The OPA conference room feels tighter than usual, the hum of monitors amplifying the tension in the air. Olivia stands at the head of the table, her posture rigid, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. On the screens, pundits debate her life as if it's public property, dissecting every detail.
"First Children at Risk? CPS Investigates Olivia Pope."
"Is President Grant Even Alive?"
One anchor leans forward, speaking with mock concern. "Olivia Pope may be a master of crisis management, but parenting grieving children is not a crisis to manage. It's a life to build. Is she up to the task?"
Another nods solemnly. "And let's not ignore the elephant in the room. Where is President Grant? The continued silence raises serious questions about his condition and whether he's even alive."
Olivia's jaw tightens as she turns away from the screens. She has spent her life building a reputation as the person who fixes impossible situations. Yet, this—her life with Karen and Gerry—isn't a problem to fix. It's a promise to keep. A promise to Fitz.
The fluorescent lights of the CPS office cast a cold, sterile glow over the room. Olivia sits at one end of the long table, her posture stiff, her hands folded tightly in her lap. Across from her, Denise Walker and a younger representative sit with files spread neatly before them, their professional detachment only adding to the tension.
Denise clears her throat, breaking the silence. "Ms. Pope, thank you for coming in. We understand this is a sensitive situation, but we need to address some concerns that have arisen since we began this investigation."
Olivia nods curtly, her voice controlled. "I understand. What concerns specifically?"
Denise leans forward, her tone calm but firm. "When we spoke previously, you indicated you would step back from your professional responsibilities to focus on Karen and Gerry's well-being. However, given recent media coverage, it's clear your public role has continued. This raises questions about whether your focus is divided."
Olivia's jaw tightens. "I have stepped back. OPA is running without my direct involvement, and I've arranged therapy, routines, and everything Karen and Gerry need. But stepping back doesn't mean disappearing. I can't just abandon my responsibility to protect them—not when the media is exploiting their grief."
The younger representative glances at her tablet before chiming in, her voice hesitant but firm. "Ms. Pope, this is an unusual case. As the First Children, Karen and Gerry are under extraordinary public scrutiny. However, our concern remains: are you fully present for them at home, or are you treating this situation as another crisis to manage?"
The words land heavily, and Olivia exhales sharply, her frustration breaking through. "This was supposed to be a discrete investigation, for their sake. Now it's plastered across every news outlet, turning their lives into a spectacle. I didn't make this public, and I certainly didn't ask for the added pressure it's putting on them."
Denise's expression softens slightly, but her tone remains steady. "I understand your frustration, Ms. Pope, but the media attention only heightens the importance of your presence at home. The children are grieving. They need stability—and, most importantly, they need you."
Olivia's gaze sharpens. "And you think I'm not aware of that? Karen cries herself to sleep most nights, and Gerry has completely shut down. I'm there for them. Every day. But stepping away from the media won't make it stop. Ignoring the headlines won't protect them. Countering the lies is how I keep them safe."
The younger agent hesitates before responding. "With all due respect, Ms. Pope, focusing on the media might mean missing what's happening inside the home. They need more than protection—they need connection."
For a moment, the room is silent except for the faint hum of the overhead lights. Olivia leans back slightly, her voice dropping. "You're right—they need connection. But stepping back doesn't mean I'm disconnected. Every decision I make, every battle I fight, is for them. To protect their future and honor Fitz's wishes. That's what being a parent means to me."
Denise studies Olivia for a long moment before nodding. "We'll take your input into consideration, Ms. Pope. But please understand, our priority is ensuring the children's needs are met—not just their safety, but their emotional well-being."
Olivia straightens, her voice firm. "My children's well-being is my priority. Always. And I will do whatever it takes to protect them."
Denise closes her folder and stands, her expression unreadable. "We'll follow up soon. Thank you for your time."
As the representatives leave the room, Olivia remains seated, her hands gripping the table edge. The formality of the meeting and the insinuations linger, her frustration simmering just beneath the surface. This wasn't supposed to be a public battle, but now it was yet another war she had to fight—for them.
She exhales deeply, pushing back her chair. This isn't just about answering CPS. It's about shielding Karen and Gerry from a world that would tear them apart—and I will not fail.
