Ryan started getting ready at four.
He showered, then stood in front of the wardrobe for longer than he'd like to admit, which was new for him. Three weeks ago his wardrobe decisions took thirty seconds because there wasn't much to decide between. Now there was actual variety and the variety came with the specific pressure of having paid too much for things to wear them wrong.
He laid three options on the bed and looked at them.
One of them was from the Madison Avenue trip — the deep green shirt Zara had pulled off the rail before he'd said a word. He'd avoided it since buying it, saving it for something without knowing what that something was.
This felt like the something.
He put it on, added dark trousers, the unstructured black blazer from the second store, and shoes that still looked new because they were. He checked the mirror once, decided he looked like a person who belonged in a penthouse without looking like he was trying to belong in a penthouse, and left it at that.
