You go backstage for some private fun.

You march your defeated and collared opponent backstage with purpose. Her eyebrows go up when you pass by your own dressing room without stopping, walking instead to her own door. But she clearly understands her role in your new dynamic—without needing to be asked, she opens it for you and allows you inside.

It’s strange, seeing her in here like this. She’s always had a presence of sorts, one that almost expands to fill the room; perhaps it came from the supreme self-confidence, natural charisma, and **** of personality required to make a living as a wrestling dominatrix.

Until you came along.

That charisma and **** of will clashed with your own in the ring. And you overpowered it. You faced down a woman who sees others as just submissives-in-waiting and emerged not just as her equal, but as her superior. It may well be that she hasn’t lost her disdain for the other fighters, but you? You, she holds in awe.

Before you, there was only one person who could evoke that feeling in Grace Beaumont. And now that you’ve surpassed the “Duchess of Domination”, the road to facing that woman—that Champion—is that much shorter.

“Master?” Grace asks in confusion, snapping you out of your reverie.

Right. Enough rhapsodizing about the future.