Bound by her honor to aid ADA Sophie van Rey in taking down a dangerous criminal with ties to a ruthless Mexican cartel, Erica is drawn into a high-stakes game where trust is a luxury and betrayal lurks around every corner. To succeed, she must infiltrate an organization where one misstep could cost her everything - her career, her integrity, even her life.
In a world where corruption runs deep and survival is a gamble, Erica must ask herself - how far is she willing to go?
You can find the full story here on my Wattpad page: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
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Erica Sinclair - A Matter of Honor (M/F)
Erica Sinclair - A Matter of Honor (M/F)
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
“You owe me one.”
The words are a whisper, almost swallowed by the clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations in the tucked-away Brooklyn café. Yet, they hit Erica Sinclair like a hammer.
Her hands tighten around the ceramic coffee cup, knuckles blanching against her skin. She keeps her expression calm, but Sophie van Rey’s piercing gaze, sharp as a scalpel, threatens to cut right through her composure.
Erica has never been able to escape Sophie’s commanding presence. The Assistant District Attorney is tall, poised, and unyielding, like marble carved into regal form. But today, Sophie is different - more guarded, almost furtive. Instead of the DA’s imposing building of 1 Hogan Place or the electric buzz of the courtroom, they sit at a modest wooden table tucked into the farthest corner of this warm, dimly lit café. The faint scent of coffee and baked goods lingers in the air, masking the weight of the conversation about to unfold.
Erica tilts her head, her voice low. “Let’s hear it.”
Sophie’s lips press into a thin line as she leans down to her plain black leather briefcase. From within, she produces a set of papers, neatly stapled but with enough weight to suggest more than just casual reading. Sophie slides them across the table, the faint rasp of paper against wood loud in the relative quiet.
Hesitating for a moment, Erica then reaches for the documents. Her eyes sweep over the contents.
Photographs of a man spill across the pages. In every image, he is polished, self-assured, and exuding wealth. A charity gala. A golf course. A sleek corporate boardroom. Always impeccably dressed in tailored suits that scream money and power.
“Darren Cross.” Erica’s voice is neutral, her expression unreadable as she lifts her gaze back to Sophie.
She hasn’t met him, not personally, but she knows the name. Everyone in New York does. Darren Cross is a fixture of Manhattan’s elite, one of those men whose presence turns heads and opens doors. A financier with ties to the city’s biggest movers and shakers.
Sophie nods, her movements deliberate, but there’s an edge in her eyes that Erica doesn’t miss. It’s not the satisfaction of handing over evidence - it’s desperation.
“You need to help me bring him down.” Sophie says, her voice quiet but forceful. “I have no one else I can turn to.”
Erica’s stomach tightens.
She shifts her gaze back to the photographs, then flips through the printouts. The pages outline enough to hint at something bigger - shady financial deals, connections to unsavory individuals, but nothing concrete. At least, not yet.
“You’re asking me to get involved with this guy?” Erica’s tone is cautious, her sharp mind already racing to calculate the risks.
“I’m asking you to do more than that.” Sophie replies, folding her hands on the table. “I need you to infiltrate his world. Get close enough to uncover what he’s really doing. I suspect he’s running a laundering operation tied to some very dark things - things that are destroying lives. But every time we get close, the evidence disappears, witnesses vanish, and my own office…”
Sophie pauses, the words bitter on her tongue. “I think there’s a leak. I can’t trust anyone else.”
Erica leans back slightly, her fingers still curled around the cup.
A favor.
That’s what this is about.
She owes Sophie one, and now the ADA is cashing in on the debt.
“I’m not an investigator, Sophie. I’m a lawyer.” Erica’s words are firm, but not dismissive.
“And that’s exactly why you’re perfect for this,” Sophie counters. “Darren Cross has been courting attorneys - reputable ones. Offering them a seat at his table, giving them a piece of his empire. He’ll want you. You’re exactly the kind of person he’s looking for.”
Erica exhales slowly, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the city moves on as if this conversation doesn’t carry the weight of her reputation, her career, maybe even her life.
“You owe me, Erica.” Sophie says again, softer this time. “And you’re the only person I can trust to do this.”
Erica’s jaw tightens. She does owe Sophie - a favor she’d hoped would never come due.
Her eyes return to the photos, studying Darren Cross. A predator in a suit. She doesn’t say yes, not yet, but the flicker of determination in her expression is unmistakable.
“Tell me everything.”
~~~
The words are a whisper, almost swallowed by the clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations in the tucked-away Brooklyn café. Yet, they hit Erica Sinclair like a hammer.
Her hands tighten around the ceramic coffee cup, knuckles blanching against her skin. She keeps her expression calm, but Sophie van Rey’s piercing gaze, sharp as a scalpel, threatens to cut right through her composure.
Erica has never been able to escape Sophie’s commanding presence. The Assistant District Attorney is tall, poised, and unyielding, like marble carved into regal form. But today, Sophie is different - more guarded, almost furtive. Instead of the DA’s imposing building of 1 Hogan Place or the electric buzz of the courtroom, they sit at a modest wooden table tucked into the farthest corner of this warm, dimly lit café. The faint scent of coffee and baked goods lingers in the air, masking the weight of the conversation about to unfold.
Erica tilts her head, her voice low. “Let’s hear it.”
Sophie’s lips press into a thin line as she leans down to her plain black leather briefcase. From within, she produces a set of papers, neatly stapled but with enough weight to suggest more than just casual reading. Sophie slides them across the table, the faint rasp of paper against wood loud in the relative quiet.
Hesitating for a moment, Erica then reaches for the documents. Her eyes sweep over the contents.
Photographs of a man spill across the pages. In every image, he is polished, self-assured, and exuding wealth. A charity gala. A golf course. A sleek corporate boardroom. Always impeccably dressed in tailored suits that scream money and power.
“Darren Cross.” Erica’s voice is neutral, her expression unreadable as she lifts her gaze back to Sophie.
She hasn’t met him, not personally, but she knows the name. Everyone in New York does. Darren Cross is a fixture of Manhattan’s elite, one of those men whose presence turns heads and opens doors. A financier with ties to the city’s biggest movers and shakers.
Sophie nods, her movements deliberate, but there’s an edge in her eyes that Erica doesn’t miss. It’s not the satisfaction of handing over evidence - it’s desperation.
“You need to help me bring him down.” Sophie says, her voice quiet but forceful. “I have no one else I can turn to.”
Erica’s stomach tightens.
She shifts her gaze back to the photographs, then flips through the printouts. The pages outline enough to hint at something bigger - shady financial deals, connections to unsavory individuals, but nothing concrete. At least, not yet.
“You’re asking me to get involved with this guy?” Erica’s tone is cautious, her sharp mind already racing to calculate the risks.
“I’m asking you to do more than that.” Sophie replies, folding her hands on the table. “I need you to infiltrate his world. Get close enough to uncover what he’s really doing. I suspect he’s running a laundering operation tied to some very dark things - things that are destroying lives. But every time we get close, the evidence disappears, witnesses vanish, and my own office…”
Sophie pauses, the words bitter on her tongue. “I think there’s a leak. I can’t trust anyone else.”
Erica leans back slightly, her fingers still curled around the cup.
A favor.
That’s what this is about.
She owes Sophie one, and now the ADA is cashing in on the debt.
“I’m not an investigator, Sophie. I’m a lawyer.” Erica’s words are firm, but not dismissive.
“And that’s exactly why you’re perfect for this,” Sophie counters. “Darren Cross has been courting attorneys - reputable ones. Offering them a seat at his table, giving them a piece of his empire. He’ll want you. You’re exactly the kind of person he’s looking for.”
Erica exhales slowly, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the city moves on as if this conversation doesn’t carry the weight of her reputation, her career, maybe even her life.
“You owe me, Erica.” Sophie says again, softer this time. “And you’re the only person I can trust to do this.”
Erica’s jaw tightens. She does owe Sophie - a favor she’d hoped would never come due.
Her eyes return to the photos, studying Darren Cross. A predator in a suit. She doesn’t say yes, not yet, but the flicker of determination in her expression is unmistakable.
“Tell me everything.”
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Sophie unfolds the story with precision, her voice low and steady, but the weight of her words makes Erica’s stomach churn.
The name Rafael Espinoza cuts through her like a shard of ice, each syllable sharp and heavy. She’s heard it before, whispered in the shadows of prior cases, always laced with fear and accompanied by descriptions like violent and untouchable.
Sophie leans closer, her tone dropping further. “We’re not just dealing with Cross, Erica. His wealth and influence are tied to something much bigger - much deadlier.”
Erica places the papers on the table, her fingers drumming on the edge as she studies Sophie’s grim expression.
“Cross’s financial empire has been laundering money for the Alcántara Cartel for years.” Sophie continues. “The Feds want to take their operation down, but the US Attorney needs me to build a rock-solid case against him first. And…” She hesitates for a fraction of a second before adding, “I need you to help connect the dots.”
Erica’s gaze narrows. The muscles in her jaw tighten.
“You mean put myself in the crosshairs of the cartel and its financier?”
Sophie exhales, her usual commanding presence dimming, if only for a moment. For the first time, she looks almost human, almost vulnerable.
“I’d like to avoid that situation, but I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important. If we can bring Cross down, we’re not just stopping a criminal financier. We’re cutting off a major artery for cartel money - money fueling drugs and human trafficking. It could save lives, Erica.”
But Erica hears what Sophie doesn’t say, the unspoken words echoing just beneath the surface: And it might cost hers.
She leans back in her chair, letting the weight of the situation press down on her.
“If Cross is as dangerous as you say, this isn’t just another case, Sophie. It’s a warzone.”
Sophie nods, her lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “I know. That’s why I need someone like you - someone smart who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly. Someone they wouldn’t suspect.”
Erica’s eyes flicker to the papers spread across the table. A photo of Cross catches her attention: impeccably dressed, flashing a polished smile at a charity gala, his charm as sharp and deliberate as the tailored cut of his suit. The image seems to mock her, daring her to step into his world.
She exhales slowly, finally breaking the silence. “I’ll think about it.” she says, her voice steady and measured.
But even as she says the words, Erica knows that walking away isn’t an option - not with Sophie holding her to the favor, and not with innocent lives tangled in Cross’s web.
A sudden heat blooms on her left wrist, right where her Rolex dive watch rests against her skin. The sensation is phantom-like, her mind pulling her back to the day she received it.
