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"Well, she said something about being wealthy, so...."
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?"
There was evident hunger in Thomas Shelby's raspy vocal. Was he fucking drunk? The heiress' head whipped around frantically, making sure nobody heard what her boss had painfully asked.
Tommy let out a small, breathy laugh; watching the woman in his dreams panicked was somewhat his new pastime.
"Are you out of your mind?" Irene whisper-yelled.
Thomas was straight-faced, "Do I look like I'm out of my mind, Your Grace?"
Hearing Thomas Shelby says her title correctly for once made Irene's breath hitch. She shook her head slightly, clearing every illicit memory her mind had conjured up. "Hm. Just a minute ago, you were practically telling me to go, sir."
The pale blues of Tommy's eyes darken, like the rich blue of the ocean's most profound level. His Oxford shoes clapped as he walked closer, closing the distance. Irene leaned in, basking in the attention.
As much as the heiress wanted to give in to this moment, the thing she knew both of them had been craving. Waiting for. She had another idea when the figures of her confidantes came into view.
With a smirk on her lips, Irene leaned in. Closer and closer. Snaking her arms around her boss' back, caressing the coiled muscles. Tommy shuddered, drawing her even closer by the neck. Stroking her gemstone choker hungrily. The depths of pink on Tommy's lips were very tempting. But when it tried to lands itself on hers, the socialite put up a finger.
Biting her bottom lip before whispering just beside his raven hair, "The girls are behind you."
When Thomas' face contorted into a deep frown, eyes shining darkly as if saying how dare you; for the second fucking time, Irene knew she had messed with Thomas Shelby's head.
And that brought joy to her soul.
She untangled herself playfully before approaching her confidantes about three yards away—eyes twinkling with mischief, winking at Tommy.
The man scoffed, "Fine, go. I don't fucking need you."
Irene halted, turning around to find Thomas Shelby had slithered away somewhere. She was grinning like the Chesire Cat when she neared her confidantes, "Where're you headed?"
"To the powder room, love."
Irene nodded, following her five sisters. Still grinning with the idea that she had Thomas Shelby flustered. Not missing the chance to turn a few heads along the way, the Brat Pack marched through the crowd.
Basking in the glory, soaking it all in.
Tabitha tossed her hair.
And so, The Brat Pack walked like they owned the place.
Because let's face it, they probably own half of it.
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"So Izzy, is Mr Solomons really that funny?" Irene teased her younger-by-ten-months sister. Remembering the way Isabelle caressed Mr Solomons' arm as she threw her head back, laughing. As well as the way Mr Solomons would caress the small back of her sister every chance he gets.
Isabelle sighed as she put her rouge on the counter. Irene had never seen her sister contemplate this hard, not even when they were choosing their major.
"I – He asked me to marry him." Irene dropped the flask filled with whiskey smuggled from the manor. Somewhere in the room, someone had dropped a necklace they were holding.
A minute passed.
Two minutes.
The oldest daughter of the Grosvenors was the first to move, picking up the flask from the ground. Its contents already pooling on the bottom of her heels, "Uh – I – What?"
Imogen picked her azure gemstone necklace up, thankful none of the stones were scathed, "Yeah, what?"
They were now huddling in. Daphne grabbed Izzy's shoulders, "Darling, is he even allowed to do so?"
"I – I don't know. What do you mean by allowed?"
Irene's eyes widened, "Did he force you into anything? 'Cause if he did, I swear to God I – "
"No, goodness no. We both wanted it to happen." Isabelle was quick to shake her head. She then smiled contently. "He was nice, sweet even."
"That man can be sweet?" Tabitha muttered. Izzy shot a glare towards her, "Yes, yes he can."
Irene slapped a hand on her forehead, "Oh, mon Dieu. You're smitten."
"Now, I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I really wanted to. I did. But I was scared of your reactions. How it would play out,"
"But you know, things happen at offices. Late hours."
All eyes turned to Irene. The heiress shrugged, chugging the remaining contents of the flask down her throat. The familiar burning sensation played out in her throat.
