I
Donna steps from the town car into the pre-dawn gloom, the first tentative rays of sunrise still hidden below the horizon. A light rain mists the air, clinging to her exposed skin.
She reaches up to adjust her silk dress where it gapes at the neckline. Jonathan has impeccable taste, she has to admit. The emerald hue compliments her complexion flawlessly, bringing out flecks of green in her hazel eyes. Paired with the wool coat draped over her, she looks every bit the powerful COO she used to be and not the disgraced secretary she now is. An illusion of control when she has none.
Her driver comes to stand beside her, massive and brooding.
"I don't need a babysitter," she says evenly.
"Is no trouble, Miss Donna," Vlad insists.
"No." Despite her firm tone she gives his bicep a gentle, reassuring squeeze. "Wait here."
He nods, yet does little to hide his annoyance. She supposes his role demands such vigilance, but she is not here as a threat.
Head high, she walks the empty sidewalks with measured steps, heels clicking against wet pavement. The financial district is eerie-quiet, the great glass towers empty in the creeping dawn.
The lobby of Duke-Sanger emerges, sleek and imposing even in the dark. She feels small passing beneath its height. Yet she moves with entitled confidence through the space, daring anyone to stop her. No one does.
The private elevator sweeps her up fifty floors in a hushed instant. The ping of the bell announcing her arrival tightens the knots in her stomach.
What is she hoping to achieve here, exactly? Even she can't say. She only knows that after another restless night haunted by dreams of Alice, she needs to feel in control again. Needs to prove to herself that she isn't as powerless as she feels.
So she had Vlad drive her here, to the lion's den where it all began. Or perhaps ended.
Stepping onto the executive level leaves her breathless, ghosts swirling up from marble floors — herself in pencil skirts, obedient and determined; Jonathan, rigid-spined, his simplistic way of blending in; little Alice trailing behind, eyes wide, turning slow circles to take it all in. Donna shuts her eyes against the memories, steadying herself. The air still holds a trace of hollow victories, of mirages shining eternally out of reach.
She walks the halls, the click of her heels the only intrusion as she moves silently past offices not yet occupied for the day. She trails her fingers along the walnut doors, each personalized with golden nameplates. She knows the occupants of these offices, had strategized and schemed alongside them. Had broken bread and spilled blood and laughed over flutes of Veuve.
All a lifetime ago. They are strangers now. The camaraderie and ambition nothing but dust.
At the end of the hallway looms the corner suite. She doesn't need to read the nameplate to know who resides within. She had spent countless hours in that office, had helped select every polished piece of decor.
Melanie Zegareli, CEO.
Donna stands frozen before the opaque glass door. Turn back, her mind urges. Spare them both this reckoning between the women they had been and what remains. But she thinks of the indictment awaiting her, the damning evidence manufactured from half-truths. Of Harvey's steadfast defense despite his battered spirit.
No, she owes them this unflinching look at the depths to which she has fallen.
She pushes open the door without knocking. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame an uninterrupted view of the city, already coming alive under the growing morning light. Everything is crisp and white and pristine, so very Melanie.
And there she sits at her spotless glass desk, platinum hair twisted into a sleek chignon, haloed by the rising sun. Still a vision of corporate perfection, impeccable. She doesn't startle at Donna's sudden presence. Merely arches one sculpted brow and sets down her tablet, red nails glittering.
"Well, well. The prodigal daughter returns."
Donna sheds her coat and crosses the room, regarding the space. Little has changed in over a decade. The same imposing desk, the wall of achievement plaques and crystalline trophies.
"I'm disappointed, Melanie. I thought you would've redecorated by now."
The blonde leans back in her chair, feline and smug. "I suppose I'm sentimental. This office has served me well."
Donna turns, facing her former mentor squarely. Melanie's stare glides over her, calculating, assessing, looking for weakness.
"You look good, Dee. Scandal suits you."
"I wish I could say the same." Donna keeps her tone cool, detached. "You've gotten older."
Melanie's smile turns brittle around the edges. She sips her espresso, unaffected. "An unavoidable side effect of time, I'm afraid. Though I do appreciate your transparency—it reminds me of that guileless girl you once were."
"Guileless." Donna nearly laughs. "You mean malleable. And desperate. "
"I provided opportunities. You took full advantage."
Donna stiffens at the implication. "Despite the opportunity, I earned my seat at the table. Or have you forgotten?"
"Did I say you didn't?" Melanie arches a brow. "But you were rather ruthless. All teeth and claws beneath the polish." She chuckles low in her throat. "My finest protégé."
Donna looks away, throat tightening. They'd been a fearsome team once. Melanie tutoring her in the dark arts of corporate strategy, rewarding her cutthroat maneuvering with ever-loftier accolades. For years, Donna had craved the power, willing to shred anyone who stood in her path to the top.
What a coveted prize it had seemed then—the executive suite, the spreads in business magazines, the decadent vacations and parties. A cage, in the end. Its comforts turned to ash with Alice gone.
Melanie leans forward, nails tapping an impatient rhythm. "I know you didn't come here for a walk down memory lane. What is it you want, Donna?"
"I happened to be in the neighborhood. Thought I'd stop by, see how the new regime is faring."
Melanie's mouth quirks, the sardonic smile so familiar it makes Donna's chest tighten."Surely Harvey warned you against these little drop-ins."
"He doesn't control my every move. I'm here as a...concerned party."
"How noble." Melanie's gaze sweeps her derisively. "Though I admit, the emerald Chanel is a nice touch. Power color. Sends a message."
Donna ignores the backhanded compliment, stepping further into the sanitized space. This office that still lingers in her muscle memory, from those eighteen-hour days hunkered behind these sleek furnishings. How she would shed her humanity at the threshold, slip into the costume of an impenetrable titan.
"Let me guess." Melanie leans forward, intent. "You've come to make an appeal to my conscience?"
"We both know your conscience left this place long ago."
"You wound me." Melanie places a hand over her heart, feigning offense. "I know you didn't come to trade insults."
Donna moves closer, holding the other woman's gaze. "I want to know why."
"We've had good times, Donna." Melanie sits back, steepling her fingers. "Must we ruin them with ugly honesty?"
"You were like family once," she continues, undeterred. "How did we come to this?"
Melanie's stare shifts. Something like regret shines in those green depths. Or maybe Donna is just wishful thinking.
"We do what we must to survive in this world." She sighs. "I never had your bleeding heart. Or Jonathan's misguided honor. I saw the writing on the wall with your...indiscretion. One of us had to make the hard choices."
"And it just had to be you." Donna can't keep the bitterness from tainting her voice. "How convenient."
Melanie lifts one sharp shoulder, indifferent. "We both understood the risks. No one forced you to sign those authorizations."
Donna nods slowly, conceding this truth. She perches on the edge of a leather chair, calculating. Melanie regards her with narrowed eyes, anticipating manipulation. They know each other too well.
"I won't insult you by pleading for mercy," Donna says at last. "But this —- Duke-Sanger, The Hill — it's bigger than you or me. When we stop questioning those in power, start sacrificing people to protect our own interests..." She trails off, shaking her head. "Where does it end?"
Melanie's expression remains coolly impassive.
"You're no idealist, Mel. I know you understand — true power means shaping things as we see fit. Make the hard choices no one else will stomach. For the greater good."
