“I haven’t begun to threaten you,” she murmured back. “And if you call me ‘darling’ again, you’ll be wearing that tuxedo in a hospital gown configuration.”
“Promise?”
Her eye-roll was magnificent.
The private fitting area resembled a gentlemen’s club from another century; leather chairs, crystal decanters of amber liquids, and mirrors strategically placed to flatter even the most unfortunate physiques. Anatoly gestured to two younger men who appeared with measuring tapes draped around their necks.
“Lucas and Paul will take your measurements,” Anatoly explained. “While I select some options based on your... requirements.”
As the assistants approached with their tapes, a familiar discomfort rose. I hated this part. The hovering, the touching, the unspoken judgment of every physical imperfection. My mind flashed back to eighth grade, being measured for a scholarship program’s donated blazer while classmates snickered about my too-short pants.
“Actually,” Anica interjected, surprising me, “I have some specific ideas. Navy would be preferable to black. It’s more flattering with Mr. Burkhardt’s coloring. Black is too harsh against his skin tone.”
Anatoly looked momentarily surprised at having his expertise challenged, then thoughtful. “You have an excellent eye, Ms. Marcel. Navy is indeed more complementary to Mr. Burkhardt’s particular palette.”
“And I’d suggest a specific cut to accommodate his broader shoulders and athletic build. Something custom but not overly structured.” She spoke with such authority that even I was impressed. “Perhaps the Savile Row silhouette you featured in last month’s GQ spread? With modifications to the lapel width.”
Anatoly’s expression transformed from polite tolerance to genuine respect. “You follow men’s fashion, Ms. Marcel?”
“I follow everything that might impact my clients’ appearances at important events,” she replied. “The right attire is as crucial as the right venue.”
While they discussed fabrics and cuts, I studied Anica with new appreciation. She moved through this world, a world designed to intimidate, with complete confidence. No pretension, no insecurity, just expertise.
“Mr. Burkhardt?” Lucas approached cautiously. “We need to take your measurements now.”
I nodded, steeling myself for the discomfort. As they fluttered around me with their tapes, I focused on maintaining my usual nonchalance, but something must have shown in my expression.
“Perhaps we could expedite this process. Mr. Burkhardt has another appointment this afternoon,” Anica suggested.
“But precision requires time,” Paul protested. “Each measurement must be?—”
“Just the essentials,” I interrupted. “It’s just clothes.”
Anatoly looked taken aback. “Just clothes? Mr. Burkhardt, a properly tailored tuxedo is an investment in?—”
“Mr. Burkhardt appreciates quality,” Anica cut in, “but prefers functionality over fashion dissertations. Perhaps we could see the fabrics while Lucas and Paul work?”
Her intervention surprised me. She’d read my discomfort and redirected without drawing attention to it; a small kindness I hadn’t expected.
As Anatoly led Anica to a display of fabrics, Lucas moved in with his measuring tape. “Arms out, please.”
I complied, keeping my expression neutral despite my growing irritation with the process. The tape slid across my shoulders, down my arms, around my chest. All the while, the assistants murmured numbers to each other like they were exchanging secrets.
“You have an excellent physique, Mr. Burkhardt,” Lucas commented. “Many clients require... structural assistance.”
“I run,” I said shortly. Five miles every morning, rain or shine. A habit from when running was my only affordable exercise option. Now I had a home gym worth more than my childhood apartment building, but the pavement still called to me.
“And your waist measurement is quite impressive given your age,” Paul added.
“Given my what now?” I fixed him with a stare that had made tech CEOs reconsider their life choices.
Paul blanched. “I simply meant... for someone of your... achievement level.”
“He means you don’t have the typical CEO paunch,” Anica translated, returning with fabric swatches. “It was a compliment, albeit a poorly phrased one.”
“Hmm.” I wasn’t convinced, but the way Paul was now sweating suggested he’d learned his lesson.
“I’ve selected these three options,” she continued, holding up swatches in varying shades of navy. “The midnight blue has depth without being severe.”
