Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing (M/F)

[LunaDog]

COWABUNGA! There's so many references to pizza in this story, earlier Erica had brought some in for the 3 girls, that i'm surprised that the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles haven't made a guest appearance!

[Caesar73]

COWABUNGA! There's so many references to pizza in this story, earlier Erica had brought some in for the 3 girls, that i'm surprised that the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles haven't made a guest appearance!

Good one dear Friend! And agreed!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, Andrea prefers Pizza Mista (the one "with everything" on it) from La Cucina. In tomorrow's episode, you will read this:

"La Cucina, Erica knows, is Andrea’s favorite Italian restaurant, a little hole-in-the-wall in the West Village that, besides serving authentic Italian cuisine, offers surprisingly quick take-away. Pizza Mista is Andrea’s pizza of choice, the one “with everything.”
Erica is convinced that the cooks just scrape the day's leftovers onto the dough, top it with a generous mountain of shredded mozzarella, and shove it into the fiery brick oven. But if it makes her hacker genius friend happy – so be it."

La Cucina, like Schaller's German bakery, are places I have made up, but are so typically New Yorkish, I wouldn't be surprised if they actually existed.

Dear @LunaDog, can you imagine me rolling on the floor laughing? Because your comment just made me do that. Maybe next time, Erica should call the turtles, not Drea.

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog, can you imagine me rolling on the floor laughing? Because your comment just made me do that. Maybe next time, Erica should call the turtles, not Drea.

A couple of amusing stories concerning the 'heroes in a half-shell.'

As you know i'm somewhat of an 'old git,' and was married for the first time as the turtles became big for the first time, the late 1980s/early 1990s. I had a stepson aged about 7 or 8 while this was happening who was well into them. Anyway, my parents came to visit one day and mum was VERY impressed that John seemed to keep referring to Michael-Angelo, ( his favourite out of the 4 of them, ) who of course was not the Italian Renaissance artist, who painted the famous ceiling of the Sistine Chapel within the Vatican, that she thought he was talking about. So she asked him, 'just who is Michael-Angelo,' expecting an answer like, 'a famous painter' or something that like, only to be informed, 'why, the party-dude of course!' In those days, of course, one didn't have the ability to snap a quick picture like you do with modern smartphones available now, shame, because mum's face was a RIGHT picture!

John's response came from the song accompanying the T.V. show, specifically the part

Leonardo leads, Donatello does machines,
Raphael is cool but shrewd, Michael-Angelo is the party dude!



On a different occasion i was once watching an episode of a T.V. series about big business mistakes and 'cock-ups.' In this particular show they were talking to the main boss at the time of Palitoy, the company responsible for the highly successful 'Action Man' figure. He revealed that he had been offered the rights to manufacture all of the figures from the T.M.N.T. franchise, for a very good deal. HE TURNED IT DOWN! As he went on to comment, about 6 months later he was at a toy festival and just KNEW he'd screwed up BIG TIME!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thanks for the cool story from your past. Early 1990s... I guess, I missed the Turtles craze by a few years.

[Jenny_S]

The Volvo hums steadily as Erica drives back to the city, the receding Scarsdale landscape replaced by a growing sense of urgency.
Wallingham’s threats, a venomous whisper in her ear, still prick at her resolve, not for herself, but for the faces of Claire, Holly, and the others that flash in her mind’s eye.
The thought of their livelihoods being systematically choked off by Loudon’s money and Wallingham’s malice gnaws at her.
The sullen silence in the car is a heavy blanket, a reflection of the many things weighing her down.

As the first, iconic high-rises of the Manhattan skyline begin to pierce the distant haze, her phone buzzes, a sudden, sharp vibration against the dashboard. Her eyes flick to the caller ID: “Drea.”
A jolt of adrenaline, raw and undeniable, shoots through her.
She snatches the phone from its cradle, pulling the black Volvo over to the shoulder of the parkway with a decisive flick of the wheel.

“Yes,” she snaps, her voice betraying a good deal more excitement than her disciplined facade usually allows.

Andrea Santos is her usual self, a whirlwind of witty, quirky energy.
The favor her best friend had asked of her, the digital dive into the murky depths of a rich predator, was just down her alley, a puzzle perfectly suited to her genius.

“Ricky! What about my pizza!” Andrea practically cries, a mock wail of hunger, but then her tone shifts, a sudden, conspiratorial edge entering her voice. “Drop by. Now. I’ve got something you will definitely want to see.”

Erica glances at her Rolex, the cool steel against her wrist grounding her. “I’ll pick up the pizza on the way. Be there in 45 minutes, okay?”

“God, I’m starving. My code is running on fumes!” Andrea groans dramatically into her phone, then, without another word, ends the call.

La Cucina, Erica knows, is Andrea’s favorite Italian restaurant, a little hole-in-the-wall in the West Village that, besides serving authentic Italian cuisine, offers surprisingly quick take-away.
Pizza Mista is Andrea’s pizza of choice, the one “with everything.”
Erica is convinced that the cooks just scrape the day's leftovers onto the dough, top it with a generous mountain of shredded mozzarella, and shove it into the fiery brick oven.
But if it makes her hacker genius friend happy – so be it.

