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T he crowd roars as I wait backstage. My heart pounds, skin slick with a sheen of sweat.

“You’re up, Rory,” the stagehand calls. I nod and take a deep breath, steadying my nerves. No matter how often I’ve done this, the pre-show jitters never fade.

“Showtime,” I whisper to myself.

As I step onto the stage, the music hits—a high-pitched electric guitar wail and a thumping bassline. The crowd erupts. My body moves intuitively to the rhythm. Flashing lights bathe the stage in a neon glow as the aerial silk, a long red fabric ribbon, descends from the ceiling.

I grasp the silk, its smooth texture cool against my skin, and begin to climb. The fabric wraps around my legs as I arch my back, curving seductively. The audience cheers.

I feel alive. Free. The music pulses, the lights dazzle, and my body dangles dangerously from the silk. My movements are slow, sensual.

The lights dim to a dull red glow. Gasps ripple through the crowd as I spin, the silk tightening around my legs. Arms outstretched, I grip the fabric firmly between my thighs.

The music crescendos, heat rising in me as I spin faster, the silk cocooning my body. Lights blur. The crowd fades. All that matters is the silk, the adrenaline coursing through my veins, the raw power surging in me.

As the music peaks, I let go and drop. Gasps fill the room, exhilaration flooding me as I plummet.

I land on my feet, knees bent, arms extended. The music fades, and the stage erupts in blinding white light, signaling the arrival of the other performers. It’s the last dance, and we leave it all on the stage like we’ve got nothing left to lose.

When the final strains of music fade, the lights dim, and the curtain falls. I exhale deeply, releasing the tension of the performance as relief washes over me. Another show completed.

Adrenaline still thrums in my veins, leaving me breathless and drenched in sweat as we exit the stage. But soon, it fades into a bone-deep exhaustion weighing on my limbs.

“Rory! I thought I told you to skip the drop this time!” Dominic’s exasperated voice cuts through the post-performance haze. I roll my eyes, turning to face the lead choreographer.

“You know I can’t resist, Dom. It’s all part of the show,” I retort with a causal shrug.

“You’re going to get yourself killed one of these days.”

“That’s what makes it exciting.” Flashing him a mischievous grin, I continue toward my dressing room.

I am a Sovereign Servant; I took a vow to serve the Sovereign world. The Sovereigns vow their very souls to a life of violence and death. Servants, we vow our bodies, bound to serve the Sovereigns in whatever capacity they deem fit. They are our masters, and we are their slaves. It’s fucked up, but it’s the life we’ve chosen—the life my father chose for me.

I am a Siren, a coveted group of Servants that are talented dancers and entertainers. A Siren’s purpose is to entertain, seduce, and please the Sovereign. Dad, a high-ranking Sovereign, groomed me for this life, for this destiny. I was always going to be a Servant—I had no other choice.

Since I turned eighteen, I’ve been gracing Sovereign stages. The thrill—the pulse of danger and excitement—never dulls. I live for that adrenaline rush, the exhilaration of soaring through the air, and the intoxicating freedom that comes with each show. Stepping into my dressing room, I shut out the chaos out.

Exhaustion drags me into the plush chair before the vanity. Sighing, I sink into the soft cushions, closing my eyes to block out the harsh glare of the mirror lights.

“Rory, are you coming to the club tonight?” Lana, another Siren, pokes her head in.

“Can’t. I have plans.”

“You never come out with us anymore, Rory,” she whines.

“I’ve got a busy life.” I shrug, wiping away the layers of makeup. There’s no point in explaining myself—she wouldn’t get it. Hell, I barely understand it myself. Her eyes are still glued to me, full of that silent, pleading hope. I flash her a smile. “Next time, I swear.”

She pouts, crossing her arms. “You better not cancel again.”

“I won’t. Promise.” We both know I probably will. “See you, Lana.”

With a reluctant nod, she leaves, and the door clicks shut. I rub off the last bit of eyeliner, letting the makeup remover wipe away more than just mascara. After a quick shower, cleansed skin, lighter foundation, just a touch of blush, and a swipe of lipstick—perfect.

