Erica Sinclair - A Matter of Honor (M/F)

[Jenny_S]

Bound by her honor to aid ADA Sophie van Rey in taking down a dangerous criminal with ties to a ruthless Mexican cartel, Erica is drawn into a high-stakes game where trust is a luxury and betrayal lurks around every corner. To succeed, she must infiltrate an organization where one misstep could cost her everything - her career, her integrity, even her life.
In a world where corruption runs deep and survival is a gamble, Erica must ask herself - how far is she willing to go?


You can find the full story here on my Wattpad page: https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

[Jenny_S]

“You owe me one.”
The words are a whisper, almost swallowed by the clinking of cutlery and murmured conversations in the tucked-away Brooklyn café. Yet, they hit Erica Sinclair like a hammer.
Her hands tighten around the ceramic coffee cup, knuckles blanching against her skin. She keeps her expression calm, but Sophie van Rey’s piercing gaze, sharp as a scalpel, threatens to cut right through her composure.

Erica has never been able to escape Sophie’s commanding presence. The Assistant District Attorney is tall, poised, and unyielding, like marble carved into regal form. But today, Sophie is different - more guarded, almost furtive. Instead of the DA’s imposing building of 1 Hogan Place or the electric buzz of the courtroom, they sit at a modest wooden table tucked into the farthest corner of this warm, dimly lit café. The faint scent of coffee and baked goods lingers in the air, masking the weight of the conversation about to unfold.

Erica tilts her head, her voice low. “Let’s hear it.”

Sophie’s lips press into a thin line as she leans down to her plain black leather briefcase. From within, she produces a set of papers, neatly stapled but with enough weight to suggest more than just casual reading. Sophie slides them across the table, the faint rasp of paper against wood loud in the relative quiet.
Hesitating for a moment, Erica then reaches for the documents. Her eyes sweep over the contents.
Photographs of a man spill across the pages. In every image, he is polished, self-assured, and exuding wealth. A charity gala. A golf course. A sleek corporate boardroom. Always impeccably dressed in tailored suits that scream money and power.

“Darren Cross.” Erica’s voice is neutral, her expression unreadable as she lifts her gaze back to Sophie.

She hasn’t met him, not personally, but she knows the name. Everyone in New York does. Darren Cross is a fixture of Manhattan’s elite, one of those men whose presence turns heads and opens doors. A financier with ties to the city’s biggest movers and shakers.

Sophie nods, her movements deliberate, but there’s an edge in her eyes that Erica doesn’t miss. It’s not the satisfaction of handing over evidence - it’s desperation.

“You need to help me bring him down.” Sophie says, her voice quiet but forceful. “I have no one else I can turn to.”

Erica’s stomach tightens.

She shifts her gaze back to the photographs, then flips through the printouts. The pages outline enough to hint at something bigger - shady financial deals, connections to unsavory individuals, but nothing concrete. At least, not yet.

“You’re asking me to get involved with this guy?” Erica’s tone is cautious, her sharp mind already racing to calculate the risks.

“I’m asking you to do more than that.” Sophie replies, folding her hands on the table. “I need you to infiltrate his world. Get close enough to uncover what he’s really doing. I suspect he’s running a laundering operation tied to some very dark things - things that are destroying lives. But every time we get close, the evidence disappears, witnesses vanish, and my own office…”
Sophie pauses, the words bitter on her tongue. “I think there’s a leak. I can’t trust anyone else.”

Erica leans back slightly, her fingers still curled around the cup.
A favor.
That’s what this is about.
She owes Sophie one, and now the ADA is cashing in on the debt.

“I’m not an investigator, Sophie. I’m a lawyer.” Erica’s words are firm, but not dismissive.

“And that’s exactly why you’re perfect for this,” Sophie counters. “Darren Cross has been courting attorneys - reputable ones. Offering them a seat at his table, giving them a piece of his empire. He’ll want you. You’re exactly the kind of person he’s looking for.”

Erica exhales slowly, her gaze drifting to the window. Outside, the city moves on as if this conversation doesn’t carry the weight of her reputation, her career, maybe even her life.

“You owe me, Erica.” Sophie says again, softer this time. “And you’re the only person I can trust to do this.”

Erica’s jaw tightens. She does owe Sophie - a favor she’d hoped would never come due.
Her eyes return to the photos, studying Darren Cross. A predator in a suit. She doesn’t say yes, not yet, but the flicker of determination in her expression is unmistakable.

“Tell me everything.”


~~~

[Jenny_S]

Sophie unfolds the story with precision, her voice low and steady, but the weight of her words makes Erica’s stomach churn.
The name Rafael Espinoza cuts through her like a shard of ice, each syllable sharp and heavy. She’s heard it before, whispered in the shadows of prior cases, always laced with fear and accompanied by descriptions like violent and untouchable.

Sophie leans closer, her tone dropping further. “We’re not just dealing with Cross, Erica. His wealth and influence are tied to something much bigger - much deadlier.”

Erica places the papers on the table, her fingers drumming on the edge as she studies Sophie’s grim expression.

“Cross’s financial empire has been laundering money for the Alcántara Cartel for years.” Sophie continues. “The Feds want to take their operation down, but the US Attorney needs me to build a rock-solid case against him first. And…” She hesitates for a fraction of a second before adding, “I need you to help connect the dots.”

Erica’s gaze narrows. The muscles in her jaw tighten.
“You mean put myself in the crosshairs of the cartel and its financier?”

Sophie exhales, her usual commanding presence dimming, if only for a moment. For the first time, she looks almost human, almost vulnerable.
“I’d like to avoid that situation, but I wouldn’t ask you if it weren’t important. If we can bring Cross down, we’re not just stopping a criminal financier. We’re cutting off a major artery for cartel money - money fueling drugs and human trafficking. It could save lives, Erica.”

But Erica hears what Sophie doesn’t say, the unspoken words echoing just beneath the surface: And it might cost hers.

She leans back in her chair, letting the weight of the situation press down on her.
“If Cross is as dangerous as you say, this isn’t just another case, Sophie. It’s a warzone.”

Sophie nods, her lips pressed into a thin, grim line. “I know. That’s why I need someone like you - someone smart who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly. Someone they wouldn’t suspect.”

Erica’s eyes flicker to the papers spread across the table. A photo of Cross catches her attention: impeccably dressed, flashing a polished smile at a charity gala, his charm as sharp and deliberate as the tailored cut of his suit. The image seems to mock her, daring her to step into his world.
She exhales slowly, finally breaking the silence. “I’ll think about it.” she says, her voice steady and measured.

But even as she says the words, Erica knows that walking away isn’t an option - not with Sophie holding her to the favor, and not with innocent lives tangled in Cross’s web.

A sudden heat blooms on her left wrist, right where her Rolex dive watch rests against her skin. The sensation is phantom-like, her mind pulling her back to the day she received it.
Her father’s study was bathed in warm afternoon light, the faint scent of leather-bound books and polished wood filling the air. Erica stood there, still clad in her graduation gown, her mortarboard tucked beneath her arm. The look on her father’s face had been one of unshakable pride, a pride that reached deeper than words could express.

“Knowing the law is one thing,” he’d told her, his voice steady and resolute. “But it takes a strong moral compass to use it.”

She’d watched as he walked over to his rolltop desk, a commanding piece of furniture that housed only his most valued possessions. From one of the drawers, he retrieved a small green box embossed with a gold crown emblem.
“This is for you,” he said, handing it to her with a rare softness in his tone.
Inside, the gleaming Rolex watch rested on a velvet cushion, its weight substantial and reassuring in her hand. But it wasn’t just the craftsmanship that made it special. Turning it over, she saw the engraving on the back of the case: Stand for something or fall for anything.

“These words,” her father said, his gaze locking with hers, “are more than just a motto. They’re an oath - a commitment to live by your principles, no matter the cost.”

In that moment, Erica had felt the enormity of the gift. It wasn’t just an expensive timepiece to adorn her wrist; it was a legacy, a compass for her soul. And she’d promised him, promised herself, that she would honor this creed, no matter how complex or twisted the world became.

“Stand for something or fall for anything.” The words echo in her mind now, a mantra interwoven with her father’s steady voice.
“You’re only as good as your word, Erica.” he’d told her once, another of his life lessons that had burrowed deep into her being and shaped her character.

As Sophie watches her, waiting for a definitive answer, Erica shifts her gaze back to the ADA. The weight of the decision presses down, but so does the memory of her father’s words, a steadying force in the chaos.

For a moment, she says nothing. Then, she looks Sophie in the eye, her expression unreadable but her resolve beginning to harden.
“I’ll let you know. Erica says again, but this time the words carry a subtle undertone - a hint that she’s already leaning toward stepping into the storm.


~~~


The sun has long since dipped below the skyline as Erica turns off the engine of her black Volvo SUV in the underground parking garage and rides the elevator up to her apartment.
Her thoughts are still swirling with the conversation she left behind and by the time she unlocks her door, the weight of Sophie’s words feels almost suffocating. But before she can dwell on it further, a familiar sound cuts through the silence.

Tiny paws thunder against the hardwood floor as Spot and Tiger come charging from the bedroom. Their little bodies nearly tumble over each other in their rush to greet her, their excitement a burst of life in the stillness of her apartment.

Erica kneels down just as the kittens reach her, their soft, warm bodies pressing against her knees. Spot, the bold black one with a white tuft of fur on his chest, is the first to paw at the hem of her skirt, demanding attention. Tiger, his slightly smaller and stripier sibling, watches for a moment before copying the gesture, his tiny claws catching the fabric.

A smile breaks across Erica’s face as she strokes their silky heads. Their purring is instant, loud, and infectious. For a brief moment, the tension in her chest loosens.

“Did you two destroy the place again?” she asks softly, her voice carrying the warmth reserved for the two furballs.

The answer is written in the slight mess she notices as she glances into the bedroom - a blanket half-dragged off the bed, a throw pillow on the floor. It’s routine by now. Spot and Tiger always seem to have a secret life of chaos and mayhem while she’s gone, but Erica can never bring herself to be mad at them.

As she walks into the living room, the kittens trot at her heels, their tails held high. Her gaze falls on their empty food and water bowls, sitting forlornly on the floor by the window.
“Alright, alright. I’m on it.” she says, scooping up the bowls. The sound of metal clinking against her rings sets off a new round of excited meows.

In the kitchen, she rinses the bowls thoroughly, her motions practiced and efficient. The sound of water running does little to drown out the kittens’ dramatic pleas.
“You’d think I’ve been starving you.” she says, shaking her head as she reaches into the cupboard for a new can of their favorite chicken pulp.

The moment she places the freshly filled bowls back on the floor, Spot and Tiger dive in with reckless enthusiasm. Their tiny pink tongues dart out, devouring the food as if it might vanish at any second. Erica leans against the wall, watching them with an affection she rarely shows for anything else.

“You two lovelies are wonderful.” she says softly.

