Anderson Jr. Seely stood up, the weight of the moment pressing heavily on his chest as he slowly descended the steps of the wooden igloo, his boots creaking on the old wood as if protesting the very notion of him leaving the sanctuary of solitude; his eyes flickered toward the two figures standing in front of him, and a strange, almost magnetic pull seemed to draw his gaze to the man he had been waiting for. There, standing with the calm, assured presence of someone who had long since mastered the art of silence and influence, was William Smith, the man who both terrified and fascinated him, and beside him, a woman—though not the one he expected. This woman was not Kimberly Smith.
She was a vision of elegance and effortless allure, like a perfect reflection of the woman he had been conditioned to expect, but more delicate, more refined, and yet, at the same time, more captivating—her beauty radiated with an intensity that made his breath catch, and his eyes almost unwillingly drank in every detail of her form. She was younger than Kimberly Smith, more breathtakingly gorgeous, her features soft yet striking in their purity; she wore a white dress that seemed to glow, the fabric hugging her slim frame, her feet encased in white high heels that clicked rhythmically against the wood, a sound that seemed to echo in the air as though marking her arrival. In her left hand, she carried a white leather bag, her nails painted to match the pristine purity of her attire, each detail so carefully chosen, so deliberate, that it almost felt like a performance.
There was an absence of jewelry on her—no necklaces, no diamond rings, no earrings—just the simplest of adornments: a delicate hairpin in her graceful hair, its tip sculpted into the shape of a sunflower, a tiny piece of gold attached to it, gleaming softly as if it were a treasure born of simplicity. The understated beauty of it only heightened her presence, adding a layer of quiet sophistication that made her all the more impossible to ignore. She stood there, exuding an aura of gentleness and purity that seemed almost otherworldly, and as her eyes met his, a radiant smile broke across her face, her expression so serene, so effortlessly inviting, that it felt as though the very air around her had softened, lightened, brightened, as if drawn into the gravity of her warmth.
Anderson felt the inexplicable urge to linger on her every movement, to analyze the quiet grace in her posture, the way her lips parted as she smiled, how her small, slender form seemed almost to glide, her every gesture dripping with an effortless confidence. It was as though she embodied a kind of self-assuredness that he could never quite grasp, and as she turned her gaze towards him, he felt that familiar stir deep within—a sensation both unsettling and magnetic, as though he were seeing her for the first time yet somehow knowing her already. She smiled again, her eyes glimmering, as though she saw through him, past him, and into something buried deep within, some secret he hadn't even realized he was keeping.
William Smith, standing stoically beside her, wore a suit of gray-brown, the fabric dark yet immaculately pressed, as though each crease in his clothing reflected his calculated demeanor—a man whose very presence seemed to bend the world around him to his will. Everything about him, from the subdued tone of his outfit to the calm but commanding way he stood, spoke of quiet, unassailable power. He made no effort to raise his voice, to draw attention, but his very stillness was a force that demanded it. Beside him, they seemed a contrast—a young man in a T-shirt and Levi Strauss jeans, someone out of place, attempting to enter a world he could never fully understand.
"Good evening, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely," William Smith's voice broke the silence, low and measured, each word spoken with the kind of careful control that made it feel as though the very air changed around him. "You played tautirus very well. It's one of my favorite songs."
Anderson nodded, momentarily caught off-guard by the compliment, but then William continued with a smoothness that sent a chill through him.
"This is Layla Smith, my niece," William gestured to the woman standing beside him, his fingers barely moving but still conveying an authority that couldn't be ignored. "Layla Smith manages this restaurant for me and also oversees legal matters in my company, Kivalina Resources Limited Liabilities Company."
"Good evening, Mr. William Smith," Anderson responded, his voice steady, but beneath it, there was a flicker of something unspoken, a hesitation he couldn't entirely suppress. "My pleasure, Ms. Layla Smith. How are you?"
He stepped forward, his gaze never straying far from Layla's face, and after releasing William's firm handshake, he took Layla's hand, his fingers briefly brushing against hers. Her hand was light, slightly cold, and, as he noticed with a disquiet he couldn't quite understand, hard and rough—like the hands of someone who had worked tirelessly yet never allowed themselves to show the wear. It was a strange contrast to the softness of her smile, and it made him question everything he had assumed about her.
William Smith's voice cut through the moment with the same calm authority he always carried, as if he were a man who had never once been in a rush to control a situation but knew, with absolute certainty, that he would.
"Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, please study this draft contract carefully," William said, his eyes flickering toward Layla. "If you agree, we will sign it together so that our cooperation and partnership can be implemented soon."
Layla stepped behind Anderson, her soft voice continuing, outlining the terms of the contract in a manner so matter-of-fact it almost seemed detached.
William Smith's eyes remained on Anderson as he spoke again, his words measured but carrying the weight of absolute conviction, as if the very idea of trust, once earned, could never be revoked. "Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely, do you have any questions before signing the contract? There are something I would like to tell you before. I have two immutable principles at work. Without them, I could never work."
Anderson's brow furrowed, the curiosity burning within him, and he found himself asking before he could stop himself, "Yes, please. What principles, Mr. William Smith?"
William's gaze seemed to sharpen, his eyes cold yet somehow warm, like a blade wrapped in velvet, and his voice was tinged with an almost imperceptible smile as he responded, "Voluntary trust, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely."
Anderson hesitated, unsure of the exact meaning, but not wanting to show his uncertainty. "What does that mean, Mr. William Smith?"
William's eyes never wavered, and in that moment, Anderson realized something deep and unsettling—that this was the true power of a man like William Smith. He was not a godfather because he sought to control through fear, but because he understood the delicate, intangible nature of trust—and how it could be both the greatest weapon and the most impenetrable fortress.
"You can kill me, Mr. Anderson Jr. Seely. But you will never have my trust."
A long silence followed, and the air seemed to thicken as Anderson absorbed the weight of his words.
William's presence remained steady, unshaken, like a mountain that had weathered countless storms yet stood unchanged, immovable. He did not believe in forced alliances. He did not believe in threats, in coercion, in power that relied on fear alone. He believed in loyalty. And if loyalty did not come willingly—if it was not built on a foundation of true, unshakable trust—then it was worthless.
And in that moment, Anderson knew—he was sitting in front of a man who could not be bought, could not be threatened, could not be broken.
Only trusted.
And trust, once given, was worth more than anything else in the world.
Anderson looked at the contract again.
And he knew, with absolute certainty, that if he signed it—if he stepped into William Smith's world—there would be no turning back.