Chapter 6: After-Hours Overtime

The floor emptied in slow waves, desks going dark one by one as colleagues shrugged into coats and vanished toward the elevators. Lights dimmed in sections, leaving long shadows across the open-plan space. The hum of printers faded to silence, replaced by the distant echo of a vacuum cleaner somewhere on the far side of the building. Vanessa remained at her desk, spine rigid, fingers hovering over the keyboard as if the half-finished report could anchor her to something normal. The copier incident still burned through her nerves—the sharp cracks of palms on bare skin, the thick intrusion of fingers and thumb, the humiliating walk back with her own wetness tracing a cool line down her inner thigh. Her lip still carried the faint metallic tang where she had bitten it raw to stay quiet.

She should leave. Clock out, drive home, lock the door, and pretend none of this existed. But Mr. Harlan’s text from earlier hung in the air like a summons she couldn’t ignore: Stay late. Boardroom. Overtime required. The job was everything—rent, career, the fragile ladder she had climbed for three years. Leaving now would be the same as packing her things. Her sassy core wanted to storm in and tell him exactly where he could shove the dress code, yet her body remembered every forced peak from the week and already hummed with fresh, treacherous need. The bare skin beneath her skirt felt hypersensitive, the wool brushing her folds with every small shift in the chair. She crossed her legs tighter, garter straps pulling faintly against her thighs, and forced her eyes back to the screen.

The last stragglers disappeared. The boardroom door at the far end of the floor stood ajar, soft golden light spilling out. Mr. Harlan appeared in the doorway, silver hair catching the glow, broad shoulders filling the frame. He didn’t speak. He simply crooked one finger, the gesture calm and absolute.

Vanessa rose on unsteady stilettos, smoothing the pencil skirt down out of habit. The fabric clung to the curve of her ass, still faintly warm from the copier’s vibration. She walked the long aisle between darkened cubicles, heels clicking against the polished floor like a countdown. The boardroom swallowed her whole when she stepped inside—long mahogany table gleaming under recessed lights, city skyline glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows like distant, indifferent eyes. The door shut behind her with a heavy, final click. Mr. Harlan stood at the head of the table. Mike and Derek were already there, leaning against the wall with matching predatory calm.