Part two: Indulgence
The gala was an elaborate display, even by Capitol standards. Golden lights glinted off crystal-laden dresses and masks that shimmered like liquid metal, turning the entire room into a kaleidoscope of wealth and indulgence. For Drew, it was a familiar scene, one he had mastered navigating over the years. But tonight, none of it held his interest.
He saw her before she noticed him. May stood in the center of a small circle of people, her laughter light and practiced, her sapphire eyes sharp as ever. Her gown, a stunning creation of black feathers and sheer fabric, seemed almost alive, catching the light with every movement. It was extravagant, bold, and distinctly Capitol, but there was something about the way she wore it—something that set her apart from the crowd of overdressed sycophants.
Drew hadn't planned to approach her. A year had passed since their last encounter, and he had told himself it was better that way. But as if sensing his gaze, May turned her head, her eyes locking on his. For a moment, her expression faltered, revealing a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. Then her mask slipped back into place, and she excused herself from the group, weaving through the throng of attendees toward him.
"Drew," she said, her voice even but guarded. "It's been a while."
"It has," he replied, keeping his tone light. "But I see you've made yourself at home in all of this." He gestured vaguely to the grandeur around them.
Her lips curved into a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hardly. This isn't home, Drew. I think you of all people should know that."
He raised a brow, tilting his glass in a mock toast. "And yet, here you are. Mentoring tributes, charming sponsors. You've become quite the Capitol darling."
May let out a short laugh, sharp and cutting. "Oh, don't flatter me. We both know this isn't about charm or choice. I´m just trying to get through this visit, plain and simple."
His gaze flicked briefly to the boy standing awkwardly against the far wall. The young tribute clutched a glass of water like it was his lifeline, his wide eyes darting nervously around the room.
"He's scared," Drew said softly, nodding toward the boy.
"He should be," May replied, her voice steady. "Fear keeps you alive, at least for a little while."
Drew looked back at her, his expression hard to read. "And what about you, May? Does it keep you alive?"
She met his gaze without flinching, her blue eyes piercing. "I'm still here, aren't I?"
"You're here for him," Drew said softly, not as a question but a quiet acknowledgment.
May followed his gaze, her expression softening just enough for Drew to notice. "Yes," she admitted, "For both of them" She clarified, and he remembered that as mentor she had two children to look after. He wondered where her other tribute was…
Her voice steady but tinged with something deeper interrupted him "But not just for them."
Drew's eyes returned to her, studying her face. She hesitated, just for a moment, before speaking again, her tone quieter now. "I have people waiting for me back home. My mother. My brother. They depend on me to make this work—to keep them safe, to make sure they don't end up paying the price if I slip up here." Her lips tightened into a thin line. "The Capitol doesn't just play games with tributes, Drew. I think you realize that."
Drew's stomach tightened as the realization sank in. He had always known the Capitol maintained its grip through loyalty forged by cruelty—he wasn't blind to the truth like so many others, nor to the fact that this same system kept his family safe and insulated. But hearing it laid bare like this—hearing her say it—struck a different chord. "I didn't know…" he started, his voice trailing off, unsure of how to finish.
"No, you didn't," she interrupted, though her tone wasn't unkind. "And why would you? People like you don't have to think about what happens after the Games. You win, you go back to your lives, and the Capitol makes sure you stay comfortable enough to forget."
Drew stiffened slightly at the jab, but he didn't argue. She wasn't entirely wrong.
"Does it work?" he asked, his voice quieter now. "Do they leave them alone?"
Her eyes met his, steady and unflinching. "For now. But it's always conditional. A smile here, a favor there, playing the perfect puppet at their parties. If I don't keep them entertained, they'll find another way to take their pound of flesh."
He studied her face, noticing the subtle signs of strain that the Capitol's makeup artists couldn't completely conceal: the faint shadows under her eyes, the tightness in her jaw. For the first time, he truly saw the burden she carried—not just for herself, but for the people she loved.
"You're stronger than I gave you credit for," Drew said, his voice low, almost reluctant.
"And you're softer than you let on," she shot back, though her tone carried a faint trace of amusement.
They fell into a silence that felt both heavy and fragile. The orchestra played on, the glittering crowd oblivious to the undercurrent of tension and understanding passing between them.
Finally, May spoke again, her voice softer now, almost vulnerable. "I wanted to thank you. For last year." She looked away briefly, as if the admission cost her something. "You didn't have to, but you did. And it made a difference."
Drew's chest tightened, the memory of that night stirring emotions he wasn't ready to confront. "You don't have to thank me," he said simply. "I did what I thought was right."
"Even so," she said, meeting his eyes again. "It mattered. You did more than you think," she replied. Then, as if realizing she had shown too much, she straightened her posture and forced a wry smile. "But don't let it go to your head."
Drew chuckled softly, though there was no humor in it. "I wouldn't dream of it."
She stepped back, her gaze flicking toward her tribute, who was now looking at her with a mix of awe and hope. Drew knew she would leave soon, retreating back to the role she had perfected for the Capitol's benefit.
