THE DISCARDED SON-IN-LAWS GOD-LEVEL DOMINION SYSTEM

Chapter 11

The tailor shop sat on the quiet corner of the finest shopping street in the city.

Ethan stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the window. A single black suit stood on a pale mannequin under a soft golden light. There was no price tag. There never was in places like this. The name above the door was written in thin silver letters. Marquis & Daughters, Custom Tailors Since 1952.

He had walked past this shop many times with Vanessa. She had always slowed down when they came near, and each time he had seen her look at the window with open desire. Once, he had asked if she wanted to go in. She had laughed at him like he had told a joke. She had said the shop was for people who mattered. People like her father and her brother. Not for a man who owned two suits.

Ethan pushed open the glass door.

A bell rang softly. The shop was warm and quiet. The air smelled of fine wool and cedar. Long racks of dark fabric lined the walls. A small chandelier hung over a round mirror in the middle of the floor. Two young women in neat black dresses stood behind the counter. They looked up together.

Their smiles appeared very fast and disappeared even faster.

"Good morning," the taller one said. Her eyes moved over his black shirt and plain trousers. "May I help you with something?"

"I need suits," Ethan said. "Six. Three black, two navy, one gray. Shirts to match. Two coats. Shoes."

The woman blinked. She exchanged a quick look with her coworker. "Sir, we are a made-to-measure house. Our suits begin at twelve thousand dollars each. The wait for each piece is six weeks. Perhaps you would like to look at our ready-to-wear section at the department store down the street?"

Ethan looked at her calmly. "I said six suits."

A man's voice came from the back of the shop.

"Sarah. Is there a problem?"

An older man in a brown vest stepped through a curtain. His gray hair was combed back neatly and a measuring tape hung around his neck. He had the thin, careful face of a person who had spent his whole life judging other people's money. His eyes went straight to Ethan's cheap watch. Then to his shoes.

"Sir," he said with a polite bow that held no real respect. "I am Mr. Marquis. I must be honest with you. Many people enter our shop to look. We do not mind. But the work we do here is very expensive. Very exclusive. I would not want you to waste your time."

"I understand the price," Ethan said.

"Do you?" Mr. Marquis smiled thinly. "Then you also understand that we ask new clients for a deposit. Fifty thousand dollars. In cash, or by check. Before we take any measurements."

Behind Ethan, the bell on the door rang again.

Ethan did not turn. He heard the sharp click of high heels on the wood floor and caught the smell of expensive floral perfume. He knew that perfume.

"Mr. Marquis! I am so sorry I am late."

A woman in a pale pink coat swept into the room. Her hair was long and curled. She wore large sunglasses on top of her head. She carried a small white handbag that cost more than most cars. Her eyes passed over Ethan once, then stopped. She took her sunglasses down slowly and stared at him with her mouth open.

"Ethan Cross?" she said.

Ethan finally turned. "Cynthia."

Cynthia Hale. Vanessa's best friend since school. She had come to the Whitmore house three times a week for as long as Ethan had lived there. She had never once called him by his name. She called him "the helper" or "your servant" or just "him." At the banquet two nights ago, he had heard her laugh the loudest.

Cynthia's shock lasted for two seconds. Then her face twisted into a bright, mean smile.

"Oh, this is too funny," she said loudly. She turned to the shop girls. "Do you know who this is? This is Vanessa's ex-husband. Her useless ex-husband. He used to wash her father's car. Now he has come to buy suits at Marquis & Daughters. Is this a joke? Did someone dare him?"

The two girls behind the counter pressed their hands over their mouths. One of them giggled.

Mr. Marquis's face changed. Respect flowed into it as he turned to Cynthia. "Miss Hale. It is always a pleasure. Please, may I take your coat?"

"No need. I am here for my birthday gown." Cynthia stepped closer to Ethan. She looked him up and down with open scorn. "Honestly, I am impressed. You still have enough shame to walk in public. I heard you slept on the street the night they threw you out. I heard you ate from the garbage."

"I did not," Ethan said.

"Everyone says you did." She laughed again. "And now you come here, to this place, with your plastic watch. Mr. Marquis, you should call security. This man is a beggar. He probably wants to steal a coat."

