Hank settled into the plush armchair in his hotel room, the sleek, cool metal of the laptop Constance had gifted him resting on his lap. He pressed the power button, the screen instantly illuminating with the company logo. The first order of business was security. A prompt immediately appeared, requesting a new, unique password. Hank, mindful of digital safety, typed in a complex combination of letters, numbers, and symbols, committing it to memory.

  With the digital fortress secured, he began to navigate the file system. Folders labeled with project names, employee directories, financial reports… a digital microcosm of Constance Hanigan's business empire lay before him. He started with the employee files, a quick scan revealing a wealth of information. He could quickly discern patterns: those whose projects consistently delivered impressive returns, and those who seemed to be just scraping by. Four names, or rather employee identification numbers, stood out starkly. Their performance reports were consistently minimal, their project contributions lackluster. And a recurring detail caught his eye: their requests for funds, always for the bare minimum, invariably occurred on Fridays. It painted a clear picture of individuals coasting through the week, only acting when absolutely necessary to draw their pay. Hank jotted down their anonymous employee numbers, ensuring no personal bias could be perceived, though in truth, he didn't recognize a single name within the company.

  Next, his curiosity piqued by a folder labeled "Rain investment," he clicked it open. The contents were less straightforward. Within the folder, nestled amongst seemingly routine financial documents, was an account that didn't appear to be registered under the company's name. A knot of unease tightened in Hank's stomach. He cautiously opened the associated online banking portal. A pre-registered login appeared instantly, raising another red flag. This wasn't a standard company access point.

  He clicked the login button, and the account details flashed onto the screen. The name emblazoned at the top sent a jolt of surprise through him: James Hanigan. Constance's soon to be Ex-Husband. This was a personal account. But what truly made his blood run cold was the source of the funds. Month after month, for as far back as the records went… at least the last three years were clearly visible… substantial sums of money, ranging from two hundred thousand to upwards of six hundred thousand dollars, had been systematically transferred into this personal account. The transactions were meticulously labeled within the company's spending records as "purchases," vague and untraceable at a casual glance. Yet, the corresponding deposits in James Hanigan's personal account were undeniable. The total amount, Hank quickly calculated, was staggering, well into the double digits of millions.

  His mind raced. This wasn't just negligence; this was systematic misappropriation of company funds, likely embezzlement on a grand scale. Without hesitation, Hank took a series of clear screenshots, capturing the account details, transaction history, and the link to the company's spending records. He then swiftly composed an email to Constance, attaching the incriminating evidence.

  His fingers hovered over her contact number. It was late, but this couldn't wait. He pressed call.

  "Hank my dear," Constance answered, her voice bright and infused with the lingering happiness from their earlier conversation. Hank almost winced, the weight of his discovery threatening to extinguish her good mood.

  "Hey, Constance," he began, his tone apologetic. "I'm really sorry to call you this late, but I found something on the laptop that I think you need to see right away."

  "Someone not pulling their weight?" she asked, a hint of amusement in her voice, likely thinking he had already uncovered the underperforming employees.

  Hank offered a wry smirk to the empty room. "Yeah, there are four who seem to be experts at the bare minimum. But that can definitely wait until tomorrow. No, I just emailed you a screenshot. Are you near your computer?"

  "Give me a second," she said, the sound of her moving through her apartment audible over the phone. A moment later, he heard the click of a computer powering on. "Okay, opening the email now," she announced.

  Hank waited, the silence stretching taut between them. Then, a sharp intake of breath, followed by a voice laced with disbelief and a growing fury. "What the hell is this?"

  "It's a personal account registered to James Hanigan," Hank stated, his voice calm and measured, letting the gravity of the information sink in. "Every month, for… as far as I can see, at least the last three years, he's been transferring between two and six hundred thousand dollars, marked as 'purchases' in the company accounts. But the money wasn't used for any purchases, Constance. It was deposited directly into this account."

  A strangled sound escaped Constance's lips. "For fuck's sake," she muttered, the happiness completely drained from her voice, replaced by a cold, hard fury. "Hank, listen to me very carefully. You have the laptop. I want you to go in and transfer every single penny back into the business account. But before you do that, I want you to take screenshots of absolutely everything. Account information, names, dates, amounts, every single detail. Document it all." Her instructions were sharp, precise, and filled with an urgent intensity.

