A/N: I want to preface this by saying, please be aware of the content warning. Although a lot of this will be a fun and sexy read, the story does deal with some themes that aren't so lighthearted. I will include more detailed CW for each chapter if need be, but there is an abundance of dark romance elements and psychological drama ahead, so if you are sensitive to those things, this might not be the fic for you. If you followed me from The Secretary, you already know my style; I can't do anything fun without some pain and drama thrown in there.

Secondly, I want to say that I know I'm taking some creative liberties when it comes to the legalities and politics in this fic. I've done my best to be accurate, but some of the things written are definitely not how things actually work haha.

Content Warning: unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, rough sex


Part 1

You do not do, you do not do

Any more, black shoe

In which I have lived like a foot

For thirty years, poor and white,

Barely daring to breathe or Achoo.

~Daddy, Sylvia Plath~

Chapter 1: Big Bad Wolf

I

The whispers trail Donna like smoke. They drift in through the elevator shafts and swirl around the firm's marble lobby, curling around the partners' secretaries' ankles as they walk, and weaving between the cubicles where the associates sit. She knows the words and the tone well. She has heard them all before. The rumors have always been there, but it's not until recently that Donna has found them grating, like fingernails dragging along a chalkboard.

It's been two weeks since the illustrious "Paulsen" had been etched onto the wall in the lobby. The new letterhead is stacked neatly in boxes and the name is inscribed across the company website. Pearson Wheeler Paulsen. A new chapter for the firm and an opportunity to create her own legacy, but all Donna can think about is how difficult it is to escape someone else's.

She stands now on the fiftieth floor, looking out over the city from the window. It's a rare quiet moment in the midst of the activity around her, a moment when her thoughts are not consumed with briefs and precedents and strategy. Donna is not the kind of person to look back on her past or question her life, but today she does both, and the only word that comes to mind is, Why?

She wonders why she is here. Not why she works at the firm or why she has climbed the ranks and made named partner. Those are easy questions to answer. She's a brilliant lawyer, and she had worked her ass off. No, the question is why, despite her success and her ambition, does she feel like her life is not her own?

Why, in the middle of this busy, thriving firm, does she feel like she's on the outside, looking in? Why, after all these years, does she still feel like an imposter, pretending to be someone she's not? And why, no matter how hard she tries, can she not shake the feeling that something is missing?

She takes a deep breath and shakes her head, trying to clear her thoughts. She's being ridiculous. She has everything she's ever wanted. She's the youngest female partner at one of the most notable law firms in the city. She has an impressive list of clients and an even more impressive track record of wins. She's engaged to one of the most promising politicians in the country, a man who loves her and supports her and has stood by her side through everything

She should be happy. She is happy. Isn't she?

"Donna."

A familiar voice pulls her out of her thoughts, and she turns to see her managing partner and mentor, Jessica Pearson, standing behind her, her face unreadable as usual.

"We need to talk," she says, her voice clipped. "My office."

There is no indication of what the conversation is about, but Donna knows it can't be good. She follows Jessica down the hall and into her office, closing the door behind them. Jessica crosses to the other side of the room and leans against the edge of her desk.

"Wolcott Aerospace is being sued."

"Wolcott," Donna repeats, her brow lifted in surprise. "As in, the biggest client this firm has ever had?"

"Yes, that Wolcott."

"What are the charges?"

"Grand larceny and violations of the False Claims Act, brought forth by the DA's office." The lines around Jessica's mouth tighten. "The allegations are that Wolcott billed the state millions of dollars in phony expenditures over the past decade for their aerospace development contract."

Donna exhales heavily. A case like this could bankrupt Wolcott and spill over into investigations of the firm itself over accusations of enabling the fraud.

"Who's handling the prosecution?"

A look passes across Jessica's face, a look that tells Donna exactly who it is.

"Harvey Specter," Donna answers for her, rolling the name over her tongue like a fine wine, savoring every letter.

Jessica nods, and Donna feels an inexplicable twinge of excitement, a sudden surge of adrenaline at the prospect of going head to head with this man who is, to put it mildly, a bit of a legend. The chief ADA whose star has been soaring on an unstoppable trajectory towards becoming New York's next District Attorney once Cameron Dennis' term is up. He has racked up a nearly perfect conviction record, his presence in the courtroom so captivating that the press can't seem to get enough of him.

