I
Harvey wakes with a start. A weight pins him down and it takes a moment to realize he isn't in his bed or at home. It's his office, and Donna sleeps against his side. Her soft breaths stir the fine hair along his nape, auburn waves spread across his shoulder.
His watch reads nearly 5 a.m. His neck and back twinge in protest from hours curled awkwardly against the sofa arm. He can't even remember falling asleep. The night's memories trickle back as he struggles to blink away the last fog of unconsciousness — whiskey, jazz, Donna in his arms. He has a hazy recollection of pulling her close, tangling his fingers in the silk of her hair and losing himself in her feel and taste. Then sleep took over.
Now she stirs, brows furrowing at his jostling movements. "Harvey..." The low huskiness of her voice does something to him, a surge of raw want in the pit of his stomach. It takes an effort to rein it in.
He sits up fully, the last tendrils of sleep burned away. Donna rubs her eyes. Moonlight still shines pale through the windows, catching in her hair, the swell of her hip, her elegant hand. He watches the delicate movements of her throat, the graceful curve of her shoulder. She is achingly beautiful. He longs to wake up beside her each day for the rest of his life. To spend every hour loving her, losing himself in her body. But his fantasies always seem just beyond reach, dancing out of his grasp each time he closes in.
She reaches up, smooths his hair with gentle fingers. He leans into the touch, craving more. When had this need become so fierce? Her thumb trails over his brow, down the slope of his cheekbone. A gentle, silent communication. He sees the depth of her love there, written plain on her face.
She breaks the spell then, straightening to stand and smooth her dress. He follows her cue and collects their abandoned glasses. The ice long since melted and the remnants of liquor ringing the bottom. She follows him to the bar, hand brushing against his elbow. He pauses to face her.
She toys with his collar, lips curving. "You look like you just got lucky on this very couch."
"Yeah?" He leans closer. "Maybe I did."
Her answering laugh lights up her face, so familiar it takes his breath. She lays a hand over his chest and meets his gaze. "Harvey...thank you." Her tone turns earnest, almost pleading. "I know things are messy now, and the odds don't look great for me..."
"Stop," he says, hands rising to grasp her wrist. "You aren't going anywhere. I'm not letting that happen."
Pain flickers through her gaze and her face closes off. Harvey swallows the curse rising to his lips. His hands fall away from her skin, useless, powerless.
"You can't fix everything," she says quietly.
"I can sure as hell try."
He tries to channel the strength in his voice into his posture, spine stiff and shoulders back, a resolute mountain against the world. Donna smiles, the saddest smile he's ever seen, and cups his cheek. Her thumb brushes along the plane of his jaw.
"Don't." The word catches in his throat. "Don't look at me like that." The force of her gaze, heavy and solemn, threatens to swallow him whole. He feels it like a hand around his heart, squeezing, squeezing, until his lungs burn with it. "I'm not losing you. I don't know how to do this without you."
"Shhh. Harvey..."
Her eyes shine bright in the low light. Her face blurs before him, wavers. His chest aches and his eyes burn and she's still stroking his cheek, tenderness and sorrow all in one touch. He has to break away.
He turns from her, sucking in a steadying breath, fists clenched so tight they tremble. The clink of the glassware as she collects them gives him time to gather his composure, his willpower, his stubborn conviction. This isn't over yet, no matter the odds. No matter what she thinks.
He glances over to find Donna watching him, expression unreadable. When she speaks her tone is deceptively casual. "Jonathan and Samantha Wheeler are going upstate today. Meeting his old squadmate in the mountains."
Harvey cocks his head, confusion replacing his despair. "A witness?"
She nods. "Hopefully. Jonathan will call when the meet is done."
A surge of unease rolls through Harvey at the prospect. He doesn't like tying their fate and case to Jonathan's questionable conscience. "I'll go with them," he says, reluctant to leave her, but knowing he has to insert himself somehow. "You said Jonathan is a part of this. I might as well help convince this guy to testify."
Donna levels him with a pointed stare. "That's not why you want to go, and we both know it." She leans against his desk, arms folded across her chest.
Harvey frowns. "I don't trust Jonathan or his motives, and from what I've heard about Wheeler..." He trails off meaningfully, leaving implications unspoken.
Donna glares, protest rising quick before he forestalls it gently. "It's not open for debate, Donna. I'm going. You and Louis handle things here. And...keep your phone close, alright? Just in case."
A flicker of fear passes across her face. For an instant he thinks she might break, let him fold her into his arms and promise he'll fix everything. He could hold her and make it true. But her lips press into a thin line and her face closes off again, withdrawing into the cool, confident façade that is Donna.
He knows it is just a defense mechanism, a way of coping with fear, but it stings all the same. To see her cut off that intimate bond he thought had strengthened in these last days.
Her expression softens a touch. "Harvey…" He holds up a hand to halt her. He can't take it, the tenderness that hides behind those eyes, the possibility of a life shared that suddenly feels so far out of reach.
"I'll call," he promises, grabbing his jacket. "Keep me posted."
He pauses to glance back at the threshold, and their gazes catch once more. A sad smile touches her lips as she watches him. The early morning light bathes the side of her face, highlighting the auburn in her hair, the pink in her cheeks and the scattering of freckles he knows trail across her skin, down the hollow of her throat, between the swells of her breasts. It's the kind of image that burns into memory and never quite goes away, that haunts in dreams and is just there, at the edges of one's thoughts. The kind of image that fills Harvey with such yearning it steals the breath from his chest.
"Goodbye Harvey." The words are quiet and they linger between them. He can only stare. His eyes prickle hot as he finally wrenches away from the sight, Donna watching him go.
II
Harvey drums his fingers on the steering wheel as they pull up the long gravel drive. Towering pines press in on either side, dense foliage blocking any view of the ramshackle farmhouse tucked back in the hills.
"You're sure this is the place?" He glances at Jonathan in the passenger seat.
Jonathan peers through the windshield. "GPS says we've arrived."
Harvey pulls the SUV to a stop and cuts the engine. Silence envelops them but for cracking branches in the lazy breeze. He turns to Samantha in back. "Think he'll talk?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "Worth a shot."
They climb out into the cloying heat. Mountains walling them in on three sides, the sky a hazy blue between the boughs. The sunlight filtering down seems grayer, washed of warmth by the enclosing woods.
Harvey tugs at his collar, unwinding his tie a few notches to get some relief. The mountain air is oppressive. Sweat prickles at his temples, his shirt beginning to stick. "Not exactly the picturesque retreat I had imagined."
"He likes his privacy." Jonathan starts up the walk, stride measured. Despite the heat he remains immaculate in slacks and button-down, every stray hair in place and not a drop of sweat to be found. It annoys Harvey beyond reason. He rolls the cuffs of his dress shirt past his elbows and trudges after him.
