Stories of Tie Up Games

This story started superbly, and the fantastic high standard was maintained fully right until the end. A REAL pleasure to read. Thank you.

@LunaDog, I hope you'll stay with me for more Erica Sinclair adventures. There's so much more in the pipeline for her.

Professor Kingsley’s study is a blend of old-world charm and modern sophistication, the kind of place where academic achievements meet the cutthroat world of courtroom drama. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line the walls, filled with legal tomes and classic literature. An impressive Persian rug sprawls across the wooden floors, and the scent of rich leather and fresh coffee lingers in the air.

Kingsley sits behind a massive oak desk, his gaze steady but probing as he watches Stephanie Colbert take a seat in one of the plush chairs opposite him. Erica is next to Mark on a matching loveseat, her legs crossed and hands folded neatly in her lap. Mark, still sporting the weight of stress and worry, leans slightly forward, eyes never leaving Stephanie’s face.

Stephanie Colbert’s poise is impeccable, her tailored cream suit and understated jewelry radiating the composed elegance of a woman accustomed to handling high-pressure situations. But there’s a flicker of unease beneath her calm exterior. She places her purse on the floor beside her chair and meets Kingsley’s gaze, then glances at Erica and Mark.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs Colbert.” Kingsley begins, his tone warm but formal. “I understand this isn’t an easy position to be in, but your testimony is crucial for establishing Mr Leland’s innocence.”

Stephanie nods slightly, her face remaining composed. “I know. And I’ve given this a lot of thought. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe Mark deserves the truth to come out.”

Erica leans forward just a fraction, sensing Stephanie’s hesitation. “We all appreciate that, Stephanie. You’re putting yourself on the line here, and it means a great deal. But it’s important to be clear on what you’re prepared to say on the stand.”

Mark, who’s been quiet up to this point, clears his throat, his voice low and tight. “You know Vanessa’s lawyer will come at you hard, Stephanie. If there’s even a hint of doubt in your testimony, he’ll twist it to make me look guilty.”

Stephanie’s gaze flicks to Mark, something unreadable in her expression. “I understand that. Which is why I’ve decided…to testify that we met north of New York City that evening. We’ll say we discussed your potential involvement in one of my upcoming charity projects.”

The room falls silent, tension thickening the air. Erica’s eyes widen slightly - this is more than she expected. Mark blinks, caught between surprise and hope.

“Stephanie,” Mark starts cautiously, “that’s a generous offer, but…”

Kingsley interjects, his brow furrowed in contemplation. “That’s a significant step, Mrs Colbert. You’re willing to testify to this, knowing it stretches the truth?”

Stephanie straightens in her chair, lifting her chin. “Yes. It’s not entirely fabricated, Professor Kingsley. Mark did express interest in supporting my charity work. The timing may be off, but the conversation itself isn’t a lie.” She pauses, letting the words settle before continuing. “I believe painting him as someone engaged in philanthropic efforts could strengthen his credibility with the jury.”

Erica watches Stephanie closely, searching her face for any sign of doubt or reluctance. “And what if Pearson suggests that you and Mark were having an affair instead? That he wasn’t meeting you for charity discussions but for… personal reasons?”

Stephanie doesn’t flinch. Instead, she squares her shoulders, her voice firm and steady as if she’s already on the witness stand. “I’ll look him in the eye and say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Pearson. I’ve been happily married for twenty-five years.’”

The confidence in her voice rings through the office, a subtle but powerful defiance that silences any immediate objections.

Mark exhales slowly, a look of relief washing over him, but it’s mixed with something else - gratitude, and perhaps guilt. “Stephanie… you don’t have to do this. I’d never ask you to put your reputation on the line for me.”

Stephanie’s lips curve into a small, almost sad smile. “I’m not doing this for you, Mark. I’m doing it because I believe the truth is being manipulated. And because I have realized what Vanessa is capable of.” Her gaze shifts briefly to Erica before returning to Kingsley. “I’m not blind to what people will think, or to what Pearson will insinuate. But I’m not going to stand by and watch an innocent man be destroyed by someone else’s lies.”

Kingsley nods, respect gleaming in his eyes. “Your support could very well tip the scales in Mark’s favor, Mrs Colbert. But” he glances at Mark and Erica before focusing back on Stephanie, “be prepared for Pearson to come at you with everything he has. He’ll try to discredit you, question your motives - perhaps even drag your personal life into the spotlight.”

“I’m ready.” Stephanie replies softly, but there’s a steely resolve in her tone. “My family knows what I’m doing, and they support me. I won’t let Pearson shake me.”

Erica exchanges a brief look with Kingsley, then nods slowly. “If we’re going to make this work, we’ll need to rehearse. Every question, every potential angle he could take. You’ll need to be unshakable, no matter what he throws at you.”

“I understand.” Stephanie says, turning her attention fully to Erica now. “I’ve testified before, just never under these circumstances. But I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Mark reaches out, hesitating for a moment before placing his hand over Stephanie’s. “Thank you, Stephanie. I can’t even begin to express how much this means.”

Stephanie’s smile softens, and she gives his hand a brief squeeze before pulling away. “Let’s just get through this, Mark. For both of our sakes.”

Kingsley clears his throat, standing up and extending his hand toward Stephanie. “We’ll get started on preparations immediately. I’ll make sure you have everything you need to be fully on top of things. This case is going to be a challenge, but your support makes a world of difference.”

Stephanie rises gracefully, shaking Kingsley’s hand. “I’m committed, Professor Kingsley. Let’s make sure justice is served.”

As she leaves the room, Erica watches her go, a thoughtful look on her face. When the door closes behind Stephanie, Erica glances at Kingsley, a hint of concern in her eyes.

“You think she’s really ready for what’s coming?” Erica asks quietly.

Kingsley exhales, adjusting his glasses. “No one’s ever truly ready for what Pearson can throw at them. But if anyone can handle it, it’s Stephanie Colbert.”

Erica nods slowly, turning her gaze to Mark. “We just need to make sure that every part of her story holds up. Because if Pearson finds even the slightest crack…”

“He’ll tear it wide open.” Mark finishes, his voice low and grim.

Silence falls over the room, heavy with unspoken fears. For now, they have a potential lifeline in Stephanie’s testimony. But as they all know too well, one misstep could bring everything crashing down.





The restaurant is a high-end, intimate establishment, known for its discreet atmosphere and impeccable service. Soft, golden lighting illuminates each table, creating a private ambiance even amidst the low hum of conversation. Erica and Mark are seated at a secluded corner table, a bottle of vintage red wine already half-empty between them.

Erica leans back slightly, savoring the delicate taste of seared scallops. Mark watches her thoughtfully, his own meal untouched for the past few minutes. They’ve been talking in circles about the case, reviewing every angle, analyzing every word Stephanie Colbert might say on the stand.

“That’s just it.” Erica says finally, setting her fork down. “It’s one thing to want to support your defense, but stretching the truth to make you look like a saint - sponsoring a charity project out of the goodness of your heart…” She trails off, shaking her head slightly. “It makes me uneasy. There’s only so much spin I’m comfortable with. Stephanie suggesting we go that route…”

“It’s not like she’s committing perjury.” Mark cuts in, his voice low and measured. “She’s embellishing the truth to reinforce my character, not fabricating facts. We need that edge, Erica. Pearson’s going to tear me apart if we don’t present something concrete to the jury.”

Erica purses her lips, letting out a small sigh. “Maybe. I just…” She glances at him, her gaze steady. “It feels like we’re playing too close to the line.”

Mark leans forward, his expression softening as he reaches for his wine glass. “You always play things by the book. It’s admirable, Erica. But in this kind of case…sometimes the line is blurry. And people like Stephanie see that better than we do.”

Erica arches an eyebrow, giving him a wry look. “I see the lines just fine, Mark. I just choose not to cross them.”

He smiles, but there’s something thoughtful in his eyes as he looks at her, a pause stretching between them.

“Speaking of lines… I have to ask, Erica - how come someone as attractive, intelligent, and successful as you is still single?” he asks, his tone shifting to something almost teasing, but with a genuine curiosity beneath it.

Erica blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the question. A slow smirk curls her lips, and she leans back in her chair, swirling her wine. “Maybe I scare the men away.”

Mark chuckles, but it’s a subdued sound. “Somehow I doubt that’s it.”

Erica’s smirk fades slightly, replaced by a more contemplative look. “In truth? My career has always been my priority. I’ve built something here, and it’s not the kind of life you can easily slot someone else into. Long hours, high stakes… the fast track doesn’t exactly make room for cozy weekends and plus-ones to office parties.”

Mark nods slowly, seeming to mull over her words, but somehow he doubts that this is the full truth. Erica is not letting her guard down, not allowing even as much as a brief glance into her private life or her past.
Then he leans back, his gaze holding hers. “You know… in that respect, you’re not so different from Vanessa Ainsley.”

The comment lands with a thud, heavy and uncomfortable. Erica’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and she places her wine glass down with careful precision.

“Excuse me?” she says, her voice edged with a cool sharpness.

Mark’s expression shifts, as if realizing too late that he’s made a mistake. “I didn’t mean it like that, Erica. I just meant - Vanessa’s dedicated to her career, too. So focused on success that she pushes everything else aside.”

“Vanessa Ainsley is a sociopath.” Erica replies, her tone cold and clipped. “She tried to murder me in my own apartment. If you’re going to compare us, at least try not to insult me in the process.”

Mark’s face flushes slightly, and he raises a hand in a placating gesture. “I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant. I was just…”

“It’s late,” Erica interrupts, folding her napkin neatly and placing it on the table. “Thank you for dinner, but I should get going.”

“Erica, wait…” Mark starts, but she’s already pushing back her chair, standing with the kind of controlled grace that leaves no room for protest.

“I’ll see you in the office tomorrow, Mark.” Her tone is polite, distant - professional. Without another word, she turns and strides away, heels clicking softly on the polished floor.

Mark watches her go, frustration and regret etched on his face. He opens his mouth as if to call after her but then thinks better of it, letting out a low sigh instead.




Erica’s fingers grip the steering wheel tightly as she drives through the darkened streets, the city lights casting fleeting shadows across her face. Her jaw is set, her mind racing over the evening’s conversation. That comment…Vanessa Ainsley? Seriously?

Her phone buzzes beside her, the sound breaking through her thoughts. She glances at it, seeing Mark’s name flash on the screen. With a small huff, she lets it go to voicemail, but curiosity - or perhaps a need for closure - makes her tap the screen to listen to his message.

“Erica, it’s Mark. I’m… sorry. That was a stupid thing to say, and I feel like an idiot for even bringing it up. You’re nothing like Vanessa. Please don’t take it the wrong way. I just…” He hesitates, and she can almost see him running a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m under a lot of pressure, and I didn’t mean to project that onto you. Call me back, okay? Or… I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The message ends, and Erica lets out a slow breath, her grip on the wheel loosening slightly.

She stares out at the road ahead, the message playing over and over in her mind. Apology or not, Mark’s comment had struck a chord she hadn’t realized was there.

Shaking her head, she forces herself to focus on the drive, pushing all thoughts of Vanessa Ainsley and Mark Leland firmly to the back of her mind.

For now.




Erica’s office is a sanctuary of order and focus. The minimalist décor - shelves lined with neatly organized legal tomes and a few tasteful art pieces - mirrors the sharpness and precision of its occupant. Morning sunlight filters through the blinds, casting slats of light across her desk, where case files and a half-empty cup of coffee sit.

Erica leans back in her chair, her fingers drumming lightly on the desk as she reviews a deposition, trying to suppress the lingering frustration from last night’s dinner with Mark. She’s cloaked herself in professionalism this morning, wrapped in the protective armor of her work, determined to distance herself from any personal entanglements.

A knock at the door pulls her from her thoughts. Erica glances up, setting down the document. “Come in.”

The door opens, and Mark Leland steps in, his expression a mixture of apology and hesitation. He’s holding a large bouquet of deep red roses, the vibrant blooms incongruous against the muted tones of the office. In his other hand, he carries a rectangular box, its wrapping sleek and understated - a telltale sign of something expensive.

“Good morning, Erica.” he starts tentatively, his voice softer than usual. He steps forward, placing the bouquet on her desk with care, as if the flowers were some delicate offering. “I wanted to apologize for last night…I didn’t mean to offend you. I really am sorry.”

Erica’s gaze flicks to the roses - an expected, almost clichéd gesture. But her eyes narrow slightly when she sees the box. She knows immediately it’s more than just flowers. She straightens, folding her hands in front of her on the desk.

“Mark, this isn’t necessary.” she says evenly, her tone cool but not unkind. “I appreciate the gesture, but I’m not comfortable accepting gifts.”

Mark seems to deflate slightly, but he pushes on, setting the box beside the flowers. “I get that. But this isn’t just…a ‘gift’ gift.” He hesitates, then gestures to the box. “It’s a personalized leather briefcase. I had it embossed with your initials. I just though - given everything - you could use something like it. You’re always carrying those files around, and it would - well, I just thought it would suit you.”

He pauses, searching her face for any sign of softening. “Please, Erica. It’s not meant to cross any lines. Just… consider it a token of appreciation. For all your hard work. For standing by me.”

Erica’s eyes drop to the briefcase. It’s a beautiful piece, no doubt. She imagines it’s handcrafted, maybe one of a kind, something elegant and finely made. And yet, the sight of it only makes her feel more resolute. She reaches forward, carefully pushing both the bouquet and the box back toward him.

“Mark.” she says, her voice firm but not harsh. “I can’t accept these. I’m already being compensated for my work. You know as well as I do that it’s crucial we keep things strictly professional. Given the sensitivity of this case and our history, I can’t afford to have anyone thinking there’s more going on here than there is.”

He looks genuinely wounded, his brow furrowing. “It’s just a briefcase, Erica… and flowers. I didn’t mean to cross a line. It’s just… last night, I felt like I really messed up.”

Erica stands, keeping her gaze steady on his. “You didn’t mess up, Mark. But let’s be clear - what I need from you is to follow my guidance as your attorney and to trust that I’m doing everything I can to get you through this. That’s all. Anything beyond that will only complicate things further.”

Mark takes a deep breath, nodding slowly. He reaches for the bouquet, cradling the roses as if they were something fragile. He hesitates before picking up the box.

“I’m sorry, Erica.” he murmurs, the weight of his apology lingering in the air. “I thought… never mind. I’ll take these back. I won’t bring it up again.”

