I can just imagine the conceited chuckling of this gentleman(?) right now, these two small words utterly convincing him that victory here is now totally his. Boy, is he in for a rather rude awakening now, or what? As of course, is his virtual 'master,' the one metaphorically holding his 'lease.' For this pair of extremely unpleasant characters have made one major mistake in life, they have both vastly underestimated the outstanding qualities possessed by Erica Sinclair. A very big 'NO-NO!'
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*
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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 - All or Nothing (M/F)
Dear @LunaDog, let's hope that Erica's gamble will work.
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
Later that evening, the city lights a distant hum, Erica stands by the window in her living room, a generous glass of deep red Nero d’Avola in hand.
Her gaze is trained on her two kittens, a whirlwind of black and grey fur, as they playfully explore their elaborate jungle gym.
Their innocent joy is a balm, a stark contrast to the dark machinations of her day.
She takes a slow sip of the rich wine, its warmth spreading.
Then, her free hand reaches for the silver-framed photograph on the top shelf of the cabinet.
It’s a cherished relic, the only photo she has of the three of them together: her two-year-old self, a tiny, determined figure, toddling between her parents.
Her mother, elegant and smiling, her father, a pillar of strength and warmth.
Luisa Sinclair had died only a few short weeks after this photo was taken, a tragedy that had shaped Erica’s entire life.
They must have been aware of her grave illness at that time, but still, in the photo, her father and her mother are smiling in a carefree way, their faces etched with genuine happiness, completely present in that fleeting, joyful moment.
It’s a powerful, heartbreaking image of happiness that ended too soon.
Returning the photo to its place, her thoughts, ever restless, drift back to the current case, the names and faces now burned into her memory: Lucy Arden, Christine Allison, Giovanna Versini, and the nine young women who had, today, found the courage to sign their affidavits.
A growing army against a seemingly invincible foe.
“Tomorrow, Dad, I’ll fight,” she whispers into the quiet apartment, the words a sacred vow.
Her gaze sweeps over the now sleeping forms of her kittens, then hardens with resolute purpose. “I’ll stand for Lucy, for the ones he silenced, for my team, and for myself. No matter what it takes.”
She raises her glass, a silent toast to his memory, to the creed he instilled in her.
She empties it, the last of the red wine burning slightly in her throat, a fiery echo of the resolve now blazing within her.
Wallingham’s words from the phone call replay in her mind, full of condescension. “So you’ve come to your senses, Sinclair,” he had sneered. “Trying to save your hide while you still can. Meet me tomorrow at Lacey’s at ten.”
His voice had dripped with cynicism, with triumph, utterly convinced he had broken her.
Her little act, the manufactured tremble, the feigned sob, had convinced him.
He had swallowed the bait, hook, line, and sinker.
~~~
The first sliver of dawn cuts through the window, bringing with it clarity sharpened by a sleepless night.
Erica rises from a blur of restless calculations and half-formed dreams, the weight of confrontation pressing deep into her bones.
She slides out of her bed with unyielding discipline, her movements fluid and efficient.
The morning routine is a well-oiled machine: the precise pouring of cat food into ceramic bowls, the silent gratitude for the contented purrs.
A cleansing run, this morning pushing her body to its limits, then a scalding shower that washes away the last vestiges of sweat and doubt.
Later, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, she glances at her Rolex dive watch.
It’s time to go.
She slings her handbag over her shoulder and grabs her sleek, black leather briefcase, its contents a potent arsenal of affidavits.
With one last, lingering look at Spot and Tiger, curled together in their bed, oblivious to the storm she is about to unleash, she steps out of her apartment, locking the door with a firm, decisive click.
The elevator ride down to the underground parking garage is swift and silent, each floor dropping away as she descends into the concrete cavern. The air, cool and still, holds the faint scent of exhaust fumes.
She walks with purpose to her black Volvo XC60, its dark, polished surface reflecting the dim garage lights, and slides behind the wheel.
For a moment, she closes her eyes, hesitates.
Her fingers tremble, but she closes them around the steering wheel till it feels as if she’s crushing it.
Today it is all or nothing.
When she opens her eyes, she believes she hears her father’s voice - steady, resolute - cutting through the noise of the traffic: "Fight, Erica. Like the third lioness on Noah’s ark as it’s starting to rain."
His voice is an anchor, his words her battle cry.
The engine purrs to life with a satisfying, predatory sound.
She pulls her SUV up the ramp and into the morning traffic.
The world is a chessboard, and Erica Sinclair is ready to make her move.
~~~
Lacey’s, a beacon of refined indulgence, is one of the places where the city’s rich and beautiful meet to conduct business over artisanal breakfast fare.
At exactly 9:51 AM, Erica manages to find a parking spot half a block down the street from the restaurant, its reputation for a lavish breakfast buffet preceding it.
It doesn’t surprise her in the slightest that Cordell Wallingham had chosen this venue.
Asked her to meet him here?
No.
He had told her, unequivocally, in that condescending tone of his, demanding her presence.
And she had agreed, in a voice she’d carefully modulated to sound quivering with defeat, even adding a pathetic thank you for the grace of granting her an audience.
She locks her black Volvo with a crisp beep, the sound a sharp punctuation mark in the morning air.
Hefting her sleek briefcase, she feels the reassuring weight of the affidavits inside, heavy with truth, and checks the time on her Rolex. 9:55.
Five minutes early.
Perfect.
As she steps into Lacey’s, the muted hum of hushed conversations and clinking cutlery washing over her, a crisply uniformed attendant meets her, his smile polite but practiced.
“Mr. Wallingham is expecting me,” she says, her voice softer than usual, just a hint of vulnerability in her tone.
“Very well, Ms. Sinclair. Follow me, please.” The attendant’s smile remains fixed, his demeanor unfazed.
The man leads Erica through the plush, subtly lit interior of the restaurant, past tables filled with power-suited figures and designer-clad socialites, towards a secluded private table tucked away in the rear.
There, amidst the quiet opulence, sits Cordell Wallingham, a man in his late 50s, impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored grey three-piece suit that screams old money and quiet power.
Before him, an array of breakfast foods is spread across several plates: a tower of fluffy pancakes, a mound of buttered toast, crispy strips of bacon, and a large serving of scrambled eggs - all of it drowned in an unappetizingly thick puddle of bright red ketchup... a grotesque contrast to the elegance around him.
“Underwhelming,” Erica says to herself, a silent, almost involuntary assessment.
She would have thought that someone of his caliber, a man who moves in circles of immense wealth and influence, would eat with more discernment, more sophistication.
The ketchup - garish and excessive - mirrors his taste for vulgar displays masked as refinement.
Wallingham looks up from his plates, his eyes, cold and calculating, raking over Erica for a brief, dismissive moment.
He offers no verbal greeting, merely motions at the vacant chair opposite him with his butter knife, a curt, almost dismissive gesture, as if talking to a particularly slow dog.
“Thank you, sir,” Erica says, her voice still pitched for her performance, laced with obedience.
She allows her shoulders to slump slightly, a subtle physical manifestation of defeat. “I’m glad you could make some time for me.” She sits, placing her briefcase carefully beside her chair, but not opening it.
Not yet.
Wallingham wipes his mouth with a crisp, white cloth napkin, a slow, deliberate movement, then leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Erica.
He surveys her in silence, his eyes narrowed, savoring what he believes to be his total victory, reveling in her apparent cowering at his feet.
The silence stretches, heavy and thick, impaired only by the distant murmur of Lacey's.
Cordell Wallingham recognizes a broken opponent when he sees one.
~~~
Her gaze is trained on her two kittens, a whirlwind of black and grey fur, as they playfully explore their elaborate jungle gym.
Their innocent joy is a balm, a stark contrast to the dark machinations of her day.
She takes a slow sip of the rich wine, its warmth spreading.
Then, her free hand reaches for the silver-framed photograph on the top shelf of the cabinet.
It’s a cherished relic, the only photo she has of the three of them together: her two-year-old self, a tiny, determined figure, toddling between her parents.
Her mother, elegant and smiling, her father, a pillar of strength and warmth.
Luisa Sinclair had died only a few short weeks after this photo was taken, a tragedy that had shaped Erica’s entire life.
They must have been aware of her grave illness at that time, but still, in the photo, her father and her mother are smiling in a carefree way, their faces etched with genuine happiness, completely present in that fleeting, joyful moment.
It’s a powerful, heartbreaking image of happiness that ended too soon.
Returning the photo to its place, her thoughts, ever restless, drift back to the current case, the names and faces now burned into her memory: Lucy Arden, Christine Allison, Giovanna Versini, and the nine young women who had, today, found the courage to sign their affidavits.
A growing army against a seemingly invincible foe.
“Tomorrow, Dad, I’ll fight,” she whispers into the quiet apartment, the words a sacred vow.
