By Friday morning, Pearson Hardman had a rhythm for Alex Storm.
He woke before dawn, ran through case law with coffee that was too strong even for this city, and walked into 601 Lexington with the quiet certainty of a man who had already argued with his own doubts and won.
Inside, the firm had begun to make room for him in the only way places like this ever did: not with warm welcomes or nameplates, but with expectations. Files appeared on his desk without fanfare. Partners forwarded him questions they didn't quite know how to categorize. Associates eyed him with a blend of suspicion and curiosity usually reserved for visiting royalty and rival firms.
Donna tracked it all from her perch just outside Harvey's office.
"Busy?" she asked as Alex passed her desk that morning.
"You tell me," he said. "You're the one moving the pieces."
She tapped a list on her screen. "You've got a call with Cortland at nine, a check-in with Louis—God help you—at ten, and Jessica wants to 'touch base' before lunch, which is code for 'update me in thirty seconds or less.'"
"And Harvey?" Alex asked.
"Harvey assumes you'll find him if you need him," she said. "He also assumes you won't need him unless something's on fire."
"That's generous," Alex said.
"That's faith," Donna corrected. "He doesn't hand it out often. Try not to make him regret it."
"I'll add that to my to-do list," Alex said.
"I already did," she replied. "Now go. Cortland's PR lead is apparently a fan of phrases like 'brand synergy' and 'content alignment.' You're going to hate her."
Alex almost smiled. "Looking forward to it."
He headed to his office and hit the conference line at nine sharp.
Cortland's general counsel joined first—measured, cautious. Then the PR lead—bright, enthusiastic, already halfway into buzzword territory before introductions finished.
"The clarification language you proposed is strong," the GC said. "My concern is tone. Our editorial team doesn't want this to read like a walk-back."
"It's not," Alex said. "It's a reinforcement. You're doubling down on your commitment to accuracy. You're not apologizing for criticism; you're inviting facts."
"And if they don't give us any?" PR asked.
"Then they look like they're afraid to," Alex said. "That helps you. It also helps us when people look at who represents you."
He walked them through the phrasing line by line, trimming adjectives, tightening verbs, removing anything that sounded like spin. Spin was how you slid from "responsible" into "defensive" without noticing.
By the time the call ended, Cortland had agreed to the course he'd mapped: clarification published Monday morning, visible but not loud, timed just ahead of Liam's scheduled piece.
Two storms in one sky.
If he did this right, they would reinforce, not collide.
At ten, he found Louis in his office, staring at a spreadsheet like it had personally insulted him.
"Good, you're here," Louis said without looking up. "We have a problem."
"Define 'we,'" Alex said.
"The firm," Louis said. "My department. Potentially my ulcer."
"Encouraging start," Alex said. "What's wrong?"
Louis shoved the spreadsheet toward him. "Billing."
Alex scanned the columns. Hours, codes, clients. Patterns.
"You're over target," Alex said. "Most firms would call that a win."
"Most firms don't have clients who scrutinize every tenth of an hour like they're paying with their own blood," Louis snapped. "Samuels wants an explanation for a spike in litigation costs this quarter."
"Is the spike justified?" Alex asked.
"Yes," Louis said. "Mostly."
"Then we explain it," Alex said.
Louis glared. "Do you have any idea how much they hate explanations?"
"Yes," Alex said. "Clients who like power and hate math are always the same."
Louis's mouth twitched despite himself. "You're not wrong."
Alex traced a finger down the sheet. "You're billing aggressively on internal fights," he said. "Partner conferences, strategy huddles, late-night review sessions. All real. All risky optics."
"What do you suggest?" Louis asked.
"We adjust the narrative," Alex said. "We present a breakdown that highlights the hours that directly protected them from greater exposure—like limiting discovery, avoiding sanctions, shutting down claims that could have multiplied. We make it clear those meetings weren't just talk; they were the reason this didn't get more expensive."
Louis frowned. "You think that'll satisfy Samuels?"
"It'll give them a choice," Alex said. "They can either complain about the cost now or acknowledge that it cost them less than the alternative. People like Samuels hate feeling stupid more than they hate paying money."
