Harvey Specter woke to the precariously heavy dawn, light creeping in slow fingers through the room–pale and indifferent, slicing the curtains just so, a quiet surgeon. He laid in bed a beat, the silence thick. The bed was too soft, sheets too smooth, cooler than his own skin. Beneath the panes, he could hear the gentle rustle of branches. The hum of traffic, a murmur through great walls. The bed was untouched on her side, linens stretched so tight they might shatter.
Paula hadn't slept next to him in weeks. She had taken the room at the other end of the hall in the east wing–the one with the pale blue walls and heavy drapes. They passed one another in the corridors like strangers. Polished smiles and hollow words, the glint of something bitter passing in their eyes too fast for the cameras to see. It was a marriage of ambition and a marriage of necessity, two threads due to be wed. But the fabric had rotted away long ago.
The hatred between them was a quiet thing, constant and crackling, alive on his tongue. He felt it hum beneath the surface of his skin, settling into marshland at the base of his spine. He stood then, bare feet to cold wood.
His steps deliberate. He brushed silk to silken arms' reach, found a tie selected black and grey. Nothing to draw the eye. The mirror held a thousand fragments, reflections untrue. His eyes: red and white, hemmed with sleeplessness. His jaw: brutal, set unyielding. Dark hollows etched below cheekbones. He shaved by a steady steam, water hot and unstoppable, his face a specter in the glass.
The suit fit perfectly, the fabric was soft and unmarked, the cufflinks shone like silver dollars. The mask was seamless and finely fitted, designed to fool not only the senators and diplomats but the cameras, snapping like hungry teeth. With precise fingers, Harvey adjusted his cuffs, standing an inch taller, his shoulders squaring for the day ahead. The dull ring on his left hand weighed heavy and cold- too thick and confining, the circle never broken. With a slip, he turned the ring, scraping the skin underneath and the thought nearly floated through his mind- leave it behind, resting on the glass counter with a trembling hand, the skin naked and white.
Such a thought would not reside within him, nor the life that he was granted. Washing slowly, Harvey smoothed his tie and stepped out into the hallway, the air cold and clean, a whisper of lemon and new paint. The secret service agents stood like perfect statues- shoulder blades squeezing, without any expression displayed on the face. The shadowers' eyes, long and immovable, watched and listened and recorded every footstep and every breath.
Oval Office was already lit up, the ring of white light found in the morning sun, which was pouring through windows that framed various gardens. The flowers, arranged sleeping in a row, had vivid and unreal colors as they were part of the facade. Weighing down the air- it was suffocating. The shiny wood gleamed distasteful; the slightly golden walls suffocated. Harvey slipped through the room towards the table. Remembering- his fingers brushed against the already-arranged stack of folders. Files: Foreign policy briefings, economic status reports, names, and numbers, decisions that had the weight of the world resting on the margin.
Under the layers of protocol and decorum, his mind wanders to the house, a small and hidden place in the woods in Bluemont, where the world narrows to trees and sky and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind, a place untainted by the constant scrutiny of security cameras and surveillance. A sanctuary built from stone and shadow, untamed by all the eyes that followed his every move. There Donna would smile, unburdened by the secrets that lingered at the edge, her laugh light and warm, her eyes shining with something other than pain and mistrust.
He could see her there bathed in sunlight, strands of hair illuminated, feet bare, small and delicate, in the kitchen when she would lean against the counter with a glance that had always made him melt.
The thought was a knife, a slow turn of a blade in his chest, air he had been denied for long. There was no ring on her fingeer, no pictures with her staged for newspapers and magazines to spin their versions. With her, there were no cap statements to memorize, no smiles to be forced through flashing cameras.
There was only her mouth on his, her hands clutching his shirt, trembling nights and broken whispers. It was a drug, a tidal wave of emotion and his desperation to have more, relentless in a world of bland ambition and corrupt morals. The house, for it was more than walls and windows, more than furniture and white walls; no, the house was freedom.
A temporary reprieve where he could be Harvey and not the President, a life where decisions could sway the balance of power and alliances did not follow him on the other side of a doorway.
But secrets festered, and the walls had ears. The advisors, the aides, the senators with the eyes too sharp and smiles too quick; every step was a minefield, and one misstep and it all unraveled, the world pulling thread by thread until only ruins remained
Harvey's fingers strained against the edge of the desk, knuckles white in the half-light, and beneath his skin, his pulse was a steady drum.
His secretary knocked softly: the door opened with a whisper, and Ellen stood stiff and tablet-clutching in the entrance.
She listed the schedule without pause—meetings with the Joint Chiefs, a press briefing at eleven, a working lunch with the Treasury Secretary. No gaps, no room to breathe. Harvey nodded at the right moments, let the words wash over him without truly absorbing them.
"Also, the three o'clock has been moved—" his secretary's voice was bright, efficient.
"Move it again," he cut in, tone flat, final. "I'm unavailable this afternoon."
he said — final, no questions. She hesitated, just a breath; but she caught it nonetheless, surprised smothered beneath professionalism. "Of course, sir."
The room was too large, ceilings arched high above, gold-trimmed and gleaming with the weight of history and power and the endless parade of decisions that carved their toll into flesh and bone.
Harvey's shoulders were tight, a dull ache thudded low and consistent at the base of his skull. He had not slept in thirty-six hours, and exhaustion had settled deep, thickening his thoughts and pulling at the edges of his control. But there was no place for weakness here, no time to close his eyes even for a moment.
The earth spun and shifted with brutal speed, and the world alliances formed and shattered, and threats coiled and uncoiled in closed rooms. He could not afford to stumble.
His phone, lying silent and dark next to the briefing papers, was black mirror that held too many secrets, a line to decisions that reshaped borders and toppled leaders and left blood in the streets. He reached for, thumb brushing cool glass, contact already dialed. It rang twice before the click, the line hissing softly with distance
"Mr. President," Mike's voice came through smooth, insolence a smirk in every syllable, tone saturated with his particular brand of arrogance that bordered reckless. "what a surprise. I thought you'd be saving the world right now or brooding over your morning coffee or glaring holes into a wall somewhere."
"Cut the crap, Mike," Harvey's tone was flat, iron beneath the smooth, a blade hidden in silk. "I want an update."
Mike snorted, chuckle that sounded all but insubordinate and all but amused, sound of a lighter flicking open and the exhale of smoke trailing slow and amused.
"You mean the house? The one that no exists in public records because technically no one owns it? Or are we talking about your other little secret, the one with the red hair and dangerous smile?"
A muscle flickered in Harvey's jaw, eyes narrowing to slits, shadows carved deep into hollows under the sharp cut of his cheekbones. "Do I sound like I'm in the mood?"
"Wow, somebody woke up wrong side of the presidential bed," Mike drawled, voice all smirking insouciance, but the shuffle of papers that followed was brisk and efficient. A smirk masked under the blanket of good humor, by wariness.
