lighting his cigar and taking a puff, "keep him alive until I come back."

John nodded, not wanting his brother to unleash his anger on him. He wasn't sure if this situation was business-related; if it were, he would have more information. Tommy clearly wanted to keep this matter quiet. Whatever the man did must have been really serious—at least serious enough to make his usually calm brother angry.

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1922 September 16th

Afternoon

The atmosphere in the hospital felt different from usual. It was still chaotic, but this time there was an underlying sense of nervousness among the staff. Roseline felt confused by this abrupt change as she observed three nurses huddled together, whispering to one another.

Doctors exchanged subtle glances, almost accusing one another. Rose focused on her work, trying not to get distracted by the hospital's current situation.

Roseline walked to the nurse's lounge, her footsteps echoing in the dimly lit corridor, a chill creeping up her spine. Evening was approaching, and with it came an unsettling darkness that seemed to seep into the walls. She hoped to rest for a bit, but a nagging feeling gnawed at her; she would need more than just energy for the long shift ahead.

As she entered the room, she found a few nurses gathered in hushed whispers, their eyes darting nervously to each other.

She took a seat in one of the chairs, sighing as she decided to simply observe and not interfere with whatever was occurring.

"I don't know how you do it, Rose," one of the nurses pointed out, grabbing the blonde's attention.

"What?" Rose asked, puzzled by the statement.

"You're so calm," another nurse, Helen, commented, as she walked to pick an apple from the fruit bowl on the counter, "after everything that's happened."

"What exactly happened?" She knew she would probably regret asking, but her curiosity got the better of her.

Although she wouldn't characterize herself as calm, but it seemed like an easy label for others to apply to her.

“Oh, bloody hell! You don’t know?!” one of them almost yelled. The nurse, whose name Roseline remembered was Anna, sat up straighter from where she was lying on the couch.

"Leave the girl alone, will ya?!" Kaitlyn interrupted before Rose could ask any more questions. Roseline looked at the older nurse, who appeared to have aged another year or two.

The young blonde wanted to know what was happening by now, even though she decided against it a moment ago, she would poke around to get her answers. "I'm confused at the moment," she said, sounding too innocent.

"You haven't read the newspaper, yet?" Kaitlyn asked, looking at her confused.

Roseline shook her head. "I haven't had the chance," she explained. She wanted to smile, knowing that whatever was happening wasn't exactly a secret but something public.

Rose hadn't been reading the newspapers lately because Tommy had been restricting her movements. Although she knew she could ask him to stop by so she could buy a newspaper, but whenever he was nearby, she was eager to find a private space for just the two of them.

"Here," Helen said, handing her a newspaper and pointing to a specific page. "Read this."

Rose quietly sat reading the newspaper, but she continued being aware of the conversation that was happening around her. Nothing caught her attention in the paper except two words, 'Harris' and 'garbage'.

"I felt something was off when Dr. Harris didn't come to work," one of the women said. "I told you something was wrong."

"You weren't working the day he failed to show up," the nurse who initiated the conversation, Judy, pointed out.

"Doesn’t matter what you think, Doctor Harris was found dead," Kaitlyn said, clearly annoyed and tired of the childishness of some of the nurses, "in the bloody trash."

"From what I heard, parts of him," Helen said, drinking a glass of water as she sat down in front of Rose, who was focused on the newspaper.

Roseline tuned out the conversations around her as she read the newspaper. She wasn't sure what she was searching for, but she felt the need to find something—perhaps some kind of proof.

Then she saw it: the name of the street, the alleyway. It was the same alleyway. This was her proof.

But this didn't make any sense if he wanted to get rid of someone. He wouldn't leave any traces of that person behind, yet the body—or whatever remained of it—was on display for the public. It felt almost like a message, meant for her, for himself, or perhaps both.

Her heart raced as a wave of emotions washed over her. A storm brewed inside Rose as she finally understood the path she had subconsciously chosen for herself— the very path she had vowed to avoid. Yet here she was, facing the realities of it all.

"The alley he was found in, had some shady businesses," she heard Judy speaking in the background, "maybe he pissed off the wrong people."

Roseline had to agree that it might have been one of the factors, but not the main reason. Because of his 'mistake,' he became an example, a message, a toy, and ultimately, rubbish.

He will eventually be forgotten. She expects it will take about four months, or even less, for everyone to forget his name or even his entire existence.

This is her reality now, and she must accept it as part of her life. Whether it was part of her original plan or not, she will see it through to the end, if some of the lines remained uncrossed.

Chapter Text

The light streamed through the window, reflecting brightly off a certain blonde-haired figure. Crouched uncomfortably on the desk, the small hand clutched a chalk piece, sliding it across a small wooden board. This little figure wasn’t alone; many others filled the room, some small and some big—just a group of children.

Laughter and whispers intermingled, creating a gentle hum that filled the air. The scent of chalk dust mingled with the warm, inviting aroma of old wood. Sunlight danced across the room, casting playful shadows as the children eagerly engaged in their lessons.

A tall man stood in front of them, his presence commanding yet gentle. He spoke loudly, reading from the book in his hand, but the small blonde wasn't paying attention; she was focused on writing on the small board.

The child was trying to write a big word, so focused on writing the letter 'g', when she felt a big hand ruffle her hair, making her look up.

The man smiled down at her, his eyes twinkling with warmth and encouragement. "What are you working on there?" he asked softly, bending down to see her work. The child beamed up at him, proudly holding up the board to show her attempt at the word, her enthusiasm infectious.

The man chuckled, impressed by her determination. "That's a big word for a little one," he said, gently correcting her spelling. "Keep practicing, and you'll get it right." The child nodded eagerly, already back to work, her excitement undeterred.

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1922 November 12th

Morning

As she opened her eyes, Roseline was greeted by the ceiling above her. She felt as though she were stuck to the bed and experienced a sharp pain in her lower back and abdomen. Clenching the blanket, she took deep breaths. Slowly, Rose peeled back the cover, hesitant to move, as she felt a familiar stickiness that was clinging her to the bed.

Roseline slowly sat up, parting her legs slightly to look down at the bed cover. She sighed, noticing the blood; her cycles had always been irregular. Whenever they arrived, the pain was indescribable. But since moving to Birmingham, her cycles had started to follow a more regular pattern after about a year.

The pain that usually accompanies her menstrual periods has significantly gone down enough for her to notice. However, it isn't consistent; sometimes, the pain returns even worse than before. Roseline finally got up from her bed, wanting to clean up the mess.

She carefully washed herself in the basin on the dresser, using the cold water that had been left in the pitcher overnight. Afterward, she slipped into her cotton chemise and buttoned up her nurse clothes, ensuring the hem was straight.

She took off the cover of the bed and a few dirty clothes and folded them neatly in a small basket. Roseline couldn't stomach the thought of eating right now, so she decided to grab something at the hospital. 

Rose put on her coat, carrying her purse on one arm and a basket on the other. She quietly left the apartment and walked down the stairs; the pain was manageable so far. She was relieved that Tommy didn't have time to spend the night with her, as it would have been inconvenient.

She wasn't embarrassed about it, and she highly doubted that Tommy would care. However, she felt uncomfortable waking up in bed with another person. It was too... sticky, she preferred to keep to herself on days like this.

Some men choose to remain ignorant about certain matters, claiming that it’s 'women's business.' However, they don't realize that these are important things everyone should know, regardless of gender. As she walked, she felt a cramp in her leg; perhaps she should have stayed hydrated.

Rose walked out of the building and spotted Tommy smoking a cigarette next to his car. "Speaking of the devil," she thought to herself. As he noticed her approaching, Tommy threw his cigarette away. Before she had much time to react, he took the basket from her hand.

"Took you long enough," he grunted, opening the car door for her. She knew that if she took too long, Tommy would have barged into her flat as if he owned it. 

"Sorry, Tommy. Next time if I take too long, I will invite you to join me." Roseline couldn't help but tease the man, before getting inside the car. 

"Will ya write a fancy invitation to your room?" Thomas asked, holding the car door open. "Who will send it?"

The young woman looked him up and down, a little smile forming on her lips. "I don't need to, People naturally gravitate towards art," she said, knowing that he didn't need the invite. 

Tommy said nothing as he handed her the basket before closing the door. This woman has no idea how much he was holding back, but when he looks into those eyes, it's like she can see right through him. 

Rose watched him walk to the driver's seat, exuding an unnecessary commanding presence. If only she had brought her sketchbook—when would he stop being so handsome? She understood that every artist needs a muse, but she had always believed that beauty could be found in all things, that's why she didn't need a specific muse.

However, Thomas Shelby introduced her to a new type of art that she had never fully understood despite meeting numerous people. Perhaps this was why she felt so comfortable around him. The blonde glanced again at his hand resting on the steering wheel.

Rose stared at the basket in her hand, remembering she needed to get these items cleaned. Tommy was a real danger; he made her lose focus and led her thoughts astray. He had already derailed half of her plans. While she understood he wasn't at fault for something he didn't know, she believed that even if he did know, he would still act the same way.

"Tommy, can you make a quick stop?" she asks, turning her head towards him, "I need to get this basket to the laundress up ahead"

Tommy's gaze flickered over to her, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aye, the laundress, is it?" he drawled, his accent coloring each word. "I never took you for one to dress up a simple errand with fancy names."

Roseline let out a soft, amused laugh as she rolled her eyes. "Well, Tommy, in a world as grim as this, one must clutch onto a little elegance wherever possible," she replied, the mock-serious tone in her voice belying the genuine warmth behind it.

With the car easing into a turn, Tommy continued, his voice low and teasing, "Words, eh? All right then—if your ‘fancy’ words are worth stoppin’ for, I suppose I can oblige."

"Maybe you’d learn something about choosin’ your words more carefully, Tommy." Roseline’s smile deepened as she inched closer, her tone calm yet edged with playful challenge. "After all, not every phrase needs to be barbed with a bit of grit."

Tommy’s eyes softened for a heartbeat as he returned her gaze, the rough edge of his accent still present. "Maybe so, Ros. But in Birmingham, we all know that a sharp word often cuts clearer than a soft murmur." He leaned back, chuckling as he added, "Besides, it keeps me on me toes—an assistant with such fancy talk surely forces a man to sharpen his wit."

Roseline arched a playful brow. "Oh, my dear Tommy, you of all people should know that wit is best when paired with a touch of elegance." Her voice was light, but there was an undercurrent of challenge—a promise of more gentle banter to come.

"Then I’ll have to learn from the best, won't I?" Tommy replied, his tone turning conspiratorial as he guided the vehicle onto a quieter street. "Keepin’ up with your standards might just render me speechless, love."

The early morning sun bathed the cobblestone street in a warm, golden light, casting long shadows from the surrounding buildings. The soft hum of the city awakening filled the air as shopkeepers began to open their doors and the first few pedestrians made their way down the street.

Tommy guided the car to a halt in front of a small, nondescript building, the laundress’s shop sign faintly visible under the morning light. Roseline gathered her basket, her fingers brushing lightly against Tommy's arm before she opened the car door.

"Won't be long, Tommy," she assured him, her voice softening in the morning stillness.

"Aye, take your time, love," Tommy replied, watching her step out. His eyes lingered on her as she gracefully made her way to the shop, the soft light catching the gentle sway of her coat.

As Roseline pushed open the door and disappeared inside, Tommy leaned back, his gaze shifting to the surroundings. The street was beginning to bustle with activity, the morning air crisp and invigorating. He let out a slow breath, his mind momentarily wandering to the myriad of tasks awaiting him.

Inside the laundress's shop, Roseline was greeted by the warm, soapy scent and the familiar hum of machinery. The laundress, a stout woman with kind eyes, looked up and smiled.

"Good mornin', Miss Roseline," she greeted. "Quite the early hour for errands, ain't it?"

Roseline returned the smile, setting the basket on the counter. "Morning, Mrs. Foster. You know how it is—sometimes the day just gets away from you."

"Aye, that it does. And Mr. Shelby out there waitin' for you, I see. Quite the pair, you two." Mrs. Foster chuckled softly. The woman almost knew everyone in Birmingham, including the gossip. Her work is very good, it made sense why so many people knew her. 

"He's kind enough to oblige my whims." Roseline's cheeks flushed slightly, but she smiled warmly. "Mrs. Foster, could you please ensure these are pressed and ready by this afternoon? It's quite important."

The laundress nodded, her hands already busy with the basket. "Of course, Miss. I'll see to it personally."

"Thank you for your help. This should cover any extra expenses. Roseline reached into her bag and pulled out a few crisp bills, handing them to Mrs. Foster. "I truly appreciate your hard work."

Mrs. Foster's eyes widened slightly at the generous amount, and she gave Roseline a grateful smile. "Thank you, Miss Roseline. You're too kind. I'll have everything ready for you."

Back in the car, Tommy kept a vigilant eye on the street, the morning activity giving way to his thoughts. His mind drifted to their earlier conversation, a smirk playing on his lips as he remembered Roseline's playful challenge.

A few minutes later, the shop door creaked open, and Roseline stepped out, a look of satisfaction on her face. She approached the car, and as she slid back into her seat, she glanced at Tommy with a teasing smile.

"See? I told you it wouldn't take long," she said, closing the door behind her.

"Aye, and now that your 'fancy' words are out of the way, you'll spare some of 'em for me." Tommy chuckled, starting the car. It didn't matter how Rose talked, but sometimes it felt like they lived in different worlds.

Roseline laughed, her eyes twinkling. "Oh, Tommy, you know I'll always have a few choice words for you."

She didn't think words were enough to describe a person, after all the English language is too limited. That could be why many people found the arts as a great way to describe many things, including people. 

As the car glided smoothly down the cobblestone street, the city around them slowly came to life. Tommy’s hands rested casually on the steering wheel, his eyes focused intently ahead. His brow was furrowed in thought, a deep concentration evident in his expression. Every now and then, his fingers would tap rhythmically against the wheel, a telltale sign of his mind at work.

Roseline stole a glance at Tommy, her eyes tracing the lines of his profile. She admired the quiet strength he exuded, the way his presence seemed to command the very air around him. Yet, beneath her admiration, a flicker of doubt crept in. She wondered if Tommy had grown tired of her presence, if the weight of his many responsibilities had begun to overshadow the moments they shared.

As the car continued its journey, the silence between them grew heavy with unspoken thoughts. Roseline's mind wandered, replaying their recent conversations and interactions. She recalled the way Tommy's eyes would soften when he looked at her, the subtle smile that would play on his lips when they engaged in their playful banter. But now, lost in his own thoughts, he seemed distant, almost unreachable.

She took a deep breath, her thoughts spiraling further. Had she become a burden to him? Was her presence merely an interruption in the ever-pressing demands of his life? The idea gnawed at her, she couldn't fault the man, the man would never settle for a woman who was basically withholding sex from him, and she was quite boring.

The cityscape gradually shifted to quieter, more residential areas, the buildings growing older and more ornate. The car's engine purred softly, a constant, comforting background to the thoughts that filled the space between them.

The morning sun continued to rise, casting a gentle glow over the hospital as Tommy guided the car to a stop. The building's grand facade loomed ahead, a testament to the era's architecture with its intricate stonework and imposing presence.

As the engine quieted, Roseline looked at the hospital for a moment, why did it feel like it was moving far away from her? Just as she reached for the door handle, Tommy's voice broke the silence.

"Rose," he began, his tone softened by the quiet moment. "Polly's planning a family outing this weekend. She wants you to come along."

Roseline turned to him, a surprised smile spreading across her face. "Really? A family outing?" she asked, her curiosity piqued. The Shelbys were all about business and are usually rough around the edges, but surprising things like this gave a softer look to them.

"Aye." Tommy nodded, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "She insisted it'll do us all some good. Bit of fresh air, get away from the city for a while."

"I'd love to come. It sounds wonderful." Roseline's smile deepened, the warmth of the invitation filling her heart. It would take her mind off a few things, fresh air will truly do wonders.

Tommy gave a satisfied nod, his gaze holding hers for a moment longer. "Good. We'll leave on Friday, then. Make sure you're ready."

With that, Roseline opened the car door and stepped out, her movements graceful and deliberate. As she adjusted her coat and gathered her bag, she glanced back at Tommy. "Thank you, Tommy. I'll be ready."

"Take care, Ros." Tommy watched her, a rare, genuine smile playing on his lips. 

Roseline nodded and began her walk towards the hospital entrance. The crisp morning air filled her lungs as she took in the bustling scene around her—nurses and doctors hurrying about, patients being escorted inside, and the general hum of activity that defined the hospital's daily rhythm.

Tommy remained in the car, his gaze following her every step. He admired the way she carried herself, the quiet strength and grace that seemed to emanate from her. As she reached the entrance and disappeared inside, he let out a slow breath, gripping the steering.

Soon.

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1922 November 10th

Morning

Polly's house was a cozy haven amidst the chaos of Birmingham. The warm glow of the morning sun filtered through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns on the wooden floors. The scent of freshly brewed tea lingered in the air, mixing with the earthy aroma of the potted plants that adorned the room.

The sudden knock on the door interrupted Polly Gray's morning routine. She frowned slightly, not expecting any visitors. With a mixture of curiosity and caution, she opened the door to find Thomas Shelby standing there, his expression unreadable.

"Thomas? What brings you here this early?" Polly asked, her surprise evident in her voice.

Tommy stepped inside, removing his flat cap and glancing around the familiar room. "Morning, Pol. Thought I'd drop by for a chat," he replied, everything was easy until now. It felt like everything was coming to life, if this was just business it might have been easier.

"Couldn't this chat have waited till the office, or even the new treasury?" Polly raised an eyebrow, still puzzled. It was too early in the morning, and even her maid was asleep, she gave her some rest. 

"Needed to discuss a few things away from prying ears." Tommy shook his head, a small frown forming on his lips. He'd rather this conversation was private, he didn't want people to see him like this.

Polly led him to the sitting room, where the warmth of the fireplace added a comforting glow to the space. She gestured for him to sit, and they both settled into the armchairs facing each other. Unbeknownst to them, Michael stood silently outside, listening to their conversation through the door.

"So, what's on your mind?" Polly asked, pouring them both a cup of tea. "Is it about sorting the pay for the lads? I know there were some issues last week."

"Aye, that's part of it. I've already made sure everything's sorted." Tommy nodded, taking a sip of the tea. "Pay will be on time, and there won't be any more delays."

It wasn't about the pay or their workers; he simply needed to build up to the main reason he came here. He had spent the last few months preparing everything and wasn't going to leave empty-handed.

"Good. The lads were getting restless, and we can't afford any more disruptions." Polly sighed in relief. It was causing her a headache, ever since she became the company's treasurer, and Michael the accountant.

They discussed the company's affairs for a few more minutes, addressing various issues and making plans for the week ahead. But Polly couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Tommy's visit than just business. Even if he had the same stoic and emotionless face, there was something 'different' about him today.

After a brief silence, she leaned forward, her gaze fixed on Tommy. "Alright, Tommy. What's the real reason you're here? This conversation could have easily happened at the office."

What kind of fucking trouble are they in for Thomas to be so bloody silent? Polly knew it was too good to be true for it to be this calm for them; she should have seen it coming.

"Tommy, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice tinged with anxiety. "Is it the police? Has something happened to Arthur or John?"

Tommy hesitated, his eyes darting away for a moment before meeting hers again. Polly's concern grew, and she felt a knot of worry tightening in her chest.

"Did someone die?" she asked, her voice tinged with anxiety. "Did you fuckin' kill someone important?!"

"No, Pol, no one's fuckin' dead." Tommy shook his head quickly, lighting his cigar again and taking a long drag. Far from it and the quite opposite, if you think about it. 

Polly's frustration began to mount. She had never seen Tommy this hesitant before. "Is it a new business plan, then? Some new scheme you're cooking up?"

If it was a new business idea, she didn't mind; she just hoped to God that he wouldn't put the family in danger again. Their family was expanding, especially with Arthur married to Linda and Esme giving birth to her first son. Unfortunately, this new business idea seemed dangerous enough to frighten Tommy deeply.

Tommy remained silent, his eyes focused on the swirling smoke from his cigar. Polly's patience wore thin, and she leaned forward, her voice sharp. "Tommy, what the hell is goin' on? What could possibly make Thomas Shelby bloody scared?"

Thomas wasn't scared; he was thinking about the future. He had many plans and decisions for the company and his family. He wasn't scared or nervous.

"I'm not scared. I just... I need your help." Tommy's gaze snapped to hers, his eyes intense. The only way to get what he wanted now, was to be honest.

"My help? With what?" Polly's eyes widened in surprise. Thomas Shelby wanted her help and admitted it for something unrelated to business? The world was truly changing.

"Planning a wedding." The man took another drag from his cigar, the tension in the room palpable. 

Polly's jaw dropped, her eyes searching Tommy's face for any hint of a joke. "A wedding? For who?"

"For me, Pol. My wedding." Tommy leaned back, a rare, vulnerable expression crossing his features. The word never felt odd before; now he wasn't so sure, but it didn't feel wrong.

Polly stared at him in stunned silence for a moment before a laugh bubbled up from deep within her. She shook her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. "Only Thomas Shelby isn't afraid of anything... except marriage," she mocked, still chuckling.

The man had killed people for Christ's sake and had faced a bloody war. Yet, here he was, able to say the words marriage. or 'wedding.' Men are truly curious creatures. Her nephews and niece were clearly intimidating, but here was the boss acting as if he were making decisions about war.

Tommy watched her with a half-smile, his cigar smoldering between his fingers. "So Roseline said yes, then?" Polly continued, her laughter tapering off.

She hoped it was Roseline, the girl who had helped them significantly over the past few years. Roseline had become a good friend and the only person who brought a spark to Tommy's eyes—a spark that had faded long ago in the midst of the bloody war.

"I haven't asked her yet." Tommy's smile faded slightly as he shook his head. The day when all of it will fall into place, she will be his and only his. 

"You haven't asked her yet?" Polly raised an eyebrow, her amusement turning into incredulity. "And here you are, planning the wedding already?"

"I wanted to make sure everything was in place before I did." Tommy's gaze remained steady. He prepared everything, he bought the house, the ring, everything. All that was left, was the wedding and Rose's agreement, but either way, they will get married.

"Tommy, don't force her into this." Polly's expression softened into one of concern. "You know Roseline. She's a lovely girl."

She didn't want to see the young woman's light to dim, Rose was young, beautiful, kind, and a breath of fresh air. Polly felt guilty that someone like her got wrapped up in their mess, but she was also grateful for her presence, despite that she was suspicious of the young woman at first.

"You're acting like her mother, Pol." Thomas chuckled, shaking his head. Polly always acted as a mother figure to them, but he didn't like her focus on Rose.

"You know the poor girl has no one, Tommy." Polly then leaned back, her gaze thoughtful. "That's why I worry." 

"You won't need to worry, Pol. Rose will be a Shelby." Tommy's expression softened, his voice gentle yet firm. She will be his one way or another.

Polly raised an eyebrow, a teasing smile playing on her lips. "If she accepts."

Chapter Text

A woman dressed in a fancy dark dress approached a building situated in the middle of essentially nowhere, her pitch-black hair threatening to escape from the bun. With a hat covering her eyes, she did not hide her look of disdain as she entered.

"Welcome, ma’am, you must be Mrs. Marshall. We’ve been expecting you," an older nurse greeted her. The nurse appeared plain and simple, like any other. Mrs. Marshall’s eyes flickered to the nurse only briefly before drifting away again, as though dismissing her existence entirely. The nod she gave was slow and almost begrudging, her attention shifting to quietly survey her surroundings.

The tall, expansive windows allowed an abundance of light to flood in, which annoyed her; she preferred the dark. As she stepped out of the sunlight’s reach, a faint creak echoed from the wooden floorboards, as if the building itself groaned under the weight of her presence. The air carried the scent of aged stone and dust, a mix that felt almost oppressive to her. Mrs. Marshall’s lips pressed into a hard line as she noted the high ceilings and stone walls, which amplified the echoes of footsteps like a drumbeat. 

The nurse introduced herself as the head nurse, her voice steady and calm. "I'm Sister Agnes, the head nurse here. The keeper informed us of your arrival," she said, gesturing for Mrs. Marshall to follow her.

As they walked through the dim corridors, Sister Agnes continued, "We take pride in providing a nurturing environment for the children. Meals are served in the dining hall, where they gather three times a day to eat." She pointed to a large room filled with long wooden tables and benches. The faint aroma of boiled vegetables and bread lingered in the air, though the hall was empty, the silence almost unsettling. "Each child is given a balanced diet to ensure they grow up healthy and strong."

"In addition to their meals, the children start their day with morning prayers," Sister Agnes explained. "Afterward, they attend lessons in our modest schoolroom, where they learn reading, writing, and arithmetic. Afternoons are reserved for outdoor play in the garden, where they enjoy fresh air and exercise." As they passed a door left slightly ajar, the faint laughter of children spilled out, momentarily breaking the heavy stillness before fading as the door swung shut.

"I understand you are here looking to adopt a child, is that right?" the nurse asked, turning to her.

"Yes, I am. I want to provide a loving home for a child in need," Mrs. Marshall replied. Her voice was measured, almost emotionless, though her sharp eyes scanned the corridor as though seeking something hidden within the rows of doors.

"Do you have a preference for adopting a boy or a girl?" Sister Agnes inquired gently.

The woman paused, considering the question thoughtfully. "I don’t have a preference," she replied. "I just want to find a child below the age of twelve."

The nurse smiled warmly. "We have several children who would be thrilled to find a loving home. Let's go to the common room, and I can introduce you to some of them."

Mrs. Marshall followed Sister Agnes down the dim, narrow corridor, her heels clicking sharply against the cold stone floor. The echoes seemed to stretch into the distance, as if the building itself were amplifying her presence. The scent of polished wood and lingering incense grew stronger with each step, mingling with the faint murmur of children’s voices that now seemed just out of reach. At last, they reached the common room.

Sister Agnes pushed open the double doors, revealing a bright space alive with activity. Children laughed, read, and played amidst the warm golden light streaming through tall windows. The cheerful murals and mismatched furniture seemed at odds with the somber halls outside.

Mrs. Marshall paused in the doorway, her gaze sweeping across the room with deliberate precision. Her face remained a careful mask, but her lips pressed thin, and her eyes darkened ever so slightly. To her, the room was uncomfortably loud, the children’s laughter grating. A faint look of disgust flickered across her face but vanished almost as quickly as it came, concealed beneath an air of composed indifference.

Sister Agnes stepped forward, clapping her hands once. "Children, gather around, please. We have a special guest today."

The room hushed almost instantly, the children setting aside their activities as they scrambled to line up. They formed an uneven row, their wide eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and apprehension. A few fidgeted with their clothes, while others clutched at one another’s hands.

Mrs. Marshall’s gaze moved deliberately down the line of children, taking in each face with a cold scrutiny. The first was a rosy-cheeked girl with pigtails, her dress slightly frayed at the hem. She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and looked up with wide, hopeful eyes. Next stood a lanky boy with unruly curls, his shoes worn and scuffed. He shifted awkwardly under her gaze, his hands shoved into his pockets, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for rejection.

The woman moved on, her lip curling almost imperceptibly as her eyes passed over a girl with freckles splashed across her nose. The girl offered a bright smile, but it quickly faltered under Mrs. Marshall’s unwavering stare.

Her inspection continued until her gaze landed on a small figure at the far end of the line. The child stood apart from the others, slightly hunched, their short blond hair falling forward in a curtain that obscured their face. Their hands hung loosely at their sides, fingers twitching slightly, as though they were resisting the urge to fidget. Unlike the others, who had turned their faces up to meet her gaze, this child stared resolutely at the ground, silent and still.

Something about them caught Mrs. Marshall’s attention. She narrowed her eyes, her heels clicking against the floor as she strode toward the child. The room seemed to hold its breath as the other children exchanged nervous glances.

Mrs. Marshall stopped in front of the child, her gloved hand extending to tilt her hat slightly back, giving her an unobstructed view. "Look up," she commanded, her voice firm and cold.

The child did not respond. Their head remained bowed, the blond strands shielding their face like a veil. A flicker of irritation crossed Mrs. Marshall’s face, but she quickly smoothed her expression. She leaned down slightly, just enough to lower her voice to a quieter, more commanding tone. "I said, look at me."

Mrs. Marshall’s sharp gaze lingered on the child, the small figure still standing stubbornly apart from the line. The blond hair hiding the child’s face made them seem almost like a shadow in the bright room, an enigma that both intrigued and irritated her. She stood silent for a moment, her presence commanding as the air in the room grew heavy with expectation.

"Child, lift your head now. We have a guest. Show some respect." Sister Agnes stepped forward, her tone firm but gentle. 

When the child still did not comply, the nurse turned to Mrs. Marshall with an apologetic expression. "I’m terribly sorry, ma’am. She has been... stubborn lately. I assure you, this isn’t typical behavior. I’ll have a word with her later."

Mrs. Marshall’s patience had clearly reached its limit. She did not waste another word. Her gloved hand darted forward with precision, gripping the child’s chin firmly but not unkindly. The room seemed to freeze as she gently but firmly tilted the child’s face upward, revealing their features.

Bright green eyes stared back at her, their gaze striking and vivid against the pallor of the child’s complexion. Those eyes burned with defiance, a quiet strength that belied the child’s small frame. For a moment, Mrs. Marshall’s cold facade flickered, an unspoken thought passing through her mind as she held the child’s gaze.

The child’s lips pressed into a tight line, refusing to speak but unable to tear their eyes away from the woman’s commanding presence. The room remained silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Mrs. Marshall tilted her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied the girl’s expression with unnerving intensity.

The woman's hand remained firm on the girl’s chin, holding her gaze. For a moment, the room was silent, the brightness of the green eyes staring back at her unbroken by either fear or submission. 

"How old is she?" she asked, her tone even but carrying an unmistakable authority.

Sister Agnes hesitated, wringing her hands lightly before answering. "She’s eight," the nurse said, her voice softer now, almost tentative. She glanced between the woman and the child, a shadow of concern flickering across her face.

Mrs. Marshall straightened, releasing the girl’s chin and stepping back. Her expression gave nothing away as she looked at Sister Agnes. "I’ll adopt her," she stated, the words delivered with finality, leaving no room for discussion.

Sister Agnes’s eyes widened slightly, and for the first time, her composed facade faltered. "Adopt her?" she repeated, a note of hesitation creeping into her voice. "Are you certain, ma’am? Perhaps you’d like more time to—"

"I’ve made my decision," Mrs. Marshall interrupted sharply, her gaze unwavering. "I want her."

The nurse stood silent for a moment, clearly torn, her hands clasping tighter as she regarded the girl. Finally, she nodded, though her reluctance was evident in the tightness of her expression. "Very well," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I will make the necessary arrangements."

Mrs. Marshall’s attention returned to the child. "What’s her name?" she asked, her tone cooler now, as though the question were merely a formality.

Sister Agnes hesitated again, her discomfort palpable as she avoided the woman’s gaze. She looked down at the child, who had returned her focus to the floor, her small hands clutching the sides of her dress. After a long pause, the nurse spoke, her voice quieter than before.

"Roseline."

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1922 November 17th

Late morning 

The light filtered through the thick curtains of their bedroom, casting long shadows across the carpeted floor. Linda stood by the wardrobe, carefully slipping into her coat—a tailored piece of deep forest green that complemented the emerald dress beneath it. The coat’s buttons were delicate, almost ornate, and her slender fingers moved deftly as she fastened them one by one. Her golden hair was swept into an elegant twist at the nape of her neck, soft tendrils escaping to frame her face.

Arthur, meanwhile, stood at the opposite side of the room, muttering under his breath as he struggled with his cufflinks. Dressed in a sharp three-piece suit that fit snugly across his broad shoulders, he was every bit the Shelby enforcer—albeit a slightly flustered one. His tie hung loosely around his neck, and the faint sheen of sweat on his brow hinted at his growing frustration.

"Bloody hell," Arthur grumbled, fumbling with the tiny silver pieces. "Who the fuck thought cufflinks were a good idea, eh? Waste of time."

Linda turned toward him, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips as she crossed the room. "Come here," she said softly, taking his wrists in her hands. "Honestly, Arthur, it’s like you forget how to dress yourself every time we go out."

Arthur huffed but didn’t resist, letting her guide his hands to his sides as she quickly and efficiently fastened the cufflinks. Her fingers moved with precision, her expression calm as if she’d done this a thousand times before. "That’s because I’ve got you to do it for me," he murmured, his voice low and tinged with affection. His dark eyes searched her face as she worked, his rough edges momentarily softened.

Linda finished and stepped back, tilting her head as she inspected him. "There," she said, straightening his tie and brushing a stray piece of lint from his lapel. "Now you actually look like you belong to the Shelby family."

Arthur’s mouth twitched into a crooked grin. "As long as I’m not looking too good, eh? Don’t want Tommy thinking I’m trying to outshine him."

"Tommy?" she repeated, lifting her head at Arthur, her brows furrowing. "You didn’t tell me he’d be there."

Arthur scratched the back of his neck, glancing down at the floor like a scolded schoolboy. "Well, uh, I figured it’d come up sooner or later," he muttered, avoiding her gaze. "He’s family, love. Can’t have a family outing without him."

Linda pressed her lips together, her expression caught between irritation and unease. "And what exactly should I expect from him today, Arthur?" she asked, her voice carefully measured. "A pleasant chat over tea? Or some new scheme he’ll drag you into while the rest of us watch?"

"Look, Tommy’s Tommy. You know how he is." Arthur sighed heavily, stepping closer to her. "But he’s been good lately. Says he wants everyone to feel, you know… like a proper family."

"A proper family," Linda repeated, her tone laced with skepticism. She looked away, smoothing her coat as if to distract herself. "That’s one way of putting it."

As Linda slipped on her gloves, she glanced at Arthur, her brow arching slightly. "Where exactly is this ‘family outing’ anyway?" she asked, her tone casual but with a hint of skepticism lurking beneath.

Arthur was busy adjusting his overcoat, patting the pockets as if checking for something. "Near that stream," he muttered, "you know, the one just outside Small Heath. Bit of fresh air, Polly says. ‘Good for the soul,’ or some bollocks like that."

Linda froze, mid-motion, her hand lingering on the clasp of her handbag. "A stream?" she mumbled under her breath, her voice barely audible but carrying a note of disdain. She turned back to the mirror, her lips tightening as she fussed with a stray curl. "How charming," she added, her sarcasm thinly veiled.

Arthur caught her tone and stopped fussing with his coat to glance at her. "Oi, don’t go gettin’ all uppity about it, love," he said, leaning against the doorframe. His voice softened as he added, "This was Polly’s idea. You know what she’s like. When she decides on somethin’, you just go along with it, no use arguing."

