David's Impala pulled into the circular driveway of his Hollywood Hills mansion just past midnight, the headlights cutting through the darkness before he killed the engine.
For a moment, he just sat there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at the modern glass-and-steel structure that he'd bought just months ago.
Home. Except it didn't quite feel like home yet—more like an expensive way station between the chaos of his old life and whatever the hell was coming next.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, he could see movement inside. Scarlett, pacing back and forth in the living room, her silhouette backlit by the warm glow of the interior lights.
Even from here, he could read the tension in her posture, the way she kept checking her phone, then looking toward the door.
She'd been waiting up for him.
David exhaled slowly and finally got out of the car, his legs feeling heavier than they should.
The night air was cool against his skin, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from the landscaping and something else—smoke from distant wildfires that had been burning in the valley for weeks.
Before he'd even reached the front door, it flew open.
Scarlett stood there in one of his old band t-shirts that hung to her mid-thigh, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, her face bare of makeup. the worry in her blue eyes made David's chest tighten with guilt.
"Babe, you're finally back." she breathed, and then she was rushing forward, throwing her arms around him with enough force that he stumbled back a step.
He caught her automatically, his arms wrapping around her waist, pulling her close.
She was warm and real, and for a moment, he just held her, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo—something floral and clean that always reminded him of spring mornings.
"I'm okay," he murmured . "I'm fine, babe."
Scarlett pulled back just enough to look up at him, her hands coming up to frame his face, her eyes searching his features like she was checking for injuries. "I've been calling you for hours. You weren't answering. I thought—"
Her voice cracked slightly. "After what happened with your mom this morning, and then the interview, I thought maybe you..."
She didn't finish the sentence, but David understood what she wasn't saying. She'd thought maybe he'd done something stupid. Something self-destructive.
Maybe gone back to the drugs or the drinking or any of the other ways the old David had used to cope with pain.
"I'm sorry," he said, meaning it. "I should've answered. I just... I needed to clear my head."
"By going to a club?" Scarlett asked, raising an eyebrow. Her worry was starting to shift into something that looked like exasperation. "That's your version of clearing your head?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time," David admitted with a weak smile.
Scarlett shook her head, but she was smiling too—just slightly, just enough to let him know she wasn't really mad.
"Come inside," she said, taking his hand and tugging him toward the door. "Tell me what happened. And please tell me you didn't do anything that's going to make Harvey's job harder."
David winced. "Define 'harder.'"
"Oh god," Scarlett groaned, but she kept pulling him inside, closing and locking the door behind them.
The interior of the house was exactly as they'd left it that morning—sleek and modern, all clean lines and expensive furniture that David still wasn't entirely comfortable with.
The open-concept living room flowed into the kitchen, with those massive windows offering a panoramic view of Los Angeles spread out below them like a carpet of lights.
Scarlett led him to the leather couch and pushed him down onto it with surprising force for someone her size, then curled up beside him, her legs tucked under her, one hand resting on his thigh.
"Talk to me," she commanded, her voice soft but firm. "What happened?"
So David told her. About driving aimlessly after the disastrous interview, about ending up at the Sunset Room because he didn't want to come home and worry her, about the whiskey and the need to just... not think for a while.
He told her about Paris showing up with her entourage, about Kim and the calculated seduction attempt, about Paris's words and the way she'd tried to manipulate him into leaving with her.
Scarlett's expression darkened as he talked, her hand on his thigh tightening into a fist.
He told her about the dancing, about Paris's increasingly aggressive come-ons, about following him to his car and getting inside uninvited.
And then he told her about the threat.
"She said she could end your career with one phone call," David said quietly, his jaw clenching at the memory. "Said you were nobody. That you were just using me to get famous. That she could make sure you never worked in Hollywood again."
Scarlett's breath hitched, but she didn't interrupt.
"And I just... I snapped," David continued, staring down at his hands. "I told her to get out of my car, tried to walk away to cool off, but she followed me and grabbed my shirt, kept pushing, kept saying awful things about you, and I..." He swallowed hard. "I slapped her."
