Liv?
The text flashes across Olivia's screen, harsh in the early morning dimness.
She blinks once, slow and heavy, like her body is still trying to catch up.
But there's no time.
She rubs her temple, inhaling sharply before pushing herself upright. She knows. She's known since last night, since the moment she stepped away from Fitz—since the moment he let her.
Since the moment she felt his breath against her skin, his fingers tightening like he was afraid to let go.
Since the way he looked at her before he stepped back.
Her chest tightens.
She should have expected it. The desperation. The way grief turns into something else, something reckless. She should have walked away sooner.
But for one fraction of a second, she didn't.
Her phone buzzes again.
Harrison:We can't wait any longer.
Olivia exhales, grounding herself in the now.
Later. She can process all of that later.
Right now?
Another thud from down the hall, followed by muffled voices.
Then—
"Karen, stop!"
The weight in Olivia's chest shifts immediately, her focus snapping back.
Another door slams.
She's already moving.
When she steps into the hallway, Gerry is standing just outside Karen's bedroom, jaw clenched, hands fisted at his sides. His shoulders are rigid, frustration simmering just beneath the surface.
Karen's door is shut—hard.
Olivia exhales. "What happened?"
Gerry shakes his head, voice tight. "She's pissed. Again."
Olivia doesn't need to ask why. Karen has been walking a fine line between silent resentment and barely-contained rage since the funeral. Some days, she lets it simmer. Other days?
It explodes.
"I told her she needed to eat something," Gerry mutters. "She snapped. Said she wasn't hungry. Then she threw her tablet at the bed and locked herself in."
Olivia glances toward the closed door, the tension behind it thick.
She knows it isn't about breakfast.
Gerry exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I don't know what to do. She won't talk to me, she won't talk to Dad, and every time I try, she just—" His voice cuts off, jaw working as he tries to rein it in.
But Olivia sees it.
The exhaustion. The helplessness. The way he's trying so damn hard to hold everything together.
And maybe that's what makes her chest tighten the most.
Her phone buzzes again. Harrison.
We need to move. Now.
She presses her lips together.
She doesn't have time for this.
But she makes time.
She places a hand on Gerry's shoulder, grounding him. "I'll talk to her."
His jaw twitches, but he nods.
And Olivia?
She squares her shoulders, pushes down the ache in her chest, and steps forward.
She knocks once.
Then she opens the door.
The room is dark.
Not completely—just enough that it feels small, like the walls are closing in. Like a place someone disappears into when they don't want to be found.
Karen is curled on the edge of the bed, knees tucked up, her back pressed against the headboard. Her tablet is lying face-down on the mattress, screen still faintly lit from whatever she had been watching before she threw it.
She doesn't look at Olivia.
She doesn't even acknowledge the door opening.
For a moment, Olivia just stands there, the air between them thick, tense.
Then—
"I'm not hungry."
The words are flat, emotionless, like they've already been rehearsed.
Olivia steps forward, careful but not hesitant. "I know."
Karen exhales sharply, shaking her head like she already hates this conversation.
"You don't have to check on me," she mutters. "I'm fine."
She isn't.
But Olivia doesn't say that.
Instead, she moves to the desk, pulling out the chair and lowering herself into it. She doesn't push. Doesn't tell Karen to sit up or face her.
She just waits.
And after a long, silent beat—
"You gonna give me some lecture about eating?" Karen mutters, shifting slightly but still not looking at her.
Olivia leans back, her voice even. "No."
Karen's fingers pick at a loose thread on her sleeve.
"You're pissed at Gerry." Olivia doesn't frame it as a question.
That gets a reaction. A small one—but still.
Karen's jaw tightens, and for the first time, she actually looks at Olivia.
"I'm pissed at everything," she corrects. "Gerry just doesn't know when to shut up."
Olivia holds her gaze, steady but unreadable. "He's worried about you."
Karen scoffs, her eyes flickering with something sharp. "Yeah? Well, maybe he should stop."
Silence.
A thick, weighted kind of silence.
Then—Karen exhales, rolling onto her side so she's facing the wall. Turning away.
"Just leave me alone, Olivia," she mumbles.
Not Livia. Not even Liv.
Just Olivia.
The words settle deep, like a slow bruise forming beneath the skin.
Because Karen has always had a bit of fire, a sharpness that reminds Olivia so much of Mellie it physically aches. But this?
This is different.
This is distance.
And Olivia knows she put it there.
She should walk out. Give Karen space. That's what the girl wants. That's what she's asking for.
But Olivia also knows what it's like to bel eft alone when you don't really want to be.
So she doesn't move.
Instead, she studies Karen's frame—shoulders drawn tight, legs curled in, small in a way she's never seemed before.
And Olivia softens. Just slightly.
"I know it feels like everything is falling apart," she says, her voice quieter now.
Karen doesn't respond. Doesn't even flinch.
But Olivia knows she's listening.
She exhales, pushing herself to stand. "I won't force you to talk to me, Karen." A pause. "But I'm still here."
Karen doesn't say anything.
But she doesn't tell Olivia to leave again, either.
