Chapter 43

Part 1

I work in production, marketing, and advertising, focusing on building images and personal branding. If you want to sell a product or create a strong presence on social media, I’m the guy you talk to — and my friends know it well. Every now and then, some acquaintance hits me up asking for tips, strategies, or help to kick off an online project.

I’ve been behind YouTube channels, political campaigns on social media, and complete image repositionings. When it comes to selling an idea, a brand, or a person, I know how to make it happen.

But there’s one thing that weighs heavy: a lot of people close to me think this work is simple, almost like an informal favor. And when I charge for what I do, there’s always someone who turns up their nose, thinks it’s too expensive, or says I’m being reluctant. Over time, I’ve noticed some distance from certain folks. The truth is, not everyone gets the value of building a strong image. And that’s fine — not everyone’s cut out for it.

This story starts with one of those messages. A longtime friend texted me saying his daughter wanted to chat. She was looking to start a channel, launch herself as an influencer, or something like that. And he asked, with that hopeful dad tone: “see if you can give her some tips.”

Right away, I thought: “here comes another one wanting to be famous without knowing the grind.” I replied politely, of course, and told him to send her to my office. And I waited. It was my test: if it was just a flash in the pan, she wouldn’t even show.

I tried to pull her face from memory. She wasn’t a kid anymore, for sure. Her dad had been my college buddy, and I remember his wife got pregnant young, so the daughter must be around twenty now. A full-grown woman. I scheduled it for a Friday afternoon, end of the workday, when the office was quieter, no hustle. I swear, up to that point, my head was all business. No intentions beyond what was agreed.

And then, on that Friday afternoon, the doorbell rang. I went to answer the door.

When I opened it, I got a shock.

Standing in front of me was a stunning girl. Dressed to kill, flawless makeup, clothes hugging her just right: eye-catching without seeming try-hard. She’d clearly put effort into that meeting. Invested in her look, and it caught me off guard.

Right away, my professional eye thought: “We’ve got a solid product here.”

I smiled, opening the door politely.

“Hey, you arrived right on time. Everything good? Come on in, please.”

She stepped inside with a restrained smile, saying just enough, while her eyes scanned the place, alert, taking it all in calmly.

“My dad told me to look you up. Do you have time?”

“Yeah, I do. And please, don’t call me sir. Come on, let’s head to the office.”

She walked with a subtle elegance, like someone who’d taken a posture class or hung out in fancier spots. There was something there I didn’t quite get yet — but it sure wasn’t just vanity.

In the office, the late afternoon light wasn’t enough anymore, and the soft lamp on the desk created a more intimate vibe, almost cozy. I offered her something to drink; she declined with a gentle wave. And then we got straight to it.

“So, how can I help you?”

“I don’t know what my dad told you… but I’ll be direct, okay?”

“Sure, no problem,” I replied with a steady voice, but inside I was already on alert. “Here comes the bomb.”

“I want to get into the life.”

“The marketing life, you mean?”

It was common to hear English terms in our field, so I figured that’s what she meant. But her look didn’t change. Steady. Focused.

“No.”

“So… I don’t get it.”

She breathed in slow, without looking away.

“Prostitute. Escort. Hooker… you know? In the life.”

I felt the air hit my lungs deeper than usual. By instinct, I tried not to react, but inside everything was screaming. “What the hell? Does her dad know about this?”

She stayed totally calm. Not a hint of embarrassment. And that, more than anything, intrigued me. Because it wasn’t just what she was saying — it was how she said it. Like someone who’d already made up her mind. Like she knew exactly who she was and what she wanted.

“And here I thought I was just gonna give some content tips…”

“Got it,” I replied, just to buy time, to try and sort my thoughts. “Do you have any experience with that?”

“Not exactly. I had an older guy who bankrolled everything for me. Sugar daddy, you know? So I thought maybe… I could turn that into income.”

“I see…” I hesitated. “Sorry to be direct, but… does your dad know? Because, honestly, he didn’t seem clued in at all.”

She laughed for the first time. A muffled laugh, a bit nervous. She brought her hand to her face, like trying to hide something that had already slipped out.

“For God’s sake, he can’t know. He was on my case because he thought I wanted to be a digital influencer. And I do make some videos, you know? But I don’t want that life. That’s not what I’m after.”

“Just to check… you’re of age, right?”

“Yeah. You can relax, I’m legal.”

And that’s when something in me unraveled. The professionalism, which had been holding strong until then, started to crumble. It was like, suddenly, I really saw her.

“How did I not notice before?”

She was tall, perfect posture, medium tits perked up under a white blouse that seemed made to tease — couldn’t tell if there was a bra underneath, and that was clearly on purpose.

Her hair, dark brown with blonde highlights, had the roots showing on purpose, giving that effortless high-end salon look. It was a carefully studied contrast.