As she turned to go, something in her posture shifted—less guarded, more contemplative. For a brief moment, Drew saw the real May beneath the mask, the woman who carried the weight of her family's survival on her shoulders.
And as the evening wore on, Drew became acutely aware of her presence. Even as she moved through the crowd, even as she focused on her sponsors and her tribute, he felt her gaze from across the room, steady and contemplative. She was watching him, just as he had been watching her.
But neither of them made a move to close the distance again.
That year, Drew spent an absurd amount of money sending gifts to May's tributes—parachutes carrying food, medicine, weapons, anything that might tip the scales in their favor. He told himself it was just strategy, but deep down, he knew the truth. It wasn't about the children. He barely remembered their names. Every extravagant delivery was for her. He wanted to give May something more than the brittle hope she carried—something real, something that might dull the anguish in her eyes during those torturous broadcasts. Each gift felt like a small rebellion against the Capitol's cruelty to her, a silent offering that he knew she might never acknowledge.
Soledad noticed, as she always did. "You're getting too involved, Drew," she said one evening, her voice edged with concern as she watched him finalize yet another lavish order.
They'd already had a conversation about what happened last year, one filled with quiet warnings and cautious advice. Yet, here he was again, unable—or unwilling—to pull himself away.
"This isn't you. What happens when the Games end, and those kids are gone? What happens to you when she's gone—back to her district, back to her own life?" Drew didn't answer, though her words struck deeper than he cared to admit. Instead, he stared at the screen, watching May on the broadcast. Her face betrayed nothing as her tributes fought to survive, but Drew could see the tension in her clenched jaw, the way her hands gripped the edge of the table as if steadying herself. He didn't tell Soledad that he already knew how it would end. He wasn't doing this to save the children. He was doing it to save her—or at least, to give her one less reason to break.
When the cannon fired for her final tribute, Drew felt the defeat settle over him like a heavy weight, but it was nothing compared to the blow May endured. He watched from afar as the camera panned to her reaction. She sat utterly still, her face a mask of composure that he knew was cracking beneath the surface. Her fingers curled into tight fists on the table, and though her gaze never left the screen, her shoulders trembled slightly—just enough for him to notice, but not enough for the Capitol audience to mock.
Later, he stood on the balcony of his penthouse, staring down at the city's glowing skyline, unable to shake the memory of her expression. She hadn't cried, not where anyone could see, but he could tell she was absorbing the weight of yet another loss. Drew gripped the railing, his knuckles white, as frustration churned in his chest. He had given everything he could to those tributes—spent a fortune that could have funded his family's luxury for years—and it still hadn't been enough. Nothing ever was.
Inside, Soledad's voice broke the silence. "You saw her, didn't you? The way she took it. That's why you're like this." She stepped closer, her tone softer now. "You can't fix this for her, Drew. And throwing more of yourself at it won't change what this is."
He didn't respond. He didn't need to. As much as he hated to admit it, Soledad was right. But even knowing that, he couldn't stop watching May from a distance, his chest tightening as she walked away from the screen that had sealed her tributes' fate, her head held high despite the crushing weight he knew she carried.
The Capitol always found new ways to remind her that her victories didn't make her powerful—they made her useful. For a price, they could have her. Not in the literal sense, not every time, though there were always offers for that too. Some paid for her presence at dinners, to parade her like a trophy. Others wanted something quieter, something crueler—to make her their personal servant for an evening, fetch wine, refill glasses, laugh politely at their jokes. And then there were the ones who made no pretense, who wanted to strip away even the illusion of dignity that the Capitol pretended to grant its victors.
May hated those nights most of all. She hated the empty politeness, the lingering touches on her shoulder, the way they studied her like an object they owned. She thought of her brother and her mother in District 11, the reasons she endured it all. She thought of the Capitol Peacekeepers who watched her family's house, of the unspoken threats in every conversation with a sponsor. The Capitol didn't need to spell it out—she knew what would happen to the people she loved if she didn't comply.
Across the room, she spotted Misty, the other victor-turned-mentor from District 4. Seeing her was like catching sight of a lone ship in the middle of a storm—solid ground in a sea of glittering predators. Misty had been one of the few to make this unbearable life survivable. From the beginning, she had shown May kindness. They had forged something unspoken in those shared, silent glances of understanding during long, miserable Capitol events. Misty knew the games, the prices paid, and the bruises left behind. She had helped May steady herself when the world threatened to consume her whole.
Standing next to Misty, with his usual eccentric flair, was Harley, May's Capitol Stylist. Tonight, he wore a jacket that looked like it had been dipped in stardust, and his hair was a bright swirl of violet and silver. He was talking animatedly to Misty, hands waving in exaggerated motions, no doubt regaling her with some outlandish opinion or bizarre observation about the evening's guests. But when May approached, Harley's wild gaze flicked to her briefly, and his expression softened—just for a moment. Without a word, he gave May an exaggerated bow and sauntered off into the crowd, leaving her and Misty alone.
