Erica Sinclair - The Leland Case Self-F/F

[Jenny_S]

In this second Erica Sinclair adventure, Mark Leland, a powerful CEO, is charged with the murder of his wife.
Melissa Leland was found dead, tied to her bed, gagged and strangled with a zip tie...
Erica Sinclair is brought in not only to defend Mark Leland, but to make sure that his image remains clean. While investigating the murder, Erica seems to be running into walls of silence, but as she digs deeper, she gets into lethal danger herself.

[Jenny_S]

Late evening has settled over Erica's apartment on the Upper West Side, casting a soft glow through the partially closed blinds. The muted hum of the city filters in faintly, a distant reminder of the world outside her dimly lit bedroom. In contrast to the cool, detached calm of her high-rise sanctuary, the scene on her bed is raw and disordered.

Erica’s toned, athletic body strains against the cold, unyielding police-grade steel handcuffs that bind her wrists to the headboard. Her arms are stretched taut, pulling her up slightly, leaving her muscles tense with the effort. Her breath comes in sharp, ragged bursts as she twists, testing the limits of her restraints. The subtle sheen of sweat glistens on her skin under the soft light, her naked form exposed and vulnerable yet showing the marks of someone who’s always in control of her life.

Her business clothes lie discarded around the room, flung carelessly as if torn from her in haste. A rumpled blouse hangs off the edge of a Hillhouse designer chair, her skirt lying in a heap on the floor. It’s a strange contrast: the remnants of her professional life scattered amidst the intimacy of her bedroom.

A rag is shoved into her mouth, a makeshift gag that silences her but isn’t quite perfect - the fabric pokes out slightly, allowing her to moan and groan softly. Each sound is muffled, suppressed, but layered with a mix of frustration and something deeper, something primal. The cotton ropes binding her ankles to the lower corners of the queen-sized bed are softer than the cuffs but equally effective. Every movement causes them to tug and strain against her skin, holding her firmly in place.

Her back arches involuntarily, her body reacting to the tension, each shift a mix of resistance and surrender. There’s no one else in the room - no captor, no lover, just Erica and the restraints. Alone. Her body fights against the bindings, but her eyes, partially closed in focus, betray the internal struggle. She's not just battling against the cuffs or the ropes; she's wrestling with something within herself.

The room feels small in this moment, intimate, as if the city outside has disappeared. The only sounds are her labored breathing, the soft clinking of the cuffs, and the faint murmur of New York far below. Time seems to stretch on, each second drawing out the isolation of the scene, a strange quiet in the otherwise chaotic life of Erica Sinclair…

The soft buzz of Erica's smartphone pierces through the quiet intensity of her self-imposed captivity, dragging her back from the edges of her controlled peril. She opens her eyes, blinking against the dim light as she spots the glowing screen on her dresser. An unfamiliar number flashes, but the call itself feels intrusive, pulling her out of the private world she has carefully constructed for herself.

She groans into her gag, a low sound of frustration muffled by the rag still wedged between her teeth. “Next time, I'll mute the damned phone.” she thinks, annoyed with the oversight.

With deliberate effort, Erica reaches up toward the headboard. The slight burn in her shoulders reminds her of how tautly she'd been stretched, but the movement is familiar, something she's done countless times. Taped securely to the wooden slats of the headboard, just out of easy reach, are the keys to her cuffs. She peels them off, a small victory in the challenge she secretly enjoys - reaching the keys, unlocking herself, never too easy, never too quick.


The phone buzzes once more before falling silent, just as the metallic click of the handcuffs echoes softly in the room. One wrist is free, then the other, the cold steel slipping away from her skin. She sits up, her muscles aching pleasantly as she pulls the rag from her mouth, balling it up in her hand and tossing it into the laundry basket in the corner with practiced indifference. The rough fabric has left her lips and jaw slightly tender, but she’s used to it by now.

Erica stretches her neck, rolling her shoulders forward and back as she glances again at the phone. The number isn't familiar, which sparks curiosity but not urgency. Still, it's enough to break the trance she’d been in. As she unties the ropes around her ankles, her fingers move swiftly, automatically - it’s a process she could do in her sleep at this point. Each rope falls away from her skin with an ease that contrasts the tension they had held moments before.

She picks up the phone and stares at the number on the screen for a moment, then, with a quick tap, she hits the call-back button. The electronic hum of the phone connecting fills the silence of the room as she runs her free hand through her tousled hair, her breath finally starting to slow and steady.

Her heart races slightly, though, as the line clicks. The call connects.


"Thank you for calling me back, Miss Sinclair!" A smooth, professional female voice answers Erica's callback. Erica, still sitting on the edge of her bed, naked but already shifting her focus from her personal indulgence to her business mindset, straightens her posture. She tries to place the accent from the few words, but it’s elusive.
"I've been calling on behalf of Mark Leland. I'm Vanessa Ainsley, his personal assistant."
Erica’s brow furrows. She knows the names of many influential figures from her work - CEOs, hedge fund managers, political players - but the name Mark Leland doesn't register immediately.
"What can I do for you, Miss Ainsley?" Erica responds, her tone professional, masking any hint of the fact that moments earlier she had been lost in a completely different world.
"I'm terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour, Miss Sinclair." Vanessa continues, her voice tinged with an elegant urgency. "But my boss, Mark Leland, has been arrested. The police suspect him of... of murdering his wife. Or at least, they’re charging him with manslaughter. He's in a holding cell right now, and I've been tasked with finding the best possible lawyer to handle his defense."
Erica’s pulse quickens slightly as the severity of the situation dawns on her. High-profile cases like this could be career-defining, but they were also fraught with complexity and, more often than not, media scrutiny. She stands up, crossing to her walk-in closet while holding the phone, fully aware that her personal indulgences will have to wait.
"And you believe I’m the best lawyer for the job?" Erica asks, already weighing the possibilities in her mind.
"Absolutely." Vanessa replies. Her voice is poised, confident, and entirely sure of herself. "Mr. Leland needs someone with your reputation, your precision in handling cases under public scrutiny. This is a delicate matter, and it cannot be left to anyone but the best."
Erica turns toward the tall mirror in her room, running a hand through her tousled blonde hair, silently contemplating.
"Alright, Miss Ainsley." she says after a pause. "I’ll need more details about the case. What do we know about the charges?"

Vanessa Ainsley doesn’t miss a beat. "I’ve prepared everything you’ll need in a concise file. Given the sensitivity of the case, I believe it’s better discussed in person. Would you be available to meet me at Mr. Leland's corporate office? Furrow International headquarters, Broad Street."
Erica pauses, recognizing the weight of the name. Furrow International, a global powerhouse with interests in everything from finance to technology, isn’t just a prestigious client - it’s a behemoth. High-profile clients like this mean visibility, but they also mean high stakes. Every word would matter, every move scrutinized.
Checking her Rolex dive watch - a cherished gift from her father, marking the culmination of her years at Harvard Law - Erica notices the time. Despite the late hour, she feels a sense of obligation and intrigue rising within her. “I’ll be there in 45 minutes.” she responds, her voice firm.
"Thank you, Miss Sinclair. I'll be waiting." Vanessa Ainsley replies, before hanging up.
The line disconnects, and Erica stands, stretching her arms above her head to work out the stiffness in her muscles. She glances at herself in the tall mirror, her reflection revealing nothing of the world she’s just pulled herself out of. Her strong, toned body is still a little sore, but there’s no time to linger on that. There never is.

Efficiently, she unties the ropes at the bottom corners of her bed, neatly coiling them up before stowing them in the plastic bin underneath, where the handcuffs and other... personal items rest. The transition back to her professional self is almost seamless.

Methodically, she dresses herself in her usual no-nonsense business attire - a perfectly tailored black pencil skirt, a crisp white blouse, and a sharp blazer. She pulls her blonde hair into a high ponytail, giving herself one final glance in the mirror. She’s no longer Erica, the woman who indulges in hidden desires. She’s Erica Sinclair, the elite defense attorney ready for anything.
After checking the contents of her handbag - phone, wallet, keys - she steps out of her apartment and rides the elevator down to the underground parking level. The late evening air of the Upper West Side greets her as she climbs into her black Volvo SUV, setting off for Broad Street.

[LunaDog]

Intriguing and interesting.

[Jenny_S]

Erica pulls up outside Furrow International’s gleaming glass skyscraper, the streets quieter than usual at this hour. The lobby is surprisingly well-lit for such a late time, a security guard nodding at her as she strides through the revolving doors. The elevator ride to the Executive Floor is swift, depositing her in a hallway lined with artwork and minimalist décor, where Vanessa Ainsley waits near the entrance to the office suite. She’s impeccably dressed in a tailored navy-blue skirt suit that complements her slender frame and flawless posture. Her chestnut-brown hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, and a hint of tasteful makeup highlights her sharp cheekbones. As Vanessa turns to greet Erica, her lips curl into a subtle, practiced smile.

For a moment, they silently appraise one another. Erica’s eyes flicker over Vanessa’s appearance - the perfect tailoring of her suit, the understated but elegant jewelry adorning her neck and ears. Then she catches the slight flash of Vanessa’s left hand. No wedding ring. Of course not, Erica thinks. She knows Vanessa’s type: career-driven, married to the company, her identity intertwined with Furrow International’s ambitions and successes. The kind of woman who measures her worth not by her personal life but by her professional accolades. It takes not more than one look to notice the way she radiates the presence of quiet authority of someone who commands respect in any boardroom she steps into.
In that sense, Erica can’t help but recognize a reflection of herself in Vanessa. Single, successful, and always slightly overworked, she too has little interest or time for the dating game. Erica’s looks and confidence could attract suitors, but at this stage in her life, who has the energy for something as trivial as romance?

Vanessa, meanwhile, takes in Erica’s appearance with equal scrutiny. The well-cut suit and perfectly applied makeup show off Erica’s no-nonsense style. But what draws Vanessa’s attention is the way Erica carries herself - an unmistakable confidence tinged with something darker, a subtle intensity that lingers beneath the professional exterior. She knows Erica can feel her sizing her up, but she’s not hiding it. This is a game of appearances, and they both know it.
Behind Vanessa’s warm, carefully practiced smile, Erica senses a disquiet. She’s hiding something. The polished, unflappable facade Vanessa Ainsley wears so well can’t entirely conceal the weight behind her eyes - the look of someone who’s guarded, protecting more than just the reputation of her boss. Interesting. There’s more to Vanessa Ainsley than meets the eye, and whatever it is, Erica is sure it would make for a very intriguing story - or a very valuable piece of leverage.

The silence is broken by Vanessa’s voice, smooth and pleasant, yet with a calculated edge. “Miss Sinclair.” she greets, extending a well-manicured hand. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person. Thank you for coming at such short notice.“
“Of course.” Erica replies, eyeing her carefully. “It sounded urgent.”
“It is.” Vanessa says, leading Erica toward a glass-walled office. “Before we get into the details, I want to assure you that Mr. Leland is fully prepared to offer you whatever resources you need for this case. He knows your reputation and trusts that you’re the best person to represent him.”
They enter the office, where a thick folder rests on the glass desk, its contents organized and neatly labeled. Vanessa gestures for Erica to sit on a red leather chair across from her as she remains standing, giving off a calm, collected energy despite the gravity of the situation.

Erica leans back in the chair, crossing her legs, her expression one of practiced neutrality. “I’ll need to hear the full story before I agree to anything.”
Vanessa nods, opening the folder and handing Erica a summary sheet.
“Mr Mark Leland, CEO of Furrow International, was arrested late this afternoon.” Vanessa begins, her tone now more serious. “He’s being accused of murdering his wife, Melissa Leland. The details are sensitive, to say the least. She was found in their bedroom, tied to the bed, strangled with a zip tie. The police are treating it as a homicide, and because there were no signs of a break-in, Mark – Mr Leland - is their primary suspect.”
Erica’s brow furrows slightly as she reads through the summary. No forced entry, a restrained victim - it doesn’t take long for her sharp mind to piece together why the husband would be suspect number one.
“Does he have an alibi?”

Vanessa hesitates. “He does, but it’s complicated. He was with someone that night, but it’s not something he can easily disclose. The person is... well, someone he can’t name. At least, not without creating an even bigger scandal.”
Erica arches an eyebrow. “A powerful someone, I assume?”
“Exactly.” Vanessa says, her voice low, almost conspiratorial. “He can’t afford to name names, but that’s where we need you - to help navigate this.”
Erica nods, considering the weight of the situation. This wasn’t just a murder case; this was a high-profile mess involving one of the most influential men in the city. “What do the police have?”
“Primarily, they’re banking on the lack of a break-in, the fact that Melissa was restrained, and... well, let’s just say some compromising details that make it look like this wasn’t a random attack.”
“I see.” Erica sets the sheet down, her mind already churning through potential defenses and strategies. “And you want me to handle this.”
“Absolutely.” Vanessa says. “Mr. Leland needs the best. He needs you.”

Erica sits back in her chair, fingers lightly tapping the edge of the dossier Vanessa handed her, the weight of the situation heavy between them. She knows she can’t make any promises, not without thoroughly reading the dossier, which, of course, is written from Vanessa's perspective, and comparing it to the police file, the charges, and, most importantly, speaking to Mark Leland in person. Her mind races ahead, mapping out the first steps.

“We’ll want to move quickly.” Erica says, her tone calm but calculated. “The first thing we should aim for is getting Mr Leland released on bail. It’s the most immediate concern.” She watches Vanessa closely as she continues. “It’ll depend on the judge, of course, but given his profile, it’s unlikely the court will think he’ll flee. A man like him, with his reputation and public presence, won’t be making a run for the Mexican border, or be sneaking off to South America in a private jet.”

Vanessa’s lips curl, just slightly, betraying a flicker of discomfort. It’s subtle, but Erica catches it. The thought of Mark’s reputation, combined with his potentially tarnished image, seems to ruffle the usually composed assistant. The reaction piques Erica’s curiosity. There’s more there, she thinks, something lurking beneath the surface of Vanessa’s professionalism.

Vanessa straightens herself, replying quickly, “The height of the bail won’t be a problem. Money isn’t an issue.”

“I’m sure it isn’t.” Erica says, nodding thoughtfully. “But remember, it’s not up to us to decide what the bail will be. The judge will determine that. I’ll present the release forms first thing in the morning.”

There’s a pause as Erica stands, a silent signal that their meeting is drawing to a close. “I’ll review everything tonight and let you know about my decision how to proceed after the request for release on bail.”

Vanessa rises too, smoothing the skirt of her suit, her eyes still following Erica intently. Erica can sense it - Vanessa understands she hasn’t fully agreed to take on the case yet. There’s a faint tension in the air as if they both understand the delicate dance they’re engaged in. For now, the power lies with Erica, and Vanessa, despite her well-prepared dossier and sharp professionalism, can’t hide the unease seeping through the cracks.

“Thank you for your time.” Vanessa says, though her words feel like a test, her eyes scanning Erica’s face, searching for some confirmation that hasn’t been given.

Erica nods curtly, gathering the dossier under her arm. “I’ll be in touch.”

As she walks toward the door, Erica catches a last glance of Vanessa, and a thought lingers in her mind: she’s hiding something. The facade of the calm, professional assistant is almost too perfect. There’s more behind those unreadable eyes, Erica is sure of it. But for now, her focus is on Mark Leland, the case - and getting him out on bail.

[Jenny_S]

Back at her Upper West Side apartment, Erica kicks off her heels with a soft sigh of relief. Her fingers brush lightly against the stack of papers Vanessa handed her earlier, still untouched. A high-profile case like this deserves her full attention, but she already knows it won’t be an easy one to navigate. She steps into the kitchen, reaching for her wine rack.

“Tonight calls for Nero d'Avola.” she thinks, selecting the bottle from the bottom row of the wooden wine rack. With practiced ease, she uncorks it, the rich aroma wafting up as she pours herself a generous glass. Not that she’s one to indulge often - especially not in alcohol - but after the evening’s whirlwind and the bombshell Vanessa dropped on her, a few sips of her favorite wine might help soften the edges of what’s about to unfold in those pages.

With a faint smile of anticipation, she settles onto her couch, legs tucked beneath her as she takes the first sip of the deep crimson wine. The warmth spreads slowly through her chest, and she sets the glass aside to finally confront the dossier.

The first few pages read like a profile of an elite businessman - Mark Leland, CEO of Furrow International, a global player in numerous sectors. A man who commands respect and influence. But as she dives deeper, the narrative shifts sharply. Newspaper clippings with headlines blaring his name alongside words like “arrest” and “prime suspect”. Photographs of a luxurious home now marked with crime scene tape, and a few grayed-out police reports with lines of redaction shielding details Erica knows she’ll need to uncover.

“This isn’t just about defending a powerful client.” she realizes, sipping her wine again. “It’s about keeping secrets.” Leland’s entanglement with another man’s wife isn’t just a complication - it’s a potential landmine, waiting to explode. The stakes aren’t merely professional, they’re personal for everyone involved.

She flips to another page, absorbing the information about Melissa Leland - successful in her own right, known in New York society circles for her philanthropic work. A woman with a poised demeanor, but underneath that, was there something else? A line catches Erica’s eye: “No signs of forced entry.” No struggle in the living room, no broken windows or picked locks.

Erica swirls the wine in her glass, watching the deep red liquid catch the dim light of her apartment. So Melissa let someone in. A lover, maybe? She reads further, finding scant details of the crime scene itself. “Tied to the bed.” the words jump out at her, vivid against the white paper. Her eyebrows furrow as she contemplates the implications.

“Who lets themselves get tied up like that, unless they trust the person? Unless they want it?” she thinks, the faintest shadow of a smirk tugging at her lips. “Or maybe... they crave it.”

