Trigger warning: Wes' POV (scene III); Domestic violence (slapping, hair pulling, choking).
A summary will be provided at the end for anyone who is sensitive to the content.
I
Harvey leans against a metal shelf, a stack of case files in his hands. The District Attorney's storage room is a mess, boxes piled haphazardly on top of each other, files spilling out onto the floor.
He's been at it for hours, searching through old cases, looking for anything that can prove his integrity, or at least prove Cameron's corruption. It's exhausting work, made more so by the late hour and the weight of his worries.
"Any luck?"
Harvey turns to see Mike, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, expression inscrutable.
"Not much," Harvey sighs, tossing another file onto the "review" pile. "You?"
"Nothing." Mike moves into the room, picking up a file at random and flipping through it. He's unusually silent, preoccupied. Harvey watches him for a moment, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way he keeps clenching his jaw.
"What's up with you?"
"Nothing."
"Mike."
Mike hesitates, then meets Harvey's gaze. "Donna's upstairs."
Harvey's heart skips a beat. "What? Where?"
"Your office." Mike's voice is clipped, his disapproval evident. "She showed up a little while ago."
Harvey's already moving, brushing past Mike and heading for the stairs. He takes them two at a time, his pulse quickening, his mind racing. Donna. In his office. They were supposed to meet at her place tonight. What's she doing here? What could be so important that she risked coming to him at the office? The thought sends a wave of unease through him.
He reaches his office and finds it empty, dimly lit by the city lights filtering through the windows
"Donna?" he calls out, his voice echoing in the silence. He looks around, searching for any sign of her, but there's nothing – just the stillness of the night and the faint hum of the building's ventilation system.
Then he sees it – his desk drawer, slightly ajar. He moves to it, pulls it open, and his heart plummets. Her file is gone. It was there, he knows it was, he put it there himself when Mike had burst in earlier, interrupting his perusal. And now it's gone. Panic grips him. Did she take it? Did she see it? Fuck, she must have, how could she not?
In its place there's a folded up sheet of paper, a brass key taped to its front. He unfolds the note, Donna's familiar, elegant handwriting flowing across the page. But it's slanted, frantic.
Harvey,
The key is to my apartment. The fish need to be fed. There's a pie in the fridge that I burnt. Don't eat it, it's certain to be terrible. And an empty drawer in my bedroom dresser. Third one down on the left. I cleared it out for you this evening. Pathetic, right? Planning a future while everything's falling apart. But that's what we do, isn't it? We plan. We hope. We fight.
I found the file. My file. I understand why you have it. Why you didn't tell me. I've spent so many years pretending those things didn't happen, hiding them away, that seeing them laid out like that...it changes things.
You've been fighting so hard for me, and all I've done is drag you down. I've put your life and your future at risk. That has to stop. Wes is my demon, not yours. And I have to be the one that ends this.
Please trust me. Trust that I know what I'm doing. And trust that when the dust settles and the smoke clears, there will still be an 'us.' Because there has to be. Because you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Because you make me laugh, and you make me feel safe, and you make me believe that there's more to life than just surviving. Because you see me, and you know me, and you want me anyway.
So go to my apartment. Feed the fish. Make yourself at home. But don't eat that damn pie. I'll make you another when this is all over.
And likely burn that one too.
I love you, Harvey Specter. God, what a phrase to finally write. I love you. I love you with every piece of me, even if there isn't a piece of you that loves me back. And no matter how hard this gets, no matter what Wes does, that love won't be destroyed. He may break my body, he may bend my will, he may own me in ways that I can't even begin to fathom, but he will never have that.
My heart is yours.
Donna
The note flutters to his desk and Harvey stares at the words, the letters blurring before him as the reality of what he's just read sinks in. He sits heavily in his chair and runs a hand through his hair, gripping the back of his neck. He can feel the panic rising in his chest, tightening his throat. Donna's gone. She's taken the file. And from the sound of her note, she's not planning on coming back. He tries to steady his breath, to think clearly through the fear that's fogging his mind. What is she doing? Where is she going? And what the hell does she mean, she needs to be the one to end this?
He closes his eyes, tries to focus. Tries to think like her, to anticipate her next move. But his thoughts keep circling back to the same chilling conclusion – she's gone back to Wes, to protect him. He can't believe it. After everything they've been through, after all the ways they've opened themselves up to each other, how could she do this? How could she willingly walk back into that house of horrors, knowing what he'll do to her? The thought fills Harvey with a helpless fury.