I pull a brush through my long platinum hair, gathering it into a loose ponytail. Tight black dress, heels—my uniform for playing the part. One last glance at the clock. Shit. I’m late.

I quickly grab my purse and slip out through the back exit. Night’s fallen, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement.

A sleek black car pulls up with tinted windows and a polished exterior, the kind that screams “don’t ask.” I slide into the backseat, the cool leather pressing against my skin.

“You’re late.”

His voice slices through the dark car, cold and sharp.

“I was?—”

“I don’t care what you were doing,” he cuts me off. “I’m not paying you to be late.”

“Sorry, baby. It won’t happen again,” I purr, flashing my sweetest smile, the one that usually softens his edges. I know how to play this game.

“Better hope it doesn’t. I’m not a patient man.”

His tone drips with menace, but I know his limits. He wouldn’t lay a hand on me—at least not in any way I haven’t asked for. The man’s ruthless in business, but with me? Predictable.

Leaning in, I soften my voice. “I’m here now. And I’m all yours.”

With a grunt, he pulls me onto his lap, his lips finding my neck, stubble scraping against my skin.

The life of a Sovereign Servant—I’m bound to their every twisted and depraved need. They don’t settle for the illusion of submission; they want the real thing—control, ownership, complete domination.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the sex. I fucking love it . There’s no bigger high than the raw, electric rush of being at the mercy of a Sovereign. From the moment one of them first took me, I was hooked. Addicted.

But once you take the oath, there’s no turning back. You’re theirs. Body, soul, everything . It’s not a choice anymore; it’s a sentence. Your life revolves around their whims—sex, parties, whatever the fuck they want.

After a few years of being their little “Sovereign Slut”—that’s exactly what they call us—I started seeing the cracks. The life-draining parties. The control. The power games. They even control Servants’ contraceptives, forcing birth control or IUDs until a Sovereign decides otherwise.

Slowly, quietly, it ate away at me. So, I did the unthinkable: I built something of my own. My money. My rules. My clients.

The car stops in front of his penthouse apartment. It’s lavish and over the top, just like the man himself.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Yes, sir,” I purr, playing the obedient role like I always do, though we both know who’s really in control. I flash him a teasing smirk as I strut into the building, his hungry gaze burning through me.

I slide my fingers to the zipper of my dress, dragging it down slowly, giving him a preview. Red lace. He groans, and the moment the elevator doors shut, he’s all over me. His hands are rough, impatient, yanking the zipper the rest of the way. The dress pools at my feet. He pins me to the wall, his breath hot against my skin. He likes it rough, filthy—just the way I want it.

He’s a regular. Always after midnight. No personal details. Probably has a wife at home. But I don’t ask, and he doesn’t tell.

“Fuck, Jade, you’re so fucking sexy.” Jade . That’s all I am to him. A name, a fantasy. He doesn’t know who I really am—and none of them ever will.

His hands roam, lips tracing fire down my neck. Fifteen grand for a night of pleasure? Easy money.

By the time he’s passed out in a drunken heap, I’m already in the shower, scrubbing away the scent of sex and sweat. I never stay. That’s not part of the deal.

The driver drops me off at Starlight Pavilion, where my black G-Wagon waits, gleaming under the streetlights.

Back at my townhouse, my slice of freedom. The Sovereign life may own most of me, but this? This is mine. No Sovereign strings attached.

For Servants, keeping the right Sovereigns happy means the cash flows freely. They will provide, but only if I ask, and I’m done with that. Everything I own—cars, clothes, this house—I’ve earned it all. If the Sovereign ever found out, they’d flip. Punishment wouldn’t just be swift; it’d be brutal. And my father? He’d disown me faster than I could blink, leaving me to pick up the pieces of a catastrophic fallout.

But I’m no longer that na?ve girl who swore blind loyalty. I’ve grown up, and my desires are crystal clear: I want control over my own life.