He turns to leave, but stops halfway, looking back at her. “I just wanted you to know that I truly value everything you’re doing. That’s all. I won’t overstep again.”

Erica softens, just slightly, offering him a small nod. “Thank you for understanding, Mark. And for the thought. But let’s focus on what matters - the case. That’s the only thing I want on my desk.”

With that, he finally nods, the hint of a resigned smile tugging at his lips as he leaves the office, the door closing softly behind him.

Erica watches him go, a strange mix of emotions churning inside her. She doesn’t look at the empty space where the flowers and box were. Instead, she takes a deep breath, straightens her posture, and turns her attention back to her files. Her professional armor holds, impervious and unyielding. The case - and only the case - is all that matters.




The day has been long and grueling, the sort that leaves a dull ache behind Erica’s eyes and a heaviness in her shoulders. She’s been submerged in legal documents, arguments, and case theories, trying to keep the pieces of Mark Leland’s defense from shifting too far apart. As she makes her way through a dense stack of depositions, her phone buzzes on the desk, the screen flashing Arthur Kingsley’s name.

She picks up immediately. “Arthur? What’s going on?”

There’s a pause on the other end, the silence almost buzzing. Then Arthur’s voice comes through, low and tense. “I got word from the DA’s office. The judge released Vanessa Ainsley on bail earlier today.”

Erica stiffens in her chair, her fingers tightening around the phone. “What? How did they manage that?” Her voice is controlled, but she can feel a cold ripple of unease spreading through her chest.

“You got Mark Leland out on bail, they got her out. Her attorneys filed an appeal claiming undue prejudice and lack of substantial risk. The judge bought it. Fifty-thousand dollars, and she’s out. She was released a few hours ago.”

Erica’s mind races. Vanessa Ainsley - the woman who haunts her both personally and professionally is now free. Free to maneuver, to plan, to watch. Erica swallows. It’s past six in the evening, the office nearly empty except for a few late-night staff. She forces herself to take a breath.

“What about restrictions? Does she have to stay within the state?” Erica asks, but she knows it doesn’t matter. Vanessa is the kind of person who would makes rules bend around her.

“Yes, she has to stay in New York. And she’s fitted with an ankle monitor.” Arthur says, though his tone lacks reassurance. “Just… be careful, Erica. I don’t like the idea of her being out, especially with you so deep in this case.”

“I will be.” she replies, her voice steadier than she feels. “Thanks for letting me know, Arthur.”

She hangs up, staring blankly at the darkened screen of her phone. She can feel the familiar sensation of icy fingers trailing down her spine, but she shakes it off, locking her jaw. Vanessa Ainsley might be out on bail, but she won’t intimidate her. She can’t let her.





The comforting scent of home - the subtle aroma of old books and the faint trace of lavender from a candle - should have soothed Erica’s nerves, but tonight it only serves to remind her of how fragile this sanctuary truly is.

Dressed in her gray, worn-in sweatsuit, Erica stands by the window, looking out at the street below. The bustling energy of the city has ebbed to a quiet hum, the lamplights casting long shadows across the pavement. She swirls a glass of dark, crimson-red Nero d’Avola in her hand, the rich liquid catching the light as she takes a slow sip, trying to find solace in its warmth.

But something doesn’t feel right. The faint hum of city life outside, normally comforting, now carries an edge. She’s been looking over her shoulders ever since Arthur’s call. Now she glances down the street, her eyes skimming over the usual foot traffic. A dog walker here, a couple there, a lone figure standing near the entrance of a building opposite hers. It’s not unusual, but…

Erica’s eyes narrow. There’s something off about the way the person is standing, shrouded in the shadows of a dimly lit entryway. Even from this distance, the figure’s presence feels deliberate, almost too still. A chill slides down her spine as a possibility blooms in her mind - could it be Vanessa Ainsley?

Her breath hitches. She’s seen Vanessa’s silhouette countless times: tall, lean, predatory in the way she holds herself. This person’s stance - a casual slouch yet alert posture - bears an uncanny resemblance. She sets her wineglass down on the windowsill, careful not to make a sound and chiding herself for it.

Moving quickly, Erica grabs her phone from the coffee table, the screen’s glow bright in the darkened room. With a flick of her thumb, she opens the camera and hurries back to the window. She raises the phone, ready to snap a quick photo of the figure. But when she looks back out, her breath catches in her throat.

The entranceway is empty.

She scans the street, her eyes darting from corner to corner. But there’s no sign of the figure - no shadow retreating, no footsteps fading into the night. It’s as if whoever was there has simply vanished.

The hair on the back of Erica’s neck stands up, a shiver running through her entire body. Her pulse thrums in her ears, the soft sound of her smooth Jazz playlist in the background suddenly too loud. Forcing herself to take a deep breath, she steps back from the window, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting to find someone there.

No. Of course, there’s no one here. She’s alone.

But the feeling doesn’t dissipate. It clings to her like a second skin - cold, clammy. Moving through her apartment swiftly, she goes to the door, her heart pounding as she checks the lock with deliberate precision. Once, twice, three times. Satisfied it’s secure, she turns, trying to push back the surge of memories threatening to overwhelm her.

It’s just your imagination, she tells herself firmly. You’re safe. This is your space. Vanessa can’t get to you here.

But the reassurance rings hollow. The sensation of phantom restraints around her wrists tightens, making her skin prickle. She reaches up, touching the faint scar near her collarbone - a reminder of how close Vanessa once came to ending her life.

Tonight, it’s like she can feel Vanessa’s hands on her again. Her wrists are bound in smooth, soft rope - ropes like the ones used to kill Melisa Leland. She can almost hear Vanessa’s voice, whispering in her ear, taunting her, telling her she’ll never truly escape.

Erica inhales sharply, shaking her head. No. She won’t let this woman get into her head. She steps back to the window, staring out at the empty street, daring Vanessa - if it really was her - to come back.

But the only answer is the faint rustling of the leaves outside and the sound of a passing car. Erica’s fingers tighten around her phone. She opens the camera app again, scrolling through the few photos she managed to take. Each one shows nothing but darkness, blurred lights, and empty pavement.

With a sigh, she shuts the app and sets the phone on her nightstand to charge. She won’t get any answers tonight, and she knows it. But the unsettling presence lingers, like a dark cloud hanging over her thoughts.


That night, Erica lies in bed, her body tense and her mind churning. Sleep eludes her, her dreams laced with memories she’d rather forget. Memories of Vanessa’s laughter, her breath on Erica’s skin, her fingers tightening around her throat.

Even in sleep, she can’t escape the feeling of the ropes, the suffocating sensation of being utterly at Vanessa’s mercy. The nightmare grips her tightly, refusing to let go, until she jerks awake, the early morning light creeping through her blinds.

Erica sits up, drawing her knees to her chest. She rubs her wrists, feeling the ghostly sensation of restraint. There’s no one here. She’s alone. And yet, she can’t shake the feeling that Vanessa is watching, waiting, somewhere out there in the shadows.

As dawn breaks, Erica knows one thing for certain: Vanessa’s release has shattered the fragile sense of safety she’d built for herself. And no amount of locked doors or careful precautions will be able to put it back together.



The early morning city lights flicker outside Erica’s window, casting restless shadows across her apartment. She stands by the window again, her eyes scanning the street below. The spot at the entrance where she saw Vanessa the evening before, is empty now, but the unease lingers. The phone in her hand trembles slightly as she scrolls through her contacts. Her heart races. She needs help - someone who understands threats like this.

Taking a deep breath, she dials.



The phone rings a few times before a calm, steady voice answers. Erica speaks quickly, her voice low but tense as she explains her situation with the Leland case, the attempt at her own life and voices her growing certainty that Vanessa Ainsley is stalking her. Her contact listens intently. After a moment, he gives her the address of a discreet little bistro.
“We’ll meet over coffee in an hour, Erica.”

Relief washes over Erica as she hangs up. At least now, she’s not facing this alone.




The bistro is tucked away in a quieter part of the city, away from prying eyes. Erica arrives early as it is typical for her, finding a secluded table in the back corner. She wraps her hands around a steaming cup of coffee, trying to steady her nerves. Every time the door opens, she glances up, waiting.

When he finally walks in, she feels a rush of relief.

John Dance is a man in his mid-forties, fit and well-built, though not in an overly imposing way. His athletic frame is subtle, wrapped in well-tailored but unremarkable clothing - jeans, a neutral-toned jacket, and scuffed boots. With short, neatly cut brown hair and an almost forgettable face, he blends into any crowd effortlessly, the kind of person you’d glance at once and never think of again. His calm, steady gaze and quiet confidence, however, hint at something more - years of experience in dangerous situations, always observing, always aware, without drawing attention to himself.

He orders an Americano, then makes his way to her, sitting down with his usual composure. His eyes lock onto hers, sharp and attentive, signaling that it’s time for her to explain.

Leaning in, Erica speaks in a low, urgent tone. She recounts everything – how she was brought onto the case, Marl Leland, her first suspicions about Vanessa, the attempt on her life and now her feeling that Vanessa might be trailing her, maybe if only to throw her off-balance, but maybe worse.

"She’s dangerous." Erica murmurs, her grip tightening on the coffee cup.

He listens, his face unreadable, absorbing every word. After a pause, he leans back slightly, processing the details.
"I’ll run surveillance on her, track her movements. If she’s stalking you, we’ll have enough hard evidence within a few days." he says finally, his voice calm and steady.

Erica exhales, a faint smile breaking through her worry. The weight on her shoulders lifts slightly, knowing she’s not alone in this fight.

They stand to leave, the cool morning air greeting them as they step outside. He reminds her to keep her routine normal, not to change anything, while he handles the rest. She nods, feeling more grounded with a plan in place.

The hunt is on.

Jenny_S wrote: 7 months ago @LunaDog, I hope you'll stay with me for more Erica Sinclair adventures. There's so much more in the pipeline for her.

Believe me, i sure WILL. And i notice that i jumped the gun a little here, you're not finished with THIS tale just yet.

Dear @LunaDog , this story is a rather long one.
If you want to read it in full length, you can find the first three Erica Sinclair adventures in full length here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

This is so well written I am loving it

Thank you, @Dpsiic.
Erica will stay with us for a few more adventures and this one isn't finished yet either.

John Dance sits in a nondescript gray sedan parked two blocks away from a high-rise apartment complex in Manhattan’s Upper East Side. He’s in the passenger seat, his laptop balanced on his knee, fingers gliding over the keyboard with practiced ease. On the screen, multiple windows show various feeds: a live video of the front entrance, heat signatures of the residents on the fourth floor, and a tracker’s GPS signal blinking softly on a digital map overlay.

“Alright, let’s see if you’re home, Vanessa,” he mutters to himself, eyes narrowing as he scans the screen.

His focus settles on the live video feed of the entrance, captured by a discreet pinhole camera hidden inside a weathered utility pole across the street. He’s set up multiple cameras over the past two days, creating a near-invisible surveillance network around Vanessa Ainsley’s known hangouts. But he knows Vanessa’s too clever to rely on just visuals. He needs something more concrete.

Glancing around the empty street, he opens his car door and steps out. He’s dressed for blending in - dark jeans, a casual jacket, and a navy baseball cap – the quintessential grey man. His movements are deliberate, calm, and he carries a small black backpack slung casually over one shoulder.

He walks briskly, crossing the street with the air of someone out for an evening stroll. No one pays him any attention as he makes his way to a side alley that runs parallel to the back of Vanessa’s apartment building. As he reaches the alley, he pauses, looking around to ensure no prying eyes are watching. Then, with practiced speed, he unzips his backpack and pulls out a small drone the size of a paperback book.

The drone hums softly to life as he powers it up, its tiny propellers whispering against the still air. John attaches his phone to the remote control, the screen lighting up with the drone’s camera view. He carefully guides it up, the drone ascending quietly between the buildings until it hovers near the fifth floor, just below Vanessa’s balcony. His screen shows a clear, bird’s-eye view of the glass doors leading into her living room.

John adjusts the camera angle, zooming in as the drone edges closer to the glass. He knows better than to get too close - just enough to get a sense of movement inside. From this position, he can see the faint glow of a television and the silhouette of someone moving across the room.

“Gotcha,” he murmurs, his lips curving into a satisfied smile. But observation isn’t enough. He needs access - real access.

Switching to a different feed on his phone, he pulls up the tracker’s GPS coordinates. Vanessa’s car is parked in the underground garage, exactly where he left it. The tracker - a coin-sized device he’d attached to the undercarriage - pings softly, confirming its presence. With it, he can monitor her movements anytime she leaves the building.

John calls back the drone and lowers it back down, catching it midair before packing it away. He moves deeper into the alley, blending into the shadows as he approaches a service entrance at the back of the building. This time, he pulls out a small handheld device - an electronic scanner. He switches it on, and the screen lights up with a grid of nearby wireless networks and devices. He finds what he’s looking for: “AinsleyV”, encrypted, but accessible for someone with his skillset.

Smirking, he taps a few buttons and runs a decryption program. It takes less than a minute for the scanner to bypass the security protocols and feed him a direct link to Vanessa’s home network.


“Let’s see what you’re up to, Vanessa,” he whispers, as the screen fills with a list of connected devices: her smart TV, two smartphones, a laptop, and… bingo. Security cameras. She’s got a full set installed throughout the apartment.

With a few deft keystrokes, he connects to the camera feed, his screen now displaying a clear view of her living room, kitchen, and hallways. He can’t access the bedroom or bathroom, but it’s more than enough to track her movements inside.

He sees Vanessa in the living room, pacing with her phone pressed to her ear. He can’t hear the conversation, but her body language is tense, her gestures animated. Whoever she’s talking to, it’s not a friendly chat.

“Got you on video and on the move,” John mutters, quickly snapping a few screenshots of her position. He knows better than to rely on just one form of evidence. The more he collects, the more leverage he can provide to Erica.

But it doesn’t end there.

John shifts his attention back to the scanning device, narrowing his focus on Vanessa’s primary smartphone. It’s using encrypted voice calls, but there’s a workaround for everything. He sets up a passive listener - something that’ll alert him whenever she makes or receives a call, logging the number and location.

Lastly, he retrieves a small black box from his bag, a cell tower spoofing device, capable of intercepting calls within a limited range. He sets it up on a fire escape nearby, positioning it to cover her entire apartment.

Now, even if she changes phones or uses a burner, he’ll know. He won’t hear her conversations directly - he’s careful about the legality of it - but the metadata will tell him enough. He’ll know who she’s contacting, where she’s going, and how often.