Linda sighed, shaking her head slightly. "I don’t see the point of dragging everyone out to sit by a stream like children on a picnic," she muttered, though her voice lacked real venom. She adjusted the collar of her coat, her movements precise and deliberate. "But fine. If Polly wants it, then I suppose I’ll endure it."

Arthur smirked, his crooked grin lighting up his otherwise roughened features. "That’s the spirit," he said, pushing off the doorframe and stepping closer to her. "Besides, you get to see me wrestle the boys outta their seats and into the stream if they’ve had one too many. That’s always worth the trip, eh?"

Linda allowed a faint smile to tug at the corner of her lips, though her eyes still carried a trace of reluctance. "Let’s just get this over with," she said, grabbing her handbag and gesturing toward the door.

Arthur held it open for her, watching her stride ahead with an air of composure that made him chuckle softly to himself.

Arthur swung open the car door for Linda with a hint of gallantry, gesturing for her to step in. “There you go, love,” he said, a faint grin tugging at his lips as she settled into the passenger seat. He circled to the driver’s side, his boots crunching against the gravel, before sliding in and starting the engine. The car rumbled to life with a low growl, and soon they were rolling down the narrow streets, the sun hanging low in the sky.

Linda adjusted the gloves on her hands, her gaze fixed out the window. The landscape shifted from the dense cluster of brick buildings to open stretches of road flanked by tall grass and hedgerows. The hum of the engine filled the silence between them, accompanied by the faint rattle of loose metal somewhere in the dashboard.

Arthur, his hands gripping the wheel loosely, glanced at her now and then, though he said nothing. He seemed content to let her sit with her thoughts. Linda, for her part, was glad for the quiet.

Her mind began to drift, the monotony of the passing scenery pulling her back to a different road, in a different place. Scotland. The memory of their honeymoon unfolded in her mind like a vivid dream. She could almost feel the cool, damp air against her skin, the way the morning mist clung to the rolling hills. The scenery had been breathtaking, endless stretches of emerald green broken only by the silvery threads of rivers winding their way to the horizon.

She remembered the small inn where they’d stayed, nestled in the shadow of a looming mountain. It had been simple and unpretentious, with creaking wooden floors and the smell of peat smoke lingering in the air. Arthur had insisted on carrying her over the threshold, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process. They’d both laughed then—a genuine, carefree laugh that felt so foreign now.

The days had been spent exploring the rugged terrain, Arthur leading the way with a boyish enthusiasm that softened his usual rough edges. He’d taken her hand as they wandered through ancient ruins, his voice animated as he made up stories about the lives that had once filled the crumbling stone walls. There had been a lightness to him in those moments, a glimpse of the man he might have been if life hadn’t hardened him so much.

But it was the evenings she cherished most. Sitting by the fire with a glass of whiskey in hand, the flickering light playing across Arthur’s face as he spoke of dreams and promises—things she dared to believe in, even if only for a short while. It had been easy to hope then, wrapped in the warmth of the fire and his rare, unguarded tenderness.

The rattle of the car jolted her back to the present, and the memory faded like mist in the sun. She turned her head slightly to glance at Arthur, his profile etched in the golden light streaming through the windshield. He was humming softly to himself, his fingers drumming against the wheel in time with a tune only he seemed to hear.

For a brief moment, she wondered if he ever thought about their time in Scotland, if those fleeting days of peace had meant as much to him as they had to her. But she didn’t ask. Instead, she adjusted her coat and returned her gaze to the road ahead, the lines of her face tightening ever so slightly.

"Not far now," Arthur said, breaking the silence. His voice was lighter than usual, almost cheerful. He glanced at her with a crooked grin. "Bet you Polly’s already there, bossin’ everyone around like she owns the place."

Linda managed a faint smile, nodding absently. "I’m sure she is," she replied, though her mind was still lingering in the past, caught between the memory of what was and the reality of what is.

The car came to a slow stop on the narrow dirt path that led to the stream. Arthur killed the engine, and for a moment, the only sound was the soft rustle of leaves and the faint babble of water in the distance. Linda adjusted the hem of her coat and stepped out onto the uneven ground, the cool breeze tugging lightly at her hair. She glanced around, taking in the open field that stretched out before them, dotted with wildflowers swaying in the wind.

Arthur came around to her side, slipping a hand onto the small of her back as they began walking toward the stream. From a small distance, they could see the others gathered—figures milling about by the water, their laughter carrying faintly on the breeze. It was a deceptively peaceful scene, one that almost seemed out of place for the Shelby family.

"Looks like the whole bloody gang’s here," Arthur muttered, squinting as he tried to pick out who was who. Linda said nothing, her eyes scanning the group ahead with careful curiosity.

John was the first to notice them, his arm draped casually around Esme, who stood beside him with an air of confident ease. Her dark brown hair was braided back, adorned with small beads that glinted in the sunlight. She turned slightly, catching sight of Linda and Arthur, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"Well, look who’s finally made it!" John called, his grin broad and unapologetic as he stepped forward to greet them. "The newlyweds—decided to crawl out of your little love nest, eh?"

Arthur chuckled, pulling his younger brother into a rough hug. "It’s good to see you too, you cheeky sod," he replied, clapping John on the back with enough force to make him wince.

Linda hung back slightly, adjusting her gloves as her gaze flickered to Esme. The other woman gave her an appraising look, the kind that felt simultaneously friendly and challenging. "Linda," Esme said, her voice smooth as she stepped forward, extending a hand. "Lovely coat. Arthur does have good taste when he tries."

Linda accepted the handshake with a polite nod, her lips curving into a faint smile. "He tries," she agreed softly, her tone neutral but not unkind.

"Oi, don’t gang up on me already," Arthur said, stepping between them with mock indignation. "We haven’t even had a drink yet!"

"Drinks? Oh, they’re coming." John laughed, tossing an arm around Arthur’s shoulders. "Polly’s got everyone sorted—she’s been barking orders since we got here."

Esme smirked, glancing toward the blankets near the stream where Polly stood organizing a few baskets of food. "She’s in fine form today," Esme said, her voice tinged with amusement. "I’d suggest you don’t cross her, Linda. She bites."

"I’ll keep that in mind." Linda offered a tight smile, her gloved hands tightening around her handbag. 

As Arthur shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto a nearby chair, he scanned the group gathered by the stream. Polly was directing everyone with her usual no-nonsense demeanor, while Ada arranged a blanket with the help of one of the children.

Arthur frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing as he looked around. “Where’s Tommy, then?” he asked, his voice carrying easily over the sound of rustling leaves and distant laughter. "He’s not skipping out on us, is he?"

Polly, who had been unpacking a picnic basket, straightened up and fixed him with a pointed look. "Tommy’s got business," she said matter-of-factly, brushing off her hands. "He’ll be here shortly."

"Business, eh?" Arthur snorted, shaking his head as he jammed his hands into his pockets. "Of course he does. Can’t ever take a fuckin' break, can he?"

John, grinning as he overheard, took a drag from his cigarette and chimed in. "You know our Tommy—always busy. Probably sealing some deal right now while we’re stuck playing nice."

"Playing nice?" Esme said, raising an eyebrow at her husband. "I didn’t realize sitting by a stream required so much effort, Johnny."

Arthur chuckled, though there was still a trace of unease in his expression. He turned back to Polly, his voice dropping slightly. "Business, you say. What kind of business?"

Polly waved a hand dismissively, her sharp tone leaving no room for further questions. "The usual. Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Arthur. He’ll be here when he’s done."

Arthur sighed but nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Right, then. Guess we’ll have to entertain ourselves till he shows up." He cast a glance at Linda, who stood quietly at his side, her expression calm but unreadable. "Come on, love, let’s see what Ada’s got going on."

As they moved toward Ada and the others, Polly turned her attention back to the baskets, her eyes glinting as if she knew more than she let on.

Arthur guided Linda toward Ada, who was sitting cross-legged on a blanket near the stream, the vibrant greens of the countryside providing a sharp contrast to her stylish, urban attire. Her dark hair was loosely tied back, and a cigarette dangled from her fingers as she carefully arranged some sandwiches on a plate. Beside her, a young boy—her son, Karl—played with a stick, dragging it lazily across the ground and sending small clumps of dirt flying.

"Ada!" Arthur called out, his face lighting up with the easy charm he reserved for his little sister. "Look who’s finally decided to grace us with her presence, eh?"

Ada glanced up, her expression softening as she spotted them. She smirked, flicking ash from her cigarette before she rose gracefully to her feet. "Arthur," she said, her voice tinged with mock exasperation. "You make it sound like I’ve been avoiding you."

"Well, you have," Arthur replied, pulling her into a quick hug that made her laugh. "Off livin’ it up in bloody London while we’re stuck in Small Heath."

Linda, standing a step behind Arthur, extended a polite smile. "London must be quite different," she remarked, her tone composed. "It’s a...different pace of life, I imagine."

Ada turned her attention to Linda, giving her an appraising look. "Different isn’t the half of it," she said, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "It’s loud, chaotic, and full of people who think they’re better than you."

Arthur snorted, folding his arms across his chest. "Sounds like your kind of place, Ada. Always too smart for us lot, weren’t you?"

Ada rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it. "Maybe," she said lightly, before gesturing to the blanket. "Sit down, both of you. You look ridiculous just standing there."

He flopped down onto the blanket without hesitation, tugging at his tie as he did. "Bloody thing," he muttered, loosening it with a rough pull. "Bet they don’t make men wear these in London, eh?"

Ada chuckled, sinking back onto the blanket with a practiced elegance that spoke to her years away from the roughness of Small Heath. She turned to Linda, who hesitated for a moment before carefully lowering herself onto the edge of the blanket, smoothing her coat as she sat.

"So," Ada said, leaning back on her hands. "How’s married life treating you both? I trust you haven’t killed each other yet?"

Arthur laughed, the sound booming across the field. "Not yet, though she does give me the look now and then. You know the one." He winked at Ada, who smirked knowingly.

Linda’s smile remained polite, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "It’s been...an adjustment," she said carefully. "But I suppose every marriage is."

Arthur, sensing his wife's tension, reached for one of the sandwiches Ada had been arranging. “Oi, enough of this married-life talk," he said, biting into the bread with gusto. "What about you, eh, Ada? Livin’ all fancy in London—bet you don’t miss any of us, do you?"

Ada’s smile softened slightly, her gaze drifting toward Karl, who had wandered closer to the stream. "I miss some things," she admitted quietly. "It’s not always easy, being away. But sometimes..." She paused, her eyes flickering to Arthur. "Sometimes distance is what you need, you know?"

"Aye, maybe." Arthur nodded slowly, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "But you’re here now, so no more talk of bloody London, alright? Let’s just enjoy the day."

"Fair enough, Arthur. Fair enough." Ada chuckled, lifting her cigarette to her lips. 

The group had settled into an easy rhythm as they watched the children play by the stream. The sound of laughter filled the air, blending with the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle murmur of the water. Linda stood a little apart from the others, her gloved hands clasped neatly as her gaze drifted between the children and the adults. Arthur was deep in conversation with John and Ada, his rough chuckle carrying over every so often.

After a few quiet moments, something in the distance caught Linda’s eye. She squinted slightly, her posture straightening as she focused on the faint figures moving along the dirt path that led toward the stream. At first, they were just shadows framed by the sunlight, but as they drew closer, their forms became clearer—two people, walking side by side.

Linda’s brow furrowed. The man’s familiar stride, sharp suit, and flat cap made it unmistakably clear who he was. Tommy Shelby. But it was the figure beside him—a younger woman—that caused Linda to hesitate. She couldn’t place her at first, though the striking blonde hair and graceful demeanor stirred something faint in her memory.

Arthur was the first to notice her distraction. He followed her gaze, his face lighting up as he spotted Tommy. "about bloody time," he muttered, pushing off the tree he’d been leaning against. "Look who’s finally deigned to join us."

The rest of the family turned their heads as Tommy and the woman approached. Tommy, as ever, carried himself with a commanding presence, his expression calm but unreadable. The woman beside him was striking, her posture confident and her green eyes scanning the group with a quiet curiosity. She wore a simple yet elegant dress under a fitted coat, the hem swaying slightly as she walked.

"Tommy! Thought you weren’t gonna show." John was the first to call out, his tone teasing. "Business keeping you late, was it?"

Tommy smirked faintly, his hands tucked into his pockets as he glanced at his younger brother. "Business always keeps me late, John."

The group chuckled lightly as Tommy came to a stop near them. Arthur stepped forward, pulling Tommy into a quick, firm embrace. "Good to see you, brother," Arthur said, clapping him on the back.

"Rose!" Ada called out, her arms already outstretched. Roseline’s reserved expression softened instantly as she stepped forward to meet Ada’s embrace. The two women hugged tightly, a familiarity and affection evident in the way Ada whispered something to her, causing Roseline to laugh quietly.

"I didn’t know you were coming," Ada said, pulling back slightly but keeping her hands on Roseline’s shoulders. "You could’ve warned me—I would’ve brought the book I promised you."

Roseline smiled, her green eyes glinting in the sunlight. "I’m sorry, I have been very busy at the hospital lately," she admitted, glancing briefly at Tommy, whose expression remained unreadable. "It was a bit of a last-minute decision."

Ada scoffed lightly, though her grin didn’t fade. "Typical Tommy," she muttered. She turned toward the group and gestured for Roseline to follow her. "Come on, sit with me. I’ve been stuck listening to John’s dreadful jokes for the last twenty minutes—you’ll be doing me a favor."

Ada looped her arm through Roseline's and led her toward Linda, who was standing slightly apart with Arthur by her side. Ada’s voice carried easily as she spoke, her tone warm.

"Linda," Ada began, her smile widening, "I don’t think you’ve been properly introduced to Roseline, have you?"

Linda straightened slightly, her polite demeanor returning as she glanced at Roseline. Before she could speak, Roseline stepped forward, her smile soft and kind, the sort that carried an immediate disarming charm.

"I wasn’t sure if you’d remember me," Roseline said gently, her green eyes meeting Linda’s with an unmistakable sincerity. "We met briefly at the church."

Linda’s brows lifted slightly, the memory clicking into place. She nodded, a faint smile crossing her lips. "I remember," she replied, her tone careful but not unfriendly. "You were with Arthur that day."

Before either of them could continue, Polly chimed in, her sharp wit effortlessly cutting through the conversation. "We had to drag Arthur there one way or another," she said with a sly smile.

Roseline glanced at Arthur, her smile growing a touch brighter before turning back to Linda. "Arthur needed a bit of a nudge, maybe, but he was worth the effort," she said, her voice warm but matter-of-fact. "You’ve made him better, Linda. You’ve given him something solid to hold onto."

Linda blinked, taken slightly aback by the genuine kindness in Roseline’s words. For a moment, her guarded expression softened. "Thank you," she said simply, her voice quieter now.

Linda’s gaze followed Roseline as the young woman moved effortlessly through the gathering, her calm demeanor and easy charm seemingly weaving her into the very fabric of the chaos. Yet, for all her warmth and poise, there was something about her that unsettled Linda, a faint but nagging sensation that lingered just beneath the surface.

It wasn’t anything Roseline had said—her words were measured and kind, her interactions with each family member filled with a sincerity that was hard to question. But it was the way she carried herself, the way those striking green eyes seemed to catch every flicker of movement, every whispered word, as though nothing escaped her notice. There was an intensity to them, a depth that didn’t quite align with her outwardly welcoming nature.

Linda adjusted the gloves on her hands, her expression betraying nothing as her thoughts churned quietly. She had seen plenty of women come and go in the orbit of the Shelby family—some brash and bold, others cunning and ambitious—but Roseline was different. She seemed too composed, too perfectly placed, like she belonged here in a way that felt almost unnatural.

Chapter Text

1922 November 17th

Afternoon 

The women were gathered on the soft grass by the stream, the sunlight casting dappled patterns through the trees above. Ada reclined comfortably, her elbows propped behind her, a cigarette perched delicately between her fingers, as she let the warmth of the afternoon settle into her. Roseline sat with graceful ease, her back straight and legs folded beneath her, exuding the quiet poise that seemed second nature to her.

Esme, ever animated, leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her sharp gaze flitting between the women as the conversation flowed. Linda sat slightly apart, her posture immaculate, gloved hands resting in her lap, her face composed and inscrutable, betraying nothing as she listened.

"Ada," Rose began, turning her bright green eyes toward the other woman with soft curiosity, "how has London been treating you? And Karl—he has been growing so quickly. Does he like it there?"

Ada took a drag from her cigarette, exhaling slowly as a fond smile curved her lips. "London’s chaotic as ever, but I like it that way. Keeps me sharp. And Karl..." Her voice softened as she thought of her son. "He’s a little terror. Always climbing—tables, chairs, you name it. Nearly gave me a heart attack last week when he got onto the counter looking for sweets."

"He sounds full of energy. Just like his mother." Roseline’s laughter was warm, like sunlight breaking through the trees. She is reminded of the times that Ada dragged her to pubs, knowing the fact she doesn't drink. 

"Let’s hope he learns to channel it better than I did." Ada smirked, the compliment earning her approval. 

"Speakin’ of little terrors," Esme chimed in, her tone carrying her usual blunt edge, "mine have been running circles around me all week. John thinks it’s bloody hilarious, of course. No help from him—he’s too busy laughing at me trying to keep them in line."

"What did you bloody expect, Esme?" Ada snorted, shaking her head. "John’s practically a kid himself."

Esme rolled her eyes but grinned. "True enough. But honestly, I wouldn’t trade it. They’re exhaustin’, but they’ve got this way of making you feel alive, you know? Like nothin’ else matters but them."

"Children have a way of doing that. They remind us of what’s truly important—of finding joy in the smallest things." Rose said, her expression softening as she leaned in slightly. They knew too much, and too little.

Linda, who had been watching the interplay in silence, shifted slightly. The sunlight caught the delicate sheen of her gloves as she adjusted them. Her voice, when it came, was even and measured. "Arthur and I got away from all the chaos for a bit after the wedding. We spent our honeymoon in Scotland."

"Scotland? That sounds like a perfect escape." Roseline turned toward her, genuine interest lighting her features. "What was it like?"

For a brief moment, Linda’s composed demeanor softened. A faint smile touched her lips as she glanced toward the stream. "It was beautiful," she said quietly. "The air was clean, the landscapes... breathtaking. Arthur surprised me, in his own way. He found joy in the simplest things—watching the sunrise, walking through the hills. It was..." She hesitated, searching for the right word. "...peaceful."

"Arthur? Enjoyin’ quiet moments?" Ada arched an eyebrow, her tone laced with playful disbelief. "I’ll have to see that for myself."

Linda met her sister-in-law’s gaze, her smile faint but steady. "He has his moments. You just have to know where to look."

Roseline tilted her head, her voice gentle. "It sounds like it was exactly what you both needed—a chance to step away and just... be."

Linda’s gaze flickered toward Roseline, her expression unreadable. "Yes," she said simply, her tone betraying nothing more.

A brief silence settled over the group, broken only by the sound of the stream and the distant laughter of children. Linda adjusted the buttons on her gloves, her movements precise. "You’ve been in Birmingham for some time now, haven’t you, Roseline?" she asked, her tone polite but edged with curiosity. "What is it that you do?"

Roseline met Linda’s gaze calmly, her poise unwavering. "I’m a nurse," she said simply. "I’ve been working at the hospital since I arrived."

Ada, who had been idly picking at the grass beside her, glanced up with a knowing grin. "She’s leavin’ out the interestin’ part," she teased, her tone sly. "Roseline wasn’t just workin’ at the hospital. She somehow managed to be Tommy’s assistant at the same time. How she didn’t lose her mind, I’ll never know."

Linda’s posture stiffened ever so slightly, though her expression remained composed. "You worked for Tommy as well?" she asked, her tone measured.

Roseline nodded, her green eyes steady. "Yes," she admitted. "It was... an interesting time. Nursing is my passion, but Tommy needed someone who could handle certain aspects of his business—someone he could trust. I suppose I was in the right place at the right time."

The lie she kept saying all these years in Birmingham, now felt like it was the truth. She knew better, she had practiced over many times.

"How in hell did you manage both?" Esme leaned forward, her eyebrows raised. "I can barely keep up with my lot, and you were jugglin’ the hospital and Thomas Shelby?"

A wry smile curved Roseline’s lips. "It wasn’t easy," she admitted. "But I’ve always been good at compartmentalizing—keeping work at work and focusing on what’s in front of me. And Tommy... he has a way of persuading people when he needs to."

"That’s puttin’ it mildly." Ada chuckled, shaking her head as she exhaled smoke. "I’m surprised he didn’t drag you back the second you handed in your notice." 

Roseline’s smile turned softer, a touch of amusement in her eyes. "Oh, he tried," she said lightly. "But I knew my place was at the hospital. It’s where I feel most useful."

Linda adjusted her gloves again, her movements deliberate as she studied Roseline. "You must have seen a lot," she said evenly. "Working in both worlds like that."

"I did," Rose replied, her tone steady. "But it taught me a great deal—about people, about resilience, and about knowing where I stand."

"So, Linda," Roseline continued, her voice warm but curious, "Polly mentioned your impressive work at the church. It sounds like you’ve been doing so much to help the community."

Linda’s back straightened further, her hands folding neatly in her lap. "The church is important to me," she said calmly. "I oversee initiatives—fundraising, outreach programs, food drives. It’s about making sure people feel supported, especially those who’ve fallen through the cracks."

Esme tilted her head, her curiosity sharpening. "So, you’re practically keeping Birmingham afloat. That’s a lot for one person."

Linda’s expression didn’t falter. "It’s demanding," she admitted, "but necessary. Too many people are left without hope. The church gives them something to hold onto, even if it’s just a small gesture."

Roseline smiled thoughtfully, admiration evident in her eyes. "It sounds like you’ve built something strong—a place where people know they’re not alone."

Linda glanced briefly at Roseline, her expression guarded yet reflective. "It’s not just about guidance," she said firmly. "It’s about understanding what people truly need. Sometimes, all they want is to know they haven’t been forgotten."

"Linda’s running the church, saving souls, and keeping Arthur in line. I don’t know how you do it." Ada leaned back, her smirk returning. 

Linda didn’t rise to the teasing. "Arthur is... his own man," she said carefully. "But the church is mine."

The peaceful rhythm of their conversation was broken by the sound of hurried footsteps and the rustle of leaves. Finn burst into view, his flat cap slightly askew and his energy unmistakable.

"There you are!" he exclaimed, his eyes darting around the group. "Been looking everywhere for you lot!"

Ada’s gaze snapped up, her cigarette poised between her fingers as she narrowed her eyes at her youngest brother. "Looking everywhere? You mean finally bothering to show up. What exactly have you been doing, Finn?"

"Tied up with things, Ada. Don’t start now." Finn shrugged, giving her a cheeky grin. 

"Tied up with what, exactly? You’re late," Ada shot back, her tone sharp. "And don’t think for a second you can worm your way out of this."

Esme smirked, crossing her arms as she leaned back slightly. "Leave him be, Ada. Finn doesn’t know the meanin’ of time management."

Finn rolled his eyes dramatically before his gaze landed on Roseline, his grin widening into something more genuine. "Rose! Didn’t know you’d be here. Tommy said you were still at the hospital."

"And you’re still finding excuses to be late to things, I see." Roseline tilted her head slightly, her smile warm but composed. "Some things don’t change."

"Seems like she’s already got you figured out." Esme laughed at that, clearly enjoying Finn’s discomfort. 

"Just a bit late, that’s all. And anyway, didn’t fuckin’ know there was a party by the stream." Finn scratched the back of his neck sheepishly, though he wasn’t entirely put off. 

"Party? If it were a party, you’d be cleanin’ up the mess afterward." Ada exhaled heavily, clearly unimpressed. "Now sit down and try not to embarrass yourself."

Finn shrugged, sliding into a seat beside Roseline. "Well, now I know. So, what's the plan for today?" he asked, glancing around at the group with a playful smirk.

Esme glanced at Finn, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Polly's already got it all figured out, Finn," she said, her voice teasing. "She's been plannin’ this afternoon for ages, and you just might be her next project."

"Careful, Finn. You might regret asking about Polly’s plans—you know how she operates." Roseline glanced at Finn as he settled beside her, his casual energy adding a spark to the gathering. Her green eyes softened with quiet amusement. 

"She’s right. Polly doesn’t plan anything lightly." Ada smirked at Roseline’s comment, taking another drag of her cigarette. "If she’s got her eye on you, Finn, you might as well pack up and prepare for the bloody storm."

"Come on, it can’t be that fuckin’ bad." Finn scoffed, his grin unfading. "She probably just wants me to do something boring—like deliver paperwork or sort her whiskey stash."

"You really think Polly bothers with borin’?" Esme shook her head, her laughter carrying easily through the air. "Finn, she’s always two steps ahead of you—and everyone else, for that matter. You’ll be doin’ exactly what she wants, whether you know it or not."

Finn shrugged, unbothered by Esme’s teasing. "I’ll take my chances," he said lightly, then glanced back at Roseline. "Speakin’ of plans—what about you, Rose? What’ve you been up to since ditchin’ Tommy’s office?"

Roseline smiled faintly, her poise unwavering. "Working at the hospital, like always," she replied simply. "It keeps me busy—and it’s rewarding, in its own way."

"Rewardin’, eh?" Finn tilted his head, his curiosity evident. "Tommy trusted you—thought you’d stick around longer. Seems like you could’ve handled both just fine."

Linda adjusted her gloves again, the faint leather creak punctuating the lull in the conversation. Her gaze flicked toward Roseline, her expression cool and measured.

"You know," she began, her tone polite but laced with a sharp undertone, "for someone who doesn’t work for the family anymore, you still seem awfully... involved."

The atmosphere tensed subtly, the edge in Linda’s words hanging in the air. Ada’s eyes narrowed slightly as she tilted her head, clearly picking up on the remark. Esme, on the other hand, leaned back on her elbows, her lips twitching as if waiting to see how Roseline would respond.

Finn, still lounging on the grass, perked up as the men began to appear from the edges of the gathering.

John was the first to arrive, his stride easy and confident as he surveyed the group. "Thought you’d disappeared into thin air," he called out, his voice carrying over the sounds of the stream.

"More like escapin’ you lot," Ada quipped, though her smirk softened the jab.

Arthur followed closely behind, his movements a little less steady but no less deliberate as his gaze scanned the group. He caught sight of Linda almost immediately, his expression shifting to something softer as he made his way toward her.

The men settled onto the grass with little ceremony, their presence adding weight and energy to the space. Arthur lowered himself next to Linda, his usual gruffness tempered by an attempt at gentleness. "You alright, love?" he asked quietly, his voice low but edged with genuine care.

Linda offered him a faint smile, her hands resting neatly in her lap. "I’m fine, Arthur," she replied, her tone measured. Her gloved fingers shifted slightly, brushing an imaginary speck from her coat as she glanced around at the group.

Meanwhile, Tommy arrived with his usual quiet authority, his flat cap casting a shadow over his unreadable expression. He acknowledged the group with a brief nod before finding his place, his sharp eyes flicking over each of them as though cataloging their presence. His gaze lingered on Roseline for a fraction longer, though neither spoke.

Esme, now sitting again, leaned toward John with a sly grin. "Took you long enough," she teased. "Thought maybe you’d found another card game to lose at."

John rolled his eyes but laughed, slinging an arm casually around her shoulders. "If I’d been gamblin’, I’d be coming back with a pocket full of winnings, thank you very much."

Linda watched as the children that were playing not far away from the group came up to them, Polly sitting down with her son Michael next to her. She watched as Karl ran up to Ada, and Ada fed him while talking to the nurse, the two seemed close.

She watched as Polly assisted Esme with the children, while John played with one of his boys. Michael was deep in conversation with her husband, who had his arm around her shoulder, discussing the pub. For a moment, she could have been fooled into believing this was a normal family. However, she knew better. These people had a lot of blood on their hands, yet here they were, looking so normal as if half of Birmingham—if not all of it—was scared of them.

The only person who stood out in this scene was Thomas; Linda felt unnerved by his unusual silence. She realized that he wasn’t observing the family as a whole—he was focused solely on one person: Roseline. Rose’s presence in the family puzzled her since the young woman was a stranger. What was even more confusing was that she had come with Thomas, despite having quit her job.

The more Linda observed the interaction between Thomas and Rose, the more it felt to her like she was witnessing something sinful, even though nothing inappropriate was happening. She watched as Thomas placed a sandwich near the young nurse, who seemed oblivious to his gesture, almost like a gentleman. This made Linda uncomfortable, and she couldn’t quite understand why. Perhaps it felt unnatural for someone like Thomas Shelby to behave this way.

The age difference between the nurse and the gangster might have contributed to her discomfort, or perhaps it was the stark contrast between their personalities. Whatever the reason, she felt uneasy around them and this family. However, they had seemed hospitable so far, so maybe Linda was just feeling homesick. She missed her aunt and uncle and planned to visit them soon, possibly with Arthur.

The outing was nearing its end, and it had been quite a success. No business discussions had taken place, at least not in front of the women, and there were no fights or attempts to harm anyone. Roseline felt relieved but didn’t want to jinx the positive atmosphere. She appreciated the opportunity to have genuine conversations with everyone, although she hadn’t had much time to talk with Tommy. Perhaps that was for the best; she had been reflecting on Linda’s comment all day.

The thought had been weighing on her mind for quite some time. She wasn’t insecure about their relationship; however, it felt pointless to continue under these circumstances. It would only lead to unnecessary problems, especially if she strayed too far from the path she was on, which she felt like she already had. Another problem was whether she would be willing to end things with Tommy—and if he would even allow her to do so.

Roseline lingered by the stream, her green eyes following the rippling water as the sunlight dimmed to softer hues. Polly approached quietly, her sharp gaze sweeping over the scene as she pulled her open coat around her.

"You look like you’ve had a decent afternoon," Polly remarked, her tone carrying its usual mix of knowing and warmth. She stopped beside Roseline, her presence commanding without needing to draw attention.

Roseline turned toward her, offering a soft smile. "I did," she said genuinely. "Thank you for inviting me, Polly. It’s not often I have moments like these—it’s been... refreshing."

Polly’s lips curved slightly, her shrewd eyes studying Roseline with an intensity that hinted at more than she let on. "Family gatherings aren’t always this peaceful," she said dryly. "But you handled yourself well. You always do."

Roseline’s smile lingered, though she lowered her gaze briefly, almost as if humbled by Polly’s words. "You’ve always made me feel welcome," she said softly. "It means more than you know."

"Rose, you’re clever enough to know you don’t need my permission to come by." Polly chuckled lightly, her voice softened just a touch as she replied, "My door’s always open—don’t be a stranger."

"That means a lot, Polly. I promise I’ll take you up on that." Roseline’s expression brightened at that, her gratitude evident in the slight warmth that softened her composed demeanor. 

The quiet moment by the stream shattered as a piercing cry tore through the air. Everyone turned toward the sound, tension rippling across the gathering. One of the children stumbled toward the group, his face streaked with tears, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Mam! Dad! Chris is gone!" the child wailed, Erick, their small chest heaving with panicked breaths.

John was the first to rise, his jovial demeanor vanishing in an instant as he strode toward the child, crouching down to their level. "What do you mean, gone?" he asked sharply, his voice firm but laced with worry. "Where did you last see him?"

"We were playing hide-and-seek by the trees, and... and Chris just... disappeared!" The child hiccupped between sobs, clutching at John’s sleeve. "We looked everywhere, but we couldn’t find him!"

The gravity of the situation settled over the group like a heavy cloud. Esme’s face paled as she rushed to her feet, her eyes darting toward the treeline.

"Gone? What do you mean, gone? He can’t be far!" Her voice was tight, teetering on the edge of panic.

Ada stood as well, her expression sharpening as she stepped closer to the child, crouching down beside John. "Take a deep breath," she said, her voice steadier but no less urgent. "Think carefully—where were you when you last saw him? By the trees? By the stream?"

"By the trees... but we looked there! He wasn’t there!" The child hiccupped again, pointing toward the edge of the clearing. 

Roseline moved toward the group, kneeling down beside the child and speaking softly. "It’s alright," she said gently, her voice low and soothing. "We’re going to find him, but we need you to help us. Did you see which way he ran, or hear anything unusual?"

The child shook their head, their tears still falling. "No, we didn’t hear anything! He just went to hide, and then he didn’t come back!"

Arthur was already on his feet, his expression grim as he tightened his cap on his head. "We can’t fuckin’ waste any more time," he said, his voice gruff but focused. "We need to split up. Search the stream, the trees, everywhere."

John’s jaw tightened, his arm wrapping protectively around Esme’s shoulders. "He knows better than to wander far," he muttered, though the worry in his eyes betrayed him. "We’ll find him."

The adults quickly divided themselves, their usual banter replaced by an air of urgency. Tommy’s voice cut through the commotion, calm but commanding. "Esme, stay with the other kids. Everyone else, spread out. Finn, take the west side. Rose, head downstream. John, Arthur, take the treeline. I’ll check the fields."

The group had scattered, their determined strides cutting through the quiet tension that had settled over the area. Tommy’s commands echoed briefly in Roseline’s mind as she made her way toward the stream, her sharp eyes scanning the surroundings for any sign of movement.

The babble of the stream grew louder as she moved downstream, her boots crunching softly against the uneven earth. The sunlight, once warm and inviting, now filtered through the canopy above with an almost ominous quality, casting fleeting shadows across the water. Roseline’s calm demeanor remained intact, but her senses were on high alert, every rustle of leaves or distant sound drawing her attention.

Back in the clearing, Esme stood close to the remaining children, her arms crossed tightly over her chest as her eyes darted between the treeline and the stream. Despite her usual bold confidence, the fear for her missing child was clear in the way her jaw clenched and her hands fidgeted against her skirts.

Linda stood nearby, her posture prim and composed as always, but her gloved hands betrayed a subtle tension as she twisted the buttons. "They’ll find him," she said quietly, her voice steady but edged with something harder to place. "Arthur and John know these woods well. He won’t have wandered far."

Esme cast Linda a sidelong glance, her expression tight with worry. "It’s not about how far he’s wandered," she muttered. "It’s about why we didn’t see him sooner." Her voice cracked slightly, and she pressed her lips into a firm line, refusing to let her emotions get the better of her.

Meanwhile, Roseline continued downstream, her gaze sweeping the banks and the dense foliage beyond. She stopped abruptly, crouching by the water’s edge as something caught her eye—a small, muddy handprint pressed into the damp earth. Her heart quickened, though she forced herself to stay composed, carefully examining the area for more signs.

"Chris?" she called out, her voice calm but firm, carrying just enough to reach the surrounding trees. "It’s Roseline. If you can hear me, say something."

