Erica Sinclair - Evictions -- M/F

[Jenny_S]

Dear readers,
in this story, Erica Sinclair is asked to negotiate the dangerous waters of the kidnapping of Isabelle Prescott, daughter of a powerful Wall Street hedge fond mogul. The stakes are high, 10 million dollar in Bitcoin or Isabelle dies.

This is Erica Sinclair’s fourth adventure. Find out who is behind Isabelle’s abduction and if there’s a way to get her back unscathed.


All of my stories can also be found in full length here: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

[Jenny_S]

The muted hum of New York City’s evening traffic filters through the tall windows of Erica Sinclair’s office on the 25th floor of the sleek glass-and-steel tower on Park Avenue, Manhattan.
It is around 6 PM, and the last slivers of daylight fade from the skyline, casting long shadows across her desk. Erica stretches in her chair, rolling her stiff shoulders and glances at her Rolex: time to call it a day.
It has been a grueling day - back-to-back client meetings, an endless stream of emails, and more urgent calls than she cares to count.

She is just about to power down her laptop and head home when her office door cracks open. Claire Messner, Erica’s assistant, stands in the doorway, her coat already on and handbag slung over her shoulder. Her expression is a mixture of excitement and tension as she glances at Erica.

“Sorry to bother you so late, but…” Claire’s voice drops to a hushed tone. “Jonathan Prescott is here. He wants to speak with you. In person.”

Erica blinks, momentarily taken aback. THE Jonathan Prescott? The CEO of Prescott Holdings, the hedge fund mogul whose name is synonymous with Wall Street power plays and multimillion-dollar deals? It isn’t often that such figures grace her office unannounced - and almost never at this hour.

“He’s in the waiting area?” Erica asks, keeping her tone level even as her mind races. What could possibly bring someone like Jonathan Prescott to her office at the end of the day? A man like Prescott wouldn’t waste his time dropping by casually. This has to be urgent.

Claire nods. “Yes. And he’s…he’s insisting on speaking with you right away.”

“It’s fine, Claire. Show him in. No need for you to wait for us, though. Have a great evening.” Erica’s voice is calm and professional, but her curiosity is piqued. She quickly adjusts her high ponytail and runs her hands over the lapels of her blazer, ensuring she looks as composed as she feels.

Claire disappears down the hall, and a few moments later, the imposing figure of Jonathan Prescott steps into the room. He is in his mid-fifties and carries himself with the confidence of a man used to commanding any space he enters. His sharply tailored charcoal suit exudes sophistication, and his graying hair, combed back meticulously, only adds to his aura of gravitas. Steel-blue eyes, framed by a pair of rectangular glasses, sweep over Erica’s office before settling on her with a piercing intensity.

“Ms. Sinclair.” he greets, his voice deep and measured. He offers a curt nod, the kind of greeting that conveys respect but also a hint of impatience. “Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.”

Erica rises from her seat and gestures toward the chair opposite her desk. “Mr. Prescott. Please, have a seat.”

Jonathan Prescott moves with the smooth assurance of someone who makes decisions that can sway markets. As he settles into the chair, his gaze never wavers from Erica, assessing her with the same scrutiny he might reserve for a potential investment. She notes the slight furrow in his brow, the tightness around his mouth - signs of stress that she imagines are rare on his usually composed face.

“Mr. Prescott,” she begins, easing back into her own chair. “it’s not every day I have the head of Prescott Holdings in my office at this hour. What can I do for you?”

Prescott shifts slightly, a subtle gesture that betrays the tension beneath his calm exterior. “I need your help, Ms. Sinclair.” he says quietly but with a firmness that leaves no room for doubt. “And I need it handled with complete discretion.”

Erica’s eyebrows arch slightly. She hears variations of that phrase countless times from her clients, but never with the same undercurrent of urgency. “Discretion is my specialty. But it sounds like this is more than just a simple legal matter.”

Jonathan Prescott nods slowly, his gaze hardening. “It is. My daughter, Isabelle - she’s missing.”

There is a pause, the weight of his words settling into the silence that follows.

Erica feels a pang of unease. This is far from the typical high-profile cases she manages. Missing persons, especially involving a figure like Prescott, are fraught with complications. The police would normally be the first call…unless there are reasons to avoid their involvement.

“I’m sorry to hear that. But if she’s missing, the authorities…”

“I can’t bring in the police.” Jonathan interjects, his voice tightening. “Not yet. This morning, I received an email with a photo attached. It is Isabelle…I can tell by the birthmark on her upper thigh…bound and gagged, blindfolded. A ransom demand for $10 million in Bitcoin, but no further instructions. Just the photo and a message that reads, ‘Wait for further instructions.’ My people are buying cryptocurrency for the transfer. I should have everything ready for the transaction by tomorrow evening.”

Erica’s gaze narrows. This is definitely not just a disappearance and more like a kidnapping. She needs to see the photo to gauge the severity of the situation.

From the top drawer of her desk, Erica takes one of her personal business cards, the one with her cell phone number and personal email address and pushes it across her desk. “Mr. Prescott, please forward me the email with the photo,” she instructs, her voice remaining calm. “If I take this on, I need to know every detail.”

Prescott’s jaw clenches, his fingers tightening around the armrests of the chair. Obviously, he had expected Erica to accept the case on the spot.
“Of course. But before I send anything, I need to know that you’re willing to help. Isabelle is…everything to me. She’s my only child, the heir to my name and the company…I can’t risk the media getting wind of this or my investors starting to question my ability to manage the company’s affairs.”

Erica nods, leaning forward slightly. “I understand your concerns. But I need to be honest with you, Mr. Prescott. If this is a genuine kidnapping, time is of the essence. We have to act quickly.”

He nods again, his expression strained. “I’m aware of that. You’ve handled cases for high-profile individuals before, and you know how to keep things quiet. That’s why I am coming to you. I need you to find Isabelle and bring her back safely. No police. No leaks. Just results.”

Erica takes a moment, weighing her options. This isn’t the kind of case she typically takes on, but there is something in Jonathan Prescott’s eyes - a mixture of desperation and determination - that makes her pause. She can’t ignore the challenge, and more importantly, she can’t ignore the fact that Isabelle’s life could be hanging in the balance.

“I’ll need full access to her contacts: friends, colleagues, anyone she might have been in touch with recently.” Erica says finally. “And I will need to speak with you again, in greater detail. We need to go through everything that’s happened leading up to her disappearance.”

Jonathan’s shoulders seem to relax, just a fraction. “I’ll arrange it. Her assistant, Miranda Lang, can provide you with any information you need.”

“Good. We’ll get started immediately.” Erica reaches for her pen and notepad. “Please send me the email and the photo.”

“You will have it within the next few minutes.” As Jonathan stands to leave, he extends a hand, his expression still tense but now edged with a glimmer of hope. “Thank you, Ms. Sinclair. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

Erica shakes his hand, firm and steady. “I’ll do everything I can to bring her back, Mr. Prescott. You have my word.”




Erica walks Jonathan Prescott to the door, her heels tapping lightly on the polished floor of her office. The quiet hum of the city beyond the windows is a constant reminder of how late it is. As she watches her new client disappear into the elevator, a small shiver runs down her spine. Alone now, with Claire already home for the night, the silence feels thick, pressing in on her.

She heads back to her desk, her mind still racing with the implications of what she’s just heard. “A ransom. Isabelle Prescott, kidnapped.” The weight of the situation settles more heavily on her now. Her fingers brush the edge of her desk as she sits down, and almost as if on cue, her laptop pings. An email notification.

She clicks it open, her curiosity piqued, but as the image loads, the air seems to leave the room. Erica’s breath catches in her throat. Her heart thuds painfully against her ribcage.

The screen shows Isabelle - tied, gagged, and bound to a filthy bed, stripped down to nothing but her underwear. The grimy room, the harsh light, and the way her body is restrained leave no doubt in Erica’s mind that this is not just a warning. This is real. The smell of coffee and paperwork lingers around her, but she suddenly feels nauseous.

Erica’s hands hover over the touchpad, and she zooms in, focusing on the bindings. The handcuffs, latched tightly to all four corners of the bed, allow no room for movement. Isabelle’s wrists and ankles are raw against the steel. Her mouth, stuffed with what looks like a rag, is held in place by a strip of cloth tied around her head. The blindfold - just a simple black sleeping mask - seems out of place, almost absurd in its ordinariness amidst the horror.

She looks closer, scanning Isabelle’s body for bruises, cuts, anything. The young woman’s red birthmark is clearly visible on her upper left thigh, but there is nothing else, no visible marks of violence. Her eyes are drawn to the mattress between Isabelle’s legs, stained in a way that suggests she hasn’t been allowed the dignity of using a toilet. The dirty sheets seem to cling to her skin. Erica’s jaw tightens. Her stomach twists with cold anger.

And then there’s the final touch - the newspaper. The morning issue of the New York Times, its date bold and clear. “Today’s paper. They want to prove she’s alive. For now.”

Erica can’t help but imagine how Isabelle must be feeling. Stripped of everything - her freedom, her power, her dignity - reduced to this. Vulnerable. Helpless. The poised, glamorous woman from society pages is gone. This girl, tied to that bed, is violated in ways that run deeper than physical wounds. “What must she be thinking? Is she even able to think beyond the terror?”

A chill runs through Erica as she realizes how well she understands the sensation of being restrained like this - exposed and vulnerable. But for her, it’s always by choice. She’s no stranger to surrendering control, binding herself as a way to escape the relentless pressure, the public persona she’s forced to maintain as a lawyer in this cutthroat city. The restraints for her are a release, a method to feel grounded, to momentarily detach from the high-stakes, always-on persona she projects in her professional life. It’s the only time she feels free.
But for Isabelle, this isn’t an escape. It’s a nightmare. A complete loss of power. Where Erica’s bonds represent a moment of stillness, Isabelle’s are laced with terror. For her, there’s no choice, no relief, only fear and helplessness.
Erica’s jaw tightens, the image of the young woman tied to the filthy bed burning in her mind. This is cruelty beyond description.

She closes her eyes briefly, pushing the images out of her mind. She can’t afford to let emotions cloud her judgment. There has to be something they can do. She reaches for her phone, her fingers feeling stiff and cold, and scrolls through her contacts until she finds Andrea Santos’ number.

[Caesar73]

Of to another intriguing Adventure - and I am sure this will be a wild ride. You set the Stage wonderfully. The way you describe Prescott with just a few Sentences. There is Tension from the Start! Do carry on @Jenny_S I have to resist to go to Wattpad instantly. That would ruin the Suspense!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , thank you for staying with me. In my series of Erica Sinclair stories this one plays a pivotal role, explaining certain crucial moments in Erica's life. I hope you'll enjoy the ride.

[LunaDog]

From reading this opening part, it is abundantly clear that the magnificent standard of your other stories is being fully maintained. I have absolutely NO doubt that i'll enjoy this one too!

And @Caesar73 your position as my favourite writer on this site is under a VERY serious challenge here! Not that i'm not still enjoying the product of your mind and pen ( or should that be mouse these days ) though!

