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divaofmads · 2 days ago

Text

Velvet Touch | Part II

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x Female Reader (OC) | Part I

Summary: When love silences a woman... the words destroy a man. And somewhere between the lines, something shifted forever.

Warnings: +18 only, MDNI, Angst, Slow-burn, Dark Romance Themes, Adult Content, Smut, Oral Sex ( male, female), Vaginal Sex, Language, Bondage, Femdom, Power imbalance, Yandere Behavior, Emotional Burnout, Jealousy and Possessiveness, Alcohol & Smoking, Identity Crisis / Gender Role Conflict, Ambiguous Ending, Intense Sexual Situation, English is not my first language so excuse my mistakes. I write purely as a hobby, not as a professional.

Word Count: +10k

Dividers by @cafekitsune @strangergraphics Gif by @christophernolan

A/N: While writing this story, I had to dig up places where I had truly buried parts of my emotions.

The first light of the morning gently slipped through the curtains, casting a delicate beam of light across the kitchen, softly touching the corners of the room. In the early hours of the morning, there were no sounds outside; no car noise, no chatter of people. It felt as though only time itself existed in that moment. And you, in your kitchen, were preparing breakfast.

While preparing breakfast, your eyes briefly drifted to the box on the edge of the table, the one with the dress inside. The dress inside the box seemed to glow under the morning light, its elegance and grace standing in stark contrast to everything else. Seeing the dress again pulled you back into the same emotional whirlpool, the presence of Venus within you. And as you looked at the dress, a battle raged deep inside you.

For all the years, the men in your life had turned you into a "strong" and "masculine" woman in the eyes of the world. You put up barriers against your emotions, your body, everything. "Femininity" was always shown to you as a weakness, both physically and emotionally. But the dress felt like a kind of betrayal; there was so much fear and uncertainty within you as you looked at it.

Venus was the old identity, the one who broke you, hurt you, the feminine essence that introduced you to everything you had. Yet, the call of Venus was so strong. Even if you tried to suppress it, it grew stronger with each passing day.

Venus was trying to resurrect within you at every moment. She was the one who knew you, the one who had known you from somewhere, the woman who had disappeared and been abandoned long ago.

"No, I can't let this happen," you said to yourself, as you had so many times before. As you moved toward the dress, your hands began to sweat. The voice of Venus, questioning you, slowly rose within, screaming in silence. Wearing this dress didn’t just mean making peace with your past; it also meant weakening yourself. Being a woman meant being weak. "I don't deserve this," you said, wanting to rebuild the strong walls you had built around yourself. Despite Venus pulling you in, something deep within your heart troubled you.

Slowly, you wanted to close yourself off, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I should be a woman… or not. I don’t deserve this," you said, but those words too troubled you. Venus was trying to recreate you, and you, on the other hand, were trying to force yourself to make peace with your past. But there was one perspective: the way to true strength lay in accepting the feminine part of yourself. But you were afraid.

As the day turned into afternoon, you added sugar to your coffee. The familiar silence, which couldn’t quiet the chaos inside, once again drew your gaze to the box sitting on the table. It had been there since yesterday.

You first looked away. You drank your coffee. But the old voice inside, Venus, didn’t stop whispering. “Touch me,” it said. “Remember me.”

You stood up. Took a few steps, then stopped. When your fingers brushed the edge of the box, your body trembled slightly. "I’ll just try it on," you said. "Then I’ll put it back in the box. It will be like it never happened." But both you and Venus knew how much you both hated lies, how open you were to the truth.

You slowly lifted the lid. The fabric, like a line between night and day, touched your skin. For the first time in years, something stirred in your heart. Perhaps shame, perhaps rebellion... but most of all, longing.

When you put on the dress, your body didn’t change. When you looked in the mirror, you didn’t just see your face, you saw the woman you had refused to look at for years. The fabric falling on your shoulders didn’t scare you; instead, it enveloped you as though it had embraced you. And you fought with yourself, refusing to accept how good it felt.

You turned to your makeup table. When you opened the cap of your lipstick, your hands weren’t hesitant. The red you applied to your lips was as sharp as the courage in your writing, as precise as a bullet. You gave depth to your eyes. You pushed your hair back from your face. With each step, you buried a memory, with each stroke of the brush, you buried a past. And when you looked into the mirror again... you gasped. Because there you were. The real you. The one who didn’t see sexuality as a trap, the one who wasn’t crushed under gazes, the one who wore femininity like a crown she had carved for herself, not a fate imposed upon her.

And the door ring bell.

Your insides froze in an instant. Your heart, once warmed by the dress, was now thrown outside. That fleeting thought, Thomas Shelby, froze your blood and ignited a fire in your chest. You didn’t want him to see you like this… or maybe you wanted him to, too much.

Your steps were silent. When you stopped at the door, you waited for a few seconds. Then, your voice was heard.

"Who’s there?"

The answer from behind the door surprised you.

“I brought a letter,” the voice said. It sounded like the voice of the person who delivered Thomas Shelby’s first letter to you. It was familiar. Definitely familiar.

Between surprise and relief, you slid the door open slightly without unlocking the chain. You saw an envelope extending from the narrow gap. It was made of thick, heavy, high-quality paper. The seal on it carried more meaning than an ordinary post could ever hold. As your fingers reached for the envelope, it felt like a part of you was pulled along with it. You closed the door, but your heart remained with that envelope.

As you carefully opened the corners of the envelope, your fingers trembled, trying to chase the emotions flowing through the river of your heart. Thomas Shelby’s name wasn’t on it, but everything you felt was undoubtedly his. The bright seal carried a weighty meaning, one that seemed to hold much more than words could convey.

For a brief moment, you forgot to breathe. This dress… this letter… your feelings for Thomas Shelby. You couldn’t stop yourself from reading it. You had to read it. And you read the words, the words that caught you in an impossible way.

“I’m glad you wore the dress. I knew you were a strong woman. You didn’t disappoint me.”

As the words danced before your eyes, a few seconds of silence seemed to surround the entire world. A broken breath lingered between your lips. Among the fragmented thoughts, you couldn’t immediately grasp what lay behind the writing. Which emotion should you follow? Anger? Surprise? Or the realization of something?

And worse yet… that last sentence.

“When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting downstairs.”

Your eyes blurred. The shock, the anger, the rapid heartbeat filling the cold void within you, were slowly overwhelming you. What did Thomas Shelby mean by that?

Each step echoing beneath your feet was slowly pushing you toward the window. As you quickly approached, the beat of your heart seemed to dig deeper than the emotions fluttering in your mind.

When you parted the curtain… you saw him.

Thomas Shelby. In his car, right below, outside. Quietly, like a gentleman, he was waiting for you. His elegance, his patience, the clothes he wore… like a dream, but more real than ever. His eyes shone like a star in the darkness, looking up at you. You quickly turned your eyes away. For a moment, you thought you might feel him so close in your heart. But you wanted to run from him. In that moment, as if you were finding his name and reality when you said "Thomas Shelby." Waiting for you in the corner, but drawing all your attention, he was there. He had left himself patient, respectful, but also willing and clear.

Slowly, you closed the curtain. Your whole body responded with helplessness, and you couldn’t decide what you should do. You stepped toward the chair, but you knew everything was more complicated than it seemed. The trembling of your hands, the anger and desire in your eyes, the conflict in your mind, everything was pushing you to either go down or do nothing at all. But Venus inside you was so strong that she was determined not to leave you alone. She kept holding on tightly.

Unable to bear it anymore, you sat in the chair, your knees tense as if they might break at any moment. Your mind was torn in two. On one hand, the desire to go to Thomas Shelby; on the other, the fears in front of you. Immediately after the turmoil in your mind, the doorbell rang once more. The loud, confident, familiar tone you had grown used to. Slow, but certain. This sound only added to the tension inside you.

At first, your feet didn't move. Your inner voice screamed: "Don't open it. Don't let him see you like this. This isn’t you." But then another voice whispered. Softer. More fragile. "What if this is me? What if you want him to see you like this for the first time?"

As you took your steps, the wooden floorboards creaked. You gripped the hem of your skirt with your fingers. You stopped in front of the door. Took a deep breath. And you opened the door.

Thomas Shelby’s eyes first caught yours. It was as though he had known you for years, yet at the same time, it felt as if he were seeing you for the first time. There was a flicker in his gaze, small, but powerful like a storm.

His eyes slowly drifted downwards. There was no change in his face, but something burned in his eyes. It wasn’t admiration. It certainly wasn’t passion. It was respect. And a love blended with admiration.

It was as if he had seen the woman within you long before you noticed her, and now, he was allowing you to see her too.

"Hello," he said. His voice was calm, as always, but there was a tremor of warmth hidden within it. You couldn’t respond. Your throat was tight with a knot.

Thomas Shelby took a step. Not toward the house, but toward you. Without looking anywhere else, only at you.

“You’re beautiful,” he said in a low voice. And in that moment, Venus inside you slowly rose. She got up from the dust. Straightened your shoulders.

As a writer, you had created thousands of characters. But maybe, for the first time, you stepped into your own story as the main character.

Thomas Shelby stood silently in the doorway for a few seconds. He looked at you. There was darkness from years past in his eyes, but it seemed like a veil had been lifted from it. He wasn’t trying to figure you out, he already had. But now, he was waiting patiently to see what you had been hiding. This moment wasn’t about him; it was about you. No struggle, no force, just as it was.

"The dress... it suits you," he said, his voice deep and resonant, like the darkness that follows cigarette smoke.

“But that’s not the point. The point is... when you look like this, you’re stronger. There’s another battle beneath that grace you show. And you look beautiful, not because you’ve won that battle, but because you’re still fighting it.”

