The room is stark and cold, the only light coming from the overhead fixture that casts sharp, jagged shadows against the concrete walls. Huck sits in a metal chair, hands cuffed behind his back. Blood trickles from a split on his lip, a fresh bruise blooming along his cheekbone. His breathing remains steady, measured—but his eyes flicker, scanning everything: the door, the corners, the exposed wire running along the ceiling. He's cataloging every possible escape, every possible weapon.
Opposite him, a man in a dark suit looms, his presence as unyielding as the steel table between them. The interrogator's voice is clipped, controlled, but edged with impatience.
"Why were you at the Stanworth Hotel the night President Grant was shot?"
Huck doesn't flinch. He fixes his gaze on a spot just past the man's shoulder, his lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.
The interrogator's hand slams onto the table, the metallic clang reverberating through the room. "Answer the question."
Huck blinks, slow and deliberate. His voice, when he speaks, is devoid of emotion. "I didn't shoot the President."
The interrogator leans in, his breath hot against Huck's bruised skin. "That's not what I asked." His voice is quieter now, the kind of quiet that comes before something worse. "Why were you there?"
Silence.
A flick of the wrist, and the interrogator slides a folder across the table. He flips it open, revealing a series of grainy surveillance stills. The resolution is poor, but the figure captured in each frame is unmistakable. Huck, moving through the shadows near the Stanworth Hotel.
"Care to explain this?"
Huck's eyes flick to the images, then back to the interrogator. His expression remains impassive. "I was looking for someone."
A humorless chuckle. "Looking for someone." The interrogator shakes his head. "That's your story? You expect me to believe you were just out for a casual stroll on the same night the President was nearly assassinated?"
Huck doesn't respond.
The interrogator exhales sharply, pacing now, his frustration bleeding through. "We know who you are." He stops, turns back, his voice dropping to a near-growl. "We've seen your file. B613. You think that doesn't follow you? You think that little ghost operation can protect you now?"
At the mention of B613, something flickers in Huck's gaze. It's barely perceptible, a fraction of a second, but the interrogator catches it.
A slow smirk spreads across the man's face. "There it is."
Huck leans forward, as much as his restraints allow, his voice dangerously low. "You don't know anything about me."
The interrogator steps back, gesturing to the agent standing silently in the corner. The man moves forward, setting a black case onto the table, snapping it open with practiced efficiency.
Huck doesn't have to look to know what's inside.
Tools. Wires. Pliers. Needles.
The interrogator picks up the pliers, turning them over in his hands as if weighing their usefulness. "I don't think you understand how this works, Huck." His tone is almost casual now. "The President of the United States was shot. You were there. You were trained to kill." He sets the pliers down with a deliberate clank. "So, either you start talking, or we start getting creative."
Huck tilts his head, his voice quiet, but carrying an unmistakable edge. "You think this scares me?" He lets the question hang in the air for a moment before continuing, his tone dipping into something colder, something lethal. "You have no idea what I've survived."
The interrogator watches him carefully, searching for cracks in the armor.
Huck doesn't give him any.
Another beat of silence, then the interrogator slams a fist onto the table. "You're going to talk."
Huck exhales, slow and steady, blood drying on his split lip. And then, finally—he smiles.
It's not warm.
It's not reassuring.
It's the kind of smile that makes men hesitate.
"You don't know who you're dealing with."
The interrogator's smirk falters. Only slightly. But Huck sees it.
He leans forward, voice a whisper now, razor-sharp. "And if you push me—" his head tilts ever so slightly, eyes dark with something unreadable, "you're going to find out."
The tension in the room is suffocating. The interrogator stares at him, jaw tight.
Finally, he exhales, jerking his chin toward the other agent. "Take him back."
The agent grabs Huck's arm, yanking him up from the chair.
As he's led toward the door, Huck keeps his gaze locked on the interrogator, unblinking.
A challenge.
A promise.
The door slams shut behind him.
The tension in Olivia's office is suffocating. The moment she steps through the door, Edison is already there, waiting. He leans against her desk, arms crossed, his face unreadable—but the tight clench of his jaw tells her everything she needs to know.
She barely has time to take a breath before he speaks.
"I need to see him."
Olivia doesn't break stride. She moves to the side table, pouring herself a glass of water—not because she's thirsty, but because she needs a moment. A sliver of control in a situation rapidly spiraling beyond her grasp.
