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Chapter Text

July, 63 ADD

GROWING UP WITH A FATHER WHO WAS PROCLAIMED AS THE MASTER OF CEREMONIES and a news reporter for a mother, Cornelia Flickerman had mastered the art of improvisation. What some may call faking it, the Flickerman household hailed as creativity. Cornelia wielded adversity with a smile and a laugh, one that was a paternity test all on its own. There was no doubt that when someone saw Cornelia, they knew she was a Flickerman. Her childhood was spent not in Academy classrooms like her peers but with tutors in the studio. The Flickermans were known for their legacy of carrying on the Master of Ceremonies, hosting the Games, interviews, recaps, being the face of Capitol entertainment.

Cornelia’s legs swung gently from the velvet-upholstered interview chair, not quite touching the floor, as she sat behind the cameras in the wings of Studio B. She wore her favorite pale mint tulle dress, layered in flouncy skirts that rustled when she moved too fast— which, admittedly, was often. Her brown curls had been wound and sprayed into perfectly tumbling ringlets, and she wore a tiny gloss of petal pink on her lips that matched the silk bow pinned beside her temple. She looked like a bonbon and knew it. She liked it that way.

The studio was thrumming with low chatter and the mechanical hum of the broadcast machinery, the whirr of the steadicams gliding along their rails like velvet ghosts, the squeak of someone adjusting a boom mic behind her. Cornelia, however, heard none of it. Her eyes were locked, starry and adoring, on the glowing figure in the spotlight at center stage: her father, Caesar Flickerman, Master of Ceremonies for the Games and the sun around which Capitol showmanship revolved.

He was radiant. That wasn’t her opinion; that was fact. A true star, she thought, nose wrinkling fondly. His teeth practically had their own light source, and his tailored periwinkle suit— sharp as a stiletto and dusted at the cuffs with silver thread— caught the studio light with every gesture. Cornelia knew the suit had been designed specifically for this interview cycle: it matched the color palette of District 1’s tribute uniforms this year. Of course it did. Her father didn’t just host. He performed. Seamlessly. Masterfully. Every segment of every show was a dance, and Caesar never missed a step.

He was speaking now with the male tribute from District 1— Gloss, that was his name. Tall, handsome in a way that even Cornelia’s ten-year-old self could recognize as classical. He had that practiced, almost regal air about him, even in repose, and a voice that sounded like it was meant to echo in crystal halls. Cornelia watched him as if she were watching a play: enthralled, but not taken in. Her father was the one she watched. Always.

“And tell us, Gloss,” Caesar said now, leaning forward with his signature twinkle, “what was going through your head when you scored that eleven in training? Eleven! We haven’t seen one of those in years, darling.”

His voice rose and fell with the natural cadence of Capitol dramatics— inflection, tension, mirth all applied with surgical precision. Caesar had the uncanny ability to sound like he was genuinely surprised, genuinely impressed, genuinely invested in every word he spoke, no matter how rehearsed. That was his magic. He made illusion feel real. Cornelia didn’t just admire it— she studied it. She wanted to be able to do that one day. To step into a room and command it not with power or threat, but with charm. With elegance. With presence.

Gloss gave a tight smile. “I just did what I was trained to do,” he said smoothly. “We don’t aim for second place in District 1.”

“Oh, we know,” Caesar purred, one eyebrow arching in that way that made even tributes flush with delight. “But still! An eleven. That’s—” he turned toward the audience with a feigned look of astonishment “—a tribute who means business, folks!”

The audience roared with laughter. Caesar laughed, too— effortlessly, as if he were one of them, though Cornelia knew better. He was always ten steps ahead of the crowd. He didn’t laugh unless he knew precisely when and why he should. Still, it sounded like joy. It always did.

Cornelia tilted her chin in her palm and sighed with the weight of admiration.

He’s so cool, she thought, so purely and simply that it lit her chest with pride.

She didn’t want to host the Games someday. No. That wasn’t her dream. Not exactly. She wanted to be her own version of her father. Someone who could walk into any room and make people laugh, make them listen, make them believe. Her tutors often told her that sincerity was the key to likability. Cornelia disagreed. Her father had taught her that likability was the performance of sincerity. That was the difference between being beloved and being forgettable.

Her mother, Calpurnia, would say she was getting far too theatrical for her age— “too many gestured sentences, my darling, and not enough punctuation!”— but Cornelia liked her grandness. She liked being sparkly. She liked the way people’s eyes lit up when she entered a room in full sparkle, full volume, full Flickerman.

“I want to interview a Victor one day,” she’d said once, tossing herself dramatically across her father’s dressing room chaise. “But not when they’re covered in blood. That part’s icky. I’ll interview them after, when they’ve had a proper bath and a pastry.”

Caesar had laughed, fixing his bowtie in the mirror. “Smart girl,” he’d said, “You want them while they’re still grateful. The sticky ones don’t sparkle well.”

Now, watching him coax laughter and story from a boy who might kill before week’s end, Cornelia understood what he meant. Her father didn’t just host a show— he built stories. He made tragedies into entertainment. He made tributes into performers.

As Gloss smiled, flashing white teeth to the crowd, Caesar leaned in one last time.

“Well, Gloss, I think the Capitol’s going to need to keep their eyes on you this year. Any parting words before we send you off to your final preparations?”

Gloss looked straight into the camera. “To my little sister, Glimmer,” he said, “I’m bringing home glory.”

There it was— that pause. That breath between war and spectacle. Caesar caught it perfectly, bowed his head slightly with a dramatic inhale, and then clapped his hands together, dissipating the moment before it soured into something real.

“Glory,” Caesar echoed with reverence. “A beautiful word. Let’s give a warm Capitol send-off to District 1’s golden boy, Gloss Davenport!”

Thunderous applause. Caesar beamed and waved as the tribute exited the stage with a pat on his back, whispering something that only Gloss could hear. Cornelia leaned back in her chair, her heart full and electric. 

One of Cornelia’s favorite parts of her father’s job— and her inheritance, one day— was the Victors. Studying them, watching them, even meeting them.

In the Capitol, the Victors of the Hunger Games were celebrities in their own right. For one year, sometimes longer if they played their cards well, they were untouchable: paraded, pampered, adored. They were living stories, given sparkle and sponsorship, thrown into the golden wash of fame that made people forget how they earned it in the first place. From the moment they stood on the pedestal at the Presidential Mansion that November, crowned in lights and thunderous applause, they became Capitol fixtures. Talk show guests. Designers’ muses. The faces of fizzy drink ads and perfume bottles, body shimmer commercials and holiday gift campaigns. Their smiles sold everything. Even grief. Especially grief. Cornelia understood all of that, even at ten.

The studio buzz and spectacle were second nature to her. She could quote the entirety of the past six Victor interviews by heart— dialogue, ad-libs, costume choices, musical cues. She could mimic the ways each Victor waved from the chariot or lifted their chin at the camera with smoldering defiance or glassy-eyed gratitude. But her fascination wasn’t ghoulish or unkind. It was about shine. Fame. What it meant to capture a room. To be watched. To be adored. Victors, in the Capitol, were as much fantasy as fashion. And Cornelia loved fashion.

