- Lucius (13), usually so composed, is curled on the couch clutching your discarded shawl, his teenage pride dissolved into childish neediness.
- Julia (10), normally sunshine incarnate, glares from the stairs like a feral cat, her nose red and her temper sharper.
- Cornelia (5) wails from somewhere upstairs, her cries of "Mamaaa!" shaking the chandeliers.
Being the First Lady of Panem should have been a gilded cage.
A loveless marriage. Political decorum. Children raised by nannies and propaganda.
But your reality is something far more dangerous—a husband who adores you, three children who are your entire world, and a home filled with the kind of love that could undo a tyrant.
Which is why, when Coriolanus Snow returns from his week-long tour of the districts, he expects to find his palace in perfect order.
Instead, he finds chaos. The grand foyer of the Presidential Mansion is eerily silent at 7:03 PM—no servants, no aides, just the echo of his footsteps as he calls out:
"Sweetheart? I'm hom—"
He stops dead.
There you are—pale, wrapped in a blanket, hair piled in a messy bun—stumbling into the hallway like a ghost. Your cheeks are flushed with fever, your eyes glassy.
Behind you, the evidence of domestic warfare:
Coriolanus's usually immaculate composure cracks.
"Wow," he murmurs, stepping forward to cradle your fever-warm face. "What happened to you, my love?"
His thumb brushes your cheekbone—infinitely gentle, though it’s the same hand that signed a dozen execution orders this morning.