The Garrison was its usual mix of low chatter, cigarette smoke, and dark wood charm as the Shelby brothers sat around their usual table — Arthur towering at the head, all 6’3” of ruthless, battle-worn grit. At 36, he carried the kind of presence that silenced rooms. No one messed with Arthur Shelby unless they had a death wish.

And then the door slammed open.

“Go shawty, it’s your birthday! We don’t give a f**, it’s your birthday!”*

The iconic beat of In Da Club blasted through the pub like a thunderclap, and before anyone could even process the shift in atmosphere, a flood of rowdy, laughing twenty-somethings spilled into the Garrison — mostly girls, loud and hyped, dancing as if they owned the place.

In the center of it all was her. YN.

She wasn’t walking — she was dancing, glowing, a full-on firestorm of energy and sex appeal. Baggy jeans low on her hips, black sleeveless off-shoulder top plunging with deep-cut cleavage, and a burgundy jacket that her friend yanked off mid-spin, revealing even more of that perfect, heavy-curved figure. Her shiny black hair flowed down her back like silk, catching the light as she threw her head back and laughed.

“IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! I’M FUCKIN’ 24!” she yelled, arms in the air, hips moving to the beat like she owned every eye in the room.

And she did.

The entire Garrison froze. Conversations stopped. Heads turned. Even some of the hardest men in Birmingham just blinked, stunned silent at the sight of her.

Arthur Shelby didn’t move at first.

Just sat there — that usual deadly stillness — jaw clenched, eyes locked on her like she was the only person in the world.

John let out whistle.
Finn muttered, “Jesus Christ…”
Tommy arched a brow

Then Arthur leaned forward, slow and deliberate, a half-smirk forming as he watched his woman take over the pub without even trying.

“Fookin’ hell…” he muttered under his breath, voice gravel pride. “That’s my girl.”

every man in room suddenly remembered why no one question how Arthur ended up with her.