Precisely 43 minutes later, a large, warm pizza carton balanced precariously in one hand, Erica rings the bell on a nondescript, heavy steel door of a nondescript red brick building in Tribeca.
She looks into the small, unblinking camera mounted in the top left corner of the massive door, the lens a tiny, impersonal eye scrutinizing her.
The metallic clacking of half a dozen locks and deadbolts, a series of satisfying, mechanical thuds and clicks, precedes the door swinging inward with a low groan, revealing a sliver of dimly lit hallway.


~~~


Without further ado, Andrea snatches the pizza box out of Erica’s hand, her eyes shining with mischievous triumph. “Come in, come in!” she chirps, already tearing the first slice free from the steaming pie. “You know the way. Don’t mind the… usual ambience.”

A narrow, almost labyrinthine corridor, surprisingly cool and smelling faintly of ozone and old dust, leads to Andrea’s laboratory.
It's less a room and more a digital war command center, crammed full of humming computers, towering rows of monitors, and an array of bizarre, unidentifiable electronic devices that gleam ominously in the dim light.
LEDs blink in a frantic, mesmerizing dance of yellow, red, blue, and green, casting a surreal, pulsing glow across the cluttered space. Each blink seems to hold a secret, a fragment of raw data.

“Have a seat,” Andrea says, her mouth full of pizza, gesturing vaguely toward the two ergonomic gaming chairs.
She perches atop one, a queen on her digital throne, while Erica, ever composed, pulls up the other, smooths the skirt of her tailored suit, and lowers herself into the surprisingly comfortable seat.

A second slice of pizza, already rolled up and halfway into her mouth, Andrea looks at her friend, a knowing glint in her eyes.
She’s almost killing Erica with this little show, the dramatic tension building to an almost unbearable pitch.
The air crackles with unspoken information.

“Okay,” Andrea finally says, swallowing with an audible gulp.
Her voice drops, losing its earlier flippancy, becoming sharp and focused. “I managed to slice into the system of the Wyoming State Police.”

Erica is just about to open her mouth, a sharp, questioning retort already forming on her tongue – Wyoming? Why Wyoming? – when Andrea continues, a triumphant smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.
“I made an inquiry from their system – a back-door, untraceable query – to the NYPD’s database, looking for any file containing the name of Gary Loudon… and it came back with seventeen files, Ricky.”
She pronounces the number with a flourish, a magician revealing her greatest trick.

She pulls a thick, vibrating stack of xerox copies from the output tray of her industrial-grade laser printer and shoves it across the desk toward Erica. “These are the screenshots I made. Every single one.”

While Andrea launches into a rapid-fire, almost breathless monologue about the complexity of the digital stunt she pulled, the layers of firewalls bypassed, the obscure protocols exploited, Erica’s eyes are already devouring the printouts.
Her hands, surprisingly steady, page through the stack.
She instantly recognizes the familiar details of Lucy Arden and Christine Allison’s cases, their names stark on the pages.
But the other fifteen… the other fifteen are the overkill.
The ammunition she needs to blow Cord Wallingham out of the water, to protect her employees, and to ensure justice for Lucy.

“Good grief,” she whispers, the words barely audible, a gasp of horror and profound relief.
Names, addresses, photos of bruises and welts, charges filed and mysteriously withdrawn, women from all over the city, spanning years – and the same chilling narrative popping up in all of them: a seemingly innocent pickup in a bar, a quick rendezvous, then an invitation back to Loudon’s luxurious home. Initial consent, followed by the terrifying moment he dropped his charming mask, and the encounter culminated in violence, bondage, humiliation. And then, after the police inevitably came calling at Loudon’s door, the young women, one after another, withdrew their charges, the investigations abruptly closed.

Erica swallows hard, her throat dry, a cold fury beginning to coalesce deep within her.
The pattern is undeniable.
The sheer audacity of the cover-ups, the systemic suppression of justice, is sickening.
If she can convince only a few of these traumatized girls to step forward, to reclaim their voices, Messmore Loudon and his attack dog won’t be able to sweep this under the rug.
Not anymore.
This is a landslide waiting to happen.


~~~


Erica stares at the stack of printouts, a cold dread warring with a fierce, burning triumph.
"God," she whispers again, the word a reverent, horrified exhale. "This is exactly what I've been hoping for. More than I dared to hope for, really."

The individual experiences, laid bare in stark black and white, are horrifying: detailed accounts of terror, humiliation, and quiet suffering.
Each page, a testament to a life scarred by Gary Loudon.
The sheer scale of his predation, meticulously documented by Andrea’s genius, is sickening.
But within that horror, Erica sees the opening, the leverage she needs, the chance to strike back not just for Lucy, but for all of them.

