White Collar Suits Neal Caffrey Novels & Stories

He needed to look so utterly, fundamentally incompetent that when the hammer of the embezzlement charge finally fell, it would look like the natural conclusion of a man losing his mind. As Caleb, I was a ghost. As Antonella, I was the architect of his domestic demise. It started with the suits. Alaric’s wardrobe was his armor bespoke Italian wool, tailored to within a millimeter of perfection to compensate for his lack of a backbone. At 6:00 AM, while the villa was still nursing its gala hangover, I slipped into the laundry room. I had intercepted Alaric’s favorite charcoal-grey power suit, the one he planned to wear for the preliminary merger meeting with the Moretti representatives.

She beamed, looking for the perfect ensemble for him. Brady was already two sets in by the time Salen found the perfect one. It was a black suit with Italian stitching and navy blue cufflings. It had the matching jacket, pants and vest. Celus groaned, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek before taking the suit and finding an open room. "I'm so excited. Brady looks amazing all dressed up." Safiya squealed, squirming in her seat as Salen took the one next to her. Brady was the first one to come out. He had on a grey suit with black cufflings. He fiddled with his sleeves before holding his arms out, spinning around for them to see the entire thing.

A shiver went down my spine. I knew that voice. It had given me two orgasms today. My head whipped in his direction. There he was, wearing a Guardian’s baseball t-shirt and baseball cap with faded jeans. I almost didn’t recognize Mr. Craft so dressed down. He was always in a button up with fancy dress slacks and shiny shoes. I’d never seen him sporting a pair of Nikes. “Ms. Neely,” he greeted, resituating his baseball cap.

Kehlani’s POV The café was sleek and modern, a place filled with professionals chatting over espressos and influencers snapping photos of their lattes. It was exactly the kind of place Natalie would choose—trendy, expensive, and a reflection of the success she loved to flaunt. I spotted her instantly. Seated near the window, she was dressed in a cream-colored designer jumpsuit, her perfectly manicured fingers scrolling through her phone as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Meanwhile, my world was falling apart.

I’m spiraling and I’m panicking. How am I supposed to play the imposter when I have no idea who the person I’m impersonating is? Why on earth did I let Neal and Louis talk me into this? “Miss Griffin.” Speak of the devil. Our table goes silent as Neal saunters over, looking mouthwatering in a tailored burgundy checkered suit. His dark gold hair is half messy and his expression is impassive as ever. “Hello ladies,” he greets evenly. The intern and even Patty melts into a blushing, stuttering mess. The Neal Ward effect. I’m grateful I’m not the only one held captive by it.

Y city, Theo's cafe. This cafe is the second-best in the city and is where Nelson Woodley has currently arrived in his car. It's obvious that he must have visited a boutique since he's no longer wearing the suit from earlier but denim ripped blue jeans, white converse, an oversized black t-shirt with a 'Bad boy' logo pasted at the front. He's also sporting a black cap which he turned towards the back and a gold long chain around his neck. On his left hand was a ring on his index finger and a chain bracelet. Seeing him like this, some girls and women screamed: "Handsome, marry me".

Cassian hesitated just for a second then smiled like a knife. “Absolutely. Front row. Let him stew in the irony.” “Got it. And what exactly are you wearing to this... gala of redemption?” “White velvet. Custom. I want the photographers to question if I’m holy or unhinged.” Taryn snorted. “And Rowan?” Cassian’s smile faltered, just slightly. “Charcoal gray suit. No tie. Open collar.” “Oh?” she teased. “Since when do you pick Rowan’s outfits?”

"They left a rack outside the door at 6 AM. I selected these for you." "You selected them? Why?" "Because the grey cardigan makes you look like a victim," Cale said bluntly. "And today, you need to look like a contender." Elion looked at the clothes. They were sharp. Professional. Armor. "I like the cardigan," Elion muttered. "The cardigan is safe," Cale said. "Safe doesn't survive in this house. Put on the suit, Elion." "Or what?" "Or Kieran will eat you alive at breakfast."

Outside the reinforced frosted glass windows, a frantic sea of media cameras flashed in the gray morning rain, waiting for the first glimpse of the city's most scandalous corporate union. I stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the lapels of my pristine white tailored suit. The jacket was immaculate, structured with high, sharp shoulders that hid the rigid posture of my spine. Beneath the blazer, I wore a high, jeweled choker that tightly gripped my throat, concealing the heavy silver collar that still rested beneath it. I was a bride, but every layer of fabric I wore was a tactical uniform engineered for corporate warfare.

Leila stood frozen in the grand foyer, listening to the retreating purr of the car engine. She was wearing one of her defensive outfits: an old, faded college sweatshirt and joggers. "Now that's a shame." Jeffery's voice echoed from the top of the curved staircase. She looked up. He was leaning against the railing, dressed in dark gray lounge pants and a tight white t-shirt that showed every defined muscle of his chest and arms. He held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid. His expression was one of relaxed, absolute ownership.