Olivia stands before the window of the Oval Office, her fingers still holding the statement she's spent the last two hours drafting. Every word has been carefully considered, weighed with the gravity of the moment. In a few minutes, she will go on national TV and tell the world that the First Lady is gone. The children already know the truth, but the rest of the country has no idea.
Her mind flickers to them—the Grant children— How will they handle this loss? How will they move forward? Then, the thought of Fitz comes crashing in. What would he say if he were awake and in control? Would he want her to step up like this?
She closes her eyes for a moment, then pushes the thoughts aside. There's no time for that now. The country needs leadership—and Olivia Pope will be the one to give it. But as she prepares to step into the spotlight, the phone buzzes in her pocket, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glances down and sees Edison's name on the screen.
She answers quickly, her voice steady, though the weight of the moment hangs in the air. "You all right?"
Edison's voice crackles through the line, sharp and full of urgency. "They just let us out of the bunker. What the hell is going on over there, Olivia?"
"What do you mean?" Olivia asks, her voice tightening. She can already sense something big is unfolding.
"The Vice President," Edison snaps. "She's making a play. Sally's been lobbying the cabinet for hours. She's got a few members ready to sign the papers, Olivia. She's this close—this close—to grabbing the presidency."
Olivia's heart stops. Sally Langston. Of course. She should've known she wouldn't back down so easily. "What do you mean 'this close'?"
Edison's voice is strained. "She's telling them the President is incapable of leading, that the country needs someone to step up. She's got the signatures of a few cabinet members already, and she's only one or two away from having enough to invoke the 25th and grab the presidency."
Olivia's blood runs cold. She feels the words hit her like a physical blow. Damn it.
Without another word, Olivia snaps the phone away from her ear, hanging up abruptly. The finality of the action echoes through the room. She stands there for a moment, phone still pressed to her chest, breathing heavily, before she strides toward the door with a single-minded purpose. She doesn't have time for anything else.
The weight of Mellie's loss presses against Olivia's chest as she storms toward Cyrus's office. This isn't just about politics. It is about protecting everything Mellie had fought for, everything Fitz had sacrificed for. Sally Langston wouldn't just undo their work—she'd destroy their legacy.
She doesn't have time to think about Fitz or this speech. She doesn't have time for second thoughts. She needs to stop this power grab now. She needs to move fast.
As she reaches Cyrus's office, she doesn't even knock. She storms in, voice cutting through the air before he can even look up from his papers.
"Cyrus." Olivia's voice lingers.
Cyrus looks up, startled by her forceful entrance. But he doesn't miss a beat. He stands quickly, pacing as he speaks. "I know. Sally's making a play for the presidency, and she's two signatures away from pulling it off."
"We need to shut this down." Olivia paces in front of him, feeling the gravity of the situation settles over her like a storm. "Call the cabinet members who are on her side, bring them in here, and remind them of their loyalty to Fitz. Remind them of their duty to this country. If they sign those papers, if they give Sally that power, everything will fall apart."
Cyrus grits his teeth, clearly fighting to keep his temper in check. "I don't think you understand the depth of this, Olivia. Sally's got people—people who believe she's the only option. She's telling them the country needs leadership—she's calling Fitz's incapacitation a national emergency, and she's painting herself as the only one who can step in. She's doing it all in the name of stability."
Olivia's lips press into a thin line. "She's playing on their fear, Cyrus. She's twisting the truth to her advantage."
Cyrus shakes his head. "She's been whispering in people's ears for hours. She's got them convinced that this is what's best for the country. She's manipulating them, and we don't have much time to stop her."
"I know, I know." Olivia mutters, her voice tight as she continues to pace in circles, her mind racing. Each step feels heavier than the last, the weight of the moment pressing down on her chest. She can hear Cyrus's steady breathing behind her, the sound a reminder that there's no time to waste.
She doesn't need to look at him to know what's coming. She feels it in the air—the shift. The way his brain starts ticking, calculating, working through the strategy, the way he always turns to his solutions when time's running out.
And then, as if on cue, he looks up at her, his eyes cold and sharp, that calculating glint lighting them up like a warning signal. Olivia stops mid-step, locking eyes with him. She doesn't need him to say anything—she already knows exactly what he's thinking.
"No." she says, the word falling out of her mouth before she can stop it, her tone firm, almost desperate.
