The next day, I don’t see Jack at all. He’s reclusive in his own house, but with that sour attitude of his, that’s just fine with me. I don’t need his broody, menacing eyes watching everything I do, barking orders in that cruel tone of his. I can do my job just fine without him around. I take Bea to school in the morning and then take my grocery list to the store to restock the pantry with the money Phoenix left me for food and supplies. After putting Bea to bed last night, I spent hours meticulously making a routine, planning meals, and making lists. Getting back to the house with heavy paper bags under each arm, I hoist them onto the counter and glance toward the stairs for signs of Jack. I hear nothing, so I assume he’s gone. Being alone in the house has me on edge. Not knowing if he’s really up there or not. Not knowing if he’ll just come down and berate me for something else I’ve done wrong. After picking up Bea from school in the afternoon, I hear him up there, secluded to one floor of his own home. And as curious as I am, I follow Phoenix’s strict orders never to pry or go poking where I don’t belong. Then another day goes by without seeing him. And another. And another. His relationship with his daughter is nonexistent. That’s the most bizarre part. If they pass each other in the house, he’ll greet her coldly, but there is no affection. No tenderness. No relationship between them at all. He’s a ghost, and she’s come to acc ept it. As for me, I’ve settled into a comfortable routine. Every morning, I take Bea to school, and every night, I tuck her into bed before pr eparing for the next day. And for the most part, I’m really happy here. Bea reminds me so much of myself when I was younger, exc ept for the fancy dresses and perfect hair. She’s curious and playful. She loves to laugh and use her imagination. With every day, she comes out of her shell more and more.
Our favorite activity together is, by far, drawing. I’m teaching her how to do little doodles like I do. She leaves them for me, so when I go to bed every night, I find folded pieces of paper on my nightstand—one a beretwearing whale and the next day a panda sitting on a bed of flowers. On my fifth day in Paris, I finally have my first night off. Phoenix comes over around 6 p. m., relieving me of my duties for the night. As much as I love this job, I’ve been looking forward to this all week. “Go have fun,” she says, practically ushering me out the door. I’ve been to Paris before. I spent the weekends here with friends when I was a teenager. But this will be my first time here alone as an adult with money. And I am taking myself out on a date. I’ve always sort of prided myself on being somebody who is comfortable spending time alone. I could go to movies and shows alone. I could travel alone. And I could live alone if only I could afford it. I have a reservation at one of the more sought-after restaurants in Montmartre. So I put on my best dress—a modest black knee-length A-line —with comfortable ankle boots good for walking, and I head out by myself. The restaurant is only a ten-minute walk from the apartment, but I take my time, savoring the taste of freedom on my tongue. Passing by the Sacré-Cœur, I sit on a nearby bench at the bottom of the st eps as the sun sets, and I watch the tourists as they pass. Families. Couples. Friends. I like being alone, I do, but sometimes I wish there was someone next to me whose shoulder I could rest my head on. Someone who would let me hold their hand as we watch the sun set over Paris. Someone who would listen to me tell stories about the trips I took to the basilica as a kid with my father. Someone who would pull me away from the crowds to kiss me under the shade of the tree growing up the side of the hill.
As I stand up to head toward the restaurant, a nice couple asks me to take their picture, and I do. It makes me think of Emmaline and Jack, and I have to brush off the sadness that begins to cre ep in. My reservation is at a small restaurant off the beaten path. It’s familyowned and quaint, but it has the best foie gras I’ve ever tasted. And as I sit at the small table, drawing a mermaid on a napkin, I think about Jack. There’s something so sad about how de eply this man grieves. I still have the picture of him and his late wife in my purse. I tell myself that I carry it around with me to prevent someone at the house finding it, but I think the real reason is that it’s become sacred to me. I never knew Emmaline, but I somehow feel as if I did. I could tell by the photo that they loved each other. But I see it even more in the way he’s withdrawn himself from his own life. I’m confident this is not how she would have wanted him to go on. Especially since they have a little girl to look after. How long can he really ke ep this up? How long can I look after this child with no interaction with her father? My meal is delicious, but I’m a little bitter that my obsession with Jack St. Claire has clouded my mind and my entire night. I was supposed to be spending tonight relaxing, not thinking about him and how to drag him out of this cage of solitude he’s locked himself in. Of course, it’s not his fault I can’t stop thinking about him, but I’ll blame him anyway. After my dinner, I take a stroll through the city, and I consider slipping into one of the bustling bars for a pint. It’s a lively night with people milling about on the streets, and I’m not ready to let this evening go. Who knows? Maybe someone will buy me a drink. Maybe I’ll actually get to talk to someone other than a five-year-old this week. But just as I’m about to enter a pub that looks promising, I spot the familiar gait and stature of the very man I can’t stop thinking about.