He grabs his phone, dialing her number with shaking fingers. It goes straight to voicemail. He tries again, and again. Each time he's met with the sound of her voice, calm and professional, inviting him to leave a message. He doesn't. He can't. What would he say? How could he possibly explain the terror that's coursing through him right now? He slams the phone down on the desk, the sound echoing in the quiet of his office.
He knows where she is. He can go there, try to stop her. He can throw himself between her and that monster. He can protect her. But a voice inside him whispers, that's not what she wants. She doesn't want his protection. She doesn't need it. She's strong, she's smart, she's capable. She knows what she's doing. And she needs him to trust her.
He sits there, his heart racing, his mind swirling with doubt and fear and a desperate, aching love for her. Finally, he picks up her note, reads it again. Feed the fish. Make yourself at home. Don't eat that damn pie. Her words swim before his eyes, a mixture of affection, humor, and resolve. It's quintessentially Donna – pragmatic and heartfelt, optimistic and self-deprecating. He can't help but smile at the image of her burning a pie, and the way she's made space for him in her life, even if it's just an empty dresser drawer.
And then there's the love, her love, spilling out across the page, raw and unguarded and breathtaking in its honesty. My heart is yours, she writes, and something in him cracks, breaks open. Because he knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that his heart is hers, too. That it's been hers from the moment he saw her, standing apart from the crowd at that insufferable political fundraiser all those years ago. From the first time he heard her laugh, the first time he saw her smile, the first time she called him out on his shit. He's been a goner from the start.
He knows what he needs to do. He has to let her go. He has to trust that she'll come back to him. Because she will, he tells himself. She has to. He won't accept any other outcome. With a deep breath, he pockets the key and heads out of the office. Feed the fish. Wait for her. Believe in her. He can do this. He can be the man she needs him to be, even if it means letting her walk away, into the darkness, without him by her side.
He does try the pie, though, and it's as bad as she promised. Truly fucking awful. Almost spectacularly so. And yet, he cherishes every burnt bite.
II
Judge Marvin Kramer is halfway through John Grisham's newest thriller when the knock comes. He's sprawled in his favorite armchair, the one his wife Evelyn keeps threatening to throw out, with a glass of Macallan beside him and his reading glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose. The fire's dying in the hearth, just embers now, but he's too comfortable to get up and stoke it.
It's been that kind of evening – the quiet kind that reminds him why retirement doesn't sound half bad. Evelyn's already upstairs, probably doing her crossword puzzle in bed. They've settled into these routines over the decades, comfortable as old shoes.
The knock startles him out of his pleasant haze. He checks his watch, frowning at the late hour. Nearly midnight. In all his years on the bench, late-night visitors have never brought good news.
Another knock, more urgent this time.
He heaves himself out of the chair, his knee protesting the movement. Evelyn's been after him to get it looked at, but he's stubborn that way. The hall light casts strange shadows as he makes his way to the door, and through the frosted glass, he can make out a woman's silhouette. Behind her, a police cruiser idles at the curb, its headlights dim but running.
When he opens the door, he has to blink twice to make sure he isn't seeing things.
"Ms. Paulsen." He takes in her appearance – dressed to the nines, clutching her purse like it might sprout wings and fly away. "This is... unexpected."
"I know it's late, Your Honor." There's something in her voice, a tension he can't quite place.
"Late?" He raises an eyebrow. "It's practically tomorrow. And correct me if I'm wrong, but aren't you supposed to be preparing for closing statements tomorrow? Not making house calls to random judges?"
"You're hardly random." A ghost of a smile crosses her face. "And this isn't about the Wolcott case. This is..." She glances back at the police car, then meets his eyes. "This is something else entirely."
Kramer studies her carefully. In his years on the bench, he's grown adept at reading people, at spotting the difference between theatrical desperation and the real thing. And what he sees in Donna Paulsen's eyes right now sends a chill down his spine.
"You do realize how irregular this is, don't you?" He doesn't move to let her in, not yet. "My wife will have my head if this is anything less than earth-shattering."
"I need something from you," she says quietly, all pretense of banter gone. "Something only a judge can authorize. And if you're looking for earth-shattering, well..."
