Erica Sinclair - Runner's Future (M/F)

[LunaDog]

We get a decent glimpse of the 'private' Erica here. Your tale is all the better for it.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, despite being a very capable lawyer, Erica is a scarred individual. I'm very happy that you appreciate the looks "behind the scenes" in the life of someone who - to the outside - appears polished and indestructible.

[Caesar73]

I have to say, I loved this "Private" Chapter very much. It shows us another Side of Erica. Your Attention to Detail is great. Great Work!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, I enjoy showing Erica as a human being with her strengths, but also her wounds and vulnerabilities.

[Jenny_S]

Erica navigates her sleek black Volvo out of the early morning traffic on West 72nd Street and weaves through the city. The rhythm of Manhattan pulses around her, but she’s focused, preparing herself for the day ahead. She pulls into the underground parking garage beneath Sinclair & Associates' high-rise on Park Avenue, where steel and glass stretch endlessly upward, reflecting the early morning light.

The garage is quiet, her footsteps echoing faintly as she crosses to the elevator. The ride up is smooth and swift, and at the 25th floor, the doors open to the airy, modern lobby of Sinclair & Associates. The smell of fresh coffee drifts in the air, and sleek, minimalist furniture contrasts against the marble flooring, a touch that speaks to the firm’s understated elegance.

Holly Beck, their young receptionist, looks up with a warm smile. “Good morning, Miss Sinclair!” Her cheerful voice carries a pleasant lilt, brightening the space.

“Good morning, Holly.” Erica replies with a polite smile as she passes, heels clicking softly.

Moving down the hall, Erica stops at the desk of her assistant, Claire Messner, who’s already busy sorting through files with her usual air of calm professionalism. Claire’s presence is always reassuring - a steady force of efficiency that keeps the office running smoothly.

“Good morning, Claire. I’m expecting visitors at nine. Could you please check if the meeting room is ready?” Erica asks.

Claire nods without hesitation. “I’ll see to it, Miss Sinclair.” she replies, her tone steady and dependable, as always. Erica knows she won’t need to worry - Claire is meticulous, a master of details.

Satisfied, Erica continues down the hall, reaching her office at the end. Sunlight spills in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sleek lines of her polished mahogany desk and the carefully chosen decor. Her office has a sweeping view over this part of Manhattan, the city sprawling below in a grid of movement and energy. But the morning rush leaves little time to admire it.

She hangs up her coat, sets her handbag on a side table, and moves to her desk, preparing herself for the day. Just as she organizes a few files, a quiet knock on the door signals her first routine.

“Yes, please.” Erica calls, already knowing who it will be.

The door opens, and Claire steps in, holding a small stack of envelopes and folders - the accumulated mail from the past few days. As always, she’s perfectly organized, each item ordered in priority.

“Here’s your mail, Miss Sinclair.” Claire says, placing it in the in-basket on the edge of the desk with practiced efficiency.

Erica gives her a nod of thanks, already glancing at the first envelope. Claire is about to leave when Erica looks up and says, “Thank you, Claire. I appreciate it.”

“It’s my pleasure.” Claire replies with a smile that’s professional but warm, before retreating quietly from the office.

The morning begins in earnest as Erica sifts through the paperwork, the city alive outside her windows as she immerses herself in the rhythm of another day at Sinclair & Associates.




At five minutes to nine, the intercom crackles to life. “Mrs. West is in the conference room.” Claire announces.

“Thank you, Claire. I’ll be with her in a second.” Erica stands, smoothing her skirt and the lapels of her jacket, her fingers brushing down the material out of habit. A steadying breath follows, and she steps out of her office, crossing the hall toward the larger of the two conference rooms.

Inside, Charlotte rises as Erica enters, glancing around with a small smile. “This is impressive.” she says, looking her old teammate in the eye. “Your own law firm on Park Avenue.”

Erica nods, a modest smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. Years of relentless work and building her reputation had brought her from a solo practice to this office, with two associates and a full staff. “It took a lot to put us on the map,” she replies quietly.

Just then, Claire peeks in. “Mr., Mrs., and Miss Stanton are here, Miss Sinclair.”

“Perfect. Show them in, please, Claire.” Erica meets Charlotte’s gaze, a look of readiness passing between them. “Time to play ball.”

The Stantons file in, Bill Stanton leading with Debbie and her mother close behind. A quiet tension fills the room as Erica and Charlotte greet each family member, exchanging polite nods and handshakes. Erica gestures toward the chairs around the table. “Please, have a seat. Coffee, tea, or water?”

As Claire starts serving coffee, Erica moves to the head of the table, her posture composed but deliberate, ready to set the tone. Her calm gaze sweeps over the group, resting briefly on Debbie, who seems to hold her breath, glancing anxiously between her parents and Erica.

“Thank you for coming. I trust the traffic wasn’t too much trouble.” Erica begins, giving them a warm yet professional smile. “Coach West and I wanted to meet with you today to bring you up to speed on recent developments.”

Charlotte exhales slightly, relaxing as Erica takes the reins.

“Debbie, first off, we’re so glad to see you doing better.” Erica says, turning her focus to the young athlete. “What did the doctors recommend?”

Sitting between her parents, Debbie glances nervously at them, as if seeking permission to speak. When her father nods, she leans forward, speaking in a quiet voice. “Dr. Myers says I should stick to light training for another week, and then…come back for a blood test.”

“That sounds reasonable.” Charlotte interjects reassuringly. “We’ll make sure to follow his advice.”

Erica’s gaze shifts to Debbie’s mother, Elizabeth, who’s inching forward, an unspoken question heavy in her eyes. “And the screening?” she asks, her voice soft but tense. “Is there any way it can be postponed?”

Erica gives a small, measured nod. “We’ll get to that.” she replies. “For now, we’re grateful Debbie survived the Moducain overdose. I promised to investigate how this happened, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing - though my work has stirred up a few complications with Mr. Edward Dane.”

As Erica recounts her interactions with Alyssa, the cryptic text message, and her encounter with Dean Chandler and Peter Lumbergh, the room falls silent. Debbie’s eyes widen, horror dawning on her face as Erica describes the threats and her own experience of being chloroformed and restrained. Erica’s voice is calm but unyielding, even as the room grows heavier with tension.

“Oh my gosh…” Debbie whispers, her face paling. “But Alyssa…”

“Alyssa likely had no part in this.” Erica replies firmly. “One of my associates traced the message to Dean Chandler's phone, and Dean admitted Mr. Dane instructed him to ‘put pressure’ on me to ensure Alyssa gets into the screening without further distraction. Dean then enlisted Peter Lumbergh to help. What they called ‘pressure’ - maybe even thought of as a prank - became a case of kidnapping, assault, and more.”

Bill Stanton’s brow furrows as he absorbs this. “Kidnapping?”

“That’s right, Mr. Stanton.” Erica confirms, her voice steady. “The DA is charging them with kidnapping, assault, battery, conspiracy and witness intimidation. They’re all in police custody, including Mr. Dane, who initiated the whole scheme. When they’ll be released on bail is anyone’s guess.”

Erica pauses, allowing her words to settle, and takes a sip of coffee before continuing.

“Based on Dean’s confession and what we’ve uncovered, the DA obtained a search warrant for Nutrisports, Mr. Dane’s company. As you know, they supply supplements to athletes at Canmore, tailored to each athlete’s needs. It’s possible the Moducain was mixed into Debbie’s supplements at Nutrisports - or by someone close to her routine. The DA has collected any empty bottles labeled with Debbie’s name that haven’t been sanitized. They’re being tested as we speak. If any show traces of Moducain, it will be the proof we need that Debbie was unknowingly drugged.”

