As I only discovered yesterday how to access this superb site i've had some catching up to do.
Firstly i had to finish the 'Haven' story, which i have now done. Utterly magnificent, i had this sneaking suspicion of Peters all along. Good to see both the centre return to what it should be doing, and young Megan find her true vocation in life.
And with that tale finished i turned my attentions to this current tale. Believe me you have me FULLY intrigued here and wanting more. As all the very best writers do.
Website Migration Update
I moved the website to a new host, which I think will be more tolerant of the content this website hosts. Nevertheless, I do want to take a moment to remind everyone that the stories and content posted here MUST follow website rules, as it it not only my policy, but it is the policy of the hosts that permit our website to run on their servers. We WILL continue to enforce the rules, especially critical rules that, if broken, put this sites livelihood in jeapordy.
*CALLING FOR MORE PARTICIPATION*
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
JUST A SMALL ANNOUNCEMENT TO REMIND EVERYONE (GUESTS AND REGISTERED USERS ALIKE) THAT THIS FORUM IS BUILT AROUND USER PARTICIPATION AND PUBLIC INTERACTIONS. IF YOU SEE A THREAD YOU LIKE, PARTICIPATE! IF YOU ENJOYED READING A STORY, POST A COMMENT TO LET THE AUTHOR KNOW! TAKING A FEW EXTRA SECONDS TO LET AN AUTHOR KNOW YOU ENJOYED HIS OR HER WORK IS THE BEST WAY TO ENSURE THAT MORE SIMILAR STORIES ARE POSTED. KEEPING THE COMMUNITY ALIVE IS A GROUP EFFORT. LET'S ALL MAKE AN EFFORT TO PARTICIPATE.
Erica Sinclair - A Matter of Honor (M/F)
Dear @LunaDog, thanks so much for your compliments. I'm honored to have you as one of my regular readers and commenters.
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
Cross reaches into the breast pocket of his tailored tweed jacket, the movement deliberate, as though every gesture has been calculated in advance. From within, he produces a sleek business card - ivory stock with embossed black lettering. It’s not just any card. It’s the one with his personal cell phone number, a piece of himself that few are privileged to possess.
He holds it between two fingers, extending it toward her, his eyes locked on hers, unblinking.
The moment hangs in the air like a thread pulled taut. There’s no mistaking the meaning of the gesture. He’s not merely offering her a way to reach him; he’s testing her. Accepting the card would be a signal - not just of interest but of willingness. It would tell him that his words have struck a chord, that the seed of greed he’s planted is beginning to take root.
Erica’s gaze flickers to the card, then back to Cross. Slowly, she leans forward, her movements measured, her expression unreadable. With two fingers, she takes hold of the edge of the card. Their fingertips brush, the contact brief but electric, a spark of unspoken tension crackling between them.
For a moment, Cross doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, his intent unmistakable. Their eyes meet, and in that charged silence, the balance of power shifts and sways, neither of them quite willing to relinquish control.
“I’m glad you’re considering my offer.” Cross says at last, his voice low, smooth, and brimming with quiet satisfaction.
“Wouldn’t I be stupid not to?” Erica replies, her voice barely above a whisper. The words carry a hint of something elusive - a challenge, perhaps, or a carefully veiled acknowledgment of the stakes.
Cross studies her for a beat longer, then releases the card. Erica slides it into the pocket of her jacket with a deliberateness that mirrors his earlier movements. There’s no hesitation, no second glance. But the weight of the card against her palm lingers, a tangible reminder of the crossroads she’s standing at. For her, this small act feels monumental, like crossing a threshold she can’t unstep.
By taking the card, Erica realizes that she's in if she wants.
She would have the opportunity Sophie van Rey had hoped she might get - to infiltrate Cross' organization and to find evidence that might be hard enough to get him behind bars. But Erica knows that she would be walking down a dangerous path.
There must have been a reason why Cross had talked about her potentially lethal brush with Tony Maze and why he had dropped the hint that there's money to be made - by someone willing and able to...solve problems.
The card weighing like an invisible ton in her pocket, Erica feels as if her father was standing beside her and she can hear his deep, but warm voice reminding her that life is about standing for something and to not fall for anything.
A quiet stillness settles over the room, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. Then, as if sensing that the moment requires something to lighten the tension, Cross leans back slightly, his demeanor shifting to one of easy affability.
“If you’d like to ride out on Lea again - anytime you like - just drop in.” he says, his tone casual but his words pointed. “I’ll let Baker and Ray know that you have a standing invitation to Crosswind’s stables.”
Erica allows a faint smile to touch her lips, though her eyes remain sharp, calculating. “That’s generous of you, Darren.” she says. “I might just take you up on that. Lea is such a wonderful horse. I envy you a little, I have to admit.”
She knows this is another test. The invitation isn’t just about hospitality; it’s about keeping her tethered to this world he’s inviting her into. It’s about control.
The room feels charged with an energy neither of them acknowledges aloud. Cross leans back against the leather cushions, every inch the gracious host. But Erica knows better. He’s playing a long game, and with that card now in her possession, she’s become a piece on his board.
As for her? She’ll play the game, for now. But the rules, as always, are hers to decide.
Cross stands, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, his movement precise and effortless. “I trust you’ll make the right decision.” he says, a faint smile playing on his lips as he extends a hand to help her rise.
Erica takes his hand, her grip firm, her mind racing. The game’s afoot, she thinks. And as their hands part, she knows she’ll have to tread carefully. She’s stepped onto the board, but she hasn’t forgotten: in this game, the stakes might be beyond high.
~~~
Cross walks Erica to her black Volvo, his hand lightly brushing the small of her back as they approach the car. The afternoon air is cool, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender from the garden. It’s quiet here, save for the crunch of gravel underfoot, but the weight of unspoken words fills the silence between them.
As she reaches for the driver’s side door, Cross steps in close, his presence commanding without being overtly imposing. “Call me.” he says, his voice low and deliberate, a subtle challenge lingering in his tone.
Erica meets his gaze briefly, offering him a faint, enigmatic smile. “I will.” Her tone is steady, giving nothing away.
She slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting herself with practiced ease, then turns the key in the ignition and the Volvo hums to life.
Shifting into reverse, she maneuvers the car with care, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as she turns it toward the long driveway leading back to the estate’s gate. As the car moves slowly down the path, she glances into the rearview mirror.
Cross stands where she left him, his silhouette framed by the soft glow spilling from the mansion’s windows. For a moment, he watches her leave, a figure of calm control. Then, without fanfare, he turns and steps back into the grand house.
From the driver’s seat, Erica can’t see the woman waiting for him in the hallway.
Chrissy Tomlin, striking with her red hair cascading over one shoulder, leans casually against the marble banister. Her lips curl into a smirk as Cross enters. “Your new toy?” she asks, her voice laced with mockery.
Cross doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes the distance between them in a few measured strides, his arm sliding around her slender waist with a proprietary ease. He pulls her against him, his grip firm but not tender. His lips crush hers in a kiss that’s more about domination than affection, a display of the power he knows he holds - over her, over his employees, and now, over Erica Sinclair.
Chrissy gasps softly against his lips as he pulls back, his gaze smoldering with intent. Without a word, he grabs her arm, his grip bordering on rough, and begins leading her toward the sweeping staircase. She stumbles slightly, but his pace doesn’t falter, half-dragging, half-guiding her up the stairs.
When they reach his bedroom, he pushes the door open with force, the heavy wood creaking slightly on its hinges. Inside, the room is dark, save for the faint glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls.
Chrissy lowers her gaze, her defiance from earlier dissipating under the intensity of his presence. He backs her toward the large four-poster bed, the mattress looming like a silent witness.
“Get naked.” he commands, his voice rough with an edge that brooks no argument.
Cross shrugs off his tailored tweed jacket, tossing it onto a nearby armchair with little regard for its value. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, tearing them open with impatient force, the sound of fabric splitting sharp in the charged silence.
Chrissy complies, her movements mechanical as she slips out of her clothes. Piece by piece, the top, the tight designer jeans and her underwear falls away until she stands before him, completely bare, her skin flushed under the dim light.
Cross steps forward, his eyes raking over her with a hunger that’s as much about control as it is about desire. Reaching for the nightstand, he pulls the top drawer open. The sound of it sliding echoes in the stillness. From within, he retrieves a pair of police-grade handcuffs, their polished steel gleaming in the muted light.
His eyes never leave hers as he holds them up, the weight of his authority thick in the air.
“Put them on.” he whispers, his voice dark, almost dangerous.
Chrissy hesitates for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to make his expression harden. She takes the cuffs from him, the cold metal biting into her palms. Her hands shake slightly as she obeys, snapping the restraints around her own wrists, the click of the locks sealing her submission.
Cross steps back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he surveys her. For him, it’s not just about the physical act. It’s about control, dominance, and the satisfaction of knowing that in this moment, she is entirely his.
~~~
He holds it between two fingers, extending it toward her, his eyes locked on hers, unblinking.
The moment hangs in the air like a thread pulled taut. There’s no mistaking the meaning of the gesture. He’s not merely offering her a way to reach him; he’s testing her. Accepting the card would be a signal - not just of interest but of willingness. It would tell him that his words have struck a chord, that the seed of greed he’s planted is beginning to take root.
Erica’s gaze flickers to the card, then back to Cross. Slowly, she leans forward, her movements measured, her expression unreadable. With two fingers, she takes hold of the edge of the card. Their fingertips brush, the contact brief but electric, a spark of unspoken tension crackling between them.
For a moment, Cross doesn’t let go. His grip is firm, his intent unmistakable. Their eyes meet, and in that charged silence, the balance of power shifts and sways, neither of them quite willing to relinquish control.
“I’m glad you’re considering my offer.” Cross says at last, his voice low, smooth, and brimming with quiet satisfaction.
“Wouldn’t I be stupid not to?” Erica replies, her voice barely above a whisper. The words carry a hint of something elusive - a challenge, perhaps, or a carefully veiled acknowledgment of the stakes.
Cross studies her for a beat longer, then releases the card. Erica slides it into the pocket of her jacket with a deliberateness that mirrors his earlier movements. There’s no hesitation, no second glance. But the weight of the card against her palm lingers, a tangible reminder of the crossroads she’s standing at. For her, this small act feels monumental, like crossing a threshold she can’t unstep.
By taking the card, Erica realizes that she's in if she wants.
She would have the opportunity Sophie van Rey had hoped she might get - to infiltrate Cross' organization and to find evidence that might be hard enough to get him behind bars. But Erica knows that she would be walking down a dangerous path.
There must have been a reason why Cross had talked about her potentially lethal brush with Tony Maze and why he had dropped the hint that there's money to be made - by someone willing and able to...solve problems.
The card weighing like an invisible ton in her pocket, Erica feels as if her father was standing beside her and she can hear his deep, but warm voice reminding her that life is about standing for something and to not fall for anything.
A quiet stillness settles over the room, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance. Then, as if sensing that the moment requires something to lighten the tension, Cross leans back slightly, his demeanor shifting to one of easy affability.
“If you’d like to ride out on Lea again - anytime you like - just drop in.” he says, his tone casual but his words pointed. “I’ll let Baker and Ray know that you have a standing invitation to Crosswind’s stables.”
Erica allows a faint smile to touch her lips, though her eyes remain sharp, calculating. “That’s generous of you, Darren.” she says. “I might just take you up on that. Lea is such a wonderful horse. I envy you a little, I have to admit.”
She knows this is another test. The invitation isn’t just about hospitality; it’s about keeping her tethered to this world he’s inviting her into. It’s about control.
The room feels charged with an energy neither of them acknowledges aloud. Cross leans back against the leather cushions, every inch the gracious host. But Erica knows better. He’s playing a long game, and with that card now in her possession, she’s become a piece on his board.
As for her? She’ll play the game, for now. But the rules, as always, are hers to decide.
Cross stands, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, his movement precise and effortless. “I trust you’ll make the right decision.” he says, a faint smile playing on his lips as he extends a hand to help her rise.
Erica takes his hand, her grip firm, her mind racing. The game’s afoot, she thinks. And as their hands part, she knows she’ll have to tread carefully. She’s stepped onto the board, but she hasn’t forgotten: in this game, the stakes might be beyond high.
~~~
Cross walks Erica to her black Volvo, his hand lightly brushing the small of her back as they approach the car. The afternoon air is cool, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender from the garden. It’s quiet here, save for the crunch of gravel underfoot, but the weight of unspoken words fills the silence between them.
As she reaches for the driver’s side door, Cross steps in close, his presence commanding without being overtly imposing. “Call me.” he says, his voice low and deliberate, a subtle challenge lingering in his tone.
Erica meets his gaze briefly, offering him a faint, enigmatic smile. “I will.” Her tone is steady, giving nothing away.
She slides into the driver’s seat, adjusting herself with practiced ease, then turns the key in the ignition and the Volvo hums to life.
Shifting into reverse, she maneuvers the car with care, the gravel crunching beneath the tires as she turns it toward the long driveway leading back to the estate’s gate. As the car moves slowly down the path, she glances into the rearview mirror.
Cross stands where she left him, his silhouette framed by the soft glow spilling from the mansion’s windows. For a moment, he watches her leave, a figure of calm control. Then, without fanfare, he turns and steps back into the grand house.
From the driver’s seat, Erica can’t see the woman waiting for him in the hallway.
Chrissy Tomlin, striking with her red hair cascading over one shoulder, leans casually against the marble banister. Her lips curl into a smirk as Cross enters. “Your new toy?” she asks, her voice laced with mockery.
Cross doesn’t answer. Instead, he closes the distance between them in a few measured strides, his arm sliding around her slender waist with a proprietary ease. He pulls her against him, his grip firm but not tender. His lips crush hers in a kiss that’s more about domination than affection, a display of the power he knows he holds - over her, over his employees, and now, over Erica Sinclair.
Chrissy gasps softly against his lips as he pulls back, his gaze smoldering with intent. Without a word, he grabs her arm, his grip bordering on rough, and begins leading her toward the sweeping staircase. She stumbles slightly, but his pace doesn’t falter, half-dragging, half-guiding her up the stairs.
When they reach his bedroom, he pushes the door open with force, the heavy wood creaking slightly on its hinges. Inside, the room is dark, save for the faint glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows on the walls.
Chrissy lowers her gaze, her defiance from earlier dissipating under the intensity of his presence. He backs her toward the large four-poster bed, the mattress looming like a silent witness.
“Get naked.” he commands, his voice rough with an edge that brooks no argument.
Cross shrugs off his tailored tweed jacket, tossing it onto a nearby armchair with little regard for its value. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, tearing them open with impatient force, the sound of fabric splitting sharp in the charged silence.
Chrissy complies, her movements mechanical as she slips out of her clothes. Piece by piece, the top, the tight designer jeans and her underwear falls away until she stands before him, completely bare, her skin flushed under the dim light.
Cross steps forward, his eyes raking over her with a hunger that’s as much about control as it is about desire. Reaching for the nightstand, he pulls the top drawer open. The sound of it sliding echoes in the stillness. From within, he retrieves a pair of police-grade handcuffs, their polished steel gleaming in the muted light.
His eyes never leave hers as he holds them up, the weight of his authority thick in the air.
“Put them on.” he whispers, his voice dark, almost dangerous.
Chrissy hesitates for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to make his expression harden. She takes the cuffs from him, the cold metal biting into her palms. Her hands shake slightly as she obeys, snapping the restraints around her own wrists, the click of the locks sealing her submission.
Cross steps back, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he surveys her. For him, it’s not just about the physical act. It’s about control, dominance, and the satisfaction of knowing that in this moment, she is entirely his.
~~~
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 appears that Erica has her route 'inside.' Naturally she will need to proceed with care, powerful figures like Darren Cross don't get to where they are by being stupid or careless. But, i'm sure she can handle herself!
Dear @LunaDog, Cross buys loyalty. Is he going to find Erica's soft spot?
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
As soon as Erica passes through the imposing iron gates of Crosswinds estate, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers move swiftly, dialing Sophie van Rey’s number. The phone rings twice, and on the third buzz, Sophie answers, her voice sharp and brimming with urgency.
“Erica! Tell me.”
Keeping her tone casual, Erica says, “I’m on my way back to Manhattan from Cross’ place in the Hamptons. Had a great time riding a wonderful horse.”
She can practically feel Sophie’s impatience crackling through the line, the ADA likely pacing, her phone clutched tight. Let her squirm, Erica thinks. Sophie wanted to be filled in, didn’t she?
“Can we cut to the important part, please!” Sophie snaps, her frustration spilling over.
A faint smile touches Erica’s lips, though her eyes remain fixed on the road ahead. “He vetted me today.” she says, her voice steady, deliberate. “Flattered me. Gauged if I was someone he could use. Then he hinted there’s money to be made - if I’m willing.”
“What kind of money?” Sophie presses, her words clipped, razor-sharp.
“He wasn’t specific,” Erica replies, her tone calm, as though discussing something mundane. “But he mentioned importing recyclable material from Mexico and selling it to someone with connections to China. He wants me to call him with my answer.”
There’s a long pause on Sophie’s end. Erica can hear her measured breathing, the sound of her brain working through the implications.
“What’s your next move?” Sophie asks at last, her voice careful, guarded.
“I’ll go back tomorrow. Erica says, her tone calculated, professional. “Grab a horse and ride again. Maybe I’ll run into him. If not, I’ll leave a message. He needs to know that I’m interested - but not desperate for a job.”
Sophie exhales audibly, her tension palpable. “You’ll know best how to play him. But, Erica…” Her voice softens, a rare crack in her otherwise sharp exterior. “Be careful. Please.”
Erica tightens her grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles pale against the leather. “Always.” she says. “I’ll keep you posted.”
She ends the call and sets the phone down on the passenger seat. The faint glow of the screen fades, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
~~~
The drive back to Manhattan is quiet, the silence pressing in on her like a heavy fog. Outside, the landscape shifts, the sprawling estates of the Hamptons giving way to dark stretches of highway. The Volvo’s engine hums steadily, a low, comforting backdrop to the storm brewing in her mind.
Erica’s thoughts churn as she replays the day’s events. Cross’ deliberate charm. The way he dangled the promise of money without ever saying too much. The business card now resting in her pocket, its weight far heavier than its size.
There’s a reason he mentioned her brush with Tony Maze, she realizes. It was a warning cloaked as flattery, a test disguised as an invitation. Erica isn’t naive. She knows what he’s capable of - and what he might expect from her if she steps fully into his world.
She could still walk away from all this, tell Sophie to look for someone else to do the job, but that is not really an option for her.
Her father’s voice echoes in her mind, his deep, steady tone reminding her that she is only as good as her word.
Integrity. This is what it all boils down to.
Erica might not have understood her father’s lessons when she was little, but now she does and she will not disappoint him. She will be the woman he always wanted her to be.
The comforting glow of Manhattan’s skyline finally comes into view, a sea of glittering lights breaking through the haze of her thoughts. The streets grow busier, the hum of life and energy unmistakable even at this time of the day. She eases into the rhythm of the city, its pulse syncing with her own.
Turning onto West 72nd Street, Erica feels the strain of the day settle into her shoulders and back. She guides the Volvo smoothly down the ramp into the underground parking garage of her apartment building. The tires crunch softly against the concrete as she finds her usual spot and pulls in with practiced precision.
Cutting the engine, Erica sits for a moment in the stillness of the car. Her hands rest lightly on the wheel, her breathing steady but deliberate. The business card feels like a lead weight in her pocket, a quiet reminder of the dangerous game she’s now playing.
Finally, she grabs her backpack from the passenger seat and steps out of the car. The sound of her boots echoes faintly through the empty garage as she walks toward the elevator. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of her choices pressing down on her.
But her resolve doesn’t falter. The game is in motion, and Erica Sinclair knows she has no choice but to play it - on her own terms.
~~~
“Erica! Tell me.”
Keeping her tone casual, Erica says, “I’m on my way back to Manhattan from Cross’ place in the Hamptons. Had a great time riding a wonderful horse.”
She can practically feel Sophie’s impatience crackling through the line, the ADA likely pacing, her phone clutched tight. Let her squirm, Erica thinks. Sophie wanted to be filled in, didn’t she?
“Can we cut to the important part, please!” Sophie snaps, her frustration spilling over.
A faint smile touches Erica’s lips, though her eyes remain fixed on the road ahead. “He vetted me today.” she says, her voice steady, deliberate. “Flattered me. Gauged if I was someone he could use. Then he hinted there’s money to be made - if I’m willing.”
“What kind of money?” Sophie presses, her words clipped, razor-sharp.
“He wasn’t specific,” Erica replies, her tone calm, as though discussing something mundane. “But he mentioned importing recyclable material from Mexico and selling it to someone with connections to China. He wants me to call him with my answer.”
There’s a long pause on Sophie’s end. Erica can hear her measured breathing, the sound of her brain working through the implications.
“What’s your next move?” Sophie asks at last, her voice careful, guarded.
“I’ll go back tomorrow. Erica says, her tone calculated, professional. “Grab a horse and ride again. Maybe I’ll run into him. If not, I’ll leave a message. He needs to know that I’m interested - but not desperate for a job.”
Sophie exhales audibly, her tension palpable. “You’ll know best how to play him. But, Erica…” Her voice softens, a rare crack in her otherwise sharp exterior. “Be careful. Please.”
Erica tightens her grip on the steering wheel, her knuckles pale against the leather. “Always.” she says. “I’ll keep you posted.”
She ends the call and sets the phone down on the passenger seat. The faint glow of the screen fades, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
~~~
The drive back to Manhattan is quiet, the silence pressing in on her like a heavy fog. Outside, the landscape shifts, the sprawling estates of the Hamptons giving way to dark stretches of highway. The Volvo’s engine hums steadily, a low, comforting backdrop to the storm brewing in her mind.
Erica’s thoughts churn as she replays the day’s events. Cross’ deliberate charm. The way he dangled the promise of money without ever saying too much. The business card now resting in her pocket, its weight far heavier than its size.
There’s a reason he mentioned her brush with Tony Maze, she realizes. It was a warning cloaked as flattery, a test disguised as an invitation. Erica isn’t naive. She knows what he’s capable of - and what he might expect from her if she steps fully into his world.
She could still walk away from all this, tell Sophie to look for someone else to do the job, but that is not really an option for her.
Her father’s voice echoes in her mind, his deep, steady tone reminding her that she is only as good as her word.
Integrity. This is what it all boils down to.
Erica might not have understood her father’s lessons when she was little, but now she does and she will not disappoint him. She will be the woman he always wanted her to be.
The comforting glow of Manhattan’s skyline finally comes into view, a sea of glittering lights breaking through the haze of her thoughts. The streets grow busier, the hum of life and energy unmistakable even at this time of the day. She eases into the rhythm of the city, its pulse syncing with her own.