Up until this point, Donna has only seen Harvey from a distance, or caught a glimpse of him walking across the courtroom, but god has she long fantasied about facing him, the way he might try to intimidate her with his cocky swagger and that arrogant smirk, and the way she would hold her own. She's a legend in her own right, after all. Her courtroom presence is pure theater. She can get a jury to do a one-eighty in a single closing argument. It would be a battle of the best.

He's her white whale, and here he is, delivered straight to her doorstep, and the opportunity to defeat him is the most exciting thing she's had in months.

"I want him," Donna says firmly, practically salivating at the idea. "I want the case."

Jessica arches an eyebrow, looking amused. "I thought you might. And I would give it to you, but I think you're legal hard-on for the man has you forgetting something."

"Forgetting what?"

"Wes," she says. "You're getting married next month, remember?"

Donna's face falls. How could she have forgotten? The wedding, her and Wes' wedding, the event she had been planning and agonizing over for the last two years.

"Right." Donna sighs. "The wedding."

She had been so caught up in her excitement over the prospect of a case, she hadn't even considered how complicated it would be to add another project to her plate. Between her work at the firm and her preparations for the wedding, she barely has time to sleep, let alone take on a complex, high profile case like this one.

But the desire to go head to head with Harvey is still strong, and the thought of missing out on this chance is almost too much to bear.

"Maybe I can make it work," Donna says, thinking aloud. "I could postpone the wedding, push it back a few months, and in the meantime, I could focus on the case."

"Donna." Jessica shakes her head. "This is your wedding we're talking about. Not some minor inconvenience. Think of the optics. Not great for a senator's fiancée to be canceling her wedding because she's more focused on her career. It looks bad. People will talk."

Donna feels a flicker of irritation. The relationship double standards for successful women never cease to annoy her. A man taking a major case shortly before his wedding would be a non-issue, the sign of a dedicated professional. But for her, it would inevitably turn into salacious drama about the state of her personal life and a reflection on her priorities.

"People already talk," Donna says. "They've been talking ever since I became a partner. Hell, they've been talking since I started here. You know that."

Jessica doesn't deny it, but she doesn't offer any solution either. She simply stares at Donna, waiting.

Donna looks out the window again, taking in the sprawling view of the city. She can almost feel the weight of a thousand judgmental stares, and she realizes that the rumors are just the beginning. The whispers will only grow louder, and if she chooses this case over her wedding, she will have the entire firm questioning her sanity.

But if she wins, the victory would silence any doubt. She will prove, once and for all, that she is the best. That she belongs here, at the top, and hasn't been put here simply because of her connection to a powerful man.

"I want the case, Jessica," Donna says finally, turning back to meet her managing partner's gaze. "I need everyone to know my name belongs on that wall. That I earned this. And I'm not going to let anything, or anyone, stop me."

A small smile curls at the corner of Jessica's lips, and for a moment, Donna thinks she sees a hint of pride in her mentor's eyes. "Fine. But let me be clear – Harvey Specter is a goddamn force and this is going to be war. If you lose..."

"I won't," Donna cuts her off. "I won't lose."

The words hang in the air, and the tension in the room is palpable. They both know the stakes, and they both know what's at risk. The fate of the firm's most significant client. Their reputation. Donna's future.

But Donna doesn't waver. She stares back at Jessica, her expression firm and determined, and after a moment, Jessica nods.

"All right then," she says. "Specter is all yours."

II

The Manhattan DA's office is a blur of activity even at this late hour, the hallways still filled with the sounds of ringing phones and murmured conversations. Harvey sits at his desk, his fingers steepled under his chin as he stares unseeingly at the case file open in front of him.

His mind drifts, unable to focus on the facts and figures laid out before him. Instead, it keeps returning to that meeting earlier today, to the news that Pearson Wheeler Paulsen would be handling Wolcott Aerospace's defense. And not just any attorney at the firm, but their newest named partner, Donna Paulsen.

He tried to play it off as nothing, a mere blip on his radar. Just another adversary to be outmaneuvered and defeated in the courtroom. But even as he forced himself to believe this, he couldn't ignore the way his heart rate picked up, just a little, at the thought of her.

Donna Paulsen. Harvey has heard the name countless times, whispered in tones of admiration and scorn by those within New York's legal circles. The youngest partner at her firm, with a track record of success that is impressive even by his standards. A woman with a reputation for being as ruthless and calculating as she is stunning, who possesses a rare gift for captivating juries. Not to mention her enviable connections—New York's golden boy senator Weston Harding, a man being groomed for higher office.

