NDA
ESTELLE
“Please sign here on the dotted line,” the assistant says, her manicured nail pointing on the paper.
In fact, everything about her is manicured, from her platinum blonde hair tied back into a severe ponytail, the strands falling down her back in perfect waves, to her blue power suit and her cherubic face, her makeup applied to a fault.
I carefully sign my name with the fountain pen embroidered with gold.
The pen is weighty in my hand, which suits the moment well.
Mr. Fuentes sits across from me behind the large mahogany desk—probably another expensive antique. I feel his eyes on me, observing my every move since we sat down and his assistant, Alice, began going through the employment contract with me.
He remained silent throughout, but not once did his presence go unfelt.
I’m so incredibly aware of him that my leg is bouncing under the table.
“Alright, now for the NDA,” she says, placing another set of papers in front of me.
This isn’t a surprise. I have signed NDAs before—it’s impossible to work for the rich and famous without signing one.
“I’ll give you a moment to go through it.” She arranges the papers of the contract neatly inside a folder before meeting my eyes again. “Let me know if you have any questions.”
EMPLOYEE NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT
This Agreement is entered into by Carlos Fuentes (Employer) and Estelle Signon (Employee).
The Employee agrees to the following terms under the Agreement:
1. Trade secrets
The Employee agrees not to divulge sensitive information while in the employment of the Employer, and for the duration of five years from the date of termination of employment.
The trade secrets and information will include the following:
(a)Information pertaining to the Employer’s place of residence, discussions within the residence including private or open conversations, the identity of individuals encountered during employment, descriptions of the interior of the residence, including the compound, the address,
and any details that might expose the Employer’s personal address and private dealings at his home.
(b)Information pertaining to the Employer’s personal life, including the Employer's whereabouts, habits, relationships, and/or personal style, taste in food, preferred products relating to food, hygiene, alcohol, or anything else of this nature.
I look up to meet his shielded eyes, still sharply trained on me. This is still the first page, and it’s already utterly different from any non-disclosure agreement I have ever signed.
He doesn’t move.
His gaze on me feels like a dare to see how far I am willing to go. At what point will I break and run away?
(c)Information pertaining to the nature of the Employee’s work, including salary, job description, details of contract signed before employment, descriptions of the work environment, colleagues, subordinates, work schedule,
and working conditions based on the Employee’s subjective analysis of her experience, including the Employee’s thoughts and feelings about the Employer.
I pause.
“I’m not allowed to talk about how I feel working for you?” I ask, meeting his eyes.
“Why would you need to?”
“Sounds like you’re trying to police my thoughts and feelings,” I blurt out.
The corner of his mouth tugs upward, and his assistant breathes in sharply.
I don’t break eye contact with him.
“Miss Signon, you are free to think and feel anything you want, but after you sign the NDA, you will no longer be free to discuss your personal feelings and opinions about me with anyone other—” he leans closer, his elbows resting on top of the desk “—than me.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying something incredibly sarcastic that will cost me this job before I even start.
(d)The nature of the Employee’s relationship with the Employer, including personal conversations, instructions, and/or intimate encounters such as sexual intercourse.
My eyes snap up so fast I feel the chignon on top of my head budge.
“We will not be having any sexual intercourse, Mr. Fuentes.”
It’s impossible to keep the alarm from my voice.
He rests his chin on his clasped hands, his elbows braced on the desk.
“We might,” he says simply, calmly.
So calmly I almost panic.
You could hear crickets chirp in the room, or my heart galloping in my chest.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of his assistant standing next to the desk, watching us silently.
I shake my head. “No. That will not happen.”
He smiles. “We’ll see.”
This man is infuriating.
I tear my eyes off him and continue reading this insane NDA.
(e)The identity of the Employer.
One sentence.
Clear as day in its meaning.
I can’t tell anyone I work for him.
The reality of working for a Mafia boss begins to set in, and somehow I’m relieved that there’s a whole agreement that will legally keep me from talking about him at all.
For the first time since I started reading, I can see how this NDA is meant to protect both of us, not just him. I read through the rest quickly, less focused on every word and stipulation, no longer concerned with the specifics.
The message is loud and clear, but also unburdening: Outside these walls, as far as anyone knows, I don’t work for him, and more importantly, I don’t know him personally.
I grasp the fountain pen, find the dotted lines, and sign quickly.
Mr. Fuentes’ glinting eyes betray his otherwise stoic expression.
Alice clears her throat loudly. “Alright, then. Now everything is in order, Miss Signon. You are officially Mr. Fuentes’ private chef.”
“Thank you, Alice. Give us a moment.”
He doesn’t look at her when he speaks, only me.
“Of course,” she mumbles, gathers the documents quickly, and makes a swift exit.
There’s something thick in the air between us, almost palpable. I felt it the moment the sunglasses came off and I stared into his eyes for the first time.
But this can’t be.
He is still Carlos Fuentes.
The Mafia boss.
The Grim Reaper.
A killer.
“Will I still be blindfolded every time I come here?” I ask, hoping to defuse whatever tension is between us.
He shakes his head, though it’s more of a slight turn left, then right, still with his impenetrable eyes on me.
He doesn’t break eye contact, not even when his hand reaches for the drawer under his desk to retrieve something and place it in the center of the table.
I stare at the thin, black phone, confused.
“This is an encrypted phone with a secure line. There is only one number already programmed: mine. You will use it to contact me, and to receive calls and messages from me only.”
Something tightens in my belly.
The phone remains untouched where he placed it, as if it’s something dangerous that could potentially blow up in my face.
This is evidence.
Evidence that a dangerous crime lord calls me.
And I answer.
“If you are ever in trouble—” my eyes snap up to his when my brain registers the word trouble “—press the power button three times quickly, and the phone will be wiped clean.”
He slides it closer to me, and I finally pick it up, trying to wrap my head around this new reality.
My new life.
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