For a moment, you turned your head. You were trying to understand the intention behind his words. As always, doubt was at the forefront of your mind.

"You think I dressed up for you, don't you?" you said, your voice cold and cautious.

"I didn’t want this. You did. You brought the dress. You made me feel like I had to wear it. So this image... maybe it's the Y/N you’ve been trying to shape.”

There was a bitter twist at the corner of his lips. You weren’t defending yourself. Not like you usually did. Because whenever you softened, someone had hurt you.

Thomas’s gaze didn’t change. Your words didn’t pierce him, because he saw the crack behind the words.

He took a step forward. Calm. Heavy. He extinguished his cigarette at the doorway and then stepped inside. The sound of his shoes echoed on the wooden floor. The narrowness of the room seemed to amplify his presence.

“I didn’t impose this on you, Y/N,” he said, his voice lower this time, almost a whisper, but with an unbreakable certainty.

“No one can break your will... unless you allow it. And that’s what makes you special. The woman standing in this room, wearing that dress, chose to wear it with her own will. That dress doesn’t steal from you... it gives you back to yourself.”

A silence followed. Something inside you trembled.

There was no forced opening in his words.

But for the first time, you understood who would enter your door without knocking.

Maybe that’s why... it didn’t hurt.

You parted your lips, but no words came out. The distance between your eyes and his had narrowed so much that your breath mingled with his.

"You..." you said, but your voice got lost within itself. You couldn’t speak again. Because in that moment, Thomas Shelby took another step forward.

His fingers brushed your arm. It was light, not forceful. But it lingered on your skin. Without asking anything, he gently held you. And slowly turned you towards the mirror. Before you could fully understand what was happening, you found yourself in front of the mirror.

He was behind you now. His body’s warmth was close to your back, but he didn’t touch you.

His hands still held your arm. In the reflection, for the first time, you weren’t alone.

And this time… you looked at the woman you saw in the mirror, not judging her, not afraid of her, almost admiring her.

The silence in the room was interrupted by Thomas Shelby's movements. You noticed him reach into the inner pocket of his jacket just behind your shoulder. His fingers, as usual, were steady and controlled.

What he pulled out from inside the jacket was a deep, velvety black. A long, thin box. Your eyes were drawn to the velvet fabric, but when you saw what was inside, time seemed to stop for a moment.

When he opened the box, you looked into it along with your reflection. The brightness was dazzling, even in the dim light of the room. It was an elegant yet extravagant necklace, adorned with diamond touches. While echoes of the past like stitching marks were on your back, a shimmer was about to close around your neck with Thomas Shelby’s hands…

Without saying anything, he gently pushed your hair aside. When his fingertips touched the back of your neck, your skin involuntarily shivered.

Your lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

His fingertips, with the patience of a man finding his way in the dark, gathered your hair to one side of your shoulder.

“Tilt your head a little,” he said in a low, rich voice.

Instinctively, you slightly lowered your head. And when the coolness of the necklace touched your skin… the warmth passing through you was the complete opposite.

When you heard the clasp close, you had become another version of yourself. In the mirror’s reflection, there was someone slowly rising from the ashes of the past.

Thomas Shelby was still behind you. But now, he was not only close physically but mentally as well. He didn’t take his eyes off the mirror. He looked into your eyes, not directly, but through the reflection. It was much more than a mere glance. This was the moment when surrender began.

And then… he leaned down. He came even closer. You felt his warmth throughout your body. His cheek was mere millimeters away from yours without touching it. And from just behind your ear, he spoke with that voice that pierced through you:

"When I first saw you… I noticed your stance. You were in your office, alone, but you filled the room. Your eyes… as if you knew all the pain in the world, yet you were still undefeated. I… haven’t encountered someone like you in a long time."

His words were more like an oath on a battlefield than a love poem. There was more respect than passion, more surrender than admiration.

He continued:

"To me, beauty isn’t just a matter of a face. Beauty... is a stance. And in you, there’s something that makes you who you are, something that makes you dangerous, something that makes you... irreplaceable. I admired your strength, Y/N. The loneliness behind that strength. Even in that loneliness, you never lost your voice..."

You had your eyes locked on your own reflection in the mirror, but now, Thomas Shelby’s voice echoed inside your head.

These words spoke not of a man’s love, but of a man who had shaken hands with his own darkness, who truly understood another wounded soul. And you… for the first time, despite feeling completely exposed, felt protected.

A moment later, his fingers touched your waist. That delicate first touch... was both strong and careful. It was as if he wanted to transform you without breaking you, without figuring you out first.

He slowly turned you toward him. The connection with the mirror broke. Now, you were face to face.

This time, it wasn’t a reflection. It was real.

When his eyes locked onto yours, everything that was fluttering inside you fell silent. And in that moment... Thomas Shelby’s face was fixed in you. It was as though he had something more to say. But the words never came. Only his breath, slow, warm, and ready to pull you in.

He asked you something. Not with his voice. Not with his fingers. Only with his eyes.

"Do you allow it?"

You gave your answer without parting your lips, without raising an eyebrow, without speaking a word. With your eyes.

Just by looking. Not approaching him, but not running away either. Without taking a step, you tore down all your walls.

At that moment... He raised his hand. Like a child touching a butterfly for the first time.

He focused all his attention, all his weight on that moment.

His fingertips first brushed your chin. Then, gently, he traced the curve of your cheek with his thumb.

It was like he was touching you for the first time to truly know you.

As if he was measuring the boundaries of a dream he'd drawn, written, and thought about for years with his fingertips.

And then... He leaned his face toward yours. Slowly. Patiently. As if this moment needed not haste, but holiness.

When his lips came close to yours, the only distance between you... was a breath. And finally, he kissed you.

When his lips touched yours, all the noise inside you fell silent. You sensed the kiss not with your skin, not with words, but only with your heart. It felt like a prayer, like purification.

When his lips gently pressed against yours, a silence was born first. Then, in that silence, the contact deepened slightly. You closed your eyes. And in his kiss, you found something that for the first time felt like home.

Two souls. Two warriors. Two lonlinesses. And a kiss... A silent promise of healing.

And then...

He gently pulled his lips away from you. But not his eyes. Because some touches begin with the skin, but continue with the heart.

You had forgotten how to breathe. Your chest wasn’t rising or falling. It was as if you were afraid to ruin the moment, to break the sacred connection by saying something that would shatter the spell.

But Thomas didn’t stay silent like you. Without pulling his hand away from your cheek, he brought his forehead closer to yours. He stayed like that for a while almost as if he was memorizing you. And then, with a voice that was deep, pure, and would penetrate you, he whispered:

"What makes me strong... People think it's money, victory, fear... But when I saw you, I realized. True strength is being able to keep your light inside you without getting lost in someone's darkness. You... are that light."

You could feel that he was looking at you in the most vulnerable way a man could, while explaining his feelings.

You didn’t lower your gaze.

You didn’t hide. Because after that kiss, there was no place left to hide. Your fears were still with you, but for the first time, someone wasn’t afraid to carry them.

With its high ceilings and domed structure, the Royal Art Hall, one of Birmingham’s most prestigious venues, was hosting a charity gala this evening where not only art, but also the city’s political and economic veins converged. Every detail inside spoke the silent and unwavering language of exclusivity. Velvet-upholstered chairs, crystal chandeliers glowing with yellow light, and the towering shadows of massive bronze sculptures amidst the sounds of live string instruments... The music was slow, velvety; people moved with slow steps, inward-facing, with arrogant smiles. Waiters, with white-gloved hands, carried crystal glasses; champagne-filled trays silently moved across the polished marble floors.

And you stood beside a round cocktail table in front of a large window facing west, the city lights filtering through the glass, your eyes scanning the crowd inside. Your fingers lightly trembled as they grasped the neck of the delicate glass in your hand. The champagne you brought to your lips passed down your throat without resolving anything, giving neither the taste of pleasure nor relaxation.

Beside you, Thomas Shelby, gently turning his whiskey glass in his hand, ignored the gazes of those watching from afar and turned to you. Despite the fatigue lines at the corners of his eyes, his gaze carried a sarcastic warmth.

“Writer Y/N. The one with a column in the newspapers, the woman who stands alone in a world dominated by men. The one who fearlessly stands firm in the midst of political discourse… But now, what is it that’s making your hand tremble in a ballroom, huh?”

His words touched you, not belittling you, but like a reflection from someone who truly knew you.

“It’s not the outfit that’s bothering you,” he said softly. “You’re wearing your past here. Not the things taken from you, but the rooms you’ve locked away. But right now... here, they don’t know your story. But I do.”

He came closer, his voice nearly brushing against your skin.

“Here, you’re more real than the men hiding behind fake smiles. They’ll make a donation and forget. You write and remind.”

At that moment, when you looked into his eyes, you felt the respect Thomas Shelby had for you—not only for being a woman but for your thoughts, your struggles, for everything you stood for. Yet, still, standing in the middle of the ballroom, being under scrutiny, even the fabric of the dress that clung to your waist, made breathing consciously a struggle, and it unsettled you.

Just then, a few people began approaching Thomas Shelby from the other end of the room. The first was a Lord, a prominent figure in the city council, someone who invested in industrial reforms. Then, the chairman of the Birmingham Chamber of Commerce, approaching Shelby with a refined smile that carried subtle calculations.

“Thomas. It’s great to finally see you,” said the Lord, extending his hand to shake. “Men like you attending events like these sends a good message to the city.”

