Washington, DC – October 2014

Conrad's fast, heavy steps echo through the residence. Lydia swallows. She was expecting this. She watched today as Jessica Richardson spent nine full hours of testimony hammering the final nail into Conrad's coffin. She was freer with information than previously expected. Lydia looks down at the dinner she had the White House chef whip up for her. By her plate sits her insurance policy—every bruise always able to be covered by clothing, every broken bone always explained away by clumsiness. There are clinically written accounts of every incident waiting on the day she got brave enough to leave him. She takes a deep breath, stands from her seat, and walks into the sitting room.

Conrad is standing in front of the fire, his back to Lydia. Lydia takes another deep breath, straightens her blouse, and steps into the room. She stops a few feet behind him.

"Connie," she says his name softly, nearly empathetically.

"She's won the public!" Conrad yells, throwing his glass against the wall. It explodes, splattering liquor and shards of crystal into the air. "I am the most powerful man in the world, and they're ready to take it all from me because of one goddamn woman!"

"Connie," Lydia tries again, remaining calm and open. She knows not to test him. She walks closer to him, her hands going to his shoulders. He tenses but doesn't throw her off. Lydia massages his shoulders, working the muscles in her fingers. He groans slightly and drops his head forward.

"She's ruining me," he sighs.

She swallows. She remembers the night he told her the truth about Elizabeth. She had threatened to call the police after he nearly went after Harrison instead of her. He had told her she was lucky that she got to stay with him. She must've looked confused because he had been explicit in his threat to send her to live with his 'old friend.' 'Bess probably needs a break, and I'm sure he'd like you.' She remembers blinking at him for several moments, trying to decipher his threat. He then grabbed her arms, holding them together at her wrists with one hand. He had leaned forward, his breath hot and stale. 'My old friend would like a new companion, especially a pretty thing like you. Maybe you would like it.' And that had been all she needed to understand.

She didn't ask him about it for several days after his usual apology and flower combo, which always restarts the honeymoon. Either through guilt or a scare tactic, he had spilled the details of Elizabeth's whereabouts and daily life to her. Her heart had sunk as she listened, tears rolling down her face. He had looked pleased.

Lydia never forgave him.

"Let's go to bed," Lydia whispers into his ear. "It's okay, baby."

He doesn't say anything. He lets her lead him down the hall to the bedroom. She shuts the door behind her and guides him over to the bed. She will leave him in the morning. She won't back out of it this time. She will leave him, and she will do her best to destroy him.

…X…X…X…

Conrad Dalton playing his entire royal flush all in one go the morning the Oversight Committee is set to vote was not what Elizabeth had expected. Her mugshot is clear as day on the morning news. Her coffee cup nearly falls from her hands as she looks into the depths of her own dead eyes. She had forgotten how emaciated she was when she hit bottom. She catches the words at the bottom of the screen.

President Dalton: Elizabeth McCord is a misguided, mentally ill addict who cannot be trusted to tell the truth.

"Jesus," Henry's shock enters her ears, and she startles. She watches his reaction to the mugshot as it dawns on him just how far down rock bottom had been for her. She feels her cheeks redden, and shame fills her body.

Elizabeth turns away, unable to watch any more of his reaction.

Henry pauses the TV to study the image. What strikes him most are her eyes—dull and lifeless. She looks so sick. Her cheekbones are prominent, and her skin is pale. His eyes narrow as he looks at her face. Her greasy hair turns brown at the bottom, while her reddish natural blond roots have grown out, making her look unkempt.

"Was this taken before you got sober?" Henry asks although he's certain. He looks at her now in front of him—her arms crossed as if to hide track marks that no longer mar her arms.

She swallows and nods, "yeah."

She won't look up at him. He takes a step toward her, but she retreats. He can feel her shame in the way she grabs her robe together, trying to hide herself from him. She had told him there had been drugs. And while he's not sure what he thought that looked like, to see a mug shot of her looking so, frankly, strung out makes his heart hurt.

