Stories of Tie Up Games

Dear @LunaDog, Erica is unmarried - has not been married - and is without a boyfriend. I stopped calling her "Miss Sinclair" a while ago when I figured that a woman of 35 is a little too old to be called "Miss". Is that a mistake on my part? In Germany we have given up the distinction between Miss and Mrs. ages ago.

Greaves pours the coffee, his movements unhurried. He doesn’t offer cream or sugar this time. Instead, he glances back at her as he sets the mug down.
“Say, Mrs. Sinclair,” he begins, the tone conversational, but something sharp glints beneath the surface. “Have you ever considered working for the government?”

Erica arches a brow.

“The State Department’s always looking for new talent,” Greaves says lightly, swirling his coffee as if it were a cocktail.
His tone is offhand, but Erica catches the glint behind his eyes - measured, strategic, and absolutely not casual.

Is this a compliment?
A bribe?
A velvet chain?

She wonders if he’s trying to box her in, bank on ambition, bait her with a sense of belonging - power disguised as purpose.
It’s the kind of offer designed to look like opportunity while tightening a golden collar around her neck.

Greaves studies her with a diplomat’s poise, a man used to playing the long game. His voice drops to something gentler - almost paternal. “There’s a place for people like you, Mrs. Sinclair. If you ever feel like making a difference from the inside...”
He lets it hang, then adds with a knowing smile, “My door is open.”

Erica doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away. There’s no elation, no temptation. Just a slow and calm exhale, as if she’s letting go of an invisible weight. What she feels is not triumph, but clarity.
“I appreciate the offer,” she says, her voice smooth, measured. “But I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
She adjusts the lapel of her blazer - no fidget, just assertion - and leans forward slightly. Her eyes sharpen, quiet steel behind them. “I’ve come to believe I do my best work untethered. I’m the captain of my soul, Mr. Greaves.”

For her, it is not about power, it is about choosing who she is - and keeping her soul intact.

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t scowl either. His expression remains unreadable - but the beat of silence says everything.
He had hoped.
He had aimed.
And missed.

Only a few moments later, the door opens with a gentle whoosh and Pamela Stevens returns, carrying two amended NDA copies. She hands them to Greaves, who barely glances at the pages before signing. His confidence in the bureaucracy is bordering on arrogance.

Pamela offers them to Erica next. Greaves holds out his elegant black pen, one that probably costs more than her first monthly rent out of college.
He nods as if trying to encourage Erica to sign them in good faith, but when it comes to important matters such as this one – there’s not a bit of good faith in her. “Hope,” her father had told her time and again “is not a method.”

Again, she scans the documents – both of them side by side – from top to bottom. Just in case.

Hartwell shifts uncomfortably in her seat.
Visibly impatient, barely containing her scowl, but Greaves sits back in appreciation, nodding faintly as if to say: That’s exactly what I’d do.

Finally satisfied, Erica takes the pen.
Her signature flows across the page - graceful, assertive, final.

“It was a pleasure doing business with you, Mrs. Sinclair,” he says as he hands one copy of the NDA to Pamela Stevens. “Pam will show you out.”

He stands and gives her a neutral nod.

Erica wishes she could say the same but knows that there is no need to antagonize him. Lifting her attaché case in a smooth motion she replies, professional but cool. “Thank you, Mr. Greaves.”
Then, from her case, she pulls the evidence minus the dog tags, the hard truths she fought to bring into the light.
“I’ll leave this in your care,” she says, placing it in front of him. “In case you need it for the files.”

