Sofia Conti

I never thought I’d be sitting in my own house, looking out at the sunrise through floor-to-ceiling windows, sipping coffee from an expensive mug I bought in Paris. A year ago, this life seemed impossible. A year ago, I was just a girl trying to figure out how to survive. Now, I’m a homeowner. It all started in Warsaw. I’d come to Poland from Ukraine like so many others—searching for work, searching for a way out. I was 23, broke, and living in a tiny rented room that barely had enough space for a bed. I spent my days working long hours as a waitress, scraping together whatever tips I could get, and my nights worrying about how I would pay rent and send money back home to my family. I had dreams, though. Big ones. I wanted my own house, something I could call mine. I wanted freedom. But at the time, all of that seemed so far away. I was drowning in the day-to-day grind of trying to make ends meet. It was exhausting, and no matter how hard I worked, I felt stuck. Then I met Anya. Anya was a regular at the bar where I worked. She was confident, always dressed in designer clothes, carrying the latest handbags. She seemed so carefree, like the weight of the world never touched her. One night, after my shift, she asked if I wanted to grab a drink. I was surprised, but curious. We ended up at a fancy rooftop bar, the kind of place I could never afford on my own. As we sipped cocktails, she told me her story. She, too, had come to Poland from Ukraine, but her path had taken a very different turn. She worked as an escort, but not in the way most people think. It wasn’t the shady, dangerous business I had imagined. She catered to high-end clients—wealthy businessmen, international travelers, men who were willing to pay thousands for discretion and companionship. It wasn’t just about sex, she explained. It was about providing an experience—being someone these men could relax with, talk to, and trust. At first, I was shocked. I’d heard of girls getting into that kind of work, and I had always told myself I could never do it. But as I listened to Anya, something in me shifted. She wasn’t ashamed. In fact, she was proud of what she’d accomplished. She had her own apartment, traveled whenever she wanted, and lived a life I could only dream of. Most importantly, she was in control. When Anya offered to introduce me to the world she was part of, I hesitated. It was a huge step, and I wasn’t sure if I could handle it. But the more I thought about my situation—barely making enough to survive, stuck in a never-ending cycle of working and worrying—the more the idea tempted me. Anya told me I didn’t have to decide right away, but if I ever wanted to try, she’d help me. A week later, I called her. The first few months were strange. I had to learn how to navigate this new life, balancing the thrill of luxury with the discomfort of knowing what it cost. I started slowly, meeting with a select few clients that Anya trusted. They were respectful, generous, and valued discretion. The money was good—better than I had ever seen in my life. With each booking, I started saving. At first, it felt unreal, like I was playing a role in someone else’s life. But the money changed things. With each passing month, I saw my savings grow, and suddenly, the idea of buying a house didn’t seem so far-fetched. I started to set goals for myself. In one year, I wanted enough to put a down payment on a house. I kept working at the bar for a while, just to keep up appearances, but eventually, the bar job became more of a formality. My real money was coming from my new life. I learned quickly how to handle myself. The clients were demanding, yes, but I had boundaries. I was clear about what I would and wouldn’t do, and for the most part, the men respected that. They weren’t looking for a cheap thrill; they wanted someone who could be their escape from the pressures of their everyday lives. I played that role well. In the meantime, I kept my eyes on the prize: the house. Every weekend, I scoured listings online, imagining myself in different neighborhoods, picturing what it would feel like to walk into a place that was mine. My friends back in Ukraine had no idea what I was really doing in Poland. They thought I had a good job in a restaurant, working hard like everyone else. And in a way, I was working hard—just in a different way than they imagined. By the end of the year, I had done it. I had saved enough for a down payment. I found a beautiful two-bedroom house just outside of Warsaw, with a little garden and plenty of space for me to finally breathe. The day I signed the papers, I felt a wave of emotions—relief, pride, and a strange sadness. I had gotten what I wanted, but it hadn’t come without a cost. I had made sacrifices, and not just financially. I had changed, in ways I couldn’t fully understand yet. Moving into the house was a surreal experience. I furnished it with the kind of things I had always dreamed of—plush furniture, modern art, high-end appliances. I finally felt like I had control over my life. No more cramped rooms, no more struggling to pay rent. This was mine. But with the house came new questions. Now that I had reached my goal, what next? The money from escorting was addictive—it was hard to imagine going back to a regular job, earning a fraction of what I had grown accustomed to. But at the same time, I knew I couldn’t do this forever. The thought of getting out, of leaving the life behind, was appealing. I had what I wanted, and maybe now it was time to walk away before it became too much a part of me. For now, though, I’m enjoying what I’ve built. I look around my new home, and I feel a sense of accomplishment. It wasn’t the path I thought I’d take, but it got me here. And for that, I’m grateful. This house is a symbol of everything I’ve fought for—the struggles, the choices, the risks. It’s a reminder that sometimes life takes you in unexpected directions, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find your way back to the dream you’ve always had.