Author's note: The first scene is in Wes' point of view. If you're a sensitive reader and would like to skip his POV, I'll provide a summary at the end.
CW: References to BDSM, discipline, and past abuse.
Part 2
"There's a stake in your fat black heart
And the villagers never liked you.
They are dancing and stamping on you.
They always knew it was you.
Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through."
~ Daddy, Sylvia Plath ~
Chapter 16: None the Wiser
I
The photograph is sent by a reporter for the New York Post and lands in Weston's work inbox, its presence flagged by his campaign manager, who calls in a panic the moment it appears.
"She's out at some cowboy bar in the middle of nowhere, hanging off that ADA she's up against in court," Travis says as soon as Weston picks up the phone, and Weston can feel the tension in his jaw increasing. "And by hanging, I mean full body contact."
"What?"
"They look cozy."
Weston opens the attached picture, and there she is, his Donna, looking all soft and relaxed with another man's arm around her. Her hand's on Specter's face, her head tilted toward him, her eyes closed, and she looks...content. Like she's at home in his arms. And Specter's eyes, Weston notes, are staring intently at her face, his expression making him look as though his entire world rests on what she's saying. The rest of the picture, the people and the bar, it's all just a blur in the background, but the two of them stand out so vividly, it feels like a blow to the chest.
It's a disturbing sight. And the more Weston looks, the more the image seems to shift, becoming something else entirely. Donna's eyes are no longer closed, but open, and she's not looking at Specter with contentment but with passion and desire, her hands roaming over his body with the freedom and abandon she should only have with Weston. And Weston knows this is impossible, knows that she's not that stupid, that reckless, that she wouldn't do this to him. He knows, but as the seconds stretch on and he stares at the photograph, he finds the lines blurring, his certainty fading. And in its place, a creeping dread takes hold of him, the idea that he has miscalculated.
The feeling that swells inside Weston isn't unfamiliar; it's a tight ball of rage mixed with betrayal, jealousy, and insecurity, that builds in his chest like a fire consuming a forest. It's the kind of rage that makes his skin burn, and his jaw clench, and his fists ball. The kind that makes him want to tear the entire world down to the ground just to get to her.
It takes every ounce of restraint Weston has to hold himself together and not snap. Because that would be dangerous. It would show weakness, vulnerability.
"Wes?"
He lets out a slow breath, his grip on the phone tightening. "Get rid of it, Travis. I want you to bury it. Find the source, pay them off, shut it down. And you deal with the reporter directly."
There's a long pause and then Travis responds quietly. "You got it."
Weston hangs up and puts the phone down on his desk, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he runs his hands through his hair, tugging it a little too hard in frustration. The photograph, he knows, could be innocuous, a harmless moment caught on camera and nothing more. But that doesn't make it any less infuriating. Doesn't make Weston feel any less humiliated. To know that she's out there, smiling at another man, flirting and laughing with him. Allowing him to put his fucking arms around her. It's an insult to him. It's a slap in the face.
Because the reality is that Weston's campaign, the entire path he's laid out for his life, hinges on the perception of stability, on the appearance of normalcy, of wholesomeness. On Donna being a picture-perfect candidate's wife, the face of a brand that says family and goodness, the right kind of future, not scandal or infidelity or hypocrisy. If that image is compromised, if the voters begin to think that he can't maintain order at home, it'll undermine his ability to control things at the Capitol, and everything he's been working for, everything he's built, everything that gives meaning to his existence will be destroyed. His political future will crumble to dust before his very eyes and all his efforts and sacrifices will have been for naught. He will have failed.
It's enough to drive a man crazy. And in moments like these, when Donna does something reckless and irresponsible, like cavorting with her goddamn opposing counsel and making it public knowledge, Weston feels the full force of that insanity threatening to consume him. And all he wants to do is make her pay for putting him through this kind of hell, for breaking his trust, for making him feel small and weak, for daring to shame him like this. Because she should know better. It should be instinctual at this point, ingrained into her. She's been warned often enough. Too many times now.
But then he remembers who she is, and what she means to him, and how far they've come together, and something inside him begins to ease. He clings to this in his mind, this shred of sanity, this thin cord of hope that keeps him from losing his grip. The surety of her loyalty, of their love, of their common purpose. It's not as strong as it used to be, as it should be, but it's there. It's as real as the picture in his mind, and he focuses on it with all his concentration.
She loves him.
She's faithful to him.
And yes, she's a stubborn, infuriating, foolish woman, who should be brought to heel on a regular basis and taught her goddamn place, but she's also his Donna, and she deserves more from him than a scorched-earth policy. She doesn't deserve his unhinged rage or his endless suspicion. Even if she is sometimes overzealous in her efforts to challenge and defy him.
He needs to be rational. Logical. Calm. He can't let the fire in his chest burn him up inside.
He gets up and moves around the desk, pacing as he thinks, his hands in his pockets, his jaw working. Weston's father was an angry man. It came out when he drank, so Weston's always avoided alcohol, even on nights out with friends, and especially after meeting Donna. He thought he could avoid it, this gene for violence. And for a long time, he had. But Donna...she's his weakness. When it comes to her, all bets are off.
He's not sure when it happened, this shift, when things started to change between them. He tries to pinpoint it, tries to remember the moment when their relationship went from playful and passionate to tense and vicious, but he can't. He thinks it was gradual, a slow decay of sorts, an invisible fracture that they couldn't see until it was too late to fix. He tries to tell himself it's just the stress and exhaustion of the campaign season, the demands of his job, the need to push them both further and harder than they've ever been pushed before, but he knows that's not the truth. He knows it's something more. And now that everything is coming to a head, now that he's in the final stretch, it's gotten worse.
They've created an arrangement between them over the years, an understanding that works, that they both respect. Keep it in the bedroom, within certain boundaries. It started with spanking and light bondage, but over time, it's escalated. He doesn't remember the first time he struck her hard enough to leave a bruise, the first time she flinched. He doesn't remember when he started feeling a sense of satisfaction, almost of ownership, at seeing his handprint on her flesh. When he began to enjoy the look of fear on her face when she displeased him. It happened so slowly, so insidiously, he doesn't even know how to begin to explain it to himself.
And even now, his pulse racing, the muscles in his back tense and knotted, his rage simmering, he wants her on her knees in front of him, he wants to hear her cry out and beg. He wants to feel the satisfaction that comes from taking her apart piece by piece, only to be the one who gets to put her back together again. Drive into her that she is nothing, nobody without him.