As Olivia pulls out of the CPS parking lot, her car's headlights cut through the thick blanket of night, illuminating the empty, lifeless streets. The cold sterility of the meeting room lingers in her chest, Denise Walker's words looping in her mind like an unwelcome echo.They're questioning if you're enough.
Her grip tightens on the steering wheel as the Residence emerges in the distance, its glowing windows a fragile beacon against the darkened horizon.I have to be strong for Karen and Gerry. They need me to hold it together, especially with the media circling like vultures.
She steps into the house, the familiar quiet wrapping around her. The sound of the TV hums faintly from the living room. Olivia sets her bag on the table and moves toward the noise, pausing in the doorway when she sees Karen curled up on the couch.
Karen looks small, her knees pulled to her chest as she clutches her stuffed animal. The headlines on the muted TV flash as though they're mocking Olivia's attempts at control. Karen doesn't notice her at first, her wide eyes fixed on the scrolling words at the bottom of the screen:
"Where Is President Grant? Speculation Continues Over Silence From the Grant Family."
Olivia's chest tightens as she watches Karen wipe at her eyes, trying to hide the tears.
She steps forward, her voice soft. "Karen?"
Karen jumps slightly, quickly rubbing her sleeve across her cheeks. She doesn't look at Olivia. "Hey."
Olivia moves closer, sitting on the couch beside her. "What are you watching?"
Karen shrugs, still not meeting Olivia's gaze. "Just... news."
Olivia reaches for the remote, switching off the TV. "You don't need to watch that stuff, sweetheart."
Karen finally looks up at her, her voice quiet but full of uncertainty. "Do you think Dad hears us when we talk to him?"
The question hangs in the air, unexpected and raw. Olivia feels her throat tighten as she tries to find the right answer. "Yeah," she says softly. "I think he does."
Karen fidgets with her stuffed animal, her eyes dropping back to her lap. "Then why hasn't he woken up? If he knows we need him, why won't he come back?"
Olivia exhales slowly, her chest aching. She reaches out, tucking a stray strand of Karen's hair behind her ear. "Your dad is the strongest person I've ever known. He's fighting, Karen. I promise you, he's fighting to come back to us."
Karen leans against her, her voice barely a whisper. "I just want things to go back to normal."
Olivia holds her close, her own tears threatening to spill as she presses a kiss to Karen's head. "Me too, sweetheart. Me too."
The house is heavy with silence, broken only by the faint hum of the heater kicking on. Olivia pulls the blanket up over Karen's small frame, her daughter-like figure curled up on the couch, her stuffed animal clutched tightly in her arms. Karen's face is streaked with dried tears, but her breathing has finally evened out, signaling the sleep Olivia hoped would bring her some peace.
Olivia lingers for a moment, her fingers brushing a stray strand of Karen's hair. She lets out a quiet sigh, her chest tight with guilt and the weight of everything spiraling out of control. The headlines, the CPS investigation, the press—all of it looms large, but nothing hurts as much as seeing Karen like this.
She shouldn't have to carry this. None of them should.
She steps away, her heels soft against the hardwood as she walks toward the kitchen. The house feels too quiet, too still, as if everyone inside it is holding their breath.
As Olivia passes the staircase, the faint murmur of Gerry's voice draws her toward Fitz's study. She pauses at the doorway.
She hesitates for a moment, her hand brushing the wall. The door to the study is cracked open, and through the small gap, her heart sinking at the sight of him hunched over the desk, his words cutting through the silence.
His voice is low, muttering to himself.
"This isn't fair," he says, his tone sharp and filled with frustration.
Olivia leans against the wall. She knows she shouldn't listen, but something about the way he sounds keeps her rooted in place.
"This isn't how it's supposed to be," Gerry continues, his hands running through his hair. His elbows rest on the desk, his shoulders hunched. "Dad would've fixed this. He'd know what to do."
Olivia presses her lips together, the words cutting into her like shards of glass.
Gerry sits back, his chair creaking softly. His eyes are locked on the blank piece of paper in front of him, his fingers tapping against the desk in an uneven rhythm.
"Karen shouldn't have to hear this stuff," he mutters. "She's just a kid. She doesn't need to know... any of this."
Olivia watches as Gerry's head falls into his hands. His voice cracks when he speaks again, quieter this time. "I don't know how to help her. I don't know how to help anyone."
