𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝑺𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒆

Sabrina Carpenter

0:57 ──♡───── 4:07

"𝙳𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢, 𝚌𝚛𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛. 𝙾𝚑, 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛."

Maeve sat at her desk, her fingers gliding effortlessly over the pages of a legal ledger. The room was bathed in the warm glow of the late afternoon sun filtering through the windows. Ava stood by the doorway, gathering her things, ready to close up for the day. They had both earned the respite-case after case had come through the door in recent weeks, and Maeve had worked tirelessly to maintain her reputation as the sharpest mind in Small Heath.

The sound of hurried footsteps outside interrupted the quiet rhythm of the office. Ava frowned and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly closing time. A soft knock followed, timid but insistent.

Ava sighed, stepping out to address the unexpected visitor. A woman stood there, mid-thirties, clutching her purse so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her coat, a deep navy wool, was spotless, and her hat was perched perfectly on her styled hair. She looked entirely out of place.

"We're closing," Ava said flatly, not unkind but firm. "You'll have to come back tomorrow."

"Please," the woman said, her voice trembling. "You're my only hope."

Ava hesitated, scanning the woman's face. It was desperation she saw, raw and unpolished. After a beat, she motioned for her to wait and disappeared into Maeve's office.

"There's someone here," Ava began, leaning in slightly. "She says it's urgent."

Maeve looked up from her work, her green eyes sharp but curious. "Did she say what it's about?"

"No. Just that it's important."

Maeve sighed and set her pen down. "Let her in."

Ava returned to the door, gesturing for the woman to follow. "Mrs. Harding will see you now."

The woman stepped into the office cautiously, her eyes darting around as though unsure whether she belonged. Her posture was stiff, and her breathing was uneven. Maeve leaned back in her chair, observing her with a mix of curiosity and professional detachment.

"You don't seem like someone who belongs in Small Heath," Maeve said, motioning for her to sit.

The woman managed a tight smile, lowering herself into the chair across from Maeve's desk. "We don't live far from here, actually," she said, her voice quiet but steady. "But my husband... he comes here often. To the whorehouses."

Maeve's eyebrows arched slightly, but her expression remained neutral. "I see. And what do you need from me?"

"I want a divorce," the woman said, gripping her purse tighter. "I don't know where else to go."

Maeve leaned forward, her fingers laced together. "Divorce isn't exactly a common request around here. Why come to me?"

The woman swallowed hard, her gaze flickering to the floor before meeting Maeve's again. "I've tried other lawyers," she admitted. "But my husband is... powerful. They won't take the case. They're either too afraid or unwilling to cross him."

"And your name?"

"Harriet Chandler."

Maeve nodded, jotting the name down in her notebook. "How long have you been married, Mrs. Chandler?"

"Ten years, almost eleven," Harriet said softly. "We met in London. He was charming, back then. But over the years, he's... changed."

Maeve tilted her head. "Changed how?"

Harriet hesitated, her lips trembling slightly. "He's cruel. He drinks too much. And he... he cheats. Regularly."

Maeve's pen stilled for a moment. "How do you know?"

Harriet reached into her purse and pulled out an envelope. "I hired a private investigator," she said, sliding it across the desk. "I needed proof."

Maeve opened the envelope and studied the photographs inside. They were incriminating, to say the least-Victor Chandler with various women in compromising situations. Maeve didn't let her expression waver as she closed the envelope and set it aside.

"Anything else I should know?" Maeve asked.

Harriet took a shaky breath. "He's... well-connected. And recently, he came home drunk, talking about meeting a man named Shelby. He said they spoke and that he hoped to do business with him. He wants to move here."

Maeve's pen paused mid-note. Her gaze flicked to Harriet, her expression unreadable. "Which Shelby?" she asked evenly.

Harriet shook her head, her brow furrowing. "I don't know. I didn't even realize there were more than one. I'm sorry."

Maeve nodded slowly, filing the information away. "It's fine. Irrelevant to your case."

Harriet exhaled in relief. "I wasn't sure anyone would take my case. But thank you. You're sharp. I can tell."

Maeve offered a tight smile. "I'll take it. Divorce isn't simple, but you have grounds, and the evidence is strong. Ava will give you the necessary paperwork. Once you've completed it, we'll move forward."

"Thank you," Harriet said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I can't tell you what this means to me."