Elizabeth clutches her daughter’s hand, her expression barely hiding her fear. She looks over at her husband, who frowns, worry etched deep into his face. Erica pauses, allowing the gravity of the situation to sink in before she continues.

“Now, the difficult news.” Her voice softens as she addresses Debbie. “Coach West had to notify the Olympic Screening Board of your positive test result, and they’ve temporarily removed you from the list of candidates.”

Debbie gasps, her face draining of color. “No…please, Coach, Miss Sinclair…they can’t do this!”

Charlotte reaches across the table, placing a steadying hand over Debbie’s. “This is why those lab results are so important. If we can prove Moducain was in your supplements and was administered without your knowledge, we’ll have grounds to challenge the Board’s decision.”

Elizabeth Stanton’s voice is barely a whisper as she voices the question everyone dreads. “But…can you guarantee they’ll listen?”

Erica meets each family member’s eyes, wanting to be both clear and gentle. “No, I can’t make that promise. This may very well be an uphill battle. And even if we prove Debbie’s innocence, the Board might still decide not to reinstate her.”

A heavy silence settles over the room. Debbie stares down at her lap, her face a mixture of shock and pain. Erica feels a pang of empathy - she’s spent her career fighting for justice, but sometimes, even the truth can’t undo all the damage. But she won’t give up.

Leaning forward, her voice low and steady, Erica says, “I know this is a lot to take in. But Coach West and I are fully committed to seeing this through. If there’s a way to clear your name, Debbie, we’re going to find it.”

Debbie’s gaze lifts to meet Erica’s, and she whispers, “But what if…” Her voice falters, tears welling in her eyes.

Erica interlaces her fingers, taking a steadying breath. “Debbie,” she begins gently, “I want you to know that I’m here to fight for you. But…I also want you to be prepared for all outcomes. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, things don’t go the way we hope.”

Debbie’s fingers trace a pattern on the table as she listens, her face a mix of determination and worry.

“You’re an extraordinary athlete,” Erica continues, “and that will always be true. But right now, I need you to think about what’s next - not because I doubt your chances, but because I want you to feel in control, whatever the outcome.”

Debbie looks down, absorbing Erica’s words, her face softening with understanding.

Erica adds gently, “I believe in you. And I want you to see that, no matter what happens, there’s more than one path open to you. If there’s anything else you’d like to pursue…even as a backup plan, now might be a good time to consider it. Just in case.”

Debbie’s eyes search Erica’s face, a mix of hurt and understanding there. “You think I’ll lose my spot?” she whispers.

Erica leans forward, her gaze unwavering. “I think you’re one of the strongest people I know. And having a Plan B doesn’t change how hard we’ll fight for Plan A. It just means you have more choices - more options, regardless of what the board decides.”

The room falls silent as Erica’s words settle, heavy with meaning. Debbie’s parents exchange a glance before Bill reaches over, his hand resting on his daughter’s shoulder. “Debbie,” he says, his voice calm yet emotional, “you’ve worked so hard for this, and we know how much it means to you. But Miss Sinclair is right - it’s good to consider all your options. Whatever makes you feel secure, we’re here to support you.”

Elizabeth nods, her eyes misting with a mixture of pride and concern. “Sweetheart,” she murmurs, “we just want you to know that your happiness means more to us than any trophy. We’ll be by your side every step of the way.”

Looking from Erica to her parents, Debbie’s face softens with gratitude, though her voice holds a determined edge. “I don’t want to give up, Mom, Dad. I know you’re trying to protect me, and I love you for it…but I don’t want to walk away, not when there’s still a chance.”

A faint smile touches Erica’s lips. “Good.” she says softly, nodding. “Because I don’t plan on giving up either. We’ll find a way to bring the truth to light.”

A charged silence fills the room before Erica gathers her papers, the promise hanging heavily, but resolutely, in the air.

Again, it is Bill Stanton who speaks, his voice strained with the weight of the question.

“If the District Attorney finds Moducain in those empty bottles, will Edward Dane be tried for that?”

Erica meets his gaze with a quiet but firm resolve. “What we can say right now,” she starts, taking a moment to carefully select her words, “is that unless someone from Nutrisports or Canmore comes forward, we don’t have direct proof that Edward Dane himself is responsible for lacing Debbie’s drinks with Moducain. There’s no evidence yet that he personally handled the drinks or paid anyone to add the drug.”

Bill’s brow furrows, his eyes narrowing in frustration. “So…he could have orchestrated this, but unless we get a whistleblower or hard proof, he might walk away from this without real consequences?”

Erica nods, her face steady but tight with the strain of the situation. “That’s the unfortunate truth. The evidence points to his involvement through Dean Chandler and Peter Lumbergh, who acted on his instructions. Let’s not forget, kidnapping, assault, and battery are serious charges. In New York, kidnapping in the first degree alone carries a minimum of 15 years in prison.”

She pauses for a beat, letting the silence settle heavily over the room. As her words sink in, she continues, “But establishing a clear line of responsibility for the Moducain - that’s where the real challenge lies.”

Debbie’s mother looks between Erica and Charlotte, her lips trembling with barely contained frustration. “So even after all of this - after what happened to my daughter - you’re saying he might still get away with it?”

Erica’s gaze softens slightly as she responds quietly, almost apologetically. “Yes, possibly. But we’re not giving up. The investigation at Nutrisports is ongoing. Any new evidence - or anyone who steps forward - could change the course of this case.”

Debbie’s father exhales a long, weary breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the situation. His voice, when he speaks, is quieter now, filled with a mix of gratitude and sorrow. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. You’ve risked yourself for Debbie. Even if the outcome with the Moducain isn’t clear, we know how far you’re willing to go to get to the truth. And we appreciate it more than words can say.”

Erica gives a small nod, her gaze unwavering. “Thank you, Mr. Stanton. And I promise you - if there’s a way to bring the full truth to light, I will find it.”

A glimmer of renewed hope flickers in Debbie’s eyes, but Erica can see the weight of her uncertainty. The road ahead might be rough, but with every glance at Debbie and her family, she knows she’s ready to push for answers, no matter how long it takes. The skin on her left wrist prickles as if to remind her of the inscription on the back of her watch: Stand for something or fall for anything.

Despite the complexity of the case, Erica knows she won’t stop until she uncovers the full truth - no matter how daunting the challenge.

Erica takes her notes and stands. What needed to be said has been said and she doesn’t want to worry the Stantons more than necessary.
“I’ll keep you updated.” Erica concludes the meeting.





As Erica guides the Stantons to the elevator, she notices Charlotte lingering behind. Her teammate’s eyes are glued to her phone, her thumb scrolling through messages with a deliberate slowness that betrays anxiety. There’s a tightness to Charlotte’s expression, as though she’s bracing for bad news.

Erica pauses, watching her for a beat. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice quiet but steady.

Charlotte exhales sharply, then turns her phone to show Erica the screen. The text message displayed is curt and commanding:

“Mrs. West – why are you not on campus? My office. ASAP.”

“Chancellor Thomas.” Charlotte mutters, her voice taut with resignation. “He doesn’t just want to see my pretty face, I’m sure.”

Erica frowns, her concern deepening. “What do you think it’s about?”

Charlotte slides her phone into her blazer pocket, her movements stiff and deliberate. “Take a wild guess. Dane and Lumbergh got arrested, and now the fallout’s landed at Canmore’s doorstep. The Danes are Canmore royalty; it was only a matter of time before they started pulling strings.” She hesitates, then admits quietly, “I’ve been bracing for this, but it feels like the hammer’s finally coming down.”

“You want some backup?” Erica asks, her tone practical but firm. “If he’s being unreasonable, I can help him see the light.”

