CHAPTER 147: THE SUIT THAT DIDN’T FIT

The quiet hum of the air conditioner and the occasional chirp of birds outside were the only company in the room.

The book lay open across Luca’s chest, unread.

His eyes had skimmed the same paragraph five times without it sinking in.

It was 1:30 p.m.

His fingers rested against the pages, not flipping forward.

Not moving. Just holding on—maybe to the quiet, maybe to the comfort of being alone.

Then—footsteps.

Luca’s head snapped up. He sat straighter, listening as the front door opened and clicked shut.

A heavier tread. Not the housemaid. Probably his dad. He was supposed to be ready by noon.

But he wasn’t even changed.

He swung his legs off the couch and moved toward the stairs with a low sigh.

Each step down felt like leaving something behind.

His father stood near the entryway, coat still on, phone in one hand, scanning something.

"You didn’t change," he said, not looking up.

Luca blinked, caught mid-step. "Change?"

"I told you—noon. I gave Mrs. Elliott the outfit. Didn’t she give it to you?"

The cloth. The neatly folded suit Mrs. Elliott had left on his bed earlier.

Luca froze halfway down the steps. "Wait... why? Why would I need that?"

His father finally looked up. "Because we’re going out."

"To where?"

"Networking galas. Charity events. Nothing formal, just... conversations. Faces to know."

Luca’s brows furrowed. "I don’t do well with... people."

"That’s why you’re learning," his father replied, already turning away to check his watch. "You’re going to need these skills eventually. Might as well start now."

Luca stayed quiet for a beat, one hand trailing along the rail.

"Can’t I just—skip this one?" he mumbled.

"No," came the curt reply. "And don’t show up in those clothes like you’re headed to a beach party."

Luca glanced down—his loose tee, faded jeans, and mismatched socks.

"What’s wrong with my clothes?"

His dad didn’t answer—just raised a brow like it wasn’t worth explaining.

Luca sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, and turned back upstairs.

On his way upstairs, his reflection caught him—hair messy, shirt wrinkled, eyes tired. He looked away before it could say more.

Back in his room, the suit sat neatly on his bed, untouched since morning.

He stared at it.

A charcoal grey jacket, a pressed white shirt, and matching slacks. Elegant. Clean. Like a costume for someone who fit in that world.

He ran his fingers along the fabric.

"...Don’t even know who I’m dressing up as," he muttered under his breath.

Still, he pulled it closer.

Luca laid the outfit across his bed with a kind of caution—like touching something delicate that didn’t belong to him.

He stared at the jacket for a long moment, then peeled off his t-shirt. The silence pressed in, clinging like another layer.

The white shirt felt stiff as he slid it over his arms.

Too polished. Too crisp. It fit... but not in the way his usual clothes did.

This wasn’t him—it was the version his father wanted him to be.

He buttoned it halfway, pausing in front of the mirror.

His fingers hovered at the last few buttons, before slipping to his phone on the desk.

1:52 PM.

Still no message.

He unlocked it anyway, and opened his chat with Noel.

The screen blinked back at him—empty. No new text. Just the last voice note he hadn’t played again.

Luca hesitated, then typed:

"Wish you were here."

He stared at it.

Then deleted it.

Instead, he typed again:

"Heading out for one of those boring events. Bet you’d call it a penguin parade."

He hovered.

Then hit send.

A breath escaped him—half a laugh, half a sigh.

He went back to the mirror. Finished the buttons. Tucked the shirt in.

Adjusted the collar. Then slipped into the jacket.

His reflection stared back.

Almost polished.

Almost put-together.

But the eyes?

Still... not quite there.

He ran a hand through his hair, tried to tame the soft waves that curled a little too freely.

The more he fixed, the more he felt like he was erasing something real.

A knock at the door.

"Luca?" His father’s voice. "Five minutes."

"Yeah," he replied, voice low. "Coming."

He grabbed the cologne bottle on his desk—Noel once told him he liked that one.

Luca spritzed it once in the air, walking through it like a ghost trying to feel alive.

He glanced at his phone one more time.

Still nothing. His chest tightened anyway—hope, or the absence of it, he couldn’t tell.

