I

Donna doesn't know what she had been expecting to find when she came over to Harvey's place, but had she given it proper thought, seeing him parade through the door, drunk with a girl young enough to be his daughter would have been exactly it. This is Harvey Specter after all; some aspects of this man will never change.

She stands up from the couch. Harvey's dark eyes stare at her with an indifference that seems almost cruel. The girl at his side breaks the heated silence. "Let me guess. This is Donna?"

Donna's eyes slide over to the girl, not quite sure what her dry tone implies. Harvey says, "Emily, I think you should leave," and the poor girl's mouth nearly drops to the floor. Welcome to Donna's world. She deals with this asshole sixteen hours a day.

"It's Erica and I can't believe you just brought me home to your wife. What's wrong with you?"

Wife. That's a good one. Donna walks to Harvey's bar cart, in sudden need of a drink. "His secretary, actually," she says, pouring. "No harm, no foul."

"Secretary…" The girl laughs, high-pitched, hysterical. "Oh god. I see. You have some kind of redheaded secretary fetish. You are fucked in the head, you know that?"

Harvey doesn't move. Doesn't even seem to hear the girl. He just stands there, uninterested as if he's waiting for the whole thing to blow over so that he can go to bed.

Donna offers the girl a sympathetic shrug. Sips her drink. She won't defend him.

Emily/ Erica walks out, her Jeffery Campbell's clicking in that pissed clatter only a severely infuriated woman can pull off (Donna imagines this is Harvey's bedtime lullaby). The girl manages herself well enough, head held high. Bless her. The door opens. Slams. Boss and Secretary stand in silence: her in the living room, him in the kitchen. She finishes her drink in an unladylike gulp and fights the urge to pour another.

"Donna," Harvey greets. He is gripping the edge of the kitchen counter, white knuckled from holding on so tightly, really leaning into it like he's trying to push the granite island at her. He asks, "How did your deposition go?" but she can tell by the way he is both firm and callous in his questioning that he already knows the answer to this. This is just a place for him to start.

"Not ideal," she says. "But I'm sure you've heard. I'll spare the details. How were things at the office?"

"Pretty interesting. Gibbs came by looking for you." He walks out of the kitchen, coming toward her, his gait a little unsteady. He stops at the bar and begins to pour a drink he doesn't need. "Conspiracy to defraud the U.S…" With his back to her, he shakes his head and then downs his whiskey. "That's a goddamn first."

He pours another. To avoid sending him over the edge, Donna's tone is careful when she says, "Harvey, I don't think you should be drinking anymore."

He turns to her and glares. "Do you really think you're in any position to tell me what to do?"

He tosses the drink back. Goes for another. Donna is at his side, brown eyes firm and unyielding in the face of his fury. "Stop it," she says with a strictness Harvey is conditioned to obey. He lets her take his drink, watching as she sets it aside, stunned like she's done a magic trick to steal it from him. "If you have something to say to me, Harvey, just say it, because I'm not doing this between-the-lines bullshit with you."

"Fine. You wanna have it out, Donna? Let's have it out." He steps toward her, the ruthless and forceful Harvey Specter rising up to a challenge; she will not back down and that just pushes him closer. His height becomes imposing, his dark eyes all pupil. He says, "Why don't you start by telling me about your good friend Jonathan Martell?"

Donna is startled. How could he already know about Jonathan? She thought she'd have more time.

"You look surprised. That's not a name you ever thought you'd hear me say, is it? Well, I went to see him today."

Her gut lurches, sinks. She backs away and he presses forward. "You saw Jonathan?"

"Yeah, charming guy. He had some really nice things to say about you. Sounds like you two were thick as thieves—pun intended. So what was it? Was he your boss? Were you two having an affair? Is this where your rule came from?" Harvey lifts his eyebrows, looking no longer angry, but vaguely curious.

Donna doesn't know how to answer him. She stands there with her mouth open, grasping for words. He obviously doesn't know the whole story and this worries her.

"Go on, tell me." He steps closer to her, her back bumps bar stools, the counter top, pinned. She can smell the woody spice of the whiskey on his breath. There is some kind of glitter on his neck, from where that girl was kissing him no doubt. "You won't say because you think I'll be mad?" His voice is low, husky. His eyes lazily take her in. "Don't flatter yourself, Donna. I don't care who you go to bed with."

His words are a weapon, the blows perfectly aimed. She gasps at the ache. Recovers. Tells him, "Your best defense is to be offensive, isn't it?"

He steps away. Damage done. It's just some game to him and he has to win because he just cannot bare to be vulnerable. "What's yours, then? Lying?"

"When have I ever lied to you, Harvey?"

"How about yesterday when I wanted to go to your deposition and you told me—what was it you said?—I don't know anything about Duke-Sanger. I hardly left my cubicle."

