˗ˏˋ꒰ 💰 ꒱ ━ ☐ Thomas Shelby never thought he would fall in love with a whore. In the bustling streets of 1920s Birmingham, Alicent, a prostitute since her teenage years, with her irresistible charm, had only one goal : to make money. Every encounte...
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TWO WEEKS, it had been two damn weeks since he last came. Two long weeks during which she had tried to forget him.
But nothing could take her mind off him. Not the fleeting embraces in dimly lit rooms, not the crumpled bills she tucked into her corset, and certainly not the shallow words from men who tried to seduce her with empty compliments.
That night, the brothel hummed as usual, full of artificial life, forced laughter, and desperate intoxication.
Alicent sat at the bar, a drink in her hand, the golden liquid swirling in the bottom of her glass. She drank slowly, savoring each sip as if it were a reprieve, a moment of calm in a world that constantly tormented her.
Beside her stood the bartender. He was the only man in the place who was pleasant to her, the only one with whom she didn't have to play a part. He always served her drinks without asking questions.
"Another drink ?" he asked after a while.
She nodded without a word. She didn't know why she kept drinking, but she knew the alcohol temporarily quieted the thoughts spinning in her head.
"You miss him, don't you ?" He offered her a fresh glass, watching her with a rare kindness in a place like this.
She shrugged. "I don't know... Maybe." She hesitated for a moment before placing the glass in front of her, tracing the contours of the cold glass with her fingers. "It's been two weeks. I tell myself maybe he's found someone else. Or maybe he's realized I'm nothing to him. Maybe he's not coming back."
"Tommy Shelby's not the kind of man who's easily forgotten. But you, Alicent... you shouldn't let a man like him consume you."
"Really ? Because from where I stand, I'm not worth much." She toyed with her glass. The truth was simpler than she dared admit. Yes, she missed him. Yes, he haunted her thoughts. But what really tortured her was the idea that she had allowed herself to be reduced to what he had called her : a prostitute. Nothing more.
Laughter from the other girls echoed behind them, high-pitched voices and vibrant conversations coming from the other side of the room, where the customers were becoming more numerous as the night wore on. Alicent turned her head for a moment, watching the scene with detachment. She saw the girls giggling, their faces heavily painted to hide their exhaustion, their smiles bright but fake.
The bartender wanted to say something else, but their boss entered the room, his face marked by anger. The atmosphere shifted immediately, the laughter and whispers dying out as he marched toward her.
"You," he growled, pointing at her. "What did you do to make him stop coming ?"
"Who ?"
"Thomas Shelby," he spat, almost sneering the name. "He's the big fish. A real source of income. And now, he's gone !"
Alicent swallowed, her heart racing. She had feared this moment. "I don't know," she murmured, her voice lost in the cacophony of the room.
"Don't try to tell me you've got nothing to do with this," he said, stepping closer to her, his hands on the bar. "You were the only one he came to see. You're supposed to keep him interested, not let him slip away like that. What did you say to him ?"
"I didn't say anything. Maybe he just decided not to come back."
"What happened, Alicent ?"
"I..."
In a swift motion, he punched her in the face. Pain exploded instantly, and she stumbled, clutching her face, the taste of iron on her lips.
The sound of her body hitting the bar drew the attention of the other girls and the customers. The room filled with shocked whispers, but before she could react, the bartender stepped between her and the boss, standing firmly in front of her.
The boss, realizing all eyes were now on him, threw a furious glance around the room. The clients began to stir, the tension palpable. His face, usually confident, was now twisted with anger and embarrassment.
"It's nothing," he growled, but the voices of the customers, the sympathy from the other girls, were starting to overwhelm him.
He took a step back, releasing his grip on the power he thought he had. Then, in one final burst of fury, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving behind a heavy silence.
Alicent, still in shock, stood there, her hand on her aching face, her eyes fixed on the door he had just slammed behind him. The bartender, turning to her, murmured softly, "Take a moment."
She nodded, but emotion choked her. The weight of the others' stares bore down on her. He handed her a glass of water, and she accepted it with trembling hands. She wasn't just angry at her boss — she felt betrayed by herself. How had she let things spiral this far ?
The other girls slowly resumed their conversations, but Alicent remained, lost in her thoughts. She had always believed she could navigate this world, play the game while keeping a piece of her dignity intact. But what had just happened was a hard blow, a bitter revelation.
"Thanks for stepping in," she said, her voice shaking.
"It's my job to look out for all of you."
She shook her head, melancholy spreading across her face. "I shouldn't even be here."
"It's not easy, I know. Sometimes it just takes a bit of courage and time to find your way."
"And if I wanted to leave ? What then ?"
"You could find other work. But it takes sacrifices, and sometimes, you've got to fight for it." Sacrifices ? She had already made so many.
The idea of leaving this life terrified and excited her at the same time. "Do you think I could make it ?" she asked, almost whispering.
"I don't think, I know," he said with conviction. "You're smart, beautiful, and you've got a strength in you that many don't."
"Maybe... maybe I could try," she admitted, a shy smile spreading across her lips.
"If you need help finding something, you know where to find me."
"Thanks. I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Now go get something to eat. You need to regain your strength."
She glanced around at the other girls, laughing and joking, before heading to a mirror to fix the makeup smeared by her tears.
Her usually sleek brown hair was falling in disarray around her face, and she ran a trembling hand through the strands to smooth them down. The makeup she had carefully applied earlier in the evening was fading, streaks of mascara running under her eyes.
But what caught her attention most was the bruise beginning to form on her cheek. The purplish color, both disturbing and strange, contrasted with her pale skin. She moved closer to the mirror, carefully observing the growing shadow.
Her green eyes, often bright, now seemed deeper, more lucid. She straightened, realizing that the anger had become another layer of her skin.