For a moment, Olivia's breath catches in her throat. She had thought Gerry's silence earlier was anger, that his distance was defiance. But now, as she watches him, she realizes the truth. He's not angry—he's lost.
Olivia turns and walks away, her steps slow and deliberate. The silence of the house feels heavier now, and with every step, she feels her own guilt sinking deeper.
Karen's tears, Gerry's frustration, the chaos outside these walls—it all feels like too much. Olivia closes her eyes briefly, her hand brushing the cool surface of the kitchen counter as she leans against it.
She doesn't have time to fall apart.
The image of Karen's tear-streaked face and Gerry's words lingered in Olivia's mind, her heels clicking softly against the floor. The house feels heavier than ever, the weight of their grief pressing into every corner. But there's no time to fall apart—not here, not now.
By the time she steps into the OPA office, her mask of control is firmly in place. The headlines flashing on the monitors are a cruel reminder of how far the storm has spread.
The hum of the monitors fills the air as Olivia strides into the OPA conference room, her heels clicking against the polished floor. The team is already gathered, tension radiating from every corner of the room. On the screens, the headlines flash relentlessly:
"Grant Administration in Chaos: Questions Surround President's Condition."
"Olivia Pope: Guardian or Crisis Manager?"
"Leadership Vacuum in Washington: Who's Really in Charge?"
Harrison looks up as Olivia enters, his expression grim. "It's spiraling, Liv. They're not just questioning Fitz—they're coming for you, too."
Olivia stops at the head of the table, scanning the room. "Abby, I need a full breakdown of the media coverage. Find the gaps we can exploit. Harrison, work on a statement emphasizing the kids' stability. We're not going to let them turn this into a circus."
Abby tosses a stack of clippings onto the table, her expression tight. "Stability won't matter if the public keeps questioning whether Fitz is even alive. They're already painting you as the woman trying to cover up a failing presidency."
"Then we shift the narrative," Olivia says sharply. She turns to Huck, who's seated in the corner with his laptop, his gaze fixed on the screen. "Huck, what do we have on the CPS leak?"
Without looking up, Huck replies, "Someone leaked it on purpose. This isn't just a smear campaign—they're targeting Fitz's family. Piece by piece."
Olivia's jaw tightens. "Then we find out who. I want names, connections, motives. This isn't just about me—it's about Fitz. If they destroy me, they destroy him."
In the background, Quinn's voice cuts through softly, almost like a whisper: "She's not real."
No one acknowledges her, too focused on Olivia.
Harrison gestures toward the screens. "Liv, if we wait too long, the story spirals. We need to—"
"She's not real," Quinn says again, louder this time.
Abby glances at her but keeps talking. "We're running out of time. The press is camped outside the Residence, and—"
"She's not real!" Quinn's voice rises sharply, cutting through the noise.
Everyone turns to look at her.
Quinn grips the back of her chair, her face pale but determined. "Becky. She's not real."
Huck frowns, his expression darkening. "What are you talking about?"
"I've been digging into her records," Quinn says, stepping closer to him. "Her name, her history, her background—it's all fake. Becky doesn't exist. She's a construct. Someone created her to set you up and to ensure Fitz was shot."
Huck's jaw tightens, his voice low and dangerous. "No. Becky's real. I talked to her. I—"
"She's not real, Huck," Quinn insists, her voice rising. "Think about it. The details she gave you, the way she disappeared after the shooting. It was all calculated. Becky isn't a person. She's a weapon."
Huck's hands clench into fists, his voice trembling. "If she's fake, then who is she? Who's behind her?"
Olivia steps forward, her voice cold and sharp. "That's what we're going to find out. Huck, confirm this. Dig into everything. I want to know who made Becky and why."
Huck stares at Quinn for a long moment before nodding. "I'll need time."
"You have fifteen minutes," Olivia says firmly. "Quinn, help him."
Abby crosses her arms, her face pale. "Liv, if the press catches wind of this, it'll destroy everything. They're already questioning if Fitz is alive. If we expose a conspiracy—"
"We're not exposing anything until we're ready," Olivia says, her tone steely. "No leaks, no mistakes. We control the story. But we're not stopping until we bring them down."
She turns to the monitors again, the damning headlines still flashing. This isn't just a fight for her reputation. It's a fight for the promise she'd made to Fitz and his children.
Her gaze sweeps across the room, her voice cold and resolute. "This isn't just damage control. This is war. Let's get to work."