"Three of your clients were just subpoenaed by the department of justice. I didn't want to stress you with something I thought I could handle."

His anger shifts into more of a disappointed grimace. "That's bullshit and you know it. You just didn't want me to find out about whatever shady shit you got yourself involved in."

"You know what—no more. I'm done. You're drunk and this won't end well if we keep going at each other like this." She starts her reverse, grabbing up her purse from the coffee table. She doesn't know what she was thinking coming here.

"You know what, Donna, if it wasn't for the alcohol you'd be in a much shitter position."

She knows she should keep walking; it's the mature, rational thing to do. But she turns back around because no matter how mad he makes her or how upset she gets, she always comes back to him.

"Why? Because I choose not to divulge every element of my personal life to you? You're my boss, Harvey, not my boyfriend. I'm allowed to have secrets."

"You've been by my side for thirteen goddamn years and I feel like I have no idea who you are right now."

Donna drops her bag to the floor and sweeps her arms out to her sides, palms up. "Then ask me. Ask me who I am."

He steps back, surprised at her offer. He wasn't expecting her to give it up that easy and she realizes he's not ready to hear it. She almost laughs.

Harvey changes course. "I just want to know what you did."

"Everything Gibbs says I did," she tells him, holding his stare. "Withholding information, altering and destruction of documents, conspiracy to defraud the U.S. I did it all."

"Why?"

"I needed the money."

"For what?"

"Does it matter?" This comes out too firm, a defense. Harvey knows this and she expects him to press. There's the cut Harvey, do what you do. But he surprises her—

"No," he says. "It doesn't matter." He leaves the subject and starts to pace. He walks to the center of the living room, from the center to the rear, stopping in front of the picture windows. Manhattan is lit up in front of him; his silhouette is the epitome of power: tall, well-dressed, a handsome profile. He seems serene and confident standing there, but Donna knows better. She can see the way his eyes are cast downward, the slight slump in his posture, even the exertion in his breathing: his inhales too sharp, his exhales too drawn out. He is scared, she realizes. He doesn't know if he'll be able to get her out of this.

With his gaze fixed out the window, Harvey says, "Mike and Rachel know."

"What do Mike and Rachel know?"

He turns, his stare focused not quite on Donna but at some point beside her. "I don't know. Whatever it is you're hiding. Mike wanted to tell me, but I wouldn't…" He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. She's not sure if he'll finish, so she finishes for him—

"You want to hear it from me."

"Yeah," he says softly, relieved as if he wasn't aware this is what he needed until he heard her say it. He lifts his eyes, searching hers for something, maybe hoping to pull the answers from her without her ever having to speak the truth aloud. He gives up, says, "So just tell me."

How did we get here? She wonders. It's been less than forty-eight hours since she's been subpoenaed and already everything has blown apart. She thinks of the last time she saw him, how they joked about his god awful taste in mahogany, and truthfully she doesn't see a way back to that. But maybe that's for the best. This could be what she needs—to be pushed out so she can move on. So, she tells him—

"Jonathan Martell was my husband."

II

14 years ago, August

He finds out Alice has cancer from Bertha, who heard it from the father on the third Wednesday he showed up without his daughter in tow. She's passing around a Get Well card. There are big wet tears welt up in her eyes.

"You write something real nice for her, you understand?" Bertha tells Harvey, sniffing. "She liked you best for whatever the hell reason and if I see just a signature from you, I'll beat up to a pulp."

Harvey just stares at the woman, stunned. It doesn't make any sense. People who have cancer are sick. Alice isn't sick. Just three weeks ago she was skipping around the office, laughing and laughing. A royal pain in his ass, just as usual. "Are they sure it's cancer?"

"She's had it for a while, her Daddy said. Some kind of Neuro-thing. She was in remission and went in because her back was hurtin' her. They found tumors all over the place."

"Jesus."

"She's got some sort of infection now and they can't do treatment." Bertha presses her fist against her lips and shifts her teary eyes upward, toward the ceiling. "Seven years old. Ain't that just cruel?"

Harvey stands up. "Which hospital?"

Bertha looks surprised, tells him, "Mount Sinai."

"I'll take the card, Bertha" he says, and Bertha for what seems like the first (and probably last) time graces Harvey with a look of deep respect.

Mount Sinai is on the opposite side of Manhattan and traffic is at a crawl. He feels like it takes him too long and by the time he reaches the hospital he's walking through the halls with an urgency of a man who feels he's running out of time.

He doesn't know the kid's last name, but a nurse in the children's oncology wing hears him speaking at reception and escorts him to the little girl: Alice, yes, everyone knows her. Amazing kid. So positive. And her mother, she's such a lovely woman and one of the strongest gals I know. Are you friends with Donna? No? The father, then? Shame I've never met him. He should have brought flowers—he didn't even think about it. All he's got is this silly card, signed by people she hardly knows. He feels inadequate. Nervous. Scared. When they get to the room the nurse leaves him at the threshold and he sees inside a big bed and lots of machines and a little girl cruelly tether to all of it.

