Chapter 1: Lady Sirenna
The Gilded Room went dark at twelve fifteen.
It never became completely quiet.
Glasses clinked against tables. Men shouted conversations over one another. A few impatient whistles came from somewhere near the main stage.
Then the announcer’s voice rolled through the speakers.
“Gentlemen, open your wallets.”
The first cheer rose from the crowd.
“Ladies, keep a close eye on whoever you came with.”
Laughter followed.
“And everybody get on your feet for the woman you’ve been waiting all night to see.”
A gold spotlight swept across the stage.
“Welcome the incomparable Lady Sirenna.”
The room erupted.
Men stood from their chairs.
They shouted her name, whistled, and slapped bills against the edges of the stage.
“Sirenna!”
“Come on, baby!”
“Lady Sirenna!”
Arielle Sutton waited behind the black curtain with one hand resting against her hip.
At twenty-six, she knew exactly what she looked like beneath the lights.
Her ash-brown hair fell straight around her shoulders. Her nude lips were glossed. Long false lashes framed eyes so light brown they looked almost gold.
A white silk robe covered everything else.
Almost.
The robe stopped high on her thighs, leaving her long legs and black heels exposed. Thin gold straps wrapped around her ankles and shimmered whenever she moved.
The opening beat of the music shook the floor.
Arielle smiled.
Then Lady Sirenna stepped through the curtain.
The noise doubled.
She did not rush.
Men wanted excitement.
They paid more for anticipation.
Arielle walked across the stage as if it were a runway built for her. One foot crossed elegantly in front of the other. Her hips moved beneath the white silk, but only enough to show the crowd what the robe was hiding.
Money already covered parts of the floor.
She ignored it.
Lady Sirenna never scrambled for bills.
Men put money down because they wanted her attention.
Whether they received it was another question.
Arielle reached the center of the stage and stopped beneath the gold spotlight.
She turned slowly.
Her back faced the crowd.
One hand rose to gather her hair away from her neck. The other found the belt of her robe.
The men closest to the stage started shouting.
Arielle looked over her shoulder.
She pulled one end of the belt.
The knot loosened.
The robe opened slightly, revealing a narrow strip of black beneath it.
The crowd lost its mind.
Arielle laughed softly.
She liked this part.
Not because they wanted her.
Men wanting her was ordinary.
She liked knowing they could not have anything she did not choose to give them.
Arielle let the robe fall from one shoulder.
Then the other.
She held it closed against her chest for another beat before turning around.
Several men shouted her name.
Arielle opened her fingers.
The robe slipped down her body and gathered around her heels.
Underneath, she wore black satin and lace decorated with thin gold chains. The top lifted her full breasts, while the high-cut bottoms rested against her hips and emphasized every curve of her body. One tattoo spread across her arm in black-and-gray flowers and thorns. Another disappeared beneath the gold chain resting low against her hip.
She stepped out of the robe.
Bills began flying onto the stage.
Arielle walked toward the pole on her left.
She trailed her fingertips along it before wrapping one hand around the metal above her head.
Her body followed the music.
One slow roll through her shoulders.
Then her chest.
Then her hips.
A man in the front row nearly fell out of his chair.
Arielle caught his eye and smiled.
He immediately threw another hundred onto the stage.
Predictable.
She stepped around the pole once, letting her outside leg extend behind her. On the next beat, she hooked her right knee and allowed her momentum to carry her into a slow back-hook spin.
One turn.
Then another.
Her free leg remained long and pointed as her hair moved around her shoulders.
She landed smoothly on both heels.
The crowd cheered.
Arielle lowered herself into a controlled squat, keeping one hand wrapped around the pole. She rolled her hips before rising again, slow enough to make the movement feel deliberate.
Everything about Lady Sirenna was deliberate.
Her smile.
Her walk.
The exact second she looked at a man and made him believe she had chosen him from everyone else in the room.
She climbed the pole with two practiced steps, locked it between her thighs, and settled into a pole sit several feet above the stage.
Her legs extended at an angle.
Her back arched.
Then she released one hand.
Men screamed.
Arielle leaned farther away from the pole, trusting the strength in her thighs as her hair fell behind her.
She held the position.
One beat.
Two.
Three.
Then she gripped the pole again and spiraled downward.
Her heels touched the stage.
She lowered onto one knee and swept her hair over one shoulder.
Money surrounded her now.
Twenties.
Fifties.
Hundreds.
Arielle crawled toward the edge of the stage.
The men pushed closer.
Security immediately stepped between them and the platform, reminding everyone that looking was permitted.
Touching was not.
Arielle recognized several faces.
A professional athlete who had been trying to get her number for three weeks.
A divorced real-estate developer who sent flowers to the club every Friday.
A married restaurant owner who removed his wedding ring before coming inside, as though the pale strip of skin beneath it did not exist.
Then she saw Grant Ellison.
Thirty-eight.
Investment executive.
Married for eleven years.
Grant sat at a table near the end of the stage in a dark suit and blue tie. Unlike the men shouting around him, he remained seated.
His wedding ring stayed on his finger.