After a moment, she leaves them to their feast and heads into the bedroom. The mess they made is minimal and she quickly tidies everything up.
With a sigh, she steps out of her heels. The relief is instant. She then slips out of her blazer, blouse and pencil skirt, smoothing the fabric before draping it neatly over the backrest of her Hill House chair. The chair is a splurge she doesn’t regret - it’s as elegant as it is practical.
From the closet, she pulls out her grey sweatsuit, the soft fabric worn but comforting. She’s dubbed it her “cat mom” suit, a little joke she shares with no one but herself. As the cozy material settles against her skin, some of the day’s tension melts away.

Back in the living room, the kittens are already waiting. Their bowls are licked clean, and Spot carries a small, battered toy mouse in his mouth like a trophy. Tiger sits beside him, tail flicking with anticipation.
Erica lowers herself to the polished hardwood floor, crossing her legs as Spot drops the mouse into her lap. She tosses it gently, watching as both kittens pounce and wrestle over it. Their antics are a distraction, a welcome reprieve from the storm brewing in her mind.
But even as she scratches their bellies and tosses the mouse again, Sophie’s words creep back in, uninvited. The cartel. Cross. Espinoza.

Erica’s jaw tightens. She’s never been one to shy away from a case, but this… this would mean stepping into a world of violence and shadows, the kind nobody in his right mind wants to visit.
Her gaze drifts to Spot and Tiger as they chase the mouse across the floor, their innocence a stark contrast to the darkness lingering in her thoughts.

Sophie is not a friend, Erica reminds herself. She’s not like Andrea Santos whom she has known since elementary school when they were both eight years old. But this isn’t about friendship. It’s about debt.

“You’re only as good as your word, Erica.” her father’s voice echoes in her mind.
She owes Sophie, and that debt is not something she can ignore. But the weight of it feels heavier now, knowing the full scope of what Sophie is asking her to step into.

As the kittens curl up beside her, their small bodies warm against her legs, Erica’s mind races.
What’s the cost of standing for something this time?

“Whatever it takes.” Erica murmurs, her voice steady but quiet as she absently runs her fingers through Spot’s soft black fur. The kitten purrs contentedly, oblivious to the storm brewing in her mind.
Taking a deep breath, she reaches for her phone. Her fingers hover over the screen for only a moment before she dials Sophie van Rey’s number.
The call connects on the second ring.
“Hello, Erica!” Sophie’s voice is smooth and professional, though there’s a hint of anticipation in her tone.
“I’m in.” Erica says, her voice low but firm, laced with an unshakable resolve. “We need a plan, though.”
A brief pause follows, and then Sophie responds, her words measured. “Good. Let’s set the wheels in motion.”


~~~

[Caesar73]

My Impressions of the first Chapter:

The Start of this new Tale is perfect. Laconic. Striking. Four Words, which carry much weight. That Erica feels honour bound to pay her debt is clear. And in my Perception? Sophie knows that Erica will act this way. I am not entirely certain if Sophie´s Motives are entirely noble or just pragmatic?

But I guess, we will learn in Time.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, of course, Erica will honor her debt. It's just the way she is, the way she was raised. Sophie is pressured by the US Attorney to build a case and if there actually is a leak in the DA's office, she needs someone not connected to her own operation to do the work. The plan? Is there one? Tomorrow, we will see how the story unfolds further. Stay tuned.

[Jenny_S]

The following day, precisely at 10:30 AM, a soft knock interrupts the quiet hum of Erica’s office.
Her pen pauses mid-signature, hovering over the smooth parchment of an acquisition agreement. The knock is deliberate - polite, measured, and unmistakably Claire Messner.

Erica exhales softly and sets her pen down with care. “Come in.” she calls, her voice even.

The door opens, and Claire steps in, closing it gently behind her. Her posture, as always, is impeccable - hands folded neatly in front of her tailored blazer. Claire’s presence carries with it an unspoken stability, a quiet assurance that no matter how chaotic the world might become outside this room, here, at least, there is order.

“Erica.” Claire begins, her voice quiet yet steady. The shift to first-name basis, recently encouraged by Erica in private moments, still feels foreign to both of them - a fragile bridge of trust neither is quite comfortable crossing fully.
“ADA van Rey is here to see you.”

Erica nods, a flicker of a smile tugging at her lips. “Thank you, Claire. Please show her to the small conference room. I’ll be there shortly.”

With a quick, acknowledging nod, Claire exits, leaving Erica alone.

As the door clicks shut, Erica leans back in her chair, her eyes settling on the skyline visible through her office’s floor-to-ceiling windows. She touches the engraved Rolex on her wrist, brushing a thumb absently over the smooth steel.
Her father’s creed - Stand for something or fall for anything - grounds her. Yet today, it also feels like an anchor, pulling her deeper into dangerous waters.
She exhales sharply, her face hardening. Time to focus.

Rising, Erica adjusts the lapels of her tailored blazer with a practiced flick and smooths her pencil skirt. Her reflection in the window stares back at her - composed, polished, and entirely unyielding. But beneath the surface, a storm churns. She’s been on the edge of calculated risks her entire career, but this... this is different.

Her heels click against the marble floor as she strides toward the small conference room. The sound is deliberate, measured - each step a quiet declaration that hesitation has no place here.


~~~


The conference room is modern compared to the style of Erica’s personal office, impeccably designed - polished glass table, sleek ergonomic chairs, and ambient lighting casting a soft glow.
Sophie van Rey sits on one side, her regal expression taut and her posture straight as an arrow.
A cup of coffee and a glass of water rest in front of her, untouched. She looks up as Erica enters, her expression tightening ever so slightly in acknowledgment.

“Good morning.” Erica says, smoothing her skirt as she takes the chair opposite Sophie. Her own coffee waits for her, courtesy of Claire, perfectly prepared: two Sweet’n Low and a splash of almond milk.

Sophie nods, her fingers interlacing in front of her. “Thank you, Erica.” she says softly, her tone carrying a weight of gratitude that doesn’t need to be spoken outright.

Erica takes a sip of her coffee, savoring the brief pause it provides. She sets the cup down and folds her hands neatly on the table.
“Let’s get to it.” she says, her tone firm but not unkind.

Sophie leans forward slightly. Her gaze is steady but tinged with an unspoken urgency. “I’ve outlined a plan. It’s risky, but I think it’s our best option.”

“Risky is one thing. Reckless is another.” Erica counters, her voice edged with warning. “Tell me.”

Sophie nods. “We’ll use the City Guild gala this Friday as your entry point. It’s a high-profile event, and Cross always attends. It’s where he feels most untouchable - surrounded by the elite, insulated by his network.”

Erica’s brow lifts slightly. “And how am I getting into this gala? As far as I know, my name isn’t on the guest list, and invitations aren’t exactly handed out at random.”

“I’ll handle that.” Sophie says firmly.

Erica’s eyes narrow. “I’m curious what strings you’re planning to pull to make that happen.”

“It’s better if you don’t know.” Sophie replies, her tone sharp but not unkind. “But trust me, it will be handled. Your role is to make contact with Cross. Nothing overt - just enough to plant the seed for a second meeting.”

Erica leans back in her chair, her fingers tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “So you want me to ‘accidentally’ bump into him, strike up a conversation, and hope he doesn’t see through it?”

Sophie meets her gaze, unflinching. “It’s not ideal, I know. But time isn’t on our side. The Feds are breathing down our necks, and we can’t afford to take the slow approach. This is the best shot we’ve got.”

Erica’s jaw tightens, the weight of the situation settling heavily. “If I do this, I need assurances.” she says, her voice low but resolute. “In writing. I want the same protection afforded to an undercover agent. No exceptions.”

Sophie exhales slowly, her expression softening with understanding. “You’ll have it. I’ll make sure the U.S. Attorney’s Office signs off on it.”

For a moment, silence stretches between them. The enormity of what they’re about to undertake hangs in the air like a storm cloud.
Erica lifts her coffee and takes a measured sip, her mind already calculating the steps ahead.

“Then I guess we’re doing this.” she says finally, her voice carrying a quiet determination.

Sophie nods, relief flickering briefly in her eyes. “We’ll make it work.”

Erica’s gaze hardens. “We have to.”


~~~

[Jenny_S]

The days leading up to Friday evening pass in a haze. Erica spends her limited downtime poring over every scrap of information she can find about Darren Cross, though it quickly becomes apparent why the ADA needs someone on the inside. Cross’s financial empire is maddeningly opaque - its public face polished to perfection, its deeper layers impenetrable to casual inquiry. Every article, every press release feels curated, carefully calibrated to reveal nothing of substance.

By late Friday afternoon, Erica feels the hum of nerves as she steps into the steaming confines of her shower.
The City Guild gala isn’t just another event; it’s a minefield, one where even a misstep as small as the wrong introduction could blow her cover.

As the hot water pelts her skin, she lathers the mango-mint body wash, its crisp scent filling the air, a small indulgence in what feels like an ocean of tension. She rinses off and steps out, the cool air biting against her damp skin. Wrapping herself in a plush, oversized towel, she dries off methodically before plugging in the blow dryer.

The woman staring back at her from the fogged mirror already looks different - more composed, sharper. Tonight, there’s no room for half-measures. Instead of her usual ponytail, Erica brushes her blonde hair until it gleams, the soft waves framing her face.

From the makeup drawer, she selects more than her standard minimalist kit: a touch of rouge, a sweep of eyeshadow to accent her icy blue eyes, a flick of mascara, and a bold yet refined lipstick. She spritzes a cloud of her lavender perfume, its familiar floral scent grounding her.

The reflection in the mirror is startling. The Erica Sinclair staring back at her seems almost unfamiliar - bolder, more poised. Yet, beneath the polished exterior, the storm remains.

In the bedroom, she pads to her walk-in closet. Her fingers brush past the crisp suits and tailored blouses before settling on the forest green evening dress she hasn’t worn in years. Pulling it from its hanger, she holds it against herself. It still fits - thankfully. Sliding into it, she smooths the fabric over her toned frame, its cut accentuating her athletic shoulders, slender waist, and defined arms.

She steps into a pair of low-heeled black pumps, their practicality a concession to her comfort and the possibility - however slim - of having to dance. The thought sends a chill down her spine; she can’t remember the last time she set foot on a dance floor.

As she pivots in front of the full-length mirror, the dress flutters around her legs. She’s satisfied, though the image before her feels like an armor she’s donned for battle. A small black purse sits waiting on her bed. She slings it over her shoulder, appreciating its practicality over a clutch - it keeps both hands free, a deliberate choice. Into the purse go her phone, wallet, and keys. Nothing more.

The final touches rest on her nightstand: her gold university class ring, which slides easily onto her right ring finger, and her Rolex dive watch. She hesitates for a moment, glancing at the bulky steel timepiece. It clashes against the elegance of the dress, a far cry from the delicate, feminine accessories most women would choose for such an event. But she doesn’t care. The watch is her talisman - a reminder of her father’s creed, her anchor in a sea of uncertainty.

With one last glance in the mirror, Erica adjusts the pearls around her neck - a single strand, paired with understated studs in her ears. She’s ready.

In the living room, her kittens, Spot and Tiger, watch her from their scratching tree, their wide eyes following her every movement. She kneels briefly, giving each a gentle scratch behind the ears.
“Alright, my lovelies.” she murmurs, her voice soft. “You stay out of trouble. Mom’s going to try to do the same.”

Slipping into her coat and locking the door behind her, she listens for the solid click of the deadbolt before heading down to the waiting cab.

The yellow taxi idles by the curb, and the driver jumps out as she approaches. He opens the door for her, his gaze lingering a moment too long as it sweeps over her. Erica stiffens, accustomed to the attention but still annoyed by it.
“Evening, ma’am,” he says with a toothy grin, holding the door open wide.

Erica offers a curt nod as she slides into the back seat. “The Plaza, please.”

The drive through Manhattan’s early-evening bustle is mercifully uneventful, though the cabbie’s chatter grates on her nerves. He talks about the traffic, the weather, and the gala itself, clearly fishing for details. Erica offers monosyllabic responses, her mind already focused on the task ahead.

When they arrive, he jumps out again, racing around the car to open her door. “If you need a ride back later, ma’am...” He hands her a card with his name scrawled across the top.
She takes it without looking, slipping it into her purse, paying the fare and adding a tip. “Thank you.” Her tone is polite but final.

The entrance to the Plaza Hotel looms before her, dazzling under the warm glow of chandeliers spilling through grand windows. Uniformed NYPD officers stand at attention near the doors, their presence a silent reminder of the high-profile nature of the event. Mixed among them are plainclothes security types, their eyes scanning the crowd with practiced vigilance.

Erica ascends the stone steps, the low hum of conversation and the click of heels filling the air. She pauses briefly in the grand lobby, taking in the opulence. She’s been here before, but tonight, the hotel seems almost otherworldly - an extravagant stage set for the city’s elite.

Ahead, the flow of guests moves toward the grand ballroom, where velvet ropes and sharp-eyed staff ensure that only the chosen few pass through. Erica adjusts the strap of her purse, her steps measured and deliberate.
This is it. The point of no return.


