I

Eleven years ago

Donna paces the length of Senator Harding's office, too restless to sit. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows through the window, painting the room in a warm golden glow. She pauses, glancing at the clock on the wall for what feels like the hundredth time. Weston is late.

Her stomach churns with anxiety. The past few weeks have been a rollercoaster of setbacks and disappointments. Despite their best efforts, the developers seem to be winning the battle for the Dock Street theater. Every time they make progress, another obstacle appears, threatening to derail everything they've worked for.

The door opens, and Weston strides in, his tie loosened and sleeves rolled up. He looks tired, the weight of his responsibilities etched in the lines around his eyes. But when he sees Donna, his face brightens, that familiar warmth spreading across his features.

"I'm sorry I'm late," he says, moving to his desk. "The meeting with the zoning board ran long."

Donna's heart quickens at his proximity, but she tries to hide it, forcing herself to remain calm and collected. She's been working closely with Weston for several months now, and her attraction to him has only grown. But he's still a Senator and she's just...her, a waitress attempting to be an actress and barely managing it.

"How did it go?" she asks, trying to keep the desperation out of her voice.

Weston sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Not great," he admits. "They're pushing back hard on the historical designation. The developers have deep pockets, and they're not afraid to use them."

Donna feels her hope deflating. "So that's it? We're done?"

"No," Weston says firmly, his blue eyes locking onto hers. "We're not done, Donna. I promised you I'd make this happen, and I will."

She wants to believe him. God, how she wants to. But a lifetime of disappointment has taught her to be wary of promises. Her father's face flashes in her mind – the shame in his eyes when he came home, defeated and broken, confessing that he'd lost everything, the pain of having to pack up her life, sell her piano, say goodbye to her friends and move to another state in the middle of high school. All because a man who'd promised to provide had failed her.

But Weston Harding is nothing like her father. He's honest, strong, capable, determined. And he has never given her a reason to doubt his intentions. If he says he can do this, then she's going to trust him. She has to, really, there's no other option at this point. She can't fight this battle without his support.

Donna nods slowly, taking a deep breath and exhaling her anxieties. "Okay. What's our next move?"

He leans back against the edge of his desk, his hands gripping the wood on either side of him. She tries not to stare at his long fingers or the flex of his forearms beneath his shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, the tie undone. He's always been impeccably dressed, but this casualness is so...alluring, like he's comfortable around her in a way that she doubts many others get to experience.

"There's a charity gala next week," he says. "The guest list is a who's who of New York's elite – philanthropists, business leaders, old money families. The kind of people who could make or break our project with a single phone call. If you go with me as my plus one, we might have a shot at changing some minds."

Donna blinks, not sure she heard him correctly. "Me? As your date? You're joking."

The corners of his mouth twitch, but he doesn't laugh.

"I'm deadly serious, Ms. Paulsen."

"Donna."

"I'm serious, Donna. I'll arrange everything. A gown, a stylist, anything you need to make sure you look the part. Your job will be to charm these people. I think we can both agree you have that skill in spades."

He's teasing her, and she tries to give him a small smile in return, but her mouth doesn't cooperate.

"I can't," she says, her heart racing. "I can't do that, I've never– I can't..."

"Of course you can. You're an actress. And you're going to be the most stunning woman there."

His blue eyes are intense and determined, and Donna's breath catches in her throat at the confidence in his words. But she still hesitates, still can't help but point out the obvious.

"I'm not one of these people," she says quietly. "I don't belong in your world, Wes."

Weston stands, closing the gap between them. He takes her hands in his, his palms warm and solid against her skin, his gaze holding hers captive. She feels herself sinking into him, the anxiety and worry ebbing away under the heat of his touch.

"You don't have to be like them," he whispers. "You just have to be yourself, Donna. They'll see what I see."

His voice is like velvet, seductive and smooth, and she knows he's trying to charm her into agreeing to this insane plan, but god help her, it's working. She wants to say yes. She wants to be his fake date for this stupid party, to dance with him and wear a beautiful gown, to pretend that she's worthy of his attention, to have even an evening where she feels like the woman she always dreamed she'd be. And if that means charming a bunch of rich assholes in order to save the theater...well, so be it. She's an actress, isn't she? It's the least she can do.

"Okay," she hears herself say. "Okay. I'll do it."

