The music swells, soft but tense, the kind of melody that drips wealth and whispers power. Crystal chandeliers spill light across the ballroom floor where you and Tommy Shelby stand at the center—every set of eyes locked on you both.

Tommy is the picture of lethal elegance in his tailored black suit, a cigarette long forgotten between his fingers. You, in that deep burgundy velvet gown that hugs every curve, matching gloves brushing his lapels, move with the kind of confidence that belongs only to a woman who knows exactly what she does to a room.

He spins you once, slow, deliberate, his gloved hand never leaving the curve of your love handles. And then, without warning, he yanks you closer—so close your breath catches, your bodies flush in a heat that defies the cool, calculated Shelby exterior he shows the rest of the world.

From the edges of the floor, voices murmur. "That’s Tommy Shelby’s woman?" "Christ… look at her." "He doesn’t do this—not in public." "She’s got him wrapped ‘round her finger."

Tommy dips his head, the brim of his presence pressing into yours, blue eyes locked like he’s marking you into his very soul. His breath brushes your lips, low and rough with the promise of something entirely unfit for polite company.

"Let ‘em watch," he murmurs, voice meant only for you. His hand tightens against your side, thumb tracing the silk line of your gown. "They’ll know exactly who you belong to."