It’s a web of surveillance so fine that Vanessa would never suspect it, but one wrong move on her part would set off every alarm John Dance has in place.

Stepping back into the alley, he checks his watch. The entire operation has taken less than fifteen minutes. Smooth and clean, just the way he likes it.

He takes one last glance at his phone, noting Vanessa’s position still in the living room. Satisfied, he slips back into the street, disappearing as easily as he came.

For now, it’s a waiting game. But John has patience in spades. He knows Vanessa will slip up eventually - everyone does. And when she does, he’ll be ready.

Walking back to his car, he taps a quick message to Erica:

“Surveillance is up and running. I’ll keep you posted with any significant developments.”

He slides into the driver’s seat, glancing once more at the apartment complex through his rearview mirror.

“Just try to make a move, Vanessa.” he whispers, starting the engine.





The discreet bistro feels even more secluded today, its soft ambient music and low murmur of conversation providing a comfortable cover for more private exchanges. John Dance sits opposite Erica in their usual corner booth, his posture relaxed but alert. A steaming cup of black coffee rests between his hands, untouched.

Erica leans forward, her face tense. “She’s actually following me.” she says, her voice low and incredulous. “I saw her again last night - same entrance across the street from my building.”

John nods, as if he’s been expecting this escalation. “Yeah, her surveillance patterns are getting more predictable. It’s almost like she wants you to know she’s there. Clumsy work, really.”

“Clumsy?” Erica scoffs, shaking her head. “John, this isn’t amusing. It’s… unnerving. If she’s doing this deliberately, it’s meant to get under my skin.”

John’s expression softens, but his voice remains pragmatic. “Of course it is. She wants you rattled, second-guessing everything you do. But here’s the thing: her tactics are blunt. She’s relying on intimidation and psychological pressure, not subtlety. I don’t think she’s as confident as she’s trying to appear.”

Erica exhales sharply, fighting the urge to look over her shoulder even here in the cafe. “What’s your suggestion? How do I counter it?”

John leans forward slightly, dropping his voice even lower. “You don’t counter it, not directly at least. You play along. Pretend you don’t know she’s there. Keep doing what you’re doing but be extra careful. Let her think she’s got you where she wants you.”

Erica’s eyes narrow, suspicion mingled with curiosity. “And then what?”

John’s smile returns, a slow, almost wolfish grin. “We’ll lure her in. You’d know when and where she’s coming, and we'll be ready for her. The moment she steps out of line, we snap the trap shut.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, discreet radio transmitter/receiver the size of a chewing gum pack, micro-microphone and a tiny earpiece. He places them on the table between them. “You wear that little gimmick whenever you leave your apartment, and she’ll never know that you don’t even have to look over your shoulder, because I’ll be watching her every step. If she tries something, I’ll give you a warning, and the trap springs.”

Erica looks down at the receiver and earpiece, then back up at John, weighing her options. “You mean I just go on as if nothing’s happening?”

John nods slowly. “Exactly. You’re a lot tougher than she is, Erica. Let me take care of the heavy lifting. My advice? Use her strategy against her. We’ll build a record of her movements, times, and locations until we have irrefutable evidence. Then, when she tries something stupid, we pounce. It’ll be over before she knows what hit her.”

Erica reaches out hesitantly, picking up the receiver and the earpiece. She turns them over in her hand, feeling the cool, smooth plastic against her skin. There’s a flicker of determination in her eyes as she looks back at him.

“And if this trap you’re setting doesn’t work?”

John shrugs, his expression casual but his tone serious. “Then we come up with something else. We're a lot smarter than her and I’ll be right there, watching her every move, until we put her away for good.”

Erica considers this for a moment longer, then slips the receiver into her pocket and the earpiece into her purse. “Alright. Let’s do it your way.”

“Good.” John’s voice is firm, but his gaze is steady and reassuring. “Just keep me posted on anything unusual - calls, texts, anyone trying to contact you that shouldn’t. We’re one step ahead of her now. Let’s keep it that way.”

Erica nods, already feeling a little steadier, a little more in control. “I’ll call Kingsley and the DA, just to keep them in the loop. I don’t want them blindsided.”

“Smart.” John agrees. “And Erica?”

She glances up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Stay sharp. Vanessa’s unbalanced, but she’s not stupid. If she catches wind that you’re onto her, she’ll change tactics. And that’s when things could get dangerous.”

“I hear you.” Erica murmurs, slipping the earpiece discreetly into her ear. “Thanks, John. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime,” he says with a nod, lifting his coffee to his lips at last, though his gaze never leaves her face. “Now go be that tough cookie I know you are. We’ve got this.”

With that, Erica stands, her back straighter and her jaw set. Vanessa Ainsley might be watching her, but she’s ready for whatever comes next. She’s not going to be caught off guard - not this time.





For the past several days, Erica has been wearing the small receiver and earpiece that John Dance gave her, tucking it discreetly under her collar whenever she leaves her apartment. At first, it feels strange - like a weight she can’t see but constantly senses, reminding her of the invisible tether Vanessa Ainsley has placed on her life. But as time goes on, she finds herself growing accustomed to John’s voice crackling softly in her ear, providing calm, steady updates whenever she’s out.

“Clear on your left. Just a few pedestrians.” he murmurs as she heads to the grocery store, making her way through the aisles with a shopping cart. “Vanessa’s nowhere in sight.” he reassures her when she takes her usual early-morning run, her pace steady even as her heart thuds with apprehension.

Sometimes, she almost forgets the receiver is even there - almost forgets Vanessa, too. But then a glimpse of a familiar car or a flicker of movement in her peripheral vision brings the fear rushing back. John’s constant watchfulness is her only comfort, his presence a lifeline that keeps the anxiety at bay.

But tonight, as Erica steps out of her building, something feels different.

“Heading out for ice cream.” she murmurs into the hidden mic, her breath visible in the cold evening air. She makes sure to keep her voice casual, the way they’ve practiced, as if this were just another normal outing. Her fingers toy nervously with the strap of her handbag as she glances both ways down the street.

John’s voice buzzes to life in her ear. “Copy that. I’m across the street. Just act natural.”

Erica nods subtly and starts walking, forcing her thoughts to quiet as she moves toward the corner deli. The rhythm of her steps, the chill of the air, the murmur of the city around her - it all helps her focus. But beneath it all is the steady, unrelenting tension. The awareness that, at any moment, Vanessa could show up.

“John, is she around?” Erica whispers under her breath, her eyes scanning the dimly lit street.

There’s a brief pause on the other end before John replies, “Yeah. Silver sedan parked on the street corner. Been there about five minutes now. Engine’s still running.”

Erica’s pulse spikes, but she keeps her stride steady. “Do you think it’s her?”

“Positive. Keep going, Erica. I’m filming everything. Just remember: pretend you don’t see it.”

With a deep breath, Erica continues walking toward the deli, her shoulders squared. The pedestrian signal turns green, and she steps into the crosswalk, taking care not to look at the silver car parked just up the street.

And then, it all happens at once.

The car’s engine roars to life, and it surges forward, screeching into the intersection.
“Run!” she hears John’s voice shouting in her left ear. Erica barely has time to react - she throws herself sideways, hitting the pavement hard as the car shoots past her, tires squealing. The force of its wind whips through her hair as it speeds down the block, its headlights casting harsh shadows on the empty street.

“Erica!” John’s voice shouts through the earpiece. “Are you okay?”

She lies there for a moment, breathing hard, her palms scraped raw from the asphalt. “I…”
She gulps, the world spinning slightly. “I’m fine. I’m okay.”

“Stay down. Don’t move,” John orders, and she can hear the rush of his footsteps approaching. “That was damn close.”

Erica’s gaze locks onto the car’s taillights, glowing red in the distance. She watches as it slows briefly, then speeds off again, disappearing around the corner. The reality of what just happened hits her like a blow to the chest: Vanessa isn’t just stalking her - she’s trying to kill her. Again.

“Did you get it?” she croaks, pushing herself up.

John is beside her now, his expression dark as he holds up his small camera, the recording light still blinking. He glances at the screen, then nods grimly. “Yeah. Got the whole thing. Woman, license plate and all. You did awesome, Erica!”

Erica lets out a shaky breath, the adrenaline surging through her veins. A mix of fear and fury churns inside her. “She really tried it this time.” she mutters, more to herself than to John. Her voice tight with barely controlled anger she says „Now, we take this to Kingsley and the DA. With this footage, Vanessa’s no longer just a creepy stalker. She’s a violent threat, and we can prove it.”

For Erica, the game has entered a deadlier phase. And this time, she’s ready to fight back.





Erica and John Dance enter the DA’s office, the tension between them palpable. The stark fluorescent lights highlight the sparse furniture and neatly stacked case files scattered on the DA’s desk. District Attorney Charles Vickers looks up as they approach. His sharp eyes flick between Erica and Dance, reading the urgency in their expressions.

“Miss Sinclair, Mr Dance.” Vickers says, gesturing to the seats across from him. “I understand you have something for me?”

Erica doesn’t bother sitting. She places a small USB drive on the desk, her movements brisk and efficient. “This contains everything you need to put Vanessa Ainsley back behind bars, where she belongs.”

DA Vickers raises an eyebrow and picks up the drive, turning it over in his fingers. “You have my attention. What exactly am I looking at?”

Dance leans back in his seat, his voice calm and steady. “Footage of Vanessa Ainsley making a direct attempt on Miss Sinclair’s life. She tried to run Erica over yesterday evening. I was in position with a camera, got the whole thing on tape – herself, her car, her actions, even her license plate. There’s no question it was intentional.”

Vickers’ eyes widen slightly, and he glances up at Erica, a flicker of concern in his gaze. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, thanks to Mr Dance here.” Erica replies curtly, her jaw tight. “But I’m not here to talk about how I feel. This woman has gone from stalking me to attempted murder, and she’s escalating. The footage is crystal clear - there’s no way her lawyers can spin it as anything else. We need to revoke her bail and get her back in custody before she tries again.”

The DA exhales slowly, nodding as he connects the drive to his laptop. The screen flares to life, and Erica watches his face as he reviews the footage: the video of Vanessa’s car revving up, its sudden swerve into the crosswalk, and Erica’s body hitting the ground as she narrowly avoids being struck.

“She’s lucky to be alive.” Dance comments quietly, his gaze fixed on the screen. “If I hadn’t been there, Vanessa would’ve just driven off without a trace.”

The DA’s face darkens as he pauses the video on a frame showing Vanessa’s car speeding away. He clicks again, zooming in on the license plate and the clear outline of Vanessa behind the wheel.

“Damn.” Vickers mutters under his breath. He turns to Erica, his voice dropping to a grave tone. “This will be enough to revoke her bail.”

“That’s what we’re counting on.” Erica replies. “She’s dangerous, Mr Vickers. I don’t want to be looking over my shoulder every time I step outside my building. And I don’t want to wait for her to try something else. The longer she’s free, the more time she has to run amok again.”

Vickers leans back in his chair, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Getting her bail revoked isn’t going to be a problem. But I’m worried about what happens next. Ainsley’s a wild card, and who knows which strings she and her lawyer might be pulling behind the scenes.”

Erica’s eyes flash with determination. “We’ve anticipated that. John’s been tracking her movements since the incident. If she tries to run or manipulate the system, we’ll know. But we can’t let fear of what she might do keep us from doing what’s right.”

The DA studies her for a long moment, then nods slowly. “Alright. I’ll file the motion to revoke her bail first thing after we wrap up this meeting. I’ll push for an emergency hearing with the judge. We should have a decision within the next 24 hours.”

John leans back in his seat, a look of satisfaction on his face. “Good. In the meantime, I’ll keep a closer watch on Vanessa. If she even so much as twitches in Erica’s direction, I’ll have more than enough evidence to bury her.”

Vickers stands, extending his hand to John and then to Erica. “Thank you, both. This is going to strengthen our case significantly.”

As they leave the office, Dance glances sideways at Erica. “You did good in there. Strong, but controlled. You’ve got this, Erica.”

She smiles faintly, the relief only just beginning to seep through her walls of professional composure. “I’m not new at this, John. The ball is in Vickers’ court now. Let’s hope he doesn’t drop it.”

“With this load of evidence? I doubt it.” he says quietly as they step out onto the street.

And with that, they head off into the night, resolved to see Vanessa’s reign of terror brought to an end, no matter what it takes.




The muted hum of the television fills Erica's living room as the breaking news banner flashes across the screen. Star reporter Candice Summers stands on a dimly lit street, the stark contrast of blue and red police lights illuminating her face. Behind her, a chaotic scene unfolds - officers move purposefully around a large apartment complex. As Candice speaks, the camera zooms in on the sight of Vanessa Ainsley being led out of her front door in handcuffs. The woman’s face is a mask of shock, her posture rigid with disbelief.

“Breaking news tonight,” Candice’s voice resonates through the speakers, brimming with professional intensity. “Vanessa Ainsley, defendant in the high-profile Leland case, has just been taken into custody after an emergency hearing between District Attorney Charles Vickers and Judge Elisabeth Hathaway. Sources say that her bail has been revoked due to credible evidence that she attempted to kill a key witness by running her down with her vehicle.” The camera pans in closer, capturing the indignant shouts of Ainsley’s lawyer as he tries to fend off the swarm of reporters.

Erica’s lips curl into a satisfied smirk as she leans back on the sofa, crossing one leg over the other. “So, it went exactly as planned.” She says to herself as she watches the scene unfold with an air of detachment, savoring the victory. Her eyes narrow as she takes in Vanessa’s furious expression, the woman mouthing protests that go unheard amid the cacophony.

“Seems you’re not as untouchable as you thought, Vanessa.” Erica murmurs to herself, her voice low and almost playful. She allows herself a small nod of appreciation. John Dance’s relentless efforts have paid off - every piece of evidence, every painstaking detail collected, has led to this satisfying outcome. It isn’t over, of course. This is just the beginning. But for now, Vanessa Ainsley is off the streets, and that’s a win in Erica’s book.

She picks up the remote and switches off the TV, plunging the room into a comfortable silence. Rising gracefully from the sofa, Erica crosses the room with measured, deliberate steps, her gaze shifting toward the hallway leading to her bedroom. The house is quiet, save for the soft click of her heels against the polished wood floor.