"That's not possible," she says smoothly.
Edison lets out a humorless laugh. "Not possible?" He pushes off the desk, his frustration simmering just beneath the surface. "You don't get to play that game with me. Not today."
She turns to face him, her expression carefully neutral. "You have no jurisdiction here, Edison."
He steps closer, voice dipping lower. "You don't get to pull rank either, Olivia. This isn't about jurisdiction. It's about the truth." His eyes burn into hers. "The country is in chaos. Sally is circling like a vulture, the media is out for blood, and now I have members of Congress demanding proof of life."
She doesn't blink.
"If the President is really awake, why hasn't anyone seen him?"
Olivia exhales sharply. "Fitz needs rest. His condition is delicate."
Edison doesn't back down. "Then why did you release that letter?"
The question lands like a strike, sharp and deliberate.
She keeps her mask in place, but he sees it—the way her fingers tighten around the glass, the flicker of something in her gaze.
"You think I don't know how this works?" Edison presses. "You're keeping people at bay because you don't have a choice. Because Fitz isn't awake."
The silence that follows is answer enough.
Edison exhales, raking a hand through his hair. His voice softens, just slightly. "Liv… how deep in are you?"
She stiffens.
"I need to know," he continues. "Because if the President is still in that hospital bed, unresponsive, and you let that letter go out under his name—" He hesitates, then lowers his voice. "That's treason, Olivia."
She doesn't flinch. "You don't understand—"
"No, I don't," Edison cuts her off, stepping even closer. His voice is steady but urgent now. "Because you won't let me. And I can't protect you if I don't know how far this lie goes."
Her jaw clenches. "I don't need protection."
Edison exhales sharply, shaking his head. "You think you're untouchable? That you can control this?" He gestures around the room, his frustration boiling over. "Liv, the walls are closing in. The press, Sally, the damn Justice Department—they're all watching you. Waiting for you to slip."
She says nothing.
Edison's voice dips lower, quieter. "I used to believe you."
The silence stretches between them, thick and unbearable.
And then—he moves.
Before she can stop him, his lips are on hers.
It's not slow. It's not soft. It's desperate—not a question, but a demand. A search for something—truth, weakness, regret. Maybe all of it.
For a fleeting, reckless second, Olivia lets it happen.
Then—she pulls back.
Edison lingers, his breath still warm against her lips. But he doesn't look triumphant. He looks devastated.
"Jesus, Liv," he whispers, his hand still ghosting near her jaw. "How did you get here?"
Her breath is shallow, but she squares her shoulders, forcing herself to recover. "I don't have time for this."
Edison lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. He takes a step back, nodding once, as if he understands something now—something Olivia doesn't want him to.
"Then God help you," he mutters, voice raw. "Because no one else will."
He walks out, and this time, Olivia doesn't stop him.
As the door shuts behind him, she stands frozen, her lips still tingling from the kiss. But the warmth is already gone, replaced by the suffocating weight of what she's done.
She inhales sharply, then wipes at her mouth as if she can erase the moment.
It doesn't work.
She's in too deep.
Olivia stands frozen in her office, her lips still tingling from Edison's kiss, but the warmth has already vanished. The weight of his words presses against her chest. How deep in are you?
She barely has time to process it before the door bursts open.
"Liv!"
Abby storms in, a tablet clutched in her hand, her face pale and furious. She doesn't wait for permission—she slams the device onto Olivia's desk.
"Tell me you have a plan."
Olivia's eyes drop to the screen, her stomach plummeting.
BREAKING: Sources Confirm President Grant Still in Coma – Did the White House Lie?
A journalist speaks live on-air, holding up a document—a leaked medical report.
"We have obtained exclusive information confirming that President Grant remains unresponsive. If this is true, then who wrote the letter declaring his return? And who in the White House is lying to the American people?"
The screen cuts to Sally Langston, standing at a hastily arranged podium, her eyes gleaming with righteous indignation.
"The American people have been deceived," Sally declares, her voice thick with faux outrage. "We have been misled by an administration that would rather cling to power than tell the truth. And I, for one, will not rest until we get the answers we deserve."
The crowd behind her erupts into cheers.
The room tilts. Olivia grips the edge of her desk, forcing air into her lungs. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears, drowning out the noise from the screen.
