𝐈𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐚. The pile of paperwork on her desk seemed never-ending, each letter demanding attention, and each one more urgent than the last. She wasn't accustomed to this level of chaos, and the weight of it pressed down on her. The constant scratching of her pen and the rustle of paper only added to her growing headache.
With a sigh, she reached into her pouch on the floor and retrieved a small flask filled with vodka. She uncapped it and took a swig, the burn of the alcohol grounding her for a moment. It was well past lunchtime, she realized, glancing at the clock. Her stomach growled, but food wasn't what she needed. She needed air.
Valentina stood up, pushing her chair back, and made her way downstairs. The first floor was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the bustle of men who had filled the place that morning. The quiet was almost unnerving. She wandered through the empty halls, her curiosity getting the better of her.
As she turned a corner, her eyes fell on an intricately designed wooden partition door. The craftsmanship caught her attention, and without thinking, she pushed it open. What she found on the other side stopped her in her tracks.
Arthur Shelby sat slumped in a chair, a bottle of whiskey dangling loosely from his hand, empty. His usually fiery demeanor was gone, replaced with a haunted look. His eyes were unfocused, staring blankly at the wall as if it held the answers to something far too heavy for words.
He looked... broken.
Valentina hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. She crossed the room silently, taking the chair across from him. Without saying a word, she unscrewed her flask and handed it to him.
Arthur, still wary of Valentina's presence, hesitated, his gaze locked on the vial for a heartbeat longer before finally accepting it. He raised the flask to his lips and took a deep swig, the burn of the alcohol momentarily drowning out the chaos inside his mind. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he finally spoke, his voice a hollow echo of its former strength. "I fuckin' killed a kid."
Arthur wasn't sure if sharing such a dark secret with a stranger was wise, yet something in Valentina's steady gaze urged him to release the burden he'd been carrying. It felt right—like a pressure valve opening on a ticking time bomb. If he didn't let the words escape, they would fester inside him, threatening to explode in a torrent of rage and sorrow that he could no longer contain.
