7
1213 Words
Chapter 7 – Paperwork and Hope
The contract glowed on Diva Hart’s cracked laptop screen. A promise. A potential threat. The apartment held the quiet grief of empty spaces, not peaceful, just hollow. The fridge hummed. Upstairs, a muffled argument rose and fell.
Diva sat cross-legged on the couch, laptop on her knees, one sock missing. Her hair was a half-finished knot. She scrolled the PDF, stopped, scrolled back.
“Okay,” she said to the silence. “The right way.”
She reached for the printed copy on the coffee table. Pages wrinkled from relentless folding. She’d tried to smooth them flat, as if she could press out the anxiety too.
“Page one. Names. Addresses. Legal stuff.” Her voice felt too loud. “Employer: Cross Consolidated Holdings. Employee: Diva Hart.”
Seeing her name beside theirs was jarring. A small smile touched her mouth. “Weird.”
She read on. “Terms of employment. At-will. Figures.”
Her phone buzzed. She flinched.
A text from Talia: Did you hear back??
Diva exhaled a laugh. Thumb-typing: I think I just accidentally joined the 1%.
Three dots. Then: SHUT UP.
“I wish I was joking,” Diva muttered. She set the phone face-down.
The tug-of-war inside her was visceral. One part wanted to scream the news from the rooftop. The other was certain saying it aloud would make it vanish.
She flipped to the benefits section. “Health, dental, vision. Retirement matching.” Her voice softened. “Dad would have loved this.”
The words hung. She swallowed. “Sorry. Not supposed to be emotional.”
But it already was. She rubbed her thumb along the paper’s edge.
“Confidentiality. Non-disclosure. Non-compete.” Her brow furrowed. “Intense. But okay.” She’d seen worse. Temp agencies loved to scare you into silence.
She flipped pages. Checked numbers like a countdown. Twenty-three. Thirty-one. Thirty-nine.
Her phone buzzed again. She answered without looking.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” Talia’s voice was breathless. “Are you alive?”
“I think so. Reading.”
“Is it bad?”
“No. It’s… really generous.”
A pause. “So why do you sound like you’re waiting for a jump scare?”
Diva glanced at the thick stack. “Because things like this don’t happen to me.”
“Fair. Read the fine print. Out loud. Slowly. Pretend you’re a lawyer who hates rich people.”
Diva laughed. “I can do that.”
“Call me if you find anything weird. Or if you don’t.”
She hung up.
Page forty-two. She slowed, finger tracing the paragraphs.
“Executive Assistant responsibilities. Scheduling. Travel. Document prep.” She nodded. “Personal errands as needed.” She tilted her head. “Vague.” She read on. “Professional and personal support.”
Her stomach tightened. She brushed it off. “Assistants do personal stuff. Normal.”
Page forty-five. She took a breath. “Almost there.”
Her eyes scanned the heading: Additional Terms and Acknowledgments. Her pulse quickened. This was where they hid things.
“Employee agrees to adhere to all company policies…” Fine. “Employees acknowledge the unique demands of executive-level proximity…”
She paused. “Proximity?”
She reread the sentence. “Unique demands.” Her shoulders tensed. She pushed forward.
Page forty-six. Her phone buzzed. She ignored it, reading faster now, eagerness and dread twin engines.
“Waiver of certain privacy expectations in accordance with…”
She stopped. Her breath caught.
“What?”
She went back to the line. Reread it.
Her heart pounded. “Corporate language. Has to be.”
But her hands began to shake.
She read the next paragraph. Then the next. Each sentence added weight to her chest. The language shifted to be more specific, more invasive.
“Employees understand that the nature of executive support requires access to personal spaces, communications, and schedules…”
Her mouth went dry. “Access to personal spaces?”
She kept reading. “Employees may be required to accompany employers to private residences, personal events, and non-business travel…”
Her pulse hammered in her ears. “Assistants travel. Normal.”
The next line stopped her cold.
“Employee acknowledges that professional boundaries may differ from traditional office environments and agrees to maintain discretion regarding all aspects of employer’s personal and professional life…”
“Professional boundaries may differ,” she repeated slowly. Her stomach twisted.
She flipped the page with trembling hands.
Page forty-seven. The heading: Compensation for Additional Duties.
Her eyes scanned, searching for the thing she feared.
“In consideration of the comprehensive nature of this position, employees will receive…”
She saw the number. Her eyes widened.
“That can’t be right.”
The base salary was staggering. But there was a second line.
Additional compensation for personal availability: $75,000 annually.
“Personal availability,” she whispered. Her hands shook.
She forced herself onward.
“Employees understand that this role requires flexibility in schedule, location, and scope of duties. Employees may be asked to provide support during non-traditional hours…”
Her throat tightened. “Non-traditional hours.”
Next section. Lifestyle Expectations.
“Oh, God.”
“Employees agree to maintain professional appearance and demeanor at all times when representing the employer, including at social functions, personal events, and private gatherings…”
“Private gatherings.” Her mind raced through possibilities, each worse than the last.
Page forty-eight.
“Employee acknowledges that proximity to high-net-worth individuals requires enhanced security protocols, including but not limited to: background checks, monitoring of communications, and restrictions on public discussion of employment…”
“Monitoring of communications?” She stared at her face-down phone as if it were a stranger’s.
She read slower now, approaching a threat.
“Employees will be required to sign additional NDAs covering specific projects, personal matters, and confidential business dealings…”
“Specific projects. Personal matters.” The words blurred.
Page forty-nine. Final section. Termination Clause. Her heart sank.
“Employment may be terminated at any time for any reason. In the event of termination, the employee agrees to return all company property, delete all communications, and maintain absolute confidentiality…”
She read the next part three times.
“Violation of confidentiality will result in legal action, including but not limited to financial damages of no less than $500,000…”
“Half a million dollars,” she breathed.
Her hands dropped to her lap, contract gripped tight.
The apartment was silent. The fridge hummed. The argument upstairs had ended.
Diva sat perfectly still.
“This is insane.”
But her mind was already calculating. The money was real. The benefits were real. She needed it. God, she needed it.
Her father’s face. The stack of bills. The crushing weight of the last six months.
She thought of Cross in his office. His gaze hadn’t been predatory. Just intense. Focused.
“It’s just a job,” she told the quiet room. “A very specific job.”
Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
She reached for her phone. I opened it. Stared at Talia’s last message. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
Then, she set the phone down.
She looked at the contract.
Page forty-nine.
The signature line at the bottom was blank. Expectant.
She picked up the pen.
- Writer