Melanie rolls her eyes. "Don't pretend there were noble intentions behind it. You can spin it however you want, but it was just greed. Yours, his, all of ours."
"It was for Alice," Donna says sharply. "Everything I did, everything I sacrificed. It was for her. Tell me you wouldn't have done the same if it was your child."
Melanie falls silent at that. They regard each other across the desk, the space between them worn away by years of secrets and compromises.
Finally Melanie sighs, massaging her temple with her fingers. "Why are you really here, Donna? What do you want from me?"
"I don't know," she admits softly. "A lifeline, I guess."
"I gave you a lifeline. The shareholders wanted blood. I brokered a deal that spared your pretty neck. You're welcome, by the way."
"Right. I just have to betray my husband."
"Ex-husband," Melanie corrects, her sharp smile curious. "Betrayal is an ugly word. I prefer...leverage."
"Whatever the hell you think it is, I won't do it."
Melanie laughs. A high, derisive sound. "Still think there are rules to this game? My sweet summer child." Her eyes harden. "Let's speak plainly, shall we? You will testify against Jonathan or you will both hang. I suggest you choose wisely."
"How can you sell him out so easily after everything he's sacrificed for this company?"
Melanie examines her manicure. "My role is to ensure the strength and prosperity of this firm. If Jonathan's interests no longer align with that goal, the decision is clear."
"So that's it then? You'd ruin an innocent man without a second thought?"
"No one is innocent. Surely you've realized that by now." Melanie's stare pierces her. "Jonathan knew the devil's bargain he made." Her voice softens marginally. "We all did what we had to."
The fight drains from Donna then. Because beneath the malice, truth lingers. Melanie is right — they had all been complicit. She sees herself suddenly as Melanie does — compromised, culpable, ruined. She realized how desperate she must seem, marching in here on a fool's hope that Mel still had some of her humanity left. There was no saving any of them now.
Defeated, Donna moves to the window overlooking the city. The sky has shifted from black to a dull, predawn purple. Soon the streets below would be teeming, people rushing about their mundane lives.
"Do you remember how we'd stand at this window with our morning coffee and toast to ruling the world?" A melancholy smile ghosts her lips. "We thought we were unstoppable back then. Too young and hungry to know better."
She hears Melanie rise from her chair; the click of her heels approaching from behind.
"A part of me will always cherish those memories," she admits. "But we made choices, you and I. Now we have to live with them."
Donna shut her eyes. She thinks of Alice, wondering if her daughter could even recognize the woman she has become. Would she be ashamed of the moral compromises made in her name?
"I will be indicted any day now," she says thickly. "Johnny already has his court date. The Attorney General is out for blood and he'll get it, one way or another."
She finally turns to face her old friend. "Testify with us. Between all of us we have enough dirt to expose the board and bury the AG's office. You know it."
The blonde stares at her silently. For a breath, Donna sees behind her eyes — a glimpse of the woman who had once been her friend, mentor, sister. The woman who had once vowed to have her back. The gallery of memories passes between them — nights burning midnight oil side by side, the pride in Mel's gaze when Donna achieved record breaking AUM growth, Alice playing beneath their desks.
"Please," Donna breathes. "Together we can make this right."
For a fragile moment Melanie wavers, lips parting as if to speak. Then her gaze ices over, once again a picture of pragmatic resolve.
"You know I can't do that."
Desperation claws inside Donna's chest. She is losing. "Yes, you can. I know you — the woman who used to lead with such wit and poise the deals she brokered could fund nations. Who taught me to always enter a room like I owned the place. That woman is still in you, Mel. She's so much stronger than all of this."
Melanie glances down at her folded hands. In the faint light, the hard set of her jaw seems to soften almost imperceptibly. But when her eyes lift back to Donna's there is only the silent acknowledgment of an ending. No more grasping for lifelines. Just farewell.
Donna turns to leave, each step heavier than the last. Her hand is on the door when Melanie's voice gives her pause.
"I am sorry. About Alice. I should have tried harder to help you through it."
When their eyes met again, all hostility has drained away. Melanie's polished facade has cracked, revealing the pain beneath. They'd both buried parts of themselves the day that tiny white coffin was lowered into the ground.
"Yes, well…water under the bridge now."
Melanie nods, jaw clenched. "Take care of your boy. Specter. They'll go after him too if they know he's your weakness."
"Harvey's not—"
"Donna." She shakes her head. A chiding smile touches her lips. She continues softly, "Remember what I taught you. Teeth and claws, darling. Good luck."
Donna doesn't respond. She turns and walks briskly from the office.
Melanie makes no move to stop her this time.
II
Harvey wakes to gray light filtering through rain-streaked windows. The other side of the bed is empty, sheets cool. He sits up slowly, rubbing at his tired eyes. The events of last night filter back — the desperate clutching of bodies, the slick press of skin, the bruising force of Harvey's need. Then later, her absence from his arms, the rain-drenched silhouette on the balcony led back inside by a ghost from her past.
Grimacing, he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The hardwood is like ice beneath his feet. His reflection in the bathroom mirror startles him. Bloodshot eyes ringed by purple, hair matted and wild. He looks half-feral, and smells it too, stale sweat and sex.
He forces himself through a military shower, water just shy of scalding. Steam billows, opening his pores. He imagines his weakness and self-pity swirling down the drain.
The shave takes time. He scrapes away each bristled patch methodically until nothing remains but raw, smooth flesh. The face staring back looks like Harvey again even if he doesn't quite feel like himself.
Back in the bedroom, he finds an expensive looking box at the foot of the bed. He flips open the hinged lid warily. Inside lies a charcoal suit, precisely tailored to his measurements. A small card rests atop the tissue paper, scripted in Donna's elegant cursive.
Wear the blue tie. XO
Jaw clenched, he dresses in the gift that feels more like a consolation in her absence. The suit fits flawlessly, of course. She always had an eye for these things.
He goes in search of her and finds the lower floor vacant, swallowed by silence. Rain patters the floor-to-ceiling windows fronting the Hudson. The river glistens beneath the muted sun.
In the kitchen, Harvey pauses at the sight of two place settings at the long oak table. One half-finished, the other untouched. He brushes his fingertips over the empty chair, as though he might feel the heat of her still there.
The elevator chimes faintly. Jonathan enters hefting grocery bags, hair damp from the downpour. Harvey tenses, on edge simply being in the man's presence. There is something dangerous about him, like a listless panther. Powerful yet indifferent.
Jonathan sets down the bags and begins unpacking without introduction. "There's coffee if you want it," he says over his shoulder.
The offer lands discordant amidst the tension. Harvey eyes him warily as he reaches for the stainless steel pot. Jonathan moves with precision. Methodical and reserved. A soldier's discipline ingrained into every gesture.
Harvey swallows bitter black coffee, thinking it'd be a weakness to ask for vanilla, all the while feeling Jonathan's presence behind him, a looming threat just out of sight.
"Donna's on the terrace," Jonathan says into the silence.
Of course she is. Seeking comfort outside Harvey's reach. He grips his mug tighter.
"You're up early." He forces civility into the words.
Jonathan hums noncommittally, retrieving a loaf of bread from the bags. Freshly baked, by the yeasty aroma. Harvey tracks his movements, annoyed at his ease.
"Storm woke me. Figured I'd pick up a few things."
