The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across Hank's spacious office as a soft knock echoed on the door. He glanced at the elegant clock on his desk… almost four o'clock, an hour shy of closing time, yet the energy in the Hanigan Investments office still hummed with activity. "Come in," he called out, his voice calm and welcoming.

  The door swung inward, and a woman entered who seemed to possess an almost ethereal beauty. She was likely in her late twenties or early thirties, with a figure that could grace the cover of a magazine and a face that seemed sculpted by the ancient gods. Her dark hair cascaded in gentle waves around her shoulders, framing intelligent, cautious eyes that took in the room with a subtle intensity. "Mr. Avery?" she asked, her voice soft but clear, carrying a hint of underlying reserve.

  Hank smiled warmly, rising slightly from his chair. "Violet Swanson," he acknowledged, his tone genuine. "Please, come in and sit down." He gestured towards the comfortable chair opposite his large mahogany desk.

  Violet closed the door behind her, her movements graceful yet carrying a touch of hesitancy. As she walked towards the offered seat, her gaze flickered around the office, a space she had been in once before, under vastly different and deeply unpleasant circumstances. She remembered the clammy touch of James Hanigan's hand on her back, the way he had steered her towards this very chair, his eyes leering as he'd leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear, promising a coveted spot on the sixth floor in exchange for a "little bit of her time. A taste of her." The memory still left a bitter taste in her mouth, the humiliation and disgust lingering like a phantom touch. Two years had passed since that incident, two years of consistently exceeding expectations in her role on the third floor, yet receiving no recognition, no advancement.

  She settled into the chair, her posture subtly guarded, her eyes meeting Hank's with a careful appraisal. Was he the same? Would he try the same tactics? But there was something in his open smile, in the genuine warmth in his eyes, that felt different, a stark contrast to the predatory gleam she remembered. Hank remained behind his desk, maintaining a respectful distance.

  "Miss Swanson," Hank began, his tone professional and direct, "I don't know if you are aware that James Hanigan has been terminated from his position, and I have now assumed the role of Director for Hanigan Investments."

  Violet nodded slowly, her gaze steady. "There have been rumors about it downstairs," she confirmed, her voice a low murmur.

  Hank nodded in acknowledgment. "Good. Well, I'm not here to talk about me, but about you." He swiveled his laptop, bringing up her personnel file, and turned the screen so she could see it clearly. "I have been going over your performance numbers, and everything I see tells me you are not on the right floor."

  She looked at the screen, at the irrefutable evidence of her consistent success, and then back at Hank, her expression still carefully neutral, waiting for the inevitable "but." But Hank didn't move, didn't offer any veiled suggestions or inappropriate comments. He simply maintained his warm smile. "I know that your situation here may have been… challenging," he continued, choosing his words carefully, "yet you have shown remarkable talent. Your profit margins are consistently through the roof. You are, in fact, one of the highest-performing investors in this entire building, and I want to personally ensure you know how much that means to Hanigan Investment. So, starting this coming Monday, I want to offer you a salary of one hundred and twenty thousand dollars a year, inclusion in our bonus program, and a position here on the sixth floor. I need a floor manager who can oversee the investors and ensure smooth operations when I'm not in the office."

  Violet sat stunned, her carefully constructed composure momentarily cracking. One hundred and twenty thousand dollars? A place on the prestigious sixth floor? And a position of responsibility? It was everything she had worked tirelessly for, everything that had been inexplicably denied to her for so long. And this man, this new director, hadn't asked for anything in return. No inappropriate advances, no suggestive remarks, not even a lingering touch. He had simply recognized her worth. A wave of disbelief, quickly followed by a surge of gratitude, washed over her. She nodded slowly, her throat suddenly feeling tight.

  "I assume you accept?" Hank asked, his smile widening slightly, a hint of anticipation in his eyes.

  She nodded again, a more emphatic movement this time, a small, almost imperceptible tremor in her voice. "Yes, Mr. Avery," she managed, the words barely above a whisper.

