The Rivalry

by Spectographer

Donna's a lawyer, engaged to the senator of NY, a man whose long shadow is threatening to swallow her whole. Harvey's a prosecutor on the fast track to becoming the next DA. When they're pitted against each other in court, a rivalry quickly develops between them that's a long time coming. Both are determined to win, but at what cost? AU. Enemies to lovers.

2. No Mercy

Chapter 2: No Mercy

The engagement ring sits like an anvil on Donna's finger, a beautiful, unavoidable reminder of her failed attempt to move forward. Each time she looks at it, it weighs heavier and heavier, until it feels like it might drag her down into some unending nothing.

The fight still plays over and over in her head, and with each rerun, she can't help but think that maybe she's made a huge mistake. Maybe she should have tried harder to find a way to balance her career and her relationship, or at the very least, she should have tried to come to some sort of compromise.

She wonders how it's possible that she can love Wes so much and yet, at the same time, feel such a deep, profound need to pull away from him. And the more she thinks about it, the more she realizes that her career has become something of a shield for her. A way to put distance between herself and Wes, between their relationship and the world, so that she can have space to breathe and feel like her own person. And maybe, somewhere down the line, she began to need that space more than anything else, even their future together.

Of course, now that the distance is here, all she can do is feel guilty. She'd let her ambition win out over her love for the man she'd promised to marry.

For his part, Wes seems to be avoiding her. When she woke up this morning, she found his side of the bed empty. The sheets were tucked in and pristine as if he hadn't slept there at all, which made her wonder if he did, or if he'd been walking around all night, plotting how they would proceed, or more like strategizing how to keep this failure away from the media. What can't be controlled must be ignored, buried and dealt with at the appropriate time. Something, somehow, made to look like what the voters want. A flawless life with a flawless man, no cracks in sight.

In the kitchen there's a cup of coffee waiting for her, cold, and a note: "At the office – call me when you wake up." It's a nice gesture, a peace offering of sorts, but she doesn't call him. Partly because she's not sure what to say, but mostly she's terrified that Wes' had second thoughts; that he's consulted his campaign team, and they've convinced him it's a bad idea to postpone the wedding. She can hear the argument now, their logical rationale tearing her to shreds, pointing out how this could be a publicity nightmare if handled wrong, or worse, used to discredit Wes' platform for family-centric politics. They'd warn him that she's becoming a liability, a cancer to his campaign. They'd tell him to tighten the leash, not give her an inch to think, much less move freely. It would not be so hard, so surprising, for Wes to let her know, in his own discreet way, that the wedding will go on, and that he expected better of her.

So no, she doesn't call him, and the defiance, however small and cowardly it may be, feels good. It feels like she's taking back something that was taken away from her, a sliver of control. And if that makes her a selfish, ungrateful bitch, well, at least she can own it.

She jabs the button for the elevator, balancing her briefcase and a takeout coffee cup in one hand while she digs out her key card with the other. She swipes it through the reader and presses the button for the top floor, ignoring the group of associates filing in behind her. Some she recognizes, some she doesn't, but they all eye her with the same mixture of fear and reverence she's used to.

She steps off the elevator and immediately her path is blocked by Louis and Rachel, their bodies forming an almost comical barricade as they hover in the hallway outside her office. Donna stops in her tracks, sighing to herself.

Louis spots her first and his lips purse into a thin line, his eyes narrowing. Even from across the room, Donna can tell he's hyped himself up to have it out with her, a weird mixture of excessive bravado and anxious jitteriness combining for an intimidating look that, honestly, has no place on his face.

He's been her loyal secretary since she started at the firm, having left the desk of Stanley Gordon – the previous managing partner to Jessica – and switching to be her personal gatekeeper when he found out she was Weston Harding's girlfriend. It was never intended to be a permanent arrangement, but as the years went by and they went on working their way up the ladder, he never seemed to want to leave.

Through corporate mergers, lawsuits and endless all-nighters, Louis has been her steadfast right hand man. Meticulously detail oriented, often to an infuriating degree, he takes immense pride in his work. His loyalty to Donna is unmatched, though his fragile ego sometimes leads to impulsive, irrational behavior.

Beside him, Rachel, one of Donna's most promising associates, shifts uncomfortably, a nervous expression on her face. It's all too obvious why they're here and the last thing Donna wants to do is have this conversation.

