a/n: A big thank-you to Sockie1000 and Cokie316 - the dynamic duo of betas.

Disclaimer: I do not own Suits.

CHAPTER ONE

"What the hell happened?"

"C'mon, Harvey, I said I was sorry."

Mike carefully closed the door behind him as he crossed the threshold into Harvey's office. Initially he thought that what he'd done hadn't been that big of a deal, but Harvey's words of naïve, easily intimidated, and rookie mistake had him second-guessing his actions.

"Sorry doesn't get those files back," Harvey growled from where he was seated behind his desk. "Sorry doesn't help me prevent the shit from hitting the fan in court tomorrow. And being sorry certainly does nothing to improve my mood. You had one job. One job: get Mr. Carrow to sign the documents. So tell me what the hell happened!"

Mike sighed heavily as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I went to the house. Mr. Carrow was about to sign the paperwork when his man servant interrupted."

"His man servant?"

"His butler. Whatever," Mike took one hand out to wave away Harvey's question before continuing. "We were in his study, the butler came in, and then Mr. Carrow left for a minute. A few minutes later, he came back and told me I had to leave. While pushing me out the door, the giant butler said that he would make sure that Mr. Carrow finished the paperwork and brought it to the hearing tomorrow."

Harvey slowly stood, eyeing his associate carefully. "So let me get this straight," he began, walking around his desk until he was face-to-face with Mike. "You left our office with the Rescission and Release Agreement in hand."

"Yes."

"And you took this paperwork to Mr. Carrrow's house, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you left it with his butler?"

"He manhandled me!"

"A butler who has served, not the Carrow family, but the MacMillon family for over eighteen years."

A pause. "Yes, but Harvey..."

"The MacMillon family, spearheaded by their lovely daughter, Marjorie, our client's soon-to-be ex-wife."

"Harvey, I know, but if you'd…"

"And you decided that, since Mr. Carrow was distracted, you'd leave the documents - our damn playbook - with the one man in the entire household who is loyal to the one person who would not benefit from this deal?"

Harvey shouted as he watched the annoyance in Mike's eyes disappear, only to be replaced by a look of understanding.

"Oh."

"Yes, 'oh,'" Harvey mimicked as he buttoned his suit jacket and turned away from Mike, moving back toward his desk. "Go back."

"Back?"

"Yes, back to Carrow's house. Talk to the client. Talk to Jerry."

"Wait, who's Jerry?"

"The man servant."

"Oh. He gives me the creeps."

Harvey flashed him an are you done? look before continuing. "Regardless, I want those papers signed and in hand tonight. Fix this."

Mike sighed, resigned. "I'll fix it."

"You'd better."

"I will," he repeated, his innate need to get in the final word overriding his common sense to get out of the office, and away from an irritated Harvey, as soon as possible. He snatched up his messenger bag and flung it over his shoulder, halfway out the door before Harvey spoke again.

"Oh, and Mike?"

He turned to see a look on Harvey that he was sure he'd never seen before.

"Marjorie is devious. The whole MacMillon clan is. Carrow wants out, and it doesn't make sense that he'd have you leave on the eve of getting this deal done. So be careful."

Mike smirked. "Don't worry about me. I'll get the files back."

"Who said I was worried about you?" Harvey retorted. "Something smells bad about this whole situation, and I don't want it ruining my mojo for tomorrow. Get it done."

"Your mojo? Who are you, Austin Powers?"

"Go!"

"I'm going!" Mike smiled, saluted his mentor, and was out the door.

Calling the Carrow-family home simply a house wasn't entirely accurate. Mansion was a better description. The $26 million townhome sat nestled between similar dwellings that were common on the Upper East Side. Maybe Harvey was right, he thought. Mike was a bit outside his comfort zone when he found himself face-to-face with billionaires and their fast cars, expensive clothes, and lifestyles of the rich and famous. Perhaps he was a little intimidated, and that had led him to leave sensitive information which, if in the wrong hands, could lead to devastating consequences for the client.

Willing himself to quash those feelings, Mike leaned his bike up against one of the trees that lined the street in front of the home, earning himself a strange look from a neighbor poking her head out of her front door. After straightening his tie, adjusting the messenger bag slung across his back, and nervously spreading his hands down his suit-jacket to iron out any wrinkles, he jogged up the stairs and knocked on the door. It wasn't long before the butler loomed in front of him, a scowl on his face.