Five folded bills rested between two fingers.
Arielle held his gaze.
Grant lifted the money.
She crawled toward him.
His eyes moved down her body before returning to her face.
“Miss me?” he asked.
Arielle stopped at the edge of the stage.
“Did you bring enough money to?”
Grant smiled.
He held up the bills.
Hundreds.
Arielle leaned closer.
Grant reached toward the gold strap at her ankle.
Security took one immediate step forward.
Arielle shook her head.
Grant stopped before touching her.
Good.
He remembered.
Arielle took the money from his hand and tucked it beneath the gold chain at her hip.
His eyes darkened.
“I want to see you after.”
“You know the rules.”
“I came.”
Arielle glanced at the money surrounding her.
“And?”
“I tipped.”
“Then maybe you’ll hear from me.”
“Maybe?”
She smiled.
“Careful, Grant. You’re starting to sound entitled.”
Before he could answer, Arielle pushed herself upright and walked away.
The crowd followed her with their eyes.
The song reached its final chorus.
Arielle returned to the pole, gripped it with one hand, and spun around it once more before dropping into a split at the center of the stage.
The final beat hit.
Gold lights flashed.
The room exploded.
Arielle held the position with one hand braced against the stage and her chin lifted.
“Sirenna!”
“Lady Sirenna!”
“Take it off!”
Arielle laughed as the lights went dark.
The robe was waiting beside the curtain.
She slipped it over her shoulders and disappeared backstage without looking at any of them again.
“You made the dentist spill his drink.”
Arielle looked at Velvet through the vanity mirror.
Velvet sat at the station beside hers, removing a pair of rhinestone lashes. Her red wig rested on a foam head near the edge of the counter.
“Which one was the dentist?” Arielle asked.
“Front row. Gray jacket. Looked like he was about to cry when you did the split.”
“That does not narrow it down.”
Velvet laughed.
Arielle opened the drawer beneath her vanity and dropped Grant’s five hundred-dollar bills inside.
The rest of her stage money would be collected, counted, and divided according to the club’s rules before she left.
Her phone buzzed beside her makeup bag.
Not her personal phone.
The second one.
Only three men currently had that number.
Grant was one of them.
Grant: Same hotel.
Arielle read the message without answering.
Another appeared.
Grant: Suite 1812. I already booked it.
Velvet leaned closer.
“Your married one?”
“They’re almost all married.”
“The one with the blue tie and the emotionally unavailable eyes.”
“Grant.”
“Is he tonight’s winner?”
Arielle removed one gold earring.
“He followed the rules.”
“For now.”
Arielle looked at her.
Velvet had met enough of Arielle’s men to understand how the arrangements ended.
They became jealous.
They asked for exclusivity.
They started behaving as though tips purchased ownership.
Then Arielle replaced them.
“Are you going?” Velvet asked.
Arielle picked up her phone.
Sirenna: Be there at 1:30.
Grant responded immediately.
Grant: I’ve been waiting all week.
Arielle smiled.
Sirenna: Then another thirty minutes won’t kill you.
She turned her phone facedown.
Velvet shook her head.
“You’re mean.”
“No.” Arielle reached for a makeup wipe. “I’m memorable.”
Grant opened the hotel door at one forty-two.
He had removed his jacket and tie. The first few buttons of his white shirt were open, and his wedding ring still sat on his finger.
His gaze moved over Arielle.
She had changed into a fitted black dress beneath a cropped leather jacket. Her hair remained straight, her makeup untouched.
“You took your time,” he said.
Arielle walked past him.
“You’re already complaining.”
“I’ve been here since one.”
“That sounds like poor planning.”
Grant closed the door.
The suite overlooked the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows filled one wall, showing lights stretching across the streets below. A bottle of champagne waited in a silver bucket beside the bed.
Arielle set her purse on the table.
“No champagne.”
Grant stepped behind her.
“I thought you liked it.”
“I like knowing exactly what I’m doing.”
His hands settled on her hips.
Arielle allowed it for several seconds before turning in his arms.
“You remember the rules?”
Grant’s mouth curved.
“I remember.”
“Tell me.”
His expression shifted.
“You’re serious?”
“I can leave.”
Grant tightened his hands around her hips.
“Hotel only.”
“Good.”
“You leave first.”
“Keep going.”
“Condoms.”
“And?”
His eyes lowered to her mouth.
“You come first.”
Arielle smiled.
“Look at you learning.”
She removed her leather jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair.
Grant watched her reach behind herself and lower the zipper of her dress.
The fabric loosened.
She pushed it from her shoulders and allowed it to fall around her heels.
Grant stared.
Arielle wore another black-and-gold set beneath it. Less decorative than the one she had worn onstage, but no less intentional.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he said.
“I know.”
Grant crossed the room.
Arielle placed one hand against his chest.
“Where do you start?”
He looked down at her.
Then he lowered himself to his knees.
“Good answer.”
Grant hooked his fingers into the sides of her bottoms.
Arielle allowed him to pull them down her legs.
She stepped out of them and walked backward until the edge of the bed touched behind her knees.
Grant followed.
Arielle sat.
