Alright, here's chapter 9! I apologize if it seems a bit rushed, I'm currently finishing up my PhD and thus inundated in work. Thank you so much for your feedback on the last chapter! I always appreciate it. Also, I promise to have more scenes with Henry and Elizabeth soon, but with Elizabeth out of the loop, I need to incorporate what is taking place outside the hospital walls following the terrorist attack, and balancing that is more difficult than it looks. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!
SAFE HOUSE — AFTERNOON— DAY 2
Yasmin sat curled up on the worn-out couch, her knees tucked tightly to her chest. The TV flickered in the dim room, shades drawn to keep the outside world at bay. President Dalton's voice filled the silence, steady yet firm.
"…We will not be intimidated by those who seek to divide us. We will pursue justice with unwavering resolve…"
Yasmin barely heard him. Her eyes remained fixed on the corner of the screen, where Elizabeth McCord's face appeared alongside the headline: "TERROR TARGET?"
Her fingers grasped the sleeves of her sweater. The words on the screen seemed to mock her — as if the world believed Elizabeth was part of some twisted plan.
"No…" Yasmin whispered, her voice barely audible.
A sharp knock at the door startled her. Two FBI agents entered — one older, with a no-nonsense demeanor, and the other younger, his face softer, more careful.
"Miss Nazari?" the older agent said firmly.
Yasmin didn't look away from the TV. The words "Immigration Agenda?" flashed across the bottom of the screen.
"You've already asked me everything," she said between clenched teeth.
"We just need to clarify a few things," the older agent insisted, his tone leaving little room for argument.
The younger agent spoke more gently. "We know this is overwhelming," he said, "but anything you can remember could help."
Yasmin hesitated before rising from the couch and moving toward the small dining table. Her steps were slow, heavy, like bricks had been glued to the soles of her shoes.
"Did anyone follow you when you left Akhastan?" the older agent asked. "Did you notice anything unusual before you arrived?"
Yasmin shook her head. "I barely made it out," she said, her voice faltering. "I wasn't looking over my shoulder — I was just trying to stay alive."
"And Dylan Asher?" the older agent pressed. "You never saw him before?"
"No," Yasmin said firmly. "I didn't know him. I didn't know anything about this... until I saw my name on the news."
Her voice trembled on the last word. She paused, swallowing hard before continuing.
"They said I was... the proxy target."
The younger agent shifted in his seat, casting a quick glance at his partner. Yasmin caught it — that silent exchange that said they knew more than they were letting on.
"We're doing everything we can to keep you safe," the younger agent assured her.
Yasmin let out a bitter laugh and turned back toward the TV. A panel of commentators now filled the screen, one speculating that Elizabeth McCord had somehow staged the attack to push her immigration policies.
"Looks like no one's safe," Yasmin said, her voice hollow.
She hugged her sweater tightly around herself, as if she could disappear inside it. The agents stayed quiet, unsure of what to say.
"You're safe here," the younger agent said at last, his voice softer. "We promise."
Yasmin didn't answer. She just stared ahead, her mind tangled in a whirlwind of fear, guilt, and uncertainty.
WHITE HOUSE — RUSSEL'S OFFICE — MID AFTERNOON - DAY 2
Russell's office felt even more stifling than usual. Papers were strewn across his desk, folders left half-open with sticky notes hastily slapped on top. The television was muted, but the image of a talking head analyzing the Dulles bombing was impossible to ignore.
Nadine stood by one of the chairs, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "We can't just keep reacting," she said firmly. "We need to take control of this before it spirals any further."
Russell stood behind his desk, one hand braced on the back of his chair and the other rubbing his forehead. "You think I don't know that?" he snapped.
"I've spent all morning making sure Dalton doesn't fly off the handle. He's one more conspiracy theory away from personally calling every news station in the country."
"Well, maybe that's what we need," Nadine countered. "We can't just sit on our hands and hope this goes away."
Russell exhaled hard, shaking his head. "We don't have solid ground to stand on yet. The FBI hasn't officially tied Akhastan to this, we've got no proof Dylan Asher had direct contact with Elroy Reyner, and the media's already convinced Yasmin's part of some elaborate scheme. If we push too hard without something concrete, we look desperate — or worse, guilty."
"That's why we need to be careful about how we handle Yasmin," Nadine said, stepping closer. "She's scared, and she's alone. If someone gets to her before we do…" She trailed off, but her meaning was clear.
Russell dropped into his chair, hands clasped tightly on the desk. "I know," he muttered. "Believe me, I know." He paused, then added with a little less bite, "Look... if this were just about Elizabeth, I'd tell her to ride it out. She's taken hits before. But Yasmin?" He shook his head. "That girl's gonna get eaten alive if we're not careful."
Nadine softened, her arms uncrossing slightly. "Then we make sure she's protected. But we also make sure the public sees her as what she is — a victim, not a villain."
Russell let out a dry laugh. "You think the media's gonna buy that?"
"I think they'll buy whatever story we give them," Nadine said evenly. "As long as we tell it the right way."
Russell considered her words, tapping a pen anxiously against his desk. "Alright," he muttered finally. "We push Yasmin's story — carefully. We focus on her bravery, what she risked to get here. But no overplaying our hand — I don't want us looking like we're exploiting her."
"Agreed," Nadine said with a small nod. "And the secretary?"
Russell's expression hardened. "We back her quietly — for now. When the time's right, we go big. Remind people who she really is."
"And when will the time be right?" Nadine asked.
Russell exhaled slowly, like he was holding something back. "When we've got enough to prove that she's been telling the truth all along."
"Then we'd better get there fast," Nadine said, her tone low but firm.
Russell gave a humorless chuckle. "Yeah," he muttered, "because this is shaping up to be one hell of a storm."
WHITE HOUSE (WEST WING) OUTSIDE RUSSELL'S OFFICE
Russell was moving fast, his focus locked on his phone as he scanned his inbox. His conversation with Nadine had left him feeling the pressure — they needed results, and fast.
