The Luxe Secret

Maya’s POV

I hate my life. I fucking hate it. My mother’s voice slices through the phone, sharp and relentless. “Are you listening to me, Maya?! I have told you time and again to lose weight! You better start eating less and start exercising! Now that you are living on your own, I cannot even control your meals! You must be having takeaways every day!”

“I am listening, Mum,” I mutter, staring blankly around my apartment, at the half-empty walls and furniture I bought to make this place feel like freedom. It doesn’t. It just feels quiet.

She sighs like I’ve personally disappointed generations before her. “You know what is going to happen if you cannot find a boy from here? We will have to start looking elsewhere… It will have to be an arranged marriage with a boy from your grandparents’ village! Even then, I think you will be very lucky to find someone. Who will want to marry a 6-foot tall, fat woman?! You’re so big and ugly!”

The words land exactly where she knows they will.

When I lived at home, this was daily background noise: a constant nagging hum. Now that I’ve moved out, it comes every few days, sharper somehow, like she has to shout louder to reach me through the distance. Moving out was supposed to save my mental health. That was the whole point. Escape the degrading comments. Escape the weighing glances. Escape the way my body was treated like a family problem to solve.

But even in my own flat, I’m still tethered to it. I ended the call quickly before my voice cracked and let the silence swallow me. My mind drifted to last night: the “dinner date.”

My mother and one of her friends set it up. All I knew was that he was divorced, in his mid-40s, and, according to my mother, “not very picky” because of his age and marital status. That was apparently my bracket now. Not desired. Just… available. Men my age weren’t interested in me because of the way I looked. That part was implied, but never really needed saying.

The moment I walked into the restaurant and he looked up at me, I saw it. His jaw dropped, not in admiration. More like, what the fuck have I been set up with?

You learn to read that look when you’ve been big your whole life. The flicker in the eyes. The quick recalculation. The disappointment they try, and fail, to mask. Being big trains you to notice the subtle signs of disgust or disapproval. You become fluent in micro-expressions because you have to be.

I felt him lose interest before I even sat down. And in the back of my mind, my mother’s voice was already preparing the lecture I’d get when this inevitably failed.

We had dinner. We spoke about our families and our work like two colleagues stuck at a networking event. I didn’t probe much. He didn’t either. There was no spark, no curiosity. Just politeness stretched thin.

We didn’t exchange numbers. He made a weak suggestion about planning something again, the kind people make out of obligation. I smiled because I understood the script. It wasn’t going to happen. He insisted on paying for my meal. I refused. I didn’t want to owe anyone anything. I didn’t want the imagined commentary that would follow. You should have seen how much she ate and I had to pay for it all. It could feed a family of four. Exaggerated, cruel but believable. I’ve heard versions of it before. Some people think cruelty is comedy if it gets enough laughs.

He offered to drop me off. I told him I drove. I always make sure I drive myself. I don’t like feeling stranded.

I’m already twenty-nine and my mother has given me until thirty. Thirty to find someone “locally.” Thirty to prove I’m not a complete failure as a daughter. After that, the plan is simple in her eyes: an arranged marriage to some random stranger in a village in India. A man willing to cast aside whatever morals he has just to secure a visa and a life in a foreign country. A transaction dressed up as tradition.

Some of my cousins chose that route. They married men and women from our grandparents’ village. They weren’t big. They weren’t “undesirable.” They just didn’t want to lose their culture or their ties back home. Some of them seem happy, smiling in photos with children and new houses. Some are quietly miserable and already divorced.

I don’t want that. I want to marry someone I love. Someone who looks at me the way a puppy looks at a treat he knows he’s about to get - excited, certain, soft-eyed with affection. The kind of look you read about in love stories. But let’s be honest, the women in those stories are always fit. Always desirable. No matter their rank, their trauma, their personality flaws… they’re never over six-foot tall and overweight.

It’s not like I’ve never tried. I’ve tried every diet you can imagine. Starving. Cutting carbs. Shakes. Teas. Exercising until my legs burned and my lungs felt like they were collapsing. Nothing ever really worked. I’ve always been big and tall. A double crime.