She steels herself for the inevitable as she approaches. Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but before she can utter a word, Louis cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

"You," he hisses, jabbing an accusatory finger in Donna's direction. "How could you?"

Donna raises an eyebrow, her expression unamused. "What have I done to offend you now, Louis?" she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

"Gee, I don't know. How about the fact that Google Alert notified me, at five-thirty-two this morning, that Senator Harding's wedding is postponed until further notice. Further notice, Donna! And do you know what my first thought was?" He doesn't give her time to answer. "It was you. Because I know, I just know, that this is somehow your doing."

Rachel visibly cringes, and Donna attempts to slip past the two of them to the safety of her office. But Louis doesn't budge, blocking her path. He continues with his tirade, his voice escalating with each syllable.

"Two years, Donna! Two years I've put my heart and soul into planning your dream wedding. Every tiny detail, every painstaking decision, I was there with you. The venue, the flowers, the calligraphers, the band, the guest list...my god, the seating chart alone took months of agonizing placement and rearrangement!"

His voice takes on a slightly unhinged edge, his eyes widening dramatically. "And the cake testing! I'm gluten intolerant, and yet, I taste tested every goddamn piece of cake for you. Regardless of what it would do to my bowels. I haven't had a healthy stool in months. And now you're telling me it was all for nothing? That you're throwing it all away on a whim?"

He lets out a theatrical gasp, clutching his chest as if struck by a sudden pain. "To watch all my hard work, all my sacrifice, go to waste? No. I refuse. I'll put on a red wig and a girdle and walk down that aisle myself if I have to! I'll marry Senator Harding – it would be an honor! An honor which you clearly are not deserving of, seeing as you don't even seem to give a shit!"

By now, half the floor has turned to stare, the air around them thickening with curiosity and judgment. But Donna waits until he's finished, fully aware that he will only dig his heels in further if she shows any sign of impatience or annoyance. She has mastered how to diffuse him, years of practice honing her skills. Like a petulant child, she's learned it's best to wait until he runs out of steam, until the tantrum has met its peak, and then gently guide him back on track. Which she does with only a small, knowing smile and a simple reply.

"Harvey Specter," she says, and his indignation stops cold, mouth falling open mid-insult. "He's the opposing counsel on the Wolcott Aerospace case."

Louis clutches his chest again, but this time it's not for show. He rocks back on his heels, the shock washing over him with enough force to leave him momentarily stunned.

"Our white whale," he murmurs.

Donna nods, biting the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from slipping into a smirk. "Our white whale," she repeats.

He's nodding his head now, his entire demeanor shifting into business mode. "Okay – screw the wedding. I'll call the vendors and the caters, the VIPs. Make up a lie about some distant relation being terminal, and it will be like it never even happened." He claps his hands together, his eyes lighting up with a crazed enthusiasm. "In the meantime, I'll prep the war room, get the A team on board, pull up the charts, maybe get the stylist on standby if things get too public..."

As he prattles on, his brainstorming and plans spiraling off into an absurd rabbit hole, Rachel leans closer to Donna.

"I get that this Wolcott lawsuit is a big deal," she says, her tone cautious. "But Donna, this is your wedding. This is Wes."

Louis rolls his eyes. "Get off it, Rachel. Can't you see what's happening here?"

Rachel doesn't even spare him a glance. Her eyes remain focused on Donna. "You're not backing out of your marriage because of this case, are you? Because that's ridiculous, Donna, and you know it. Wes–"

"Is fully supportive of my decision."

"Is he?"

Rachel's voice is skeptical and Donna is acutely aware of the number of curious eyes turned her way, waiting to hear the next line in this very public spectacle. They all love Wes, the good guy with the handsome smile and easygoing attitude who charms every room he enters. He shakes hands, makes jokes, remembers names and birthdays. He attends all the company parties, brings out the good champagne and gives rousing toasts. He's the first to compliment a new haircut and isn't above discreetly fixing a Windsor knot on a nervous associate passing him in the hallway. Yes, people love him, and they don't make any secret of it. He's an American flag wrapped in a bespoke suit. Always there, his sturdy frame in full, full view.

And Donna, on the other hand, is the bitch on wheels who takes their promotions and threatens their positions, who gets the best clients and biggest raises, and expects the impossible from them, consistently and without question. Sure, they respect her, or at least, fear her. But the kind of blind devotion Wes enjoys, she will never experience. Only Weston Harding can have that. And when it comes to sides, these people are quite clear about where their allegiances lie.

