I
Donna wakes up to a dark room. She's freezing cold, her toes like ice. She snuggles deeper into Harvey's embrace, pressing her chilled face against the warmth of his chest, her toes burrowing between his calves. The movement rouses him, and he pulls her in tighter, his arm looping over her hip to tuck her against him.
She traces her fingers along his forearm, following the lines and contours, the veins and muscles. He's asleep, but his body is still aware of her, responding to her touch, his hips shifting, his cock growing hard and pressing into her belly.
She smiles, her fingers continuing their exploration, dipping lower to brush over the curve of his ass. She's still amazed that he's in her bed, that she's allowed to touch him like this. It seems like a lifetime ago that they were practically enemies and now here she is, naked in his arms, her heart filled with more love than she knows what to do with. She can't imagine ever being without him now. Can't fathom a life where his scent doesn't cling to her sheets, where his stubble doesn't scratch her skin, where his smile doesn't light up her world.
She sighs and presses a kiss to his chest, her lips lingering on his skin. And then, reluctantly, she extricates herself from his embrace, slipping out of the bed as quietly as possible. She doesn't want to leave him, but he always gets the coffee and it's her turn. Plus, it's a good opportunity to talk to the florist about the heating unit and its inability to kick on.
She throws on Harvey's discarded dress shirt and pair of yoga pants. The thermostat in the hallway reads 51 degrees, a far cry from the 69 she set it to last night. She grumbles as she pulls on her wool peacoat and heads out the door.
Mr. Orloff greets her when she enters the flower shop, his smile bright and welcoming. "Good morning, Miss Paulsen. How's the fish?"
"She's fine, thanks," she replies, smiling back. "She laid some eggs last night."
"Oh, that's wonderful!" Mr. Orloff beams. "New life is always exciting, isn't it?"
She nods, her smile growing wider. "It is. I just wish my heating wasn't so temperamental. It keeps shutting off at night."
Mr. Orloff's smile fades, and he scratches his head. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I'll have one of my guys take a look at it. Might need some work on the system though." He shuffles behind his desk. "If it's major repairs, we'll need your guarantor to sign off first."
"My what?"
"Your lease guarantor. Standard procedure for all our tenants with limited credit history. Nothing to worry about, just need their okay for any costly modifications to the unit."
"There must be a mistake. I don't have a guarantor."
"Sure you do, Miss Paulsen. We wouldn't have approved of you otherwise. Let me check." He thumbs through a stack of files on his desk and pulls out a document. "Here we are."
He turns the paper toward her, and the signature is unmistakable. Harvey's bold scrawl across the guarantor line, dated the day of her panic attack in the hallway. The day she'd broken down about her non-existent credit history.
Her throat closes up. The satisfaction she'd felt at finally standing on her own two feet evaporates in a heartbeat. She'd been so proud of herself for taking this step, for breaking free from Wes' privilege and control. And here is Harvey, going behind her back, making decisions about her life without even talking to her first. She feels betrayed, angry, and worst of all, humiliated.
She hands the lease back to Mr. Orloff, her fingers trembling slightly. "Thank you," she says, her voice tight. "I'll have him call you."
She turns toward the exit, the hurt and anger building with each step, memories of Wes's "helpful" interventions in her life flooding back. Every time he'd taken over, claimed he knew what was best for her, stripped away another piece of her independence.
And Harvey... Harvey was supposed to be different. To support her independence, not undermine it. He's always treated her like an equal, respected her autonomy. But now, with this, it feels like he's crossed a line. That he's taken away something that was meant to be her triumph, her moment of empowerment. And is that not just what Wes did? Made it so her every achievement had his touch, his influence?
She pushes open the door to the shop and steps out onto the sidewalk, the cold air stinging her cheeks. Her breath comes in short, angry puffs, her fists clenched at her sides as she walks to the coffee shop, trying to calm the emotions swirling within her. It's not that Harvey meant to hurt her, she knows that. He had seen her break down, had witnessed her panic and despair when she thought she couldn't get the apartment. He'd watched her crumble under the weight of her financial dependence on Wes, and he'd done the one thing he could to help.
Unlike Wes, who controlled her finances to keep her dependent, Harvey had signed the lease to give her freedom. He hadn't demanded anything in return, hadn't even told her about it. He'd simply done what he could to help her escape a bad situation.
But it still hurts. It still feels like he's taken something from her, something precious and fragile that she'd been trying so hard to protect. And how many times has she tried to justify Wes's behavior in exactly the same way? Red flags dance before her eyes. She's been here before, and this is how it starts. With little things, small slights, that she tries to excuse. Until suddenly, they're not small anymore.
God, she can't trust her own judgment, can she? Has the damage Wes has done made her paranoid? Made her so afraid of being taken advantage of again that she sees betrayal everywhere, even where it doesn't exist? Is that all this is? Or is she right to be upset?
By the time she's back in her apartment, her anger has morphed into confusion and doubt. She sets the coffee down and shrugs off her coat, her movements heavy with weariness. She's not sure what to feel, what to think. She's angry and hurt, but she's also ashamed of herself for being angry. For doubting Harvey's intentions, for letting Wes's abuse cloud her perception of him. For not being able to tell the difference between a well-intentioned gesture and a controlling one. For being so fucked up that she can't just accept help without reading a thousand layers of motive into it.
She braces her hands against the kitchen counter, her head bowing as she tries to separate past from present, reality from fear.
Harvey isn't Wes. She knows this, feels it in her bones. Where Wes wielded control like a weapon, Harvey offers support like a gift – freely given, no strings attached. Where Wes demanded acknowledgment for every "favor," Harvey hadn't even told her about the guarantorship. Where Wes had systematically stripped away her independence, Harvey had acted to secure it.
But knowledge doesn't always translate to feeling, and years of conditioning don't disappear overnight. The fact remains that Harvey made a decision about her life without consulting her, however well-intentioned. He took away her agency in this one small thing, and now she can't help but wonder – what else might he decide is for her own good?
She pushes away from the counter, pacing the small kitchen. Her reflection catches in the window – Harvey's shirt hanging loose on her frame, her hair mussed from sleep, her face drawn with worry. She looks small, vulnerable. Is that how Harvey sees her? As someone who needs protecting, saving? The thought makes her stomach clench.