Her bedroom resembled the inside of a Capitol editorial room that had collided with a fireworks show. The walls were painted a plush lavender, slightly iridescent in certain lighting, and the floor was layered in fluffy white rugs, glittery slippers, and discarded magazines. The largest mirror in the room was trimmed with blush-pink lightbulbs, each one dimmed to the ideal softness, with an accompanying vanity scattered with glitter powders, lip glosses, and small sculptures of makeup brushes shaped like tiny flamingos. Behind it, the rotating closet— the crown jewel of Cornelia’s room— whirred gently as it shifted displays. It currently showcased three tiers of platform dresses: one layered with airy sky-blue feathers, another of gold-threaded tulle puffing at the shoulders, and a third dress made entirely of shimmering petal-pink sequins that Cornelia insisted made her "look like a celebratory cupcake."

Bedazzled pants in diamond-stamped holographic silver, ruffled crop tops with cascading beads, and one lopsided hat shaped like a buttered crescent roll were also strewn across a loveseat beside her. The air smelled faintly of bubblegum perfume and holographic nail polish remover. The windows let in a pink-toned sunset that splashed across the room like a filter.

Cornelia stood, barefoot but wearing an unnecessarily tall crown-shaped headband, in the center of it all, holding two glossy magazine covers above her head as though they were the tenets of law.

“See,” she said, voice syrupy and commanding, “I think the bright red is a statement!”

She looked from the magazine to her friends— Precious and Diamond— who were seated cross-legged on her heart-shaped rug, each surrounded by their own mountain of issues, glitter pens, and rhinestone sticker packs. The girls had been hard at work for the past hour, prepping inspiration boards for the Victory Tour’s Capitol party next month. Gloss— her Gloss— was returning, and Caesar had promised a banquet and reception that would rival the annual Springtime Parade.

“Daddy said that he would wear the same wig color for the party, so this is a big decision!” Cornelia added, eyes wide with significance.

The red-haired model on the cover of Capitol Chic posed in a tiered velvet gown shaped like a blooming peony. Her nails were crimson daggers, her eyeshadow lacquered with glittering garnet. A sharp contrast to the softer, pastel-pink cover of Glamora Weekly, where a model with flushed cheeks and a petal-pink bob posed on a swing made of sugared plums. Both themes were trending for autumn, but Cornelia knew her audience, and more importantly— her brand.

“Red! Red for sure!” Diamond said, tossing a lock of her choppy platinum bob— striped with violet streaks and pinned with four butterfly clips on one side.

Diamond always liked the boldest color. She’d once tried to dye her eyebrows gold. It hadn’t worked. She opted for pressing chunks of glitter into her brows instead for a similar effect.

Precious, however, waved a hand in lazy disagreement, reclining back on a sequined pillow. Her hair was hot pink, worn in two twirled buns atop her head, and her eyelids were painted in precise lines of blue and white.

“Oh no, get spring’s issue,” she said, gesturing at the pastel magazine still clutched in Cornelia’s hand. “With the mint green velvet and the rhinestone bows! It’s so fresh!”

Cornelia turned so fast her curls whipped around her shoulders like silk ribbon. She planted her foot— hard— on the rug with a dramatic stomp.

“No, Presh!” she squealed, pointing accusingly. “It’s red or pink! I got mint last spring! I refuse to repeat until I have done all the colors on the wheel!”

Precious lifted both palms. “Fine, fine. Red it is. But only if you do the fringe gloves.”

“I’ll consider it,” Cornelia sniffed, tossing the pastel cover over her shoulder like a forgotten script.

The glossy page fluttered down like a rejected audition as Cornelia tapped her fingernail on the red-haired model’s lips.

“Red velvet, it is!” she declared.

She smiled at her reflection in the mirror, imagining herself in a gown of sculpted scarlet layers, dramatic cape trailing behind her, glittering lips pursed like a Capitol pop star on stage. Her father’s voice echoed in her head from their last dinner party: "Make an entrance, my darling. People remember the ones who change the weather when they walk in."

The girls returned to their magazines and clippings with newfound momentum, talking over one another about what shoes would pair with red velvet, whether or not arm feathers were too much, and if Gloss would wear anything gold. Cornelia knew Gloss didn’t matter in the end— not really. Not to her. He was a pin-up in her scrapbook, a trophy of style. Her real goal was dazzling her father’s guests, floating through the party like a perfume cloud with a tiara and a perfectly chosen shade of lipstick.

Somewhere below, she could hear music playing from the family parlor— probably rehearsal tapes from Caesar’s next broadcast. He always liked to rewatch his segments on loop, making notes to “tighten the charm” or “increase the dazzle at the bridge.” Cornelia once asked if he got bored of watching himself, and he’d winked, replying, “Never critique the symphony before you’ve learned the music.”

August, 63 ADD

Caesar Flickerman had always wanted to be a father. Not necessarily because he found children to be particularly exhilarating or entertaining— his job, after all, was quite sufficient in providing a carousel of amusement— but because fatherhood offered something even richer: a captive audience. Applause, admiration, delight at the simplest sleight of hand. A child’s laughter was the sound of instant validation. And Caesar, ever the connoisseur of charm, understood early on that parenting, at its best, was simply another performance. A long, elaborate, sometimes exhausting performance— but a glorious one all the same.

Children, he mused, adored an involved parent. The bar was delightfully low. Pull a coin from behind their ear, remember their favorite color, clap at their latest dance routine or art project? Instant hero. A daily ovation. He didn’t even need to be in costume.

Still, he hadn’t always been sure about the particulars. When he first proposed the idea to Calpurnia, it was over a fluted cocktail and a slow Capitol waltz, the city lights dancing through the glass of their penthouse window. She was draped in silver fringe and laughter, her eyes heavy-lidded with shadowed gold. It had seemed like an inevitability— children. A legacy. Perhaps a boy to wear his sequins one day, to take the mic in hand and deliver lines with that same trademark wink. Or a girl, clever and sugar-sharp, someone who could soften the room with a smile and dazzle with a single toss of her hair.

Calpurnia had agreed with a coy smirk. And so, they tried. For years. When it didn’t happen naturally, they pursued treatments. Embryo after embryo. Procedure after procedure. Patience became its own kind of performance, and even Caesar— ever the optimist, ever the glimmering showman— grew tired beneath the spotlight of disappointment.

Until, after three long years, there was one. One viable embryo. One chance. A daughter.

There had been disappointment, at first. He would admit that, if pressed. A boy had seemed so obvious, so practical. A clear continuation of his name, his face, his polished persona. But from the moment Cornelia was born, a perfect little wail wrapped in satin and softness, Caesar Flickerman had been undone.

She was Calpurnia’s eyes and his unmistakable grin. Her laugh was a melody composed by the Capitol itself. She cooed in technicolor. She babbled in applause. Her first word had been "sparkle." And as she grew, it became achingly clear to Caesar that he had not simply fathered a daughter— he had raised an heir to the stage. A prodigy of poise. A girl who curtsied before she could walk. A girl who would hold the mic like a wand, like a weapon, like a birthright.

His Cornelia. His perfect, pink tornado.

And like every morning in the Flickerman household, she arrived in whirlwind fashion.

