The Sharpest Jewel |Alfie Solomons|

~ Chapter 23 ~

Small Heath, Birmingham 1918.

Florence stood on the narrow, dimly lit street, her breath visible in the cold December night air. Her fingers trembled, though she wasn't sure if it was from the chill or the dread building in her chest. The sign above the door of the small, secretive club was unremarkable—just a single, flickering light casting long shadows over the entrance. To any passerby, it was just another forgotten corner of the city. But Florence knew better. She had heard the whispers, the rumors about what went on inside, and the kinds of women who worked there. "Exotic dancers," they called them. But it was more than that, she knew. It was women revealing themselves, baring their bodies to strangers, giving up their dignity for the brief pleasure of men who would forget their faces by morning.

Florence's stomach churned as she stood there, rooted to the spot. She didn't want this. Everything inside her screamed to turn back, to run as far from this place as she could. But she had no choice. Her pockets were empty, her rent overdue, and the specter of the street loomed ever closer. She had tried so hard to find other work—honest work—but there were no jobs for women like her anymore. The war had ended, but the scars it left behind were everywhere. No one wanted a nurse, no one needed her skills in this world of shattered men and broken lives.

She looked down at her hands, tainted from years of hard work in bakeries and hospitals, and clenched them into fists. This wasn't what she had imagined when she left the war behind. This wasn't the life she had fought to survive for. But here she was, outside a place that demanded everything from her in return for so little.

She took a deep breath, her chest tightening, and looked at the door. The music inside was faint but audible, the low thrum of jazz filtering through the cracks in the walls. The sound was seductive, promising escape, distraction—an illusion she was desperate to believe in, even if only for a moment. She could hear the murmur of voices, the laughter of men, and the faint sound of women performing inside. It felt like a world apart, a place where she would lose herself. Her hand hovered near the door, her fingers barely grazing the cold, worn wood. She closed her eyes for a moment, forcing herself to breathe, to gather the last of her courage. She thought of her mother, her father, and how proud they once were of her. She thought of Val, of Betsy, of Robbie—and how they wouldn't recognize her now, standing on the brink of giving up everything she had once believed in. But what choice did she have?

Florence swallowed hard, her throat dry. She couldn't afford to think about respect or dignity now. She couldn't afford to think about how much this would cost her soul. All that mattered was survival. All that mattered was making it through another week without being thrown onto the streets. With one last breath, she pushed open the door. The warm, musky air of the club hit her at once, and the music became louder, the dim lighting casting flickers of red and gold across the room. Men sat at tables, their eyes following the movements of the women on stage, all glitter and skin and forced smiles.

Florence's heart pounded in her chest as she stepped inside, her feet carrying her forward as though they no longer belonged to her. A woman at the bar looked her over, sizing her up with a knowing glance, and nodded toward the back where the performers waited.nFlorence's stomach lurched. She didn't want to do this. She didn't want to reveal herself like this—to give up her dignity, her respect, to men who saw her as nothing more than an object. But she had to survive somehow. And this was the only way left. Her hands trembled as she walked toward the back, each step feeling heavier than the last. She had made it through war, through death, through heartbreak—but this? This felt like a different kind of battle entirely. A battle against herself.

Florence moved through the dimly lit club, her body tense with every step. The smoky air clung to her skin, the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation creating a dissonant backdrop to the smooth, sultry jazz. She kept her head down, avoiding the eyes of the men lounging at tables. She could feel their stares—hungry, indifferent, predatory. Her heart pounded louder than the music as she passed the stage, where a woman draped in shimmering fabric moved gracefully to the rhythm, her eyes glazed over, as though she had long since detached herself from the reality of the room.