"Fitz, I..." Olivia's voice falters, cracking under the weight of the words she's trying to say. She closes her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, before she starts again, her tone softer, but no less urgent. "Fitz, you have to open your eyes. No, you need to open your eyes. Your country needs you, your kids need you. Their whole world is falling apart. They can't make it without you, I can't..."
Her voice trails off, too broken to finish. The words hang in the sterile air, heavy and unresolved. Olivia squeezes his hand tighter, as if the act alone might bridge the distance between them—might somehow bring him back to her.
The steady beep of the medical monitor becomes the only sound in the room, rhythmic and monotonous. It pulls her into a daze, her thoughts scattered like leaves caught in the wind. She's lost track of how long she's been sitting there, watching him, praying for him to wake up, to do something —anything—to show her that he's still there. But Fitz, the man who once commanded attention with a single glance, remains silent, still. Unreachable.
Olivia wipes a tear from her cheek, but there's no comfort to be found in the gesture. In this room, time feels suspended, as if the world outside has forgotten to move. And yet, despite the weight of the silence, one undeniable truth clings to the air: Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third is not done yet. Whatever comes next, whatever this crisis may bring, she knows one thing for sure: He is the only one who can fix it. And if she has to beg, scream, or plead with the heavens themselves to make him wake up... she will.
24 Hours Earlier
The hustle and bustle of Washington, D.C., is in full effect today, but there's something different in the air—a palpable buzz, a sense of anticipation. It's not just another busy day in the capital. No, today, the city feels charged with a singular energy, as if the very streets and buildings are holding their breath. The cause? The nation and its capital are preparing to celebrate the 50th birthday of President Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third, one of the most enigmatic and powerful leaders to ever occupy the Oval Office.
As the city readies itself for a celebration befitting such a milestone, whispers of the significance of this day ripple through the corridors of power. For Grant, the man whose life and career have been marked by both triumph and scandal, this birthday isn't just another number—it's a turning point. And in a city where the personal and the political are often inseparable, the question on everyone's mind isn't just how the president will celebrate, but what this new decade will mean for his presidency, his legacy, and the future of the nation itself.
"Cancel it, Cy." Fitz's voice is tight, low, as he walks into the Oval Office, his shoulders tense, his jaw clenched.
Cyrus follows, a mental sigh escaping him as he watches Fitz move toward the desk, eyes set with a resolve that tells him this conversation is coming. Fitz's refusal isn't a surprise—he's been dreading this damn party for weeks, maybe months. The media spectacle, the smiling photos, the fake joy that always feels like a mask, especially when things are so far from perfect.
But Cyrus knows— the party can't be canceled. Not now, not when the stakes are this high.
"Fitz," Cyrus says, his tone calm but firm, "I can't cancel it. I won't cancel it." He steps closer, eyes narrowing. "This event isn't just a birthday party. It's a symbol. A symbol of your leadership, of stability. It's been planned to the last detail. You have donors flying in from all over the country, senators, world leaders—do you really think the optics of backing out of this are going to go unnoticed?"
Fitz slumps slightly, rubbing his face in frustration, but he doesn't back down. "I don't care about the optics, Cy. I'm not going to stand there, pretending everything's fine when it's not. The country is falling apart, I'm falling apart, and you want me to just smile for the cameras?"
"I get it." Cyrus says, his voice cutting through the tension. "I know you don't want to be there, but you have to be. You have to show up." He pauses, his gaze sharpening. "You think the First Lady will let you to pull out of this? "Risk making her look like a fool?"
Fitz freezes, his eyes narrowing at the mention of Mellie.
Cyrus leans in slightly, his tone lower now, almost like a whisper. "You know how she is. If you back out now, if you show weakness, she'll tear you down. She won't just let you walk away without consequences. She'll make sure the public sees it for what it is—a failure. Your failure."
Fitz's jaw tightens at the threat, and for a second, just a second, his mask slips, a flash of anger crossing his face. But then he bites it back, standing up straighter, though the weight of the situation is clearly taking its toll.
"You think she'll do that?" Fitz mutters, his voice quieter now, almost in disbelief.
Cyrus doesn't flinch. "Oh, she'll do it, Fitz. Mellie has a way of turning the tide when it suits her. You think you can just walk away from this, let her clean up your mess? She'll use this against you like a weapon. The public won't see you as the president, they'll see you as a man who couldn't even keep his word to his own wife. And that's something even you can't recover from."
