Jake stood in the center of the boutique for a beat, then pushed the heavy glass door open.
Immediately, the humid air of the street was replaced by a pressurized, expensive-smelling chill. The lighting was recessed and soft, the background music a low, rhythmic hum that sounded like it cost a monthly subscription he couldn't afford. Even the scent was curated—a blend of polished wood, high-end fabric, and a trace of cologne that probably cost more than his laptop.
A sales associate drifted toward him with the silent grace of a predator. He was dressed sharply enough to make Jake feel a sudden, internal prick of self-consciousness in his clean jeans and button-down.
"Good afternoon," the man said, his voice as smooth as polished marble. "How can I help you today?"
Jake kept his expression neutral, trying to channel the same calm he used when watching gold charts. "I'm looking for a suit."
The associate's eyes flicked over him—a quick, professional scan of his frame and posture—before settling into a practiced, welcoming smile. "For a specific occasion, perhaps?"
"A business networking event," Jake said.
The man nodded as if Jake had just confirmed a royal appointment. "Of course. Something formal, yet not overdone? Sharp, but understated?"
Jake hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure where the line for "overdone" was drawn in a world where people drank sparkling water just to feel superior. To him, overdressed was wearing a tie to a lecture. Here, the rules were different.
"Something that won't make me look out of place," Jake simplified.
"Understood." The associate led him toward a section of dark suits arranged with unnerving precision. Navy, charcoal, and black wools hung in perfect rows. 'Hopefully this kid is serious,' the associate thought silently, his eyes tracking Jake's hand. 'I really need this commission to hit my target.'
Jake's attention landed almost immediately on a navy suit. It wasn't loud, and that was exactly what caught him. It had clean lines, a subtle sheen, and a kind of quiet authority that didn't beg for attention—it just commanded it.
"This one," Jake said, pointing.
The associate beamed. "Excellent eye. Premium Italian wool blend. Very clean, very confident. It says you've already arrived without you having to say a word."
Jake ignored the sales pitch. "I'll try it."
Inside the fitting room, he changed slowly, feeling the cool silk of the lining against his skin. The jacket fit his shoulders with an ease he hadn't expected, and the trousers fell cleanly without any of the awkward bunching he was used to with off-the-rack clothes. When he finally buttoned the jacket and looked in the mirror, he went still.
He didn't look like a struggling student pretending to be something he wasn't. He looked like someone who belonged in rooms he hadn't even discovered yet.
'Is that actually me?' he wondered, adjusting the lapels. 'I guess it's true what they say about the clothes.'
"How is the fit, sir?" the associate called from behind the curtain.
Jake cleared his throat, finding his voice. "Good. It fits well."
"Step out and let me see."
Jake pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the main showroom. The associate's eyes widened just a fraction—a tiny break in his professional mask that Jake caught instantly.
"Very good," the man said, his voice hushed. "That works extremely well on your frame. It's... quite striking."
Jake glanced at his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors. The suit wasn't flashy, but it was unmistakably expensive. For some reason, that suddenly mattered. It felt like armor. "How much?"
The associate didn't flinch. "11,800 VM."
Jake didn't blink, though internally, a small part of him wanted to gasp. That wasn't just "expensive." That was a number that represented months of his father's hard work. But then he looked at the reality of his trading account. He could afford it. Ten times over.
He didn't want to hesitate. He didn't want to look like he was doing mental math in front of a man who sold clothes for a living. "I'll take it," he said firmly.
The associate's smile shifted. There was real respect in his eyes now. "An excellent decision. Shall we look at shirts and ties to complete the look?"
By the time Jake walked out of the store with a garment bag draped over his arm, his heartbeat was oddly steady. Spending the money didn't feel like a wound; it felt like an investment.
---
He made it home just before the sun dipped below the horizon, casting Aurelia in a deep orange glow. The second he stepped through the door, Aliya's voice whipped down the hallway.
"Jake! Why do I smell expensive decisions?"
Jake sighed, closing the door behind him. "That's not even a smell, Aliya."
She appeared a second later, her eyes locking onto the garment bag with the intensity of a heat-seeking missile. "Oh... my... God. What is that?"
"Clothes," Jake said, trying to push past her.
Aliya blocked his path, her hands on her hips. "You don't buy 'clothes' in a bag like that. Why do you need a suit? Are you getting married? Did you join a cult?"
