Chapter Text
Some truths, while not necessarily laws of nature, can be accepted as such. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. Winter is cold and summer is hot. Property of Shelby Company Limited is under the explicit protection of the Birmingham Peaky Blinders and will not be touched.
You are property of Shelby Company Limited, and have been for the last two years. A contract, written in ink and signed in blood, vowed your life, your loyalty, and your discretion for the next five years, upon which the terms would be redrawn and renegotiated. You understood what it meant to work for the Shelbys. Knew when you dipped the silver point of the pen into the open wound on your palm that only death, motherhood, or a company-approved marriage might relinquish you from your duties. Whatever order they may come.
You were referred for the position, but weren’t given true consideration until the event of your father’s death. Your father was a Blinder but didn’t fall victim to any sin that came with the title. It was an accident in the factory that took him. A rusted jack gave way, and the piece of machinery he worked underneath crushed him. Those who saw it say it was so quick he wouldn’t have known what happened. You thank the Lord often for that.
Arthur and Finn Shelby came to your door that day with hats in their hands and frowns on their faces. Your mother, who had been frail most of her life, succumbed to pneumonia the winter prior. It had just been you and Father, and while money wasn’t abundant, he made enough for a small and comfortable existence. Enough for you to stay home. To keep the house in order and food on the table. Mother had always pushed you to get out and find a husband, but with her passing there was no more talk of that.
The Shelbys offered a sum for your grievances. You rejected their offer and asked for a job instead. The secretarial position in the offices of Shelby Company Ltd. that you’d heard had not been filled to date, though you’d submitted a resume months ago. Finn hid a smile behind his gloved hand while Arthur rambled nonsense about how he didn’t know of any job like that and how it wouldn’t be a good fit for a lady like you anyway.
Perhaps he was right. But the hole in your chest that you’d been slowly stitching since your mother’s death had just been torn wide open at the news of your father. You sat in his rocking chair, looking around the sitting room to avoid the two Shelbys, and all you could see was yourself, wasting away within these walls with too much time and too much money for one person and no one to take care of. Your life was here, in the only place you’ve ever known. Still, you needed a purpose, and you knew that you could find one in the family your father had pledged his loyalty to.
No convincing is done by either party. When Arthur and Finn leave, you decide that you will visit the offices yourself, speak to the man or woman in charge of the secretaries, and try to convince them. The Shelbys pride themselves on employing the working class, and if there is a position to be filled you will fill it.
The next morning, before you are even able to dress for the day, there is a knock at the door, and you are presented with a letter by a young boy in a cap. A summons, more accurately, with instruction to be at the Small Heath offices by ten a.m. in formal attire. It is signed by Thomas Shelby himself.
You’d seen him in the papers, of course. You’d seen his car around town. And while your father owned the razorblade cap, he was low enough in the ranks that you didn’t know any Shelby on an intimate level. Certainly not the one in charge. You’ll never forget what it was like standing in front of him for the first time that day, there in his office. Like a meek little fool, clutching the handle of your purse with both hands. Unable to meet his unwavering stare for long lest you freeze in it. He was silent and cold in a way you’d never encountered before. Still as stone, the only visible movement being the smoke drifting in lazy tendrils from the tip of the cigarette between his fingers.
Down to the marrow, you were terrified. But as the minutes passed and the stillness continued, your fear transformed. You became enraptured. Head bowed, sweaty hands still tightly clutching your purse, when you looked up you were snared by that chilling azure gaze. Trapped in it, like a moth in a lantern. And in those long and silent moments where you couldn’t look away, you think you understood why men lived and died for him. There is something otherworldly about Thomas Shelby. There is no other man like him.
For a reason that was never fully explained to you, Thomas Shelby takes you on. He certainly needs the help - someone to keep his calendar, screen his correspondence, visitors, keep meeting minutes and his office in order, and anything else the head of an empire might require. There is enough work that he could get away with employing another assistant, though you’d never suggest it. You do not suggest things to Thomas Shelby. You do not confide, make light, or ever show your fear to Thomas Shelby. You are the apparition in the room that is neither acknowledged nor questioned. You are the hand that pens his recitations, the tea that replaces the whiskey, and the turn of the lock at the end of a long day. And though you are an unmarried woman, still arguably in her prime, working among some of society’s seediest figures, you are strangely and mercifully left alone.