They follow the flagstone path winding through overgrown vegetable plots gone to seed. Chickens scratch oblivious in the tall grass. Harvey scans the property, noticing details — the rusted farm equipment abandoned in a shed, laundry hanging on a line, a faded American flag waving listless in the still breeze.
Somewhere a dog barks, the sound echoing eerily through the trees. Harvey's stomach tightens instinctively.
As if reading his thoughts, Samantha asks, "So your buddy, he seem...stable these days?"
Jonathan's only reply is a noncommittal shrug. They round a group of elms and the farmhouse appears in view. It is exactly what Harvey expected — weather-worn, siding rotting in patches and porch steps crumbling with disrepair. A wilting rosebush sags beneath one of the front windows. The whole place seems to droop under the summer heat.
Jonathan halts at the end of the path, gaze trained beyond the house but not quite focused on anything Harvey can see. He shifts, subtly positioning his body in front of them. Samantha reaches back, fingers brushing Harvey's hand in warning. He follows her gaze, peering past Jonathan to find a man emerging from behind a nearby barn, shotgun propped casually on his shoulder.
"State your business!" he hollers, voice carrying across the expanse. His gait is stiff, uneven. Harvey can make out the outlines of a prosthetic leg beneath his khaki shorts.
Jonathan doesn't budge. He lifts both arms, palms open, then takes a careful step forward. "Ezra! It's me, Johnny. Stand down!"
The man called Ezra lowers his weapon slightly, squinting through the sun's glare. Recognition dawns slow. "Johnnyboy?" A toothy grin splits his weathered face. "Well I'll be damned!"
He strides over to sweep Jonathan into a crushing embrace, thumping his back vigorously. "You old bastard, thought you'd forgotten where you came from!"
Jonathan returns the hug briefly before extricating himself. "Been busy. You know how it is."
They exchange muted pleasantries as Harvey collects himself, dread pooling low in his gut. He risks a glance at Samantha — her calculating gaze hints she shares his sentiments.
Ezra sizes them up, eyes lingering on Harvey. "Well don't just stand there, come in, come in." He seizes Samantha's elbow, ushering them toward the house. Jonathan remains a step behind, unreadable as ever.
The front room provides a blast of welcome coolness after the sweltering yard. Dusty sunlight filters past ragged curtains, illuminating a space cluttered yet cozy with worn quilts and knickknacks. Harvey imagines a woman's touch has left its mark here once, the place somehow managing to feel lived in despite the neglect.
Samantha drifts to a bookshelf, running fingers lightly over spines. Ezra fades deeper into the house, grumbling to himself. Jonathan takes a seat on the battered couch, loosening a button at his collar in a subtle display of comfort Harvey finds jarring given their surroundings.
"Not exactly the Ritz, is it?" Harvey gestures vaguely, leaning against a wooden end table covered in an assortment of glass figurines.
Jonathan gives an almost-shrug. "He does alright."
Ezra reappears bearing a tray of glasses. "Apologies, gone lukewarm but it's the best I got. Come, sit, let's catch up!"
He passes around glasses of iced tea dosed heavily with bourbon, a hospitality meant to disarm yet Harvey's nerves remain on edge. Something lingers in Ezra's bright gaze, some feral instinct buried just below sociability. Harvey tastes danger in the air, though he may be alone in sensing it amid polite small talk.
Ezra jabs an arm towards Samantha and Harvey. "So you runnin' with city folk now, Johnny? Gone all respectable in your fancy suits." He cackles, the sound more than a little unhinged. Samantha smiles tight, fingers twitching on the glass in her hand. "Ain't you Mr. High and Mighty nowadays."
"Ezra." Jonathan's tone remains level but carries warning. The man sobers, scratching his scraggly beard.
"Right, right. Forgot my manners. Name's Ezra Wainwright. Me and Johnny go way back, ain't that right?" He nudges Jonathan good-naturedly, oblivious to the tension. "The Butcher they called him. And damn if he didn't live up to every gory detail."
Jonathan sips his drink stoically. Samantha brushes off the uncomfortable silence. "It's a pleasure, Mr. Wainwright. I'm Samantha Wheeler, Jonathan's attorney. This Harvey Specter, also an attorney."
Ezra appraises Harvey anew, eyes narrowed. "Lawyer, huh? Fancy. Bet you drink whisky instead of swill like this." He takes a long draught, grinning over the glass' rim.
Harvey opts for diplomacy. "I appreciate the hospitality. Jonathan speaks highly of your service together. That's why we're here actually. We were hoping you might provide testimony to his character, help clear some things up from back then."
Ezra's grin wavers, smile stretching taut. "What kinda things?"
"He was ordered to take point on an op that went south," Samantha supplies gently. "Ended up with Jonathan being court martialed, given a dishonorable discharge."
Jonathan adds, even-toned, "I was following orders. The official brief changed after the fact to cover incompetence up the chain."
Ezra studies his glass, as if answers might materialize in bourbon-tainted tea. "I remember that raid," he says at last. His smile resembles a snarl. "Buncha shit-for-brains brass thought they knew better than the grunts on the ground. Sent us straight into an ambush cause their intel was weeks stale but God forbid they admit a mistake, right?"
He swigs deeply, refilling once drained. Bourbon sloshes freely now, stains blooming on frayed denim. "I told the panel, told 'em Johnny was a hero that day. Saved half our squad singlehanded pulling them out that kill zone, me included. But no one cared what us enlisted rats had to say."
Jonathan remains impassive but gratitude shines behind austere eyes. The brothers-in-arms bond lingers yet between them, a tether to simpler times before unraveling lives led down divergent paths. Ezra's rambling continues, growing louder, less guarded.
"I'll tell you the real butcher - that sorry sack of shit brass calling the shots. Got men killed for his own pride, ruined good soldiers like you." He jabs a shaking finger at Jonathan. "Least you had the balls to admit when you fucked up. Not like..."
A shadow passes Ezra's face, there and gone. He takes another long pull, gaze drifting unfocused toward the curling wallpaper. "Don't much matter now I suppose. Past is past."
"Ezra." Jonathan's low voice cuts through the tension, snapping the man to attention. They exchange a long look before Jonathan breaks the silence. "We have a lot of catching up to do, old friend. But I need your help now. To set the record straight."
Ezra shakes his head. "Ain't no way in hell I'm playin' their game, Johnny. You of all people should know. They ain't interested in justice or truth."
"Please." Jonathan's soft plea surprises them all. "For Rodriguez and Jenkins and everyone who died that day. Their families deserve justice. Help me make this right."
Something wrenches painfully in Harvey's chest at the affection in Jonathan's tone. He can almost forget the man he knows - the monster that lurks just below that unassuming exterior, capable of cruelty without conscience or remorse. The man capable of betraying Donna.