Her father’s study was bathed in warm afternoon light, the faint scent of leather-bound books and polished wood filling the air. Erica stood there, still clad in her graduation gown, her mortarboard tucked beneath her arm. The look on her father’s face had been one of unshakable pride, a pride that reached deeper than words could express.
“Knowing the law is one thing,” he’d told her, his voice steady and resolute. “But it takes a strong moral compass to use it.”
She’d watched as he walked over to his rolltop desk, a commanding piece of furniture that housed only his most valued possessions. From one of the drawers, he retrieved a small green box embossed with a gold crown emblem.
“This is for you,” he said, handing it to her with a rare softness in his tone.
Inside, the gleaming Rolex watch rested on a velvet cushion, its weight substantial and reassuring in her hand. But it wasn’t just the craftsmanship that made it special. Turning it over, she saw the engraving on the back of the case: Stand for something or fall for anything.
“These words,” her father said, his gaze locking with hers, “are more than just a motto. They’re an oath - a commitment to live by your principles, no matter the cost.”
In that moment, Erica had felt the enormity of the gift. It wasn’t just an expensive timepiece to adorn her wrist; it was a legacy, a compass for her soul. And she’d promised him, promised herself, that she would honor this creed, no matter how complex or twisted the world became.
“Stand for something or fall for anything.” The words echo in her mind now, a mantra interwoven with her father’s steady voice.
“You’re only as good as your word, Erica.” he’d told her once, another of his life lessons that had burrowed deep into her being and shaped her character.
As Sophie watches her, waiting for a definitive answer, Erica shifts her gaze back to the ADA. The weight of the decision presses down, but so does the memory of her father’s words, a steadying force in the chaos.
For a moment, she says nothing. Then, she looks Sophie in the eye, her expression unreadable but her resolve beginning to harden.
“I’ll let you know. Erica says again, but this time the words carry a subtle undertone - a hint that she’s already leaning toward stepping into the storm.
~~~
The sun has long since dipped below the skyline as Erica turns off the engine of her black Volvo SUV in the underground parking garage and rides the elevator up to her apartment.
Her thoughts are still swirling with the conversation she left behind and by the time she unlocks her door, the weight of Sophie’s words feels almost suffocating. But before she can dwell on it further, a familiar sound cuts through the silence.
Tiny paws thunder against the hardwood floor as Spot and Tiger come charging from the bedroom. Their little bodies nearly tumble over each other in their rush to greet her, their excitement a burst of life in the stillness of her apartment.
Erica kneels down just as the kittens reach her, their soft, warm bodies pressing against her knees. Spot, the bold black one with a white tuft of fur on his chest, is the first to paw at the hem of her skirt, demanding attention. Tiger, his slightly smaller and stripier sibling, watches for a moment before copying the gesture, his tiny claws catching the fabric.
A smile breaks across Erica’s face as she strokes their silky heads. Their purring is instant, loud, and infectious. For a brief moment, the tension in her chest loosens.
“Did you two destroy the place again?” she asks softly, her voice carrying the warmth reserved for the two furballs.
The answer is written in the slight mess she notices as she glances into the bedroom - a blanket half-dragged off the bed, a throw pillow on the floor. It’s routine by now. Spot and Tiger always seem to have a secret life of chaos and mayhem while she’s gone, but Erica can never bring herself to be mad at them.
As she walks into the living room, the kittens trot at her heels, their tails held high. Her gaze falls on their empty food and water bowls, sitting forlornly on the floor by the window.
“Alright, alright. I’m on it.” she says, scooping up the bowls. The sound of metal clinking against her rings sets off a new round of excited meows.
In the kitchen, she rinses the bowls thoroughly, her motions practiced and efficient. The sound of water running does little to drown out the kittens’ dramatic pleas.
“You’d think I’ve been starving you.” she says, shaking her head as she reaches into the cupboard for a new can of their favorite chicken pulp.
The moment she places the freshly filled bowls back on the floor, Spot and Tiger dive in with reckless enthusiasm. Their tiny pink tongues dart out, devouring the food as if it might vanish at any second. Erica leans against the wall, watching them with an affection she rarely shows for anything else.
“You two lovelies are wonderful.” she says softly.
After a moment, she leaves them to their feast and heads into the bedroom. The mess they made is minimal and she quickly tidies everything up.
With a sigh, she steps out of her heels. The relief is instant. She then slips out of her blazer, blouse and pencil skirt, smoothing the fabric before draping it neatly over the backrest of her Hill House chair. The chair is a splurge she doesn’t regret - it’s as elegant as it is practical.
From the closet, she pulls out her grey sweatsuit, the soft fabric worn but comforting. She’s dubbed it her “cat mom” suit, a little joke she shares with no one but herself. As the cozy material settles against her skin, some of the day’s tension melts away.
Back in the living room, the kittens are already waiting. Their bowls are licked clean, and Spot carries a small, battered toy mouse in his mouth like a trophy. Tiger sits beside him, tail flicking with anticipation.
Erica lowers herself to the polished hardwood floor, crossing her legs as Spot drops the mouse into her lap. She tosses it gently, watching as both kittens pounce and wrestle over it. Their antics are a distraction, a welcome reprieve from the storm brewing in her mind.
But even as she scratches their bellies and tosses the mouse again, Sophie’s words creep back in, uninvited. The cartel. Cross. Espinoza.
Erica’s jaw tightens. She’s never been one to shy away from a case, but this… this would mean stepping into a world of violence and shadows, the kind nobody in his right mind wants to visit.
Her gaze drifts to Spot and Tiger as they chase the mouse across the floor, their innocence a stark contrast to the darkness lingering in her thoughts.
Sophie is not a friend, Erica reminds herself. She’s not like Andrea Santos whom she has known since elementary school when they were both eight years old. But this isn’t about friendship. It’s about debt.
“You’re only as good as your word, Erica.” her father’s voice echoes in her mind.
She owes Sophie, and that debt is not something she can ignore. But the weight of it feels heavier now, knowing the full scope of what Sophie is asking her to step into.
As the kittens curl up beside her, their small bodies warm against her legs, Erica’s mind races.
What’s the cost of standing for something this time?
“Whatever it takes.” Erica murmurs, her voice steady but quiet as she absently runs her fingers through Spot’s soft black fur. The kitten purrs contentedly, oblivious to the storm brewing in her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for only a moment before she dials Sophie van Rey’s number.
The call connects on the second ring.
“Hello, Erica!” Sophie’s voice is smooth and professional, though there’s a hint of anticipation in her tone.
“I’m in.” Erica says, her voice low but firm, laced with an unshakable resolve. “We need a plan, though.”
A brief pause follows, and then Sophie responds, her words measured. “Good. Let’s set the wheels in motion.”
~~~
The name Rafael Espinoza cuts through her like a shard of ice, each syllable sharp and heavy. She’s heard it before, whispered in the shadows of prior cases, always laced with fear and accompanied by descriptions like violent and untouchable.
Sophie leans closer, her tone dropping further. “We’re not just dealing with Cross, Erica. His wealth and influence are tied to something much bigger - much deadlier.”
Erica places the papers on the table, her fingers drumming on the edge as she studies Sophie’s grim expression.
“Cross’s financial empire has been laundering money for the Alcántara Cartel for years.” Sophie continues. “The Feds want to take their operation down, but the US Attorney needs me to build a rock-solid case against him first. And…” She hesitates for a fraction of a second before adding, “I need you to help connect the dots.”
Erica’s gaze narrows. The muscles in her jaw tighten.
“You mean put myself in the crosshairs of the cartel and its financier?”
Sophie exhales, her usual commanding presence dimming, if only for a moment. For the first time, she looks almost human, almost vulnerable.
“I’d like to avoid that situation, but I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important. If we can bring Cross down, we’re not just stopping a criminal financier. We’re cutting off a major artery for cartel money - money fueling drugs and human trafficking. It could save lives, Erica.”
But Erica hears what Sophie doesn’t say, the unspoken words echoing just beneath the surface: And it might cost hers.
She leans back in her chair, letting the weight of the situation press down on her.
“If Cross is as dangerous as you say, this isn’t just another case, Sophie. It’s a warzone.”
Sophie nods, her lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “I know. That’s why I need someone like you - someone smart who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly. Someone they wouldn’t suspect.”
Erica’s eyes flicker to the papers spread across the table. A photo of Cross catches her attention: impeccably dressed, flashing a polished smile at a charity gala, his charm as sharp and deliberate as the tailored cut of his suit. The image seems to mock her, daring her to step into his world.
She exhales slowly, finally breaking the silence. “I’ll think about it.” she says, her voice steady and measured.
But even as she says the words, Erica knows that walking away isn’t an option - not with Sophie holding her to the favor, and not with innocent lives tangled in Cross’s web.
A sudden heat blooms on her left wrist, right where her Rolex dive watch rests against her skin. The sensation is phantom-like, her mind pulling her back to the day she received it.
Her father’s study was bathed in warm afternoon light, the faint scent of leather-bound books and polished wood filling the air. Erica stood there, still clad in her graduation gown, her mortarboard tucked beneath her arm. The look on her father’s face had been one of unshakable pride, a pride that reached deeper than words could express.
“Knowing the law is one thing,” he’d told her, his voice steady and resolute. “But it takes a strong moral compass to use it.”
She’d watched as he walked over to his rolltop desk, a commanding piece of furniture that housed only his most valued possessions. From one of the drawers, he retrieved a small green box embossed with a gold crown emblem.
“This is for you,” he said, handing it to her with a rare softness in his tone.
Inside, the gleaming Rolex watch rested on a velvet cushion, its weight substantial and reassuring in her hand. But it wasn’t just the craftsmanship that made it special. Turning it over, she saw the engraving on the back of the case: Stand for something or fall for anything.
“These words,” her father said, his gaze locking with hers, “are more than just a motto. They’re an oath - a commitment to live by your principles, no matter the cost.”
In that moment, Erica had felt the enormity of the gift. It wasn’t just an expensive timepiece to adorn her wrist; it was a legacy, a compass for her soul. And she’d promised him, promised herself, that she would honor this creed, no matter how complex or twisted the world became.
“Stand for something or fall for anything.” The words echo in her mind now, a mantra interwoven with her father’s steady voice.
“You’re only as good as your word, Erica.” he’d told her once, another of his life lessons that had burrowed deep into her being and shaped her character.
As Sophie watches her, waiting for a definitive answer, Erica shifts her gaze back to the ADA. The weight of the decision presses down, but so does the memory of her father’s words, a steadying force in the chaos.
For a moment, she says nothing. Then, she looks Sophie in the eye, her expression unreadable but her resolve beginning to harden.