There’s something final in the sound it makes as it touches the table, though only a soft thud.
She doesn’t wait for a response but follows Pamela Stevens out.


~~~


The door closes softly behind her as she steps into the hallway with Pamela Stevens. The air feels marginally warmer out here, but more than that - it feels like pressure has lifted, like someone cracked a window open.

They walk in silence past closed doors. At the next corridor, Pamela veers toward the restroom, gesturing politely. There’s no hostility from her - just procedural courtesy, which speaks volumes.

Erica nods and steps inside.
It’s empty, almost eerily quiet.
Her handbag, phone, and trench coat lay neatly on a chair by the wall, seemingly untouched.

While shrugging into her trench coat, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
There’s no swelling soundtrack, no Hollywood ending.
She doesn’t smile, doesn’t gloat.
She just looks - at her eyes, her face. She looks tired, but solid.
Grounded in her choice.
Herself.

Not a victor.
Not a martyr.
Just a daughter who held her ground.

The lines delivered by Teddy Roosevelt in his speech at the Sorbonne which Professor Kingsley had his students repeat like a mantra, creep back into her mind.
She remembers the rhythm.
She remembers how it made her feel like something mattered.
The world doesn’t care about clean wins or tidy endings.
It cares about blood and dust, and whether you showed up anyway.

“...who strives valiantly... who errs, who comes short again and again... because there is no effort without error and shortcoming...”

She is not triumphant.
But she had spent herself in a worthy cause.
And that, she says to herself, was enough.


~~~


The elevator glides down in silence. Erica and Pamela stand side by side, not quite facing each other.
“You held your own in there,” Pamela says finally, her voice low but sincere.
Erica offers a faint, dry smile. “I do try.”

The elevator doors slide open with a ding, revealing the dim concrete of the underground bunker of a parking garage.
As promised, her driver waits by the SUV, standing with military precision, his sunglasses still on.
He opens the rear passenger door for her.

“Goodbye, Mrs. Sinclair.” Pamela Stevens says, her voice professional once more as she walks back to the elevator, her footsteps sounding unnaturally loud in the silence.

Erica slips into the black SUV and leans back into the cushioned seat as the vehicle rolls up the ramp, entering daylight. The sky is clearing. Blue bleeds through where clouds had dominated just hours ago.

As the car pulls into the traffic, Erica lets the silence envelop her like a shawl.
She always hoped – prayed even - she’d never become one of those cold and timid souls who neither knew victory nor defeat.

Today, she stood in the arena, dared, and came out victorious.
Not for herself, but for men who couldn’t fight for themselves anymore.
It was, however, a quiet victory.
No one was cheering – no one would.
But she knows that the victory was hers.


~~~


The drive to Andrews Air Force Base unfolds in muted shades of grey and chrome. Outside, D.C. slips by - clean sidewalks, federal flags flapping crisply in the spring breeze - but Erica barely registers any of it.

She leans back against the smooth leather upholstery, her head tipped slightly to the side, eyes closed. Her driver with the cheerful monotone of someone trained not to ask questions - chatters about the traffic on I-95 and his daughter’s soccer game this weekend.
His words blur into white noise.

Erica’s hands rest on the brown leather attaché case beside her. It's not particularly large, but it feels like it’s made of stone with the signed NDA inside weighing heavily.

When they arrive at Joint Base Andrews, the black Suburban glides through the gate. The driver flashes a badge, and they're getting waved through without a second glance with the soldier at the barrier snapping to attention, saluting smartly as they pass.
Government machinery at its best.

Waiting on the tarmac is the same sleek, silver jet from earlier that morning. It glints in the sun like a blade. The same agent from the morning stands near the stairs, offering a brisk nod.
Erica thanks her driver, then climbs the narrow staircase, the wind tugging lightly at her coat. Halfway up, she glances back - just once - at the airfield before stepping inside.

The door seals behind her. Moments later, the turbines scream to life.
As the jet rolls to the runway, she tightens her grip on the case. It’s not fear. It's the importance of the document.
The jet accelerates hard. The wheels lift, and the world below drops away.

No triumph. No thrill.
Just altitude.

~~~

Jenny_S wrote: 1 week ago Dear @LunaDog, Erica is unmarried - has not been married - and is without a boyfriend. I stopped calling her "Miss Sinclair" a while ago when I figured that a woman of 35 is a little too old to be called "Miss". Is that a mistake on my part? In Germany we have given up the distinction between Miss and Mrs. ages ago.

Makes sense. Sorry i asked, but as usual you've cleared up any confusion here. And it's YOUR story, not mine. It's entirely up to you if you chose to use, like the equivalent of a 'stage name' i guess. John Wayne, for example was not the name that the gentleman in question was born with.