Her face? Flawless. The makeup was top-notch — nothing overdone, all just right to highlight what was already perfect: eyes that hypnotized and a mouth shaped for sin.

“She’s not here just for help. She wants to be seen.” I thought. And I, who always knew how to keep personal and professional separate, found myself on slippery ground. The question now wasn’t if she knew what she wanted — it was if I knew how far I could keep control.

“So, you want to get into escorting?”

“Yeah, exactly,” she replied with a serenity that seemed rehearsed but not forced. It was the kind of answer from someone who’d convinced themselves of the decision.

In that moment, I decided to test her limits. I wanted to know if it was just talk or if there was real substance behind it.

“Well… I see you’re set on it. And I’m not the one to try and talk you out of it. I imagine you’ve thought about it a lot. But I need to be straight with you,” I said, with a more serious air, choosing my words like setting a gentle trap. “No point investing in this path if you’ve never tested if you’re really up for handling a client. Because, let me tell you: not every client is hot or desirable.”

I took a deep breath.

“Here goes.”

“Besides your sugar daddy… have you ever actually serviced a real client?”

“No, never,” she replied, with a thoughtful air. “But… I think I could handle it.”

There was conviction in her voice, but also a hint of doubt. That hesitation that says more than the words.

“So let me ask you this…” I said, leaning back slightly in the chair, eyes locked on hers. “If I’d called you here today… with the intention of sex. Would you be ready to fuck me for money?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes scanned the room again, like seeing it in a new light. She seemed to weigh every word before letting it out. And then she looked at me again, straight in the eyes, with impressive calm.

“Yeah. I think so.”

A sly smile slipped from my lips, involuntary. I rubbed my beard to cover it. “Fuck…” I thought. What I was about to say was, without a doubt, the biggest sleazy move I’d ever considered — and still, I was ready to say it.

“So, I’ve got a proposition. Ready to hear it?”

She raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. That little smirk at the corners of her mouth said more than a thousand words.

“With that look on your face… I kinda know what to expect.”

“She’s not that innocent.”

She leaned forward, curious, eyes sparkling not with shock, but interest.

“Since you said yourself you’ve never had a real client… here it is. Do a session with me. If you can handle me as a client, show me you can own this choice, I’ll help you. I’ll give you the kickstart, position you, build your image, and launch you as the product.”

She let out a short laugh, but there was no shame in it. No hesitation.

“I thought that casting couch thing was just TV stuff…”

“Maybe it is,” I replied, crossing my legs calmly, still watching her reaction. “But in this case, it’s a market test.”

The silence that followed was different from the others. Not discomfort, not obvious hesitation — it was calculation. She looked off to the side, staring into space, laughing to herself, like testing the idea in her own head. Weighing it, feeling it, tasting the consequences. And then, like deciding whether to jump or not from the edge of a cliff, she turned her face slowly toward me and said, simple, no frills:

“Okay. When?”

“Now.”

For the first time, I saw surprise on her face. The laugh escaped her lips, but this time without confidence. She faltered. Her firm posture cracked just a bit, like a fissure in too-clean glass.

“Here?”

“Yeah,” I replied, firm, pulling together the most professional tone I could in that moment. “You won’t get to pick the spot. Do you have your own place to work?”

“No…” she murmured, almost a whisper.

She was searching for some answer, some excuse to delay it, but nothing came. So I added, no room for doubt:

“Then… here and now.”

She opened her mouth, probably to argue, try to negotiate something. But I’m a veteran in the art of negotiation — and I spot when someone’s stalling a mile away.

Before she could draw breath to start her speech, I cut in firmly:

“My time is way too valuable. Much more than your session rate… which, by the way, you don’t even know if you can deliver. It’s simple: either prove you can handle it, or head out and don’t waste more of my time.”

I leaned forward slowly, elbows on the desk, eyes locked on hers. The move was calculated — a way to assert presence, take up space. Dominate the room.

I pointed to the door, keeping the calm, direct tone:

“The door’s right there. Close it. From the outside… if you won’t take my deal.
Or from the inside… and then, take off all your clothes.”

The silence that filled the room was almost unbearable. It hurt the ears. I could hear her breathing pick up… and, by instinct, I could’ve sworn I heard her heart pounding — fast, anxious, lost.

She bit her lower lip, tense. Her gaze distant, caught in some thought swallowing her whole. She was weighing everything. What was at stake, what it meant, what she could lose… or gain.

And then, without a word, she stood up.

Her steps to the door were slow, dragging. Each one like walking through a weird dream. I watched in absolute silence, not moving a muscle. The tension glued me to the chair like the air had thickened.

She stopped in front of the door.

She touched the knob gently. Stood there, still. For a second, I thought she’d leave. Everything pointed to it. The hesitation, the flight in her eyes, the fear in her fingertips.

“Go on, get out.” I thought. “Close it from outside. Walk away and forget this, girl.”

But then… she turned the knob. And closed the door.