Erica Sinclair - Permanent Scars (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

When college student Selina Neely’s amateur story is shamelessly turned into a hit movie by C4 Entertainment, Erica Sinclair steps in to fight for justice against the media giant.
As Erica goes head-to-head with ruthless lawyers, her manipulative ex, Nathan Asner, reappears, hoping to worm his way back into her life.
Juggling betrayal, ambition, and high-stakes legal battles, Erica must stay sharp to protect her client - and herself.
Will she outmaneuver her enemies, or will this case push her past her limits?
Find out in this gripping Erica Sinclair legal thriller where justice and personal demons collide.

[Jenny_S]

The soft hum of applause is still buzzing in Erica Sinclair’s ears as she descends the steps of the podium, her polished heels clicking against the marble floor. The sound of laughter - light, appreciative, but distant - floats in the background, muffled by her focus on the task at hand. She gathers her papers, her movements methodical, precise, a reflection of the poise she carries both in and out of the courtroom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you.” she had concluded moments ago, her calm voice rippling through the grand auditorium. “In the words of a great teacher I had at Harvard Law, one who shaped not just my career but my outlook on justice itself...” Her gaze had flicked to the front row, to Arthur Kingsley, her old professor, whose slight nod was as affirming to her as a standing ovation. She had allowed herself a rare, small smile. “And thus endeth the lesson.”

The audience’s laughter and applause - for her and the acclaimed professor - had filled the space, the kind that resonates with respect more than mirth.

Now, with the formalities behind her, Erica accepts the elegantly wrapped bottle of wine from Milton Kellerman, the Bar Association chairman. "Thank you, Milt. It was an honor." she says, her voice steady but tinged with the kind of warmth she reserves for professional camaraderie.

“The honor was ours, Erica.” Milton replies with a kind smile.


The socializing begins in earnest, the room is alive with the mingling hum of voices. Erica, however, feels the pull of solitude. The bottle of wine in her hand serves as a convenient excuse.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to put this in my car.” she says to no one in particular, already moving toward the elevator that would take her to the underground parking garage.
The quiet of the hallway is a stark contrast to the bustle she’s leaving behind.

The elevator ride is short, its metallic walls reflecting her composed image as she descends. The familiar tight ponytail, the tailored black suit, the faint scent of lavender she wears like armor. She adjusts the grip on the bottle of wine, her other hand reflexively brushing the smooth fabric of her silk blouse.

When the elevator doors slide open, Erica steps into the dimly lit parking garage. The faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead and the muted shuffle of her footsteps the only sounds. Her black Volvo is parked a few rows away, unassuming amid a sea of gleaming luxury sedans and sports cars. Like so much in her life, the car is a practical choice – reliable and sturdy.

Reaching into her handbag for the keys, she approaches her car, the faint click of her heels reverberating through the empty space. Just as her fingers brush the cool metal of the key fob, a voice stops her in her tracks.

“Hello, Erica.”

The words slide through the air like a knife, smooth and sharp, cutting through the quiet.
Erica freezes, all muscles in her body tensing.
Her heart, disciplined by years of courtroom pressure, gives a traitorous lurch. She turns slowly, the bottle of wine still in her hand like a lifeline.
He is standing a few paces away, leaning casually against a concrete pillar.

Nathan.

His posture is as composed as ever, his tailored suit immaculate, the tie just slightly loosened to feign ease. His face is the same - a calculated blend of charm and menace, his smile sharp enough to draw blood.

The sight of him is like a splash of cold water, a rush of old wounds and forgotten fury suddenly surfacing from the compartment of her heart where she usually keeps everything regarding her past relationship with him safely under lock and key.

“What do you want?” Erica’s voice is low, clipped, a courtroom tone forged for dismantling opponents.

Nathan’s smile widens, too smooth, too familiar. “I wanted to congratulate you. Your presentation was impressive - no surprise there. You’ve always had a way with words.”

Erica’s grip tightens on the bottle, her knuckles whitening. “Cut the pleasantries, Nathan. What are you doing here?”

He steps forward, his movements slow, deliberate, as if testing the boundaries of her patience. “Relax.” he says softly. “I didn’t come to start trouble. I just... wanted to see you. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Not long enough.” she snaps, her tone as cold as the garage’s air.

He raises his hands in mock surrender, the gesture disarming on the surface but carrying an undercurrent of manipulation. “I know I wasn’t...perfect.” he says, his voice taking on a practiced gentleness, “But people change, Erica. I’ve changed.”

Erica scoffs, her laugh short and humorless. “You? Changed? You’ll have to excuse me if I don’t buy it.”

Nathan presses on, undeterred. “I mean it. I’ve been thinking about us - what we had. There was fire between us, wasn’t there? Something real. Something worth saving.”

His gaze holds hers, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I know I made mistakes, but maybe...maybe we could try again. Re-kindle the embers of that fire.”

For a moment, Erica doesn’t move. Then she takes a deliberate step closer, her heels echoing against the concrete. Her eyes lock on his, blue steel against his feigned sincerity.

“Nathan,” she begins, her voice steady but laced with an unmistakable edge, “I’ve spent years undoing the damage you did. Years rebuilding myself after you tore me down, piece by piece. I won’t let you back into my life. You wanted me to feel small, to doubt myself, to lose myself. But I didn’t. I built something better - without you.”
Her voice hardens, sharp enough to cut. “You don’t belong in my world anymore.”

The smile falters on Nathan’s face, just for a moment, a crack in his carefully crafted facade. He recovers quickly, his features softening into something dangerously close to regret. “I never meant to hurt you, Erica. I thought maybe...”

“No!” she cuts him off, her tone final. “You don’t get to ‘think’ about me anymore. Whatever game you’re playing, find someone else to play it with. Walk away, Nathan.”

He studies her, his eyes searching for a weakness, a flicker of the vulnerability he used to exploit. But there’s nothing there. Only resolve.

Finally, he nods, his expression unreadable. “Well,” he says, stepping back with a shrug, “congratulations again...on everything.”

