The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 2: The Proposal He Couldn't Refuse

Chapter 2: The Proposal He Couldn't Refuse

Daffa didn’t sleep. He spent the remaining four hours of his night staring at a crack in his ceiling, wondering if the severance package for "accidentally seeing the VP’s lingerie" was substantial enough to cover six months of rent. By 7:55 AM, he was standing in front of the massive, frosted glass doors of the executive suite. He wasn't carrying a briefcase; he was clutching a cardboard box containing his favorite stapler, a half-empty bottle of ibuprofen, and a desktop plant that was arguably more dead than his career.

He took a breath, adjusted his tie—the one without the coffee stain—and knocked.

"Come in," a voice called out. It was crisp, calm, and utterly devoid of the panic from the night before.

Daffa pushed the door open with his hip, the box feeling like a lead weight in his arms. Clarisse was sitting behind a desk the size of a small aircraft carrier. She looked immaculate. Not a hair out of place, her suit sharp enough to draw blood, and her eyes as cold as a winter morning in the mountains.

"You’re early," she said, not looking up from her tablet.

"I figured I’d get the execution over with," Daffa muttered, setting the box down on her expensive leather guest chair with a heavy thud. "I brought my stuff. Saved HR the trouble of escorting me out."

Clarisse finally looked up, her gaze drifting to the box and then back to his tired, bloodshot eyes. "What is that?"

"My life's work," Daffa said, gesturing to the dead plant. "Or what’s left of it. Look, Ms. Bautista, about last night… I’ve already signed a mental NDA. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t touch anything, and as far as I’m concerned, we were never in an elevator. Can we just skip the lecture and go straight to the pink slip?"

Clarisse leaned back, crossing her arms. "Sit down, Daffa. And take your 'life’s work' off my chair. It’s leaking dirt on the upholstery."

Daffa blinked, confused. He moved the box to the floor and sat on the very edge of the seat. "So… I’m not fired yet?"

"I haven't decided," she said, sliding a thick manila folder across the desk. "Open that."

Daffa reached for it, his fingers trembling. "Is this my termination agreement? Do I get a reference? A 'thank you for your service' coupon for the cafeteria?"

"Just read it."

Daffa opened the folder. He expected to see legal jargon about workplace misconduct or a final paycheck. Instead, the bold heading at the top of the first page read: COHABITATION AND MARITAL PARTNERSHIP AGREEMENT.

He stared at the words until they blurred. He looked up at her, then back at the paper, then back at her. "I think you gave me the wrong file. This looks like… well, it looks like a marriage contract."

"It is," Clarisse said, her voice as casual as if she were discussing the weather.

"Is this a joke? Is there a hidden camera? Am I on one of those 'Prank Your Employee' shows?" Daffa started looking around the corners of the ceiling.

"Focus, Daffa. I don't have time for a comedy routine," she snapped. "My father is the Chairman of the Board. You know this."

"Everyone knows this. He’s the guy who has a golden statue of himself in the Jakarta branch," Daffa said.

"He’s also a man who believes in 'strategic consolidation,'" she continued, her eyes narrowing. "He’s arranged a marriage for me. With Julian Van der Meer. Do you know who that is?"

Daffa whistled. "The Van der Meer Group? They’re our biggest rivals in the fintech sector. That’s not a marriage; that’s a hostile takeover with a wedding cake."

"Exactly. If I marry Julian, my father merges the companies, and I’m sidelined. I become a trophy wife to a man who has the personality of a wet brick and the ego of a small god. I’ve spent ten years building my reputation in this firm. I am not letting it be swallowed by a merger."

"Okay," Daffa said, slowly nodding. "I get it. That sucks. Truly. But what does this have to do with me? I’m just an analyst who knows how to fix a jammed zipper."

Clarisse leaned forward, her expression intensely focused. "I need a shield. My father’s one weakness is his 'old school' sense of honor. He told me that if I were already engaged—to someone 'stable and loyal' within the firm—he wouldn’t force the Van der Meer deal because it would cause a public relations nightmare and look 'indecent' to the board."

Daffa pointed at his own chest. "And you chose… me? I’m the 'stable and loyal' guy?"

"You’re perfect," she said. "You have no connections. You’re desperate. You’ve been at the firm for three years with a spotless record, and after last night, I know you’re capable of keeping your mouth shut under pressure. More importantly, you’re… harmless."

"Harmless? I’ll have you know I was once voted 'Most Likely to Start a Riot' in my high school debate club," Daffa retorted, though his heart wasn't in it.

"You’re a debt-ridden salaryman who lives in a studio apartment and eats instant noodles for dinner," Clarisse said, her voice softening just a fraction. "I checked your HR file, Daffa. I know about your family’s debt. I know about your sister’s medical bills."