It was his way of saying, This is your moment, not mine.
That wasn't always the case. At first, Harley had despised her. He had made his disdain painfully clear the day they were introduced—his words sharp and cutting, his designs uncomfortable and cruel. "Another pretty face from the districts," he had sneered, treating her like a blemish on his otherwise perfect Capitol record. For years, Harley had made her life a waking nightmare, forcing her into costumes meant to humiliate or punish her. He had been a maestro of Capitol cruelty, using his artistry as a weapon.
But something shifted between them—not overnight, but slowly, like a wound scabbing over. Perhaps it was the look in her eyes after her first year as a victor, or the way she endured everything without ever truly breaking. The year she turned sixteen, instead of a barbed comment, Harley had handed her a small vial and said flatly, "Take them if you need to. Don't let them win." It wasn't a truce, but it was the closest he could manage, and May had taken it for what it was: an offering of survival, a useful one when her time started to be auctioned. Now, Harley understood her better than most, even if they rarely spoke about it aloud.
"You clean up well, sweetheart," Misty said as May stepped beside her, sarcasm softening into genuine affection. Misty's aquamarine gaze flicked briefly over May's turquoise gown before landing on her face. "But I'm guessing you hate it as much as I hate mine."
May allowed a faint smile to pull at her lips, the closest thing to laughter she could offer tonight. "More."
Misty tilted her head slightly, watching her with that sharp, perceptive gaze that cut through every mask. "It doesn't get any easier, does it?"
May looked away, her sapphire eyes scanning the room, landing briefly on Harley's retreating form as he melted into the chaos of the gala. "No," she admitted softly. "But you find ways to endure."
"Harley's still looking out for you, huh?" Misty mused, her voice low. "You're lucky. Not all of us get a Capitol dog that learns new tricks."
May huffed softly, though there was no real humor in it. "He didn't start that way. He hated me. Made sure I knew it, too."
Misty gave her a sidelong glance, curiosity flickering in her expression. "And now?"
"And now… I think he sees me. The same way you do." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Like someone who doesn't have the luxury of breaking."
Misty's lips pressed into a thin line. "We don't," she agreed quietly. Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. "That's why we get through this together."
May met her gaze, and something warm flickered in her chest—gratitude. For Misty, for Harley, for the other victors who understood, for the quiet alliances that kept her standing when the weight of this life threatened to pull her under. But even as she acknowledged them, a different face lingered on the edge of her thoughts. Drew.
She found herself thinking about Drew. He didn't demand her time, didn't treat her like a thing to be bought. He was something else entirely, though she couldn't quite name it.
She had seen him only a handful of times in the past year, their paths crossing briefly at galas or Capitol gatherings. She'd grown used to the way people looked at her, but Drew's gaze was different—steady, sharp, and searching. He didn't leer like the others, didn't try to use her presence as a status symbol. There was something behind his eyes that unsettled her, something that made her feel seen in a way she wasn't sure she wanted.
When she spotted him across a room, she felt an odd sense of relief, as if his presence made the Capitol's grandeur and its cruelty feel a little less suffocating. She didn't always speak to him; sometimes, she just watched him from a distance, wondering why he kept his distance too. But there were nights when he wasn't there—when she scanned the crowded ballrooms for his face and found only strangers in opulent masks. On those nights, she told herself it didn't matter, that he was no different from the rest of them.
But she knew that wasn't true. Drew was of the Capitol, yes, but there was something in him that didn't quite fit. He had money, status, and charm—everything that should have made him a perfect Capitol elite. Yet, he never used any of it against her. He had sent gifts to her tributes, obscene amounts of resources that bought them moments of survival, but May had always known those parachutes weren't for the kids.
Misty scoffed, pulling her out of her thoughts. "These people are all the same, May. Glitter and cruelty wrapped up in silk. The sooner you stop looking for anything else in them, the better."
May hesitated, the words caught in her throat. Misty meant well, and May understood her anger better than anyone. But as much as she wanted to agree, she couldn't. Misty didn't know about Drew. She didn't know how May searched for him sometimes, how his absence cut deeper than it should, or how those roses he sent gave her strength she didn't realize she needed.
"They're not all the same," she thought to herself, but she didn't say it aloud. Because admitting it meant acknowledging that she believed it—that she believed in him. And that was dangerous.
The sky over District 11 seemed larger from her window, a vast blue canvas streaked with golden rays that spilled generously over the endless fields of crops. May Maple sat on the porch of her house in the Victor's Village—a place that was supposed to be her refuge but felt more like another prison, albeit one wrapped in comodity.
Inside, her mother, Caroline, was busy in the kitchen. May had insisted she rest, that she didn't need to do anything, but Caroline was as stubborn as always. She refused to be a passive observer in her own life, even when that life now revolved around her daughter's fame and the quiet grief they both carried. Through the window, May could see her: her mother's movements were slow and deliberate as she arranged flowers in a vase. There had always been flowers in their home, even before May became a victor—a desperate attempt to add beauty to a world that often felt cruel and bleak. Caroline, hummed softly as she tended to a battered quilt. It was a relic from years past, one that May's hands had stitched alongside her brother Max's when they were children. Now it seemed like a metaphor for their lives—frayed at the edges but still holding together.
