THE NDA

THE NDA BOOK 5 CHAPTER 1: THE INTERVIEW I needed the job before I walked through the glass doors. The Cole Group tower in Victoria Island did not look like a building. It looked like a threat. Forty floors of black glass catching the Lagos sun and throwing it back at you, like it was daring you to blink first. My heels clicked against marble that probably cost more than my mother’s house in Port Harcourt. HR had sent me the address at 11:43 PM last night. “Be here 8AM sharp. Mr. Cole does not wait.” I did not sleep. I showered in cold water, ironed the only blazer I owned twice, and prayed to every God I could remember that today would be the day my debt stopped multiplying. The receptionist did not look up from her screen. “Name.” “Zara Okoye. 8AM. Personal Assistant interview.” She finally glanced at me. Took in the blazer, the cheap bag, the desperation I was trying to iron out of my face. “Floor 38. He’s waiting.” Of course he was. The elevator was glass. All of Lagos spread out under me as we rose. Traffic like ants. The ocean like spilled ink. Somewhere down there, loan sharks were probably knocking on my mother’s door again. Floor 38. The doors opened into silence. Not quiet. Silence. The kind that has money behind it. White floors. White walls. One desk. One chair. One man behind it, and he wasn’t looking at me. Damian Cole. I’d seen his face on every business blog that called him “Lagos’ Most Ruthless CEO” and “The Man Who Eats Startups For Breakfast.” 34. Built like he fought his own board meetings. Black shirt, sleeves rolled up, jaw tight like he was chewing glass. He was reading something on a tablet. Didn’t speak for 12 seconds. I counted. “Sit,” he said finally. Voice low. The kind of voice that made assistants quit. I sat. The chair was too expensive to be comfortable. “Resume,” he said. I slid it across the desk. Two pages. One degree. Three years of gap I had no good answer for. He didn’t touch it. “Tell me why I shouldn’t have my security throw you out right now.” Straight to it. Good. I hated small talk. “Because I don’t ask stupid questions,” I said. “Because I can run your calendar, your emails, your life, and never make you repeat myself twice. Because I need this job more than anyone else you’ll interview this week, and people who need things don’t get sloppy.” He looked up then. Dark eyes. Tired eyes. The eyes of a man who hadn’t been surprised in years. “Rule one,” he said. “You are never alone with me.” “Understood.” “Rule two. You don’t ask about my past.” “Understood.” “Rule three.” He leaned forward. “If I tell you to do something illegal, immoral, or insane, you do it. Then you forget you did it.” My mouth went dry. “That’s three rules.” “That’s the job.” He tapped the tablet. “You start today.” “I— today? I thought—” “You thought wrong.” He stood. He was taller standing. Everything about him was taller standing. “Come.” He walked out. I scrambled to follow. My heels echoed too loud. We passed glass offices. People looked down when he passed. Not out of respect. Out of fear. He stopped at a door with no nameplate. Swiped his card. The room inside was dark except for one wall of screens. Security footage. Dozens of them. Hallways. Elevators. Parking lot. And one screen in the center. Bigger than the rest. It was me. From last night. Walking into this building at 11:50 PM. Wearing the same blazer. Holding the same bag. My hair was down. I looked scared. My blood went cold. “I’ve never been here before.” “Liar,” he said softly. Not angry. Tired. “You were here at 11:50. You took the service elevator to floor 12. You stayed 18 minutes. Then you left.” “I don’t— I swear I—” “Rule one,” he cut me off. “You are never alone with me.” A pause. “You broke it before you even got hired.” I could feel my career, my rent, my mother’s hospital bills all sliding off a cliff. “Sir, there has to be a mistake. I was home last night. I have—” “Delete it,” he said. “What?” “The footage. Delete it. All copies. From the server, from the backup, from the cloud. Now.” I stared at the screen. At myself walking through doors I had no memory of opening. “I can’t delete