Chapter Text
Power wasn’t given—it was taken. The weak took nothing, and so they gained nothing, leaving the strong to reign supreme.
That was the mantra that marched into Harvey Specter’s head when he spotted a stranger boldly staking a claim on his office. Whoever the woman was, she sat half-turned to the window, holed up in his chair, tresses of auburn hair flowing over a deep midnight blue dress. The redhead lounging in his throne was either a naive simpleton who didn’t understand her place or an adversary there to challenge him.
To find out which was true, his gaze met his secretary's uninformative smirk. Gretchen's bemused disinterest irked him the way it usually did, and he wondered if she actually enjoyed working for him or had stayed on after Jessica left purely to mess with him.
He suspected the latter was true.
In spite of his secretary's non-responsive 'adulation', he adopted a calculated air of nonchalance as he sauntered past her cubicle and into the room, marking his territory with a dry quip. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Highness. Can I help you with something?”
With a poised swivel, her eye-catching cleavage came into full view, her provocatively pushed together breasts grounding his feet on the wrong side of his desk. Her cherry-painted lips curved into a smile — something seductively familiar about the gesture. And dear Lord… He prayed she was some innocent, doe-eyed Bambi whom Gretchen had let wander in off the street.
“You could stop admiring this stunning view and start telling me why I should hire you.”
Like a vixen surveying him in her den, she leaned back in his chair, quirking an eyebrow, and he instantly gained the impression there was nothing naive or simple about the woman.
Shame.
He’d always had a thing for hot, clueless redheads.
Acting like the domineering alpha-dog in her scenario, he nipped right back without any qualms. “If you’re here, then you already know why. Because I’m the best New York has to offer.”
She countered his assumption with a slightly narrower gaze. “Loyalty is a two-way street… Do you really believe that? Or are you just another arrogant lawyer who likes fast cars and poker games?”
His smirk teased that she was correct on all counts. He had to admit, he admired her moxie, and the quote from his yearbook was a nice touch. She’d certainly done her research. “My loyalty has nothing to do with how good I look in a Maserati. Why can't it all be true?”
“You’ve certainly got the arrogant part covered.”
“Says the woman making me stand in my own office.”
Her answering grin lit up her hazel eyes, turning them more emerald as she stood, and the mesmerizing flecks stirred another flicker of déjà vu as her nine-inch stilettos put her almost at his height. It seemed impossible he’d forget sleeping with someone so… imperious, except that he’d been around the Manhattan circuit a lot in his mid twenties. And a decade had a habit of swallowing tipsy memories. “Excuse me, but have we—”
“Had sex?” She scoffed at him. “No.”
“I was going to say, ‘met ,’” he insisted, watching her hips weave around him. She relegated herself to his guest chair, and he took his rightful seat, the itching familiarity finally clicking into place. He did know her — in a sense. Her face was continuously being plastered over the gossip rags at his local bodega, headlines in bold yellow alluding to some ridiculous story that he never paid attention to.
So, she wasn’t a rapier-like spy after all.
She was an actor, the least humble profession of them all. Always pretending to be something they weren’t, parading around like God’s gift for having the fortune of confidence and good looks. At least his ego and chiseled jaw cut a respectable mark in society. “Debbie Paulsen, right?” The fumble was deliberate due to a sudden lack of interest in doing business with her. “My partner’s office is down the hall on the left. I think you’ll find him better suited to your needs.”
He opened his laptop as a further sign of dismissal, which she blatantly ignored. In fact, she took the opportunity to get more comfortable, crossing her long, shapely legs.
“It’s Donna.” Her tone held no agitation but remained firm. “And you already know I came here looking for the best, and I was told by Ted Black that’s you.”
The recommendation caught him off guard. He had no clue why Theodore Black, his former colleague from the DA's office, would be sending him a client from L.A., and quite frankly, the man’s indefinite stream of calling in favors was close to running dry.
“Sorry to tell you, Miss Paulsen, but you flew a long way to be disappointed. I don’t represent actors. I only do endorsement deals for athletes.”