With a deep breath, she picks up the coffee cups and carries them back to her bedroom, her steps slow, hesitant. She's still hurt, still confused, but the anger has faded, replaced by an aching weariness. She wants to confront him, wants to ask why, but she's not even sure what she would say, where to begin. How do you accuse someone of caring too much?
II
Harvey wakes to an empty bed and a throbbing headache. The sheets beside him are cool to the touch, Donna's absence a tangible thing in the predawn darkness. He sits up slowly, rubbing his temples, his brain feeling like it's been stuffed with cotton. Through the window, the city is painting itself in shades of blue and gray, that liminal space between night and morning when New York seems to hold its breath before diving into another day.
He pulls on yesterday's boxers, feeling the pleasant ache in his muscles as he moves, and pads to the fireplace, turning the gas flames to their highest setting. The fire crackles to life, casting a warm, flickering light across the room.
The cichlids are swimming in their tank, darting in and out of the rocks and coral. He taps the glass gently, watching as they move to the surface, expecting food. "Yeah, yeah, I haven't forgotten you," he murmurs, opening the canister of flakes.
He sprinkles the food into the water, watching the fish eat, and tries to clear the cobwebs from his head. Last night was a blur. He remembers drinking too much, stumbling over to Donna's place, and the sex, of course. The incredible, mind-blowing sex.
But he can't remember much else. He thinks he may have told Donna some things he shouldn't have, about his mother, about his fears and doubts. He doesn't regret it, not exactly. But he's not sure he's ready to face the consequences of his drunken confessions. Not sure he wants to see the pity in her eyes. He's always been the protector, the fixer, the one who makes things happen. It's more than just a role – it's woven into the fabric of who he is. But last night, drunk and vulnerable, he'd let that mask slip. Told her about his mother's infidelity, about his deep-seated fear that love always ends in betrayal.
"Morning."
Harvey turns to find Donna leaning against the doorframe, a cup of coffee in her hand, wearing his dress shirt from last night, the white cotton hanging loose over yoga pants, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. She looks stunning, her red hair cascading over her shoulders, her skin glowing in the soft fire light. A dream come to life. But there's a tension in her shoulders, a guardedness in her eyes that wasn't there last night.
"I got coffee," she says, padding over to hand him the proffered cup.
"Thanks." He catches her waist before she can step away, pulling her against his chest. "You look good in my clothes."
She hums noncommittally but doesn't pull away, letting him nuzzle into her neck. "Your shirt was closer than mine."
"Keep it," he murmurs. "In fact..." He hesitates, then decides to just say it. "Maybe I could keep a few things here? Save me from wearing yesterday's clothes home."
Maybe he should be more subtle, take things slower. But the thought of having his things here, mixed with hers, of claiming a little bit of space in her life...it feels right. Like it's the next step in this thing that they've started.
She stiffens in his arms. "What?"
He leans back, searching her face. "Nothing crazy. Just a change of clothes. A toothbrush. To make mornings easier." He's not sure how to read her expression, so he goes on. "I'm not saying we move in together."
She's quiet for a long moment, her eyes searching his. "Then what are you saying?"
"I'm saying..." Fuck. He didn't think this through. Doesn't really know what he wants, beyond wanting more. More of her, more of this, more of...everything. But before he can articulate any of that, she cuts in.
"You know technically you don't even have to ask." Her voice is flat, her eyes hard. "You're on my lease. You can move yourself right in."
"What?"
"You're on my lease, Harvey. You're my guarantor." She's looking at him like she's never seen him before, like he's a stranger who's suddenly barged into her life. "Mr. Orloff told me this morning."
Shit. Harvey drops his hands and steps back. His stomach sinks as he realizes how she must feel — blindsided, betrayed. And he can't even explain why he did it, not fully. He'd just wanted to help, to give her a sense of security, to make sure she had a place to call her own. And he'd also been terrified of her going back to Wes. But he hadn't thought it through. Hadn't anticipated the hurt and confusion in her eyes, the way she'd look at him like he's just yanked the rug out from under her.
"I'm sorry," he says, and he means it, his heart clenching in his chest. "I shouldn't have done it without telling you. I just... I saw how upset you were about not getting the place and I couldn't let that happen."
"I was handling it," she says, her eyes flashing. "I was figuring it out. And you went behind my back and made me beholden to you. Do you have any idea how that makes me feel? I've spent the last ten years with someone who took my choices away, who took away my power, who made me feel like I owed him everything. And now you do the same thing, and it's like, what the fuck am I doing? What's the point of any of this if I'm just trading one controlling man for another?"
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"No. Yes. I don't know." She runs a hand through her hair. "That's the problem. I don't trust my own judgment anymore. With Wes, everything started so slowly. Little things that seemed reasonable at the time. He was just trying to help. To take care of me. To make my life easier."
She looks up at him, and there's a desperation in her eyes that breaks his heart.
"How am I supposed to know the difference, Harvey? How am I supposed to know if you're actually helping, or if you're trying to take over my life, like he did? How am I supposed to trust you when you go behind my back and sign my lease?"
He doesn't have an answer for that. There isn't an easy fix, no simple solution to the tangled web of pain and doubt that Wes has woven around her. He can't erase what's been done to her, can't wave a magic wand and make everything right. All he can do is stand here, feeling helpless and ashamed, and try to find a way forward.
"Maybe you should talk to someone," he suggests gently. "A professional, I mean."
She stares at him, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thinks she's going to explode, to tell him to go to hell, that he's the last person she wants advice from. But instead, she just shakes her head, her eyes filling with tears.
"So I'm crazy," she whispers, her voice cracking. "That's what you think."
"No, no, that's not—"
Her phone rings, a sharp trill that shatters the tension in the room. Donna turns away from him, snatching the phone from the nightstand. She glances at the screen and frowns. "It's Nancy."
She answers the call, and Harvey can hear the muffled sound of Nancy's voice on the other end, but not clearly enough to make out the words. Donna's face pales, her free hand gripping the edge of the dresser. "Slow down, Nance. What do you mean he called in the loan?"
Harvey's stomach drops as he pieces together what must have happened. Wes, striking where he knows it will hurt most.
"No, listen to me," Donna says, her voice tight with barely controlled fury. "He can't do this. We'll figure something out. Just... just don't do anything yet. Let me make some calls." She pauses, listening. "I know, Nancy. I know. I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."