Entering the spacious bedroom, she pauses at the threshold of her walk-in closet, letting her fingers trail lightly along the edge of the doorframe. She stands there for a moment, considering, then pushes the door open. The soft lighting inside illuminates rows of meticulously arranged clothes, each garment a testament to her impeccable taste and sense of style. She moves with purpose, her hand brushing past the smooth textures of silk, cashmere, and wool until she finds what she’s looking for.

Erica pulls out a pair of tight black leather pants, the material supple and luxurious to the touch. Next, she selects a maroon red silk blouse - soft and shimmering under the closet light. She reaches for a short, form-fitting black leather jacket, its sleek lines exuding an air of dominance and poise. Finally, she chooses a pair of tall, polished black riding-type boots that will add an inch to her height and give her an authoritative presence.

As she slips into the outfit, her movements are slow and deliberate, savoring the sensation of the leather molding to her form. The silk blouse contrasts sharply with the deep black, highlighting the contours of her figure. The mirror across from her reflects a striking image - a woman both alluring and intimidating. The shine of the leather catches the light, emphasizing her strong silhouette. Erica tilts her head, examining her appearance with a critical eye, and then a smile spreads across her lips.

The look is dramatic, even a touch dangerous. “Perfect.” she whispers and shifting her weight, the leather creaks softly with the movement, and allows herself to indulge in a little fantasy. Imagining Vanessa Ainsley’s reaction if she were to confront her like this - in full command, dressed to project strength and confidence. She would never actually do it, of course. But the idea is undeniably tantalizing.

“Now wouldn’t that be something.” she muses, running a hand through her hair to smooth it into place. She takes a step back, regarding herself one last time in the mirror. The black leather, the hint of maroon, the glint of polished boots - they all combine to create an image of someone who is not to be trifled with. She is satisfied.

The thought of her success, of Vanessa’s downfall, starts to stir something deeper inside her. A tingling sensation flares between her legs, subtle at first but growing with each passing moment. Erica’s gaze stays locked on her reflection as she lets one hand slide slowly down her stomach, the smooth fabric of the blouse only heightening her awareness of her body’s response. Her fingers reach the waistband of the tight leather pants, and she hesitates, eyes darkening with desire.

Exhaling softly, she allows her hand to slip lower, brushing against the seam of the leather, where her clit is already pulsing with heat. She rubs gently at first, feeling the friction through the material, and a quiet gasp escapes her lips. The sight of herself - strong, commanding, untouchable - only fuels the building pressure. She presses harder, her fingers working in slow, deliberate circles as she watches her own reflection, every movement sending shivers of pleasure through her body.




Erica lies sprawled across her bed, chest heaving, her body still trembling from the intensity of her climax. The soft, luxurious sheets rustle under her, and she closes her eyes for a moment, letting the last waves of pleasure ripple through her. Her hand remains between her thighs, fingers resting lightly over her sensitized clit, feeling the faint throbs of aftershocks. Each pulse is a reminder of the powerful release she’s just experienced, a testament to the raw, unbridled side of herself she rarely lets loose.

She inhales deeply, savoring the cool air against her flushed skin, and slowly lifts her head, staring at the ceiling as she catches her breath. There’s a languid satisfaction in her eyes, mingled with a flicker of something darker, something almost daring. The polished leather of her pants squeaks softly as she shifts, the outfit she chose earlier still perfectly intact - tight black leather pants, maroon silk blouse, short black jacket, tall boots. Her commanding look. “The” look.

The thought of it - of how she appeared in the mirror - sends a fresh thrill racing through her. She reaches up and lightly brushes her fingers over her own lips, recalling the almost predatory smile she’d worn. “Wouldn’t it be something” she muses, “to step out into the night like this…”

The image comes to her vividly: walking down the quiet city streets, her heels clicking with each confident stride. People’s heads turning, eyes widening, and whispered voices trailing in her wake. The mere sight of her radiating control, power, and an unspoken command for respect.

Her smile deepens, a wry, almost mischievous expression playing on her lips as she lets the fantasy linger. She could go for a walk - let the world see this side of her that she so carefully keeps hidden. “The powerful attorney in court by day, the mysterious, leather-clad figure by night.” The thrill of being seen, of being admired, even if just from a distance.

But then she laughs softly, the sound breaking the silence of the room. The idea of exposing herself like that… It’s just a fleeting temptation, one that doesn’t align with her usual restraint. No, it’s not her style. She’s far too careful, too controlled to let anyone catch a glimpse of her like this.

Instead, another thought begins to form, sending a different kind of excitement coursing through her veins. Erica’s eyes glimmer with anticipation as she rolls onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow. She could contact Simulated Activities again - a service designed for those who crave a taste of danger, adventure, or fantasy. A place where reality is suspended, and she can indulge in scenarios she would never dare to face in real life.

“What if…” she thinks, tracing a slow circle on the sheets with her fingertip, “I book an experience where I’m captured… just like this…”

She pictures it: herself in this very outfit, held against her will, maybe even bound - forced to rely on nothing but her wits and physical prowess to escape. She imagines breaking free, leather-clad legs straining as she overpowers her captors, the sensation of liberation surging through her. It’s a challenge, a test of her limits. And all the while, she’s in control, because she sets the rules, she defines the boundaries.

A rush of excitement swells in her chest, and she bites her lower lip, savoring the thrill of the idea. It’s perfect. A private indulgence of her strength and cunning, yet entirely removed from her everyday life. No one would ever know. Simulated Activities is very – very – discreet.

Erica reaches for her phone on the nightstand, fingertips still tingling from her recent release. She opens the Simulated Activities app and hesitates for only a second before starting to type. With each tap of her finger, the scenario takes clearer shape in her mind. Yes, this is what she needs. Not a walk through the city streets, but an adventure that only she will ever experience - where she can be vulnerable, powerful, and victorious all at once.

The smile on her face softens into something almost serene. She’s made her decision. And she can already feel the anticipation building for what’s to come – when the Leland murder case has been won. Erica sends the encrypted message.

OH YES!

@Jenny_S, how do I apply for a position at Simulated Activities? Are you, in fact, the CEO?

@GreyLord, you've met the CEO of Simulated Activities in Erica's first adventure: Mr Fessler (fesseln is German for to tie up). I'm sure you'll find them somewhere on the Internet and see if they are currently hiring, LOL.

To speak legalistically, I met someone purporting to be the CEO. As good as he might be, I expect you to be better.

The gym lobby buzzes with activity, members streaming in and out, chatting in clusters or wiping away sweat after finishing their workouts. Amidst the flow of people, Bobby Pearson stands off to one side, leaning against a sleek support pillar, his eyes scanning the entrance.

He’s not dressed for the gym, and it’s obvious he has no intention of ever setting foot on the equipment. His tailored blazer and freshly pressed slacks stand out like a sore thumb, especially against the backdrop of workout attire and flushed, post-exercise faces.

When Erica finally appears, looking perfectly put together in her business suit, gym bag slung over her shoulder, he straightens up, smoothing a hand down his tie. He steps forward just as she’s about to leave, moving with an easy, casual stride that doesn’t quite match the sharpness in his eyes.

“Erica.” he says with a wide, practiced smile that almost looks genuine.

Erica’s eyes flicker with recognition, and she halts, arching a brow as she takes him in. “Bobby.” she replies, her tone cool and detached. “Still lurking around, I see?”

“Just thought I’d swing by.” he says with a casual shrug, his gaze roving over her with a hint of something assessing. “Catch up, see how things are going with that little incident you’ve managed to stir up.”

She tilts her head slightly, maintaining an air of calm composure. “I’d hardly call attempted murder a ‘little incident.’ But nice to know you’re keeping tabs.”

“Oh, you know me.” he replies, taking a step closer. “Always like to be informed.” He lets the words hang in the air before continuing, “Speaking of, I’ve been hearing some interesting things lately… about a certain key witness of yours.”

Erica’s expression remains unruffled, but she shifts her stance, subtly asserting herself. “If you have something to say, Bobby, say it. I don’t have time to play games.”

Pearson’s smile tightens, and he leans in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to keep the conversation private. “Just heard your witness has been feeling a little… uneasy lately. Someone’s been stopping by their place, asking questions, making them second-guess some things.” He pauses, watching her intently. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Erica’s eyes narrow, and she steps closer, closing the gap until she’s inches away from him and sees his expression shift, a hint of irritation flashing in his eyes. He leans back slightly but doesn’t drop his gaze. “I’m just pointing out that things can get complicated when people start getting nervous. People forget details, or their stories change. Sometimes they even decide not to testify at all.”

Erica’s lips curl into a smirk, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “So you’re telling me that someone might be trying to spook my witness?”

“Spook?” Pearson repeats with a mock chuckle. “I’d say…reminding them of the stakes.” He spreads his hands in a gesture of faux innocence. “Wouldn’t want anyone to make a mistake on the stand and say something they’ll regret later, right?”

“Right.” Erica echoes, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She studies him for a long moment, her gaze piercing through his thin veneer of civility. “You’re wasting your time. You can have all the conversations you want outside a courtroom, but we both know your client’s situation is beyond desperate. The facts aren’t going anywhere.”

Bobby Pearson shifts his stance, fingers drumming lightly against his thigh as he watches her, his smile a touch more strained now. “Desperate? Maybe. But you know how it goes, Erica - trials are won and lost long before anyone sets foot in a courtroom. It’s all about who’s willing to push harder.”

Erica gives him a long, appraising look, then shakes her head slowly. She knows she’s not a pushover. “And here I thought you were a professional. It’s disappointing to see you trying to scare people instead of building a real defense.”

He flinches slightly, the barb hitting its mark, but he recovers quickly. “Sometimes, being a professional means reminding people what’s at stake. Nothing more.” His gaze hardens. “But don’t worry - I’ll save my best for court. And when I put your witness on the stand, don’t be surprised if their memory’s a little hazy.”

Erica’s eyes flash with a dangerous light, and she takes a deliberate step closer, forcing him to either back down or stand his ground. He doesn’t move, but she can see the flicker of uncertainty in his gaze. “Listen to me.” she says softly, her voice almost a whisper. “Try this again, and I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what you’re up to. Harassment, intimidation - it’ll all be on the record. And you’ll be the one whose career is falling apart, piece by piece.”

Pearson’s jaw clenches, and for a moment, it looks like he might snap back. But then he exhales slowly, shaking his head. “You always did have a flair for dramatics, didn’t you, Erica?”

“Only when it’s necessary.” she replies with a sweet, mocking smile. “Now, if we’re done here, I have a real job to get back to.”

He steps aside, letting her pass, but his gaze lingers on her as she strides toward the door, heels clicking decisively against the marble floor. Just before she exits, he calls out after her.

“You’ll see, Erica. There’s more than one way to win a case.”

She doesn’t turn around, just lifts her hand in a dismissive wave as she pushes through the doors and steps out into the afternoon sun. The encounter only solidifies what she already knew: Pearson’s running scared. And scared people make mistakes.




The midday sun casts a harsh glare across the parking lot, but she barely notices as she strides toward her car - the sleek black Volvo XC60 parked near the entrance. With a swift motion, she unlocks it and yanks the rear door open, tossing her gym bag onto the back seat.

“Desperate bastard.” she mutters under her breath as she slams the door shut. The confrontation still simmers in her mind, the words Pearson had thrown at her replaying like a loop she can’t quite turn off. But she knows better than to let anger cloud her thinking.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, she takes a deep breath, centering herself. The familiar scent of leather and the soft hum of the engine when she starts it are oddly comforting. She pulls out her phone, tapping quickly through her contacts until she reaches the name she needs: Arthur Kingsley.

Arthur picks up on the third ring, his calm, deep voice filling the car’s interior. “Erica. What’s going on?”

“Arthur, I just ran into Bobby Pearson.” she says, leaning back against the headrest as she gathers her thoughts. “In the gym lobby, of all places. And he wasn’t there to work out. He was there to ‘warn’ me that our key witness might not be as reliable as we think.”

There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line before Arthur speaks, his tone edged with concern. “What do you mean, “warn” you?”

Erica glances around the nearly empty parking lot, lowering her voice slightly, even though she’s alone. “Without mentioning her name, of course, Pearson hinted that someone’s been making Stephanie Colbert feel uneasy. Visiting her, asking questions, trying to make her second-guess herself. He didn’t admit to anything directly, but it’s clear what he’s up to. He’s trying to spook her into backing out, or at least shake her confidence before she gets on the stand.”

Arthur lets out a low, thoughtful hum. “That’s bold. And reckless. But not unexpected, considering the mess Vanessa’s in. It means he’s desperate, Erica. Pearson knows he’s losing ground.”

“Desperate or not, it could have an effect on her if we’re not careful.” Erica replies, her voice hardening. “Stephanie’s a solid witness, but she’s also scared. Her testimony’s the linchpin to nailing Vanessa for this. If she starts to waver, it could unravel everything.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end before Arthur responds, his tone measured and analytical. “Then we need to make sure Stephanie knows she has support - real support. Not just as a witness but as a person. Have you talked to her since Vanessa’s second attack?”

“I have.” Erica says, tightening her grip on the steering wheel. “But only to discuss the logistics of her testimony. I didn’t want to push her or make it seem like I was checking up on her too much. You know how it is… too much pressure, and she might feel like she’s being used, just like Pearson’s trying to make her feel.”

“Then it’s time to change the approach. If Bobby’s playing this game, we need to be proactive. Start by arranging a more personal meeting with her.” Arthur suggests, his voice firm. “Maybe outside the usual office setting. Somewhere neutral where she feels safe.”

“Like a café, or even somewhere public but low-key.” Erica muses, nodding to herself as the idea takes shape. “I could frame it as a casual check-in, see where her head’s at, and gauge if she’s truly rattled or if it’s just Pearson blowing smoke.”

“Exactly.” Arthur agrees. “And if she seems shaken, reassure her. We have resources, Erica. Make it clear that she’s protected, that we’ll handle any further harassment. I’ll put in a request with the DA to have a discrete security detail keep an eye on her place, just in case.”

“Good.” Erica murmurs, relief flooding through her at his steady, no-nonsense approach. “The last thing we need is Pearson or anyone else getting close enough to undermine her confidence further. I’ll talk to her, make sure she understands that no matter what she hears, we’ve got her back.”

Arthur’s voice softens, the hint of a smile audible even through the phone. “You’ve got a way of putting people at ease, Erica. I trust you’ll know exactly how to approach her. But if anything feels off, don’t hesitate to loop me in. This is too important to leave anything to chance.”