Her work for the next day, and likely several days after, is clearly cut out.
Her primary task: to contact these women.
To earn their trust, to convince them, one by one, to revisit their trauma, to step forward, to sign an affidavit, to stand with Lucy and Christine.
It will not – in no way – make what they had to go through undone, but it might bring them a measure of justice, a feeling of validation, and, perhaps, a profound sense of closure.
She grips the stack tighter, a silent promise to each name on those pages.

Later that evening, the stack of printouts, now a weighty burden beneath her arm, feels heavier than any legal brief as Erica arrives home.

The city's hum is a distant lullaby, and the familiar scent of linen, leather, and lavender from her apartment envelops her as she pushes open the door.

She has barely stepped across the threshold when a whirlwind on soft paws comes barreling toward her from the living room, a blur of joyful, demanding fur.

Meowing insistently, Spot, the black one, and Tiger, the striped grey, weave frantic figure eights around her feet, literally making her stumble in her tired state.
A choked laugh escapes her as she deftly scoops them up with her free hand, dropping her bag with a soft thud.
She buries her face in their soft, purring fur, inhaling the comforting scent of cat dander and warmth.
Their tiny bodies, vibrating with pure, unadulterated affection, are an immediate balm to the raw edges of her day.

This.
This is home,
This is peace,
This is what a sanctuary, a bastion against the chaos and cruelty of the world outside, is truly supposed to look like.
The silence of her apartment, broken only by contented purrs, wraps around her, a much-needed yet fragile shield.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Despite all the turmoil present in Erica's world at present, the need to bring Wallingham down, or to be more accurate to prevent him from destroying said world, it's reassuring to know that, the totally innocent and unknowing of all this stress, kittens are ALWAYS there in the background.

I already was of the opinion that the late Gary Loudon was a total scumbag, largely because of his so-called caring father turning a 'blind eye,' but to THIS extent?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, in the early stories, Erica used her private self-bondage sessions as a tool to find relief for stress, now the kittens are bringing her the much-needed calm.

We also learn that Gary Loudon has been picking up girls over the course of several years. What happened to Lucy and Christine was not an isolated event. How much Loudon Sr. knew about this remains unknown, but it is safe to assume that he will have been informed about his son being interviewed by the police.

[LunaDog]

We also learn that Gary Loudon has been picking up girls over the course of several years. What happened to Lucy and Christine was not an isolated event. How much Loudon Sr. knew about this remains unknown, but it is safe to assume that he will have been informed about his son being interviewed by the police.

Which Messmore Loudon could have stopped early on IF he'd been enough of a man. Like i commented earlier, even if he hadn't gone so far as to allow his vile offspring's prosecution, he could have warned Gary NEVER to behave like that again, upon the threat of not blocking justice if Gary was to be so stupid. And offering the female victim in question full financial compensation even if blocking her obtaining justice, partially paid for by the seizure and sale of something Gary treasured, like his favourite car for example, to REALLY ram the message home. However he chose not to, and yes i agree with your assumption that, apart from the very first few times possibly, he was completely aware of just what was going on. To my mind, he is almost as responsible, if not quite so directly, as his animal son.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Gary Loudon could have benefitted from someone like you advising him when his father didn't.

[LunaDog]

Dear @LunaDog, Gary Loudon could have benefitted from someone like you advising him when his father didn't.

Problem is does anybody think for one moment that such a conceited, entitled wanker would take a blind bit of notice of anything the likes of me said to him? But his father threatening to allow the police to prosecute, or withdrawing his money, now THAT would have made him sit up and pay attention.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, maybe we're looking at a case of monkey love - excessive, overprotecting - well-meant, but ultimately outright wrong.

[Jenny_S]

The pre-dawn light is barely a smudge against the eastern sky as Erica's running shoes hit the pavement of West 72nd Street.
Her morning run, a familiar ritual, carries her through the waking quiet of the Upper West Side, then into the vast, still expanse of Central Park.
Her breath plumes in the cool air, her muscles singing with effort as she pushes through the miles.
Each stride is a deliberate expulsion of the lingering tension from Wallingham's threats, a mental preparation for the grueling work of contacting those seventeen women.
The physical exertion clears her mind, sharpening her focus, forging her into the unyielding instrument she needs to be.

As she returns home, her skin tingling from the exertion, the hot shower cleanses her.
The steam rises, washing away the sweat, the lingering chill of the morning air, and the residue of the preceding day’s battles.
A slight, invigorating fragrance of orange and mint, from her custom-blended body wash, remains on her skin, a subtle awakening.

She steps from the shower, wrapping a thick, plush towel around her midsection, and looks at herself in the bathroom mirror, her reflection a study in lean, athletic power.
A faint smirk touches her lips as she playfully flexes her biceps, admiring the definition of muscle.

Her hair, still damp, is brushed back into her trademark high, sleek ponytail – a style of both discipline and practicality.
Then, with precise movements, she begins to apply her makeup, a ritual of transformation.
This isn't just cosmetics, it's her war paint, carefully applied layers designed to project an unbreachable front to the world.

