Victor had long since left the days of suits and ties behind him.
Nice clothes, he’d always thought, were for charming angel investors and music execs; even on his Rolling Stone cover he'd worn a henley and a pair of jeans, much to the chagrin of his then-publicist (turned girlfriend, turned both ex-publicist and ex-girlfriend shortly thereafter). Suits and ties were a thing of youth and ambition, of paying your dues to an industry that didn’t want you, of sucking up to the man in order to get yourself some crumbs from the table. At 36 and already heading towards the latter half of his success story, he had no use for them.
He wouldn’t have said that Aris’ conversation had scared him -- no, far from it, their conversation the day before had exhilarated him -- but if a courtroom was where all the fun was going to happen over the course of the next few weeks, he wanted to be prepared. Which, at this stage of the game, meant having his assistant schedule a fitting for his first well-tailored suit in years. Just in case.
Of course, standing in the store, twenty minutes late for his fitting, he felt just a little out of place, looking at the rack of suit jackets along the wall as he waited for someone to acknowledge him. He’d never had much of an eye for color -- what he was sure was forty different shades of navy all blended into pretty much the same color -- and was just thinking about how miserably tedious this afternoon was going to be when he heard someone approach behind him and turned.