  Hank listened intently, mentally ticking off each item on her command. "Yes, ma'am," he confirmed, his voice firm.

  "And Hank," Constance continued, her voice trembling slightly with a mixture of rage and shock, "this is… this is fucking significant. You have no idea what this means to me."

  A small, knowing smile touched Hank's lips. He had a feeling he was beginning to understand. "Constance," he replied simply, "I'm just doing what you asked me to do."

  A short, almost hysterical laugh escaped her. "Trust me, Hank," she said, her voice regaining some of its steel. "This will not be forgotten." Then, with a decisive click, she hung up.

  Hank immediately went to work. Methodically, he navigated the online banking system, meticulously taking screenshots of every relevant page: the account details for James Hanigan's personal account, the complete transaction history showing the regular influx of company funds, and the corresponding entries in the company's spending ledger. Every piece of evidence was carefully documented and saved. Only when he was absolutely certain he had captured everything did he initiate the transfer. He watched as the digital numbers shifted, the staggering sum of nineteen point four million dollars flowing back into the rightful company coffers. With the transaction complete, he picked up his phone and sent a brief text message to Constance: "The money is back in the business account. Please confirm."

  A few tense minutes ticked by before his phone buzzed with a reply. "Every last dime. Thank you, lover," she wrote, the simple message conveying a depth of gratitude and a hint of renewed affection. Hank smiled. He knew this had scored him more than just a few points with Constance. And he had to admit, the satisfaction of uncovering such a significant betrayal and helping her right it was its own reward. Plus, making Constance happy was a perk he definitely enjoyed.

  Hank laid the phone down on the table, his fingers lingering on the screen a moment longer than necessary. The conversation had left his thoughts scattered, his focus diluted… but he shook it off, turned back toward the laptop screen, and dove into the files again.

  The hotel room was silent, the only light a soft amber glow from the little lamp beside him. Outside the windows, the skyline of San Diego blinked with distant traffic and tower lights, but here, everything felt still… as if the air itself was holding its breath.

  He scrolled through the mess of folders on the hard drive. Most were named with the sterile efficiency of corporate life… ”Q3-Financials,” “Vendor-Contracts,” “Marketing-Revisions” … and most of them contained either empty templates or heavily redacted documents. Nothing of substance. Nothing to explain what he was really looking for.

  Then his eyes caught on a folder tucked between the noise.

  "Business-First."

  His brow arched slightly.

  It didn’t look like much. No subfolders, no dates. Just a cold, clipped label.

  He double-clicked it.

  The folder opened, revealing dozens of video clips. No descriptions, just strings of numbers… timestamps, maybe. All marked within the last three years.

  Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

  His curiosity piqued… and somewhere beneath that, a dark suspicion, he clicked the first file.

  The screen lit up.

  And within seconds, Hank realized exactly what “Business-First” meant to James Hanigan.

  The grainy footage was set in what looked like a private office… his new office, large desk, high-back leather chair, bookshelves in the background. Professional, if not for the fact that the Director himself, James Hanigan, was in frame, standing behind a young woman bent over the desk, pants at his ankles, hands gripping her hips. She was moaning, face turned away from the camera, but her voice was unmistakable… young, flirty, intoxicated by the moment.

  James Hanigan, the so-called executive, was fucking her on company time, in his own office, with the camera recording everything.

  Hank leaned back in his chair, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth… but it was more disbelief than amusement.

  “Real professional, asshole…” he muttered.

  The girl… gorgeous, maybe mid-twenties, wearing office attire that had clearly been yanked halfway off… looked familiar. He paused the video, backed out, and opened the internal personnel files. Her face came up after a quick search… Amanda R., administrative assistant, employed only nine months.

  He made a note.

  Then he dragged the video into a new folder and renamed it:

  "Amanda_R - April 12, 9:23 PM."

  The timestamp matched the metadata.

  He returned to the main folder and clicked the next video. Then another. And another.