Erica shifts on the couch, the soft leather creaking beneath her. The memory of her first experience at Simulated Activities flits through her mind. The exhilaration, the rush of fear and excitement, and the release that came with surrendering control. It’s an image she’s kept private, locked away even from herself most of the time. But now, it seems to surface unbidden.

She closes her eyes, imagining Melissa’s final moments. Was she expecting a lover? Was it someone she had known and trusted enough to play that dangerous game? Or... did someone manipulate her, lure her into that compromising position?

The scent of Nero d'Avola fills her senses as she brings the glass to her lips again, taking another slow sip. If Melissa had a secret life like that, it could explain the lack of struggle. Perhaps even her willingness to be restrained.

But then... what? Who could get that close, restrain her in her own bed, and then... kill her?

Erica shudders lightly, shaking off the thought. “No sense in jumping to conclusions without all the evidence.” she chides herself. She reaches for a pen and makes a few notes in the margins, circling key phrases that need more scrutiny.

One thing’s clear - Mark Leland might be innocent, but his wife’s death is far from straightforward. And if Melissa was tangled in some dark affair of her own, then they might be looking at a whole different set of suspects.

Erica’s hand hovers over the phone. “Time to dig deeper.” she thinks, already plotting her next move. “First step: secure bail. Second step: peel back the layers of Melissa’s life.”

With a flick of her wrist, she snaps the dossier shut. The last of her unease is gone. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, but she’s already feeling the familiar burn of excitement. This case - it’s different. It’s more than a murder. It’s a puzzle, and each twist of the narrative seems to draw her in more.

Draining the last of the wine, Erica stands, her gaze lingering on the cityscape outside her window. She’s ready to take this on. Whatever secrets the Lelands hold, she’ll uncover them.

And whatever Vanessa Ainsley is hiding behind those professional smiles... well, Erica’s sure she’ll get to that too.


Erica glances at the business card stapled to the front cover of the dossier. It’s minimalist, almost deceptively plain: the Furrow International logo embossed in silver, the name of Vanessa Ainsley, an email address, and a direct cell number. No title, no position. A faint smile plays on Erica’s lips.

This is the card of someone who doesn’t want or need to reveal what she does at the company. Someone with more influence than their title would suggest. It’s a subtle power move, and Erica can appreciate it.

She picks up her phone, fingers moving swiftly over the screen as she opens her business email account. Her message is short and to the point:

**Subject:** Case Acceptance
**Body:**
Ms Ainsley,
I'm on the case.
Erica Sinclair

Satisfied, Erica sends the email and sets her phone aside, watching as the screen dims and her reflection appears in the black glass. She wants this case. Every nerve in her body hums with anticipation, the thrill of the challenge coursing through her.

Rising from the couch, she walks into her bedroom. The polished surfaces gleam faintly under the soft light filtering through the curtains, the space neat and minimalistic. She unbuttons her blouse and slides it off her shoulders, the material whispering as it falls into her hands. With practiced ease, she finishes undressing, tossing her business attire into the laundry basket. Then she opens her wardrobe and pulls out a kimono of soft maroon silk, letting it glide over her bare skin.

The silk hugs her body, and Erica catches herself relishing its caress. It’s almost sensuous, a stark contrast to the hard-edged reality of her work and the demands of her career. With a final glance at the dark window reflecting the city lights, she slips under the cool sheets of her bed.

Grabbing her phone from the nightstand, she connects it to the charger. 02:35. Just enough time for a few hours of sleep before her phone’s alarm blares at 05:00 sharp, rousing her for her early morning run and the customary review of the news. It’s a ritual she rarely deviates from - a discipline she’s imposed on herself to stay sharp, focused.

Erica turns onto her right side, the cool silk brushing against her bare skin. Her mind still buzzes with fragments of information, the allure of the case, and the possibilities it holds. Despite herself, her thoughts drift back to Melissa Leland.

Melissa was tied up, she recalls. The details are there in the report: wrists bound to the bedposts, ankles secured, and a single zip tie, brutally efficient, wrapped around her neck. A quick death, but not an easy one. Erica shivers, a strange mixture of revulsion and curiosity washing over her.

Images start to form unbidden in her mind - gloved hands working methodically, tightening restraints, lingering near the line between pleasure and pain. She imagines Melissa’s body, vulnerable and exposed, caught between surrender and desperation. Who would do this? And why?

The silk sheets rustle as Erica shifts, her breath deepening as sleep begins to pull her under. She can almost see it: a shadowed figure, faceless and precise, pulling the zip tie tight until...

Erica’s eyes snap open, but only for a moment. “It’s just the case.” she tells herself. Just the case. But the line between her professional life and her darker thoughts blurs a little more tonight.

With a final sigh, Erica surrenders to sleep, the faint echo of Melissa Leland’s imagined struggle trailing her into her dreams.

[Jenny_S]

The familiar chime of her phone’s alarm cuts through the remnants of Erica’s wine-fueled sleep. Groggily, she reaches out to silence it, the abrupt noise fading into the stillness of her bedroom. Erica blinks in the dim light, her fingers lingering near her sex. She exhales slowly, a quiet groan escaping her lips. “Damn it.” She’s done it again - fallen into the kind of dream that leaves her feeling restless and charged, like she’s brushed too close to some hidden edge.

She shakes her head, trying to dispel the lingering sensations, and shifts to sit upright. “Not now.” she scolds herself silently. This isn’t the time to indulge in whatever dark fantasies her subconscious keeps digging up. For a moment, she bites down on her lower lip, grounding herself in the sharpness of the sensation, then swings her legs out of bed, her bare feet touching the cool hardwood floor.

With practiced efficiency, she pulls on her running tights, the snug fit providing a sense of control she can’t quite name. A long-sleeved, body-hugging athletic top follows, the fabric stretching taut over her toned frame. She laces up her running shoes, adjusting the fit until they feel perfect. It’s a comforting routine, anchoring her back in reality.

She doesn’t bother with earbuds - she never does, not when running through Manhattan’s unpredictable traffic. Instead, she tucks her phone and both sets of keys - the ones to her apartment and the one to the building’s front door - into the narrow zippered pocket built into her top. After a quick stretch to loosen her muscles, Erica heads downstairs to the street in the elevator.

The early morning air is crisp and clear, the faint hum of the city just starting to stir. Erica begins with a brisk walk to warm up, then breaks into a steady run. Her breath falls into a familiar rhythm as she moves through the hushed streets and into Central Park. She likes the solitude of the park at this hour - the way it lets her push her body without distraction, her mind free to wander.

Five miles flash by in just over thirty-six minutes, her pace strong and consistent. A day without this early morning ritual would feel incomplete, she muses as she finishes her circuit and jogs back to her apartment. But she doubts she’ll have time for the gym during lunch today. “Too much to do, too many loose ends to tie up.” Leland’s case is already demanding her focus, crowding out the usual spaces in her schedule.

Back at the apartment, Erica peels off her sweat-soaked clothes and steps into the shower. The hot water sluices over her skin, washing away the remnants of sleep and sweat, leaving her feeling sharp and awake. She quickly dries off and changes into a comfortable grey sweatsuit before heading to the kitchen for breakfast.

Sitting on her plush sofa, Erica enjoys her carefully portioned, protein-rich meal in front of the big TV screen. She’s barely started when the news cuts to a recap report that makes her pause.

On-screen, reporter Candice Summers stands in front of a stately mansion, yellow police tape stark against the manicured lawn and elegant façade of what is clearly a high-end property. “The Leland residence.” Erica realizes, her fork pausing halfway to her mouth.

“…the brutal murder of Melissa Leland, wife of Furrow International’s CEO, Mark Leland.” Summers reports. The camera cuts to a brief video clip of Mark Leland being led away in handcuffs, his face set in a grim, almost defiant expression.

“He was at the residence!” Erica’s eyes narrow, her mind clicking through the implications. Did Leland call the police upon returning home? Was he the one who found Melissa’s body? She scowls at the screen. How could Vanessa Ainsley forget to include such a crucial detail? Or had she deliberately left it out?

The camera shifts back to Summers, who continues speaking, the details a blur of words in Erica’s mind. Questions swirl: If Leland returned home and found his wife bound and strangled, why didn’t Vanessa mention this? Could it have been to protect him? Or did it expose a darker truth about what really happened that night?

The need to speak to Mark Leland, to hear his account directly, without any filters or omissions, becomes a priority.
She shoves aside the half-eaten breakfast and stands, pacing in front of the TV as she replays the news segment in her mind. She must get to the police station and find out what’s in the official record. If Leland made that 911 call, it would change the dynamics of the case entirely.

Erica grabs her phone, scrolling to Vanessa Ainsley’s number in her recent calls list. Her finger hovers over the screen for a moment. There’s no point confronting Vanessa now, not without more information. Instead, she turns off the TV and begins mentally preparing for the day ahead.

“Mark Leland’s story has more holes than Swiss cheese.” she thinks grimly. She’s going to have to stitch them together one by one, starting with the most basic question: Why did the police zero in on him so quickly? And who else might have had access to the Leland residence that night?

Erica looks out the window at the dark city skyline, the weight of the case settling over her like a heavy mantle. Time to get to work.




The cool morning breeze follows Erica into the lobby of her Manhattan office building. She greets the security guard with a brief nod, takes the elevator up to the twenty-third floor, and walks through the sleek glass doors of Sinclair & Associates. The office is still quiet, the soft hum of computers and the distant clicking of keyboards the only sounds that punctuate the silence. Only a handful of early risers have made it in so far, scattered across the open floor plan that overlooks Midtown Manhattan.

Erica strides through the office. She’s always been known for working her team hard but fair, and it shows in the respect she commands with just a glance. Reaching her private office at the end of the corridor, she unlocks the door and steps inside, the polished wood and minimalist décor a stark contrast to the cozy messiness of her apartment.

Once seated at her expansive desk, she taps her keyboard and brings up the list of active cases she’s overseeing. There’s a variety of work in play: a messy corporate takeover battle, a class-action suit against a pharmaceutical giant, and a high-profile defamation case involving a celebrity client. Each one is demanding in its own right, but nothing like the complexity of what she’s about to undertake with Leland’s defense.

She exhales softly, her eyes scanning the list: Time to delegate.

Pulling up the necessary files, Erica shoots off a series of emails to her senior associates, briefly summarizing what she needs them to handle. Each email is precise and to the point - she knows how to direct her team’s focus without overwhelming them. Within minutes, her cases are reassigned to capable hands, allowing her to free up space on her plate. She’ll stay informed, of course, but for now, all roads lead to one destination: Mark Leland.

Satisfied, she leans back in her chair and glances at the dossier Vanessa Ainsley provided. Vanessa’s immaculate presentation is apparent in every detail, and Erica has to admit that it’s more comprehensive than she initially expected. Yet it seems to lack important details…
She pulls out a folded letter that Vanessa had tucked inside - a letter on Furrow International letterhead, signed by Mark Leland himself.

To Whom It May Concern:

This letter confirms that I, Mark Leland, CEO of Furrow International, have retained Ms Erica Sinclair of Sinclair & Associates as my legal representative in the matter of the ongoing investigation and related charges against me. All inquiries and legal proceedings will be conducted through Ms Sinclair. Any documentation or requests for information should be directed to her office.

Mark Leland

Erica reads it over twice, then nods, satisfied. It’s as clear-cut as she needs it to be for now. With a quick movement, she scans and attaches the letter to an official bail petition form she keeps in her office’s locked cabinet. There’s no point wasting time - she wants to get Leland out of custody as soon as possible. If he’s left sitting in a cell for too long, he’ll become more vulnerable to a plea bargain or some other move by the prosecution.

“Let’s see if we can get you out, Mark.” she thinks.

Before heading to the courthouse, Erica makes her way to the adjoining room that serves as her private wardrobe - a perk of maintaining an intense schedule and needing to be prepared for anything at a moment’s notice. She slides open the door to reveal several rows of neatly hung suits, blouses, and dresses in muted professional colors. Her eyes settle on a tailored black pantsuit: crisp, sharp, and perfect for facing a judge. She slips into it with practiced ease, the fabric settling comfortably on her body as she adjusts the blazer and smooths down the front of her trousers.

Her casual morning outfit is carefully folded and placed on the shelf. After checking her reflection in the full-length mirror to ensure everything is impeccable, she ties her hair up into a high ponytail and straightens her shoulders. Now dressed for the occasion, she steps back into her office, grabs her handbag, and heads out, leaving instructions with her assistant Claire Messner to handle any urgent client calls in her absence.

She slips into her black Volvo and maneuvers through the heavy morning traffic, keeping her thoughts focused on the task at hand. The courthouse that handles bail matters for cases like Leland’s is located downtown, in a stately building that seems to loom over the bustling streets like a guardian of the law.

Erica parks her car, collects her documents, and strides up the courthouse steps with purpose. A few curious glances come her way - the business-appropriate black pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail and her confident, purposeful stride, give her an air of cool authority. She checks her reflection briefly in the glass doors, smoothing the lapels of her blazer before stepping inside.

The courthouse is a hive of activity, attorneys, defendants, and clerks buzzing through its halls. Erica makes her way to the Bail Hearing Clerk’s desk, a fortified island surrounded by thick glass partitions.

“Good morning.” she says with a polite smile, slipping the bail petition and attached documents under the glass. “Erica Sinclair, representing Mark Leland. I’d like to submit this request for bail review and an expedited hearing with Judge Hathaway.”

The clerk, a middle-aged man with tired eyes, barely glances at her as he flips through the paperwork. “Judge Hathaway is booked solid today. Next available slot is two days from now.”

“That won’t do.” Erica counters firmly, though not unkindly. “My client has been accused of a crime he didn’t commit, and every moment he remains in custody without bail erodes his credibility in the public’s eyes. I need him released on bail today.”

The clerk’s eyes flick up, meeting hers for the first time. Erica can see the moment he recognizes her name - the subtle shift in his posture. She’s won this battle before it even began. He sighs and picks up the phone, muttering something into the receiver.

“Have a seat, Miss Sinclair.” he says, sliding her paperwork back under the glass. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Erica nods and steps away, settling into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs lining the hallway. It’s not long before she’s ushered into Judge Hathaway’s chambers, where the judge sits behind a large oak desk, her sharp eyes assessing her as she steps forward.

“Miss Sinclair.” she says in a neutral tone. “I understand you’re here on behalf of Mark Leland?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Erica hands over the bail petition once more. “My client is a well-respected CEO, deeply rooted in this community, with no prior criminal record. I’m requesting that bail be set and Mr. Leland be allowed to await trial from his home. His high-profile status alone guarantees he won’t attempt to flee.”

Judge Hathaway studies the documents, her brow furrowed. “Given the nature of the charges against him, and the significant wealth at his disposal, I’ll need more assurances.”

“Of course.” Erica stands her ground. “We’re prepared to surrender his passport. Additionally, I’m proposing a substantial bail amount - enough to ensure his compliance, but not so prohibitive as to appear punitive.”

The judge’s eyes narrow as she considers Erica’s words. She leans back in her chair, tapping a finger thoughtfully against her lips. “Very well, Miss Sinclair. I’ll approve the bail, but I want daily check-ins and an electronic monitor in place. No exceptions.”

Erica nods, hiding her relief behind a calm, professional demeanor. “Thank you, Your Honor. I’ll see to it immediately.”

With a quick, respectful nod, she gathers up the signed order and steps out of the chambers. As she exits the courthouse, a sense of satisfaction settles over her. “First step down.” she thinks. Now she just needs to visit Mark Leland in person.

She slips into her car to ensure some privacy and pulls out her phone, dialing Vanessa Ainsley’s number. It rings only once before Vanessa picks up.

“Miss Sinclair.” Vanessa’s cool, poised voice greets her. “How did it go?”

“Bail has been approved. Your boss will be released today under strict conditions. I’ll need you to bring the necessary cash bail bonds and his passport to the courthouse for his release,” Erica instructs, her tone brisk. “The amount is set at five million dollars - sizable, but nothing a company like Furrow International can’t cover.”

Vanessa doesn’t miss a beat. “I’ll have everything in order within the hour. Thank you, Miss Sinclair. I assume we’ll meet at the courthouse?”

“Yes,” Erica confirms. “And we need a private place to talk about the case after he gets out, Miss Ainsley. We have a lot to discuss.”

Vanessa’s voice betrays nothing. “Of course.” I’m on my way.”

Erica ends the call. This is only the beginning, but already, she can feel the threads of the case starting to weave together, each strand pulling tighter around Mark Leland’s fate - and hers.

The real work is about to begin.



The steady rhythm of Erica’s heels clicking on the courthouse floor stops as she reaches the judge’s chambers. The bail forms, signed and neatly assembled, are in her hand, while Vanessa Ainsley trails closely behind, carrying a brown envelope of bail bonds and Mark Leland’s passport.

The judge, a tall, slightly graying man with a keen gaze, glances over the forms before nodding, his approval swift but formal. “Everything seems to be in order. Mr. Leland is to be released under the conditions outlined here.” he says, pointing to the documents Erica provided. “Electronic monitoring, strict travel restrictions, and a daily check-in with his legal counsel.”

Vanessa steps forward and hands over the envelope containing the bail bonds without a word. Her movements are precise, almost ritualistic, as if she’s done this countless times before. The judge accepts the bonds, checks the passport, gives Erica one more evaluating look, and stamps the release orders.

“Good luck with this case, Ms. Sinclair. You’ll need it.” she adds with a tone of mild warning. Erica offers a tight smile, then gathers her papers.

“Thank you, Your Honor. We’ll see you again soon, I’m sure,” she replies before turning on her heel and heading out of the chambers.

[GreyLord]

It is wonderful to start this second Erica Sinclair story, and it is good to see the excellence of the first story continuing, too. My crystal ball is muddy and cracked, but I foresee that Erica will soon be in tight ropes again. And, if not, this is still a great read. Thank you, @Jenny_S.

