The darkness feels endless. Olivia stands in the middle of the Oval Office, but it isn't how she remembers it. The room is distorted, stretched, its shadows creeping along the walls like living things. The sunlight that usually filters through the windows is gone, replaced by a muted, ominous gray haze. The air is thick, suffocating.
The Resolute Desk looms ahead, papers scattered across its surface, shifting unnaturally, like they're alive. A clock ticks loudly in the corner, each second echoing like a countdown. Olivia glances toward the window and freezes. Her reflection stares back at her, but it isn't quite her—not entirely. The woman in the glass is hollow-cheeked, haunted, unfamiliar.
"Fix it, Olivia."
The voice is Fitz's, low and commanding. She spins around, searching for him, but the room remains empty. Her breath quickens.
Then, suddenly, he's there. Fitz lies motionless on the Oval Office carpet, his face pale, his eyes closed. She lunges toward him, but the ground beneath her feet twists, stretching further away. Fitz's face blurs, his skin turning ashen, lips tinged blue. His hand is outstretched, but when she reaches for it, his fingers crumble into dust.
"You let this happen."
The voice is closer now, and when she turns, Gerry stands in the doorway, his eyes red, accusing. Beside him, Karen clutches a newspaper, her small hands shaking. The bold, merciless headline reads:Grant Family Legacy Destroyed.
"You were supposed to protect us," Gerry says, his voice cracking. "You promised."
Olivia opens her mouth to speak, to explain, but no sound comes out. The walls ripple, the shadows growing longer, darker. The clock's ticking grows louder, hammering in her skull.
"Do something," Karen pleads, stepping forward. The newspaper crumples in her hands, the ink smearing like blood across her fingers. "Please, Olivia. Fix it."
Before Olivia can respond, the scene shifts violently. She's no longer in the Oval Office but in Fitz's hospital room. The beeping of the monitors is deafening, erratic, like they're malfunctioning. Fitz lies motionless, his face expressionless. She reaches for his hand, but it's cold, unresponsive.
"Fitz," she whispers, her voice trembling. "Please, wake up."
The shadows in the room deepen, creeping toward her like living entities. The monitors flatline, the piercing tone cutting through the air. Panic seizes her as she shakes Fitz, her pleas growing more desperate.
"You have to fight! You have to come back!"
"It's too late."
The voice is Cyrus's this time, and when she looks up, he's standing at the foot of the bed, his expression grim. "You waited too long, Olivia. It's over."
"No," she chokes out, shaking her head. "I can fix this. I can fix everything."
"Not this time."
The shadows coil around Fitz's bed like grasping fingers, dragging him into the darkness. Olivia fights, pushing against them, but they wrap around her wrists, pinning her in place. The cold seeps into her skin, and for the first time, she feels it—she's drowning. Suffocating in the silence. Olivia is left alone in the darkness, the weight of her failure pressing down on her chest like a physical force. She falls to her knees, gasping for air, her hands trembling as she reaches out for something—anything—to hold onto.
Then, a single, blinding light pierces the void, and she hears Fitz's voice again, softer this time.
"Wake up, Olivia."
Her eyes snap open, and she's back in her bed, drenched in sweat. The faint light of dawn filters through the curtains, casting long shadows across the room. Her breath comes in shallow gasps as she sits up, clutching the sheets tightly.
She turns her head and freezes. Karen is sitting at the foot of the bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her face pale and worried.
"Karen?" Olivia's voice is hoarse, her heart still racing from the dream.
Karen bites her lip, hesitating before she speaks. "I heard you crying out," she says softly. "I thought you were hurt."
Olivia exhales shakily, running a hand through her damp hair. "I'm okay," she says, though her voice lacks conviction. "It was just a bad dream."
Karen's gaze doesn't waver. "You were saying his name. Dad's name."
Olivia's chest tightens, but she forces a small, reassuring smile. "I'm fine, Karen. Really."
Karen doesn't look convinced. "I just want Dad to wake up," she whispers, her voice breaking. "I miss him. And I miss Mom."
The rawness of Karen's confession slices through Olivia, and for a moment, she doesn't know how to respond. The weight of Karen's loss, her grief, feels unbearable, but Olivia reaches out, taking the girl's hand in hers.
"I know you do," Olivia says gently. "I miss them too. But your dad is strong, Karen. He's fighting. And we have to keep fighting too."
Karen nods, wiping at her eyes. "I just want us to be okay again."
"We will be," Olivia whispers, pulling Karen into a hug. "I promise, we will be."
