The gentle intrusion of morning light filtering through the expensive drapes wasn't what stirred Hank from his deep slumber. It was a high-pitched, joyous squeal that resonated with pure, unadulterated delight. A small, warm weight landed on his chest, and a pair of tiny hands patted his shoulder with enthusiastic urgency. "You are here!" Lily exclaimed, her voice bubbling with a happiness that could melt glaciers. She bounced up and down on the mattress, oblivious to the fact that the covers were the only barrier between Hank and the world… a world he was currently facing in his birthday suit.
Hank chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrated through Lily's small frame. "Good morning, Pumpkin," he mumbled, his voice still thick with sleep, a smile already forming on his lips at her infectious energy. Constance, buried deeper under the covers, groaned and reached a hand out to tug the duvet over her head. "Lily, it's too early," she protested, her voice muffled and laced with sleepiness.
Hank gently pushed the covers down again, his gaze softening as he looked at Lily's beaming face. Her eyes sparkled with a newfound joy, her presence next to her mother and him a tangible confirmation of the happiness she had expressed the night before. "Tell you what, Pumpkin," he said, his voice conspiratorial, "why don't you go watch some cartoons? I'll join you in the living room in just a minute."
Lily's face lit up even brighter, if that were possible. She nodded eagerly, her blonde ponytail bouncing as she scrambled off the bed and dashed out of the room, her happy footsteps echoing down the hallway. Hank leaned over and kissed Constance softly on the lips, his hand gently stroking her hair. "You do know she is your daughter," he whispered, a playful smile in his eyes.
Constance smirked, her eyes still half-closed with sleep. "You said you would adopt her," she shot back, her voice a low, teasing murmur. Hank laughed, a warm, genuine sound. "Touché," he conceded, his smile widening. She giggled, a soft, sleepy sound. "I guess she approves," she said, a hopeful note creeping into her voice, a silent acknowledgment of the deep longing she had for Lily's happiness. Hank nodded, his gaze tender as he watched the doorway where Lily had disappeared. "Yeah, I'd say so," he agreed, then swung his legs out of bed and pulled on his boxer shorts. "Is there coffee here in your home?" he asked, his stomach already anticipating the caffeine jolt.
Constance gave him a pointed look, her eyebrow arched playfully. "Do you honestly think I would survive with a six-year-old without a constant supply of coffee?" she retorted, a hint of amusement in her tone. Hank laughed again, leaning down to kiss her. "You could have just said yes," he teased. She shook her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Nah…" she drawled.
Hank playfully grabbed the duvet and yanked it off her, exposing her beautiful, still-sleep-warmed body to his admiring gaze. "Get up, my love," he said, his voice softening with affection. "I have to go to work soon, and your daughter is likely to have about a billion questions." She gave him a mock glare but sat up, reaching out to pull him closer for a lingering kiss. "You ass better be here again tonight," she whispered against his lips, her voice laced with a hopeful possessiveness.
Hank chuckled. "Unless someone else claims it for the night," he teased, a playful glint in his eyes. She smiled, a hint of challenge in her expression. "Got a hot date I need to know about?" Hank shook his head. "No, but in this town, you never know," he replied with a wink. She laughed, the sound light and carefree. "Gloria or Violet might be in for a fun night," Constance said, her voice filled with humorous speculation. Hank chuckled. "I do not think they are quite up for that… yet," he said, then turned and headed out of the bedroom, the aroma of brewing coffee already a tantalizing lure as he went in search of the kitchen.
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The previous day had been an arduous journey for Doria, the miles blurring into a monotonous ribbon of asphalt under the Florida sun. She had finally limped into Tampa around two in the morning, the rhythmic hum of the highway still echoing in her ears. Exhaustion clung to her like a heavy cloak, each muscle protesting the prolonged confinement in her aging sedan. With the meager funds remaining after the unexpected expense of gas, she had sought refuge in a small, roadside motel on the outskirts of the city.
The room was spartan, a testament to its budget-friendly price. The air hung thick with the faint, lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke and industrial cleaner. A single, dim bulb cast a weak, yellowish glow from a cheap plastic fixture on the ceiling, barely illuminating the worn floral wallpaper that peeled slightly at the edges. The double bed sagged in the middle, covered by a thin, scratchy blanket in a questionable shade of brown. A small, particleboard nightstand held a flickering digital alarm clock displaying the early hour, and a scarred wooden dresser stood against the far wall, its drawers slightly ajar. The only window, draped with faded, heavy curtains that did little to block out the neon glow of the motel sign outside, offered a glimpse of the deserted parking lot.
Doria had collapsed onto the lumpy mattress without even bothering to fully unpack, her body aching for the oblivion of sleep. As she drifted into a restless slumber, her breathing shallow and uneven, a silent presence materialized in the dimly lit room. Nienna, her form shimmering faintly in the gloom, stepped through the locked door as if it were no more than a veil of mist. Her ethereal eyes, glowing with an inner light, fixed on the sleeping woman.