The silence that followed felt heavy. David couldn't bring himself to look at Scarlett's face, couldn't bear to see disappointment or disgust or whatever she must be feeling.
But when she finally spoke, her voice was quiet and steady. "Did you hurt her?"
"I what?"
"Did you hurt her badly?" Scarlett repeated, her hand moving from his thigh to his face, gently turning his head so he had to look at her. "Did you leave marks? Bruises?"
David blinked, thrown by the question. "I... maybe. Probably. It was just one slap, not hard, but her cheek was red when I left."
Scarlett nodded slowly, processing this. Her expression was difficult to read—not angry, not scared, just... thoughtful.
"I'm glad you defended me," she said finally.
David stared at her. "You're... glad?"
"Of course I am," Scarlett said, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the seriousness of the situation. "You think I want you to just stand there and let some spoiled brat threaten me? Threaten us?" She shook her head.
"I'm not happy you hit her—violence isn't great, but she isn't exactly innocent in this. She came after you, got in your car uninvited, and then threatened your girlfriend. That's... that's pretty fucked up."
"But her family," David said, some of the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "The Hiltons have influence in Hollywood. Real influence. She could make things difficult for you, for your career—"
"I don't care," Scarlett interrupted, her voice firm. "Do you hear me? I don't care. If Miss Coppola fires me from 'Lost in Translation' because Paris Hilton throws a tantrum, then fuck it. I'll find another movie. Another director. I'm not going to let her bully us."
David felt something warm unfurl in his chest—pride, maybe, or just deep affection for this girl who could be soft and vulnerable one moment and fierce and uncompromising the next.
"You say that now," he said gently, "but if she actually—"
"Then we'll deal with it," Scarlett said, cutting him off again. She shifted position, moving to straddle his lap, her hands coming to rest on his shoulders, her eyes locked on his. "Together. Whatever happens, we handle it together. That's how this works."
David's hands found her waist automatically, holding her steady. "You're incredible, you know that?"
Scarlett's smile turned slightly mischievous. "I know. But you can keep reminding me."
Despite everything—the disaster of the day, the looming consequences, the exhaustion pulling at him—David found himself laughing.
"Come on," Scarlett said, climbing off his lap and extending her hand. "You need to sleep. You look like you're about to pass out standing up."
"I need to talk to Harvey first," David protested, even as he let her pull him to his feet. "Figure out how to handle this before it gets bigger. He's on his way now."
Scarlett sighed and kissed him softly. " Don't stay up to late."
She walked upstairs.
David stared at the ceiling, his mind refusing to quiet despite his body's exhaustion.
He thought about Evelyn, about her calculated cruelty and the way she'd poisoned the media against him.
He thought about Paris and the cold calculation in her eyes when she'd threatened Scarlett. He thought about all the ways this could blow up in his face, all the consequences he might be facing.
But mostly, he thought about his actions, about how he didn't act smartly, how he'd just been lucky, coasting on money and circumstances he didn't really deserve.
Many would call him an idiot for what he'd done tonight. Hell, he was calling himself an idiot. Smart people didn't slap socialites in parking lots. Smart people walked away, let their lawyers handle it, played the game with patience and strategy.
But David had never been smart. Not in his old life, not in this one.
He'd been born into a rich family in his previous existence and coasted by on their money, never really having to work for anything, never really building anything that was his. Even that hadn't ended well—dying naked in the street after a cocaine-fueled sprint from an angry husband.
And when he'd woken up in this body, in this world, he'd just been confused. Trying to do what a decent human would do, whatever that meant. He wanted to be a good lperson despite not being used to it.
Using future knowledge and system money to shortcut his way to success, coasting again on advantages he hadn't earned.
Nothing truly felt like it was his. Not the music—those were songs from another timeline, another world. Not the money from the investments—that was just gaming the industry with foreknowledge. Not even the house or the cars or any of the trappings of success.
Even Scarlett...
David's arm clenched involuntarily.