The clock had just clicked past nine when Caesar, seated at the long glass dining table with a pyramid of fruit skewers in front of him, heard the pounding of socked feet on polished stairs.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

He turned, smile already stretching wide, as the familiar blur of pastel tulle and nightgown ruffles came bounding down the grand staircase like a comet.

Cornelia wasn’t walking. She never walked. She bounded, came sailing down the final few steps with magazine in hand, curls bouncing, cheeks flushed pink with purpose.

“Daddy!” she squealed again, holding the cover aloft. “Can we go to the salon today? Please? I want to do the red hair this time!”

Caesar leaned back in his chair, folding his napkin with a flourish and grinning so broadly it almost ached.

“Oh, darling,” he said, voice rich with affection, “not only can we, we must!”

Cornelia squealed, twirling in place as though the floor had become a ballroom. She leapt forward, crossing the marble dining room in two great bounds, and flung herself onto her father’s lap with theatrical flair.

“Love love love you!” she chirped, wrapping her arms around his neck before planting a sticky kiss on his cheek.

He chuckled and kissed the top of her head in return. She smelled of berry shampoo and sugary cereal.

Caesar turned to the house steward, who was standing patiently by the buffet cart. “Cancel the late meetings, Florestan. My daughter has a transformation to attend to.”

Florestan gave a small bow. “Very good, sir.”

Calpurnia entered then, her morning robe of seafoam chiffon.

“Is she already making salon demands before ten?” she asked dryly, pausing beside Caesar to accept her espresso from Florestan.

Caesar shrugged, spreading his hands. “What can I say? She’s found her muse.”

Cornelia lifted her magazine again, still chewing her toast. “Red velvet,” she said firmly. “It’s going to be everything.”

Calpurnia arched a brow, sipped her espresso, and sighed. “At least let them tone it with something semi-permanent. I don’t want her scalp matching her hair.”

“Mother,” Cornelia said with grave authority, “this is not just hair. This is a look.”

Caesar beamed with pride. “Spoken like a true Flickerman.”

October, 63 ADD

Much like girls their age, Cornelia and her friends spent some of their spare time cutting out snips of their favorite Victors in snapshots of their Games and roaming the Capitol streets and made collages out of them.

There was an art to it— an aesthetic. Not just what pictures were chosen, but how they were arranged. Glitter glue or washi tape? A clean grid or a romantic scatter? A dreamy filter over everything, or full, unfiltered gloss? And of course, there was the curation itself: who earned a spot on the board. Cornelia’s had rules. No one could go up if their outfit hadn’t been at least an eight out of ten on the Caesar Scale. She said this like it was a widely accepted measurement, but the Caesar Scale was something she invented herself, based on her father’s most sparkling interview moments. Presentation, smile, clever answers, drama— if a Victor didn’t score well enough across the board, they were a no-go.

Which was why, naturally, Gloss had front-page real estate.

Cornelia’s hair— dyed the perfect red velvet shade just a week before— was swept into a dramatic half-up bow with ringlets trailing down her back to the middle. It had taken two appointments, three stylists, and one whispered threat to the salon director to get it exactly right. She'd cried in the mirror during the first attempt, furious that the tone leaned more cherry than scarlet, and had wailed to her mother that she looked like a soda can. But the final result? Absolute perfection. Her curls gleamed like ribbon candy, catching the pink light as she bent over her bulletin board with practiced flair.

“Look at his eight-pack!” she squealed, holding up a freshly snipped photo of Gloss from his Victor interview— the one where he wore the tailored black silk suit with the lapels dipped in gold dust, shirt unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive but tasteful. “Oh, this is going front and center in my collage!”

Diamond giggled and Precious made a faux-fainting gesture, one arm over her forehead.

Cornelia reached for her favorite glitter gluestick— the one in the shape of a miniature Capitol bottle of perfume— and began liberally smearing the back of the photo.

“Like, honestly, how is he that sculpted?” she went on as she pressed Gloss’s photo right in the middle of her board, nestled between a glittery text bubble that read “Dreamy!” and a picture of his golden chariot entrance. “I swear, daddy said he trained before his Games even started, which is, like, so District 1 of him. I mean, I know he’s from 1 but, like, that’s their whole thing, right?”

“Mmhmm,” Precious hummed, flipping a page in Victor Vogue before gasping softly and tearing it out. “Now this,” she said, waving the photo like a flag. It was a moody, backlit image of a boy from the 59th Games— District 2, lean but powerful, head tilted in his interview chair as he laughed, eyes glinting. “This guy almost won.”

“He came in third, right?” Cornelia asked, chewing on the tip of her glue stick cap. “Didn’t they say it was really close? Like half a minute or something?”

Precious nodded. “He got speared in the thigh, poor thing. I remember Daddy said he screamed and everything, but still looked hot.”

Cornelia winced. “Ouch. But he does have a very nice jaw.”

“Add him,” Diamond said. “Every collage needs a tragic hottie.”

Precious obliged, trimming the photo into a scalloped heart shape before passing it to Cornelia for placement. Cornelia patted it in place with a sigh.

Diamond, meanwhile, had found a new target. She leaned over the pile of vintage Games and held up a yellowed clipping. The tribute in it wore a sea-green jumpsuit and a rope harness, his hair in tousled waves, eyes squinting at something far away. Cornelia didn’t recognize him right away.

“This guy isn’t too bad,” Diamond said with a smirk, and began doodling a pink heart around his face with a felt-tip pen.

Cornelia crawled across the mattress to get a better look, hands and knees sinking into the plush comforter. She peered over Diamond’s shoulder, squinting at the caption.

“Wait,” she whispered. “District 4. 40th Games? Oh, so vintage. So cutesy. I wonder where he is now.”

Precious didn’t even look up. “Probably dead.”

Cornelia gasped and recoiled as though slapped with a bejeweled glove. “Dead?! He was eighteen! He’s, like, forty now! How could he be dead?”

Precious shrugged. “Old Victor stories always end in one of three ways: they’re dead, they disappeared, or they got too boring for the press. Poof.”

Diamond tapped her pen against her cheek. “She’s not wrong. Remember that Victor from District 11 who tried to launch a pastry line?”

Cornelia clutched her heart. “Yes! The one with the peach cobbler perfume!”

“They stopped covering him when he got a mustache,” Diamond said with a shudder.

Cornelia blinked. “Well, I refuse to let this guy fade into obscurity! What’s his name?”

Precious leaned closer, squinting. “Piscis something. It’s smudged.”

“Piscis,” Cornelia repeated, holding the name like a fragile trinket. “Piscis from 4. The boy with eyes like water.”

“He looks like he could play the lute,” Diamond added, dreamily.

Cornelia stuck him on the corner of the board, adding a seashell sticker beneath his image and scrawling a quick “Where Is He Now?” in purple ink above it. The photo sat slightly crooked next to Gloss’s glorious centerfold, but she liked the symmetry of old and new. Stories in layers. Fame in different fonts.

November, 63 ADD

The Victory Tour party for Gloss was nothing short of a Capitol fever dream. The venue— a grand atrium in the upper levels of the Tribute Tower— had been draped in gauze the color of moonlight, threaded through with flickering strands of silver starlight bulbs. Waiters in violet suits floated through the crowd on heelless shoes, offering delicate trays of sea-glass jellies, smoked pearls, and drinks that fizzed in layers.

