Leah Rockwell, 23 years old

One Week after the 23rd Games

Fuck Medea Walton. Fuck that ugly, rotten, two-faced skank and her skanky behavior.

I see what she's doing. Does she seriously think she can fool me? She may have pulled the wool over everyone's eyes, but she can't cover mine.

I can see her practically slobbering all over Hermes's arm as they stand side by side: mentor and mentee. Or, as I'm sure how she sees it: poor lonesome girl and future boyfriend. She insists that they're just friendly, just a team. The paparazzis are eating it all up.

Lying bitch.

She's wrecking the whole night!

The Victor's banquet is meant to be a glorious affair. It's held inside the Presidential Mansion and hosted by the President himself. Only the Victors, their personal guests, and a few esteemed members of the public are allowed inside. There's always a grand opening of the doors to welcome everybody inside. But before then, we have to wait outside and the rest of the Capitol's population take the chance to see those lucky enough to get to go inside. And that includes paparazzis.

So not only has the night not truly begun yet, but it's already being ruined.

And not only that, but now the whole nation's going to think that Hermes and Medea are a thing!

I can feel my blood start to boil and I clench my fists. I feel my nails dig into my palms and remember that I had only gotten them done a few hours ago. When I unclench them, I suddenly feel a bit better.

It's okay, I think. There's still plenty of time before the doors open. You can still fix things. That little wench won't get away with this.

After adjusting the front of my dress so it hangs low over my chest just right, I glide over to where the two of them are standing. I shoot a glare at Medea as I take Hermes by his other arm.

"Hello sweetie." I say as I kiss his cheek.

Hermes wraps his arm around me. Just like he's supposed to. "Hello to you too."

Out the corner of my eye I can see the cameras snapping away. Good. Reputation saved.

I can also see Medea narrow her eyes at me. Um, no honey. You don't get to look at me like that after what you did. Naughty girl. She'll have to be punished later, but not right now. I need time to think of an appropriate act of vengeance. Not to mention the fact that Hermes and I are at the centre of attention. This is an opportunity that can't be squandered!

As Hermes and I pose for the cameras, I overhear Medea strike up a conversation with Lapis, that basic bitch from One who won the year before last.

"She's such an attention whore," I hear Medea say. "Look at her, lapping it all up like a cat with a saucer of cream."

"Look at her dress," Lapis responds. "It's so low in the front you can practically see her boobs. That's the sort of thing you'd expect Celestia Darcy to wear."

Excuse me? Did I hear that correctly?

Did Lapis fucking Royale, with her boring dress and boring jewellery and boring personality, dare to compare me to that prostitute-moonlighting-as-a-model Celestia fucking Darcy?

It gets worse, because just then that grumpy dumbfuck Harlan joins in on the conversation. "She's such a leech too. She's only with him for the fame and fortune. I have no idea what he sees in her."

The Nineteenth Games would have been so much better if our female tribute had just stabbed that fucker during the bloodbath instead of trying to be "merciful" or whatever.

I can barely contain my rage as the conversation continues. I try to keep a happy face for the cameras, but those shallow, insensitive losers are really trying my patience.

When Medea insults my perfume, comparing the scent of magnolias to a cloud of noxious gas, I nearly lose it.

I instead channel my anger by forcefully gripping Hermes's hand. He winces and turns to face me. "That hurt, Leah!"

Oh, I wish he would quit complaining. It's just a little squeeze. It's not like I deliberately hurt him or anything.

I would like to deliberately hurt so many other people, though. Namely: Medea Walton, Lapis Royale and Harlan Bovin.