The Residence feels eerily quiet as Olivia steps inside, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. The chaos of OPA lingers in her mind, but the tension here feels different—heavier, more personal. She glances up the grand staircase, where muffled voices drift down the hallway.
Karen's voice is soft and uncertain. "Do you think it's true? What they're saying about her?"
Olivia's chest tightens. She moves toward the sound, her footsteps slowing as she approaches Gerry's bedroom. The door is slightly ajar, and she can see Karen sitting on the edge of the bed, clutching a pillow. Gerry stands by the window, his back to her, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"She promised us," Gerry says, his voice low but simmering with anger. "She said she'd fix it, that everything would be okay. But it's not. It's worse."
"Gerry," Karen starts, but he cuts her off.
"No, Karen! Don't defend her. She's the reason they're talking about us like this. She's the reason everyone thinks we're not safe."
Olivia pushes the door open, stepping into the room. "That's enough," she says firmly, her voice steady despite the ache in her chest.
Gerry spins around, his eyes blazing. "You lied to us," he spits. "You said you'd protect us, but now everyone thinks we're just a mess. They're saying Dad's probably dead, and it's all your fault."
Karen's eyes fill with tears, and Olivia crosses the room to kneel in front of her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Karen, sweetheart, can you give Gerry and me a minute?"
Karen hesitates, glancing between them, but Olivia's reassuring nod coaxes her to her feet. She hugs the pillow tightly as she shuffles out of the room, her small footsteps fading down the hall.
Olivia straightens, turning to face Gerry. "I know you're angry," she says softly. "And I don't blame you. But you don't get to take it out on Karen or on me."
Gerry scoffs, his fists still clenched. "You don't get it. Everyone's talking about us like we're broken—like Dad's already gone and you can't handle us. You were supposed to fix this, Olivia. That's what you do, right? You fix things. So why can't you fix this?"
His words hit like a punch, but Olivia doesn't flinch. She steps closer, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "Because this isn't something I can fix overnight, Gerry. I'm doing everything I can to keep you and Karen safe, to give you the life your dad wanted for you. But I need you to trust me."
"Trust you?" Gerry laughs bitterly, shaking his head. "You don't even know what you're doing. You're just making it worse."
Olivia's composure falters for a moment, her breath catching. "Gerry, I know this is hard. I know you're scared—"
"I'm not scared!" he shouts, his voice cracking. "I'm angry. Angry at you, at Dad, at everything."
Olivia steps forward, her hand reaching out to him. "You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to feel everything you're feeling. But that doesn't mean I'm giving up. I made a promise to your dad, and I'm not going to let you down."
Gerry stares at her, his jaw tight, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "You already have," he whispers.
The words hang in the air, sharp and unforgiving. Olivia's chest tightens, but she refuses to let the moment break her. She meets his gaze, her voice soft but resolute. "I'm not perfect, Gerry. I've made mistakes, and I'll probably make more. But I love you and Karen, and I will do whatever it takes to protect you. You don't have to believe me right now, but I need you to let me try."
For a moment, Gerry doesn't move. Then, slowly, he turns back toward the window, his shoulders slumping slightly.
"Karen doesn't deserve this," he mutters.
"I know," Olivia says quietly. "Neither of you do. And that's why I'm not giving up."
She waits for a response, but Gerry stays silent. Taking a deep breath, Olivia steps back. "I'll leave you to think about it. But I'm here when you're ready to talk."
As she leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her, Olivia leans against the wall, her heart heavy. Gerry's words echo in her mind, each one a reminder of the fragile balance she's fighting to maintain.
But she won't let this break her—or them.
The door creaks softly as Gerry steps into Fitz's study in the White House. The room is pristine, every detail carefully arranged—the mahogany desk gleams under the overhead lights, the shelves are lined with leather-bound books, and the presidential seal is embedded in the deep blue rug. It feels cold, like it belongs to the office of the President, not his father.
Gerry lingers near the door, his eyes scanning the room. His gaze lands on a framed photo sitting on the desk. He moves closer, picking it up carefully.
It's a picture of Fitz with him and Karen, taken during a campaign rally. Fitz's arm is draped over Gerry's shoulder, his smile bright and confident. Karen clutches her stuffed animal, her face lit with joy. Gerry runs his thumb over the edge of the frame, the memory behind the photo pulling at him like a riptide.