He tells himself she needs it, that she likes it, that she would stop him if she didn't get off on it just as much as he does. And he's not sure whether that's a lie or not – the constant back and forth in his mind, the constant struggle. Does she like it? Maybe a little. Does he enjoy it too much? Probably.
God, he hates this weakness. Hates that he can't keep his demons at bay, that he can't escape them no matter how hard he tries. That he can't seem to get things right, even now, even here at the end.
What a goddamn failure.
This is his fault, he knows. He's been too easy on her recently, letting her get away with things she shouldn't, giving her more freedom, more slack in the leash. That's what's led to this, to her behaving in this unpredictable way. She's testing his boundaries, seeking out the limits of his control, seeing just how far she can push him.
He's let her act out.
And it's time to correct that mistake.
Weston walks back over to his desk and picks up the phone, his gaze flicking back to the image of her sitting with Harvey Specter, his hands trembling as he dials. After several rings, he hears the sound of her voicemail and ends the call without leaving a message, his anger rising with every breath. Of course she isn't answering. Of course she's being difficult.
A second attempt gets the same result.
He tosses the phone aside, his frustration building, the frustration turning to rage as he pictures her there at the bar with Specter, his arm around her, their bodies pressed against each other, the ADA probably putting all sorts of ideas in her head. She's so vulnerable, so fucking weak, and it makes him want to strangle the bastard, and her too, for being such an easy target.
She's so goddamn selfish, so goddamn ungrateful, that she would do this, betray him in this way. He should have known she wouldn't be able to handle it. She's just not strong enough. She's a failure, a weak-minded, weak-willed, spineless bitch. She always has been. And it's his job to make up for it, to prop her up and give her purpose, to keep her from fucking it all up. He has to constantly show her the way.
The thought is like gasoline poured on a fire and it burns in his brain as he turns, striding angrily out of his office towards the bedroom to their closet. He moves into the small room, the scent of her perfume immediately invading his senses, the anger in him spiking again, his hands clenching into fists as he stands before her belongings, messily tossed over the various racks, hangers and drawers, in total disarray, chaos and disorder all over the floor, all over the shelves, all over their lives. And he's tired, so goddamn tired, of being the one to constantly have to pick up after her.
His anger continues to mount as he starts grabbing the hangers, tossing them to the ground, throwing her things around. The dresses, the blazers, the pants, the sweaters, it all goes flying. Then he moves to the shoeboxes, her shoes scattering everywhere, some of the heels breaking. And it feels so good. The more he throws, the more he tosses, the more he rips apart and breaks, the more it seems to soothe that dark rage in his gut, and he just keeps going, tearing his way through every item of hers in his sight. He takes the bleach from under the sink and pours it on her expensive suits and dresses, staining them, ruining them beyond repair.
It's everything he's wanted to do for months, hell, years. And with each hanger thrown to the ground, each high heel stamped on, each item of clothing destroyed, his anger starts to ease, his rage receding.
Weston lets out a slow, shuddering breath as he stands in the wreckage, the space around him now bare except for the clothes piled up at his feet, and the empty hangers swinging on the rods. And in that moment, in the absence of his anger and rage, a calm, cool rationality settles over him. He can think again, feel again.
And the first feeling that washes over him is a deep, dark shame. For letting his emotions get the better of him. For losing control. For becoming his father, the man who destroyed everything that was good and pure and true. It's not what Weston wants. And it's not who Weston is. At least, that's what he tells himself.
His heart rate returns to normal as he slowly bends down and starts to pick up Donna's things, his actions measured and methodical as he places them back onto their hangers. It's the same feeling he gets when he has to clean up after one of their arguments. The calm and focus that comes with restoring order. And he's good at it. It's a talent he's cultivated, one that he's used to great effect. The ability to rebuild, to put back together what he's torn apart. And while he might not be able to put things back the way they were, he can at least make them look nice again.
Weston finishes organizing Donna's things, then he walks back into his study. There's a text waiting for him on his cellphone.
Donna: Sorry sleeping. Talk later.
The dismissive, vague reply enrages him again. He'll talk to her whenever the hell he wants. Whenever the hell he pleases. Her time is his time. Her life is his fucking life. When did she forget that?
God, he should have never let Jessica put Donna's name on that wall. That's when this all started. This whole fucking mess. He knew she'd become too cocky, too proud, thinking she had real power instead of the power he allowed her to have.
Weston paces the study, running his hands through his hair. He feels restless and uneasy, his earlier calm already beginning to ebb away.
How does he fix this?
How does he make her remember her place? How does he remind her of who's in control, who she belongs to?
He has to strip this newfound, unearned power from her somehow. To cut the legs out from under her and take her back down to where she belongs. At his side.
His thoughts return to the photo, to that fucking ADA. He'll have to deal with him too. Get him out of the picture. He's already been keeping a close eye on the DA's office, ever since Specter turned down his endorsement deal. There are rumors of evidence tampering, though nothing tangible has surfaced yet. But now that Weston is aware of Specter's interest in his fiancée, he has the leverage to dig deeper.
He picks up his cellphone again, and texts Donna:
Wes: That's okay. Just checking in. I love you, Donna. Sleep well.
She never responds.
And Weston doesn't sleep well at all.
II
"Why is there a Porsche in my parking spot?" Samantha asks, narrowing her eyes at Donna as she walks in from her run. "A shiny red Porsche."
"Because I bought it," Donna answers flatly. She steps past Samantha into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and chugging half of it in one go.
Samantha arches an eyebrow. "Uh huh. And where did you get the money to do that? Because if that measly 5% you're getting from your paycheck buys you a Porsche, I need to renegotiate my salary."
Donna rolls her eyes, but can't fight the grin that spreads across her face, the unexpected giddiness that sweeps over her at the mere mention of her new car. It's a ridiculous luxury she has no real need for, but she had fallen in love with it at first sight. And okay, maybe it was a slightly cathartic splurge on her part, an act of rebellion against her circumstances. A tangible reminder of what freedom feels like.
"It's not from my salary," she says, finally. "I cashed in my engagement ring."
Samantha's eyes widen in surprise. "You what?"
Donna nods, still grinning. "Yep. Took it to the jeweler yesterday. Sold it for half of what Wes paid for it. Then I turned around and bought the car."