Max. She let out a breath, watching the distant fields sway in the evening breeze. He was out there, somewhere, working in the orchards just as he always had, as though her victory hadn't shaken the foundations of their family. Her brother's resilience grounded her in ways she couldn't explain. He seemed untouched by the Capitol's cruelty, stubbornly clinging to the rhythms of their old life. But May knew better. He was so young when she was reaped, May wasn´t sure if he remember a time when she wasn´t already a victor.
Max was almost seven years younger than her, and every year, his name seemed to grow more frequent in the district's annual lottery. May couldn't shake the worry that clung to her—every time the Reaping drew near, she could already hear the whisper of his name in her head, the way the air would thicken, the tension unbearable. She'd spent years trying to shield him from that very fate, trying to protect him from the possibility of being called. But there was only so much she could do. Max had already been in the Reaping, and with each year, the odds of him being chosen only grew.
She hated that feeling—the knot in her stomach that twisted every time she thought of it. But there was nothing she could do to change it. Nothing she could do to stop it. All she could do was hope, and pray that the Capitol's cruelty wouldn't come for him the way it had come for her.
"May?"
She turned at the sound of Brendan's voice, and there he was, standing a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jacket. His fair skin gleamed softly in the light, his features sharp but kind, and his hazel eyes had a warmth that reminded her of the old days—before everything had changed.
"Hey," she said quietly, offering a small smile as he moved closer, sitting down next to her on the porch. Brendan shifted a little, as if unsure of how to approach the conversation, but his words came with the same familiarity. "I was just thinking about you... It's been a while since we talked."
She nodded, feeling the weight of his gaze. There was always something unspoken between them, something she had never been able to fully return. Brendan had always been there for her, the kind of person who, had their lives been different, she might have allowed herself to fall for. But May had learned quickly that the reality of her situation wasn't something Brendan could understand. He didn't know the Capitol like she did. He didn't know the games, the manipulation, the endless performances of the victors. He saw her as the same clumsy girl who had once run through the dirt with him as a child. That May was dead.
"Thanks for stopping by," she said, breaking the silence that had stretched too long.
Brendan offered her a lopsided smile, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment too long. "I guess I just miss you. It feels like you're slipping away from all of us."
May's heart squeezed at the honesty in his voice. She wanted to tell him everything—the loneliness of the Capitol, the expectations, the games, the endless smiles and empty words—but she couldn't. Not when she knew Brendan couldn't comprehend it. He didn't understand the games she'd played, the sacrifices she'd made. He didn't understand that in her world, there were no true connections.
"I'm still here," she said, forcing a smile. "I'm just... busy."
Brendan's eyes softened, but he didn't push. Instead, he sat quietly, the air between them thick with unspoken words. May felt a twinge of guilt—he was a good friend, a better one than most she knew now, but the distance between them was growing wider by the day.
Her thoughts strayed to Drew, as they often did when she was lost in thought. Drew, with his sharp features and piercing green eyes, the most handsome man she had ever known. He wasn't handsome in the way most Capitol men were—those who wore their beauty like a mask, exaggerated and artificial, created by the Capitol's obsession with perfection. No, Drew's perfection was different. It wasn't polished or manufactured. His appearance was raw and natural, a striking contrast to the superficiality around him. He didn't need the extravagant clothes, the cosmetic enhancements, or the over-the-top hairstyles that the Capitol elite draped themselves in. There was something about him, something magnetic in his simplicity, that made him stand out even more in that world of excess.
His wild green hair, one of the few features that unmistakably marked him as a Capitol citizen, was a sharp reminder of the world he came from. It was a color so unnatural, so vivid, that it felt like a symbol of the Capitol's frivolity, and yet it somehow suited him—adding an edge to his otherwise understated appearance. He was everything Brendan wasn't. Where Brendan was warm and steady, Drew was cold, calculating, and intoxicatingly unpredictable. The Capitol had molded him into a weapon, a symbol of its power, and despite everything she told herself, May couldn't deny the pull he had over her. It wasn't the same kind of pull she felt for Brendan—a pull rooted in comfort and familiarity—but something more dangerous, something that ignited every part of her.
Brendan would never understand that. He was good and whole, someone who looked at her as if she could be the same girl she had been before the Games. Drew saw her for what she had become—the victor, the product of the Capitol's cruelty—and yet he had glimpsed what she had been before. As if she were a book and he an avid reader. He just saw her. (Sometimes she felt more exposed under his gaze than with the men she was forced to interact with more intimately.) And, in a strange way, May had come to realize that Drew's understanding of her was far more real than the fantasy Brendan clung to.
"Are you okay?" Brendan asked, snapping her out of her thoughts.