[Jenny_S]

I'm glad you enjoy the story. Thank you for your kind words.

[Jenny_S]

At the police station, Erica and Vanessa are ushered into one of the interrogation rooms. The small space has no windows, just a single table and a few uncomfortable chairs. Erica adjusts the sleeves of her sharp black pantsuit.
Vanessa, standing across from Erica, nervously taps a manicured finger against the table. Her lips purse and relax in cycles, and her usually sharp gaze has softened into something more introspective.

“What’s taking so long?” she murmurs.
“Procedure.” Erica replies evenly, her own gaze steady on the door. “They need to get his paperwork processed, fit him with the ankle monitor, and inform him of his restrictions.”
Vanessa gives a small nod, but it’s clear she’s barely listening. “It’s just… he’s been through enough already.”

“Believe me, I know.” Erica says, her tone low but firm. “That’s why we’re here.”

Just as the tension reaches its peak, the door swings open. A tall man steps through, dressed in a rumpled shirt and slacks that seem to have seen better days. It’s Mark Leland, looking every bit the part of a successful executive whose world has just been turned upside down. An electronic monitor encircles his left ankle, the black band contrasting starkly with his pale skin.

Detective Logan Reed stands behind him, his expression a mix of skepticism and restrained irritation. Reed’s presence in the room is heavy; his eyes linger on Erica, and though they’ve never met, she can feel his judgment radiating off him like heat.

“You’re Miss Sinclair,” Reed says, his voice a low rumble. “Heard a lot about you. Shame to see your talents wasted on someone like him.”

Erica doesn’t flinch, meeting Reed’s gaze with unshakable composure. “We all have our duties, Detective. Mine is ensuring justice is served. Without prejudice.”

“Yeah.” Reed grunts, shifting his gaze to Leland, “I bet.” His face hardens as he addresses Mark directly. “Don’t think for a second that just because you’re out, we’re done here. I know a killer when I see one.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, but he manages to keep his voice calm. “I’m sure you’re a great detective, but I didn’t kill Melissa. I loved her.”

Reed scoffs, a mirthless smile on his lips. “Tell that to the judge. Or better yet, to your fancy lawyer here. You’re gonna need her.”

With a final lingering look at Erica, Reed steps back and exits the room. “He’s yours.” He says, then the door closes with a soft click, leaving Mark, Erica, and Vanessa alone.

The silence hangs heavily before Mark clears his throat. “Thank you, Miss Sinclair. For… everything.” He looks from Erica to Vanessa, a flicker of genuine relief in his eyes. “I knew you’d get her, Vanessa.”

“It’s not over yet.” Erica cuts in, folding her arms. “We’ve only secured your release on bail, Mr Leland. The real work starts now. And before we go any further, I need to hear everything you remember from that night - without any omissions.”

Mark nods slowly, his gaze now entirely on Erica. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… please, help me prove I didn’t do this.”

Erica glances at Vanessa, then back to Mark. “That’s what I’m here for. But you have to be honest with me. About everything.”

The words hang in the air, solidifying the bond between attorney and client. Erica’s mind is already racing ahead, analyzing the details of his story, the probable holes in the prosecution’s case, and the many challenges that lay ahead.
Mark Leland may be free from his cell, but he’s far from out of the woods. And Erica Sinclair is the only person who can guide him through the tangled mess his life has become.


Vanessa takes a measured step closer to Erica and Mark. “I’ve arranged for an apartment where you can stay, Mark.” she says briskly. “It’s fully furnished and far enough from the city center to avoid too much attention. Your home is still under police investigation, so we can’t use it for now.”

Mark nods gratefully, but Erica notices the nervous twitch in his fingers as he tries to steady himself. The weight of the situation is pressing down on him, and despite his composed exterior, it’s clear he’s unraveling internally. Erica’s gaze shifts to Vanessa, whose own face remains a mask of control.

“Good thinking, Ms. Ainsley.” Erica replies, though there’s no warmth in her tone. She’s assessing, calculating. “Let’s avoid adding fuel to the media fire. We should take him out through the back entrance. I noticed a few reporters lingering in the lobby earlier.”

Vanessa’s expression tightens, a small flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes. “I was about to suggest that.” she says coolly. “Candice Summers from WNYC is in the front, already positioning her camera crew. I’ll bring the car around to the rear entrance.”

Erica nods in approval. “Perfect. I’ll get Mr Leland ready. Give us ten minutes.”

Vanessa gives a curt nod, then hands Erica a business card with an address scribbled on the back. “Here’s the address for the apartment. I’ll meet you both outside as soon as Mark is settled.”

Erica accepts the card with a brief nod, and Vanessa turns on her heel, exiting the room with a firm, determined stride.

As soon as Vanessa is gone, Mark’s composure begins to crumble. He shifts uneasily, his gaze darting around the small waiting room as if expecting Reed to barge back in at any moment. “Miss Sinclair…Erica… I swear to you, I didn’t kill Melissa.” he blurts out, his voice trembling.

Erica raises a hand to silence him, her tone firm but not unkind. “Take a breath, Mr Leland. We’ll have plenty of time to go over the details, but right now, we need to keep you focused and calm. This is only the first step.”

He nods shakily, but his eyes are still wild, his voice dropping to a frantic whisper. “But I didn’t do it. I wasn’t even home.”

“We’ll get to that.” she cuts in gently but firmly, her gaze steady on his. “I believe you, but right now, we need to stay practical. The bail was granted, and you’re out. That’s what matters. Next, we’re going to retrace every step of yours that night. We need to make sure your alibi holds and that we leave no room for doubt. But you need to be straight with me. Absolutely no omissions or half-truths, got it?”

Mark’s shoulders sag slightly, the exhaustion and fear etched into his face. “I… I understand.” he says softly. “Whatever it takes.”

“Good.” Erica slings her handbag over her shoulder. “First, focus on your breathing. Calm yourself. I need you in control.”

Mark takes a deep breath, and his eyes dart to Erica and back to the door. “Do you really think we can get through this?”

Erica’s lips press into a firm line, but there’s a glimmer of determination in her eyes. “It’s not going to be easy, Mr Leland. But I’m not here for easy cases. I’m here to win.”

His gaze holds hers for a moment longer, and he nods slowly. “Right… right.”

Erica gives him a small nod of encouragement. “We’re going to start by making sure we get out of here without feeding the press more scandal fodder. Once your assistant gets the car, we’ll head straight to the apartment. No statements, no interactions. Keep your head down and follow my lead.”

Mark’s expression tightens with resolve. “Understood.”

Just then, Erica’s phone buzzes. A quick glance at the screen shows a short text from Vanessa: “Car’s at the rear entrance. Ready when you are.”

Erica slips the phone back into her pocket. “She’s here. Let’s get you out.”

Together, they leave the interrogation room, Erica leading the way with Mark following a few steps behind. The corridor they walk through is quiet, the buzz of the precinct’s main hall distant. As they approach the back entrance, Erica pauses and turns to Mark.

“Remember, no eye contact with anyone. We don’t know who’s watching. Just keep moving.”

Mark swallows and nods. Erica pushes the door open, and they step out into the cool evening air. Vanessa is waiting by the curb in a sleek black sedan, the rear passenger door already open. The street behind them is empty, the soft hum of traffic from a few blocks away the only sound.

“Get in.” Erica instructs Mark quietly, her gaze sweeping the area for any sign of cameras or prying eyes. He ducks into the car, and Erica follows, pulling the door shut behind her. Vanessa, sitting in the driver’s seat, glances at them through the rearview mirror.

“No issues?” she asks, her voice forced to sound calm but edged with tension.

“None.” Erica replies. “Drive. We’ll talk more at the apartment.”

With a small nod, Vanessa shifts the car into gear and pulls away from the curb, leaving the precinct and the prying eyes of the press behind.

As they merge into the city traffic, Erica glances at Mark, whose shoulders are hunched, his hands tightly clasped in his lap. “We’re going to get through this.” she says softly, almost to herself. “But we need to be prepared for everything.”

Mark gives her a sidelong glance, the tension in his body easing just a fraction. He’s not out of the woods yet, but with Erica by his side, the path forward seems a little less impossible.


On the drive to the rented apartment, Erica discreetly observes her client, focusing on his hands. They rest in his lap, fingers twitching occasionally, a subtle sign of the anxiety bubbling beneath his composed exterior. She scrutinizes the hands that, in her profession, could make or break his case. Could these hands, pale and neatly manicured, have tied his wife to the bed and tightened a zip tie around her neck until the life drained out of her? He doesn’t appear to have the thick, calloused fingers of a brute or the scarred knuckles of a habitual aggressor, but she knows better than to judge on appearances alone. It takes a specific kind of strength - and resolve - to choke the life out of a person, especially when watching them struggle and gasp for breath.

Erica pushes the thought aside as she turns her attention back to Vanessa Ainsley, who maneuvers the car smoothly through the late-morning traffic. The assistant’s gaze occasionally flickers toward the rearview mirror, checking on Mark. The corners of her mouth are slightly curved, projecting an air of reassurance, though Erica senses a touch of something else beneath it - perhaps concern, or something darker.

“You’ll feel a lot better after you take a hot shower, Mark.” Vanessa says with a hint of maternal warmth. “I have everything you need in place.”

Of course you do, Erica thinks, her lips tightening almost imperceptibly. “Mom’s going to make you some hot cocoa and a baloney sandwich...” The image of Vanessa coddling Mark, treating him like a child rather than a man facing the ruin of his life, makes Erica feel oddly detached. She knows how easily caretaking can cross into control. This, she senses, is Vanessa’s way of asserting her influence, keeping him close and manageable. A shrewd move - one that Erica might have to contend with if Vanessa’s loyalty ever falters.

Mark murmurs his thanks and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Erica catches the way his shoulders hunch slightly, a man used to standing tall now trying to make himself smaller. The typical executive confidence is missing; this is a man on the edge, teetering between despair and defiance.

“Mr Leland.” Erica interjects softly, her voice slicing through the atmosphere of the car like a finely honed blade. He turns his head, meeting her gaze for the first time since they left the precinct. “We’ll discuss everything once we’re settled. But I need you to stay calm, okay? Replaying everything in your head right now won’t help.”

He nods, but the lines of tension on his face don’t ease. Vanessa glances at Erica briefly, as if measuring the level of authority she’s taking with Mark already. Erica returns her look evenly, then drops her gaze back to Mark.

“We’ll go over your version of events again - every detail,” she continues, “and we’ll re-trace your steps that evening. The key is to establish a timeline that makes it impossible for you to have committed this crime. That’s the priority.”

“But I…” he begins, his voice strained, desperate. Erica cuts him off gently but firmly.

“We’ll sort it out. For now, just focus on getting settled and freshening up. We have a lot of work ahead of us.”

Mark exhales a breath he seems to have been holding, nodding once more. His gaze shifts back to the window, lost in thought.

Vanessa’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “I think you’ll find the apartment comfortable.” she says, her tone brightening as if trying to lift the mood. “There’s security, of course, and privacy. I chose it with all of that in mind.”

Erica stays silent, watching the interplay between them. Vanessa is devoted, no doubt. But there’s something possessive in the way she’s speaking now. Something territorial. This woman is more than just an assistant - she’s a gatekeeper, a guardian of the man beside her.

They pull up to the building, a discreet luxury high-rise with tinted windows and a polished marble entryway. Vanessa drives down to a private garage entrance, where she stops the car and turns to face Mark.

“We’re here, Mark. Let’s get you inside, get you settled.”

He nods mutely, glancing at Erica as if for permission. She gives a brief, encouraging smile, then unbuckles her seatbelt.

“Let’s go.” she says firmly. “We have a long day ahead.”

[GreyLord]

Mark is in deep trouble. Vanessa is an enigma. Could she be the guilty party? My deviant thoughts picture Mark tying Erica to a bed. Would he put a zip tie around her neck and tighten it until she can't breath? Or will they make beautiful love? Inspired writing, @Jenny_S, to inspire such questions.

[Jenny_S]

You're right, Mark Leland is in deep doo-doo and things are no really clear-cut. We'll see if Erica can find out what really went down that fateful night and if justice prevails in the end.

[Jenny_S]

Erica sits on the couch in the lounge area of the rented apartment as Vanessa Ainsley walks in from the kitchen area carrying a mug of coffee. She stays seated, watching as Vanessa closes the distance between them. The assistant’s mug of coffee is still steaming faintly, its rich aroma filling the air. Without offering Erica any, Vanessa takes a deliberate sip, then sets the cup down on the side table beside her. The subtle, but calculated action feels dismissive - an unspoken declaration that she holds the upper hand.

"Mark is taking a shower," Vanessa says matter of factly, leaning in as if she’s about to share some intimate secret. Erica watches her, unmoving, her face a mask of cool composure. Vanessa’s lips part slightly, her tone dropping almost to a whisper. "Do we have a chance to get out of this?"

The question hangs between them, charged with implications and unvoiced fears. Erica notices the slight quirk at the corner of Vanessa’s mouth, the faint tension around her eyes. This isn’t just concern for a client - it’s personal.

“Of course, we do.” Erica replies evenly, meeting Vanessa’s gaze with an unwavering stare. She pauses for effect, then adds, “I wouldn’t have accepted the case if I thought otherwise. I don’t like to lose.”

Vanessa’s eyes narrow, just a fraction, the reaction so subtle that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone less observant. But Erica catches it, as well as the minute flicker of something - uncertainty, perhaps - crossing Vanessa’s face. Erica shifts slightly, leaning back, deliberately relaxing her posture to emphasize that she’s not intimidated by the other woman’s proximity or thinly veiled challenge.

“I see.” Vanessa murmurs, but her voice carries a note of doubt. She tilts her head, studying Erica’s face with a hint of curiosity, as though trying to decipher what lies beneath her poised exterior. “You seem very confident, Miss Sinclair. I wonder if that confidence will hold up when the media starts tearing into you, and every move you make is scrutinized.”

Erica offers a tight smile, her eyes steady and cold. “I thrive under pressure. Besides” she says, allowing a trace of a smirk to curl her lips, “if we’re talking about scrutiny, you should worry more about Mark’s real inner circle. They’re not going to be happy if his secrets come to light.” She lets the words linger, gauging Vanessa’s reaction.

Vanessa’s expression doesn’t shift, but Erica catches the slightest tightening of her jaw. So, there it is - the chink in the armor. “Interesting.” Erica thinks. Vanessa may have a closer connection to Mark than she’s letting on, but something about this situation has her rattled.

Erica’s gaze slides down to Vanessa’s left hand. The absence of a wedding ring doesn’t surprise her; she had noticed it earlier. “Of course she’s single.” Erica muses. A woman like Vanessa is married to the company. Just like Erica herself in a way. But unlike Erica, who has chosen that path with full awareness and acceptance, Vanessa’s lack of any personal attachment makes her feel… incomplete. As though her self-worth is tied entirely to Mark Leland’s fate.

“Is there something else?” Erica asks, voice smooth, as if genuinely curious.

Vanessa hesitates, just for a moment, before forcing a smile. “No, of course not.” But her gaze remains hard, calculating.

Erica rises slowly, not taking her eyes off Vanessa, who stiffens slightly as Erica’s height now matches her own. For a moment, they’re at an impasse - eye to eye, both aware of the subtle power struggle simmering beneath the surface. Erica can feel Vanessa’s eyes trailing over her, assessing, measuring, trying to find some weakness to exploit.

But Erica’s not about to give her anything.

“Good.” Erica nods once, then steps back. “I’m here to win, Miss Ainsley. And I don’t care what it takes.”

The words come out almost as a challenge, and Vanessa’s eyes darken, something unreadable flashing in their depths. She smiles, but it’s tight, controlled. “I’m sure you don’t.”

Erica stands her ground, meeting Vanessa’s gaze without blinking. The moment of tension between them is palpable, a silent clash of wills. Vanessa doesn’t budge, holding Erica’s eyes with the same intensity, though there’s a flicker of something - a flash of uncertainty or perhaps irritation.

As soon as Mark and Erica settle at the small table, Mark asks, “Vanessa, would you mind making me a cup of coffee? And one for Miss Sinclair too, please.”

In an effort to increase the heat, with a slight smile, Erica suggests, “You can call me Erica, Mark.”

Hearing this, Vanessa hesitates for a split second before offering a tight-lipped smile. “Of course, Mark.” she replies, then turns on her heel and disappears into the kitchen. The faint hum of the coffee maker follows shortly after.

Erica’s gaze shifts to Mark, taking in the way he sits - tense, shoulders slightly hunched. His hands rest on his thighs, fingers tapping absentmindedly against the fabric. She notices something peculiar: the old money-styled clothes he’s wearing are not new. There are subtle but unmistakable signs of wear - tiny wrinkles at the elbows, slight fading around the knees, and fraying threads near the pocket openings. His initials ML are neatly embroidered on the chest of his knitted polo shirt and engraved in the polished buckle of his belt. She wonders, if Vanessa did really bring his own clothes here? How did she get them from the house if the place is taped off?

Mark shifts, drawing her attention back. “Do you maintain a wardrobe at the office?” she asks, keeping her tone casual, but her question is full of purpose. “I do. Sometimes a change of clothes comes in handy. Especially when you’re running between meetings or need to freshen up after a long day.”

Mark’s brow furrows slightly. “No, not really. Just a few emergency items, but… not like this.” His voice trails off, and Erica can see that he’s struggling to maintain focus. It’s clear that the stress of the situation is wearing him down.

Vanessa reappears with two cups balanced expertly in her hands. She places one in front of Mark, a dollop of cream swirling lazily on the surface, and sets the other before Erica - a dark, almost opaque black. Erica looks at the cup, then up at Vanessa. Vanessa didn’t bother to ask if this is the way Erica prefers her coffee.