  "Great," Hank said, his tone now brisk and businesslike. "Monday morning, you report here. We'll get you settled in, and then we'll get this floor running efficiently."

  A genuine smile finally broke through Violet's apprehension, illuminating her features. "What about the third floor?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice for her former colleagues.

  Hank smiled warmly. "One of your first tasks will be to identify the most qualified individuals to manage the other floors. I need a dedicated floor manager for each level, so you'll be looking for four people in total."

  Violet nodded, a sense of purpose already taking root within her. "Yes, sir," she affirmed, her voice gaining strength.

  Hank stood up and extended his hand across the desk. Violet rose and shook it firmly, a sense of respect and burgeoning trust flowing between them. "I also want to sincerely apologize on behalf of Miss Hanigan," Hank continued, his expression earnest. "She had absolutely no idea why you had been consistently overlooked for promotions and raises over the past two years. After reviewing some… internal records," he paused delicately, "we discovered the video that clearly explained the situation. I cannot adequately express how sorry I am for James Hanigan's reprehensible behavior. Miss Hanigan wishes to offer you a small token of her sincere appreciation for your dedication and talent."

  Hank reached into a drawer and pulled out a small, elegant box. Constance had personally brought it down earlier, her instructions clear. "I normally only give these to people making over five million a year," she had whispered with a conspiratorial wink. Hank opened the box, revealing a stunning golden Rolex watch, its delicate face encircled by sparkling diamonds, a timepiece designed specifically for a woman's wrist.

  As Violet opened the box and her breath hitched, a look of utter astonishment spreading across her face, Hank smiled. "Welcome to the sixth floor, Violet," he said, the words carrying the weight of genuine respect and opportunity. "And one more thing," he added, his gaze direct and sincere. "If you ever have any problems, any concerns at all, my door is always open."

  A warm, genuine smile bloomed on Violet's face, her eyes reflecting a newfound sense of hope and trust. She nodded gratefully. "Thank you, Mr. Avery," she said, the words heartfelt. Then, with a newfound lightness in her step, she turned and walked out of his office. Hank sat back down, a quiet sense of satisfaction settling over him. He had done the right thing, and in Violet's eyes, he had seen not just relief, but a dawning admiration for the man who was so clearly the polar opposite of her previous tormentor. A foundation of trust, he hoped, had just been laid.

  ---

  Back in her Miami apartment, the silence felt heavy, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy of San Diego she had so recently left. Doria had spent the evening packing, her suitcase now lying open on the bed, a tangible symbol of her impending departure. The argument with Jim earlier still replayed in her mind, his cruel words echoing in the quiet rooms. "Old hag." The insult stung, a petty barb that had somehow burrowed deeper than the substance of their fight. She sighed, a weary sound in the empty space. Of course, she could find someone else. The thought brought a flicker of defiance, but her mind drifted back, unbidden, to the hotel room in San Diego.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Hank. The memory of his touch sent a shiver down her spine. He had pleasured her in ways she hadn't even known existed, a selfless lover focused on her satisfaction. The sheer number of his climaxes… four, maybe five?... paled in comparison to the multiple, earth-shattering orgasms he had drawn from her. A private smile touched her lips at the recollection, a warmth spreading through her despite the lingering chill of her argument with Jim.

  Just as she was lost in these thoughts, the shrill ring of her phone shattered the silence. Doria glanced at the bedside clock; it was nearly nine PM. Jim had been gone for a few hours, his angry departure leaving a palpable void. She picked up the phone, expecting to hear his contrite voice, perhaps an attempt at a half-hearted apology. "Hello?" she answered, her tone guarded.