Olivia lingers just for a second longer, searching for something—anything—that might tell her if she's getting through.
Karen's fingers twitch slightly against the blanket. Not much. Barely a movement.
But Olivia sees it.
She exhales, pushing herself to stand. "I won't force you to talk to me, Karen." A pause. "But I'm still here."
She turns toward the door, ready to give Karen the space she asked for.
Then—just as Olivia reaches for the handle—
"I know."
The words are quiet. Almost an afterthought.
But they stop Olivia in her tracks.
She doesn't turn around.
She doesn't push for more.
She just nods, absorbing the weight of it.
Then she steps out, closing the door softly behind her. As she closes Karen's door behind her, Olivia exhales. Her chest is tight, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin. She doesn't have time to process—there's no space for it. Because the second she steps into OPA, the war waiting for her there will demand all of her focus.
The silence in OPA is suffocating.
Not the productive kind.
Not the kind that comes before a breakthrough.
This silence is sharp-edged, weighted, unspoken but blistering with frustration.
And Olivia feels it.
She sees it in Harrison's stance—arms crossed, gaze hard.
She hears it in Abby's sharp exhale, the tension in her shoulders.
She catches it in Quinn's refusal to even look at her.
They aren't just waiting for orders.
They're waiting for an explanation.
Because she's let this go too long.
And they know it.
"We need to talk."
Harrison's voice cuts through the silence, steady and pointed.
Olivia doesn't flinch.
"Then talk."
Harrison doesn't hesitate.
"Huck is still in custody."
Olivia's jaw tightens.
"I know that."
"Do you?"Abby's voice is sharp, edged with something icy."Because it sure seems like you've been busy with—other things."
Olivia inhales slowly, masking the way her stomach twists.
"Other things?" she repeats, her voice measured.
Quinn finally looks at her.And when she speaks, it's not a question.
"You put Huck on the back burner."
The words land hard. Direct. Unforgiving.
She should push back. Should remind them who the hell she is. Should tell them that they have no idea what she's been juggling, the impossible decisions she's had to make.
She could. She could argue that she's been juggling a thousand moving pieces.
That Fitz's return to power, the political chess match, caring for two grieving kids, and a sick baby, all of it has required her attention.
And it wouldn't be a lie.
But it wouldn't be enough.
Not for them.
Not for Huck.
So instead, she exhales slowly, stepping forward.
"You're right."
A flicker of surprise passes through Harrison's expression.Abby's eyes narrow slightly. Quinn's brows lift.
They weren't expecting that.
"I let too much time pass, "Olivia admits."I've been handling too many fires, and Huck—he got caught in the middle of that."
Abby crosses her arms tighter. "And?"
"And it won't happen again."
Along, heavy pause.
Then—Harrison nods once.
"Then let's fix it."
Olivia meets his gaze.
"Let's."
Because enough waiting.
Huck doesn't have time for hesitation.
And neither does she.
The walls of OPA are alive with movement again.
Quinn is sifting through surveillance footage.
Harrison is on the phone, tracking leads.
Abby is running press checks, making sure nothing leaks before they're ready.
It's a stark contrast to just hours ago when they were ready to turn on her.
Now?
Now, they're back on track.
Because Olivia gave them a mission.
And it's one she won't let fail.
She stands at the window, gripping her phone tightly, her mind spinning.
They're building a case.
They're closing in on Becky.
And Hollis? They'll handle him soon enough.
But there's one thing she can't shake.
Cyrus.
The letter.
The way his words still linger in her head.
"You lied to me."
The air in Cyrus's office had been thick with tension when she'd stormed in.
He hadn't even looked up right away, just swirled the scotch in his glass, waiting.
When he did finally glance at her, his expression was unreadable.
"You're going to have to be more specific, Liv. I lie all the time."
She hadn't played games.
"Don't play games with me, Cyrus. You leaked it. The letter."
His smirk had been small, but sharp.
"I didn't leak anything. But let's not pretend the letter wasn't going to get out eventually."
Olivia had taken a step forward, fists clenched.
"Eventually wasn't now. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
Her voice had been low, cutting.
"Karen saw the news, Cyrus. She's ten. She thinks the world is lying to her. Do you understand that?"
Cyrus had exhaled, setting his glass down.
"This isn't about Karen. It's about the presidency. It's about keeping Sally from seizing power while Fitz is unconscious."
That's when she'd snapped.
"You don't care about Fitz waking up. You don't care about his family. You only care about control. You wanted me to use those kids as pawns, and now you're dragging them into your mess."
Cyrus had stood then, voice rising to match hers.
"Don't lecture me about pawns, Olivia. You knew what this was when you agreed to take them in. If Fitz doesn't wake up, everything we built falls apart. So yes, I used the letter. And if you'd stop thinking with your emotions for five seconds, you'd see that I'm right."
Her breath had been shaky, but she hadn't backed down.
"And when the press finds out the letter's fake? What happens then, Cyrus? Do you think Sally's just going to roll over?"
His smirk had turned colder.
"And we'll handle it. Like we always do. Spin, pivot, and survive. That's what we do, Liv."