He squeezes her hands, his expression relieved. "Thank you, Donna," he murmurs, the warmth in his voice sending shivers down her spine.

She can't look away, can't stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. He's so close to her, she could easily close the gap and press her lips to his. It's a stupid thought, a ridiculous thought, but she can't stop her brain from going there.

His gaze drifts down to her mouth, then back to her eyes, and for a split second she swears there's the same longing she's feeling mirrored back at her. She swallows hard, her cheeks growing hot at the thought of him reading her so clearly. But then his expression shifts back into professionalism and he drops his hands to his side.

"I'll send the details to your email," he says, moving around his desk. "And I'll have a car pick you up the evening of. There's no need for you to take public transport."

Donna blinks, caught off guard by the sudden change in his demeanor. "Oh, um, sure, thank you."

Weston gives her a quick nod, his eyes already focused on the papers in front of him, signaling that the meeting is over. She hovers in the doorway for a moment, trying to process what just happened.

She agreed to attend a gala, as the Senator of New York's date, to convince influential people to support the preservation of a theater. The theater she's fought so hard for and so desperately wants to save. But it's insane. The whole thing.

It's not until she's out of the office, riding down the elevator, that she realizes he called it "our project." As if he was a part of her struggle. He'd never referred to it that way before, and she's not quite sure what to make of the change, or of Weston Harding himself. She knows so little about him. Who he is away from his title and public persona. If his charm is just part of the act, a skill honed in politics, or if it's sincere. She wishes she knew, because in these moments of closeness she finds it easy to believe the words coming out of his mouth. Too easy, perhaps. And she doesn't want to be fooled, especially by a man with his power.

But she can't shake the feeling that his desire to help her, his belief in her, is real. That his support and interest in her wellbeing are genuine. That she matters to him, in some way. And she knows that it's ridiculous, and maybe a little pathetic, to have so much hope in the promises of a politician, especially one she's only known a few short months. But she can't help it. She can't stop the warmth that floods her chest at the thought of Weston Harding taking care of her, in any way possible. And maybe that's the real danger here, because as she steps out onto the street and into the New York evening, she imagines how easily she could fall for a man like him. How easily she could give herself to him and to his cause.

And god, maybe she already has.

II

It's nearly midnight by the time Donna lets herself into the penthouse. The moment she closes the door, she leans against it, closing her eyes and exhaling slowly as she lets the events of the last several hours wash over her – Samantha's probing questions, Harvey's unexpected visit, that kiss...

Her head is spinning, her skin still tingling where Harvey touched her. And despite how wrong it all was, despite how badly she knows she should be beating herself up, she feels almost...liberated, but in an empty, sad kind of way. Like someone has opened the cage door, only for her to realize she no longer has the ability to fly.

All these years she has felt like a possession, a belonging, something Wes owned, and here is this man – this stranger – kissing her, and touching her, and looking at her with such intensity and want, as though he couldn't care less about her ties to Weston Harding. As though her past, her future, her promises are completely inconsequential. Like she has choices and free will and agency over her own body, and it's such an alien concept that it terrifies her, because she doesn't know what to do with it.

It's almost like losing a religion – a terrible, twisted, all-encompassing religion that has had its claws in your skin since you were young, that has become so ingrained in every part of who you are and who you believe yourself to be – only to wake up and find it was never real in the first place. And in the light of that truth, what seemed so impenetrable and immutable feels as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke, fading into nothingness, and she feels more alone in this moment than she can remember being in years, the silence in her ears like a deafening roar.

Another man touched her.

Another man touched her and kissed her, and it's such a simple thing, so ordinary and ordinary seeming, but it makes her question everything, makes her question Wes and herself and whether any of the last ten years have been worth it. Whether she made the right choice, and the realization that maybe she didn't, maybe it was all some delusion of love and security that she can't hold on to anymore is such a weight on her shoulders that it feels as if her legs are going to buckle right under her.

She pushes off from the door and walks slowly across the room. Her clothes feel stiff and restricting and she unzips her dress, stepping out of it and kicking it to the side as she makes her way towards the kitchen. Her heels follow, one at a time, landing haphazardly in the middle of the living room, and she can almost hear Wes' voice in her head, scolding her for her messy habits, but she ignores it.

She pours herself a glass of red wine from the decanter on the counter, then moves to the couch and sinks down onto the cushions, pulling her knees up to her chest. She takes a long sip, feeling the warmth of the alcohol spreading through her body. Her shoulders relax slightly and she sighs, leaning her head back against the cushion and closing her eyes.

