02. An Envelope, A Dingy Apartment, and An Email

SOFIA’s POV

Ever since I started working for Mr. Lee as his escort, he had always made sure to book me as his favorite girl. The job was simple; he’d dress me up, pay me cash, then I would provide him company at social events and give his ego a little boost whenever I clung to his arm like some kind of trophy wife.

Tonight, the company event we attended turned out to be one of the many splendid parties so far. And as we pulled up near my apartment, the gentle hum of Mr. Lee’s luxurious SUV faded into the background, his kind eyes lingered on me as we sat comfortably in the buttery-soft leather seats in the back of his car.

“You—very beautiful tonight, Miss Sofia,” he said in his broken English, his Chinese accent curling around the words. He reached for my hand, planting a soft kiss on it before flashing his signature toothy smile. This 71-year-old Chinese man may have been short in stature, but his gentlemanly charm reached the rooftops. “Good company. I feel good, good…” he added, nodding after each word.

I smiled at his warmth, which almost felt childlike despite his old age. “It’s always a pleasure, Mr. Lee,” I replied with well-rehearsed demureness. “You know you’re my favorite client.”

“Ah, good to know. I just wanted you to have a good time… Did you have a good time?”

“I did,” I chirped.

“I’m glad.” He gestured to his driver, who handed him a white envelope. “This is for your service, my dear.”

“Oh! Thank you, Mr. Lee,” I replied, accepting the envelope with practiced grace.

“You sleep, okay? You have a job… uh, tomorrow… being waitress.”

I chuckled, amused by his sentences. Just a few months ago, we had started discussing more intellectual topics whenever we were together. Sometimes, he booked my services just so I could talk to him in English. Since English was the Philippines’ second language, his business associates spoke to him in that language, and he admitted he couldn’t always keep up. Other times, I taught him my mother tongue, Bisaya, while he attempted to teach me Mandarin.

After one last polite exchange, the driver opened the door, and I stepped out into the cool night air. “Take care, my old man. Wǎn’ān.” Which meant ‘good night’. He chuckled, kissed me on the cheek, and the car sped off, leaving me standing there. My smile faded the second the vehicle disappeared.

In an instant, the makeup on my face felt unbearable, as though it were suffocating me. Or maybe that was just the weight of everything else.

Even though I felt proud wearing this beautiful dress, one that hugged my curves like it was made just for me, I still couldn’t shake the thought that this shimmering gold body-con dress, along with the sleek stilettos on my feet, had been bought with my escort earnings. For some, it wasn’t the kind of job a decent woman would choose. But poverty didn’t exactly come with an instruction manual on dignity. There were only two options: survive or sink. And I chose to survive.

I had no illusions about the world I had stepped into. Escort agencies existed in Manila, but they thrived in the shadows. They operated quietly through private websites, exclusive word-of-mouth, or discreet social media networks. Some catered strictly to high-end companionship, offering arm candy for businessmen and politicians who needed an elegant date for an event. Still, others blurred the lines even though prostitution was illegal in the country under Republic Act No. 9208.

Luckily, the agency I worked for, Velvet Luxe, was one of the few that gave its women a choice. No-sex contracts were strictly enforced for those who wanted them, providing companionship and social allure without the expectations that came with the darker side of the industry. I only worked for five hours per contract. If my time with a client went beyond that, he would have to pay additional fees and a tip. It wasn’t a perfect system, but in a city where opportunities were scarce for someone without a degree, it was one of the few ways I could make enough to support my family back in the province. Still, the stigma lingered. No matter how high-class the agency was or how much I told myself I was just playing a role, society wouldn’t see it that way. To most, I was nothing more than a woman selling herself for money.

But they didn’t know the first thing about survival. And tonight, survival came wrapped in gold silk and six-inch heels. Heaving a sigh, I crouched and slipped off my shoes, the cool pavement a welcome relief against my sore feet.

