The rain tapped relentlessly against the window, streaking the glass with dark rivulets. Gusts of wind whipped through the trees outside, causing their branches to sway violently. Rust-colored leaves fluttered from the branches and stuck to the windshields of parked cars.
Governor Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III stood stiffly at the window of his office in the Massachusetts State House. It exuded a blend of power and elegance, with a color palette that paid homage to the state's flag—Continental blue, buff, and white. The dark wood paneling added a sense of gravitas, while shelves, lined with leather-bound books, spoke to a long tradition of intellectual rigor and influence. The room was bathed in a warm and inviting glow, the rich tones evoking a sense of old money and long-standing prestige. There was an air of quiet authority here, where every piece of furniture—from the polished mahogany desk to the carefully chosen artworks on the walls—reinforced his status and the legacy he was in the process of inheriting.
With his hands buried deep in his pockets, Fitz stared at the dreary yet oddly serene sight. From his office, he had a perfect visual field of the Boston Common—a large and historic park at the heart of the city. Beyond that, he was offered glimpses of Downtown Boston, with its mix of colonial architecture and modern skyscrapers. This view provided both a sense of the city's rich history and its modern vibrancy, reflecting the balance of tradition and progress.
Normally, Fitz would see joggers, tourists, and families meandering through the Common and bustling around the city. But today, the streets were nearly empty as the inclement weather kept most people indoors. For the past fifteen minutes, Fitz looked out the window, drowning out his father's latest diatribe about his political future, intermixed with his chief of staff's detailed strategy for announcing his imminent run for the next President of the United States.
"Are you listening, Fitzgerald?" Big Gerry's voice cut through the air, sharp and impatient.
Fitz turned, exhaling slowly before meeting his father's gaze. Seated on a Chesterfield leather sofa across the room and nursing a tumbler of Scotch, Big Gerry was still an imposing figure despite his old age. His white hair and wrinkled face did little to soften the unyielding aura of authority he had cultivated through decades of political maneuvering.
"It's time for you to choose a wife. I have some young, beautiful, well-bred women who know their place already lined up for you. All you need to do is pick one, and you can announce your engagement alongside your presidential bid."
"Senator Grant, if I may… while I agree the Governor needs a wife, announcing both at the same time isn't a good idea. It might come across as though his engagement is some kind of political move." Fitz's chief of staff, Cyrus Beene, intervened.
Big Gerry waved Cyrus off. "Simple fix. Fitzgerald will say they kept their relationship private to keep the focus on his work, not his personal life. But now, he believes it's important for voters to know he's committed to strong family values and will honor his marital vows the same way he'll honor his vows to the American people when he's sworn in."
"That could work—" Cyrus started, but was cut off by Big Gerry.
"It will work." Big Gerry replied matter-of-factly, taking another sip of his Scotch.
Fitz shook his head and sat down behind his desk, casually picking up a briefing to read as he half-listened to Big Gerry and Cyrus bicker. Most times, they were on the same page, so this rare moment of contention was mildly amusing to him.
"Still, we can't let his engagement eclipse his campaign. Voters need to focus on his plans for the country and his policies. On election day, we don't want them stepping into the voting booth, unsure of where he stands on key issues—or worse, unable to remember if he ever made his position clear."
"What do you propose then?" Big Gerry asked through gritted teeth.
"Instead of making an official announcement, we'll let the media do the work. They'll catch whichever bimbo he picks flaunting a big rock, and the story will break. Governor Grant and his fiancée will play coy, using the same excuse—that he wanted his good work to be the focus, not his love life. They'll marry after we win the White House, then start planning for a baby once his first hundred days are up."
Cyrus explained with effortless confidence, as if the plan had been carefully thought out for weeks, rather than something he came up with on the spot.
"Meanwhile, his fiancée can focus on wedding planning during the campaign. It'll keep her busy and out of the way."
Big Gerry nodded thoughtfully, his mind already racing with possibilities. "A presidential wedding... America's baby..." He smiled, envisioning the headlines that would capture the public's heart—two monumental events that would dominate the conversation for years to come, long after Fitz's two terms as president. "I like the sound of that. It'll keep his approval ratings strong and add a meaningful chapter to his legacy."
"Now you're getting it."
Big Gerry and Cyrus shook hands, finally reaching an agreement. Fitz rolled his eyes before he tossed the briefing aside, leaned back in his chair, and kicked his feet up on his desk.
"Last I checked, marriage wasn't a requirement for the presidency." He interrupted with his hands clasped on his lap.