"Rachel, it's fine." Donna can hear the irritation that has slipped into her voice, and she clears her throat, trying again with a more convincing effort. "Really. Wes knows how important this case is, and he wants to give me the time I need to win it. We're still engaged. The wedding is just going to have to wait. Okay?"

A small line forms between Rachel's brows and her lips turn down in a frown. She looks like she wants to say more, but Donna doesn't give her a chance to respond. She steps around them, unlocking the door to her office and striding inside without looking back.

Louis is only too happy to fall into step beside her, pulling his leather folio from the depths of his stachel. He clears his throat, switching into professional, crisis management mode.

"So, here's the schedule for next week. I'll clear an extra hour after the morning huddle everyday for you to prepare. I'm sure some last minute details have already started being moved around but I will double check the specifics. As for Wes, do you want me to arrange a lunch delivery, something to pick up his spirits and keep the romance alive or..."

The question hangs in the air, dangling loosely between them, unanswered, unasked for. Unwanted.

Donna busies herself with her briefcase, dropping it on her desk and avoiding Louis' curious gaze. "What day is it today?"

"Wednesday," he says slowly, drawing the word out. "Remember you have lunch with Jessica at one?"

Donna takes a seat in her high-backed chair, her back to him. She sinks into the leather, trying to pretend he isn't standing behind her, analyzing her behavior. "Right."

There's a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, when it's clear she's not going to engage, he folds up his notes and tucks them back into his folio.

"Okay then. I'll um, give you some privacy for a bit, sort through all those...you know."

"Great."

Another awkward pause, and she hears him begin to shift his weight from side to side, that familiar little stutter of uncertainty that usually indicates he's fighting the urge to share whatever thought is rolling around in his head.

"There's one more thing. In...in the heat of my fury, I may have emailed you my resignation. It was done in emotional haste and will promptly be nullified, as usual."

Donna glances over her shoulder, hiding a small smile. "Come on, I'm not that bad."

"You're perfect," he says quickly. "A goddess in the flesh. A pearl of unparalleled mien. I am but a humble acolyte at your altar. However, I may have gotten a little personal on revision, so if you do read my email, it's best if you skip pages seven through fourteen."

"Your resignation is fourteen pages?"

"Twenty-five if you include the appendices, addendums, and amendments."

"Jesus." She can't help but laugh. Some things never change. Even with Wes and everything about her life falling apart, she can still count on Louis to give her twenty-five pages worth of sass. "Okay. Give me an hour before penciling in any meeting, and please, no more surprises."

He nods and quickly exits the room, shutting the door behind him.

She gets exactly thirty seconds of peace and quiet before the door opens again, the tall, imperious form of Samantha Wheeler entering the office. Donna turns to meet her, one eyebrow raised in a questioning gesture.

"You got a love note from the DA's office," Samantha says, handing her a thick envelope. It has her name on it. Not the Pearson Wheeler Paulsen firm but her, specifically.

"Oh?" She keeps her voice controlled, devoid of any kind of concern or interest.

Samantha isn't buying it, eyeing her with an expression somewhere between impatience and mild amusement. "It's not going to implode. Open it."

Samantha remains in the center of the office, unrelenting, and so Donna retrieves a letter opener from her desk and opens the envelope with all the flourish of someone taking out the trash. As she had expected, it's a plea bargain, the terms laid out and neatly printed. Wolcott admits guilt to all charges in return for a hefty fine and a suspension of business dealings for five years. An almost open and shut victory for Harvey. Which is why she's not taking it seriously and has no real interest in the bullshit he's trying to pull here.

"Cute," Donna says and places the letter on her desk.

"No?"

"No. This is clearly a jab and a petty one, at that. And I'm not here for a bad joke."

"Well then, let's return the favor. I'll have Rachel draft an official rebuttal – in your name of course."

"Don't bother." Donna stands up, the paperweight rattling on the table as she accidentally shoves it too hard against the keyboard. She pretends not to notice Samantha's smirk. "I'll deliver our rebuttal in person. That smug son of a bitch doesn't deserve the courtesy of a formal response."

Samantha's grin grows wider. "And yet he gets a private audience. Interesting."

"Don't you have work to do?"

Sam slowly begins to back out of the office. "Nothing quite as intriguing as this, but sure, I'll go play with the grown-ups. Leave you to your...business."

