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"Better get some sleep before my eyes start to fucking wrinkle."
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.
But what the boss wants, the boss gets, eh?
Irene doesn't mind if those requests were simple: calling up a shop or getting something near Eaton. But that wasn't the fact. The fact was that what Mr Shelby wants, he gets.
Even if that meant waking up an aristocrat in the middle of her beauty sleep just to get his vest from his lover slash secretary's flat and delivering it to his home, basically still half asleep.
Although, at that time, Irene was luckier. She had the chance to wear an actual outfit, not like now-
But that wasn't the point. The point is that Mr Shelby is a demanding arsehole who wants everything he says to be taken as a command. And, somehow, someone like her, a highly respectable aristocrat in London society, is his beck and call. Utter fuck.
When she got to the office, she parked the Rolls Royce in a haphazard position before marching towards the doors.
The office of Shelby Company Ltd at night slash dawn was a spine-chilling environment. All of the building's lights were off, leaving Mr Shelby's office lights on, of course, and the eerie hallways that used to be filled with staffs running around only had... well, nothing.
Fuck, it's dark.
Cursed the aristocrat inside her brain. We all know the relationship between Lady Irene Grosvenor and the dark. Maybe, if I squint and run-
"What're you doing standing 'ere?" Thomas's voice came from behind her. Irene yelped as she turned around, almost slapping Mr Shelby on the face, her breaths uneven as she circled a hand over her neck in instinct.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen... It's alright, Irene. You're okay.
When the girl finally regained her composure, she realised something. Irene was now exposing her state to Mr Shelby, who has been staring at her the entire time.
Cigarette and a glass of whisky in hand.
Irene tied her nightgown with the strings as she straightened herself, "Right, what can I do, Mr Shelby?"
The head of the Shelby family's eyes lingered on her chest for a few more seconds before abruptly looking away. Making Irene frown and drew her garment closer if that was even possible. Thomas cleared his throat, mustering the same baritone voice, "My uh, the reports for this week's finance. I can't find them."
Thomas Shelby doesn't look the slightest bit guilty for staring an aristocrat in the chest, and it fucks Irene in the head.
They walked together to the shared office, shuffling awkwardly when their bodies hit the door simultaneously. "I'm sure I put it somewhere around here."
Thomas was now standing near the armchairs by the fire, looking attractive as ever with his shirt halfway unbuttoned. Still smoking and drinking. She could feel his burning stare on the nape of her neck when she reached the shelving behind his desk, trying to find some clue on where that damn file would be so that she could hurry up and go back to her toasty bed.
When Irene opened the second drawer to the left, she sighed outwardly. There it fucking is, the damn file. Sitting neatly and peacefully on the drawer floor.
You are one hell of a journey, little arse.
Irene had thought, then she giggled lightly, thinking how silly she was; talking to a file. She knew, and expected it really, that the file could've been found by Mr Shelby himself. But noo... He had to call his Head of Legal to do a secretary's job. "Mr Shelby, here's the fil-"
What Irene Grosvenor didn't expect was Thomas's body so close to hers when she turned around. His chest bumping her shoulders, hot breath fanning her nose.
Her brown orbs immediately travelled down to the unbuttoned shirt, or rather frustratingly, what's behind it—a set of muscular chest with a tattoo on the left one. Mr Shelby was surprisingly groomed for a man, with not too much hair on his perfectly sculpted body.
He's well-groomed, but somehow there was something so... roguish about him. Maybe it was the single malt whisky smell that seemed to cling on to him endlessly, or the smell of aftershave wafting, or perhaps the strong musky smell complementing the whisky—either way.
Sorry, mama. I know if you find out about this, you would scold me for being incredibly inappropriate. Though, if I focus my eyes enough in this damn lighting, I can very much see the shape of a sun, wait, or is it a burst of sunshine? A sunflower, perhaps? Fuck, Irene, why would Thomas Shelby, the gang leader, have a fucking sunflower tattoo?
The hot breath on the bridge of her nose brought Irene back from her trance.
She shoved the file on Thomas's chest without looking up, "Here, uh, is the file contract, thing."
Irene shuffled uncomfortably as her fingers brought a lock of wavy brown hair to the back of her ear before shuffling away from the whisky and musk smelling boss of hers; his eyes could be felt smearing the backside of her body. The young duchess fanned a hand over her neck.
Is it hot in here? Since when Birmingham December air is this humid?
She now stood near the fire previously occupied by Mr Shelby, suddenly feeling a bit flushed. When the aristocrat looked at the latter, she found him still in the same position from earlier. The intoxicating position. The position she hopes nobody ever finds her in. I-is that? No fucking way.
If her eyes weren't betraying her, Irene just found Thomas Shelby with the smallest lift on the corner of his lips. He's... grinning.
Of course, the sign of happiness was only a fleeting moment and, in fact, a small one. Because God forbid someone sees Thomas Shelby, OBE, with a fucking smile, right?