Olivia had shaken her head, disgusted.
"Survive? At what cost? Fitz's legacy? His children's trust? Do you even hear yourself?"
Cyrus had stepped closer then, voice low.
"The cost doesn't matter, Olivia. Not if it keeps that snake Sally Langston from planting herself in the Oval Office for good."
And that's when she'd seen it—the crack in his armor.
Because even he knew they were on borrowed time.
Her hands had trembled at her sides, rage barely contained.
"If this letter ruins Fitz's legacy—if it ruins his family—I will never forgive you."
She'd turned, walking away.
And just before she'd reached the door—
"You don't have to forgive me, Liv,"he'd called after her.
"You just have to survive."
Now, standing in her office, staring at the city lights, she replays those words.
She'd been so sure that Cyrus had leaked the letter.
But had he?
Or had he just taken advantage of the fallout?
Her fingers tighten around her phone.
Because if Cyrus didn't leak it…
Then who did?
And why?
A knock at the door pulls her back.
Harrison steps inside, his expression serious.
"We have a lead on Becky."
Olivia nods, setting her phone down.
Because that question? That doubt about Cyrus?
It'll have to wait.
For now.
"Tell me about the assassination attempt."
The interrogator's voice is calm, methodical.
They aren't yelling.
They don't have to.
Because they know what they're doing.
Breaking people is an art form.
And Huck has been on the other side of this table before.
He knows the tricks.
Knows the tactics.
Knows the long pauses designed to make you fill the silence.
Knows the way they tilt their heads, like they're giving you a chance to confess before things get worse.
He knows all of it.
But knowing doesn't make it easier.
Because he's been here too long.
Because the walls are starting to close in.
Because the one person who was supposed to get him out of this hasn't.
"You're wasting time,"Huck mutters, his voice dry, scratchy.
The interrogator doesn't react.
They simply slide a photo across the table.
Becky.
Her face stares back at him, frozen in time, the surveillance still of her standing next to Hollis Doyle.
"You worked with her before, didn't you?"
Huck doesn't blink.
"I want my lawyer."
The interrogator leans back, smiling like they have all the time in the world.
"That's funny, because last time I checked? You don't have one."
A beat.
A slow, suffocating beat.
Huck clenches his fists under the table.
Because they're right.
He has no lawyer.
He has no advocate.
He only has Olivia.
And she isn't here.
Not yet.
Not fast enough.
"You're wasting time,"he says again, but it's weaker now.
Because maybe—
Maybe he's the one wasting time.
Maybe Olivia isn't coming.
Maybe this is it.
The thought grates against his ribs.
Because Huck doesn't pray.
Huck doesn't need saving.
But for the first time ina long, long time?
He's starting to wonder if he's been left behind.
The weight of Huck's absence is pressing down on Olivia.
She's seen people disappear before.
She's helped make people disappear before.
And Huck?
He knows exactly how this works.
Which means he also knows what it means that no one has come for him yet.
That thought makes Olivia's stomach twist.
She has to act. Now.
She picks up her phone and dials.
"I need a favor."
David Rosen sighs on the other end of the line.
"Of course you do. Because I have nothing better to do than clean up after you, Olivia."
She doesn't bite.
"Huck's being held under the Patriot Act. No visitation. No counsel. I need you to check on him."
David pauses.
That's all she needs to know he understands the stakes.
"They don't just let people like me waltz in and ask questions, Liv."
"You're the Attorney General, David. Find a way."
A long exhale.
Then—
"You think he's breaking?"
Olivia closes her eyes for a second.
"I think he's alone."
That, more than anything, seems to push David over the edge.
"Fine. But if I do this, you owe me."
"I already owe you."
"Yeah, well, this one's going at the top of the list."
Olivia doesn't argue.
Because if this gets her inside that door—even by proxy—it's worth it.
David hangs up.
And now?
She waits.
For news.
For proof Huck is still holding on.
For a sign that she isn't already too late.
The holding facility is cold, sterile.
David Rosen hates places like this.
Places that bend the law just enough to justify the worst of humanity.
And when he sees Huck?
He hates it even more.
Huck is chained to the table.
Not just cuffed. Chained.
Like an animal.
His face is bruised. His lip split.
His hands—the same hands that once did unspeakable things for the government—now tremble against the cold metal.
David's stomach tightens.
This is worse than he expected.
Much worse.
"Well, I'll be damned."
The interrogator, a smug-looking agent with too much confidence and too little morality, raises a brow.
"Attorney General Rosen. I don't recall an appointment."
David doesn't look away from Huck.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"We're gathering information."
David lets out a sharp, humorless laugh.
"No, you're torturing a U.S. citizen on American soil."
The agent shrugs.
"The Patriot Act gives us discretion."
"Discretion?" David repeats, stepping closer. His voice drops to something lethal.
"The Patriot Act allows for detention. It does not allow you to beat a man half to death in a locked room where no one can see it."
The agent smirks.
"No one is supposed to see it."
David bristles.
He hates this.
Hates the way power warps men like this.