Samantha stares at her for a moment, then at her finger, which contrary to what she's saying, still bears an engagement ring. Donna lifts the hand and waggles her fingers at Samantha. "Fake. Six-carat cubic zirconia replica of the real thing. To keep up appearances. Seems fitting, don't you think? Beautiful, flawless exterior hiding a total sham?"
Samantha laughs. "God, I love your dramatic flair." She walks over and slides onto a stool at the kitchen island, nodding at the ring. "So...does this mean you're calling off the wedding?"
Donna sighs, her smile fading. She lowers herself onto the stool next to Samantha, toying absently with the fake diamond.
It's been a week since Montana. The day she arrived back in New York, before ever stepping foot in her apartment, she called the office for the stress management seminar Wes was meant to be enrolled in. Surprise surprise, he wasn't even on the roster, never having intended to follow through.
She had wept silently in the cab on the way home, furious and disappointed in him, and in herself, for giving him another chance to let her down. For being stupid enough to put that ring on again, believing the lies he fed her about new leafs, and therapy sessions, and the great strides they could make together as a couple. But of course, it didn't mean jack shit because all he really wants is to keep his political front squeaky clean for his goddamn campaign. It's nothing but an act, the same one he's been putting on for years. Placating his constituents, swaying his votes, feeding his image, but behind closed doors, he's just the same old Wes. Controlling. Harsh. Domineering.
It's exhausting, giving in and giving in, and then feeling so terribly defeated by the lack of effort he gives in return. He doesn't mean to hurt her, he just can't seem to help it.
And the ugly truth is, even if Wes miraculously gets help, changes, becomes a different man...she doesn't think she can get over the trauma of everything that came before. It's broken something inside her, an innocence or sense of security, or something she has no name for. It's irreparable. And thinking of him now, after what happened in Montana...she's repulsed by the very idea of being intimate with him again.
And sex with Harvey — god, it'd felt like a baptism. Like coming alive again, like shedding her skin and rising from the ashes as a new person, cleansed and reborn. It wasn't just the physical sensation of him, which was mind-blowing, but it was his attitude toward her, the way he made her feel powerful and beautiful and in control. He didn't treat her like an object or a thing to be used and owned; he treated her like an equal, like she was deserving of respect. She'd almost forgotten how that felt.
How does she come back from that? How does she settle for anything less than that feeling again? And isn't that the answer she was looking for anyway? She's not happy, not in the slightest. Why put off what should be done now? Why carry the weight of Wes' expectations and his constant pressure, when all it does is slowly drag her down into the darkest parts of herself?
After she got off the phone with the seminar receptionist, she went home to pack a suitcase. That's when she noticed her make-up had been replaced and her closet leaner and rearranged. A telltale sign he'd had an outburst while she was away, something he hadn't admitted to, yet another thing to add to the litany of betrayals she finds herself battling with each day. Seeing her closet laid out before her, empty and lifeless without her clothes scattered haphazardly on the hangers, without the shoes carelessly left lying around, triggered her. She burst into tears and cried like a child, hunched on her closet floor, surrounded by bare wooden rods and empty shelves. And she found herself reaching, desperate and alone, for comfort she didn't know how to give herself.
They agreed to talk later that night. But they didn't. She took the chance to slip out undetected and ran straight to Samantha's apartment. Samantha hadn't even questioned it. Just opened the door and let her in. And this is where she's stayed for the past week, stealing clothes from Samantha's wardrobe and reading case files on the couch late into the night, waiting for Wes to come looking for her. He never has.
He called her a couple of times, but she's been ignoring him, letting the messages pile up. It's not fair to him, she knows that, but she can't deal with it right now. She needs space. She needs to figure out what she wants to do without the added pressure of his voice in her ear. His manipulation and honey-coated words lulling her into complacency once again.
And everyday she spends away from him, she feels freer. Every minute she's out from under his thumb is another minute she grows stronger, bolder, more assertive. Everyday the bruises fade a little more, and she's reminded that this isn't normal. That what Wes does to her isn't fine. And every passing second on the streets of New York or in Samantha's small one-bedroom, drinking coffee, sleeping in, walking to work, living a totally ordinary life, makes the answer more and more clear:
She doesn't want to marry Wes.
She never did.
It's just so obvious, now.
"So..." Samantha asks. "Is that a yes?"
Donna takes a deep breath and nods. "Yeah. I'm calling off the wedding. After Wes gets the nomination at the convention next month, I'm telling him."
The anxiety and regret in her heart says that she's making the biggest mistake of her life, that this is the worst idea in the world. Who in their right mind breaks things off with a senator who is primed to become the democratic nominee for President of the United States? She's making an enemy of one of the most powerful men in the country. Maybe even the world. She'll be ruining her own career and risking everything she's worked for. And the fallout, god, the repercussions of all of this are going to destroy her.
"What are you going to tell him?"
Donna shrugs. "The truth. That I can't do it anymore. That I can't keep letting him treat me like this."
Samantha nods, her eyes lighting up with admiration. "Okay. I'll start preparing for the shit-storm he's likely to unleash. But I need something from you. It might be...difficult to hear."
"What is it?"
"In order to establish Wes' pattern of abusive behavior, I'm going to have to list all of his transgressions, including how he physically harms you and the frequency. His violent episodes, his use of degrading and demeaning language. I'm also going to need pictures of your injuries. The bruises – before they fade. We'll need corroborating evidence."
Donna closes her eyes. She knew this was coming, but still. It hurts to envision, to piece together the full picture of what she's endured. It feels shameful and embarrassing. To reveal how rotten it's all become feels like a betrayal of sorts, especially since a large part of it is her fault. She stayed. She enabled him. Made excuse after excuse and denied the obvious. She let him beat her, let him control every inch of her life. By not stopping it sooner, she's complicit. She allowed it to happen.
"Hey." Samantha places a gentle hand over hers, her gaze warm and earnest. "Listen, I get why it's hard, and I can't imagine what you're feeling, but you need to understand something: All of this is entirely Wes' fault, not yours. There is not one single way in which you are to blame for his behavior. You were afraid and you tried to be the person he needed. You accepted him as he is. That does not make you responsible for his abuse."
Tears sting at the back of Donna's eyes and she blinks quickly to try and hide them from Samantha. She takes a shaky breath and runs a hand through her hair. "I don't want to hurt Wes. I don't want his name dragged through the mud. I know he's not a good man, but he's not a bad one either."
