˗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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THE FOLLOWING WEEKS, he tried, in his own way, to make amends. Though his pride remained intact, he made efforts — tentative, almost shy attempts — to erase the shadow of his cruel words. Every Thursday, he came back, but he was no longer just a client spending time with a girl, he was trying to atone, to regain the trust he had lost.
Thomas wasn't the kind of man who openly apologized, much less begged. Yet, he returned each week, stubborn. Maybe this was his way of admitting his faults, of trying to fix what he had broken.
This Thursday, when he walked through the door of the establishment, an almost astonished silence fell over the room. In his hands, he held a bouquet of flowers. Roses, vibrant with color, starkly contrasting the dark and sensual ambiance of the place. All eyes turned toward him. Whispered murmurs began to circulate.
After all, who would take the time, or even the money, to bring flowers to a girl like Alicent ? A prostitute. It seemed ridiculous. Such an act of tenderness in a place like this felt out of place, almost absurd. But he didn't care.
His steps led him straight to her. When he reached her, he extended the bouquet, his eyes searching her face for a reaction. Alicent, at first surprised, stayed silent, unsure of how to respond. Everyone was watching, waiting to see what she would do.
She looked at him for a long moment before glancing down at the flowers. "Flowers ? Here ?"
"I didn't have anything else," he replied, almost defensively, though the hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"You know I'm not that kind of woman."
"I don't think you are 'that kind of woman' at all. That's... that's the point."
She sighed, feeling torn between anger and a flicker of emotion she refused to show. As absurd as this bouquet seemed in this place, it touched her more than she wanted to admit. It was the first time anyone had ever given her flowers. No man had ever done this for her.
But in front of everyone, in the face of mocking stares and undisguised judgment, she couldn't allow herself to show anything.
"If you came here to play the romantic and ease your conscience, you should go home. I don't need your flowers or your pity."
Despite her words, a part of her was moved. She didn't know how to handle this kind of attention, especially from him — the man who had helped her so much, hurt her so deeply, and now seemed willing to do whatever it took to make up for it. It was confusing.
He remained silent for a moment, his jaw clenched. He wasn't the type to apologize, much less offer flowers. But he wouldn't back down. "It's not pity. I'm not doing this for anyone else. I'm doing it for you."
She lowered her eyes, feeling her resolve waver, but she couldn't let it show. Not in front of everyone. Not here. So, with a quick glance to make sure her boss wasn't around, she walked over to the nearest trash bin. She dropped the flowers into it, her gesture sharp, as if she were discarding a burden.