The wine is rich and deep and almost sweet, and it reminds her of the taste of Harvey's tongue, and she can still feel the pressure of his lips against hers, the heat of his hands on her skin, and her body responds as if he is still touching her, a throbbing between her legs that makes her bite her bottom lip in frustration.

God. She shouldn't be thinking about him, shouldn't be indulging this feeling of attraction that is so dangerous and wrong. She should be disgusted with him, angry, and yet here she is, replaying every second of their kiss over in her mind, her body craving more.

It was nothing, she reminds herself. Just an adrenaline fueled, heat of the moment, insanity induced, hormone driven reaction. An unfortunate accident. It didn't mean anything. It can't mean anything, because she's engaged, for god's sake. To a man who would lose his mind if he found out about this, who would destroy Harvey in every possible way for even looking at her the way he does. And if Harvey was smart, he'd stay the hell away from her.

She needs to think of Wes. To focus on his image and reputation, his future in politics. To think of the bigger picture, and what he wants, what he expects. On keeping up appearances and pleasing him and...

The image of herself naked and on her knees with Wes' hand around her throat floods her mind, the stinging sensation of his belt across her bare ass, his rough voice in her ear telling her over and over that she's his and his alone... Fury builds up inside her, anger at her own weakness and her pathetic need to submit to his abuse, all in an effort to earn some sort of redemption with him. And at him, for making her need it, for pushing her to her breaking point until she finds herself giving it up, time and time again, despite knowing that there's never any satisfaction or true healing that comes from it. Only more pain, more shame, and a deeper sense of self-loathing. And for him to still turn around and use it against her, to keep her on his leash, to make her feel like she owes him. Like she's lucky he still wants her at all.

But Jesus Christ, she loves him so much, and she's so afraid to lose him. And she knows how screwed up that is, to be in love with a man who abuses her, who hurts and humiliates her. She knows how pathetic it is to need someone like this, to allow herself to be treated this way, to get off on the pain he inflicts. But she just does. And she doesn't know how to stop, or how to fix it, or how to ever be good enough.

And even now, she's picking up her phone, and pulling up Wes' name, her finger hovering over the call button, her need to hear his voice, his reassurance, his absolution, so strong. She wants to strip herself bare and fall to her knees in front of him, confess her sins and beg his forgiveness, submit herself to his judgment, and whatever punishment he chooses. It's such an automatic instinct now, so deeply ingrained that she can't help it, the compulsion to reach out to him and give him more power, more control. Because maybe if she gives him more, he will be satisfied, he will be happy. He will see her as good again. And maybe then it will finally end, this vicious cycle they've created, this dance they can never seem to break free from, this fucked-up addiction that neither of them knows how to overcome.

It rings once, twice, three times, before he answers, his voice rough with sleep.

"Donna?"

She doesn't say anything, her breath catching in her throat. Just hearing his voice, hearing the concern in his tone, the care and familiarity and comfort he brings, it's enough to undo her. It's all too much. The words get caught in her throat and her chest constricts painfully. The shame of what she's done, the betrayal, the guilt...

"Baby?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here," she says finally.

"Is everything alright? It's late..."

"Yeah," she replies, swallowing back a wave of emotion. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. I just...wanted to hear your voice."

There's a rustling sound, like he's sitting up in bed. "It's okay," he says, his voice slightly clearer now, less sleepy. "Are you alright? Did something happen?"

The worry in his voice makes her feel a bit sick. She can picture him, all rumpled from sleep and half-awake, concerned for her safety and her wellbeing, and it just makes her feel even worse. He cares, he does, he does love her. He's a good man, deep down, under the layers and layers of ambition and anger and jealousy. It's just...she's just...

She shakes her head. "No. No, everything's fine, Wes. I'm sorry." She sighs. "I just had a rough day at the office, and I've been working so late lately, and I...miss you."

It's the truth, in a way. Maybe not all of it, maybe not the most important part, but...close enough.

There's a pause on the other end of the line, like he's weighing his response. "I miss you, too." He exhales. "I'm sorry I'm away, Donna. You know if there were any other way..."

"I know. I do, I know." She presses a hand to her temple. "I just..." She lets out a shaky laugh. "God, I don't know why I'm like this right now."

