The phone buzzes on Olivia's desk, cutting through the heavy silence of her office. She's sitting in the dim light of her desk lamp, her laptop open but untouched, her gaze fixed on the pile of reports in front of her. The chaos of the last few hours—Huck's arrest, the CPS fallout—has left her mentally and emotionally drained.
She glances at the phone screen. Edison Davis.
She hesitates, her chest tightening. After everything that had transpired between them, she'd hoped to avoid these calls. Still, something—maybe intuition—makes her answer."
"Edison, this isn't a good time," she says, her voice low, edged with fatigue.
"Olivia," he begins without preamble, his tone clipped. "I'm calling as a friend, but also as Senate Majority Leader. I just received something… unexpected."
She leans back in her chair, closing her eyes as she processes his words. "What are you talking about, Edison?"
There's a brief pause on the line before he continues. "I received a letter tonight. Delivered by courier, no less. A letter from President Fitzgerald Grant."
Her eyes snap open, her body tensing. "What?"
"You heard me," he says, his voice sharper now. "It's official. Signed and dated. Fitz is requesting that his position as President be reinstated immediately."
The words hang in the air, heavy and impossible. Olivia's grip on the phone tightens, her mind racing. "That's not possible," she says finally, her voice clipped. "Fitz hasn't…"
"I thought the same thing," Edison interrupts. "But Olivia, the letter is authentic. His handwriting, his tone—it's unmistakable."
Her thoughts are a blur, cycling through every possibility. Fitz couldn't have written that letter. He's still in a coma. This doesn't make sense.
"Edison, listen to me," she says, forcing her voice to remain calm. "Where's the letter now?"
"On my desk," he replies. "I haven't shown it to anyone yet. But if this is real—and I believe it is—it changes everything. Sally's position, the CPS investigation, the media frenzy. The President stepping back in stabilizes everything."
Olivia closes her eyes again, her jaw tightening. "Edison, I need you to hold onto that letter. Don't show it to anyone. Don't say anything about it."
"Olivia," he says, his tone exasperated. "If this is real, it's bigger than both of us. It's my responsibility to—"
"Don't!" she snaps, her voice sharp and commanding. "Not yet. Not until I've had a chance to look into this."
Edison is silent for a long moment, and Olivia can almost feel his frustration through the phone.
"You're asking me to sit on something that could shift the entire political landscape," he says finally. "I hope you know what you're doing."
"I always do," she replies coolly, though her stomach churns. "Keep the letter safe, Edison. I'll be in touch."
Before he can argue, she ends the call, tossing the phone onto her desk. For a moment, she just sits there, staring at the reports in front of her but seeing nothing.
Her mind whirls with questions: Who wrote the letter? How did they get Fitz's handwriting? And more importantly—why?
Olivia sits at her desk, her mind is a storm of conflicting thoughts, the weight of the letter and its implications bearing down on her. She looks down at phone down, her fingers brushing over the screen as if the act will help her focus.
It buzzes again, breaking the silence. Cyrus Beene.
She exhales sharply, her heart sinking. A call from Cyrus at this hour can only mean one thing: trouble. She answers, her voice tight.
"Cyrus, I can't do this right now—"
"Olivia," Cyrus cuts her off, his voice urgent, breathless. "You need to get to the hospital. Fitz is awake."
Her world tilts. "What?"
"You heard me," Cyrus says, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "He's awake.
For a moment, she can't breathe. She grips the edge of her desk, her mind struggling to process the words. Fitz. Awake.
Olivia grips the phone tightly, her breath coming shallow. "Say that again," she says, barely above a whisper. Her breath catches in her throat. The room tilts slightly, the weight of exhaustion and disbelief pressing against her chest. "No," she whispers, as if saying it aloud would stop the hope from creeping in.
On the other end of the line, Cyrus exhales. "He opened his eyes, Liv."
A sharp inhale. Her vision tunnels, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. She braces a hand against the edge of her desk. "Are you sure?"
"Do you think I'd joke about this?" Cyrus snaps, his voice shaking just slightly. "He's awake. The doctors are with him now. But you need to come. He's asking for you."
She doesn't move at first. The words don't feel real. After all these weeks, all the waiting, all the whispered prayers she never let herself believe in—
"Olivia," Cyrus urges, breaking through her daze. "Now."
