I still remember my first time stepping onto the perfectly kept grounds of Mar-a-Lago. It was early morning—my dad’s shift started at 7 a.m., and I’d hitched a ride with him. The air was already thick and humid, and the club’s twenty acres of carefully tended lawns and gardens seemed to glow.
My dad was in charge of maintaining the resort’s in-room air conditioners as well as its five championship tennis courts, so he knew the place well. He gave me a quick tour before introducing me to the hiring manager, who offered me a job. On that first day, I was handed a uniform—a white polo shirt with the Mar-a-Lago emblem, a short white skirt—and a name tag that read JENNA in capital letters. (Even though my real name was Virginia, everyone at home called me Jenna.)
A few days later, my dad said he wanted to introduce me to Mr. Trump himself. They weren’t exactly friends, but my dad was a hard worker, and Trump appreciated that—I’d seen photos of them shaking hands together. One day, my father brought me to Trump’s office. “This is my daughter,” Dad said, his voice full of pride. Trump couldn’t have been nicer, telling me it was great to have me there. “Do you like kids?” he asked. “Do you ever babysit?” He mentioned that he owned several houses near the resort that he let friends use. Before long, I was earning extra money a few nights a week watching the children of wealthy families.
But it was my regular job that gave me my first real glimpse of a better future. The spa, like the resort itself, was lavish, with luxurious finishes and gleaming, spotless decor. There were huge gold bathtubs, fit for a god. I was struck by how calm and content everyone appeared inside. My tasks—making tea, tidying bathrooms, restocking towels—kept me just outside the massage rooms, but I could see how relaxed clients looked when they came out. I began to imagine that, with the right training, I could one day make a living helping people ease their stress. Maybe, I thought, their healing could help heal me too.
Then, a few weeks before my 17th birthday on a sweltering day, I was walking toward the Mar-a-Lago spa for work when a car slowed down behind me. Inside were a British socialite named Ghislaine Maxwell and her driver, Juan Alessi, whom she always called “John.” Alessi later testified under oath that when Maxwell saw me—with my long blonde hair, slim figure, and what he described as my noticeably “young” look—she ordered from the back seat, “Stop, John, stop!”
Alessi obeyed, and I later learned that Maxwell got out and followed me. At the time, I had no idea a predator was closing in.
Imagine a girl in a crisp white uniform sitting behind a marble reception desk. She’s slender, with a freckled, childlike face, and her long blonde hair is pulled back. On that scorching afternoon, the spa is mostly empty, so the girl is at the front desk reading a library book about anatomy. She hopes studying it will give her something she’s been missing for too long: a sense of purpose. What would it feel like, she wonders, to be really good at something?
I looked up from my book to see a striking woman with short dark hair walking confidently toward me.
“Hello,” the woman said warmly. She looked to be in her late 30s, and her British accent reminded me of Mary Poppins. I couldn’t name the designers she was wearing, but I was sure her purse cost more than my dad’s truck. She held out her perfectly manicured hand for me to shake. “Ghislaine Maxwell,” she said, pronouncing her first name “Giilen.” I pointed to my name tag. “I’m Jenna,” I replied, smiling the way I’d been trained to. Her eyes fell on my book, which was filled with sticky notes. “Are you interested”Interested in massage?” she asks. “How wonderful!”
Remembering my duties, I offered this captivating woman a drink, and she chose hot tea. I went to get it and returned with a steaming cup. I thought that would be the end of our interaction, but she continued talking. Maxwell mentioned she knew a wealthy man—a longtime Mar-a-Lago member, she said—who was looking for a massage therapist to travel with him. “Come meet him,” she urged. “Come tonight after work.”
Even now, over 20 years later, I can still recall the excitement I felt. As directed, I wrote down her phone number and the address of her wealthy friend: 358 El Brillo Way. “See you later, I hope,” Maxwell said, waving her right hand with a slight twist of the wrist before she disappeared.
A few hours later, my dad drove me to El Brillo Way. The trip took five minutes, and we didn’t talk much. My father never needed an explanation about the importance of earning money.
When we arrived, we were faced with a sprawling two-story mansion with six bedrooms. In many TV documentaries, this house is shown painted a tasteful white, as it was years later. But in the summer of 2000, the house we pulled up to was a garish pink, the color of Pepto-Bismol.
I jumped out of the car before my dad could turn off the engine, walked to the large wooden front door, and rang the bell. Maxwell answered and came outside. “Thank you so much for dropping her off,” she told my dad, all smiles, though in hindsight, she seemed eager for him to leave.