He barely noticed Stevie rounding the corner until she was right in front of him.
"Stevie?" he said, stopping abruptly. His tone was more surprised than annoyed — for now.
"I was actually looking for you," she said, her voice clipped.
Russell checked his wristwatch. "I've got five minutes."
"Then I'll make this quick," she began. "You told me I should take a break."
"And you should," Russell said immediately, tucking his phone into his blazer pocket. "Your mom's in the hospital, and the last thing she needs is to worry about you working yourself into the ground."
"She's not worried about me," Stevie countered. "She's worried about the country — which is exactly why I should be here."
Russell exhaled sharply, clearly out of patience. "Stevie, this isn't just about clocking in and doing your part. The press is circling like sharks, and they're looking for any excuse to spin this as Elizabeth pulling strings for her family. If you push too hard, you become the story."
"You think I don't know that?" Stevie snapped. "I know exactly how this works. I've kept my head down and done the work. So don't stand there and act like I don't know what's at stake."
Russell shook his head, lowering his voice. "This isn't about proving yourself."
"I'm not trying to prove myself," Stevie said, her voice gentler now but no less determined. "I'm trying to help. That's all."
For a moment, Russell seemed like he was about to brush her off. But something in her expression stopped him. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Look," he said, his tone had become more rounded. "You're good at what you do — I wouldn't have kept you around if you weren't. But this situation... it's are high, and if you push too hard right now, you could end up hurting the cause instead of helping it."
Stevie's frustration simmered just beneath the surface. "So what? I just sit back and wait?"
"I'm saying pick your moment," Russell said surely. "There's gonna come a time when your voice is exactly what we need — but this isn't it."
He stepped past her, heading toward the Situation Room.
"Mr. Jackson," Stevie called after him.
He stopped, just for a second.
"She's not just your Secretary of State," Stevie said. "She's my mom."
Russell didn't turn around, but his voice softened just enough when he replied. "I know." Then he kept walking.
"I appreciate the concern," continued Stevie, "but if I go home, I'm just going to be sitting around watching the news and reading conspiracy theories about my mother. If I'm here, I can actually do something productive."
Russell studied her briefly, then sighed, muttering under his breath, "You McCords are exhausting."
A subtle smirk painted across Stevie's lips, but it faded when she saw the concern still in Russell's eyes.
"Just… don't push too hard," he advised, softly.
Stevie nodded, acknowledging Russell's advice, her expression softening as she headed inside to get to work.
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM — LATE AFTERNOON – DAY 2
President Dalton sat at the table with a prominent worried expression as he carefully studied the Intelligence reports that were fanned out in front of him, trying to make sense of them. Around the table, senior advisors, military officials, and intelligence officers sat anxiously and weary in their chairs.
On the large screen at the front of the room, a photo of Yasmin was displayed next to news headlines and surveillance footage. In bold letters: PROXY TARGET – ASYLUM GRANTED TO DISSIDENT SPARKS TERRORIST ATTACK.
Closing one of the files, Dalton said flatly, "They're trying to scare us into submission."
His Chief of Staff spoke up next to him in agreement. "They're sending a message. If we protect Nazari, we're vulnerable. If we hand her over, we undermine everything we stand for."
"She's not just a witness. She's a symbol. And as long as she's here, she's a target... and so are we." Director Ephraim Ware verbalized from his seat on the left side of the table.
"They want to dismantle our credibility. To make it clear that seeking refuge with us comes at a price. If we fold now…" began Admiral Ellen Hill.
"We don't fold," the president interrupted. "Not after everything we've built. Not after everything Secretary McCord fought for." His eyes burned with conviction as he looked around the room. "The State Department worked tirelessly to build trust, to foster alliances, to show the world that we protect those who need it most. If we abandon Yazmin now, we undo all of it. We let fear dictate our policies, and they win."
An uneasy silence impregnated the room, the weight of his words settling heavily.
Aware of this Dalton spoke again, "This momentous achievement carried out by the DOS represented everything they hate—freedom, democracy... hope."
Russell, exchanging a look with Dalton said, "Which means Akhastan could be directly involved."
In response, the president inhaled sharply. "Or worse—they're using an American organization to fund terrorism on our soil."
"If that's true, it's an act of war." Stated Admiral Ed Parker, matter-of-factly.
Dalton nodded. "Which is why we need to be certain. Keep investigating. If the Jacob Whitman Society is compromised, we take them down. But we do it by the book. I don't want this blowing up in our faces."
"And if they're innocent?" Russell questioned, skepticism filling his words.
"Then we clear their name. But until then, we treat them as a threat. American lives are at stake, and I won't let politics cloud our judgment," answered Dalton.
Ware interjected his own thoughts. "We'll keep pressing. But if Akhastan is backing them... this could go deeper than we think."
"Then dig deeper," demanded the president. "And keep Yasmin Nazari protected. If she was the target, she might be the key to unraveling this."
Admiral Parker crossed his arms. "Are we looking at a political alliance or something more sinister?"
"That's what we're trying to determine. There's been increased communication between the Jacob Whitman Society and several Akhastani nationals. "The timing lines up — these spikes in activity started about a month before the bombing. We're still working on decrypting the messages, but it's clear they weren't just casual chatter. This was organized. Whatever they were discussing, they didn't want us to know about it." Admiral Hill informed the room.
"It is becoming more evident that Asher and Bennett, and the rest of the JWS weren't acting alone. If they were communicating with anyone overseas, we have to find out who... and how deep this really goes." Russell had begun to pace slightly, but never more than a couple feet.
Dalton sat back in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. "Are we looking at espionage? Or are they directly supporting terrorism?"