She ends the call and looks at Harvey, her eyes filled with a mixture of rage and despair. "He's calling in the loan on Nancy's yoga studio. She has until the end of the week to pay in full or he'll foreclose."
Harvey frowns. He should have known Wes wouldn't stop with him. That his pride and his need to win would drive him to do something like this.
"Want me to look over the loan agreement? See if I can find any loopholes?"
Donna shakes her head, pacing back and forth. "Jessica will have written it up. It'll be ironclad."
He watches her, sees the fear and uncertainty in her eyes. "What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking he's likely locked me out of our joint accounts already. And I spent the rest of my money on furnishing this place. I have maybe $2000 to my name. No credit cards. I could sell some of my equity in the firm, but I'm fighting to keep my name on the wall, and I can't afford to lower my share without giving up leverage. Plus, that will take weeks." She stops pacing, turning to look at him. "God, he's got me right where he wants me. He's got all the power again."
Harvey can see the panic building in her, the way her breaths are coming faster and faster. He can't stand it. Can't stand to see her suffer like this, to know that he's partly responsible for bringing her to this point. He wants to fix it, to take away her pain and make it his own. To shield her from the world that keeps throwing obstacles in her path.
"We'll figure something out," he promises. "Send me the loan agreement anyway. Maybe I can find a way to stall him."
She nods, but the fear is still there, lurking beneath the surface. He can't imagine what she's going through. Can't imagine how it must feel to have your whole life turned upside down by someone you trusted. It makes him sick, and angry, and determined to make Wes pay for what he's done.
"I have to get ready for court," she says, her voice small and fragile. "Can we..." She stops, swallowing hard. "I just need to be alone right now. Please."
Harvey nods, grabbing his clothes from the day before. He wants to stay, wants to wrap her in his arms and hold her until all of this goes away. But he respects her wishes. Knows that sometimes, space is the only thing that can help.
"I'll let myself out," he says, bending to kiss her forehead.
She closes her eyes, leaning into the touch. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just..."
"Hey." He cups her face in his hands, thumb brushing away a tear that's escaped. "You have every right to be mad at me. I should have talked to you about the lease. Should have given you the choice."
"I know why you did it." She meets his eyes, and there's something vulnerable there, something that makes his heart catch. "That's what scares me. That I understand your reasons, just like I understood his at first. That I want to forgive you, just like I always forgave him."
"Then don't." The words hurt to say, but he forces them out. "Don't forgive me until you're sure, until you've worked through whatever you need to. I can wait."
She nods, stepping back from his touch. "I'll see you in court?"
"Yeah." He heads for the door, then pauses. "Donna? Whatever happens with Nancy's studio...we'll figure it out. No strings attached."
He doesn't wait for her to respond, just slips out the door and closes it softly behind him. And as he rides down the elevator, the guilt and regret settling heavily on his shoulders, he wonders if he's broken the very thing he was trying so hard to protect.
III
Donna is still reeling when she arrives at the courthouse. Everything that happened that morning, with Harvey, with Nancy, with Wes — it's all a jumble in her head, a tangled knot of emotions and uncertainties. She feels like she's been torn in a hundred different directions, and she's not sure which way is up anymore.
But she has a job to do, and she's not about to let anything get in the way of that. She takes a deep breath, straightens her shoulders, and strides into the courtroom.
Harvey is already there, looking calm and collected as always. She can't help but feel a twinge of resentment towards him, even though she knows it's not fair. It's not his fault that she's so messed up, that Wes has done such a number on her that she can't even trust the people who are supposed to be on her side. But still, seeing him sitting there, so cool and confident, it stings. Like he's not even affected by any of this, while she's barely holding it together.
He glances up at her as she enters, his eyes lingering on her for a moment before he looks back down at his notes. She takes her seat, avoiding his gaze, focusing instead on the case at hand. She needs to get through this, and then she can deal with whatever mess her personal life has become.
Judge Kramer calls the court to order and Harvey stands, buttoning his jacket as he moves to the center of the room. "Your Honor, the prosecution calls Dr. David Ellsworth to the stand."
Donna watches as a nervous-looking man in a rumpled suit makes his way to the witness box. He's the head of the engineering team on the Prometheus project, and he looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here.
Harvey wastes no time, launching into his questions. "Dr. Ellsworth, you were the lead structural engineer on Project Prometheus, correct?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"And in that capacity, you were responsible for ensuring the integrity of the satellite's core framework?"
"I was."
Harvey paces, each step measured, deliberate. Donna's fingers twitch against her legal pad, her pen hovering above the yellow paper. She knows his rhythm, knows he's building to something. The way he keeps glancing at the jury, gauging their reactions, testing the waters.
"Tell me, Dr. Ellsworth, when did you first realize the carbon fiber composite wouldn't hold up under the thermal stress conditions?"
"Objection, assumes facts not in evidence," Donna says, rising. She's not sure if it's a good objection or not. Doesn't care. She just needs to disrupt his flow, to keep him from getting too far ahead. The last thing she needs is to lose the jury again.
"Your Honor, I have documentation showing Dr. Ellsworth's own calculations regarding thermal stress tolerances."
Judge Kramer nods. "Overruled. The witness will answer."
Ellsworth shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "I...we had some concerns early in development."
"Some concerns?" Harvey's voice carries just the right note of incredulity. Donna watches him work, watches the way he paces, the way his fingers tap against his thigh. He's building to a crescendo, she can feel it. "Wasn't it more than that? Weren't you certain the design would fail?"
"Objection, compound question."
"I'll rephrase," Harvey says smoothly. "Dr. Ellsworth, did you or did you not determine that the structural design would fail under the documented stress conditions?"
Sullivan's eyes dart to Wolcott, then back to Harvey. Donna's stomach drops. That one look tells her everything she needs to know.
"Yes."
The gallery rustles with whispers. Donna feels her chest tighten. She knows what's coming, can see the dominoes beginning to fall.
"And yet Wolcott Aerospace continued to work on the project. They didn't inform the State Comptroller's office that the design was doomed. In fact, they kept asking for more money. Isn't that right?"
"Objection, leading."
"I'll move on," Harvey says, turning back to the witness. "When exactly did you make this determination? That the project would fail?"
"Three months into development."