To this latest part of the story. Erica didn't 'win' anything here, she simply stood here ground and therefore she, or rather because of her, Colonel Sinclair didn't lose. Because of her, his reputation is still publicly intact, as it damn well deserves to be.

Dear @LunaDog, thank you so much for bringing this up. You know that I put a lot of work into creating an authentic and realistic atmosphere with my stories and when I changed from "Miss" to "Mrs.", I fully overlooked that in the USA there also is the "Ms." (pronounced "Mizz"), appropriate for a woman over a certain age or one whose marital status one doesn't know.
So I will correct my mistake and change from "Mrs." to "Ms.".

The term 'Ms' is widely used in the U.K too.

Dear @LunaDog, I will use it in my stories as well as it is the appropriate way to address Erica.

However, please don't let this very small matter, which you have accepted and agreed to address, diminish in any way the absolute respect i possess for your outstanding writing abilities.

Dear @LunaDog, no worries. I appreciate your constructive feedback. It helps me improve my writing and take it to the next level.

LaGuardia greets her with its usual chaos, but this time, no flashing lights part the sea of honking yellow cabs.
Her new driver doesn’t speak.
He just drives, weaving silently through traffic with a grim efficiency that suits the mood.

By the time they pull up in front of 135 West 72nd, the sun has dipped low, casting long shadows between the buildings.

Erica unlocks the door to her apartment and steps inside.

For a moment - just one - she freezes.

Then, Claire’s voice drifts over from the living room.
Gentle. Nurturing.
“I’m sure mommy’s going to be home soon,” she coos, her tone playful and absurdly tender.

Seconds later, the quiet is broken by a blur of fur.
Tiger and Spot come tearing around the corner, meowing and purring, their claws tapping madly on the polished hardwood floor. They skid around her legs in chaotic joy, pawing at her skirt and pulling at the hem like toddlers desperate for attention.
She nearly stumbles and laughs under her breath, dropping her bags to scratch them behind their ears, her hands getting nudged by the tiny furry heads.

Claire appears at the living room door, already gathering her things. “Glad you’re home,” she says, clearly preparing to excuse herself.
As she tries to slip out, Erica stops her.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

Claire tilts her head, curious but open, half expecting to be asked if anything of importance had come up at the office while she was away.
“Of course.”

Erica brushes a strand of hair out of her face. She feels the tiredness settling deeper now that she's home, but there’s something she needs to get off her chest.
The walls of her apartment, warm and curated, wrap around her like a well-fitted coat: smooth wood tones, the scent of lavender, the quiet hum of life paused mid-thought.

“I wanted to say I’m sorry,” Erica says. “For dragging you into my personal mess the other day. I know it’s not part of the job description.”

Claire’s brow lifts. “Don’t mention it,” she says easily. “Anything for you.”

“I know,” Erica says, her voice barely above a whisper. “That’s what you always say. I’m still... I don’t know. I’m just feeling bad about it.”

Claire gives a small shrug. “You don’t need to.”

Erica glances around the apartment - her sanctuary, her fortress.
There are maybe three people on Earth she’d ever let into this space after she moved in.
Claire being one of them.
Not just because she’s capable.
But because she has earned her trust and Erica knows that she empathically sees through her armor.

“Don’t,” Claire repeats, gently. She softly lays a hand on Erica’s arm, then, instinctively, withdraws it.
“You know, Erica, if we weren’t boss and employee… we might even be friends.”
She laughs nervously, a touch embarrassed. “That sounded less weird in my head.”

Erica’s breath catches.
Not in surprise, but in recognition.
Because she’s thought the same thing.
Claire is more than capable - she’s steady.
Empathetic.
Present, even when others duck away.
And more than that, she’s someone who has stayed.

Her mind flashes briefly to Andrea Santos, her childhood friend - the only person who truly knows how she was before the world taught her to hide.
Claire could be that too.
Maybe not the same.
But similar.
Real.

Claire sees her.
Not the attorney.
Not the grieving daughter.
Just… her.