The stream babbled softly, paying no mind to her calls. Roseline stood, her keen eyes narrowing as she examined the woods ahead. The deeper she ventured, the more beautiful it became; she felt the urge to pause and take in the serenity and splendor around her. However, her main focus was on finding the child.

Roseline’s sharp eyes caught a flicker of movement near the trees ahead, her calm demeanor holding steady as she approached cautiously. Stepping around a cluster of ferns, she spotted Chris crouched by the edge of the stream, entirely engrossed in stacking small stones in the water. The sight of him, safe and unharmed, brought a surge of relief, though she kept her voice even.

"Chris," she called softly, stepping closer. The boy startled slightly, looking up at her with wide eyes before breaking into a sheepish grin.

"Rosie! What are you doin’ here?" he asked, oblivious to the worry he’d caused.

"I’m looking for you," she said gently, crouching down to his level. "Everyone’s been searching—you had us worried."

"Worried? Why?" Chris blinked, his head tilting in confusion. "I wasn’t lost. I just found a really good hidin’ spot!"

Roseline’s smile was patient but firm. "I see that," she replied, glancing at the small stack of stones he’d been building. "But when you didn’t come back, everyone thought something might have happened. We’ve all been looking for you."

Chris frowned slightly, his guilt beginning to creep in. "I didn’t mean to make anyone worry. I was just playing," he mumbled.

"I know you didn’t mean to. But it’s important to stick close, Chris." Roseline reached out, resting a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "We don’t want to lose you again, alright?"

The boy nodded, his face scrunching up with a mix of regret and determination. "Alright, I’ll go back now," he said, then brightened as he stood. "I know the way—it’s this way!"

Before Roseline could stop him, Chris took off running back toward the clearing, his small figure darting through the trees with an ease that came from familiarity. She smiled to herself as she heard a commotion in the distance confirming the others now found him, but before she could go back something caught the corner of her eye.

She turned to look closer at it. A little farther away, there seemed to be a shed near the stream. Rose walked closer to inspect it out of curiosity. The shed appeared somewhat old, but not old enough to be completely damaged. Someone must have been maintaining it, as there was a new kind of lock on it, but the owner must have forgotten to lock it properly.

She knew she shouldn't walk inside, it might be private property, but something was telling her to go in. As Rose pushed the creaky door open, it groaned in protest, revealing a dimly lit interior.

Dust motes danced in the narrow beams of sunlight that filtered through the cracks, illuminating rows of wooden shelves lined with peculiar tools and yellowed papers. The air inside was thick with the scent of old wood and machine oil, and her footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as she ventured deeper, a sense of unease tingling at the edge of her consciousness.

As she moved further in, Rose's nose crinkled at the unmistakable, familiar fowl smell of decay, mingling with the scent of hay piled in one corner. Her gaze shifted to a darkened recess where the straw was scattered haphazardly, and she hesitated. It was then she noticed small red stains partially buried beneath the hay, stark white against the shadows, confirming her growing suspicions that this shed held secrets better left undiscovered.

The blonde decided it was time to leave this place. As she was about to exit, something else caught her eye—a cap lying on the ground. She bent down to pick it up and looked inside, only to discover blades sewn into the fabric. Startled, she quickly set the hat back down just as she had found it and left the shed, ensuring that the door was in the same condition as when she entered.

Roseline walked along the bank, her steps careful yet unhurried, her skirt brushing against the wild grasses that edged the stream. She let the quietness envelop her, broken only by the occasional gurgle of the water slipping over smooth stones. The distant murmur of bird calls echoed faintly, adding texture to the tranquil melody. Her gaze flitted between the stream and the patches of sun-dappled ground, a mix of longing and contentment playing across her features.

Eventually, she lowered herself to the ground, the soft give of the moss cushioning her as she leaned forward. Her hand hovered for a moment before slipping into the cool embrace of the water, sending ripples spiraling outward in gentle circles. The sensation startled her at first—chill and smooth, as though the stream itself reached back to greet her.

She let her fingers dance across the surface, trailing them through the glassy current, watching how the sunlight fractured and shimmered in the ripples she created. The faint resistance of the water against her movement felt grounding, a subtle reminder of its steady, endless journey.

For a brief moment, she glimpsed her reflection. The soft curve of her face rippled and distorted, refusing to remain still long enough for her to truly see herself. She turned her gaze away deliberately, choosing instead to focus on the swirling play of light and water.

The stillness of the stream was broken by the faint crunch of boots against gravel. Roseline didn’t look up immediately—she didn’t need to. The quiet authority in the steps, the deliberate rhythm, told her exactly who had come looking for her.

"Rose," Tommy’s voice cut through the air, low and edged, the gravel of his tone unmistakable. "What’re you doin’ out here?"

Roseline glanced up, her hand still moving gently in the water, rippling the surface as sunlight fractured around her fingers. She offered him a small, apologetic smile but didn’t move to stand. "I’m sorry," she said softly, her tone calm but laced with sincerity. "I didn’t realize how long I’d been here. I thought I’d be back before anyone noticed."

Tommy’s sharp blue eyes fixed on her, his expression impassive yet laced with something more—an unspoken worry cloaked behind his usual steely demeanor. His hands stayed tucked in his pockets, his shoulders slightly hunched as he loomed over her, the brim of his flat cap casting a shadow over his face.

"Noticed?" he repeated, his voice low but firm, the faintest hint of irritation creeping in. "The kids started crying when they didn’t see you come back. Had the whole bloody group looking for Chris, and now I’m out here looking for you."

Roseline’s gaze dipped briefly back to the water, her fingertips trailing through the cool stream. "Chris is fine," she replied gently, not looking at him. "I found him. He didn’t even realize anyone was worried."

Tommy’s jaw tightened, the faint tick of tension betraying his control. He crouched down slightly, closer to her level but not quite seated, his sharp gaze never leaving her. "That ain’t the point, Rose," he said, his voice lowering, the weight in his tone unmistakable. "You don’t just disappear, eh? Not ‘round here."

Roseline finally turned her head to look at him, her calm green eyes meeting his piercing blue ones. "I wasn’t wandering," she said softly, her tone even. "I just needed a moment. It’s peaceful here."

Tommy’s eyes flicked briefly toward the stream before snapping back to her, his expression hard to read. There was a pause, the tension lingering in the air like a taut string before he spoke again.

"Everyone’s gone," he said finally, his voice quieter but still firm. "The kids were tired. Polly took them back."

Roseline nodded slightly but didn’t move to stand, her fingers still trailing through the water. "I’ll come in a moment," she murmured, her gaze returning to the stream. "I just wanted a little longer."

Tommy’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression bordering between frustration and restraint. He straightened, adjusting his cap as his sharp silhouette cast a shadow over her. For a long moment, he didn’t move, standing still as if debating whether to insist she follow him now or to give her the space she was so clearly clinging to.

Then, with little ceremony, he lowered himself to the ground beside Roseline, his cap tilted slightly forward, casting a shadow over his piercing blue eyes.

He didn’t speak at first, his gaze fixed on the water, the stream’s gentle flow mirrored in his stillness. After a beat, he shifted slightly, leaning his elbows on his knees. "You like it?" he asked, his voice low and unhurried, his accent roughening the edges of his words. "The water, I mean."

Roseline glanced at him, her fingers still trailing through the cool stream, creating ripples that danced outward. "I love it," she said simply, her voice soft but certain. "There’s something about it... it’s alive, always moving, but calm at the same time."

Tommy’s eyes flicked toward her, studying her as though trying to decipher the meaning behind her words. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it with a practiced flick of his lighter.

"Not much calm where we’re from," he muttered, the smoke curling from his lips as he glanced back at the water.

Roseline tilted her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "No," she admitted, her tone thoughtful. "But I used to imagine it—calm waters, endless horizons." Her gaze drifted further downstream, as if chasing those horizons now. "I always dreamed of traveling on a ship. Seeing the world from the water."

Tommy took a long drag from his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "A ship, eh?" he said, the faintest trace of amusement coloring his tone. "What’s so special about a ship?"

Roseline’s smile deepened, her eyes sparkling faintly as she turned to face him. "Freedom," she said simply. "Out there, no streets to confine you, no walls to close you in. Just the open water and the wind. Feels like... anything could be possible."

Tommy exhaled slowly, his gaze never leaving her face. "Sounds more like running away," he said quietly, though there was no judgment in his tone—just an observation, putting down the cigar.

"Maybe," she said, turning her attention back to the stream. "But sometimes, running away is the only way to find where you’re meant to be." Her fingers played with the water again, and the ripples distorted the reflection of her face, scattering it into fragments.

Tommy leaned back slightly, resting his weight on one hand as he studied her. "And where’s that, then?" he asked, his voice lower now, almost a murmur. "Where’re you meant to be?"

The stream flowed quietly beside them, the sound of water mingling with the soft rustle of trees in the late afternoon breeze. Roseline had turned away, her green eyes fixed on the rippling surface as she trailed her hand through the water, lost in the silence of the moment. She didn’t answer Tommy’s question, the one that had hung in the air like a thread waiting to be pulled.

Tommy watched her, his sharp blue eyes unyielding, studying her as though searching for something unspoken. The faintest flicker of frustration crossed his face—he wasn’t a man accustomed to silence in place of answers. After a moment, he leaned forward, closing the space between them.

"Rose," he said, his voice low and gravelly, the weight of her name carrying more than words. When she didn’t turn, he reached out, his rough fingers tilting her chin gently but firmly, forcing her to face him.

She didn’t have time to react, didn’t have time to second-guess her thoughts. Tommy’s lips captured hers with an intensity that stole the breath from her lungs. The world fell away in an instant—no stream, no trees, no endless questions. Just him, and the way he pulled her closer as though refusing to let her drift further away.

When they finally broke apart, his hand moved to her waist, guiding her effortlessly onto his lap. She followed without resistance, her heart racing as she found herself seated there, her gaze locked with his. Tommy’s hands stayed firmly on her waist, grounding her, his expression softer now but no less serious.

"This," he murmured, his voice rough but steady. "This is where y’belong, Rose. Right here. With me."

Her breath caught, the intensity in his words lingering between them. But before she could speak, he reached into his pocket, his movements deliberate, and pulled out a small ring. He held it up between them, his piercing gaze never leaving her face.

"I’m not gonna say much more," he said, his voice quieter now but weighted with meaning. "But you’re mine, Rose."

This wasn’t a question; he wasn't asking, and she knew that. All her previous worries melted away, but new, more pressing concerns arose. How could she, with the sanity she had left, marry this man? She could see the sincerity and truth in his eyes, and there was no other choice for her.

He desired her in a way no one ever had. He wanted her, and he would have her, but...

Does this poor man deserve to be hurt by her?

Chapter Text

1922 December 17th

Afternoon

It has been a month since that fateful day, nothing has changed as far as she could tell. Her first stop was the children’s ward, tucked away in one of the hospital's quieter corners. Here, the gaslights cast a warm glow over rows of iron-framed beds, their crisp white sheets lending a sense of order to the otherwise lively room.

The walls were painted with scenes meant to comfort young patients—a pastoral countryside, complete with green fields and cheerful farm animals. A few toys sat scattered among the beds: a battered wooden train, a ragged doll with one button eye, a spinning top that occasionally clattered against the wooden floor.

Roseline approached a small boy whose head was wrapped in a bandage, his legs swinging idly over the side of his bed. "Good morning, Sam," she said, her voice soft but with a firmness that carried through the room. "And how's my favorite adventurer today?"

The boy grinned, his face lighting up despite the shadows of discomfort lingering around his eyes.

"I feel better, Nurse," he said proudly, holding out a tin soldier as though it were a badge of honor. "He’s been guarding me all night."

"Well, he’s done an excellent job," Roseline replied with a warm smile, adjusting the folds of his blanket. She moved efficiently, checking his pulse and taking notes in a leather-bound ledger before smoothing his hair with a gentle hand. Her presence seemed to ease him, as it did for many of the children, her composure providing a quiet sense of reassurance.

From there, she entered the main ward, where rows of patients recovering from surgeries and infections lay beneath dim gaslights. The clamor of the room was louder here—patients groaning softly, nurses rushing past with trays of sterilized equipment, and the sharp instructions of doctors who moved briskly between the beds. Roseline’s demeanor shifted; she straightened her spine further, her gaze sharpening as she moved between patients, adjusting pillows, replacing bandages, and administering carefully measured doses of medicine from small glass vials.

In the midst of it all, a porter appeared, wheeling a trolley stacked with freshly boiled linens. "Miss Rose," he greeted her respectfully, tipping his flat cap as he passed. She nodded back, her focus already on the elderly gentleman in the nearest bed who struggled to breathe through a wheezy cough.

Roseline fetched a basin of warm water and began to dab his forehead with a cloth, her hands steady and methodical. The man blinked up at her with watery eyes, murmuring his thanks between labored breaths.

"You’ll be feeling better soon," she said softly, though the weight of her own doubt pressed quietly at the edges of her mind. Not every patient left this ward alive, and Roseline knew that too well.

The hours passed in a blur of movement and sound—steam rising from sterilizers in the operating rooms, nurses exchanging quick words over trays of gleaming metal instruments, and the steady rhythm of ticking pocket watches clipped to uniforms. 

She paused briefly at a window overlooking the bustling city street below. The faint clang of a distant tram bell reached her ears, blending with the chatter of voices outside. Modernity marched on beyond the hospital walls, its energy a stark contrast to the quiet persistence of life and death within. Roseline allowed herself this fleeting moment of stillness before returning to her rounds, her resolve as steady as the ticking of the hospital’s grand clock.

The nurses' room was dimly lit, a soft golden glow from the gas lamp casting long shadows across the wooden floor. The air carried the faint scent of starch and soap, mingling with the earthy weight of exhaustion that followed a long shift. Roseline pushed the door open gently, the creak of the hinges cutting through the stillness. Inside, Kaitlyn was seated on a stool by the modest vanity, her salt-and-pepper hair pinned neatly beneath her cap. The older nurse glanced up with a warm smile as Roseline entered.

"Ah, there you are, love," Kaitlyn said, she straightened her back and stretched, rubbing her hands over her knees. "Thought you’d disappeared on me. Busy day, eh?"

Roseline offered her a soft smile, her steps purposeful but unhurried. "It always is," she replied, her voice carrying the faintest hint of weariness as she set her bag down on the bench beside her. "The wards never quiet down, do they?"

"They don’t, not unless it’s trouble brewin’. And if it’s quiet, I’d rather not know what’s comin’ next." Kaitlyn chuckled, the sound warm and familiar. She gestured toward the coat rack with a nod. "You clocked out just in time. Catch your breath before you’re runnin’ again tomorrow."

Roseline nodded, pulling open the small cabinet where the nurses stored their belongings. With care, she began to slip on her earrings—simple pearls that shone faintly in the light. Kaitlyn watched her with a hint of amusement, her sharp eyes taking in the younger nurse’s practiced grace as she reached for her coat and hat.

"Always so neat and proper," Kaitlyn said fondly, her tone laced with affection. "Puts the rest of us to shame, y’know."

"Hardly. I’m just good at hiding the chaos." Roseline chuckled softly, fastening the buttons of her coat with nimble fingers. 

Then, as her hand dipped into her bag, she paused for a moment, her fingers brushing against the ring. For a beat, she hesitated, her gaze flickering toward the mirror as though searching for reassurance. Slowly, deliberately, she slid the gold band onto her finger. The diamond gleamed faintly, its beauty understated but undeniable.

Kaitlyn’s sharp eyes caught the movement instantly. "Well now," she said, setting down her sewing and leaning forward with a grin.

"What’s this, eh? That’s a pretty little thing." She gestured toward Roseline’s hand. "Go on, let’s have a look."

Roseline glanced at her briefly, then held her hand out, the gold band catching the light as she offered Kaitlyn a closer view. She didn’t want to show her, but that would make her seem too secretive.

"That’s a fine piece," Kaitlyn said approvingly, her tone carrying a mix of admiration and curiosity. "Who's the lucky man, then? Don’t keep me guessin’."

Roseline’s smile didn’t waver, but she lowered her hand slightly, busying herself with adjusting the cuffs of her coat. "It’s just a ring," she said lightly, her tone careful but even.

Kaitlyn raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Just a ring, y’say?" she echoed, leaning back with a knowing smirk. "Rose, most nurses here’d be wearin’ that round the wards like they’ve just been crowned queen. Flashin’ it about for all to see. And you’re sittin’ here puttin’ it on like y’don’t want anyone to notice."

Roseline chuckled softly, shaking her head as she adjusted her hat once more.

"I don’t want to lose it," she explained, her voice calm and measured. "It’s not something I’d want to risk."

Kaitlyn tilted her head, her expression softening but still shrewd. "Fair enough, love," she said, her tone quieter now. "But y’mind yourself out there, eh? Streets ain’t the safest place for a girl wearin’ somethin’ like that. Some bugger’ll nick it right off yer hand if y’not careful."

"I’ll be careful," Roseline assured her, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Thank you, Kaitlyn."

Kaitlyn waved a hand dismissively, though there was genuine affection in her eyes. "Don’t thank me, Rose. Just keep your wits about yeh."

Roseline glanced at her reflection one last time, her gaze lingering on the ring before she picked up her bag. The weight of it on her finger felt both comforting and heavy.

"You’re not gettin’ rid of me that easy, love. I’m leavin’ too." Kaitlyn asked from her stool, tying her shawl around her shoulders. "Come on—we can walk together. Might even pick up a few bits on the way."

Roseline hesitated, her hand faltering briefly as she adjusted the strap of her bag. "Thank you, Kaitlyn, but—" she began, her voice soft and measured, but the older nurse had already risen with surprising agility and was making her way toward the door.

"No buts about it," Kaitlyn declared, waving a hand dismissively as she pushed the door open. "Come on, then."

Caught off guard, Roseline followed, pulling her bag with her as she stepped into the dimly lit corridor. The sound of their shoes echoed softly against the walls, the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in the cool air.

As they walked side by side, Roseline hesitated again, glancing toward Kaitlyn with a small, apologetic smile. "Kaitlyn," she began tentatively, her fingers brushing the strap of her bag, "I can’t stay too long. Someone’s... picking me up."

Kaitlyn shot her a sidelong glance, her expression sharpening with curiosity. "Oh, is it now?" she asked, her tone laced with playful intrigue. "The mysterious lover, eh? Or should I say fiancé?"

Roseline felt the heat rise to her cheeks, her composure slipping just slightly as she glanced away. She nodded softly, her blush deepening under Kaitlyn’s knowing grin.

"Ah, so it’s true, then," Kaitlyn said, laughing warmly as they continued down the corridor. "With a ring like that, he must really love yeh, Rose. And I’ll say this—you’ve picked yourself a good one."

Roseline didn’t reply, her lips curving into a small, quiet smile, though her gaze remained fixed ahead. Kaitlyn didn’t press further, her laughter softening into a hum as they reached the main doors of the hospital. 'Love' wasn’t the word she would use to describe what they have, no. Maybe it was a type of love she wasn’t exactly sure.

The evening air was cool and crisp as they stepped outside, the faint glow of streetlights illuminating the streets. Roseline turned to Kaitlyn with a polite nod.

"Goodnight, Kaitlyn," she said gently, her voice carrying the warmth of gratitude. "I’ll see you tomorrow."

"Goodnight, love," Kaitlyn replied, watching as Roseline headed toward a car parked further down the street. Her sharp eyes immediately noted the vehicle—it was sleek and polished, the kind of car that only men of considerable wealth could afford. Such cars were rare in Birmingham, a bold statement in a city that carried the soot of industry on its skin.

Beside the car stood a man, his posture casual but unmistakably commanding. His head was tilted downward, the brim of his flat cap obscuring his face as he smoked a cigarette. Kaitlyn paused, her curiosity piqued, as she watched Roseline approach him. The man discarded his cigarette as she drew near, stamping it out with a deliberate motion before turning toward her. The two exchanged a few words, their conversation low and private, though Roseline’s posture betrayed a mix of hesitation and familiarity.

Kaitlyn’s sharp gaze stayed fixed on the scene. The man moved with precision, opening the car door for Roseline, his hand briefly brushing the small of her back as she stepped inside. He straightened then, his face finally lifting as he glanced around the street. The lamplight illuminated his features—the razor-sharp jawline, the piercing blue eyes, the faint trace of smoke curling from his lips.

Kaitlyn’s breath caught as recognition dawned. Thomas fucking Shelby.

For a moment, she stood frozen, watching as Mr. Shelby adjusted his cap and slid into the driver’s seat. The car pulled away smoothly, the quiet purr of the engine fading into the shadows.

The car’s interior was quiet, save for the hum of the engine as Tommy started it up. Roseline settled into her seat, adjusting her coat and bag as the warmth of the vehicle seeped into her tired limbs. But as her gaze shifted toward the back, she blinked in mild surprise at the sight of Polly sitting comfortably, her fur stole draped elegantly over her shoulders, cigarette in hand. The woman’s sharp eyes flicked up, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.

"Polly," Roseline said softly, her curiosity clear in her voice. "I didn’t expect to see you here. What are you doing?"

Polly arched an eyebrow, her smile widening as she exhaled a plume of smoke. "What am I doing?" she echoed, amusement lacing her tone. "I’m here because someone had to remind you—you’ve not bought a wedding dress yet."

"There’s no rush. I just... haven’t had time." Roseline’s cheeks flushed almost instantly, her composure slipping just a little as she stammered.

"No rush?" Polly scoffed lightly, leaning forward with an air of authority that only she could command. "Well, that’s a first for me, seeing the groom care more about the wedding than the bride."

Tommy’s hands tightened briefly on the steering wheel, his sharp eyes flicking to the rearview mirror, catching Polly’s gaze. "She only needs to worry about the dress. Nothing else." His voice was calm but carried the weight of finality as he spoke.

Polly let out a quiet sigh, shaking her head as she stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray beside her.

"I’ll say this much, Roseline," she said, her tone softening as she turned her attention back to the younger woman. "Usually, the bride’s family has a hand in choosing the dress. But, well..." She paused briefly, her words heavy with understanding. "Seeing as that’s not an option, I thought I’d step in. Someone’s got to do it."

Roseline’s blush deepened, but her lips curved into a grateful smile as she met Polly’s gaze. "Thank you," she said quietly, her voice warm despite the lingering self-consciousness. "I appreciate it. I really do."

"Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, love." Polly waved a hand dismissively, leaning back in her seat as though brushing aside the sentiment. "I’m just making sure you don’t end up walking down the aisle in your nurse’s uniform."

Roseline chuckled softly, though her gaze drifted out the window as her thoughts wandered. The city streets blurred past, the golden glow of gas lamps casting shadows that swayed and danced across the cobbled roads. She fell silent for a moment, her mind flickering, maybe she could ask that seamstress's help. The woman is quite talented, but unlucky for not being recognized for her work.

After a beat, she glanced toward Tommy and Polly, her voice quiet but steady. "I know a shop," she said thoughtfully. "It might be a good place to start."

Polly perked up slightly, her sharp eyes glinting with interest. "A shop, eh? Well, it’s about time. Tommy, you’d best have your wallet ready."

Tommy huffed faintly, though his focus remained on the road ahead. "Already sorted," he muttered, his tone clipped but resolute.

The car glided smoothly through the quiet streets, the city’s faint hum softened under the shroud of night. Tommy kept his focus on the road ahead, his hands steady on the wheel, the brim of his cap casting a shadow over his sharp features. Roseline gave him directions to the small shop while Polly leaned back in her seat, her arms crossed loosely, her sharp eyes glancing between him and Roseline.

As they reached the edge of the main road, Tommy broke the silence, his voice steady and clipped.

"I’ll drop you both off," he said without turning his head. "Got business to deal with."

Polly shot him a look, her brow arching as she leaned forward slightly. "Business?" she repeated, her tone sharp enough to cut through the quiet. "Of course yeh do. Always business, Tommy. God forbid yeh stick around for five fuckin’ minutes to help. You’re the bloody groom, in case you’ve forgotten."

"Pol, I’ll handle what needs handlin’." Tommy exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening, though his tone remained calm. 

"That’s all you’ve got to say? Lord help her, eh, Rose?" Polly scoffed, shaking her head as she sat back again, her voice laced with exasperation. 

Roseline, who had been quietly observing their back-and-forth, let out a soft chuckle, the corners of her lips curling into a faint smile. "Actually," she said lightly, glancing back at Polly with a calm warmth in her gaze, "I think it’s a good thing. I want it to be a surprise."

Polly’s sharp expression softened slightly, her head tilting as she considered Roseline’s response. "A surprise, is it?" she said, her lips twitching into the faintest smirk. "Well, you’re a better woman than me, love. I’d be draggin’ him to every fitting if it were me."

Tommy’s gaze flicked briefly to Roseline, the faintest hint of something softer crossing his piercing eyes before he returned his focus to the road. He didn’t say anything, but his grip on the wheel seemed to ease, his posture relaxing slightly.

The car continued down the dimly lit street, its passengers falling into a companionable silence. Polly sighed, reaching into her coat pocket to retrieve her cigarette case. She lit one with a practiced flick of her lighter, her sharp gaze drifting out the window as the faint smell of smoke curled through the air.

Roseline glanced out of her own window, her thoughts momentarily wandering as the city lights flickered past. Though she was quiet, she wanted to get out of the car immediately. The cigarette smoke was suffocating, she hated that smell.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to mask her irritation as the acrid scent clawed at her senses. Roseline had never been able to tolerate cigarette smoke, its presence reminding her of unpleasant memories from her past. Yet, she kept her composure, determined not to let her discomfort show.

"I’ll pick y’up later," he said simply, his tone firm but lacking the usual edge it carried as the car reached a stop.

Polly smirked faintly, exhaling a plume of smoke as she opened the door. "Just don’t get too caught up in your ‘business,’ Tommy. Wouldn’t want yeh to miss the important bits."

Tommy didn’t reply, his gaze shifting briefly to Roseline as she followed Polly out of the car. She paused, glancing back at him with a soft smile that carried more meaning than words could convey. He nodded slightly, the unspoken understanding passing between them before she turned to join Polly.

As the car pulled away, Polly glanced at Roseline, her sharp eyes glinting with curiosity. "You’ve got the patience of a saint, love," she remarked lightly, though there was a genuine warmth in her tone. "Let’s just hope the surprise is worth it, eh?"

Roseline smiled faintly, her gaze following the tail lights of the car as they disappeared into the late evening. "I think it will be," she said softly, her voice carrying the quiet confidence that had always set her apart.

The streets were quiet, the gas lamps overhead casting a faint, golden light over the uneven stones as Polly and Roseline walked side by side. Polly’s sharp eyes scanned the surrounding buildings, her heels clicking rhythmically against the pavement. She tossed the remains of her cigarette onto the ground, stubbing it out with the toe of her shoe as she glanced at Roseline.

"Alright, love, where’s this shop of yours, then?" Polly asked, her tone laced with both curiosity and skepticism.

Roseline lifted a hand, pointing toward a building just up ahead. It stood at the end of the street, its weathered facade dimly illuminated under the glow of the lamps. The structure was old, its paint faded and peeling in places, the sign above the door was barely legible after years of wear. The windows were dim, obscured by mismatched curtains that seemed to hang haphazardly in place. Overall, it looked like the kind of place most people would avoid, let alone consider for something as important as a wedding.

Polly stopped in her tracks, her dark eyebrows shooting upward as a sharp laugh escaped her lips. "That? You’ve got to be jokin’," she said, folding her arms across her chest as she turned to Roseline. "Rose, love, don’t tell me that’s the place. It looks like it hasn’t seen a customer in years."

Roseline, unbothered by Polly’s reaction, simply offered a faint smile. "It’s the place," she said calmly, her green eyes meeting Polly’s with quiet determination. "Trust me."

Polly narrowed her eyes, tilting her head slightly as though trying to gauge whether Roseline was serious. "You’re not messin’ me about, are yeh?" she asked, her tone softening slightly but still carrying a hint of disbelief.

"I’m not," Roseline assured her, her voice steady but warm. "It doesn’t look like much, but it’s... special. Just trust me, Polly."

Polly sighed heavily, shaking her head as she gestured toward the building. "Special, is it? Well, I hope it’s not fallin’ apart inside, or Tommy’ll have my head for this," she muttered. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she motioned for Roseline to lead the way. "Go on, then. Let’s see what kind of treasure yeh think you’ve found."

Roseline smiled softly, her confidence unwavering as she walked toward the shop. Polly followed close behind, her sharp eyes scanning their surroundings, though her expression betrayed both amusement and intrigue. When Roseline reached the door, she pushed it open carefully, the small bell above it jingling softly in the quiet night.

The small bell above the shop door jingled softly as Roseline and Polly stepped inside. The warm glow of a hanging oil lamp illuminated the space, casting gentle shadows across rows of fabric bolts and intricately embroidered samples. The faint scent of lavender lingered in the air, mingling with the smell of rich velvet and freshly polished wood. The shop, though old and unassuming from the outside, carried a quiet charm that made it feel like a hidden treasure.

Emily appeared from behind a sewing table, her hands covered in chalk dust and her apron dotted with stray threads. She was young, her bright eyes and quick smile reflecting a tireless energy. Upon seeing Roseline, her face lit up immediately. "Miss Rose!" she exclaimed, wiping her hands hurriedly on her apron. "It’s so lovely to see you! I was wondering when you’d come back. What can I do for you?"

Emily approached Roseline eagerly, her attention entirely focused on her regular customer. It wasn’t until she turned slightly to reach for a swatch of fabric that she noticed Polly standing there, her presence commanding even in silence. Emily froze for a moment, her smile faltering slightly as her bright eyes darted toward Polly’s sharp gaze.

Polly raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faintly amused smirk. "Polly Gray," she said smoothly, extending her hand in greeting. Her tone was both polite and firm, carrying the air of someone who expected recognition wherever she went.

Emily hesitated, her hand hovering awkwardly before finally taking Polly’s in a brief, slightly nervous handshake. "Mrs. Gray," she murmured, her voice faltering. It was clear by her wide-eyed expression that she knew exactly who Polly was—and wasn’t entirely sure how to handle her presence.

Noticing the tension, Roseline stepped in quickly, her voice warm and calm as she spoke. "Emily, I’m here because I need a wedding dress," she said, her tone deliberately light as she gestured toward the fabric swatches laid out on a nearby table. "I thought of your shop right away."

Emily blinked, her attention snapping back to Roseline as if grasping onto the distraction like a lifeline. "A wedding dress?" she repeated, her demeanor softening into a mix of surprise and excitement. "Oh, that’s wonderful! Congratulations, Rose!"

Polly chuckled quietly, leaning against the edge of the table as she picked up a spool of ribbon and examined it idly. "She’s got good taste, I’ll give her that," Polly remarked, her voice laced with dry humor. "Let’s see if you can make somethin’ worthy of it."

Emily glanced at Polly briefly, still unsure how to handle the older woman’s presence, but her focus returned to Roseline as she pulled out a few samples of lace and fabric.

"Do you have anything in mind already, or are we starting fresh?" Emily asked, her enthusiasm bubbling back to the surface as she laid out the options.

Roseline smiled softly, her fingers brushing the delicate patterns of embroidery as she considered. "I haven’t decided yet," she admitted. "I thought we could look through what you have and see what feels right."

Emily’s eyes sparkled with enthusiasm as she carefully lifted a swatch of delicate lace, her fingers running over the fine embroidery. She looked at Roseline, her excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. "You know, Rose," she began, her tone both warm and animated, "I’d love to make you a custom dress. Something unique. I’ve got so many ideas for you—styles and details that would enhance your beauty even more."

Rose offered Emily a small, polite smile. "Thank you," she said softly, her voice steady but carrying the slightest hint of hesitation. "That’s very kind of you."

Polly, observing from the side with her usual sharpness, smirked faintly. She tilted her head slightly, crossing her arms as she fixed Emily with a pointed look.

"Well," Polly said dryly, "don’t just stand there talkin’ about it. Show us these ideas of yours."

Emily brightened visibly, clapping her hands together. "Oh, of course! Jack!" she called toward the back of the shop, her voice carrying with ease. "Fetch me my sketchbook, will you?"

Jack, who had been quietly organizing ribbons and fabrics, straightened immediately at the sound of his name. "On it, Em," he replied, disappearing behind a curtain in search of the requested item.

As Emily turned back to them, she seemed to catch herself, suddenly aware of the need for decorum. "Oh, I’m so sorry!" she exclaimed, motioning toward a plush couch near the corner of the shop. "Please, sit down—make yourselves comfortable. I didn’t mean to keep you standing."

Polly waved off the apology with a casual flick of her wrist but moved toward the couch nonetheless. She settled into the seat with an air of grace, one leg crossed over the other as she gave the shop another critical once-over. Roseline followed more slowly, lowering herself onto the cushion beside Polly, her posture poised yet faintly tense.

Emily perched herself on the armrest of a nearby chair, her hands clasped together as she leaned toward them. Her expression was alight with energy as she spoke.

"Roseline, you’re the perfect model for some of the designs I’ve been dreaming up," she said, her voice filled with genuine admiration. "Your figure, your complexion—it all works beautifully with the styles I have in mind. Honestly, it’ll be an absolute joy to create something just for you."

Roseline glanced down briefly, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Though she appreciated Emily’s enthusiasm, there was a part of her that wished for the process to be less... elaborate. Still, she offered a small nod of acknowledgment.

"That’s very flattering," she said softly, her tone polite but measured. "Thank you for thinking of me that way."

Before anyone could say more, Jack returned with the sketchbook in hand, placing it carefully on the table before Emily. She opened it eagerly, flipping through pages filled with intricate pencil drawings of gowns—each one more elegant and detailed than the last. Polly leaned forward slightly, her sharp eyes narrowing as she examined the designs with quiet interest.

"Alright, let’s see what you’ve got, then," Polly said, her tone carrying both challenge and approval. "Make it worth the fuss, girl."

The shop felt warmer now, the quiet hum of voices blending with the soft rustle of fabric being moved and examined. Emily sat beside Polly, her sketchbook open and pages filled with intricate designs spreading out across the table. The two women were engrossed in conversation, Emily gesturing animatedly as Polly leaned in with sharp yet thoughtful observations, her discerning eye catching every detail.

Roseline sat just a little apart from them, her posture composed but her mind drifting. She stared at the delicate lacework draped over the display, its fine threads catching the glow of the oil lamp, but she barely saw it. Her thoughts pulled her inward, their weight pressing softly but persistently against her chest.

She wanted this to be over with. The excitement bubbling from Emily and Polly made her feel... unsteady. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate their effort—Emily’s eagerness to create something beautiful for her, Polly’s sharp presence—but the focus on her felt almost unbearable. She wasn’t used to it, wasn’t comfortable with the idea of being fussed over like this. Deep down, she knew she didn’t deserve it.

