The Salaryman's Soul-Sucking Contract

Chapter 9: Breaking the Non-Disclosure Agreement

Chapter 9: Breaking the Non-Disclosure Agreement

The morning light didn’t just peek through the curtains; it flooded the cabin with a soft, golden warmth that felt entirely too peaceful for a man who had spent the last year living in a state of constant tactical anxiety. Daffa shifted, the heavy wool blankets rustling against his skin. The cold was gone, replaced by the radiating heat of the woman currently using his chest as a pillow.

He didn’t move. He didn’t even want to breathe too loudly. For the first time since the elevator, the world felt quiet.

"I can hear your brain whirring, Daffa. It’s ruining the vibe," Clarisse murmured, her voice thick with sleep. She didn’t pull away; instead, she tightened her arm across his waist.

Daffa smiled, staring up at the timber ceiling. "Is my brain really that loud? I thought I was being incredibly zen."

"You have a 'thinking' heartbeat," she said, finally lifting her head. Her obsidian hair was a chaotic mess, her eyes were slightly puffy, and she looked more beautiful than she ever had in a boardroom. "It’s fast. Analytical. You’re already calculating the risk-to-reward ratio of last night, aren’t you?"

"Actually, I was wondering if you’d still fire me if I asked you to make the coffee," Daffa joked, his hand reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from her face.

Clarisse let out a soft laugh, a sound that felt like a secret shared just for him. "Consider yourself lucky. I’m feeling uncharacteristically generous today. But don't get used to it. The Ice Queen doesn't usually do domesticity."

"I don't know," Daffa said, his voice dropping an octave. "I think I like this version better. The 'Reborn' Clarisse. She’s a lot more dangerous than the one in the Chanel suit."

"Is that so?" she whispered, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Then maybe we should stay in this bed until the Board members start banging on the door."

"As much as I love that plan, we have a scheduled 'nature walk' with Director Santoso and his wife in an hour," Daffa reminded her, though he didn't move an inch.

Clarisse groaned, burying her face back into his neck. "I hate the retreat. I hate the small talk. I hate pretending that I care about Mrs. Santoso’s prize-winning orchids."

"Then let's not," Daffa said, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Let's be 'those' people. The ones who get lost on the trail and don't show up for the group lunch."

Clarisse pulled back, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her lips. "Are you suggesting we engage in a series of highly unprofessional disappearances throughout the day, Mr. Wicaksana?"

"I’m suggesting that the contract is null and void, and I intend to take full advantage of the new terms," he replied.

"I like the way you think, Analyst. Now, go find that coffee. I’ll see if I can find something to wear that doesn't scream 'Vice President.'"

*

Two hours later, the mist had cleared from the valley, leaving the Puncak highlands sparkling under a brilliant blue sky. Daffa and Clarisse had successfully avoided the main group by the simple expedient of taking the "advanced" trail—a path so steep and overgrown that no board member over the age of fifty would dare attempt it.

They found themselves at a secluded gazebo perched on a cliff edge, miles away from the prying eyes of the Bautista inner circle.

"Check the perimeter, Daffa," Clarisse teased, leaning against the wooden railing. "Any corporate spies in the bushes?"

"Clear," Daffa laughed, dropping his backpack on the bench. "Just us and the squirrels. And I’m pretty sure the squirrels aren't on your father’s payroll."

"Don't be so sure. He’s very thorough," she said, stepping toward him. She had swapped her designer gear for a simple white linen shirt and jeans, looking younger and more free than Daffa had ever seen her.

He pulled her into his arms, the scent of the mountain pines mixing with her jasmine perfume. "You’re actually relaxed. It’s a good look on you."

"It’s an terrifying look on me," she corrected, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I don’t know what to do with my hands when I’m not holding a tablet or a glass of scotch."

"I can think of a few things," Daffa whispered.

He kissed her then, a deep, slow exploration that tasted of freedom. They were miles away from the "Project Kraken" files and the shadow of the Van der Meers. For a few hours, they weren't the VP and the Analyst. They were just two people who had found each other in the wreckage of a corporate war.

"Daffa," she gasped against his lips, her hands sliding under his shirt. "If we get caught out here, the scandal will be the least of our problems."

"Then we better not get caught," he murmured, lifting her onto the wooden railing of the gazebo.