  Each clip he only watched ten to fifteen seconds before he stopped it, but the pattern was clear… James had made a hobby out of this. Forty-six videos. Eleven different women. All employees.

  Some were interns. A few were assistants. One was even a project manager from HR.

  And all of them… compromised. Exploited. Used.

  Hank catalogued each one. Name. Position. Date. He didn’t need to see every detail. That wasn’t the point. The point was evidence… and now, he had it.

  By the time he was done, he’d created a full dossier:

  A folder labeled “Divorce Evidence – J.Hanigan.”

  This would help Constance. Maybe more than she’d expected.

  He sat back, fingers steepled beneath his chin, staring at the glowing files. For a long moment, he said nothing, just listened to the low hum of the computer and the faint buzz of city life outside the window.

  Constance.

  He’d seen how strong she tried to be… composed, calculated, in control, but this would not break her heart. she’d suspected this already, hell she had fired three girls for this.

  Still, he’d wait. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Drop this folder in her hands, tell her what he’d found. Let her decide how to burn James down.

  Just as the soft glow of the laptop screen began to fade, Hank’s finger hovering over the power button, a distinct sound cut through the quiet of the hotel room. A knock.

  He froze, his muscles tensing instinctively. His gaze flicked to the bottom right corner of the monitor, the digital clock displaying the time in stark white numbers: 9:03 PM.

  Not just anyone would be knocking at his door this late.

  But she would.

  A slow, knowing smile, a subtle curve of satisfaction, tugged at the corner of Hank’s mouth. He pushed back from the small, functional desk, the chair protesting with a soft groan against the carpet. He rose, a languid stretch easing the tension that had accumulated in his shoulders during his deep dive into Constance’s company files. His eyes drifted back to the illuminated clock face.

  9:03 PM.

  Three minutes past their agreed-upon time. A small, almost imperceptible delay that somehow heightened the anticipation.

  Then, it came again. Three distinct knocks echoed through the otherwise silent hotel room.

  Firm. Measured. Confident.

  He knew that rhythm. It wasn't a tentative tap or a hesitant rap. It was a clear, assertive declaration of arrival.

  Doria.

  Forty-two years old, statuesque, with the toned physique of a seasoned athlete. She carried herself with an unmistakable commanding presence, a self-assuredness that often left younger men tongue-tied and utterly captivated. The head coach of the Miami volleyball team, still in town after the intense tournament, and acutely aware of the palpable chemistry that had crackled between them after their brief but charged interactions. Hank's mind flickered back to the previous night, a vivid memory of her strong hands on his body, the commanding way she had taken charge, the raw, uninhibited passion that had consumed them both. He had enjoyed every single second of it, the experience leaving him with a lingering heat and a keen anticipation for a repeat performance.

  She was older than the majority of the women who offered him flirtatious glances and suggestive smiles, and that maturity, that unwavering confidence, made her all the more magnetic. Doria wasn’t one for coy games or subtle hints. She was direct, assertive, and possessed that ever-present glint in her intelligent eyes that telegraphed she knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to pursue it. Doria didn’t chase; she made a deliberate choice. And last night had been a very clear indication of that choice, a night filled with a primal connection he wouldn't soon forget.

  And tonight, the three confident knocks seemed to unequivocally declare that she was ready for a repeat performance.

  He moved towards the door, his steps unhurried, a sense of relaxed anticipation settling over him. As he walked, he casually loosened the top button of the crisp white shirt he had changed into after his shopping trip, a small, almost subconscious gesture. The residual buzz of the financial intrigue he had unearthed earlier still hummed faintly in the back of his mind, a significant discovery that would undoubtedly have major repercussions. But that was a matter for tomorrow’s daylight.

  Tonight?

  Tonight was about something entirely different. A different kind of intensity, a different kind of connection.

  He reached for the cool metal of the door handle, a flicker of genuine excitement flaring in his chest. He pictured her on the other side: a knowing smirk playing on her lips, a playful greeting ready, perhaps even a bottle of good wine tucked under her arm. He anticipated the easy banter, the comfortable familiarity that had sparked between them.

  But as he pulled the door open… expecting that confident smile, that welcoming presence, that hint of shared anticipation… what greeted him wasn’t quite the image he had conjured.