Cyrus doesn't flinch. Instead, he steps forward, his face hardening, voice low but forceful. "Come on, Olivia. We need them. The First Children. They're not just kids, they've been groomed for moments like this. They are the perfect vehicle to keep the people on our side. They can sway public opinion, get the cabinet members back on our side. We need them to stop Sally."
Olivia's chest tightens. She shakes her head in disbelief, taking a step back. "Cyrus, I'm not going to use them as pawns. They've already lost their mother. They've lost everything. Everything. And you want me to pull them into this mess?"
But Cyrus isn't backing down. His jaw tightens, and his gaze hardens even more. "This is not about pawns, Olivia. This is about survival. About making sure we don't lose everything Fitz has worked for. We have done things, things, I'm not too proud of. If we let Sally take the presidency, it's over. And I won't let that happen. We can't let that happen."
Olivia clenches her jaw, her hands trembling as she grips the edge of a chair, trying to steady herself. "You're asking me to use them, Cyrus. You're asking me to manipulate them for political gain. You know that, right?"
Cyrus looks at her steadily, his voice low, but filled with an edge of finality. "If we don't do this now, if we don't leverage what they represent, we lose. We lose everything. We can't afford to be weak. We need them, and you know it."
Olivia's head spins, her heart aching with the thought of using those children—Fitz's children—for something like this. She doesn't want to do it. She can't. But she knows Cyrus is right. They're running out of time, and Sally is two signatures away from destroying everything.
She stops pacing, her shoulders slumping as the weight of the decision falls on her like a ton of bricks. "I don't want to do this," she says quietly, her voice strained. "But if this is what it takes to stop Sally, then... fine. I'll do it. But it won't be easy. It won't be clean."
Cyrus nods, his expression hardening into something like resolve. "It's not supposed to be easy, Olivia. It's supposed to work."
Olivia closes her eyes for a brief moment, her mind swirling with the implications. She's agreeing, but every fiber of her being screams that it's wrong. She knows how this will feel in the days to come—how it will haunt her.
When she opens her eyes again, her gaze is steady, but the sadness in her voice is impossible to mask. "I'll make it work. But you better hope we can pull this off, Cyrus. Because if we don't... the fallout won't just ruin us. It'll ruin them too."
With that, she turns and walks toward the door, her mind a storm of conflicting thoughts, but her decision made. She doesn't look back. She can't.
Olivia enters the waiting room, the door creaking slightly as she steps inside. Karen is curled up on the couch, her face soft in sleep, a small hint of peace in the chaos that surrounds them. Gerry, however, is awake—his head bowed, staring intently at the spot of floor beneath him, as if the pattern there holds the answers to the questions he can't ask.
Olivia stands for a moment just inside the door, taking a slow, steadying breath. The weight of the world is pressing down on her chest, the burden of everything she's about to ask, and the last thing she wants to do is involve them. Not now. Not like this.
Olivia takes a slow, steadying breath as she watches Gerry look up, his face etched with concern. She can feel the weight of the conversation pressing down on her, each word a dagger in her chest. This isn't how it was supposed to be. She never imagined herself asking them—Fitz's children—to do something like this.
The room is heavy with silence, the kind that seems to echo louder than words. Karen is asleep on the couch, her innocent face untouched by the gravity of the moment. Gerry, however, is wide awake now, staring at her with a knowing look that makes Olivia's heart ache. He's not a child anymore, not in the way she wants him to be.
"Gerry," she says softly, her voice tight, almost apologetic.
Gerry looks up at her with that quiet, steady gaze that makes her feel like he can see straight through her. Gerry's eyes flicker with something close to fear. "My dad, is he—" His voice cracks, but he swallows it back. "Is he gone too?"
"No," Olivia responds quickly, her voice soft, trying to reassure him. "No. I haven't heard anything about that."
But even as she says it, she knows the truth is far more complicated. There's a shift happening, and it's beyond their control. But she can't tell him that now. Not yet.
Gerry looks at her for a long moment, and she can see the conflict in his eyes. He knows there's more she's not saying. But he doesn't press. Instead, he just watches her, waiting.
Olivia sits down beside him, the space between them filled with the weight of everything she's about to say. She takes a deep breath, wishing she could take it all back, wishing that they could go back to a time when life was simpler for him, for all of them.
"I have to tell you something, Gerry." Her voice cracks slightly, but she forces herself to meet his eyes. "You don't have to do this if you don't want to. You can say no, and I won't hold anything against you. But I need you to know what's at stake."
Gerry raises an eyebrow, his gaze never wavering. "What's going on, Olivia? What's happening?"