"That's the question, Sir," answered Admiral Hill. "But it would explain a lot. Akhastan has been bolstering extremist cells under the radar. If the Jacob Whitman Society is acting as a proxy... funding or even recruiting operatives…"
"...then this attack was more than retaliation. It was strategic. And Yasmin Nazari was the perfect target." Russell cut in, his face white like a bedsheet.
Director Ware pulled up satellite images on the large screen, lecturing, "We've tracked suspicious activity at several known extremist sites in Akhastan. Increased communications and encrypted data packets. It could be coincidence... or it could be coordination."
Admiral Hill trailed on the footsteps of Ware's. "Our intel suggests Akhastan's government is turning a blind eye to growing extremist factions. If they're harboring terrorists who planned this attack—"
"Then they're complicit," Dalton interrupted, finishing Hill's sentence. "But we need proof before we take any action. I want surveillance intensified. Every communication, every connection—find out if Asher and Bennett were working with someone there. I want surveillance intensified on the Jacob Whitman Society. Every phone call, every email, every financial transaction. If they're connected to Akhastan, I want to see the smoking gun."
"We've already begun, Mr. President. We're already tracing their digital footprints. But we're running into roadblocks. Someone went to great lengths to cover their tracks. This wasn't amateur work. They're using the kind of encryption we usually see from state actors." Ware pointed out.
Dalton's eyes narrowed. "Then we keep trying. I don't care how long it takes or how much it costs. We cannot afford to let this slide. Not with American lives at stake."
Admiral Hill reassured the president. "Our analysts are cross-referencing every piece of intel. The NSA is prioritizing decryption, and we're working with the FBI's cyber unit to see if there's a financial trail. If Akhastan's backing this, there's a paper trail somewhere — money, supplies, maybe even travel records."
"Good," he replied. "And what about the ringleader? Any progress?"
"We do have a name: Elroy Reyner, although it is still too early to publicize it, sir," Ware admitted.
"What are the links associated with this Elroy Reyner?" Dalton asked.
"His name keeps surfacing in the encrypted threads. Either someone's referencing him, or he's actively involved. Whoever orchestrated this is a ghost."
Russell scoffed under his breath. "So we've got smoke but no fire."
"We've got more than smoke," Hill shot back. "There's a clear pattern here. The encryption they're using — it's sophisticated, way beyond what a group like the Jacob Whitman Society should be capable of. Someone with serious resources is backing them."
Dalton thought heavily for moment. "If Akhastan is involved, we need irrefutable proof. I don't want finger-pointing — I want proof. Solid, undeniable proof. If we overplay the Akhastan angle without solid evidence, we risk escalating tensions — or worse, giving the extremists exactly what they want."
The frustration Russel had been suppressing was beginning to visibly become apparent. "Yeah, well, the press isn't waiting for proof. Half the country already thinks the secretary is some sort of mastermind behind this, and the other half's ready to bomb Akhastan back to the Stone Age. We can't afford to misstep here. We need answers now." His hand met the table aggressively in frustration. "If Asher and Bennett were pawns, who was pulling the strings?"
Dalton answered in a collective and calm voice, stepping in before Russell could build more steam, trying to prevent further outbursts. "That's what we're going to find out. And if they're protecting the mastermind…" He paused, his gaze icy and resolute. "...then we hold them accountable. But until then, we focus on Asher and Bennett. Track their contacts, their movements, every conversation they had. I want to know who they were working with and what their next move is."
"And if we don't get it fast enough?" Russell pressed.
"Then we hold the line, and remain ready. If this is an international network, we strike before they get another chance. I want every agency on high alert. No stone left unturned."" Dalton said firmly. "We don't let the chaos decide this for us."
"Right," Russell grumbled in complaint. "Because the country's really good at waiting for the truth."
Considering the president's demand, Ware replied, "We'll ramp up counter-terrorism measures. But if Akhastan truly is involved, this could escalate quickly."
Somberly, Dalton responded, "Then we escalate. But we protect our people. At all costs."
"What about Yasmin Nazari? If Akhastan is behind this, her asylum status makes her even more of a target," scoffed Russell.
"We keep her safe. But we also use every resource she can provide. If she has information that can connect the dots, I want to know." President Dalton mandated.
"We can keep Yasmin in protective custody. Rotate secure locations, change protocols daily. But they'll keep hunting. As long as she's here, the threat remains. We're already questioning her. But she's shaken. We need to be careful how we proceed." Admiral Hill replied.
With a nod, Dalton stated, "Handle her delicately. But make it clear—American lives are on the line." Dalton paused for a moment. "Let's give the American people something to hold on to in the meantime. Make sure they know their Secretary of State is the same woman they've trusted for years — not whatever fantasy the internet's cooking up." He glanced at the screen, his face hardening as he took in the evidence before him.
"Keep me updated on every development. We keep pushing until we find answers. And if Akhastan is behind this…." His voice dropped, cold and unyielding. "...they'll regret ever crossing us."
Dalton stood, his chair scraping against the floor, signaling the end of the meeting. The room emptied, but Russell lingered a moment longer, staring at the screen displaying tangled lines of encrypted data.
"We're running out of time," he muttered to himself.
WALTER REED HOSPITAL - LATE AFTERNOON - DAY 2
Elizabeth was resting against a stack of pillows, partially upright in the hospital bed, her body sinking into the mattress with exhaustion, her face still marked with the aftermath of the bombing—bruises, cuts, and bandages littered her body. Deep purples, angry reds, patches of raw skin where shrapnel had torn through. The thin, clear tubing of the nasal cannula looped over her ears, the prongs resting just beneath her nose, providing a steady flow of oxygen to her lungs. IV lines snaked into her hand, and beneath the thin hospital gown, chest tubes protruded from her side, a cruel reminder of the damage her body had suffered. She could feel them with every breath—tight, restricting, painful. Her left leg, thickly wrapped and elevated on a pillow, throbbed with a dull ache. It remained untouched, like she hadn't fully registered that part of her body as her own yet.
But she hadn't looked.
