A/N- Hey, guys!

So, I am back with a new story (don't worry, I promise to update 'Their favourite kind of workout' soon, hopefully within the next week).

I have been toying with this story idea for about a month now, gathering enough research and ensuring that I will write this story as respectfully as possible (you will understand what I mean by this once you reach the end of the chapter).

I really, really hope you like this story idea – it is very different to what I usually write but I just had to give it a go.

By the way if you want to follow me on twitter feel free. I'm monicourt

Anyway, on with the story. I hope you all enjoy!


The wind howled fiercely in the cold November evening, biting harshly at her exposed fingertips which she tucked and squeezed into her palms in an attempt to keep them warm. Every time she exhaled, the air became obscured with an ephemeral, off-white cloud, barely dispersing before her next warm breath condensed, once again, into another hazy plume. The sun had sunk low in the sky, not quite enough for the gas lamps to be lit yet, but enough to tell her that it was getting late. She continued along the street, the cobbles uneven and slippery with filth. Crumbling buildings lined each side of the path where blackened grime clung to them. The repulsive odour of rotten sewage hung in the air, the undertones of faeces and urine leaking through, infiltrating her delicate nostrils. The smell of alcohol also filtered through, and sure enough, she could hear the low buzz of drunkards somewhere in the distance. The entire area smelt of neglect, and yet she barely took any notice – the smell was no different to any other day of the week.

Monica looked back up to the sky, noticing this time that the sun had almost completely disappeared, and she found herself having to readjust her eyes to the darkness on her journey…home. Was it home? Well, it may not be a conventional, standard 'Victorian home', but for her, it was. It provided her with the basic necessities needed for survival: a roof over her head, food, and clothes. She didn't want for anything else.

This, of course, was a lie, but where had living in a dream world ever gotten her. This was her reality and one she was willing to live if it meant survival. Ironically, if someone were to ask her what life was all about, that would be her answer: survival. Living to survive. Surviving to live. That had been her mantra for as long as she could remember, especially with the background she came from and grew up in.

She suddenly felt a sharp sting on her cheeks as a slow flurry of sleet began to descend upon her. She tucked her fingers even more tightly into her palms, her nails piercing into her skin, as she turned a corner onto another darkened street. Monica couldn't help but cringe as she knew the back of her dress was dragging along the disgusting cobbles, picking up god knows what. You would think after living all these years in decaying, crime-infested, disease-riddled London, she would be used to it. And she was, but it still made her cringe.

Monica spotted a lamplighter a few houses ahead of her, igniting the few gas lamps that littered the area, and all she could think about was getting into the warmth as she tugged her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

She couldn't help but think about what a waste this evening had been. Monica had found her funds were slowly dwindling and, therefore, had no choice but to loiter the streets tonight in the hopes she would find a willing client to restore her finances to a reasonable level. She had had options earlier in the day, specifically a man with whom she had been with once before, but she didn't take to him very much. Richard was his name, and he was…well not someone she usually agreed to. But now, as she could literally count the change, or lack thereof, in her pocket, she wished she had just bitten the bullet and gotten it over with. She had done it before with other clients that she wasn't particularly partial to, so why did she let her stubbornness rule over her today?

Monica knew by now that it was futile to wait around and believe that someday the right man, perhaps even a proper gentleman, would come along and rescue her from what her life had become.

Finally, she turned the last corner on her journey, which led her onto the street where she had lived for the past two years, Fleet Street. This was a street notorious for its wide-ranging amount of 'whores', as they were degradingly referred to as. In fact, Monica was pretty sure Fleet Street had more prostitutes working and living in it than practically anywhere else in London. Despite this, however, the women living on this particular street were not of the standard desired by gentlemen. Instead, it was usually labourers and drunkards who sought this street, searching for a woman to satisfy his needs for the night. It didn't matter whether or not he had a wife at home. In the two years that Monica had lived here from the age of eighteen, only a few 'gentlemen' had passed through, Richard being one of them, hiding and not wanting to be seen in the classier parts of London with the more… respectable brothels? She wasn't even sure if respectable could be used to describe a brothel, but still.