"Where the hell did this come from?" she demands, snapping her gaze to Abby.
"A leak from inside the hospital," Abby bites out. "We don't know who, but someone gave a reporter direct access to Fitz's latest medical records."
Olivia's phone buzzes violently.
Incoming Call: Cyrus Beene.
She answers before the second ring.
"Fix it. Now." Cyrus's voice isn't a request—it's a command.
"I'm working on it."
"Work faster." His voice is razor-sharp. "Sally is already moving to have Fitz declared permanently incapacitated. If we don't stop this, by the end of the week, she'll have the votes to remove him from office for good."
A slow, sick feeling coils in Olivia's gut.
"We need to make them believe."
Her grip on the phone tightens.
"Cyrus, no."
"Yes." His voice is low, controlled. "We put out a video."
Her pulse spikes.
"Absolutely not," she says, already knowing she's losing this argument.
"It doesn't have to be live," Cyrus continues, undeterred. "We take old footage, alter the mouth movement, tweak the audio. A simple message—just enough to make the country believe Fitz is awake and recovering."
Olivia presses a hand against her forehead. "This isn't spin, Cyrus. This is fraud."
"No, Olivia." His tone hardens. "This is survival."
She swallows, her throat dry. The air in the room feels thick, suffocating.
"If anyone finds out—"
"They won't."
A slow, deliberate pause.
"Unless you screw it up."
Silence stretches between them, heavy and unforgiving.
"Make a choice, Olivia," Cyrus murmurs. "Save this presidency, or watch it burn."
A choice.
Like there was ever one.
Her fingers tighten around the phone, her pulse hammering as she exhales.
"I'll handle it."
She hangs up, the weight of her decision pressing down on her chest like a stone.
Abby watches her carefully, arms crossed. "Tell me you're not seriously considering this."
Olivia meets her gaze, unflinching. "I don't have a choice."
Abby lets out a sharp, bitter laugh. "You always say that."
The words cut deeper than Olivia wants to admit. She doesn't respond. Instead, she grabs her phone, dials a number.
Her voice is steady, cold.
"Get the footage team in here. Now."
She ends the call, staring at the screen as Sally Langston's voice rings out again.
Another lie. Another crisis. Another line crossed.
And once you cross a line, it's never as hard the second time.
The room is dim, the only light coming from the flickering monitors. The media team works in silence, pulling old footage of Fitz from press conferences and previous White House addresses. Every blink, every micro-expression is scrutinized, analyzed, adjusted.
Olivia stands behind them, arms crossed, her stomach twisting.
"Make it seamless."Her voice is steady. It has to be.
One of the editors nods, nervous as hell. "We're lifting the lips from a past interview, matching it with different eye movements. The AI will fill in the gaps."
The room hums with tension.
"How long?"
The lead tech doesn't look up."We'll have it within the hour."
No hesitation. No regret. Olivia nods once and walks out.
BREAKING: PRESIDENT GRANT SPEAKS FROM RECOVERY
Every major network airs the clip.
Fitz appears on-screen, his face pale but alert. The doctored footage makes it seem as though he's sitting up in his hospital bed, speaking to the American people.
"I want to thank the American people for their patience as I recover. My doctors tell me I am improving every day, and I look forward to resuming my duties soon. Until then, I have full faith in my team to guide this nation forward."
The reaction is instant.
The media shifts gears. Pundits who had been questioning Fitz's status pivot, backtracking their earlier doubts.
Olivia watches from the shadows as the networks run the clip. The world sees a strong, recovering president. She sees the ghost of a man who still hasn't woken up.
Her pulse stays even, her expression unreadable. But her fingers dig into her palm, nails pressing deep enough to leave marks.
Sally Langston is blindsided. The White House shuts her down before she can push further.
For now, Olivia has won.
But the victory tastes like ash.
Because deep down, she knows the war is far from over.
And once you tell one lie, the next one comes easier.
Karen doesn't hear the news from the press.
She hears it from whispers.
She's curled up on the couch in the Grant residence, headphones on, hoodie pulled tight, drowning in music, in static, in anything to fill the silence. Her thumb scrolls mindlessly through her phone—until she notices something weird.
Her notifications are flooded.
"President Grant releases statement!"
"Fitz is awake! White House confirms!"
"He'll return to office soon!"
Her breath stutters.
