She doesn't realize the truth about the Games until she's already won.
The Games were supposed to make her wealthy, untouchable. And, in a way, Clove is. She hasn't been solicited by Snow to provide entertainment for the Capitol like they do with the most desirable Victors. It's the first time she's ever been grateful to be average. She doesn't have Cashmere's sensual curves or Finnick's charm, and she's far too vicious for the Capitol to tame. So they leave her for the most part alone, rich beyond her wildest dreams and revered in her home of Two.
She doesn't realize the truth about the Games until they're over.
Clove hates being a mentor. She knows deep down that her tributes have the highest likelihood of staying alive, that being from Two means they're well-fed and trained to kill, but that can't stop the despair she feels as she gazes into their eyes, so eager and, if innocent, then unaware. They're practically salivating for victory, to prove themselves to her and their District, but she can't tell them that it's almost better that they die. They all do, anyway, slaughtered in the Bloodbath or turned upon by their allies or wasted away from famine. Clove feels nothing but ice as she watches them die, just as promising as she was but just not lucky enough.
She doesn't realize the truth about the Games until she's lost everyone she's ever cared about.
She throws knives sometimes, just to occupy her mind with something other than the Games and Cato and all their shattered promises. She'd always been perfect, never missing the target after she'd learned just how to flick her wrist. The years all blur together, but Clove must be in her early twenties the first time she misses. The knife clatters on the ground beside the target, and everyone in the gym turns to look at her. She's aghast, horrified as she stares at its taunting silhouette. She throws another one that lands perfectly and tries to convince herself it was just a fluke. But she doesn't believe her own lies.
She doesn't realize the truth about the Games until it's too late.
The Games do more than break the spirit of the rebellious Districts. They break the Victors, too. Annie from Four is insane, hysterical, barely able to conduct herself in public without having a meltdown. Haymitch from Twelve is a raging alcoholic, perhaps even worse after the Games where Clove won and killed his tributes. She doesn't think she's ever seen him less than half-blind with intoxication and propped up by a simpering escort from the Capitol. Clove barely sleeps from nightmares that tear at her skull and leave her thrashing, paranoid, and likely to lash out. She killed a boy once, a servant who startled her when she was in the throes of one of her episodes. She stared at his corpse for hours, remembering all the times she'd done the same during the Games. She was crying when they found her, tears dripping onto the hardwood floor as she hugged herself and shuddered. Clove had never cried during the Games, not when she'd killed all those tributes, not when she'd evaded death, not even when she slit Cato's throat. It was all fun and games to her, a game with the best prizes of all, and she'd been so ecstatic when she'd won.
She doesn't realize the truth about the Games until she'd rather be dead.