"Rose," Polly’s voice broke through her reverie, sharp yet familiar. Her gaze narrowed slightly as she tilted her head. "What’ve yeh got in mind so far? Don’t sit there pretendin’ you’ve not thought about it."

Roseline blinked, her composure returning instantly as her green eyes flicked toward Polly. She paused deliberately, pretending to think, her fingers brushing against the strap of her bag as she let the silence stretch for just a beat longer.

Emily paused, her fingers delicately brushing over a sketch as she glanced toward Roseline. She had noticed the younger woman’s hesitancy, the distant look in her eyes as if she were miles away. Interpreting it as the nerves of a bride wanting everything to be perfect, Emily leaned in slightly, her voice soft but curious.

"Rose, do you think our groom has any preferences?" she asked kindly, her tone a mix of genuine interest and encouragement. "Maybe a style he likes? Some men have a say in these things, you know—more than you’d think."

Polly, who had been sitting comfortably with her arms crossed and a faint smirk playing on her lips, let out a sharp laugh, cutting through the moment. She tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes glinting with amusement as she spoke.

"Thomas Shelby?" she said dryly. "Caring about things like that? Not a chance. The man barely knows his nieces and nephew's names, let alone a style of lace."

Emily froze, her smile faltering as Polly’s words registered. Her gaze flickered quickly to Roseline, as if seeking confirmation, but what she saw caused her to hesitate. Roseline hadn’t laughed, nor had she responded to Polly’s jest. Instead, there was a subtle shift in her expression—a flicker of realization that most wouldn’t notice. It was fleeting, almost imperceptible, but it carried a depth that hinted at thoughts unspoken, words left unsaid.

Roseline realized She had been branded already. She felt it as clearly as the weight of the ring on her finger, as surely as the quiet murmur of her name spoken in hushed tones by those who knew her—and those who thought they did. Roseline. Soon to be Roseline Shelby. A name that carried a weight unlike any she had ever known.

She had been labeled many things in the past. She had worn each one quietly, adapting herself to fit the shapes carved by others' perceptions. But none of those labels had ever come with a last name—a piece of her that had always seemed just out of reach. As a child, she had dreamed of it, longed for it. A last name had felt like something whole, something steady, something that meant belonging.

Now, as she sat here, poised on the brink of claiming one, the reality of it settled heavily against her chest. Shelby.

She understood now what she hadn’t before—the name wasn’t simply something to wear. It was something to carry. The weight of it would settle on her shoulders and never let go, its burdens interwoven with its privileges. 

Deep down, she knew she didn’t deserve it. She didn’t deserve the money, the position, the attention that would come with being a Shelby. She hadn’t earned it, hadn’t built it. And yet, here it was, offered to her—not as a prize, but as a consequence. It was hers, not because she asked for it, but because she had found herself here, in this moment, with this man, and now there was no turning back.

She glanced down at the ring on her finger, its soft gleam catching the faint light. The realization settled deeper within her, quiet and unyielding. She would do what she always did. She would adapt. She would find a way to carry the weight of the name, to step into this new life with all the sanity she could muster. Even if it meant holding herself together with trembling hands, even if it meant masking the doubt that gnawed at her.

Roseline Shelby. The name would soon be hers, and with it, everything it meant.

And somehow, she would make it hers.

Emily’s brow furrowed slightly as she looked at Roseline, trying to read the quiet emotion behind her composed exterior. Before she could dwell on it, Roseline shifted in her seat, her hands smoothing the fabric of her skirt as she forced a small smile to her lips.

When Roseline finally spoke, her voice was soft but deliberate, breaking through the stillness like a faint ripple in a calm pond. She described her vision in thoughtful, measured phrases, each word chosen carefully as though she feared saying too much—or too little.

"I want the dress to be... understated," she began, her hands folding lightly in her lap as her gaze dipped momentarily to the floor. "Elegant, but not overwhelming. Something that feels like me."

Emily nodded with focused determination, the pencil in her hand gliding across the page in light, quick strokes. She didn’t interrupt, her movements purposeful as she began to outline the loose structure of a gown on the crisp paper. Her excitement was evident in the slight curve of her lips, though she remained silent, allowing Roseline the space to shape her thoughts.

"It should feel natural," Roseline continued after a brief pause, her green eyes lifting once more to the room around her. "Something soft, with a flow that feels effortless. Not stiff or heavy. Simple... but not plain." 

The sound of the pencil scratching against the page filled the brief silence that followed, blending with the faint rustle of Polly shifting slightly in her seat. Emily’s sketches grew more defined as she worked quickly to capture the essence of Roseline’s words. Her brow furrowed slightly, her focus unwavering as she jotted down a few notes in the margins. The curve of a neckline, the softness of a flowing hem, the intricate detail of subtle embroidery—all began to take shape under her skilled hand.

Polly’s gaze didn’t leave Roseline as she spoke, her sharp features softened by an unreadable expression. She didn’t interrupt or offer her opinion, though her presence felt steady and grounding, a silent reassurance for the younger woman. When Roseline faltered, her words trailing off briefly, Polly’s calm demeanor seemed to anchor her, allowing her to gather her thoughts and continue.

The shop had quieted as the evening deepened, the soft light of the oil lamp casting a warm glow over the fabric swatches and tools scattered across Emily’s table. Emily stood near Roseline, carefully noting the final measurements on a small pad, her fingers quick and precise. Despite hating other people touching her, Roseline held herself still, letting the young seamstress work with the professionalism she had always admired.

With the measurements complete, Emily set down her pencil and gave Roseline a bright smile. "Alright, miss," she said warmly, her tone tinged with quiet excitement. "The dress will be ready in a few weeks. Once the main details are finished, we’ll schedule a fitting to make sure everything’s perfect."

Roseline offered her a small smile in return, the corners of her lips lifting just enough to show her gratitude. "Thank you, Emily," she said softly, her tone calm but sincere. "I appreciate all of this—especially given the late hour. I’m sorry for keeping you here so late."

Emily waved a hand dismissively, her expression unwaveringly kind. "Don’t worry about that," she assured her. "It’s not every day I get to make something this special. Honestly, I’m thrilled to do it."

As Polly shifted her fur stole and prepared to leave, Roseline reached into her bag, pulling out a neatly folded stack of bills. She handed it to Emily, her movements graceful but firm, the weight of her decision evident in the gesture.

"This is for your trouble," Roseline said gently, her voice carrying a quiet insistence.

Emily blinked, her hands hesitating slightly before taking the money. "Miss Rose," she murmured, her tone soft but surprised. "You didn’t have to. Really, it’s—"

"I insist," Roseline interrupted, her green eyes steady as she met Emily’s gaze. There was no room for argument in her tone, only a quiet conviction that Emily recognized immediately.

Emily smiled faintly, slipping the money into the pocket of her apron. "Thank you," she said softly. "You really didn’t have to, but... thank you."

Roseline nodded, her composure returning as she adjusted the strap of her bag. Beside her, Polly glanced at the sketchbook on the table, her sharp gaze flicking briefly to Emily before turning back to the blonde.

"Right, let’s get going," Polly said briskly, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "If Tommy gets there before us, he’ll have somethin’ to say about it."

Roseline smiled faintly but said nothing, her steps purposeful as she moved toward the shop door. Emily followed briefly, waving them off as they exited into the cool night air. The faint scent of lavender and fabric lingered as the door closed softly behind them.

The apartment was dim, the faint light of a single lamp casting long shadows against the walls. The small space carried an air of quiet comfort, its modest furnishings arranged neatly. The curtains were drawn tightly shut, muffling the sounds of the bustling city. For once, everything felt steady—secure. Roseline moved about the room with calm efficiency, her footsteps light against the wooden floor.

Everything was going well so far, she had chosen a wedding dress. Polly and she had a small conversation, and Tommy drove her back to her apartment. Rose had to wait a little to make sure he wasn’t watching her.

Her black coat hung over the back of a chair, its dark fabric absorbing what little light seeped through the space. She slipped into it, the weight of the garment settling over her shoulders as she smoothed out the edges with her hands. Her hat sat waiting beside the dresser—a different style than the one she had worn earlier that day, chosen deliberately for practicality and subtlety. She placed it atop her head carefully, adjusting the brim until it shadowed her eyes just enough.

On the dresser, a small piece of paper sat folded, its edges slightly worn from her handling. Roseline’s green eyes fell on it as she paused, her expression flickering with quiet thought. She reached for it, holding it delicately between her fingers, the address scrawled in hurried handwriting standing out against the stark white of the page.

The memory stirred as she read it again—the nurse’s quick words as they exchanged whispers in the quiet corner of the hospital. The nurse had leaned close, her voice hushed yet certain: "If you need those herbs, this is your best chance."

Roseline had hesitated then, but now there was no room for doubt. Not anymore. She will see it through and make sure everything goes according to plan. She folded the paper again and tucked it into her pocket, her movements steady despite the faint unease that pressed at the back of her mind. She glanced once more at the room—the bed neatly made, the curtains closed against the outside world—and turned away.

The back door of the building opened with a low creak, its sound swallowed by the heavy stillness of the alley beyond. The narrow passage was cloaked in shadows, the dim light from a distant streetlamp barely reaching the edges of the cobblestones. The air was cool and damp, carrying with it the faint smell of earth and coal smoke from the streets above.

Roseline stepped out carefully, her movements deliberate and quiet as she pulled the door shut behind her. The dark coat blended seamlessly with the shadows, her hat casting her features in obscurity. She hesitated for just a moment, her gaze sweeping the alley as she adjusted the collar of her coat.

The alleyway seemed to stretch endlessly, its shadows swallowing the faint light of the streetlamps above. Roseline moved deliberately, her footsteps muffled against the damp cobblestones. The air was thick with the smell of coal smoke and decay, mingling with the quiet hum of the distant city that felt worlds away. The narrow path led her to a building almost invisible in its obscurity—hidden deep within the folds of the alley’s darkness.

It was a small structure, its facade uneven and worn, yet its concealment made it unnervingly deliberate. The windows were shrouded behind tattered curtains, their panes warped by time. The door was thick and weathered, its peeling paint a testament to years of neglect. Roseline approached, her gloved hand raising to knock, the sound echoing faintly.

She knocked again, the hollow sound breaking through the stillness until the door opened abruptly, revealing an older man. His frame was slight, his clothes disheveled, and his face furrowed with suspicion. His dark eyes squinted, unable to fully see her face under the brim of her hat. He didn’t bother with pleasantries, his voice sharp and impatient.

"What do y’want?" he asked gruffly.

Roseline leaned forward slightly, her movements calculated as she whispered a single word. Whatever she said made the man pause. He looked at her again, his skepticism shifting slightly as he glanced over her shoulder toward the empty alleyway. After a moment of silence, he gestured for her to step inside.

The smell hit her immediately—thick and overwhelming, a mingling of incense, dried herbs, and pungent garlic that seemed to cling to every corner of the room. The dim light from a single oil lamp cast long shadows across the shelves and counters, which were cluttered with jars, bundles of dried plants, and strange objects that looked like relics of superstition. It was a space that felt ancient and uncanny, like the pages of a folktale brought to life.

The man sighed as he shut the door behind her, his shoulders slouched in irritation. He moved toward the counter and turned to face her, his eyes narrowing. "Alright," he muttered, his voice low but sharp. "What do y’want?"

Roseline adjusted the brim of her hat slightly, her green eyes catching the faint light as she met his skeptical gaze. Her voice was steady but soft as she answered, "Blue cohosh."

The man raised an eyebrow, his skeptical look deepening as he finally saw her properly—the shadow no longer hiding her face. His gaze lingered for a moment, taking in the striking features of the young woman standing before him. She was beautiful, he realized, and suddenly her request didn’t seem so unusual.

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head slightly. "That’ll cost y’a lot," he said, his tone almost taunting.

Without hesitation, Roseline reached into her bag, pulling out a neat stack of bills and placing them on the desk between them. Her movements were deliberate, her composure unwavering. "I want two full jars," she said quietly.

The man’s eyes widened briefly in surprise before he let out another sigh, clearly unimpressed but unable to refuse. He grumbled to himself as he retrieved the jars, their glass surfaces faintly smudged but their contents intact. He placed them on the counter, muttering under his breath.

"Y’put it in tea," he said flatly. "Before or after. Doesn’t matter much."

Roseline glanced at the jars briefly before meeting his gaze again. "Put them in a box," she said calmly.

The man groaned in irritation, but he obliged, fetching an old wooden box from beneath the counter. He packed the jars inside, his movements slow and begrudging as he secured the lid. When he finally handed it over, Roseline took the box with a nod of thanks, her gloved hands cradling it carefully.

She turned toward the door without another word, her steps silent as she made her way back into the alley. 

Chapter Text

A girl walked down a hallway, her movements slow. She flinched upon hearing the voices of two very familiar people. As she approached the voices, she discovered herself standing in front of an ajar door. The gap allowed light to spill onto the floor in front of her. She peeked her head inside to see the conversation happening within.

A woman with long black hair and a slender figure was pacing back and forth, while a man sat in an armchair, drinking a glass of alcohol. They appeared to be arguing. The woman leaned her head and back against the door, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation without being caught.

"She won’t be worth it anymore, Roger!" the woman complained, her movements slowing with each word. "She won’t bring in any more money once she is older; they'll discard her as soon as she turns sixteen!"

"Make her sing, then," the man said, clearly dismissing his wife’s concerns. "She could earn a good penny from it and might even become more famous than she is now."

The woman looked at him with disdain and frustration, her black eyes holding clear resentment. "That ungrateful girl refuses every time, no matter what I do. The bitch won’t listen, if it weren’t for her face I wouldn’t have taken her from that orphanage."

"Use her looks more," the man said, setting down his glass of whiskey. "Put her in a brothel, make her a rich man’s mistress. We both know that no wealthy man would marry an orphan who’s basically a mute."

"Selling her off is risky; she could reveal everything." The woman sat on the couch, rubbing her head. "What would happen if she spills everything we’ve worked on so far?"

"Woman, she hadn’t even reached the age of fourteen, I doubt she will remember anything," he said getting up and walking towards the window. "If you’re so concerned, you could marry her to our son."

"How dare you?!" the woman yelled, causing the little girl behind the door to flinch and cover her ears. "I would never let him marry that filthy thing."

The blonde-haired girl quickly moved away from the door, glancing back and forth in the hallway before running down it.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

1923 March 10th

Afternoon

Years later, after that incident, Roseline stood in a stunning white dress that fit her beautifully. The combination of dahlias in her hair and a few attached to her veil enhanced her natural beauty. She cradled a bouquet of roses against her chest, the floral scent filling her lungs.

The neckline swept upward, framing her shoulders with grace and drawing attention to the curve of her collarbone. A flowing skirt cascaded from the cinched waist, where a sculpted bow-like detail rested-it's subtle drama was neither overbearing nor subdued, but perfectly balanced. This adornment seemed to mark her as both delicate and bold.

The dahlias in her hair were arranged in a cascading style, their deep hues contrasting beautifully with the pristine white of her dress. The veil, delicately embroidered with floral patterns, added an ethereal touch to her ensemble.

Her beauty radiated as she walked down the aisle, the soft rustle of her skirt whispering with each step. The delicate floral arrangement in her hair and veil swayed gently, enhancing her ethereal presence.

This was it; it was happening. The sun shone brightly above them, occasionally obscured by passing clouds. The air was fresh, a clear sign of spring. She never anticipated being in a relationship with a man, let alone marrying him. Yet here she was, getting married to a Peaky Blinder—Thomas Shelby.

They decided that the wedding would take place outside a church, and Jeremiah would be officiating the ceremony. Rose walked towards her soon-to-be husband and the priest, her veil obscuring her vision so she couldn't clearly see their faces. She was grateful that everyone had come to attend; many had offered to walk her down the aisle, but she had declined. She preferred to walk alone, as she always had, and this was no different.

Her path was clear and beautiful, with no thorns, rocks, or dirt. Others might not see it, but there was blood on this path, and oh, how beautiful it was! It seemed like her bouquet of red had some competition.

Thomas watched his bride walk towards him. He hadn’t seen the dress when they bought it or during the fitting. He thought she would choose something different, but his beautiful bride had kept her taste in clothing a secret.

Before he proposed, he had already bought a house—one that was perfect for Rose and situated far away from the chaos. He was preoccupied with his business, the new house, and preparations for their honeymoon, which made it difficult for him to spend quality time with her. He occasionally slept in her apartment, and those were the only nights he truly slept well.

Everyone attended the wedding—family and friends, his kin. One might assume they were the ones getting married, not him, with how happy they looked. Rose’s close bond with his family both comforted and unsettled him. It was certainly better than the headache of marrying someone his family didn’t like.

What matters now is that...

He had it all.

Roseline finally arrived at her destination, and Tommy held her hand as she stood before him.

Jeremiah cleared his throat, his voice steady and warm as he began the ceremony. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to witness the union of Thomas Shelby and Roseline," he announced, his words carrying over the crowd. "In the presence of these witnesses, we celebrate the love and commitment that have brought them together." 

The sunlight broke briefly through the clouds, casting fleeting golden highlights across the couple. Roseline stood with quiet grace, her veil fluttering faintly in the spring breeze. Her fingers remained steady in Thomas's hand, though the weight of the moment coursed through her. Thomas’s sharp gaze remained fixed on her, his expression unreadable to most, yet carrying a depth of emotion known only to him. As she hesitantly lets go, Tommy does the same.

Jeremiah continued, his voice steady and deliberate. "Marriage is not merely the joining of two people. It is the creation of a partnership, a promise to walk forward together, no matter what trials may come. It is not about perfection, but perseverance. Not ease, but effort."

"You will exchange rings—symbols of the promises you make today," he said, his gaze sweeping briefly across the gathered guests before settling on the couple. "These rings are a circle, unbroken and eternal, representing the bond you will share for all your days."

Thomas reached for the ring first. Arthur, standing nearby, had been entrusted with the task of keeping it safe, though he was visibly anxious about handing it over without some remark. With a lopsided grin, he held the small box out toward Thomas, his humor breaking through even the weight of the moment.

"Don’t drop it, eh, Tommy," Arthur said with a chuckle, earning a mix of laughter and eye-rolls from the crowd.

Thomas ignored his brother’s jest, his focus entirely on Roseline as he took the ring from the box. The glint of the metal caught the sunlight briefly as he held it between his fingers, the weight of the moment reflected in the unyielding intensity of his gaze. Slowly, he reached for Roseline’s hand, his touch gentle.

Roseline’s green eyes softened as he slipped the ring onto her finger.

Now it was Roseline’s turn, and she glanced over to Polly, who had been entrusted with her ring. Polly stepped forward gracefully, though her sharp eyes carried a faint glint of amusement. "Don’t keep us waiting too long, love," she held the small box out to Roseline, her tone light but affectionate. 

Roseline took the ring, her movements poised as she turned back to Thomas. Her green eyes held his, and for a moment the noise of the crowd seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them suspended in this singular moment.

She slid the ring onto his finger. Now she understood that no woman could handle this man, just as no man could handle her. How can two people be so alike, yet so different?

"Thomas Michael Shelby," Jeremiah began, his deep voice steady, his gaze unyielding as he addressed the groom. "Will you take this woman, Roseline, to be your lawfully wedded wife? Will you promise to stand by her side, to honor and protect her, to share your life with her—through good and ill, through joy and sorrow, for as long as you both shall live?"

The air grew still, every breath from the crowd suspended as they awaited Tommy’s response. His sharp blue eyes remained locked on Roseline, his expression unreadable. He stood tall, his composure unwavering, his hand steady as it clasped hers. There was no trace of hesitation in the man—only certainty, forged from years of trials and burdens that had shaped him.

"I will," Tommy replied firmly, his voice low but deliberate, the words carrying an undeniable weight that seemed to echo in the quiet space around them.

Jeremiah nodded, the corners of his lips lifting just faintly in approval as he turned to Roseline. Her veil fluttered slightly in the breeze, the sunlight catching the delicate embroidery as it framed her figure.

"And you, Roseline," Jeremiah continued, his tone softening slightly as he addressed her. "Will you take this man, Thomas, to be your lawfully wedded husband? Will you promise to stand by his side, to honor and care for him, to share your life with him—through good and ill, through joy and sorrow, for as long as you both shall live?"

Her green eyes flicked briefly beneath the veil, her breath steady despite the tangle of emotions that surged within her. This was truly happening, only two words and a whole new life will open to her. Only two words to seal her fate in this man’s hands.

"I will," she replied, the two simple words will both be her beginning and end.

"Finally!" Finn hollered, his grin wide and mischievous, cutting through the seriousness of the moment like a knife through butter. The gathered guests erupted into laughter, the tension breaking into a flood of mirth that spread rapidly among them.

"Well said, Finn! I was starting to think we’d all grow old before they made it official!" John doubled over, clapping Finn on the back with a hearty guffaw. 

"A fuckin’ miracle, eh?" Arthur, grinning from ear to ear, threw his hands up dramatically.  "Tommy finally landed himself someone like Rose—didn’t think I’d live to see it!"

Ada rolled her eyes but couldn’t help her grin. "You lot never know when to stop, do you?" she quipped, nudging John lightly with her elbow. "Let them enjoy their moment, for God’s sake."

Polly, standing with her arms crossed, let out a sharp laugh that somehow managed to hold both amusement and a hint of disapproval. "You’re all bloody hopeless," she remarked, shaking her head. "Now pipe down before you ruin the whole thing."

Jeremiah, unable to resist the infectious laughter spreading through the crowd, chuckled softly as he raised his hands to regain control. "Alright, alright!" he said, his deep voice warm and amused. "Let’s wrap this up before Mr. Finn starts his own sermon. Mr. Shelby—kiss your bride."

Thomas smirked, glancing toward his rambunctious family with a faint shake of his head, before turning his attention back to Roseline. His blue eyes softened as he lifted her veil with care, the sheer fabric revealing her radiant face beneath. Roseline’s green eyes met his, their depth holding something unspoken yet undeniable.

"You look beautiful," Thomas murmured, his voice low enough for only her to hear, the words carrying an intimacy that made her lips curve faintly into a smile.

Roseline tilted her face upward slightly, her gaze steady as she whispered, "You don’t look bad yourself." Her voice was soft, but the emotion in it spoke volumes.

Without hesitation, Thomas leaned in, his hand brushing lightly against hers as he kissed her. The crowd erupted into cheers, their laughter and applause filling the air like a celebration unbound by formality.

Arthur clapped loudly, letting out a whistle that echoed above the din. "That’s it, Tommy! Make it count!" he hollered, earning another round of laughter from those around him.

Linda, sitting nearby with her arms crossed, cast him a sharp look, her disapproval cutting through the jubilant atmosphere. She leaned toward him, her voice low but firm, though it was loud enough to be heard by those closest. "Arthur, will you stop making a scene?" she hissed, her glare narrowing as she gestured subtly toward the bride and groom. "This is a wedding, not one of your rowdy nights at the Garrison."

Arthur paused mid-clap, his grin faltering slightly as he looked over at Linda. "Come on, love," he said defensively, his tone playful but with a hint of pleading. "It’s a special day, eh? Let me enjoy myself."

Linda shook her head, clearly unimpressed, her voice sharpening further. "You’re embarrassing yourself," she said bluntly, her words cutting through Arthur’s jovial demeanor.

"Oi, Tommy! Don’t forget to breathe!" Finn couldn’t resist chiming in again, his voice cutting through the noise. 

The entire crowd burst into laughter again, their energy as uncontained as their affection for the couple. Even Thomas, known for his stoic composure, let a genuine smile linger on his face as he pulled away from Roseline, his hand resting lightly on hers.

"Alright, everyone! Gather up—we’re taking a photograph! Come on, don’t make me shout twice!" Ada’s commanding presence immediately set people in motion, though not without the usual disarray that came with any gathering.

Esme, moving with her usual swiftness, began wrangling some of the younger children. Her voice rose over the din as she called to them, a faint trace of amusement in her tone. "Come on, you lot—over here! You can’t just hide behind the cake forever." She gathered them into her arms, adjusting one child’s collar and brushing dirt from another’s shoes before ushering them toward the center.

Michael, who had been lingering quietly on the sidelines for most of the ceremony, stepped forward with a calm efficiency that contrasted with the energy around him. He began helping people into place, his gestures subtle.

Roseline and Tommy stood quietly in the middle, their composed stillness a striking contrast to the whirlwind of movement around them. Roseline’s gown seemed to gleam in the soft spring light, the delicate floral details of her veil gently swaying as the breeze passed. Beside her, Tommy held his usual calm demeanor, though the faintest trace of amusement flickered in his sharp blue eyes as he observed his family’s antics.

As the crowd continued to shift and chatter, attempting to organize themselves into something resembling a photograph, Arthur’s growing frustration finally reached its boiling point. His face reddened, the lines of his brow furrowed deeply as he stood at the edge of the group, his sharp eyes flicking from one distracted family member to the next. The lighthearted banter and laughter continued, oblivious to his mounting irritation.

"ENOUGH!" he roared, the sheer force of his voice silencing everyone in an instant. The laughter stopped abruptly, and the crowd turned toward him, frozen under the weight of his fury. "Are y’all bloody deaf or just stupid? I said get in line! Stop pissin’ about and sort yourselves out!"

Arthur stalked forward, shoving his way through the group with heavy, deliberate steps. His sharp eyes glared daggers at anyone who dared meet his gaze. Finn, caught off guard, stumbled back as Arthur brushed past him. John’s usual grin disappeared entirely, replaced with a nervous chuckle that quickly died in his throat. Even Polly’s sharp expression softened into something unreadable, her lips pressed tightly together as she watched him with quiet caution.

"I’m sick of yeh lot makin’ fools of yourselves!" Arthur’s voice thundered again, even louder than before. "Stand still! Shut up! And for the love of God, act like you’ve got a bit of fuckin’ respect!"

As he reached the center of the group, he stopped abruptly, shoving Finn aside and forcing himself between Linda and Tommy. Linda shifted uncomfortably, her lips pressing into a thin line as she avoided looking at her husband directly.

Tommy, in stark contrast, remained calm and unbothered, his sharp blue eyes quietly observing the chaos Arthur had left in his wake. Roseline, too, seemed untouched by the palpable awkwardness hanging in the air, her demeanor holding steady as if Arthur's anger were nothing more than background noise.

"You!" Arthur turned sharply toward the photographer, his glare piercing and unrelenting. "Quit standin’ around like an idiot and take the bloody picture! I don’t want to hear another word or see any more muckin’ about! NOW!"

The photographer stammered out a hurried "Yes, sir," his hands fumbling with the camera as he rushed to adjust the focus. The group, visibly shaken, shuffled into position with tense, awkward movements, their earlier energy smothered under Arthur’s wrath.

As the photographer prepared to take the shot, the silence was deafening, filled only by the occasional rustle of fabric as the crowd settled stiffly into place.

Although the tension hung thick in the air, the camera clicked, capturing what would likely be the only photograph of the entire Shelby family and the Peaky Blinders standing together happily.

Ada, holding her young son close, felt a sudden, cool sensation on her hand. She glanced down, puzzled, then raised her head toward the sky. Another drop landed softly on her cheek, cold and wet against her skin. A moment of pause overtook her as she scanned the sky, now streaked with faint gray clouds that had gathered above without anyone noticing.

Nearby, Polly’s sharp eyes followed the same instinct, her lips pressing into a tight line as she looked upward. Her gaze darted to Ada, and their unspoken understanding confirmed what they both now realized. The soft plinking of droplets quickly grew into a distinct rhythm, catching the attention of the others.

"Rain," Ada murmured, adjusting her grip on her son as she felt another splash on her arm. Her voice carried just enough to break through the hum of conversation.

Curly, standing off to the side, pointed upward with animated surprise. "Oi, it’s gonna rain!" he exclaimed, his thick accent wrapping around the words as he gestured toward the sky. A wave of murmurs and glances spread through the group, the mood shifting quickly from celebration to mild urgency.

The soft patter of rain against fabric became heavier with each passing moment. The children squealed with excitement, a few of them stomping on the dampening ground while Esme hurried to gather them back in line. 

"Of course it’s rainin’—can’t have a proper Shelby gathering without some bloody weather, can we?" John threw up his arms with a dramatic groan.

Arthur grunted, pulling at his collar as the droplets began to soak into his shirt.

"Inside! Everyone, into the church, now! Move it!" Polly’s commanding voice rang out, clear and unwavering despite the growing downpour. 

The crowd responded immediately to her authority, shuffling quickly toward the open doors of the church. Ada ushered her son ahead of her, glancing back briefly to ensure the others were following. Charlie Strong wrangled a few stragglers, muttering about the unpredictability of spring rain as he waved them forward.

The large doors stood wide open, casting a warm glow onto the dampened ground, the voices of the Shelbys and guests muffled by the walls within. Tommy walked with deliberate strides, following the crowd and their laughter as they sought shelter from the sudden drizzle.

As he neared the entrance, a faint sense of unease flickered in his mind. He turned his head slightly, instinct guiding his gaze back toward the spot they had stood moments before. His steps slowed, his sharp blue eyes narrowing as they searched for her—his bride. And there she was, still standing in the original place beneath the soft rain, unmoving as the world rushed past her.

Roseline stood like a painting brought to life, her face tilted toward the darkened sky, her hand held out as though testing the rain for something only she could see. Her veil shimmered faintly under the soft light, while her bouquet hung low at her side, its vibrant reds dulled by the rain. There was an expression on her face—a quiet, ethereal wonder—that Tommy could not quite define, as though she existed in a world entirely separate from his own.

He turned back without hesitation, his footsteps crunching softly against the dampened path as he approached her. The bustle of the family inside the church faded from his thoughts, his focus entirely on the solitary figure before him. She didn’t turn to look at him, her gaze fixed upward on the gray clouds swirling overhead.

Tommy stopped beside her, his hand instinctively brushing against hers as he stepped into her silence. His eyes flicked briefly over her face, the faint drops clinging to her skin and veil like delicate crystals. He opened his mouth to speak, the words forming with a touch of concern. "Love—"

But before he could finish, her voice, soft and full of quiet reverence, cut through the patter of the rain. "Tommy, it’s raining."

Her green eyes turned to meet his, luminous and unguarded as if the rain held a truth that only she could feel. Tommy’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, his own words falling away into silence. Her hand remained outstretched, catching the droplets as they fell.

The rain grew heavier, its droplets falling in earnest now, splashing against the cobblestones and forming thin streams that twisted through the cracks in the earth. The wedding party was safe within the church, their hurried voices muffled and distant against the storm’s symphony. But outside, Roseline stood, her laughter rising above the patter of the rain like music, warm and unrestrained.

"It’s raining on our wedding day," she said, her voice bright with wonder, the words spilling out again as if she couldn’t quite believe them.

"Tommy, it's raining on our wedding day!" Her green eyes sparkled, her cheeks flush with excitement as the water cascaded over her dress, dampening its pristine fabric but only adding to the ethereal quality she carried.

Tommy, who had every reason to worry about the deluge soaking them both, found himself frozen in place, his sharp gaze fixed on her. She glowed, radiant under the cloudy sky, her beauty somehow amplified by the rain that clung to her hair and veil. It wasn’t just her appearance—it was her joy, her sheer uncontainable happiness.

She walked toward him, the smile on her lips unwavering, her bouquet of roses forgotten. When she reached him, she tilted her head slightly, her face framed by damp strands of hair. Her hand extended toward him, its palm glistening with droplets as she spoke with playful affection, "Dance with me, darling."

For a moment, Tommy was silent, the corners of his lips twitching slightly. Then, as if under her spell, he smiled—a rare, genuine smile that softened his features. He took her hand gently and stepped forward as the rain poured down around them. 

The things this woman made him do...

Esme stood near the doorway of the church, her arms crossed as she watched the scene unfolding outside. The soft glow of the interior light spilled onto the wet cobblestones, but her sharp eyes were fixed on the newlyweds in the distance. The rain came down in torrents now, drenching everything in its path, yet there they were—Roseline and Tommy—dancing as if the storm had been conjured just for them.

Esme furrowed her brow, a mix of confusion and amusement playing across her features. "What are they doin’?" she muttered, her voice just loud enough to catch the attention of those standing nearby. Her hand gestured toward the rain-soaked couple, the disbelief in her tone almost palpable.

One of the children tugged at her skirt, looking up at her with wide, curious eyes. "Are they playin’ in the rain?" the child asked innocently, earning a faint chuckle from Esme.

"I don’t know if I’d call it playin’," she replied, her gaze never leaving the pair. There was something almost surreal about the way Roseline moved, her laughter carried faintly on the wind even as the rain poured down harder. Tommy, ever the stoic, seemed different—lighter somehow—as he twirled his bride under the stormy sky.

"Let ‘em be," Polly, standing a few steps behind Esme, glanced outside and let out a faint sigh, shaking her head with a wry smile. "It’s their moment."

Arthur, still slightly gruff from his earlier outburst, leaned against the doorway with a wry grin. "Bloody hell," he muttered, shaking his head. "Man’s finally lost it." But his smirk betrayed his approval as he watched his brother and new sister-in-law move under the deluge.

Ada stood nearby, chuckling softly as she crossed her arms. "Well, at least one of us knows how to enjoy a bit of rain," she said, her tone teasing but affectionate.

After that, everything was a blur for Rose, The only thing she clearly remembers was being put in the car with Tommy who kept his mouth on her. The man was devouring her in a car, with a driver in front. She wanted to feel embarrassed but with the man’s tongue already in her mouth, she could care less.

She did feel bad for the driver.

"Tommy-" she tried to say but he was already kissing her again. She hopes the driver won’t mind, and to have enough air in her lungs by the end of this.

Everything was a haze. She remembered Tommy draping his coat over her shoulders as they walked into a building. Rose assumed it was a hotel, judging by its design and the people inside. They were looking at them, likely curious about their disheveled and wet appearance.

Her vision and thoughts felt clouded; she was disoriented, even though she hadn’t consumed any alcohol. All she knew was that she was walking, with Tommy guiding her. Maybe she had doubts before, but it rained during her wedding! Maybe, this was the path she was meant to take all along. 

As they entered the room, Roseline could feel the damp fabric clinging to her skin, each drop of rain absorbed into her dress now a reminder of the storm outside. The low-cut gown, which once felt elegant and freeing, now felt like a constricting cage, every movement reminding her of its weight.

Before she could make any more movements, she was pressed against the door. Her face flushed, as Thomas had his face planted on her neck. "T-Tommy, I can’t," she tried to say, "Ah! It’s t-too hot!"