Turning onto West 72nd Street, Erica feels the strain of the day settle into her shoulders and back. She guides the Volvo smoothly down the ramp into the underground parking garage of her apartment building. The tires crunch softly against the concrete as she finds her usual spot and pulls in with practiced precision.
Cutting the engine, Erica sits for a moment in the stillness of the car. Her hands rest lightly on the wheel, her breathing steady but deliberate. The business card feels like a lead weight in her pocket, a quiet reminder of the dangerous game she’s now playing.
Finally, she grabs her backpack from the passenger seat and steps out of the car. The sound of her boots echoes faintly through the empty garage as she walks toward the elevator. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of her choices pressing down on her.
But her resolve doesn’t falter. The game is in motion, and Erica Sinclair knows she has no choice but to play it - on her own terms.
~~~
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 soft click of the door unlocking echoes through the quiet hallway, and as Erica pushes it open, the familiar patter of tiny paws sends a rush of warmth through her chest. Before she could step inside, Spot and Tiger appear like a whirlwind of fur, barreling toward her with tiny, frantic steps.
Spot, the more exuberant of the two, launches himself at her with unrestrained enthusiasm, his tiny black paws batting at her legs as if the mere sight of her isn’t enough - he has to feel her, too. Erica lets out a soft laugh, her heart tugged by his unfiltered joy.
Tiger, true to his cautious nature, lingers a few feet behind. His amber eyes narrow in suspicion, his small head tilting slightly as if assessing whether she has betrayed him by consorting with some other creature. His gray-and-white-striped face wears a look of regal disapproval.
Erica laughs softly, leaning down to scoop Spot into her arms. He immediately nuzzles into her neck, purring loudly, his soft black fur tickling her skin. “Mommy’s smelling of horses today.” she says gently, her voice low and soothing. “You may want to get used to it.”
Tiger takes a cautious step forward, his little nose twitching as he sniffs the air. But whatever he smells doesn’t seem to win him over just yet. With Spot happily settled in her arms, Erica steps into the living room, placing him down on the plush area rug. Tiger follows her at a deliberate pace, his tail flicking, his expression still skeptical.
Erica picks up their bowls and rinses them out in the stainless steel sink in the kitchen. The sound of water running immediately catches Tiger’s attention, and she hears the soft sound of his paws padding closer. By the time she refills the bowls with fresh kibble and water, both kittens are sitting patiently at her feet, looking up at her with wide, expectant eyes. Spot lets out a tiny, eager mew as if to say, Finally!
“Am I out of the doghouse now?” Erica asks Tiger with a smile, setting the bowls down on the floor. She watches as they dive in, their little heads bobbing as they eat. The sight makes her heart swell, the simple joy of their presence washing over her like a balm.
Stepping back into the bedroom, she pulls her tall riding boots off with a sigh of relief. Her calves, though toned like the rest of her body, feel sore, a lingering ache from gripping the stirrups during the ride. She parks the boots outside her walk-in closet and drapes her riding pants over a hanger, letting them air out. The polo shirt she wore all day carries the faint scent of leather and the stables, a reminder of the morning spent in Cross’ world. She takes it off, along with her underwear, tossing them into the laundry basket before heading to the bathroom.
The shower comes alive with a rush of hot water, steam quickly fogging the glass door. Erica steps in, letting the heat cascade over her shoulders, loosening the stiffness in her muscles. The tension melts away with each passing second as she stretches her arms overhead, rolling her neck to the side.
The rich scent of her current favorite body wash fills the small space - a mix of sandalwood and vanilla. She pours it into her hands, working up a generous lather before smoothing it over her skin. Watching the foam swirl down the drain feels oddly satisfying, as though she’s not just rinsing off the day’s grime but also the tension that clung to her. The ride may have left her body sore, but it had been a rare moment of freedom - a chance to let go, if only for a little while.
Stepping out of the shower, Erica wraps herself in a plush towel, patting her skin dry before moving to the sink. She blow-dries her damp hair, the warm air brushing against her cheeks, then runs a brush through it, smoothing out the tangles. In her bedroom, she reaches for her black silk kimono, slipping it over her bare skin, moaning silently. The fabric feels cool and luxurious, erotic even, skimming her body like a second skin.
In the kitchen, her fingers hover over the wine rack before settling on a bottle of Nero d’Avola. As the cork pops free, the rich aroma of dark fruit and spice rises to meet her. She pours herself a glass, swirling the liquid gently before taking a sip.
With the glass in hand, she walks to the living room and sinks into the embrace of her black leather couch. The air in the apartment carries its own signature - a mix of lavender, polished wood, and the faint, lingering scent of leather. She lets it ground her, breathing deeply as her thoughts quieten.
It isn’t long before the kittens join her. Spot first, climbing onto her lap and pressing his tiny head against her hand with an insistent nudge. Tiger follows, leaping up with a bit more caution before curling into the crook of her arm. Their combined warmth against her is like a weighted blanket, soothing and grounding her in ways she could never fully articulate.
Setting her wine glass on the coffee table, Erica gives them her full attention. She scratches Spot behind the ears, smiling as his purring grows louder, then turns to Tiger, running her fingers along his back. He arches slightly, his earlier distrust seemingly forgotten.
“You two are impossible.” she murmurs, though her voice carries no reproach. “Impossibly wonderful…”
The weight of the day melts away, replaced by the steady rhythm of their breathing and the occasional flick of a tail. Life outside her apartment might always demand more - more strategy, more energy, more everything - but here, in the quiet glow of her home, it is just her and the kittens.
For now, that is enough.
~~~
Erica begins her morning like any other, taking care of the kittens’ breakfast, then slipping into her running shoes while it is still dark outside. Her movements are precise, almost automatic, as she laces up and grabs her phone and keys.
But today, something feels different.
By the time she breezes through Central Park, her muscles warmed and her pace relentless, she finishes her run with a new personal best. A small smile tugs at her lips as she slows to a walk, wiping the sheen of sweat from her brow. The soreness from yesterday’s ride lingers in her legs, but the endorphins and the crisp morning air against her face make her feel invincible.
After a hot shower that soothes the ache in her limbs, Erica makes herself presentable and pulls on her riding attire: a fitted shirt, breeches, and socks that reach her knees.
The black silk scarf she ties at her neck is a subtle touch of elegance that she doesn’t consciously think about.
She moves through her morning routine with practiced efficiency, pouring a light breakfast of granola and fresh fruit, but then lingers as she always does when the kittens are awake.
Spot and Tiger greet her in the living room, their tiny bodies darting across the floor with playful energy. Erica sits cross-legged on the rug, allowing Spot to climb into her lap and nuzzle under her chin. Tiger hangs back, watching her with his big, curious eyes, his tail flicking in contemplation. Erica chuckles softly, reaching out to scratch him under the chin.
“I might come back smelling like horses again.” she murmurs, her voice soft and apologetic as she gazes into Tiger’s tiny striped face. “You’ll have to forgive me.”
Tiger purrs, leaning into her touch, while Spot stretches out on her lap as if claiming her completely. She smiles, a genuine and unguarded expression that rarely surfaces outside these moments. The kittens, so small and trusting, are a reminder of everything simple and good in her life. She often thinks about the day they arrived on her office doorstep, mewling inside a cardboard box. Whoever left them had no idea they’d given her an anchor, a pair of innocents in a world that sometimes feels far too murky.
Setting Spot and Tiger gently on the floor, Erica rises and grabs her softshell jacket. This time, she doesn’t bother with her riding boots for the drive out to Crosswinds. Sneakers are more comfortable for the ride ahead. She double-checks her essentials: wallet, phone, and keys, before slinging her backpack with her boots and riding gear over her shoulder.
“You two stay out of trouble, okay?” she calls to the kittens as she heads for the door.
Spot flops onto his side in a patch of sunlight, while Tiger trots to the doorway as if to see her off.
Erica locks the door, the heavy click of the deadbolt strangely satisfying.
The elevator ride down to the underground garage is uneventful, and soon Erica is sliding into the driver’s seat of her black Volvo.
She places the backpack on the backseat and pulls out onto West 72nd Street, her mind already half at Crosswinds.
On the way, she stops at a gas station, filling the tank and picking up two small bottles of spring water and a pair of sugar-free protein bars for the drive back.
~~~
Spot, the more exuberant of the two, launches himself at her with unrestrained enthusiasm, his tiny black paws batting at her legs as if the mere sight of her isn’t enough - he has to feel her, too. Erica lets out a soft laugh, her heart tugged by his unfiltered joy.
Tiger, true to his cautious nature, lingers a few feet behind. His amber eyes narrow in suspicion, his small head tilting slightly as if assessing whether she has betrayed him by consorting with some other creature. His gray-and-white-striped face wears a look of regal disapproval.
Erica laughs softly, leaning down to scoop Spot into her arms. He immediately nuzzles into her neck, purring loudly, his soft black fur tickling her skin. “Mommy’s smelling of horses today.” she says gently, her voice low and soothing. “You may want to get used to it.”
Tiger takes a cautious step forward, his little nose twitching as he sniffs the air. But whatever he smells doesn’t seem to win him over just yet. With Spot happily settled in her arms, Erica steps into the living room, placing him down on the plush area rug. Tiger follows her at a deliberate pace, his tail flicking, his expression still skeptical.
Erica picks up their bowls and rinses them out in the stainless steel sink in the kitchen. The sound of water running immediately catches Tiger’s attention, and she hears the soft sound of his paws padding closer. By the time she refills the bowls with fresh kibble and water, both kittens are sitting patiently at her feet, looking up at her with wide, expectant eyes. Spot lets out a tiny, eager mew as if to say, Finally!
“Am I out of the doghouse now?” Erica asks Tiger with a smile, setting the bowls down on the floor. She watches as they dive in, their little heads bobbing as they eat. The sight makes her heart swell, the simple joy of their presence washing over her like a balm.
Stepping back into the bedroom, she pulls her tall riding boots off with a sigh of relief. Her calves, though toned like the rest of her body, feel sore, a lingering ache from gripping the stirrups during the ride. She parks the boots outside her walk-in closet and drapes her riding pants over a hanger, letting them air out. The polo shirt she wore all day carries the faint scent of leather and the stables, a reminder of the morning spent in Cross’ world. She takes it off, along with her underwear, tossing them into the laundry basket before heading to the bathroom.
The shower comes alive with a rush of hot water, steam quickly fogging the glass door. Erica steps in, letting the heat cascade over her shoulders, loosening the stiffness in her muscles. The tension melts away with each passing second as she stretches her arms overhead, rolling her neck to the side.
The rich scent of her current favorite body wash fills the small space - a mix of sandalwood and vanilla. She pours it into her hands, working up a generous lather before smoothing it over her skin. Watching the foam swirl down the drain feels oddly satisfying, as though she’s not just rinsing off the day’s grime but also the tension that clung to her. The ride may have left her body sore, but it had been a rare moment of freedom - a chance to let go, if only for a little while.
Stepping out of the shower, Erica wraps herself in a plush towel, patting her skin dry before moving to the sink. She blow-dries her damp hair, the warm air brushing against her cheeks, then runs a brush through it, smoothing out the tangles. In her bedroom, she reaches for her black silk kimono, slipping it over her bare skin, moaning silently. The fabric feels cool and luxurious, erotic even, skimming her body like a second skin.
In the kitchen, her fingers hover over the wine rack before settling on a bottle of Nero d’Avola. As the cork pops free, the rich aroma of dark fruit and spice rises to meet her. She pours herself a glass, swirling the liquid gently before taking a sip.
With the glass in hand, she walks to the living room and sinks into the embrace of her black leather couch. The air in the apartment carries its own signature - a mix of lavender, polished wood, and the faint, lingering scent of leather. She lets it ground her, breathing deeply as her thoughts quieten.
It isn’t long before the kittens join her. Spot first, climbing onto her lap and pressing his tiny head against her hand with an insistent nudge. Tiger follows, leaping up with a bit more caution before curling into the crook of her arm. Their combined warmth against her is like a weighted blanket, soothing and grounding her in ways she could never fully articulate.
Setting her wine glass on the coffee table, Erica gives them her full attention. She scratches Spot behind the ears, smiling as his purring grows louder, then turns to Tiger, running her fingers along his back. He arches slightly, his earlier distrust seemingly forgotten.
“You two are impossible.” she murmurs, though her voice carries no reproach. “Impossibly wonderful…”
The weight of the day melts away, replaced by the steady rhythm of their breathing and the occasional flick of a tail. Life outside her apartment might always demand more - more strategy, more energy, more everything - but here, in the quiet glow of her home, it is just her and the kittens.
For now, that is enough.
~~~
Erica begins her morning like any other, taking care of the kittens’ breakfast, then slipping into her running shoes while it is still dark outside. Her movements are precise, almost automatic, as she laces up and grabs her phone and keys.
But today, something feels different.
By the time she breezes through Central Park, her muscles warmed and her pace relentless, she finishes her run with a new personal best. A small smile tugs at her lips as she slows to a walk, wiping the sheen of sweat from her brow. The soreness from yesterday’s ride lingers in her legs, but the endorphins and the crisp morning air against her face make her feel invincible.
After a hot shower that soothes the ache in her limbs, Erica makes herself presentable and pulls on her riding attire: a fitted shirt, breeches, and socks that reach her knees.
The black silk scarf she ties at her neck is a subtle touch of elegance that she doesn’t consciously think about.
She moves through her morning routine with practiced efficiency, pouring a light breakfast of granola and fresh fruit, but then lingers as she always does when the kittens are awake.
Spot and Tiger greet her in the living room, their tiny bodies darting across the floor with playful energy. Erica sits cross-legged on the rug, allowing Spot to climb into her lap and nuzzle under her chin. Tiger hangs back, watching her with his big, curious eyes, his tail flicking in contemplation. Erica chuckles softly, reaching out to scratch him under the chin.
“I might come back smelling like horses again.” she murmurs, her voice soft and apologetic as she gazes into Tiger’s tiny striped face. “You’ll have to forgive me.”
Tiger purrs, leaning into her touch, while Spot stretches out on her lap as if claiming her completely. She smiles, a genuine and unguarded expression that rarely surfaces outside these moments. The kittens, so small and trusting, are a reminder of everything simple and good in her life. She often thinks about the day they arrived on her office doorstep, mewling inside a cardboard box. Whoever left them had no idea they’d given her an anchor, a pair of innocents in a world that sometimes feels far too murky.
Setting Spot and Tiger gently on the floor, Erica rises and grabs her softshell jacket. This time, she doesn’t bother with her riding boots for the drive out to Crosswinds. Sneakers are more comfortable for the ride ahead. She double-checks her essentials: wallet, phone, and keys, before slinging her backpack with her boots and riding gear over her shoulder.
“You two stay out of trouble, okay?” she calls to the kittens as she heads for the door.
Spot flops onto his side in a patch of sunlight, while Tiger trots to the doorway as if to see her off.
Erica locks the door, the heavy click of the deadbolt strangely satisfying.
The elevator ride down to the underground garage is uneventful, and soon Erica is sliding into the driver’s seat of her black Volvo.
She places the backpack on the backseat and pulls out onto West 72nd Street, her mind already half at Crosswinds.
On the way, she stops at a gas station, filling the tank and picking up two small bottles of spring water and a pair of sugar-free protein bars for the drive back.
~~~
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 two little kittens, Spot and Tiger, seem to offer Erica a welcome dis-traction from her day-to-day troubles.
Dear @LunaDog, they do. The kittens are a very important part of Erica's life.
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 highway is busier than she expected, even for a Sunday morning. Erica weaves through the traffic with practiced ease, the hum of the Volvo’s engine steady beneath her. The mix of vanity plates and Hamptons decals on the cars around her speaks volumes - New Yorkers flocking to their weekend retreats, eager to escape the city’s chaos.
Erica doesn’t blame them. She understands the allure of the Hamptons, especially a place like Crosswinds.
The estate’s rolling hills and peaceful quiet seem like an entirely different world.
The familiar turnoff appears, and Erica slows as she takes the private road toward Cross’ estate. Past the security gate the manicured grounds and unapologetic display of wealth come into view, framed by the vibrant green of early spring. She bypasses the mansion entirely, driving instead toward the stables, where a handful of 4-wheelers and pickup trucks are parked.
Slipping out of the Volvo, Erica exchanges her sneakers for riding boots and hoists the backpack onto her shoulder.
The familiar scent of leather, hay, and animals greets her as she steps into the stable, warm and earthy. It’s a comforting scent, one that reminds her of simpler times.
“Good morning!” one of the young stable hands greets her, his voice cheerful. “I’ll get Ray for you.”
Erica nods in thanks, glancing around as she adjusts her gloves. Moments later, Ray appears, striding out from the small office at the end of the building. His bowlegged gait and weathered face give him the appearance of an old cowboy plucked straight from a western film.
“Howdy, Miss Sinclair.” Ray says, tipping his hat. “Knew you’d be back. Shall I get Lea ready for you?”
“Morning!” Erica replies, a smile tugging at her lips. “Mind if I help?”
Ray nods, handing her a folded blanket and saddle. “Her box is over there.”
Erica hefts the saddle - likely the same one she used yesterday - and follows him to Lea’s stall.
The Cleveland Bay mare greets her with a low chortle, nudging Erica’s shoulder with her nose.
“Looks like someone likes you.” Ray observes with a grin.
“She’s a good girl.” Erica murmurs, patting the mare’s strong neck. The horse’s warmth and the steady rhythm of her breathing are grounding, almost therapeutic.
“Mr. Cross is out on the property with Prince.” Ray mentions as they work together to saddle Lea. “You might run into him out there.”
Erica tightens the straps, making sure everything is secure. Lea chomps on her bit, her ears flicking back as Erica swings herself into the saddle. The reins feel familiar in her hands, the weight of them almost second nature again.
Ray steps back, giving her a quick once-over for safety. “Enjoy the ride, Miss Sinclair.”
Erica nods, tipping her head in thanks before guiding Lea out of the stable. The sun is bright overhead, casting dappled shadows across the property. As she heads out onto the trail, the weight of Cross’ world begins to settle over her again.
Somewhere out here, he’s waiting. And so, the game continues.
~~~
Erica guides Lea up the winding trail, the mare’s steady hooves crunching against the gravel path.
The air feels heavier here, quieter, as if even the wind is holding its breath. The slope is gentle but persistent, pulling Erica higher until the estate unfolds beneath her in a breathtaking panorama. She slows Lea to a halt, gazing out over the vast expanse of manicured grounds, pastures, and the distant shimmer of the ocean.
Yet, there’s no sign of Darren Cross.
She urges Lea forward, the mare’s ears flicking at the sound of birdsong and the rhythmic bubbling of water nearby. As they approach the old mill, Erica feels the scene pulling her in, like stepping into a forgotten painting. The wooden bridge creaks faintly under Lea’s weight, and the creek below splashes against the mossy stones, its current powering the weathered mill wheel. The wheel groans and turns with a timeless determination, its repetitive motion a stark contrast to the uncertainty churning in Erica’s mind.
“Very cinematic.” Erica murmurs, leaning forward to scratch behind Lea’s ears.
The mare snorts softly, her head bobbing as if in agreement. Erica lets out a breath, the serenity of the setting doing little to quell the tension tightening in her chest.
Sliding her phone out of her pocket, she hesitates for a moment before pulling out the card Cross handed her yesterday. She turns it over in her hand, the sleek cardstock embossed with a gold number that feels almost too simple, too direct, for a man like Cross. But that’s his way, isn’t it? Everything precise, intentional, and laced with unspoken power.
She dials the number. The line rings once, twice, before it connects.
“Erica.” comes Cross’ voice, calm and unmistakably sharp, like a blade slicing through the quiet.
“Darren.” she says, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “I’m up here by the mill with Lea. I was wondering if you had a few minutes for me.”
There’s a pause, long enough for her to hear the faint rustling of leaves on the other end. “Coming.” he says, unfazed as ever. The line goes dead.
Erica pockets the phone, her gaze lingering on the card for a moment before she tucks it away. Sliding off the saddle, she wraps Lea’s reins loosely around the post of a weathered splitrail fence that looks like it has been here when the mill was built back in the day.
The mare stands patiently, her head dipping to nuzzle at a patch of grass.
Erica knows Lea wouldn’t wander off, but tying her up feels like something to do, a small act of control in a situation that feels anything but predictable.
She leans against the fence, her fingers trailing over the rough grain of the wood. The mill seems frozen in time, a relic of a bygone era. Erica wonders how it might have looked decades ago, bustling with workers and the hum of machinery, the air thick with sawdust. Her thoughts drift further - what would Cross’ estate have been like back then? What kind of legacy is he guarding so fiercely?
The sound of hoofbeats jars her from her reverie. They’re distant at first, like the low rumble of approaching thunder, but they grow louder, sharper, until she sees them: Darren Cross atop Prince, cresting the hill. He’s a striking figure, his posture impeccable as he rides with the effortless confidence of a man who knows the world bends to his will.
The animal beneath him moves like liquid power, its muscles rippling with each stride.
Erica straightens, brushing her palms against her breeches as Cross closes the distance. For a moment, it seems like he might let Prince bump directly into Lea, but at the last second, he reins him to an abrupt stop, the horse’s hooves kicking up a cloud of dust. Prince snorts, tossing his head as Cross swings down from the saddle with practiced ease.
“Hello, Darren.” she says, pushing back from the fence. Her voice is calm, but she’s keenly aware of the heat in his gaze, the way it sharpens as it settles on her. “Thanks for making time for me.”
“Anytime.” Cross replies, brushing a gloved hand over Prince’s neck before his full attention shifts to her. “What can I do for you?”
Erica glances around, her eyes sweeping the trail and the surrounding trees. The mill’s quiet hum is the only sound, but her instincts tell her to tread carefully.
Satisfied they’re alone, she takes a step closer, lowering her voice as if the woods themselves might eavesdrop.
“You’ve got me thinking.” she says, her tone steady but laced with an undercurrent of caution. “I said I’d consider your offer… so here I am.”
Cross tilts his head slightly, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “I’m glad you came.”
Erica folds her arms, her posture guarded but not defensive. “What kind of job were you thinking about, Darren? And more importantly, what’s in it for me?”
The question hangs in the air between them, taut and electric. Cross’ expression doesn’t falter, but his silence feels deliberate, weighted. Erica resists the urge to fill it, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
Finally, he steps closer, close enough that she can smell the faint scent of leather and pine clinging to him. His smile is faint, almost imperceptible, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“The job is to maximize profits for me and my partners, Erica.” he says quietly, his voice smooth but edged with something darker. “It’s always about the money, isn’t it?”
Her heart skips, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she lifts her chin, her eyes narrowing. “So it seems.”
Lea turns her large head, rubbing it against Erica’s shoulder. She reaches up to softly scratch the mare while Cross chuckles, a sound that sends a shiver down her spine.
“She likes you, Erica. What if I gave her to you?”