  The sight that greeted Hank as he opened the door was utterly unexpected, a bizarre tableau that momentarily short-circuited his brain. Standing in the hotel hallway were both Doria and Courtney. Doria, her usual composed expression replaced by a flicker of something akin to surprise, stood slightly behind the younger woman. Courtney, on the other hand, stood with a determined set to her jaw, her blue eyes fixed intently on Hank.

  "Hank, why is my coach here?" Courtney blurted out, her confusion evident in her tone.

  Hank, still processing the unexpected double arrival, managed a wry smirk. "She… uh… came up right after I heard a knock," Doria said.

  Hank turned his attention to Courtney, a slight frown creasing his brow. "Courtney, what are you doing here? We talked, didn't we? You said you would wait two years."

  Courtney didn't answer verbally. Instead, she boldly stepped past Hank and into his hotel room, her eyes wide as she took in the spaciousness and luxury. It was, as she had instantly registered, worlds away from the cramped room she had to share with three other teammates. "No, Hank," she said, her voice firm, her gaze sweeping back to him. "I want you now. I want to show you why you should wait for me, why I'll be worth waiting for when I'm done with school. Besides," she added, a hopeful glint in her eyes, "I can come visit during breaks."

  Hank's frown deepened. He glanced at Doria, whose expression was now a mixture of bewilderment and a dawning understanding. "Are you fucking my coach?" Courtney demanded, her voice sharp, her eyes narrowing as she looked from Hank to Doria and back again.

  Hank quickly ushered Doria inside and closed the door behind them, cutting off any potential hallway spectators. "Courtney, what the hell do you want?" he asked again, his tone a mix of exasperation and a growing sense of the surreal.

  She turned to face him fully, her chin tilted defiantly. "You, Hank. Is that so fucking hard to understand?" Her voice was thick with a raw, almost desperate desire. "If I have to share you… I will. Okay? Hell, I'll fuck you right now with the Coach standing right here, she can even join," she declared, her gaze flicking challengingly towards Doria.

  Hank's eyebrow shot up, genuinely surprised by her audaciousness. Doria, for her part, took a hesitant step forward, her usual commanding presence momentarily faltering. "Courtney… don't you get enough attention at school?" she began, her tone a blend of coachly concern and personal surprise.

  Courtney whirled on her coach, her eyes blazing with a sudden intensity that surprised both Hank and Doria. "I am a fucking virgin, okay?" she blurted out, the words tumbling out in a rush of pent-up emotion. "I know what all the other kids say, I know what the teachers probably believe. But I want to save myself for the man I love, and I love Hank. He has been nothing but nice to me. He looks at me… for me. Not for my looks, my tits, my ass. He hasn't even tried to kiss me or directly ask me to fuck. Do you have any idea how unreal that is? Every other guy at school has tried all of that, and when I say no, the rumors started." Her voice cracked with emotion, and tears welled up in her emerald eyes, blurring the fierce determination in their depths.

  Hank felt a wave of understanding wash over him. Her raw honesty resonated deeply. It made sense. Her intense focus on him, her almost desperate declaration… it all clicked into place. But why him? The question lingered, unanswered, until a familiar, subtle presence brushed against his mind. “She is chosen for you, my love,” Maerisa’s voice whispered, a silken caress in his thoughts. “She will be yours forever.” A faint smirk touched Hank’s lips.

  He looked from Courtney, her tear-filled eyes pleading, to Doria, who watched the unfolding scene with a mixture of shock and a flicker of something else… perhaps understanding. "Your choice," Hank said to Doria, his tone neutral, leaving the decision entirely in her hands.

  Courtney turned to her coach, her voice now a soft, almost desperate plea. "I won't tell anyone," she whispered, her gaze locked on Doria's.

  Doria looked from Courtney's earnest face to Hank's enigmatic expression, a slow nod of understanding dawning in her eyes. "Alright," she conceded softly.

  Then, both Courtney and Doria turned their gazes back to Hank, their expressions a potent blend of desire and anticipation. For a fleeting second, Hank felt a primal thrill course through him. He felt like a coveted prize, a piece of highly desirable… meat. But in a good way. A very, very good way.