"I ought to get back. If I make haste, I can make it back here at nine later." Irene announced, her eyes moving from the grand grandfather clock to her boss.
Honest to God, she hopes he says yes.
Her body is aching for some good and wholesome slumber in her toasty bed that always smells like lavender. Thomas lifted his eyes and travelled them from her wavy brown locks to her slipper covered toes. Irene can't help but slump onto herself. The ever self-assured aristocrat felt shy being stared at by a pair of icy blue eyes.
Those same eyes went back to the papers as he said, "A woman driving herself at the crack of fucking dawn?"
A scoff couldn't help but to escape from Irene's pink lips, "I seemed to be doing just fine an hour ago."
The bang on the desk jolted Irene. Alarmed her.
She hugged herself due to the loud and sudden sound, "What're you-"
"Why can't you just fucking listen!?" Mr Shelby sounded mad, though the young duchess didn't understand why.
"Listen? You can't tell me what to do, Mr Shelby."
Thomas raked his fingers through his hair, looking like he was about one word away from banging the table again. With his fingers, he motioned toward the window, "There are fucking Italians out there, fucking ruthless wops. And when they see you getting out of here looking like... that, they'll use you against me. You'll be a fucking liability for me and my family."
The young duchess was about to argue but couldn't help make sense of what Thomas Shelby said. She threw her hands up in despair, "Fine, I'll go to Polly's, I'll stay there."
"No, you will come with me to my fucking house. No going alone."
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Irene has visited Thomas's home countless times now. With her teaching his son Charles the violin, she had spent hours on end in the cramped space of the basic too-grey-in-her-opinion Small Hethan house.
Everything was the same, the same black door she saw just yesterday evening. And yet, when Thomas slid in his keys ever so vigorously, Irene couldn't help but feel something different.
She didn't feel like she was the head legal in his company or the violin teacher of his son; she felt like, like... well.
Irene felt like one of his ever-changing lovers.
Irene's head shook aggressively once she made sense of what she felt. Grab your shit together, Irene.
The house emitted warm air as soon as a third of the Shelby brothers opened its doors; Irene felt the blood rush back to her cheeks due to the warmness.
If heaven was on earth, this is what it feels like.
Thomas turned back to look at the flushed aristocrat, "Well, home sweet home."
Irene smiled wide in response. Making the man in front of her - for some reason- lingered his eyes on her face.
Irene, being uncomfortable, looked up, and that's when their eyes met. Once again, she can't help but soften under his glare. There was just so many things Thomas Shelby's eyes could tell. Sadness, happiness, a form of unbreaking determination.
Sadness was what Irene saw the most, so she can't help but soften her gaze at him. Peering through her eyelashes while giving him the slightest lift of the corners of her eyes.
And for once, she saw Thomas Shelby's face soften.
It was a fleeting moment, however. As Mr Shelby abruptly cleared his throat and motioned to the phone on the side table beside the sofa, "You can use the phone. Call your sister."
Irene nodded her head slowly as she took her time walking to the phone. Punching in the number, she said, "Eaton Hall."
It took a few rings until the familiar groggy morning voice of her sister Izzy came about, "Alright, don't freak out, ma Cherie. Je pourrais avoir vini dans la maison de Shelby et maintenant je pourrais avoir une attaque de panique."
Irene could only think of saying how she felt at the moment, and that meant I might have ended up in Shelby's house, and now I might be having a panic attack.
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The young duchess didn't think there would be a guest room inside Thomas Shelby's small house. But then, here she was. Standing in front of a room with Mr Shelby standing near her. Too close for her liking.
Mr Shelby's legs moved toward the door, "Here's your grand suite, Your Majesty."
Irene glowered at the blue-eyed man. Tiny feet moved toward the door where Thomas stood, and as she twisted her body to pass through the small space, once again, she was met with the body of her boss. Well, isn't this just lovely? Shelby's chest and mine might as well be acquainted.
Once she managed to stumble into the bedroom, she eyed the room in dismay. Her nose wrinkled. The room was far from what she's used to at Eaton Hall or her family estate back in London. Her nose wrinkling didn't go unnoticed by the man standing by the door. He scoffed, shaking his head though he remained silent. Irene turned slowly,
"Will you be sleeping here too?" It was all Irene can manage to say.
Mr Shelby eyed her as if she was the strangest thing in the world. The young duchess's eyes widened once she realised what came out of her mouth, "I-I meant-"
And then he tried to hide his amusement, "No, Your Eminence. I will not sleep with you, as I will sleep with my son."
"Oh, right, Charlie."
Irene's body tensed as she thought Mr Shelby was about to walk up to her. Instead, the man just walked out of the room, shutting the door with him, exclaiming, "Sleep tight, Your Grace."
Irene puffed out a breath as soon as the smell of musk and whisky left the premises. She lied on the bed slowly while thinking how the events being unfolded in the past two hours seemed to be a blur. Her hands moved to feel the cheap sheets underneath her,
"Better get some sleep before my eyes start to fucking wrinkle."