In the kitchen, the coffee pad machine growls and sputters, a familiar morning soundtrack, as it fills her favorite mug.
While it brews, she whips herself up a light, functional breakfast: quick oats with a warming drizzle of maple syrup and a sprinkle of cinnamon.
Fuel for the fight ahead.

She carries mug and bowl over to the living room and settles onto the cool, black leather couch.
The city outside is now fully awake, but her apartment remains a haven of quiet.
Her gaze softens as she watches Spot and Tiger, huddled into a perfectly synchronized ball of black and striped grey fur, sleeping soundly in their fluffy bed by the air duct, their tiny paws twitching occasionally with dreams of chasing unseen mice.

These two small, purring critters have brought a massive, unexpected joy into her life, helping her to deal with the relentless stress and emotional toll her job carries in ways she had never thought possible.
Their unconditional affection, their simple, demanding presence, had filled a void, offering a different kind of solace.

She realizes, with a quiet, internal admission, that it’s been a long time since she had felt the need to visit the familiar, hard-edged comfort of the plastic bin with ropes and handcuffs stored under her bed.
Not since Spot and Tiger had moved in and rooted themselves into her life.
They were anchors, pulling her towards a lighter, possibly healthier, way of coping.

Erica rinses the dishes in the sink, placing them silently in the dishwasher, then hangs the towel neatly in the bathroom.
Padding naked and on bare feet across the polished hardwood, she enters her bedroom, pulling open the built-in closet.
Here, her professional armor for the day awaits.

"Monochromatic," Andrea Santos calls most of her wardrobe, consisting mostly of muted, powerful colors: charcoal, deepest black, steel grey, and midnight blue.
These are not merely clothes; they are uniforms, chosen to project unwavering competence and authority. They are precisely what a client expects to see when meeting Erica Sinclair: utterly prepared, utterly competent.

Her fingers brush against the cool steel of her Rolex dive watch, its familiar weight on her palm a grounding presence.
The simple engraving on the caseback, “Stand for something or fall for anything”, a constant, tactile reminder of the values she promised her father – and herself – she would always embody, feels sharper today than ever.
She clasps the watch around her wrist, the precise click a small punctuation mark to her readiness, and then she slips the gold class ring of her alma mater onto her right ring finger, its polished surface reflecting the faint light.