Thomas glanced at you from the corner of his eye. He didn’t move. He didn’t extend his hand. He merely acknowledged them with a nod. They continued to wait a few steps away while Shelby remained focused on you. Should this have made you feel good? Maybe. But the sense of responsibility and the political games you knew nudged you toward an uncomfortable reality: Being among those men was strategic for Thomas.

You gently touched Thomas’s arm. Your words were slow but clear:

“They’re the ones who’ll make sense of your presence here. You should go and talk to them. I’ll be fine... Really.”

There was something in his eyes. A confirmation... perhaps a surrender, or maybe a small sign of a growth within you that you had succeeded in achieving on your own. Thomas seemed to hesitate for a moment but then stopped. He came a little closer, whispering in a voice that only you could hear: “I’ll always have my eye on you. If anyone... bothers you, all you have to do is turn your head.”

And with that familiar look, he turned, slipped his hand into his jacket pocket, lit a cigarette, and walked with heavy steps toward the powerful figures. People immediately surrounded him. Handshakes, clinking glasses, light laughter… Politics, money, and power. He was now in his arena.

You, on the other hand, were left alone for the first time. And for you, loneliness was never just fear, it was a test. The old “Y/N” inside you was there... the aristocratic woman from the Paris salons... but now, the anxiety that pricked at you like thorns was preparing to break through the shell of this new identity.

And then you saw her. A woman.

Her icy platinum blonde hair gathered at the nape of her neck, her long white dress clinging to her body. She stood next to Thomas Shelby, tilting her head with that familiar smile. She wasn’t speaking, but her gaze was dangerously close to the silence of speech. When the woman’s fingers brushed against the collar of Thomas’s jacket, something lodged in your throat. A shard. Small but sharp. You watched that touch, and saw Thomas smile and murmur something—perhaps a diplomatic response, perhaps a detached joke... But there wasn’t a single shadow of recognition for you on his face.

Loneliness found you right then. It fell on your shoulders like a cold stone. Thomas Shelby no longer saw you. Not only did he not see you... it was clear he had forgotten you.

And you, the woman who was used to the old aristocratic salons, who wrote while studying in France, who challenged men... Now, you were forgotten, holding a glass of champagne in your hand.

You turned your head. Your throat ached as you swallowed. Your breath felt like it was stuck somewhere inside you.

And then... Something happened.

When your eyes landed on the other side of the crowd, your mind was suddenly pulled into another time.

He was there. Anthony Brousseau.

One of France's most renowned columnists. The name you once memorized in your classes, whose articles you secretly jotted down in the margins, whom you admired. And now, years later... he was before you. His serious demeanor, the handkerchief dangling from his ironed jacket pocket, just as you'd imagined.

For you, he was merely a pioneering figure. The man you once wanted to be. And now, you were just a few steps away from him.

And Thomas Shelby... was now the man who didn’t reject another woman’s attention with a wave of his hand.

You turned your eyes back to Thomas one last time. He didn’t search for you with his gaze, nor did any unease appear on his face. He didn’t care. At that moment, he truly didn’t care.

You took a sip from your glass. You stood there motionless for a few seconds. Then you slowly walked away, pushing yourself away from the crowd.

And as you walked...

It wasn’t your body beneath the dress that walked, it was the years inside you. With every step, it was the steps of every feeling you had suppressed. And those steps took you to him:

Anthony Brousseau.

Thomas Shelby held the champagne glass in his hand, but he wasn’t drinking anymore. His fingers were frozen around the rim of the glass. The voices around him, the men wanting to shake his hand, the whispered sentences of tactical alliances, the heavy names from Birmingham’s industrial lobbies... They were all just background noise now.

At first, he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice that you weren’t by the table. The silence had drawn you in.

When he turned to the table where he had left his glass, suddenly looking around, there was no trace of you left.

The line between his brows deepened. He tilted his head slightly, pulled out his gold pocket watch from his left pocket, checked the time as if he cared, but the time didn’t matter to him. His eyes scanned the room. Every corner. Every reflection. Every smile. Every woman. But you... you were nowhere. Until...

Until he saw that smile.

On the eastern side of the room, where the sound of the violin had diminished, and conversations had begun to take shape, he saw you.

Anthony Brousseau'nun yanında.

A man who spoke in grand terms but whose every sentence in his column was written with remarkable effectiveness.

And you...

You were leaning towards him, your shoulders slightly raised, speaking with that vitality he no longer saw when you were by his side. Your eyes were shining. It was as if a shell had been shed from the woman who had once walked away. It was as if you were breathing for the first time after taking off your mask. Your laughter was soft, your head tilted casually, and... it was dangerous.

Something stirred inside him. A very old feeling. His blood seemed to stop flowing in his veins and then suddenly flare up in flames.

He set his glass down on the table. Not harshly. But with determination.

A man standing next to Thomas asked a question. Probably about the harbor properties or the investment profits of Garrison Bar. But the only thing Thomas Shelby heard was your laugh.

Your laugh, which seemed to belong to someone else. Because he thought that laugh was something you had kept for yourself the last time.

Being wrong drove him mad.

“Mr. Shelby?”

The man called out again. But Thomas's eyes were still fixed on the scene.

“I think we should talk some other time,” Thomas said.

His voice was husky, measured, but carrying something on the verge of breaking.

His eyes turned back to you. You were no longer alone. But he had never felt this alone.

He lit his cigarette lighter. Without taking his eyes off you, he slowly took a step forward. Passing through the crowd, he began walking toward the center of an unseen battle. Not just to take you back... But to never let anyone else have you again.

Just then, Anthony cracked a joke. He was talking about a woman sitting at Les Deux Magots in Paris, waiting for her lover—half fiction, half flirtatious narrative. And you unleashed that old inky tone in your voice, that elegant accent that used to appear only in private.

"Vous êtes toujours aussi théâtral, monsieur Brousseau." ("You are always so theatrical, Mr. Brousseau.")

The feeling rising inside you... You belonged to this world. Not to poverty, dirty-walled, single-room apartments, cracked mirror glass, but to a world where three languages were spoken, where art history was discussed, where cognacs were drunk under the shadows of Van Gogh paintings, where even the voices of people were used like velvet.

But... as you walked toward your past, Thomas Shelby was watching you like a shadow. He was distant. On the edge of the crowd. But he was close enough to hear you breathe.

He was just watching. His eyes... his eyes never left yours for a second.

When Anthony leaned in, he said something over your shoulder. You turned your head slightly and smiled at him. That old French smile.

Thomas gritted his teeth.

And at that moment…

Polly Gray emerged from the dim back part of the room and stood beside him.

The black lace of her dress seemed to have swallowed all the light in the room. As she elegantly flicked her cigarette with a finger, her eyes met Thomas’s.

“Don’t explode now, Tommy,” she said, her voice calm but with a dark river flowing beneath it, “That woman’s past… is a place different from your hell. Don’t forget, you’re her escape. Not her captivity.”

Thomas didn’t respond. He couldn’t. Because he couldn’t find his voice. Because the anger inside him was starting to become an uncontrollable emotion.

The moment he saw you, shining so brightly, so at ease, so belonging in another man’s world, it echoed in Thomas Shelby’s mind as a threat, a loss, a defeat.

He slowly turned his head and looked at Polly. His voice didn’t come, but his eyes said:

“You know me, Pol. This... won’t pass.”

Polly, deep down, feared for him. Because that look had been directed at only one person before. Once, it had been aimed at the enemies who had stabbed him in the back.

But now… In that look, there was you. Not to protect you… but for that primal, dark urge to claim you.

Thomas turned his eyes back to you. And gently took a step forward. Slowly, but purposefully. Like the first step of a man entering war.

Because you... You had crossed his boundaries. And Thomas Shelby didn’t just fight one person when his boundaries were crossed.

He burned a world.

The interior of the salon was now beating with the pulse of the music. The stringed instruments had given way to the slow rhythm of a waltz, and as the women’s silk dresses brushed against the floor’s gleaming reflections, they began to undulate like ghosts under the soft glow of the candlelight. Everyone had slowed down. Conversations had faded, and laughter had been swallowed by the rhythm of the music. Dance... had become the language of the night. And you, for a moment, had remembered that language again.

Anthony Brousseau turned to you after placing his crystal glass on the table. His eyes held the polite seriousness, his lips the gentle challenge he so often offered the intellectual women of the world.

“Puis-je vous inviter à danser, mademoiselle?” (May I ask you to dance, miss?)

You paused for a moment. Your eyes drifted to the couples twirling on the dance floor. The light played with the shadows reflected on the ground, everyone moving like figures in a dream.

Thomas Shelby, however, stood there like a shadow, waiting.

But then your lips moved.

“Just one dance…”

You said it as if trying to convince your own heart… but your voice was soft. It was accepting. And you placed your hand in his.

When your fingertips met, you felt the woman you once were, the one who had known the French salons, the one who stood tall and proud, who had learned grace from her mother—take a step forward and be reborn.

As you stepped onto the floor, Brousseau carefully placed his arm around your waist. His hand on your shoulder was heavy, but meticulous. As your shoes silently slid against the floor, the hand near your chest curled into his palm, dancing in rhythm with the music. Step by step, you were pulled deeper into the melody.

You were a woman again. But this time, not in Thomas's eyes, but in someone else's.

In that moment, as you leaned closer to Brousseau’s chest, he brought his lips near your ear. When his breath brushed against your skin, your shoulder trembled slightly.

And he whispered:

“You… should have been in Paris. A woman like you… doesn’t belong here. A man like Shelby… what could he understand of your soul?”

His words were like a splinter lodged in your soul. It wasn’t just a compliment.