"Sorry to bother you again. But it turns out I need that paperwork tonight, not tomorrow." Mike waited, but the man didn't move an inch, so he stammered on. "If I could just get it from Mr. Carrow, that would be great."

Just as Mike was beginning to worry that he'd be forced to go back to the office empty-handed, the butler stepped aside.

"In the study," he directed, and Mike nodded his thanks.

He made his way down the hall toward the half-closed door to the study, opening it fully to reveal the empty room. Throwing a quick glance over his shoulder, Mike stepped into the room and swiftly made his way over to the large mahogany desk that flanked the left wall. The desk itself was tidy, and it didn't take long for him to realize that the paperwork was not there.

Turning to leave, a small sound from the opposite side of the room had Mike whirling around to find Marjorie Carrow eyeing him carefully, her presence undetected until now.

"Mrs. Carrow," Mike started, trying, and failing, to hide the surprise in his voice. "I'm sorry, I didn't expect…"

"To be caught snooping in my husband's study?"

"Actually, what I was going to say was that I didn't expect to see you here. I was looking for your ex-husband."

"The divorce isn't final," she bit back.

Mike cleared his throat nervously as the woman in front him smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. She was petite, despite the high heels she was wearing, and her fiery red hair deeply contrasted with her bright blue, calculating eyes that were fixed on Mike's face.

"You're Charles' lawyer, yes?" Mike nodded in response, not thinking it important to correct her. "And you are here for these, I assume?" She held up a manila folder which Mike was certain held the legal documents that outlined Mr. Carrow's plan to cut his ex-wife out of his company's profits.

"Yeah, about that…" Mike began, and the smile fell away from Marjorie's face as he instinctively took a step toward the paperwork she grasped tightly in her hands. "I'm really sorry, Mrs. Carrow. I didn't mean to, uh… what I mean is that earlier I should have waited…"

"You didn't mean to what, exactly?" She asked coldly. "Have me find out that my husband is trying to screw me out of what I'm due? Warn me that I am about to lose everything that I've helped my husband build?" Her voice rose with each question, and Mike could see the flush of red creep up her neck as her anger grew. Her grip on the folder had tightened so much that her knuckles began to turn white.

Several moments passed as Mike held his breath, silently wishing Mr. Carrow would barge in and save him from the tangible tense awkwardness that hung in the air.

"Mrs. Carrow, I…"

She waved a hand in the air to cut him off. "Please, call me Marjorie." Mike was surprised by the sudden change in her demeanor. The fury had instantly been replaced by a gentleness he previously wouldn't have guessed the woman capable of. "I'm sorry. As you can imagine, the news of my husband's plan for me was shocking. But, it's not your fault that my husband is a bastard. I shouldn't have lost my temper like that."

She closed her eyes and sighed, taking a few deep breaths. When she re-opened them and fixed a watery gaze on Mike, he could tell she was visibly shaken.

"Don't get me wrong, I knew the divorce would be ugly." Her voice quivered slightly as a single tear streaked down her face. "I just didn't think he'd be so… so… brutal."

"I uh…" Mike stumbled, unsure how to handle the new demeanor of the woman in front of him.

He couldn't help but be moved by her show of emotion. Mike was very aware of what was outlined in the paperwork she held in her hand. Her father, Arthur MacMillon, had started Mac Enterprises when he was only 22 years old. Arthur, a brilliant businessman but also a blatant sexist, never believed that a woman could run his company. And so, upon his death, left the business to his son, Arthur, Jr., and his son-in-law, Charles Carrow. Through a shrewd business move, Charles had retained sole executive powers five years ago.

But Mike also knew of Marjorie's role in the growing company. A brilliant entrepreneur in her own right, she was responsible for much of the company's success, though she received little public recognition for it. Through it all, however, she had stood by her husband and his role as the company's CEO. It wasn't surprising, then, to find that she was unhappy about the arrangements her husband… soon to be ex-husband, was making behind her back. Harvey would tell Mike he was being overly-emotional. After all, Charles was their client, not Marjorie. But that didn't mean that Mike didn't feel sorry for her.

"Look at me," she said, dabbing at her eyes. "I'm a wreck. You're probably enjoying this, though. Watching your client's wife… ex-wife, I guess… fall apart."

"Of course not," Mike countered quickly.