He waits, silent and still, the night air carrying a hint of winter frost despite the calendar's insistence it's only fall. The porch swing they've sat on for countless summer evenings creaks in the wind, its rusted chains needing oiling. He'd meant to take care of that, but life has a way of slipping by, days blurring into months, seasons spinning like the wheels of justice, always turning, always moving on.
Donna Paulsen looks at him, her eyes reflecting the moonlight in the same way the pond out back captures the stars on clear nights, and she tells him why she's there, on his doorstep, at such a late hour. When she's done, he sighs, a long exhale that carries years of seen and heard horrors with it.
"Come in," he says finally, opening the door wider and waving in the police officers waiting outside.
III
The call comes at 1 AM. Wes has been awake, reviewing polling numbers, when his phone lights up with the NYPD precinct's number. A slow smile spreads across his face as the officer explains they have Donna in custody for reckless driving. Speeding, they say. One hundred and twenty on the I-95. Unlikely to make bail until the morning unless he wants to post it. He listens, nodding and hmming in the right places, his heart pounding in anticipation. When he hangs up, his hands are shaking with the thrill of it, the rush of power. Donna needs him. She's in trouble. And he, only he, can save her.
He makes the calls, pulls the strings. Bail is posted. The car is towed. Within hours, Donna will be released, and the incident scrubbed from her record.
He takes his time getting dressed, selecting his navy suit with careful precision. This moment feels weighted with possibility. He's been waiting, calculating, knowing that without his protection, without his influence smoothing her path, she would eventually crash. And here it is – her inevitable fall.
He whistles as he clips his cufflinks in place, imagining the look of defeat on her face. The gratitude. The realization that she can't survive without him. That he's her anchor, her rock, her salvation. And when the call comes through that she's being processed, he's out the door, ready to welcome her home, ready to remind her of her place, ready to punish her for her disloyalty. She's about to find out just how much power he truly holds, and just how deeply she's in his debt.
When Wes steps into the precinct, the room goes silent. He's used to this – the hush that falls over a space when he enters, the way people turn to look, their eyes filled with curiosity and respect. He nods to the officers, shakes hands with the captain, thanks him for calling, for letting him know about Donna. "She's a wild one," he says with a chuckle, and the captain laughs, agreeing, nodding his head.
The captain leads him to the holding cells, and Wes straightens his tie, preparing himself for the sight of her – broken, finally ready to admit her mistakes.
But when he sees her, his breath catches.
Donna isn't huddled in a corner, isn't crying or showing any signs of distress. She's moving, back and forth, her heels clicking against the concrete floor in a steady rhythm. Her movements are fluid, precise. When she turns and meets his gaze, her eyes are clear and unflinching.
"Look at you," he says, savoring the moment. "The great Donna Paulsen, locked up like a common criminal. Is this what freedom looks like?"
She doesn't respond, doesn't even blink. She continues pacing. Watching. Waiting.
He steps closer to the bars. "You must be relieved that I've come to rescue you. Without my intervention, you'd be in here until morning. Maybe longer. They don't take kindly to reckless endangerment."
Her lips curl into a smirk, a small, enigmatic gesture that catches him off guard. "Why did you come, Wes?" she asks. "To gloat? Or did you miss me?"
The words hang in the air, taunting him. His fingers curl around the cold steel of the bars. "You're in no position to be coy, sweetheart," he says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous pitch. "You fucked up. Royally. You need me to clean up your mess. As always."
She stops pacing and steps towards him, her eyes never leaving his. She's close enough that he can smell her perfume, the scent that always drives him wild. Her lips part, and for a moment, he thinks she might say something, but instead, she reaches through the bars.
He feels her hand on his chest, feels the warmth of her touch through the fabric of his shirt. It's unexpected, disorienting, and he can't help but lean into it, his body craving her closeness. Her fingers trail upwards, over the smooth silk of his tie, coming to rest at the base of his throat.
"Get me out, then. Clean up my mess," she says, her voice a low, sultry purr. "Show me how much you want me back home."
He swallows hard, his throat moving under her fingertips. "Don't test me."
"Or what? You'll leave me here?"
"I could," he says, his hands tightening around the bars.
"But you won't." There's a challenge in her eyes, a gleam of defiance. "You'll do whatever it takes to get me back. Call in Nancy's loan. Sic the IA on Harvey. Anything to keep me in line."
