e·lite
/əˈlēt,āˈlēt/
noun
noun: elite; plural noun: elites
a group or class of people seen as having the greatest power and influence within a society, especially because of their wealth or privilege.
• in which the darkness-loathing heiress meets t...
"Better get some sleep before my eyes start to fucking wrinkle."
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Working with Thomas Shelby hasn't been the easiest for Irene. Being head of legal in his company, she demands to be treated with the respect that the job entails. At least get Irene her own office with a desk inside to work in peace and quiet.
Not with her boss breathing down her neck every time she tries to do her job.
Which has been excellent, by the way. Yet, Mr Shelby treats Irene like she was some kind of secretary. Which, she isn't (and she would rather gag before being called a secretary, just saying.). He has her running around at crazy hours of the night, doing things that he can do well independently.
"Grosvenor, fetch me this and bring it to the office."
"Lady Irene, I can't seem to find any of my dark grey vests. Can you find it for me? Might have left it at Lizzie's."
"Grosvenor, fetch me that."
"Am I interrupting your slumber, Your Highness? No? Great. Print the contracts we have with the Cunard Line again. The old copies are oddly tossed in my bin."
"Grosvenor, can you pick up my suit in that place in Knightsbridge? I need them crisp and ready by the morning, and the seamstress is a fucking dimwit."
Those were just some of the Great Thomas Shelby orders. And for the past few days, Irene had built up a significant amount of resentment toward Mr Shelby for disturbing her much needed sleep.
Like just now, she just received a call from Mr Shelby asking her to come to his house to help him work on something. The time you ask? 4.30 A.M.
So here she is, driving at the crack of dawn to Mr Shelby's house in filthy Small Heath, Birmingham still in her nightshift, and she doesn't even care about her state right now.
She only slept for four hours when she got the call, jumping up like a maniac when she heard the familiar ringing. Then Irene leapt from her deliciously warm and comfortable bed to the cold air of northwest England. She didn't want to disturb the chauffeur, Mr Smyth, from his well-deserved rest, so she decided to drive to Birmingham on her own.
Something that if her Papa knew, her ears would be chewed off by now. It's alright. Mr Smyth really needed his rest after all the back and forth between Eaton and Small Heath. It's okay; Papa will understand.
When Irene was almost halfway out the gate, she realised something. She was still in her nightshift. Working under Thomas Shelby had somehow shifted her brains.
Oh, what the fuck.
Not caring just this once, she kept going, driving the long drive between Eaton and Birmingham. It's a journey that usually takes a whopping one hour and forty-five minutes and over ninety miles long. Mr Shelby had probably found whatever he was looking for by the time she arrived.
