Forceful NDA
1090 Words
KAIA
I freeze for a second. Just one.
Because those eyes…
They hit me like a sucker punch straight to the gut.
Where have I seen them?
Where?
Huh…
But I need this job.
So I swallow it. Tuck whatever the hell that feeling was deep down with the rest of my emotional trash pile and step in, determined not to flinch.
The door clicks shut behind me.
The office looks exactly like the man sitting in it—sharp. Clean lines. No fluff. Dark wood desk that gleams under the soft light. A single black-and-white photograph of a mountain range on the wall behind him, framed like it costs a fortune. No clutter. No coffee mug stains. Not even a pen out of place.
I glance down at the man, not the desk. Specifically, the small white rectangle pinned to his scrub pocket.
Dr. Caius Wolfe.
I say it in my head. Caius. Wolfe. The name sounds like warning.
Except… I might’ve said it out loud.
Because he looks up, one brow barely twitching, nose almost flared.
“Yeah. That’s me. Take a seat.”
He says, voice deep and hell, may I say, delicious? He points to the seat opposite him without even looking in my face.
Is it just me or he's… mean?
But I say nothing as I step closer, fingers clutched between themselves behind me before I draw out the chair softly and settle down, careful not to make a noise or a mess.
He's silent for a moment before lifting his gaze to mine and then, his icy blue eyes clash with mine again. Then, I finally give myself a chance to take him in.
He looks tall… and broad and… hairy, especially from the hair peeking between the v-line of his scrubs which he places a white coat on.
He looks young and old at the same time.
Thin pink lips, straight princely nose and long hair that's packed in a bun. He's handsome.
I didn't realise I've been staring for too long until he clears his throat, jerking me out of my thoughts.
“You should have read somewhere not to stare at strangers unabashedly.” He says, a demeaning look on his face.
And who said I was staring unabashedly?
I want to ask, but I keep my gaze down, eyes on my fingers between my thighs.
He clicks his tongue and gets to work as he takes a file from a pack of files and slips it out.
He opens it between his long, veiny hands. There’s a silver ring on one finger.
Plain and unreadable just like him.
“Kaia Merrick,” he reads aloud like it tastes off. “Top of your class. Internship at… Memorial. No prior job experience.”
I fight the urge to shrink. “Yes, sir. I, uh, had to put things on pause after the internship… family stuff. But I’ve kept my license active. Took every online recertification I could. I’m ready.”
He doesn’t even blink as his eyes meet mine. He just holds them a little longer than necessary before diverting his gaze.
He flips the page.
“And now you’re in Sundale.”
I nod. “Fresh start.”
“Fresh starts are illusions,” he says, without looking at me.
Okay. Wow.
Thanks, Freud.
He keeps reading like he's looking for a reason to toss me out. “No references.”
“I wasn’t in a place to ask anyone,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “But I can get them—if needed.”
He finally looks up.
And for a second, his gaze is so damn intense I swear he’s looking through me. Like he already knows the answers. Like he’s not asking to find out and he’s just asking to watch me squirm.
“Your interview results were excellent,” he says after a long beat. “Your medical reasoning. Your ethics.”
Relief skitters down my spine.
“I—I’m really grateful for the opportunity. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d—”
“But.”
He cuts me off.
And just like that, the room goes cold again.
He reaches into the drawer beside him, pulls out another file—this one heavier, thicker. The kind of folder that looks like it could end a career or bury a body.
“This.”
He slides it across the table toward me. Calm. Precise.
I stare at it for a second.
Then I open it.
It’s an NDA.
Not a basic one-page form. Instead, there's three thick, crisp pages of legal fine print.
I stare at the NDA like it’s going to rewrite itself into something sane.
Non-disclosure of all activities beyond clinical duties… biological anomalies… permanent gag order even in cases of legal inquiry?
I blink again as I skim through.
What the actual hell?
My fingers twitch against the paper. I want to laugh, ask if this is a perk of the job or some kind of clinic-wide cosplay thing. Biological anomaly? Are they doing some experiments? Like, I get an anomaly with my paycheck too?
Please fly me to the undiscovered part of space if I need to start fearing the unknown now.
But I don’t say anything. Or spew all the curses brewing, and all the, ‘what the f**k, you gotta be kidding me!’
Because this is my shot.
My job. My clean slate.
And something about the way he’s watching me, stone-still, unreadable, spine straight like a soldier, tells me this isn’t a man who jokes. He doesn’t play.
So I clear my throat and go for neutral. “Is this… normal?”
He tilts his head a fraction, assessing me. “You’d be surprised what becomes normal around here.”
That doesn’t help.
“I’m guessing this isn’t about HIPAA,” I say, keeping my voice even, though my skin prickles. “This… goes way beyond patient confidentiality.”
“It does,” he says simply. “But if you intend to stay, you’ll need to sign it before your shift begins.”
I glance back at the paper.
Back at him.
Then to the paper again.
I want to ask why. I want to ask what the hell I’m actually walking into. But I also want to feed my daughter, enroll her in a good school, and live.
So I press my lips together and say, “And if I don’t sign?”
His reply is immediate. “Then you don’t work here.”
- Writer
