Getting dressed had never felt like this before.
Phei stood in his walk-in closet—his walk-in closet, bloody hell that was still surreal—staring at rows of clothes that actually belonged to him.
Not scavenged hand-me-downs from Danton. Not threadbare uniforms two or three sizes too large, worn thin by other people's lives. These were his. New. Clean. Tailored with the quiet confidence of money that didn't need to explain itself.
He ran his fingers along the athletic wear section. Because apparently his closet had sections now. Like a department store, except smaller and exclusively indulgent.
What does one wear to a billionaire's gym?
He pulled out a black compression shirt that felt like it cost more than his entire old wardrobe combined. Matching athletic shorts that actually hit his knees instead of draping past them like defeated curtains.