Her gaze sweeps over the now sleeping forms of her kittens, then hardens with resolute purpose. “I’ll stand for Lucy, for the ones he silenced, for my team, and for myself. No matter what it takes.”
She raises her glass, a silent toast to his memory, to the creed he instilled in her.
She empties it, the last of the red wine burning slightly in her throat, a fiery echo of the resolve now blazing within her.
Wallingham’s words from the phone call replay in her mind, full of condescension. “So you’ve come to your senses, Sinclair,” he had sneered. “Trying to save your hide while you still can. Meet me tomorrow at Lacey’s at ten.”
His voice had dripped with cynicism, with triumph, utterly convinced he had broken her.
Her little act, the manufactured tremble, the feigned sob, had convinced him.
He had swallowed the bait, hook, line, and sinker.
~~~
The first sliver of dawn cuts through the window, bringing with it clarity sharpened by a sleepless night.
Erica rises from a blur of restless calculations and half-formed dreams, the weight of confrontation pressing deep into her bones.
She slides out of her bed with unyielding discipline, her movements fluid and efficient.
The morning routine is a well-oiled machine: the precise pouring of cat food into ceramic bowls, the silent gratitude for the contented purrs.
A cleansing run, this morning pushing her body to its limits, then a scalding shower that washes away the last vestiges of sweat and doubt.
Later, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, she glances at her Rolex dive watch.
It’s time to go.
She slings her handbag over her shoulder and grabs her sleek, black leather briefcase, its contents a potent arsenal of affidavits.
With one last, lingering look at Spot and Tiger, curled together in their bed, oblivious to the storm she is about to unleash, she steps out of her apartment, locking the door with a firm, decisive click.
The elevator ride down to the underground parking garage is swift and silent, each floor dropping away as she descends into the concrete cavern. The air, cool and still, holds the faint scent of exhaust fumes.
She walks with purpose to her black Volvo XC60, its dark, polished surface reflecting the dim garage lights, and slides behind the wheel.
For a moment, she closes her eyes, hesitates.
Her fingers tremble, but she closes them around the steering wheel till it feels as if she’s crushing it.
Today it is all or nothing.
When she opens her eyes, she believes she hears her father’s voice - steady, resolute - cutting through the noise of the traffic: "Fight, Erica. Like the third lioness on Noah’s ark as it’s starting to rain."
His voice is an anchor, his words her battle cry.
The engine purrs to life with a satisfying, predatory sound.
She pulls her SUV up the ramp and into the morning traffic.
The world is a chessboard, and Erica Sinclair is ready to make her move.
~~~
Lacey’s, a beacon of refined indulgence, is one of the places where the city’s rich and beautiful meet to conduct business over artisanal breakfast fare.
At exactly 9:51 AM, Erica manages to find a parking spot half a block down the street from the restaurant, its reputation for a lavish breakfast buffet preceding it.
It doesn’t surprise her in the slightest that Cordell Wallingham had chosen this venue.
Asked her to meet him here?
No.
He had told her, unequivocally, in that condescending tone of his, demanding her presence.
And she had agreed, in a voice she’d carefully modulated to sound quivering with defeat, even adding a pathetic thank you for the grace of granting her an audience.
She locks her black Volvo with a crisp beep, the sound a sharp punctuation mark in the morning air.
Hefting her sleek briefcase, she feels the reassuring weight of the affidavits inside, heavy with truth, and checks the time on her Rolex. 9:55.
Five minutes early.
Perfect.
As she steps into Lacey’s, the muted hum of hushed conversations and clinking cutlery washing over her, a crisply uniformed attendant meets her, his smile polite but practiced.
“Mr. Wallingham is expecting me,” she says, her voice softer than usual, just a hint of vulnerability in her tone.
“Very well, Ms. Sinclair. Follow me, please.” The attendant’s smile remains fixed, his demeanor unfazed.
The man leads Erica through the plush, subtly lit interior of the restaurant, past tables filled with power-suited figures and designer-clad socialites, towards a secluded private table tucked away in the rear.
There, amidst the quiet opulence, sits Cordell Wallingham, a man in his late 50s, impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored grey three-piece suit that screams old money and quiet power.
Before him, an array of breakfast foods is spread across several plates: a tower of fluffy pancakes, a mound of buttered toast, crispy strips of bacon, and a large serving of scrambled eggs - all of it drowned in an unappetizingly thick puddle of bright red ketchup... a grotesque contrast to the elegance around him.
“Underwhelming,” Erica says to herself, a silent, almost involuntary assessment.
She would have thought that someone of his caliber, a man who moves in circles of immense wealth and influence, would eat with more discernment, more sophistication.
The ketchup - garish and excessive - mirrors his taste for vulgar displays masked as refinement.
Wallingham looks up from his plates, his eyes, cold and calculating, raking over Erica for a brief, dismissive moment.
He offers no verbal greeting, merely motions at the vacant chair opposite him with his butter knife, a curt, almost dismissive gesture, as if talking to a particularly slow dog.
“Thank you, sir,” Erica says, her voice still pitched for her performance, laced with obedience.
She allows her shoulders to slump slightly, a subtle physical manifestation of defeat. “I’m glad you could make some time for me.” She sits, placing her briefcase carefully beside her chair, but not opening it.
Not yet.
Wallingham wipes his mouth with a crisp, white cloth napkin, a slow, deliberate movement, then leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on Erica.
He surveys her in silence, his eyes narrowed, savoring what he believes to be his total victory, reveling in her apparent cowering at his feet.
The silence stretches, heavy and thick, impaired only by the distant murmur of Lacey's.
Cordell Wallingham recognizes a broken opponent when he sees one.
~~~
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
Well, a SEEMINGLY broken one anyway. What does our Erica have up her sleeve for him now? To my mind, she's played this utterly beautifully b.t.w. A full testament to your writing skills and your considerable ability to build a scene.
Dear @LunaDog, she's using Wallingham's ego against him. He's so full of himself and she lets him see what he wants to see.
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 @LunaDog, let's see how Wallingham takes a strike.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
“So, Sinclair,” he drawls, tapping the fine china coffee cup before him with a manicured nail, the sound sharp in the hushed dining room.
Wallingham's voice is a low, smug purr, thick with perceived victory. “How does it feel when the temperature around you drops at a surprising rate? You had your chance to heel, but you thought you were so high and mighty, didn’t you?”
He takes a deliberate bite of bacon, chewing with an almost theatrical slowness, his eyes never leaving hers, savoring the moment.
Erica keeps her hands folded primly in her lap, her posture still subdued.
She stares at him, her gaze unwavering but carefully blank, allowing him to revel in his perceived triumph, to swell with his own arrogance.
“Mr. Wallingham,” Erica murmurs, every syllable laced with practiced vulnerability.
A hint of fatigue.
Just enough for him to believe the act. “I have to confess that the swiftness of you getting Thorogood to move away from me did come as a surprise. Quite a shock, actually.”
“One phone call was all it took me,” the attorney brags, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.
He gestures dismissively with his fork, sending a stray piece of scrambled egg flying towards the white tablecloth. “I could have destroyed you between lunch and dinner, Sinclair. Fully. Obliterated your pathetic little firm.”
Erica allows a beat of silence to hang in the air, letting his boast settle.
Then, a subtle shift in her posture, a barely perceptible stiffening of her spine, a glint entering her eyes that Wallingham, blinded by his hubris, fails to notice.
Her voice, though still calm, takes on a new, quiet edge of steel.
“You do have reach, Mr. Wallingham,” she concedes, almost pleasantly. “Impressive, really. But, please, allow me to show you something. Something that might put a different spin on our conversation.”
She reaches down, her movements fluid and smooth, clicks her sleek briefcase open, and pulls out a thick, cream-colored envelope, placing it gently, almost reverently, on the gleaming table between them.
It’s unmarked, unassuming, yet it pulses with an invisible energy.
“This might be harder to swallow than your eggs and ketchup, Mr. Wallingham.” Her tone is cool now, her gaze flinty.
The performance is over.
Her eyes, fixed on his, are no longer those of a cowering woman, but of a predator who has just cornered her prey.
~~~
Wallingham, still smug in his supposed triumph, glances at the envelope, then back at Erica, a flicker of irritation crossing his face at her sudden, unexplained assertiveness.
With a dismissive huff, he reaches for the stacked documents.
He pulls out the first sheet, his eyes scanning the formal heading, then the first paragraph.
His brows furrow slightly.
He turns to the second page, then the third, his movements growing subtly less confident, a tremor of uncertainty entering his fingers.
The casual smirk slowly drains from his face, replaced by a grim pallor.
His eyes now dart across the pages, absorbing the names, the dates, the chillingly consistent narratives.