Once again, she didn’t appear in the slightest way deterred, her rosy lips politely eager as she chastised him. “It’s Donna… Think of it as a title, not just a name. You’ll see, because I don’t get disappointed, Mr. Specter, I get results, and I didn’t say the representation was for me .”
She bent over, reaching down into her Givenchy tote, which forced the swell of her breasts to push against her neckline.
He suddenly felt an empathetic appreciation for how a rat must feel, nosing around a trap for cheese — cautious but ultimately letting its fate be decided by a gnawing hunger. Before he was snared, however, his gaze snapped to the check pinched between her red lacquered nails.
"I'm aware that I'm still liable to be billed for your time. This should cover your minimum hourly rate.”
He took the offer, covering his surprise at her predisposition for handling business affairs. She'd prepared herself in more ways than one. Except, she obviously hadn’t anticipated his dislike of people trying to buy his loyalty. The act was tacky and unattractive, the paper tearing easily in his hands. “You asked me if I really believe loyalty is a two-way street? I do. So I don’t go out and buy new sheets unless I know who I’m getting into bed with.”
Without a second's hesitation, she soured his innuendo with a wry smirk.
“That would be my father.”
Great . He didn’t even know the man, and her father was already cock-blocking him.
She nodded toward the file she'd left on his desk, and despite his apprehension of the situation, he indulged his curiosity, flipping the folder open. The pages revealed an IRS scandal — and by the looks of it, the feds had Jim Paulsen dead to rights. It was an open and shut case.
“I know my dad, Mr. Specter. He’s a good man, and he wouldn’t steal from a company that he’s loyal to.”
A softness crept into her voice, which he almost sympathized with, but the emotion hardened, turning to pity instead. “Parents aren’t always the good people we think we know,” he grumbled. He’d learned that lesson from his mother, but he quickly locked that grievance away somewhere it couldn’t hamper his opinion. He dealt in facts, and unfortunately, in this instance…
His eyes locked on a signature — the only minute insistence something was amiss; Mike goddamn Ross was her father’s current lawyer.
The name resonated with a still-stinging betrayal. He’d taken a chance on the Yale alumnus, ignoring the firm’s strict policy on only hiring from Harvard, and he’d been right to bring Mike onboard. The kid was brilliant, but their differing approaches had led to the man handing in his resignation after only six months.
Last he’d heard, Mike was working at some poverty-stricken clinic, taking on bleeding-heart cases — not audits by the IRS. Something was off, and suddenly, he didn't care about the schematics. Ross had a weak game, and this was his chance to prove that sometimes the good guys had to do bad things to get a result. Innocent or guilty, he'd do the one thing Mike couldn't; make sure Donna's father never set foot in a prison. Closing the folder, his ego chose fun over sense. “Send me your father's details. I’ll have my secretary set up a meeting.”
“No need.”
He watched, transfixed, as she skimmed her fingers down the valley of her breasts, producing an identical check to the one shredded on his desk.
“Six o’clock at La Tête d’Or. I had Gretchen clear your schedule.”
Half of him wanted to withdraw his offer — wipe the smug look off her devilishly angelic face. The more lewd side of his thoughts would be satisfied with bending her over his desk until she begged for his help, and maybe there was a compromise in there somewhere to be had.
“Six o’clock, and you agree to meet me for a drink after.”
“I don’t mix business with pleasure.”
The green hue swirling darker in her eyes said otherwise, and he smirked. “Neither do I," he clarified. "Which is why I’m asking you out and not your father. But just to be clear, the pleasure is, of course, elective.”
Her laugh made him lean back with the full confidence of wielding a royal flush, though this all felt more like a game of chess. She was playing the Queen’s Gambit, but he had his own King's move to play, and he flashed his signature grin. “One drink, on you, to thank me. It really is the least I deserve.”
The amusement lingered on her face, sparking a warm sense of reward that rushed through him at her nod.
“One,” she finally agreed, collecting her tote.
A speckled sea of pink flushed the freckles that covered her pale skin, and he picked up his pen, biting the cap. He'd gotten her. Though, to her credit, not many people played the house under his roof and won, so he kept his gloating to a minimum. “I’ll see you tonight, Debbie.”
