Urban System in America

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 summer and still look like he’s untouchable. All the embroidery," she pointed to the faint glimmer 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 frame. Your left sleeve was also ever so slightly too long by three millimeters. Fixed."

Rex raised an eyebrow. "You measured my arms down to millimeters?"

"I measured 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 me guess," Rex said, slowly circling the suit now like a panther evaluating prey, "some 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 measurements."