The study in the memory is smaller, warmer. It's not the White House—it's their California home. Gerry sits in an oversized armchair across from Fitz, who's at his desk. The room smells faintly of cedar and coffee, and the late afternoon sun filters through the windows, casting golden streaks across the walls.
Fitz leans over the desk, his attention split between a stack of papers and his son. "You're quiet today, buddy," he says, setting the papers aside. His tone is light, but his eyes are curious. "What's on your mind?"
Gerry fidgets with his hands, his legs swinging slightly. "I heard some people talking… about you. About how you always win."
Fitz chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair. "Well, I don't always win. But I try my best."
Gerry looks down, his brow furrowed. "But… what if you lose? What happens then?"
Fitz's smile fades into something softer. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk, and clasps his hands together. "Losing isn't the end, Gerry. Sometimes, you learn more from losing than you ever could from winning. What matters is what you do next—how you handle it."
Gerry stops swinging his legs. "But doesn't it hurt? To lose?"
"Of course it hurts," Fitz says, his voice calm but firm. "It means you care. It means what you're doing matters. And when something matters, you don't give up—you fight for it."
Gerry tilts his head, still uncertain. "But what if it's too hard?"
Fitz leans back slightly, considering his words carefully. Then he leans forward again, placing a hand on Gerry's shoulder.
"One day, you're going to have to make hard decisions, Gerry. Decisions that might hurt, even when they're the right thing to do. That's what being a leader means—taking responsibility, even when it's heavy. Especially then."
The weight of Fitz's words settles over Gerry, but his father's steady hand on his shoulder keeps him grounded. Fitz's expression softens, and he gives Gerry's shoulder a reassuring squeeze.
"But here's the thing," Fitz continues, his voice lighter now. "You'll never have to do it alone. You'll always have your family, your team, and the people who believe in you. That's how we get through the hard stuff—together."
Gerry nods slowly, the words sinking in, though their full weight doesn't register yet. Fitz smiles and ruffles Gerry's hair before turning back to his papers.
The memory fades as Gerry blinks, his grip tightening around the photo. The warmth of Fitz's California study feels like a distant echo, replaced by the sterile stillness of this room.
The photo shakes slightly in his hands as his chest tightens. He sets it down carefully, staring at it for a long moment.
What would you do now, Dad? What would you say if you knew what I did?
The weight of Fitz's memory presses down on him, twisting the guilt in his chest into something sharper, heavier. But beneath it, something else stirs—a faint flicker of resolve. Fitz's words echo in his mind: "When something matters, you fight for it."
Gerry leans back in the chair, staring at the blank sheet of paper sitting on the desk. It feels like a challenge, daring him to act.
He exhales slowly, his breath shaky. The room feels colder than ever, but Fitz's voice lingers in his mind, urging him forward. He stands abruptly, the chair scraping softly against the rug as he moves toward the door.
As he reaches for the handle, he glances back at the desk one last time. The photo seems to watch him, a silent reminder of everything at stake. Gerry swallows hard and steps out of the room, the memory of Fitz's words heavy in his chest.
The hum of machines fills the small, sterile space. Gerry stands near the incubator, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. The faint, rhythmic beeping of monitors echoes in his ears, each sound a reminder of how fragile life can be.
Teddy lies inside, impossibly small and swaddled in a blanket that looks far too big for him. His chest rises and falls in tiny, unsteady breaths, a tube taped to his face. Gerry watches him, unmoving.
He presses his forehead against the cool glass of the incubator, his breath fogging the surface slightly. He doesn't reach out, doesn't dare touch anything. Instead, he stares at Teddy, the baby who doesn't yet know the world he's been born into.
Gerry's mind churns, a chaotic swirl of memories and fears.
Karen eyes big with mixture of sadnesses but resolve.
"I'm scared, and I know Gerry is too. But we also know our dad is still here, and he's still fighting."
Their speech was supposed to save everything – make every right. But it didn't. They failed.
The image of Sally Langston flashes in his mind next, her hand resting on the Bible as she takes the oath. Her smug smile, the way her voice dripped with barely concealed ambition. "It is my honor to serve this great nation in its hour of need." Gerry had wanted to scream.
