"Even if you get my body," he declared, voice trembling with heroic despair, "you won’t get my heart!"
The mannequin behind him tilted awkwardly, as if trying to politely excuse itself from whatever this was.
Seraphina stood frozen, the clipboard dangling at her side like it had given up on life. Her mouth was slightly open, her expression caught somewhere between what the hell? and did I just get dragged into a C-drama subplot?
"...HUH?!" she finally blurted. The word echoed through the boutique, confused and offended on multiple levels.
Then she finally sighed, picked up her clipboard like it had personally betrayed her, and brushed it off with a sigh that carried the weight of several lifetimes’ worth of patience.
"You are," she said, slowly dusting the clipboard off, "genuinely the most dramatic client I’ve ever had."
Rex gasped. "You mean that? Even above your billionaire regulars and popstars?"
"By a very wide margin," she muttered.
He beamed, placing a hand over his heart. "An honor."
Seraphina rolled her eyes. "Just go change before I stitch your mouth shut for real."
There was a beat of silence.
Then Seraphina crossed her arms, tapped her foot once, and asked with a deadpan stare, "Okay, are you done playing?"
Rex straightened like a kid caught goofing off during roll call, clearing his throat. "Ahem—yes. All serious.
"Good," she said, voice crisp. Then her tone shifted, like a blade sliding from velvet. "Now... are you really about to walk out of here like that?"
She pointed straight at the tailored masterpiece still hugging his frame.
Rex looked down at himself, then back at her, genuinely puzzled. "Yeah? Any problem?" His expression was the picture of confusion—eyebrows raised like she’d just asked if the sky was blue.
She stared at him. For a solid five seconds.
Then sighed like she had just aged a year.
It was the kind of facepalm that carried the full weight of divine disappointment like someone who had witnessed too many crimes against common sense in one lifetime.
She peeked at him from between her fingers like she was re-evaluating every life decision that had led her here.
Rex looked at her innocently—no mischief this time, just pure Rex.exe not computing the issue. "What? I didn’t spill anything on it."
"Rex," she said slowly, like she was explaining the concept of gravity to a confused toddler, "that is your party suit. The one I broke several laws of time, labor, and physics to have ready for tonight."
He nodded, still not getting it. "Exactly. It looks amazing. So I thought I’d wear it."
"To what?" she deadpanned. "To go grab a coffee? Walk around campus? Get sweat and city dust all over it before you even reach the red carpet?"
"Don’t answer that," she said before he could. Her voice was dangerously calm now. "Go. Change. Now. Before I lose what’s left of my patience and sew you into a burlap sack instead."
Rex blinked again, then offered a sheepish grin. "Right. Totally. My bad. Changing immediately. No questions asked."
He did an awkward half-salute, then shuffled toward the fitting room like a scolded child on his way to timeout.
Seraphina watched his retreating back, arms folded, mouth twitching like she was holding back either a smirk or a scream.
Then, as he disappeared behind the curtain, she sighed again—less frustrated this time—and muttered to herself, "Honestly... for someone who looks like a million bucks, he’s got the common sense of a decorative pillow."
A moment later, she heard a rustle from behind the changing curtain.
"...Do I get a gold star for obedience?" came Rex’s muffled voice.
She pinched the bridge of her nose. Nᴇw novel chapters are publɪshed on novel_fіre.net
"Good boy," she muttered, rolling her eyes as she turned back toward the suit rack. "Absolute menace."
As Rex vanished behind the curtain to change, Seraphina let out another long breath, muttering something about "fashion crimes in broad daylight."
She turned to adjust the suit bag on the rack, fingers brushing over the fabric with instinctive precision. But even as she moved with practiced grace, her thoughts lingered on the boy behind the curtain.
But here’s the thing—she wasn’t really angry. Just mildly exasperated. Which was understandable. Because she assumed—quite naturally—that Rex was one of those people. You know, the upper-crust, born-in-a-penthouse types. Probably some hidden heir of a film studio or luxury brand, slumming it through college for the "experience." Why else would someone waltz into Luviton, buy every men’s item in stock, then casually call in the middle of the night for a last-minute tux fitting?
Seriously, what else was she supposed to think?
But what Seraphina didn’t know—and honestly, how could she?—was that our dear Rex wasn’t even remotely close to high society.
In fact, in his past life, he’d been as far from this world of cashmere suits and cologne-scented boutiques as one could get. Dirt-poor, scraping by, the kind of life where a two-for-one sock deal was a luxury. So of course, the moment he got a taste of the high life, he was bound to make... questionable choices.
Like wearing a suit meant for an exclusive Hollywood party just to walk down a boutique hallway.
But you see, it wasn’t his fault. No, really. Blame the action movies. Rex had grown up idolizing every hero who wore sleek suits while blowing up cars, catching bad guys, and walking away from explosions in slow motion. In his mind, suits weren’t just formalwear—they were hero gear. You wore them not for the event, but for the effect.
Dodging bullets? Suit.
The man didn’t even know the rules. No one had taught him that a tux was for the night, not the daylight. That bespoke clothing wasn’t meant for showing off on a Tuesday morning stroll.
So of course, when Seraphina asked, "Are you really going out like that?" and he blinked like she’d just asked if water was wet—he wasn’t being difficult.
He was just being Rex.
Our poor, stylish, tragically clueless Rex.
But hey, at least he looked good doing it.