"Fine, fine. The house is all wrapped up. LLC's clean, ownership's buried so deep even the NSA couldn't dig it out, and the funds are as pure as snow. It's a beautiful place, by the way—woodland views, a fireplace, lots of windows. You sure you don't want to just run off there and forget this whole leader-of-the-free-world thing?"
Harvey's fingers tapped the edge of the desk, knuckles clenched, the ring on his left hand flashing cruel and heavy. "Just keep it buried," he snapped, each syllable a warning. "If this gets out-"
"Yeah, yeah, if it leaks, the world burns and you'll personally see to it that my body is never found. I know the drill," Mike interrupted, voice dry as ash.
"You wound me, Harvey. You know I love our little secrets. No leaks, no loose threads. Unless you get wasted and send a tweet about it, we're golden."
"Good," Harvey answered, sharp and cold as a closing door. "Keep it like that."
Mike laughed, a derisive huff of air. "You're welcome, by the way. And here I thought being the President's lawyer would come with perks, like gratitude or, I don't know, a fruit basket."
"If you want a fruit basket, I'll send you a condolence card instead," Harvey shot back, tone dry as paper, and for a moment, the tightness in his chest eased, if only by a fraction.
" Focus on doing your job," Harvey
continued, the words slipping low and lethal, leaving the air cold and breathless in their wake. "I don't pay you to mouth off."
"And here I thought it was my charming personality that kept me around," Mike sighed, a hint of something darker bleeding through. "Relax. No one's gonna find out. Not about the house, not about Donna, not about the fact that your wife is pregnant and you're two seconds from snapping someone's neck over it."
The silence afterward was cold and hard, which tight and brittle. Harvey's eyes sparked as his fingers tightened against the desk once, twice. It was the only outward sign of the rage coiled so low, so dark beneath his skin.
"Too soon?"
Harvey's voice was ice, smooth and lethal, a warning in every syllable. "You really want to do this now?"
Mike sighed, and the glimmer of amusement vanished. ""Look, I'm just saying, this isn't one of those problems you can ignore until it goes away. Paula's not stupid, and she's definitely not gonna stay quiet about it forever. You need a plan."
"Don't teach me how to deal with my marriage." Harvey forced the words out, his voice faint, trembling with the edge of fury, and his dark and hateful remarks filled the space, adding lengthening shadows to the room.
Mike hesitated again, but this time in a theatrical manner, he exclaimed loudly and with a voice filled with reminiscences of the many things that had gone goo. "Alright, fine, have it your way. Just try not to end up on the front page of the Times with the headline 'Commander-in-Chief Has Secret Love Nest in Virginia.' I really don't want to be deposed by a bunch of guys in cheap suits and bad cologne."
The call stopped abruptly, the screen dimmed, the vacuum of silence slammed down heavy and suffocating. Harvey let out a slow breath, then for a minute, his eyes were closed looking down his fingers that gently stroke his temple where the headache had made its home, pulling deep low and unceasingly. His chest was kind of tight, his lungs a little bit sore, and the guilt was jabbing quite sharply and left a bad taste.
With an overlap in memory, the house, ghost-like and asylum to the orgy of darkness and silence, looked like the past, a distant lighthouse in the gloaming. Donna would soon be home. The vehicle had already been dispatched, with its tires racing quietly across the pavement and its engine idling a gentle hum amid the breeze through the trees. There was a mental picture of her there, her deep and startled eyes, laughter slipping out gently and unreservedly, the familiarity of her smile softening the coldness in his chest, if only for a second.
The ring clinging on to his finger was a heavy shackle in disguise, it was like a gold cuff, a reminder of oaths sworn and lies weaved so tight that one might even strangle. He left it between his forefinger and thumb unconsciously looking at the window where the sunlight fell yellow and uncaring upon the garden, flowers blooming in neat rows, bright and cool and they are fake too.
He would remove it tonight. There will be no cameras, no guards, no advisors with eyes too sharp and smiles too quick. There would be only Donna and the silence and the empty rooms where he could breathe without the weight of the world pressing down.
Harvey rose, movements smooth and deliberate, suit immaculate, mask settling cold and unfeeling. He smoothed a hand over his tie, spine straightening, eyes flint-hard and unblinking, and moved to face the storm waiting beyond the door.
"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
Mike Ross hung up the phone with a sigh that turned to frost, and he suddenly thrust his the coat-sort into his pocket with the numb cold fingers, feeling kind of angry with himself. The sky sunk in with full clouds, low and heavy, the snow was already on its way besides the wind was piercing through his coat and hurting all the muscles and bones. Pennsylvania Avenue was a blur of dark coats and sharp eyes, aides and interns scurrying beneath the impassive gaze of marble monuments and surveillance cameras that blinked like red eyes in the dusk.
He moved quickly, shoulders hunched against the wind, eyes fixed forward but mind still tangled with the conversation—the clipped edges of Harvey's voice, cold and impatient, orders delivered with a precision that brooked no argument. Handle it, he'd said, like millions funneled through shell companies and offshore accounts were a minor inconvenience, like the walls weren't closing in faster than they could build new ones.
Mike let out a laughter that was more air than noise, the bitterness gathering low in his stomach. But he moved, the wet ground rustling under his feet, eyes narrowed against the wind that scorched his face and the eyes that seem to follow him from every shadow. The city suffocated him; shadows seemed too fat, pale light glanced off the iron bars, which plunged into the sky like a prison surrounded by white architecture and tradition.
An ink-black car, so sleek and brilliant it looked like paint, rolled up to the curb, tire soundlessly whispering to a stop. His steps paused, his vision became narrow, and his senses became sharp like a warning call. The back window glided down with a soft hum, and the man inside leaned slightly forward so that the light could catch him—a face of a stranger, blue eyes glinted as cold as winter water. His suit was black and strict, cufflinks flashed silver, and a slight grin settled at the edge of his lips with the ease of routine that unnerved Mike.
"Mr. Ross," the man spoke, smooth voice and friendly manner, every word deliberate and powerful like a well-placed playing piece. "I'm Victor Callahan. Could we have a word?"
Mike grunted in surprise, his smirk spreading, as he teased, "Wow, yeah, not creepy at all," he drawled, stepping back, deeply dipping his hands into his pockets. "Do I receive candy too, or is this the part where I disappear?"
Victor chuckled softly, his voice warm and low but unfulfilled underneath, his eyes unreadable and too keen. "Nothing that big," he said, a slight smile leaving his lips in turn. "Just a simple little conversation. Maybe about the numbers."
Mike's face became serious, and for a moment he lost his smile "That's specific," he shot back, light-heartedly, while nervously moving his fingers in and out of his pocket, heartbeats fast and loud. "Which numbers, exactly?"
Victor's smile was still there, his eyes sparkling with a dark, amused expression while he was tapping his knee softly. "The kind that don't add up," he said very quietly making even his voice sound taunting. "The kind that flow in and out of offshore accounts at odd hours. The kind that might suddenly be noticed by someone."