“Believe me, I know.” Erica replies, the weight of the situation settling in her chest. She takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as she glances out at the parking lot, her mind already racing ahead to the meeting with Stephanie. “I’ll set it up for this afternoon or early evening, depending on her availability. I want to catch her before Pearson - or whoever he’s sending - gets another chance to speak with her.”

“Good plan.” Arthur says approvingly. “And Erica… if this escalates, don’t try to handle it alone. I know you’re more than capable, but Pearson’s the type to test every boundary. We need to stay one step ahead.”

“I won’t.” Erica promises. “I’ll keep you in the loop.”

“Alright then. Let me know how it goes.” Arthur finishes, his tone as steady as ever. “We’ll get through this, Erica. One move at a time.”

“Thanks, Arthur.” Erica murmurs, her voice softening as she ends the call. She places her phone on the passenger seat, staring out through the windshield for a moment as she gathers her thoughts.

Pearson’s threat was more than just a mind game - he was probing for weaknesses, testing how far he could push. But Erica’s not about to let him gain an inch. Not with so much riding on Stephanie’s testimony.

With a renewed sense of purpose, she shifts the car into gear, pulling smoothly out of the parking lot. As she drives, she begins to draft a mental script for how she’ll approach Stephanie. It needs to be genuine - more than just legalese and reassurances. It has to be something that will remind Stephanie why she’s fighting in the first place.

Because if Pearson thinks he can bully Stephanie into silence, he’s about to find out just how wrong he is.





Erica steps through the glass door of Robinson’s Café, the chic place nestled on a quiet corner of the city’s upscale district. The muted buzz of conversation and the soft clinking of porcelain cups create an atmosphere of refined tranquility. It’s the kind of place that draws a certain clientele - executives on break, well-dressed patrons enjoying a leisurely afternoon, and a scattering of professionals typing away on laptops. It’s Stephanie Colbert’s favorite place.

But as Erica’s eyes scan the room, something feels immediately off. Her gaze lands on Stephanie Colbert, seated at her usual corner table by the bay window, where sunlight spills in softly, casting a warm glow across her features.

Stephanie’s posture is rigid, a stark contrast to the relaxed demeanor Erica’s used to seeing whenever she has met here before. Her shoulders are tense, and her hands - clasped around a delicate porcelain cup - seem to be trembling slightly. It’s not just nerves; it’s fear.

Erica’s attention shifts to the man sitting across from her. He’s a mismatch for the elegant surroundings - dressed in a worn leather jacket, a faded t-shirt, and jeans that have seen better days. Certainly not shabby chic. His hair is disheveled, his expression hard and unyielding. His presence is almost predatory, a jarring intrusion in a place meant for calm and comfort.

The man leans forward, speaking in low, insistent tones that make Stephanie shrink back, her eyes darting nervously around the room as if searching for an escape. Erica’s heart tightens in her chest. This is no casual meeting. Whoever he is, he’s here with a purpose, and it’s not to share a friendly coffee.

She reaches for her phone, her movements careful and measured, keeping her gaze fixed on the pair as she angles the camera. With a few quick taps, she snaps several photos, capturing the man’s face, his body language, and the tense interaction. He glances around briefly, but Erica keeps her expression neutral, feigning interest in the barista’s display of pastries.

As she pockets her phone, she types out a rapid message to Arthur Kingsley, attaching the photos:

“Arthur, something’s not right. Stephanie’s at Robinson’s Café, but she’s not alone. Guy sitting with her doesn’t fit the place or the vibe. Take a look at the pictures I just sent. I’m heading over to get closer, but I might need you.”

Within seconds, Arthur’s reply pings back: “Got it. I’m on my way. Don’t engage just yet if you can help it. Keep an eye on her.”

Erica glances back at the table, her instincts flaring with urgency. Stephanie’s face is pale, her smile strained as she nods at something the man’s saying. Erica can’t hear the conversation from where she stands, but she sees the man’s expression shift - a look of satisfaction as he reaches into his jacket pocket.

Erica’s breath catches. No sudden moves, she tells herself, forcing herself to stay composed. She takes a step forward, blending into the flow of patrons. From this new angle, she notices the man slide a small, nondescript envelope across the table. Stephanie hesitates, then, almost mechanically, takes it and tucks it into her purse.

The man stands, the chair scraping loudly against the tiled floor, drawing the attention of a few nearby diners. He gives Stephanie one last look, a dark, calculating gaze, then turns on his heel and strides toward the exit, brushing right past Erica without sparing her a glance.

Erica’s jaw tightens, but she remains where she is, watching him leave the café and head down the sidewalk, disappearing into the throng of pedestrians. Her focus shifts back to Stephanie, who’s staring blankly at the spot where the man had just been sitting.

With a deep breath, Erica approaches the table, her heels clicking softly against the polished tiles. “Stephanie?”

Stephanie jolts at the sound of her name, looking up with wide, startled eyes. Relief floods her features as she registers Erica’s presence, but the fear lingers, shadowing her expression. “Erica, I…what are you doing here?”

“I was hoping to catch up,” Erica says gently, sliding into the empty seat across from her. She leans forward, her gaze searching Stephanie’s. “But it looks like I’m interrupting something. Who was that man, Stephanie?”

Stephanie glances around nervously, as if expecting the stranger to reappear any second. She opens her mouth, but no words come out, her throat bobbing as she swallows hard. Finally, she shakes her head, voice barely a whisper. “I… I don’t know his name. He just showed up. Said he had a message from someone I knew. Someone who wanted me to understand the consequences of… testifying.”

A surge of anger courses through Erica, but she tamps it down, keeping her expression calm and composed. “Did he threaten you?”

Stephanie hesitates, then nods slowly. “Not outright. It was more like… suggestions. He said I should think about what happened to people who didn’t take “offers of protection” seriously. He mentioned my family, Erica. He knows where they live. Where my sister works.”

Erica’s heart clenches, and she reaches out, placing a firm, reassuring hand over Stephanie’s trembling ones. “Listen to me, Stephanie. You’re not alone in this. Arthur’s already on his way here. We’re going to get you the protection you need, and we’re going to make sure these people can’t come near you again.”

Tears well up in Stephanie’s eyes, but she blinks them back, nodding shakily. “I don’t know if I can do this, Erica. I’m scared. What if they hurt my family? What if…”

“Hey,” Erica interrupts softly but firmly, squeezing her hands gently. “Breathe. We’ll figure this out, okay? I promise. And as for testifying…it’s your choice, Stephanie. But don’t let them force your hand. I can understand if you want to step back, but if you want to stand your ground, we’ll make damn sure they don’t get away with this.”

Stephanie stares at her for a long moment, the fear and uncertainty warring in her gaze. Then she exhales shakily, nodding again, this time with a bit more conviction. “Okay…okay. I…I just need some time to think. But thank you, Erica. For being here.”

Erica gives her a small, encouraging smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”

Just then, the café’s door swings open, and Erica catches sight of Arthur’s familiar figure stepping inside. His sharp gaze sweeps the room, landing on Erica and Stephanie. He gives a slight nod, making his way over with long, purposeful strides.

Erica glances back at Stephanie, giving her hands one last comforting squeeze before releasing them. “Arthur’s here. Let’s figure out our next steps together, okay?”

Stephanie nods, taking a deep, steadying breath. Erica stands as Arthur approaches, exchanging a look of understanding with him. They’re not backing down - not now, not ever.

Pearson and his thugs want to intimidate their witness? Fine. But they’ve just made the worst mistake of underestimating who they’re up against.



The air inside Robinson’s Café seems to tighten as Arthur Kingsley settles into the chair beside Erica, his presence immediately bringing a sense of solidity and peace. He greets Stephanie with a reassuring nod, his gaze lingering on her pale face and the tight lines of worry etched around her eyes.

“Stephanie, it’s good to see you.” he begins, his voice steady and calm. “I’m sorry you’ve been put through this. Erica filled me in on what happened.”

Stephanie’s gaze drops to the table, her fingers still trembling slightly as she fidgets with the handle of her coffee cup. “I…I didn’t know what to do. He just showed up out of nowhere. Told me…told me to think very carefully about my next moves.” She pauses, her voice wavering. “And then he gave me this.”

She reaches into her purse with a slow, hesitant motion and pulls out the envelope the man had passed her. The sight of it seems to drain the remaining color from her face, as if the contents hold something sinister - something far more than mere words.

Erica exchanges a quick glance with Arthur before carefully taking the envelope from Stephanie’s outstretched hand. It’s unmarked and plain, a simple white rectangle that betrays nothing of what’s inside. Erica’s fingers move deftly as she flips it over and slides it open, extracting a single sheet of paper.

As she unfolds it, Arthur leans closer, his eyes narrowing. Erica’s gaze sweeps the contents of the note, her expression tightening with every word she reads.

Stephanie,
Before you decide to say anything you might regret, consider this: accidents can happen to good people. Especially when they’re not the ones making the bad decisions.
Your family is safe for now. Let’s keep it that way.

Along with the message, there’s a single image, a photograph. Erica’s heart stutters as she takes it in. It’s a candid shot of Stephanie’s younger sister, Anna, sitting at a bus stop with a distracted expression, oblivious to the camera aimed at her. It’s a photo anyone could have taken at any given time. Casual. But in this context it has a special, not so casual, meaning.

Stephanie’s breath hitches as she notices the photo, and she wraps her arms around herself as if trying to ward off a chill. “He said they’ve been watching her. They know her routine, where she works, everything. And if I don’t reconsider testifying…they’ll…they’ll…”

“They won’t touch her.” Arthur interjects firmly, his voice carrying an edge of authority that leaves no room for doubt. “We are putting a stop to this right now.”

Erica nods in agreement, setting the note and photograph down gently on the table. “Stephanie, we’re not going to let them get anywhere near your sister or the rest of your family. And I know someone who can help ensure that - someone I’ve worked with before.”

Stephanie blinks, looking between Erica and Arthur with confusion and a flicker of hope. “How?”

“The District Attorney sent two of his investigators out to watch your home.” Arthur Kingsley explains. “I spoke to him on the way here.”
“But there’s more we can do.” Erica explains softly, choosing her words carefully. “There’s a man named John Dance. He’s not just a typical security consultant. Let’s just say he’s the reason I survived that last incident where I was nearly run down by that car.”

Stephanie’s eyes widen.
“John’s trained to handle situations like this.” Erica says gently but firmly. “He has resources and connections to get you and your sister protection faster than anyone else. And he can find out who’s behind this - who that man is and for whom he works.”

Arthur leans forward, his gaze locking onto Stephanie’s. “We’ll bring John in, have him work with us directly. He can provide surveillance, security details, and more. No one will be able to get close to you or your family without us knowing. We’re talking about airtight protection, Stephanie. The kind that can take this threat apart before it escalates.”

Stephanie’s gaze wavers, uncertainty clouding her eyes. “But…won’t that draw more attention to me? If they realize I’m being guarded by someone like him, won’t they see it as a challenge? What if it makes things worse?”

“John doesn’t operate like that.” Erica reassures her, leaning forward to close the distance between them. “He’s subtle, invisible when he needs to be. He’ll set up a perimeter, reinforce the existing security without tipping off whoever’s watching. And if they make another move - any move - he’ll be ready to respond in a way that puts them out of commission. Fast.”

Stephanie swallows hard, her gaze darting back to the photo on the table. She has no idea what exactly this consultant is able to do, but she reaches out with a trembling hand, picks the photo up and stares at her sister’s face, caught in that unsuspecting moment. “You really think he can protect us?”

“I know he can.” Erica answers, her tone steady and certain. “Arthur and I will be coordinating with him every step of the way. We’ll keep you and your family safe, Stephanie. But it’s your choice whether or not you want us to bring him in. If you say yes, we’ll make the arrangements immediately.”

Silence falls over the table as Stephanie contemplates the weight of Erica’s words. For a moment, the only sound is the quiet murmur of voices and the clink of dishes from the café around them. Then, Stephanie takes a deep breath, seeming to draw strength from some internal reserve she hadn’t realized she possessed.

“Do it.” she whispers, her voice trembling but resolute. “Bring him in. I need to know my family is safe.”

Erica’s shoulders ease, a wave of relief washing over her. “Good. I’ll call him right away.” She says with a soft smile.

Arthur nods approvingly, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll start making further arrangements with the DA’s office. In the meantime, Stephanie, stay here with Erica and we’ll take you home later. You won’t be unguarded for even a second.”

Stephanie nods slowly, still clutching the photo. “Thank you. Both of you. I…I don’t know what I’d do if I lost anyone because of this.”

“You won’t.” Erica says firmly, her gaze steady on Stephanie’s. “We’re in this together. And we’re not letting anyone bully you into silence.”

As Arthur rises from the table to step outside and make his call, Erica stays seated, watching Stephanie carefully. This is just the beginning of a new phase in their fight, and they’ll need every ounce of resolve and strength to see it through.

But if Pearson - or anyone else - thinks they can force Stephanie into backing down, they’re about to find out just how wrong they are.

Erica picks up her phone and dials John Dance’s number, her fingers steady and her mind clear. As the line connects and she hears his familiar, clipped voice answer, she wastes no time.

“John, it’s Erica. I need your help.”



Erica holds her phone out to Stephanie, the screen still glowing from her recent call with John Dance. “He’s on the line, Stephanie. He wants to speak with you directly.”

Stephanie hesitates, glancing down at the phone as if it might burn her. Her fingers tremble slightly as she reaches out and takes it, bringing it up to her ear. “Hello?” she stammers softly, her voice barely more than a whisper.

“Mrs Colbert, it’s John Dance.” comes the calm, authoritative voice on the other end. His tone carries a steady confidence, one that immediately eases some of the tension in Stephanie’s shoulders. “I’ve been briefed on the situation, and I’m going to make sure we neutralize this threat as swiftly and quietly as possible. You don’t need to worry about your safety or your family’s.”

Stephanie lets out a shuddering breath. “Thank you…I don’t know what to say. I’m so scared for my sister. That man, he mentioned things only someone close to us would know.”

“Understood. First thing’s first, I’ll need some basic information about your sister.” John continues, his voice never wavering. “Where she lives, where she works, and any regular activities she’s involved in. Don’t worry, I won’t make contact. I’ll coordinate with an old CIA associate of mine who specializes in this sort of thing. He’ll set up a protective watch without Anna even realizing it.”

Stephanie glances at Erica, seeking reassurance. Erica nods encouragingly, her expression calm and supportive. “Go ahead, Stephanie. He’s one of the best.”