She hadn't looked at any of it.
The injuries she could see were bad enough. The ones she couldn't—the ones beneath the bandages, under the gown, hidden beneath layers of gauze and medical tape—she hadn't found the courage to examine yet. There was a certain detachment in that, a quiet avoidance. As if not acknowledging them would somehow make them less real.
Elizabeth lay propped up against a stack of hospital pillows, their supposed "support" doing nothing to ease the ache radiating through her body. Burns, bruises, gashes—her entire existence was a symphony of pain, every breath a reminder of just how broken she was. But admitting that out loud? Absolutely not.
Henry, stationed in the chair beside her bed, had been watching her like a hawk for the last ten minutes, arms crossed, brow furrowed in that infuriatingly patient way of his. The kind of patience that meant he was waiting her out.
She ignored him. Or at least, she tried to.
"You want me to pretend I don't see it?" he finally asked, voice even but laced with quiet frustration.
"See what?" she deflected, focusing on the untouched cup of Jell-O on her tray as if it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world.
Henry's usual pragmatic character presented itself. "The fact that you're in pain."
Elizabeth rolled her eyes, instantly regretting so when the motion made her head throb, and let out a sharp breath. "I'm fine."
"You're not fine," Henry countered, leaning forward in the chair beside her bed. "You can't just will yourself through this."
She gave a humorless huff. "Watch me."
Henry let out a short laugh—frustrated, disbelieving. "You're shaking."
"No, I'm not," she shot back. She hesitated for a moment and glanced down. Sure enough, her fingers were visibly trembling and were clenched so tightly around the blanket that her knuckles were nearly white. Damn it.
Henry's voice softened. "Elizabeth."
There was something about the way he said her name—the weight of it, the concern threaded through every syllable—that chipped away at her resistance.
Her throat tightened.
She exhaled slowly. "It's bad, Henry."
There. She said it. The words felt foreign coming out of her mouth, like she wasn't even sure she had the right to speak them.
His expression didn't change—not exactly. But his entire body shifted, leaning closer, as if he could absorb even an ounce of what she was feeling. "Okay," he said quietly. "Tell me what hurts the most."
She let out a humorless chuckle. "You got an hour?"
He didn't smile. "Babe."
She swallowed, staring up at the ceiling for a beat before finally admitting, "My chest. My leg. My head. Breathing feels like I swallowed glass." She turned to look at him. "But I don't want more medication."
"Why?" He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. "Elizabeth, your body is screaming for help, and you're—what? Just going to tough it out?"
She clenched her jaw. "They make me foggy. I need to be clear right now."
Henry's eyes darkened. "Clear for what? You can barely sit up, let alone run a diplomatic briefing from this hospital bed."
She shot him a glare. "You'd be surprised."
He scoffed. "Okay, you know what? No. This is ridiculous. When you were in labor with Jason, you got an epidural before you even hit six centimeters."
Elizabeth's brows shot up. "Excuse me?"
"I was there," Henry continued, undeterred. "You told the nurse, and I quote, 'Hit me with the good stuff before I start negotiating with God.'"
She scowled. "That was different."
"How?"
"Because that was optional pain, Henry! This—" she gestured vaguely at herself, wincing at the movement "—this I have to get through."
Henry stared at her, exasperation mixing with something deeper—something raw. "And what, exactly, do you think pain management is? It's not about taking the easy way out, Elizabeth. It's about surviving this in a way that doesn't leave you wrecked." His voice softened just a fraction. "You don't have to prove how strong you are. I already know."
Her throat tightened. Damn him.
She turned her head away, blinking up at the ceiling, exhaling shakily.
Henry reached out, his fingers brushing against hers, grounding her. "Babe, please."
She swallowed hard. The fight in her was still there—flickering, stubborn—but God, she was so tired.
She looked at him, really looked at him. The exhaustion in his face, the worry etched into every line. He was barely holding it together.
Finally, she let out a slow breath. "Fine."
Henry didn't gloat, didn't say I told you so. He just squeezed her hand.
"Good," he murmured. "Because I wasn't above calling the nurse in here myself."
Elizabeth huffed, eyes slipping shut. "You're the worst."
"And yet," he said, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles, "you married me anyway."
She squeezed his hand, closing her eyes for a moment. "Just don't let me start waxing poetic about foreign policy in my sleep. It'd be bad for my image."
Henry smirked. "You already did. Something about multilateralism and pudding cups."
She cracked one eye open. "You're lying."
"I'm absolutely not."
She let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Then, quieter, "Thank you."
He pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "Always."
STATE DEPARTMENT - MID AFTERNOON - DAY 2
At the State Department Press Briefing Room, tensions were running high. The room was packed, cameras trained on Daisy as she stood at the podium. Her face was composed, but her eyes betrayed her frustration. The press was fired up and the questions came like arrows, and she was the bullseye target. They were coming so quickly she didn't have time to configure an answer before another question was asked. Blake stood off to the side, watching the frenzy unfold.
One reporter called out, "Daisy, given the online conspiracy theories suggesting that Secretary McCord orchestrated the attack to push her immigration policies—"
"I'm going to stop you right there," Daisy cut in. "That's a baseless, dangerous lie. Secretary McCord is currently in the hospital, recovering from an attack that was meant to kill her. Anyone spreading these rumors is doing so in bad faith."
Murmurs rippled through the room. A second reporter jumped in.
"But the manifesto that was uncovered—"
"Yes, the manifesto explicitly targeted Secretary McCord, condemning her policies. The same policies, I might add, that protect people seeking safety, like Yazmin Nazari, who was also targeted. The State Department remains committed to standing against extremism in all forms." Informed Daisy.
"Is there any truth to the theory that Akhastan has ties to the Jacob Whitman Society?" Shouted another journalist.
Daisy hesitated for a moment. Blake subtly shook his head—a silent warning.