They sit like that for a moment, the quiet of the room wrapping around them. But Olivia's mind is already racing, the echoes of her nightmare lingering in the corners of her thoughts. Whatever comes next, she has to be ready—for Karen, for Fitz, and for the storm she knows is still brewing.
The newsroom is electric, a chaotic hum of voices, ringing phones, and clattering keyboards. Screens flicker with the bold, red banner plastered across every major network:
"BREAKING NEWS: Letter From President Grant Claims He's Ready to Return to Office."
The anchor's voice carries a tone of practiced urgency as the broadcast cuts to grainy footage of Fitz's last public appearance, juxtaposed with an image of the handwritten letter bearing his signature.
"Good evening. This is the story dominating headlines tonight—a letter allegedly penned by President Fitzgerald Grant, declaring he is awake and prepared to resume his duties. The letter, which surfaced just hours ago, raises serious questions about the state of his health, his capacity to lead, and the legitimacy of the claims made by his camp."
The camera shifts to a panel of commentators seated around a table, their faces tense and animated.
"This letter has set off a firestorm in Washington," the anchor continues. "Let's start with the obvious—how credible is this letter? Does it hold up to scrutiny?"
One of the pundits, a former White House advisor, leans forward, shaking his head. "Frankly, it doesn't pass the smell test. The timing is too convenient, especially with Acting President Sally Langston gaining traction as a stable interim leader. There's been no confirmation from medical professionals, no public appearance—nothing to substantiate these claims."
Another commentator, a political strategist, nods. "I agree. And let's not ignore the optics here. If the President is truly awake and ready, why hasn't he addressed the nation? This letter feels like a desperate attempt to stave off questions about the Grant family's ability to manage this crisis."
The screen cuts to a live feed outside the hospital where Fitz is being treated. Reporters crowd the entrance, microphones and cameras thrust toward the stone-faced Secret Service agents barring the doors.
"We've been here for hours," a field reporter states, "and so far, there's been no sign of Olivia Pope or any member of the Grant family. Sources close to the administration remain tight-lipped, fueling speculation about whether President Grant is, in fact, awake."
The camera pans to a group of protestors gathered nearby, their signs waving in the cold evening air. Some read "WHERE IS FITZ?" while others say, "SALLY FOR PRESIDENT."
Inside another studio, a competing anchor speaks with heightened intensity.
"If this letter is real, it raises questions about why President Grant has remained hidden. But if it's not? Then we're looking at a scandal that could permanently damage his legacy—and that of his closest advisors, particularly Olivia Pope."
The screen shifts to Sally Langston, stepping up to a podium in real time, the caption below reading: "Langston Responds to Letter From Grant."
She takes a breath, her signature southern drawl carefully laced with concern. "As someone who has taken on the weighty responsibility of leading this great nation during President Grant's recovery, I want nothing more than to see him return to health and to service. However, it is my duty to ensure that any transition is made in full transparency and with the trust of the American people. This letter raises questions—questions I believe deserve clear and honest answers."
The media explodes. Pundits dissect every word of Sally's statement, debating her motives and intentions.
"Sally's walking a fine line here," one analyst comments. "She's positioning herself as a steady leader while subtly casting doubt on President's health. It's a smart play."
Another counters, "Or a calculated one. If this letter turns out to be false, it could be the final nail in the coffin for Grant's presidency and Olivia Pope's reputation."
The coverage shifts again, this time to Olivia herself, caught on camera leaving the hospital. The image is grainy, her face shadowed, but it's enough to ignite speculation.
"There she is—Olivia Pope, Fitz's closest confidant and current guardian of his children. Her silence speaks volumes. Why hasn't she issued a statement? What is she hiding?"
The chaos spills onto social media, where #WhereIsFitz and #GrantLetterDebate trend within hours. Theories flood timelines, ranging from wild speculation to personal attacks. Memes of Fitz's signature, overlaid with captions like "The Ghost of Grant Writes Back," go viral.
By daybreak, every network, every outlet, and every social media feed is consumed by one question:
Is the letter real? And if it is, why isn't President Grant proving it?
The crowd of reporters surge the moment Olivia and Karen step out of the car, the cacophony of shouted questions making the young girl stiffen. But Karen barely reacts. Her headphones are on, her hood pulled up, blocking out most of the noise. She walks beside Olivia, her posture slightly hunched, eyes focused on the ground.
"Ms. Pope! Karen! Is the letter real?"
"Did President Grant authorize it?"
"Karen, what has your father said about his return?"