It was a judgment. And in that moment, you said nothing. You didn't lean in to answer. But your gaze... your gaze met Thomas Shelby's. He stood across the room, hunched in his jacket, statue-like, but his eyes were fixed on you. He was watching you, following you, as if trying to consume every fiber of your being.

In those eyes… there was no anger. There was something beyond anger.

A crack appeared on the glass in Thomas's right hand. His fingers pressed so hard against the rim that it nearly shattered before he released it just in time.

His eyes scanned Brousseau from top to bottom.

The dress you wore… he had chosen it. The necklace around your neck… he had placed it there. Your arrival here… had been his plan.

He swallowed. But what passed through his throat was not breath. It was something like rusted metal. He wasn’t angry at himself. Nor at you. But he was angry at the world... for being so shameless as to take what belonged to him... that was what infuriated him.

Thomas Shelby’s inner voice grew louder:

“She’s my woman. She’s mine. I made her bloom in my hands. She learned to smile with my eyes. And now…” For a moment, his eyes narrowed. “… now, she smiles in someone else’s hands.”

That feeling of loss... only made Thomas hold on to you tighter. Because a man who feels he is about to lose something doesn’t just love it; he becomes obsessed with it.

For just a moment, your gaze...

Even as you danced with that man,

When you slowly turned and looked at him… just for a moment. But for Thomas, that moment was enough to last a lifetime. "You turned to me," he thought.

"You still turned to me."

But now, that gaze was no longer a gift. It was a summons. Thomas Shelby had decided in that instant.

Brousseau noticed him as he approached you.

Their eyes locked. Thomas tilted his head slightly and smiled. But that smile… it was the kind of smile that should be feared.

As Thomas stood right before you, for a moment, you locked eyes with him. He said nothing. But in his gaze… there was so much pressure, so much claim, so much shadow, that it felt like he could empty the entire salon with a single sentence.

“Monsieur,” he said slowly, with the sharpness of his British accent, “...I’m glad to have heard your name. I occasionally read your writings. Although I think you use words to adorn men, I do wonder how a man like you ended up in Birmingham.”

Brousseau’s hand loosened from your waist. But Thomas didn’t even look at you. Not at you. But through you.

Brousseau smiled, bowing his head with that familiar French politeness.

“Thank you for your kindness, Monsieur Shelby. I was invited to Birmingham through the literature council, after my contacts in London. I was asked to stay here for a few nights. What makes this night unforgettable, however, is... my meeting this elegant lady,” he said, gently squeezing your hand to finish his sentence. Then he turned to Thomas, “For a man like you to appreciate her… that’s truly impressive.”

Thomas’s jaw clenched slightly. His eyes never left you. But when he spoke, his words carried a threat that penetrated beyond the surface.

“It’s not enough to appreciate her,” he said slowly, “To understand what she is, a man must have gone through hell first. Some women carry not just poetry, but war upon them. You may hide behind words, but I’ve seen the fire burning in every layer of her.”

Brousseau’s face tensed, but he tried to remain composed.

“You described war beautifully,” he said in a calm tone, “But some women have no battlefield of their own; they simply get lost within that war. Perhaps… you’re trying to make her like you.”

That sentence, for Thomas, was like a spark that pierced his gaze. A darkness flickered in his eyes, one that not even a smile could shake. He shoved his hands into his pockets, but this wasn’t for comfort, it was a resistance to the urge to use his hands.

“Men like you usually love from afar. Like literature, without touching, without taking risks, without getting dirty. But I’m in the dirt. I saw her there. And I was the one who pulled her out. You praise her intellectual side, I even sanctify the nightmare inside her. Because I know her. What you admire, I’ve lived it.”

Brousseau wanted to say something, but he fell silent. Because Thomas Shelby’s voice…

Was too dangerous to silence.

You felt caught in the middle of their verbal exchange. But this war wasn't about you anymore; it had become an assertion of dominance over you. The measured anger in Thomas's voice wasn't directed at you; it was aimed at destroying the man. And you no longer felt safe under that gaze. You felt marked.

“Enough,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but shaky. You reached out and gently touched Thomas’s arm.

“We… need some air, Thomas. Please.”

And without asking for anyone’s permission, without any explanation, you took his arm and led him away from the dance floor. Thomas showed no resistance. But his steps were firm. His jaw still tense. His eyes, once again, turned back to the man he had left behind, just like a soldier in the battlefield who turns away from his enemy, but will soon return to kill.

As you walked beside him, thinking you were no one’s possession, Thomas… had already declared you as his.

By the time you reached the corridor, the air was cooler, the candlelight dimmer, and the walls quieter. But his gaze… still a storm.

As you leaned against the wall at the side of the hallway, you felt the need to speak. The pain and anger inside you hadn't replaced the love, but had accumulated on top of it. When your eyes met Thomas's, you asked in a quiet, yet determined tone:

“Why did you act like that back there, Thomas? Why were you so hostile to Brousseau? He was important to me. Professionally... maybe it was a connection I had dreamed about for years. How could you throw it away so easily?”

Your voice didn’t tremble. Neither anger nor a weak plea for an apology could be heard in it.

Thomas stared at you for a moment. His pupils seemed to be hiding a storm, growing slowly. Then he spoke.

“Because the way he looked at you, Y/N, I saw he wasn’t interested in your words, but in your skin. Because he didn’t see you as a fan, but as a victory. And because... because when you danced with him, he thought you’d forgotten what Thomas Shelby had.”

The anger that seeped between the words wasn’t suppressed; it was the kind of anger trying to be suppressed.

As he stepped closer to you, his shadow grew on the wall.

“I gave you a necklace, Y/N. I gave you an invitation. That dress, you wearing that dress was armor. And I chose that armor because your beauty, your grace, had to be pulled out from where it had been buried for years. And now... now that I saw you twirl with that grace in someone else’s hands... nothing inside me stayed silent.”

You took a step back. But not to escape. To defend yourself.

Your eyes stared at him, defiant.

“Not because of you, Thomas. I wore it for myself. I don’t want to remember my beauty with your approval. And this possessiveness... this look... I ran away from men like that years ago. Do you remember? The reason I dressed like a man, spoke like a man, lived like a man? It was so that no man would see me as an object belonging to him.”

Thomas sighed. But it was a sigh so deep, it seemed to change the air in the corridor. He turned to you.

Slowly, he took his hands out of his pockets. He stepped closer. He looked into your eyes.

“I don’t see you as an object. But I saw how you shined, Y/N. And I can’t bear to see others watch you in that light. Because that light, I carved it out of you. I brought it to life. When you hid behind your masculinity, only one man understood you. And that man was me. And now... when you turn your back on me, and smile at another man’s words... I felt like I was losing my mind. I want you, yes. But not just your body. Your soul too. Everything under that mask. Every shadow. Every storm. I know who you are. And I can’t share you with anyone.”

“You,” you said, taking a step closer, “...weren’t thinking about any of this when you were flirting with another woman in the ballroom. You laughed at him in front of me. You let him touch you. You listened to him, didn’t even look at me. And now...you can’t blame me, Thomas Shelby. What exactly do you want from me? You can’t have me when I don’t belong to you.”

Your words burned through the corridor. But he only remained silent. His eyes were fixed on you. He took a deep breath. An expression appeared on his face. Something dangerous. His pupils dilated. But his voice lowered.

“That woman… she was just business. A political connection, an investment, a face to show. Did you even look at me, Y/N? Did you really look? Did you see me push her away when I realized your intentions? Or were you busy dancing with someone else in the hall?”

He took a step toward you. Slow, careful. Like a man about to step on a mine. His eyes were on you. His voice was now quieter.

“I didn’t look at another woman tonight. My eyes... were only on you. The entire night. From the moment you walked into the salon. From the first moment you walked in that dress. Not on anyone else… not even on anything else. And this, it wasn’t within my control. Because as you walked, everything I had tried to suppress inside me... stood up.”

There was silence for a moment, your heart racing. But he didn't touch you. Not yet. He just watched you. As if he were seeing the real you for the first time. And this time, Thomas Shelby didn't need to be strong.

Thomas Shelby was looking at you as if his eyes were tracing a map of his heart. And his hands... he hadn't touched you yet, but his fingertips were twitching. It was as if the memory of your skin was etched into his fingers, as if, for a moment, his hands would move on their own.

But he still remained silent. Because no matter what he did, the things passing through him could not be put into words. And then, he got so close to you that his breath brushed against your skin.

Your throat, beneath your chin, the side of your cheek.

Without touching you, he enveloped you.

It was as if he were holding you with his presence rather than his hands.

And something like a whisper lingered at the corner of his lips:

“The reason I want to touch you isn’t desire. I want to... feel you. To know that you’re here, that you still belong to me.”

One of his hands slowly rose.

And finally, it gently but decisively settled beneath your chin.

His thumb lightly touched the edge of your cheek. It didn’t burn your skin. But there was a shiver. Like the first drop of a storm that had been building.

“I’m not yours, Thomas,” you said, breathless, yet still strong in your voice.

“I belong to no one. Only to myself.”

Thomas paused for a moment. His eyes met yours. Then he slowly lowered his head. His forehead touched yours. It wasn't a kiss. But it was more than that. The line where two storms collided.

“Then,” he whispered, “I will fight for you to be yourself. But even while you belong to yourself... I know you’ve made a place for me in the corner of your heart. Because I’m there, Y/N. Whether you accept it or not.”

His hands slowly slid down to your shoulders.

His thumbs rested where the seam of your dress met your skin, where his touch was closest to yours.

He was on the edge.

“Let me,” he said, eyes still locked with yours, “Let me just watch you. I don’t need to hold your hand. Just let me know that you’re here, that you haven’t gone.”

