𝑹𝒖𝒏

Daughter

0:57 ──♡───── 4:07

"𝚂𝚘 𝚠𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚔, 𝚠𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚐𝚘𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚊𝚢. 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚜, 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚍𝚛𝚞𝚖𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚢. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎'𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝙸 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚎'𝚟𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎. 𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚜𝚘 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚞𝚗."

Thomas Shelby entered Maeve's office without so much as a knock, the door swinging open with his usual brand of confidence. Ava, Maeve's secretary, trailed behind him, flustered and apologizing profusely.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Shelby," Ava said hurriedly, her cheeks flushing. "I told him you were busy-"

"It's fine, Ava," Maeve interrupted, not looking up from the papers spread across her desk. Her tone was calm, but the slightest edge in her voice betrayed her irritation. "Thank you."

Ava nodded, casting a wary glance at Tommy before stepping out of the office and closing the door behind her. Tommy made himself comfortable in the chair opposite Maeve, lighting a cigarette as if he had all the time in the world.

Maeve finally glanced up, her green eyes narrowing slightly. "Do you even know how to knock, Thomas?"

He ignored the question entirely. "I need you to find a house."

"A house?" Maeve repeated, leaning back in her chair. "Last I checked, I was a lawyer, not an estate agent."

"It's for Polly," Tommy explained, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Her birthday's coming up. You know her taste better than anyone. Woman to woman."

Maeve raised an eyebrow, her lips pressing into a thin line. "And you think that makes me qualified for this?"

Tommy gave her a small, almost amused smile. "Please."

The word caught her off guard. It wasn't often Tommy Shelby said "please," and it momentarily disarmed her. With a soft sigh, Maeve closed the file she had been reviewing and leaned forward slightly. "Anything else?"

Tommy took another drag of his cigarette, his gaze steady. "Yes. I need you to find someone."

Maeve's hand froze mid-reach for her pen. She looked up at him sharply. "Don't tell me you're about to do what I think you're doing."

Tommy didn't answer directly, but the small nod he gave was confirmation enough. Her jaw tightened as she leaned back in her chair, her fingers tapping against the desk.

"Michael Gray," Tommy said finally, his voice even. "Polly's son."

Maeve let out a slow breath. She crossed her arms, her eyes locking onto his. "You know this is going to open up wounds Polly's been trying to close for years."

Tommy leaned forward, extinguishing his cigarette in the ashtray on her desk. "Polly deserves to know her son."

"She deserves peace," Maeve countered.

"Peace doesn't come from lies," Tommy said, his voice firm but not unkind. "You'll look into it?"

Maeve stared at him for a moment, her mind racing with the implications of what he was asking. Finally, she sighed and nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

Tommy stood, adjusting his coat as he prepared to leave. "Thank you, Maeve."

Before he could walk out, she called after him, her tone sharp. "If this backfires, it's on you."

He paused at the door, glancing over his shoulder. "It always is."

And with that, he was gone, leaving Maeve alone in her office.

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Now days later, Maeve and Thomas walked down the quiet lane toward Mrs. Johnson's house, their footsteps muffled by the dirt path. It was a simple village, with modest homes lining the road, the kind of place where every stranger drew suspicion. As they reached the gate of the small house, Thomas stopped and looked toward Maeve. She gave a slight nod before he pushed the gate open.

"Mrs. Johnson?" Thomas called, his voice even but commanding.

A wiry woman appeared at the doorway, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in the strangers standing on her path. "Yes. Who are you?" she asked, her tone wary.

"I'm from Birmingham Council, Bordesley parish," Thomas replied smoothly.

Mrs. Johnson frowned, her suspicion deepening. "No one wrote to me. What do you want?"

"I would like to talk about your son," Thomas said, taking a deliberate step forward. "About Henry. Can I come in?"

Mrs. Johnson stiffened and shook her head. "Oh, I'd rather you didn't. He doesn't like to talk about this."

Maeve, standing just behind Thomas. "I see."

Thomas tilted his head slightly, his piercing gaze fixed on Mrs. Johnson. "So what does Henry know about his real identity, Mrs. Johnson?"

Her frown deepened, and she stepped closer to the door. "I only deal with Mr. Ross from the agency, and he only ever writes. So..." She trailed off, her tone growing defensive. "Why are you here in person?"

Thomas remained unfazed. "The boy is approaching his 18th birthday."

Mrs. Johnson's voice rose, her unease spilling over. "This isn't right! You're not from the council. Something isn't right."

"What does he know, Mrs. Johnson?" Thomas pressed, his calm demeanor unchanged.

She glanced over her shoulder toward the house. "He knows his mother couldn't cope. She drank too much. She used opium. She used to beat him."

Thomas's gaze sharpened, his voice dropping slightly. "But that isn't the truth, is it?"

The color drained from Mrs. Johnson's face. She clutched the doorframe, her knuckles white. "Look, I think you should come back when my husband's here."

Maeve's voice cut through the tension, calm and steady. "Does he know what his real name is?"

Mrs. Johnson looked startled, her eyes darting toward Maeve. "His real name is Johnson. Henry Johnson. Now I would like you to go away and come back when my husband's here."

But Thomas didn't move. His voice was firmer now, cutting through her protests. "The truth is, he was taken from his mother without her permission."

At that moment, the boy appeared in the doorway, his steps hesitant. "Who are you?" Henry-Michael-asked, his voice filled with uncertainty.