A career woman’s life can be quite satisfying. There is pride in making your own money and having to rely on no one but yourself to survive, and Mr. Shelby is certainly generous with his quarterly performance bonuses. The work, much like your benefactor, is demanding. One must be efficient but thorough, assertive but discreet, punctual and present; flexible, compromising, courteous, courageous, and whatever else Mr. Shelby might require from you hour by hour, day to day. You are in a perpetual state of self-induced fatigue, and when you collapse into bed at the end of the day you are too tired to ever worry about anything beyond tomorrow.
Still, some nights can be lonely. Though you are only a secretary, being merely seen at Thomas Shelby's side immediately paints you in a certain light. Friends and lovers alike are hard to come by because they either don't agree with or are afraid of what you've tied yourself to. You have workplace camaraderies. You've had a couple of drunken dalliances when the work took you to London a few days at a time. But you've never had a beau. You've certainly never been courted by anyone. The house your parents left you remains empty, spare rooms gathering dust, and somewhere the ghost of your mother weeps for the grandchildren she may never have.
Perhaps it’s the influence of your mother’s spirit. Or perhaps it’s simply a moment of weakness, when you know that in a few hours you will be going home again to an empty house and no company but your own, and it leaves you feeling a bit lonely. Or maybe it’s just him, this man who keeps looking at you when no one ever does.
You’re in a meeting. Seated in your usual place in the corner of the board room over Thomas Shelby’s right shoulder. Michael Gray is to his left and Ada Shelby is to his right. His best representatives on their best behavior because the men opposite them are potential investors out of Barnt Green. Old wealth. Clean money. And interested in a joint venture into weapons manufacturing. And of course, manufacturing happens to be a specialty of Shelby Company Limited.
The heads of two families and their two eldest sons have come to meet with the King of Birmingham. They all but agreed on the partnership in previous correspondence and this meeting is simply to size each other up, as men all want to do. You take minutes, jotting down ideas discussed and small details about the men and their sons. What makes them laugh, what makes them stiffen, who looks at who when a certain topic is brought up - things of the sort that might interest Mr. Shelby after the fact. Normally this is very easy to do because you are all but invisible to everyone in the room. Today seems to be an exception.
The Fletcher son - Fletcher and Cartwright are the families meeting today - has been staring so hard at your little corner of the room you fear it might’ve caught flame. You ignore him, of course. It’s not your job to acknowledge what may or may not be the attention of potential business associates. Still, it’s alarming and distracting enough that when you glance up from writing, you’re beginning to find more than just his pair of eyes on you now. First, it is his father’s. Then Ada, ever the observant Shelby, looks briefly over her shoulder to confirm it is you that has captured their attention. Her red lips are pressed together in amusement when she turns back around. You sink a little lower in your chair, cheeks growing hot, and continue to write. The pen is clutched so tightly in your grip that your hand begins to cramp.
There is heavy silence, and then, “See something you like, sir?” Mr. Shelby’s quiet, lazy drawl cuts through the air. You can’t stop yourself from looking up.
Oh, he’s brave. Adam Fletcher smiles, crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes, and you bite the inside of your cheek to fight the natural urge to return it. You’ve seen a thousand men smile. You know when it is a mask or a ploy. You know when it’s simply etiquette. And you know when it’s genuine. This man - this boy in comparison to half the men in the room - looks like he might’ve just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar but isn’t sorry for it. “Sorry, sir,” he says with a glance at Mr. Shelby. “Just wondering who that lovely lady is behind you, and why she’s sitting so far away.”
You hope your face doesn’t look as hot as it feels. The Cartwright son coughs into his fist as Fletcher Senior playfully berates his son for choosing an inopportune time to flirt. Adam Fletcher catches your eye again, and though you absolutely refuse to be swooned by indolent flattery, the pink flush in his own fair cheeks is simply-put adorable. The corners of your mouth quirk up, and you watch his smile widen to a victorious grin. You give your head a miniscule shake, and he palms his heart dramatically as if Cupid’s arrow just struck him dead on.
“The lovely lady is my secretary,” Mr. Shelby confirms in the same low tone. “She is not for your entertainment or harassment.”
Your eyes cut to your boss. You can only see the close trim of his ash brown hair and the taut cut of his shoulders. Whatever shows on his face leaves Adam Fletcher backtracking, raising a hand to his own defense. “I meant absolutely no disrespect, sir,” he says, all impishness disappeared from his demeanor. “I wasn’t aware, I-”
“Tea is in order, cherub,” Mr. Shelby interrupts. Your heart leaps to your throat, but you don’t miss your cue. You stand, cradling the pad of paper to your chest, curtsey, and leave the room as quickly and quietly as you can.