The rhythm of Mike's pulse slowed as tense silence filled his ears, and his eyes grew into nasty slits, but he managed to not spoil his grin.
"It looks like you are not doing anything these days," Mike said with his head thrown back, the corners of his lips turning away but still with a hint of tightness. "Maybe get a hobby. I hear knitting's nice."
The mask on Victor's face remained the same, making only a gurgling sound that composed of various teeth, his eyes blinking darkly. "Or maybe," he said softly once again while joshing, his voice liquid and cozy with laughter, "you should get in before this conversation becomes less private. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to discuss offshore accounts in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue?"
The air felt so light that you could almost think there was not enough of it, the streetlights were still glowing coldly and carelessly and they blocked those long shadows from the water drenched pavement. Mike stopped, but only for a brief moment, his fingers tightly weaving together and his jaw rigidly strained causing pain. Nevertheless, the man's grin was patient, shining brightly and making him look like a hidden threat coming in contact with velvet, and the words were a hook sunk into a line that got up there in the skin, breaking the skin at a slow, agonizing pace.
"Fine," Mike grunted, voice frigid, eyes unyielding. "But, be aware that I will first crack your nose and then start asking questions about everything if you make a move against me."
Victor's, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. "Deal, then," he the said victoriously, the tone of his voice being warm.
With Mike sliding in and closing the door, the soft finality, which made him shiver as the leather was cool beneath his palms and the sharp, chemical, and cologne scent was heavy in the air, could be heard. The man watched him with a faint smile, fingers still folded neatly in his lap, eyes glinting in the half-light.
"Comfortable?" Victor asked, voice almost polite, and Mike rolled his eyes.
"Oh, yeah, real cozy," he muttered, fingers tapping once against the door, pulse a dull roar in his ears. "Now cut the crap and start talking."
Victor laughed, a low sound that lingered dark and pleased in the air, eyes gleaming. "Oh, don't worry," he said softly, voice smooth and velvet. "We'll get there. I just wanted to see if you'd get in."
Silence hung heavier than any rain tailing the asphalt and the only sign Mike had that the bleeding was slow and deep was the touch of fear and sour warmth of leather on his skin.
The car slid through the vast gloom of the city with silent confidence; the ghostlights were moonbeams, and the engine was a low murmur of power, not a creak of overuse in the dead of night. Mike was tense in the backseat, and his eyes squinted against the blurry mix of street lamps and hidden stores, his fingers tearing at the leather's cold, while his breath was a broken whisper that even the air couldn't move. The city rushed by in neon, and pavement glistened; the sky turned into shades of bruises colored by gray and black with low, dark thunderheads that threatened snow without delivering.
With a slight grin playing around his mouth, Victor Callahan watched Mike. his eyes shining in the dim light, his hands loosely clasped in his lap. His black suit was tailored immaculately and his cufflinks glittered silver, and he looked every bit the slick-slick lobbyist--the kind who wove webs of influence in dark rooms and traded smiles like poisoned daggers. But now a walk on the wild side had left its mark on him--it was in his eyes, the keenness, the chip on his shoulder that came from all the deceit and bad luck he experienced over the years.
Then, the car followed a curve, and the tires slightly rubbed the wet pavement, the luminaries of the Capitol fell from the sky, and what remained were the narrow alleys of decayed brick and abandoned window-decked complex housing, with only neon lights that hummed lightly and sparsely.
Mike's eyes went to the driver, a big man with a thick neck, in a dark coat, and gloves. Mike noticed that his eyes were fixed forward, and that he had set his jaw, a gun bulge was visible beneath his jacket, and his pulse quickened, a low thrum that resounded in his skull.
"Are we taking a detour to the nearest river so that you can shoot me in the back of my head and call it a day?" Mike finally spoke, his voice dry and edged, a faint tight smirk twisting.
"Please, Mr. Ross," he said softly, his tone warm, but his eyes cold. "If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be talking. I figured you would appreciate the privacy. After all, given who you work for, I imagine you understand the value of a quiet word behind closed doors."
Mike shot back, voice lazy but tight at the edges. "All you're missing is a cat to stroke menacingly. So why don't you cut the cryptic crap and tell me what this is about before I jump out of this car doing sixty?"
Victor widened his smile a bit, there was a dim flick of his teeth, and he looked at Mike with careful interest. "Fair enough," he said, his voice smooth and precise. "But first, a drink."
The car pulled to a stop outside a dirty café that was stuck between a pawnshop and a laundromat, windows fogging, and neon sign flickering barely, the street was empty except for a lonely cat tiptoeing around and a few puddles. The driver got off first, his boots making a crunching sound on the wet concrete, and opened the door without a word, his gaze persistently fixed on the shadows that were thick at the edge of the street.
Victor slid out smoothly, gesturing with a faint smile. Mike stood in the doorway with a thoughtful expression, staring in the direction of the empty street, the cameras having mysteriously vanished, the quiet of the night suddenly getting heavier as the taste of it became more and more like the smell of salt and rot. However, the door clicking softly shut behind him was the sign that it was finished and Victor had already moved to the inside with the bell above the door chiming softly.
The cafe was dark and musty, it was that smell of burnt coffee and bleach, the only girl behind the bar who was leaning against the counter with her indifferent and glazed eyes and a radio scattering soft and broken sounds from somewhere behind the bar. Victor went to a corner in the back, chose a booth, and sat down with a smoothness that said he was born into wealth and went to a very prestigious boarding school, with his fingers steepled neatly, and his eyes fixed on Mike with a dint of tranquility that actually made Mike nerves stand on end.
Mike got inside cautiously, his eyes quickly went through the whole room, his fingers tightly gripping the vinyl, and his heart pounding in his ears. The waitress came up with a notepad, passing her curiosity over them with a muted interest.
Victor smiled, warm and easy, teeth white and straight, and got a black coffee, voice smooth as silk. Mike grunted for the same, eyes fixed on Victor's face, waiting for the mask to slip, for the glint of threat beneath the charm.
Victor set his cup down slowly, the faint clink of porcelain against wood, eyes fixed on Mike with a patient amusement that felt too much like a cat watching a mouse run circles in a cage. "You look tense," he remarked mildly, voice smooth and unhurried, each word sliding slow and dark in the air, warm and rich with a faint lilt of amusement. "You really ought to relax, Mr. Ross. It's bad for the heart, you know."
Mike snorted, eyes rolling with a faint sneer, fingers drumming once more against the vinyl. "Thanks, Doc," he shot back, voice dry and edged with sarcasm, smirk widening. "Maybe next time you can tell me to eat more greens and quit smoking."
Victor chuckled, the sound low and warm, eyes glinting faintly. "Ah, but you don't smoke," he murmured, voice smooth and darkly amused. "One of the few vices you haven't picked up from your boss yet.."