~~~

[GreyLord]

It is wonderful to be reading A Matter of Honor after our period without the site. As you said earlier, of course, Erica was going to take this. You are off to a good start once again, and with a potent antagonist.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @GreyLord, thank you very much for your compliments. Coming from TUG Royalty, this means a lot to me. Tomorrow night we will see how the story unfolds further.

[Jenny_S]

“Erica Sinclair.” she says firmly as her turn comes to enter the grand ballroom. Her voice is steady, but she can feel her pulse quicken ever so slightly.

The staff member, a no-nonsense man in a sleek black suit who radiates the unmistakable air of private security, taps her name into the glowing screen of his electronic register. His eyes flicker from the tablet to Erica, then back again.
A brief pause follows, and Erica can feel the weight of his scrutiny as he compares her to the photo next to her name on the list of invited guests.
But then he nods, the hint of a professional smile breaking through his otherwise impassive expression.

“Welcome to the gala, Miss Sinclair.” he says smoothly, gesturing for her to proceed.

Another staff member steps forward - a young woman in a tailored black suit with her hair pulled back into a flawless bun. With practiced efficiency, she takes Erica’s coat, revealing the forest green evening dress underneath.
“Allow me.” the woman says, gently wrapping a thin blue plastic strap around Erica’s right wrist and snapping the clasp shut. The band is lightweight but snug, an unobtrusive marker of access that also feels slightly invasive, a quiet reminder that every move here might be monitored.

“Have a wonderful evening, Miss Sinclair.” the woman adds with a polished smile, stepping aside to allow Erica to pass.

Erica inclines her head in acknowledgment and takes a step forward, the polished heels of her pumps clicking softly against the marble floor as she crosses the threshold into the grand ballroom.

The sight that greets her is nothing short of breathtaking. The grand ballroom of the Plaza is a symphony of opulence, its gilded walls and crystal chandeliers shimmering under the soft glow of hundreds of lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows draped in deep red velvet offer glimpses of the glittering city beyond, while the polished parquet floor reflects the dazzling kaleidoscope of jewels and sequins worn by the guests.
For a moment, it feels like she’s stepped into a fairy tale. The thought amuses her - if Cinderella were to appear, it wouldn’t be out of place here.

The room is alive with a subdued hum of activity, a blend of soft laughter, hushed conversations, and the gentle clinking of crystal glasses. Erica takes a moment to absorb it all, moving instinctively to the side of the room where she can observe without drawing attention to herself.

The City Guild’s history plays through her mind like an internal monologue, a calming exercise as much as an analytical one.
Founded in the 1840s, it was originally an enclave for New York’s old money - the Burnhams, Cosgroves, Le Perriers, and Rockefellers - whose influence still lingers in the ornate architecture and air of exclusivity. Over time, though, the Guild has allowed in the nouveau riche: hedge fund magnates, tech billionaires, and media moguls eager to rub elbows with legacy wealth.

And now, here she is - Erica Sinclair, an outsider among the insiders. Though she’s worked with her share of the city’s elite, it’s impossible not to feel like a fish out of water in a room where fortunes are measured in billions, not millions.

Her gaze sweeps across the crowd, taking in the dazzling array of gowns and tuxedos, the careful choreography of social power at play. Even here, the layers of hierarchy are palpable: the center of the room dominated by the luminaries, the edges occupied by those aspiring to move inward.

Erica forces herself to relax, reaching for one of the champagne flutes proffered by a passing waiter in livery. She takes the glass with a small, graceful nod, her polished exterior concealing the storm of vigilance beneath.

As she sips the crisp champagne, her sharp eyes scan the room for her target: Darren Cross.
She’s seen photos, of course, but they hardly do justice to the challenge of picking him out in a room full of power players, all of them dressed to the nines. Cross is said to blend in effortlessly when he chooses - a chameleon who can shift from the shadows of his business dealings to the bright lights of high society without missing a beat.

Erica lets herself glide through the room with purpose, careful not to linger too long in one spot or look too intently at any particular face. She needs to appear casual, like any other guest enjoying the evening, even as her mind works in overdrive.
The dress, the pearls, even the carefully applied makeup - all of it is armor, and tonight, she needs it. Though she knows she has a job to do, the weight of the room, the stakes of what she’s about to step into, are impossible to ignore.

The hum of conversation around her flows like a river, snippets of laughter and murmurs reaching her ears. Names and faces she recognizes - both legendary and infamous - float by in passing exchanges. The city’s power dynamics are on full display, and Erica can feel their gravity pressing against her.

She takes another sip of champagne, her sharp gaze scanning the sea of faces. Somewhere in this glittering crowd is Darren Cross, and she has one chance to make the right impression.
But for now, she remains poised, the perfect image of composure, as she continues her deliberate, unhurried path through the ballroom.


~~~


A man in a tailored tuxedo raises his glass toward Erica as she glides past him, his expression an amalgam of polite interest and intrigue. His salt-and-pepper hair is slicked back, his smile practiced but warm - a man clearly accustomed to such soirées.
Erica acknowledges him with the faintest nod of her head, a measured smile tugging at her lips. Her movements are deliberate, polished - an elegant performance that masks the current of nerves running beneath her composed exterior.

The grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel hums with subdued sophistication, the low murmur of conversations mingling with the soft strains of a live string quartet. For the men, tuxedos are the expected uniform, and Erica barely notices the sea of black suits around her as she moves with calculated grace.
Then she spots him.

Darren Cross.

He stands near the opulent buffet, commanding attention even amidst the dazzling crowd. His fitted dark grey swallowtail coat is a bold departure from the classic tuxedo, its fine fabric shimmering faintly under the chandelier light. The coat fits him like armor, sculpting his broad shoulders and lean frame with a precision that speaks of wealth and unapologetic confidence. A silver pocket watch chain glints subtly against the fabric, an old-world touch that seems at once eccentric and deliberate.

Cross is steeped in conversation with a stunning red-haired young woman draped in a midnight blue silk dress. The fabric clings to her figure, rippling like liquid as she shifts slightly, her laughter light and melodic. She tilts her head toward Cross, her green eyes sparkling with interest - or calculation. Erica can’t quite tell.

Erica’s breath hitches for the briefest moment as she adjusts her trajectory. Her gaze remains steady, her expression calm, but her mind sharpens, zeroing in on her target. She brushes her fingers lightly against the strap of her black purse, grounding herself.
Circling the buffet, she deliberately positions herself just close enough to Darren Cross without making it obvious. The scent of truffle canapés and smoked salmon mingles with the delicate aroma of champagne in the air.
She takes a step forward, then another. Her heels click softly against the polished floor, and she pauses near the champagne tower as if deciding on her next move. Then, with an elegant pivot, she steps back – deliberately - her shoulder lightly brushing against Cross.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she says, swiveling quickly to face him, her tone perfectly pitched between surprise and apology.

Cross turns toward her, his expression one of mild amusement, his brows lifting ever so slightly as his lips curve into a boyish grin. His charm is disarming, almost effortless, and his blue eyes catch the light like a predator assessing its surroundings.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Miss…?” he prompts, his voice smooth and unhurried, his gaze sweeping over her face and attire in a quick but thorough appraisal.

“Sinclair. Erica Sinclair.”
She offers her name with an easy smile, tilting her head just slightly. Her voice is warm, unassuming, the perfect blend of self-assurance and approachability.

Cross’s grin deepens, and for a moment, Erica can almost see the invisible rolodex turning behind his eyes, flipping through mental files as he tries to place her. Whap-whap-whap, the sound of the metaphorical cards is nearly audible in her mind.

“Darren Cross.” he replies, extending his hand. His grip is firm but not overbearing, his handshake the practiced gesture of a man used to closing deals and commanding rooms. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Sinclair.”

For a split second, Erica senses the red-haired woman’s gaze dart toward her, a flicker of curiosity or perhaps irritation crossing her face. But Erica doesn’t let it faze her.

“The pleasure’s mine.” she says smoothly, releasing his hand and meeting his gaze head-on.

There’s a pause - just a beat too long - and Erica feels the electricity of the moment. Cross’s eyes narrow slightly, a subtle hint of calculation behind his charm. He’s trying to determine if she’s someone he should remember, someone important—or someone new entirely.

“Well, Erica Sinclair,” he says, his tone lightly teasing, “what brings you to the City Guild gala? It’s not every day we have such striking company join us here.”

Erica allows herself a light laugh, brushing a strand of blonde hair over her shoulder. “Oh, you flatter me, Mr. Cross. I was invited as a guest - networking, you know how it is. It’s my first time attending, and I must say, it’s…quite the spectacle.”

“Spectacle is one way to put it.” Cross replies, his grin widening. His voice lowers slightly, conspiratorial. “Some might call it an exhibition of excess.”

Erica tilts her head, feigning thoughtfulness. “Excess or excellence? I suppose it depends on your perspective.”

Cross chuckles softly at that, the sound rich and genuine - or at least well-practiced. “A fair point. May I ask what you excel in?”

The moment stretches just long enough for Erica to feel a bead of sweat threaten to form at the base of her neck. She suppresses it, her pulse steadying as she maintains her poise as if having the floor at court. She’s made the initial connection - but now comes the delicate dance of drawing him in without appearing overeager.
The red-haired woman shifts beside Cross, clearing her throat softly, a subtle reminder of her presence.

“Law, Mr. Cross. Sinclair & Associates over on Park Avenue.” Erica’s tone is effortless, confident, but not boastful. She steps back slightly to create an opening for retreat. “But please, I didn’t mean to interrupt your conversation. Enjoy the gala, Mr. Cross.”

Before he can respond, she offers him another smile, warm but not lingering, and turns toward the buffet as if her interruption had been purely accidental.

But as she walks away, Erica can feel his gaze following her, lingering just long enough to tell her she’s succeeded in sparking his curiosity. And that, she knows, is the first step.