He starts to talk himself out of it. He can't go in. He'll drop the card off at the nurses station. That's enough. He doesn't have to see the kid. She's not his problem.

Then her lids lift and blue eyes, bright and feverish looking, seek his. Her cracked lips twist into a smile so huge it lights up her whole damn face.

"Harvey," she says, a whisper or maybe nothing but the motion.

His move to her bedside is thoughtless instinct because—who was he kidding?—he belongs there.

III

Jonathan Martell was my husband.

There is a long silence following Donna's confession. Harvey stands at the window looking dazed, staring off at nothing, folding in on himself. He's lost in a thought that for once Donna can't read and it makes her feel sick. She tries to speak but can't find her words because she has no idea of what to say. Does she apologize? And if she does, what is she apologizing for exactly—keeping the marriage from him or being married in the first place?

Harvey is back from whatever far off place he went to, his gaze shifting, flicked on like a light, boring down on her. He takes her in, from the top of her head down to her beige Louboutin pumps, head slightly cocked as if he's seeing something out of place but he's not entirely sure what it is. Something about her has shifted; she's still Donna, but not how he left her. She is like a Russian doll he's accidentally bumped off a dresser and the first layer has given way to something else underneath, a depth below the surface that he never explored because it simply never occurred to him. Who would have thought Donna was anything other than Donna?

And there's more still, other layers. He's just barely touching beneath the surface.

Harvey breaks the silence, his voice calm and commanding. "How long?"

"Eight years."

He looks stricken, maybe even wounded. "That's a long time."

"Is it?"

He glares at her remark. You think this is a joke?

But it's not a joke. It just never felt that long to her and if she's honest, it wasn't long enough—not the marriage, but the time.

He walks back to the bar. Another drink, perfect, she thinks. Just what we need. But no, he doesn't go for the Scotch, he goes for the cart, taking it by the side bar and smashing it into the floor. Glass shatters. Liquids spill out, expands, seeps into the tiles. A trail of amber liquid rolls toward Donna and she stares, stunned, as it pools around her feet.

She waits, to see if there is anything else he'd like to break, but he keeps to the middle of his mess, breath ragged and oddly calm, like a cat who's pawed a wine glass off the table; he peers down, apathetic to the destruction. The noise of the glass shattering seems to echo around the penthouse. Too loud. Donna concentrates on steadying her breathing and keeping her hands from trembling. When she finally has her composure, she grabs her purse, soaked in his Macallan 18—spring exclusive Hermés, she could kill him—and makes for the front door. She knows better than to try to reason with him when he's like this. He needs to be alone. He needs to cool down.

At her retreating back something else smashes. A clatter of debris hits the tile. A pebble rolls and bounces against her heel. She looks over and sees dirt, pieces of pottery, a small cactus uprooted but intact…

Hate, pure hatred for this man fills her and seems to set her free. She goes to him, furious, and he walks to meet her, glass cracking beneath his oxfords. He wants her hate.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" She shouts at him.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" He shouts back. "You're the one with some secret fucking life that you've just dropped on me, and now you're just going to walk out?" His voice flatters, nearly breaks. He's trying so hard to hold on to his anger but she can see the hurt surfacing.

Just as quickly as it came, her hatred is gone, replaced with hopelessness and longing. She will never be free.

"What else am I meant to do, Harvey? You're deliberately trying to hurt me and I'm not going to stay here and be your punching bag."

"I'm not deliberately trying to hurt you, Donna."

"You just threw a cactus at me."

"I didn't throw it at you. I threw it at the wall."

"Okay." She takes in a shaky breath. "Why the cactus?" She lifts an eyebrow, probing, and steps toward him, putting him on the defense for once. "Why not one of your airplane models or that hideous Chinese statue that doesn't match anything else in here."

"It's just what I grabbed."

"No, Harvey, you wanted to hurt me because I'm the one that got you that stupid cactus. Now quit being irrational."

"Irrational?"

"I was married, it's not like I killed someone. Do you think Mike or Rachel will react like this?"

"We're different," he mutters.

"Are we?" She latches on. "In what way?"

He stares at her, incredulous. "You know what way."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Goddamnit, Donna." His jaw clenches. "Nothing. Just go home." He turns his back to her, heading for his bedroom. Huh? For a man who loves a challenge, he never seems to want to rise up to this one.

She calls after him: "You're just going walking away?"

"Yes."

"No, Harvey. You need to face what the real issue is here."

He turns to her, annoyed. "Which is what?"

"You're in love with me."

They're both struck by boldness of her words. Both suddenly breathless. The room feels too small, it's stifling.