"What things?" Tabitha wiggled her eyebrows. Irene considered throwing the heavy flask at her head. Izzy shook her head, used to Tabitha's antics. She leaned her head on her older sister, "How am I supposed to tell papa?"
"Ha. I have no idea. Though make sure I'm in the room, I want to see his reaction."
Irene could not make sense of her sister getting married. Not even when Nicholas Lyon proposed to her at a park in Chelsea. Nor she could grasp the qualities of Mr Solomons that made Isabelle so entrapped in the feeling of infatuation towards him.
"What about Nicholas?"
Imogen lifted her head. The baby of the Grosvenors has always had certain feelings for the cousin of Elizabeth Bowes Lyon. Nobody seems to notice the way Imogen's face would light up every time Nicholas enters the room, beaming at his fiancée. Nobody but Irene. At first, she thought it was harmless puppy love, but the more Irene observed Imogen, the more she realized that her sister had more to offer than sweet nothings to Nicholas.
"I haven't the slightest." Izzy sighed desperately, close to tears. Irene shook her sister's shoulders, "Hey, hey. We don't cry. We might drink ourselves to feeling good. But we never cry."
"Alright, bring it in." Tabitha stretched out her long golden arms, engulfing six of them in an enormous hug. The six of them leaning on each other. Like always.
"Right. That's my limit." Ana was the first to pull away. Straightening up her dress and Cartier bracelets. The girls chuckle along, shoving their mushy feelings aside after the exchange.
Leaning on the sink, Tabitha pointed to Daphne, "You know, I've always imagined Daphne to be the first one to get married."
Daphne frowned,"What?"
"You just matched perfectly with, you know, Robert."
Daphne rolled her eyes, though a smile was not missing from her lips.
"But you, Irene, I can't imagine you ever getting married." This time, Tabitha's index finger pointed to the lady wearing blue. "I mean, don't get me wrong. I've always imagined you as that wealthy aunt that brings expensive toys for our children."
Irene laughed, genuinely amused. Somehow not even offended by the comment. Either she doesn't care, or the little jab was not strong enough for someone like Irene Grosvenor.
Imogen stared at her sister bewildered, "How are you not fucking offended, Irene?"
The heiress blinked, "Well, she said something about being wealthy, so...."
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"Oh, you girls, go ahead. I have to get my gloves from the car."
Isabelle linked her arm with Irene's, "I'll accompany you."
The latter nodded as the girls moved along, joining the gigantic crowd watching the grotesque sport happening in the ring. As Irene and Izzy walked through the corridor, they reminisce about their holiday in the South of France last July.
All the fun memories, embarrassing and annoying ones. Getting drunk on expensive alcohols while dangling off chandeliers.
The end of the corridor was dark. Not a single light was on. Isabelle turned to her sister, looking worried. "It's – Let's just run. Or sprint? What do you want? It's up to you."
Irene's breath was quickening only by staring at the deep black in front of her. "It's alright, let's just sp-"
A heavy groan was heard from the dark corner. The sisters exchanged looks, sauntering. Irene clutched to her sister, "Hello?"
It was cold there as she waited for an answer. But there was only heavy breathing on the other side. Their small steps brought them close enough to make out the pained man's figure. Slumping on the wall, with dark liquid oozing out of his gash. The older sister's eyes travelled to the man's neck, where it had a terrible slit running through it.
When she reached to the man's face, her hands travelled to cover her mouth, "Arthur?!"
She could hear Izzy gag nearby.
Arthur's eyes widened; he tried to open his mouth to say something, but only the sounds of gurgles came out. Irene crouched down, followed by Izzy. Her hands moved to the top of the wound. In whatever way, trying to stop it from bleeding too much.
Izzy put her purse on the bottom of Arthur's head, "What should we do, Irene?"
Without looking up, hands bloodied, the heiress only had one response, "Get Tommy."
Everything was dark. The only thing Irene can tell was the blood staining her hands, pooling next to her and the ragged breaths that belonged to the oldest of the Shelby boys. When she heard the sound of Isabelle's heels clanking on the ground, she knew that sister of hers had gotten up.
Though not a mere five seconds later, those sounds stopped. "Isabelle?"
"Hello, Lady Grosvenor."