Mavi didn't want to spend too much time shopping for suits. Considering future social events, he planned to buy multiple sets at once so he could rotate them as needed.
So, he directly asked the female sales associate, "Which are the most expensive suits in your store? If you have them in stock, I'll take them all."
As soon as he spoke with such confidence, the female sales associate's eyes lit up, and she quickly responded, "Sir, just to confirm, you're only looking for ready-to-wear suits, correct? Based on your height and build, we happen to have two sets that would fit you quite well… Would you like to try them on?"
"Mm-hmm," Mavi nodded casually. Following the sales associate's lead, he walked into the fitting room and tried on the two Italian suits she had brought him.
"Wow! Sir, this gray plaid suit looks absolutely stunning on you! It perfectly highlights your distinguished aura," the sales associate exclaimed, not just as a sales pitch but as an honest compliment.
Indeed, with Mavi's 6'1" height, muscular physique, and striking features, he looked undeniably dashing in a suit. Simply put, he had the ideal figure—slim in clothes, muscular without them, exuding a strong masculine charm.
After trying on the suits, Mavi instructed his butler to pay with his card. The total cost for three handcrafted suits was $135,000. The selection included a distinguished gray plaid suit, a classic and reserved deep blue suit, and a stylish yet business-appropriate khaki suit.
After completing the purchase, Mavi left the store empty-handed. As a young master, there was naturally someone to carry his suits for him—no need for him to do it himself.
Watching Mavi's suave departure, the female sales associate couldn't help but sigh with envy, thinking, "Ah, if only I could live a life like his..."
---
Around 8 PM that evening, at the JW Marriott Hotel, one of Washington, D.C.'s most luxurious hotels, a steady stream of luxury cars arrived, pulling up to the entrance one after another.
Among them were sleek black Mercedes-Benz S-Class sedans, pristine white Lincoln Town Car stretch limousines, gleaming silver Bentley Turbo R models, and black Cadillac Fleetwoods…
On the road, these cars turned heads wherever they went, while their owners sat inside, basking in the attention. They were all prominent figures in American high society, and their luxury cars were their status symbols. Each vehicle came with a chauffeur—driving oneself would be considered beneath their dignity.
As these elite guests stepped out of their vehicles, the men were uniformly dressed in expensive suits paired with polished designer leather shoes. The women dazzled in backless gowns and low-cut evening dresses, meticulously adorned with glamorous makeup and elaborate hairstyles. Their necks and wrists gleamed with extravagant jewelry, as if to broadcast their elite status to the world.
At exactly 8:10 PM, Mavi's black Cadillac slowly pulled into the underground parking garage of the Marriott Hotel.
Tonight, he was wearing the deep blue Italian suit. In the inner pocket of his jacket was an MP3 player he had purchased recently. Two crisp white earphone cords trailed from his pocket to his ears, evoking a nostalgic familiarity—just like his past life, when he would listen to music during his commute home.
As soon as the car came to a stop, one of his burly Russian bodyguards immediately stepped out to open the door for him. "Young Master, we have arrived."
"Mm. Stay here," Mavi instructed, telling his bodyguards to wait in the garage rather than accompany him upstairs. After all, events like this were exclusive to high society—bodyguards were expected to wait outside.
"Understood, Young Master." The Russian bodyguards stepped aside, watching as their employer strode toward the elevator.
The banquet hall on the hotel's top floor had a dedicated elevator for VIPs, ensuring that esteemed guests wouldn't have to share the ride with regular hotel patrons.
As Mavi reached the exclusive elevator, a sleek, pale green Aston Martin DB7 sports car smoothly pulled into the underground garage and parked diagonally behind him.
A few seconds later, the car door opened, and a young woman with long hair stepped out gracefully, carrying a small black purse. She was dressed in a pure white off-shoulder evening gown, her every movement exuding elegance. After casually closing the car door, she walked toward Mavi with a poised and refined stride.
The rhythmic clacking of her high heels echoed through the garage, growing clearer as she approached. A delicate floral fragrance from her perfume subtly drifted past Mavi's nose.
The woman appeared to be around twenty years old. Her fair skin was as flawless as fresh snow, and her flowing black hair framed her exquisite features, enhancing her natural allure. Her plump, rosy lips and mesmerizing, expressive eyes made it difficult for anyone to look away.
Carrying herself with an air of nobility, she stepped up beside Mavi, waiting for the descending elevator alongside him.
Her name was Jennifer Swift, the daughter of the Marriott Hotel Group's president. Her father was a billionaire worth tens of billions of dollars, while her mother was a former Miss World pageant runner-up. With such exceptional genetics, Jennifer possessed breathtaking beauty and an undeniable presence.
Mavi glanced at Jennifer briefly before turning his attention back to the elevator, showing no particular interest.
When the elevator reached the second basement level, Jennifer was the first to step inside, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She pressed the button for the top floor without hesitation.
Notably, despite being a wealthy heiress, Jennifer wore no jewelry on her neck or wrists. Even the black purse she carried was from an unremarkable brand—not some limited-edition luxury item. It was as if she had never cared for such materialistic extravagance.
Mavi followed her into the elevator, standing to her left with a respectable distance between them.
As the elevator doors slowly closed, the fragrance of Jennifer's perfume became more pronounced, playfully teasing Mavi's senses.
However, he wasn't the type to be easily captivated by a beautiful woman. Having lived two lifetimes, he had never been the kind of man to grovel over women. He simply stood there idly, mentally planning for the days ahead.
But at that moment, his MP3 player, tucked inside his suit pocket, suddenly turned on—whether by accidental touch or some other reason. Out of nowhere, music began to play aloud. The song was one of his favorites from his past life: You Raise Me Up.
Originally, this song wasn't supposed to be performed by Westlife until five years later, in 2005. But Mavi, unwilling to wait that long, had commissioned someone to recreate and record it ahead of time for his private collection.
As the gentle and moving melody filled the small elevator space, Jennifer, who had been quietly standing beside him, suddenly turned her face toward him with a curious expression, studying him intently.