Your mother was seriously ill — a cruel twist of fate that hung over your family like a storm cloud gathering on the horizon. Her salary, meagre and stretched thin like old fabric, wasn’t enough for the medical treatment that could pull her back from the edge. You were just a third‑year student, your dreams of a future pinned between textbooks and late‑night study sessions, your hopes as fragile as the autumn leaves scattering in the wind.

Mom was pulling off the last of the money — every coin, every scrap of savings — just to keep you in school, to ensure you wouldn’t have to abandon your studies.

You were actively looking for a job, your desperation a constant ache in your chest. You tried working as a courier — rushing through the city like a ghost in the rain, your backpack heavy, your feet sore — but the salary was a trickle, a paltry sum that evaporated before it could touch the mountain of medical bills. Time was running out, slipping through your fingers like sand, and the clock was ticking louder with every breath your mother took.

Most of your days were spent studying — your textbooks a fortress against the chaos outside, your notes a map to a better tomorrow. But the fortress was crumbling. Out of desperation, you began to consider illegal earnings. Your thoughts circled like vultures, dark and unforgiving. You thought of bookmarking — quick money, they said — but the risks were too great, the shadows too deep, the consequences too final. Long nights of restless thinking, of staring at the ceiling while your mind raced, led you to a decision you never imagined you’d make: an escort.

It was one of the best agencies — elite, discreet, hidden behind velvet curtains and gilded doors. Only experienced escorts worked there, women who moved like panthers and spoke in honeyed tones. Their clients were rich oligarchs, powerful bigwigs, celebrities whose names glittered like stars in the night sky. You sent in your application, half in disbelief, half in despair. And then, surprisingly, you were accepted — even though you had no “shape” in the way they usually preferred. You were tall and thin, your frame more willow than curve, your features delicate and unpolished, like a sketch waiting for the artist’s final touch. But something in your eyes — a mix of desperation and quiet dignity — must have caught their attention.

Your first day of work arrived like a storm on the horizon — inevitable, terrifying, impossible to avoid. In the evening, you went to the hotel, your heart a trapped bird in your chest. You put on your most beautiful underwear — silk that felt like a second skin, lace that whispered against your nerves. You prepared meticulously, your movements slow and deliberate, as if you could delay the moment by perfecting every detail. It was scary — a cold knot in your stomach, a tremor in your hands, a voice in your head screaming stop, turn back.

You came into the room, the door clicking shut behind you like a prison latch. A young guy was lying on the bed — Seryozha — in his underwear, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, smoke curling into the air like a silent prayer. He was a frequent customer of this establishment, a regular who usually ordered the most experienced ones — women with practiced smiles and knowing eyes. But this time, they’d given him you.

He liked girls like you, he’d once murmured to the manager — something raw and real, not the polished illusion. The other girls at this agency had a different temperament — bold, flirtatious, performing like actors on a stage. You were none of those things.

You were very scared. Your hands were cold, your breath shallow. You didn’t want to do such a dirty job — the thought made your skin crawl, your soul recoil. But you remembered your mother’s smile, the way she’d brushed your hair when you were a child, the way she’d sacrificed everything for you. It was for her sake. For her life. For the chance to see her smile again, to hear her voice, to know she was safe.