The words land heavily, but Erica doesn’t flinch. She wonders if Cross is serious or if he is testing her again.
Meeting his gaze head-on, the tension between them is crackling like static in the air.
“I couldn’t accept a gift of that magnitude.” she says. “I don’t have the time nor the facilities Lea would need.”
Cross holds her gaze for a moment longer before stepping back, his smile deepening. “She’s yours. And don’t worry, she can keep her box in my stables. My people will care for her.”
The weight of his words lingers as he mounts Prince again, his movements deliberate. He checks his watch and says: “Meet me at the house in an hour. Then we talk business.”
In one fluid motion, Darren Cross mounts up and as he drives his heels into Prince’s side, he turns in the saddle toward Erica.
“Enjoy your new horse.”
~~~
Erica doesn’t blame them. She understands the allure of the Hamptons, especially a place like Crosswinds.
The estate’s rolling hills and peaceful quiet seem like an entirely different world.
The familiar turnoff appears, and Erica slows as she takes the private road toward Cross’ estate. Past the security gate the manicured grounds and unapologetic display of wealth come into view, framed by the vibrant green of early spring. She bypasses the mansion entirely, driving instead toward the stables, where a handful of 4-wheelers and pickup trucks are parked.
Slipping out of the Volvo, Erica exchanges her sneakers for riding boots and hoists the backpack onto her shoulder.
The familiar scent of leather, hay, and animals greets her as she steps into the stable, warm and earthy. It’s a comforting scent, one that reminds her of simpler times.
“Good morning!” one of the young stable hands greets her, his voice cheerful. “I’ll get Ray for you.”
Erica nods in thanks, glancing around as she adjusts her gloves. Moments later, Ray appears, striding out from the small office at the end of the building. His bowlegged gait and weathered face give him the appearance of an old cowboy plucked straight from a western film.
“Howdy, Miss Sinclair.” Ray says, tipping his hat. “Knew you’d be back. Shall I get Lea ready for you?”
“Morning!” Erica replies, a smile tugging at her lips. “Mind if I help?”
Ray nods, handing her a folded blanket and saddle. “Her box is over there.”
Erica hefts the saddle - likely the same one she used yesterday - and follows him to Lea’s stall.
The Cleveland Bay mare greets her with a low chortle, nudging Erica’s shoulder with her nose.
“Looks like someone likes you.” Ray observes with a grin.
“She’s a good girl.” Erica murmurs, patting the mare’s strong neck. The horse’s warmth and the steady rhythm of her breathing are grounding, almost therapeutic.
“Mr. Cross is out on the property with Prince.” Ray mentions as they work together to saddle Lea. “You might run into him out there.”
Erica tightens the straps, making sure everything is secure. Lea chomps on her bit, her ears flicking back as Erica swings herself into the saddle. The reins feel familiar in her hands, the weight of them almost second nature again.
Ray steps back, giving her a quick once-over for safety. “Enjoy the ride, Miss Sinclair.”
Erica nods, tipping her head in thanks before guiding Lea out of the stable. The sun is bright overhead, casting dappled shadows across the property. As she heads out onto the trail, the weight of Cross’ world begins to settle over her again.
Somewhere out here, he’s waiting. And so, the game continues.
~~~
Erica guides Lea up the winding trail, the mare’s steady hooves crunching against the gravel path.
The air feels heavier here, quieter, as if even the wind is holding its breath. The slope is gentle but persistent, pulling Erica higher until the estate unfolds beneath her in a breathtaking panorama. She slows Lea to a halt, gazing out over the vast expanse of manicured grounds, pastures, and the distant shimmer of the ocean.
Yet, there’s no sign of Darren Cross.
She urges Lea forward, the mare’s ears flicking at the sound of birdsong and the rhythmic bubbling of water nearby. As they approach the old mill, Erica feels the scene pulling her in, like stepping into a forgotten painting. The wooden bridge creaks faintly under Lea’s weight, and the creek below splashes against the mossy stones, its current powering the weathered mill wheel. The wheel groans and turns with a timeless determination, its repetitive motion a stark contrast to the uncertainty churning in Erica’s mind.
“Very cinematic.” Erica murmurs, leaning forward to scratch behind Lea’s ears.
The mare snorts softly, her head bobbing as if in agreement. Erica lets out a breath, the serenity of the setting doing little to quell the tension tightening in her chest.
Sliding her phone out of her pocket, she hesitates for a moment before pulling out the card Cross handed her yesterday. She turns it over in her hand, the sleek cardstock embossed with a gold number that feels almost too simple, too direct, for a man like Cross. But that’s his way, isn’t it? Everything precise, intentional, and laced with unspoken power.
She dials the number. The line rings once, twice, before it connects.
“Erica.” comes Cross’ voice, calm and unmistakably sharp, like a blade slicing through the quiet.
“Darren.” she says, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “I’m up here by the mill with Lea. I was wondering if you had a few minutes for me.”
There’s a pause, long enough for her to hear the faint rustling of leaves on the other end. “Coming.” he says, unfazed as ever. The line goes dead.
Erica pockets the phone, her gaze lingering on the card for a moment before she tucks it away. Sliding off the saddle, she wraps Lea’s reins loosely around the post of a weathered splitrail fence that looks like it has been here when the mill was built back in the day.
The mare stands patiently, her head dipping to nuzzle at a patch of grass.
Erica knows Lea wouldn’t wander off, but tying her up feels like something to do, a small act of control in a situation that feels anything but predictable.
She leans against the fence, her fingers trailing over the rough grain of the wood. The mill seems frozen in time, a relic of a bygone era. Erica wonders how it might have looked decades ago, bustling with workers and the hum of machinery, the air thick with sawdust. Her thoughts drift further - what would Cross’ estate have been like back then? What kind of legacy is he guarding so fiercely?
The sound of hoofbeats jars her from her reverie. They’re distant at first, like the low rumble of approaching thunder, but they grow louder, sharper, until she sees them: Darren Cross atop Prince, cresting the hill. He’s a striking figure, his posture impeccable as he rides with the effortless confidence of a man who knows the world bends to his will.
The animal beneath him moves like liquid power, its muscles rippling with each stride.
Erica straightens, brushing her palms against her breeches as Cross closes the distance. For a moment, it seems like he might let Prince bump directly into Lea, but at the last second, he reins him to an abrupt stop, the horse’s hooves kicking up a cloud of dust. Prince snorts, tossing his head as Cross swings down from the saddle with practiced ease.
“Hello, Darren.” she says, pushing back from the fence. Her voice is calm, but she’s keenly aware of the heat in his gaze, the way it sharpens as it settles on her. “Thanks for making time for me.”
“Anytime.” Cross replies, brushing a gloved hand over Prince’s neck before his full attention shifts to her. “What can I do for you?”
Erica glances around, her eyes sweeping the trail and the surrounding trees. The mill’s quiet hum is the only sound, but her instincts tell her to tread carefully.
Satisfied they’re alone, she takes a step closer, lowering her voice as if the woods themselves might eavesdrop.
“You’ve got me thinking.” she says, her tone steady but laced with an undercurrent of caution. “I said I’d consider your offer… so here I am.”
Cross tilts his head slightly, a flicker of satisfaction crossing his face. “I’m glad you came.”
Erica folds her arms, her posture guarded but not defensive. “What kind of job were you thinking about, Darren? And more importantly, what’s in it for me?”
The question hangs in the air between them, taut and electric. Cross’ expression doesn’t falter, but his silence feels deliberate, weighted. Erica resists the urge to fill it, forcing herself to hold his gaze.
Finally, he steps closer, close enough that she can smell the faint scent of leather and pine clinging to him. His smile is faint, almost imperceptible, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“The job is to maximize profits for me and my partners, Erica.” he says quietly, his voice smooth but edged with something darker. “It’s always about the money, isn’t it?”
Her heart skips, but she doesn’t let it show. Instead, she lifts her chin, her eyes narrowing. “So it seems.”
Lea turns her large head, rubbing it against Erica’s shoulder. She reaches up to softly scratch the mare while Cross chuckles, a sound that sends a shiver down her spine.
“She likes you, Erica. What if I gave her to you?”
The words land heavily, but Erica doesn’t flinch. She wonders if Cross is serious or if he is testing her again.
Meeting his gaze head-on, the tension between them is crackling like static in the air.
“I couldn’t accept a gift of that magnitude.” she says. “I don’t have the time nor the facilities Lea would need.”
Cross holds her gaze for a moment longer before stepping back, his smile deepening. “She’s yours. And don’t worry, she can keep her box in my stables. My people will care for her.”
The weight of his words lingers as he mounts Prince again, his movements deliberate. He checks his watch and says: “Meet me at the house in an hour. Then we talk business.”
In one fluid motion, Darren Cross mounts up and as he drives his heels into Prince’s side, he turns in the saddle toward Erica.
“Enjoy your new horse.”
~~~
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
Brief Intermission:
Readers, fellow TUGers - Lend me your ears!
We’ve just passed 50,000 views on "Erica Sinclair – A Matter of Honor".
And honestly? I’m floored.
When I first started publishing stories here on TUG, I never imagined so many of you would follow Erica’s journey - let alone root for her through every twist and turn. Your time, your attention, your loyalty… it means the world to me.
From the bottom of my heart: thank you.
For reading.
For caring.
For sticking around.
I hope I can repay you with more stories that thrill, move, and maybe even surprise you.
Also!
If you're curious about anything - Erica, the Ericaverse, or me - I’d love to host a little AMA (Ask Me Anything).
Send your questions by DM, and I’ll put together your Q & A soon.
I always love hearing from you.
With gratitude and love,
Jenny
Readers, fellow TUGers - Lend me your ears!
We’ve just passed 50,000 views on "Erica Sinclair – A Matter of Honor".
And honestly? I’m floored.
When I first started publishing stories here on TUG, I never imagined so many of you would follow Erica’s journey - let alone root for her through every twist and turn. Your time, your attention, your loyalty… it means the world to me.
From the bottom of my heart: thank you.
For reading.
For caring.
For sticking around.
I hope I can repay you with more stories that thrill, move, and maybe even surprise you.
Also!
If you're curious about anything - Erica, the Ericaverse, or me - I’d love to host a little AMA (Ask Me Anything).
Send your questions by DM, and I’ll put together your Q & A soon.
I always love hearing from you.
With gratitude and love,
Jenny
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
There's a reason we find your 'Erica' stories so entertaining, Jenny. They're bloody EXCELLENT! You thoroughly deserve all the accolades here.
Dear @LunaDog, I can't believe the views I'm seing on this story, but I'm so incredibly happy that you guys like what I write.
So let's not procrastinate and crack on with "A Matter of Honor".
So let's not procrastinate and crack on with "A Matter of Honor".
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
Speechless for a change, Erica stands by the fence, one hand resting on Lea’s smooth, muscular neck as she watches Darren Cross disappear down the trail.
The rhythmic pound of Prince’s hooves fades into the distance, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle creak of the mill wheel to fill the silence.
The air around her feels heavier now, charged with an unspoken tension that clings to her skin like the faint scent of leather and pine Cross left in his wake.
Lea shifts beside her, nudging Erica’s shoulder with her large, velvety nose. The mare’s warmth is grounding, her steady presence a stark contrast to the swirl of doubt and unease building inside Erica. She absently scratches Lea’s cheek, her fingers grazing the smooth patch of fur just below the mare’s eyes. Lea lets out a soft chuff, leaning into the touch, utterly oblivious to the weight of the moment.
“Of course, he knew I’d say yes.” Erica murmurs, her voice barely louder than the mill’s creak. She doesn’t need to be alone in this idyllic clearing to know that Cross orchestrated the entire exchange.
From the measured pause before his reply to the way he’d spoken as if the decision was already made - it was all deliberate.
And now here she is, standing beside a horse she technically owns but doesn’t quite feel like hers.
Not yet.
Erica had shown him her interest in a well-paying job, but by gifting her Lea he had surprised her. She didn’t have to feign being caught off-guard, because she was.
Exhaling slowly, her breath clouds faintly in the cool morning air. “He’s testing me.” she thinks, the realization sharp and undeniable.
The gift wasn’t just a gesture of generosity - there’s no such thing as generosity with a man like Darren Cross. Lea isn’t a gift; she’s a tether, an invisible rope tying Erica closer to him, to his world. The horse doesn’t mean anything to him, she is a tool, a pawn in his game of chess.
And he’s counting on her affection for the mare to keep her compliant, to make her believe she owes him.
Her fingers curl against Lea’s neck as a flicker of anger flares in her chest. It’s clever, she’ll give him that. Cross doesn’t need to buy loyalty outright when he can weave it into the threads of a relationship, layer by layer, gift by gift, until you don’t realize you’re entangled until it’s too late. Is this possibly how he tied Chrissy, the stunning redhead, to him?
But Erica isn’t so easily cornered. Not now, not ever.
Lea shifts again, her large eyes watching Erica as if sensing her unease. Erica strokes the mare’s neck, smoothing her own features into a calm mask. Lea deserves better than to feel the brunt of her spiraling thoughts.
“He’s not just buying me.” Erica realizes, the thought chilling in its clarity. “He’s gauging how far I’ll go, what I’ll accept without pushing back. And if I accept Lea, I’m signaling that I’m willing to play his game by his rules.”
The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of damp wood and hay. Erica’s gaze drifts to the mill, its ancient wheel grinding endlessly, and then back to Lea.
Cross’s manipulation is plain as day, but what unsettles her more is the part of her that almost admires it.
It’s smart, surgical. She’s seen this kind of power play before and it is scary that this manipulative technique usually works so well.
But this isn’t just about Lea. Erica’s mission looms large in her mind, its edges sharp and unyielding.
Darren Cross isn’t just a man with a sprawling estate and a penchant for games; he’s the key to something much bigger. Getting close to him is the only way she can uncover the truth, the only way she can finish what she started when she told Sophie van Rey that she would help her.
And if accepting a horse is what it takes to stay in his orbit, then so be it.
Still, the thought of letting herself be manipulated, even knowingly, grates against her instincts, violates her idea of her personal integrity. She isn’t someone’s pawn. Not his, not anyone’s.
“Enjoy your new horse.” his voice echoes in her mind, smooth and teasing, yet heavy with unspoken intent. Erica wonders if he’s riding away right now, smug in the certainty that he’s reeled her in a little closer. That thought sends another spike of defiance through her.
If Cross thinks he’s in control, then that’s fine. She will let him be sure of it.
Lea nudges her again, and Erica offers the mare a small smile, genuine despite her racing thoughts. “What do you think, girl?” she whispers, her voice soft. “You ready to be a co-conspirator?”
The mare exhales sharply, her warm breath brushing Erica’s cheek, and Erica chuckles despite herself. There’s something grounding about Lea, something real and uncomplicated in the way she exists entirely in the moment. Erica envies it.
But she doesn’t have the luxury of simplicity. Not here. Not now.
Straightening, she takes the reins and unties them from the post, leading Lea slowly back toward the trail. Her boots crunch softly against the dirt, the sound steady and rhythmic. Each step feels deliberate, as though it’s carrying her closer to a decision she’s already made.
Cross wants her to play along, to accept his gifts and fall deeper into his carefully crafted web. And she will – apparently. But Erica has her own game to play, and she intends to see it through.
Lea snorts beside her, the mare’s ears flicking back as if sensing the resolve hardening in Erica’s chest.
Erica glances at her Rolex dive watch, the familiar weight of it grounding her as much as the steady presence of Lea besides her. The sun glints off the polished steel, catching her eye as she notes the time. Forty-five minutes until she’s expected at the mansion. Forty-five minutes to process the tangled web Cross has spun around her and figure out how to keep her footing.
The creed engraved on its back flashes through her mind: Stand for something or fall for anything. Her father’s words. A reminder of the principles she swore to uphold, even as she navigates murky waters.
She exhales slowly, her resolve solidifying. Whatever game Cross is playing, she’ll meet him move for move. For now, though, she chooses to focus on the present - on Lea.
“Just you and me for a while, girl,” she murmurs, running a hand along Lea’s strong neck. The Cleveland Bay whinnies softly in response, her dark eyes calm and steady. Erica swings herself into the saddle, the familiar motion easing the tension that’s knotted her muscles since her conversation with Cross.
From up here, things seem to look a lot brighter. The world feels quieter, less fraught, as she gently urges Lea into a walk.
The mare’s smooth gait and the rhythmic creak of the saddle soothe her nerves, a small oasis of peace in the midst of swirling uncertainty. Erica guides Lea back toward the trail, the rolling green hills stretching out before her like a canvas, sunlit and serene.
Yet even as she relaxes into the ride, the undercurrent of tension remains. Cross’s words linger in her mind, slippery and layered with intent. She’s yours. Enjoy your new horse. A gift wrapped in velvet but lined with steel chains. He wants to tie her to him, to make her feel indebted - or perhaps to test how far she’s willing to go.
But Erica isn’t blind to his maneuvering. She can see the strings he’s trying to attach, even if he’s done it with a smile.
The trail narrows as she leads Lea into a shaded grove. The air is cooler here, the earthy scent of leaves and damp soil mingling with the faint aroma of leather and horsehair. Erica leans forward, patting Lea’s shoulder. “You’re a good girl.” she says softly.
The horse chuffs in response, her steady presence a stark contrast to the subtle power plays and manipulations Erica is navigating.
Lea represents something pure, something untarnished by ulterior motives. For a moment, Erica allows herself to simply enjoy that.
But her mind, ever calculating, won’t rest entirely. She can’t help but think about the opportunity this gift presents. Cross has opened a door, whether he realizes it or not, and Erica plans to step through it on her terms. Lea isn’t just a horse to her; she’s a chance to get closer to the truth, to uncover how Cross ties into the Mexicans and what role he plays in the larger puzzle. If owning Lea helps her achieve that, then so be it.
The sun filters through the trees as she nudges Lea into a light canter, the wind tugging at her hair. For now, in this fleeting moment, she lets herself enjoy the ride. The reins are firm in her hands, a small but satisfying reminder that she’s still in control - of Lea, of herself, and, she hopes, of the path she’s chosen to walk.
She pulls Lea to a gentle stop at the crest of a hill, gazing down at the estate below. The mansion gleams in the distance, its unapologetic opulence stark against the natural beauty surrounding it. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks of Cross, waiting for her down there, likely planning his next move.
Erica glances at her watch again. Thirty minutes left. She strokes Lea’s neck, feeling a swell of affection for the horse. “Let’s make the most of it.” she whispers, turning Lea back toward the trail.
Because once this ride ends, the games begin.
~~~
Erica leads Lea back to the stables, the mare’s steady gait slowing as they approach the long building. The smell of hay and leather grows stronger with each step, a comforting reminder of the peaceful ride they’ve just shared. Erica pats Lea’s neck affectionately, the warmth of the horse radiating through her gloved hand. Despite everything, there’s a quiet joy in this moment, a fleeting respite from the tension she knows awaits her.
Ray, the bowlegged wrangler, steps forward to greet them, his ever-present cowboy hat tipped back slightly. He takes one look at Erica and the horse, his sun-weathered face breaking into a grin. “You both look happy.” he says, reaching for the reins.
Erica can’t help but smile back. “Thanks, Ray. Lea’s a wonderful horse. Please take good care of her.”
Ray nods, his tone reassuring. “We will, Miss Sinclair. No worries.” He turns to one of the stable hands, gesturing toward the mare. “Take the saddle and blanket off and walk her in the paddock. Let her stretch her legs.”
Erica watches as Lea is led away, the horse’s brown coat glistening in the sunlight. A pang of something unidentifiable flickers through her - pride, perhaps, or maybe the strange sensation of ownership sinking in. She exhales slowly, forcing herself to focus. There’s no time to linger. Cross is waiting.
Leaving the stables behind, Erica follows the winding footpath that leads to the mansion. The towering estate looms ahead, its grandeur both imposing and deliberate. Every detail, from the perfectly manicured gardens to the polished brass fittings on the heavy double doors, exudes wealth and control. Erica feels a familiar tension creeping in, a tightening in her chest as she approaches.
As if on cue, the front door swings open before she can even knock, revealing Baker, the impeccably dressed majordomo. His sharp eyes meet hers, and he offers a curt nod. “Welcome, Miss Sinclair.” he says, stepping aside to let her in. “Mr. Cross is expecting you. Please, follow me to the sitting room.”
The cool interior of the mansion feels like a world apart from the open-air freedom she felt just moments ago. Erica’s boots make soft sounds against the polished marble floor as she follows Baker down the long corridor. The air smells faintly of leather and citrus polish, and the silence is almost oppressive. Baker moves with practiced precision, his every step measured, until they reach a pair of heavy oak doors. He opens one and steps inside, announcing her presence with a practiced, “Miss Sinclair.”
Cross is seated in one of the plush leather armchairs, his posture relaxed but deliberate. He looks up from a sheaf of papers, holding up two fingers in a subtle gesture. Baker nods silently and disappears, presumably to fetch the requested due espressi. Cross motions toward an empty armchair across from him. “Please, Erica, sit.”
She hesitates for the briefest of moments, then moves toward the chair, her back straight and her expression composed. As soon as she sits, Cross leans forward and picks up the stack of papers from the coffee table beside him. Without preamble, he extends them toward her, his sharp eyes locked on hers.
“Here.” he says, his tone smooth and unhurried. “These are Lea’s Gold Papers. Lineage, vaccinations, everything. On top is my gift letter. The horse is officially yours now.”
Erica reaches for the papers, her hand trembling slightly despite her best efforts to appear calm. The weight of the documents in her hands feels heavier than it should, as if the act of accepting them has sealed some unspoken agreement.
She flips through the pages briefly, catching glimpses of detailed records and official seals.
This is it.
The moment Cross has been waiting for.
He watches her closely, his gaze calculating. Now he knows, Erica thinks, or at least he thinks he knows - that I can be bought. The thought sends a jolt of defiance through her, even as she struggles to keep her expression neutral.
Holding Lea’s papers feels surreal, as though she’s been handed both a gift and a challenge.
“I’m…” she begins, her voice faltering.
“No need to thank me, Erica.” Cross interrupts smoothly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s my pleasure to see you and Lea harmonize so well. You two deserve each other.”
She steadies herself, regaining her composure. “Still.” she says, her voice firm but polite, “Thank you. I’m flattered.”
Before Cross can respond, Baker reenters the room, carrying a silver tray with two delicate cups of bone china. He sets it down on the coffee table with practiced ease, pouring rich, dark espresso into each cup. He bows slightly before retreating, closing the doors behind him without a sound.
Cross picks up one of the cups and passes it to Erica, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest of moments. She takes it, careful not to spill, and sets the papers on the table beside her. Cross leans back in his chair, his own cup cradled in his hand as he takes a leisurely sip.
“The secret of financial success,” he begins, his tone conversational but laced with an edge of condescension, “is to make money - and to give the government as little of it as possible.”