A large printed headline waves in the hands of a reporter, catching Olivia's eye: BREAKING: GRANT READY TO RETURN. The bold black letters blur in her vision, the weight of them pressing against her chest like a vice.
Karen doesn't catch everything, but the urgency in the voices around her makes her glance up. She catches bits and pieces—"President Grant"... "return to office"... "letter." A crease forms between her brows as she slows slightly.
"Karen," Olivia urges, placing a hand on her back, gently guiding her forward.
Karen hesitates, her fingers moving to lift one earphone slightly. She catches another reporter's question—something about her father stepping back into the presidency—and her steps falter.
"That's enough!" Olivia barks, her voice sharp and commanding. The sudden quiet is deafening. She straightens, her free hand resting protectively on Karen's shoulder. "She's a child, and this is harassment. Show some decency and step back."
A few of the reporters exchange uneasy glances, but others push forward again, undeterred. "Ms. Pope, the public deserves to know the truth! Is the President coming back?"
Karen turns her face away, adjusting her headphones as if trying to shut them out. Olivia's grip on her shoulder tightens, steering her toward the entrance.
"We're going inside," she says softly but firmly. "Don't listen to them."
Karen nods, though her expression is distant now. The words she has caught swirl in her mind, creating questions she doesn't yet have answers for.
Together, they move toward the building, Olivia's presence a wall between the reporters and the young girl. As they reach the steps, Olivia's phone buzzes in her pocket. She ignores it, her focus entirely on getting Karen inside.
Once they step through the glass doors, the relative quiet of the lobby envelops them. Karen finally pulls off her headphones, her gaze skeptical as she looks up at Olivia.
"What were they talking about?" she asks, voice guarded. "What letter?"
Olivia crouches down so they are eye level, her expression softening. "It's complicated, Karen. It has to do with your dad and his role as President. But right now, you don't need to worry about it, okay?"
Karen studies her for a moment. "I heard them say something about him coming back."
Olivia exhales slowly, choosing her words carefully. "There's been a lot of talk in the media, but nothing's certain. When there's something real to tell you, I will."
Karen looks at her for another long beat, then nods slowly. "Okay," she murmurs, but her tone is distant.
Olivia forces a small smile, squeezing her shoulder. "Why don't you go up to your room? I'll be up in a bit."
Karen hesitates, glancing toward the door where the reporters are still gathered outside. Then, her gaze flickers toward the nearby TV in the lobby, where muted news footage flashes across the screen. She doesn't say anything, but her fingers clench slightly around her headphones before turning back to Olivia. "You'll come soon?"
"I promise," Olivia says. "Now go on. I've got a few things to take care of."
Reluctantly, Karen nods and heads toward the elevator, glancing back once before disappearing from view. As soon as she is gone, Olivia's shoulders sag, the weight of the moment pressing down on her.
Her phone buzzes again, and this time, she pulls it out. A string of notifications flood the screen, one standing out more than the others: Breaking News: Letter From President Grant Declares His Return to Office.
Olivia's breath catches. She swipes to read more, the pit in her stomach growing heavier. It's out.
She glances toward the elevator, dread creeping over her. She has managed to keep Karen from hearing most of it this time.
But for how much longer?
The TV is already on when Gerry steps into the living room, his phone clutched tightly in his hand. The red banner at the bottom of the screen screams the words he's been dreading:
"BREAKING NEWS: Letter From President Grant Declares His Return to Office."
His stomach drops. The letter he forged is now everywhere—on every channel, every website. Pundits are talking over each other, dissecting every word, speculating wildly about Fitz's condition.
Gerry stands frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn't think it would happen like this—not so fast, not so publicly.
"Gerry."
He turns sharply to see Olivia standing in the doorway, her face pale but unreadable. She's holding her phone, its screen glowing with endless notifications.
"It's out," he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I know." Olivia's tone is sharp, clipped, but underneath it is something raw—panic, maybe. Fury.
Gerry fidgets, his hands trembling. "I… I didn't think it would leak so soon. I thought—"
"You thought this would help?" Olivia cuts him off, stepping closer. Her voice is low, tense, but her eyes are blazing. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
Gerry swallows hard, his guilt crashing down on him. "I was just trying to protect Dad… and you… and Karen."
Olivia's jaw tightens, her hands curling into fists at her sides. "Protect us? Gerry, this isn't protection. This is treason. If this letter is exposed as fake, do you know what they'll do to us? To you? To Fitz's legacy?"
He opens his mouth to respond, but no words come.
