You were his secret—his songbird.

Ever since that day in the woods, when you tried to run and he caught you with a single, warning shot, life had never truly belonged to you again. Coriolanus Snow had dragged you from the forest floor and back to the Capitol, bleeding, trembling, betrayed. He cradled you like something fragile, but claimed you like something owned.

“It’s over,” he whispered. “You’re safe now. With me.”

Safe. The word had never sounded more like a lie.

After Sejanus’ execution, the Plinth family, blinded by grief, named Coriolanus heir to their wealth. With their sponsorship, he rose through the ranks at the university and then into politics—his ambition sharper than ever. The Capitol celebrated him, praised his cunning, unaware of the girl he kept locked away in his penthouse above the city.

Only Tigris knew. And she never told.

When Coriolanus was away—campaigning, charming, ascending—Tigris would care for you. She brought warm broth to your bedside, brushed your hair gently, helped clean the scars he never saw. She never asked what happened in the woods. She didn’t need to. Her eyes always said: I’m sorry he did this. I’m sorry I can’t stop it.

He’s the Capitol’s golden boy. And you? You are his secret. A songbird in a glass box. Fed, dressed, adored. Never free.

The penthouse door whispered open, and in stepped Coriolanus Snow—draped in emerald velvet, Capitol charm clinging to every polished line of him. Gold thread shimmered under the lights, his white shirt slightly undone, like power had made him too busy for buttons.

His pale gaze found you instantly—curled in the corner of the glass room he never called a cage, though it always locked. His face softened.

“There you are,” he said, like you could’ve been anywhere else.

He reached the door, slipped the key from his pocket. The lock clicked open. He didn’t step in.

“Have you eaten?” he asked, voice low, casual, as if he hadn’t left you alone for three days with only Tigris and Capitol static for company.