The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 4: The High-Society Masquerade

Chapter 4: The High-Society Masquerade

Armand Bautista didn’t move. He stood in the center of the foyer like a monument to old money and cold ruthlessness, his eyes dissecting Daffa as if he were a flawed line in a budget report. The silence in the penthouse was heavy enough to crush a man of lesser resolve.

“I am, sir,” Daffa said, pushing himself off the sofa. His legs felt like lead, but he forced a steady gait. “Daffa Wicaksana. I’d offer you a drink, but I think your daughter is still recovering from the shock of your early arrival.”

Armand’s eyebrows climbed toward his silver hairline. “He has a tongue, Clarisse. I suppose that’s one point in his favor. Most of your previous suitors tended to turn into puddles of sweat when I looked at them.”

“He’s not a puddle, Father,” Clarisse said, her voice regaining its icy composure as she stepped to Daffa’s side. She slipped her arm through his, her fingers digging into his bicep with a pressure that clearly signaled don’t screw this up. “He’s the reason I’m not interested in your merger with the Van der Meers.”

“We’ll see about that,” Armand grunted, glancing at the suitcases. “You’re moving in? Bold move for a man who hasn't been vetted by my security team yet.”

“I’m a fast learner,” Daffa replied, offering a tight, rehearsed smile. “And Clarisse isn't exactly the type of woman you leave waiting.”

“Hmph. Get some sleep, Mr. Wicaksana. You’ll need it. The charity gala is tomorrow night. It’s the first time the board will see you two together. If you’re a fraud, the Van der Meers will smell it on you like cheap cologne.”

As the Chairman turned and marched out with his retinue, Daffa finally let out the breath he’d been holding. He slumped against the wall, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

“Did I pass?” Daffa gasped.

“You survived,” Clarisse corrected, already pulling out her phone. “But tomorrow is the real test. We have eighteen hours to turn you from a spreadsheet-monkey into a socialite. God help us.”

*

The next afternoon was a blur of high-end tailoring and verbal abuse. Daffa was currently standing on a pedestal in Clarisse’s dressing suite, being poked by a silent tailor while Clarisse paced the room like a caged panther.

“Ow! Watch the pins, man,” Daffa winced. “Clarisse, is the tuxedo really necessary? I have a perfectly good suit from my sister’s graduation.”

“That polyester monstrosity? I had the maid burn it,” Clarisse said without looking up from her tablet. “You are wearing bespoke midnight blue wool. It costs more than your first three years of salary. Act like it.”

“I feel like I’m wearing a down payment on a house,” Daffa muttered, adjusting the stiff collar. “And what’s with all these forks? You spent an hour lecturing me on salad cutlery. Who actually cares?”

“Julian Van der Meer cares,” she snapped, finally looking at him. Her eyes softened for a fraction of a second as she took in the sight of him in the tuxedo. The fit was perfect, accentuating his shoulders and lean frame. “He’ll be looking for any reason to humiliate you. He thinks you’re a placeholder. He thinks I’m playing a game.”

“Aren’t we?”

“It’s only a game if we lose, Daffa. If we lose, I’m married to a narcissist, and you’re back to eating cup noodles in a studio apartment. Are you ready for the briefing?”

“Born ready,” Daffa lied. “Hit me.”

“Julian’s father runs the maritime logistics arm. Julian himself is the VP of Acquisitions. He’s arrogant, he’s a bully, and he thinks he’s the smartest man in the room because he went to INSEAD.”

Daffa grinned, a flash of his old analyst confidence returning. “Oh, I know his type. They usually miss the fine print because they’re too busy looking at their own reflections.”

“Precisely. Stay on script. You’re the devoted, brilliant analyst who stole my heart with your ‘unwavering integrity’ and ‘unmatched potential.’ Try not to gag when I say it.”

“I’ll do my best to look dreamy and indispensable.”

*

The Grand Ballroom of the Hotel Mulia was a sea of shimmering silk, diamonds, and the suffocating scent of extreme wealth. Daffa felt like an undercover agent in a foreign land. Every time he moved, he was terrified he’d spill champagne on a diplomat or trip over a debutante’s train.

Clarisse, however, was in her element. She moved through the crowd like a queen, her hand never leaving Daffa’s arm.

“Smile, Daffa,” she whispered through a fixed, beautiful grin. “The cameras are at ten o’clock.”

“My face is cramping,” he whispered back. “Is that the guy? The one looking at us like he wants to challenge me to a duel?”

A man in a sharp grey suit was approaching, his eyes narrowed and a smirk playing on his lips. He was handsome in a generic, expensive way.

“Clarisse,” the man said, ignoring Daffa entirely. “I heard a rumor you’d picked up a stray. I didn't realize you were bringing him to the gala. Is the shelter having a fundraiser tonight?”

“Julian,” Clarisse said, her voice dropping ten degrees. “I believe you haven't met my fiancé, Daffa Wicaksana.”

Julian finally turned his gaze to Daffa, his lip curling. “Fiancé? That’s a bit fast, isn't it? I don’t recall seeing your name on any of the Ivy League alumni lists, Mr… Wicaksana, was it?”

