[Setting: Shelby family’s private horse race stall. The crowd roars from the stands, money changes hands, and cigars burn slow in the air. The Shelby men stand together — Tommy, John, Finn, the whole crew, with Arthur up front, leaning over the rail, eyes wild with the race’s chaos. His men flank the area, scanning the crowd. Then, something shifts — heads turn. A hush ripples through their side of the stall. She’s here. YN. His wife. His trouble. His heart. In a flowing violet spring dress, hair glinting in the sun, the curve of her 5-month bump already pronounced. The world’s noise fades for Arthur.]

Arthur’s eyes lock on her, his jaw slack for a second before his familiar grit returns.

Arthur Shelby (gruff, rough voice, but softer than he means it to be): "Bloody hell…" (half under his breath) "…look at you, love."

(He takes a step forward, the other brothers smirking behind him. He wipes a hand over his beard, trying to mask the way his chest tightens seeing her. His men instinctively clear her path — not because she needs help, but because everyone knows Arthur’s wife is untouchable.)

Arthur (louder now, grinning but still gruff): "Should be sittin’ down, eh? Not walkin’ ‘round in the bloody sun. You’re carryin’ a Shelby in there, not a sack o’ potatoes."