Page 13 of The Good Girl Effect (Salacious Legacy #1)

Camille

J ack doesn’t come out of his room for most of the day, which is really no surprise and nothing out of the ordinary.

Around dinnertime, as Bea and I are sitting down to eat, he finally descends the stairs. Like always, his little girl greets him.

“Bonjour, papa!”

“Hello, Bea,” he murmurs in English.

This is what he does every night, except tonight, he falters on his way out the door.

Then, for the first time since I’ve worked here, he smiles at his daughter. It’s a soft, affectionate smile, but it’s enough to set my heart on fire with hope.

His eyes find mine. Neither of us says a word to each other, but we share a small, silent connection before he eventually turns away and marches out the door.

Like every night, I resume my duties taking care of Bea, giving her extra attention and affection to make up for what she should receive from her father.

But throughout the entire evening, as I give her a bath, put on her pajamas, and tuck her into bed, I can’t stop thinking about what happened today in the room upstairs.

After Bea has gone to sleep and the house is quiet, I brew a cup of tea and cuddle up on the couch in the living room downstairs.

Rain pours down outside, tapping against the window as I pull a blanket over my legs and set my laptop on it.

Music plays softly on the speakers as I open it and stare at the blank search engine screen.

There’s so much I want to know and yet so much I’m afraid to know.

Not afraid in the sense that it could hurt me but afraid in the sense that once I go down this path, there’s no turning back. As if whatever I learn here might change me forever or, at the very least, change my perception of Jack. Not that my perception of him is all that good to begin with.

Heaving a sigh, I type two words into the search bar: rope bondage . With a wince, I hit the Enter button. Immediately results in the form of photos, videos, and websites pop up on the page.

I expect the results to be explicit and pornographic. And while some of them are, the majority of the results are more aesthetically stunning than I thought they’d be. I scroll through site after site after site, proclaiming beginner’s guides and what you should know about rope bondage .

Some of it is mainly about sex, being tied up during sex, and being restrained to things like beds, bars, walls, and chairs. But that doesn’t feel like it applies to what Jack had upstairs.

I click on a site that looks promising. The Art of Shibari , it says. And the images that greet me the moment I click the button are beautiful. The first is of a woman with her hands fastened near her shoulders in an intricate web of knots and ropes.

For something that looks like it should be excruciating, her face shows a solemn expression of peace. For what feels like hours, I read and scroll and read and scroll some more, absorbing every ounce of information I can on this unique practice.

But even after all my research, I struggle to find the purpose.

What is the point? Why do people do this?

Is it all about the intricate knots and ties?

Is it in some way meant to turn the participants on?

Is it for sex? Is it for show? The websites all claim that being tied or being a rope bunny is a form of submission meant to put the person being tied into something called a subspace , which I still struggle to understand.

Does Jack really have an entire room upstairs devoted to this? Who is he tying up and why? Was this something he and Emmaline once did together?

Then I remember holding the ropes in my fingers as Jack stood behind me.

There was a moment in which I could almost feel them tied around my arms. And that image alone sparked such arousal inside me.

And not just an arousal for sex but an arousal for something so much more potent.

Something that aroused more than just my body but my mind too.

The clock in the top corner of my laptop says that it’s already past midnight. I’ve completely lost track of time and spent far too long doing this research. I close my browser, shut my laptop, and try to stow away this curiosity.

Even as I climb into bed, I know that I won’t be able to put this new information away so easily. I can’t stop thinking about what it would be like. And how I swear there was a moment today, particularly the growling noise Jack made, that made me believe he might want this too.

Like me, he was imagining me bound and tied for him. And he liked it. Hell, I liked it. It’s not like I want him to hurt me or degrade me. And so what if I did? What’s wrong with that? At least it’s what I want.

Is that what I want?

I can’t help that I’m so curious by nature. For all I know, after five minutes of trying something like this, I’d realize that I hate it, and I’d never want to do it again. But how will I ever know if I don’t try?

And who on earth would I ever try it with if not him? I picture myself going back to that club to find another partner, perhaps the cute bartender, to introduce me to something like this.

I’m sure it could be exciting. But then what?

Sleep evades me as I toss and turn in my bed. Deep down, I know that the reason I can’t fall asleep is because I’m still listening for the door, wondering if Jack will find his way to my hallway again. Maybe he’ll go a bit further this time.

How has Jack St. Claire infiltrated my psyche so much in such a short time?