Erica takes a sip of her espresso, the rich bitterness grounding her. She doesn’t respond immediately, letting his words hang in the air. Cross is testing her, she knows, pushing to see where she stands. But Erica has no intention of showing her hand. Not yet.
Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, meeting his gaze with an unwavering steadiness. “I suppose it’s a game of strategy.” she says, her tone measured. “One where the stakes are always high.”
Cross smiles faintly, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. “Precisely.”
Erica places her cup back on the tray, her mind already working through the next steps. Cross thinks he’s in control, but she’s determined to play the long game. Lea may be a gift, but Erica knows better than to believe in free lunches. If Cross expects her loyalty, he’s in for a surprise.
For now, though, she allows herself a small, polite smile. The real game is only just beginning.
~~~
The rhythmic pound of Prince’s hooves fades into the distance, leaving only the soft rustle of leaves and the gentle creak of the mill wheel to fill the silence.
The air around her feels heavier now, charged with an unspoken tension that clings to her skin like the faint scent of leather and pine Cross left in his wake.
Lea shifts beside her, nudging Erica’s shoulder with her large, velvety nose. The mare’s warmth is grounding, her steady presence a stark contrast to the swirl of doubt and unease building inside Erica. She absently scratches Lea’s cheek, her fingers grazing the smooth patch of fur just below the mare’s eyes. Lea lets out a soft chuff, leaning into the touch, utterly oblivious to the weight of the moment.
“Of course, he knew I’d say yes.” Erica murmurs, her voice barely louder than the mill’s creak. She doesn’t need to be alone in this idyllic clearing to know that Cross orchestrated the entire exchange.
From the measured pause before his reply to the way he’d spoken as if the decision was already made - it was all deliberate.
And now here she is, standing beside a horse she technically owns but doesn’t quite feel like hers.
Not yet.
Erica had shown him her interest in a well-paying job, but by gifting her Lea he had surprised her. She didn’t have to feign being caught off-guard, because she was.
Exhaling slowly, her breath clouds faintly in the cool morning air. “He’s testing me.” she thinks, the realization sharp and undeniable.
The gift wasn’t just a gesture of generosity - there’s no such thing as generosity with a man like Darren Cross. Lea isn’t a gift; she’s a tether, an invisible rope tying Erica closer to him, to his world. The horse doesn’t mean anything to him, she is a tool, a pawn in his game of chess.
And he’s counting on her affection for the mare to keep her compliant, to make her believe she owes him.
Her fingers curl against Lea’s neck as a flicker of anger flares in her chest. It’s clever, she’ll give him that. Cross doesn’t need to buy loyalty outright when he can weave it into the threads of a relationship, layer by layer, gift by gift, until you don’t realize you’re entangled until it’s too late. Is this possibly how he tied Chrissy, the stunning redhead, to him?
But Erica isn’t so easily cornered. Not now, not ever.
Lea shifts again, her large eyes watching Erica as if sensing her unease. Erica strokes the mare’s neck, smoothing her own features into a calm mask. Lea deserves better than to feel the brunt of her spiraling thoughts.
“He’s not just buying me.” Erica realizes, the thought chilling in its clarity. “He’s gauging how far I’ll go, what I’ll accept without pushing back. And if I accept Lea, I’m signaling that I’m willing to play his game by his rules.”
The wind picks up, carrying the faint scent of damp wood and hay. Erica’s gaze drifts to the mill, its ancient wheel grinding endlessly, and then back to Lea.
Cross’s manipulation is plain as day, but what unsettles her more is the part of her that almost admires it.
It’s smart, surgical. She’s seen this kind of power play before and it is scary that this manipulative technique usually works so well.
But this isn’t just about Lea. Erica’s mission looms large in her mind, its edges sharp and unyielding.
Darren Cross isn’t just a man with a sprawling estate and a penchant for games; he’s the key to something much bigger. Getting close to him is the only way she can uncover the truth, the only way she can finish what she started when she told Sophie van Rey that she would help her.
And if accepting a horse is what it takes to stay in his orbit, then so be it.
Still, the thought of letting herself be manipulated, even knowingly, grates against her instincts, violates her idea of her personal integrity. She isn’t someone’s pawn. Not his, not anyone’s.
“Enjoy your new horse.” his voice echoes in her mind, smooth and teasing, yet heavy with unspoken intent. Erica wonders if he’s riding away right now, smug in the certainty that he’s reeled her in a little closer. That thought sends another spike of defiance through her.
If Cross thinks he’s in control, then that’s fine. She will let him be sure of it.
Lea nudges her again, and Erica offers the mare a small smile, genuine despite her racing thoughts. “What do you think, girl?” she whispers, her voice soft. “You ready to be a co-conspirator?”
The mare exhales sharply, her warm breath brushing Erica’s cheek, and Erica chuckles despite herself. There’s something grounding about Lea, something real and uncomplicated in the way she exists entirely in the moment. Erica envies it.
But she doesn’t have the luxury of simplicity. Not here. Not now.
Straightening, she takes the reins and unties them from the post, leading Lea slowly back toward the trail. Her boots crunch softly against the dirt, the sound steady and rhythmic. Each step feels deliberate, as though it’s carrying her closer to a decision she’s already made.
Cross wants her to play along, to accept his gifts and fall deeper into his carefully crafted web. And she will – apparently. But Erica has her own game to play, and she intends to see it through.
Lea snorts beside her, the mare’s ears flicking back as if sensing the resolve hardening in Erica’s chest.
Erica glances at her Rolex dive watch, the familiar weight of it grounding her as much as the steady presence of Lea besides her. The sun glints off the polished steel, catching her eye as she notes the time. Forty-five minutes until she’s expected at the mansion. Forty-five minutes to process the tangled web Cross has spun around her and figure out how to keep her footing.
The creed engraved on its back flashes through her mind: Stand for something or fall for anything. Her father’s words. A reminder of the principles she swore to uphold, even as she navigates murky waters.
She exhales slowly, her resolve solidifying. Whatever game Cross is playing, she’ll meet him move for move. For now, though, she chooses to focus on the present - on Lea.
“Just you and me for a while, girl,” she murmurs, running a hand along Lea’s strong neck. The Cleveland Bay whinnies softly in response, her dark eyes calm and steady. Erica swings herself into the saddle, the familiar motion easing the tension that’s knotted her muscles since her conversation with Cross.
From up here, things seem to look a lot brighter. The world feels quieter, less fraught, as she gently urges Lea into a walk.
The mare’s smooth gait and the rhythmic creak of the saddle soothe her nerves, a small oasis of peace in the midst of swirling uncertainty. Erica guides Lea back toward the trail, the rolling green hills stretching out before her like a canvas, sunlit and serene.
Yet even as she relaxes into the ride, the undercurrent of tension remains. Cross’s words linger in her mind, slippery and layered with intent. She’s yours. Enjoy your new horse. A gift wrapped in velvet but lined with steel chains. He wants to tie her to him, to make her feel indebted - or perhaps to test how far she’s willing to go.
But Erica isn’t blind to his maneuvering. She can see the strings he’s trying to attach, even if he’s done it with a smile.
The trail narrows as she leads Lea into a shaded grove. The air is cooler here, the earthy scent of leaves and damp soil mingling with the faint aroma of leather and horsehair. Erica leans forward, patting Lea’s shoulder. “You’re a good girl.” she says softly.
The horse chuffs in response, her steady presence a stark contrast to the subtle power plays and manipulations Erica is navigating.
Lea represents something pure, something untarnished by ulterior motives. For a moment, Erica allows herself to simply enjoy that.
But her mind, ever calculating, won’t rest entirely. She can’t help but think about the opportunity this gift presents. Cross has opened a door, whether he realizes it or not, and Erica plans to step through it on her terms. Lea isn’t just a horse to her; she’s a chance to get closer to the truth, to uncover how Cross ties into the Mexicans and what role he plays in the larger puzzle. If owning Lea helps her achieve that, then so be it.
The sun filters through the trees as she nudges Lea into a light canter, the wind tugging at her hair. For now, in this fleeting moment, she lets herself enjoy the ride. The reins are firm in her hands, a small but satisfying reminder that she’s still in control - of Lea, of herself, and, she hopes, of the path she’s chosen to walk.
She pulls Lea to a gentle stop at the crest of a hill, gazing down at the estate below. The mansion gleams in the distance, its unapologetic opulence stark against the natural beauty surrounding it. Her eyes narrow slightly as she thinks of Cross, waiting for her down there, likely planning his next move.
Erica glances at her watch again. Thirty minutes left. She strokes Lea’s neck, feeling a swell of affection for the horse. “Let’s make the most of it.” she whispers, turning Lea back toward the trail.
Because once this ride ends, the games begin.
~~~
Erica leads Lea back to the stables, the mare’s steady gait slowing as they approach the long building. The smell of hay and leather grows stronger with each step, a comforting reminder of the peaceful ride they’ve just shared. Erica pats Lea’s neck affectionately, the warmth of the horse radiating through her gloved hand. Despite everything, there’s a quiet joy in this moment, a fleeting respite from the tension she knows awaits her.
Ray, the bowlegged wrangler, steps forward to greet them, his ever-present cowboy hat tipped back slightly. He takes one look at Erica and the horse, his sun-weathered face breaking into a grin. “You both look happy.” he says, reaching for the reins.
Erica can’t help but smile back. “Thanks, Ray. Lea’s a wonderful horse. Please take good care of her.”
Ray nods, his tone reassuring. “We will, Miss Sinclair. No worries.” He turns to one of the stable hands, gesturing toward the mare. “Take the saddle and blanket off and walk her in the paddock. Let her stretch her legs.”
Erica watches as Lea is led away, the horse’s brown coat glistening in the sunlight. A pang of something unidentifiable flickers through her - pride, perhaps, or maybe the strange sensation of ownership sinking in. She exhales slowly, forcing herself to focus. There’s no time to linger. Cross is waiting.
Leaving the stables behind, Erica follows the winding footpath that leads to the mansion. The towering estate looms ahead, its grandeur both imposing and deliberate. Every detail, from the perfectly manicured gardens to the polished brass fittings on the heavy double doors, exudes wealth and control. Erica feels a familiar tension creeping in, a tightening in her chest as she approaches.
As if on cue, the front door swings open before she can even knock, revealing Baker, the impeccably dressed majordomo. His sharp eyes meet hers, and he offers a curt nod. “Welcome, Miss Sinclair.” he says, stepping aside to let her in. “Mr. Cross is expecting you. Please, follow me to the sitting room.”
The cool interior of the mansion feels like a world apart from the open-air freedom she felt just moments ago. Erica’s boots make soft sounds against the polished marble floor as she follows Baker down the long corridor. The air smells faintly of leather and citrus polish, and the silence is almost oppressive. Baker moves with practiced precision, his every step measured, until they reach a pair of heavy oak doors. He opens one and steps inside, announcing her presence with a practiced, “Miss Sinclair.”
Cross is seated in one of the plush leather armchairs, his posture relaxed but deliberate. He looks up from a sheaf of papers, holding up two fingers in a subtle gesture. Baker nods silently and disappears, presumably to fetch the requested due espressi. Cross motions toward an empty armchair across from him. “Please, Erica, sit.”
She hesitates for the briefest of moments, then moves toward the chair, her back straight and her expression composed. As soon as she sits, Cross leans forward and picks up the stack of papers from the coffee table beside him. Without preamble, he extends them toward her, his sharp eyes locked on hers.
“Here.” he says, his tone smooth and unhurried. “These are Lea’s Gold Papers. Lineage, vaccinations, everything. On top is my gift letter. The horse is officially yours now.”
Erica reaches for the papers, her hand trembling slightly despite her best efforts to appear calm. The weight of the documents in her hands feels heavier than it should, as if the act of accepting them has sealed some unspoken agreement.
She flips through the pages briefly, catching glimpses of detailed records and official seals.
This is it.
The moment Cross has been waiting for.
He watches her closely, his gaze calculating. Now he knows, Erica thinks, or at least he thinks he knows - that I can be bought. The thought sends a jolt of defiance through her, even as she struggles to keep her expression neutral.
Holding Lea’s papers feels surreal, as though she’s been handed both a gift and a challenge.
“I’m…” she begins, her voice faltering.
“No need to thank me, Erica.” Cross interrupts smoothly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s my pleasure to see you and Lea harmonize so well. You two deserve each other.”
She steadies herself, regaining her composure. “Still.” she says, her voice firm but polite, “Thank you. I’m flattered.”
Before Cross can respond, Baker reenters the room, carrying a silver tray with two delicate cups of bone china. He sets it down on the coffee table with practiced ease, pouring rich, dark espresso into each cup. He bows slightly before retreating, closing the doors behind him without a sound.
Cross picks up one of the cups and passes it to Erica, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest of moments. She takes it, careful not to spill, and sets the papers on the table beside her. Cross leans back in his chair, his own cup cradled in his hand as he takes a leisurely sip.
“The secret of financial success,” he begins, his tone conversational but laced with an edge of condescension, “is to make money - and to give the government as little of it as possible.”
Erica takes a sip of her espresso, the rich bitterness grounding her. She doesn’t respond immediately, letting his words hang in the air. Cross is testing her, she knows, pushing to see where she stands. But Erica has no intention of showing her hand. Not yet.
Instead, she lifts her chin slightly, meeting his gaze with an unwavering steadiness. “I suppose it’s a game of strategy.” she says, her tone measured. “One where the stakes are always high.”
Cross smiles faintly, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. “Precisely.”
Erica places her cup back on the tray, her mind already working through the next steps. Cross thinks he’s in control, but she’s determined to play the long game. Lea may be a gift, but Erica knows better than to believe in free lunches. If Cross expects her loyalty, he’s in for a surprise.
For now, though, she allows herself a small, polite smile. The real game is only just beginning.
~~~
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
Cross sets his espresso cup down on the tray with a deliberate clink, the faint sound punctuating the stillness of the room. Leaning back in his chair, he steeples his fingers, a picture of calculated ease. His expression is amiable, but Erica notices the faintest tightening around his eyes, a flicker of calculation that sharpens his otherwise relaxed demeanor.
“Recyclable materials,” he begins, his tone smooth, almost conversational, “are a surprisingly lucrative business, Erica. You wouldn’t believe the demand for things like scrap metal, used plastics, and electronic waste. Of course, like any commodity, the prices fluctuate. Sometimes wildly. That’s where the real challenge - and opportunity - comes in.”
Erica tilts her head slightly, a gesture meant to feign casual interest. Beneath her calm exterior, her mind is working overtime, dissecting every word, every subtle shift in his body language. Cross is in his element now, explaining something he clearly loves: control. She lets the silence stretch, knowing he thrives on hearing his own voice.
“We’ve built relationships with suppliers in Mexico.” Cross continues, swirling the remnants of his espresso in his cup. “They provide us with materials - raw and processed - that we bring across the border for resale. The margins can be… significant. But,” he adds with a slight shrug, “the trade isn’t without its complications.”
Erica raises an eyebrow, keeping her voice light. “Complications?”
Cross chuckles softly. The sound, low and deliberate, sends a faint chill up Erica’s spine.
“Oh, nothing unmanageable. You see, occasionally, our suppliers underdeliver. Maybe the shipment is smaller than stated on the manifest, or perhaps there’s a delay. But they’re professionals - they always make it right. They compensate us with additional shipments down the line, or they repay us. It’s all about maintaining good business relationships.”
The words are innocuous enough, but Erica catches the faintest edge beneath them. The way he says “compensate” feels loaded, like an unspoken threat. She leans forward slightly, her gaze steady, giving the appearance of curiosity while filing away every detail.
“Sounds like you’ve got a well-oiled machine.” she says, her tone thoughtful. “But how do you protect yourself when prices drop? You mentioned the fluctuations.”
Cross’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a calculated expression, designed to put her at ease.
“We’ve found that maintaining trust with our suppliers is key. They know we’re reliable, and we expect the same from them. Even when issues arise, we work things out to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Erica nods slowly, processing his words. Beneath his polished explanation, she hears the careful omissions, the deliberate vagueness. Trust, compensation, good relationships - it’s all a veneer, but what it’s hiding is still just out of reach.
“What would my part in your operation be, Darren?” she asks, her tone shifting to something more direct.
Cross leans forward slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. The move is subtle, but it feels like the air in the room changes, growing heavier.
“I can’t run everything by myself, so I need the right people in place. People I trust to handle the details and to ensure everything runs smoothly.”
Erica holds his gaze, noting the way he emphasizes “trust.” It’s a test, she knows, another probe to see how far she’s willing to go. She offers a faint smile, keeping her posture relaxed, though her senses are on high alert.
“So you’re looking for somebody for whom loyalty is second nature.” she says evenly, letting the words hang in the air just long enough to signal her understanding of what he’s truly asking for.
“Exactly.” Cross’s smile tightens, the curve of his lips just shy of warmth. There’s an edge to his tone now, a calculated weight in his words. “Actions have consequences, Erica. But with the right people around me, this business is only going to grow, and we - you and I - are going to profit.”
The air feels heavier, charged with an unspoken warning. Erica’s heart skips a beat, but her expression remains steady. The word consequences hums in her mind like a low-grade threat. He’s testing her again, probing for a reaction, perhaps hoping to unnerve her. She doesn’t blink.
A beat of silence stretches between them, taut and electric. Erica senses his scrutiny, the way his gaze sharpens, searching for cracks in her composure. But she meets his eyes with calm detachment, letting her stillness speak louder than any verbal reassurance.
“Fascinating.” she says finally, her voice a deliberate balance of curiosity and nonchalance. Leaning back in her chair, she crosses one leg over the other and offers a faint, almost conspiratorial smile. “I’d love to learn more about how you maximize profit by minimizing it.”
Cross chuckles, a low, throaty sound that feels as rehearsed as it is disarming.
“In time, Erica. All in good time.” He lifts his cup in a slow, deliberate toast before finishing the last of his espresso.
Erica matches his gesture, lifting her cup with practiced grace, though she barely tastes the coffee as she sips. As Cross sets his cup back on the tray with the same deliberate clink, she lets her gaze drift around the room, taking in the rich mahogany paneling, the faint scent of leather and cigar smoke that lingers in the air, the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the corner.
She forces herself to appear at ease, even as her mind races. Cross’s charm, his carefully chosen words - they’re all part of the web he’s weaving, a trap designed to ensnare her. But she isn’t just another pawn in his game. She knows the stakes, knows that his so-called “complications” likely conceal a far darker truth. The challenge is playing her role convincingly enough to stay close while shielding her true motives.
For now, though, she lets him think he’s in control.
“I’ll look forward to it.” she says, her voice calm, steady. She raises her cup in a mirror of his gesture, the faint clink of bone china against the saucer punctuating her words.
Cross’s smile broadens, warm and inviting on the surface, but she sees the faint flicker of something colder in his eyes. Beneath his polished exterior, she recognizes the man who views loyalty as leverage, trust as a bargaining chip, and people as tools to be used and discarded.
And that’s fine, Erica thinks. Let him believe he’s winning. Let him underestimate her. She’ll play her part perfectly, stay close, and learn everything she needs to know.
Beneath her polite smile, her resolve hardens. She’s not just here to survive Cross’s game. She’s here to beat him at it.
~~
Erica stands and reaches for her softshell jacket draped over the armrest of her chair. She moves deliberately, aware that Cross is watching her every move, even as he remains seated, his posture relaxed but exuding dominance.
“Call me when you need me.” she says, her tone smooth, businesslike.
Cross doesn’t stand, of course - a subtle but clear assertion of control. Instead, he offers a small nod, his lips curving into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
One hand on the doorknob, Erica pauses, turning back to face him. She lifts Lea’s papers slightly, the stack crisp and official in her hand.
“And – again - thank you for this most kind gift.” she says, her voice carefully modulated to sound a little conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret between allies. “Most appreciated.”
Cross’s smile widens just a fraction, the glint in his eyes betraying his satisfaction. “You’re welcome, Erica.” he replies smoothly, his voice rich with the undercurrent of something unspoken.
Erica holds his gaze for a beat longer, then nods, letting the silence linger just long enough before stepping out of the room. The door closes softly behind her, but the weight of his presence lingers, the memory of his measured words and veiled implications clear and sharp in her mind.
~~~
“Recyclable materials,” he begins, his tone smooth, almost conversational, “are a surprisingly lucrative business, Erica. You wouldn’t believe the demand for things like scrap metal, used plastics, and electronic waste. Of course, like any commodity, the prices fluctuate. Sometimes wildly. That’s where the real challenge - and opportunity - comes in.”
Erica tilts her head slightly, a gesture meant to feign casual interest. Beneath her calm exterior, her mind is working overtime, dissecting every word, every subtle shift in his body language. Cross is in his element now, explaining something he clearly loves: control. She lets the silence stretch, knowing he thrives on hearing his own voice.
“We’ve built relationships with suppliers in Mexico.” Cross continues, swirling the remnants of his espresso in his cup. “They provide us with materials - raw and processed - that we bring across the border for resale. The margins can be… significant. But,” he adds with a slight shrug, “the trade isn’t without its complications.”
Erica raises an eyebrow, keeping her voice light. “Complications?”
Cross chuckles softly. The sound, low and deliberate, sends a faint chill up Erica’s spine.
“Oh, nothing unmanageable. You see, occasionally, our suppliers underdeliver. Maybe the shipment is smaller than stated on the manifest, or perhaps there’s a delay. But they’re professionals - they always make it right. They compensate us with additional shipments down the line, or they repay us. It’s all about maintaining good business relationships.”
The words are innocuous enough, but Erica catches the faintest edge beneath them. The way he says “compensate” feels loaded, like an unspoken threat. She leans forward slightly, her gaze steady, giving the appearance of curiosity while filing away every detail.
“Sounds like you’ve got a well-oiled machine.” she says, her tone thoughtful. “But how do you protect yourself when prices drop? You mentioned the fluctuations.”
Cross’s smile widens, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a calculated expression, designed to put her at ease.
“We’ve found that maintaining trust with our suppliers is key. They know we’re reliable, and we expect the same from them. Even when issues arise, we work things out to everyone’s satisfaction.”
Erica nods slowly, processing his words. Beneath his polished explanation, she hears the careful omissions, the deliberate vagueness. Trust, compensation, good relationships - it’s all a veneer, but what it’s hiding is still just out of reach.
“What would my part in your operation be, Darren?” she asks, her tone shifting to something more direct.
Cross leans forward slightly, his gaze locking onto hers. The move is subtle, but it feels like the air in the room changes, growing heavier.
“I can’t run everything by myself, so I need the right people in place. People I trust to handle the details and to ensure everything runs smoothly.”
Erica holds his gaze, noting the way he emphasizes “trust.” It’s a test, she knows, another probe to see how far she’s willing to go. She offers a faint smile, keeping her posture relaxed, though her senses are on high alert.
