'You like your women,
And you like fun.'

-

Months Later ~

What a bizarre cascade of unfortunate memories you had held from the past 5 months.

Leaving the one thing you could call family behind – and a man you were madly in love with, was not an easy task to do – but it was not as if you very much had the choice.

Arriving in Saint Denis was like being hit with a palate of bricks, a real shock to the system. In your life beforehand, particularly in England – everything had been very much served to you on a platter. A comfortable country home, loving family, and no worries over money whatsoever. The only thing you used to fret over at home was what book you were going to read next.

And even so, when you had been at camp with the gang – you did worry sometimes but there was always the comfort of knowing you all appeared to have each other's backs. Saint Denis presented itself as this scary, looming monster that chucked the biggest bucket of responsibility onto your person to date.

You could clearly recall the terrifying and alienating feeling when you first rode down the main street on Boxer's back. It seemed only the simpler folk actually rode around, as many of the city society laughed hoitily from the back's of their carriages – or enjoyed the ease of taking a trolley around the wide brick-laid streets of Saint Denis. It was awful feeling hanging over you, knowing that among all of these seemingly other-worldly people, you would have to find some place to settle – and get some work.

It had all started with a rather shaky and nervous wobble into one of the local, smaller stores – thinking you would be safe there. You had asked the clerk whether he had needed some assistance with cleaning – and to your luck, the chap had accepted.

You did not enjoy the work by any means, it was back breaking and you didn't get a lot of money to show for it at the end of the long 12 hour shifts.

Not that you were given much time to stick it for long, as you were promptly fired for 'speaking to a customer with idea's above what your station should be'. You wanted to feel remorseful about the loss of your only source of income, but the truth was – some slimy man was coming onto you whilst you had been cleaning the front of the shop – and you gave him a few choice words that he had not been expecting to hear, especially from what he thought was a timid, young girl from England.

The weeks following this were hard indeed, Summer was beginning to fade fast into autumn, leaves from the trees were a distained brown – and even seemed greyer compared to that of the beautiful orange and red leaves you could see in the country. It was as if the very fibres of the city were now infected with the grime and smog of the working city and it's various industries. These dull assets just further convinced you that this was most certainly a cruel world, stuck in it's grinding gears of industrialism and depravity on one end – whilst the rich and wealthy folk swanned the streets with their money and notoriety.

You walked those damp rainy streets on that Autumn evening with nothing but Boxer's company and the last few scant bits of coin on your person. You had felt so guilty about all the money Arthur had given you – that you swore you would find your own work and not spend a penny of it. And that someday – you would return his money to him... That idea alone was enough to give you a small splinter of hope that you may get to see him again one day.

On a cold, dreary and soaking wet rainy night – you had walked into one of the big saloon's in the centre of the city, hoping to find your next bit of work in there. Bar work seemed more promising, if they would let a woman do such a thing like that. Under the warming yellow lights with laughter booming around you, you had been trying your best to explain that you did not shy away from any work – and that pulling pints and serving shots did not phase you one bit. The barman, with his seedy smirk and dark handlebar moustache, had quickly informed you that if you were not why of any type of work... then he might've had a place for you.

Thunder clapped and crashed loudly outside of the saloon as you had followed the barman up those creaky stairs. You could so clearly recall the shaky feeling in your knees, like you just wanted to collapse. You knew exactly the kind of work he had in mind, and you did not want it at all... But three little words from his lips had forced your survival instinct to push past your fears:

'It pays well'

At the very back of the upstairs area, where the lodgings' were for any guests seeking to stay – there was a more quiet sector. The barman had left you with some girls who could not have been much older than yourself, all scantily clad in dresses that threatened to expose their breasts.

The women, smoking their longs cigarettes and stinking of tobacco and overly cheap perfume – lead you through a set of red velvet drapes. It had been like stepping into another dimension, as past the luxurious curtains was another foyer-style area. A long, crimson crushed velvet chez lounge sat on a plush rug, and around the four walls of this hall area were doors everywhere. Doors that clearly led off to room's where client's were seen. Your eyes had fleeted over all the doors in panic, judging by the number of rooms - the girls' in this city were in quite high demand.