Charlotte hesitates, then nods. “You know, I’ve always told myself I’m a big girl, but this…” She gestures vaguely, her frustration evident. “This isn’t what I signed up for. I didn’t expect to be caught in the crossfire of rich people’s egos.”

Erica places a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Let me grab my coat. Then we’ll find out what Chancellor Thomas wants.”

[LunaDog]

Yet again the utter brilliance of your creative mind shows itself, as Erica returns to her work. Yes, her 'battle hardness' takes centre stage, but it is tinged with compassion when dealing with Debbie and her parents. Throughout she acts with consummate professionalism.

And now, it appears, that it's not just Debbie's future career that is in jeopardy. They say that this world revolves around money, and that nothings shouts louder than it. Here's proof of that statement, Dane has plenty of that. And he's starting to shout, VERY loudly!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, this battle is far from over, not only because of Edward Dane, but also because a happy ending for Debbie is all but guaranteed. And what about Alyssa? And now Charlotte's career might be endangered, too.
Let's continue with the story and see how it unfolds further.

[Jenny_S]

The ride from Erica’s office on Park Avenue to Staten Island stretches out in near silence. Charlotte’s nerves are palpable, the tension radiating off her in waves. Every few minutes, she shifts in her seat, tugging at her seatbelt, smoothing the fabric of her slacks, and checking her watch as though trying to control time itself.

Erica keeps her eyes on the road, giving her friend the space to process. But when Charlotte lets out a sharp, frustrated sigh for the third time, Erica finally breaks the silence.

“Hey. Don’t worry.” she says, her voice calm and steady.

Charlotte lets out a dry laugh, shaking her head. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one getting massacred.”

Erica glances over briefly, her tone light but purposeful. “Chancellor Thomas might be intimidating, but you’ve handled tougher opponents, I’m sure.”

Charlotte smiles faintly. “Yeah, but Thomas is holding my career in his hands.” She pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “If this goes sideways, what if he pushes me out? What if he finds some excuse to make me the scapegoat?”

Erica’s grip tightens on the steering wheel, her gaze steady. “Then we fight back.” she says simply. “You’ve got rights, Charlotte. And me in your corner.”

Charlotte nods, though her expression remains uneasy. They fall silent again, the weight of uncertainty thick in the air.




When they arrive at Canmore’s campus, the midday light casts its shadows over the grounds. The sharp November air bites at their faces as they make their way across the manicured lawns toward the administration building. The usual buzz of activity feels muted, as though the campus itself is holding its breath.

Inside, the receptionist barely glances up as Charlotte announces herself. “Coach West. Chancellor Thomas is expecting me.”

The receptionist’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a subtle shift in her posture - a stiffening that suggests she knows this isn’t a routine meeting. She gestures toward the elevators. “Fourth floor - as you know, Mrs. West.”

The ride up feels interminable. Charlotte crosses her arms tightly, her fingers gripping her elbows. Erica stands beside her, hands at her sides but ready. When the elevator dings and the doors slide open, they step into a wide hallway. At the far end, a set of imposing double doors looms like a gateway to a battleground.

Charlotte hesitates for half a second, then straightens her spine, knocks and upon the invitation to enter, she pushes them open.


Chancellor Dalton Thomas is seated behind a sleek wooden desk, his expression stony. His gray suit is impeccably tailored, his silver-framed glasses perched low on his nose as he reviews a stack of papers. When he looks up, his eyes land on Charlotte first, then flick to Erica with a spark of surprise.

“Mrs. West.” he says, his tone clipped. “I wasn’t aware you’d be bringing company.”

“Miss Sinclair of Sinclair & Associates, Sir. She’s been advising me on a delicate matter.” Charlotte replies, her voice steady but polite. “I thought her insight might be helpful.”

Thomas’s mouth tightens, but he gestures curtly toward the chairs opposite his desk. “Very well. Let’s get to it.”

As they sit, the Chancellor steeples his fingers, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.

“You’ve put this institution in a precarious position, Mrs. West.” he begins. “Your involvement with the Stanton matter and the subsequent arrests have drawn a level of scrutiny that this university can ill afford.”

Charlotte stiffens, but before she can respond, Erica interjects. Her voice is calm but commanding. “With all due respect, Chancellor, Mrs. West’s actions reflect the values Canmore claims to uphold - integrity, accountability, and the well-being of its students.”

Thomas’s eyes narrow. “Be that as it may, the Danes have raised serious concerns about the damage this situation is causing to their reputation - and, by extension, to ours. Edward Dane is a significant donor to this institution.”

Charlotte’s jaw tightens. “So that’s what this is about? Protecting a donor?”

Thomas’s calm veneer cracks slightly. “It’s about protecting Canmore. The optics of this situation are disastrous, and I need assurances that your actions won’t further jeopardize the university.”

Erica leans forward, her gaze unwavering. “Let’s be clear, Chancellor: the District Attorney wouldn’t have been granted arrest warrants for Dane and two of your students without substantial evidence. If the optics are bad, it’s because Edward Dane put himself in this position. Are you suggesting Mrs. West should have ignored the victimization of a student?”

Thomas bristles but doesn’t immediately reply. The silence stretches, heavy and charged.

Finally, he exhales sharply. “Mrs. West, I’m asking you to consider the bigger picture. Whatever personal vendettas you’re pursuing, leave Canmore out of it.”

Charlotte’s voice is cold and resolute. “This isn’t personal, Chancellor. It’s about doing what’s right.”

Erica catches the flicker of unease in Thomas’s expression before he schools it into neutrality.

“This isn’t over.” Thomas says, his voice low. “You’ll hear from me again soon.”

As they leave the office, Erica exchanges a glance with Charlotte. Neither of them says it, but they both know: the fight is far from over.




As the elevator descends, the hum of the machinery fills the tense silence between them. Erica watches Charlotte closely, noting the tight line of her jaw, the restless shifting of her hands.

“Whatever’s going to happen, Charlotte,” Erica says, her voice steady, “there’s very little Chancellor Thomas can actually do. The DA acted on the assault against me, not because of Debbie or the Moducain. Sounds heartless, I know.”

Charlotte stares at the glowing floor numbers, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Erica continues, her tone calm but deliberate. “The worst-case scenario is that the DA doesn’t find evidence of the drug in Debbie’s bottles. Even then, the assault charges alone are enough to keep Dane in legal hot water for a long time.”

Charlotte’s shoulders sag slightly, but her eyes remain fixed ahead. Erica steps closer, lowering her voice.
A faint chuckle escapes Erica’s lips, though there’s no humor in it. “Thomas would be smart to get legal counsel before he starts pressuring you too hard. If this case goes public, his name and that of this institution will be dragged through the dirt in ways he can’t imagine.”

Charlotte spins to face her, her eyes fiery. “My God, Erica, this isn’t a game!” Her voice rises, trembling with frustration. “I’ve worked my ass off to get these kids where they are now - Alyssa included. They’ve worked so hard themselves. You talk about justice and optics like it’s just some strategy, but these are people’s lives! Their futures!”

Erica stays rooted, letting the words hang in the air for a beat before responding, her voice quiet but firm. “No, Charlotte. This isn’t a game. Not at all.” Her tone sharpens just slightly. “But let me remind you of a few things: you came to me for help. I didn’t ask to be ambushed in a college gym on Dane’s orders, but I’m here now, doing everything I can to make sure justice is served. If the DA finds proof Debbie’s drinks were spiked, someone will be held accountable. Whether that’s Dane or someone he hired, it will come out.”

Charlotte looks away, her breathing uneven.