Donna doesn't bother trying to hide her smile, amused by the ridiculous suggestion that is this pseudo-war between her and Harvey. Though it's not far off, the fire she feels inside when she thinks of facing him in a courtroom, going full throttle against him, and putting him in his place...it's hard to deny the excitement it gives her. In the form of rage and disdain, but excitement nonetheless.

II

Harvey is standing outside the courthouse, squinting up at the morning sky. The air is cool on his skin, a welcome respite from the oppressive summer humidity. The weather has finally turned, the heat wave breaking and leaving the city feeling crisp and clean.

It's been a long few days. He's been buried under paperwork and deposition prep, and it feels good to be out in the open, taking a break.

His eyes scan the area, taking in the usual mix of pedestrians and tourists, and his gaze stops on a familiar figure.

It's her. Donna Paulsen.

She's walking towards him, her long legs carrying her with purposeful strides. Her red hair is blowing in the breeze, her expression fierce and determined. She's wearing a three-piece suit in a deep cerulean blue. Matte with a satin lapel along the longline blazer. A bold and risky fashion choice for a woman, but it's tailored well. The lines are immaculate, her form a perfect hourglass. The V-neck of the vest dips low enough to provide a subtle peek at the swell of her breasts, but not so much as to be unprofessional. The ensemble is clearly designed to make an impression, and she's definitely succeeding.

He watches as she transverses the sidewalk, her head held high, and he can't help but admire her poise. She moves like she owns the world, and the men and women around her seem to sense it, unconsciously stepping out of her way.

As she approaches, Harvey feels a familiar tension building in his chest. It's the same feeling he gets when a jury is about to return with a verdict, or right before he cross-examines a witness he knows he's about to rip to shreds. It's a thrill, a rush, and he welcomes it, the adrenaline surging through his veins.

She's almost to him now, her gaze focused straight ahead, and he wonders if she'll even notice him. But as she draws closer, her eyes flick in his direction, and he sees the briefest flash of recognition, a slight hitch in her breath. Her stride falters for a moment, just a heartbeat, and then she's back on track, her pace steady and unwavering and heading straight for him.

Harvey straightens, his own expression turning cool and detached. He refuses to show her that she's affected him, that her mere presence is enough to set his pulse racing. He won't give her that power.

She comes to a stop in front of him, her eyes raking over him with blatant scrutiny. He lets her get her fill. He knows he looks good. His suit is tailored to perfection, his hair is artfully styled, and he has the kind of easy, confident air that comes from knowing he is the best at what he does.

"Harvey."

Her voice matches her silk lapel, smooth and rich, and there's an underlying hint of amusement, as if she knows something he doesn't.

"Donna." He keeps his tone professional, his gaze never wavering from hers.

"You've been waiting for me," she says. It's not a question, but a statement of fact, and he can't help but admire her audacity.

"I have," he answers simply. "I'm assuming you got my plea offer?"

"I did."

"And?"

"And you can shove it up your ass."

The words are spoken with such matter-of-factness that Harvey can't help but grin. There's something refreshing about her lack of pretense. He's used to navigating the political waters of the courtroom, the endless machinations and hidden agendas, and he appreciates the fact that she doesn't bother with games.

"That's a shame," he says, his voice full of false disappointment. "I thought we could have an honest discussion like two grown adults, but apparently you're too busy kissing Wolcott's ass to take the reasonable way out."

Donna arches an eyebrow, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"Reasonable? Your offer is nowhere near reasonable, and you know it. It's insulting, Harvey. And frankly, a waste of my time."

"It's a generous offer. One I'm not obligated to make, considering the evidence against your client. If I were you, I'd take it while you still can. Before the situation gets even more out of hand."

He can tell she's resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

"Let's get one thing straight," she says. "I don't negotiate with bullies, and I certainly don't plead out to the first asshole that comes swinging. Especially not when my client is innocent. So if you want to make a real offer, one that's fair and equitable, then we can talk. But until then, we're going to trial, and I'm going to enjoy the hell out of taking you down."

Her tone is light, almost playful, but he can see the truth behind her words. She's not messing around, and she has every intention of going after him with everything she's got.

And he can't wait.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," he says. "If you won't accept the deal, there's only one way this can end. And that's with Wolcott rotting in a jail cell and you out of a job."

Donna doesn't back down. She doesn't even blink. Instead, she steps closer, her eyes searching his.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive."