Mike's smirk faltered a fraction, breath catching sharp, eyes narrowing to slits, but he forced a scoff, rolling his eyes. "Right," he snapped, tone flat and impatient, smirk stretched wide. "Is this the part where you tell me how much you know about me? Because I gotta say, you're really leaning into the whole Bond villain thing."
Victor smiled faintly, fingers tapping once against the cup, eyes glinting. "Not at all," he said lightly, voice smooth and warm, each word unhurried. "I just thought we might talk. About old friends. About choices. About the past. Yours. Harvey's. And, of course, Otis."
The name came slipping in between them slow and dark, each syllable a knife twisting slow beneath bone, and Mike's breath hitched, eyes narrowing to slits, pulse stuttering sharp hot in his ears. However, the smirk on his face never died, and his voice turned sharp and mocking. "You're really pulling out the greatest hits, huh?" Mike retorted, his voice was flat and edged with derision. "What's next, you gonna tell me Santa isn't real?"
Victor laughed, his eyes shiny and fingers smoothing absently the rim of the cup. He spoke under the rain with a smile "Otis was a smart man," he mumbled, his voice was smooth and almost nostalgic, his sight drifted to the rain that was flowing down outside the window, and his words were as leisurely as a lazy cat.
"Ruthless, but smart. I respected that about him, even if he was a bastard. He had a way of getting what he wanted. No matter who he had to bury to get it."
Mike's jaw clamped shut, teeth softly grinding, pulse a coarse hum below his flesh, with the same smirk still intact, he gawked his eyes. "Oh yeah, well he's dead now," he said sternly with a low and resolved voice "So unless you're going to plan a seance, kindly get to the point."
"Oh, I have," he murmured, voice warm with amusement, eyes fixed on Mike with a dark satisfaction. "Otis was son of a bitch, but he was right about one thing.Boss's doesn't share. They doesn't forgive. And they doesn't hesitate to cut ties when they become inconvenient. You think Harvey's different? That he wouldn't leave you to rot the second you became a liability?"
Mike 's eyes narrowing, breath getting sharp, but his voice was still matter-of-fact, as if he was about to get into a quarrel. "You really gotta work on your material," He snapped out, voice plain and derisive. "Because that's not even in the top ten of the shit I've heard about Harvey. Try again."
Victor let a fragment of a smile spread over his face and his eyes sparkled threateningly. "Oh, I'm not trying to convince you," he said softly, his voice smooth and dark, his slow and deliberate words sliding soft and wicked. "I'm just pointing out the truth. Men like Harvey don't have friends. They have assets. And assets are only valuable until they're not."
"Yeah, well, thanks for the lecture," Mike bit out flatly, smirk widening in defiance, eyes glinting cold. "But I'm not buying what you're selling, so why don't you shove it and crawl back under your rock?"
Victor chuckled, his voice dark, and satisfied his eyes glinted. "Suit youself." He said in a soft but firm voice and continued with a challenging posture, those arms crossing once in a while, then sliding into the jacket in a slow, solemn manner. "But perhaps you'll change your mind after this."
He took out a little black USB stick, placing it on the table with a soft tap, his eyes looking for Mike's face, and he was dark, starved, and well-pleased.
Mike's glance only crossed its gloominess, whereas his grin faded slightly, his pulse fiercely kicking underneath his skin, the erratic breath stuttering, yet with a resolute voice, and the smirk with defiance pulling at his lips.
"Wow, a flash drive," he said with the same tone of mockery, a downright flat tone. "What's on it, cat videos?"
"No," he said, the voice of his being smooth and dark. "Just a security camera footage. From election night. A hotel room. Harvey and Donna."
Those punctuating words that fed through their bitter lips worked as a double-edged sword, twisting bone against bone, causing Mike to trounce, eyes almost gone into slits, a dull roar becoming prominent in his ears, every muscle coiled taut underneath his skin, breath become shallower and hotter, embittered with an ever so slight hint of fear, smoke, and betrayal
The usb, a small black rectangle of plastic and metal, unsuspicious and yet heavy with the load of secrets that could chink stone and break glass, was in the middle of them. The last remains of the day were very faint out of the cafe window. The minuscule beam of the weak silver off the corners of the stick made the most unlikely of appearances, this being a world of ephemeral colors and darkened niches where a bitter aftertaste of coffee-charring and the hum of rain working on the glass-pane colluded and wafted in the air giving a warning that as yet had not been uttered.
Mike's smirk was still there, but it was reduced to a very thin line as if he were clamping his lips over his teeth, and his gaze was piercing the USB in question, his mind playing tricks on him that it would operate by itself and attack him. His hand beat the table a single time, the sound coming out hollow, a muted kind of beat that emulated the pumping rate of his blood underneath his hot and restless skin. His breath was light and careful, unsteady, each heaving in an effort, and his every sigh broke through the air weakly, not moving it.
Victor Callahan remained in relaxed body language leaning back against the booth, his facial expression being a reflection of his patience, the slight upwards curve of a smile resting on his lips, fingers of the left hand weaving gently over his knee. His attire was as clean as ever; each line had been skilfully and calculatedly marked and his cufflinks would catch every single gentle movement of his hand, his eyes only focused on Mike without blinking, those of a predator, the look that strikes fear and reassurance at the same time. His frozen pose with a sight of his sweat skin-relief was like a taut rope loosely coiled and waiting, a snake below a smooth surface, calculating the best strategy to attack.
"You look uncomfortable, Mr. Ross," Victor remarked lightly, voice smooth as silk, each word slipping slow and unhurried into the air. "I can't imagine why. I thought you liked dealing with dirty secrets. Isn't that what you do for a living? Clean up messes for men who are too important to get their hands dirty themselves."
"You've really got me shaking," Mike said sarcastically, snorting, his voice neither going up nor down. "You should try stand-up. You're a riot."
Victor sniggered, his laughter was somewhere at the bottom of a mine, a deep place, and a satisfied place, his fingers went like drops on the surface of the water of a glass; it is this faint and accurate sound that really punctures the canvas of Mike's face that never stops being under the gaze.
"It is not the fear that we are talking about here," very calmly, had he spoken, rolling every word on his tongue like some caramel. "It's about understanding the game you're playing. About knowing when you're already in checkmate.
The edges of Mike's eyes narrowed, his breath within inches of his victim, hands squezed the edges of the table with enormous power, and his almost static pulse pulsated underneath his skin--his voice, however, still was definitive, the smile of a bully, however, was drawn out. "You don't even have a board," he shot back, , his voice low, slightly acid with scorn. "So unless you've got something better than a sex tape, I'm out."
"Ah," murmured Victor, in such a soft voice he almost sounded nostalgic. "But it's not just about the tape, is it? It's about what it represents. About how quickly the walls can close in when someone pulls the right thread. You've been pulling threads for months, haven't you, Mr. Ross? Cleaning up money that shouldn't exist. Making calls to men whose names never see the light of day. Dealing with shadows that leave bloodstains on marble floors."
"You think you can blackmail him? That's your great plan?" Mike was calm and collected, but under it all, the ripples of anxiety and uncertainty were flowing. "Do you really believe this would get you what you want?"