She tread carefully, "The investigation is ongoing, and we're working closely with intelligence agencies to determine all possible connections. That's all I can say at this time."
The press continued their shouting questions, but Daisy remains poised, holding the line as best she could.
"Was Secretary McCord aware of the threat before the attack?" one reporter called out.
"Did the State Department ignore credible intelligence?" another demanded.
Daisy held up her hand. "Let me be clear," she said firmly. "The investigation is ongoing, and we are working closely with federal authorities. Any suggestion that Secretary McCord had prior knowledge of the attack is completely false."
"But what about the manifesto?" someone interrupted. "It directly blames her immigration policies. Is the Secretary being investigated?"
Daisy drew a breath and leveled her gaze. "Secretary McCord is a victim of this attack. She remains focused on her recovery, and we will not engage with baseless conspiracy theories."
The room erupted with more questions, but Daisy held her ground. "Thank you," she said curtly before stepping away from the podium.
WALTER REED HOSPITAL — MID AFTERNOON - DAY 2
Henry's phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand, and he barely had time to check the caller ID before answering.
"Alli, hey," he greeted, keeping his voice steady as he stepped away from Elizabeth's hospital bed. "Everything okay?"
"Well," Allison sighed, her voice tight with frustration. "Depends on how you define okay."
Jason's voice cut in from the background. "Translation: Stevie's gone rogue."
Henry frowned, glancing at Elizabeth, who was resting with her eyes half-closed but still very much listening. "What do you mean 'gone rogue'?"
Allison huffed. "She left this morning. Said she was going to the botanical gardens to 'clear her head.' That was hours ago. She's not answering texts."
"She never came home," Jason added. "And, shocker, when I called Blake, he didn't answer either."
Henry exhaled, running a hand through his hair, then down the back of his neck. Of course she went to the White House. After everything that had happened, after Russell practically shoved her out the door yesterday—she still went back.
"What's going on?" Elizabeth's voice was hoarse.
Henry turned back toward her, keeping his expression neutral. "Nothing, just checking in with the kids."
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes, too sharp to miss the way he was carefully not saying something. "Uh-huh. That's a level-five 'Henry McCord Deflection.' Try again."
Henry hesitated for half a second too long.
"Put them on speaker," Elizabeth said, already reaching weakly for the phone.
"Babe, you should rest—"
"Henry," she warned.
He sighed, knowing there was no winning this battle, and tapped the speaker icon. "Alright, you're on."
"Mom?" Allison's voice softened immediately.
Elizabeth mustered a smile. "Hey, sweetheart." Her voice was hoarse, but she fought to sound steady. The last thing she wanted was for them to hear the pain beneath it.
Jason's voice followed quickly. "Hey, Mom. How are you?"
"Well, I'd be better if your father wasn't so obviously keeping something from me," she quipped, shooting Henry a pointed look, though shifting carefully to disguise the way her body protested.
Henry darted his gaze toward Elizabeth.
Jason snorted. "Classic Dad."
Henry ran a tired hand down his face. "Alright, you two—"
Elizabeth cut him off, her voice gentler now. "I miss you guys."
Allison exhaled shakily. "We miss you too."
"The house feels weird without you." Jason's voice was softer than before.
Elizabeth swallowed, her throat tightening. "I know. But I'm working on getting out of here, okay? And in the meantime, I want you two to do me a favor."
"Anything," Allison said instantly.
Elizabeth's gaze flicked to Henry before she continued. "Tell Stevie that when she finally comes home, I expect a full rundown of her very important botanical garden excursion."
Jason let out a short laugh. "Oh, she's gonna love that."
"Just don't let her run herself into the ground," Elizabeth murmured. "She does that."
Henry caught the look she gave him it was obvious that she knew. She might not have the full picture, but she had enough. He reached for her hand, squeezing gently.
Allison's voice was charged with emotion. "We'll take care of her. And you just focus on getting better."
Elizabeth closed her eyes for a brief moment. "Deal."
Jason sniffed, although it could have been fabricated. "Ugh, that got too emotional too fast."
In response, Elizabeth let out a chuckle in that raspy voice of hers. "Then my job here is done."
A smile grew on Henry's lips, and he delicately rubbed a thumb over her contused knuckles. Maybe he had been trying to protect her from worrying, but right now, hearing her kids, feeling them close despite the distance—that was the kind of healing she needed, too.
STATE DEPARTMENT CONFERENCE ROOM - LATE AFTERNOON - DAY 2
The atmosphere in the conference room following the press briefing an hour before was no calmer. The room buzzed with subdued tension, thick with the weight of the ongoing crisis. The long table was cluttered with folders, coffee cups, and hastily scribbled notes, a testament to how long everyone had been at this. Daisy sat at one end, phone in hand, scrolling through the latest media coverage. Across from her, Russell paced restlessly, is usual scowl deepening, while Jay stood near the window, arms crossed, watching as reporters swarmed outside the gates. Nadine sat with a legal pad in front of her, occasionally jotting down notes.
At the far end of the room, Mike B leaned back in his chair, Gordon curled loyally at his feet. The cattle dog's ears twitched every time Russell's shoes tapped against the floor.
"Alright," Russell said, slapping the folder shut, "let's cut through the noise. I just had a briefing with the president. We have ostensible evidence linking the Jacob Whitman Society to extremist factions in Akhastan, encrypted communications bouncing between their networks, and just enough ambiguity to make this a diplomatic minefield. On top of that, we've got two fronts to manage: the investigation and the press. Neither's going well. Somebody tell me how we're containing this before it spirals into a full-blown international incident."
Jay leaned forward, his sleeves rolled up, exhaustion creeping into his voice but not dulling his sharp edge. "This thing is spiraling. Social media's eating this conspiracy up. NSA is still working on decrypting the full extent of the messages, but initial findings show references to 'cleansing the homeland' and 'purging American traitors.' We can assume that means Elizabeth—she's named directly in their manifesto. The chatter on those extremist sites spiked right before Dylan Asher started going off the grid. They weren't just spewing propaganda — they were planning something."