There's another beat of silence before Wes speaks again, his voice gentle. "Baby, it's one in the morning. You're running yourself into the ground. You're stressed, and I know you haven't been sleeping." His words are tender and careful, but there's an unmistakable thread of admonition in them, the slightest hint of frustration, as if she should know better. She tenses, hating that even in this moment, in her desperation to hear him and be reassured by him, he can make her feel like she's failing. "This case – Harvey Specter. He's making this harder for you than it needs to be."

Her grip tightens around the phone. "He's just doing his job. You know how I get sometimes with work." She's being defensive, she knows it. "This has nothing to do with him."

"Donna," he sighs, his voice softening a little, "come on. Don't lie to me. I can hear it in your voice. This guy...he's gotten to you."

She doesn't know what to say. That it's true? That Harvey Specter has gotten into her head and made her question everything? Or worse, that there's a part of her, a small, secret part, that likes that he does? That enjoys the way he pushes and challenges her and probably even begrudgingly respects her?

No. That would only make things worse. It would only make Wes more concerned, more paranoid.

So instead she says, "I can handle him, Wes. It's been a rough few weeks, that's all. You're right, I've been pushing myself too hard."

"I'm always right."

"Mm."

"You sound tired, Donna."

"I am." She runs a hand over her face, the exhaustion from the long hours setting in, the ache in her chest dissipating a little. He sounds like himself, she thinks. Soothing and tender, just what she needs right now.

"When does the trial start?"

"We haven't set a date." She's quiet for a moment, her thoughts returning to the office and Harvey and his damn lips and his hands all over her. "But...it won't be for a while."

She knows how this is going to play out. Harvey will do whatever it takes to make sure the trial never happens, because that's where she thrives. In a courtroom.

She feels like a chess player, knowing that one day the king is going to fall, and she doesn't want it to be now. She wants to draw it out. Make it last. Take him one pawn at a time. And even as she's thinking it, she knows she's rationalizing her desire to see him again. And again and again. But she can't help it. She's not ready to lose him, even as a professional rival. Because losing him would mean...something. Something she's not willing to consider at the moment.

He lets out a long sigh, his breath crackling in the phone. "Alright." She hears a creak of bed springs, like he's standing up. "Go to bed, baby."

She laughs lightly. "Yes, sir."

He snorts, and she can tell he's smiling and her heart warms.

"I'll be home soon, Donna," he says, his voice soft. "I love you."

The sincerity of it is unmistakable. It's there in every syllable, every inflection of his voice.

She closes her eyes. "I love you, too."

She hears Wes let out another breath, and then there's a click, and the line goes dead, and Donna is left holding her phone in her hand, alone again, and still so conflicted and confused, but slightly better. More composed.

She leans forward and places the phone on the coffee table, her head in her hands as she tries to push away the doubts, the fears, the lingering memory of Harvey's kiss. She needs to focus on what's important – winning this case, maintaining her relationship with Wes, keeping her life on track.

Tomorrow, she'll go back to the office. She'll face Harvey with cool professionalism, as if nothing ever happened between them. She'll throw herself into work, and the trial prep, and anything else that might distract her. She'll be the perfect fiancée, the brilliant lawyer, the woman everyone expects her to be.

And if sometimes, in the dark of night, she dreams of what might have been if she hadn't ended that kiss? Well, that's no one's business but her own.

III

Harvey's late to work the next morning, nursing the hangover of his life. He barely made it home last night, stumbling through the front door of his building around three in the morning, collapsing into his bed, shoes still on.

He knows he shouldn't have drunk so much – a fifth of scotch on a weeknight – but after last night...well, he felt he deserved it. And the pain is at least a small distraction from the fact that he feels like he's losing his grip.

His morning goes by in a haze, court appearances and motions to file. He has a deposition in an hour, and he really shouldn't go into it looking like death, so he splashes water on his face, fixes his hair, and calls it good enough.

He's in the middle of checking his phone when there's a sharp rap at his office door. Mike pokes his head in, a stack of files tucked under one arm and two cups of coffee balanced in the other. He frowns. "You look like shit."

Harvey gives him the middle finger and goes back to looking through his emails. Mike enters, unperturbed, setting one of the coffees down in front of Harvey.

"Any word from Donna on compliance with our subpoena?" he asks as he drops down into one of the chairs facing Harvey's desk.