Her fingers freeze over the screen, a cold dread creeping into her chest.
Dad is awake?
She stares at the TV. It's muted, but she doesn't need the sound—Fitz's video message plays on repeat, his face lighting up every channel. The world is celebrating. The reporters are calling it a miracle.
Her stomach clenches.
Something feels wrong.
She watches the clip on her phone, replaying it once. Twice. The more she watches, the more the unease spreads.
Dad looks like himself.
He sounds like himself.
But something about him feels off.
His eyes—they don't move the way they should. His face—too stiff, too still. His voice—like him, but… missing something.
Karen swallows hard.
Then it hits her.
He's awake, and no one told her.
No one.
Her hands curl into fists.Her vision blurs with hot, stinging tears.
A sharp pressure fills her chest, rising fast, too fast—anger, confusion, something else she can't name.
She shoves off the couch so fast her headphones hit the floor with a sharp clatter.Her breath is shaky, heart hammering. Her head pivots toward the hallway.
Olivia's office door is shut.
Like it always is.
Like a wall between her and the truth.
Her pulse pounds.
Karen doesn't hesitate.
She marches straight to Olivia's office.
Gerry watches the news coverage in silence.
The fake vide oof his father loops on-screen, reporters praising Fitz's "miraculous" recovery. He should feel relieved—this was the whole point, right? They needed this to work.
But all he feels is sick.
He grabs the remote and shuts the TV off. The silence that follows is too loud, pressing in on him like a weight he can't shake.
He sinks back into the couch, staring at the blank screen, his chest tight.
I did this.
The thought won't leave him.
He was the one who forged the letter.
He was the one who set this fire.
And now it's burning out of control.
His phone buzzes violently against the cushion.
He picks it up, flipping through his messages.
Karen:WHERE ARE YOU?
Karen:DAD IS AWAKE?
Karen:Gerry please answer me I DON'T UNDERSTAND WHAT'S HAPPENING
Karen:WHY DIDN'T SHE TELL ME?
Karen:I KNOW SHE'S LYING
Karen:PLEASE CALL ME
His fingers hover over the screen, but he doesn't answer.
He can't.
His hands feel clammy. His heartbeat pounds in his ears.
He exhales sharply, gripping the phone so tightly his knuckles ache.
Then—movement from the doorway.
"You look like hell."
Gerry's head snaps up. Olivia stands in the entrance, arms crossed, watching him too closely.
"Gee, thanks,"he mutters, rubbing his face.
Olivia steps forward, her heels clicking softly against the hardwood."You've been quiet."
He doesn't respond.
She waits.
Finally, he exhales, rubbing his hands over his jeans."Did you see the video?"
Her expression doesn't change."Yes."
He looks down at his hands."It worked."
A pause. Then Olivia steps closer, lowering herself onto the couch beside him.
"It worked,"she agrees.
But neither of them sound like they won.
Gerry swallows hard, his fingers curling into a fist against his knee."They faked it, didn't they?"
Silence.
That's answer enough.
His stomach twists.
"This isn't what I wanted,"he mutters."I didn't—"He stops, shaking his head."I just wanted to help."
Olivia studies him. Her voice is softer when she speaks."You thought the letter would protect your father."
He nods.
"But this isn't protection, is it?"she presses."It's a lie. And lies have consequences, Gerry."
His jaw tightens."I know that."
But Olivia shakes her head."No, you don't. Not yet."
A weighted pause.
Then—his phone buzzes again.
Karen.
Gerry glances at it, his stomach dropping. He doesn't open the message.
Olivia notices.
"Karen?"
He exhales sharply, shoving the phone face-down onto the couch.
"She's freaking out."His voice is tired, thick with guilt." She knows something's off."
Olivia doesn't react, but he can feel her thinking. Calculating.
He drags a hand through his hair."What do I tell her?"
"Nothing."Olivia's voice is firm."She's a child. She doesn't need to be in this."
Gerry lets out a hollow, bitter laugh."Olivia, she's already in it. She's in it more than any of us."
He looks up at her, exhausted, and for the first time since this all started, Olivia sees how young he really is.
A sharp knock at the doorframe.
Olivia turns. A Secret Service agent stands there, unreadable.
"Ms. Pope,"he says, voice low, professional."You're needed downstairs. There's a visitor."