“Thank you.” Erica says, forcing a polite smile, and wraps her fingers around the cup. It’s warm, a good focal point to ground herself as she shifts her attention back to Mark. She begins speaking softly, almost as if coaxing the answers out of him rather than interrogating him. “When did you leave the office that day?” she asks gently, keeping her gaze steady on him.

Mark’s fingers curl around his own cup as he looks up thoughtfully. “Around five PM, I think.”

“Did anybody see you leaving?” Erica asks, her voice still calm and measured. “Miss Ainsley, perhaps? Or someone from Security?”

She notices Vanessa stiffen at the mention of her name, her hand faltering slightly as she settles into the seat beside Mark. Erica doesn’t need to look directly at her to sense the way Vanessa’s posture changes - more rigid, defensive. There’s a new edge in the room, a crackling energy beneath the surface that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Mark opens his mouth to respond, but Vanessa cuts in, almost too quickly, “I wasn’t there at the time. I had already left for the day.” She shifts her gaze to Mark, her expression tightening with what might be concern. “But I’m sure the security footage will show him leaving.”

“Of course,” Erica murmurs, her tone nonchalant. “Please make sure we get a copy of that footage.” She turns her attention fully back to Mark, wanting to keep Vanessa at the periphery for now. “And after leaving the office, where did you go? Back home?”

Mark’s throat tightens, and he casts a wary glance at Vanessa before meeting Erica’s eyes again. “No, I didn’t go home. I… I drove up north of the city. To the Hudson River Valley. I… spent the night with Stephanie Colbert.”

The revelation hangs in the air like a weight, and Erica’s expression remains neutral, though her mind races. “Stephanie Colbert…” The name clicks immediately. Prominent, powerful, married - a woman who could complicate this case tenfold. But Erica pushes the implications aside for now, focusing on Mark’s narrative.

“And you stayed with her until when?” she asks, her voice steady.

“Until the next day. I returned to the house then, and… that’s when I found Melissa.” Mark’s voice wavers, his gaze dropping to his hands. He clasps them together tightly, knuckles turning white. “I didn’t touch anything, I swear. I just called the police…”

Erica leans forward slightly, placing her free hand on the table, her voice dropping to a near whisper, “Take your time, Mark. I’m here to help. We’re going to figure this out, step by step.”

Vanessa’s eyes narrow slightly as she watches Erica, her jaw set. There’s a flicker of something - maybe envy, maybe distrust - but Erica doesn’t react. She simply lifts her cup to her lips, taking a small sip, the bitterness of the black coffee settling on her tongue. She’ll play this Vanessa game for now, she thinks. But once she’s pieced together where these clothes came from and how Vanessa managed to get them, the rules of engagement will change completely.


Erica leans back into the leather couch, crossing her legs as she studies Mark. The rented apartment’s muted luxury seems to press down on them, amplifying the silence that has fallen in the wake of his confession.

“So.” she begins calmly, choosing her words with care, “You were with Stephanie Colbert the night Melissa was killed.”

Mark’s gaze sharpens at the name, his fingers tightening around the coffee mug Vanessa had brought him earlier. There’s a flash of something - guilt, fear, or maybe just the residue of a lingering passion.

“Yes.” he says softly, almost as if admitting to a sin. “But Stephanie will never confirm it. She’ll deny everything if it comes to that. She has too much to lose.”

“I see.” Erica murmurs, tapping her fingers lightly against the armrest, her expression thoughtful. “She’s worried about her reputation, I take it? Political connections, the perfect family image, all the usual reasons to keep quiet about a love affair.”

Mark flinches slightly at the bluntness of her words, but nods. “She’s been my - my fling. We… have a history, but she’s made it clear that if this ever came to light, she wouldn’t risk her reputation or her family for me.” His voice grows firmer, almost pleading. “She won’t help us, Erica. We have to find another way.”

“Another way?” Erica repeats with a small, contemplative smile. “You don’t think an airtight alibi would help us? It’s very simple: if Stephanie can account for your whereabouts the night Melissa died, you’ll be out of this mess before the media can even get a whiff of your involvement.”

“I already told you - she won’t do it.” Mark insists, his voice edged with desperation. “She’ll never come forward. She doesn’t want to be dragged into a murder trial.”

Erica’s eyes narrow slightly. “And what if I put her on the stand anyway? What if I subpoena her to testify under oath?”

The question lands like a sledgehammer, and Mark blanches, his mouth opening and closing in shock. “No! You can’t do that, Erica! I won’t allow it!”

His panic, his vehemence - it’s telling. Erica can see it in his eyes: the fierce protectiveness, the stubborn refusal to even consider putting Stephanie Colbert in that position. It’s not just fear of exposure - there’s genuine emotion there, a vulnerability that complicates things in ways Erica hadn’t anticipated.

But before she can respond, Vanessa’s voice cuts sharply through the room. “He’s right, Erica.” Vanessa propels herself up. She strides forward, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor she positions herself between Erica and Mark, as if physically inserting herself into the conversation. “You can’t do that against Mark’s explicit wishes. This is his life we’re talking about.”

Erica turns her head slowly to look at Vanessa, taking her time, a cool, almost amused expression on her face. “What I can and can’t do, Vanessa,” she says evenly, “is not for you to decide.”

Vanessa’s lips tighten, her gaze flickering with something dangerously close to fury. “You were brought on to defend Mark, not bulldoze over him and expose more people to scrutiny!”

“Expose more people?” Erica raises an eyebrow. “I’m trying to get your boss out of a murder charge. That’s my priority. I’m not here to play nice, and I’m certainly not here to protect Ms. Colbert’s precious aspirations.”

“You don’t understand!” Vanessa’s voice rises, her carefully maintained composure fraying at the edges. “If you go after Stephanie Colbert, she’ll bury him. And you, too. She has the connections to make sure both of your careers go up in flames.”

Erica regards Vanessa for a moment, then shifts her attention back to Mark, her expression softening just slightly. “Mark.” she says quietly, “I need you to trust me. We both know there’s only one way out of this: if you didn’t kill Melissa, then we need proof. Concrete proof. And right now, Stephanie Colbert is the only one who can give it to us.”

Mark’s shoulders slump, the fight draining out of him. “She won’t help us.” he repeats, but there’s less conviction now, more of a resigned despair. “She’ll deny everything. Please, Erica… don’t force her hand.”

Erica leans forward, her gaze locked onto his. “Mark, this is your life on the line. Do you really want to gamble it on someone who’s more concerned about protecting herself than telling the truth?”

“She’s not just anyone.” Mark snaps, and there’s an edge of anger now, a defensiveness that surprises even him. “She’s… different. And I won’t drag her through this. I won’t.”

There’s a beat of silence as the words hang in the air, heavy and charged. Vanessa’s eyes are on Erica, a silent challenge simmering just beneath the surface.

“Very well.” Erica concedes, her voice cool and measured. “But know this: if it comes down to it, I won’t hesitate to do what’s necessary. I’m here to win this case, Mark. Not to keep secrets.”

Mark exhales slowly, the tension in his posture easing just slightly. Vanessa’s gaze remains fixed on Erica, wary and untrusting.

“Let’s see how she reacts when faced with the prospect of getting sworn in before a judge and jury,” Erica adds softly, a trace of steel beneath her calm tone. “People are rarely as brave as they think they are when they’re standing in that witness box.”

Mark’s jaw tightens, but he nods, the resignation in his eyes unmistakable. “I’ll… talk to her again. But I’m telling you, Erica…”

“I know.” Erica cuts in gently, almost sympathetically. “You think she’ll choose to protect herself. But I’ve seen stranger things happen when people are cornered.”

There’s a moment of silence, thick with unspoken words, before Erica rises to her feet, signaling the end of the conversation.

“Thank you for the coffee, Vanessa.” she says with a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “But I’m afraid we have a lot more work to do. I’ll draft the next steps and get back to you both.”

Vanessa’s face is a carefully controlled mask, but the flicker of frustration and something else - something darker - still lingers in her gaze.

As Erica turns away, she can almost feel the heat of Vanessa’s eyes on her back, the weight of unspoken resentment simmering just beneath the surface.

Yes, Erica thinks to herself as she steps out of the room, there’s definitely more going on here. And she intends to get to the bottom of it - one way or another.

[GreyLord]

The tension is building relentlessly. Erica is appropriately focused on winning her client's freedom, but unknown forces are swirling around Erica, Mark, and Vanessa. Well done, @Jenny_S.

[Jenny_S]

Erica’s gaze sweeps across the spacious living room of her apartment, but her mind is elsewhere. She perches on the edge of her black leather couch, laptop open before her, a wealth of information at her fingertips. Typing with the swift precision of someone used to looking for - and finding - exactly what she needs, she pulls up a digital profile of Stephanie Colbert. Photos from charity galas, articles about her philanthropy, and glowing reviews of her leadership in various social circles flood the screen.

Stephanie is married to Raymond Colbert, a billionaire industrialist with political connections. Though the public image is polished and pristine, Erica notes with interest that there’s little mention of Stephanie’s personal activities. No extravagant shopping sprees or excessive parties, just a neat collection of “appearances” and curated public statements. Which makes it all the more intriguing that she’d get involved in a torrid affair with Mark Leland, a man with everything to lose.

Erica’s fingers drum thoughtfully against the sleek surface of the keyboard. Stephanie’s tight schedule is a carefully constructed fortress, one she’ll have to dismantle brick by brick. But she knows she can’t just barge into this woman’s world without a plan. Not unless she wants Stephanie to dig her heels in further.

“Who do I know that’d have the scoop on a woman like her?” Erica murmurs to herself. A moment later, a smile spreads across her lips as she scrolls through her contacts and dials a number she hasn’t used in some time.

After three rings, a familiar voice crackles through the line: “Erica Sinclair! How long has it been?”

“Too long, Thea.” Erica says warmly. Althea Marcus, “Thea” to those who knew her well, had once been the most well-connected social columnist in the city, working for a top glamour magazine before switching careers to become a freelance consultant. Now she makes a living providing discrete “insider knowledge” to those with the connections - and money - to afford it.

“Spill it, babe. What’s on your mind?” Thea asks.

Erica doesn’t waste time with small talk. “Stephanie Colbert. I need to know her habits. Where she goes, who she meets, and if there’s any place she likes to frequent. Somewhere casual, somewhere I could ‘bump into’ her without it feeling forced.”

Thea lets out a thoughtful hum. “Stephanie Colbert, huh? Oh, honey, you’ve set your sights on quite the tough cookie. She’s a queen at keeping her private life private.”

“That’s why I need you,” Erica says, a smile playing on her lips. “Where does she let her guard down?”

A pause, and then Thea’s voice comes through, sharp and knowing. “Robinson’s Café. It’s a small place on the Upper East Side. Upscale but not flashy. Very old money. Stephanie likes to go there for lunch on Thursdays, usually between one and two. She’s there alone more often than not. Seems like it’s her little getaway spot.”

Erica’s brow arches. “Really? Alone? That’s how I’d need her.”

“Mm-hmm. Well, most of the time. The staff know her by name, and she usually sits by the corner window. Orders a Cobb salad and a glass of sparkling water. If she’s feeling indulgent, she might even go for a cappuccino afterward. But be careful, Erica. This woman doesn’t appreciate surprises, especially unplanned encounters.”

“Don’t worry, Thea. I know how to handle myself.” Erica’s voice is calm and confident, her mind already spinning through possible approaches. “Thanks for this.”

“Anytime, darling.” Thea says, her tone light. “And Erica… good luck. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

Erica ends the call and leans back in her chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin. Robinson’s Café… A place like that would allow her to observe Stephanie without the other woman immediately feeling threatened. And if Erica timed it just right, she could make her presence seem like nothing more than a casual coincidence.

She closes her laptop with a decisive click, the plan forming in her mind. There’s no need to be confrontational - yet. Instead, she’ll approach with a light touch. Just a friendly professional, looking to catch up with someone she “happened to run into.”

But if Stephanie Colbert thinks she can keep her distance and evade Erica’s questions, she’s in for a surprise.

With a satisfied smile, Erica stands and checks her reflection in the mirror. This is going to require just the right look. Casual, but sophisticated. Approachable, but with a hint of authority. She mentally runs through her wardrobe, selecting the perfect outfit for their “chance” meeting: tight black jodhpur-type pants, tall leather boots, a cream-colored silk blouse and classic Tweed blazer, each item silently shouting: Old Money!

Tomorrow, she’ll be at Robinson’s Café - right on time.




The late afternoon sun spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Robinson’s Café, casting a warm, inviting glow over the tastefully minimalist interior. The soft hum of quiet conversation fills the space, blending seamlessly with the subdued clink of silverware and the rustle of newspapers. Patrons linger over their late lunches, each enveloped in their own insulated world of calm.

Erica steps through the entrance, her eyes quickly scanning the room. It doesn’t take long for her to spot Stephanie Colbert. As Thea described, she’s seated alone in the corner by the window, a half-finished Cobb salad and a glass of sparkling water in front of her. Dressed in an impeccably tailored white silk blouse and navy pencil skirt, she radiates effortless sophistication. Her caramel-colored hair, pulled back in a sleek twist, leaves her face unframed and open, though Erica knows it’s a face that reveals only what Stephanie wants it to.

With a measured breath, Erica squares her shoulders and strolls over, her footsteps confident but unhurried. As she reaches Stephanie’s table, she gives a small, polite smile.

“Stephanie Colbert?” she asks, tone smooth and professional.

Stephanie looks up, a flicker of mild curiosity in her blue-gray eyes. She takes a moment, as if placing Erica’s face, but then her gaze sharpens with recognition - or perhaps with a polite mask of it.

“Yes?” Stephanie replies coolly, her voice even, neither warm nor dismissive. “Can I help you with something?”

Erica gives a light nod. “I hope so. My name’s Erica Sinclair. I’m a defense attorney, and I’m representing a mutual acquaintance of ours. Mark Leland.” She watches Stephanie’s expression carefully, looking for any sign of surprise or discomfort at the mention of Mark’s name.

But Stephanie’s reaction is almost imperceptible. Her brow furrows slightly, and then she shakes her head as if the name means little to her. “Mark Leland?” she echoes, as if it’s a distant memory. “Oh, yes. I think I’ve met him a few times. He’s that finance guy, right?”

“Yes, the finance guy.” Erica confirms, her lips curving in a subtle smile. “He’s in a bit of a situation right now, as you might have heard. I wanted to see if I could talk to you about it. Off the record, of course.”

Stephanie’s gaze flickers, a flash of wariness quickly masked by a casual shrug. She reaches for her glass and takes a sip of sparkling water, her expression composed. “I’m afraid I can’t really help you, Miss Sinclair. I don’t know Mr Leland well. We’ve only crossed paths at a few charity events over the years. I’d hardly say we’re close.”

Erica doesn’t press, but she lets a moment of silence hang between them, waiting to see if Stephanie will offer more. When she doesn’t, Erica leans in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to make the conversation feel more personal.

“I understand.” Erica says. “But from what I know, the two of you are more than just passing acquaintances. I have to ask, because Mark’s freedom might depend on it: when was the last time you saw him?”

Stephanie tilts her head, the movement as precise and deliberate as everything else about her. “It must have been… a year or two ago? I can’t remember exactly. You know how it is with these functions, people come and go, and you hardly have time to keep track of everyone.”

Erica narrows her eyes slightly, studying the woman in front of her. The calm detachment in Stephanie’s tone feels practiced - almost too practiced. Erica has met enough people in her line of work to recognize when someone is distancing themselves from a situation. Stephanie Colbert is clearly no amateur at deflection.

“I appreciate you taking the time to speak with me, Mrs Colbert.” Erica says, her voice softening as she shifts tactics. “I know you probably get asked for a lot of favors and information, and I can understand not wanting to get involved in a situation like this. But…”

“Look, Miss Sinclair.” Stephanie interjects gently but firmly. “I’m very sorry that Mark is in trouble. Truly, I am. But whatever problems he has, they’re his to solve. I’m not interested in getting tangled up in the affairs of someone I barely know.”

She offers a faint, dismissive smile, then glances down at her watch, a subtle hint that she considers the conversation over. Erica, however, isn’t quite ready to let it end.

“Of course.” Erica murmurs, nodding as though conceding the point. “But if you happen to remember anything - anything at all - that could help establish where Mark was during the time of the murder, I’d appreciate it if you reached out. Discretion is guaranteed.”

Stephanie’s gaze locks onto Erica’s, the intensity of it startling even in its restraint. “I don’t know anything that would be of help, Miss Sinclair. I haven’t seen or spoken to Mark Leland in a very long time. I have my own life and my own responsibilities. I hope you can respect that.”

Erica holds the gaze for a beat longer, then finally nods, stepping back slightly. “I understand. Thank you for your time, Mrs Colbert. Have a good day.”

Stephanie’s smile is distant, almost polite. “You too.”

As Erica turns and walks out of the café, she can feel Stephanie’s eyes on her back. It’s only when she’s outside on the sidewalk, the cool city air filling her lungs, that Erica allows herself a slow, thoughtful exhale.

Stephanie Colbert is hiding something. Whether it’s fear, guilt, or something else entirely, Erica isn’t sure yet. But one thing is clear: if Stephanie truly hadn’t seen Mark in over a year, she wouldn’t have needed to be so adamant in denying it.

And now, Erica’s more determined than ever to find out why.





Erica adjusts her chair, folding her hands on the table as she levels a gaze at Mark Leland. They’re seated in the spacious lounge area of his rented apartment, with Vanessa Ainsley hovering at a cautious distance. The room is suffused with soft, muted lighting, the silence between them fraught with tension and unspoken accusations.

