Coriolanus Snow, a man of calculated demeanor and unwavering ambition, stood at the pinnacle of power, having just been inaugurated as the President of Panem.
Everything had gone according to plan. He'd graduated top of his class in the Academy, earned the title of Summa Cum Laude at University, and as of a few days ago, won the presidency by a landslide. Along the way, he also added the titles of "peacekeeper" and "game maker" to his exceptional record.
He should've been happy.
But he wasn't.
As Coriolanus gazed upon the audience on the last day of his inauguration celebration, he couldn't help but feel a sense of detachment from everything that was happening. The celebration was on its 13th and final day–13 to represent the districts plus the Capitol–and he was more than eager to wrap up the revelry so he could get started on his political plans in pursuit of glory.
Before that, he needed to get through the night.
Coriolanus looked around him. The grandeur of his victory celebration unfolded within the opulent walls of the White House, a symbol of authority and prestige. The White House was adorned with accents of red, his signature color. He'd like to think that it stood for the red color of the roses he always wore on his lapel. However, it was more apt to realize that the vivid color stood for the blood of the rebels he'd promised his citizens he'd spill. That was his campaign's selling point; it drove him to victory.
As he surveyed the extravagant decorations that adorned the historic residence, Snow's steely gaze betrayed little emotion.
The corridors echoed with the sounds of celebration, mingling with the soft strains of classical music. Snow moved through the elegantly adorned rooms, each space transformed into a testament to his triumph. The air was heavy with the fragrance of fresh roses and the warm glow of chandeliers illuminated the surroundings, casting a soft radiance over the assembled dignitaries and guests.
Coriolanus's attire matched the occasion—a meticulously tailored suit, its dark hue echoing the gravity of his newfound position. His blond hair, meticulously combed back, added to the air of authority that surrounded him. Despite the revelry around him, his expression remained inscrutable, a mask of composure concealing the machinations of his mind.
As he navigated through the White House greeting guests he walked by, Snow observed the details of the extravagant decor. The walls adorned with art, carefully chosen to reflect power and sophistication, spoke volumes about the man who now held the highest office in the land. Red accents and crystal embellishments glistened, emphasizing the wealth and influence that had propelled him to this pinnacle. The grand ballroom, with its high ceilings and ornate architecture, hosted a sea of elegantly dressed individuals. The clinking of champagne glasses and the murmur of conversations filled the air. Avoxes lined each room, standing still and only moving when called upon to refill a drink or mop the floor of broken glass, spilled champagne, or vomit.
Snow moved through the crowd with a certain regality, acknowledging well-wishers with a nod or a brief, controlled smile.
As he reached the center of the celebration, a recently erected portrait of his father looked down from the wall, seemingly scrutinizing the man who now occupied the presidency. Snow's gaze met that of his father, and for a moment, a flicker of contemplation crossed his eyes. A subtle acknowledgment of the weight of responsibility that now rested upon his shoulders.
Snow lands on top.
His father would've been proud.
Just as Coriolanus walked into the main ballroom to greet more dignitaries, his wrist was caught in someone's grip.
He pivoted, his military training kicking in as he assessed the offender. Before he could strike, he saw red lips, curled blonde hair, and the fakest smile in the country.
Livia.
His wife.
United not by love but by the unyielding ties of family and social expectation, theirs was a marriage forged in the cold fires of political strategy. Since their extravagant wedding over a year ago, the people of Panem saw a power couple, a union of two influential families, but behind closed doors, the atmosphere was laced with unspoken contempt.
Livia Snow née Cardew, a woman of poise and grace, navigated the intricate social circles with a practiced smile that concealed the disdain she harbored for her husband. Coriolanus, in turn, moved through the corridors of power with a calculated charm, masking the animosity that simmered beneath the surface. Their marriage was a carefully constructed facade, a union born out of duty rather than desire. As they faced the world arm in arm, Coriolanus and Livia became the epitome of societal expectations. Their marriage, a strategic alliance, symbolized the sacrifices made in the pursuit of power and the preservation of family legacies. The world saw a united front, blind to the cracks in the façade that only the two of them could perceive.
And now that he was the President, Livia was the First Lady.
"My darling," Livia greeted coldly.
"Livia," he said, equally as insincerely.
"You're awfully elusive tonight." She looped her arm around his and proceeded to lead him towards the main ballroom. "I've been looking for you everywhere."