“I’ll let you know. Erica says again, but this time the words carry a subtle undertone - a hint that she’s already leaning toward stepping into the storm.
~~~
The sun has long since dipped below the skyline as Erica turns off the engine of her black Volvo SUV in the underground parking garage and rides the elevator up to her apartment.
Her thoughts are still swirling with the conversation she left behind and by the time she unlocks her door, the weight of Sophie’s words feels almost suffocating. But before she can dwell on it further, a familiar sound cuts through the silence.
Tiny paws thunder against the hardwood floor as Spot and Tiger come charging from the bedroom. Their little bodies nearly tumble over each other in their rush to greet her, their excitement a burst of life in the stillness of her apartment.
Erica kneels down just as the kittens reach her, their soft, warm bodies pressing against her knees. Spot, the bold black one with a white tuft of fur on his chest, is the first to paw at the hem of her skirt, demanding attention. Tiger, his slightly smaller and stripier sibling, watches for a moment before copying the gesture, his tiny claws catching the fabric.
A smile breaks across Erica’s face as she strokes their silky heads. Their purring is instant, loud, and infectious. For a brief moment, the tension in her chest loosens.
“Did you two destroy the place again?” she asks softly, her voice carrying the warmth reserved for the two furballs.
The answer is written in the slight mess she notices as she glances into the bedroom - a blanket half-dragged off the bed, a throw pillow on the floor. It’s routine by now. Spot and Tiger always seem to have a secret life of chaos and mayhem while she’s gone, but Erica can never bring herself to be mad at them.
As she walks into the living room, the kittens trot at her heels, their tails held high. Her gaze falls on their empty food and water bowls, sitting forlornly on the floor by the window.
“Alright, alright. I’m on it.” she says, scooping up the bowls. The sound of metal clinking against her rings sets off a new round of excited meows.
In the kitchen, she rinses the bowls thoroughly, her motions practiced and efficient. The sound of water running does little to drown out the kittens’ dramatic pleas.
“You’d think I’ve been starving you.” she says, shaking her head as she reaches into the cupboard for a new can of their favorite chicken pulp.
The moment she places the freshly filled bowls back on the floor, Spot and Tiger dive in with reckless enthusiasm. Their tiny pink tongues dart out, devouring the food as if it might vanish at any second. Erica leans against the wall, watching them with an affection she rarely shows for anything else.
“You two lovelies are wonderful.” she says softly.
After a moment, she leaves them to their feast and heads into the bedroom. The mess they made is minimal and she quickly tidies everything up.
With a sigh, she steps out of her heels. The relief is instant. She then slips out of her blazer, blouse and pencil skirt, smoothing the fabric before draping it neatly over the backrest of her Hill House chair. The chair is a splurge she doesn’t regret - it’s as elegant as it is practical.
From the closet, she pulls out her grey sweatsuit, the soft fabric worn but comforting. She’s dubbed it her “cat mom” suit, a little joke she shares with no one but herself. As the cozy material settles against her skin, some of the day’s tension melts away.
Back in the living room, the kittens are already waiting. Their bowls are licked clean, and Spot carries a small, battered toy mouse in his mouth like a trophy. Tiger sits beside him, tail flicking with anticipation.
Erica lowers herself to the polished hardwood floor, crossing her legs as Spot drops the mouse into her lap. She tosses it gently, watching as both kittens pounce and wrestle over it. Their antics are a distraction, a welcome reprieve from the storm brewing in her mind.
But even as she scratches their bellies and tosses the mouse again, Sophie’s words creep back in, uninvited. The cartel. Cross. Espinoza.
Erica’s jaw tightens. She’s never been one to shy away from a case, but this… this would mean stepping into a world of violence and shadows, the kind nobody in his right mind wants to visit.
Her gaze drifts to Spot and Tiger as they chase the mouse across the floor, their innocence a stark contrast to the darkness lingering in her thoughts.
Sophie is not a friend, Erica reminds herself. She’s not like Andrea Santos whom she has known since elementary school when they were both eight years old. But this isn’t about friendship. It’s about debt.
“You’re only as good as your word, Erica.” her father’s voice echoes in her mind.
She owes Sophie, and that debt is not something she can ignore. But the weight of it feels heavier now, knowing the full scope of what Sophie is asking her to step into.
As the kittens curl up beside her, their small bodies warm against her legs, Erica’s mind races.
What’s the cost of standing for something this time?
“Whatever it takes.” Erica murmurs, her voice steady but quiet as she absently runs her fingers through Spot’s soft black fur. The kitten purrs contentedly, oblivious to the storm brewing in her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for only a moment before she dials Sophie van Rey’s number.
The call connects on the second ring.
“Hello, Erica!” Sophie’s voice is smooth and professional, though there’s a hint of anticipation in her tone.
“I’m in.” Erica says, her voice low but firm, laced with an unshakable resolve. “We need a plan, though.”
A brief pause follows, and then Sophie responds, her words measured. “Good. Let’s set the wheels in motion.”
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
My Impressions of the first Chapter:
The Start of this new Tale is perfect. Laconic. Striking. Four Words, which carry much weight. That Erica feels honour bound to pay her debt is clear. And in my Perception? Sophie knows that Erica will act this way. I am not entirely certain if Sophie´s Motives are entirely noble or just pragmatic?
But I guess, we will learn in Time.
The Start of this new Tale is perfect. Laconic. Striking. Four Words, which carry much weight. That Erica feels honour bound to pay her debt is clear. And in my Perception? Sophie knows that Erica will act this way. I am not entirely certain if Sophie´s Motives are entirely noble or just pragmatic?
But I guess, we will learn in Time.
Dear @Caesar73, of course, Erica will honor her debt. It's just the way she is, the way she was raised. Sophie is pressured by the US Attorney to build a case and if there actually is a leak in the DA's office, she needs someone not connected to her own operation to do the work. The plan? Is there one? Tomorrow, we will see how the story unfolds further. Stay tuned.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The following day, precisely at 10:30 AM, a soft knock interrupts the quiet hum of Erica’s office.
Her pen pauses mid-signature, hovering over the smooth parchment of an acquisition agreement. The knock is deliberate - polite, measured, and unmistakably Claire Messner.
Erica exhales softly and sets her pen down with care. “Come in.” she calls, her voice even.
The door opens, and Claire steps in, closing it gently behind her. Her posture, as always, is impeccable - hands folded neatly in front of her tailored blazer. Claire’s presence carries with it an unspoken stability, a quiet assurance that no matter how chaotic the world might become outside this room, here, at least, there is order.
“Erica.” Claire begins, her voice quiet yet steady. The shift to first-name basis, recently encouraged by Erica in private moments, still feels foreign to both of them - a fragile bridge of trust neither is quite comfortable crossing fully.
“ADA van Rey is here to see you.”
Erica nods, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you, Claire. Please show her to the small conference room. I’ll be there shortly.”
With a quick, acknowledging nod, Claire exits, leaving Erica alone.
As the door clicks shut, Erica leans back in her chair, her eyes settling on the skyline visible through her office’s floor-to-ceiling windows. She touches the engraved Rolex on her wrist, brushing a thumb absently over the smooth steel.
Her father’s creed - Stand for something or fall for anything - grounds her. Yet today, it also feels like an anchor, pulling her deeper into dangerous waters.
She exhales sharply, her face hardening. Time to focus.
Rising, Erica adjusts the lapels of her tailored blazer with a practiced flick and smooths her pencil skirt. Her reflection in the window stares back at her - composed, polished, and entirely unyielding. But beneath the surface, a storm churns. She’s been on the edge of calculated risks her entire career, but this... this is different.
Her heels click against the marble floor as she strides toward the small conference room. The sound is deliberate, measured - each step a quiet declaration that hesitation has no place here.
~~~
The conference room is modern compared to the style of Erica’s personal office, impeccably designed - polished glass table, sleek ergonomic chairs, and ambient lighting casting a soft glow.
Sophie van Rey sits on one side, her regal expression taut and her posture straight as an arrow.
A cup of coffee and a glass of water rest in front of her, untouched. She looks up as Erica enters, her expression tightening ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
“Good morning.” Erica says, smoothing her skirt as she takes the chair opposite Sophie. Her own coffee waits for her, courtesy of Claire, perfectly prepared: two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk.
Sophie nods, her fingers interlacing in front of her. “Thank you, Erica.” she says softly, her tone carrying a weight of gratitude that doesn’t need to be spoken outright.
Erica takes a sip of her coffee, savoring the brief pause it provides. She sets the cup down and folds her hands neatly on the table.
“Let’s get to it.” she says, her tone firm but not unkind.
Sophie leans forward slightly. Her gaze is steady but tinged with an unspoken urgency. “I’ve outlined a plan. It’s risky, but I think it’s our best option.”
“Risky is one thing. Reckless is another.” Erica counters, her voice edged with warning. “Tell me.”
Sophie nods. “We’ll use the City Guild gala this Friday as your entry point. It’s a high-profile event, and Cross always attends. It’s where he feels most untouchable - surrounded by the elite, insulated by his network.”
Erica’s brow lifts slightly. “And how am I getting into this gala? As far as I know, my name isn’t on the guest list, and invitations aren’t exactly handed out at random.”
“I’ll handle that.” Sophie says firmly.
Erica’s eyes narrow. “I’m curious what strings you’re planning to pull to make that happen.”
“It’s better if you don’t know.” Sophie replies, her tone sharp but not unkind. “But trust me, it will be handled. Your role is to make contact with Cross. Nothing overt - just enough to plant the seed for a second meeting.”
Erica leans back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “So you want me to ‘accidentally’ bump into him, strike up a conversation, and hope he doesn’t see through it?”
Sophie meets her gaze, unflinching. “It’s not ideal, I know. But time isn’t on our side. The Feds are breathing down our necks, and we can’t afford to take the slow approach. This is the best shot we’ve got.”
Erica’s jaw tightens, the weight of the situation settling heavily. “If I do this, I need assurances.” she says, her voice low but resolute. “In writing. I want the same protection afforded to an undercover agent. No exceptions.”
Sophie exhales slowly, her expression softening with understanding. “You’ll have it. I’ll make sure the U.S. Attorney’s Office signs off on it.”
For a moment, silence stretches between them. The enormity of what they’re about to undertake hangs in the air like a storm cloud.
Erica lifts her coffee and takes a measured sip, her mind already calculating the steps ahead.
“Then I guess we’re doing this.” she says finally, her voice carrying a quiet determination.