He turns and walks off, his footsteps fading into the cavernous space of the garage. Erica watches him go, her chest tight but steady, standing rooted for another long moment.
The knuckles of her hands stand out white against the neck of the wine bottle as if she’s ready to use it like a club.
Only when she is certain that he is really gone does she exhale, the breath trembling as it passes her lips.

The parking garage feels even colder now, the silence heavier. She doesn’t move immediately, letting herself collect her composure, piece by piece, until the cracks are sealed.
Only then does she unlock her car, place the bottle gently on the passenger seat, and sit behind the wheel, her hands steady but her mind racing.

Why…

[LunaDog]

As usual, you got this off to a very promising start. Looking forward to more.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, we have been teased about Erica's unhappy past with her ex, now we're going to see what he's like.

[Caesar73]

Will she outmaneuver her enemies, or will this case push her past her limits?
Find out in this gripping Erica Sinclair legal thriller where justice and personal demons collide.

My compliments! You write those Teasers so incredible well. They capture the Essence of the Story perfectly - and make the Reader curious what to come! Seeing Nathan again will be without any doubt interesting. Will he get back in Erica´s good Graces? But I do have the Feeling, that Nathan might be the lesser of two Evils here. Time will tell!

[LunaDog]

Although you've never named Nathan before, or not that i remember, you have referred the effect of his actions upon Erica before in her stories. How will she respond to him trying to reconnect with her again? On the face of it here, he does seem to be bashing his head against the proverbial brick wall, however it is early days in this story.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, he hasn't been mentioned by name in previous stories, only as that "past relationship" which hurt Erica a lot.
If she's managed to brush him off now...we will see.

Let's get on with the story, shall we?

[Jenny_S]

The drive home is cloaked in a fragile silence, broken only by the low purr of the Volvo’s engine and the occasional rumble of passing cars.
Erica’s nerves hum beneath her skin like an electric current. Her fingers grip the wheel more tightly than usual, her eyes darting to the rearview mirror with an almost compulsive rhythm.
The memory of Nathan’s voice, smooth and insidious, still lingers like an echo in her mind. She half-expects to see his shadow trailing her, but the street behind her remains Nathan-empty.

When she pulls into her apartment’s underground parking garage, the heavy steel door groans shut behind her, sealing her off from the outside world. Relief settles in slowly, tentative but welcome. The familiar scent of oil and concrete feels almost comforting.

With the wine bottle cradled under one arm and her leather handbag slung over her shoulder, Erica crosses the garage to the elevator. Her heels click against the concrete, the sound like coming from a metronome that steadies her thoughts. The elevator ride to her floor is smooth, the mirrored walls reflecting the composed image she presents to the world: sleek, confident, unshaken. Only the faint tension in her jaw betrays the whirlwind inside.



The moment she steps into her apartment, the tension in her chest begins to ease. The air is rich with the comforting blend of polished wood, leather, and a whisper of lavender - her personal sanctuary. She locks the door firmly behind her, the solid click a welcome assurance of safety.
Then she hears it: the soft patter of paws against the hardwood floor, a rhythm that tugs at the corners of her mouth. In a flash, Spot and Tiger appear, their tiny bodies bounding toward her with uncontainable energy. The sight is enough to melt her rigid posture.
Erica kneels, setting the wine bottle and her handbag aside. The kittens circle her like dervishes, their soft fur brushing against her hands as they nuzzle and purr. “Missed me, huh?” she murmurs, her voice softer now, a faint smile curling her lips.

They trail her into the living room, their excitement palpable, weaving tight figure eights around her ankles. It’s a small miracle she doesn’t trip as she gathers their food and water bowls. The routine is grounding, the clink of dishes and the cool rush of tap water pulling her focus away from the memory of Nathan’s unwelcome presence.

As she rinses and dries the bowls, her mind drifts back to the garage confrontation. A pang of discomfort rises, but it’s quickly replaced by a surge of quiet pride.

She told him to leave. She didn’t falter. Nathan, with all his charm and manipulations, didn’t win this time. The thought steadies her.

The kittens tumble over each other as she places the dishes on the floor, their eager meows a charming cacophony. Erica watches them for a moment, their innocence a balm she hadn’t realized she needed so much.




With a deep breath, she shrugs off her coat and jacket, draping them neatly over the back of the Hillhouse designer chair in her bedroom. The paint on the piece of furniture, smooth and elegant, is as much a reflection of her as the Rolex dive watch on her wrist - a gift from her father on the day she graduated from Harvard Law, a reminder of how far she’s come and most of all, a symbol of her personal integrity. Her father had a few simple words engraved into the back of its case: “Stand for something or fall for anything”. It described what he wanted his daughter to embody, the woman he wanted her to be.

On that day she had promised him – and herself - that she would, in her quest for justice, always be steadfast and true. These words are more than a slogan or a motto, they are her creed, the bedrock of her personal integrity, giving her guidance and direction.

Peeling off her pencil skirt, she folds it with care, placing it in its spot. The blouse and underwear go into the laundry bin, their removal an unspoken shedding of the day’s burdens. Standing naked before the bathroom mirror, Erica lets herself pause. She studies her reflection: sharp blue eyes, the faint lines of weariness at the edges, the lingering strength in her posture.
She brushes her teeth and cleanses her face with steady hands, washing away the makeup, the courtroom polish, and the faint residue of the night’s tension.
Her emerald green silk kimono slides over her shoulders like water, a soothing contrast to the tailored armor she wore earlier.

Back in the bedroom, Spot and Tiger are already curled at the foot of the bed, their tiny bodies rising and falling in unison. Erica smiles as she slips under the covers, careful not to disturb them. Not long ago, the idea of sharing this space with anyone - even these two small creatures - felt foreign. But they’ve nestled into her life as easily as they now nestle on her bed.
Switching off the bedside lamp, she lets the darkness enfold her. Turning to her side, Erica closes her eyes, the soft snores of the kittens a lullaby against the remnants of the day.