“So you’re looking for somebody for whom loyalty is second nature.” she says evenly, letting the words hang in the air just long enough to signal her understanding of what he’s truly asking for.
“Exactly.” Cross’s smile tightens, the curve of his lips just shy of warmth. There’s an edge to his tone now, a calculated weight in his words. “Actions have consequences, Erica. But with the right people around me, this business is only going to grow, and we - you and I - are going to profit.”
The air feels heavier, charged with an unspoken warning. Erica’s heart skips a beat, but her expression remains steady. The word consequences hums in her mind like a low-grade threat. He’s testing her again, probing for a reaction, perhaps hoping to unnerve her. She doesn’t blink.
A beat of silence stretches between them, taut and electric. Erica senses his scrutiny, the way his gaze sharpens, searching for cracks in her composure. But she meets his eyes with calm detachment, letting her stillness speak louder than any verbal reassurance.
“Fascinating.” she says finally, her voice a deliberate balance of curiosity and nonchalance. Leaning back in her chair, she crosses one leg over the other and offers a faint, almost conspiratorial smile. “I’d love to learn more about how you maximize profit by minimizing it.”
Cross chuckles, a low, throaty sound that feels as rehearsed as it is disarming.
“In time, Erica. All in good time.” He lifts his cup in a slow, deliberate toast before finishing the last of his espresso.
Erica matches his gesture, lifting her cup with practiced grace, though she barely tastes the coffee as she sips. As Cross sets his cup back on the tray with the same deliberate clink, she lets her gaze drift around the room, taking in the rich mahogany paneling, the faint scent of leather and cigar smoke that lingers in the air, the rhythmic tick of the grandfather clock in the corner.
She forces herself to appear at ease, even as her mind races. Cross’s charm, his carefully chosen words - they’re all part of the web he’s weaving, a trap designed to ensnare her. But she isn’t just another pawn in his game. She knows the stakes, knows that his so-called “complications” likely conceal a far darker truth. The challenge is playing her role convincingly enough to stay close while shielding her true motives.
For now, though, she lets him think he’s in control.
“I’ll look forward to it.” she says, her voice calm, steady. She raises her cup in a mirror of his gesture, the faint clink of bone china against the saucer punctuating her words.
Cross’s smile broadens, warm and inviting on the surface, but she sees the faint flicker of something colder in his eyes. Beneath his polished exterior, she recognizes the man who views loyalty as leverage, trust as a bargaining chip, and people as tools to be used and discarded.
And that’s fine, Erica thinks. Let him believe he’s winning. Let him underestimate her. She’ll play her part perfectly, stay close, and learn everything she needs to know.
Beneath her polite smile, her resolve hardens. She’s not just here to survive Cross’s game. She’s here to beat him at it.
~~
Erica stands and reaches for her softshell jacket draped over the armrest of her chair. She moves deliberately, aware that Cross is watching her every move, even as he remains seated, his posture relaxed but exuding dominance.
“Call me when you need me.” she says, her tone smooth, businesslike.
Cross doesn’t stand, of course - a subtle but clear assertion of control. Instead, he offers a small nod, his lips curving into a faint smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
One hand on the doorknob, Erica pauses, turning back to face him. She lifts Lea’s papers slightly, the stack crisp and official in her hand.
“And – again - thank you for this most kind gift.” she says, her voice carefully modulated to sound a little conspiratorial, as if sharing a secret between allies. “Most appreciated.”
Cross’s smile widens just a fraction, the glint in his eyes betraying his satisfaction. “You’re welcome, Erica.” he replies smoothly, his voice rich with the undercurrent of something unspoken.
Erica holds his gaze for a beat longer, then nods, letting the silence linger just long enough before stepping out of the room. The door closes softly behind her, but the weight of his presence lingers, the memory of his measured words and veiled implications clear and sharp in her mind.
~~~
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
Outside the mansion, Erica strides purposefully down the stone steps, her boots clicking faintly against the polished surface. Her mind is a whirlwind of calculations, Cross’s words still reverberating in her head, each syllable picked apart and analyzed. She’s so caught up in her thoughts that she nearly collides with Chrissie, the red-headed woman she had spotted earlier in Cross’s orbit.
Chrissie stands against one of the marble pillars flanking the mansion’s entrance, her posture languid but deliberate, her eyes sharp and assessing. Dressed in a fine blouse that clings to her like a second skin, she exudes the kind of confidence that only comes with knowing her position in Cross’s world is secure - for now.
“Can I help you?” Erica asks, her voice smooth, casual, but with an edge that warns she’s not in the mood for games.
Chrissie’s lips curl into a mocking smile. “You?” She says, the word dripping with derision. “I don’t think so.”
Erica’s expression doesn’t waver, though she feels the other woman’s gaze rake over her like a blade, sizing her up, probing for weaknesses. As she brushes past Chrissie, the redhead straightens slightly, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.
“Did you sell your soul today?”
Erica doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even pause. “No idea what you mean.” she says over her shoulder, her tone cool and dismissive.
She keeps walking, the gravel crunching beneath her feet as she heads toward the stables. Behind her, Chrissie’s presence lingers like a shadow, a faint prickle of unease crawling up Erica’s spine. Was this encounter orchestrated by Cross, another test of her loyalty? Or was Chrissie acting on her own, jealous and territorial?
God, let’s hope I’m not turning paranoid, Erica thinks, though she can’t entirely shake the feeling that every move she makes is being watched.
At her car, she unlocks the passenger-side door and carefully sets down the stack of papers Cross had handed her. Her fingers linger on the crisp stationery, the bold, confident signature at the bottom declaring Lea hers.
For a brief moment, she wonders if Cross had purchased Lea with “honest money.” Is this gift tainted by the same shadowy dealings that permeated everything else in his empire? A pang of uncertainty strikes her chest. If the FBI or Sophie van Rey were to seize Lea when this was all over, it would crush her.
Pushing the thought aside, Erica locks the car and heads into the stable, the earthy scent of hay and leather enveloping her as she enters. A stable hand, a freckle-faced young man, looks up from brushing a chestnut mare.
“She’s out in the paddock.” he says with a friendly nod. “Want me to show you the way?”
“Please and thank you,” Erica replies, falling into step behind him.
They walk past a line of stalls, the occasional soft snort or shuffle of hooves breaking the quiet. As they pass the office and the equestrians’ lounge - a cozy room with a warm coffee bar vibe - Erica takes in the serene efficiency of the place. Everything is pristine, a reflection of Cross’s penchant for perfection.
Through a gate at the back of the stable, they step into the paddock. The afternoon sunlight casts a golden glow over the field, and among a small group of horses grazing peacefully, Erica spots Lea. The Cleveland Bay mare stands tall and regal, her sleek coat gleaming in the sunlight.
Erica clicks her tongue softly, and Lea’s ears swivel toward her. The mare lifts her head, her large black eyes locking onto Erica’s. A moment later, she begins to walk toward her, her movements graceful and deliberate, as though she’s already decided Erica is worth her trust.
Erica leans forward slightly as Lea approaches, running her hand along the mare’s neck and stroking the soft patch of fur on her cheek. “I just wanted to say bye for today, girl.” she whispers, her voice low and tender. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Next weekend, maybe sooner.”
Lea nuzzles Erica’s hand, her warm breath puffing against her palm. The connection between them feels profound, almost unnervingly so. Erica’s chest tightens with an unexpected swell of emotion.
The stable hand chuckles behind her. “Funny how quick one can get attached to them.” he says, his tone light but genuine. “We’ll take good care of her. Mr. Cross said she’s yours now.”
Erica turns slightly, meeting his gaze. “So you knew before I did.” she says, her lips curving into a faint smile. “But yes, Mr. Cross was very kind by giving her to me.”
The young man nods, then steps back, sensing she might want a moment alone. Erica strokes Lea’s neck one more time, murmuring a soft goodbye before straightening.
As she walks back to her car, she casts one last glance over her shoulder. Lea is still watching her, standing in the golden light of the paddock, an almost ethereal calm about her.
Cross may think this gift binds her to him, she thinks, but he’s wrong. If anything, it gives her one more reason to fight, to see this through to the end.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of her Volvo, Erica starts the engine. The papers on the passenger seat seem to glint faintly in the sunlight. Taking a steadying breath, she pulls out of Crosswinds, the mansion fading in her rearview mirror.
Behind her, the game is still in play, the stakes higher than ever.
~~~
Erica knows Sophie van Rey must be waiting for her call, probably impatiently. She imagines the ADA sitting in her pristine living room, perched on the edge of a couch with her phone resting on the coffee table, her eyes flicking to the screen every few seconds. Sophie doesn’t strike Erica as someone who enjoys waiting.
Taking a deep breath, Erica dials the number. The phone barely rings before Sophie picks up, her voice crackling with urgency.
“Yes!” Sophie blurts, her words sharp and immediate. There’s no preamble, no attempt to mask the tension.
Erica doesn’t flinch. “Can you meet me at the Old Town Café at 4:30?” she asks, her tone measured, calm, as though this were an ordinary request.
There’s a brief pause on the other end, then Sophie replies, her voice edged with a faint note of suspicion. “I didn’t think you’d know that…place.”
“Well, you obviously do, too.” Erica’s response is deliberate, leaving little room for Sophie to probe further.
A beat of silence, and then Sophie relents. “Alright, 4:30 it is.”
Erica hangs up, slipping the phone back into her pocket. She exhales slowly, her mind already moving to the next step.
~~~
The Old Town Café isn’t a place Erica usually frequents. That’s precisely why she chose it. Nestled in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, the café has a rustic charm that feels out of step with the polished city around it. The worn wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and faded chalkboard menu give it the feel of a place where time moves just a little slower.
The last time Erica was here was during the Sandra Torres case, the one about the missing high school student. She remembers sitting at a table in the back, waiting for her associate John Dance and one of his contacts to show up.
That same table, tucked into the far corner of the room, calls to her now. It’s isolated enough to discourage eavesdropping, and the muted lighting offers just the right amount of privacy.
Erica steps up to the bar and orders an Americano, knowing full well this isn’t the kind of place that stocks almond milk or any of the other urban coffeehouse luxuries. The barista, a wiry man in his forties with a scruffy beard, hands her the coffee in a plain white mug.
Carrying it to the back corner, she sets the cup down and sinks into the chair. The wood creaks slightly beneath her, and she allows herself a brief moment of reflection. The last time she sat here, it was to meet Wendy Sinner, the former prostitute turned escort who had proven to be an invaluable source of information. The coincidence isn’t lost on Erica, though she pushes the thought aside for now – Wendy was murdered when she tried to hide in Las Vegas from the scum she was instrumental in bringing down.
At precisely 4:30, the bell above the door jingles, and Sophie van Rey steps into the café. The ADA is a study in contrast against the rustic backdrop: her crisp black blazer and perfectly tailored pants radiate authority, while the sharp lines of her jaw and the focused intensity in her eyes suggest she’s already dissecting the room.
Sophie hesitates for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the small space before landing on Erica. She moves to the bar, ordering a coffee with the kind of efficiency that comes from habit. There’s no need for pleasantries or deliberation; she knows what she wants.
As Sophie waits for her coffee, Erica takes another sip of her Americano, her eyes tracking the ADA. Sophie’s movements are brisk but controlled, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. When the barista hands her the cup, she nods curtly, then turns and makes her way to the back corner where Erica is seated.
Erica sits up slightly, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “Hello Sophie.”
The ADA sets her cup down before taking a seat. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The hum of conversation and the clatter of cups fill the space between them, creating a fragile bubble of normalcy.
Sophie leans forward, her elbows resting on the edge of the table. “Alright,” she says, her voice low but firm. “I’m here. Tell me everything.”
Erica takes another sip of her coffee, letting the moment stretch just long enough to test Sophie’s patience. Then, setting the mug down with deliberate care, she meets the ADA’s gaze directly.
“Sure.” she says, her voice steady, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air.
Erica leans slightly forward, her voice just above a whisper, despite the relative privacy of their corner table. The hum of low conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine form a comforting background noise, but her focus is razor-sharp.
“I met him today.” she says, her tone steady, deliberate. “I told him I’d be interested in his offer. I asked him what my role would be, and he said he needed people in the right places to ensure things run smoothly. He didn’t go into more detail, but…” Erica pauses, letting the weight of her words settle. “I think he’s planning to use me in some not unimportant capacity.”
Sophie van Rey listens with an inscrutable expression, her hands resting lightly on the table. The sharp light from the window carves shadows under her cheekbones, giving her the look of someone who’s always calculating. When she finally nods, it’s slow, deliberate. “Thank you, Erica. This might be the chance we’ve been looking for.”
Erica doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. “It might be.” she says, her words clipped. “But there’s an elephant in the room we need to address.”
“Say it.” Sophie’s voice is calm, composed, but there’s a flicker of something sharper in her gaze. “There’s always a string attached in these kinds of operations.”
Erica presses her lips together briefly, then exhales. “I need assurance that for whatever I do in this charade - murder excepted, maybe - I won’t be charged.” She bites her lower lip, her voice growing quieter. “And there’s another thing. I’ve accepted a gift today, most likely to buy my loyalty. But I have proof of purchase for it, it wasn’t stolen, and I want to keep it.”
Sophie tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studies Erica. Her gaze moves deliberately - lingering on Erica’s eyes, her ears, her neck, her hands. As always, Erica’s accessories are understated: the chunky Rolex dive watch, her gold university class ring.
Nothing that screams “gift” or extravagance. Sophie raises an eyebrow, her curiosity laced with dry humor.
“What did he gift you, Erica? A collier? A tiara? Blood diamonds?”
Erica shakes her head, her lips curving into a faint, reluctant smile. Maybe she’s opening a door to her vulnerabilities she can’t close again, but she knows that Lea is worth it. “A horse.” she says. “A Cleveland Bay mare with big, deep brown eyes.”
For a moment, Sophie just stares at her, her fingers drumming on the table, shifting slightly in her chair. They’ve known each other for years - cooperated, clashed, and occasionally surprised each other.
But this? This is unexpected.
Sophie leans back, folding her arms, her expression giving little away. Then, her lips twitch upward, the barest hint of a smile. “First thing tomorrow. Will that be enough?”
Erica nods but doesn’t let go just yet. “I need it in writing, Sophie.” She adds in a thoughtful tone. “Have you read Goethe?”
Sophie blinks, then quirks an eyebrow. “Can’t say I have.”
“Faust. The tragedy, part one. There’s a scene set in his study…What one possesses in black and white, one can take home with confidence.” Erica gives a small, wry smile. “There’s a lot of truth in that.”
Sophie considers this, then chuckles under her breath.
Erica’s lips quirk. “I like knowing where I stand.”
Sophie nods, tapping her fingers lightly on the table. “First thing tomorrow. You’ll have it in writing.” This time her confirmation is rock-solid.
Only then does Erica exhale, just enough for some of the tension to slip from her shoulders.
Sophie studies her for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. “You know, Cross didn’t just pick you for your skills. He found your pressure point.”
Erica meets her eyes without hesitation. “Maybe.” she admits. “But that doesn’t mean he owns me.”
A beat of silence. Then Sophie inclines her head, acknowledging something between them - respect, perhaps, or just mutual understanding.
Erica finishes the last of her coffee, the bitter taste grounding her. She sets the cup down and stands, casting one final glance at Sophie across the table.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Sophie leans back, arms folding across her chest. “Get some sleep, Erica.”
Trust, in their world, is a fragile thing. But for now, they’ve built something that just might hold.
~~~
Chrissie stands against one of the marble pillars flanking the mansion’s entrance, her posture languid but deliberate, her eyes sharp and assessing. Dressed in a fine blouse that clings to her like a second skin, she exudes the kind of confidence that only comes with knowing her position in Cross’s world is secure - for now.
“Can I help you?” Erica asks, her voice smooth, casual, but with an edge that warns she’s not in the mood for games.
Chrissie’s lips curl into a mocking smile. “You?” She says, the word dripping with derision. “I don’t think so.”
Erica’s expression doesn’t waver, though she feels the other woman’s gaze rake over her like a blade, sizing her up, probing for weaknesses. As she brushes past Chrissie, the redhead straightens slightly, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.
“Did you sell your soul today?”
Erica doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even pause. “No idea what you mean.” she says over her shoulder, her tone cool and dismissive.
She keeps walking, the gravel crunching beneath her feet as she heads toward the stables. Behind her, Chrissie’s presence lingers like a shadow, a faint prickle of unease crawling up Erica’s spine. Was this encounter orchestrated by Cross, another test of her loyalty? Or was Chrissie acting on her own, jealous and territorial?
God, let’s hope I’m not turning paranoid, Erica thinks, though she can’t entirely shake the feeling that every move she makes is being watched.
At her car, she unlocks the passenger-side door and carefully sets down the stack of papers Cross had handed her. Her fingers linger on the crisp stationery, the bold, confident signature at the bottom declaring Lea hers.
For a brief moment, she wonders if Cross had purchased Lea with “honest money.” Is this gift tainted by the same shadowy dealings that permeated everything else in his empire? A pang of uncertainty strikes her chest. If the FBI or Sophie van Rey were to seize Lea when this was all over, it would crush her.
Pushing the thought aside, Erica locks the car and heads into the stable, the earthy scent of hay and leather enveloping her as she enters. A stable hand, a freckle-faced young man, looks up from brushing a chestnut mare.
“She’s out in the paddock.” he says with a friendly nod. “Want me to show you the way?”
“Please and thank you,” Erica replies, falling into step behind him.
They walk past a line of stalls, the occasional soft snort or shuffle of hooves breaking the quiet. As they pass the office and the equestrians’ lounge - a cozy room with a warm coffee bar vibe - Erica takes in the serene efficiency of the place. Everything is pristine, a reflection of Cross’s penchant for perfection.
Through a gate at the back of the stable, they step into the paddock. The afternoon sunlight casts a golden glow over the field, and among a small group of horses grazing peacefully, Erica spots Lea. The Cleveland Bay mare stands tall and regal, her sleek coat gleaming in the sunlight.
Erica clicks her tongue softly, and Lea’s ears swivel toward her. The mare lifts her head, her large black eyes locking onto Erica’s. A moment later, she begins to walk toward her, her movements graceful and deliberate, as though she’s already decided Erica is worth her trust.
Erica leans forward slightly as Lea approaches, running her hand along the mare’s neck and stroking the soft patch of fur on her cheek. “I just wanted to say bye for today, girl.” she whispers, her voice low and tender. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Next weekend, maybe sooner.”
Lea nuzzles Erica’s hand, her warm breath puffing against her palm. The connection between them feels profound, almost unnervingly so. Erica’s chest tightens with an unexpected swell of emotion.
The stable hand chuckles behind her. “Funny how quick one can get attached to them.” he says, his tone light but genuine. “We’ll take good care of her. Mr. Cross said she’s yours now.”
Erica turns slightly, meeting his gaze. “So you knew before I did.” she says, her lips curving into a faint smile. “But yes, Mr. Cross was very kind by giving her to me.”
The young man nods, then steps back, sensing she might want a moment alone. Erica strokes Lea’s neck one more time, murmuring a soft goodbye before straightening.
As she walks back to her car, she casts one last glance over her shoulder. Lea is still watching her, standing in the golden light of the paddock, an almost ethereal calm about her.
Cross may think this gift binds her to him, she thinks, but he’s wrong. If anything, it gives her one more reason to fight, to see this through to the end.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of her Volvo, Erica starts the engine. The papers on the passenger seat seem to glint faintly in the sunlight. Taking a steadying breath, she pulls out of Crosswinds, the mansion fading in her rearview mirror.
Behind her, the game is still in play, the stakes higher than ever.
~~~
Erica knows Sophie van Rey must be waiting for her call, probably impatiently. She imagines the ADA sitting in her pristine living room, perched on the edge of a couch with her phone resting on the coffee table, her eyes flicking to the screen every few seconds. Sophie doesn’t strike Erica as someone who enjoys waiting.
Taking a deep breath, Erica dials the number. The phone barely rings before Sophie picks up, her voice crackling with urgency.
“Yes!” Sophie blurts, her words sharp and immediate. There’s no preamble, no attempt to mask the tension.
Erica doesn’t flinch. “Can you meet me at the Old Town Café at 4:30?” she asks, her tone measured, calm, as though this were an ordinary request.
There’s a brief pause on the other end, then Sophie replies, her voice edged with a faint note of suspicion. “I didn’t think you’d know that…place.”
“Well, you obviously do, too.” Erica’s response is deliberate, leaving little room for Sophie to probe further.
A beat of silence, and then Sophie relents. “Alright, 4:30 it is.”
Erica hangs up, slipping the phone back into her pocket. She exhales slowly, her mind already moving to the next step.
~~~
The Old Town Café isn’t a place Erica usually frequents. That’s precisely why she chose it. Nestled in a quiet corner of Brooklyn, the café has a rustic charm that feels out of step with the polished city around it. The worn wooden tables, mismatched chairs, and faded chalkboard menu give it the feel of a place where time moves just a little slower.
The last time Erica was here was during the Sandra Torres case, the one about the missing high school student. She remembers sitting at a table in the back, waiting for her associate John Dance and one of his contacts to show up.
That same table, tucked into the far corner of the room, calls to her now. It’s isolated enough to discourage eavesdropping, and the muted lighting offers just the right amount of privacy.
Erica steps up to the bar and orders an Americano, knowing full well this isn’t the kind of place that stocks almond milk or any of the other urban coffeehouse luxuries. The barista, a wiry man in his forties with a scruffy beard, hands her the coffee in a plain white mug.
Carrying it to the back corner, she sets the cup down and sinks into the chair. The wood creaks slightly beneath her, and she allows herself a brief moment of reflection. The last time she sat here, it was to meet Wendy Sinner, the former prostitute turned escort who had proven to be an invaluable source of information. The coincidence isn’t lost on Erica, though she pushes the thought aside for now – Wendy was murdered when she tried to hide in Las Vegas from the scum she was instrumental in bringing down.
At precisely 4:30, the bell above the door jingles, and Sophie van Rey steps into the café. The ADA is a study in contrast against the rustic backdrop: her crisp black blazer and perfectly tailored pants radiate authority, while the sharp lines of her jaw and the focused intensity in her eyes suggest she’s already dissecting the room.
Sophie hesitates for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the small space before landing on Erica. She moves to the bar, ordering a coffee with the kind of efficiency that comes from habit. There’s no need for pleasantries or deliberation; she knows what she wants.
As Sophie waits for her coffee, Erica takes another sip of her Americano, her eyes tracking the ADA. Sophie’s movements are brisk but controlled, her posture straight, her expression unreadable. When the barista hands her the cup, she nods curtly, then turns and makes her way to the back corner where Erica is seated.
Erica sits up slightly, gesturing to the chair opposite her. “Hello Sophie.”
The ADA sets her cup down before taking a seat. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The hum of conversation and the clatter of cups fill the space between them, creating a fragile bubble of normalcy.