The "adventurous encounters" Clarisse had joked about earlier weren't just talk. There was a frantic, electric energy between them—a need to reclaim their own bodies after months of playing a part. In the quiet of the mountain, under the shade of the ancient trees, they weren't performing for a camera or a Chairman. They were finally, undeniably real.

*

By late afternoon, as the sun began to dip behind the ridges, they were walking slowly back toward the cabin, their fingers interlaced. The silence between them was no longer heavy; it was comfortable, filled with the quiet confidence of a shared secret.

"We have to do it, don't we?" Clarisse asked, her voice soft as they reached the porch.

"Tell your father?" Daffa asked.

"Yeah. The truth. Not the 'whirlwind romance' version, but the real one. That I’m done with the contracts. That I’m done being an asset."

Daffa stopped, turning her to face him. "You know what that means. He’ll try to strip you of everything. The title, the shares, the legacy."

"Let him," Clarisse said, her eyes steady and fierce. "I’ve spent ten years building his empire. I think I’m ready to start building my own. And I don't want to do it alone."

Daffa felt a lump form in his throat. "I’m not going anywhere, Clarisse. I’ve survived an elevator crash, a blackmail attempt, and a night in a freezing cabin with you. I think I’m over-leveraged in this relationship to back out now."

"You’re a terrible businessman, Daffa Wicaksana," she whispered, leaning her forehead against his.

"But I’m a very loyal analyst," he replied. "We tell him tomorrow. After the final board breakfast. We walk in there, hand in hand, and we resign from the lie."

"Together?"

"Together."

*

The evening was quiet. They had skipped the formal gala dinner, claiming exhaustion from the mountain air. Clarisse was in the small bathroom, the sound of the shower hissing behind the door, while Daffa sat on the edge of the bed, organizing his bag for the morning departure.

He felt a strange sense of peace. The "Singapore Incident" from the note still lingered in the back of his mind, but looking at Clarisse’s genuine smile throughout the day had pushed the fear aside. She wasn't the monster the note implied. She was a survivor, just like him.

His foot brushed against something under the nightstand. He leaned down and pulled out Clarisse’s tablet. It was left on, the screen dimmed but not locked.

"Clarisse? You left your tablet out!" he called out over the sound of the water.

There was no answer, just the steady hum of the shower.

Daffa went to set it on the nightstand, but his thumb accidentally brushed the screen, waking it up. He expected to see a spreadsheet or a news feed.

Instead, he saw a secure cloud folder.

At the top of the list, a file was highlighted, marked with a date from only three days ago—the day after the archive incident.

The title read: PHASE 2: THE SCAPEGOAT.

Daffa’s heart skipped a beat. He shouldn't look. He should put it down. But the word 'Scapegoat' felt like a cold hand tightening around his throat.

He tapped the file.

It wasn't a business report. It was a legal strategy document, drafted in Clarisse’s personal digital handwriting.

“In the event of a regulatory audit regarding the North Kalimantan discrepancies, all liability is to be redirected to the Lead Strategic Analyst. Evidence of unauthorized access via executive credentials (see: Archive Logs) has been staged. Subject (D. Wicaksana) has signed a cohabitation agreement that establishes a pattern of manipulative behavior. Once the Van der Meer merger is neutralized, the subject will be terminated for cause, shielding the VP and the Chairman from further scrutiny.”

Daffa stared at the screen, the words blurring as the blood rushed to his ears.

Staged.

Manipulative behavior.

Terminated for cause.

The date on the file was recent. It had been updated after the gala. After the first time she had told him she trusted him.

"Daffa? Are you still out there?" Clarisse’s voice came from the bathroom, followed by the sound of the water cutting off. "Can you grab me a towel? I think I left mine on the chair."

Daffa didn't move. He couldn't move. He looked at the tablet, then at the bathroom door, then back at the words: Phase 2: The Scapegoat.

Everything—the kiss in the dark, the "nature walk," the promise to tell her father the truth—flashed before his eyes, but this time, it didn't look like romance. It looked like a very well-executed audit.

"Daffa?"

The door opened, and Clarisse stepped out, wrapped in a cloud of steam and a white robe, a genuine, warm smile on her face.

"Is everything okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."

Daffa slowly looked up at her, the tablet still clutched in his shaking hand. The silence in the cabin was no longer peaceful. It was the silence of a trap door swinging shut.

"Clarisse," he said, his voice sounding like it belonged to a stranger. "What’s Phase 2?"