Maeve didn't respond immediately, her thoughts already moving several steps ahead. Finally, she nodded. "We'll be in touch."

Harriet stood, clutching her purse once more as she left the office. Maeve leaned back in her chair, her gaze falling to the envelope on her desk. Harriet Chandler's story was one of many, but the mention of a Shelby in Victor's drunken ramblings added a new layer of intrigue.

She didn't trust coincidences. And she wouldn't leave this one unchecked.

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Maeve pulled her coat tighter against the chill of the night, her gloved hands trembling slightly as she adjusted her scarf. The streets were deserted, the occasional flicker of lamplight casting long shadows across the damp cobblestones. Small Heath had always been a place of whispers and shadows, but tonight, it felt like every sound, every movement, was conspiring to betray her.

Her steps faltered as she approached the last whorehouse. The building was unremarkable, blending into the bleak landscape of the district, but it loomed in her vision like a specter. She had walked past it before, perhaps even glanced at its windows in passing, but never had she imagined stepping inside. Now, as the muted hum of laughter and muffled voices reached her ears, she felt a pang of dread coil in her stomach.

This wasn't where she belonged. Yet here she was.

Taking a deep breath, Maeve pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges louder than she anticipated. Warmth enveloped her immediately, along with the cloying scent of stale perfume, cigarette smoke, and something far less pleasant beneath it all. The interior was dimly lit, with lanterns casting a hazy glow over the worn furniture and peeling wallpaper.

A young woman looked up from her seat near the door, her painted lips curling into a sly smile as her eyes swept over Maeve. She stood, smoothing the hem of her too-short dress as she approached, her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floorboards.

"Looking for someone?" the girl asked, her voice laced with curiosity and a hint of suspicion.

Maeve's throat felt dry. She tilted her chin up slightly, her voice steady despite the unease bubbling beneath her composed exterior. "I'm here on behalf of Mr. Shelby."

The girl's expression shifted, her brows raising in interest. "Mr. Shelby, is it?" she repeated, drawing out the words as if testing their weight. She turned her head slightly, her voice ringing out into the room. "I need Mr. Shelby's girl!"

For a moment, there was silence, save for the faint shuffle of movement upstairs. Then, a voice from one of the hallways called back, "No one's here for him!"

The girl standing in front of Maeve frowned, glancing over her shoulder. "I said I need Mr. Shelby's girl!" she repeated, louder this time.

Another pause, then a different voice chimed in, this one dripping with disdain. "I think it's from Thomas or Arthur."

A murmur rippled through the air, accompanied by the sound of doors creaking open as more women emerged from their rooms, drawn by the commotion. Maeve felt their eyes on her, sharp and appraising, as whispers began to fill the space.

Finally, one woman stepped forward, rolling her eyes as she descended the stairs. "Thomas hasn't been here for months," she said, her tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "It's from Arthur. Keep up with the gossip."

The confirmation hit Maeve harder than she anticipated, though her face betrayed nothing. The weight in her chest grew heavier, but she forced herself to remain still, her gaze fixed ahead as the women around her exchanged knowing looks.

"Melinda!" the girl called again, her voice taking on a sing-song quality now. "Arthur gave you a bonus!"

The atmosphere shifted as the name was spoken. Laughter erupted, and voices overlapped as the women began hyping up someone unseen. A few leaned against the banister upstairs, their giggles echoing down the hallway, while others craned their necks to get a better view of the unfolding scene.

Melinda appeared at the top of the stairs, her presence commanding the attention of everyone in the room. She moved with an air of effortless confidence, her golden hair cascading over her shoulders in perfect waves. Her dress was tighter, more deliberate in its cut, and as she descended, the other women continued their teasing, their admiration tinged with envy.

Maeve stood frozen, her stomach churning. None of the women seemed to recognize her, a small mercy in the midst of her humiliation. But the anonymity was a double-edged sword-she was grateful not to be known, yet the realization that Arthur had kept her so separate from this world stung in ways she couldn't articulate.

Melinda stopped in front of her, her eyes sharp and assessing. There was no malice in her gaze, only the casual arrogance of someone who believed themselves untouchable.

"You've got good taste, whoever you are," Melinda said, a faint smirk playing on her lips as she reached for the envelope Maeve held. She opened it without hesitation, thumbing through the bills inside. "Arthur always pays on time. Generous, too."

