THE NDA

THE NDABOOK 5CHAPTER 11: THE DAUGHTER

THE NDA

BOOK 5

CHAPTER 11: THE DAUGHTER

The little girl at the door had my eyes and Damian’s jaw.

And a sign that said "Mama?" in crayon.

I hit the floor before Damian caught me.

"Zara," he said. "Breathe. Breathe."

Victoria stood behind the girl. Smiling like she’d just delivered a pizza.

"Meet Hope Cole," she said. "3 years old. IQ 148. Speaks 3 languages. We’ve been raising her at the Facility."

"Give her to me," I whispered.

"Not yet," Victoria said. "First, we talk."

The girl looked at me. Then at Damian. "Are you my daddy?"

Damian went to his knees. "Yes, baby. I’m your daddy."

"And you’re my mama?" she asked me.

I couldn’t speak. I nodded.

Victoria stepped inside without being invited. "She’s been asking for you for 3 years. We told her you were on a mission."

"What did you do to her?" I asked.

"Nothing," Victoria said. "We loved her. Educated her. Trained her."

"Trained her for what?"

"For this," Victoria said. She pulled out a tablet.

Video: Hope. Age 2. Sitting at a computer. Coding.

"She built half the AI," Victoria said. "With your DNA and Damian’s brain. She’s Project ENEU 2.0."

My stomach dropped. "You used my baby."

"We perfected her," Victoria said. "Now, we want to give her back. With conditions."

"There are no conditions," Damian said. "She’s our daughter."

"She is," Victoria said. "And she’s also company property. Per the contract you signed 3 years ago. Section 8: All offspring of Asset Zara are Cole Group assets."

I stood. Shaking. "You don’t own her."

"Actually," Victoria said, "we do. But we’re willing to sell."

"How much?"

"50 million," she said. "Or 10 years of service. From both of you."

The room went quiet.

Hope walked to me. Put her small hand in mine. "Mama, are you sad?"

"No baby," I said. "Mama’s not sad anymore."

I looked at Victoria. "We don’t have 50 million."

"I know," she said. "So here’s option 2. You come back to work. Both of you. Remote. From home. 10 years. And she comes home with you today."

Damian looked at me. "What do we do?"

I looked at Hope. At her eyes. My eyes.

"We say yes," I said.

Victoria smiled. "Excellent. Sign here."

New contract. 10 years. Remote work.

I signed. Zara Okoye.

Damian signed. Damian Cole.

Victoria handed me Hope. "Take care of our asset."

She left.

The door closed.

And it was just us. Three of us.

Hope looked up at me. "Can I call you Mama?"

I broke.

"Yes baby," I sobbed. "You can call me Mama forever."

That night we didn’t sleep.

We told her stories. She told us about the Facility. About the teachers. About the other kids.

"Are there more of me?" she asked.

"Yes," Damian said. "But they’re not you."

"Good," she said. "I don’t want to share Mama."

At 3AM she fell asleep between us.

At 6AM my laptop pinged.

Work assignment.

Build AI Module 9. Due Friday.

- The Board

It started again.

Day 1 of 10 years.

We set up an office in the living room. Two laptops.

Hope played on the floor while we worked.

At 12PM a delivery came. Food. Clothes. Toys.

And a camera. In the teddy bear.

Damian threw it out the window.

At 6PM another email: Performance review. 94%. Good.

At 9PM Hope asked: "Mama, why do you cry when you work?"

"Because I’m happy," I lied.

On Day 7, Layo showed up.

"You didn’t tell me," she said.

"Tell you what?"

"That they had her," she said. "That they’d use her against you."

"You knew?" I asked.

"I suspected," she said. "I’m sorry."

"Get out," Damian said.

"No," Layo said. "I’m here to help. They’re going to ask you to do something in month 3. Something you won’t want to do."

"What?" I asked.

"They’re going to ask you to wipe her," she said. "To make her forget you. So she’s easier to control."

I pulled Hope closer. "Never."

"That’s what I thought you’d say," Layo said. "So I’m here to get you out. For real this time."

"How?" Damian asked.

"I have a boat," she said. "In 3 days. Midnight. No tracking. No board."

"We can’t leave," I said. "The contract—"

"Is worth nothing if you’re dead," she said. "Or if they take her again."

She left.

That night I couldn’t sleep.

Damian was awake too.

"What if this is another test?" he asked.

"What if it’s not?" I said.

On Day 10, the assignment changed.

New task: Memory calibration on Asset Hope.

To increase AI efficiency.

It was a program. To wipe her memories of us.