"I know," Samantha says gently. "But this is necessary. You have to think about yourself first, Donna. We won't do anything if he lets you go. But we need the mutually assured destruction, just in case. You have to be willing to hit him back. Are you?"
Donna stares down at the countertop, the weight of the question settling on her shoulders. It's one thing to run away from Wes, to walk away from the relationship and the life they've built together. But it's another thing entirely to intentionally destroy his reputation. He'll be devastated, humiliated. The thought makes her heart ache. She doesn't want to hurt him, doesn't want to exact revenge for what he's done to her. That's not the person she is.
"Donna..." Samantha says softly, breaking through her thoughts. "We need proof."
Donna sighs and nods, wiping at the tears that have started to trickle down her cheeks, feeling frustrated with herself for being so emotional. It doesn't seem to matter how strong she feels; as soon as she thinks of what's to come, of finally leaving Wes, she's an emotional wreck.
Samantha squeezes her arm before standing up and heading over to the coffee maker. "There's one more thing we should talk about."
"Oh, God. What?"
Samantha leans back against the counter and looks at her. "As soon as the judge rules on your motion to dismiss Reed's testimony, you and Harvey need to set a trial date. No more playing footsies under the table. It's time to get in the ring and start swinging. And like you mean it. You can't afford to show any mercy. So whatever happened with the two of you in Montana..." Samantha pauses, fixing Donna with a hard gaze. "...you need to put it aside."
Donna swallows, fidgeting in her seat. "Nothing happened."
Samantha snorts. "Right." She pours herself a cup of coffee and turns back to face Donna, crossing her arms across her chest. "You pawned your engagement ring, bought a Porsche, and haven't spoken to Wes all week. You're telling me none of that is related to Harvey in some way?"
"I –" Donna says, then stops. She presses her lips together, letting out a short, frustrated breath. She doesn't want to lie to Samantha, but the truth seems unnecessarily messy. And something she'd really rather avoid explaining. "We might have...had a brief affair."
"Is it over?"
"Yes."
"To be clear, the fucking around with your opposing counsel is over?"
"Yes. As of last week."
"No contact?"
"None."
"You haven't flirted with him or given him any indication you're looking for a repeat?"
She hasn't, despite the fact that she can't stop thinking about what happened in that hotel room. She's been too busy wrestling with the reality of what to do with Wes, has been too busy rearranging her life and setting it up to extricate herself. Worrying about how Wes must feel and obsessively questioning her decision to call off the wedding.
But that doesn't mean she doesn't spend countless moments replaying their time in Montana in her mind. When she's helping with the dishes or brushing her teeth, when she's curled up under a blanket, rereading his emails, studying the curve of his jawline on this DA staff photo. When her hand finds its way under the waistband of her pajama bottoms at night, remembering how his lips felt on her skin and how he moved inside her. How easily they fit together.
She wonders if Harvey thinks of her, too. Or if his impulsivity and unwavering desire for her has already moved on. He told her to go. He was the one who wanted to not make it into a big deal. She has to respect that, no matter what she herself is feeling; as much as she wants to talk to him, she refrains. Besides, Samantha's right. She has a case to win and that must take precedent. Nothing good will come from her having those conversations, anyway, no matter what the ache in her chest tells her. It's just simple, inconsequential lust. And it will fade.
"Donna," Samantha warns.
"No," Donna answers. "Honestly, I haven't. It won't happen again."
It's a lie and they both know it. If he kissed her right now, there would be nothing she could do to stop it – which, granted, is an entirely theoretical statement as she has no intentions of being caught alone with him – but the point stands. She wants him just as badly as she did in Montana. Hell, probably more so. But unlike Montana, now she's well aware of the many reasons why such an encounter shouldn't – can't – happen again.
Samantha eyes her carefully, and her silence is enough to make Donna's heart clench with apprehension. Then she takes a deep breath and seems to brush it off, all business, and Donna feels an unexpected rush of relief.
"You need to put a trial date on the docket," Samantha says again, as if sensing Donna's reluctance. "Today. Yesterday, even. Get it onto the court's calendar. Ready or not, you can't put it off any longer."
III
Harvey runs his thumb across her signature, his entire being hyper-focused on the looping D and slender tail of the P trailing downwards. It's a strong and graceful signature, elegant yet firm and confident. Always perfect. Every N on the dotted line; it's never the same twice and yet always Donna.
The motion to exclude Reed's testimony is dated from three days ago. Despite finding it sitting in his inbox, he hadn't so much as glanced at it until today, too busy swiping his way through a procession of pretty faces that meant nothing and changing out his sheets. Anything to keep his hands and eyes occupied, away from the damn phone that lay blank on his bedside table, beckoning to him like a black hole. Infinite potential, sealed off by a silence that is deafening.
He can't contact her and he knows it. Least of all now, with his dick, heart, and mind as tangled up as they are. There's no way she'd ever pick up. And even if she did, what the hell would he say?
Nothing, that's what.
Anything, maybe.
"We made a mistake," they could agree. There's an us that shouldn't exist, left in that hotel room in Montana, lying on those crisp, cream-colored sheets. He was determined that first morning they saw one another in the airport to hate her, to dismiss her presence with barely a glance. It would have been safer that way. Simpler. But then, there she was, all legs and warm, haughty beauty. Under her sharp demeanor a softness eked out and caught him wholly unprepared, and what he sees now, staring down at her signature, is how quick his hatred of her (did he ever really hate her?) morphed into something else entirely. Admiration, fondness, affection, wonder, amazement, respect. The full gamut.
And she hasn't contacted him either, has she? In what world could that be read any differently than what it is? If she wanted to hash it all out, fix a mistake, redress a miscalculation, she'd be calling him by now. At worst, they could talk. Make something out of it.
That is if he cared to try.
He doesn't.
Let the goddamn thing die.
What a catastrophe they'd make, anyway.
Harvey exhales shakily, his chest tight with something akin to grief. It's self-pity, most probably. Why hasn't she called? The uncertainty, the sheer not knowing is driving him up the goddamn wall. Not that she owes him anything, or even that he wants her to call – because for god's sake, he is not about to act like some teenage girl pining away for her latest conquest – but...