~~~

[GreyLord]

A smooth entry into the hornet's nest.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @GreyLord, we'll see if Erica can get any further after bumping into Cross.

[Caesar73]

Very well done by Erica - to make Contact with her Target. Darren Cross is the natural Centre of Gravity in this Gala.

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, Erica made contact - but will she succeed in her plan? Let's find out.

[GreyLord]

Very well done by Erica - to make Contact with her Target. Darren Cross is the natural Centre of Gravity in this Gala.

Indeed, @Caesar73, Erica did do well.

[Jenny_S]

Cross watches her retreat with mild curiosity, his boyish grin lingering. As she disappears into the crowd, to the disapproval of his red-headed companion, he casually retrieves his phone from his jacket pocket, the subtle motion obscured from view.

“One moment please, Chrissy.” He calms the young woman down. “Be right back with you.”

With a few swift taps, he searches for Erica’s name. The results are immediate and tell a compelling story - Sinclair & Associates is a reputable law firm specializing in high-profile cases, its founder a rising star in legal circles. Her presence here, while maybe unusual, is certainly plausible.

Moments later, Erica finds herself near the ballroom’s edge, scanning the room while pretending to admire a gilded portrait. The champagne flute in her hand is still half-full, though she hasn’t taken a sip in several minutes. She feels the faintest prick of unease, aware that she might have overplayed her hand - or worse, underplayed it.

“Miss Sinclair.”
The voice comes from behind her, smooth and measured, and she turns to find Darren Cross standing just a few feet away. His earlier companion is nowhere to be seen, leaving him free to approach without distraction.

“Mr. Cross.” Erica greets him, her expression one of polite surprise. “I hope I didn’t leave the wrong impression earlier.”

“On the contrary.” He smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets with an air of casual authority. “You left exactly the right impression. I couldn’t help but be intrigued. A successful attorney rubbing shoulders with the city’s old guard - it’s not the most common sight. Forgive me for being forward, but I had to ask: do you ride?”

The question catches Erica off guard, though she doesn’t show it. “Horses, you mean?”

“Of course.” Cross’s grin widens. “It’s a tradition of sorts for those of us who prefer to balance city life with something a little more… grounded. If you do, I’d love for you to join me tomorrow at my estate near Southampton. Crosswind has some of the best stables in the region. I promise, you’ll enjoy the change of scenery.”

Erica hesitates, calculating her response with care. Accepting the invitation would push her deeper into his orbit while declining might close the door she’s just barely managed to crack open.

“That’s a very kind offer.” she says finally, meeting his gaze. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted. And yes, I do ride, though it’s been a while since I’ve had the chance.”

“Perfect.” Cross seems genuinely pleased, as though her answer has confirmed something he suspected all along. “Would ten o’clock be too early? That would allow us time for brunch afterwards.”

“I’ll be there.” Erica replies smoothly, allowing herself a faint smile.

“Perfect.” He inclines his head, clearly satisfied. “I’ll see you then, Miss Sinclair. Enjoy the rest of the gala.”

As he steps away, Erica feels the weight of his invitation settle over her. The game is moving quickly now, the stakes climbing higher with every passing moment. She tightens her grip on her champagne flute, her mind already racing ahead to tomorrow - and to what awaits her at Crosswind Estates.


~~~


The evening unfolds more smoothly than Erica had anticipated. For all her initial apprehension, she finds herself drawn into the peculiar charm of the gala. The grand ballroom glitters with a kind of timeless elegance, its soaring ceilings and gilded accents transporting her into a world far removed from her daily reality.
To her surprise, she finds herself actually enjoying the evening.
She sips a second glass of champagne - carefully pacing herself - and glides through the sea of glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos. Conversations flow around her like currents, and she listens more than speaks, her trained ear catching snippets of business ventures, political maneuverings, and whispers of charitable endeavors. It’s a study in power dynamics, and though she feels slightly out of place, she holds her own.

At some point, Erica finds herself pulled - more by accident than intention - into a conversation. The group is small, intimate, and, as she quickly realizes, composed of some of the city’s most influential citizens.

“You make an excellent point, Miss Sinclair.” says a silver-haired man in a bespoke suit, his piercing eyes fixed on her. “Far too often, we focus on the letter of the law and neglect the spirit of it.”

She recognizes him immediately: Spencer Burnham, one of the evening’s hosts and patriarch of the Burnham family, a dynasty that had been shaping New York City since the mid-19th century. His approval feels like a stamp of validation, and she doesn’t miss the approving glances exchanged among the others in the group either.

Burnham’s assistant, a young woman with sleek hair and an air of quiet efficiency, leans in to murmur something in his ear. Burnham nods but doesn’t break his focus on Erica. “You don’t happen to have a card on you, Miss Sinclair?” he asks as the group begins to break up. His tone is warm, but there’s a sharpness in his gaze that suggests he never forgets an opportunity.
Caught slightly off-guard, Erica reaches into her bag, her fingers brushing over her phone and keys before finding one of the firm’s embossed business cards. She hands it to Burnham’s assistant, who accepts it with a polite nod.

“It’s so refreshing to hear the opinion of this city’s next generation.” Burnham continues. “I insist you’ll be back next year - at my table, of course.”

“My pleasure, sir.” Erica replies with a gracious smile.

As she steps away, excusing herself with the poise she’s worked so hard to master, her gaze sweeps across the room. She notices Darren Cross a few feet away, his striking companion still on his arm. His eyes meet hers for the briefest of moments, and he offers a slight smile and an approving nod before turning his attention back to the beautiful woman beside him.

The interaction is fleeting, but it leaves Erica with a sense of recognition she hadn’t expected. She’s played her part well tonight, and Cross seems to have taken notice.

Feeling the weight of the evening beginning to settle over her, Erica decides it’s time to leave. Though she could stay longer and continue mingling, tomorrow will require her full focus, and she’ll need to update Sophie van Rey about her progress.

She retrieves her coat from the wardrobe, where another impeccably dressed staff member scans her wristband and hands it to her with a polite, “Have a good evening, Miss Sinclair.”

“Thank you.” Erica replies, slipping into the coat and wrapping it around herself as she steps into the brisk night air.

Outside the hotel, a line of yellow cabs awaits, their drivers ready to ferry the gala’s glittering attendees back to their homes. A uniformed NYPD officer standing near the curb raises his arm to hail a cab for her, then opens the rear passenger door with a courteous nod.
“Have a nice evening, ma’am,” he says, his voice steady and professional.

“Thank you, officer.” Erica replies, sliding into the cab’s cushioned seat and glancing briefly at the opulent entrance of the Plaza as the door closes behind her.

“135 West 72nd, please,” she tells the driver, her voice calm and clear.

The cab pulls away from the Plaza, merging smoothly into Manhattan’s late evening traffic. Erica leans back, letting her head sit against the seat’s cushioned headrest. The hum of the engine provides a soothing contrast to the echoes of the evening still swirling in her mind - clinking champagne glasses, the murmur of polished conversations, the soft strains of the string quartet drifting through the grand ballroom.

As the cab moves north along Broadway, the city lights streak past in brilliant flashes of neon and gold, painting the interior of the car in fleeting patterns of color. Erica allows herself a small, satisfied smile. The night had gone better than she could have hoped.

Reaching into her bag, she pulls out her phone. The screen illuminates her face as she types a quick message to ADA van Rey:

“I’m in. Invited to Crosswind Estates tomorrow, 10 AM. Wish me luck.”

She presses send and leans back again, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
Her phone chimes almost immediately. The reply is succinct but reassuring:

“Lots of luck. Stay in touch.”

Erica slips the phone back into her bag, her thoughts already shifting to tomorrow. Crosswind Estates. Darren Cross. It’s the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come often, and she knows she’ll have to tread carefully.

As the cab pulls up outside her building, she pays the driver and steps out into the crisp night air. The quiet of her Upper West Side street is a welcome contrast to the glittering chaos of the gala. She practically dances into the building, the faint click of her low heels echoing in the marble foyer as she crosses to the elevator.

The ride up feels buoyant, as though the weight of the evening has been replaced by a newfound sense of accomplishment. By the time she unlocks her apartment door and steps inside, she feels light - not from the champagne, but from the steady hum of satisfaction coursing through her.

The familiar scent of home - leather, wood polish, and a faint hint of lavender - wraps around her like a comforting embrace. She casts a quick glance into the living room and smiles at the sight of Spot and Tiger curled together in their nest by the heating vent. The two cats, their fur rising and falling in gentle rhythm, are fast asleep, oblivious to the world beyond their cozy cocoon.

Erica steps out of her shoes, the soft leather pumps landing with a quiet thud on the hardwood floor.
She reaches behind her back, fumbling for the zipper of her forest green dress. It takes a little effort, but finally, the zipper gives, and the fabric slips from her shoulders, pooling at her feet. As she gathers it up, a vague memory stirs - some long-forgotten event for which she’d bought the dress. It doesn’t matter now. After tonight, she’s glad she kept it.

In the bathroom, the mirror reflects the flushed glow of her face. She carefully washes off her makeup, the warm water a soothing balm on her skin. As she brushes her hair, the tension of the evening slowly ebbs away, replaced by a calm focus.

Slipping into her black silk kimono, Erica feels the cool, smooth fabric glide over her skin. She walks into the bedroom, where the soft glow of her bedside lamp casts a warm halo over the room. The bed, neatly made earlier in the day, seems to beckon her.

But even as she slides under the covers, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders, her mind is already sharpening. Tomorrow will be a different kind of challenge - one that requires all the composure and precision she can muster. The stakes are high, and she knows there will be no room for error.

Reaching over, she switches off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. For a few moments, the impressions of the evening play back in her mind: Spencer Burnham’s approving nod, the slight smile from Darren Cross, the glittering opulence of the gala. But her exhaustion wins out quickly, and within minutes, she drifts into a deep, dreamless sleep.