May met his gaze and offered a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I will be."
Brendan didn't ask any more questions. He simply nodded and sat next to her as the sun sank lower, casting long shadows over the fields. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to feel the comfort of his presence—before the weight of the Capitol's expectations and her own complicated feelings about Drew settled back in.
May had learned long ago how to silence her mind when paraded through the Capitol like a prize. She let the music and laughter blur together, the opulence of it all becoming little more than background noise. Tonight, she was a gem on Conway's arm, a trophy displayed for others to admire. Her emerald gown shimmered in the soft light, and the weight of the extravagant jewelry around her neck felt like chains. Conway basked in the attention as he introduced her to other Capitol elites, flashing a self-satisfied grin every time someone complimented his "choice of company."
"Smile, sweetheart," Conway murmured as his hand slid to her lower back, too possessive, too familiar. May obeyed, tilting her lips upward into that practiced, empty expression. It was a mask she wore well.
He leaned in as he spoke, his breath brushing her cheek, his lips grazing far too close for comfort. It made her stomach turn. She barely registered what he was saying—something about her being the envy of the room—because out of the corner of her eye, she saw him. Drew.
Across the ballroom, Drew stood stiff and silent, an untouched drink in his hand. He looked at her, his emerald gaze sharp and unrelenting. There was something different in his eyes tonight—something darker. His perfectly tailored charcoal suit and neatly styled green hair were the picture of Capitol elegance, yet he seemed at odds with the room, like he didn't quite belong. He held himself apart from the crowd, but his attention never wavered. He was watching Conway. Watching her.
May didn't know why Drew's gaze unsettled her so much, why the heat of it left her skin prickling. Why does he look so angry? She forced herself to look away.
The evening dragged on, Conway's laughter and the murmurs of the crowd a suffocating hum in her ears. Drew remained in the background, always just within her line of sight, his presence a constant. It wasn't until Conway had turned his attention elsewhere that May slipped away, desperate for a moment to breathe. She found herself in a long, gilded hallway, her reflection staring back at her from a series of ornate mirrors.
She exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to her temple. "Just a little longer," she whispered to herself.
"May."
The soft voice made her jump, and she turned quickly to find Drew standing just steps away. He looked as stormy as he had all night, but up close, his frustration was clearer—more human.
"Shouldn't you be inside?" she asked, trying to sound composed.
Drew stepped closer, his jaw set, his voice low. "Shouldn't you?"
"I needed a moment."
"I'd imagine you did." His words were sharp, but there was something gentler beneath them, something that made her feel vulnerable. He studied her closely, his emerald eyes searching hers. "Why him? Why do you let him treat you like this?"
"Don't start," she said tightly. "You already know why."
"It doesn't make it right."
May's anger flared hot and quick. "Right doesn't matter, Drew. Not for me."
He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead, he ran a hand through his hair, his frustration palpable. "It matters to me."
The admission caught her off guard. Her breath stilled in her chest as Drew stepped closer, closing the space between them. His hand rose slowly, brushing against her jaw with a tenderness that made her throat tighten.
"You deserve better than this," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
Before she could respond, he leaned in. His lips brushed her cheek, soft and deliberate, landing on the same spot Conway's had grazed earlier. It was different—gentle where Conway had been smug, deliberate where Conway had been careless. And then he kissed her.
It wasn't rushed or demanding. Drew kissed her softly, as if trying to replace something broken with something whole. The Capitol, Conway, the weight of the evening—everything else melted away. For the first time in years, May didn't feel like a thing to be owned. She felt like a person, real and alive.
When he pulled back, Drew's hand lingered against her cheek, his gaze locked on hers. He looked like he wanted to say something—something important—but the words didn't come. May couldn't speak either. Her mind was still reeling, her heart pounding so loud she was sure he could hear it.
"Why?" she whispered finally, her voice unsteady.
Drew exhaled sharply, his own mask cracking just a little. "Because I can't stand watching them treat you like this."
May blinked. She thought back to the storm in his eyes all evening, the way he'd watched her with Conway. Jealous. The realization settled over her like a weight she wasn't sure how to carry.
Somewhere down the hall, Conway's voice echoed, calling her name. May flinched, the spell between them breaking.
"I have to go," she said quietly, though she didn't move.
Drew dropped his hand, stepping back just enough to let her leave. "May."
She turned away before he could finish, forcing herself to walk down the hall. Her mask slipped back into place with every step, though her heart still pounded painfully in her chest. It wasn't until she reached the ballroom doors that she noticed the delicate weight against her wrist.
May glanced down and froze.
Wrapped around her wrist was a thin silver chain, and dangling from it, a single, perfect rose. Deep red, almost crimson, the small charm was simple yet breathtaking. Her heart tightened at the sight of it. She hadn't even noticed him slip it onto her wrist.
She lifted her fingers, brushing over the charm as though it might disappear. Drew.
