Stories of Tie Up Games

Loving it Jenny.

Dear @Caesar73, I'm glad you enjoy these glimpses into what Erica keeps fiercely guarded - her private life.

Dear @Dpsiic, thank you so much. Your support means a lot to me.

At precisely 5 AM, the soft buzz of Erica’s phone vibrates against the nightstand, pulling her from sleep. She blinks against the early morning darkness, takes a deep breath, and slides out of bed in one smooth motion.
Briefly, her thoughts drift to Candice Summers. It doesn’t take much to imagine that her night in holding at the Precinct might not have been great, but chances are good that she will be able to sleep in her own bed again tonight.

She tightens the belt of her maroon silk kimono around her waist as she moves through the quiet apartment, the hardwood cool beneath her bare feet.

In the living room, the kittens are still curled up in their bed by the air vent, a tiny bundle of warmth against the slight chill. Spot’s paws twitch in his sleep, chasing something only he can see. Erica smiles, watching them for a moment, their presence grounding her. No matter what chaos awaits, some things remain simple.

First things first. She lifts their bowls and takes them into the kitchen to clean and refill them, her movements efficient, almost automatic. Kittens first. Always.

As she sets the bowls down, she makes a mental note: Candice needs something appropriate to wear for court this afternoon. A crisp, conservative outfit. Nothing flashy, nothing that invites speculation. She trusts Holly to make the right choice. They are about the same size.

With that squared away, she sheds the kimono and changes into her running gear. The fitted tights, the breathable long-sleeved top, the well-worn running shoes - rituals in themselves.

Outside, the city that supposedly never sleeps is still in transition, the hush before the full force of the morning rush takes hold. Her five-mile run through Central Park is brisk, steady, the cold air sharp against her lungs, invigorating.

By the time she returns, the tension she hadn’t even noticed has melted from her shoulders. The shower is hot, the rough towel against her skin a sensory reset. Ready. Focused.

Her hair, swept into its signature ponytail, is still slightly damp at the ends when she moves into the kitchen. The coffee pad machine hums as it fills her cup, the rich aroma mingling with the faint citrus scent of the soap on her hands. She spoons together a breakfast of natural yogurt, crushed oats, and a drizzle of honey - simple, nutritious and tasty.

Standing by the windows, she eats in quiet contemplation, her gaze drifting to the silver-framed photograph on the top shelf of the cabinet.

Her parents. Herself, barely two years old, held between them.
Even after all these years, the same pang settles in her chest. It is a longing for something she never really had. Regret, because she has no real memories of her mother who died a couple of months after the photo was taken, and all she knows about her is what her father and an aunt had told her.
She touches the edge of the frame with the tips of her fingers. “I wish I could have known you, Mom.” she whispers, the words slipping out before she can stop them. But then, just like always, she straightens, squares her shoulders. There’s nothing to change about the past. Only what she does with the present.

She finishes the last sip of her coffee, rinses the cup, and moves toward the closet.

Rolling her right shoulder to loosen the muscles, a habit ingrained since she caught a bullet from Tony Maze, she selects her outfit. Navy blue pencil skirt. Matching tailored jacket. Cream silk blouse. Understated authority. The kind of presence that carries weight in a courtroom.
She slips the gold university class ring onto her right ring finger, then secures her Rolex around her left wrist.

The watch is more than just a timepiece, it is her most-prized possession. Not for its sales price, but for the personal value it holds for her.

It was a gift from her father, given to her upon her graduation from Harvard Law School. She remembers that day with great clarity. Still in her gown and her mortarboard tucked under her arm, her father asked her to follow him to his study.
He took the green case with the embossed gold crown logo from his rolltop desk, the piece of furniture where he kept only the most important documents and things, and when he handed her the box, he told Erica that “Knowing the law is one thing, but it takes a strong moral compass to use it.” When Erica opened the green case and lifted the steel Rolex dive watch out, feeling the grounding, solid weight of it, assuring and precious, she noticed the engraving on the back of its case which her father had a jeweler put there: “Stand for something or fall for anything”

“These words,” her father said in his low yet kind voice, “are more than a motto, Erica. They are a creed to live your life by.” And on that day she had promised her father – herself - to always, come hell or high water, adhere to this creed, let it shape and guide her.

She fastens the last button of her jacket, checks her reflection in the tall mirror. Sharp. Ready.
Her phone and handbag in hand, she moves toward the door, pausing just long enough to glance back at the kittens, now stirring in their bed.
"You two stay out of trouble, okay?" she murmurs.
Then she locks the door behind her and steps into the day.


~~~


The steady hum of voices and ringing phones fills Sinclair & Associates’ sleek, modern office. Sunlight spills through the large floor to ceiling windows, catching the polished edge of Erica’s mahogany desk as she flips through a set of court filings.

She glances up from her notes as Holly Beck, their young receptionist, steps into the office. The young woman’s eyes are bright with anticipation, ready to take on any task that gets her closer to the action.

“I need you to do a clothing run for Candice Summers.” Erica says, closing her folder. “She has a bail hearing today, and right now, she’s wearing whatever she wore when the NYPD booked her.”

Holly nods, already pulling out her phone to take notes.

“You’re about the same size as her, so pick something conservative, please. Dark blue, if possible, with a white blouse. Nothing flashy. Underwear, nylons, a hairbrush, and some basic cosmetics - just enough to help her look put together.”

Holly’s eyes brighten. “You got it, Miss Sinclair.”
She sits up straighter, almost vibrating with purpose. It’s not every day she gets sent on a mission like this.

Erica opens her handbag, pulls out a stack of crisp banknotes, and hands them over. “Take the receipts and change to Claire when you’re back. Be here by ten-thirty sharp.”

“Absolutely!” Holly snatches up the money with a grin, already mentally mapping out her shopping route.
Before she heads for the door, she pauses. “What about shoes? If she’s wearing stilettos now, I should probably grab something more suitable.”

Erica considers this for a moment, then nods. “Good thinking. Something low-heeled, practical, but polished.”

Holly beams. “I’ll make it happen.”
As the door swings shut behind her, Erica watches for a second, then exhales, rolling her pen between her fingers. One detail handled.
Now, onto the next battle.


~~~