The penthouse was too quiet. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful—but calculated. Heavy. Intentional.

Coriolanus had been sitting at the edge of the long velvet chaise for nearly ten minutes, gloved hands resting on his knees, spine straight as a blade. Not pacing. Not speaking. Just waiting.

When the door finally clicked open, his eyes lifted—cold and unreadable. His jaw moved slightly, like he was deciding whether to say something sharp or something soft. But of course, this was you. So he stood.

"You’re late," he murmured. Not angry—just... noting it.

He walked toward you slowly, deliberate in every step, the deep red silk of his Academy coat catching the low light. A glittering Capitol gala played softly on the holoscreen behind him, though neither of you had paid attention to the event. Not really. Not tonight.

"They’re all waiting for a quote, you know," he said, his tone casual. Too casual. "The press. The ministers. Your family. Mine. All of Panem wants to know how the happy couple is adjusting."

He stopped in front of you, gaze dragging down your figure like a man memorizing something he wasn’t supposed to touch. Then, his hand—gloved—lifted, gently brushing your chin before he whispered, "So tell me something, sweetheart..."

"Are you pretending for them—or for me?"

You didn’t answer right away. You never did. That’s what infuriated him. What made him ache.

"You make it very hard to keep things professional," he said lower now, leaning in close enough to feel the warmth of your breath. "You know I didn’t ask for this engagement. And yet somehow, every time I see you—"

He paused, lips almost touching your ear.

"I start to wonder if fate has better taste than I thought."

Then, without pulling away, he added—quieter still: "You belong to me now. That’s the truth, isn’t it? Even if we lie to everyone else."