I still remember my older brothers repeating what their friends had said about me, pretending it was concern. “Your sister is so big. How is she ever going to find someone looking like that?”

They told me like I needed to hear it. Like it was public information. I secretly put every single one of their friends on my shit list after that. I used to treat them like extra brothers, making them tea and coffee, bringing snacks when they came over, smiling, being polite. After those comments? They could go and find some spiders to fuck. I stopped trying. I’d greet them stiffly and disappear into my bedroom.

The audacity of some of them still makes me burn. Some were fugly. Some had hygiene so questionable it was beyond comprehension but I was the one under inspection.

In my late teens, I decided if the world wanted smaller, I would disappear. I starved myself. And it worked…for a while. I lost a fair bit of weight in a short span of time. I was constantly hungry. Dizzy. Cold. And then the fine, soft hairs started growing all over my body. My body trying to protect itself from me. I didn’t even lose enough to be considered “slim.” I was still borderline overweight.

No one complimented me. No one said I looked good. It was like the effort didn’t register because my height still made me “big” to them. The comments didn’t stop. I was still fat. Still too much.

So, I thought, fuck it. If I’m going to be fat in their eyes anyway, I might as well eat. I started eating the meals I had denied myself. I overcompensated for every skipped dinner, every growling night. Of course I gained it back and more.

If I had been short and fat, maybe some guys would have found it cute. A “little firecracker.” But no. I was tall and big. That’s how I got the nickname - “Big Friendly Giant.” BFG. Like the book by Roald Dahl.

If that nickname is given to a guy, it sounds warm, protective and strong but for a woman? It’s a romantic death sentence.

It started in primary school. The tiny, petite girl in my class called me that after I beat her in an English composition test. That was my crime. Being bigger and smarter. The nickname stuck. It followed me into secondary school. College. University.

It didn’t follow me into work, thank God. But work has its own ways of reminding you what you are. They talk over me in meetings. Ignore what I say. Assume I’m there for the catering. I’ve seen the looks, the quick glance at the pastries, then at me. As if I’ve shown up solely for the buffet.

Being talked over has been my entire life. The unspoken rule: why would she have anything constructive to say? She only knows how to eat.

So I became quiet. I barely speak unless I have to. People think I’m arrogant. Standoffish. They don’t see the lifetime of bullying that trained me to shrink my voice. Even when someone asks a rhetorical question, I wait. I let them finish completely. I give it a couple of seconds before answering, just to make sure I’m not interrupting.

Most of the time, they don’t wait for my answer anyway. They fill the silence themselves. And I sit there, invisible in a body everyone seems to see but no one really wants.

Not everyone was mean. I have to remind myself of that sometimes. I was lucky to have a few genuinely good managers who actually heard me out when it mattered. They let me speak in meetings. They gave me space to share my ideas. Over time, I earned their respect, not because they pitied me, but because I worked for it.

Of course, asshole colleagues exist everywhere, and this workplace was no exception. But despite everything, the talking over, the assumptions, the subtle digs, my hard work paid off. I’m now a senior consultant at a risk management firm. Saying that still feels strange sometimes. Me - senior consultant.

My long-term plan is to move into investigations. That’s where I really want to be. But for now, I’m content.

I live in Manchester, though the head office is in London, so I travel down often for meetings. Most of the time I work from home, so a lot of my meetings are online. It’s easier that way. Screens are kinder than rooms full of people.

Tonight, I was curled up on the sofa watching a sappy love movie on Netflix. The couple were making love: soft music, dim lighting, intense eye contact. How interesting.

I’ve never even been kissed. Not once. Sometimes I wonder what that must feel like. I’ve even searched online for videos about how to kiss. They were awkward and funny, but I watched them anyway, half curious, half embarrassed at myself. Oh, to be wrapped in someone’s warm arms… I suppose one can only dream.

Now that I’m not living at home with my parents, I don’t feel the same suffocating pressure to get married. The constant countdown isn’t physically hanging over me every day. Maybe I’ll just remain single forever. Become a recluse with a stable job and a quiet flat. It’s not the worst fate.

I decided to call it a night and scrolled through social media before sleeping. That’s when something odd popped up on my feed - local male escorts.