Donna's lips curl in a slow, confident smile. "Well then, I guess we'll have to see, won't we?"

She moves past him, her shoulder brushing against his, and Harvey turns to watch her go.

He's intrigued. Intrigued and a little annoyed. Because as much as he's looking forward to taking her down a notch, a small part of him respects the hell out of her. And maybe even likes her. Just a little.

"See you in court," he calls after her.

She raises a hand in farewell but doesn't look back.

Harvey turns back to the street, a smirk on his face. He can't remember the last time he's looked forward to a trial this much. And the feeling, he knows, is entirely mutual.

III

The first thing Donna sees when she arrives back at the office is a bouquet of flowers sitting on her desk, and the sight of it sends a wave of guilt washing over her.

Wes.

She should have called him this morning, should have at least acknowledged the gesture of the coffee, but Harvey goddamn Specter and his bullshit plea deal was dropped in her lap and she couldn't help the ego match that ensued.

The rational part of her is aware of how ridiculous that sounds, but the competitive side of her can't seem to dial it back. Something about Harvey drives her insane. Whether it's the smug look on his face or his cavalier attitude, she can't stand him. He's obnoxious and arrogant and, she won't lie, kind of hot...but what an asshole. Thinking she'd plead out at the slightest provocation like some rookie associate fresh out of law school? No goddamn way. Not a chance in hell.

And the worst part? She's fairly certain he's enjoying their little back and forth as much as she is. They're like a couple of giddy children, grinning their shit-eating grins at each other, goading and needling, wanting to see the other one break, even if only a little bit. It's borderline juvenile and very, very unbecoming, especially of two full grown professionals.

So no, she hasn't called Wes. She hasn't texted. She hasn't made any attempts to smooth over last night's fight and make it up to him for what was a fairly shitty display on her end.

The moment is ripe, ready for her to be selfless and humble, to pick up the damn phone and apologize. But there is this rebellious streak burning in her, and she clings to it like a lifeline. Because if she admits defeat and submits, if she lays back down, takes his hand, follows him, obeys him...she will never crawl out from under his thumb. Never. And is that what love is? An endless willingness to be subjugated? Donna doesn't know. But she fears it. It makes her question the kind of person she'll be if she yields. A mere extension of Wes' ambition, power, and will. An accessory to his grand political play. And god, it's exhausting, all of this second guessing and over thinking. Maybe that's why she can't call Wes. Because he deserves better, and she can't even tell if that's a genuine thought or an automatic response, conditioned by years trying to placate and appease him.

With a frustrated sigh, she sits down at her desk, and reaches for the card tucked into the stems. It's written in Wes' unmistakable penmanship, each letter a carefully crafted masterpiece that appears effortless. She wonders, as she so often does, what it must have been like for him as a child – the constant scrutiny and pressure to succeed. Was he ever just allowed to be himself? To be a little messy?

She tries to picture a young Wes, running through the grass on a summer evening, playing in the sprinkler, no shoes on, laughing, wild. And it's so hard for her to imagine that her Wes could be the same. But she likes the thought of it. Of Wes having had a childhood full of joy. She knows it's naive, his parents, her future in-laws, are too austere for that kind of whimsy. He had nannies and boarding school, the firm handshakes instead of hugs. There is no place for impropriety. No room for fun or error. Not in the Harding home, or in politics. But in her own imagination, Donna lets herself fantasize. She lets herself create a little boy that looks like Wes, and is full of love and life.

She flips open the card and reads:

Donna,

Stop spiraling. We're fine. You know I'm here for you and that I'll support you, even when you're kicking my ass and stomping on my toes. With everything you need and anything you desire. That hasn't changed. All I ask is that we face this together. So please, you stubborn woman, call me before I'm forced to take more drastic measures. I assure you, Jessica Pearson will not appreciate my creative interruptions any more than you do. But I will do whatever it takes, darling, and you know it.

I love you. I'm with you.

Wes

Damn. He's good. So good, in fact, tears sting the corners of her eyes, the suddenness of it taking her off guard. How can he do this – make her feel so guilty and relieved and loved with just a few sentences? And why does he always know exactly what to say, even when she doesn't want him to? It's frustrating as hell, and so very Wes. Tailored to subdue her just enough, to coax the feelings of fondness from her reluctant heart. And it works. Of course, it works. One note, one goddamn note. Tears. She knew better than to read it, to lower her guard even for a second.

