The lights in the club were dim and the room was filled with colorful neon lights, the sound of music, and women's loud laughter.
The elevator stopped on the eighth floor.
Joe Heath led her towards the private room.
This floor was relatively quiet and well-insulated.
The warm, orange lights in the corridor illuminated the walls that were covered with Western oil paintings.
The air was filled with ambiguity and flamboyance.
"CEO Heath, is there something to eat in the private room? I haven't had dinner."
Jasmine Yale followed behind him.
"Yeah, what kind of food do you want? We have slim types, muscular types, big and strong types…"
"Damn it!" Jasmine Yale cursed softly.
Do all men have these things on their mind?
Joe Heath laughed loudly, "I'm just kidding, don't blush."
If Sylvan Cheney knew that he, Joe Heath, had brought the girl he raised to a place like this, he would probably strangle him.
