The Cheval Blanc Soirée was more than just the event of the month; it was the gravitational center of every elite conversation, a gala that every socialite anticipated and every climber prayed to be invited to. For the rising stars of New Athens, it carried more weight than the Golden Globes. To the public, the Globes were just a boring broadcast, but the Cheval Blanc was a closed-door arena for the ambitious. It was where the future of Hollywood was decided—a place to parade in one’s finest attire before the directors, moguls, and investors who held the keys to the kingdom.
Naturally, none of this concerned Trevor. However, his father’s supermodel girlfriend, Ewa Monica, had been invited, while he had not. This meant his high-stakes meeting with Bella would have to wait until after the festivities.
For now, Trevor had a much more practical mission: heading to the Dressrious Salon to retrieve his repaired suede jacket and cashmere sweater from Master Tailor.
Master Tailor was the picture of Neapolitan reliability. His slate-gray hair spoke of decades of honed skill, his lean frame served as a perfect canvas for his own craftsmanship, and his polite smile radiated considerate service. Today, however, Trevor was greeted not by the master but by his apprentice and son, Junior Tailor.
“Father is in the inner sanctum helping a distinguished guest with a fitting,” Junior said, scanning the high shelves for Trevor’s order. He looked like a younger, sharper reflection of his father.
“I might need to order a new shirt soon,” Trevor remarked, checking his reflection. “My shoulders have filled out a bit from the gym lately.”
“I can take your measurements now, if you’d like.”
“Maybe next time. It’s not urgent,” Trevor replied. In truth, Trevor was already considering a full wardrobe of custom shirts and suits—provided his new detective agency kept turning a profit. Investigating paid far better than life as an indie developer, and it was significantly more exciting. If he could just land one more solid case, he’d have the funds to make the transition permanent.
Junior located the black suede bomber and the brown turtleneck, laying them out for inspection. The repairs were flawless; the fabric showed no memory of the violence it had endured.
“Incredible. I can’t even find the seam,” Trevor said, running his finger over the spot where the werewolf’s claws had shredded the suede. It felt original to the touch.
“We take pride in invisibility,” Junior smiled. “If you’re satisfied, I’ll wrap them for you.”
“Please.”
As the apprentice began carefully folding the garments, the heavy oak door to the fitting room swung open. A striking woman in a burgundy lamb’s wool trench coat stepped out, followed closely by the Master Tailor. She had a sharp, long-bob haircut, sun-tanned skin, and deep rose-red lips. Her voice was a soft, melodic trill.
“So, it will be ready by next Thursday?” she asked.
“Yes, Miss. Shall we have it delivered, or will you collect it?”
“I’ll come in. I want one final fitting to ensure the silhouette is perfect.”
“Of course.”
“Camila, darling! What a lovely surprise,” a sharp, piercing voice cut through the room. Another woman swept in, draped in a light brown fur coat. Her skin was porcelain pale, and her thick brunette hair brushed her shoulders. She tossed a green crocodile-skin tote bag to a young, stoic bodyguard with a practiced air of superiority.
“Karen. Lovely to see you as well,” Camila replied, though her face remained a mask of polite indifference.
Karen ignored the coldness, turning her gaze to Master Tailor. “Master, I’m here for the dress.”
“One moment, Miss. I shall prepare it for you,” the tailor said, disappearing back into the inner room.
Karen glanced briefly at Trevor, dismissing him as a commoner, then turned back to Camila. “Shopping for your Cheval Blanc gown, I assume?”
“Naturally. And you?”
“Absolutely. Noire Lavolle is designing mine personally,” Karen said, lingering on the designer’s name as if it were a royal title.
“How nice for you. My dress will be ready in a week. I’ll see you at the Soirée.”
“I’m looking forward to it. You look remarkably well,” Karen said, her smile turning predatory. “I’m so glad the breakup didn’t leave you in shambles.”
Camila stiffened. Her eyes flashed with annoyance, but she kept her voice steady. “What are you talking about?”
“Oh, I heard you were dumped by that… what was he? That dreary little veteran? Hector Tin?” Karen gave a gloating little laugh.
“Nonsense. He isn’t gone. He’s missing,” Camila snapped, her composure fracturing to reveal a glimpse of raw grief.
“Oh, is that the story now?” Karen asked provocatively. “Well, I do hope it all works out. Just try not to be too depressed; I’d hate for you to ruin your look for the gala.”
Seeing Master Tailor beckon from the doorway, Karen spun on her bright red heels and disappeared into the fitting room. Camila stood frozen for a moment, looking dazed, before hurrying out of the shop.
Once the drama had exited the room, Junior returned to his task with renewed focus. He neatly folded Trevor’s clothes into an exquisite black box, tucked the box into a heavy paper bag, and handed it over with a polite nod. “Have a pleasant day, sir.”
“You too,” Trevor nodded, took his package, and headed out.
Outside, the winter air was biting. Trevor ducked into the Cafeteria next door for something warm. The place was a hive of activity, buzzing with the noise of the afternoon rush. After ordering a cup of orange hot chocolate, Trevor scanned the room for a seat. The shop was nearly at capacity, forcing him toward a small table near the window, where he found Camila again. She was huddled over a phone call, her coffee sitting untouched and forgotten in front of her.
As the only empty seat was at the table adjacent to hers, Trevor sat down. He couldn’t help but overhear her voice, thick with a sob.
“Thank you, Officer. If I find anything else, I’ll call.” She hung up, dabbing her eyes with a damp, crumpled tissue. She looked less like a glamorous socialite and more like someone who had just lost their entire world.
“Miss?” Trevor said gently. “Do you need help?”
Camila looked up, recognizing him from the Boutique. “You were there. You heard that woman. My boyfriend is missing, but the police… they think he just walked out on me.”
“That seems like a significant assumption for them to make,” Trevor said. “Did they give a reason?”
“He left a message,” she whispered. “Saying he wanted to leave me, that he was going abroad to find work. But it didn’t sound like him. Not the words, not the timing. I’m terrified something happened to him.”
“Have you checked with his friends? His parents?”
“Everyone. No one heard a word about him moving overseas. He just vanished, and his belongings went with him.”
Trevor paused to consider her words. This was undeniably suspicious. Who makes a plan to move abroad for work without telling a single soul? “What about the police? Did they track his phone or his passport?”
Camila shook her head hopelessly. “They said since there’s no evidence of a struggle and he left a note, there’s no ‘crime’ to investigate. They think he’s just another man running away from a commitment.”
Trevor reached into his pocket and pulled out a matte-black business card. He slid it across the table.
“My name is Trevor. I’m part of a private investigative team. We can help you find him.”