Hates the way Huck, who has done more for this country than most of them ever will, is shackled like a traitor.
And he hates that Olivia was right.
Huck is alone.
And it's destroying him.
"You want to question him? Fine."David steps between Huck and the agent.
"But if I see so much as a bruise on him after today, I will personally see to it that your entire division is dismantled and that you never work another federal job again."
The agent's smirk falters.
"You don't have that kind of power."
David tilts his head.
"Wanna bet?"
A beat.
A long, charged beat.
Then, the agent leans back, considering.
"Fine. We'll ease up. But don't expect special treatment."
David doesn't bother responding.
Because he already knows this fight isn't over.
Not by a long shot.
He turns to Huck, who has barely reacted to any of this.
"Huck." His voice is softer now.
Huck blinks slowly.
But there's no recognition. No reaction.
Like he's not even sure what's real anymore.
David's chest tightens.
"She's coming for you."
Something in Huck's gazeflickers.
A spark of something buried too deep.
But it's there.
David clings to that.
Because Olivia needs to know.
Huck isn't just losing hope.
He's running out of time.
The news cycle is shifting.
It's not a landslide.
Not a clear victory.
But for the first time since he woke up in that hospital bed, Fitz feels like he has control.
Breaking News: Public Reaction to President Grant's Gun Control Address Shows Mixed But Growing Support
"A Shift in Public Sentiment? Americans Weigh in on Grant's Push for Reform"
"Inside the White House Strategy: Is Grant Slowly Winning Over Congress?"
Fitz absorbs every word.
Every headline.
Every subtle shift in tone.
Because this?
This is momentum.
And momentum is everything.
"We need to push harder."
Fitz's voice is sharp, clipped.
He's still in his dress shirt and tie, sleeves rolled up, pacing the residence with the remote in hand, flipping through networks. He doesn't stop moving.
Because if he stops, he'll think. And if he thinks—
No.
"We need to set up controlled events. Small, deliberate moves to reinforce the message. No waiting, no hesitation."
He turns to Olivia.
She's standing by the window, arms crossed, staring out like the city lights have the answers.
And for the first time, he really sees it.
The exhaustion.
The weight of something she hasn't said yet.
Something pulling her away.
Fitz exhales sharply, irritation curling in his chest.
She's listening, but she isn't here.
And that?
That bothers him more than he wants to admit.
"Liv."
She doesn't turn immediately. Her fingers tighten slightly against her arms, like she's bracing herself before she finally meets his gaze.
"I hear you, Fitz."
His jaw tics.
"Do you?" His voice is lower now, edged with something tired and raw.
Because he's felt this before.
The way she pulls away, piece by piece.
The way she gets lost in wars he isn't invited to.
He remembers this feeling.
And he hates it.
"We have momentum," he presses, his grip tightening around the remote. "We need to keep moving before Sally finds a way to kill it."
Olivia nods.
But it's empty.
Because her mind isn't here.
It's with Huck.
With Hollis.
With a letter that never should have been written.
And Fitz knows it.
He doesn't know the details, but he knows when Olivia Pope is distracted.
And right now, she is.
Fitz rubs his temple, pushing down the sharp pang of a headache.
Too much.
Too fast.
He won't slow down.
Can't slow down.
But his body is already punishing him for it.
He grips the edge of the desk, exhaling through the strain—but Olivia doesn't see it.
Because Olivia isn't looking.
And that?
That infuriates him.
"What's going on with you?" His voice is softer now, more searching.
Olivia forces herself to meet his gaze.
"Nothing."
Fitz lets out a sharp breath—part exhale, part laugh.
"Right. Because that look in your eyes? That's nothing?"
A flicker of something crosses Olivia's face—too quick, too guarded.
She inhales slowly, resets herself.
"We don't have time for this."
"Make time," Fitz counters.
His frustration simmers, controlled but rising.
Because he needs her in this fight.
And instead?
She's somewhere else.
"I know you, Liv. And I know when you're slipping away."
She bristles.
"I'm not slipping."
Fitz steps closer.
His voice is different now. Less anger, more raw honesty.
"Then tell me—where the hell are you?"
The question lingers.
A beat.
A slow, painful beat.
Fitz watches her closely, looking for something—anything—that tells him she's still here with him.
Her lips part.
Just slightly.
For a second, she almost tells him.
But then?
She doesn't.
Because she can't.
Not yet.
And Fitz?
Fitz feels the distance between them like a punch to the ribs.
And it terrifies him.
Because the last time Olivia wasthis far away—
He almost didn't survive it.
Then—breaking news.
The TV screen flashes red.
BREAKING: Vice President Langston Calls for an Emergency Congressional Session on Presidential Fitness
A cold, dead silence fills the room.
Fitz's fingers curl around the remote, his grip tightening.
Olivia's breath catches in her throat.
Because this?
This is Sally's next move.
And this one?
This one will set the world on fire.
The tension in the room is thick, hanging in the air like a storm waiting to break.
Fitz stands near the television, gripping the remote so tightly his knuckles turn white. The words on the screen haven't changed.