Harvey nods tightly. "I can pay you back for —"
"It's fine." Jonathan waves him off, sliding the bread onto a cutting board.
Harvey falls silent, anger simmering. Being indebted to the man feels like defeat. He watches Jonathan saw slices from the boule, precise and even.
"Donna mentioned you prefer whole wheat."
The attempt at hospitality only fans Harvey's irritation. As though a shared loaf erases all hostility between them. He keeps his tone clipped. "You didn't have to do that."
Jonathan meets his glare across the island. "I'm aware."
The silence stretches. Jonathan's eyes are the palest blue, remote as a glacier. Harvey feels certain he could slit a man's throat and those eyes would not waver.
Finally Jonathan turns away, opening cabinets in search of something. The dismissal sparks Harvey's temper.
"I know you hate me," he says. "So let's skip the bullshit brotherly kindness act."
Jonathan stills, shoulders tensing. For a beat the only sound is rain tapping the glass canopy overhead.
"Despite what you may think, Harvey, I don't hate you." He keeps his back turned, busying himself with rinsing berries in the sink.
"Right. You're happy I'm fucking your ex-wife."
Jonathan turns to face Harvey across the granite island. His expression remains impassive, but there is a tightness to his jaw that marks a building temper.
"I won't pretend it doesn't bother me to see her with another man. But that's my burden, not hers."
He resumes washing the berries, movements curt under Harvey's glare. "Donna deserves to find some shred of happiness. God knows she's endured enough misery."
"Well aren't you the martyr," Harvey says, resentment roiling in his gut. "The selfless ex-husband. That's rich after everything you've put her through."
Jonathan shuts the water off with a decisive twist and faces Harvey fully.
"You know nothing about what we've endured." His tone remains even, quietly seething. "The choices we've had to make."
"Oh, I know plenty." Harvey stalks around the island toward him. "I know you got discharged for slaughtering your own men. I know you took a deal that let you keep your freedom but stripped you of your honor. I know you dragged Donna into a world of corruption that destroyed her."
Harvey steps closer, shoulders squared. They are toe to toe, the air molten between them. "So you'll have to excuse me if I don't buy this benevolent crap. You ruined her life. You don't get to play the caring ex-husband."
Something dangerous flashes in Jonathan's eyes. His hands clench at his sides. For a fleeting moment, Harvey thinks the man might take a swing at him. He almost hopes for it, craves the explosion to shatter this awful restraint. But then the emotion is gone, wiped clean.
"I let her go because it was best for her. Because staying with me meant drowning in tragedy and ghosts."
He grabs a dish towel and methodically dries his hands and arms. The rain patters steadily against the windows, underscoring the tension.
"So again, Specter, I don't hate you. I'm grateful she has someone now who can give her lightness. Even if he is an arrogant little shit."
The trace of humor takes Harvey aback. He searches Jonathan's face for any hint of deception but finds only sincerity. The cutting reply dies on his tongue.
Jonathan picks up a tray of food — fruit, bread, cheeses. "Eat something," he says. "She'll be in soon."
He disappears into the living area before Harvey can respond. The conversation leaves him unbalanced. He wants to cling to self-righteous hatred, but Jonathan's calm integrity confuses things.
Picking at a slice of pear, Harvey moves to the window and the view beyond. The terrace wraps around the building, but he can't quite make out Donna's form through the downpour. He imagines her out there, copper hair damp and windblown. Molly's golden fur matted to her side. What thoughts occupy her mind? Does she wish Harvey would appear beside her? Or does she prefer the privacy of solitude? So often with Donna he feels they circle each other, never quite intersecting.
He's dragged from his brooding by the faint whisper of a door opening. Donna steps in, shaking raindrops from the wool coat she wears. Harvey's breath catches. Beneath is a silken dress, deep green like pine boughs. It drapes across her frame, contouring lush curves, the cowl neck plunging low. She moves with unhurried grace, the coat slipping from her shoulders. Harvey drinks in the sight, pulse hammering. This isn't his Donna, not the faithful secretary and confidante. This is the woman who commanded an empire with stilettos and icy resolve. Powerful. Untouchable.
She offers him a faint smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Hi, you."
"Hey, I —" His voice comes out hoarse. He clears his throat, curling his hands into fists. "That's new."
Donna glances down as though she forgot her attire. "Oh. Yes, Jonathan picked me up a few things."
She brushes past him to pour a mug of coffee. The faint scent of her perfume hits Harvey like a drug. He wants to cup that elegant jawline in his hands and kiss her thoroughly, until she softens and melts against him. Until she is no longer this imposing stranger but his Donna again.
Instead he looks away, overcome. His fingers dig into his thighs.
Donna fixes her coffee, the only sound the soft clink of a spoon against ceramic. The silence swells.
"Did you sleep alright?" Harvey manages.
"Fine," she lies. "You?"
"Fine," he lies back.
She hums softly. Harvey senses her moving nearer but doesn't turn. The brush of her fingers along his forearm is feather-light. He suppresses a shiver.
"You should eat something," she murmurs near his ear.
Before he can respond, she slips away, heels clicking across the marble. Desire wars with unease inside him. He watches her circle the kitchen island to Jonathan's side.
They exchange quiet greetings. Jonathan's hand finds the small of her back, a familiar gesture. Donna smiles up at him, her posture relaxing into the contact. Harvey's jaw tightens.
Jonathan murmurs something too low to overhear and Donna's lips quirk. A shared intimacy, effortlessly reminding Harvey that their bodies have traveled within one another.
Wrenching his eyes away, Harvey carries his coffee to the terrace. Rain mists his skin the moment he steps outside. The cold shock of it grounds him. He inhales deep, taking the scent of rain and river water into his lungs. From out here, the kitchen scene feels far away. He can almost pretend it is just him alone above the water.
Almost.
He senses Donna's presence seconds before her hand slips into his. Harvey exhales, eyes falling shut. He focuses on the press of her palm, the graze of her shoulder against his bicep.
"You left," he says after a moment.
"You looked like you needed space."
His eyes open, finding hers. "Did I?"
She searches his face. "Yes. I could see you thinking."
He looks away, jaw flexing. "I don't like it. Him." The admission comes out low and raw.
Her fingers tighten around his. "I know. I'm sorry."
The sincerity in her voice deflates his jealousy. Christ, he is pathetic. Grasping and possessive over a woman who has never fully belonged to him.
Harvey sets down his coffee to pull her close. Her body softens against him, familiar and right.
Neither speaks. The silence expands, broken only by rain and distant traffic. He waits, sensing she needs this wordlessness. Space to gather the pieces of herself.
"I went to Duke-Sanger this morning," she says at last, gaze fixed ahead.
Harvey stiffens. "Jesus, Donna—"
"I know. It was stupid." She shakes her head. "I thought I could convince Melanie to testify for the defense."
"I take it she refused."
Donna's bitter laugh speaks for itself. Harvey grips the slick railing, tamping down anger. At Donna for her recklessness, at Zegareli for being a backstabbing opportunist.
"She's afraid," Donna murmurs. "I don't blame her for that."
Thunder rumbles, nearer now. Harvey scrubs a hand over his face. However justified Melanie's fear may be, it does little to temper the flare of hatred in his gut.
"You shouldn't have had to confront her alone. I'm sorry."
