The security specialist looked over again.
The clerk exhaled through her nose.
“I’m trying to establish whether you are eligible to view it.”
“That makes sense.”
“Then I need information.”
“I gave you my name.”
“It did not return anything.”
“Then perhaps you should call someone who has access to the correct system.”
The clerk stared at him.
For the first time, the smile disappeared completely.
Across the room, a junior sales associate noticed the exchange.
She was a young white woman in her twenties, new enough that she still listened more than she spoke.
She had been arranging straps in a display drawer when the Black man entered.
Now she stopped.
Not because she knew him.
Because something about his calmness felt inconsistent with the story the senior clerk seemed to be building.
People pretending to be wealthy usually performed wealth.
They named brands.
Mentioned cars.
Dropped company names.
Talked loudly about recent purchases.
This man had done none of that.
He simply waited.
The blonde clerk glanced at his wrist.
“What are you wearing now?”
He looked down.
“This?”
“Yes.”
“A watch.”
The junior associate nearly smiled.
The clerk did not.
“I can see that.”
“What is it?”
The Black man rotated his wrist slightly.
The old steel case caught the boutique lights.
“Something my father gave me.”
The clerk nodded as though that confirmed what she had already decided.
“Sentimental.”
“Very.”
“May I?”
He extended his wrist.
The clerk leaned closer.
She expected a cheap vintage dress watch.
Then her expression shifted slightly.
The dial had no large logo.
Only a tiny maker’s mark near six o’clock.
The case proportions were unusual.
The crown had been handmade.
The movement was not visible from the front, but the dial layout suggested something older and highly specialized.
She did not recognize it.
That irritated her too.
She straightened.
“Interesting.”
The Black man withdrew his hand.
“Thank you.”
The junior associate, however, had seen the maker’s mark.
She frowned.
Somewhere in training.
Not current catalog.
Archive.
She quietly opened the boutique reference application on her own tablet.
Searched.
Nothing.
Tried another spelling.
Still nothing.
Then remembered where she had seen it.
A photograph in the upstairs heritage room.