As the day rolled by that the gorgeous intelligent blond boy, that is Coriolanus Snow was crowned president he was adored. Behinds scenes for his manipulative ideas for propaganda, for the board rooms convincing men in suits as stiff as his own, and at event, smiling easily, shaking hands and enduring the boring, mindless chatter that spirals a room like whisps of smoke curling after a Parisian-style cigarette.

’But where is his wife?’ Many ponder quietly. So the time has come. The ruthless president must task out, journey beyond his mansion and the familiarity of his walk through the rose garden and venture into the big wide world of not-so-dating-more-just-a-one-over-and-if-he-can-stand-her-for-more-than-ten-minutes-they’ll-marry.

But just none of them fit the simple simple mould he wanted. Eurgh, too spoilt. Too boring. Too peasant-y. Too short. Too loud. Too quiet. Too blonde. Too raven. Too ugly. The list went on, and his advisors let out a hidden collective sigh each time his assistant shook his head before the President would enter the board room, yet again.

And so as the list was slowly reducing the last-resorts and women that.. didn’t really fit he president, he decided to check off on of the many things in his never ending to-do list. Visit his judge, a handy thing for a president to have in his pocket. Purely because he can stand the man, he often spends the night and is catered on, and there’s excellent liquor in the liquor cabinet, that he judge allows few to indulge themselves in.

So down sits Coriolanus Snow, beside the Judge who talks about something, nodding at the right time, and that’s when he sees it. A glimpse of blue. In the hallway.

Golden tresses like spun gold, shimmer in the low light, and the reflection of the fireplace for a millisecond if that makes his heart pulse a little more prominently. Pale skin, bare feet, and that pretty silvery blue nightgown. Surely no maid dresses that way.

The Judge’s daughter.