She might love him now, but she'd fallen in love with the old David first. The one who'd saved her from bullies, who'd been kind to her when nobody else was, who'd represented escape from a suffocating small-town life. The very same that was going to abandon her.
How would she feel if she knew he wasn't even the guy she'd fallen in love with? That the real David Harper, the one who'd lived in this body before him—had been planning to abandon her in a seedy motel after stealing her parents' money?
That he was some cosmic interloper wearing her boyfriend's face, using his memories, pretending to be someone he wasn't?
Would she still love him then? Or would she look at him the way Evelyn had looked at him that morning—with contempt and calculation, seeing only what he could provide rather than who he actually was?
He'd been ignoring these thoughts for months, pushing them down, telling himself it would pass, that eventually he'd feel like this life was really his.
But it hadn't passed. If anything, the feeling had only grown stronger.
He didn't care about Evelyn or what she did. She didn't mean shit to him, not really. Maybe old David still had some lingering feelings. But his memories influenced him quite a bit. He liked similar things, and disliked the same stuff as well. It had changed him , and he was still trying to balance the thoughts.
But it annoyed him that whatever she was spreading to the media was half-truth, that he'd have to deal with the mess his predecessor had left behind, carry the weight of sins he hadn't personally committed but had inherited along with this body.
It was exhausting.
People thought being a rich CEO or a Hollywood celebrity was fun and exciting—parties and beautiful people and unlimited resources.
But it was often not. It was mentally exhausting in ways that regular problems never were. The constant scrutiny, the impossible expectations, the knowledge that one wrong move could destroy everything you'd built.
David was still lost in these dark thoughts, still staring at the ceiling when he heard it.
A knock at the door. Firm, authoritative, unmistakable despite the late hour.
David stood up with a sigh before padding barefoot toward the stairs.
He checked his watch as he descended—12:47 AM. There was only one person who would show up unannounced in the middle of the night with the kind of confidence that knock implied.
David opened the door to find Harvey Specter standing there, looking somehow immaculate despite the late hour. He was dressed in one of his perfectly tailored three-piece suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent.
The only concession to the hour was the leather briefcase in his hand, which looked slightly more worn than his usual.
"Harvey," David said, stepping aside automatically. "Thanks for coming on short notice."
"Sleep is for people without million-dollar contracts to protect," Harvey replied, stepping inside and immediately heading for the living room like he owned the place.
He set the briefcase on the coffee table with a decisive thunk. "Look through that. My associate Mike worked on it all day. Kid's a genius, even if he does have questionable taste in music."
David closed the door and followed Harvey into the living room, eyeing the briefcase warily. "What is it?"
"Your salvation," Harvey said dryly, loosening his tie slightly—the first sign of actual fatigue David had seen. "Or at least the script for it. Where's Scarlett?"
"Sleeping," David said, moving to sit on the couch. "Upstairs. She was worried about me."
Harvey nodded, his expression softening slightly—barely perceptible, but there. "Good. She'll need to look through these materials too.
Reporters are going to come after her, asking for comments about you, about your relationship, about tonight. She needs to be prepared with the right answers."
He settled into one of the expensive armchairs across from David. "Now. Tell me everything that happened tonight. Don't leave anything out, don't try to make yourself look better than you were. I need facts, not excuse. I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm protecting you from."
So David told him. The whole story, from the moment he'd walked into the Sunset Room to the final confrontation in the parking lot.
Harvey listened without interruption, his face neutral, his eyes sharp and calculating.
When David finished, Harvey was quiet for a long moment, just sitting there with his fingers steepled under his chin, clearly processing everything.
Then he sighed. "I want to smack you right now. Like, genuinely physically strike you. But that would be illegal, and I have enough problems without adding 'assaulted client' to my list."
David blinked. "What? Why?"
Harvey gave him a look that managed to be both exasperated and slightly amused. "Because you just made my job simultaneously easier and harder in the most frustrating way possible."
"I don't understand."
"Of course you don't," Harvey said, but there was no real bite to it. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Let me explain something to you about the law, about public relations, and about how all of this is going to play out."