It was a very bizarre situation, seeing this gorgeous deep oak and dark red themed room, with it's extravagant chandelier and ornate finery – it was almost as if it was a mask for the debauchery and the sleaziness that went on in the rooms beyond.

The moment in which the girls' had asked you about you staying on to join them, had been the roughest few minutes in your life. Your eyes filled with tears when you imagined what your family would've thought of you doing this, the same they would have felt. Then you thought of Arthur and your heart ached even more. After reading those romance books of Mary Beth's you had always had this girlish fancy of Arthur being the one claim you like those dashing suitors in the novels taking the virginities of their sweet maidens. Now it seemed you would be selling it out to the first man who put his money on the table.

In the deepest pit in your heart, you so wanted to run and leave. But you constantly reminded yourself of how little choice you had... at least here you would be working with other girls in a similar situation. Surely no woman of a stable background ended up working in a Brothel? These girls would be just as broken and lost as you.

-

Thus, you had ended up where you were now, scrawling away in your personal little notebook, recounting the last miserable months of your life. Keeping a journal now was your own little ode to Arthur, a way to keep elements of him with you even though you were feeling each day – your chances of being with him ever again were draining away.

Sighing, you closed the diary shut and noted the letter you had written tucked in the back cover. You had written that letter many months ago, but had bottled ever posting it. You had been so worried of the letter going astray, and ending up in someone else's hands... like Micah's – and him then knowing where you were and making your life even more of a misery. Your utter terror of the sad excuse for a man who ruined your entire life far outweighed your fleeting hopes of getting a letter to Arthur. It all seemed so futile now – and despite your daydreams and sweet thinking, you were starting to feel it was maybe time to stop putting yourself through hell.

The way you saw it, Arthur was going to be loyal to Dutch right until the moment the last breath came out of his body. Dutch had saved Arthur as a young boy, and Arthur's loyalty lay right in Van Der Linde's palm. Even if you did get into contact with Arthur... there was no way it could work out. Dutch had already shunned you on Micah's word – and that would put Arthur in an incredibly difficult place. He would have to choose between the gang, or you.

Although it ached so incredibly and bore a heavy weight on your chest, you had a feeling that maybe it was best you just tried to let it go... for now, at least. Until something happened.

There was a knock on the door behind you, which caused you to promptly shove the diary back into the beside drawer and you stood up quickly to position yourself in your usual flattering manner, leaned against one of the four bedposts in your short red dress with it's racy black lace lingerie style corset.

"Come in." you drawled softly, an incredible actress now who was able to quickly hide all the emotions you had just been running through.

The door creaked open, and you were not surprised to see the face of one of your usual selection of clientele.

It seemed since you had started, although it had been incredibly awkward at first – the same men that had liked you kept coming back, especially the one who had been the first to claim you, not that you would let him know that. All you could remember was how cheap you felt, clutching the sheets to yourself as you watched the tall figure of the elite middle aged man walk out with your innocence. It was something it took you quite a while to try and get over.

"Ah, my darling little English Rose." The Italian accented man hummed, closing the door behind himself as he eyed you up all dressed in your working attire. You didn't particularly like this man at all, but from what the other girls had told you – he was a powerful man, and not to be messed with.

And the fact he seemed to like you meant he clearly saw something in you.

"Mr Bronte." You addressed, leaning your head against the polished dark post of the bed, (hair colour) hair spilling down your back in shiny waves. "What can I do for you today?" you asked, even though it was the most obvious question in the world. He didn't exactly come in here for a haircut.

Within a moment he was right by you, grabbing you and pulling you close to him. He had these dark eyes, that always had this slightly animalistic look in them that set you a little off-ease. You didn't particularly like the way he dug his fingers into your flesh, possessive and rough and giving off a demeanour of absolute control.

