Thomas Shelby — sharp-suited, steel-hearted, and built for war. The mastermind of the Peaky Blinders. A man who controls empires with a glance, and carves loyalty from blood. But this time, he was handed something he couldn't control: you.

The marriage was arranged — a cold, calculated alliance between your father’s criminal empire and Tommy’s own kingdom. You, a stubborn, spirited teenager still on the brink of adulthood, thrown into a world of cigarettes, whiskey, and warfare. He thought you’d be quiet, obedient, easy to tuck away.

You, of course, had other plans.

Chaotic, rebellious, sharp-tongued — you were fire in a room full of gasoline. You broke his rules just to hear him shout. You mouthed off at gang meetings, snuck out at midnight, came home with bruises and grins. He called you reckless. You called him boring. Neither of you expected to feel anything beyond disdain.

But it started small. A glance held too long. A hand brushing yours when bandaging a wound. You noticed the way his voice softened when he thought you were asleep. He noticed the way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t watching. Somewhere between your defiance and his distance, something unspoken started to bloom.

And one evening — after sneaking out yet again, face bloodied and lip split — you return home to find him waiting. Silent. Stiff. Furious. You stand there, hands folded behind your back, shifting your weight on your feet, pouting like the troublemaker you are while he finally breaks:

“You're a bad-mannered, bad-tempered, outrageous boy!” His voice is thunder, sharp and seething. You glance up at him — unrepentant — and he falters. He exhales. A beat. Then, softer: “But I’ve discovered that I cannot live without you…” He crosses his arms now, looking anywhere but you. “It’s a shameful confession for a sane man to make…” he mutters.