~~~

[Caesar73]

So Erica established Contact with the Target so to speak Erica is well aware of the Chances and Risks of this Invitation. Obviously she impressed their Host. I like the Contrast between the Gala and Erica´s Return to her Home. Nice to meet Spot and Tiger again

[Jenny_S]

Dear @Caesar73, to her greatest surprise, Erica actually enjoyed the gala, but if there's one thing she enjoys a lot more, it is the quiet of her apartment - and the company of the twin kittens. I can promise that you haven't seen them for the last time.

[Jenny_S]

The soft buzz of Erica’s phone alarm slices through the early morning stillness, vibrating insistently on her nightstand.
She groans softly, blinking into the darkness. The glowing numbers on the screen read 5:00 AM.

It’s early, but she knows she’ll need every minute of the morning to prepare herself - physically and mentally - for the day ahead.

Pushing back the covers, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and sits for a moment, stretching her arms overhead, rolling her shoulders forward and back and shaking off the remnants of sleep. The apartment is quiet, save for the faint hum of the city far below.

Erica pads into the kitchen, her bare feet cool against the hardwood floors. Spot and Tiger have heard mommy waking up, their small forms darting to the bowls she left out the night before. The kittens circle her feet expectantly, their soft mews breaking the silence.

“Alright, alright, I’m on it.” she murmurs, flipping on the kitchen light. She rinses their food and water bowls, dries them, and fills them with fresh supplies before setting them back on the plastic mat in the living room by the window. The kittens waste no time diving in, their little tails twitching in contentment.

With that small chore complete, Erica returns to her bedroom and hangs up her black silk kimono on the back of the door to air out. She twists her hair into a quick ponytail, the blonde strands pulled back sharply, and grabs her running gear from the dresser. The cool stretch of fabric slides over her skin as she pulls on her running tights and zips up a fitted long-sleeved top. Finally, she laces up her running shoes, snugging the ties with practiced efficiency.
Pocketing her phone and keys, she exits the apartment, locking the door behind her.

The elevator ride down is smooth and quiet, a brief reprieve before the rhythm of the morning takes hold.
Outside, the city is still wrapped in darkness, the streetlights casting long shadows over the nearly empty sidewalks. Erica stretches briefly at the curb, inhaling the crisp pre-dawn air, before setting off on her usual five-mile route through Central Park. Her footsteps are steady, the soft thud of her running shoes on the pavement blending with the distant rumble of delivery trucks and the occasional honk of a taxi.
Today, she isn’t chasing a new personal record. This run isn’t about speed or endurance - it’s about clearing her mind, finding her focus, and settling the restless energy that took root during the night.
By the time she loops back to her apartment building, her breath is steady, her muscles pleasantly warm, and her mind sharp.

Once upstairs, Erica strips out of her running gear, tossing the damp kit into the laundry basket. The hot shower that follows is blissful, the water washing away the sweat and tension of the run. After drying off, she blow-dries her hair until it falls in smooth waves, then pulls it back into a sharp ponytail secured with a black scrunchie.

Standing before the bathroom mirror, Erica applies her minimal makeup - a hint of mascara, a sweep of eyeliner, a whisp of rouge and a touch of lipstick. The reflection staring back at her is calm and composed, but her sharp blue eyes betray the determination simmering beneath the surface.

Still naked, she makes her way to the kitchen to prepare breakfast. The warm glow of the under-cabinet lights softens the edges of the space as she moves with practiced efficiency. She measures out instant oatmeal, pours sizzling hot water over it, drizzles it with honey, and sprinkles a touch of cinnamon over the top. The aroma of fresh coffee from her coffee pad machine soon joins the comforting scent of her breakfast.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, she savors the quiet moment. The oatmeal is light but satisfying, the sweetened coffee with its cloud of almond milk bold and energizing. As the first light of dawn begins to creep through the curtains, Erica feels the weight of the day ahead settle on her shoulders.
This is it. No turning back now.


~~~


After finishing her breakfast, Erica rinses her bowl and cup, setting them neatly in the sink before turning her attention to the kittens. Spot and Tiger are in their usual morning routine, energetically clawing at their scratching tree as if honing their skills for an imaginary hunt. She smiles at their earnestness, crouching to give each of them a gentle scratch behind the ears.

“Don’t go too wild while I’m gone,” she murmurs with a grin.

She opens the pantry, measuring out their kibble and adding just enough water to soften it. The food, now properly soaked, goes into their bowls, and she swaps their water dish for fresh, cool water. Spot and Tiger pause their mock battle, darting over to inspect their meal. Satisfied that her furry companions are well taken care of, Erica heads to her bedroom.

Inside her walk-in closet, she searches through the back shelves for her riding gear. The faint scent of leather fills the air as she pulls out a pair of beige riding pants. She slides them on, the tight-fitting fabric snug against her legs, reinforced with panels of supple suede at the seat and inner thighs. Next, she grabs her tall black leather riding boots, well-worn but polished to a soft gleam, and pulls them on, feeling their reassuring grip around her calves.

Erica chooses a taupe long-sleeved polo shirt, its tailored fit accentuating her toned frame. Over it, she zips up a lightweight black softshell jacket. It’s practical and sharp, a layer of protection against the cool, salty winds of the Hamptons - or any drizzle that might surprise her later. From the corner of her closet, she retrieves her riding helmet and gloves, tucking them, along with a pair of sneakers, into a slim black backpack.

She stands before her full-length mirror, taking in her reflection. The outfit is crisp and professional, projecting confidence and capability. But beneath the polished surface, Erica feels a flicker of unease. It’s been years since she last rode, but she pushes the thought aside, forcing a small smile.

“They say you never forget, right?” she says to herself, echoing the old adage about getting back in the saddle - or was that just for bicycles? Either way, there’s no room for doubt today.

After a quick goodbye to the kittens, who are now tired from their playtime and possibly drowsy from their breakfast, Erica locks the apartment door behind her and takes the elevator down to the underground parking garage. The familiar sight of her black Volvo greets her, parked neatly in its usual spot. She slides into the leather driver’s seat, adjusting it with a few practiced motions.

The car hums to life as she taps Darren Cross’s Crosswind Estates address into the GPS. The screen flashes a route, estimating a little over an hour to reach Southampton on this clear Saturday morning. Perfect timing.
Her father’s voice rings in her memory: “Erica, if you’re five minutes early, you’re already ten minutes too late.”
The thought draws a fond smile as she shifts into gear and pulls up the ramp and out of the garage.

Manhattan slowly recedes behind her as she joins the early-morning flow of traffic. The towering skyline gives way to the sprawling suburbs and, eventually, the open stretches of the Long Island Expressway. The drive is smooth, the Volvo’s engine purring steadily as she navigates the route following the friendly voice coming from the Volvo’s GPS.

Erica uses the solitude to steel herself for the day ahead. The soft leather-wrapped steering wheel feels reassuring beneath her hands as she runs through her mental checklist: Darren Cross, his estate, the horses, and whatever else she might encounter. She keeps her focus on the road, but a part of her mind drifts to Cross himself. His charming demeanor and sharp gaze at the gala weren’t lost on her.

The closer she gets to Southampton, the more the scenery changes. The city fades entirely, replaced by quaint villages, sprawling green fields, and glimpses of the Atlantic shimmering in the distance. The crisp ocean air finds its way through the vents of her car, carrying with it a faint hint of salt.

Finally, the GPS announces her arrival, the smooth voice instructing her to turn down a long, private road lined with towering trees. At the end of the lane, a pair of ornate wrought-iron gates looms ahead, their intricate design flanked by stone pillars topped with polished lanterns.

As Erica approaches, the gates begin to glide open, a silent and impressive display of wealth and security. She spots a discreet camera mounted on one of the pillars, no doubt connected to a state-of-the-art surveillance system.

The drive beyond the gates is even more breathtaking. Manicured hedges line the curved driveway, guiding her toward the estate itself. A sprawling mansion comes into view, its architecture a seamless blend of modern luxury and traditional Hamptons charm.
The gravel crunches softly beneath her tires as she pulls into the circular driveway, slowing to a stop near the grand entrance.

Erica cuts the engine, taking a moment to collect herself. She adjusts the cuffs of her jacket, smooths her ponytail, and checks her reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Showtime.” she murmurs, stepping out of the car.

The morning air is brisk, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and freshly mowed grass. As she shoulders her backpack and heads toward the front door, she reminds herself of the stakes. Today isn’t just about riding horses - it’s about making an impression, building trust, and taking another step closer to Darren Cross.


~~~

[Jenny_S]

Moments later, the door to the main building opens, and a tall, thin man steps out with measured precision. His black three-piece suit is flawlessly tailored, his tie perfectly knotted, and his shoes polished to a mirror shine. His posture is so straight and precise that Erica immediately wonders if he’s ex-military.

“Miss Sinclair, I presume?” His voice is crisp and formal, with the faintest trace of a British accent.

“Yes.” Erica nods, matching his composed demeanor.

“Welcome to Crosswinds.” he says, inclining his head slightly. “Mr. Cross is already at the stables.” Without another word, he steps past her, pivoting sharply on his heel. “Follow me, please.”

Erica falls in line behind him, her riding boots crunching softly on the fine gravel path. As they round the corner of the sprawling main house, she gets her first real look at the estate’s grandeur.
Paddocks stretch out on either side, their fences gleaming white against the lush green fields. In the distance, the stable building comes into view, a long structure of red brick with a slate roof.

The scene at the stables is a flurry of organized activity. Stable hands haul hay bales, wranglers tend to the horses, and the occasional whinny punctuates the crisp morning air.
The horses themselves are magnificent - powerful, sleek creatures that confirm everything Cross had boasted about his estate.

“Miss Sinclair!”

Erica turns her head to see Darren Cross emerging from the stable doors. He waves energetically, his broad grin revealing teeth that are a little too perfect. “It’s alright, Baker. I’ll take it from here.”

The majordomo, whom Cross called Baker, stops abruptly. “Very well, sir.” He inclines his head again, then strides back toward the house, his polished shoes silent on the gravel.

Erica quickens her pace to meet Cross, her sharp eyes catching another figure at his side. The striking red-haired woman from last night’s gala leans casually against the stable doorframe, her curves emphasized by designer jeans and a cropped leather jacket. Her expression is neutral, but her piercing gaze trails Erica like a predator sizing up its competition.

“Great to see you!” Cross says, extending his hand. As Erica reaches out to shake it, his free hand comes to rest lightly on her bicep. His fingers give a quick, testing squeeze - a gesture that feels too familiar, too deliberate.
Let him feel it, she thinks, tightening her biceps under his touch. She smiles politely. “Thank you so much for the invitation, Mr. Cross.”

