Rex blinked. "So I’m basically wearing endangered material?"
She ignored the joke.
"The lining is moiré satin—subtle water-pattern texture, breathable, and cool under pressure. The kind of thing a man can wear in sumr and still look like he’s untouchable. All the embroidery," she pointed to the faint glimr tracing the lapel and cuffs, "was done by hand. No machine in the world could match the detailing. Took two artisans and thirty-two hours."
She circled the suit, checking one of the seams like it was a breathing patient. "We reinforced the shoulder structure this morning—needed a cleaner line to match your fra. Your left sleeve was also ever so slightly too long by three milliters. Fixed."
Rex raised an eyebrow. "You asured my arms down to milliters?"
"I asured your presence," she said smugly. "This suit isn’t just made to fit you. It’s made to carry you. You’ll walk into that party tonight and command the room before you speak. That’s not fashion. That’s precision engineering."
"Let guess," Rex said, slowly circling the suit now like a panther evaluating prey, "so eccentric fashion genius designed this?"
Seraphina’s smile widened. "Armand Vassier. His last collection showed at a closed-door private event in Paris. This particular design was a personal prototype he never mass-produced. I—" she paused, her expression proud yet mischievous, "—might’ve pulled a few strings. And debts."
Rex stared at her.
"You kidnapped him too?" he asked.
"Please," she scoffed. "Armand volunteered once he saw your asurents."
He let out a low whistle, reaching up to graze the fabric between two fingers. It was smooth, almost weightless, but clearly structured. He could already imagine the feel of it across his shoulders, how the cut would taper at the waist just right, how the color would catch the warm lighting of the party.
"You really didn’t hold back," he murmured.
"I couldn’t," she said. "You needed sothing that didn’t just say money. It needed to say legacy. And tonight’s event? It’s not a party. It’s a chessboard."
He looked at the suit again, then at her—eyes slightly narrowed, almost impressed.
"I suppose I should be worried you’re dressing soone else just as hard," he said, half-teasing.
Seraphina smiled faintly. "There is no one else, Rex."
He blinked.
She turned away before the mont could get heavier than the suit. "Now stop gawking and go try it on. And don’t you dare wrinkle the shoulders."
Rex gave a mock salute, plucked the hanger from the rack, and made his way to the fitting room.
The mont the curtain slid closed behind him, the boutique seed to hush. As if even the air knew this was no ordinary outfit change.
He slipped out of his current clothes quickly, folding them with an absentminded neatness, then reached for the suit.
As soon as he slid his arms through the jacket, it was like slipping into another version of himself—one with sharper edges, heavier footsteps, and a silent promise of power. The fabric clung in all the right places, tapering just enough to highlight his build without screaming for attention. The dark charcoal glead faintly under the boutique lights, and those midnight-blue accents shimred like whispers.
He adjusted the collar, fastened the last button, and gave his reflection a long, considering look.
He looked... untouchable.
Even he had to admit it. Seraphina hadn’t just tailored a suit—she’d tailored an identity.
He stepped out of the fitting room.
Seraphina was tapping sothing on her tablet, distracted—until she looked up.
For a second, she didn’t say anything. Her lips parted slightly, her hand frozen mid-scroll. Then her gaze slowly, deliberately, traveled from his shoulders down to his shoes and back again.
"Well?" Rex said, spreading his arms ever so slightly.
She tilted her head, eyes sharp. "Turn."
He gave her a full rotation, taking his sweet ti just to annoy her.
When he faced her again, she exhaled—slow and quiet, like soone looking at a finished painting they didn’t quite expect to love this much.
"If you show up to that party and don’t cause at least three scandals," she said dryly, "I’ll be personally offended."
Rex smirked. "Scandals are extra. I charge per headline."
She arched a brow, then reached over to adjust the cuff of his sleeve with the ease of soone who’d done it a thousand tis.
"Hold still," she murmured. "Thread’s caught."
Her fingers brushed against his wrist—light, professional, but warm.
For a second, neither spoke.
Then she stepped back, expression composed again. "There. Perfect."
Rex rolled his shoulder once, letting the suit settle into place. It moved like a second skin.
"Alright," he said, sliding a hand into his pocket. "Guess I’m party-ready."
"You’re storm-ready," she corrected. "And if you don’t turn heads tonight, it’s not the suit’s fault."
He laughed under his breath, then glanced at the mirror again. "I should warn the city."
Seraphina smirked. "Please do. It’s only polite."
Just as Rex turned to leave, steps light and satisfied, Seraphina’s voice rang out, sharp and urgent.
"Wait—wait! Where do you think you’re going?"
He stopped mid-step, spinning around with wide eyes like a student caught sneaking out of detention. "Outside?" he said slowly, pointing toward the boutique’s glass doors like it was the most natural answer in the world.
Seraphina blinked at him. "What?"
He mirrored her confusion. "What?" he repeated, just as cluelessly.
They stared at each other for a beat. Then suddenly—his eyes widened in mock horror. He took a step back, then another, putting comical distance between them, clutching his suit like it was his last line of defense.
"W-wait... don’t tell ..." he stamred, pressing a hand to his chest, his expression shifting into sothing between scandalized and shy. "You’re not planning sothing... inappropriate, are you? For kids, I an?"
Seraphina squinted, unsure whether to laugh or slap him.
"I—I won’t give in, okay?" he continued, backing up dramatically, as if expecting her to pounce. "No matter how much you try to intimidate or, or—force yourself on ... I’m a man of principles! Dignity! Restraint!"
He clutched his chest as if protecting his virtue from so unspeakable tailoring-based violation.
"Even if you get my body," he declared, eyes blazing with faux defiance, "you won’t get my heart!"
The mannequin behind him wobbled like it too was shocked by the accusation.
Then he paused, hesitating just long enough to make things worse.
"...B-but," he added, his voice softening as he glanced away with a flustered expression, "if you do force , then I guess I’ll have to accept my cruel fate. Just—just promise you’ll take responsibility, okay? I-It’s my first ti..."
He looked at her with an expression so innocent, so scandalously bashful, it was like a helpless damsel ripped straight out of a 90s shoujo manga—complete with invisible flower petals and sparkles.
Seraphina just stared at him, utterly blindsided. Her clipboard slid from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Mouth slightly open.
Eyes unblinking.
She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Didn’t even breathe.
It was unclear whether she was frozen in shock or physically unable to comprehend the absurdity radiating from this man in her boutique.
Finally, she managed a single word, spoken with the exasperation of soone whose brain had just short-circuited.
"Huh?!"
The sound echoed like the scream of soone questioning all their life choices.
(End of Chapter)
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