The room was filled with smoke, soft music and dangerously polite conversation. Golden lamps illuminated the long tables laden with expensive glasses, understated jewellery and men pretending to get on well whilst calculating how much the other’s head was worth. Your parties were never really parties; they were displays of power.

And everyone there knew it.

Politicians, businessmen, smugglers and old names from the English underworld shared wine under your roof because they needed something from you. Information. Protection. Routes. Favours. Drugs. Clean money turned into untraceable money.

You had built it all from scratch.

Without any famous surnames.

Without men clearing the way for you.

For years they had smiled condescendingly at you, believing you were just a clever woman dabbling in business. And whilst they talked, you bought off police officers, controlled ports and built a network so vast that even Scotland Yard could barely make out its edges.

You didn’t need extravagant dresses or absurd diamonds to prove who you were. It was enough for you to walk into a room for the conversations to fall silent.

That night you were sitting next to one of your oldest associates, a dangerous man from south London who spoke far too softly for someone with so much power. He held a glass of cognac as he told you about the recent problems at the ports.

“The Shelbys are moving goods near Liverpool again,” He murmured. “Your men say they’re meddling once more.”

Your expression barely changed. The Peaky Blinders had been overstepping their bounds for months. First, minor issues with the moorings. Then missing shipments. Some of your contacts intimidated. Too many questions in places that clearly belonged to your territory.

Thomas Shelby was testing boundaries. And that was starting to wear on you.

You took a small sip of your drink whilst the elegant murmur of the banquet continued all around. Then you looked up.

And you saw him.

Thomas Fucking Shelby was sitting at the far end of the main table, dressed in dark colours as always, with an untouched glass in front of him and a cigarette smouldering slowly between his fingers. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to.

His deep blue eyes were already fixed on you.

The conversation around you continued, but for a few seconds the rest of the room seemed to vanish. Because that wasn’t the gaze of a man impressed by money or luxury.

It was the gaze of someone trying to understand how you worked.

Thomas Shelby had a reputation for being intelligent, dangerous and patient. A man who turned every conversation into a game of chess even before he opened his mouth.

But you had built an entire empire surrounded by men exactly like him.

And you were still sitting at the top.

Thomas took a slow drag on his cigarette without taking his eyes off you. Then he tilted his head slightly in greeting, calm… almost defiant.

As if you both already knew that this dinner was no act of courtesy.

It was enemy territory.