"Great," groused Russell under his breath. "And here I thought my day couldn't get worse."
"That makes two of us," Matt added, flipping his pen between his fingers. "Though I have to say, getting blamed for a terrorist attack she barely survived is a new one. Bold move, internet."
"Yeah, well, we don't get to dismiss it just because it's stupid," Daisy retorted. "Stupid sells. And right now, it's selling the idea that Elizabeth orchestrated her own assassination attempt. The longer we let this fester, the harder it'll be to shut down. The latest polling shows the secretary's favorability took a ten-point hit overnight. People are scared, and this conspiracy's giving them an easy villain."
"Perfect," began Russell. "The political equivalent of blaming witches." He turned his back to the table, taking a second to compose himself, well, as much as he could before continuing. "We don't have time for cynicism. We need a strategy."
"Maybe we can work with POTUS's communications team. Get ahead of these conspiracy theories; get the truth front and center." Jay hypothesized, his index and thumb brushing his chin in thought.
"You think truth's gonna cut it?" Russell retaliated, that composure lasting less than ten seconds. "People want a villain. Right now, they've decided it's the damn Secretary of State."
"Then we remind them what she stands for," Jay responded staunchly. "She's dedicated her life to protecting this country. They won't forget that — not if we make sure they hear it loud and clear."
There was a momentary silence.
"Russell," Nadine added, turning to him, "how's she doing?"
"Tired," he said. "But she's fighting to stay focused. She's asking for updates, wants to know everything."
"She doesn't need to know everything yet," Jay said, his voice gentler now. "Dr. McCord's right to keep her focused on getting better."
"She's gonna hate that," Mike B said with an amused smirk and a tilt of his head.
"Yeah," Blake agreed. "But it's what she needs."
There was another few seconds of silence.
Russell brought a hand to his forehead. "I assume we have a plan that doesn't involve me personally driving to every news station and shaking some sense into them?"
Blake cleared his throat. "We've been coordinating with the Press Office to push back on the narrative, but it's tricky. If we overcorrect, we risk amplifying the conspiracy theories. If we underplay it, we look defensive. And with Secretary McCord still in the hospital, we're walking a fine line between protecting her image and respecting her recovery."
"Right, because God forbid we take a moment to acknowledge that our Secretary of State is a human being," Nadine said, her voice tight. She had been calm through most of the briefing, but now there was an unmistakable edge in her tone. "We have a woman fighting for her life, and we're here strategizing how best to spin that fact into a soundbite."
"That's the job," Russell said, his tone softer but unwavering.
"Doesn't make it any less disgusting," Nadine replied.
Silence followed. Even Russell didn't argue.
"Alright," Jay finally said, clearing his throat. "So, what do we do about the Akhastan connection? We've got a country with a history of playing both sides, extremists exploiting nationalist movements, and now whispers of possible government involvement. If we handle this wrong, we could end up knee-deep in another foreign crisis."
Mike B leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Gordon, snored loudly at his feet. "So, just another Tuesday."
Matt snorted. "Aren't you supposed to be our morale booster?"
Mike shrugged, grimacing. "I'm boosting morale by reminding you that this could always be worse."
Russell gave him a quick look. "Not helping."
"Wasn't trying to," Mike replied, impassively.
Daisy exhaled before shifting back to the topic at hand. "So far, we have no hard evidence linking Akhastan's government to this, just extremist factions operating within its borders. If we go after them too aggressively without proof, we risk alienating them further—or worse, pushing them into a defensive alliance with people who are against us."
"Exactly," Jay said, rubbing his temple. "Which is why we need a controlled response. Not just waiting for NSA to decrypt the rest of the messages, but also getting diplomatic feelers out before this escalates. If we can get even a whisper of Akhastan's official stance, we can strategize our next move. The FBI's making progress on the Akhastan angle, but nothing solid yet. Yasmin's shaken — she doesn't know how to handle the media storm."
"She's still isolated in the safe house. She's overwhelmed, scared... and the media's starting to ask about her." Daisy informed.
"That's exactly the point," Nadine said, her voice cutting through the noise. "She's vulnerable. If we mishandle this, we turn a terrified young woman into a pawn in a political fight. We can't afford to screw this up."
"Good luck with that," Mike B muttered. "At this rate, she's one blurry photo away from landing on the front page."
Jay said, "We also remain passive. The longer we let these conspiracy theories fester, the harder it's going to be to undo the damage. We need to make sure her security is doubled. We need to condemn these lies and remind the public what Yasmin risked to be here."
That's not enough," Russell cut in, pacing again with his hands in his trouser pockets. "We need to make this about more than just Yazmin Nazari. We need to remind people that Elizabeth's immigration policies are about protecting people like her — not some agenda."
"We'll get ahead of it," Blake interjected. "We can vet Yasmin — go over everything, make sure we know her story better than anyone else. Then we control what gets out."
"We can't let this conspiracy garbage fill the vacuum. We need to focus on Yasmin. Humanize her." Daisy chimed in.
"Yeah, because nothing calms an angry mob like a sympathetic immigrant," Mike B quipped dryly. He tossed a treat from his blazer pocket to Gordon, who caught it mid-air without lifting his head. "You're assuming people still care about facts."
"They do," Daisy contested. "If we make it clear that Yasmin risked her life to escape extremists and that they tried to silence her, people will listen. We just have to give them something to believe in."
"Oh great, maybe we should get Elizabeth a reality show while we're at it." Russel paused before continuing. "I'm just saying, if we don't shut this down fast, we're looking at a full-scale media disaster. The narrative's getting worse by the hour."
"People are already convinced the secretary staged this," Daisy added, still scrolling. "And now they're digging into Yasmin's past. Someone just posted her old social media accounts — they're spinning her as some kind of extremist sympathizer."