She jolts back into motion. "I'm on my way."
She grabs her coat and bag in one fluid motion, barely registering the items as she moves. Her mind races with questions, emotions swirling uncontrollably: hope, disbelief, fear.
The door to her office swings shut behind her, the sound echoing through the empty space. As she strides toward her car, one thought rises above the chaos.
If Fitz is awake, everything changes.
The automatic doors of the hospital slide open with a soft whoosh, welcoming Olivia into the stark, fluorescent-lit lobby. The sterile scent of disinfectant hits her immediately, sharp and clinical, as she steps inside. Her heels click against the polished floor, each sound echoing louder than it should in the quiet space.
She moves with purpose, her coat billowing slightly behind her. The weight of Cyrus's words—"Fitz is awake"—anchors her chest, a mix of hope and dread threading through her every step. Around her, nurses and visitors bustle, their faces blurring into a backdrop of movement she barely registers.
Olivia approaches the reception desk, her breath catching as she hesitates for a fraction of a second. The nurse behind the desk looks up, but Olivia doesn't need to ask for directions. She knows the way. She's made this walk more times than she can count.
The hallways are quieter than she remembers, the low hum of machines and faint beeping monitors punctuating the silence. The soft glow of the overhead lights casts long shadows across the walls, stretching and bending as she walks. Her pace quickens instinctively, the heels of her shoes now muffled against the rubbery flooring.
She rounds a corner and enters the familiar corridor leading to Fitz's room. The air feels heavier here, thick with unspoken questions and lingering uncertainty. Two Secret Service agents stand at the far end, their black suits and stoic expressions a sharp contrast to the muted blues and greens of the hospital.
They acknowledge her with a slight nod as she approaches, their eyes flickering briefly with recognition. She slows her steps as she draws closer, her pulse pounding louder than the faint hum of the overhead lights. For a moment, she stops, her hand brushing the smooth, cold wall beside her.
Olivia glances toward the door at the end of the corridor—his door. It feels impossibly far away, yet unbearably close. Her chest tightens, the anticipation nearly unbearable. She exhales shakily, her breath misting faintly in the chill of the hospital air.
She doesn't enter. Not yet. Instead, she lingers in the hallway, her hands tightening around the strap of her bag. Her gaze flickers back to the agents, who remain silent and watchful, their presence grounding her as much as it unnerves her.
The muffled sounds of the hospital—footsteps, the distant buzz of a call button, the occasional murmur of voices—fill the space around her. But for Olivia, the only sound is the pounding of her own heart.
He's awake.
The thought both terrifies and propels her forward, her feet shifting slightly toward the door. But she doesn't step inside. Not yet.
The Oval Office feels larger than usual, its grandeur muted by the weight of uncertainty hanging in the air. Sally Langston sits behind the Resolute Desk, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the polished wood. The room is quiet save for the faint rustle of papers being shuffled by her aide across the room.
A knock at the door breaks the silence. Sally glances up, her sharp gaze narrowing. "Come in," she calls, her Southern drawl laced with authority.
The door creaks open, and a staffer steps in, a plain white envelope in hand. Their movements are brisk, almost nervous, as they approach the desk and place the envelope before her. "This just arrived, ma'am. Marked urgent," they say before retreating quickly, as if eager to escape her scrutiny.
Sally stares at the envelope, her brow furrowing. There's no return address, no markings to indicate its origin. Just her name scrawled across the front in bold, confident handwriting.
She picks it up, the weight of the paper heavier than it looks. Sliding her nail under the flap, she tears it open with precision, her movements sharp. Inside is a single folded sheet of thick cardstock. Her lips press into a thin line as she unfolds it, her eyes scanning the first line.
I, Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III, President of the United States, hereby request that my position as President be immediately reinstated.
Her breath catches, and for a moment, she freezes. Her eyes dart back to the top of the page, reading the words again, slower this time.
The state of the nation demands urgent leadership, and I, as your elected President, am prepared to resume my duties effective immediately.
Her hand tightens around the edge of the letter, her knuckles whitening. Her jaw sets, her eyes narrowing as she continues to the bottom of the page.
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.
The signature below is unmistakable.
Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III.