"There's a networking event at the university," he said, moving toward his room.
She followed him like a persistent shadow. "A networking event? Since when do you care about networking? Who invited you? Is it that Catharine girl? Is she finally claiming her prize?"
Jake stopped and turned, exasperated. "No. I mean, yes, she invited me, but it's for my career. I go to class with her, Aliya."
Aliya pressed a hand to her chest. "It's happening. My brother is evolving. I thought the rumors of your social life were myths, but here we are."
"Don't you have homework?"
"Not as important as this! Open it. Let me see."
"No."
Aliya gasped, pointing a finger at him. "It's expensive! Silence is admission!"
Jake ignored her and carefully hung the bag on his closet door. Aliya leaned against the doorframe, her eyes bright with a mix of suspicion and genuine excitement. "So, you bought a suit for an event with rich people. The kind who drink sparkling water just to feel superior."
That actually got a faint smile out of him. "Pretty much."
Aliya noticed the smile and narrowed her eyes. "Jake... where did the money come from? For real?"
"I told you, the trading is going well," he said, his voice calm. "Really well."
"How well?"
"Well enough," he replied.
She groaned, sliding dramatically down the doorframe until she was sitting on the floor. "That is literal torture. Tell me the number!"
"You'll survive." Jake sat on his bed.
Aliya looked at the bag again. "Is that suit worth more than my school fees for a semester?"
Jake didn't answer. He just looked at her and offered a small, knowing smile. Her jaw dropped. "Oh my God, Jake! You're actually doing it!"
He let out a long breath. "I just don't want to look out of place. I don't know what people wear to these things."
Aliya's expression softened, the drama fading for a moment. She stood up and stepped into the room. "Jake."
"What?"
"Don't embarrass yourself," she said quietly.
"I'm trying not to."
"No, I mean... don't be too good-looking and make everyone hate you." She smirked. "Rich kids hate unexpected competition. They like to be the only ones shining."
Jake chuckled. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you for the warning."
"Also," she added, her usual self returning, "bring me back a snack from the catering. I'm adaptable."
---
Later that evening, after a quiet dinner, Jake stood before his mirror. He adjusted the navy jacket, straightened the white shirt, and pulled the dark tie into a neat, tight knot. The effect was even stronger than it had been in the store.
'Is this too much?' he wondered. Catharine had told him to dress properly. He had interpreted that as 'don't look like you're struggling,' but he currently looked like he could buy the venue. He hesitated, his hand on the tie. Then he remembered where he was going. He was entering a world of sponsors and alumni. Being slightly overdressed was a shield; being underdressed was an invitation for dismissal.
"Alright," he whispered to his reflection. "Let's see what's on the other side of the door."
His phone buzzed.
*Cath: Don't forget. Meridian Hall. 7 p.m. And Jake... seriously. No sneakers.*
*Jake: Noted. I'm wearing actual shoes. Like a functioning adult.*
*Cath: Good. See you there.*
He locked the phone and grabbed his wallet. Aliya was leaning against the hallway wall as he walked out. She let out a low, long whistle.
"Okay... wow," she said, circling him slowly. "You look like you're about to buy the university and fire all the professors you don't like."
"It's just a suit, Aliya."
"It's a 'rich' suit," she corrected. "If you walk in there looking like that, they're either going to respect you or try to destroy you."
"Why would they want to destroy me?"
Aliya grinned. "Because you're not supposed to look better than them. It's illegal in their culture." She stepped closer and adjusted his tie with surprising gentleness. "Just... don't let them intimidate you."
Jake met her eyes in the mirror. "I'm not easily intimidated."
"I know," she smirked. "You're only intimidated by poverty."
The comment caught him off guard. He stared at her for a second, then broke into a genuine laugh. "Go to your room," he said, nudging her away.
"Yes, Mr. Secretly Wealthy!" she shouted, laughing as she ran down the hall.
Left alone in the quiet of the hallway, Jake took a final, deep breath. Tonight was a test. He was stepping into a room filled with people who had always felt like they lived on a different planet. He wanted to see if they'd recognize him as one of their own—or if they'd see right through the Italian wool.
He grabbed his keys and headed for the door. 7 p.m. Meridian Hotel. The game was about to change.
---