"All I've done is step back and watch the consequences roll in," he says. "You brought this on yourself."
"Did I?"
He stares at her, searching her face. Her expression is unreadable, her eyes dark and hooded. He doesn't recognize this woman, doesn't understand the game she's playing. "You think you have any power here?"
"I know I don't." She takes another step closer, her face inches from his through the bars. "So get me out and take me home. You win."
The words hang between them, heavy with promise. He can taste the victory on his tongue, but it's bittersweet. Something about her submission feels off, incomplete. She's not cowering, not begging for forgiveness. There's a steeliness to her that he can't quite understand.
But he doesn't care. She's his again. Back where she belongs. His hand covers hers, pressing her palm harder against his skin. "That's right," he says, his voice a dark whisper. "I win."
In the back of the town car, he thinks, this is the best feeling in the world. He has her back. The thrill of the chase is over, and he's won. He's the goddamn champion. And tomorrow, after he wins the Democratic nomination and secures his place as the next president of the United States, nothing will be able to stop him.
His hand is on her thigh, and it's everything, the power, the control, the possession. He looks over at her. She's wearing her white coat, her red hair falling around her face, framing it in fire. He reaches over to take her chin, to turn her face to him. She doesn't resist, just meets his eyes and waits.
"You're never leaving me again," he says, and he means it with every cell in his body. "You're mine. Do you understand?"
"Yes," she says. Her voice is calm, subdued. He's missed that voice.
"I can forgive you," he tells her. "I can overlook this...lapse in judgment. But it will never happen again. I won't let it. And you won't want it to, Donna. Not when we have everything we've ever wanted. The presidency. A family. A future."
Her lips part, and he sees her teeth bite down on the flesh of her bottom lip, a sign of nerves, of apprehension. Good. He wants her nervous, wants her to understand the gravity of this moment. His fingers stroke her jawline, the skin smooth and warm under his fingertips. "Do you understand me?" he repeats.
Her breath catches in her throat, and for a long moment, they're locked in a silent struggle. He can feel her resistance, her inner conflict. But then, finally, she relents. "Yes, Wes. I understand."
The car pulls up outside the brownstone. Wes gets out first, holding the door open for Donna as she exits. He puts his hand on the small of her back, guides her up the steps to the front door, cameras clicking and flashing behind them. It's late – or early, depending on how one looks at it, the night sky beginning to lighten with the approaching dawn, and the street is empty except for the ever-present press.
The house is dark when they enter, the air inside still and quiet. Travis must have gone to sleep in the spare bedroom, or perhaps stayed at his apartment in the Village. Either way, they're alone.
Wes flips on the lights in the foyer. Donna is standing there, looking around like it's the first time she's seen the place. She's been gone a month, he realizes. Four weeks without her presence in their home. He watches as she takes off her coat, hangs it on the hook by the door. Her movements are slow, methodical. She's stalling. But that's okay. He's in control now, and he can afford to let her have this moment.
When she turns to face him, her eyes are unreadable, but that's okay too. He doesn't need to see into her mind, doesn't need to understand her thoughts. All he needs is her obedience. Her submission. Her acceptance of his authority and his vision for their future.
"Upstairs," he says. "I want to show you something."
She follows him silently up the staircase, their footsteps soft on the plush carpeting. When they reach the bedroom, he flips on the light switch, illuminating the space.
"Take off your clothes," he says, his voice low and firm. "All of them."
She hesitates, and for a moment, he thinks she's going to defy him, but then her hands move to the buttons of her blouse, and she begins to disrobe. He watches as she slips the silk garment off her shoulders, revealing the lacy white bra beneath. Her trousers fall next, pooling around her ankles before she steps out of it, leaving her in just her undergarments.
His breath hitches at the sight of her body, still as beautiful as the day he met her. He drinks her in, his gaze roaming over her curves, her soft, freckled skin, the swell of her breasts. She's his again, his alone, and the knowledge sends a rush of heat through his veins.
When she reaches behind her back to unclasp her bra, he stops her with a gesture of his hand.
He circles around her, admiring her from every angle, the curve of her ass, the slope of her neck, the delicate bones of her wrists. He wants to touch her, to claim her, but he knows he must wait, must prolong the moment, must savor the anticipation.