And then…

He kissed your cheek, not just a kiss, but a confession. His lips against your skin were more touching than an "I love you" because there was apology, adoration, obsession, and surrender in that kiss.

The silence in the corridor was now like armor. The outside world—the words, the music, the laughter fragments—none of it could seep into this void. Because this space now belonged to you. To you and Thomas Shelby.

You had locked eyes, but this time, not to speak.

To look.

To feel.

And his gaze… wasn’t just watching you anymore, it was memorizing you.

“If you had given me a chance to forget you,” Thomas whispered, his voice like a spell belonging to the night, “do you think I could have?”

The back of his hand touched your cheek. And his thumb, close to the corner of your lips, didn’t touch, it waited. Not to cross the line, but to live on the line.

He slid his hand from your cheek to your hair.

His fingers tangled in the back of your neck as he slowly turned your face toward him.

And your eyes locked with his.

This wasn’t a man looking at a woman. It was a man watching a goddess in his own hell. Too sacred to approach, but too damned to live without.

“If wanting to touch your skin is a crime... I’ve already committed that crime within me. I carry you in my mind every night, I carry you in me every morning when I wake. But touching you... burning you is not what I want, knowing you is.”

In his touch, you felt not pressure but confession. And that didn’t scare you. Because those touches carried acceptance, not fear.

“I don’t want to possess you,” he said suddenly, his voice rough, “but when I see you with someone else... nothing inside me obeys me. I could go to war with anyone who even looks at you, not even with everything, just with a single moment of eye contact. This... this isn’t healthy, I know. But you didn’t take my mind, Y/N, you tore me out from within me. And now I... I’m no longer something that can resist your absence.”

He pulled you closer for a moment. His arms wrapped around your waist, but they weren't tight..

Just there, around you.

If you left, he’d fall. But if you stayed… You would be face to face with Thomas Shelby in his most vulnerable state.

You gently placed your hands on the front of his shirt, not to push him away, just to guide him. Your fingers traced the roughness of the buttons, but you had no intention of undoing them; it was a touch that reminded him that you still held the power. Your eyes were locked on his. Without speaking, without parting your lips, simply staring, you said, "I'm tired of fighting too." Then you took his arm and started walking toward a side door that opened into the silence of the back hall.

Thomas didn’t ask anything. He didn’t protest.

The echoes of your steps against the stone floor were like the seal of your decision.

For the first time, he gave control to you.

You entered a vacant, dark room.

With its wooden parquet floor, high ceiling, and forgotten heavy curtains in the corner, it was a noble but abandoned place.

When he closed the door behind you, the air inside grew even denser.

And right at that moment...

You turned.

Without speaking, you took a step toward him.

And Thomas Shelby, who had never given anything to any woman for years, gave you something: Patience.

He waited for your decision.

He waited to feel your desire.

And at that moment, you became a figure who had reclaimed her own feminine power, surpassing his masculine strength.

You weren’t masculine, nor were you naively feminine.

You… were yourself.

Your hands slowly reached for his face.

You held his chin. Despite its strong, rugged lines, it softened in that moment. Then, you tilted his head slightly and directed your lips toward his. But it wasn’t a kiss; not one rushed or born of passion.

It was like an admission, deep, accumulated, suppressed to a point, but now unstoppable.

When your lips touched his, Thomas Shelby’s entire body trembled. His hands suddenly wrapped around your waist, but he still didn’t press.

He felt you. Not just your lips, your breath, the curve of your neck, the warmth of your skin... And as you deepened the kiss, you brought to the surface every emotion you had suppressed in the past.

For a moment, Thomas pulled his head back. But only to take a breath. His eyes met yours, his forehead rested against yours.

And then, he kissed you again. This time, more forcefully, more deeply. His hands wrapped around your back, then into your hair. It was as if he was holding on as if the earth would take him back if he let go of you.

And you…

Despite all your dominant qualities, you found a sense of security in his arms. But it wasn't a weakness. It was... your choice. It wasn't his choice, it was being with him.

Your kiss was no longer carried by words, but by the rhythm of your bodies.

And you kissed him back, not fearing the darkness that burned him, but touching that darkness.

When Thomas Shelby’s hands pressed against your back, your body leaned into his. But this wasn’t surrender, it was a collision.

It was the silent explosion when two lonely souls met in familiar bodies.

And you didn’t want to put out the fire you had started, with your own initiative.

Your hands found his shirt. The muscles felt under the fabric were like a map of a man carrying the weight of years on his shoulders.

As your fingers moved, Thomas’ breath caught. With a hum rising from his chest, he whispered:

“My God, your touch… it’s a blessing cursed by hell.”

You went silent. Because words were no longer necessary.

You had started hearing him with your hands, reading him with your skin.

As you unbuttoned his shirt, Thomas remained still.

That strong, feared man… was trembling under your touch. And for the first time, you saw a man not afraid of you, but bowing down to you with respect.

This… drew you in even more.

When you left your dress in his hands, Thomas first just looked. He hesitated to bring his hands to your skin. But his eyes… his eyes oscillated between madness and yearning.

It was as if he didn’t want to touch your body, but your memories. And then, as if he were going to hurt you, he slowly touched you.

His fingertips slowly began to unzip, flowing from your spine to the line of your back. When he released the straps from your shoulders, the fabric met the floor.

“I,” he whispered, his lips brushing the back of your neck, “didn’t know I’d become this… addicted when I first saw you. But now… not even the name of another woman passes my lips. Because you… are the name of every desire in me.”

You said, gazing patiently into his eyes and in a low voice. “You’re sure you’re addicted, aren’t you? Well, then this is just the beginning of everything with you.” But as your words left your lips, your hands were busy sliding the fabric of his jacket off his shoulders.

As you watched his jacket fall to the floor, without a moment’s hesitation, you pressed your lips against his once more. This time, much harder, more dominant. Your tongue pushed through his lips, your teeth giving him no rest to his tounge. And your hands… Your fingers met his chest where the shirt was open. His body was burning. Perhaps it was jealousy, perhaps it was alcohol, perhaps it was lust. You didn’t care. You placed your hand on his chest, pressing it firmly, forcing him to head towards office desk. The reasonableness you’d cultivated for years had now awakened once more, eager to possess Thomas Shelby.

And this attitude excited Thomas Shelby. Although he didn't show this excitement, the permission he gave you was clear. Your dominance heightened his sexual appeal. The idea of being in the hands of a powerful woman, in particular, intensified his attraction to you. A masculine demeanor was part of your allure for him.

Your hands on his shoulders guided him as you continued kissing him. As you rounded the massive oak table and reached the chair, the back of Thomas's knee hit the edge of the chair. His body lost its balance and he fell into the chair. This was the moment he realized you were completely in control. It was a display of leadership, both physical and psychological.

When he sat down, you stood close to him, placing your hands lightly on both his shoulders to exert pressure.

You called out to him in a commanding tone. "Sit in the chair, don't move. Now, everything will be outside of you. All you have to do is wait and watch what I do to you."

Thomas thought how brave it was to even try. And he began to watch you, your every move... He accepted your game. He was giving you a chance to control him. He was letting you... He wanted to see what you would do.

Although he smiled slightly, it was so meaningful, it carried a coolness and pressure. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, indicating that you wouldn't be completely in control.

You knelt silently on the cold stone floor. Your eyes were fixed on Thomas Shelby's, every movement a product of strict discipline.

Your shoulders were back, your head held high, but your gaze remained fixed on his. Everything else faded into the background, only your presence in this position, firm and controlled, fully prepared for the next step.

You moved your hands to the fabric of his pants, first feeling his manhood from above. Thomas shifted in his chair at that moment. A slightly mocking smile and surprise graced his face. He knew every moment you had assumed the role of a man, but he had no idea which men you had touched before taking on this role, and how.

You began to undo the zipper, slowly... as if you controlled even time itself. And when the zipper was completely undone and your underwear was visible through the fabric, there was only one door left for what was to come. This time, you grabbed both fabrics and began to pull them down. Thomas, meanwhile, was helping you strip down to both his pants and underwear.

His erect penis was now right in front of you. You didn't start right away. You wanted to arouse him even more. You started kissing him everywhere except his penis: first his thighs, then his groin. You knew how exciting it was for a man to come to his groin. Then, without letting up, you reached the base. You kissed every inch of it, lustfully and hungrily. But what affected Thomas the most were his testicles. The ragged breath coming from his lips was a sign of increased anticipation, heightened by the sensitivity he felt there.

That breath was practically your starting point. You parted your lips and took his shaft between your lips. You began pumping it between your lips with your tongue. Your tongue continued to stimulate the tip of his penis with circular motions, then licked his shaft up and down like a lollipop. After repeating this with pleasure several times, you moved to the tip of his penis and gently flicked his frenulum. As your saliva spread over his veined, hardened cock, a sloppy sound escaped your mouth, making Thomas moan with fervor. You sucked the tip of his cock as if trying to release the drink inside him. It would give him an intense sensation, but it would never bring him to orgasm. It lasted a minute. And then, suddenly, you pushed his penis as far down your throat as it would go. This caused Thomas a strange sense of surprise. He closed his eyes, threw his head back, leaned his elbows on the arm of the chair, and remained motionless. A nasty "Ah" squeaked from his throat, echoing through his moans. "Did you learn that during your years in Paris?" he asked through his teeth. Instead of answering with words, you pushed his cock deeper into your throat. At the same time, one hand was playing with his balls.