“I met with Stephanie Colbert.” Erica begins, her voice calm but tinged with a hint of reproach. She watches Mark’s face carefully for any reaction, but he remains stoic, his features betraying little emotion.

“She described your relationship as practically nonexistent.” Erica continues, noting the subtle way Mark’s fingers tighten around the armrest. “Said she hasn’t seen or spoken to you in a year or two. And seemed entirely disinterested in your situation, like you were just another stranger with a sob story.”

Mark shifts in his seat, his gaze dropping momentarily to the polished hardwood floor. Erica leans forward slightly, the intensity of her presence drawing his eyes back up to meet hers.

“Why would you protect someone who’s willing to throw you under the bus?” she presses, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “She could provide you with a watertight alibi, yet you’d rather go to jail than let her name get tangled in this mess. Why, Mark?”

Mark’s jaw tenses, his expression hardening as he looks away, the muscle in his cheek twitching with suppressed emotion. “Because… I can’t…” he says quietly, the words heavy with meaning. “I won’t subject her to a scandal. You don’t know what’s at stake. Let it rest, Erica. Leave Stephanie alone.”

Erica’s eyes narrow, a frown forming on her lips as she processes his stubborn refusal. She’s about to respond when Vanessa, who’s been pacing behind them like a caged tigress, suddenly steps forward, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

“Are you really going to push this, Miss Sinclair?” Vanessa snaps, her voice trembling with an anger she can barely contain. “Don’t you see you’re making things worse for him? He told you to drop it!”

Before Erica can react, Vanessa is standing right beside her, too close for comfort, her face flushed and eyes flashing with a mixture of fear and fury. For a second, it seems like she might actually lunge at Erica, but Erica remains seated, calm and unflinching.

“Step back.” Erica says, her voice low and commanding, as if she’s speaking to a disobedient child. Vanessa hesitates, her chest heaving as she struggles to rein in her emotions. Erica tilts her head, a sardonic smile playing on her lips. “Which side are you really on, Miss Ainsley? Because it’s starting to look like you’re more interested in keeping me from digging too deep.”

Vanessa recoils slightly, shock flickering in her eyes as if Erica’s words have struck a nerve. But before she can respond, Erica pivots, her attention shifting back to Mark, the smile fading as her tone sharpens.

“If you’re not going to help yourself by getting Stephanie involved.” Erica says icily, “then I need to know more about what was happening around your wife that day. For instance, Vanessa - where were you when Melissa Leland was killed? You said you left the office earlier that evening.”

Vanessa’s face blanches at the sudden accusation, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to form a response. Mark looks up sharply, his gaze darting between the two women, confusion and something darker clouding his eyes.

Vanessa stammers, taking a moment to regain some of her composure. “I left a little earlier than usual, but that’s not a crime, is it?” Her eyes blaze with defiance as she glares at Erica, as if daring her to push further.

“Left before Mark, didn’t you?” Erica muses aloud, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the armrest. “Curious timing, don’t you think? Especially considering how meticulous you are with everything else. It almost makes me wonder what - or who - was so important that day.”

Vanessa swallows hard, her hands trembling as she balls them into fists again. “You have no right to accuse me of anything.” she hisses, taking a step back. “I’ve been doing everything I can to help Mark - everything!”

“Then let’s hear it.” Erica retorts coolly, not missing the flicker of panic in Vanessa’s eyes. “Where did you go? And don’t tell me it’s none of my business, because if you have nothing to hide, it shouldn’t be so hard to answer.”

A tense silence hangs between them, broken only by the faint ticking of a wall clock. Mark looks exhausted, rubbing a hand over his face as if trying to erase the chaos swirling around him. He shakes his head, his voice hoarse as he finally speaks.

“Erica, please.” he murmurs, his tone almost pleading. “Vanessa’s been with me for years. I trust her. She… she would never…”

“Mark.” Erica interjects softly, leaning forward to catch his gaze. “Trust is a fragile thing. But so is time. If there’s something – anything - that might help clear your name, I need to know it. And right now, it’s looking like Vanessa knows more than she’s letting on.”

Vanessa takes another step back, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and outrage. “I would never hurt Melissa.” she whispers fiercely. “Never.”

“Then where were you?” Erica asks again, her tone steely. “Because right now, your loyalty is looking more like guilt.”

The room feels charged, electric, as if one wrong word could set everything ablaze.
Vanessa’s breath comes in sharp, angry bursts, her nostrils flaring as if Erica’s words physically struck her. Erica, however, remains unruffled, her gaze unwavering on Vanessa’s face. She knows she’s gotten under her skin, but she isn’t finished yet. Mark shifts uncomfortably between the two women, clearly torn, but he stays quiet, watching them as if waiting for a bomb to go off.

“Calm down, Vanessa.” Erica says softly, a thin smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “I’m not the enemy here.” She pauses and tilts her head slightly, her eyes dropping to Mark’s outfit: fine-knit polo shirt, perfectly pressed chinos, and that monogrammed belt buckle. “But speaking of enemies, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

Vanessa narrows her eyes suspiciously. “What now?”

“Those clothes Mark is wearing.” Erica gestures with a casual wave of her hand. “They’re not new, are they? No, I’d say they’re worn in, slightly at the elbows and knees, maybe even a stretch at the pocket seams. I’d bet they’re some of his favorites.”

Mark glances down at himself, confused. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

“Nothing at all - if you’d had access to your own wardrobe, which you didn’t. These clothes” Erica’s voice sharpens, “aren’t from a shop or picked up on a whim. They’re from your home, Mark.”

“What? But…how…” The implications of Erica’s observations seem to dawn upon Mark Leland.

“Exactly.” Erica interrupts. “How?” Her eyes lock onto Vanessa’s. “How did you get into the Leland residence to retrieve them, Vanessa? It’s a sealed crime scene, cordoned off with police tape and locked down to everyone. Even you.” She takes a step closer, her voice lowering but losing none of its intensity. “There are only two ways you could have accessed that house: either you had an escort from the DA’s office and filed the necessary requests way ahead…or you have keys to the place.”

Vanessa’s mouth opens, then closes again, like a fish gasping for air. A flicker of panic flashes across her face before she quickly masks it. “I…I only wanted him to have his own things. After everything he’s been through…I thought he’d be more comfortable in his own clothes, that’s all.”

“More comfortable.” Erica repeats the words slowly, tasting them, as if they were foreign. “Comfort is one thing, but breaking into a sealed crime scene?” She shakes her head. “That’s something else entirely.”

Mark’s gaze snaps to Vanessa, a deep frown carving its way across his forehead. “Wait: Vanessa, what is she saying? Did you actually…?”

“Of course not!” Vanessa blurts out, her voice rising defensively. “I mean, I…” She catches herself and forces a brittle smile. “I didn’t break in. I have keys, alright? I’m your assistant, Mark. I’ve had keys to your house for years.”

Erica’s eyes flash triumphantly. “Then you had access to the house that night as well. You could have let yourself in any time. That makes you a person of interest in Melissa Leland’s murder investigation. Possibly even a prime suspect.”

Mark jerks back as if he’s been slapped. “Vanessa…why didn’t you tell me this? Why would you go there after what happened?”

Vanessa’s mouth opens and closes again, but no words come out. Her gaze darts between Erica and Mark, looking cornered.

“Tell us, Vanessa.” Erica’s voice is a quiet demand now, each word a nail driven deeper into the coffin of Vanessa’s defenses. “Why did you go back to that house? And more importantly, how can you prove you weren’t there the night Melissa was murdered?”

Vanessa’s eyes narrow, her face twisting with something dark and unreadable. “I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re implying. I loved her as much as anyone.”

“No, you love Mark.” Erica’s voice is a razor, slicing through the air between them. “And now Melissa’s out of the picture and Stephanie Colbert is barricading herself. Convenient, isn’t it?”

“That’s enough!” Vanessa’s voice is shrill, almost breaking. She takes a step forward, and for a second, it seems like she might physically lash out. But she doesn’t. Instead, she trembles with restrained fury, her hands clenched into tight fists at her sides. “I’ve done nothing but trying to help Mark. I’m protecting him.”

Erica doesn’t back down. “Then why keep this a secret? Why risk contaminating a crime scene? You know that everything taken from that house is evidence. Including the very clothes Mark is wearing now. If the police find out, it’ll point directly to you. And that’s not just an obstacle in this case, that’s a felony.”

Silence blankets the room. Mark’s shoulders slump as if a heavy weight has settled on them. “Vanessa.” he says softly, pain and confusion lacing his voice, “What have you done?”

Vanessa’s eyes fill with something close to desperation. “Mark, I didn’t do anything wrong. I swear it.”

Erica folds her arms, her gaze calculating. “We’ll see. Just know that I won’t hesitate to turn this information over if it becomes necessary. You say you want to help Mark - then prove it. Start by being honest with me for a change.”

There’s a long, tense pause as Vanessa and Erica stare each other down. Then, slowly, Vanessa takes a step back, her defiant posture deflating.

“I’ll do whatever it takes.” she says quietly, but her eyes remain hard. “Just…don’t make this worse for him.”

Erica nods curtly. “That’s up to you, Vanessa.”

Mark’s gaze flits between them, his face a mask of uncertainty and pain. “Let’s just… focus on proving I’m innocent,” he mutters. “No more secrets, no more lies. Alright?”

“Alright.” Erica agrees, though she knows the words hold little weight. There are still layers to uncover, hidden truths to unearth. And Vanessa Ainsley, whether complicit or just misguided, is sitting on a powder keg of secrets.

Erica just has to find the right spark to blow it all open.


The room feels like a pressure cooker about to explode. Mark sits stiffly on the couch, eyes wide with disbelief, while Erica keeps her gaze trained on Vanessa, unwavering, like a predator sizing up its prey. Vanessa stands a few feet away, looking as though she’s ready to snap under the strain of Erica’s relentless scrutiny.

“Let’s take this from the top, Vanessa,” Erica says calmly, but there’s a new edge to her voice: steely, determined. “What exactly did you do after you left the office early that day?”

Vanessa’s eyes flicker with uncertainty. “I already told you. I went shopping.”

“Shopping,” Erica echoes, nodding slowly, as if considering this. “Alright, I’ll bite. What did you buy?”

Vanessa blinks, momentarily thrown off by the question. “Excuse me?”

“What did you buy?” Erica repeats evenly. “And don’t worry if you haven’t kept the receipts. I’m sure your credit card company can pull up your payment history right down to the second your card got charged.”

Mark’s gaze shoots to Vanessa, who stiffens visibly. There’s a moment’s hesitation before she replies, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. “A dress. And some skincare products. I wasn’t keeping track of everything. Why does it matter?”

Erica lifts an eyebrow. “Just being thorough, Vanessa. Shopping bags, receipts, credit card statements, these things create a timeline. A verifiable trail of where you were and what you were doing. But if you didn’t keep the receipts…we can always ask your credit card company to fax over the details. Shouldn’t be too hard to cross-reference times and locations.”

Vanessa’s face flushes a deep red. “Are you seriously suggesting I…”

“And you had dinner, right?” Erica cuts in smoothly, as though Vanessa hadn’t spoken. “What restaurant? Who were you with?”

Vanessa’s lips tighten, her jaw working as if she’s chewing on words she’d rather not say. “Le Petit Coq.” she bites out finally. “It’s a French bistro on 72nd. I was alone.”

“A nice place.” Erica nods, her expression perfectly neutral. “Did you pay with your credit card, or cash?”

“Stop it!” Vanessa’s voice rises sharply, her hands trembling at her sides. “What the hell are you doing, Erica? Trying to paint me as Melissa’s murderer?”

Mark shifts uncomfortably, a pained look crossing his face. “Vanessa, she’s just asking…”

“She’s not ‘just asking!’” Vanessa snaps, turning a glare on him. “She’s trying to frame me! First the clothes, now this. Why don’t you just come right out and accuse me already?”

Erica’s smile is cold and unyielding. “Accuse you? No. If I were going to do that, you’d know. You’d be in an interrogation room, facing Detective Reed, not me.” She leans forward slightly, voice dropping to a deadly whisper. “And let me assure you, compared to him, I’m being polite.”

Vanessa’s eyes narrow. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you? So above everyone else, manipulating facts and twisting everything to suit your narrative. But you’re wrong. You’re not going to scare me, Erica. I’m here to help Mark. You’re the one trying to tear us apart.”

“I’m not trying to scare you.” Erica replies, her tone unwavering. “But you need to understand what’s at stake here. If you’re hiding anything, Vanessa - anything at all - the police will find out. And when they do, they won’t be asking you nicely. They’ll pick apart every tiny inconsistency in your story until they’ve wrung out every last secret.”

Vanessa’s lips press into a thin line, her expression guarded. “I have nothing to hide.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about.” Erica says smoothly, tilting her head slightly. “But if it turns out that your little shopping trip didn’t happen, or you didn’t have dinner at Le Petit Coq, that’s going to look very, very bad for you.”

Mark looks between the two women, his face pale. “Erica, please… she wouldn’t…”

“I’m just being realistic, Mark.” Erica’s voice is calm, matter of fact. “The police will look at anyone with access to the crime scene. And Vanessa, who had keys and went back to the house, will be at the top of their list. They’ll interrogate her harder than they did you. They’ll ask her a hundred times over where she was, who she talked to, what she was thinking - and if she gives them even one wrong answer, they’ll pounce.”

Vanessa’s expression wavers, the mask of composure she’s so carefully maintained starting to crack. “I didn’t…”

Erica lifts a hand, cutting her off. “So, let’s keep it simple. You left the office early, you went shopping, and then had dinner at a French bistro alone. Is that your story?”

“Yes.” Vanessa’s voice is tight, almost a whisper.

“Good.” Erica says, her tone softening just a fraction. “Then all I need you to do is pull together anything you have to back that up. Credit card statements, receipts, even timestamps from your phone’s location data. It’s not about proving to me: you need to be able to prove it to the police. Can you do that?”

Vanessa looks down, her shoulders tense and hunched, but she gives a stiff nod. “Fine. I’ll get you whatever you need.”

“Thank you.” Erica’s voice is almost gentle now, but there’s no mistaking the underlying steel. “Because believe me, Vanessa, the last thing I want is to see you dragged through a police investigation. But you need to be prepared, in case it comes to that.”

Vanessa’s gaze flickers back up, filled with something close to despair. “You really think I need to worry?”

Erica straightens, her expression inscrutable. “I think you need to be careful. For Mark’s sake. The last thing he needs is more complications. So just… make sure your story holds up.”

Mark’s hand twitches, as if he wants to reach out to Vanessa but doesn’t know how. “Vanessa, it’s okay. Erica’s just doing her job.”

But Vanessa’s gaze remains locked on Erica’s, her eyes full of simmering anger. “You might have won this round, Erica. But I’m not going to let you throw me under the bus. I’ll be careful, alright. Just remember: I’m not your enemy.”

With that, she spins on her heel and stalks out of the room, leaving Erica and Mark alone in a tense, charged silence.

Erica finally lets out a slow breath, her gaze drifting back to Mark. “I hope she’s telling the truth.” she murmurs quietly. “Because if she isn’t… this is going to get a lot messier than it already is.”

Mark’s face is drawn, his eyes clouded with worry. “She’s not lying.” he whispers, as if trying to convince himself. “Vanessa wouldn’t do that.”

Erica doesn’t respond, but the doubt in her eyes speaks volumes. Secrets are like time bombs - and Vanessa Ainsley is ticking louder by the minute.

[GreyLord]

Vanessa appears to be deep in the kimchi. Erica forges ahead resolutely. Great story, @Jenny_S

[Jenny_S]

The doorbell of Erica's apartment rings, and Erica glances at her Rolex - she’s not expecting anyone this late. Her gut twists with a mix of anticipation and apprehension as she walks over to the door. A quick look through the peep hole reveals the visitor to be Vanessa Ainsley, her expression carefully neutral.
Erica opens the door.

“Vanessa.” Erica says, stepping aside to let her in. “What brings you here?”

Vanessa stands in the entryway, a smile that doesn't reach her eyes as she hands Erica a file jacket. Her fingers linger on it for a moment before letting go. Erica can’t help but notice the tension in Vanessa’s jaw and shoulders, a coiled spring ready to snap. Still, she accepts the file and gestures for Vanessa to sit in the living room, determined not to show any outward sign of hesitation.

Vanessa remains standing.

“Proof of my whereabouts, just like you asked.” she says, voice deceptively light, almost cheerful. “Go on. Take a look.”

Erica flips open the file. Blank. Every sheet. She lets out a mirthless chuckle and tosses the empty pages onto the coffee table.


“Really, Vanessa? I’d have expected a little more creativity from someone like you.”

Vanessa’s smile doesn’t waver, but something shifts in her eyes - an electric charge crackling beneath the surface. Erica squares her shoulders, holding Vanessa’s gaze with steely resolve.

“You don’t have to bother playing games anymore.” Erica says softly, leaning forward. “I know how you did it. You let yourself in that night with the key Mark gave you for ‘emergencies.’ I bet you found Melissa somewhere downstairs, maybe the kitchen or the study. You probably told her you needed to pick up something for Mark - something that couldn’t wait.”

Vanessa’s smile vanishes like a switch had been flipped, replaced by a predatory stillness. Erica sees the muscles in her neck and shoulders tighten, hears the subtle hitch in her breathing.

“You dragged her to the bedroom and tied her up. She cried, didn’t she? Begged you to stop.” Erica’s voice lowers, each word deliberate and unrelenting. “But you didn’t. You put that zip tie around her neck and pulled. Tighter and tighter, until you saw the life drain out of her eyes. You enjoyed every second of it, didn’t you?”

For a heartbeat, there’s silence. Then Vanessa’s face contorts into a mask of rage.