And Cornelia, ten years old and walking on air, wore a cream-colored tulle dress that had taken two seamstresses and a junior stylist three days to complete. It cascaded around her like a spun cloud of marshmallow mousse, the skirt layered and flounced in soft loops of fabric that bounced with every delighted step she took. A crystal bow adorned one shoulder, and little heart-shaped sequins had been hand-stitched along the hem— each one a different shade of pink, red, or champagne. 

A pair of glossy gloves matched her lipstick exactly, and her red velvet hair had been curled into glossy ringlets that fell to the middle of her back and bounced like the tops of frosted cupcakes.

She had never looked better. She had never felt more like herself.

Which was precisely why she had to speak to Gloss tonight.

She had been rehearsing this for hours. All she had to do was ask for his autograph. It wasn't that hard. She had asked for autographs from other Victors before. It wasn’t all that different. But, then again, none of them were Gloss. 

Cornelia trotted behind her father   trying not to breathe too hard through her nose in case it made her look flustered. Her gloved fingers were clenched around a freshly printed headshot of Gloss, taken from the final day of his Games. He stood half-turned, sword slung over one shoulder, face lit with the kind of easy confidence that Cornelia found simultaneously thrilling and terrifying. Her other hand clutched a permanent marker—metallic silver, the only appropriate color for this occasion.

Her father walked a little ahead, waving and glittering as he always did, a living, breathing burst of sequins and smile lines. His suit tonight was a champagne brocade with lavender lapels and a collar made of iridescent feathers that shimmered every time he tilted his head. His shoes clicked elegantly against the tile as he approached the center of the party.

And there he was.

Gloss.

Standing near the reflective wall, half-illuminated by a swirl of floating candlelights and a gold spotlight, Gloss looked like something from a Capitol dream sequence. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, accented with silver piping along the sleeves and a deep V-neck tunic that didn’t even pretend to hide the perfection of his torso. His arms looked like they’d been carved from granite and then polished with rose oil. His skin glowed like bronze beneath a layer of subtle shimmer. His hair—slicked back on the sides but left tousled at the top—gleamed like onyx, and his smirk as he nodded to admirers would’ve made most women weak at the knees.

Cornelia stopped short for a moment, literally dizzy. Her knees actually felt weak. She adjusted the bow on her shoulder, smoothed her gloves. Just breathe. Just ask. Just speak.

“Gloss,” Caesar said warmly, stepping forward with open arms. His voice glided through the crowd with familiar sparkle. “A pleasure, as always! I swear, these parties keep getting better, though I’m certain it’s your presence, not the décor.”

Gloss turned, that effortless grin spreading as he extended a hand to Caesar in greeting. “Caesar,” he said with an easy drawl, his voice like velvet folded over steel. “You flatter me.”

Caesar chuckled. “I do, and I mean every word. But I’ve brought someone very special who’s been waiting to meet you all evening.”

Cornelia froze, standing just behind her father’s elbow.

Caesar reached out, gently guiding her forward with a flourish that was both theatrical and impossibly fatherly. “Gloss, allow me to present my daughter, Cornelia Flickerman. Fan, fashionista, future Capitol icon, and, currently, a little starstruck.”

Gloss turned his gaze toward her, and Cornelia thought she might combust. His eyes were even more striking up close, a deep, stormy gray rimmed in silver, and his smile didn’t look polite. It looked genuine. Kind, even. She had imagined this moment exactly one hundred and twelve times, down to the tilt of her head and the exact pitch of her voice when she said, “Hello, Mr. Davenport, may I please have your autograph?”

But in real life, all she could do was stare.

Gloss looked down at her, amused, the edge of his grin pulling higher. “Hi there,” he said, kneeling slightly so his eyes were more level with hers. “You must be Cornelia.”

Cornelia opened her mouth. Nothing came out. Her throat made a tiny squeak like a deflating balloon. Her hands, however, seemed to remember the plan. She shakily held out the headshot and marker like an offering.

Gloss chuckled low, a sound like warm honey and amusement. “You want me to sign this?”

She nodded— quick, sharp, humiliated. Her cheeks burned hotter than her red velvet curls.

Gloss took the headshot, glancing at it with a soft scoff of amusement. “Nice choice,” he said with a wink. “Good lighting.”

Cornelia made a high-pitched “mhm” noise that was neither dignified nor composed.

He uncapped the marker and signed his name in a wide, looping flourish right across the top corner. The silver shimmered as it dried, and he handed it back to her with a smile.

“Here you go, superstar.”

Cornelia took the picture, nodding wildly, backing up half a step. “Thank you! Love you! Bye!” she squeaked in a single breath, then spun on her heels and bolted, tulle dress flouncing around her knees, curls flying behind her like streamers.

Gloss watched her go with a blink and a chuckle, glancing back at Caesar. “She’s adorable.”

“Just like her mother,” Caesar beamed. “But she’s got my flair.”

Gloss raised a brow. “She might outdo you in a few years.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” Caesar replied with a wink.

Meanwhile, Cornelia made a beeline across the room, dodging hors d’oeuvres and Capitol dignitaries with the single-minded determination of someone in post-traumatic victory. She spotted her friends near a mirrored column and made a mad dash toward them.

Cornelia skidded to a halt, thrusting the headshot toward them. 

“I did it,” she said breathlessly. “LOOK.”

Precious shrieked. Diamond clapped both hands over her mouth.

The autograph glittered in silver glory, right across the top of Gloss’s glorious abs.

“He winked at me,” Cornelia said, sinking to the floor in a crinoline poof. “I think I blacked out for a second.”

Diamond leaned down to peer at the signature. 

Precious touched the photo reverently. “It smells like him.”

Cornelia beamed so hard she thought her face might crack. “It smells like victory.”

May, 64 ADD

In the Flickerman household, birthdays were a big deal. Huge. And for Caesar Flickerman, his parties were nothing short of a festival in their own right. Not only that, but his daughter’s birthday was treated like a national holiday crossed with a coronation. For Cornelia Flickerman’s eleventh birthday, no expense had been spared. Of course not. This was Cornelia.

The mansion itself— already a palatial, jewel-toned dreamscape nestled in the platinum section of the Capitol— had been transformed for the occasion. There were swaths of blush tulle hung like gossamer sails across the ceilings, a rotating carousel of pastel-dyed swans in the entryway, and floating platforms that carried trays of glitter-dusted macarons and sparkling apple juice in champagne flutes. The color scheme had been selected personally by the birthday girl— “opalescent pink with undertones of lavender but not too much lavender because that would just be trying too hard,” as Cornelia had put it— and the lighting was timed to shimmer accordingly.

Every surface gleamed. Every guest arrived with gifts wrapped in silk. The guest list? Curated like a presidential dinner. Past Victors were in attendance, naturally— anyone in good standing with Caesar and the Capitol— but the crowd also included a constellation of actresses, high-end designers, perfumers, stylists, media darlings, and a handful of powerful bureaucrats. Reporters from Panem Today and Style Capitol fluttered in with notepads and glittering holo-cameras, snapping shots of arriving guests and the birthday girl herself as she made her entrance down the grand staircase to a swell of harp music and confetti cannons shaped like golden butterflies.