The rustle of paper is the only sound in their secluded corner of the restaurant as he flips through affidavit after affidavit, his breakfast forgotten.
The sheer volume of the eleven documents, the undeniable pattern they reveal, begins to erode his composure, draining the color from his face, makes his jaw slacken.
His earlier swagger collapses, replaced by a dawning, horrified realization that he has fundamentally, monumentally, catastrophically underestimated this woman.
Too late.
His breath hitches, a raw, strangled sound.
He looks up from the pages, his eyes wide and disbelieving, fixed on Erica.
“How…” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper, robbed of its usual power.
“None of your business, Mr. Wallingham,” Erica says, her voice as smooth and sharp as honed steel, completely devoid of any trace of her previous performance.
She leans forward, her hands steepled on the table, her gaze unwavering, radiating an almost predatory calm.
“You threatened to destroy my firm, to dry up my clients. Now, how do you think you and Mr. Loudon would look if I were to send these affidavits – all eleven of them, including the very graphic details – to the various media channels that I have access to? WNYC? The New York Times? The Post? 60 Minutes? Imagine the headlines. Prominent Real Estate scion a serial predator, family covered up years of abuse. Imagine the shareholder meetings.”
Wallingham’s face is ashen.
The blood has drained from it entirely.
His eyes, previously arrogant, now gleam with naked panic.
He understands.
He understands perfectly.
This isn’t just about Lucy Arden anymore.
This is about reputation, legacy, and the very foundation of the Loudon empire.
“What do you want?” Wallingham gasps, the words torn from him, stripped of all pretenses, a desperate plea rather than a demand.
~~~
"Messmore Loudon will pay you for your trouble."
Erica doesn't reply.
She simply looks at him, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips.
It's not a smile of amusement, but one of cold, unwavering menace.
The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate, allowing the full weight of the affidavits to settle between them.
"A judgeship? Is that what you’re after? Name the court and I'll make it happen."
She watches, unblinking, as beads of sweat begin to prickle on Wallingham's forehead, glistening under the restaurant's soft lighting.
He grabs a cloth napkin, not even looking at it, and roughly wipes his face, his movements jerky, desperate.
“Ms. Sinclair… listen,” he whispers, his voice coarse, stripped of its usual smooth veneer, now raw with an unfamiliar plea.
He leans forward, his desperation palpable. "My partner, Esterhaus… he's retiring in a few weeks. It's a prime spot. I'll offer you a full partnership. You can move your whole shop over. Wallingham, Sinclair & Partners…"
He offers it like a life raft, a truly immense concession, a sign of just how deeply rattled he is.
Erica slowly, almost imperceptibly, shakes her head.
The single, silent gesture is devastating. "No."
Wallingham looks like he is about to collapse, his face ashen, his eyes wide and vacant.
He has thrown his biggest offering, and it has been rejected.
There is nothing more he can give, nothing left in his arsenal to barter with.
“What. Do. You. Want?” he gasps, each word wrenched from him, utterly devoid of his former arrogance.
“Justice.” Erica’s voice is cool, clear, and utterly unyielding, cutting through the opulent quiet of the restaurant like a surgeon’s scalpel. “I deal in justice, Mr. Wallingham.”
His eyes open wide, a flicker of something akin to genuine shock, then disbelief.
This is beyond his comprehension.
This woman, who holds his and his client’s entire reputation in her hands, cannot be bought.
Not for a judgeship, not for a lucrative partnership, not for all the tea in China.
The realization dawns on him, stark and terrifying, that he has reached the end of the road.
~~~
“Mr. Wallingham,” Erica says, her voice regaining its crisp, professional tone, the steel now fully exposed. “Let me lay it out for you.”
She realizes, with a little surprise, that the man on the other side of the table cannot, despite his many years of experience as an attorney, truly understand her.
He cannot fathom how she won’t allow herself to be corrupted by any offer he can possibly make, because his world view is entirely different from hers.
Transactional.
“Lucy Arden will stand trial for possession of an illegal firearm and taking the circumstances into consideration, she might get a year and a half or two years on probation for it. There’s no way around it and that’s how it should be.”
Erica’s finger taps the formidable stack of affidavits on the table, the soft sound a sharp punctuation mark. “However, we have irrefutably established that Gary Loudon has a history of not only brutally abusing women, but also of bullying and threatening them into silence. Not counting Lucy Arden and Christine Allison, nine of them courageously testified yesterday. Another of his victims hanged herself, Mr. Wallingham,” Erica says, each word deliberate, an indictment. “I spoke to her mother. The girl was only twenty-two.”
She pauses, letting the full, devastating severity of the consequences, the sheer moral weight of that loss, sink into Wallingham’s suddenly terrified gaze.
“There are two things I want.” Her voice is as unyielding as granite. “First: you talk to Messmore Loudon, so he can suggest how to compensate those young women whose lives his son has systematically ruined. And second, as far as I am concerned,” her gaze sweeps over him, dismissive and resolute, “I’d like to have Thorogood & Sons back as a client. And when we’re through with this sad affair, you will never come near me or my firm again. Ever. How does that sound, Mr. Wallingham?”
She stands, smoothly, the epitome of collected power, smoothing the lapels of her perfectly tailored blazer. She reaches for her briefcase, the sound of the clasp a definitive click.
“I expect to hear from you by close of business today, Mr. Wallingham.”
Her eyes, cold and unwavering, meet his one last time.
She turns to leave, calm, surgical even. “Bon appétit.”
~~~
Wallingham's voice is a low, smug purr, thick with perceived victory. “How does it feel when the temperature around you drops at a surprising rate? You had your chance to heel, but you thought you were so high and mighty, didn’t you?”
He takes a deliberate bite of bacon, chewing with an almost theatrical slowness, his eyes never leaving hers, savoring the moment.
Erica keeps her hands folded primly in her lap, her posture still subdued.
She stares at him, her gaze unwavering but carefully blank, allowing him to revel in his perceived triumph, to swell with his own arrogance.
“Mr. Wallingham,” Erica murmurs, every syllable laced with practiced vulnerability.
A hint of fatigue.
Just enough for him to believe the act. “I have to confess that the swiftness of you getting Thorogood to move away from me did come as a surprise. Quite a shock, actually.”
“One phone call was all it took me,” the attorney brags, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.
He gestures dismissively with his fork, sending a stray piece of scrambled egg flying towards the white tablecloth. “I could have destroyed you between lunch and dinner, Sinclair. Fully. Obliterated your pathetic little firm.”
Erica allows a beat of silence to hang in the air, letting his boast settle.
Then, a subtle shift in her posture, a barely perceptible stiffening of her spine, a glint entering her eyes that Wallingham, blinded by his hubris, fails to notice.
Her voice, though still calm, takes on a new, quiet edge of steel.
“You do have reach, Mr. Wallingham,” she concedes, almost pleasantly. “Impressive, really. But, please, allow me to show you something. Something that might put a different spin on our conversation.”
She reaches down, her movements fluid and smooth, clicks her sleek briefcase open, and pulls out a thick, cream-colored envelope, placing it gently, almost reverently, on the gleaming table between them.
It’s unmarked, unassuming, yet it pulses with an invisible energy.
“This might be harder to swallow than your eggs and ketchup, Mr. Wallingham.” Her tone is cool now, her gaze flinty.
The performance is over.
Her eyes, fixed on his, are no longer those of a cowering woman, but of a predator who has just cornered her prey.
~~~
Wallingham, still smug in his supposed triumph, glances at the envelope, then back at Erica, a flicker of irritation crossing his face at her sudden, unexplained assertiveness.
With a dismissive huff, he reaches for the stacked documents.
He pulls out the first sheet, his eyes scanning the formal heading, then the first paragraph.
His brows furrow slightly.
He turns to the second page, then the third, his movements growing subtly less confident, a tremor of uncertainty entering his fingers.
The casual smirk slowly drains from his face, replaced by a grim pallor.
His eyes now dart across the pages, absorbing the names, the dates, the chillingly consistent narratives.
The rustle of paper is the only sound in their secluded corner of the restaurant as he flips through affidavit after affidavit, his breakfast forgotten.
The sheer volume of the eleven documents, the undeniable pattern they reveal, begins to erode his composure, draining the color from his face, makes his jaw slacken.
His earlier swagger collapses, replaced by a dawning, horrified realization that he has fundamentally, monumentally, catastrophically underestimated this woman.
Too late.
His breath hitches, a raw, strangled sound.
He looks up from the pages, his eyes wide and disbelieving, fixed on Erica.
“How…” he croaks, his voice barely a whisper, robbed of its usual power.
“None of your business, Mr. Wallingham,” Erica says, her voice as smooth and sharp as honed steel, completely devoid of any trace of her previous performance.
She leans forward, her hands steepled on the table, her gaze unwavering, radiating an almost predatory calm.
