I

Harvey waits until Jonathan is gone. Then he turns to her, his secretary, this woman he's known for years, but never really knew.

Ex-wife, bereaved mother, COO of one of the largest financial institutions in the nation.

Feeling his stare, Donna looks up at him, eyes red-rimmed, and says nothing. He can tell by the tightness of her lips and the intensity in her gaze that she is fighting fiercely to hold on to her composure.

Her silent suffering makes Harvey's chest tighten; a lump builds in his throat. What he's feeling has become too big for him, too confusing. It is bottled up chaos, inescapable and pressurized. The air around him almost vibrates with everything he's holding in.

Part of him is angry. No. That's too subtle – he's fucking furious. He has a frantic urge to smash everything in the room. But he doesn't, because mostly he's just heartbroken – not for himself, but for her. In light of what she's going through his own hurt seems insignificant, petty even. Really, all she did was lie…

A lie so big and so painful—

Goddamn it, he can't breathe.

"Harvey?" Donna stands up, and the way her brow creases in concern, he figures he must look like he's in agony. "Are you alright?"

"Am I alright…?" Once again he has selfishly taken center stage, her feelings becoming second to his. It's not fair and he hates that with everything that's going on between them they still somehow fall into these roles, cling to them, as if acting any different is an admission that their relationship is falling to pieces. "Donna, I'm not the one facing prison."

Donna stares at him for a moment, her expression completely unreadable. "I just…" She sighs. "I've just been dreading this for so long. I guess almost feel relieved."

She must be saying this for his sake, because her voice—tired, utterly defeated—doesn't reflect relief. It worries him. She's keeping it together so well, but there has to be a breaking point. The memories, the guilt, the sadness, the isolation. No one is built to hold all that in.

But what choice does she have? She laid herself bare in front of him the other night and he just stared at her, dumbstruck with a distinct lack of words. He wants to make it all better, to be her hero (yes, it's cheesy as hell, but he does), yet at the same time, he's so afraid of hurting her more. He doesn't know where to begin to comfort her…or if she even wants him to.

All he can be is her attorney. He can't soothe her hurt, but he can defend her and try to fix this mess. He has to.

"Donna, listen. I need to get my hands on any documents that might incriminate you, but I don't want to alert Gibbs to the fact that we know about Melanie. Do you have any connections left at Duke-Sanger that we can trust besides Jonathan?"

Donna looks off, biting her lip nervously.

"If it's too hard…"

"No." Her gaze flicks back to his, holds steady. "I can do this."

"Alright," he says, feeling his anger subsiding, skulking away, retiring back into a quiet, lingering bitterness – a bitterness that is beginning to become as much a part of him as his pulse. "Let me know if you need any help."

II

Mike and Rachel stand outside the firm's library, trying to digest Jonathan's surprise visit, when one of the accounting interns rushes passed, followed by about ten of the new associates.

Mike grabs at a suit, stopping a dark haired kid with wide, excited eyes. "What's the commotion?" he asks.

"CNN is doing an exposé on Sanger-gate."

Mike lifts an eyebrow. "Sanger-gate?"

The kid shrugs. "It's what they're calling it."

Mike lets go of the associate and turns to Rachel. He can almost feel her horror. An exposé? This is not good.

They follow the crowd into the Bullpen and gather around a cubicle at the back. A video streams on dual computer monitors. A familiar looking news caster is saying, "—largest financial institution in America. Its vast profits credited to their ruthless chairman Jonathan Martell."

It cuts to a middle-aged man in a checkered tie: "Companies must operate on checks and balances, but people rarely questioned Martell's authority. No one stood up to him – the lawyers, the accountants, the bankers. No one said no."

It cuts away again. An older man, white hair: "Jonathan took New York by its throat. He played off Wall Streets greed and formed a network of synergistic corruption, but what people don't talk about and what no one realized at the time was that he was just a dog on a leash."

Again, the scene changes, shifts to a picture of Jonathan and Donna at some event. They look young and happy, rich and powerful. In Donna's arms is a little girl, all freckles and red hair and a big mischievous grin. The kid is wearing a dress with sneakers. Black and white chucks. Mike has a pair just like them, and it's this small, insignificant detail that brings Alice to life in his mind, and in that very same breath she is taken away from him. The grief he feels is soul crushing.

Mike reaches for Rachel, who simultaneously reaches for him. They take each other's hands and cling white-knuckle tight.

The reporter voice-overs: "Shortly after Martell was voted chairman, Duke-Sanger's chief operating officer, Larry Angstrom, retired, and the board of directors quietly and unanimously voted Jonathan's wife, twenty-four year old, Donna Martell, into the executive position."

In the Bullpen, someone gasps. "Holy shit, that's Donna!"