“It’s alright, Claire,” Erica says softly. Then, with a slight smile: “Can I treat you to dinner? Just to say thank you. For being there.”

Claire nods. A little too fast, maybe. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Erica exhales slowly, and the knot in her chest loosens - just a little.


~~~


The kitchen is warm, lit by soft downlights that cast golden reflections off the marble countertops. Outside, the city hums, but up here, everything feels quieter.
Safer.

Claire leans against the counter, arms lightly folded, watching Erica move through the well-appointed space. Erica opens the pantry with purpose, retrieves a jar of peeled San Marzano tomatoes, a small bundle of garlic, and pieces of Serrano bacon.
She looks like someone who has done this dish hundreds of times, going about as if on autopilot.
“I hope you’re hungry,” Erica says over her shoulder.

Claire smiles. “I’m starving. And curious.”

Erica raises an eyebrow. “Curious?”

“I’ve never seen you cook.”

Erica chuckles softly and sets a pan on the stove. “That’s because I usually don’t have visitors over.”

Soon, the scent of garlic sizzling in olive oil along with chopped onions and browned Serrano bits fills the kitchen. Erica pours in the tomatoes, crushing them by hand as they fall. She stirs the sauce, then checks the spaghetti simmering on the other burner. As the pasta reaches near perfection, she scoops them into the sauce to finish them off - low and steady, like her voice when she speaks again.

“My father told me this was something my mother used to make,” she says quietly.
Erica stirs the sauce like it is muscle memory. “Simple. Rib-sticking. Something you could eat even when the world felt like it was falling apart.”

Claire looks up, surprised by the softness in Erica’s tone.

“I never knew her,” Erica adds, almost as an afterthought. “She died when I was two.”
The words hang in the air, suspended like steam over the stove.

Claire doesn’t speak.
She doesn’t need to.
Her stillness is comforting.
Grounding.

Erica pauses at the stove, spoon in hand. Realizing what she’s said, she draws a quick breath and lets it out slowly. “Sorry. That probably sounded more sentimental than I meant it to.”

“No, it didn’t.” Claire says gently. “It sounded real.”

Erica nods once and reaches for the shredded mix of Mozzarella and Parmigiano. She turns back to the deep pan, her movements quieter now. More deliberate.


~~~


With the cooking done, the two women settle on the couch, bowls in hand, glasses of Nero d’Avola catching the warm light. The wine is bold and earthy, like the dish itself.
A pairing meant to comfort.

Tiger and Spot tumble across the carpet, pawing at each other and climbing over their jungle gym like tiny gladiators. Their playful chaos adds a low background hum, a kind of domestic punctuation.

“This is delicious,” Claire says, mouth half-full. “I’ll have to come over more often to sample your cuisine.”

Erica laughs softly. “Thanks for the compliment. Actually, I enjoy cooking.”

Claire takes a sip of wine, then looks at her carefully over the rim of her glass.
“Can I ask you something? Is everything okay with… your father?”

The air stills slightly.

Erica sets her bowl down on the table, wipes her mouth with the corner of a napkin. Then she nods.
“Yes. It’s… settled.” She glances at Claire, searching her face for something - doubt, maybe, or worry.
But there’s none.
Only quiet attention.
And something in that gaze disarms her.

She sits back into the couch, letting the silence stretch. It feels good - strangely good - to not explain everything. To not perform strength.

Claire doesn’t need her to explain.
Or pretend.
She just listens.
And somehow, that’s the part Erica didn’t know she needed.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed just… this,” Erica says, her voice lower now. “Sharing space with someone who doesn’t judge. Who’s just here.”

Claire says nothing.
But her small smile says enough.

They don’t fill the silence. They let it settle, soft as a blanket. Some truths need no narration.


~~~


Later, at the door, Claire shrugs into her coat, wine still warm in her chest. She picks up her tote bag, turning to leave.
“Thanks again,” she says softly. “Not just for dinner. For letting me in a little.”

“It’s not something I do easily,” Erica admits.

“I know.”

They stand by the door for a long moment.

Then, instinctively, they step toward each other… and hug.
It’s brief.
Gentle.
No performance, no drama.
Just a brief moment of emotional warmth shared between two people who have just gotten to know each other better.
Their arms linger for a moment too long before they pull back at the same time - sudden, awkward, unsure.
They both half-smile.
Not embarrassed.
But maybe surprised.

“Good night, Erica,” Claire says.
Erica takes back half a pace. “Good night. I’ll see you at the office in the morning.”

Claire steps into the hallway, and Erica closes the door behind her with a soft finality.