BREAKING: Vice President Langston Calls for an Emergency Congressional Session on Presidential Fitness
The betrayal is loud. Immediate. And it fills Fitz with a rage that simmers beneath the surface, burning slow and controlled.
"She's making her move," Fitz says, his voice tight, calculated. "She didn't even wait for the ink to dry on the headlines."
Olivia stands by the window, arms crossed. Her posture is sharp, controlled—but her mind? It's spinning. Calculating. Because this isn't just about Sally. It's about keeping Fitz in the fight without letting him collapse under the weight of it.
Before she can speak, the door swings open with force.
Cyrus Beene doesn't storm—he barrels in, presence cutting through the room like a blade.
"She's tightening the noose," he says, waving a stack of papers. His voice is razor-edged, his eyes sharp and full of fire. "This isn't just a power move, Fitz. She's got half the damn party whispering in dark corners, questioning whether you're strong enough to hold on."
Fitz clenches his jaw, inhales through his nose.
"We knew she'd do this," Olivia says, stepping forward, steady. "This doesn't change our goal. We stick to the plan. We focus on gun control. We show strength, we lead, and we make sure the conversation stays where it belongs—on real change, not Sally Langston's distractions."
Cyrus exhales sharply, shaking his head. "And how do we keep that focus when Sally is steering the conversation away from gun control? She's framing this as a leadership crisis, not a policy issue. The party is listening to her—hell, half the country is."
Olivia steps in, voice unwavering. "Then we don't hesitate. We don't blink. We move first, control the next step, and make sure Sally never gets to set the terms."
Cyrus scoffs. "And what's the next move, Olivia? Because right now, Sally is shaping this as a referendum on Fitz's ability to lead, not just a debate on gun control. We need to show more than just policy strength. We need to show him strong."
Fitz stiffens, the air in the room turning charged. Olivia's gaze flickers to his hand for only a second before locking onto Cyrus.
"We don't pretend," she says. "We define. We reinforce his presence, his authority. We take this moment and make it ours before she can weaponize it."
Cyrus folds his arms, eyes narrowing. Then he pivots.
"And what about Edison?" he asks, tone biting. "Where do his loyalties lie? Can he really be trusted to hold this off like he promised? Because from where I'm standing, it's not working."
Olivia meets his gaze without flinching. "We reinforce Fitz's strength by making this personal. We take control of the story by putting real faces at the center of it."
"I'm telling you—we stick to the plan. Sally wants us scrambling, second-guessing ourselves. We don't. We push forward on our terms, not hers. And we focus on gun control."
Cyrus lets out a slow breath, considering. "A closed event, controlled optics, raw emotion—no filters, no spin." He nods once. "That could work. We make it clear Fitz isn't just talking policy. He's leading the fight because he believes in it."
"Yes." Olivia's voice is steady, deliberate. "We shift the focus. We take this fight to the people who matter. Fitz meets with families who have lost loved ones to gun violence—real people, real stories. We host a small, intimate event where he can speak with those affected. No press, just social media. We control the visuals, the message, the impact."
Fitz watches her, something unreadable in his expression. Some part of him is still caught in the frustration, the quiet space between them that hasn't closed. But in this moment, she's Olivia Pope—the woman who fixes things.
"I know just the way to do it," Olivia adds, and the weight in her voice makes both men pause. There's a risk here, one she isn't yet ready to lay bare.
Cyrus narrows his eyes. "Oh, I'm going to hate this, aren't I?"
Fitz, despite everything, smirks just slightly. "Probably."
Olivia's expression doesn't change.
Because whatever she's planning?
It's already in motion.
His hands won't stop shaking.
Fitz grips the edge of the desk, his breathing shallow.
His tie sits half-knotted, his fingers fumbling uselessly with the fabric.
Steady. Focus. Pull it together.
The mirror reflects a stranger. Drawn. Pale. Eyes hollow.
He doesn't recognize himself.
The tremor is worse today.
The tightness in his chest won't let up. His vision tilts for half a second too long.
Not now. Not today.
Fitz presses his fingers against the desk, grounding himself.
He forces a breath through his nose. Then another.
He has to get through this.
If his hands won't cooperate, he'll find another way.
His fingers clench the tie, tightening it roughly, pulling until the knot sits flush against his collar. It's not perfect, but it'll do.
A knock at the door.
He straightens. Sets his shoulders.
The show must go on.
The room is small, intimate, designed for conversation—not speeches. A semicircle of chairs surrounds Fitz as he sits across from families who have lost loved ones to gun violence. There are no cameras. No press. Just them, their stories, and the weight of what he's trying to accomplish.
A mother speaks first, voice trembling. She clutches a photo of her son. "He was seventeen. Just walking home."
Fitz listens, nodding, his expression unreadable but deeply present. Olivia watches him from the edge of the room, arms folded tight, resisting the urge to step in and manage the moment. This has to be his. He has to feel it, to own it.
Another parent speaks, then another. Grief fills the space, raw and untamed. Fitz shifts in his chair, rubbing his temple subtly—Olivia sees it immediately. The tension in his jaw, the flicker of discomfort in his eyes.
