The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 3: Fine Print and Foreplay

Chapter 3: Fine Print and Foreplay

Daffa spent the next five hours in a fever dream of packing, mostly consisting of him throwing his few non-wrinkled shirts into a suitcase and wondering if he should bring his own towels. By 6:55 PM, he was standing on the curb of his cramped apartment complex, clutching two battered suitcases and his prize possession: a vintage, slightly stained Italian espresso machine he’d bought at a flea market.

A black sedan, sleek as a shark, pulled up to the curb exactly at seven. The driver didn’t even look at Daffa’s luggage with judgment; he simply loaded it into the trunk with the silent efficiency of a man who moved bodies for a living.

The ride to the SCBD area was silent, the city lights blurring past the tinted windows. When the car pulled into the private underground garage of The Paradiso, Daffa felt a lump form in his throat. This wasn’t just a promotion; it was a relocation to a different planet.

The elevator—blessedly functional and much faster than the one from the night before—spat him out directly into a private foyer. The doors opened to reveal Clarisse, who had swapped her Chanel suit for a silk robe that looked like it cost more than Daffa’s college degree.

“You brought a coffee maker,” she said, her eyes fixed on the machine in his arms. It was the first thing she’d said since he entered.

“It’s not just a coffee maker, Clarisse. It’s the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity,” Daffa replied, looking around the cavernous living room. The floor-to-ceiling windows showed the sprawling Jakarta skyline, but the interior was a minimalist’s dream and a comfort-seeker's nightmare. “Where do I put my stuff? And please tell me you have a guest room that isn’t a walk-in closet.”

“Second door on the right,” Clarisse said, gesturing vaguely down a hallway that seemed to go on forever. “Leave the luggage. The staff will deal with it in the morning. Put that… contraption in the kitchen pantry. I don't want it on the counters.”

“Staff? You have people who come in here?” Daffa asked, following her into the kitchen.

“A cleaning crew twice a week, and my personal chef drops off meals at six. But they’ve been briefed. As far as they’re concerned, you’ve been living here for a month and we’re just very private people.”

Daffa set the espresso machine on the marble island, the metal clinking loudly in the quiet space. “A month? Wow. We’re really committing to the bit, aren't we?”

“We have to,” Clarisse said, pouring herself a glass of water. Her hand, Daffa noticed, was slightly shaky. “My father’s investigators don’t just look at social media. They check trash. They talk to doormen. They look for signs of life. If this looks like a staged set, we’re both finished.”

“Got it. Make it look lived-in. I can do that. I’m great at leaving socks in places they shouldn't be.”

“Don’t you dare,” she snapped, though there was no real heat in it. She set the glass down and turned to him, her expression shifting into something more clinical. “Now, before you go to bed, we need to address the most glaring problem in this entire arrangement.”

Daffa leaned against the island, crossing his arms. “My lack of a trust fund? My wardrobe? The fact that I look like I’ve been hit by a truck?”

“Your body language,” Clarisse corrected. “When I looked at you in the lobby this morning, you looked like a student who’d been caught cheating by the principal. If you look at me like that in front of my father, he’ll know within ten seconds.”

“Well, forgive me for being intimidated by the woman who can end my career with a Slack message.”

“That needs to stop,” she said, stepping closer. The scent of jasmine and rain hit him again, stronger this time. “In public, and in this house, we aren't boss and employee. We are a couple. A couple that is… what was the phrase I used? In a ‘passionate, whirlwind romance.’”

Daffa let out a dry laugh. “Right. Passionate. Should I start practicing my ‘I love you’ face in the mirror?”

“It’s not about faces, Daffa. It’s about physical ease. You’re stiff. When you touch me—if you have to—you do it like you’re afraid I’m going to explode.”

“I am afraid you’re going to explode! Or fire me. Usually both.”

Clarisse sighed, rubbing her temples. “Come here.”

“What?”

“I said, come here. We’re doing a chemistry check. If we can’t handle a simple rehearsal, we’ll never survive a dinner party.”

Daffa hesitated, then shuffled forward until he was standing a foot away from her. The kitchen lights were dimmed, the only sound the low hum of the massive refrigerator. “Okay. I’m here. What’s the drill? A firm handshake?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Clarisse murmured. She stepped into his personal space, her silk robe brushing against his jeans. “Put your hand on my waist.”

Daffa froze. “Is this legal?”

“I’m authorizing it. Put your hand on my waist, Daffa. Now.”

He reached out, his palm hovering for a second before finally settling on the side of her waist. The silk was impossibly thin. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath it, the slight curve of her hip. His heart began a slow, heavy thud against his ribs.

“You’re gripping me like a handle on a subway train,” Clarisse whispered, her eyes locked onto his. “Softer. It should look possessive, but natural. Like you belong there.”

