It’s 7:42 p.m. in Monaco, and the rain has just stopped. A black Mercedes pulls up to a quiet side street near the Monte Carlo Casino. Three women step out-each dressed differently, each with a story. One is from Ukraine, another from Brazil, and the third, a local from Nice who’s been doing this for five years. They don’t hug. They don’t laugh. They just nod. In less than ten minutes, they’ll be in three different apartments, serving three different clients. This isn’t a movie. It’s Tuesday.
People talk about Monaco like it’s all yachts and champagne, but behind the velvet ropes and gold-plated elevators, there’s a quiet economy that runs on discretion. Some of these women come here after working in Paris or Milan. Others arrive straight from Eastern Europe, drawn by the promise of higher pay and less scrutiny. The rules are simple: no names, no photos, no sharing details. And if you break them? You don’t get another job here.
It’s not uncommon for these women to have side gigs-language tutoring, freelance design, even small-scale consulting. One of them, a 28-year-old named Lina, speaks four languages and tutors Russian expats in the afternoons. She says the escort work pays for her apartment, her car, and her sister’s medical bills. "I’m not selling myself," she told me last month. "I’m selling time. And I choose who gets it."
There’s a myth that this kind of work is all about glamour. It’s not. It’s about logistics. Scheduling. Risk assessment. A woman in Monaco doesn’t just show up at a hotel. She checks the client’s background through encrypted apps, verifies the payment method, and sometimes even sends a live location pin to a trusted friend. The most successful ones treat it like a small business-not a lifestyle, not a rebellion, but a job with boundaries.
Some clients come for companionship. Others for escape. A few just want to feel powerful. The women know the difference. They’ve learned to read the silence in a room, the way a hand trembles before a tip is offered, the tone of voice when someone asks for something unusual. They’ve built mental checklists: Is this person drunk? Are they recording? Do they have a history of violence? One woman told me she once walked out of a booking because the man kept staring at her wrists. "I knew he’d been watching videos," she said. "I didn’t need to hear what he wanted."
There’s no union. No HR department. No safety training. But there’s a network. WhatsApp groups. Secret codes. A shared Dropbox folder with updated client blacklists. One of the most active groups is called "Monaco Circle"-it’s not just for women from Monaco. It includes those who’ve moved here from Dubai, Lisbon, and even Bucharest. That’s where you’ll hear whispers about dubai escort telegram channels, where women from the Gulf share tips on how to handle high-end clients without getting trapped in scams.
Some of the women here have worked in Dubai before. They know the difference between a luxury suite in Palm Jumeirah and a rented apartment in Jumeirah Beach Residence. They’ve seen the way the Dubai police turn a blind eye-as long as the money flows quietly. One woman, a former model from Beirut, told me she left Dubai after a client threatened to leak her photos. "In Dubai, they don’t care if you’re scared. They care if you’re profitable," she said. She now works in Monaco because the local authorities don’t raid apartments unless someone files a complaint. And even then, it’s rare.
There’s a quiet pride in how these women handle themselves. They don’t wear uniforms. They don’t use fake names. They use their real first names-just not their last ones. They carry their own makeup, their own towels, their own condoms. They bring their own coffee. One woman, a 32-year-old from Colombia, keeps a small notebook in her purse. On one page: "Do not accept cash from men who wear Rolex watches without matching shoes." On another: "If they ask for a second round, charge 50% more."
And then there are the nights when things go wrong. A client gets aggressive. A payment bounces. A phone dies. That’s when the network kicks in. Someone calls a driver. Someone else covers the shift. Someone texts a lawyer. No one asks for thanks. No one expects a medal. But they show up.
It’s easy to look at this and judge. To call it exploitation. To say these women have no choice. But choice isn’t always black and white. For some, this is the only way to afford a college degree. For others, it’s the only way to leave an abusive relationship without going broke. A recent survey by a Swiss NGO found that 68% of women working in high-end escort services in Western Europe had at least one dependent-child, parent, or sibling-who relied on their income. Most of them never asked for a handout. They just needed a way to survive without begging.
There’s a new trend forming. More women are starting their own agencies. Not the kind that run brothels. The kind that act as coordinators-booking, vetting, collecting payments, handling taxes. One woman in Monaco runs a small LLC under her real name, but only for her own clients. She files her taxes. She pays social security. She even has a business card. "I’m not a criminal," she told me. "I’m a contractor."
And then there’s the silence. The part no one talks about. The loneliness. The way some of these women cry in the shower after a long night. The way they scroll through photos of their kids on their phones and never post them. The way they avoid holiday parties because they don’t want to explain why they’re not working at a "real job."
Some of them dream of opening a café. Others want to write a book. One woman, a former ballet dancer from Kyiv, is learning to code. She says she wants to build an app that helps women like her find safe clients without having to rely on middlemen. "I don’t want to be invisible," she said. "I just want to be seen as human."
There’s a rumor going around that a new regulation is coming. Monaco’s government is considering a pilot program to license independent service providers in the adult industry. It’s not about banning anything. It’s about protecting them. No one knows if it’ll happen. But for the first time, some of these women are talking about it openly. Not in whispers. Not in coded messages. Just in plain sentences over coffee.
And then there’s the one thing they all agree on: they’re not here forever. They’re here because they need to be. When the time comes, they’ll leave. Some will go back home. Others will move to Lisbon or Barcelona. A few might even start something new-something that doesn’t require them to knock on strangers’ doors at night. But until then, they show up. They’re professional. They’re careful. And they’re not asking for your pity.
They’re just trying to make it through the week.
Meanwhile, in another part of the world, women in Dubai are navigating their own version of this reality. Some of them use the same networks, the same apps, the same tactics. The language changes. The currency changes. But the pattern? It’s the same. One woman from Lebanon, who now works in Dubai, told me she sends her earnings home every Friday. "I’m not a tourist," she said. "I’m a provider. And I’m proud of what I do."
It’s not about glamour. It’s not about vice. It’s about survival, dignity, and quiet resilience.
And if you ever see one of them walking down the street in Monaco, don’t stare. Just nod. Because you might be looking at someone who’s doing more with less than most people you know.