May told herself it didn't mean anything—that it was just a gesture, like the gifts he sent her tributes. But as the ballroom doors swung open and Conway's voice rose to greet her, the little rose seemed to burn against her skin, a secret she wasn't ready to let go of.
Drew wasn't like the others. And that terrified her.
Drew had stopped pretending he could keep his distance from May.
At first, it had been infrequent—the stolen moments, the brief exchanges during her visits to the Capitol. She came five or six times a year, her stays stretching longer during the Games when she was forced to mentor new tributes. The rest of the year, her trips were shorter, lasting only days, but they still left him unsteady. Each time she arrived, the air seemed different. Sharper. He'd find himself drawn to wherever she was, as if the knowledge of her presence alone wasn't enough.
It had been a year since that first kiss, and in that time, their lives had become a series of risks and stolen chances. Drew had found ways to be with her, to ensure her time wasn't always spent in the company of those who treated her like an accessory—or worse. His friends had noticed, of course. Soledad was the first to confront him, as sharp and unrelenting as always.
"You're going to get yourself exiled—or worse." Her voice had been low, steady, but her words cut deep. "This isn't some tragic love story, Drew. You know how this ends."
He hadn't replied, because she wasn't wrong. But even as Soledad, Robert, and Dawn shook their heads in disapproval, they didn't stop him. In their own ways, they helped. Dawn's connections (Dawn´s mother being one of the most famous and claimed stylist) kept May's schedule from reaching prying eyes. Robert's tactical mind ensured Drew's name stayed clear of any paper trail. And Soledad, despite her warnings, found ways to make sure May and Drew ended up in the same place more often than coincidence could explain.
Still, it wasn't enough.
Drew couldn't stop others from buying May's company. No matter how many hours he purchased, no matter how much time he carved out for her, the Capitol's demands didn't lessen. The sight of her with another man—someone who saw her as little more than a status symbol—was unbearable. He masked it well, most of the time. His expression remained calm, indifferent. But beneath the surface, the anger churned.
He hated the Capitol for what it did to her. He hated himself for being part of it.
He thought back to one of her recent visits. She had been standing beside a high-ranking official at some lavish event, her sapphire eyes dulled by exhaustion. The man had touched her arm too often, leaned too close, whispered in her ear as if they were equals. Drew had wanted to tear her away, to scream at the man to stay away from her. But he couldn't. He'd been forced to stand in the corner of the ballroom, his drink untouched, his jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
May had caught his eye from across the room, her gaze flickering briefly to his before moving away. She wore the mask well, her smile practiced and empty, her posture perfect. Drew knew what it cost her to maintain that facade. He knew the Capitol chewed her up and spit her out every time she left. And he hated that he couldn't protect her from it.
The truth was, Drew's time with May wasn't just about her. It was selfish, in its way. He needed to see her, to know she was still standing despite everything. When they were alone, when the rest of the Capitol couldn't reach them, it felt like he could breathe again.
But those moments came at a cost.
"Do you think this will end well?" Robert had asked him one night, his voice calm and precise, as always. "You're not saving her, Drew. You're just making it harder for yourself when the inevitable happens."
Robert's words had stayed with him, as much as Drew tried to push them away. Because no matter how much he hated to admit it, he couldn't change the truth. He couldn't save May. He couldn't stop the Capitol from demanding her time, her body, her life. All he could do was be there, in the brief moments she wasn't theirs.
And yet, despite the weight of it all, Drew couldn't stay away.
He thought of the way May looked at him when they were alone. Her walls were still there, but they softened around the edges, enough for him to see glimpses of the woman beneath. She never said what he wanted to hear, never told him she cared. But he saw it in the way her hand lingered against his, in the way she tilted her face up when he kissed her, in the rare, unguarded moments when she let him see the pain she carried.
They never spoke of love. They didn't need to.
When May wasn't in the Capitol, Drew felt her absence like a physical ache. He hated that he counted the days until her next visit, hated the way he scanned the guest lists of every event, hoping to see her name. And when she finally arrived, he felt both relief and despair. Relief, because she was there. Despair, because he knew what her presence meant.
He knew May couldn't afford to care for him the way he cared for her. Her survival depended on compliance, on the Capitol's favor. Drew didn't blame her for the choices she made to protect herself and her family. He blamed the system that forced her to make them.
But there were moments—fleeting, fragile moments—when the world didn't matter. When it was just them, away from the Capitol's prying eyes. In those moments, Drew allowed himself to hope.
It was foolish. Dangerous. But Drew had never been able to stop himself when it came to May.
The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the Capitol outside, muffled through gilded walls and heavy velvet drapes. Drew sat on the edge of the bed, his elbows braced against his knees, hands tangled in his hair as he stared at the floor. May was behind him, silent, her presence filling the room even though she hadn't spoken yet. He couldn't look at her—not yet.
They had been in the same situation many times before, but each time was different. May had always entered, dressed in clothes that the Capitol would deem seductive, revealing—waiting for the moment when the game would unfold as it always did. The expectations were clear: she was there to please, to give herself away to whoever had earned her time. But Drew never saw things that way.