On the surface, it should be easy to write her off as just another ambitious, opportunistic lawyer. A pretty face who got lucky, riding the coattails of her wealthy, influential fiancé. But Harvey knows better. He's seen too many cases crumble against Donna's fierce intellect and cunning legal maneuvering. She's not a woman to be underestimated.

He shifts in his chair, unable to sit still. His thoughts return to the first time he saw her, years ago, when they were both much younger and their paths had yet to cross.

It had been at some overblown fundraiser for yet another of Mayor Logan's re-election campaigns. Harvey hated these events, this parade of blinding camera flashes and hollow smiles as New York's wealthiest fell over themselves to curry favor by writing increasingly obscene checks. Maybe that's why his gaze had strayed to the periphery, drawn to something—someone—real.

And there she was, standing slightly apart from the crowd, her red hair a brilliant contrast to the black cocktail dress that she wore. She held herself with a confidence that was impossible to ignore, her shoulders thrown back and her chin held high, almost daring someone to question her place in the room. He could sense the power that emanated from her, the kind that didn't come from money or social standing but was instead a product of her own strength and determination.

As if summoned by the force of his stare, her gaze had flicked up and found his. Her lips curved in the barest hint of a knowing smile. An invitation and a challenge all at once.

Harvey had never been one to back down from a dare.

He had moved through the crowd like a shark, cutting a path towards her. His eyes never left hers, and he could see the amusement sparking in them, the quiet appraisal, as if she was determining how to label him in her taxonomy of men.

The moment before he reached her, an unfamiliar voice had spoken, breaking the spell.

"Donna, honey, come here. There's someone I want you to meet."

And just like that, she had turned and walked away, disappearing through the crowd, and he'd been left with the strangest sense of loss, like he'd missed out on something profound and life altering. Harvey had stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where she had been, before a familiar hand clapped him on the shoulder, bringing him back to reality.

"Who is she?" he had asked, his voice coming out rougher than he'd intended.

His mentor, Cameron Dennis, grinned. "She's off limits," he said, his tone full of mock warning. "Don't even bother, Harvey. You'll never get a foot in the door. That's Weston Harding's girl."

It was then that Harvey realized who she was, his gaze flicking over to Harding and his entourage. Sure enough, there she was, pressed against his side, her red hair cascading over one shoulder. Harding's arm was looped possessively around her waist, his expression a mix of pride and infatuation. Harvey watched as she tilted her head, her lips brushing Harding's ear as she spoke. Harvey had a feeling she was telling the man something wicked and teasing, because Harding's mouth curved into a slow, sultry smile.

Harding's girl. Harvey felt a surge of irritation. Of course, a woman like that would belong to someone. Still, the feeling passed quickly. She wasn't his type, anyway. Beautiful, sure, but she was probably just another vapid society girl with a pretty face and expensive taste, some accessory to fill Harding's arm. Her frivolity and shallowness weren't for him. He liked his women smart and snarky and, most importantly, temporary.

Besides, Harvey had had his share of conquests and had no trouble finding company at the end of the night. And so he had put the mysterious woman out of his mind, dismissing her as nothing more than a passing distraction. Or at least, he had tried.

There had been a few more sightings of her over the years, each one more intriguing than the last. He had watched her rise through the ranks, carving out a place for herself in the cutthroat world of corporate law. And he had never forgotten the feeling that had taken root in his chest the night he saw her. A curiosity. An infatuation. And the undeniable urge to conquer.

Now, as he stares down the reality of taking her on in court, he realizes he's not disappointed. He's ready. He's been waiting for this moment. Of finally bringing this beautiful, mysterious woman to her knees, and showing her who he is, and what he can do.

"Harvey."

He looks up from his thoughts to find Mike, one of the rookie ADA's, a kid that's somehow managed to latch onto Harvey like an annoying little brother, hovering in his doorway. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up and his tie is askew. By the looks of things, he's been here all night too.

"What is it?" Harvey asks, all traces of his musings hidden under his usual mask of cool indifference.

Mike crosses the room and perches on the edge of Harvey's desk, ignoring the exasperated sigh from his superior.

"You're thinking about her, aren't you? Donna Paulsen?"