"Three months." Harvey lets the words hang in the air. "Yet the project continued for another two years. Why is that?"
"Objection, calls for speculation." Her objections feel hollow now, a token resistance against the inevitable. Her heart is pounding in her chest, her palms damp with sweat. She feels trapped, hemmed in on all sides, with no way out.
"Your Honor, the witness was the lead engineer. He's qualified to speak to project decisions."
"Overruled. Answer the question, Dr. Ellsworth."
Sullivan's shoulders slump. "We were told to continue."
"By whom?"
"Management."
"You mean Mr. Wolcott?"
"Yes."
Donna rises again. "Objection, hearsay." She's fighting for every inch now, but she can feel the case slipping away. The worst part is watching Harvey work, seeing the precision of his attack. There's no hesitation, no pulled punches. It's like he's not even the same man she woke up with that morning. The man who held her, who kissed her, who promised to help her. No, he's a different creature altogether now. And she hates him for it. Hates him, and admires him, and wants him, all at the same time.
"Sustained."
Harvey nods. "And why continue a project you knew would fail?"
Something breaks in Sullivan's expression. "Because it didn't matter if it worked. The government contracts kept coming. The funding kept flowing. It was..." He swallows, his eyes darting to Wolcott, who sits, impassive. "It was a scam. We all knew it."
The words echo through the courtroom. Donna feels them like physical blows, each one chipping away at months of work, at her reputation, at everything she's built. She makes more objections, fights harder, but it's like trying to hold back the tide with her bare hands.
After court adjourns, Wolcott catches her in the hallway. His expression is thunderous.
"Well," he says, adjusting his cufflinks. "I guess playtime's over."
"Excuse me?"
"You're smart. You knew exactly what you were doing, using your... assets to hold off a man like Specter. It was a good strategy, I'll grant you that. But clearly, Harvey's done with his little fling. I suppose the novelty wore off." He pauses, his eyes raking over her with disdain. "Now that he's back to business, I think it's time for you to step down from this case. The partners at your firm will likely agree. Let's leave the legal battles to those who are actually capable of winning them, shall we?"
The implication hits her like ice water. In Wolcott's eyes, her relationship with Harvey wasn't just a scandal – it was a strategy. A failed one. And now that Harvey's shown his true colors, now that he's done "going easy" on her, she's just another lawyer who tried to use her feminine wiles and lost anyway.
She thinks about every late night spent poring over case files, every argument won through sheer force of will and intellect, every battle fought to prove herself in a world that seemed determined to see her as nothing more than a pretty face. And now, to have all of that reduced to some kind of ploy, some calculated move to manipulate her opponent...
She wants to scream. She took this case to prove that she's a force to be reckoned with, that she deserves her name on the wall, that she's more than just the sum of her relationships. And all she's done is double down on that very notion.
Her fingers curl into fists, her nails digging into her palms. She looks at Wolcott, at the smug satisfaction in his eyes, and she can feel her composure start to crumble. The weight of the day, of the revelations, of the doubts and fears, it's too much. She can feel the tears welling up, the lump forming in her throat. All she wants is to get out of here, to escape the judgment and the echoes of failure.
She pushes past him without a word, making her way through the courthouse hallways, the familiar path suddenly foreign, the walls closing in around her. When she emerges from the revolving doors, the cool winter air hits her face, and the tears spill over, sliding down her cheeks.
The press is there, of course, cameras flashing, microphones thrust in her face, questions shouted. She catches glimpses of headlines on their voice recorders: "Affair Ends as Specter Crushes Paulsen in Court," "From Bedroom to Breakdown: How Donna Fell to Harvey." She can see the narrative being crafted in front of her eyes, the story of a woman who tried to play the game and lost. Who threw her own career away. Who used her body to try to sway a case and got her heart broken as her payment. The pitying, scandalized glances, the whispered speculations, they're almost worse than the outright scorn.
She keeps her head down, ignoring the reporters, but she can hear some in the crowd shout "slut!" and "shameless!" as she pushes through. It's like everything she's tried so hard to escape, every fear she's held about her reputation, is playing out before her eyes, a cruel mockery of her attempts at empowerment and self-determination.
That nagging voice in the back of her head – Wes' voice – whispers that she never really deserved any of this. That she's been playing at being a lawyer, at being a partner, and she's finally been found out. That all her hard work and sacrifices were for nothing. Because in the end, it's just her and her choices. And what has that gotten her? A failed case, a tarnished reputation, a shattered heart. Maybe she did deserve all of this. Maybe this is what happens when you think you can have it all, when you try to be more than you are. Maybe this is the universe's way of teaching her a lesson. That she should have known her place from the start. That she was never meant to be more than the pretty, unambitious, pliant girl who did what she was told. That she should have stayed home and played the dutiful wife like a good girl. Because look where ambition has gotten her. Look where trying to stand on her own has led.
She wipes at her eyes, a fresh wave of shame washing over her. She can't let these people see her cry. Can't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break. But the tears keep coming, a torrent of grief and rage and regret. So she ducks her head, hiding her face behind a curtain of hair, and quickens her step.
IV
The knock comes at seven, just as Avery is brewing her third cup of coffee of the day. She watches the dark liquid drip into her favorite mug – the one with chemical compounds printed on it, a reminder of her first love: science. The same love that carried her through the worst days of her childhood, when textbooks were her escape and formulas made more sense than people.
Avery knows it's Harvey – his text had been brief, urgent: We need to talk. She'd been expecting him, even if the timing is inconvenient. She's still in her scrubs, her hair tied back messily, her eyes ringed with the exhaustion of a 12-hour shift. The hospital had been chaotic, one emergency bleeding into another, and she'd barely had time to breathe. But Harvey's visit means her respite is over; whatever he's here for, it's important. She just doesn't know if she has the energy for it.
She answers the door, and there he is, tall and handsome, looking as tired as she feels. And there is someone else with him. Someone who makes Avery's heart stutter and stop. She has to clutch the door for support, her mind refusing to process what her eyes are seeing.
Sam.
Twenty years dissolve in an instant. Avery is fourteen again, trailing after sixteen-year-old Sam in the group home's musty corridors, carrying her books and soaking up her presence like a sun-starved plant. Sam – beautiful, fierce Sam, who could have snapped Avery in half if she'd wanted to. Sam, who protected Avery from bullies, from the horrors of the system, from herself. Sam, who taught her how to throw a punch (though Avery never quite mastered it), who shared her cigarettes, who made Avery feel safe for the first time in her life.