Sophie nods, relief flickering briefly in her eyes. “We’ll make it work.”
Erica’s gaze hardens. “We have to.”
~~~
Her pen pauses mid-signature, hovering over the smooth parchment of an acquisition agreement. The knock is deliberate - polite, measured, and unmistakably Claire Messner.
Erica exhales softly and sets her pen down with care. “Come in.” she calls, her voice even.
The door opens, and Claire steps in, closing it gently behind her. Her posture, as always, is impeccable - hands folded neatly in front of her tailored blazer. Claire’s presence carries with it an unspoken stability, a quiet assurance that no matter how chaotic the world might become outside this room, here, at least, there is order.
“Erica.” Claire begins, her voice quiet yet steady. The shift to first-name basis, recently encouraged by Erica in private moments, still feels foreign to both of them - a fragile bridge of trust neither is quite comfortable crossing fully.
“ADA van Rey is here to see you.”
Erica nods, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you, Claire. Please show her to the small conference room. I’ll be there shortly.”
With a quick, acknowledging nod, Claire exits, leaving Erica alone.
As the door clicks shut, Erica leans back in her chair, her eyes settling on the skyline visible through her office’s floor-to-ceiling windows. She touches the engraved Rolex on her wrist, brushing a thumb absently over the smooth steel.
Her father’s creed - Stand for something or fall for anything - grounds her. Yet today, it also feels like an anchor, pulling her deeper into dangerous waters.
She exhales sharply, her face hardening. Time to focus.
Rising, Erica adjusts the lapels of her tailored blazer with a practiced flick and smooths her pencil skirt. Her reflection in the window stares back at her - composed, polished, and entirely unyielding. But beneath the surface, a storm churns. She’s been on the edge of calculated risks her entire career, but this... this is different.
Her heels click against the marble floor as she strides toward the small conference room. The sound is deliberate, measured - each step a quiet declaration that hesitation has no place here.
~~~
The conference room is modern compared to the style of Erica’s personal office, impeccably designed - polished glass table, sleek ergonomic chairs, and ambient lighting casting a soft glow.
Sophie van Rey sits on one side, her regal expression taut and her posture straight as an arrow.
A cup of coffee and a glass of water rest in front of her, untouched. She looks up as Erica enters, her expression tightening ever so slightly in acknowledgment.
“Good morning.” Erica says, smoothing her skirt as she takes the chair opposite Sophie. Her own coffee waits for her, courtesy of Claire, perfectly prepared: two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk.
Sophie nods, her fingers interlacing in front of her. “Thank you, Erica.” she says softly, her tone carrying a weight of gratitude that doesn’t need to be spoken outright.
Erica takes a sip of her coffee, savoring the brief pause it provides. She sets the cup down and folds her hands neatly on the table.
“Let’s get to it.” she says, her tone firm but not unkind.
Sophie leans forward slightly. Her gaze is steady but tinged with an unspoken urgency. “I’ve outlined a plan. It’s risky, but I think it’s our best option.”
“Risky is one thing. Reckless is another.” Erica counters, her voice edged with warning. “Tell me.”
Sophie nods. “We’ll use the City Guild gala this Friday as your entry point. It’s a high-profile event, and Cross always attends. It’s where he feels most untouchable - surrounded by the elite, insulated by his network.”
Erica’s brow lifts slightly. “And how am I getting into this gala? As far as I know, my name isn’t on the guest list, and invitations aren’t exactly handed out at random.”
“I’ll handle that.” Sophie says firmly.
Erica’s eyes narrow. “I’m curious what strings you’re planning to pull to make that happen.”
“It’s better if you don’t know.” Sophie replies, her tone sharp but not unkind. “But trust me, it will be handled. Your role is to make contact with Cross. Nothing overt - just enough to plant the seed for a second meeting.”
Erica leans back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “So you want me to ‘accidentally’ bump into him, strike up a conversation, and hope he doesn’t see through it?”
Sophie meets her gaze, unflinching. “It’s not ideal, I know. But time isn’t on our side. The Feds are breathing down our necks, and we can’t afford to take the slow approach. This is the best shot we’ve got.”
Erica’s jaw tightens, the weight of the situation settling heavily. “If I do this, I need assurances.” she says, her voice low but resolute. “In writing. I want the same protection afforded to an undercover agent. No exceptions.”
Sophie exhales slowly, her expression softening with understanding. “You’ll have it. I’ll make sure the U.S. Attorney’s Office signs off on it.”
For a moment, silence stretches between them. The enormity of what they’re about to undertake hangs in the air like a storm cloud.
Erica lifts her coffee and takes a measured sip, her mind already calculating the steps ahead.
“Then I guess we’re doing this.” she says finally, her voice carrying a quiet determination.
Sophie nods, relief flickering briefly in her eyes. “We’ll make it work.”
Erica’s gaze hardens. “We have to.”
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The days leading up to Friday evening pass in a haze. Erica spends her limited downtime poring over every scrap of information she can find about Darren Cross, though it quickly becomes apparent why the ADA needs someone on the inside. Cross’s financial empire is maddeningly opaque - its public face polished to perfection, its deeper layers impenetrable to casual inquiry. Every article, every press release feels curated, carefully calibrated to reveal nothing of substance.
By late Friday afternoon, Erica feels the hum of nerves as she steps into the steaming confines of her shower.
The City Guild gala isn’t just another event; it’s a minefield, one where even a misstep as small as the wrong introduction could blow her cover.
As the hot water pelts her skin, she lathers the mango-mint body wash, its crisp scent filling the air, a small indulgence in what feels like an ocean of tension. She rinses off and steps out, the cool air biting against her damp skin. Wrapping herself in a plush, oversized towel, she dries off methodically before plugging in the blow dryer.
The woman staring back at her from the fogged mirror already looks different - more composed, sharper. Tonight, there’s no room for half-measures. Instead of her usual ponytail, Erica brushes her blonde hair until it gleams, the soft waves framing her face.
From the makeup drawer, she selects more than her standard minimalist kit: a touch of rouge, a sweep of eyeshadow to accent her icy blue eyes, a flick of mascara, and a bold yet refined lipstick. She spritzes a cloud of her lavender perfume, its familiar floral scent grounding her.
The reflection in the mirror is startling. The Erica Sinclair staring back at her seems almost unfamiliar - bolder, more poised. Yet, beneath the polished exterior, the storm remains.
In the bedroom, she pads to her walk-in closet. Her fingers brush past the crisp suits and tailored blouses before settling on the forest green evening dress she hasn’t worn in years. Pulling it from its hanger, she holds it against herself. It still fits - thankfully. Sliding into it, she smooths the fabric over her toned frame, its cut accentuating her athletic shoulders, slender waist, and defined arms.
She steps into a pair of low-heeled black pumps, their practicality a concession to her comfort and the possibility - however slim - of having to dance. The thought sends a chill down her spine; she can’t remember the last time she set foot on a dance floor.
As she pivots in front of the full-length mirror, the dress flutters around her legs. She’s satisfied, though the image before her feels like an armor she’s donned for battle. A small black purse sits waiting on her bed. She slings it over her shoulder, appreciating its practicality over a clutch - it keeps both hands free, a deliberate choice. Into the purse go her phone, wallet, and keys. Nothing more.
The final touches rest on her nightstand: her gold university class ring, which slides easily onto her right ring finger, and her Rolex dive watch. She hesitates for a moment, glancing at the bulky steel timepiece. It clashes against the elegance of the dress, a far cry from the delicate, feminine accessories most women would choose for such an event. But she doesn’t care. The watch is her talisman - a reminder of her father’s creed, her anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
With one last glance in the mirror, Erica adjusts the pearls around her neck - a single strand, paired with understated studs in her ears. She’s ready.
In the living room, her kittens, Spot and Tiger, watch her from their scratching tree, their wide eyes following her every movement. She kneels briefly, giving each a gentle scratch behind the ears.
“Alright, my lovelies.” she murmurs, her voice soft. “You stay out of trouble. Mom’s going to try to do the same.”
Slipping into her coat and locking the door behind her, she listens for the solid click of the deadbolt before heading down to the waiting cab.
The yellow taxi idles by the curb, and the driver jumps out as she approaches. He opens the door for her, his gaze lingering a moment too long as it sweeps over her. Erica stiffens, accustomed to the attention but still annoyed by it.
“Evening, ma’am,” he says with a toothy grin, holding the door open wide.
Erica offers a curt nod as she slides into the back seat. “The Plaza, please.”
The drive through Manhattan’s early-evening bustle is mercifully uneventful, though the cabbie’s chatter grates on her nerves. He talks about the traffic, the weather, and the gala itself, clearly fishing for details. Erica offers monosyllabic responses, her mind already focused on the task ahead.
When they arrive, he jumps out again, racing around the car to open her door. “If you need a ride back later, ma’am...” He hands her a card with his name scrawled across the top.
She takes it without looking, slipping it into her purse, paying the fare and adding a tip. “Thank you.” Her tone is polite but final.
The entrance to the Plaza Hotel looms before her, dazzling under the warm glow of chandeliers spilling through grand windows. Uniformed NYPD officers stand at attention near the doors, their presence a silent reminder of the high-profile nature of the event. Mixed among them are plainclothes security types, their eyes scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance.
Erica ascends the stone steps, the low hum of conversation and the click of heels filling the air. She pauses briefly in the grand lobby, taking in the opulence. She’s been here before, but tonight, the hotel seems almost otherworldly - an extravagant stage set for the city’s elite.
Ahead, the flow of guests moves toward the grand ballroom, where velvet ropes and sharp-eyed staff ensure that only the chosen few pass through. Erica adjusts the strap of her purse, her steps measured and deliberate.
This is it. The point of no return.
~~~
By late Friday afternoon, Erica feels the hum of nerves as she steps into the steaming confines of her shower.
The City Guild gala isn’t just another event; it’s a minefield, one where even a misstep as small as the wrong introduction could blow her cover.
As the hot water pelts her skin, she lathers the mango-mint body wash, its crisp scent filling the air, a small indulgence in what feels like an ocean of tension. She rinses off and steps out, the cool air biting against her damp skin. Wrapping herself in a plush, oversized towel, she dries off methodically before plugging in the blow dryer.
The woman staring back at her from the fogged mirror already looks different - more composed, sharper. Tonight, there’s no room for half-measures. Instead of her usual ponytail, Erica brushes her blonde hair until it gleams, the soft waves framing her face.