Hearing this Thomas chuckled. Before she knew it the coat was ripped from her body to the floor. "Hot with a dress like that, eh love?" he teased, his hands traveling down her back reaching down to her ass, lifting her up. "Yeh shouldn’t have worn anything, Ros."

The blonde whimpered as she was carried off by her husband, and thrown onto a soft mattress. Her wet hair splayed on the soft pillow, making a puddle under her head. Her once beautiful dress, now Tommy could see almost right through it in the light.

Tommy knows that there are sculptors of goddesses, wearing see-through clothes and he can’t help but imagine her as one of them. His clothes now heavy on his skin, he took off his jacket watching Rose struggle with her dress.

She was adamant about staying laid down on the bed, clearly tired. Tommy now in his shirt and pants, decided to help her take it off.

He moved closer, his breath hot against her skin. "You're mine, Ros," he murmured, his lips brushing her ear. She shivered, her hands gripping the sheets as he leaned in, his touch igniting something within her.

"Please, please, Tommy!" she wanted to scream at him, she wanted something out of him.

He leaned down, his lips grazing her neck, and whispered, "I’ll take care of yeh, love." His hands moved to the hem of her dress, gently pulling it over her head. She gasped as the fabric slipped away, leaving her exposed. Tommy’s eyes darkened with desire as he leaned in to kiss her again.

He pulled away to take off his shirt, looking at the woman under him. His blood was boiling and his pants felt too tight as he realized nothing was covering her chest under the dress. Her body was flushed despite the cold, nipples perked and begged for attention.

Tommy’s hands traced her curves, his touch both gentle and demanding. She arched into him, her breath coming in shallow gasps as he explored her with a hunger that matched her own.

"Oh! T-Tommy!" she gasped, as she felt him latching on her left breast, biting her nipple, while his hand massaged her other breast. She gripped his head with one hand and the sheet under them in the other.

"You’re going to take everything I give you, eh love?" he pulled away from her abused nipple, gripping the other one with his fingers. "You’re going to be a good wife for me, aren’t ya?"

"Please! I-I’ll be good," she begged, though she didn’t know what she was begging for, but she wanted him to do something. "I-I promise!"

His mouth moved lower, trailing kisses down her stomach, his fingers slipping beneath her panties. She trembled as he pulled them off, his lips finding her core. She moaned, her back arching as he explored her with his tongue, his touch sending waves of pleasure through her body.

She gasped, spreading her legs more as he licked and suckled her sensitive flesh. She writhed beneath him, her fingers tangling in his hair as he teased her relentlessly. Her moans grew louder, her body tensing as pleasure coiled within her. Then she felt something outside her entrance, nudging against it.

"W-Wait! Tomm-"

She was cut off with a gasp, as she felt something breach her walls. His finger. His finger was inside her! She tensed around him, her breath hitching as he pushed deeper, curling his finger inside her.

Her body trembled, pleasure building as he moved slowly, exploring her with deliberate strokes. Her body quivered, torn between fear and the strange sensation. She moaned, her nails digging into his scalp as he continued to tease and torment her.

"That’s it, love," he whispered, his mouth pulling away from her. Adding his middle finger beside his index, he pushed them deeper, stretching her gently.

"So good, Tommy!" she gasped, her body adjusting to the intrusion as he began to move them in a slow rhythm. Her moans grew louder, pleasure building with every stroke. She arched her back, surrendering to the sensations, her breath coming in shallow gasps as he brought her closer to the edge.

"Yeh like that, it feels good, eh?" Thomas smiled watching her nod hesitantly, trying to hide her face using the now damp pillow under her.

He made a scissoring motion with his fingers, stretching her further. She gasped at the slight burn, her body tensing before relaxing into the sensation.

"That’s it," he murmured, his voice low and soothing. "Just relax for me." Her moans grew louder as he continued, her pleasure mounting with each movement.

"What? N-No," Rose almost whined as she felt him pull away his fingers. Curious, she looked at her now husband, who was pulling down his pants and underwear.

Her eyes widen looking at the naked man in front of her, before turning her face to the side again. Her face now was even more flushed, her vision clouded, she was truly living up to her name.

Thomas moved again now fully above her, enough for them to be face to face. He gripped her chin and turned her face towards him, "you’re going to look at me, Rose." he grunted, his blue eyes meeting her green ones.

Rose looked at him, and for the first time, she found something in those lifeless eyes—something she couldn’t yet understand; maybe she would someday. She nodded, knowing he wasn’t asking, but did so anyway.

"M-More, Tommy,"

Thomas kissed her again, his tongue back again exploring her mouth. Rose thought it was dirty, but it gave her an intense amount of pleasure to taste herself from him. He spread her legs as he positioned himself at her entrance, his breath hot against her neck.

Rose shivered, anticipation coursing through her veins. She felt something against her folds, bigger, a lot bigger than Tommy’s fingers. "Is-Is that?-" she was about to ask, before quickly wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Yes," he whispered, his voice hoarse with desire. "Yeh wanted more, isn’t that right?" Slowly, he pushed into her, filling her completely.

"Tommy!" Rose gasped at the sensation, her nails digging into his shoulders.

Thomas groaned, his hips beginning to move in a rhythm that left her breathless and craving more. Rose moaned as he thrust deeper, her body trembling with pleasure. She clung to him, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. Thomas quickened his pace, his movements becoming more urgent. She wrapped her legs around his hips, to get better leverage as his pace quickened.

Before she knew it, something warm filled her walls as he released inside her. Rose’s body quivered with the intensity of her release, her cries muffled against his shoulder. Tommy held her close, his breathing ragged as he slowed down his movements.

"That’s it, you did good, love." she heard him whisper in her ear, as he held her tight. She felt safe in his arms, her body still trembling from the intensity of their activities. Tommy kissed her forehead gently, his lips soft and warm against her skin.

She heard him whisper something, but she couldn’t make it out before everything went black.

Chapter Text

1923 March 11th

Morning

The morning air was surprisingly warm as Roseline slowly began to wake, the softness of her skin contrasting sharply with the cool sheets beneath her. Although she was vaguely aware of her surroundings, a heavy veil of sleep clung to her, urging her to remain in the comforting embrace of slumber. As her senses began to sharpen, she noticed that she was not resting on a pillow; instead, the surface beneath her head was firmer and oddly shaped, suggesting something—or someone—was there. With a gentle nudge of curiosity, she finally peeled her eyelids apart, allowing the soft light of dawn to stream in.

She focused on Thomas, who was sleeping peacefully next to her. His face looked calm as he rested. He had his arm around her, holding her head as if to keep her close. This closeness made her cheeks warm with a blush. For a moment, she lay there, enjoying the quiet scene in front of her.

Rose sat up slowly, trying not to wake him. It felt strange to be naked in the morning, waking up next to a man. She knew she needed to adjust to this new situation; after all, they certainly weren’t going to sleep in different beds.

As she surveyed her surroundings, she realized it was actually a nice room. She hadn’t had the chance to appreciate it last night; the man had barely let her breathe. Her memory was hazy after the wedding and the rain. The blonde dragged her feet to the side in an effort to get out of bed.

She smiled as she felt the soreness in her legs and back while getting up. With some effort, she dragged herself to the middle of the room. She had the urge to open the curtains, but, feeling quite naked, it seemed inappropriate. Relief washed over her when she noticed their bags in front of the bed; Tommy must have brought them inside.

She carefully examined the luggage, trying to locate her personal bag. She had ensured that their bags were separate because she had prepared these clothes as a surprise. She loved seeing how he reacted when he looked at her in different dresses. His eyes conveyed various emotions—hunger and something more—as he enjoyed those moments. While some people might not notice his different facial expressions, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t have any.

Rose didn’t want him to notice the small box she had brought along; it was supposed to last for a month. She had carefully grinded the plant before the wedding and placed it back in the jar to make it easier to transport and incorporate into tea or food. The small amount would be discreet enough not to raise any suspicion.

Tommy didn't share much information with her about where they were going or even about their wedding. Rose disagreed with his approach to handling such important moments in their lives. She understood that he had spent most of his life doing things independently and always taking on the role of a leader. He had done this so often that it became his way of life, and he took pleasure in having control over everything.

He was perfect just like that.

Rose had to kneel down to open her bag, looking over the carefully folded clothes. 

"Lift it up more," a gruff voice said behind her. She quickly looked behind her, to find her husband awake, sitting up on the bed. Wondering what he means, she looks over her naked body.

She realized he was referring to the way she was bending over. Smiling, she straightened up slightly, giving him a better view.

"This is all you’re getting today," she teased bending over a little as she looks for the right dress to wear, swaying her ass in the process. "Last night was enough."

She finally found the dress she wanted and pulled it out, holding it up to her body. "You can watch if you like, but no touching." She said, turning to face him with a playful smile. 

"Cruel woman," he said, taking the offer, watching her dress herself in front of him.

She carefully slipped the soft fabric of the dress over her head, feeling the cool material caress her skin as it fell gracefully down her body. With each movement, she smoothed the dress into place, relishing the way his eyes tracked her every motion, filled with desire. The subtle sheen of the dress caught the light, accentuating her curves and making her look both confident and alluring. 

Thomas reclined on the bed, propped up on one elbow as he observed Rose in her element. The soft glow of the lamp cast a warm hue across the room, highlighting her graceful movements. He sat bare, the sheet draping over his lower body, barely concealing him. With a deliberative gesture, he reached for the pack of cigars resting on the bedside table. The familiar crinkle of the packaging broke the silence as he pulled one out, savoring its weight in his fingers. After lighting it with a match, he took a slow drag, letting the rich smoke curl around him.

Roseline grimaced but said nothing, her gaze fixed on the floor. She spotted her wedding dress, crumpled and damp, essentially ruined. Quickly, she rushed over and picked it up.

"It’s such a shame; it was a beautiful dress," she said, her fingers delicately tracing the contours of the ruined fabric that had once been a breathtaking work of art. The intricate lace detailing along the hem, now tattered and frayed, had taken Emily countless hours to perfect. 

"I’ll buy ye another," Tommy announced, rising from the bed. The warmth of the room contrasted sharply with the coolness of his bare skin, and he made his way across the floor, careful to navigate around his damp clothes, which lay in a crumpled heap.

"Tom, it’s a wedding dress," the blonde stated, looking at him as if he had forgotten that they just got married. "You can’t have another wedding dress without another wedding."

Thomas rummaged through his bag for clothes as he began to dress himself. "Have another weddin’," he said.

"We are on our honeymoon, Tommy," she deadpanned. She never thought Thomas Shelby would throw her away this fast. "You’re already divorcing me?"

Rose sensed the shift in his demeanor as soon as the words left her lips. A flicker of tension replaced the earlier warmth in his eyes. "We have another weddin’, for us," he emphasized, his tone becoming more serious. He pulled on his crisp white shirt, the fabric rustling softly as he began to fasten the buttons.

"Tommy, we can’t have two weddings," she said, walking over to her bag to put the now-ruined dress in a small paper bag before placing it inside. "That’s not possible."

Another wedding? For them? How is that possible? Everyone knows you typically only have one wedding, unless something happens that separates the couple and leads to a second marriage. Some people even argue that you should marry once and remain with that person for the rest of your life, even if your spouse dies or becomes entirely different during the marriage.

Some people believe that if a husband dies, his wife must be buried with him at the same time, whether she is alive or dead. This raises the question of whether a husband would do the same if his wife passed away. Roseline does not like the idea of anyone being buried with her; she values her privacy, even in death.

"A gypsy weddin’, love," Thomas said as he put on his suit vest. "It will be a simple ceremony, just like the old days. No fuss, no frills, just us and the family. That's all we need."

Roseline nodded, though her expression remained skeptical. "A gypsy wedding," she repeated softly, her voice tinged with both curiosity and hesitation.

Is it because Tommy loves her that he wants to marry her a second time, or is it because gypsies believe in marrying for life? There isn't exactly a way to get divorced. The thought didn't frighten her; she wasn’t planning on divorce, she was just curious.

"I’ll think about it."

The man finished dressing, walked over to her, and kissed her on the lips. Rose wrapped her arms around his neck. "Don’t think too much, eh?" he said, his hands on her waist.

Roseline smiled softly, her lips grazing his cheek in a tender kiss before she stepped back, feeling the warmth linger. She turned and approached the heavy curtains that framed the window, their fabric rich and textured. As she gently pulled them aside, a sliver of light spilled into the dim room. She leaned in closer, gazing down at the world far below. The ground was a dizzying distance away, and she marveled at how small everything seemed from this height.

"Tommy, where are we?" she asked, a hint of confusion lacing her voice. Below them, lively streets teemed with people, vibrant trees lined the sidewalks, their leaves shimmering in the dappled sunlight, casting shadows on the ground. She squinted, trying to take in the scene before her, but nothing felt familiar. It didn't resemble Birmingham in the slightest.

"Liverpool," he murmured softly, stepping closer to his wife. His fingers gently threaded through her long, cascading hair, the silky strands glinting in the warm light. She sat in a sunbeam, her gaze focused on the lively scene below. He admired the way the sunlight danced on her features, highlighting the delicate curve of her neck and the serene expression on her face as the world moved around her.

Rose was shocked by this and quickly turned around. "How is that possible? I don’t remember being in the car for that long!" she exclaimed, looking at Thomas. He had a strange sense of humor; most people didn’t know this about him, but it was humor nonetheless. This could be one of those times.

"I was doing it right then, yeah?" he smirked, placing his hands on her waist again. He rested his head on her neck, inhaling her scent. "Ye slept in the car." 

Roseline doesn’t remember sleeping in the car; she was certain she had been awake the entire time. His touches and kisses still linger in her mind. She recalls it being dark and remembers the driver. She was accustomed to losing track of time, so perhaps she had fallen asleep without realizing it due to her exhaustion.

Her memories can be vague sometimes. 

Roseline shook her head with a quiet laugh, still marveling at the fact that she had slept through the journey to Liverpool. She turned fully toward Tommy, her arms loosely crossing as she eyed him with playful scrutiny.

"I swear, you could move a whole house without me noticing," she mused, tilting her head slightly. "What else did you do while I was sleeping, eh? Took me to France and back?"

"Didn’t need to go that far," he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of her dress. "Had enough fun just gettin’ ye here."

"You make it sound like I’m some stubborn cargo you had to smuggle across borders." She huffed softly, rolling her eyes.

Tommy’s smirk widened. "If the shoe fits, love."

Roseline let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking her head. "You’re impossible." But the laughter in her voice betrayed any real frustration.

"And yet, you married me." Tommy’s fingers tightened just slightly on her waist as he tilted his head, his blue eyes flickering with something both teasing and affectionate. 

"Maybe it was a moment of weakness." She feigned a thoughtful look, her lips pursing slightly. 

Tommy chuckled, his grip on her waist firm but warm. "Moment is stretched into a lifetime now."

Roseline shook her head again, but the corners of her lips curled upward as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "Guess I’ve got no choice then."

"Ye don’t," Tommy murmured, his voice low as he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss against her temple. He then leaned down to kiss her on the lips, and a thud could be heard as he pressed her back against the window.

Roseline smiled against his lips, her hands threading through his hair. "I guess not." She murmured softly as he deepened the kiss, the world outside fading away.

Thomas grabbed her hair as she moaned, causing her to look up, allowing him to explore her mouth. "I could eat you for breakfast and feel so fuckin’ full." Thomas said, pulling away, before diving in again.

"Breakfast!" Rose exclaimed, interrupting Tommy’s advances, leaning her head to the side. "We can’t just stay here all day."

She broke free from Tommy's grip, the tension lingering in the air as she stepped away from him. With purposeful strides, she made her way over to the vanity nestled against the wall, its surface cluttered with an array of beauty products. As she picked up a comb, she caught a glimpse of herself, the light catching the strands of her hair, which she began to methodically brush through. Tommy observed her closely from a distance, noting the way she moved, the contours of her back drawing his gaze as she focused on her reflection.

After a moment, he reached down to his bag that sat on the floor with others. He retrieved a small, unassuming box, its surface worn but polished. Taking a deep breath, he approached her once more. He watched her twist and secure her hair into a neat bun.

As Rose finished arranging her hair, she caught sight of Tommy’s reflection looming behind her."Tommy, you need to stop lurking behind me like that," she teased, a light laugh escaping her lips. Although she enjoyed his presence and the comfort it brought, she couldn’t help but think that if he kept it up, she might start mistaking other people who stood behind her for him.

"Open it," he said, placing the small box in front of her. She could feel his breath on her neck as he remained behind her.

Looking at the box, it was beautifully decorated. She opened the box, and was met with a shiny light reflecting, making her squint her eyes a little. It was a gorgeous, delicate necklace with a few dimes on it. In the middle, there were matching earrings. 

"They are so beautiful," she murmured, her fingers delicately tracing the elegant curves of the necklace Tommy had surprised her with. Tommy’s newfound habit of showering her with gifts was both thrilling and overwhelming; she knew it wouldn’t be winding down anytime soon, so she might as well embrace it. Turning toward him, she added with a playful smile, "Will you help me put it on?"

He nodded, his eyes focused intently on the delicate necklace. From behind her, he carefully reached forward, his fingers brushing against her skin as he lifted the shimmering piece of jewelry. Rose, sensing his touch, tilted her head slightly to one side, granting Tommy a clearer view of her slender neck, which glimmered under the soft light. Once the necklace was securely in place, Rose began to remove her earrings, setting them on the vanity. She picked up the pair of earrings from the box and put them on.

"Thank you, darling," she said, turning towards him. She was never the type to care for gifts, but the gifts Tommy gave her felt different.

Thomas stepped back slightly, his sharp blue eyes observing her every movement, tracing the way the necklace settled against her skin. "Looks good on ye," he murmured, his voice low, carrying a quiet satisfaction.

Roseline turned to face him fully, her expression laced with both affection and amusement. "Everything you give me looks good, because you have good taste, surprisingly," she teased, smoothing her hands over her dress as if to punctuate her words.

Tommy smirked faintly, retrieving his pack of cigarettes from the bedside table. He held one between his fingers, absently rolling it. "Or," he countered, lighting it, "it’s because you make everything look good."

Roseline let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy exhaled slowly, the faint curl of smoke drifting between them. "Don’t need to," he murmured, watching her closely. "Already got ye, Mrs. Shelby."

Tommy’s movements were measured as he reached for his suit jacket, pulling it on. His fingers traced the edge of his pocket watch before retrieving it, the cool metal fitting neatly into his palm. He flicked it open, his sharp blue eyes scanning the time before snapping the cover shut.

"We’ll eat downstairs," he stated simply, slipping the watch back into place as he adjusted his vest. "There’s a restaurant. We’ll have breakfast there."

Roseline, now, was carefully tucking away their belongings, her fingers brushing over the fabric of neatly folded clothes as she sorted through their bags. She glanced at Tommy, her curiosity finally breaking through.

"And what exactly is the plan today?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. "You haven’t told me a thing."

Tommy smirked faintly, but he didn’t offer her an immediate answer. Instead, he approached with that quiet certainty of his, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves before speaking.

"You’ll know soon enough," he murmured. "Just need to know that in the afternoon, we leave the hotel."

Roseline turned to him fully now, her expression holding both amusement and mild exasperation. "You don’t have to be so secretive," she pointed out, crossing her arms loosely. "This is our honeymoon, Tommy."

His smirk deepened just slightly, but there was a flicker of something more in his gaze—something unreadable yet deliberate. He leaned in slightly, his voice low, carrying a hint of teasing. "It’s a surprise."

She stepped forward, smoothing her hands over the front of his jacket, adjusting the lapels with a quiet ease. "Fine," she conceded, lifting her chin as she met his gaze. "I’ll wait."

Tommy, having retrieved his suit jacket and pocket watch, led the way with a confident stride. Roseline lingered a moment in the doorway, casting one last longing glance back at the sumptuous décor of their suite.

In the corridor, anticipation filled the air along with the quiet sounds of early service. The ornate wallpaper and decorative lights reminded them of a more elegant time while hinting at the new day ahead. As Roseline walked next to Tommy, she noticed how light and shadow played on the walls, reminding her of the luxurious room they had just left.

The hotel was massive and luxurious, reminding her of the theaters where she used to perform in. However, she had always been backstage and never had the chance to fully appreciate it. While hotels and theaters are quite different, they often attract similar types of people.

The restaurant doors loomed ahead, open wide as if inviting them into a vibrant space where the clink of china and low murmurs of conversation awaited.

As they stepped inside, the high ceiling towered overhead, its grandeur accentuated by intricate moldings and delicate plasterwork that spoke of a rich history and timeless elegance. At the center of the room, a magnificent chandelier descended gracefully, its crystal prisms catching and refracting the light in a dazzling display. The gentle shower of sparkles cascaded across the polished floor, illuminating the space with a warm, inviting glow.

Her gaze drifted across the room, capturing every exquisite detail that contributed to its opulence. The tables and chairs were arranged with precision, each setting perfectly aligned, showcasing elegant linens that shimmered under the soft glow of chandeliers overhead. Towering columns, adorned with intricate carvings of vine motifs and leaf patterns, rose majestically, their surfaces polished to a sheen. Potted palms, strategically positioned in the corners, brought a whisper of nature’s grace to the otherwise grand affair, their lush green fronds contrasting beautifully with the luxurious surroundings. Every element of the décor had been meticulously placed, creating a harmonious blend of sophistication and comfort.

The soft clink of porcelain and the gentle murmur of early diners filled the restaurant as Roseline spoke up with a bright smile.

“Tommy, could we sit by the window?” she asked as they navigated through the chaos of the fancy tables and chairs.

Tommy’s eyes crinkled as he returned her smile. "Of course, love. Nothin’ beats seein’ the mornin’ light, yeah?"

Once comfortably settled, a waiter approached with a neatly folded menu. Tommy leaned back, a playful glint in his eyes. "Now, Rose," he said, "I’m gonna leave breakfast orders in your capable hands today. Choose for the both of us."

Roseline took the menu with an air of playful authority. She scanned the menu with a thoughtful expression, tapping her finger lightly on the page. "Then I’ll have the classic breakfast set for each of us—eggs, toast, and roasted tomatoes. And two cups of strong tea, please," she declared with a confident nod.

The waiter leaned in, pen ready on his notepad. "Two classic breakfast sets and two cups of tea. Very well, ma’am," he confirmed with a courteous nod before jotting down their order and departing.

As they settled into this quiet moment by the window, another waiter, slightly younger, with an eager smile, approached the table carrying a tray of water glasses. He carefully began to refill the glasses when, in a moment of distracted admiration, his eyes lingered on Rose a moment too long. His hand trembled imperceptibly as he poured, and a small ribbon of water splashed over the rim.

Tommy, ever observant, watched quietly as the waiter jerked his hand back. "I-I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to—" the waiter stuttered, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as he hastily dabbed at the spill with a cloth.

"That’s perfectly fine. Just be careful, okay?" she replied, her tone was kind, diffusing the brief moment of embarrassment with genuine warmth.

"Listen, love, I’ve got a quick meeting with someone outside." Tommy seized the brief pause to speak, his voice low, "There’s a lady’s drawing room upstairs if you fancy waitin’ there while I sort things out."

"A drawing room, huh?" Rose raised her brow, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. 

"Aye, it’s just a quick meetin’. I’ll be back before you know it," he assured her. If all went well, that is. He knew Churchill had some business with him, maybe he had to do a delivery.

"Alright then. I’ll take a stroll through the room and see what little treasures I can find," she said, her tone teasing as much as it was affectionate. "But you better not be long, or I might start thinkin’ you forgot about me." 

When their breakfast dishes arrived, each plate was a carefully arranged composition of eggs, toast, and roasted tomatoes. Tommy tucked into his meal, savoring each bite, while Roseline methodically worked her fork through her dish. As the conversation between them flowed, Tommy’s observant eyes drifted toward her plate. He noticed that, although some of the sides had disappeared neatly, the main portion of Roseline’s dish was barely half eaten.

Roseline set her fork aside and lifted her cup of tea, allowing the steam to swirl around her thoughts. She wanted to add the powder, but it was in their suite, and she couldn’t exactly do that in front of Thomas. It wouldn’t make sense if she said she preferred this particular aroma. He might be a man, but he was far from stupid.

As they finished their breakfast, Tommy dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He pushed back his chair with a gentle scrape against the wooden floor, the sound breaking the comfortable silence. "Shall we?" he asked, extending his arm toward Roseline with a soft look in his eyes.

She nodded thoughtfully, her curiosity ignited by the prospect of exploring the drawing room, a space she had only heard about in passing. As they navigated through the vibrant dining area, the air was filled with the mingling scents of rich cuisine and the soft murmur of conversation. They exchanged polite nods with other guests in acknowledgement.

As they approached the grand entrance of the drawing room, adorned with intricate woodwork and soft golden light spilling from elegant sconces. Thomas came to a halt, he turned to face Rose.

"I won’t be long," he promised, his voice steady. "Just a quick chat, and I’ll come find you."

Roseline nodded, giving him an encouraging smile. "Take your time," she replied, watching as he disappeared down the corridor before stepping inside to explore the room.

The drawing room was a haven of creativity, with sunlight streaming through large windows and casting a warm glow over the eclectic collection of artworks. Rich tapestries adorned the walls, their vibrant colors contrasting beautifully with the muted tones of the antique furniture.

A gentle melody wafted through the air, emanating from an old phonograph in the corner. The soft strains of a classical piece provided a soothing backdrop to the room, its notes weaving seamlessly with the ambiance. She recognizes the piece, it was one she played when she was ten.

A few women were already present in the drawing room, each absorbed in their own pursuits. One sat by the window, looking outside, her auburn hair catching the sunlight and casting a fiery halo around her face. Another woman, with elegant silver strands, was engrossed in a book, her posture relaxed as she occasionally glanced up to appreciate the music. A third, with a cascade of dark curls, was arranging flowers in a vase, her movements graceful as she curated a vibrant display.

The blonde settled into one of the dark blue sofas and took a moment to survey her surroundings. She had to admit that it was quite relaxing in a way. Rose wondered what kind of business Tommy was involved in now; she hoped it wasn’t anything too dangerous. After all, witnessing someone die in front of her during her honeymoon would be rather depressing.

The woman with silver strands looked up from her book, catching Roseline’s eye with a warm smile. "It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" she remarked, her voice gentle and inviting.

Roseline nodded, momentarily distracted from her worries, and replied, "Yes, the sunlight makes everything feel so alive."

"Indeed," the woman agreed, her smile widening. "It’s rare to find such calmness these days."

"If you don’t mind me asking," the young blonde looked at the book in the woman’s hand. "What are you reading?"

The older woman lifted her book, a well-worn volume with a faded cover, and held it in the light. "The House of Mirth," she said, her voice thoughtful as she acknowledged the classic work.

Roseline's face brightened with recognition. "Oh, that's a good book," she said, a trace of enthusiasm in her words as she recalled the elegant yet tragic passages of Wharton's narrative.

"I'm simply at my wits' end with Lily Bart," she declared, her tone tinged with exasperation. "If she continues making these choices—these sacrifices for hollow honor—I cannot imagine that she will ever reach a good ending. It’s as if she’s willingly setting her own downfall in motion."

Roseline regarded the woman with a contemplative expression, the afternoon light catching the thoughtful furrow of her brow. Leaning in slightly, she replied in a calm, measured voice, "I understand your frustration, truly. It does seem maddening to witness someone trading her potential for a life dictated by society’s cold dictates."

The silver-haired woman looked sad and angry as she said, "What do you think it all means? Can we find any hope in that self-destruction, or is it just a warning about missed opportunities?"

Roseline paused to choose her words carefully. "For me, the ending isn’t the most important part, whether it is happy or sad," she said softly. "The real value comes from the message of the story. In Lily’s struggle and the pressure from society, we see a reflection of our own choices and the painful cost of fitting in. What matters is that the story makes us think and encourages us to look at our own hearts and the compromises we make."

A quiet moment passed between them as the soft music played on. The silver-haired woman looked at Roseline with gentle eyes, showing a hint of understanding. "Perhaps you’re right," she said quietly.

As half an hour slips by, the conversation between the two women flows effortlessly, discussing books and their deeper meanings. Each title sparks animated discussion, their voices occasionally rising with excitement as they share insights and personal interpretations. 

Out of the corner of Roseline’s eye, she catches a glimpse of Tommy standing in the hallway, leaning casually against the now-open door. His presence, framed by the soft glow of the late morning light, draws her attention momentarily away from the lively discussion.

"Would you excuse me? I think it’s time for me to leave," Rose said apologetically as she got off the sofa and looked at the woman. "It was lovely meeting you."

"Thank you for this wonderful conversation," the woman said with a smile, opening the book to the page where she had left off. "I believe I will enjoy the book even more now, keeping your insights in mind."

The meeting appeared to go smoothly, with no signs of tension in his demeanor; in fact, he looked quite calm. As Roseline approached the door, she couldn't help but notice that her husband was already dressed in his coat, and another coat hanging by his arm.

As she reached him, she saw one of the hotel attendees clearly carrying their luggage in the luggage cart. 

"Tommy, what’s going on?" she asked, confused and hoping they weren’t getting kicked out. That would be a bit embarrassing.

"Change of plan, love," he said, lifting up her coat. He held it open for her, his hands gentle yet firm as he helped her slip into it. "We are leavin’ now."

Roseline remained silent as they navigated the corridor, the faint sound of their footsteps echoing off the walls. Her mind was elsewhere, processing the events that had just unfolded. She stepped outside, breathing in the cool air, and stood by the entrance with the attendant who guarded their bags. Meanwhile, inside, Thomas is at the counter, paying their expenses with the attendant.

As Tommy walked out of the hotel, he noticed the waiter from earlier in the restaurant. The waiter was serving them while watching Rose and was now heading toward the side of the hotel. Tommy gestured to his wife, indicating that he needed a moment.

He followed the young waiter to the back of the hotel, getting closer to him. "Hey!" he yelled to get the waiter's attention.

The waiter turned around and was met with a punch to the face, causing him to lose his balance. "What the fuck?!" he yelled in pain, covering his nose. 

Before he could recover, Thomas punched his left eye, knocking him to the ground. Tommy stood over him, his chest heaving with anger.

"You were fuckin’ lookin’ at my wife," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. The waiter, blood dripping from his nose, scrambled backward in fear as the older man pointed a gun at him. Tommy leaned closer, his voice icy. "If she wasn’t outside, a bullet would already be in your head."

The man tucked his gun back into his coat and adjusted his cap. After leaving the waiter on the ground, he walked over to join Rose, who was waiting for him at the entrance with her purse in hand.

"Tommy, where did you go all of a sudden?" She asked, turning toward him, could it be that he had more business to attend to than originally planned.

"I had somethin’ to do, love." His tone brooked no further question, and Roseline nodded in quiet acceptance, allowing the moment to pass without further inquiry.

At that very instant, a sleek, dark automobile pulled up at the hotel’s entrance. The soft hum of its well-tuned engine melded with the murmurs of the city. "Come on, Rose, get inside," Tommy urged, his voice both firm and tender. He reached out with gloved hands to help her get into the car.

The driver, a gentleman in a crisp suit and bowler hat, stepped from the car and assisted Tommy in loading the bags into the polished trunk.

Rose recognized the driver; he was one of Tommy’s men, the same one who had driven them to the hotel. She felt very embarrassed, now that she was actually awake and functioning.

Tommy sat next to Roseline and kept a watchful eye on the road ahead. The driver took the car down winding cobblestone streets, passing grand buildings and detailed storefronts that hinted at a rich past. Sometimes, they drove under arches and along streets where light and shadow blended, creating a beautiful view of the city outside that caught Roseline's attention.

For Roseline, the car ride became a time for reflection—a break between the formal atmosphere of the hotel and the new experiences ahead. She looked out the glass windows as the world passed by. The sound of the tires on the road mixed with her quiet thoughts.

The sleek automobile eased to a stop, and the driver carefully unlatched the door. Emerging into the gentle hum of late morning, Tommy and Roseline stepped out onto the stone walkway.

They walked along a winding path with cool cobblestones under their shoes. The air smelled of salt and excitement, and this feeling grew with each step. Soon, the city's loud sounds faded and were replaced by the gentle sound of water hitting the quay. Ahead of them, a bright view of the harbor opened up.

Roseline stared in amazement at the scene in front of her. A huge ship stood against the bright horizon, its shiny hull reflecting the golden light of the late morning sun. This vessel showed off great engineering and luxury, with detailed carvings and smooth lines that swayed in the light breeze. Tall masts reached up into the sky, their sails puffing out like large wings ready to catch the open sea.

"Tommy, is this the surprise?" The blonde asked, her voice a blend of delight and disbelief, as she quickly stepped closer to him. The excitement in her gaze made it clear that this was more than just a harbor—it was the gateway to an unforeseen adventure.

Tommy’s eyes twinkled in response as he reached into the inner pocket of his coat. Slowly, with a measured smile, he produced two tickets and extended them toward her. "Our honeymoon is in America, Rose," he declared softly.

Roseline accepted the tickets with trembling hands, her eyes alighting on the embossed details that foretold a journey across the vast Atlantic Ocean. "Thank you, Tommy," she whispered, the words thick with gratitude and wonder as she studied the tickets.

Together, they joined a line of well-dressed passengers, their steps echoing softly over the stone as they moved toward the gangway leading to the majestic ship. 

Chapter Text

1923 March 11th

Morning

They stood in line for a few minutes, and fortunately, they must have arrived early because the line wasn’t very long. While their tickets were being checked, Rose took a glance at the growing line behind them. It was definitely getting longer, with men, women, children, and the elderly all waiting to enter.

Something else caught her attention—not exactly something, but people. She noticed that their driver was waiting in line just a few steps away from them. A little further back, partially hidden, were two men whom she would have never noticed if she hadn’t been looking down from above.

The two men were wearing caps that looked very familiar, a style that had been popular for some time now. However, that didn’t necessarily mean they were part of the Peaky Blinders. But Roseline recognized them instantly with just one glance. Externally, they all had similar postures and mannerisms. Moreover, when one of the men shifted slightly, the sunlight illuminated his face, revealing it in a way that felt oddly recognizable.

It was better not to mention them just yet as the newly married couple entered the ship. Thomas took the lead as they searched for their rooms on the upper decks, where the wealthier passengers were accommodated. The hallways were beautiful, resembling those of a high-end hotel, but the key difference was that they were situated on water.

After a short walk, they finally arrived at their door. Tommy swung the door open with a smile, allowing her to step inside first. As she crossed the threshold, she was immediately struck by how the room exceeded her expectations, far surpassing the hotel’s subdued decor. 