“Jeffrey has been waiting to meet you,” she said, heading up the stairs. “Come.”
Following her, I tried not to stare at the walls, which were covered with photos and paintings of nude women. Maybe this was how wealthy people with refined taste decorated their homes?
When we reached the second-floor landing, Maxwell turned right and led me into a bedroom. We walked around a king-size bed and entered an adjoining room with a massage table. A naked man lay face down on it, his head resting on his folded arms. When he heard us enter, he lifted his head slightly to look at me. I remember his bushy eyebrows and the deep lines on his face as he grinned.
“Say hello to Mr. Jeffrey Epstein,” Maxwell instructed. But before I could, he spoke: “You can just call me Jeffrey.” He was 47 years old—almost three times my age.
Faced with Epstein’s bare backside, I looked to Maxwell for guidance. I had never had a massage before, let alone given one. Still, I thought, “Shouldn’t he be under a sheet?” Maxwell’s casual expression suggested nudity was normal. “Calm down,” I told myself. “Don’t ruin this opportunity.”
Palm Beach was only 16 miles from my hometown, Loxahatchee, but the economic gap made it feel much farther. I needed to learn how rich people did things. Besides, even though the man on the table was naked, I wasn’t alone with him. Having a woman there made me feel more at ease.
She began the lesson. When giving a massage, she said, I should keep one palm on the client’s skin at all times to avoid startling him. “Continuity and flow are key,” she explained. We started with his heels and arches, then moved up his body. When we reached his buttocks, I tried to glide past them to his lower back. But Maxwell placed her hands over mine and guided them to his rear. “It’s important not to ignore any part of the body,” she said. “If you skip around, the blood won’t flow properly.”
“We know where your brother goes to school,” Epstein said. “You must never tell a soul what goes on in this house.”
Only later would I realize how, step by practiced step, the two of them wYou were breaking down my defenses. Every time I felt a hint of discomfort, one look at Maxwell assured me I was overreacting. This went on for about half an hour, under the guise of a legitimate massage lesson.
Epstein asked me questions. “Do you have siblings?” I said I had two brothers. “Where do you go to high school?” I told him I’d dropped out after ninth grade but was only 16. “Do you take birth control?” Epstein asked. Was that a strange question for a job interview? He explained it was just his way of getting to know me, since I might be traveling with him soon. I admitted I was on the pill.
“You’re doing great,” Maxwell said as I kept my hands moving in time with hers.
Then Epstein said, “Tell me about your first time.” I hesitated. Who ever heard of an employer asking about losing your virginity? But I wanted the job, so I took a deep breath and shared a bit about my difficult childhood. I mentioned vaguely that I’d been abused by a family friend and had run away, spending time on the streets. Epstein didn’t pull back; instead, he made light of it, teasing me for being “a naughty girl.”
“Not at all,” I said defensively. “I’m a good girl. I’ve just always ended up in the wrong places.”
Epstein lifted his head and smirked at me. “It’s okay,” he said. “I like naughty girls.”
Then he rolled onto his back, and I was shocked to see he had an erection. Without thinking, I raised both hands as if to say, “Stop.” But when I looked at Maxwell, she was unfazed. Ignoring his arousal, she placed her hands on his chest and started kneading. “Like this,” she said, acting as if nothing was wrong. “You want to push the blood away from the heart.”
Epstein winked at her and moved his hand to his crotch. “You don’t mind, do you?” he asked as he began touching himself.
That’s when something inside me snapped. How else can I explain why my memories of what happened next are fragmented? Maxwell taking off her clothes with a mischievous look, her behind me unzipping my skirt and pulling my polo shirt over my head, Epstein and Maxwell laughing at my underwear with tiny hearts. “How cute—she still wears little girl’s panties,” Epstein said. He grabbed a vibrator and forced it between my thighs while Maxwell told me to pinch Epstein’s nipples as she rubbed her own breasts and mine.
A familiar emptiness washed over me. How many times had I trusted someone only to be hurt and humiliated? I could feel my mind shutting down. My body couldn’t escape the room, but my mind couldn’t bear to stay, so it put me on autopilot: submissive and focused on survival.
Many young women, including me, have been criticized for returning to Epstein’s world even after knowing what he wanted. How can you complain about abuse, some ask, when you could have stayed away? But that view ignores what many of us had endured before meeting Epstein and how skilled he was at targeting girls whose past wounds made them vulnerable. Several of us had been molested or raped as children; many were poor or even homeless. We were girls no one cared about, and Epstein pretended to care. A master manipulator, he threw what seemed like a lifeline to girls who were drowning. If they wanted to be dancers, he offered lessons. If they dreamed of acting, he promised roles. And then, he did his worst to them.