“This stopped being a game about who wins a race the moment Debbie collapsed due to the Moducain.” Erica continues, her voice softening but not losing its edge. “And if you care about her as much as you say you do, you can’t let Thomas or anyone else distract you from doing the right thing - even if it means Thomas tries to fire you tomorrow.”

Charlotte presses her back against the elevator wall, running a hand through her hair. Her voice cracks when she speaks. “I care about Debbie, Erica. I do. But I feel like everything I’ve built is slipping away, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

The elevator doors slide open to the lobby, but neither of them moves. Erica places a gentle hand on Charlotte’s arm, her gaze steady. “Do you know what my father made me promise on the day I graduated?” She waits until Charlotte looks at her, curiosity flickering through the storm of doubt in her eyes.

“To always stand for something, Charlotte.” Erica says, her voice tinged with quiet intensity. “No matter the adversity. You should, too. Think about it.”

Charlotte swallows hard, blinking quickly as if to clear away the emotions threatening to surface. She nods once, stiffly, and steps out of the elevator. Erica follows her, their footsteps echoing in the sterile lobby.

The cold November air hits them as they push through the glass doors, and Charlotte hesitates, turning back to Erica. For the first time, her voice is softer, almost unsure. “Thanks, Erica. For not giving up.”

Erica offers a small, reassuring smile. “We’re in this together, Charlotte. Keep standing.”

Charlotte’s lips twitch into the faintest semblance of a smile before she turns and walks toward the parking lot. Erica lingers for a moment, watching her go, then squares her shoulders and heads to her car. The fight isn’t over - not by a long shot - but she knows they’re both stronger than they realize.

[Caesar73]

The Centrepiece of this Chapter is the Confrontation between Erica, Charlotte and Chancellor Thomas. The Tension in the Room is palpable. Thomas only interest is - understandable from his point of view - protecting Canmore. A loss of such a potent Donor and the public Scrutiny is damaging the Institution. He comes across as cool and controlled. His Threat at the End of this Meeting is not veiled at all.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, that's a great summary of the recent installment. More to follow tomorrow evening.

[LunaDog]

I get the sense that if Erica hadn't been present, Chancellor Thomas would have, probably unlawfully, sacked Charlotte there and then. She's, through no fault of her own, upset his 'apple cart.' It doesn't matter about justice or doing the right, or wrong, thing, this affair has put funding at risk. I get the feeling that's HIS primary concern here.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, you're right. Chancellor Thomas would have liked to sweep the whole affair under the rug and now some little lawyer from Manhattan, brought in by one of his staff, noses around on his turf and has two students and an important donor arrested.

[Jenny_S]

Erica stands in her kitchen, the tang of freshly sliced tomatoes lingering in the air. The knife in her hand glints under the overhead light as she surveys the vibrant pile of ripe, red fruit. Today calls for something comforting - soul food - and for Erica, that means pasta. Not just any takeaway pasta from La Cucina, though, but the dish her father once said her mother had loved to make.

Her mother. The word alone stirs a vague ache in her chest. Erica has only the faintest memories of her, a blurred figure who passed when Erica was just two. And yet, this recipe connects her to that fleeting presence, a receipe handed down from her grandmother to her mother and then to her.

Erica’s movements are deliberate, almost meditative. She scrapes the chopped tomatoes into the pan, where onions, garlic, and crisped bits of bacon have been browning to perfection. The sizzling sound rises in tandem with a rich, savory aroma. She stirs the mixture gently, her rhythm calming, her thoughts momentarily stilled.

On another burner, spaghetti simmers, its bubbling water faintly clouded with starch. When the pasta is nearly done, Erica scoops it straight from the pot into the pan, some of the water clinging to the strands. The sauce and pasta melt together over low heat, thickening into a dish that feels like a warm embrace.

She inhales deeply, savoring the mingling scents of tomatoes, garlic, and pancetta. Pouring herself a glass of dark, velvety Nero d’Avola, she heads toward the living room. Her two kittens, Spot and Tiger, scamper around her feet, their tiny meows bursting with enthusiasm as though they know something special is happening tonight.

“Sorry, guys.” Erica murmurs with a soft chuckle. “No pasta for you. But don’t worry - you’ve got some delicious chicken pulp coming up.”

She fills their food bowl and places it on the mat in the corner of the living room. The kittens pounce immediately, their excitement infectious as they devour the finely ground meat.

Erica sprinkles chopped basil over her spaghetti, topping it with freshly grated parmigiano. The sharp, nutty scent fills the room, making her stomach growl. She carries her plate back to the couch, the warm, nostalgic dish a small victory against the day’s chaos.

As the kittens dive into their meal with unbridled enthusiasm, Erica settles onto her couch, savoring the first bite of her mother’s favorite dish. The flavors burst on her tongue, rich and nostalgic, but her thoughts wander back to Charlotte. What was she doing now? Did she realize just how high the stakes had become?

The thought lingers, heavy, as Erica takes a sip of wine.
Because across the river, in Hillside, New Jersey, her former teammate, Charlotte West, is walking straight into the lion’s den.



Gravel crunches under Charlotte’s tires as she approaches the towering iron gates of the Dane estate. The air feels chill and biting, a tangible reminder of the time of the year. Floodlights cast stark shadows over the tall, wrought-iron bars, which loom like sentinels guarding the fortress beyond. Security cameras track her car with silent precision, their unblinking lenses making her feel exposed, scrutinized.

Charlotte exhales sharply, gripping the steering wheel tighter. The estate is every bit as intimidating as she imagined - imposing, but somehow utterly detached from the struggles of ordinary people. This is a place built to intimidate, to announce its power.

She rolls down the window and presses the intercom button. The chill stings her skin, but it’s nothing compared to the knot of nerves twisting in her stomach.

“Yes?” A clipped, feminine voice crackles through the speaker.

“I’m Charlotte West.” she says firmly but politely, injecting as much resolve into her voice as she can muster. “Alyssa’s coach at Canmore College. I’d like to speak to Mrs. Dane, please.”

There’s a long pause, the kind that seems to stretch endlessly, amplifying her unease. She imagines being dismissed outright, the iron gates staying closed for her.

Then, without further comment, the gates swing open with eerie silence. Charlotte eases the car forward, following the gravel driveway as it winds through the manicured grounds. The estate comes into view, a sprawling mansion with gleaming windows that seem to watch her as she approaches. Every hedge, every lawn ornament is in perfect order, a testament to wealth and control. Strategically placed spotlights illuminate the building like a Beethoven composition.

She parks in front of the grand double doors, her palms damp as she grips the steering wheel one last time. “For Alyssa.” she whispers to herself before stepping out into the cold.

The door opens almost immediately, revealing a tall, elegant woman with sharp cheekbones and a poise that could cut glass. Mrs. Dane most likely. She studies Charlotte with a gaze that’s equal parts curiosity and veiled condescension.

“Mrs. West.” Mrs. Dane says smoothly, her voice cultured but laced with an edge Charlotte can’t quite place. “I wasn’t expecting a visit from Canmore today.”

Charlotte straightens her shoulders, meeting the woman’s piercing gaze. “This isn’t about Canmore. It’s about Alyssa - and what’s been happening to her.”

Mrs. Dane’s expression flickers for a moment, her composure almost slipping, but she quickly recovers. “I see. Well, you’d better come in.”

She steps aside, allowing Charlotte to enter the opulent foyer. The marble floors gleam under the chandelier’s light, and the faint scent of polished wood fills the air. Charlotte takes a deep breath, steeling herself.
As the heavy door closes behind her, Charlotte feels a surge of adrenaline. The game is in motion now, and there’s no turning back.