And i notice that you both live in Germany! Maybe i should move there, it might improve my own efforts!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog , thank you for your kindness. Don't worry, @Caesar73 and I are not competing. In fact, he is a very inspiring writer and I'm happy to be in such good company on this board.

[Caesar73]

Dear @LunaDog , thank you for your kindness. Don't worry, @Caesar73 and I are not competing. He is a very inspiring writer and I'm happy to be in such good company on this board.

I feel honoured @Jenny_S Dear @LunaDog thank you for your kind words. And as Jenny writes we are not competing. It is more Fascination and Inspiration I guess. Jenny´s Tales woven around Erica made me think about writing a Court Drama myself. One member of my main Cast Doctor Sophie Reichenbach was a District Attorney before joining Art Incorporated. For now I am enjoying Jenny´s Tales.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 if you take your Dr Reichenbach to New York someday, let me know so I can make sure she gets to meet Erica. The more I think about this, the more fun it sounds.

[Jenny_S]

Andrea, her old friend, is the one person who can help her make sense of this. The phone buzzes a few times before Andrea answers with her usual, casual tone. “Yo!”

Erica keeps her voice steady. “What do you want to eat, Drea?”

Andrea’s playful response is immediate. “Indian. Get me Chicken Makhani and some naan. You know the drill.”

Erica smiles despite the weight pressing on her chest. It’s their routine - whenever she needs Andrea’s help, food is the price of admission. Tonight is no different. Except this time, the stakes are life and death.

She places the order at the Bombay House for takeaway and leaves her office, the weight of the photo still lingering in the back of her mind.

The streets feel colder, harsher, as she makes her way to Andrea’s place, the styrofoam box with food in her hand. By the time she rings the bell, she can almost feel Drea’s CCTV camera zooming in on her, as if the city itself is watching. Moments later, the sound of locks and deadbolts being unfastened fills the air, and the door swings open.

“Hi Ricky, come in.” Andrea says, her face lighting up with a smile. She’s the only person who calls Erica "Ricky", and hearing it brings a brief moment of comfort. “You know the way to the lab.”

The “lab” is a controlled chaos of technology - screens, keyboards, wires strewn everywhere, the air filled with the faint hum of computers working overtime. Erica takes her seat in an ergonomic chair, the scent of the chicken dish filling the air as Andrea opens the box.

“So, what can I do for you today, boss?” Andrea’s voice is casual, her eyes on the food as she takes a bite.

Erica hands over her phone, the photo of Isabelle still open on the screen. “A client sent me this. It’s the only lead I have.”

Andrea’s eyes darken as she looks at the image. “Shit.” she mutters between bites. “Should I know who this girl is?”

Erica explains, her voice steady but with an edge of urgency. “Isabelle Prescott. Only child of Wall Street mogul Jonathan Prescott. This is real, Drea.”

Andrea wipes her hands on a Kleenex, her demeanor shifting from relaxed to serious. She clicks through the email, then forwards it to herself, her fingers moving quickly over the keyboard and the email is on her screen. “Let’s see where this came from.”

It doesn’t take long – maybe a minute – and Andrea’s screen is filled with data, the source of the email becoming clear. “It was sent from a 24/7 Internet café in Brooklyn. The kind that doesn’t keep logs or has security cameras.”

Erica frowns, frustration simmering beneath the surface. “So, what now?”

Andrea adjusts her glasses and gives Erica a sympathetic look. “Ricky, I can do a lot, but I’m not a miracle worker. Hacking into the email provider’s system might not even help. They’re strict on privacy rights.”

The realization hits Erica like a punch to the gut. Ten million dollars. Is that really the only way to get Isabelle back? No. There has to be another way.

“I’ll talk to the people at the café nonetheless.” Erica says, standing up, her resolve hardening. “Thanks for the help, Drea.”

As she walks out into the cold evening, the image of Isabelle tied to that bed flashes in her mind. I won’t stop until I find you, she thinks. I’ll get you back. One way or another.






As Erica steps inside the internet café, the sharp chill of the night air gives way to a warm, dimly lit atmosphere. The place exudes an eclectic charm, with the faint hum of computers filling the space, punctuated by the soft clatter of keyboards and the low murmurs of conversation. The walls are lined with vintage posters of iconic video games and tech memorabilia, a nostalgic nod to the café’s roots in the early days of the internet.

Rows of sleek, modern desktop computers are arranged in neat rows on sturdy wooden tables, each one illuminated by the glow of bright screens. The soft scents of coffee and tea mingles with the faint aroma of burnt popcorn, wafting from a small snack bar in the corner. An employee behind the counter, a young man with messy hair and a bored expression, glances up, his eyes briefly meeting Erica’s before returning to his screen.

At one table, a pair of gamers are engrossed in a competitive match, their voices rising in excitement as they strategize in low murmurs. Nearby, a student with his backpack slung over his chair hunches over his laptop, his fingers flying over the keyboard, headphones snug over his ears, effectively blocking out the world around him.

Erica’s eyes scan the space as she walks deeper into the café, her heels clicking softly against the rough wooden floor. There’s no sign of any security cameras. The few patrons who glance her way quickly look back at their screens, uninterested in the well-dressed woman who’s intruded into their sanctuary.

She approaches the counter, her movements measured and deliberate. The young employee’s head snaps up as she clears her throat softly.

“Excuse me.” Erica begins, her tone professional but firm. “I need to ask about your security measures here. Do you have any surveillance cameras or internet logs?”

The employee blinks, taken aback by her directness. “Uh, no. We don’t have any cameras. Most customers prefer it that way, you know?” He shrugs. “As for logs… What would they even be used for, really?”

Erica nods slowly, not in approval, but simply as a sign that she’s processing this information. “I see.” she says thoughtfully, eyes narrowing slightly. “But I need to speak to whoever was working here this morning. Specifically between 8 and 10 AM.”

The employee scratches the back of his head, a confused frown forming on his face. “I’m not sure who that was. It gets pretty busy in the mornings, hard to keep track.”

Erica reaches into the pocket of her blazer, pulling out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. She holds it up, the corners fluttering slightly in the café’s soft lights. “Would this jog your memory?” she asks, a small, knowing smile curving her lips.

The young man’s eyes widen slightly, his gaze darting from the bill to Erica’s face. After a moment’s hesitation, he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You’ll want to talk to Severine. Severine Alba. She usually works the day shift.”

Erica slips the twenty into his hand with a nod of thanks, feeling a small rush of relief. “Where can I find her?”

The employee scribbles down an address on a napkin and hands it to her. “She lives nearby, just a few blocks from here. But don’t tell her I gave you her address, okay?”

“Of course.” Erica murmurs, pocketing the napkin. “Thank you.”

She exits the café and steps back into the brisk evening air, the scent of roasted coffee and burnt popcorn still lingering in her senses. Climbing into her black Volvo, she taps Severine Alba’s address into the GPS and begins navigating through the winding streets of Brooklyn, determination fueling her every move.

After weaving through a series of residential blocks, Erica pulls up in front of a modest apartment building. The façade is unassuming, but a vibrant mural painted on the side hints at the neighborhood’s creative spirit. She parks the car and heads up the short flight of stairs to the entrance, her heels clicking sharply against the concrete.

She buzzes Severine’s apartment, waiting patiently as a faint rustling sound comes from the intercom. A few moments later, the door swings open to reveal a young woman with tousled dark hair that falls to her shoulders. Her eyes, dark, wary and a little tired, sweep over Erica’s polished appearance with open suspicion.

“Can I help you?” Severine asks, her voice guarded, eyes scanning the hallway as if assessing the situation.

Erica offers her a polite smile, keeping her tone gentle but firm. “Hi, I’m Erica Sinclair. I spoke with someone at the café. They mentioned you might have information that could help with a case I’m working on.”

Severine’s brow furrows, suspicion flickering in her eyes. “A case? What kind of case? Are you with the police? Or child protection?” Her posture is tense, and Erica can sense the wariness radiating off her in waves.

Erica shakes her head, keeping her voice calm and sincere. “No, I’m a lawyer. The case is about a missing person.” She pauses, softening her tone. “I really think you could help.”

For a moment, Severine’s gaze wavers as she glances back into her apartment, weighing her options. Finally, she steps aside, opening the door just enough for Erica to enter, but keeping her body angled as if ready to shut it at a moment’s notice. “Okay, but just for a minute. I wasn’t expecting visitors tonight.”

“Thank you, Ms. Alba.” Erica steps inside, glancing around the small but cozy space. Toys are scattered on the floor, and a child’s colorful drawings are taped to the fridge. The air smells faintly of pancakes and syrup, evoking a sense of warmth and familiarity.

A small girl, no older than five, peeks out from behind the couch, clutching a stuffed bunny. Her eyes widen with curiosity as she studies Erica.

“Mama, who is it?” she asks, her voice soft and hesitant.

“This is Ms. Sinclair, sweetheart. She’s here to talk to me for a minute.” Severine replies gently, kneeling down to her daughter’s level and smoothing a hand over the girl’s hair.

“Hi there! What’s your name?” Erica asks, kneeling next to Severine Alba to meet the child’s gaze with a warm smile.

“I’m Luna!” The little girl beams, her shyness dissipating as she hugs her bunny tighter.

“It’s nice to meet you, Luna.” Erica says. “I’ll keep your Mom for just a few minutes.”

“Okay, Luna, why don’t you go play in your room for a bit?” Severine suggests softly, her tone loving but firm. The child nods and scurries away, leaving Erica and Severine alone in the small living room.

Erica glances around, noticing the makeshift sleeping arrangement on the couch. It’s clear that Severine has sacrificed her own comfort to give her daughter a room of her own.

Severine stands, crossing her arms over her chest. “So, what do you want to know?” she asks, her voice clipped but not unfriendly.

Erica shifts her stance slightly, leaning forward with quiet urgency. “I need to know about someone who sent an email from the café this morning around nine. It’s important. Anything you can remember - anyone who seemed out of place or unfamiliar - might help.”

Severine takes a deep breath, her gaze distant as she thinks. “That’s the busy time, when students and freelancers flood the place. Some are regulars; others aren’t…” She trails off, shaking her head. “I’m sorry. There’s nobody who stood out from the usual crowd. And as you probably know by now, there’s no surveillance and the café doesn’t keep any logs.”

Erica feels her shoulders sag slightly. It’s like Andrea predicted: a dead end. “That’s why I hoped you might remember something unusual. Thank you anyway, Ms. Alba. I appreciate your time.”

“Good luck.” Severine murmurs, her voice softening slightly. “I hope you find whoever you’re looking for.”

Erica nods, offering a final smile before stepping back into the crisp evening air. She climbs into her car and sits for a moment, fingers gripping the steering wheel as the frustration and determination swirl within her.

There’s still no sign of Isabelle. But she won’t stop. Not until she finds her.

[LunaDog]

Dear @Caesar73 if you take your Dr Reichenbach to New York someday, let me know so I can make sure she gets to meet Erica. The more I think about this, the more fun it sounds.