"Dammit, Johnny." Ezra grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he drops them, misery lingers there. "You know I'd do anything for you. But I can't, I just..."
Samantha leans forward intently. "Mr. Wainwright. We only need your account of the mission Jonathan led. Confirmation it was authorized contrary to his discharge papers. Nothing more."
Ezra hesitates, glancing between them all. Jonathan grasps his shoulder. "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important, brother."
A defeated sigh. "Alright," Ezra says quietly. "What do I got to do?"
III
The alley smells of urine and diesel fumes, puddles glimmering oily under rusting fire escapes. Donna maneuvers her way carefully between mounds of trash—sodden newspapers and soda cans, broken bits of furniture—a jagged corner snagging on her dress as she passes. Behind her, Rachel follows with less grace. Her yelp echoes as she stumbles, swearing under her breath.
"Careful, darling," Donna's mother warns. "Don't want to get your pretty clothes all dirty, now, do we?"
Donna ignores them, a little annoyed at their insistence to tag along. Her plan hadn't involved the pair, yet she couldn't turn them away after running into them on her way out of the firm - Rachel looking so hopeful, her mother stubbornly insistent.
She glances over her shoulder. "Not far now," she reassures Rachel, whose eyes widen when she catches a whiff of her soiled heel.
Donna walks on until she stops at the back door to a shuttered shop. It is as nondescript as one can get — unadorned with only the store hours painted on the inside of the glass. She pulls at the handle. The door creaks open to darkness, a steep set of stairs leading down into shadow.
"In there?" Rachel says, alarmed. "Isn't this how horror movies start?"
Donna smiles at her friend's concern. "It's okay. The owner owes me a favor."
She descends slowly into the dark, palms running along the walls until she comes upon another door at the bottom. There are muffled sounds behind it, but Donna can't quite tell if it's people talking or some sort of music. She knocks. A voice yells "one minute", but before the man behind the door can ask for her code words, she calls out, "It's Donna."
Silence falls. Then a chair scrapes and footsteps approach.
The door opens and light floods her face, temporarily blinding her. When the spots disappear, she can see the owner of the place standing before her, cigarette hanging from his thin lips, his narrow shoulders clad in a bright, satiny Hawaiian shirt. His expression, however, is far from warm.
"Donna," he greets her through a cloud of smoke, eyes narrowing. "Been a while."
"Felix," she smiles. "Thanks for opening the door."
Felix glances behind her shoulder at her entourage and huffs, cigarette bobbing dangerously close to his stubble-laden chin. "Figured Jonathan was with you and didn't feel like getting stabbed again," he grumbles, but stands aside to let her pass.
"Stabbed?" Rachel whispers behind her as they're led down a dim hallway.
"I would hardly call it stabbing," Donna says. "A little prick to the leg, maybe."
"Prick to the leg," Felix says with a bitter laugh. "Funny." He looks over his shoulder. "Who are your friends?"
Donna hesitates, glancing at the two women who, until now, had remained uncharacteristically quiet. Her mother has yet to utter a single snide remark and Rachel keeps glancing around her, alarm still written on her features. Donna can see Felix tensing.
"They're friends," Donna assures him.
A cluttered workshop opens up ahead — computers lined against the wall, server towers stacked in the corner, monitors and other devices on the floor.
"Felix is an...acquaintance of sorts from my Duke-Sanger days," Donna says quietly. "Specializes in data acquisition."
"A hacker." Her mother's lips quirk with amusement.
"Mother." Donna rolls her eyes. "Don't insult the man."
They file into the room and watch as Felix, after some effort, locates a chair in the midst of the mess and drags it forward for her. Donna settles in. Rachel lingers nearby, the concern in her eyes evident as she studies the screens, though Donna knows that she's too polite to voice it.
Her mother, on the other hand, makes no attempt to mask her disgust. Her lip curls as she glances about, nose wrinkled, before settling for leaning against a cabinet that looks a lot cleaner than its counterparts. "Quite a dump, you've got here, Felix," she comments.
Felix ignores her, turns to Donna. "What do you need? Last I heard you'd gone legit and softened, took up with some fancy city lawyer."
Donna tries for a smile. "Yeah, well, you know what they say. Old dogs and new tricks." She pulls an envelope out of her purse. "I need a data breach and I need it clean. Can you unwind the encryption on a military discharge file and accompanying case records?"
His brow arches high. "Military files? I'd ask if you've lost your marbles woman but I doubt you had any to start." He chuckles as he accepts the envelope. "When do you need it by?"
"Midnight."
Felix lets out a sputtering cough that has his cigarette tumbling to the floor. He bends down and snatches it up. "Donna," he wheezes. "I don't even know if I can hack that fast. You gotta give me something, here."
"You owe me, Felix."
"Not to that degree I don't. The shit you're talking, it's insane. Best case scenario we're lookin at three days to crack a military grade firewall."
Donna stares him down. "You have until midnight."
Felix's gaze flickers to the two women beside her. Donna turns her head slowly, staring each woman in the eye, watching the determination and defiance build within. When she looks back, Felix's gaze is now a shade warmer, something that might resemble admiration shining in their depths.
He gives her a curt nod. "Alright. Midnight. I'll get what you want." He points a bony finger at her. "But it won't be pretty. This shit's gonna hurt. You feel me?"
She does feel him, but there's nothing to it now. This is the only path left to them and she can't risk backing down.
"One more thing."
Felix heaves a weary sigh. "Jesus, Donna, don't say anything else, I swear to God..."
"Joseph Cox." She sees a glimmer of recognition in his eyes and leans forward. "Get me everything you can on him. Bank records, offshore holdings, shell corporations, anything and everything you can find. I don't care what you have to hack into or who you piss off in the process."
Felix is silent, staring at her with unreadable eyes, then shakes his head, snuffing the cigarette out on the chair and tucking it behind his ear.
"Midnight," he says. "Then we're square and never want to see your pretty face again. Or yours." He throws Donna's mother a curt nod and points his bony finger at Rachel, too, making her squeak in alarm. "But you can come back anytime, doll."
IV
The drive back from Ezra's farmhouse passes in contemplative silence. Harvey guides the SUV down the winding mountain roads, eyes staring straight ahead. To his right, Jonathan gazes out the passenger window, lost to thoughts Harvey can only guess at. In the backseat, Samantha clicks away on her laptop, probably typing up questions for Ezra's deposition in the coming days.
"Well, that was enlightening." Harvey casts a sidelong glance at Jonathan, attempting conversation. "He's a bit eccentric but...likable. I think a jury will be sympathetic."
