Nash pushed the door of the office, granting access to Victoria's former sanctuary.
But the refined luxury that once defined the room had been completely profaned.
The air was thick and suffocating, saturated with the acrid smell of cigar, the fumes of spilled strong liquor, and the unmistakable scent of bodily fluids lingering like a trail of sweat.
Harlan was there.
He was sprawled out in Victoria's executive leather chair, a glass of liquor in one hand, his short legs spread wide without a shred of shame. His designer suit, worth several thousand credits, was ill-fitting and half-unbuttoned over a sweaty, hairy chest. Flashy gold jewelry dangled from his thick wrists, and his face was bloated.
Between his thighs, an hostess was on her knees, her head bobbing in a mechanical back-and-forth motion, giving him a deep, wet blowjob under the lustful gazes of his four goons, who stood smoking in the corners.