Sophie leans forward, her elbows resting on the edge of the table. “Alright,” she says, her voice low but firm. “I’m here. Tell me everything.”
Erica takes another sip of her coffee, letting the moment stretch just long enough to test Sophie’s patience. Then, setting the mug down with deliberate care, she meets the ADA’s gaze directly.
“Sure.” she says, her voice steady, the weight of unspoken truths hanging heavy in the air.
Erica leans slightly forward, her voice just above a whisper, despite the relative privacy of their corner table. The hum of low conversation and the hiss of the espresso machine form a comforting background noise, but her focus is razor-sharp.
“I met him today.” she says, her tone steady, deliberate. “I told him I’d be interested in his offer. I asked him what my role would be, and he said he needed people in the right places to ensure things run smoothly. He didn’t go into more detail, but…” Erica pauses, letting the weight of her words settle. “I think he’s planning to use me in some not unimportant capacity.”
Sophie van Rey listens with an inscrutable expression, her hands resting lightly on the table. The sharp light from the window carves shadows under her cheekbones, giving her the look of someone who’s always calculating. When she finally nods, it’s slow, deliberate. “Thank you, Erica. This might be the chance we’ve been looking for.”
Erica doesn’t flinch, doesn’t soften. “It might be.” she says, her words clipped. “But there’s an elephant in the room we need to address.”
“Say it.” Sophie’s voice is calm, composed, but there’s a flicker of something sharper in her gaze. “There’s always a string attached in these kinds of operations.”
Erica presses her lips together briefly, then exhales. “I need assurance that for whatever I do in this charade - murder excepted, maybe - I won’t be charged.” She bites her lower lip, her voice growing quieter. “And there’s another thing. I’ve accepted a gift today, most likely to buy my loyalty. But I have proof of purchase for it, it wasn’t stolen, and I want to keep it.”
Sophie tilts her head slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studies Erica. Her gaze moves deliberately - lingering on Erica’s eyes, her ears, her neck, her hands. As always, Erica’s accessories are understated: the chunky Rolex dive watch, her gold university class ring.
Nothing that screams “gift” or extravagance. Sophie raises an eyebrow, her curiosity laced with dry humor.
“What did he gift you, Erica? A collier? A tiara? Blood diamonds?”
Erica shakes her head, her lips curving into a faint, reluctant smile. Maybe she’s opening a door to her vulnerabilities she can’t close again, but she knows that Lea is worth it. “A horse.” she says. “A Cleveland Bay mare with big, deep brown eyes.”
For a moment, Sophie just stares at her, her fingers drumming on the table, shifting slightly in her chair. They’ve known each other for years - cooperated, clashed, and occasionally surprised each other.
But this? This is unexpected.
Sophie leans back, folding her arms, her expression giving little away. Then, her lips twitch upward, the barest hint of a smile. “First thing tomorrow. Will that be enough?”
Erica nods but doesn’t let go just yet. “I need it in writing, Sophie.” She adds in a thoughtful tone. “Have you read Goethe?”
Sophie blinks, then quirks an eyebrow. “Can’t say I have.”
“Faust. The tragedy, part one. There’s a scene set in his study…What one possesses in black and white, one can take home with confidence.” Erica gives a small, wry smile. “There’s a lot of truth in that.”
Sophie considers this, then chuckles under her breath.
Erica’s lips quirk. “I like knowing where I stand.”
Sophie nods, tapping her fingers lightly on the table. “First thing tomorrow. You’ll have it in writing.” This time her confirmation is rock-solid.
Only then does Erica exhale, just enough for some of the tension to slip from her shoulders.
Sophie studies her for a moment longer, something unreadable flickering in her gaze. “You know, Cross didn’t just pick you for your skills. He found your pressure point.”
Erica meets her eyes without hesitation. “Maybe.” she admits. “But that doesn’t mean he owns me.”
A beat of silence. Then Sophie inclines her head, acknowledging something between them - respect, perhaps, or just mutual understanding.
Erica finishes the last of her coffee, the bitter taste grounding her. She sets the cup down and stands, casting one final glance at Sophie across the table.
“I’ll be in touch.”
Sophie leans back, arms folding across her chest. “Get some sleep, Erica.”
Trust, in their world, is a fragile thing. But for now, they’ve built something that just might hold.
~~~
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
This has moved on quickly, must admit i haven't been here at all over the weekend, the Le Mans 24 Hours was occupying my attentions! Not to mention, when that had finished, the Canadian F1 Grand Prix.
But now i have caught up on this, absolutely brilliant as normal! Erica seems to playing this beautifully. However she still needs to careful, Cross is NO fool, and seems to have worked out, possibly through sheer co-incidence, what her weakness is - ANIMALS!
But now i have caught up on this, absolutely brilliant as normal! Erica seems to playing this beautifully. However she still needs to careful, Cross is NO fool, and seems to have worked out, possibly through sheer co-incidence, what her weakness is - ANIMALS!
Dear @LunaDog, you're right. Cross is definitely not a pushover and he certainly found a tether to keep Erica close.
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
O my God...I never thought this possible. Ever.
Thank you, everyone. After today's episode of "Erica Sinclair - A Matter of Honor", you'll get the celebratory AMA.
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
As Erica steps out of the Old Town Café, the late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the uneven sidewalk. She makes her way toward her black Volvo, the smell of roasted coffee beans and faint city grit still lingering in the air.
Her mind is replaying the conversation with Sophie van Rey, analyzing every word, every glance, when the buzz of her phone vibrating snaps her focus back to the present.
Her hand freezes just before reaching for the car key in her handbag. The vibration persists, insistent, demanding her attention. She unzips her jacket pocket and pulls out the phone. Her brow furrows slightly as she glances at the screen.
Darren Cross.
The name lights up her phone like a beacon. Erica’s pulse quickens, though her face remains composed. This is most unexpected. They’ve only recently begun weaving their precarious alliance, and while Darren Cross isn’t the type to leave things to chance, he’s also not the type to make casual calls. Whatever this is, it’s not about pleasantries.
Swiping to answer, Erica lifts the phone to her ear. “Darren, what can I do for you?” she says, her voice steady, tinged with a faint trace of curiosity.
“Erica,” Cross’s voice carries his usual charm, smooth and polished, but with an edge she can’t quite place. “I hope you’ve made it home alright.”
Erica glances around instinctively, scanning the street for anything – anyone - out of the ordinary.
She’s certain he’s not just calling to chat about traffic, but can she really rule out that he didn’t have somebody trail her? A faint prickling sensation creeps up her spine, and she glances instinctively at the street behind her. Nothing. Just a couple walking their dog and a kid zipping past on a bike. Still, the feeling lingers.
“Almost.” she replies, keeping her tone casual. “I stopped to grab a coffee.” She leans against the car door now, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the handle.
“Good.” Cross says, his voice as steady as ever, but there’s something almost predatory in his calmness. “Listen, I want you to clear your schedule tomorrow and meet me at my office in FiDi. 10:30 sharp. Liberty Street - you’ll find it easily enough, I assume?”
Erica straightens, the faintest smile playing on her lips as she mirrors his tone. “Absolutely. With my eyes closed, if I have to.”
“As I expected. I’ll take you out to lunch afterward, Miss Sinclair. Consider it a... thank-you for your cooperation so far.”
Erica can almost hear the smirk in his voice. There’s a game here, one she’s only just beginning to understand. Whatever lunch entails, it won’t just be about food and she knows very well that in this world there is no such thing as a free lunch.
“My pleasure, Mr. Cross.” she says, injecting just the right amount of playful confidence into her words.
Cross disconnects without a goodbye, leaving the air heavy with unfinished intent. Erica lowers the phone slowly, resisting the urge to scoff at his brusqueness. Typical. Always on his terms. The thought flickers briefly, then dissipates as her focus sharpens again.
For a moment, she stands motionless, her reflection faintly visible in the car’s glossy surface. The chill of the metal under her fingertips grounds her. This is Cross’s move, testing her, pulling her deeper into his orbit. And yet, she knows she can’t afford to misstep.
Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she finally unlocks the car door. As she slides into the driver’s seat, a thought flickers in her mind, unbidden and unwelcome: How far does he plan to push me? And how far am I willing to go?
The engine growls to life, but Erica doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she grips the steering wheel, staring out at the street ahead. Tomorrow, she’ll have to face Cross again, step into whatever game he’s playing, but she knows how far she’s willing to go. Murder excepted; she’ll go all the way and she is ready for it.
The hum of the Volvo’s engine fills the quiet, a low vibration running through her fingertips as she pulls away from the curb. With each mile she puts between herself and the café, Erica steels herself for the next step, knowing full well it’s a step closer to the edge.
~~~
Erica wakes at five, slipping into the precision of her daily routine like armor. She feeds Spot and Tiger, who dart between her feet, their meows echoing in the quiet apartment.
The smell of their food lingers as she pulls on her running shoes and steps outside into the crisp morning air.
The rhythmic pounding of her sneakers against the pavement and the familiar burn in her legs should clear her head. It usually does. But not today. The appointment with Cross hangs over her like a dark cloud, pressing heavier with every mile she runs.
When she returns, her pace becomes even more deliberate.
She brushes her hair until it gleams and pulls it into a sleek ponytail. Her makeup is flawless, applied with the precision of someone trying to control the uncontrollable. She selects her outfit - white silk blouse, tailored black pencil skirt, jacket, and pumps polished to a mirror finish. Everything speaks of power, of preparation, of perfection.
Finally, she synchronizes her Rolex to an atomic clock online. Her fingers brush the engraving on the back of the watch’s case, a mantra carved into her memory as much as into the metal: Stand for something or fall for anything.
She glances at herself in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. The woman staring back is everything her father wanted her to be - competent, courageous, and the embodiment of integrity. Yet today, that image feels like a mask.
From the bedroom door, Spot and Tiger watch her, their big, innocent eyes reflecting her tension. She kneels to scratch their heads, feeling their warmth under her fingertips. “Wish me luck,” she whispers. “And stay out of trouble.”
The drive to her office on Park Avenue passes in a blur. She tunes the radio to smooth jazz, but the saxophone notes barely register, swallowed by the thoughts swirling in her head. When she pulls the Volvo into its designated spot and steps into the elevator, it’s as if she’s moving on autopilot.
Sinclair & Associates occupies the 25th floor, a pristine space where every detail screams professionalism. Holly Beck, her receptionist, greets her with a cheery, “Good morning, Miss Sinclair!”
“Good morning.” Erica replies curtly, breezing past the desk. Her heels click sharply against the polished floors as she strides down the hallway, passing the two conference rooms and the break room. She pauses briefly at Claire Messner’s desk. “Claire, would you please see me in five minutes?”
“Yes, Miss Sinclair.” Claire says, already taking notes.
In her office, Erica closes the door and inhales deeply. The scent of lavender hangs in the air, grounding her - almost. She sets her handbag on the mahogany desk and slips off her coat, the weight of the upcoming meeting pressing down on her.
The soft knock on the door is unmistakably Claire. “Come in.” Erica says, leaning casually against her desk.
Claire steps inside, closing the door behind her. “Would you like some chamomile tea, Erica?” she asks, her tone gentle, her concern evident.
“You read me like a book.” Erica replies with a faint smile. She pauses, softening. “I’ll be out of the office for an appointment by 10. Probably won’t be back until tomorrow.”
Claire nods. “I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t.” Erica says. Then, after a moment: “And Claire... thanks for everything. This office wouldn’t function without you.”
Claire’s smile grows, warm but reserved. “Of course. I’ll bring your tea in a moment.”
As Claire leaves, Erica leans against her desk for a moment longer. The lavender lingers, calming her nerves - but not completely. This isn’t just another day. And Darren Cross isn’t just another opponent.
Erica doesn’t know if it’s the tea, Claire’s reassuring smile, or the quiet resilience that she’s relied on her whole life, but the nervousness ebbs away. Perhaps it’s a combination of all of it. Either way, her shoulders feel lighter as she rolls them forward and back, loosening the last knots of tension. She rises from her chair, smooths her skirt, slips into her black cashmere coat, and slings her handbag over her shoulder. It’s time to confront the dragon.
~~~
Darren Cross’s office occupies a gleaming, high-rise building on Liberty Street, right across from the 9/11 Memorial.
Even before Erica reaches the ramp to the underground parking lot, the structure itself exudes power: a monolith of glass and steel that casts long shadows over the surrounding area, like a titan watching over its dominion.
The ramp is guarded by a security gate flanked by two armed guards. Erica eases her black Volvo to a stop, lowering the driver’s-side window as one of the guards approaches. His dark uniform is pristine, his expression businesslike but polite.
“Erica Sinclair to see Mr. Cross.” she says, her voice steady. She slips a business card from her wallet and hands it to the guard, who scrolls down on the display of his electronic notepad.
The man nods after a moment, his professional demeanor softening slightly. “Good morning, Miss Sinclair. You’re on the approved visitors list. Mr. Cross is expecting you.”
He motions to his colleague, who presses a button to open the gate. The first guard hands her a black-and-white parking ticket. “Place this on your dashboard, please. It’ll mark your vehicle as authorized.”
“Thanks.” Erica says, her tone clipped but polite as she drives forward, passing through the gate. The ramp curves downward into the underground parking lot, the air cooling instantly as she descends. Concrete walls stretch out in every direction, their dull gray broken only by yellow lines marking reserved spaces.
Signs direct her to the visitors' section near the elevators.
She pulls into a spot, turns off the engine, and takes a moment to gather herself. From the moment she stepped out of her apartment, she’s felt like she’s moving toward the edge of something - and now, she’s close.
She adjusts the strap of her handbag and steps out of the car, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the concrete floor. Another guard, stationed near the elevator, greets her with a courteous nod and gestures to the waiting elevator.
“Twelfth floor, Miss Sinclair.” he says.
The elevator doors slide open with a faint hiss, revealing polished steel panels that gleam under the bright lights. As the doors close behind her, Erica catches her reflection in the mirrored surface. Her gaze sharpens, studying the woman staring back. She smooths the front of her fitted jacket and pencil skirt, tugging at the hem to ensure it’s perfectly aligned. One rogue strand of hair has slipped loose from her ponytail; she brushes it back into place with a decisive motion. Satisfied, she straightens her posture and takes a deep breath just as the elevator chimes.
The doors slide open to reveal the lobby of Cross Finance. The space is unapologetically opulent - glass, chrome, polished steel, and black leather combine to create an atmosphere of modern elegance and cold precision. Even the air feels controlled, infused with a faint scent of expensive cologne and something citrusy.
A tall security guard stationed near the entrance steps forward, opening the door for her without a word. Erica nods her thanks, stepping into the reception area.
The young woman behind the sleek, minimalist desk looks like she’s been handpicked for the role - flawless makeup, a perfectly styled bob, and a smile that seems permanently fixed in place.
“Welcome to Cross Finance, Miss Sinclair.” the receptionist says, her voice lilting with a practiced cheerfulness. “This way to the conference center, please. Mr. Cross will be with you shortly.”
Before Erica can respond, a commanding voice rings out from farther down the hallway. “My office!” The tone is unmistakable - Darren Cross. His words carry the kind of authority that doesn’t invite questions. A moment later, he strides into view, tall and sharply dressed in a tailored navy suit. His mere presence seems to draw the air out of the room. He gestures toward Erica with a subtle wave of his hand. “Erica, this way. And due espressi, Shelly!” he adds without breaking stride.
The receptionist, Shelly, gives Erica an apologetic smile and a slight shrug, as if to say, He’s always like this. Erica mirrors the gesture with a faint smile of her own, then turns and begins walking toward Cross.
Her heels tap sharply against the polished floor as she approaches him, the sound a steady rhythm that matches the pace of her heartbeat. The dragon waits, and she’s ready.
~~~
Her mind is replaying the conversation with Sophie van Rey, analyzing every word, every glance, when the buzz of her phone vibrating snaps her focus back to the present.
Her hand freezes just before reaching for the car key in her handbag. The vibration persists, insistent, demanding her attention. She unzips her jacket pocket and pulls out the phone. Her brow furrows slightly as she glances at the screen.
Darren Cross.
The name lights up her phone like a beacon. Erica’s pulse quickens, though her face remains composed. This is most unexpected. They’ve only recently begun weaving their precarious alliance, and while Darren Cross isn’t the type to leave things to chance, he’s also not the type to make casual calls. Whatever this is, it’s not about pleasantries.
Swiping to answer, Erica lifts the phone to her ear. “Darren, what can I do for you?” she says, her voice steady, tinged with a faint trace of curiosity.
“Erica,” Cross’s voice carries his usual charm, smooth and polished, but with an edge she can’t quite place. “I hope you’ve made it home alright.”
Erica glances around instinctively, scanning the street for anything – anyone - out of the ordinary.
She’s certain he’s not just calling to chat about traffic, but can she really rule out that he didn’t have somebody trail her? A faint prickling sensation creeps up her spine, and she glances instinctively at the street behind her. Nothing. Just a couple walking their dog and a kid zipping past on a bike. Still, the feeling lingers.
“Almost.” she replies, keeping her tone casual. “I stopped to grab a coffee.” She leans against the car door now, her fingers brushing the cold metal of the handle.
“Good.” Cross says, his voice as steady as ever, but there’s something almost predatory in his calmness. “Listen, I want you to clear your schedule tomorrow and meet me at my office in FiDi. 10:30 sharp. Liberty Street - you’ll find it easily enough, I assume?”
Erica straightens, the faintest smile playing on her lips as she mirrors his tone. “Absolutely. With my eyes closed, if I have to.”
“As I expected. I’ll take you out to lunch afterward, Miss Sinclair. Consider it a... thank-you for your cooperation so far.”
Erica can almost hear the smirk in his voice. There’s a game here, one she’s only just beginning to understand. Whatever lunch entails, it won’t just be about food and she knows very well that in this world there is no such thing as a free lunch.
“My pleasure, Mr. Cross.” she says, injecting just the right amount of playful confidence into her words.
Cross disconnects without a goodbye, leaving the air heavy with unfinished intent. Erica lowers the phone slowly, resisting the urge to scoff at his brusqueness. Typical. Always on his terms. The thought flickers briefly, then dissipates as her focus sharpens again.
For a moment, she stands motionless, her reflection faintly visible in the car’s glossy surface. The chill of the metal under her fingertips grounds her. This is Cross’s move, testing her, pulling her deeper into his orbit. And yet, she knows she can’t afford to misstep.
Slipping the phone back into her pocket, she finally unlocks the car door. As she slides into the driver’s seat, a thought flickers in her mind, unbidden and unwelcome: How far does he plan to push me? And how far am I willing to go?
The engine growls to life, but Erica doesn’t move immediately. Instead, she grips the steering wheel, staring out at the street ahead. Tomorrow, she’ll have to face Cross again, step into whatever game he’s playing, but she knows how far she’s willing to go. Murder excepted; she’ll go all the way and she is ready for it.
The hum of the Volvo’s engine fills the quiet, a low vibration running through her fingertips as she pulls away from the curb. With each mile she puts between herself and the café, Erica steels herself for the next step, knowing full well it’s a step closer to the edge.
~~~
Erica wakes at five, slipping into the precision of her daily routine like armor. She feeds Spot and Tiger, who dart between her feet, their meows echoing in the quiet apartment.
The smell of their food lingers as she pulls on her running shoes and steps outside into the crisp morning air.
The rhythmic pounding of her sneakers against the pavement and the familiar burn in her legs should clear her head. It usually does. But not today. The appointment with Cross hangs over her like a dark cloud, pressing heavier with every mile she runs.
When she returns, her pace becomes even more deliberate.
She brushes her hair until it gleams and pulls it into a sleek ponytail. Her makeup is flawless, applied with the precision of someone trying to control the uncontrollable. She selects her outfit - white silk blouse, tailored black pencil skirt, jacket, and pumps polished to a mirror finish. Everything speaks of power, of preparation, of perfection.
Finally, she synchronizes her Rolex to an atomic clock online. Her fingers brush the engraving on the back of the watch’s case, a mantra carved into her memory as much as into the metal: Stand for something or fall for anything.
She glances at herself in the bedroom’s full-length mirror. The woman staring back is everything her father wanted her to be - competent, courageous, and the embodiment of integrity. Yet today, that image feels like a mask.
From the bedroom door, Spot and Tiger watch her, their big, innocent eyes reflecting her tension. She kneels to scratch their heads, feeling their warmth under her fingertips. “Wish me luck,” she whispers. “And stay out of trouble.”
The drive to her office on Park Avenue passes in a blur. She tunes the radio to smooth jazz, but the saxophone notes barely register, swallowed by the thoughts swirling in her head. When she pulls the Volvo into its designated spot and steps into the elevator, it’s as if she’s moving on autopilot.
Sinclair & Associates occupies the 25th floor, a pristine space where every detail screams professionalism. Holly Beck, her receptionist, greets her with a cheery, “Good morning, Miss Sinclair!”
“Good morning.” Erica replies curtly, breezing past the desk. Her heels click sharply against the polished floors as she strides down the hallway, passing the two conference rooms and the break room. She pauses briefly at Claire Messner’s desk. “Claire, would you please see me in five minutes?”
“Yes, Miss Sinclair.” Claire says, already taking notes.
In her office, Erica closes the door and inhales deeply. The scent of lavender hangs in the air, grounding her - almost. She sets her handbag on the mahogany desk and slips off her coat, the weight of the upcoming meeting pressing down on her.
The soft knock on the door is unmistakably Claire. “Come in.” Erica says, leaning casually against her desk.
Claire steps inside, closing the door behind her. “Would you like some chamomile tea, Erica?” she asks, her tone gentle, her concern evident.
“You read me like a book.” Erica replies with a faint smile. She pauses, softening. “I’ll be out of the office for an appointment by 10. Probably won’t be back until tomorrow.”
Claire nods. “I’ll take care of everything. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t.” Erica says. Then, after a moment: “And Claire... thanks for everything. This office wouldn’t function without you.”
Claire’s smile grows, warm but reserved. “Of course. I’ll bring your tea in a moment.”
As Claire leaves, Erica leans against her desk for a moment longer. The lavender lingers, calming her nerves - but not completely. This isn’t just another day. And Darren Cross isn’t just another opponent.
Erica doesn’t know if it’s the tea, Claire’s reassuring smile, or the quiet resilience that she’s relied on her whole life, but the nervousness ebbs away. Perhaps it’s a combination of all of it. Either way, her shoulders feel lighter as she rolls them forward and back, loosening the last knots of tension. She rises from her chair, smooths her skirt, slips into her black cashmere coat, and slings her handbag over her shoulder. It’s time to confront the dragon.
~~~
Darren Cross’s office occupies a gleaming, high-rise building on Liberty Street, right across from the 9/11 Memorial.