After dinner, the quiet of Erica’s apartment feels heavier than usual. She places the deep pan of leftovers into the cold oven for tomorrow, her movements methodical, almost automatic. The faint clatter of running water as she rinses her dishes fills the space, but her thoughts are already drifting elsewhere, tugged irresistibly toward memories she’s kept carefully boxed away.

She wipes her hands on a kitchen towel, hesitating for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, she walks to her bedroom. Kneeling beside the bed, her fingers pause just inches away from the frame. The shoebox is there, exactly where it always is, right next to the plastic bin containing her bondage materials, waiting like a secret she’s not sure she wants to revisit. Then, finally, she reaches under, her fingertips brushing the edges of the cardboard shell, pulling it free with a mixture of reluctance and resolve.

Carrying the shoebox into the living room, she puts it down on the coffee table beside her half-empty glass of Nero d’Avola. She sits on the edge of the black leather couch, biting her lower lip as she stares at the unassuming brown lid. It’s just a box, but what it holds feels like a world she’s drawn to and yet afraid of entering.

Erica exhales the breath she didn’t realize she was holding and lifts the lid. Inside is a collection of mementos from her family - small, tangible fragments of a past she’s only partially known. Her gaze lingers on a small blue plastic box containing her parents’ plain gold wedding bands, the green beret and medals from her father’s army days, and various certificates and records of lives and deaths. But what catches her eye, as always, is an envelope of photographs showing forebears back to the Civil War. With trembling hands, she pulls one specific photo free.

The picture is faded but vibrant in its emotions. Her parents sit together on a picnic blanket, her father’s arm draped protectively over her mother’s shoulders, while baby Erica, no older than two, toddles between them. Her mother’s dark hair falls in loose waves around a face so strikingly familiar it feels like looking into a mirror from another time. Erica’s nose, lips, and chin are unmistakably hers, though the blonde hair and blue eyes are all her father’s.

“I wish I could get to know you, Mom.” she whispers, her voice breaking under the weight of longing. All that she knows of her mother comes from stories her father told her and, years ago, from an aunt who shared fragments Erica had clung to ever since.

Her eyes blur with tears as she stares at the photo. As beautiful as the family scene is, it carries an ache of inevitability. When this picture was taken, her parents must have already known they were running out of time. Her mother’s illness would soon tear her from her father’s loving embrace.

“Your mom never feared death.” her father had told her once. “She accepted it as a fact of life.”

Erica feels her chest tighten as if the weight of the years without her mother is pressing down all at once. A pang of grief wells up, sharp and sudden, breaking through the careful walls she’s built around these memories. For a fleeting moment, she lets herself wonder - what would her mother think of her now? Would she be proud? Would she see herself in Erica’s choices, her resolve?

The thought threatens to unravel her. She swallows hard and places the photo back into the envelope, her hands steady despite the storm inside. This is why she keeps these memories boxed up. She can’t afford to crumble under their weight.

The shoebox goes back under her bed, its contents safely sealed away once more, not because she’s afraid of the memories, but because she knows when to let them rest. Her mother’s love and her father’s lessons are with her always; the rest can wait for a time when she’s ready to face it again.

For now, she finishes the last sip of her wine and sits quietly, the soft sounds of her kittens playing in the corner reminding her of life’s small, persistent joys. The ache in her chest lingers, but so does a renewed sense of purpose. Her mother lived with courage, and her father made her promise to always stand for something. Erica wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and lets the quiet settle around her, steadying herself for the challenges to come.





Mrs. Dane shows Charlotte into the sitting room, offering her something to drink, which Charlotte politely declines.

"Please, have a seat." Mrs. Dane says, gesturing toward one of the comfortable armchairs in the sitting area. "You know what has happened during the last few days, I assume?"

"I do." Charlotte replies, her voice steady but tinged with a hint of regret. "In fact, I’m afraid I had a good part in it."

She tells Mrs. Dane about Debbie Stanton, Alyssa’s teammate, and her unexpected collapse during training, the emergency treatment at the hospital, and the blood test results showing an overdose of Moducain. Mrs. Dane listens intently, her face impassive as Charlotte speaks, never interrupting, not even taking a deep breath as the weight of the situation hangs between them.

Charlotte continues, telling her about involving a former teammate from Harvard to investigate when the police had brushed her off. She recounts how things developed, culminating in the moment when Edward Dane apparently ordered the ambush on Erica Sinclair to keep her from distracting Alyssa any further.

"Things have been spinning out of control, Mrs. Dane. Everybody’s control." Charlotte says, her words heavy with the implications of what’s happened.

Elena Dane leans forward slightly, her eyes narrowing with a quiet, almost resigned focus. "I was always afraid it could come to that someday." she says. "Edward has been obsessed with getting Alyssa to the Olympics. He wanted her to achieve what he couldn’t."

Charlotte looks at Mrs. Dane, surprised by the admission. "You noticed that he’s walking with a slight limp, did you?" Mrs. Dane asks softly. "As a young man, he was on the fast track to the Olympics himself. Then one Friday night, he was in a car with some friends, and they ended up in a traffic accident. That crash ended his athletic career. For good."

"I didn’t know..." Charlotte murmurs, feeling a pang of sympathy for the man’s past pain, but not enough to absolve him of his current actions.

Mrs. Dane sighs, looking down at her hands as if the weight of their conversation is suddenly too much to bear. "There was nothing we could do to keep him away from Canmore once Alyssa became as good as she is." she says, her voice hollow, almost weary. "I don’t think Alyssa is overly thrilled by having him hover over her all the time. And I’m sure you probably don’t appreciate his presence much either..."

"He’s…intense." Charlotte responds carefully, but her voice falters. She realizes then how fully aware Mrs. Dane is of Edward’s increasingly invasive influence over every aspect of Alyssa’s career.

Mrs. Dane’s lips press together for a moment, her expression hardening as she stares at nothing in particular. "Of course, our family lawyer is trying to get him out of police custody on bail, but the judge seems a little hesitant given the circumstances and charges."

Charlotte frowns, but her thoughts quickly return to what Mrs. Dane had said earlier. "But do you really believe Debbie took the drug on her own initiative?" she asks, her voice sharp. "Or could you imagine that your husband could have something to do with that too?"

Mrs. Dane hesitates before answering, the resignation in her face deepening. "I don’t know what to believe, Mrs West. If you say that girl didn’t take the drugs willingly, that might very well be true. Edward’s influence over everyone - especially Alyssa - has only grown more insistent over the years. And as for Dean... Well, I’m certain Edward convinced him to help Alyssa, even if that meant to attack Miss Sinclair." Mrs. Dane’s voice cracks slightly on the last part, as though the weight of acknowledging her husband's manipulation is too much to bear.

Charlotte’s eyes narrow, the realization settling over her like a cold wave. "And you’re just...letting it happen?" Her voice trembles with disbelief.

Mrs. Dane raises her chin, her gaze unwavering, yet there's a flicker of something darker behind her calm exterior. "Sometimes, Mrs West, it’s about what we choose not to do." she says quietly. "What we choose not to intervene in. You think I haven't tried to rein him in? To pull him back from the edge? But in the end, I couldn't stop him, and I’m not sure I could now. It’s too late for that."

Her eyes lock onto Charlotte’s, and in them, Charlotte sees not just a mother’s concern for her daughter, but a deep, weary acceptance. The acceptance of someone who has spent years watching the man she married slip deeper into obsession and darkness, knowing all along that this day might come, but feeling powerless to stop it.

The silence stretches between them, heavy and thick with everything unspoken. Finally, Mrs. Dane leans back, her shoulders slumping, as if the weight of the conversation has drained her of energy. "I never wanted this for my daughter. But now... now it feels like we're all caught in something that we can’t get out of."