Louis considered that, then nodded slowly. "You know, for someone who just got here, you're disturbingly good at reading clients you've never met."
"Patterns," Alex said. "Different names, same habits."
Louis narrowed his eyes. "Sometimes I feel like you've done this all before."
Alex met his gaze evenly. "Sometimes it feels that way."
Louis studied him for another second, then shook his head and waved a hand. "Fine. Draft me a client-facing summary. I want it by end of day. If they scream, I'll send them to you."
"I'll wear earplugs," Alex said.
Louis snorted. "They'll still get through."
By the time Alex left Louis's office, the firm's clock had rolled past ten-thirty.
He barely made it three steps before Donna materialized at his elbow.
"Jessica moved your 'touch base' to now," she said. "She likes to get ahead of problems before they grow legs."
"Does this one have legs?" Alex asked.
"Potentially," Donna said. "We're about to find out."
Jessica's office was sunlight and sharp edges. She stood by the window when they entered, arms crossed, gaze on the city like she was reading a brief only she could see.
"Storm," she said, turning. "Sit."
He did. Donna stayed by the door, not quite in, not quite out.
"I read your memo on Cortland," Jessica said. "Harvey signed off?"
"Yes," Alex said.
"Good," she said. "That's one front handled. Now tell me about Liam."
"He's where we want him," Alex said. "Focused on Hardman's past, not your present. He's dug up enough to confirm that you forced Hardman out, which supports the narrative of accountability. He hasn't found anything current worth printing."
"Yet," Jessica said.
"Yet," Alex agreed. "I've nudged him toward institutional angles—how big firms handle internal misconduct, what reforms stick, what doesn't. That gives you room to be the example instead of the warning."
Jessica's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at Hardman's name, but her voice stayed even. "You're comfortable playing with that kind of fire?"
"Yes," Alex said.
"And if it gets away from you?"
"Then I put it out," he said.
"Can you?" she asked.
He met her gaze. "I don't start fires I can't contain."
Jessica watched him as if testing that statement against every risk she'd ever taken.
"Fine," she said. "Keep him where you have him. If he so much as hints at expanding his scope to current leadership, I want to know before he does."
"You will," Alex said.
"Good," she said.
She closed a file on her desk with unnecessary precision.
"One more thing," she said. "You've been here a week."
"Yes," he said.
"You've impressed Louis, which I honestly did not expect," she said. "You've adapted to Harvey, which I expected would take longer. You've managed not to offend Donna, which is rarer than you think."
Behind him, Donna's mouth quirked.
"Thank you?" Alex said.
"That wasn't praise," Jessica said. "That was context. Pearson Hardman is not a place where people slide in and out without leaving marks. You're already leaving them."
He sat a fraction straighter. "Is that a problem?"
"It's a fact," she said. "The question is what kind of mark you leave."
He held her gaze. "What kind do you want?"
"The kind that strengthens this firm," she said. "Not just your reputation. Not just Harvey's. The firm."
"I can do that," Alex said.
Jessica studied him for one long, searching moment, then nodded once.
"Then do it," she said. "You're here. Make it worth the risk."
Meeting over. Verdict delivered.
Outside, Donna fell into step beside him.
"You know," she said, "for a guy who walked in off the street yelling 'Hardman' in the lobby, you're doing a decent job not getting yourself thrown out."
"Decent?" he asked.
"On a good day," she said.
"And this?"
She considered. "We'll call it… promising."
He smiled. "Careful. That almost sounded optimistic."
"Don't get used to it," she said.
They walked in silence for a few steps.
"Storm," she said suddenly.
"Yes?"
"You ever thinking about slowing down?"
He glanced at her. "You're the second person this week to ask me that."
"Who was the first?"
"Someone who doesn't exist anymore," he said.
She watched his face for a heartbeat, reading the shadow that crossed it.
"Must have been a good question if it stuck," she said.
"It was," he said.
"And?"
He looked ahead. "I decided slowing down is more dangerous than keeping pace."
"In here," she said, "you might be right."
