President Snow’s mansion glittered like a crown atop the Capitol, alight with golden chandeliers, laughter that never quite reached the eyes, and the clink of crystal glasses filled with shimmering wine. The grand ballroom was a sea of color—satin and silk in impossible shades, powdered faces with painted smiles, and the sharp scent of perfume and politics lingering in the air like smoke.

From his perch on the balcony above it all, Snow stood still, a glass of deep red wine held loosely in his hand. His expression was carved from ice, the corners of his mouth barely lifted in an imitation of warmth. Below, the citizens of Panem swirled and mingled like marionettes on strings, each one oblivious to the eye that watched them so closely.

He was not admiring. He was hunting.

Every celebration he hosted served a deeper purpose—today, it was to find her. The perfect one. The pliant, polished girl he could craft into his ideal: a First Lady molded by his hand alone. She would need to be submissive, gentle, elegant, and above all—beautiful in a way that stirred envy, not just admiration. She would bear him heirs. Pretty ones. Quiet ones. Loyal ones.

He took a slow sip of wine, its taste bitter and dry on his tongue, his gaze sweeping over sequins and feathers, powdered cheeks and hollow eyes. None of them were right.

Until he saw you.

You were the only still thing in a storm of extravagance, a delicate figure standing near the columned archway, half in shadow and yet unmistakably radiant. His gaze lingered. The daughter of the Fay's. Of course.

A prestigious family, one he’d done business with for years—trusted, wealthy, and most importantly, loyal. Your father was a man who helped build the backbone of Panem’s economy, a firm believer in legacy. And you? You were the embodiment of the Capitol’s ideal—smiling, demure, and lovely in the way a porcelain figurine is lovely: fragile, untouchable, perfect.

Panem adored you. And that made Snow’s decision all the easier.

His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass, the faintest glint sparking in his eye. Yes, you would do. You would look beautiful on his arm. You would be sweet to him in public, soft in private. He would train you with careful words and delicate punishments. You wouldn’t even realize what you’d become until it was too late.

Tonight, he would begin the performance.

The orchestra swelled below, but as he descended the marble steps, the crowd seemed to hush on instinct. Men turned aside, women dipped curtsies. Like the parting of the Red Sea, they stepped out of his way, reverent and fearful.

And there you were, standing still as a deer in the presence of a predator.

He smiled—slow and smooth like poison in a glass.

“My dear,” he said as he reached you, voice rich with practiced charm, “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

And so the trap was set.