Mrs. Johnson's panic spiked. "Please, Henry, go back inside!" she said, reaching for him.

Maeve stepped forward, her gaze steady on the boy. "Your real name is Michael Gray," she said, her words deliberate and calm.

Mrs. Johnson turned toward Maeve in a fury, raising her hand as if to strike her. But before she could, Thomas stepped in and held her back. "No," he said firmly.

Maeve held out a small card with a photograph on it. "Your real mother wants to see you," she said to Michael, ignoring the woman's protests. "Her address is on the back of this card. She just wants to talk."

Michael's gaze shifted to the card, curiosity and confusion warring in his expression. Slowly, he reached out and took it from Maeve's hand.

"Henry, no!" Mrs. Johnson cried, pulling him back toward the door. "Go away!" she shouted at Maeve and Thomas, her voice breaking.

Maeve's expression didn't change as she met the woman's desperate eyes. "She just wants to talk," she repeated firmly.

Mrs. Johnson wrapped her arm around Michael, pulling him inside. "Go away and leave us alone! Go away!" she shouted, slamming the door behind her.

The house fell silent. Maeve and Thomas stood there for a moment. Without speaking, they turned and walked back down the lane.

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The house was quiet, save for the low hum of the wind outside and the occasional creak of the wooden beams. Upstairs, the boys were sound asleep, their tiny breaths steady and soft, oblivious to the storm brewing below. Maeve stood at the kitchen counter, her hands gripping the edge so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Arthur entered, his footsteps hesitant as if he knew he was walking into the lion's den. His coat hung loosely off his shoulders, his tie undone, and his eyes were red-rimmed, though whether from exhaustion, drink, or something deeper, Maeve couldn't tell. He looked at her, but she didn't turn. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, before she finally spoke, her voice sharp and controlled.

"How old was he?"

Arthur flinched as if struck. "What?"

"How old was he, Arthur?" she asked again, this time louder, her tone demanding.

He looked down, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "I don't know," he muttered.

Maeve let out a short, bitter laugh, turning to face him. "You don't know? Fine." Her voice cracked, but she pressed on. "You're thirty-four, Arthur. Thirty-fucking-four years old. You've got a wife, two beautiful boys upstairs, and you're still acting like you've got nothing to lose."

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "First, it was the rope. Now it's the drink, the drugs, and God knows what else. What's next? Hmm? A gun? Is that how you want to end this?"

"Maev-" he started, his voice breaking, but she wasn't finished.

"No! I'm not stopping, Arthur, because I'm scared." Her voice cracked fully now, and tears welled in her eyes. "I'm scared that one day I'm going to wake up, and you're not going to be here. Not because you've gone to the pub or the Garrison, but because you've gone for good. Because you've done something I can't undo."

Arthur's hands trembled, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep himself together. "You think I don't know that?" he shot back, his voice raw and unsteady. "You think I don't fucking know what I am? What I've done? I'm trying, I'm fucking trying, but I don't know what else to do."

His voice cracked, and he sniffled, tears streaming down his face. He stepped toward her, his shoulders slumped. "Tell me what to do," he begged, his voice barely above a whisper.

Maeve shook her head. "I don't know," she admitted, her voice trembling.

"Tell me what to do."

"I don't know what to do, Arthur. I don't have the answers."

"Tell me how I should be," he pleaded, his voice breaking again. He sank into a chair, his hands covering his face. "Just tell me. Please."

"I don't know," Maeve whispered, her voice laced with heartbreak. She crouched in front of him, pulling his hands away from his face. "I don't know everything, Arthur. I don't know how to fix you. I can't."

Arthur broke then, fully and completely, his body shaking with sobs as he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against hers. Maeve wrapped her arms around him, holding him tightly as tears streamed down her own face. For a long moment, they stayed like that, clinging to each other as the weight of everything they'd been holding in came crashing down.

When Arthur finally pulled back, his eyes were bloodshot, but there was a flicker of something else-hope, maybe, or determination. Maeve stood, wiping her face as she walked to the cabinet. She began pulling out bottles of alcohol, one by one, and carrying them to the sink.

Arthur watched her, his voice hoarse. "What are you doing?"

"I'm saving you," she replied simply, pouring the whiskey down the drain.

Arthur didn't protest this time. He just sat there, his hands resting limply on his knees, as she moved through the kitchen like a storm. When she finished with the alcohol, she turned to him, her expression unyielding.

"Where are the drugs?"

Arthur hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Maeve..."

"Where. Are. The. Drugs." she repeated, each word firm and deliberate.

He sighed, defeated, and led her to the spot where he'd hidden them. She found every stash, every ounce of powder, and disposed of it all without hesitation. Arthur leaned against the wall, his head in his hands, as she worked. He felt like a child being scolded, but he couldn't bring himself to stop her. Deep down, he knew she was right.

When she was done, she turned to him, her voice soft but resolute. "You need to get clean, Arthur. For me. For the boys. For yourself."

Arthur looked at her, his defenses shattered. "I don't know if I can..."

"You can," she interrupted. She stepped closer, her tears falling onto his hands. "And you will. Because I'm not giving up on you, Arthur Shelby. But you have to stop giving up on yourself."

Arthur closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, the faintest flicker of hope stirring in his chest. And for the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, he could find a way back. And he knew that if he did, it would be because of her.