something I didn’t—” “Then you’re fired,” he said. “And the police get the footage. And your mother gets a very interesting call about her daughter’s B and E.” The room tilted. “You’re blackmailing me.” “I’m employing you,” he corrected. “Delete it, Zara.” He knew my name. My hands were shaking as I sat at the terminal. Admin access. No password prompt. Like he’d been expecting me to sit here. I found the file. Timestamp: 11:50:03 PM. Location: Service Elevator B. My finger hovered over delete. “Wait,” I whispered. “Why me?” “Because you’re the only one who came back,” he said behind me. “Back?” He didn’t answer. I pressed delete. The progress bar filled. 100 percent. Gone. The big screen went black. “Good,” he said. “Your office is next door. Hours are 7AM to whenever I say stop. Salary is 1.2 million a month. Benefits start immediately.” 1.2 million. That would clear half the debt. “And one more thing,” he said as he turned to leave. “If you see yourself on camera again, and you don’t remember being there, you call me. Not security. Not HR. Me.” He walked out. Door shut. I sat in the dark with the smell of ozone and the taste of panic in my mouth. My phone buzzed in my bag. Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer. I did. A man’s voice. Not Damian’s. Older. Smoother. “Miss Okoye. This is Dr. Adeleke from the Cole Group medical department. We need you to come in for your onboarding physical. Today at 2PM.” “I didn’t schedule—” “It was scheduled three years ago,” he said. “We’ve just been waiting for you to return.” The line went dead. Three years ago. I looked down at my hands. There was a small scar on my wrist I didn’t remember getting. Thin. White. Like a paper cut that had healed wrong. The door opened again. Damian stood there. “Problem?” he asked. I shook my head. Couldn’t speak. “Good,” he said. “Then let’s go over rule one again.” I followed him out. Through the white halls. Past people who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Rule one: You are never alone with me. But the footage said I had been. And the doctor said I’d been scheduled three years ago. And the man who signed my paycheck was looking at me like he’d lost me once already. At 1:47 PM, I got an email. No subject. From Damian Cole. One line. Delete the security footage from last night. You were in it. I’d already deleted it. So why was he sending me the order again? AUTHOR'S NOTE Welcome to THE NDA. If ENEU ruined your sleep, this one will ruin your bank account. This is not a soft billionaire romance. This is a contract. And contracts have clauses. And clauses have consequences. Zara thinks she got a job. She actually sold 80 years of her life. Damian thinks he saved her. He actually damned them both. Every chapter = 1500 words of pure pain. Every chapter ends with a knife. Every chapter drops DAILY. Subscribe. Turn on notifications. When Clause 9 activates in Chapter 5, you do NOT want to be late. Let’s get addicted together. - Your Ghostwriter THE NDA BOOK 5 CHAPTER 2: THE CONTRACT The Cole Group did not have a medical department. The Cole Group had a floor. Floor 14 was white, cold, and smelled like antiseptic and money. No windows. Just doors with numbers and a nurse who checked my name off a tablet without looking at me. “Room 4,” she said. “Dr. Adeleke will be with you.” I sat on paper that crinkled under me. The gown they gave me was too big and too thin. I kept my blazer folded on my lap like armor. At 2:03 PM the door opened. Dr. Adeleke was older than I expected. 50s. Gray at the temples. He smiled like he’d practiced it in a mirror. “Miss Okoye. Finally.” “Finally?” He pulled up my file on a screen. My name. My photo. And a date at the top: 09/14/2023. Three years ago. “That’s not right,” I said. “I’ve never been here.” “Of course,” he said, still smiling. “Memory can be tricky after trauma. Let’s just get your vitals.” He didn’t ask questions. He took blood. He took scans. He took a swab from my cheek and sealed it in a bag labeled COLE GROUP - ASSET Z. ASSET. The word sat in my stomach like a stone. “Are we done?” I asked when he finished. “Almost,” he said. “HR needs you to sign your onboarding packet. Standard NDA, benefits, direct deposit.” He handed me a tablet. 