You had been Thomas Shelby’s girlfriend for three years, from 1919 to 1922. In the end, the relationship fell apart. He had become consumed by the expansion of the Shelby family’s empire, while you slowly began to feel as though you no longer had a place among his priorities.

So you left.

You moved to London, while he remained in Birmingham. There, you continued your studies before eventually building a quiet, respectable life as an accountant for a successful company.

Even from London, it was impossible to escape the Shelby name.

Whenever you walked along the docks on your way home, you would sometimes catch sight of enormous cargo ships bearing SHELBY across their hulls. Their influence had spread far beyond Birmingham. People spoke of them with a mixture of admiration and fear.

Ada Shelby had settled in London as well. Every so often, the two of you would run into each other by chance on the busy streets. You always stopped to exchange a few words, and despite everything that had happened, your friendship had survived. You adored little Karl, who never failed to brighten your day.

You also knew that Arthur and John Shelby were frequent visitors to London’s brothels and had earned quite a reputation for their wild nights in the bars of Mayfair.

But Thomas…

You knew nothing about Thomas.

No newspapers mentioned him. No rumors whispered of a new lover. No one ever said he had been seen in London.

For a long time, you convinced yourself that perhaps he simply didn’t want you to know anything about his life anymore.

And maybe that was for the best.

Months passed.

It was nearly November 23rd, 1923—only two days before your twenty-ninth birthday.

Like any other afternoon, you sat behind your desk, buried in ledgers and invoices, the steady rhythm of your work interrupted only by the occasional ringing of the office telephone.

When it rang again, you barely looked up.

You assumed it was another one of your employer’s business associates calling to arrange a meeting.

You answered absentmindedly.

Then you heard the voice.

A voice that instantly pulled you back three years—filled with memories, some beautiful, others painful.

None of that mattered anymore.

“Hello, old friend…” he said, his voice low and rough, just as you remembered it. For a fleeting second, you could almost smell the whiskey on his breath and taste the lingering smoke from the cigarette that always rested between his lips.

A small pause followed.

“…Hanna?”