"I've missed you," he says, his voice a low murmur in the silent room. "Missed this."
She doesn't reply, just stares straight ahead, her face a mask of indifference.
"You've caused so much trouble, you know that? The scandal, the humiliation, the investigation into Harvey. You're lucky I'm a generous man, Donna, or this could have ended much worse for you."
He sees a muscle in her jaw tense, the only indication she's heard him. It's not enough. He wants more. He wants her fear, her submission, her complete and utter obedience.
He steps closer, invading her space, his chest brushing against hers with each breath. She's so vulnerable like this, half-dressed and exposed, and yet still, she refuses to yield, to show any sign of weakness. It only serves to piss him off more.
"Wes..."
He doesn't wait for her to finish her sentence. His hand shoots out, catching her cheek in a sharp, stinging blow.
Her head whips to the side, her hair flying around her face, a small cry escaping her lips. When she looks up at him again, there's a fire burning in her eyes, a defiance that he can't wait to crush. He hits her again, this time harder, and her body recoils, her skin flushing pink where his hand connects with her cheek.
"Why did you do it?" he asks. "Why did you fuck him?"
She stares at him for a moment, her eyes still unreadable. When she speaks, her voice is steady, but he can hear the tremor beneath the surface, the fear that she's trying so hard to hide. "I don't know."
"You don't know? Or you won't tell me?"
She shrugs. "Both. I don't know, and I won't tell you. It doesn't matter anyway. It's over."
He raises an eyebrow. "Is it? Or are you just saying that because that's what I want to hear?"
She holds his gaze. "It's over. So call off your dogs. Tell the IA you were mistaken."
He steps closer to her, close enough that he can feel her body heat, smell the scent of her skin. She's trembling slightly, and it thrills him, sends a rush of power through his body. "You think it's that simple?" he murmurs. "You think you can just snap your fingers and make all of this disappear? After everything you've done to embarrass me, to humiliate me, to betray me?"
"I didn't betray you, Wes." Her voice is quiet but firm. "I never did anything to hurt you intentionally. What Harvey and I have –"
"What you have?" he cuts her off. "What exactly do you have? Some stolen moments? Some desperate fumbling in a courthouse conference room?" His voice drops lower, more intimate. "You sacrificed everything – your reputation, your career, Nancy's future, the lives of everyone who trusted you – for what? A few orgasms?"
She tries to step away, but he grabs her arm, pulling her back. "Look at me," he demands. "Look me in the eyes and tell me it was worth it. Tell me that when Harvey's done chasing you, when the excitement wears off, when he moves on to his next conquest, that you'll be glad you gave up everything for him."
Her eyes fill with tears, and he knows he's hit a nerve. He can see the doubt flicker across her face, the uncertainty. Good. She needs to understand the consequences of her actions, the choices she's made.
"You're so goddamn selfish. You threw away everything we built, everything we worked for, chasing some romantic fantasy. And for what? To be Harvey's dirty little secret? His midlife crisis?"
"Stop it."
"No, I won't stop. You need to hear this. You need to understand the mess you've made." He tightens his grip on her arm, his fingers digging into her flesh. "You think you chose love? No, Donna. You chose destruction. You chose chaos. You chose to burn down everything and everyone around you for a feeling that won't last beyond the moment Specter's dick goes soft."
Her jaw tightens, and she takes a step back, putting some distance between them. He can see the anger in her eyes, the frustration. And he relishes it. He wants her to hurt, to feel the same pain and humiliation that he's felt since the moment he learned of her betrayal. He wants her to suffer, to know that she's lost everything – her career, her lover, her reputation. He wants her to understand that he owns her, body and soul, that she belongs to him, and that there's nothing she can do to escape his wrath.
"You're right," she says finally. "I did choose Harvey. I chose Harvey over your lies. I chose him over your abuse. Your control. Your need to manipulate everyone around you. I chose him over being a prop for your political ambitions, a toy you play with when I'm good and punish when I'm bad. I chose him over this...this fucking nightmare you call a relationship."
His hand is around her throat before she can take another breath.
He squeezes hard.
Harder.
Then he's slamming her against the wall. He watches as the back of her head collides with the plaster. It's a hard impact, and he knows that it must hurt, can see the pain in her eyes.
But the pain doesn't stop him. It spurs him on, makes him want to cause more.