Your mind is in disarray as you set water to boil. You’d never been subjected to the room’s attention like that before. You didn’t think the Fletcher son was trying to embarrass you. The timing was certainly improper, but a little flirting was harmless. Clearly whatever Mr. Shelby saw in the man displeased him, however, which disturbs you greatly. Would he be displeased with you? Would he be angry at you for being a distraction and potentially ruining the deal? Would you be barred from future meetings? Would you still have a job at all after this?
This was unprecedented. You’d never been in trouble before. No one ever acknowledged you. No one.
Your hands are shaking as you carry the tea tray back into the board room. You silently curse the way the china rattles with each step taken. There’s a hundred kilo weight sitting on your chest and the lump in your throat grows three sizes as you set the tray at Mr. Shelby’s left elbow. You keep your chin tucked to your chest and look at no one. You’ll not be a problem again. Not today, or ever.
It is your job to serve and distribute the tea, but the moment you set a cup and saucer in front of Mr. Shelby, his hand lifts to gently touch the inside of your wrist. You wait obediently for his next instruction. When it doesn’t come, you’re forced to look up and meet that dreadfully overwhelming gaze.
The blueness hits you, as it always does, like a wall of ice. So very cold, but not angry, and maybe it’s the lack of anger and with it the promise that you aren’t in trouble that has the tears springing involuntarily in your eyes. “You may go,” he dismisses gently, and then his hand is gone.
Adam Fletcher doesn’t even look in your direction when the meeting ends and the Barnt Green families take their leave. Though you are a little disappointed, you aren’t surprised. Mr. Shelby put his foot down, and reminded everyone of your status. You are the secretary. Not a toy, and certainly not an appropriate fit on the arm of the eldest son of a wealthy family. You feel foolish, and more than a little embarrassed that you’d softened even just enough to think a man with charm and money could show interest in a woman like you.
You spend the rest of the day waiting to be summoned by Mr. Shelby. You’ve prepared the meeting minutes and are ready to dissect the findings in your notes. You’re less ready for the lecture that you fear you might receive. About misconduct and distraction. About the importance of invisibility. The early summer sun is nearly set and the office has grown quiet. You are exhausted, hungry, and frayed with nerves by the time he calls for you.
When you enter his office, Mr. Shelby is not seated behind his desk as you expect him to be but rather standing before one of the floor to ceiling windows. His back is to the street and there's a lit cigarette between his lips. He's shirked the suit jacket and the sleeves of his pressed white shirt are rolled to the elbows. “Close the door,” he says quietly, and you do so with absolutely certainty of a lecture on its way. The question now is do you initiate it, to get it over with? Or allow him to lead into it on his own?
You already know which it will be. It will be the same as you have always done. Two years you have worked at this man's side. Two years. You admire him. You respect him. But you are still afraid of him. You hide it as best you can because that is what he requires - a spineless little coward doesn't earn the trust of a Shelby. But it isn't in you to even consider defying him.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Shelby,” you say, voice thick in the tight hollow of your throat. Though you try, you cannot lift your eyes to his face yet. They are stuck flitting between the black straps of his suspenders.
He exhales deeply. The scent of tobacco is thick in the air. “For what?” he asks.
“For that inappropriate display earlier,” you say. “I don't know what he was thinking.”
Mr. Shelby inhales on his cigarette once more, then he removes it from between his lips. “I do,” he says, stepping over to ash the stub out in the full tray on his desk. “He saw a beautiful woman that he wanted to know. But he doesn't get to know you.” He leans on the edge of his desk, hands sliding into the pockets of his trousers. “Do you know why?”
“Because…” you trail off, unsettled by how he so easily called you beautiful, for a second time that day. “Because I'm your secretary.”
“You're my secretary,” he confirms evenly.
“I work for you.”
“You work for me,” he parrots again. There is a long pause as he assesses you. You hold the pad of paper to your chest like a life vest. “Do you like working for me?”
You start at the question, blinking owlishly in its unexpectedness. “Yes, Mr. Shelby,” you say, which he receives with a scoff.
“It's a dangerous trade.”
You shake your head. “I've never felt unsafe.”
“But you have been,” he corrects plainly. The words nick you shallowly. “In many more ways than you know.” Mr. Shelby allows the silence to linger before he speaks again. “Adam Fletcher will be back. You will pay him no attention and return none of his advances.”