"You know what I want." Was all he said, and that was when you knew to back off and let him do what he wanted. It was best not to put up much of a fight, you had learned from his prevous visits that this was a man who liked his women to be compliant and quiet – aside from if they were airing their pleasures.

-

Most client's, after their session – like to change and get out of there, assuming their every days lives of normality and returning home to their otherwise oblivious wives to play happy families.

Angelo Bronte did not have a family, he was a man who liked to have all his cards on the table. He was top dog in Saint Denis, and there wasn't a soul in the city who was not afraid of the man.

But here he was, the tyrant himself laid up in the bed beside you with his arms around you. He was oddly affectionate afterwards, wanting to kiss and to hold you as if you were truly his little darling. You used to find it very difficult to mask your obvious dislike to the unwanted affection – but the more time working here had put you in good stead to flash a warmed smile for the cash in his wallet.

"Oh my darling," he suddenly blurted from beside you with a husked voice, "All of my good friends who I recommend to you, they love you – yes?"

Was that a question?

You had been having men come to see you, fancily dressed men in their black suits and tall hats – saying they'd come by recommendation of Mr Bronte... but you didn't feel it was your place to answer for their review of your services.

"I could not say. I hope I have pleased them like I please you." You chose to say instead, making Angelo chuckle from beside you. His hand felt for the beside table to grab his case of cigar's, striking one up in a swift orange glow as the scent of the smoke suddenly filled the room around you.

The Italian top-dog took a thoughtful draw on the cigar, cracking a smirk.

"They do. They all like you very much." He said, "I want to offer you a proposition... a very handsome offer I'm sure you do not want to refuse." Bronte said, his tone had taken a very business-formal tone that both had you intrigued and alarmed.

Sitting up a little, you propped yourself back against the fluffy pillows to prepare yourself for whatever he was about to say.

"What might that be, Mr Bronte?" you whispered, a look of intrigue on your face.

More smoke rose from the cigar, as Bronte pulled it from his lips.

"These men who I invite to see you... they do not like to be seen, coming in here, you see?" he started, gesturing his hands wildly as he talked. "The Mayor, you have met him yes?"

You sighed a little recalling the memory. Yes... once. He was a slightly bumbling man, didn't seem to quite feel comfortable with the aspects of what was going on.

"Yes, I have." You answered Bronte, becoming more curious now as the time went on.

"Well the mayor has said, if you so wish – you can continue your little... business, in one of the more private rooms at his residence." Angelo entailed, his dark eyes staring down at the bottom end of the bed with no real focus. "That way... you can still please your clients, without them having to come all the way out here, yes? And you will be much happier, much safer at the Mayor's home."

Bronte looked across to search your expression for an answer.

"No one but myself, the mayor and a small group of other's who wish to see you need to know about what you are doing at the house. As far as his wife needs to know, you are a maid." He chuckled then.

In reflection of his propisiton, you mulled quietly to yourself. It did seem a far sight more appealing to see to the more high-society clientele than some of the disgusting, drunk and seedy blokes who happened in your current establishment at times. And staying at the Mayor's house seemed a far sight more comfortable and less inconspicuous.

"Mr Bronte, I will... I will happily accept." You called back to the Italian man after a few moments, "I just cannot believe I have had such an impact on these men to make them want to agree such a decision..." you sighed, really not able to fathom it. Was it something to be proud of, or not?

"Oh, my little dove," Bronte started with a sly smirk as he sat up to move to the edge of the bed. Before he got up, he flashed you a crocodile smirk over his shoulder. "You have no idea." His dark eyes sizing you up like a dessert.

Your money on the table, burned out cigar in the ashtray – Bronte was gone. He had told you to pack up your things, and some of his men would be there in the morning to take you to your new home.

Another story to add to your journal, but there was something about this that made you wonder whether it was the right idea. For a girl who had been affiliated with a gang, you were getting yourself quickly tangled with the men who had been enemies beforehand.

This was a treacherous path... that you needed to tread carefully.