"Unbelievable," Nadine said in a low and indistinct tone, setting her pen down. "She's a refugee, not a terrorist."
Mike B scoffed. "Yeah, well, facts don't move clicks." He gestured to Gordon. "Even this guy knows that."
Gordon let out a quiet huff, as if in agreement.
That's not enough," Russell cut in, his brain clearly in overdrive. "We need to make this about more than just Yasmin. We need to remind people that Elizabeth's immigration policies are about protecting people like her — not some agenda."
Nadine nodded. "Agreed." She looked at Matt. "We need something sharp, something powerful. Remind people who Elizabeth McCord is."
Matt frowned. "You mean a speech?"
Nadine gave a tight smile. "No. I mean a moment. Something that makes people listen. Something they'll remember."
"Yeah," Mike B muttered dryly, scratching Gordon behind the ears. "Because nothing says 'calm the public' like trusting the media to behave rationally."
Russell looked at him perplexedly. "You got a better idea?"
Mike B grinned. "Yeah. A photo op."
The room fell into an awkward silence.
"I'm sorry," Daisy said flatly, shaking her head as if trying to understand something that was said in a different language. "Did you just suggest a photo op?"
"Not your usual handshake-and-smile garbage," Mike B professed, tilting his head almost playfully. "Something real. Bring Elizabeth's staff together — people who know her best. Show them standing with her, supporting her. Make it clear that no one's buying into this insanity."
"That could work," Nadine said slowly. "It humanizes her. Reminds people she's more than just a headline."
"And while we're at it," Jay added, "let's lean into the truth — Elizabeth's track record speaks for itself."
Nadine nodded. "And the President?"
"Dalton is walking a tightrope," Russell said. "He's meeting with the National Security team again this afternoon. He doesn't want to make a statement until we have more intelligence, but he's feeling the pressure." He paused. "We need answers. Fast," Russel said. "Jay, keep pushing NSA for those decryptions. Daisy, get ahead of the next press cycle before the crazies hijack the narrative completely. Blake, coordinate with White House comms—we need a unified front on this. And someone, for the love of God, get me a stronger cup of coffee."
"And Mike," Russell turned toward him. "You're our insurance policy. If this spirals... if someone leaks something or tries to spin this against Bess…"
Mike grinned, the kind of grin that suggested he'd been waiting to hear those words. "Don't worry," he said, tossing another treat to Gordon. "I've got it covered."
"Good," Russell said. "Because if this thing goes sideways, no one's walking away clean." He looked at the dog with a raised eyebrow. "Gordon, too?"
"He's the only one in this building with better instincts than me," said a very cocky Mike B.
Russell gathered his stack of papers and spoke with authority. "Let's remind the American people who the real enemy is — not the secretary, not Yazmin — but the extremists who brought this violence to our doorstep."
There was a collective shuffle of chairs as the team moved into action.
As they filed out, Mike B leaned down and scratched Gordon behind the ears. "We're gonna need more than coffee, buddy."
The dog snored in response.
MCCORD RESIDENCE – EVENING - DAY 2
Stevie quietly shut the entry way door behind her as she stepped inside the house, hanging up her coat and took off her heels so their presence wouldn't echo on the hard wood floor once she surpassed the entry way rug. Her tired eyes scanned the quiet, familiar surroundings of the house. The weight of the day lingered on her shoulders, and she tries to push it down, focusing instead on the comforting sight of home. Simply put, she was exhausted, and that exhaustion penetrated every cell in her body. The house is quiet, but the soft glow from the study spills into the entryway through the double French doors. She barely has time to drop her bag before she hears his voice.
"You're home late." Henry said without looking up, a quiet calm in his posture. It was clear he had been waiting for her.
Stevie rolled her eyes as she stepped into the study. Henry was sitting in his chair, glasses low on his nose, a book resting forgotten in his lap. His expression is expectant, but there's a weight behind his eyes—a familiar mixture of concern and quiet authority.
"I had things to do." Stevie said categorically.
Henry watched her carefully, eyes holding a hint of concern, noting the way she defensively crossed her arms over her chest. He exhaled, closing his book and setting it aside.
"At the White House," he noted, casual but firm. "Against direct orders from Russell Jackson."
Stevie's eyes narrow, but she doesn't take the bait. Instead, she deflects.
Shrugging, she says, "I'm fine, really."
Henry lets the silence hang for a moment, studying her carefully. He's not buying it. Not for a second.
Slightly amused, he says, "You know, I always assumed I'd be the one giving you the speeches about personal responsibility and care. You've grown quite good at deflecting, though. It's a bit of a surprise, honestly."
Stevie sighed in annoyance. "I didn't think I needed a speech."
Henry took a step closer, the smile fading from his face, replaced by something more genuine—a father's concern.
He spoke with sincerity, "You don't need one. But you do need to stop pretending you can handle everything on your own."
Stevie looked away, her chest tightening as the weight of the day finally caught up with her. She didn't want to admit it, didn't want to appear vulnerable. But Henry's presence, steady and unwavering, made it harder to keep up the act.
Stevie lifted her chin, defiantly. "I'm not the only one avoiding things, you know."
Henry's brows furrow slightly, his patience thinning. "Is that what you think this is? Avoidance?" His words were slow. "You've always been clever, Stevie, but I don't need to remind you that avoiding isn't always the best solution."
Stevie let out a humorless laugh, shaking her head. "Mom's doing it, and nobody's telling her she has to talk about it."
Henry's expression falters just for a moment—his smile flickers out, replaced by the faintest trace of frustration. He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to keep his composure.
"You're right. Your mom's... your mom's been trying to keep things together. But that doesn't mean we can't talk about it." Henry exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. "Your mother went through something traumatic, Stevie. She—"
"So did I! So did all of us! But somehow, she gets to shut down and bury it, and I'm just supposed to pour my heart out?" Stevie interrupted.
