The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 5: Dark Rooms and Overtime

Chapter 5: Dark Rooms and Overtime

Daffa stared at the closed door of Clarisse’s bedroom, the click of the latch echoing in the silent penthouse like a final verdict. His heart was still trying to escape his ribcage, his lips still tingling from the weight of a kiss that had definitely lasted seven seconds too long for a "performance."

“Adrenaline,” he whispered to the empty foyer, his voice sounding like sandpaper. “Just a heavy dose of professional commitment. Nothing more.”

He turned toward his own room, but his eyes caught his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows. He didn’t look like a lead analyst. He looked like a man who had just touched a high-voltage wire and was secretly wondering when he could do it again.

*

“I need you to stop staring at the coffee machine and start staring at these files, Daffa. We don’t have much time.”

It was three days later. The tension from the gala hadn't dissipated; it had just curdled into a thick, awkward professionalism that made the air in the office feel heavy. They were currently huddled in the basement archives of the Bautista building, a place where the Wi-Fi went to die and the air smelled of 1990s toner and forgotten dreams.

“I’m staring, Clarisse. I’m staring so hard my retinas are burning,” Daffa muttered, pulling another dusty box from the metal shelf. “Remind me again why we’re doing this at eleven at night in a room that looks like the setting of a low-budget horror movie?”

“Because my father has eyes in the main system,” Clarisse said, her voice echoing off the concrete walls. She was perched on a step-ladder, her expensive skirt pushed up slightly as she reached for a top-shelf binder. “The Van der Meer merger isn’t just a contract; it’s a series of side-deals my father made in the early 2000s. If we can find the original maritime logs, we can prove the conflict of interest to the board. Then he can’t force the merger even if he wants to.”

“And I’m here because…?”

“Because you’re the only person I trust to see these numbers and not try to sell them to the highest bidder.”

Daffa paused, a heavy ledger in his hands. “Wait. Did the Ice Queen just use the ‘T’ word? Trust? Should I call a doctor?”

Clarisse looked down at him, her expression unreadable in the dim, flickering fluorescent light. “Don’t let it go to your head. It’s a logistical trust. Like trusting a dog not to eat its own leash.”

“Wow. Truly, I feel the love,” Daffa laughed, turning back to the shelf. “Found something. ‘Project Kraken.’ Sounds ominous. Is this it?”

“Pass it up here.”

As Daffa stepped closer to hand her the file, the lights above them gave a rhythmic, dying buzz. A second later, a loud pop resonated through the hallway outside, and the archives were plunged into absolute, suffocating darkness.

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” Daffa’s voice came out of the blackness.

“Daffa? Don’t move. The shelves are narrow.”

“I’m not moving. I’m currently becoming one with the dust. Did the whole building just go out?”

“Probably a transformer,” Clarisse sighed. He could hear her carefully climbing down the ladder. “The archives aren't on the emergency circuit. We’re stuck until the night crew resets the breakers.”

A small glow appeared as Daffa clicked on his phone’s flashlight. The beam cut through the dark, hitting Clarisse’s face. She looked tired—actually, genuinely exhausted.

“Well,” Daffa said, leaning against a filing cabinet. “Since we’re trapped in a high-security tomb, and my phone has four percent battery… what now?”

Clarisse reached into her oversized designer bag and, to Daffa’s absolute shock, pulled out a bottle of red wine and two plastic cups from the office breakroom.

“Clarisse? Are you carrying contraband?”

“It was a gift from a client this afternoon. I didn’t feel like taking it home,” she said, her voice strangely soft. She sat down on the floor, leaning her back against the cold metal of the cabinets. “Sit down, Daffa. The floor isn't going to kill you.”

Daffa joined her, the two of them huddled in the small circle of light. He poured the wine, the sound of the liquid hitting the plastic cup the only noise in the room.

“To being trapped,” Daffa said, raising his cup.

“To hidden agendas,” Clarisse countered.

They drank in silence for a few minutes. The wine was expensive—the kind that tasted like dark cherries and secrets.

“Is it always like this for you?” Daffa asked, his voice low. “The constant sneaking around? The fighting for a seat at your own table?”

Clarisse stared into her cup. “Since I was six. My father didn’t tell me bedtime stories, Daffa. He gave me logic puzzles. If I didn’t solve them, I didn't get dessert. I learned very early that in this family, you aren't a daughter. You’re an asset. And assets have to perform.”

“That’s… dark. Even for a billionaire.”

“What about you?” she asked, looking at him. “The ‘Lead Strategic Analyst’ with the heart of gold and the debt of a small nation. Why the firm? You could have gone anywhere.”