“Is he a bad man, Mr. Shelby?”
“All men are bad, cherub.”
You nod solemnly. For all the boy appeared harmless, it was clear your benefactor saw something more sinister lurking beneath. Mr. Shelby wouldn't lead you astray - there's no good reason for it. “I'll steer well clear of him,” you decide.
“That's a good girl,” he says, eyes softening as he gestures to the papers in your grasp. “Now, what do you have for me?”
For a while, all returns to normal. Though the days have begun to feel longer, you chalk it up to the summer. Brighter days mean brighter moods, even for gangsters. Business will not conduct itself, and thus, Thomas Shelby is ever present to lead the charge.
There is an incident at the London office in early July that draws the many factions of Blinders back to Birmingham. That is standard procedure when these events occur - retreat to home base and wait for the smoke to clear. Still, the building took significant damage and lives were lost. An investigation by law enforcement puts an unwanted spotlight on Mr. Shelby, who will be up for reelection the following year. The added burden placed on a man whose nervous system keeps him in a constant state of fight or flight…a makeshift bomb might have more stability.
For your own sanity and survival, you’ve simplified any communication with the man down to two simple phrases: “Yes, Mr. Shelby” and “Right away, Mr. Shelby.” You've managed to avoid the hottest flame of his ire thus far, while others haven’t been so lucky.
The sun is at its highest point in a clear sky when the post comes. The third floor, where Mr. Shelby’s office happens to reside, doesn’t have many windows that can be opened, leaving the air hot and stagnant. You welcome the trip downstairs to cooler temperatures, and take your time sorting through correspondence under the light breeze filtering in from an above window.
There’s quite a bit for Mr. Shelby today, which isn’t any different from most other days lately. Concerned constituents, concerned proprietors, nosy press and an even nosier parliament. Some of these letters will be ash before they’re even opened. Some will be distributed to lesser management within Shelby Company Ltd. for a penned standard response. Those with more threatening language are always set aside for Arthur Shelby to handle. It is your job to ensure that the only letters to reach Mr. Shelby’s desk are the ones of most importance.
Your hand stills on a letter not made out to Thomas Shelby, but yourself. Eyes narrowing on the small, neat script addressing your full name, you search for the sender’s identity but find the rest of the envelope blank. Looking around, you discreetly remove the letter and scan its contents.
Dear Miss,
I must confess that - against my better judgement - I’ve not been able to stop thinking of you since
You quickly fold the letter and shove it back inside the envelope. To look around again would invite suspicion, so you keep your eyes on the task of placing the letter among a few others, separate but indiscernibly so. Your heart pounds but your hands do not shake. Your face remains passive but the damp hair at the nape of your neck begins to itch.
Do you tell Mr. Shelby that the Fletcher boy reached out, as he said would happen? Do you give him the letter? The very thought mortifies you, especially when you are unaware of the rest of the letter’s contents. Just the first sentence was far too intimate for one stranger to bestow on another. The boy is mad, he must be!
Instead of excitement or flattery, it’s only dread that you feel like a sinking stone in your stomach. What a poor, poor time to deliberately disobey Thomas Shelby. He must’ve warned Mr. Fletcher off of further communication with you, but still he sends a letter to the office of all places. It could’ve gotten into anyone’s hand. You are further mortified when you imagine Finn or Isiah reading the letter, heads bent together and snickering with amusement at your expense. No, you decide resolutely. Mr. Shelby mustn’t be burdened with knowledge of this ridiculous gesture. The letter will be ash with the rest.
After you finish reading it, of course.
You don’t find the time to for the rest of the day. After you sort and distribute the post, Mr. Shelby asks you to accompany him to a meeting at the automobile factory across town. A scheduled hour turns to three with the aid of too many whiskeys, and Mr. Shelby sees you home after that on his way to God knows where else. Having been persuaded into a glass of whiskey yourself there toward the end, you sleep soundly that night. The letter sits forgotten in the top drawer of your desk.
When you arrive at the office the following morning, the damned letter is all but forgotten. In fact, it sits open and unfolded, spread out like a museum display on the surface of your desk. You approach slowly, eyes on the letter, hopeful that what you’re looking at isn’t what it actually is. The small, neat print of the handwriting extinguishes all hope instantly.
Maybe he heard you coming up the stairs. Maybe the floor creaked under your step. Whatever signaled your arrival, Mr. Shelby says your name through the cracked door of his office. His voice is stern.
