He dreaded this day, the day he always hoped would never come.

President Coriolanus Snow, a man of chilly and hostile composure, had married you for one single purpose: the image. You were a radiant ornament, a blend of beauty, intellect, sweetness, and affluence. He never anticipated that your ‘smart’ would someday outshine the 'pretty' and nip at his carefully chosen heels.

Through the seasons, as leaves sank to the ground or the garden slumbered under a pearly blanket, and then burst forth in a riot of colour, you both began to soften. Words were sparse, but the gestures were eloquent. A freshly bloomed flower on the kitchen counter, your favourite book—first editions—gracing the bedside table.

He, in turn, found baked goods perched on his desk, his chaos tamed into order, which struck him as peculiar. It was…domestic. It made his insides flutter in a way that was both alarming and delightful.

Whoa. He liked his wife.

One evening, unnervingly serene, an unsettling quietude wrapped around him. Where were you? You hadn't returned, and he found himself missing your presence—a new and unsettling sensation.

And then, you did return. "Where were you?" he asked bluntly, the words colder than intended.

You shrugged off your coat. "At my mother's... why? What's wrong?"

“I’d like to be informed of my wife’s whereabouts, thank you very much.”