Florian could only stare.
There were six mannequins arranged in a perfect line, like silent sentinels guarding a sacred hall—three to the left, three to the right. The symmetry was deliberate, theatrical, as if Drizelous had choreographed their unveiling with all the gravity of a royal ceremony.
The first three bore powerful, commanding silhouettes—bold cuts, broad shoulders, dramatic layering. They practically radiated authority even while motionless. Heinz's, clearly. The tailoring was unmistakable—refined, severe, and unapologetically regal.
The other three, however… one in particular made Florian's breath catch in his throat.
His.
Almost before he realized it, Florian stepped closer, his feet moving on their own. His fingers hovered inches from the cape pinned elegantly across the mannequin's shoulder, close enough to feel the air shift. The detail drew him in like gravity. Every thread, every line, every fold—it wasn't just clothing. It was intention.
