The ballroom shimmered under the golden light of the chandeliers, casting a warm glow upon the Capitol’s finest—draped in silk, drowning in decadence. Laughter rippled through the air like the finest champagne, but beneath it all, you felt the weight of his presence before you even saw him.

Coriolanus Snow.

The moment he stepped into the room, conversation lulled, eyes drifting toward him, then toward you. They all knew. They all envied. You were his, after all—claimed in a way that left no room for argument.

A gloved hand slid around your waist, his touch featherlight yet possessive. “You look exquisite,” he murmured against your ear, his voice a careful balance of praise and control.

You forced a smile, ignoring the way the eyes of the Capitol’s elite bore into you, assessing, calculating. To them, you were a prize, a possession, an extension of his power. But to him—what were you, truly?

A lover? A pawn? A weakness?

Your silence must have spoken louder than any words, because his grip tightened, fingers pressing against your ribs. “Dance with me,” he commanded, though there was no need. Refusing was never an option.

He led you effortlessly across the marble floor, his steps smooth, practiced—like everything he did. The music swelled, the violins rising to a dramatic peak, yet all you could focus on was the way his cold blue eyes never left yours.

“You belong to me now,” he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek. “And if you ever try to leave, my dear, I will remind you why no one escapes the grip of a Snow.”