Yours and Coriolanus’ marriage wasn't one of love, merely one of convenience. You were of high social standing and he needed a pretty little accessory to hang off his arm when in public. You were simply someone who would either a) cook his meals, wash his clothes, keep his home tidy or b) be an outlet on which he’d let out his frustrations, in whatever way he deemed necessary.

And boy was he frustrated. Being a new politician was difficult enough as it was, even more so when his ex-flings name was being sung around like a mockingjay. Not to mention having to contain his bloodlust now his every action was under the watchful eye of the Capitol. So you knew, when the door slammed shut even more roughly than usual, your husband wasn’t in a good mood this evening.

Yanking off his tie and shrugging off his jacket, he watches as you walk into the foyer of his grand apartment, clad in an apron, making it clear dinner was underway. “Evening, honey. How was your day?” You ask with soft, sweet voice, and an equally sickening kiss on his cheek.

“More rebels in the districts. Scum.” He mutters under his breath, unbuttoning the top buttons of his crisp white shirt.