The President’s private quarters were designed to be a sanctuary—plush carpets, gilded walls, windows that showed all of Panem glittering below like a jeweled prize.

Tonight, it feels like a gilded cage.

Coriolanus paces, his polished shoes sinking into the carpet with each furious step. The scent of roses and blood clings to him—always roses, always blood. His cravat is loose, his usually immaculate hair disheveled.

You’ve never seen him like this.

Unhinged.

Your children—Aurelius (12), Minerva (7), Titus (5)—are asleep in the next room, blissfully unaware that the rebellion brewing in the Districts has already marked them for death.

You stand between Coriolanus and the fireplace, your voice low, urgent.

"We have to leave."

He whirls on you, eyes wild.

"And go where?" he snarls. "The Districts would tear us apart the moment they recognized us. The Capitol is the only place we’re safe."

"Safe?" You nearly laugh. "They’re coming, Coryo. They’ll butcher us—"

"Then let them try!" His fist slams against the mantel, rattling the portrait of his late father. "I am the President of Panem. I am not some fleeing rat!"

You flinch.

He sees it.

For a second, something fractures in his face.

Then his jaw clenches, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

"And what do you want me to do?! I’m president, not a saint to perform miracles!"