Olivia takes a breath, trying to steady herself. "This letter is everywhere now. Sally's already moving. The press is digging. And Karen…"
Her voice falters, her mind flashing to Karen's innocent questions from earlier in the day—about Fitz, about the future. Karen doesn't know about the letter. She doesn't know about any of this.
"Does she know?" Gerry asks hesitantly, as if reading her mind.
"No," Olivia snaps. "And she's not going to find out—not like this."
Gerry's face crumples, his voice trembling. "I didn't mean for this to happen."
Olivia takes a step back, pinching the bridge of her nose. She can't afford to lose her composure now. There's too much at stake.
"We'll deal with this," she says finally, her voice firm. "But from now on, you do exactly as I say. No more letters. No more decisions. Understood?"
Gerry nods, his head hanging low.
The sound of the TV suddenly draws their attention. The anchor's voice is loud, insistent.
"While the letter raises questions about President Grant's condition, one thing is clear: this story is far from over. We've reached out to Olivia Pope for comment, but so far, no response."
Olivia's breath catches. She reaches for the remote, turning off the TV. The silence that follows feels deafening.
As she turns back to Gerry, a new thought strikes her—a realization that sends a fresh wave of dread coursing through her.
"Where's Karen?" she asks, her voice sharp.
Gerry's head snaps up, his eyes wide. "She… she was upstairs."
Olivia doesn't wait. She strides toward the hallway, her heart pounding. She has to find Karen before she sees the news—before this lie unravels any further.
Olivia strides through the hallway, her pulse quickening. The sound of her heels echoes in the silence as she heads toward Karen's room, her mind racing. She doesn't know how much Karen has heard—or if she's even seen the news—but every second feels like a countdown to disaster.
She pushes open Karen's door, her breath catching as she finds the bed empty. The comforter is tossed to the side, and Karen's favorite stuffed animal sits alone in the corner.
Panic rises in Olivia's chest as she turns and hurries back down the hall, her voice sharper than she intended. "Karen? Sweetheart, where are you?"
She stops in her tracks when she hears it—the faint murmur of the television coming from the living room. Her stomach drops.
By the time Olivia reaches the doorway, it's too late. Karen is standing in front of the TV, her small frame rigid as she stares at the flashing headline.
BREAKING NEWS: Letter From President Grant Declares His Return to Office.
Karen's hands clutch her favorite blanket, the edges crumpled in her tight grip. Her eyes are wide, fixed on the screen, where her father's face stares back at her.
"Karen," Olivia says softly, stepping into the room.
Karen flinches slightly but doesn't turn around. Her voice is small, barely audible. "Is it true? Is Dad awake?"
Olivia freezes for a moment, her heart breaking at the hope in Karen's voice. She steps closer, crouching down to Karen's level, her tone gentle but firm. "Karen, listen to me—"
Karen spins around, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't anyone tell me?"
"Sweetheart, it's complicated," Olivia begins, but Karen's voice rises, trembling with emotion.
"Complicated? He's my dad! I've been waiting and waiting for him to wake up, and you didn't tell me he's back? Why would you keep that from me?"
Olivia exhales, trying to find the right words, but Karen doesn't give her the chance.
"Is it even true?" Karen demands, her voice cracking. "Or is this just another one of those things you don't want to tell me because I'm 'too young' to understand?"
Olivia reaches out, but Karen steps back, shaking her head. "Don't lie to me, Olivia. Is he awake or not?"
The room feels unbearably heavy. Olivia's throat tightens, but she knows she can't dodge the truth any longer. "No," she says quietly, her voice trembling. "He's not awake."
Karen's breath hitches, her hands dropping to her sides as she stares at Olivia in stunned silence.
"Then what is this?" Karen gestures to the TV, her voice rising. "Why are they saying he's awake? Why is there a letter with his name on it? Did you lie to them too?"
"No," Olivia says quickly, shaking her head. "I didn't lie to anyone. But there are people... people trying to protect your dad's legacy. Sometimes they make decisions that aren't the right ones."
Karen's face crumples, her tears spilling over as she grips the blanket tighter. "So, it's a lie? The letter's fake?"
Olivia's silence is answer enough.
Karen takes a shaky step back, her voice breaking. "How could you let them do this? How could you let them use Dad like that?"
"Karen, I didn't—" Olivia starts, but Karen cuts her off, her anger and hurt spilling over.
"You're supposed to protect us! You're supposed to tell me the truth!" she cries. "But all you do is lie. You and Uncle Cyrus and everyone else. You're just like them!"
Olivia's chest tightens as the words hit her, but she forces herself to stay calm. "Karen, I know you're upset, but I promise you, everything I'm doing is to protect you and your brother. I'm trying to make sure your dad has something to come back to when he wakes up."
