Good Girl

Author’s Note

Welcome to Good Girl.

If you’ve picked up this book, you’re about to step into a world where desire is dangerous, power is intoxicating, and falling in love is the last thing either of these characters expects.

Nico Ravelli isn’t a hero.

He’s possessive, demanding, fiercely protective, and a man who’s spent his life believing control is everything.

Wren never expected to challenge that control.

Their story is passionate, messy, emotional, and completely fictional—a journey about trust, vulnerability, and two people discovering that love doesn’t always arrive gently.

I hope you laugh, swoon, gasp, and occasionally want to yell at them.

Thank you for taking a chance on my words.

Enjoy your stay at Sovereign.

With love,

Goddy Francis

Content Warning

Good Girl is a work of fiction intended for mature readers (18+).

This novel contains themes of power exchange, BDSM, age-gap romance, possessive and morally gray characters, emotional intensity, jealousy, explicit sexual content, coarse language, and scenes that some readers may find emotionally intense or triggering.

All romantic and intimate interactions between the main characters are consensual and occur between consenting adults. This story explores fantasy, trust, vulnerability, and emotional growth within the context of a fictional romance.

Reader discretion is advised.

One—Sovereign

Wren

The TV is still on when I walk into the living room.

Muted late-night news flickers across the screen, casting a dull light over the cluttered floor—beer bottles, takeout boxes, a pair of dirty socks draped across the arm of the couch. Dad’s chest rises and falls beneath it all, one arm hanging limp off the cushion, mouth half-open as he snores.

I sigh.

He’s passed out again from drinking too much and spending the money we don’t have. I have learned to stop complaining because he doesn’t listen. And I don’t have the strength to scold or fight him anymore.

There were times, maybe fleeting thoughts where I wanted to just leave all of this behind. Just pack up and go, but who would take care of dad? He has no one, and neither does me. We’re all we have of each other and I care about him even if half the time he’s always a complete mess.

My heels are already on. Makeup done. I’m standing here in my black dress with a thin jacket over it, fully ready for work, fully late, and fully over it.

But I can’t just leave him like this. Again.

I walk over, grab the throw blanket from the back of the couch, and toss it over him. Not gently. Not cruelly. Just… done.

My eyes flick to the coffee table, where a stack of unopened bills sits like a dare. Electricity, water, overdue rent. And behind those? My debit card. My emergency debit card.

I don’t have time to check if he’s used it.

Instead, I stand there a second longer, teeth clenched, then turn and walk out the door.

The streets are slick from rain. I tug my jacket tighter and keep my head down as I make my way to the back entrance of the old theater.

The building looks like it hasn’t hosted a show in a decade. The R in “REGAL” is gone. Posters for long-canceled acts still cling to the windows, weather-worn and curled at the corners. No lights. No movement.

Perfect cover for hell.

The alley’s darker. A black steel door waits at the end—no handle, no sign. Just a keypad and a camera.

I step in front of it. The red light blinks once. Then the door clicks.

I exhale. Push it open. And step inside.

My shoes echo against the pristine floors as I head toward the elevator down the hall. I pull out my access card, one every employee who works here owns, as I scan it against the scanner. The doors hiss open, an invitation to hell as I step inside. Inside the elevator, I insert my card again in the key card slot, the elevator clicks and starts to descend down.

I pull my jacket tighter, my nerves all stiff as I try not to stare at the only camera at the corner of the elevator. I’ve been working here for three months but sometimes it feels like I just started out just yesterday.

The elevators dings and slides open as I step into Sovereign. The name is etched onto the wall in big bold gold letters, screaming luxury and danger at the same time.

Velvet booths are scattered around, cloaked in shadows and secrets. The lighting is low, almost seductive—like the room itself is watching. Music pulses through the walls, slow and sinful, and the air smells like expensive perfume and bad decisions.

A place where people come to fulfill their darkest desires. A place where secrets come to die with promises of lust, desire, anonymity, and pleasure. If you don’t get the memo yet, Sovereign is a sex club and not the kind you’ve heard about.

It’s home for the wealthy, rich men and women of society who like to indulge in debauchery and sin that leaves you feeling like you’re on cloud nine.

Sovereign doesn’t open to the public. You need connections—or secrets—to get in. The kind of place where masks are worn on the outside and stripped behind blackout curtains.

Where everything has a price, even silence.

And the owner, Nico Ravelli is the king, a god, and this club is his empire of submission. Everything is exactly as he wants it, and no one moves without his permission.

I slip through the back door toward the locker room, trying to go unnoticed. I’m invisible in this place. Nobody notices me. And Just as I expected, the girls in the locker don't even look up or turn when I step inside. I don’t complain. I’m too tired to care too.

The room smells like hairspray and deodorant as cocktail waitresses are getting ready, applying makeup, perfume, and cat eye liner.

I open my locker, throwing in my bag as I grab my costume. Every other day there is a different costume. It’s either sinful, sexy, or outright slutty. Today’s own is no different. A black corset top with sheer mesh sleeves and a small v neck that reveals my cleavage. Paired with a tight leather skirt that stops below my ass, thigh high stockings, and heels that belong on a stripper. I hate it. But I’m not being paid to complain. I just follow the rules.

No bra allowed underneath our costume. It was made very clear on my first night. Dark red and crimson red lipsticks are a must, including long eyelashes.

My job is simple. Handle tables, deliver drinks, smile, maybe flirt a little, and always keep your head down. Easy.

But it’s not. Because half the time I want to hurl these expensive drinks at these wealthy assholes for even looking at me wrongly. But I don’t. I can’t. Because I need the money if I plan on surviving outside this place and honestly speaking I’ve never been the aggressive kind.

I don’t belong here, it’s not like I belong out there either.

After getting dressed, I run my fingers through my wavy brown hair, smack my red painted lips together, take one last look at my reflection in the small mirror in my locker and slip my earpiece into my right ear and activate it before slipping out of the locker room.

Time to pretend I don’t hate my job and get over today in one piece.