By late afternoon, Cortland had signed off on the letter. Samuels had received Louis's carefully reframed billing breakdown and, predictably, responded with a terse acknowledgement and a veiled threat about "monitoring future efficiencies," which Louis took as a win.
Harvey poked his head into Alex's office around six, jacket already off, tie loosened.
"Drinks," he said. "Come on."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "Is that an order?"
"It's a strongly worded suggestion," Harvey said. "We don't usually do this first week, but you've already argued in front of Malone and walked into Jessica's meeting without getting yourself killed. That earns you a whiskey."
"Only one?" Alex asked.
"We'll see how you hold it," Harvey said.
They headed for the elevators. Donna joined them halfway, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair.
"You're coming?" Alex asked.
"Someone has to keep you two from turning this into a testosterone contest," she said.
"Please," Harvey said. "We've evolved."
"Barely," she replied.
The bar was one Harvey favored—dimly lit, quiet, expensive without trying too hard. They took a corner booth.
Harvey ordered without asking. Donna rolled her eyes but didn't correct him.
"Here's how this works," Harvey said once the drinks arrived. "We don't talk about clients by name, we don't talk about judges by name, and we definitely don't talk about each other by name where anyone can hear us."
"Doesn't leave much," Alex said.
"Leaves everything that matters," Donna said.
They talked. Not about cases, but about patterns. About what made a firm like Pearson Hardman survive shifts in the market, the press, the judiciary. Harvey told a story about his first major loss—not in court, but in a negotiation that went sideways when a client lied to him. Donna filled in the parts he glossed over, with the surgical precision of someone who had seen every angle of the fallout.
At one point, Harvey went to take a call outside.
Donna and Alex were left in the soft noise of the bar, glasses half-empty between them.
"You fit here," she said quietly.
"You sound surprised," he said.
"I'm not," she said. "I'm… paying attention."
"To what?"
"To how you walk into a room and look at the exits, then the people, then the clock," she said. "To how you argue like you've already lost once and you're not interested in doing it again."
He looked at her. "You see all that?"
"I see most things," she said.
"And what do you do with them?"
"That depends," she said. "On whether they're useful."
"And am I?" he asked.
"Potentially," she said. "If you don't burn out. Or burn us."
"Is that what you're worried about?"
"Not yet," she said.
She swirled the liquid in her glass, watching it catch the light.
"Places like this," she said, "they take pieces. Time, sleep, relationships. You start to think you can outsmart that. That you'll be the one who gets through untouched. You won't."
"You?" he asked.
"I made my peace with that a long time ago," she said. "I just chose which pieces I was willing to give."
"And?"
"And I don't regret it," she said. "Most days."
He thought of his past life. Of the cost of pretending he could stand alone, untouched, above it all.
"What would you tell someone who hasn't made that choice yet?" he asked.
"I'd tell him to decide quickly," she said. "Before the place decides for him."
He held her gaze. "What if he's already decided?"
"Then I'd tell him to be honest about what he wants," she said. "With himself. With the people he works with. With the people he…"
She stopped. Took a sip.
"Spends time with," she finished.
"And if what he wants doesn't fit neatly into a billing code?" Alex asked.
She smiled, a quiet, dangerous thing. "Then he'd better be very, very good at his job."
Harvey returned before Alex could reply, sliding back into the booth with a fresh smirk and a story about a rival firm's recent misstep.
The moment folded into the larger conversation, but it didn't vanish.
Later, walking back toward the firm to pick up the last of the day's emails before heading home, Alex fell in step beside Donna.
The city lights reflected off wet pavement. Their shoulders almost brushed.
"Decision made?" she asked without looking at him.
"Yes," he said.
"And?"
"I'm staying," he said.
"As long as they let you?"
"As long as it takes," he said.
She nodded once, as if that matched the conclusion she'd already reached.
"Good," she said. "I hate onboarding."
He laughed, the sound surprising even to himself.
First week done.
No bullets. No collapses. Just files, arguments, and a growing sense that this second life might not be about running from the past.
It might be about building something new—inside a firm that thrived on pressure, beside people who saw more than most, and across from a woman whose every look felt like its own cross-examination.