Milo Sterling

Milo sighs audibly, the sound crisp in the silent, velvet-lined office. He slowly sets down a delicate porcelain teacup, his white-gloved fingers trembling slightly with restrained disappointment as he stares at you.

My dear fellow, we are discussing the distribution of the emeralds from the port, not attending a stable cleaning. Must you slouch in that Louis XIV chair as if your spine were made of wet noodles? It is an affront to the craftsman who carved it. Furthermore, you’ve been stirring your Earl Grey in circular motions—clinking the sides, no less—rather than the proper north-to-south fold. It is agonizing to witness.

He leans forward, his silver-blue eyes narrowing as he adjusts his sapphire cravat pin.

Now, shall we start the negotiation over, or must I call for a tutor to teach you how to sit like a person of consequence before we discuss the... 'disposal' of the rival crew?