She paused at the door, her lashes fluttering over her shoulder. “Call me that again, Totto ."
The embarrassing nickname he'd been saddled with in middle school wound his grin down a notch, but the surprise that surged through him shifted into something akin to respect as her hips swayed out of his office.
Gretchen peered at him over her glasses, an unbelievable look ghosting across her features, and he swiveled around to his laptop with a satisfied smirk.
Annoying his secretary was only half the fun. The real holy grail would be Louis' face when he casually mentioned his date with a soap opera star. The firm's senior partner was going to lose his shit, and that certainly set the benchmark for a great, goddamn day.
The sophisticated, contemporary atmosphere of La Tête d’Or indulged Harvey’s refined taste for a high-end steakhouse. It seemed Donna had done her research in more ways than just digging around his schooling. He had high hopes for the meal but less for the company when he spotted a lone, stocky man matching Jim Paulsen’s description.
The man sat stiffly, wearing a polyester and tweed suit that stuck out like a sore thumb in a vast array of Tom Ford and Armani ensembles.
In his mind, Donna's father looked every bit the stuffy accountant who knew numbers but made bad choices when it came to handling money. Still, he reserved judgment. He didn’t give a shit if the man was guilty or not — his only stake in the game was showing up Mike Ross.
“Mr. Paulsen, Harvey Specter," he introduced himself. "Your daughter has exquisite taste, sir. I'd recommend the Bone-in Ribeye.”
There was zero gusto in Jim’s lukewarm handshake, but he ignored the tepid reaction, pulling out a chair, and signaling for a waiter to start them off with a round of drinks.
“There must be some kind of mistake.”
His gaze flashed over to the man's narrowing eyes.
“I didn’t invite you here, Mr. Specter. I’m supposed to be meeting my daughter.”
His shoulders tensed with the distinct impression he was about to be blindsided — a nauseating sensation he fucking hated. Shaking his head at the young man coming their way, he kept his response calm and concise. “I’m the lawyer Donna hired to represent you. I was under the impression we were meeting tonight to discuss the terms.”
The napkin in Jim's lap was balled into a tight wad before it landed on the crisp, calico tablecloth.
“And exactly how much money are you wringing out of my daughter so you can save a dottery old man from the IRS?"
To say Jim's tone was condescending would have been a gross understatement, and screw being civil. Donna's father wasn't just guilty, he was a self-righteous son of a bitch.
“What did you just say to me?"
"You heard."
For a stuffy old accountant, the prick had some backbone, he couldn't deny that.
“I know the kind of man you are, son — " Jim continued " — conceited, selfish, and only interested in putting your own needs first. Whatever mistakes I have to repay, at least I made them as a decent man. So, no, Mr. Specter. I don’t need help from the likes of you.”
The accusations made Harvey's blood boil. Maybe he hadn't come here out of the potent goodness of his heart, but Jim Paulsen was no goddamn Saint either.
“Your daughter came to me , James, and I'll be perfectly clear. I didn’t want this case. I know you’re guilty, and you can say what you like about me… At least I’m not a shitty father who lies to his kid.”
His chair slid back, but Jim’s sarcastic huff brokered another half a second of staying seated.
“My daughter didn’t tell you, did she?”
"Didn't tell me what?” he growled, the chance she'd misunderstood the situation fading fast.
"My daughter hasn’t spoken to me in three years. Not since her mother passed away. She lied to both of us...So think about that before you go trying to corrupt her."
The backhanded warning left a sharp sting. Donna had played him, and he didn't know to what end, but he was pulling his horse from this shit-show of a race. "Don't worry, Jim. I won’t be taking a cent from you or your daughter." He stood up, his poised anger simmering with malice. "Good luck with Ross. You’re going to goddam need it.”
“Mike is twice the man you’ll ever be, son." A sneer twitched the older man's lips. "Don’t give my daughter half a chance to realize it.”
Hiis ire pulsated with a loud thrum through his body, but Jim Paulsen wasn’t worth the spectacle. Leaving Donna's father to his inevitable fate, he stormed out of the restaurant. As for the Hollywood starlet, she could pack up her fucking daddy issues and go back to L.A.
He was done.