From the makeup drawer, she selects more than her standard minimalist kit: a touch of rouge, a sweep of eyeshadow to accent her icy blue eyes, a flick of mascara, and a bold yet refined lipstick. She spritzes a cloud of her lavender perfume, its familiar floral scent grounding her.
The reflection in the mirror is startling. The Erica Sinclair staring back at her seems almost unfamiliar - bolder, more poised. Yet, beneath the polished exterior, the storm remains.
In the bedroom, she pads to her walk-in closet. Her fingers brush past the crisp suits and tailored blouses before settling on the forest green evening dress she hasn’t worn in years. Pulling it from its hanger, she holds it against herself. It still fits - thankfully. Sliding into it, she smooths the fabric over her toned frame, its cut accentuating her athletic shoulders, slender waist, and defined arms.
She steps into a pair of low-heeled black pumps, their practicality a concession to her comfort and the possibility - however slim - of having to dance. The thought sends a chill down her spine; she can’t remember the last time she set foot on a dance floor.
As she pivots in front of the full-length mirror, the dress flutters around her legs. She’s satisfied, though the image before her feels like an armor she’s donned for battle. A small black purse sits waiting on her bed. She slings it over her shoulder, appreciating its practicality over a clutch - it keeps both hands free, a deliberate choice. Into the purse go her phone, wallet, and keys. Nothing more.
The final touches rest on her nightstand: her gold university class ring, which slides easily onto her right ring finger, and her Rolex dive watch. She hesitates for a moment, glancing at the bulky steel timepiece. It clashes against the elegance of the dress, a far cry from the delicate, feminine accessories most women would choose for such an event. But she doesn’t care. The watch is her talisman - a reminder of her father’s creed, her anchor in a sea of uncertainty.
With one last glance in the mirror, Erica adjusts the pearls around her neck - a single strand, paired with understated studs in her ears. She’s ready.
In the living room, her kittens, Spot and Tiger, watch her from their scratching tree, their wide eyes following her every movement. She kneels briefly, giving each a gentle scratch behind the ears.
“Alright, my lovelies.” she murmurs, her voice soft. “You stay out of trouble. Mom’s going to try to do the same.”
Slipping into her coat and locking the door behind her, she listens for the solid click of the deadbolt before heading down to the waiting cab.
The yellow taxi idles by the curb, and the driver jumps out as she approaches. He opens the door for her, his gaze lingering a moment too long as it sweeps over her. Erica stiffens, accustomed to the attention but still annoyed by it.
“Evening, ma’am,” he says with a toothy grin, holding the door open wide.
Erica offers a curt nod as she slides into the back seat. “The Plaza, please.”
The drive through Manhattan’s early-evening bustle is mercifully uneventful, though the cabbie’s chatter grates on her nerves. He talks about the traffic, the weather, and the gala itself, clearly fishing for details. Erica offers monosyllabic responses, her mind already focused on the task ahead.
When they arrive, he jumps out again, racing around the car to open her door. “If you need a ride back later, ma’am...” He hands her a card with his name scrawled across the top.
She takes it without looking, slipping it into her purse, paying the fare and adding a tip. “Thank you.” Her tone is polite but final.
The entrance to the Plaza Hotel looms before her, dazzling under the warm glow of chandeliers spilling through grand windows. Uniformed NYPD officers stand at attention near the doors, their presence a silent reminder of the high-profile nature of the event. Mixed among them are plainclothes security types, their eyes scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance.
Erica ascends the stone steps, the low hum of conversation and the click of heels filling the air. She pauses briefly in the grand lobby, taking in the opulence. She’s been here before, but tonight, the hotel seems almost otherworldly - an extravagant stage set for the city’s elite.
Ahead, the flow of guests moves toward the grand ballroom, where velvet ropes and sharp-eyed staff ensure that only the chosen few pass through. Erica adjusts the strap of her purse, her steps measured and deliberate.
This is it. The point of no return.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
It is wonderful to be reading A Matter of Honor after our period without the site. As you said earlier, of course, Erica was going to take this. You are off to a good start once again, and with a potent antagonist.
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
Dear @GreyLord, thank you very much for your compliments. Coming from TUG Royalty, this means a lot to me. Tomorrow night we will see how the story unfolds further.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
“Erica Sinclair.” she says firmly as her turn comes to enter the grand ballroom. Her voice is steady, but she can feel her pulse quicken ever so slightly.
The staff member, a no-nonsense man in a sleek black suit who radiates the unmistakable air of private security, taps her name into the glowing screen of his electronic register. His eyes flicker from the tablet to Erica, then back again.
A brief pause follows, and Erica can feel the weight of his scrutiny as he compares her to the photo next to her name on the list of invited guests.
But then he nods, the hint of a professional smile breaking through his otherwise impassive expression.
“Welcome to the gala, Miss Sinclair.” he says smoothly, gesturing for her to proceed.
Another staff member steps forward - a young woman in a tailored black suit with her hair pulled back into a flawless bun. With practiced efficiency, she takes Erica’s coat, revealing the forest green evening dress underneath.
“Allow me.” the woman says, gently wrapping a thin blue plastic strap around Erica’s right wrist and snapping the clasp shut. The band is lightweight but snug, an unobtrusive marker of access that also feels slightly invasive, a quiet reminder that every move here might be monitored.
“Have a wonderful evening, Miss Sinclair.” the woman adds with a polished smile, stepping aside to allow Erica to pass.
Erica inclines her head in acknowledgment and takes a step forward, the polished heels of her pumps clicking softly against the marble floor as she crosses the threshold into the grand ballroom.
The sight that greets her is nothing short of breathtaking. The grand ballroom of the Plaza is a symphony of opulence, its gilded walls and crystal chandeliers shimmering under the soft glow of hundreds of lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in deep red velvet offer glimpses of the glittering city beyond, while the polished parquet floor reflects the dazzling kaleidoscope of jewels and sequins worn by the guests.
For a moment, it feels like she’s stepped into a fairy tale. The thought amuses her - if Cinderella were to appear, it wouldn’t be out of place here.
The room is alive with a subdued hum of activity, a blend of soft laughter, hushed conversations, and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. Erica takes a moment to absorb it all, moving instinctively to the side of the room where she can observe without drawing attention to herself.
The City Guild’s history plays through her mind like an internal monologue, a calming exercise as much as an analytical one.
Founded in the 1840s, it was originally an enclave for New York’s old money - the Burnhams, Cosgroves, Le Perriers, and Rockefellers - whose influence still lingers in the ornate architecture and air of exclusivity. Over time, though, the Guild has allowed in the nouveau riche: hedge fund magnates, tech billionaires, and media moguls eager to rub elbows with legacy wealth.
And now, here she is - Erica Sinclair, an outsider among the insiders. Though she’s worked with her share of the city’s elite, it’s impossible not to feel like a fish out of water in a room where fortunes are measured in billions, not millions.
Her gaze sweeps across the crowd, taking in the dazzling array of gowns and tuxedos, the careful choreography of social power at play. Even here, the layers of hierarchy are palpable: the center of the room dominated by the luminaries, the edges occupied by those aspiring to move inward.
Erica forces herself to relax, reaching for one of the champagne flutes proffered by a passing waiter in livery. She takes the glass with a small, graceful nod, her polished exterior concealing the storm of vigilance beneath.
As she sips the crisp champagne, her sharp eyes scan the room for her target: Darren Cross.
She’s seen photos, of course, but they hardly do justice to the challenge of picking him out in a room full of power players, all of them dressed to the nines. Cross is said to blend in effortlessly when he chooses - a chameleon who can shift from the shadows of his business dealings to the bright lights of high society without missing a beat.
Erica lets herself glide through the room with purpose, careful not to linger too long in one spot or look too intently at any particular face. She needs to appear casual, like any other guest enjoying the evening, even as her mind works in overdrive.
The dress, the pearls, even the carefully applied makeup - all of it is armor, and tonight, she needs it. Though she knows she has a job to do, the weight of the room, the stakes of what she’s about to step into, are impossible to ignore.
The hum of conversation around her flows like a river, snippets of laughter and murmurs reaching her ears. Names and faces she recognizes - both legendary and infamous - float by in passing exchanges. The city’s power dynamics are on full display, and Erica can feel their gravity pressing against her.
She takes another sip of champagne, her sharp gaze scanning the sea of faces. Somewhere in this glittering crowd is Darren Cross, and she has one chance to make the right impression.
But for now, she remains poised, the perfect image of composure, as she continues her deliberate, unhurried path through the ballroom.
~~~
A man in a tailored tuxedo raises his glass toward Erica as she glides past him, his expression an amalgam of polite interest and intrigue. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, his smile practiced but warm - a man clearly accustomed to such soirées.
Erica acknowledges him with the faintest nod of her head, a measured smile tugging at her lips. Her movements are deliberate, polished - an elegant performance that masks the current of nerves running beneath her composed exterior.
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel hums with subdued sophistication, the low murmur of conversations mingling with the soft strains of a live string quartet. For the men, tuxedos are the expected uniform, and Erica barely notices the sea of black suits around her as she moves with calculated grace.
Then she spots him.
Darren Cross.
He stands near the opulent buffet, commanding attention even amidst the dazzling crowd. His fitted dark grey swallowtail coat is a bold departure from the classic tuxedo, its fine fabric shimmering faintly under the chandelier light. The coat fits him like armor, sculpting his broad shoulders and lean frame with a precision that speaks of wealth and unapologetic confidence. A silver pocket watch chain glints subtly against the fabric, an old-world touch that seems at once eccentric and deliberate.
Cross is steeped in conversation with a stunning red-haired young woman draped in a midnight blue silk dress. The fabric clings to her figure, rippling like liquid as she shifts slightly, her laughter light and melodic. She tilts her head toward Cross, her green eyes sparkling with interest - or calculation. Erica can’t quite tell.
Erica’s breath hitches for the briefest moment as she adjusts her trajectory. Her gaze remains steady, her expression calm, but her mind sharpens, zeroing in on her target. She brushes her fingers lightly against the strap of her black purse, grounding herself.
Circling the buffet, she deliberately positions herself just close enough to Darren Cross without making it obvious. The scent of truffle canapés and smoked salmon mingles with the delicate aroma of champagne in the air.
She takes a step forward, then another. Her heels click softly against the polished floor, and she pauses near the champagne tower as if deciding on her next move. Then, with an elegant pivot, she steps back – deliberately - her shoulder lightly brushing against Cross.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she says, swiveling quickly to face him, her tone perfectly pitched between surprise and apology.