If he's going to be entirely honest (not his favorite activity), a part of him desperately wants to hear her voice again, regardless of the fact that he doesn't want to deal with her anymore. One last go, for old time's sake. A call to close out whatever fantasy he'd created for himself, and perhaps his only chance to hear her reaction, her feelings, her laughter, her anger, her tears. Anything, everything, just once more.
But not hearing from her confirms a truth he's avoided up until now; she doesn't feel a fraction of whatever he does, if anything at all. Whatever they have together, she wants no more of it.
Probably doesn't even think of him except in his capacity as her opposing counsel, at which point she'll undoubtedly be glad to wave a final farewell and move on with her life.
And so the heavy knot in the pit of Harvey's stomach has more than likely declared itself permanent. And he reads her motion to dismiss Reed's testimony like an obituary, perhaps the single greatest piece of legal work that's come across his desk in his whole career. He feels it settle there in his core, a chasm of emotion that could overtake him whole if he were to allow it, emotions that he knows he will take with him to the grave.
He snorts.
Christ, he's pathetic.
She's going to win. This is not even a maybe, it's a done deal. That woman is a goddamn genius. Has anyone even been this thorough, or put this much effort into the preparation of an upcoming trial, ever?
Something tells him, no.
When the judges' ruling pings in his email that afternoon, he doesn't even open it. What's the use.
Unanimous. Her motion was unanimously decided. He bets his pension she'll be in his office tomorrow morning, sauntering in all her overconfidence, brimming with sex and a self-satisfied grin he'd quite like to fuck off of her. He'll hand her his congratulations – signed, sealed, and delivered in the form of that sweet, little spot between her thighs – which will no doubt be drenched for him, wanting, seeking, craving his touch. They'll rehash their evening in Montana, and how incredible it was, like revisiting a story of a former life they once lived together. Like it was once ordained.
Ordained.
Jesus Christ, he's thinking crazy again. The woman has unhinged him; that, he'll never forgive.
Mike's brief knock rattles his doorframe, and Harvey turns his head, startled out of his desperate pining. He hadn't realized it had gotten so late, but the sky has grown dark, the lights of the city reflecting on his ceiling and walls.
"Weird. You don't look angry or frustrated. You look..." Mike pauses, tilting his head and squinting as he scrutinizes Harvey's expression. "Sorta sad. Or... melancholy, maybe?"
"What do you want, Mike?" Harvey says, annoyed.
"You saw the ruling, right? She's slit our throats with our own sword. How do we fight her on this?"
"We can't. There's nothing we can do."
Mike's eyes narrow. "Wolcott's guilty. Reed was coherent. She can't keep his testimony from being admitted."
"She has."
"But–"
"She has, Mike."
Harvey looks up to see Mike staring at him, an expression on his face that he can't quite read. There's a bit of shock, and maybe a little bit of anger too, mixed with some weird look that Harvey's never seen before. If he didn't know any better, he'd almost call it pity.
"You're in love with her, aren't you?" Mike says.
It's not a question, but a blunt statement. A cold and definitive call out. Mike isn't throwing out accusations. This is far worse. He's observed Harvey's every action over the last few months and come to a conclusion. And it's not incorrect.
"Don't be stupid."
"That's not an answer, Harvey."
Harvey can't look at him. He knows he should scoff, laugh, something. Brush off the accusation like it's nothing. Because for fuck's sake, he's Harvey goddamn Specter. He doesn't love people. Loving is a word used by the weak, a liability and a constant inconvenience, a fool's errand.
Yet, here he is. Wallowing in self-inflicted agony because Donna's reached in and ripped his heart out of his chest, without even realizing she did. He'd let her, he knows that. Willingly subjected himself to it, his own damn fault.
"I'm not having this conversation."
Mike's jaw clenches, a flicker of anger passing over his features. "Look, I don't care who you have sex with, but it's affecting your judgment and I won't let it cost us the case. So get your shit together or I'll ask Cameron for a new co-counsel."
"Mike –"
"Don't. Just don't. You're lucky I'm not asking you to recuse yourself."
Harvey stares at him, stunned.
"Get out."
"Gladly."
Mike turns on his heel and storms out, slamming the door behind him. Harvey sits in silence, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. The sting of Mike's words has hit their mark, but the worst part is that he's right. Harvey has lost focus, let his emotions and desires cloud his judgment, and now he's paying the price.
He should have settled with Donna when he had the chance.
He stands up and moves to the windows, staring out at the city below. The lights of the buildings twinkle against the darkness, and he can just make out the faint sounds of traffic on the streets below.
He feels restless, anxious, a sense of urgency building inside him that he can't explain. It's as if he's running out of time, like he's on the verge of losing something important and he needs to act quickly. But he doesn't know what it is, or where it is, or how to stop it. He can feel it though, like a ticking clock counting down the seconds until a disaster, an explosion, the end of everything.
He grabs his coat and heads for the elevator, deciding he'll walk home instead of taking a cab. Maybe the cool night air will clear his head and help him figure out what the hell is going on.
But his feet don't take him home.
He's not even aware of where he's headed until he finds himself standing outside the front doors of a familiar high-rise.
"Great," he mutters, staring up at the imposing glass facade, a wave of regret washing over him. He shouldn't be here, but it's too late now. He already has a visitor's badge and he's in the elevator, pressing the button for the 50th floor.
It's just past seven o'clock and most of the offices are dark, only a few stragglers lingering behind to work late. He passes the conference rooms and makes his way toward her office, which is illuminated by the glow of her computer screen.
She doesn't look up as he enters the room, too engrossed in whatever she's working on. Probably another case file, judging by the papers scattered across the table. He stands there for a moment, watching her, taking in the way her brow furrows slightly when she's concentrating. The way her eyes scan the pages, looking for something, searching for a thread that she can pull on. The way her hair falls around her face, framing her features in soft, red waves.
She's so focused on her work that she doesn't even realize he's there until he clears his throat.
"Donna," he says, trying not to smile at the way she jumps slightly in her chair.
She glances up, her expression morphing into one of shock when she sees him standing there.
"Harvey," she breathes, a hint of surprise in her voice.
He doesn't respond, too distracted by the sight of her to form words. Has it only been a week? Because looking at her now – the flush in her cheeks, the way her eyes shine with a mixture of longing and confusion – it feels like it's been years since he's seen her. She looks tired, he notes, dark circles under her eyes and a slight hollowness to her cheeks that makes his chest ache. But still, she's breathtaking. And god, it's only been a week and he's missed her. He can admit that now. The admission should frighten him, but it doesn't.