Donna turns to him then, eyes fierce. "This isn't your burden, Harvey. It's mine. I lived in that world, played their games. I let them..." She shakes her head sharply. "I won't let you take the fall for my mistakes."
He frowns, grasping her shoulders. "Hey. We're in this together now."
"They'll use you against me. If I have to sacrifice myself to protect you—"
"Don't even say that." Harvey grips her arms fiercely. "I'm not giving up on you, no matter what threats they make."
Frustration twists her delicate features. "Why are you so goddamn stubborn?"
"I could say the same about you."
She makes a sound of disgust and turns away. Harvey suppresses a flare of anger. He knows she is spiraling, emotions strung taut as high-tension wires. One wrong move could spark disaster.
He forces steadiness into his voice. "Come inside, Donna. You're shivering."
She ignores this, shoulders rigid. He steps closer, hand hovering just shy of contact.
"Talk to me. Please."
"And say what?" She rounds on him. "That I've destroyed everything good in my life? That the people I cared about are better off without me? That I should be rotting in prison instead of hiding here, letting you and Jonathan shield me from what I deserve?"
Her voice breaks on the final words. Harvey reaches for her but she recoils..
"Don't. I don't deserve comfort right now."
"That's bullshit—"
"No, what's bullshit is me dragging you and everyone I care about into this nightmare." She swipes angrily at the tears on her face.
He shakes his head, refusing this. "You think you're the only one with regrets here? I enabled you for years, turned a blind eye to the signs. I could've stopped this."
"Or I could have not been a greedy, soulless bitch to begin with."
The harsh words hang between them, leaden with finality. Harvey's chest aches, looking at her — this fierce, broken woman who can't forgive her own humanity. He longs to shatter through the walls fortifying her heart, make her understand she is so much more than her worst choices.
But she has closed herself off, eyes remote as she turns back to the horizon. Hugging her coat tighter, she says with hollow calm, "Let's go inside. We're getting nowhere out here."
Before he can respond, she brushes past him toward the warmth and light beyond the open doors. Harvey remains a moment longer, cold and wretched, despairing of how to reach her.
III
Mike walks briskly through the bullpen, dodging frenzied associates lugging banker's boxes and shuffling piles of paper. The office thrums with energy despite the early hour. He spots Katrina barking orders, seamlessly assuming Donna's office manager duties. A fierce smile touches Mike's lips. They're still in the fight.
He had expected to find resignation, maybe even defeat lingering in the halls. But not this relentless determination, this almost manic productivity. It heartens him. They're going to war for Donna, no hesitation or doubt.
Mike makes his way toward the corner offices, hoping to find Harvey already hard at work. But the name partner's door stands ajar, the space inside dim and still.
Rachel materializes at his side, two paper cups in hand. "Triple shot latte. You'll need it."
He accepts it gratefully. "Any word from Harvey?" he asks before taking a scalding sip.
Rachel shakes her head. "Louis texted that he's been here all night. Said he's got a breakthrough."
Mike frowns. "A breakthrough? At five in the morning?"
"With Louis, who knows?" Rachel hitches her bag higher on her shoulder. "Let's go see what mad theory he's cooked up this time."
They weave through the bullpen toward the senior partner offices. Passing Donna's vacant cubicle amplifies Mike's unease. He keeps expecting her to materialize, chiding them for dripping coffee on the carpet. But she is gone, fate uncertain, and the space she occupied stands hollow.
At Louis' office, Mike pauses outside the glass walls. He's not sure what he expected, but a command center is not it. Printouts and notepads cover every surface. A corkboard displays a tangled web of pushpins and yarn. Louis stands sentinel before it, socked feet planted atop his desk as he leans in to scrutinize a chart. Dressed down in a polo and sweats, he looks utterly unhinged.
Mike raps his knuckles on the door. "I see you've been busy."
Louis startles, wheeling on them. "Mike. Rachel." He clambers down, movements jittery with too much caffeine. "About time you layabouts showed up."
"Sorry we're late?" Mike steps inside, taking in the chaos. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Sleep is for the weak. We don't rest until Donna is free and clear."
Mike nods, careful to humor him. "I'm with you there. So what's all this?" He gestures to the explosion of paper.
Louis launches into a rambling explanation of offshore accounts and shell companies, punctuated by grandiose gesturing. Mike's eyes glaze over. He catches Rachel suppressing a smirk.
"Fascinating stuff, Louis." Mike claps a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't you walk us through it from the beginning?"
Louis deflates at the thought of starting over. He scrubs both hands down his face, swaying slightly.
"Long story short, we traced money flows leading back to the same few players," he says wearily. "Vulkov Pharmaceuticals out of Russia, Aydin Holdings based in Turkey, and several PACs that..." He trails off, bleary gaze catching on something over Mike's shoulder. "Oh, Sandra. You're back."
Mike turns to find a woman sweeping into the office. She shares Donna's gracefully angular cheekbones beneath auburn hair, cut stylishly blunt at her shoulders. But where Donna radiates approachable warmth, this woman's beauty holds an edge. She looks vaguely familiar, though Mike knows they've never met.
She extends a hand, movements languid and smooth like poured honey. "You must be Mike and Rachel. I'm Sandra, Donna's mother."
Mike shakes her hand mutely. Donna's mother. The realization steals his tongue, though it shouldn't. Of course family would come support Donna now. But the idea of Donna having a mother — a living, breathing woman who birthed and raised her — feels foreign. As if Donna sprang fully formed into existence to grace the halls of Pearson Specter Litt, devoid of origin. Before he can cobble together a response, she turns to Louis, tone placating.
"Louis, sweetheart, I need you to take a breath. You know how you get when you're overtired." Her free hand comes to rest lightly on his shoulder. "Why don't you let Mr. Ross and I discuss developments while you take fifteen minutes? Splash some water on that handsome face."
Louis visibly softens beneath her touch, some of the mania leaving his eyes. "You're right, of course. I should regroup." He begins hastily tidying the explosion of documents. "We can reconvene shortly? Perhaps over lunch..."
"That sounds perfect." Sandra squeezes his arm warmly before guiding him toward the door. "I'll come find you when I'm finished here. Try to relax a little."
With a final nervous glance at his work, Louis allows Sandra to shepherd him from the office. Mike stands stunned in the ensuing silence. He has no idea what to make of the bizarre interaction between this older Donna and their eccentric senior partner. But somehow she accomplished in thirty seconds what most fail to do in thirty years — get Louis Litt to shut up and take a walk.
"Poor thing is running himself ragged." Sandra slides gracefully into the chair behind Louis' desk. "He means well but gets a bit...overzealous. Reminds me of an over-caffeinated squirrel."
Mike huffs out an incredulous laugh. "That's one way to put it."
"Louis was saying the money leads back to political groups?" Rachel prompts. "Which ones specifically?"
Sandra leans forward, steepling her fingers. "Ah, yes. Three primary sources. Alliance for American Values, Soldiers of Christ, and American Defense Coalition."
Mike stares at Louis' conspiracy board, thoughtful. If shady money flowed to partisan PACs, it's plausible they funneled funds into the Attorney General's reelection campaign. Quid pro quo — we scratch your back, you scratch ours.
"We need those PAC's financial records," he concludes.
Rachel nods. "I'll work on getting them."
Mike checks his watch. Nearly seven. "Has anyone spoken to Harvey this morning? Or Donna?"