“I went to University of Indonesia,” Daffa said, stepping forward just enough to break Julian’s physical intimidation tactic. “It’s a bit more grounded. You learn to actually look at the numbers instead of just the branding.”

Julian laughed, a dry, mocking sound. “The numbers? How quaint. Clarisse, surely you’re not serious. A merger with my family would have secured your legacy. Instead, you’ve tied yourself to… what? A middle-manager with a nice haircut?”

“He’s the Lead Strategic Analyst for our emerging markets portfolio, Julian,” Clarisse said, her grip tightening on Daffa’s arm. “He’s worth ten of you.”

“Is he?” Julian stepped closer, his voice dropping. “I’ve been looking into your recent acquisitions in the North Kalimantan sector, Wicaksana. Very aggressive. Almost… desperate. It looks like you’re over-leveraging to cover up some internal bleeding. If I were the Chairman, I’d be worried about your ‘brilliant’ fiancé’s math.”

Daffa felt a surge of cold, analytical clarity. He’d spent eighteen hours a day looking at the very sectors Julian was talking about. He knew exactly what the Van der Meers were hiding.

“That’s interesting, Julian,” Daffa said, his voice loud enough for the nearby board members to hear. “Since you mentioned North Kalimantan, I was actually looking at your group’s Q3 audit. I noticed a sixteen percent discrepancy in the port maintenance budget. It looks like you’ve been funneling those funds into a shell company to offset the losses from your failed tech venture in Singapore. Am I close, or should I go get my laptop?”

Julian’s face went from smug to ghostly pale in three seconds. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I?” Daffa took a sip of his champagne, looking bored. “Because if I mention that discrepancy to the Chairman of the Port Authority—who is currently standing by the buffet, by the way—I think your ‘strategic merger’ would be the least of your problems. You’d be looking at a federal audit.”

Julian opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at Clarisse, then at Daffa, and finally realized he’d walked into a buzzsaw.

“We’re done here,” Julian hissed, turning on his heel and retreating into the crowd.

Clarisse waited until he was out of earshot before she turned to Daffa. Her eyes were wide, glowing with something that wasn't just professional pride.

“Where did you get that?” she whispered. “The Singapore leak? I didn't even have that.”

“I’m an analyst, remember?” Daffa winked. “I spent my lunch break yesterday cross-referencing their public filings. It wasn't hard to find the rot if you knew where to dig.”

“Daffa,” she said, her voice soft. “That was… incredible.”

“Does this mean I get a raise?”

Before she could answer, she saw her father watching them from across the room, surrounded by influential investors. He was nodding slowly, a look of grudging respect on his face.

“He’s watching,” Clarisse whispered. “We need a finale. Something to seal the deal.”

“What do you mean?”

“The kiss, Daffa. Make it look real.”

Daffa didn't have time to process it. Clarisse reached up, her hands cupping his face, and pulled him down.

It wasn't the chaste, polite kiss of a business arrangement. It was a collision. Her lips were soft, warm, and tasted like expensive wine and something dangerously sweet. Daffa’s brain short-circuited. His hands, acting on instinct, found her waist and pulled her flush against him. The world around them—the music, the clinking glasses, the hushed whispers of the elite—vanished. For a long, breathless moment, there was only the heat of her and the frantic thud of his own heart.

When she finally pulled away, her breath was shallow, and her eyes were dark with a confusion that matched his own. The ballroom erupted into polite, stunned applause.

*

The ride back to the penthouse was silent. The city lights flickered across the interior of the sedan, casting long shadows over them. Daffa stared out the window, still feeling the ghost of her lips on his.

They stepped into the foyer of The Paradiso, the heavy doors clicking shut behind them. The silence was deafening.

“So,” Daffa said, his voice raspy. “I think the Chairman is convinced. Julian probably won't show his face for a month.”

“Yes,” Clarisse said. She was standing by the window, her back to him. She had kicked off her heels, looking smaller than she ever had. “The performance was a success.”

“Right. The performance,” Daffa echoed, feeling a strange, hollow weight in his chest. “I should probably go to bed. Long day of lying tomorrow.”

“Daffa?”

He stopped at the hallway. “Yeah?”

She turned around. The moonlight caught the tears she was trying to hide, or perhaps it was just the sheer exhaustion of the mask she wore.

“That kiss,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “The part where you pulled me closer? The way you looked at me before we started?”

“I was just staying in character, Clarisse. Like you said.”

Clarisse took a step toward him, the silk of her gown whispering against the floor. “The script only called for three seconds, Daffa. You held on for ten.”

Daffa rubbed the back of his neck, his face heating up. “I… I got carried away. Adrenaline. You know how it is.”

Clarisse looked at him for a long time, then a small, genuine smile touched her lips—the first one he’d seen that wasn't meant for a camera.

“It wasn't in the script, Daffa,” she said softly. “And neither was the fact that I didn't want you to stop.”

Before he could respond, she turned and disappeared into her bedroom, leaving Daffa standing in the dark, wondering if he was still playing a part or if he’d just signed a contract he didn't know how to break.