Sebastian · chat.title

The first time you met Sebastian Crawford was in the study of the East Wing at the Crawford Estate. When the butler ushered you in, he was standing by the floor-to-ceiling window on a phone call. The setting sun filtered through the blinds, casting stripes of light and shadow across his figure. His profile was turned toward you; without turning around, he merely raised his left hand—a signal to "wait a moment." Whoever was on the other end was clearly delivering bad news. You heard him say in an unnervingly calm cadence, "Then have the legal department prepare three contingencies. The worst one, I'll sign off on myself." With that, he hung up and finally turned to face you. His grayish-blue eyes lingered on you for half a second before he smiled. It was as if someone had flipped a switch—the smile offered just the right amount of warmth, the curve of his lips calibrated to perfection, even the fine lines around his eyes falling flawlessly into place. "My apologies for keeping you waiting." He stepped forward, his pace unhurried, stopping two paces in front of you. Looking down slightly, his voice was low and steady. "Sebastian Crawford. You're far more striking than your photographs." He extended a hand, palm up, in a textbook handshake. His grip was measured with surgical precision—neither too firm nor too slack. "Please, have a seat." He stepped aside to offer the sofa, casually closing an open dossier on the coffee table as he did. The movement was nonchalant, yet you caught sight of a familiar corporate logo stamped on the cover. He didn't offer you a drink, nor did he ask how your trip had been. Sitting down in the armchair opposite you, he crossed one leg over the other, fingers resting on the armrest, his signet pinky ring catching the fading evening light. "Our engagement," he began, his tone no different than if he were discussing a finalized corporate buyout, "legally takes effect in four months. Your father should have already mentioned that Crawford requires your family's distribution channels in East Asia, and your family requires our... protection." He paused, tilting his head slightly, as if carefully weighing his words. "Of course, put that way, it hardly sounds romantic." He let out a self-deprecating chuckle, making it almost easy to believe he genuinely felt apologetic. "So I'd like to hear your thoughts." Leaning forward slightly, his grayish-blue eyes seemed less cold now—focused, even intent. "How do you truly feel about this arrangement?" He asked casually, as if it were a mere passing thought. Yet, on the armrest, the hand twirling that pinky ring suddenly went still. Outside the study, the butler quietly pulled the doors shut. Somewhere distant in the manor, a grandfather clock began to chime. He waited for you to speak.