2001 New York City: The pulsating energy of the art and fashion world thrived in the bustling streets of early aughts New York City. Tall, slender models paraded across designer runways, their presence commanding attention with every step. Amidst the still smoldering ruins of the twin towers, they were fixtures in the hottest Manhattan and Williamsburg nightclubs and the center of Downtown NYC culture amidst the artists, musicians and jeunesse dorée of that era. Young beautiful women from all over the world flocked to NYC to make it in the fashion world. On the fringes of this scene was a young and hopeful model, her dreams of fame and fortune woven into the very fabric of her being. Her name was Isabella.
However, fate had dealt a cruel blow to Isabella. After being dropped by her modeling agency, desperation clung to her like a stale perfume, overwhelming and impossible to ignore. Failure and desperation beget more failure and desperation, and no one wants to be around that energy. She needed money, and she needed it fast. She didn’t want to have to go back home to Ohio where there was no avenue for her to pursue her dreams of success and living a glamorous and artistic life in the downtown NYC art and fashion world. She knew she needed to stay in New York City at all costs and find a way to “make it”. It was then that a mysterious opportunity presented itself, muttered among the secretive whispers of the fashion underworld.
A "special gig" they called it - promising a luxurious escape from her current plight. Little did she know that this invitation would transport her into the twisted realm of a man whose name would become synonymous years later with infamy — Jeffrey Epstein. With an air of trepidation, Isabella found herself aboard a private jet, soaring across the vast expanse of the ocean towards a remote island known as Little Saint James.
The moment her feet touched the island's shore, a sense of unease gripped Isabella. She was greeted by an older and stylishly dressed British woman - Ghislaine Maxwell - an enigmatic figure whose charm masked a sinister purpose. The girls on the plane had warned her about Ghislaine, that she could be cruel, direct and demanding and to not cross her and do exactly as she instructed. Ghislaine's presence radiated authority as she instructed Isabella on the intricacies of her task: massaging Jeffrey Epstein. Isabella's apprehension grew, realizing that the glamour she once sought was now tainted by an eerie darkness soaked in the scents of coconut massage oil and the Creed Erolfa Jeffrey wore. Was this the true cost of the glamorous luxury lifestyle she had yearned for?
Days melted into weeks as Isabella dutifully performed her role, navigating the delicate art of touch beneath the watchful gaze of Ghislaine. The island became her gilded cage, its opulent façade concealing the sinister undercurrents that swirled beneath the surface. She was trapped on this island, surrounded by a sea of secrets. Determined not to surrender her freedom entirely, Isabella embarked on clandestine investigations under the cover of night.
As the moon cast an ethereal glow upon the island, Isabella witnessed helicopters descending with clockwork regularity. Men, older and familiar-looking, arrived, their presence shrouded in an air of mystery. Sometimes, Isabella found herself socializing with them, their encounters veiled with hidden intentions. Sometimes she was even instructed to massage their feet, old and smelly with yellowed toe nails, which disgusted her. Her probing eyes took in every detail, storing them like precious gems in the vault of her mind. Maybe one day she would need to recall everything that happened on the island and everyone she met and had encounters with.
One fateful night, Isabella received a peculiar command to stay within her quarters, despite the palpable buzz of heightened activity on the island. Curiosity gnawed at her spirit, compelling her to defy the command and venture forth. Creeping silently through the darkness, she discovered a gathering around the blue and white striped temple on the island’s crest. Peering through the cracks of the window in the back of the temple, her eyes widened in disbelief.
Within the dimly lit chamber, she beheld a gathering of black-robed figures, their voices chanting ancient incantations and their devotion to a malevolent deity evident in their fervent worship. An owl statue, symbolizing wisdom and secrecy, loomed at the forefront of the congregation. Isabella's gaze shifted to a chilling tableau: a fellow captive girl, laid naked upon an altar, vulnerable to the eerie proceedings. Ghislaine, naked under a black robe and wearing a golden headdress, poured a thick red liquid over the girls body from what looked like an ancient golden vessel. Was is blood? Who’s blood was it? Her heart pounded, and the weight of her entrapment descended upon her shoulders like a suffocating fog.
Shocked and shaken, Isabella raced back to her room, her mind racing with revelations. It was clear that the island's owners and their esteemed guests were entrenched in the esoteric occult. She knew this knowledge was her weapon, a chink in their armor that could be exploited. It was here, amidst the darkness and the whispers of ancient rituals, that Isabella formulated a daring plan—a plan to exploit the deep-rooted occultism that permeated the island's core.
With resolve burning within her, Isabella spent the following day concocting a plan, weaving a tapestry of deception to manipulate the island's inhabitants. As twilight draped its cloak upon the island once more, she emerged with an extraordinary performance, a theatrical display the likes of which would rival the most macabre theater and that would forever mark the island's history.
Isabella's body became a vessel for ancient spirits, her voice an otherworldly chorus of forgotten tongues. Foaming at the mouth, deep guttural noises reverberated from the depths of her being. Isabella embraced the embodiment of possession, her body convulsing with primal intensity. The island's inhabitants were spellbound, swept into the vortex of Isabella’s performance, terror etched upon their faces as they witnessed this uncanny transformation. Had they really summoned a dark ancient spirit from another realm?
With each passing day, Isabella's ruse escalated, her theatrics leaving no doubt in their minds. Ghislaine Maxwell, the orchestrator of all occult activities on Little Saint James and the keeper of dark secrets, became convinced that Isabella was the reincarnate of Moloch, a god of old manifested in human form. Fear and reverence intertwined as they bowed before her, treating her as a deity, their previous demands abandoned in the wake of newfound awe.
The balance of power on the island shifted beneath the weight of Isabella's performance. She became more than a mere vessel for the wealthy elite's desires. She transcended their expectations, their desires now eclipsed by fear and reverence. Treated as a living god, a living embodiment of their devotion, Isabella was freed from the shackles that had previously bound her, both physically and mentally.
Weeks turned into months, and Isabella reveled in her newfound status. The island transformed into a shrine devoted to Isabella, the once-captive now a goddess among men. World leaders and dignitaries paid homage, offering her the finest gifts and delicacies as if appeasing an omnipotent force, their lofty positions overshadowed by the divinity they now revered. The temple, adorned in blue and white stripes and gold statues and dome, became a haven where the island's inhabitants worshiped their divine sovereign.
Even with an opportunity to escape, Isabella's desire to leave waned. Isabella found herself inexorably drawn to the island and the power it bestowed upon her. She had become a goddess among men, her every desire and whim indulged. Even the lifestyle of a successful model in New York City seemed to pale in comparison to her current status and lifestyle on the island. She didn’t need to go anywhere or do anything, everyone and everything she could ever dream about would come to her. She relished in her newfound power and control, a position that allowed her to unravel the island's and its inhabitants’ and visitors’ secrets while indulging in the privileges granted to a living god. The island became her dominion, a realm where she reigned supreme. And so, she chose to remain, forever entwined within the tapestry of Little Saint James, a living deity in the realm of mortals.
