Warnings: References to violence/abuse. Nothing graphic, but both are implied.
AN: Thank you to Southsidesister (darvey_love) for making this chapter happen, and to all the people who have left reviews :) xx
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~ Donna screws her eyes shut, the stench of vodka rolling her stomach as a callous voice purrs hotly into her ear.
"Did you really think I wouldn't find out?"
Her heart stammers, the darkness behind her closed lids spinning.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
She flinches, her eyes snapping back open. She doesn't have a response to give, caught out in her own bold lie. Bile rises in her throat and washes down an insincere apology. "I'm sorry."
He stops, then smiles.
"Not yet… But you will be."
Two rough pairs of arms grab her, stubby fingers pinching her skin as she squirms. Their grip is impenetrable, and she struggles harder, likening herself to a wild animal trapped in a snare—fighting with no way out.
The man in front of her chuckles, the sound filled with bland amusement.
"Stubborn, just like your father…. Perhaps I'll pay your mother a visit next. Remind Clara what an audacious daughter she raised."
Anger boils within her restrained body. "Go to hell, you arrogant bastard!"
His expression renders itself blank, then darkens, his pupils swelling as she clenches her jaw in a vice-like grip.
"Need I remind you what happens to people who disobey me?"
Sharp pin pricks of moisture bite her gaze, not from the pain but from memory of seeing her father bruised and broken in a hospital bed. The pinch in her cheeks recedes, her face tingling as the expensive suit steps back.
"Deal with her."
She's hauled back, nearly tripping over her stilettos as she thrashes, crying out.
"No!" ~
Donna startles awake with a gasp, her head throbbing as her attention flies around a strange room. Panic swarms through her aching limbs, her gaze expecting to meet cold, steely blue eyes, but she pulls into focus warm hazel orbs greeting her instead. She takes a fast breath, swallowing down the fear knotted in her throat. "Where am I?"
"It's okay, you're safe."
Harvey nurses a coffee between his hands, staying where he's seated so as not to overwhelm the mysterious redhead. "You're in my guestroom. I brought you here last night to see a doctor," he explains carefully from his spot beside the bed.
She pinches her brow, and he isn't surprised she doesn't remember. She was in and out of consciousness while his client checked her over. Fortunately, the doctor deemed her concussion to be mild, and after prodding her ribs, confirmed nothing was broken. He suspected she was in shock above all else.
"You're going to be fine. Sore as hell for a couple of days, but there's no permanent damage."
She sinks her eyes closed, still stuck on the well-meaning comment. Fine isn't a concept she can rally—memories from the alleyway starting to flood in through her hazy confusion. She warned the stranger beside her to stay away, and he should have goddamn listened. "I need to go." She struggles to untangle herself from the sweaty sheet, cursing as white-hot pain flashes through her ribs. "Ow, dammit!" She clutches her side with a strangled whimper.
"Donna, listen to me." He places the coffee on the bedside cabinet and leans forward, trying to coax her into settling back down. "No one saw me and we weren't followed. I told you, you're safe here."
"I'm not safe anywhere," she grits between clenched teeth.
"Then a few more minutes won't matter, will they?" he reasons with her, nodding at the nightstand. "At least take some painkillers. They're not strong, but they'll help."
She pants her exhaustion, warily eyeing the foil packet and cup of coffee. If he was going to poison her, he wouldn't have called in a doctor, and she catches her breath, reluctantly clasping the drugs. He seems relieved, his lips quirking into a small smirk, and she vaguely recalls the reason behind his tenacity. "You said you're a lawyer?"
He nods, trying not to sound too pleased with himself as he boasts the degree hanging up across from them. "Harvey Specter. Harvard alumni at your disposal."
She swallows the pills with a sip of lukewarm coffee, the caffeine spluttering down her dry throat. She coughs, doubting he would offer his services without a hefty fee attached, and with a wince, she sits the mug down, praying the medicine takes effect quickly. "Do you always bring your clients home with you, Mr. Specter?"