His body is betraying him.
He clenches his left fist to steady himself, but the tremor is noticeable. The mother beside him places a hand over his, mistaking it for emotion rather than physical strain. Fitz swallows hard and nods, squeezing her hand in return.
Olivia exhales, but it's not relief—it's dread. Because she sees it now. Fitz is pushing too hard.
Across the room, Cyrus notices too, his sharp gaze flickering between Fitz and Olivia. He says nothing. Not yet. But the moment has been clocked.
Fitz pushes forward, voice steady but softer now. "I hear you. And I won't stop fighting."
The words land. The moment lands. But Olivia knows—he's at his limit.
The moment Olivia steps back into the office, the energy is charged.
Harrison, Abby, and Quinn are waiting. Not with curiosity—with frustration.
"Did you even check your phone?" Abby demands.
Olivia stiffens. "I've been handling the President's event."
"Yeah, we noticed," Quinn snaps. "While you've been off fixing him, Huck is still rotting in a hole somewhere."
Olivia exhales sharply, dropping her bag onto the desk. "I haven't forgotten Huck."
Harrison folds his arms. "Really? Because from where we're standing, it sure as hell looks like you have."
The words land heavier than they should. Because deep down, Olivia knows she's been stretched too thin. But admitting it? That's not an option.
"We are working on Huck," she says, voice edged with steel. "Hollis Doyle isn't going to walk away from this."
Abby shakes her head. "If you still believe that, then you're the only one."
Silence fills the room. The unspoken hangs between them.
Olivia isn't just losing control of the narrative.
She's losing them.
Later that night, Olivia finds Fitz in the residence, sitting in the dim light of his office, eyes closed, fingers pressing against his temple. In the background, the soft murmur of his children carries through the halls—Gerry whispering to Karen, Teddy fussing quietly from his crib. The distant sounds of their presence, their lives continuing despite everything, settle like a weight in the air. The meeting drained him. Every thing is draining him.
She hesitates before stepping closer. "You need to rest."
Fitz exhales, opening his eyes. "They need me."
"They need you alive, Fitz."
He studies her, exhaustion etched into his face. "And what about you? How long can you keep running on empty before you collapse?"
The question lingers. Olivia shifts slightly, glancing toward the sound of the children. The soft laughter, the murmurs of a life continuing despite the chaos—it should bring comfort, but instead, it reminds her of everything still unresolved. The weight of it all presses heavier against her chest. A small laugh escapes from down the hall—Karen saying something to Gerry that earns a quiet chuckle. Fitz hears it too, his expression softening for just a moment, a reminder of why he's still fighting.
She rubs her arms, suddenly feeling cold. "You don't have to do this alone, Fitz." Her voice is softer now, less about strategy and more aboutthem.
Fitz studies her, his gaze searching, but he doesn't push. Instead, he nods, exhaustion pulling at his features. "Neither do you."
For a brief moment, silence stretches between them. Not uncomfortable, but full of meaning, of an understanding they rarely let themselves acknowledge.
Because the truth is?
She doesn't know.
The room is dark, damp, and reeking of sweat and blood. Huck's wrists are raw from the restraints, the metal biting into his skin each time he jerks involuntarily from the shocks coursing through his body. His breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling in erratic patterns as his captors circle him like vultures.
A bucket of water is tossed in his face. Cold. Unrelenting. It stings against open wounds, forcing his body to shudder violently. His head snaps up slightly, only for rough fingers to seize his hair, yanking it back cruelly. The fluorescent light above flickers, barely illuminating the agony etched into his face.
A fist connects with his ribs. Once. Twice. A methodical rhythm, breaking him down piece by piece. His body sways, held upright only by the chains suspending him. Blood drips onto the concrete floor, mingling with the stale, humid air.
A blade glints in the dim light. It traces the outline of his cheek, pressing just enough to let the promise of pain linger. The silence is suffocating. His captors don't speak—there's no need to. They know he won't break easily. But everyone has a limit. And Huck? Huck is teetering on the edge of his.
David Rosen sits across from Olivia, his usually composed demeanor visibly shaken. His hands are clasped together, fingers gripping too tightly as if trying to steady himself. Olivia watches him, her own expression unreadable, but the slight tension in her jaw betrays her restraint.
A thick file sits between them. Unopened. But the weight of it is crushing.
David exhales slowly, his eyes dark with something Olivia doesn't see in him often—fear.
She doesn't press him to speak. He will when he's ready.
Finally, he shifts, his gaze locking onto hers. The words don't come easily. Whatever he saw, whatever condition Huck is in—it's worse than she anticipated.
David slides the file forward. Olivia doesn't move to take it. Instead, she watches him, waiting for him to say it out loud.
His voice is hoarse when he finally does.
"You need to get him out. Now."
Cyrus is already drinking when Olivia steps into his office.
"The letter."
Cyrus doesn't look up right away. He swirls the amber liquid in his glass, watching the slow turn of the ice before finally meeting her gaze. His expression is unreadable, but there's something lurking beneath the surface—something she can't quite place yet.