So, this is one of his chosen, Nienna thought, her gaze assessing Doria’s weary form. She carries the marks of a hard life, etched onto her face even in sleep. A fighter, perhaps? Or simply worn down by the mundane struggles of the mortal realm? A flicker of something akin to pity crossed her elven features, quickly replaced by a cool detachment. Her mission was clear; Hank's path needed to be paved, obstacles removed, and the chosen gathered.
Nienna moved with a silent grace that defied the laws of the physical world, her bare feet making no sound on the worn carpet. She stood directly over Doria, her presence an unseen weight in the small room. Raising a delicate hand, she whispered a short, melodic incantation, the ancient Elvish words weaving a subtle magic into the air. She then blew a soft kiss towards Doria, and a wisp of shimmering pink smoke, invisible to mortal eyes, drifted downwards, coalescing into a fine mist that gently enveloped the sleeping woman before silently seeping into her body.
Doria stirred slightly in her sleep, a soft sigh escaping her lips, unaware of the subtle magical intrusion. Nienna watched for a moment, her expression unreadable, before gliding silently towards the window. She seemed to melt through the glass, reappearing on the motel's flat, tar-covered roof.
In the stark moonlight, Nienna examined her hand, a faint smear of crimson visible on her palm. Smoked when she was younger, she mused, her thoughts clinical and detached. The telltale signs are there, even if masked by the human body's resilience. Cancer and heart disease… a ticking clock. A faint smile touched her lips, devoid of genuine warmth. She is not entirely healed, not yet the vibrant, enduring being Hank deserves as part of his… harem. The word echoed in her mind, a slightly archaic term for the gathering of his destined consorts, but one that accurately reflected the unique nature of his path.
Nienna flicked her hand, and the trace of blood vanished without a trace, absorbed back into the night air. She then turned her gaze back towards the motel room below, a final, lingering look before she shimmered and faded into the shadows, ensuring that no earthly eyes would ever discover the subtle magical manipulation, or the faint trace of blood that had momentarily betrayed Doria's hidden vulnerabilities. Her work was far from over; the gathering had begun, and each piece needed to be carefully placed.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
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Hank stepped out of the elevator onto the sixth floor, the early morning quiet a familiar comfort. He glanced at the large digital clock mounted near the elevators: seven thirty. A small smile touched his lips. The office was still largely deserted, a blank canvas before the day’s flurry of activity began. He walked towards his corner office, the soft click of his shoes echoing in the stillness. As he reached his desk, he noticed that his blinds were, as usual, fully open, offering him a clear view of the elevator bank and the arrival of his team. It was a habit he had consciously cultivated, a way to gauge the morning's rhythm and the punctuality of his employees.
At precisely seven forty-five, the elevator doors slid open, and Gloria stepped out. Her impeccable attire was on full display… a tailored navy skirt suit that accentuated her trim figure, paired with a crisp white blouse. Her brown hair with red stripes was pulled back in a sleek ponytail, and her movements exuded a quiet efficiency. As she turned and saw Hank already in his office, a genuine smile brightened her face, a warmth that went beyond mere professional courtesy. There was something about Mr. Avery, an undeniable magnetism that drew her in. Perhaps it was his direct gaze, the way he carried himself with both confidence and approachability, or the subtle undercurrent of intensity she sensed beneath his calm exterior. Whatever it was, she found herself inexplicably drawn to him.
She hurried towards the new desk situated directly in front of his office, a prime location that spoke volumes about his trust in her. Depositing her handbag and a small notebook, she straightened her jacket and took a moment to compose herself before approaching his door. She gave a soft, polite knock. "Come in," Hank’s voice, a pleasant baritone, responded.
Gloria stepped into his office, holding a steaming paper cup from the artisanal coffee shop on the building's corner. The rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. "Coffee, sir?" she asked, her smile a little more confident now that she was in his presence.
Hank returned her smile, his eyes crinkling slightly at the corners. "And how is it?" he inquired, a genuine curiosity in his tone. Gloria's smile widened. "Miss Hanigan mentioned you prefer your coffee black, Mr. Avery. So, I made sure it was just that," she said, extending the cup towards him. Hank's gaze softened. He appreciated the thoughtfulness, the initiative she had taken. "Thank you, Gloria," he said, accepting the coffee. He took a slow sip, the bitter, robust flavor hitting just right, a perfect start to his morning. "That is good," he affirmed, nodding his approval. He smiled again, a hint of something more personal in his expression. "Remember to save the receipt. I intend on having your purchases reimbursed," he said, his tone indicating it was a non-negotiable. She nodded, a small, pleased smile gracing her lips. "Yes, Mr. Avery," she replied.
As she turned to leave, Hank spoke again, his voice slightly softer this time. "Gloria," he said. She turned back, her eyes meeting his with a questioning look. "When it is just you and I… call me Hank," he said, his gaze direct and holding hers for a moment longer than strictly necessary. A delicate blush crept up Gloria's cheeks, a subtle pinkening that spoke volumes of her inner reaction. Her heart fluttered slightly at the unexpected intimacy of his request. There was a warmth in his eyes, a hint of something that made her feel… seen. "Yes, Hank," she replied in a soft whisper, the new name feeling foreign yet exciting on her tongue.
