I start typing:
Mare, I need to talk to you. I can’t leave the
I delete it because Maren would panic and call the police. Or worse, she’d show up at the gate with a lawyer, a baseball bat, and righteous fury that starts well-intentioned and ends disastrously.
Then I lose this job, its salary, and the only thing standing between Landon and me.
I type instead:
Hey, Mare, not feeling great actually. Rain check? Next week for sure.
MARE
Absolutely! Feel better, babe.
Taking the file, I sit on the bed and start reading.
Section one. Standard employment terms: duration, compensation, duties. The salary is generous. I knew this. It’s the reason I’m here instead of in Landon’s apartment, paying for safety at a cost higher than money.
Section two. Confidentiality. The NDA is not standard. It’s a thirty-seven-page swath of the most aggressive legal language I’ve ever encountered outside of a courtroom drama.
I cannot discuss, disclose, reference, describe, imply, suggest, or in any way communicate information regarding the household, its residents, its staff, its operations, its security protocols, its visitors, its schedules, its finances, its affiliations, or its “business-related activities” — a phrase so deliberately vague it could cover everything from tax filings to murder.
The penalty for breach is not termination. It’s a financial penalty — $500,000 — payable immediately upon violation, enforceable in civil court.
Five hundred thousand dollars, almost the amount I oweLandon. As if someone calculated the precise number that would make the NDA not only binding but existential.
I stare at the number and read it again. A cold knot settles in my stomach.
I read on.
Section three. Residential protocols. The curfew. The restricted areas. The monitored Wi-Fi. Everything Mikhail told me during orientation codified in legal language that transforms suggestions into obligations.
I notice something I missed — or that Mikhail didn’t mention. The estate’s surveillance system includes cameras in all common areas and corridors. The contract states that by signing, I acknowledge and consent to being recorded in these spaces.
I’ve been on camera every day since I set foot in this place. Someone — Rolan — could have been watching.
The cold knot in my stomach spreads.
Section four. The section he quoted. I find clause seven.
The employer reserves the right to restrict the contractor’s movement to and from the premises when deemed necessary for security purposes. Such restriction may be imposed without prior notice and shall remain in effect for as long as the employer deems necessary. The contractor acknowledges that this provision is a material condition of employment and agrees to comply fully.
The language is iron-clad. No ambiguity, no escape clause. If the employer deems it necessary, the contractor stays. Period.
I read the entire contract. Every page, clause, and footnote. It takes three hours.
By the time I finish, my head is pounding, my eyes are burning, and I have a comprehensive understanding of how utterly trapped I am.
I can’t talk about what happens in this house. I can’t leave this house without permission. I can’t enter certain parts of this house. I’m recorded in the parts I can enter. And the financialpenalty for violating any of this is calibrated to the exact amount that would destroy me — as if the contract was written not for an employee but forthisemployee, for a woman with already $478,540 in debt and no resources and no alternatives.
I think about Landon and his loan agreements that my father signed. The guarantor clauses I didn’t read. The way a document can look like a lifeline and function as a noose.
I signed another one.
I look at the contract spread across my bed. Three hundred and twelve pages of language that says:You are ours.
Different document. Different man. Same cage.
