The first time she wakes up she's confused. She's entirely surrounded by darkness, bound and gaged in what feels like a car trunk; but its too dark, and she's too dizzy, and she's pulled back into a nascent unconsciousness before she can mount an effort to care.
"Livvie!"
The shout came sharper and swifter than an arrow as grabbed her should and pulled her away from the curb. Her father held her flush against him and boxy black Ford sped past. They were close enough to the road for the drag to muss her wild mess of black curls. The air swirled around her, leaving her spellbound and stealing her breath for a few moments. Her father broke the spell with another tug, pulling her father away from the curb, back towards the house.
He stopped them when they got to the porch. Crouched down, with one hand on each of her small arms he met her shaken gaze with his own: "what have we told you about the street?"
Look both ways. Don't cross without an adult. Ask for help. She knew the answers; but the car had stolen her breath and her voice, leaving her to silently wring her hands and shift her gaze over her father, back to the road.
He shook her and she felt the beginnings of tears prickling in her eyes. But Pope's don't cry—not even when they're five. They told her that too.
"I'm sorry daddy," she murmured, tentatively looking back up. "I shudda looked. I'm sorry."
Her father's eyes hardened and he let her go, shaking his head and standing up. Upright, he towered over her shaken petite frame. He looked powerful in his dark back suit and bowler hat, and his voice commanded any attention his appearance had neglected to solicit.
"Don't be sorry, Olivia. Be better."
She nodded, her curls bouncing haphazardly around her head and obscuring her face. He reached down and brushed a few stray curls out of her eyes. His own eyes had softened a touch and he sighed as he picked up his briefcase.
"Just be better next time."
The second time she wakes up it hurts. Everything hurts. A dull throbbing in her head explodes into deep shocks of pain every time the car hits a particular rough patch of road. Her lungs burn hotter and hotter as she looses control over her breath. And her wrists and ankles are raw from the rope tethering her together. It's a relief when her mind gives up and lets her drift away.
"He taught you to be better. To treat yourself better. I know he did."
Had he have been a more demonstrative man, it may have been a roar; but as it was his words were as even-keeled as his movements, decided and sharp as he paced the room in front of her.
"Do you think he taught you better?"
He turned on her, meeting her eyes. His gaze was broken and unfocused—and confusion clouded his face for a moment as his question was met with silence. But then his eyes found the duct tape on her mouth—seemingly forgotten in the moment—and he shrieked with laughter.
"That's right. Little Livvie can't talk because little Livvie doesn't know when to shut up."
He spoke in a broken staccato that grated more on her nerves than did the ropes cutting into her wrists. His broken gaze met hers again, and he flashed a serpentine smile that revealed rows of decaying teeth. Moving in closer, the smell of death and decay and dirt washed over her; she grimaced as best as she could behind the tape and closed her eyes.
A sharp prick to her left arm and feeling of his grimy hands on her body pulled her back, and she opened her eyes just in time to see the last of something forced into her bloodstream. She felt the beginnings of tears prickling in her eyes.
But Pope's don't cry.
So instead of crying, she slipped away in silence.
Sometime between the third and the fourth time her memory starts to reorder itself; and as the pieces of the last few days fall back in place, her confusion shifts to an anger that grows more pronounced even as the pain threatens to overwhelm her; and when it eventually does, she's angry she can't make it stop.
The moment Olivia Pope went missing was probably the biggest missed opportunity in Jake Ballard's life—which is impressive, given the long list of opportunities he's walked away from related to Olivia alone. It's ironic; but her disappearance could have been his ticket to the life he wanted. A few well-placed calls, and he could have been the one to find her. He could have been the white horse he was pretty sure she wasn't looking for. He could have dragged her back into the sun and kept her there.
But he didn't.
Instead, he found himself staring into the eyes of the leader of the free world at eleven o'clock on a Thursday night, telling him the love of their lives had vanished into the night. And as he watched the President's face contort in an almost disfiguring mix of anger and fear he knew: this had been his chance, and he folded be he'd even seen the dealer's hand.