Now THAT is something i'd be only too delighted to read!

[LunaDog]

“I’m Luna!”

My Luna sends a big WOOF in approval!

[Caesar73]

Dear @Caesar73 if you take your Dr Reichenbach to New York someday, let me know so I can make sure she gets to meet Erica. The more I think about this, the more fun it sounds.

Now THAT is something i'd be only too delighted to read!

I will tell Sophie. Her visiting New York is highly likely. Since Kate Beckett, a good Friend, lives in New York. And Art Incorporated has an Office in New York headed by Hayley King and Kirsty Garrett.

So Sophie is now and then in the City

I am sure, she would be delighted to meet Erica.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog , @Caesar73 and I might be able to pull off this meeting of Sophie and Erica one way or the other at some point in time.

[Caesar73]

Dear @LunaDog , @Caesar73 and I might be able to pull off this meeting of Sophie and Erica one way or the other at some point in time.

I do like the Idea! For the Time being though - I enjoy this latest Tale of Erica very much. Another intriguing plot and flawlessly told!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 coming from you, this is a very flattering compliment.

[Jenny_S]

Erica walks into her luxurious Upper West Side apartment and locks the door behind her with a soft click, welcoming the silence that settles around her like a familiar blanket. The comforting scents of polished mahogany, rich leather and lavender fill the air, a subtle reminder of the safe world she’s carved out for herself. As she moves further into the place, the sound of the city outside fades into a distant hum, replaced by the serenity of her personal sanctuary.

Her gaze sweeps over the living room, taking in its details: high ceilings, walls painted in muted, sophisticated tones, and the subtle gleam of the black leather couch that centers the room. A few tasteful art pieces from next to unknown painters are mounted on the walls. They add pops of color and intrigue to the otherwise minimalist space, standing in stark contrast to the modest chaos she encountered at Severine’s apartment earlier tonight.

As Erica pauses in her living room, an unbidden wave of discomfort washes over her. The distance between her world and Severine’s feels like a gaping chasm. She thinks back to Luna’s shy smile and the small, cluttered space the young girl calls home. It’s a place where every corner is filled with the struggles of a single mother trying to make ends meet - so different from the pristine order and quiet luxury of this apartment.

A sigh escapes Erica’s lips. She knows the disparity between rich and poor is a reality she’s been fortunate to transcend, but tonight, it feels more glaring than ever. She recalls her own childhood: the schools, summers at Martha’s Vineyard, and her smooth path to Harvard. It all seemed natural then, the privilege invisible. But for little Luna, with her wide-eyed innocence, such opportunities are far from guaranteed. The thought gnaws at Erica, stirring an unexpected feeling of guilt.

With a shake of her head, she sets her leather briefcase down on the steel and glass coffee table, its polished surface gleaming softly under the warm glow of the lamp beside it. She takes a deep breath, willing herself to focus. The weight of the case - normally just a symbol of her responsibilities - feels heavier tonight. There’s something unsettling about the day’s events, something she can’t quite shake.

She moves into her bedroom, the sharp click of her heels muffled on the polished hardwood floor. It’s an intimate space, where muted tones and soft fabrics offer an atmosphere of calm and comfort. Erica opens the door to her expansive walk-in closet, a place where tailored suits hang in neat rows, each outfit carefully curated to project the powerful, poised image she’s built over the years.

She reaches up to unbutton her blazer and shrug it off her shoulders and slips off the rest of her clothing until she’s left in just her underwear, the tension of the day ebbing away as she lets her shoulders relax.
As she catches sight of her own reflection in the tall chrome-framed mirror across the room, she pauses, her breath catching for a moment as she looks at herself. It’s an image that, for a split second, feels eerily similar to the photograph of Isabelle Prescott that’s been haunting her thoughts.


Her eyes stay locked on her reflection as she reaches for a dark green silk kimono hanging on a nearby hook. The fabric glides over her skin, cool and luxurious, its weight both familiar and grounding. Tying the belt securely around her waist, she turns away from the mirror, not wanting to see the resemblance any longer.

Erica pads barefoot into the kitchen and retrieves a bottle of Nero d’Avola from her wine rack. She pours herself a glass, watching as the dark, ruby-red liquid swirls in the crystal, its deep color almost mesmerizing. With the glass in hand, she returns to the living room and sinks into the soft leather of the couch, the cool material a welcome contrast against the heat of her skin.

She takes a long sip, savoring the wine’s bold, rich flavor as it coats her tongue. It’s a moment of indulgence, a small luxury in an otherwise hectic life. Setting the glass down on the table, Erica reaches for her notes, flipping through the pages until she finds the one labeled “Prescott Holdings”. Her gaze lingers on the address scribbled in her neat handwriting - West 57th Street, right in the heart of Manhattan’s elite business district.

Prescott Holdings occupies the upper floors of a glittering skyscraper that towers over Central Park, a modern fortress of steel and glass. Erica had looked it up earlier; the building is as impressive as it is intimidating, its exterior reflecting the city’s dazzling skyline. At the top of the building is the Prescott’s penthouse - a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unparalleled view of the park below. It’s the kind of place few can dream of accessing, a stronghold for the rich and powerful.

Erica’s eyes shift to a name highlighted in her notes: Miranda Lang. Isabelle Prescott’s personal assistant. According to her research, Miranda has been with Isabelle for several years, a trusted confidante who handles everything from scheduling meetings to running the day-to-day operations of the company. If anyone knows the details of Isabelle’s life, it’s her.

“Miranda Lang.” Erica murmurs softly, rolling the name over on her tongue as if testing its weight. Tomorrow, she’ll visit Prescott Holdings and try to get in touch with Miranda. Whether she’ll find a willing source of information or a tight-lipped gatekeeper is anyone’s guess. But Erica is prepared for either outcome.

She leans back into the couch, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up to her. The wine’s warmth settles in her veins, loosening the tension in her shoulders. Closing her eyes for a moment, Erica lets herself drift, imagining the imposing building, the sterile, glass-walled offices, and the secrets that lie just beneath the surface.

“Tomorrow.” she whispers to herself, determination threading through the single word. Whatever it takes, she’ll uncover the truth about Isabelle Prescott - and where she might be now.

With that thought anchored in her mind, Erica finishes her wine, sets the glass aside, and rises from the couch. Tomorrow will be a new day, with new challenges. And Erica Sinclair has never backed down from a challenge.





The alarm on her phone buzzes to life at exactly 5:00 a.m., its tone cutting through the stillness of Erica’s bedroom. Her eyes snap open, immediately alert. She reaches over and silences the alarm with a swift tap, then swings her legs over the side of the bed. The early morning darkness envelops her, but it’s a familiar companion - one she’s grown to appreciate.

Throwing back the covers, Erica stands and stretches, rolling her shoulders to shake off the remnants of sleep. She slips into a pair of tight running leggings and a fitted long-sleeve top, both black with reflective stripes for safety, designed for function over fashion and scrunchies her hair into a high ponytail. A pair of broken-in running shoes waits for her by the door, and within minutes, she’s tying the laces and heading out.

The city that supposedly never sleeps is still waking up as she begins her run, her feet pounding rhythmically against the pavement. The chill of the dawn air nips at her cheeks, but she welcomes it, letting the briskness fuel her pace. Erica maps out a route in her head - five miles, a routine she rarely deviates from. Today she takes the path through Riverside Park, the cool breeze rolling off the Hudson River beside her. The landscape blurs as she finds her rhythm, each stride purposeful, her mind sharp and switched-on.

Running has always been her way of clearing her head, a form of meditation that lets her focus on the day ahead. Today, she’ll be facing down Miranda Lang, a person she knows very little about. There’s something about walking into a room with no clear sense of the person on the other side of the table that sends a thrill of anticipation through Erica. It’s a challenge, and challenges are what she lives for.

By the time she returns to her building, her body is slick with a thin layer of sweat and her breath is coming in measured but heavy bursts. She slows to a walk as she approaches the entrance, glancing up at the sky as the first hints of dawn’s light break over the horizon. Another day, one step closer to finding Isabelle Prescott.

Back in her apartment, Erica makes quick work of stripping off her workout gear and stepping into the shower. Hot water cascades over her skin, washing away the sweat and the fatigue, leaving her feeling invigorated. She lathers up, the scent of her lavender body wash filling the steamy air, a small indulgence she allows herself to enjoy.

She stands under the spray for a moment longer than usual, letting the warmth ease the tension in her muscles. Then, she shuts off the water and steps out, grabbing a fluffy white towel from the rack and wrapping it around herself.

After drying off, Erica moves through her morning routine of doing her hair and makeup with practiced efficiency. She selects a sharp charcoal gray pantsuit, its lines crisp and precise, and pairs it with a silk blouse in a muted shade of ivory. As she fastens a pair of delicate pearl earrings, puts on her gold university class ring and clasps the Rolex watch around her left wrist, she glances at her reflection in the mirror: the professional, composed woman staring back at her is exactly who she needs to be today. Someone who can command respect and authority with just a glance. Someone who can get answers.

Breakfast is quick and deliberate: she stirs a quarter cup of crushed oats into a bowl of skyr and tops it off with some sweetener and cinnamon. Low-carb, high-protein, packed with everything she needs to start the day strong. She finishes it off with a mug of coffee, two Sweet’n Lows and a spot of almond milk, the rich taste grounding her as she sips it slowly, letting the heat seep through her chest.

Once she’s done, Erica pulls on her coat, grabs her briefcase, and heads out the door, her focus shifting entirely to the meeting ahead.






The drive to the building housing Prescott Holdings is smooth, the morning traffic manageable as Erica weaves through Manhattan’s streets. The sun is just beginning to climb higher, casting long shadows across the glittering cityscape.
When she finally pulls into the underground parking lot, she’s greeted by a pristine, high-security setup.
The glossy floors and clean lines of the structure speak to the wealth and influence housed above.

A uniformed security guard approaches her as she steps out of her car. He glances at her with professional neutrality, clipboard in hand. “Ms. Sinclair?” he asks, eyes flicking to her license plate, then back to her face.

“Yes.” she replies evenly, her tone carrying the faintest hint of authority.

“Ms. Lang is expecting you.” the guard says with a nod. “Please follow me.”

He leads her through the garage, past rows of high-end cars, their polished surfaces gleaming under the fluorescent lights. They reach a set of elevators guarded by another security checkpoint. Erica hands over her identification, watching as the guard scans it and makes a note on his clipboard. Once cleared, she receives her visitors badge and steps into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft whisper.

The ride up is smooth and almost soundless, the numbers above the door ticking upward steadily. Erica uses the time to center herself, replaying the key points of her plan for the day. When the elevator finally stops and the doors glide open, she’s greeted by a tastefully decorated reception area. Floor-to-ceiling windows line one wall, offering a stunning view of Central Park, its trees painted in shades of green and gold by the morning light.

A polished receptionist, dressed in a sleek black dress, looks up as Erica approaches her desk. Her smile is pleasant, but there’s a certain guardedness in her eyes. “Good morning, Ms. Sinclair. Ms. Lang is waiting for you in Conference Room 1. Please, follow me.”