Sally leans back in her chair, the letter trembling slightly in her hand. Her mind races as she stares at the bold, decisive signature. Fitz. Declaring himself ready to resume the presidency.
For a moment, her lips twitch into a smile, but it's fleeting, quickly replaced by a frown. Fitz Grant, in his current state, could not have written this. The man is in a coma, tethered to machines, far from coherent thought. And yet… the letter feels real. Authentic.
She glances at her aide, still organizing papers across the room. Without a word, she folds the letter back into the envelope and slips it into a drawer, locking it with a deliberate click.
Leaning forward, her elbows rest on the desk as she clasps her hands together. Her mind calculates the implications of the letter, weighing the risks and the opportunities it presents. If this goes public, it could destabilize everything she's worked to consolidate in Fitz's absence. Or, with the right framing, it could be turned to her advantage.
Sally's lips curl into a faint smile, her eyes glinting with something dark and calculating. She's never been one to shy away from a fight, especially one this consequential.
The hospital room is unnervingly quiet, save for the rhythmic beep of the heart monitor and the faint hum of machines keeping Fitz alive. Olivia steps inside, the sharp click of her heels echoing in the sterile air. Her gaze locks onto Fitz, lying pale and motionless on the bed.
Her chest tightens, her heart racing. He's awake. Cyrus said he was awake. But as she steps closer, the truth slams into her. Fitz hasn't moved. His breathing is shallow, mechanical, the rise and fall of his chest steady only because of the machines.
She swallows hard, her voice low and tentative. "Is he… sleeping?"
Cyrus turns from the window, his posture too composed, his hands clasped in front of him. "You could say that." he says casually, his tone infuriatingly calm.
Her eyes narrow. Something is wrong. Her gaze shifts to Gerry, standing stiffly at the foot of the bed. His shoulders are hunched, his hands trembling. He won't look at her.
She steps closer, her voice sharper now. "What did you do?"
Neither of them answers. Gerry flinches, but Cyrus remains stoic, his face betraying nothing.
"I asked a question," Olivia says, her voice rising, trembling with restrained fury. "What. Did. You. Do?"
Gerry's head snaps up, tears brimming in his eyes, his hands trembling at his sides. His lips part, but no words come. He glances at Cyrus, then at the floor, his breath uneven. "I—" He swallows hard, his face crumpling. "I wrote the letter! I signed Dad's name. I… I had to!"
The words slam into her, and she freezes, her breath catching. Her mind races, the enormity of what he's just admitted hitting her like a freight train.
You… forged his name?" Her voice shakes, a dangerous edge creeping in. "Do you even realize what you've done? You committed treason, Gerry. You wrote a letter declaring your father fit to lead? While he's lying here like this?"
Gerry nods, his face contorted with guilt and anger. "I didn't have a choice!" he yells, his voice trembling. "Everything is falling apart—CPS, the media, Sally! You're not doing anything, Olivia! You're just standing there while they rip us to shreds!"
"I'm not doing anything?" Olivia snaps, stepping closer, her anger boiling over. "Do you even understand what you've done, Gerry? If this letter gets out to the public, it's over for all of us! CPS will demand to see Fitz. Sally will demand to see Fitz. And when they find out this is all a lie, they will destroy us!"
"I was trying to help!" Gerry cries, his tears spilling over. "I thought if people believed Dad was back, they'd stop tearing us apart. I just wanted them to stop!"
"Stop?" Olivia snaps, her voice rising. "You didn't stop anything, Gerry. You've made it worse. If CPS finds out, they'll use this to come after you and Karen. And Sally—Sally will take that letter and run with it all the way to the Oval Office."
Gerry stumbles back, his face crumpling, but Olivia's fury doesn't abate. Her gaze snaps to Cyrus, her voice like steel. "And you. You let him do this."
Cyrus meets her glare, his expression cool and detached. "I didn't let him do anything," he says, his tone sharp. "He made a choice. And frankly, Olivia, it was the right one. Fitz's legacy is crumbling, and Gerry acted when you wouldn't."
Her laugh is cold and bitter. "The right choice? Forging a letter? Lying to the entire country? That's the right choice? No, Cyrus. That's your choice. This has your fingerprints all over it."
