The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 8: The Mandatory Romantic Retreat

Chapter 8: The Mandatory Romantic Retreat

The drive up to the Puncak highlands was an exercise in suffocating silence. Clarisse stared out the window at the passing pine trees, her hand still shoved deep into the pocket where she had hidden the crumpled note. Daffa watched the reflection of her face in the glass—pale, rigid, and completely detached.

“You’re going to burn a hole in that pocket if you keep clutching that note, Clarisse,” Daffa said, his voice cutting through the hum of the car’s engine.

“I told you, Daffa. It’s a prank. Drop it,” she replied without turning around.

“Pranks don’t come on vellum with your family’s private crest. And pranks don’t make you look like you’re waiting for a firing squad.”

Clarisse finally looked at him, her eyes sharp. “We’re here to sell a romance to the board’s weekend retreat, not to play detective. Can you focus on the job?”

“The job just involved me smashing a tablet over Julian’s head and dodging a blackmail attempt,” Daffa countered, pulling the car to a stop in front of a secluded, A-frame timber cabin. “I think I’ve earned a little bit of the truth.”

“The truth is that we’re in a mountain range with no cell service and a scheduled dinner with three board members tomorrow morning,” Clarisse said, pushing the door open. “That’s the only reality that matters right now.”

Daffa followed her out, the crisp mountain air hitting him like a physical blow. The cabin was beautiful, perched on a ridge overlooking a mist-covered valley, but it felt isolated. Too isolated. He grabbed their bags and stepped inside, only to hear Clarisse let out a long, frustrated groan.

“What now? Did they forget the champagne?” Daffa asked, stepping into the living area.

“Worse,” Clarisse pointed toward the corner of the room. “Look at the thermostat.”

Daffa walked over and flicked the dial. Nothing. No hum of a furnace, no rush of warm air. “It’s dead. Completely dead.”

“And look at the bedroom, Daffa,” she added, her voice dropping to a weary whisper.

He pushed the door open. The room was cozy, lit by the fading afternoon sun, but there was only one piece of furniture: a single, king-sized bed draped in heavy wool blankets.

“One bed,” Daffa muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Of course. This is a ‘couples retreat.’ Why would there be two?”

“I’m going to call the caretaker,” Clarisse said, reaching for her phone. She stared at the screen for ten seconds before tossing it onto the bed. “No signal. Not even a bar.”

“Welcome to the wilderness,” Daffa said, trying to lighten the mood. “Look, I’ll check the woodpile. We can just use the fireplace.”

“The wood is damp, Daffa. I checked the bin outside when we walked in. It’s been raining for three days up here.”

“So, no heater, no fire, and it’s already dropping below ten degrees,” Daffa sighed. “This is going to be a very long night.”

“I’ll take the floor,” Clarisse said immediately, grabbing a spare pillow. “I’m not breaking the ‘Residence Clause’ protocols more than I have to.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The floor is literal stone, Clarisse. You’ll have hypothermia by midnight. We’ll just… share. It’s a big bed. I’ll stay on the edge.”

“I don’t need you to be a martyr,” she snapped, but her teeth gave a tiny, betraying chatter.

“You’re literally shivering right now,” Daffa said, stepping closer. “Look, I’m an analyst. I deal in logic. Logic says two bodies generate more heat than one. If we stay separate, we freeze. If we share the blankets, we survive to lie to your father tomorrow. Which one sounds better?”

Clarisse looked at the bed, then at the frost beginning to form on the windowpane. “I hate that you’re always right about the math.”

“It’s my one redeeming quality,” Daffa said. “Come on. Get under the covers. I’ll go grab the extra coats to pile on top.”

An hour later, the cabin was pitch black, save for the faint silvery light of the moon reflecting off the mist. Under the heavy layers of wool and down, the air was still biting, but the space beneath the blankets had finally begun to warm. Daffa lay as stiff as a board on the far right side, his back to Clarisse, trying to control his breathing.

“Daffa?” her voice was small, muffled by the duvet.

“Yeah?”

“You’re so far on the edge you’re going to fall off.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got plenty of room.”