Samantha snorts derisively without looking up. Jonathan only offers a vague hum of assent, continuing to gaze through the window. His impassive mask remains firmly in place but Harvey senses turmoil beneath — old wounds reopened by their visit, regrets and ghosts rising from the past to haunt. He thinks of Donna, her pain so similar to this unknowable man. A familiar pang rises inside him, that helpless, sinking feeling of wanting to help those he can't.
He checks the mirrors, seeking Jonathan's eyes. "He'll testify, at least. That's something."
"Maybe." Jonathan's tone hints at doubt. "Ezra runs hot and cold. Always has."
Samantha sighs, closing the lid of her laptop. "That whole place reeked of instability. I'm not convinced he won't flake when it counts."
Harvey tightens his hands on the wheel. "Thanks for the vote for confidence."
She shoots him a glare through the rearview. "Like you actually care. I said from the beginning you shouldn't have come. You aren't a part of our defense."
"Donna's case is tied to Jonathan's. If his defense crumbles, she goes down with him. That makes me a goddamn part of it."
"Oh please." Samantha leans forward, head popping between the two front seats. "You care because you can't bear to be parted from your precious secretary. Everyone knows about you two."
"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" He slams the breaks a bit too hard as they come around a curve, glaring over at Samantha.
"Enough," Jonathan commands quietly. "This is my case. I decide how it's handled. Harvey will remain on the defense team and that's the end of it."
Samantha sits back, muttering about misplaced priorities. Harvey remains silent. The implications of Jonathan's approval— and loyalty, grudging as it may be— baffles him. He'd assumed Jonathan would resent his involvement. Harvey should probably be grateful, yet something about it eats at him, unsettling in ways he can't quite explain.
His thoughts circle back to that morning in the penthouse, Jonathan's hand on Donna's waist, his touch and words and the tenderness with which he had looked at her. It had stirred something visceral and unrecognizable in Harvey. He thought it was jealousy, but the emotion he feels now seems sharper, more like dread.
He has no claim on Donna, and yet he has always thought of her as his. Even in those moments when she'd given her body to others— Mark, Stephen, and god knows who else — she had still remained his in the deepest sense. A friend, a confidante, someone to rely on no matter what. Their bond has always been a certainty, the only constant he knows. The possibility she may feel something similar for another man disturbs him. But he will not lose her. Not to Jonathan. Not to the law.
Harvey's phone chimes then, dispelling the charged quiet. He recognizes the number — Gibbs, no doubt with an update on Donna's indictment. But a plan is unfolding in his mind now, taking shape with swift, ruthless logic. He knows what he has to do.
The call goes to voicemail. Harvey swallows thickly, throat suddenly dry, and downs half a warm bottle of water from the console.
Another twenty miles pass before Jonathan speaks, low under the engine's rumble. "Troubled, Specter?"
Harvey glances over, taken aback by the question's sincerity. He considers how to reply — lies or evasions, deflecting as always. But something in the other man's gaze gives him pause. His thoughts flicker to Donna. The woman she is now, and the one she once was. All she has lost in her life and what remains still to be taken away.
"Just hoping Ezra's testimony is enough," he hedges. It isn't a total lie, yet it leaves a filthy residue coating his tongue.
"It won't be." The reply is flat, resigned. "The prosecution will likely break him or find a way to discredit him." He studies Harvey unflinchingly, searching. "You know that. Just like I know you're not here to help my defense."
Harvey's grip threatens to warp the wheel, knuckles bloodless. How ironic, that the monster should see straight through him in an instant while Donna remains ignorant of his betrayal. He reminds himself it's for her. To save her at any cost.
"There are lines I won't cross," Harvey says, hoping to end this torment. But Jonathan seems unconvinced.
"We all have our limits, Harvey. And then we have love." His gaze flicks to the rearview where Samantha pores over files, oblivious to their hushed conversation. "It moves us in ways we can't anticipate."
The insight, or threat, sends a chill down Harvey's spine. He stares straight ahead, jaw clenching, determined not to speak further on this subject. To him, there is no distinction between his love and his limits. Not where Donna's concerned.
Thankfully the city skyline emerges ahead, saving him from further dissection. He breathes deep the familiar polluted air, finding comfort in grime and noise and chaos after the endless stretch of silent mountain road.
They ride in tense silence through midtown, skyscrapers rising like giant spears in every direction. Manhattan. Home, though it seems to lose a little more of its warmth every day. The traffic thickens as they approach Rand, Kaldor & Zane.
Harvey pulls to a stop in front of the towering building. Samantha climbs out, gathering her files into an unorganized mess, while Jonathan lingers in the passenger seat.
Harvey readies himself for the conversation, meeting Jonathan's level gaze head on. "I'm going to make a deal." The admission costs him, the words gritty and heavy, but he holds the other man's stare unflinching. "For Donna."
Jonathan shows no surprise. Doesn't even ask him to elaborate. His nod comes minimal, nearly imperceptible save for the barest dip of his angular jaw. Harvey wonders if this is Jonathan's form of a blessing. If he cares for her enough to allow this. Or if, perhaps, the man only accepts what he considers inevitable.
Then the moment is past. Jonathan is climbing from the car without another word, leaving Harvey alone with the consequences of his actions. He pulls away from the curb, fishing his phone from the console. Time to end this charade, one way or another. He taps out a quick message to Mike then dials out. It rings once, twice...
"Joseph Cox." The Attorney General's deep, steady voice sounds in his ear.
Harvey releases a pent breath and forces himself to relax, slipping into the role like a familiar jacket.
"We need to meet. I have an offer for you regarding Jonathan Martell."
V
Jonathan sits at the old faded brown Steinway, fingers flying across ivory keys. A melancholy jazz piece carries through the penthouse, melding with the rustling breeze through the open terrace, notes rising and falling with furious precision.
He loses himself in the rhythmic cascade of minor chords. Reality fades until nothing exists but syncopated beats counting down to an ending always out of reach. On he pushes, driving his fingers to move faster, to wring the last drop of beauty and despair from every note, his life laid out across black and white keys, all his sins and triumphs distilled in melody.
The tempo spirals recklessly as he chases that edge of oblivion. His heart pounds double-time, sweat beading at his temple despite the night's chill. Still he pushes harder, daring his hands to fail him.
Only when the furious pace brings him to the brink of error does he relent. The frenzied finale downshifts seamlessly into a melancholy coda. His fingers stroke gentle coaxing chords from the worn keys as he guides the melody toward resolution.
When the final echo fades into silence, he remains motionless, hands braced atop the keys. He takes a slow breath, the stillness sudden and deafening in the wake of chaos.
Soft steps approach from behind. The rustle of fabric precedes her warm weight settling beside him on the bench. He doesn't need to turn to know it's Donna. Would recognize her nearness blindfolded, guided only by memory and instinct.