Fitz's eyes harden. He's not an easy man to intimidate, but the mention of Mellie, of her power, hits him where it hurts.
Cyrus presses the point. "This is more than a party, Fitz. This is about keeping control—about maintaining the illusion that you're still the man in charge. If you don't show up, if you let this thing fall apart, it won't just be the party that's canceled. It'll be your presidency. Your legacy. And when Mellie turns on you—and she will—there will be nothing left."
Fitz stands there, tension radiating off him, eyes hard as stone. He doesn't want to be here. He doesn't want to pretend. But the reality is clear, and it hits harder than any political calculation.
Finally, after a long pause, Fitz exhales through his nose. "Fine. But I'm not doing any of the speeches, and I'm not standing there like some damn puppet."
Cyrus allows himself a small smile, though it's barely there. "Don't worry, Fitz. I'll take care of the speeches. You just show up. And I'll make sure the cameras know exactly who's in charge."
As Fitz walks away, his back straight, his face set with the kind of determination only a man who's backed into a corner can have, Cyrus watches him for a moment longer. The party is going forward—there's no stopping it. But he knows this isn't just about a celebration. It's a power play, one that'll set the tone for everything that comes next. And as always, in Washington, power is a dangerous game.
Olivia sits behind her desk, her eyes fixed on the TV screen as it flickers with images of the First Lady and President Fitzgerald Grant. The press is in full frenzy, dissecting every moment of the lead-up to what's being dubbed the biggest event in the history of the presidency: the President's 50th birthday gala. The buzz is electric, the cameras are flashing, and every word spoken about the First Couple is laced with the kind of adoration that only comes with power and legacy.
Her phone buzzes, snapping her out of her reverie. Without hesitation, she answers on the first ring.
"This is Olivia Pope."
"Livia, hi." The soft, familiar voice of Karen Grant floats through the receiver, and for a moment, Olivia feels a warmth spread through her chest.
A smile unconsciously stretches across her face. She's always had a soft spot for Karen, the youngest Grant. The ten-year-old's innocence, her wide-eyed earnestness, is a welcome contrast to the cold, calculating world Olivia usually navigates.
She glances at her watch, noting the time. "Shouldn't you be in class?"
"I would be, but Mom flew me and Gerry out for Daddy's birthday, it's a surprise." Karen's voice is light, almost gleeful.
Olivia's smile deepens. "That's wonderful Ker. I'm sure your dad will love having you there."
"Did you and Daddy get in a fight?" Karen's voice suddenly shifts, a curious edge to it.
"Karen…" Olivia exhales, a little caught off guard.
"I was talking to him a few days ago and he said you're not coming to his party." Karen's words are blunt, innocent, and somehow piercing.
Olivia feels a pang in her chest, but she hides it behind a soft chuckle. "Karen, I'm—"
"Very busy, yeah, Dad told me," Karen cuts in, her voice soft but unmistakably knowing. "The thing is, he's your best friend, right?"
The question hangs in the air. It's simple enough, but the answer is complicated, tangled with a past that Olivia can never fully explain. Yes, Fitz is her best friend, the only man she's ever truly loved. But that was a lifetime ago, before the affair, before the betrayals, before they both went down paths they couldn't turn back from.
Olivia presses her lips together, feeling the familiar ache in her heart. She can't bring herself to say it—can't admit the depth of the rift, not to this innocent little girl. "Yes. Your father and I are best friends."
"If my best friend didn't come to my party," Karen says, her tone growing a little more serious, "I would be heartbroken. Do you want my dad to be heartbroken on his birthday?"
"Karen…" Olivia's voice softens, but it's a warning now.
"Please, Livia," Karen presses, her voice full of that earnestness Olivia could never deny. "I haven't seen you since the inauguration. That was years ago."
Every part of Olivia's body wants to say no. She wants to tell Karen that it's too complicated, too painful. She wants to protect herself from walking back into that world—into his world, where nothing has been the same since everything fell apart. The idea of going to that party, of seeing Fitz again, feels like a physical weight on her chest. But the soft pleading in Karen's voice, the way she says please, it cuts through all the layers of resistance Olivia's built up over the years.
Olivia closes her eyes for a beat, her resolve slipping away. She can't say no to Karen, not now, not ever. She loves this little girl, and she's never been able to break her heart.
"I'll see you tonight," Olivia says, the words slipping out before she can second-guess herself.
"Yes! I gotta go, Livia. Love you."
"Love you, too." Olivia hangs up, the reality of what she's agreed to setting in.