  "Good evening, Mrs. Florens?" a male voice inquired, formal and authoritative. "This is the Miami PD, I am Officer Jami Hernandez. I am calling regarding your husband…"

  Doria's breath hitched in her throat. A cold wave of fear washed over her. For a fleeting, panicked moment, she imagined a car accident, flashing lights, sirens. Despite her anger, the thought of Jim being hurt sent a jolt of anxiety through her. "Is he okay?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  "Oh yeah, he's fine," Officer Hernandez replied, his tone surprisingly casual. "He's in jail right now, but fine. We picked him up about an hour ago... soliciting a prostitute."

  The words hit Doria like a physical blow. "Excuse me?" she stammered, her mind struggling to process the information. "Can you say that again?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Florens," the officer repeated, his voice clear and matter-of-fact. "Your husband, Jim Florens, was arrested for the solicitation of a prostitute. He will be held overnight and will be brought before a judge in the morning."

  Doria shook her head slowly, as if trying to dislodge the unbelievable words from her ears. A wave of nausea churned in her stomach, a potent cocktail of shock, disgust, and a strange, detached sense of vindication. "Thank you," she managed, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. Without another word, she disconnected the call, the sudden silence in the apartment amplifying the turmoil within her.

  She didn't know what to do, what to say. The reality of Jim's actions hung heavy in the air, a stark confirmation of the disrespect and disregard she had felt for so long. Yes, she knew she wasn't entirely innocent, her two nights with Hank in San Diego a passionate detour Jim would never comprehend.

  But that had been a connection, a spark of genuine desire, not a transaction in a darkened street. And crucially, she hadn't been caught, hadn't humiliated herself in such a tawdry way. This was different. This was a blatant disregard for their vows, a public display of his dissatisfaction.

  She looked around the small, cluttered apartment, the place she had once called home, and it suddenly seemed tawdry, a reflection of the stagnant unhappiness she had endured. This was it. Jim was not the man she had married, the man she had envisioned building a life with. The anger, the resentment, the feeling of being unappreciated… it all coalesced into a firm resolve.

  She shook her head again, a sense of finality settling over her. This was the end. She would find a way, no matter how difficult, to divorce him and finally be free. With a newfound resolve hardening her gaze, she picked up her phone and scrolled through her contacts, her finger hovering over the only number that felt like a lifeline in this moment of unexpected crisis. A number that belonged to someone who had shown her a different kind of attention, a different kind of respect. A number in San Diego.

  ---

  Hank leaned back in his leather chair, the soft hum of the building's ventilation system the only sound breaking the late-night silence of the sixth floor. The logout logs on his computer screen confirmed his solitude; the last employee had punched out, leaving him alone amidst the deserted cubicles and darkened offices. He glanced at the clock on his monitor… almost eight PM. The day had been long, filled with the intricacies of inherited responsibilities and the unexpected drama of Violet's situation.

  Just as he was about to shut down his computer, his phone rang, the sudden intrusion startling him slightly. He picked it up, "Hello?" he answered, his voice carrying a hint of fatigue.

  "Hank?" a familiar voice echoed on the other end, laced with a vulnerability that instantly cut through his weariness. "Doria." He said her name softly, a warmth spreading through him despite the late hour. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked, a genuine smile touching his lips.

  Then, he heard it… a choked sob, a heart-wrenching sound that immediately sent a wave of concern crashing over him. "Doria?" he whispered, his voice now tight with worry.

  "Oh, Hank," she choked out, the words tumbling forth in a torrent of distress. "My marriage is over. Jim was just arrested. We had a terrible fight, and he… he went to a prostitute and got arrested."

  Hank shook his head slowly, a mixture of disbelief and a strange sense of inevitability washing over him. "Doria," he said softly, choosing his words carefully, "we're not exactly innocent parties here, you know."

  A watery snort escaped her. "I know, Hank. But I'm filing for divorce. This is it. He hasn't paid any real attention to me for years, and now all he does is accuse me of not being a good wife. Everything is my fault, apparently. It's my fault he doesn't have the right food, my fault there's no gas in his car, my fault we're broke… I don't know what to do," she whispered, her voice laced with despair.