"Not yet, unfortunately." Sandra toys idly with a pearl stud in one ear. "Although I suspect they're holed up strategizing somewhere. Probably best not to disturb them until they surface."
Her lip quirks up at one corner and Mike feels heat creep up his neck. He decides he doesn't need to know what precisely Sandra is implying.
Desperate to change the subject, he clears his throat and asks, "What about Jonathan? Have you spoken with him?"
Sandra's amused expression falters. She leans back in the chair, regarding Mike shrewdly. "No. But I understand he and Donna have been in contact."
"Do you trust him?" Rachel asks.
The redhead just arches a brow. "Do I trust my daughter's ex-husband who got her into this entire mess in the first place? Of course not. But..." She purses her lips, considering. "The man would walk through fire for Donna. Always has."
Mike frowns. That's not exactly the disapproval he was hoping for. Mike wanted Sandra to validate his gut instinct that Jonathan remains a threat. He and Rachel seem to be at odds about this.
Sensing his reservation, Sandra continues diplomatically, "I'm sure your loyalty lies with Harvey in this. As it should. But matters of the heart are rarely black and white."
She absently twirls a pearl stud, lost briefly in private thoughts. When her focus returns to Mike, her tone is matter-of-fact. "Either way, Jonathan remains our best chance to expose whoever is behind these false allegations. We need his cooperation."
Mike forces himself to nod. As much as he hates to admit it, Sandra is right. For now, they need Jonathan on their side.
"Have the prosecutors made any offers?" Sandra asks.
"The Attorney General wants Donna to testify that Jonathan acted without her knowledge. Offered her a plea deal if she flips on him." Just voicing the words leaves Mike uneasy.
Sandra makes a small sound of understanding. She taps polished nails against the desk, considering. "She should take it. Lessen her sentence."
Rachel stiffens. "Jonathan will get slammed. Twenty years or more if she gives him up."
"A sacrifice that must be made, I'm afraid." Sandra shrugs. "Better one than both."
At the concerned knit of Rachel's brow, Mike fights off his agreement
"Donna would never do that," Rachel says firmly. "Jonathan was coerced into taking the deal that started all of this. It wasn't his choice and Harvey will prove it. For Donna and Jonathan."
Sandra's lip quirk. "You have a lot of faith in Harvey."
"He's never given me reason not to."
"I'm sure Harvey is pursuing every angle." Mike steps between them, hands raised in a calming gesture. "In the meantime, we'll keep digging on our end. Agreed?"
Sandra forces a smile. "Agreed."
IV
Donna perches on the leather sofa in Jonathan's study, knees hugged to her chest. She watches him silently from across the room as he pours two fingers of whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He doesn't offer her any, just takes a seat in the wingback chair nearest the window and sets the bottle on the side table within easy reach.
She almost prefers when he ignores her like this. The weight of his attention is too much, his eyes search too deep, pulling forth thoughts and feelings she'd rather stayed buried.
With Harvey, she can hide behind masks and walls, deflecting his concern. But with Jonathan she is stripped bare. So she sits curled in on herself and waits for him to speak first.
"You look like you're preparing for a beating," he says after a stretch of silence.
Donna's arms tighten around her shins reflexively. "I'm bracing myself for whatever lecture you have planned."
"Do I seem like the lecturing type to you?"
She appraises him — hair mussed from the rain, casual in a thermal Henley, ankle propped on one knee. Still devastatingly handsome in that tortured, Byronic way she finds so infuriating.
"No," she admits. "Self-righteousness was never your style."
His mouth quirks a fraction. "I'll take that as a compliment."
He takes a contemplative sip of whiskey. She tracks the movement of his throat as he swallows, then forces her eyes away. Another silence expands between them, less tense than before. The quiet was never difficult, even now. Words often feel like an intrusion.
Eventually he says, "You should take Specter and go. Get on a plane, disappear somewhere remote until this blows over."
She scoffs out a harsh breath that might be a laugh. "We both know there's no hiding from this."
"It's an option to consider."
"It's naive. Flight equals guilt in their eyes." She drops her forehead against her knees. All the fight bleeds out of her with an exhausted sigh. "I just want this to be over."
She doesn't need to elaborate. He knows precisely what she means. An end to the mess they're in. The kind that doesn't involve prison cells.
She lifts her head to find him studying her, eyes inscrutable as always. Searching for that same bleak conclusion in her own gaze, no doubt.
He takes another slow sip of whiskey. "The balcony railing is still there. No one would blame you."
A shiver dances up her spine. Trust him to voice the ugly temptation that's been needling her thoughts, whispering dark encouragement when insomnia has her pacing the midnight floors.
She forces an ironic twist of her lips. "Are you actually suggesting I kill myself? Or just testing my resolve?"
"I'm making an observation, that's all." He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees. The tumbler dangles precariously from his fingertips. "I understand the impulse to take back control when everything else is moving too fast. To jump rather than wait to be pushed."
She nods slowly, a swell of emotion tightening her throat. Of course he understands. They're the same, her and him. Twin specimens of grief, sharpened to weaponry.
"Was it like this for you?" she asks, voicing the question that's haunted her for over a decade. "Afterwards? That feeling of watching yourself from outside your body, unable to make it move or speak or breathe?"
His face remains impassive but she sees something fracture behind his eyes. He takes a ragged sip of whiskey before answering. "Yes. For a long time."
"How did you survive it?"
His focus turns inward and she can see him walking the pale shoreline of memory. "I didn't always. Sometimes you just have to let the current take you under. Stop fighting it."
His words send goosebumps up her flesh. She thinks of rip tides and sinking, static filling her lungs. Of absolution in those wordless depths.
"And Harvey?" His eyes find hers again. "Could you do that to him?"
Shame burns her cheeks. She drops her gaze, studying the sculpted wool fibers of the rug. "No," she whispers. "But I'll destroy him by staying too."
"Will you?"
She looks up sharply. "You think I'm oblivious to what being with me is costing him? I'm toxic. He'd be better off without me."
"Would he?" Jonathan lifts a shoulder, casual. "From what I've seen, you're the only thing still anchoring him."
She blinks, thrown by this observation. Harvey always seems so solid to her, so steadfast. Has her life's upheaval somehow weakened him too?
Jonathan sets his half-finished drink on the side table and leans toward her, elbows braced on knees. His eyes bore into her.
"You still don't see it, do you? How your light eclipses everything, blots out the shadows. You're all he can see, Donna. Without you, there's just..." He gestures vaguely, "endless gray."
She feels stripped down by his words. Known in a way she doesn't want to be, that she isn't ready for. It's too much, the way he unravels her with only a look or a murmur. She needs space, needs air.
Unfolding herself from the couch, she moves on weighted legs toward the door.
"I should check in with Harvey. It's getting late." Even to her own ears the excuse sounds feeble.
Jonathan doesn't try to stop her as she escapes into the hallway. But she feels the weight of his gaze between her shoulder blades until she is out of view.
V
Harvey raps his knuckles against the dark wood door, edgy. He scuffs his shoe against the stoop and checks his watch for the third time. Late afternoon sun slants hot across his shoulders, damp shirt clinging between his shoulder blades. The neighborhood is eerily quiet save for a lingering bachata rhythm drifting from a window above.
He hears the slide of a lock unlatching. The door opens a cautious sliver, a chain barring further entry. A pair of dark, intelligent eyes peer out at him.