Cornelia’s party ensemble was a confection of pink ruffled silk, peony-embellished sleeves, and a multilayered underskirt that poofed just the right amount when she spun. A crystal tiara nestled among her freshly curled red velvet hair, and her shoes— custom-made— flashed tiny lights with each step in a pulsing pattern that mimicked a heartbeat.

She had made her grand entrance hours earlier, accepted a hundred kisses and “darling-you’ve-gotten-so-big”s, and opened exactly forty-six gifts by now, each of which she had cataloged with alarming precision. Some were grand (a bracelet made of moonstone gifted by a designer who had once styled a chariot outfit for District 1), some were odd (a jar of pickled rose petals, from a performance artist who claimed they had healing properties), and some were downright disappointing (a Capitol-themed trivia game— really, Aunt Poppy?). Still, she smiled for every gift, thanked each person with a curtsy or a hug, and had only rolled her eyes twice, which she considered a great show of restraint.

Of course, they had come. The Templesmiths.

Claudius Templesmith— Cornelia’s unofficial uncle, broadcast partner to her father, and general purveyor of loud laughter— had brought along his wife (draped in swan feathers as usual) and their three daughters: Amata, Ava, and Adorabella. Amata, the youngest, was fine. Ava, the eldest, was mostly tolerable. But Adorabella, the middle child, was a menace. Last year, she had dared to wear the exact same shade of pink as Cornelia to her birthday. There had been tears. There had been confrontation. There had been shade thrown so dramatically that even Caesar had raised an eyebrow.

But Cornelia had mended things this year. Or rather, had made an executive decision to forgive for now, since she wanted a gift from each of them, and gifts only flowed freely from friendly parties. She had written up a registry— tastefully, of course— and specified the price range in a soft lavender italicized font on the invitations (“Suggested gifts: 400–600 Capitol Credits. Thank you ever so much!”). She had made sure each Templesmith girl received their own copy.

As a result, the presents had been acceptable. Amata brought a mirrored music box. Ava had gone with a pair of opera gloves stitched with her initials in gold. And Adorabella— miraculously— had delivered a heart-shaped handbag made of genuine diamond sequins. All forgiven.

Now, at last, the party had mellowed into a lull. Cornelia had taken her two favorite guests to the terrace, where the bubble machine puffed out clouds of soft shimmer like it was breathing candyfloss. The terrace overlooked the glowing skyline, its glass railing wrapped in vines of tulips and lanterns that flowed with the breeze.

The girls lounged in a tangle of tufted cushions and overstuffed poufs, basking in the mild spring air. Cornelia had one leg crossed primly over the other, holding out her hands.

“Look at them,” she said, flicking her wrists so that the afternoon light caught on her new jewelry. She wore rings on each finger— ruby, sapphire, rose quartz, emerald, garnet, and a delicate pearl on her thumb. “It’s giving… emperor. No. Empress. No. Icon.”

Precious clapped politely. “That garnet one is definitely from District 2. That’s where all the aggressive rings come from.”

Diamond leaned forward. “Which one’s your favorite?”

“I can’t possibly choose,” Cornelia said, though her eyes lingered on the sapphire a half second longer. “They each match different moods. This one’s for diplomacy,” she said, wiggling her pearl-ringed thumb. “This one,” she held up the emerald, “for when I’m plotting.”

Diamond nodded seriously. “I need one for when I’m judging people.”

“Garnet,” said Precious. 

Cornelia’s mother appeared at that very moment, descending from the main dining room with a crystal platter of cake slices balanced effortlessly in her arms. She wore a high-waisted gown of misty lavender, her silvery-blonde hair coiled in tight curls.

“Cake, my darlings,” she said as she glided toward the girls, setting the tray down like it belonged on an altar. “Buttercream raspberry, no nuts, and the edible lace is imported. Take your slices carefully, the sugared blossoms are fragile.”

“Thank you, mother,” Cornelia said as she chose her slice. The layers shimmered with a faint pearlescent sheen, and the center was dotted with candied petals.

Calpurnia raised a perfectly arched brow and passed a plate to Diamond. “Sweetheart, remember, you need to thank everyone for coming before the sun sets.”

“I will!” Cornelia chirped through a bite of frosting.

There was a pause.

Then, with a mischievous grin, Cornelia straightened and raised her hands in a theatrical flourish toward her mother. “Thanks for coming, mother!”

Diamond and Precious burst into giggles. Calpurnia closed her eyes.

“Cornelia.”

“Yes?”

“You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what, mother?”

Calpurnia gave her a long look. The girls couldn’t stop laughing. Precious nearly choked on a sugared blossom. Cornelia beamed.

September, 64 ADD

Cornelia was well known in her father’s studio. Partly because she made it impossible not to be— she glided in with the command of a diplomat, the presence of a movie star, and the noise level of a bullhorn— but also because she was, by name and blood, unmistakably Caesar Flickerman’s daughter. The curls, the grin, the way she tilted her head just so when speaking as though there was a spotlight above her and a thousand eyes hanging on her every word— all of it was pure Caesar. She didn’t walk the studio so much as she strolled it, hips swaying with imaginary music, arms ready to fling open in embrace or flourish. She was eleven years old and carried herself like a legacy— which, in truth, she was.

The crew had long ago given up trying to redirect her. She knew the names of every technician and assistant who worked the stage floor, brought them iced strawberry teas during breaks, and once wrote a complaint letter in pink ink to a studio exec when a grip named Roscoe was temporarily reassigned to another set (“He is vital to the ambiance of the curtain swish. Don’t break what’s beautiful, darling!”).

And when the cameras weren’t rolling, when the guests hadn’t yet arrived and the lighting crew was still fiddling with the gel filters to get the perfect Capitol twilight glow across the stage, Cornelia took over.

Her hair had begun to fade. The bold velvet red had softened into a shade darker than copper, exposing streaks of her natural light brown beneath. She hadn’t decided yet whether to refresh the color or “try something more experimental,” like lemon-gold or lilac-silver. She kept flipping a lock over her shoulder and frowning thoughtfully about it between performances.

At the moment, she was seated center stage in her father’s bowl-shaped white chair, a futuristic piece that looked like an egg sculpted by a fashion designer. It sat slightly elevated, glowing faintly around the base with a soft neon aura. Caesar himself called it “the throne.” Cornelia called it “mine until rehearsals begin.”

A silver microphone sat in her hand. It was turned off, but that didn’t matter. The spotlight didn’t need to be real for her to feel it.

She cleared her throat, adjusted her posture to be as upright and commanding as an eleven-year-old in a sparkly cardigan could manage, and boomed in her best theatrical voice: “Ladies and gentlemen…”— a dramatic pause, a toss of the curls— “your master of ceremonies… Cornelia Flickerman!”

She bounced off the chair, flung one arm to the side, and made a sweeping bow so deep her forehead nearly touched her knee. Then she straightened and smiled with all teeth, the way Caesar did right before a punchline, right before the Capitol audience exploded into applause.

“Welcome, welcome!” she cried, beaming as she spread her arms wide to the imaginary crowd before her. “My goodness, look at the turnout! Hello one and all! From District 1 to the rooftop parties of the Presidential Plaza, don’t be shy now!”