Why can’t I stop thinking about him? I’d like to believe that I’d find peace if I could just let him go and focus on my job, on Bea, the house, and my new life in Paris.

But all that only feels like one half of my life now, as if he’s somehow taken up so much space in my mind that I’ll never be able to truly move on until I’ve unwrapped the mystery around the man.

But how can I when he won’t even let me speak? The moment I open my mouth around him, he silences me.

I wish I understood why. Why does he shut me out? Why won’t he give me a chance? And why on earth do I care?

I don’t know what time it is when I finally decide to throw back the covers and climb out of my bed. It’s mostly stubborn tenacity, or maybe it’s a need to feel closer to him that has me pulling the letter out of the desk drawer.

Even after all this time, I’ve never fully read it. Only skimmed a few lines. But there’s a burning interest inside me that won’t let me let it go. It’s not about knowing their relationship anymore. It’s about understanding him .

Sitting at the desk with my legs folded in front of me, I read his letter to his late wife.

Dear Emmaline,

I know what you’re going to say. No one writes letters anymore.

You’ll call me cheesy or an old romantic, but I don’t care.

You deserve so much more than a text message or an email.

You should know that a man who adores you sat down at his desk and wrote you a letter by hand to tell you just how much he loves you.

And you know that I do. I love you.

I never meant for this to happen. In only one year, I fell head over heels for you. Did you think I really went to all those ballet performances because I suddenly loved ballet? I was there for you. Every time.

You brought so much joy to my life, Em. I was a miserable, boring man before you came along. My heart is telling me that you feel the same. And I know if we really gave this a shot, we’d be happy together.

I miss you so much, and you’ve only been gone two weeks.

Paris doesn’t shine the same without you.

Please come back.

Yours,

Jack

PS: I’ll even learn French for you.

I read the letter three times, trying to imagine that cold, hardened man upstairs writing it. It just doesn’t match the version of Jack that I know. Did her death really take such a toll on him that it changed him from a romantic, loving person to…this?

Setting the letter down on the desk, I can’t stop thinking about everything I know about him now.

It’s like he thinks that he died along with her, but he didn’t.

He’s still here, and he still has a life to live.

A daughter to raise. And I can’t help but think that shutting me out is just another way of hiding.

My mind is reeling, and there is too much I need to say to him. Opening the drawer, I pull out a piece of blank paper and a pen. If he likes to handwrite letters, fine. I can write one too.

My hand flies as I scribble out everything I want to say to Jack. It’s a messy string of conscious thoughts, and I don’t care that it’s not eloquent or well-spoken. He needs to hear what is on my mind.

When it’s all out and it’s taken up two pages, I read back through the letter. I don’t change a word. I don’t know if he’ll even read it, and at this point, I don’t care. But I hope he does. I hope he listens, and I hope he considers what I’m asking of him.

It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning when I fold the letter and walk it quietly up the stairs. He must still be at the club, because every room is empty. It takes me a moment to decide where to leave the letter. It needs to be somewhere he will find it immediately.

I step quietly into his bedroom. The room smells like him, immediately bringing back memories of last night in the hallway or earlier today in the room across the hall. I take a deep breath, breathing him in because I can. Expensive cologne. Leather. Soap and musk .

What I’m doing now could be a huge mistake, and it could cost me my job. But after the last few days with Jack, I have a feeling it won’t come to that. He may act like he wants me out of his life, but the way he held me today said differently. He wanted to show me. He just needs a little nudge.

Standing next to his bed, I stare down at the nightstand where a single photo of him and Emmaline and baby Bea rests in a frame.

I’m stabbed with a twinge of guilt in my gut, realizing that she’s not here.

That although she is gone, he is still another woman’s husband.

Is this wrong of me? To ask what I’m asking?

Ignoring the photo and swallowing down my guilt, I rest the folded letter on the nightstand with his name scrawled across the front in my messy handwriting. It looks so out of place. I have no doubt he’ll notice it immediately when he comes home.

With that, I’m overcome with a sense of relief.

Absolutely nothing could come from this, and at least I would have expressed myself.

At least I said what was on my mind. Whether or not he reads it or cares, I did what I could.

Leaving his room, I close the door behind me and quietly tiptoe down the stairs to my own.

Crawling into bed, I tell myself that whatever happens now, I need to let him go.

And even as I drift off to sleep, I know in my mind that there is no way that is happening.