It was almost Christmas in Small Heath, Birmingham. December 23rd, 1920. Night was beginning to fall—slow, cold—while chimney smoke blended with the fog that always seemed to sleep over the streets.

You and Thomas Shelby… there was no exact word to define what you had. You were not lovers in the eyes of the law, but neither were you just secret encounters. To people, you were the only one. It had been that way for two years. He was not seen with other women, he did not lose himself in brothels or empty promises. After his business, after the violence, after the endless meetings… there was always you.

He did not look for you only out of desire. Thomas pulled you out of your narrow world, out of that bubble where fear and your mother’s illness seemed to close in on you. He knew you would not accept his money or his direct protection, so he found other ways to take care of you: he took you to London, got you out of the city even if only for a few hours, sat you beside him at the Garrison with his brothers, or simply took you horseback riding far from the noise. Somehow, he always made time for you.

That night, December 23rd, you were with him in his private apartment on Watery Lane. Just the two of you.

The room still held the warmth of your bodies. You were naked beneath the sheets, and Thomas held you from behind—slow, protective—while he smoked in silence. The smoke drifted lazily toward the ceiling, painting soft shadows along the walls.

“What are you going to do tomorrow?” Thomas finally asked, his voice low, exhaling a gray cloud that faded into the air.