Mary sat on the edge of the bed, staring at a small pile of clothes.
A few months ago, she had moved from the countryside to the city, but she still hadn't adjusted to the fast-paced life of the capital. Back in her home village, things were different. Everything was quiet and modest; people were simpler, and life flowed at a steady, peaceful pace. In the city, everything was jarring.
Mary had been born into a family of modest means. Her father was a strict but fair man, the type who would give his last cent just to make his daughter happy. Her mother was reserved but practical.
Since childhood, Mary had dreamed of a beautiful life. She was a diligent student, and after graduating high school, she firmly decided to head for the city. She believed there were more opportunities there—and a better chance to marry well. Her parents were against it at first, but she made it clear she wouldn't back down. Eventually, they chose not to stand in her way. The whole village saw Mary off. She had enough money for the trip and to get her started; all that remained was to find a footing in the city and make the right connections. It didn't take long. Mary successfully enrolled in a university, where she met Paula. Paula was a year older and had also come from a small town, but she had adapted quickly, built a network, and now felt like a fish in water.
"You're lucky you met me. I don't usually help anyone," Paula said with a wink, leafing through Mary's wardrobe. "Honey, you absolutely cannot go anywhere in these rags. I'll find you something from my own closet." She returned a moment later with several stylish dresses.
Paula was a practical girl. She taught Mary how to carry herself in high society—how to eat, how to walk, and how to speak.
"I think the dress is pretty, but it's so tight. And short. I don't usually wear things like this," Mary said, trying to tug the hem lower.
"I'm going to tell you this once, and I won't repeat myself. If you want to snag a rich guy, listen to me."
Paula considered herself an expert in the art of the "catch." She had a pretty face, a sharp mind, and knew exactly when to play the "dumb blonde" act. She was currently dating Arthur, the son of an influential businessman. He was a man of few words. According to Paula, he'd had some kind of childhood trauma and hadn't spoken a word since.
"But it's for the best. Some guys talk more than girls do. Mine? He's quiet as a grave," Paula joked.
Arthur was a tall, burly young man. Beside him, the thin and petite Paula looked like a porcelain doll. He could lift her with ease, and Mary watched them with a hint of envy. Perhaps one day she would find someone who would carry her in his arms like that. The thought made her let out a heavy sigh.
"What are you sighing for? Have you seen the time? Let's go. Wealthy men don't like to be kept waiting," Paula commanded, touching up Mary's makeup.
***
A few minutes later, Arthur pulled up. He waved the girls over, and they climbed into the car. He adjusted the rearview mirror and rapped his large index finger loudly against it. When the girls looked at him, he squeezed his fingers into a fist and gave Mary a warning look, as if to say, "Mind your manners."
"Yes, yes. I get it. I'll behave," Mary said, rolling her eyes.
They arrived at a popular upscale restaurant. Paula blew Arthur a goodbye kiss and led Mary inside. Paula wasn't looking to play matchmaker out of the goodness of her heart. She had met her silent giant by accident—his car had backed into her while she was standing behind it on her phone. They'd been together ever since. When it came to finding a "sponsor" for her friend, however, she was much more selective. She claimed she had a sixth sense for these things.
"Remember: listen more and nod. Don't talk too much. Only speak when a question is directed specifically at you, and keep your answers brief and ambiguous. If you don't know something, smoothly change the subject," Paula coached.
"What if I mess up or get nervous?"
"Improvise. I'm a text away if you need me."
They approached a table where three young men were sitting. They were eating, talking, and laughing loudly, but they fell silent the moment they saw the girls.
"Good evening! Everyone, I'd like you to meet Mary. Paul, I told you all about her," Paula squeaked, waving to her friend before making a quick exit.
Paul was a stately, tall man with broad shoulders. He wasn't handsome—far from it. His shifty, deep-set eyes unpleasantly looked Mary up and down. Licking his dry lips, he gestured for her to sit next to him. All evening, he talked business with the other two men. They discussed shipping logistics, wholesale orders, and contracts. He did most of the talking. Mary felt bored and incredibly awkward. During one stretch of the conversation, Paul pulled her closer and draped an arm over her shoulders. It felt as though she were there simply as a prop. When he started signing some documents, he actually asked Mary to go to the kitchen to see if they had any more of a specific French sauce for his fish.
"What manners. I didn't sign up to be a waitress," she muttered to herself, navigating the narrow hallway toward the kitchen.
Servers were rushing back and forth. She nearly collided with one before finding the head chef. He was skillfully dicing vegetables, dancing slightly, and humming under his breath. He was a handsome young man, so absorbed in his work that he didn't even notice her enter.
"Paul asked me to bring some sauce for the fish," she said, stepping closer.
She didn't see the small puddle of oil on the floor. She slipped, but before she could hit the ground, the chef's strong arms caught her.
"Careful, ma chérie," he said, smiling as he gently moved her to a safe distance from the spill. "Ah, Paul's new protégé? He's always had excellent taste in women. Here. He wants this sauce." He handed her the boat and smiled again.
Mary took the sauce and walked back down the hall, looking back over her shoulder at the young chef. When she returned to the table, Paul was laughing and shaking hands with his associates. At the end of the evening, he said goodbye to his partners, took Mary by the arm, and led her grandly to his car. On the way to her dorm, the only thing he asked was her address and when she was free the next day.
"I'll expect you back at the same restaurant tomorrow at eight. Take Paula with you and go shopping. You need something more striking. Take this card. I've already talked to your friend; she'll explain everything." He handed her a credit card, dropped her off at the dorm, and drove away.
***
"Well? Tell me everything! How did it go?" Paula pounced the moment Mary walked in.