“You’re damn right I killed her!” she screams, the words ripping from her throat like a feral snarl.


Before Erica can react, Vanessa launches herself at her, knocking the little coffee table aside in one violent motion. Erica stumbles back, but Vanessa is on her in an instant, driving her shoulder into Erica’s chest and sending them both crashing onto the polished hardwood floor. Vanessa’s hands clamp around Erica’s wrists, and with a surprising, brutal efficiency, she flips Erica onto her stomach, forcing her face down against the floor.

Erica struggles, but Vanessa has the leverage, pressing her weight onto Erica’s back, making it hard to breathe. From the corner of her eye, Erica sees Vanessa’s hand moving fast, pulling a piece of rope out of her handbag.

“Shut up and stop moving!” Vanessa hisses, voice trembling with a mix of fury and twisted satisfaction. She loops the rope around Erica’s wrists, jerking it tight with a sharp yank. Pain flares as the coarse fibers dig into Erica’s skin.

“Is this how you did it to Melissa?” Erica gasps, feeling the rope cut off her circulation.


Vanessa’s face hovers close to Erica’s ear, breath hot and rapid. “Melissa was weak. Pathetic. But you - oh, you’ve been a challenge, haven’t you?” She laughs, a wild, manic sound. “Now I’m going to enjoy watching you beg for your life, too.”

Vanessa reaches for something in her bag again, and this time, Erica catches a glimpse of a zip tie. Its plastic surface gleams under the soft apartment lights, the loop already wide and ready. Vanessa lifts it above Erica’s head, preparing to slip it around her neck.

Desperation and fear fuel Erica’s next move. With a fierce twist, she bucks underneath Vanessa, using every ounce of strength she has in her athletic body to throw the woman off-balance. It’s a wild, chaotic flurry of limbs as Erica rolls sideways, twisting her body violently until she manages to dislodge Vanessa’s grip on the rope and wrestle her hands out of the crude, unfinished bondage.

Vanessa snarls, lunging forward again. But this time, Erica’s ready. She grabs the edge of the coffee table with her free hand and swings her legs out, knocking Vanessa off her feet. As Vanessa stumbles, Erica scrambles up, her eyes darting around the room. There! A vase on the sideboard, heavy and within reach.

Vanessa recovers faster than Erica expected, a primal scream erupting from her throat as she charges. But Erica’s already got the vase in her hands, swinging it in a wide arc.

The vase connects with a sickening thud, and Vanessa crumples to the floor, a dazed, glassy look in her eyes. Erica’s chest heaves as she forces herself to ignore the burning pain and the angry red welts forming around her wrists.

She stumbles, nearly tripping over Vanessa’s prone form, and snatches up her phone. Her fingers are trembling so violently it takes her two tries to dial 911.

“Emergency services, what’s your…”

“This is Erica Sinclair,” she interrupts, voice sharp and unyielding. “I need police at my residence immediately. There’s been an attempted murder. The attacker is unconscious but armed. And... and I’m certain the rope and zip tie she brought match the ones used to kill Melissa Leland.”

Her gaze falls on Vanessa’s inert form. The vase lies shattered beside her head, and for a split second, Erica almost feels pity for the woman sprawled out on her living room floor.

Almost.

Because now, Erica has everything she needs to bring Vanessa down. And this time, she won’t just be fighting for Mark Leland’s freedom - she’ll be fighting for justice.


Erica’s hands are still shaking as she holds her phone, her breathing erratic but slowing. Her apartment is a mess: shattered vase pieces scattered across the floor, the coffee table overturned, and papers from Vanessa’s fake file jacket strewn everywhere.

And in the midst of it all, Vanessa lies motionless, blood slowly trickling from a cut on her forehead where the vase hit. The zip tie, now discarded, lies inches away from her limp fingers, a chilling reminder of how close Erica came to being its next victim.

The wail of sirens pierces the tense silence. Red and blue lights flood the apartment through the windows, casting distorted shadows over the scene. Still flashed with Adrenaline, Erica stumbles slightly as she moves to the door. She pulls it open just as a team of uniformed officers rushes down the hallway, guns drawn and faces set in grim determination.

“Police! Ma’am, are you alright?” one of the officers shouts as they enter the apartment.

Erica steps back, hands raised slightly to show she’s no threat. “I’m... I’m okay,” she says, her voice trembling but steady. She points to Vanessa’s crumpled form on the floor. “She’s the attacker. Vanessa Ainsley. She tried to kill me.”


The officers fan out, two of them quickly cuffing Vanessa’s wrists behind her back, checking for any sign of consciousness. A paramedic team pushes through next, immediately assessing Vanessa’s condition. One paramedic gently lifts her head to inspect the gash, but Erica barely registers their activity.

Her gaze is locked on the items scattered on her living room floor - the ropes, the zip tie, the shattered remains of her vase. She’s aware of an officer speaking into his radio, calling in more personnel, but the sound seems distant, muffled, as if she’s hearing it through a layer of thick glass.


A pair of strong hands guide her to a chair. She looks up, blinking to clear her vision, and sees Detective Logan Reed’s rugged face, his usual stern expression softened by a glint of concern.

“Miss Sinclair.” he says, voice low and steady. “You need to take a deep breath. Are you hurt anywhere besides your wrists?”

Erica glances down at her wrists, seeing for the first time the raw, angry marks from where Vanessa had tied her up. They sting, but it’s a distant kind of pain. She shakes her head.

“No. I’m fine.” She swallows hard. “It’s over now, isn’t it?”

Reed’s gaze shifts to Vanessa, who is being lifted onto a stretcher, her wrists cuffed and secured with additional restraints. He nods slowly. “Yeah, it’s over. We’re going to take her in for questioning once she’s cleared medically.”

“Make sure they test her for drugs or anything that might explain…this.” Erica murmurs, still dazed by how close she came to dying at the hands of this woman.

“We will.” Reed assures her. “I need you to tell me exactly what happened here. From the moment she showed up.”

Erica nods and takes a deep breath, willing herself to focus. She recounts everything - how Vanessa came with the empty file, how she confronted Vanessa with her theory about Melissa’s murder, and then how it escalated into violence, with Vanessa admitting to Melissa Leland’s murder in her rage.

As she speaks, a team of CSI specialists arrives, setting up their equipment. They start photographing the scene, paying special attention to the ropes and the zip tie Vanessa had brought with her. One of them steps over to Erica.

“Miss Sinclair, I’m going to need to photograph your wrists,” the CSI technician says softly. “The marks will help corroborate your statement.”

Erica extends her hands, palms facing up, the bruises already forming around the rope burns. The technician snaps several photos, capturing every detail.

“She had those ropes in her bag.” Erica says quietly, watching as another officer carefully bags them as evidence. “And the zip tie. They’re probably the same as the ones used to kill Melissa Leland. You’ll need to test them.”

“We will.” Reed says firmly. “CSI will run a full analysis. If they’re a match, it’ll be damning evidence against her.”

Erica exhales slowly, the weight of what’s just happened settling on her shoulders. Vanessa’s manic confession echoes in her ears: “You’re damn right I killed her!” It’s all the confirmation they need, but the physical evidence will make it airtight.

The paramedics wheel Vanessa out on the gurney, her face pale and eyes closed. She’s still unconscious, but the restraints on her wrists and the officer escorting the stretcher make it obvious that she’s under arrest.

As the room clears out, Detective Reed returns to Erica’s side. His posture is more relaxed now, though the sharpness in his eyes hasn’t dulled.

“Miss Sinclair, I’m going to need you to come down to the precinct tomorrow to make an official statement.” he says gently. “I know this is a lot to handle, but you did the right thing. You might have just solved the Leland case.”

Erica nods, her gaze flickering to the spot where Vanessa had stood, rage and desperation burning in her eyes. It’s hard to reconcile that image with the Vanessa Ainsley she first met - the poised, competent assistant who seemed almost meek in comparison.

But it’s over now. Melissa Leland’s killer possibly has finally been unmasked.

“I’ll be there.” Erica says quietly, pushing herself to stand. She notices Reed’s subtle shift, as if ready to steady her, but she waves him off with a tired smile. “I’m alright, Detective. Let’s finish this.”

And when Vanessa wakes up in police custody, she’ll know that Erica was the one who brought her down.

One step closer to the truth, Erica thinks as she steps through her front door, determination settling in her chest like a cold, hard knot of steel. One step closer to getting justice for Melissa Leland.



The door closes behind the last officer, the faint echo reverberating through the now-silent apartment. Erica stands in the middle of her living room, breathing in the silence, as if only now realizing that it’s over. Vanessa is gone. The police have left. And she’s… safe.

She looks around, surveying the mess. Shards of porcelain from the shattered vase glitter like tiny diamonds under the dim light. The coffee table lies on its side, a testament to the chaotic struggle that took place here mere moments ago.

“God, how could I have been so stupid?” Erica mutters to herself, shaking her head. Letting Vanessa in, standing so close to a woman she knew had a dangerous streak… she should have known better.

Almost mechanically, her body on autopilot, Erica bends down and grips the edge of the coffee table, pulling it upright with a hard tug. She takes a step back, staring at it as if expecting it to tip over again. But it doesn’t. It’s just a piece of furniture: solid, dependable, inanimate. Unlike people, it won’t betray her.


Erica sighs, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. Her fingers tremble slightly as she touches her cheek, remembering how Vanessa’s fingers dug into her skin, the harsh breaths, the almost animalistic growl as she tried to dominate her.

A shiver runs down Erica’s spine, not entirely unpleasant. She rolls her shoulders, loosening the lingering tension, and makes her way to the kitchen. Reaching into the wooden rack, she pulls out a half-full bottle of wine, not caring that it’s a vintage she usually saves for special occasions. She’s earned it tonight.

She grabs a glass and pours, the rich crimson liquid swirling into the glass like liquid velvet. As she does, she glances down at her wrists, turning them slightly to see the raw, pink marks from the ropes Vanessa used to bind her.

There’s a flash of memory - Vanessa’s body pinning her down, the ropes tight around her wrists, pulling her arms up and back until the muscles strained, forcing her to arch her back. Erica remembers the sharp bite of pain, the adrenaline flooding her system… and beneath it all, something else. A surge of heat, of something dangerously close to excitement.

“Jesus.” she whispers, voice thick with disbelief. The glass trembles in her hand as she raises it to her lips and drinks deeply, savoring the way the wine burns as it goes down.

She downs the entire glass in one gulp, letting the alcohol settle in her stomach before pouring herself another. This time, she sips slowly, her gaze lingering on her wrists. It’s ridiculous. Completely insane. Vanessa had tried to kill her, and yet… And yet.

Erica sets the glass down, a hollow laugh escaping her lips. It’s not the first time she’s found herself on the edge, dancing the razor-thin line between control and chaos. She knows what it feels like to crave the sensation of being tied up, of pushing her body to the brink. But this…this was different. Vanessa hadn’t been playing. It wasn’t a game. There was no safe word to end the scenario.

And still, in the middle of that vicious struggle, there had been a split second - a fraction of a heartbeat - when Erica had felt a dark thrill, an almost euphoric surrender to Vanessa’s aggression. The realization unsettles her, twisting her stomach into knots that the wine can’t quite smooth over.


With a deep breath, Erica turns away from the kitchen and walks through the hallway, her bare feet silent against the cool wooden floor. She unbuttons her blouse as she goes, letting it slide off her shoulders. Next, she unzips her skirt, allowing it to pool around her ankles before stepping out of it. Piece by piece, her clothes fall away, leaving her naked by the time she reaches her bedroom.

Erica crosses the room, her movements languid and unhurried. She sinks to her knees beside her bed, reaching under the frame until her fingers touch smooth plastic. She pulls out a rectangular storage bin and lifts the lid, her eyes narrowing as she looks down at its contents.

Ropes - thick and durable, coiled neatly. Leather slave collar, metal handcuffs, and several other items that gleam in the low light. Erica trails a finger over them, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her lips. This collection has been her secret, her private indulgence for years. Her bedroom being the one space where she could explore that dark hunger, that need to surrender and yet remain in control.

But tonight’s encounter was no fantasy. It was real. Vanessa had tried to use these very tools - ropes and zip ties - to kill her. To dominate and break her. And it had almost worked.

Almost.

Erica’s smile fades as she stares down at her wrists again, tracing the faint outline of the rope burns. Her heartbeat quickens, a strange mix of fear and exhilaration thrumming through her veins. She doesn’t know why she’s still lingering here, why she’s looking at these marks as if they hold the answers to questions she’s too afraid to ask.

“Get a grip.” she mutters under her breath, shaking her head. “It’s over. You survived. Move on.”

But instead of closing the bin and pushing it back under the bed, Erica reaches for one of the coils of rope, letting it slide through her fingers. The feel of it, familiar, comforting, charged with potential, sends a rush of conflicting emotions through her.

She closes her eyes, imagining Vanessa’s manic gaze, the feral smile that twisted her lips as she tried to wrestle Erica into submission. The memory sends another shiver down her spine, and Erica releases the rope with a harsh exhale.

No. She won’t give Vanessa that kind of power. Not now. Not ever.

Erica stands abruptly, shoving the lid back on the bin and pushing it under the bed with more force than necessary. There's no way she's going to put bruises on top of the fresh rope marks. She straightens, brushing invisible dust from her hands, and moves to her dresser. Pulling out a soft silk robe, she wraps it around herself, cinching it tightly at the waist.

“Focus!” she tells herself firmly. “You have a case to win. A murderer to put behind bars.”

Erica takes another deep breath and walks back to the kitchen. She picks up the glass of wine, staring into its depths. Then, with a decisive motion, she pours it down the sink.

Tonight was close - too close. But it’s not going to define her. Vanessa Ainsley may have stirred something in Erica’s depths, but she won’t let that darkness consume her.

Not if she can help it.

With a determined nod, Erica turns away from the sink and heads back to her bedroom. She’ll get a good night’s sleep, wake up tomorrow, and continue doing what she does best: taking control, taking charge, and winning.

Because there’s no other option.

[LunaDog]

This story, together with your other one featuring the same character, is most brilliantly written, and therefore a total joy to read.

[Jenny_S]

Thank you. I'm glad you enjoy my stories.
Erica Sinclair is in her eight adventure as we speak, so buckle up, there's much more to come.
If you can't wait, the first three stories are up in full length here:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

But now back to the Leland Case...

[Jenny_S]

The morning sun filters through the blinds of Mark Leland’s temporary apartment, casting thin slats of light across the polished surfaces. Erica stands outside the front door, smoothing the cuff of her blouse, the sensation a reminder of the marks beneath. Despite a liberal dose of skin lotion, her wrists still bear faint bruises from the struggle the night before. She exhales slowly, then presses the doorbell.

Mark answers almost immediately. He looks like he hasn’t slept much, but his eyes brighten at the sight of her. “Erica, what brings you here so early?” he asks, his voice a blend of curiosity and underlying concern.

Erica steps inside without waiting for an invitation. “We need to talk. Something happened last night - something that changes everything.” She motions for him to take a seat on the leather sofa and perches herself opposite him.

Mark’s brows furrow as he leans forward. “What do you mean? Is it about the case?”

“Yes.” she replies, her gaze steady on his. “It’s about Vanessa Ainsley. She showed up at my apartment last night.”

Mark’s eyes widen. “Vanessa came to your place? Why?”

Erica leans back, her fingers tracing the rim of the coffee mug he’s handed her, though she hasn’t taken a sip. “She claimed she had proof that she wasn’t involved in Melissa’s murder. But all she brought me was an empty file. Just as a distraction. When I confronted her, she admitted to killing Melissa and then tried to do the same to me.”

Mark’s jaw drops. “She…what?” His voice is strained, incredulous. He pushes to his feet, pacing a few steps before turning back to face her. “Erica, are you okay? Did she hurt you?”

“I’m fine, Mark,” she says softly, holding up her wrists so he can see the bruising. “She tried to tie me up. Wanted to use the same kind of rope and zip tie she used on your wife. I managed to fight her off and called the police. They arrested her.”

Mark stares at the marks, his face a mixture of shock, anger, and something else - regret, maybe. “I can’t believe it…Vanessa? Why would she…?”

“Because she is obsessed with you, Mark,” Erica cuts in gently. “Obsessed enough to kill Melissa to get her out of the picture and to try to kill me when she thought I was a rival for your attention.”

Mark’s mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. He looks utterly defeated, his shoulders sagging as he sinks back into the couch. “I never thought…I didn’t know she was capable of something like this.”

Erica reaches out, her hand resting on his forearm. “Neither did I. But the truth is out now, and we need to make sure she doesn’t get away with it. That means going to the Precinct and sitting down with Detective Reed. You need to hear it all from start to finish, and he needs to know exactly what has happened.”

Mark nods numbly. “I don’t know how I’ll face this, Erica, but…I’ll do whatever it takes.”



They arrive at the Precinct an hour later. The familiar murmur of voices, ringing phones, and clacking keyboards greets them as they’re led to a small interview room. Detective Logan Reed is already waiting inside, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed.

“Miss Sinclair.” he greets curtly, his gaze shifting to Mark. “Mr Leland.”

Erica nods in response and takes the seat across from him, gesturing for Mark to do the same. “Detective, I’m going to tell you everything that’s happened since Vanessa Ainsley first approached me about representing Mr Leland.”

Reed raises an eyebrow as he clicks the switch on his recorder. “I’m listening.”

Erica starts at the beginning - Vanessa’s initial contact, the doubts she’d felt about Mark’s supposed guilt, the subtle tensions she’d picked up between Vanessa and Mark, and how Vanessa’s behavior had grown increasingly erratic. She recounts every detail of her investigation, the conversations she’d had, the way Vanessa’s story began to unravel.

