As a high‑class escort, you can be asked to meet anyone, at any time, in any part of the city. Sometimes the agency gives you a neat little file—age, occupation, preferences, a photo that’s usually far too flattering. Other times, like this week, all you get is a first name and a place.
This time the name was Omar. No description, no hints, no warning. Just a message from my agency saying he had requested “the best woman available in London.” That line alone made me smirk. Men who know exactly what they want are often the most fun—decisive, generous, usually very sure of themselves. I spent the afternoon wondering who he might be. A mysterious businessman? An art dealer? Someone political? The name suggested money, but money comes in many different suits.
First Encounter: Meeting Omar
By the time I arrived at his hotel, dusk had slipped into night, and the building’s glass façade was glowing softly above the pavement. The doorman greeted me with the kind of polite, slightly knowing nod I’d grown used to, and I glided across the polished marble floor of the lobby, my heels tapping a quiet rhythm. The air smelled faintly of lilies and expensive cologne—an aroma that always hints at secrets.
I spotted him almost instantly.
‘Omar’ stood near the far end of the lobby, framed by the warm light from the bar. He wore an impeccable charcoal suit that hugged his shoulders just so, the fabric clearly custom-tailored. His shirt was crisp, the collar sharp, and a slim dark tie was fastened precisely at his throat. But what caught my attention even more were the two men standing just behind him, like shadows that had grown too solid. They were dressed more plainly, in dark suits that were practical rather than stylish, their eyes restlessly sweeping the room.
Security, I thought. Or something very close to it.
I walked toward him, letting my posture lengthen, my steps slow and confident. That’s part of the performance: the entrance. I felt his gaze settle on me and measure every inch—the dress, the hair, the way I carried myself. When I reached him, he gave a small nod, barely more than a dip of the chin.
“Good evening,” I said, offering a soft, professional smile.
“Good evening,” he replied.
His voice was low, with the faintest accent I couldn’t place immediately—somewhere in the Middle East, perhaps. Not strong, but enough to curl around certain vowels. His expression, though, was unreadable: neither pleased nor displeased, neither warm nor cold. Just…controlled.
Champagne and Silence
We moved to the bar at his suggestion, the two men following at a respectful distance. The bartender, with the sharp instinct of someone used to expensive tastes, appeared almost immediately.
“Champagne,” Omar said simply, not even glancing at the menu. The bartender nodded and poured us two glasses of something fine and pale, bubbles spiralling lazily to the surface.
We sat, and for a moment, the silence between us was almost theatrical.
I crossed my legs and let my fingertips rest lightly on the stem of the glass. “So,” I began in my smooth, practised tone, “how are you finding London?”
He looked at me, eyes dark and steady, but he didn’t answer. Not right away. He took a slow sip of champagne, his gaze drifting somewhere over my shoulder, as if he were watching a play that only he could see.
I tried again. I told him a little about my life in London—the galleries I liked to visit on quiet afternoons, the way the city transformed in the rain, how I could never decide whether I loved summer sunsets or winter lights more. I spoke lightly, adding just enough warmth and flirtation to make it feel like a conversation, not a monologue. I batted my eyelashes in the most coquettish way I could muster, letting my laughter ring softly in the air.
Nothing. Not a smile, not a chuckle. His face remained an elegant mask.
His silence started to feel like a wall. I tried not to show my irritation; I’m a professional, after all. Still, something about the way he remained so distant—a man who had requested the best and now seemed utterly uninterested—began to prick at my confidence.
Caviar, Guesswork, and Departure
When dinner was served, I quietly adjusted my approach. Maybe his English was limited, I thought. Perhaps he understood more than he spoke. So I softened the words and focused more on body language. A lingering glance here, a gentle touch on the back of his hand as I reached for my glass, a slow, appreciative smile when the caviar arrived.
The caviar itself was exquisite—tiny, glossy pearls that burst with a rich, salty complexity. I let each bite linger, giving him time to respond, to engage, to do something.
Nothing. He remained in that same state of elegant, impenetrable detachment, his attention drifting away even when I tried to draw it back. It was as though I was performing on stage for a man who had come to the theatre only to sit in the dark.
I finished my champagne, then my caviar, still smiling, still measured. Inside, I was quietly cataloguing possibilities. Maybe he was shy. Maybe he was testing me. Maybe he simply preferred silence. Or—and this was just as likely—maybe he wasn’t interested in me at all, no matter what he’d asked the agency to arrange.
When the date finally ended, he thanked me politely, his words formal and distant. No lingering look, no promise of another meeting. His security men closed in around him as he left, and I was left standing in the soft glow of the lobby lights, wondering which box to put him in: bored, arrogant, shy, or simply unknowable.
On the ride home, the city lights flickered past the taxi windows like a reel of half-remembered dreams. My reflection in the glass looked composed, but my thoughts were anything but. I replayed the evening in my mind, examining each moment for clues. Could I have said something different? Been a little bolder? A little softer? Or was it one of those rare nights where nothing you do can shift the temperature in the room?