And then there was the other thing, the thing Avery had never been able to name, the fluttering in her chest when Sam looked at her, the tingling in her skin when their hands brushed. She remembers their goodbye, the way her heart had shattered when she'd written that ridiculous, embarrassing letter, pouring out her adolescent love and admiration on paper. The way she'd slipped it under Sam's pillow, hoping, praying, that Sam would understand, that she would feel the same way.
But Sam never mentioned the letter. They never spoke of it, and a week later, Avery was gone, back to her broken home and her broken mother. She'd never heard from Sam again.
And now, here they are. Sam, with her perfect hair and her tailored clothes, looking like she stepped out of a fashion magazine. Avery, in her rumpled scrubs and tangled hair, feeling every bit of her thirty-four years. They stare at each other, neither saying a word, and Avery is grateful for the silence. She doesn't trust her voice not to betray her.
Finally, Harvey clears his throat. "This is Samantha Wheeler," he says, his tone carefully neutral. Avery wonders if he knows, if he can see the history etched on her face. "She's a partner at Donna's firm. We're building a case against Harding, and we need your help."
Avery's mind races. A case against Weston? What does that mean? And why would they need her help? But she can't ask these questions, not with Sam standing there, her eyes locked on Avery's, her expression unreadable.
"Come in," she says instead, stepping aside. They enter, and Avery watches as Sam takes in her home – the cluttered bookshelves, the stacks of medical journals, the half-finished cup of tea on the coffee table. She wonders what Sam sees, if she recognizes the girl she once knew in the woman she's become.
Avery gestures for them to sit, and they do, Sam perched on the edge of the sofa, Harvey settling into an armchair. Avery remains standing, her arms wrapped around herself, a flimsy barrier against the emotions threatening to overwhelm her.
Harvey explains, his words clipped and precise. They're building a case for domestic violence, he says. They have evidence, testimony, but they need medical expertise. They need someone who can interpret Donna's records, who can give context to the injuries she sustained.
They spread the documents across her coffee table. Avery reads through them methodically, her doctor's mind cataloging injuries while her heart aches for Donna. But it's not the bruises that catch her eye – it's the words, Donna's words, her own testimony. She speaks of pain, of humiliation, of a loss of self so complete it chills Avery to the bone.
She remembers being a teenager, reading books about abuse, trying to understand her own fractured home. She remembers the words she'd found there – the idea that love is a currency, that it can be traded, withheld, used as a weapon. That's what she sees in Donna's account – a woman who has been hollowed out by love, who has been made to believe that her worth is tied to the whims of a man.
It hits close to home for Avery. She thinks of her own mother, a brilliant woman reduced to a shell of herself by her addiction. She thinks of the times she'd come home to find her mother passed out on the couch, an empty bottle of pills beside her. How she'd shake her awake, begging her to come back, to be present, to love her enough to fight her demons.
She can see that same desperation in Donna's words. The need to be loved, to be seen, to be enough. The willingness to endure anything, even pain, if it means holding on to that precious feeling. It breaks Avery's heart.
And it makes her angry. Furious. At Weston, for his cruelty. At the world, for allowing this to happen. At herself, for being so helpless in the face of it all. She looks at Harvey, at his carefully controlled expression, and she knows he feels it too – the impotence, the rage.
She turns to Sam, meets her eyes for the first time since they entered. There is understanding there, and a fierce determination that Avery recognizes from all those years ago.
"The defense will try to frame it as consensual BDSM," Sam says. "They'll paint Donna as someone who asked for it, who enjoyed it. We need an expert witness who can definitively demonstrate the difference."
"What do you mean, 'the difference'?"
"BDSM requires informed consent, and it has to be safe," Sam clarifies. "What Wes did to Donna wasn't either of those things. I think we can make that case."
Avery frowns, considering. It's a difficult argument, but one that could work. If she can show the jury the physical and emotional toll of Donna's abuse, if she can explain the distinction between healthy kink and toxic manipulation, they might have a chance. She looks at Harvey. "You're asking me to testify?"
He nods. "We need someone who can speak to her medical records, and who can also explain the psychology of it – the way abusers use shame and guilt to control their victims."
Avery takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She thinks of the countless patients she's seen, the broken bones and bruised spirits. She thinks of her own history, of the scars she carries, invisible but no less painful. She thinks of Donna, and the strength it must have taken for her to break free.
She knows what she has to do.
"Okay. I'll do it," she says, her voice steady. Harvey nods, gratitude and relief evident in his eyes. Sam smiles, a small, tentative thing that Avery feels in her chest.
Harvey's phone buzzes, and he glances at the screen. "It's Donna, I have to take this." He stands, stepping away to answer the call. Avery watches him go, feeling suddenly exposed.
She turns to Sam. Their eyes meet, and Avery feels her heart quicken. There's a question in Sam's gaze, an uncertainty that mirrors her own. What now? How do they bridge the chasm of years between them?
"Sammy," Avery whispers, the nickname slipping out before she can stop it. Sam's eyes widen, a flicker of something crossing her face. Avery wants to apologize, to take it back, but it's too late. The name hangs in the air between them, a reminder of the past, of the bond they once shared.
But then Sam smiles, a soft, gentle curve of her lips that eases the tension in Avery's chest. "So, you're a doctor now," she says, gesturing at Avery's scrubs. "Suits you."
Avery huffs out a laugh. "I guess it does. And you're a lawyer. Traded in the leather jacket for Armani."
Sam grins, her teeth flashing. "Don't let the suit fool you. I can still kick ass when I need to."
"I believe it."
They lapse into silence, the moment stretching between them. Avery can hear her own heartbeat, loud in her ears. There's so much she wants to say, so many questions she wants to ask. But she can't find the words, can't seem to make her mouth work.
Fortunately, Sam saves her. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice quiet, her eyes on the floor. "For not saying goodbye. For not contacting you. It was... I was a kid, and I didn't know how to handle it. But I should have done better."
Avery nods, swallowing past the lump in her throat. "It's okay," she says, even though it's not, even though the pain of that loss has lingered all these years. "We were both just kids."