With one last glance in the mirror, he slipped on his watch, grabbed the dark loafers from under the bed, and stepped out—each footstep quiet, composed, like walking into someone else’s life.

The car moved smoothly through the city, its tinted windows dimming the bright afternoon sun.

Inside, the silence was padded—almost too quiet.

The kind of silence that said too much without saying anything at all.

Luca shifted slightly in his seat, tugging at the stiff collar.

The seatbelt pressed against his chest in a way that felt tighter than usual.

Maybe it was just the shirt. Or the air. Or both.

Beside him, his father scrolled through his phone, but his eyes kept flicking up.

Glance. Pause. Back to the screen.

Another glance.

"Fits you well," he said finally, nodding toward Luca’s jacket.

Luca looked down at himself like the clothes weren’t quite his. "Yeah," he muttered, brushing invisible lint off his lap. "If I were auditioning for a wedding catalogue."

His father chuckled—barely. "It’s just an event. Don’t make it dramatic."

Luca didn’t answer. He stared out the window instead, watching people pass by in blur.

A couple on a scooter zipped past, laughing.

A street vendor balanced an umbrella over her grill.

The world looked free out there. Unbothered. Alive.

In here—it felt like a museum.

"You could sit straighter," his father added a moment later. "Don’t slouch in that suit."

Luca didn’t move. He just said, "Not really my suit, is it?"

His father exhaled through his nose—quiet but sharp.

Another stretch of silence filled the car, broken only by the steady hum of tires against the road.

"You’re representing the family today," his father said, eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Try to carry yourself like it."

Luca turned his head slowly, gaze steady. "What does that even mean, Dad? That I don’t talk too much? That I don’t say what I’m thinking?"

His father didn’t respond right away.

"Means you don’t embarrass yourself," he said at last, flatly. "Or me."

Luca looked away again.

The window reflected half of his face. The jacket. The perfect collar. The carefully brushed hair. A stranger looking back.

He reached into his pocket, thumb grazing his phone. No new notifications.

But in his mind, Noel’s voice lingered—faint, familiar.

"You’re enough even when you’re a mess."

Luca blinked hard and looked away from the reflection.

The city started thinning out, buildings turning into glassy towers and wide, trimmed lawns.

Ahead, a long line of cars curved toward the venue gates.

Their car slowed.

His father sat taller, straightening his tie.

Luca adjusted his cuffs—not out of pride, but habit.

And maybe, just maybe, a quiet hope that someone would notice him trying.

The car rolled forward.

Almost there.

Almost showtime.

The moment they stepped out of the car, Luca squinted at the dazzling chandeliers inside the grand hall’s entrance.

It was already buzzing with people dressed in elegance and quiet ambition.

And just when the air grew too stiff to breathe—familiar warmth cut through the noise.

"Look who’s finally embracing the suit life," came a teasing voice from nearby.

Luca turned, a breath of relief escaping before he could stop it. "Mr. Jeff."

The older man grinned, strolling toward him in his signature tailored navy suit, crisp as ever.

He had that air—polished but never distant. Familiar. Safe.

"Didn’t know your dad dragged you out of the cave," Jeff added with a wink.

Luca gave a dry chuckle. "I think I was ambushed."

Jeff leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "He’s nervous. Wants you to meet a few key people tonight."

"I figured," Luca muttered, tugging at the tie around his neck. "I hate this thing."

Jeff chuckled, brushing his hands down Luca’s shoulders to neaten the lines. "That’s because you’re wearing it like it’s a noose. Here—" He reached up and gently adjusted the tie, fingers swift and practiced. "Better."

Luca gave a slow nod, fidgeting less now.

"You clean up well, kid," Jeff said, stepping back with a smile. "You’ve got your mother’s cheekbones, but the posture? All Smith senior. Straighten up before people think you’re lost."

Luca smirked under his breath, easing a little. "You coming in?"

Jeff patted his shoulder. "Always. Right beside you, even if you pretend not to know me in there."

Luca didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. The look he gave Jeff said enough.

He wore confidence like fabric—pressed, borrowed,but never truly his.