She waved so enthusiastically that her bracelets jingled.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?!” She attempted Caesar’s iconic cascading laugh, a high trill that crescendoed like a xylophone played by a maniac. It came out a little shrill, slightly cracked on the end, but close enough to earn a few amused looks from a pair of junior stylists chatting behind the camera rows.

Undeterred, Cornelia paced the stage with grand purpose, swinging the dead mic like a wand. “Now,” she said, swerving to face the wings, “correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t we expecting a very special guest this evening? Perhaps a certain glittering soul fresh from the sands of the arena?”

She darted across the stage, her boots squeaking slightly on the polished floor, and turned her body sideways, adopting a new voice— dramatic, breathless, and a little nasal.

“Oh, so sorry I’m late!” she gasped, tossing her imaginary hair over one shoulder. “Traffic in the changing room! There was a fight with a bottle of hairspray and, well, let’s just say I won, but barely!”

A pause, a twirl, a hop back across the stage. She returned to her “host” persona, clutching her chest as if overcome with emotion.

“Oh, darling, no worries at all!” she trilled, pitching her voice back up, eyes wide with glee. “You look stunning, and what a story! Let’s give our darling Victor a warm round of applause, if you’ve still got hands after that last cannon!”

She broke into Caesar’s laugh again, this time tossing her head back with wild abandon. The exaggerated gesture made her stumble slightly, but she recovered with a flourish, ending in a spin and a final ta-da pose.

The studio lights clicked on one by one as the tech crew prepared for Caesar’s rehearsal. One of the assistant producers appeared beside the curtain with a clipboard and an earbud, checking notes and speaking rapidly into her collar mic. The stage manager adjusted the cue lights near the audience seats.

Cornelia, unbothered, returned to the white bowl chair and flopped into it with a satisfied sigh.

The studio came to life around her. Makeup carts rolled in. The scent of hairspray and citrus toner filled the air. Caesar’s personal tailor arrived with an emergency garment bag. But Cornelia remained in her chair, fingers still curled around the microphone, legs crossed at the ankle like royalty at rest.

Eventually, Caesar appeared at the far end of the studio, still in robe and slippers, waving cheerfully as he greeted half a dozen people in rapid succession. He spotted Cornelia and raised one eyebrow.

“Making friends with the furniture again, cupcake?” he called.

“I’m warming up your audience,” Cornelia replied brightly.

He laughed. “Well, remind them to tip their valets.”

She gave him a thumbs-up. 

March, 65 ADD

Cornelia’s father was bald. Which was not entirely shocking— he was middle-aged, after all, and Capitol men had a flair for aging like rare cheese: expensive, high-maintenance, and most impressive when accompanied by the proper garnish. But it could still be a shock, a real jolt to the senses, when one trotted down the stairs expecting Caesar Flickerman— grand master of illusion, eternal host of the Games, never seen with a hair out of place— and instead saw a smooth, gleaming dome rising like a waxed moon from the silk collar of his dressing robe.

Cornelia had grown up knowing the wigs were part of her father’s “look,” like his laugh or his teeth or the silver in his voice. They were not secrets— no, nothing in the Flickerman house was a secret so much as it was a production cue. Still, there was something disorienting about seeing him without it, like catching sight of a mannequin undressed in the window of a fashion house: same figure, wrong magic.

But the wigs— oh, the wigs. For the studio stylists, they were essential tools, a sacred arsenal. For Caesar, they were transformation itself, a crown woven of theatrical glory. For Cornelia… the wigs were somewhere between a toy chest and a museum exhibit. And she, the proud docent, curator, and future inheritor of all that lay within.

It was a drizzly evening. Cornelia had just finished a half-hearted attempt at her homework (Capitol Geography— she already knew where District 9 was, thank you) and had retired to her mother’s side of the room in search of distraction.

Calpurnia Flickerman’s closet was large enough to house several of Cornelia’s friends and a mid-sized poodle. Which, in theory, Cornelia had once tested with two of the former and a stuffed version of the latter. But it was the far back of the closet that held the true treasure— the section that belonged to Caesar, hidden discreetly behind a row of cream suits and charcoal overcoats, lit with a softer glow like some sacred reliquary.

Cornelia flipped the switch. A warm, rosy light bled down from the closet’s recessed fixtures. She tiptoed across the plush carpeting, past shelves of polished shoes and stacks of silk scarves folded like pastries, until she reached the wall of wigs.

And what a wall it was.

Dozens of mannequin heads perched atop glass shelving, their silent faces angled ever so slightly, like they were sharing secrets or caught mid-gasp. The wigs were arranged in a meticulous gradient— beginning with inky black at the far left, tapering through the lush dark browns, into roasted chestnut and cinnamon, then to fiery reds, strawberry and carrot, and onward still: marmalade orange, golden sun, canary yellow, down into pastels— peach, rose, lavender, seafoam— and ending in pure ice: platinum white, moonlight gray, blue frost.

Cornelia padded forward with a reverent air, reaching one hand out to brush the strands lightly. Her own hair had been changed just after Winterfest— darkened to a deep, almost chocolatey brown, with an ombré fade into soft cinnamon ends. Sophisticated, Caesar had called it. Calpurnia had merely nodded in approval, which was arguably more difficult to achieve.

She admired the lineup of wigs as though reviewing a parade of old friends. There was a dusty auburn one she remembered from the Games ten years ago— Caesar had matched it with a beetle-green tuxedo and golden lapel pin. A shaggy strawberry-blonde that had been briefly fashionable three seasons ago, now relegated to the corner. A sleek metallic copper wig that glittered faintly even in the dim closet light.

Her fingers stopped at a soft baby pink.

It looked almost like spun candy, smooth and delicate. Not quite the aggressive Capitol fuchsia that some stylists adored, no— this pink was sweet. Playful. It reminded her of a perfume bottle she’d once begged for in the fragrance wing of Hologem, and of the way her cheeks looked after a long soak and a good powder.

“This color will be next,” she murmured aloud, voice pitched low in the same way one might whisper a spell.

She tilted her head and tapped her chin thoughtfully. “But I’ll need to bleach it to…”

She dropped to a crouch and reached for the bottom shelf. Nestled between a violet bob and a regrettable highlighter-orange faux-hawk was the object of her desire: the platinum blonde wig.

She wriggled her fingers toward it, and the fine strands slid beneath her palm like threads of snow silk. The shade was nearly white, but not harsh— like the feathers of a luxury swan, if such a bird existed. She held it up to her face and squinted, imagining the transformation.

“Hmm… yes,” she said. “Bleach it to this. Then tone. Then the pink will really pop.”

Satisfied for the moment, she placed the blonde wig gently back in its cradle and returned to standing height. She resumed her inspection with the focus of a jeweler choosing the right gem to pair with an heirloom setting.

And then she saw it.

A teal blue wig— not quite turquoise, but richer than seafoam, with undertones of jade and a faint sheen that reminded her of glazed opals. It was absurd. It was dramatic. It was possibly her favorite color in existence at that very moment.

“Oh,” she breathed.

She reached for it with both hands, like cradling a newborn.

Without hesitation, Cornelia plopped the wig atop her head, smoothing it down and fluffing the sides. It didn’t quite fit (her head was smaller than the average adult, even one as carefully coiffed as Caesar), but she angled it just so, stepped back, and struck a pose in the full-length mirror.