Victor's eyes gleamed like the sharpness of steel below the ice, he run his fingers once by the coffee which produced a little precise almost imperceptible sound. "I think it shows that I am serious," he said, the words oozing out slow and strong. "That I am not a man to be dismissed. That I am willing to play the long game if necessary. You see, I have nothing left to lose, Mr. Ross. I have been to the bottom. I have lived among the ruins of my own making. And there is a freedom in that. A clarity. It allows me to see things that others might miss. The fault lines beneath the surface. The cracks that can become chasms with just the right push."
Mike's countenance turned stony, a barrier was put up with a slam, his body bending forward, and his voice dropping to a low growl. "Why?" He asked, it was a sharp and rough word, a piece of glass. "What the hell do you want from him? What could he have done to make you crawl out of whatever hole you've been hiding in and play games with this shit?"
There was no alteration in the light of Victor's countenance, but a tint of something ancient and cured quickly crossed his eyes, a wound reopened. "It is not just about him," he replied in a tone that went colder and darker, a river that is deep and still. "It is about Otis. It is about the past. It is about what was taken from me. I was a king, Mr. Ross. I had an empire. Influence. Power. I moved pieces on a board that others could not even see. And Otis tore it all down. He stripped me bare, left me to rot, ruined me with lies and whispers. He did not just take my fortune. He took my name, my legacy, my place at the table."
His contempt for Otis was evident from his curling lip, his twinkling eyes. Mike condemned, voice flat and hard. "Otis is dead," he retorted, "You can't touch him. So what, you're gonna take it out on his son-in-law? You think that's gonna bring back your empire? You're pathetic."
"You really gotta work on your metaphors,"
Still brusque and spurring he butted in again through, irritated, his voice flat and edged with malice. "Because I don't have time for this crap."
"Of course," Victor said softly, his voice a warm and sweet lullaby chords as his fingers began to drum a slow rhthyms against the table. "But it's not about time. It's about consequences." He paused for a moment, then keep talking.
"Otis may be dead," he said in a lilting voice, as if something had been freed and was now leaving him alone. "But he did not act alone. He had help. He used people. Young men eager to make a name for themselves. Men like Harvey. Did he ever tell you that? Did he tell you how he helped Otis plant evidence? How he made deals behind closed doors to ensure my contracts fell through? How he whispered to the right people at the right time to twist the knife just a little deeper?"
Mike's face contracted, his breath got cut short and sadness was reflected in his voice," You are lying," he tried to contain his emotions, his words were wavering, layered with disappointment. "Harvey wouldn't do that. He's not a pawn. He's not some errand boy for Otis or anyone else. You're just trying to spin your bullshit story because you've got nothing. You lost. You're still losing. And this little show? It's just sad."
Victor's face still the same, but with the shadow of the darkness, the threatening tone of his voice. "Is that what he told you?" he inquired in soft and cold voice.
"That he was innocent? That he was the hero of his own story? Do you really believe that, Mr. Ross? After all you have seen, all you have done? Do you believe that he would not leave you behind if it suited him? That he would not cut the rope and watch you fall if it meant saving himself?"
"After all," Victor continued, "it was Harvey who helped Otis plant evidence to destroy me. It was Harvey who made deals behind closed doors to ruin my firm, to steal my clients, to drag my name through the mud and leave me with nothing. It was Harvey who married Otis's daughter because it was good for optics and nothing more. Did he tell you that, Mr. Ross? Or was that just another secret buried beneath all the others?"
Mike's face became strained, his breath became hoarse, his hands got tensed, but his voice was faster and it was sarcastic. "Shut up," - he spat out, and the voice was low and final and the eyes narrowed to slits.
"I know what happened that night. Election night. When Otis came to the hotel to see his golden boy and found him upstairs with Donna Paulsen. When he stood outside that door and listened to them and felt his heart give out. When he fell to the carpet and died with their voices echoing down the hall."
Mike's eyes were fixed narrowed and glowed cold, he grinned widely. "You're pathetic," he spat out once again, his voice was low and sharp this time. "This is yourbig plan? Some cheesy audio tape and a beddy-bye story? You expect that someone's gonna put you over the President? You're a fucking joke, Callahan."
Victor decided to play his last card.
"The Shadow. That's what they call themselves, isn't it? Very poetic. Very appropriate. The men who do not exist but whose reach stretches into every office and every bank and every graveyard from D.C. to Moscow. Men who helped you bury millions through a web of offshore accounts and shell companies that vanish into the fog the moment anyone looks too closely. You really thought no one noticed?"
Mike's jaw tightened, breath a sharp hitch, fingers tightening on the table, pulse a dull roar below his skin, each signal a warning, each breath tasting of smoke and fear and the bitter tang of secrets that bled slow and dark beneath marble and gold. But his smile remained wide, eyes full of cold light, voice breaking fast and mocking. "You've got nothing," he spat out, voice flat and final. "And you know what? Nobody would believe you even if you did."
"Maybe," Victor said softly, voice smooth and dark, words a slow knife twisting deep. "But I don't need them to believe me. I just need them to trust me enough to start looking. The FBI. The press. Maybe even a few senators who owe me favors. Once the cracks start to show, it doesn't matter how deep the foundation is. The whole thing comes down. And when that happens, men like you are the first to be buried."
"Why?"Mike growled out, voice low and dangerous. "Why the hell do you care?
"Because I know something you don't. I know how this ends. And I know that when the walls close in, Harvey Specter will leave you to rot without a second thought. You're just another piece on the board to him. Useful until you're not."
"Wow," Mike said, voice flat and mocking. "You should be a scriptwriter. You would be in demand in late-night shows with all these monologues. It's just unfortunate that no one is interested in your narration."
"You can pretend all you want,"Victor murmured, voice smooth and dark, each word a slow knife twisting deep. "But the truth is, you're drowning. You've been drowning since the day you signed your name to those papers, since the day you took that first meeting in the dark with men whose names you didn't know and didn't want to. You're in this up to your neck, and when they come for you, Harvey will already be halfway out the door."
Mike's eyes narrowed, "You don't know shit," he snapped, voice flat and final, eyes glinting cold. "And you sure as hell don't know Harvey. So why don't you take your damn story and shove it?"
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Victor asked softly, voice smooth and dark. "That he's different? That he wouldn't sell you out to save himself? But deep down, you know better. You've seen him do it before. Hell, you've helped him do it. All those skeletons in his closet, you're the one who built the locks. But when the feds come knocking, whose name do you think they'll find on the paperwork? Whose signature is on every wire transfer, every shell company, every account in the Caymans? Not his. Yours."
"If you think I'm just gonna roll over and flip because of some dollar-store villain routine, you're dumber than you look."
Victor's, eyes glinting darkly. "Oh, I don't need you to flip, I just need you to realize you're already in fire. Because when this all comes down, when the feds are kicking in doors and dragging people out in cuffs, you're the first one they'll burn. Not Harvey. You."