“Darren.” he corrects smoothly. “Call me Darren. You don’t mind if I call you Erica, do you?”

Erica’s smile doesn’t falter, but inside, her instincts sharpen. Of course, she minds. But she nods lightly, keeping up the act. “Not at all, Darren.”

“Come on in.” he says with a sweeping motion toward the stable doors. “The horses are ready!”

Inside, the stables are immaculate. Each stall is spacious and pristine, lined with fresh straw. Erica counts at least 40 stalls, most of which house horses that look like they could be on the cover of equestrian magazines.
Cross, ever the showman, launches into a monologue about his passion for rare breeds, punctuating his words with proud gestures toward his prized animals.

As if on cue, an older wrangler leads a muscular brown mare out of her stall. The horse moves with a regal grace, her large, dark eyes exuding both strength and gentleness.

“There comes Lea.” Cross says, his chest swelling with pride. “Imported from England. She’s Hornblower’s and Empress’ offspring - finest Cleveland Bay stock there is.”

Erica steps closer, extending her hand slowly for the mare to sniff. Lea’s soft nose brushes against her palm, and Erica strokes the horse’s neck, marveling at the strength beneath her fingers. “Aren’t you a beauty.” she whispers.

“She’s really kind.” the wrangler adds. “But don’t let that fool you - she’s a powerhouse when it comes to jumping and galloping.”

Erica smiles. “We’ll get along just fine, won’t we?” she murmurs, patting Lea’s strong shoulder. She takes the reins from the wrangler, her hands automatically checking the saddle straps for security.

Cross watches her with a satisfied grin. “Ray is my top wrangler.” he says, motioning to the older man. “I only hire the best, whether it’s business or pleasure.”

Erica forces a polite nod, but her mind flickers briefly to the stunning redhead leaning against the stable door. She doesn’t need to look to feel the weight of the woman’s gaze still trained on her. Which category does she fall into, Darren? Erica wonders, keeping her expression neutral. Business… or pleasure?

Another stable hand leads out a sleek black stallion. Cross straightens visibly, as if he feels the need to impress not just Erica, but the horse itself.
“This is Prince.” he announces. “I raised him from a foal. Look at him now…”

Prince is an impressive creature, his coat shimmering in the light. His sharp eyes meet Erica’s briefly, and she nods in appreciation.
“I’m impressed.” she says, knowing full well Cross isn’t finished.

“Budjonnys are the most intelligent breed.” he continues, his voice taking on a reverent tone. “They require an experienced horseman. They don’t trust easily, but once they do, they’re unbeatable.”

“Seems I’m learning a lot about horses today.” Erica replies with a polite smile. “Thank you for trusting me with Lea. She’s wonderful.”

Cross beams. “Let’s get to it, then.”
He swings onto Prince’s back with practiced ease, while Erica pulls her riding helmet and gloves from her backpack. Before she can ask where to leave it, a stable hand steps forward to take it, hanging it on a hook near the door.

Helmet secured and gloves buttoned, Erica sets her left foot in the stirrup and swings her right leg over Lea’s back. The saddle feels surprisingly familiar, and as she settles into position, she leans forward to pat Lea’s neck. “We’ll be just fine.” she whispers.
She follows Cross out of the stables, her confidence growing with each step. Whatever lies ahead, she’s ready.


~~~


Cross makes it a point to showcase the magnificence of his estate as they ride at an easy pace. The property feels like a private kingdom, a world unto itself. Although only a short drive from the charming beaches and bustling downtown of Southampton, Crosswind Estates is an enclave of perfection. Nestled amidst gently rolling fields, it is bordered by fences and meticulously trimmed hedges, ensuring privacy and exclusivity.

The sprawling main house, with its elegant stone facade and ivy-covered walls, sits at the heart of the estate. Guest cottages, discreetly placed amidst the trees, are no less refined, their chimneys gently puffing smoke as staff prepare for the day.
The bunkhouses for stable hands and groundskeepers are neat and orderly, tucked further back. The stables, of course, command center stage, their pristine paddocks bustling with activity as horses trot, whinny, and graze. Beyond the stables lies an expansive indoor riding arena with walls of glass that reflect the golden sunlight.

The riding trails they now follow meander through manicured fields and past small groves of trees, offering sweeping views of the lush countryside. The estate exudes a sense of control, precision, and unparalleled wealth. Erica can’t help but feel that every blade of grass has been groomed for appearances - much like its owner.

She nudges Lea to match Prince’s pace and draws alongside Cross. “This is a wonderful piece of land, Darren.” she says, the awe in her voice genuine.
Whatever Cross’s flaws, she cannot deny the grandeur of the estate. It feels like stepping into a painting, or perhaps a dream.

Cross glances at her, a pleased smile tugging at his lips. “The only way to really enjoy it is from the saddle.” he says. “Gives you a much better perspective than from the seat of a car. It’s all about perspective.”

Before Erica can respond, Cross suddenly leans forward and spurs Prince. The Budjonny bolts into an instant gallop, the sound of his hooves striking the trail echoing through the open fields. Erica sits up in her saddle, startled.

“What the…?” she mutters, watching as Cross and Prince veer toward one of the fences dividing the trail from a sprawling field. She feels Lea tense beneath her, sensing the energy of the chase.
Cross doesn’t slow. If anything, he urges Prince faster, and the horse, with a burst of raw power, leaps over the fence in a graceful arc. For a moment, it looks effortless - like a scene from a movie.
Erica catches her breath as they land cleanly on the other side, Prince galloping further into the open field.
She shakes her head, not sure if this display of horsemanship is meant to impress her, test her, or simply stroke his own ego. She pats Lea’s strong neck, murmuring softly, “We can do that too, right, girl?”

Lea snorts, as if in agreement, and Erica clicks her tongue while pressing her heels into the mare’s sides. Lea responds immediately, breaking into a gallop. The rush of wind stings Erica’s cheeks as the fence looms ahead. The pounding of hooves echoes in her ears, and her pulse quickens.

Leaning forward, she grips the reins tightly, her fingers brushing Lea’s warm, muscular neck. The fence rushes toward them at an alarming speed. Timing is everything. Erica shifts her weight, her knees pressing into the saddle as she silently wills Lea to clear it.

At the last moment, Lea gathers herself and pushes off, her powerful legs launching them into the air. For a heart-stopping second, Erica feels weightless, suspended above the ground. The top rail of the fence passes only inches beneath them as Lea clears it effortlessly, her hooves landing solidly on the other side.

Erica exhales sharply, only then realizing she had been holding her breath. What was meant to be a quiet release of tension escapes her lips as a loud, jubilant cry - somewhere between exhilaration and an Indian war whoop. She feels Lea’s muscles beneath her tense and relax as they regain their rhythm.
She can’t suppress a grin, though her hands tremble slightly as she steadies herself. “Good girl.” she whispers, patting Lea’s neck.

Up ahead, Cross turns in his saddle, glancing back just in time to see her land the jump. His grin widens, a flash of pride and satisfaction playing across his features. Erica meets his gaze briefly before leaning forward to encourage Lea into a faster gallop.

“Let’s catch him.” she murmurs, loosening the reins. Lea, as if sharing her competitive spirit, surges forward, eating up the distance between them.

Cross, sensing her approach, sits taller in his saddle. His posture radiates confidence, but there’s an edge to his smile now, almost as though he didn’t expect her to rise to the challenge.
The chase is on and he enjoys it.


~~~

[Jenny_S]

Cross casts a glance over his shoulder, his grin sharp and mischievous. He leans forward in the saddle, urging Prince into a faster gallop. The Budjonny responds with a surge of power, his sleek black coat glistening in the morning light as they race across the field.

Erica leans closer to Lea’s neck, loosening the reins to give the mare her head. “Come on, girl, show him what you’ve got.” she murmurs remembering what the top wrangler had told her about the mare.
Lea’s ears flick back as if she understands, and then the Cleveland Bay lengthens her stride, her hooves pounding against the soft earth.

The wind whips through Erica’s hair, her ponytail trailing behind her like a banner. The landscape blurs at the edges of her vision - endless green fields, paddocks, and the occasional stand of trees rushing past in a kaleidoscope of color. Her heart pounds, matching the rhythm of Lea’s gallop.

Ahead, Cross weaves skillfully through the natural obstacles of the estate - a narrow wooden bridge here, a low hedge there - never losing momentum. Prince is faster, his strides longer, but Erica and Lea hold their own, closing the gap with every turn.

“Not bad, Sinclair!” Cross calls over his shoulder, his voice carried back by the wind.

“Not bad yourself!” Erica shouts back, a smile tugging at her lips despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

The trail narrows as it slopes upward, leading to the crest of a hill that overlooks the estate. Erica lets Lea find her footing, her strong legs propelling them forward with ease. At the top, Cross glances back at her again, his expression briefly registering surprise at how close she’s gotten.
He doesn’t let it show for long. With a cocky laugh, he gives Prince another nudge, and the horse rockets down the hill toward the stables, his speed almost breathtaking.

Erica leans into Lea, letting the mare chase after them. The descent is thrilling, the world tilting slightly as they race downhill. Erica feels the sheer power of the horse beneath her, every muscle coiled and working in harmony.

As they approach the stables, Cross pulls ahead by a slight margin. Prince’s hooves kick up a cloud of dust as he slows to a canter, his powerful strides coming to an elegant halt just outside the barn. Cross sits tall in the saddle, clearly pleased with himself.
Erica and Lea arrive moments later, Lea snorting softly as she slows to a stop. Erica straightens in the saddle, pushing back a few stray strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail. Her breathing is quick, but her smile is steady.

Cross dismounts smoothly, handing Prince’s reins to one of the wranglers. “Not bad, Erica.” he says, his tone both boastful and complimentary. “For not having been in the saddle in a while you kept up better than I expected. Lea’s a fine horse, but that was some solid riding on your part.”

Erica slides out of the saddle with practiced ease, landing lightly on her feet. She rubs Lea’s strong neck, murmuring, “You’re such a great girl, you know that? Good job.” Lea nudges her shoulder gently, as if seeking more praise, and Erica obliges with a few more pats.
She removes her helmet and gloves, her hair slightly mussed from the ride but her expression calm and composed. Looking for her backpack, one of the stable hands takes her helmet and gloves and Erica turns back to Cross, who’s watching her with an approving smile.

“Brunch at the house?” he says, motioning toward the mansion with a casual sweep of his hand. “You’ve earned it. Let’s call it a reward for your effort.”

“Brunch sounds perfect.” Erica replies, keeping her tone light. She gives Lea one last affectionate pat before handing the reins to Ray, the wrangler.
“Take good care of her.” Erica says, and Ray nods with a reassuring smile.

As Cross and Erica begin the short walk back to the house, she feels the warmth of the morning sun on her skin and the slight ache in her thighs from the gallop. Cross is full of energy, his voice animated as he speaks about the horses and the estate, but Erica remains quietly composed, letting the rhythm of her breathing return to normal.