Soft, warm lighting bathed the space, highlighting the rich hues of the furnishings. In the corner, a sofa beckoned her to sink into its embrace. A wooden coffee table sat in front of it, polished to a warm glow, and upon it lay a delicate platter adorned with intricate designs. The arrangement included elegant teacups, each carefully placed beside a charming sugar bowl glistening under the light.

The room featured elegant designs and paintings on the walls. As she entered, she noticed that the space was divided down the middle. She walked further in to find that a half wall separated the bed from the living area, which was located a short distance away. The bed itself was large, adorned with intricate designs that decorated the bed frame. To the right of the bed stood a spacious dresser, and to the left there was a vanity. The half wall also had a door that faced the bed; when she opened it, she discovered it led to a bathroom.

The room wasn’t large, but the amount of furniture it contained made it seem suitable for five people to live comfortably. In comparison, her small apartment felt like a wasteland, as if it could easily be swept away by the wind.

She was proud of her achievement in securing that apartment; her job provided her with enough income to take care of everything. It took her some time to learn about money management when she first moved in, but she has been managing well ever since.

A hand gripped her waist, making the bag slip from her grasp, landing softly on the floor, but she barely noticed. The hand at her waist was firm yet gentle, pulling her back against familiar warmth.

"Careful," Tommy murmured against her ear, his voice tinged with amusement. "Wouldn’t want you tripping over all this."

She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, allowing herself to sink into his touch for a moment. "It’s almost too much, isn’t it?" she said, eyes drifting around the room once more. "I don’t think I’ve ever been somewhere this… extravagant."

He rested his chin lightly against her shoulder, his grip around her waist tightening ever so slightly. "Get used to it," he said, his voice quieter now, but resolute. "This will be our life now."

She turned slightly in his arms, searching his expression. There was something in his gaze—something softer than his usual quiet intensity, something different. A promise? A hope? She wasn’t sure.

"Our life?" she echoed, testing the words. Their life meant no longer just hers; she didn’t know how to feel about that.

Tommy hummed, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the fabric of her dress. "You’ll have these things every day, and much better," he said, his warm breath on her neck. "Everything you want, love."

She let the words linger between them, tasting the promise in them but unsure if she could believe in it. All Roseline had ever wanted was to keep her promise, but marrying Tommy had complicated everything.

"Anything?" she asked, her slender fingers slipping over the one at her waist.

"Anything you desire," he murmured, tightening his grip, pressing soft, slow kisses along her neck to her clothed shoulder.

"I want to watch as the ship sails away from shore, on the deck."

She could almost feel the shift in him, the mild disappointment. It was amusing to know he had such a side to him.

"It can take a while until the ship moves, Rose." His words were patient, coaxing, as if she didn’t already know.

"You said anything I wanted, Tommy."

Her tone was light, almost teasing. He sighed, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, before he finally released her.

"Alright then," he said, stepping back slightly. "Let’s go."

The deck was colder than she expected. The wind carried the scent of salt and movement, wrapping around her as she stepped forward. She didn’t need to look behind her to know Tommy was watching, his presence steady, waiting, but saying nothing.

She gripped the railing tightly, her fingers wrapped around the cool metal as she looked out at the shore ahead. The city lay in the distance, with its busy streets filled with life—a mix of colors and sounds that she thought she understood. Sunlight sparkled on the water, creating reflections that shone like diamonds.

It was a peaceful scene, especially in the afternoon light. The soft sound of waves hitting the side of the ship blended with laughter and chatter from the docks, while the ship prepared to sail, its thick ropes creaking as they loosened.

The ship lurched ever so slightly, its first decisive movement forward.

Her breath hitched.

She watched as the water deepened beneath them, as the vessel slid farther from land. The sea was vast, stretching into forever, pulling them toward something unknown, something uncertain. She had always liked looking at it. The way it moved without hesitation, the way it could hold so much beneath its surface.

She wondered—just for a moment—what it would feel like to be under again.

Not lost. Not drowning. Just surrounded.

Her fingers twitched against the railing, but she did not move. She merely watched, silent, as the ship carried them forward, cutting through waves like fate itself. Behind her, Tommy stepped closer, his coat brushing against her arm.

"Everything alright?"

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she tilted her chin slightly, letting the wind pull at her hair, watching the water shift and swell beneath them.

"Yes," she finally said.

Tommy studied her for a long moment, then quietly reached for something in his pocket—a lighter. He flicked it open, the tiny flame wavering against the breeze, then shut it just as quickly, as if reconsidering. Without a word, he placed it back in his coat. He rested an elbow against the railing beside her, his gaze following hers toward the horizon.

They stood there, silent, the distant hum of the engine beneath their feet, the whisper of waves licking at the sides of the ship.

As the shore faded into the distance, swallowed by the vast stretch of sea, Rose let herself sink into the quiet rhythm of the waves. The hum of the ship beneath her feet was steady, reassuring, yet something about it felt unnatural—too smooth, too controlled.

Then, a voice cut through the murmurs of the passengers.

"How could we go on another ship after what happened to the one even God couldn’t sink?!"

The old man’s words carried a bitterness sharpened by time. His voice was rough, worn, as if he had repeated this grievance too many times before.

A woman beside him—his wife, perhaps—sighed, her tone patient but weary. "Sweetheart, it was an unfortunate accident. That doesn’t mean every ship will sink."

"Accident?!" he scoffed, shaking his head. "That wasn’t an accident. That was arrogance. They thought they could defy nature, build something too grand, too perfect. And look what happened! The sea swallowed it whole, just like it’ll do to this one!"

Rose glanced at them briefly, taking in the way the woman rubbed his arm in quiet reassurance, the way he refused to be soothed. She couldn’t help but think that he must be such a joy for his family. If he hated ships so much, why was he here?

Still, his words lingered.

She had heard something about that ship before—the one that was supposed to be unsinkable. But the memory was distant, blurred, like something she had overheard in passing but never truly grasped.

The old man wasn’t finished.

"They said it was the greatest ship ever built," he continued, voice rising slightly. "A floating palace! And where is it now? At the bottom of the ocean, resting with the dead. And you think this one is any different? You think these men learned their lesson? No, they just keep building, keep tempting fate."

"Enough, Henry," the woman murmured, squeezing his arm. "You’re frightening people."

"Good!" he snapped. "They should be frightened! The sea doesn’t care about your money, your status, your fine clothes. When it decides to take you, it takes you."

His voice carried across the deck, sharp enough to pull the attention of a few nearby passengers. Some stole quick glances, others pretended not to hear him, shifting uneasily. His wife tightened her grip on his arm, her face pinched with embarrassment.

"Henry, please," she whispered, attempting to calm him.

But he was unyielding. "What do you think happens when you close your eyes in a place like this? You trust the men running it? The same kind who thought they could beat nature before? You think they’ll save you when the water starts pouring in?" His laugh was brittle, humorless. "No one saves you, not when the sea wants you."

Rose should have felt unsettled by him—should have felt the creeping weight of his words pressing against her—but she didn’t.

Oddly, she found them comforting.

He spoke as if the sea was the ultimate judge, indifferent and resolute. And wasn’t that true? Unlike people, unlike promises, unlike the illusion of control, the ocean held no sentiment. It did not choose based on wealth or power. It took what it wanted, and it never pretended otherwise.

There was an honesty in that.

"What ship is he talking about?" she asked, her voice just loud enough to rise above the wind.

Tommy barely spared the old man a glance. "Titanic."

The name felt distant yet oddly familiar—something she had heard before but never truly understood.

"What happened to it?" she asked.

Tommy exhaled, adjusting his coat against the chill. "Hit an iceberg. Sank." His tone was flat, uninterested, as if recounting something trivial.

Rose blinked, waiting for more, but he didn’t offer anything else. She could say it wasn’t exactly the sea’s fault, some could say it was the iceberg’s, maybe even whoever was controlling that ship.

"That’s it?" she pressed.

He sighed, finally looking at her. "What else is there? It was supposed to be unsinkable. It wasn’t. Went down in the Atlantic before the war." He shrugged. "People died. That’s the story."

"Were there survivors?" Rose frowned slightly, glancing toward the sea. The quiet hum of the waves felt different now, heavier.

Tommy nodded. "Aye, but not enough."

She let that sink in for a moment, turning back to him. "You don’t seem to care much."

His lips curled into something resembling a smirk, but it lacked real humor. "Why would I, eh? It’s just another story people like to tell. Another thing they pretend to learn from." He gestured vaguely toward the old man, who was still muttering under his breath. "Some people can’t let go of it. Like it means something more than it does."

Tommy exhaled slowly, leaning against the railing, his gaze following the waves rather than the old man behind them.

"Ships go down all the time," he said, his tone flat, matter-of-fact. "Storms, bad calculations, weak hulls. War alone sent enough of them to the bottom of the sea."

Rose watched him carefully, listening. He wasn’t dismissing the tragedy—just placing it among countless others. To him, the Titanic was just another wreck, another reminder that men overestimated their own creations.

"It wasn’t different?" she asked.

Tommy shook his head slightly. "A lot of people died. That’s always bad. But in the end, it was just another ship that didn’t make it."

Rose frowned, glancing toward the water, watching how the waves moved beneath them. "Maybe the reason it became so well-known wasn’t just because it sank," she murmured. "Maybe it’s because people thought it was unsinkable—and then it went down anyway."

Tommy considered that for a moment, his jaw tightening slightly. "People don’t like being wrong," he said finally. "Especially not about the things they build."

Rose kept her eyes on the waves, the water shifting in restless patterns beneath the ship.

"I think," she murmured, "some people see themselves so far above everything that as they look down, they see the people looking up as small as ants." She let the words settle between them, tasting their weight before continuing. "But they forget—the people looking up will also see them as small as an ant."

"That’s a sharp way of looking at it," the man said finally. His tone was neutral, but there was something in his gaze—thoughtful, assessing, as if considering whether her words applied to himself.

Rose hummed. "It’s just the truth."

A distant laugh rose from the lower deck, carried briefly on the wind before vanishing into the restless hush of the sea. Somewhere behind them, the old man had fallen into quiet muttering, his wife gently steering him away, her hand resting lightly on his arm, her patience worn but practiced.

"You think he believes that?" Tommy asked, nodding toward the retreating figure.

Rose tilted her chin, watching the frail, hunched posture of the man who had spent the last few minutes warning them all of their inevitable doom.

"No," she said. "I think he’s spent his whole life looking up."

Tommy’s smirk was faint but unmistakable, shifting at the edges of his mouth before disappearing into something more unreadable. "And what about you?"

Rose finally turned to him, searching his face—the sharp lines, the steady confidence, the weight of experience that settled into his features. She wanted to ask him the same thing, but she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know the answer.

"I’ve been both," she admitted. "I’ve looked up. And I’ve looked down. But in the end—" she paused, letting her fingers trail along the railing, feeling the salt-kissed air wrap around her—"I think everyone is small when the sea is this big."

They stood quietly at the railing, the ocean stretching infinitely in every direction, swallowing the last trace of land until there was nothing but water—deep, vast, endless. The rhythmic sway of the ship, the hum beneath their feet, the occasional creak of the deck—all blended into the stillness.

Rose let herself drift into the motion, into the way the sea seemed to breathe. It wasn’t peace exactly, but something close.

Then, a voice behind them shattered the quiet.

"Well, I’ll be damned! Is that—? No, it can’t be..."

She turned first, Tommy following a second later.

A sailor stood before them, his wide-eyed disbelief apparent even in the light. His uniform was worn but tidy, his hat tilted slightly back as if he had forgotten about it the moment he recognized Tommy. His weathered face broke into a grin, and without hesitation, he extended a hand.

"Thomas Shelby." He shook his head, as if still convincing himself that his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him. "Didn’t expect to see you here."

Tommy eyed him briefly, then reached out, gripping his hand in a firm shake. He recognized him the moment he spoke—not just the face, but the voice, the familiarity in the way he stood, like a man comfortable both with the sea and the people who drifted through it.

"It’s been a while," Tommy said, nodding slightly, his voice measured.

The sailor let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head.

"A while? Christ, Tom, that’s an understatement! Years is what it’s been!" He slapped Tommy’s arm lightly, more for emphasis than actual greeting. "Is that how you treat old friends?"

Tommy smirked, adjusting the cigarette between his fingers. "Been busy."

"Yeah, I don’t doubt that." The sailor huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. "Heard you’ve become quite the businessman these days."

Tommy nodded slightly, tilting his head just enough to acknowledge the statement without fully entertaining it. "Just broadening our horizons."

"Of course," the sailor nodded, shifting his weight, "how’s Arthur? And John? They doing alright?"

Tommy let out a slow exhale, nodding once. "Yeah. They’re alright."

The man studied him for a second, then hummed in response, rolling the answer over in his mind. "Alright," he echoed, like he wasn’t entirely convinced. "Well, good to hear."

The sailor, still caught up in his easy banter with Tommy, suddenly paused—his gaze shifting as if only now registering Roseline’s presence beside him. His brows lifted, surprise flickering across his weathered face before an amused grin spread across his lips.

"And who is this beauty?" he asked, his tone teasing but curious.

Tommy turned slightly, looking at her rather than the sailor when he spoke.

"My wife, Roseline," he said—calm, sure, but with an unmistakable warmth woven into the words.

The sailor’s eyes widened. "Wife?" He let out a short, stunned laugh. "Well, that’s a bloody shock."

Recovering quickly, he straightened, adjusting his hat before stepping forward with a flourish. "Allow me to introduce myself properly," he said, taking Roseline’s hand with practiced ease. "Captain Frederick Moore, captain of this fine vessel. And might I say—it is an absolute pleasure to meet the woman who managed to tie down Thomas Shelby."

He pressed a light, respectful kiss to the back of her hand, his grip firm yet careful.

Roseline smiled faintly, the corners of her lips curving at his theatrics. "It’s nice to meet you, Captain Moore."

He released her hand, leaning back slightly as he turned to Tommy, shaking his head in disbelief. "So, Tommy Shelby—married." He chuckled to himself, crossing his arms. "Didn’t think I’d live to see the day."

Tommy smirked, taking a slow drag of his cigarette before exhaling. "I see you’re still surrounded by water, yeah?"

"Of course, Tom! Who do you take me for?" Captain Moore eyed him, amused. "But tell me—how in God’s name did you manage to catch such a beautiful creature?"

Creature, that’s one way to call a human.

Tommy flicked the ash over the railing, his smirk lingering. "Luck," he said simply.

The captain laughed. "Ha! Luck, is it?" He turned to Rose, grinning. "That what it was, Mrs. Shelby? Or did you have to do all the hard work?"

Roseline tilted her head slightly, amusement flickering in her expression.

"I suppose my song enchanted him too much," she mused, her voice smooth, unhurried.

Captain Moore let out another hearty laugh, shaking his head.

"Ah, well, I don’t blame the man," he said, his eyes bright with enjoyment. "You’ve already enchanted me."

Tommy stiffened—just slightly, a barely noticeable shift—but it was there. His fingers twitched before he moved, subtly placing his arm behind Roseline’s back, resting it lightly against her waist as if the action had always been natural.

Roseline felt the shift, the quiet claim in the gesture, but let it pass as she turned her attention back to Moore.

"The ship is quite impressive," she said, smoothly steering the conversation away from his earlier remark.

The captain straightened slightly, clearly pleased. "Ah, well, I do my best to keep her in fine shape," he said, his voice carrying unmistakable pride. "A beauty, isn’t she? Sturdy, fast—nothing like those ships they build these days."

Tommy smirked faintly but remained silent.

Roseline let her gaze drift around the deck, taking in the lively atmosphere—the afternoon sun reflected off the gentle waves, shimmering gold and deep blue. Passengers strolled along the deck, laughter and conversations mingling with the rhythmic sound of the ocean stretching endlessly around them.

"It certainly feels like a world of its own," she said.

Moore chuckled. "That’s the charm of it, isn’t it? No land, no cities. Just the water and what you bring with you." His eyes flickered back to Tommy briefly, something knowing in his expression. "And who you bring with you."

"I imagine you’ve seen all kinds of travelers."

"A fair share," Moore nodded. "People running toward something, people running away—some just enjoying the ride." His grin returned. "And some, like me, making sure everyone gets where they need to go."

Tommy took another slow drag before exhaling. "Good business, then?"

Moore chuckled. "Aye. Good enough to keep me on the water."

He tipped his head slightly toward Roseline then, still smiling. "And if you need anything, Mr and Mrs. Shelby, anything at all—you’ll always be at my call."

Roseline watched Captain Moore retreat toward the bridge, the crisp afternoon light catching the edges of his uniform. There was a charm to him—easygoing, approachable, the kind of man who thrived in the company of many.

Roseline turned to Tommy, her curiosity settling into something more focused. "How do you know him?"

Tommy watched Moore retreat toward the bridge before answering, his tone even, measured. "He used to transport weapons and soldiers in France," he said. "We met him on our way over, first time heading to war. He was moving cargo, men—whatever needed to get across."

"You don’t seem like the type to keep company like that," she mused, turning to Tommy.

Tommy smirked, the expression subtle, deliberate. "You weren’t the woman I expected to love either."

The words caught her off guard more than she anticipated. She stiffened ever so slightly, her gaze flickering up to meet his. The sun bathed his features in a warm glow, highlighting the sharp lines of his face, the quiet certainty in his expression.

For a moment, she didn’t reply. Then, the corner of her mouth curved.

"I hope you don’t regret it now," she teased, voice lighter, but beneath it was something else—something curious, something questioning.

Tommy shook his head, the smirk fading into something softer. "I regret that I didn’t recognize it sooner."

Before she could gather her thoughts, he leaned in closer, a magnetic pull between them intensifying the moment. With a deliberate slowness, he pressed his lips against hers, the kiss firm yet gentle, igniting a spark that sent a rush of warmth through her.

The kiss grew deeper and more urgent as all outside sounds disappeared, replaced by the rhythm of their hearts beating together. They felt a mix of softness and warmth, and the sweet taste stayed with them as they explored each other, making every touch an invitation. 

Roseline gently pulled away, her fingers brushing against Tommy’s coat as she steadied herself. "We should stop," she murmured, tilting her chin slightly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "There are too many people here."

Tommy studied her, amused. "Is it so wrong to kiss my own wife?" he asked, voice low, his smirk lingering. "On our honeymoon?"

Roseline shook her head, her gaze flickering toward the deck where passengers strolled in the golden afternoon light, absorbed in quiet conversations or leaning against the railing to take in the endless horizon. A few children darted between them, laughter ringing through the open air as they played. She nodded in their direction. "There are children here."

"I grew up just fine after watching people have sex in the alley."

Roseline laughed, the sound soft and genuine, shaking her head as she met his gaze again. "Ah," she teased, tilting her head slightly, "so that’s why you seem so well-versed in that area?"

Tommy smirked, his eyes holding hers for just a fraction longer than necessary. "Not sure," he mused, his voice lighter now, carrying a teasing edge. "But we could go back to our cabin and find out."

Roseline’s lips parted slightly, eyes glinting with something unreadable, before she let a slow, deliberate smile curl across them. She shifted closer, tilting her chin just enough for him to notice, letting a trace of something suggestive flicker in her expression.

"Tempting," she murmured, her voice softer, slower.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

Time passed by, and it was night now. The hallway stretched before them, bathed in the soft glow of wall sconces, their golden light flickering gently against polished wood and intricate carvings. The hum of distant conversation and the faint swell of music drifted through the air, pulling them forward, guiding them toward the heart of the evening.

Tommy, dressed sharply in his tailored suit, walked with measured ease. Beside him, Roseline moved with a quiet grace, her dress flowing effortlessly with each step, the fabric catching the light just enough to shimmer as she passed.

Then, the hall opened into the grand ballroom.

The room was beautifully decorated, shining under the light of chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling. The floor was polished to a shiny finish, reflecting the golden light. The walls had detailed moldings with delicate floral designs in the gold framework.

At the far end of the room, musicians stood on a raised platform, wearing sharp outfits. Their instruments shone under the warm light of candle sconces. The music filled the air with an elegant melody, inviting couples to dance across the floor in perfect harmony.

The guests moved gracefully. The men wore sharp suits and well-fitted vests. The women wore flowing gowns that looked like smooth silk. Sequins and small beads sparkled with every movement, adding a gentle shine to the colorful fabrics. In the background, people chatted cheerfully—laughter mixed with charm, and glasses clinked softly in celebration.

In the center of the room, tables were carefully arranged with neat tablecloths and tall bouquets of fresh roses. Their scent mixed with the smell of polished wood and perfume. The silver cutlery shone in the candlelight, and each place setting was organized for a special evening.

A grand staircase lined one side of the room. Its curved railing, made of dark wood and gold details, led to a balcony. A few spectators leaned over the edge, watching the dancers below.

Thomas and Roseline entered the ballroom, feeling the warmth around them. They moved deeper into the crowd, blending in with the elegantly dressed guests. Musicians played smoothly, filling the room with rich melodies. Couples danced easily to the music’s rhythm.

Her gaze followed the dancers, watching how smoothly they moved, adjusting to the shifting tempo. "They’re skilled," she murmured, tilting her head slightly.

Tommy studied the scene, hands in his pockets, a quiet thoughtfulness resting in his posture. "They’ve done this a hundred times before," he said, voice low, steady. "It’s all rehearsed."

Rose smirked, glancing at him. "Doesn’t make it any less impressive.

He turned slightly, his gaze settling on her instead of the dancers. "You’re the expert," he said, the edge of a smirk forming. "I’d rather spend the night listening to your music, love."

"I don’t think we have the same definition of music." The blonde laughed softly, shaking her head. 

Tommy hummed lightly, amused. "That so?"

"I have a feeling your version involves less... elegance." She tilted her head, eyes glinting with a teasing light. 

He leaned down, his voice lower now, whispering in her ear. "Being in our bed naked doesn’t make you less elegant."

Roseline stiffened—just slightly, just enough that if he was watching closely, he’d see it. But she recovered fast, exhaling a quiet chuckle as she tilted her chin.

"You sure about that?" she murmured, a teasing glint in her eyes.

Tommy studied her, his smirk deepening, slow and knowing. "Aye."

She saw a shift in Tommy’s attention—the way his gaze had anchored onto something just past her, something beyond the swirl of silk and laughter. It wasn’t a glance, wasn’t absent-minded wandering—it was focus. Then, just as quickly, he had turned back, meeting her gaze with that same composed certainty.

"I’ll bring you something, yeah?" he had said, the words smooth, unhurried. "Stay right here."

And then he was gone.

She watched as his figure disappeared into the crowd, his dark suit a contrast against the sea of richly colored gowns and tailored waistcoats. The movement of the ballroom swallowed him effortlessly, bodies shifting, conversations sparking, the world moving on as if he had never been there at all.

For a second, she lost sight of him entirely. But then, there, just at the edge of the ballroom. Tommy wasn’t simply moving through the crowd.

He was leaving.

A quiet sigh pressed against the edges of her mind. There goes their honeymoon.

The thought wasn’t bitter, nor was it resigned. It was something else—something inevitable. It wasn’t that she didn’t expect something like this to happen; in fact, she would be more worried if it didn’t. She was worried about what kind of work it was this time, after all, he is her husband now. 

A server passed close by, balancing a silver tray with practiced precision, the crystal-clear water in the glasses catching the flickering candlelight. Roseline reached out, fingers curling around the cool glass, lifting it.

"Thank you," she murmured, barely above a whisper, before bringing it to her lips.

The water was crisp, refreshing against the warmth of the room, yet it did little to soothe the weight pressing in her chest.

The ballroom shimmered with golden light, the refined hum of laughter and conversation swirling through the grand space. Roseline held the cool glass of water delicately, watching the dancers, the lingering absence of Tommy pressing somewhere in the back of her mind—until a voice cut through the air, pulling her attention away.

"My God," a warm yet astonished voice called out. "It can’t be!"

Roseline turned just in time to see the older couple approaching, the same man she’d overheard grumbling earlier, now looking at her with something close to admiration. His wife walked beside him, her posture graceful, sharp eyes bright with recognition.

"It really is her," the woman breathed, a smile blooming across her lips. "In the flesh!"

Roseline blinked, glancing between them as they stopped before her. The man shook his head, his expression one of genuine disbelief. "Never thought I’d actually see you here! Not just some photograph or distant memory—but here, in person."

The woman smiled warmly. "Forgive us, my dear. I am Margaret Harrington, and this is my husband, Henry."

Henry nodded, his presence carrying the weight of age and experience, yet his eyes held a boyish gleam of admiration as he looked at her. "Pleasure to finally meet you properly," he said. "Though I feel like we’ve known you for years."

Roseline smiled, letting the familiarity settle between them. "Roseline," she offered smoothly, unintentionally skipping the surname, though it lingered somewhere at the edge of her mind.

Henry’s grin widened. "Ah, yes! Roseline! The name alone carries a melody, doesn’t it?"

Margaret clasped her hands together, eyes alight with fondness. "We’ve always admired your performances," she said. "Your ability to play—not just with skill, but with heart. It was something remarkable. Anyone lucky enough to witness it would never forget."

"I’m surprised people still remember." Roseline chuckled lightly, shaking her head. 

Margaret laughed softly, shaking her head. "Oh, my dear. Some musicians play notes—but you told stories."

"You know, they used to call you ‘Doll.’" Henry nodded, his gaze warm but direct. 

Roseline let out a soft laugh, the old nickname swirling back into her mind like a distant echo. "They did."

"And I must say, I’m glad to see you lived up to it." Margaret smiled knowingly. 

Henry scoffed, shaking his head with dramatic emphasis. "No, no, no. She’s no doll anymore." He turned to Roseline, studying her with admiration. "She’s an angel now." He lifted his hand, gesturing as he spoke. "If I were injured on this ship and saw you sitting at a piano, I’d think I’d died and gone straight to heaven!"

Roseline let out a genuine laugh, shaking her head. "I do hope you stay well enough that we don’t have to test that theory."

Henry chuckled heartily, his wife patting his arm playfully. "Charming as ever," Margaret mused, eyes twinkling.

Roseline stood in quiet conversation with Henry and Margaret, their words filled with nostalgia, the past brushing against the present in a way she hadn’t expected. Her memories were vague, but she did remember the things they mentioned.

It felt wrong.

Then, the sound of approaching footsteps.

She turned slightly as a woman and a man stepped toward them—the woman carried herself with confidence, poised yet curious, appearing close to Roseline’s own age. The man beside her, younger than Tommy, stood comfortably, an easy smile on his face, one arm resting around his wife’s waist as if it was second nature.

The woman’s gaze flicked to her parents, studying them before settling on Roseline. "Who are you talking to?" she asked, tilting her head slightly.

Margaret turned with a gracious smile, motioning toward the young woman. "Ah, darling, let me introduce you. This is my daughter, Eleanor, and her husband, Daniel."

Daniel dipped his chin politely, his smile warm and open. "Pleasure to meet you," he said, his voice carrying a quiet sincerity. "I think I should start by apologizing in advance—my father-in-law is about to embarrass himself."

"Oh, nonsense, boy!" Henry let out a hearty laugh, waving his hand dismissively. "I embarrass myself with charm."

Roseline smirked slightly, watching the dynamic unfold. Eleanor, however, still held that curious glint in her eye, her attention locked on Roseline.

"And you are...?" she asked again, brows lifting slightly.

Henry straightened, as if the introduction required a proper air of ceremony. "You don’t remember?" he asked, turning toward Eleanor with a hint of incredulity. "The child protégé—the one who used to make that beautiful music."

Eleanor’s expression shifted slightly, realization flickering in her features before she spoke.

"Oh," she mused, her lips curling with amusement. "You mean the one with that family—the one that was into some shady business?"

Roseline caught the subtle shift in Margaret’s posture—the way her smile remained, but something in the way she held herself changed ever so slightly.

"Really, Eleanor," Margaret said, shaking her head lightly. Her tone remained playful, but Roseline felt the edge beneath it—a quiet warning wrapped in grace.

Daniel squeezed Eleanor’s waist gently, a quiet gesture, before glancing at Roseline with an apologetic smile.

Sensing the moment hovering at the edge of something precarious, Roseline stepped in before it lingered too long. She met Eleanor’s gaze directly, her voice effortlessly composed. "Roseline, its nice to meet you," she said simply, introducing herself without hesitation.

Eleanor nodded, as if filing the name away, her expression unreadable for a brief moment before she replied, "It’s nice to meet you too."

The ballroom glowed softly, creating warm colors on the polished wooden floor and shiny fabrics. As Roseline stood with the group, she listened to their conversation and paid attention not just to their words but also to what was implied.

You could see their wealth not just in their stylish clothes but in how confidently they carried themselves. Their family dynamic felt familiar: the father often complained but was lovable, the mother was capable and elegant, the daughter was witty and beautiful, and the son-in-law, though younger, was supportive and balanced the family's energy.

They seemed normal.

A little happy family that is connected by traditions and comfort, and they communicate easily. However, Roseline feels a subtle tension between Eleanor and Margaret that she can’t fully understand. This tension is faint but noticeable, lingering in their silences.

Eleanor showed signs of disagreement with her mother, even while being polite. She hesitated in her responses, and sometimes Margaret paused before she spoke. These signs were subtle but noticeable once you paid attention.

Or perhaps Roseline was reading too much into it.

"Did you come with someone, or are you alone?" The blonde stood, her grip still resting lightly on the cool glass of water as Eleanor’s question settled between them.

Margaret barely reacted, but Rose caught it—that brief flicker of disappointment, carefully masked beneath her composed expression. It was subtle, but there, lingering in the depths of her mother’s eyes, in the way she kept her smile restrained, too practiced.

Roseline parted her lips slightly, prepared to answer, but before she could, a familiar presence slipped in beside her—steady, assured.

"I ordered this," Tommy murmured, his voice low, smooth, as he handed her a glass of red wine, his fingers grazing hers briefly before plucking the water glass from her hand with effortless ease.

Roseline turned, lifting her gaze to him. Her expression wasn’t one of surprise, but something closer to quiet betrayal—unspoken, buried beneath composure. She hadn’t expected him back so soon.

Tommy met her eyes without hesitation, then motioned slightly toward the glass.

"Try it," he said, his tone even. "It’s just wine—not whiskey."

Roseline exhaled softly, her fingers curling around the delicate stem of the glass, but she didn’t drink—not yet. Instead, she shifted her focus back to the family, smoothing away the weight pressing at the back of her mind.

"This is my husband," she said smoothly, though the word still felt unfamiliar on her tongue. "We’re on our honeymoon."

Margaret’s features brightened ever so slightly, the remnants of her previous expression fading as she dipped her chin warmly. "A fine occasion," she mused. "A grand ballroom for a grand beginning."

Henry chuckled, extending his hand toward him. "Henry Harrington. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy shook his hand, his grip firm, measured. "Thomas Shelby," he said, his voice carrying the easy confidence that never quite wavered.

Henry leaned in slightly, his presence carrying the ease of someone accustomed to introductions, his admiration clear. "Your wife," he said, motioning toward Rose, "is quite the musician. We’ve followed her skill for years."

Margaret nodded, her tone carrying genuine fondness. "She played with such depth, even as a child. It was extraordinary—like she wasn’t simply playing music, but crafting something beyond notes and rhythm."

Tommy’s expression remained composed, but Roseline knew him well enough to see the way he listened fully before he finally spoke.

"I know," he said, voice even, firm.

Henry leaned slightly toward Tommy, his expression carrying the casual curiosity of a man who knew how to navigate conversations with precision. "Tell me, Mr. Shelby," he mused, "what do you work in? I believe I’ve heard your name mentioned in a few business circles."

Tommy, ever composed, simply held Henry’s gaze for a moment before replying, his voice even, unhurried. "A few businesses here and there," he said, his words smooth, deliberately vague.

Roseline listened, but only distantly, as if the words were slipping past her, becoming faint echoes against the hum of music.

She lifted the wine glass to her lips again, taking a slow sip. The taste was richer than she expected—not harsh, not overwhelming.

The warmth of the wine lingered on her tongue, rich and velvety, unfolding in slow waves—smooth at first, then deepening, coating her senses with something far more complex than she had anticipated.

Now, standing beneath the golden glow of the ballroom, the weight of conversation ebbing into a blur, she finally understood.

It wasn’t just the taste—it was the way the liquid settled, easing its way through her like a quiet lullaby. It wasn’t abrupt, wasn’t overwhelming. It was gradual. Subtle. It softened the edges of everything—the voices, the music, the atmosphere itself.

She had heard people say that wine made things easier, made the world gentler, and now she knew why. It wasn’t just about the drink—it was about the way it unraveled something within.

A sip, and thoughts didn’t seem as sharp. A slow swallow, and tension slipped just a fraction.

She understood why people reached for it, why they drank without thought, why they welcomed the easy comfort it offered. It wasn’t about drowning something painful—not always. Sometimes, it was simply about making the moment feel lighter, about letting the weight pressing against the chest ease, even for a few fleeting seconds.

Roseline glanced down at the deep crimson liquid in her glass, tilting it slightly as it caught the candlelight, the reflection twisting and bending like something alive.

No wonder people got addicted to this.

And yet, the realization didn’t bring fear—only understanding.

As long as it didn’t burn.

Chapter Text

1923 March 12th

The quiet hum of the ship’s movement was steady, soothing in its own way, a reminder of their place upon the water. The occasional creak of wood, the distant sound of waves lapping against the hull—it all blended seamlessly into the slow awakening of the day.

Roseline stirred, the warmth against her bare skin anchoring her to the present before her mind could fully grasp it. A heavy yet relaxed arm lay draped around her waist, and the slow rise and fall of breath brushed against her shoulder. She blinked, feeling the crisp sheets beneath her. The lingering remnants of sleep clouded her thoughts as she tried to piece everything together.

She didn’t remember taking off her dress.

The realization settled quietly, not in alarm but in curiosity. Her fingers ghosted over the delicate jewelry still wrapped around her throat, the smoothness of the pendant cool against her skin. Everything else—the dress, the layers of fabric—was gone.

Tommy.

She turned slightly, careful not to disrupt the stillness. His features were softened in sleep, the sharp edges of his expression dulled by the early morning light. He looked peaceful like this, almost vulnerable in a way she rarely saw.

Roseline sighed, sinking back into the pillow for a moment longer.

The second time they woke up together, the morning was uneventful. Thomas had thoughtfully arranged for breakfast to be delivered to their cabin, the tantalizing aroma of tea and warm pastries wafting through the air. After finishing breakfast, she turned her attention to their luggage, carefully unpacking their belongings.

As she organized everything, Tommy announced that he would be stepping out for a bit. "I won’t be long," he reassured her, before disappearing out the door. Rose was grateful that he had brought some work with him on their honeymoon, as it made things much easier.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small box. As she glanced around the room, looking for a place to put this powder in. Her gaze settled on the sugar container resting on the table, its glossy surface reflecting the warm light. She noted that it was still quite full, an inviting mound of white granules.