The muscles on Mike's face were now tightly clenched, his eyes filled with an indescribable displeasure, the adrenaline subsuming Mike's body in a whole, and the next thing he knew lost no time in snatching the USB stick off the table, his fingers bent to the point of breaking, and it seemed that some unknown force pushed his smile even broader and brighter.
"Oh, you mean this?" he sneered, eyes glinting with cold fire. "Guess you won't mind if I—"
He didn't finished, just snapped open the lid of Victor's coffee, dropped the drive in with a faint plop, and smiled wide and mocking, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction. The coffee sloshed dark and oily around the drive, steam curling slow and ghostly between them, the scent bitter and acrid in the air.
The smile faded suddenly from the pale, Victor's eyes darkened. One thing he knew was that Victor was not happy, yet his animated voice, playful was the same.
"You must think that you are a brave man?" he said, "But I've got copies, Mr. Ross. I've got more than that. And when this all comes down, there won't be enough coffee in D.C. to drown the truth."
Mike leant over the table, with a grin to the size of each ear, showing his winter blue eyes to Victor. "I'll take the risk, you go with your offer somewhere else, I'd rather burn than join you."
"Oh, you will," added Victor, his grin turning into a smile, his eyes still burning bright wide and his humor changing to mean, "Burn, that is. Then, in a low, ominous voice, he continued. "The only question is whether Harvey goes down with you or whether you go first. But by all means, keep pretending. It won't make the flames any cooler."
The coffee was now cold and neither of them felt like they wanted it. It was dark and drizzling outside, when they looked, the rain was slow to slide through the glass, and the shadows were getting longer and longer, the night was folding in so softly and so inevitably.
"""""
The house was silent, the kind of silence that breathes and waits, that curls into the corners and settles deep into the walls, being heavy and still. The rain was moving slowly down the window in bent lines, and the lines were they falling, getting the light, and splitting it into the fragments of glints; this was turning the picture outside into a smeared watercolor of grey shadows and streetlights and wind-bent trees. The half-drawn curtains were spinning away beside the armchair and leaving a pool of amber light on the shining floor, making it the soft and warm place where Donna could put her feet, so it could fall into the dark in-between spaces beneath the table and then crawl all the way over the carefully stacked books, on the neatly draped blanket across Donna's legs.
Bend herself and mend all her broken pieces...
She was still healing, the physicians had reassured her with their kind smiles that held back the uncertainty in their tearless eyes. Their eyes weren't showing sorrow, for they only spoke about physical therapy and pain management, about how bone healing wasn't an overnight thing. The leg brace was massive walking punishment. A dull ache rode her leg down from the knee to the ankle, and every twist and turn would send a fire bolt of pain through her ribs. It was intense and unrelenting thereby stifling her breath then standing her still and cautious, her fingers slowly closing in the blanket before the wave of pain slipped away into something that she could not notice anymore.
The phone on the table to her right was dark with no light coming from the screen, and it made no noise for she was not talking to anyone, the book open on her legs went unread as she wondered why everything turned into black lines, and sometimes, meaningless.
Her gaze kept slipping to the window, to the rain and the pale smear of sky behind it, to the dark silhouette of the security guard stationed outside, suit dark and shoulders squared, a faint glint of light catching on the earpiece.
They were always there now, shadows at the edges of her vision, figures who spoke in quiet, clipped tones and never met her eyes. Harvey's doing, of course, and she hadn't had the energy to argue, hadn't had the words to fight when his voice was cold and flat, when his eyes flicked away every time she tried to ask if he was okay, if he was sleeping, if he was eating. If he was sorry.
The book was shut, its cover patted effortlessly by her fingers, it weighted her down on her lap, the feel of it making her, for a moment, free from everything and her eyes closed abruptly for a second and then slowly, each short and shallow breath bringing her back to reality, with each exhale being the slow release of air that tasted like dry dust.
It was challenging not to brood about it, less engaging to immerse herself in solitude, study and the slow, deliberate tasks of going through each day, each hour, and each minute that were of great length and continuity. Easier not to wonder if he'd call, if he'd come by, if he'd say more than the few words they exchanged when he did, cold and clipped, edges sharp.
The knock at the door was soft, hesitant and at the same time, it disrupted the prevailing silence, causing her to shudder, breath pause, and then grow shallow. One of the members of the security staff, dressed in a dark suit and a set of eyes that were more serious than the incident, with the voice of a low and careful kind, the image that his hands folded in front of him neatly, he was painting a picture of a very thoughtful and dedicated security officer. "Ms. Paulsen," he said, tilting his head slightly. "There's a car here for you. From the White House."
Her fingers tightened on the blanket, a slow breath, her lungs that stuttered, her heart that was stinging hot beneath her ribs. "A car?" she repeated slowly, the words tasting strange and heavy, a question and a denial in one. "Are you sure?"
The man's eyes didn't move, and his face was as plain as usual. "Yes, ma'am," he agreed. "They're waiting outside."
Her tongue was heavy in her mouth, a dull roar of pulse was going on under her skin, but her voice remained stable, every word being chosen carefully and delivered correctly. "Wait here," she ordered, fingers fumbling partly as she reached for phone, each movement sending a bright pulse of pain through her ribs, hot and sharp.
She wasn't supposed to call the number that Harvey had as a direct line to him only for emergencies, and then the phone would not go to the secretaries or assistants, but straight to him, wherever he was at the time. It ran twice, then clicked, and for a moment, all she could hear was the faint rustle of papers, a soft murmur of voices, before his voice slipped into the quiet, low and even and smooth, but with a rough edge that sent something hot and bitter curling in her stomach.
"Donna?" Harvey said, her name a breath that barely stirred the silence.Almost cheerful.
She was reluctant, teeth scraping the inside of her cheek, fingers squeezing the phone, each word calculated and slow. "There's a car here," she whispered, voice barely there and tense. "From the White House. Did you—did you send it?"
For a breath, just long enough for the voice of doubt to creep slowly and darkly down her back, but then he spoke again, his voice clipped and certain. "Yes, I did." he said. "It's actually my way of communicating to you. Why don't you get in?"
She shut her eyes at the same time as she inhaled, her voice rising quickly in an exaggerated, shaky, and desperate way. "Harvey," she said, her name slipping out along with the fear and pain. "Is it safe? After everything? Are you sure that it's safe?"
His sigh was hushed, hardly more than a whisper, but the way his voice sounded stayed comforting, determinate and inflexible. "It's safe," he said, each word being strong and sure. "Trust me."
And that was the real tragedy, wasn't it? She trusted him. When he said wait, when he said come, when he said hide, when he said it would all be okay, when he said I love you.
Trusting Harvey had brought her here, to this moment, to this wreckage of promises and unspoken regrets. She had believed—foolishly, fiercely—that one day they would stand together without fear, that they would laugh, that they would be a family, that they would be safe, that they would finally break free of the chains that bound them.
