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The mirror reflects the deep navy blue of my suit pants, fitted just right, neither too tight nor too loose. The fabric is smooth, high-quality, structured enough to sit well on my frame. The matching blue shirt is buttoned up neatly, the collar sharp, sleeves just at my wrists. But the final touch—the cardigan—is what I liked the most. It's dark blue like the rest, but there's something about its old-school design, the way it drapes over my shoulders, adding a casual yet polished edge, that makes me choose it over the suit jacket.
I adjust the cuffs of my shirt slightly before taking a breath and stepping out of the fitting room.
The moment I emerge, I hear a gasp.
The designer, a sharp-eyed woman in her mid-forties with dark brown curls pinned up loosely, stares at me like she just saw the Sistine Chapel for the first time. Her hands are pressed together in front of her chest, and then, as if on cue, she starts clapping.
I raise an eyebrow. "Dramatic much?"
She ignores my remark, her eyes practically sparkling. "Blair, mon dieu, this is elegance." She steps forward, circling around me like an artist examining their masterpiece. "The cardigan was the right choice. It gives a timeless, effortless charm—like an old Hollywood star."
I say nothing, just watch as she moves, adjusting the fabric on my shoulders slightly, fixing a minor crease in the sleeve.
"You look expensive," she finally declares, nodding in satisfaction. "Like someone who doesn't need to try to impress but still does."
I smirk. "Good. That's exactly the goal."
She gestures for me to turn. I humor her, giving a slow spin before stopping with my hands in my pockets. "So?" I ask.
She steps back, tilting her head as if committing the sight to memory. "They're going to love it."
I exhale, glancing down at myself. The look is good. More comfortable than I expected, yet sharp enough for an event like this.
The designer suddenly exclaims, her voice sharp with realization, making me jolt slightly.
"Wait, wait—there's a little key missing!" she mutters, almost as if she's talking to herself.
I blink at her, watching as she throws herself onto her pile of things, hands digging frantically through fabric, accessories, and measuring tapes. Half of them end up on the floor, but she doesn't seem to care, too deep in her search to notice.
I cross my arms, arching a brow. "Are you—"
"Aha!" she cuts me off, triumphantly pulling something from the mess. She turns toward me, eyes glinting with satisfaction as she holds up a navy-blue tie between her fingers.
I instantly understand.
Before I can say anything, she's already stepping toward me, getting a little too close. The scent of expensive perfume and fabric glue fills the space between us as she carefully drapes the tie around my neck, fingers working quickly to fasten it.