"What about it?" he asks, finally setting the glass down.
Olivia steps forward, resting her hands against the back of the chair in front of his desk. "When you said you used it—what did you mean?"
Cyrus exhales, shaking his head slightly. "It means exactly what I said. I didn't leak it, but once it was out there? I made sure it landed exactly where it needed to."
Olivia doesn't blink. "So who did?"
Cyrus tilts his head, studying her. His expression shifts—subtle, but unmistakable. Realization creeps in, the final pieces clicking into place. He exhales sharply, shaking his head, almost in disbelief. "Damn. We weren't playing with smoke. We just found the fire."
He leans forward, setting his drink aside, his voice quieter now. "You were right, Liv. Everything ties back to him. Fitz shutting him out of the oil deal, the shooting, Huck getting framed. He's not reacting to problems—he's eliminating them before they can become threats. That's what he does. And we've seen it before."
Finally, he exhales, his voice dropping lower. "Hollis."
The name lands like a weight in the room.
For a moment, Olivia doesn't move, doesn't breathe. She'd suspected it—known it—but hearing it confirmed shifts something in the air.
Cyrus leans back again, rubbing a hand over his face as if he's only now fully accepting what they're up against. "Jesus. This wasn't about taking Fitz out—it was about controlling what came next. A power play. Hollis made sure everything was lined up perfectly before pulling the trigger—literally."
The weight of the words settles in Olivia's chest, pressing down like a vice. It's not just speculation anymore. It's not theory. It's fact.
Cyrus picks up his glass again but doesn't drink. He just holds it, staring at the liquid as if it holds the answer. "You realize what this means, don't you?"
Olivia does.
Hollis.
It's always been him.
Cyrus watches her, waiting, as if measuring how deep she's willing to go. Outside, the faint murmur of the West Wing hums beneath the moment, the weight of it settling into her bones.
She doesn't need to say anything.
Cyrus already knows what comes next.
Olivia already knows that.
But now? She's no longer chasing ghosts.
She has a name.
A target.
And she won't stop until she brings Hollis Doyle down.
The numbers don't lie.
Bank transfers. Offshore accounts. Shell corporations routed through half a dozen names before circling back to a familiar one.
Hollis Doyle.
The OPA conference table is littered with files, digital records pulled up on laptops, and a tense energy filling the room as Olivia, Harrison, Abby, and Quinn pore over the evidence. The final nail in the coffin is right in front of them.
"We've got him," Harrison says, tapping the screen. "This payment to Becky—it's routed through a shell company registered in the Caymans. But here—" he zooms in, highlighting a signature, "—this links back to Doyle Energy. He's been sloppy."
Abby exhales, shaking her head. "He must've thought no one would dig this deep."
Olivia crosses her arms. "Or he thought he'd buried it well enough that no one would ever get the chance."
Quinn, leaning over another laptop, suddenly stiffens. "Uh… we have a problem."
She turns the screen around, and everyone leans in as breaking news floods the web.
"Breaking: New Evidence Suggests Supreme Court Justice Verna Thornton Orchestrated Grant Assassination Attempt."
A sharp silence falls over the room. Olivia's jaw tightens as she reads the manufactured crisis unfolding in real time.
Abby shakes her head, disgusted. "That bastard."
"He's pinning it all on Verna," Quinn mutters, still scrolling through the article. "Shifting the heat."
Olivia exhales through her nose, her mind already moving a mile a minute. "Because he knows we're close. This is his counterstrike."
Harrison rubs a hand over his jaw. "Verna's not going to let this stand."
"No, she won't," Olivia agrees. "But it doesn't matter. Hollis just muddied the waters. Even if we drop what we have now, it's competing with a headline that gives the public a whole different story."
Abby looks up. "Then how do we make sure ours is the only story that sticks?"
Olivia glances at the clock, then back at the team. "We get ahead of it."
That's when David Rosen steps in, tossing a fresh folder onto the table. "Then we don't give him the chance."
She opens it, scanning the contents, her pulse quickening as she pieces it together. A separate transaction, hidden under layers of red tape, but not clean enough. A financial signature only Hollis Doyle would leave behind.
David crosses his arms. "You get me in the right room, I'll make sure he doesn't spin his way out of this."
Olivia exhales slowly, nodding.
She pulls out her phone, dialing Cyrus. He picks up after one ring.
"We're moving on Hollis. I'll keep you updated."
Cyrus doesn't argue. Doesn't hesitate. Just exhales into the receiver. "About damn time."
Olivia hangs up, turning back to her team.
"Let's end this."
Quinn types furiously, cross-referencing accounts, flagged activity, and past aliases. "She didn't just vanish," she mutters. "Becky's good, but she's not a ghost."
Harrison, scrolling through another set of records, suddenly pauses. "Wait. Here—multiple cash withdrawals from a flagged alias in New York. Same pattern as last time she went off the grid."
Abby leans over. "Is it her?"
Quinn zooms in. "Bingo."
Olivia nods. "Where?"
Quinn smirks. "She's hiding in plain sight."
The screen flickers—security footage from a bus terminal. A woman in a hoodie, head low, slipping into the crowd.