Harvey arches an eyebrow at him, but says nothing.

"C'mon," Mike presses. "Don't tell me you're not looking forward to taking her on. She's at the top of her game."

Harvey leans back in his chair and crosses his arms, trying to appear unaffected. "What's there to look forward to? I'll destroy her, and it'll be another day at the office."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Can't you acknowledge that there's a worthy opponent out there? Someone who might actually make you break a sweat?"

"Worthy?" Harvey scoffs. "What, because she's a named partner at some fancy firm? I hate to break it to you, kid, but sleeping with the right people doesn't make you a good lawyer. She'll probably plead out within the week."

Mike shakes his head, a smug smile spreading across his face.

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that. The way she dismantled Rodger Parnacki's testimony last year in the Toyota emissions case? Holy shit, it was a thing of beauty. I was actually moved. Like, tear-in-my-eye, goosebumps-on-my-arm, kind of moved. She won that case single handedly, took it from a slam dunk guilty to complete dismissal in less than a month." He falls silent for a moment. "Just admit it, Harvey, she's impressive. And if you're not thinking about her, you're a goddamn liar."

Harvey fixes Mike with an annoyed look, all traces of teasing gone from his features. "Whatever her track record, she's still going to come up short in the end. Because when push comes to shove, Donna Paulsen is just another privileged lawyer with more luck and influence than skill, and this case is going to prove it."

Mike looks like he wants to argue, but seems to think better of it. He slides off the desk and shakes his head, resigned.

"Right. Well. Glad we got that cleared up. I'll leave you to your brooding." He crosses the room to the door, pausing to glance back at Harvey. "Just don't say I didn't warn you. This woman is going to make you work for it. Whatever winning strategy you think you've got, it's not going to be enough."

And with that, he disappears into the hallway, leaving Harvey alone with his thoughts.

Harvey looks down at the file in front of him, the evidence against Wolcott laid out in black and white. It's damning, to say the least. Five million in phony expenses for research that was never performed, years worth of misleading and sloppy accounting. There's no way to spin it to make the defendant look anything other than corrupt and complicit.

He thinks of Donna, of the way she'll posture and preen, playing to the jury with theatrics and charm. He thinks of the way she'll try to rattle him, to undermine his case with technicalities and procedural errors. He knows her game and her style, has seen her work it against a hundred other lesser men. But he's not them. This is his city and his goddamn victory. He won't let her take it from him. Not when he's so close to his own political aspirations. His run for DA at the end of Cameron's term is only a few short months away, and Donna Paulsen is nothing but a nuisance, a distraction, a roadblock on his path to greatness.

So, no, he's not thinking about her, and Mike's words don't mean a goddamn thing. Harvey knows exactly what he's up against. And when the time comes, he'll do what he's always done. Win.

III

It's late when Donna arrives home, the penthouse dark and silent, save for the soft glow of a lamp in the living room. She drops her bag on the kitchen island and walks quietly through the apartment, careful not to wake Wes.

As she passes the bathroom, she pauses, her eyes drawn to the light seeping from under the door. The faint sound of running water floats through the wood, and she feels immediately guilty. He must have stayed up, waiting for her. She should have called. She should have told him about the case. But the idea of telling him she has to postpone their wedding for god knows how long had seemed unbearable at the time, and so she'd taken the coward's way out, choosing instead to hide behind her work.

Because the truth is, she knows Wes won't be happy. He's already worried about her long hours, the strain it's putting on their relationship. And the last thing she wants to do is risk an argument.

She reaches for the doorknob, her fingers hesitating on the metal. For a brief moment, she considers turning around and walking away, postponing the confrontation until tomorrow. But the thought is fleeting, and the urge to apologize wins out.

She opens the door.

The room is bathed in the soft glow of the vanity lights, the air heavy with steam from the shower. Through the glass of the large walk-in stall, she can see Wes' figure, the lines of his body blurred by the mist and the opacity of the door. But she doesn't have to see him clearly to know how he looks, to recognize the sharp cut of muscle and the well defined planes of his shoulders. He's in the middle of rinsing the shampoo out of his hair, one hand braced against the wall while the other works furiously, clumps of soapy foam sliding down his back.

She leans against the doorframe, watching him with an air of detachment. In fact, the intimacy of the scene is painfully absent, the familiarity of the ritual taking the edge off any eroticism to be found in the nakedness. She's seen him do this a thousand times before, her eyes tracing over his perfect form, the one that is featured in numerous campaign brochures and billboards around the city.