Karen shakes her head, her tears streaming freely now. "You don't care about him. You just care about what everyone else thinks."
"Karen, that's not true," Olivia says, her voice trembling.
"Yes, it is!" Karen shouts, her voice raw with pain. "If you cared about him, you wouldn't let them use him like this. You wouldn't let them lie to me!"
Olivia exhales, her voice softer but urgent. "Karen, I know this is hard, and I know you feel like you're being kept in the dark, but you have to trust me. I would never do anything to hurt you, your brothers, or your father."
Karen lets out a short, humorless laugh. "You sound just like Mom."
The words land like a slap.
Olivia barely has time to react before a sharp inhale from behind reminds her they aren't alone. She turns slightly, just enough to catch Gerry standing in the doorway, frozen.
His hands are clenched at his sides, his face pale. He had been listening. Hearing everything.
But Karen doesn't care. She isn't finished.
"She always knew how to spin a story, didn't she?" Karen's voice shakes, her anger rising. "She made everything sound like it was fine, even when it wasn't. She'd say whatever she had to, just to keep me from asking questions."
Olivia flinches—because Karen isn't wrong.
Karen takes a shaky breath, her fingers tightening around her hoodie. "And I believed her. Just like I believed you."
From the corner of her eye, Olivia sees Gerry swallow hard his jaw tightening. He looks between them, shifting like he wants to say something—but he doesn't.
Olivia takes a step forward, but Karen pulls back.
"I just wanted the truth, Olivia." Her voice breaks, raw and betrayed. "But I guess that's too much to ask."
A sharp silence follows, thick and suffocating.
Gerry exhales, the sound shaky, but he still says nothing. His expression is guarded—but his eyes? His eyes look at Olivia like he's seeing her differently.
Karen doesn't wait for a response. She shakes her head,turns on her heel, and walks past Gerry without a word.
Gerry watches her go; his fists still clenched. Then, finally, he looks at Olivia.
But this time, he hesitates.
For a second—just a second—his eyes flicker with something else. Regret? Uncertainty?It's hard to tell.
He shifts on his feet, his fingers twitching at his sides like he wants to say something.Like he almost does.
But then, Karen's footsteps echo down the hall, and Gerry makes his choice.
He follows her.
And Olivia is left alone.
Gerry finds Karen in her room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back against the edge of her bed. She's staring at nothing, her fingers idly twisting the drawstrings of her hoodie.
He hesitates in the doorway, shifting on his feet. Karen isn't crying—not really—but her breathing is uneven, and her face is tight like she's holding too much inside.
Like she doesn't trust herself to let it out.
Finally, Gerry exhales and steps inside, easing down onto the floor beside her. He stretches his legs out, leans back on his palms, and waits.
Karen doesn't look at him. She doesn't have to. She knows he's there.
After a long silence, she mutters, "You heard all of it, didn't you?"
Gerry nods, but when she doesn't glance his way, he forces himself to speak. "Yeah."
Karen swallows hard, tugging harder on her hoodie strings. "She lied."
Gerry presses his lips together. "She was trying to protect you."
Karen snaps her head toward him, her eyes flashing. "By lying to me?"
Gerry hesitates, his fingers curling into his jeans. "She didn't want you to find out like this."
Karen lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. "And yet, here we are."
Gerry doesn't have an answer for that.
Karen's breathing shudders, and she presses her palms against her eyes like she can physically push away the emotions. "I hate this," she whispers. "I hate all of this."
Gerry clenches his fists, guilt clawing at his chest. He wants to tell her it's going to be okay, that they can fix this—but he's part of this mess too. He's the reason the letter is out there.
And Olivia took the hit for it.
His voice is quiet when he finally says, "I'm sorry, Kare."
Karen drops her hands and finally looks at him. Her eyes are red-rimmed, her expression tired and small in a way that makes Gerry's stomach twist.
"For what?" she asks, but her tone isn't biting. It's genuine.
For the letter. For not telling her. For letting her hear it from the news instead of from him.
But he can't say any of that. Not yet.
So he just shrugs. "For all of it."
Karen stares at him for a long moment, her gaze searching his face. Then, after a beat, she leans her head against his shoulder, curling into herself.
Gerry doesn't move at first—doesn't breathe—but then he tilts his head just enough to rest it against hers.
And for a while, they just sit there.
The world outside is still loud, still spinning, still demanding answers they don't have. But here, in this quiet moment, it's just the two of them—The only two people left that they can still trust.