The new day begins, as always, at 5:00 AM sharp. Erica’s phone buzzes softly on the nightstand, its muted vibration stirring the stillness of her bedroom. Outside, the city that supposedly never sleeps is only just beginning to wake, its first murmurs drifting faintly through the pre-dawn darkness.

Erica stretches one arm out from under the covers, her fingers brushing the smooth glass screen to silence the alarm. For a moment, she lies still, listening to the gentle rhythm of her kittens’ purring at the foot of the bed. Spot and Tiger, tiny bundles of warmth, are curled against each other in perfect, unbothered contentment.

With practiced ease, she swings her legs over the edge of the mattress, the cool hardwood beneath her feet prompting a faint shiver. Barefoot and still wrapped in the remnants of sleep, she pads into the living room.
Spot and Tiger’s bowls sit empty on their mat, waiting. Erica picks them up, the faint clink of ceramic breaking the quiet, and carries them to the kitchen. She rinses each bowl meticulously before refilling them with fresh water and their favorite grain-free kibble, the ritual grounding her in the familiar rhythm of the morning.

Back in her bedroom, Erica removes her kimono, hanging it neatly on the hook by the closet to air out. Beneath it, her frame is lithe and toned - a testament to the discipline that governs her life. She slides into her black running outfit, the stretchy, breathable fabric hugging her body like a second skin. The snug fit is both practical and reassuring; it’s designed for performance, not vanity.
Running is non-negotiable, her personal reset button. It clears her mind, sharpens her focus, and reminds her of her own strength. After securing her phone and keys in the zippered side pocket of her top, she rolls her shoulders, loosening the tension from sleep, and heads for the door.

In the elevator, she stretches lightly, feeling the pull of her muscles waking beneath her skin. As always when the weather changes, she feels a pinch in her right shoulder, exactly where the bullet from Tony Maze’s gun hit her months ago.



The drizzle kisses her cheeks, cold and persistent. The pavement gleams under the weak glow of streetlights, and the scent of rain on concrete is sharp and earthy. Erica doesn’t mind the weather; rain or shine, her routine remains steadfast. It’s both a challenge and a sanctuary - a test of her resolve as much as her endurance.
Her pace is steady as she turns down West 72nd Street, the rhythmic slap of her running shoes on wet pavement keeping time with her breaths. The path leads her southward, into the lower end of Riverside Park, where the faint glow of dawn begins to seep into the sky, a hint of orange smudged against the steel-gray horizon.
The Hudson River lies still and expansive beside her, its surface dappled by raindrops. As she pushes herself up a gentle incline, the burn in her legs is familiar and welcome. By the time she loops back toward her apartment, her mind feels lighter, her purpose clearer, her body alive.


Back home, she notices that while she was gone, Spot and Tiger have relocated to their plush bed near the heating vent, and she finds them sprawled in absolute luxury, their fur ruffled by the warm air. Erica crouches to scratch behind their ears, eliciting a sleepy chirrup from Spot.

She shrugs off her wet running clothes, bundling them into the washing machine. The shower beckons, and Erica steps into its steaming embrace, the heat a balm against the chill of the morning air. Mint and mango-scented lather blooms between her hands, its bright, invigorating aroma washing away the rain and sweat. She watches the foam swirl down the drain, her skin left clean and smooth, renewed for the day ahead.

After drying off with a plush towel, she blow-dries her hair. Blonde waves tumble around her shoulders for a moment before she gathers them into her signature ponytail. The simplicity feels like armor - a part of her polished, deliberate persona.
Her makeup routine is minimal: a soft touch of rouge to counteract her pale complexion, a stroke of mascara to frame her sharp blue eyes, and a swipe of nude lipstick for understated elegance. The reflection in the mirror is exactly how Erica prefers to present herself - poised, professional, and unflappable.

In her walk-in closet, the choices are neatly curated. Today, she selects a burgundy silk blouse that catches the light with a subtle sheen. The tailored black pantsuit that follows is sleek and confident, paired with medium-high black heels that add just enough height without compromising comfort.

In the kitchen, the hum of the coffee machine fills the air as she pours fresh water into its reservoir. A pad of her preferred roast slides into place, and the rich aroma of brewing coffee quickly permeates the room. Two tablets of Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk finish her cup. She takes a sip, savoring the slight sweetness and nutty undertone, aware of the small concessions she must make - milk is a luxury her lactose-intolerant stomach refuses to accept, though yogurt and cheese remain inexplicably benign.

As the first rays of sunlight stream through the windows, Erica stands at her kitchen counter, coffee in hand. The city outside is waking in earnest now, the muffled honks and distant chatter filtering through the glass.
Her morning is complete, her routine a quiet act of defiance against the chaos of the world outside.



Erica takes one last glance at the kittens sprawled out in blissful slumber, their tiny paws twitching as if chasing some dream. A faint smile plays on her lips as she shoulders her bag, adjusts the collar of her tailored coat, and quietly clicks the door shut behind her. The soft thud echoes down the hallway, a prelude to the day ahead.

Descending to the underground garage in the elevator, she’s greeted by the familiar metallic hum of the confined space. Her Volvo sits waiting in its parking spot, its glossy black exterior catching faint reflections of the overhead lights. Sliding into the driver’s seat, Erica fastens her seatbelt with practiced ease and turns the ignition. The engine purrs to life, a soothing sound amidst the stillness.
As the car edges into the flow of Manhattan traffic, Erica tunes the radio to her favorite smooth jazz station. Saxophone notes cascade through the speakers, blending with the muffled city noise outside. Her fingers tap lightly on the steering wheel in sync with the rhythm, her mind already sorting through the tasks awaiting her.

The drive is brief but deliberate, her preferred route skirting the edges of Central Park. She weaves through the thickening morning traffic with precision, her movements calm and methodical.
By the time the sleek outline of her office building on Park Avenue looms into view, Erica feels centered, the solitude of the drive a necessary buffer before the demands of the day.
In the underground garage, her reserved spot beckons, untouched. Another small luxury she doesn’t take for granted. Exiting the car, she retrieves her bag and heads for the elevator, the polished floors amplifying the sound of her heels.