“You’re shaking the bed because you’re shivering. Move closer. I’m not going to bite you.”

Daffa hesitated, then slid back a few inches. He felt the warmth radiating from her, the familiar scent of jasmine and rain now mixed with the smell of old cedar.

“Better?” he asked.

“A little,” she whispered. Then, after a long pause, “Daffa, about that note in the lobby.”

Daffa turned over, his eyes adjusting to the dark. He could see the outline of her face just inches from his. “The one you said was a prank?”

“It wasn't a prank,” she admitted, her voice trembling. “The ‘Singapore Incident’… it was the reason my father’s last merger failed. He had a man—an analyst just like you—who found out too much about the Chairman’s offshore accounts. He didn't just get fired. He vanished. My father told everyone he moved to Europe, but I saw the files. I saw what happened to his bank accounts. They were liquidated. His life was erased.”

Daffa felt a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. “And the note was a warning.”

“It was a threat,” Clarisse said, a single tear escaping and tracing a path down her cheek. “My father doesn't just want me to marry Julian for the money. He wants to lock me into a system where I can’t talk. And you… you’re a liability to him now. You’re too good at your job.”

“So I’m the next sacrifice?” Daffa asked, his voice low.

“I won’t let him,” she said, her hand reaching out from under the covers to find his. Her fingers were ice cold. “I thought I could just use you to buy time, but Daffa… you keep saving me. And the more you save me, the more I’m putting you in danger.”

Daffa squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “I knew what I was signing up for, Clarisse. Well, maybe not the disappearing part, but I knew you were the Ice Queen for a reason. You were protecting yourself.”

“I’m tired of protecting myself,” she whispered, moving closer until her forehead rested against his chest. “The contract… it ends in a year. I keep thinking about what happens on day three hundred and sixty-six. I go back to being a Bautista, and you go back to being a stranger.”

“Is that what you want?”

“No,” she said, the word catching in her throat. “I don't think I’ve wanted that since the elevator.”

Daffa felt a surge of heat that had nothing to do with the blankets. He reached up, his hand cupping her cheek, wiping the tear away. “Clarisse, if we do this—if we move past the contract—there’s no going back. Your father will see it as a betrayal.”

“He already thinks we’re in love, Daffa. Why not give him the truth for once?” She looked up at him, her eyes searching his in the moonlight. “I don’t want the year to end. I don’t want to wake up in that penthouse alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Daffa said, his voice thick with emotion. “I’m right here. I’ve been right here since I unzipped that dress.”

Clarisse let out a soft, broken laugh. “You’re such an idiot. You could have taken the money and run.”

“I’m a bad businessman,” Daffa murmured, leaning down. “I always over-invest in high-risk assets.”

“Am I a high-risk asset?”

“The highest,” he whispered.

Clarisse didn't wait for him to close the distance. She surged upward, her lips meeting his in a kiss that was desperate, raw, and completely devoid of the calculated precision she usually carried. Daffa groaned, his hands finding her waist and pulling her flush against him. The cold of the room vanished, replaced by an inferno of months of suppressed tension and hidden glances.

She pulled back just an inch, her breath hitching. “The rules, Daffa. The contract. Clause four, section two… no physical intimacy beyond public requirements.”

Daffa’s hands slid up her back, his fingers tangling in her hair. “I’m an analyst, Clarisse. I’ve reviewed the data.”

“And?” she breathed.

“The contract is null and void,” Daffa said, his eyes dark with a fire she had never seen. “We’re rewriting the terms. Starting now.”

Clarisse’s response was to pull him back down, her hands frantic as they moved to the buttons of his shirt. “Forget the year. I just want tonight.”

“You have it,” Daffa promised, his voice a low growl against her skin. “You have all of it.”

Outside, the mountain wind howled against the timber walls, and the frost continued to crawl across the glass, but inside the small bedroom, the cold had no power. In the darkness of the cabin, the VP and the Analyst finally stopped playing their parts, leaving the contract and the Chairman’s threats behind as they lost themselves in a night that was never supposed to happen.