Neither speaks as she takes in the faded grandeur of the instrument before them. Her fingers trail lightly over the chipped veneer. She seems lost to her thoughts as she traces each crack and faded stain, every imperfection.
"I forgot how beautiful it sounds," she says at last.
Jonathan's hands slip from the keys into his lap, empty. "It missed you."
Her answering laugh is brittle. "Is that right?" Her fingers pause at the lower register. A note pings discordant as she strikes one. It vibrates mournful in the empty penthouse, lingering even as it fades. "I'm sure it found comfort in more capable hands."
Jonathan turns, studying her. The furrow of her brows, the sadness behind those lovely eyes, the subtle tilt to her lips as she resolutely does not look at him. She radiates pain and he feels it echo inside himself.
"Play something for me?" he asks softly.
She stiffens. "I can't."
Jonathan moves then, trapping her with his hands on the keys, bracketing her on both sides. Her breath catches at the proximity. He lowers his voice, gaze focused solely on her.
"Play for me." It is both a question and a command, delivered with enough force that she trembles slightly in his grasp.
"Fine," she concedes at last, a mere breath of air. He moves back to allow her access to the keys and watches, enthralled, as she lays her fingers against the ivory and begins to play.
The opening measures come stilted and slow. Her fingers search out each note, clumsy and unsure. He resists the urge to cover her hands with his own and guide them.
Gradually her rhythm steadies. The simple melody takes shape beneath her touch. He remembers late nights seated beside her on this bench, her frustration boiling over as she struggled to master morceaux de fantaisie. How she would fling music sheets aside and storm out, only to return the next day more resolute.
Now her lips purse in concentration, coaxing a hesitant song from silent keys. The furrow between her brows and set of her jaw stir something bittersweet inside him. She plays with the conviction of a soldier on thinning ground. Back straightened against encroaching ruin, refusing to bend.
When the final notes fade, she releases a shaky breath. Her hands slip into her lap, posture deflating.
"Well?" Her voice wavers slightly, but her chin juts defiant. "Did I pass your little test? Or should we try for the New York Philharmonic?"
Jonathan remains silent. Her shoulders hitch, brittle bravado faltering in his absence of response. "I can't play the way I used to," she says. Her admission weighs heavy in the space between them, tainted with regret and recrimination.
She's waiting for him to call her out, to point out the weakness. He has always known her tells — her pride, the guilt, how her walls rise when she feels vulnerable. She expects him to demand more, as he always has. To push her harder.
Jonathan studies the woman seated next to him, at the scars of pain and loss written on her skin. He remembers the girl she once was and the promise he made all those years ago. To help her find her place in this world and to be whatever she needed him to be.
"It was perfect."
She snorts softly at the blatant lie. But her features relax slightly. "So how did things go with Ez?"
"About as well as could be expected," he answers, reluctant to say more. The memory of his friend's grief-ravaged face fills his mind, and his tone must change because she's peering at him now, concern in her eyes.
"He'll come through for you, Johnny."
"That's not what I'm worried about." He pushes to his feet, suddenly restless. His steps carry him away from the piano to the sprawling window overlooking the city. Beyond the skyline he sees that day again in vivid detail— the plumes of smoke rising, the distant cries of wounded soldiers, Ezra's wide-eyed gaze pleading. He blinks and it all vanishes, replaced with the city he knows, the world that awaits. The past can never be changed, only lived with. He has to accept the choices made and the people who will inevitably pay for his actions.
"What are you worried about then?" Donna's question pulls him back. He finds her standing, watching him.
"The prosecution. What they'll do to him if he takes the stand. He's not...stable." He says the last with quiet regret. "It could go poorly if they twist his words. He might break down and reveal...other things."
"What does Laura think of it all?"
"Not sure," he admits. "She left him some time back, it seems. He wasn't too clear about things. Just know she's gone, along with most of his friends. All he's got left are his chickens and that piece-of-shit farm. I should've..." he trails off, unsure how to finish that sentence.
Donna approaches slowly, stopping behind him, almost but not quite touching. "You can't blame yourself. Ezra chose to enlist. You didn't put him on that mission or put that gun in his hand."
He rounds on her. "Didn't I? I was his CO, his leader. It's on me if he suffers for it now."
Her face softens in sympathy. "It's not your fault he lost his leg or Laura left him. He was a marine. He knew what he was signing up for. Just like Laura knew what she was signing up for by marrying a military man. You can't fix them or keep them safe just like..."
"Just like I couldn't do that for you."
Their eyes meet at the raw admission, both knowing his words are true. He can see the struggle in her gaze, the emotions warring for dominance, guilt and sadness, affection and resentment, anger and forgiveness. The tangled web of a life spent together and apart, memories of friendship and violence.
He opens his mouth, perhaps to explain or justify the things he's done. But Donna stops him. Her finger presses lightly against his lips, halting whatever apology or plea for forgiveness might emerge. He stands immobile, drinking in her nearness, her scent. She looks into him with those lovely, depthless eyes. He's falling into her as she lowers her finger to stroke his chin and jaw. He's drowning.
"I'm not blameless either, you know," she whispers, barely audible over the roar in his ears. Her fingertips continue their explorations, feather-light down his neck, the side of his throat. "This is my fault. I should have never asked you to take that plea deal. Put you through...all of this. I was selfish, blinded by my grief for Alice."
Jonathan holds still as a statue beneath her soft caresses, not wanting to spook her from this moment, the closest they've been to the truth of things between them. His hands remain clenched at his sides, aching to touch. He knows now she wants comfort, to ease her conscience. It's why she's here. Why she's been seeking him out when her nightmares grow too fierce, her guilt too crushing. The price of loving her has been the loss of everything that defined him, and yet he's powerless to deny her what she needs.
She's touching his collarbone now, following it to the hollow of his throat. His breath comes ragged beneath her fingertip. His mind races through possibilities of what she might do next.
Her palm rests flat on his chest. "I should've made space for you, protected you. But I never have, have I?" Her gaze focuses on that spot where her fingers rest. She presses against him lightly, testing, perhaps surprised to find his heart hammering in his chest. He has to swallow hard, force his lungs to expand and contract before he can find his voice again.
"That's never been your role with me," he manages to say. The words are gravel in his throat, so heavy and inadequate. She is the only person who can tear him down to his weakest state and still have the power to remake him in whatever way she wills.
She lifts her gaze to his face then. Her lips are slightly parted, brows drawn. A shadow of hurt lingers there. She searches for something in his gaze, perhaps understanding of all he's sacrificed for her. Perhaps an admission he still loves her in ways she's never understood.
Whatever she's seeking, she won't find it. The only truths Jonathan can offer now are his faults, the many ways he's failed her and always will. If he speaks, he will reveal every broken piece of himself she's already rejected once.