He held up one finger. "First: Did you hit Paris Hilton? Yes. Is that technically assault? Also yes. Are there witnesses? Apparently not, it happened in a parking lot, away from cameras, away from the crowd. That's point one in your favor."
A second finger. "Second: Paris Hilton was, by possible witness accounts inside the club, throwing herself at you. She was drunk, possibly high, definitely aggressive. She followed you to your car uninvited and got inside without permission.
That's trespassing at minimum, possibly something worse depending on how we want to spin it. Point two in your favor."
A third finger. "Third: She threatened your girlfriend. Specifically threatened to use her family's influence to destroy Scarlett's career. That establishes motive for your actions beyond just random violence. It shows you were defending someone, acting out of... let's call it protective instinct rather than malice. Point three."
Harvey sat back, dropping his hand. "So from a legal standpoint, this is messy but not catastrophic. If she tries to press charges, I can probably get them dismissed or settled quietly. The optics are complicated, but manageable."
"And the Hilton family influence?" David asked quietly. "Paris said she could destroy Scarlett's career, destroy mine. She said—"
"Paris Hilton says a lot of things," Harvey interrupted. "Most of them are bullshit designed to make her sound more important than she actually is."
He paused, then amended, "Don't get me wrong, the Hiltons do have influence. Real influence in certain circles. But you're not exactly defenseless here, David."
He started counting on his fingers again. "You own significant stakes in Marvel, Amazon, and Netflix. Three companies that are going to be absolute juggernauts in the next decade if managed well, even if most people don't realize it yet.
You have Sony Music backing you, and your album is making them so much money they'd probably commit crimes to keep you happy.
And you have me as your lawyer, which means any legal challenge they throw at you is going to be met with the kind of aggressive defense that makes other lawyers cry."
Harvey's expression hardened slightly. "So no, David, you don't need to worry about the her family's influence.
Unless her father personally reaches out to his most powerful friends, and I mean the really heavy hitters, the ones who can make or break entire companies—she can't touch you."
David felt something loosen in his chest—not relief exactly, but a lessening of the weight that had been pressing down on him. "And if he does reach out to those people?"
Harvey shrugged, the gesture somehow elegant despite its casualness. "Then you take some business losses. Maybe some investments don't go as planned. Maybe some doors that would've been open get closed.
But you own those companies, David. You're not an employee who can be fired or a contractor whose services can be terminated. You're the owner. What are they going to do, make you sell your own property to yourself?"
He leaned back, a slight smirk playing at his lips. "The worst-case scenario is some financial bumps in the road. Inconvenient, annoying, but not catastrophic. You'll survive. You have enough savings unlike other rockstars."
"And Scarlett?" David asked. "Paris specifically threatened her career."
"Scarlett is working with Sofia Coppola," Harvey said. "The Coppola family has been making films since before the Hiltons were relevant. They have their own power base, their own influence, their own reputation.
Paris can maybe influence some small-time directors, maybe poison some casting calls for minor productions, but she's not going to get Scarlett fired from a Coppola film. That would require pulling strings she doesn't have access to."
Harvey paused, his expression turning more serious. "The worst Paris can do is spread rumors, try to turn public opinion against you both, or, and this is the real danger, try to set you up in some kind of compromising situation in public.
Make you look bad, make Scarlett look bad, manufacture evidence of... I don't know, infidelity or substance abuse or whatever else she thinks will hurt you."
"So what do I do?" David asked.
"First," Harvey said, reaching for the briefcase and popping it open, "you hire a proper security team. Not just one bodyguard, but a full team. Male and female professionals who can be with you and Scarlett whenever you're in public.
You'll thank me for this later, trust me. I've seen too many celebrities get caught in 'compromising positions' that were completely manufactured."
He pulled out a thick folder. "Second, you follow this script when dealing with media questions. Don't improvise. Don't try to be clever. Don't think you can outsmart reporters who do this for a living. Just stick to the talking points my team prepared."
David took the folder, flipping it open to see pages of typed responses to potential questions, organized by category.