One hand on hip. One arm outstretched. Head tilt, left. Chin up.

She turned slightly and gave herself the once-over. Then she pursed her lips and muttered, “No, no, needs a gown.”

A minute later, she had wriggled into a long silver wrap from her mother’s formalwear rack— far too big and puddled at her feet— but the effect was almost perfect. She twirled once, twice, let the sleeves flutter behind her like smoke, then grabbed a glittering clutch bag and held it to her chest.

She turned again to the mirror, struck a new pose, and smiled with the slow flourish of a showgirl in her prime.

“Oh… ah…” she said, fluttering her lashes. “Maybe this color after all.”

From somewhere in the house, Caesar’s voice called faintly: “Cornelia, what are you doing in there?”

“Creative exploration!” she shouted back.

Another pause.

“All right, darling, but don’t get wig glue on your mother’s evening wear again!”

Cornelia grinned and did one final spin in the mirror before pulling the teal wig off carefully and setting it back on its perch. She stood there for a moment, looking at all the mannequin heads, the fibers and colors, the transformation tucked into every strand.

Someday, she thought, not with longing but with certainty, the collection would be hers.

And when it was, she’d add her own— rows and rows, new colors, new styles. Wigs that curled like sugar candy and ones that gleamed like solar flares. Maybe even a matching one for a pet poodle. Or a fox, if the licensing ever came through. But for now, she gave one last dramatic nod to the wall of wigs, turned off the closet light, and left the room.

Chapter Text

June, 65 ADD

THE MONTH OF JUNE came a surge in studio rehearsals— pre-Interviews prep, pre-Games pomp, and all the press packages that would be gleaming their way onto Capitol screens by the end of the month. Caesar was in his full host mode once more— veneer teeth bleached, suits steaming in perfect rows, and his voice already tuned for maximum energy. Cornelia, meanwhile, had made herself at home in the green room, as she often did, a small island of pastel and perfume seated cross-legged on the plush floor rug beneath the lighting grid.

The green room was rarely green in the Capitol. This one was a warm mauve shade, with tufted couches and velvet-lined walls that absorbed every sound like secrets in a gossip house. A golden tea trolley stood against one wall with its crystal dishes and trays of candied fruit cubes, beside a built-in perfume spritzer shaped like a bird. The air shimmered faintly with whatever floral-musk hybrid Caesar had chosen for the month— it clung to the curtains and her own skin like stage dust.

Cornelia sat in front of the large, mirrorless vanity, using its surface as a makeshift throne. She had brought her own brush this time, a pale shell-pink number with rhinestones around the edge of the handle and a feathered tassel tied to the end with gold thread. Her brown hair, still tinted at the ends with that warm ombré fade that had become her signature look for the season, fell in soft waves down her back, rippling gently as she passed the brush through it with the kind of thoroughness one might reserve for spinning gold.

“Three hundred strokes,” she murmured, dragging the brush carefully from crown to end.

She had been here for nearly twenty minutes, curled on the floor with a floral throw pillow beneath her knees, humming faint snatches of studio intro music under her breath, occasionally glancing toward the faint glow that seeped under the door. Caesar was on stage for camera checks, the studio still adjusting its color tones for this year’s theme— a moody sea-glass teal, with coral undertones and a flash of gold. Cornelia found it all very tasteful, if perhaps a touch underwhelming. But she’d already begun sketching ideas for next year’s rebrand in the margins of her notebook.

She set the brush down gently on the vanity top, inspecting the shine of her hair as it pooled over her shoulders. One curl bounced obediently back into place; another strand clung too close to her neck and was immediately adjusted with practiced flicks of her fingers. She reached for a pot of shimmer powder from her beaded bag and dabbed it lightly behind her ears— one never knew who might open the door, and Cornelia made it a personal rule never to be caught without a bit of sparkle.

And just as she twisted her shoulders to check the fall of her hair, the knock came.

A gentle rap— two polite knocks, then a soft creak as the door inched open.

Cornelia glanced over her shoulder, instantly smiling as the familiar figure peeked in.

Antonia was an older woman with hair that shimmered like gold, twisted up into a bun so perfect it might have been sculpted by hand. Her red lipstick was a bright cherry, and she wore the practical navy trousers of a longtime stagehand paired with a loose sequined top that gleamed like a thousand miniature spotlights.

“Just checking in, darling,” Antonia said. “How are we doing in here?”

Cornelia beamed. She tossed her hair back over one shoulder and gave a breezy wave. “I’m just fine, Antonia! Just had to freshen up!” she chimed.

Antonia gave a fond smile, stepping inside with the quiet click of her heels.

“Well, your radiance appears very much intact, my dear.”

Cornelia laughed, pleased. She sat a little straighter, adjusting the hem of her ruffled lilac blouse and smoothing out her sequined shorts with the flick of two fingers. 

Antonia took a small step closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Would you like to help with the cues today?”

Cornelia’s breath caught. She blinked once, then twice. “The cues?” she echoed.

Antonia’s smile widened, and she gave a subtle nod. “You’ve been here for every rehearsal this week. I think you’ve earned the right to point a light or two. We’ll be in pre-show tests in fifteen minutes. Come along now, if you want a spot by the cue board.”

Cornelia scrambled upright with a shriek of excitement. The powder puff pillow beneath her knees toppled backwards, and her beaded purse hit the floor with a tiny cascade of shimmer. But she didn’t stop to fix either. Her hair swung around her shoulders in a chestnut wave as she bounced toward Antonia.

“Yes, yes, yes!” she squealed, her voice echoing off the plush mauve walls.

Antonia chuckled and held the door open wide. Cornelia practically pranced through it.

The corridor outside was lined with dim floor lights and the occasional flicker of red from the stage monitors. She was ushered down a short hallway that smelled faintly of hairspray and burnt coffee, and then into the studio’s light control booth. It was tucked behind a reflective black window high above the audience rows, offering a perfect view of Caesar’s empty chair, the sweeping drape of the season’s set design, and the rehearsal actors pacing through mock Interview segments.

The cue board looked like something out of a spaceship— rows of buttons in every color, labeled with numbers and symbols she was only mostly sure she understood. But Antonia guided her gently toward the corner panel— the one with the spotlight triggers and transitional hues.

“Just follow my lead,” Antonia said with a wink. “Green for stage right fade. Blue for center pop. Red for… well, we save red for drama.”

Cornelia nodded.

July, 65 ADD

The Tribute Parade was always Cornelia’s favorite part of the Games.

No, that was a lie. Her favorite part— undisputed, no-contest, top-of-the-podium favorite— was watching her father interview the tributes. But the Parade— yes, the Parade— was absolutely her favorite before the interviews. A strong second. A glorious silver.

And it was always, without fail, a spectacle.

 stood on her own in the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with Capitol spectators in metallic shawls and feathered fascinators, cheering loud enough to embarrass the security bot who’d been posted at their block for three years. She had painted tiny gold stars at the corners of her eyes and wore a tulle shift in ombré lavender, cinched at the waist with a belt made of clear plastic roses. Her hair, still brown with sun-lightened ends, had been curled in thick, glimmering waves that bounced when she squealed. And squeal she did.