Detective Reed listens intently, his expression a mask of professionalism, though his eyes are sharp, assessing each piece of information as Erica lays it out.

“And then last night, Vanessa showed up at my apartment.” Erica continues. She describes the confrontation, Vanessa’s outburst of confession, and the ensuing struggle. She shows him the marks on her wrists again, and then calmly mentions the evidence the CSI team have collected - the ropes and the zip tie Vanessa brought with her.

Reed leans forward, his gaze flicking to Mark. “Is it true, Mr Leland? Was Vanessa infatuated with you?”

Mark hesitates but then nods. “She…always seemed very loyal. She supported me through some of the worst days of my marriage. But I never thought she would…”

“That she’d kill your wife?” Reed finishes for him. “And try to take out your lawyer? You must’ve noticed something was off about her.”

“I didn’t know.” Mark says helplessly. “If I had, I would’ve put distance between us sooner. I would never have put anyone in danger.”

Reed grunts, looking back at Erica. “So, Miss Ainsley confessed she murdered Melissa Leland. We’ll need to make sure every word of what she said is recorded, and we’ll need you to repeat that in court.”

“I have no problem with that.” Erica replies evenly. “But the confession is only part of it. Vanessa tried to kill me last night, Detective. She needs to be charged for that too.”

“She will be.” Reed assures her. He taps his pen against his notebook, then glances up. “And we’ve got the ropes and zip tie bagged and tagged. If they match what was used on Mrs Leland… well, it’s pretty decent evidence.”

Erica nods, feeling a weight lift slightly off her shoulders. “Good. Because I want her to face justice for everything she’s done.”

Reed holds her gaze for a moment, then looks back at Mark. “You’re free to go for now, Mr. Leland. I will talk to the District Attorney about the sudden change in your case, but I have a feeling you’re going to have a long road ahead dealing with the fallout of all this.”

Mark nods slowly. “I understand, Detective. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.” Reed replies. “Just be honest when you get called in to testify. No more secrets. You got it?”

Mark nods again, glancing at Erica with something like gratitude in his eyes. “I’ve got it.”


The detective stands, signaling the end of their meeting. As they exit the Precinct, Erica turns to Mark, her expression firm. “We’ve come this far, Mark. Now it’s time to finish what we started.”

Mark gives a weary nod. “I just hope we can.”

“We will.” Erica replies, her voice steady and determined. “Trust me.”

With that, they step out of the building, the first glimmers of closure on the horizon.




Erica and Mark sit across from each other in a quiet corner of a downtown café. The clinking of silverware and murmur of conversation creates a steady hum of background noise, but neither of them pays it any attention. Erica’s gaze is fixed on the phone in her hand as she considers the upcoming conversation. It won’t be easy - Stephanie Colbert isn’t the type to respond well to surprises, especially ones that involve her name being dragged through a public scandal.

Mark shifts in his seat, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the tabletop. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he asks, voice low. “I don’t want to put her in a position where she feels cornered.”

“She needs to know what happened, Mark.” Erica replies, her tone firm but measured. “Vanessa’s been arrested, and it’s only a matter of time before the media latches onto her confession and the trial details. We need to make sure Stephanie hears it from us first - and that she understands exactly how serious this is.”

Mark lets out a heavy sigh and nods reluctantly. “You’re right. Let’s get it over with, then.”

He picks up his phone and dials Stephanie’s number. After a few rings, a familiar, sophisticated voice answers on the other end. Mark clears his throat.

“Stephanie? It’s Mark. Can we meet? I need to talk to you - no, “we” need to talk to you.” He pauses, his eyes meeting Erica’s. “It’s about… what happened with Melissa. Please, just meet us at The Hanover Club in an hour.”

There’s a long silence on the other end before Stephanie finally agrees. When Mark hangs up, his hand is trembling slightly. “She’s coming.” he murmurs, more to himself than to Erica.




The Hanover Club’s private lounge exudes opulence - deep leather chairs, polished oak tables, and a quiet ambiance that speaks to its exclusivity. Stephanie Colbert strides into the room with an air of confidence. Her blonde hair is impeccably styled, and she’s dressed in a cream-colored suit that probably costs more than most people’s car.

“Mark.” she greets him curtly, her gaze sliding to Erica with a hint of suspicion. “Miss Sinclair. What is this about?”

“Stephanie…” Mark begins, his voice softer, almost pleading. “I’m so sorry to put you through this, but… I need to tell you something. It’s about Vanessa Ainsley.”

Stephanie’s eyebrows arch slightly. “Your assistant? What could she possibly have to do with… any of this?” Her gaze sharpens. “Mark, if you’re about to tell me something that will involve me in this scandal, I need you to reconsider. You know how important discretion is to me.”

Erica cuts in, sensing Mark’s hesitation. “Stephanie, Vanessa was arrested last night. She confessed to killing Melissa.”

The color drains from Stephanie’s face. For a moment, she seems at a loss for words, then she regains her composure. “What?” she whispers, her voice almost inaudible. “Vanessa killed…Melissa? Why?”

“Because she is obsessed with Mark.” Erica explains calmly. “She thought with you denying everything, removing Melissa from the picture would allow her to have him to herself. She went after me, too, when she thought I was a threat.”

Stephanie’s eyes narrow. “But why are you telling me this? How does it involve me?”

“Because we need you to understand what’s coming.” Erica says gently. “Once this goes to trial, Vanessa’s confession will come out. And she was very close to Mark. The media will make connections and try to drag every detail of Mark’s life into the spotlight - including his past relationships.”

“I’m certainly not a ‘past relationship.’” Stephanie snaps, her eyes flashing. “Whatever we were - it was private. I’ve stayed out of this mess deliberately, and I expect you to respect that, Mark.”

“Stephanie, please.” Mark implores, his voice breaking slightly. “I’m not asking you to get involved. I just… I wanted you to hear it from me. Vanessa is going to take us all down if we don’t handle this carefully.”

Stephanie folds her arms, her expression hardening. “And how do you expect me to help? I’m already distancing myself as much as I can. You know I have my own position to think about.”

Erica leans forward, lowering her voice to ensure Stephanie catches every word. “We don’t need you to do anything drastic, Mrs Colbert. Just support Mark. Be a character witness, if it comes to that. It’s not about exposing your relationship; it’s about showing that Mark isn’t the monster Vanessa will make him out to be. You could be the difference between him being acquitted or convicted.”

Stephanie’s gaze flicks to Mark, a flicker of something - pain, maybe - distorting her features. “Is that what you want, Mark? You want me to put myself in the crosshairs for you?”

“No.” Mark says softly. “I don’t want to drag you into this any more than I already have. But you’re the only one who can help me, Steph. And after everything we’ve been through, I thought… maybe you’d understand.”

Stephanie looks away, her jaw tightening. “I can’t promise anything.” She exhales slowly, then glances back at Erica. “But I certainly won’t let Vanessa’s lies define who Mark is. I’ll…I’ll do what I can.”

“Thank you.” Erica says quietly. “That’s all we ask.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Stephanie murmurs, her voice brittle. “This is just the beginning. If Vanessa’s gone to such lengths, she’s going to drag us all down with her if we’re not careful.”

With that, she stands and smooths down her suit, her composure once more unshakeable. “You’ll hear from me when I know what I’m going to do. But, Mark… be prepared for the worst.”

And with a final glance at both of them, she turns on her heel and walks out of the lounge, leaving Erica and Mark in the heavy silence of her departure.

Mark slumps back in his chair, staring at the spot where Stephanie stood moments before. “I don’t know if I did the right thing by telling her.”

“You did.” Erica says firmly. “Now, whatever happens, she’s prepared. We all are.”

Mark nods slowly, his gaze distant. “I just hope she doesn’t get hurt because of me.”

“She won’t,” Erica assures him, though she knows that’s a promise she might not be able to keep.




Erica Sinclair sits beside Mark Leland in a stuffy conference room at the District Attorney’s office. The air is thick with tension as DA Charles Vickers flips through a stack of files, his expression unreadable. Across the table, Vanessa Ainsley is flanked by her defense attorney, Robert “Bobby” Pearson. Vanessa looks far more composed than she did the other night, but there’s a restless energy beneath her calm exterior. Her eyes dart to Erica’s face every few seconds, a mixture of defiance and desperation in her gaze.

DA Vickers finally closes the folder and looks up, his gaze sharp as a blade. “I’m glad everyone could make it. Let’s get right to it.” He clears his throat and leans forward, elbows on the table. “Given the new developments - namely, the attempted murder of Miss Sinclair - I’m planning to file a motion to consolidate both cases into one.”

Vanessa shifts in her seat, shooting a panicked look at Pearson. He maintains his lawyerly mask of calm, but his jaw tightens just slightly.

Pearson’s voice is measured, but firm. “That’s an overreach, Mr Vickers. These are two entirely separate incidents. Just because you’ve got a common suspect doesn’t mean they should be tried together.”

“They’re more than just “separate incidents”, Mr Pearson.” Vickers counters. “The murder of Melissa Leland and the attempted murder of Erica Sinclair are connected by motive, method, and intent. Your client confessed to killing Mrs Leland in front of Miss Sinclair and then attempted to silence her the other night. She even used the same type of zip tie and rope as in the Leland case. This isn’t a coincidence.”

“Confessed?” Pearson scoffs. “My client was under extreme duress. That wasn’t a confession; it was a coerced statement made under stress and fear. It won’t hold up in court.”

Erica leans forward, her gaze fixed on Vanessa. “Miss Ainsley didn’t seem too stressed when she was trying to wrap that rope around my wrists, Mr Pearson. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she had every intention of finishing what she started with Melissa Leland.”

Vanessa glares at Erica, but Pearson places a warning hand on her arm, keeping her from speaking out of turn. He takes a steadying breath before addressing Vickers again. “Consolidating these cases would unfairly prejudice a jury against my client. You know that, Mr Vickers. A single trial for both incidents would make it nearly impossible for the jury to consider each charge independently. You’re essentially accusing her of being a serial offender based on circumstantial evidence.”

“Circumstantial?” Vickers’s brow furrows. “The ropes your client brought to Miss Sinclair’s apartment match those used on Melissa Leland. She had access to the Leland residence, which is still a taped-off crime scene. And let’s not forget her statement when she attacked Miss Sinclair, however you want to paint it, makes her the prime suspect in both cases.”

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to argue that in court.” Pearson says icily. “But until then, my position remains: we oppose the consolidation.”

“Of course you do.” Vickers says, voice dripping with dry amusement. He turns to Erica, his gaze calculating. “Miss Sinclair, as you’re representing Mr. Leland’s interests, I’d like your input on this matter. Do you believe these two cases should be tried together?”

Erica takes a moment, considering her words carefully. She’s aware that Vanessa’s gaze is burning into her, but she ignores it. Her voice is calm, almost clinical, as she addresses the room.

“The murder of Melissa Leland and the attack on me aren’t just connected by method or evidence - they’re linked by motive.” she says. “Ms Ainsley’s actions were driven by her obsession with Mark Leland. She killed Melissa because she wanted Mr Leland for herself. And when I got too close to exposing that, she tried to eliminate me, too.”

Mark shifts uncomfortably beside Erica but doesn’t speak, his expression strained.

“Trying these cases together” Erica continues, “would show the jury the full picture: Vanessa Ainsley’s escalating violence and her single-minded determination to control Mark. She’s not a woman who acts on impulse - she’s a planner, a manipulator. Keeping the cases separate would obscure the true nature of her crimes.”

Pearson opens his mouth to argue, but Vickers raises a hand, silencing him.

“I agree.” Vickers says decisively. “The jury needs to see how the pattern of behavior unfolds across both incidents. These crimes aren’t isolated, they’re part of a larger story of control and obsession. I’ll be filing the motion to consolidate this afternoon.”

Vanessa’s eyes widen. “No! You can’t do that!” she blurts out, turning to Pearson. “You said…”

“I said I’d fight it,” Pearson snaps, low and controlled. “And I will.”

He turns back to Vickers, his voice dangerously smooth. “We’ll be filing our opposition just as quickly. I can assure you of that.”

“Do what you need to do, Mr Pearson.” Vickers replies calmly. “But I’m confident the judge will see it my way. Miss Ainsley’s actions are a clear continuum of criminal behavior. Trying these cases separately would not only waste time and resources but also fail to present the complete truth.”

Pearson smirks. “Truth, huh? Last I checked, the truth is what a jury believes after a good attorney tells them a compelling story. And I’m very good at what I do, Mr Vickers.”

Vickers doesn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he turns his attention back to Vanessa, who’s now staring blankly at the tabletop. “Miss Ainsley, I suggest you think carefully about your options. Two charges, one trial - if you cooperate and accept a plea, we might be able to make things easier for you.”

Vanessa’s head snaps up, her voice raw. “I’m not taking any plea deal. I didn’t…”

Pearson squeezes her shoulder, cutting her off. “No further comments from my client.” he says firmly. “We’ll see you in court.”

With that, he stands, tugging Vanessa up beside him. As they turn to leave, Vanessa throws one last, searing look at Erica, her eyes flashing with a mix of hatred and desperation.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Vanessa hisses. “This isn’t over, Erica. Not by a long shot.”

Erica holds her gaze, unflinching. “Oh, it’s over, Vanessa. For you.”

Vanessa’s jaw tightens, but Pearson pulls her away, ushering her towards their police escort and out of the room. As the door closes behind them, silence settles over the conference room.

Vickers releases a long breath, looking to Erica and Mark. “This isn’t going to be easy. Pearson’s going to fight tooth and nail to keep those cases separate.”

“Let him.” Erica says, her tone resolute. “He can fight all he wants. But we have the truth on our side.”

Mark nods slowly, though his expression remains troubled. “I just want this to be over, Erica. I can’t keep living under this shadow.”

“It will be.” she assures him, placing a comforting hand on his arm. “Vanessa’s unraveling, and once the jury sees the full story, they’ll convict her.”

Vickers nods in agreement. “Let’s hope so. But be prepared - Pearson’s going to make this personal.”

Erica’s eyes harden, her resolve strengthening. “He can try. I’m not backing down. Not until Vanessa pays for what she’s done.”

The meeting breaks up, and Erica watches as Vickers gathers his files, already strategizing for the upcoming battle. She knows it’s going to be a fight, but she’s more than ready for it. Vanessa’s crimes - and her obsession - will come to light, no matter what it takes.

[Caesar73]

A truly gripping tale! Excellently told!

[Jenny_S]

Thank you. I'm happy to hear that you enjoy Erica's second adventure.

[Jenny_S]

The tension of the past few days lingers in Erica’s shoulders as she settles onto her couch, phone in hand. She stares at her contact list, hesitating for a moment. It’s been years since she last reached out to him - Professor Arthur Kingsley, her mentor from Harvard Law, now retired, but still on top of things. Their conversations, once frequent, dwindled after she graduated and moved to New York. But now, with everything happening, there’s only one person she trusts to guide her through this legal whirlwind.

With a deep breath, she taps his name.

It only rings twice before his familiar, warm baritone answers. “Arthur Kingsley.”

“Professor Kingsley.” she begins, her voice steadier than she expected. “It’s Erica Sinclair. I…”

“Erica!” He sounds genuinely pleased to hear from her, his voice lifting with recognition. “What a surprise. I was just reading about your recent cases. I’ve been meaning to call and congratulate you - it’s been remarkable to watch your career unfold.”

“Thank you.” she replies, a small smile touching her lips despite the circumstances. “I wish I were calling under better circumstances, though.”

“Uh-oh.” he says lightly, then pauses, his tone shifting to one of concern. “Tell me what’s going on.”


Erica recounts the events of the past few days, summarizing Vanessa Ainsley’s attack on her, the ensuing police investigation, and the DA’s decision to consolidate the cases against Vanessa. The more she speaks, the more the tension unravels in her voice, leaving a raw edge by the time she’s done.

“There’s one more thing.” she adds. “Vanessa Ainsley has already secured a lawyer - Bobby Pearson.”

There’s a long silence on the other end, and Erica knows Arthur is processing the name, considering what it means.

“Bobby Pearson.” he repeats slowly, his voice laced with skepticism. “I know him. Ambitious and aggressive - especially when the stakes are high. He’s a pit bull in the courtroom, the kind who loves to push boundaries. Not to mention his connections to certain less-than-reputable figures in the city’s power circles. Are you prepared to face him, Erica?”

“That’s why I’m calling you.” she says, her voice softening. “I’m not just a witness in this mess - I’m also a victim so there’s no way I can represent myself. Bringing in one of my associates would only complicate things, given my personal involvement. I need someone I trust to defend me… someone who knows how to take on a heavyweight like Pearson.”

Arthur is quiet for a moment longer. “Erica, if this is as serious as it sounds - and I have no doubt it is - you know you’ll need more than just legal representation. You need a strategist, someone who can navigate both the media circus and the courtroom traps. Are you asking me to come on board?”

“Yes.” she replies softly, almost vulnerable. “I need you, Professor. You’re the only one I trust to handle this.”

Kingsley lets out a low, contemplative hum. “I always did have a soft spot for my brightest student.” He sighs, his tone shifting to one of resolve. “Alright, I’ll do it. But on one condition - this isn’t going to be a typical client-attorney relationship. I’ll need your full participation. You’re too knowledgeable and too connected to be sidelined.”

“Of course.” She’s already nodding, even though he can’t see it. “I’m not looking to be a passive client. I want to be involved every step of the way.”

“Good.” he says with a hint of approval. “Because Pearson will play dirty, and if I know him, he’s going to paint you as the real manipulator in all of this. He’ll twist Vanessa’s actions to make her look like a woman pushed to the brink by your machinations. We need to get ahead of him.”

“Which means I’ll need to start digging through every piece of evidence I have.” she says, already switching into strategy mode. “And provide you with anything that can discredit Vanessa’s story.”