He parted her legs.
The first touch of his mouth made her inhale.
Grant knew what she liked.
That was why he had lasted longer than most of them.
His tongue moved slowly at first. He held her thighs apart while he kissed and licked between them, paying attention whenever her breathing changed.
Arielle leaned back on her hands.
“More pressure.”
Grant obeyed.
His mouth pressed harder against her.
Arielle closed her eyes.
He had been good the first time.
Better the second.
By the fourth, he had learned that she hated being teased when she was already close.
His tongue moved faster.
Arielle reached down and gripped his hair.
“Right there.”
Grant groaned against her.
The vibration pulled another sound from her throat.
Her thighs tightened around his head.
He did not stop.
Arielle came with her fingers twisted in his hair, her back arching as pleasure moved through her in sharp waves.
Grant stayed between her legs until she pushed lightly against his shoulder.
He looked up.
Arielle was still catching her breath.
“You passed.”
Grant stood.
“That sounded generous.”
“Do you want your reward or not?”
His shirt hit the floor.
Arielle watched him remove the rest of his clothes before reaching into her purse for a condom.
She held it up between two fingers.
Grant took it.
He rolled it over himself while Arielle moved farther onto the bed.
His body covered hers.
He kissed her for the first time that night.
Arielle tasted herself on his mouth.
Grant positioned himself between her legs and pushed inside her.
Her breath caught.
He filled her slowly, watching her face until his hips met hers.
“Fuck,” he said.
Arielle wrapped one leg around his waist.
“Move.”
Grant did.
The bed shifted beneath them as he drove into her.
Arielle held his shoulders, taking every hard stroke he gave her. His mouth moved along her neck. One hand gripped her thigh and pulled it higher against his side.
“You feel so fucking good,” he said.
Arielle rolled her hips to meet him.
Grant groaned.
His rhythm faltered.
Arielle pushed against his shoulder.
“On your back.”
Grant obeyed.
She climbed over him and lowered herself onto his dick.
His hands immediately found her hips.
Arielle began to ride him.
Slow at first.
Then harder.
Grant stared at her as though she were still beneath the gold spotlight.
That was the problem with men who met Lady Sirenna first.
They never understood that the woman in their hotel room was not the fantasy they had purchased at the club.
They thought sex made her real to them.
It did not.
Arielle leaned forward and braced one hand against his chest.
Grant thrust upward.
She moaned.
He did it again.
“Faster,” she told him.
Grant’s grip tightened.
Their bodies moved together until his head fell back against the pillow.
“I’m going to come.”
Arielle did not slow down.
Grant came beneath her with a rough groan, his hands holding her against him as his body tightened.
Arielle stayed still until his grip relaxed.
Then she climbed off.
Grant stared at the ceiling, breathing hard.
Arielle reached for her dress.
“Already?”
She stepped into it.
“You know the rules.”
“I thought you could stay tonight.”
“You thought wrong.”
Grant sat up.
“We could order breakfast.”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Dinner, then.”
Arielle pulled the zipper up.
“No.”
His expression hardened.
“You never go anywhere with me unless it ends here.”
“That was the arrangement.”
“We’ve been doing this for six weeks.”
“And?”
“And I’m tired of watching you dance for other men.”
Arielle went still.
There it was.
Possessiveness.
It always arrived eventually.
Sometimes after the second night.
Sometimes after the fifth.
Grant had made it six weeks.
A respectable performance.
He stood and pulled on his pants.
“I can take care of you,” he said. “You don’t need to keep working there.”
Arielle looked at him.
“You met me there.”
“That was different.”
“No. You just enjoyed being one of the men looking at me until you decided the others weren’t allowed.”
Grant dragged a hand over his face.
“Do you know how much money I’ve spent on you?”
“At the club?”
“Everywhere.”
“You paid the club for dances.” Arielle slipped into her heels. “You never paid for this.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know exactly what you mean. You think tipping me gave you ownership later.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Grant reached for her.
Arielle looked at his hand.
He stopped before touching her.
Smart.
She picked up her purse.
“Don’t contact me again.”
His eyes widened.
“You’re ending this because I said I care about you?”
“I’m ending it because you forgot what this was.”
“And what was it?”
“Fun.”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
Arielle walked toward the door.
“What’s your real name?” he demanded.
She stopped.
For six weeks, Grant had called her Sirenna.
He had never been given anything else.
Arielle looked over her shoulder.
“Not yours.”
She stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.
By the time the elevator arrived, Grant’s number was blocked.
Six weeks.
Four hotel rooms.
Thousands of dollars in club tips.
One predictable attempt to turn access into ownership.
Arielle stepped into the elevator and watched the doors slide shut.
Men always believed they were different.
Damien Murphy had believed that too.
He had called Arielle the love of his life from the time they were sixteen until senior prom, when she found his mouth on another girl beneath a ceiling filled with cheap gold streamers.
Damien taught her the lesson.
Every man after him proved it.
The person who cared less always left with more.
Arielle touched the button for the lobby.
Fuck overgrown boys.
They made the best toys.
And Lady Sirenna always left first.
