Ysabella’s story
The first thing I noticed as the private jet descended towards Scotland was the light.
It fell across the coastline in pale silver ribbons, illuminating the sea, the green folds of the landscape and, somewhere beyond them, St Andrews. I had travelled comfortably before, but arriving by private jet was still an experience that carried its own particular theatre. The quiet cabin, the chilled champagne, the attentive crew and the sense that the usual rules of time and distance had briefly been suspended.
My client was already in Scotland. We had never met in person, although every background check had been completed and every detail of the weekend had been discussed in advance. He required a companion for the wedding of a business associate—someone poised, elegant and convincing enough to appear completely at ease among his friends.
For the weekend, I was not simply Ysabella.
I was to be his girlfriend.
A chauffeur was waiting when I landed. During the drive to Rusacks St Andrews, I watched the scenery pass through the window and reminded myself of the arrangement. There would be no intimacy beyond what had been agreed. I would have my own room. My role was to be warm, affectionate and entirely believable.
By the time the car turned towards the hotel, the famous Old Course stretched before me beneath a wide Scottish sky. Rusacks stood proudly overlooking it, grand without feeling cold, filled with polished wood, rich fabrics and the quiet confidence of a place accustomed to remarkable guests.
He was waiting in the lobby.
He was taller than I had expected, dressed beautifully but without the need to display his wealth too loudly. His smile was controlled at first, though I noticed the relief behind it when he saw me.
“Ysabella,” he said, taking my hand. “You look even better than your photographs.”
“And you look considerably less nervous than you sounded on the telephone,” I replied.
That made him laugh, and the tension between us softened.
My room was separate from his, just as promised. It was spacious, peaceful and luxurious, with a view stretching over the golf course. On the bed was a handwritten welcome card, a bouquet of white roses and a box of delicate chocolates.
His generosity continued throughout the weekend, although it was never careless. Everything appeared considered. Nothing had been left to chance.
Before the wedding, he invited me to his suite so that we could prepare together. Waiting there was an extraordinary collection of clothing chosen specifically for me: a beautifully tailored dress, handmade shoes and fine jewellery selected to complement the look.
Now, before anyone becomes too excited on my behalf, I should explain that none of it was mine to keep.
The clothes, shoes and jewellery were part of the fantasy. They belonged to the weekend, just as the flowers, the private flight and the carefully constructed story of our relationship belonged to it.
He had arranged for a bath to be prepared. The room glowed with warm candlelight, and the water carried a subtle floral fragrance. His manner remained gentle and respectful as he helped wash my shoulders and arms, never crossing the boundaries we had established.
There was something strangely intimate about the care he took, yet it was not sexual. It felt ceremonial, as though he were preparing the final detail of a picture he had spent months imagining.
Afterwards, wrapped in a robe, I sat before the mirror while he presented the dress.
The fabric was exquisite, cut to fit me perfectly. He helped me into it slowly, fastening each delicate closure with an almost reverent concentration. Then came the shoes, elegant and beautifully made, followed by a necklace that shimmered softly against my skin.
He stood behind me and looked at our reflection.
“There,” he said. “Now they’ll believe me.”
I met his eyes in the mirror.
“They will believe us,” I corrected.
At the wedding, we performed our roles with ease.
I rested my hand lightly on his arm as we entered. He introduced me to friends and associates, and I greeted each of them as though I had heard their names a hundred times before. I laughed at familiar stories, touched his shoulder at the right moments and looked at him with the quiet affection expected of a woman deeply in love.
The remarkable thing was how quickly it began to feel natural.
He was attentive without being possessive. He made sure I was included in every conversation and never left me stranded among strangers. He ordered my favourite wine without asking because he had remembered it from one of our calls. When the evening turned cool, he placed his jacket around my shoulders.
His friends noticed everything.
“You two are wonderful together,” one woman told me during dinner.
I smiled across the table at him.
“Yes,” I said softly. “We are.”
For a moment, he looked almost startled by the tenderness in my voice. Then he smiled back, and I understood exactly why he had created this fantasy.
He did not want simply to arrive with a beautiful woman. He wanted, for one weekend, to experience the warmth of being admired by someone who appeared to know him completely. He wanted his friends to see him as loved, chosen and understood.
My role was to make that feeling real enough for everyone else to believe it.
Perhaps even for him.
Later, we danced beneath soft lights while music drifted through the room. He held me carefully, never taking more than I offered. I found myself noticing the small things: the warmth of his hand, the subtle scent of his cologne and the way his expression changed when he forgot that anyone else was watching.
I fancied him. There was no point pretending otherwise.
But attraction did not alter the arrangement. I understood my role, and so did he.
Outside the ballroom, with the night air cool against my skin, he thanked me.
“You’ve made this perfect,” he said.
“That was the idea.”
He looked at me for a long moment before leaning closer. The kiss we shared was gentle and brief. It was the only intimate moment between us, but it was enough to complete the illusion—and perhaps enough to leave both of us wondering what might have happened in another life.
Then he walked me to my room.
He did not ask to come inside.
The next morning, we had breakfast overlooking the Old Course. The jewellery had already been returned to its case, the dress carefully packed away and the fantasy gently dismantled. I wore my own clothes again and felt strangely lighter.
He paid me exactly as promised—and very generously. There was also an additional envelope in recognition of how well the weekend had gone.
When it was time to leave, he took my hand.
“I hope you were happy here,” he said.
I considered the question.
The weekend had been luxurious, certainly, but luxury alone was not what made me happy. It was the respect he had shown me, the boundaries he had honoured and the appreciation in his eyes when he realised I understood the fantasy he wanted to create.
“I was,” I told him. “Very happy.”
As the jet lifted away from Scotland, I looked down at St Andrews disappearing beneath the clouds.
For one extraordinary weekend, I had been his devoted girlfriend. His friends had believed I was deeply in love with him. Perhaps, in a carefully managed and temporary way, I had allowed myself to believe it too.
But I knew where the performance ended and where I began.
I returned home well paid, respected and smiling—carrying no jewellery, no designer dress and no promises.
Only the memory of a beautiful weekend and one perfectly judged kiss.
To enquire about booking Ysabella, call us on 07825 002242 or visit our Reservations page to complete our discreet enquiry form. You can also browse our other Bunnys and discover who may be the perfect choice for you.