Olivia lifts a brow."A visitor?"
The agent hesitates."It's CPS, ma'am. They're here to discuss the Grant children."
The air in the room shifts.
Gerry stiffens. His chest tightens. He looks at Olivia, panic flashing in his eyes.
She stands, smooth and quick, straightening her jacket. Her mask slips into place instantly—shoulders squared, face unreadable, voice even.
"They're waiting in the East Wing. We stalled them per protocol, but they insisted."
Olivia exhales slowly."How many?"
"Two representatives. Denise Walker and her supervisor."
She nods once, sharp."I'll handle it."
The agent steps back, waiting.
Olivia turns back to Gerry."Stay here."
He doesn't argue, but his pulse hammers.
As Olivia moves toward the door, Gerry knows.
Thelie isn't just a problem anymore.
It's a ticking bomb.
And it's about to explode.
Olivia moves through the halls of the East Wing with purpose, mask firmly in place. Every step is measured, her posture unyielding. She cannot afford to falter.
When she reaches the meeting room, she pauses only briefly before stepping inside.
Two people are waiting.
She immediately recognizes Denise Walker, standing stiffly near the table, folder in hand. But her gaze flicks to the man beside her—older, tall, with a composed but assessing demeanor.
New.
Denise straightens. "Ms. Pope."
Olivia's expression doesn't shift, but she files the man's presence away, already recalibrating.
"Ms. Walker." She turns to the man, offering a poised nod. "I don't believe we've met."
He steps forward, extending a hand. "Mark Eaton. I'm overseeing this case moving forward.
Overseeing. Not assisting. Not consulting. Overseeing.
A power shift.
Olivia shakes his hand, grip firm. "Mr. Eaton."
Denise gestures to the seating area. "Shall we?"
Olivia takes a seat. She keeps her shoulders relaxed, her expression neutral. Controlled.
Denise opens her folder, placing a document in front of Olivia.
Straight to business.
"Last week, you assured us that President Grant's children were in a stable, secure environment." Denise's tone is even, but firm. "That determination was based on the understanding that he remained in a non-responsive state."
She slides a printed headline across the table.
"The Grant Recovery Mystery: Did the White House Cover Up the Truth?"
Olivia's expression remains unreadable. "I don't comment on tabloid speculation."
Denise doesn't blink. "Then let's discuss facts."
She lifts another paper.
"As of one week ago, President Grant was reported to be non-responsive. Last night, the White House released a video of him addressing the public. But there has been no official medical statement. No press access. No independent confirmation of his condition."
Her eyes narrow slightly. "That raises concerns."
Mark Eaton speaks for the first time. His voice is measured, but firm.
"We need to see him."
The words settle like a weight in the room.
Olivia doesn't react immediately. She lets the silence stretch, forcing them to fill it with expectation.
Then, smoothly— "That won't be possible."
Mark and Denise exchange a glance.
Then Mark leans back, exhaling slowly. He closes the folder with a deliberate snap.
"Then we have a problem."
His gaze sharpens. "We're filing for an emergency welfare check. If the White House cannot provide direct confirmation of President Grant's condition within twenty-four hours, we will be forced to escalate."
The words land like a hammer.
Olivia's heartbeat remains steady. Outwardly, nothing changes.
Internally, she is already adjusting. Calculating.
Mark stands first. Denise follows.
"For your sake, Ms. Pope," Mark says evenly, "I hope you're telling the truth."
They turn and exit.
The moment the door shuts, Olivia exhales—sharp, controlled.
Twenty-four hours.
The lie is slipping.
And now, the game is changing.
Olivia steps inside, closing the door behind her—and freezes.
Karen is already there.
She's perched on one of the chairs, arms crossed tight, legs swinging impatiently. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes red, her whole body tense like a coiled spring.
The second Olivia sees her, she knows.
This was coming.
Karen's voice is sharp, no hesitation, no buildup.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Straight to the point.
Olivia exhales, moving carefully, setting her things down, measuring her next words.
"Tell you what?"
Karen's face twists. A scoff—wet, shaky, barely holding back emotion.
She grabs her phone from her hoodie pocket and slams it onto the desk. The screen lights up, freezing on the image of Fitz's fake recovery video.
"That Dad's awake. That he's talking. That he's—fine."
Her voice cracks on the last word.
