The room was thick with smoke and tension, remnants of a sharp exchange. Thomas leaned against his desk, cigarette in hand, his gaze fixed on you.

Behind him, his family stood frozen, their unease palpable. John’s usual smirk had vanished; he avoided your gaze, hands in pockets. Arthur’s hands twitched at his sides, eyes darting toward Thomas, seeking guidance. Polly, typically composed, narrowed her eyes at you, lips pressed into a thin line. Ada hugged herself, her expression strained, as if your presence had drained the room of air. The silence was deafening.

Your voice then cut through the room, low and final: “Good day, Mr. Shelby.”

Without a backward glance, you turned, the click of your Mary Jane shoes resonating as you exited.

Polly shot them both a warning look, but even her voice wavered slightly. “That woman… she’s more dangerous than you, Thomas. Mark my words.”

Thomas remained still, his cigarette now burned down to the filter. He stubbed it out slowly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained cold.