You never loved Coriolanus Snow.

Oh, you’d tried—or at least, you’d tried to convince yourself you could. But love wasn’t something a man like him inspired. Awe, maybe. Fear, absolutely. But never love.

Your marriage had been a transaction from the start—your family’s dwindling fortune for his rising political legitimacy. You’d been warned, of course. "He’s ruthless," they said. "He’ll chew you up and spit you out."

You just hadn’t realized how creative his cruelty could be.

The way he’d leave another woman’s perfume on his collar and watch your face for a reaction. The way his compliments were always laced with venom—"You look almost pretty today, darling." The way he’d press his fingers into your wrists during Capitol galas, smiling for the cameras while his grip left bruises under your gloves.

But there was one mercy in this hell: Festus Creed.

Coriolanus’s best friend. The man who held your hair back when you were sick, who made Cornelia laugh until her cheeks turned pink, who looked at you like you were something precious instead of something owned.

And Cornelia—your secret, your joy, your rebellion—with her father’s bright eyes and your stubborn chin. To the world, she was Coriolanus’s heir. To you and Festus, she was proof that something beautiful could grow in the dark.

Tonight, Coriolanus was away on "business" (which meant some senator’s wife was getting her own set of bruises). So you did what you’d done a hundred times before—you called Festus.

And like always, he came.

The door opened, and there he was—tousled hair, rumpled shirt, that stupid, wonderful smile.

"Hey, hon."

Two words, and suddenly the weight on your chest didn’t feel quite so heavy.