Again the video changes scenes, back to Checkered Tie: "We were stunned when they announced her promotion."

Old guy: "It was bad business."

A dark haired woman: "Our stocks plummeted."

It becomes such a whirlwind, Mike loses track of who's speaking, immersed in the shifting narrative.

"It didn't make sense. Martell is a calculated, brutal businessman. I thought, 'he should know better.'"

"She came in as COO and she was…"

"Perfect."

"Young, brilliant, captivating, edgy."

"She had all the class, grace and poise for the position, but also this surprising forcefulness, an unyielding determination that made you believe she could accomplish anything. People were fascinated by her."

"Together, the Martell's were unstoppable."

"A true power couple; where Jonathan was feared, Donna was loved."

"The stock jumped back up."

"Shot up."

"Soared."

"They were making everyone rich."

"And then…"

The voices go quiet, the background music ceases. A clip plays, a dramatic reenactment of a suited man and a redheaded woman placing roses on a fresh grave. Mike feels sick. He shouts, "Turn it off," in a voice that is too hoarse and pained to be his.

"Their daughter died."

"I remember the funeral."

He shoves through the crowd of associates, grabs the guy sitting at the computer by the back of his collar and yanks him back.

"I used to think of grief as something abstract—"

The associate and his chair topple to the floor.

"—now I forever see it as this young redhead, standing in front of a coffin that is just too damn small."

Mike leaps over the guy's sprawled body and rushes to click out of the video stream, but Harvey is there first. The managing partner rips the power cords from the outlet in one impressive tug.

The firm falls silent. It is a quiet that is so complete Mike's frantic heartbeat is probably the loudest sound in the room.

Mike looks over at Harvey, who is looking behind him, ghost white. He follows Harvey's gaze and sees Donna, lingering at the edge of the Bullpen.

There are no words to accurately describe her expression. It's some kind of nightmarish mixture of pain, shock and terror. She steps clumsily backward, half-dazed, taking the force of thirty sets of eyes on her like a blow to the chest.

"Fuck," Harvey whispers. "Fuck fuck fuck."

The redhead staggers back another few steps, then turns and bolts.

Harvey shoves his way through the crowd and rushes after her.

Rachel turns to Mike, mouth trembling, eyes filled with tears. "What the hell is happening?"

Mike shakes his head. He doesn't know.

III

Harvey sprints through the firm's main corridor, chasing Donna down. He expects her to head for the main entrance, but she blows passed the elevators without breaking stride and exits out the stairwell.

Christ, she's fast — outrunning him in heels. Next he'll learn she's some kind of Olympic athlete.

Harvey barrels through the heavy metal door after her. He hesitates on the landing, disoriented for a moment, because looking down the stairs he doesn't see her. But he hears the rapid clicking of her heels….above him.

She's going up.

His heart slams against his chest. He takes the stairs two at a time, practically leaping up them.

The staircase ends at the roof access. The door is open. Harvey stumbles out into the mid-morning sun and for one gut-wrenching moment the space looks empty.

His vision spins, his knees go weak, he can't breathe—

Then he catches sight of her. At the edge, staring down. Harvey yells out, but she doesn't turn, doesn't even react. He gets within reaching distance and takes her by the arm.

"Donna…" he says, panting like he just ran a damn marathon. "Donna, look at me." He pulls her toward him, trying to coax her away from the edge.

Donna turns, looking a little wild around the eyes, and shoves him. Harvey staggers backwards, nearly falls, less because of the force of the actual shove and more because of the utter shock of it.

Donna stumbles too, sags against the ledge and begins to sink down, collapsing. Harvey goes to her and thoughtlessly takes her into his arms.

"Please," she chokes out. Her breathing is labored, coming out in short hard gasps. "Please, I can't…"

"Take a deep breath, Donna," Harvey says gently. "Just breathe. I got you."

"I can't do this."

He rests his hand on the back of her neck and pulls her in, pressing his cheek against her red hair. "Stop it," he pleads. "You can do this. You're strong—"

"I'm not—I'm not. I'm a coward," she says, hysterical, writhing and trying to get free of him. "I'm a selfish, fucking coward. I ran away from my husband. I erased them. And now…god…oh god…"

Rage courses through Harvey's blood stream – an erratic, turbulent fury like he's never felt before. He almost overspills with it, but he holds calm, despite the fact that there is absolutely nothing he wants more than to find whoever made that exposé and rip their fucking throat out.

"You did what had to be done," Harvey tells Donna firmly, pinning her arms at her sides and holding tight. "You can't blame yourself for how you've coped."

She stares into his face, frustrated and guilty to the point of tears. "I lied to you," she says breathlessly. "I wasn't even working at the DA when we met. You just assumed and I…I went with it."

For a moment the shift in conversation has Harvey confused. "No, you…" He swallows, sweat chilling his brow. "You switched to my desk."