He watches her hand curl above her ribcage, balling the grubby silk in a tight fist. But rather than acknowledge his concern, he winks across at her. "Only the attractive ones."
"Oh my God." She scoffs under her breath, the slight chuckle making her grimace. He's exactly what she would expect from a Harvard-educated lawyer. Cocky, arrogant, and a bit of a blow-hard. But if he knew what he was casually signing himself up for, he wouldn't be so quick to play the sauve flirt. "As much as I appreciate the offer, I won't be needing your services."
The dismissal lands in a place rarely touched by people he encounters. Procuring clients is usually clinical, and if his charisma is ever rejected, he moves on. But something compelled him to stay by her side last night, despite a warning to leave practically glowing above her head like a neon sign. He doesn't know if he feels a sense of responsibility, is merely curious, or if his ego is being enticed by a challenge. But giving into her stubborn determination doesn't feel like the right thing to do, and he dips his head, silently musing the right approach to take. After a moment, he draws his eyes up, and in a seldom display of benevolence, he finds himself being genuine. "If you tell me what happened, Donna, I can help."
The sincerity in his piercing gaze is startling, and for a second, she's almost pulled in by his conviction. But he can't help her. He might be an imperious lawyer, but for all his bold assertions, he brought a complete stranger into his home with no regard for the consequences. He's not as ruthless as the degree hanging on his wall would suggest, and she fixes her attention on the frame, shaking her head. "I can't."
"Then at least tell me if I'm wrong," he challenges, having found time to piece together parts of her story while he's been keeping a vigil. The area he found her in was upmarket, but there's only one club that exclusively opens its line for the kind of dress she's wearing—revealing, yet tasteful, and with a price tag of at least $6000. "You were in Silos." She flinches, confirming his guess, and the next leap he takes isn't a stretch given the elite circles the club hosts. "Whoever hurt you has money and connections. That's why you have nowhere to go, and that's why you're afraid of him." Her face pales, and a bitter taste develops in the back of his mouth. For all his bachelor antics, he respects women, and can't stand men who wield their stature to inflict any kind of physical or mental abuse. "I'm not intimidated by powerful people, Donna. That's the first thing you should know about me."
She stares ahead, afraid if she looks at him she'll buckle. He's right. Almost a year of her life has been lost in a maze of threats and deceit. And she's ashamed Harvey was able to see straight through her and draw the right conclusion. "I thought you were a lawyer, not a detective." Her voice wavers, and her hand is unsteady as she reaches up to swipe budding tears.
She flinches as she comes into contact with broken skin, and he feels a well of deep enmity toward the asshole who laid his hands on her. If he could get in the ring with the prick he wouldn't leave the man standing, but he swallows his anger, trying not to sound like he's gunning for a fight. "Tell me his name."
She shakes her head adamantly, willing herself not to burst at the seams. Being hurt and exhausted isn't an excuse to invite hope in where it doesn't belong.
Moisture stains her cheeks, the silent tears pulling him forward in his chair. He doesn't do the comfort thing, wouldn't even know where to start. But he takes a breath, placing his hand on the mattress next to hers. "You can trust me."
She closes her eyes, feeling the weight of his palm beside her. Other than taking care of her last night, she has no reason to place her faith in him. But when her gaze flutters down to meet his resolute expression, vestiges of belief start to trickle open, and her voice cracks a whisper. "Esteban Vasquez."
His face registers shock, the reaction shattering her fleeting expectations. Now Harvey knows the truth, she doesn't blame him for wanting to run. "I told you. There's nothing you can do."
He draws his hand back, schooling his surprise with a dark scowl. "The hell there isn't."