47 pages. I scrolled fast. Salary. Confidentiality. Non-compete. All normal. Until page 32. NON-DISCLOSURE AND ASSET AGREEMENT This agreement entered into on 09/14/2023 between Zara Okoye and The Cole Group... My signature was at the bottom. Not a digital signature. My actual signature. The way I loop the Z. The way the A cuts sharp. I have never seen this document before in my life. “What is this?” My voice came out wrong. Small. “Just the standard renewal,” Dr. Adeleke said. “You signed the original three years ago. This is the annual compliance signature.” “I don’t remember signing anything three years ago.” He finally looked at me. The practiced smile was gone. “Most people don’t. After the procedure.” “What procedure?” “Miss Okoye,” he said gently. “You were in a car accident. September 2023. Severe head trauma. Mr. Cole’s company covered your medical bills. In exchange, you agreed to work for us when you recovered. It’s all in here.” I flipped back. Page 9. Medical Debt Assumption. Total: 42,000,000 NGN. Repayment Terms: 80 years of service or equivalent asset transfer. 80 years. I was 22 in 2023. I would be 102 when this ended. “That’s not legal,” I whispered. “It’s very legal,” he said. “You signed.” I scrolled to the last page. Clause 9. 9. REPRODUCTIVE RIGHTS AND ASSET CONTINUITY In the event of pregnancy by the Asset during term of service, all rights to offspring shall transfer to The Cole Group for proprietary and continuity purposes. The Asset shall receive a one-time compensation of 5,000,000 NGN and continued employment. I dropped the tablet. It clattered to the floor. “Get out,” I said. “Miss Okoye—” “Get. Out.” He left. Door shut soft, like he was afraid I’d break. I sat there in the paper gown with 80 years of debt and a signature I didn’t remember writing. My phone buzzed. Damian. Come to my office. Now. I didn’t change. I walked out in the gown with my blazer over my arm and my bare legs shaking. Floor 38 was empty when I got there. His door was open. He was standing at the window, back to me. Black shirt. Same as this morning. “Did you sign it?” he asked without turning. “Did I sign away 80 years of my life?” “Yes.” “Did I sign away my children?” A pause. “Yes.” I threw the tablet. It hit the wall and cracked. “I DON’T REMEMBER!” He turned then. And for one second he looked wrecked. Not CEO. Not monster. Just tired. “I know,” he said. “Then why?” “Because the alternative was worse.” He came around the desk. Stopped three feet from me. Rule one. Never alone. “You were dying, Zara. The accident. The hospital said 12 hours. Your mother couldn’t pay. I paid. And the only way legal would let me was if you signed.” “Bullshit. You could have done it as charity.” “Charity doesn’t come with an NDA,” he said. “Charity doesn’t keep people from asking why the CEO of Cole Group was in a car with you that night.” The room went quiet. “In a car with me?” “You don’t remember that either,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “Good.” I backed up until my legs hit the chair. “You erased me.” “We wiped the trauma,” he corrected. “The memories of the crash. The hospital. The signing. Legal said it was the only way you’d agree to the terms without breaking.” “So you decided for me.” “I saved you,” he said. Flat. Final. I laughed. It sounded hysterical even to me. “You saved me into slavery.” “I saved you into a job with 1.2 million a month and a team of doctors who will keep you alive,” he shot back. “Don’t pretend you’d be better off dead with your debt.” That shut me up. He walked to his desk and pulled out a drawer. Inside: a manila folder. My name on it. He didn’t open it. Just slid it across to me. “What’s this?” “Your choice,” he said. “Inside is proof of everything. The accident. The contract. The real reason you were in that car with me.” “And if I read it?” “Then you can’t work for me anymore,” he said. “Conflict of interest. You’d have to leave. Today. And the 42 million comes due immediately.” I stared at the folder. “And if I don’t read it?” “Then you stay,” he said. “And we pretend this never happened. Again.” Again. The word hung there. My phone buzzed. Another unknown number. Text: Do NOT open the folder. He’s lying. Meet me. Basement. 