Charlotte takes a slow breath, the tension in the room growing almost unbearable as she processes everything Mrs. Dane has just said.



As Charlotte and Mrs. Dane sit in the room, the air heavy with unresolved tension, the door creaks open just enough to reveal a figure standing in the shadowed hallway.

Alyssa’s footsteps are soft but deliberate as she steps into the room, her Canmore tracksuit a stark contrast to the tension in the air. She’s been listening from the hallway, and now, with a face that is a mixture of anger, exhaustion, and guilt, she finally speaks up.

“I’m the only one who can stop this madness.” Her voice is firm, but it cracks at the edges, betraying the struggle she’s been holding inside.

Charlotte and Mrs. Dane both turn toward her, startled. For a moment, Alyssa stands there, her gaze flicking from her mother to Charlotte, before her words rush out, a confession she’s carried far too long.

[LunaDog]

It seems that there's yet one more twist to come. No one saw that coming, it appears that there's more to Alyssa that we first thought.

Oh, and that first part? It's well and truly made me hungry!

[Caesar73]

It seems that there's yet one more twist to come. No one saw that coming, it appears that there's more to Alyssa that we first thought.

Oh, and that first part? It's well and truly made me hungry!

Nothing to add here Except: Maybe Alyssa isn´t as innocent as we believed? A Daughter pushed by her overbearing Father?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, let's see what Alyssa has to say, shall we?

[Jenny_S]

“I’m done. I won’t run anymore. Not for Canmore. Not for the Nation. Not for you, Dad… for nobody.” The words are a weight she’s been carrying, and now they fall from her lips like a dam breaking. “Dad may disown me if he wants, but I can’t do this anymore.” She clenches her fists at her sides. “Look what this has cost already. It got Dean into prison. It got Peter. And even Dad. What would be next? Does someone have to die for this to end?”

Her words hit the room like a thunderclap, rattling the fragile calm that had settled in. The silence that follows is deafening.

Voice shaking, her face pale, and a tremor in her hands as she grips the edge of the table, trying to steady herself, Alyssa gasps. “This… all of this… it’s my fault. If I hadn’t been so good, so talented... none of this would’ve happened.” She looks at her mother, then at Charlotte, her eyes glistening with tears that she refuses to let fall. “My father - he pushed so hard because of me. It was my success that started all of this. I didn’t ask for it, but I made him want more. And look where it led.” Her breath hitches, the weight of what she perceives as her fault suffocating her.

Charlotte takes a step toward her, but Alyssa holds up a hand, stopping her. She doesn’t want comfort right now, only the space to own this truth.

“I’m done.” Her voice is quieter now, but it carries a quiet strength. “I won’t let this destroy me or our family.” She glances at her mother, then Charlotte, her expression pained but resolute. “I thought it was about running, about proving something...but it’s not. It’s about so much more, and I won’t be part of it anymore.”

Alyssa turns away from them, her eyes briefly clouded with the weight of the decision. "I’m walking away. I don’t know what will happen, but this is the only way out. I’ll live my life without all of this... pressure, without all of you pulling me in directions I never wanted to go."

She stops by the door, her back to them now, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Mom. But I can’t keep running.”

“Lissy, please…” Elena Dane’s voice is barely above a whisper, trembling with the weight of emotions she’s kept hidden for far too long. Her hands reach out, tentative, as though afraid her daughter might bolt. “None of this is your fault.”

Her eyes glisten with unshed tears as she takes a hesitant step closer. “You don’t have to run if you don’t want to…” Her words crack, and the tears she’s been holding back spill over, carving glistening trails down her cheeks. Her carefully crafted composure - years of silent endurance - unravels completely. For the first time, Alyssa sees her mother as something other than poised and unyielding. She sees the pain of a woman who’s tried and failed to hold her family together.

Alyssa blinks, momentarily stunned by the raw emotion in her mother’s face. She shakes her head, her own tears threatening to spill. “But it is, Mom. It is my fault. If I wasn’t so good, if I hadn’t… he wouldn’t have pushed this far.”

Elena’s sob cuts through the air, a sound of anguish so deep it sends a shiver through the room. “No.” Her voice is stronger now, a mother’s conviction rising through the grief. “Your father…he made his choices. He chased his dreams through you, and I - I let it happen. I should have protected you.” She steps closer, but Alyssa’s shoulders hunch, her body language screaming her desire to escape.

Charlotte, who has been silent, bites her lip, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. She doesn’t know what to say, but she wishes, desperately, that Erica was here. Erica, with her sharp insight and clear sense of justice, would know exactly how to cut through this. Instead, Charlotte stammers, her voice shaky yet sincere.

“Alyssa…” Charlotte steps forward, her gaze meeting the young athlete’s with earnest intensity. “Your father knew exactly what he was doing. He made choices. He’s the one who involved Dean, who pressured Peter. He put everything on you. None of this is your fault.” She swallows hard, her throat tight. “We…we let you down. We saw what was happening, but we didn’t stop it.”

Alyssa’s breath hitches at Charlotte’s words. Her fists loosen slightly, but her face remains a mask of turmoil. “It doesn’t matter. The damage is already done.” Her voice drops, hoarse and broken. “Dean’s in jail. Peter too. And Dad - he…” She stops, shaking her head. “It’s too much.”

Charlotte hesitates, then speaks again, her tone firmer this time. “It’s not too late, Alyssa. You walking away - that’s you stopping it. You’re the one who can put an end to this, not by running, but by choosing not to. By refusing to let this cycle keep going. You’re doing what we couldn’t…”

Elena chokes back another sob and steps closer, placing a tentative hand on Alyssa’s arm. “She’s right, Lissy. You’re not responsible for what your father did. But you have the power to make sure it doesn’t hurt you anymore. And you don’t have to face this alone. I’ll be here, no matter what. Even if…” She falters, her voice trembling. “Even if it means standing against him.”

For a moment, Alyssa stands frozen, her mother’s words sinking in. Slowly, she looks at her mother, then Charlotte, her tears spilling freely now. “I just…” Her voice cracks. “I wanted to make him proud.”

“You did.” Elena whispers, stepping closer and wrapping her arms around Alyssa. “He just couldn’t see it without turning it into something ugly. But I see it, sweetheart. I always have.”

Alyssa’s shoulders shake as the tears come harder now, her resolve breaking in the warmth of her mother’s embrace. She clings to Elena, her face buried in her mother’s shoulder. “I’m so tired, Mom.”

“I know, Lissy. I know.” Elena strokes her daughter’s hair, her own tears falling into the fabric of Alyssa’s tracksuit. “It’s okay. You don’t have to carry this anymore.”

Charlotte stands nearby, silent but moved, her heart heavy. For once, she feels her presence is enough. This is a family’s moment to begin healing. But as she watches Alyssa and Elena, a sense of determination builds in her chest. She’ll ensure that whatever happens next, no one else will have to bear this kind of pain.





The moonlight filters through the slats of the blinds, painting Erica’s bedroom with soft silver stripes. She kneels beside the bed, her fingertips brushing the edge of the mattress, the cool fabric grounding her in the stillness of the night. The faint hum of the heating system fills the room, accompanied by the soft purring of Spot and Tiger nestled by the vent, soaking in the warmth.
Her breathing is steady, but her mind churns like a restless sea. The shoebox is back under her bed, closed and tucked away, yet its contents linger in her thoughts, stirring feelings she hasn’t fully processed. The evening’s emotional unraveling has left her raw, vulnerable in a way she rarely allows herself to feel. She closes her eyes, willing the storm within her to calm, to find the shore.