The room erupted in laughter again, the sound grating against Maeve's composure. She clenched her jaw, her hands trembling slightly beneath her gloves.

Melinda tucked the envelope into her dress, her smile widening. "Tell him thanks," she added, as if Maeve were nothing more than a messenger. Then she turned, sauntering back toward the stairs, her hips swaying as the other women cheered her on.

Maeve couldn't breathe. The noise around her grew muffled, the room spinning as she turned on her heel and walked out the door. The cold night air hit her like a slap, but it did little to steady her racing heart.

She stumbled out of the whorehouse, her breathing shallow as the chill of the night stung her cheeks. Her gloved hands shook as she tugged her coat tighter around herself, as though the fabric could somehow shield her from the icy truth she had just uncovered. The echo of the girls' laughter-those shrill, playful jeers hyping Melinda up-rang in her ears like a cruel taunt, growing louder the further she walked away.

She didn't cry immediately. For a while, she simply walked, one foot in front of the other, her head bowed low to avoid catching anyone's gaze. Her breath misted in the frigid air, coming faster and faster as her chest tightened. The reality of it all, the weight of what she now knew, pressed down on her like a vise. Arthur. Her Arthur. The man she had loved since she was young, the man she had married, had children with, shared her bed with. The man who had sworn to be hers.

Her legs gave way suddenly, and she found herself leaning against the cold, damp wall of an alleyway. She braced herself with trembling hands, her forehead pressing against the bricks. The first tear slipped down her cheek, then another, and another, until she could no longer contain the dam that had burst inside her.

Her shoulders shook as a quiet sob escaped her lips, quickly muffled by her hand. She bit down hard on her glove, stifling the noise that threatened to spill out into the empty street. Maeve Harding-Mrs. Arthur Shelby, the sharp-tongued lawyer, the fierce woman who could silence a room with a single look-was falling apart.

Alone.

And that was the worst part. She couldn't go to Polly; the thought of confessing such a humiliation to her aunt made her stomach churn. Polly had always told her to be careful, to think twice before marrying a Shelby. Maeve couldn't bear the possibility of an "I told you so." Esme? Ada? They were family, yes, but how could she burden them with this? They had their own struggles, their own lives. And Rosie, her sister-sweet Rosie-was far too young to hear any of this. No, Maeve had no one, and for the first time in her life, the isolation cut deeper than any blade.

She slid down to the ground, her knees tucked up to her chest as the sobs wracked her body. Her mind swirled with memories-Arthur holding her hand on their wedding day, Arthur cradling their newborn sons with tears in his eyes, Arthur whispering promises to her in the dead of night. Were any of those moments real? Or had they all been lies?

She blamed it all on love. It made her weak, but oh-it was such a good feeling. What was once sweet became sour.

Her chest heaved as she fought to control her breathing, her gasps loud and uneven in the stillness of the alley. She wanted to scream, to hit something, to break the world apart the way hers was breaking now. But instead, she swallowed it all down, forcing herself to sit up straighter, to gather what little dignity she could muster.

Maeve wiped her face roughly with her sleeve, her hands still trembling. Her tears didn't stop entirely, but she pushed herself to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall for support. She couldn't stay there. She had to go home.

By the time she reached the house, her eyes were red and swollen, and her nose stung from the cold. The twins' laughter floated through the open window, a sound that simultaneously soothed and shattered her. Arthur's deep voice followed, coaxing giggles from the boys as he fed them at the kitchen table.

She took a deep breath before stepping inside, slipping off her coat and gloves with practiced ease. Arthur turned to look at her, his face lighting up with a warm, boyish grin that sent a fresh wave of pain crashing through her.

"You're late," he said, his tone teasing. "Cold out there, isn't it?"

Maeve forced a small smile, her voice even as she replied, "That's all. Just cold."

She didn't meet his gaze as she walked past him, brushing her fingers against the twins' soft curls before retreating to the bedroom. The door clicked shut behind her, and she sank onto the bed, her face buried in her hands. The sobs came again, quieter this time, muffled by the pillow she clutched against her chest.

Arthur would never know, she promised herself. He would never see this part of her-the broken, shattered pieces that she couldn't bear to let anyone else see. She would swallow it all, bury it deep, and carry on. For her children. For herself.

But as Maeve lay there in the darkness, the feeling of the truth settled heavy in her chest. And for the first time, she wondered if love alone was enough to mend what had been broken.