Chapter 31: A Scandalous Display and an Unexpected Change of Plans

While Anise’s parents had proposed holding the wedding immediately following Simon’s coming-of-age ceremony, the arrangement was swiftly derailed by Dalton’s vehement opposition. With zero pressing motivation to alter the status quo thereafter, Simon simply allowed the days to drift aimlessly by until arriving at his present reality. Whether Anise harbored distinct feelings on the matter remained unknown, but Simon was acutely aware that he had simply given zero thought to the arrangement.

Looking back now, he considered the failure to wed a stroke of absolute divine fortune. It was only after meeting Clint that he discovered his intrinsic romantic orientation toward men. Had he proceeded with marrying Anise, his true nature would have inevitably plunged both of them into profound, inescapable misery.

Following the initial dissemination of the anonymous rumors, the next tactical objective was constructing undeniable, concrete evidence. Namely, staging a public spectacle where Simon paraded around in tight, unmistakable proximity with a male lover.

The following day at sharp noon, within the central public square.

Simon stood waiting, cradling a massive bouquet of vibrant red roses within his arms. The sight of a polished young gentleman holding such a ostentatious floral arrangement was remarkably eye-catching, prompting every single passing pedestrian to cast curious, lingering glances in his direction. The incessant public scrutiny was deeply embarrassing, but the physical numbness creeping down his strained arms presented a far more immediate discomfort.

As to why Simon was enduring this ordeal—it was entirely pursuant to Clint’s explicit operational directives. The detective had strictly instructed him to wait at this precise location, at this exact hour, holding a massive bouquet of flowers.

Naturally, had Clint requested it, Simon would have readily purchased the entire flower shop outright. Yet matching the sheer depth of Clint’s theatrical philosophy—specifically his doctrine of ‘if we are going to do it, we must execute it flawlessly’—proved to be a formidable challenge.

‘He is truly an eccentric individual.’

While Clint had projected a distinctly unique aura from the moment he introduced himself as an independent detective, observing him at close range revealed an even more complex, unusual personality. He could be utterly unpredictable at times, concealing a surprisingly playful, mischievous streak beneath his calm exterior. Is this whimsical nature a universal trait among exceptionally brilliant minds? Though the detective’s antics occasionally left him thoroughly flustered, discovering these hidden facets of Clint’s personality brought Simon an overwhelming, quiet joy.

As Simon stood idling in his thoughts, the surrounding crowd suddenly engaged in bizarre behavior. Pedestrians attempting to walk forward were twisting their torsos around to stare backward as they walked. This sudden disruption inevitably drew the gaze of those looking straight ahead, funneling the collective attention of the square toward a single focal point. Simon turned to look as well.

Stepping down from a private carriage at the far edge of the square was Clint. A passing gentlewoman, strolling along the thoroughfare without a care in the world, caught sight of the detective and froze mid-step, spinning around in utter bewilderment. Their shock was entirely justified: Clint was attired in a style completely divergent from his usual aesthetic.

Departing from his customary loose, beige tailoring, he wore a striking, deep plum-colored suit today. Crafted from a supple fabric that hugged his frame with crisp precision, the garment completely delineated the contours of his physique. His sleek, exceptionally well-built form appeared extraordinarily sharp and elegant. Furthermore, his routinely tousled hair had been neatly swept back, leaving just a few casual strands falling across his forehead—a style that dramatically highlighted the straight bridge of his nose and sharp jawline. The ensemble projected an effortless, mature carnality, possessing a magnetic charm that forcibly commanded the room’s attention.

Catching sight of Simon, Clint’s lips curved into a soft, breathtaking smile. As the corners of his eyes crinkled gently, his radiant expression seemed to cast a shimmering aura across the immediate air.

He looked every bit the part of the scandalous rumor whispered about him in local society—’the corrupt, reckless rake who seduces innocent maidens into moral ruin.’ If a man looked like that, falling into ruin beside him seemed entirely worth the price. As Simon stared at him in absolute, spellbound silence, Clint approached, his features morphing into a look of mild amusement.

“Simon?”

He had addressed him directly as Simon. Ah. Clint had invariably addressed him with polite, distant formality as ‘Mr. Grayan’ until this very microsecond. A wave of profound emotion crashed through Simon’s chest like a soaring tide.

“Mr. Clint…”

“Addressing me like that makes us sound entirely like strangers. Simply call me Clint.”

“Y-Yes. Clint.”

Simon nodded frantically, his mind lingering in a state of absolute, dazed intoxication.

“Did you fetch those lovely blossoms exclusively for me?”

