Chapter 6 - THE TWELVE-DOLLAR SUITI agreed to one dinner under three strict conditions: no threats, no men following us, and no buying our building behind my back.
Noah negotiated like a hardened syndicate boss discussing a delicate peace treaty, but eventually, he agreed to every term.
We went to a quiet, dimly lit private restaurant overlooking the dark waters of the river. Over plates of handmade pasta, Noah revealed a piece of his past I never expected to hear.
"Your father made my very first suit when I was seventeen," Noah confessed, swirling his red wine. "It was the morning after my older brother was killed. I was drowning in rage, wearing clothes that didn't fit, looking like a street punk ready to die."
He looked across the table, his dark eyes softening. "Your father didn't run me off. He cleaned the dried blood from my face, measured me with steady hands, and charged me exactly twelve dollars. He treated me like a grieving boy instead of the monster everyone else expected me to become."
The memory explained why Noah had quietly funneled wealthy clients to our shop for years, keeping us afloat from the shadows. It also revealed something profound beneath his ruthless reputation: deep loyalty, enduring grief, and a crushing loneliness he had hidden so thoroughly that most people mistook it for cold strength.
"People fear me," Noah admitted quietly. "And maybe they should. Fear keeps worse men out of certain rooms."
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"And what do you see in me?" I asked, resting my chin on my hands.
He looked at me with an intensity that made my breath catch. "You're the first person in ten years who accepts nothing from me without questioning the price."