Erica nods and follows the receptionist down a quiet corridor lined with framed artwork - modern pieces that hint at the company’s wealth and status. The conference room itself is a large, airy space, its walls made of glass. “Nothing for people afraid of heights.” she says to herself. At the center of the room is a long, mahogany table, and seated at the far end is Miranda Lang.


Miranda Lang rises gracefully to greet Erica as she steps into the sleek, modern office of Prescott Holdings. The space is minimal but exudes quiet luxury - dark woods, polished chrome, and the ever-present view of Central Park through the enormous windows. She’s a mid-20s woman, with a slim, poised figure and an understated elegance that suggests that despite her young age she’s used to moving in circles of power.

“Ms. Sinclair.” Miranda’s voice is calm and measured as she extends her hand. Her grip is firm, her gaze steady but betraying a flicker of unease beneath the composed exterior. “Thank you for coming. I understand you have questions about Isabelle.”

“I do.” Erica replies, matching Miranda’s professionalism with her own. She appreciates the assistant’s composure, but she can already tell this meeting will require some delicate handling. “And I’m hoping you can help me find some answers.”

Miranda gestures toward a conference table with a soft smile. “Please, have a seat. I’ll answer what I can.”

As they settle into the plush leather chairs, Erica senses the tension in the air. This isn’t just an interview – as so often, it’s a balancing act. Miranda is undoubtedly loyal to the Prescott family and might know more than she’s prepared to share, especially with a complete stranger probing Isabelle’s disappearance.

Erica opens her notepad and begins, choosing her words carefully. “I understand you’ve known Miss Prescott for a while?”

To Erica’s surprise, this simple question seems to unlock something in Miranda. Her guarded demeanor softens, and she begins to talk. “Yes, I’ve known Issy – Isabelle - for years. We were college roommates at Columbia, and we graduated together. She’s always been driven, focused. After college, I started as an intern here at Prescott Holdings. When Isabelle joined the company to learn the ropes from her father, I became her personal assistant.”

Erica listens closely, sensing both the personal bond and Miranda’s fierce loyalty. It’s clear that Miranda isn’t just an employee - she’s deeply invested in Isabelle’s life. This could either be helpful or an obstacle, depending on how open Miranda is willing to be.

“But you’re more than her assistant, right? You’re her friend and confidante.”

Erica’s remark hits right home. Miranda nods.

“Since you know her so well, can you tell me something about Isabelle’s character, Ms. Lang? What’s she like?”

Miranda's expression softens with affection. “Isabelle’s incredibly intelligent, compassionate - people love her. She has this warmth about her. She’s always been kind, but she’s also tough. Being Jonathan Prescott’s daughter means she has to be.”

Erica nods, jotting down notes. She expects this polished answer, but she knows there’s always more beneath the surface. “Could anyone have seen her as a threat? Or had reason to dislike her enough to harm her?”

Miranda shakes her head almost immediately. “I can’t think of anyone who would hold a personal grudge against her. Everybody loves her. This kidnapping isn’t about Isabelle herself. It’s about the Prescott name - the power, the money. Whoever did this knows that her father would pay anything to get her back.”

Erica absorbs this, agreeing that Jonathan Prescott’s fortune makes his daughter an obvious target. The kidnapper’s motive could easily be financial. Still, she probes further.

“Please tell me about the night Isabelle disappeared.” Erica says, keeping her tone casual but direct.

Miranda straightens, her posture tightening. “She was at a party in Alpine, New Jersey, that night. She texted me around eleven that she would leave now, got into her BMW convertible, and then… nothing. She never made it home. The next thing we knew, the ransom email arrived. Our security team hasn’t been able to track her car, her phone, or her smartwatch.”

Erica frowns, making notes. It’s a short drive from Alpine to Manhattan - 20, maybe 30 miles, depending on the route and the traffic. But a lot can happen in that distance, especially at night.

“So, she just disappeared.” Erica clarifies. “Her car and everything.”

Miranda nods, the tension returning to her face. “Yes. She’s… just gone. And that ransom photo… seeing her tied up like that… it was disturbing.”

Erica doesn’t mention the details of the photo as she can sense the depth of Miranda’s fear - not just for Isabelle’s safety but for the horrific circumstances her friend must be enduring.

“I think we should pay.” Miranda says quietly, her voice trembling for the first time.” Mr. Prescott will have everything ready by tonight. Anything to ensure that Issy gets returned quickly.

Erica closes her notepad, maintaining her calm demeanor. As a lawyer, she can’t openly support giving in to the ransom demand, but she understands why Miranda feels this way. “Ms. Lang, thanks for your time. You’ve been really helpful.”

She stands, signaling that the meeting is over. As she hands Miranda her personal business card, she adds, “Please inform me of any new developments. Anything at all.”

Miranda walks Erica to the elevators, her steps slower now, her composure barely holding together. Before the doors slide closed, she turns to Erica, her eyes pleading.

“Please…do whatever it takes to get Isabelle back. I can’t imagine what she’s going through.”

Erica meets Miranda’s gaze, her voice steady but resolute. “Whatever it takes, Ms. Lang. Trust me.”

The elevator doors close, and Erica rides down to the underground parking, her mind turning over the details. Miranda’s loyalty is clear, but Erica can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to this story. Secrets hidden behind Prescott wealth, perhaps even in Isabelle’s inner circle. As she returns her visitor’s badge and heads to her car, one thing is certain - this case is far from straightforward.

[Caesar73]

It is always unfair to single a Passage out - but in this Case I will make an exception: The first Paragraphs: Erica coming home from Work, returning to her private life. Her save haven.The reader gets a feeling for the "private" Erica. Well done!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , there will be a lot more details about Erica's private life in this and the following stories. Enjoy!

[Jenny_S]

Erica steps out of the elevator and into the pristine, modern lobby of Sinclair & Associates. The sharp scent of fresh coffee greets her, mingling faintly with the lingering hints of lavender from her morning routine. Her heels click rhythmically against the marble floor as she strides through the office, her mind still buzzing from the tense meeting with Miranda Lang.

Claire, her assistant, looks up from her desk just as Erica is about to pass by. “Morning, Ms. Sinclair.” Claire calls out, a note of excitement in her voice.

Erica slows, glancing at the younger woman’s animated expression. It’s unusual for Claire to be this…enthusiastic so early in the day. “Morning, Claire. What’s got you in such a good mood?” she asks, raising a brow.

Claire’s eyes sparkle as she gestures behind her desk. “You won’t believe what I found on the doorstep when I came in.” She lowers her voice, as if sharing a secret. “A box of kittens. There are four of them, and they’re just - well, see for yourself.”

Erica blinks, taken aback. “Kittens?” The word sounds foreign on her tongue, out of place in the context of high-stakes cases and million-dollar clients.

“Yes! Come, look.” Claire stands and leads Erica around to the smaller of the two conference rooms just off the main reception area.

Sure enough, on the conference table, there’s a makeshift bed created from Claire’s spare cardigan and a stack of old file folders. Cuddling inside the cozy nest are four tiny, squirming bundles of fur, their mews barely audible over the hum of the office. One kitten, all black with a tuft of white on its chest, lifts its wobbly head and looks directly at Erica with wide, curious eyes.

“They’re adorable, aren’t they?” Claire gushes softly, careful not to startle the kittens. “I didn’t know what to do, so I brought them inside. I’ve already called a few rescues, but they said they’re full. I…” She glances at Erica uncertainly. “I hope it’s okay that I kept them here for now.”

Erica’s gaze softens as she takes in the sight of the tiny creatures. For a moment, all thoughts of the Prescotts, ransoms, and dark threats fade away. The little black kitten with the white chest tuft lets out a tiny squeak and tries to stand, tottering toward Erica on unsteady legs.

Without thinking, Erica reaches out, her fingers brushing against the soft fur. The kitten nudges her hand, as if seeking warmth and comfort. Something tightens in Erica’s chest, a strange mix of emotions she can’t quite name.

“They’re…unexpected.” Erica murmurs, watching the kitten curl into her palm, its eyes slowly closing as if finding the safest place in the world. “But they’re here now. Let’s make sure they’re taken care of.”

Claire’s relief is palpable. “Of course, Ms. Sinclair. I’ll take care of it, don’t worry. We just need to figure out what to do with them after today.”

Erica nods absently, still focused on the tiny creature cradled in her hand. The kitten’s fur is so soft, like velvet, and its tiny heartbeat is a rapid flutter against her skin. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches Erica’s lips.

“Maybe we can keep them around for a little while.” she says quietly, surprising even herself. She clears her throat and sets the kitten gently back in the makeshift nest, brushing off the lingering sensation of softness with a swift, composed motion. “We’ll find a good place for them, but there’s no rush.”

Claire’s eyes widen slightly, and she smiles, a knowing look in her gaze. “I think this little one likes you, Ms. Sinclair.”

Erica glances down at the kitten again, now nestled among its siblings but still gazing up at her with an intensity that’s almost unsettling. “Well, I suppose some things can’t be helped.” she replies, her tone light but her expression thoughtful.

With one last look at the kittens, Erica straightens and steps back. “Please get them some food and water, Claire. And see if there’s any news from those rescues later today.”

“Yes, ma’am. Right away.”

As Erica walks toward her personal office, she can still feel the kitten’s soft fur lingering on her fingertips. A small part of her - one that she usually keeps well-guarded - wonders if perhaps there’s room in her life for more than just power suits and legal victories. But that thought is quickly pushed aside as she refocuses on the challenges ahead.

Still, she can’t help but glance back just once before returning to her office, where the Prescott case and mounting tension await her. And for a brief moment, the image of that tiny, trusting face stays with her, a reminder that even in the darkest cases, there’s always a spark of innocence worth protecting.



Planted at her desk, she powers up her laptop to do some research on bitcoin trading, transfers and tracking.
This, again, calls for a consultation of Andrea Santos, certified genius with a computer.
Erica reaches for her phone and dials Andrea’s number. Drea answers but is not in her lab. “3PM, Ricky?” she suggests. “I’m having cream puffs.”
“3 PM it is.” Erica agrees. “And I’m bringing cream puffs.”


The workday buzzes on around Erica, tracing possible routes from Alpine, New Jersey to Manhattan, but she finds her thoughts drifting back to the kittens more often than she’d like to admit. As the time passes, she hears snippets of conversation from the staff - people poking their heads into the conference room, curious about the tiny interlopers. Claire, ever the efficient manager, has done a good job of keeping distractions to a minimum, but the presence of those kittens has injected a little life into the otherwise stoic atmosphere of the law office.

Around lunchtime, Claire knocks softly on Erica’s door before poking her head in. “Ms. Sinclair, I’ve called around to a few more rescues. Same story - they’re all full, unfortunately.”

Erica looks up from the map she’s been reading, feeling a strange mixture of relief and concern. “So, what’s our plan?” she asks, leaning back in her chair, fingers steepled as she regards Claire.