6PM. -L -L. The same initial he’d called me earlier. I looked up at Damian. He was watching me. Like he knew about the text. “Decision?” he asked. I picked up the folder. Heavy. Too heavy for paper. I put it in my bag. “I’ll think about it,” I said. He nodded once. “Smart girl.” I walked out. Down 38 floors. Past the nurse on 14 who pretended not to see me. Past security who scanned my bag and didn’t stop me. At 5:58 PM I stood in the basement parking garage. Concrete. Echoes. One light flickering. A woman stepped out from behind a pillar. She was me. Older. Tired. Same eyes. Same scar on her wrist. She wore a Cole Group badge. Name: LAYO OKOYE. L. “Version 3.0,” she said softly. “Took you long enough.” “What are you?” I breathed. “I’m what happens if you don’t open that folder,” she said. “I’m what happens if you do.” She held out her hand. In it: a key. Small. Silver. “This opens a locker in the basement of St. Mary’s Hospital,” she said. “Inside is the original footage from the night of the accident. Not the edited one Damian showed you.” “Why are you helping me?” “Because I’m you,” she said. “From a timeline where I opened it.” The garage lights buzzed. “And what happened to you in that timeline?” I asked. She smiled. Sad. “Damian killed me.” Footsteps. Behind us. We both turned. Damian stood at the elevator. Alone. Hands in pockets. “Zara,” he said. “Come home.” L pressed the key into my palm and closed my fingers over it. “Run,” she whispered. “Before he remembers which version of you he likes best.” The elevator dinged. And the key in my hand started to burn.AUTHOR'S NOTE ATTENTION: THE NDA IS A STARY EXCLUSIVE. This is Book 5. This is the one. 1500 words per chapter. Daily drops. Zero filler. If you love: Billionaires, memory loss, toxic power dynamics, and pain with a pretty bow... You just found your new obsession. Zara signed an NDA to live. Now she has to survive it. What’s in the folder Damian gave her? Who is the woman in the basement with her face? What does Clause 9 really mean? We’re finding out together. One chapter. One knife twist. At a time. Support the book with coins. Comment your theories. The more you scream, the faster I write. Welcome to hell, baby. It’s got air conditioning. - Your Ghostwriter THE NDA BOOK 5 CHAPTER 3: THE GHOST The key burned through my palm for six blocks. I ran out of the Cole Group tower, through the parking garage, past security who suddenly decided not to see me. The silver key in my hand pulsed like it had a heartbeat. Layo was gone by the time I looked back. Just Damian standing at the elevator, saying "come home" like I had a home to go to. I didn’t go home. I couldn’t. Home was a one-room in Surulere with my mother’s hospital bills stacked on the table and loan sharks who knew my address. Home was not safe. So I went to St. Mary’s Hospital at 7:14 PM. Basement. Locker 9. The key fit perfectly. Inside: one USB drive. No label. And a photo. Me. In a hospital bed. 2023. Tubes everywhere. And Damian. Holding my hand. Looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered. On the back, in his handwriting: "Don’t let them wipe her. Please." Them. I pocketed the USB and ran. I didn’t sleep. I sat in a 24-hour cafe in Yaba with bad coffee and worse wifi, watching the USB like it might bite me. At 6AM my phone rang. Damian. “Where are you?” “Not coming in today.” “You have to.” “I have a USB that says otherwise.” A long pause. “Don’t watch it. Not alone.” “Why? What’s on it?” “Zara,” he said, and my name in his mouth sounded broken. “Please. Come to the office. We’ll watch it together.” “Rule one,” I said. “I’m never alone with you.” He hung up. I was at my desk by 8AM anyway. Because 1.2 million a month doesn’t pay itself and 42 million doesn’t disappear because you’re scared. The office was normal. Too normal. People typing. Phones ringing. No one mentioned the girl who looked like me in the basement. Damian wasn’t in. His office was dark. At 10:33 AM a delivery came