About two weeks after I met them, Epstein raised the stakes. I was upstairs cleaning after another “massage” when he called me to his office. “How about you quit your job at Mar-a-Lago,” he said, “and work for me full-time?” He wanted to make things easier.”Come work for me,” he said, but he had a few conditions. As his employee, I would have to be available whenever he needed me, day or night. He also insisted that I move out of my parents’ trailer, explaining that my coming and going at all hours might raise their suspicions. He handed me a stack of cash—about $2,500—and told me to use it to rent an apartment.
I had never held that much money before. I thanked him, but a flicker of worry crossed my mind. By then, I had seen many girls visit his house, most of them only once and never again. If he discarded them so easily, would he do the same to me? Epstein seemed to sense my hesitation. He walked around his desk, picked up a blurry photo, and passed it to me. Though taken from a distance, it was clearly my younger brother. A sharp fear shot through me.
“We know where your brother goes to school,” Epstein said, letting the words hang in the air before getting straight to the point: “You must never tell anyone what happens in this house.” He was smiling, but the threat was unmistakable. “And I own the Palm Beach police department,” he added, “so they won’t do anything about it.”
From the beginning, Epstein and Maxwell held me to my promise of being on call at all times. Some days, the call would come in the morning. I would show up, perform whatever sexual acts Epstein wanted, and then wait by his large swimming pool while he worked. If Maxwell was there, I was often expected to engage sexually with her as well. She kept a box of vibrators and sex toys nearby for these encounters, though she never demanded sex with me alone—only when Epstein was present. Sometimes other girls were there too, and I would end up spending the whole day at El Brillo Way.
In October 2000, Maxwell flew to New York to meet her old friend Prince Andrew, the Queen’s second son. On Halloween, she and Prince Andrew attended a party hosted by supermodel Heidi Klum at The Hudson, a luxurious hotel, along with other guests including Donald Trump and his future wife, Melania Knauss. Maxwell took pride in her famous connections, especially with powerful men. She often boasted about how easily she could get former President Bill Clinton on the phone; she and Epstein had even visited the White House together during his presidency.
Although they usually slept in separate rooms and rarely showed physical affection, Maxwell and Epstein seemed to live in perfect sync. Epstein called Maxwell his best friend and valued her ability to connect him with influential people. In return, Maxwell appreciated that Epstein had the means to fund the extravagant lifestyle she felt she deserved but struggled to afford after her father, media mogul Robert Maxwell, died. In social situations, Maxwell was often lively and the center of attention, but in Epstein’s home, she acted more like a party planner—scheduling and organizing the constant stream of girls she recruited to have sex with him. Over time, I came to see them not as a couple, but as two parts of a single, sinister entity.
Looking back on that time, I’m not proud of myself. Even though I now understand that I was just a child trying to survive, I cringe at how passive I had become. I increasingly relied on Xanax and other drugs prescribed by doctors Maxwell sent me to. On particularly difficult days, I took as many as eight Xanax.
Epstein and Maxwell began lending me out to their friends. The first time, he framed it as if he were introducing me to an exciting new stage of my “massage training.” My new “clients,” as Epstein called them, were a man and his pregnant wife, both of whom needed massages, he explained.They were staying at The Breakers, a luxury hotel in Palm Beach near El Brillo Way, and Epstein gave me clear instructions on how to handle them. “Make her feel at ease, but focus most of your attention on him.” When Epstein said this, I looked up, wondering if he meant what I suspected. “Give him whatever he asks for,” Epstein clarified. “Just like you do for me.”
That evening, I took a taxi to The Breakers. The man—I’ll refer to him as Billionaire Number One—and his wife had an apartment in the residential part of the sprawling property. Upon arrival, they led me to the master bedroom, where I started by working on the woman. Maxwell had jokingly warned me that massaging her ankles “the wrong way” could trigger early labor. Though I had no experience with prenatal massage, I did my best and avoided her ankles entirely. After about 45 minutes, she said she was going to sleep.
The apartment was dimly lit, and I had to move quietly until I found Billionaire Number One in the sitting room, undressing. I desperately hoped that a massage was all he wanted. As I was working on his muscles, he looked up, groaned, and asked, “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you were naked?” I wasn’t surprised, but I was disheartened. We had sex on the floor, and afterward, he gave me a $100 tip. Leaving that night, I felt that familiar hollow emptiness.