Jonathan turns from her and heads for the bar. He has just enough sense to keep from breaking into a run, forcing his strides slow and even, measured as always. He hears her sigh behind him, but doesn't turn, doesn't look, keeps walking.
The bottle of bourbon is already uncapped. He fills his tumbler with two fingers, tosses it back, savoring the burn, then fills a second. He turns around at last and finds she hasn't moved, rooted to that spot beside the piano.
Her brows draw in concern. "Are you okay? Did I do something?"
The bourbon leaves his throat raw, every word scraped and burning as he replies, "You know exactly what you're doing, Donna."
The accusation is like a slap. She stiffens, spine straightening in wounded pride.
"Well," she says coolly. "I didn't expect to find you playing a damn funeral dirge when I arrived. Forgive me if I'm worried about your state of mind."
Jonathan swallows the bourbon. The warmth of it radiating outward, seeping into every tense muscle. He lowers the glass to the counter with a sharp clink.
"Don't," he warns, low. "Don't play innocent. It doesn't suit you. And I've had enough games."
She moves then, striding to him, unflinching at his darkening mood. "What are you accusing me of, Johnny?"
He stalks to meet her halfway, coming to a stop inches from where she stands. She doesn't balk, holding his gaze steadily. She is not the same girl he knew so many years ago. She has hardened since their youth, sharpened by his cruelty into something both fragile and vicious. His Donna would have shied away, uncertain in her power over him. But this one has already mastered that. And him.
They stand, gazes locked, each daring the other to flinch, to bend. The seconds stretch and Jonathan wonders, not for the first time, who will win in this war between them.
She speaks at last. "This isn't a game, Jonathan. I came here because I care about you. But clearly I'm a burden you don't want anymore. Or that you ever wanted, really." Her eyes glisten slightly at that. It tears something open in his chest, painful and sharp.
Jonathan feels the urge to tell her how wrong she is. That he's never not wanted her, in every possible way. He would've followed her into death itself without a thought had she asked him. The admission is on the tip of his tongue, aching to be spoken. He clamps down on the words. Lets the truth go unsaid and the wound fester deeper instead.
"I don't need you," he tells her coldly. "Or your guilt or your sympathy or whatever the hell else you're here to offer."
Donna stares at him for a long beat. The silence is so absolute Jonathan can hear the faint whistle of wind through the terrace's glass doors.
"Jonathan..."
"Get out." His voice cracks with emotion, betraying the plea beneath the command. His hands ball into fists at his side.
She's shaking her head, taking another step towards him. "I just want to help."
"Get out." He closes the gap, moving swift, herding her towards the elevator, towards the escape she won't take unless forced. "There's nothing you can give me that I want."
A flash of pain crosses her features. Her back hits the elevator wall with a thud, stopping her retreat. She leans away, trying to escape his looming presence. He moves in closer, pressing his forearm against the wall beside her head, trapping her in place. Her breath comes short and shallow. He watches, mesmerized as her chest heaves. His gaze drags over her breasts to the dip of her waist and back up again. Her eyes darken. The tension between them thickens. Jonathan leans in. He could taste her now if he wanted. Lips parted, he draws nearer still, breathing in her air. Her hand rises between them, not quite touching him.
"Jonathan." His name emerges in a whisper, barely more than breath. "I need..."
She doesn't finish the thought. But he sees the plea in her eyes. The same craving for oblivion that lives inside him too, sharpened by sleepless nights and their ceaseless, circling thoughts.
He shouldn't. It goes against every principle he still clings to. But she is his weakness, his ruin. He has never been able to deny her anything.
He lowers his head as she tilts her chin up, lips meeting halfway. He tastes salt as he slides his tongue inside. It should be tender. He's thought about this moment countless times in his weakest moments. A kiss meant to soothe and reassure. But it's anything but tender, more an extension of the pain already living inside him, in both of them. A clash of lips and teeth, hard and bruising, devouring. It's Donna who presses in for more, who draws his bottom lip between her teeth. Her fingers slide up his neck to grip his hair, pulling tight. He hisses and shoves her back.
There's a dull thump as she collides with the elevator wall. She grunts at the impact but he doesn't relent, hands lifting her thighs to wrap around his waist. Her dress slides up, bunching around her hips. She pulls him closer with her legs, body grinding down against the hard length of him. A broken groan tears from his chest.
This is insanity. He knows he should stop, sever this recklessness before they rupture something irreparable. But need consumes him, sharp and urgent. Suppressed desire surges to the surface, burning away reason. He kisses her fiercely, reclaiming what once was his. Donna matches him, demanding and unyielding. Urging his tongue deeper, pressing harder against his length, tightening her grip on his hair.
He bites out her name in warning as her fingers reach his belt. But it comes out wrecked, almost a plea. He swears and drops his head against her shoulder, fist braced against the fogged metal doors. He shudders, torn between agony and ecstasy. How can he find the will to stop her when he'd yearned so long for her hands on him again? But even in madness, he can't unsee her wrapped around Harvey days ago. A man that is becoming like a brother in arms, even if he is an arrogant prick that's out betraying him at this very moment.
With a ragged sound, he stills her hand. Pulls back to find her flushed, hair tousled. Eyes heavy-lidded with lust and lingering anguish.
Confusion creases her brow, chasing back the recklessness. He sees the moment realization pierces through the haze. Her eyes squeeze shut, body going rigid with shame. Gently he lowers her feet back to the floor and steps away, raw and aching.
Silence swells like a living thing between them. He braces one arm above his head against the wall, struggling for composure. God, he was a fool to imagine he could be anything but consumed by her. That time and distance had lessened the potency of this thing between them.
He hears her shaky inhale behind him, fraught with guilt. "Johnny, I..."
"Don't." He cuts her off sharply. Any platitudes now would shred them both. With a deep breath, he straightens and turns to face her. She looks shattered, eyes liquid and pleading. He forces calm into his voice.
"Come here."
Hesitantly she moves into the circle of his arms. He wraps her close, chin atop her head as she trembles against him. So small like this, stripped of her armor. He strokes her hair, murmuring wordless comfort as she releases muffled sobs into his chest. His own eyes burn fiercely.
Gradually her tears slow, tension bleeding out. He cradles the back of her head in one broad palm. She turns her face into his throat, lips grazing his skin.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "For everything."
His arms tighten around her reflexively. "So am I."
Silence envelops them again, less charged this time. They hold each other in the darkness, suspended outside of time. Here there is only the past enveloping them, filled with all they had been and lost.
Eventually she draws back. The air seems to crackle as they study each other, their own identities reasserted, the mask firmly back in place. It was never the real them in the first place. Donna has never known him or truly accepted all he is, and he has never been able to let her see the weak, broken parts that live inside himself. They aren't made for a life together. Their bond exists somewhere else entirely, beyond love or logic or the labels people put on such things.
