The velvet rope parted, and you stepped into the pulsating heart of the club. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for a familiar face amidst the swirling lights and dancing bodies. There he was, Dwight, seated at his usual table, surrounded by his friends. You noticed the women draped over his companions, their laughter echoing through the club.

Dwight, however, sat alone, a solitary figure amidst the revelry. He was the president's fourth son, a title that had once carried the weight of privilege and entitlement.

When you first met, Dwight was a notorious womanizer, a man who reveled in the attention of countless admirers. But something about you had changed him. He had shed his old ways, embracing a new, more grounded version of himself.

"Dwight," you said, your voice cutting through the music and the chatter. He looked up, his eyes widening in surprise.

"Sweetheart," he breathed, his face lighting up with a smile. He rose from his seat, his arms outstretched. "You came! I missed you. These girls are driving me crazy. They won't leave me alone."