With a slow, deliberate movement, Erica reaches beneath the bed for the familiar plastic bin. The act of retrieving it is a ritual in itself, one that brings a measure of control when her world feels anything but. Her fingers pause on the lid, a fleeting hesitation, before she lifts it to reveal its carefully organized contents: several lengths of white cotton rope, gleaming steel handcuffs, and a few other select items, all neatly arranged.

Her fingertips glide over the smooth coils of rope, savoring their softness. This is not about confinement, not about punishment. For Erica, this is an act of centering, of finding clarity in surrender. It’s a deeply personal ritual, one that helps her shed the weight of expectations, even if only for a little while.
She sets her intentions like a whispered mantra: Breathe. Focus. Let go.

Uncoiling the ropes, Erica attaches two longer ones to the lower corners of her bed, securing them with practiced efficiency.
Another, shorter rope is looped through the headboard, just above where she tapes the key for her handcuffs. She ensures the placement is intentional, a challenge to retrieve when the time comes.

Sitting on the mattress, she begins binding her ankles, looping and knotting the ropes with a precision born of practice. The rhythm of her movements is soothing, her focus narrowing with each twist of the cotton around her skin. The ropes are snug but not cruel, a comforting presence that grounds her in the present.
Next, she picks up the ball gag, its red rubber surface familiar in her hands. She pushes it behind her teeth, the straps pulling tight as she fastens them at the back of her head. Instantly, saliva begins to pool, trickling past the corners of her mouth and down her chin. The sensation is intimate, humbling - a deliberate vulnerability she embraces.

She leans back against the mattress, her gaze drifting up to the handcuffs secured to the headboard. Her breath hitches as her fingers wrap around them. Once they click into place, she knows there’s no turning back. The sound of the cuffs locking around her wrists cuts through the stillness, sharp and final.
Her heart pounds as she tests the limits of her restraints, tugging against the ropes at her ankles and the unforgiving steel at her wrists. The bindings hold firm, leaving her naked, exposed, helpless, raw. And yet, in this vulnerability, she feels an unexpected strength.

This is mine, she thinks. My choice. My freedom.

Erica closes her eyes, surrendering to the sensations coursing through her. The taut pull of the ropes, the pressure of the cuffs, the muffling embrace of the gag - all of it quiets the noise in her head. She feels the weight of her professional responsibilities, her personal fears, and her lingering sorrow begin to dissolve.

The bindings that restrain her also liberate her. Here, in this moment, she is not Erica Sinclair, Esquire, or Erica Sinclair, bearer of burdens. She is simply Erica, untethered from the expectations of the world, immersed in peace born of surrender.

[LunaDog]

WOW! Where do i start? Again, WOW!

The story started superbly, Jenny, and has just got better. To quote that song from a few years ago; 'i wasn't expecting that.'

One could almost feel the raw emotion as poor Alyssa spills her feelings out. This is a person, totally innocent themselves, who feels 'pushing into a corner,' as it were. And finally her mother 'wakes up and smells the coffee!'

Utterly magnificent!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you very much for your praise. This means sooo much to me. Imagine a young woman like Alyssa, being groomed by her ambitious father from childhood on with nothing less than Olympic Gold in mind. I feel really bad for her and in hr own way, she is just as much a victim as Debbie.
Tonight, we will see how the story continues.

[LunaDog]

I feel really bad for her and in her own way, she is just as much a victim as Debbie.

I couldn't agree more.

[Caesar73]

It starts with this glorious Entry:

“I’m done. I won’t run anymore. Not for Canmore. Not for the Nation. Not for you, Dad… for nobody.” The words are a weight she’s been carrying, and now they fall from her lips like a dam breaking. “Dad may disown me if he wants, but I can’t do this anymore.” She clenches her fists at her sides. “Look what this has cost already. It got Dean into prison. It got Peter. And even Dad. What would be next? Does someone have to die for this to end?”

Especially the first Line. Short compact Sentences. Sharp like Hammerstrokes. Which add to the Impact of Alyssa´s Words. Absolutely intense.

That Alyssa feels guilty is not that surprising. She feels compelled to take the Blame for what has happened. But it is not her Fault. To learn that, to realize that make Time. I think it is an important step for her to break this devil´s Circle.

The Finish of this Chapter is a impressive as the Entry:

The bindings that restrain her also liberate her. Here, in this moment, she is not Erica Sinclair, Esquire, or Erica Sinclair, bearer of burdens. She is simply Erica, untethered from the expectations of the world, immersed in peace born of surrender.

Erica being simply Erica.

Chapeau @Jenny_S !!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, thank you so much. Let's see what's going to happen next.

[Jenny_S]

It’s still dark when Erica’s running shoes strike the pavement in a steady rhythm, her breaths forming fleeting clouds in the crisp morning air. Each step propels her forward, faster, harder, as if she’s running not just from the turmoil of yesterday but toward clarity. She rounds the final corner of her route, her body moving on instinct. Her mind focuses on the cadence of her steps, the sound of her breath, the feel of the cool air on her skin.

When her apartment building on West 72nd Street finally comes into view, she summons one last burst of energy, her heart pounding as she sprints the final stretch. Her smartwatch chimes just as she stops, doubling over, hands on her knees, chest heaving. A new personal best.
For a moment, she stays there, letting the cool air wash over her, the burn in her legs grounding her.
Once more, her mind is clear. Last night’s ritual and this morning’s run have swept away the fog. She feels centered, stronger - ready to face whatever the day might bring.



The morning unfolds in a blur of routine. After a shower and a quick breakfast, she heads down to the underground parking garage, her bag slung over her shoulder. The drive to Sinclair & Associates on Park Avenue is unusually smooth, the city seeming almost calm as sunlight streaks across the buildings.
Erica allows herself a moment of optimism as she parks her black Volvo, then rides the elevator to the 25th floor, and steps into the office.

The moment the elevator doors slide open, she feels it - a tension in the air. The usual murmur of phones and conversations is absent, replaced by an almost eerie stillness. Erica steps into the reception area, where Holly Beck sits at her desk, headset in place, mid-conversation. Holly raises her pencil in greeting, her casual wave doing little to dispel the prickling unease Erica feels.

“Morning, Claire.” Erica says as she approaches her assistant’s desk. Claire Messner is already on her feet, holding a stack of papers, her expression tight.

“Good morning, Miss Sinclair. One moment, please!” Claire’s tone is polite, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
Erica arches an eyebrow. “Yes?”

Claire shifts her weight, glancing toward the conference room. “You’ve got visitors, Miss Sinclair. I put them in the conference room.”

Visitors. Unannounced. That rarely bodes well.
Erica’s pulse quickens, but her face betrays nothing. “All right.” she says, her voice calm.

Pushing open the conference room door, the source of the tension becomes clear. Charlotte West is perched on the edge of a chair, her knuckles white as they grip the armrests.
Across from her, Elena Dane sits with a kind of poised grace, though the worry etched into her features betrays her calm facade. Next to her, Alyssa slouches in her Canmore tracksuit, her usual athletic energy replaced by an air of exhaustion. Her eyes are rimmed red, her expression raw.

All three women turn as Erica enters, the air thick with unspoken truths.

“Good morning.” Erica says evenly, setting her bag on the table. Her sharp gaze sweeps over the group. “I wasn’t aware we had a meeting scheduled.”

Charlotte rises to her feet, wringing her hands. “I…I’m sorry to barge in like this, Erica, but something’s happened.”

Before Charlotte can elaborate, Erica steps forward and extends her hand to Elena. “Erica Sinclair.” she says, her voice measured but polite.

“Elena Dane.” the older woman replies, her handshake firm. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”

Erica glances back at Claire, who waits in the doorway. “Claire, would you bring us some coffee and water, please.”