Hank watched her as she returned to her desk, a fleeting thought crossing his mind. Gloria was undeniably beautiful, with a quiet grace and an intelligence that shone in her eyes. If she were to ever express a more personal interest, he wouldn't turn her away. But for now, their interactions were strictly professional, a dynamic he respected. He took another sip of the excellent coffee, the bitter taste now tinged with a subtle sweetness, and he turned his attention to the day ahead.
At seven fifty-five, the elevator doors opened once more, disgorging a larger group this time… Hank counted nine individuals stepping onto the sixth floor. His pen danced across his small notepad, meticulously recording their arrival times on his makeshift map of the floor layout. Simultaneously, his gaze flickered to the login screen displayed on his computer monitor, a digital register of their official start to the workday. Only three of the newly arrived employees bothered to log in before the clock struck eight. Hank made a mental note, a subtle frown creasing his brow.
The lull was short-lived. At eight-oh-five, a boisterous cluster of six more individuals spilled out of the elevator, their laughter and chatter echoing through the still-quiet office. They noticed Hank sitting in his office, the open blinds a clear indication of his early presence. Some of them exchanged knowing glances, remembering his late departure the previous evening. "What the hell? Does he sleep here?" one of the men muttered, his tone a mixture of disbelief and derision. Gloria, her ears sharp, discreetly jotted down his name and the comment on her notepad, her fingers flying across the keyboard as she pretended to be engrossed in her work.
Another one smirked, leaning against a nearby cubicle wall. "He's just sucking up to Mrs. Hanigan, being the new golden boy and all. I give him three weeks, he'll be just like James, coming in at ten or eleven, fucking a girl in his office, and leaving again." Gloria shook her head almost imperceptibly, her pen continuing its silent documentation of their unprofessional behavior.
At eight twenty-five, another wave of employees arrived, this time a smaller group of four. Hank's gaze flickered back to the login screen. To his growing disappointment, only ten people in total had bothered to log in to the system. They had clearly disregarded the implicit expectations set by his presence the day before. He briefly glanced at the performance metrics for the other floors. Violet on the third floor had logged in promptly at seven fifty-five. Even as he watched, her digital activity spiked… buy orders executed, sell orders confirmed. In the span of just thirty minutes, she had already generated over ten thousand dollars in profit for the company. Hank made another note, a stark contrast to the sluggish start on his own floor.
By eight forty, the last stragglers finally trickled in. Hank simply recorded their arrival times, his initial curiosity now tinged with a sense of quiet determination. He had seen this before, the casual disregard for company time, the underlying resentment towards authority. He knew the patterns, the excuses that would inevitably follow.
Just then, the familiar chime of his email indicator sounded. He clicked on the notification. It was a short report from Gloria. The subject line read: "Just a head's up Mr. Avery." Below, she had meticulously transcribed the comments she had overheard, along with the names of the individuals who had spoken them. Hank noticed with a subtle smile that she had also CCed Constance on the email. Gloria was proving to be an invaluable asset.
It wasn't five minutes later that Constance arrived on the sixth floor, and her demeanor left no doubt that she had read Gloria's report. Her usual composed elegance was replaced by a palpable air of displeasure. She walked directly towards Hank's office, her steps purposeful, not even bothering to knock before striding in and closing the door firmly behind her. "Show me the times," she said, her voice low and demanding.
Hank nodded calmly, anticipating her reaction. He pressed the print button on his computer, and the time list he had diligently compiled, including the system login times, whirred out of the printer. Constance snatched the sheet from the tray and quickly scanned the columns of numbers. Without a word, she walked over to the office door and flung it open. "Listen up," she announced loudly, her voice cutting through the morning hum of the office. "It would seem many of you did not learn from yesterday. So, Charles, Frank, and William," she said, her gaze sweeping across the designated individuals, "pack your desks. You have two options: move to the second floor, effective immediately, or leave the company. Should you choose to leave, leave your access card on your desk. You have thirty minutes." With that, she closed the door again and returned to sit down across from Hank, her expression now a mixture of frustration and a hint of curiosity. "What do you think they'll do?" she asked.
Hank looked out the window at the subdued activity on the floor. "Charles and Frank," he said, his gaze unwavering, "they are most likely going to leave. They'll try to act like they are transitioning to the second floor, hoping to keep their access cards. But they will use them after hours to come back, thinking no one will notice." Constance looked at him, her brow furrowed. "How can you know that?" she asked, genuinely intrigued by his certainty. Hank smirked, a cynical edge to his lips. "I know the type. Used to work with someone just like that. He came in one late night after being 'transferred' and burned down the boss's office." Constance stared at him, a flicker of shock in her eyes. "When do you think…" she began, her voice hesitant. Hank reached across the desk and took her hand, his touch firm and reassuring, not caring in the slightest if the entire floor could see their connection. "It will not happen," he said, his gaze unwavering. She looked at him, a silent question in her eyes. "I will not come up tonight," he explained, his meaning clear. "I have to make sure." She nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. Hank would prevent whatever retaliatory act these disgruntled employees might be planning.