The mirrored elevator panels reflect her image back at her, sharp and composed. Erica smooths the lapels of her jacket and adjusts the hem of her tailored pants. The faint scent of her lavender perfume lingers in the enclosed space. When the elevator chimes, she steps out onto the 25th floor, her pace purposeful.

The mingled aromas of fresh coffee and citrus cleaning agent greet her in the office lobby.
Holly Beck glances up from her desk, her youthful energy apparent even this early.

“Good morning, Miss Sinclair!” Holly’s tone is bright, accompanied by a polite smile.

“Good morning, Holly.” Erica replies with a nod, her strides carrying her down the hallway.

Passing the conference rooms, she notes the tidiness of the space - everything in order, just as she expects.
Upon reaching her office area, she finds Claire sorting through the daily mail, her efficiency evident in the neat stacks on the corner of the desk.

“Good morning, Claire.” Erica says, her tone lighter than usual.

“Good morning, Erica.” Claire responds, a warm undertone in her voice. She’s still getting used to calling her boss by her first name - a small but significant shift in their professional dynamic.


The morning unfolds predictably, the quiet hum of productivity wrapping the office in a cocoon of routine. That is until the sharp knock on Erica’s door breaks the rhythm.

“Yes, please.” Erica calls, setting aside the list she’s reviewing.

Claire steps into view, her expression composed. “Miss Sinclair, a young lady is requesting an appointment with you. She doesn’t have one scheduled but she looks like its urgent.”

Erica glances at her watch. Nothing pressing looms on her agenda. “Show her in, please.”

Claire nods. “Of course, Miss Sinclair.”

[LunaDog]

Let's get on with the story, shall we?

I see that you've done precisely that. In your normal superb manner!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, thank you sooo much. Tonight we will see what kind of new case awaits.

[Caesar73]

I have to do some catching up on this one. So I will comment on the Entry Chapter only for now. The Contrast could not be more pronounced. Erica delivering her Speech, bathing in the warm glow of Compliments, Recognition of her Accomplishments. Then the Parking Garage. The Mood changes abruptly. Nathan´s Voice. He displays a smooth polished Facade - but Erica does not buy it, does not allow herself to be intimidated. And then his well polished Facade cracks. His parting remark is mysterious ... there are more sinister Forces at play here.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, Nathan is a man of many faces and one thing for sure: manipulative. Wait how the story unfolds further. You might be surprised.

[Jenny_S]

Moments later, Claire returns, guiding a young woman into the office. Erica observes her silently, taking in the conservatively styled outfit and the air of hesitation in her movements. Her gaze flickers over the room, lingering briefly on the desk and the towering windows behind it.
Erica stands, extending her hand. “Erica Sinclair.”

“Selina Neely.” the young woman replies, her handshake firm but fleeting. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“Please, have a seat.” Erica gestures to the two visitor chairs across from her. “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?”

“No, thank you.” Selina replies, her voice steady yet subdued.

Claire takes that as her cue to leave, the door closing softly behind her. Erica shifts her attention fully to her guest, flipping open her notepad.
“What can I do for you, Miss Neely?” she asks, her pen poised to write.

Selina hesitates for a fraction of a second, her eyes searching Erica’s. “I…I think I might need a lawyer. And I don’t know where else to go.”

The words hang in the air, charged with an undercurrent of unease. Erica straightens slightly, her instincts sharpening. There’s something in Selina’s tone - equal parts determination and fear - that hints this is no ordinary consultation.




Erica sets her pencil down deliberately, meeting the young woman’s eyes with a calm but attentive gaze. There’s an air of hesitancy about Selina, her hands fidgeting in her lap, but beneath that is something Erica has seen countless times - determination fueled by desperation.

“Well, let’s see how I can help you.” Erica says, her voice measured, inviting the young woman to continue.

Selina leans forward slightly, her breath hitching as she starts. “I’m…I’m a writer, you know.” Her words tumble out, edged with nervous energy. “Not professional or anything. Just recreational. A hobby.”
She pauses, pressing her lips together. “I’m a student at Manhattan Community College - History and Literature.”
Erica tilts her head, her fingers forming a loose steeple under her chin. She doesn’t interrupt, waiting for the story to unravel, curious what connection lies between Selina’s academic life and this hobby of hers.

“Last week, I was zapping through C4 – do you know C4, Miss Sinclair?”

Erica nods slowly. “I’m not a subscriber, but I’m familiar with it.”

Selina’s voice quickens, her words rushing now as if fearing Erica might dismiss her. “They made a movie out of my story, Miss Sinclair. My story! There’s this forum online - Writers Corner - where I publish my work. About two years ago, I uploaded a story, and they took it. Scene for scene, right down to the dialogue, and turned it into a movie!”

Erica exhales silently, her sharp mind already dissecting the claim. She leans back in her chair, her expression carefully neutral. “I see.”

In her line of work, she knows this could go one of two ways. Either Selina has uncovered an egregious case of intellectual theft, or she’s mistakenly conflating superficial similarities with outright plagiarism. Erica has seen both scenarios play out before.

“Intellectual property claims are challenging - tedious, costly, and far from guaranteed.” Erica begins carefully. Her tone is kind but firm. “Depending on a lot of factors, the case might or might not resolve in your favor.”

Selina’s eyes widen, a flicker of panic rising to the surface. “But they copied my story!” she insists, her voice trembling with barely restrained frustration. “Scene for scene! I’m not imagining this!”

She pulls a small USB stick from her pocket and places it on Erica’s desk with trembling fingers.

“This has my entire story on it. Also the link to my post on Writers Corner. You can watch the movie on C4 - it’s all there, Miss Sinclair. Please.”

Erica glances at the USB stick but doesn’t reach for it. Although her fingers twitch with the impulse to go for it, they don’t. She’s learned to measure trust in increments, especially with cases like this. To take it now would set an expectation she isn’t ready to confirm yet. Instead, she studies Selina’s face - her pale complexion, the beads of sweat building up on her forehead, the way she tugs at the cuffs of her blouse, and, most of all, the raw hope shining in her eyes.