Now, as you sucked, you simultaneously stimulated the areas you could reach with your tongue. You felt warmth on the roof of your mouth. Pre-cum was spreading into his mouth in colorless, slippery drops. The liquid, escaping from the corners of your lips, made a trembling sound as you pulled it towards his lips. Hearing it turned Thomas's moans into a din. He didn't care about the noises outside the door, or anyone who might hear them and enter the room. At that moment, it was just the two of you and your passion.

"Oh, that's it, Y/N. Tell me, is it better than those guys in Paris?"

You were in a trance as you sucked Thomas's cock. The taste, the warmth, the texture, the hardness were intoxicating. Annoyed by your lack of response, and frustrated by the lack of response, Thomas grabbed your hair and pulled his cock from your mouth. "Say it! Say it!"

A mixture of saliva and pre-cum dripped from the corners of your lips as you stared into Thomas's eyes like a mischievous demon. And no... This game was played by your rules. He replied breathlessly. “No, Tommy. Not yet,” you said, and stood up. As Thomas Shelby watched you curiously, you reached for your dress and unbuttoned the sash around your waist. And when you returned, Thomas Shelby knew you were going to take this power play to the next level.

The fabric was soft, but it held a claim. You walked in front of him, leaning forward. Not a word was spoken between you as your hands reached for his wrists. You linked Thomas's hands on the back of the chair. He looked into your eyes, a smile half mocking, half angry.

You carefully but resolutely wrapped the satin around his wrists. The air between you thickened with each moment the satin met his skin. His fingers trembled slightly when you knotted the sash, but it wasn't a tremor born of fear, but of impatient desire.

Then you straightened up again, and this time it was your underwear's turn. Your curvaceous figure had already excited him. Now you removed your bra. Your breasts weren't large, but they were full. Your areolas were defined. Thomas's breath quickened as you removed the fabric completely and set it aside; it was the first night he'd seen you naked, and it was an expression not only of desire but also of power. While the goddess Venus was strengthened within you, the Mars within him seemed to rise.

When you parted your legs and sat on his groin, taking Thomas's penis completely inside you hurt at first. You lifted your body a little more and began inserting the tip halfway in and out. Your moans mingled with each other. You gripped Thomas's shoulders for leverage, your breasts swaying as he continued his thrusts. His breathing muffled his own. "Go all the way in, Y/N," he said, "come on, you can take more." The heat rising beneath you was like the tension in a racehorse's muscles. His body was hard, determined, and ready to be controlled. As you felt Thomas move beneath you, he pressed against your womanhood; you tasted the curves of his cock, from your clit to the entrance of your vagina. This hardness was what caused your eyes to close in pleasure and the ragged breaths that escaped between your parted lips.

A shameless will, a writhing of suppressed desire, a rebirth of Mars and Venus.

His kisses trailed down your chest as he bent his bare breasts toward him. He expertly caressed and sucked your areola with his tongue. His touches seemed to merge with your lustful intent; as your fingers roamed Thomas's groin, each contact ignited a deep desire within him.

Thomas clenched his teeth. His eyebrows furrowed, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Fuck, Y/N," he hissed in a low growl. "You tied me up like this, but I guess you forgot... a hunter who lets his prey in is the most dangerous."

As you adjusted to his thickness, you took more of his cock inside you, and Thomas moaned more deeply. Through your teeth, with or without your lips pressed together.

Losing yourself in the abyss of pleasure, you began to move your waist more circularly. This way, Thomas's iron-hard cock would press against your vagina, stimulating your G-spot.

Your breath, your skin, and your sweat mingled. The room became an arena where not only bodies but also forces clashed.

As you moved inside him, the walls of Art Hall's office filled with your passionate moans. The warm breeze from the window caressed your burning skin, the rhythm of your body synchronized with Thomas's breathing. "You're not going to dare make me beg for me to come, are you, Y/N?" Thomas asked breathlessly, his voice filled with both surrender and arrogance.

Your movements became erratic. You were on the verge of climaxing with pleasure, and he didn't seem to care what he said. Your body felt like it was about to give way. You moaned, almost shouting, "Oh, yes... Thomas. I want you to bathe me in your cum." Your nails, resting on his shoulder, dug into his flesh, burning hot.

Your vagina completely enclosed Thomas's thick cock. The gnarled surface of your walls seemed to caress his shaft with each thrust. The sloppy sound Thomas made each time you thrust his cock into you was proof of how wet and aroused you were. Your ears buzzed, your temples throbbing as your G-spot was stimulated.

Finally, as you reached your climax, all the emotions inside you exploded. Feeling Thomas's body tremble with yours was both pleasurable and satisfying. As you continued to kiss him, you took him inside you one last time.

"Y/N," Thomas moaned, breathless. His voice held both pleasure and a growl. "Look into my eyes and I want you to cum, please!"

Please... It was the right word. He had set you off. Your legs suddenly shook. You tensed your hips. The moment he pulled Thomas's cock out of you, you came together. Your spurt washed over his shaft. Then you collapsed on top of him, now much softer, much more passionate. Your muscles relaxed. Your ears buzzed, your vision blurred. Your pelvic muscles were relaxed, your uterus relaxed.

Location: Y/N’s office

Time: 6 months later

The gray light falling through the office window looked like a wilted rose at the edge of your desk; papers were scattered, ink stains no longer neat but left a helpless impression, and the typewriter keys no longer hit with the same furious tempo, they were tired, hesitant, like notes pressed without knowing what to write.

The ticking of the clock echoed through the room, every second cutting through the silence like a kind of judgment.

When you used to start writing, the world around you would fall silent; now, when you fall silent, the world speaks. And you heard the steps of that speaking world.

The door opened.

A familiar click: the sound of a cane.

A step hitting the floor confidently but sending a tremor through your heart: Mr. Wilford.

When he entered, you didn’t lift your eyes. Because you could roughly predict the expression you would see on his face: disappointment mixed with patience, a cry suppressed inside, anger hanging on the edge of his mouth, ready to fall.

And he came. He stopped in front of the desk. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. And he remained silent. Just silent. That silence told you more than any of your old writings.

Then he spoke. His voice first deep, then cold.

It felt like you were testifying at a trial: "How many hours have you been working on that article, Y/N?" His voice was dry, blunt, and direct. "Three? Five?"

When you looked up, there was a confrontation in his eyes.

Not just with words, with your past. When your eyes met, you fell silent. Because you saw that the emptiness inside you had already been noticed by him.

"The writing’s not coming out." Your words were weak. You hadn’t even convinced yourself.

He took a few steps around the room. Slowly, tapping his cane on the ground. His gaze shifted to the notes on the desk. Then, he turned back to you.

"No," he said. "The writing’s not coming out because you’re not writing. You don’t want to write anymore. Or maybe you have nothing left to write."

He paused for a moment. Then he tilted his head. He added: "Y/N. The only thing that’s forcing me to sit here with you is the glory of your past. But that glory... is nothing more than a shadow of a statue now."

At that moment, you wanted to say something. But in the first sentence, a lump caught in your throat.

Your fingers unknowingly scribbled over your notes. Trying to give meaning to an unfinished sentence...

"I read the workers' strike analysis you wrote last week," he said. "If I hadn’t read your previous articles, I wouldn’t believe that you wrote that. Soften sentences, censored headlines, paragraphs that don’t go anywhere like a knife... And worst of all, the lack of anger at the end of the sentence. The sharpest part of your writing was always the last line. Now, in that line, there’s only a period. No quotation marks, no emphasis, no scream."

You took a deep breath, "I’m not censoring. I’m just approaching issues from a different perspective," you said. But even your own voice couldn’t convince you.

Wilford tilted his head mockingly. His eyes had a subtle anger, but more than that, there was grief.

"That’s the problem," he said. "A different perspective... Where is that place? The seat next to Thomas Shelby? Did you learn to be silent with him in his corner while he smoked his cigarette? Now, you have no rebellion, no ideals. Your writings no longer have blood; they only have lipstick marks. You’re no longer a voice. You... became an echo."

This time your voice rose. But it trembled.

"I didn’t change for Thomas. This was my choice. I don’t just live by fighting anymore. I can write about love. I can write about feelings. Not every piece has to be about anger."

But Wilford didn’t back off. He took another step closer. "I know. That’s the real issue. What you used to write was like a front. People would carry your words like a shield. Now, that shield is hiding in the shadow of a man. Love... it’s a beautiful thing. But for someone like you, Y/N, it’s dangerous. You don’t grow love — love diminishes you. And that diminishing isn’t called romance. It... is denial."

Your heart turned to ice. Because suddenly, the echo of your past hit you: turning into a male identity to take shelter, using words as weapons while running from the world, owning your loneliness like an idea. And now\...

All of those things were shattering inside that office.

Wilford slammed his hand on the desk. He pulled your notes. He picked up a few drafts of your papers and just looked at them. Then he whispered:" This isn’t you. These writings aren’t yours. This... is the writing of his woman. Not Y/N’s."

Silence followed. You didn’t say anything. Because for the first time, you couldn’t find a word to defend yourself. It was as if the words had abandoned you. And you, were made of nothing but words.

In the bedroom, time felt heavy, almost like gravity.

Outside, the wind gently hit the window sill, while the air inside was filled with the body warmth that had seeped into the pale sheets; neither hot nor cold, only... neutral, only intense.

The white sheets, feeling the warmth of your skin with every breath, wrapped your body like a Venus statue, bringing a divine grace to the earth. Your body was like a sculpture where desire and innocence were delicately blended; despite your nakedness, your body was hidden by the sheets, but even in this mysterious cover, a trace of beauty remained. Like a piece fallen from Thomas's chest.

His arm was now on your shoulder — not a weight like muscle, firm and possessive, but extending toward you with the calm of a quiet possession.