“You threatened to destroy my firm, to dry up my clients. Now, how do you think you and Mr. Loudon would look if I were to send these affidavits – all eleven of them, including the very graphic details – to the various media channels that I have access to? WNYC? The New York Times? The Post? 60 Minutes? Imagine the headlines. Prominent Real Estate scion a serial predator, family covered up years of abuse. Imagine the shareholder meetings.”
Wallingham’s face is ashen.
The blood has drained from it entirely.
His eyes, previously arrogant, now gleam with naked panic.
He understands.
He understands perfectly.
This isn’t just about Lucy Arden anymore.
This is about reputation, legacy, and the very foundation of the Loudon empire.
“What do you want?” Wallingham gasps, the words torn from him, stripped of all pretenses, a desperate plea rather than a demand.
~~~
"Messmore Loudon will pay you for your trouble."
Erica doesn't reply.
She simply looks at him, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing on her lips.
It's not a smile of amusement, but one of cold, unwavering menace.
The silence stretches, heavy and deliberate, allowing the full weight of the affidavits to settle between them.
"A judgeship? Is that what you’re after? Name the court and I'll make it happen."
She watches, unblinking, as beads of sweat begin to prickle on Wallingham's forehead, glistening under the restaurant's soft lighting.
He grabs a cloth napkin, not even looking at it, and roughly wipes his face, his movements jerky, desperate.
“Ms. Sinclair… listen,” he whispers, his voice coarse, stripped of its usual smooth veneer, now raw with an unfamiliar plea.
He leans forward, his desperation palpable. "My partner, Esterhaus… he's retiring in a few weeks. It's a prime spot. I'll offer you a full partnership. You can move your whole shop over. Wallingham, Sinclair & Partners…"
He offers it like a life raft, a truly immense concession, a sign of just how deeply rattled he is.
Erica slowly, almost imperceptibly, shakes her head.
The single, silent gesture is devastating. "No."
Wallingham looks like he is about to collapse, his face ashen, his eyes wide and vacant.
He has thrown his biggest offering, and it has been rejected.
There is nothing more he can give, nothing left in his arsenal to barter with.
“What. Do. You. Want?” he gasps, each word wrenched from him, utterly devoid of his former arrogance.
“Justice.” Erica’s voice is cool, clear, and utterly unyielding, cutting through the opulent quiet of the restaurant like a surgeon’s scalpel. “I deal in justice, Mr. Wallingham.”
His eyes open wide, a flicker of something akin to genuine shock, then disbelief.
This is beyond his comprehension.
This woman, who holds his and his client’s entire reputation in her hands, cannot be bought.
Not for a judgeship, not for a lucrative partnership, not for all the tea in China.
The realization dawns on him, stark and terrifying, that he has reached the end of the road.
~~~
“Mr. Wallingham,” Erica says, her voice regaining its crisp, professional tone, the steel now fully exposed. “Let me lay it out for you.”
She realizes, with a little surprise, that the man on the other side of the table cannot, despite his many years of experience as an attorney, truly understand her.
He cannot fathom how she won’t allow herself to be corrupted by any offer he can possibly make, because his world view is entirely different from hers.
Transactional.
“Lucy Arden will stand trial for possession of an illegal firearm and taking the circumstances into consideration, she might get a year and a half or two years on probation for it. There’s no way around it and that’s how it should be.”
Erica’s finger taps the formidable stack of affidavits on the table, the soft sound a sharp punctuation mark. “However, we have irrefutably established that Gary Loudon has a history of not only brutally abusing women, but also of bullying and threatening them into silence. Not counting Lucy Arden and Christine Allison, nine of them courageously testified yesterday. Another of his victims hanged herself, Mr. Wallingham,” Erica says, each word deliberate, an indictment. “I spoke to her mother. The girl was only twenty-two.”
She pauses, letting the full, devastating severity of the consequences, the sheer moral weight of that loss, sink into Wallingham’s suddenly terrified gaze.
“There are two things I want.” Her voice is as unyielding as granite. “First: you talk to Messmore Loudon, so he can suggest how to compensate those young women whose lives his son has systematically ruined. And second, as far as I am concerned,” her gaze sweeps over him, dismissive and resolute, “I’d like to have Thorogood & Sons back as a client. And when we’re through with this sad affair, you will never come near me or my firm again. Ever. How does that sound, Mr. Wallingham?”
She stands, smoothly, the epitome of collected power, smoothing the lapels of her perfectly tailored blazer. She reaches for her briefcase, the sound of the clasp a definitive click.
“I expect to hear from you by close of business today, Mr. Wallingham.”
Her eyes, cold and unwavering, meet his one last time.
She turns to leave, calm, surgical even. “Bon appétit.”
~~~
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
And THAT ladies and Gentlemen explains the REAL difference between them. One, a corrupt manipulator, seemingly drunk in his own, perceived, power and influence, the sort of person who has genuinely tainted the public image of lawyers in general. While the other is a thoroughly decent and honest person, one who believes in the concept of REAL justice, and, as her 'opponent' has discovered here, cannot be simply 'bought.'Jenny_S wrote: 3 weeks ago He cannot fathom how she won’t allow herself to be corrupted by any offer he can possibly make, because his world view is entirely different from hers.
Hope it bloody well chokes him!
Dear @Jenny_S , to be honest i'm curious as to just what demands Wallingham was going to impose upon the seemingly defeated Erica when he'd walked into that restaurant that day. Was he going to demand that the murder charge against Lucy be re-instated, if it could have, in fact, be done now? And was he going to demand that Erica's 'source,' the one that had led to her becoming aware of Lucy's predicament, and also what Christine had been put through be revealed? And no doubt, if she HAD been forced to reveal Sandra Ruiz's role in all this, he would have insisted that she be immediately sacked, if not actually charged for breaking the confidence of her position.
Dear @LunaDog, you're absolutely right. I'm happy to see you so invested in this story which I have named - hopefully aptly - All or Nothing.
You've nailed it: in this story, it is not just about Lucy Arden.
In tomorrow's episode, we will see if and how Wallingham conveys the unpleasant development to Messmore Loudon.
You've nailed it: in this story, it is not just about Lucy Arden.
In tomorrow's episode, we will see if and how Wallingham conveys the unpleasant development to Messmore Loudon.
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
Who's not going to like it! Be interesting to see IF he blames Wallingham for this, whereas as we've discussed before HE ( Messmore Loudon that is ) could have stopped this stone dead. As he would have done if he was a REAL man and father.Jenny_S wrote: 3 weeks ago In tomorrow's episode, we will see if and how Wallingham conveys the unpleasant development to Messmore Loudon.
Dear @LunaDog, let's see how this plays out.
For all Erica Sinclair adventures, please visit my story collection over at Wattpad under:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
The Volvo’s door seals her off from the world, its heavy thud upon swinging shut the final beat of the morning's confrontation.
For a moment, everything is silent.
The hum of the city beyond the windshield becomes distant, abstract, a faint backdrop to the sudden quiet in the car.
Erica grips the wheel with both hands, her knuckles pale against the dark leather, her body still coiled with adrenaline.
Then, slowly, she lets out a long breath – drawn from the very base of her lungs – a shuddering, involuntary expulsion, as if she’s been holding it in since the moment she stepped into Lacey’s. It creeps out of her, ragged and painful.
Relief.
Release.
She leans her head back against the cool leather of the seat, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in deep, deliberate exhales.
The powerful surge of adrenaline is finally wearing off, and what’s left is bone-deep exhaustion, not just physical but also emotional.
Her muscles ache, a dull throb spreading through her shoulders and arms.
Her jaw, clenched for too long, begins to throb relentlessly.
She has pulled it off.
No yelling.
No threats.
No descent into Wallingham’s brutish, transactional world.
Just the unvarnished truth – delivered with quiet precision – and the undeniable, unbuyable power of a woman who would not be corrupted.
A small, disbelieving smile curls the corner of her lips.
Not smug.
Not victorious, not in the way Wallingham would understand it.
Just… tired. And deeply proud.
Outside, people pass by, oblivious, their faces a blur.
The world keeps turning, indifferent to the high-stakes drama that just unfolded in a classy restaurant.
Back at Lacey’s, Cordell Wallingham is probably still sitting at that table, trying to make sense of what just hit him, trying to comprehend defeat delivered with such understated force.
The phone buzzes in the console. She doesn’t look. Not yet. For now, she lets herself sit in the quiet, her hands loose in her lap, allowing the exhaustion to wash over her.
Her reflection stares back at her faintly in the windshield – poised, composed, but there’s something else in the eyes now, something other than just battle-readiness.
Resolve, yes, sharpened to an unbreakable edge.
And behind it, something softer, a quiet, almost fragile sense of purpose fulfilled.
She thinks of Lucy.
Of Giovanna.