Cyrus's voice hardens, his calm cracking. "You've been paralyzed, Olivia. Paralyzed by guilt. Fitz's legacy is on the line, and you've been too afraid to do what needs to be done. Gerry saw it, and he stepped up. You should be thanking him."
"Thanking him?" Olivia spits, stepping toward him. "You convinced me to use them as pawns. You wanted to see this through. You played them— and you played me, Cyrus. You'll do anything for power. You'll use anyone. But when it's Fitz who suffers for it—when his future hangs in the balance—remember who you've dragged into this."
Cyrus doesn't respond. He just watches her, his face impassive, the same expression he always wears when he's manipulating the world around him.
But Olivia isn't done. The realization crashes over her like a wave. She let this happen. She let Cyrus push her into using the kids. She put them in front of cameras, paraded them around as part of a strategy. And now, this was the result.
Her voice softens, but the words are no less damning. "You're right, Cyrus. I let this happen. I used them, just like you told me to. And now, they think this is how you save a family—by lying. By cheating. By playing games. And when it all falls apart? When Fitz never wakes up?" She swallows hard, her voice trembling. "That's on me. That's my legacy."
She turns back to Gerry, whose face is streaked with tears. His guilt is palpable, weighing heavily in the air.
"You've set this in motion," she says quietly, but her voice cuts through the silence like a knife. "And if this letter gets out, there's no stopping what's coming. CPS will tear us apart. Sally will take everything. And there's nothing we can do to fix it."
Gerry shakes his head, his voice a broken whisper. "I'm sorry."
Olivia looks at him for a long moment, her chest tight, her hands trembling. "So am I," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper.
The room falls silent, the tension suffocating. The only sound is the steady beep of Fitz's heart monitor, a quiet reminder of everything they stand to lose.
The silence in the room presses down on Olivia like a vice. The conversation with Gerry and Cyrus still lingers, every word echoing in her mind like a warning. The tension is palpable, thick enough to cut. Olivia knows the wrong move now could send everything over the edge.
The door creaks open, breaking the silence, and Tom, the Secret Service agent, steps inside. He's holding a phone, his face carefully neutral, though his eyes flicker with something unreadable.
"Ma'am," he says with quiet professionalism, holding the phone out to her. "President Langston is on the secure line."
Olivia's chest tightens. Sally Langston. Of course, she would call. Olivia's hand feels heavy as she takes the phone, the weight of what's about to happen already settling over her. She glances at Gerry and Cyrus, both frozen, waiting for her next move.
She nods at Tom, dismissing him with a quick "Thank you." Then she straightens her back, steeling herself. This is her world—crisis, control, confrontation. She knows how to handle Sally Langston. At least, that's what she tells herself.
She lifts the phone to her ear, her voice calm, measured, every word deliberate. "Hello, Madam President. It's Olivia Pope. How can I assist you?"
Sally's voice comes through sharp, clipped, and laced with barely contained fury.
"Olivia, let's cut the theatrics. I just received a letter signed by Fitz, stating he's 'awake and ready to assume the presidency again.' Do you really expect me to believe that? After everything that's happened, after all this silence, you're telling me he's miraculously back in the picture? Do you honestly think I'm that naïve?"
Olivia's breath hitches for just a second before she responds, her voice steady, each word chosen carefully. "Madam President, I understand your skepticism. But the letter is genuine. Fitz is awake. He's recovering, but he's fully aware of the situation and ready to resume his duties. I've spoken with him personally."
There's a pause, and Olivia can almost hear Sally calculating, weighing her options. When she speaks again, her voice is venomous.
"You expect me to take your word for it? After all the time I've had to clean up his messes, to step into his shoes, you think I'm just going to hand the presidency back because of a piece of paper? Where is he, Olivia? Why hasn't he spoken to me? To the press? Why hasn't anyone seen him?"
Olivia swallows hard, tightening her grip on the phone. Sally's doubt is a weapon, one she's wielding with precision. But Olivia refuses to falter.
"Fitz is awake," Olivia says, her tone firm but diplomatic. "But his recovery is delicate. Meeting with you, or anyone outside his immediate circle, could jeopardize his progress. He's mentally fit, but physically, he needs more time to regain his strength."
Sally's laugh is cold and biting, echoing through the line.