Cross turns toward her, his expression one of mild amusement, his brows lifting ever so slightly as his lips curve into a boyish grin. His charm is disarming, almost effortless, and his blue eyes catch the light like a predator assessing its surroundings.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Miss…?” he prompts, his voice smooth and unhurried, his gaze sweeping over her face and attire in a quick but thorough appraisal.
“Sinclair. Erica Sinclair.”
She offers her name with an easy smile, tilting her head just slightly. Her voice is warm, unassuming, the perfect blend of self-assurance and approachability.
Cross’s grin deepens, and for a moment, Erica can almost see the invisible rolodex turning behind his eyes, flipping through mental files as he tries to place her. Whap-whap-whap, the sound of the metaphorical cards is nearly audible in her mind.
“Darren Cross.” he replies, extending his hand. His grip is firm but not overbearing, his handshake the practiced gesture of a man used to closing deals and commanding rooms. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sinclair.”
For a split second, Erica senses the red-haired woman’s gaze dart toward her, a flicker of curiosity or perhaps irritation crossing her face. But Erica doesn’t let it faze her.
“The pleasure’s mine.” she says smoothly, releasing his hand and meeting his gaze head-on.
There’s a pause - just a beat too long - and Erica feels the electricity of the moment. Cross’s eyes narrow slightly, a subtle hint of calculation behind his charm. He’s trying to determine if she’s someone he should remember, someone important—or someone new entirely.
“Well, Erica Sinclair,” he says, his tone lightly teasing, “what brings you to the City Guild gala? It’s not every day we have such striking company join us here.”
Erica allows herself a light laugh, brushing a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. “Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Cross. I was invited as a guest - networking, you know how it is. It’s my first time attending, and I must say, it’s…quite the spectacle.”
“Spectacle is one way to put it.” Cross replies, his grin widening. His voice lowers slightly, conspiratorial. “Some might call it an exhibition of excess.”
Erica tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Excess or excellence? I suppose it depends on your perspective.”
Cross chuckles softly at that, the sound rich and genuine - or at least well-practiced. “A fair point. May I ask what you excel in?”
The moment stretches just long enough for Erica to feel a bead of sweat threaten to form at the base of her neck. She suppresses it, her pulse steadying as she maintains her poise as if having the floor at court. She’s made the initial connection - but now comes the delicate dance of drawing him in without appearing overeager.
The red-haired woman shifts beside Cross, clearing her throat softly, a subtle reminder of her presence.
“Law, Mr. Cross. Sinclair & Associates over on Park Avenue.” Erica’s tone is effortless, confident, but not boastful. She steps back slightly to create an opening for retreat. “But please, I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. Enjoy the gala, Mr. Cross.”
Before he can respond, she offers him another smile, warm but not lingering, and turns toward the buffet as if her interruption had been purely accidental.
But as she walks away, Erica can feel his gaze following her, lingering just long enough to tell her she’s succeeded in sparking his curiosity. And that, she knows, is the first step.
~~~
The staff member, a no-nonsense man in a sleek black suit who radiates the unmistakable air of private security, taps her name into the glowing screen of his electronic register. His eyes flicker from the tablet to Erica, then back again.
A brief pause follows, and Erica can feel the weight of his scrutiny as he compares her to the photo next to her name on the list of invited guests.
But then he nods, the hint of a professional smile breaking through his otherwise impassive expression.
“Welcome to the gala, Miss Sinclair.” he says smoothly, gesturing for her to proceed.
Another staff member steps forward - a young woman in a tailored black suit with her hair pulled back into a flawless bun. With practiced efficiency, she takes Erica’s coat, revealing the forest green evening dress underneath.
“Allow me.” the woman says, gently wrapping a thin blue plastic strap around Erica’s right wrist and snapping the clasp shut. The band is lightweight but snug, an unobtrusive marker of access that also feels slightly invasive, a quiet reminder that every move here might be monitored.
“Have a wonderful evening, Miss Sinclair.” the woman adds with a polished smile, stepping aside to allow Erica to pass.
Erica inclines her head in acknowledgment and takes a step forward, the polished heels of her pumps clicking softly against the marble floor as she crosses the threshold into the grand ballroom.
The sight that greets her is nothing short of breathtaking. The grand ballroom of the Plaza is a symphony of opulence, its gilded walls and crystal chandeliers shimmering under the soft glow of hundreds of lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in deep red velvet offer glimpses of the glittering city beyond, while the polished parquet floor reflects the dazzling kaleidoscope of jewels and sequins worn by the guests.
For a moment, it feels like she’s stepped into a fairy tale. The thought amuses her - if Cinderella were to appear, it wouldn’t be out of place here.
The room is alive with a subdued hum of activity, a blend of soft laughter, hushed conversations, and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. Erica takes a moment to absorb it all, moving instinctively to the side of the room where she can observe without drawing attention to herself.
The City Guild’s history plays through her mind like an internal monologue, a calming exercise as much as an analytical one.
Founded in the 1840s, it was originally an enclave for New York’s old money - the Burnhams, Cosgroves, Le Perriers, and Rockefellers - whose influence still lingers in the ornate architecture and air of exclusivity. Over time, though, the Guild has allowed in the nouveau riche: hedge fund magnates, tech billionaires, and media moguls eager to rub elbows with legacy wealth.
And now, here she is - Erica Sinclair, an outsider among the insiders. Though she’s worked with her share of the city’s elite, it’s impossible not to feel like a fish out of water in a room where fortunes are measured in billions, not millions.
Her gaze sweeps across the crowd, taking in the dazzling array of gowns and tuxedos, the careful choreography of social power at play. Even here, the layers of hierarchy are palpable: the center of the room dominated by the luminaries, the edges occupied by those aspiring to move inward.
Erica forces herself to relax, reaching for one of the champagne flutes proffered by a passing waiter in livery. She takes the glass with a small, graceful nod, her polished exterior concealing the storm of vigilance beneath.
As she sips the crisp champagne, her sharp eyes scan the room for her target: Darren Cross.
She’s seen photos, of course, but they hardly do justice to the challenge of picking him out in a room full of power players, all of them dressed to the nines. Cross is said to blend in effortlessly when he chooses - a chameleon who can shift from the shadows of his business dealings to the bright lights of high society without missing a beat.
Erica lets herself glide through the room with purpose, careful not to linger too long in one spot or look too intently at any particular face. She needs to appear casual, like any other guest enjoying the evening, even as her mind works in overdrive.
The dress, the pearls, even the carefully applied makeup - all of it is armor, and tonight, she needs it. Though she knows she has a job to do, the weight of the room, the stakes of what she’s about to step into, are impossible to ignore.
The hum of conversation around her flows like a river, snippets of laughter and murmurs reaching her ears. Names and faces she recognizes - both legendary and infamous - float by in passing exchanges. The city’s power dynamics are on full display, and Erica can feel their gravity pressing against her.
She takes another sip of champagne, her sharp gaze scanning the sea of faces. Somewhere in this glittering crowd is Darren Cross, and she has one chance to make the right impression.
But for now, she remains poised, the perfect image of composure, as she continues her deliberate, unhurried path through the ballroom.
~~~
A man in a tailored tuxedo raises his glass toward Erica as she glides past him, his expression an amalgam of polite interest and intrigue. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, his smile practiced but warm - a man clearly accustomed to such soirées.
Erica acknowledges him with the faintest nod of her head, a measured smile tugging at her lips. Her movements are deliberate, polished - an elegant performance that masks the current of nerves running beneath her composed exterior.
The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel hums with subdued sophistication, the low murmur of conversations mingling with the soft strains of a live string quartet. For the men, tuxedos are the expected uniform, and Erica barely notices the sea of black suits around her as she moves with calculated grace.
Then she spots him.
Darren Cross.
He stands near the opulent buffet, commanding attention even amidst the dazzling crowd. His fitted dark grey swallowtail coat is a bold departure from the classic tuxedo, its fine fabric shimmering faintly under the chandelier light. The coat fits him like armor, sculpting his broad shoulders and lean frame with a precision that speaks of wealth and unapologetic confidence. A silver pocket watch chain glints subtly against the fabric, an old-world touch that seems at once eccentric and deliberate.
Cross is steeped in conversation with a stunning red-haired young woman draped in a midnight blue silk dress. The fabric clings to her figure, rippling like liquid as she shifts slightly, her laughter light and melodic. She tilts her head toward Cross, her green eyes sparkling with interest - or calculation. Erica can’t quite tell.
Erica’s breath hitches for the briefest moment as she adjusts her trajectory. Her gaze remains steady, her expression calm, but her mind sharpens, zeroing in on her target. She brushes her fingers lightly against the strap of her black purse, grounding herself.
Circling the buffet, she deliberately positions herself just close enough to Darren Cross without making it obvious. The scent of truffle canapés and smoked salmon mingles with the delicate aroma of champagne in the air.
She takes a step forward, then another. Her heels click softly against the polished floor, and she pauses near the champagne tower as if deciding on her next move. Then, with an elegant pivot, she steps back – deliberately - her shoulder lightly brushing against Cross.
“Oh, I’m sorry!” she says, swiveling quickly to face him, her tone perfectly pitched between surprise and apology.
Cross turns toward her, his expression one of mild amusement, his brows lifting ever so slightly as his lips curve into a boyish grin. His charm is disarming, almost effortless, and his blue eyes catch the light like a predator assessing its surroundings.
“Nothing to be sorry about, Miss…?” he prompts, his voice smooth and unhurried, his gaze sweeping over her face and attire in a quick but thorough appraisal.
“Sinclair. Erica Sinclair.”
She offers her name with an easy smile, tilting her head just slightly. Her voice is warm, unassuming, the perfect blend of self-assurance and approachability.
Cross’s grin deepens, and for a moment, Erica can almost see the invisible rolodex turning behind his eyes, flipping through mental files as he tries to place her. Whap-whap-whap, the sound of the metaphorical cards is nearly audible in her mind.
“Darren Cross.” he replies, extending his hand. His grip is firm but not overbearing, his handshake the practiced gesture of a man used to closing deals and commanding rooms. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sinclair.”
For a split second, Erica senses the red-haired woman’s gaze dart toward her, a flicker of curiosity or perhaps irritation crossing her face. But Erica doesn’t let it faze her.
“The pleasure’s mine.” she says smoothly, releasing his hand and meeting his gaze head-on.
There’s a pause - just a beat too long - and Erica feels the electricity of the moment. Cross’s eyes narrow slightly, a subtle hint of calculation behind his charm. He’s trying to determine if she’s someone he should remember, someone important—or someone new entirely.