The second person I was sent to was a psychology professor whose research Epstein was funding. He was a peculiar, small man with thinning white hair and a nervous demeanor that suggested he wasn’t accustomed to being with women. He never explicitly asked for sex, but Epstein had made it clear that was the expectation. “Keep him happy, like you did with your first client,” Epstein had said. So when the professor requested “one of your famous massages that Jeffrey has told me so much about,” I obliged. We only had sex once, though. The following night, he said he preferred to watch movies instead. I was relieved but anxious that I might have disappointed him in a way he’d report back to Epstein.
Maxwell later told me, “You did well. The prince had fun.” Epstein paid me $15,000 for serving the man the tabloids nicknamed ‘Randy Andy.’
The psychologist was just the first of many academics from top universities I was forced to have sex with. At the time, I didn’t realize that Epstein had spent years trying to associate with the world’s leading intellectuals. He, a college dropout, believed he was on par with degreed innovators and theorists, and since he funded their research and flew them on his private jets, they mostly accepted him into their circles.
Scientists weren’t the only ones Epstein used his wealth to access—which is how I ended up being trafficked to numerous powerful men. Among them were a gubernatorial candidate soon to be elected in a western state and a former US senator. Epstein rarely introduced me to these men by name, so I only identified some of them years later when I saw photos of his associates and recognized their faces.
On March 10, 2001, we were in London, staying at Maxwell’s pied-à-terre—a white mews house a short walk from Hyde Park. That morning, Maxwell woke me by singing, “Get out of bed, sleepyhead!” She said it was going to be a special day and that, like Cinderella, I was going to meet a handsome prince. Her old friend Prince Andrew would be joining us for dinner that night, and we had a lot to do to prepare.
Maxwell and I spent most of the day shopping. She bought me an expensive Burberry purse and three different outfits. Back at her house, I laid outI laid out the outfits on the bed. There were two sexy, sophisticated dresses she had chosen, and a third option I had pushed for: a pink V-neck sleeveless mini T-shirt and a pair of sparkly, multicolored jeans embroidered with a pattern of interlocking horses. After showering and drying my hair, I put on the jeans and top, which left a strip of my stomach bare. Maxwell wasn’t happy about it, but like many teenage girls at the time, I idolized Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, and I imagined this was the kind of outfit they might wear.
When Prince Andrew came to the house that evening, Maxwell was more flirtatious than usual. “Guess Jenna’s age,” she prompted the prince after introducing me. The Duke of York, who was 41 at the time, guessed correctly: 17. “My daughters are just a little younger than you,” he told me, explaining how he knew. As always, Maxwell had a quick joke: “I guess we’ll have to trade her in soon.”
Unlike his current appearance—stout, white-haired, and jowly—Prince Andrew was still relatively fit back then, with short brown hair and youthful eyes. He had long been known as the playboy of the royal family. When I heard Epstein call him “Andy,” I started doing the same.
We chatted in Maxwell’s entryway, and it suddenly hit me: my mom would never forgive me if I met someone as famous as Prince Andrew and didn’t get a photo. I ran to my room to grab a Kodak FunSaver, then came back and handed it to Epstein. I remember the prince putting his arm around my waist while Maxwell grinned beside me. Epstein took the picture.
After a bit more small talk, the four of us headed out into the chilly spring air. We went to a restaurant for dinner and then to an exclusive nightclub called Tramp. The prince went to the bar and brought back a cocktail for me. Then he asked me to dance. He was a bit clumsy on the dance floor, and I remember he sweated a lot. On the way back, Maxwell told me, “When we get home, you are to do for him what you do for Jeffrey.”
Back at the house, Maxwell and Epstein said goodnight and went upstairs, signaling it was time for me to take care of the prince. Over the years, I’ve thought a lot about his behavior. He was friendly enough but still acted entitled, as if having sex with me was his right. I drew him a hot bath. We undressed and got in the tub, but we didn’t stay long because the prince was eager to move to the bed. He paid a lot of attention to my feet, caressing my toes and licking my arches. That was a first for me, and it tickled. I was nervous he’d want me to do the same to him, but I didn’t need to worry. He seemed in a hurry to have sex. Afterward, he said thank you in his crisp British accent. In my memory, the whole thing lasted less than half an hour.
The next morning, Maxwell told me, “You did well. The prince had fun.” Epstein gave me $15,000 for servicing the man the tabloids called “Randy Andy.”
