Chapter 2: The Devil's Dressing Room
The black town car smelled like leather and money. Tsuyoshi pressed his forehead against the cool window, watching the shabby streets of his old neighborhood blur into the sleek, sun-bleached avenues of Beverly Hills. The silence between him and Derek was thick, broken only by the soft hum of the engine.
Derek scrolled through his phone, his face lit by the pale glow. “The first rule,” he said without looking up, “is that you never look like you’re trying. Everything you wear should look like it was made for you, and you alone. Confidence is the only accessory that matters.”
“Right,” Tsuyoshi muttered, picking at a thread on the knee of his worn jeans. “Because I’ve got so much of that.”
The car slid to a silent stop in front of a store so minimalist it was almost invisible. No gaudy logos, just a single, polished brass handle on a huge sheet of dark glass. A man in a tailor’s apron was already waiting, holding the door open.
Inside, the air was cool and scentless. The floor was a pale, veined marble that seemed to glow. Racks of clothing stood like silent soldiers in orderly rows, fabrics in shades of charcoal, cream, and midnight. It was quiet. Too quiet. Like a museum before the crowds arrived.
“Monsieur Souss,” a woman said, gliding forward. She was older, her hair a severe silver chignon, her eyes sharp as pins. “An honor.”
“Elise,” Derek nodded. “This is Tsuyoshi. He requires a complete wardrobe. Immediately.”
Elise’s gaze swept over Tsuyoshi. He felt it like a physical inspection, measuring, cataloging. He saw the faint, almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes as she took in his sneakers, his cheap t-shirt, the way he held himself—a defensive hunch he hadn’t even realized was there.
“Of course,” she said, her voice perfectly neutral. “Come.”
It started subtly. A soft, dove-grey sweater that felt like a cloud against his skin. Wool trousers that hung with a weight he’d never felt in clothing. Elise and two assistants circled him, their hands quick and professional, pinning seams, adjusting cuffs. Tsuyoshi stood on a low circular platform, his reflection fractured in three full-length mirrors.
Derek sat in a low-slung armchair, watching. He said nothing, just observed, his expression unreadable.
Then came the tailor for the suits. A small, meticulous man with a tape measure draped around his neck. His fingers were cold as they brushed Tsuyoshi’s neck, his chest, his waist. He called out numbers to an assistant. “Thirty-two inch waist. Thirty-four inseam. Shoulders, seventeen…”
As the man knelt to measure his inseam, his hands lingering, Derek spoke from the chair.
“Don’t skimp on the fabric in the thighs. He’s slender, but he needs room to move.”
The tailor’s eyes flicked to Derek, then back to his work. His touch felt deliberate now, slower. A hand smoothed over Tsuyoshi’s hip bone. A thumb brushed the inside of his thigh as the tape was adjusted.
Tsuyoshi’s skin crawled. He looked at his own reflection—a stranger in expensive fabric being handled like a mannequin. He saw Derek watching, not the process, but him. The focus was unsettling.
When the tailor finally stepped back, Derek rose. He walked over to the platform, circling Tsuyoshi slowly. He reached out and adjusted the collar of the trial shirt, his knuckles grazing Tsuyoshi’s throat. Then his hand settled, palm flat and possessive, against the small of Tsuyoshi’s back, feeling the line of the spine through the thin silk.
“Better,” Derek murmured, almost to himself. “The line is clean here now.”
The touch, the implied ownership, snapped something in Tsuyoshi. He jerked away, stepping off the platform and out of reach. “Hands off,” he said, his voice low but clear in the hushed store.
The assistants froze. Elise’s eyebrows lifted a millimeter.
Derek didn’t move. His cold blue eyes tracked Tsuyoshi. “It’s a fitting. It requires adjustment.”
“I’m not a damn suit you’re having tailored,” Tsuyoshi shot back. He could feel a hot flush rising up his neck. “And you don’t get to paw at me whenever you feel like it. You own the clothes. You don’t own jack shit else. Piss off, rich boy.”
The silence that followed was electric. The tailor looked like he might faint.