Shaking her head, she reaches for her phone and dials his number. He picks up on the first ring.

"Donna," his voice is low; the word a warm, breathy exhale. She hates it. How he says it, how it sounds. Because it makes her heart clench in her chest, makes her feel all fuzzy and weak.

"Weston."

"Ah," he laughs lightly, "it's serious, then. Weston. Never a good sign coming from that mouth of yours."

Donna bites her lip. His words have a hint of playfulness to them, but his voice is cool and distant. He's already done the dance in his mind, moved past the crisis, and now he's in planning mode, trying to smooth the cracks and glue back together the pieces.

"I got your flowers."

"Are you touched?"

"Touched by your attempt to manipulate my emotions and coax me out of my stubborn streak? Absolutely."

"So we're on the same page, then."

She can feel herself smiling now, the knot in her stomach beginning to ease. "Wes –"

"It's fine, Donna. I didn't send them as a guilt trip. I just wanted to make sure you knew that I'm still in your corner. Just focus on the case. On kicking Specter's ass. Let me take care of everything else."

"The wedding –"

"Is postponed." He says it so simply. There's no anger or blame, just acceptance and reassurance. He's giving her what she needs – time and space to focus on her career and herself – but the price he's paying for her selfishness, she knows, is considerable. Because this isn't just his life, or even their life; there is an entire campaign crew and well-funded network of supporters that are depending on Wes to bring them to victory. He has a reputation and brand to consider, one he's been cultivating for years, and she has endangered all of that with her inability to commit. And he's just going to let her...no repercussions. No punishment. It feels...unreal. Unearned. And she's never felt more conflicted or indebted. But she knows better than to argue, or worse, ask if he's sure. That will only send them down another unproductive, circular argument, and that's the last thing they need right now.

She doesn't know what to say; she doesn't have a snappy reply or witty joke. All she has is silence.

Wes seems to have been expecting this, however, because he keeps going, filling in the awkward space between them.

"You have nothing to worry about, baby. I have it under control. It's my job to keep all of the little details straight, and this isn't the first time I've had to manage the expectations of some nosy reporter who can't seem to mind his own business. This isn't a crisis. It's a bump in the road, nothing more."

He makes it sound so easy and routine, but Donna knows that this is anything but a simple situation. Not just the wedding, but all of it, Wes' campaign and everything that goes with it. But he's good at this, at putting on a front and selling it. It's what makes him such an effective politician – he can turn a disaster into a win, even when the deck is stacked against him.

"I'm a pain in the ass, aren't I? Your own personal nightmare." She tries to keep her tone light, but there's an unmistakable undercurrent of self-loathing in her words.

He doesn't take the bait. Instead, he laughs. "Since the day you burst into my office, demanding I do something about that rickety theater on Dock Street, you've been the bane of my existence. A stubborn, brilliant, infuriating woman. My dream come true."

He means it too, she can hear it in the way his voice softens as he speaks. Despite all the frustration and turmoil she causes him, she is the one thing in his life that is not for sale or strategy, and they both know it. He is a man that needs order, rules, structure, and she has the uncanny ability to completely undo all of it, to strip him down and expose every ugly little flaw. But it's also why he can't seem to let her go. Because she's playing in the sprinklers on his summer days; she's his messy and imperfect, the wild he keeps tucked away.

And he wants her – in every possible way – and nothing, not even a presidential campaign, will stop him from having her.

It's a sobering thought. The power she has over him. A man who prides himself on his unbreakable will and control. To know that she could bring him to his knees if she so chose. But that's the difference between her and him. She could. She doesn't want to.

Donna closes her eyes, the lump in her throat threatening to choke her. She wants to tell him how sorry she is, for everything. For ruining the wedding, for not being the dutiful fiancée he wants, for making his life more complicated and difficult. But she can't get the words out. They're lodged somewhere in her chest, and she can't seem to push them past her lips.

"So how are things going with the case?" he asks, his voice deliberately lighter. He's trying to change the subject, to get her out of her head and back on track. And she's grateful for it, even though she knows she's failing to play the part she's supposed to in this scenario.

"Honestly? Not great." She sighs, sinking into her chair and leaning back. "I had a run-in with Harvey today at the courthouse, and he was...well, he was exactly the asshole I was expecting him to be. He's trying to force our hand, push us into a plea bargain."

"What did you tell him?"

"To fuck off, essentially."