My second encounter with Prince Andrew happened about a month later at Epstein’s townhouse in New York. Epstein greeted Andrew and brought him to the living room, where Maxwell and I were sitting. Another one of their victims, Johanna Sjoberg, arrived soon after. Maxwell then announced to the prince that she had bought him a joke gift—a puppet that looked just like him. She suggested we take a photo with it. The prince and I sat next to each other on the couch, and Maxwell placed the puppet in my lap, putting one of its hands on my breast. Then she sat Johanna on the prince’s lap, and he put his hand on her breast. The symbolism was unmistakable. Johanna and I were Maxwell and Epstein’s puppets, and they were pulling the strings.I don’t know the exact date of my third sexual encounter with Prince Andrew, but I do remember it took place on Little Saint James, a 72-acre island in the US Virgin Islands owned by Jeffrey Epstein. Located near Saint Thomas, Epstein referred to it as “Little Saint Jeff’s.” This time, it wasn’t just the two of us; it was an orgy. In a sworn statement from 2015, I stated that I was around 18 at the time and that Epstein, Andrew, and about eight other young girls and I had sex together. The other girls seemed to be underage and didn’t speak much English. Epstein joked that their inability to communicate made them the easiest to get along with.
Since I provided that account, Epstein’s pilot has confirmed in a deposition that the code “AP” in his flight log for July 4, 2001, referred to Prince Andrew. He noted that Epstein, the prince, another woman, and I flew from Saint Thomas to Palm Beach that day. It’s possible the orgy I recall happened in the days leading up to that flight, which would mean I was still 17. I may never know the exact date. What I do know, because Epstein told me, is that Jean-Luc Brunel, a French modeling agent who was present, provided the other girls involved.
Despite the exposure of Epstein and Maxwell’s crimes, more needs to be done. Some still view Epstein as an anomaly, but they are mistaken. While the number of victims he preyed upon may set him apart, his attitude toward women and girls—as objects to be used and discarded—is not unique among powerful men who feel above the law. Many of these men continue their lives, enjoying the privileges of their status.
Don’t be misled by those in Epstein’s circle who claim ignorance. Epstein didn’t hide his actions; he took pleasure in having others witness them. And they did—scientists, Ivy League fundraisers, industry leaders—they watched and did nothing. Virginia Giuffre died by suicide on April 25, 2025. In February 2022, her lawyers reached a settlement with Prince Andrew, which included no admission of liability on his part. He continues to deny Giuffre’s allegations that he had sex with her, that she was trafficked to him by Epstein, or even that he ever met her.
This text is adapted from “Nobody’s Girl: A Memoir of Surviving Abuse and Fighting for Justice” by Virginia Roberts Giuffre, published on October 21 by Doubleday for £25 and in Australia by Penguin Random House for $36.99. To support the Guardian, you can order a copy at guardianbookshop.com, though delivery charges may apply.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about Virginia Giuffres allegations against Prince Andrew designed with clear questions and direct answers
Basic Questions Definitions
1 Who is Virginia Giuffre
Virginia Giuffre is one of the most prominent survivors of Jeffrey Epsteins sex trafficking ring She was recruited as a teenager by Ghislaine Maxwell and has bravely spoken out about the abuse she endured
2 What are her specific allegations against Prince Andrew
Giuffre alleges that on three separate occasions she was forced to have sexual encounters with Prince Andrew while she was a minor under US law She claims this was arranged by Epstein and Maxwell
3 What did she mean by saying he felt entitled
She stated that Prince Andrew acted with an air of privilege and expectation as if it was his right to have sex with her showing no regard for her wellbeing or that she was being trafficked
4 Did Prince Andrew admit to any of this
No Prince Andrew has consistently and vehemently denied all of Giuffres allegations He has never admitted to any wrongdoing
5 Was there a lawsuit about this
Yes Virginia Giuffre filed a civil lawsuit against Prince Andrew in the United States in 2021 alleging sexual assault and battery
The Legal Case Outcome
6 What was the result of the lawsuit
The case was settled out of court in 2022 A settlement is not an admission of guilt Prince Andrew agreed to pay a substantial financial sum to Giuffre and to make a significant donation to a charity in support of victims rights
7 Why did they settle instead of going to trial
Settlements allow both parties to avoid the uncertainty expense and public spectacle of a trial For Prince Andrew it ended the intense legal and public scrutiny For Giuffre it provided a form of justice and closure without having to relive her trauma in court
8 Did Prince Andrew face any criminal charges
No Prince Andrew has never been criminally charged in connection with these allegations The US Department of Justice investigated but did not pursue charges against him
9 What was the famous photo of them together
A widely publicized photo shows a young Virginia Giuffre with her arm around Prince Andrews waist and Ghislaine Maxwell in the background Prince Andrew has