"Harvey."
"Anita."
Her eyes narrow, flickering over him with thinly veiled irritation. After a taut pause, she shuts the door. For a breath he thinks she's dismissed him completely. But then the chain slides free and she pulls it open once more.
Wordlessly she turns away, padding on bare feet down the dim hallway.
Harvey follows, shoulders hunched in the cramped space. Her home is not at all what he expected — eclectic art on the walls, jazz drifting from a record player, the air tinged with cinnamon.
She leads him to the sitting room and takes a seat in the leather armchair. Harvey sinks onto the sofa, elbows braced on his knees.
"I already know why you're here," Anita says sharply, before he can speak. "So save your breath."
Harvey studies her tense posture. "They pulled you off the case."
She gives a terse nod. "This morning. Apparently the federal prosecutors have decided my services are no longer required."
"Son of a bitch." Harvey drags a hand over his face. "I don't suppose you convinced them to hand it off to another state attorney you trust?"
Anita let out a scornful huff. "Of course not. They made it abundantly clear this is in federal jurisdiction now. The indictment will be handed down in days." Her mouth flattens. "They have all the evidence they need, they assured me."
"Evidence," Harvey sneers. "You mean the bullshit they fabricated?"
"I don't know anymore." Anita's voice turns weary. "Perhaps some of it has merit. Donna's hands aren't exactly clean in all this."
Harvey stiffens. "Don't tell me you've gone over to their side. You know damn well she's being used as a scapegoat."
"All I know is that the federal prosecutors seem certain of her guilt. My hands are tied."
"So that's it?" Harvey demands. "You're just gonna roll over for these Justice Department lackey's?"
Anger flashes in Anita's eyes. "What would you have me do? Even if I screamed Donna's innocence from the rooftops, it's out of my jurisdiction now. My role is finished."
Harvey clenches his jaw in frustration. As much as he hated to admit it, she had a point. Anita no longer held any power to sway the case.
Trying a different tact, he says, "You must've learned something useful while you were still lead counsel. Can't you find a way to share that insight with me unofficially?"
Anita gives him a withering look over her glasses. "Don't insult me by asking me to violate ethics protocol."
Harvey sits back. For several weighted moments, only the sound of a clock ticking permeates the silence. Finally, he meets Anita's gaze.
"What about off the record? I'm not asking you to compromise your ethics. Just...point me in the right direction. There has to be something you saw that made you question their version of events."
Anita pauses, seeming to waver. Harvey presses his advantage.
"You wouldn't have brought me Jonathan's records if you didn't suspect corruption. I know how you operate — you aren't motivated by ambition or politics. You hate abuse of power." He softens his voice. "Help me find the truth, Anita. For justice."
She watches him, eyes conflicted behind her glasses. He can see the battle waging within her between pragmatism and idealism. Finally she sighs, shoulders slumping.
"Off the record," she concedes, "there were irregularities. Money trails that disappeared. Witness statements that seemed...contradictory."
Harvey's pulse quickens. "What kind of contradictions?"
Anita hesitates, clearly still reluctant. Then she rises and moves to her desk, rifling through a drawer. She returns with a slim folder and passes it to him.
"Photocopies," she explains. "Nothing you could use in court."
Harvey opens the file hastily, scanning the documents within. Deposition transcripts, financial records, emails between board members — a trove of information.
"This is perfect," he breathes. "Exactly what I need to start unraveling their bullshit story."
"I could lose my job for this," Anita says sharply. "My reputation — "
"I know." Harvey meets her gaze. "Thank you. Truly."
She gives a curt nod, lips pressed thin. After a weighted moment she speaks. "Harvey...make them pay for it. The corruption, the lies...all of it. Grind them into the fucking dirt."
He blinks, startled by the quiet venom in her voice. In that instant he glimpses the wounded idealist behind the practical exterior. They aren't so different, he and Anita Gibbs. Both willing to blur the lines of morality when justice demands it.
"I will," he vows.
They regard each other in perfect understanding. Then the moment passes. Anita straightens, once again the picture of composure.
"I trust you can see yourself out." She stands smoothly. "This meeting never happened."
"Of course." Harvey tucks the file inside his coat and moves toward the door.
VI
Samantha arrives at the upscale Tribeca restaurant five minutes early, per her habitual punctuality. The maître d' leads her to a secluded table near the back on her request for privacy. She ordered ahead a 2008 Pinot, knowing she'll need the glass of courage to steady her nerves.
This meeting already has her on edge. When Robert Zane handed over Jonathan Martell's casefile, she tried to refuse. Treason, international arms deals, backroom government corruption — it all hits too close to home. She prefers the cut-and-dry criminal cases, the cheating husbands and petty larcenists. Simple problems with simple solutions.
Not...whatever this mess is. But Robert insisted, said Martell had no one in his corner and her unique experience made her right for the job. She still isn't sure she agrees, but trusts Robert enough not to argue.
So here she sits, awaiting the arrival of her new client. The man who, on paper, seems a disgraced turncoat. A traitor who enabled the flow of military weapons to radical insurgents.
Now, she isn't so sure. The emails from Rachel paint a different picture — a decorated special forces marine discharged under suspicious circumstances and strong-armed into corporate complicity to protect his sick child. She isn't naive enough to fully accept this alternative narrative either, but it gives her pause. Things are rarely black and white where power brokers are concerned.
The maître d' appears again, escorting her guest of honor. Samantha stands politely as they approach. She recognizes Martell from photos — handsome, if a bit rough around the edges. Soulful eyes and sharp jawline. He looks younger than his forty-three years, fit in a bespoke suit. He carries himself with disciplined poise despite the situation awaiting him. She can appreciate that kind of stoicism.
"Mr. Martell. A pleasure." She extends a hand in greeting. His palm engulfs hers, warm and calloused. A working man's grip, firm without aggression.
"Thank you for agreeing to meet last minute," he says as they settle into their chairs. His voice matches his handshake — solid, forthright. No detectable arrogance or deceit. But she knows better than to judge a book by its cover.
"Of course. Why don't you start by telling me a bit about yourself?" She keeps her tone gently probing, hoping to establish a baseline.
Martell takes a slow sip of the wine she ordered and nods contemplatively. Over the next half hour he relays his background — an impoverished upbringing that led him to enlist after high school graduation. The details align with the official record she reviewed earlier. Only when he describes his discharge does his account deviate from the records.
She listens intently as he describes the events leading up to his discharge and recruitment by Duke-Sanger. His version contrasts starkly with the official reports painting him as incompetent and derelict in his duty. According to Martell, he survived the ambush and was used as a scapegoat to cover up ineptitude from superiors.
He explains the deal presented to him — take a dishonorable discharge and job with Duke-Sanger or face life in prison. A non-choice for any man desperate to access healthcare for his dying daughter. The whole story reeks of coercion and injustice. Samantha feels her sense of duty stir.
"This deal they forced on you," she says slowly. "It was underhanded, but we may be able to get it invalidated given the circumstances. Fight this, Jonathan. The facts are on your side."
Martell regards her solemnly over his wine glass. "I appreciate the sentiment, Ms. Wheeler, but it's more complicated than that."
He proceeds to explain his ex-wife Donna's unknowing involvement authorizing the deals he brokered. How she is poised to take the fall alongside him unless they find who truly masterminded the operation.