Henry sat up straighter, his voice steady but laced with frustration. "Your mom isn't an excuse for you to avoid your own pain." He encouraged Stevie, trying to get her to think critically and reflect on her choices.
Stevie scoffed, shaking her head, her anger bubbling over. "That's not fair."
Henry leaned forward, his gaze unwavering.
He engaged with her thoughtfully, maintaining steady eye contact and speaking in a measured, even tone. "No, what's not fair is you convincing yourself that suppressing everything is some kind of strength."
Stevie crossed her arms tighter, her shoulders becoming rigid. Sarcasm saturated her response. "Oh, right, because being vulnerable is so easy."
Henry exhaled heavily. His patience was running thin but he maintained a calm voice. "No, it's not. But honesty isn't about making yourself look good. It's about being real, even when it makes you vulnerable."
Stevie looked away. She wanted to argue, wanted to push back, but deep down, she knew he was right. She swallowed hard, her arms loosening slightly.
Henry watched her carefully, his expression softening just enough. "Your mom's way of dealing with things—it's different. That doesn't mean it's right, and it doesn't mean you have to follow her lead."
Henry was firm when he needed to be, but he was always fair, ensuring his words came from a place of guidance rather than control. He looked at her for a long moment, the weariness and frustration in his eyes slowly giving way to something softer—an acknowledgment of what they both knew: avoidance doesn't heal anything.
Stevie sighed, rubbing her forehead. "I just... I don't know how to do this, Dad." Stevie swallows hard, her eyes glistening with the hint of unshed tears. She doesn't want to cry, doesn't want to show that side of herself to him—but in that moment, she can't help it.
Henry pulled her into a brief, tight hug, his arms firm but gentle.
"You don't have to do it all at once. Just don't do it alone," he said. 'You don't have to be strong all the time, Stevie. It's okay to let go sometimes," he said.
"Okay," Stevie replied softly, finally allowing herself to lean into him for a moment, the weight of her day—a day she's been carrying alone—starting to lift just slightly. "I'm scared, Dad. I wish I could put my faith in something, or someone like you do. Maybe it would make this whole thing more bearable."
"Do I have faith? Yes. Am I still scared of the unknown? Yes. I am pretty sure that is human nature," he scoffed.
Stevie let a few seconds pass before saying, "I just didn't want to let you down."
Henry reassured his oldest daughter in a warm voice, "You could never let me down. Not in a million years."
Stevie pulled away just enough to meet his eyes, the tiniest flicker of relief crossing her face.
"Thanks, Dad," she said with a weak smile.
Henry chuckled, brushing a hand through her hair in that familiar way that's always managed to make her feel a little lighter.
Stevie looked at him, her anger now fading into exhaustion. Henry gave her a small smile, squeezing her arm gently with a reassuring hand before letting go.
The room settled into silence, but this time, it feels a little lighter.
STATE DEPARTMENT – ELIZABETH'S OFFICE — NIGHT - DAY 2
Nadine stood motionless in the center of the dimly lit office, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The silence was suffocating. The desk—Elizabeth's desk—sat untouched, her chair vacant, papers neatly stacked as if she'd only just stepped out for a meeting. But she hadn't.
The weight of her absence was overwhelming.
The office had always been a reflection of Elizabeth herself—orderly but lived-in, intellectual but personal. Now, it felt hollow.
Nadine exhaled, rubbing her temples. She'd barely left the building in the last almost 48 hours, surviving on coffee, adrenaline, and sheer force of will. The world hadn't stopped turning just because Elizabeth had been taken out of commission. If anything, it was spinning faster, more chaotic. The attack, the manifesto, the investigation into Jonas Keller—it was relentless. And yet, standing here, all she could focus on was the empty chair.
The door creaked open behind her.
"You know," Blake said carefully, stepping inside, "if I had a dollar for every time I found you standing dramatically in dim lighting, I could retire early."
Nadine let out a breathy chuckle but didn't turn around. "And do what? Take up interpretive dance?"
Blake sighed, his usual crisp demeanor softer than usual. "Maybe I'd just sit down for a full meal for once."
Jay walked in behind him, running a hand down his face. "Are we doing the whole 'haunting Elizabeth's office like it's a shrine' thing? Because I'm on board. Very on brand for us."
Nadine turned at that, eyes narrowing. "You think this is funny?"
Jay's smirk faded. "No. I think it's awful. But if I don't make a joke, I might start flipping furniture." He motioned to the desk. "And that looks heavy."
Blake folded his arms, exhaling. "You don't have to say it. We're all thinking it."
Silence stretched between them.
"She should be here," Nadine finally said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.
Jay sighed. "Yeah. She should."
The door opened again, and Matt and Daisy slipped inside.
"Oh, good," Matt said, glancing around. "A secret office brooding session. I was wondering where we were doing that today."
Daisy shot him a look before turning to Nadine. "We just got an update from the White House. Henry's still keeping a tight lid on what Elizabeth knows, but the doctors are—" She hesitated, then forced herself to continue. "They're hopeful."
Blake exhaled. "Hopeful is a tricky word."
Matt sighed. "Yeah. It's right up there with 'potentially' and 'we'll see how she does overnight.'"
Nadine finally moved, walking over to the desk and running her fingers over the edge. "She would hate this. Knowing we're standing around like we're waiting for a sign from the universe."
Blake huffed a quiet laugh. "She'd tell us to stop being weird and get back to work."
"Then let's do that." His voice had an edge—determined, sharp. "Because sitting here, wishing she was in that chair, isn't going to help her. But taking down Jonas Keller? Making sure the people behind this pay? That will." Jay leaned against the door frame.
Daisy nodded, swallowing hard. "We hold the line."
Nadine met each of their eyes before finally nodding. "We hold the line."
For a moment, they all stood there, as if gathering strength from the room itself. Then, one by one, they turned and walked out, leaving the desk untouched—but no longer abandoned.