The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 10: Project Scapegoat

Chapter 10: Project Scapegoat

The steam from the bathroom followed her out, a humid ghost that clung to the edges of the room. Clarisse stood there, a vision of domestic softness in her white robe, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. The smile on her face was something Daffa had started to believe in—a rare, unguarded expression that made him think he’d finally found the woman beneath the ice.

Then she saw the tablet in his hand.

The smile didn't just fade; it died. It was a slow-motion collapse of every muscle in her face until she was back to the version of Clarisse Bautista he had met in the elevator: cold, calculated, and perfectly unreachable.

"Clarisse," Daffa repeated, his voice sounding hollow, like a bell rung in a vacuum. "I’m going to ask you one more time. What is Phase 2?"

Clarisse didn’t move. She didn't drop the mugs. She didn't even blink. "Daffa, put the tablet down. We can talk about this."

"Talk?" Daffa let out a jagged, breathless laugh. He turned the screen toward her, the text of the 'Scapegoat' file glowing like a neon warning sign. "It’s a bit late for talking, isn't it? I was just reading the part where my arrest is the 'preferred outcome' for the North Kalimantan audit. That’s a hell of a wedding present, Clarisse."

"It’s a strategy document," she said, her voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm executive register. "It’s not a reality. It’s a contingency plan drafted by the legal team for the worst-case scenario."

"You signed it." Daffa’s thumb swiped to the bottom of the document. "Your digital signature is right there, timestamped three days ago. That was the night we were in the archives. That was the night you told me you trusted me."

Clarisse set the coffee mugs down on the small wooden table with a click that sounded like a gunshot. "I was protecting the firm. I was protecting myself. At that time, I didn't know if you were working with Julian or if you were just another pawn."

"So you decided to make me the king of the pawns?" Daffa stood up, the tablet shaking in his grip. "You set up the archive logs. You gave me your credentials knowing that every time I logged in to 'save' the company, I was just digging my own grave. 'Unauthorized access via executive credentials.' That’s what it says here. You weren't letting me help you; you were letting me leave a digital trail to my own prison cell."

"It was a safeguard, Daffa! You have to understand the world I live in," she snapped, her eyes flashing. "Everyone is a threat until they aren't. My father, Julian, the board—they all want my head. I needed a fallback."

"A fallback? You mean a human shield." Daffa stepped closer, his chest tight. "And the Residence Clause? Was that just to make sure the private investigators had enough photos of us together to prove a 'pattern of manipulative behavior' on my part? So it looks like I seduced the poor, innocent Vice President to get to her passwords?"

Clarisse flinched, a tiny movement that she quickly masked. "The Residence Clause was necessary for the engagement."

"No, Clarisse. According to this, it was necessary for the character assassination. It says right here: 'Subject has signed a cohabitation agreement that establishes a pattern of manipulative behavior.' You weren't bringing me into your home. You were bringing me into a crime scene you’d already staged."

"Daffa, listen to me—"

"I’ve been listening!" he shouted, the sound echoing off the timber walls. "I listened to you talk about your father’s logic puzzles. I listened to you cry about the analyst who vanished in Singapore. I actually felt sorry for you. I thought, 'Wow, she’s so lonely, she’s so scared.' But you weren't scared of your father, were you? You were just learning from him. You’re better at this than he is."

Clarisse took a step toward him, her hands reaching out, but she stopped when she saw the look of pure revulsion in his eyes. "Last night... last night wasn't part of the document. You have to believe that."

"Why should I?" Daffa asked, his voice dropping to a whisper that hurt more than the shouting. "Last night was the perfect 'Phase 2' move, wasn't it? If the audit happens tomorrow, you can point to last night and tell the board I was blackmailing you with intimacy. That I forced my way into your life. It’s all here, Clarisse. Every touch, every kiss... it’s all been weaponized."