It's no wonder she's terrified. Vasquez is a business tyrant. A Venezuelan millionaire who has investments in stock all over the city. He's influential, often seen out in public alongside the mayor and police commissioner, but nobody is untouchable. What does worry him is how Donna became mixed up with Vasquez, and the nature of her relationship with the authoritarian. For reasons better left unprobed, he feels uncomfortable asking her to diverge the facts, but he needs to know. "How close are the two of you?"
Her cheeks burn at the assumption she's sleeping witn Vasquez, but she understands how her dress and the private party would paint the wrong picture. "It isn't like that." She glances down, trying to reconcile with how much she should reveal, surprised Harvey is still pushing for answers. "Our dealings are in business. I'm the temporary executor of my father's shipping company." She takes a deep breath, clutching her hands.
His unexpected relief is veiled by her hesitation, and he gently urges her to keep explaining the connection. "Whatever you say, Donna, it stays between us. Attorney-client privilege."
"You're not my lawyer," she reminds him, fidgeting awkwardly. "Even if I wanted…" The thought trickles away, her gaze roaming to the wall where his degree is hanging. "I can't afford to pay your fees."
"Then let's make a deal," he offers earnestly. Although he's not in the habit of giving away his services for free, if his instincts are right and Vasquez is breaking the law, the exposure he'll receive taking the man down is worth far more than money. And despite not being in the habit of getting emotionally attached to clients, either, he can't deny there's a connection between them. He pushed her to open up, and now she's on the verge of trusting him, he feels the inexplicable need to cultivate that trust. "If you tell me everything that's going on, and if there's a case, I'll waive my fee."
"Why would you do that? Her eyes narrow suspiciously. It's not that she isn't grateful for everything he's done so far—she is. But she doesn't understand why he's going above and beyond to help a complete stranger. Only, instead of appearing offended, he smirks at her silent accusation.
"Because if I'm right, he's using your company to facilitate some shady shit, and taking a case like that would be a smart career move." A voice in his head niggles at him, suggesting she might need a more personal reason for his charity. But if she does, he can't give her one. His mind needs to stay focused on the case."Let's start at the beginning. You said you're the temporary executor."
She nods, trying to take the same clinical approach he's leading her with. He's a lawyer, after all, and she exhales slowly, struggling to rein in her emotions. "Eight months ago, my father found out Vasquez was using our shipments to smuggle drugs. The day he planned to go to the police, the brakes in his car failed." Her lips quiver despite her attempt to stay strong. She's always been close to her father, and the man didn't confide in her because she has a business degree. Her father was looking for advice because she knows people. But that trait didn't help him, just like it failed her. "I'm the temporary executor of the company until he regains consciousness."
She doesn't break, but he can tell by the grave look on her face that it's a matter of if her father wakes up, not when. Even clearer to him is the implication the mechanical fault in her father's car wasn't an accident, giving him a better understanding of why she warned him away. Vasquez might be dangerous, but he meant it when he told her he wasn't intimidated by people in power. "I'm sorry about your father."
He's genuinely sympathetic, even though his compassion falls flat as he sits stationary. He doesn't reach out, because coddling her won't help him do his job, only the facts will. "Why did Vasquez hurt you?"
She reels in a shaky breath. "I agreed to work with him. I wanted to find proof of the illegal trading and evidence he was responsible for my father's car accident." At the time, she went in blindly, naively believing she could manipulate Vasquez into giving up information. Even though she succeeded, her plan came crashing down when he confronted her last night. "I've been collecting documents for months. Transaction sales, timestamps, shipment runs… Somehow Vasquez found out. He wants me to hand over everything I have."
A low growl rumbles in Harvey's throat, his anger simmering with the knowledge Vasquez reacted out of spite. The asshole didn't have to use violence to threaten her. He likely deployed people to find the evidence with or without Donna's compliance, which means there's a chance Vasquez already has the documents. "Where are they?" The question is unintentionally terse. Beneath his frustration, he's actually impressed by the balls it took to go after Vasquez, even if she did almost get herself killed in the process.