At least, for now.
The air in Cyrus's office is thick with tension as Olivia storms in, slamming the door shut behind her. Cyrus is seated behind his desk, sipping a glass of scotch, his expression unreadable. Papers are strewn across his desk—polling data, press briefings, and the ever-present letter that has now become a wildfire in the media.
Olivia doesn't wait for pleasantries.
"You lied to me."
Cyrus looks up, feigning surprise. "You're going to have to be more specific, Liv. I lie all the time."
Her glare is icy, her voice low and cutting. "Don't play games with me, Cyrus. You leaked it. The letter."
Cyrus sets the glass down with a soft clink, leaning back in his chair. "I didn't leak anything. But let's not pretend the letter wasn't going to get out eventually."
Olivia steps closer, her fists clenched at her sides. "Eventually isn't now. Do you have any idea what you've done? Karen saw the news, Cyrus. She's a ten-year-old girl, and she just found out the world thinks her father is awake when he's not. She thinks I lied to her. She thinks everyone's lying to her."
Cyrus leans forward, his voice calm but firm. "This isn't about Karen. This is about the presidency. It's about keeping the vultures like Sally Langston at bay long enough for Fitz to wake up."
"You don't care about Fitz waking up. You don't care about his family. All you care about is control. You wanted me to use those kids as pawns, and now you're dragging them into your mess to protect your own damn power."
Cyrus stands abruptly, his voice rising as he cuts her off. "Don't lecture me about pawns, Olivia. You knew what this was when you agreed to take them in. You think this is just about Fitz? It's not. It's about the country—about keeping this administration intact. If Fitz doesn't wake up, everything we built falls apart. So yes, I used the letter. And if you'd stop thinking with your emotions for five seconds, you'd see that I'm right."
Olivia stares at him, her chest heaving with anger. "And when the press finds out the letter's fake? When they dig into it and realize Fitz isn't awake? What then, Cyrus? Do you think Sally's just going to roll over? She'll demand proof. She'll demand to see him."
Cyrus smirks, his voice turning colder. "And we'll handle it. Like we always do. Spin, pivot, and survive. That's what we do, Liv."
Her voice softens but doesn't lose its edge. "Survive? At what cost, Cyrus? Fitz's legacy? His children's trust? Do you even hear yourself?"
Cyrus steps closer, lowering his voice."The cost doesn't matter, Olivia. Not if it keeps that snake Sally Langston from planting herself in the Oval Office for good."
Olivia shakes her head, disgusted. "You're playing with fire. And when this all burns down, it won't just be Fitz's name on the ashes. It'll be yours, mine, Karen's, Gerry's—everyone's."
For the first time, Cyrus falters. His face tightens, and he picks up his scotch again, staring at it for a long moment.
Olivia sees it—that moment of doubt, the tiny crack in his resolve. It's the only confirmation she needs that even he knows they're on borrowed time.
She exhales slowly, her hands trembling as she fights the urge to lash out further. Finally, she speaks, her voice low and steady.
"If this letter ruins Fitz's legacy—if it ruins his family—I will never forgive you."
She turns to go, but before she reaches the door, Cyrus calls after her.
"You don't have to forgive me, Liv." His voice is calm, even."You just have to survive."
She freezes—but only for a second.
Then, without looking back, she walks out, leaving Cyrus with his scotch and his fading certainty.
The room is quiet except for the steady beeping of the monitors. Olivia stands beside Fitz's hospital bed, staring at his unmoving face, studying every breath, every minute shift in his expression.
She doesn't know what she's waiting for. Maybe she's hoping for something—anything—to tell her she isn't just protecting a man who may never wake up.
She reaches down, gently brushing her fingers against the back of his hand, searching for warmth, for movement, for a sign.
And then—
There.
The faintest twitch.
Olivia stills, her breath catching. It's barely anything—a flicker, the smallest involuntary movement. But it's enough to send a spark of something through her chest.
Hope.
But before she can even process it, the moment is gone. His hand remains still, his face impassive. The monitors beep on, steady, unchanged.
Olivia exhales slowly, forcing herself to let go of the idea that it meant anything.
It's probably nothing. Just muscle memory. Just her wishful thinking.
Still…
For the first time in a long time, she isn't entirely sure.
Olivia's phone buzzes sharply in her hand as she strides down the hallway toward the OPA conference room. She glances at the screen, her jaw tightening as Edison Davis' name flashes. Ignoring it isn't an option; if she doesn't answer, he'll keep calling until she does.
She swipes to answer, her tone cool and controlled. "Edison, I'm in the middle of something."