Taking a deep breath, she opened her box, revealing a fine, delicate powder. With deliberate precision, she measured out a small amount, ensuring she didn't pour in too much. The last thing she wanted was to raise suspicion. Once satisfied with her careful quantity, she sprinkled the powder over the sugar, watching it blend seamlessly into the white grains. Using a small spoon, she stirred them together with gentle yet firm strokes, making sure the mixture became unrecognizable.

After that, she placed the small box in her bag, hiding it beneath a few clothes she knew she wouldn't wear on the ship. Roseline then put her bag in the wardrobe and began folding Tommy's clothes, sorting out his bag like a good wife should. While organizing his luggage, she noticed a gun or two, which only highlighted the lack of security in places like this.

Not that she blames Tommy; this is his life after all. Once she finished, she put the bag on top of hers in the wardrobe, leaving the guns there untouched. Closing the wardrobe, she looked at the books she had put on the bed. These books she had to finish on their honeymoon; the rest are in her bag. She looked around the room for a place to put her books, she finally decided to put them on a dresser in alphabetical order.

Proud of her work, she decided to take one of the books and start reading. The Hound of the Baskervilles, as it said on the cover. The blonde opened the book on the first page, and sat on the edge of her side of the bed. She traced the edge of the first page absentmindedly before her gaze settled on the opening words.

Roseline had barely noticed time slipping away, completely absorbed by the story. The soft pages beneath her fingertips, the intriguing storyline, the mystery, the atmosphere, it was all so captivating that she hardly noticed the creaking of the cabin door behind her.

Until a strong arm curled around her waist.

The unexpected touch pulled her from the depths of her novel, her breath hitching slightly as a familiar warmth settled against her back. Tommy’s chin rested against her shoulder, the roughness of his stubble brushing against her skin, grounding her in a way that made the book in her hands suddenly feel distant—less real than the presence now surrounding her.

"I was worried when you didn’t reply," he murmured, his voice low, carrying that effortless weight of familiarity and quiet authority.

Roseline blinked, still adjusting to the shift between fiction and reality. "Did you call for me?" she asked, glancing at him over her shoulder. 

Tommy’s sharp eyes flicked down at the book still clutched in her grip, a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. "Good to know my wife values a book over me," he mused, his tone teasing, but with enough edge to make her roll her eyes. "On our honeymoon."

She let out an exhale, shaking her head slightly. Hypocrite. "You were gone for a while. I wanted to entertain myself."

"Yeah?" Tommy chuckled, his grip tightening just slightly around her waist, a quiet sign of amusement. 

Roseline nodded, expecting some smug remark, but instead, she felt him shift—his lips brushing against her neck, warm, deliberate, a slow tease against her pulse.

His breath stirred against her skin, his voice dipping low against her ear. "Then I suppose I’ll have to make up for it."

A shiver ran through her, unbidden, as he pressed another kiss—slow, unhurried—against the delicate curve of her throat. His fingers tightened slightly against her waist, pulling her just a fraction closer, as if reminding her exactly where she was, exactly who held her.

Roseline barely had time to react before Tommy pulled her effortlessly toward the center of the bed, shifting her onto his lap so she straddled him, their bodies now pressed together. The sudden movement made the book slip from her grasp, tumbling onto a pillow beside them, forgotten.

He looked at her then—really looked at her—his sharp blue eyes locking onto her green ones, a silent challenge playing beneath the heat of his gaze. The way he studied her always had a certain intensity, as if he was deciphering something only he could see.

And then, his lips met hers. Firm, teasing, quick.

"You can’t ignore me," he murmured against her mouth.

Roseline let out a soft breath, amusement flickering in the depths of her eyes. Ever playful, she tilted her chin slightly, meeting his gaze with that unmistakable glint of mischief. "I could manage," she mused, her voice light but filled with quiet defiance. "Wouldn’t be too hard."

Tommy smirked, his grip tightening around her waist before he kissed her again—this time slower, more lingering, as if testing her patience, coaxing out the truth behind her words.

And then, without warning, he shifted her—hands firm as he turned her, so she was now facing the wall, her back pressing against his chest.

"What are you doing?" Roseline blinked, her brows furrowing slightly as she glanced back over her shoulder. 

Tommy hummed, leaning in slightly, his voice low against her ear. "You said you could ignore me, yeah?"

Before she could offer some snide retort, her book suddenly landed on her lap—thrown there without hesitation, demanding her attention.

"Read," Tommy ordered, his tone carrying that familiar blend of amusement and challenge. "Where you left off, I want to hear."

Roseline scoffed, looking down at the pages, then back at him. He was serious.

She exhaled slowly, steadying herself, willing her focus back to the book resting in her lap. Tommy’s presence behind her was warm, solid, an undeniable distraction—but she was determined not to let him pull her from the pages entirely.

She found her place and began reading, her voice smooth, almost calm.

"With a bright, keen face, had obeyed the summons of the manager."

She barely made it past the first sentence before she felt it again—his lips brushing against the sensitive curve of her neck, slow and teasing.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the book, the words blurring just for a moment. "What are you doing?" she asked, though there was no true frustration in her tone—only mild exasperation laced with amusement.

"Keep reading," he murmured, his voice low against her skin, entirely unbothered.

Roseline scoffed, shifting slightly, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. He was testing her. But she refused to give in—at least not yet.

"He stood now gazing with great reverence at the famous detective."

Another lingering kiss—this time lower, just at the edge of her collarbone.

She swallowed, pressing forward despite the distraction.

"Let me have the Hotel Directory," said Holmes.

Tommy smirked against her skin. "Go on," he urged, his voice carrying that unmistakable amusement—the challenge clear in his tone.

Roseline inhaled, forcing herself to refocus, though the weight of his presence, the warmth of his breath, made it maddeningly difficult.

"Thank you! Now, Cartwright, there are the names of twenty-three hotels here, all in the immediate neighbourh-" she tried to continue, but her words faltered as she felt the cool air against her skin, her dress loosening under his deft fingers.

A sharp intake of breath escaped her lips when he bit down gently on her shoulder, the mix of pain and pleasure causing her to shiver.

"Neighbourhood of Charing Cross. Do you see?" Rose repeated, feeling him spread her legs apart. "Yes, s-sir."

Tommy’s fingers skimmed along her waist, his touch light, unhurried. "You’re starting to struggle," he observed, his lips barely brushing the shell of her ear.

"I’m not," Roseline countered, though even she could hear the subtle strain in her voice.

Tommy hummed, clearly entertained.

She tightened her grip on the book. Ignore him.

"You will visit each of these in turn."

She gasped as she felt his finger now under her dress, teasing her folds. "You’re insufferable," she managed to whisper, her voice a mix of indulgence and exasperation.

"Does it say that in the book, love?" he whispered in her ear, biting her earlobe.

The woman chuckled, soon turned into a moan as she felt his finger rubbing her clit.

"I-It doesn’t matter." She stuttered out.

"But it does," he said, his free hand gripping her chin, making her look down at the book. "I told ye to read what’s in the fuckin’ book."

She looked at the words in front of her; they were getting blurry. Her mind was too hazy to read, and her husband’s actions were too much.

"If I don’t?"

He was quiet, too quiet, just enough that his hands weren’t moving.

"Tom!" she moaned, as she felt his finger enter her.

She squirmed under his touch, the book almost slipping from her grasp. "Tom, please," she whispered, her voice trembling with desire.

He chuckled, his breath hot against her neck. "Read," he commanded, his finger moving in slow circles.

"Yes, sir."

In and out, then circle.

It keeps repeating.

"Y-You will begin in each case by giving the outside porter one shilling. H-Here are twenty-three shillings."

A second finger now enters her. She moaned louder, her body trembling with pleasure.

"What does he say?" he whispered, his voice low and commanding.

"Y-Yes, sir," she managed to say, her words faltering as his fingers moved faster.

"Good girl," he growled, his touch sending her over the edge. They moved deeper inside her, exploring her. His thumb now rubbing her clit, his pace increasing as her moans grew louder. Her body trembled with each stroke, her mind consumed by pleasure.

"Please, Tommy," she begged, her voice barely a whisper. He grinned, his touch relentless, pushing her closer to the edge until she could no longer hold back.

The grip on her book loosened, causing it to fall from her grasp. Her head fell back on Thomas’s shoulder, as she surrendered to the waves of pleasure. Her body quivered, her breath hitching as he continued to tease and torment her.

Roseline’s body was still trembling from the intensity of her release, her breath coming in soft, ragged gasps. She felt a moment of disorientation, her mind struggling to piece together the sensations and the reality of her surroundings. When she finally blinked, she realized that she was no longer in the position she had been in, her body now positioned differently.

She looked down, her eyes widening as she saw that she was on all fours, her head down, her hands resting on the soft mattress. She tried to move, but her limbs felt heavy, her body still humming with the aftermath of their encounter. She looked up behind her, her gaze meeting Tommy’s, his eyes filled with a mix of amusement and satisfaction.

"What... what are you doing?" she asked, her voice still shaky from the pleasure she had just experienced.

Thomas chuckled, his hands going to his belt, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I’m not done with you yet, love," he said, his voice low and husky.

Rose’s eyes widened in surprise, but she couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips.

"Oh, really?" she said, her voice laced with a playful challenge. "And what do you plan on doing?"

Thomas behind her, she could hear him take off his trousers, and the belt falling on the mattress. His arms holding onto her hips, pulling her closer to him, making Rose yelp as she felt the head of his member at her entrance. 

His grip tightened around her hips, pulling her back against him with a sudden, forceful motion. Roseline gasped, her hands clutching at the mattress as she felt him enter her, hard and fast.

The unexpected intensity made her eyes widen in surprise, but her body responded instinctively, arching back to meet his thrusts.

He was relentless, his movements swift and powerful, each stroke sending a jolt of pleasure through her. She could feel the heat building inside her, her breath coming in short gasps as she tried to keep up with his pace.

"Tommy," she managed to whisper, her voice a mix of pleasure and surprise. "You’re... you’re too much."

He chuckled, his hands moving to her breasts, his fingers pinching her nipples through the thin fabric of her dress.

"I'm just getting started, love," he growled, his voice low and commanding.

His pace quickened, his thrusts becoming more forceful, each one pushing her closer to the edge. Roseline could feel her body tensing, her muscles coiling like a spring ready to release. She knew she wouldn't last much longer, not with the way he was driving into her. She could feel the pleasure building, her body trembling as she teetered on the edge of release.

"Tommy," she gasped, her voice barely a whisper. "I’m... I’m close."

He leaned forward, his lips brushing against her ear as he whispered, "Come for me, love."

And with that, he pushed her over the edge, his body shuddering as he found his own release, his grip on her hips tightening as he held her close.

Roseline lay still for a moment, her breath evening out, the weight of Tommy against her bringing her to the present. The warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest against her back—it was comforting in its own way.

She turned her head slightly, catching the glint of mischief in his sharp blue eyes, the way he studied her with that lingering smirk.

"Next time, I might put the book down when you’re around," she mused, her voice teasing, though the amusement in her tone was unmistakable.

Tommy chuckled against her skin, his lips pressing slow kisses along the curve of her back, trailing lightly along her spine.

"You learn fast."

Rose scoffed, shaking her head. "I need to clean up," she murmured, stretching slightly, though the movement was lazy, reluctant. "You messed up my hair."

"I think it looks good like this," he hummed in quiet satisfaction, his grip loosening slightly to let her move. 

She rolled her eyes, pushing herself up—but her limbs were still heavy, her muscles slow to obey. The moment she shifted, her balance faltered, and she slipped slightly, catching herself with a sharp intake of breath.

Tommy caught it immediately, and his laughter—low, filled the space between them.

"Careful, love," he teased, though he made no move to help her, only watching with amusement. "You might fall."

Roseline shot him a glare, but it held no real bite. She finally managed to sit up, smoothing her fingers through her tangled hair with a huff.

"And whose fault is that?" she quipped, sarcasm lacing every syllable.

Tommy didn’t bother with an answer—he only chuckled, leaning back against the pillows, utterly relaxed, watching her with that lingering look, as if content to simply observe.

The blonde stood, stretching slightly before making her way toward the bathroom.

Tommy pushed himself up from the bed, running a hand through his hair as he exhaled slowly. The warmth of the mattress lingered against his skin, but he shook it off, reaching for his trousers.

He grabbed the fabric, shaking it out before slipping one leg through, then the other. The waistband settled snugly against his hips, and he buttoned them swiftly, tugging his belt through the loops with a firm pull.

Once dressed, his hand drifted into his pocket, retrieving his cigar case. He flipped it open, selecting one before rolling it briefly between his fingers. He brought it to his lips, retrieving his lighter, and flicked it open. The flame cast a brief glow against his features as he lit the cigar, inhaling deeply, the rich scent of tobacco curling into the air.

As he exhaled a steady stream of smoke, his gaze flickered across the room, landing on the bed. The book lay face down, abandoned where Roseline had left it. He reached for it, turning it over, brushing his thumb absently across the cover.

Curious, he moved to the other side of the room, settling into the sofa with a quiet sigh. His cigar rested between his fingers as he flipped through the pages, skimming the words with mild interest.

Tommy heard the quiet creak of the bathroom door opening, followed by the soft shuffle of Roseline’s footsteps.

A wardrobe door opened, hinges groaning slightly, and he absentmindedly flicked ashes off his cigar as he skimmed another passage of the book.

Finally, he looked up.

Roseline was walking toward him, towel in hand, gently drying her damp hair. The loose waves framed her face, strands curling naturally from the warmth of the water.

He tipped his cigar slightly, nodding toward the book resting on his lap. "Is this the kind of thing you like to read?"

Roseline glanced at him, amusement flickering in her expression.

"Depends if the book is good," she mused, laying the towel over the back of a chair before settling beside him. "I don’t have a preference."

Tommy raised an eyebrow. "You chose to read a murder mystery. On an occasion like this."

"And you’re one to talk." She scoffed, reaching for her book, fingers brushing against his as she took it back. 

Tommy exhaled slowly, watching her, the weight of her words settling. With a quiet sigh, he leaned back, tilting his head slightly. "What do you mean, love?"

The younger woman looked at him, almost uncertain.

"Why are your men here?" She asked, there was a slim chance he would be honest with her. 

Tommy took another slow drag from his cigar, letting the smoke coil lazily in the air as he watched Roseline.

His expression was unreadable, the same quiet calculation always lingering beneath his gaze. He exhaled, tapping the ashes off the end, flicking them into the tray beside him.

"They’re here for protection," he said, his voice steady. "We can never be too careful."

Liar.

Roseline didn’t react; instead, she studied him for a long moment. Perhaps he was telling her a half-truth, but does that make it any different from a lie?

She didn’t care whether he was conducting his illegal business on their honeymoon or if he did it on the day of their wedding. She had married him, fully aware of these things and his priorities.

To a certain extent, she was prepared for this, and she would help him if he asked because he is her husband.

She just wished he would be more honest with her, because if he didn't, how would she know the role she was supposed to play?

Tommy felt the quiet shift of movement as Rose leaned into him, her head settling against his shoulder. Her presence was steady, warm.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The evening air was crisp yet gentle, carrying the scent of salt and distant wood polish as the ship moved steadily through the waves. Roseline sat alone on the deck, her notebook resting on her lap, pencil gliding smoothly across the page.

The hum of water against the hull created a rhythmic backdrop, and she allowed herself to sink into the quiet focus of sketching.

Tommy had left earlier, telling her he’d return soon. 

Roseline exhaled softly, pressing her thumb against the edge of her notebook to steady it as she continued sketching the delicate lines of the ship’s railing. Her strokes were fluid, tracing the curve of the horizon in steady detail.

The quiet didn't last.

A pair of approaching footsteps broke the silence, accompanied by light laughter. Roseline glanced up just as Eleanor and Daniel strolled onto the deck, their movements easy, their smiles warm.

Eleanor spotted her first, eyes bright as she greeted, "Roseline! Here you are."

"Good evening." Roseline smiled, polite and composed, setting her pencil down lightly against her notebook. 

"Are you sketching the ship?" Daniel asked, nodding toward her notebook.

Roseline glanced at her page before replying. "Yes. Just a simple outline."

"I’d love to see!" Eleanor leaned slightly, attempting to catch a glimpse.

Roseline glanced down at her work—a simple yet structured rendering of the ship’s deck, the railings, the ocean stretching far beyond it.

She considered Eleanor’s request for a brief moment before turning the notebook slightly toward her, revealing the page.  

Eleanor’s expression shifted, admiration flickering through her features. "That’s stunning," she murmured. "You have such an eye for detail."  

Daniel nodded in agreement. "How long have you been sketching?"  

"It’s always been something I enjoyed." She glanced at the pencil in her hand, tapping it lightly against the page. 

"I wish I had the patience for something like that." Eleanor smiled warmly, resting her hand against the railing beside them. "I’d love to capture moments the way you do." 

Rose’s lips curved slightly in amusement. "It’s more about practice than patience."  

Daniel chuckled, shaking his head. "I think patience is involved too," he pointed out. "I can’t imagine having the focus to create something like that without getting distracted halfway through."  

"It helps to enjoy what you’re doing," Roseline smirked. 

"Do you sketch people too? Or just places?"  Eleanor leaned forward slightly, curiosity sparking in her gaze. 

Roseline hesitated briefly, considering the question. "Mostly places," she admitted. "But sometimes... yes."  

Eleanor glanced between her and Daniel before grinning slightly. "I wonder if you’ll sketch any of us by the end of the trip."  

Rose tilted her head slightly, studying the couple before offering a faint smile. "Would you like me to make a sketch of you?"

The brunette’s eyes brightened, glancing at Daniel, who grinned. "Absolutely," he said, leaning back slightly. "I’d be honored."

Eleanor chuckled, adjusting her posture. "Yes! Please. I’d love to see how you capture us."

Roseline offered them a soft smile, tilting her notebook slightly as she flipped to a fresh page. "By the end of the voyage, I’ll give it to you," she promised, her tone light but certain. 

"Really? That’s wonderful!" Eleanor’s face lit up, delighted. 

"Now I feel like I should make sure I look presentable." Daniel chuckled, adjusting his posture slightly. "Don’t want to be forever remembered looking like a mess."  

The blonde smiled, eyes flickering to him briefly before she began sketching. "I’ll do my best to make sure I capture the important parts," she teased.  

Daniel laughed, but before the conversation could continue, he glanced toward the entrance of the deck.

"Ah—I need to go. Henry wanted my help with something." He turned back to Eleanor briefly. "Enjoy your sitting."  

Eleanor smiled, waving him off before settling into her chair beside Roseline with a quiet sigh.

"My father refuses to come onto the deck," she murmured, shaking her head. "It’s driving us mad."  

Roseline paused briefly, her pencil hovering above the page before continuing.

"Last night, he seemed fine," she noted, her voice calm but observant.  

At that, Eleanor fell silent, her expression shifting slightly as she watched Roseline begin the strokes of her drawing.  

Her pencil moved in steady strokes across the page, capturing Eleanor’s delicate features with quiet precision. The ocean breeze ruffled the edges of her notebook, but she remained focused, her posture relaxed.

Eleanor watched her for a moment, silent, before finally speaking. "Is this how you’re making money now?"

Roseline’s pencil paused mid-stroke, her brows drawing together slightly as she glanced at Eleanor, confusion flickering in her eyes.

"What?" she asked, not quite catching the meaning of the question.

Eleanor gestured toward Roseline’s notebook, her expression seems innocently curious.

"Your sketches," she clarified. "You’re talented enough to be making money off of them." She tilted her head slightly, considering. "And if you had started performing again, well—everyone would have known."

"I became a nurse," she said simply, interrupting Eleanor.

Eleanor blinked, as if the words had caught her completely off guard.

"A nurse?" she repeated, incredulous.

She nodded, resuming her sketching, fingers pressing lightly against the paper.

The other woman let out a soft laugh, shaking her head.

"I didn’t think that would be possible for someone like you."

"And why is that?"

"I just didn’t expect a hospital would accept you," Eleanor admitted, her voice carrying that same easy tone, as if making a simple observation. "Knowing your background."

The words halted Roseline’s movements. Her grip tightened slightly against the pencil, but she kept her composure, exhaling subtly before lifting her gaze. She had regretted many things, but at that moment, she regretted telling Tommy she would wait here.

"And how would my past affect my work as a nurse?" Roseline’s tone was calm, but there was an edge beneath it—a quiet challenge. What did she do to this woman to make her hostile?

Eleanor straightened, waving a hand dismissively.

"That’s not what I meant," she said quickly. "I was just surprised they would hire you."

Rose watched her, searching her expression as silence settled between them.

Then, softer—almost as if it wasn’t meant to be heard—Eleanor muttered,

"It wouldn’t be surprising if they did for your looks."

Roseline’s green eyes flickered with something unreadable as they locked onto Eleanor’s brown ones.

Eleanor hesitated, guilt flickering across her expression. She glanced away briefly, fingers curling against the railing beside her.

"I have nothing against you, Roseline," she murmured. "It’s just... I can’t really explain it."

Rose studied her, confusion settling in the sharp green of her gaze. She remained quiet, waiting.

The Burnette exhaled, shifting slightly in her seat.

"When I was a child," she began, voice soft, "I went to one of your performances."

Roseline blinked, at least she is trying to explain herself.

"I did like the music," she admitted, offering a small, almost sheepish shrug. "It was beautiful. But something about it all felt wrong. Almost... eerie." She hesitated, then added,

"Honestly, I was a little scared of you."

Roseline frowned, brow furrowing as she turned toward her more fully.

"Scared?" she echoed, her voice carrying a quiet note of disbelief.

That was a first.

Eleanor shook her head, as if frustrated by her own inability to put the feeling into words.

"I don’t know how to explain it," she admitted. "I was jealous too in a way—but mostly, I was just...intimidated I guess."

She glanced toward the horizon, as if searching for something beyond the rolling waves.

"I never went to a performance ever again," she confessed quietly. "Or a theater, for that matter."

Eleanor laughed, shaking her head as if trying to brush off the weight of her own admission.

"You probably think I’m insane now," she said, amusement flickering in her voice.

Roseline merely watched her, expression unreadable but calm.

"I mean, really—who would be scared of a child?!" Eleanor continued, throwing her hands up slightly. "And we were practically the same age! It doesn’t even make sense."

Rose’s lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. "You do make some valid points," she admitted, her tone light, steady.

"At least you’re being gracious about it," the brunette mused, leaning back in her chair. "I was half expecting you to mock me."

Roseline smirked, tapping the edge of her pencil lightly against her sketchbook.

"Well, if you do go insane, I’d be happy to nurse you," she teased, her tone effortlessly smooth.

Eleanor laughed, shaking her head. "You know," she mused, tilting her head slightly, "you don’t seem as weird as before."

She raised an eyebrow, amusement flickering across her face. "I wasn’t aware there was a scale for that," she remarked.

Eleanor grinned. "Oh, there absolutely is."

As Eleanor leaned back, still grinning from their exchange, Roseline caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Tommy had appeared, his steps slow as he approached.

He didn’t say much—he never did unless necessary—but his presence alone was enough to shift the air between them.

Roseline straightened, closing her notebook as she turned toward Eleanor.

"I should go," she said, offering a polite smile.

Eleanor nodded, glancing briefly at Tommy before returning her gaze to Roseline.

"Enjoy your evening," she said lightly.

Roseline murmured a farewell, then rose from her chair, falling into step beside Tommy as they left the deck.

The quiet stretched between them for a moment before Tommy finally spoke. "What were you talking about?"

Roseline exhaled, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "Just my work," she answered simply. "Being a nurse."

Thomas hummed in response, offering no immediate reply as they reached the cabin and stepped inside.

The air in the cabin was still, carrying the faint scent of smoke and polished wood as Roseline stepped inside, setting her notebook down on the desk. Tommy followed, leaning against the table, cigarette between his fingers, watching her in that quiet, observant way of his.

She sighed, crossing her arms, gazing at the dim light filtering through the small window. "I surprisingly miss it," she admitted, voice measured. "Not the hours—not the exhaustion, but the work itself."

Roseline moved with quiet purpose, pouring tea into delicate cups, the scent rising in warm tendrils between them. Her movements were steady until Tommy spoke. 

"We do need to talk about your work."  

Rose hummed softly in response, not looking up. "What about it?" she asked, keeping her tone light, focused instead on filling the second cup.  

Tommy didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shrugged off his suit jacket, rolling his shoulders before dropping it onto the armrest. He moved with ease, settling onto the sofa with a quiet exhale.  

Then, finally, he said, "I want you to stop working at the hospital."  

The teapot stilled in her hands.  

For a fleeting moment, she said nothing, fingers resting against the smooth handle, her gaze fixed on the tea swirling inside the porcelain.  

Then, with quiet precision, she set the pot down, careful, her movements slower now.

She felt amusement flicker at the edges of her disbelief.

How could he ask that of her?

She wanted to work.

She needed to work.

"But I want to work," she said.

Her voice was calm, but there was no mistaking the conviction behind it.

He didn’t react immediately—he never did, always taking a moment to weigh his words before speaking.

"The hospital would be far from our house," he said, leaning back against the sofa. "Too far."

Roseline remained still, waiting as he continued.

"It’d be tiring—dangerous—for you to be traveling that distance every day," he added, his tone was steady, composed—matter-of-fact, rather than forceful.

This man...

He never spoke of their home, never detailed where it would be, what it would look like, what she should expect. He never asked about her work, never told her what he thought of it, never warned her that one day, he might.

He had built their life in his mind, structured its walls, mapped out its corners, and only now—now—was he speaking, after everything had already been decided.

It was like he was asking for payment—no, demanding it.

This was the real Thomas Shelby.

This was the man she married.

She chose well.

Roseline stirred the sugar into the tea with quiet precision, the soft clinking of the spoon against porcelain filling the space between them.

She needed to be firm—there was no hesitation in that. She needed to work.

Otherwise, everything would fall apart.

She lifted her gaze, steady, unwavering. "I still want to work," she said, her voice composed but unyielding.

Tommy exhaled slowly, watching her as he rested his forearm against the sofa. He didn’t argue—not outright.

"You can work," he said, as if he didn’t just tell her to quit her job. "But not that far away."

Liar.

Roseline’s fingers pressed lightly against the rim of her cup, absorbing the quiet warmth. She said nothing, waiting.

"You could work again in our business," he continued. "As my secretary."

He didn’t want her to work at all.

"I won’t take Lizzie’s job," she said evenly, her voice smooth but firm.

"You wouldn’t be taking it," Thomas countered, though his tone lacked the sharp conviction that usually backed his words.

She leaned back slightly, letting the warmth of the cup settle between her palms.

"She already has a place there," she said simply. "And I already have a place elsewhere."

"You could start your own business," he said, his words calm. "I’d help with the funds—everything you’d need."

Roseline paused, the weight of his offer settling between them. It was unexpected, yet intriguing.

Her own business.

Control, or at least the illusion of it.

Then again, in the legal sense, Tommy would be the one holding the reins. His name would be on everything.

But that didn’t mean she couldn’t make use of this—if she played her cards well, she could carve something of her own within it.

"Any type of business?" she asked, tone even but carrying a quiet edge of intrigue.

Tommy nodded, studying her. "Anything you want, love."

She needed something she could truly dedicate herself to—something that wouldn’t feel like an empty gesture or just another extension of Tommy’s world.

But it also had to be something he had no interest in.

That was the real trick—finding something that would give her free reign, where his influence wouldn’t creep into the edges, where she could shape it fully, independently, without it becoming another one of his operations.

Then it clicked.

"I want to build an orphanage."

Chapter Text

1923 March 13th

She had learned three things so far on this ship: Tommy had built their new house and apparently it was far away from Small Heath, second, he wanted her to quit her job, and third, Eleanor wasn’t so bad. She is blunt and honest, which Roseline needed at the moment.

Rose didn’t care that Tommy had planned everything in advance; in fact, she expected it, it was in his nature. Would the house be like Polly’s? Not too big, not too small, and easier to clean and navigate through. Would it be extravagant? As she got to know her husband more, despite how he acted, he surprisingly had taste. The man had made quite a fortune, and he liked to spend it. The hotel, the ship, her clothes, jewelry, shoes, bags, and everything she had on her person, all of it was from his money. 

Some might think he was buying her instead. 

Poor Thomas Shelby... money is power for him. Maybe he sees that money will protect him and his family from everyone who harmed them. He wasn't wrong per se, she knows firsthand what money can do. Yet it didn't mean immunity, not forever at least. There are many factors to being powerful and known in this world, but what matters is what you give to reach that point.

After all, every action has consequences. 

Rose sighed as she leaned against the railing, looking at the beautiful waves below. It surprised her when Tom told her to quit her job; being a nurse was good for her, it was discreet, calming for her head, and she helped people.

She was glad she calmly kept firm about her stance on the matter, and it was fun to see him cave little by little. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have made that offer, but even so, her practice in these things was a little rusty; she hadn’t been his assistant in quite a while. Being stubborn with him was risky, but there are some things he mustn’t cross, no matter how much he wanted to control her every move.

The gleam of the clear blue water caught her eye, they would make a lovely artwork if she had a canvas. It would feel illegal to sketch the waters using just charcoal, the colors were what made it beautiful.

"There you are!" A woman’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts. 

Rose turned around to find Eleanor walking up to her side. They had become a little 'close' as they say, despite Eleanor’s initial opinions about her and the little jealousy she tries to mask so well. Other than that, she was an alright and smart woman with the perfect little family.

Why would such a woman be jealous of her? 

"I was looking for you!" The brunette said, reaching to hold her hand. "There is this new dessert that they are providing, it tastes absolutely divine."

She tried to drag her, but Rose stopped her. "But I’m waiting for-" she tried to say but was instantly cut off.

"Your husband will be fine! It’s not like you are going anywhere that’s not on the ship." 

The woman was right, and the blonde was bored, but she was still technically with a stranger whom she barely knew. It wouldn’t hurt to follow her...what was the worst that could happen? 

"I guess you’re right." Rose agreed, letting the woman guide her around.

There was still the fact that in some way, Eleanor was scared of her. She did mention she was a child back then, but children don’t get creeped out that easily. Roseline had no idea what stirred up such feelings for the brunette. From what she recalled, many adults back then, as you would say, found her 'adorable' and not a scary child. Either Eleanor misunderstood her own thoughts, or she saw something no one else could.

If she saw something, she would have remembered, yet she clearly doesn’t.

People are confusing.

Eleanor dragged her into a lounge, where lots of people were already gathered. Many voices, many conversations in one place, she could almost hear every one of them. Music playing in the background, giving the illusion of a calm atmosphere. 

Roseline now stood in front of a group of people who clearly looked well off. Their body language, their eyes, and their appearance all point to people who have never been near dirt in their lives. Such privilege will only spark anger and envy from others; the downfall of such people is quite well-known throughout history. 

Thomas is headed towards this type of lifestyle, but it wouldn’t be because he was born into it. 

As Roseline and Eleanor approached the gathered group, the air shifted subtly. Conversations softened just enough to acknowledge their arrival, though no one stopped speaking entirely.

Eleanor, effortlessly poised, offered a charming smile. "I thought I’d introduce someone new to the circle," she said lightly.

A man, older and dressed in finely tailored evening wear, glanced at Roseline before returning his attention to Eleanor. "Good to see you, Mrs. Wright," he greeted the woman. His voice carried the kind of practiced elegance that came with wealth. "And who might your guest be?"

Before Eleanor could answer, a woman in a deep emerald gown took it upon herself to respond. "Oh, she must be one of the performers," she murmured, studying Roseline with barely concealed interest. "I do adore how the ship keeps entertainment so close to the guests."

Roseline’s fingers twitched slightly at her side, but her expression remained composed. A performer. Of course. 

"As much as I’d love to entertain such a beautiful gathering," she said smoothly, letting the words linger for just a moment, "it’s not my job at the moment."

Eleanor let out a soft, amused laugh—one that carried just a hint of edge.

"Roseline is a guest, not a performer," she clarified, her voice just sharp enough to ensure the correction was heard.

The woman in emerald barely reacted, only offering a graceful nod, as if the mistake were inconsequential. "Ah," she mused, taking a sip of her wine, "my mistake."

"Good evening," she greeted gently, her voice composed and warm. "I’m Roseline Shelby."

There was a fleeting pause—brief enough to pass unnoticed, but long enough for her to catch the flicker in their expressions. The name meant little here. No glimmer of recognition, no whispered reverence. Just polite, practiced smiles, and eyes that scanned her with quiet calculation.

To them, she could sense it—she was no more significant than an unfamiliar ornament at a well-set table. Lovely, perhaps. But replaceable.

Before the silence could stretch, one of the men stepped forward. He was polished, a little older, with the practiced charm of someone who had spent far too long circling women at parties like these. He took her hand, brought it just close enough to his lips to suggest gallantry, and offered a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

"You look absolutely radiant, Miss Shelby," he purred.

Roseline arched a brow, her expression calm, amused. “Mrs., actually,” she corrected gently, but firmly.

He faltered—just for a second. His gaze dropped to her left hand, and there it was: the ring. Elegant. Intricate. Impossible to mistake for anything inexpensive.

The man cleared his throat with a tight smile, attempting to recover. "Ah. My apologies. That’s... quite a ring."

That drew murmurs from the group. A woman in pearl-gray leaned in slightly for a better look. "It’s exquisite," she remarked. "May I ask where it’s from?"

Roseline smiled, lifting her hand just slightly for them to admire.

"My husband chose it," she said. "I couldn’t tell you where it’s from. I never asked."

That answer earned her a few quiet looks—some skeptical, others curious. But more than that, she felt it: the shift in their eyes.

Not wonder. Not admiration.

Greed.

Another woman, young and petite, tilted her head. "And what does your husband do, Mrs. Shelby?"

Roseline took a moment, as if thinking. "He has... business interests," she said vaguely, her expression pleasant but unrevealing. "Various ones."

"And is he in shipping? Or finance?" one of the men pressed lightly, lifting his glass with casual grace.

"He’s involved in a number of things," Roseline replied smoothly, never losing her gentle tone. "To be honest, I don’t keep track."

"Do you have any talents of your own, Mrs. Shelby?" The woman in emerald, her voice dipped in subtle condescension—smiled coolly as she sipped her wine. 

Roseline’s smile barely faltered. She wasn’t planning to answer honestly. She didn't want the attention of such people. 

But before she could speak, Eleanor interjected with a flourish—her tone light, almost too casual. "Oh, absolutely. Roseline paints—beautifully, I might add. Her sketches alone could fetch a collector’s interest. And she plays the violin. Quite the hidden gem."