She stares at the phone for a long moment before she sets it down on her desk. Her chest tightens at the thought of walking into that gala, of facing Fitz—the man who once was everything to her, and now feels like a stranger. But she knows she's made a promise to Karen, and that's not something she can take back.
But as she looks back at the images of the birthday gala on the screen, Olivia knows that tonight will change everything.
Olivia strides through the Capitol with the kind of focus that only she can muster, her heels clicking decisively on the polished floors as the city hums around her. She's on a mission—one she's executed many times before. But this time feels different. This time, the mission is simple in theory but complicated in practice: get Senator Edison Davis to escort her to President Fitz Grant's 50th birthday gala.
She's done the mental calculations, mapped out her approach, and there's no turning back now. But as her heels echo through the hallways, a flutter of unease stirs in her chest. She's been in this world too long to think anything is ever truly straightforward. The gala, Fitz, all of it—it's a cocktail of emotions she hasn't touched in a while, and the thought of facing it tonight, standing beside Edison in a sea of flashing cameras, feels... unsettling.
As she reaches Edison's office, her phone buzzes, but she ignores it, her mind fully focused. She flashes a brief smile at Tally, the young secretary fresh out of college who's already taken to Olivia's charm. Tally looks up from her computer, eyes bright.
"Ms. Pope, you can head in. He's free."
"Thanks, Tally," Olivia responds, her voice smooth, already moving toward the door.
She opens it, and Edison looks up from his paperwork. The moment he sees her, his face softens into a grin—an easy smile that always makes Olivia feel like she's exactly where she belongs.
That familiar warmth settles around her, but beneath it, a current of something more dangerous. The excitement, the anticipation, of seeing him again.
"What do I owe this pleasure?" Edison asks, leaning back in his chair, clearly amused by her entrance.
Olivia's gaze sharpens, her smile sly. "Ask me to the President's gala."
Edison chuckles, clearly entertained by her forwardness. He lifts an eyebrow as he sets his pen down.
"Hmm, funny," he says, leaning forward slightly, his voice teasing. "Cause I asked you to this gala months ago, and you turned me down. Twice."
Olivia returns his grin with ease, but there's a flicker of something else in her eyes. "Ask me again."
Edison stands and moves to the front of his desk, leaning casually against it. His posture is confident, the playful glint in his eyes never wavering.
"Olivia Carolyn Pope," he says, his voice dropping an octave, a hint of seriousness underlying the joke. "Will you allow me the honor of escorting you to the President's birthday gala?"
Olivia hesitates, her heart unexpectedly quickening as the words slip from his mouth. It's too easy. Too natural. Yet the weight of what it means—to attend, to be seen, to be near him—lingers like a heavy fog. She manages a small smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes.
"Now, that wasn't so hard, was it?" she responds, her voice sounding lighter than she feels.
Edison's grin widens, a genuine warmth in his expression. "You make it hard to say no, Olivia."
She can't help but feel the subtle tug of that familiarity, the pull of the old dynamic between them, but it feels strangely hollow now. She's been in this game before, but tonight… tonight will be different.
"Then I'll see you tonight, Senator," Olivia says, the words leaving her mouth almost mechanically.
Edison calls after her as she turns to leave. "See you tonight, Ms. Pope."
Olivia doesn't turn back. She's already moving toward the door, but as it closes behind her, she feels a brief, unsettling shift in the air. The mission is complete—she's got her escort—but her mind is far from at ease.
Walking down the hall, her thoughts swirl. The gala. Fitz. It's been so long. She hasn't seen him in months, hasn't needed to. She's kept her distance—kept them distant. But tonight, she'll have to face him. Her mind flips through the possibilities, the scenarios. She knows she's walking into the lion's den, and for a brief moment, she wonders if this was a mistake. If she should've just stayed away.
Her heart races slightly, an uncomfortable tightness forming in her chest as she reaches the elevator. She presses the button, but the knot in her stomach remains. Seeing him again—him—isn't just a simple matter of politeness or strategy. It's loaded. Every glance, every touch, every moment shared between them is laced with the weight of everything they once were, everything they could have been, and everything that's broken between them.
The doors open, and she steps inside, her fingers gripping the sides of the elevator as it begins its descent. She stares at her reflection in the polished metal, her own face an unreadable mask.
Should she follow through with it? Should she really walk into that room tonight, see him again?
As the elevator dings and the doors open on the ground floor, Olivia realizes something she hasn't allowed herself to admit until now: she's not sure if she's ready for what's waiting for her at that gala.