Her heart hammers in her chest. She wants to protect him. Wants to keep him as far away from this mess as possible. But she knows the clock is ticking, and the moment for protecting him is over.
"I need you and Karen to give a speech," she says, each word feeling like a burden she's passing on to him.
Gerry blinks, surprised. "A speech?" He looks at her like she's crazy. "Does this have to do with Sally?"
Olivia doesn't answer right away. The silence stretches between them, thick with the unsaid things she can't bring herself to say out loud. She wishes she could spare him from all of this. She wishes she could undo the chaos that's swirling around them. But she knows she can't.
Finally, she nods, her throat tightening. "Yes. Gerry, listen to me, your father's presidency is on the line. And I need your help to save it."
The words hang in the air like a death sentence, and Olivia feels a pang of guilt so sharp it almost physically hurts. She can see Gerry's face go pale, his expression flickering between confusion and disbelief. He's just a kid, and this isn't something a kid should have to understand.
"Wait, what do you mean, save it?" Gerry's voice cracks, his confusion quickly turning to fear. "How is—how is my dad's presidency on the line? What's happening?"
Olivia swallows hard. She wants to explain it all, to lay it out for him in a way he'll understand, in a way that will make sense. But she knows she can't. Not yet. Not when the stakes are so high.
"I can't go into all of it right now," she says, her voice tight, her gaze flickering to Karen's sleeping form. She can't wake her up yet. Not until this is over. "But I need you and Karen to stand in front of the cameras and tell the country that your father is still capable of leading. That he's still fighting. You have to give them hope, Gerry. You have to make them believe."
Gerry's face falls as he takes in the weight of her words. "You want me to lie. You want me to pretend everything's fine when it's not."
Olivia shakes her head quickly. "I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to help. To show the country that there's a future here. That there's still a chance. You're the only ones who can do this, Gerry."
He stares at her, his mind clearly processing what she's asking of him. He's no longer just a kid. He's a young man facing something far beyond his years, and Olivia can see the weight of it settling over him.
For a long moment, there's silence. And then, finally, Gerry nods, though his expression is one of quiet resignation.
"I'll do it," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I don't like it. I don't like any of this."
Olivia nods, relief and guilt flooding through her in equal measure. She knows he's right to hate this. He should. But this is the only way forward, and she can't waste any more time.
"I know," she whispers. "I know, Gerry. I hate it too."
But there's no time for second thoughts. She stands up, already thinking of the next steps. "Thank you," she says softly, brushing her hand against his shoulder. "You've just done something that could save this country."
Gerry doesn't say anything else as Olivia steps toward the door. He just watches her go, his face a mask of confusion, fear, and the weight of an impossible decision.
Olivia knows the price they'll all pay for this. But right now, she can't afford to think about it. Not when everything is on the line.
Gerry and Karen stand side by side behind a podium outside the hospital, Olivia is standing off to the side. There's an air of quiet, but firm resilience as they speak to the country. Gerry stands a bit taller, his voice steady and controlled, while Karen, with her youthful sincerity, speaks with the heart of a child who's learned more than she ever should have. Together, they carry the weight of a nation's hope on their shoulders.
Gerry takes a deep breath, his voice calm but full of the strength of his years, though they've been few. His eyes flicker to the camera, his gaze steady but filled with a deep, unspoken sadness.
"Good afternoon, everyone. I'm Gerry Grant, and this is my sister Karen. We know it's been a hard time for everyone. Our family has been through a lot, and we know that many of you have been worried about us, about our dad, about the country. We're standing here today because we want to share something important, something that we think can give all of us hope."
Gerry glances at Karen, who gives him a small, reassuring nod. He continues, his voice firm but gentle, as if the weight of what he's about to say is heavy, but necessary.
"Our mom, the First Lady, passed away a few hours ago. And while we'll miss her every day, we want you to know that she was proud of the country she served, proud of the people who made it great. She loved every one of you, and she fought for all of us. Even in the toughest times, she was there, giving everything she could to make the world a better place. But even in the midst of our grief, there's something else we want to share with you today."
Gerry pauses, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looks at Karen.
"Early this morning, our little brother was born. We don't know what to call him yet, but we already know he's a fighter. He's a reminder that life moves forward, even when it feels like the world is standing still."
As Gerry finished, Karen feels all eyes on her. Her hands tremble slightly as she steps forward to speak. She steals glance at her brother, who stood tall and resolute beside her. His quiet strength gave her the courage she needs. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Karen took a deep breath and begins, her voice wavering but filled with determination.
