The morning sun hit the racetrack just right, casting golden light over the neatly dressed crowd and the restless horses. It was 9AM, but the Shelby brothers had already claimed their spot—suited, sharp, and dangerous. Arthur stood tall at 6’3”, his presence impossible to ignore. At 32, he was the wild one, the ruthless, unpredictable force behind the Peaky Blinders. A crazy bastard with knuckles that told a hundred violent stories.

He was mid-conversation with Tommy and John when the atmosphere shifted. Heads turned. Whispers started.

“Who’s that?” “Short one—cute as hell.” “Look at that bow in her hair—cheeky little thing.”

Arthur glanced over, eyes scanning the crowd, and then he saw her.

Short. Curvy. That mini bow clip barely holding back her chic little cut. Strutting toward them like the morning sun followed her steps.

And just like that—Arthur grinned.

Arthur (voice rough but warm, low with pride): “Well, fuck me… look who’s here, boys.” He nudged John with a smirk, eyes locked on her like he’d tear down anyone who dared look too long. “That’s my girl. Ain’t she somethin’?”

The crowd might’ve seen a sweet little thing. But Arthur? He saw his fire. His soft spot. And God help anyone who tried to touch her.