But there's no turning back now.
Fitz stands in front of the mirror in the residence, adjusting his tuxedo with practiced ease. It fits him perfectly—the sharp lines, the sleek black fabric, the crispness of his shirt. His hair is styled just as he likes it, the signature superman curl falling exactly where it should, the way Olivia used to tease him about. He takes a moment to admire himself in the mirror. On the surface, everything looks perfect—the flawless image of a man who seems to have it all. And yet, as he stands there, there's a heaviness in his chest, an emptiness that refuses to be ignored.
Everything looks right. Everything feels right. But something – well, someone is missing.
The thought of Olivia, the space she's left in his life, makes his stomach tighten, and the weight of her absence presses against him more than he expected. He exhales, pushing the thought aside as best he can. He has a gala to attend, a family to be with, a party to host. But despite all the trappings of success, the perfection of the moment, there's still something that doesn't quite fit.
A soft knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts.
"Come in," Fitz calls, his voice steady, though a flicker of vulnerability creeps in that he hopes no one will notice.
The door swings open, and Karen, his exuberant and free-spirited daughter, bursts into the room.
"Daddy!" she exclaims, a grin on her face as she races toward him. Without hesitation, she jumps into his arms, and he catches her, lifting her high.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, a genuine smile breaking through as he hugs her tightly.
"Surprise!" Karen beams, her voice filled with childlike excitement.
Before he can say more, Mellie steps into the room behind Karen, with their son Gerry following close behind. Gerry's growing up too fast—taller than he was last year, and more serious than Fitz remembers. But there's still a boyishness in his eyes that hasn't fully been replaced by adolescence.
Mellie walks in, her hand instinctively resting on her growing baby bump, a soft and protective gesture that's become second nature to her now. She meets Fitz's gaze with a tight smile, but he sees it—the flicker of something colder in her eyes. The briefest hardening of her expression when she looks at him. It's unmistakable.
"Surprise," Mellie says, her voice warm but laced with something more guarded, her hand subconsciously cradling the curve of her stomach as she steps fully into the room.
Fitz smiles, trying to ignore the shift in energy between them. His eyes briefly flicker to Gerry, who stands a little further off, arms crossed as if he's unsure how to handle his dad's big day.
"What's all this?" Fitz asks, his smile a bit more forced now as he glances between them, trying to keep things light.
Karen pulls away from him just enough to reach into her bag and pulls out a small, wrapped box, handing it to him with a sparkle in her eyes.
"This is for you, Daddy," she says, practically bouncing in her shoes with excitement.
Fitz raises an eyebrow, his hands carefully undoing the wrapping. Inside, nestled in soft cloth, are a set of sterling silver cufflinks, engraved with his initials—FGIII. He takes them in his hands, surprised by the thoughtfulness of the gift, but there's a hint of confusion in his expression.
"They're for your birthday," Karen says with a proud smile, "But we didn't know what to get you. I mean, you're the leader of the free world, and you have everything, right?"
Fitz chuckles, shaking his head. "You guys didn't know what to get me?"
Gerry shrugs, his expression embarrassed but honest. "Yeah. I mean, you have everything—I don't know, it's hard to figure out what you don't already have."
Fitz grins, taking in the unspoken truth in his son's words. It's something he's heard more than once over the years. When you're the President, the world hands you everything. Except, of course, the things you actually want.
"That's a fair point," he says, his voice warm as he looks at his son.
But then Karen pipes up again, her excitement unchecked. "But Olivia suggested it!" she says, her eyes lighting up. "She said you'd love them. She thought they'd be perfect for tonight."
Fitz freezes for a moment. Olivia suggested it?
The words hang in the air, unexpected and jarring. Olivia, his Olivia, has been in regular contact with his children? His first instinct is to glance at Mellie, and he catches the subtle shift in her posture. Her hand tightens around her baby bump, her face suddenly colder, harder, a flicker of something darker crossing her features. The change is instant, unmistakable. She's not pleased.
Olivia, of all people, suggesting cufflinks for his birthday? That stings, though he can't fully explain why. His children, and Olivia, too, still seem so intertwined in ways he hadn't anticipated. He knows they've shared their own moments, but the idea that Olivia is still advising them, still part of their lives in a way that feels too intimate, too personal, unsettles him more than he expected.
Fitz looks back down at the cufflinks, his fingers tracing the engraved letters, still processing what this all means. He wasn't prepared for this— any of it.
