# Read the first page of Nobody's Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre Read the opening of Nobody's Girl by Virginia Roberts Giuffre free, no signup. Virginia Giuffre recounts abuse, survival, and the fight to make powerful men answerable. - Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/nobodys-girl-virginia-roberts-giuffre - Genre: Survivor memoir - Year: 2025 - ISBN: 9781529985269 - Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9781529985269&s=read-page - Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9781529985269 - Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9781529985269 ## The opening @@CHAP@@ Introduction “Life is not a private affair. A story and its lessons are only made useful if shared.” DAN MILLMAN, Way of the Peaceful Warrior Just a few hours ago, a visit to the Louvre seemed like a brilliant way to cheer myself up. But now the sadness overtakes me. I am so far from home. It is June 2021, and I am on the second floor of the world’s largest art museum, surrounded by strangers and yet very much alone. It is a weird time to be in Paris, which has just reopened after the COVID-19 pandemic swept the globe, and the streets are largely empty of tourists, who have only now been allowed to fly into France. I look like a tourist—another blond American mom in blue jeans and ballet flats. But I did not come to Paris to sightsee. I am here to do a job that never gets any easier. I’m here to stand up to those who have hurt me. I am here to reclaim my life. Leaving my hotel this morning, I felt strong. The sun sparkled and the air was warm, as if to make fun of all the sweaters I’d packed. I thought of my husband, Robbie, back in Australia, where we live. I knew he was hosting a sleepover for our three kids and three of their friends, and I could imagine him, frazzled as he telephoned our favorite pizza place and ordered way too many pies. “You are my little warrior,” my husband likes to tell me, and he said it again before I boarded the plane from Perth to Paris. I can’t always see myself as Robbie does, but today as I set off on foot and headed toward the Seine, I felt connected to his fierce ideal of me. From my hotel on Rue Scribe, I easily found my way to the Avenue de l’Opéra and headed south toward the Louvre. It had been twenty years since I’d walked these streets, but it seemed as if I knew the route. Visiting the museum was a gift I’d decided to give myself: a few hours away from my lawyers and their questions. For days they had been grilling me, and I understood why. In order to maximize the impact of the testimony I was here to give, I had to be focused—ready for anything. But I badly needed a break. When a morning off presented itself, I knew exactly where I wanted to go. Now I made a beeline for the Louvre’s iconic metal and glass pyramid, scanned my ticket, and rode the escalator down. My plan was to relax and wander the galleries, escaping my ugliest memories by immersing myself in pure beauty. For a while, everything went as I’d imagined. I lost myself in the larger-than-life bronze and marble sculptures, texting my husband photos of The Four Captives, a quartet of soldiers in shackles, and of Hercules fighting an oversized snake. I was in no rush. I figured I’d get to the Mona Lisa eventually. But then, unsure exactly where I was going, I climbed a flight of stairs, turned a corner, and froze. I know this room, screamed a voice inside my head. I’d been in this precise spot before—two decades ago, when I was just seventeen. THE ROOM I am in is painted bloodred and is dominated by a huge tapestry: a depiction of Louis XIV’s garish bed chamber. In 2001, when Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell took the teenage me into this room for the first time, they had been sexually abusing and trafficking me for months. Now I am a thirty-seven-year-old wife and mother—a full-fledged adult—and it’s been two years since Epstein died in jail. Still, I can practically see him standing next to me, admiring the tapestry, whose dark palette he was determined to mimic in the decor of his opulent Manhattan townhouse. In my mind’s eye, I imagine Maxwell beside him, as always. A molester with posh manners and an aristocratic pedigree, “G-Max,” as she called herself, played den mother to Epstein’s dysfunctional family of underage girls. I was one of those girls, and I spent more than twenty-five months in their house of shame. Even decades later, I can still remember how much I feared them both. ## Books with a similar feel - [In Order to Live by Yeonmi Park & Maryanne Vollers](https://uncovered.ink/read/in-order-to-live-yeonmi-park-and-maryanne-vollers.md) - [Know My Name by Chanel Miller](https://uncovered.ink/read/know-my-name-chanel-miller.md) - [Stolen Innocence by Elissa Wall & Lisa Pulitzer](https://uncovered.ink/read/stolen-innocence-elissa-wall-and-lisa-pulitzer.md) - [Finding Me by Viola Davis](https://uncovered.ink/read/finding-me-viola-davis.md) - [Collapse by Jared Diamond](https://uncovered.ink/read/collapse-jared-diamond.md) - [Spare by Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex](https://uncovered.ink/read/spare-prince-harry-the-duke-of-sussex.md) --- Source: Uncovered (https://uncovered.ink). A short sample shown for reading and discovery. Rights holders can request removal at https://uncovered.ink/takedown.