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...
"We were born to deal with things worse than a fucking boxing match, Grosvenor."
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Today was match day.
Or, as the boys like to put it, "The legendary day when David fucks Goliath."
Irene preferred match day. Loads more courteous.
She was planning on attending with her sisters and confidantes. Seeing they all, one way or another, had acquainted with the parties involved in the making of this day. Ana, with that cheeky John, Tabitha entangled herself with Arthur, Mr Solomons was Izzy's boss, and Mr Shelby, well, he was Mr Shelby. Whatever he was to her. Boss, friend? Or boss, almost lover? Boss, enemy?
Whatever the status was between them, Irene knew yesterday was a tipping point of their peculiar relationship.
Ana was helping Irene with her hair when she quipped, "So what happened after that?"
All the girls turned their heads. Irene was once more put in an uncomfortable situation, one where she can't escape. Irene was retelling what had happened that day to her sisters and friends. The day that had been haunting her ever since, replaying in her head nonstop.
Quite frustrating, really. The memory of Thomas Shelby gripping her lower back, hand in her hair, would appear out of nowhere. Whether it be when she was having tea with her London society friends or having dinner with her granny at her estate, not knowing the time and place.
The last few days have been exhausting for the heiress. As she tried on and on to forget these sinful acts done by her boss. She blew on a lock of hair hanging across her eye, "And then you came in, Ana."
Everybody threw a pillow toward Ana as they booed.
"Boo!"
"Ana's a fucking bore!"
"I mean, who would've thought, huh? You've always loathed that man."
That was true. Irene Grosvenor have always hated Thomas Shelby.
The Swyft dynasty heiress threw her hands up desperately, "Hey, I didn't know!. Had I known, I would've let them shag right then and there!"
Ana winced when Irene's spicy little pinches came in contact with her skin. The latter's chuckle faltered into a frown. What was going to happen now between her and Thomas?
More importantly, what is this? This feeling of longing. Longing for his touch, his little smile, his presence. His always-present frown that she hates so very much, though, has been somewhat of a staple to her everyday life. Thomas's dark rumble of laughter every time he kids with his brothers, the little glare he'd throw at her no less than five times each day.
The smell of burnt sandalwood, cigarette, and whiskey clinging to his body.
Goodness, what has Irene Celeste Deschanel-Grosvenor turned into?With a sigh, the heiress shuffled herself to the window seat. "What am I supposed to do now?"