After what feels like an eternity, Harvey regains himself, becomes infuriated at her. "Really Donna? Forget being mad about your Bonnie and Clyde past with an ex-husband I never even knew about—no, the real problem here is that I'm in love with you. Is that what you're saying to me?"

"No. What I'm saying is the reason you're reacting the way that you are—breaking things, throwing plants at my head—is because you're in love with me."

"You're out of your goddamn mind."

"Okay." She tries different approach. "Would you react like this if it was Louis?"

He glares at this question. He won't answer her but that's okay, she knows what he's thinking: Of course I wouldn't react like this if it was Louis.

"I bet you'd even go so far as to make jokes about a crazy criminal marriage from years ago if it wasn't mine. And it's not fair. You're allowed to be mad, Harvey, you have that right, but you're not allowed to treat me like I've betrayed you. That's just confusing. For both of us."

"You're unbelievable, you know that? You're just twisting this into something that it isn't."

"Then tell me you're not," she says, shrugging. "Go on. Tell I'm wrong. Tell me that I'm delusional and have been this entire time. Because I feel like every time I start to believe that there's nothing here, you do something to pull me back in. You look at me a certain way or you say something vaguely meaningful and I become stuck on the idea that we'll make it other side of this—whatever the hell this is—but if that isn't a reality, I need to know. So go ahead. Tell me that you're not in love with me, Harvey. I'm begging you."

He shakes his head, he's not even angry anymore, he's just appalled. "So what?" he says. "You want to hear me say it? What the hell is that going to do?"

"We're meant to be friends. But if you look at us as more than that—"

"It's not going to change anything! I'm still going to be pissed off to the point that I could literally kill you and I'm still going to be hurt because apparently you don't trust me enough to tell me anything. You get to know all of my secrets and have all the pieces of me that I would never give to anyone else, and yet I'm not worthy of the same? We're supposed to be a team—Harvey and Donna—but I'm playing this game and I look over and you're kicked up on the sidelines. You're spectating. You're advising. But you won't get your hands dirty, will you? So yes, Donna, I don't have the right to have all of these feelings because we're this and not that. But I still have them and I don't have it in me right now to pretend that I don't. Maybe tomorrow when I'm sober I can be that rational friend that you need. But right now I just need you to leave me the hell alone."

IV

Cold toes press against Mike's leg, nudging him, testing to see if he's still awake. He is and he's glad that she is too. His mind is circling around too many issues: the firm, the wedding, Harvey and Donna. He needs to vent.

He rolls over in bed, taking in the teary eyes of his fiancée. "You okay?"

"Not really," Rachel says.

"What is it?"

"Donna." A tear slips down her cheek. "I feel awful. I should have known, Mike."

"She didn't want us to know, Rach. That's not our fault."

"Doesn't matter. I'm her best friend. I should have noticed." She shuts her eyes, more tears fall, staining the pillow case.

Mike pulls her close. Her wet face nuzzles into his bare chest. "Noticed what? That woman's impenetrable. Harvey didn't even know and he's been with her longer than the two of us."

"Do you think she's okay?" Rachel wonders, sniffling.

"Of course Donna's okay. She's the same Donna today as she was yesterday. It's Harvey that I'm worried about."

"Why are you—"

There's a knock, almost vulgar in its loudness as it pierces through the quiet apartment.

Rachel pulls away from Mike, frightened. "Who...?"

"Harvey?" Mike offers, pulling himself out of a tangle of sheets. I has to be Harvey; it's 2 am. "He's probably changed his mind about the file."

He gets up, barefoot and shirtless but he has boxers on which he figures is decent enough. He might get shit for it, but it's a 2am-desperate-Harvey, so he'll chance it or bare it, whatever.

He opens the door, bracing himself for Harvey's ridicule: C'mon, Mike, as tempting as I am, what would Rachel think? But it's not Harvey.

It's Jonathan Martell, his gray eyes staring at Mike idly, like they're two strangers making eye contact across the threshold of a subway train.

Mike has the notion he's about to get murdered. It's the only thing that makes sense and strangely he isn't surprised that this would be how he'd go out. Throat slit—Jonathan Martell is definitely a throat slitter—dead in the foyer in nothing but his underwear.

"Mr. Ross," Martell greets, "I apologize for showing up at such an odd hour."

Odd? That's not really the word Mike would use. "Two AM is more along the lines of creepy," Mike tells the man. "And how exactly did you find out where I live?"

"I asked the right people."

"Vague...but okay."

"No need to be uneasy," Martell says politely. "I'm only here to give you this."

He passes Mike a manila folder.

"What's this?" Mike asks.

"Information. I believe it will be helpful working Donna's case."

Mike is skeptical. "Why are you bringing this to me and not Harvey?"

"I heard you have a good memory," Martell says. "I want this burned into it."