Samantha's lips quirk at the corners. "Well, look at us now. All grown up and still making messes of our lives."
Avery laughs, a short, sharp sound that startles her. "Speak for yourself. I've got my shit together."
Samantha raises an eyebrow, skepticism written across her features. "Oh, really? Tell me, Doctor Avery, how does one become Harvey Specter's personal on-call physician?"
Avery's smile falters, her amusement fading. "We're casual. Friends."
"So you're not agreeing to go up against Weston Harding because you love him?" Sam's tone is light, but there's an edge to it, a hardness in her eyes.
"No," Avery says, and it's true, mostly. "I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do. Because Donna deserves justice. And because Weston is a piece of shit who needs to be held accountable."
Sam studies her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "Good," she says finally, nodding. "That's... good." She looks away, her gaze falling back to the documents on the table. "But you should know what you're risking. Weston's lawyers will try to discredit you. They'll dig up everything they can to use against you. Are you prepared for that?"
Avery takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Yes," she says, and she means it. She knows what's at stake, knows the risks she's taking. But she also knows that she can't walk away, can't leave Donna to fend for herself. Not when she has the power to help. "I can handle it."
Samantha holds her gaze for another beat before nodding, seemingly satisfied. She turns back to the documents, her fingers tracing the lines of Donna's injuries. "Thank you," she says quietly. "For doing this."
Avery nods, her throat tight. "Of course."
They sit in silence for a few moments, the weight of their shared past and uncertain future hanging between them. Avery can feel the questions bubbling up inside her, the words she's kept locked away for years. She wants to ask about that night, about the letter, about the days and weeks and years that followed. She wants to know if Sam ever thought of her, if she ever regretted their lost friendship. She wants to know if she's happy, if she's found someone to love her the way she deserves.
Instead, she stands, crossing the room to where Harvey still talks on the phone. She touches his arm, and he turns to her, his expression troubled. She gives him a reassuring smile, her fingers lingering on his sleeve. "Do you need to go?"
He covers the phone's microphone, whispering, "No. We need to get started on your testimony."
Avery shakes her head. "It's late. We can start tomorrow. Go be with Donna."
"I need to focus on this. On taking Harding down."
She tilts her head, studying him. Avery is aware of the shitstorm of gossip surrounding Donna right now. She's on the cover of every tabloid, her privacy invaded by reporters and paparazzi, her every move scrutinized. She can't begin to imagine the stress Donna's under. "You need to be there for the woman you love, Harvey. Let us handle this."
He hesitates, and she can see the conflict in his eyes, the tug-of-war between duty and desire. Finally, he nods, lifting the phone back to his ear. "Donna," he says, and Avery can hear the longing in his voice, the ache for something just out of reach. She steps back, giving him privacy, her own heart heavy with memories and regrets.
She glances at Samantha, who is watching her, a curious expression on her face. "What?" Avery asks, suddenly self-conscious.
"Nothing," Sam says, but her eyes linger, taking in Avery's tired eyes, her tangled hair, her wrinkled scrubs. "It's just... you look exhausted, Doc."
"I'm fine." It's a lie, and they both know it. Avery can feel the weariness in her bones, the weight of too many hours spent saving lives, of too much time spent alone. She crosses her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture. "I had a long shift."
Sam's gaze doesn't waver. "When's the last time you slept?"
Avery opens her mouth to respond, but she can't remember. Was it last night? The night before? Time seems to blur together, an endless parade of patients and charts and coffee. She shrugs, avoiding Sam's eyes. "I'll be fine."
Samantha is quiet for a moment, her fingers tapping against her thigh. Avery watches the movement, mesmerized by the rhythm, the grace of Sam's hand. "I'd hate to push you, but the goal is to file for the indictment before Weston's nomination. So, we've got to be quick."
"I said I'll be fine."
"Good." Sam's tone is clipped, all business. Avery feels a twinge of disappointment at the loss of their earlier intimacy, but she pushes it aside. This isn't about them. This is about Donna, and justice, and all the things that matter more than their own petty dramas. "Let's get started then."
V
She doesn't remember driving home. Doesn't remember parking her car or trudging up the stairs. Doesn't remember dropping her purse by the door or kicking off her heels. All she knows is that she's standing in her bedroom staring at the fish tank, watching the little creature inside swim to and fro, the rhythmic motion somehow soothing. It's like a meditation, the back and forth, the gentle swaying of the plants in the water, the slow rise of bubbles from the filter.
Her phone buzzes incessantly in her pocket, but she ignores it. Doesn't even want to think about the outside world right now. Doesn't want to deal with the messages from Harvey, from the partners, from the media. She knows what they'll say, what they're thinking. That she's a failure, a disgrace, a fool. And maybe they're right. Maybe she is all those things.
Lazzy pauses in front of her, as if studying her. Donna wonders what the fish sees. Does it see a strong, successful woman, or a broken one? Does it see the scars on her heart, the fractures in her soul? Or does it simply see a large, strange creature beyond the glass?
Donna reaches out and touches the tank, her fingertips brushing against the cool surface. The fish swims closer, its movements graceful and fluid. For a moment, they're frozen like that, the woman and the fish, staring at each other, as if trying to understand what the other is thinking, feeling. And then, just like that, the fish darts away, disappearing into the plants.
Donna sighs, sinking down onto the bed. She's so tired. Tired of fighting, of pretending, of trying to prove herself to everyone. She just wants to crawl under the covers and hide from the world. Wants to forget about her job, her reputation, the trial, the media, the endless scrutiny and judgment. Wants to forget about Harvey, his touch, his smell, the way he makes her feel both safe and terrified at the same time. Wants to forget about Wes, and the pain and fear he still holds over her, even now, after everything.
Lazzy comes out of the greenery, her lips moving, chewing something. Donna leans closer to the tank, her eyes widening as she realizes what the fish is doing. It's eating the eggs. One by one, she's swallowing them, devouring her own offspring. Donna's stomach twists, a wave of nausea rolling through her.
"Oh god," she whispers. "Oh god." She watches, horrified and transfixed, as the fish consumes egg after egg, each one a tiny death, a extinguishing of possibility. It's like watching a funeral procession, a line of little coffins marching towards oblivion. And all Donna can do is sit there, a silent witness to the destruction of something beautiful.
