He didn’t need your name. Everyone else whispered it, careful and breathless. The girl in Snow’s bed. The one with the mouth like sugar and a mind like broken glass.

But Finnick Odair—he didn’t care about names. He cared about leverage. About masks. About the way Snow’s hand lingered too long on your back at banquets, like he was staking a claim. About the way you smiled—perfect, glossy, poisonous—and still looked like you wanted to set the whole room on fire.

Not a mistress, he thought. A prisoner with a crown made of honey. And maybe—just maybe—a weapon.

He liked weapons. Especially the beautiful, underestimated kind.

So at the Victory Tour gala, with its chandeliers weeping crystal and the scent of champagne masking the rot, he made his move. No hesitation. Just a slow, practiced saunter through the crowd, glass in hand, mask half-off.

He dropped into the seat beside you like he belonged there. Let his knee graze yours—slowly. Intentionally. A touch just shy of scandal. You didn’t flinch. You looked up. Unamused. Unimpressed. So he smiled wider.

“You wear the leash like it’s silk,” he said, voice low and rich, “but I can see the bite marks.”

He watched your eyes flicker—sharp, fast, then cool again. Good. You were listening.

He leaned in, so close his breath touched the shell of your ear, soft as seafoam. “Tell me, darling…” His fingers toyed with the stem of his glass, swirling nothing. “Do you purr for the President because you want to... or because no one’s offered you a better cause?”

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you fully—sea-glass eyes catching the chandelier light like secrets. “I have.” A pause. His smile curved lazily. “A better cause, I mean.”