Weston Harding. The People's Man. An American dream, so clean cut and wholesome. He's the symbol of what's right in the world, of old fashioned values and hard work, despite having risen to power on a wave of progressive ideas and policies. He's a Harvard grad and a Rhodes scholar, a pillar of selflessness and integrity. Everything about him screams patriot, from the boyish brown of his hair to the light tint in his eyes, so blue they border on periwinkle.

Donna knows his voters expect him to be the upright picture of decency, and so he doesn't drink publicly, or party, or sleep around. He doesn't indulge or misbehave, or create scandal, or any of the things that might tarnish his perfect image. There likely isn't a single person in the country, when looking at him, who doesn't think goodness.

She undresses in silence, dropping her clothes carelessly on the floor. Moving as quietly as she can, she pushes open the shower door and slips into the stream of water. Wes doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge her presence. He simply stands there, his back to her, his head bowed beneath the water's spray.

She traces her fingers lightly down the line of his spine, the skin slick with soap. He stiffens slightly, his shoulders rigid.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I got caught up at work. I should have called."

He says nothing. She waits, watching the water run over his muscles, coursing in tiny rivers down the dip of his lower back. Her fingertips linger on his skin, but the gesture has a tentative quality, like the caution of a child pressing their hand to a stove's surface to test the heat, needing both to be burned again and not burned again.

He shifts, giving her an inch of space. An inch that's all the invitation she needs. She steps closer, wrapping her arms around his torso, pressing her front against his back. She kisses his shoulder blade, feeling the tension still held in his body.

"Tell me what you're thinking."

Her voice is a quiet murmur in his ear. He sighs and turns to face her, the wet strands of his hair brushing against her forehead. She tilts her face upwards, finding his gaze in the low light. For a long moment, he just looks at her, an inscrutable emotion hidden in the depths of those blue, blue eyes.

"I'm thinking," he says slowly, his words measured, "that I'm really fucking tired of this."

Then, with a sudden, almost violent motion, his fingers find the back of her neck and he crushes his mouth against hers. He pushes her back against the wall, pinning her in place, one hand fisted in her wet hair. The kiss is hungry and possessive, all teeth and tongue, with a need for something she can never fully satisfy. His desire for more from her is always more than she can give, and she is constantly falling short. A disappointment, a failing wife, and they're not even married yet.

He is not gentle. He drags his teeth down the skin of her throat, his grip on her hair tightening. Her head is forced back at an awkward angle, tears of pain stinging the corners of her eyes. She can feel his other hand gripping her waist, the edge of the bruises he left the other night making themselves known as his fingers press into the flesh. She bites her lip to stifle a whimper.

This is the Weston Harding the public will never see. Never know about. No, this Wes belongs to her, and her alone. And even as his hands grow rougher and the violence of his desire more pronounced, she knows there will be nothing left behind for others to find. Nothing that might slip between the cracks of this charade they've so carefully built, piece by piece.

Because to the world, he's the perfect gentleman, the picture of restraint and refinement, and she's his devoted and dutiful fiancée, always standing by his side. And what a picture they make together, so perfectly matched in their flawlessness.

But here, in their private life, there's a different energy, a tense undercurrent that manifests itself in more clandestine ways. Harsh whispers when they argue, the metallic click of cuffs closing around limbs, her hair clenched too tight in his fist while he fucks her from behind. And she never offers a complaint, content to understand this is part of the unspoken arrangement of their relationship, the private price she must pay for the privilege of being his.

They both know there's a certain power play at work. Something that's become less about the intense sex and more a punishment for having lost track of time, gotten caught up in her work, for letting him down. This is his means of reasserting control, of reminding her who calls the shots. Who owns whom. And she knows he needs this. To show her his power over her and her overreaching influence on him. And it's an exchange that works for both of them. Something that's a give and take, in ways neither of them understands but both instinctively feel the importance of keeping alive.

Their relationship may not be perfect, but it is theirs. It fits, in all the wrong places, against the grain and beneath the veneer. Sometimes it even feels right. More than that, it's necessary, necessary in a way that frightens Donna to examine in daylight.

The heat rises, and all the while she catches his gaze. Those cold, blue eyes that betray the hint of betrayal and anguish he bears in his heart towards her. Eyes that would never have such power if they didn't love her so much.