Even before Erica reaches the ramp to the underground parking lot, the structure itself exudes power: a monolith of glass and steel that casts long shadows over the surrounding area, like a titan watching over its dominion.
The ramp is guarded by a security gate flanked by two armed guards. Erica eases her black Volvo to a stop, lowering the driver’s-side window as one of the guards approaches. His dark uniform is pristine, his expression businesslike but polite.
“Erica Sinclair to see Mr. Cross.” she says, her voice steady. She slips a business card from her wallet and hands it to the guard, who scrolls down on the display of his electronic notepad.
The man nods after a moment, his professional demeanor softening slightly. “Good morning, Miss Sinclair. You’re on the approved visitors list. Mr. Cross is expecting you.”
He motions to his colleague, who presses a button to open the gate. The first guard hands her a black-and-white parking ticket. “Place this on your dashboard, please. It’ll mark your vehicle as authorized.”
“Thanks.” Erica says, her tone clipped but polite as she drives forward, passing through the gate. The ramp curves downward into the underground parking lot, the air cooling instantly as she descends. Concrete walls stretch out in every direction, their dull gray broken only by yellow lines marking reserved spaces.
Signs direct her to the visitors' section near the elevators.
She pulls into a spot, turns off the engine, and takes a moment to gather herself. From the moment she stepped out of her apartment, she’s felt like she’s moving toward the edge of something - and now, she’s close.
She adjusts the strap of her handbag and steps out of the car, the sharp click of her heels echoing against the concrete floor. Another guard, stationed near the elevator, greets her with a courteous nod and gestures to the waiting elevator.
“Twelfth floor, Miss Sinclair.” he says.
The elevator doors slide open with a faint hiss, revealing polished steel panels that gleam under the bright lights. As the doors close behind her, Erica catches her reflection in the mirrored surface. Her gaze sharpens, studying the woman staring back. She smooths the front of her fitted jacket and pencil skirt, tugging at the hem to ensure it’s perfectly aligned. One rogue strand of hair has slipped loose from her ponytail; she brushes it back into place with a decisive motion. Satisfied, she straightens her posture and takes a deep breath just as the elevator chimes.
The doors slide open to reveal the lobby of Cross Finance. The space is unapologetically opulent - glass, chrome, polished steel, and black leather combine to create an atmosphere of modern elegance and cold precision. Even the air feels controlled, infused with a faint scent of expensive cologne and something citrusy.
A tall security guard stationed near the entrance steps forward, opening the door for her without a word. Erica nods her thanks, stepping into the reception area.
The young woman behind the sleek, minimalist desk looks like she’s been handpicked for the role - flawless makeup, a perfectly styled bob, and a smile that seems permanently fixed in place.
“Welcome to Cross Finance, Miss Sinclair.” the receptionist says, her voice lilting with a practiced cheerfulness. “This way to the conference center, please. Mr. Cross will be with you shortly.”
Before Erica can respond, a commanding voice rings out from farther down the hallway. “My office!” The tone is unmistakable - Darren Cross. His words carry the kind of authority that doesn’t invite questions. A moment later, he strides into view, tall and sharply dressed in a tailored navy suit. His mere presence seems to draw the air out of the room. He gestures toward Erica with a subtle wave of his hand. “Erica, this way. And due espressi, Shelly!” he adds without breaking stride.
The receptionist, Shelly, gives Erica an apologetic smile and a slight shrug, as if to say, He’s always like this. Erica mirrors the gesture with a faint smile of her own, then turns and begins walking toward Cross.
Her heels tap sharply against the polished floor as she approaches him, the sound a steady rhythm that matches the pace of her heartbeat. The dragon waits, and she’s ready.
~~~
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
Dear readers,
This story has just recently passed the 100.000 views mark. This is an achievement I never thought possible for anything I write.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for sticking with Erica.
When this story had reached 50.000 views, I invited you to participate in an AMA session.
Thank you, for sending in your questions, below, you’ll find your Top 10 questions.
I have given my replies a lot of thought and here it is, Jenny’s first official Q&A.
This one’s for the readers who’ve cheered Erica on from day one - and for those just discovering her now. Enjoy.
(And keep the questions coming.)
Love,
Jenny
Q: Are you a lawyer?
A: No, I’m not. I’m actually a nurse by profession. Right now, I work as a supervisor for a private healthcare provider.
Q: How much of yourself is in Erica Sinclair?
A: Maybe a little. I picture her as 5’9”, blue-eyed, blonde - like me. I do CrossFit (yes, the stereotype applies), and I run in the mornings - though not quite as religiously as Erica does. That’s probably where the similarities end. I wish I had her courage and steel. Oh, and I do have a cat - though Shredder is much older than Spot and Tiger!
Q: Tell us more about yourself, please.
A: Sure, why not? I was born in 1993. My dad was in the military, so we moved around a lot. When I was 14, my dad got sent to the US for a long-term assignment, and my parents moved the whole family with him. It turned out to be one of the best times of my life. We stayed for three years before returning to Germany. I finished school here, trained as a nurse, and started adulting. You know the drill.
Q: When did you start writing the Erica stories?
A: I started the first Erica story during the pandemic. Back then, she wasn’t meant to be more than the main character in a one-off. But the idea of building a heroine who feels real - someone who could live next door, with strengths and vulnerabilities, without superpowers - stuck with me.
Over time, I became more and more drawn to fleshing her out and shaping the world she moves in. If you read the stories in chronological order, you’ll see how Erica grows, and how I’ve tried to add layers and detail to her personality. My hope is that readers can relate to her, root for her... maybe even pray for her.
I hope that makes sense.
Q: Will Erica ever find a man she can love?
A: I’ve thought about this a lot. After what she went through with Nathan, it took everything she had to climb out of the hole he left her in. She finds it painfully hard to open up and trust again - and, honestly, I think she still measures every man against the one she knew would never let her down: her dad.
Could any man live up to a legend?
Maybe someone can win her heart.
Maybe someday.
Q: Is your name really Jenny?
A: My middle name is Jennifer. In everyday life, no one actually calls me Jenny - but for privacy reasons, I prefer to use Jenny_S as my pen name online. It gives me a little distance between my writing world and real life.
Q: Will we see more about Erica’s parents?
A: Definitely. Since they’ve passed away, I can only bring them to life through flashbacks, photos, or stories shared by those who knew them - but they will take center stage in future stories. Some of those are already written and waiting in the wings.
Q: How long does it take you to finish a story?
A: That really depends. Some stories are longer, more complex, or require more emotional groundwork. It also depends on how much spare time I have - since the magic mostly happens after work, but never on weekends.
As of now, I have six stories ready to publish, two currently in the works, and one separate project set in a fictional country called Borovia - which, for a change, doesn’t feature Erica Sinclair.
Q: Hope this isn’t crossing a line. Since this is a TUG board, tell me about your personal bondage journey.
A: Not crossing a line at all - this is TUG, after all.
It started when I was pretty young, play-acting damsel-in-distress scenes I’d seen in TV crime shows. Things got a little more real when I was 18 and met my best friend - we’d both discovered our shared fascination with bondage.
One Saturday evening, when her parents were out, we experimented with a pair of cheap metal handcuffs that had a release lever. I ended up cuffed behind my back… and then the cuffs wouldn’t open. Beads of sweat, mild panic.
Thankfully, her dad kept his toolbox in the basement. She found a metal saw and managed to cut the short chain first, then the cuffs themselves. After that lovely little scare, we agreed: time to upgrade. Our next pair was a proper set of real-steel police handcuffs. Lesson learned.
Q: Erica lives in New York City. Have you ever been there yourself?
A: I’ve been to NYC twice - but for all the scenes I haven’t walked myself, I dig deep with Google Maps, Street View, and tons of research. If Erica’s walking down a street, I’ve probably “walked” it virtually first.
This story has just recently passed the 100.000 views mark. This is an achievement I never thought possible for anything I write.
From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for sticking with Erica.
When this story had reached 50.000 views, I invited you to participate in an AMA session.
Thank you, for sending in your questions, below, you’ll find your Top 10 questions.
I have given my replies a lot of thought and here it is, Jenny’s first official Q&A.
This one’s for the readers who’ve cheered Erica on from day one - and for those just discovering her now. Enjoy.
(And keep the questions coming.)
Love,
Jenny
Q: Are you a lawyer?
A: No, I’m not. I’m actually a nurse by profession. Right now, I work as a supervisor for a private healthcare provider.
Q: How much of yourself is in Erica Sinclair?
A: Maybe a little. I picture her as 5’9”, blue-eyed, blonde - like me. I do CrossFit (yes, the stereotype applies), and I run in the mornings - though not quite as religiously as Erica does. That’s probably where the similarities end. I wish I had her courage and steel. Oh, and I do have a cat - though Shredder is much older than Spot and Tiger!
Q: Tell us more about yourself, please.
A: Sure, why not? I was born in 1993. My dad was in the military, so we moved around a lot. When I was 14, my dad got sent to the US for a long-term assignment, and my parents moved the whole family with him. It turned out to be one of the best times of my life. We stayed for three years before returning to Germany. I finished school here, trained as a nurse, and started adulting. You know the drill.
Q: When did you start writing the Erica stories?
A: I started the first Erica story during the pandemic. Back then, she wasn’t meant to be more than the main character in a one-off. But the idea of building a heroine who feels real - someone who could live next door, with strengths and vulnerabilities, without superpowers - stuck with me.
Over time, I became more and more drawn to fleshing her out and shaping the world she moves in. If you read the stories in chronological order, you’ll see how Erica grows, and how I’ve tried to add layers and detail to her personality. My hope is that readers can relate to her, root for her... maybe even pray for her.
I hope that makes sense.
Q: Will Erica ever find a man she can love?
A: I’ve thought about this a lot. After what she went through with Nathan, it took everything she had to climb out of the hole he left her in. She finds it painfully hard to open up and trust again - and, honestly, I think she still measures every man against the one she knew would never let her down: her dad.
Could any man live up to a legend?
Maybe someone can win her heart.
Maybe someday.
Q: Is your name really Jenny?
A: My middle name is Jennifer. In everyday life, no one actually calls me Jenny - but for privacy reasons, I prefer to use Jenny_S as my pen name online. It gives me a little distance between my writing world and real life.
Q: Will we see more about Erica’s parents?
A: Definitely. Since they’ve passed away, I can only bring them to life through flashbacks, photos, or stories shared by those who knew them - but they will take center stage in future stories. Some of those are already written and waiting in the wings.
Q: How long does it take you to finish a story?
A: That really depends. Some stories are longer, more complex, or require more emotional groundwork. It also depends on how much spare time I have - since the magic mostly happens after work, but never on weekends.
As of now, I have six stories ready to publish, two currently in the works, and one separate project set in a fictional country called Borovia - which, for a change, doesn’t feature Erica Sinclair.
Q: Hope this isn’t crossing a line. Since this is a TUG board, tell me about your personal bondage journey.
A: Not crossing a line at all - this is TUG, after all.
It started when I was pretty young, play-acting damsel-in-distress scenes I’d seen in TV crime shows. Things got a little more real when I was 18 and met my best friend - we’d both discovered our shared fascination with bondage.
One Saturday evening, when her parents were out, we experimented with a pair of cheap metal handcuffs that had a release lever. I ended up cuffed behind my back… and then the cuffs wouldn’t open. Beads of sweat, mild panic.
Thankfully, her dad kept his toolbox in the basement. She found a metal saw and managed to cut the short chain first, then the cuffs themselves. After that lovely little scare, we agreed: time to upgrade. Our next pair was a proper set of real-steel police handcuffs. Lesson learned.
Q: Erica lives in New York City. Have you ever been there yourself?
A: I’ve been to NYC twice - but for all the scenes I haven’t walked myself, I dig deep with Google Maps, Street View, and tons of research. If Erica’s walking down a street, I’ve probably “walked” it virtually first.
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
Thank you for this Jenny, most informative. Perhaps i should have paid more attention myself and asked you a question, but all of that motor-racing action kind of got in the way!
As for the high number of reads, clearly a good few others find your 'Erica Sinclair' stories as entertaining as i do. Well done!
As for the high number of reads, clearly a good few others find your 'Erica Sinclair' stories as entertaining as i do. Well done!
Dear @LunaDog, as one of my most sincere readers, you can ask me anything anytime. My inbox is open 24/7.
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
Darren Cross gestures for Erica to follow him as they step deeper into his personal office.
The space exudes modern power, a masterclass in understated yet undeniable opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one side offer a breathtaking view of the 9/11 Memorial and the financial district beyond, while the other walls are adorned with minimalist black and white abstract art, perfectly curated to complement the clean lines of the room.
A matte black desk with an impossibly polished surface anchors the far end of the room, flanked by a pair of tall, imposing bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes and crystal accents.
The seating area, where Cross now leads her, is equally impressive. A low glass table rests between a pair of angular black leather two-seaters, their surfaces pristine and inviting yet cold in their precision. No clutter, no warmth - every element of this office seems to declare that Darren Cross is a man of singular focus and uncompromising standards.
“Let me take that for you.” Cross says, his tone gentlemanlike but clipped, as Erica slips out of her black cashmere coat. He takes it from her hands with a practiced ease, his fingers briefly brushing the fine fabric. For a moment, Erica almost expects the same level of care he exhibits with every aspect of his appearance. Instead, he drapes the coat dismissively over the backrest of a nearby armchair, the gesture efficient but far from reverent.
“Have a seat, Erica.” he says, motioning to the two-seater. He glances at the chronograph on his wrist - a precision instrument with a rich leather strap and an understated dial that screams exclusivity. “10:30 sharp.” he notes with a faint smile, meeting her eyes with a look of approval. “I knew you wouldn’t be a minute late.”
Erica steps forward, lowering herself gracefully onto the black leather sofa. Its surface is firm, almost unyielding, much like the man sitting across from her.
She says nothing, allowing Cross’s words to settle in the space between them. It’s so him - every sentence a subtle power play, a reminder of his expectations and his satisfaction when they’re met. She folds her hands neatly in her lap, maintaining a composed expression that gives away nothing.
Cross unbuttons his tailored navy jacket and parks himself onto the seat opposite her. He moves with an air of control, every motion deliberate. His hand rests casually on a maroon leather briefcase that sits on the low glass table between them. Its placement is too deliberate to be accidental. As always, Cross is setting the stage, and Erica can feel herself being drawn further into the performance.
The office door opens without a sound, and Shelly, the young employee, enters with a silver tray balanced perfectly in her hands. Two small white espresso cups sit atop it, the rich, dark liquid inside exuding a faint aroma of roasted beans. Shelly steps lightly, setting a cup down in front of Cross, then another before Erica.
“Do you require anything else, Mr. Cross?” she asks, her voice smooth and professional, her posture poised.
“That’s it for the moment, Shelly.” Cross replies, not even glancing her way. There’s no “please” or “thank you,” just the brisk efficiency of someone accustomed to being served. Shelly, unfazed, gives a slight bow and glides back to the door, closing it softly behind her.
Cross’s attention shifts back to Erica.
He lifts his espresso cup with a precise motion and takes a small sip, setting it back down without a sound.
Then, with an air of calculated theatrics, he pulls the briefcase into his lap. He snaps open the latches, the metallic clicks loud in the otherwise silent room. Lifting the top of the briefcase, he peers inside, his face unreadable.
“I’d like to show you something.” he says, his voice low and measured. He sets the briefcase back on the glass table but keeps it turned toward himself, blocking her view. Erica tilts her head slightly, her curiosity piqued, but she maintains her composure.
Cross looks up, his eyes locking with hers. “You asked what’s in it for you when you work for me.”
With a deliberate motion, he rotates the briefcase, turning it toward her.
The contents come into view, and Erica’s breath catches for the briefest moment. Neat stacks of $100 bills are arranged inside, bundled tightly in crisp paper bands. The sight is staggering - a visual embodiment of wealth and power, enough to make even the most stoic heart race.
Erica wills herself to stay calm, but she can’t stop her lips from pressing together, a faint tell of the shock she’s working to suppress. She bites her lower lip as her eyes flick over the stacks. For a moment, she feels like a rookie, though she quickly steels herself.
“I see.” she says finally, her voice a touch quieter than she’d intended. She clears her throat and steadies her tone. “Are these…real?”
Cross leans back, resting one arm over the back of his seat. His smile is slow and deliberate, almost predatory. “Greenbacks.” he says smoothly. “As real as you and me, Erica.”
She glances back at the briefcase, then at Cross, searching for a crack in his polished exterior. There isn’t one. Whatever game he’s playing, he’s playing it well.
~~~
The moment hangs in the air, heavy, charged, as Erica forces herself to stare at the open briefcase without blinking.
This is the moment Cross has been waiting for. He expects her to lean in, to reach for the
money - not physically, perhaps, but with her words.
She meets his gaze, letting the anticipation stretch just long enough. Then she snaps.
“What do you want me to do?”
The vehemence in her voice cuts through the space like a thunderclap on a cloudless day. Sudden. Startling. A carefully honed weapon, one she has wielded to devastating effect in the courtroom.
A demand, not a question. Greed-laced, impatient. Exactly the response Cross expects. Exactly what she needs him to believe.
His lips curve slightly, but he doesn’t answer right away. He never does.
Instead, he leans back in his chair, casual, assessing. The open briefcase remains in front of him, stacks of crisp, untraceable hundreds left deliberately on display. But his focus is on her - her perfectly poised posture, the slight tension in her jaw, the way she bites her lower lip in supposed anticipation.
He takes in the details: the precision of her makeup, the way a single strand of hair has worked its way loose from her ponytail, softening her otherwise polished look.
He considers, briefly, whether he should test her further: command her to come over to him on her knees, to lean forward…to prove just how far she’s willing to go.
But no.
Erica Sinclair may be greedy enough to bend the rules, to dip her hands into the filth of his
world - but she is also proud. And pride is a different kind of currency, one that men like Cross do not spend lightly.
“What are you willing to do, Erica?” His voice is smooth, controlled, but she catches the flicker of challenge beneath it.
She exhales, reigning in the intensity.
When she speaks again, her tone is measured, edged with quiet determination. “As long as I don’t have to kill for it…” A calculated pause. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, “You tell me.”
Cross watches her, his fingers drumming once against the armrest of his chair. He enjoys this - the dance, the measured exchange of power. She can feel the weight of his gaze, feel him dissecting her, deciding just how much she’s worth.
Then, in a measured, almost casual tone, he lays it out for her.
"The Mexicans send cash - straight from their side business. You’re looking at it. I take my cut and run the rest through my companies. On paper, it looks like revenue, investments, whatever I need it to be." He gestures toward the open briefcase, filled with crisp bills. "Clean, simple."
Leaning forward slightly, resting his hands on the briefcase. "Then comes the trade. They ‘sell’ me recyclable materials - scrap metal, plastics, whatever moves easily. Except they under-deliver. Maybe I order a hundred tons, they send sixty."
Erica listens intently, her face impassive.
"But I pay them in full - at an inflated price. That money moves through their offshore accounts, looking like a legitimate business transaction. It’s clean when they get it back."
He sits back, watching her process it. "Meanwhile, I sell what they did send to the Chinese, turning a profit on both ends."
Erica absorbs this, her expression unreadable.
Slowly, she nods. “A legal front to launder money.” She states it plainly, like she’s already fitting the pieces together in her mind. “And tax-free income for you and them.”
Then, just as deliberately, she lifts her gaze back to his.
“I can do that.”
~~~
Cross leans back in his chair, watching her with that knowing smirk. His fingers drum lazily against the open briefcase, the stacks of crisp hundreds practically glowing under the recessed lighting.
"I knew you would say that, Erica." His voice is warm, almost amused, as if her response had never been in doubt. "Twenty-five percent of what we skim off the cash deliveries is yours. Off the books."
Erica holds his gaze, willing herself to appear unreadable. No reaction, no flicker of hesitation.
"That’s fifty thousand bucks per month to make sure everything runs smoothly." His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing a routine business deal. "You inspect the shipments in the harbor, take the cash, and distribute the money."
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Cross slides the briefcase closer, the weight of the offer settling between them like something tangible. "Take it, Erica. Fifty. Thousand. Bucks." His voice drops to a near-whisper, the predatory gleam in his eyes unmistakable.
Erica swallows against the dryness in her throat.
This is it. The moment of truth. The moment where she must convince him - convince herself - that she’s willing to sell her soul.
Her pulse hammers in her ears, but she forces a slow breath through her nose. Every instinct tells her to recoil, to shove the briefcase away, to walk out before she drowns in the filth of this man’s empire. But that isn’t an option. She must be flawless.
She lets the silence stretch, knowing it will only heighten the anticipation. Then, finally, she leans forward. Not too quickly, not too eagerly. Deliberate. Calculated. A soft smile curls her lips, honey-sweet and inviting.
She rests her fingertips on one of the neatly stacked bundles, running her thumb over the edge of the crisp bills. "I haven’t done anything for you yet, Darren." Her voice is light, teasing, as if they were discussing a favor between friends.
Cross chuckles, the sound low and indulgent. "But you will, Erica. Imagine - fifty grand a month, tax-free. That’s serious money, even for someone like you. And me."
She lets the weight of his words settle. The numbers mean nothing to her - not really. It isn’t about the money. It’s about playing her part, about letting him believe he’s reeled her in.
Her fingers curl around the first bundle. The paper is smooth, stiff, real. She lifts it, then another, then another - stacking ten bundles on the glass tabletop in front of her. Each motion is slow, deliberate, as if savoring the gravity of her decision.
Finally, she meets his eyes and tilts her head slightly. Her voice is soft, a whisper laced with something that could be surrender - or something else entirely.
"I’m all yours."
~~~
The space exudes modern power, a masterclass in understated yet undeniable opulence. Floor-to-ceiling windows on one side offer a breathtaking view of the 9/11 Memorial and the financial district beyond, while the other walls are adorned with minimalist black and white abstract art, perfectly curated to complement the clean lines of the room.
A matte black desk with an impossibly polished surface anchors the far end of the room, flanked by a pair of tall, imposing bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes and crystal accents.
The seating area, where Cross now leads her, is equally impressive. A low glass table rests between a pair of angular black leather two-seaters, their surfaces pristine and inviting yet cold in their precision. No clutter, no warmth - every element of this office seems to declare that Darren Cross is a man of singular focus and uncompromising standards.
“Let me take that for you.” Cross says, his tone gentlemanlike but clipped, as Erica slips out of her black cashmere coat. He takes it from her hands with a practiced ease, his fingers briefly brushing the fine fabric. For a moment, Erica almost expects the same level of care he exhibits with every aspect of his appearance. Instead, he drapes the coat dismissively over the backrest of a nearby armchair, the gesture efficient but far from reverent.
“Have a seat, Erica.” he says, motioning to the two-seater. He glances at the chronograph on his wrist - a precision instrument with a rich leather strap and an understated dial that screams exclusivity. “10:30 sharp.” he notes with a faint smile, meeting her eyes with a look of approval. “I knew you wouldn’t be a minute late.”