The mansion looms ahead, its grandeur even more striking now that she’s approaching it on foot. The gardens surrounding it are meticulously kept, with colorful flowers and ornamental shrubs arranged in perfect harmony. The air is filled with the faint scent of lavender and freshly cut grass.

Cross glances at her as they climb the steps to the grand front entrance. “You’ll love what the chef has prepared.” he says, his tone brimming with pride. “And we’ll have a chance to talk about other things than horses.”

Erica smiles politely, her mind already sharpening for the conversation to come. “I’m looking forward to it.” she replies smoothly.
And as the heavy wooden doors of the mansion swing open to welcome them, Erica steps inside, her senses heightened, ready for whatever lies ahead.


~~~

[Jenny_S]

The rhythmic click of their boots on the polished marble floor echoes faintly in the grand hall as Cross leads Erica toward the dining room. The mansion’s opulence is impossible to ignore, every detail a testament to wealth and refinement. Erica’s gaze sweeps over the high ceilings adorned with intricate plasterwork, the crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow, and the richly colored rugs softening the grandeur.

As they approach the dining room, Cross pushes open the heavy double doors, revealing a space that is both commanding and intimate. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood the room with natural light, offering a breathtaking view of the manicured garden outside, where neatly trimmed hedges and bursts of colorful blooms create a striking contrast to the dark, polished wood furniture within. A massive dining table dominates the room, its surface gleaming under the light.
The walls are lined with oil paintings, all featuring horses - proud stallions, delicate mares, and powerful equestrian scenes that seem almost alive in their detail. Erica notes how fitting it is, given Cross’s obsession with perfection, that even the art reflects his passions.

Two maids glide silently into the room, balancing trays laden with bowls and platters. The aroma of freshly baked bread mingles with the savory scents of steaming vegetables, roasted meats, and delicately spiced soup. Desserts rest on crushed ice, their presentation immaculate, almost too perfect to disturb.
From the doorway, Baker, the ever-watchful majordomo, oversees the scene with a critical eye, ensuring everything is flawless. He stands like a sentinel, his presence commanding without being intrusive. Once satisfied, he gives the maids a barely perceptible nod. They withdraw without a word, and Baker steps forward to close the heavy doors with a soft click, assuring privacy, sealing the room and leaving Erica alone with Cross.

The silence that follows is weighted.

“Are we eating alone?” Erica asks, her tone casual, though her mind sharpens as she glances at the table, where only two expertly arranged place settings await. “What about…”

“Chrissy?” Cross interrupts smoothly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “She’s not one for business conversations.”

Erica nods slowly, her expression neutral. So this is what Darren Cross has in mind, she thinks. The pieces are beginning to fall into place.

“Enjoy. Bon appetit.” Cross says, gesturing toward the spread as he reaches for the soup tureen, ladling a hearty portion into his bowl with practiced ease.

Erica follows suit, serving herself a modest helping and taking a warm piece of bread from the basket. She senses his eyes on her, evaluating, always calculating. Somehow, she thinks, this is like a job interview – which – in essence – it might very well be.

As she sits down, Cross reaches for the wine bottle resting in an ornate silver cooler. “A glass of red?” he offers, already poised to pour.

Erica raises a hand politely. “Just water, please. I still have to drive back later.”

“Of course.” he says smoothly, as if her refusal hadn’t thrown him off in the slightest. He pours chilled water from a crystal decanter, the ice cubes clinking softly against the glass.

They settle into their seats, the atmosphere charged with an unspoken tension. The clink of silverware and the soft rustle of fabric fill the brief silence as Cross takes a sip of his wine, his eyes never leaving Erica.

“Tell me something about yourself, Erica.” he says at last, leaning back slightly in his chair. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge to it, a subtle probing beneath the surface. “You’re a fascinating woman, but you seem to guard your private life very carefully.”

Erica meets his gaze, her expression calm despite the undercurrent of tension in his words. She takes a piece of bread, tearing it apart methodically and dropping the pieces into her soup.
“It seems we have that in common, Darren,” she says with a faint smile. “I couldn’t find much about you either.”

Her words hang in the air, the challenge implicit but veiled in civility.
Cross chuckles, a low sound that feels more calculated than genuine. “Touché.” he says, lifting his glass in a mock toast before taking a measured sip. “But I’m sure you’ve heard the saying - ‘Those with nothing to hide rarely achieve anything worth hiding.’”

“True.” Erica concedes, stirring her soup slowly. Her smile remains, but her thoughts are racing. She knows this is no casual brunch between two equestrians; this is a verbal chess match, every word a potential move or feint.

Cross leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table, his focus entirely on her. “Tell me, Erica. How did you get so good in the saddle? I don’t think you’ve just been dabbling.”

Erica holds his gaze, her smile never wavering. “It’s been a long time since I’ve ridden regularly.” she admits. “But it’s like riding a bicycle. You don’t unlearn it.”

“I suppose not.” Cross replies, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he’s trying to see past the surface.
Erica takes a careful sip of her water, keeping her expression serene. She knows the game is just beginning, and she intends to play it well.


~~~


Erica leans forward slightly, her spoon dipping into the bowl of soup as she speaks, her voice measured but with a faint edge of candor. “Let me trust you with a little secret, Darren.” She pauses, allowing the words to linger just long enough to pique his curiosity. “When we were racing, I was mostly hanging on for dear life…”

Cross chuckles, the sound low and deliberate as he rests his chin on his interlaced fingers. His gaze is steady, unblinking, as though he’s trying to peel back the layers of her words to uncover the truth beneath. “Of course.” he replies smoothly. “And the horse did all the work. You’re really good at not showing your cards, Erica.”

She matches his gaze with a slight smile, leaning back in her chair and pushing the nearly empty soup bowl away. Her movements are relaxed, but her mind remains alert. “In my line of business, that’s part of the job description.” she says evenly. “My clients wouldn’t have it otherwise, I believe.”

“I believe so, too.” Cross says, his lips curling into a faint smirk. He tilts his head, studying her like a chess player contemplating his next move. “From what I could gather, you have an impressive portfolio of clients - and enemies.”

Erica’s brow arches ever so slightly. “Enemies?” She echoes, her tone light but with an undercurrent of caution.

Cross leans back in his chair, his posture exuding confidence as he taps his fingers together. “Your little brush with Tony Maze made it into The Times - above the fold, no less.” He pauses, savoring the moment before adding, “I’d call that impressive.”

Erica’s smile falters for the briefest moment, her fingers instinctively moving to adjust the Rolex dive watch on her left wrist. She glances down at her hands, her expression momentarily thoughtful. “I could have done without that brush, Darren.” she says, her voice quieter now, tinged with something akin to regret. “But sometimes, there are no options.”

“True.” Cross agrees, nodding as though they’ve just reached some shared understanding. “I admire people who see something through despite adversity.”

He rises from his seat, the motion fluid and deliberate, and walks over to the buffet. With an air of casual authority, he begins piling food onto his plate - roast potatoes, crisp green beans, carrots glazed to perfection, and slices of three different meats.
His voice floats back to her as he gestures to the spread. “Speaking of seeing things through - there are lots of options for you at the buffet, Erica.”

Erica stands as well, her movements graceful and deliberate. She joins him at the buffet, selecting slices of roast beef, creamy mashed potatoes, and a modest portion of green beans. She carefully pours a thin stream of gravy over the beef, the rich aroma wafting up as she does.

“My compliments to your chef, Darren.” she says as she returns to her seat. She picks up her fork and knife, cutting into the tender beef. “This is delicious.”

Cross smiles as he sits down, setting his plate before him with an air of satisfaction. “Only the best, Erica.” he says, lifting his knife to slice into his meal. “That’s my philosophy in business and in life.”

Erica nods, chewing slowly as she watches him, her mind turning over his words. There’s a double meaning there - she’s certain of it - but she decides not to press. Instead, she lets the silence stretch for a moment, the sound of their cutlery on fine china the only interruption.

Cross finally breaks the silence, leaning forward slightly as he speaks. “Tell me, Erica,” he says, his voice smooth but laced with an unmistakable sharpness. “When you were dealing with Maze, did you ever think about walking away? Taking the safer route?”

Erica meets his gaze head-on, her fork paused midway to her mouth. Her voice is calm but resolute as she answers, “I don’t think the safer route was ever an option, Darren. Not for me.”

He smiles faintly, his eyes glinting with something between admiration and calculation. “I thought you might say that.”

Erica sets her fork down, her gaze steady and unwavering. The conversation feels like a chess match, each move deliberate, every word chosen with care. Her answer wasn’t even a lie. For her, not confronting Tony Maze and not making every effort to rescue her friend Andrea had never been an option.

She takes a measured sip of water, the chilled liquid a small comfort as she braces herself for whatever Darren Cross might throw at her next.

“You know,” she begins softly, her voice barely above a whisper but cutting through the room with precision. “What The Times didn’t write was that Maze had kidnapped someone very dear to me. Her life was on the line.”

Cross tilts his head slightly, his gaze sharp and probing as if trying to dissect her words. “So you risked yours to save hers?” he muses, his tone calm but laced with curiosity. “Is this who you are, Erica? Loyal to the grave? You got shot, if I remember the article correctly.”

“You do remember correctly.” Erica’s voice is quiet but firm, her eyes meeting his without flinching. “It was a very close-run thing,” she admits, her fingers brushing the edge of her water glass. “But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

Cross leans back in his chair, his expression unreadable, though his eyes glint with something she can’t quite place - admiration? Amusement? Calculation?
“I hope you got rewarded generously for your bravery.” he says, his tone almost conversational, though there’s an edge to his words.

“Well,” Erica begins, her lips curving into a faint, almost self-deprecating smile. “No good deed ever goes unpunished, as they say.” She picks up her knife, slicing into the tender roast beef with a precision that mirrors her words and adds a little lie.
“I lost a couple of important clients because of it. They didn’t appreciate my name above the fold so much.”

Cross chuckles softly, the sound low and resonant, almost like a ripple in still water. “Short-sighted of them.” he remarks, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies her. “Loyalty like yours isn’t something you find every day.”

Erica shrugs, taking another bite of the roast beef and chewing thoughtfully. “Not everyone sees it that way.” she replies simply. Her voice is steady, but there’s a quiet note of bitterness beneath the surface - a subtle glimpse into the toll her decisions have taken on her life and career. Not by Maze’s hand, but by her own.

Cross leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on the table as his fingers lace together. The movement is casual, but his gaze is anything but.
“Maybe I can reward you, Erica.” he says, his voice dropping into a lower, almost conspiratorial tone. “I told you - I only hire the best. And maybe I have a business opportunity for you.”

Erica raises an eyebrow, her interest piqued despite herself. “A business opportunity?” she echoes, keeping her tone neutral but letting just enough curiosity slip through to encourage him to elaborate.