Clint pointed a slender finger toward the massive bouquet. Simon held out the floral arrangement with both hands, presenting it to him with formal, reverent grace. Clint broke into a brilliant, dazzling smile. Despite having explicitly ordered Simon to purchase the flowers himself, his theatrical act of feigning utter, innocent surprise was deliciously cunning.

‘Clint and fresh roses…’

The combination was dangerously, intoxicatingly harmonious. The soaring emotion swelled so violently in Simon’s chest that it induced a faint wave of vertigo. Typically, lush green leaves served to elevate the vibrant beauty of flowers; in this instance, however, the vibrant petals existed merely to accentuate the vivid green of Clint’s striking eyes.

“You have my deepest thanks.”

Clint leaned in slightly toward Simon, lowering his posture.

“Pull yourself together. I do believe we have acquired our initial journalistic tail,” Clint whispered directly into Simon’s ear, his tone shifting into a sharp, stern cadence that contrasted sharply with his seductive posture.

‘Right! We are currently executing a fake romantic date!’

Instantly snapping back to reality, Simon assumed a grim, heroic expression and extended his arm with dramatic, chivalrous flair. Clint delicately rested his hand across the crook of Simon’s arm.

The duo navigated their way toward the grand commercial avenue—the most densely populated thoroughfare in the entire territory. Lined with elite boutiques specializing exclusively in high-value luxury commodities such as bespoke hats, imported gloves, and fine tailoring, the district served as the premier gathering ground for high society. Holding tightly onto Simon’s arm, Clint stepped onto the cobblestone street with absolute, unbothered arrogance.

“Hmm, does my hat not appear dreadfully outdated?” he drawled in a loud, carrying tone.

“My wrists feel so terribly bare… a fine timepiece would prove to be the absolute ideal accessory,” he added, dropping continuous, calculated hints for the surrounding crowd to overhear. His delightfully shallow, dramatic demeanor was the absolute incarnation of a calculated gigolo. He was committing to his chosen operational persona with absolute, terrifying devotion.

While they had mutually agreed that portraying a wealthy, naive fool being systematically exploited by a sly gigolo offered far more sensational gossip than a conventional romance, Simon had never anticipated the detective would embrace the role with such flawless, uninhibited commitment. Is this not slightly excessive? he thought briefly, yet the sheer spectacle made him love the experience infinitely more.

A foolish, helpless smile spread across Simon’s face, the corners of his lips curling upward uncontrollably.

“Name anything your heart desires, and it shall be yours.”

The statement was delivered with absolute, unvarnished sincerity. While Simon was notoriously terrible at acting, portraying a man hopelessly drowning in profound infatuation with Clint was something he could execute with zero effort. After all, it required nothing more than ceasing his constant efforts to conceal his genuine affection. Clint offered a subtle, approving nod, signaling that he was executing his role perfectly.

Having successfully drawn the rapt attention of every aristocratic onlooker on the thoroughfare, the pair selected an elite tailoring establishment and stepped inside. The boutique catered exclusively to gentleman’s attire. They had chosen a fine clothier over other establishments precisely because spending vast sums on luxury garments offered the most undeniable, high-visibility proof of extravagant squandering—a tactical point Clint had argued passionately.

“A very warm welcome to you, gentle sir.”

As expected of an elite establishment, a senior shop attendant immediately glided forward to greet Simon. Simon allowed himself to be guided directly toward the private VIP salon. Given that every single garment adorning Simon’s frame was crafted from the absolute finest, most astronomical textiles available in the realm, zero verbal explanations regarding his status were required. The moment they settled onto the plush velvet sofas in the salon, the attendant smoothly served a tray of freshly brewed, high-grade tea. The entire sequence unfolded with seamless, flawless efficiency.

‘What am I supposed to say in a place like this?’

In truth, Simon had been gripped by intense nervousness from the exact microsecond his boots crossed the threshold. It was his absolute first time stepping inside a commercial retail boutique. Sitting stiffly on the velvet cushions, he sipped his tea with extreme awkwardness. Sitting beside him, Clint subtly leaned his head closer, whispering in a low tone.

“Why are you so profoundly tense?”

“…This is my absolute first time venturing out to personally purchase commodities.”

“Then how do you acquire your wardrobe?”

“My personal butler, Rut, simply summons a master tailor to the estate to take my physical measurements. Rut handles every single remaining detail on his own.”

From selecting specific textile swatches to finalizing structural designs, the entire process had always been fully delegated to his head butler.

“Now that I reflect upon it… selecting the attire for the Kenyon masquerade ball was the absolute first time in my life I personally selected a garment.”

A faint blush of embarrassment crept across Simon’s cheeks.

