A shirt and A Stranger
1085 Words
Chapter 2 A shirt and A Stranger
The bell above the boutique door chimed again, sharper this time, cutting through the quiet like a ripple in still water.
Samantha looked up from the folded scarves she had been arranging on the counter. The door opened wider, and in stepped two men in dark suits. Their expressions were unreadable, eyes scanning the room with the precision of people trained to notice everything.
They didn’t speak, didn’t even acknowledge her directly. Just stood by the entrance, firm and alert, as if guarding something — or someone.
Then he entered.
Tall, composed, and walking with the kind of calm authority that didn’t need to announce itself. He was dressed sharply, though a large coffee stain bloomed across the front of his crisp white shirt. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, but his eyes — dark, observant — took in the boutique with a flicker of curiosity.
Samantha blinked. She didn’t recognize him, but something about him made her stomach flip. Maybe it was the contrast — the sleek black car idling outside, the guards in tailored suits, and this man standing in the middle of their quiet little boutique like he had accidentally stepped out of another world.
He ran a hand through his neatly styled hair, eyes narrowing as he glanced down at the coffee stain spreading across his shirt. Without looking at her, he said flatly, “I need a clean shirt. Business formal. Now.”
Samantha quickly nodded, already reaching for a pale blue shirt from the back racks.
He glanced up briefly, voice clipped, “Make sure the tag is cut. I don’t want to waste time with returns or exchanges.”
There was no room for negotiation or explanation.
Samantha obeyed silently, her hands steady despite the unexpected intensity of his presence.
She handed him the shirt carefully, her eyes barely meeting his. “There’s a fitting room just—”
“I won’t need it,” he cut in, already unbuttoning his stained shirt with quick, efficient fingers. One of the bodyguards stepped forward instinctively, but the man raised a hand slightly, stopping him without a word.
He stripped off the ruined shirt, revealing a lean, sculpted torso, marked by discipline rather than vanity. Samantha turned away immediately, flustered. She busied herself with folding the soiled garment, even though it was clear he had no intention of taking it with him.
In a matter of seconds, he was dressed again, adjusting the cuffs like he had done it a thousand times. The pale blue shirt hugged his frame perfectly.
“Send the receipt to this number,” he said curtly, handing her a sleek business card without sparing a glance at her. “No mistakes.”
She took the card, her fingers brushing his for a fleeting second. It was nothing, just paper against skin — but the contact sent a strange flutter down her spine.
He turned to leave without another word.
But just before he reached the door, he paused.
Without turning around, he asked, “What’s your name?”
Samantha blinked. “Samantha.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, as if the name meant something — or maybe nothing at all — he stepped out, his bodyguards falling in behind him like shadows.
And just like that, he was gone.
But the silence he left behind? It lingered — thick, unspoken, and charged.
The door clicked shut behind him, but Samantha didn’t move.
Her fingers still clutched the card he had handed her, the edges digging slightly into her palm. Her heart was beating a little too fast for her liking, and she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he’d smiled. He hadn’t even really looked at her.
But something about him — the way he carried himself, the way the room seemed to hold its breath around him — unsettled her in a way she couldn’t explain. Cold, precise, unshaken. Not even the coffee stain had thrown him off. Just business. No emotion.
What kind of man doesn’t even flinch at ruining a designer shirt in public?
She looked down at the card.
Alexander Multimon.
No title, no extra details. Just a name, a number, and a company logo embossed in silver at the corner. It looked expensive. It felt expensive.
She carefully set the card down by the register and let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
That’s when the bell above the door jingled again.
“Samantha, did someone come in?” Aunt Carrie’s familiar voice called from the hallway.
Samantha turned just as Aunt Carrie and Uncle Mark entered, carrying a pair of shopping bags and chatting quietly between themselves. The moment Aunt Carrie caught sight of her, she paused.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she said, setting the bags down. “What happened?”
Samantha opened her mouth, then closed it again.
Uncle Mark chuckled. “Don’t tell me someone tried to rob us. Again.”
“No,” Samantha said, finally finding her voice. “It wasn’t that. Someone came in. He spilled coffee on his shirt, asked for a replacement.”
Aunt Carrie raised a brow. “Asked?”
“Well… more like… ordered,” Samantha muttered.
“He was tall,” she added quietly. “Sharp features. Dark eyes. Pale blue shirt.”
Uncle Mark blinked. “Wait — Multimon Industries? That Alexander?”
Samantha nodded slowly. “I think so.”
The boutique fell quiet for a beat.
Then Aunt Carrie let out a low whistle. “Well, that’s not the sort of man who just walks into our store every day.”
“No,” Samantha said softly, still staring at the door. “He really isn’t.”
---
Alexander leaned back in the backseat of the black SUV, staring out at the city skyline through tinted glass. His shirt was crisp, his jaw set, and his phone buzzed twice with incoming emails — all ignored.
His mind should have been on the meeting.
But instead, a flicker of thought lingered… on the girl.
No perfume. No flashy lipstick. No annoying sales pitch. Just quick, silent efficiency — and those wide, uncertain eyes that refused to meet his unless absolutely necessary.
So ordinary. So quiet.
And somehow… that made her unforgettable.
He clicked his pen once, then set it down.
“Turn off the music,” he said to the driver. “I need silence.”
- Writer
