"Still here this late? That slob Harold's actually working overtime?"
Ethan Walker had just finished revising the marketing proposal he'd been sweating over for hours. It was already past 9 PM. On his way back from the restroom, he noticed that Vice President Harold Grant's office lights were still on.
That alone was strange. Harold hated working overtime.
As Ethan passed by, a muffled sound caught his attention—faint, breathy, and unmistakably feminine. His curiosity got the better of him, and he glanced inside.
What he saw stunned him.
Vanessa Blake, his department manager—his boss—was bent over Harold's desk, half-undressed, while the fat, balding vice president grunted behind her like a wild boar.
"Vanessa?!"
Ethan's mind went blank.
Of all people, she—cold, arrogant, always looking down on her subordinates—was having a secret affair with Harold?
Her blouse was half off, creamy white skin exposed and her ample chest flattened against the desk like two soft mounds. Her long hair cascaded over her flushed face, masking part of her expression—but somehow, that only made her look more intoxicating.
Ethan felt an involuntary reaction stir inside him.
He didn't even like Vanessa. She was the worst kind of superior—always criticizing, condescending, and quick to lash out. But seeing her like this… any red-blooded man would react.
Inside, Vanessa gasped, "You're always in such a rush… That hurts."
Harold laughed crudely. "Can't help it, babe. It's been a week—I'm dying over here."
He grabbed her skirt, hiked it up to her waist, and pressed his flabby stomach against her.
The office filled with grunts, moans, and the sound of rhythmic, wet slaps.
"Shameless pigs…" Ethan muttered.
Then, an idea struck him.
He silently pulled out his phone, angled it toward the open door, and hit record.
"Let's see how you two enjoy this when it blows up in your faces."
This wasn't about voyeurism.
This was about justice.
Ethan had once been a rising star—top salesperson three years running, promoted to department supervisor. Then, out of nowhere, the company parachuted in a cocky new guy to take his position.
Ethan had protested. He'd gone to Vanessa and Harold, demanded an explanation. But Harold nitpicked meaningless faults and shoved him aside. Later, he found out the truth:
That kid was Harold Grant's younger brother—Jason Grant.
It was nepotism, plain and simple.
Ethan had no choice but to swallow his pride. He was in his thirties, with a mortgage, car loan, and a family to support. Quitting wasn't an option.
Ever since his demotion, his coworkers had treated him like a ghost.
As he stood in the hallway reliving his downfall, Vanessa's moans stopped.
"You're done already?" she said, slapping Harold's shoulder. "I was just getting into it."
Harold sighed, zipping up his pants. "Long day, babe. I'll make it up to you next time."
"You always say that," she pouted, pinching his arm. "Keep this up and I will find someone younger."
Ethan had to bite his lip to keep from laughing. So the big-shot VP was a three-minute failure. Pathetic.
Still, he had to admit—Vanessa looked incredible.
She was pushing thirty, but her skin was flawless, her curves divine, her presence magnetic.
Even with how cruel she'd been to him, that image of her bent over the desk would probably haunt his dreams forever.
As she fixed her hair and adjusted her outfit, she said lightly, "I heard one of the VPs is retiring soon. Don't forget our deal."
Harold paused, then flashed a greasy smile. "Of course. You know I've got your back."
He gulped down some water, gave her a wink, and waddled to the door.
Ethan ducked behind a cabinet and killed the screen on his phone just in time.
The door clicked shut. Vanessa's flirty smirk vanished, replaced with a tired, disgusted grimace.
She cleaned herself with a wet wipe, buttoned up her shirt, and sighed deeply.
Ethan slipped away quietly.
Downstairs, he watched Harold's car drive off into the night. Then he pulled out his phone and replayed the footage.
Perfect.
This recording could be his salvation.
It was leverage. Power.
Revenge.
A smile crept onto his face as he hopped on his electric scooter and rode into the warm summer night.
Tonight, he thought, he'd go home and celebrate properly—with his wife.
After all, that scene upstairs had left a fire burning in his blood.