Chapter 43

I work in production, marketing, and advertising, specializing in building images and personal branding. If you want to sell a product or create a strong online presence, I'm your guy—and my friends know it well. Every now and then, some buddy hits me up for tips, strategies, or help kicking off an online project.

I've been behind YouTube channels, political campaigns on social media, and full image makeovers. When it comes to selling an idea, a brand, or a person, I know how to steer the ship.

But here's the catch: a lot of folks close to me think this job is a breeze, almost like doing a casual favor. And when I charge for my work, there's always someone who wrinkles their nose, calls it pricey, or says I'm being a dick about it. Over time, I've noticed some distance from certain people. The truth is, not everyone gets the value of crafting a solid image. And that's fine—not everyone's cut out for it.

This story kicks off with one of those messages. A longtime friend texts me that his daughter wants to chat. She's looking to start a channel, launch as an influencer, or something along those lines. And he asks, with that hopeful dad vibe: "See if you can give her some pointers."

Right away, I think: "Here we go with another one chasing fame without knowing the grind." I reply politely, of course, and tell him to send her to my office. And I wait. It was my test: if it was just a flash in the pan, she wouldn't even show.

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

And then, on that Friday afternoon, the doorbell rings. I go to answer it.

When I open the door, I get a shock.

Standing there is a stunning girl. Dressed to kill, flawless makeup, clothes hugging her just right: eye-catching without looking try-hard. She'd clearly put effort into this meeting. Invested in her look, and it catches me off guard.

Instantly, my expert eye thinks: "We've got a solid product here."

I smile, holding the door open nicely.

"Hey, you showed up right on time. Everything good? Come on in."

She steps inside with a restrained smile, saying just enough, while her eyes scan the place, sharp, taking it all in slow.

"My dad told me to look you up. You got time?"

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

She walks with this subtle grace, like she's taken some poise class or hangs in fancier spots. There's something there I couldn't quite pin down yet—but it sure wasn't just vanity.

In the office, the late afternoon light wasn't cutting it anymore, and the soft lamp on the desk created a more intimate vibe, almost cozy. I offer her something to drink; she waves it off politely. And then we get down to business.

"So, how can I help you?"

"I don't know what my dad told you... but I'm gonna be straight with you, okay?"

"Sure, no problem," I reply, voice steady, but inside I'm on alert. "Here comes the bomb."

"I wanna do the job."

"The marketing job, you mean?"

We toss around English terms in my line of work, so I figured that's it. But her gaze doesn't shift. Steady. Locked in.

"No."

"Then... I don't get it."

She breathes in slow, eyes never leaving mine.

"Prostitute. Escort. Hooker... you know? The job."

I feel the air hit my lungs deeper than usual. Instinct kicks in—I try not to react, but inside, everything's screaming. "What the hell? Does her dad know about this?"

She stays totally calm. No hint of embarrassment. And that, more than anything, hooks me. Because it wasn't just what she was saying—it was how. Like she'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 say, just to buy time, to sort my thoughts. "You got any experience with that?"

"Not really. I had this older guy who bankrolled everything for me. Sugar daddy, you know? So I figured maybe... I could turn that into income."

"I see..." I hesitate. "Sorry to be blunt, but... does your dad know? Because, honestly, he didn't seem clued in at all."

She laughs for the first time. A muffled sound, a bit nervous. She brings her hand to her face, like she's trying to hide something that's already 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 that's not the life I want. That's not what I'm after."

"Just to confirm... you're of age, right?"

"Yeah. You can relax, I'm legal."

And that's when something in me unravels. The professionalism I'd been holding onto starts to crack. It's like, suddenly, I really see her.

"How did I not notice before?"

She's tall, perfect posture, medium tits perked up under a white blouse that leaves you guessing—hard to tell if there's a bra underneath, and that's no accident.

Her hair, dark brown with blonde highlights, roots showing on purpose for that high-end messy look. It's a studied contrast.

Her face? Flawless. The makeup's top-notch—nothing overdone, just enough to highlight what's already perfect: eyes that pull you in and lips made for sin.

"She's not here just for help. She wants to be seen." I think. And me, who always keeps personal and professional separate, find myself on slippery ground. The question now isn't if she knows what she wants—it's if I know how far I can stay in control.

