Just My Hockey Roommate’s Filthy Desires by Esther Pen novel Chapter 311

Chapter 311

ARIA’S POV

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The sleek glass elevator ascended quietly along the outer wall of the high–rise tower, giving me a sweeping, unobstructed view of the morning city skyline as the streets below bustled with early commuters.

When the polished brass doors slid open on the executive floor of my father’s legacy headquarters, the familiar, comforting hum of corporate life greeted me.

Sparkling marble floors reflected the bright recessed lights, and employees moved efficiently between offices holding leather folders, tablets, and fresh coffee.

This building was so much more than just concrete, steel, and glass; it was my father’s life work, the physical embodiment of his unyielding integrity, vision, and sacrifice.

As I walked down the main carpeted corridor toward my corner suite, two tall men in tailored dark suits followed at a discreet, respectful distance behind me.

In the ground–floor lobby below, two more of Brandon’s plainclothes guards were positioned near the main security turnstiles, keeping watch over the morning traffic.

While their presence was subtle enough that most staff members assumed they were standard executive protection for a high–profile family, their hyper–vigilant posture and sharp eyes did not escape the notice of the senior vice presidents gathered outside the central boardroom.

“Good morning, Miss Aria,” my executive assistant, Chloe, said, stepping forward from her desk with a leather–bound folder and a hot cup of herbal tea. “The quarterly supply chain audits are ready for your final signature, and the legal team is waiting on your approval for the new logistics expansion contract.”

“Thank you, Chloe,” I replied, taking the tea and offering her a warm, genuine smile as I stepped into my private office.

The spacious room smelled faintly of cedar and fresh–cut lilies, kept precisely as my father had preferred it during his tenure.

I set my leather handbag on the side console and sat down in the heavy leather chair behind the mahogany desk, taking a slow, grounding breath before opening the leather folder.

For nearly two hours, I threw myself entirely into the demands of the business. I reviewed balance sheets, approved vendor payments, and refined long–term growth proposals.

Working here gave me a profound sense of purpose and personal strength, serving as a sharp, welcome contrast to the invisible web of danger, tactical guards, and military maneuvers that constantly hovered around Brandon’s world.

Here, I was not a target or a protected asset; I was my father’s daughter, protecting, nurturing, and expanding his legacy.

A soft, persistent chime sounded from my desktop terminal.

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10:09 Sat, Sep 5

My Hockey Roommate’s Filthy Desires

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I looked up from the printed financial audits to see an unusual amber system notification flashing in the lower right corner of my dual monitors. It was an automated network diagnostic alert generated by our internal IT security protocol.

I clicked on the warning box. The screen expanded to show a real–time data log of our secure secondary servers–the ones hosting our private supply chain directories, vendor ledgers, and archived infrastructure blueprints.

WARNING: UNUSUAL PORT ACTIVITY DETECTED SERVER 04

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My brows furrowed in concentration. Server 04 was an isolated, legacy partition that held historical company files, including old joint–venture contracts from years past when my father had briefly partnered with municipal contractors.

It was rarely accessed by internal staff, yet the activity log showed a series of rapid, low–frequency data pings bouncing across the port.

I leaned closer to the monitor, bringing up the network diagnostic utility. My father had taught me basic system management when I was younger, and running this company had forced me to learn even more about our digital infrastructure.

The pings were remarkably quiet, disguised as routine administrative health checks, but they were searching specifically for backend directory maps, sub–basement structural schematics, and utility conduit routes.

“Chloe,” I called out through the intercom speaker, my voice calm, professional, and carefully guarded. “Did the IT department initiate a system backup on Server 04 this morning?”

“No, Miss Aria,” Chloe’s voice came back crisply through the speaker. “The IT department isn’t scheduled for server maintenance until Sunday at midnight. Should I call tech support up to take a look?”

“Not just yet, Chloe. Thank you,” I said softly.

I manually traced the origin point of the diagnostic ping. The IP address was heavily masked behind multiple commercial firewalls, but buried deep within the handshake routing code was an old, obsolete encryption string.

My heart gave a heavy, uneasy thud against my ribs.

It was a proprietary routing tag that had belonged to the Vance Group’s former digital network, the very same system Julian’s family had used to manage their corporate assets before their downfall.

meone was using an old Vance master key to quietly probe my father’s company servers, specifically Looking at our building’s structural blueprints, internal camera grids, and logistics schedules.

I brought up the sub–basement architectural files myself, watching as the phantom access requests attempted to bypass our secondary authentication barriers.

Whoever was on the other side of that connection knew the legacy architecture of this building inside out.

They knew where the original municipal vaults were located, where the old ventilation shafts connected to the main street conduits, and which access doors bypassed the primary security desks.

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