All in all, Fleet Street, as Monica would describe it, was a different world altogether, one that didn't thrive in prosperity and respect. It was an area saturated with cats where you could actually count the vertebrae along their backs, whilst they scoured for rats, hidden amongst the filth piling up against the sides of buildings. The entire street was lined with ancient old buildings which groaned as they rested their weight on wrought-iron piping and rotting foundations. Hanging above in the air were washing lines that clung desperately to windows from one side of the street to the other and supposedly had washed clothes dangling from them. It's hard to tell because new layers of soot and smoke settle on the newly washed clothes each time they are hung out to dry.

Sometimes, actually most of the time, Monica believed she would live, survive, and then die in Fleet Street. To her, this was her life, and she didn't see anything else in her future. She couldn't afford that luxury; the luxury of dreaming and hoping because, in the end, all it would do is hurt her.

She finally reached the entrance to the brothel in which she resided, careful to watch her step as she climbed up the two crooked steps that allowed her to cross through into the threshold. The entrance was dimly lit, the carpets reeked of sweat and cigarette smoke whilst bits of peeled, yellowing wallpaper hung limply from the walls. She noticed the madam who owned the brothel, and by extension her, sitting behind the counter in the small reception area, her lips puckered around one of her many cigarettes. One of the floorboards creaked as Monica moved, alerting her to her presence, causing the woman's head to turn in her direction.

She gave a long exhale of smoke, "Ah, Monica, just the girl."

"Estelle," Monica nodded, a tight smile on her lips.

Estelle took a final drag of her cigarette and then leaned forward to flick off the darkened ash into a chipped mug in front of her.

"You have a customer upstairs waiting for you. I gave him the spare key to your room and told him you would be along shortly."

Monica found herself quietly gritting her teeth. Whilst Estelle had every right to do that, as, after all, it is her brothel, she hated the idea of someone just being allowed into her quarters without her control or say so. It wasn't very often this happened, however. Most of the time, Monica was already at the brothel and if not, she went out and brought back her own clients. People that she had come across on the streets.

She cleared her throat before answering. "How much?"

"Five shillings, dear." She stubbed her cigarette into the wooden arm of the chair, effectively putting it out and leaving a burn mark, before immediately pulling out another one from her cigarette tin that sat nearby, as always.

"Thank you, Estelle." She gave her another tight smile before heading off down the hallway towards the flight of stairs that led up to her room.

So, this guy had paid enough to have her services for an hour then. Monica felt a small knot form in the pit of her stomach. She had no idea why? She had been doing this for two years. But she still felt nervous, as though the guy she was about to meet, well sleep with, in fact, would be different to all the others. She seldom got these feelings, these foreshadowing's if you will. That was her friend, Phoebe's, forte, but somehow Monica just knew that this would be different.

She reached her door and took a deep breath before pushing it open and entering her quarters. And what she saw almost made her stop breathing. A man, who appeared to be a similar age as her, was standing over by the window. The soft features adorning his face reflected in the moonlight, which was filtering in through the window. He turned his head towards her and gave her what appeared to be an almost shy smile before he extended his hand outwards to her, invitingly.

"Hi, I'm Chandler."


A/N- Phew. The first chapter is over. I'm sure you all have a lot of questions, and I promise they will all get answered as the story continues, so just hold on. It'll be worth it…I hope. On a little side note, Fleet Street was a real place where many prostitutes could be found in Victorian London, and you can search up its history on the internet.

As I said in the A/N at the start, I am going to try and keep this story as respectful as possible, and do it justice. I've never read another FanFiction before that explores Victorian London and Prostitutes and I promise I will explore this story in a delicate manner.

If you have any questions, leave them in a review and I will try to answer them as best as I can.

Thank you :)