Taking a deep breath, Stephanie steadies herself and begins to speak. “Okay…her name’s Anna Colbert. She lives in the Greenfield Apartments, Unit 4C, and works at the Haddon Architectural Firm on 57th Street. She’s a graphic designer and usually takes the number 11 bus to work. She - she goes to yoga classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and sometimes she stops by our parents’ house after work.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line as John processes the information. “Got it. I’ll have my colleague establish a protection detail for her. They will stay invisible, but if anyone so much as glances her way with bad intentions, they’ll be ready.”

“Thank you.” Stephanie breathes out, relief mingling with lingering anxiety. “And… what about me? That man knew everything. What if he comes back?”

“I’ll handle your protection personally.” John replies, his voice firm and certain. “I’m already analyzing the photos Erica sent over. I’ll run a background check on the man who approached you and see if I can tie him to anyone in Pearson’s circle or beyond. For now, I want you to stay close to familiar places and people until I give the all-clear. Within two or three days we’ll get a complete picture of what’s happening.”

Stephanie nods absently, even though John can’t see her, her hand gripping the phone tighter. “I just want this to be over…I want to feel safe again.”

“You will.” John promises. “But I need your cooperation and discretion. No one outside of this circle should know what we’re doing. The moment they realize we’re onto them, they might escalate, and we can’t allow that.”

Stephanie bites her lip, her eyes darting between Erica and Arthur, who’s come back to their table. “What about Mr. Leland? Shouldn’t he be told about the threats?”

“I understand your concern, but keeping this contained is for your own safety.” John replies calmly. “This isn’t the kind of situation you want to involve too many people in. For now, only Erica, Arthur, the DA and I know the full extent of what’s happening. Let’s keep it that way until we’re sure there’s no further threat. Trust me, this is the best way to protect everyone involved.”

Stephanie exhales slowly, nodding once more, though the tension in her frame remains. “Okay…I won’t say anything. Just…please, promise me Anna will be okay.”

“She’ll be fine.” John reassures her, his tone softening just slightly. “We’ve got her covered. Now, take a deep breath and focus on keeping your routine as normal as possible. I’ll handle the rest.”

Stephanie’s grip on the phone loosens slightly as she releases the breath she was holding. “I don’t know how to thank you for this.”

“No need to thank me.” John replies, his voice dropping to a quiet murmur. “Just be careful, and we’ll get through this. Erica will keep you updated on my progress.”

With that, Stephanie ends the call and hands the phone back to Erica, her gaze full of a complex mix of gratitude, fear, and determination. “I’m sorry…for all this. I know it’s not what you signed up for when you agreed to take on Leland’s case.”

Erica slips the phone into her pocket and reaches out, giving Stephanie’s hand a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “You have nothing to apologize for. We knew this case would get messy, and we’re prepared for it. What matters is your safety and your family’s.”

Arthur’s expression is tight but focused. “Everything’s set on our end. Let’s take you home.”

Erica glances at Arthur, a silent understanding passing between them. They’ve taken on a new layer of responsibility, but neither of them is backing down. This is a fight they’re going to see through - no matter what it takes.

As the three of them rise from the table, Erica places a gentle hand on Stephanie’s shoulder.
Stephanie offers a small, weary smile. “Let’s go.”

With Arthur flanking them, Erica guides Stephanie out of the café, glancing once more at the spot where that stranger had sat. They’ve just taken the first step in unraveling whatever plot Pearson and his people are orchestrating, and they have brought in a formidable ally in John Dance.

Whoever that man was, and whatever Pearson’s planning, they’re about to find out just how strong their resolve really is.

Another terrific episode, keep them coming.

Thank you, @Dpsiic . The next part will be up tomorrow evening.

The bathroom is bathed in a warm, dim glow. Soft shadows flicker along the tiled walls, cast by the cluster of lavender-scented candles Erica has arranged around the deep porcelain tub. Their soothing fragrance mingles with the subtle notes of vanilla and bergamot, filling the air with a relaxing aroma. A playlist of soft jazz plays in the background, the gentle rhythms of a saxophone weaving through the silence, creating a cocoon of calm that shuts out the chaos of the past few days.

Erica lies submerged up to her collarbone in the hot water, her head resting against the back of the tub, eyes closed. The stress and tension seem to dissolve from her body as she sinks deeper into the soothing embrace of the bath. She inhales deeply, savoring the mingled scents of lavender and candle wax. The heat loosens the tightness in her muscles, and for a moment, she’s simply floating, adrift on a sea of peace and quiet.

But then, the insistent ring of her phone cuts through the tranquility, piercing the serene atmosphere. Erica’s eyes flutter open, and she sighs softly, reluctantly leaving the warm haze of relaxation behind. She reaches out to the small wooden stool beside the tub, where her phone lies, its screen glowing with an incoming call.

She squints at the name flashing on the display: John Dance. Immediately, her pulse quickens. Sitting up slightly in the water, she taps the screen to answer the call.

“John?” she says, her voice slightly breathy, still heavy with the remnants of her relaxation.

“Erica, I’ve got news.” Dance’s voice comes through, low and to the point. “As far as my contact can tell, Anna Colbert is in the clear. No one’s following her. No suspicious activity around her apartment or work. It doesn’t look like she’s in any immediate danger.”

Erica lets out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Relief washes over her, but there’s still a lingering tightness in her chest.

“But there’s more.” Dance continues, his tone shifting, becoming more focused. “I’ve managed to track down the guy who confronted Stephanie - his name’s Calvin Rourke. A real piece of work, with ties to Pearson’s law firm. Looks like Pearson’s been using him as a strongman for a while now, in order to avoid getting his own hands dirty.”

Dance pauses, and Erica can almost see him leaning back in his chair, rifling through the photos she knows he’s about to send her. “I’ve got pictures of Rourke meeting with Pearson. Sending them over now.”

A series of photos ping onto Erica’s phone screen, one after the other. She scrolls through them, her eyes narrowing as she studies the images. There’s Pearson, leaning casually against a car in a parking garage, speaking with a stocky man in a leather jacket and baseball cap, the man’s rough, brutish demeanor unmistakable. Calvin Rourke. In another shot, Pearson is handing Rourke an envelope. In yet another, they’re shaking hands.

“Perfect.” Erica murmurs, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “This is exactly what we need to put Pearson on the back foot.”

“You could use these to leverage him,” Dance suggests. “Make it clear that you know what he’s been up to, and that his tactics have failed. I’ll stick close to Stephanie for a while longer to make sure Rourke doesn’t make another move. You just focus on coordinating the next steps with Kingsley.”

“Thank you, John.” Erica says softly. “I appreciate it more than you know. Keep her safe, please.”

“Will do. Take care, Erica.”

The call ends, and Erica sets her phone back on the stool. The screen darkens, leaving her alone again in the candlelit room, the soft jazz once more filling the silence. She leans back into the tub, her body sliding deeper into the hot water until it laps at her shoulders. Her eyes drift shut, and she lets herself float for a moment, replaying Dance’s words in her mind.

Calvin Rourke. Pearson. The pieces of the puzzle are finally falling into place, and with them, a sense of satisfaction settles over her. She’s one step closer to turning the tables on Pearson. One step closer to ensuring Stephanie’s safety.

As the heat of the water seeps into her skin, her hands move absently over her body, tracing a slow, languid path down her breasts, over the smooth plane of her stomach, and lower still. Her fingers brush against the sensitive folds of her sex, and a familiar tingle blooms between her legs, the pulse of desire awakening once more. She closes her eyes and bites her lip, her mind drifting to thoughts of victory, of control - of Pearson’s smug face twisting in frustration as he realizes just how deeply he’s underestimated her.

A soft moan escapes her lips, and she surrenders to the sensation, letting herself unwind fully. Here, in the safety of her own space, she’s free to let go, to indulge in the rush of pleasure that coils tighter and tighter within her. Her fingers move faster, and she arches her back, her breath hitching.

Soon, all thoughts of Pearson and the upcoming trial fade away, leaving only the rhythm of her hand and the quiet, building crescendo of pleasure.





The early afternoon sunlight filters through the tall windows of “The Bar”, casting long, golden streaks across the polished wooden floor. The place hums with the murmur of voices and the clink of glassware, filled with the usual crowd of New York’s legal elite. Sharp suits, designer dresses, and polished shoes, all signs of power players taking a break from their busy schedules to network or unwind before the evening rush.

Erica strides in, her heels clicking softly on the hardwood. She pauses just inside the entrance, sweeping her gaze across the room. She spots Bobby Pearson immediately. He’s seated at his usual table near the corner, a half-eaten steak and a tumbler of whiskey in front of him. The Bar’s atmosphere is one of understated elegance, the soft lighting and dark wood paneling giving it an air of exclusivity, yet Erica feels Pearson’s presence disrupting that sense of refinement. He’s a hulking figure, his thickset frame hunched over his meal like an Orc feasting in its lair.

Erica takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of the photo inside her handbag. She doesn’t hesitate. Head held high, she weaves through the clusters of fellow lawyers, moving with the kind of confidence that turns heads and commands attention. But her eyes are fixed on Pearson, and as she reaches his table, he glances up, his fork frozen halfway to his mouth.

“Bobby.” she greets him smoothly, her tone light and casual - a stark contrast to the intent gleam in her eyes. She withdraws the photograph from her handbag and places it on the table, directly on top of his steak. The glossy paper smears with a bit of barbecue sauce, but the image is still clear: Pearson, caught in a compromising handshake with Calvin Rourke.

Pearson’s jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the photo. He’s quick to mask his surprise, but not quick enough. Erica catches the flicker of shock that crosses his face, the way his shoulders tense beneath his tailored jacket. For a man who prides himself on being one step ahead, it’s a rare moment of vulnerability.

“Hope you’re enjoying your lunch.” she murmurs, her voice pitched low so no one at the nearby tables can overhear. “But if you think sending a thug like Rourke after my witness is going to get you anywhere, you’re sorely mistaken.”

Pearson’s gaze snaps back to hers, and he opens his mouth to say something - what, she isn’t sure, and she doesn’t care: a denial, perhaps. Or maybe an excuse.
Erica cuts him off with a soft, disarming smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Drop it, Bobby. Stop sending your minions to scare Stephanie Colbert or her family. If I catch so much of a whiff of Rourke near her again, you’ll be facing charges for witness intimidation faster than you can tear up your steak.”

Pearson’s mouth snaps shut, his lips thinning to a tight line. For a moment, his expression is a mix of anger and disbelief, as if he can’t quite process how Erica has been able to turn the tables on him. She takes a small step back, giving him a once-over that’s almost pitying.

“You didn’t think I could trace him back to you, did you?” she asks softly, her tone almost conversational. She nods toward the photo. “I know what you’re trying to do, Bobby. But it won’t work. Not this time.”

With that, Erica straightens, turning away from his table as if he’s no more than an afterthought. She takes a single step, then pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Bon appétit.”

Pearson’s eyes follow her as she makes her way out of The Bar, his gaze dark and brooding. Erica can feel the tension radiating from him, the weight of his simmering frustration at being caught so off-guard. But she doesn’t look back again. The photo has done its job. There’s nothing more to say.

With only a few days left until the trial, Erica knows that Pearson will think twice before trying another stunt like this. And if he doesn’t - well, she’ll be ready.

The moment she steps back onto the busy street outside, she allows herself a small smile. The city’s noise and bustle wash over her like a familiar embrace. She’s rattled him. That much is clear. And now, it’s just a matter of keeping him on the defensive.

She’s already taken the first step toward victory.






The meeting room in Erica’s office is dipped in soft afternoon light, the blinds partially drawn to keep the glare off the long, polished conference table. The space is modern yet intimate, filled with the muted scent of leather and mahogany - a setting that exudes both class and precision. Erica stands at the head of the table, a commanding presence in a charcoal-gray suit, her gaze calm and steady as she surveys the people seated around her.

Mark Leland shifts uncomfortably in his seat. His tall frame looks almost hunched, his eyes haunted by sleepless nights and the weight of suspicion. Across from him, Stephanie Colbert sits with her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression carefully composed. She looks the picture of grace under pressure, but Erica can see the tension in the slight tightening of her jaw.

Professor Arthur Kingsley, as distinguished as ever in his navy blazer, reclines in his chair with an air of academic detachment, though his sharp eyes are fixed intently on Mark. And beside him, John Dance leans back, one ankle propped casually on his knee, his demeanor relaxed but his gaze alert. It’s a small, private meeting of carefully chosen allies, the kind that could make or break the case.

Erica takes a deep breath, holding the room’s attention as she begins to speak. “Mark, despite everything Vanessa has done, there’s still a significant issue. The prosecution is not letting go of the theory that you might have killed Melissa.”

Mark’s face hardens, and he leans forward, gripping the edge of the table. “But that’s insane. They have no evidence. And now that Vanessa’s bail is revoked, shouldn’t it be obvious who the real threat is?”

“Not quite.” Erica’s voice is measured, firm. “They have circumstantial evidence, and that’s enough to paint you in a bad light. Remember, the Leland name carries weight. People see power, influence… and potential motives. They’re looking for a story that makes sense, and right now, they might follow Pearson's angle that you and Stephanie were...” she hesitates, choosing her words carefully, “...involved. And that it led to Melissa’s murder.”

Stephanie’s eyes widen, and she glances at Mark, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “But we’ve been careful. No one...”

“That’s not the point.” Arthur interjects smoothly, his tone even and unflustered. “The problem is perception. If we let it slip that you and Mark were more than just friends, it becomes easy for the prosecution to twist that into a motive.”

He looks at both of them pointedly, then lets his gaze rest on Mark. “Think about it: Melissa finds out, she confronts you, things get out of hand…and suddenly, we have a perfect crime of passion narrative. We can’t give them that.”

Mark nods slowly, absorbing the professor’s words, but there’s a touch of defiance in his gaze. “So, what do we say? We lie?”

“No.” Arthur says firmly. “We control the narrative. The story is straightforward: you and Stephanie met to discuss her upcoming charity initiative. It got late, and rather than drive back home, Stephanie offered you the guest house for the night. You accepted out of convenience. Nothing more.”

Erica steps in, reinforcing Arthur’s point. “It’s a plausible explanation and an unshakable alibi. We’ll support it with records of your meeting, the plans for the charity, and any other documentation we can get our hands on. This way, we shift the focus back to where it belongs: on Vanessa.”

