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The lawyer slidesa sheaf of papers across the wide leather seat. “The NDA,” she says. “Initial each page, and sign at the end.”

Unseasonal summer rain drums on the car roof. A fluorescent street light flickers in staccato as if it’s Morse code, spelling out a message from the electric ether.

A steady drip from my trench is working hard to ruin the upholstery and soak into my skirt at the same time. In a deeply uncharacteristic move, I’d gone out into the downpour to wait for the car to pick me up fifteen minutes earlier than I needed to, convinced that if I was a second late, they’d change their minds. Usually, I’m late for everything.

“You didreadthe NDA?” the lawyer prompts, tapping the paper with a square burgundy nail. She studies me through a pair of wire-frame glasses, her gaze shrewd. I wonder if she disapproves of me, of this whole thing: The fact that some random twenty-something is being invited into the inner sanctum of our country’s wealthiest and most reclusive man.

If I were Ian De Leon’s lawyer,Iwould disapprove.

“Yeah,” I confirm, flipping through the contract.

Well… I’ve skimmed it. Mr. De Leon’s team advised me to have my lawyer look it over for my protection. Yeah, sure. Mylawyer. Let me just hop in my private jet and go pick him up; we’ll eat caviar and sip Dom Perignon while we peruse the NDA.

Understanding the contract won’t make a difference to me anyway. I’m signing this thing no matter what. No freelance writer in her right mind would refuse an offer to write a book for Ian De Leon, no matter what the NDA says. This book is going to be a guaranteed bestseller, and that’s an accolade I can ride for at least the next couple of years. Maybe even get an offer from arealpublisher. One of the Big Two. And then? I’ll be set. No more couch-surfing between one-night stands. No more bottle girl gigs; I don’t give ashithow high they tip.

For a second, the reality of it all hits me, and I hesitate, fingers curling the corners of the NDA. Not for the first time, an insidious doubt nags at me. There’s no way Ian De Leonmeantto reach out to me with this job offer. He probably meant it for someone else. I write crackpot quantum physics theories on my blog, not biographies. I mean, I have a solid following, and occasionally, I get to write a paid article for some conspiracy theory site — worth it for the money, but a permanent knock to my ego — but how the hell did Ian evenhearabout me?

But there’s no questioning where I am right now, the NDA in my hands. And there it is, my name typed right on the page, “The Undersigned”: Katherine Fox.

“You don’t want to keep him waiting,” the lawyer prompts. Her hair is perfectly coiffed, a black bob that seems to defy gravity, sculpted into one solid wave.

“It’s just…”

She raises her brows.

“This interview is for a book. It’s going to be published.Widely. People will read it eventually.”

“Yes. But as you know, due to the highly sensitive nature of the product you’ll be discussing, Mr. De Leon has final say in what you include in the manuscript. If he wants to cut something, you will cut it. Our in-house publisher will also be under NDA. So, as agreed, since the manuscript will be approved by Mr. De Leon and his legal team before publication, the contract stands. Nothing you see or discuss for the next three days will leave the premises without explicit permission from Mr. De Leon.”

Fair enough.

I initial each page. I sign and date at the end.

“Thank you,” she says, gathering the contract and sliding it into a cream leather briefcase. “I’ll email you a copy for your records.”

“Thanks,” I say, buzzing with nerves like I’ve chugged three espressos in a row.

“Remember,” says the lawyer, “from the moment you leave this car, you’re under NDA. No calls, texts, or photos. You’ll be turning over your phone upon arrival. Mr. De Leon will return it when you’re finished.”

“What if there’s an emergency?” I ask.

The lawyer looks at me in a way that says this was explicitly outlined in the contract, which I would have known had I read the fucking thing. She purses her lips. “Mr. De Leon has his own phone.”

“Okay.” The answer doesn’t soothe me. I stare out the window, still dragging my feet for no reason. It’s impossible to see anything through the rain-fogged glass but blurred flares of street lights and neon signs, and, above that, the looming dark monoliths of skyscrapers.

“Don’t keep him waiting,” the lawyer says.

“Right.” I smile tightly and open the car door.

Rain pelts down from the gloomy evening sky. I grab my duffle and slide from the car, slamming the door behind me. I hurry across the pavement to the building doors, shivering in the cold wet. When I try to open them, I find they’re locked. I glance over my shoulder, ready to ask the lawyer for help, but the car is already gone, the street empty and glistening with rain and reflections of light.

There’s a buzzer by the door. I press it, and nothing happens. I see a reception desk inside, but nobody’s there.

“Great,” I mutter. I take out my phone, flipping it open. Surely I’m allowed to call the lawyer. I hem and haw in the fluorescent glow of the building entrance.

Then something catches my eye, right at the periphery. A figure stands at the corner across the street, their silhouette illuminated by a streetlight.

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