January 7, 2019
She gathers herself before walking into Russell's office. She runs her hands through her hair and straightens her jacket. She will be nothing but the picture of professionalism and diplomacy in that room.
Russell is already standing in the office when she enters, and the sight makes her laugh. Tom is sitting at the conference table, and the doctor is dabbing his nose with cotton, trying to clean up the mess Henry has made.
"You going to let your husband hit me again," Kincaid mumbles.
"No," Elizabeth says, keeping her voice strong. She notices Henry take her cue as he remains by the door as she walks to the conference table. He watches her face soften as her eyes harden. Knowing of his wife's time as a CIA interrogator is different than seeing it in real-time—the subtle micro-expressions that change her face from sweet to stone-cold.
"Well, that's too bad," He grumbles.
She pulls the chair out and sits down, facing him.
"What's the prognosis, doc?"
"He should be fine in about four weeks. I'm almost done here, Madam Secretary," The doctor says as he's putting the last pieces of tape on the nose splint.
"Thank you, doc," She says with a nod, "I'm sorry for interrupting. Please, don't let us keep you."
The doctor takes his leave. Russell is impressed. He knows that she has a tremendous amount of self-control—he had first noticed it during the Bob Scheffer interview after Iran. He hadn't thought her capable of being this cold, however. He can't imagine how many times she must have done this, and he is almost impressed.
"Well, you're going to look great in all those campaign photos, Tom," Elizabeth comments.
"You had to make sure of that, didn't you," He mumbles. She swallows. She knows that was a major slip of the tongue for him—even to acknowledge however slightly he knows her.
"I didn't hit you," She replies coolly.
"What is this about, Elizabeth?" He asks, his tone condescending.
"I want to know what it'll take for you to drop your campaign," She shrugs nonchalantly.
"Why would I want to do that?" He asks, "I have a message to send to the American people. You want to stop me from doing that."
"What is the message you want to send?" She asks, tilting her head to the side.
"We need new leaders in Congress," He explains, "This country needs to return to the way she used to be. We've let things get a little progressive. Women in power? It's unseemly. And you have the nerve to want to be President? Please."
She raises her eyebrow. She can't let him goad her, "You said you had a daughter. What about her? Do you want her barefoot in the kitchen? You don't want her to have access to the same opportunities as a man?"
"My daughter knows her place," He says, his voice low and menacing, "One would've thought you would've learned yours,"
Her jaw tenses, but her expression remains steady. She looks at him, her eyes narrowing.
"How exactly would I have learned my place, Tom?" she asks smoothly.
"I don't know, Elizabeth. But I can tell you one thing: my daughter knows better than to go jogging in an empty park in the middle of winter," He sneers.
Her expression changes. For the briefest moment, he sees the hurt cross her face, but her steely resolve is back in an instant.
"What are you saying, Tom? That women aren't safe in parks because of men like you?" she retorts, "I wonder, does she know what her dad does for fun? Does she know her father is a rapist?"
"You think I'm the first man who's taken what he wanted? Who's done what he felt he was owed?" he growls.
She swallows. She's so close to walking him straight into a confession, "What are you owed, Tom?"
"The world is a better place without the likes of women like you," He jeers.
"I'm not sure the world would agree," She says.
"What do you want, sweetheart?" He snaps, "You can't think that I'll let you win this election? I have more money and power than you could ever imagine, Elizabeth. I'm not afraid of wielding it. I think you know that."
"You're not afraid of wielding it..." She says, nodding, "So I'm not the only one, am I?"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"What would happen, Tom, if we found the others? What would happen if we found the recent ones? See, I know it's been too long for you to see the inside of a courtroom for what you did to me, but there are others, aren't there? There are women whose lives you ruined, women who have been left with scars from the things you've done. And we both know that, don't we?" Her tone is steady and almost sensitive.
"Are you threatening me, Elizabeth?"
"I'm not the one making threats," She says, leaning forward, her hands clasped, "I'm simply saying that maybe you didn't know who I was going to become back then, but I wield a lot more power than you do. I can find them. And I can get them to talk. And you'll never have any power over anyone, ever again."
"You think you can do that? You can't. You don't have any evidence. And even if you did, it would ruin your reputation. As if you'd ever let the world know how weak you are? Please," He laughs.
"You think you're untouchable because you've gotten away with it for so long? Do you think the women who've accused you have been too scared to come forward? I'm not scared of you. I can and will make it my mission to expose you. You're going to be humiliated."
Tom leans closer to her. She does her best not to back away from him. She maintains her posture and doesn't hold her breath—even though she can smell the stale cigarette smoke on his breath and is reminded of his weight on top of her.
"They aren't going to believe you, Elizabeth. I ruined you," He snarls, "I bet every time your husband touches you, you're reminded of me. You're still thinking of me, aren't you, sweetheart—still dreaming about that morning in the park. I know I do. The way you kicked and screamed for me. And then, when you went limp, the total terror in those pretty blue eyes of yours. It was the most fun I've had in years. It's a shame it was so cold. I didn't get to have my fun for as long as I wanted to."