He didn't want her to feel like she had to give anything. And so, instead of surrendering to the Capitol's game, those nights had become something different. They were spent in long conversations, deep talks that went on for hours, where they shared thoughts, dreams, and fears.
(He'd learned about her scars, the ones that told stories of the Games and the harsh life she had left behind in District 11. There was one, a long, jagged scar on her forearm from a fall out of a tree as a child. She had climbed it to escape an overseer, trying to avoid the punishment of a mistake that wasn't even hers. Drew had listened, his gaze steady, never judging. He knew those marks weren't just physical—they were part of her, part of the person she had become.
In return, May had learned about his family—the ones who had been trapped in the same Capitol life, yet still distant and disconnected. His sister, a glamorous socialite, married to a government official, but their relationship was cold, distant. She lived a life of appearances, something May could see too clearly as a façade. Drew's parents, too, had built their marriage on the Capitol's glitter, a hollow partnership that was as empty as the walls they had surrounded themselves with. Drew didn't speak of them with bitterness, though—just with the quiet understanding of someone who had learned too much about the Capitol's lies.)
Since their first kiss, a moment filled with uncertainty and doubt, they had both been trying to understand what was pushing them together, as if fate had placed them in the same space but without a clear direction. In the beginning, everything had been a whirlwind of confusing emotions, moments where both wondered if what they felt was real or simply the result of loneliness and the pressure of the Capitol. But now, with time, things seemed clearer. The feelings that had once been a mystery had now crystallized, as if each conversation, each shared glance, had slowly come together to form something solid. They were no longer just two people trapped in a system they didn't understand; they were two individuals who had found each other, who had seen one another beyond what the Capitol had designed for them. May no longer doubted what she felt for Drew, and he, silently, had also made clear what she meant to him.
"Do you remember the first night you bought me?" Her voice was soft, breaking the silence like a ripple across still water.
Drew tensed. How could he forget?
"You didn't touch me," May continued when he didn't answer. "You didn't say much of anything. You just let me sleep."
Drew closed his eyes, the memory vivid in his mind. May, curled up on the pristine Capitol sheets, exhausted but safe. He had sat up most of the night, watching her, unable to reconcile the girl he knew with the life she'd been forced to live.
"I thought you'd hate me for it," Drew said finally, his voice rough. "That you'd think I was trying to—"
"I didn't hate you." May's tone was gentle, and when he glanced over his shoulder, she was watching him with that quiet intensity that always seemed to unravel him. "That night gave me strength, Drew. Do you know that? A stranger in the Capitol gave me a night of compassion. It was the first time in years someone saw me as a person instead of an object."
Drew swallowed hard, his throat tight. "It shouldn't have been like that. You should never have needed me to be the first decent person in your life."
May walked toward him, the faint rustle of fabric breaking the silence. She sat beside him on the edge of the bed, their shoulders just barely touching. "Maybe not," she murmured. "But it was enough to keep me going."
Drew turned to look at her, and the weight of everything he wanted to say sat heavy on his chest. "I hate it," he said hoarsely, his voice raw. "I hate that I wasn't the first. That anyone else ever—" He stopped, his fists clenching as anger bubbled up, bitter and hot. "I hate that I couldn't stop it. That I let other hands—other people—" His words faltered as he struggled to express what he'd been holding in for so long.
They never addressed this subject. Their relationship was deep enough to explore each other's roots as individuals, yet still fragile enough to avoid discussing the elephant in the room.
May met his gaze, her expression softening as she began to understand the source of his words. Drew was angry—angry at himself. Angry that even if he had been there the night she was first sold, his attempt to ease her burden had been painfully short-sighted. He hadn't realized—or perhaps hadn't cared at the time—that while he'd given her one night free from the expectations imposed on her, he hadn't changed the fate that awaited her. If anything, it only made things worse.
The memory of that night had lingered with a bittersweet sting ever since he'd come to terms with this truth long ago.
"I should've been the one," Drew said quietly, as if confessing something that had been eating at him for months. "If I'd known, if I'd been the first, maybe I could've made it different. I would've treated you with respect, not like some prize to be claimed. I would've been gentler... I would've given you something more than just... whatever that was. I hate that I couldn't be that for you." His voice cracked, and May saw the guilt and regret in his eyes.
She took a slow breath, her heart aching for him. She knew Drew well enough to understand that his pain wasn't about wanting her in some selfish way. It was about wanting to protect her, to give her something more than the Capitol ever had. The weight of his words hung in the air, heavy with all the things they both wished could have been different.
"I know you would have been careful," May said softly, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. She had thought about it before—part of her wished he had been the one. But a more rational part of her understood that, if that had been the case, he wouldn't have seemed any different from the rest in her eyes. She knew he understood this too, yet both of them, deep down, couldn't help but wish their circumstances had been different.
"But what happened—it wasn't your fault," she continued, her tone gentle but firm. "You didn't know me then. And... neither of us had any control over this."