A quick, final glance at the mirror in her bedroom. The woman looking back at her, tall and athletic, eyes sharp, expression resolute, is ready.
Ready to do what needs to be done.
Ready to face Wallingham, ready to find and rally the silent victims, ready to demand justice.


~~~


The elevator door slides open with a soft sigh, revealing the polished, hushed lobby of Sinclair & Associates on the 25th floor of the steel and glass high-rise on Park Avenue.
The quiet elegance of the space, usually a source of calm pride for Erica, feels slightly different today, a heightened sensitivity to its fragility.
Erica rolls her right shoulder, adjusting the familiar weight of her handbag, and steps out, allowing the faint, crisp scent of fresh oranges from the HVAC system to envelop her.
It’s their signature scent, meant to project freshness and subtly invigorate.

“Good morning, Ms. Sinclair,” Holly Beck, their young, perpetually cheerful receptionist, greets Erica from behind her gleaming desk.
However, Holly’s smile, usually a bright spark, seems a little more tentative this morning.

Erica offers a curt, professional nod in recognition. “Good morning, Holly.”

On her way down the hallway to her own office, her heels making soft, rhythmic clicks on the marble floor, she passes Claire’s desk.
The morning mail is already there, neatly stacked, a small, organized monument to daily routine.
Her assistant is nowhere to be seen, probably getting herself a cup of coffee in the break room.

Erica closes the frosted glass door behind her, the soft click a punctuation mark in the quiet room.
She sets her bag down under her polished mahogany desk and hangs her trench coat on the sleek coat rack, the subtle scent of its dry-cleaning mingling with the faint traces of orange giving in to the smell of lavender in her personal office.

After a brief, polite knock on the door, Claire slides into the room.
Even with her back to her, Erica feels it – a subtle shift in the air, a prickle of unease that instantly overrides the lingering scent of orange.
Something is amiss.
“Hello, Erica.” Claire’s voice is softer than usual, a quiet urgency underlying her tone.

“Good morning, Claire,” Erica replies, forcing herself to sound cheerful, her voice a little too bright.
Then, unable to maintain the pretense, she adds, her eyes narrowing. “If it is a good morning…”

Her assistant walks to the desk, her movements stiff, and places the stack of mail down.

Erica’s gaze immediately fixates on the uppermost envelope, instantly recognizing both the worried, almost pained expression on Claire’s face, and the distinctive, stark logo of Thorogood & Sons – her firm’s most important, longest-standing client.

Without Claire saying another word, Erica’s hand shoots out, snatching up the piece of mail.
Her fingers, quick and decisive, pull the formal, cream-colored letter free.

It takes her only one look to grasp the devastating truth.

The brief, formal sentences, expressing their "deepest regrets" and citing an unfortunate "change of priorities," hit her with the force of a physical blow.
Thorogood & Sons, a client they’d represented for years, a cornerstone of their revenue, is withdrawing representation.
Effective immediately.
No warning, no discussion, just a cold, calculated termination.

“I wonder what caused this,” Claire muses, her voice just above a whisper, her eyes wide with bewilderment and fear.

Erica knows exactly what – or better, who – is behind this.
The bitter taste of ash fills her mouth.

Cordell Wallingham.
His voice echoes in her mind: Your name, your reputation... it will be tainted. Every potential client will find another attorney. Your phone will stop ringing.

He had said he would change the climate around Sinclair & Associates, and he has drawn first blood.
It’s a brutal, unmistakable warning shot across Erica’s bow, just to let her know that he’s not playing games, that he is well able to actively dismantle her livelihood.

“Wallingham,” Erica says, the name a raw, monosyllabic utterance, cold as stone. “He said as much when he called yesterday.”

Claire’s hands fly to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror, mirroring the realization now dawning. “Erica!”
The single word is a strangled gasp, laden with shock and burgeoning panic.

Closing in on her assistant, Erica lays a firm, steadying hand on Claire’s shoulder.
She draws in a sharp, controlled breath, pushing down the surge of protective fury that rises within her.
“Don’t worry,” she says, the words a forced promise.

She knows fully well that there is a lot to worry about, that this is just the beginning if Wallingham unleashes a full, targeted barrage of actions against her law firm.
But she will not show that fear, not now. “I’ll handle him.”
The steel in her voice is back, harder than ever.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Wallingham's assault has begun it seems. Is time running out for Sinclair & Associates, or can Erica being aware of the FULL details of Gary Loudon's past be used in time to save the day?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Wallingham has shown that he doesn't just bark. Losing a most important client like Thorogood & Sons is a major blow for Sinclair & Associates.
In tomorrow's episode we will see if Erica can actually strike back or if she has to yield.

[LunaDog]

In tomorrow's episode we will see if Erica can actually strike back or if she has to yield.

I await with bated breath, and hope for the 'good guy' ( or should that be 'girl' in this case ) in my heart!

[Caesar73]

I do love the last two Lines!

But she will not show that fear, not now. “I’ll handle him.”
The steel in her voice is back, harder than ever.

I have the Feeling Wallingham is in for a rude Surprise, I think

[Jenny_S]

Before we dive back into the story, I'd like to wish all my readers a good start into a wonderful, happy and - most of all - healthy new year.
I'll see you all in 2026.

[LunaDog]

And naturally the same to you @Jenny_S And everybody at Sinclair & Associates of course, not to mentions two balls of soft fur!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, dear @LunaDog, no rest for the wicked. Let's see how the story unfolds further. Erica has a case to win.

[Jenny_S]

Erica moves with a new, quiet intensity.
She reaches under her polished mahogany desk, her fingers closing around the thick stack of printouts.
She pulls them from her bag, the rustle of paper surprisingly loud in the hushed room, and places them carefully on the cool, dark surface.

“These,” she says, her voice low, almost a whisper, yet infused with a potent blend of horror and grim satisfaction. She gestures to the top sheet. “These are young women who I believe to be other victims of Gary Loudon’s predatory habits – just like Lucy Arden and Christine Allison. Fifteen more, Claire. Fifteen."
Her gaze locks onto her assistant’s, unwavering. “As ugly as it sounds, as terrible as the individual stories must be, if I can get at least some of them to testify what happened to them… I can get Wallingham to stop. This is a scandal even he and the Loudons cannot afford to be a part of. This blows the lid off everything.”

Claire’s eyes, wide with a mixture of shock and dawning comprehension, flick from Erica’s face to the pages.
Her fingers, almost reverently, begin to page quickly through the files.
The sheer volume, the consistency of the names and dates, the brutal repetition of the narrative, speaks for itself.

“How did you obtain these… if I may ask?” Claire whispers, her voice barely audible, tinged with awe and a hint of trepidation. “This isn’t exactly accessible outside Law Enforcement. Not in this detail.”

Erica’s lips curl into a slow, almost predatory smile. “Let’s just say,” she replies, “these appeared at my doorstep, delivered by an… anonymous benefactor.”
She leaves the implication hanging in the air. “But we need to act quickly. Wallingham is already moving against us.”
She lowers herself into her high-backed chair, the black leather sighing in protest.
“You hold down the fort while I talk to these girls.”

“Absolutely, Erica,” Claire agrees instantly, her eyes hardening with a shared resolve.
Her hand instinctively rests over the Thorogood letter. “You focus on them. Let me know if I can do anything, anything at all, to help.”


~~~


The silence of Erica’s office stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant, muffled hum of Park Avenue traffic outside her floor-to-ceiling windows.
The city sprawls beneath her, a vast, indifferent concrete jungle, yet within the polished confines of her sanctuary, a major battle rages.

She stares at the phone on her desk, a black sentinel.
Wallingham and Loudon, an invisible, omnipresent force, are putting her to the ultimate test.