Mr. Marquis nodded slowly. "I was beginning to suspect the same thing."

The older man took a step toward the door and reached for a small button on the wall. Ethan watched his hand move.

"Wait," Ethan said.

His voice was not loud. But it stopped the room.

He reached into his pocket and took out the black card with gold edges. He laid it flat on the polished counter between the two young women. The card made a soft, clear click against the wood.

"I would like to pay now," he said.

Mr. Marquis stared at the card. His hand froze in the air near the button. He did not breathe.

Cynthia leaned over the counter and looked closer. Her smile began to crack at the corners.

"That is a fake," she said. "Anyone can print a black card. They sell them online."

Sarah, the taller shop girl, picked up the card with careful fingers. She had worked in this shop for six years. She had seen real black cards only twice before. She ran her thumb along the edge. She tilted it to catch the light and checked the hologram on the corner. Her face lost all its color.

"Mr. Marquis," she said in a small voice. "It is real. It is a National First Bank Imperial Series. The unlimited one. There are only nine in the whole country."

The shop went dead silent.

Cynthia's mouth opened and closed. "That is impossible. He cannot have it. He owns nothing. He..."

"Check the name on the back," Ethan said calmly.

Sarah turned the card over. Her hands began to shake. "Cross Holdings. Ethan Cross."

Cynthia took a quick step backward. "No. No, that is a coincidence. It is a different Ethan Cross. It has to be."

"It is the same one who owns Whitmore Group," Ethan said. "I believe you saw the news this morning."

He picked up his phone and held it out so she could see the screen. The headline was still open. CROSS HOLDINGS TAKES MAJORITY CONTROL OF WHITMORE GROUP. Below it was a photo of Ethan walking into the building.

Cynthia stared at the screen. The blood drained from her cheeks one slow inch at a time. Her white handbag slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a soft thud.

Mr. Marquis moved faster than a man his age should have been able to move. He came around the counter, bent at the waist, and bowed so deep that his measuring tape swung forward and nearly touched the floor.

"Mr. Cross," he said. His voice was hoarse with panic. "Forgive this old fool. My eyes are poor. I did not recognize a gentleman of your standing. Please, please, allow me. Sarah, the good tea. The good chairs. Hurry!"

"Six suits," Ethan said. "As I said."

"Yes, sir. Immediately. We will close the shop for you. We will begin the measurements at once. The delivery will be ready in three days. Two days. Tomorrow if you prefer."

"Three days is acceptable."

Cynthia stood in the middle of the floor like a statue. Her face was white. Her fingers pressed against her mouth. She looked at Ethan with wide frightened eyes. Her voice came out as a whisper.

"Ethan. I did not mean it. I was only joking. You know me. We have known each other for three years. Vanessa and I always... we never meant anything bad..."

Ethan looked at her without any anger. "You told the whole table at my anniversary dinner that I was a stray dog the Whitmores had picked up. You said it loud enough for me to hear while I carried the plates."

Cynthia's lips trembled. She said nothing.

"I did not forget," Ethan said. "But I will not punish you either. You are not important enough."

The words were quiet. They cut deeper than any shout could have.

Cynthia lowered her eyes. Her face turned red from her neck to her ears. She bent down slowly, picked up her handbag, and left the shop without another word. The bell on the door rang softly behind her. Through the front window, he watched her walk down the street quickly, her head down, her heels clicking too fast.

Mr. Marquis finished the measurements himself. His hands were careful and his voice never rose above a murmur. When he wrapped the measuring tape around Ethan's shoulders, he stopped for a second.

"Mr. Cross," he said very softly, so the girls could not hear. "A moment ago I saw the pendant at your neck."

Ethan's eyes sharpened. "What of it?"

"My father made a suit for an old man who wore a jade piece like that one. Many years ago. A very important man. He came to this shop every season. He always paid in advance. Then one winter he stopped coming."

Ethan stayed very still. "What was his name?"

Mr. Marquis swallowed hard. "My father never said. He only called him 'the Dragon Gentleman.' The last suit was never collected. It still hangs in our storeroom."

The air in the shop felt heavy.

"Show me," Ethan said.

Chapter 12