His fists clench at his sides as the scenes play out in his mind, one after the other. His mother's absence feels like a gaping hole. Her presence, her voice, the way she always seemed to know what to do—it's all gone. They haven't even had the chance to say goodbye, to lay her to rest. The thought twists his stomach.
Karen had cried herself to sleep last night, muffling her sobs into her pillow to avoid waking Olivia. Gerry had sat in the dark, listening, his own tears hot and silent. He didn't know how to comfort her. He didn't even know how to comfort himself.
And now, Fitz lies in a coma, unresponsive, and the world outside this hospital has turned against them. CPS investigations. Headlines questioning their fitness, their family's stability. The weight of it all presses down on Gerry's chest like an anchor.
His eyes drift back to Teddy, so small, so unaware of the chaos waiting for him outside these walls.
Gerry bites the inside of his cheek, the pain grounding him for a moment. His love for this family—his father, Karen, Olivia, even Teddy—is the only thing keeping him from breaking apart entirely. He doesn't want to think about the fear clawing at his chest, the anger simmering just beneath the surface.
He wants to fix it. All of it.
Gerry's breathing quickens as the thoughts spiral. He needs to fix this for Karen, for Olivia, for Teddy, for his father. He can't sit by and watch them lose everything. Not after everything they've been through.
The rhythmic beeping of the monitors fills the silence again, steady and relentless. Gerry blinks, his vision blurring slightly as he pulls away from the glass. Teddy's small hand twitches, barely perceptible, and it sends a wave of determination through Gerry.
He turns and walks out of the room, his mind made up.
The muted glow of the television flickers across the walls of Fitz's hospital room, blending with the steady hum of monitors. Gerry Grant sits at the small desk in the corner, his shoulders tense as he stares at the blank sheet of paper in front of him. The weight of the evening presses down on him like an anchor.
The news broadcast continues behind him, the anchor's voice calm and composed: "First Children at Risk? CPS Investigates Olivia Pope." The words echo in Gerry's mind, blending with the rhythmic beeping of Fitz's machines.
He grips the pen tightly, his hand shaking as he hovers over the paper. The idea that's been forming in his mind all night feels heavier now, more dangerous. It isn't a good idea. It isn't even a fair one. But as his eyes drift to Fitz, lying still and pale in the hospital bed, Gerry knows he has no other choice.
Taking a deep breath, he presses the pen to the page.
I, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III, President of the United States, hereby request that my position as President be immediately reinstated.
The words form slowly, each one etched with trembling resolve. Gerry glances back at his father, his chest tightening at the sight of Fitz's motionless form.
The state of the nation demands urgent leadership, and I, as your elected President, am prepared to resume my duties effective immediately.
The pen feels heavier in his hand as he continues writing, the beeping of the machines echoing in his ears.
In the wake of my incapacitation, I acknowledge that Sally Langston has lawfully assumed office as acting president. However, the time has come for my administration to continue its work. The United States cannot afford to remain without strong leadership any longer. Under the current circumstances, it is imperative that I resume my role as President.
Gerry pauses, his hand trembling as he stares at the letter. The lie feels suffocating, twisting in his chest like a vice. He presses his palm against the desk to steady himself, his gaze flickering to Fitz once more. The memory of his father's confidence, his strength, his unwavering sense of duty fills Gerry with a bittersweet ache.
"This isn't just about CPS or the media," he mutters, his voice barely audible. "Olivia's trying, but it's not enough. She can't fix this... not like this."
With deliberate care, he signs the letter, his strokes slow and purposeful:
Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III
The pen slips from his grasp, clattering onto the desk. The sound echoes in the silent room. Gerry exhales shakily, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his actions. He folds the letter carefully, sealing it with steady hands. For a moment, he simply sits there, staring at the folded paper as though waiting for Fitz to wake up and stop him—or to tell him he's done the right thing.
But the room remains silent, save for the hum of the monitors and the faint buzz of the TV.
"I'm sorry, Dad," Gerry whispers, his voice cracking. "But Olivia can't fight this the way you would. It's my turn to be the fixer.
He rises slowly, the letter clutched tightly in his hand as he crosses the room. His steps falter as he reaches the doorway, and he turns back for one last look. Fitz's face is calm, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. The sight twists something deep inside Gerry, but he straightens his shoulders, steeling himself.
"You always made things right when everything fell apart," he mutters, barely audible. "Now it's my job to protect this family."