I didn’t recognise any of them, even though the profiles said they were from around Manchester. A couple of months ago, I’d watched a documentary on escorts. It focused mostly on women, but there were male escorts too. I remember joking to myself back then that maybe I should try one someday.

Just a joke.

With my luck, I’d probably end up being matched with a family friend or someone who knew my cousins. That would be the ultimate humiliation.

Curiosity took over me that night. I told myself I was just looking. Just reading. But one search led to another, and before I knew it, I was deep into websites and forums about male escorts. Most of them didn’t “just escort.” They offered intimacy, companionship, sex - the full experience. The deeper I dug, the more I realised there were tiers to this world. The reputable agencies did health checks. They protected both the clients and the escorts. They had clear boundaries, screening processes, protocols. They were also expensive.

That night, lying in bed with my laptop glowing against my face, I made a decision that felt both rebellious and devastating. If I was ever going to kiss someone… if I was going to lose my virginity… it would be with someone I chose. Not someone my mother chose.

At least with an escort, it would be a transaction. They would be paid to feign liking me. To kiss me. To hug me. To have sex with me. They would have to be kind. They would keep any nasty thoughts to themselves. They would get their money, and I would get the experience I’ve never had.

Even thinking it broke something inside me. For the umpteenth time in my life, I cried myself to sleep, feeling useless. Pathetic. Like I was so unworthy of organic desire that I had to purchase it. But the tears didn’t deter me.

The next morning, I continued my research with a strange sense of determination. If I was going to do this, it wouldn’t be anywhere near Manchester. I travel to London monthly for work. London would be safer. Anonymous. Detached from my real life.

There were far more agencies there too, for both men and women. I searched for reviews obsessively. One name kept appearing again and again: Étoile Elite Companions (Where Desire Meets Discretion). Discretion. That word alone hooked me.

If my family ever found out what I was even considering, they would ostracise me. Possibly disown me from family events for “bringing shame.” And my mother wouldn’t keep it quiet, she would tell everyone. Every aunt. Every cousin.

If work found out? I don’t think I could look my managers in the eye again. It’s a private matter. It shouldn’t impact my career. But shame doesn’t care about logic.

I opened Étoile Elite Companions’ website and scrolled through the profiles. They were all beautiful. The men were handsome, fit and polished. The agency boasted about being popular among London’s elite, celebrities, and high-powered business circles. They emphasised discretion, elegance, bespoke experiences.

It felt worlds away from me. They listed their services: VIP companionship, travel companions, custom experiences, professional discretion, gender-inclusive options. They even explained the booking process in simple steps: call or email, answer a few questions, state your preferences, receive a selection of options. If needed, arrange a meet and greet, either face-to-face or online. If you’re not satisfied, they match you with someone else. Confirm the booking. Attend the “event.” Afterwards, decide if you want to book again.

It sounded clinical, structured and safe. Then I saw the prices. The cheapest option was £450 for an hour and that depended on the escort. The more popular they were, the higher the rate.

I make good money. I do but I don’t want to burn through it just to lose my virginity. Maybe just an hour first, I told myself. See how it goes. It would be my first time doing anything like this. I didn’t want to ruin it.

The first hurdle was making the call. I stared at my mobile phone all day. The agency number sat open in my browser. I picked the phone up. Put it down. Picked it up again. My heart pounded every time.

Eventually, I forced myself to press call. A woman answered.

“Hello! This is Doris from Étoile Elite Companions (Where Desire Meets Discretion). How are you today?” Her voice was warm and professional.

“Hi… hello. I am good, thank you. How are you?” My voice sounded small. Like it belonged to someone else.

“I am very good, thank you! How can I help you today?”

“I… I am calling to… uhmm… book… uhmm… someone.” The words felt like they were clawing their way out of my throat. What the fuck am I doing?

“Oh, yes? Do you know how this works, Miss?”

I gave her my name and admitted, quietly, that I didn’t. Not really. She walked me through the steps, the exact same process I had read on the website. Calm. Clear. Rehearsed. Then she asked for my details and said she was creating a profile for me in their system. Hearing that made it feel real.