He waits for her walls to go up, her gaze to harden, and the softness in her face to disappear, replaced by the mask of indifference that she's perfected. But the defenses don't come. Instead, she surprises him.
She smiles, a genuine smile, her eyes brightening and her lips curving upward.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, the warmth in her voice evident.
He hesitates, not sure how to answer. He didn't plan anything beyond the act of coming here and, now that he is here, he's at a loss for words. How do you explain the instinctual pull of your body and heart toward someone?
He settles for a vague, half-truth. "I got the ruling on your motion to exclude Reed's testimony."
She leans back in her chair, raising an eyebrow. "And?"
He can't stop the grin that spreads across his face. Goddamn it, he's proud of her. Proud of her brilliance, her legal prowess, her bullheaded determination. She's ruining his case, cutting him off at the knees, but fuck it all, he's proud, and that's why he came all the way down here; his first (and stupidest) thought was to tell her. To see the unguarded excitement and happiness on her face and share that with her, feed it back to her, cultivate it with his own glee. It was impulse and adoration and everything he has no business nurturing, and yet here he is, anyway.
"I told you you'd find a way," he says.
"You did," she agrees, biting her lip to stifle a smile, and Jesus, when's the last time he felt like this, with his chest achy and light with something warm and effervescent. The feeling has a name, he knows, has known. This desire to hold tightly to a person and support and worship them, not because you stand to gain, not because they stand to gain, but just because. Because you like their smile, or their laugh, or their mind. Because you care about them. Maybe too much. Probably too much, actually. He has a problem. A Donna problem. A love problem.
And that's the other reason why he's here. That restless, anxious, urgency. If this week without her has done anything, it's brought home the fact that whatever this thing is between them, it's real and it's meaningful and it's important. And he has to act on it, even if it means risking his job and reputation, and his future as DA. She's not married yet. He still has a chance, no matter how slim it is.
"Listen, Donna. About that night...I–"
"We need to set a date," she interrupts, her voice taking on a neutral, professional tone. The transition is disorienting, and he stares at her, confused.
"What?"
She stands up and moves around the desk, leaning against the front edge and crossing her arms.
"For the trial."
His chest constricts and the breath is knocked from his lungs.
A trial date.
The beginning of the end, because what is he to her after the trial ends? Nothing, that's what. Christ, she's completely blown him off, cutting him to shreds with a scalpel of a retort, quick, sizzling, sharp enough to make a grown man cry. Which is exactly what he wants to do, fuck, he wants to cry. He can feel the sting of impending tears and blinks quickly, fighting the burn.
He nods, not sure what else to say. She's made it very clear that she wants to move on from whatever this is between them.
What was he expecting; a confession of mutual adoration? Some declaration of undying love? A promise of a future together?
Stupid.
So goddamn stupid.
"Harvey?"
Her voice is soft and filled with concern, and it breaks him. He can't do this. He can't pretend like nothing happened, that his entire life hasn't been turned upside down by this woman. He can't stand here and act like his heart isn't breaking, his soul isn't dying, his mind isn't collapsing in on itself (okay, perhaps he's being a little dramatic, but sue him; he's in love).
And he has to know.
"Do you regret it?"
The words slip out before he can stop them, and he holds his breath, waiting for her answer, though honestly, how it'll change a damn thing is beyond him.
Donna looks up at him, her eyes wide. "What?"
"Montana. Us. Do you regret it?"
"No." She shakes her head. "Of course not. I mean, it wasn't exactly...ideal...but, no, I don't regret it. Not for a second. I could never regret you."
He doesn't miss the slight catch in her voice, the hitch of her breath as she speaks – or rather, whisper-breathes – her admission. She's afraid, he realizes, afraid of what she's revealed.
And yet, despite her fear, her answer is firm and resolute, without hesitation. As if the idea of her regretting him is so farfetched, so unthinkable, that the very notion of it is an insult to her.
And god, that means everything to him.
He nods slowly, trying to gather his thoughts. There are so many things he wants to say, so many things he wants to ask, but he doesn't know how.
She pushes off the desk and moves toward him, her eyes never leaving his. Her scent surrounds him; something that makes him think of summertime and wildflowers, of sunlight and laughter, his childhood before it went to shit. The smell of her makes him feel whole again, like the missing pieces of his life have finally been found and restored to their proper places.
She stops in front of him, close enough that he can see the freckles that dust her cheeks. She's so close that if he reached out he could touch her – and he's not entirely certain he won't, and doesn't know whether he should or shouldn't, because all he can think about is how perfect she looks, standing there in her black dress, the glow of the desk lamp casting a halo around her auburn hair.
"I don't regret it," she says again, her voice barely a whisper. "But..."
And he thinks, this is it, the part where she tells him she's engaged and happy and not about to throw away her future for a good (incredible, fucking fantastic - he's not humble) fuck, and a brief, but memorable fling with the opposition.
"We shouldn't talk about this here," she finishes, glancing toward the darkened hallway. "Plus, I have something to show you."
"What?"
She smiles, her eyes twinkling. "Follow me."
He watches as she walks around the desk, grabbing a set of keys and her coat, before turning back to him. "Come on."
She leads him out of the office, down the hallway, and into the elevator, punching the button for the parking garage. They ride in silence until the doors open and she steps out, heading toward a sleek, red Porsche parked in a VIP spot near the exit.
She clicks the key fob and the car unlocks with a soft chirp. He glances at her, arching an eyebrow. "This is yours?"
She shrugs, a mischievous grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. "I wanted a change."
"And do you have a license to drive this thing? Or have I created a monster?"
She laughs. "I applied for it the day we got back. The DMV took pity on me and issued it same day."
"Of course they did." He shakes his head in mock-disbelief, unable to suppress his own grin. "Weston didn't try to stop you? Guilt you over the environmental impact, or how you'd ruin his humble 'brand' with a car like this?"
"Wes doesn't know about the car, and even if he did, I'm done letting him control me. This is my life, and I'll do whatever I damn well please."
The look in her eyes is fierce, defiant, and he admires her for it, is in awe of her. But his heart constricts as he notices the tension in her face and body, the way she stands just a little bit taller, a little more rigid, as if she's bracing herself for the possibility of a physical blow. It's a subtle change, but he's observant and it's glaring. It makes his fingers itch to reach out and pull her into his arms, to kiss her softly and whisper promises that he wishes to god he had the power and clout to fulfill.