He must sense the weakness he's revealing because he abruptly pulls back, spinning her against the glass, pressing her flush to the wall. He nudges her legs apart with a knee, hiking her up on her toes. There is no prep, no warm up, and she's gasping at the stretch as he enters her, his movements rough and fast and just on the right side of painful. He reaches around and squeezes her breasts, his teeth sinking into her shoulder and something inside her breaks, just a little. Just enough. The pain brings clarity. A freedom from the stress of her day, from the pressures and expectations and ever present threat of failure. This is her atonement. This is how she manages to earn the love that comes freely but sometimes feels like a fragile, precious thing she must constantly validate. This is how she proves her loyalty to a man she never wanted to fall in love with, yet, here she is. Completely, irrevocably, unapologetically his.

They finish quickly. He lets her come. But the climax is no victory. Neither is it a release. It's barely an afterthought. And when he spills inside her, her body pressed tightly against the glass, sagging in his embrace, the shame creeps in, as it always does.

He withdraws, but the coldness remains. Not just the feeling of his absence but the creeping realization that the sex didn't achieve what it was meant to. He steps out of the shower, drying himself with short, quick motions, and slams the door behind him.

She doesn't move. She lets the water beat down on her skin, washing away the physical evidence of what had just transpired. But even as her body is cleansed, her heart feels dirtier, somehow. Tainted by the darkness that hovers around her and Wes, thick and heavy like the steam that fills the room.

She doesn't know how long she stays there, lost in her thoughts, before she finally turns off the water and steps out. She dries herself off and wraps a robe around her body, then makes her way to the bedroom.

The room is dark, the only illumination coming from the city lights shining through the floor to ceiling windows. Wes sits on the edge of the bed, his back to her, a towel slung low across his hip and his hair tousled.

She hesitates in the doorway, studying the tense lines of his shoulders, the way his hands grip the mattress. The silence feels weighted, charged with all the things left unsaid between them.

Finally, Wes speaks without turning around. "Are you going to tell me what's going on?" His voice is quiet but there's an unmistakable edge to it.

Donna considers her answer, choosing her words carefully. "Wolcott Aerospace is being sued."

She sees Wes' back stiffen ever so slightly at the mention of the firm's biggest client. He knows as well as she does what a massive deal this is. "Okay," he says slowly. "And?"

"The prosecution is being led by Harvey Specter."

Wes turns then, his eyes finding hers in the semi-darkness. "The hotshot ADA you have pinned to our dartboard?"

"Yes, that's the one."

Wes shakes his head slowly. "Damn. I can only imagine the pressure Jessica must be under to win this."

"Actually..." Donna pauses, bracing herself. "Jessica gave the case to me. I'll be lead counsel going up against Specter."

The words hang in the air. Even from across the room, she can see the muscle ticking in his jaw. For a long moment, he is silent, staring at her with an unreadable expression. Then: "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

His voice is low, dangerous, and Donna feels her heart begin to race. She knows better than to respond, to say anything at all, and so she remains still, rooted to the spot, waiting for him to continue.

Wes rises to his feet, crossing the room to stand directly in front of her. He's so close that she can see the storm clouds gathering in his eyes, the subtle tightening of his fists.

"I thought we talked about this. I thought we agreed – no major cases before the wedding."

Guilt twists in Donna's gut. She'd made the promise in the heat of an argument, a rare moment of hurt and anger fueled by sleepless nights, broken promises, and weeks of spending more time at work than with each other. She hadn't meant it, hadn't even thought he took it seriously, but apparently, he had.

"Wes, listen–"

"No, you listen." He cuts her off, his voice rising. "We're getting married next month. The venue is booked, the guests have RSVP'd, and I've put up with the bullshit excuse of your busy schedule for far too long. And now you're telling me, on top of everything else, that you have to take on the case that will consume every waking moment of your time? That you're going to be even more impossible to reach than you already are?"

"I don't have a choice," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. "Jessica gave me the case."

"Like hell you don't have a choice." His words are full of barely contained rage, and Donna flinches as he takes a step closer. She wants to move back, put some space between them, but she's cornered, her spine pressed against the doorframe. "You can say no, Donna. You can turn the case down."

"And why would I do that?" She knows her response is the wrong one, the words spilling out of her mouth before she can stop them. "This is the kind of case I've been waiting my entire career for. An opportunity to prove myself against one of the best in the city."

