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...
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"So, does that satisfy you?"
May Carleton's eyes drifted to the newly taken pictures on Tommy's bedside table, dainty fingers sliding a slip dress over her naked chest. The Blue-Eyed Devil's eyes followed her every move.
John and Arthur revealed their informant was none other than the gang leader's old flame. It's funny how fate works; you never really think about it until it comes and kick you in the balls.
It wasn't that May had somehow replaced Irene in any sense. If only it made Thomas realise what kind of woman he'd lost. What kind of woman he craved all these years. The sex was only business—A transaction between a buyer and a seller. And what better way to pay up than satisfy your own needs too?
Tommy croaked out, "Yep."
He rose from the bed, zipping his trousers as he once again observed the pictures. The way the brown-haired heiress wrapped her arms around a man's neck as she leaned into his welcoming lips.
She's with someone, that fucking brat. She didn't show to Ana's labour to fuck around with this twat. And when Irene's not there, why the fuck Thomas would be there? He did send a handsome sum of money to the happy couple.
May observed her ex-partner from the giant mirror, registering the darkening look on Thomas' face. The tell-tale tick in his jaw, the slight flex of his arm as he balled up his fists. All for a bold young child, she scoffed.
"You alright?"
His answer was not helping him either, "Why wouldn't I?"
She rolled her eyes, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that Irene Grosvenor, daughter of The Duke of Westminster, has a possible new lover?"
"Or the fact that she looks fucking beautiful as she vacations in Monaco while you look like someone who hasn't gone out in half a year?"
The blues in Tommy's eyes were piercing when he turned toward the blue blood. That action alone made her clamp her mouth shut.
Though she was not entirely satisfied with mocking one of the most dangerous men in the United Kingdom, "Or maybe the fact that her new lover is someone actually from her kind."
The gang leader took giant steps toward May. Though, no matter how much he wants to deny it, how much he wants to yell 'You're fuckin' wrong!', it was true. Junius Spencer Morgan the fucking Third was someone deep inside the blue blood circle. Whiskey and Cuban Cigar was what made the JP Morgan heir, not beer and cheap cigarette.
Junius was the man Irene was getting lovey-dovey with and the man who would lose his arm if he didn't stop holding the heiress by the small of her back just like the way Tommy used to do. He stubbed his cigarette on top of the man's face, "Right, anything else?"
He's got that contemplating face again. Like everything he does has to have a formula to it, eyes sharp and distant.
May blinked, "Well, I-"
"No? I've got business."
The blue blood chuckled inwardly, knowing full well the meaning behind Tommy's words. She shook her head, "Right. Um, see you next month?"
Thomas slid on his coat, shoving the pictures in with too much pressure as he nodded slowly. His feet carried him out of the room before May even got the chance to say another word. "Drive safe. I'll make sure someone gets you home."
May scoffed; she was once again left alone by Thomas Shelby.
Her hand snatched the dress hanging haphazardly on top of the hanger as she collected what little dignity she had left.