“Precisely.” Arthur agrees. “We’ll meet in my study first thing tomorrow morning to strategize. Bring everything you have - emails, texts, recordings, witness statements. We’ll need to build a solid counter-narrative.”

“Agreed.” Erica’s relief is palpable. “Thank you, Professor Kingsley.”

“Arthur.” he corrects gently. “It’s been years, Erica. You can call me Arthur now.”

“Alright, Arthur.” She smiles again, genuinely this time. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Get some rest, Erica. You’re going to need it.”

The call ends, and for the first time in days, Erica feels a measure of peace. With Arthur Kingsley by her side, she knows she’s in the best possible hands. And they’ll need every ounce of his skill and strategy to outmaneuver Bobby Pearson and bring Vanessa Ainsley to justice.




The DA’s office feels like a controlled battlefield - neutral, but with an undercurrent of intensity. The large, polished mahogany conference table dominates the room, flanked by high-backed leather chairs. DA Charles Vickers, a stern man in his late forties with a reputation for being relentless, sits at the head of the table. His expression is carefully neutral as he glances through a file, the rustling of papers the only sound breaking the silence.

Professor Kingsley, with his distinguished presence and graying temples, sits on one side of the table. He nods politely to the DA but remains reserved, observing the situation with an air of detached scrutiny. Mark Leland sits next to Kingsley, looking tense and drawn, the electronic monitor on his ankle visible just below his tailored trouser hem.

Erica Sinclair takes her place beside Mark, leaning slightly forward, alert and focused. As much as she has every reason to be on edge, her presence exudes calm, as if she’s in her natural element.

Vickers finally looks up and clears his throat.

“I appreciate you all coming in this morning.” he begins, his voice even. “I wanted to inform you that the presiding judge has decided to join the charges of the murder of Melissa Leland and the attempted murder of Miss Sinclair into a single case.”

He lets that sink in, the weight of his words settling like lead on the table.

“It was determined that these incidents are not two isolated crimes, but a connected chain of events motivated by the same underlying intentions. This means we’ll be pursuing both charges together. One trial, one jury.”

Mark shifts uneasily in his seat, a furrow appearing on his brow. Kingsley listens intently but remains unflustered. Erica’s gaze sharpens; this decision effects the strategy considerably.

The DA turns to Erica, his expression shifting from neutral to something a touch warmer, but still laced with formality.

“Miss Sinclair.” he says, “I want to make it clear that, despite your dual role as both victim and key witness, you’re welcome to act as counsel here. Your involvement in this case is… unconventional, to say the least, but your insights are invaluable. Your experience with Miss Ainsley and proximity to the events give you a perspective none of us have.”

Erica nods, acknowledging the respect behind the words, but she remains silent, letting him continue.

“However.” Vickers’ gaze moves to Mark, the steeliness returning to his tone. “Mr Leland, Judge Hathaway decided that the terms of your bail remain unchanged. The electronic monitor will stay in place, and you will continue to be subject to the court’s restrictions until a verdict is reached, one way or another.”

Mark leans forward, tension radiating off him. “But…if Vanessa’s arrest changes everything…”

“It doesn’t change the fact that you’re still formally charged with your wife’s murder.” Vickers cuts in crisply, holding up a hand to forestall any protest. “Until the court finds you innocent, we’re operating under the presumption that you could still be guilty. The monitor stays.”

Kingsley shifts slightly, a small frown tugging at his lips. “Mr. Vickers.” he interjects smoothly, his voice measured and urbane, “I would think that given the new evidence and the attempted murder of Miss Sinclair, there might be grounds to reconsider the bail conditions. My client is at risk, wearing a visible electronic device that could make him a target for anyone wishing to capitalize on this case’s high-profile nature.”

Vickers leans back, considering Kingsley’s words. He’s well aware of the professor’s formidable reputation. His gaze flicks to Erica, gauging her reaction, but she remains impassive.

“The judge’s decision on bail is firm.” he says at last, shaking his head. “Any reconsideration would have to be petitioned formally, and given the circumstances, I don’t see the judge granting that request. We’re talking about serious charges here.”

Erica exchanges a brief glance with Kingsley, and then she turns back to the DA. “Mr. Vickers.” she says, keeping her voice steady, “I appreciate your recognition of my dual role here. I understand the complexity it adds to this case. But given what we know now about Vanessa Ainsley’s behavior and motives, we’ll need to approach this trial with a unified strategy.”

She pauses, glancing at Mark before continuing. “I’m not suggesting leniency or asking for special treatment for Mr Leland. I’m asking that we keep an open mind and ensure that justice is pursued in its entirety, without preconceived notions.”

The DA’s gaze narrows slightly, but he nods, conceding the point. “Fair enough, Ms. Sinclair. I have no intention of pursuing this with blinders on. That’s why I wanted to speak with all of you today so we’re on the same page moving forward.”

He takes a deep breath, shifting his attention back to Kingsley. “Professor Kingsley, I’m glad to have someone of your caliber involved. I have no doubt this trial will be… complex. But rest assured, my office will do everything in its power to present a solid case based on the evidence we have.”

Kingsley inclines his head politely. “I wouldn’t expect anything less, Mr. Vickers. We all want the same thing here - the truth.”

“Agreed.” the DA says, his tone firm. He glances at Mark again, a brief but piercing look. “And Mr. Leland, just a reminder - this isn’t a done deal yet. The prosecution will still consider every angle, every piece of evidence. Even with Vanessa Ainsley in custody, the burden of proving your innocence remains.”


Mark frowns, confusion and frustration clouding his features. “But Vanessa attacked Erica - doesn’t that change things? Shouldn’t that prove she’s the one responsible for Melissa’s death?”

Vickers sighs, folding his hands on the table. “It’s not that simple, Mr. Leland. The fact that Miss Ainsley assaulted Miss Sinclair is strong evidence of her instability and violent tendencies, yes. But it’s not conclusive proof that she alone committed your wife’s murder. Especially not when the defense could turn around and argue that – hypothetically - you and Vanessa acted together to eliminate your wife.”

Mark stiffens, eyes widening in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous! Why would I?”

“Think about it.” Vickers interrupts, his voice clipped. “The prosecution will need to be prepared for any strategy that Bobby Pearson - Miss Ainsley’s lawyer - might use to deflect blame. He’ll likely paint Vanessa as a misguided accomplice, manipulated by her infatuation with you into doing your dirty work. You’re her boss, she’s totally devoted to you - why wouldn’t she cover for you if you’d plotted Melissa’s murder together?”

Erica leans forward, her gaze narrowing. “And if her defense starts poking holes in Mark’s alibi - suggesting he and Vanessa conspired on this for whatever reason - we need to have a counter ready. Without a strong alibi, they could argue that Mark was involved, regardless of what happened to me.”

Professor Kingsley, who has been silently watching the exchange, nods thoughtfully. “It’s not a far-fetched strategy, and Pearson is certainly capable of taking that angle. He’s not going to roll over just because his client attacked Miss Sinclair.”

Vickers’ expression tightens. “Exactly. The attack on Ms. Sinclair muddies the waters. The jury could easily see her as an unstable person whose motives are deeply tied to her obsession with Mr Leland. But the defense will claim that you, Mr Leland, are the true mastermind - that she was only trying to eliminate a loose end - namely, Miss Sinclair - on your orders.”

Mark’s face flushes with anger and disbelief. “That’s insane. I would never…”

Vickers interrupts, his voice softer now. “The jury doesn’t know that. You need to make it crystal clear where you were during the time of your wife’s murder, with no room for doubt. Otherwise, it could all come crashing down.”

Mark looks at Erica, then at Kingsley, his eyes pleading. “Stephanie Colbert - she can testify that I was with her that night.”

Erica’s jaw tightens slightly at the mention of Stephanie’s name, but she remains composed. Vickers’ expression, however, is skeptical.

“Mrs Colbert.” Vickers repeats, almost as if testing the name. “And you’re sure she’s willing to go on record? Because if she’s not, and if Ainsley’s defense argues that you have no alibi, you’re still in serious jeopardy.”

Mark hesitates, then glances at Erica, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “I - I don’t know. I haven’t asked her directly.”

Erica leans back, arms crossed. “Mark, she already brushed me off when I spoke to her. If you want her to testify, you’ll have to convince her.”

Kingsley clears his throat, his voice measured and calm. “We need to be realistic here, Mr Leland. If Mrs Colbert won’t support your alibi, we need to look for another strategy. One that doesn’t rely on a witness who might be… less than forthcoming.”

Vickers nods, his gaze still locked on Mark. “Your relationship with Mrs Colbert - whatever it may be - complicates things. If she denies having been with you that night, or worse, tries to distance herself entirely, it’ll only raise more questions. Not just about your relationship, but about your credibility as a whole.”

Mark’s shoulders slump, a defeated look on his face. “So what do I do?”

Arthur Kingsley turns towards Mark Leland. „I suggest we speak with Mrs Colbert again. Before we try to piece an alibi together - which Mr Pearson would happily take apart during the trial - we should put in every effort to avoid such a scene.“


Mark nods stiffly, his jaw clenched. “I understand.”

“Good.” Vickers says curtly. “I’ll keep you updated as we proceed. For now, I’ll ask that everyone remains accessible. We’ll need to coordinate closely as we prepare for trial.”

With a few more formalities exchanged, the meeting wraps up, and Erica stands to leave, her thoughts already churning over the next steps.

As they head for the door, Vickers adds one final comment, almost as an afterthought: “And, Miss Sinclair? Watch yourself. There’s still a lot of heat around this case. Don’t give anyone a reason to turn up the pressure.”

Erica offers him a tight smile. “Don’t worry, Mr Vickers. I know how to handle heat.”

With that, they step out of the DA’s office and into the uncertain battlefield of a high-profile trial.





The soft glow of a bedside lamp casts a warm, amber hue across the room. Erica’s bedroom, usually a picture of tidy elegance, now seems more intimate - personal. The bed, dressed in crisp white sheets, dominates the center of the room. A single, large window reveals a view of the city skyline beyond, the lights twinkling like distant stars against the night sky.

Erica stands at the edge of the bed, her bare skin illuminated softly in the half-light. Slowly, almost ritualistically, she removes her Harvard class ring, the gold band cool and heavy between her fingers. A symbol of countless hours of study, debate, and academic triumph. She places it on the nightstand with deliberate precision.

Next, her hands move to the gleaming Rolex watch circling her wrist, the metal links sliding against her skin as she unclasps it. Another piece of her public armor - the mark of success, prestige, and a relentless work ethic. She sets it down beside the ring, the polished face glinting in the low light.

For a moment, Erica stares at these items: tangible reminders of her professional life, her meticulously constructed persona. Then, with a soft breath, she turns away, letting her bare feet pad across the hardwood floor to the side of the bed.

Bending down, she pulls out the plastic bin from underneath the bed frame. She opens the lid slowly, revealing an array of neatly organized toys and accessories. Her fingers hover over the collection for a moment before she reaches for two coils of soft, strong rope. She takes them out, then stands, securing the ends to the lower corners of the bed with practiced ease. Each knot is deliberate, exact.

The ropes are smooth and pliable in her hands, no different from the ones used in the murder of Melissa Leland. As she pulls them taut, the thought flashes briefly across her mind, but she pushes it aside. It’s not the same. This is something she controls.

She pauses, staring at the ropes now stretching across the mattress, and her gaze shifts to the headboard. Reaching back into the bin, she pulls out a small roll of tape and a set of silver handcuffs. She tapes the keys carefully to the headboard - just out of easy reach, but visible. A silent assurance, a safety net.

The handcuffs click softly as she secures them to the board above her head by means of another rope, their metallic surface gleaming faintly. She pauses again, then sits down on the bed, her breaths shallow and measured. Her fingers trace lightly over the items on the nightstand before drifting back to the bin one last time.

From it, she retrieves a bright red ball gag. The leather straps are smooth and supple as she fits it into her mouth, pressing the ball past her lips and her teeth. With a slow, practiced motion, she reaches behind her head and tightens the straps, fastening the buckle snugly. The sensation of the gag filling her mouth, keeping her jaw slightly open, brings a rush of focused clarity - a retreat from thought, from control.

With the gag secure, Erica shifts onto her back, reaches up with her arms and carefully places each wrist in the open cuffs. There’s a pause - a final moment of hesitation - before she clicks them shut, one after the other.

Now bound to the headboard and the lower corners of the bed, Erica leans back, letting the tension of the restraints pull her arms taut. Her breath hitches as she tests the limits of the cuffs, feeling the cold steel bite lightly into her skin. She tugs, once, twice, savoring the resistance. The sensation of the unyielding metal encircling her wrists is grounding, a physical manifestation of the surrender she craves.

Saliva quickly begins to pool behind the gag, a trickle escaping past her lips, sliding down her chin and dripping onto her bare chest. She tilts her head back slightly, eyes fluttering closed as she surrenders to the feeling of helplessness. Each drop of saliva tickling down her skin is a reminder of her vulnerability - a vulnerability she has chosen.

There, bound and gagged, Erica lets go. The weight of her responsibilities, the ceaseless need for control and composure - all of it fades into the background. Here, she can release everything, let the restraints hold her, contain her.


She shifts slightly, the ropes creaking softly as she pulls against them. The bed shifts in response, but she remains immobile, anchored in place by the cuffs. Her body responds with a subtle hum of satisfaction, a reassurance that, for now, there’s nothing she needs to do but exist in this state - helpless, naked, and vulnerable.

And in this moment of submission, she finally feels free. There is this familiar rush - one that is neither fear nor mere anticipation, but something far more potent. A heady mixture of desire and relief washes over her, tingling through her skin. It’s a sense of surrender, of giving herself permission to let go of the burdens that weigh on her mind and shoulders. For a woman who controls so much of her world, these moments are a rare, precious release.

She looks down at the ropes secured at the corners of the bed, their texture soft yet firm, strikingly similar to the ones used in Melissa Leland’s murder. They wrap around the posts like tendrils of silk, not binding her too tightly, but enough to make her conscious of every movement, every breath. The knowledge of that parallel sends a faint shiver down her spine, blurring the lines between fear and arousal.

Erica glances at her reflection in the bedside mirror, her naked body framed by the coils of rope and the sheen of the steel cuffs. Her mouth is stretched around the red ball gag, saliva dripping down her chin. The discomfort it brings is strangely intimate, an intrusion she welcomes because she has chosen it. Every time she tugs at the cuffs, the hard, cold steel digs into her skin - a reminder that, in this space and this moment, she’s allowed to be helpless, that she wants to be helpless.

She revels in the contrast, the stark dichotomy between the powerful litigator who commands respect in the courtroom and the woman lying here now, bound and gagged by her own hand. It’s an eroticism rooted in vulnerability and exposure. The ropes might be soft, but they are unyielding, denying her freedom of movement. Each time she struggles, even slightly, she’s met with the firm resistance of restraint.

The feeling of being held in place, unable to do more than struggle within her bonds, heightens her awareness of every sensation. Her skin prickles with anticipation, hyper-aware of every droplet of saliva trickling down her throat, every muscle straining against the ties. The wetness spreading between her legs is proof of the pleasure this vulnerability brings, the arousal intertwined with the thrill of being utterly restrained - of embracing what she would never show the world outside these walls.

Erica tugs at the handcuffs again, feeling the pull of the rope stretch her legs apart. The tension brings a sharp intake of breath through her nose, her mind swimming with a heady mix of desire and gratification. The discomfort is part of the allure, the delicate balance between pain and pleasure, control and submission.

Here, in her bedroom, she’s not the master of her universe. Whenever she needs it, she’s simply Erica - naked, helpless, and entirely at the mercy of her own desires. There’s no courtroom strategy to devise, no appearances to uphold. Only this raw, primal pleasure that lets her disconnect from everything she carries during the day. Each second spent gagged and restrained is a declaration of her willingness to embrace this darker side of herself, to let it breathe and come alive.

For Erica, this isn’t just a kink or a passing indulgence - it’s a ritual. A deliberate act of relinquishing control, if only temporarily, so she can find balance again. She craves the sensation of being on the edge, of trusting herself enough to experience this. The vulnerability makes her feel grounded, almost cleansed. And yes, it’s undeniably erotic - this state of submission that leaves her exposed, the handcuff marks on her wrists a testament to both her strength and her desire to let go completely.

In this moment, she can surrender the weight of her profession, the expectations of those around her, and the fierce willpower she wields like a weapon. Here, Erica Sinclair becomes something more elemental, more honest - something tied not to power or control, but to pure, unfiltered sensation.

She pulls at the cuffs one more time, testing the limits she’s set for herself. The restraints hold, firm and unbreakable. The reality of her self-imposed helplessness sends a jolt of electric heat straight through her core. Erica closes her eyes and moans softly against the gag, the sound muffled but deeply satisfied. This - this surrender - is hers alone, a sanctuary where no one can touch her, judge her, or expect anything from her.

And as the minutes pass and she lets herself sink deeper into this sensation of vulnerability, she knows that when she finally releases herself, when she slips back into her polished public persona, the memory of this erotic helplessness will stay with her - a secret indulgence that’s just as much a part of who she is as the class ring and the Rolex she left behind on the nightstand.

[latin-self-bound]

I love this story! I want to know what really happened with Melissa, and how the characters are involved. Great work!

[Jenny_S]

I'm really happy you enjoy this story.
The first three Erica Sinclair stories are up in full length on Wattpad, including this one. If you can't wait for the next installment, check out my page over there:
https://www.wattpad.com/user/JS_writing

[GreyLord]

You continue to amaze, @Jenny_S. Your character plows relentlessly ahead through the murky waters of a high-profile criminal case. Yet, she is clearly haunted by her predilection for being restrained. I am eager to see how you navigate Erica's coming challenges.