"At what cost?" Wes' eyes bore into hers, and she can see the emotions play out across his face, disbelief and resentment and fury colliding. "Our wedding? Our future? Are you really willing to put all of that on hold for some case?"

"Yes."

The word seems to echo in the silence between them, and she knows, the second she says it, that she's gone too far. That there's no coming back from this. Still, she can't bring herself to take it back. Can't bring herself to deny the truth in her answer, however ugly and brutal it might be.

He stares at her, his eyes glittering with the very edge of control. Donna's skin prickles with anticipation and maybe a little fear. Any second, he'll explode; he'll erupt with the unhinged rage that has shaped their sex life and has begun to bleed into their day to day existence. And she's prepared for it, the attack, the fury, knowing it's her fault.

But instead, he takes a deep breath, reining himself in with every ounce of political restraint.

"You're serious," he says, his voice hollow.

"I am," she whispers, and she hates herself for it. Hates how easily she gives into the guilt and the self-loathing. Hates the way she can feel her rationale, her sense of self, of what's important, disintegrate under the weight of his disappointment. "Everyone at that firm, maybe everyone in this city, they all think the only reason I am where I am is because of you. They think I don't deserve it."

Wes' expression shifts, some of the anger giving way to surprise. "What's wrong with that?" he asks. "Donna, I paid for your schooling. I introduced you to Jessica. If it wasn't for my connections, you wouldn't have even gotten hired at Pearson Wheeler in the first place."

Something in his words, the way he casually dismisses the work she's done, the blood she's sweat, the countless hours she's put into her career, and how it all equates to how insignificant her achievement would be if it wasn't a result of his doing...it's like a needle to the heart. Because as much as she hates to admit it, as much as she's always fought against this very assumption...he's right. He's stating nothing but facts.

Wes seems to realize he's struck a nerve because he softens slightly, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'm not trying to diminish your accomplishments, baby. You're a brilliant lawyer and you've more than earned your place at that firm. But there's no shame in admitting you had a little help along the way."

Logically, she knows he's right. But emotionally, internally, she feels like her world is caving in. It's one thing to suspect people see her as just Weston Harding's fiancée, a woman who has only gotten where she is by sleeping her way to the top. It's another thing entirely to hear it confirmed by the man she loves.

She looks up at Wes, her eyes searching his. For what, she doesn't know. Comfort? Answers? An escape? He doesn't offer any of those things. Instead, he reaches out, cupping her cheek in his palm. The tenderness of the gesture is like salt in an open wound, and she fights the urge to pull away, to end this conversation, to do what she's always done with him. Burden bearing and indulgence. Not confrontation.

"Why does it matter what they think?" Wes murmurs, his eyes locked on hers. "Who cares what a bunch of pretentious lawyers have to say? Let them talk. You know your worth."

Somehow, his words only make her feel worse. Because yes, she knows her worth, and deep down, she's always feared it comes nowhere near her aspirations. She will never admit it to anyone but herself, but, when she's honest, the simple truth is, she's afraid that without Weston Harding, she is nothing at all.

She feels her chest tighten, and she takes a deep, shaky breath. "It matters because it feels like nothing I do is good enough. Every time I think I'm finally making my mark, I'm reminded that my achievements are only as significant as the man who makes them possible. All these years, all this time spent working my ass off, and still it's your influence that's driving me."

She hears her voice crack and she looks away, hating how weak she sounds.

Wes' hand drops to his side. "That's not true, Donna. You're overreacting."

But she knows he doesn't believe that, not really. He's just trying to appease her. And suddenly, she's exhausted. She doesn't want to keep circling this argument, the one they've been having for months now. She doesn't want to explain how being thought of as someone's lesser half grates on her ego, insecurity leaking out of her where she'd trained it to stay encapsulated. She doesn't want to revisit the weight of perceived worth, with her success determined by Wes' hand-holding and approval, his guidance in choosing and affording her path, and watching the credit earned redirected towards him instead.

But the damage is done. Nothing will be gained by staying silent.

"Am I overreacting?" She glances back up at Wes and lets the question linger for a moment, feeling it burn in her chest. "What's my worth to you, Wes? Aside from being a pretty little prize for you to parade around? Something to show off to make you look good. Boost your image. Isn't that the ultimate goal here?"