"Honestly, I didn't really get it. He sat there, held me, and talked to his friends the whole time. I felt like a piece of furniture. He didn't ask me a single thing. At the end, he gave me money for a new dress and told me to be there again tomorrow at eight," Mary said, shrugging.
"That's great! That means it worked. Now he'll take you everywhere with him. It's called being an escort. Besides, he's not demanding anything physical. Just accompany him where he says, and that's it. You'll have money and new clothes. Paul is a very powerful, wealthy man."
"I don't know. I don't think this is for me. It's all so strange."
"Don't be silly. We're going shopping tomorrow," Paula said, patting her on the shoulder before leaving the room.
Starting the next day, Mary continued to accompany Paul to various events. His meetings were diverse, requiring her to change outfits several times an evening. Eventually, her "working hours" increased. Sometimes she had to skip classes to join him at a party or a gala. When her schedule became too frantic, she was forced to switch to online classes. Mary didn't particularly like the job; she still felt like an object or a decorative element. The only saving grace was that her employer treated her with relative respect, never hinting at anything sexual. Aside from being his companion, she had to monitor how much he drank. Rumor had it he'd had "problems" in the past, so he asked her to keep an eye on him at banquets. Once, she practically had to carry him to a taxi. Sometimes she had to learn things on the fly—like a few Italian phrases to drop into conversation at just the right moment. She felt like she was in a scene from Pretty Woman, having to learn the nuances of fine-dining etiquette.
"Tomorrow I'm meeting with a delegation from France. I need you to be at the top of your game," Paul told her one afternoon at his favorite restaurant.
"What do I need to do?"
"Nothing unusual. Sit there, nod, smile. It's going to be an exquisite dinner, and I've noticed you're not quite there yet with the silverware. You mix up the knives and forks," he said with a wink. He called out to the young chef, "Michael, take over."
"Bonjour, mademoiselle."
The young man Mary recognized approached with a smile. Several servers began setting out various utensils and plates. Michael sat her down and began explaining each piece of silverware and its specific use.
"Michael, did you live in France?"
"Yes, for several years."
It was obvious, not just from his name but from the way he naturally wove French words into his speech.
"Want a bite to eat?" he asked once he was sure she'd mastered the lesson.
They had been at it for hours, and Mary's stomach gave a treacherous growl. They both laughed.
"Come over here, I have something for you." He led her to a beautiful terrace and handed her a plate with two slices of toast and poached eggs. Mary climbed onto a soft ottoman and started eating. They sat in silence for a while. When the plate was empty, she wiped her mouth and looked at him gratefully.
"Thank you so much. I feel full and happy."
"Weren't you happy before? You came here from the country, I know," Michael said, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Now you're making connections. If you're lucky, you'll meet someone influential who wants to be your patron. Isn't that the goal?"
Mary was surprised by how much he seemed to know.
"You know, that's not really what I want. I'm sorry," she said, hurrying off the terrace. The chef's words stayed with her, making her wonder if she was on the right path.
***
The next day, she passed her "etiquette exam" with flying colors. Paul was pleased, though he seemed troubled by something else. His French guests were smiling; they had just closed a lucrative deal, which prompted Paul to move the party to a more private setting. They relocated to a lounge where servers began bringing round after round of drinks. That evening, Paul acted differently. He drank more than usual and brushed off Mary's attempts to slow him down. Eventually, he became quite drunk. At one point, he grabbed her and forced her to dance. Swaying on his feet, he clumsily led her around the floor. In the process, he accidentally knocked a ring off her finger, and it rolled away. Mary moved to pick it up, but he stopped her. Instead, he gestured to the singer who was entertaining the room.
"Hey, you. Come here. Pick it up," he barked, pointing at the ring near the man's feet.
Mary began to protest, but Paul shouted that he paid this "performer" good money, so he had to do whatever he was told.
"Do you want to see him get on his knees for me? On your knees!" Paul yelled as the singer handed him the ring.
"Stop it, Paul, you're drunk. That's enough." Mary pleaded, but then she saw the singer actually preparing to follow the order. She tried to talk him out of it, but the man complied just to end the scene. It was humiliating.
"There. Know your place, nobody. And you—get down there next to him. How are you any different? I pay the bills. On your knees," Paul commanded, looking at Mary.
"Wealth brings out the worst in people, and they quickly forget how to be human. You're just a pathetic, rich animal trying to feel big by tearing others down. I quit." Mary pushed her former boss's heavy frame away and ran for the exit.
She was about to hail a cab when she heard a car horn. A window rolled down, and she saw Michael's face.
"Get in, ma chérie. I'll give you a lift."
Without a second thought, Mary got in.
"I saw your grand finale. Good for you. My father probably won't remember the details tomorrow, but he definitely won't be hiring you back," the young man said with a smile.
"Paul is your father?" Mary asked, stunned.
"Yes. And please, s'il vous plaît, don't be too angry with him. He does and says stupid things when he drinks. He shouldn't touch the stuff."
"I know. I usually managed to keep him in check, but tonight..." She trailed off.
Michael then explained that his father was seriously ill. Lately, all he could think about was an heir, constantly pressuring Michael to get married and have children. But Michael had been hesitant after a bad experience—the last girl he'd loved had only been interested in his money.
"But you're not like that. I've been watching you for a while. I like that you aren't obsessed with the paycheck."
Mary sighed. She admitted she had left her village looking for a better life and that her friend had convinced her a wealthy "sponsor" was the answer to all her problems.
"That's how I ended up with your father. But I realized recently... this isn't me. This won't make me happy."
"Merci for the honesty. Would this make you happy?" Michael asked, opening a small box containing a delicate French dessert—airy whipped cream and sugar.
"Maybe for a little while."
"It's a good start, then," Michael said, placing his hand over hers.
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