The thought comes like a reprieve. He feels light in ways he can't remember in a long, long time. She meets his eyes, gaze clear, lips hinting at a small, tentative smile. Perhaps she feels it too, the shift in the universe. An end and beginning.
He moves then, stepping to her and cupping her face lightly, thumb caressing her cheek. He lowers his forehead to hers, eyes fluttering closed, and breathes. They stay like that for a moment, her breath mingling with his, lips almost brushing but not quite. The moment holds, stretching toward eternity, a perfect, suspended moment of peace. Then slowly he drops his hand.
She nods once, in understanding or gratitude or acknowledgement he doesn't know. She straightens her clothes, tucks back a lock of hair, and meets his eyes one final time. The Donna Paulsen of old looks at him with unshakeable certainty. The woman he's always known and yet not. A woman whose life stretches before her, filled with infinite possibilities. He feels an odd mixture of pride and sorrow. He wishes he could've been more to her, a man worthy of her heart, her loyalty, her love. But he can't give her any of those things, and he is grateful, in that moment, to Harvey for the chance to see her freed from this mess, able to live her life as she pleases without the taint of the past.
He reaches out a hand and calls the elevator. She slips inside the cab without a word. Jonathan presses the button and meets her gaze. Her eyes hold steady with his. Then the doors slide closed, and she is gone.
VI
Harvey shifts uneasily in his seat, eyeing the surrounding room. The Attorney General had agreed to his terms and stipulated a location, neutral and far from prying eyes. A ritzy cocktail lounge tucked away on the outskirts of D.C. Harvey can see the appeal — darkly elegant, sleek decor, plush seating, discreet.
His gaze wanders, noting the well-dressed crowd, wealthy and distinguished. Maybe he's out of his depth. Harvey Specter might be able to charm a high-powered investor into selling, or negotiate an air-tight non-compete agreement. But this is politics, a place that exists far outside his usual territory. It leaves him feeling strangely on edge, out of control, as though his life hangs suspended by a delicate thread he can't quite see.
A server arrives and Harvey orders a scotch on the rocks. The familiar burn settles him a little as he sips.
"Mr. Cox is on his way up now, sir." The hostess's heels click smartly away and Harvey finishes off his drink, setting it down on the marble bar with a thump.
Joseph Cox arrives shortly after, his stride brisk and commanding, all business. He casts a cursory glance around before zeroing in on Harvey at the bar and heading over. They exchange the necessary greetings. Harvey offers to buy him a drink, but Joseph declines. He's the embodiment of decorum in his charcoal suit, silver tie tucked neatly against his chest. He emanates authority in a way that's unsettling. Harvey is used to powerful men but this is a new kind of power — unearned, political. He imagines such a man sees people as nothing more than chess pieces in a game, easily moved, discarded, or sacrificed for gain.
"Mr. Specter." Joseph clasps his hands. "Let's not waste each other's time. I presume you have a proposition?"
"Martell has a witness. An old squad mate, willing to corroborate Jonathan's account of their botched mission under duress, pushing the coercion narrative." Harvey has no proof Ezra will go through with testifying, but he will see this deal made, whatever the cost. "I can give you the man's name, contact info."
Joseph watches him impassively, saying nothing.
"In exchange you drop Donna Paulsen's indictment. No trial. No jail time."
Joseph smiles, tight and patronizing. "I've seen Ms. Paulsen's indictment. If the facts presented there are true, there is nothing I can do."
"Bullshit." Harvey fights to keep his tone level, leaning forward to catch the AG's eyes. "I'm giving you the name to a witness who could discredit your entire prosecution. You could make him change his mind before this ever sees a courtroom."
Joseph doesn't waver. "The case is air tight, Mr. Specter." He holds Harvey's gaze unflinching, tone steady, confident. "There is no way to overturn an indictment like this. She's guilty as charged."
"Come on." Harvey narrows his eyes. "We both know your case against Martell is weak. That's why you're pursuing Donna."
"That may be." Joseph spreads his hands, smile cool. "But this indictment was not my doing. I have to take it seriously. My hands are tied."
Harvey feels his temper rising but stifles it, breathing through his nose. He reminds himself that he knew this outcome would likely come to pass. Yet still his desperation remains, sharp and painful.
"You're not going to stop her arrest," he says quietly. It isn't a question.
"I can't stop it." Joseph studies his fingers, long and perfectly manicured. "I am simply following the law as it is written."
"You can at least see she's granted bail." The plea grates, yet Harvey cannot find the strength to care. Not when so much rides on this negotiation.
"Not if I want to keep this office." Joseph gives an elegant shrug, as though this matter means nothing to him. "But even so...what incentive would I have to do that? A few hours behind bars and Ms. Paulsen will likely turn on Jonathan to save herself."
Harvey swallows, hating how wrong he is. "You underestimate her."
Joseph lifts one brow, gaze inscrutable. "Perhaps you overestimate her loyalty."
He holds Harvey's eyes as he takes a delicate sip of water. His silence feels pointed somehow. As if he knows something Harvey doesn't. The hairs on Harvey's neck prickle, an instinctual response he can't place.
Joseph rises. "Well, Mr. Specter. If that is all, I will take my leave." His tone is final.
Harvey sits back, defeated. The thought of Donna being behind bars is almost too much to bear. It had never been more than an abstract possibility, a theoretical worst-case scenario that haunted at night. The reality of it looms now like an impending tsunami, too powerful, too vast for comprehension, for stopping. His insides turn to liquid and his heart thrashes against his rib cage. The world seems to dim and flicker, threatening to pitch him forward into nothing. He blinks against it, a ringing starting up in his ears, louder, louder.
Then the realization hits.
He meets the AG's eyes, feeling the jolt of clarity. It's there, in his face, his voice, that air of certainty and self-satisfaction. Something so small yet so incriminating, a clue to what is really happening here. Joseph's claim of helplessness, his unwillingness to compromise — all too neatly fitting an outline in Harvey's mind. It feels like a victory of sorts. The Attorney General's confidence reveals his complicity in the prosecution. Which means he knows full well this is all bullshit. That Jonathan and Donna were coerced to sign those authorizations. That he can save her at any moment. And he will not.
Joseph must see it in his eyes — Harvey's knowledge of this, and his resolve. He doesn't waver. "Goodnight, Mr. Specter." He straightens his jacket. "It's a long drive back to New York. A shame, really, that you'll be missing Ms. Paulsen's arrest. Though I'm sure the investigators will be pleased to pick at her without representation present."
Something cold settles low in Harvey's stomach as he watches Joseph turn, that smirk lingering, the bastard's voice drifting back with his parting words. "See you in court."
