Chapter 150: Luxurious Research

We boarded the private jet early the next morning. As the turbine engines roared to life and the aircraft began its steep ascent into the clouds, Benita sank into her plush leather armchair, her knuckles turning white as she clutched the armrests for dear life.

"Is... is it supposed to shake like this?!" she gasped, her eyes wide with total terror. "I’ve never even seen a plane up close, let alone been inside one!"

I chuckled smoothly from across the aisle, swirling my glass of chilled sparkling water. "Relax, Benita. We’re perfectly safe. Just lean back and look out the window."

It took her a good twenty minutes to stop trembling, but once she finally peeked out at the endless blanket of white clouds floating beneath us, her fear melted into pure, starry-eyed wonder.

A few hours later, the jet touched down on our private runway, and an executive sedan carried us straight into the heart of the city’s financial district. The moment we pulled into the underground garage of our glass skyscraper, Benita stepped out of the vehicle, craning her neck to stare up at the massive 60-floor tower in utter disbelief.

"This is... your headquarters?" she whispered, her voice breathless.

As we rode the glass elevator up, Sarah adjusted her blazer, turning to me. "Mr. Ethan, I can take Benita to her penthouse apartment now, get her settled, and arrange for a personal styling team to bring clothes to her room."

"No," I said smoothly, stepping out as the elevator doors slid open into the main lobby. "I don’t want her dressed in whatever off-the-rack corporate wardrobe a stylist picks out. She shouldn’t just fit into our world—she needs to feel it."

I looked over at Benita, who was still looking at her faded jeans and dust-stained sweater with a hint of self-consciousness.

"I’m taking her fashion shopping myself," I declared, a calm, decisive smile on my face. "Let’s take her to the highest-end luxury district in the city. I want her to see, touch, and inspect real pieces of fashion art—and buy whatever catches her eye."

Benita’s jaw dropped. "Wait... you’re taking me shopping? To high-end luxury stores?!"

"You’re a prodigy, Benita," I said, offering her my arm. "It’s time you start living like one."

I left Sarah at the headquarters to handle corporate logistics and took Benita out with just the two of us. She was still wearing her plain, oversized faded sweater and worn pants, looking completely out of place against the gleaming city streets. I kept it low-key too—casual dark trousers and a simple crewneck sweater, though mine was cut from pure vicuña wool with subtle, unbranded luxury tailoring.

We drove straight past the standard flagship boutiques and headed into the elite art-fashion district, stopping in front of an exclusive, multi-level gallery atelier known for displaying rare, archival couture and experimental runway pieces.

The second we stepped through the heavy glass doors into the pristine, gallery-lit showroom, Benita froze. Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes darted across the avant-garde mannequins, floating silk displays, and hand-sculpted leather garments.

"Woah..." she whispered, her voice barely audible as she stood rooted to the polished marble floor. "I... I’ve never seen clothes like this in my entire life."

"Go ahead," I said gently, stepping back to give her complete freedom. "Explore whatever catches your eye. Touch the fabrics, inspect the cuts. This entire showroom is yours to analyze."

She didn’t need to be told twice.

Watching her move through the shop was like watching a fish finally hit deep water. Her timid, hesitant posture completely melted away, replaced by the sharp, razor-focused intensity of a true genius. She drifted from piece to piece, her slender fingers tracing the hand-stitched seams of a rare Japanese silk coat, her eyes narrowing as she mentally deconstructed the internal corsetry of an architectural ballgown.

"Look at this seam..." she muttered to herself, completely oblivious to me standing a few paces behind her. "They used an asymmetric bias cut here to make the fabric flow like water, but the weight at the hem is balancing the entire structure... genius..."

The store’s head curator, dressed in a sharp three-piece suit, began walking toward us with a raised eyebrow, clearly eyeing Benita’s faded sweater with suspicion. But before he could utter a single word, I gave him a cold, sharp glance and casually flashed the edge of a black platinum card between my fingers.

The curator instantly froze, bowed his head respectfully, and silently backed away, leaving us in total peace.

Benita stopped in front of a stunning, metallic-draped silk evening piece displayed in a glass alcove—a rare archival piece from an avant-garde European designer. She stood there for three full minutes, completely captivated, her eyes reflecting the soft spotlight overhead.

"What do you think of that one?" I asked, stepping up beside her.

"It’s breathtaking," she breathed, looking up at me with wide, shining eyes. "It’s not just a dress. It’s... it’s a statement."

"Then it’s yours," I said smoothly, turning to the curator and motioning toward the glass display. "Wrap it up. In fact, pack every piece she looked at for more than five seconds."

Benita gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. "Wait! Ethan, no! That single dress probably costs more than my old factory’s monthly payroll!"

"And you’re about to create pieces that cost ten times more than this," I replied with a calm smirk. "Consider this research."

While I stepped toward the main marble counter to hand the curator my platinum card and settle the bill, Benita drifted over to a quiet, dimly lit corner of the showroom. She was standing in front of a dramatic, sculpted charcoal gown, completely lost in thought as she lightly touched the intricate hand-pleated silk at the hem.

Suddenly, a sharp, clacking of designer heels echoed through the silent gallery.

Two women, decked out in loud, head-to-toe seasonal luxury logos and carrying oversized shopping bags, came strutting down the narrow aisle. The girl in front—wearing a bright pink tweed jacket and heavy makeup—didn’t even slow her pace as she rounded the corner, expecting Benita to scramble out of her path like a floor attendant.

Benita, hyper-focused on the dress’s construction, didn’t notice them in time to step back.

The girl’s elbow clipped Benita’s shoulder, making her stumble slightly against the velvet display rope.

"Ugh, watch where you’re standing!" the girl snapped instantly, spinning around with a look of utter disgust. Her eyes darted down Benita’s faded sweater, her worn pants, and her scuffed sneakers, her lip curling into a cruel sneer. "Excuse me? Are you blind? Why is someone dressed like a homeless person clogging up the runway section?!"

Benita pulled her hands back quickly, clutching her arms as her old instincts from the slum flared up. She looked down at her shoes, her face flushing bright red with sudden humiliation. "I... I’m sorry, I was just looking at the pleating..."

"Looking?" the girl’s friend chimed in with a high-pitched, mocking laugh. "Honey, you can’t even afford the air in this boutique, let alone the pleating. Do you even know what brand this is? Go back to whatever discount rack you crawled out of before you ruin the silk with your dusty hands!"

The girl in the pink jacket scoffed, her bruised ego clearly searching for a target to stomp on just because Benita hadn’t bowed down and cleared the way fast enough. "Seriously, where is the security in this place? Why are they letting broken bums wander into high fashion spaces?"

The store curator turned pale, looking terrified as he glanced between the two snobbish socialites and the corner where Benita was shrinking into herself.

I grabbed my platinum card off the counter, my eyes dropping into a freezing, dangerous chill as I turned around.

I took slow, deliberate strides across the polished marble, my boots clicking softly against the floor as I stepped directly behind Benita, placing a calm, warm hand on her shoulder.

"Is there a problem here?" I asked smoothly, my voice echoing with an absolute, terrifying authority that instantly killed the laughter in the room.