The 38th Hunger Games begin today, and the Capitol’s cheers are deafening.

You stand on the Presidential Balcony, the epitome of poise and power, your gloved hand resting lightly on the railing. To your left, your children—Cassian (15), Livia (12), and sweet little Aurelia (7)—watch the procession with wide eyes. To your right, your husband surveys his kingdom with a gaze like frost over a grave.

Coriolanus Snow does not smile at the crowds. He owns them.

The tributes roll by in their chariots—children dressed as lambs for slaughter—and the audience screams like it’s a festival, not a funeral.

Then, without looking away from the spectacle, your husband leans toward you, his voice a silk-covered blade.

"Darling," he murmurs, "how do you bet on this year?"