Alex stared at the empty doorway long after Donna vanished, the echo of her parting words settling like fine print on a contract he hadn't yet signed. Dinner. Non-working. The invitation hung between professional courtesy and something sharper, more personal—a line neither had crossed but both recognized.
He finished the scotch in one slow pull, the burn grounding him. Patterns were his language, predictions his weapon. Donna Paulsen defied easy mapping. She observed, anticipated, controlled without seeming to—and now she had drawn him into her orbit with the casual certainty of someone rewriting the rules mid-game.
His phone buzzed. A text from Harvey:
Bratton Gould depo tomorrow. 10AM. Bring your map.
Alex typed back: Done.
He stood, gathered his notes on the rival firm's poaching patterns—three clients targeted, two already wavering, all timed to exploit billing gaps—and left the office. The firm was a ghost town now, lights dimmed, only the hum of servers and distant vacuums.
Outside, Manhattan's night air hit like a reset. He walked, letting the city's rhythm clear his head. Mike Ross. Bratton Gould. Donna. Variables stacking faster than anticipated. In his old life, he'd managed chaos alone. Here, chaos came with names, faces, expectations.
And possibilities.
Morning brought rain, the kind that sheeted down Lexington Avenue and turned suits into second skins. Alex arrived early, map in hand: a one-page schematic of Bratton Gould's moves, predicted next targets highlighted in red.
Harvey's office already buzzed. Mike hunched over a laptop, outlining the depo questions. Louis hovered in the doorway, uninvited but compelled.
"You're late," Harvey said without looking up.
Alex checked his watch. 9:55. "Early by five minutes."
"Early is on time," Harvey replied. "On time is late."
Donna slipped in behind him, handing out coffees with surgical efficiency. Hers to Harvey. Black to Alex. "Extra shot. You look like you need it."
He met her eyes. Neutral. Professional. No trace of last night's charge.
Impressive control.
"Bratton Gould," Harvey said, gesturing to the conference table. "Their lead's Gerald Tate. Slick. Thinks he's untouchable."
Alex spread the map. Arrows connected clients, timelines, recent hires at Bratton Gould. "They poach by need, not greed. Targeting our mid-tier corporate clients with expiring retainers. Next hit: Vanguard Tech. Their contract renews Friday."
Mike leaned in, scanning. "How'd you get their internal billing cycles?"
"Patterns," Alex said. "Public filings, whispers from shared vendors. They don't hide as well as they think."
Louis snorted. "Impressive. Terrifying. Probably illegal."
"Public record," Alex corrected.
Harvey tapped Vanguard Tech's name. "We shut this down today. Mike, you take first chair on depo. Storm, backup. Make Tate sweat."
Mike nodded, eager but steady.
Donna watched Alex the whole time, her gaze a quiet pressure.
The deposition suite downtown was sterile—long table, court reporter clicking away, Tate at the far end in a suit that screamed "I bill more than you." His associate smirked beside him, overconfident.
Mike started clean, probing Tate's client contacts with surgical questions. Solid. But Tate danced—vague timelines, feigned forgetfulness.
Alex watched. Waited.
At the thirty-minute mark, Tate slipped. "We don't target firms. Clients come to us."
Mike pounced, but Tate deflected.
Alex leaned forward, voice low but carrying. "Objection. Non-responsive."
The court reporter noted it. Tate's eyes flicked to Alex—first time he'd acknowledged the backup.
"Mr. Storm," Tate said, smirking. "The ringer."
"Answer the question," Alex said flatly.
Tate chuckled. "Mike here can handle it."
Mike glanced at Harvey, who nodded once.
Alex took over seamlessly. "Vanguard Tech. You contacted their GC last Tuesday. Discussed 'better rates.' Confirm the date."
Tate blinked. "I meet many clients—"
"Tuesday," Alex repeated. "11:42 AM. Your assistant's calendar synced to Outlook. Public glitch. We have the entry."
Bluff. But delivered like gospel.
Tate's smirk faded. "Speculation."
"Fact," Alex said. "Want the transcript?"
Mike jumped back in, riding the momentum. Tate folded by hour two—admissions on three poaches, Vanguard included.
Outside, Harvey clapped Mike's shoulder. "Clean kill."
Mike grinned. "Storm set the trap."
"Teamwork," Alex said.
Donna waited by the elevators, umbrella in hand. "Nice work. Jessica's already drafting the Vanguard renewal."
Rain drummed overhead. They shared the umbrella on the walk back, shoulders brushing. No words needed.
Afternoon blurred: Louis demanding credit for the billing win, Jessica pulling Alex for a quick strategy on Liam's piece (still on track), Mike cornering him for depo tips.
By six, the floor emptied. Alex lingered, refining client retention models.
Donna knocked. "Dinner."
No question.
They cabbed to a quiet Italian spot—white tablecloths, candlelight, no firm whispers.
"Non-working," she reminded as they sat.
"Mostly," he said.
She ordered wine. He let her choose.
"You're good with Mike," she said over appetizers. "He looks up to you already."
"He's raw talent," Alex said. "Needs polish."
"Like you were?"
Alex paused. Flash of his old life—courtroom solo, undefeated until the end. "I was never raw."
She leaned in. "Everyone starts somewhere."
Their knees touched under the table. Neither moved.
"What about you?" he asked. "How'd you end up Harvey's shadow?"
"His filter," she corrected. "I saw through him day one. He hated it. Needed it."
"Like Jessica needs you watching all of us."
Her smile sharpened. "Someone has to."
Wine loosened edges. Stories flowed—not cases, but origins. Her theater dreams derailed by law's pull. His vague "corporate grind" before Pearson Hardman, shadows of real losses flickering unsaid.
By dessert, the air hummed.
"You're staying," she said. Not a question.
"Looks that way."
"Good," she murmured. "This place… it grows on you."
"Like you?"
Her laugh was low, unguarded. "Bold."
"Observant."
Their hands met across the table. Lingered.
The check came. He reached. She stopped him. "Next one's on you."
Outside, rain eased. They walked, city lights blurring. At his building, she paused.
"Nightcap?" he asked.
Her eyes held his. "Rain check."
She kissed his cheek—soft, deliberate—then vanished into the night.
Alex watched her go, pulse steady but elevated.
Pearson Hardman wasn't just a firm anymore. It was alliances, threats, a slow-burning pull toward Donna that felt less like distraction and more like gravity.
Week two loomed. Bratton Gould wounded but circling. Mike rising. Secrets stacking.
He'd never lost before.
He wouldn't start now.