After all, Harvey was getting a divorce. That's what he had said. That's what he had promised. Wasn't it?
And so, once again, Donna placed her faith in him. But neither of them knew that this time, it would be the last.
And that was when the line went dead, with the dial tone starting to sound like a long and slow, dull drone hardly distinguishable from her heart beating. It was then that reality sank in, and the grip on the phone was so tight that her knuckles were aching.
Through the open windows, she could see the car was dark and sleek, and the driver was smooth and silent with his face unreadable and his eyes fixed forward. Donna hesitated at the edge of the porch, her breath was shallow and uneven, her fingers were surprisingly twisting tight in the fabric of her coat, while the wheelchair was awkward beneath her, and every bump in the path was a hot flare of pain that left her breathless.
When she leant forward, her voice was both careful and low with her eyes staring at the driver's profile, her every word was aimed at inching closer to answers, the driver's eyes, which were smooth and balanced, showed no fear whatever with the wheel in his hands. "Where are we going?" she asked in a quiet but sharp tone, each word seemed like a blade slipping its way between the ribs, testing for weakness.
"Bluemont," he replied flatly, eyes fixed on the road, and said nothing more.
The car slipped into the rain, with its tires hardly making a sound on the wet pavement, the city went by in a rain-streaked gray and gold blur, streetlights left long and bent streaks on the windows. Donna leaned back, her breath a slow drag that barely reached to her lungs, her fingers clenched tight on her lap, her eyes stuck to the raindrops running their slow way down the glass, every drop a glass bead, a tear sneaking away without a sound and at a snail's pace.
Every turn she took had her stomach doing backflips; every bump sent a hot streak of pain through her ribs, and each slow roll of the tires was a sharp reminder of metal and glass and the way they could crush you in the blink of an eye, the way breath could be snatched from your lungs in a deafening, hot, and bright explosion. The seatbelt was pressing all over her chest, every move she made caused her to wince, and she made herself breathe slowly and steadily, with her eyes glued to the horizon, the dark line of trees rushing past, her breath growing short with each slow, cautious breath, and each exhale leaving her feeling hollow and weak.
And all that while the silence would linger, pressing and massive, the city would separate one by one, the road would become longer and longer, a line of water running into the dark, and Donna remained alone in the backseat, her breath shallow, and eyes wide, her fingers twisting tight in her lap, she would breathe in slow but long, and the air she caught had a little of the flavor of fear and rain and the so strong bitterness of the secrets.
As she looked at the driver, her eyes followed the clear marking of his collar, the dark suit he was wearing, the sparkle of light on his watch, the tension of his fingers on the wheel. The man's smile was smooth, his mouth was straight, his eyes were still on the road. All this made him appear indifferent to Donna who, for an instant, felt a suffocation, squeezed her fingers into the fabric of her coat and had a thick tongue in her mouth.
She coughed, the noise like a whiff of wind that rattled the silence that reigned between them, her voice was hardly above a whisper. "So," she went slowly, every word being carefully selected and pronounced in a flat, even manner the sound of which lent itself to such a long quiet. "Bluemont, huh? That's… that's a bit out of the way".
The driver did not even look back, let alone move a muscle, or blink. "Yes, Madam," he replied, the smile on his face fading away, being replaced with a tone of fake politeness. There was no humanity in them. He was looking just straight, and his eyes never left the road.
Donna tried to take a deep breath and to smile, although the movement made her lips feel tight, and she wanted to close her eyes and forget about everything, but her gaze went to the window, to the sight of the woods as a green-and-shadow blur venturing past her and all she could feel was a quick, shallow breath. "Right," she said, a faint laugh that tasted bitter and hot in her throat, a deflection, a shield. "Well, if I'd known I'd be dragged out to the middle of nowhere, I might've put on something a bit more… presidential."
The driver was silent, hands firmly gripped on the wheel; his eyes did not move from the road and the patience became almost unnerving, as the air grew dense and heavy with a silence that seemed to tie around her chest, leaving her panting and out of breath.
She flexed her fingers, the nails dug lightly into the fabric of her coat, a long, slow and difficult breath pulling itself into her lungs that hurt with each attempt at breathing. "It's just a family thing," she said quickly in a delightful and airy tone of voice that sounded as a deceptive lie. The lie came like a skillful practiced slide even if it was easy to talk the words out, every single word was a deliberate way to avert the cold confrontation with the heavy and tense silence which both she and the dark had to hear and bear. "You know how it is. Family dinners, political obligations, all very boring."
He held his gaze, his eyes remaining motionless, and his lips pressed shut; and for a moment she swallowed hot, sour bile, uneasy chills ran down her spine and she felt the weight of eyes that never ceased to look at her, the dread that every word could be twisted and used against her, each breath being the potential to slip and fall.
She turned her gaze back to the window, to the trees that stretched endless and dark, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers, the road winding slow and steady into the gloom, breath a slow drag that seemed to catch and stutter with each exhale. Her fingers smoothed absently over the fabric of her coat, the movements slow and methodical, a rhythm to hold onto when the silence grew too thick, when the shadows outside seemed to stretch too long, when the pain throbbed dull and heavy with every shift of her weight.
The car left the main road slipping over the soft gravel, the way became narrower, the trees seemed to move close and the black, tangled leaves and the twisted branches, that swayed high above in a shelter under which only the dim grey light mingled with the fragmented sun rays, led to the black.
The car moved slowly now, the rain still whispering against the glass, the tires rolling over a path that had shifted from smooth asphalt to something quieter, softer, as though the world outside had exhaled into a gentler place. It was a narrow road that swirled through the tangle of old trees, and the dense silence of their branches stooped like a massive arbor, through which the light entered in the form of soft golds and grays. Donna looked out and up, her eyes following the sheets of rain as it dribbled down the leaves, beamed the headlight before it disappeared into the dark.
She had no idea where they were.
The unease was slow to gnaw on her, it wasn't necessarily intense or immediate, but it lingered just below the surface, and made her feel like she was still unaware of something she wasn't sure of. The car had driven away from the city long ago leaving behind the jumbled streets and the great burden of skyscrapers touching the sky, leaving behind the noise and the peering eyes and the impression that every breath was being recorded. On this side, there was no horizon line, no motion but for the relentless rain rhythm, the ever-so transient flash of a deer disappearing through the trees, a blurry foreground of the hills gone into the distance.
Bluemont.
She kept repeating the name in her head, tasting the newness of it, the way it didn't include anything she could hold onto. Nothing to her list of campaign stops, galas or charity events, quiet memories that belonged to her, but instead of that, it was, and hers was, a homogeneity. It was vacant, a place she had not seen before, a place her husband had chosen. That, more than anything, was what made her uneasy.
She moved carefully and slowly in her seat, her ribs protesting the movement, her breath being caught just slightly before she smoothed it out. "Are we close?" she asked, voice careful, measured, trying not to let anything slip beneath the surface.
