My tablet sits on the glass surface. A laptop beside it, screen dimmed but not dark. Keys to the restaurant—the heavy, antique-looking set with the small Italian flag keychain. The Lambo fob. Evidence of my real life scattered strategically to reinforce what she’s walking into. The careful illusion of normalcy surrounding the trap.
I pick up my phone like it’s an afterthought, scrolling through it with practiced indifference. The document is already there, waiting. Has been since last night when I drafted it in bed.
“IfI let you stay—” I glance up, one eyebrow raised in warning, the subtle emphasis on “if” hanging between us, “—we’ll need a contract. To make sure you clearly understand my expectations.”
I continue scrolling, as if reviewing the terms myself for the first time, though I’ve memorized every clause, every condition.
I extend the phone toward her, my face impassive, arm steady. Another test.
Will she read before she signs?
Will she question the terms?
Or is she so desperate, so broken by whatever she’s running from, that she’ll agree to anything?
The answer will tell me everything I need to know about how to handle Little Miss Take.
Her fingers brush against mine as she takes the device, and something electric jolts through me. Sharp. Unexpected. Unwanted. A current that races up my arm and settles somewhere beneath my ribs.
I pull my hand back too quickly, a momentary lapse in control that irritates me to my core. I mask it with a step backward, creating distance. Recalibrating. Rebuilding the walls that momentary spark threatened to breach.
I watch her face carefully as she reads. Her expression shifts with each swipe of her finger across the screen. Not skimming. Not rushing. Actually reading the fine print. Interesting.
Her forehead creases—once, twice—as she processes what she’s seeing. The furrow between her brows deepens. This isn’t blind acceptance. This is scrutiny. I find myself... pleased. The desperate ones who sign without reading are boring. Predictable. They break too easily.
“What’s this?” She points to a section of the contract, looking up at me with those sharp green eyes.
“A non-disclosure agreement. Standard.” I keep my voice flat. Bored. As if we’re discussing the weather rather than the terms of her surrender.
She continues reading, brow furrowing deeper. “And this part about ‘behavioral standards’? What does this mean?”
“A contract. To ensure several things. Confidentiality, obviously. But I’ve just amended it.” A calculated lie. I drafted this last night, anticipating every question, every hesitation. “To make sure your... unreliability isn’t a factor. Read it, sign it. Then we can move on.”
Her finger hovers over another section. “Performance metrics? What does this mean exactly?”
I take a slow sip of my coffee, making her wait for my answer. The longer she waits, the more she’ll value what I say. The silence stretches between us. I watch her shift her weight from one foot to the other. Good. Let her feel the imbalance.
“It’s a comprehensive employee evaluation system based on quantitative and qualitative assessments of task completion and behavioral compliance.”
She blinks. “But what does that mean?”
“It means I’ll be monitoring how well you follow instructions. How efficiently you complete tasks. How you represent my interests.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “Ok. So… how does it work?”
I set my cup down with precise movement. “It’s a system of demerits. Based on how well you perform. If you show up late, like you did today, ten demerits.”
“And if I accumulate too many?”
“The contract explains the graduated response protocol.”
She scrolls again, her patience visibly thinning. “It says ‘appropriate corrective measures at employer’s discretion.’ What does that actually mean?”
I watch her frustration build. Every vague answer reinforces the power dynamic. She needs clarity. I provide fog.
“Is there a limit? I mean, before I get fired?” she asks, finally cutting to what she really wants to know.
“No limit. Just... consequences.”