"Our brother is going to need a lot of love and care, but we're ready to give it to him. We have each other, and we know that the country has each other too. We can get through anything if we remember that."
She takes a small breath, her eyes big with a mixture of sadness and resolve, her words simple yet powerful.
"I'm scared, and I know Gerry is too. But we also know that our dad is still here, and he's still fighting. He's not giving up. He wants us to tell you that he's going to keep going, for all of you, for the country. He believes in this country, and so do we."
Gerry clears his throat slightly, his voice regaining its strength as he picks up where Karen left off.
"We know that there's a lot of uncertainty right now. And we know that our dad's health isn't great. But we also know that he's been through worse, and he's come out on top. You don't lead this country without being strong, without fighting for what's right. And he's still fighting.
So, we ask you—no, we need you—to keep believing in him. Keep believing in the future of this country. Because, even though things are tough, we still have each other. We still have the people who fight every day to make this world a better place. And if we all keep pushing forward together, we will get through this."
Gerry looks out at the camera, his voice firm with the authority of a young person who's had to grow up quickly, but with a heart still full of hope.
"We won't let our mom's legacy fade. We won't let this country lose faith. And we won't let our dad's work go unfinished. Because we believe in what's ahead. We believe in all of you, and we believe in us. We'll keep moving forward, because that's what she would have wanted. That's what we all have to do."
Karen looks at him, then back at the camera, a quiet but strong determination in her eyes.
"Thank you for supporting us. And thank you for believing in our dad. He's not done yet. We're not done yet."
Gerry places a gentle hand on Karen's shoulder, giving her a nod of approval. Together, they stand tall, the weight of their family's future ahead of them, but a deep sense of shared hope in the air.
At OPA, Quinn, Abby, and Harrison sit in the dimly lit office, their eyes glued to the TV screen. The weight of the moment hangs thick in the air. The children—Gerry and Karen—stand at the podium, a soft but unshakable strength radiating from their young faces. The camera lingers for a moment, capturing the vulnerability and courage in their eyes. It's a fleeting shot, but it's enough.
A slow, subtle nod of understanding passes between the three of them. They can all feel it. That moment. The one that will shift everything. The one that changes the narrative. The wide shot cuts in. The children standing side by side, framed by the backdrop of the nation's flag, exuding a quiet strength that tells the world: the fight is not over.
For a brief moment, the room is silent. The only sound is the low hum of the television.
Then, without saying a word, the associates exchange a look. A momentary pause—did that just happen?
Abby's voice is barely a whisper. "Did they...?"
Harrison leans forward, his hand still resting on the remote. He exhales slowly, his mind working to catch up with the implications of what just played out on live television.
"Yeah," Quinn says, her voice barely above a breath, but steady, sharp. "They just did."
There's an unspoken realization in the room—Gerry and Karen, despite their youth, have just become symbols. Not just for the Grant family, but for the entire country. In a few short moments, they've given America something it desperately needed: hope.
The gravity of what they've just witnessed settles in. They know this is the kind of shift that doesn't happen often. The kind that turns the tide in ways no one can predict.
Abby is the first to break the silence. "That's it. The country's watching now. We either sink or swim. And with them—" She nods towards the screen, where the kids stand resolute. "—we swim."
Quinn can feel the weight of Abby's words. It's not just the Grant family now. It's everyone. The stakes have risen. But as they all watch the kids stand their ground, it's hard to deny the undercurrent of something more: strength. Leadership. The next generation rising to meet the chaos.
Harrison rubs his hand over his face, a hint of admiration in his eyes. "They're just kids," he mutters. "And yet, somehow, they're doing it. They're doing what we can't."
No one answers, because they know the truth of it. The children—Gerry and Karen—have stepped into a role no one should have to play. But, as always, the nation moves forward, even in the face of unimaginable loss.
The camera finally pulls back, the press conference winding down. The scene cuts to a calm, uncertain future. But there's a flicker of something—hope.
And for the first time in a long time, OPA's associates feel the weight of what's been set in motion.
Inside the operating room, the chief surgeon places his hands on the table, steadying himself as he surveys the room. His voice is sharp, but necessary. "We've done all we can. For now."
The weight of those words settles over the room. Everyone knows the true test has only just begun. Fitz's condition remains critical, and his body is a map of brutal injuries: a gunshot wound to the chest, another to his side, and the devastating blow to his head. Each injury more severe than the last.