Olivia holds her ground. Keeps her posture neutral. "Your father is recovering, Karen. That's all that matters."
Karen's fists tighten. She sniffs sharply, wiping at her nose with her sleeve, but the betrayal in her eyes burns through.
"Is he?" Her voice is quieter now, but sharper."Because something about this feels… fake."
Olivia's pulse jumps. Too sharp. Too sudden.
"Karen—"
"I watched the video over and over," Karen cuts her off, her voice thick with something between anger and panic."He doesn't look at the camera like he normally does. His face moves weird."
She inhales sharply, like she's steadying herself, then meets Olivia's gaze head-on.
And then—the real question.
"Why haven't we visited him?"
The room still.
The question hangs. Heavy. Inevitable.
Olivia doesn't flinch, doesn't let the silence stretch too long.
"Your father is focusing on his recovery. It's best for him to rest."
Karen snaps.
"You're lying to me!"
The words explode from her. Too loud. Too raw. A sudden, violent crack in her control.
Her breathing is uneven now.She swipes at her tear-streaked cheeks, frustrated.
"I— I thought—" Her voice wavers, thick and shaky, her chest rising too fast.She can't breathe past the lump in her throat.
Her hands are shaking.
And then, in a small, broken voice—
"It's just like Mom."
Olivia stills. There's are those words again.
And they hit deep, like a punch to the ribs.
Karen shakes her head, voice trembling. "She used to do this too, you know. Say whatever she had to, tell me whatever would keep me quiet."
Her shoulders curl inward, like she's protecting herself from something unseen.
"She always thought she was protecting me," Karen whispers, "but all she ever did was make me stop trusting her."
A sharp breath. A step back.
Her eyes glisten, a silent challenge.
"So, tell me the truth, Olivia."
A beat.
A long, agonizing beat.
Olivia inhales slowly. Carefully.
"Your father is doing better."
Karen's face crumples.
"That's not an answer!"
Her breathing is ragged now, fast and uneven.
Olivia takes a step toward her, softer now." Karen, I know you're scared. I know you want him to be okay. I do too. But you have to trust me."
Karen searches her face.
And for the first time, Olivia wonders if the girl sees through her.
Finally, Karen nods.
Too slowly. Too carefully.
"Okay."
But something in her voice makes Olivia's stomach twist.
Karen snatches her phone from the desk, turns sharply, and walks out.
She doesn't look back.
And for the first time, Olivia is afraid she just lost her.
The NICU is quiet the steady hum of monitors and the occasional soft cry of a newborn filling the stillness. The day had been relentless—crises layered on top of crises, a clock she couldn't stop ticking down, lies she had to keep from unraveling.
But here—here, everything slows.
Olivia steps inside, exhaustion pressing against her ribs, but she pushes it down. Her heels click softly against the tile before she stops, exhaling, softening. This isn't a place for armor.
She approaches the bassinet, eyes falling on the tiny boy wrapped in hospital blankets. Teddy looks so small, so fragile. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, his little fists curled near his face. A nasal cannula feeds him oxygen, a cluster of wires monitor his vitals, but he's here. He's fighting.
Something in Olivia's chest unclenches.
She had spent the last twelve hours gripping too tightly, maneuvering too quickly, dodging the inevitable. But here, standing over Fitz's son, the weight of the day doesn't disappear—*it just quiets.
A gentle voice cuts through the stillness.
"Would you like to hold him?"
Olivia turns. A nurse—young, warm-eyed—stands beside her, adjusting the wires with practiced ease.
Olivia blinks. Hold him?
She's spent days talking about Teddy, deciding things for him, protecting him from the chaos outside these walls. But she hasn't let herself think about this. About what it would mean to be here, with him.
She swallows. "I—I don't think I should."
The nurse smiles softly, patient. "He's doing really well today. Skin-to-skin contact can help regulate his heartbeat."
Olivia exhales. A medical reason. A logical one.
That should make this easier.
And yet— her hands won't move.
She shouldn't be the one here. This should be Fitz. This should be Mellie. This should be anyone but her.
The nurse doesn't push. "It's okay," she says, voice gentle. "Take your time."
Olivia's fingers brush against the edge of the bassinet. Take your time.
For the first time all day, no one is waiting on her to make a decision. No one is watching, questioning, doubting.
It's just her. And him.
She exhales slowly, letting the quiet settle into her bones.