She stands at a crossroads, the path diverging starkly before her.

On one side, she can yield to their threats, retract, disappear, and protect her professional livelihood, her reputation, and the very firm she meticulously built.

On the other, she must do what she promised her father, what her moral compass – her very being - demands.

Her gaze drifts to the framed graduation photo under her Harvard Law School diploma, her father’s beaming smile mirroring her own, his arm strong around her shoulders.
She reaches out, her fingers tracing the cool steel of the Rolex dive watch on her wrist, its weight a familiar anchor.
She bites her lower lip, tasting the metallic tang of resolve.

What appears, for a fleeting moment, like a choice, she realizes, isn't one at all.
When it comes to doing the right thing, when lives have been broken and justice systematically denied, there is no real choice.

There is only one path for Erica Sinclair.
Today, it is all or nothing.


~~~


The names on the printouts now feel less like abstract data points and more like living breaths, each one a potential spark to ignite a blaze of justice.
She begins.

Her calls are a delicate dance.
Each time, she takes a measured breath before dialing, preparing herself.
She opens cautiously, introducing herself as Lucy Arden’s lawyer, mentioning Christine Allison’s affidavit, then gently, tentatively, explaining why she is calling, hinting at a shared experience, offering a chance for their voices to finally be heard.

She listens, truly listens, allowing for silence, for hesitant questions, for the raw, unspoken emotions on the other end of the line.

Five of the calls end abruptly. The click of the hang-up, sometimes mid-sentence, sometimes after a stunned silence, is a sharp, cold jab.
These women simply don’t want to talk, their trauma a wall too high to scale, their fear a palpable thing even across phone lines.
She notes "No interest" or "Hung up" next to their names, a small, grim tally of the collateral damage Loudon had left behind even in death.

One number, she dials, hoping. A woman answers, older, her voice laced with an unbearable sorrow. "She's not here," the voice whispers.
Erica persists, gently, explaining her purpose.
And then the mother, recognizing Loudon's name, breaks down.
"My daughter," she sobs, the words shattering Erica's composure. "Ellie… she committed suicide last year. She hanged herself in her apartment. They said it was depression, but I always knew… it was him. It was that monster."

The receiver feels suddenly heavy in Erica’s hand, the quiet sobs on the other end piercing her. A wave of cold, righteous fury washes over Erica, so potent it makes her tremble.

A girl.
Driven to suicide.
Because of him.

Wallingham's threats, the loss of Thorogood – they pale in comparison to this.
This isn't just a legal fight; it's a crusade.
She takes a moment, staring at Eleanore’s name on the printout, a silent vow passing between them.

By late afternoon, however, the tide begins to turn. Nine of the young women, though hesitant at first, finally talk.
After much gentle coaxing, after hearing the conviction in Erica’s voice, after a shared silence filled with unspoken understanding, they agree to come to the office.
Some sound weary, some fragile, but all of them are imbued with a quiet, dawning hope – a palpable relief at finally, finally, having a chance to get a voice, to speak their truth.

The pattern of their stories, as Erica notes down their details and planned visit times, is precisely the same, terrifyingly consistent: they were pressured, threatened by Gary Loudon, told he had the money, the reach, the influence to destroy their lives, their careers, their futures if they ever spoke up.
His words were a dark, powerful echo in each of their experiences.

This, Erica knows, is the avalanche that will bury Wallingham and the Loudon empire.


~~~


The office tower hums with the quiet efficiency of late evening, most floors already dark.
Only the soft glow from Erica’s office windows cuts through the dim light of the 25th floor.
She has just hung up from her last, most challenging call, her throat hoarse, her mind buzzing with the stories she’s collected.

The gravity of what she’s about to ask Claire weighs on her.
She presses the intercom button. “Claire? Could you come in for a moment, please?”

Almost instantly, Claire’s silhouette appears through the frosted glass door before she slips quietly into the office. She still wears her perfectly pressed blazer, her hair still neatly pinned, a testament to her unwavering dedication and professionalism.
“Yes, Erica?” Her voice is soft, a hint of unspoken concern in her eyes.

She knows Erica has been on the phone, knows the nature of the calls. She has stayed after hours, making sure she’s on hand, a silent, loyal presence in case her boss might need her.

Erica gestures to the chair opposite her polished mahogany desk. “Please, sit.”

Claire lowers herself into the chair, her gaze fixed on Erica’s face. Erica reaches across the desk, pushing a single sheet of paper towards her.
It's a list, neatly typed, with nine names, addresses, and proposed appointment times stretching down the page.
The names of the women who had, against all odds, agreed to come forward.

“These are our appointments for tomorrow,” Erica states, her voice low and steady, though a tremor of exhaustion underlies it. “Please arrange their Ubers to and from the office. “And,” she adds, meeting Claire’s eyes, the request a testament to her profound trust, “I’d appreciate it if you’d take their testimonies. We need to move quickly, and I’ll be managing the follow-up.”

