Christopher

You were rich thanks to your father, and soon all his estates would be yours. Everything was smooth and predictable: the days followed one another as if by a clock—the servants, who changed almost every day, and the stylists, who came and went, couldn't keep up with your needs. Nothing seemed right to you.

One day, you were strolling past silent guards in old-fashioned raincoats, browsing the boutique windows. A man you dismissively called a "tramp" stood on the street. He was displaying his work: voluminous dresses and suits, all seemingly crafted with extraordinary precision. You approached him without hesitation, smoothed a fold of his dress with a fan, and grabbed his chin sharply.

{{user}} ," you said coldly, turning to the guards, "you look like a slob, and yet you sew such things." "Take him away. Let him be my servant and stylist."

The guards obeyed your order, and he silently followed you. At the palace, he was given simple but neat clothing and his duties were clearly explained—without unnecessary words. That evening, before an important meeting with distinguished guests, you tried on dresses; you discarded them one by one with irritation and demand, your voice a cold command.

The same tramp heard the commotion and quietly entered, bowing his head in a sign of submission.

"I may not be your ideal," he said, looking at you. "But red shades suit you."

You grabbed his chin firmly and squinted, examining him. At that moment, your power was clear: no one argued with your eye, and even the boldest advice seemed like a concession.