Drew looked at her, his expression pained. "But it could've been different, May. If I... I..." He clenched his jaw, swallowing the bitterness that rose in his throat.
May reached out, her fingers brushing against his hand, offering him the comfort he so desperately needed. "You are here now," she said quietly. "And that's enough. I'm here with you. That's what matters. This isn't your fault, Drew."
"It feels like it is." His words came out harsh and uneven. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration bleeding into every movement. "I should've done something. Anything."
May tilted her head toward him, searching his face. Then, as if deciding something, she shifted closer. "What you did was way better, don´t worry. You're thinking too much," she said, resting her forehead gently against his temple.
Drew let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "How could I not?"
"You shouldn't. It's easier that way."
"Easier for who? For you?" He pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. "Don't do that, May. Don't pretend it doesn't matter."
For a moment, she didn't say anything, but he saw something flicker in her gaze—pain, maybe, or something softer that he didn't dare name. She turned her head slightly, as if trying to shield herself from the truth in his words. Drew couldn't stand it. He reached for her, threading his fingers into her hair as he leaned in closer, forcing her to look at him.
"It matters to me," he said, low and hoarse. "Every second you spend with them, every time someone lays a finger on you, it kills me. I hate them for it."
"It's not your fight, Drew."
"It is now."
May blinked, startled by the edge in his voice. Drew's chest rose and fell unsteadily as he stared at her, anger simmering just beneath the surface. But it wasn't anger at her—it was at the world that had done this to her, at the Capitol that had turned her into something to be bought.
May was the one who moved first. She leaned forward and kissed him—slowly, deliberately, her lips brushing against his like a question she already knew the answer to. Drew stilled at first, his breath catching, but then his hands found her, pulling her closer as he kissed her back.
It wasn't the first time they had kissed, but it was the first time things felt different—more urgent, more real. This time, they weren't just testing the waters. They were diving in, and neither of them was holding back. May deepened the kiss, her fingers sliding into his hair as she shifted into his lap, pressing her body against his until there was no space between them. She was claiming this moment for herself, leading it, and Drew let her. If this was what she needed, he would give it to her.
(He, too, wanted this with ablaze, fierce force, as if his very soul ached for it.)
When her hands found the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward, he didn't resist. The fabric slipped over his head and landed somewhere forgotten. Drew leaned back just enough to look at her, and the sight of her stole whatever breath he had left.
Her brown hair framed her face like silk, her lips already swollen from his kisses. The soft glow of the window light traced every line and curve of her, dancing across her bare shoulders and collarbone. She was beautiful—so beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. But even now, he could see the faintest shadows of scars, reminders of all the Capitol had taken from her. It made him hate them more. It made him want to worship her more.
"You're beautiful," he whispered, his voice trembling slightly. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing softly against her skin. May leaned into his touch, her eyes never leaving his.
"Drew," she murmured, his name barely more than a breath before she kissed him again.
They sank back onto the bed together, their bodies moving slowly, reverently. Drew kissed every inch of her he could reach, his hands tracing her as if memorizing her. She was soft and warm beneath him, grounding him even as he felt himself shatter.
When it was over, Drew held her against his chest, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist as though he could shield her from everything. May lay still beside him, her head tucked against his shoulder, her breathing soft and steady.
But Drew's mind refused to rest. He could still see the scars, the bruises, the faint marks left behind by careless hands and cruel men. He could still see the Capitol—the system that had stolen her choices, her freedom, her innocence.
May stirred slightly, pressing a kiss against his collarbone. "You're thinking again."
Drew didn't answer at first. He stared at the ceiling, his jaw tight, his resolve like a flame burning low and fierce inside him. Finally, he murmured, "This has to end."
May shifted to look at him, her expression unreadable. "What?"
"I don't care what it takes," Drew's voice was low, unsteady, but sure "One day this will end, I'll make them pay."
"You sound like you want to start a war."
"Maybe I do."
May blinked, startled, but Drew didn't look away. For years, he'd been silent, complacent, too comfortable to acknowledge the Capitol's cruelty. But now, holding her like this—seeing the marks they'd left on her—he realized he couldn't do nothing anymore.
If he had to burn the world to save her, he would.
May sighed softly and nestled back against him. "Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm not."
Drew pressed his lips to her hair, breathing her in as the fire inside him burned brighter. He would find a way to end this—to change it all. He didn't care what it took.
If I have to burn this world to ash to save her, I will.
Review?
To my readers: I hope the continuation of the story meets your expectations. Now, only the final part is left, and I'll have it ready shortly.
Question: I have three unfinished stories about this couple. I was about to delete them, but I really enjoyed revising and finishing this one. So, I'd like to ask you—would you be interested in me completing any of those stories?
Here are the options:
A Greek mythology AU.
A Harley Quinn and Joker-inspired AU.
An AU about May, a ballerina, and Drew, a classical musician (though I'd need ideas for this one since I'm not sure where I originally intended to take it).
Let me know!