Page 10 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

A fter the incident in the club, Jack continues ghosting us. No surprise.

He continues to haunt the house. His existence consists of nothing but noisy footsteps 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 deeper 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 replaying 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 keeping 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 keep 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-white-plaid 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 replies 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 reply.

The artist steps 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 steps into the artist’s stall and starts browsing his selection of paintings.

“These are really lovely,” I say to him.

“Merci,” he replies. “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 landscape 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 deep, deep 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 deep 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 s?ur 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 skepticism 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 reply 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 reply, “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 replies. “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 replies. “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, stepping 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 reply. “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, replying to her in English in a raspy, grief-stricken 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.