"They’re doing it already," I said. "Through the teddy bear camera. Through the lessons."

Damian smashed the laptop. "No."

At 11PM there was a knock.

Not Layo.

Police.

"Mr. and Mrs. Cole," they said. "We have a warrant. For the child."

"What?" I said.

"Cole Group is reporting her missing," the officer said. "We have to take her into protective custody."

"No!" I held Hope.

Damian stepped in front of me. "You’re not taking her."

"Sir, don’t make this difficult."

Hope started crying. "Mama! Don’t let them!"

I looked at Damian.

He looked at me.

And we made the choice.

We ran.

Out the back door. Into the car.

Police behind us.

We drove for 4 hours. No destination.

Just away.

At 3AM we stopped in a bush in Ogun State.

Hope was asleep in the back. Exhausted from crying.

"Now what?" Damian asked.

"Now we call Layo," I said.

She answered on the first ring. "I was waiting."

"Where’s the boat?"

"Lagos Marina. Dock 9. 2 hours."

We drove.

At 5AM we were at the marina.

The boat was small. Fast.

Layo was there. "Get on."

We did.

Hope woke up. "Where are we going?"

"On an adventure," I said.

The boat pulled away.

As we hit open water, my phone buzzed.

Last message from Victoria:

You have 24 hours to return the asset.

After that, we activate her.

And she won’t remember you.

- V

"What does that mean?" Damian asked.

"It means they have a kill switch," Layo said. "In her. In all of you. If they activate it, she forgets everything. Becomes a blank."

I held Hope. "They can’t."

"They can," Layo said. "Unless we get her to a doctor. In 24 hours."

"Where?"

"Benin Republic," Layo said. "12 hours away. Doctor who can remove it."

We sailed.

For 12 hours I didn’t let go of Hope.

Damian didn’t let go of me.

At 5PM we docked in Cotonou.

Doctor was waiting. Old man. No questions.

He scanned Hope. "Yes. There is a chip. At the base of her skull."

"Can you remove it?"

"I can try," he said. "50/50."

"Do it," I said.

He did.

3 hours.

When he came out, he was smiling. "She’s clean."

I cried.

Hope woke up. "Mama?"

"I’m here baby," I said. "I’m always here."

We stayed in Benin for 1 week.

No phones. No internet.

Just us.

On Day 8, Layo came back. "They’re looking for you. Everywhere."

"Let them look," I said.

"What now?" Damian asked.

"Now we disappear," Layo said. "For real. New names. New country. No Cole."

"Where?" I asked.

"Argentina," she said. "I have a place. No extradition. No Cole Group."

We agreed.

On the flight, Hope slept on my chest.

Damian held my hand.

At 30,000 feet, I felt free for the first time.

We landed in Buenos Aires.

New apartment. Small. Sunny.

New names: The Reyes family.

Month 1: We healed.

Month 2: Hope started school.

Month 3: Damian got a job. Construction.

Month 4: I taught English online.

No cameras. No board. No monitor.

At Month 6, I got a letter.

No return address.

Inside: A photo. Of us. At the beach last week.

And a note:

We see you.

We’ve always seen you.

10 years isn’t over.

It’s just paused.

See you soon.

- V

Damian burned it.

"We’re not going back," he said.

"No," I said. "We’re not."

At Month 9, Hope asked: "Mama, why do bad people keep finding us?"

"Because we’re important," I said.

"Are we important because we’re special?"

"Yes baby," I said. "You’re the most special."

On Month 12, exactly 1 year after the marina,

There was a knock.

3AM.

Damian answered.

Standing there: A man in a suit.

And behind him: 10 men with guns.

"Mr. and Mrs. Reyes?" the man said. "Or should I say, Mr. and Mrs. Cole?"

"What do you want?" Damian asked.

"Victoria sends her regards," the man said. "And a reminder. You have 9 years left on your contract."

He handed Damian a tablet.

On it: Live feed. Of Hope. In her bed. Asleep.

"She’s already here," the man said. "In the next room. Would you like to see her?"

Damian looked at me.

I looked at Hope’s empty bed.

They’d taken her. Again.

The man smiled. "Shall we go home?"

Damian grabbed my hand.

And we walked out.

Because that’s what you do when they take your child.

You follow them to hell.

As the car drove away, I saw it on a billboard:

WELCOME TO COLE GROUP ARGENTINA.

HOME IS WHERE THE CONTRACT IS.

And underneath: A photo of our family.

From yesterday.

They’d been watching the whole time.

Phase 7: Retrieval.

Complete.

The car doors locked.

And we drove back to the tower.