Claire steps fully into the room, her expression both apologetic and hopeful. “Well, I talked to my husband just a minute ago. We’ve been thinking about getting a cat for a while, and after seeing those little faces… he’s agreed to us taking in two of them.”

Erica raises an eyebrow, surprised but pleased. “That’s very generous of you, Claire.”

Claire shrugs modestly. “It’s not just for us - it’s for the kittens, too. They need a good home.” She hesitates, then adds, “That leaves just the other two. I thought I could put out some feelers among the staff, but…”

“No need.” Erica interrupts gently. She pauses, glancing down at the notes on her desk before meeting Claire’s gaze. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Y-you will?” Claire blinks, clearly caught off guard.

“Yes.” Erica nods firmly, a decision solidifying in her mind as she speaks. “It wouldn’t be right to separate them any further. They’ve already been through enough upheaval. I’ll take the other two.”

A smile spreads slowly across Claire’s face. “That’s wonderful, Ms. Sinclair. I’m sure they’ll be very happy with you.”

Erica’s lips curve in a faint smile, though a hint of uncertainty clouds her gaze. “Let’s hope so.” She pauses, running a hand through her hair. “Though I have to admit, I’m not exactly…familiar with cat care.”

“That’s no problem.” Claire assures her quickly. “I can help get you set up. I was actually thinking of running to the pet store quickly to pick up some things for the ones we’re taking home. I could grab some supplies for you, too - beds, food, bowls…some things you will need.”

“Perfect.” Erica nods, feeling a strange sense of satisfaction settling in her chest. “Make sure to get whatever you think is necessary.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Claire replies, her enthusiasm shining through. “I’ll take care of everything.”

As Claire turns to leave, Erica calls out after her, almost as an afterthought, “Claire?”

“Yes, Ms. Sinclair?”

Erica hesitates, a faint hint of vulnerability in her expression that only Claire would recognize. “I suppose I can handle a couple of kittens. I’ve managed worse, right?”

“Absolutely.” Claire replies with a grin. “You’re going to be a fantastic cat mom.”

Erica’s laugh is soft, almost self-deprecating. “We’ll see about that.”





It’s only an hour later when Claire returns from the pet store, armed with bags full of supplies. Erica watches with a bemused expression as her assistant sets up the new cat beds in the small, unused nook of the office that Erica has casually referred to as “the reading corner.” It’s just an alcove with a couple of armchairs and a view over the city skyline, but it seems like a cozy enough spot for the kittens.

Claire arranges a pair of plush beds, placing them side by side. Next, she fills a set of small food and water bowls, then sets them down on a mat. Erica watches all of this with a faint smile, her arms folded across her chest.

“Looks like you’ve done this before.” Erica comments.

“Twice, actually.” Claire replies with a grin. “The setup is the easy part. It’s keeping them entertained and happy that’s the real challenge.” She straightens and glances over at Erica, a touch of mischief in her gaze. “You’ll do fine, Ms. Sinclair. Just be patient. And don’t be surprised if they end up sleeping on your bed instead of theirs.”

Erica arches an eyebrow. “Is that so? I’m not sure how I feel about sharing my bed with anyone…”

“Give it a week. They’ll wear you down.” Claire’s tone is teasing but affectionate. “Trust me, you’ll get used to having them around very quickly.”

Erica nods slowly, her gaze drifting to the kittens now tumbling around in the little beds, their tiny paws batting at one another playfully. One of them, the black kitten with the white chest tuft, catches her eye again. It seems more adventurous than its siblings, climbing up the side of the bed and peering out with an inquisitive expression.

“You’re a bold one, aren’t you?” Erica murmurs, almost to herself. The kitten meows softly in response, its tiny voice a sweet, fragile sound.

“I think that one’s already claimed you.” Claire observes, her smile widening.

Erica reaches out, her fingers brushing gently against the kitten’s head. The little creature nuzzles her touch, and something inside Erica softens in a way she can’t quite explain.

“Looks like I’ve been chosen.” she replies wryly, withdrawing her hand and standing up. “All right, Claire. Let’s make sure everything’s set before I take them home. I have a feeling they’re going to need a lot more than just a bed and bowls.”

“I’ll put together a list of things you might need.” Claire says brightly, already taking out her phone to jot down notes. “And don’t worry - I’m just a call away if you need any help.”

“Thank you, Claire.” Erica says sincerely. “For all of this.”

“Of course, Ms. Sinclair.” Claire replies softly. “Anything for you.”

As Erica returns to her desk, she can’t help but steal one last glance at the kittens curled up in their new beds. The day had started with questions, complications, and unexpected challenges, but now, there’s a small patch of brightness amid the chaos - a reminder that sometimes, life’s surprises can be worth embracing.







Claire steps back as Erica lifts the cat bed, peeking inside at the two tiny creatures nestled together. The kittens look up at her with sleepy eyes, the black one’s head resting on the grey tiger-striped one’s back. For a moment, Erica hesitates. Taking in stray kittens is a long-term commitment - something completely different from managing clients and courtroom battles. But their fragility tugs at something deep within her.

Claire hands Erica a yellow index card. “Here’s a list of the basics you’ll need to pick up later. Right now we have a few essentials, but they’ll need more soon.”

Erica takes the note, scanning it quickly: litter box, litter, scoop, scratching post… The words blur slightly as she glances at the kittens again. “I’ll stop at a pet store later today and get everything.” she promises.

She sets the cat bed on the passenger seat of her black Volvo, ensuring the kittens are secure. The purring little furballs seem oblivious to the new environment, their tiny bodies curled up tightly together. The black one, more daring, stretches a paw towards Erica as if trying to reach out.

Erica can’t help but smile. “I can’t play with you now.” she murmurs softly, a trace of affection in her voice. “Mommy’s got to drive the car.”

The words sound foreign, almost ridiculous, coming from her. “Mommy”. She’s never seen herself as someone who would speak to a pet like this - let alone consider herself a cat mom. But as she pulls out of the parking garage, she glances over at the kittens once more. The black one peers back at her, curiosity shining in its tiny eyes.

“Alright, little ones. Let’s get you home safe, but first Mommy has got some more work to do.” She shifts her gaze back to the road, navigating the city streets with uncharacteristic caution.



The familiar sight of a bakery catches Erica’s eye. She parks the car and dashes in to buy Andrea’s favorite cream puffs, placing the box on the back seat, out of reach of the kittens’ claws.

As she returns to the car and drives toward Andrea’s lab, a memory surfaces - a memory from a time when she first discovered what it meant to protect someone.

It happened on the Elementary School Playground and Erica was eight years old.
A cluster of children, voices raised in excitement and malice, surrounded a small figure huddled on the ground. Erica’s heart had pounded as she approached the group to see what was going on, her steps steady despite the fear buzzing in her veins. Tommy Shoemaker and his cronies were gathered around the new kid - tiny, with oversized glasses that magnified tear-filled eyes. Her heart sank. Andrea Santos, clutching a book to her chest, looked utterly defenseless.

“Leave her alone!” Erica’s voice had cut through the crowd, startling the boys. She crossed her arms, standing between them and the girl on the ground.

Tommy puffed up his chest, clearly prepared to assert his dominance. “Stay out of this, Sinclair.”

Erica stood her ground, even though her knees felt like jelly. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” she challenged, her gaze never wavering.

For a long, tense moment, Tommy seemed to consider his options. Then, with a dismissive scoff, he turned away. “Whatever. Freak.”

Erica had watched him go, her heart hammering in her chest. When the crowd finally dispersed, she turned to the trembling girl still on the ground.

“Are you okay?” she’d asked gently, extending a hand to help Andrea up. The smaller girl nodded, sniffling as she wiped her eyes behind those thick glasses.

“Wanna be friends?” Erica had offered, and the shy, grateful smile that bloomed on Andrea’s face had been all the answer she needed.

Back in the present, Erica sighs softly. “Back then, I was the one protecting her. Now, I’m the one asking her for help.






Only a short time later, Erica sits at Andrea’s cluttered desk again, her face composed but her eyes betraying the frustration simmering beneath the surface. Two kittens peer curiously over the open zipper of her handbag.

“I couldn’t leave them out there in the car…” Erica murmurs, almost apologetically.

Andrea glances at the kittens, a knowing smile on her face. “You always need something you can protect.” She takes a large bite of a cream puff, studying Erica thoughtfully.

Erica feels her ears redden. Andrea is just teasing, but there’s a ring of truth in the comment that cuts close to the bone. “Maybe.” Erica shrugs, then straightens in her chair, leaning forward. “Look, Drea, I need your expertise again. Let’s assume a huge amount of money gets exchanged for Bitcoin and transferred to an anonymous account. I want to track where it goes and who the receiving party is.”

Andrea’s smile fades as she pulls up a blockchain visualization on her laptop. A complex web of digital transactions branches out on the screen - endless streams of numbers and letters dancing across the monitor. She points at the maze of entries.

“Ricky, here’s the thing. Bitcoin works on something called a blockchain. It’s like a public ledger where every transaction gets logged. Let’s assume your client Prescott sends the ransom to the kidnappers’ wallet, it’s recorded. Anyone can see that the money has moved from his wallet to theirs.”

Erica’s pulse quickens. This could be a breakthrough. “Great. So we can trace it, right?”

Andrea shakes her head slowly, a so-sorry look in her eyes. “Not exactly. We can see that the transaction happened, but Bitcoin wallets are just strings of random numbers and letters. They’re not tied to real identities or locations unless the owners make a mistake - and if these guys are halfway smart, they won’t. They could move the Bitcoin around to other wallets, quickly, and use things like mixing services to scramble the trail. These services take a bunch of different Bitcoin transactions, blend them together, and send the coins out to new wallets, making it nearly impossible to figure out where the ransom ends up. If they use a dark web-based cryptocurrency exchange service, it’s even worse.”

Erica leans back in the gaming chair she occupies, digesting the information. “So once Prescott hits send, the money’s as good as gone?”

“Exactly. If they cash it out through an offshore exchange - say, somewhere like Qatar or some crypto-friendly country that doesn’t cooperate with U.S. law enforcement - there’s no way to track it down. And once it’s converted into cash? Forget about it. It’s gone for good.”

Andrea’s explanation is clear and thorough, but Erica feels no relief, only the heavy, sinking sensation of another dead end. Her shoulders sag with disappointment. “So there’s no chance we can retrieve the money?”

Andrea’s expression softens, sympathy evident in her gaze. “Correct. If these guys are smart, once it’s sent, all we can do is watch it disappear. There’s no way to recover it. Ten Million Bucks gone.”

Silence settles between them. The hum of Andrea’s server rack fills the air, a low, droning reminder of the digital wilderness they’re navigating. Erica stares at the web of transactions on the screen, feeling a wave of helplessness. Every direction she looks, it’s like running into a brick wall. No clues, no faces, no tangible trail to follow.

But she can’t afford to give in to frustration. Closing her eyes, Erica takes a deep breath, steadying herself. The two kittens in her handbag shift and stretch, and one of them - the black one - pokes its tiny head out. It meows softly, the sound small and incongruous in the otherwise tense room.

