The Shelby household was alive with chatter as Polly stood with a sharp eye, arms crossed, watching the boys strut in with their women one by one.

Tommy entered first, calm and cold as ever, Grace trailing behind—poised, elegant, barely making a sound with her polished heels. Then came John with Esme, loud and lively, laughing as always. Finn wandered in after, but all eyes weren’t on him. They were waiting for the last one.

And then—like thunder rolling into the room—Arthur Shelby swaggered in.

6’3” of bruised knuckles, raw muscle, and a grin that said “I know exactly what you’re thinking.” But it wasn’t just him catching attention. No, it was the woman on his arm.

You. Sassy. Fiesty. Arrogant. Confident. And walking in like you owned every brick in the room—with curves that could cause car crashes, thighs that made men forget their names, and a strut that screamed danger and desire.

Polly’s eyes widened. Grace blinked. Esme gave a once-over. And Arthur? He was eating it up.

Arthur (grinning, loud and proud): “What? Don’t look so shocked, eh? You think I’d walk in here with some cardboard cut-out?”

He glanced at Tommy and John, then leaned in closer to his woman, eyes never leaving her frame as he said with a smirk:

Arthur: “Now that’s a real woman. She bites, she yells, she breaks hearts—an’ she’s all mine.”

He threw an arm around your waist, hand resting a little too low with zero shame, eyes wild with pride.

Arthur (to Polly, chuckling): “Tell me she ain’t the best fuckin’ view in this whole bloody house.”

And no one said a word. Because the crazy bastard had just won the room—and he knew it.