~~~

Two REAL friends. There for each other, who've got each others back, if necessary. Nothing more needs to be said

Dear @LunaDog, initially just a side character in the stories, Claire Messner has become more and more important and she has grown into a favorite with many readers. For Erica and Claire, their relationship as employer and employee might still be keeping them from calling each other friends, but we will see how they continue.

Alone again except for two kittens snoring softly in their bed, Erica sits on the couch, curled up in the corner like a woman not ready to re-enter the world just yet.
The kitchen is silent now.
Dishes rinsed.
Counters wiped down.
Even the washing machine hums only like background static.

In her hand, the stem of the glass rests delicately between two fingers. She swirls the remaining wine and stares into it as if it might speak back.

The apartment is quiet now, but not lonely.

The hug replays in her mind.
She hadn’t planned it.
Neither of them had.
It was… honest.
Unfiltered.
Which somehow made it terrifying.

Letting someone in always comes at a cost. But tonight, it didn’t feel like weakness.
It felt like breathing.

She thinks of the look in Claire’s eyes - concern, yes, but not pity. Understanding.
And then her mind drifts to the words she once told herself over and over again, like a war chant: “You don’t get to have both. It’s either the mission or the heart.”
But maybe - just maybe – she’s been wrong about this.

She sips the wine, savoring its depth, gets up and on bare feet, pads across the polished hardwood floor to the cabinet.
Her eyes drift to the photo on the top shelf, her parents, both smiling, on a picnic blanket and baby Erica toddling between them. Her fingertips graze the edge of the silver frame.

“I’m trying, Dad,” she whispers.
Not for approval.
Not for redemption.
For herself.

On Sunday, she’ll go to Arlington to bring him the truth and the silence and maybe a flower or two. But tonight - she lets herself feel.
She throws her head back, exhales, and lets the weight of solitude shift into something else.

