Page 27 of The Good Girl Effect

I take a quiet step toward the room, carefully pressing the door open to find my suspicions correct. It’s his office. The desk is immaculate and tidy. The computer on the desk has a large screen that is currently black and a notepad on the surface near the keyboard.

Tiptoeing into the room, I sneak a peek at the notepad.

Talk to Logan about security.

Scanning the rest of the desk, I notice a framed photo by the monitor. I pick it up and stare down at the woman in the picture. She’s the same woman in the photo I own.

She’s beautiful with dark brown hair braided loosely over one shoulder. She’s sitting in a chair near a window, and unlike my photo, in this one, she’s not smiling. And yet she looks so peaceful. Her hands are resting on her full, round belly, and I try to imagine the moment the picture was taken.

In my mind, I picture him standing in the middle of the room, telling her how gorgeous she is. In my mind, Jack is kind and loving. He speaks to her with compassion and warmth. In my mind, Jack is a real person and not a cruel, soulless apparition of a man like he is now.

Then I imagine it’s me standing by the window, hugging my perfect round belly, feeling his loving gaze on my face as he snaps a photo of me. It’s a cruel trick my mind plays on me, and the moment the tormenting idea settles in, I shove it away. That’s not real.

Quickly, I put the frame down, snapping myself out of such a dangerous fantasy.

Turning away from the desk, I walk out of the office, peering down the hallway and waiting for any signs of life. When it proves safe, I ease back out of the room, leaving the door the way I found it.

Across from the office is another door. With my hand on the handle, I slowly ease it open and peek inside to find a bathroom. It looks untouched, so I quietly edge back out and close it without a sound.

Moving down to the next door, I pause and question my own sanity. What if he’s in here? What if he’s sleeping? What on earth am I going to do if he catches me and fires me for breaking the rules and trespassing into his private space—again?

That would tear Bea up.

I should turn away now. A wise woman certainly would.

And yet I’m resting my hand on the next door, the last on the left. I’m a fool for this, but I can’t help myself. Moving at aspeed that could only be categorized as agonizingly slow, I turn the handle and press open the door.

What I expect is a bedroom. I expect a bed, a dresser, maybe a pile of laundry on the floor.

What I don’t expect is an empty room with dark gray walls and ornate crown molding. There are deep purple velvet drapes hanging over the windows. Aside from an upholstered chair and a velvet bench, the only piece of furniture in the room is a large wood antique wardrobe.

I glance behind me at the closed door I haven’t opened yet, which I assume now must be his bedroom.

So what is this?

I step into the empty room with piqued interest. There’s a round, plush rug in the center of the room and strange gold hooks in various positions along the ceiling.

There is something so odd and yet comforting about the room. But what on earth is the purpose of it? Some sort of meditation room perhaps? Then I’m instantly reminded of the small station in the dark sex club where I found Jack. My memory conjures up images of paddles, ropes, and other tools I don’t yet know the names of.

Crossing the space toward the window, I pull back the thick curtains to let in some light. There’s a beautiful view of the city from this spot, and I take a moment to stare at it.

Was this the window she stood in front of for that photo? I picture her standing in this spot as he snapped the image.

I’ve never met someone as mysterious and strange as Jack St. Claire. I know I should let it go and just do my job, but I am enamored by him at every turn. I can almost see the man beneath the monster. But with every discovery only comes more questions.

Like what is this room used for? What is he hiding up here?

And what is inside this wardrobe?

I know I shouldn’t open it. And maybe in some way, I already know what’s in there.

It was curiosity that led me to open that letter. Curiosity that led me to Paris in the first place. Curiosity that led me to the club the other night and curiosity that brought me into this room.

But is it possible all these things are really just breadcrumbs?

Is it possible Jack is inviting me down this path, tempting me to take a closer look every chance I get?

He could have locked this door. He could have shut me out entirely. But he hasn’t.