His Boston accent, though ever present, had been softened over the years through deliberate practice and refinement, barely noticeable in casual conversation but still unmistakable in moments of stress or passion.
Big Gerry and Cyrus glanced at him, momentarily forgetting he was even in the room—that they were in his office.
"Every president needs a first lady." Big Gerry stated firmly.
"Buchanan didn't." Fit rebutted.
"And his presidency was a disaster. Typical Democrat." Cyrus chimed in.
"Buchanan's failures as president had nothing to do with his marital status. He was simply incapable of managing the escalating tensions between the North and South, ultimately leading to the Civil War and irreparably damaging his legacy."
"Enough with the history lesson, Fitzgerald," Big Gerry snapped, his voice rising. "Every great president was married. But you don't just want to be president, you want to be a monument. To do that, you need a first lady to support you and carry the bloodline forward."
"Moreover, the party is hesitant to endorse you. They see you as too moderate, borderline progressive. Your father is the reason you have major donors like Hollis Doyle backing you."
"So what? I'll have the power to restore balance between the two parties… is that not a good thing?"
"Not if certain policies and systems are being jeopardized in the name of compromise."
"You will be engaged by the end of the month, that's final." Big Gerry affirmed, steering the conversation back to its primary focus.
Fitz let out a dry chuckle and walked over to the wet bar, pouring himself a generous glass of Scotch. He needed it to endure his father and chief of staff, who were now ganging up on him after reaching their compromise.
"I made it this far without a wife. If I choose to marry, it'll be because I want to, not because you think it's politically expedient."
Big Gerry smirked, sinking deeper into the sofa. "You've always been a hopeless romantic. Tell me son, how do you plan on winning the women's vote?"
"The same way I won them to become the governor of this great state." Fitz mirrored his father's smirk, taking a sip of his drink—his jaw tightening as the dark liquor burned his throat. "I'm Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third. My name alone gives me plenty of political capital. And let's be honest… I'm good-looking, I've got great hair, and a certain boyish charm that no woman has ever been able to resist."
"You'll need more than looks and charm to win the highest office in the land. The American people want a Commander-in-Chief who's relatable—someone with strong family values... reliable... honest. They want a man who can lead the nation as effectively as he leads his family. They don't want a bachelor turning the White House into the Playboy Mansion."
Fitz's relaxed expression darkened and his calm demeanor hardened. He pushed himself up from his chair and stood rigid.
"How the hell would you know? From your experience running for president? Oh wait… you couldn't because you can't run for president when you get caught with a prostitute while your wife's on her deathbed." Fitz snapped his fingers as he thought aloud. "What was her name again? Charity? No… Hope. Can't forget a name like that. You really kept hope alive, didn't you, Dad? Mom's dead though..."
With a surge of motion, Big Gerry sprang to his feet and stormed across the room. He slammed a massive fist onto Fitz's desk, leaning over it with palpable fury in his eyes. Yet, Fitz didn't flinch. The older he got, and the longer he stayed in power, the less intimidated he became by his father. Now, the two Grant men stood inches apart, their baby blue eyes locked in a silent battle of wills.
Cyrus, standing off to the side, looked back and forth between them, his eyes darting from father to son and back. The air was thick with tension, charged with years of anger and resentment that neither man was willing to let go of.
"Shut your goddamn mouth, you entitled ingrate! I can destroy you as easily as I made you. You wouldn't be a fraction of who you are without me. All you have going for you is the fact you're my son. You're not nearly as accomplished or interesting. If you want to win the party's nomination and presidency, you will do exactly as you're told. Finding a wife is your first priority—"
"No, ending this ridiculous conversation is. See your way out of my office."
Fitz dismissed with finality and sat back down, leaving no room for argument. Big Gerry glared at his now unbothered son as Fitz opened his laptop.
Refusing to leave without having the last word, Big Gerry leaned in, his voice hard. "Like it or not, I am your father, and you will respect me. My assistant will arrange dates with the women I've corralled for you. You will attend these dates and have a wife chosen by the end of the month."
Fitz kept his eyes fixed on his laptop, ignoring Big Gerry as he scrolled through the latest local news reports. One headline caught his attention: "Outrage in the Streets: Protestors Demand Justice for Black Teen Gunned Down by Boston Police Officer."
Fitz became absorbed in the article, so much that he didn't notice Big Gerry storm out until his office door slammed shut with a violent bang, rattling framed photos and loose objects. The sound echoed through the room, making Fitz jump slightly. He glanced up just in time to see Cyrus opening his mouth to speak.