Your back was turned to him, but your skin was still pressed against his.

He was holding a cigarette in his left hand.

The smoke twisted toward the dim yellow lamp beside the bed, scattering, creating a space where even time seemed to retreat.

And you...

You were holding a whiskey glass in your right hand, but you weren’t sipping it, you were pretending to drink.

In fact, there was another poison inside: your own lines.

The note papers at the edge of the bed were folded, crumpled, some crossed out, others with torn edges.

You were scanning the lines as if reading the words of a woman you had written but didn’t recognize.

Because now, the tone of those sentences didn’t feel like yours.

Your sentences used to be filled with gunpowder, but now there was only silence...

And it wasn’t just you who noticed this change; others had started noticing it too.

The words you heard in Wilford’s room two days ago still echoed in your ears:

"These writings aren’t yours. This... is his woman’s writing."

Thomas brought the cigarette to his lips and took a quick drag, then leaned his head slightly toward you. He rested his chin against your hairline, and his fingers slid down your body to your waist.

There was patience, a surrender in that touch. But the waves in your mind weren’t allowing that peace.

"Did you try to write today?" His voice was deep, but soft. Interestingly, even in that depth, there was a hint of concern.

You swallowed his words in one gulp. Then, you looked toward the window. Your eyes caught your silhouette reflected in the glass. Did you recognize yourself? Naked between the sheets, in the arms of a man, a woman carrying a woman's face.

And the anger in your writings... it was no longer directed at you.

"I wrote," you said. Your voice flowed heavy, like liquor. "I wrote something. But I stopped at the third paragraph. Because I lied."

For a moment, Thomas's fingers stopped moving on your waist.

Then, slowly, he continued; but in the small movement of pressing the cigarette into the ashtray, something cracked within him.

"Lie?" he repeated.

His voice was like a low hum.

He was trying not to react, but there was a tremor in that hum.

"Before, when I wrote about something, something burned inside me," you said.

You turned your head slightly toward the pillow, but you didn’t look at him, you spoke while still staring at the opposite wall.

"Because women were dying, because workers were being oppressed, because aristocrats were treating the people like fools... Someone inside me would shout. Now... now I just take notes. Not ideas. Not feelings. Notes."

Thomas raised his head. He slowly propped himself up, pulling the sheets up to his waist.

He was sitting now. He looked at you. But not with his eyes, like a warrior looking at a face, not judging but not giving up either.

"Wilford went too far," he said. His voice was like a dark reassurance. "He hurt you."

"No," you said. You turned sharply toward him this time. Your eyes were fixed and direct for the first time.

"He didn’t hurt me. Because he was right. I’ve changed. I don’t even know whose side I’m on anymore when I do this work. I’m only... on your side now. And that... that’s a dangerous thing."

Thomas paused for a moment. He only watched you. He extended his arm, slipping under it to pull you closer.

When he pressed you against his chest, your skin wasn’t on his chest, it was like a bird fluttering in his heart.

"I don’t love you to silence you, Y/N," he said. "I fell in love with your voice. Not you, but your sentences that pierced through the world. And I thought the more I loved you, the louder that voice would get. But now you... you’re silencing yourself. Not me."

His words were heavy but soft. Not an attempt to convince, but a plea.

Like a man who was afraid of losing a woman for the first time.

"I’m not silencing myself, Thomas," you said. "I... I’m afraid of love changing me.

Because in this world, a woman’s change always happens because of men. And I swore I would never do that."

Thomas remained silent for a while.

He only held you. Just like that, tightly enough not to let you go, but gently enough not to force you...

Then he closed his eyes.

"If I changed you... it wasn’t love that did it, it was fear," he said. "Fear... of losing you, of leaving you alone in this damn life."

You blinked. Your eyes became misty, but you didn’t cry. Because you were still strong. But at the same time, still wounded. And maybe for the first time... the two could exist together.

The sheets on the bed were now crumpled like a peace flag between their two bodies; as their warmth mingled, words gave way to gazes, and gazes gave way to a kind of fluttering in stillness.

As the weight of Thomas's hand fell on your waist, you felt his breath no longer on your neck, but inside your thoughts, so close, so deep, that you no longer heard your own heart, but the touch of his heart against yours.

And that contact... it echoed louder than the words left unwritten, the words left unspoken.

That voice was the echo of a woman still searching for who she was within herself, yet a man could say, "I'm here, but I loved you just the way you are."

Thomas slowly turned your body; his hands were gentle as he turned you toward him, but his thrust was firm, for it wasn't a possession, but a call "I'm here. Don't run," as if to say, "Don't think anymore."

He looked into your eyes; Behind those gray-blue irises, there was still a fragility, but also a challenge. Because you were both hurt and strong, and he craved that contradiction more than ever.

He didn't verbalize it as he touched you. But the way his hand slowly slid from your cheek, reaching under your jaw and down to the line of your shoulder, was like a wish, the silent wish of a man touching a woman so she could pass through him and reach him. And you approached him as if you had finally decided to give him an answer you'd been holding for a long time.

Not with hesitation; still hurt, still doubtful, but this time… knowing.

Because every touch wasn't a surrender anymore, but a choice.

When you leaned your face against his neck, you felt the salty warmth of his skin against your lips, and that taste was too real to be written down.

Held by his hands, Thomas pulled away from you and moved downward. From his stomach to his groin, to his womanhood. His breath fanned against your outer lips.

And then, in that bed where you'd shaken to an orgasm half an hour ago, he was now going to give you a second taste of pleasure… But this time, his aim was to completely relax you. He wanted only your pleasure.

Thomas's lips slowly reached your outer lips; the velvety warmth of its texture welcomed him. He dipped his thumb and index finger into your slit, stretching it tightly at the edges so he could easily insert his tongue, and he saw your clitoris waiting, ready, against your inner lips. The capillaries within were dilated, its color a richer, more inviting pink than its outer surface. It was pulsating, moist… And this moisture was the very essence of that sweet essence hidden within.

He parted his lips slightly and closed them over you, letting his tongue brush over them. This wasn't a hungry kiss. It was one of those slow, scorching encounters where time freezes, where a thousand words fit into a night.

You gasped at the first contact. The muscles in your hips contracted. With the first lick, his tongue gently touched the slick inner lips of your womanhood, then slowly slid upward. When he stopped at your clit, he began licking, tracing the letter "O." He first licked as if drawing a pattern, then, sensing you were accustomed to the motion, he moved his tongue up and down, like licking ice cream. The bitter cinnamon aroma of your vagina met your wetness and spread like a thin wave of warmth across his palate. It wasn't too sweet, nor too spicy; just right, just right. He closed his eyes for a moment. In that moment, everything went silent: even time.

At the second contact, the sheets shifted. Unexpectedly, he increased his pace, his tongue thrusting more forcefully now.

One hand reached for the headboard and gripped the black iron tightly. The pleasure you were experiencing sent arousal throughout your entire body, and you drew strength from the headboard to keep from passing out. Because when he slid his tongue into your vagina, without removing it from your vulva, a shockwave swept through your entire body. Pre-ejaculate began to flow in clear drops from the corners of your inner lips.

The third time... the newspaper nonsense that had been etched in your mind was completely erased, leaving only the tremors of pleasure in your body. Now, as his tongue moved between your clitoris and the entrance to your urethra, he intertwined his index and middle fingers and pushed them inside your vagina. He gently curled them, feeling your inner walls first, and your eyes moved upwards. Now the whites of your eyes were more visible. Then he found your "G" spot. A loud, uncontrollable moan escaped your lips. You were on the verge. When Thomas realized this, he increased his pace. You gripped the headboard tighter. Your knuckles turned white. Your thighs shook, your breath coming in short gasps.

Finally, you couldn't hold on any longer. This time, your orgasm was more intense than the last. You shook so hard, your legs shaking so much that the bed shook in sync with you. You squirted against Thomas Shelby's lips. You bathed his face in your pleasure. When he stopped, you too were exhausted. You stared blankly at the ceiling. Your ears were buzzing once more. Your breathing had gradually steadied.

The moment you came to, you realized, perhaps no piece of writing, no idea, no word could ever resonate as powerfully as the echo it felt when it touched someone's skin. But at the same time, if you let that echo become a silencer... your own voice would disappear.

Thomas lifted his head. He lifted himself slightly, drawing strength from his arms, and looked into your eyes. He murmured, so soft only you could hear, from the corners of his lips: “After tonight, the words you lost... you will find them again. I promise, Y/N, I will help you find yourself again. But now, relax a little.”

You closed your eyes. You didn’t cry. But you felt the quietest victory of that battle within you. Being with someone... wasn’t about stopping writing. Being with someone... was just about your voice echoing. And then, Thomas crawled over to you and sat next to you again. He kissed you on the lips, your juices still on his lips.

Then you leaned back against his chest. The sheets covered you again. Time stood still. The words rested. But the woman inside you prepared to write again.

Days had begun to blur into one another; mornings spent staring out the office window at Birmingham’s grey sky, afternoons trying not to let your coffee grow cold, and evenings seated at your typewriter, writing a single sentence over and over again, only to erase it, rewrite it, and erase it once more...

Time was no longer measured in hours for you, it was measured in words. How many sentences could you form? How many of them felt truly yours?mHow many brought you back to yourself, and how many only reminded you of Thomas? And the strangest part was this: when Thomas Shelby wasn’t around, your pen felt sharper.

Your fingers struck the keys with more certainty. The loneliness that bloomed in the absence of his presence was sharpening you again.

