After the incident in the club, Jack continues ghosting us. No surprise. He continues to haunt the house. His existence consists of nothing but noisy footst eps upstairs and occasional appearances as he passes us for the door. I’m just glad I still have my job. The morning after the club, I woke up humiliated. What was I thinking, following him into that place? Why on earth did I stay after I realized what it was? Maybe I was digging de eper into Jack’s life for more than just curiosity. Maybe I was trying to find pieces of Emmaline there. Or maybe... a place for myself. This new piece of information about Jack, that he owns a sex club, settled in with shocking ease. Why did I never see it before? Seeing him standing over that girl, shirt off and control etched into his features, suited Jack so well I can’t get the image out of my mind. Part of me wonders if he’s embarrassed for being caught at the club, but I think it’s more than that. I can’t stop r eplaying the moments when he dragged me from that basement out the door. There was so much anger in his eyes. He clearly did not want me to be there. And I can’t stop wondering why. Was it about ke eping his work life private? Or was he trying to protect me from something? I hold no judgment against Jack or anyone else for the life he leads in his personal time. His kinky business is his kinky business, and I would probably be mortified to find him watching me in that sort of situation. Granted, I’m not exactly doing those things in public, but still. This is one time where I need to ke ep my fervent curiosity in check. On the following sunny Saturday, I decide to take Bea to the small craft fair in town not far from the apartment. She’s wearing a
green-and-whit eplaid dress with a white buttoned cardigan and her usual shiny black Mary Janes. I tried to talk her into a more practical outfit for a day in the city, but she was adamant about her choice. At only five years old, she has better style than me, and she’s quite passionate about it. As we walk through the crowds, Bea’s hand is clutched tightly in mine. There are artists with easels set up, painting as they sell, and some even do commissioned portraits right there in the plaza. “I’d like to hang a painting in my room. Will you help me pick one?” I ask, browsing the selections. “Oui,” Bea r eplies excitedly. She wastes no time pointing to a small watercolor painting of the Moulin Rouge in a red matte frame. “I like this one,” she says. “I like that one too,” I r eply. The artist st eps out from behind his easel and greets us with a smile. “Two for fifty,” he says, and Bea beams up at me. “Does that mean I can get one too?” “Go ahead. Pick one out for your room,” I say. She st eps into the artist’s stall and starts browsing his selection of paintings. “These are really lovely,” I say to him. “Merci,” he r eplies. “Are you an artist?” he asks. “Me? No,” I say. “But I love art.” Which is true. I’ve never really wanted to be an artist. As much as I like doodling and sketching, I’ve always had an appreciation for art but never really wanted to make it something I do professionally. I don’t think everything needs to be perfected as a skill. There’s nothing wrong with just enjoying something for the sake of enjoying it. We don't need to become better at it and certainly not perfect. That was a lesson my father ingrained in me. As I watch the old man paint another beautiful lands cape of Paris, I remember my father. He used to say that he wasn’t a perfect cook and his
restaurant wasn’t a perfect place to eat, but he fed people, and he made them happy, and that was enough. And yet there is always a voice inside me that strives for perfection. It’s as if he was trying to convince me to embrace my flaws, but I couldn’t. When I look in the mirror, all I see is a girl who is too messy, too loud, too wild, too silly, or too ignorant. And de ep, de ep down, I know my mind is trying to say that if I were better, then my mother wouldn’t have left. With a hint of sadness, I hand the man a fifty-euro note and turn to see if Bea has picked out her artwork yet. But when I glance down at the area where she should be and find it empty, panic explodes inside me like a bomb going off. My head snaps in every direction. “Beatrice,” I call. “Beatrice!” Dashing out of the stall, I glance back and forth down the marketplace in desperate search of her. How could I have let her out of my sight? What have I done? I’ve only been on the job two weeks, and I’ve already lost her. She was right here. “Camille!” her tiny voice shouts for me. Spinning around, I find her standing with her arms latched around a beautiful woman’s neck in a loving embrace. Heaving a de ep sigh, it feels like all the blood in my veins begins to slow, as if losing her for just a second has completely rewired my entire nervous system. “You scared me to death,” I say as I rush over toward her, grabbing her hand and pulling her away from the woman. “Where did you go?” “I’m sorry.” She pouts. “But I saw my tante Elizabeth.” She looks up at the woman, who gives me a stern expression. “Your aunt?” I ask. The woman puts a hand out toward me. “Je m’appelle Elizabeth. Je suis la sœur de Jack.”