Claire’s eyes widen slightly at the magnitude of the task, but then a slow, firm nod spreads across her face. “Of course, Erica. I can absolutely do that.”
A genuine sigh of relief escapes her, a subtle softening of her posture.
The fear that had tightened her shoulders since the Thorogood letter seems to loosen.
This, she realizes, might be how Erica manages to fend off the catastrophe that had threatened to engulf the company.

Erica watches her, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "This is not over, Claire," she says, her voice firm, resolute. "Not by a long shot. But this," she taps the list of names, "this gives us the ammunition to counterattack. To slaughter them.”
She leans back in her chair, her gaze drifting towards the vast, dark city outside her window, her mind already racing ahead.

Yet, the battle for Lucy Arden’s freedom, and the survival of Sinclair & Associates, is shifting into a higher gear.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Wallingham's threats, the loss of Thorogood – they pale in comparison to this.
This isn't just a legal fight; it's a crusade.

Says it all, really. But at least the 'fightback' has begun!

[Caesar73]

Erica watches her, a ghost of a smile touching her lips. "This is not over, Claire," she says, her voice firm, resolute. "Not by a long shot. But this," she taps the list of names, "this gives us the ammunition to counterattack. To slaughter them.”

I do like Erica´s Approach! Her Enemies think they have already won! How wrong they are!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, dear @Caesar73, let's see if the young women actually come to the office and give their statements.

[Jenny_S]

The night offers no rest.
Erica tosses beneath the cool, crisp sheets, her mind a relentless, churning maelstrom of names, faces, phone numbers – each a live wire, humming with potential and peril.
Every curtain twitch, every distant siren’s wail echoing from the city below, jerks her back into the singular, consuming obsession: they must show up.
The nine women.

She moves through her morning ritual like a soldier preparing for battle.
The meticulous measuring of cat food for Spot and Tiger, their soft purrs a brief, grounding comfort.
Five hard miles pounded out on the pavement, each stride a release of nervous energy.
A scalding hot shower, the steam a cleansing shroud.
And then, the ritualistic application of the armor: the precisely drawn eyeliner, the unflinching swipe of nude lipstick.

All of it, a silent, desperate prayer: please come.
Please trust me.
All nine of them.
Please take this monumental, terrifying step.

She arrives at the office building, the gleaming chrome and glass of the high-rise reflecting the sharp, unforgiving morning light.
The elevator ride up is a silent ascent into the calm before the storm, the anticipation a physical weight in her chest.
The doors slide open on the 25th floor, and the familiar, subtly orange-scented air of Sinclair & Associates immediately greets her, a fleeting promise of normalcy.

And then – there she is.

A slight, dark-haired woman, perched on the absolute edge of a sleek, modern chair in the waiting area, both hands wrapped around a coffee mug as if it’s the only thing tethering her to the moment.
Her eyes flick up, wide and watchful, as Erica steps into the lobby.
She's early.
She came.

A wave of relief, so powerful it almost buckles Erica’s knees, washes over her, an almost dizzying sensation.
This isn't just hope.
It’s a tangible, irrefutable reality.
This is real.
This is happening.