"That goes for you too, Cy. Get out. I've got work to do."
Cyrus hesitated for a moment before nodding, his voice quiet and obedient. "Yes, sir."
Once the door closed behind him, Fitz let out a heavy sigh of relief and returned to the article. At the end of it was a thirty second video. Fitz clicked on it and allowed it to play.
His stomach tightened as the camera panned across the scene. Wearing raincoats and ponchos, protestors held up laminated signs—their words stark and accusatory: "Justice for Brandon!" "Stop Killing Us!" "Black Lives Matter." "Black Liberation."
The camera then shifted to Olivia Pope, a young, Black liberation activist, standing on a makeshift platform with a megaphone in hand and an umbrella in the other. Her voice rang clear and sharp, cutting through the rain-soaked chaos.
"This is what Governor Grant's leadership looks like!" Olivia shouted, her fiery conviction commanding the crowd's attention. "A system where Black lives are treated as disposable, where our neighborhoods are left to crumble while White communities thrive on state funding! Roxbury is dying because Governor Grant doesn't care—he doesn't care about the poor, about Black people, about anyone who doesn't look like him. This is the Republican way, serving the rich and the White at the expense of everyone else!"
The crowd roared in agreement, their cries growing louder and angrier. Fitz felt a pang of discomfort as the words hit him, but he couldn't deny that they would resonate with many.
The camera shifted focus again, this time to the crime scene itself. A single street was cordoned off with yellow police tape. In the middle of the rain-slick pavement lay the covered body of the teenager.
Olivia Pope power walked down the familiar path of the corridor, each step fueled by anger and determination. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her umbrella.
The squeaking of her wet sneakers against the marble floor caused Abby, the Governor's red-haired assistant, to look up for her laptop. Her eyes widened as she saw Olivia stomping towards her.
"Hi, Abby. Nice to see you again. You look well. Is he in?" Olivia fired off without slowing her steps.
"Yes, but—"
"Thanks!"
Olivia didn't wait for permission as she burst into the Governor's office and slammed the door behind her.
Abby jumped from the force and said a silent prayer for her boss, who is again about to be on the receiving end of Olivia's wrath. He barely made it out unscathed during Olivia's last impromptu visit, just days prior. Abby should've demanded Olivia leave her umbrella in the hall, now that she thought about it. However, Olivia didn't give her a chance to confiscate it before marching into the Governor's office. She'd have EMS on standby for the Governor.
Fitz was reclined in his chair, on a phone call, when Olivia charged into his office. He maintained eye contact with her while he finished up the call.
"I understand, Congressman Shaw, and I appreciate you bringing this to my attention. Unfortunately, I'll need to cut our conversation short for now, but I'll follow up with you soon with my decision… Likewise. Take care."
Fitz ended the call, his gaze never leaving Olivia, who stood seething across the room. Her nostrils flared and irritation intensified as she caught the amused glint in his eyes and the faint curve of a grin tugging at his thin lips.
"Miss Pope, to what do I owe the displeasure of having you barge into my office, despite my repeated requests not to?" Fitz asked, rising from his chair and rounding his desk.
He sat on the edge of it, folding his arms across his broad chest. He waited calmly for the feisty woman to unleash one of her razor-edged tongue lashings upon him.
To him, it was foreplay. Whenever she spoke, Fitz found himself captivated—not just by her harsh, impassioned words but by the woman herself. Her passion was magnetic, her presence commanding, and his eyes never left her as she spoke with unbridled determination.
Her natural curls always framed her face like a halo, emphasizing her expressive brown eyes that burned with intensity. Her pouty lips moved with precision, each word deliberate and unwavering. Though petite, she radiated an energy that made her feel larger than life, her defiant posture and the slight tilt of her chin daring him to challenge her.
Fitz couldn't deny his attraction to her, nor did he bother to hide it. Though he didn't overtly broadcast his feelings, they always lingered—subtle yet unmistakable to anyone who cared to notice. Olivia noticed, but couldn't quite decipher if he was flirting with her or just that charming.
"You need to wrangle your wild pack of hogs and get them on leashes."
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Those gun-toting thugs with badges you call cops."
Fitz shook his head with a sigh. "Miss Pope, as much as I enjoy our showdowns, I really don't have time for another one of your long-winded tirades on police reform—"
"Brandon Parker. Heard of him?" Olivia continued. "An honor roll student, multi-sport athlete, and youth leader who had a bright future, till a racist pig on a power trip gunned him down in cold blood."