"And third," Harvey continued, "we turn this entire mess into a redemption arc. We don't hide from your past—the drugs, the troubled childhood, the estrangement from your mother. We own it.
We make it part of your story. 'How music helped me overcome addiction and an unhappy childhood.' People eat that shit up. They love a good comeback story, especially from someone young and talented."
He pulled out another document. "Your brother Charlie can help with this if he's willing to give some interviews.
Talk about how he supported you when your mother messed you up, how he believed in you when nobody else did. That kind of thing plays really well with the public. But if he doesn't want to, that's fine too. We can work around it."
Harvey closed the briefcase and stood, straightening his tie. "Mike and Rachel put together media training materials too—how to handle aggressive reporters, how to deflect inappropriate questions, how to control interviews instead of letting them control you.
You and Scarlett both need to study those. I'm serious, David. The next few weeks are going to be a feeding frenzy. Every tabloid, every gossip show, every two-bit reporter with a blog is going to be coming after you. You need to be ready."
David stared down at the folder in his hands, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer amount of preparation Harvey's team had done in just a day.
"Harvey," he said quietly, "I... thank you. Seriously. I know I fucked up tonight, and you're still here, helping me fix it."
Harvey's expression softened slightly—just a fraction, just enough to show that beneath the sharp lawyer exterior was someone who actually gave a damn about his clients.
"That's what I do," Harvey said simply. Then he yawned—quick, almost embarrassed, like he'd forgotten himself for a moment. "And on that note, I'm going home. Donna's going to kill me for being out this late. Again."
He moved toward the door, David following.
At the threshold, Harvey turned back. "One more thing. Next time I tell you to go home and stay out of trouble? Actually listen to me. That's what you pay me for—to keep you out of situations exactly like this one."
David managed a weak smile. "I'll try."
"Don't try. Do." Harvey pointed at him with mock severity. "I'll send you my bill tomorrow. And trust me, this one's going to be expensive. Midnight house calls cost extra."
"Worth every penny," David said honestly.
Harvey's smirk widened slightly. "Damn right."
He headed down the driveway toward where his Mercedes was parked, then called back over his shoulder, "Study those materials. Both of you. I'm not joking about the media training."
"We will," David promised.
"And David?"
"Yeah?"
"Change your mindset. You are one of the big dogs now, not poodle. Start acting like it. I get that you are trying to be a good person and all, but in this level? Good guys don't last long. You have to be ruthless and cunning when needed."
David sighed. " Yeah. I have a lot to think about. Thanks Harvey."
He watched as Harvey's car pulled away, the red taillights disappearing down the winding road, then closed and locked the door.
David stood in the living room, the folder still in his hands, and for the first time since this whole disaster started, he felt like maybe—just maybe—they might actually get through this intact.
He carried the folder to the couch and opened it, beginning to read through Harvey's carefully prepared talking points, his associate Mike's media training materials, the scripts for handling different types of questions.
On your troubled past: "I'm not proud of the choices I made when I was younger, but they taught me who I didn't want to be. Music gave me a path forward, a way to channel pain into something constructive..."
On your relationship with Scarlett: "She's been my anchor through everything. When the world gets crazy, she reminds me what actually matters..."
On your mother: "Family relationships are complicated. I'm focusing on the future, on the people who support me, rather than dwelling on people who were never there..."
The words blurred together as David read, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. But he forced himself to keep going, to absorb as much as he could, to prepare himself for the storm he knew was coming.
Because Harvey was right. The next few weeks were going to be brutal. The media would come after him with everything they had, digging for dirt, manufacturing scandals, doing whatever it took to get the story.
But he wasn't facing it alone.
David finally closed the folder and headed upstairs, moving quietly through the bedroom to slide back under the covers beside Scarlett.
She mumbled something in her sleep and immediately clung to him, her head finding his shoulder, her arm draping across his chest.
David smiled and kissed her gently. He needed a reality check. He needed this to make him realize this wasn't just a game.
Whatever he did in past life, or whatever his predecessor did, it didn't matter. This was his life now, and he was free to live it as he pleased, not trying to be someone he wasn't.