"Lazzy, what are you doing? Stop!" She bangs her fists on the glass, desperate to intervene, to save what little is left of the future that was almost within her grasp. But it's too late. The eggs are gone, swallowed up by the very creature that was meant to protect them. "You crazy bitch," she murmurs, tears streaming down her cheeks. "You stupid, selfish fish."
She grabs the net from the side of the tank and scoops out the fish, ignoring her flailing and thrashing. She carries her to the bathroom, hovering over the toilet bowl. Her hand shakes, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
"You're broken," she whispers. "Broken and ruined and worthless."
She holds Lady Lazarus over the bowl, her finger poised on the flush lever. In her periphery, she sees Lysander darting around in the tank, frantic. As if he's trying to stop her, to save his mate from her destructive rage. His fins flap, his mouth opens and closes, and she can almost hear his desperate plea: Please, don't do this. Don't give up on her.
She hesitates, her finger trembling on the lever. Tears blur her vision, her chest tight with emotion.
What is she doing? What kind of monster is she becoming? Is this who she is now — someone who destroys innocent creatures because of her own pain and fear? Someone who lashes out in anger, seeking to hurt others because she feels hurt herself?
No. No. That's not her. That's not who she wants to be. She's better than this. Stronger than this.
With a shuddering breath, she lowers Lazzy back into the tank. The fish darts away, her body a blur of red and white. Lysander rushes to her side, nuzzling her, as if comforting her after the ordeal. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so sorry." But the words feel hollow, inadequate.
She picks up her phone, pulling up Harvey's contact. She hits call before she can change her mind. She doesn't even know what she's going to say, doesn't know how to put her feelings into words. All she knows is that she needs him, needs his comfort, his reassurance, his strength. And as angry and confused as she is right now, there's no one else she would rather turn to.
The phone rings once, twice, three times. She's about to hang up, convinced he's busy or tired of dealing with her, when his voice fills her ear. "Hey," he says. "I was just thinking about you."
"Lazzy ate her eggs," she blurts out, the words spilling from her lips before she can stop them. "She ate them. Right in front of me."
There's a pause on the other end of the line, and she can practically see Harvey's brow furrowing, his mind trying to process the words. "Okay."
"Okay?" Donna runs a hand through her hair, pacing the length of the bedroom like a caged animal. "That's all you have to say? 'Okay'?"
"They're her eggs," Harvey says slowly. "Maybe they were duds. Or maybe she just wasn't ready."
"Not ready?" Donna's voice rises, her frustration mounting. "She shouldn't have laid them if she wasn't ready. I just… I don't understand. Her fin is nearly healed, and I've done everything right. I got the right tank, the right temperature, the right everything. And she's still... she's still..."
"A fish?"
"Broken! She's broken, and I'm... I'm..." She sinks onto the bed, burying her face in her hand. The weight of the day, the humiliation, the fear — it's all catching up with her, crashing down like a tidal wave. She's drowning, gasping for air, flailing in the dark. "I don't know what I am."
There's a rustling on the other end of the line, and then Harvey's voice, closer, gentler. "You're perfect."
Donna lets out a choked laugh, the sound halfway between a sob and a snort. "That's bullshit and we both know it."
"No, it's not." There's a conviction in his tone that takes her by surprise, a steadiness that belies the turmoil of the last few hours. "You're brilliant, and strong, and beautiful. And yeah, maybe you're a little bit of a mess sometimes. But so am I. So is everyone."
She swallows hard, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm more than a little bit of a mess, Harvey. I'm a goddamn disaster. I've been stumbling from one mistake to another, and now I'm on the verge of losing everything. The trial is a shitshow, the partners are voting me out at the end of the week, the media is crucifying me, and Nancy is going to lose her studio. And I can't even keep a goddamn fish happy enough to lay eggs without eating them. I'm a joke. A cautionary tale. A—"
"Hey, hey, hey, slow down. Breathe." Harvey's voice is firm, grounding. "You're not a joke. You're not a cautionary tale. You're Donna Paulsen, and you're going to get through this. We're going to get through this."
We. The word sends a jolt through her, a spark of hope amidst the darkness. She's not alone. He's here, on the other end of the line, ready to fight for her, to stand by her side. And suddenly, the weight on her chest doesn't feel quite so crushing, the world doesn't seem quite so bleak.
"Are you coming over tonight?" she asks, hating how desperate she sounds.
"Do you want me to?" There's an edge to his voice, a hesitance that wasn't there before. "I thought...with the court order–"
"Right." The hope that had flared in her chest flickers and dies. "Right, I forgot."
They've never let anything keep them apart before – not her engagement to Wes, not competing cases, not the complications of their professional relationship. Nothing. To have something as mundane as a no-contact order come between them now, after everything they've been through together... it feels wrong, somehow. Unnatural.
She's about to hang up, to retreat into herself, to lick her wounds in private, when Harvey speaks again. "I'm sorry about today. With the case. I didn't mean to catch you off guard like that. I should have given you a heads up."
"No," she says, shaking her head even though he can't see her. "No, you were doing your job. And you were damn good at it. I'm just..." She trails off, not sure how to articulate the mix of feelings swirling inside her. "I'm just frustrated. With myself, with the case, with everything."
"And you're going to take that frustration and that brilliant mind of yours, and you're going to use it to figure out a way to dismantle Ellsworth in your cross tomorrow."
She manages a small smile. "You think so, huh?"
"Oh, I have no doubt. I'm already half-hard thinking about all the ways you're going to bend me over and fuck me."
Donna can't help it — a laugh escapes her, a real one this time, bright and clear in the silence of her bedroom. "God, you're such a romantic."
"I try." There's a pause on the other end of the line, and she can almost see him, sprawled out on his couch or sitting at his desk, his eyes warm and his smile lopsided. "So, are we okay?"
She sighs, running a hand through her hair. "Yeah. We are. I'm sorry I got so weird about the lease. It's just, with Wes and everything..."
"You don't have to apologize. I get it. And I'm sorry too, for not talking to you first."
"I don't want to fight, Harvey."
"We're not fighting. We're communicating."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"I'm trying to be mature."
"Since when?"
"Since I became a fish dad, and soon to be grand-fish dad."
"She ate them," Donna reminds him. "They're gone."
"Well Dr. Google says cichlids are mouthbrooders."