With that, Gerry steps into the hallway, the weight of his decision pressing down on him like a lead anchor.
Olivia stands by the window in her office at OPA, the city lights faintly twinkling in the glass, her own reflection casting a shadow over them. The phone is pressed to her ear, her grip firm, her voice tight with exhaustion.
"Liv, you don't have to do this alone," Edison says, his voice steady yet weighted with concern.
"I'm not alone," she snaps back quickly, her tone sharper than intended. "I have my team."
"That's not what I mean," Edison presses, his voice softening. "You carry everything, Olivia. CPS breathing down your neck, the media spinning stories about the kids, Fitz's absence—it's all on you. You're trying to hold the world together, and it's killing you."
Olivia closes her eyes briefly, her other hand clenching into a fist. She exhales slowly, her voice measured. "I'm doing what I have to do. I don't have the luxury of falling apart."
"Who said anything about falling apart?" Edison counters, his voice growing firmer. "I'm saying you need to let someone in before it breaks you. You're strong, Liv. But even you can't carry this forever."
Her jaw tightens at his words, the weight of his truth digging into her. "What am I supposed to do, Edison? How are you going to fix this? How does anyone fix this?"
"Let me love you," Edison says quietly, his words clear and deliberate. "Let me be there for you. You don't have to carry this all by yourself."
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. Olivia turns away from the window, staring at the untouched glass of wine on her desk, next to the scattered CPS reports. Her throat tightens, her chest aching with a familiar, hollow pain.
Because it isn't Edison she wants. It's Fitz. His presence, his guidance, his impossible steadiness—everything she lost when he collapsed in front of her. Edison's offer, as kind and dependable as it is, doesn't fill that void.
"Edison…" she begins, her voice low, uncertain.
"I know," he says gently, cutting her off. "I know you don't have room for this. For me. But I needed you to hear it. Because whether you want me here or not, I'll be here. Always."
Her hand trembles slightly as she grips the edge of her desk. "Thank you," she whispers. "But I can't do this. Not now. Maybe not ever."
There's a brief pause, the quiet between them filled with everything left unsaid. Finally, Edison speaks again, his voice softer. "Just promise me one thing, Liv. Take care of yourself—for their sake, and for yours."
"I'll try," Olivia says quietly, though even as the words leave her mouth, she knows how hollow they sound. "I have to go."
She ends the call before he can respond, setting the phone down next to the reports. Her gaze lingers on the desk for a moment before the faint hum of conversation in the main office pulls her back to the present.
Straightening her blazer, she steps out into the bustling main office. The air is thick with tension, monitors flickering as the team works furiously. Huck sits in his usual corner, his laptop glowing as his fingers fly across the keys. Quinn hovers nearby, her arms crossed, glancing nervously between Huck and the rest of the team.
"Huck?" Quinn asks, her voice soft but anxious. "Anything?"
"She's a ghost," Huck mutters, his eyes locked on the screen. "Whoever built Becky's identity knew what they were doing. I'm close, but..." He trails off, his gaze narrowing.
Olivia slows her steps, watching them from a distance. Huck's focus is razor-sharp, but before she can speak, the front door bursts open.
Three men in dark suits stride into the office, their movements sharp and deliberate. Behind them, a Secret Service agent steps forward, his badge catching the light as he addresses the room.
"Huck," the agent says, his voice cold and authoritative. "You're under arrest."
The office erupts into chaos.
"What the hell is going on here?" Olivia's voice cuts through the noise as she steps forward, her tone sharp and commanding.
The agent pulls out a warrant and holds it up. "Diego Muñoz, also known as Huck, is wanted for questioning in connection with the attempted assassination of President Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third."
Olivia's expression remains controlled as she takes the warrant, her eyes scanning the text quickly. "This says 'questioning,' not conviction," she states evenly. "You're taking him without an attorney present?"
The agent's tone doesn't shift. "We have evidence linking him to the crime scene."
Huck stands slowly, his expression unreadable, though his hands clench into fists. "It's okay," he says softly, his tone calm.
"No, it's not!" Quinn shouts, tears spilling over.
"Quinn," Huck says, giving her a faint smile. "Stay focused. Keep digging."
The agents cuff Huck and lead him toward the door. Olivia locks eyes with him, her expression unflinching. "We'll handle this," she says, her voice low but firm. "Do you trust me?"