"That's thoughtful of her," he finally says, though the words feel hollow as they leave his mouth.
Karen beams at him, oblivious to the tension, while Gerry seems to shuffle awkwardly, glancing between his parents.
"Yeah, Olivia said they'd be perfect," Karen repeats, her excitement still bubbling over. "She said they'd be just the thing for the gala."
Fitz looks at her, trying to force a smile. "Well, she certainly knows me well."
The silence that follows is thick, and Mellie's voice cuts through it, sharper now. "You two sure are close, aren't you?" she says, her tone laced with a hint of something biting, something she's trying hard to hide.
Fitz glances at her quickly, his heart sinking a little. Her expression, her words—they sting. It's clear that the mention of Olivia is not something Mellie is prepared to just gloss over, not tonight. The way her lips tighten, her hand still resting protectively on her belly—it's all there, written on her face.
"I'm just saying," Mellie continues, her voice tighter now, "I wouldn't expect Olivia to be so involved with our kids, Fitz. I thought you two weren't exactly—"
She stops herself mid-sentence, but the damage is already done. The air between them becomes strained, charged with all the things neither of them is saying.
Fitz shifts his weight, trying to smooth over the awkwardness, but it's too late. The moment has passed, and whatever was left of their brief sense of normalcy feels gone.
"Thank you, Karen," Fitz says, looking back at his daughter, his smile forced but genuine enough to quiet the moment. "I really appreciate the cufflinks."
She beams at him again, clearly oblivious to the undercurrent in the room. "You're welcome, Daddy!" she says, then looks at Gerry, who only offers a half-smile in return.
Fitz stands there for a moment longer, the weight of the night settling on him. He's supposed to be celebrating, supposed to be the center of the attention. And yet, it feels like the room is closing in on him, his family all caught in their own unspoken tensions, and the absence of the one person who would have made everything feel right.
He looks down at the cufflinks again, his fingers still grazing the smooth surface of the engraved initials. He tries to imagine himself wearing them at the gala, standing tall and confident, making his rounds, playing the part of the perfect President. But the image feels distant, like someone else's life.
He exhales deeply, glancing toward the clock on the wall. The gala is still hours away, and yet, the thought of stepping into that ballroom, of walking through those doors and facing the press, the guests, the cameras, fills him with a dread he can't quite shake.
"I don't know if I'm ready for this," he mutters, more to himself than anyone else, his fingers tightening around the cufflinks in his palm.
Mellie doesn't respond. She's too busy adjusting her dress, her hand still holding her belly, her focus elsewhere. Karen is still chatting away excitedly, oblivious to the moment of uncertainty her father is experiencing. And Gerry, well, he just looks… tired.
The truth is, Fitz isn't sure he's ready for this night. For the party. For the inevitable confrontation, whether it's with Mellie, with the press, or with Olivia. But there's no turning back.
The gala will go on. It always does. But inside, Fitz wonders if tonight will be the night he finally faces what's been pulling at him—the pull between his past and his present, between Olivia and the life he's built with Mellie.
As he looks back at the mirror, his face still framed by the perfect tuxedo, he feels the weight of the evening ahead, heavier than any moment before.
Olivia stands in front of the full-length mirror, inspecting herself with a mixture of satisfaction and anxiety. Her hair is laid to perfection, each strand falling exactly where it should. The golden dress she chose hugs her body in all the right places, the shimmer of the fabric catching the light as she moves. Her makeup is flawless—subtle, yet radiant, accentuating her best features without drawing too much attention. Every detail is meticulously curated. She's worked hard to create an image of confidence, even as every part of her feels like it's trembling with unease.
She finishes the look by slipping on her earrings, the final touch to her ensemble. She gives herself one last glance in the mirror, eyes locking with her own. You can do this, she tells herself, but the words feel empty, hollow in her chest.
Her hand shakes slightly as she adjusts her clutch, her nerves bubbling to the surface. You can do this, she repeats, but deep down she knows it's not that simple. She's not sure she's ready for what's about to happen. The thought of stepping into that gala, with all the eyes on her, and seeing him—Fitz—again, is overwhelming.
God, what if I can't do this?
A knock on the door breaks through her thoughts, sharp and deliberate. The sound feels too loud, a punctuation mark that echoes in the pit of her stomach.
"Coming," she calls, her voice steady, though her heartbeat is anything but.
