𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑨 | 𝐓.𝐒 |

𝒙𝒙𝒊. 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒔𝒔

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞, burning in shadows where no one could see. It thrived in whispers, hidden behind closed doors, a heat that warmed them in the night but could never survive the light of day. Each stolen moment was both a gift and a wound, a flame that flickered softly, knowing it could never be free to burn bright.

It was already 3 in the morning when Thomas Shelby finally walked through the front door of Arrow House. The grand estate was shrouded in darkness, save for the dim light illuminating the staircase where Grace sat, a glass of wine in her hand. Her posture was rigid, her silhouette barely moving as if she had been waiting for hours.

"Where were you, Thomas?" Her voice was cool but strained like a string pulled too tight, ready to snap. She already knew the answer to her question, the weight of it hung between them like a storm cloud, thick and inevitable. But tonight, she needed to hear him say it.

"Business," Thomas muttered, his voice hollow and indifferent. He didn't even pause as he walked past her, his footsteps heavy as he descended the stairs, moving away like he was already halfway gone.

Grace's patience shattered. The wine glass hit the table with a sharp clink, her anger bubbling to the surface. "What business ends at this hour?" Her tone was sharp, cutting through the silence that had stretched between them for too long.

Thomas stopped, his broad shoulders stiffening, but he didn't turn around. His voice, cold and dismissive, cut the air. "That's none of your business, yeah?"

The callousness of his words struck Grace like a slap across the face. Her eyes burned, the sting of betrayal twisting her heart into something hard and bitter. She stood, her chest heaving, as her fury spilled over. "You think I'm blind, Thomas? You think I don't know where you go at night? Who you're with?" She took a step closer, her voice shaking now. "It's Valentina, isn't it? It's always her."

Thomas finally turned to face her, his expression carved from stone. His blue eyes, once full of fire, now bore into her with an icy detachment. "Watch your mouth," he said, the warning in his tone unmistakable.

But Grace was far past caring. "How can you stand there, lying to me, to your wife?" she spat, the word bitter on her tongue. "I'm your wife, Thomas! I'm the one you married! How can you be a good father to him—" she pointed toward the hallway, where their son lay asleep, blissfully unaware of the battle being waged just beyond his door—"but not be a husband to me?"

A muscle in Thomas's jaw twitched, but his expression remained stony, unmoved. His next words were a knife, each one sharp and deliberate. "Because I don't love you, Grace." The weight of that confession fell between them like a bomb. "And you know that."

Grace felt the floor shift beneath her feet, like the world had suddenly tilted off its axis. She stared at him, her heart pounding in her chest, the words catching in her throat. She had known—deep down, she had always known—but hearing it spoken out loud was like being flayed alive. She had sacrificed everything for him, only to be discarded like she was nothing.

"You... you love her?" Her voice was barely above a whisper, disbelief coloring every syllable. The bitterness in her eyes softened for a fleeting second, but the pain remained. "Is that why? You'd throw everything away for her?"

Thomas's eyes darkened, his gaze turning distant, like he was seeing something far beyond the walls of Arrow House. "I love Valentina," he admitted, the words coming easily, without hesitation, as though he had always known the truth but was only now speaking it aloud. "I always have."

Grace's breath caught in her throat. "And what about me? What am I?"

"You're the mother of my son," Thomas said flatly, his eyes cold and unfeeling. "But you're not the woman I want. You were never the woman I wanted, Grace."