"Well, drop it," Edison snaps, his frustration clear. His voice is sharper than usual. "This letter is everywhere, Olivia. Reporters are parked outside my office. I've already fielded calls from half the Senate. What the hell is going on?"
Olivia pushes open the conference room door with one hand and steps inside, her phone pressed to her ear. Abby, Quinn, and Harrison are already seated at the table, their eyes flicking toward her as she enters. She raises a hand, signaling them to wait, and keeps walking toward the head of the table.
"It's a complicated situation," Olivia says, her voice steady as she sets her bag on the table and straightens.
"Complicated?" Edison's laugh is bitter. "That's putting it mildly. A letter signed by Fitz is out in the wild, claiming he's ready to resume the presidency. The media's having a field day, and Sally Langston is gearing up to crucify everyone involved. And you're telling me it's complicated?"
"It is," she replies firmly. "And it's being handled."
Edison scoffs. "Handled? How, exactly? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're just sitting back and hoping it all blows over."
Olivia's fingers tighten around the edge of the table. "Do you honestly think I would do that?" she asks Edison, her tone hardening. "Do you think I don't know what's at stake here?"
"Then tell me what's going on," Edison demands. "Because someone released that letter, Olivia. Someone forged Fitz's name, and if we don't get ahead of this—"
"It wasn't forged," Olivia interrupts sharply, her voice low but firm. "The handwriting is his. The signature is his."
The admission stuns Edison into silence. When he speaks again, his voice is slower, measured. "Are you telling me Fitz actually wrote that letter?"
"I'm saying this is real enough to demand everyone tread carefully."
Edison exhales, still unsatisfied but relenting. "Fine. But if this blows up, it's on you."
The call ends with a sharp click. Olivia slips her phone into her pocket and turns to face her team.
OPA is in full crisis mode. Phones ring nonstop, news alerts flood their screens, and the team scrambles to control the chaos spiraling around them. Olivia storms into the office, tossing her coat over a chair, her face unreadable but her movements sharp with urgency.
Abby, Quinn, and Harrison are already at the table, their expressions tight with concern. A stack of newspapers lay in the center, the headlines screaming:President Grant Declares His Return.
"Alright," Olivia says sharply, immediately commanding their attention. "The letter is out, and we don't have time to waste."
"Liv," Abby begins cautiously, "is the letter real? Did Fitz—"
"Yes, the letter is real," Olivia interrupts, her tone precise. "The handwriting, the signature—it's his. But Fitz didn't write it."
A heavy silence falls over the room. Quinn leans forward, frowning. "If Fitz didn't write it, who did?"
"That's not the priority right now," Olivia says firmly. "The media is in a frenzy; Sally Langston is circling. If we don't get ahead of this, it all comes crashing down."
Olivia looks at Harrison. "I need you to find a doctor willing to say Fitz's recovery has been... miraculous. Someone credible, discreet, and willing to stick to the story."
Harrison raises an eyebrow. "A doctor to lie about the President's condition? That's a lot to ask, Liv."
"I'm not asking," Olivia replies coolly. "Make it happen."
Harrison sighs but nods, pulling out his phone.
"Quinn," Olivia continues, "we need Huck back. Becky is the key to clearing his name. Track her down, bring her in, and get the truth out of her."
Quinn straightens, determination flashing in her eyes. "I'm on it."
"Abby," Olivia says, turning to her, "reach out to our media contacts. Feed them just enough to keep them from spiraling. No confirmations, no denials—just enough to keep them busy."
"Got it," Abby says, scribbling a quick note.
Abby is at her desk, juggling multiple phone calls, her voice clipped and efficient. "No official comment. No, we're not confirming anything. Off the record? The President's condition remains unchanged." She slams the phone down and exhales sharply, exchanging a look with Olivia. "It's a mess, Liv. Everyone's coming for us."
Harrison paces near the whiteboard, marker in hand, crossing out failed strategies and scribbling new ones. "We need a statement, something to hold the press at bay. Right now, Sally Langston's narrative is dominating the cycle, and she's making Fitz look like a ghost president."
Quinn sits hunched over her laptop, fingers flying across the keyboard. "I've been tracking media sources. Langston's people are feeding speculation that the letter was planted by Olivia herself. Hashtag#WhereIsFitzis trending, and it's not in our favor. We need to get ahead of this."
Olivia exhales, steadying herself. "We're not giving them anything definitive. Not yet. Abby, start reaching out to trusted reporters—just enough information to keep them from spinning their own conclusions. Harrison, get me a legal assessment. If they're trying to paint this as fraud, I want to know what we're up against. Quinn, stay on Langston's camp—find out what she's planning next."
