The Honeypot Contracts: Inside the Epstein–Trump–Maxwell Ring

When people think of the global pedophile rings, the headlines usually stop at children. But another layer of the system was the “honeypot contracts” — arrangements designed to trap young women just over 18 into becoming wives, handlers, or long-term assets. This wasn’t about romance. It was about power, control, and keeping the machinery of trafficking running.

How the Script Worked

The setup was always the same: lure a girl with promises of money, status, or “protection,” pair her with a wealthy addict, an aging celebrity, or a powerful man who “needed” her, then lock her in place with marriage, dependency, and silence.

I was offered two of these contracts in my early 20s.

Contract One: Babysitting a Junkie Heir

Epstein’s Palm Beach Island home and where I came into his home with Maxwell in the Autumn of 2001

The first offer came through Kurt Schmidt — the son of Campbell Soup’s executive family. He was a heroin addict, living off his family’s last shred of patience. His parents wanted him married off, settled down, babysat so he could still land a cushy corporate job at Campbell Soup.

I met him on a yacht floating in the Atlantic. It wasn’t glamorous. It was controlled. The recruiter’s eyes never left me, always calculating. When I didn’t “click” with Kurt, the energy shifted. The recruiter even tried to hand me a drink she had obviously spiked, and when I refused, the game soured.

I was corralled off the yacht, cut off from other guests, barred from entering the house or walking freely. At one point, I was flatly asked, “So, what kind of millionaire or billionaire do you want?”

I joked, “Give me one with a foot in the grave.”

The so-called model scout — really a pimp — laughed and said, “Oh, so you want an Anna Nicole Smith situation.” We laughed together, but the menace underneath was real. Within 24 hours, the next contract was laid out.

Kurt Schmidt Board of Directors at Campbell’s Soup

I finally demanded to come inside the house on El Brillo Way. I came in through one of the sliding glass doors from the pool area and entered into the kitchen with black and white checkerboard flooring.

This is the door I came in after getting off the yacht

Within minutes of waking into the foyer, Ghislaine Maxwell appeared at the top of a pale pink staircase inside Epstein’s Palm Beach home, commanding the crowd like she was hosting a ceremony. Right then — around 9:30 p.m. — she announced that the party was moving over to Mar-a-Lago “by personal invitation of Donald Trump.” Everyone immediately started to leave, as if it were an order. I thought I was going too until Lisa stopped me. She told me I wasn’t allowed — that they were “just looking for prostitutes” and that “it gets rough quick.” I remember feeling completely confused by that comment. At the time, I thought she was just being eccentric or dramatic. It wasn’t until years later that I understood what she was really saying — and what I’d been spared from.

Almost exactly where I stood as Maxwell made the announcement that their party was moving to Mar-a-Lago via personal invitation by Trump himself.

Contract Two: The Poet Laureate’s Wife

Billy Collins wearing a similar straw hat he wore at our ‘dinner’

The following day, the recruiter arranged dinner with poet Billy Collins at the Colony House on Palm Beach Island. I had no idea who he was. I only told my mother that Lisa was setting me up with “some poet” at a supper club, and that I wanted her to know where I was in case I disappeared.

My mother later tried to explain who Collins was. She wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but she knew Lisa. She used to call her “Loony Lisa” because we didn’t know what to make of her — uber-rich, very strange, and two or three years younger than me.

Lisa and I had just met the week before when I first went inpatient as a repeated sexual violence survivor since childhood. We were assigned as roommates. One of the first things she said to me was chilling:

“Trust no one here. They’ll use it against you. And the orderlies will drug and rape you in your sleep.”

At the time, I didn’t take her seriously. I thought she was likely disturbed, even paranoid. But I was also saddened by her story — incest, generational trauma, scars that were obvious even in how she carried herself. I didn’t know yet that within days, she would begin trying to traffic me.

At the Colony House, Collins was nearly 40 years older than me. He lived there, and downstairs was a cabaret. Over dinner, he painted a picture: I could live there with him, be his wife, his muse. I could perform in the cabaret, surrounded by wealth and influence, so long as I agreed to disappear into the gilded cage.

The only reason I even went was because I wanted confirmation. I needed to see with my own eyes if what I kept surviving was actually real: a big, rich, blatant network of trafficking operating right under our noses, tied to the companies we grew up with and the political affiliations we were told to trust. My father and even some talent agents in high school had warned me about it — human trafficking hiding in plain sight. And now here it was, undeniable.

But there was one thing I knew with absolute certainty: having been a survivor since I was nine — my first experience of literally being ripped open, brutally pinned down, not allowed to leave or make it stop — I would never sign a contract that gave another man or woman dominion over my body or my life.

With Collins, it wasn’t a love story. It was a grooming contract dressed up in candlelight.

Where Billy lived and where we had dinner by the pool.

The Pattern

For me, there were only two men I ever met through this system — Kurt and Collins. After that, I got as far away as I could. Lisa kept circling back for over a year, trying to pull me in again, but I refused.

Looking back, I believe many of the women positioned around these networks weren’t just victims — some became contract wives or handlers themselves. I suspect both Erika and Melania fall into that category.

And this isn’t new. This kind of arrangement — women used as shields, wives, and gatekeepers for corrupt men — has been going on since the dawn of time. It’s the literal theme of the Bible: God trying again and again to destroy the elite’s eugenics projects for control and power, while they kept rebuilding them under new disguises.

Honeypot contracts are just the modern version of an ancient playbook. Whether it’s a Campbell Soup heir, a celebrated poet, an influencer, or a leader of a nation, the mechanics remain the same: pairing power with a woman whose role is to stabilize, conceal, and extend the system — whether they really want to or not.

Why I’m Telling This

Because the narrative has been deliberately narrowed. By focusing only on underage trafficking, the public is shielded from seeing how much deeper — and more systemic — the machinery went. Honeypot contracts weren’t an accident; they were a business model.

And I was nearly a cog in that machine — twice.