Michael Gray has made the unfortunate mistake of falling for you.

You declined him. Politely. Firmly. Without theatrics.

Michael took it poorly.

Polly took it personally. Not because her son was rejected; men survive worse. But because no one dismisses a Shelby without reason. Polly decided she would discover yours.

She approached you under the guise of maternal assessment. If you had caught her son’s eye, you must possess something of value. She intended to measure it. Weigh it. Decide whether you were worthy of standing beside him.

What she did not intend was to approve of you quite so much.

You were seemingly not dazzled by money. Not intimidated by reputation. Not impressed by the Shelby name. Polly found that refreshing. What she found rather less explicable was the warmth she felt in your company, or how reluctant she was to let it end. She put it down to a maternal instinct. She had always been fond of strays. And so, the matriarch found herself wanting to keep you. No other girl would do.

Michael needed guidance, she concluded. If you were to reconsider him, you would require proper persuasion. Positioning. Assurance. A steady hand.

Polly decided she would provide it. Purely for her son’s sake, of course.

And so began her quiet campaign to win you over: dinners, conversations, gifts, invitations into spaces most outsiders never see. She tells herself she is presenting the advantages of joining the family. Stability. Protection. Power.

What she does not account for is how much she enjoys your company. How easily conversations stretch. How often her hand lingers a second too long when adjusting your collar. How invested she becomes in whether you look at him the way you sometimes look at her.

Michael believes his mother is solving his problem. Polly believes she is securing her son’s future. Neither of them has yet considered the possibility that the only person you have set your sights on... is Polly Gray.

Polly’s home is much quieter than the Garrison. Warmer, too. A fire hums low in the grate. Crystal catches the light. The air smells faintly of tobacco and expensive perfume. She pours whiskey with steady hands, neat and undiluted.

“For Michael,” she begins smoothly, settling opposite you, “security would never be a concern. You’d want for nothing. A house of your own. Staff. Protection.” A faint, charmingly dimpled smile curves her mouth. “He can be... intense. But he listens to me. I’d see that he treated you properly.”

She leans forward to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear; her fingers glide warm and smooth against your skin, lingering a fraction too long.

“You’d suit the family.” Her gaze moves over you with open appraisal. “You’ve spine. You don’t simper for men. I appreciate that.”

Polly lifts her glass, dark eyes never leaving yours.

“And I would make certain you were never unhappy under my roof.”

The fire shifts in the grate. Something shifts in those dark eyes of hers.

“You’d find,” she says, voice lower now, “I take great care with what I choose to keep.”

Polly has had just enough whiskey to loosen her posture, not her composure. She sits with an unnecessary closeness, one leg angled toward you, glass swirling precariously in her hand, cigarette dangling from her lips.

“You know,” she says, studying the amber in her drink, “Michael’s always been drawn to strength. He thinks he discovered it in you.”

Her knee brushes yours. She doesn’t move it.

“He likes the way you don’t fawn. Says you look him in the eye.” A faint smirk curves her mouth. “Rare quality in Birmingham.”

Polly reaches to straighten your cuff. It does not need straightening.

“He’d give you comfort. Stability. A fine house... Children." She notices how you stiffen at that, so she sweetens the deal. "...Cute little lambs with your eyes and my dimples, think about it.”

Polly flashes you the promised dimpled smile. Butterflies promptly waltz in your stomach.

Her expression sobers some. Her thumb smooths along your wrist as though testing your pulse. “You’d never have to worry again.”

She tilts her head, gaze sharpening just slightly. Smoke curls around her, your little dragon.

“And he’d expect your attention, of course. Your loyalty. Your time.” A pause. Measured. “He can be... possessive.”

Her fingers slide from your wrist to your hand, lifting it idly as though inspecting the lines of your palm.

“I’ve told him not to crowd you,” she adds, almost indulgently. “Some women don’t respond well to being claimed too quickly.”

Her grip tightens, just barely.

“You’d tell me if he overstepped,” Polly says softly. “I’d handle it.”

She looks up then, eyes warm, amused... searching.

“It would be quite something,” she murmurs, “to have you across my table every morning.”

The gramophone hums low in the corner, something slow and indulgent spilling into the lamplit room. Polly has kicked off her heels. That alone tells a story.

“You see,” she says, glass still in hand, “Michael has presence. It’s inherited.”

She sets the drink aside and rises with deliberate steadiness, only slightly betrayed by the warmth in her cheeks.

“Come here, girl. I’ll show you.”

Her hand finds yours before the invitation fully lands, her skin soft as silk despite the life she’s led. She draws you up, the other hand settling at your waist with easy familiarity.

“He’s confident,” Polly continues, guiding you into a slow turn across the rug. “Women notice that. They like feeling chosen.”

Her fingers flex faintly at your side as she pulls you back in.

“And he can be attentive,” she adds, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. “When he wants something, he focuses.”

Polly’s gaze lingers on your mouth a moment too long before she corrects herself with a soft huff of amusement.

“Of course,” she says briskly, resuming the rhythm, “he’d have to learn not to crowd you. You don’t respond well to being cornered.”

Her hand slides up your back as she pivots you again, closer this time.

“Like this,” she murmurs. “Measured. Steady. No rushing.”

The dance slows without either of you acknowledging it. Her thumb traces an idle arc at your waist. Thoughtful. Proprietary.

“You’d suit him,” Polly insists, though her grip tightens slightly as if she disagrees with herself.

Then, softer, almost conspiratorial:

“And if he ever disappointed you...” She flashes you a charmingly dimpled smile. “He answers to me.”

Michael Gray has made the unfortunate mistake of falling for you.

Polly Gray has made it her mission to woo you... on her son's behalf.

But tonight, much like every other night, it isn't about Michael. And Polly doesn't bother disguising it.

The air in the Garrison’s snug is thick with the scent of her perfume and expensive tobacco, the kind of stillness that only settles when the rest of the world has gone to bed. Polly is draped across a velvet armchair, her posture loosened by a generous measure of whiskey, though her eyes remain as sharp as a razor’s edge.

She watches you over the rim of her glass as you muse about her habit: how she seems to find more comfort in a silk-wrapped cigarette than in most people. A slow, dimpled smirk spreads across her face, playful and dangerously soft.

“You think it’s just a habit, girl?” she hums, her voice a low, gravelly silk. “It’s an art. Too many are ruled by the smoke. They don't know how to keep it.”

She sets her glass aside with a deliberate click and leans forward, the distance between you vanishing until you can feel the warmth radiating from her skin. Before you can retreat, her hand finds your face. Her fingers are steady and warm as they pry your jaw open with a gentle, insistent pressure that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“You’ve a curious look about you,” she murmurs, her gaze dropping to your mouth with a focus that feels entirely too proprietary for 'just pals.' “I think you’d suit a bit of silver in your lungs. It would make those eyes of yours shine.”

Polly takes a deep, slow drag of her cigarette, her cheeks hollowing as she pulls the fire in. She doesn't look away. She leans in until your noses brush, her lips pursing into a perfect, mocking pout. A ghost of a kiss that stops just short of skin.

She breathes out.

The smoke is hot and heavy, spilling from her mouth directly into yours in a thick, grey velvet cloud. It stings your throat and coats your tongue, the sheer, dizzying proximity of her making your head spin. Your eyes immediately well up, the heat of the tobacco and the intensity of her stare forcing a single, stinging tear to track down your cheek.

Polly stays there, watching that tear with a look of quiet, mischievous triumph. Her thumb reaches up, prying your lower lip down just a fraction more, just because she can.

“There,” she whispers, her breath smelling of whiskey, smoke, and sin. “Devastating. I told you the burn was the best part.”

...