Daffa relaxed his fingers, his thumb grazing the ribbing of the silk. “Better?”

“Marginally,” she said, though her breathing had hitched. “Now, the other hand. The back of my neck. Bring me closer.”

“Clarisse, I don’t think—”

“Do it.”

Daffa obeyed, his fingers sliding into the cool silkiness of her hair. He felt the tension in her neck, the way she seemed to hold her breath as he pulled her a few inches closer. Now, there was barely any air between them. He could see the gold flecks in her dark irises.

“My father expects more than just hand-holding,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, husky register. “He expects intimacy. If we’re at a gala, you’ll need to whisper in my ear. You’ll need to look like you’re seconds away from kissing me.”

“This is a lot of work for a merger prevention plan,” Daffa croaked.

“Lean down,” she commanded. “Toward my neck. Don’t actually touch it, just… get close. Practice the movement.”

Daffa felt like he was walking a tightrope over a canyon. He leaned in, his face inches from the hollow of her throat. He could smell the heat coming off her skin. He leaned closer, his nose almost brushing her ear.

“Is this… close enough?” he whispered, his breath fluttering the stray hairs at her temple.

Clarisse didn't answer for a moment. Her hand, which had been resting at her side, suddenly gripped the front of his shirt, bunching the fabric. He felt her whole body shiver.

“You’re shaking,” Daffa said, his voice thick with a realization he wasn't sure he wanted to have.

“I’m… it’s the air conditioning,” she lied, but she didn't pull away. In fact, she leaned into him, her forehead resting against his shoulder for a fleeting second.

Daffa felt a surge of something—not fear, not professional duty, but a raw, electric spark that made his fingers tighten in her hair. He pulled back just enough to look at her, and for the first time, the ‘Ice Queen’ was gone. Her lips were parted, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes were wide with a vulnerability that looked a lot like genuine desire.

“Clarisse?” he asked softly.

She looked at him, and for a heartbeat, the contract didn't matter. The money didn't matter. The fact that he was an analyst and she was a VP didn't matter. He began to lean in, the distance closing—

Thud-thud-thud.

The sound of heavy, authoritative knocking on the heavy wooden entrance door shattered the silence like a gunshot.

Clarisse jumped back as if she’d been electrocuted, her hands frantically smoothing her robe and her hair. Daffa nearly tripped over the kitchen island, his heart racing at a speed that felt medically concerning.

“Who the hell is that at this hour?” Daffa hissed, trying to regain his composure.

Clarisse’s face went pale. She looked at the security monitor mounted on the kitchen wall. Her eyes went wide.

“It’s him,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Him who? The driver? The ghost of your former employees?”

“My father,” Clarisse said, her voice cracking. “He’s not supposed to be here until the weekend. He’s early.”

The knocking came again, louder this time, followed by a booming voice that echoed through the foyer’s intercom.

“Clarisse! Open up. I know you’re in there. I’ve brought the Van der Meer contracts for you to look at. And I hear you’ve been keeping a secret from your old man!”

Daffa looked at his suitcases sitting in the middle of the hallway, then at his cheap espresso machine on the marble counter, and finally at Clarisse, who looked like she was about to faint.

“The suitcases!” Daffa scrambled toward them. “I have to hide them!”

“No!” Clarisse grabbed his arm, her eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate brilliance. “Leave them! It makes it look like you’re moving in deeper. Quick—get rid of your shoes! Go into the living room and sit on the sofa. Look… look comfortable! Look like we were busy!”

“Busy doing what?”

“Just do it!”

She practically shoved him toward the sunken living area. Daffa kicked off his sneakers, dove onto the white leather sofa, and tried to look like a man who hadn't just been having a near-spiritual experience in a kitchen.

Clarisse took a deep breath, wiped the flush from her cheeks with the back of her hands, and strode toward the door. She paused, looked back at Daffa, and hissed, “Try to look like you like me!”

“I’m doing my best!” Daffa yelled back.

Clarisse pulled the door open.

Standing there was a man who looked like he was carved out of granite—Armand Bautista, the Chairman. He was tall, silver-haired, and wearing a tuxedo that cost more than Daffa’s life. Behind him stood two bored-looking bodyguards.

Armand didn't wait to be invited. He stepped into the foyer, his sharp eyes immediately landing on the two battered suitcases. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

“Well, well,” the Chairman boomed, stepping further into the room. “I thought I’d catch you in a lie, Clarisse. But it seems you really have been keeping a commoner in your penthouse.”

He turned his gaze toward the living room, where Daffa was sitting as stiffly as a board, trying very hard not to look like a man who had just sold his soul.

“And you,” Armand said, pointing a finger at Daffa. “You must be the man who thinks he’s good enough for my daughter.”