"I always have," Huck replies simply, his voice steady as he disappears through the door.
The silence in the OPA office is deafening after the agents take Huck away. Quinn stands frozen, her hands trembling, while Harrison and Abby exchange tense glances. Olivia watches the door close behind Huck, her chest tight, but her expression remains steely.
"Quinn, focus," Olivia says, her voice cutting through the tension. "You heard him—keep digging into Becky. She's the key."
Quinn looks up, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. "Liv, they're framing him. You know that, right? They're trying to make Huck the fall guy."
"I know," Olivia says firmly, stepping closer. "And we're going to prove it. But we don't do that by falling apart. Huck needs us sharp. Can you do that?"
Quinn hesitates before nodding, her shoulders squaring as she turns back to her desk. Harrison and Abby move toward the conference room, already strategizing their next moves.
Olivia stands in the middle of the room for a moment, letting the tension settle around her. She glances at the clock on the wall—it's late, but she doesn't have the luxury of rest. The CPS meeting is still fresh in her mind, Denise Walker's words echoing louder than she'd like.
This is what Fitz trusted her with: his children, his legacy, his world. She couldn't let them down. Not him. Not Huck. Not Karen and Gerry.
Straightening her blazer, Olivia moves toward her office, her voice calm but firm as she calls out, "Harrison, I want a full breakdown of Becky's background by morning. Quinn, track the agents who took Huck and find out where he's being held. Abby, get ahead of the media spin—we control the narrative before they do. Let's get to work."
As the team springs into action, Olivia closes the door to her office. The weight of the day presses against her, but she doesn't falter. She reaches for the untouched glass of wine on her desk, considering it for a moment before setting it aside.
Edison sits alone in his office, the weight of the day pressing down on him. The faint hum of city life filters through the thick windows, but it barely registers. On his desk, his phone sits face down, untouched since his earlier call with Olivia. Her words linger, heavy and unresolved. The room feels colder than it should, the silence thick around him.
A knock at the door breaks through his thoughts. He looks up, frowning as a courier steps inside, clipboard in hand. The man holds out an envelope—plain, white, and thick—along with the clipboard for Edison to sign.
The sharp scratch of the pen against paper feels louder than it should. Once the courier is gone, Edison turns the envelope over in his hands. It feels heavy, important. The handwriting on the front is bold and unfamiliar.
He hesitates for a moment, his gut telling him something about this isn't normal. But curiosity outweighs caution, and he reaches for the letter opener on his desk. The blade slides cleanly through the envelope, revealing a single sheet of paper folded neatly inside.
Edison unfolds it slowly, his eyes scanning the first line. His pulse quickens.
I, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III, President of the United States, hereby request that my position as President be immediately reinstated.
He freezes, his breath catching in his throat. The words feel surreal, almost impossible. Fitz? Reinstated?
His gaze moves down the page, reading each sentence carefully.
The state of the nation demands urgent leadership, and I, as your elected President, am prepared to resume my duties effective immediately.
Edison leans back in his chair, his grip on the letter tightening. The room feels smaller, the air heavier. He knows Fitz has been incapacitated for weeks. The idea that Fitz could recover enough to dictate this letter is… unlikely. And yet, the words feel undeniably his.
Edison's eyes fall to the signature at the bottom of the page.
Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III
The handwriting is unmistakable—bold, decisive, authoritative. Fitz's handwriting.
For a moment, Edison sits frozen, the letter trembling slightly in his hands. The implications of this document slam into him all at once. If Fitz truly wrote this, it changes everything. Sally Langston's grip on the presidency, the media's focus on Olivia, the stability of the Grant family—all of it shifts with this single piece of paper.
But questions gnaw at him. How could this be real? Fitz's condition has been unchanged. Could someone have fabricated this?
He places the letter carefully on the desk, staring at it as if it might disappear. His mind races, each thought colliding with the next. If this is real, he needs to act. If it's not, the fallout could destroy the Grants entirely.
Edison reaches for his phone, his hand hovering over it for a long moment. He stares at Olivia's name in his contacts, the decision weighing heavily on him.
Finally, he picks up the phone, dialing her number. The tone rings out once, twice, cutting through the thick silence of the room.
Edison leans forward, elbows on the desk, the letter still lying open in front of him. The phone rings again.