"Oh really?" she asked skeptically. "The way my husband described you, I figured you were cutthroat and ruthless. I assumed you and he would be out enjoying a drink, toasting your imminent victory."

"Your husband's lawyer is actually my boss, Harvey Specter," Mike corrected her. "I'm Mike Ross… his associate."

"Ah," she replied, carefully wiping the tears from her eyes. "Well, my husband is enjoying all of this; I can assure you of that." She sniffled again and offered him another smile. "I'm really sorry about earlier. I could really use a drink. Would you like one?"

"No, I can't. I really need to get back to the office with Mr. Carrow's papers," Mike said as he pointed at the files still in her hands. "So, if he could just sign them, I'll just-"

"Please? Just one. I don't want to drink alone," she interrupted with a meek voice. "We can toast my unhappiness and ultimate demise." She flashed a smile, and Mike smiled nervously back.

"Uh, sure. I guess one drink would be okay."

There was a moment filled with unnatural silence before Marjorie called out for the butler (Mike learned his name was Gerald, not Jerry). He came in a moment later, and after Marjorie made her request for some drinks, he silently left, but not before glancing at Mike with a sour look.

"Do you know what my husband's family does for a living?" Marjorie asked casually while they waited for the drinks.

"They own a winery," Mike answered, having complete knowledge of both Charles and Marjorie's family backgrounds.

"Hmm, yes, they do," she confirmed. "If there is one thing I hate more than my husband, Mike, it's that damn wine." She laughed. "You know, the original floor plan of this house included a wine cellar. But I knew if I let Charles have his way, he'd stock that thing to the brim with that horrible wine. I'd have been forced to serve it at every social function, and that was not something I was willing to do."

Gerald returned, carrying a tray with a single flask and two glasses. He left without a word.

"When my husband was away on one of his business trips to Columbia," Marjorie continued as she poured the amber liquid, "I had the main level of the house completely remodeled. I had our kitchen moved so it was situated right above that cellar, making it next-to-impossible to access. Charles never even had a chance to put a single bottle inside."

Another moment or two of silence passed before she passed a glass to Mike.

"How about a toast?" she said, a sad smile on her face. "Acceptance of what has happened is the first step to overcoming the consequences of any misfortune."

"William James."

"You know your philosophers," she said softly before dipping her glass toward him. "Cheers."

Mike tipped his glass toward her a moment and drank, cringing as the liquid burned his throat. Coughing slightly, he set the glass down on the desk behind him.

"Mrs. Carrow… Marjorie… I really do need to get back to the office. If I could just have the paperwork…"

Marjorie studied Mike a moment before draining her own glass, softly setting it down next to his on the desk. She took her time eyeing him before she slowly nodded and handed over the manila folder.

Mike grasped the folder and promptly put it in his messenger bag. They exchanged a few more pleasantries before Marjorie slowly began leading him out of the study and down the hall toward the front door. Halfway out onto the pristine marble floor of the entryway, Mike unexpectedly swayed on his feet. He took a few more steps, but was forced to stop as everything around him began drifting in and out of focus. He brought a shaky hand up to his face, digging his palm into one eye, then the other, in an attempt to regain his equilibrium.

Just in front of him, Marjorie stopped and turned to look at him with curious eyes.

"Mike? Are you alright?" she asked, tentatively placing a hand on his arm.

"I, uh…" He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. In between the ripples of fog, he could barely make out Marjorie's face as she stared at him. "I n-need… some… air," he managed to say before taking one final step.

Smack. Mike felt his body slam into the ground immediately, felt the flash of pain in his head, but it took a moment for his brain to catch up to the information that the cause of his current pain had been the result of him losing control of his own body.

Between the haze and pain, the next several moments were a blur. The images Mike saw changed with each blink of his eyes, and he was barely aware enough to notice that just keeping his eyes open was becoming too much of a challenge.

Blink. A high-shrilled voice shouting out. High-heeled shoes stepped over his body.

Blink. Another pair of shoes swam into his vision. Shiny black loafers. Probing hands fished through his bag, his pockets, his jacket.

Blink. He was being carried. Fuzzy visions of doors and windows and lights blurred past him.

Blink. He tried to speak, tried to move, but failed at both.

Blink. Complete darkness.

He felt heavy, tired, and disoriented, but still he couldn't get his body to cooperate. Mike quickly lost his battle with consciousness, his final thought lingering on how quickly his evening had gone from bad, to worse.

What the hell just happened?