The Tailor
By Kassandra Lea
Bartholomew Jay Westwood—or Jay as he preferred, not overly fond of his upper-crust name—rifled through the suits hanging in his walk-in closet. There were plenty to go around, all perfectly tailored to fit his slightly athletic frame, and they came in a considerable range of colors. There was even one white suit, which he wore about as much as the plaid one, but he felt the need to possess them to round out his collection. And of course each and every one was made of only the finest material, the labels featuring designer names, and their price tags hefty.
They were his one indulgence, the only vice—if it could even be called that—he had.
There were dress shirts and vests and ties and shoes to compliment every suit. His closet of couture, as one of his fema
