˗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 FADING AFTERNOON LIGHT gently flooded Alicent's small room, bathing the worn walls in a golden glow. The old floor creaked under Thomas's steps as he entered, carrying a bag of groceries in one hand and a brown envelope filled with cash in the other. It had become a routine between them. Each week, he came, calm on the outside but with a racing heart at the thought of seeing her again.
Today, as he crossed the threshold, he found her sitting by the window. Her hair fell in light waves over her shoulders, and he noticed she seemed even more fragile than usual, her face marked by a fatigue she always tried to conceal.
She turned her head, and a shy smile lit up her face when she saw him. He placed the bag on the rickety little table next to the door, leaving the envelope at her side. He approached her, kneeling in front of the chair where she sat. Their eyes met, and for a moment, everything seemed to freeze.
"I brought you enough to last a few days," he murmured, his voice soft, almost hesitant to break the silence around them. "And some money too, in case you need it for anything else."
"Thank you," she whispered, as if that simple word cost her more than it should have.
He took a deep breath, his fingers idly playing with a strand of her hair. "Alicent..." he began gently, but before he could continue, she raised her hand, interrupting him with a forced smile.
"Not now," she breathed.
She then stood up, slowly making her way to the little table where he had set the groceries. She began to organize them quietly, as if this mundane act could chase away the dark thoughts swirling in her mind. He watched her, unable to tear his gaze away from her silhouette.
"What's wrong, Alicent ?"
She froze, her hands clutching a can she was holding. He waited for a response, but she didn't move, her gaze fixed straight ahead, silent. After what felt like an eternity, she slowly placed the can on the table, her movements measured and deliberate, as if the slightest sudden gesture might shatter her.
"There's nothing," she finally murmured, without turning around.
He got up from his chair and took a few steps toward her. "Alicent, I know you. You can talk to me. I'm here for you."
She remained silent, her shoulders slightly slumped. Her fingers tapped nervously on the table, betraying the inner turmoil she was trying to hide. Thomas moved closer, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, hoping to comfort her.
"Whatever's going on, you're not alone, you know that, right ?"
Alicent clenched her jaw, her eyes fixed on the emptiness before her. She didn't want this conversation. She didn't want him to press. Not today. Not now. She couldn't handle his questions, his worried glances. All she wanted was for this day to end.
"Tommy, go home," she said in a flat, almost mechanical voice.
He froze, taken aback by her response. "What ?"
She finally turned to look at him, and he was struck by the cold, almost closed-off expression on her face. Where had the woman gone who welcomed him with shy smiles just a few weeks ago, who surrendered to him without reserve ? This sudden distance hurt him more than he would ever admit.
"Because I want to be alone," she retorted, more sharply this time. "I told you there's nothing."
"If it was really nothing, you wouldn't be reacting like this. Please talk to me."
"I don't want to talk. Not to you, not to anyone. Just... leave me alone, okay ?" Her voice cracked at the end, but she held firm, refusing to give in to the panic rising within her.
"I'm not going to leave you like this. Something's wrong, and you need me, even if you refuse to admit it."
She stepped back, crossing her arms over her chest, as if to shield herself from him. Watching him insist, watching him try to pierce through the armor she had built was unbearable. He shouldn't come closer. He shouldn't know. "Go, Thomas," she repeated, this time more harshly. "Go home."
"Why are you pushing me away ? What are you trying to hide ?"
"Get out."
"Fine," he murmured finally, his throat tight. "I'm leaving... but I will come back. You can't push me away like this."
She didn't respond, simply turning away from him, her back stiff like an impenetrable wall. Tommy stood for a moment on the threshold, fists clenched, before turning on his heel and leaving the room. The door closed softly behind him, and a heavy silence descended around her.
She ran a hand over her stomach, feeling the slight roundness beneath her fingers. A wave of guilt washed over her, accompanied by a visceral fear. She had succeeded in pushing him away, but for how long ?
The tears she had been holding back all day began to flow gently down her cheeks. She moved toward her mirror and lifted her clothing, her gaze fixed on her rounded belly. The last few weeks had been marked by anxiety. She had kept the secret, hidden this truth from Thomas. She had known for a long time that she was carrying a child. But she also knew that this child wasn't his.
Her hand brushed over the curve beginning to form, a constant reminder of those nights spent in the brothel, of the clients she had served, of the world she wanted to escape yet was tied to despite herself. This wasn't Thomas's child. She didn't need a test or confirmation. She knew it deep inside, and that certainty was devouring her from within.
Every day, she pushed back the moment when she would have to tell him. She saw in his eyes that fragile hope, that love that seemed to want to save them both from the darkness of her life. But she knew that it was merely an illusion.
Tears welled in her eyes as she sat on the edge of the bed. Her decision had been made for days. She had no other choice. It was the only way out. The idea of this child haunted her. It wasn't that she wouldn't have wanted to be a mother under different circumstances, but not like this, not in this way.
With a nervous gesture, she wiped her face with the palm of her hand and slowly walked toward the little dusty wardrobe, each step echoing in the oppressive silence. She opened the door with a low creak, searching through a jumble of items. At the back, under a pile of worn clothes, she found what she was looking for.
Her fingers closed around the cold metal, and she stood there for a moment, frozen, staring at the object in her hand. The reality of what she was about to do hit her like a stab in the gut.
