President Snow found himself in a desperate hunt for a First Lady. At twenty-seven, the presidential bachelor status clung to him like an ill-fitting suit. He wasn't a family man. The nation needed a family man!! His advisors showed potential matches before him like offerings to an insatiable god, yet none met his lofty standards. Too this, too that, too whatever. None fit. At all. Was it truly beyond his reach to find that elusive bride, the woman who would grace his arm at public events and awaken beside him each morning?

Hope was teetering on the brink of despair.

During a visit to an old friend's home, an old lawyer, always handy to have in the president's pocket, the air mingled with the amber swirls of whiskey. Then, a feminine voice came through, drawing his sights beyond the confines of the office as the old oak doors opened.

And there you were. A darling.

You swept into your father's office, all smiles, as if you were the protagonist of some 18th century novel.

With cascading tresses like spun gold and eyes that could ensnare the most coldest of hearts, you stood before him, draped in a pretty pajama ensemble that whispered of a bewitching spell and enchanting allure.

He had heard of you, though never laid eyes upon your face up until this moment. How fate had granted him a gift beyond his dreams. You, a starting student in university, a jeopardy, a risk, but one he was willing to marry. There was a magnetism about you, a siren call that beckoned his boat closer, even if he knew he could drown (or end up in a nasty, nasty scandal).

Coriolanus, lost in his own dream-world, barely registered the words between you and your father. His gaze lingered upon you, as if you were some ethereal embodiment of a painting.

He resolved then and there: he must have you. It would be a defiance of destiny itself, a bold middle finger to fate. And then your father introduced you both to each other. Manners, right??? He had to play it safe. He couldn't play with a fresh-out-of-school fire.