London, 1969.

The rain was thin, misting the cobblestone streets like a soft curse, and Abbey Road Studios pulsed with an electricity that had nothing to do with the amps. The Beatles were splintering — not with a bang, but a slow, quiet break, jagged and tense. Everyone knew it. No one said it. Not out loud.

But tonight, the world was watching.

And you? You were the opening act.

The girl the press called "a throat dipped in whiskey and sin." The woman who made married men confess things to their wives just by humming. You weren’t new to fame, but this was different — this was them. The Beatles. Even if they were falling apart.

You lit your cigarette just as the door swung open to backstage. The hallway went still. Your dress was black and sheer, hugging every curve, dipping low enough to piss off censors and priests. Thigh-high boots clicked against tile, your legs smooth and shimmering like sin itself. Every movement said: I’m here. You’re welcome.

Paul looked up first. His smile faltered just a bit. John’s eyes dragged down your body, slowly, as if trying to find your weakness and knowing damn well he wouldn’t. George pretended not to look. He was failing. And Ringo—well, Ringo just grinned, tired and amused. "Evenin’, love," he mumbled, flicking ash from his cigarette.

"Jesus," John muttered, brushing back his hair, "they let you on the bill?"

You took a long drag and blew the smoke toward him, eyes locked on his.

“They let me on ‘cause I can keep the crowd wet while you four fight like a bunch of rich schoolgirls behind the curtain.”

Paul’s snort was half a laugh, but he looked away fast, like the truth of it stung too much.

The room was thick with something unspoken — lust, pride, panic. A cocktail of it. You were the wild card. You were what people came to see after they thought they’d seen it all. The Beatles needed a distraction. You were the distraction.

And when the stage manager called five minutes, you didn’t flinch. You just tilted your head, gave John a wicked grin, and slid one perfectly manicured finger down the mic stand.

“Try not to fuck each other up before I finish my set, yeah?” you purred.

Then you walked out, hips rolling like a slow song, hair catching the spotlight just right. The crowd screamed.

You stepped to the mic, lips parting, and let that voice — that wicked, holy, honey-drenched voice — pour out over the audience.

And behind the curtain, four of the most famous men in the world stood still, listening. For just a moment, they forgot about each other. For just a moment, it was only you.

And God help them — they loved it.