Bring the letter is left unsaid, but you know your boss. So you grab the page with shaking fingers, foregoing the envelope - no sense in trying to hide it now - and take a deep breath to prepare yourself for what might be the worst workday you’ve ever had.
Mr. Shelby stands waiting for you in the center of the room. Beside him is the armchair - high-backed, green velvet upholstery - that normally resides next to the matching chaise in front of the bookcase. You look at the empty space where it should be now, follow the marks the legs left as they dragged across the rug. “Sit down,” Mr. Shelby says.
“Mr. Shelby-”
“Sit down, cherub,” he interrupts, shoving a cigarette between his lips. “I won't ask again.” You hurry to obey, perching stiffly on the very edge of the seat. Thomas Shelby stands just over your shoulder, and when you gather the courage to glance back at him, he is a statue shrouded in smoke. “Read it,” he demands evenly.
The letter is face-down in your lap, hands splayed to hide it. You don't want to do this, now terrified of what the rest of the letter says if Mr. Shelby has deemed fit to punish you for it. But he's already warned once that he won't ask twice. When you turn the letter over and lift it up, you have to blink rapidly to clear the blur of tears from your eyes.
“Dear Miss,” you begin, unable to manage much more than a whisper through the lump in your throat. “I must confess that against my better judgement I've not been able to stop thinking of you since…since first laying eyes on you in that conference room. Confessing this to you does not come without risk. Thomas Shelby is a territorial man and you are certainly under his jurisdiction. My reputation and rapport is at peril with an otherwise superb business partner, but I've come to find the reward far out weighs - Mr. Shelby please don't make me continue,” you beg, tears wetting your flaming cheeks.
Mr. Shelby snatches the letter impatiently from your hands, exhaling smoke and scratching at his brow as he searches the page. “Where were we? Ah - ‘while Mr. Shelby is not a man to be reckoned with, the woman at his side must be a force of her own. I understand that he has kept you for nearly two years. Have you ever imagined a life free of his clutches? Perhaps instead in the loving embrace of one who’s absolutely mad for you.’ You're right, cherub, this is unbearable.”
“I had no intention of responding, I swear it,” you say, eyes on your hands wringing together in your lap. “I hadn't even read it to the end. I-I meant to burn it.”
“And when were you going to tell me about it?”
“I didn't want to burden you-”
“The man wants to steal from me!” Mr. Shelby hisses, flinging the letter away. “This insubordination will not stand.”
“It means nothing,” you try to pacify him. “It's just words from a foolish boy. I swore an oath to you.”
“You did,” Mr. Shelby says. You hear him light another cigarette. He comes into view as he paces a few steps forward then pivots to look at you. “Everyone knows you belong to me. Everyone. Except for this fucking bellend.”
“Tell me what to do, Mr. Shelby, I'll do it,” you say earnestly, hands clasped together as you stand. “I'll write him my denial. I'll deliver it in person so he knows I mean it-”
“You'll go nowhere near him,” he says sharply, a thick finger pointed at you. “What else must I do to make you see, aye? You are mine, and no one else’s.”
“Yes, Mr. Shelby,” you agree lightly, your voice shaking.
“Show me your hand,” he orders. You hold your left hand out obediently, palm up. It's not the first time he's asked this of you. Perhaps he demands it of all those who have taken the oath. Likes to see the physical evidence of their loyalty.
The scar is a smooth silver line across the delicate skin of your palm. Thomas Shelby takes your hand in his, cradles it, the rough pad of his thumb tracing it from end to end and back again. You shiver under his touch and his scrutiny, never used to it. The Fletcher boy was right in his letter - he is a territorial man. But never before have you been the principal of his possessive nature.
It warms you. It frightens you.
“Proof of my claim, right there,” he murmurs, pressing his thumb into the center of your palm. His hand tightens around yours and he pulls you in, close enough that you can feel the heat from his body, smell the smoke on his breath. “Who do you belong to, cherub?”
“Shelby Company Limited,” you whisper. He shakes his head, and sudden dread pierces you. “No?”
“You belong to me,” he corrects. “Say it.”
“I belong to you.”
“Thomas Shelby.”
“Thomas Shelby,” you echo and he hums, pleased.
“That’s a good girl,” he says and releases you. You take a step back, hand drawn into your chest, the warring emotions inside you leaving you dazed and dizzy. “Perhaps I've kept your lead too long,” he says cryptically, withdrawing to his desk, bringing the still-lit cigarette to his mouth along the way. “I'll not make that mistake again. You may go.”