“Miss Neely,” Erica says, her voice softening. “I sometimes take cases on a pro bono basis. This might be one of them, but I can’t promise anything. I will read your story and watch the movie. After that, I can give you my honest, professional opinion on whether you have a viable case against C4.” She pauses for emphasis. “That’s the best I can do for now.”

Selina’s breath catches, her hands gripping the edge of her chair. “You’d really do that? And the money…”

“In this case, pro bono means I’ll get to enjoy a movie and page through your manuscript - for free.” Erica says, offering a small smile.

Relief floods Selina’s face. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. Really, thank you. The movie is called Permanent Scars…and my story is called Permanent Wounds.”

The similarity in titles makes Erica’s brow twitch, though her expression remains composed. She opens her desk drawer and slides a business card toward Selina. “Leave your manuscript with me and your contact information with my assistant. I’ll get back to you in a few days.”

Selina rises, but pauses at the door, clutching the card tightly like a lifeline. Her lips part as if she wants to say more but doesn’t. Instead, she dips her head. “Thank you.” she whispers before slipping out.

Erica nods as Selina leaves, her gaze following the young woman out. When the door clicks shut, Erica leans back in her chair and whispers to herself, “Permanent Scars. Don’t we all have some…”

And she can’t help but admit - that includes her too.

[LunaDog]

A can of worms? The young lady, Selina, MAY have a case, but proving it?

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, that's why Erica is a little hesitant to make promises. After all, a media company like C4 Entertainment should know what they are doing, right?

[Jenny_S]

Erica now reaches for the USB stick, her fingers hesitating briefly before plugging it into her laptop. Not into her work computer - she’s far too cautious for that - but the laptop Andrea Santos, her hacker-genius friend, had fortified with custom software. “Guaranteed to catch and kill 99% of all malware.” Andrea had confidently boasted. Erica had laughed at the time, but her lingering unease about the elusive 1% creeps in now as the antivirus scan hums quietly in the background.

The scan comes back clean. Still, Erica’s hand hovers over the touchpad for a beat longer than necessary before she finally clicks on the yellow icon.

The file isn’t just a manuscript - it’s accompanied by a link to the original forum post just as Selina had said. Erica follows the link, landing on a basic, unassuming forum-style page of Writer’s Corner. Her eyes quickly scan the thread under the screenname Selina0720. A birth date? July 20? Erica wonders absently, but her attention quickly shifts to the story itself.
The words draw her in almost instantly.


“It is one of those incredibly hot summer nights when it doesn’t even cool down much after the sun has set.
Those are the nights I don’t sleep really well.
After a lot of tossing and turning I manage to wrap myself into a sweet dream, but sometime during the night a noise of some sort yanks me out of my light sleep.

I look at my watch: it’s half past one. Believing that I might have forgotten to close the patio door to the deck, maybe the cat of my next neighbor half a mile down the road might have paid me a nightly visit.

Alright, I think and sit up in my bed.
I reach for my maroon satin nightrobe but decide against it. I’m alone in the house and might as well walk around here naked. Right?

Knowing every inch of my house, I navigate down the stairs without having to turn the lights on and sure enough I find the door leading to my deck wide open.
A breeze is bellowing the light curtain, but I can’t see neighbor’s kitty anywhere.

I close the door and walk back up the stairs to my bedroom. My steps on the soft carpet are silent and once more I realize how nice it feels to be barefoot.

Another look at my watch, it’s not even a quarter to two now. I turn onto my right side, snuggle up to my large pillow and, surprisingly enough, fall asleep quickly.

Sometime later my sleep is terminated apruptly.
A hard hand grabs me and yanks me onto my stomach.
I shriek in terror, realizing that I’m being manhandled.
I’m supposed to be alone in the house, but I’m not. Someone is over me, someone I wouldn’t want here.

My face is being pressed into the pillow. My legs kicking out, my arms windmilling helplessly, the man straddles me and grunts into my ear: “Shut the fuck up or I will fucking snuff you…”
He grabs my arms and forces them back.
Next I feel the cold and hard steel of a pair of handcuffs as they ratchet close tightly around my wrists holding my arms behind my back.
I wince in pain as the cuffs bite into my skin.

The man pulls a fabric bag over my head, then slides off me and turns me onto my back.
I’m in panic mode: my whole body is trembling with fear and I’m babbling pleas for mercy, to let me go, to leave me alone.

His hand is at my throat, choking me.
My babbling stops as I try to breathe. I want to get some air into my lungs, but I can’t.
I’m bucking under him, my legs are thrashing and I make strange croaking sounds.


Erica’s breath catches. Her grip on the edge of her desk tightens. “What the hell am I reading?” she says to herself, but forces herself to keep going, drawn forward by equal parts morbid curiosity and a creeping sense of dread.


His voice is only distant over my own. He rips the fabric bag away from my head and now, in the half-darkness of my bedroom, I stare at him, wild-eyed.
He has a ski mask on so I won’t be able to identify him and he somewhat releases his grip on my throat so I can draw in some air.
Regardless, he holds me down and leans over me heavily.

“Where is the money, bitch!” he demands. “Where’s the jewelry!”

Money, jewelry…I’m not a rich girl and I surely don’t have many valuables in the house.
There’s some cash in my handbag, my reserve in the closet and the few pieces of jewelry I own are in the little box on the dresser. That’s it.

He whips out a knife and holds it before my eyes.

“I’ll stick this in your pretty green eye if you don’t talk, slut…” he growls.

I freeze. My whole body is stiff as a board as I am scared shitless. He draws the tip of the knife from my left eyebrow over the ridge of my nose down to my trembling upper lip. Lightly only, but hard enough to get his point across.
O my God…

I swallow hard. “There’s some money in my purse.” I whisper and close my eyes. “And some in the closet behind my underwear…”

He nods slowly. “Move and I will gut you like a fish.” he rasps.

From his back pocket he grabs a rag which he stuffs deep into my mouth to gag me, then he slaps another pair of handcuffs around my ankles.