Of Christine.
Of the nine other women whose raw, brave voices now live, irrevocably, in those affidavits.
Then she thinks of her father.
Stand for something or fall for anything.
Those are the words he had engraved into the Rolex.
The creed, his legacy, deeply etched into her own soul, the foundation of her personal integrity.
Her eyes sting.
She blinks, and the tears don’t fall – but they want to, a powerful, unspoken surge of emotion she rarely allows herself.
She starts the engine. The soft purr is familiar, grounding, a loyal companion.
Her fingers wrap the wheel again, steadier now, infused with new strength.
She doesn’t drive off yet.
Not because she’s unsure.
But because, for the first time in a very long while, she’s allowing herself a moment to simply feel.
To be utterly, completely still.
~~~
The sun hangs low over the city skyline, a bruised orange bleeding into bruised purple, casting long, amber shadows across Erica’s office. The day, so fraught with tension and raw emotion, is finally receding. Standing by the tall window, she can see Claire through the frosted glass door, going home for the evening. Only the faint hum of the air system and the occasional creak of the building settle into the general silence of the emptying office floor.
Erica glances at her Rolex, the glow of its luminous hands a stark contrast to the fading light.
She wonders if Wallingham will actually call within the next few minutes, or if he and Loudon will try to force her hand, to test her resolve once more.
The air is thick with anticipation.
Then, as if on cue, a sharp, insistent buzz vibrates from the phone on her desk.
She turns slowly, her movements deliberate, letting the phone ring twice before answering. Her grip is firm as she picks up the receiver.
“Erica Sinclair.”
A pause – then a deep, composed voice, more gravel than silk, measured and authoritative. Older.
“Ms. Sinclair. Otto Esterhaus. I’m calling on behalf of Messmore Loudon.”
Erica sits, slowly, carefully, her expression unreadable, betraying nothing.
Esterhaus. Wallingham’s partner.
This is a significant development.
“Mr. Esterhaus,” she replies, her voice cool, collected. “I assumed I would be hearing from Mr. Wallingham.”
“Yes,” Esterhaus replies, without hesitation, a dry, almost imperceptible hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Cordell is… resting. He’s had a difficult day.”
There’s the faintest trace of wry humor in the statement, a momentary crack in the polished façade, but the tone quickly settles into sobriety, into something far more serious. “Mr. Loudon has reviewed the affidavits. All of them. And I want to be clear, Ms. Sinclair: this is not a negotiation for silence. This is… what it looks like when a man with great means finally chooses to face a terrible truth about his son.”
Erica remains silent, letting him speak, absorbing every nuanced word.
The absence of bluster, the measured tone, the stark acknowledgment of "terrible truth" – it all speaks volumes.
“Messmore understands that no amount of money can truly undo what happened,” Esterhaus continues, his voice devoid of the usual lawyerly prevarication. “But he also knows that justice without restitution is incomplete. We are authorized to discuss a structured compensation plan for the women. We will not insult you by haggling over nickels.”
Erica exhales slowly, a long, controlled release of breath, her fingers tightening around the phone, a silent surge of triumph. “And the family of the woman who took her own life?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper, imbued with the raw pain of Eleanore’s mother.
A longer pause this time, heavier, filled with unspoken regret.
Then, quietly: “Yes. Them most of all. We understand that is where the most egregious wrong was committed.”
“Good,” Erica says, the single word a decisive, unyielding statement. “Because that’s where this starts. Not ends.”
“Understood, Ms. Sinclair. Thoroughly,” Esterhaus replies, his voice carrying something Erica rarely encountered in Wallingham’s world - a deep, almost weary respect. “I’d like to meet you in person, Ms. Sinclair. Discreetly. No media. Just you and me. Shall we say… Thursday morning? Your office?”
Erica glances at her digital calendar, its screen blank, as she left it deliberately for this week. “Nine o’clock, if that’s right for you.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Ms. Sinclair,” Esterhaus says, his voice now almost warm, almost admiring. “And may I say… well done.”
She hangs up slowly, staring out the window again. The city below looks different now.
Not necessarily safer.
But quieter.
Like the eye of a storm, a powerful force having passed, and all that remains is the painstaking, meticulous work of rebuilding.
The silence in her office feels less like anticipation, and more like a hard-won peace.
~~~
For a moment, everything is silent.
The hum of the city beyond the windshield becomes distant, abstract, a faint backdrop to the sudden quiet in the car.
Erica grips the wheel with both hands, her knuckles pale against the dark leather, her body still coiled with adrenaline.
Then, slowly, she lets out a long breath – drawn from the very base of her lungs – a shuddering, involuntary expulsion, as if she’s been holding it in since the moment she stepped into Lacey’s. It creeps out of her, ragged and painful.
Relief.
Release.
She leans her head back against the cool leather of the seat, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in deep, deliberate exhales.
The powerful surge of adrenaline is finally wearing off, and what’s left is bone-deep exhaustion, not just physical but also emotional.
Her muscles ache, a dull throb spreading through her shoulders and arms.
Her jaw, clenched for too long, begins to throb relentlessly.
She has pulled it off.
No yelling.
No threats.
No descent into Wallingham’s brutish, transactional world.
Just the unvarnished truth – delivered with quiet precision – and the undeniable, unbuyable power of a woman who would not be corrupted.
A small, disbelieving smile curls the corner of her lips.
Not smug.
Not victorious, not in the way Wallingham would understand it.
Just… tired. And deeply proud.
Outside, people pass by, oblivious, their faces a blur.
The world keeps turning, indifferent to the high-stakes drama that just unfolded in a classy restaurant.
Back at Lacey’s, Cordell Wallingham is probably still sitting at that table, trying to make sense of what just hit him, trying to comprehend defeat delivered with such understated force.
The phone buzzes in the console. She doesn’t look. Not yet. For now, she lets herself sit in the quiet, her hands loose in her lap, allowing the exhaustion to wash over her.
Her reflection stares back at her faintly in the windshield – poised, composed, but there’s something else in the eyes now, something other than just battle-readiness.
Resolve, yes, sharpened to an unbreakable edge.
And behind it, something softer, a quiet, almost fragile sense of purpose fulfilled.
She thinks of Lucy.
Of Giovanna.
Of Christine.
Of the nine other women whose raw, brave voices now live, irrevocably, in those affidavits.
Then she thinks of her father.
Stand for something or fall for anything.
Those are the words he had engraved into the Rolex.
The creed, his legacy, deeply etched into her own soul, the foundation of her personal integrity.
Her eyes sting.
She blinks, and the tears don’t fall – but they want to, a powerful, unspoken surge of emotion she rarely allows herself.
She starts the engine. The soft purr is familiar, grounding, a loyal companion.
Her fingers wrap the wheel again, steadier now, infused with new strength.
She doesn’t drive off yet.
Not because she’s unsure.
But because, for the first time in a very long while, she’s allowing herself a moment to simply feel.
To be utterly, completely still.
~~~
The sun hangs low over the city skyline, a bruised orange bleeding into bruised purple, casting long, amber shadows across Erica’s office. The day, so fraught with tension and raw emotion, is finally receding. Standing by the tall window, she can see Claire through the frosted glass door, going home for the evening. Only the faint hum of the air system and the occasional creak of the building settle into the general silence of the emptying office floor.
Erica glances at her Rolex, the glow of its luminous hands a stark contrast to the fading light.
She wonders if Wallingham will actually call within the next few minutes, or if he and Loudon will try to force her hand, to test her resolve once more.
The air is thick with anticipation.
Then, as if on cue, a sharp, insistent buzz vibrates from the phone on her desk.
She turns slowly, her movements deliberate, letting the phone ring twice before answering. Her grip is firm as she picks up the receiver.
“Erica Sinclair.”
A pause – then a deep, composed voice, more gravel than silk, measured and authoritative. Older.
“Ms. Sinclair. Otto Esterhaus. I’m calling on behalf of Messmore Loudon.”
Erica sits, slowly, carefully, her expression unreadable, betraying nothing.
Esterhaus. Wallingham’s partner.
This is a significant development.
“Mr. Esterhaus,” she replies, her voice cool, collected. “I assumed I would be hearing from Mr. Wallingham.”
“Yes,” Esterhaus replies, without hesitation, a dry, almost imperceptible hint of a chuckle in his voice. “Cordell is… resting. He’s had a difficult day.”
There’s the faintest trace of wry humor in the statement, a momentary crack in the polished façade, but the tone quickly settles into sobriety, into something far more serious. “Mr. Loudon has reviewed the affidavits. All of them. And I want to be clear, Ms. Sinclair: this is not a negotiation for silence. This is… what it looks like when a man with great means finally chooses to face a terrible truth about his son.”
Erica remains silent, letting him speak, absorbing every nuanced word.