Erica steps forward, lowering herself gracefully onto the black leather sofa. Its surface is firm, almost unyielding, much like the man sitting across from her.
She says nothing, allowing Cross’s words to settle in the space between them. It’s so him - every sentence a subtle power play, a reminder of his expectations and his satisfaction when they’re met. She folds her hands neatly in her lap, maintaining a composed expression that gives away nothing.
Cross unbuttons his tailored navy jacket and parks himself onto the seat opposite her. He moves with an air of control, every motion deliberate. His hand rests casually on a maroon leather briefcase that sits on the low glass table between them. Its placement is too deliberate to be accidental. As always, Cross is setting the stage, and Erica can feel herself being drawn further into the performance.
The office door opens without a sound, and Shelly, the young employee, enters with a silver tray balanced perfectly in her hands. Two small white espresso cups sit atop it, the rich, dark liquid inside exuding a faint aroma of roasted beans. Shelly steps lightly, setting a cup down in front of Cross, then another before Erica.
“Do you require anything else, Mr. Cross?” she asks, her voice smooth and professional, her posture poised.
“That’s it for the moment, Shelly.” Cross replies, not even glancing her way. There’s no “please” or “thank you,” just the brisk efficiency of someone accustomed to being served. Shelly, unfazed, gives a slight bow and glides back to the door, closing it softly behind her.
Cross’s attention shifts back to Erica.
He lifts his espresso cup with a precise motion and takes a small sip, setting it back down without a sound.
Then, with an air of calculated theatrics, he pulls the briefcase into his lap. He snaps open the latches, the metallic clicks loud in the otherwise silent room. Lifting the top of the briefcase, he peers inside, his face unreadable.
“I’d like to show you something.” he says, his voice low and measured. He sets the briefcase back on the glass table but keeps it turned toward himself, blocking her view. Erica tilts her head slightly, her curiosity piqued, but she maintains her composure.
Cross looks up, his eyes locking with hers. “You asked what’s in it for you when you work for me.”
With a deliberate motion, he rotates the briefcase, turning it toward her.
The contents come into view, and Erica’s breath catches for the briefest moment. Neat stacks of $100 bills are arranged inside, bundled tightly in crisp paper bands. The sight is staggering - a visual embodiment of wealth and power, enough to make even the most stoic heart race.
Erica wills herself to stay calm, but she can’t stop her lips from pressing together, a faint tell of the shock she’s working to suppress. She bites her lower lip as her eyes flick over the stacks. For a moment, she feels like a rookie, though she quickly steels herself.
“I see.” she says finally, her voice a touch quieter than she’d intended. She clears her throat and steadies her tone. “Are these…real?”
Cross leans back, resting one arm over the back of his seat. His smile is slow and deliberate, almost predatory. “Greenbacks.” he says smoothly. “As real as you and me, Erica.”
She glances back at the briefcase, then at Cross, searching for a crack in his polished exterior. There isn’t one. Whatever game he’s playing, he’s playing it well.
~~~
The moment hangs in the air, heavy, charged, as Erica forces herself to stare at the open briefcase without blinking.
This is the moment Cross has been waiting for. He expects her to lean in, to reach for the
money - not physically, perhaps, but with her words.
She meets his gaze, letting the anticipation stretch just long enough. Then she snaps.
“What do you want me to do?”
The vehemence in her voice cuts through the space like a thunderclap on a cloudless day. Sudden. Startling. A carefully honed weapon, one she has wielded to devastating effect in the courtroom.
A demand, not a question. Greed-laced, impatient. Exactly the response Cross expects. Exactly what she needs him to believe.
His lips curve slightly, but he doesn’t answer right away. He never does.
Instead, he leans back in his chair, casual, assessing. The open briefcase remains in front of him, stacks of crisp, untraceable hundreds left deliberately on display. But his focus is on her - her perfectly poised posture, the slight tension in her jaw, the way she bites her lower lip in supposed anticipation.
He takes in the details: the precision of her makeup, the way a single strand of hair has worked its way loose from her ponytail, softening her otherwise polished look.
He considers, briefly, whether he should test her further: command her to come over to him on her knees, to lean forward…to prove just how far she’s willing to go.
But no.
Erica Sinclair may be greedy enough to bend the rules, to dip her hands into the filth of his
world - but she is also proud. And pride is a different kind of currency, one that men like Cross do not spend lightly.
“What are you willing to do, Erica?” His voice is smooth, controlled, but she catches the flicker of challenge beneath it.
She exhales, reigning in the intensity.
When she speaks again, her tone is measured, edged with quiet determination. “As long as I don’t have to kill for it…” A calculated pause. Then, with a slight tilt of her head, “You tell me.”
Cross watches her, his fingers drumming once against the armrest of his chair. He enjoys this - the dance, the measured exchange of power. She can feel the weight of his gaze, feel him dissecting her, deciding just how much she’s worth.
Then, in a measured, almost casual tone, he lays it out for her.
"The Mexicans send cash - straight from their side business. You’re looking at it. I take my cut and run the rest through my companies. On paper, it looks like revenue, investments, whatever I need it to be." He gestures toward the open briefcase, filled with crisp bills. "Clean, simple."
Leaning forward slightly, resting his hands on the briefcase. "Then comes the trade. They ‘sell’ me recyclable materials - scrap metal, plastics, whatever moves easily. Except they under-deliver. Maybe I order a hundred tons, they send sixty."
Erica listens intently, her face impassive.
"But I pay them in full - at an inflated price. That money moves through their offshore accounts, looking like a legitimate business transaction. It’s clean when they get it back."
He sits back, watching her process it. "Meanwhile, I sell what they did send to the Chinese, turning a profit on both ends."
Erica absorbs this, her expression unreadable.
Slowly, she nods. “A legal front to launder money.” She states it plainly, like she’s already fitting the pieces together in her mind. “And tax-free income for you and them.”
Then, just as deliberately, she lifts her gaze back to his.
“I can do that.”
~~~
Cross leans back in his chair, watching her with that knowing smirk. His fingers drum lazily against the open briefcase, the stacks of crisp hundreds practically glowing under the recessed lighting.
"I knew you would say that, Erica." His voice is warm, almost amused, as if her response had never been in doubt. "Twenty-five percent of what we skim off the cash deliveries is yours. Off the books."
Erica holds his gaze, willing herself to appear unreadable. No reaction, no flicker of hesitation.
"That’s fifty thousand bucks per month to make sure everything runs smoothly." His tone is matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing a routine business deal. "You inspect the shipments in the harbor, take the cash, and distribute the money."
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
Cross slides the briefcase closer, the weight of the offer settling between them like something tangible. "Take it, Erica. Fifty. Thousand. Bucks." His voice drops to a near-whisper, the predatory gleam in his eyes unmistakable.
Erica swallows against the dryness in her throat.
This is it. The moment of truth. The moment where she must convince him - convince herself - that she’s willing to sell her soul.
Her pulse hammers in her ears, but she forces a slow breath through her nose. Every instinct tells her to recoil, to shove the briefcase away, to walk out before she drowns in the filth of this man’s empire. But that isn’t an option. She must be flawless.
She lets the silence stretch, knowing it will only heighten the anticipation. Then, finally, she leans forward. Not too quickly, not too eagerly. Deliberate. Calculated. A soft smile curls her lips, honey-sweet and inviting.
She rests her fingertips on one of the neatly stacked bundles, running her thumb over the edge of the crisp bills. "I haven’t done anything for you yet, Darren." Her voice is light, teasing, as if they were discussing a favor between friends.
Cross chuckles, the sound low and indulgent. "But you will, Erica. Imagine - fifty grand a month, tax-free. That’s serious money, even for someone like you. And me."
She lets the weight of his words settle. The numbers mean nothing to her - not really. It isn’t about the money. It’s about playing her part, about letting him believe he’s reeled her in.
Her fingers curl around the first bundle. The paper is smooth, stiff, real. She lifts it, then another, then another - stacking ten bundles on the glass tabletop in front of her. Each motion is slow, deliberate, as if savoring the gravity of her decision.
Finally, she meets his eyes and tilts her head slightly. Her voice is soft, a whisper laced with something that could be surrender - or something else entirely.
"I’m all yours."
~~~
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 way Cross watches her, dark eyes glinting with satisfaction, tells Erica everything she needs to know. He believes her.
She’s just sold him a lie, and he bought it.
Still, a tightness lingers in her chest, a quiet unease she refuses to acknowledge. Playing the role of a woman driven by greed, willing to break the law for the right price, goes against everything she is.
But she can’t afford to be Erica Sinclair right now.
She has to be the woman Darren Cross believes her to be.
Cross rises, slow and deliberate, mirroring the way she had stacked the money, letting the weight of each movement settle. He flicks the briefcase closed with a casual snap, not even bothering to secure the latches. A silent statement. He’s in control. He’s not worried.
Neither can she be.
Erica stands with the same fluid grace, smoothing the front of her skirt as she reaches for her handbag. Not too fast. Not too eager. With the ease of someone slipping their phone inside, she tucks the crisp stack of hundreds away, her fingers barely grazing the soft leather lining.
No hesitation. No second glance.
Cross is watching, measuring her.
She can feel it in the space between them, in the air thick with unspoken power plays. He expects her to react - to the money, to the moment. To him.
She won’t give him the satisfaction.
Snapping her bag shut, she lifts her chin and offers him a lazy, knowing smile.
"Where are we going for lunch, Darren?" she asks, her voice light, effortless. Not too eager, not too detached. Just right.
As they step away from the table, Cross moves with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who believes he owns the world - and everything in it.
Erica barely has time to register the shift in his posture before he reaches for her, his hands firm on her arms, pulling her toward him.
The moment his lips touch hers, revulsion slams into her like a freight train. Every muscle in her body screams to push him away, to shove him back with all the strength she has - but she can’t. Not if she wants him to believe the act. Not if she wants to stay in control.
Instead, she forces herself to relax, to let him take what he wants - just enough to make him believe she’s exactly what he thinks she is. Her mind detaches, retreating to a cold, calculated space where this is nothing more than another transaction. Another necessary evil.
Inside, something recoils - something raw, furious, and sickened - but she buries it deep, locking it away where Cross will never see it. There’s no room for weakness here. No room for anything but the lie.
~~~
His lips press harder, testing, demanding. The scent of his cologne - expensive, woody, predatory - fills her senses, mixing with the faint bitterness of espresso on his breath. She wills herself not to recoil. Not to betray a single crack in the facade. Instead, she plays along.
You wanted this the whole time, didn’t you, Darren? she thinks, the words burning in her mind as she allows him to taste victory. You wanted to see if you could own me, just like everything else in this glass and steel kingdom of yours.
But you don’t. You never will.
She lets him believe he’s in control for three seconds. Four. Then, with calculated precision, she shifts ever so slightly - just enough to pull back, just enough to make it seem like it was his choice.
She lifts a hand to his chest, her touch featherlight, teasing, as she looks up at him through lowered lashes.
“That’s quite the welcome bonus,” she murmurs, her voice smooth, sultry. “But let’s not mix business and pleasure too soon, shall we?”
Cross smirks, his gaze sharp, assessing. For a moment, she wonders if he’ll push further - but then, just as she expected, he lets go.
Not because he respects boundaries - Cross respects nothing but power - but because she’s played the game well enough to intrigue him. To make him want more.
She steps back, adjusting the strap of her handbag, acting as though nothing happened. As though he didn’t just cross a line that makes her skin crawl.
She flashes him a slow, knowing smile. “Now, about that lunch.” she says, her voice effortlessly casual. “You really gave me an appetite.”
~~~
Cross picks up Erica’s cashmere coat from where he had carelessly draped it over the armchair and holds it open for her. His movements are smooth, effortless – once more every inch the gentleman. Erica slips her arms into the sleeves, keeping her posture poised as if nothing about this moment unsettles her.
“My pleasure.” he says, his voice warm, almost intimate. It’s a game, of course. Everything with Cross is.
They descend to the waiting car, the sleek black sedan pulling away from the curb with a silent hum. The ride is short - three minutes down Liberty Street - but the air inside the car feels heavier than it should. Erica keeps her gaze on the city outside, her reflection ghostly in the tinted glass.
Cross doesn’t speak, and neither does she. But she can feel him watching her, studying her, always calculating.
When they arrive at the Nieuw Amsterdam, one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants perched high above the skyline, the hush of power and money envelops them the moment they step into the express elevator. By the time the doors glide open on the 60th floor, the atmosphere shifts - opulent yet restrained, with an understated elegance that speaks to the kind of wealth most people will never touch.
Erica barely has time to take in the breathtaking view of the city stretching out beneath them before the maître d' is in motion. The man practically stumbles over himself in his eagerness to greet them, his polished smile widening when he sees Cross.
“Mr. Cross, welcome.” His voice is reverent. “Your table is ready.”
Of course it is.
Erica follows as they are led across the restaurant, past patrons who glance up at Cross, some with recognition, others merely sensing his presence. Power has a way of drawing eyes. Their table is set apart, positioned by the floor-to-ceiling windows, with ample space around it - privacy without isolation.
“This is…impressive.” Erica murmurs as she takes her seat, smoothing her napkin over her lap.
Cross watches her, his mouth curving slightly. “Only the best.”
A sommelier arrives with a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil, handling it with the care of a sacred offering. Cross barely nods, and within moments, champagne flutes are filled with golden liquid.
“Shall we toast?” he asks, lifting his glass.
Erica meets his gaze and raises hers. “To what?”
Cross smiles. “To a profitable future.”
She clinks her glass against his, the crisp chime hanging in the air. As the champagne touches her lips, cold and effervescent, she reminds herself that this is just another part of the performance.
The first course arrives - Oysters Rockefeller, their rich aroma mingling with the subtle tang of the sea. Cross picks up his fork and gestures for her to eat, watching as she takes the first bite.
“You seem at home here.” he muses.
Erica dabs her lips with the edge of her napkin. “A good lawyer knows how to navigate different worlds.”
Cross chuckles, clearly entertained. “And what do you think of mine?”
She takes a sip of champagne before answering. “Lavish. Powerful. Dangerous.”
His smirk deepens. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Erica holds his gaze, unflinching. “I go where the opportunities are.”
The second course arrives - Blue Crab & Caviar, plated with artistic precision. The conversation flows as they eat, but the undercurrent is always there. Cross is playing host, charming and generous, but beneath it, he’s assessing, always looking for leverage.
By the time the Lobster Quenelle is set before them, Erica finds herself hyper-aware of every movement, every glance, every calculated pause in Cross’s speech. He enjoys the game too much, the way he circles his prey with polite conversation and elegant surroundings.
Their final dish - Scotch Snails - arrives just as the early afternoon sun begins its slow descent on the skyline. Cross leans back in his chair, satisfaction evident in his posture.
“You handled today well, Erica.” he says, swirling the last of his champagne in his glass. “I think we’ll work well together.”
She meets his gaze with a slow smile, keeping her expression unreadable. “I’m sure we will.”
Cross glances at his watch, then signals for the check - not that he would ever be expected to sign anything here. Instead, a discreet nod to the maître d’ is all it takes.
“I have business to attend to.” he says, rising from his chair. “But my driver will take you back to your car.”
She stands as well, letting him pull her chair back. The air outside the restaurant is cooler, the city’s pulse steady beneath them.
As the sedan door closes behind her, Erica exhales, letting the tension slip from her shoulders just a fraction. Cross is powerful, dangerous, but predictable in his own way.
And that, more than anything, is what she’s counting on.
~~~
She’s just sold him a lie, and he bought it.
Still, a tightness lingers in her chest, a quiet unease she refuses to acknowledge. Playing the role of a woman driven by greed, willing to break the law for the right price, goes against everything she is.
But she can’t afford to be Erica Sinclair right now.
She has to be the woman Darren Cross believes her to be.
Cross rises, slow and deliberate, mirroring the way she had stacked the money, letting the weight of each movement settle. He flicks the briefcase closed with a casual snap, not even bothering to secure the latches. A silent statement. He’s in control. He’s not worried.
Neither can she be.
Erica stands with the same fluid grace, smoothing the front of her skirt as she reaches for her handbag. Not too fast. Not too eager. With the ease of someone slipping their phone inside, she tucks the crisp stack of hundreds away, her fingers barely grazing the soft leather lining.
No hesitation. No second glance.
Cross is watching, measuring her.
She can feel it in the space between them, in the air thick with unspoken power plays. He expects her to react - to the money, to the moment. To him.
She won’t give him the satisfaction.
Snapping her bag shut, she lifts her chin and offers him a lazy, knowing smile.
"Where are we going for lunch, Darren?" she asks, her voice light, effortless. Not too eager, not too detached. Just right.
As they step away from the table, Cross moves with the slow, deliberate confidence of a man who believes he owns the world - and everything in it.
Erica barely has time to register the shift in his posture before he reaches for her, his hands firm on her arms, pulling her toward him.
The moment his lips touch hers, revulsion slams into her like a freight train. Every muscle in her body screams to push him away, to shove him back with all the strength she has - but she can’t. Not if she wants him to believe the act. Not if she wants to stay in control.
Instead, she forces herself to relax, to let him take what he wants - just enough to make him believe she’s exactly what he thinks she is. Her mind detaches, retreating to a cold, calculated space where this is nothing more than another transaction. Another necessary evil.
Inside, something recoils - something raw, furious, and sickened - but she buries it deep, locking it away where Cross will never see it. There’s no room for weakness here. No room for anything but the lie.
~~~
His lips press harder, testing, demanding. The scent of his cologne - expensive, woody, predatory - fills her senses, mixing with the faint bitterness of espresso on his breath. She wills herself not to recoil. Not to betray a single crack in the facade. Instead, she plays along.
You wanted this the whole time, didn’t you, Darren? she thinks, the words burning in her mind as she allows him to taste victory. You wanted to see if you could own me, just like everything else in this glass and steel kingdom of yours.
But you don’t. You never will.
She lets him believe he’s in control for three seconds. Four. Then, with calculated precision, she shifts ever so slightly - just enough to pull back, just enough to make it seem like it was his choice.
She lifts a hand to his chest, her touch featherlight, teasing, as she looks up at him through lowered lashes.
“That’s quite the welcome bonus,” she murmurs, her voice smooth, sultry. “But let’s not mix business and pleasure too soon, shall we?”
Cross smirks, his gaze sharp, assessing. For a moment, she wonders if he’ll push further - but then, just as she expected, he lets go.
Not because he respects boundaries - Cross respects nothing but power - but because she’s played the game well enough to intrigue him. To make him want more.
She steps back, adjusting the strap of her handbag, acting as though nothing happened. As though he didn’t just cross a line that makes her skin crawl.
She flashes him a slow, knowing smile. “Now, about that lunch.” she says, her voice effortlessly casual. “You really gave me an appetite.”
~~~
Cross picks up Erica’s cashmere coat from where he had carelessly draped it over the armchair and holds it open for her. His movements are smooth, effortless – once more every inch the gentleman. Erica slips her arms into the sleeves, keeping her posture poised as if nothing about this moment unsettles her.
“My pleasure.” he says, his voice warm, almost intimate. It’s a game, of course. Everything with Cross is.
They descend to the waiting car, the sleek black sedan pulling away from the curb with a silent hum. The ride is short - three minutes down Liberty Street - but the air inside the car feels heavier than it should. Erica keeps her gaze on the city outside, her reflection ghostly in the tinted glass.
Cross doesn’t speak, and neither does she. But she can feel him watching her, studying her, always calculating.
When they arrive at the Nieuw Amsterdam, one of the city’s most exclusive restaurants perched high above the skyline, the hush of power and money envelops them the moment they step into the express elevator. By the time the doors glide open on the 60th floor, the atmosphere shifts - opulent yet restrained, with an understated elegance that speaks to the kind of wealth most people will never touch.
Erica barely has time to take in the breathtaking view of the city stretching out beneath them before the maître d' is in motion. The man practically stumbles over himself in his eagerness to greet them, his polished smile widening when he sees Cross.
“Mr. Cross, welcome.” His voice is reverent. “Your table is ready.”
Of course it is.
Erica follows as they are led across the restaurant, past patrons who glance up at Cross, some with recognition, others merely sensing his presence. Power has a way of drawing eyes. Their table is set apart, positioned by the floor-to-ceiling windows, with ample space around it - privacy without isolation.
“This is…impressive.” Erica murmurs as she takes her seat, smoothing her napkin over her lap.
Cross watches her, his mouth curving slightly. “Only the best.”
A sommelier arrives with a bottle of Krug Clos du Mesnil, handling it with the care of a sacred offering. Cross barely nods, and within moments, champagne flutes are filled with golden liquid.
“Shall we toast?” he asks, lifting his glass.
Erica meets his gaze and raises hers. “To what?”
Cross smiles. “To a profitable future.”
She clinks her glass against his, the crisp chime hanging in the air. As the champagne touches her lips, cold and effervescent, she reminds herself that this is just another part of the performance.
The first course arrives - Oysters Rockefeller, their rich aroma mingling with the subtle tang of the sea. Cross picks up his fork and gestures for her to eat, watching as she takes the first bite.
“You seem at home here.” he muses.
Erica dabs her lips with the edge of her napkin. “A good lawyer knows how to navigate different worlds.”
Cross chuckles, clearly entertained. “And what do you think of mine?”
She takes a sip of champagne before answering. “Lavish. Powerful. Dangerous.”
His smirk deepens. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Erica holds his gaze, unflinching. “I go where the opportunities are.”
The second course arrives - Blue Crab & Caviar, plated with artistic precision. The conversation flows as they eat, but the undercurrent is always there. Cross is playing host, charming and generous, but beneath it, he’s assessing, always looking for leverage.
By the time the Lobster Quenelle is set before them, Erica finds herself hyper-aware of every movement, every glance, every calculated pause in Cross’s speech. He enjoys the game too much, the way he circles his prey with polite conversation and elegant surroundings.
Their final dish - Scotch Snails - arrives just as the early afternoon sun begins its slow descent on the skyline. Cross leans back in his chair, satisfaction evident in his posture.
“You handled today well, Erica.” he says, swirling the last of his champagne in his glass. “I think we’ll work well together.”
She meets his gaze with a slow smile, keeping her expression unreadable. “I’m sure we will.”
Cross glances at his watch, then signals for the check - not that he would ever be expected to sign anything here. Instead, a discreet nod to the maître d’ is all it takes.
“I have business to attend to.” he says, rising from his chair. “But my driver will take you back to your car.”
She stands as well, letting him pull her chair back. The air outside the restaurant is cooler, the city’s pulse steady beneath them.
As the sedan door closes behind her, Erica exhales, letting the tension slip from her shoulders just a fraction. Cross is powerful, dangerous, but predictable in his own way.
And that, more than anything, is what she’s counting on.
~~~
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