“So you were not dressing in those terribly dated ensembles out of personal preference?”

“Dated…?”

While his fiancée Anise had previously commented that his wardrobe made him look significantly older than his years, hearing it framed so directly was mildly embarrassing.

“Do you harbor a specific aesthetic or style that you genuinely prefer?”

“I do not possess a defined preference… though I did harbor a quiet wish to acquire something similar to the ensemble I wore to the Kenyon ball,” Simon confessed timidly.

Clint studied Simon with a strangely complex expression before his features set into a firm, resolute look.

“Very well. Then we shall select precisely that style of attire. You shall personally choose the garments you wish to wear today, Mr. Grayan.”

“Pardon? Were we not originally here to purchase garments for you, Clint?”

“The operational plan has officially changed.”

Clint snapped his fingers with crisp authority, summoning the attendant. The clerk, who had discreetly retreated to a respectful distance to afford the gentlemen privacy, immediately stepped forward.

“Bring us a selection of summer cape-coats. As for the palette… a bright, luminous shade would be ideal. They are intended for this gentleman here. Fetch options that can be fitted and tried on immediately.”

Clint issued the detailed commands with breathtaking, practiced fluency. Simon watched the display with wide, fascinated eyes. If I am fortunate enough to have a future… perhaps I will learn to command a room with that exact, effortless grace.

Following a brief pause, the attendant returned bearing a wide array of uniquely designed cape-coats. To Simon—a man who had worn nothing but traditional, rigid straight-cut coats his entire life—the display opened an entirely new realm of fashion. The seasoned clerk had thoughtfully brought along matching waistcoats, tailored trousers, and fine linen shirts to complement the outer coats.

“Step forward and make your selection.”

“M-Me?”

“Hurry along now.”

Driven by Clint’s firm encouragement, Simon approached the garment racks in a complete daze. Confronted by such an overwhelming variety of fine clothing, he had zero concept of how to isolate a single piece. Panicking slightly, he simply grabbed a random ensemble off the rack.

“Splendid. Now, head into the fitting room and try it on. I shall select additional pieces for you while you change.”

Guided out by Clint, Simon found himself clutching the luxurious garments and stepping into the private fitting room in absolute bewilderment.

‘Is the natural dynamic of this situation… not supposed to be the exact reverse?’

He had mentally envisioned a scenario where Clint tried on suit after suit while Simon sat comfortably on the sofa, clapping approvingly before declaring, “I shall take every single item in the store!” Was that not the classic sequence depicted in every romantic novel?! Why on earth was he the one executing the wardrobe changes?! Though filled with profound confusion, his hands faithfully peeled off his jacket and began changing into the new attire.

The senior clerk of the Grandme Clothiers had greeted the two gentlemen with a thoroughly bored, dispassionate expression. One man was attired in a somewhat conservative, dated custom suit crafted from astronomical, top-tier textiles, while the other wore a tight, remarkably gaudy ensemble that practically screamed low class. The gaudy individual was clinging tightly to the wealthy man’s arm, fluttering his eyelashes in a display of calculated flirtation that made the dynamic blindingly obvious.

‘A foolish, filthy rich mark and a sly gigolo who snagged himself a goldmine.’

The clerk sneered internally. While male pairings were somewhat uncommon in the provinces, he had encountered dozens of such dynamic duos during his former tenure in the capital. The gigolo would extravagantly select high-priced items, offering cheap physical affection to keep his wealthy patron pleased, and the wealthy fool would happily pay the astronomical bill. Shortly thereafter, the gigolo would inevitably return alone, demanding a full cash refund while pocketing the money.

‘To think I have to witness this exact, nauseating farce even after relocating back to my hometown.’

Though utterly repulsed by the display, he maintained a perfectly neutral, professional facade, keeping a respectful distance. Yet moments later, the gigolo unexpectedly summoned him, commanding him to fetch garments not for himself, but for his wealthy patron instead.

‘What is his game? Did they merely come to shop for the rich fool?’

Occasionally, high-tier gigolos would select garments for their wealthy marks as a calculated sales tactic—a small investment to extract ten times the capital later. This gigolo doesn’t just possess extraordinary looks; his psychological sales tactics are terrifyingly advanced. The clerk couldn’t help but feel a quiet pang of pity for the naive wealthy young man.

The clerk carried the requested selection of fine garments upstairs. Once the wealthy patron retreated into the private fitting room, the gigolo turned and glided directly toward him. What now? Is he planning to squeeze me for a kickback as well?

As the clerk assumed a wary, defensive posture, the handsome gigolo leaned in close and spoke.

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