The driver's hands were firmly in place on the wheel, his posture was the same, his gaze was still on the road ahead. "Yes, ma'am," he said, voice polite, professional, giving nothing away.
She waited, keeping her eyes on him from the corner of her face, presuming to get more information from him, if there was any at all. He hadn't talked at all during the drive, the kind of quiet that was not carelessness but rather, it was deliberate, as if he had been trained to forget his presence, and to only remain as the function he had accomplished. He was the President's driver. Therefore, it went without saying that he made the art of saying nothing extremely efficient.
She took in a deep breath, turned her eyes away from the window, and watched the trees start to fizzle out, the road widen just enough to reveal a clearing ahead. And then, the house came into view.
It was not a house that belonged to the modern world.
Right away, the first thing she looked at was the stone whose color was pale gray with silver flecks. It was of the kind that endured the weight of time, the kind of stone that had existed since long before she was born and would be there long after she was no longer around. Closely following this was the porch, which was narrow and shallow with nothing protective or historical about it releasing a sense of longing, it seemed like it was built for kids to play and not for adults to discuss their family issues with. Ivy entwined the walls, dark wet leaves clung to them, spiraled around the windows that shone dimly with a soft golden light glowing against the glass like the flickering of candle flames in the dark.
The high pitched roof was evident from the onset, with the dark wooden ribs towering to the clouds above, meeting at a prominent center of an ancient structure tailored for holding, victory over storms. The window was great holding arches, deep mahogany frames, their glass was reflecting the gentle soughing of the trees passing by, debauching the outside world, making it something like a nonsensical dream. A thin stone path that had a direction from the door to the doorstep was set along with some lamps that flicked though it was raining, their light shined far away and the shadows of the trees moved which was strange.
Donna's breath caught in her throat.
She had not expected this.
He stepped out, the movement of his body was slow and steady as if he knew how to do it and disappeared behind the car as she wondered what else she could ask him. The door opened, the cold winds blew in, carrying the smell of moist earth and the pine and distant, the scent that was only found in places that had not been easily discovered by people.
She slightly paused, hands opening the coat, and the inhale in the back of her throat stuck, "What is this?" she lightly whispered, asking the question before she realized, more to herself than anyone else.
The driver didn't answer. His hands inclined as he gingerly helped her into the wheelchair, the grip firm but distant, as if he had done this many times before, as if she were just another task to complete. The wheels started turning, it was so quiet that the sound could hardly be heard over the rain, just the bumps in the path that seemed to send a small pulse of pain through her ribs, she resisted the pain, her eyes were fixed on the house and the flickering light of the lanterns that were on the walk path, giving the wet stones a soft and golden glow.
The house was unlike the expectations she had for him. It was too calm, too far, and too different from the sharp edges and reflective surfaces of the life he had built. It was as if it was waiting for years, not even the passing of time had touched it. Such a place that could ensue secrets into its walls, where history became a second skin to the wooden beams.
The driver was at the steps, he only halted for an instance from proceeding and knocked once, it was a deep and resounding sound that never reached the night but was in the air. After a while, he was gone, fading into the darkness, leaving her in the silence of the rain and lantern light, and the weight of the mystery.
The act of swallowing her spit made her pulse to slow down, it was a slow, firm beat against her chest, her fingers curled around the comfortable arms of the wheelchair. A little part of her wished to go back, to go to the familiar, to ask questions and get answers before walking into something that was obscure for her. However, the door opened without much thinking before she could also throw the words out of her mouth.
Harvey was in the doorway.
Getting caught in the warm light cast behind him that looked like golden streams, was his sharp suit, and the distinct lines of his face became more pronounced, set even deeper by occurrences that he would never be able to talk about. His tie was a bit out of place; his shirt collar was slightly loose and for the first time, probably as long as she had been away, he decided to put down his President mask and just be a man. He appeared like the man she had met long ago, hidden out of the world's sight that he had with time put his hands on her. Power was enveloped him just like a second skin. He was turned to something colder, more reserved.
He noticed her gaze, looking directly into his eyes, and for a second, neither of them said anything.
Then, with the slow motions of his face, his mouth drew out an almost genuine, not polished or rehearsed but rather, something tender, something real. "Welcome home, Love."
These words stood as a testimony between them, making a point of saying that their bond is still alive, even if it seems something has been given up along the way.
Donna's breath caught in her throat, her fingers clenched against the leather armrest, a faint spark of something stirred in her chest, something she did not have knowledge about. It was more of an 'What?" ' than any definite vocal sound and it escaped her throat soon after she had formed it, trembling like a leaf.
Harvey stepped forward until his face was right before hers, squatted slightly to bring their eyes together. Beaming, he approached, reaching out his hand. His body heat was like a lifeline, and the door was open for the eternity of their own private island. "This is ours," he said, huskily, his voice coarse and urgent. "This house. This place. No press, no cameras, no obligations. Just us."
She struggled to focus, her mind spinning as she tried to figure out exactly what he was talking about, to understand that he had done this—bought a house, a home, which was not the part of the life they had had as a couple in the limelight. "I don't understand," she confessed, then her voice croaked, and a sense of vulnerability was sharpened, trembling as she spoke the words.
Then, he -hardly exhaled, letting her feel his bond with her through a slight grip, before finally letting go of it, followed by his petting the wheelchair handle and steering her with such grace that she might almost feel the softness of love rather than the cold. "You don't need to." he reassured her quietly. "Just step in."
She let him.
The house opened to her wrapping her up in slow and gentle warmth, the flame dancing itself colorfully on the wooden floor, the scent of cedar and something else, something from long ago, familiar yet unknown. The ceiling was high, there were exposed beams, the beautiful big fireplace in the middle of the room was the source of warm and crackling shadows that were hitting the bookshelves. The colors of the world outside were bright and beautiful, promised by the absence of politics in the house. All the pieces of furniture looked comfortable and worn, windows on one side were wide open, the other end featured a stairway she did not recognize.
Her throat felt constricted, and her emotions fought to break free from her body. They were great enough to seek escape and become visible. "Harvey," she whispered, turning a little, looking up at him, seeking his face, looking for the reason. "Why?"
He locked eyes with her, and she saw the raw emotion that lay just beneath the surface, the thing he had kept unspoken inside of him but was so heavy and something that only for her. "I just wanted somewhere that we could call ours," he said. His voice was, calm, sincere and low, he was showing his guiltless heart. "I just wanted somewhere I could breathe."
The words they had spoken hung between them, breaking the silence, and Donna felt their meaning, their sincerity that pressed against her breast. She bowed her head, one slow, quiet nod, something inspirational floated between them and they could see hope in each other's eyes.
He smiled then, softly, showing the sign of a man who decided to drop a mask even for a moment. "You're home," he spoke again and this time, she didn't have the slightest doubt about it.
As the house warmed around her, she took the peace that came with it, let the firelight play with her skin, and stayed still in the silence. And first time in she could hardly say how long she felt none of the painful emotions.