Harvey glances at him, trying to keep his expression neutral. "We're going to have to resubmit the subpoena. Tighten the parameters."

Mike's eyebrows shoot up. "What? Why?"

"Because Donna is trying to bury us in paperwork. She delivered every single file Wolcott has ever touched. It would take an army of paralegals a month to sort through it all."

"Wow," Mike says, and Harvey can hear the admiration in his voice. "That's impressive. And diabolical."

Harvey's jaw clenches. "It's not impressive, it's obstructionist bullshit."

"Maybe," Mike shrugs. "But you have to admit, it's a smart play. Keep us chasing our tails, wasting time, and all the while Wolcott is going about business as usual."

"We need to refine the scope," Harvey replies, ignoring the dig, "limit our requests. We have to be surgical with her. Word everything precisely and give her nothing. Not a single goddamn typo or ambiguous clause to work with."

Mike nods. "No loopholes, no wiggle room. Got it."

Harvey is about to reply when movement in the bullpen catches his eye. His words die in his throat as he sees his boss, Cameron Dennis, striding across the office. And beside him, looking every bit the polished politician in his navy suit and perfectly styled hair, is Senator Weston Harding.

Shit.

Harvey's blood turns cold and he feels a wave of panic wash over him. He's certain Harding is here because of last night. Because Donna told him about the kiss, and now the senator is going to drag him out of the building by his tie, kick him in the balls, and toss him down a manhole. And for one insane second, as Harvey watches Harding walk closer, he wonders if that would really be such a bad thing. Because then this whole goddamn disaster would be over, and he would finally have some peace.

Mike is frowning. "Harvey?" he asks, clearly noticing his distraction.

"Get out," Harvey replies, standing and buttoning his jacket.

"What?" Mike says, confusion evident.

"Out," he repeats. "Now."

Mike still looks perplexed, but he nods, grabbing the stack of files from the desk as he stands and exits the office without another word.

Harvey tries to compose himself. He has no idea how to act, or what to do, or even how much Donna has told him, if anything. And if Harding does know, would he have the balls to show up here and confront him directly? It's an arrogant move, for sure.

Cameron enters his office then, followed by the senator, and Harvey fights to keep his expression neutral. His eyes lock on the other man, waiting to see the anger or violence or any indication of what Donna may have shared with him. But there's nothing – just an easy smile, like he's greeting a colleague instead of the man who kissed his fiancee less than twelve hours ago.

"Harvey," Cameron says, "Senator Harding was hoping for a word. You got a minute?"

He swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. "Of course."

Cameron gives the senator a curt nod and then leaves, shutting the office door behind him. Harvey turns to the senator, unsure how to proceed.

Harding looks him over, a bemused expression on his face. "Harvey Specter." He takes a step towards him, his hand outstretched. "Strange, seeing you without a thousand holes in you."

Harvey reaches out and takes his hand. The senator's grip is firm, but not overly aggressive. He forces a tight smile. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you mean."

"Donna keeps your picture pinned to our dartboard." The senator gives him an amused grin, releasing his hand. "I don't know what you ever did to piss her off, but the woman certainly has it out for you."

"Ah," he manages to reply, feeling his pulse slow a bit at Harding's easy-going demeanor. He can't be too pissed about what happened, then, if he's willing to make jokes. Or maybe that's his plan – be friendly and cordial to make Harvey lower his guard, then stab him in the back, or the balls, with a pen or a letter opener when he least expects it. "What can I do for you, Senator?" he says after a beat, his voice as professional as he can make it.

Harding's smile falters slightly, a flicker of concern crossing his features. "Well, to be honest, I'm here about Donna."

Harvey stiffens, his mind going straight back to her office, her lips on his, the heat of her body and the taste of her skin and... "Is...everything alright?" he says, forcing his expression into one of nonchalance.

Harding hesitates, a strange look in his eyes that Harvey can't place. He can feel his heart thudding in his chest and he waits with bated breath for the inevitable moment that the senator will tell him exactly what a piece of shit Harvey is, or ask him point blank how he can live with himself for what he did.

But to his surprise, Harding simply sighs and says, "I'm worried about her. This case...it's taking a toll. The stress, the long hours. She's pushing herself too hard." He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck in an almost sheepish way. "I'm...a little out of my depth, honestly."

Harvey blinks, struggling to process Harding's words. This isn't at all what he was expecting. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says carefully. "But I'm not sure what this has to do with me."