Jack St. Claire is walking briskly down the road in front of me, taking a turn onto a quiet side street. Driven by curiosity, I abandon the bar I was about to enter and follow him. I’m far enough behind that he can’t hear me, and there are people on the street who seem to be heading in the same direction as we are. I’m dying to know... what does Jack get up to in his free time? Where on earth does he go? Phoenix said not to pry, but I’m not prying. It’s not my fault if I just happen to see Jack walk into a building late at night. At the end of the small street just off the main square is what appears to be a bustling nightclub, and I pause in astonishment as I watch Jack march confidently inside. The club is nestled at the bottom of the building, the lower-level facade painted in discreet matte black with an awning and people milling around on the street outside. Voices and the bass of music echo through the narrow city street as I slowly approach. He’s going to a nightclub? I know nearly nothing about this man, but from what I do know, I find this slightly odd. No matter how hard I try to conjure up an image of him dancing, I can’t seem to do it. It just doesn’t fit. After continuing my way down the street, I stand in front of the building and try to make sense of it. There’s no name on the door. No other bars or businesses nearby. When I catch the eye of a group of men lingering near the door, I turn my back and cautiously walk up the street. I could go back to the apartment. I could spend the rest of my evening at a different club or bar. I could do literally anything else, but for some reason, I’m moving toward the door of the club. There’s a bouncer at the door who takes a long look at me before st epping aside to let me pass. I nearly turn away, intimidated by the deafening sound of music and people inside. I don’t belong here. This is not my scene at all.
The main floor of the club is incredibly loud and a little dark. There are crowds of people everywhere, and I have to squeeze my way through to find an open area where the bar stands off to the left with a dance floor to the right. It appears like any normal club, and as I make my way to the bar, I glance around, searching for my mysterious employer. I’m not sure what I would even do if I saw him. What if he sees me? I could play it off as coincidence. Or he could accuse me of stalking him and fire me on the spot. Either way, I’m still looking for him. “What are you having?” someone asks to my left. Turning, I find a woman behind the bar. She’s beautiful with spiral brown curls and big, dark eyes. “Just water for now, please.” “You got it,” she r eplies, turning away to fill a glass. I continue scanning the room for Jack, but it’s so crowded, and I just can’t imagine that he’s standing amid the horde of people here. When the bartender returns with my glass, I decide to be a little nosy. Resting my arms on the bar, I lean toward her. “This is a long shot, but does anyone named Jack happen to work here?” “Jack St. Claire?” My heart hammers in my chest. “Yes.” “Well, he owns the place,” she r eplies, and my eyebrows shoot upward. He owns this club? It’s certainly not what I expected for his job, but it all makes sense. His strange work hours, his constantly being gone at night. “Do you have a meeting with him?” she asks. I clear my throat, feeling uncomfortable. “I actually sort of work for him.” “Oh,” she says with a wide-eyed, knowing expression on her face. “Well, he’s probably downstairs.” “What’s downstairs?” I ask. “The club,” she r eplies with a chuckle. I glance around me. “Isn’t this the club?” She laughs again. “You must be new here.” Isn’t it obvious? She points across the club, and I follow her
finger to see an elevator guarded by another man in a black suit. “Tell him you need to meet Jack. He’ll let you down, and you should probably be able to find him in the back somewhere.” “Thanks,” I stammer awkwardly. After drinking the water, I follow the bartender’s instructions. What on earth is down this elevator that needs a security guard, and why is Jack down there? Why is that considered the club and not this? I’ve never been more confused in my life. Warning bells are going off in my mind, and I suddenly remember Phoenix giving me stringent instructions not to ask about his job or go poking around where I’m not supposed to. And yet here I am, standing in a club, or above a club, that Jack apparently owns. You’re causing trouble again, Camille. Perhaps if I were better at following instructions or listening to warnings when I’m given them, I would turn away now and go home. I would put all this to rest and let my curiosity subside. But I am none of those things. Instead, I’m reckless and nosy, and I wouldn’t recognize a boundary if it slapped me in the face. If this is how I lose my job, then this is how I lose my job, but I can’t turn away now. “I’m here for Jack St. Claire,” I say to the man by the elevator. Then I point back at the bartender. “She told me to tell you that.” He lets out a grunt as he nods at the bartender. Then he jabs his finger against the button, and the doors slide open, allowing me into the elevator. I’m practically shaking as it takes me down alone. Once it opens, it takes everything in me to st ep out. It’s immediately a little quieter and even darker as I exit the elevator and walk down a narrow black hallway. A red neon sign above the inky black curtain ahead simply says Legacy.