"So, you wanna get into escorting?"

"Yeah, exactly," she says with a serenity that feels rehearsed but not fake. The kind of answer from someone who's talked herself into it.

Right then, I decide to push her limits. I wanna know if this is just talk or if there's real backbone behind it.

"Well... I see you're set on it. And I'm not the one to talk you out of it. I'm guessing you've thought this through. But I gotta be straight with you," I say, getting more serious, picking words like I'm setting a gentle trap. "No point diving in if you've never tested if you can actually handle a client. Because, let me tell you: not every client's hot or appealing."

I take a deep breath.

"Here we go."

"Besides your sugar daddy... you ever serviced a real client?"

"No, never," she says, thoughtful. "But... I think I could."

There's conviction in her voice, but a tiny edge of doubt. That hesitation that says more than the words.

"So let me ask you this..." I say, leaning back a bit in my chair, eyes locked on hers. "If I'd called you here today... with sex in mind. Would you be ready to fuck me for cash?"

She doesn't answer right away. Her eyes sweep the room again, like she's seeing it all in a new light. She weighs every word before letting it out. Then she looks me dead in the eye, calm as hell.

"Yeah. I think so."

A sly smile slips out of me, unbidden. I rub my beard to play it off. "Fuck..." I think. What I'm about to say is, without a doubt, the biggest sleazy move that's ever crossed my mind—and still, I'm gonna say it.

"So, I've got a proposition. Ready to hear it?"

She raises an eyebrow, a little amused. That smirk at the corner of her mouth tells me more than words could.

"With that look on your face... I kinda know what to expect."

"She's not as innocent as she seems."

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

"Since you said you've never had a real client... here it is. Do a session with me. If you can handle me as a client, prove you can stick with this choice, I'll help. I'll kick it off, position you, build your image, and launch you as the product."

She lets out a short laugh, but there's no shame in it. No second-guessing.

"I thought that casting couch stuff was just TV bullshit..."

"Maybe it is," I reply, crossing my legs casually, still watching her reaction. "But in this case, it's a market test."

The silence that follows is different from the others. Not awkward, not obvious hesitation—it's calculation. She looks off to the side, staring into space, chuckling to herself, like she's running the idea through her head. Weighing it, feeling it, tasting the fallout. And then, like deciding whether to jump off a cliff or not, she turns her face slowly toward me and says, plain and simple, no frills:

"Okay. When?"

"Now."

For the first time, surprise hits her face. The laugh escapes her lips, but this time without confidence. She falters. Her steady posture cracks just a bit, like a hairline fracture in spotless glass.

"Here?"

"Yeah," I say, firm, pulling together the most professional tone I can muster right then. "You don't get to pick the spot. You got your own place to work?"

"No..." she murmurs, almost a whisper.

She's fishing for some excuse, some way to stall, but nothing comes. So I add, no room for doubt:

"Then... here and now."

She opens her mouth, probably to argue, haggle something. But I'm a vet at negotiation—and I spot someone buying time a mile away.

Before she can draw breath for her pitch, I cut in sharp:

"My time's too valuable. Way 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 walk out and don't waste any more of my time."

I lean forward slow, elbows on the desk, eyes fixed on hers. The move's deliberate—to claim space, own the room. Dominate.

I point to the door, keeping my voice calm, direct:

"The door's right there. Close it. On the outside... if you don't take my offer.
Or on the inside... and then, strip completely naked."

The silence that fills the room is almost unbearable. It rings in my ears. I can hear her breathing pick up... and instinctively, I swear I can hear her heart pounding—fast, anxious, lost.

She bites her lower lip, tense. Eyes distant, caught in some inner storm. She's weighing it all. What's at stake, what it means, what she could lose... or gain.

And then, without a word, she stands up.

Her steps to the door are slow, dragging. Each one like walking through a weird dream. I watch in total silence, not twitching a muscle. The tension pins me to the chair like the air's turned thick.

She stops at the door.

Her hand touches the knob gently. She freezes there. For a second, I think she's gonna bolt. Everything points to it. The hesitation, the flight in her eyes, the fear in her fingertips.

"Walk away," I think. "Close it from outside. Walk away and forget this, girl."

But then... she turns the knob. And closes the door.