“Yes, Miss Sinclair.” Claire ducks out, leaving Erica to take her seat at the head of the table.

Her eyes land on Alyssa, who fidgets nervously. There’s a fragility to the young woman, a kind of vulnerability that tugs at Erica’s instincts. She leans back slightly, crossing her arms. “What brings you here, Alyssa?” she asks, her voice calm but probing.

Alyssa shifts in her seat, her voice barely above a whisper. “Miss Sinclair, I’ve made a decision.”

Erica tilts her head, studying the young woman. “Go on.”

“I’m not running anymore.” Alyssa says, her voice cracking with emotion. She lifts her head, meeting Erica’s gaze with red-rimmed eyes. “Not for Canmore. Not for my dad. Not for anyone.”
The words hang in the air, heavy with significance.

Elena leans forward, her voice trembling. “Lissy…”

“No, Mom.” Alyssa’s voice is firm, cutting her mother off. “This isn’t up for debate. I’ve thought about this - about everything. Dean’s in prison. Peter’s arrested. And Dad... Dad might never come back from this. It’s all because of me.”

Erica’s stomach tightens at the raw pain in Alyssa’s voice. She reaches across the table, laying a steady hand on the young woman’s arm. “Alyssa, listen to me. None of what happened is your fault. What your father did, what Dean and Peter did - that’s on them, not on you.”

Alyssa shakes her head, tears spilling over. “But I lit the fire! If I wasn’t so good at running, none of this would’ve happened. I can’t stop thinking that if it weren’t for me, none of this would’ve happened.”

Elena covers her face with her hands, her composure breaking. “Oh, Lissy...”

Charlotte glances at Erica, her eyes pleading for support. Erica inhales deeply, her voice calm yet firm as she turns back to Alyssa.

“Alyssa,” she says, “your talent didn’t force anyone’s hand. Your father is a grown man and he made his choices. Dean and Peter may have thought they were pranking me, now they are finding out the hard way that this was not the case. You didn’t tell them to act so recklessly. You didn’t choose this madness. You’re not responsible for anyone’s actions but your own.”

Alyssa clenches her fists, her jaw tightening. “It doesn’t matter. I’m done. I won’t let this destroy me - or my family - anymore. Let Dad disown me if he wants. I’m out.”

Erica studies her for a long moment, admiring the raw courage behind her words. “Alyssa,” she says softly, “I admire your decision. It’s mature, and it shows incredible strength. But you need to be prepared for what might come next. Canmore won’t take this lying down, and neither will your father. There will be backlash.”

Alyssa straightens, her resolve hardening. “Let them come. I can’t live like this anymore.”

The room falls silent, the weight of Alyssa’s choice settling over them. Erica nods slowly, her respect for the young woman deepening. “Then we’ll figure this out together.” she says. “You can count on me.”



Erica is at her desk, her notes from the morning’s surprise meeting spread before her like pieces of a puzzle. The conversation with Charlotte, Elena, and Alyssa still lingers in her mind, but her focus wavers. There’s an ache behind her eyes, the result of too little sleep and too many thoughts spiraling endlessly in her head.

Her phone buzzes, jolting her from her reverie. The screen lights up with Sophie van Rey’s name. Erica feels a flutter of anticipation, mixed with a lingering tension. She picks up immediately.

“Erica Sinclair.”

“Erica, it’s Sophie van Rey.” comes the ADA’s voice, firm but tinged with gravity. “We’ve finished sorting through the bottles from the Nutrisports facility.”

Erica’s pulse quickens. “What did you find?”

Van Rey’s response is brisk. “Five empty bottles, all labeled with Debbie Stanton’s name and successive dates, testing positive for Moducain. But there’s more.” Her voice drops, weighted. “We also found three unopened bottles at the facility, stored in a cabinet in Edward Dane’s office at Nutrisports. They were labeled with Debbie’s name but hadn’t been dated or sealed yet. All three were spiked with Moducain. Enough for another overdose.”

Erica leans back in her chair, her fingers gripping the armrests. The revelation hits her like a jolt, even though she’s been expecting something of this magnitude. “You’re telling me he had more ready to go?”

“Yes.” Van Rey replies. Her tone softens, but the edge of urgency remains. “This is damning evidence, Erica. It ties Dane directly to the doping scheme.”

Erica’s thoughts race, but beneath the practical strategy forming in her mind, there’s a pang of sadness. Debbie, Alyssa, Dean, Peter - they’re all so young. Barely out of their teens. Too young to have been caught in a web spun by someone they should have been able to trust.

“Thank you, Sophie.” Erica pauses, her voice quieter now. “You’ve given us a fighting chance. Debbie deserves to have her name cleared. Can I get something for the Screening Board from you in writing?”

Van Rey sighs. “Happy to be of help. But there’s more work to be done. I have a meeting with Judge Hathaway this afternoon. Edward Dane is in for a very rude awakening.”

Erica nods, though the gesture is more for herself. “He should be. What he’s done…” She trails off, staring at the notes on her desk, the faces of the young people caught in Dane’s wake vivid in her mind. “It’s unforgivable.”

Although the drinks the DA found in their search of the Nutrisports factory weren’t handed to Debbie, it seems as if Dane had been willing to subject the girl to another overdose of the drug, possibly accepting her death as mere collateral damage.

“Maybe.” Van Rey says carefully. “But don’t forget - people like Dane rarely see themselves as the villain. In his mind, he might think he was helping his daughter. That doesn’t excuse his actions, but it adds layers to the story.”

Erica exhales slowly. She doesn’t want to feel empathy for Dane, not after what he had done. Yet, Sophie’s words strike a chord. Edward Dane isn’t a criminal mastermind. Most likely, he’s a man who’s lost his way, confusing ambition and love with control and manipulation.

Still, none of that changes the fact that people have been hurt. Debbie, whose life he has risked, and her career and dreams tarnished. Alyssa, burdened by expectations she never asked for. Dean and Peter, whom he misguided and who had no idea the depths of what they were involved in until it was too late.

Her gaze falls to the Rolex dive watch on her wrist, the one her father gave her on the day she graduated from Harvard Law School. His words echo in her mind, as clear as if he were standing beside her now: “Knowing the law is one thing, but it takes a strong moral compass to use it.”

Edward Dane might have convinced himself he was following a kind of compass, but his was way off, leading him down a path of manipulation and deceit. Erica knows that no matter how difficult, it’s her job to set things right. That’s what her father’s lesson was all about.
“Whatever his intentions, he crossed the line. He’ll have to answer for what he’s done.” Erica says finally, her voice steady.

When the call ends, Erica sets her phone down gently, staring at it for a long moment. The room feels heavy with the weight of the revelations, but there’s also a flicker of hope. The evidence gives her a way to fight back, to start untangling the mess Dane has made.

She types out a message to Charlotte, her fingers moving quickly over the keys:

“Call me ASAP. We’ve got the evidence we need to make our case. It’s time to clear Debbie’s name.”

Erica leans back in her chair, closing her eyes for a moment. Edward Dane’s face looms in her mind - not as a monster, but as a man consumed by his own dreams, too blind to see the damage he was causing. She doesn’t hate him, but she can’t forgive him, either.
For now, she pushes the emotions aside and focuses on the task ahead. Debbie’s vindication is within reach. And after that? Dane will have to face the consequences, no matter how lost he’s become.

[LunaDog]

So, there is the first chinks of light for Debbie after all. Her running career might well be able to resume. But will she want it to? Or, like her friendly rival, and purely left to the two girls ONLY they would be friends as well as rivals, with all that's gone on will she too decide that enough is enough?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I won't let you wait any longer and continue with the story.