There was a ripple of mild interest, a few half-curious nods, a murmured "How lovely" from a man in a pale gold cravat who clearly wasn’t listening.

But then Eleanor—unthinking, or perhaps too pleased with herself—added, "Of course, it’s no surprise. She was Dollface, after all. The Marshall family practically paraded her to the world."

The room stilled—subtly, yet unmistakably.

Heads turned. Eyes widened. Wine paused mid-sip.

"Wait," one of the men said, his tone sharp with disbelief. "The Roseline?"

Another voice, older, more intrigued than shocked: "Is it true? You’re the same one—the one who disappeared from the public eye after years of performing in circuses and theaters?"

Then an older woman—bone-thin and elegant as a dried rose—leaned in from her corner seat, her voice smooth with certainty. "Oh, there’s no question. Those eyes don’t lie. That face hasn’t changed."

Roseline met their stares, a quiet smile curving the corner of her lips.

Disgusting.

She really hoped Eleanor would one day learn the art of subtlety—especially considering the company she so often kept. For all her cleverness and social climbing, Eleanor still hadn't grasped that power in these rooms wasn't spoken aloud.

Eleanor wasn’t malicious. She wasn’t even entirely foolish. But she was... ignorant in that charmingly privileged way—too eager to impress, too blind to nuance. She’d meant well, perhaps. Or maybe she hadn’t. Maybe Eleanor had seen the shift in attention and craved its reflection, even if it glanced off her onto someone else.

Still, Roseline had to wonder: Did Eleanor think she was doing her a favor, unveiling her like a showpiece? Or was it a move—a subtle nudge to test just how much influence Roseline carried now? She wouldn't put it past her.

Eleanor slipped her arm through Roseline’s with a bright smile, ignoring the lingering curiosity in the group behind them.

"Come on," she said with the gleam of a woman determined to change the narrative. "This is what I really wanted to show you."

She guided the blonde toward a smaller table nestled beside tall windows, bathed in warm golden lamplight. A glittering arrangement of desserts stood proudly in the center: delicate trifles in crystal cups, spiced puddings, miniature fruit tarts—and what Eleanor pointed to with exaggerated delight—an artful platter of fried ice cream, golden and crisp, drizzled with syrup and speckled with crushed almonds.

"You have to try this," Eleanor declared, practically bouncing on her heels. "It’s fried ice cream—and it’s absolutely divine. It tastes like sugar and magic."

Roseline arched a brow, amused by Eleanor’s enthusiasm. She’d seen fried ice cream once or twice when she was younger, but never had the chance to try any.

She picked up the silver spoon delicately and took a small bite.

The contrast hit her instantly—warm shell, crisp to the touch, giving way to that soft, cold sweetness beneath. It was... sweet. Too sweet. The kind of dessert that seemed to dissolve before you could really taste it, leaving only sugar behind.

Roseline blinked slowly, nodding once. "It’s... very sweet," she said with polite restraint, dabbing her lips with a napkin. "But I can see the appeal. There’s something almost playful about it."

"Right?" Eleanor grinned. "I don’t even like sweets much and I still come back for that one."

Roseline’s gaze drifted back toward the dessert table, the soft chatter of the lounge settling around her like a silk wrap—pleasant, but distant. The table itself gleamed beneath the warm light, every silver tray and crystal bowl arranged with careful precision.

There were pastries with candied petals, delicate towers of spun sugar, tarts bejeweled with berries, and cakes so neatly sliced they looked almost untouched. It was the sort of display one admired more than indulged in.

But it was the glass cups she noticed this time, tucked neatly between the richer offerings. Layered with vibrant fruit—pale golden melon, sharp red grapes, kiwi cut into perfect rounds—they shimmered faintly through chilled syrup. Slivers of citrus glistened atop with finely cut mint, like confetti thrown over jewel tones.

She reached toward one glass, her fingers brushing cool condensation as she lifted it. Eleanor glanced sideways with a bemused smile.

"Fruit cocktail?" she asked lightly. "A safe choice. Some would say a little basic, considering everything else here..." 

Roseline didn’t respond. She simply slid the thin silver spoon from the stem of the glass and took a measured bite.

The syrup chilled her tongue before the fruit had time to land—bright and balanced, not cloying. The citrus gave it just enough clarity to cut through the sweetness, and the mint lingered like something half-remembered. The texture, too, was just right: crisp against yielding, natural against the ornate chaos behind it.

Eleanor reached for something far more indulgent—a slice of cake lacquered in glossy chocolate—and they stood there for a moment, shoulder to shoulder, two silhouettes in the soft glow of the lounge.

Roseline set the empty glass back on the table with a quiet clink, brushing her fingertips along the condensation left behind. The fruit had been refreshing, grounding in a way that none of the ornate desserts quite managed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the flicker of Eleanor’s attention—subtle, but unmistakable. The other woman’s gaze darted to Roseline’s now-finished glass, then slowly down to the half-eaten slice of cake on her own plate.

There was a beat. A hesitation. And then, Eleanor gently set her fork down, smoothing a hand over the front of her dress as she pushed the plate ever so slightly away.

Roseline blinked. That was... strange.

For a moment she thought it might be a silent cue—was this part of some social etiquette she’d forgotten? Finish together, stand together, smile and blend back into the crowd? But no… this wasn’t a ballroom cotillion from a textbook.

Eleanor hadn’t seemed overly concerned with appearances earlier. If anything, she'd charged into the lounge like she owned it. This—this pause, this quiet withholding—didn’t quite fit.

Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps it was pride. Or maybe Eleanor had grown up learning the same unwritten rules: that a woman must never appear to want anything too much. Not even dessert. Especially not dessert.

Roseline studied her for another moment. She didn’t comment. Just tucked the thought away like a loose thread.

Everyone should eat until they’re full.

▬▬ι══════════════ι▬▬

The salty wind curled through the narrow corridor of the cargo hold, rattling the rusted chains that hung lazily from overhead hooks.

The echo of the cargo hold seemed to tense with Thomas’s silence. Smoke curled steadily from the end of his cigar as he stared into the half-empty crate, the straw bedding disheveled and light catching on the edge of a missing rifle slot.

The first man shifted nervously. "We did everythin’ we was told, Mr. Shelby. Shifts ran smooth, no one’s seen or heard a thing—"

Tommy turned, slow and deliberate, his voice gravel-thick with restrained fury.

"Shifts ran smooth, did they?" he echoed, teeth clenched around the words. "And what, the guns walked out on their own, yeah? Strolled up the fuckin’ gangway for fresh air?"

The man paled but said nothing. The second tried to speak, "We doubled locks, sir, we did, and we even checked—"

But he didn’t finish. Tommy’s fist cracked across his face before the sentence could land. The man stumbled sideways, crashing into a stack of crates with a dull thud. The other flinched, frozen.

Tommy exhaled hard through his nose, lowering his hand, voice low and sharp.

"Don’t ever come to me with excuses when weapons go missin’ on a fuckin’ ship full of aristocrats."

Silence followed.

He stopped at the next open crate, ran a gloved thumb along the edge of the wooden lid, eyes scanning its hollowed center.

"Two crates touched," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Five weapons gone."

The man he’d punched still sat slumped against the side wall, blood edging his lower lip. The others remained silent, wary of saying anything that might provoke another blow.

"Right," Tommy snapped, pivoting to face them again, voice cutting through the stillness. "You—" he gestured to the man still standing upright, "—you’re going to triple the night watch. Armed. Two above, two below. No blind corners. No piss breaks without relief."

The man nodded quickly. "Yes, sir."

Thomas turned his gaze to the injured one, now wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his coat.

"You can either keep breathing under my command or keep breathing somewhere far from this operation. I suggest you choose tonight."

The third man, the captain, stepped forward, composed, but clearly aware of the weight in the room. "Mr. Shelby," he said crisply, squaring his shoulders. "You have my word. I’ll see to it—every hallway, every door, locked and doubled. No one will know a thing. We’ll sweep this quiet and clean."

Thomas shifted, eyes narrowing. "You’ll sweep it thoroughly," he said. "And if even a fuckin’ whisper of this leaks above deck, I’ll hold you responsible. Not your crew. You."

The captain didn’t blink. "Understood."

And with that, Thomas Shelby left.

He moved through the service corridors of the ship like a shadow, the soles of his polished shoes striking the polished floor with an even rhythm. The hallways were narrower here—lined with brass accents and lit by lanterns that flickered faintly as the ship shifted beneath him. He didn’t look at the passing crewmen, nor did he speak.

His thoughts spiraled as he climbed the tight spiral of a metal stairway two levels up—one gloved hand gripping the rail, the other curled loosely at his side. Five stolen weapons. Five chances for someone to tip this ship from luxury into chaos.

He passed by the sound of distant music, muffled laughter bleeding through velvet-paneled walls, his expression unchanging. Somewhere above, they danced and dined under chandeliers. And just beneath them, rifles had gone missing like misfiled papers.

He lit another cigarette at the landing, pausing at the top step as he inhaled deeply. If someone was foolish—or arrogant—enough to use those weapons here, on this ship, the consequences wouldn’t be contained to cargo or ledgers. This wasn’t Small Heath. This wasn’t even Birmingham. It was a floating cage of politics, wealth, and names too expensive to be buried quietly.

It was supposed to be an easy task. He just had to deliver the crates to New York using this ship, along with another one that would arrive shortly after them. He had already stationed a few men there, so he didn’t think he needed many guards for the crates. Perhaps he had overestimated their capabilities, as now there were multiple weapons on the loose and no police force present on the ship, or at least none that he had paid off.

His jaw clenched as he exhaled smoke down the corridor.

Fuck.

Rose.

He left her on the upper deck.

The corridor stretched ahead, lacquered wood panels gleaming beneath low lamps as Thomas moved briskly, each step echoing with sharp precision. His long coat whispered around his legs as he turned down another hallway, climbing the staircase with purpose. The hum of the ship shifted with each level—the din of music, muffled conversation, the clink of glasses. But none of it registered.

He’d searched the upper deck. The railing where the wind tugged at silk sleeves and cigarette smoke vanished into the sea mist. She wasn’t there.

His jaw tightened.

He didn’t run. He never ran. But there was an urgency now threaded into the rhythm of his stride. Still outwardly composed, but inside, he’d already imagined it—someone seeing her alone. Someone watching her. 

She should’ve been in the lounge. Not wandering. Not among them.

He reached the door to their stateroom, and pulled it open in one smooth, deliberate motion.

And stopped.

There she was.

Roseline sat in a languid sprawl on the sofa, legs curled beneath her, sketchbook angled against one knee. Her head was tilted slightly, hair loose around her shoulder, one hand drifting steadily across the page. Charcoal dust traced the edge of her fingers. A faint groove formed between her brows, not in worry, but focus—completely absorbed in a world he couldn’t see.

A soft lamplight haloed her in gold, bathing the room in warmth and shadow. One of her shoes had been kicked off. A cup of tea sat untouched beside her, steam long gone.

She hadn’t noticed him. Not yet.

Tommy stepped in, closing the door quietly behind him. He didn’t speak.

He took a few steps closer to the sofa, and she seemed unaware of his presence. After spending time together, Thomas began to realize that his wife could easily get distracted. Most people wouldn’t notice, but she often became lost in her own world, detached from those around her.

Thomas watched her turn toward him, those unmistakable green eyes lifting from her sketchbook to meet his. They sparkled beneath the golden lamplight, touched with a playful glint that softened the hard edge still carved into his mind from the cargo hold.

"You’re back," she said with a knowing little smile, as if she’d sensed him standing there long before he made a sound.

He stepped closer, the hush of his shoes against the rug the only sound between them. His gaze lowered to the open sketchbook balanced on her lap. The image stopped him.

A man, mid-thirties, lean jawline, sharply tailored coat, keen eyes beneath a deep-set brow—confidence in him.

It wasn’t him. That much was obvious.

His voice dropped low, rough around the edge. "Who’s that, then?"

Roseline glanced down at the drawing, her expression unreadable for a moment—then it bloomed into a soft smile.

"Sherlock Holmes," she answered, almost amused. "I’ve been thinking about how he’d look in real life."

Tommy blinked, recognition taking its time to build up. "The one from the bloody book," he muttered. "Inspector or... some sort of fuckin’ genius."

Roseline gave a delicate nod, her fingers curling loosely around the sketchbook’s edge.

"That’s right. I’m thinking of sketching Watson, too. See how their contrast plays out on paper." She didn’t look at him—her eyes were fixed on her work, her expression sharpened with that same quiet focus he always noticed when she created. The kind of calm that didn’t need permission.

He smirked, watching her closely. Bloody fictional detectives, he thought, though the jealousy that had sparked in him a moment earlier was already cooling, replaced by something more complicated—something proud.

His gaze shifted to the table. Another piece of paper lay just beside a teacup gone cold. The outline of two figures—unmistakably a couple, shoulder to shoulder, faint shadows where eyes and posture would soon be refined.

He nodded toward it. "And that one?"

She followed his glance, her voice softer this time. "Eleanor asked me to draw her and her husband. I thought... I’d do it for them."

A pause hung between them. He looked down at the figures—one of them upright, the other gentler.

"She wants everyone to see them like that," she added quietly.

Tommy leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting loosely on his knees as he studied the sketch in her lap again. "Looks good," he murmured, tilting his head toward the carefully rendered face beneath her charcoal strokes.

Roseline didn’t lift her head. "Thank you," she replied lightly, continuing to work a darker line beneath the collarbone. The shadows were taking shape now, subtle but sure.

He watched her for another breath or two before speaking again. "Y’know... you seem to like men who carry weapons."

That earned a smile. She paused, turning just slightly toward him. "The idea is appealing," she admitted, the corners of her mouth curling with quiet mischief.

Tommy chuckled under his breath, tapping ash into the nearby tray.

"What about the ones in your books?" he asked, tone edging teasing now. "You fancy them too?"

"If I didn’t like them, I wouldn’t be reading about them."

He smirked at that, settling more comfortably beside her as his gaze returned to the sketch. "So what’s it about this one, then?" he asked, nodding toward the figure forming on the page. "The detective."

Roseline’s expression softened as she glanced down. "Sherlock Holmes is..." she said. "He notices everything. Nothing escapes him. He doesn’t pretend to be polite or agreeable—he just is. Brilliant, difficult, selfish in some ways, but honest about it. And underneath all of that, there’s loyalty. It's buried deep, but it's there."

She paused, shifting the edge of the paper slightly. "Doctor Watson, though... he’s the grounding force. Military man, kind, rational. Loyal without needing to make it a performance. He doesn’t try to change Sherlock—he sees the chaos and stays anyway."

Tommy studied her face more than the drawing now—the way her features sharpened when she spoke about characters as if they were people she knew. Her voice was still calm, but there was affection in it. Thoughtfulness.

"Doctors, eh?" he said, voice rich with something between amusement and narrowed suspicion. "So that’s your type, then?"

Roseline didn’t answer with words at first. Instead, she giggled—light and unapologetic—leaning in to press a soft kiss to his lips, the kind that lingered just long enough to distract him, just enough to make him forget the rest of the world.

Then she murmured, brushing her lips near his ear, "They are attractive. But whatever you were, Tommy... I would’ve married you anyway."

That stunned him for a half beat. Not in a way that showed on his face—Tommy Shelby never looked stunned—but something inside him stilled. That quiet, rare thing that only surfaced when she said things like that.

He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing in mock accusation. "Then maybe you ought to be sketchin’ me, eh? Not bloody detectives in sharp coats with perfect hair."

Roseline tilted her head, her voice like honey dipped in mischief. "You’re absolutely right."

And then, with a far-too-innocent blink, she added, "But if I’m going to draw you properly, Mr. Shelby... I’ll need you to take your clothes off."

Chapter Text

1923 March 14th

Pale morning light spilled softly across the cabin, casting long shadows that stretched over polished wood and velvet trim. The ship’s hum beneath the floorboards was faint, rhythmic, lulling. Roseline sat in stillness, wrapped in her robe, legs tucked to the side as she perched opposite the bed where Thomas lay.

The sketchbook rested open in her lap, one hand lightly guiding her pencil, the other pressed against the cool edge of the paper. Her breath moved with the flow of each line, delicate and deliberate.

Thomas was asleep, laid out across the linens like something carved from firelight and fog. The sheets clung loosely to his hips, the rest of him bare to the gold of early dawn. Shoulders relaxed. Jaw unclenched. No war in his brow, no steel in his chest. Just breath, skin and sleep.

Roseline drew slowly, reverently. Her gaze swept over the slope of his back, the deep curve of his collarbone, the way the light hit the small hollow just below his ribs. She was tracing the man he never showed them—the one not built from myth and fear and reputation. She was sketching quiet strength.

In his sleep, one arm was outstretched toward the pillow’s edge, fingers curled gently inward. His hair tousled across his temple. Vulnerable. Beautiful, in a way most wouldn’t understand.

She didn’t think aloud. Didn’t speak. There was something sacred in the silence.

Charcoal dust gathered lightly at her fingertips. She reached to shade the line of his throat, the soft space just beneath it, where heartbeats echoed when she rested her head there.

She remembered the quiet hum of her old apartment, the sound of the radiator ticking in the corner, and the way dawn spilled through gauzy curtains like watercolor. Those mornings had felt distant then, almost unreal, and yet here she was—doing the same thing, drawing the same man.

Back then, Tommy would fall asleep in her bed with the weight of the world on his shoulders, jacket tossed across the chair, tie half-undone. His brow still creased even in rest, and she used to wonder if he ever truly slept or just waited with his eyes closed.

It had always been easier to draw him when he was asleep. That was when the armor fell away. That was when she could find the man underneath the myth.

Now, with the sea rocking gently below and the world of silk and suspicion just beyond their cabin door, she was doing it again—chronicling the same man, the same stillness. Only this time, the hush felt earned.

her pencil glided across the paper, the quiet ache of a more restless desire stirred in her chest—not longing, exactly, but the hunger to capture all of him. Not just the serenity of sleep, but the gravity of motion.

Her gaze lingered on the plane of his ribs, on the way the shadow formed beneath his collarbone when he shifted slightly. He was beautiful. Unequivocally so. But it wasn’t just the physical that moved her—it was the presence. The way every part of him told a story. Even now, there was power in his stillness.

She wanted to draw his stride across a smoke-filled corridor, the cut of his coat fluttering as he turned sharply. She wanted to sketch the way his jaw locked when he was planning, when his voice dropped just before giving orders that bent men to his will. She’d seen it too many times to forget—the flash of fury, the sharpness of his gaze, the tension that gathered across his shoulders like coiled wire just before he moved.

She thought about the way his hands looked wrapped around a teacup versus how they looked holding a weapon.

When he held a teacup, his fingers curved delicately, almost reverently, around the porcelain. There was a gentleness in the way he balanced it, as if the act of drinking tea was a ritual of calm—a moment to breathe, to think, to pause. His thumb would rest lightly against the rim, his grip loose but intentional.

But when he held a gun, his hands transformed. The same fingers that cradled porcelain now gripped steel with precision and purpose. His knuckles tightened, his grip firm and unyielding, the weapon an extension of his will. There was no hesitation, no softness—only the sharp focus of a man who understood the weight of what he held. The gun was not a ritual; it was a tool, a means to an end.

This drawing was just a fragment.

She wanted to draw the whole man.

From the furrow in his brow when he was thinking to the rare softness in his mouth when he kissed her without warning. She wanted to draw the lines of his scars and the weight behind his silence. And maybe, someday, she’d do it while he was watching—alive, awake, and utterly unaware of just how breathtaking he truly was.

But for now, she sketched quietly, memorizing the lines of his sleeping form, promising herself she’d capture the rest—all of him—in due time.

He lay still, head tilted just enough on the pillow to catch her in his line of sight. Blue eyes—sharp, unmistakably awake—watched her with quiet amusement, the edge of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You’re startin’ to look like a bloody detective yourself,” he drawled, voice husky from sleep. “Sittin’ there with your pencil, starin’ like you’ve just cracked the case.”

Roseline blinked, caught between focus and surprise, then smiled.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up yet,” she murmured, her fingers still hovering over the page. “I hadn’t finished the sketch.”

Tommy shifted slightly, one arm folding behind his head, the sheets rumpled low around him. “If you wanted a corpse, love, you should’ve drawn me after the second whiskey last night,” he teased. “This version’s far more charming.”

She rolled her eyes—softly, playfully—and glanced down at the unfinished curve of his hip on the paper.

“You’ve been awake for a while, haven’t you?” she said knowingly.

Tommy stretched just slightly beneath the sheets, the movement slow, effortless. “Long enough to hear you muttering to yourself like some obsessed artist. Thought I’d give you time before ruining the mood.”

“I don’t mutter.” 

Tommy chuckled, folding his arms behind his head, exposing the breadth of his chest to the dappled morning light. “So tell me, how accurate is that portrait of yours? ” he asked, blue eyes glittering as they followed her hand. “Or are you flattering me just to justify staring so long?”

Rose glanced down at the unfinished sketch. “I’m drawing exactly what I see,” she murmured. “And I happen to think what I see is very beautiful.”

His mouth twitched, soft but genuine. He hadn’t heard that word spoken so plainly in a long time—beautiful. Especially not directed at him.

“I don’t hear that often,” he admitted, watching the charcoal glide across paper. “People usually say dangerous. Or bloody terrifying.”

Roseline gave him a look, nonchalant but intense.

“That’s why you are beautiful, Tom.”

She closed her sketchbook with a quiet snap, the charcoal still fresh across the page, then leaned in, brushing her lips against Tommy's with the softness of someone who wanted to preserve the moment rather than prolong it.

"Now you’ve ruined the quiet," she whispered, eyes playful, breath barely touching his cheek. "I should finish Eleanor’s drawing before she corners me again."

But as she started to pull back, Tommy’s hand slid around her waist, steady and deliberate, catching her in a motion that hadn’t yet finished. His lips met hers again—no softness this time, no teasing warmth. It was possessive, deliberate.

When he broke the kiss, his voice was a few shades darker, laced with a mock irritation that didn’t reach his eyes but still sent a shiver down her spine.

“You think you can just kiss me and run off talkin’ about Eleanor’s bloody picture?” he said, gaze sharp beneath the tousled fringe falling over his brow. “After last night? You must’ve not learned a damn thing, Rose.”

She blinked, taken aback for a moment, not quite sure if he was serious.

“Learn what?” she asked slowly, lips still parted from the kiss, breath barely returned to her chest.

Tommy leaned in again, his voice low against her skin. “The one where you don’t tempt a man like that, then walk off like it’s nothin’. You paint me in your little sketchbook, admire me with those green eyes like I’m some ornament—then go chasing other bloody husbands on canvas?”

His hand slid down the curve of her back, pulling her just a little closer. “No, love,” he said, voice dropping to a velvet growl. “If last night didn’t make it clear, I’ll make it stick.”

The knock echoed sharply against the polished wood, and Tommy’s growl rumbled from deep in his chest—guttural, unmistakably annoyed. The moment had barely begun, the heat between them thick enough to blur thought, and now someone had decided to interrupt.

“Should I get that?” she asked quietly, adjusting the hem of the robe, fingers tugging at the sash as if it would suddenly conceal more than it did.

“No,” he muttered, already swinging his legs off the bed. “Only time someone gets to see you like that is when I’m fuckin’ you, and you’re too breathless to care.”

She glanced down instinctively, realizing just how loosely the robe hung against her frame. It was silk, thin, and the morning light was merciless—her skin barely concealed, the folds of fabric slipping over curves with every breath.

Tommy was already up, bare-chested and scowling, slipping into his trousers with practiced efficiency. Every movement was sharp, precise. His jaw clenched as he buckled the belt, eyes locked on the door like it had offended him personally.

He reached it in three strides and wrenched it open without hesitation.

Roseline leaned forward, listening—but from her angle across the cabin, she couldn’t see who stood there.

Tommy’s voice came firm, low, and clipped. “Speak fast.”

Roseline picked up her sketchbook and flipped through her sketchbook slowly, fingers moving absently over the corners of each page as if inspecting her work, though her mind was far from any of the drawings. 

She kept her posture relaxed—disinterested, even—leaning slightly into the armrest, eyes half-focused on an unfinished sketch of Eleanor. But between glances at pencil work, she stole upward looks toward the door.

A shadow cast through the open door, tall and solid. From the cadence and weight of the voice, it was a man. Not one she recognized. Roseline strained to hear—leaned slightly forward without meaning to—but the words came muffled, garbled by the thick wood and the carpeted hush.

It was Thomas’s face that gave her the real clue. Frustration simmered behind his blue eyes, brows drawn in tight and mouth pressed into a hard line. He nodded once, more out of necessity than agreement, and gave the man a quick, terse reply. Whatever was being said wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

He looked back into the cabin, gaze finding Roseline for half a breath.

And then he turned, stepping through the threshold and closing the door quietly behind him.

Roseline shifted gently on the bed, lying back against the cool satin of the pillows, the sketchbook balanced over her chest like armor made of parchment and charcoal. Her robe had loosened slightly with movement, its silk folds pooling softly around her waist, whispering against bare skin. The air in the cabin was still, save for the faint hum of the ship and the distant rustle of footsteps beyond the door.

She turned her head toward it instinctively, gaze lingering on the closed frame.

She’d done this before. Countless times before marriage—listening in. Standing behind doors, pretending to read while she quietly gathered fragments of conversation. It had started from curiosity, evolved into necessity. With Thomas, silence often spoke louder than his words. And she’d learned early that he didn’t always volunteer the truth unless pressed. So she’d trained her ear for tone, rhythm, tension.

And now the same instinct tugged at her.

She could slip off the bed, pad softly to the door, press her ear to the grain and pull meaning from murmur.

But she didn’t.

She remained where she was, reclined, exposed, quiet.

Because something had shifted.

Roseline reached up absently and brushed a smudge of charcoal from her collarbone. Her fingers lingered there, not from vanity, but from thought.

She wanted to listen.

But she chose not to.

Because sometimes knowing everything comes at the cost of peace.

The door burst open with sudden force, hitting the wall with a thud that echoed through the cabin. Roseline’s head snapped toward the sound, startled, clutching the edge of the blanket as Thomas strode in like a storm—jaw tight, movements sharp. He went straight to the cupboard, pulling it open and yanking clothes from hangers.

His shirt was already halfway on, one sleeve hanging loose as he spoke in clipped tones without looking at her.

“I’ve got business,” he said, pulling his trousers on, voice low but urgent, as if trying not to sound as commanding as he was. “Stay here. Don't go anywhere. I'll come back for you when it’s done. We’ll have breakfast. Together.”

Rose watched him move, the tension in his shoulders betraying whatever restraint he tried to show. He was clearly on edge. Whatever had happened outside had followed him in like a shadow.

She slid off the bed quietly, letting the blanket fall behind her as she padded across the carpet in bare feet. Her robe swayed with her movements, silky folds brushing against her legs. With delicate fingers, she reached up and helped him into his jacket, smoothing the lapels with a quiet grace.

“I’ll wait, darling,” she said softly, meeting his eyes with calm. 

She leaned up on her toes, brushing a gentle kiss against his lips, a subtle touch to ease the storm.

He lingered there a moment longer than expected.

Then, without a word, he turned and left—door closing behind him with quieter intent than when it had opened.

Roseline let out a quiet sigh, the silk of her robe brushing against her calves as she crossed to the small table by the sofa. She picked up the porcelain teapot, its warmth still lingering, and poured herself a cup of tea. The liquid spiraled into the cup delicately, steam rising in a fragile coil.

She spooned in sugar—more than she usually would. She didn’t stir it right away, just watched it dissolve.

Then she settled onto the sofa, sketchbook balanced comfortably in her lap, knees tucked beneath her robe. Her hand reached for the familiar page—the half-finished charcoal rendering of Tommy. The lines were bold but intimate: the curve of his throat, the tension around his mouth, the sharp set of his brow softened in sleep. She knew each feature. Not just in texture, but in rhythm. Years of memorizing him—not just his face, but the way he moved, the way he breathed when he thought no one was watching.

This sketch was alive.

It held weight. It held him.

But when she flipped to Eleanor’s drawing, something inside her shifted. The pencil hovered as she stared at the unfinished outline—Eleanor’s chin, her husband’s shoulder. Everything was positioned properly: proportions neat, lines confident.

And yet—it felt wrong.

The shapes were correct, but hollow. Like mannequins dressed in borrowed warmth. Her fingers moved tentatively, adding shading to Eleanor’s jaw, but the expression stayed static. No emotion in the eyes. No tension in the hands. No trace of love.

It was a technically accurate composition—but it lacked blood.

Roseline’s pencil hovered over the page, unmoving now. The faces staring back at her—Eleanor and her husband—felt too clean, too distant, and far too silent. But it wasn’t just the sketch that made her stop. It was the sudden thud of a truth pressing against her ribcage.

This wasn’t the first time she had done something she didn’t like.

Not even close.

She’d told herself that marriage would be different. 

But now she sat alone with her tea and her charcoal, and the thought clawed its way back: Had anything really changed?

A man who asked gently but expected absolutely. A man who masked possession with protection. It wasn't that he shouted or stormed, but his quiet insistence left little room for refusal. Even when he softened his tone, the undertone remained: you’re mine.

She stared down at the couple in her sketchbook, and the emptiness in their posture suddenly mirrored her own.

Her hand tensed around the pencil as another thought formed—uninvited but stubborn. What if she hadn’t said yes?

Would he have stalked her until she changed her mind, sending gifts and letters until she caved? Or... would he have broken the silence altogether, shown up uninvited, pressed her hand to the wall, and taken her right then and there? 

She set the sketchbook down. Her tea had gone cold.

Roseline looked back at the door. It stood closed, quiet again, but it felt heavier now.

Would he have forced her?

She wouldn’t put it past him. Not out of cruelty. But because Tommy Shelby didn’t lose what he claimed.

And she had let herself be claimed.

The cabin had grown too quiet—soothing at first, then restless. Two hours had passed, and the stillness was no longer peace—it was absence.

Roseline stood from the sofa slowly, brushing off flecks of charcoal from the folds of her robe. She wandered over to the wardrobe, trailing a hand across the polished edge before choosing a silver dress. It was simple, graceful—something that shimmered faintly in the light without screaming for attention. The fabric hugged her in all the right places, cool and smooth as she eased it on. Not too formal, not too showy. Just... right.

At the vanity, she clipped on her favorite earrings, small crystal teardrops that caught the light. Her necklace—a slender chain with a pale stone—rested just above her collarbone. She brushed out her blonde hair, letting it fall in soft waves over her shoulders before pinning it into something elegant but manageable. 

Gloves came last. Pale grey satin, cool to the touch, fitting snugly around her fingers.

She glanced at the clock again. No knock. No footsteps. Still no sign of her husband.

Rose sat for a few more minutes, hands folded neatly in her lap, staring at the sketchbook she’d left open on the table. But waiting, as she'd learned, was its own kind of cage.

The walls were closing in on her, too stuffy.

Alone.

She stood, smoothed the front of her dress, and crossed to the door.

If Tommy was caught up in something important, fine. But she wasn't going to sit here anymore.

With a quiet breath and one last glance at her reflection, she stepped into the corridor.

Roseline stepped into the corridor, her heels tapping softly against the polished floor, the silver of her dress catching light as she moved. The ship was quiet in parts, punctuated only by the distant murmur of water against metal and the low hum of activity beneath deck. But as she walked, there was a sound—faint at first, like a whisper caught in fabric.

Two voices. Female. Low and muffled.

She slowed her pace.

They came from further down the hallway, behind one of the cabin doors left slightly ajar. She moved closer, careful not to let her steps fall heavy. Her gloved hand brushed against the wall, her blonde hair pinned elegantly, though a few strands had begun to loosen from the sea breeze leaking through tiny cracks.

The voices became clearer—not words, exactly, but tone. One sounded sharp, clipped. The other more fluid, almost amused.

It sounded like Eleanor.

Roseline stood just shy of the doorway, the muffled argument pressing through the wood like static from another room. Eleanor’s voice had a sharp edge—tight, emotionally frayed. She’d heard it before, at dinners where the wine flowed a little too freely and politeness cracked around the edges.

The other voice was lower, older, but not frail. Commanding in a quieter way. If Rose’s memory was correct, it belonged to Eleanor’s mother. 

Then came the sound of glass.

Not dropped. Thrown.

The impact echoed down the corridor like a warning shot, and Roseline flinched, fingers tightening around her gloves. The voices dropped immediately. No apologies, no comfort—just whispers now, fast and thick like smoke beneath a closed door.

And then—

Nothing.

Dead silence.

A grip landed on her arm before she could react, firm and unyielding. His eyes locked onto hers, a storm behind them—quiet, but unmistakably angry.

“I thought I told you to stay in the fuckin’ room,” he said through clenched teeth. Not a shout. Not a growl. But the words were heavy, each one tightly wrapped in disappointment and frustration.

Roseline blinked, surprised by how quickly he’d appeared—how easily he’d read her absence as disobedience. She didn’t pull away. Not yet.

“I needed a change of scenery,” she said calmly, meeting his gaze without flinching. “And I didn’t think you’d want to wait for me to get dressed.”

Tommy’s jaw twitched as he swallowed whatever sharp reply had first leapt to his tongue. His grip eased slightly, fingers curling inward before falling away completely. He stood there, chest rising fast,

like something inside him was battling itself into silence.

Then, after a long pause, he exhaled.

“Fine,” he muttered. His voice was quieter, but still taut. “We’ll get something to eat.”

Before she could answer, he took her hand in his and began walking—not rushing, not aggressive, but pulling her forward with that forceful confidence that rarely asked permission.

Roseline let herself be led, her satin glove nestled in his palm, the hallway bright around them. She glanced sideways at him as they walked—the set of his jaw was still hard, the tension hadn’t completely vanished.

But he was calming.

The restaurant was quiet, tucked near the edge of the deck where glass windows wrapped the room in morning light and sea views. Roseline walked beside Tommy with an elegant calm, her silver dress glimmering faintly with each step, her blonde hair styled into soft waves. But her expression was distant, thoughtful.

A waiter approached with the menusas they sat down, and Tommy took one glance at Roseline and didn’t bother opening his.

“What would you like, love?” he asked, voice low but attentive, his hand resting lightly on the edge of the table.

Roseline hesitated, fingers grazing the menu. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, eyes scanning the list half-heartedly. “Nothing really jumps out.”

Tommy leaned back slightly, studying her as she scanned the page. He didn’t rush her—just watched. He knew that look. She wasn’t actually deciding; she was distracting herself. Her appetite wasn’t missing because of indecision—it was missing because her thoughts were elsewhere.

Like always.

“Eggs?” he offered, casually. “Or fruit. You like the pear slices with the mint sugar.”