The absence of bluster, the measured tone, the stark acknowledgment of "terrible truth" – it all speaks volumes.
“Messmore understands that no amount of money can truly undo what happened,” Esterhaus continues, his voice devoid of the usual lawyerly prevarication. “But he also knows that justice without restitution is incomplete. We are authorized to discuss a structured compensation plan for the women. We will not insult you by haggling over nickels.”
Erica exhales slowly, a long, controlled release of breath, her fingers tightening around the phone, a silent surge of triumph. “And the family of the woman who took her own life?” she asks, her voice barely a whisper, imbued with the raw pain of Eleanore’s mother.
A longer pause this time, heavier, filled with unspoken regret.
Then, quietly: “Yes. Them most of all. We understand that is where the most egregious wrong was committed.”
“Good,” Erica says, the single word a decisive, unyielding statement. “Because that’s where this starts. Not ends.”
“Understood, Ms. Sinclair. Thoroughly,” Esterhaus replies, his voice carrying something Erica rarely encountered in Wallingham’s world - a deep, almost weary respect. “I’d like to meet you in person, Ms. Sinclair. Discreetly. No media. Just you and me. Shall we say… Thursday morning? Your office?”
Erica glances at her digital calendar, its screen blank, as she left it deliberately for this week. “Nine o’clock, if that’s right for you.”
“Excellent. Thank you, Ms. Sinclair,” Esterhaus says, his voice now almost warm, almost admiring. “And may I say… well done.”
She hangs up slowly, staring out the window again. The city below looks different now.
Not necessarily safer.
But quieter.
Like the eye of a storm, a powerful force having passed, and all that remains is the painstaking, meticulous work of rebuilding.
The silence in her office feels less like anticipation, and more like a hard-won peace.
~~~
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
Well it appears that Wallingham's partner, Otto Esterhaus, the one whose position Wallingham had so casually offered to Erica, does possess the necessary attributes of a decent and fully rounded person, unlike his companion. As demonstrated by his admiring "And may I say...well done." Which i do truly believe was said with genuine sincerity.
And maybe, just maybe Messmore Loudon has seen the light regarding the disgusting nature of his departed son. Far too late of course, especially in the case of the girl who took her own life, but it does appear to have happened now.
All because of Detective Sandra Ruiz's instincts in the first place, of course.
And maybe, just maybe Messmore Loudon has seen the light regarding the disgusting nature of his departed son. Far too late of course, especially in the case of the girl who took her own life, but it does appear to have happened now.
All because of Detective Sandra Ruiz's instincts in the first place, of course.
Dear @LunaDog, as the old adage goes, the only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men - or in this case for good women - to do nothing.
Detective Ruiz decided to do something and she came to the right lawyer.
Detective Ruiz decided to do something and she came to the right lawyer.
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
After a nourishing dinner, playful chaos with the kittens, and a night of uninterrupted sleep, Erica wakes to a city that hums with a new rhythm.
The usual undercurrent of legal stress feels oddly muted - tinged with something lighter.
Not victory, not yet, but possibility.
She barricades herself in her personal office with the ever-trusty Claire guarding the gates.
Her first call is to Lucy Arden, her client.
"Lucy," Erica says, her voice soft but anchored, "I need you to hear me out. What I’m about to tell you... it’s something I didn’t expect either."
She explains the meeting with Wallingham and the subsequent call from his partner Otto Esterhaus.
The surprise in Lucy's voice is immediate and palpable.
Compensation had never been part of their previous discussions, the focus always being on truth, accountability – and a sentence for carrying an illegal gun.
Lucy listens, a stunned silence following Erica's explanation.
"And Gio?" Lucy asks, her voice tentative. "Even though she isn't... a direct victim of his abuse, she suffered, didn’t she? Will she... be part of this?"
Erica smiles faintly, her chest tightening.
Even with her own life in pieces, Lucy still thinks of Giovanna.
That kind of loyalty is rare - and worth protecting.
"I'll see what I can do, Lucy."
That’s all she can promise at this point.
The subsequent calls follow a similar pattern of shock and dawning relief.
Christine Allison doesn’t cry so much as unravel quietly, her voice faltering with every word. “I never thought... anyone would make this count,” she whispers. “Thank you. Just… thank you.”
One by one, Erica speaks to the nine young women who have bravely signed affidavits.
Many fall silent at first, their voices brittle with disbelief, like glass warming in the sun - fragile, but beginning to bend toward hope.
Their initial surprise at the mention of compensation quickly morphs into a sense of validation.
It isn't about the money, not primarily, but about the acknowledgement that their suffering had tangible consequences, that the Loudon family’s wealth, once a weapon against them, would now be a tool for restitution.
The hardest call, however, is to Eleanore's mother.
Erica dials slowly, feeling her throat tightening.
When Mrs. Reilly answers, her voice is small, sanded down by grief.
Erica speaks carefully, as though stepping on hot coal.
“I wanted to tell you personally... there is an offer of restitution. It won’t undo anything. But they’ve acknowledged her story.”
Then, a single, raw sob, not of joy, but of grief finally, mercifully, acknowledges. "No money can bring her back," Mrs. Reilly whispers, "but... for them to admit it... for them to admit what he did to my Ellie... thank you, Ms. Sinclair. Thank you."
Erica feels a mean sting behind her eyes, a silent testament to the pain and the small, hard-won victory of that moment.
~~~
After those phone calls and the emotions they bring, Erica trades her power suit for comfortable jeans, sneakers and her brown leather jacket, seeking a brief respite from the city's relentless pace.
The drive to Scarsdale feels like shedding a layer of armor with every mile.
Her first stop is at her house on Taunton Road to have a look at the renovation project.
She steps out of her black Volvo and walks across the street.
The new windows gleam in the sun, and the front door - once warped and weathered - is now sanded smooth and painted a rich slate blue, just like she remembers it from her childhood days.
She runs her fingers along the frame, grounding herself in the texture of things she can fix.
“Hi, Ms. Sinclair,” the foreman greets her. “Have a look. Your house is coming along nicely. Give us three or four more weeks and you can move in.”
With a smile, Erica walks through the skeletal rooms, inhaling the scent of fresh lumber and drywall, looking at the new electric installations, picturing the future warmth of a true home.
It is a tangible project, concrete and controllable, a welcome contrast to the ambiguities of human justice.
A short drive brings her to Aunt Elisa’s new place, the Sunrise Manor care home.
She finds Elisa Teran in the company of Charles Bancroft.
To call him her boyfriend wouldn’t sound right, but seeing them in the sitting room, chatting and enjoying a cup of herbal tea – chamomile in Aunt Elisa’s case – just feels right.
“Hello, Aunt Elisa,” she says gently as she steps into the room.
The older woman takes a moment to look at her, apparently trying to remember her name.
“Erica,” she says at last, and the name sits on her tongue like a small triumph.
The light in her eyes flickers - recognition struggling through the fog.
Erica squeezes her hand gently, savoring the fragile clarity.
“You look great, Aunt Elisa,” Erica says as she hugs her aunt and pulls up a chair for herself.
Charles meets her gaze with a gentle smile and a knowing wink, the kind only the elderly can pull off without irony.
“I’ll give you ladies a moment,” he says, touching Elisa’s hand like it’s something precious.
“Such a nice gentleman,” Erica says and she really means it, wondering what Elisa Teran’s life could have been if they had met earlier, maybe ten years ago.
They speak, Erica trying to get her aunt to talk about her day and the activities the care home staff arranges for their residents.
When the bell for dinner sounds, Erica says her goodbye and leaves Aunt Elisa to Charles Bancroft again who accompanies his lady friend to the dining room.
Already halfway near Bedford, Erica decides to push on to Ironwood Pastures where Lea, her Cleveland Bay mare is stabled.
She parks her black Volvo in the visitors’ parking lot, the gravel crunching under her sneakers while walking toward the stable.
The aroma of hay, earth, and horses envelops her like a memory – warm and comforting.
As she steps into the stable, Lea lifts her head, ears pricked forward, a welcoming chortle rising in her throat.
Erica smiles, the knot in her chest loosening for the first time all day.
“Hi girl,” Erica says softly, rubbing Lea’s forehead.
She takes in the scent of her horse and feels completely at peace for the moment. “I’ll see you on Saturday, my lovely,” she whispers. “And then we’ll ride. I promise.”
Later, on her way back to the city that supposedly never sleeps, the highway unspools like ribbon in the dark, headlights carving a silver path through the night.
Erica drives in silence, the ache in her limbs deeper than fatigue - this is what earned peace feels like.
The weight remains, but it’s no longer crushing.
It’s purpose, shaped by truth.
The weight of the world might still be pressing down, but the scales of justice are tipped in her favor.
~~~
The usual undercurrent of legal stress feels oddly muted - tinged with something lighter.
