They walked through the bullpen together. Associates looked up, eyes widening. Donna, from her desk, gave a single, knowing blink. The receptionist’s bronze helmet swiveled. Trevor felt the weight of their stares, but it wasn’t the weight of suspicion. It was curiosity. Who is that with Harvey Specter?
In the elevator, descending, Harvey spoke without looking at him. “The storage unit address. The key.”
Harvey’s eyes flicked to the bag, then back to Trevor’s face. “You have thirty seconds before I call security. The real kind. Not the lobby kind.” suits trevor
“A suit.” Trevor unzipped the bag. Inside, nestled on a wire hanger, was a navy Zegna, unworn, tags still attached. “The one Mike stole from you. The one you let him keep. I know you replaced it, but this is the original.”
“Was.” Trevor dropped the duffel bag on the expensive rug. “I’m not here about Mike. I’m here about me.” They walked through the bullpen together
He walked out the revolving door into the city light, smiling. Not because he’d won. But because Harvey Specter had let him pretend. And sometimes, for people like Trevor, a good enough lie was the only truth they’d ever get.
Trevor met his gaze. “Because Mike believed in second chances. He was wrong about a lot of things, but he wasn’t wrong about you. You gave him one. I just want to see what it feels like.” The receptionist’s bronze helmet swiveled
The doors opened to the marble lobby. Trevor stepped out. Harvey stayed inside, the doors starting to close.