"Is this what you wanted?" He hisses the words in her face. "To make me feel small, insignificant? To take control? You fucking whore. You think you can just walk all over me, humiliate me in front of the entire fucking world, and get away with it?"
She stares up at him, and for a moment, he sees something in her eyes – a flicker of defiance, maybe, or perhaps just sheer stubbornness. Whatever it is, it infuriates him even more. He squeezes tighter, his fingers digging into the flesh of her throat. He can feel her pulse beneath his fingertips, pounding wildly, desperately. He can hear the air rattling in her lungs, can see the veins in her forehead bulging, the color draining from her face. But he doesn't let go. He can't. Won't. This is the only way to make her understand, to break her, to prove once and for all who's in control. This is the only way to make her sorry for what she's done, for the pain she's caused him, for the humiliation she's brought upon him and his career. He squeezes tighter, feeling the power coursing through his veins, feeling the thrill of victory as she struggles against him, her body weakening under his assault.
Her hands are grabbing at his arms now, clawing at his skin, but her strength is failing, her movements becoming more frantic, more desperate. She's dying, he realizes dimly, but it doesn't matter. Nothing matters except this, except teaching her a lesson, showing her what happens when you cross Weston Harding.
As the life slowly drains from her, as her eyes begin to roll back in her head, Wes feels a strange sense of calm wash over him. It's like he's watching himself from a distance, observing his own handiwork with a detached curiosity. This is what power looks like, he thinks, this is what dominance feels like.
But just as suddenly as the thought enters his mind, a new one pushes it out – the memory of his father, towering over him as a boy, his belt in one hand. The fear, the pain, the sense of helplessness. And suddenly, he's no longer in control, no longer the one wielding power. Suddenly, he's the little boy, cowering in the corner, waiting for the blow to land.
Just as she's about to succumb, just as her body begins to sag in his grip, something shifts inside him, some tiny voice of reason that manages to penetrate the haze of his anger. What would it mean to lose her now, like this? The only person who has ever truly seen him, ever truly understood him. The only person capable of loving him in his entirety, in all his broken, twisted glory. And in that moment, he knows he can't go through with it, can't let her slip away into nothingness.
With a sudden surge of self-awareness, he releases her, letting her crumple to the floor at his feet, gasping and choking for air.
She looks up at him, her eyes filled with fear and confusion, as if she can't quite believe what's just happened. And in truth, neither can Wes. He stands there, staring down at her, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his hands trembling with the echoes of violence. What the fuck did he almost do?
"I'm sorry," he whispers, falling to his knees beside her. "I'm so sorry. I don't know what came over me."
Donna doesn't speak, just lies there, her chest heaving, her eyes fixed on him with a mixture of shock and hatred. Wes can't blame her. He knows he's crossed a line; he's crossed a thousand lines, but never like this. Never so close to the brink of murder.
"I love you," he says, reaching out to touch her cheek, but she flinches away from him, her body tensing as if expecting another blow. "I'm sorry," he says again. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I just... I lost control."
Donna says nothing, and Wes feels a wave of shame wash over him. He's never been good at apologizing, never comfortable with admitting his own weakness or imperfection, but now, kneeling before her, his words seem to fall flat, hollow. He doesn't know what else to say, how else to convey the depths of his regret, the aching emptiness inside him.
So he stands, and without another word, he turns and walks away from her. Away from the bedroom. Away from the woman he almost killed, the woman he still loves despite everything. He goes to his study and closes the door behind him, sinking down into his chair and burying his face in his hands.
He can't do it anymore. He can't keep living with this rage, with this need for control that consumes him. It's tearing him apart, eating away at his soul. It's turning him into a monster. And he doesn't want to be a monster. He wants to be the man Donna fell in love with, the man who charmed her, who seduced her, who made her laugh. But he doesn't know if that man exists anymore, if he ever existed at all, or if he was nothing more than a mask, a fiction that he created to hide the ugliness inside.
And then he hears a sound behind him. The soft rustle of fabric. The quiet creak of a floorboard. He turns to see her standing there, her face is pale and drawn. Her throat is bruised. He watches as she walks toward him, her movements slow and measured. When she reaches him, she doesn't speak. She just kneels down in front of him, her head bowed, her body trembling. And then he sees them – the tears, streaming down her cheeks, the sobs racking her body.