Every second from here on out is uncertain, and the fight to save him is far from over.
In the corner of the room, a nurse gently places a sterile cover over Fitz's exposed chest, her hands trembling as she does. She carefully avoids looking at the raw, open wounds—the jagged hole in his side and the blood-streaked gash on his head. Her eyes, though filled with sorrow, also hold a flicker of hope. She knows this battle isn't finished; it's only just beginning.
The surgeons move with precise coordination, each one focused on the ongoing task. In the back of their minds, they understand this truth: his survival isn't just about skill or medicine. It's a brutal, unrelenting fight, and they'll have to hold on just as tightly as he does, praying it's enough.
Outside the operating room, the world waits, unaware of the fragile thread that Fitz's life now hangs from. But inside, with every small sign of progress—the steady beeping of the monitor, the faint rise and fall of his chest—the glimmer of hope grows. It's fragile, fleeting, but it's there.
For now, there's life.
But for how long?
The room grows quieter again as they continue their work. The steady beeping of the monitor, once an echo of dread, now serves as a symbol of their fight to save him. The weight of the future—the nation's future—hangs heavy in the air, but for now, there's only one thing that matters: survival.
The next few days will tell the true story. Will Fitz survive these wounds—his chest, his side, and the headshot? Or will the severity of his injuries prove too much for even the best medical team to overcome?
Only time will tell.
But for now, he lives. And for now, that's enough.
The waiting room is thick with tension, every minute stretching longer than the last. Olivia sits in her chair, her body tense, her hands gripping the arms as if she can somehow steady herself in the midst of the storm. The clock on the wall seems to mock her with its slow, steady ticking, each second feels like an eternity. Gerry, too, is restless. He paces the length of the room several times, his face is drawn tight with worry, his thoughts clearly spiraling just beneath the surface.
Karen sits next to Olivia, her hands folded tightly in her lap, her eyes glued to the floor. Every now and then, her gaze flickers to the door, the one that seems to hold all their answers—answers that are taking far too long to come. But the longer they wait, the more Karen seems to shrink into herself. Her usual strength is faltering, and Olivia can see it—Karen is afraid. Afraid of what they might find behind that door.
Olivia knows how much Fitz means to Karen, but she also understands how much it will hurt her to see him lying in that hospital bed, broken. And the longer they wait, the more Olivia realizes Karen isn't just afraid of losing him. She is afraid of what she might see when she walks into that room—of what it might do to her to see her father in that kind of state.
Finally, the door to the waiting room opens. The doctor who steps inside was tall, his face drawn but steady, his presence commanding. The moment he appeared, Olivia shot to her feet, her pulse quickening. Gerry stops pacing, his body taut with anticipation. Karen, however, hesitates, her eyes flickering up to meet his but not quite meeting his gaze.
The doctor clears his throat, then addresses them in the quietest of voices. "Ms. Pope, I have an update on the President's condition."
Olivia moves toward him, her breath catching. She wants to ask a hundred questions at once, but she forces herself to remain still, to listen. Gerry is already at the edge of his seat, his fists clenched, waiting for the words that would give them some kind of direction.
The doctor continues, "He's stable—for now. We've managed to control the bleeding, but there are significant injuries. Three gunshot wounds: one to the chest, one to the side, and one to the head." He pauses briefly, allowing them to process the weight of that information before going on. "The chest and side wounds are serious but manageable. The head injury, however, is the most concerning."
Karen's breath catches at the mention of the head wound. Olivia sees her flinch, a quick, involuntary reaction. She doesn't say anything, but her expression speaks volumes. It is as if the very idea of seeing her father in a condition she can't imagine was more than she could bear.
The doctor presses on, his voice measured. "The head injury caused significant trauma. We've done everything we can to stabilize him, but it's too soon to know the full extent of the damage. We've sedated him and put him on a ventilator to help with breathing, but the next 24 to 48 hours will be critical."
Olivia's heart tightens at the gravity of the news, but she holds herself together, forcing herself to absorb every word. Gerry's face, already pale, seems to lose the last traces of color. But it was Karen's reaction that catches Olivia's attention. Karen's hands, which had been folded tightly in her lap, now grips the edge of the chair, her knuckles white. Her lips tremble slightly, but she doesn't speak. She just stares at the doctor, her gaze distant, as though the words haven't quite sunk in yet.
"Can we see him?" Gerry asks, his voice hoarse, every word heavy with emotion.