"While I extend my deepest condolences to his family, reports indicate that Brandon Parker brandished a weapon with apparent intent to use it. Officer Reynolds acted out of fear for his life… It was a matter of self-defense." Fitz replied, his tone measured and clinical.
Olivia's glare was fierce and unrelenting, holding his gaze for an uncomfortably long moment. If looks could kill, Fitz was certain hers would have struck him dead on the spot. She took a step forward. Fitz finally noticed the umbrella she grasped and pushed off his desk, holding up his hand to stop her in place.
"Aht aht, stay over there. Set the umbrella down slowly and keep your hands where I can see them." Fitz instructed, slightly pale as flashbacks flooded his mind. "There will not be a repeat of what happened last time."
He was referring to the incident a few days ago, during one of their infamous verbal brawls. Olivia had snatched his stapler, in a fit of frustration, and chased him around his office, attempting to empty its entire clip on him. When that failed, she resorted to wielding it as a weapon to bludgeon him with.
Fitz could have, and arguably should have, barred her from the State House after such a brazen attempt to assault him with his stapler. But then again, Fitz was something of a masochist. He wasn't being sarcastic when he told her that he enjoyed their heated exchanges in which she mercilessly insulted his leadership and hurled thinly veiled threats, while he shamelessly flirted back, provoking her further just to see her fire burn brighter.
Since they were affiliated with opposing political parties, their views on critical issues—education, housing, the labor market, healthcare, police reform, etc.—often clashed. However, Fitz was a moderate Republican, markedly different from the staunch conservatives he'd defeated to become Governor. Younger and more in tune with the interests of the emerging generation, Fitz had appealed to a broader electorate, which contributed to his initial landslide victory and re-election. It was that promise of progressiveness that had convinced Olivia, along with many in her community, to vote for him twice, even though he was a Republican. In hindsight, she realized they'd made a grave mistake.
"The stapler was a bust, so you upgraded to an umbrella? What… were you planning to gauge my eyes out?" Fitz quipped.
"It's raining, jackass." Olivia shot back.
She pointed the umbrella at him and opened it, spraying him with lingering raindrops.
"God you are petty." Fitz sighed, dabbing himself dry with his monogrammed handkerchief.
"Brandon Parker was a good kid—a great kid. We are not accepting that played out bullshit excuse the BPD issues after one of their own senselessly murders an innocent Black person. I knew Brandon personally. He wasn't like most kids in Roxbury. He wasn't a product of his environment. He kept his nose in the books and ass off the streets." Olivia paused, reflecting on Brandon's life and all the potential he had. "He was planning on attending Jackson State next fall, you know. Had a full ride. Finally, he was going to get out of that Godforsaken neighborhood and make something of himself. Instead, his life was cut short for walking while Black."
"That's not a fair assumption. We don't have all the facts. Internal Affairs will launch an investigation and make a decision once all evidence has been gathered."
Olivia snorted humorlessly, "It will be an open and shut case. They're gonna plant a weapon and try to dig up as much dirt on Brandon Parker as possible to corroborate that cop's story. We both know he'll be put on administrative leave and eventually reinstated once his name's cleared."
Fitz pinched the bridge of his nose. "What exactly do you want me to do?"
"Drop dead and rot in the deepest part of Hell so someone more competent can do your job," Olivia spat, her tone venomous. Fitz chuckled at her quick comeback. "In the meantime, you can make a public statement condemning Reynolds and any other officer who abuses their power. Make it clear that your administration will not stand by while Black people are targeted and brutalized by those sworn to protect them, just because of the color of their skin."
"Yeah, I'm not doing that. When I am presented with all of the details, I will issue a statement."
Fitz glanced at the time on his Patek Philippe Grandmaster Chime 6300A-010, strapped to his left wrist. The ultra-rare timepiece was a graduation gift from his mother, who had purchased it at auction. He hadn't taken it off since the moment she surprised him with it.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get ready for my next meeting."
Fitz plopped back into his chair and sifted through files until he found the one he was looking for.
Olivia crossed her arms defiantly as she squared her shoulders, planting her feet firmly on the floor.
"I am not leaving until you agree to put out a statement, including a plan to hold officers accountable for their misconduct."
"Miss Pope, you have two options: walk out of here on your own or have my security carry you out, kicking and screaming. I admit, I'd love to see your arms and legs flailing again—that was peak entertainment. However, I'm giving you the opportunity to leave with a shred of dignity this time." Fitz teased.