to my desk. No sender. A small box. Black. Velvet inside. A necklace. Thin gold chain. A single diamond teardrop. I knew it. I’d worn it the night of the accident. The night I don’t remember. The night in the photo. There was a note under it. His handwriting. You left this in my car. I’ve been keeping it safe. - D My hands shook. He called me "L" yesterday. He left me a necklace today. He was talking to me like I was someone he’d lost. At 12PM HR called me in. “Miss Okoye,” the HR woman said. “We need to update your emergency contact.” “My mother.” “We have her listed. We also have someone else. L. Cole.” My blood froze. “L. Cole?” “Yes. Listed as spouse. 2023.” “That’s not possible. I’m not married.” The HR woman smiled, tight. “The system says you are. To Damian Cole.” I walked out. Didn’t go back to my desk. Went straight to floor 38. His door was open. He was at the window again. “You listed me as your wife,” I said. “I didn’t,” he said without turning. “The system did. After the accident.” “The accident where you said I was dying.” “Yes.” “So which is it, Damian? Did you save me, or did you marry me?” He turned. And he looked at me. Really looked. Not like an employee. Like a ghost. “L,” he said. Soft. “Don’t call me that.” “Why not? That’s your name.” “My name is Zara.” “Your name is Layo,” he said. “Zara was the name we gave you after. To protect you.” The floor tilted. “What are you talking about?” He crossed to his desk. Opened the drawer. Pulled out the manila folder from yesterday. He opened it this time. Inside: marriage certificate. 09/13/2023. Damian Cole and Layo Okoye. Medical records. Layo Okoye. Severe trauma. Memory loss. Recommended: identity reassignment for psychological safety. And a video. On a tablet. He pressed play. Me. In a hospital bed. Awake. 2023. Damian sitting next to me, holding my hand. “L,” he says. “If you can hear me, squeeze my hand.” I squeeze. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “They did this to us. But I’m going to fix it. I’m going to give you a new life. A safe life. No Cole Group. No debt. No me.” The me on the video nods. Crying. “Promise me you’ll be Zara,” he says. “Promise me you’ll forget Layo.” “I promise,” video-me whispers. The video ends. The room was silent except for the sound of my breathing. “You did this,” I said. “You wiped me.” “I protected you,” he said. “The board wanted you gone. Permanently. Because of what you knew. Because of what we did. The only way to keep you alive was to make you someone else.” “What did we do?” He didn. He came closer. Stopped at rule one distance. “You found out they were selling people’s life debt,” he said. “You and me. We were going to expose them. But they got to us first. The car accident wasn’t an accident, Zara. It was an assassination. And you took the hit for me.” I shook my head. “I don’t— I can’t—” “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’ve been trying to stay away from you. Because every time I see you, I remember. And every time I remember, I want to pull you into this hell with me again.” My phone buzzed. Unknown number. Text: He’s lying. Watch the USB. Now. -L Layo. I looked at Damian. “I need to go.” “Where?” “Home.” “Zara,” he said. “Don’t watch it alone.” I left. I went back to the cafe. Plugged in the USB. One file. Video. Timestamp: 09/13/2023. 11:47 PM. Me. In a car. At night. Rain on the windows. Damian driving. He looks young. Desperate. “L,” he says. “If we do this, there’s no going back. The board will come for us.” Video-me: “Then let them. We have the files. We have proof.” A truck. Headlights. Swerve. Screaming. Black. The video cuts. My hands were shaking so bad I dropped the laptop. It wasn’t an accident. It was a hit. And I was the one who said "let them come." At 8PM I got another text. From Damian. My place. 