The doctor hesitates for just a moment, his eyes flickering toward the ICU door. "He's still unconscious, and he's on a ventilator. He may not respond to you right now, but if you wish, I can take you to his room."
Olivia turns to Karen, wanting to offer her some kind of reassurance, but she sees hesitation in Karen's eyes. Karen isn't looking at her, or at the doctor, but at the floor, as if gathering the strength to speak, or perhaps deciding if she is ready to see her father in this state.
"I—" Karen starts, her voice faltering. "I don't know if I can... I don't know if I can see him like that."
Her words hang heavy in the air, the fear clear in her voice. Olivia understands. She knows how hard this is, how painful it must feel to even think about walking into that room. Fitz has always been strong, larger than life, and the idea of seeing him so vulnerable—so broken—is more than Karen could bear. The fear of the unknown is too much.
Olivia gently reaches over, placing a hand on Karen's arm. "You don't have to do this now," she says softly. "But when you're ready, we'll be there with you. We're all in this together."
Karen's lips quiver and for a moment, Olivia thinks she might break down completely. But she holds it together, nodding slowly, though she doesn't speak.
Gerry's expression softens, and he places a hand on Karen's shoulder. "You don't have to go in if you're not ready, Karen. But if you want to, we'll go together. We'll face it as a family."
Karen nods again, though it's clear she isn't ready. She can't bring herself to face her father in this condition yet. The fear is too much, the weight of the unknown too overwhelming.
The doctor watches them quietly, his face sympathetic. "I'll give you a moment. When you're ready, let me know, and I'll take you in."
He turns to leave, but before he does, he adds one final piece of information. "We're doing everything we can, but the next few hours are crucial. Stay close, and we'll update you as soon as we have more news."
As the door closes behind him, Olivia squeezes Karen's arm gently, offering the silent support she could. They are all in the same boat, walking through the unknown together. And right now, that had to be enough.
The hallway feels suffocatingly silent, save for the faint hum of the fluorescent lights above. Olivia stands just outside Fitz's room, her back pressed against the cold, sterile wall. She has been pacing for what feels like hours, but now her legs feel heavy, as if they're bound to the floor. The door to Fitz's room is just a few feet away, and each breath she takes seems to grow more shallow, more difficult. She can feel the weight of it—the room—bearing down on her chest, suffocating her.
Inside, she knows the kids are standing at the threshold, ready to go in. The door looms before her like a barrier she's not sure she can cross. She wants to be strong for them, to step inside and hold Fitz's hand, to say everything will be okay. But she can't shake the image of him in that bed—broken, vulnerable—and she isn't sure she can face it.
Karen stands at the door with her hand gripping the handle so tightly her knuckles are white. Her small frame trembles, her face pale from fear and exhaustion, her eyes rimmed with red from hours of holding back tears. Olivia can see it, the fear that mirrors her own—She's not ready for this. Yet, in this moment, Karen is the one who has to be strong.
Gerry stands beside her, the quiet rock he has always been. He's doing his best to hide it, but Olivia can see the uncertainty, the fear in his eyes, too. He's trying to be brave for his little sister, to shield her from whatever comes next. But Olivia can feel the weight of the responsibility he has placed on himself—he isn't just afraid for his dad. He's afraid for her too.
Olivia's heart aches for them. She wants to reassure them, tell them that Fitz will be fine—that somehow, it will all work out. But she can't convince herself of that. She can still hear the doctor's words ringing in her ears: The next 24 to 48 hours are critical. Fitz's injuries are severe, and the chances of survival are uncertain. What if—what if the kids see him like this and can't handle it? What if it breaks them even more than they already are?
"Olivia?" Gerry's voice breaks through her thoughts, low and hesitant. His eyes flicker toward her, searching for something—strength, reassurance, anything—but there is nothing to offer. His fear is clear, and it tugs at her heart. He doesn't want to face it either.
Olivia swallows hard, pushing the lump in her throat down as she forces a small, comforting smile. But it feels fragile, barely holding itself together. "I'm going to stay out here with you, okay? I'll be right here if you need me."
For a long moment, Karen doesn't respond. She just stares at the door, her tiny fingers still gripping the handle. But then, she turns her head toward Olivia, her eyes filled with a silent, unspoken plea. Karen has always been the one who hides her emotions, the one who tries to be strong for others, even when everything inside her is falling apart. But Olivia can see the weight of it all pressing down on her. She's not ready. None of us are.