A slow, dangerous smile touched Derek’s lips. It wasn’t friendly. “That spirit,” he said quietly, “is the only thing you’re wearing right now that’s actually worth the price. Don’t lose it.” He turned to Elise. “Proceed. Everything in the selections we discussed. Have it delivered to the penthouse by tonight.”
He walked back to his chair and picked up his phone, the conversation clearly over.
Tsuyoshi stood there, his heart hammering against his ribs. He’d just told off a billionaire in the middle of his own personal boutique. He waited for the dismissal, for the contract to be torn up.
But Derek just kept scrolling.
The rest of the fitting passed in a blur of steam and silk. Shirts were chosen—not white, but shades of bone, oatmeal, and a pale blue that made Tsuyoshi’s skin look warm. A black wool overcoat that felt heavier than any armor. Shoes of soft, dark leather that molded to his feet. He stopped looking at the price tags after the third item cost more than his last six months’ rent.
He was pulling on his own jeans and t-shirt, feeling oddly exposed in their cheap familiarity, when a young assistant approached with a discreet black folder. “For your approval, Monsieur Souss,” she said, handing it to Derek.
Derek opened it, glanced at the list, and scrawled a signature at the bottom. He didn’t flinch at the total. He closed the folder and looked at Tsuyoshi. “Ready?”
As they stepped back out onto the sun-drenched street, the world seemed louder, brighter, more chaotic. Before they could reach the waiting car, a flash went off. Then another. A man with a large camera was suddenly there, half-crouched on the sidewalk.
“Derek! Over here! Who’s your friend?”
Derek’s arm shot out, not around Tsuyoshi’s shoulders, but across his chest, holding him back, putting himself between Tsuyoshi and the lens. His body went rigid.
“No comment,” Derek said, his voice a blade.
“Come on, Derek! First public appearance since the engagement news broke! Give us a smile!”
Engagement news. Tsuyoshi’s stomach dropped. It was already out.
Derek didn’t smile. He pushed Tsuyoshi firmly towards the open car door. “Get in.”
Another flash, this one catching Tsuyoshi full in the face, blinding him for a second. He stumbled into the car. Derek slid in beside him and slammed the door. The driver pulled away immediately.
In the sudden, tinted gloom of the backseat, Tsuyoshi rubbed his eyes, seeing spots. “What the hell was that? Engagement news?”
“My publicist released a brief statement this morning,” Derek said, his jaw tight. He was looking out the window, his profile sharp. “To control the narrative. I didn’t expect them to find us so quickly.”
“You didn’t expect it?” Tsuyoshi laughed, a short, breathless sound. “You dragged me to Rodeo Drive! What did you think would happen?”
“I thought we’d have more time before the vultures descended.” Derek finally turned to look at him. The cold mask was back, fully in place. “This changes nothing. The contract stands. But now you see the stakes. That photograph will be everywhere by tonight. You are no longer anonymous. Every move you make will be watched. Every mistake will be magnified.”
Tsuyoshi stared back at him. The weight of it, the reality, finally crashed down. The money, the apartment, the clothes—they weren’t just payment. They were armor for a war he hadn’t known he was enlisting in. He’d sold his anonymity. His face was now collateral.
“Why?” he asked quietly. “Why go through with this? You could have just told your mom to screw off.”
Derek was silent for a long moment. The car turned into the underground garage of his building. “Because,” he said finally as the vehicle came to a stop, “sometimes the most efficient way to end a siege is to stage a coup. You’re my rebellion, Tsuyoshi. See that you’re a memorable one.”
He got out of the car, leaving Tsuyoshi sitting in the dark, the ghost of the camera flash still burning behind his eyes, the feel of Derek’s hand on his back lingering like a brand. The elevator doors opened ahead, a gleaming silver mouth waiting to swallow him whole.
He thought of the hunger that had driven him to steal that piece of bread. That was a simple, clean need. This was different. This was a different kind of hunger, one he’d just agreed to be fed to.
He got out of the car and followed Derek toward the elevator, his new shoes silent on the concrete floor.