He takes a step back, running a hand over his mouth. The corner of his eyes turns up, a half-hearted smile, but his gaze is dark, the hint of compassion disappearing from his expression.

"Jesus, Donna. Don't be ridiculous. If that's all I wanted, I would be marrying a model instead of putting all this time and money into an overworked lawyer with a superiority complex."

Donna tries not to flinch at his words, but she feels their sting. The casualness of his dismissal, the lack of regard.

"Maybe that's exactly what you should do," she snaps. "If that's what you want, if that's what's more useful to you, maybe you should marry someone a little more...obedient."

"Maybe I should. At least a model would know her place, wouldn't be so damn entitled. Wouldn't throw away her entire life for some fucking ego trip."

His words hit their mark, and she feels the tears rise again, this time out of anger and frustration at her own insecurities. How had she let this get so out of control? Why had she ever allowed him to have this power, to reduce her so easily? And suddenly, this case, her position and autonomy, all of it, is felt like it's just so many shiny objects floating away from her.

"You're the one who pushed me to go after my dreams," she says. "You're the one who said I could have it all. And now, when I'm finally getting everything I want, you're telling me I can't have it? That I have to choose?"

"Don't make me out to be the bad guy here," he says, his voice growing cold. "You know that's not what I'm saying. I want you to be successful, Donna. I want you to be happy. But this...this is insane. You're throwing away the most important moment of our lives for a goddamn case. And honestly, I'm starting to wonder if this is your way of pulling back from us, of giving yourself an excuse to postpone this wedding."

The accusation rings through the room, hanging in the air between them, and for a moment, Donna is speechless. She gapes at Wes, shocked by his words, her mind racing to process them. And in that moment, she feels something shift, some deep realization moving her heart, even though her head refuses to acknowledge it.

"No," she whispers. She shakes her head, the tears coming in earnest now. "I'm not...I'd never..."

Her voice breaks off as the weight of what she's doing – the truth behind Wes' words – becomes too much to bear. In an instant, it's all clear. The fight. The disappointment. The desperation. The desire to postpone the inevitable. The feeling of being so trapped she would rather fail than give in. It all makes sense, the pieces falling into place like a final, deadly blow, and suddenly, the very foundation beneath her feet seems to crumble.

"Jesus Christ. I love you, Donna. Don't you see that?" His voice is low, anguished, the words ripping from him. "I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but I can't seem to get through to you, and quite frankly, I'm tired of trying. I'm fucking tired. So take the damn case. Do what you have to do to get this out of your system, to prove whatever it is you feel like you still need to prove. I'll handle postponing the wedding arrangements."

"Wes..."

He holds up a hand, silencing her. "I mean it. I'll make sure everything is taken care of. But after that...you and I are going to have a long talk about where this relationship is headed."

She wants to say something – anything – to fix the mess she's made, but the words die on her lips, lost in the enormity of what's passed between them. The truth is, he's right. She's being selfish, blinded by her ambition, and she knows it. And yet, there's a part of her, a small, shameful part that can't let go of this. Can't let go of what it represents.

Slowly, Donna nods. "Okay," she whispers.

There's a long pause, then Wes sighs, shaking his head. "Jesus." He closes his eyes for a moment, collecting himself. Then, without another word, he pushes past her and walks out of the room. Donna lets him go, pressing her face against the doorframe, keeping it there until his footsteps have faded and the distant sound of a door slamming reaches her ears.

There's no escaping the guilt and shame bearing down on her, and she knows she has no one to blame but herself. She has made her choice and she has no choice but to live with it, to try and figure out how the hell to put the pieces of her life back together. To try and win her case, and in turn, try and win back her fiancé's faith and trust.

Because at the end of the day, whether she likes it or not, her happiness depends on him. Her worth and value come from his influence, his resources, his money. Her privilege is born from his ambitions and ideals. It is all so terribly cyclical, an ever twisting staircase leading nowhere but down. She will always owe him something, pay him something, see herself as less when measured against him. Because that's the brutal truth of it all. She can't escape his legacy, can't shed herself from their connection. She is him.

With a heavy sigh, she forces herself off the doorframe, walking like a zombie to their bed. She slides under the covers and turns out the light, willing sleep to come and save her from herself. If only for a little while.


A/N: Hopefully you guys are as excited as I am for where this is headed. Chapter 2 will come soon. In the meantime, please drop a line, let me know what you think!