Not victory, not yet, but possibility.
She barricades herself in her personal office with the ever-trusty Claire guarding the gates.
Her first call is to Lucy Arden, her client.
"Lucy," Erica says, her voice soft but anchored, "I need you to hear me out. What I’m about to tell you... it’s something I didn’t expect either."
She explains the meeting with Wallingham and the subsequent call from his partner Otto Esterhaus.
The surprise in Lucy's voice is immediate and palpable.
Compensation had never been part of their previous discussions, the focus always being on truth, accountability – and a sentence for carrying an illegal gun.
Lucy listens, a stunned silence following Erica's explanation.
"And Gio?" Lucy asks, her voice tentative. "Even though she isn't... a direct victim of his abuse, she suffered, didn’t she? Will she... be part of this?"
Erica smiles faintly, her chest tightening.
Even with her own life in pieces, Lucy still thinks of Giovanna.
That kind of loyalty is rare - and worth protecting.
"I'll see what I can do, Lucy."
That’s all she can promise at this point.
The subsequent calls follow a similar pattern of shock and dawning relief.
Christine Allison doesn’t cry so much as unravel quietly, her voice faltering with every word. “I never thought... anyone would make this count,” she whispers. “Thank you. Just… thank you.”
One by one, Erica speaks to the nine young women who have bravely signed affidavits.
Many fall silent at first, their voices brittle with disbelief, like glass warming in the sun - fragile, but beginning to bend toward hope.
Their initial surprise at the mention of compensation quickly morphs into a sense of validation.
It isn't about the money, not primarily, but about the acknowledgement that their suffering had tangible consequences, that the Loudon family’s wealth, once a weapon against them, would now be a tool for restitution.
The hardest call, however, is to Eleanore's mother.
Erica dials slowly, feeling her throat tightening.
When Mrs. Reilly answers, her voice is small, sanded down by grief.
Erica speaks carefully, as though stepping on hot coal.
“I wanted to tell you personally... there is an offer of restitution. It won’t undo anything. But they’ve acknowledged her story.”
Then, a single, raw sob, not of joy, but of grief finally, mercifully, acknowledges. "No money can bring her back," Mrs. Reilly whispers, "but... for them to admit it... for them to admit what he did to my Ellie... thank you, Ms. Sinclair. Thank you."
Erica feels a mean sting behind her eyes, a silent testament to the pain and the small, hard-won victory of that moment.
~~~
After those phone calls and the emotions they bring, Erica trades her power suit for comfortable jeans, sneakers and her brown leather jacket, seeking a brief respite from the city's relentless pace.
The drive to Scarsdale feels like shedding a layer of armor with every mile.
Her first stop is at her house on Taunton Road to have a look at the renovation project.
She steps out of her black Volvo and walks across the street.
The new windows gleam in the sun, and the front door - once warped and weathered - is now sanded smooth and painted a rich slate blue, just like she remembers it from her childhood days.
She runs her fingers along the frame, grounding herself in the texture of things she can fix.
“Hi, Ms. Sinclair,” the foreman greets her. “Have a look. Your house is coming along nicely. Give us three or four more weeks and you can move in.”
With a smile, Erica walks through the skeletal rooms, inhaling the scent of fresh lumber and drywall, looking at the new electric installations, picturing the future warmth of a true home.
It is a tangible project, concrete and controllable, a welcome contrast to the ambiguities of human justice.
A short drive brings her to Aunt Elisa’s new place, the Sunrise Manor care home.
She finds Elisa Teran in the company of Charles Bancroft.
To call him her boyfriend wouldn’t sound right, but seeing them in the sitting room, chatting and enjoying a cup of herbal tea – chamomile in Aunt Elisa’s case – just feels right.
“Hello, Aunt Elisa,” she says gently as she steps into the room.
The older woman takes a moment to look at her, apparently trying to remember her name.
“Erica,” she says at last, and the name sits on her tongue like a small triumph.
The light in her eyes flickers - recognition struggling through the fog.
Erica squeezes her hand gently, savoring the fragile clarity.
“You look great, Aunt Elisa,” Erica says as she hugs her aunt and pulls up a chair for herself.
Charles meets her gaze with a gentle smile and a knowing wink, the kind only the elderly can pull off without irony.
“I’ll give you ladies a moment,” he says, touching Elisa’s hand like it’s something precious.
“Such a nice gentleman,” Erica says and she really means it, wondering what Elisa Teran’s life could have been if they had met earlier, maybe ten years ago.
They speak, Erica trying to get her aunt to talk about her day and the activities the care home staff arranges for their residents.
When the bell for dinner sounds, Erica says her goodbye and leaves Aunt Elisa to Charles Bancroft again who accompanies his lady friend to the dining room.
Already halfway near Bedford, Erica decides to push on to Ironwood Pastures where Lea, her Cleveland Bay mare is stabled.
She parks her black Volvo in the visitors’ parking lot, the gravel crunching under her sneakers while walking toward the stable.
The aroma of hay, earth, and horses envelops her like a memory – warm and comforting.
As she steps into the stable, Lea lifts her head, ears pricked forward, a welcoming chortle rising in her throat.
Erica smiles, the knot in her chest loosening for the first time all day.
“Hi girl,” Erica says softly, rubbing Lea’s forehead.
She takes in the scent of her horse and feels completely at peace for the moment. “I’ll see you on Saturday, my lovely,” she whispers. “And then we’ll ride. I promise.”
Later, on her way back to the city that supposedly never sleeps, the highway unspools like ribbon in the dark, headlights carving a silver path through the night.
Erica drives in silence, the ache in her limbs deeper than fatigue - this is what earned peace feels like.
The weight remains, but it’s no longer crushing.
It’s purpose, shaped by truth.
The weight of the world might still be pressing down, but the scales of justice are tipped in her favor.
~~~
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
An almost perfect summary of the position now for these girls, and the family of the one for whom Gary Loudon's brutality was simply too much to bear.Jenny_S wrote: 3 weeks ago It isn't about the money, not primarily, but about the acknowledgement that their suffering had tangible consequences, that the Loudon family’s wealth, once a weapon against them, would now be a tool for restitution.
As you rightly said before, Sandra Ruiz chose extremely well when she selected Erica as the one that she believed would be the best bet here to obtain the above. And although i'm not a religious person at all, not actually believing in the concept of 'heaven,' you can bet your last quid, ( or buck as this story IS based within the U.S. ) that if i'm wrong here and such a place does exist, well then, not only is Owen Sinclair a full resident, but also he will be beaming with total and utter pride at just what his daughter has achieved right here and now. Against ALL the odds! For she put herself right on the line here, at times it was definitely a case of 'all or nothing.'
This has been an absolutely magnificent piece of work @Jenny_S right from the very start, and one that i consider myself to have been very privileged to have allowed the opportunity to read and THOROUGHLY enjoy. Thank you.
Dear @LunaDog, thank you sooo much for this kind comment. It brings tears to my eyes.
You definitely are one of my most sincere readers and discussing the story with you is always so fun and also insightful for me as a writer so I can improve.
There's the epilogue coming tomorrow wrapping up this story accompanied by a special image for my readers to celebrate the 10.000+ views on "Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing".
You definitely are one of my most sincere readers and discussing the story with you is always so fun and also insightful for me as a writer so I can improve.
There's the epilogue coming tomorrow wrapping up this story accompanied by a special image for my readers to celebrate the 10.000+ views on "Erica Sinclair - All or Nothing".
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
I will keep it simple. I will keep it brief dear @Jenny_S:
Wonderful. I love especially the Part when Erica visits her new Home. I wonder how the Kittens will like their new Home. So Erica won the uphill Battle. She got all.
You never fail to surprise me with your excellent Storybuilding, your Style.
Wonderful. I love especially the Part when Erica visits her new Home. I wonder how the Kittens will like their new Home. So Erica won the uphill Battle. She got all.
You never fail to surprise me with your excellent Storybuilding, your Style.
Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for the wonderful compliments. I still can't believe that a character meant for a single story has developed as much as Erica Sinclair has.
After tomorrow's epilogue, we will dive into story #19 and if you stay tuned, you'll find out if Erica moves to Scarsdale or not.
After tomorrow's epilogue, we will dive into story #19 and if you stay tuned, you'll find out if Erica moves to Scarsdale or not.
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
I am looking forward to your next Tale dear @Jenny_S !Jenny_S wrote: 3 weeks ago Dear @Caesar73, thank you so much for the wonderful compliments. I still can't believe that a character meant for a single story has developed as much as Erica Sinclair has.
After tomorrow's epilogue, we will dive into story #19 and if you stay tuned, you'll find out if Erica moves to Scarsdale or not.
