He watched them, his eyes following their every move. He, with ease and a smile that belied the fear that was bubbling under the surface. She, with a look in her eye that reminded him of the moment just before death took a tribute, and he smiled.
He had her right where he wanted her.
It had amused him, watching her play the doting lover, the attentive girlfriend, the love of boys' life. It amused him even more that by the end, the only person who still believed it was just an act, was her.
He planned to prey on that weakness as much as he could.
It was sickening watching them, he mused as he sipped slowly at the glass of champagne in his hand, the glint of diamonds in the lone signet ring he wore sparking under the low lights. Peeta, with his arm around her waist, fingers resting lightly on the hipbones he knew no longer protruded from the updates he demanded. The girl, he sneered, with her hands twisting with nerves at her waist, smiling hesitantly at the young man by her side as he talked animatedly to a guest. His feelings were obvious, hers were hidden.
It was going to play into his hands so nicely.
He reached for a small, elegantly prepared hors d'oeuvres from the heaped tray in front of him, studying its weight and texture before biting into it. It needed to be perfect; after all, he expected nothing less. He hadn't since the day he had slipped the tasteless, clear substance into his own fathers wine glass, and been given the keys to the country.
He had always done what needed to be done, had carried on the Snow name with aplomb, and fully expected his reputation to far exceed that of the men who had created and built the Hunger Games. His grandfather may have made the games, and his father embellish them, but it would be he remembered for them, for their brilliance, for their impact on Panem, for his utter dominance over its citizens. And there was no way a stupid young girl was going to prevent that.
The knock on the door that broke him from his reverie was short, sharp - no nonsense, no frills. He murmured his assent, and did not move his eyes from the grouping of holograms that hovered in front of his desk as the stocky, robust man made his way inside.
"Interesting viewing, President Snow?" His voice was smooth, cultured, in a way only hours of practice in front of a mirror could obtain.
Snow should know.
"Always, Plutarch," he replied, finally turning to glance at his newly minted Head Gamemaker. The man was older than Crane, had a quiet countenance around him that shrouded a shrewd and cunning mind. Snow thought it a stroke of luck, really, that he was able to induct Plutarch Heavensbee into the position so much earlier than he intended. And it was a pity, he mused as he smiled a thin, bloodless smile at the man, that Seneca had turned out to be such a disappointment.
"And how are our lovely Victors this evening, after their interview with Caesar?" Plutarch aimed a glance at the images, his eyes scanning over them until he located the couple, now perusing a table heaped with miniature desserts. "Ah. Like a deer in headlights, isn't she?"
"Such an old and irrelevant turn of phrase," Snow snorted, "Though appropriately apt in this case. I told her she was not successful."
Plutarch's left eyebrow lifted half a millimetre, but it was his only tell. Snow had to admire that in the man, though no tell at all would always be preferable. "And how did she react?"
"As expected." He kept his cards close to his chest, and did not say any more as he turned back to the monitors. He had not shared his true thoughts with Plutarch, or with anyone. It just made the game he played all that sweeter. "It is enough to keep her on her toes now," he added. "She will not know what hit her when it comes for her."
Plutarch nodded his agreement and fell quiet until Snow waved an arm impatiently towards him; the man moved around behind the holograms into Snow's line of sight. "How are preparations?"
"Running smoothly, President Snow. We are on schedule with pre-production, although we have also added the additional step of developing plans for the forcefield, to strengthen and reinforce it. I found Crane's preventative measures to be...lacking."
"Crane did not live up to the expectation I placed on him," Snow replied flippantly, smirking to himself as he watched the girl interacting with her garish prep team, their wild gesticulations in complete contrast to the abject horror on the faces of her and the boy. "But I assume the Games will be well handled in your capable hands."
"They will be, President Snow, I assure you. We have a meeting this evening to go over more details," Plutarch advised. "Do you wish to attend?"
Snow wondered why the man asked - he had never attended a Gamemaker meeting and never intended to. But he supposed he should appreciate the gesture; at one time in history those kind of manners would have impressed the leader of a country.
Not in Panem, and not with Snow.
"No, I do not," he replied shortly, and reached for the monogrammed handkerchief in his upper breast pocket. He dabbed at his mouth - he preferred preventative measures rather than having to deal with an issue as it arose - and was pleased that the spots of red against the stark white were minimal.
Playing this game with Katniss Everdeen was working wonders for his health.
"Very well," he heard Plutarch say. "I think I shall go and speak with our lovely Mockingjay before my meeting with the Gamemakers. Should I send her your regards?"
Snow raised a hand to his chin, his finger rubbing against the skin that was becoming paper thin as he considered, then rejected, the notion.
"No. She is thinking of me already. I do not wish to give her the satisfaction of believing I think anything of her, or her 'lover'." He emphasised the word, letting a hint of disbelief enter his voice. It never hurt to keep people in the dark about his innermost thoughts. If Plutarch knew that he could see the girl's attraction to the boy was sincere - even if she was oblivious to it herself - would it not take some bite from his words? After all, words were one of the things he was good at. Twisting and weaving and turning them around until they worked to his advantage.
"I understand. Good night, President Snow. As always, a wonderful event at the mansion." Plutarch moved from the room, and in his absence Snow sat forward, watching the hologram eagerly as the couple made their way to the centre of the dance floor. He knew they spoke, but with the discreet surveillance he had insisted at short notice, he could neither zoom in any closer, nor retrieve sound. But it did not matter. He did not care what they were saying, about who or where or why. He amused himself by the way Mellark held her, like she was delicate, like glass, afraid that if he held too tightly, or not at all, she would run away.
No, there was no chance of that, he mused. He knew, like no one else did, that the girl with dark hair and silver eyes and the countenance of an ill-bred animal would die for the young man. And he, with a broken heart, would have nothing to go on for, and would follow soon after.
And that was exactly what he intended to happen.
Game, Set, Match, Miss Everdeen.
I will win.