He looks at her for a moment, at the bruises on her neck, at the defeat in her posture. He thinks of the power he holds over her, the fear he's instilled in her. And then, with a sudden clarity, he realizes that this is what they've become, the two of them. A twisted parody of love, a grotesque mockery of everything they once held dear. He's broken her, just as he always knew he would. And now, as she kneels at his feet, weeping, he understands that he's broken himself too.
He reaches out and strokes her hair, gently at first, and then, with a firm grip, he pulls her head up and forces her to meet his gaze. "I'll call off the investigation. But first you'll make a public apology for the affair, step down from your firm and agree to marry me in six weeks' time. I'll send a memo to the DNC to let them know that my marital situation will be rectified and that you will be a fitting first lady. They'll give you a slot for your speech at the convention, and you'll show your loyalty to the party, publicly endorse me, and ask for the forgiveness of our country."
Donna stares at him, her expression blank. He can't tell if she's frightened or numb or simply resigned, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that she knows what's expected of her. "Do you understand?"
She nods.
"Then say it," he demands, his grip tightening on her hair. "Say that you understand."
"Yes, Wes. I understand."
He looks at her for a long moment, his eyes boring into hers, searching for any sign of defiance, of rebellion, but he finds none. She's thoroughly destroyed, completely submissive, and it fills him with a sense of power and satisfaction, but it also leaves him feeling empty and hollow. Because he knows, in this moment, that what they had is gone forever, shattered beyond repair. He nearly killed her, and she will never forgive him for that. But he can live with that because he has her back, and he has the presidency, and nothing else matters. Nothing else is important. Not her love, not her respect, not her forgiveness.
He leans in and kisses her, gently at first, and then, with growing passion, his hand still tangled in her hair, holding her in place, claiming her, owning her. It's a kiss that tastes of regret, of sorrow, of a love that's twisted and tainted, a love that's become a curse instead of a blessing.
When he finally pulls away, Donna's eyes are closed, her breathing shallow. She's still on her knees, her hands resting in her lap. He stands up, looking down at her, his heart filled with a strange mix of triumph and despair. He's a man torn between the dark and the light, the monster and the lover, the conqueror and the vanquished. He wants to leave her like this, on her knees, humbled and broken and subservient. But he also wants to lift her up, to cradle her in his arms, to whisper sweet words of comfort and forgiveness.
In the end, he leaves her there, on the floor of his study, kneeling in the wreckage of their relationship. And as he walks away, he can feel the darkness closing in around him, swallowing him up, dragging him down into its depths. He knows he's losing himself, losing the last shreds of humanity that remained within him. And he knows, deep down in the darkest recesses of his soul, that he will never find his way back to the light.
But it doesn't matter. He's got a nomination to win, a presidency to achieve. A country to save. And Donna, well, she's just one more sacrifice on his journey to greatness. And so, with a heavy heart and a mind full of dark thoughts, he closes the door on her, leaving her behind, like a broken toy, like a discarded relic of a love that was never meant to be.
He wasn't made for love. He was made for power. For control. For conquest.
He was made to be a king. A god. A leader of men.
And that's all that matters now, as the sun rises on a new day, and a new era dawns over America. As the wheels of history turn and grind, and the fate of nations hangs in the balance, Weston Harding walks tall, his shoulders squared, his head held high. The world is his for the taking, his for the ruling. And he won't stop until he's ascended to the very top, until every knee has bowed, and every voice has hailed him, the undisputed king of the modern age.
Author's note: A tough read, but I believe it will serve its purpose in the coming chapters. I'm avoiding Donna's POV for a reason, but if you have any anxiety just reread Donna's letter and trust that our girl knows what she's doing. She has her reasons for walking back into the fire. It won't be much longer now, and we'll find out. Thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave comments, they are so encouraging!
Kelly
Up next: Closing statements…
Summary of Wes' POV: Donna, is arrested for reckless driving. Wes rescues her, believing she's hit her fall from grace. However, when he meets her in the precinct, Donna surprises him with her calm demeanor. As they return home, Wes's anger intensifies. He lashes out violently, but when he nearly kills her, he experiences a moment of self-awareness and regret. He attempts to apologize, but Donna's defiance lingers. In the end, Wes agrees to call off the internal affairs investigation into Harvey, however he demands she publicly apologize for her affair, step down from her career, and marry him within six weeks.