Donna shakes her head, tears streaming down her face.

What the hell is she talking about? How could that…

It clicks. Shifts. Pieces snap together like a puzzle: Jonathan taking meetings with Cameron at the DA's office; Donna seeking Harvey out, asking to sit at his desk. COO to government secretary – it sounds less like a genuine career change and more like a cold, clever strategy.

Pain. It envelops Harvey. He stares at Donna and she stares back at him, both baffled by her betrayal. He feels like his feet have been swept out from under him. His trust in Donna has always been rock-solid and unquestionable, and now she's telling him their whole relationship has been built on cut-rate foundation.

Worse, he should have known better. A beautiful, captivating, and strangely omnipotent woman slinks up beside a lowly ADA at a bar wanting to sit at his desk because their priorities just happen to align. It's not exactly rocket-science.

She said she wanted to be an actress. He almost laughs out loud at the sheer fucking irony of it.

"Of course you didn't," Harvey mutters. The words drain him. Use him up. His head falls forward and bows into her chest; his grip on her weakens. Set free, Donna's hands run up his arms, over his shoulders to his neck, slide gently through his hair.

Her touch seeps into him like anesthetic, numbing the ache. In her embrace, he is tricked into thinking he's safe. How can hands both stab and soothe at the same time? He wonders, and god, when did this all stop making sense?

"I'm so sorry," she whispers, her voice distorted by anguish. "I'm so, so sorry."

She did what had to be done. For her daughter. For Alice. He can't blame her for that. But can he forgive her?

Harvey breathes out and straightens, forcing himself to steady. He looks into Donna's eyes and sees pain and fear but also comfort, as if she's shoving her own feelings aside to make room for what he needs. And he knows what the answer is, what it always will be.

"It's okay," he says thickly. "Let's just put it behind us."

Donna's face stills, her eyes search his, gauging his sincerity. "That's not..." She sighs. "There's more. Russo—"

Harvey groans softly. Grinds out, "It doesn't matter."

"No, Harvey, listen to me –"

"Goddamn it, Donna," he snaps. "I said it doesn't matter."

"It does matter." She steps away from him. Like she knows her closeness is inebriating. "Damn it, hold me accountable!"

"Don't you think you're going through enough?"

"I'd rather know where we stand."

"We're fine."

Her voice escalates; she almost shouts at him, "How can you just say that –"

"Because."

He stops there, tries to hold the reason in, but it rises like vomit. It moves from somewhere deep within him, clawing up his windpipe. Years and years of it. He has to get it out, get it off his chest.

He must pale, turn green in a sickened panic.

Donna stares at him with a face about to hurl itself into outrage. Don't you dare, her eyes say. Not again.

But it's too late. The words are already tumbling past his traitor lips.

"Because I love you."

Donna staggers back, wide-eyed, like the words have risen into the empty space between them and stare her down. He sees the same look fall across her face as Friday night—doubt, fear—this realization that she'd seen him as something out of a catalogue that maybe she wanted, but he's not made from the right material. He won't fit.

He almost wants to apologize.

Instead, he elaborates, enunciates, puts it all out on the table. "I love you no matter what. And I will forever take how angry you've made me over how empty my life would be if I never met you. So it doesn't matter what you did – that you lied, if you're guilty. I don't care if the whole world thinks you're some morally bankrupt criminal. I'm on your side. Always. And I will defend your integrity every goddamn day if I have to."

Donna runs a hand through her hair, her expression dazed, almost drowsy. He might as well have punched her in the face. "I don't deserve this," she whispers, and her expression shifts, the pale contours of her face twist in pain.

Harvey takes her face and cradles it in his hands, his thumbs brushing away tears. "I can't put a number to how many times you've saved me over the years," he tells her, realizing for the first time that this is true. Donna has been the constant in his life, guiding him; his reassuring lighthouse. He can weather any storm because, through her, he knows exactly where his shoreline is. "I wouldn't be half the man I am if I didn't have you supporting me, and I sure as hell wouldn't have my name on that wall."

Donna shuts her eyes. Fresh tears spill down her cheeks and collect in Harvey's palms. He coaxes her closer and rests his forehead against hers. "No one deserves my support more than you," he murmurs. "You have to know that."

Donna's lids lift with a slow, half-open heaviness, and those dark eyes bore into his. Her stare is somehow both intense and distant.

"We'll survive this," Harvey says. "I promise."

"We?" she whispers.

"We," he repeats. "You're not and never will be alone."

Donna's hand slide around his nape and pulls him down gently. Their lips meet. It's a brief, maddening touch, and just as quickly she breaks off and presses her face into his shoulder.

Harvey wraps his arms around her, his heart beating in a way he can't take, and holds her tight against him.