"Time? That's convenient. Let me be clear, Olivia. If Fitz is truly ready to lead, I expect to see him—in person—within twenty-four hours. Otherwise, I'm going public. The country deserves the truth, and I won't sit by while you play games."
Olivia's stomach churns, but her voice remains steady. "Madam President, going public now would be reckless. Fitz's recovery needs to be handled with care, not turned into a spectacle. If you force this, you risk throwing the nation into chaos."
"Chaos?" Sally snaps, her voice rising. "You think this isn't already chaos? I've been holding this country together while you've been hiding behind closed doors, spinning your little web of lies. If I don't see Fitz within twenty-four hours, I will tell the world exactly what's been happening. And believe me, Olivia, they will listen to me."
The threat lands hard, the finality in Sally's tone chilling. Olivia exhales slowly, her mind racing. She needs to keep Sally contained, but the clock is now ticking.
"I hear you, Madam President," Olivia says, her voice cold and measured. "I'll ensure you get the update you're looking for. But let me warn you—if you push too hard, you risk undoing everything Fitz has worked for. Think carefully before you act."
Sally doesn't respond immediately, but when she does, her tone is laced with disdain.
"I don't need lessons from you, Olivia. You have twenty-four hours. But let's be clear- whether you cooperate or not, the truth is coming out. They only question is whether you want to be standing when it does.
The line goes dead.
Olivia lowers the phone slowly, the weight of the conversation pressing down on her shoulders. Her gaze snaps back to Gerry and Cyrus. Both of them are watching her, tension etched into their faces.
"She's giving us twenty-four hours," Olivia says, her voice quiet but firm. "If this letter gets out to the public and Fitz doesn't wake up in time, it's over. She'll use it to destroy everything."
She turns to Cyrus, her voice sharp and biting. "This is your mess. You wanted this, Cyrus. Now fix it. I don't care what you have to do, but you're not dragging us down with you."
Cyrus's face remains impassive, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes. He nods once, curtly, already calculating his next move.
Olivia looks at Gerry, her expression softening just slightly. "And you. I know you were trying to help, but you need to understand something—this isn't a game. This isn't about what you think is right. This is about survival. And right now, we're barely holding on."
Gerry nods, his face pale, his voice barely a whisper. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry isn't enough," Olivia replies, her voice cold but not unkind. "We have to move fast. We don't have time for mistakes. If Sally goes public, it's over—for Fitz, for us, for this family."
The weight of the day crashes down on Olivia as she reenters Fitz's hospital room. The tension from Sally's ultimatum, the confrontation with Cyrus and Gerry—it all presses on her chest like a physical weight. The sterile scent of antiseptic fills her nose, the steady beep of the machines a constant reminder of how fragile everything is.
She closes the door softly behind her, shutting out the world, shutting out the noise. For a moment, it's just her and Fitz.
Her heels echo faintly as she crosses the room, her movements slower now, burdened by exhaustion. She sinks into the chair beside his bed, her eyes locked on his face. Fitz looks as he always does in her dreams—strong, steady—but here, he's still. Too still.
"Fitz," she whispers, her voice trembling, "I..."
The words catch in her throat, choking her. She squeezes his hand tightly, her fingers intertwining with his as if holding on could somehow pull him back to her. She shuts her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to find the strength to say what she needs to say.
When she opens her eyes, they're shining with unshed tears. Her voice is soft, almost a plea. "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 cracks, trailing off into the suffocating silence. She bows her head, pressing his hand to her forehead as tears spill over.
The room feels smaller, heavier, as though the air itself is pressing down on her. The steady beep of the monitor fills the void, rhythmic and unchanging, each sound a painful reminder of how little progress has been made.
She wipes her cheeks roughly, frustrated with her own tears. There's no comfort here, no solace. She's not the fixer in this room—she's just a woman desperate for the man she loves to come back to her.
"You're the only one who can fix this," she whispers, her voice thick with emotion. "Whatever's coming, whatever happens next... it has to be you, Fitz. Please."
She stares at him, willing him to move, to blink, to do anything to show her he's still there. But there's nothing. Fitz remains as he's been for weeks—silent, still, unreachable.
Her gaze drops to their joined hands, her thumb brushing over his knuckles. The memories flood back unbidden—his laughter, his warmth, the way his presence always steadied her, no matter the storm. And now, here he is, the storm raging all around him, and he's not there to fight it.
