Wednesday afternoon, a guy with the thickest British accent you've ever heard showed up at my hotel carrying a tape measure and the kind of calm that said he worked with royalty—or billionaires who thought they were.
He spent two hours taking every possible measurement of my body. Every. Single. One. Inseam, outseam, chest, shoulders, wrists, neck, hell, maybe even the circumference of my ego. The man had a tape measure for dimensions of existence. And he did it all with this poker-faced precision, jotting things into a little leather notebook that looked older than sin.
"The suits will be ready in six weeks," he said, all crisp vowels and zero emotion. "The Empress has chosen your fabrics—charcoal, navy, black, midnight blue, and a few tasteful variations. If you'd like to review—"
"The Empress has good taste," I cut in. "I'll trust her."