Something about this has my insides screaming, I don’t belong here. What if Jack is in the Mafia, and I’m about to walk into some secret meeting where everybody in the room will turn to me with guns drawn? What if it’s some seedy underground dealing of drugs or other black-market goods? What if it’s a kinky sex dungeon and I walk in on something I really shouldn’t see? As all these thoughts swirl anxiously around in my mind, it is a sudden reminder that I don’t know who I’m working for. I could be employed by a very dangerous man, and I would have no idea. Not that it matters. I love Bea already, and I would take care of her even if her father were some drug-dealing Mafia killer. As I slip through the dark curtain at the end of the hall beneath the sign, what I find is nothing like I expected. It’s not nearly as crowded as it is upstairs. There’s still music playing, but it’s slower, more sultry, and not as loud. The lights are dim, but they’re also a pinkish shade of red, and the entire room has a sense of sexy energy about it. There is distorted glass and ornate fixtures on a half wall around what looks to be a dance floor. I follow it around, watching the strange movement of the people, unable to make out what kind of dance this is. As I reach the other side, I stop and gawk in surprise. I can’t believe what my eyes are seeing. There are people on the dance floor, but not many, maybe twelve or fifteen. They’re moving to the music in a way that is both natural and unnatural. It takes my eyes a moment to realize that most of them are completely nude. And the rest are hardly wearing anything at all. The small mass of bodies grind and rub against each other to the beat of the bass. Their hands roam over each other’s bodies. One of the naked women has her legs wrapped around a man, her arms hanging around the shoulders of another, and it’s definitely not a dance they’re doing. The
man’s thrusts match the sultry beat of the music, and I can just make out their moans from here. It’s salacious without being grotesque or vulgar. In fact, it’s almost beautiful. “So it is a kinky sex dungeon,” I whisper to no one. “You ke ep staring like that, you’re gonna get yourself kicked out,” a voice says from behind me. My body feels flushed, tight, and hot as I spin around to find another small bar, much like the one upstairs. The man talking to me is a very handsome young bartender with nearly pitch-black hair. He appears to be my age with dimples and a coy smirk as he leans against the bar. I quickly scan my periphery to be sure I haven’t just been caught staring at the dance floor... or sex floor, I guess. “I’m sorry,” I stammer as I rush toward the bartender. My cheeks are on fire, as are other parts of my body I don’t want to acknowledge at the moment. He chuckles. “First time?” Silently, I nod. First time what? I don’t know. First time in a kinky sex dungeon, yes. First time my curiosity has gotten me in trouble, not even close. “Need a drink?” he asks. “Desperately,” I whisper as I rest my arms on the bar, not daring to turn back toward the erotic display in the middle of the room. “Want me to fix you up something? I could surprise you.” Judging by his accent, he is also from America, like Phoenix and Jack. “Yes, please,” I r eply as I toy with my hair to busy my hands. “Did you come alone?” he asks. “Yes,” I whisper. “Normally, new members get a tour and a guide. Did you not get a tour?” I clear my throat, uncomfortable again. New members? Am I supposed to be a member? Good God, Camille. What have you gotten yourself into now?
“Um, no,” I r eply, stammering. “All right, well, this isn’t much of a tour, but that’s the dance floor. Those are VIP booths, and there’s a BDSM room in the back, but if you wanted to rent a private room, you’d have to talk to the host.” As he slides my drink across the bar, I try to absorb what he just said, but none of it is really sticking. A private room? BDSM? Trying to ke ep my cool as I let all this register, I take a sip of the purple drink and realize that Jack St. Claire owns a sex club. That’s what all this is about. Now it makes sense why Phoenix didn’t want me asking any questions. “Feel free to go take a look around,” he says, “but don’t be doing any of that gawking stuff you were a moment ago. Just play it cool. A pretty thing like you, I’m sure you won’t be alone for long, but if someone gives you any trouble, just signal to any one of the security guards, and they’ll help you out. Got it?” “Got it,” I r eply, feeling embarrassed and more nervous than I’ve ever been. I nearly chug down the rest of my drink, convincing myself that I’m going to leave as soon as I’m done. After slipping a note over to pay for my drink, I stand from the stool, clutching my purse to my chest as I slowly make my way around the club. I’m expecting that at any moment, someone is going to realize that I’m trespassing and kick me out. As the bartender said, there are large circular booths off to the right with high backs and low tables so that people inside are hidden from view. Passing them, I see a doorway leading de eper into the club. The noises from within stop me in my tracks. It’s not music I hear anymore but the unmistakable sound of something smacking flesh. The bartender told me not to gawk, and I am doing my best, but I am definitely out of my element here.