Cross nods slowly, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips, like a man savoring a secret only he knows. “Let’s just say I’ve been looking for someone with your particular attributes.” he says, his eyes locking onto hers. “Someone who actually is loyal and feels that loyalty deserves a reward.”

Erica leans back in her chair, her arms resting lightly on the table. “That’s quite an endorsement.” she says, her voice carefully measured. But her mind is spinning. Is he genuinely considering me for a business deal, or is this just another way to test me? Either way, I need to tread carefully.
“But,” she continues after a beat, “I’d need to know more about what you’re offering before I can even consider it.”

“Of course.” Cross says smoothly, his smile widening ever so slightly. “Let’s finish our meal first. Business talk can wait - just a little.”

Erica nods, her expression composed, though her mind is already working through the angles. This isn’t just brunch, and Cross isn’t just a charming host. Every word, every glance, every subtle shift in his demeanor feels like a calculated move in a game I’ve only begun to understand.
But she’s played games like this before - and she knows how to win.


~~~

[LunaDog]

Sorry i haven't been around, Jenny, like most people here i have had trouble 'logging in.'

[Jenny_S]

Dear @LunaDog, I'm so glad you're back. If you want to finish "Erica Sinclair - The Haven", you can find it futher down on TUG or on my Wattpad page https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing
And then, of course, the current story you are following. Enjoy!

[Jenny_S]

As if nothing had happened, Cross and Erica finish their meal, their conversation drifting toward lighter, meaningless topics - horse breeds, his favorite vacation spots, even a mutual appreciation for the changing seasons in the Hamptons. But beneath the surface, the tension simmers, unspoken but palpable.
When Erica compliments him on the fabulous brunch, Cross’s smile takes on a slightly smug edge.
“Louis is a Michelin-star chef.” he says, with a casual wave of his hand. “The downside is that once you get used to his first-class cooking, it’s hard not to gain weight.”

Erica smiles politely, hiding her amusement at his boastfulness. It seems Cross can’t resist reminding others of the life he’s built, his every comment another brick in the carefully constructed image of a man who has it all. And to be fair, it’s an impressive image.

While Erica is far from struggling and lives comfortably herself, the scale of Cross’s world feels like something out of a movie - an estimated 60 or so employees to manage the estate, including a butler to oversee the house staff, groundskeepers, horse wranglers, and possibly an unseen layer of security guards who remain invisible to all but the initiated.
It’s a life of precision and opulence, one she can’t help but find fascinating, even if it’s not something she can picture for herself.

“Can I interest you in an espresso?” Cross asks smoothly as Erica finishes the last bite of her dessert.

“Absolutely.” she replies, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with her napkin before setting it down neatly.

“We’ll take it in the sitting room.” Cross decides, rising from his chair with a feline grace. He walks around the table to hold the door open for her. Erica steps through, noting how the polished dark wood of the dining room gives way to the same understated elegance in the rest of the house.

Cross leads the way across the hall to another room, equally luxurious yet somehow more inviting. The sitting room features lushly upholstered leather armchairs and sofas arranged around a low cut glass coffee table, flanked by a grand piano on one side and a set of floor-to-ceiling windows on the other. The early afternoon’s sunlight filters through sheer drapes, casting a warm glow over the rich hues of the furniture and the Persian rug beneath their feet.

“Baker,” Cross says, his voice carrying an effortless authority, as the majordomo seems to materialize out of nowhere. “Could you please arrange due espressi for Miss Sinclair and me?”

“Momentarily, sir.” Baker replies with a slight bow before vanishing as quietly as he appeared.

“Have a seat, Erica.” Cross says, motioning toward a deep, inviting armchair.

Erica moves to the chair, the buttery leather cool against her hands as she lowers herself into it. The chair is more comfortable than it looks, molding to her as she sinks back. She crosses her legs, her movements deliberate, controlled. This isn’t just coffee; it’s another move in the game, another layer to peel back as they continue their subtle dance of power and intrigue.
Cross takes a seat across from her, the commanding presence of the room somehow seeming to center around him.

“I hope you’ve enjoyed yourself so far.” he says, his voice light, but his eyes watching her closely, as if her every gesture might reveal something more than she intends.

Erica smiles faintly, resting her hands lightly on the armrests. “I’d say it’s been quite an experience.” she replies, her tone measured but with just enough warmth to leave him guessing whether she’s merely polite or genuinely impressed.

Before either of them can speak again, Baker glides back into the room, his every movement silent and precise. He carries a gleaming silver tray with two espresso cups, their delicate porcelain glinting under the soft light. Without a word, he places the tray on the coffee table, arranges it to perfection, and disappears once more, leaving the room steeped in an almost tangible quiet.

Cross leans forward, his fingers curling around one of the small cups. He extends it to her, his movements deliberate, his expression unreadable. “To loyalty.” he says, his voice soft but firm, the weight of his gaze pressing on hers.

Erica accepts the cup, their fingers brushing just briefly - a fleeting touch that sparks more tension than either would acknowledge aloud. She mirrors his gesture, raising the cup.
“To loyalty.” she echoes, her voice calm, though the undercurrent of challenge in her tone doesn’t go unnoticed. “Noblest of virtues.”

The espresso is hot and smooth, its bitterness grounding her even as her mind races. She’s aware of how calculated every moment feels, as if the coffee, the room, even the silence, is part of some unspoken strategy.

Her eyes drift to the polished black piano in the corner.
“Do you play?” she asks, tilting her head slightly toward it, the question light, almost teasing - a subtle shift to throw him off balance, if only a little.

Cross sips his espresso, his lips curving into a faint, almost self-satisfied smile. “I do. My parents insisted I learn an instrument. Said it was part of a proper education.” His tone is casual, but there’s a hint of pride in it.

Placing his empty cup back on the coffee table, he adjusts the cuffs of his shirt with practiced ease, the movement purposeful, like everything else he does. Then, he leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, and his expression hardens just enough to signal a shift in the conversation.

“I think we’ve been dancing around the real reason for this meeting long enough, Erica.” His voice drops slightly, the air between them thickening. “I was serious when I said I only enlist the best. And I wasn’t lying when I said I might have a business opportunity for you.”

Erica’s grip tightens slightly on the espresso cup, though her face remains an unreadable mask. Her courtroom face, she thinks to herself - the one she wears when an opposing counsel is grasping at straws, trying to rattle her.

She takes one last sip of the espresso, then sets the cup down gently, the porcelain clicking softly against the saucer. “Of course.” she says evenly. “Let’s hear it, Darren.”

Cross’s smile returns, though it’s sharper now, edged with the satisfaction of someone moving their chess piece with precision. “I have recently acquired a company that deals in importing and exporting recyclable materials,” he begins. His tone is conversational, but his words are chosen with care, each one a calculated move. “We buy materials from an exporter in Mexico and sell them to a middleman who, in turn, sells to China.”

Erica nods slowly, her expression betraying nothing, though her mind is working quickly. The mention of Mexico is the first crack in the polished surface. She leans back slightly, interlacing her fingers, giving herself just enough space to think. “I see.” she says, her tone measured. “But why go through a middleman? Why not deal with the Chinese directly?”

Cross’s eyes narrow, his smile tightening. “With the Chinese, it’s all about trust.” he says. “I have connections - many, in fact - but not the kind that reach into the Chinese government. Not yet.”

There it is. The Mexican connection. Erica meets his gaze, her own sharpening as if to say, I realize what you’re doing, Darren. But aloud, she simply says, “That makes sense.”

For a moment, the silence stretches between them, taut like a wire ready to snap. Erica knows this isn’t just about recycling or logistics. It’s a test - a game of wit and strategy, and she’s not about to lose.

Erica breaks the silence, leaning forward slightly, her elbows resting lightly on her knees. Her tone is calm, almost curious, but there’s an edge to it - a subtle challenge. “Why do you think I’d be interested in this venture, Darren?” She tilts her head, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m a lawyer. Not a businesswoman.”

Cross chuckles softly, the sound low and rich, as if he’d been anticipating her response. He leans back in his seat, one arm draped casually over the armrest, the picture of effortless confidence. “True.” he concedes, his gaze steady on hers. “But you’re not just any lawyer, are you? You’re someone who gets things done. Someone who knows how to navigate complex situations. And someone who - if I may be so bold - has a knack for finding opportunities where others see obstacles.”

Erica’s lips curve into a faint smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s a very flattering assessment.” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “But navigating the law and navigating the business world are two very different things.”

Cross shrugs, the movement almost dismissive. “Different, yes. But not incompatible. You’ve handled high-stakes cases, Erica. A few of them took more than just legal expertise. Besides your loyalty you have strategy, foresight and courage.”
He pauses, letting the words hang in the air between them. “Those qualities aren’t limited to the courtroom.”

Erica studies him for a moment, her expression unreadable. She knows what he’s doing - dangling the bait just out of reach, framing his proposition as not just an opportunity, but a challenge. And she can’t deny that part of her - the part that thrives on solving puzzles and outmaneuvering opponents - is intrigued. But she also knows better than to let him see that.

“And this venture of yours,” she says slowly, choosing her words with care, “what exactly would you need from me? Because if you’re looking for someone to handle the legal side of things, I can recommend a number of excellent firms that specialize in international trade.”

Cross’s smile deepens, and for the first time, there’s a flicker of something darker in his eyes. “I’m not looking for a law firm, Erica.” he says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I’m looking for someone I can trust. Someone who can think on their feet. Someone who knows how to handle a situation and herself when things don’t go according to plan.”

The weight of his words settles over the room, and Erica feels her pulse quicken, though she keeps her expression composed. This is no longer just a conversation about business. It’s something else entirely - something with stakes she can’t yet fully see.
“You’re making it sound like more than just importing and exporting recyclable materials.” she says, her voice carefully even.

Cross leans forward again, his elbows resting on his knees, and for the first time, his gaze softens - just slightly. “Everything worth doing has its complexities.” he says. “There’s a lot of money to be made and I wouldn’t offer you this if I didn’t think you were capable.”

Erica considers him for a long moment, her mind racing. She’s played games like this before - games of power and persuasion, where the real stakes are hidden beneath layers of carefully chosen words. And she knows one thing for certain: Darren Cross doesn’t make casual offers. Whatever he’s proposing, it’s not just business. It’s something much bigger.
And if she says yes, it will change everything.

But for now, she gives him a small, enigmatic smile and leans back in her chair. “I’ll think about it.” she says simply, her tone giving nothing away.

Cross smiles back, but there’s a glint of satisfaction in his eyes, as if her response was exactly what he’d hoped for. “That’s all I ask.” he says, lifting his espresso cup once more in a silent toast.

Erica picks up her own cup, the rich aroma swirling around her as she sips the last of the coffee. The game is on, and she knows she’s just taken the first move. But what kind of game it is - and whether she can win - remains to be seen.


~~~