Harding huffs a laugh, but it seems forced. He turns away and takes a few steps before coming to a stop by one of the windows. He's silent for a moment before he continues. "Look, I know you're just doing your job. And I respect that." He turns, meeting Harvey's gaze again. "But I was hoping... Well, I was wondering if there might be a way to resolve this case more quickly. For everyone's sake."

Harvey raises his eyebrows in disbelief. He has to be fucking joking. "With all due respect, Senator, that's not really how the justice system works." He folds his arms across his chest. "We have an investigation to conduct, evidence to examine, witnesses to question. We can't just wish that away because you don't like it."

"I understand that," Harding replies. "I'm not asking you to drop the case. Nothing like that. I'm just wondering if it might be possible for another prosecutor to take the lead. Someone less..." he hesitates, as though searching for the right words. "adversarial," he finishes, and the corner of his mouth twitches in what might be a self-deprecating smile.

"You mean someone who would go easier on her?" Harvey suggests. "Is that what you're looking for, Senator? A prosecutor who won't be quite so...difficult?" He shakes his head. "I doubt Donna would stand for that."

Harding laughs lightly. "Yeah, no, you're probably right. She is a stubborn one. But what Donna wants and what Donna needs are two separate things at this point."

Harvey looks away, feeling strangely uncomfortable at the affection in Harding's voice. It's too much, seeing this man here in his office, so seemingly unaware of what had happened the night before. So genuine in his concern and love for Donna. So obviously a decent man. It makes him feel like even more of a piece of shit for kissing his fiancée, for putting his hands on her and thinking, if just for a few minutes, that it might be worth whatever the hell came afterwards.

He feels sick with shame.

He takes a breath and turns his attention to a pile of files on the edge of his desk. "I understand your concerns about your fiancée's wellbeing. But my hands are tied. I have a responsibility to my office and my district."

He keeps his tone cool and professional, trying not to let any hint of guilt show through. He needs to stay objective. He can't afford to be weak right now. Not when his career – his entire livelihood – is on the line. He has a case to win. He needs to stay focused.

Harding nods. "I understand," he says, his voice sincere. "I know what I'm asking is a lot. But hear me out. You're an ambitious man, Mr. Specter. I've heard you might be considering a run for District Attorney in the future."

Harvey says nothing, unsure where this is leading.

"If you were to... accommodate me on this," Harding continues, "I'd be happy to endorse your candidacy when the time comes. Publicly. My full support, my donors, my political machine – all of it behind you."

It takes Harvey a second to process the words, but when they register, he can't help but feel a rush of indignation. The bastard is trying to bribe him, to use his political influence to get Harvey to back off the case. And for what? For his fiancée's comfort? What the hell?

But Harvey has to admit, he is tempted. The prospect of a Senate-endorsed DA run... Well, it would be the easiest win in New York's history, that's for damn sure. It could jumpstart his career. It could take him further than he's ever dreamed of going. And Harding, despite his apparent arrogance, is well-liked by both parties and has more political capital than god. He's the real thing – young, charismatic, handsome. A fresh face to reinvigorate politics in America and take back the country from the stale status quo. And here he is, offering it all to Harvey on a silver platter.

He thinks about how easy it would be to hand the case off to someone else, to wash his hands of this whole mess. To never have to see Donna again, to never have to feel this conflicted about a woman he barely knows. He could walk away. He could keep his integrity intact. He could keep his job. His sanity. He could be the next Manhattan DA.

"And Donna?" he finds himself asking before he can stop himself. "Would she be okay with you interfering like this?"

Harding seems a bit thrown by the question, like it never occurred to him that his fiancée's wishes might play any part in the matter. He stares at Harvey for a moment, and something almost imperceptible crosses his face, a flicker of something, a crack in that veneer of charisma.

But it's gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by an easy smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Donna is a big girl," he says. "She knows how I operate."

It's an evasion, a politician's answer. It doesn't tell Harvey anything about whether Donna even wants Harvey off the case, let alone whether Harding's interference would be welcomed. He looks away, staring out the window, considering his options.

He kissed her. She slapped him. He doesn't even know her. Not really. And he doesn't have any obligation to her. He can walk away. It would be the easy thing to do, to simply take what's being offered and get back to his life. To look out for number one, like he always has. It would be the smart thing to do. It would be the Harvey Specter way.