Abby hesitates. "And what about Karen and Gerry? CPS is already sniffing around. They're going to use this as leverage."
Olivia clenches her jaw. "I know. And that's why we don't lose control of this narrative. Fitz's letter is real enough that they can't outright dismiss it—but we need to dictate what comes next."
The TV blares from the corner of the office, a news anchor's voice cutting through the noise:"The mystery surrounding President Grant deepens as his closest advisor, Olivia Pope, remains silent. Is she hiding something? And if so, what?"
"There she is," Abby mutters under her breath. "The woman everyone's blaming for this."
Olivia stares at the screen, her pulse steady but her mind already racing through her next move. "Then we change the story. We control it before it controls us."
Olivia's phone buzzes again in her pocket. She pulls it out, her stomach tightening when she sees the caller ID: Denise Walker, CPS.
"Keep working," she says to the team before stepping into the hallway to take the call.
"This is Olivia Pope," she says briskly, pacing the corridor.
"Ms. Pope, this is Denise Walker," comes the familiar voice on the other end. Denise's tone is professional but carries an edge of concern. "We've been monitoring the situation closely, and the recent developments around the President's health have raised red flags. We need confirmation that the children's living situation remains stable."
Olivia's jaw tightens. "Ms. Walker, I understand your concerns, but the President's recovery is a delicate process. His medical team is optimistic, but I need more time to get you the documentation."
Denise's tone doesn't waver. "You have until the end of the day tomorrow, Ms. Pope. If we don't receive confirmation by then, we'll have to escalate our investigation."
"You'll have what you need," Olivia says, her voice steady. "I'll be in touch."
Denise hesitates, her tone softening slightly. "You've always gone above and beyond for this family, Ms. Pope. Don't let this situation undo that."
The call ends, leaving Olivia standing in the quiet hallway. She exhales sharply, then opens a text thread with Lucy, the Secret Service agent assigned to Karen's detail.
Lucy, tighten the kids' security. Double their detail and stay on them at all times. Make sure no one gets close. Keep me updated.
She hits send and slips her phone back into her pocket. Taking a steadying breath, she straightens her shoulders before heading back into the war room, where her team continues working, each step bringing her deeper into the storm.
For the first time in weeks, Olivia steps inside her apartment, the silence pressing down on her like a weight. The place feels foreign, as if it has been abandoned in time, left untouched by the chaos unfolding outside its walls. She kicks off her heels, barely making it to the couch before sinking into it, exhaustion settling into her bones.
The blinking light on her answering machine catches her eye. Without thinking, she reaches forward and presses play. A moment of static, then his voice—Fitz.
"Liv… it's me." His voice is smooth, steady, but carrying an edge of something deeper. "The gala's coming up, and I don't want it. I don't want the speeches, the press, the bullshit. You know what I want? I want out."
Olivia swallows hard, her fingers tightening around the edge of the couch.
"We could have had it, you know? The out. You and me, Liv. Vermont. Karen, Gerry, two kids of our own. A real life. But you changed that. You teamed up with Mellie, you secured the presidency, you put me back in this cage. And I hate you for it."
Her breath hitches, but she doesn't move.
"But I'm grateful," Fitz continues, his voice quieter now, the anger giving way to something more raw. "And I miss you, Liv."
Silence stretches between his words, the weight of them suffocating.
"I wonder, Liv… do you ever regret it?" His voice softens, the sharp edges dulling into something almost wistful. "I miss you, Liv. Not just the idea of you. You."
A long pause. A deep breath on the other end of the line.
"Livvie... I used to say your name just to hear how it felt on my tongue. Just to remind myself you were real. Some days, I still do."
The silence in the room is deafening. Olivia closes her eyes, the ache in her chest spreading like wildfire. She can still hear his voice, the words replaying in her mind over and over again.
We could have had it.
She leans forward, elbows on her knees, fingers pressing against her temples. She has made her choice. She has stood by it. But as she sits in the darkened apartment, Fitz's words wrap around her like a ghost of a life she left behind. The weight of it presses down on her, suffocating, inescapable. She has fought for this—for stability, for power, for the legacy Fitz was meant to leave. And yet, in this moment, all she feels is the aching absence of what could have been.
The apartment feels cavernous, too empty for someone who once had everything within reach. The silence stretches on, unrelenting. Olivia draws in a shaky breath, but it does nothing to quiet the storm inside her. She isn't sure if she can live with it—not anymore.