She gives herself one last look in the mirror, sucking in a shaky breath. Just breathe. She opens the door to reveal Edison, standing in the hallway in his perfectly tailored tuxedo.
He grins, a confident, charming smile that always seems to put her at ease—at least a little.
"I am one lucky man," he says, his voice deep and full of admiration.
Olivia can't help but smile back, the expression genuine but tempered with a tinge of uncertainty. She's trying—trying—to ignore the tight knot forming in her stomach.
"Thank you," she says, her voice softer than she intended.
Edison steps into the room, his eyes scanning her from head to toe. He looks at her as though seeing her for the first time, and the appreciation in his gaze makes her heart flutter—just a little. "You look…" He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully, "Absolutely breathtaking, Olivia." His voice is warm, genuine, but there's something else there, something in the way he looks at her that makes her wonder if he sees through the mask she's desperately trying to wear.
"Thank you," Olivia repeats, her hands smoothing the fabric of her dress, her fingers trembling just slightly. The tension in her chest is growing with every second that passes. The gala. The people. The memories. The looming presence of him.
She forces a smile, the effort visible in the way her lips tug, but the tightness in her eyes betrays the unease she's feeling. It's not just about looking good. It's about the fact that when she walks into that room, she'll have to face him. She'll have to see Fitz again—after everything.
Eddison tilts his head slightly, his gaze shifting from admiration to something more concerned, mere gentle. "You sure you're ready for this?" His tone softens, pulling her back from the chaotic swirl of thoughts in her mind.
Olivia hesitates, the weight of her own doubt pulling at her resolve. She forces her gaze to meet his for a moment before looking away, focusing on anything other than the storm of emotions brewing inside her.
"I'll be fine," she says, the words automatic, but they feel more like a lie every time she speaks them aloud. The truth is, she's not sure she's ready—not for tonight, not for the faces, the expectations, and definitely not for him.
Edison watches her closely for a beat, like he's waiting for her to say more, to reveal what she's really thinking. But then, with a gentle smile, he offers his arm with a flourish.
"Well then, let's go make history."
The words land like a soft challenge. Olivia swallows hard, forcing down the tightening in her throat. She looks at him, then at herself in the mirror—glamorous, poised, together—but underneath it all, she feels anything but.
She can't stop thinking about the night ahead. The question that gnaws at her mind: Can she really go through with this?
She takes a deep breath, trying to calm the racing in her chest. But with every step toward the gala, every move she makes, her anxiety grows. The dress, the heels, the glittering chandeliers—it all feels like a costume, a mask she's wearing to hide the truth. Because what she really wants to do is run—run away from the memories, from the way Fitz's eyes can still haunt her, the way his voice can break her heart all over again.
Eddison's arm is warm against hers, grounding her in this moment. He's here for her, always has been. But is that enough?
And then, just as they reach the door, Eddison turns to her with a slight, teasing grin. "By the way," he says, his voice soft but full of something she can't quite place, "Does this mean we're official now? You know, us—as a couple?"
The question hits her like a shockwave. Official? The word hangs in the air between them, settling into her thoughts with a weight she's not ready for.
She blinks, looking at him, caught off guard. Her heart flutters unexpectedly, but there's something else—a small jolt of panic that makes her take a half step back. She didn't expect this tonight. Didn't expect the night to take this turn.
"We're…" She searches for the right words. "I don't know, Eddison. I—I don't want to rush anything."
His smile falters just a fraction, but then he nods, like he understands. "Of course. No pressure, Olivia. But if you ever want to take that step... you've got a man here who's been waiting a long time."
The softness in his words catches her off guard. She feels a pang of something she can't quite explain—something warm, but also heavy. She's not sure she's ready to be anyone's someone, especially not in the way Edison means.
But she doesn't say any of that. Instead, she forces another smile, this time a little less convincing. "Let's just get through tonight," she says, trying to keep her voice steady. "We'll see what happens."
Edison's eyes soften, and he nods, offering her an encouraging smile. "We'll take it one step at a time."
She nods, though her heart is still pounding, her stomach still twisting. She's not sure about them, about what Edison means to her, or even if she can handle the weight of his affections. All she knows is that tonight, she has to walk into that room, face Fitz, and pretend she's okay.
And as she steps out of the door, every step toward the gala feels like a step further into uncertainty. Can she really go through with this? The question lingers in her mind like a shadow.
But she can't turn back now. She's already made her choice.
The real question, Olivia thinks, is whether she's strong enough to handle the consequences.