But somehow, as much as he tries to talk himself into it, the words keep turning around in his mind: would she be okay with it? Would Donna be okay with him handing the case off?

He knows it's stupid and foolish and utterly irrational to give a damn what she would want, given the situation, and the fact that she probably never wants to speak to him again as long as she lives. But there it is. The thought that she might not be on board with her fiancé making these decisions for her. The thought that, for some strange and inexplicable reason, Harvey feels this intense desire to be certain that Donna is okay with what he does before he does it.

It's insane, this feeling he has that he has to protect her. And it's stupid. She's a grown woman, engaged to one of the most powerful men in the country. She doesn't need or want his protection, or anyone else's, for that matter. But the fact that it's the senator himself coming here, trying to interfere in this case and push her around, like he has the right...well, it just doesn't sit right with Harvey.

It feels...dishonorable somehow. Like a betrayal, even though it makes no sense whatsoever to have this sense of loyalty towards her. He hates the woman. He resents the hell out of her. She's standing between him and his future, and he has every right to want to make sure that he doesn't get screwed out of that future.

Harvey sighs heavily, running his hands through his hair. He turns to the senator. "Let me think about it," he says finally. "Give me a day."

Harding gives a nod. "Fair enough." He pauses, seeming to consider his next words. "I don't normally do this kind of thing, Harvey." His voice is quiet, almost humble. "I'm not one to go around making requests. But when it comes to Donna... well, there's not much I wouldn't do to protect her."

The senator's gaze is intense and sincere, and it makes Harvey uncomfortable. This whole situation makes him uncomfortable. And maybe he should just say yes, maybe he should just take Harding up on his offer, but something deep inside him is holding him back, and it has nothing to do with his integrity and everything to do with what happened in Donna's office the night before.

"I'll be in touch," is all he says in response to the senator's admission, hoping he sounds firm but not confrontational. Harding seems satisfied by the answer and gives Harvey another nod, his face breaking into that easy-going grin again. But Harvey has a feeling that nothing is easy about Harding at all. He's a shark, and Harvey would be wise to tread carefully around him.

They exchange goodbyes and Harvey waits until Harding leaves the room, before slumping down in his desk chair. He takes off his jacket and loosens his tie, trying to collect his thoughts. His head is throbbing and he closes his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands against his temples.

"Harvey."

His eyes snap open at the sound of his name to find Cameron standing in his office doorway, watching him.

"What?"

Cameron is silent for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. "What was that about?"

"Nothing."

"Senator Harding waltzing into my office is not nothing," he replies, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "What did he want?"

Harvey shakes his head, not wanting to divulge too much to Cameron. His boss knows how to play the politics game, and Harvey isn't about to reveal anything about his conversation with the senator before he knows exactly what he wants to do with the offer Harding made him. "He wants me to back off Paulsen, let someone else handle the trial."

"Why?"

"He thinks I'm too tough on her," he says, giving a shrug.

Cameron glares at Harvey for a long, tense moment, his jaw tight. "I knew it was a bad idea putting you on this case," he says. "You're a liability."

"I'm handling it."

"Handle it better. I won't have the goddamn senator of New York sticking his nose into DA office business because his fiancée is complaining about one of my shitbird prosecutors." Cameron folds his arms across his chest and looks Harvey in the eye. "Whatever problems you have with Paulsen, you keep it in-house, and you solve it. No more complaints. If Harding shows up here again, I'll pull you off the case myself. Understand?"

Harvey clenches his fists behind the desk. "Why does it matter if he sticks his nose in our business? We have nothing to hide, Cameron. It's not a crime to be tough on someone."

"I don't want to see him here again, Harvey."

He's silent, unable to think of a response. He feels like a child being scolded and it pisses him off. Cameron has no right to come into his office and tell him how to handle his case or question his judgment. But he doesn't want to get into a shouting match with his boss, not with so many other things going on right now. So he stays quiet, avoiding eye contact, biting back a sharp reply.

"Are we clear?" Cameron says finally, when Harvey doesn't respond.

"Crystal," he replies, keeping his voice even, his words clipped.

"Good."

With that, Cameron leaves, slamming the door behind him.

Harvey leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his hands on either side of his head. Harding's bribe is beginning to sound better and better, especially if he's going to end up taken off the case anyway. At least if he walks away, he walks away with a win.

He sighs. What the hell has he gotten himself into?