Becky.
Olivia's voice is razor-sharp. "Get a location. Now.
The black SUV speeds through the darkened streets, headlights cutting through the rain-soaked pavement. Olivia grips the dashboard, eyes locked on the GPS tracker as Quinn navigates the vehicle with controlled urgency.
"She's three blocks ahead," Harrison reports from the backseat, monitoring the live security feed from the bus terminal.
Becky moves fast, slipping through the crowd, her hood pulled tight around her face. She knows she's being hunted.
"She's making for the alley," Abby warns. "She knows we're on her."
Quinn accelerates, skidding around a corner, the tires screeching. Olivia's heart pounds in her chest.
"Go!" Olivia commands.
Harrison and Abby spill out first, chasing Becky on foot. She darts between dumpsters, vaulting over a low fence, but Quinn is already cutting her off on the other side.
Becky turns sharply, reaching for her concealed weapon—
A single gunshot rings out.
She stumbles, dropping the weapon as Harrison tackles her to the pavement, pinning her wrists.
Breathing hard, Olivia steps forward, looming over Becky as she struggles. Rain drips from her face as she stares down at the woman who almost destroyed everything.
"It's over," Olivia says, voice steady.
Becky smirks, blood staining her lips. "You think so?"
But Olivia doesn't waver.
David arrives moments later with law enforcement, flashing his badge. "Becky Flynn, you're under arrest."
As they haul Becky to her feet, Olivia exhales.
It's done.
The room is stark and cold, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead. Becky sits in handcuffs, her wrists resting on the metal table as David paces in front of her.
"You've got one chance to cut a deal," he says, his voice firm. "Give us Doyle."
Becky leans back, smirking. "You think I'm just going to hand him over?"
David slides a folder in front of her, flipping it open. Transaction records. Flight logs. Payments. Everything.
Her smirk falters.
Olivia steps forward. "You're already done, Becky. The only question is—do you want to go down alone?"
A long silence stretches between them. Then, finally—
Becky exhales, tapping a finger against the folder. "Fine. Hollis gave the order. He paid me through the offshore accounts. He said Fitz was in the way. That's all it was."
David nods, stepping back. Olivia doesn't react. No satisfaction. No triumph. Just the cold confirmation of what she already knew.
Moments later, federal agents storm Doyle Energy headquarters.
Hollis is mid-meeting, his feet kicked up on the desk, a cigar in hand, when the doors burst open.
"Federal agents! Hands where we can see them!"
His smirk fades as cuffs snap around his wrists. "Now, hold on a damn second—"
"You have the right to remain silent," the agent reads, dragging him from his chair.
Hollis locks eyes with Olivia, standing just outside the door.
She doesn't flinch.
The last thing he sees before they shove him into a patrol car is Olivia Pope, unshaken.
Hollis Doyle is done.
The OPA office is quiet when Huck steps inside. The usual energy—the rapid-fire conversations, the sharp clatter of keyboards—has dulled into something tense, uncertain.
Quinn is the first to see him. She straightens in her chair, her face flickering between relief and hesitation. Harrison follows suit, exchanging a glance with Abby. No one speaks immediately.
Huck lingers near the doorway, his stance rigid. He looks at Olivia, who stands by the conference table, her expression unreadable.
"You're free," she says.
Huck nods but doesn't respond.
A beat.
"You did it," he finally says, voice rough, hollow.
"We did," Olivia corrects. But there's no warmth behind the words.
The silence stretches. Olivia can feel it—the fracture, the space between them that wasn't there before. Huck isn't looking at her the way he used to. Trust had once been unshakable between them. Now, it's brittle.
"I waited," Huck says. "I thought—" He exhales sharply. "I thought you'd come sooner."
"Huck—"
He shakes his head. "It's fine."
Except it isn't. Not really.
Abby shifts uncomfortably. Quinn looks down at her hands. Even Harrison doesn't have his usual quip to ease the tension.
"We got you out," Olivia says, voice softer now.
Huck finally meets her gaze. "Yeah. But it took too long."
A charged silence hangs in the air before Huck turns and walks toward his desk. The conversation is over.
The team watches him go, but no one knows what to say. The cracks in OPA are deepening.
And Olivia isn't sure if they'll ever fully mend.
Fitz exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face.
His head is pounding, his body aching, but there's still work to do.
There's always more work to do.
His eyes flick to the stack of files waiting on his desk. He reaches for the first one, but his fingers hesitate midair.
They're still shaking.
He curls them into a fist, forcing stillness. He tries again—gripping a pen, willing his hand to cooperate.
The tremor is worse tonight.The pen slips. He catches it before it hits the floor.
Breathe. Focus. Keep moving.
He tightens his grip, ignoring the ache in his wrist, the weight in his chest.
He has to get through this.
A long, slow breath.
He picks up the file.
The letters blur.
Fitz blinks hard, jaw clenching. His vision sharpens just enough. He forces himself to read.
One page. Then another.
Keep going. Keep pushing.
The pounding in his skull doesn't stop.
Neither does he.