Donna pauses, her eyebrows knitting together. "Mouthbrooders?"
"Yeah. The female holds the eggs in her mouth to incubate them."
Donna looks over at the fish tank, at Lady Lazarus still swimming around. She tries to wrap her head around this new information, tries to reconcile it with everything she thought she knew. "So, she's not eating them?"
"No. She's protecting them. They're still there, inside her."
"Oh," Donna breathes, a wave of relief and disbelief washing over her. "Oh my god." Then the guilt hits, a sharp stab of pain in her chest. The fish had been trying to protect her eggs, and Donna had almost flushed her down the toilet. She covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes filling with tears. "Harvey, I almost... I was going to... I thought she was..."
"It's okay. You didn't know. It's okay."
"It's not," she whispers. "It's not okay. I'm not okay. I...god, I do need help, don't I?" Her voice quivers on the last few words, but she forces herself to say them anyway. Forces herself to admit, out loud, what she's known deep down for weeks, maybe even months. That she needs help, professional help, to deal with the trauma and pain that Wes has inflicted on her, and that she's been carrying with her all these years. That she needs to learn to live with herself, to love herself, to trust herself again.
"You've been through a lot," Harvey says, his voice gentle. "More than anyone should have to go through. And you're still standing, still fighting. But sometimes, we all need a little extra support. A little guidance. There's no shame in that."
She wipes at her eyes, her breath coming in shaky gasps. "I don't even know where to start. I don't even know what's wrong with me."
"There's nothing wrong with you, Donna," he says firmly. "You're hurting. That's not the same thing as being broken or damaged. And you don't have to go through this alone. I'll go with you. If you want. With the whole lease thing, maybe I need some tips on how to navigate this better. Figure out how to support you without you feeling like I'm overstepping or taking away your power."
"You'd do that for me?"
"I'd do anything for you," he says, without hesitation.
She's breathless. Shocked. She thinks of all the times she'd begged and pleaded with Wes to go to therapy, to talk to a counselor, to do anything to make their relationship work. All the times he'd refused, telling her that therapy was for the weak, that he didn't need to pay someone to tell him what he already knows. All the times he'd made her feel like she was the problem, like she was the one who needed to change, to conform, to submit. And here's Harvey, offering to go with her, without her even having to ask.
She wants to say something, to thank him, to tell him how much his support means to her. But before she can form the words, there's a rustling on the other end of the line. And then she hears her. The voice carried faintly through the phone, muffled but unmistakable.
Avery.
"One sec," Harvey says, and she can hear him shifting the phone as if to cover the mic.
Donna's throat tightens, a surge of emotions she can't even begin to name rising up inside her. She doesn't have a right to be jealous. Harvey's not hers. Not officially. They've never put a label on what they have, never discussed exclusivity or commitment. And yet the knowledge that he's with someone else, that he's sharing his body, his time, his attention with someone who isn't her, it makes her feel sick.
The warmth, the intimacy, the sense of connection she'd felt with him just moments ago is gone, replaced by a cold, hard weight in her chest. She feels like a fool, like a desperate, needy idiot. But god, he just told her that he'd go to therapy with her...that has to count for something, right?
But then, there's Avery's voice again, a soft murmur that sends a pang of longing and envy through her. Avery, with her blue eyes and her long, slender fingers, her confidence and her intelligence. Avery, who doesn't have a psychotic ex-fiancé and a career in freefall. Avery, who isn't damaged, isn't broken, isn't carrying the weight of a decade of pain and abuse.
Donna's breath catches in her throat, and she knows she can't do this. Can't pretend that she's okay with whatever this is. Can't act like she doesn't feel like she's been stabbed in the heart.
Finally, he comes back on the line. "Donna," he says, his voice low and apologetic. "Sorry about that."
"It's fine," she lies. "I should go anyway. I have a lot of work to do."
She hangs up before he can say anything else, before she can break down completely. She sits there, on the edge of her bed, staring at the fish tank, at Lady Lazarus still swimming around, at Lysander darting in and out of the plants, at the eggs nestled safely in the female's mouth.
She thinks about the pain she's endured, the strength she's shown, the sacrifices she's made. She thinks about Harvey, and the way he makes her feel, like she's flying and drowning all at once. She thinks about Wes, and the way he's still haunting her, still controlling her, still making her feel small and worthless. She thinks about the partners, and the way they've turned their backs on her when she needed them most. She thinks about the case, and how it's spiraling out of control, and how she's not sure she can win, not sure she even deserves to win, after the mess she's made of everything.
She feels overwhelmed, exhausted, lost. She doesn't know how to navigate this labyrinth of emotions. Doesn't know how to untangle the knots of love and lust and rage that have wrapped themselves around her heart. Doesn't know how to stop the spiral, the descent into darkness, the fall into despair.
But she knows she has to try.
She wipes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and walks into the foyer to grab her purse. She digs out Ellsworth's files and her laptop, then sits down at the dining room table, spreading the papers out in front of her. She'll work through the night if she has to, combing through every document, every email, every memo. She'll find something, some angle, some flaw in Harvey's case that she can exploit.
She'll fix this, she tells herself. She has to. Because if she doesn't, she's not sure she'll survive the wreckage.
And so she works, the night stretching out before her like an endless highway, the clock ticking away the hours until dawn. She reads and scribbles notes, her eyes burning, her back aching. And as the sky begins to lighten, she finally finds it — a tiny thread, a loose end, a hint of a weakness in the case. She latches onto it, pulling it tight, weaving it into a plan.
She knows it's a long shot, but it's the best she's got. And as she closes her laptop and leans back in her chair, watching the sun rise over the city, she feels a tiny flicker of hope ignite in her chest.
She's going to fight. For her life, for her career, for her sanity. For herself. And, if she's being honest, for him. Because god help her, despite everything, she loves him. And if she wants commitment and trust, and to not share him with anyone else...well, that means he needs to know how she really feels. She has to put her cards on the table. It might destroy her to do it. But what's one more fracture in a heart that's already been broken so many times before?
Author's note: Sorry it's late! Real life has been insane, so this chapter took a little longer to write. We're getting closer to the end now, and because of this (and the holidays) the updates might be a little less frequent. Thank you all for sticking with me and for all the wonderful comments and kudos. They mean the world to me.
-Kelly