VII
Donna walks fast, weaving past slow-moving pedestrians on the busy sidewalk, phone pressed to her ear. The chatter and clatter of Chelsea rushes past in a dull drone.
"...don't have any new updates," Mike says on the line, "Last I heard, Harvey was heading to D.C. to make a deal with the AG."
Her stomach churns at the mention of him. She can't bring herself to ask what the deal involved or how it fared, or whether Ezra has confirmed testifying in Jonathan's favor. It all seems too convoluted for her tired, anxious mind. Her thoughts have been in constant, tumultuous motion, tumbling over one another endlessly as the day stretches toward night. The world around her seems too loud, too bright, overwhelming, though it is nearly 9pm, a worknight, the city winding down into quiet slumber.
She waits for the traffic lights to change before darting across the street, heels clicking on wet asphalt. A gust of wind tosses her hair into her face. The damp air presses cold, insistent, raising goosebumps along her arms. She clutches her coat tighter, huddling beneath an awning, gaze wandering skyward as she listens to Mike's report on his end.
"Donna?" He pauses. "You still there?"
She lets out a long breath, watching her fogging exhalation drift past neon storefronts. "I'm here, sorry. What did you say?"
Mike hesitates. "Just that it's...not good."
Donna bites her lip. Of course it's not. It had never been good. From the beginning, her future has been nothing but a downward spiral, slipping into obscurity and then, eventually, the black abyss of prison. She wishes she could care, yet her emotions remain distant and numb, the way she imagines an amputated limb must feel. Like nothing can touch her, because she is already ruined.
Mike says something but his voice fades in and out. She tells him goodbye, hanging up, and ducks inside a cafe to order a hot tea. She can't bear going home yet, knowing her solitude will leave her alone with her thoughts and a bottomless bottle of wine. So she settles in at a corner table, watching rain splatter the pavement through a fogged window. She wonders where Harvey is right now, why he hasn't called, what he is thinking, planning. If he's still trying to find a way to save her. If she is even worth saving at all.
Her tea sits cooling and forgotten. A familiar feeling, her mind turning inward, growing darker. She imagines how easy it would be, to end it all now. No more pain, no more loss, no more shame or grief. Only quiet nothingness and her memories drifting away, a bittersweet, welcoming peace.
The thought stays with her on her walk back to her apartment. The streets grow quieter and the rain turns heavier as she crosses from Chelsea into Midtown, passing apartment buildings and liquor stores. Her phone remains stubbornly silent in her coat pocket.
She reaches her building without noticing, suddenly surprised to find herself there. The media still crowds the steps but she avoids them, taking the rear entrance. She makes her way upstairs, trudging past doorways with leaden feet. When she arrives, her apartment is just how she left it. Too tidy, impersonal. Cold and dark. A feeling builds low inside her, a heaviness like loneliness and sadness but more.
She sinks to the floor, back pressed to the closed door, and pulls off her heels, rubbing the tender soles of her feet. She studies the shoes, the leather still so new, and wishes for the days when her most pressing dilemma was deciding between two nearly identical pairs of Louboutins.
She stands slowly, her feet throbbing. She sets her shoes by the door and pads to her kitchen, fumbling through her wine rack for something suitable. Then her phone is buzzing, jolting her. A series of notifications ping — her pulse spikes, adrenaline pumping as she rushes to unlock the screen.
Mike (9:58): Donna
Mike (09:58): You need to turn on the news right now
Mike (09:59): Seriously call me back
Rachel (09:59): Donna where are you?
The calls come then, one after another, in rapid succession. Donna fumbles with the remote, frantically flipping channels until she finds the local news.
"-breaking report. Sources inside the AG's office confirmed tonight that they are issuing an arrest warrant for Donna Paulsen, former Chief Operating Officer of Duke-Sanger. Paulsen's case is set to be a high profile, high stakes affair, following allegations that her and ex-husband, chairman of Duke-Sanger, Jonathan Martell, authorized several illegal arms deals to third parties on the watch list, resulting in thousands of casualties in U.S. military engagements abroad."
The reporter's voice sounds like it's coming from far away, through a thick fog or tunnel, muffled and indistinct.
"...we have an unconfirmed report that the U.S. Federal Marshal is on route to Paulsen's apartment building, we'll continue to follow the breaking..."
Donna turns the television off. Her phone begins to ring again and she glances down at the screen. It's Rachel calling, but she lets it go to voicemail.
The ensuing silence deafens. She moves without thought, scooping her shoes from their place by the door and retreating into her bedroom.
She wonders how Harvey is coping with it all, his own guilt, the horror of seeing her face plastered across every news station. If he blames himself for the deal that obviously did not pan out.
Her hands tremble as she slips her heels back on, taking extra care with the delicate strap at her ankle. Her heart hammers and her vision blurs with tears she will not allow to fall. She will not give the press the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
She thinks of what is to come: the media frenzy outside, her arrest, the interrogations, a trial. A verdict. Imprisonment. Years. So many. She won't make it. She won't survive the shame or guilt.
Again she wonders how it would feel, to have it all be over in a moment, one quick action, her mind silenced. A release.
She opens the door, emerging from her apartment for the final time. She doesn't bother with her jacket or coat, just heads for the elevator. The doors open immediately, and she steps inside. The ride feels longer than usual, her heartbeat deafening in the quiet space, and it's over far too soon.
The media camped outside swarm instantly as she steps into the lobby. Voices clamor from every direction and a barrage of flashes goes off.
"Ms. Paulsen! Is it true that your ex-husband coerced you into authorizing these arms deals?"
"How are you holding up during this trying time?"
"Are you guilty? Do you feel responsible for all those deaths?"
She says nothing, pushing past, head ducked against the rain. The media parts like a tide as she makes for the street, moving fast in heels that feel strangely unsteady beneath her. A sea of hands and microphones reach for her, clawing at her clothing and skin. The cold air rushes in with every breath and she is not crying but her face is wet and everything feels so numb.
"Ms. Paulsen, when can we expect an official statement?"
"You should be ashamed."
"Murderer! Murderer!"
"Are you going to plead guilty?"
A police siren blares as she reaches the street and suddenly everything moves in slow motion, surreal. Red and blue flashes over the sea of faces, the sounds of cameras clicking, yelling, rain, traffic, her heart beat in her ears. The media crowding forward in a frenzy. She turns to run, desperate now for escape. Her heels sink into wet concrete, pitching her forward and her breath escapes her in a rush as she falls hard to hands and knees. She tries to push up but a heavy weight comes over her and she's shoved hard against the pavement. She can't breathe. Can't speak or think, hands pulling, pushing, cuffing. Rain and wet and lights, voices, shouting.
She can only watch, frozen, as the doors of the waiting car slam closed and she is torn away from everything that was once familiar and safe.