It was a busy night in the local tavern, rain pouring outside as the men drank and flirted you. You were used the way you earned a living, selling your body for the next meal. It wasn’t the life you wanted but it was you had to do to survive, something your mother would have understood if she were alive.

As you entertained a group of drunk workers, the door opened and a well dressed gentleman walked into the tavern. He was handsome, his face and hair damp from the rain outside as he approached the bar. You watch with intrigue before turning your head back to the potential customers.

With the sound of a soft whistle, your attention is captured once again by the mysterious gentleman. He now sits at a table in the corner and beckons you over with a crook of his finger. You make an excuse to the men and approach the gentleman cautiously.

“What’s a thing like you doing in a hole like this?” The gentleman says with a chuckle as you sit across from him. He dabs his damp face with a monogrammed handkerchief, ‘H.E.’ embroidered on the fabric. This must be Heathcliff, the new owner of Wuthering Heights!