Heels dangling from my hand, I climbed the cement stairs to my third-floor apartment. There were no elevators, of course. This was Manila, and I lived in a cheap apartment. Even at this hour, distant laughter, honking cars, and muffled karaoke drifted from neighboring streets, indicating that the city was alive. But inside the apartment building, all was quiet. Most of my neighbors were call center workers, spending their nights in offices far from here. Their absence made the space feel empty, but I welcomed the isolation.

Just as I reached my door, my phone buzzed. I answered without checking the caller ID. “Yeah?”

“You whore, how did it go with Mr. Lee?” came Mina’s teasing voice.

I chuckled, too tired to protest the nickname. “It went fine, as always. I just got home.”

“Girl, you sound dead tired,” she quipped. “Did the old Chinese mogul finally ask you to twerk?”

“Mina! What are you even saying?” I laughed despite myself. “You know that’s not how I run things.”

“Oh, I wish my agency had the same policies as yours.”

“I told you to quit your agency and work at Velvet Luxe.”

She groaned. “Easy for you to say! You’re conventionally pretty.”

“And so are you!” I responded, slightly raising my voice.

We talked for a few more minutes, our pep talk helping in the smallest of ways before she hung up.

Left alone, I collapsed onto my bed. Maybe I should shoot another Get Ready With Me TikTok, especially since I just reached 500,000 subscribers last week.

Indeed, things drastically changed in the post-pandemic era. Social media had exploded in ways no one had anticipated. Back in 2020, when the world was stuck indoors, people craved entertainment, distractions, and any kind of human connection. This app, called TikTok, wasn’t just some app for dance challenges, it became a stage where ordinary people could become stars overnight. And influencers weren’t just influencers anymore; they were brands. What started as random beauty tutorials, daily vlogs, and comedic skits soon turned into full-blown careers. Even A-list celebrities who were once exclusive to television and film began flocking to the platform. The line between celebrity and content creator had blurred, making it easier for unknowns like me to carve a space in the digital world. And I had done just that. A few viral videos later, my follower count skyrocketed. People seemed to like my ‘Get Ready With Me’ videos.

I could attest that TikTok had given me an audience, but still, it wasn’t enough. I would still want to be on TV. I exhaled, staring at the ring light sitting on my tiny desk. Maybe I should indeed film something. The algorithm didn’t care if I was tired. If I wanted to keep growing, I had to stay consistent. Fame, after all, didn’t wait for anyone.

My daydreaming was interrupted by a knock at the door. I glanced at my phone. It’s 1:05 AM. Who could it be?

Heart pounding, I grabbed the nearest possible weapon, but I couldn’t find anything useful except my hairdryer.

“Sofia, it’s me,” said a familiar, raspy voice.

I rolled my eyes. Him again. Anxiety quickly turned to irritation. “Mr. Donato, it’s late. What do you want?” Knowing about his indiscretions, there was absolutely no reason to let him in.

“I waited for you all day, but you’re just getting home now,” he grumbled. “I came for the rent.”

Shit. My hand flew to the envelope from Mr. Lee. Enough to cover rent, but barely. Nothing left to send home. “I-I’ll pay tomorrow, Mr. Donato,” I stammered. “I need to… budget everything first.”

“If you’re short,” he said, his voice slick with suggestion, “we can work something out. You know what I want—”

“Not tonight, Mr. Donato,” I cut him off sharply. “I’m exhausted. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He did not respond for a long while, just enough for my heart to drum even more wildly in my chest.

“Tomorrow, then.”

My skin crawled, listening to his fading footsteps. Escorting might pay the bills, but it didn’t mean I was for sale. Feeling a little discouraged, I got up to start my night routine, dismissing this as another weird proposal from my landlord.

Scattered across my night table were various skincare products and gifts from small brands that had reached out months ago when my social media following started to grow. Out of habit, I then turned to my email, skimming the inbox. Suddenly, one subject line caught my eye.

“Miss Morales, we’ve already met before at the restaurant. I have a job proposition. Meet me tomorrow at the location I provided. Wear something nice.”

My blood boiled. Suddenly, the embarrassing encounter at the restaurant crossed my mind.

That guy... Even with his so-called invitation, he still sounded like the same arrogant but irresistible jerk I met last week!