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...
≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺ "Well, she said something about being wealthy, so...."
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Lizzie Stark scowled when Irene glided through the slippery floor of the room.
The secretary's brows scrunched, even more, when Thomas Shelby pulled the heiress' arm. In response, Irene threw a smirk toward the raven-haired woman. Tommy's hand moved up to the small of her back as he guided her through the sea of sweaty and high-on-testosterone men, "You look lovely."
Irene felt a blush crept up her neck, her body feeling giddy. She turned her head, drinking in the sight of Thomas Shelby. Looking as fine as ever with his coat back on. "Thanks."
A flash of Isabelle laughing along with Mr Solomons caught her eye.
When Tommy had safely ushered her to a dark corner, Irene gulped. She and Mr Shelby doesn't really have an excellent track record with illicit dark corners. Things her granny, grandmama, and mama would frown upon have happened there.
Though when she searched the sea of blue in Thomas's eyes, she saw nothing but worry.
He dragged his hand through his hair before pulling out a cigarette in a usual Tommy style, "You shouldn't have come here."
Irene was puzzled in every way possible, "W-what?"
"Fuck, I don't know. Just – why did you come here anyway?"
"Uh, excuse me for coming to the event that I helped to plan."
"I didn't ask you to."
Even during times like this, both Irene and Thomas can't seem to escape the clutches of petty arguments. It didn't help when her sparring partner's expression hardens, meaning he really meant what he said.
The heiress' brown eyes battled with the blue ones of Tommy's.
Time after time, Irene Grosvenor have proved to Thomas how she has the upper hand on the staring contest.
He looked away thirty seconds into the battle, taking a drag of his cigarette, "I just – don't want my asset, to be scathed."
Asset? Oh, how romantic you are, Thomas Shelby. Nothing screams amorous than being called an asset.
The "asset" rolled her eyes, "Well, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much."
That was a lie. Irene Grosvenor can only throw a mediocre punch. And probably sashay her way through a fight.
Tommy let out a low patronizing bark, "Sure you can, Princess."
He took another long drag from the cheap cigarette before settling on the wall next to her. His mouth released the smoke in long streaks as his eyes travelled from the heiress' heels to her bejewelled chest, "Do you wanna fuck?"