She swallows hard, forcing herself to sit up straighter, to find the strength she doesn't feel. She looks at him again, her voice firmer now, though no less broken. "You've never been a quitter, Fitz. You've fought for everything—for your family, for your country, for me. So fight now. Fight for them. For us. I can't do this without you."
The silence stretches, oppressive and unyielding. Olivia's chest tightens, her breaths shallow as she fights the wave of despair threatening to pull her under.
Finally, she leans forward, pressing her forehead gently against his hand. Her voice is a whisper, raw and pleading. "Please, Fitz. Come back to us."
She sits like that for a long time, the rhythmic beeping of the monitor her only company. Time feels suspended, the world outside forgotten.
But despite the crushing weight of the silence, one truth anchors her: Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third is not done yet. He can't be.
Her shoulders straighten as she sits back, still clutching his hand. Her voice steadies, but her tears remain. 'I need you, Fitz,' she whispers. The machines hum in response—cold, steady, indifferent. As if they, too, have given up on hope.
She lingers for another moment before rising from the chair, her legs shaky beneath her. She wipes her face, steeling herself as she moves toward the door. The fight isn't over—not yet. And Olivia Pope doesn't lose.
She casts one last look at Fitz before slipping out of the room, the weight of her words—and her hope—hanging in the air.
Later that night, the Oval Office feels unnaturally quiet, the late evening light casting long shadows across the room. Sally Langston sits behind the Resolute Desk, her hands folded neatly in front of her, the infamous letter from Fitz resting atop the polished wood. Her lips press into a thin line as her eyes flick over the words again, the weight of the moment bearing down on her.
The door opens, and Hollis Doyle saunters in, his usual swagger intact. His cowboy boots click against the floor, and a sly grin spreads across his face as he takes in the scene.
"Well, well," he drawls, leaning casually against the desk. "If it ain't the letter that's got the whole town whisperin'. Mighty big news, huh?"
Sally doesn't respond immediately. Instead, she lifts her steely gaze to him, her voice clipped and controlled. "It's big news, all right. But it's also dangerous. I've got Olivia Pope spinning tales about Fitz's 'delicate recovery.' She's buying time, Hollis. And this letter? It doesn't make sense. Not yet."
Hollis chuckles, shaking his head. "Oh, Sally, you're thinkin' too much. Pope's out there diggin' herself into a deeper hole, and you're givin' her time to wriggle out. You know what I'd do if I were you?" He leans in closer, his voice dropping conspiratorially. "I'd let the media do the dirty work."
Sally narrows her eyes. "Meaning?"
"Meaning," Hollis says, pulling up a chair and sitting back like he owns the place, "you don't gotta be the one to shout from the rooftops that this letter's a crock of lies. You let the media sniff it out. Leak it—anonymously, of course—and let them run wild with it. You stay above the fray, lookin' like the concerned leader who's just tryin' to keep the country from fallin' apart."
Sally's expression doesn't soften, but there's a flicker of interest in her eyes. "You're suggesting I plant the story and sit back while they tear Fitz's camp apart?"
"Exactly," Hollis says, slapping the armrest of his chair for emphasis. "The second this letter hits the press, they'll start diggin'. They'll poke holes in every part of it until it collapses like a house of cards. Meanwhile, you stay lookin' presidential—calm, collected, not like some power-hungry vulture waitin' to snatch the reins."
Sally leans back in her chair, considering his words. Finally, she sets the letter down, her gaze hard and decisive. "Do it," she says, her voice steady. "Leak the letter. But make sure it can't be traced back to me. I won't have my name tied to this—directly or indirectly."
Hollis grins, tipping an imaginary hat. "You got it, Madam President. You just sit tight and let me handle the messy business."
As he stands and heads for the door, Sally calls after him. "And, Hollis?"
He stops, turning back with a questioning look.
"If this backfires," she warns, her voice icy, "it's your head on the chopping block, not mine."
Hollis chuckles, giving her a wink. "It ain't gonna backfire, Sally. Trust me—this is your moment."
The door shuts behind him, leaving Sally alone in the quiet room. She looks down at the letter one last time, the weight of her decision settling on her shoulders.
The game has begun.