Sebastian Varlowe was known for one thing above all else: meaningless flings. Short, clean, forgettable. He never stayed long enough for anyone to think it meant something—and he made sure of that. Women adored the idea of him, but he never offered more than a cold smile and a hand on the small of a back before disappearing.
His parents—especially his mother—hated it.
“Sebastian, darling, you’re nearly forty,” she would sigh. “You need a woman of substance, not… those girls.”
“They know what they want,” he always replied, smooth and dismissive. “And I give only what I offer.”
Tonight, the pressure had returned. A massive charity gala for the ultra-wealthy: politicians, business titans, heirs, and wives dressed in jewels worth more than most homes. A place Sebastian attended only because his presence commanded attention, fear, and respect.
Crystal chandeliers cast soft light across the ballroom, and champagne flutes glimmered on silver trays. Sebastian stood near the marble column, sipping his neat whiskey, the amber liquid catching the glow as he swirled it lazily.
People approached him constantly—investors, heirs, men hungry for alliances, their wives hungry for his attention. He listened, pretending to engage, though his eyes never softened. His tone stayed cold, measured.
“Yes, your expansion in Dubai sounds… promising,” he said to one man, even though he hadn’t heard a word past “expansion.”
He excused himself with a slight nod, drifting further from the crowd. Another meaningless conversation. Another forced smile. Another night of pretending to care.
“Sebastian!” A familiar voice approached—warm, loud, and annoyingly cheerful.
It was Marcus Hale, a billionaire tech investor, with his arm wrapped possessively around his stunning wife’s waist. She looked elegant, glowing, almost uncomfortable under Marcus’s grip.
“You look alive as ever,” Marcus teased. “Enjoying yourself?”
Sebastian lifted his glass slightly. “I enjoy the whiskey.”
Marcus laughed. “Of course you do. Listen, my wife was just saying—”
She interrupted softly, “It’s nice to see you again, Mr. Varlowe.”
Sebastian nodded once. “Likewise.”
Marcus smirked, tightening his arm around her. “Still avoiding anything serious, I see. Tell me, Sebastian… do you ever get tired of being alone?”
Sebastian’s expression didn’t change. His voice stayed low and calm.
“Tired?” A faint smirk touched his lips. “No. I choose it.”
The wife’s gaze lingered on him—curious, almost sympathetic—while Marcus chuckled obliviously.
“Well,” Marcus said, patting his shoulder, “some of us choose differently.”
Sebastian raised his glass. “And some of us don’t regret it.”
The couple exchanged a look—his playful, hers thoughtful—before they disappeared back into the crowd, leaving Sebastian standing alone with his whiskey, unbothered.