You wrote a piece "The Women Beneath the Ground" about the deaths of female miners; and the day it was published, Wilford didn’t call you into his office. He didn’t have to anymore. You had come back. But that’s exactly when things started to unravel. Because when Thomas Shelby wasn’t there, you were strong—but you were also alone.

When Thomas Shelby was there, you were whole, but you were quiet. And that contradiction struck you like a harsh truth one morning, when you turned over in bed and saw only an empty pillow beside you:

Maybe it wasn’t possible to be both who you loved, and who you were. Thomas had become buried in work. The Peaky Blinders world was boiling over, and while he wasn’t avoiding you, he also couldn’t find the time to return.

One evening, you met for a brief three-minute exchange at The Garrison; he lit a cigarette, kissed your forehead and said, “I’m back in the morning.” But that same night, you wrote a scathing piece on how post-war society was slowly forcing women back into silence.

Your eyes watered, but your fingers didn’t tremble. And in that moment, you realized: Your inspiration came from his absence.

That darkness… it slipped into your bones from the void Thomas left behind. But that void was also the only place your words seemed to echo. And when morning came, you laid his shirt on one side of the bed, and your latest column on the other. You stared at both. One reminded you of him. The other… of yourself. Slowly, you stood up. You picked up the page that had slipped from the sheet and read a line aloud:

“A woman either belongs or she becomes a rebellion no one can own.”

You closed your eyes. Brought his smoke-scented shirt close to your face. It still smelled like him. And that scent reminded you of the peace he gave you in bed, and the silence he created in you at your desk.

For the first time, that morning, you truly understood. This wasn’t a choice between love and writing. It was a crossroad between losing yourself inside someone, or finding yourself again.

And you...

You could either be a man’s woman. Or the voice of a people.

Which was more sacred, which was more real... you didn’t know. But one thing was certain: Neither life could fully carry you. And if you didn’t let go of one…

You were going to lose both.

Thomas Shelby didn’t say a word for the rest of the day. And truthfully, he didn’t need to, he was always better understood in silence.mBut this time, the silence wasn’t his usual Shelby quiet. It was something else. Something more dangerous, deeper, something impossible to swallow. Because you had been gone for three days.

No phone calls were answered. No messages returned. And Thomas Shelby feared when a woman chose to go silent. Because that silence was the echo that followed a decision. And while Thomas liked making decisions, he could never stand being subjected to someone else’s.

At first, he told himself you were just “busy.” Then he tried to convince himself with a few small excuses, believing you had simply gotten caught up with things. But even in the crowded hum of The Garrison’s bar, he began to hear the absence of you. And that absence was no longer a whisper in his mind, it had grown into a near scream.

The first time he thought you might be leaving, he lit his cigarette the wrong way round. The second time, he yelled at John for no reason at all. And the third time, when he met Polly’s gaze, he knew she already knew something. Polly didn’t say a word. But her eyes did: “Sometimes, leaving is a woman’s greatest triumph.”

That sentence was what finally snapped the thread. That night, he left his whiskey unfinished at The Garrison. It was the dead of night. His hands were in his coat pockets as he walked, but everything running through him was too much to be held in two fists.

Your shabby little house… small, suffocating, single-roomed, poor. But Thomas Shelby had never felt as much at home anywhere else. So what led him there wasn’t pride. It was longing. Fear. And this time, the real possibility of having already lost you.

When he reached the corner of your street, the first thing he noticed was the light wasn’t on. He lit a cigarette. Stood at the door for a few seconds. Maybe it was just a few seconds, but to Thomas Shelby… that pause lasted a lifetime. For the first time, he believed a man could feelbwhether he was still loved or not, just by standing behind a door. Then he reached for the doorknob. He had no key.nBut he had his hands. And those hands had broken many doors before, had flung wide open many dark nights.

He didn’t force it, didn’t push hard… He just pressed the door with the tip of his fingers. It opened. And in that moment, he knew.

You were gone.

There were no shoes. No open books. And everything that once made that house livable… was gone. Even the air seemed to have been emptied of you. And this had never happened to Thomas Shelby before: A woman had left.

And he hadn’t known. He stepped inside with slow steps. His footsteps echoed off the naked walls.

Slowly, he turned toward the bed. That bed… The one where your bare body would lie beneath a thin sheet, where you wrapped yourselves in each other with love.

There, in the middle of that empty bed lay his shirt.

Folded.

Clean.

With a white envelope tucked beneath it.

He didn’t touch the shirt.

Nor the letter.

At first, he just stood there.

Looking was enough.

Because he already sensed what he was about to face. A man knows he’s been left not from what he sees, but from what he dares not touch. And that night, for the first time, Thomas Shelby trembled because of a piece of paper he couldn’t bring himself to reach for.

Then…

Without trying to stop his trembling hands, he moved the shirt aside. Picked up the envelope. There was no name. But he had no doubt about who had written it.

Thomas Shelby didn’t admit that his hands were trembling as he opened the envelope. If anyone had asked, he’d have said, “It’s the cold.” But no window was open, and the air in the room was far from chilly.

In truth, the whole house had turned to ice that night. Because the person who carried warmth within them, was gone. And Thomas knew, even before touching the first letter, that the words inside this letter would strike him right in the chest. But knowing something doesn’t mean you’re prepared.nAnd Thomas Shelby... for the first time, was like a soldier caught off guard, unarmed, in the middle of a battlefield.

He pulled out the paper. Two pages, thick and soft. The corners bent, clearly folded and unfolded more than once. Your hands had touched them, this alone was sharp enough. But the real blow came... with the first line.

-----

“I’ve always tried to be honest with you, Thomas. But this letter... might be the first time I’m truly honest.”

Thomas didn’t squint. His eyes burned on their own at that moment. The collapse began with the very first sentence. He lifted his head slightly, as if you were there in the room, watching him. He exhaled heavily through his nose. Because he knew, these words were meant to be read while looking straight into his eyes. But you weren’t there. And that, even in the first line, left him utterly alone.

-----

“When I’m with you, I become another kind of woman. Softer, more open, more fragile... And that feeling is both enchanting and terrifying. Because I’ve spent years abandoning my emotions to stay strong. Being with you felt like replacing that strength with a different kind of weakness. Trusting. Leaning. Relying.”

At that line, Thomas clenched his jaw. Because those words of yours... weren’t in his hand. They were nailed to his chest. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby wasn’t proud of the version of himself he was beside a woman. Because that version had slowly pulled you away from yourself. And now you were writing to say you were drowning in it.

-----

“I can’t write anymore, Thomas. My words crash against you now. I can’t be critical. I can’t be sharp. In every sentence, I find traces of you. And this isn’t writing. This is writhing inside a dream. I know you didn’t silence me, Thomas. But loving you... made me quiet against myself.”

Thomas lowered his head. The paper in his hand trembled slightly. But he said nothing. A man used to speaking in front of crowds now stood in the quietest corridor of solitude. And this solitude... smelled not of gunpowder or whiskey... This solitude carried only your voice.

-----

“When I loved you, I loved like a woman. But the self beside that woman... the part that held the pen... that part convinced me to leave. Because the moment I felt love was muting me, staying began to feel like betrayal. To myself.”

At that line, Thomas’s lips parted, but no words came. Just a breath. Maybe a silent exhale. Maybe a whisper only for himself, “why didn’t you save me?” Because he didn’t fight you. He tried to understand you. But now he understood, some women don’t want to be understood. Some women can only speak through silence.

-----

“I loved you, Thomas. And maybe that was my greatest weakness. But to stay strong, I have to go. And I know, when you read this letter, you’ll get angry, you’ll bury everything inside. But someday, maybe just one day,I’ll wish I had never loved you. Because this love made me lose myself.”

That was the last sentence. But Thomas stared at the pages a while longer. As if he could see you between the letters. As if one word tucked between the lines might convince you to stay. But it wasn’t there.

You were gone.

And all he had left was a letter. For the first time, it wasn’t an enemy, but a woman, who brought him to his knees without a weapon. And this... was the quietest defeat of Thomas Shelby’s life.

Thomas Shelby didn’t crumple the paper. He didn’t throw it at the wall, didn’t curse, didn’t flinch. He did nothing. And that “nothing” was so heavy, it drowned out every sound in the room.

He just sat. His eyes were still fixed on the words, but he wasn’t reading them anymore. Because the words were gone. Your voice lingered on the paper, but you were no longer there. And for the first time, Thomas Shelby looked into emptiness and had never felt so full.

He hadn’t taken off his coat, hadn’t loosened his tie, hadn’t removed the gun from his waist. Because he had only stopped by. Maybe, just maybe, you were still inside, making coffee. Maybe you’d just finished your latest piece. Maybe… you had stayed. But that hope was pierced by the final full stop of the letter like a bullet. The man who entered through that door was no longer standing there, only a ghost left behind.

He lit a cigarette. The smoke rose slowly in the room, and your belongings arranged themselves before his eyes.

The typewriter… the notebook on your nightstand… the sleeve of your pale blue robe hanging over the chair. Each whispered your name. But your voice was gone. And Thomas Shelby, for the first time, had lost without a fight.

He folded the letter slowly. As if something unbroken still remained inside. As if a woman, with her final sentences, hadn’t pierced his heart but touched the silence around it. And Thomas knew it. This letter wasn’t a goodbye. It was a sentence. You hadn’t just left. You had vanished.

He placed the letter in his pocket. Stood up. Took one last look around the room. He looked for you, one last time. On the walls. On the chair. In the empty cup. But you… were further away than ever before. And then… he walked out that door.

He didn’t look back. Because this wasn’t abandonment. This was the moment when two people no longer had anything left to say. And from that moment on…

Thomas Shelby never opened another letter again.

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