Protect her.
Cherish her.
Be the one she chooses.
Wait...what?
Fuck. He has to stop. They're not there. And who's to say they ever will be. Which is good! Fantastic, actually. He's not interested in being second fiddle.
Definitely not.
"Good for you," he murmurs, meaning it.
Her eyes soften and she smiles, the tension in her body visibly easing.
"Thanks," she says, then tilts her head and raises an eyebrow, the motion so confident, so Donna. "Now, get in. I don't have all night."
"Where are we going?"
"I've got another forbidden object I've been meaning to buy."
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "What is it?"
"You'll see."
She slips into the driver's seat, a slight smirk on her face as she eyes him expectantly. He shakes his head, biting his lip against a smile. It's beyond belief, the power she has over him. To be reduced to this soft-eyed, stupidly fond, grinning idiot. He can't argue with it, though. Fuck it.
It feels good.
He gets in beside her, the smell of new leather filling his nose and that indistinguishable scent he now only associates with her.
She turns on the car and backs out of the parking space, the engine purring to life as she eases through the garage and out onto the busy New York City streets. He watches her as she drives, the stop lights reflecting off her hair and skin; a living painting, a masterwork of humanity. She looks relaxed, happy even, as she maneuvers the car through the traffic, heading toward Midtown, her eyes constantly flitting between the road ahead and his face.
"So...about that night," she says, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. "I meant to tell you, before you told me to go..."
She pauses, swallowing, as if she's searching for the right words. He's never seen her like this, so visibly unsure. Even back in Montana, when they'd been together, her nerves had had a fiery resilience about them.
"I need to tell you – what I meant to say was..." She pauses again, and for a moment he thinks he can sense her frustration with herself as she trails off. But when he glances at her face, she looks oddly peaceful. She inhales deeply, holding the air in her lungs for a moment, before sighing it all out.
"It was perfect."
There's a hidden depth to her words, a secondary meaning, a weight, a longing. Or perhaps he's imagining it, deluding himself yet again, crafting a Donna-shaped fantasy world to live in.
"It was," he agrees, and ignores the thrill it gives him when her gaze flicks to him. Insecurity transforms into relief in an instant, and the faintest smile ghosts her lips.
If this is all he ever gets from her – all that she can spare from her looming monogamy – then it will be enough. Him, saying less and saying everything; while she delivers her truths piecemeal, skimpy on words, wrapped up in the trappings of awkwardness and subtext.
"Listen," he says, suddenly needing her to know. "About Weston, I wasn't trying–"
"Stop. You didn't do anything wrong. This is on me."
"But–"
"No. I wanted you."
"Donna–"
"Honestly, I keep waiting for the guilt to come – but it hasn't. I feel horrible that I roped you into cheating with me, but, god, I'm not sorry I did it. Not even a little bit. And I don't want you to feel sorry either. Or guilty. Nothing happened that I didn't want. And Wes..."
Here she sighs, a long and drawn out thing that carries with it a burden Harvey feels but will never fully understand.
"Wes and I...we're not good. We haven't been good for a while, maybe since the beginning, but I haven't had the guts to admit it. But then Montana, and you... it all came crashing down, and I realized that what I'm doing, the life I'm leading, it isn't the one I want. Not anymore."
The implication of her words is enormous, and Harvey's stomach clenches in anticipation.
"What are you saying, Donna?"
A gentle breeze ripples through her hair, strands of fiery copper blowing across her forehead and catching in her lashes, which he notices are wet with fresh tears. She blinks, sweeping them away, and clears her throat, keeping her eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead, never-mind the fact that traffic is at a standstill.
"I'm saying I'm leaving Wes," she says, her voice quiet and subdued, as if the words are blasphemous, a sin, and the world might catch on fire if she speaks too loudly. But she says it. And she repeats it, more confidently this time, a deep calm settling over her demeanor.
"I'm leaving Wes. I'm done."
He can't help himself; he stares at her for a long, quiet moment, scrutinizing her expression and her eyes for any doubt, any hesitance, because holy fuck –
She's leaving Weston Harding. Senator of New York. Future President of the United States. Her goddamn fiancé. She wants to leave him, and Harvey can scarcely breathe.
Of all the possible directions in which he had imagined his illicit affair with Donna Paulsen unfolding, this is the last one he would have predicted.
"Is it because we –"
She cuts him off with a shake of her head. "No. It's not because we slept together, though I can't say it hasn't made it easier."
They've parked in a relatively quiet side street, the glare of the streetlights and passing headlights intermittently cutting across her face as she stares out the windshield at nothing, her fingers tapping idly on the steering wheel. She doesn't elaborate, so he allows his thoughts to drift for a while, mulling over what she's said, the unexpected path she's revealed.
After some time, Donna draws a shaky breath, then exhales slowly, seeming to have gathered herself sufficiently to continue.
"I haven't told Wes yet," she whispers. "I'm waiting until after the DNC officially nominates him. He doesn't need the stress or the scandal before then, and it wouldn't be fair to him or his campaign. Besides, I have to figure out what to do with my career. My position at firm. Jessica and Wes are close; she'll cut me out if I humiliate him like this."
Harvey stares at her in disbelief. "You're a name partner. You have equity and a client list. There's no way in hell Pearson forces you out – no way."
"None of that matters." She looks down, her expression haunted. "I don't think you quite get what Wes is like. If I end our engagement, he'll never let me work anywhere within his sphere again, or influence, or even acquaintanceship. I'll be lucky if there's a single firm in the city that will take me."
"Wes would ruin you? For abandoning him?" Harvey asks. "Donna, that's fucked up. Not to mention wrong. Morally and legally. What is this, the 1800s? He can't just strongarm his way into exiling you."
"Oh, he can. Even if he didn't want to, he'd have to. He won't have a choice. You've seen the light-show we put on, Harvey. The perfect couple, in a perfect relationship, destined for marriage and children and everything America holds dear. And I'm threatening that. All his support is wrapped up in how personable he is. How stable. Without his shiny, all-American face and family to make him look warm and kind and approachable, he'll plummet in the polls. He'd have to burn me at the stake to salvage any hope of winning."
He realizes he's gaping and clicks his mouth shut. This is absolutely insane. No one should have that much leverage over anyone else. It makes him ill to even imagine losing control in such a way. This isn't the sort of power differential that exists within the normal boundaries of a healthy, committed relationship. This is bordering on extreme abuse of authority, and he cringes, remembering the bruises on her hips.
"Donna. Leave him now."
"I told you–"
"No, I don't care about his goddamn poll numbers and his fucking campaign. He's going to ruin you and all you can focus on is his precious political career? End it now, get your affairs in order and go. Fuck him, fuck Pearson, fuck the damn election."
His stomach is flip-flopping with rage and confusion, the nausea rising within him like a tsunami because he can't stomach the thought of her choosing the fate of Weston motherfucking Harding's campaign over her own happiness and she's still sitting there, frozen and guilty and conflicted over the one thing he'd never expected her to give a shit about. She's more than a vote, Donna Paulsen. She's priceless and rare, and he cannot understand why she can't see that.
He reaches across the center console and takes her hand.
"Look at me," he whispers.
She stares straight ahead, her breath ragged as she fights to keep her composure. Her entire body is tense, her grip on the steering wheel so tight that her knuckles have gone white, her skin stretched thin and bloodless.
"Donna."
He squeezes her hand gently, and finally, she turns to face him, her eyes brimming with tears.
"You're stronger than him. Stronger than anything he can ever throw at you. I know you have obligations and a reputation to maintain, but none of those things are worth sacrificing your wellbeing over."
She glances down, nodding slightly.
"And I'll help you," he continues. "Whatever you need. I could get you a position at the DA. We're not fussed on prestige and all that elitism bullshit."
He knows as he says it that this is truly the case; he'd go to bat for her with Cameron if necessary. She's gifted, creative, skilled in her art. She could contribute something far beyond what they currently have. And, although he won't lie to himself – he'd take any excuse to have her in his orbit every day, all day – it's still wholly, genuinely true. If she wants it.
"I mean it. We hired Mike, and he didn't even go to law school."
This earns the shadow of a smile, and he finds his own twisting to match hers.
"Mike didn't go to law school? Why am I not surprised," she teases, humor in her eyes and in her lilt, and it's such a goddamn relief.
"It's a long story," he says, chuckling. Then, under his breath, "A goddamn ridiculous one, to be honest."
"Later?"
"Later," he agrees.
A tender silence passes between them, far more comfortable than they have a right to be sitting in each other's company, given the bomb she's just dropped and their very recent entanglement, but he doesn't question it.
Another pause, then he ventures softly, "You could go into private practice."
Her head snaps to him, a disbelieving smile teasing at the edges of her mouth. "Me, private practice?"
"You don't think you'd enjoy it? Working for yourself, being in complete control?"
She tilts her head, a contemplative look crossing her face, her eyelids dipping closed as she ponders the idea, the possibilities, and he wonders if she can see the image he does – Donna; confident, defiant, fully herself, leading a strong and committed life, a brilliant, glowing, one woman dream.
"I never really considered it before," she muses, opening her eyes to look at him, her face serene and soft. "Complete control, a la Donna?"
It's him who dares to breathe life into her creation this time; a small laugh – "A la Donna," – his eyes smiling into hers.
The air between them pulses. The sound of her name, spoken to her as something new, wholly her own, something he sees – that he appreciates. Admires.
Wants.
"Harvey..."
He hears the question in her voice and feels it like a prayer for guidance; something she aches for, but doesn't know if she should have, if she deserves it, if she should even be hoping for it.
He doesn't have the right words to assure her that everything will be fine, that all her dreams will come true, that some happy ending awaits her just around the corner, some fantastic epilogue, a storybook finish, a white picket fence, when all he knows to be fact is how raw and heartbreakingly real the world can be. He has the law; legal precedents that bring logic and shape and control, but not fairy tales. He feels a pang of something in his chest. Guilt. Regret. Anger. Whatever it is, it has his guts tied in knots.
"You'll figure it out," he says softly, because the least he can do is that for her – instill her with a little bit of confidence, let her see how others see her; not as Weston Harding's partner, pawn, accessory, but as Donna – brilliant, capable, self-assured. Entirely her own woman. "With or without Pearson."
The unspoken: without Harding is left to float, heavy in the air between them.
After a moment, she nods her head slowly, muttering a 'thank you' as she looks down at their hands, still interlocked. He expects her to pull away, but instead she slips her fingers between his and gives a slight squeeze. He strokes the back of her hand with his thumb, his gaze intent on hers.
"Okay," she breathes, a sharp burst of determination flaring in her eyes. "Okay, fuck him. Enough of this."
And just like that, the calm, introspective spirit is replaced by that familiar fire, her walls back up, her armor in place. But her fingers still curl around his, making it clear that she's not using the moment to escape, as he's half-afraid she will; out of defensiveness, or guilt, or fear of her own feelings. It's reassuring, even as it leaves him reeling. A paradoxical, uncertain confirmation of what's to be, and he struggles not to slip and press for more answers than she seems able to give at present.
"Come on," she whispers, releasing his hand and hopping out of the car, smoothing her dress, her expression unreadable. "Time for my second forbidden object."
He watches as she strides across the street, not once stopping or looking back to see if he's following; her steps full of power and purpose, her stride long and unhindered. He shakes his head, grinning. Of course he'll follow her. To hell and back if she wanted, which he worries she's about to ask of him. He climbs out of the car, buttoning his coat, and hurries to catch up.
Author's note: I realize the content of this story has become a bit of a controversy. I appreciate those of you who are respectful in the comments and in conversation. I understand this topic isn't for everyone. Please have discernment on what you choose to read; I think authors have a right to tell the stories they want to write, and readers have a right to decide what suits their tastes.
I do value the constructive feedback, questions, and conversations. One comment in particular (I'm looking at you Suitsisthenewblack) really put things into perspective for me regarding the balance between the light and dark elements of this story. I'm hoping Part 2 brings more cohesiveness between the 'two stories,' especially as Donna's private life and experiences with Wes become more interwoven into her arc with Harvey.
Thank you all again for your kind reception, it means more to me than you know. - Kelly
Summary of Wes' POV: Wes receives a picture from a reporter showing Donna and Harvey sitting closely together at the bar in Montana, sending him into a rage. Wes destroys Donna's clothes in their shared closet and thinks about how to punish her, realizing he'll have to tread carefully as she's already skirting outside his control. He plans to keep looking into the DA's office, having heard rumors of evidence tampering, hoping there will be some way of using this to take Harvey out of the picture.