“Well, Erica Sinclair,” he says, his tone lightly teasing, “what brings you to the City Guild gala? It’s not every day we have such striking company join us here.”
Erica allows herself a light laugh, brushing a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. “Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Cross. I was invited as a guest - networking, you know how it is. It’s my first time attending, and I must say, it’s…quite the spectacle.”
“Spectacle is one way to put it.” Cross replies, his grin widening. His voice lowers slightly, conspiratorial. “Some might call it an exhibition of excess.”
Erica tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Excess or excellence? I suppose it depends on your perspective.”
Cross chuckles softly at that, the sound rich and genuine - or at least well-practiced. “A fair point. May I ask what you excel in?”
The moment stretches just long enough for Erica to feel a bead of sweat threaten to form at the base of her neck. She suppresses it, her pulse steadying as she maintains her poise as if having the floor at court. She’s made the initial connection - but now comes the delicate dance of drawing him in without appearing overeager.
The red-haired woman shifts beside Cross, clearing her throat softly, a subtle reminder of her presence.
“Law, Mr. Cross. Sinclair & Associates over on Park Avenue.” Erica’s tone is effortless, confident, but not boastful. She steps back slightly to create an opening for retreat. “But please, I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. Enjoy the gala, Mr. Cross.”
Before he can respond, she offers him another smile, warm but not lingering, and turns toward the buffet as if her interruption had been purely accidental.
But as she walks away, Erica can feel his gaze following her, lingering just long enough to tell her she’s succeeded in sparking his curiosity. And that, she knows, is the first step.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
A smooth entry into the hornet's nest.
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
Dear @GreyLord, we'll see if Erica can get any further after bumping into Cross.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Very well done by Erica - to make Contact with her Target. Darren Cross is the natural Centre of Gravity in this Gala.
Dear @Caesar73, Erica made contact - but will she succeed in her plan? Let's find out.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
Indeed, @Caesar73, Erica did do well.Caesar73 wrote: 20 hours ago Very well done by Erica - to make Contact with her Target. Darren Cross is the natural Centre of Gravity in this Gala.
Last edited by GreyLord 13 hours ago, edited 1 time in total.
A List of my stories:An Unlikely Savior Completed
Spy Task Force Completed
Tale of an Archer Completed
The Bandit Scout on Newhome updated 05/30/23
Cross watches her retreat with mild curiosity, his boyish grin lingering. As she disappears into the crowd, to the disapproval of his red-headed companion, he casually retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket, the subtle motion obscured from view.
“One moment please, Chrissy.” He calms the young woman down. “Be right back with you.”
With a few swift taps, he searches for Erica’s name. The results are immediate and tell a compelling story - Sinclair & Associates is a reputable law firm specializing in high-profile cases, its founder a rising star in legal circles. Her presence here, while maybe unusual, is certainly plausible.
Moments later, Erica finds herself near the ballroom’s edge, scanning the room while pretending to admire a gilded portrait. The champagne flute in her hand is still half-full, though she hasn’t taken a sip in several minutes. She feels the faintest prick of unease, aware that she might have overplayed her hand - or worse, underplayed it.
“Miss Sinclair.”
The voice comes from behind her, smooth and measured, and she turns to find Darren Cross standing just a few feet away. His earlier companion is nowhere to be seen, leaving him free to approach without distraction.
“Mr. Cross.” Erica greets him, her expression one of polite surprise. “I hope I didn’t leave the wrong impression earlier.”
“On the contrary.” He smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets with an air of casual authority. “You left exactly the right impression. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. A successful attorney rubbing shoulders with the city’s old guard - it’s not the most common sight. Forgive me for being forward, but I had to ask: do you ride?”
The question catches Erica off guard, though she doesn’t show it. “Horses, you mean?”
“Of course.” Cross’s grin widens. “It’s a tradition of sorts for those of us who prefer to balance city life with something a little more… grounded. If you do, I’d love for you to join me tomorrow at my estate near Southampton. Crosswind has some of the best stables in the region. I promise, you’ll enjoy the change of scenery.”
Erica hesitates, calculating her response with care. Accepting the invitation would push her deeper into his orbit while declining might close the door she’s just barely managed to crack open.
“That’s a very kind offer.” she says finally, meeting his gaze. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. And yes, I do ride, though it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance.”
“Perfect.” Cross seems genuinely pleased, as though her answer has confirmed something he suspected all along. “Would ten o’clock be too early? That would allow us time for brunch afterwards.”
“I’ll be there.” Erica replies smoothly, allowing herself a faint smile.
“Perfect.” He inclines his head, clearly satisfied. “I’ll see you then, Miss Sinclair. Enjoy the rest of the gala.”
As he steps away, Erica feels the weight of his invitation settle over her. The game is moving quickly now, the stakes climbing higher with every passing moment. She tightens her grip on her champagne flute, her mind already racing ahead to tomorrow - and to what awaits her at Crosswind Estates.
~~~
The evening unfolds more smoothly than Erica had anticipated. For all her initial apprehension, she finds herself drawn into the peculiar charm of the gala. The grand ballroom glitters with a kind of timeless elegance, its soaring ceilings and gilded accents transporting her into a world far removed from her daily reality.
To her surprise, she finds herself actually enjoying the evening.
She sips a second glass of champagne - carefully pacing herself - and glides through the sea of glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos. Conversations flow around her like currents, and she listens more than speaks, her trained ear catching snippets of business ventures, political maneuverings, and whispers of charitable endeavors. It’s a study in power dynamics, and though she feels slightly out of place, she holds her own.
At some point, Erica finds herself pulled - more by accident than intention - into a conversation. The group is small, intimate, and, as she quickly realizes, composed of some of the city’s most influential citizens.
“You make an excellent point, Miss Sinclair.” says a silver-haired man in a bespoke suit, his piercing eyes fixed on her. “Far too often, we focus on the letter of the law and neglect the spirit of it.”
She recognizes him immediately: Spencer Burnham, one of the evening’s hosts and patriarch of the Burnham family, a dynasty that had been shaping New York City since the mid-19th century. His approval feels like a stamp of validation, and she doesn’t miss the approving glances exchanged among the others in the group either.
Burnham’s assistant, a young woman with sleek hair and an air of quiet efficiency, leans in to murmur something in his ear. Burnham nods but doesn’t break his focus on Erica. “You don’t happen to have a card on you, Miss Sinclair?” he asks as the group begins to break up. His tone is warm, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze that suggests he never forgets an opportunity.
Caught slightly off-guard, Erica reaches into her bag, her fingers brushing over her phone and keys before finding one of the firm’s embossed business cards. She hands it to Burnham’s assistant, who accepts it with a polite nod.
“It’s so refreshing to hear the opinion of this city’s next generation.” Burnham continues. “I insist you’ll be back next year - at my table, of course.”
“My pleasure, sir.” Erica replies with a gracious smile.
As she steps away, excusing herself with the poise she’s worked so hard to master, her gaze sweeps across the room. She notices Darren Cross a few feet away, his striking companion still on his arm. His eyes meet hers for the briefest of moments, and he offers a slight smile and an approving nod before turning his attention back to the beautiful woman beside him.
The interaction is fleeting, but it leaves Erica with a sense of recognition she hadn’t expected. She’s played her part well tonight, and Cross seems to have taken notice.
Feeling the weight of the evening beginning to settle over her, Erica decides it’s time to leave. Though she could stay longer and continue mingling, tomorrow will require her full focus, and she’ll need to update Sophie van Rey about her progress.
She retrieves her coat from the wardrobe, where another impeccably dressed staff member scans her wristband and hands it to her with a polite, “Have a good evening, Miss Sinclair.”
“Thank you.” Erica replies, slipping into the coat and wrapping it around herself as she steps into the brisk night air.
Outside the hotel, a line of yellow cabs awaits, their drivers ready to ferry the gala’s glittering attendees back to their homes. A uniformed NYPD officer standing near the curb raises his arm to hail a cab for her, then opens the rear passenger door with a courteous nod.
“Have a nice evening, ma’am,” he says, his voice steady and professional.
“Thank you, officer.” Erica replies, sliding into the cab’s cushioned seat and glancing briefly at the opulent entrance of the Plaza as the door closes behind her.
“135 West 72nd, please,” she tells the driver, her voice calm and clear.
The cab pulls away from the Plaza, merging smoothly into Manhattan’s late evening traffic. Erica leans back, letting her head sit against the seat’s cushioned headrest. The hum of the engine provides a soothing contrast to the echoes of the evening still swirling in her mind - clinking champagne glasses, the murmur of polished conversations, the soft strains of the string quartet drifting through the grand ballroom.
As the cab moves north along Broadway, the city lights streak past in brilliant flashes of neon and gold, painting the interior of the car in fleeting patterns of color. Erica allows herself a small, satisfied smile. The night had gone better than she could have hoped.
Reaching into her bag, she pulls out her phone. The screen illuminates her face as she types a quick message to ADA van Rey:
“I’m in. Invited to Crosswind Estates tomorrow, 10 AM. Wish me luck.”
She presses send and leans back again, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Her phone chimes almost immediately. The reply is succinct but reassuring:
“Lots of luck. Stay in touch.”
Erica slips the phone back into her bag, her thoughts already shifting to tomorrow. Crosswind Estates. Darren Cross. It’s the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come often, and she knows she’ll have to tread carefully.
As the cab pulls up outside her building, she pays the driver and steps out into the crisp night air. The quiet of her Upper West Side street is a welcome contrast to the glittering chaos of the gala. She practically dances into the building, the faint click of her low heels echoing in the marble foyer as she crosses to the elevator.
The ride up feels buoyant, as though the weight of the evening has been replaced by a newfound sense of accomplishment. By the time she unlocks her apartment door and steps inside, she feels light - not from the champagne, but from the steady hum of satisfaction coursing through her.
The familiar scent of home - leather, wood polish, and a faint hint of lavender - wraps around her like a comforting embrace. She casts a quick glance into the living room and smiles at the sight of Spot and Tiger curled together in their nest by the heating vent. The two cats, their fur rising and falling in gentle rhythm, are fast asleep, oblivious to the world beyond their cozy cocoon.
Erica steps out of her shoes, the soft leather pumps landing with a quiet thud on the hardwood floor.
She reaches behind her back, fumbling for the zipper of her forest green dress. It takes a little effort, but finally, the zipper gives, and the fabric slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. As she gathers it up, a vague memory stirs - some long-forgotten event for which she’d bought the dress. It doesn’t matter now. After tonight, she’s glad she kept it.
