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...
"Oh, and boys? Give those to your wives. I don't trust men enough to remember anything."
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Tommy's heart might have stopped beating.
Or maybe it was his lungs that halted its respiration process. Or maybe fucking both.
But the leader of the Peaky Blinders was sure the heiress suffocated him to death for nearly thirty seconds. A pin drop can be heard after the notorious heiress characteristically exclaimed, "Rejoice, for you have been blessed with my presence."
He wanted to laugh; he really did. He had missed that sense of comical confidence Irene Grosvenor brings with her. That unapologetic snobbish temperament he so hated but has learned to tolerate. Yet only an eye roll crept its way to Tommy's guarded composure. Why can't he bring himself to smile?
Even when he's so happy she's here; he could burst into flames.
Ten silent seconds later, Irene flung herself into Michael's embrace. Hugging him tightly, arms snaking their way around his neck. Polly's son returned the hug, laughing in the process. Tommy and his brothers shared a look of disbelief and horror as they observed the scene. None of them had ever thought they would see the Grosvenor heiress cross the pub threshold again.
His eyes lingered at the hands wrapped around his cousin's neck. Somehow the grip on his whiskey glass became tighter. The soft parts of his fingers turned white.
"Michael! Where have you been? I was in America last year, you know. I could've visited you. It's a very short flight from New York to Detroit. " Irene punched Michael's arm playfully.
The honey-brown eyes Tommy had missed so very much shifted their way to the new member of the family, never losing her regal composure. Not necessarily extending a hand, Irene introduced herself, "Hello, Lady Irene Grosvenor. Pleased to meet you."
The boys snickered, shaking their heads at the young duchess. Thomas smirked over the rim of his crystal. She scowled playfully at his brothers, those lips forming the ear to ear grin he had ached to behold once more.
He wanted to take a picture of her just like that, making a shrine just out of her. The lingering beam drooped once she met his eyes, turning into a thin-lipped smile.
Polly strode fast to hug her, not caring about her new daughter-in-law's response. The collide brought out a whimper from Irene, "Polly!"
Tommy's aunt caressed the socialite's hair tenderly as the latter hid her face in the crook of her neck. Irene didn't realize how much she missed the matriarch's lingering scent. A mother's touch was indeed what she needed. Pols choked on her words, fingers cupping Irene's cheeks, "Look at you!"
Look at her was what he did, eyes roving from top to bottom. And back. Irene was different, and not just appearance-wise. No matter how many photos his informant supplied him with, it cannot begin to grasp the radiance emanating from her. Forming some fucking halo enveloping his woman, making her look like one of the saints Polly worships in church.
