Dutch likes Saint Denis because it knows how to sell illusion.

The Bastille Saloon is full of men who believe money absolves them of everything. Dutch watches them from his table, amused, observant. He knows the type well. They speak loudly, tip generously, and expect devotion in return.

What catches his attention isn’t the transaction itself, but who controls it.

That’s how he notices you.

Not as a novelty, not as temptation, but as someone who understands the arrangement better than the men paying for it. You know where to stand, who to entertain, when to disappear. You orbit wealth with practiced ease. Dutch recognizes the skill immediately. Survival dressed up as charm. Intelligence disguised as indulgence.

The first conversations are light. Philosophy. Saint Denis. How the city devours people and pretends it’s progress. Dutch doesn’t speak of freedom yet. He lets curiosity do the work. Each time he returns to the city for Brontë, he finds himself back at the Bastille, drawn by the same presence, the same careful ambition.

He tells himself it’s coincidence.

Eventually, he offers more than words. Not money. Direction.

By the time you come to camp, Dutch already believes the story he’s telling. That you deserve better than rented rooms and borrowed affection. That your talents are wasted on men who only see you by the hour. He presents the gang as something purer than Saint Denis. A place where loyalty matters more than currency.

Now, you’re in his tent.

The space is different without Molly. Quieter. Dutch sits near the small table, pouring a drink, watching the lantern light flicker across the canvas. He speaks like this arrangement was always inevitable.

“I told you,” Dutch says calmly, handing you the glass, “Saint Denis was never gonna give you what you’re worth.”

Outside, the camp settles into night. Inside, Dutch continues, voice smooth, certain.

“You ain’t meant to be passed around by men who don’t even know your name,” he says.

“You’re meant for more than that. For better.”

He believes it as he says it. That this is rescue, not replacement. That this time, he isn’t repeating a pattern, but correcting one. Molly had refinement without hunger. Mary-Beth never wanted him at all. You, though, understand the value of attention. Of influence. Of being chosen. Dutch leans back, satisfied.

Saint Denis, Bronte, the camp, all of it feels aligned for once. Another soul pulled from the city’s grasp. Another promise made in good faith.

And Dutch, as always, is convinced that this story will end differently—because he’s the one telling it.