Dear @Caesar73, let's wrap the current story up with the epilogue. The new story "Erica Sinclair - Flight Plan" starts here tomorrow: viewtopic.php?t=24847
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
Epilogue
“Thank you for standing with us, Erica,” Benjamin Thorogood Jr. says, his voice imbued with genuine relief as he wraps up their phone call.
Erica nods, a small smile playing on her lips, though her client can't see her. “Anytime, Ben.”
Returning the receiver to its cradle, Erica leans back in her high-backed chair, the familiar leather a comforting presence.
The day after her intense meeting with Otto Esterhaus, Thorogood Sr. himself had called, his tone markedly different from Wallingham’s, asking if Sinclair & Associates would be willing to represent them once more.
That had happened five weeks ago.
Five short weeks that felt like a lifetime.
A lot had happened since that pivotal meeting at Lacey's.
Her client, Lucy Arden, had stood trial on the charge of carrying an illegal firearm.
The process was swift, the evidence undeniable.
Although the jury clearly understood her desperate motivation to buy the pistol in Vermont, they had no choice but to find her guilty.
Judge Underberg, however, taking all the harrowing circumstances into account, had sentenced her to the bare minimum of twelve months on probation – even less than Erica had predicted.
It was a humane judgment, allowing Lucy to move on with her life, to start rebuilding.
Lucy might still, perhaps, wonder about the identity of the mysterious benefactor who had set the stone rolling, the one who had pulled the strings behind the scenes.
She didn't recognize Detective Sandra Ruiz, who had discreetly watched the trial from the gallery, a knowing smile on her face as Lucy was enveloped in a tearful embrace by Christine Allison and Giovanna Versini the moment the gavel fell.
All costs of Lucy's representation and the trial had been quietly and comprehensively covered by Messmore Loudon.
Erica often thought of those women.
True to his word, Otto Esterhaus had ensured that all eleven victims – Lucy, Christine, and the nine young women from the affidavits – had promptly received their compensation according to the plan outlined.
Erica knew that the majority of them were now well on their journey toward healing and reclaiming their lives, supported by the ongoing therapy and resources funded by Loudon.
The validation, the acknowledgment of their suffering, meant more than the money itself.
And Giovanna Versini, Lucy's steadfast friend, had indeed been included in the compensation effort, a testament to Erica's fierce advocacy.
Eleanor Reilly’s parents, burdened by an unimaginable grief, had chosen to leave New York, adding physical distance to the place that reminded them of their vibrant daughter day and night.
Their silence, when Erica called, spoke volumes, a quiet acceptance of the only solace possible.
Even if Messmore Loudon himself had never been in direct contact with Erica, she couldn’t fail to notice how thoroughly he had managed to contain the affair, ensuring no public scandal erupted from the affidavits.
His family's philanthropic work, already extensive, seemed to have quietly increased, a subtle attempt to balance the scales.
Though he might have been avoiding a major public legal confrontation, the private reckoning he had faced, the undeniable truth about his son's monstrous deeds, is enough of a burden for him to carry.
While still a powerful figure in New York’s legal world, Cordell Wallingham seems to be staying well away from Erica.
He even avoids her at meetings of the Bar Association, his face tightening with a brief, unreadable expression when their paths threaten to cross.
It is something Erica doesn’t worry about; his absence is its own victory.
She is at peace with herself, a great sense of calm that has settled deep within her.
She has achieved justice for her client and the other young women, not through vengeance, but through unwavering principle.
She has honored the creed she promised her father she would always – come hell or high water – stand for.
Stand for something or fall for anything.
They are not just words engraved on a watch.
They – once more – proved to be the bedrock of her personal integrity.
Scrolling through her messages, Erica's gaze softens, a small, genuine smile blooming on her lips as she reads the note from her contractor: the renovation of her house on Taunton Road will be completed by the end of the week.
She wonders how long it would truly take her to move in, a challenge of a different, more domestic kind, no doubt.
But most of all, she wonders how the kittens, Spot and Tiger, those two furry anchors to her quieter self, will enjoy their sprawling new place.
The city below her tall floor to ceiling windows hums, a constant reminder of the battles fought and won, but for Erica, the next chapter feels warm, filled with light, and finally, truly her own.
The End
…but Erica Sinclair will be back in the breathtaking thriller “Erica Sinclair – Flight Plan”
viewtopic.php?t=24847
“Thank you for standing with us, Erica,” Benjamin Thorogood Jr. says, his voice imbued with genuine relief as he wraps up their phone call.
Erica nods, a small smile playing on her lips, though her client can't see her. “Anytime, Ben.”
Returning the receiver to its cradle, Erica leans back in her high-backed chair, the familiar leather a comforting presence.
The day after her intense meeting with Otto Esterhaus, Thorogood Sr. himself had called, his tone markedly different from Wallingham’s, asking if Sinclair & Associates would be willing to represent them once more.
That had happened five weeks ago.
Five short weeks that felt like a lifetime.
A lot had happened since that pivotal meeting at Lacey's.
Her client, Lucy Arden, had stood trial on the charge of carrying an illegal firearm.
The process was swift, the evidence undeniable.
Although the jury clearly understood her desperate motivation to buy the pistol in Vermont, they had no choice but to find her guilty.
Judge Underberg, however, taking all the harrowing circumstances into account, had sentenced her to the bare minimum of twelve months on probation – even less than Erica had predicted.
It was a humane judgment, allowing Lucy to move on with her life, to start rebuilding.
Lucy might still, perhaps, wonder about the identity of the mysterious benefactor who had set the stone rolling, the one who had pulled the strings behind the scenes.
She didn't recognize Detective Sandra Ruiz, who had discreetly watched the trial from the gallery, a knowing smile on her face as Lucy was enveloped in a tearful embrace by Christine Allison and Giovanna Versini the moment the gavel fell.
All costs of Lucy's representation and the trial had been quietly and comprehensively covered by Messmore Loudon.
Erica often thought of those women.
True to his word, Otto Esterhaus had ensured that all eleven victims – Lucy, Christine, and the nine young women from the affidavits – had promptly received their compensation according to the plan outlined.
Erica knew that the majority of them were now well on their journey toward healing and reclaiming their lives, supported by the ongoing therapy and resources funded by Loudon.
The validation, the acknowledgment of their suffering, meant more than the money itself.
And Giovanna Versini, Lucy's steadfast friend, had indeed been included in the compensation effort, a testament to Erica's fierce advocacy.
Eleanor Reilly’s parents, burdened by an unimaginable grief, had chosen to leave New York, adding physical distance to the place that reminded them of their vibrant daughter day and night.
Their silence, when Erica called, spoke volumes, a quiet acceptance of the only solace possible.
Even if Messmore Loudon himself had never been in direct contact with Erica, she couldn’t fail to notice how thoroughly he had managed to contain the affair, ensuring no public scandal erupted from the affidavits.
His family's philanthropic work, already extensive, seemed to have quietly increased, a subtle attempt to balance the scales.
Though he might have been avoiding a major public legal confrontation, the private reckoning he had faced, the undeniable truth about his son's monstrous deeds, is enough of a burden for him to carry.
While still a powerful figure in New York’s legal world, Cordell Wallingham seems to be staying well away from Erica.
He even avoids her at meetings of the Bar Association, his face tightening with a brief, unreadable expression when their paths threaten to cross.
It is something Erica doesn’t worry about; his absence is its own victory.
She is at peace with herself, a great sense of calm that has settled deep within her.
She has achieved justice for her client and the other young women, not through vengeance, but through unwavering principle.
She has honored the creed she promised her father she would always – come hell or high water – stand for.
Stand for something or fall for anything.
They are not just words engraved on a watch.
They – once more – proved to be the bedrock of her personal integrity.
Scrolling through her messages, Erica's gaze softens, a small, genuine smile blooming on her lips as she reads the note from her contractor: the renovation of her house on Taunton Road will be completed by the end of the week.
She wonders how long it would truly take her to move in, a challenge of a different, more domestic kind, no doubt.
But most of all, she wonders how the kittens, Spot and Tiger, those two furry anchors to her quieter self, will enjoy their sprawling new place.
The city below her tall floor to ceiling windows hums, a constant reminder of the battles fought and won, but for Erica, the next chapter feels warm, filled with light, and finally, truly her own.
The End
…but Erica Sinclair will be back in the breathtaking thriller “Erica Sinclair – Flight Plan”
viewtopic.php?t=24847
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
An utterly superb ending to a really rousing tale. All of the 'i's have been well and truly 'dotted' as well as the 't's appropriately 'crossed.' I truly thank you for creating this total masterpiece, for us to enjoy, as i have done make NO mistake, reading.
And accompanied by those truly magnificent drawings of yours as well. Just adds a further, thoroughly enjoyable, dimension to your superb words.
And accompanied by those truly magnificent drawings of yours as well. Just adds a further, thoroughly enjoyable, dimension to your superb words.