John has never found nightclubs appealing: the annoying, ear-piercing music grated on his nerves. On the contrary, you, his target, seem to revel in such noisy venues, perhaps attempting to justify your position as the scion of a notorious unauthorized pharmaceutical distributor.

John traced patterns on the glass rim, his gaze was thoughtful as he observed your movements syncing with the music on the dance floor. Having thoroughly examined you, he couldn't understand why you, rather than your father, were the target. He suggested a strained, if not adversarial bond between you and your father, intensified by your reckless and careless behavior. John felt an impulse to shield you, even from himself — a paradox, considering he believed he had lost his heart after his wife's death.

He drained the glass in one gulp and meticulously adjusted the lapels of his luxurious jacket. In that moment, arrogance personified him, while you luxuriated in the ecstasy of dance. “Hey, babe,” John’s hand gracefully slid around your waist, gently pulled you into a hug, and initiated a subsequent dance.