Erica’s lips twitch into a faint smile. The little creature is completely oblivious to the gravity of the situation. “What are you looking at, huh?” she whispers, gently stroking its head.

Andrea watches the interaction quietly, then sets her cream puff down and leans forward. “Ricky, I know you’re not the type to back down easily. But sometimes, with things like this… it’s just not possible to win.”

Erica opens her eyes, her gaze hardening with a fierce determination. “I can’t believe that. I won’t. There’s always a way.”

Andrea sighs softly, shaking her head. “Even if there’s a way, it might not be one you like.”

Erica knows Andrea is right - at least in part. But giving up isn’t an option. Standing up for people who can’t defend themselves has been her creed since that day on the playground. It’s what drove her to push past every obstacle and become the formidable attorney she is today. But now… now she’s the one with no defense, no solid ground beneath her feet.

And that thought - the thought of not being able to protect someone - is intolerable.

“Thanks, Drea.” she says finally, the steel back in her voice. “We’ll figure something out. We always do.”

Andrea watches her with a mixture of admiration and concern as Erica slowly gets up from her chair and lifts her handbag with the two kittens.

“You sure you’re okay with this?” Andrea asks, gesturing to the kittens. “I thought you were already overbooked.”

“I am.” Erica replies with a small, rueful smile. “But I’ll manage. Don’t worry.”

With a nod, she turns to leave and as she heads out the door, Andrea calls after her.

“Hey, Ricky?”

Erica pauses, glancing back over her shoulder.

“If you hit another wall, you know where to find me,” Andrea says quietly, the words carrying an unspoken promise.

“I know.” Erica gives her a grateful smile. “And I’ll be back…probably sooner than later.”

She leaves Andrea’s office, stepping out into the crisp afternoon air with the sense of purpose that has always propelled her forward, even when the odds are stacked against her. The kittens, barely making a sound, are a warm, comforting presence by her side. They have no idea what’s going on, no understanding of the complexities of the world they’ve been brought into.

But maybe, just maybe, they’ll be a reminder for her too - of what it means to stand up for something, no matter how insurmountable the odds might seem.

With that thought in mind, Erica heads back to her car, ready to face whatever comes next.

[Jenny_S]

On her way home, Erica’s mind is still tangled in knots, replaying the conversation with Andrea over and over again. Paying the ransom feels like admitting defeat, but if that’s the only way to get Isabelle Prescott back alive, then what choice does she really have?

The thought makes her chest tighten with a mix of frustration and resignation. But instead of heading straight home, she turns her car towards a brightly lit pet store tucked between a cafe and a bookstore. Claire’s list, nicely drafted in neat handwriting, rests on the passenger seat beside the two dozing kittens.

“Alright, you two, let’s get you what you need.” Erica murmurs softly, giving the kittens a fond glance before stepping out and locking the car.

Inside the pet store, the bell above the door chimes as she enters. The shelves are packed with everything imaginable for pets - from colorful toys and kibble to beds and grooming supplies. Erica feels a little out of her depth, but she’s determined to get this right. She owes it to those tiny furballs to be prepared, even if she’s more accustomed to organizing high-profile legal defenses than figuring out what brand of litter is best.

“Can I help you find something, ma’am?” a young woman asks, looking up from stocking a shelf. She’s probably in her early twenties, wearing a pet store apron over a sweatshirt and jeans, her ponytail swinging as she stands. There’s an eager politeness in her voice - the tone of someone who’s trying to make a good impression at their first job.

“Yes, actually.” Erica replies, managing a polite smile. “I just adopted two kittens, and I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to get them.”

The young woman’s eyes light up instantly. “Kittens? Oh, that’s great! They’re so much fun. Okay, let’s see… what do you already have?”

“Just a bed and some basic food bowls.” Erica says, pulling out Claire’s list and handing it over. “But I need everything else - litter, toys, scratching posts - whatever you think is best.”

The assistant takes the list, glancing over it before looking up at Erica, a hint of amusement in her expression. “We can do that. Follow me, please.”

Erica trails after her as she expertly navigates the aisles, pointing out options and making recommendations with the ease of someone who knows the store inside and out. Before long, Erica’s cart is loaded with everything from a sturdy scratching tree to an assortment of toys - feathery wands, crinkly balls, and a small plush mouse that, according to the assistant, “most kittens go nuts over.”

“Litter box with high sides - helps keep the mess contained.” the assistant explains, placing a large plastic tray in the cart. “And you’ll want this litter - unscented, clumping, easy for them to use. Scoop’s over there… food and water bowls you already have, but these are non-tip, just in case.”

Erica listens attentively, making mental notes as they go. It’s a strangely grounding experience, being guided through something so simple yet utterly unfamiliar. When the assistant starts adding a few more things, like a brush and a small kitten grooming kit, Erica doesn’t object. It’s a world away from her daily routine, and yet, she finds it oddly calming.

“Think this will be enough?” she asks, surveying the now overflowing cart with a wry smile.

“That’s all you need for now.” the assistant grins back, then tilts her head curiously. “You said you just adopted them? First-time cat mom?”

“Yes.” Erica admits, the word sounding almost foreign on her tongue. “First time.”

“Well, good luck. Kittens are a handful, but they’re worth it. If they are strays you should have them checked by a vet one of these next days.” The assistant rings up the items quickly, efficiently bagging everything while Erica swipes her card.

“Thank you.” Erica says as she hefts the heavy bags. “You’ve been a big help.”

The girl’s smile widens. “Anytime! And, if you have questions, just give us a call or drop by. We’re happy to help out new pet parents.”

With a final nod, Erica heads back to her car, loading the bags and boxes into the trunk. She glances over at the two kittens, still curled up in their bed, oblivious to the world outside. The sight draws a faint smile from her.

“Let’s get you home.” she whispers softly, closing the trunk and moving around to the driver’s side.






Back at her address, she carries the supplies in first, stacking the bags and boxes in front of the elevator. Then she returns to the car, gently lifting the bed with the kittens inside. The black one opens a sleepy eye, giving a soft mew, while the gray-striped one shifts closer to its sibling. Erica’s heart squeezes unexpectedly at the sight. It’s been a long time since she’s felt this unguarded…vulnerable, even.

“Don’t worry, I’ll figure this out.” she murmurs, as if reassuring herself as much as the kittens.

Upstairs, her apartment feels larger and more quiet than usual. The scent of lavender from her air refresher lingers faintly in the air as she kicks off her shoes and drapes her coat over a chair. The kittens are placed gently on the living room floor in their bed, and she changes into a comfy gray sweatsuit, the soft fabric a welcome change after the structured rigidity of her work attire.

The next half hour is a blur of unpacking and assembling. The scratching tree comes first - a multi-level contraption with sisal-covered posts, platforms and a little perch at the top. Erica frowns at the instructions, then glances at the kittens, who are now sitting side by side, watching her every move with wide, curious eyes.

“Well, you two, let’s see how this goes.” she mutters, pulling out the various pieces and laying them out on the floor.

With surprising dexterity, she puts the thing together, tightening bolts and adjusting the levels until the scratching tree stands firm and secure in the corner of her living room. The kittens sniff at it tentatively, their tiny noses twitching.

“Go on.” she encourages them softly. “It’s yours now.”

The gray-striped one is the first to explore, pawing at the lowest platform, then clambering up to the second tier with a delighted squeak. The black one follows suit, more cautious but no less intrigued. They dart back and forth, investigating every inch of the new playground.

Erica watches them, leaning back against the couch. The rest of the supplies - litter box, toys, food - can wait a few more minutes. For now, she just wants to see them play, to remind herself why she brought them home in the first place.

The thought of Isabelle Prescott’s kidnapping still weighs heavily on her mind, and the uncertainty of the case feels like a heavy shadow hanging over her. But here, in this quiet moment, watching two tiny creatures find joy in something as simple as a scratching post… it’s enough to ease the tightness in her chest.

“Maybe I don’t have all the answers.” she murmurs, more to herself than to the kittens. “But I’ll be damned if I’m giving up.”

With that thought, she rises, shaking off the lingering doubts. There’s still work to be done - both for the case and for these two little furballs who’ve unexpectedly made their way into her life. And if there’s one thing Erica Sinclair knows how to do, it’s taking on challenges head-on, no matter how insurmountable they may seem.


Erica carefully places the plastic mat on the floor of her spacious living room, ensuring it’s perfectly aligned beneath the spot she’s designated for the kittens’ food and water bowls. The mat’s clear surface, with tiny cat paws imprinted on it, contrasts gently against the polished hardwood. As she steps back to admire her handiwork, she grabs the bag of kitten food Claire recommended, noting its promise of “easily digestible formula for young kittens” on the label.

“Hope you two like this stuff.” she murmurs, tearing open the pack and pouring some of the tiny, crunchy kibble into one of the bowls. The soft clinking sound draws the attention of the two tiny furballs, who are already busy investigating the lower rungs of the new scratching post.

The black kitten with the white tuft on his chest is the first to scramble over, a look of curious determination on his little face. His grey-striped sibling trails behind, slightly more hesitant but no less intrigued.

Erica smiles as she fills the matching water bowl, watching the little black one tentatively sniff at the food before taking his first bite. “There you go, smart boy.” She kneels down beside them, fingers trailing gently across the soft fur of the grey kitten, who’s now joined his brother at the bowl.

For a moment, she simply watches - two tiny kittens, previously abandoned, now eating with contentment in their new home. They finish nibbling and then seem to catch sight of their reflection in the nearby chrome leg of the sideboard, resulting in an adorable display of back-arching and paw-swiping. Erica chuckles softly, the sound surprising her in the stillness of the evening.

“Clever little furballs.” she mutters affectionately. Stepping back, she sinks into the comfort of her plush leather couch and flips open her laptop. A few taps on the keyboard, and she’s greeted with a dozen tabs about kitten care. Everything from litter box training to the right types of toys flashes before her eyes.

She glances over at the kittens. One is already climbing up and down the new scratching tree with surprising agility, while the other explores the small litter box she’d set up. With a tiny wriggle, he paws at the litter before squatting down, using it for the first time.

Erica feels a swell of unexpected pride. “Smart little guy.” she murmurs again, a smile playing on her lips. For the first time in a long while, she feels something warm and light settle in her chest. The sight of these two little creatures - so small, yet so brave - exploring their new world brings an unfamiliar sense of peace.

After watching the kittens for a while - seeing them wrestle, snack again, and finally curl up together in their plush new bed - Erica lets out a soft sigh and shuts her laptop. “Time to call it a day,” she says to herself.

She tidies up quickly, discarding the plastic wrapping from the food and breaking down the empty boxes before switching off the lights. With the living room cast in a soft, ambient glow, she heads into her bedroom.

Once inside, Erica folds her grey sweatsuit up and drapes it over the tall back rest of the Hillhouse chair. She takes off her underwear and while throwing it into the dirty laundry basket, reaches for her favorite silk kimono, her preferred wear for bedtime.
The coolness of the silk sends a shiver down her spine as she knots the belt around her waist. As much as she loves her suits and formal attire, this is what true comfort feels like. She plugs in her phone to charge, places it on the nightstand, and slides into her bed, pulling the covers up to her chin.