The change in his demeanor sparks a fleeting second of panic that she's being set-up by Vasquez. But the man openly threatened her mother. He wouldn't go to the effort of coercing the location out of her when he already has leverage. And from everything Harvey's said and done since they met, she trusts he is who he claims to be. "In a safety-deposit box downtown, under a different name."
He sinks his head down in relief. She's smart, he'll give her that. Even smarter for not going home, or any of the other places Vasquez might have sent someone to wait for her. But a safety-deposit box is still risky if he has people watching her. "I can pick up the documents. I'll need to look over everything anyway, and it'll be safer to keep the evidence here."
"You can't." She panics, hopelessness washing over her in an insurmountable wave. "He threatened my mother, Harvey. I almost lost my father. I can't risk her, too."
He understands her concern. She tried to protect him with every ounce of her stubbornness, and he's a total stranger. But her mother's safety can be bought, and fortunately, money isn't an issue. "Let me take care of that. I'll put her up in a hotel until we can figure out something more permanent."
She gapes at the suggestion, overwhelmed by the generous offer, and her heart aches to accept it. Knowing her mother would be out of danger and getting a second chance to save her father's company is something she's desperate to fight for. But she chokes on guilt, the weight of what she would owe Harvey in return almost crushing her. "I can't… That's too much."
"It's not a favor, Donna," he reminds her, hoping to scale things back into perspective. Granted, he's putting a lot on the table, but he's not looking to rack up a bill. His motivation is becoming a named partner at his firm, "I'm doing this for me, remember?"
He smirks and the smug expression calms her racing panic. Even though he knew nothing about the highly prolific case when he rescued her last night, he seems to have moved on from the good deed, and if she's honest, it's safer for them to stay emotionally detached. But just because he has something to gain by helping her, doesn't mean she's going to sit idly by and let him do all the heavy lifting. "We should go. I can call my mother on the way."
She sits up with a grimace, and holds herself as his eyes darken slightly. She can tell he's about to argue, but without forms and ID, the only way they're getting the evidence is if she goes to the bank in person. "You need me to open the safety-deposit box."
She stops the protest on his lips, and he takes in her stubbornly set jaw with a sigh. He's quickly learning which of her reactions are based of fear or determination, and he gets the sense pushing the latter is a waste of time. But he still feels uncertain, his chest twinging awkwardly as she takes several shallow breaths. He already has the motivation to take on Vasquez and win, and yet, watching her, he physically itches to do more. She can't go outside in what she's wearing for a start, and she needs to keep up her strength, fuel her body so she doesn't pass on him again. "I'll get you something to change into, and then you need to eat something."
"I'm fine." She shakes off his concern. They don't have time to waste, and the painkillers are doing their job. She just needs a moment to adjust to the vertigo.
He rolls his eyes. Being nice clearly doesn't have the same effect on her as his sarcasm, and he pinches the tight nerve in his shoulder. "Donna, I know I look like Superman… but I'm not carrying you again."
She meets his wry smile and knows the ploy is to make her listen, and it works. Her stomach growls, siding with his point. She can't even remember the last meal she had, but she does vaguely remember being tucked in his arms, and she ducks her head sheepishly. Now she's his client, it's a bad idea to revisit why he didn't call an ambulance or leave like she asked. But since he was the one to bring it up, she does take the opportunity to show him a simple display of her gratitude. "Thank you, Harvey."
Her soft smile catches him off guard. People don't usually thank him sincerely. It's usually done with money or a handshake, and the sentiment can't find a place to settle inside his body. Rather than try and reciprocate it, he clears his throat. "Thank me when I win."
He flashes a smug grin as he stands, and she ignores a small tug of disappointment at the brush off, though she's relieved at the same time, her shoulders sagging as he turns away from her rearing guilt. Eventually she's going to have to tell him everything. And the only way she can face her shame is through Harvey Specter the lawyer, not through the eyes of a man who follows his heart.