Leaving me trussed up on my bed, he stalks over to my closet and opens the doors while I shift my weight a little to take the pressure off my wrists. Lord, this hurts.”

He starts rummaging through my clothes, throwing everything to the floor till he finds the envelope with the money.
Having probably expected to find more, he swivels around and I can see the anger in his eyes. Within a second he is upon me.

“2000 lousy Dollar!” he shouts. “Where’s the rest, you little shit!”

Would he believe me that I don’t keep more cash in the house? There’s maybe 120 Dollar and change in my purse, but that would make him only angrier.

With one quick motion he bitchslaps me across the face. I groan painfully into the rag in my mouth.

The sting of his slap lingers on my cheek as my vision blurs with tears. I’m shaking, and every breath is a desperate, ragged gasp through the gag. The man’s anger is palpable. His breathing is heavy and erratic, and the knife is still in his hand, glinting menacingly in the dim light.

He yanks the drawer out of my nightstand, spilling its contents onto the floor. He kicks aside the pile of books, pens, and old receipts with a growl of frustration. The sound of metal clinking against wood and the rustling of paper are sharp in the otherwise silent room.

“Where’s the fucking jewelry?” he demands again, his voice rising. He pulls open my dresser drawers, scattering clothes everywhere. He ransacks my closet, tossing aside the neatly hung garments.”


Erica pauses, her hand flying to her mouth. A chill runs down her spine despite the warmth of her office.
Her eyes dart to the timestamp on the forum post. Two years ago. If Selina’s account is true, she wrote this long before C4’s adaptation was first uploaded to their +18 channel. Erica presses her lips together. How did they make a movie out of this violent scene? The question churns in her mind, but she presses on, unable to stop reading.


“I try to focus on anything but the terror. I need to think clearly, to find a way out of this. My eyes dart around the room, seeking anything that could be of use. My mind races, but the pain in my wrists and my face make it hard to concentrate.

The man’s frustration grows. He starts tearing through my personal items - my cosmetics, my books, even my keepsakes. Everything is a mess, and his anger seems to grow with every item he discards. He’s on the edge, and I can see the wildness in his eyes through the eyeholes of his ski mask.

Finally, he lets out a roar of frustration. “This is it? This is all you’ve got?” He kicks over my jewelry box, scattering its contents across the floor. I hear the clink of rings and bracelets, but he doesn’t seem to care about them. He’s clearly more interested in cash.
He turns back to me, his rage more pronounced.
“Where the hell is the rest of it?”
I try to keep my composure.
“I don’t have any more money.” I manage to mumble through the gag, though I’m not sure if he can understand me. “Just what I told you…”


Erica leans back in her chair, her chest tightening as her eyes linger on the last line of the page. The story clings to her mind like damp fabric - heavy, suffocating, and impossible to ignore. The vivid, visceral descriptions, the raw intensity of every scene…they seem to leap off the screen, pulling her into a world of chaos, fear, and unrelenting vulnerability.

She swallows hard. No wonder it became a movie, she thinks grimly, her fingers curling into her palm. The plot is a relentless spiral of danger and despair, mixed with moments of defiance that make the characters impossible not to root for.
Erica rubs her temple, Selina’s quiet demeanor flashing through her mind - her shy smile, her conservative blouse buttoned up to her neck. It seems impossible to reconcile the timid student with the dark, fevered imagination that birthed this story.

Could this be a glimpse into Selina’s own fantasies?
The thought flickers like a match in the dark, and Erica exhales sharply, as though trying to extinguish it. The possibility unsettles her, not because of what it implies about Selina, but because of the way it stirs something within her, too.

She pushes the laptop away as if needing distance, her hands finding the cool edge of the desk.

“Permanent Scars.” Erica murmurs aloud, the title a bitter taste on her tongue. She rolls it over in her mind, comparing it to the title Selina gave her story: “Permanent Wounds.” There’s something haunting about the parallel, like the echo of a scream.

Her curiosity itches at her, drawing her back to the screen. She scrolls further, letting the story unfold. Every new paragraph seems to tighten the invisible grip around her chest. It’s a wild, torrid narrative, chronicling the journey of two young women - best friends - who are abducted and forced into white slavery. The story spares no detail, plunging Erica into the harrowing reality of their captivity aboard a ship bound for an unknown destination. The prose is unnervingly vivid, with passages that make her stomach clench and her breath catch.

There’s violence, humiliation, and eroticism - scenes that feel too real, too raw. Erica shifts uncomfortably in her chair, heat rising to her cheeks. Selina’s words are unflinching, painting every touch, every cruel word, every desperate cry with a clarity that feels almost voyeuristic. How does someone like Selina write something like this?
“Maybe it is her way of release, a valve to let off steam…” Erica wonders.

Despite herself, Erica finds her pulse quickening. Selina’s descriptive style draws her in, her words wrapping around Erica’s mind like a net, trapping her in the tension and turmoil of the characters’ plight. She feels their fear, their pain, their faint glimmers of hope. The scenes play out behind her eyes as if she’s watching a film reel in her own mind. It’s exhilarating, horrifying, and - Erica can’t deny it - a little arousing.

Her thoughts drift to the parallels between herself and the story’s heroines. Erica understands the allure of vulnerability, of surrendering control - but always on her terms, in the safety of her own boundaries. The women in Selina’s tale have no such luxury. Their powerlessness is absolute, forced upon them with brutal indifference. The thought makes Erica’s skin prickle, an uncomfortable mix of recognition and revulsion swirling in her chest.

Erica finally forces herself to look away, blinking as though surfacing from a dream. The story has left her shaken in ways she didn’t expect. And yet, despite the storm of emotions it stirs, one thought remains crystal clear: If Selina’s work was stolen, she deserves justice.

Her hand hovers over the USB stick, her mind spinning with questions. Did C4 adapt this word for word? Did they even bother to mask the theft? Or is Selina mistaken, her imagination conflating coincidences with conspiracy?