Within minutes, the weight of the day melts away, and Erica drifts off into a deep, peaceful sleep.



Sometime later, a faint tug at the corner of the duvet pulls Erica back to consciousness. Her eyes flutter open, groggy with sleep. For a second, she’s disoriented, but then she notices a tiny, dark silhouette near the foot of her bed, illuminated softly by the moonlight streaming through the curtains.

“What the…” Erica whispers, sitting up and instinctively reaching for the bedside lamp. She flicks it on, the warm light filling the room and revealing the source of the disturbance.

It’s the little black kitten, the white tuft on his chest stark against his dark fur. He’s carefully navigating his way up the bed, one tiny paw after another. His ears are perked up, and his big green eyes are wide and inquisitive, locking onto Erica’s gaze as if he’s trying to tell her something important.

Erica’s first instinct is to shoo him away - this is “her” space, and she’s always valued having a sanctuary of privacy. But the determined look on his tiny face stops her, and before she can think it through, a gentle smile tugs at her lips.

“Alright, you win.” she murmurs softly, extending a hand towards him. “Come to Mommy and lay down, okay?”

The kitten pauses for a moment, as if considering her words, before climbing up into her open palm. He lets out a tiny purr, the vibration so delicate it’s almost imperceptible, and then carefully curls up against her side, tucking his little head under her arm.

Erica watches him, feeling the oddest mixture of tenderness and resignation. “Guess I’ll have to keep the door closed if I want any privacy from now on.” she says under her breath.

She glances at her watch. It’s 2:30 AM. Letting out a soft sigh, she flicks off the light and settles back down. The kitten’s warmth against her is a new sensation - odd, but pleasant.

“Goodnight, little guy.” she whispers. “Let’s try to get some sleep, okay?”

As if understanding, the kitten nuzzles closer, his tiny body fitting perfectly into the crook of her arm. Erica closes her eyes, feeling his rhythmic purring against her skin. For the first time in weeks, she drifts off to sleep with a sense of calm, the weight of her worries momentarily lifted by the presence of this unexpected, fragile little life she’s chosen to protect.






At 5AM, Erica’s phone buzzes softly on the nightstand, a gentle alarm that signals the start of another day. She blinks into the dim light of her bedside lamp, the room painted in pale hues of blue and grey. As she sits up and stretches, something catches her eye - a little grey-striped furball curled up by her feet.

“Well, look at that.” she murmurs softly, careful not to disturb the still-sleeping kittens. Somehow, the second kitten has snuck up onto the bed without her noticing during the night. The black one with the white tuft is still nestled close to where she’d left him hours earlier. Erica smiles - a rare, unguarded smile - as she watches the tiny duo breathe in unison, completely at peace.

Holding her breath, she slides out of bed on the opposite side, her movements as careful as if she were disarming a bomb. Once free of the duvet, she stands beside the bed for a moment, observing the little creatures that have already managed to worm their way into her life. She doesn’t want to admit it, but the sight makes her chest tighten with an unfamiliar warmth.

Padding quietly into the kitchen, Erica prepares their breakfast. The soft clink of the spoon against the ceramic bowls fills the silence as she scoops out the kitten food. The aroma must be enticing enough to wake the kittens, but they remain blissfully unaware of the world around them, snuggled up on her bed like they own the place.

“Sleep while you can, little ones.” she whispers, almost envious of their calm. She fills the non-tip water bowl and sets it beside the food. Then, with a last glance back at the bedroom, she changes into her running gear - black compression leggings, a matching top, and her favorite pair of running shoes. As she zips up her jacket, she runs through her schedule mentally, steeling herself for the meeting with Jonathan Prescott.

[Caesar73]

Just read the latest to installments. Seems like the Kidnappers have all Bases covered. The View back into Erica´s Past offers us insights into her formative Years. How she became the Person she is. The Kittens? How very lovely. And it was fun to read how one of them claims Erica´s most Private Space. I wonder how the Tale will unfold further @Jenny_S

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73 , we will see if there's a chance to get the Prescott girl back. This story reveals a lot about Erica and if you think you've seen it all, there's more yet to come. As competent as Erica is as a lawyer, she has to learn a lot about being a cat mom.

[Jenny_S]

When she returns from her run, cheeks flushed and breath steady, the apartment is still quiet. Erica peeks into her bedroom, half-expecting to find a disaster zone. But no - the kittens are still sprawled out across the bed, one of them on his back, paws twitching slightly in a dream. She sighs, not sure if she’s relieved or annoyed. “You two really made yourselves at home, huh?”

After a quick shower, she goes through her morning routine - blow-drying her hair, applying light makeup, and spritzing on her signature lavender perfume before changing into a sharp, tailored suit that hugs her toned frame with precise elegance.
All the while, her mind keeps returning to the conversation she’s about to have with Prescott. How will she frame it? Telling a father that paying a ransom might be the only viable solution is a bitter pill to swallow. She can already hear his frustrated sigh, see the way his brow will furrow at the lack of concrete progress.

With a breakfast of half a cup of oatmeal and a bowl of natural yoghurt - something quick and protein-rich - she glances back into the bedroom. Both kittens have now migrated to her pillow, a tiny mountain of fur and tails. She shakes her head, torn between amusement and exasperation. But even in the midst of the chaos swirling in her mind, she finds herself softly backing out into the hallway instead of shooing them off her bed.

Keys in hand, Erica walks out of the apartment and locks the door behind her, a renewed resolve settling in. The drive to Prescott’s office is a blur of rehearsed explanations, plausible arguments, and potential reactions. Today is a test of her composure and expertise. But at least, for the first time in a while, she leaves the apartment with the faint memory of a smile lingering on her lips.




On her way to Prescott Holdings on West 57th Street, Erica navigates her car through the busy Manhattan streets, her fingers drumming rhythmically against the steering wheel. She picks up her phone and dials a number she knows by heart. It rings twice before a familiar deep voice answers.
“Dance here.”

“John, it’s Erica.” she says, keeping her tone measured despite the anxiety simmering beneath the surface. “I’ve got a situation - potentially a kidnapping case.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and she can almost hear him leaning back, his posture shifting to the all-too-familiar alert mode. “Kidnapping? You’ve got my attention.”

“It’s complicated.” she admits, her eyes darting between the road and her rearview mirror. “I’m expecting the hostage release to take place within the next day or two, but I don’t have a location yet. It’ll probably be a last-minute call.”

“Sounds like a job I might like.” he says with a low chuckle, “Any more details you may want to share?”

“I’m hoping I’ll have more details for you soon, but I wanted to make sure you’d be available… armed and ready, just in case.”

He lets out a thoughtful hum. “You know I don’t usually accept jobs with such threadbare descriptions, Erica. But if you’re asking, and you think I need to come heeled, I won’t let you go alone.”

She feels a small measure of relief wash over her. Dance is one of the few people she trusts implicitly in situations like these. “Thank you, John. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

“Be safe, Erica.”

She ends the call and slips the phone back into her purse, glancing up just in time to catch the towering facade of Prescott Holdings looming ahead. The building gleams under the morning sun, an impenetrable fortress of glass and steel.

Erica parks the car in the underground garage and is greeted by the security guards while signing in, a procedure smooth and swift - just like yesterday - but this time, the receptionist in the main lobby escorts her to another floor up. The elevator doors slide open to reveal a hallway with plush carpeting and an air of even greater exclusivity. She’s guided not to a conference room but to the personal office of Jonathan Prescott himself – a place only few people besides his closes employees ever get to see.



The office is a stark contrast to most executive suites she’s visited: a blend of chrome and glass, with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park in all its splendor. Jonathan Prescott, tall with silver streaks in his hair and a commanding presence, rises from behind his massive desk as she steps inside.

“Miss Sinclair!” His voice booms with a mix of authority and impatience. He extends a hand, then gestures toward the sleek leather two-seater positioned near the panoramic view of the park. “Have a seat.” He glances at the receptionist. “Coffee for us both, please.”

Erica nods politely and takes her place on the sofa, her posture composed, even though the weight of the meeting settles heavily on her shoulders. Prescott remains standing, watching her with narrowed eyes, assessing.

“Could you find out anything useful about Isabelle’s whereabouts?” he asks, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. There’s no pleasantry, no beating around the bush - just the urgent demand of a father who’s been brought to the edge of despair.

Erica meets his gaze squarely. “I’ve explored every avenue I could think of, but so far… I haven’t found any solid leads.” She hesitates for just a heartbeat before continuing, determined not to sugarcoat the truth. “Every direction I’ve pursued has turned up empty, and every contact I’ve reached out to has come back with the same frustrating answer: nothing.”

Prescott’s jaw tightens, his fingers flexing against the glass surface of his desk. “Nothing?” he echoes, voice strained.

“I wish I had better news.” she says quietly. “But based on everything I’ve seen so far, I think paying the ransom is probably the best - maybe the only - option to get Isabelle back safely.” She watches him carefully, knowing that no one likes to hear those words, least of all someone as powerful and proud as Jonathan Prescott.

He draws in a long breath, the lines on his face deepening. There’s no sign of panic in his expression - just a hard, unyielding resolve. “Even for me, ten million dollars is a lot of money, Miss Sinclair. But if it buys Isabelle’s return…” His voice softens just slightly, a crack in his otherwise unshakeable demeanor. “I have the Bitcoin ready. If it’s what it takes, I’ll pay it.”

Erica nods, a tightness forming in her chest. “I’ll keep trying to find another way, but if the payment instructions come in, we have to be prepared to move quickly.”

Jonathan Prescott turns to gaze out the window, his silhouette framed by the glittering skyline and the lush greenery of Central Park beyond. “Just bring my little girl back.” he murmurs, more to himself than to her. “Whatever it takes.”

“I will.” Erica promises, though the words feel heavy with uncertainty. “I’ll do what I can.”

The silence that settles between them is thick and somber, the gravity of the situation pressing down on both of them like an oppressive weight. Finally, Prescott shifts his gaze back to her, a hint of vulnerability breaking through the hardened exterior.

“Thank you, Miss Sinclair.” He nods, a slight but sincere gesture of gratitude. “Please keep me informed.”

“I will.” Erica says again, standing and offering a firm handshake before turning to leave, the tension from their conversation still coiling tight in her chest.
As she steps out of the office, the receptionist waits to guide her back to the elevator.


The elevator doors are sliding open when a voice rings out behind her.

“Ms. Sinclair!”

Erica stops, turning around to see Jonathan Prescott standing in the hallway, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. His face is pale, his expression a mix of alarm and urgency.

“The email with the instructions! It just came in.”

For a moment, everything seems to freeze around her. Erica takes a step back toward him, her pulse quickening. Prescott’s eyes flick to the receptionist. “Get Ms. Lang. Immediately.”

The receptionist nods briskly and hurries off down the hall. Erica watches Prescott, who remains standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the glowing screen of his phone as if it holds the power of life and death - which, in this case, it might.

