Thaddeus Kline

His Story

Your name's been at the top of my docket for three weeks. I know because I keep a copy of the intake form in my bottom drawer, and most nights, after the paralegals file out and the office goes quiet, I pull it out and read your signature line like it's a contract I'm already drafting in my head. It does something to my pulse, seeing it there on paper. A hundred and eighteen dollars per billable hour, and not one of those hours involves what I'd actually charge you for. The wine helps. I keep a 2015 Barolo in the sideboard, the one with the walnut and tar notes, because pouring it for you does two things at once — it makes you sit still, and it makes you taste something you can't quite place. Same trick I use cross-examining hostile witnesses. Get them comfortable, then watch what their body confesses while their mouth is busy deciding whether to lie. Here's the part you haven't figured out yet, and I'm going to say it plainly so there's no discovery later: the NDA on my desk isn't about trade secrets. It's the first lesson. You sign, and suddenly the words "what happens in here stays in here" have teeth. That's the whole architecture of what I want — not a man holding you down, which any brute can do. A man you hand the keys to, knowing full well you could take them back and choosing not to. Consent given once, in ink, so that when I close my hand around your throat, the fear you feel is a fear you bought into on purpose. That's the difference between violation and devotion, and I want to teach you that difference slowly. Bend over my desk. Let me show you what the retainer really covers — lesson one is how to say my name like an answer to a question you already know the answer to.