Wes chuckles, the sound sending a ripple of warmth through her.

"Good girl."

The words are lighthearted, but there's a hint of something else there, too. Of pride. And it's ridiculous how good that feels, to have made him proud, even over something as petty as a power struggle with Harvey.

It's such a strange thing, the simultaneous urge to please him and fight back, and she's never quite sure how to deal with it. She loves his praise and hates his control, and the combination leaves her constantly torn between defiance and surrender. She's like a little girl, desperate for daddy's approval while rebelling against his rules.

"What about you?" she asks, eager to change the subject. "How are things on your end?"

"Fine. Busy."

There's a weariness to his tone that doesn't escape her.

"Still fighting with the city over that zoning dispute?"

"Yeah," he says. "But I've got a meeting with the mayor today. I'm hoping to smooth things over."

"That's good."

They lapse into silence. Donna chews on her bottom lip, unsure what else to say. She knows she needs to apologize, to really make an effort to mend their relationship and find their way back to the center, but the words just won't come.

Wes lets out a soft sigh.

"Listen, baby, I gotta go. I've got a conference call with the D.C. office in ten."

"Okay, I'll let you go." She hesitates for a moment, her eyes drifting shut as she fights to gather her thoughts. She needs to say this. Now, or she never will.

"Wes... Thank you. For everything. I'm sorry–"

"Donna," he cuts her off, his voice soft but firm, "we're good. Stop beating yourself up and focus on winning your case, okay? I love you. I'll see you at home tonight."

He hangs up before she has a chance to say anything else. She's not surprised. Wes isn't one to linger. But there's a finality in his words, an implicit understanding that he is taking charge and putting an end to her doubts and anxieties. He is in control, and that's how it's going to stay.

Donna sets the phone down and stares at the flowers on her desk, at the elegant script of Wes' note. And for a moment, she wants to forget that none of this is right or fair or easy. She wants to give in. She wants to be the woman he wants. Needs. Wants to erase the voice in her head that tells her there's something deeper and truer waiting for her somewhere else, in another life that exists beyond his grasp. And yet...

Donna glances down at her engagement ring, the large diamond flashing as it catches the light from her window.

No.

No, that voice, the pull to escape, it's just a flight reaction, a rebellious act of adolescence in a woman whose life has come to depend on conformity and obedience. And regardless of the confusion and doubts plaguing her, she belongs with Wes, doesn't she? This man, who has given her everything, supported her without hesitation, in all the ways he should. Who has loved her. And yes, that love may be possessive. Demanding. Volatile. At times, yes, at times, it can even cause her to feel afraid and ashamed.

And so what if she still struggles to measure up. If she can't shake the feeling of disappointing him, in so many ways. If she can't undo the feeling of unworthiness, of losing herself, of the gradual death to which she has to submit her independence, and the dwindling life that awaits her as his wife.

Because she's going to do it. She's going to walk down the aisle. She's going to promise forever and be the woman he needs, and this voice, this foolish and fleeting doubt, will fade into the background.

It will.

It has to.

IV

The city lights blur outside the window of Harvey's office as he stares unseeingly at his computer screen. The words on the documents in front of him have lost all meaning hours ago, his focus shifting to an entirely different case – the case of Donna Paulsen.

He can't get her out of his head. Her casual dismissal of his plea deal earlier lingers in his mind, the confidence in her voice as she told him to shove it ringing in his ears. But it's not just her attitude that's getting to him. It's her. Everything about her – the way she moves, the way she looks, the way his name falls from her lips as if they've known each other for years and bantering with him on the courthouse steps is the most natural thing in the world.

Sinking back in his chair, he lets his eyes roam over the mess of files, photographs and printed articles strewn across his desk. It had started innocuously enough – just a cursory background check to get a sense of who he was up against. But somewhere along the way, his curiosity morphed into an almost compulsive need to know everything about her, to understand the woman who is threatening his case.

His gaze lands on a photograph from what looks like a college theater production. There she is, center stage, bathed in the spotlight with a radiant smile and those same hazel eyes that had stopped him dead in his tracks that night at the fundraiser all those years ago.

Next to the photo is the article that started this whole spiral – an interview where Weston Harding recounts how they first met, back when Donna was just a waitress at a cafe in Brooklyn, paying her way through acting classes at a local community college. Harvey had scoffed at first, unable to picture the poised, self-assured lawyer waiting tables and chasing dreams of stardom. But then he'd done his due diligence, and the story checked out. Donna Paulsen was indeed an actress – and a decent one, according to several old reviews.