Coriolanus nodded at a man who tipped his hat at the couple. "I was preoccupied. People have come far and wide to congratulate me. It's only fair to personally give them all my thanks."
She tightened her grip. "Perhaps. But I sense otherwise." She paused, smiling at an elderly couple. When they were out of earshot, she said, "I think you're avoiding me."
"There are upwards of one thousand people in this house right now. You simply cannot assume that I've eluded you deliberately." He said quietly so that only she would hear.
She was rendered silent as a stout, balding man, one of the chairpersons of the elections committee, came forward to express his congratulations. "President Coriolanus Snow! I knew you'd win the elections, HA–the others didn't even stand a chance!"
The pair conversed with the chairperson, concealing their boiling resentment towards each other.
The façade of marital civility that Coriolanus maintained with Livia concealed a hidden agenda—a plan that simmered in the recesses of his ambitious mind. The thought of Livia bearing him a son or two was not accompanied by the warmth of paternal anticipation. Instead, it fueled a cold determination to secure the future of the Snow legacy. Coriolanus yearned for the day when the cries of his progeny would echo through the grand halls of his estate. A son who would inherit his name and power, and solidify the Snow dynasty for generations to come. Livia, for all her grace and elegance, was but a means to an end in his grand design. In the confines of his private chambers, Coriolanus contemplated the day when his progeny would become the focal point of his aspirations. Once Livia had fulfilled her purpose, once the heirs were born and secured, his plan would unfold.
The idea of banishing her from his life loomed like a dark cloud on the horizon, a necessary step to ensure the purity and strength of the Snow lineage. Perhaps he would frame her over something she didn't commit and condemn her to be hanged. Or he'd send her out to sea on a vessel with only enough gasoline to power half a trip.
Or, he could use poison.
Yes, that was probably the easiest way to do it. No plans for machinery and unnecessary crimes no one would commit. It was quick and simple. It also helped that Coriolanus was getting the hang of it, especially as of late. Yes, poison would be the perfect weapon, indeed.
As Coriolanus awaited the fruition of his plan, the grandiosity of his ambitions clashed with the emptiness of his relationships. The gilded cage of his existence, built on deception and manipulation, revealed the darker side of a man driven by an unrelenting thirst for power. The legacy of the Snow name, it seemed, would be forged through a marriage of convenience and a cold, calculated pursuit of glory.
In the hidden recesses of his mind, Coriolanus reminisced about another woman, one who had stirred genuine emotions within him. Another woman who was more brilliant, vibrant, and enchanting. A woman with the most captivating voice he'd ever heard. The only one he'd ever loved. She possessed the ability to manipulate and soften his resolve, a quality that both terrified and captivated him. Yet, betrayal and ambition had led him away from that love, leaving him entwined with Livia, a woman he hated, but lacked the ability to manipulate his emotions. She was the perfect wife for him. The legacy of the Snow name, built on political maneuvering and cold pragmatism, remained intact, while Coriolanus himself grappled with the ghost of a love that he lost.
As the chairperson left to replenish his empty glass, he and Livia walked together again. Livia said, "I came looking for you for a reason."
After she failed to elaborate, he said, "Well?" Coriolanus was getting impatient. "What was the reason?"
She looked up at him and smirked. "Hmm… it doesn't matter. Not anymore. Besides, you have more important things to think about tonight."
Coriolanus took two breaths to calm himself. Livia knew well enough not to toy with him in this way. He absolutely hated feeling dependent on someone for something as trivial as information. Especially if it was Livia.
"What was the reason?" Coriolanus repeated, agitatedly now.
She stayed silent, pasting an infuriating, satisfied look on her unblemished face.
Coriolanus snapped, "I absolutely loathe being baited, Cardew." He used her maiden name, unveiling his true resentment. "Do not test me or–"
She gave a humorless laugh and cut him off. "Fine." She looked around, spotting an alcove that was currently unoccupied by revelers. She led him to the alcove discreetly, steering them away from the crowd.
When they were sufficiently out of earshot, she let go of his arm and faced him. She asked, "Do you remember your tribute from the 10th Hunger Games? The girl who could sing?"
His heart tightened. Yes, he knew that girl very well.
He tried not to let the hurt in his heart show on his face. "What about her?" He said calmly.
Livia looked around again before leaning in. "I just saw her."
Coriolanus's world stopped. Lucy Gray? Here, in the Capitol? "What?" He blinked. How was this possible? "When? Where?"