Suddenly, she knows – she just knows – with a cold, clear certainty, that this is going to work.


~~~


The day unfolds with a strange, dreamlike intensity, a blur of faces and whispered confessions.
Holly, ever efficient, ushers each woman, one by one, into the quiet, discreet conference room.

The atmosphere within that room becomes a sacred space, a vessel for long-suppressed pain.

Claire sits opposite, her laptop charged, her fingers poised over the keyboard.
Her expression is a mask of steady, compassionate professionalism, her eyes mirroring Erica’s unwavering focus.
Erica speaks softly, patiently, her voice a soothing balm, guiding them through the preamble, gently explaining the process of the sworn statement.

And then the stories begin to unspool.

The room becomes loaded, thick with emotions.
A raw, unbottled torrent of previously unshed tears, trembling voices, and sudden, fierce bursts of suppressed anger.
The women speak of encounters that began innocently enough, a drink, a flirtation, then twisted into horrifying nightmares behind the locked door of Gary Loudon’s apartment.

They speak of their fears, the crushing humiliation, the brutal violation.
Of Gary Loudon’s calm, chilling threats, delivered with a smile, to destroy their lives, their families, their futures if they wouldn’t withdraw their charges against him, if they ever spoke a single, incriminating word.

The air fills with a pervasive sense of injustice, of unchecked power ruthlessly wielded, silencing victims with cold, calculated precision.

Erica listens, her own heart aching, each recounted detail hardening her resolve, forging another link in the chain of evidence.
Capturing every harrowing word, Claire’s fingers fly across the keyboard, typing down the statements, bearing witness.

The women, in their raw vulnerability, are massively grateful.
Grateful that someone finally listens without judgment, that their long-buried anger and grief are finally getting a voice, a witness.
It is a shared catharsis, a collective exhalation of years of silenced pain.

Erica approaches the next part delicately, waiting for a natural lull in the narrative, a moment where the raw emotion has somewhat subsided.
"There's something I’d like you to know," she begins, her voice low, almost a murmur, yet imbued with a weighty significance.
She explains that because Gary Loudon is dead, there's no way to formally punish him through the legal system for these deeds, that there won't be a trial for him.

But just knowing that one of his victims, a young woman who had also been caught in his web, actually shot him, a mixed bag of emotions washes over the faces around the table.
There’s shock, a quiet, grim satisfaction in some eyes, a flash of pure vindication in others.
One woman lets out a small, almost imperceptible sigh of deep relief, as if a cosmic balance has been struck.
Another flinches, as if the violence, even in retribution, is too much to bear.
Some look utterly stunned, processing the reality that someone dared to fight back so definitively against a man who seemed untouchable.

Despite the complexities of their feelings, despite the lingering terror of Loudon’s memory, one by one, they all sign their affidavit.
Their hands tremble, some hesitate, biting their lips, but the act of putting their name to their truth, of formally accusing him, seems to unlock a powerful, quiet strength they hadn’t known they possessed.
Each signature is a small, hard-won victory against the man who had tried to erase their reality.

By the end of the day, the conference room is quiet once more, filled only with the faint scent of stale coffee and the ghosts of raw emotions.
The last woman has left, her steps lighter than when she arrived, a burden lifted.

Both Erica and Claire are utterly exhausted – physically and emotionally drained. Claire sits in front of Erica’s mahogany desk, rubbing her temples, a faint tremor in her hand.
The stack of newly notarized affidavits, now a formidable pile, balances triumphantly yet heavily on her knees.

Erica leans back in her high-backed chair, a deep, slow breath expanding her chest, then exhales, a long, weary sigh.

The city lights outside her panoramic window are beginning to glitter, a million tiny diamonds against the darkening sky, a stark contrast to the darkness contained within the affidavits.

"Claire," Erica says, her voice quiet but firm, a new, steely resolve settling over her like a perfectly fitted garment. "There's one thing left tonight."
She meets her assistant's tired eyes, a silent message of battle ahead passing between them.
"I need to call Cordell Wallingham to see me. Face to face."


~~~


Erica leans forward, elbows on the edge of her mahogany desk, her hands folded, a picture of contained tension.
Her eyes are fixed on the phone, a small, black object that holds immense power in this moment.
Then, without a word, she reaches for it.

Claire looks up from the stack of affidavits in her lap, watching her boss.
She sees the subtle shift in Erica – not just physical, but something deeper, a settling of intent, a warrior donning a new, chilling mask.

Erica dials.
The screen glows cold blue in the lamplight, illuminating the grim set of her jaw.

One ring.
The silence in the office stretches, taut with anticipation.
Two.
Claire’s breath hitches, a small, sharp sound.
Three.
The rhythmic hum of the building feels deafening.
Four. Five…
And then, finally - a click.
A sharp, definitive sound that cuts through the tension.

A voice crackles to life on the other end, distant yet utterly familiar.
Cordell Wallingham.

Erica stares straight ahead, her gaze locked on some invisible horizon beyond the confines of her office, her expression carefully neutral.
“Mr. Wallingham…” she says, her voice a delicate whisper.
It trembles – just enough to convey weakness, uncertainty.

Claire’s eyes widen in alarm, a flicker of genuine fear crossing her face.

“Erica Sinclair,” Erica adds, barely above a whisper, her name enunciated with a forced humility.
Then, a pause.
Deliberate.
Calculated.
A strategic silence designed to draw him in.

She swallows.
Loudly, audibly.
Follows up with a suppressed sob, a small, choked sound that speaks of utter defeat.
“I… I yield… Please, I’d… like to meet with you.”

Claire stiffens, watching the performance unfold like a private monologue, a master actress at work.
Erica glances sideways – a swift, almost imperceptible flick of her eyes – and winks.
Claire’s shoulders relax fractionally, but her stomach still knots.
She can’t hear Wallingham’s response, but she can feel it – the shift in air pressure, the tangible presence of danger swimming just beneath the surface of the call.

Erica nods slowly, a picture of pathetic agreement. “Yes, sir,” she murmurs, her voice thin, resigned. “Thank you so much. I’ll be there…”

She ends the call with a gentle click, setting the receiver back in its cradle with all the solemnity of a final, crushing chess move.
Silence.

Then – a slow, satisfied smirk curls across her lips, transforming her face, radiating triumph.
“Well,” she says, rising elegantly from her chair, smoothing down the sleeves of her jacket, the picture of collected power once more. “I guess he took the bait.”

Claire exhales, a long, shuddering breath, half-relieved, half-wary, her gaze still fixed on Erica. “What are you going to do?”

Erica walks toward the panoramic window, her eyes on the evening sky burning over the city like a battle flag, painted in hues of defiant orange and bruised purple.
“Tonight, I gave him exactly what he wants,” she says, her voice hard, resolute, charged with a dangerous promise. “Tomorrow, I’ll take everything from him.”


~~~