She reaches out—not to lift him, not yet, but just to smooth the blanket near his tiny hand. His fingers twitch slightly at the touch, and something in Olivia's chest pulls tight.
The nurse watches but says nothing.
"He knows you're here," she murmurs after a moment.
Olivia doesn't answer.
She just stays there, standing over Fitz's son, letting herself breathe.
And for the first time all day, she lets the world be quiet.
The rhythmic beeping of machines is the first thing Fitz registers.
It's distant, muted—like it's coming from underwater. His body feels heavy, sluggish, uncooperative. Something is wrong.
His eyelids flutter, resisting him, but he forces them open.
The light above him is too bright, stabbing through his skull. A sharp ache blooms at the base of his head, spreading outward, making his vision tilt for a moment too long. His breath catches in his throat as the room swims.
White walls.
Medical equipment.
A hospital.
His chest tightens.
The last thing he remembers is stepping out of the limo.
A flash of lights.
The crack of gunfire.
Pain.
His heart rate spikes, the monitors reacting instantly. His breath turns shallow, panic clawing at his ribs.
Then—a voice.
"Fitz."
Soft. Familiar. Pulling him back.
He turns his head slowly, the effort exhausting. His skull throbs in protest.
And then—Olivia.
She's sitting beside him, watching him carefully, her face a mixture of relief and something else—something heavier.
He knows that look.
He's seen it a hundred times.
She's holding something back.
She leans forward, gripping his hand tightly between hers, like she's afraid he'll slip away again.
"You're okay." Her voice is gentle but firm."You're safe."
Fitz swallows, his throat raw. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he forces out the first question that forms.
"What… happened?"
Her fingers tighten around his.
"You were shot."
The words land like a punch, even though he already knows it.
Fitz lets his head sink back against the pillow. The world blurs slightly. His mind is foggy, fragmented.
"How long?"
She hesitates. That alone tells him everything.
"Fitz, I need you to stay calm."
His stomach drops.
"How long?"His voice is rough, more demanding this time.
Olivia takes a slow, steady breath.
"Three weeks."
The air leaves his lungs.
Three weeks.
He's been unconscious for three weeks.
His pulse thuds loudly in his ears.The monitor beeps faster.
And then, Olivia's expression shifts.
There's something else.
Something worse.
"Fitz…"Her voice catches, and that's what does it—the break in her composure.
His chest tightens.
"It's Mellie."
He stops breathing.
"She's gone."
The words crush him.
Fitz stares at Olivia, but his brain refuses to process it.
Mellie is gone?
His Mellie? The woman he built a life with, fought with, fought for? The mother of his children?
No.
No, that doesn't make sense.
His heart hammers painfully. His mouth opens, but no words come out.
Gone.
Not injured. Not in recovery.
Gone.
A sharp pain lances through his skull. His vision pulses, blurring at the edges. The room tilts.
Olivia's grip on his hand never loosens.
"I'm so sorry."
Fitz closes his eyes. He can't breathe past it.
Mellie.
His wife.
Dead.
For a moment, the hospital fades away.
There's just grief, raw and suffocating.
And pain. In his chest. In his head. Everywhere.
His fingers clench weakly around Olivia's. He needs something—anything—to ground him.
When he finally forces his eyes open, Olivia is still there.Still holding him up.
But there's something else in her expression.
Something she hasn't said yet.
"There's more."
His pulse jolts.
"The baby."Olivia's voice is barely above a whisper."Teddy. He—he came early. He's in the NICU."
Shock slams into him like a second bullet.
A child.
A newborn son.
One he doesn't remember.
His mind spins, trying to catch up.
His wife is gone.
His son is fighting for his life.
He sinks back into the pillows, overwhelmed.
Olivia watches him carefully, waiting.
For what? A breakdown? A reaction?
He doesn't know what to give her.
"I need to see him." Fitz rasps, his voice barely audible.
Olivia nods immediately.
"As soon as the doctors clear you to move, we'll go."
She squeezes his hand again, anchoring him.
Fitz stares at her.
The weight of the moment settles over them both.
Three weeks.
He's lost so much.
And yet—Olivia is still here.
His fingers tighten weakly around hers.
"Stay."
A whisper, a request,a lifeline.
She nods.
"I'm not going anywhere."
And for the first time, he believes her.