Daffa felt a cold spike of reality hit his stomach. "That’s low, even for the Ice Queen."

"It’s not low; it’s an opportunity," she countered. "Look at the second page."

Daffa flipped the paper. His eyes widened as he read the numbers. "Is that… is that the salary for a Senior Vice President?"

"That’s your new title if you sign," Clarisse said. "And the signing bonus is exactly the amount you need to clear your family’s outstanding loans. Plus a monthly 'stipend' for your services as my fiancé. One year. That’s all I need. We play the part, we attend the galas, we convince my father I’m in a 'passionate, whirlwind romance' with a dedicated employee. After twelve months, we have an 'amicable' breakup. You keep the title, you keep the money, and you move to a different department or even a different firm with a resume that's gold-plated."

Daffa felt dizzy. The room seemed to tilt. "This is insane. You want me to lie to the Chairman of the Board? He’ll have me disappeared! I’ll end up at the bottom of the bay!"

"He won't," she said firmly. "Because I won't let him. I’m the one who runs the daily operations now. I’m the one who signs your checks. Do we have a deal, or should I go back to considering your termination for that 'inappropriate' incident in the elevator?"

"You're blackmailing me into a marriage proposal," Daffa whispered. "That’s so romantic. I should have brought flowers."

"I'm giving you a way out of a life of mediocrity and debt," she corrected him. "Don't pretend you have better options."

Daffa looked at the contract. The numbers were staring back at him. It was more money than he’d see in twenty years of spreadsheets. It meant his parents could retire. It meant his sister didn't have to worry.

"What are the rules?" he asked, his voice low.

"No cheating—obviously. We need to look committed," Clarisse said, ticking points off her fingers. "We maintain a public image. You don't touch me unless it’s for a photo or a social requirement. And you do exactly what I say, when I say it."

"So, basically my current job, but with more tuxedos and less sleep?"

"Precisely."

Daffa reached into his box and pulled out a cheap ballpoint pen. He looked at Clarisse. She was watching him, her face unreadable, but he noticed her hand was gripping her pen so hard her knuckles were white. She was just as terrified as he was, in her own way.

"One year," Daffa said.

"One year," she repeated.

He scribbled his signature at the bottom of the page. The ink felt like a blood pact.

"Congratulations, Mr. Wicaksana," Clarisse said, standing up and extending a hand across the desk. "You’ve just been promoted."

Daffa shook her hand. Her grip was firm and cool. "I feel like I just sold my soul to the devil. Does the devil usually wear Prada?"

"Chanel, actually," she said, a tiny, almost invisible smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She pulled the contract back and took a pen from her desk. "Oh, wait. I almost forgot. I added a small addendum this morning. Just a minor logistical detail to make the 'whirlwind romance' more believable to the private investigators my father will inevitably hire."

She scribbled something in elegant, slanted cursive at the very bottom of the last page, then slapped a sticky note over it for him to initial.

"Just sign the 'Residence Clause' here," she said.

Daffa, his brain still reeling from the sheer volume of zeros in the bonus section, barely glanced at the handwritten note. He just wanted to leave the room before his heart exploded. He initialed the box.

"Great," Clarisse said, closing the folder. "Go home. Pack your things. Not the things in that box—actual clothes. I’ll have a car pick you up at seven."

"Seven? For what? A celebratory dinner at a gas station?"

"For your move," she said, her smile turning into something slightly more predatory. "Did you not read the clause you just initialed, Daffa?"

Daffa’s stomach dropped. "What clause?"

"The one about the shared residence. Since we’re 'madly in love' and preparing for a life together, the Chairman expects us to be living under the same roof. My roof. Effective tonight."

Daffa froze, his hand still on the armrest of the chair. "Wait. Move in? With you? In your house?"

"In my penthouse," she corrected. "And don't worry, Daffa. There are plenty of rooms. Just try not to get any coffee on the rugs. They cost more than your previous annual salary."

Daffa looked at the box on the floor, then at the Ice Queen, then at the door. He had his promotion. He had his money. But as he realized he was about to share a kitchen with the most terrifying woman in the city, he couldn't help but think that the elevator being stuck would have been a much simpler fate.

"Seven o'clock, Daffa," she reminded him, already turning back to her tablet. "Don't be late. My driver doesn't like to wait."

Daffa picked up his box of dead plants and broken dreams, stumbling out of the office. He had six hours to pack his life into a suitcase, and only now did he realize he hadn't even asked if she had a guest room, or if he’d be sleeping on a very expensive, very cold velvet couch.