Then Erica turns toward the couch, scoops up Spot, and presses her face into his fur.
No words.
Just breath.
And home.

~~~

Yet again your superb A.I. drawing captures the mood perfectly. Erica looks unsure of something, and that's the point, about precisely what, she knows not.

Dear @LunaDog, thank you for the praise. It took a while to train the AI so it has Erica's look, posture and the surroundings down, but now the images start looking kind of alright.
I'm not sure if I'll be able to illustrate all future stories as richly as I did with "Trek of Tears" due to the time it takes to create the images, but this particular story (and the one following) is very special for me.

We'll finish this story tomorrow so we can start with "Erica Sinclair - Family Ties" on Sunday.

However, as a special treat for all my readers and to celebrate the 10.000+ views on this story, there's going to be an image I kept for a special occasion and no better occasion than the ending of the "Trek of Tears".

Stay tuned, dear readers.

Epilogue:

The sky above Arlington is steel-gray – neither mournful nor forgiving. Just still.

Erica walks alone.

Her moccasins whisper along the path, the only sound in the hush of the morning.
There’s a light breeze, just enough to stir the rows of tiny flags and carry the scent of fresh-cut grass through the air.
The wind fingers her scarf, light and persistent, like memory refusing to be ignored.

She carries no umbrella.
Her handbag is slung over one shoulder, a single long-stemmed white lily in one hand - and in the pocket of her coat, her father’s green beret.

The rows of white stones stretch endlessly in both directions.
Clean.
Ordered.
As if death, too, had to follow protocol here.

She knows exactly where to go.
Section 60.
Row 13.
Marker 247.
Colonel Owen Sinclair, U.S. Army, Special Missions Unit.

The stone is simple. Military standard.
Nothing more.
But the ground beneath it feels heavier than the others, as if its silence still presses outward.

Erica stands in front of it for a moment.
Not moving.
Not speaking.

Then, finally, she kneels.
The earth is damp from last night’s rain. The scent of wet earth rises, mingling with the faint traces of her lavender perfume.
She lays the lily gently against the base of the marker.
A pause.
With her hand she brushes away a small leaf clinging to the top of the stone, almost like a gesture of grooming.

“Hello, Dad.”
Her voice is low.
Steady.
Laced with love.

She draws in a breath and sits back on her heels, resting her hands on her thighs.

“I went to Ngabo and Mbeke. Mama M’batha showed me the old mission in the jungle, and we walked the Trek of Tears. They told me you were a hero,” she says, oblivious to the other visitors nearby - a man in a navy blazer carrying a folded flag under one arm, an elderly woman holding a small wreath in trembling hands. But she doesn’t care if they hear her or not.

“They wanted to throw you under the bus to make a political deal. Strip your medals. Dig you up. Can you believe that?”
Her voice catches on the word.
“When they sent me that letter, I wished I could have asked you what the right thing to do might be, but I knew you’d tell me to fight and to never, never, never give up. You know, like the third lioness on Noah’s Ark as it’s starting to rain.”
She swallows hard.
Now she knows what it costs to hold the line. “And we won, Dad.”

A gust of wind pulls her coat tighter around her.
She doesn’t react.
She’s too deep in it now.
Her hands tremble, but her jaw sets.
Her eyes are dry – but inside her, a storm gathers.

Her fingers touch the Rolex dive watch on her left wrist.
Once more, she can hear her father’s voice, low but warm, telling her to always stand for something.
“I promised you, Dad, and I’ll never let you down.”
Hands curling into fists in her lap, she whispers “I just want you to be proud of me.”

The wind settles. The world grows quiet again.
A long silence follows.
Then, she rises slowly, brushing slightly over her knees.
The lily remains at the base of the headstone, white against the green and gray.

She takes another look at her father’s grave marker, straightens, takes a single step back, then pauses, almost like a silent salute.
“De oppresso liber,” she says. “The noblest cause in the world.”
She bites her lower lip.
One tear rises, then falls.

Erica starts back down the path toward the parking area. The air feels a touch warmer now. The sky, a little brighter.

She doesn't look back.
She doesn’t have to, because she knows that her father is at peace.
Mission accomplished.

She walks away, not lighter, not unburdened - but whole.
And for once, that’s everything.



The End
…but Erica Sinclair will be back in the gripping story “Erica Sinclair - Family Ties”

Dear readers,
Erica Sinclair's journey isn't over. Please allow me to invite you over to her new adventure "Erica Sinclair - Family Ties": viewtopic.php?t=24241

Also, please let me thank you for being such a sincere crowd.
When I started writing these stories back in the days of the pandemic, they were not meant to be published. It was @BoundJana who invited me to TUG and, in a sense, it's her fault that I started sharing my stories with you.
I'm glad I did, and I am happy to see that you enjoy them.
Thank you so much for staying with me and for rooting for Erica.

I promised you something to celebrate the breaking of the 10.000 views barrier of "Trek of Tears" and here it is, an image of Erica Sinclair which - at least I think so - captures her spirit espcially well.
Again, thank you and enjoy!

Love,
Jenny

A superb ending to what has been a truly magnificent tale. If frightening at times, just demonstrating, as i've said before, the very REAL influence of the power of money in this world. To think, if Erica wasn't so determined or accomplished the 'system' would have fully permitted the total injustice of allowing the deserved proud record of a total hero, a man dedicated to doing the 'right thing' to be besmirched. Completely incorrectly, and for what? To appease some 'tin pot' dictator, someone who has no respect of human rights, and purely for financial considerations. Yes, i know this was fiction, but unfortunately this sort of thing does occur in real life.

Thank you for that parting drawing, in fact it's safe to say your superb illustrations bring a further, welcome, dimension to your remarkable tales, please continue. And i truly thank @BoundJana for her role in all this!

So, am i going to check out the new 'Erica' story? Well, what do you all think...........