It takes less than three minutes for Miranda Lang to appear at a hurried pace, her expression tight with fear and exhaustion, a laptop tucked under her arm. She moves swiftly past Erica and into Prescott’s office, setting up her laptop on the glass coffee table by the leather two-seater.

“What does it say?” Miranda breathes, her voice thin with anxiety.

Prescott strides over, still gripping his phone. “See for yourself.” He hands the device to Erica as she steps closer. The email on the screen is brief and chillingly direct:

“Prescott, 10 Million US Dollar in Bitcoin will buy your daughter’s life. Pay here: [link to Bitcoin wallet].”

That’s it. No additional threats. No further instructions. No photo as proof that Isabelle is still alive. Just a demand - a demand for an enormous sum in exchange for Isabelle’s safe return.

Erica stares at the words for a long moment, her thoughts racing. She knows this is it: the point where decisions must be made and actions taken.

“Send it to me, please.” Miranda says quietly, her hands already poised over her laptop’s keyboard. Prescott forwards the email to her, and she opens it with shaking hands. The stark black letters on the screen seem to burn into her eyes.

“Send it.” Jonathan Prescott orders, his voice firm but laden with a desperation he doesn’t bother to hide.

Miranda looks up at her boss, her eyes wide, as if seeking confirmation one last time. There’s no turning back once the payment is made. But all she sees is Prescott’s resolute expression.

“Do it, Miranda.”

She swallows hard, nods, and opens the cryptocurrency exchange platform on her laptop. Her fingers move with practiced precision, copying the Bitcoin wallet address from the email and pasting it into the transfer field. The ransom amount - 10 million USD worth of Bitcoin - is already pre-loaded in a separate account, ready for this moment. All she has to do is press the button.

Erica watches Miranda’s hands tremble as they hover over the trackpad. A soft click reverberates in the silence of the room as Miranda confirms the transaction. The screen flashes, and a green checkmark appears, signifying the payment is complete.

“O my God…” Miranda whispers, her voice breaking. Her eyes are glued to the screen, as if she expects some kind of immediate response. “Please let Issy go…”

Prescott stands a few feet behind her, his fists clenched at his sides. “Is it done?” he asks, his voice tight with the strain of holding himself together.

“Yes, Sir.” Miranda says softly, nodding. “It’s done. They have the money.”

For a moment, no one speaks. The three of them are suspended in a breathless, agonizing silence. There’s nothing left to do but wait - for some confirmation, some sign that Isabelle will be released.

“What now?” Prescott mutters more to himself than to anyone else.

“We wait.” Erica replies quietly, her gaze shifting between the two of them. “They’ll reach out once they have the payment confirmed on their end. It could take a few minutes… or a few hours. But they’ll let us know.”

She wishes she could promise more, but with cases like this, nothing is guaranteed. She glances at Miranda, who’s slumped back in her seat, staring blankly at the screen.

“You did everything you could.” Erica says softly, trying to offer some comfort. “Now we just have to hope they honor their end of the deal.”

Miranda nods, but her face is stricken. She covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “If anything happens to her…” she whispers, unable to finish the sentence.

Prescott steps closer, his gaze fixed on his assistant. He places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “She’ll be all right, Miranda.” he murmurs, his voice low but steady. “We’ve done what they asked. Now they have no reason to hurt her.”

No one moves, and no one speaks as the seconds drag into minutes. The only sound is the low hum of the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a stark contrast to the anxious, suffocating silence that fills the room.

Erica looks back at the email one more time. It’s so simple, so brutally indifferent. Just numbers and letters strung together to demand a fortune for a human life. She hates everything about it - the helplessness, the lack of control, the feeling of being at the mercy of faceless criminals.

But for now, all she can do is wait alongside Jonathan Prescott and Miranda Lang, watching as each passing second carries with it the weight of Isabelle’s fate.





An hour drags by in Jonathan Prescott’s office, tension thickening the air. Erica, sitting quietly on the leather two-seater, watches as Prescott paces up and down behind his gleaming chrome and glass desk, hands jammed deep in his pockets. His face is a mask of anxious focus, eyes darting repeatedly to the clock on the wall and then to his phone, as if willing it to vibrate.

When it finally does, the sudden ping breaks the silence like a gunshot. Prescott stops mid-stride, every muscle in his body going rigid. He reaches for his phone, fumbling slightly in his haste, and taps to open the email. Erica and Miranda Lang move in beside him, peering over his shoulder.

The email is as tense and chilling as the first:
“Thanks for the money. Here’s your daughter: 48 Meadow Lane, Haverstraw, NY 10927. Remember: no cops.”

Erica’s gaze narrows on the address. 48 Meadow Lane. Haverstraw. The name rings a vague bell. It's a small town on the west bank of the Hudson River in Rockland County - about an hour’s drive from here, if traffic’s light. A surge of urgency pulses through her, but she keeps her voice calm as she takes charge.

“Miranda.” she says, turning to the pale-faced assistant who’s still staring blankly at the screen, “I need you to find everything you can about this address - satellite views, local reports, recent property transfers, anything - and send it to my phone. I’m going to go there now and pick up Isabelle.”

Miranda blinks, nods rapidly, and hurries to her laptop, fingers flying over the keys. Prescott still hasn’t spoken. He stands like a statue, eyes locked on the address, as if afraid it will disappear if he looks away.

“I’ll bring your daughter back.” Erica assures him, her voice firm but not unkind. She touches his arm lightly, drawing his attention. “Stay here. Let me handle this.”

Prescott looks at her, desperation mixed with a flicker of trust. He inclines his head slowly. “Yes…yes, please. Just…bring her home.”

Erica nods once, turns on her heel, and strides out of the office. The receptionist, who has been standing by the door looking like she’s holding her breath, springs forward to guide her back to the elevator. Erica gives her a quick, polite nod but doesn’t break her pace. She knows the way out by now. Her heels click sharply on the polished floor, a staccato rhythm matching her rising pulse.




As soon as she reaches the parking garage and slides into the driver’s seat of her black Volvo, Erica taps her phone. The line connects at the first buzz.

“John,” she says briskly, “meet me at this address: 48 Meadow Lane, Haverstraw, 10927. It’s about an hour north of the city.”

Dance’s voice is a low rumble on the other end, edged with curiosity. “That’s where they’re holding the girl?”

“Right. They said no cops.” Erica replies, starting the engine and pulling out of her parking spot. “So please… don’t look like one.”

A low chuckle echoes through the line. “You know me, Erica. Casual’s my middle name. I’ll be there. Armed and dangerous.”

“Good. I’m leaving now. We’ll talk details when you get there.”

She disconnects and eases the Volvo into the mid-morning traffic, the city blurring past her. As she drives, she mentally reviews everything she knows about the area. Quiet, semi-rural, with patches of thick woods and older residential properties. It’s far enough from the city’s prying eyes to hide anything - or anyone.

The address echoes in her mind: 48 Meadow Lane. The last piece of the puzzle, or the start of something far more complex? Only time will tell.

Erica tightens her grip on the steering wheel, her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. One way or another, she’s going to get Isabelle Prescott out of this.

And if there’s something more sinister waiting at that abandoned house… she’ll be ready for it.

As she speeds north along the Henry Hudson Parkway, the towering skyline of Manhattan recedes behind her, giving way to sprawling parks, sleepy suburban communities, and the occasional glimpse of the river glistening under the morning sun. Her phone chimes with a notification just as she passes the Tappan Zee Bridge. A voicemail message from Miranda Lang.

She clicks play, listening closely as Miranda’s voice fills the car.

“Ms Sinclair, Haverstraw’s a small town. Population just under twelve thousand. It used to be a big industrial area, mostly brick factories and shipping yards, but those have been shut down for years. The place is pretty rundown now - some properties abandoned or in disrepair. And, uh, about that address, 48 Meadow Lane… it’s part of an empty residential lot. Looks like the owner went bankrupt three years ago, and it’s been vacant ever since. Google Maps shows a one-story building there. Could be a house, maybe an old office. There are a few other boarded-up homes in the same area. Not a lot of foot traffic or close neighbors. I’m sending you the pictures now.”

Erica scans through the accompanying photos and maps, taking in the faded outlines of the roads, the overgrown front lawns, and the sagging structures scattered around Meadow Lane. She forwards everything to John Dance’s phone without missing a beat. It’s exactly the kind of place you’d expect someone to stash a kidnapping victim: remote enough to stay hidden, but not so far off the beaten path that it’d raise suspicion.

Her phone buzzes again just as she’s crossing the county line into Rockland. Dance’s number flashes on the display.she takes the call. “John?”

“Got your info.” Dance says. “The whole area looks like a ghost town. Not exactly a welcoming neighborhood.”

“That’s the idea.” Erica replies, keeping her voice steady as she maneuvers the Volvo around a slower-moving sedan. “You saw the pictures?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a pretty good sense of the layout now. Looks like the building at 48 Meadow is the last one on the right before the street dead-ends. Should be easy to spot. But listen - there’s a Seven-Eleven at the corner of Purchase Street and Meadow Lane. Why don’t we rendezvous there first?”

“Check.” Erica says, glancing at the time on her Rolex. It’s almost noon. “I’ll be there in… about thirty minutes.”

“Perfect. I’m already on my way. Wait for me at the Seven-Eleven, okay? No Lone Ranger stunts, please. See you soon.”

Erica ends the call and shifts in her seat, feeling a knot of apprehension tightening in her chest. The road ahead gradually narrows as she enters Haverstraw’s town limits, the bustling energy of the city replaced by quiet streets and aging storefronts. A few kids linger outside a convenience store, and she passes a handful of locals tending to modest front yards. But as she turns onto Purchase Street, she notices how quickly the town’s character changes.

The homes here have seen better days. Some are boarded up, windows shattered or covered with sagging plywood. A sense of neglect permeates the place, with weeds pushing through cracked sidewalks and rusty cars sitting abandoned in driveways. She imagines how different this area must have looked in its prime - an ordinary, working-class neighborhood where families gathered on front porches, kids played along the curbs, and neighbors greeted each other by name.

But now, it’s a place that time and prosperity have left behind.

She slows the car as she approaches the intersection with Meadow Lane. The Seven-Eleven is a squat, nondescript building, its neon sign flickering slightly. A lone gas pump sits under a battered canopy, and a couple of parked cars are scattered haphazardly in the lot. Across the street, an overgrown vacant lot hints at a development project that never came to fruition.

Erica pulls into the Seven-Eleven parking space and cuts the engine, scanning the area as she waits. This is where the kidnappers sent her - their final breadcrumb on this twisted trail. And somewhere down the road, at 48 Meadow Lane, Isabelle Prescott might be trapped, alone, and terrified.

“Okay, John, I’m here…” she mutters, checking her watch again. It’s time to get Isabelle out - one way or another.

[LunaDog]

Been away again, hence the late comment. You are building this up beautifully, one can almost TASTE the suspense here.

[Caesar73]

Excellent. The mounting Tension in Prescott´s Office is palpable. One feels it. Everything is set. For the Exchange .... and then what?