My eyes widen as I take in the woman before me. This is Jack’s sister? And not only that... but she speaks perfect French. I don’t see a resemblance, but she is as stunning as he is handsome. She’s slender but short with dark brown, nearly black hair pulled up into a tight bun at the back of her head. She’s wearing a loose crop top that hangs off her shoulder, exposing what looks like a sports bra underneath. She has a Louis Vuitton handbag slung over her right shoulder. She is exquisitely beautiful. Bea did tell me she had an aunt who was a ballerina. I put out my hand to shake hers. “Je m’appelle Camille,” I say, introducing myself. “You’re her new nanny?” she asks. Her French is so flawless that it sounds native, which I find slightly odd, considering Jack doesn’t speak it at all. There’s sk epticism in her expression as she regards me. “Yes, I’m her new nanny. I just started two weeks ago.” “And losing her already,” she says in a snappy remark. “She ran off,” I r eply defensively. “Well, it’s about time my brother finally hired someone,” she says. Your brother, I think. I’d love to pick her brain to understand that man. I wonder if he is as much an enigma to her as he is to me. Is he cold and impassive to her too? “Is Jack here?” she asks, glancing around. I let out a huff of a laugh. “No.” The idea that Jack would venture out with me and Bea is downright comical. Her brow shoots upward at my outburst. I don’t want to talk badly about Jack in front of Bea, so I casually r eply, “He’s very busy at work.” She slowly nods as if she understands. “Yes, he is.” “Tante Elizabeth works with Papa,” Bea says with adorable innocence. My eyes flash over to Elizabeth as they widen. “I thought you were a dancer,” I say. “Part-time,” she r eplies. “Jack and I do work together as well.” All I can think about is that club, wondering where precisely this woman, his sister, works while he’s in the basement petting women on their knees and doing
God knows what else. “But we don’t need to talk about work anymore,” she says, looking down at Bea with a wink. “You speak French so well,” I say. “Have you lived here your whole life?” “No,” she r eplies. “I moved here when I was eighteen. It was actually Bea’s maman who taught me French. She was a good teacher.” There is a spark of despair in my chest, seeing the way she looks at the little girl. Even if Elizabeth moved here when she was eighteen, she can’t be any more than twenty-three now. So it’s still quite impressive how fluent she is. Bea’s mom must have been a very good teacher. The woman leans down to Bea and mumbles something softly to her in English. I give them their moment, st epping back before Elizabeth stands up again to say, “I think I’ll take Bea tomorrow if that’s all right. She’s been wanting to come up to the dance studio for a while, and I figure you’ll probably be off on Sundays.” “I am,” I say. “Phoenix was going to come over for the day, but—” “I’ll tell her,” Elizabeth says. “I’ll see her today.” “Okay,” I r eply. “It was nice meeting you.” “It was nice meeting you too,” she says. A hint of a smile crosses her face before she turns and leaves Bea and I standing in the market. Later that evening, as Bea and I are doing a puzzle at the table in the living room, the front door opens, and Jack walks in. “Bonsoir, Papa,” Bea calls to him. I pause, watching for his reaction. He stands at the door in the foyer of the apartment, his eyes on his daughter at the table next to me. My attention is glued to him, waiting for him to give her something. This poor child just needs a parent. A touch of affection. Attention. Anything.
But he’s staring at the two of us sitting here as if this is somehow offensive to him. As if us just existing is hurting his feelings in some way. “Hello, Bea,” he says, r eplying to her in English in a raspy, griefstricken voice. Normally, when Jack comes and goes from the apartment, it’s a beeline straight from the front door to the stairs. I’ve never known him to go to the kitchen or her room or anywhere else in the downstairs portion of the home. But this time, I notice him hesitating. He stands statue-still and regards us as if he’s mentally considering doing something other than fleeing the room. In my mind, I’m begging him to walk over to her. Touch her hair, kiss her head, smile at her. “How...” He clears his throat. “How was your day?” Bea and I both freeze, taken aback by the sudden conversation from him when he’s stayed so quiet before. “Super,” Bea r eplies enthusiastically. Then she rattles off more in French, and I notice him wincing before holding up a hand. “English, Beatrice.” She halts her story as she stares up at him apologetically. “I’m sorry, Papa.” The room is thick with tension as he rubs his forehead before opening his eyes and glancing at me. I feel as if I’ve done something wrong. Just by being here or just by being... French? Then his expression morphs into remorse. He looks lost. The hard shell dissipates long enough for me to get a glimpse of the broken, aching man underneath. “It’s okay,” he says to the little girl. He hesitates before nodding stoically and marching toward the stairs, climbing them quickly as if to es cape us.