"It wasn't like that," she whispered, her voice cracking for the first time. "The document... it was drafted by my lawyers. I signed a stack of papers that night. I was overwhelmed, I was frantic—"

"You don't 'accidentally' sign an authorization for someone’s arrest, Clarisse. Not you. You read every comma. You audit every decimal point. You knew exactly what you were doing." Daffa tossed the tablet onto the bed. It bounced once and lay there, the screen still bright. "Is that why you were so happy this morning? Because the trap was finally set? Because you knew that no matter what happened with the merger, you’d walk away clean while I went to a federal penitentiary?"

"I was going to delete it," she said, her eyes filling with tears that Daffa no longer trusted. "After last night... I realized I couldn't go through with it. I was going to call the legal team on Monday and shred the entire strategy."

"How convenient. The 'I was going to' defense." Daffa started grabbing his clothes from the chair, his movements frantic and clumsy. "I bet that’s what your father said about the guy in Singapore, too. 'I was going to save him, but the paperwork was already processed.'"

"Where are you going?"

"Away from here. Away from you."

"Daffa, you can't leave. There’s no cell service, the car is in my name, and the board members are expecting us for breakfast in thirty minutes." Clarisse’s voice had regained its edge—the panic of a hunter losing its prey. "If you walk out now, you’re just proving the 'manipulative behavior' clause. You’ll look like a guilty man on the run."

Daffa stopped, a shirt clutched in his hand. He turned to look at her, really look at her. The silk robe, the damp hair, the cold, beautiful face. He realized then that he had never known her at all. He had fallen in love with a mask, and the person behind it was a predator.

"You’re still doing it," he said, shaking his head. "Even now, when I’ve caught you red-handed, you’re still using the threat of the firm to keep me in line. You really can’t help yourself, can you?"

"I’m trying to save us both!" she cried.

"There is no 'us,' Clarisse. There’s a Vice President and a Scapegoat. That’s the only contract we ever had." Daffa pulled his shirt on, not caring that it was wrinkled. "You want to go to breakfast? Fine. We’ll go to breakfast. We’ll play the part one last time. But the moment we get back to Jakarta, I’m done. I don't care about the bonus. I don't care about the promotion. I’d rather be broke and in a studio apartment than spend one more second in your penthouse waiting for the handcuffs."

"You won't survive a day if you walk away from my protection," Clarisse warned, her voice turning icy. "My father will know the engagement was fake. He’ll come for you. And without me to redirect the audit, you'll have no defense."

"I’ll take my chances with your father. At least with him, I know he’s an enemy." Daffa zipped up his bag, the sound sharp and final. "You were something much worse, Clarisse. You were a hope I couldn't afford."

Clarisse stood by the door, her silhouette framed by the morning light she had used to blind him. "Daffa, please. Just sit down. Let's look at the file together. We can draft a new one. A real one."

"A new contract?" Daffa laughed, a hollow, bitter sound. "What’s the title of that one? 'Phase 3: How to Keep Your Slave Happy'? No thanks. I’ve read enough of your work for one lifetime."

He walked past her, his shoulder brushing hers. For a second, he expected her to grab his arm, to beg, to do something human. But she just stood there, her hands clenched at her sides, her face reverting to that impenetrable mask.

"The breakfast starts at eight," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Don't be late. We have a performance to finish."

Daffa didn't answer. He walked out onto the porch, the fresh mountain air feeling like a lie. The valley was beautiful, the sun was rising, and he had never felt more like a man walking toward his own execution.

He sat on the porch steps, staring at the trees, waiting for the clock to hit eight. Every second felt like a drop of lead. He thought about the elevator, the stuck zipper, the kiss in the archives, and the way she had looked at him under the stars.

It was the most brilliant audit he had ever seen. She hadn't just stolen his future; she had audited his heart and found it to be a surplus asset—easily discarded, perfectly leveraged, and destined to be written off.

Inside the cabin, he heard the sound of the tablet being picked up. Then, the rhythmic, mechanical sound of typing.

She was already working on the next draft.

Daffa closed his eyes and prayed for the first time in years. Not for his career, not for his safety, but for the strength to survive the next hour without looking at her and seeing anything other than the ice.

The Ice Queen was back. And this time, she hadn't just frozen the room. She had frozen everything he thought was real.