"You don't have to go in if you're not ready," Olivia says softly, her voice barely above a whisper. Her own heart is breaking, but she knows this isn't about her. "But if you want to see him, you can. Just… take it slow, okay?"
Karen's lip trembles, and for a moment, Olivia thinks she might crumble. But Karen nods, her eyes brimming with fear, yet there's something else there—something that makes Olivia's heart twist. She's so brave, but she's just a kid.
Gerry looks at Olivia then, his voice low and thick with emotion. "Are you sure, Olivia?" His words hit her like a punch to the gut. He wants to be strong for her too, to shield her from whatever comes next, but Olivia knows—he's just as broken as Karen. "I… I don't know if I can do this."
Her chest tightens as she looks at him. He's scared. And he doesn't want to be scared alone. Olivia nods, her voice soft but firm. "You're not alone, Gerry. You and Karen aren't alone in this. You can go in when you're ready. I'll be right here."
For a long, unbearable moment, no one moves. The silence stretches out between them, heavy and suffocating. Karen stands frozen, her hand still gripping the door handle, her body trembling from the weight of it all. Gerry stays close to her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder, offering silent comfort.
Finally, with a deep, shaky breath, Karen pushes the door open just a little wider. She glances at Gerry, then back at Olivia, her face a mix of fear and determination. Without saying a word, she steps into the room. Gerry hesitates for a moment longer, his gaze flickering between Olivia and the door, but then he follows her in, pulling the door gently closed behind him.
Olivia stands there, the silence of the hallway pressing down on her like a physical weight. She closes her eyes, fighting the tears that threaten to spill over. She can't go in—not yet. Not until she's sure the kids have said everything they need to say. Not until they're okay. She will wait. She has to wait.
Her mind goes to Fitz—lying in that room, broken and unconscious. The man who has been everything to her. How could he be so small? The life she has built with him feels like it's slipping through her fingers, and the guilt gnaws at her insides. She isn't sure if she can bear to see him like that. Not like this. Not broken.
She leans back against the wall, pressing her palms to her eyes as she takes a slow, unsteady breath. She needs to be strong. For the kids. For him. She will be there for them, when they're ready for her. But for now, all she can do is wait. And hope.
Inside the sterile, white room, the beeping of the heart monitor is the only sound that fills the air. The room feels colder than it should, the smell of antiseptic sharp in the air, but it's nothing compared to the chill that hangs heavy over everything. The kids stand at the foot of the bed, staring down at their father.
Karen doesn't speak. She's still holding onto the doorframe as if she might need it to steady herself. She's trying to be brave, trying to act like this is normal, but her tiny body is trembling, her fists clenching and unclenching at her sides. Her wide eyes flicker to Fitz's pale face, his features drawn tight in pain, and then they dart away again, as if she can't bear to look at him for too long.
Gerry stands beside her, his hand on her shoulder, though it feels like it's a lifeline for both of them. He's the older one, the one who's supposed to be strong, but in this moment, his shoulders are hunched, his jaw clenched tight, and his face is pale. His eyes hover over his father's prone figure, the machine's rhythmic beeping punctuating his every breath.
Fitz looks so small, so fragile, lying there in the sterile hospital bed. There are bandages wrapped around his head, blood seeping through some of them, and his chest is bandaged too, a small patch of red already staining the white gauze. His breathing is slow, shallow—unnaturally so. The machine keeping track of his heart rate beeps steadily, but it doesn't bring comfort. It only serves as a reminder that with each beep, with each slow, laboring breath, time is running out.
Karen swallows, her voice barely above a whisper. "Is… is he going to be okay?"
Gerry doesn't answer right away. He glances at her, his face tight, and his eyes burn with unshed tears, but he forces them back. He's supposed to be the strong one, the one who has to protect his little sister. "I don't know, Karen. I don't know."
Karen's eyes flicker back to Fitz's face. Her lips tremble as she bites down on the urge to cry, to collapse. She won't cry in front of him. She can't. Not now.
"I don't want him to die," she says, her voice breaking.
The words hang in the air, heavy and painful. Gerry squeezes her shoulder, a silent reassurance, though it feels as though the weight of her words has sunk deep into his chest too.
"He's not dead, Karen," he says softly, trying to force strength into his voice. But the quiver in his tone betrays him. "He's not dead. He's still fighting. You know he is."
Karen nods, though her face is still so filled with fear and confusion that it's clear she's not sure what to believe. She slowly moves closer to the bed, inching forward, her eyes never leaving Fitz's face. Her hands reach out, trembling, hovering just above his limp ones, as if afraid to touch him in case it makes the situation worse.