My eyes dash over to Bea, watching her reaction. She is only five, still so little. She’s just a baby, really. It’s so unfair that she’s already been dealt such a hard hand. Losing her mother and now essentially her father. Although he lives here, he’s not here. He’s not present. He’s not raising her. I glance down at my watch to see that it’s already 7:30. “It’s bedtime, little Bea,” I say. “Aw,” she whines. “Five more minutes?” “No, I’m sorry. We’re actually a little late as it is. I should have had you in bed fifteen minutes ago. Come on. Let’s go get pajamas on.” It didn’t take long, but Bea is getting comfortable with me now, which means she likes to push back against my authority. It makes everything more difficult. Bedtime, dinnertime, and getting ready for school in the morning. I think I underestimated how difficult caring for a five-year-old could be. After a lengthy and tiring negotiation period and a tiny tantrum, I finally have Bea settled in her bed, her book read, and her teeth brushed. I brush her hair from her forehead and boop her softly on the nose before leaving the room and shutting off the light. “Camille,” she whispers. “Yes?” “Can I have a hug?” she asks, and my heart splinters at her words. “Of course,” I r eply without hesitation. Rushing over to her bed, I sit on the side and gather her up in my arms. She hugs me tightly, her tiny arms gripping my sides as she burrows her head against my chest. It suddenly dawns on me just how broken this poor family is. It’s daunting to think I’m here to help take care of her when what they truly need is so much more, far beyond my abilities. They need each other. She releases the hug first. Then she lies back down and nestles herself under the blankets. Clearing the emotion in my throat, I stand from the bed again and head to the door.
“Good night, Bea,” I say before leaving. “Good night, Camille,” she r eplies. As I wait for her to fall asle ep, I busy myself cleaning the kitchen, pr eparing my meal list for tomorrow, and doing some light doodling on my not epad in the kitchen. Hearing Jack’s footst eps upstairs, I fight the urge to march up there and give him a piece of my mind. I want to yell at him to snap out of it. Stop being such a ghost. Be a father. But then again, who am I to judge? I fell apart and stopped living the day my dad died too. Processing grief is hard enough, but being a parent at the same time is unimaginable. As I turn away from the counter, I nearly scream at the sight of Jack walking into the kitchen. I freeze in place, expecting him to say something to me. Instead, he does just the opposite. He walks right past me as if I don’t exist. My mouth opens, silently watching him as he opens the fridge to retrieve something to eat. I’m dying to speak to him, and I have so many questions, but this is truly the first time he and I have been alone together since the night at the club. I need to say something. It would be irresponsible to let this opportunity to speak to him pass me by. But what do I say? I can’t actually tell him to snap out of it. But maybe if I could cultivate some relationship with him... Wringing a dish towel between my fingers, I quietly mumble, “So... that’s where you work?” He doesn’t respond as he continues to rifle through the fridge. “At the club, I mean. Is that what it is? A club?” I continue awkwardly. “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been anywhere like that before. It’s not really my... thing, but it’s fine if that’s your thing. I’m not judging.” I’m rambling, and it’s humiliating, but I can’t stop now. Still, he ignores me as if I’m not even in the room, and my molars grind at the sheer boldness.
“I didn’t mean to follow you,” I say, which is a lie. “I was just... curious. I had no idea it would make you so angry. I didn’t mean to trespass. My father used to say—” “Please, for the love of God, stop,” he snaps loudly as he stands up straight. My words are clipped, my voice stopping abruptly as I stand frozen, shame and embarrassment washing over me. I fight off tears as he finally turns toward me. When he sees the wounded expression on my face, his features soften. He almost looks remorseful, as he should. I’ve never met someone so cruel before. “I’m sorry,” he grumbles to himself, letting his head hang and rubbing fiercely at his brow. “Just please... stop talking.” Obeying his command, I close my mouth tightly as I try to swallow my pride, but it’s futile. I won’t bend to Jack’s will—not like this. The persistent thoughts bubble up anyway. “What is wrong with you?” I plead. “Why are you so cruel?” He glances up at me with surprise, but I can’t bear to look at him for another moment, so I storm out of the kitchen, rage and anguish coursing through me. Slamming the door, I hide away in my bedroom, hoping he doesn’t follow me. I don’t understand why I care. So Jack St. Claire is a jerk. So what? He’s just my boss, and he pays me well to do my job. So why can’t I let it go? Why do I feel this persistent need to understand him? It’s because of that stupid photo. In my passion, I rip it from my purse. Clutched between my two hands, I grit my teeth as I start to tear it in two. But I stop myself before I can do any real damage. The smiling couple stares back at me, and for the first time, I hate them both.