"Why is everything a joke to you? People's lives are at risk. They're being executed in the street, in broad daylight, and you're laughing at them."
"Not at them, at you," Fitz corrected with a charming smile, displaying his perfect teeth.
Olivia's palm itched to smack it off his handsome face. Ughhhhhhhh! She hated everything about him—his flawless hair, his deep velvety voice, his chiseled features, his sculpted body, and his perfect life handed to him on a silver platter.
Though she despised him, she wasn't blind and could admit that at thirty-eight, Governor Grant was undeniably attractive, aging like a bottle of the world's finest wine. Tall and impeccably dressed, his tailored suits clung to his lean, athletic frame, making him power and poise personified. His thick, sandy brown curls were always perfectly styled, and his clean-shaven face revealed a jawline that seemed chiseled from stone. His piercing blue eyes were intense and hypnotic, and that signature lopsided grin of his was utterly disarming.
"I swear you're an overgrown toddler." Olivia said, suppressing a smile of her own.
"Yet, you're the one always throwing a temper tantrum." Fitz countered.
"Fighting for the rights of Black Americans is not a tantrum. Don't ever compare my work—my organization's work—to one."
"Ah, The Black Liberation Movement is it? Your organization… that's what it's called right? And I'm supposed to be the White savior, here to liberate Black Americans? Doesn't that completely undermine the purpose of your movement?"
"No, Grand Wizard." Olivia said sarcastically, never missing an opportunity to call him a racist, even though he was far from one. "We don't want or need you to liberate us. All we need is for you to do your damn job. Instead of stroking your shrimp dick, stroke your pen across some bills that will direct resources to underserved communities and protect the rights of the disenfranchised."
Fitz blew out a breath as if she'd just sucker-punched the wind out of him.
"You don't pull any punches huh?" He said, his tone a mix of amusement and challenge. "And if you wanted to see my penis, all you had to do was say so. I'd be happy to disprove your theory on its size."
He shot Olivia a playful wink.
"Stop deflecting," Olivia snapped. "Stop playing the politician and start being a man of the people again. You used to have a heart. You used to care about everyone. What happened?"
"Trespassing… accusing me of being a White supremacist… that's how you're trying to appeal to my better nature?"
"I've tried everything else," Olivia retorted without missing a beat. "Petitions. Town halls. Emails. Calls. You ignored them all. This method gets results."
Fitz's fingers drummed lightly against his desk as he sat in contemplation. A knock on the door, pulled Fitz from his thoughts.
"Yes?" He called out to whoever was on the other side of the door.
It opened enough for Abby to poke her head into the office.
"Sir, your one o'clock is here."
"Thanks, Abby. Tell them to give me a minute."
Abby nodded and bowed out of the room, closing the door gently. Fitz got up again and removed his jacket from the back of his chair before slipping it on.
"Miss Pope—"
"I'm not leaving." Olivia stated.
"Woah, take it easy." Fitz chuckled softly, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Had you let me finish, I would have told you that I heard you... and you're right."
Olivia's eyes widened, visibly taken aback by his response. She definitely wasn't expecting him to say that.
"I have allowed my constituents' interests to distract me from addressing the ongoing issues plaguing impoverished neighborhoods for far too long. I was once a man of the people, and it's about time I become that man again." Fitz asserted, puffing his chest out.
Olivia's face lit up, a genuine smile breaking through for the first time. Her eyes sparkled with pride as she looked at the man standing before her, finally recognizing him again.
"That's great—"
"I, however, don't have time right now to dig into all of this, so here's my proposal… Dinner. Tonight. My place."
"Seriously?" Olivia asked, her expression instantly changing from pride to disgust. "Did you just ask me out on a date?"
"Nope, a business dinner." Fitz clarified. "It's the only time I'm not being pulled in twelve different directions. You'll have my full and undivided attention, something I can't offer you here. Not with the tight schedule Cyrus has me bound to."
Olivia hesitated for a long beat, caught off guard by Fitz's unexpected suggestion. Her mind raced. Was he being genuine, or was this some ploy to lure her to his home—possibly into his bed? She couldn't tell.
"Why can't we have our meeting here? Or somewhere public, like a restaurant?" she asked, narrowing her eyes at him.
"As I said, too many people vie for my attention when I'm here. The interruptions would be nonstop. Meeting in public wouldn't be good optics for either of us. My home is my sanctuary. It's private and free of distractions."
Olivia chewed the inside of her cheek, her wariness evident. After a long moment, she reluctantly nodded.
"Fine," she said cautiously. "But it'll be strictly business. No games, no tricks."