Daffa shrugged, his shoulder brushing hers in the cramped space. “My dad had a small printing press. He was the kindest man I knew, but he had no head for business. He got squeezed out by a developer. I watched him lose everything because he didn't know how to read the fine print. I promised myself I’d never be the guy who doesn't see the punch coming.”

“So we’re both just running away from things,” Clarisse murmured. She turned her head, her eyes catching the light of his phone. “We’re a pair of pathetic overachievers, aren't we?”

“Speak for yourself. I’m a charming overachiever,” Daffa joked, but the smile didn't reach his eyes.

The air in the archive room felt warmer now. The scent of the wine mixed with her perfume—that jasmine and rain scent that had been haunting his dreams since the elevator.

“You’re a lot of things, Daffa,” Clarisse said. She reached out, her fingers grazing his forearm. “Charming is the least of my concerns.”

Daffa felt the heat of her touch through his shirt. “Clarisse, the wine is talking. Or maybe the lack of oxygen.”

“The oxygen is fine,” she whispered, moving closer. The distance between them had vanished. “And I’ve had one cup of wine. I’m perfectly sober.”

“Then why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re about to fire me or kiss me. And I’m really hoping it’s not the first one.”

Clarisse let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-shudder. “I should fire you. This is a disaster. You’re an employee. This is a contract. My father is upstairs. The world is watching.”

“Then let them watch,” Daffa said, his voice dropping an octave.

He reached out, his hand cupping her jaw. Her skin was like silk, but she was trembling. The "Ice Queen" was nowhere to be found; there was only a woman who looked like she had been starving for something real for a long, long time.

“Is this part of the performance, Clarisse?” he asked, his thumb brushing her lower lip.

“Screw the performance,” she breathed.

She leaned in, closing the gap. This kiss wasn't like the one at the gala. There was no applause, no cameras, no hidden motive. It was hungry, desperate, and fueled by weeks of suppressed tension. Clarisse groaned into his mouth, her hands flying to his hair, pulling him closer as if she were trying to merge their very souls.

Daffa’s phone, balanced on a box, flickered and died, plunging them back into total darkness, but it didn't matter. He knew exactly where she was. He pressed her back against the filing cabinets, the metal clanging softly as his hands found her waist.

“Daffa,” she gasped against his neck, her breath hot and jagged.

“I’ve wanted to do this since the elevator,” he muttered, his lips trailing down to the hollow of her throat. “Actually, probably before the elevator.”

“Shut up and don't stop,” she commanded, her voice thick with desire.

Her hands were frantic, tugging at his tie, unbuttoning his vest with an urgency that sent a surge of pure electricity through his veins. Daffa lifted her, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he pinned her against the ‘Project Kraken’ files. The world outside the archive room didn't exist. There was no Chairman, no Van der Meers, no bank accounts.

He felt the smooth curve of her thigh as his hand slid up the slit of her skirt, his fingers grazing the lace of her stocking. Clarisse let out a sharp, jagged cry of his name, her head falling back against the metal.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” she whispered, her fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Best way to go,” Daffa replied, his voice a low growl.

He began to hike the fabric of her skirt higher, his heart drumming a frantic rhythm against her chest. The darkness was emboldening, a private sanctuary where they could finally be the people they were hiding from everyone else.

Suddenly, the world exploded into light.

The overhead fluorescents didn't just flicker; they hummed to life with a violent, sterile glare.

Daffa froze, his hand still buried deep under the silk of Clarisse’s skirt, her legs still locked around his waist, her hair a wild, obsidian mess across her face. Clarisse’s eyes went wide, the pupils blown and dark.

They both blinked against the sudden brightness, their breathing heavy and synchronized.

“The lights,” Daffa wheezed, not moving. “The lights are back.”

“I noticed,” Clarisse whispered, her face going from flushed to a ghostly, horrified pale.

She wasn't looking at him. She was looking past his shoulder, at the far corner of the ceiling.

Daffa slowly turned his head, his hand finally slipping out from beneath her dress.

There, perched right above the entrance to the archive aisle, was a sleek, black security camera. Its tiny red power light was glowing steadily, and the lens was pointed directly at them.

“Tell me that’s a dummy camera,” Daffa said, his voice cracking.

“It’s a high-definition, motion-activated unit,” Clarisse said, her voice trembling as she scrambled down from his lap. She frantically smoothed her skirt, her hands shaking so hard she could barely move. “Linked directly to the Chief of Security’s office.”

“And who does the Chief of Security report to?” Daffa asked, though he already knew the answer.

Clarisse looked at him, her eyes filled with a sudden, icy terror.

“My father.”