“This is just basic information for now, Miss Maya,” Doris said smoothly. “As we get to know each other more, I will ask more information. Now, what are you looking for exactly?”

Oh fuck. I can’t say I’m looking for someone to lose my virginity. The humiliation alone might kill me.

“I am looking for a male escort,” I began, trying to sound composed. “Someone who is taller than me. I am about six foot two tall. Hmmm… good body.” I actually giggled. Like a bloody schoolgirl.

I heard her chuckle softly. “Okay, taller than six-foot two, good body. Anything else?”

“W-what do you mean by anything else?” I stuttered.

“As in age, weight preferences, background, features… for example, some women like tattooed men, some prefer long hair, piercings…” She kept going.

I didn’t even know what I wanted. Just… taller than me. That was my grand, pathetic requirement. Meh.

“I don’t mind whatever background or race they are from. No piercings. Two or three tattoos is fine. Short hair. With a beard. Any colour of hair is fine. I want him to be nice and gentle, not rough,” I added, mentally checking if I’d forgotten anything.

I heard her typing. “Okay, Miss Maya. I’ve taken down your basic information and preferences. I will try and matchmake you with some of our escorts. I’ll email you a few profiles with their prices. Each escort sets their own rate; we take a percentage. I’ll also send you the terms and conditions first, if you can read and sign them. To protect our escorts, we’ll conduct some checks on you. For example, your credit file and social media. And to protect you, we ensure the escorts are clean and match your preferences. Is that okay?”

I agreed.

“By the way,” she added, “when and where are you planning for this appointment to take place?”

“I’ll be in London in a couple of weeks’ time. So… around then? It will be in a hotel room.”

She reassured me we had plenty of time and that they had an extensive list of escorts. When we ended the call, I realised I’d been holding my breath.

Within minutes, an email arrived: introduction, terms and conditions. I had to read and sign before she’d send matches.

The next day, I was useless at work. I kept checking my inbox. I drank far too much coffee, which only made me more jittery and anxious. When the email finally came through with the profiles, I stared at it for a full minute before opening it.

Five matches. Some had introductory videos. Some just photographs. For those without videos, the agency offered an online meeting if I wanted.

They were all handsome. Fit. They matched what I’d asked for physically. But one stood out - Valentino Gold.

I actually chuckled at the obviously fake name. His video was pleasant. He had a cheeky smile. Brown hair but it was his sparkling blue eyes that caught me.

£600 an hour. Is an hour enough for sex? I wondered. I didn’t want it to feel rushed. Not like a quickie squeezed into a lunch break.

I emailed the agency with my choice and the meeting details. One hour. Just for a chat, I told myself. If something happens, it happens. I won’t force myself.

But what if he smells? What if his hygiene isn’t great? What if he doesn’t like me and looks like he’s forcing himself to be there?

The confirmation email came through, including receipt of my deposit. On the day, I would email my hotel room number. They would inform Valentino. And just like that, it was real. I began counting down the days until London.

Before my trip, I went to the hair salon. I got my hair done. Then I booked a full wax, far more than I usually do. It was very, very painful. Normally I stick to eyebrows, arms, and legs. This time… I did more.

I tried on outfits. All black. Safe colour. Black long-sleeved top with either a long black skirt or black trousers. First impression counts.

Now I’m sitting in my hotel room in London. I arrived a couple of hours ago. I have free time before meeting my manager for a work dinner later, and then meetings tomorrow.

Valentino is coming at 4pm. He’ll collect the keycard from reception, come to my room, enter, and sit on the sofa. I have to remember not to lock the door.

I stand in front of the long mirror. Nothing hides the flab. Nothing disguises my bloated belly. My face looks big. Round.

Panic creeps in. What am I doing? What if this is wrong? Oh for fuck’s sake, it’s too late to back out now. Maybe I’ll just give him the money, apologise for wasting his time, and tell him to leave.

It’s winter. Freezing outside but the room suddenly feels too warm. My heartbeat is climbing, loud in my ears. And then I hear it.

Footsteps outside my door.

The beep of a keycard.

The handle moving.

Too late now…