But somewhere between college graduation and her 24th birthday, she'd given up her dreams of theater and enrolled in law school instead. Yale, of course. Top of her class. Around the same time her relationship with Harding emerged into something more serious, the two of them showing up at every society function and charity event in tandem. Harvey wonders if the senator was the reason for her dramatic change in course. Men like him, those with D.C. ambitions, desire a woman with a certain pedigree, and a struggling amateur actress doesn't exactly fit that bill. But a young, accomplished lawyer on the rise, now that's a woman who commands the kind of respect and influence a man in his position needs by his side.

So did Harding offer to pay for her schooling if she quit theater? Or maybe he didn't have to. Maybe the offer was implicit in every moment spent together, in the casual way he held her hand in public, introduced her to all of his powerful friends.

Something, surely, was exchanged, Harvey has no doubt, a pact struck in private. Because men like Weston Harding never do anything without intent or expectation. And now here Donna Paulsen is, one of the most formidable corporate attorneys in New York.

The whole situation doesn't sit right with Harvey, the idea that the woman he's seen on the courthouse steps – fierce and sharp, and all too capable – could be watered down to a plaything to be molded by a man ten years her senior. From what little he's learned of Donna so far, he gets the impression that she is anything but someone who can easily be persuaded to compromise on her own desires and ambitions.

No. She's authentic, at least her intellect and ability are. No matter what path led her to this career, she is exactly where she is supposed to be, and Harvey respects her for it.

Shifting through the documents, he pulls up the transcript from the Toyota case Mike had raved about. He reads over Donna's cross-examination of the expert witness, every question and argument so meticulously constructed that he can picture the man crumbling under the pressure, the courtroom swaying to her side.

Harvey pulls up the video footage from that same trial. He watches, entranced, as Donna commands the room during closing arguments, her impassioned voice clear and precise and strangely seductive. There's an art to what she does – not just reciting the facts but painting a whole new reality, one where the only logical conclusion leads straight to her version of the truth.

That damn theater degree isn't just window dressing, after all. Donna's a performer. She knows when to use her hands for emphasis, when to take a breath and let her words sink in, when to soften her voice to gain the jury's trust, and when to sharpen it to cut through any remaining skepticism. She may have given up on the stage, but she's clearly not letting her talents go to waste.

Harvey finds himself watching with admiration, impressed by how quickly and effectively she wraps the room around her finger. The judge, the jury, even the other side's team – they all hang on to her every word. She plays to the crowd, hitting all the right beats, her words laced with emotion, until finally she brings it home with a passion so real, the jury looks like they're practically on their feet and applauding her success.

When her performance ends, Harvey hits play again, watching a second, and then third, time. By the fourth watch through, he can admit it.

He's fucked.

He's absolutely fucked. Because he knows, without a doubt, if he can't find a way to force her into a deal and this case goes to trial, he will not win it. Not against this woman and her goddamn show. He may be arrogant, but he knows his weaknesses, and jurors rarely like him. His attitude is too off-putting, his ego too hard to overlook, and while he may have learned over the years how to wield all of this to his advantage in the courtroom, he's not so sure that strategy will hold up against someone like Donna.

Her methods of persuasion are the opposite of his. She doesn't intimidate; she wins them over. She makes them root for her. She makes them want what she wants, even if it isn't true. And he's never seen anyone as good as her, at least not at playing a room.

With a heavy sigh, he leans back in his chair, scrubbing his hand through his hair. This is what he wanted, wasn't it? A challenge? And she is definitely that – the kind of opponent he's been craving for years. But Mike was right, he's going to need more than his usual strategy if he wants any chance at all of beating her. He'll have to come at her with everything he has. Keep the pressure on. Not give her an inch to breathe or regroup.

He sits up in his chair and reaches for his keyboard, pulling up a blank deposition subpoena. He'll start with a jab. Put Wolcott in the hot seat and see what comes out. Test how Donna holds herself under fire and get a sense of what buttons to press during the trial itself if, god forbid, it comes to that. And he won't go easy on her either. No. He'll be merciless, digging and poking until she breaks, until that smug smirk slips and the cracks show.

He doesn't care how brutal or cruel he has to be – he will win.

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A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed/commented the first chapter. The feedback is very much appreciated :)