9PM. Bring the USB. We need to talk. I didn’t answer. At 8:45 PM there was a knock on the cafe door. Damian. He looked wrecked. Shirt wrinkled. Eyes red. “You watched it,” he said. “How did you know where I was?” “Because I’ve been watching you for three years,” he said. “Because I promised her I would.” He sat across from me. Didn’t touch me. Rule one. “I’m not Layo,” I said. “You are,” he said. “You just don’t remember yet.” “Then make me remember.” He flinched. “I can’t. If you remember, they’ll know. And they’ll finish what they started.” “Who’s they?” “The board,” he said. “The people who own the debt. The people who own you.” My phone buzzed again. Layo. Basement. Now. Alone. He’s going to try to wipe you again. I looked up at Damian. He was staring at my neck. At the necklace I was still wearing. “You look beautiful in it,” he said quietly. “You always did.” And then he reached out. Not to touch me. To take the necklace off. His fingers brushed my skin. Cold. The lights in the cafe flickered. And from behind me, a voice: “Step away from her.” Layo. Gun in her hand. Pointed at Damian. “Version 3.0,” she said. “Time to choose. Him, or yourself.” Damian didn’t move. He just looked at me. And said: "Choose me, L. Please. Don’t let them take you again."AUTHOR'S NOTE Welcome to THE NDA. If ENEU ruined your sleep, this one will ruin your bank account. This is not a soft billionaire romance. This is a contract. And contracts have clauses. And clauses have consequences. Zara thinks she got a job. She actually sold 80 years of her life. Damian thinks he saved her. He actually damned them both. Every chapter = 1500 words of pure pain. Every chapter ends with a knife. Every chapter drops DAILY. Subscribe. Turn on notifications. When Clause 9 activates in Chapter 5, you do NOT want to be late. Let’s get addicted together. - Your Ghostwriter THE NDA BOOK 5 CHAPTER 4: THE LEAK The gun wasn’t real. I realized it three seconds after Layo said "choose" and Damian didn’t flinch. It was a taser. Black. Professional. Cole Group issue. And I was standing between them in a 24-hour cafe with a necklace around my neck and two versions of my life staring at me. "Put it down," Damian said. Calm. Like he was talking to a rabid dog. "Layo. Don’t do this." "Don’t call me that," she snapped. "That name died with her." "Then what should I call you?" he asked. "Version 3.0?" She fired. The taser hit the wall behind Damian and sparked. He didn’t move. "Run," Layo said to me. "Now." I ran. I didn’t know where. I just ran. Out of the cafe, into Lagos traffic, into rain that started at 9:12 PM like the sky decided to cry for me. My phone was buzzing non-stop. Unknown numbers. Damian. HR. My mother. I turned it off. I ended up in a hotel in Ikeja. Paid cash. Room 204. No windows. I locked the door. Three locks. And I sat on the bed with the necklace in my hands and the USB on the nightstand and tried to remember a life I never lived. At 2AM I gave up and slept. At 7AM my phone turned itself on. 200 messages. First 50: From Damian. Are you okay Answer me Zara please Next 50: From unknown numbers. Is this you You and Damian Cole Oh my god Last 100: Company-wide email. Subject: ASSET BREACH. I opened it. Photos. Me. In the cafe last night. With Damian. Me. In the hospital bed 2023. Holding his hand. Me. In a car. Kissing him. Timestamp 09/13/2023. All of them watermarked COLE GROUP - CONFIDENTIAL. And a memo from Damian Cole, CEO: Effective immediately, Zara Okoye is terminated for breach of NDA, unauthorized data access, and conduct unbecoming of a Cole Group employee. Legal action will follow. Do not engage with her. The company had just publicly executed me. My hands were shaking so bad I dropped the phone. It rang. Damian. I answered. "You did this," I said. "Yes," he said. No hesitation. "And I’m sorry." "You ruined me." "I saved you," he said. "If I didn’t fire you publicly, the board would have done worse. They were going to arrest you. Tonight." "For what?" "For stealing company property", he said. "For the USB. For talking to Layo. For being Layo." "So you got ahead of it." "I burned you to keep you alive," he said. "It’s what I do." I laughed. It came out broken. "You’re good at it." "Come to my house," he said. "Not the office. My house. No cameras. No board. Just us. I’ll explain everything." "Rule one," I said. "I’m never alone with you." AUTHOR'S NOTE THE NDA IS A STARY EXCLUSIVE. This is Book 5. more is coming . TO BE CONTINUED