Fitz's smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling.
"Of course."
He grabbed a pen and his personalized memo pad, outstretching both to her.
"Write down your number and home address. I'll have my driver pick you up around seven."
Olivia pushed both items back to him.
"Thanks for the offer, but I'll drive myself."
Unfazed, Fitz jotted down his own address and handed her the slip of paper. Just as Olivia was about to speak, Cyrus burst into the room, red-faced and out of breath.
"Governor, why do you have Assemblyman Boyd wait—"
Cyrus stopped mid-sentence, his gaze locking on Olivia. His expression turned to one of pure disdain.
"Why the hell are you here? Came to finish the job? I had you banned. How did you get past his security detail?" Cyrus rapidly fired question after question, leaving no room for Olivia to answer them.
"I lifted the ban, Cy," Fitz said calmly, his tone underlined with amusement. "About five minutes after you enacted it."
Cyrus gawked at Fitz as if he'd lost his mind. "Why would you do that? This she-devil tried to kill you."
"There's no need for name-calling," Fitz chided.
Olivia smirked. "It's fine, Governor. Pillsbury Doughboy over here couldn't hurt my feelings if he tried."
"Listen here, missy, I've got a ten-year plan mapped out for this brilliant man. If you're dead set on killing him, at least wait until he's served his two terms as president."
"Cy!" Fitz exclaimed, feigning outrage. "Are you seriously giving her a timeline to take me out?"
"You obviously don't cherish your life seeing that you let this—"
"I'd choose my next words carefully, if you don't want this umbrella lodged up your ass alongside that stick." Olivia threatened, holding up her umbrella for emphasis.
Fitz chuckled and shook his head.
"Okay, settle down you two." Addressing Olivia, "Miss Pope, we'll talk later. Have a nice day."
"You too, Governor." Olivia walked to the door and made a brief stop next to Cyrus. "Take care, Pillsbury."
"Why don't you hop back on your broomstick and fly off to that covenstead you call a community center," Cyrus spat.
With an exasperated huff, he turned back to Fitz once Olivia left.
"Why do you indulge her? What does she have on you? Is she blackmailing you? Tell me, so I can deal with her accordingly."
"Calm down, Cy, or I'll tell James you've been working yourself up again," Fitz said with a smirk.
Fitz was the only person who knew Cyrus was gay and in a loving relationship with a younger journalist named James Novak. Cyrus kept his relationship quiet to avoid any potential political fallout—at least until Fitz made it to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, taking his rightful place behind the Resolute desk.
"What does she have on you?" Cyrus pressed, relentless.
"Nothing. Olivia Pope is harmless, meaning you will leave her alone." Fitz warned in a serious tone—all traces of humor gone. "All she wants is necessary change and justice for people like Brandon Parker… You know we have to do something about that right?."
"No. No, we absolutely do not," Cyrus asserted. "Let the BPD handle this. You cannot get involved."
Fitz shot Cyrus a cold stare. The playful mood he'd been in when Olivia first walked into his office was officially gone.
"I'm the governor of this state. It's my responsibility to get involved, especially when something like this happens."
"It's better if you stay out of it," Cyrus insisted. "You don't want to risk bad optics right now."
"Bad optics?" Fitz's voice was incredulous. "Ignoring this will diminish my credibility and affect my campaign. At the very least, I need to issue a statement offering my condolences to the Parker family and ensuring the public that a fair and just investigation is underway."
Cyrus hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine, issue a statement—condolences and assurances, nothing more. Let the BPD clean up their own mess. You don't need to go out of your way to court the Black vote. You can win without pandering to Black voters and risk alienating your base."
Fitz's anger simmered beneath the surface. "Pandering? Acknowledging a tragedy isn't pandering; it's the bare minimum."
"Just be careful, Governor," Cyrus said sharply. "This isn't about morality; it's about strategy. You want to win, don't you?"
"Tell Abby to send Assemblyman Boyd in." Fitz commanded curtly, turning his back to Cyrus.
His gaze drifted back to the window—to the Common and beyond. The storm outside matched the one brewing within him. Deep down he knew the bold decisions he made moving further would define far more than his campaign. They would echo in the lives of the people he'd sworn to serve—hopefully for the better—and shape the man in the mirror he saw every time he looked in it… which hadn't been often these days. He hoped his "meeting" with Olivia would change that.
The first chapter was Fitz centric. Next chapter will focus more on Olivia, her organization, and her dinner with Fitz. What do you think of this version of Olitz so far?