Erica lets out a slow breath, her gaze fixed on the laptop screen.
“There’s only one way to know.” she murmurs to herself. Her fingers twitch with hesitation, but then she steels her resolve. The movie will hold the answers she needs. For now, she has Selina’s manuscript - and the truth, whatever it may be, is waiting to be uncovered.

[LunaDog]

Good Lord. Selina would be most welcome here!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, who knows, Selina might be lurking here, LOL.

[Jenny_S]

The knock at the door is soft, polite, but it startles Erica all the same. She blinks, the vivid imagery of Selina’s story still swirling in her mind like a heady mist. Had she been daydreaming? No, not quite. The narrative had gripped her so fiercely that time itself seemed to vanish.

“Yes!” she calls, her voice sharper than intended. Clearing her throat, she smooths her blouse, trying to shake off the lingering heat of the story’s more intense passages.

The door opens, and Claire steps in, her coat folded over one arm. Her expression is calm, professional as ever, but there’s a faint glimmer of amusement in her eyes.
“Holly and I are off to a girls’ night.” Claire says, her tone lighter than usual. “See you tomorrow.”

Erica blinks again, caught off guard. “Girls’ night?”

Claire nods. “We’ve been meaning to hang out after work for a while. It seemed like a good night for it.”

“Enjoy your evening, Claire.” Erica responds with a small smile. Her gaze flicks to the Rolex on her wrist, not to check if it’s quitting time, but to calculate just how long she’s been immersed in Selina’s wild, visceral tale.
It feels like hours. She glances down at the USB stick on her desk, the tiny device suddenly carrying far more weight than its size would suggest.

As Claire turns to leave, Erica leans back in her chair, watching her assistant slip into her coat. Holly and Claire, socializing? It’s the first time Claire has mentioned anything of the sort, and Erica thinks it’s a good idea. Claire’s experience and steady demeanor could be a grounding influence for Holly’s youthful energy and ambition.



Claire walks down the hallway, her heels clicking against the polished floor, where Holly is already waiting by the elevator. Holly looks up from her phone, her face brightening as Claire approaches.
When Claire had casually invited her to grab a drink the other day, Holly had been surprised, even flattered. Being asked to socialize by the assistant of Sinclair & Associates’ formidable managing partner felt like a small badge of honor - an unspoken acknowledgment of her place in the team.

“Ready to roll?” Claire asks with a friendly smile.
“Absolutely!” Holly hooks her arm through Claire’s as they step into the elevator together, a gesture Claire allows with a faint laugh.





The low hum of conversation greets them as they enter Ernie’s, a cozy bar just a block away from the office. The soft glow of old-fashioned Edison bulbs and the smell of citrusy cocktails create a warm, inviting atmosphere. They slide into a booth near the far corner, each ordering a drink. Claire opts for a non-alcoholic drink, while Holly excitedly experiments with a fruity cocktail she’s never tried before.

“It’s nice to unwind like this.” Holly admits, brushing a strand of blond hair behind her ear. “I’m usually so drained after work, I just head straight home.”

Claire chuckles. “It’s important to make time for yourself.”

The younger woman nods, sipping her drink. “I’ve been meaning to ask, Claire - what about Miss Sinclair? She’s… kind, but I don’t know much about her. She never talks about herself.”

Claire tilts her glass, watching the red liquid swirl. “That’s how she likes it, keeping work and personal life strictly separate. It’s just who she is.”

Holly looks thoughtful but doesn’t press further. Claire is grateful for that.





Back at the office, Erica finishes tidying her desk, the USB stick now nestled securely in her coat pocket. Locking the doors behind her, she steps into the elevator, feeling an unfamiliar sense of anticipation.
It’s been too long since she simply sat on her black leather couch and watched a movie. Tonight, though, it’s not about unwinding - it’s about uncovering the truth.

The underground parking garage is cool and dim, her black Volvo a sleek silhouette among the rows of cars. Sliding into the driver’s seat, she starts the engine and pulls into the evening traffic.
As she drives, she considers stopping at Mr. Leslie’s supermarket for some vegan ice cream - double chocolate with all the toppings, her guilty pleasure. But the idea feels… wrong.
Evaluating a potential case of intellectual theft with a bowl of indulgence in hand? It feels unprofessional, even if the only witnesses would be her kittens. She smirks at the thought and keeps driving.





At Ernie’s, the warm hum of conversation and clinking glasses fills the air. Claire and Holly sit at their cozy corner table, their laughter light as they sip their cocktails. Holly swirls the pink liquid in her glass, her cheeks flushed - not from the drink, but from the easy camaraderie she feels with Claire.

As they chat, neither woman notices the man at the neighboring table. He’s been nursing a Martini, his dark eyes scanning them with quiet intent. Mid-thirties, dressed in a tailored blazer and crisp shirt, he exudes confidence and charm.
Finally, he stands, his movements smooth and calculated, and approaches their table with a disarming smile, pulling up a chair without waiting for an invitation.

“Excuse me, ladies.” he says, his voice a perfect blend of warmth and curiosity. “I couldn’t help overhearing - you work at Sinclair & Associates? How’s the boss lady doing these days?”

Claire’s smile fades slightly as she looks up at him. “And you are…?” Her tone is polite but edged with caution.

Nathan Asner chuckles, raising his glass. “Apologies, where are my manners? I’m Nathan. Erica and I go way back. She and I - well, let’s just say we have a history.”

Holly glances at Claire, unsure how to react, but Nathan’s presence already has her intrigued. There’s something magnetic about him - his easy confidence, the way his gaze lingers just long enough to suggest familiarity without overstepping.

“History?” Claire asks, her brow furrowing. She leans back slightly, her posture signaling a guardedness Nathan doesn’t miss.

“Ah, yes.” Nathan sighs, as if the memory weighs on him. “Erica and I were…close, once upon a time. The love of my life if I dare say.”
He chuckles, though it’s tinged with a touch of regret. “But life has a way of pulling people in different directions, doesn’t it?”

Claire’s expression remains neutral, though her eyes are sharp. “I see. And what brings you here, then?”