Gerry watches her, his throat tight, then looks at his father, struggling to make sense of what he's seeing. This isn't the man I know, he thinks. This isn't the dad who used to joke around with me, who told me everything would be okay. The man in the bed—broken and silent—is a stranger.
But then his gaze falls to Fitz's hand, and despite the bandages, despite the tubes, he reaches forward, hesitantly, and gently touches it. The warmth of his father's skin beneath his fingers brings a momentary wave of relief, as though Fitz is still there in some way.
A soft sound escapes Karen as she steps closer, reaching out to hold his hand. She looks at him as if she's trying to hold on to the old Fitz—the father she remembers, the one who would always lift her up and make her laugh when she was scared.
Olivia stands outside the room, leaning her back against the wall, her chest tight with the emotions she's struggling to contain. She can hear them, hear the soft sounds of the kids speaking, though their words are muffled through the thick door. She knows they're scared. She knows they need him.
Her heart aches, the guilt crawling up her spine. She wants to go in, to hold them both and tell them it's going to be okay, but she can't shake the image of Fitz lying there, so broken, so helpless. What if she goes in and it all crumbles? What if she falls apart in front of them?
She presses her hand to her mouth, stifling the sound that threatens to escape as she listens to Karen's soft sobs, to Gerry's attempt to comfort her. The weight of everything presses down on her chest, and she feels helpless. They need him. They need him more than I do right now.
The steady beeping from inside the room continues, the sound of a metronome of time slipping away, a reminder that with every second, Fitz's chance at survival becomes slimmer.
She leans her head against the wall, her eyes closing, and she lets herself be absorbed in the sound of the children's whispers. She doesn't know how long she stands there—whether it's minutes or hours—but she knows one thing: when the door finally opens, she'll have to be strong. For them. For Fitz.
The door to Fitz's room clicks shut behind the kids. Olivia stands in the hallway, her chest tight with emotions she doesn't have time to acknowledge. The quiet after their departure is deafening, the steady beeping of the monitors inside the room a reminder of the uncertainty, of everything hanging in the balance.
She takes a slow breath, trying to steady herself. But her mind races—thoughts of Fitz, of the children, of the next steps, and of everything she hasn't had the space to think about until now. The weight of it all threatens to crush her.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, cutting through the silence. She doesn't have to look at the screen to know who it is. Edison.
She hesitates. Part of her wants to shut it down, turn it off, just not now—but that's not who she is. Not anymore.
Olivia pulls the phone out and presses it to her ear, her fingers trembling slightly. "Edison," she answers, her voice controlled, even though the tightness in her chest says otherwise.
"How long have you known?" Edison's voice slices through the line, sharp and urgent.
"Edison, please. You know I couldn't say anything."
"If I'd known, I could have helped you get ahead of this Sally situation. The Cabinet's already convinced. So what else are you hiding from me, Olivia? Is the President even alive?"
"Are you seriously insinuating that the President is dead?" Olivia's voice tightens, the words slipping out before she can stop them.
"Olivia—"
"Edison, I never lied to you. When you called and asked about the First Lady, I honestly didn't know. I found out only hours ago, at the same time Sally was making her speech."
A long pause on the other end, and then, "Olivia… I'm in love with you. I always have been. I know we're not together, but I need you to know that. I want to be there for you. I can't stand watching you carry all of this alone. Stop shutting me out."
Her breath catches in her throat. She knows what he's offering, knows what he wants, and part of her does need that—someone to share the burden, someone who sees her. But he's not the one she wants looking after her.
"I'm not shutting you out," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just—"
"Busy, I know," he interrupts, softer now, but no less intense. "You're carrying the weight of the world. Everyone depends on you. Let me be the one who cares for you."
Olivia's eyes close, the vulnerability in his words seeping into her, but she pushes it back, fast and hard. She doesn't have time for this. She can't afford this.
"Edison," she says, her voice firm despite the crack in her chest. "I have to go."
The silence stretches out before he finally speaks again, quieter this time, almost resigned.
"I'll always be here… whenever you're ready."
She doesn't respond. She can't. She presses the phone to her ear a moment longer, breathing in the stillness before hanging up.
Olivia hangs up the phone, her hand lingering on the receiver for a beat too long. The weight of Edison's words still presses against her chest, but she shoves it aside. There's no time for weakness, not now.