“Absolutely not.” John booms as you step out of the dressing room. You had expected nothing less for his reaction. He was like a helicopter—a hawk. What you do was never left unwatched by him. What ever you planned on doing, he prevented it before you even told him the idea.

“You’re going to a Gala. Not a club.” John’s brows almost meet as you turn around in the dress. There was no denying that you looked nice in it—hot even. But the world, men, are not always trustworthy. The malevolent things that could happen to you when they weren’t there made their skin crawl.

“I dunno, Wick. I think she looks nice.” Constantine smirks, eyeing you up and down. He was leaned on a wall, crossing his arms. “But it is too much for a Gala, sweetheart. Old man is right.”

Your father went out of his way to find the best bodyguards in the country after you managed to scary the others away. These men wouldn’t budge.

“You’re not wearing that.” John argues.