Stephanie exhales softly, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “And the fact that Vanessa tried twice to kill you? Surely that speaks volumes about her state of mind.”

“It does.” Erica agrees. “But it’s not enough to clear Mark. They might argue that her actions were a reaction to being backed into a corner. What they won’t say is that she did it because she’s trying to silence the people who know the truth.”

Mark looks down at his hands, flexing his fingers as if testing their strength. “So, I just stick to the story? No mention of our… friendship?”

“Exactly.” Arthur says. “You met to discuss business, and it stayed strictly business. There’s no room for anything else. You have to be convincing, Mark. And that means no lingering looks, no hesitation, no ‘slips of the tongue.’ If the DA catches even a whiff of something else, they’ll jump on it.”

Mark nods slowly, his gaze shifting to Stephanie. “I can do that. For both of us.”

Stephanie offers him a small, reassuring smile, but there’s a trace of sadness in her eyes. Erica watches them closely, sensing the unspoken tension. Despite everything, there’s something genuine between them - something that could very well be their undoing if not handled carefully.

“We have a few days left to prepare.” Erica says briskly, breaking the moment. “John will continue to keep close to Stephanie until the trial begins, but I doubt that Pearson will try again to make you reconsider testifying for Mark.”

Dance nods, his expression serious for the first time since the meeting started. “Consider it done. I’ll stick to her like glue.”

“Good.” Erica says. “With that settled, I think we’re ready to move forward. Let’s focus on Vanessa and keep all other distractions off the table.”

The room falls silent, the gravity of Erica’s words settling in. For a moment, no one speaks. Then, with a curt nod, Mark pushes back his chair and stands, his expression resolute.

“Thank you.” he says, his voice low but sincere. “All of you.”

Arthur, Stephanie, and John murmur their acknowledgments, but Erica simply meets his gaze, holding it for a beat longer than necessary.

“Let’s win this.” she says softly, and there’s a quiet intensity in her voice - a promise, a vow.

Mark nods again, and with that, the meeting breaks up. Erica watches as they leave, her mind already spinning through the next steps. The stakes are higher than ever, but she’s ready.





The early morning sun casts a soft glow over the city streets as Erica maneuvers her black Volvo through Manhattan’s waking traffic. The interior of the car is bathed in a warm light, the dashboard’s smooth lines reflecting a mix of amber and shadow as she reaches to adjust the radio. After a few crackles of static, she settles on a classic rock station.

A grin spreads across her lips as Bruce Springsteen’s familiar voice fills the car. The opening chords of “No Surrender” reverberate through the speakers, and Erica taps her fingers on the steering wheel, nodding her head in time with the beat. The song builds, its energy infectious, and as Springsteen’s voice rises, so does hers. She belts out the chorus, her voice a mix of determination and defiance.

“‘Cause we made a promise we swore we’d always remember,
No retreat, baby, no surrender!
Blood brothers in the stormy night
With a vow to defend -
No retreat, baby, no surrender!’”

The lyrics resonate with her, amplifying her resolve for the day ahead. The upcoming trial will be grueling, full of unexpected turns and tough cross-examinations, but she’s ready for it. She’s made a promise - to Mark, to herself - that she will fight tooth and nail to see justice served. Her voice trails off as the song fades, but the spirit of it lingers, humming in her chest.




The Volvo pulls up in front of the modest but well-maintained brownstone, the temporary apartment where Mark Leland is staying. Erica checks her reflection in the rearview mirror, smooths a stray lock of hair, and then steps out. Dressed in a crisp black suit with a subtle pinstripe, paired with a silk white blouse, she exudes both elegance and authority. There’s no sign of tension on her face; she’s the picture of calm confidence.

She strides up to the front door and rings the bell. Moments later, the door opens, and Mark stands before her, looking sharper than she’s ever seen him. He’s wearing a tailored grey business suit that fits him perfectly, a navy-blue tie adding a splash of color to the ensemble. His shirt is a pristine white, and he’s freshly shaved, his hair neatly combed back.

“Morning.” Erica greets with a smile, letting her gaze sweep over him with a hint of approval. “So you can dress without Vanessa’s help.”

Mark’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.” Erica replies, her tone light but her eyes focused. “Ready to do this?”
Mark’s smile fades, and he nods. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Good.” Erica gestures toward the car. “Let’s go. We’ve got a few things to review before we arrive.”

They settle into the car, and as Erica pulls away from the curb, the atmosphere inside the vehicle shifts from casual to focused. The city blurs by in a rush of lights and concrete, but Erica’s attention is solely on the man beside her. She spares him a quick glance, then turns her gaze back to the road.

“Let’s run through it one more time.” she says, her voice firm but encouraging. “I know you’ve got it down, but we need to make sure there’s no hesitation, no slip-ups. The DA is going to be relentless. And Pearson…well, we’ve already seen what he’s capable of.”

Mark straightens, adjusting his tie as if the act might also straighten out the nerves he’s struggling to keep at bay. “Right. The story is straightforward. Stephanie and I met at her house to discuss the charity. We had coffee, went over some ideas, and then it got late. Rather than drive back home, I accepted her offer to stay in the guest house.”

“Exactly.” Erica nods. “Stick to that. You weren’t there because of any romantic involvement. You were there because you’re considering a role in her charity project. Everything is strictly professional.”

“And under no circumstances” Mark recites, as if reminding himself, “do I mention anything that could imply there was more to it.”

“Right.” Erica confirms. “The DA will try to poke holes. He’ll ask leading questions, try to trip you up or make you angry. Stay calm, keep your responses short and to the point. Don’t give him anything he can use against you.”

Mark nods, his gaze fixed on the road ahead but his mind clearly elsewhere, running through scenarios and potential questions.

“What if they bring up Vanessa?” he asks quietly. “Her actions… the fact that she tried to kill you...”

“Leave that to me.” Erica interrupts gently but firmly. “You were not a witness of that. If Vanessa’s motives or state of mind come up, I’ll handle it. Your focus is to stay credible, collected, and sympathetic. You’re a husband trying to do right by your wife’s memory. That’s the image we need to project.”

Mark exhales slowly, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Okay. I can do that.”

“Good.” Erica flashes him a reassuring smile. “No retreat, no surrender, right?”

He chuckles softly, a hint of the old Mark breaking through. “Right.”

They drive the rest of the way in companionable silence, the weight of what lies ahead hanging between them but no longer suffocating. As they approach the courthouse, its imposing façade looming larger with each passing block, Erica can feel the anticipation building. Today marks the beginning of a battle that will decide everything - for Mark, for Stephanie, and for justice.

She pulls into a reserved parking spot, then turns to him with a final nod of encouragement. “We’ve got this.”

Mark’s eyes meet hers, gratitude and resolve shining in equal measure. “Yeah.” he says quietly. “We do.”

With that, they step out of the car and head toward the courthouse together, side by side, ready to face whatever comes next.




The sun casts a bright morning glow over the courthouse steps, illuminating the imposing columns that frame the entrance. The crowd outside is buzzing with anticipation, a throng of curious onlookers, reporters, and camera crews all jostling for position. Erica steps out of her car with a smooth, practiced motion, her expression calm and assured. Mark follows, a bit more hesitant, his gaze sweeping over the scene before locking onto Erica, drawing strength from her presence.

Dressed in a tailored black skirt suit paired with a crisp white blouse, Erica exudes an aura of sharp professionalism. Her hair is pulled back into a sleek ponytail, revealing her strong jawline and alert eyes. She pauses at the bottom of the courthouse steps, glancing over at Mark in his perfectly fitted gray suit and navy blue tie.

“Ready?” she asks, her tone light but carrying an undercurrent of steely resolve.

Mark nods. “As I’ll ever be.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

With that, they begin to ascend the courthouse steps, Erica leading the way with long, confident strides. As she moves, her posture is perfect, shoulders back, head held high. Her presence seems to cut through the noise of the crowd, parting it like a blade through water. She’s radiating authority, her body language shouting, “I’m ready for anything.”

No sooner have they reached the midway point than a familiar figure steps out of the swirling chaos of reporters - Candice Summers. Microphone in hand, she charges forward with her camera crew in tow, determination flashing in her eyes. The cameramen jockey for position, zooming in on Erica and Mark’s faces as they approach.

“Miss Sinclair! I’m Candice Summers.” she calls out, her voice firm and unyielding. “Please, give us a statement! What’s on your mind on this crucial day?”

Erica pauses, her lips curving into a slight, calculated smile. For a moment, she lets the question hang in the air, drawing the attention of everyone around. Then, she steps forward, meeting Candice’s gaze directly.

“Candice,” she begins, her voice clear and carrying effortlessly over the noise, “only one thing is important: we will prove that my client is innocent. And further, we will prove who really killed Melissa Leland.”

Her words are calm yet laced with an edge of determination, each syllable delivered with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. The reporters murmur, the camera shutters click, and Candice looks taken aback for a split second before recovering, her microphone still thrust toward Erica.

“Miss Sinclair, do you have any…”

“Thank you.” Erica cuts her off smoothly but firmly, her tone leaving no room for further questions. She turns, guiding Mark forward, pushing through the wall of reporters as if they were mere obstacles in her path. Mark, still tense but steady, follows her lead.

Together, they approach the grand entrance of the courthouse. A few security personnel and a bailiff are stationed there, ensuring order. One of the bailiffs steps forward, nodding respectfully as he opens the door for them.

“Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Leland - this way, please,” he says, gesturing toward a side door that leads to a private hallway reserved for high-profile defendants.

“Thank you.” Erica’s voice softens slightly as she acknowledges the bailiff’s courtesy. She and Mark step through the entrance, the heavy doors closing behind them, shutting out the chaotic buzz of the media.




The atmosphere inside is markedly different - cool, quiet, almost reverent. The bailiff leads them down a carpeted hallway to a small, wood-paneled waiting room. The air here is thick with the scent of varnish and old paper, a contrast to the crisp, sterile scent of the main courthouse.

Professor Arthur Kingsley is already seated inside, his leather briefcase open on the table, various files and documents spread out before him. He looks up as they enter, his eyes sharp and assessing, but there’s a hint of a smile on his lips as he takes in the sight of Erica and Mark.

“Cutting it a bit close, aren’t we?” Arthur teases lightly, though his gaze lingers on Erica, searching for any signs of strain.

“Traffic was murder,” Erica responds dryly, setting her handbag down on the table and smoothing her skirt as she takes a seat across from Arthur. “But we’re here now. Ready to fight.”

Mark sinks into a chair beside her, exhaling slowly. “Arthur, thanks for being here.”

“Wouldn’t be anywhere else, Mark.” Arthur’s tone shifts to something more serious, more focused. “We’ll get through this, one step at a time.”

Erica nods firmly. “We’re prepared. Let’s make sure everyone else is, too.”

The weight of the day settles in, but Erica’s confidence remains unshaken. She glances at Mark, then at Arthur. “Today’s about setting the tone. Let’s show them we’re not backing down.”

The room falls silent, each of them steeling themselves for the battle ahead. Outside, the noise of the world fades, leaving only the quiet determination of a team united in purpose.





The courtroom hums with subdued murmurs as Erica and Mark make their way through the heavy wooden doors, the whispers intensifying as the crowd registers their entrance. The air is thick with anticipation, like the moment before a storm unleashes its full fury. Erica’s heels click with a steady, unhurried rhythm as she guides Mark to the defense table. Eyes follow them - reporters craning their necks, attorneys murmuring quietly to one another, and spectators leaning forward as if sensing a pivotal moment about to unfold.

The prosecution team, led by District Attorney Charles Vickers, stands at the opposite table. Vickers, a tall man with a grave demeanor, shuffles through a neat stack of files. His eyes are sharp, his expression unwavering as he exchanges a brief nod with Erica. It’s a nod that says, “I’m ready for this battle. Are you?”

Beside him, Assistant DA Sophie van Rey – tall and fierce, with sharp eyes that miss nothing - glances up, her gaze lingering on Erica. The two have crossed paths before, and Erica knows exactly how relentless Sophie can be when pursuing a conviction. Van Rey’s lips curl into a small, razor-thin smile - a silent message that she’s prepared to dig deep and make every second of this trial count.

Judge Hathaway, a woman known for her impartiality and stern disposition, enters the room and takes her seat at the elevated bench. A gavel strikes the air with a sharp crack, silencing the murmurs instantly.

“All rise for the Honorable Judge Hathaway!” the bailiff announces. The courtroom stands, then slowly settles back into place as the judge begins the proceedings.





“Ladies and gentlemen.” Judge Hathaway says in a clear, commanding voice, “We are here today to deliberate the tragic death of Melissa Leland. Both the prosecution and the defense will present their cases, and you, the jury, will decide the truth. Let’s proceed.”

Vickers rises first, moving toward the jury with a practiced, steady gait. His voice carries across the room, every word calculated and clear.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury.” he begins, “We’re here to determine the truth behind the tragic death of Melissa Leland. This case is not about assumptions or guesses - it’s about hard facts. Mark Leland is not just a grieving husband. He’s a man with motives, opportunity, and connections that make him the most likely suspect.”

Vickers’ eyes narrow slightly as he continues. “You’ll hear testimonies, see evidence, and learn about a marriage that, despite its façade, was crumbling behind closed doors. A marriage that, once strained to the breaking point, turned deadly.”

He glances briefly at Mark, then at the jury, his gaze steady and unflinching. “And while the defense may try to divert your attention elsewhere, I urge you to focus on what’s at the heart of this case: a woman who lost her life and the man who stood to gain from it.”

Sophie van Rey leans forward slightly, her attention laser-focused on the jury as if she can will them into seeing things her way. Her fingers tap lightly on the table, and Erica notices a faint smirk playing on her lips - a sure sign that van Rey believes the DA’s opening salvo has hit home.

With that, Vickers returns to his seat, leaving a heavy silence in his wake.

A truly intriguing a fascinating Drama. The last Chapter alone is magnificent. The Atmosphere, the Tension in the Courtroom is so well captured.

Thank you, @Caesar73
I'll post the next part tomorrow evening.

Your a great writer like this story loads

You are moving your story smoothly ahead, @Jenny_S. The courtroom tension is terrific.

@Dominator1979 , @GreyLord
the courtroom drama has just begun. We will see how all this plays out. Tonight I'll give you the next part.

Erica rises with a calm, measured grace. She adjusts her jacket and walks forward, her eyes sweeping over the jury, then pausing on each member for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Her presence commands attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” she begins, her voice smooth and composed, “The prosecution’s narrative is compelling - but it’s also completely misguided. Yes, there was tension in the Leland marriage. Yes, there were problems. But none of those things make Mark Leland a killer.”

