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Unexpected Revelations in White Silk

CALLAN

The boutique occupied the entire ground floor of a historic brownstone on the Upper East Side, it was polished mahogany and hushed voices, with prices high enough to make even billionaires check their account balances.

The kind of place where they didn’t display price tags because if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it.

I hated it immediately.

Don’t get me wrong. I appreciated quality. But places like this weren’t about quality; they were about exclusivity. About making certain people feel special by making everyone else feel inadequate. A game I’d learned to play exceptionally well but never quite enjoyed.

Growing up in Queens with hand-me-down clothes and shoes patched with duct tape had left its mark, even after fifteen years of wealth. The memory of my grandmother working double shifts to afford my school uniform still made these temples of excess feel slightly obscene.

“Mr. Burkhardt!” The owner appeared as I stepped through the door. Anatoly Roskov, a trim man with silver hair. “What an unexpected pleasure. We’ve been hoping you might visit us.”

His accent carried traces of Eastern Europe softened by years in Manhattan’s elite circles, not the affected British inflection I’d half-expected from the boutique’s pretentious exterior.

“Anatoly,” I nodded, having never met the man before in my life but certain he would pretend otherwise. “I need a tuxedo for the Pediatric Cancer Foundation gala.”

“Of course, of course. We have several exceptional pieces that would complement your frame.” He gestured toward the back of the store. “If you’ll follow me, we have a private viewing area where?—”

“I’m waiting for someone,” I interrupted, checking my watch. 11:03. Still no Anica. Maybe my punctuality play had backfired.

“Your assistant, perhaps? We can offer refreshments while?—”

“My fiancée,” I said, the lie rolling off my tongue. After the Rhodes Estate, it felt almost natural. “She’s helping me choose.”

Anatoly’s eyebrows rose. “I wasn’t aware you were engaged, Mr. Burkhardt. The society pages have been surprisingly quiet.”

I bit back a smile. In Anatoly’s world, a billionaire bachelor getting engaged without proper society announcement was like a royal abdication. The gossip value alone probably had him mentally composing texts to his most valuable clients.

“Very recent,” I assured him. “We’re keeping it quiet.”

“Discretion is our specialty,” he said, while clearly calculating how this information could be strategically leaked. “Perhaps while you wait, I could show you our new collection of?—”

The door opened, and there she was in a pantsuit with a cream silk blouse, hair in a sleek ponytail. Her expression shifted from composed to surprised when she saw me.

“You’re on time,” she said by way of greeting.

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” I grinned.

Her lips twitched in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “How considerate.”

“Ms. Marcel, I presume?” Anatoly stepped forward. “A pleasure to welcome Mr. Burkhardt’s... fiancée to our establishment.”

The look Anica shot me could have flash-frozen hell. “I’m Mr. Burkhardt’s wedding planner,” she corrected smoothly. “Here in a strictly professional capacity to ensure he selects appropriate attire for upcoming events.”

“Of course,” Anatoly said, looking between us with poorly concealed curiosity. “How... modern.”

“Isn’t she wonderful?” I draped an arm around Anica’s shoulders. She stiffened beneath my touch. “So dedicated to her work that she insists on maintaining professional boundaries in public. We’re very private about our relationship.”

“Mr. Burkhardt,” she said through gritted teeth, “perhaps we should focus on selecting your tuxedo?”

“Whatever you say, darling.”

She shrugged off my arm. “Mr. Roskov, we’re looking for something classic but distinctive for the gala. Mr. Burkhardt needs to make an impression without appearing as though he’s trying to make an impression.”

Anatoly nodded. “A woman who understands the subtleties of men’s formal wear. Refreshing.”

“I understand the subtleties of many things,” she replied with a cool smile. “Including the value of efficiency. Shall we?”

As Anatoly led us toward the fitting area, I leaned close to Anica. “Subtle threat. Very effective.”

“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.”

I glanced at the nearly identical squares of fabric. “They all look the same to me.”

She sighed. “This one has undertones of black, this one has undertones of purple, and this one changes slightly under different lighting conditions.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said, charmed by her seriousness about fabric colors. “Whatever you think is best.”

“It’s your tuxedo, Mr. Burkhardt. You should have an opinion.”

“My opinion is that I trust yours.”

She blinked. “Well. In that case, the middle one. With a subtle shawl collar and custom buttons.”

“Done.” I turned to Anatoly. “Whatever she said. And we need it by Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Anatoly looked concerned. “Mr. Burkhardt, a proper bespoke tuxedo requires at least three fittings and?—”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” I interrupted, with the smile that conveyed I wasn’t actually making a request. “Consider it a challenge.”

Anatoly opened his mouth to respond further, but my phone rang. “Excuse me, I need to take this.”

I stepped away, answering the call. “What’s up, Erika?”