By the time I slipped off my heels and stepped into my flat, I had already filed the evening away as a professional curiosity and turned my attention to the next booking.
A Different Kind of Date: Meeting Ben
My next client was Ben, a lawyer. The details were simple: mid-thirties, British, polite, liked conversation. After the cool, glassy surface of my evening with Omar, the prospect of an ordinary, talkative lawyer sounded almost refreshing.
We met in a small hotel, the kind you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it. There was no grand lobby, no towering arrangements of flowers, no men in suits hovering in the background. Just a discreet entrance, a modest reception desk, and a short corridor that led us to a quiet, private room.
The room itself was unremarkable—neutral walls, a small table, a sofa that had seen better days—but it felt immediately comfortable. Safe, even. Ben stood when I entered, smoothing the front of his shirt in a slightly nervous gesture that made me smile.
“Hannah? Hi,” he said, his voice warm and a little shy.
“Yes,” I replied, and this time my smile was easy, not practised. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
Within minutes, the difference between the two evenings felt almost comical. Where Omar had been composed to the point of silence, Ben was open and eager to talk. He asked about my day, about the parts of London I liked best, and about whether I preferred wine or cocktails. He laughed at my jokes, and his own stories—about difficult clients, odd cases, and the absurdity of office politics—had me genuinely amused.
Warmth, Laughter, and True Connection
We ended up sitting far closer than I’d expected, our knees almost touching as the conversation circled from work to travel to music and then to the small, intimate details people only share when they feel at ease. We teased each other gently, our laughter bouncing softly off the walls. Time seemed to fold in on itself; hours passed like minutes.
High‑class escorts are known for being good company, and I take pride in that. Listening, responding, making someone feel seen—it’s part of the work, of course, but that doesn’t mean it can’t also be real. With Ben, it felt real. He met me as a person, not just as an arrangement. There was no sense of him testing me or hiding behind silence. He was simply there, present and considerate, and it made the evening glow with an uncomplicated warmth.
When we finally said goodnight, there was a softness between us that had nothing to do with the hotel or the arrangement and everything to do with the simple pleasure of good company. I left feeling unexpectedly light, almost buoyant.
Morning After: Messages and Roses
The next morning, my phone chimed not long after I woke. It was a message from Ben.
“Thank you for last night,” it read. “You’re beautiful, and I had a wonderful evening.”
I stared at the screen for a moment, feeling a small, genuine smile creep across my face. Compliments are hardly rare in my line of work, but there was something disarming about his sincerity. It didn’t feel rehearsed or transactional; it sounded like it had been typed with a soft, sleepy grin.
I was still thinking about how to reply when there was a knock at my door.
I opened it to find a florist standing there, arms full of a spectacular bouquet: two dozen long‑stemmed red roses, their petals velvety and lush, the scent immediately flooding my hallway. For a split second, I assumed they were from Ben. It felt exactly like the sort of thoughtful, romantic gesture he might make.
“Delivery for Hannah,” the florist said, handing me the bouquet along with a small, cream‑coloured envelope.
I thanked him, closed the door, and set the roses down on the kitchen counter, their greenery spilling beautifully over the edge of the wrapping paper. My fingertips brushed against the envelope, and I slid a nail under the flap, curious.
The Reveal: Dating a Prince
The card inside was simple—heavy, expensive card stock, embossed at the edges. In neat, sloping handwriting, it read:
“Thank you for dinner.
Prince Omar.”
I read it twice, my eyebrows lifting in surprise. Prince Omar.
Suddenly, the impeccable suit, the watchful security, the hotel, the distance—it all rearranged itself in my mind like pieces of a puzzle, finally snapping into place. While I’d been wondering what I’d done wrong, he’d been silently evaluating me from behind layers of protocol, wealth, and whatever pressures came with his title.
I let out a soft laugh, alone in my kitchen, surrounded by the scent of roses. I had just dated my first prince, and I hadn’t even known it at the time.
The realisation was flattering, in a way. There’s a certain thrill in knowing that royalty had specifically asked for you, had taken the time—however reservedly—to send thanks. The roses were beautiful, extravagant, everything you’d expect from a man whose life is probably measured in diplomatic meetings and security briefings.
A True Prince Among Men
And yet, as I looked at them, another face came to mind: Ben’s, with his open smile and earnest conversation, his text message still glowing on my phone.
I turned the card from Omar over in my fingers, then set it gently aside. The roses were stunning, yes—but when I thought about which evening I cherished more, it wasn’t the one with the prince in the perfect suit under the chandeliers of a five‑star hotel.
It was the evening in the small, slightly worn hotel room with the sweet lawyer who laughed at my stories and thanked me not as a prince, but as a man who had genuinely enjoyed my company.
So yes, I had dated my first prince. But if I’m honest, it was Ben who felt like the true prince among men.
Discover some related blog posts for more engaging reads!