"You didn't ruin me," Elizabeth says calmly, "I picked myself up off the ground. I survived. I went on with my life. I have a beautiful marriage, incredible children, and a successful career. I've built a full and happy life. And I'm going to have the White House next year. How does that make you feel, knowing that a woman has had so much power over you? And one more thing, Tom, I win,"
Elizabeth pulls a small recorder from her pocket. She can feel Henry's smirk from behind her—recording the confession was his idea.
Kincaid's menacing look turns to one of pure shock, "You fucking bitch."
"It's Madam Secretary, Tom. I don't ever want to see or hear from you again. If you so much as speak to anyone about running for Congress, the entire country will know exactly who you are," She stands up, "I'll have my lawyer, Michael Barnow send over the NDA for you to sign. It should be here shortly. It'll make this whole thing nice and tidy."
She watches as Kincaid's nostrils flare with his quick breaths. The look on his face is one of pure hatred. He stands, trying his damnedest to be bigger than her—to overpower her once again.
"And now we get to see the real you," she says softly, "You are nothing but a coward—a scared little boy who has to force himself on women to feel big. It's sad and pathetic,"
She stands from the table and turns to Henry, "I'm done here,"
She can feel Kincaid's glare burning into her. She can't help but feel satisfied as she walks away, her heels clicking on the floor.
She can feel the adrenaline coursing through her body until it crashes suddenly. Her body fills with exhaustion. She's not a stranger to this exact feeling—the overwhelming sense of emotion that overrides the adrenaline. It was common back in her CIA days. And while she hasn't felt it in years, she recognizes the feeling now. She collapses down in Stevie's chair and cradles her head in her hands as she breathes through the nausea—the scent of Kincaid still in her nose.
"Hey, why don't we go to my office? It'll be quieter—fewer people," Henry prompts her quietly, kneeling beside the chair.
She nods and takes the hand he offers, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She takes deep breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth as they walk side by side. She resists the urge to fall into him as they walk the now-busy halls of the West Wing. It would be a terrible idea to allow the public to see her as vulnerable. She keeps her spine straight, and her shoulders squared, even though all she wants to do is run and hide.
Henry shuts the door behind him, and the tears fall before the lock clicks, "That was so hard," she breathes the words before letting a small sob out. He pulls her close, and she melts into his embrace. Her hands are still shaking, and he runs his hands through her hair and kisses her head.
"You did great." He compliments softly.
She nods onto his shoulder, "I'm so overwhelmed. I'm sorry I yelled at you in front of the leader of the free world. This whole thing is so..." she trails off, unable to put to words any of the feelings coursing through her body.
"I'm sorry I hit him. I shouldn't have made it worse for you," He says quietly, "Did you get what you needed from it?"
She nods, "I did, I guess. I don't really know what I wanted. I was still trying to figure it out. I was just so blindsided by him being in the Oval. That was awful. I can't believe I sat there and let him say those things. God, I can still smell him. He's disgusting. And I don't... I don't actually feel any better," she admits with her stomach still in knots and her hands still shaking.
"It might take a while and some work in therapy to feel better," He tells her gently.
She nods once again. The thought of finally working through all of these big and complex emotions that she's buried for three decades seems so daunting. She backs away to look at him. Her hands run down his arms, and her fingers brush over his freshly bruised knuckles.
"How are you doing," She whispers changing the focus. She's not sure she can talk about herself anymore today.
He gives a small smile and a shrug.
"Please don't shut me out," she whispers, "You can't destroy yourself because you're worried about me."
"I don't want to add anything else to your plate right now,"
"We're partners, remember," She reminds him. She needs him to remember that she's strong too. She can handle being there for him in the same way he's there for her.
He sighs.
"You're angry," She points out.
"Fucking furious," he says, "I could kill him, Elizabeth."
"I know, babe," she tells him, running her hands over his chest.
"And I keep thinking back over the years. I should've asked you what was wrong. I knew something was wrong after my deployment. You were depressed and having nightmares, and I didn't ask. Why didn't I ask?" He whispers as his last sentence has him near tears. She feels his genuine, deep feelings of regret.
"You didn't know what to do, babe." She starts, "We were young newlyweds. I had PTSD without a name for it. You had just come back from flying combat sorties. And you were only home for five days. You didn't know what to do. I didn't either,"
"But I knew you were hurting. I knew something was wrong. And I did nothing," he whispers, "I could've done so much. But I didn't."
"But you did," She says, cupping his cheek, "You loved me. You've always loved me. I love this life we have together, Henry. Please don't regret the past. I can't change it, and neither can you."
He nods, "I love you beyond words, you know that?"
"Yeah, I know that," she whispers with a small smile, "I love you, too, so much,"
She pulls him into a tight embrace, and he sighs, letting himself relax in her arms.
"I have to go in a few minutes," she sighs as the weight of her job lands firmly back on her shoulders. She has to be put together and ready to focus in ten minutes.
"I know," he murmurs, "Listen, don't be afraid to call me or go home if you need to, okay?"
"Okay, I hear you."
He kisses her forehead, "I'll see you at home. I'll make you mac and cheese for dinner."
"I'm looking forward to it," she says before pecking his lips and leaving him alone in his office.
He sighs thinking about all of the times he's ignored the signs.