  Hank sighed, the weight of her pain palpable across the miles. "Doria, what do you want to do?" he asked gently, offering her a space to voice her true desires.

  A long, shuddering sigh echoed through the phone. "I want you," she whispered, the raw vulnerability in her voice sending a jolt through him.

  Hank leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him. "Doria," he said, choosing his words carefully, not wanting to give her false hope, "I'm not exactly a one-woman guy."

  "I know that, Hank," she replied, her voice surprisingly steady. "But when I'm with you… I feel alive. I feel wanted. Something I haven't felt in a very long time."

  A soft smile touched Hank's lips. "Doria," he said gently, "you would have to move here. Leave your job in Miami."

  A small chuckle escaped her lips, a flicker of her old spirit breaking through the despair. "Yeah, but I can always find a new job," she said, a hint of determination in her voice.

  Hank sighed again, the logistics of her situation beginning to sink in. "When would you… want to be here?" he asked, the question hanging in the air between them.

  The line went silent for a long minute, the only sound the faint static of the connection. "I… I can't fly, Hank. Too much luggage, and not enough money right now. I'll drive there. It'll take a few days, but… I'll have to sleep in the car. Can't afford a hotel," she whispered, the reality of her situation laid bare.

  Hank shook his head, his heart going out to her. "Is there a Walmart near you?" he asked, a plan forming in his mind.

  "Yeah, why?" she replied, a note of confusion in her voice.

  "Go there and call me back," he instructed, his tone firm but kind.

  "Okay…" she said hesitantly. "But Hank… do you want me there?" she asked, the question filled with a desperate need for reassurance.

  Hank smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile. "Yeah, Doria. I do," he said, the words honest and true.

  "Good," she whispered, a hint of relief in her voice. Then, the line went dead.

  Hank smirked, a sense of purpose igniting within him. He quickly logged into the Walmart money transfer homepage on his computer. He decided on an amount… a thousand dollars should help tide her over until she arrived. All he needed was the specific Walmart location to send it to. While he waited for her call, his thoughts drifted back to the office. He pulled up the logout screen again. Nine employees had logged out after the official closing time, a positive sign. But twenty-six had left before, a statistic that didn't sit well with him. New rules were definitely in order, and he would implement them swiftly.

  Twenty tense minutes later, his phone rang again. "Hank, I'm at the Walmart now," Doria said, her voice sounding slightly less strained.

  Hank smiled. "Good. Go to the customer service desk and ask for the person who handles money transfers," he instructed. He could hear the muffled sounds of Doria walking through the busy store. Then, her voice, slightly distant, "Good evening, can I talk to the money transfer person, please?"

  A gruff, disrespectful voice cut through the background noise. "Sorry, toots, he left for the day." Hank's jaw tightened.

  "Doria, what was his name?" he asked, his voice low with annoyance.

  "According to his name tag… Brian," she replied.

  "Find a manager and report what he just said," Hank instructed firmly. He heard Doria's muffled voice speaking to someone else. A moment later, she was back on the line. Hank sighed. "Doria, do you have PayPal or Venmo on your phone?" he asked.

  "Yeah, I have Venmo," she replied.

  Hank nodded. "Alright, give me your Venmo information," he instructed. She recited her username, and Hank swiftly initiated a transfer of a thousand dollars. "Okay, the money should be in your Venmo account now. You can transfer it to your bank account – pay the small fee to have it processed quickly. You have enough cash on hand for today, right?" he asked, wanting to ensure she wasn't completely stranded.

  "Yeah," she confirmed, a hint of relief in her voice.

  "Good. Just drive safely, Doria. Come to me, and we'll figure things out together," Hank said, his voice filled with a genuine desire to help.

  Doria sniffled, a small, grateful sound. "Thank you, Hank," she whispered, the emotion thick in her voice. Then, she hung up. Hank leaned back in his chair, a sense of responsibility settling over him. He had just offered a lifeline, and he hoped she would take it.