"In the East wing, just a few minutes ago. It's why I came looking for you. Thought you'd wanna know." Livia said with a smug smile.
It took all of his willpower to remain planted where he stood. All he wanted to do was sprint to the East wing and search for Lucy Gray, maybe call her name out like he did in the forest of Twelve when he'd last seen her. The mere knowledge of her proximity sent a tumultuous wave of emotions crashing against the walls he had meticulously erected around his heart. The allure of seeking her out, of rekindling a flame that he tried so hard to extinguish, tugged at Coriolanus's resolve.
But there was one thing he'd almost forgotten about her.
"She's a rebel," Coriolanus said. "She disappeared in Twelve after saying she was going up North, where there were more rebels waiting." His heart sped up. "She's dangerous. A threat."
Livia shook her head. "Not anymore."
What was that supposed to mean? Coriolanus was distraught. "Where is she?"
Livia wasted no time. She took his arm again and walked with him, leading him through the crowd. Multiple political figures tried to stop them in their tracks but refrained as they sensed the urgency of their strides.
At that very moment, every second he spent within the confines of the building was tinged with the knowledge that she was nearby, just beyond his reach. Coriolanus navigated the sea of faces, his eyes searching for her amidst the glittering crowd. Each stolen glance in each direction was followed by a tightening of his jaw, a silent battle between longing and duty.
They were nearing the East wing now. Coriolanus braced himself for her presence. Was she armed? Disguised as a reveler to conceal herself? Or was she caught scaling the walls and taken by peacekeepers?
Before his thoughts spiraled out of control, they arrived. Livia let go of his arm and faced him. "On the right side of the room, towards the back," she said quietly.
Coriolanus's eyes raked the occupants of the room, particularly in the corner that Livia was pertaining to. He spotted a woman with her back to him in an elegant pink gown that trailed behind her like a waterfall. Her hair was thick, brown, and coiffed atop her head.
His feet carried him in the direction of the woman. Each stride was faster than the last. As he neared her, she turned around.
The woman was not Lucy Gray. Her eyes were mono-lidded, and her nose was slanted at a steeper angle, making her look almost plastic. Her cheekbones, as well, looked sculpted by a surgeon.
Coriolanus stopped in his tracks. He felt a mixture of anticipation and unease, his eyes darting from one person to another, desperately seeking the one person who occupied his thoughts. The room was an exquisite tapestry of glitz and glamour, filled with elegantly dressed attendees, each seemingly blending into the next. Coriolanus weaved through the maze of socialites, momentarily locking eyes with strangers who bore a smidge of resemblance to the girl he sought. Each mistaken encounter heightened his frustration and fueled the urgency of his search. The faces blurred into a collective haze, and the cacophony of laughter and music became a disorienting symphony.
He looked towards the front of the room where he'd left Livia, to ask her where she had seen her again. To his chagrin, she was chatting with a group of their former classmates from the Academy, not seeming to pay attention to him. He wanted to ask how Lucy Gray looked, and how she'd found her. Was it even possible for someone like her to be seen by someone as important as Livia Snow, the President's wife, and not be called out?
Just as he felt played, as he realized that Livia had sent him on a wild goose chase after a woman who wasn't even there only to make fun of him, his eyes landed on the line of uniformed servants who were standing along the perimeter of the room. He wasn't searching for her in their faces, but the silhouette of one particular servant stood out from the rest.
There, amidst the overlooked attendants, Coriolanus finally saw her.
Time stood still.
She was wearing the standard red uniform that covered her skin from her collarbones to her ankles. A silver collar adorned her neck, its unrelenting grip a symbol of her imprisonment as a result of rebellion against the Capitol. It gleamed, taunting him, stark against the pallor of her once-radiant skin. A thick black band encircled her head, masking the lower part of her face. Her posture was a far cry from her proud demeanor ten years ago. She once stood with her back straight and chin up, a rebellious stance for someone who had been locked in an arena to die along with twenty-three others. Now, her back was hunched, arms close to her body, gaze to the ground.
No. He couldn't believe it.
The revelation that Lucy Gray had become a living testament to the Capitol's ruthless punishments shattered the carefully constructed facade of Coriolanus's indifference. The shock of seeing her again after so many years, her posture holding the weight of silenced words, struck a chord deep within him. The woman he had known, the girl whose song had once entranced the Capitol audience, was now reduced to a mere presence, a symbol of the Capitol's retribution.
Lucy Gray was an Avox.