He had only known her to be strong, beautiful, and elegant. He's seen her tired and run down, but she's always held herself in such a dignified and powerful way. He knows her. He has always known who she is. Before they were married, she allowed him to witness her soul in its rawest form, and he loved every second of getting to know the real Elizabeth. Something he knows well is that beyond her strength and power lies an ocean of vulnerability and fragility. She is the strongest person he's ever met, but she's also so delicate. She needs people. She loves hard. That is how she copes.

"Elizabeth," he says softly.

Elizabeth feels exposed and raw, and her stomach twists. She's embarrassed, angry, and frustrated. Her body is rigid, and her hands are clammy. She doesn't dare look up at Henry. She's not sure she can bear his judgment or rejection, and she's not entirely certain his reaction won't be the latter.

"Look at me, please," he asks.

She doesn't move. She can't.

"Please," he repeats.

Her eyes lift slowly to his—her body holding her breath, waiting for the condemnation.

"I know who you are, Elizabeth," he says with absolute certainty.

Her eyes close, and the tears slip down her cheeks. "Do you?"

"Yes," he assures her. He stands up and walks toward her, placing his hand under her chin. His thumb brushes away her tears. "I know who you are."

Elizabeth swallows the lump in her throat.

Henry's hand slides up, his thumb tracing her jawline, and his palm cradles her face. It's a confusingly intimate move. They've managed to pull themselves apart each time they've gotten this close, but his thumb caresses her skin, and her breathing slows.

Her hand finds his wrist, and she holds him there. She leans into his touch. Her lips part as if to speak, but nothing comes out.

Henry's thumb brushes her cheekbone.

Her grip on his wrist loosens, and her hand slides down his forearm and then rests on his chest. She wants to kiss him. She wants to let him kiss her. To be loved is to be seen, and Henry has seen her time and time again. It's a beautiful, terrifying thought.

Henry's lips part, and his eyes darken. He leans in and kisses her forehead. Though it sends tingles down her spine, she's not sure what to make of the gesture. It could mean so many things—none of which are a declaration of love.

Her eyes close as his lips linger.

His forehead rests against hers. "We'll get through this," he whispers. "It's almost over, babe."

She swallows, "I don't think it'll ever be over,"

There's a part of her that can't reconcile being healed and reunited with her children—Henry, too. She tries to override Samuel's words and tell herself she is wanted here, needed. But there's a small part of her that's scared they will wake up one day and realize they've made a mistake. She's terrified Henry will conclude that she's not worth the trouble.

"It will be," he says, "It's all going to work out. I have faith in that,"

"How?" she asks. His faith has always seemed unwavering to her. The first time she asked him about it, he had told her about God going silent on him. She remembers thinking about how he could believe in an all-knowing and all-seeing entity that chooses to go silent on his most faithful.

He looks at her, knowing she needs a real answer—an honest answer. He swallows, "When I was like ten before Tommy died before I had to reckon with what true emotional pain is, I saw the very first quote I ever memorized written on a poster in my fourth-grade Catholic School classroom: 'Faith consists in believing when it is beyond the power of reason to believe.' Voltaire. And then Tommy died. And well, you know that story, God went silent on me. I was a kid learning for the first time what true adult pain was like. He fell through the ice, and I couldn't get to him. I didn't know how to live without him. He was my best friend. But I remembered that quote, and I tried to decipher what it meant. It wasn't until I was an adult actually studying theology that I got it. The power of reason is limited. We can't possibly know everything. Our minds are finite. It's the nature of humanity. There's so much we don't understand, and when you can't figure it out, that's when faith becomes a choice. That's when you have to decide whether or not you're going to believe in something greater, smarter, more infinite than we could ever imagine. Faith isn't blind. It's a conscious choice I make. I make that choice because the universe, unlike our minds, is known to be somewhat infinite. There's more out there, and it's not my place to judge or to understand all of it. I try not to get too caught up in the details. I remind myself that God exists beyond a place I can comprehend."

She looks at him for a moment, "Do you get mad at the God you choose to believe in?"

"You were taken from me. You were tortured and raped while I was falling in love and marrying another woman. That woman being someone who was part of the plot to rip you away from me. So, yeah, yeah, I get mad at him. I'm furious at him right now, actually, and I'm struggling with understanding. I'm struggling with forgiving him. I'm not sure I can."