"Donna is innocent," he insists, his voice taking on an edge.
Samantha arches a brow. "With all due respect, protecting Ms. Paulsen is outside our purview here."
Martell's jaw flexes stubbornly. "It's all connected. Exonerating me without exposing the larger corruption does nothing."
Samantha sits back with a frown. She came anticipating a straightforward case of self-preservation. Instead Martell seems fixated on some Quixotic crusade for truth.
"Jonathan, I know you feel beholden, but Donna is no longer your responsibility." She keeps her tone reasonable. "Let her attorney worry about protecting her interests. You need to look out for yourself now."
His eyes flash at this perceived slight against his ex-wife. Samantha feels an involuntary flutter low in her belly at the intensity there.
"You're wrong." He leans forward, radiating conviction. "This mess exists because people refused to stand up when it mattered. I won't repeat that mistake."
Samantha holds his stare, impressed despite herself. She wonders suddenly what he sees when he looks at her — another suit-clad predator? Or something more human? The notion that her moral compass may have warped over the years stings in a place she thought calloused over.
Unease swirls in her gut, but she keeps her tone practical. "Be that as it may, exonerating you remains priority one. We can expose the truth, but not if you're behind bars."
She waits, watching the internal battle play across Martell's handsome features. His determination to protect Donna wars with reality. She finds herself hoping pragmatism wins out. Finally he dips his chin in agreement.
"Alright. What do you suggest?"
Samantha releases a slow breath, relieved. She's back on solid ground now, legal maneuvering her familiar terrain. "First step is witnesses. Combat buddies who can corroborate the mission was ordered by higher-ups. Any still around?"
Martell's eyes cloud with memory. "Just one. Gravely injured that day but survived. Last I heard he was stateside, off the grid on some dead end road in the Appalachians."
"Can you contact him? We need firsthand accounts to refute the official record."
Martell shakes his head sharply. "No. I won't drag him into this."
Samantha resists the urge to roll her eyes. "With all due respect, Mr. Martell, this stopped being just about you when federal prosecutors got involved. Your war buddy may be key to —"
"I said no." Martell's voice hardens. His eyes blaze bright with conviction. "I won't repay his sacrifice by forcing him to relive trauma just to save my ass. Find another way."
Samantha holds his unwavering stare, momentarily speechless. She forgot this brand of loyalty among soldiers — the kind that transcends reason. It strikes a chord in her she thought long silent.
"Okay," she says softly. "We'll find another way."
Martell nods, posture relaxing fractionally. Samantha angles her body toward his, leaning into his space.
"But you have to work with me, Jonathan. No more lone wolf shit. As long as we're in this together, I've got your back. Deal?"
She extends a hand across the table. Martell regards her solemnly for a heartbeat, then clasps her hand in his own calloused grip.
"Deal."
The contact lingers a moment before they release. Samantha takes a bracing sip of her wine, hoping her cheeks don't betray a flush. Get it together, she scolds herself. He's your client, not some Tinder date.
She clears her throat, shifting back into professional mode. "Right. Now, about those financial records..."
VII
Harvey steps from his town car into the humid evening. Around him, the city is bustling, ever alive even as dusk bleeds across the skyline. He moves through the streams of bodies automatically, approaching the sleek high rise.
Inside, the doorman tips his hat in wordless recognition. Harvey offers a tight smile in return.
Stepping out of the private elevator, he finds the penthouse foyer empty. Jonathan is off meeting his new representation, Harvey recalls with a twist of unease. The idea of Robert Zane involving himself... Harvey pushes the thought away. He can't afford distraction. Not with so much at stake.
He follows the faint clink of glass down to the kitchen. And there she is, copper hair burnished gold in the setting sun. Perched on a barstool with her back to him, nursing a tumbler of amber liquid. The icy façade she wore this morning has slipped, shoulders rounded beneath the thin silk of her dress.
Harvey watches her a moment, taking her in. The tension gathered at the base of her neck. Slender fingers worrying the lip of her glass. She hasn't heard him enter yet. He clears his throat softly so as not to startle her.
"Hey."
Donna turns, eyes finding his across the expanse. For an instant she just looks at him, expression unreadable. Then, "Hi."
The word comes out throaty, raw from the liquor's burn. Harvey moves closer, rounding the island to stand before her. This near, he can make out the dark smudges beneath her eyes, even through the carefully applied makeup.
"How much have you had?" he asks gently.
Her lips twist, a ghost of her old sardonic humor. "Not nearly enough."
She tips the rest of her drink back efficiently. The ice clinks as she sets the empty glass aside. Harvey braces his hands on the cool stone edge on either side of her, caging her in. She tips her face up to his, eyes daring.
"Going to cut me off, boss?"
"Do I need to?"
Something hard glints behind her gaze. "I'm not that fragile."
"That's not..." Harvey sighs, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. "I just don't want you using this shit to numb yourself. Not when I'm here."
"Such arrogance." She tsks under her breath, but there's no bite to it. Her fingers come up to skim along his jaw. "My white knight, thinking he can save me."
Harvey turns his face into her touch, eyes falling shut. "Let me try, at least."
Silence swells between them. He focuses on the sensation of her fingertips trailing over his skin — so delicate, at odds with her words. When she speaks again, her voice has lost its edge.
"I'm sorry. About this morning. Pushing you away..." She trails off. He opens his eyes to find her watching him sadly. "It's all I know how to do."
Harvey slides his hands up her arms, thumbs stroking. "I'm not going anywhere. You know that, right?"
She swallows and looks down. He tips her chin back up with a knuckle beneath her jaw.
"Hey. Look at me."
He waits until her eyes lift back to his, luminous with emotion.
"I love you," he says. "Mess and all. So stop trying to make me walk away to protect me or punish yourself. It won't work."
Her lips part on a soft inhale. For a long moment, she just searches his face. He lets her look, hides nothing. Hopes she finds whatever proof she needs there in his eyes.
Finally she surges up, mouth finding his in a desperate kiss. Her hands clutch almost violently into his shirt. He responds immediately, tongue sliding along the seam of her lips until she opens for him with a helpless sound. The kiss deepens until he is drunk on her, the scotch taste of her tongue only intensifying the heady effect.
When they finally part for air, her eyes shine bright with want. "Take me to bed," she whispers.
He shakes his head, brushing his lips along her jaw. "Here. Now."
Her breath hitches at his words. His hands grip her hips, urging her closer until she perches at the edge of her seat. He slides his palms up the silken expanse of her thighs, lifting the skirt higher.
She lets her head fall back, a breathless invitation. He accepts, tasting the skin of her throat, teeth grazing the frantic flutter of her pulse. His hands continue their exploration, stroking up the bare skin of her sides, thumbs just grazing the undersides of her breasts. She arches into the contact with a needy sound.
"Harvey..." His name falls from her lips like a prayer. Like he is her salvation.
He silences her with his mouth again, losing himself in the slick slide of tongues. The kiss turns hungry, desperate, all pretense falling away. Her hands fumble at his belt, wrenching it open. He groans as her palm closes around him. The slide of her fist up his length tears a ragged moan from his chest.
His fingers dig into her hips as she strokes him. When she draws one of his hands under her dress, guiding him toward her center, he relinquishes the last scrap of restraint. His touch is merciless, coaxing slick heat until she is mindless, writhing against him.