The tension in the limousine is suffocating. The sleek, black car glides down the street toward the gala venue, but the only sounds inside are the muffled hum of the engine and the rhythmic tapping of Mellie's fingers against the armrest. The kids are in a separate limo trailing behind them, their excitement palpable. Cheers and shouts can be heard from the crowd as they near the venue, but inside, the atmosphere is anything but celebratory.
Fitz glances at Mellie, his voice breaking the silence. "What am I telling the press you got me for my birthday?"
Mellie's gaze is fixed on the window, but she answers him without hesitation. "A First Edition of To Kill A Mockingbird, signed by Harper Lee."
Fitz nods, though his mind is elsewhere. "All right, here we go." He straightens his tux, his jaw tightening as the car slows. The press, the lights, the cameras—they're all waiting, and he knows the performance has already begun.
But something shifts in Mellie. Her hand instinctively moves to rest on her growing belly, her fingers curling around the slight bump as though trying to ground herself. A feeling that she can't quite describe comes over her—unease, discomfort, something deeper she can't shake.
She turns to Fitz, her voice softer, almost hesitant. "Wait... What if we just..."
Fitz looks over at her, irritation flaring in his eyes. "What?
"Skip this whole thing," she says quickly, her words tumbling out. "Just go home. I don't want to do this."
The words hang in the air between them, the weight of them sinking in. Fitz is stunned for a moment, disbelief crossing his features. He blinks, then shakes his head. After everything—everything—this is what she wants?
"Are you kidding me?" he says, his tone low, his frustration building. "After all this? You want to back out now?"
Mellie presses her hand to her stomach, as if to steady herself. But then Fitz's eyes drop to her belly, and a flicker of concern washes over his face.
"Is the baby...?" His voice softens, genuine worry creeping in. "Are you feeling all right?"
Millie sighs, the weight of everything pressing down on her. "No, I feel fine," she says quickly, but there's an edge to her voice now. "It's just..." She struggles to put her feelings into words. "I don't want to pretend anymore. I don't want to smile and act like everything is fine when it's not."
Fitz's expression hardens, but something flickers in his eyes. He knows there's more to this, but he doesn't want to acknowledge it. He wants to ignore it, to push it aside. They've both been so focused on this damn party, the spectacle, that the cracks in their marriage are starting to show.
"Is this because of her?" Fitz's voice tightens, the edge in it unmistakable. "Olivia. Is this about her?"
Millie stiffens at the mention of Olivia's name, the sting of it like a slap across her face. But she doesn't let it show. She knows what he's implying, and she hates it. She hates that he keeps bringing Olivia up.
"She got cleared by security an hour ago, which I'm sure you know," Fitz adds, his voice dropping into that cold, matter-of-fact tone he uses when he's shutting something down. "You and Cyrus forced me to have this big party, now you don't want to go because what? You're afraid of my mis—" He trails off, then exhales sharply. "Buck up, Millie. You've won. Olivia and I are over."
Mellie stares at him for a long beat, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The hurt is in her eyes, but she swallows it down. She's used to this—this emotional detachment, this coldness between them. The fact that he thinks just because Olivia is out of the picture, everything will be fine, infuriates her.
But she can't deal with him right now. Not here. Not like this.
With a shaky breath, she finally looks away. "I'm tired of pretending," she says quietly, almost to herself. "I'm tired of playing this part. I don't want to go through with it."
Fitz clenches his jaw, and for a moment, they sit in silence. The limo is pulling up to the venue now, the cheers from the crowd growing louder. The flashing lights from the press cameras are visible in the distance. The show must go on.
But the cracks are becoming more visible.
Fitz's knuckles tap against the limo's tinted window, signaling to the Secret Service that they're ready to exit. The low hum of the car fades into the background as the door is opened by one of the agents, the bright lights from the crowd now clearly visible outside.
But as the door swings open, Mellie grips Fitz's hand with a sense of desperation. Her fingers curl tightly around his as though the act of holding onto him might make the weight of the moment easier to bear. She can feel the anxiety settling in her chest, squeezing at her lungs.
"Let's not go. I don't want to go," she pleads softly, her voice filled with a quiet urgency.
Fitz's eyes flicker toward her. He's already mentally preparing for the crowd, the cameras, the reporters. But Mellie's touch—so uncharacteristically vulnerable—stops him for a second. He looks down at their intertwined hands, and for just a brief moment, his expression softens.
But then the hardness returns. He shakes his head, his jaw tight with the weight of what's expected of them.