Why am I so obsessed with this man? This family. Why have I conjured up this image of Jack St. Claire in my mind to be someone who is actually lovable instead of the emotionless, cruel monster of a man he is? How on earth did Emmaline love him so much? The disappointment of his character is the most frustrating thing I have ever felt. I manage to stave off the tears as I get ready for bed, fuming all the same. Jack’s footst eps echo through the apartment as he climbs up to his second floor again, and I curse his name with each one. When I finally get into bed, I am unbearably restless. The creaking of the floorboards upstairs ke eps me up. That and the memory of Jack’s hurtful words. I realize now how much he dislikes me, and it stings. I know it shouldn’t, but I can’t seem to avoid feeling his scorn whenever I’m around him. Eventually, I fall into a light, dreamless sle ep. Sometime in the middle of the night, I’m awoken by the sound of a floorboard creaking. By the sound of it, someone is walking just outside my bedroom. I stiffen as I wait for another creak. My bedroom door is open, just a crack, so I can hear Bea if she wakes up. And maybe that’s who’s in the hallway now. The room is dark, moonlight shining through the window as I stare at the opening, trying to make out if anyone is standing there watching me. When another floorboard creaks, I sit up. My heartbeat is thrumming quickly in my veins. I have a feeling I know exactly who is standing on the other side of my door. The only thing I don’t understand is why. Sure, there is something ominous and mysterious about Jack St. Claire, but nothing dangerous. I don’t get the feeling that he would hurt me. I’m not scared of him.
When I stand up from the bed and place my feet on the floor, I do so with the intention of proving myself wrong. I want to quiet the doubts in my head. There’s nobody standing in my hallway. He’s not waiting for me on the other side of that door. It’s all just the creaks of an old apartment. I tiptoe slowly across my dark room. Pulling the door open, I let out a quiet gasp as I make out the tall, dark figure hovering in the middle of the hallway. My breathing quickens, and I search his face for a sign. When our eyes meet, it’s like an electric current. “What is it?” I whisper, but he doesn’t respond. In what appears to be today’s clothes—a tight black T-shirt and a pair of dark slacks—he looks so sad, so lost. There are heavy circles under his eyes and a sheen of moisture on his cheeks. The only sound between us is our breathing, and the only scent is his delicate cologne. I fight the urge to pull him into my arms like I held Bea earlier. His pain radiates off him like a blazing fire, and I wish I could make it go away. As I wait for him to make a move, it’s as if I’m standing at the edge of a cliff. One small quake or gust of air would be enough to push me over the edge. All the anger I felt toward him earlier has dissolved and morphed into pity. When Jack takes a st ep toward me, I suck in a gasp, and when he crowds me against the doorframe, I let him. His eyes have not released their hold on me since the moment I walked out of my room. It’s almost impossible to stare at someone so intensely, but Jack’s gaze has a strange sort of comfort to it. It’s odd, the way we can stare at each other as if we’re staring into each other’s souls. I could never do this with anyone else. It would grow too uncomfortable, too awkward, but with him, it makes me feel at ease, seen, like I’m not so alone.
His hand lifts, and I hold my breath as he strokes his thumb softly over the side of my face. The touch alone is enough to send sparks down my spine. A heat burns in my belly, arousal blooming between my legs. His eyes, his touch, his presence speak a language I don’t comprehend. What is he trying to say? Is he sorry for the way he yelled? Does he want me in some forbidden way? I have no idea what’s going on or why I’m reacting this way. It’s his nearness, the intimacy of being able to look into his eyes for so long. The gentle silence between us when nothing needs to be said but everything needs to be felt. He touches my cheek delicately as if unsure what to do. It gives me the courage to lift my own hands, resting them softly on his chest. His heart beats steadily against my fingers. And I ke ep waiting to see if he’ll kiss me or if he’ll touch me more. Or if he’ll drag me into my bedroom and let his lips say what his mouth can’t. Would I even want that? It’s like he’s suddenly making me forget that he’s rude, grumpy, and miserable. Because right now, what I see standing before me is just a man—a man in pain. “I never should have hired you,” he whispers, jolting me from my fixation. His words are stabbing and painful. My brows furrow, and my hands fist his shirt in anger. “What did I do?” I r eply, but he moves his hand over my mouth to ke ep me from speaking. Eventually, he releases his fingers from my face and turns his gaze away from mine. It feels like being doused in ice-cold water. He st eps away, and I find myself reaching for him.
“Wait,” I whisper. “Don’t go.” I have no good reason for wanting Jack to stay. With the way he’s treated me, it’s the last thing I should want, but I can’t bear the thought of him going back to the torment of his loneliness. Ignoring my request, he walks quietly down the hallway back to the stairs. Just like that, he’s gone, and I’m left reeling from the most bizarre yet intense sensual encounter of my life. As I slip back into bed, pulling my covers tightly over my body, I’m left wondering if maybe my obsession with Jack St. Claire isn’t so one-sided after all.