The room is sectioned off with high walls and space for people to walk around them. Other guests like me are meandering around them, watching. I pass by each one, not fully absorbing what I see. It reminds me of a museum, people perusing the art, but instead of paintings and sculptures, it’s whips and bondage. There’s a man paddling the ass of a woman bound to a bed. Judging by the sound of her voice, she both loves it and hates it. There’s another woman suspended from the rafters wrapped in rope with her hair tethered to her ankles. I can’t quite make sense of that one, so I pass it by for the next. What I find in the last booth stops me in my tracks. Jack St. Claire is standing near a wall covered in paddles and other tools I don’t recognize. He’s shirtless with his back to us and a pair of dark jeans hanging on his hips. I can’t take my eyes off the cords of muscle cascading from shoulder to shoulder and down his spine. There’s a glisten of sweat on his skin, and I’m too struck by the sight to move when I know I should. A woman kneels on the floor at his side, but I don’t even look at her. Jack reaches for something along the wall, a bundle of black corded rope, and I spot the gold wedding band on his left hand. As he picks up the rope and slaps it against the other palm, I flinch. The girl on the floor looks acquiescent. Then Jack turns around to regard her, and I watch as he softly pets the top of her head and the line of her jaw with adoration. She practically melts under his touch. Hiding myself behind a couple, I watch them with fiery interest. The woman leans into Jack as he begins to unravel the rope in his hand. She lifts her wrists on his command, and he softly whispers two words that course straight down my spine.
“Good girl.” Lips parted, I find myself wondering what it must feel like to be in her position, to be so adored and treated so gently by him. To feel his touch, his attention, his gentle praise. He mumbles something else to her I can’t understand, and I wish that I could. And then his eyes lift, making their way out to the crowd where a small group of people is standing, myself included. I do my best to hide, ducking behind the couple in the darkness, but it’s too late. His eyes meet mine. It feels like being struck by lightning. Dread floods through me as his eyes widen in shock. His nostrils flare and his chest expands as he takes a de ep breath, and I ready myself for his wrath. He mumbles something to the girl before slamming the rope in his hand to the floor. Shit. He stomps angrily toward me, and I find myself backing up as if I could es cape him. One of his hands latches around my upper arm, and I shriek, “Let go of me!” “What are you doing here?” he says, his eyes searching my face. “I... I...” No words come out. There’s not a single excuse I could come up with, so I give up on the futile attempt to talk my way out of this one. “You don’t belong here,” he says in a growly r eply. Silently brooding, he drags me de eper into the room instead of the way we came, and I find myself digging my heels in as if I could stop him. “Why not? I can go where I want!” I shout. “Not here you can’t,” he argues as he continues dragging me through the de ep recesses of the club until he finds a door. Grabbing hold of the knob, he tears it open and shoves me through. “Stop it!” I’m engulfed in fear as he drags me up a set of stairs in the back of the club. It all happens so fast. He slams open an exterior door, and suddenly, we’re outside.
“What are you doing?” I scream. He lets go of my arm and blocks the door we just es caped through. His eyes bore into mine with intensity, rage pulsating through his features. “Why can’t you just listen?” he grits with exasperation. Huffing, I stare back at him, lifting my chin with all the defiance I can muster. “Why would I listen to you?” I snap. “You’re not my, my...” “Your boss?” he growls, leaning closer. The chemistry between us is electric, his chest heaving as he glares at me. I forget how to speak, no response on my lips. I don’t know what I was about to say to Jack, but I’m disarmed when he calls himself my boss. All this time, I’ve fabricated this connection between us, all because of some photograph. That’s what drew me into this club. What had me following him, desperate to know as much as I can about him. And I discovered far more than I ever imagined. But he is just my boss. Nothing more. Nothing less. And if I don’t listen, I risk losing the best job I’ve ever had. “Go home.” He points toward the street, away from the club, like I’m a dog that must listen to his commands. “What is wrong with you?” I ask, my voice shaking with emotion. He doesn’t react or answer. When it’s clear that he won’t move until I leave, I sigh as I take a st ep away. Tears moistening my eyes, I turn my back on him and walk away from the club toward the road that will lead back to home.