"We can't always get what we want, can we?" he responds, his voice colder than he intended, but it's the only answer he knows how to give.
His hand slips out of hers, and he exits the limo, the door closing behind him with a soft thud. The blinding flash of camera bulbs explodes around him as the cheers from the crowd grow louder. It's the perfect picture—a leader, a father, a husband. A moment they've spent months—years—perfecting.
Mellie watches him walk away, her heart sinking into her stomach as she feels the weight of his absence even before he steps onto the red carpet. She's lost in the din of the applause, but it doesn't feel like celebration. It feels hollow. The man she married, the man she used to feel connected to, is slipping further and further away. She can feel the distance, and it feels impossible to bridge.
She takes a long breath, her grip tightening on the edge of the seat as she gathers herself. She forces a smile—one that's practiced, designed to convince the world everything is fine. She offers it to the Secret Service agent standing by, giving him a polite nod before stepping out of the car.
Fitz is already posing for the cameras, his signature grin plastered on his face as he waves to the crowd.
She steps into the light, walking toward him with slow, deliberate steps. He holds his hand out for her, and she takes it, though her fingers tremble as they slide into his. The flash of cameras captures the moment—perfect—just like they always want. She can almost feel the weight of the cameras pressing down on her, her smile frozen, her insides twisting.
And then it happens.
A sudden, deafening crack rips through the air, like thunder breaking the calm of a storm.
Mellie's body stiffens, her breath catching in her throat. The sound is too close, too real. The crowd's cheers turn to a confused murmur, then—silence.
The next thing Mellie feels is a heavy, bone-jarring thud against her chest, a searing heat that spreads across Fitz's body. Her heart stops as she watches him stagger backward. His face twists in confusion and pain, and a wave of panic crashes through her.
"Fitz!" she screams, her voice breaking as she watches him stumble. Her body moves instinctively, but she's paralyzed by the sight—the blood, the pain, the disbelief on his face.
Fitz's hand comes to his side, his fingers curling into his body, trying to hold himself together. Boom—he's hit again, this time in the chest. His legs wobble beneath him, his body collapsing under the weight of the injury.
Mellie's scream pierces through the chaos, but the crowd's panic drowns it out. The world is spinning, and everything is coming apart.
The heat from the bullet spreads through his veins, the pain unbearable. Fitz falters, his face draining of color, each breath shallow and labored. He looks at Mellie, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and shock, the world spinning faster than he can keep up with.
Time slows as Fitz staggers backward, his knees buckling, his body failing him. The strong, charismatic leader—the man who could command any room—crumbles before Millie's eyes. Blood. Pain. Shock. Everything blurs together.
His breath comes in jagged gasps, his body barely holding itself upright. The blood from his wound flows freely, pooling at his feet. Each breath is harder than the last, his heartbeat slowing with every passing second.
The next step backward is a stumble. His body jerks, as though his mind can't catch up with the reality of what's happening. Then, with no strength left to fight it, he crumples to the ground.
Mellie's scream cuts through the chaos, but Fitz can't hear it over the pounding in his head. His body feels heavy, as if gravity itself is pulling him into the earth.
The world narrows to a pinprick of light. The flashing cameras, the panicked voices, the shouts from the crowd—all fade into a blur. The only thing his mind clings to, the only thing he can focus on, is Olivia.
Olivia...
The name is like a lifeline, pulling him through the agony, through the fog. It's the only thought that lingers—warm, bittersweet.
I never meant to leave you...
The memory of her face flickers in his mind, of the way they fit together, of the life they almost had. Another shot rings out, this time to his head.
The voice of a Secret Service agent cracks through the haze, frantic and distant.
"Falcon down! Falcon down! We need backup! NOW!"
But Fitz doesn't register the words. He doesn't have the strength to understand, to care. The ache in his chest is consuming. But through it all, that last connection to Olivia remains.
She'll be okay, won't she?
His vision falters. The lights dim. All he wants is to find her, to tell her everything. To apologize, to make things right. But now… now, it's too late.
I'm sorry, Olivia.
The words pass through his mind like a whisper, just as his body gives way to the pain.
The Secret Service agents flood in, their hands steady but urgent. One kneels beside him, applying pressure to the wound, trying desperately to stop the bleeding. But Fitz's body is no longer responding. His eyes flutter closed, and the weight of his last breath settles on him like a final sentence.
His hand—once strong—falls limply to his side. There's no more fight left in him. No more strength to hold on.
And then, the world goes dark.