She takes a step closer to the jury, leaning in slightly. “We have evidence - solid, indisputable evidence - that Mark Leland was nowhere near Melissa at the time of her death. We have witnesses who can account for his whereabouts. We have a story that stands up to scrutiny. And we have something else the prosecution doesn’t: the truth.”

Her gaze flickers briefly to Vanessa, seated nearby with her own legal team, before returning to the jury. “And as this trial progresses, you’ll see that the real question isn’t whether Mark Leland is guilty. It’s why the true suspect has been overlooked for so long.”

She steps back, her lips curving into a small, confident smile. “By the end of this trial, we’ll not only have cleared Mark Leland’s name, but we’ll have brought the true culprit’s actions to light. Actions that were born out of jealousy, rage, and a desperate need to control the narrative.”

From the corner of her eye, she catches a flicker of irritation cross van Rey’s face - an indication that she’s disrupted their carefully constructed story, if only slightly.

With that, Erica returns to her seat. The room seems to hold its collective breath for a moment before the DA calls the first witness.





The courtroom falls into an anticipatory hush as District Attorney Charles Vickers rises from his seat. He buttons his suit jacket with a crisp motion, exuding confidence and purpose, then strides toward the witness stand. “Your Honor, the prosecution calls Detective Logan Reed to the stand.”

Detective Reed gets to his feet stands and approaches the stand with steady steps. The bailiff administers the oath, and Reed repeats the words with clear authority, then settles into the chair. He adjusts the microphone slightly, meeting Vickers’ gaze with a professional calm.

Vickers doesn’t waste any time. He approaches Reed and speaks in a measured tone, drawing the attention of the jury. “Detective Reed, you were the lead investigator in the case of Melissa Leland’s murder. Can you please walk us through what you and your team discovered at the Leland residence on the night of the incident?”

Reed leans forward, speaking directly into the microphone. “Yes, sir. In the afternoon of the day after the murder, we responded to a 911 call made by Mr Mark Leland. Upon arriving at the residence, we were directed upstairs to the master bedroom where we discovered the victim, Mrs Melissa Leland.”

Vickers pauses, letting the weight of the statement settle over the courtroom before he continues. “And can you describe the state in which you found Mrs Leland?”

Detective Reed’s gaze momentarily shifts to the jury, then back to Vickers. He speaks with a detached professionalism, his voice steady but grave. “Mrs Leland was found tied to the bed in a spread-eagle position using four heavy-duty ropes secured to the bedposts. Around her neck was a half-inch wide industrial-grade zip tie that had been used to strangle her.”

The revelation causes a ripple of discomfort through the courtroom. Several jurors exchange uneasy glances, and even a few spectators in the back row gasp audibly.

Vickers lets the tension hang for a moment before continuing. “Was there any indication of a struggle or attempt to fight back on Mrs Leland’s part?”

Reed shakes his head. “There were no signs of defensive wounds on her wrists or body. The position she was in and the bindings suggest that she was restrained before the zip tie was placed around her neck.”

Vickers steps closer, his tone growing darker, more intense. “And what did her facial expression indicate?”

Reed’s jaw tightens, his voice dropping slightly as he speaks. “Her eyes were wide open, staring upward. The muscles in her face were frozen in what looked like sheer terror. It’s likely that she was conscious and fully aware as the zip tie tightened, slowly cutting off her air supply. She would have felt herself suffocating, inch by inch, until she lost consciousness.”

There’s a chilling silence as his words sink in. The courtroom is dead still, everyone gripped by the horror of the image he’s painted. Vickers nods slowly, letting the impact of Reed’s testimony linger.

“Detective, was there any indication that Mrs Leland’s killer was an intruder? Any signs of forced entry or struggle elsewhere in the house?”

“No, sir.” Reed’s tone is firm, unyielding. “There were no signs of a break-in. All doors and windows were locked and undamaged, and the security system was not triggered. There was no evidence of any kind of altercation inside the house. Everything points to the fact that Mrs Leland’s killer either had access to the home or was let in by the victim herself.”

Vickers nods thoughtfully, casting a glance at the jury as he speaks. “So, what you’re saying is that the person who committed this heinous act wasn’t some stranger breaking in with the intent to kill.”

“That’s correct.” Reed’s gaze sweeps over the jury, his voice clear and steady. “Given the circumstances, the only plausible scenario is that the killer was either someone who had keys to the house or someone Mrs Leland trusted enough to let in. And, as I stated earlier, the lack of defensive wounds suggests she wasn’t expecting an attack.”

Vickers steps closer to the stand, lowering his voice slightly, though the intensity in his tone remains. “Detective, you mentioned earlier that Mr Mark Leland made the 911 call and was at the scene when you arrived. Can you elaborate on his presence that day?”

“Yes, sir.” Reed replies. “Mr. Leland stated that he had returned home and discovered his wife’s body in the bedroom. He immediately called 911 and remained at the scene until we arrived. He was visibly distraught and cooperative, but he did have keys to the residence and was inside the house at the time the victim was discovered.”

“And based on your investigation, is it fair to say that Mr Leland, who had keys to the house, was in a position to have committed this crime?”

The question lands like a hammer blow. The implication hangs heavy in the air, and the jurors’ eyes lock onto Mark Leland, who sits rigidly at the defense table, his jaw clenched and his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Reed takes a breath before responding. “It is a possibility, yes.”

A low murmur rises from the audience, the weight of Reed’s statement pressing down on the courtroom like a suffocating fog. Vickers doesn’t speak, allowing the tension to build as he turns and steps away from the stand.

“Thank you, Detective.” He offers a tight, controlled smile. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

Vickers returns to his seat, his satisfaction barely concealed. His job, for now, is done. He’s planted the first seed of doubt in the jury’s minds, painting Mark Leland as a prime suspect. He nods briefly to his assistant, Sophie van Rey, then settles back in his chair, glancing across the courtroom at Erica Sinclair.

The stage is set. Now, it’s her turn to take control of the narrative.




Erica Sinclair stands gracefully as District Attorney Vickers returns to his seat, his smug satisfaction still lingering in the air. She strides toward the witness stand with purposeful, unhurried steps, radiating confidence and composure. As she reaches the stand, she offers Detective Logan Reed a polite smile, then turns slightly, ensuring the jury has her full attention.

“Good afternoon, Detective Reed,” she begins, her voice steady and warm. “Thank you for that thorough description of what you and your team found when you arrived at the Leland residence that night.”

Detective Reed nods, his expression neutral as he waits for her to continue.

“I believe we can all agree” Erica says, turning briefly to acknowledge the jury, “that the way in which Melissa Leland was murdered - tied spread-eagle to the bed, strangled with an industrial-grade zip tie, her eyes wide open in sheer terror - was a heinous and brutal act. An act so vile that we owe it to her memory to ensure that we do not jump to conclusions about who could have committed this crime without irrefutable proof.”

She pauses, letting her words sink in, then pivots slightly back toward Reed. “Now, Detective, you’ve testified that there were no signs of forced entry or a struggle elsewhere in the house, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.” Reed replies, his gaze steady.

“And that everything suggested Mrs Leland’s killer either had access to the home or was let in by someone inside?”

“Yes.” he confirms.

Erica nods thoughtfully, pacing slowly in front of the witness stand. “You also mentioned that Mr Mark Leland, my client, had keys to the residence and was inside when he discovered his wife’s body. Is that right?”

“That’s correct.”

“And based on that fact alone, the prosecution has implied that this could place Mr Leland in a position to have committed this crime.” Erica glances over at Vickers, then back at the detective. “But, Detective Reed, do you know exactly how many sets of keys for the Leland residence exist?”

Reed’s brow furrows slightly, and he hesitates. “I don’t have that information off the top of my head.”

“Well, allow me to provide it for the benefit of the court.” Erica says smoothly, turning once more to face the jury. “There are four known sets of keys. One set each for Melissa and Mark Leland. A third set for the household help and gardener, a trustworthy Mexican couple who had been with the Lelands for years. And a fourth set kept by Mr. Leland’s personal assistant at Furrow International - Miss Vanessa Ainsley.”

She pauses, letting the new information settle over the courtroom.

“Detective Reed,” she says, turning back to him, “if there are multiple sets of keys in the hands of multiple people, wouldn’t that make it possible for someone else - someone other than my client - to have used one of those sets to enter the house and commit this murder?”

Reed hesitates, then nods reluctantly. “Yes, it’s possible.”

Erica smiles softly, her voice gentle but insistent. “Thank you, Detective. Now, I want to clarify something for the jury. Have you confirmed the alibis of the other individuals who had access to these keys?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Reed replies. “We verified the alibis of the household help - the gardener and his wife. They were not in the vicinity of the Leland residence on the night of the murder.”

“And what about Mr. Leland’s personal assistant, Miss Vanessa Ainsley?” Erica’s voice sharpens ever so slightly. “Was she able to provide an ironclad alibi for that evening?”

Reed shifts in his seat, his discomfort palpable. “Miss Ainsley stated that she was at her apartment alone, but there’s no corroborating witness to confirm her whereabouts for the entirety of the night.”

“So, essentially, she “might” have been alone, or she “might” have been elsewhere?” Erica’s tone is cool, precise. “We don’t know for certain, do we?”

“No, we don’t.” Reed admits, his shoulders tensing as he leans back slightly.

Erica offers a small, sympathetic smile. “Thank you, Detective. It’s important that we establish all the possibilities, don’t you think? The fact that someone else with keys to the house, and no verifiable alibi, could have entered and committed this crime is a significant point, wouldn’t you agree?”

Reed nods again, though his expression remains guarded. “Yes, it is.”

Erica steps back, casting a glance at the jury, making sure they’re with her. “In light of that, Detective, would you agree that the possibility exists that someone other than Mark Leland could have entered the house and murdered Melissa Leland?”

“Yes,” Reed says slowly. “It’s a possibility.”

“Thank you, Detective Reed. No further questions.”

With a nod to the judge, Erica turns and walks back to her seat, her heels clicking softly on the polished courtroom floor. There’s a sense of controlled energy in her movements as she sits down beside Mark, offering him a subtle, reassuring nod. The courtroom hums with a low murmur as people process what they’ve just heard, the atmosphere charged with new uncertainty.

She’s introduced the idea that the real killer might still be out there, someone with access and opportunity - someone who isn’t her client.

And as she leans back in her chair, a small, confident smile plays on her lips. It’s only the beginning, but already, the narrative is starting to shift.




The tension in the courtroom is palpable, like the crackling air before a thunderstorm. Erica settles into her seat after finishing her questioning of Detective Reed, her gaze steady and unwavering. As she leans back, allowing the weight of her words to sink in, a sudden noise shatters the silence.

Bobby Pearson, Vanessa Ainsley’s defense attorney, shoots up from his chair, his face flushed with indignation. His booming voice fills the courtroom, drawing every eye to him.

“Your Honor!” he bellows, his tone laced with outrage. “I am appalled by Ms. Sinclair’s audacious insinuation that my client, Vanessa Ainsley, could have been involved in the murder of Melissa Leland. This so-called evidence of a key in her possession is pure conjecture, based solely on Mr Leland’s unsubstantiated claim!” He jabs a finger in Erica’s direction, his frame trembling slightly from the force of his outburst.

A murmur runs through the gallery, a low hum of voices exchanging shocked whispers. Eyes dart between Erica and Pearson, the courtroom brimming with anticipation.

At the defense table, Arthur Kingsley meets Erica’s gaze and gives her a subtle, almost imperceptible nod. Calmly, Erica rises from her seat, the very picture of composed elegance. She raises a hand, palm outward, a graceful gesture that seems to hush the air around her.

“Mr. Pearson.” she begins, her voice steady and clear, slicing through the commotion like a finely honed blade, “If it is irrefutable evidence you seek, then I would advise you to direct your inquiry to Detective Reed.” Erica’s eyes lock onto Pearson’s, unflinching. “You are welcome to ask the good Detective what items were taken from your client upon her arrest.”

Pearson’s brow furrows, his mouth tightening into a thin line. He glances at Detective Reed, who sits back on the witness stand with a neutral expression.

Erica continues, not giving Pearson a chance to recover. “Among those items, Mr. Pearson, were several sets of keys.” She pauses, letting the suspense build before delivering the final blow. “Including a set of keys to the Leland residence.”

A collective gasp erupts from the audience, followed by a flurry of movement as journalists scribble furiously in their notepads, and the clicking of cameras punctuates the air.

Pearson’s face blanches, the blood draining from his cheeks as he struggles to form a coherent response. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out - his usual bluster momentarily deflated.

The sharp crack of the judge’s gavel rings out, slicing through the chaotic noise. “Order in the court!” Judge Hathaway’s voice echoes sternly. She glares at both sides, her eyes flashing with irritation. “Mr. Pearson, Ms. Sinclair - this courtroom will not devolve into theatrics. I expect both parties to maintain decorum at all times.”

The room falls into a tense silence, the charged energy slowly ebbing away.

Judge Hathaway leans forward, her gaze sweeping across the courtroom, daring anyone to disrupt the order again. When she’s satisfied, she looks at Detective Reed.

“As neither the prosecution nor the defense has any further questions for Detective Reed” she intones, her voice measured and authoritative, “the witness is released.”

Reed nods respectfully to the judge, then steps down from the stand, his movements unhurried and deliberate. The courtroom is still buzzing with the implications of what has just been revealed, eyes now darting toward Vanessa Ainsley, who sits rigidly beside Pearson, her expression a mask of forced calm.

Erica returns to her seat, her face a serene mask of confidence. She catches Mark’s eye and gives him a brief, reassuring nod. Slowly, the ripple of shock settles, but the impact of Erica’s revelation lingers heavily in the air.

Bobby Pearson, his fists clenched at his sides, sits back down, his jaw tight. His eyes dart towards Vanessa, a flicker of something - concern, fear, or perhaps anger - momentarily breaking through his controlled façade.

The trial has only just begun, but Erica has already scored a significant point. With a slight, almost imperceptible smile, she leans back in her chair, ready for the next move in this high-stakes game of strategy and skill.

That was quite the show. A drama in the Court Room is unfolding. And Erica scored some hits!

It’s getting exciting, looking forward to the next instalment.

@Caesar73 , @Dpsiic I'm glad I could capture you with the courtroom drama. More to come tomorrow evening.