"Condom?" he rasps in her ear, teeth scraping the sensitive flesh beneath.
She shakes her head, fist still working him with single-minded purpose. "Like this." She braces her free hand on the edge of the granite behind her for leverage.
Harvey stares at her for a stunned second before nodding. Gripping her hips almost brutishly, he lifts her onto the countertop and drives into her with one savage thrust. She cries out, head falling back against the cabinet. Harvey gives her no time to adjust, fucking into her at a relentless pace that has the decorative jars rattling with each slap of skin.
"Quiet," he rasps when she whimpers his name. But his heavy breaths and the wet slide of their bodies are incriminating enough. The threat of discovery only heightens each sensation. She drags her nails down his back, raking over sweat-slick skin. Harvey drops his head with a choked groan, rhythm faltering.
"Harder," Donna breathes. He complies, fingers clenched at her hips as he drives into her. She shatters with a silent cry, teeth sinking into his straining shoulder.
Harvey finds his own release seconds later, muffling his groan against her neck. They clutch each other as the tremors fade, sweat cooling on fevered skin. Reality seeps back in — the gleaming countertop now marred with handprints, the obscene mess between her quivering thighs.
A breathless laugh escapes her as she meets Harvey's dazed eyes. "Well. That was..."
"Incredibly stupid," he finishes, grinning.
She cups his face tenderly. "Worth it, though."
His smile widens, thumb stroking her cheek. Joy swells inside his chest just to see her happy and playful again. "Worth it," he agrees.
They linger a moment longer, wrapped up in the precious intimacy. But eventually Harvey forces himself to step back. He tucks himself away and refastens his pants while Donna wipes herself off and smooths her dress down.
When their eyes meet again, everything still unsaid hangs in the space between them. But the heaviness has lessened now. Whatever needed purging between them feels cleanly released.
Harvey offers his hand. After a heartbeat, Donna accepts.
VIII
Jonathan sits at the desk in his study, eyes focused intently on the monitor displaying thermal security footage. He scans each room, searching for anything amiss. When the kitchen feed flashes urgent red, he stills. Lets the live video play out silently, hands clenching beneath the table.
Even with no sound, the writhing forms are unmistakable. Donna and Harvey locked in frenzied coupling against the counter where Jonathan takes his morning coffee. He tracks each illicit movement, pulse thundering.
He should shut it off. Look away. But some sick, masochistic part of him keeps staring, jaw clenched to the point of pain. His imagination supplies the sounds — her punched out cries, the slick chorus of skin, Harvey's wrecked groans. Jonathan's fingers curl around the arms of his chair until the leather creaks under his grip. Pressure builds at the base of his spine, shameful yet undeniable.
When the feed flashes back to a cool blue palette signaling their completion, he slams the laptop closed with enough force to crack the screen. The violence offers only a fleeting catharsis before sick self-loathing floods in to replace simmering jealousy.
What the hell is wrong with him? Spying on Donna like some twisted voyeur. Did he think witnessing their intimacy might somehow stop this ceaseless wanting?
He braces his elbows on the desk, scrubbing both hands roughly over his face. Christ, he's more deranged than he realized. Dwelling on things long dead and gone while the wreckage piles at his feet. He needs to refocus his energies on the present crisis. On fighting back against the corrupted system intent on devouring them all. A task made infinitely more difficult without concrete evidence of wrongdoing.
With rigid restraint, he powers down the monitors and makes for the heavy bag mounted in the corner. Wrapping his hands methodically, he embraces the rage inside of him. Lets it sharpen his focus to a cutting edge.
The chain suspending the bag creaks under the first blow. Then his muscles fall into the punishing rhythm — jab, cross, hook to the rib. The bag shudders violently with each strike. He loses himself in the hypnotic violence, darkness receding to the steady metronome of his fists meeting leather. Nothing exists outside this singular focus.
Until suddenly she is there. Hand cool on his sweat-slick shoulder, softly calling his name. He blinks the haze from his eyes to find Donna watching him with unconcealed worry.
"Hey, easy. You're bleeding." She takes his hands gently, turning them to inspect the ravaged knuckles. Crimson smears stain the tan leather wraps.
"It's fine," he mutters. He tries to tug free but she holds firm, leveling him with her no nonsense stare.
"Sit down and let me clean you up."
Too tired to resist, he lets her guide him to the leather couch and lays his hands palm down on her knees. She dabs gently with an antiseptic wipe, movements efficient yet oddly tender. He focuses on steadying his breaths, on not reacting to her closeness. But having her tend to him like this, hands soft and sure, feels intimate in a way he can't shake.
"You want to talk about it?" she asks without glancing up from her work.
"Nothing to talk about."
She levels an incredulous look at his battered hands, one brow arched. He looks away, jaw flexing.
"I just needed to hit something." It's not a lie, though far from the whole truth. When she continues watching him expectantly, he concedes, "I've been on edge lately. That's all."
Donna nods, applying ointment to the torn skin. "Well I'm always here. If you need to talk instead of pulverizing inanimate objects."
He lets out a harsh laugh despite himself. "Careful what you offer. I might take you up on it."
Her lips quirk as she bandages his swollen knuckles with quick, sure movements. "Good. You've been carrying things alone for too long." Satisfied with her work, she pats his knee. "There. All set."
Her face softens, hazel eyes searching his own. He sees no judgment there, only kindness. Something frail inside him splinters under that compassionate gaze. Makes him want to tell her everything, all the ugly chaos churning inside him.
But she is not his confessor, he reminds himself harshly. So instead he just nods, clearing the sudden tightness from his throat. "Thank you."
Her hand gives his own a gentle squeeze where it rests atop her knee. He fights not to react to the contact, to turn his palm over and lace their fingers together. Hold on like she's his only tether left.
"Try to get some rest," she says softly. With a final graze of her thumb across his battered knuckles, she stands and takes her warmth with her.
He watches her cross to the door on silent feet, every line of her body etched into his memory. Just before she slips from view, some reckless impulse seizes him.
"Donna."
She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder. He sees the wordless question in her eyes and almost loses his nerve. A thousand unspoken words gather on his tongue, too dangerous to voice aloud. He wants to confess how her nearness unravels him, strips his soul bare in a way nothing else can. How he would sink to his knees and worship at her feet if she asked it of him.
But the weight of wanting lodges like shrapnel in his chest, words lost to the pain of it. So instead he just looks at her, taking in every beloved line — the elegant arch of her neck, lips parted and waiting. Her hair ablaze, a coppery halo in the lamplight. She is at once familiar and unknown. The girl he married, now this formidable creature. He aches for her, grief like a ghost drifting between them.
"It's nothing," he lies hoarsely. "Never mind. Get some rest."
Disappointment flashes across her features, there and gone. She watches him a beat longer, as if debating whether to press him. He keeps his expression carefully neutral.
Finally she nods, eyes gentle with understanding. "Goodnight, Johnny."
The old nickname lands bittersweet. She turns and continues on her way, leaving only silence behind. He listens until the soft click of her heels fades to nothing, regrets piling like ashes inside him.
In his mind's eye he sees her pause just outside the door, hovering on the cusp of returning to him. Waiting for him to call out again, to voice all the words lodged in his throat.
But he says nothing. Just stares at the empty doorway long after she is gone.