In the bathroom, the mirror reflects the flushed glow of her face. She carefully washes off her makeup, the warm water a soothing balm on her skin. As she brushes her hair, the tension of the evening slowly ebbs away, replaced by a calm focus.
Slipping into her black silk kimono, Erica feels the cool, smooth fabric glide over her skin. She walks into the bedroom, where the soft glow of her bedside lamp casts a warm halo over the room. The bed, neatly made earlier in the day, seems to beckon her.
But even as she slides under the covers, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders, her mind is already sharpening. Tomorrow will be a different kind of challenge - one that requires all the composure and precision she can muster. The stakes are high, and she knows there will be no room for error.
Reaching over, she switches off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. For a few moments, the impressions of the evening play back in her mind: Spencer Burnham’s approving nod, the slight smile from Darren Cross, the glittering opulence of the gala. But her exhaustion wins out quickly, and within minutes, she drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~~~
“One moment please, Chrissy.” He calms the young woman down. “Be right back with you.”
With a few swift taps, he searches for Erica’s name. The results are immediate and tell a compelling story - Sinclair & Associates is a reputable law firm specializing in high-profile cases, its founder a rising star in legal circles. Her presence here, while maybe unusual, is certainly plausible.
Moments later, Erica finds herself near the ballroom’s edge, scanning the room while pretending to admire a gilded portrait. The champagne flute in her hand is still half-full, though she hasn’t taken a sip in several minutes. She feels the faintest prick of unease, aware that she might have overplayed her hand - or worse, underplayed it.
“Miss Sinclair.”
The voice comes from behind her, smooth and measured, and she turns to find Darren Cross standing just a few feet away. His earlier companion is nowhere to be seen, leaving him free to approach without distraction.
“Mr. Cross.” Erica greets him, her expression one of polite surprise. “I hope I didn’t leave the wrong impression earlier.”
“On the contrary.” He smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets with an air of casual authority. “You left exactly the right impression. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. A successful attorney rubbing shoulders with the city’s old guard - it’s not the most common sight. Forgive me for being forward, but I had to ask: do you ride?”
The question catches Erica off guard, though she doesn’t show it. “Horses, you mean?”
“Of course.” Cross’s grin widens. “It’s a tradition of sorts for those of us who prefer to balance city life with something a little more… grounded. If you do, I’d love for you to join me tomorrow at my estate near Southampton. Crosswind has some of the best stables in the region. I promise, you’ll enjoy the change of scenery.”
Erica hesitates, calculating her response with care. Accepting the invitation would push her deeper into his orbit while declining might close the door she’s just barely managed to crack open.
“That’s a very kind offer.” she says finally, meeting his gaze. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. And yes, I do ride, though it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance.”
“Perfect.” Cross seems genuinely pleased, as though her answer has confirmed something he suspected all along. “Would ten o’clock be too early? That would allow us time for brunch afterwards.”
“I’ll be there.” Erica replies smoothly, allowing herself a faint smile.
“Perfect.” He inclines his head, clearly satisfied. “I’ll see you then, Miss Sinclair. Enjoy the rest of the gala.”
As he steps away, Erica feels the weight of his invitation settle over her. The game is moving quickly now, the stakes climbing higher with every passing moment. She tightens her grip on her champagne flute, her mind already racing ahead to tomorrow - and to what awaits her at Crosswind Estates.
~~~
The evening unfolds more smoothly than Erica had anticipated. For all her initial apprehension, she finds herself drawn into the peculiar charm of the gala. The grand ballroom glitters with a kind of timeless elegance, its soaring ceilings and gilded accents transporting her into a world far removed from her daily reality.
To her surprise, she finds herself actually enjoying the evening.
She sips a second glass of champagne - carefully pacing herself - and glides through the sea of glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos. Conversations flow around her like currents, and she listens more than speaks, her trained ear catching snippets of business ventures, political maneuverings, and whispers of charitable endeavors. It’s a study in power dynamics, and though she feels slightly out of place, she holds her own.
At some point, Erica finds herself pulled - more by accident than intention - into a conversation. The group is small, intimate, and, as she quickly realizes, composed of some of the city’s most influential citizens.
“You make an excellent point, Miss Sinclair.” says a silver-haired man in a bespoke suit, his piercing eyes fixed on her. “Far too often, we focus on the letter of the law and neglect the spirit of it.”
She recognizes him immediately: Spencer Burnham, one of the evening’s hosts and patriarch of the Burnham family, a dynasty that had been shaping New York City since the mid-19th century. His approval feels like a stamp of validation, and she doesn’t miss the approving glances exchanged among the others in the group either.
Burnham’s assistant, a young woman with sleek hair and an air of quiet efficiency, leans in to murmur something in his ear. Burnham nods but doesn’t break his focus on Erica. “You don’t happen to have a card on you, Miss Sinclair?” he asks as the group begins to break up. His tone is warm, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze that suggests he never forgets an opportunity.
Caught slightly off-guard, Erica reaches into her bag, her fingers brushing over her phone and keys before finding one of the firm’s embossed business cards. She hands it to Burnham’s assistant, who accepts it with a polite nod.
“It’s so refreshing to hear the opinion of this city’s next generation.” Burnham continues. “I insist you’ll be back next year - at my table, of course.”
“My pleasure, sir.” Erica replies with a gracious smile.
As she steps away, excusing herself with the poise she’s worked so hard to master, her gaze sweeps across the room. She notices Darren Cross a few feet away, his striking companion still on his arm. His eyes meet hers for the briefest of moments, and he offers a slight smile and an approving nod before turning his attention back to the beautiful woman beside him.
The interaction is fleeting, but it leaves Erica with a sense of recognition she hadn’t expected. She’s played her part well tonight, and Cross seems to have taken notice.
Feeling the weight of the evening beginning to settle over her, Erica decides it’s time to leave. Though she could stay longer and continue mingling, tomorrow will require her full focus, and she’ll need to update Sophie van Rey about her progress.
She retrieves her coat from the wardrobe, where another impeccably dressed staff member scans her wristband and hands it to her with a polite, “Have a good evening, Miss Sinclair.”
“Thank you.” Erica replies, slipping into the coat and wrapping it around herself as she steps into the brisk night air.
Outside the hotel, a line of yellow cabs awaits, their drivers ready to ferry the gala’s glittering attendees back to their homes. A uniformed NYPD officer standing near the curb raises his arm to hail a cab for her, then opens the rear passenger door with a courteous nod.
“Have a nice evening, ma’am,” he says, his voice steady and professional.
“Thank you, officer.” Erica replies, sliding into the cab’s cushioned seat and glancing briefly at the opulent entrance of the Plaza as the door closes behind her.
“135 West 72nd, please,” she tells the driver, her voice calm and clear.
The cab pulls away from the Plaza, merging smoothly into Manhattan’s late evening traffic. Erica leans back, letting her head sit against the seat’s cushioned headrest. The hum of the engine provides a soothing contrast to the echoes of the evening still swirling in her mind - clinking champagne glasses, the murmur of polished conversations, the soft strains of the string quartet drifting through the grand ballroom.
As the cab moves north along Broadway, the city lights streak past in brilliant flashes of neon and gold, painting the interior of the car in fleeting patterns of color. Erica allows herself a small, satisfied smile. The night had gone better than she could have hoped.
Reaching into her bag, she pulls out her phone. The screen illuminates her face as she types a quick message to ADA van Rey:
“I’m in. Invited to Crosswind Estates tomorrow, 10 AM. Wish me luck.”
She presses send and leans back again, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Her phone chimes almost immediately. The reply is succinct but reassuring:
“Lots of luck. Stay in touch.”
Erica slips the phone back into her bag, her thoughts already shifting to tomorrow. Crosswind Estates. Darren Cross. It’s the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come often, and she knows she’ll have to tread carefully.
As the cab pulls up outside her building, she pays the driver and steps out into the crisp night air. The quiet of her Upper West Side street is a welcome contrast to the glittering chaos of the gala. She practically dances into the building, the faint click of her low heels echoing in the marble foyer as she crosses to the elevator.
The ride up feels buoyant, as though the weight of the evening has been replaced by a newfound sense of accomplishment. By the time she unlocks her apartment door and steps inside, she feels light - not from the champagne, but from the steady hum of satisfaction coursing through her.
The familiar scent of home - leather, wood polish, and a faint hint of lavender - wraps around her like a comforting embrace. She casts a quick glance into the living room and smiles at the sight of Spot and Tiger curled together in their nest by the heating vent. The two cats, their fur rising and falling in gentle rhythm, are fast asleep, oblivious to the world beyond their cozy cocoon.
Erica steps out of her shoes, the soft leather pumps landing with a quiet thud on the hardwood floor.
She reaches behind her back, fumbling for the zipper of her forest green dress. It takes a little effort, but finally, the zipper gives, and the fabric slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. As she gathers it up, a vague memory stirs - some long-forgotten event for which she’d bought the dress. It doesn’t matter now. After tonight, she’s glad she kept it.
In the bathroom, the mirror reflects the flushed glow of her face. She carefully washes off her makeup, the warm water a soothing balm on her skin. As she brushes her hair, the tension of the evening slowly ebbs away, replaced by a calm focus.
Slipping into her black silk kimono, Erica feels the cool, smooth fabric glide over her skin. She walks into the bedroom, where the soft glow of her bedside lamp casts a warm halo over the room. The bed, neatly made earlier in the day, seems to beckon her.
But even as she slides under the covers, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders, her mind is already sharpening. Tomorrow will be a different kind of challenge - one that requires all the composure and precision she can muster. The stakes are high, and she knows there will be no room for error.
Reaching over, she switches off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. For a few moments, the impressions of the evening play back in her mind: Spencer Burnham’s approving nod, the slight smile from Darren Cross, the glittering opulence of the gala. But her exhaustion wins out quickly, and within minutes, she drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.
~~~
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
So Erica established Contact with the Target so to speak 
Erica is well aware of the Chances and Risks of this Invitation. Obviously she impressed their Host. I like the Contrast between the Gala and Erica´s Return to her Home. Nice to meet Spot and Tiger again
Erica is well aware of the Chances and Risks of this Invitation. Obviously she impressed their Host. I like the Contrast between the Gala and Erica´s Return to her Home. Nice to meet Spot and Tiger again Dear @Caesar73, to her greatest surprise, Erica actually enjoyed the gala, but if there's one thing she enjoys a lot more, it is the quiet of her apartment - and the company of the twin kittens. I can promise that you haven't seen them for the last time.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing