Content Warning (for Scene II): Dom/Sub undertones, forced nudity, hair-pulling, choking, emotional/psychological manipulation, domestic discipline, referenced/implied physical abuse

If any of the above is triggering, scene II can be skipped without any substantial loss to the plot.

I

By the time Harvey makes it to the bar, he's still not calm, still not right, and he's still seething about his performance during the deposition.

How did it happen? He had the upper hand – had it. And then he didn't. It wasn't supposed to be this way, none of this was, and now here he is, frustrated as fuck, angry and...well, horny.

It's Donna. He knows it's all Donna and that goddamn fucking foot. He doesn't even like feet. He likes ankles and calves, sure, but feet? No, not his thing. But for some inexplicable reason, the way her foot glided up his leg, that arching press, the feel of it was so good that it's all he can think about. He doesn't know what's gotten into him, but something has. And he hates it, and her, and the whole goddamn thing.

And he has to do something to take the edge off, otherwise he's going to spend the rest of the deposition hard as a rock and that will just be...inconvenient.

"Whiskey, neat," he orders when he gets to the bar. It's one of those seedy-on-purpose joints with neon beer signs in the windows and a pool table that's seen better days. A hipster kind of place with shitty music. And that suits him just fine – what he needs is somewhere to shut his brain off without facing the risk of running into any of his so-called peers.

The bartender slides a glass across the counter to him and Harvey catches it, tipping it back, the liquid burning its way down his throat. It's smooth, a little smoky. It does nothing to ease his annoyance, but at least he's starting to feel something besides his anger and whatever the hell is going on below his belt.

Harvey stares down at his glass, his thoughts drifting to Wolcott. He needs to figure out how to get the bastard to break. But Donna's a hard wall to push past, and there's only so many times he can attempt the same moves without looking desperate. She's on top of everything he's throwing, and that's infuriating. She's infuriating. And gorgeous. And intelligent. And fucking irritating, the way she just sat there so unaffected while her foot teased up his leg. She knew exactly what she was doing. Hell, he knew exactly what she was doing. It was all a game.

He downs the last of the whiskey and slams his glass onto the bar. He knows this should be his one drink and then head back. But something inside him rebels at the thought, at the idea of going back and having to face her again after being so soundly beaten in her space. Because she won that round and they both know it. She beat him at his own game.

He shuts his eyes and exhales, trying to will himself to stand and walk out of here, to be the responsible, levelheaded attorney he has always prided himself on being. He's Harvey goddamn Specter, he's one of the most successful trial lawyers in this city. And yet here he is, in some grimy, pathetic little bar, unable to stop thinking about some woman and her fucking foot.

No. Not just some woman, he reminds himself. An engaged woman. Engaged to Weston Harding, the beloved senator of the state, whose endorsement Harvey likely needs for his upcoming run for DA. At the very least, it's unwise to piss the man off, he's the biggest political animal Harvey's seen in years – hell, he voted for the asshole twice – and if the rumors are true, at the end of his senate term, he'll announce he's running for the presidential ticket and, jesus fucking christ, Harvey is so stupid. If can't get his head in the game, and his dick under control, he is going to lose more than just this trial.

He needs to focus. Focus on Wolcott. On the trial. On getting through this case so he can get that DA nomination. And not on –

"Day drinking?" The voice is warm, amused, and he doesn't need to open his eyes to recognize it. He should have known better, really. There is no escaping her. Synchronicity, fate, serendipity, destiny – whatever the hell people like to call it. She's here. In this bar.

Harvey lifts his eyes from his empty glass and watches as Donna takes a seat on the barstool next to him. Her eyes are bright and full of amusement as they roam over him. He hates that, that she can sit there and be so composed when he's losing it over her, inside and out.

"Something like that," he says, waving his hand to get the bartender's attention. "And you, Donna, are you here to gloat?"

"Doesn't suit me." She leans against the bar, her body angled towards him. She's close. Close enough for him to see the smattering of freckles across the tops of her breasts, visible in the plunging neckline of her dress. His eyes linger on the freckles for a moment, before returning to her face. She's watching him with a knowing look in her eyes. "Especially when you clearly need this."

She's so goddamn full of herself, and Harvey can't decide what's more frustrating, the fact that she's right or the fact that she's not even trying to hide how much she enjoys the fact.

The bartender approaches them, and Harvey waits while she orders herself a whiskey. She glances back at Harvey and gestures to his glass asking silently for a refill. Harvey gives her the slightest of nods. She wants to get him drunk, maybe. Loosen his tongue. Whatever her intentions, he should tell her to get the hell out of here. That they're not on friendly terms and her little foot game today was uncalled for and unprofessional.

But he doesn't say anything, his eyes following the movement of the bartender as he places their whiskeys down in front of them. Donna picks up her glass and takes a long sip, sighing in contentment as she swallows. Harvey tries not to stare at her mouth. Or the column of her neck. He tries not to notice the way her eyes flutter shut as the alcohol hits her. But he can't seem to look away. There's something hypnotic about her, something he can't resist, no matter how much he knows he should.

Donna's eyes open slowly, meeting his. He's surprised by the lack of challenge in them, they're soft and warm, not at all like how they were at the deposition. He doesn't know what to do with her like this, or with this whole situation. He can't figure out what her angle is, why she's here, sitting next to him, when they should be back in the conference room, doing their damn jobs.

"How'd you find me?" He asks eventually, unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. He watches her closely, looking for signs of...something. What, he isn't quite sure, but he feels unsettled, as though her ability to locate him in such a seemingly random location speaks to a deeper understanding of him than he's comfortable with.

"Intuition." She gives him a smile, one that he can't quite pin down. Is it alluring and friendly or is she patronizing him? "I figured you'd be needing a drink after being thoroughly beaten by my superior research and preparation, and this was the only dive bar within a three block radius."

"Research and preparation. That's what you're calling it?" He gives her an amused look, taking a sip from his drink. He doesn't want to be enjoying the sight of her this much, but she's something to behold. Those dark, hazel-colored eyes that remind him of some lush forest that's so far off from this grimy little bar, and those beautiful, freckled breasts...that mouth. The way her bottom lip glistens from the alcohol and she doesn't bother wiping at it. She just lets it be. "You crossed a line."

Donna arches a brow in response. "I didn't realize we had established lines."

"We didn't," he says, swallowing his whiskey, setting down his glass with an intentional clank against the wooden surface. "But there will be going forward."

Donna turns back towards him, leaning her elbow against the bar and resting her chin on her palm. Her eyes trail over his body in an unabashedly slow sweep, from head to toe, and then back again, before settling on his face. She smiles. "You really have no idea how to handle the fact that someone can challenge you, do you?"

Harvey's expression hardens. "I'm not interested in a fight right now."

"Who's fighting?"

His jaw tenses at her words, at her tone, as though he is the one being unreasonable. "You crossed a line," he repeats. "With the...foot...thing..." he trails off, unable to articulate precisely what's wrong. He just knows something is, and that he can't allow her to be in control of their interactions like this, but he is too fucking irritated by her to articulate precisely why.

She sips at her whiskey, considering him for a long moment. He feels exposed under her scrutiny, as if she can see through every wall he's spent years building up around himself, can read every thought he's trying so hard to keep hidden.

"I'm not going to apologize," she finally says. "But if it makes you feel better, I don't plan on making it a habit. In fact, the thought of touching you like that again, in any way whatsoever, repulses me. You're insufferable. And an ass. And I have no idea what my foot was even doing near your leg, let alone touching it. "

There's some truth in her words, and something in him softens at the sound of it, at the way she's looking at him, a kind of hesitant curiosity. As though she is as drawn to him as he is to her, even when the rational part of her is urging caution and restraint.

She turns to her glass again, downing the last of the whiskey before setting it aside. "So, what are our boundaries, then?" she asks after a moment, her eyes finding his again, that hint of vulnerability still lingering. "No touching?"

The thought of it makes something in him ache. But he is relieved to finally have a way out of this, an opportunity to establish a few hard rules between them. It will be the only way to keep things from spinning out of control. And the way he feels right now, it's imperative to create a few guidelines to ensure this doesn't happen again. "There are only two boundaries I care about. No physical contact, and no discussing our personal lives."

Her expression falters a bit. She considers his words for a long moment, and he notices that she's toying with her engagement ring, turning it round and round on her finger. She looks lost in thought, her expression weirdly somber.

"Okay," she finally says. Her response is soft, too soft. There's a lack of sass. She seems tired suddenly. Tired of the case? Of the back and forth? Tired of him? She can't possibly be. They just started. "I can accept that. For the duration of the case, we'll keep this...whatever it is, strictly professional. No touching, no personal discussions. No games. No bullshit."

It sounds like a promise, one that Harvey has every intention of holding her to. "No bullshit," he repeats.

A brief silence follows, but it's not uncomfortable. She watches him, and he watches her back, each of them assessing the other. He's surprised by how relieved he feels by the decision to maintain the distance between them, as though some great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. And he can't quite explain why. But he has to admit that having these guidelines between them does feel good. Safe.

"I sent George home," she says, breaking the silence. "I think we've hit an impasse with the deposition today, and he needed a break."

"Impasse?"

"Would you prefer I used a different word? Like defeat?"

"Hmm. No, I think impasse is a generous assessment."

"I'm nothing if not generous."

Her smile is easy, relaxed, and she laughs as he grudgingly matches her smirk. He likes her like this, a little more comfortable, a bit less sharp around the edges. She looks more real, somehow, less icy and unattainable.

"So." Harvey raises his glass to his lips, enjoying her attention on him, and he pauses to take a swallow, letting the moment linger. "This impasse. Should we call an end to the hostilities, consider a peace negotiation?"

Donna runs her finger along the rim of her glass. "Oh, you want to negotiate?"

"No, I want to win."

"Funny, I thought that's what I was doing."

He rolls his eyes. "Look, the deal is still on the table, even after the showdown in there." He sits back, his voice softening. "It's a good one. Think about how much easier it could be on everybody – the DA, Wolcott, the shareholders. How much easier it would be on you. I heard about your wedding. The postponement. You could pick it back up. Marry Harding, have your happily ever after."

She frowns, her eyes darkening as she searches his expression. She's obviously surprised by the reference to her wedding and its cancellation, by the idea of picking it back up again and all that could entail. Her posture changes, she's stiff and she's trying not to let on that he's hit a nerve. Interesting.

"There will be no deals," she says, pulling out a few bills and setting them on the bar. "I'm going to take you to court and destroy you. There's no other way out of this, Harvey."

"You wanna make this last, huh?"

She raises an eyebrow. "Don't you?"

"I do," Harvey says. "You know I do."

Donna regards him carefully. Her eyes are cool and calculating, but he can detect the slightest hint of intrigue in her expression, a small twitch in her lip as though she's suppressing a smile.

"I have to go," she says, slipping off the barstool. "Some of us have meetings and trials to prepare for. Even if our opponents are the seedy dive bar types."

"I thought gloating didn't suit you?"

"I'm making an exception."

Harvey lets out a soft laugh, raising his glass to her in defeat. "Go ahead," he says. "Enjoy your win."

"Oh, I plan to." She raises her eyebrows, a trace of suggestiveness in her voice. "I'll be taking every ounce of pleasure I can get from this impasse."

Her eyes flick down to his mouth for the briefest of moments. He fights the urge to lick his lips, certain that would not be an acceptable or appropriate reaction right now.

And then, as quickly as she arrived, she's gone.

Harvey drops his head, scrubbing a hand over his face. He stares down at the whiskey in his glass, his thoughts churning.

He can't afford to lose sight of the objective here. He didn't come this far to go off the rails for a pair of pretty eyes and a sharp, sexy mind. He needs to pull himself together, stop losing his focus around her. Remind himself that these feelings, this irrational chemistry, this stupid, stupid attraction... it means nothing in the context of the case, that it will only be a weakness to be exploited in the battlefield ahead.

Even so, the sight of the empty stool beside him leaves Harvey feeling robbed. He wants her back, to draw out that banter and teasing, the inappropriately flirtatious back and forth. He wants her to look at him again with those breathtaking eyes as she smiles that soft, defenseless smile…

Jesus. What is he even thinking? He hates the woman. Doesn't he?

Yes, yes, of course, he reminds himself. He absolutely, undeniably hates her. She's arrogant, conniving, and the enemy. It's a simple truth, as solid as anything, and nothing is going to change that. Nothing.

II

Donna sits back in her chair and rubs her temples, trying to stave off the impending headache. She's been sitting in her darkened office for what feels like hours, staring at her laptop screen as she meticulously goes over the transcript from this afternoon's deposition, looking for anything that might become a vulnerability. So far, she's found nothing.

She takes a deep breath and sighs, pushing the laptop away from her and closing her eyes for a moment. She's been working too hard, not eating enough, and not sleeping at all, really. Her body is feeling the strain, but she knows she can't slow down. There's too much at stake to risk any misstep or complacency.

And yet here she sits, unable to keep her mind from straying from the task at hand. Unable to keep herself from thinking about Harvey Specter.

It's frustrating how often her thoughts keep drifting back to him. To the way he looked when he sat next to her at the bar earlier. So different from his usual cocky swagger, more...human somehow. A little softer. Almost...vulnerable. She wonders if he's been thinking about her foot sliding up his leg as much as she's been thinking about the look in his eyes. If he's thinking about it now, about her, right this minute. If he's picturing the arch of her foot, the curve of her calf, her thigh and all that lies beyond...

Stop it, she thinks, her eyes snapping open. Jesus, this is getting out of hand.

She stands up from her chair and begins pacing around the room, trying to clear her head. She can't keep letting this happen. She's engaged, goddammit, and her engagement isn't just a whim. She's been with Wes for nearly ten years now. They have a home together. They've built a life. They have plans for a future that involves the two of them. There's nothing temporary about what they have.

But a niggling voice in the back of her head keeps reminding her that her plans have been more his plans, and even though she's been by his side, it hasn't been without significant internal struggle and compromise. There is something to that, a thought, that Wes doesn't always consider what's best for her, that her needs may not be at the top of his list, but she quickly shoves that down.

Wes loves her, she tells herself firmly. He loves her more than anyone ever has, or ever could. He's made that very clear time and again. They've been through so much. More than most people. They're a team.

There's no reason for her to feel so restless. So uncertain. So confused about her feelings towards a man she barely even knows and certainly hates.

She walks over to her desk and sits back down in her chair. She pulls her laptop closer and stares down at the screen, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly. She's going to focus on work, on her cases and the depositions that still need to be taken and all the things she needs to prepare for. She is not going to think about Harvey Specter. Not for one second.

An hour later she finds herself staring at his staff photo from the DA's website, unable to tear her eyes away. He's staring directly into the camera, his expression cocky and self assured, but there's a boyishness there, too, a hint of softness behind the bravado. It's such a contrast to Wes, who is all charm and smooth smiles, carefully constructed to conceal the ambition and ruthlessness that drive him. Harvey wears his ambition on his sleeve. He doesn't hide behind pretty words and empty promises. He is who he is, take it or leave it.

It's refreshing, in a way. She's spent the last decade surrounded by people who wear masks, concealing their true intentions behind layers of bullshit. To see someone who is so unapologetically himself, even if it's a version of himself that she finds infuriating, is a welcome change.

She wonders what he's like outside the courtroom, away from the stress and pressure of the job. She imagines him relaxed, laughing, the weight of the world lifted from his shoulders. She can picture it clearly, the lines of his face softening, his smile lighting up his eyes.

She shakes her head, a faint smile on her lips. God, she's insane, isn't she? Sitting here, fantasizing about her opponent like some schoolgirl with a crush. And that's exactly what it is, isn't it? A crush. An infatuation. A fleeting fascination with the idea of him and the person he represents.

The shame creeps right back in. What is she doing? Why is she letting herself become so consumed by a man who is little more than a temporary obstacle? A man who, in the grand scheme of things, means nothing compared to what she has waiting for her.

Waiting for her...

She glances at the clock, her eyes widening when she sees the time. It's already past midnight. Shit. She shoots up from her chair, scrambling to gather her things, shoving papers and files haphazardly into her bag. Wes is going to be furious and the thought sends a wave of nausea through her. He's already been distant and aloof with her lately, ever since the postponement, his anger barely contained beneath a layer of forced politeness. But she's been careful not to provoke him, to keep herself in his good graces, and this...this might be what pushes him over the edge.

She rushes out of her office, practically sprinting through the halls of the building and into the night. She catches a taxi back to the Upper East Side, her mind racing as she stares out the window, the city lights flashing by in a blur of red and gold. She knows Wes well enough to know that the second she walks through the door, he will pick a fight. It's inevitable at this point, and honestly, she's tired of being on her best behavior, of walking on eggshells around him, trying to keep him calm. The thought of going home to that, to another night of bated breaths and clenched teeth and forced pleasantries, makes her stomach churn. It's better to just get it over with and move on, she tells herself. It'll be quick, a little rough maybe, and then he'll let it go, and they can go back to pretending everything is fine.

She can already see him standing there in their home, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched as he glares at her. And even though she knows the night is likely to end with his fingers wrapped around her throat, or his belt cutting into her skin, a part of her knows she deserves it.

After all, this is all her fault, isn't it? Her mistakes have put her here, put Wes here. Put the distance and the resentment between them.

It's a dark place. This understanding. This willingness to bear the weight of Wes' bitterness and accept the physical consequences of her own choices. It's not rational. It's not healthy. It's a twisted form of penance that keeps her in check, a self-punishment that is born from her own insecurities and a need to constantly prove her worth and loyalty to Wes and the life she's built with him. And she's so fucking tired of it all.

As the taxi pulls up in front of her building, she can feel a sense of dread settling in her chest, heavy and cold. This isn't what she wants. This isn't how she wants to feel, how she wants to live her life.

But it's all she seems to know anymore. And it's all she thinks she's ever going to know.

She pays the taxi driver, then takes the elevator up to the penthouse apartment. The doors open to reveal a quiet, dark lobby, and she lets out a sigh of relief, hoping that means Wes is asleep. It's the best case scenario, one where she can slip into bed unnoticed and unchallenged.

But then, she hears the sound of his footsteps, followed by the glow of a lamp being switched on. Wes appears, his face carefully blank, and she feels a twinge of apprehension. This isn't good.

"Hey," she says softly.

Wes doesn't answer, just looks her up and down with an unreadable expression, the silence growing thicker with every second. Donna shifts awkwardly on her feet, trying to hold his gaze, but it's hard not to feel the weight of it. She doesn't know what to do or say, so she remains still, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.

After what seems like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice cold. "I expected you to be here earlier."

"I know, I'm sorry," she says, keeping her own tone as neutral as possible. "I got caught up at work, there was a lot to do, and–"

"Take off your clothes."

The abruptness of the command catches her off guard. She stares at him for a moment, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to form a response.

"Wes–"

"I said, take off your clothes"

He speaks quietly, but the edge in his voice is unmistakable

She hesitates, a wave of conflicting emotions washing over her. Part of her wants to stand her ground, to resist his demand, to challenge him and his authority. But another part of her, a part she loathes to acknowledge, wants to obey him. Wants to do whatever he tells her to do, even as it rips her to shreds. It's a war within herself, one she has fought so many times, and one she knows she's already lost.

With a steady hand, she reaches for the zip of her dress, sliding it down, the fabric pooling around her ankles. Then, slowly, she unclasps her bra, letting it fall to the floor, followed by her underwear, until she's standing naked in front of him. He watches her every movement, his eyes dark. She can feel the heat of his stare as he takes in every inch of her, his eyes lingering on the fading marks on her hips and thighs. The marks he put there. She feels small, powerless. It's a feeling she knows well.

"On your knees."

"Wes," she whispers.

"Kneel, Donna."

At this moment, she could still choose. She could walk away. She could leave. But the power he holds over her is too strong. The lure of his approval, the possibility of his affection, the need give him even a shred of satisfaction...it's too much for her to resist. And so she does what she's been conditioned to do, what she's been conditioned to need to do, and she lowers herself to her knees before him.

Wes moves closer, his eyes roaming over her body. He reaches out, tracing a finger along her collarbone, and she shivers involuntarily at the contact. His touch is featherlight, barely there, but it sends a ripple of awareness through her.

"You're beautiful like this, you know," he says, reaching up to cup her cheek, his thumb tracing her bottom lip. "All mine. All for me."

There's a hint of tenderness in his voice, but the hardness remains, his eyes glinting in the dim light.

He pulls his hand away, moving behind her, his fingertips grazing the back of her neck, sliding down her spine. She shivers again, the sensation leaving goosebumps on her skin. It feels different than it usually does, his touch more intimate. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking on her part, the yearning for something real and meaningful where there is only the promise of pain.

"I don't deserve this," he whispers. "To be disobeyed, to be treated so poorly. And yet, despite my kindness, here we are."

He's quiet for a moment, and Donna can feel his presence looming behind her, can sense his fingers inching toward her scalp.

"I've given you so much, Donna," he continues. "I've given you the life you wanted. I've given you stability. Security. Love."

He's right, she thinks. She owes him everything, and what has she ever truly given him? She's been difficult, disobedient, ungrateful, selfish. She's not worth the sacrifices he's made. The love he's shown her. The realization feels heavy, oppressive. A weight she's carried for so long she's forgotten how much it hurts. She lets out a shaky breath, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs.

He sighs, his fingers tightening in her hair.

"I'm sorry, too."

And then, without warning, he tugs hard, forcing her head back, a gasp escaping her lips.

"But we're going to fix that, aren't we? You're going to learn, Donna. You're going to learn what it means to belong to me."

His words are punctuated by another hard pull, her scalp burning under his grip. She whimpers, trying to ignore the sensation between her legs. She should hate this. It's so twisted and fucked up. But she's like Pavlov's dog, trained to need him and the cruelty he inflicts.

"Tell me what you are, Donna."

She doesn't hesitate.

"Yours," she breathes out. "I'm yours, Wes."

There's no lie in that. There is no greater truth.

"Again."

"Yours."

His free hand snakes around to the front of her neck, holding her in place as he moves his face closer to her ear, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.

"That's right. You belong to me, and I'm the only one who gets to decide your worth. Isn't that right?"

Another pull. Another whimper.

"Yes."

He moves his face down, pressing his lips to the exposed skin of her neck. His touch is so soft, so gentle. But his hand around her throat is firm.

"You're going to beg for my forgiveness. You're going to plead for me to show mercy. But I won't. I will keep going and going, because you need this. Because I love you so much. And in the end, you will be a better woman."

His hand tightens around her throat, and she feels the blood rushing to her head, the dizziness settling in, and for a moment, it's almost like an out of body experience. Like she's floating away from this room and this man, floating into nothingness. She imagines herself lying on a soft, white bed in a place where she can be whoever she wants to be, free from expectations and responsibilities and obligations. In this place, she doesn't have to fight and claw for every ounce of respect, she can just be herself. It's a tempting thought. It's a nice place to go in her mind.

But then he releases his grip on her throat, and Donna falls forward, gasping for air.

She looks up at Wes through her tears, the shame and self-hatred welling up inside her again. She doesn't understand this, doesn't understand her inability to leave him or let go, despite the misery she feels so acutely in this moment. She's an educated, intelligent woman with a good career and a promising future. She should be able to walk away. She should be able to take care of herself, but here she is, trapped in the most pathetic kind of cycle, and the worst part is she doesn't want to leave him. Not really. Because there are moments of happiness in between, and he's good to her in so many ways. She'd be foolish to give all that up for one awful night every so often. Even if those nights are getting more frequent. Because that's her fault, right?

"I'm sorry," she chokes out, her voice strained and weak. "I'm so sorry, Wes."

He stares down at her, his eyes cold and hard, and she feels herself shrinking under the weight of his gaze. She doesn't know what else to say, how to make him understand, and in the back of her mind, she wonders if he even wants to understand. If he even cares enough to listen to her apology, to make any kind of effort at all. Or if this is simply about him taking control and making her submit to him.

After a long moment, Wes sighs, his expression softening slightly. He reaches out, brushing the hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. She leans into his touch instinctively, a small, desperate part of her needing to feel some connection to him. Needing him to acknowledge her, to love her.

"I know, baby," he murmurs, his voice gentle. "I know you are."

She closes her eyes, taking a shaky breath, feeling some of the tension leave her body at his words.

Wes drops his hand from her hair, resting it on her bare shoulder. He steps around her, kneeling on the ground so that they're facing each other, and Donna opens her eyes, looking into his face, trying to read his expression.

"Do you love me?" he asks quietly, his thumb stroking her collarbone.

"Yes," she says without hesitation. "Of course I do."

It's the only answer, really, isn't it? She owes him everything. Owing him her love seems like nothing at all in the grand scheme of it. It's the most obvious answer. It's the right answer. But still, she wonders what love really means, in the end. If there's any meaning at all. If love can exist when pain and subjugation are part of its definition.

He cups her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away her tears. "Then you need to remember your place," he says firmly. "You need to remember what's at stake here. Our future, Donna. Everything we've worked so hard for. I can't be the only one trying to save this."

His words cut deep, the reminder that this is her fault, that her selfishness has pushed them to this breaking point. Her failures, her inadequacies. All the ways she has not lived up to his expectations. All the ways she has let him down.

She leans her head against his, breathing in the familiar scent of him. It's the closest she's felt to him in weeks.

"I'll do better," she whispers. "I'll be better, Wes, I promise."

His hand tightens in her hair, a note of warning in his voice. "You have to. You have no other choice. And neither do I."

And then, as if the conversation is finished, he pulls back, standing up in one swift movement and stepping away from her, leaving her cold and alone on the floor. He crosses the room, heading for the bedroom. She stares at his retreating form, not daring to move or speak. The sound of his footsteps echoes in her head as the realization that the night is not over sinks in. That, in fact, this is far from over. That he is going to make her earn back every ounce of his love and approval. That the worst is yet to come.

But tomorrow, she tells herself, tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow, she will wake up in his arms, his forgiveness earned. Tomorrow, they'll be the picture of happiness again. And in the end, she reminds herself, that's all that really matters.

A/N: yes, I know, I hate myself a little too. I won't go any darker than this and most things going forward will be implied or briefly mentioned, but I had to go there, for plot and characterization reasons. The next chapter will be much lighter with more of Donna and Harvey to look forward to. We'll see how well they do with their rules ;)

If you have the time, please leave a review/comment and let me know what you think!