"But you still have faith that all of this will work out in the end?" she pushes. She's not sure why she's challenging him on this. She doesn't understand why it matters so much. Maybe she's trying to prove something to herself or him, or maybe it's a last-ditch effort to keep her distance.

He nods, "I have to," he says, "It's the only way I can get out of bed every morning,"

She looks to the floor. So much of his pain is her fault, and it's overwhelming. It's a heavy, heavy weight that she has no idea how to carry. She tries to reconcile her choices in her head. She knows why she did all of the things she did; she's analyzed her actions down to their most clinical definitions. Yet, they never add up to a reason why.

"Hey," he lifts her chin, "Stop. Don't go down whatever road you're trying to,"

"How can you forgive me for the choices I've made?" She's not even sure why she's asking the question. The mug shot is still paused on the TV. The photographic evidence of the choices she made still haunts her. She became a person who she did not recognize. She did things she never thought she could or would. Things he does not know about. How could he forgive someone for actions he does not know of?

He shakes his head, "Because I couldn't imagine escaping hell just to find out my whole world moved on without me. I cannot blame you for turning to substances that made you numb."

"You don't know what I did to pay for those substances at the end," she whispers.

"It doesn't matter," Henry's voice is so gentle and understanding that her eyes meet his. "I love you," he reminds her, "no matter what you've done or what you've been through."

"I had sex for money." The words leave her in a flurry of unintentional word vomit. She's never said it aloud, and now that it's out, her entire body shivers with shame. She braces herself for the blow.

Henry is momentarily shocked into silence. He's not entirely sure he's heard her right, but there's no way his brain could have made up such a thing. He stares at her for a moment, trying to comprehend her statement. The image of Elizabeth, so desperate and vulnerable, with a stranger is something his mind cannot handle.

She begins to walk away, understanding his silent rejection.

"Elizabeth," his voice is so full of heartbreak, but she can't stop moving. She can't be here anymore. He grabs her arm gently and turns her back around to face him.

"I'm sorry," the words are a whisper as she begins to cry.

"No, please don't apologize. I'm so sorry you felt you had to do that." He's not entirely sure what to say, but his heart breaks for her. The pain she has gone through is something he can't imagine, and he knows better than to try. All he can do is remain open to her and let her know she can share whatever she wants whenever she is ready. He can only be here for her now and remind her that he loves her.

She wipes away her tears, "It doesn't bother you?"

"Of course, it bothers me, just not in the ways you think it does," he assures her. She studies him, not quite sure what he means, but before she can ask, he continues, "I—I can't even begin to comprehend how lonely, scared, and desperate you must have felt to find yourself in a situation like that. My heart is broken for you. I'm furious that there are men out there who took advantage of your desperation—especially knowing what happened to you in Iraq."

He feels himself beginning to ramble as he processes all of his feelings. The last thing he wants to do is upset her, so he pauses and takes a deep breath.

"I know who you are," he repeats his earlier statement. "I know that none of the things you did define anything other than the pain you were forced into. I know who you are, Elizabeth."

"Then who is that?" she gestures to the screen, her clouded-over eyes staring at her.

He tells her, "A woman who was pushed to her breaking point by forces outside of her control."

Her eyes snap back to his, and her heart pounds in her chest. It's such a simple answer, and the words hang in the air, echoing the sounds of the waves crashing and the cries of the seagulls. It's more than forgiveness. It's understanding. He once again sees her in ways that no one else can. Henry has a way of looking through her walls and finding her most fragile bits, her soul, and he has always held them with care.

He looks at her with a soft, tender smile and leans forward.

"Don't," she whispers. Her heart beats quickly, and her mind races. She's terrified.

He stops, their noses brushing, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding, and their minds at war. He's not sure how they've reached this moment, but he's certain she's about to break his heart.

"I'm not ready," she whispers, "I'm sorry,"

"Okay," he replies, his voice soft and his body still, his forehead pressed against hers. His eyes close, and his hand grips the back of her neck, his thumb gently rubbing her skin.

She doesn't pull away, though. She allows him to hold her, to feel her, and he feels her breathing steady.

"Mom! Dad!" Stevie yells, running into the kitchen, making them jump apart, "Did you see what the first lady just did?"