“Pure coincidence.” Nathan says smoothly, lifting his Martini for a sip. “I didn’t expect to stumble upon her colleagues. It’s… serendipitous.” He turns to Holly, his tone softening. “And what about you? How long have you worked for Erica?”

Holly hesitates, caught off guard by his attention. “Oh, just a few months.” she says, glancing nervously at Claire.

“Ah, a fresh perspective.” Nathan says, his smile widening. “Tell me - how is she as a boss? Still as driven and brilliant as I remember?”

“She’s very professional.” Claire interjects firmly, cutting off Holly before she can respond. “Focused, efficient, and dedicated to her work.”

Nathan nods slowly, his expression thoughtful. “That sounds like her. Always putting her ambitions first. It’s one of the things I admired most about her - her drive, her passion. I just wish…” He trails off, his gaze distant for a moment, then he shakes his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Listen to me, rambling like a fool. Forgive me, ladies.”

Holly leans forward slightly, her curiosity piqued. “What do you wish?”

Nathan exhales, his smile turning wistful. “I wish I hadn’t let her go. I gave up so much for her so she could chase her dreams, and now…” He shrugs, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Now I’d give anything just to talk to her. To tell her I understand. But I’m afraid she wouldn’t even listen.”

Claire’s jaw tightens. “If Miss Sinclair wanted to talk to you, I’m sure she’d have reached out.”

“True.” Nathan says, meeting Claire’s gaze with a hint of challenge. “But sometimes pride gets in the way, doesn’t it? On both sides.”

Holly’s expression softens, and Nathan notices, leaning subtly toward her. “You seem like someone who understands second chances.” he says gently. “Do you think she’d hear me out?”

“I…” Holly glances at Claire, unsure.
Claire doesn’t hesitate, realizing that it’s time to end this conversation. “Erica…Miss Sinclair values her privacy. I think it’s best if you respect that.”

Nathan chuckles, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of intruding.”

“Time to go, Holly.” Claire says briskly, her tone leaving no room for argument. As she reaches for her coat, Nathan steps closer to Holly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “If you ever think she might want to hear from me…” He slips a card into her hand, his fingers brushing hers lightly. “Please, let her know.”
Holly looks down at the card, her cheeks flushing. Before she can respond, Claire appears at her side.

“Are you ready?” she asks in a way that is more order than question, laying her hand on Holly’s arm.

“Of course.” Holly stammers, tucking the card into her bag as she follows Claire out of the bar.

“Goodbye, ladies. It was nice meeting you.” Nathan calls after them watching the women leave, his smile lingering. He picks up his Martini and takes a slow sip, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. The seed is planted, he thinks to himself. Now, let’s see how it grows.

His smile, though faint, is sharp - like the edge of a blade. The seed is planted, he muses again, savoring the thought like the final sip of his Martini.

He signals to the server for another drink, his mind already calculating the next move. Patience is key. Rushing these things never ends well. Holly, with her open nature, inexperience and youthful innocence, had shown promise - a crack in the armor around Erica Sinclair’s tightly controlled world. Claire, on the other hand, would be harder to manipulate, her loyalty to her boss carved into every word and action. But that didn’t matter. It only takes one weak link to break a chain of steel.

Nathan opens the notes app on his phone and starts crafting a plan. Every word of the conversation with Holly and Claire is fresh in his mind - Claire’s cool wariness, Holly’s fleeting curiosity. He’ll need to amplify the narrative he began weaving tonight. He’ll play the wounded, misunderstood man, the ex who sacrificed everything only to be abandoned. Holly’s sympathy was already piqued. A carefully timed call or a well-worded text could push her further into his corner.

The thought of Erica, so controlled and poised, learning about his reentry into her life sends a thrill through him. He pictures her reaction - her composed mask slipping, her confidence wavering. Only yesterday in the underground car park she brushed him off, chased him away like a dog, believing she was untouchable. He will have her back soon enough, though, and Erica will know her place.

Nathan glances around the bar, his gaze sweeping over the room as though seeking an audience for the performance yet to come. This wasn’t about rekindling old flames or seeking reconciliation. This was about control - about pulling the strings of her meticulously ordered life and watching the chaos unfold.

Finishing his drink, Nathan rises, adjusting his blazer with deliberate ease. His movements are unhurried, every step calculated. He drops a generous tip on the bar and heads for the exit.

Outside, the city hums with life, its rhythm matching the steady pulse of his ambition.
Tomorrow morning he would call Holly. He’d guide her, shape her perspective, and turn her into the unwitting ally he needed.

He lights a cigarette, the ember glowing faintly in the evening. The seed is planted. Now it’s time to water it. With a final exhale, he flicks the cigarette away and disappears into the crowd, his mind alight with possibilities.

[Caesar73]

I see, I have some serious catching up to do @Jenny_S

[LunaDog]

You can quite see why Erica has come to despise this man here. To use the unsuspecting Holly like he's planning to do is utterly despicable. Has Nathan no shame? At least the older and wiser Claire can see through him. And i don't blame Holly here, she's just being used.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, o yes, but with the weekend upon us, you might find the time to catch up. Enjoy!

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, Nathan will do anything to get what he wants and he's great at charming the pantyhose off a girl untill he drops his mask. It took Erica a long time to sort of recover from the wounds he cut into her, but it looks like he wants to reclaim what he thinks is rightfully his...

[Caesar73]

Nathan is a Wolf - disguised as a Sheep. He is a Predator - and a Control Freak. Now doubt how Erica handled him in the Parking Garage bruised his sensible Ego. His Reaction shows his Weakness though:

The thought of Erica, so controlled and poised, learning about his reentry into her life sends a thrill through him. He pictures her reaction - her composed mask slipping, her confidence wavering. Only yesterday in the underground car park she brushed him off, chased him away like a dog, believing she was untouchable. He will have her back soon enough, though, and Erica will know her place.

The Thought that Erica might beat him at his Game does not occur to him. He thinks he is dealing with the Erica of old. His inflated Ego might be his downfall.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, right on point. Let's see how the story unfolds further.