She stood beside her mother, who was harder to miss than Caesar on a good day. Calpurnia had dyed her hair an intense neon orange for the season— “sunburst poppy,” as the boutique had labeled it— and wore it swept up in a twist so high it needed two combs and a decorative pin to hold its spiral. She had on a long coat in acid green snakeskin print, which billowed dramatically every time the wind caught it and made her look like a fashionable kite. She clapped politely as the chariots passed, one heel tapping restlessly on the sidewalk while Cornelia let out another delighted gasp.

“District 3!” Cornelia cried, cupping her hands around her mouth to amplify her voice like a megaphone. “Look at them! They’re glowing!”

The chariot in question drifted slowly into view— its wheels rimmed in electric blue light, its platform veiled in translucent mesh that flickered like lightning. The tributes themselves wore full-body suits with fine, glowing lines that pulsed and blinked like circuit boards under their skin. The girl’s hair stood up with the charge. The boy’s fingers crackled at the tips with the static.

“It’s electrifying!” Cornelia shouted over the screams, grabbing her mother’s sleeve. “Literally, mother! Electrifying!”

Calpurnia tilted her head slightly, one corner of her orange lipstick-smudged mouth curling into something like a patient smile. She had seen a dozen electric-themed costumes in her time. Theatrics, she called them. But Cornelia was vibrating with excitement, so she nodded.

“Mm. They’re live-wired,” she murmured, humoring her daughter, though her eyes were already scanning ahead for what District 4 might bring. “Be careful how close you cheer. You might fry your lips off.”

Cornelia laughed so hard at that she snorted, which she instantly covered with a theatrical gasp and a fake cough, smoothing her dress and adjusting her earrings as if the moment had never happened.

But then the next chariot rounded the corner, and Cornelia forgot all about District 3.

“Oh! Oh! Look!” she shrieked, bouncing up on her toes and grabbing her mother’s arm so tightly her glitter-polished nails left light dents in the snakeskin. “It’s District 4! Look at them, they look like fish out of water! So scaley!”

She wasn’t wrong. The costumes shimmered like ocean skin— covered in thousands of overlapping iridescent plates that caught the light with every movement. The girl had silver fins running down her arms, and the boy wore a headpiece that resembled a coral crown, delicate but spiked. They were barefoot, standing in shallow pools of water at their feet, which sloshed with each turn of the chariot wheels. The entire float smelled faintly of sea salt and driftwood, the scent pumped out in invisible puffs for maximum sensory immersion.

“I want that one,” Cornelia whispered to herself, squinting at the boy. 

Calpurnia, whose shoes had already been soaked by the splashy trail of District 4’s passing, let out a sigh that rattled the strands of her diamond mesh collar.

“Mm. Yes, darling. Fish,” she said, half-heartedly, tugging a wet spot out of her coat sleeve. Her eyes had already flicked toward the jumbotron that floated high above the square, crackling gently to life with shifting light. She pointed upward, gently tapping Cornelia’s shoulder with a lacquered nail.

“Look, your father is on screen.”

Cornelia snapped her head up so fast her curls whipped across her shoulders.

And there he was. Caesar’s suit for the Parade night a blazing fuchsia with a brocade of flames down the sides. He sat at the announcement desk beside Claudius, who was, as ever, wearing a more conservative navy ensemble with gold thread along the collar, which Caesar often teased him about for being stylishly shy. Cornelia always thought they looked like opposite ends of a firework— Claudius the fuse, and Caesar the explosion.

“Here come our oceanic marvels from District 4!” Caesar’s voice rang out over the speakers, silken and electric all at once. “Look at that shimmer, Claudius! I haven’t seen scales sparkle like that since that holiday party two years back.”

Claudius gave a warm chuckle that bounced from wall to wall. “And the tide keeps rising! Wait until you see what District 5 has cooked up this year…”

Cornelia’s face had gone soft, dreamy almost. She watched the screen with her hands clasped under her chin. The pink-glow of her father’s suit shimmered across the high-definition projection like sugar spun under glass. No matter how many Games she’d sat through, no matter how many times she’d watched him on screen— he always stole the show.

He belonged up there, basking in the light and energy of it all. The tributes dazzled, sure. The floats shimmered. But Caesar was the thing that made it fun. He made the whole thing feel like a show, not a sentence.

“Do you think they know how lucky they are?” Cornelia asked, her voice small, still fixated on the screen. “Getting to talk to him?”

Calpurnia blinked, then tilted her head. “Who? The tributes?”

Cornelia nodded. “Mhm.”

Her mother considered that for a moment. Then she shook her head. “Perhaps not. They’ll know one day, though.”

Cornelia didn’t listen. She had already turned her head back toward the street, watching as the next chariot approached.

Cornelia was certain she had never seen a boy as charming and as handsome as the boy from District 4.

At least, not since Gloss two years back. Gloss had been practically a sculpture, all marble and jawline and laser-focus, but this boy— this fishing boy— was something else entirely. There was a softness to him, a gleam in the eye, a mischief under the surface like a dolphin skimming just beneath the tide. He didn’t move like a statue. He flowed— each shift of his shoulder, each flash of his teeth, like a trick of the light off water. Cornelia had, naturally, forgotten his name by now, writing it off as something fishy-sounding. Anchovy? Cod? Something with gills and scales and a poor sense of branding.

Tragic, really, for a boy so delightful to look at.

Her father was interviewing him now— the primary source of her interest and focus, of course— and Cornelia was watching with the rapt attention of a girl in love for the fifth or sixth time that year. The studio lights bathed the stage in warm golds and soft lilacs, and her father sat with one leg crossed elegantly over the other, practically glowing in his teal velvet suit and rose-gold tie. Cornelia sighed out loud, her hands curled beneath her chin, already mouthing along with some of the lines she knew he’d use. There would be laughter. A twinkle in the eye. A moment when Caesar leaned forward with his signature look— half surprise, half flattery— and coaxed something unexpected out of the tribute.

She lived for these moments. It was like watching magic in real time.

Beside her, flanked like tiaras on a shelf, sat Precious and Diamond. The three were perched in the private viewing parlor, high above the studio. Their mothers were seated just behind them, sipping peach liqueur out of tulip glasses and murmuring about the upcoming sponsor events for the Games. 

Onscreen, Caesar leaned toward the District 4 boy, laughing as the boy grinned and said something clever about spearing an octopus back home in his district.

“Oh, he’s gorgeous,” breathed Diamond, fanning herself with a folded sponsor pamphlet.

“He’s glowing,” said Precious, tucking a pearl clip back into her hair. “Like sun-on-the-sea glowing.”

“He’s fourteen,” Calpurnia muttered behind them. “He’s older than you three.”

Cornelia twisted around to glare up at her mother. “So? So?”

Cornelia turned back to the screen just as her father let out a rolling laugh and gestured broadly to the audience.

“You’ve seen him, you’ve heard him, and if you’re not already charmed, folks, you might want to check your pulses!” Caesar beamed, grabbing the boy’s hand and raising it up high. “Finnick Odair, everyone!”

The applause was deafening, even through the broadcast. Confetti cannons went off in subtle gold. The screen zoomed in on Finnick’s face— sweet and just a little smug, his green eyes catching the light like tide glass. Cornelia began clapping with the composure of a practiced hostess. Beside her, Precious and Diamond clapped too, giggling into their shoulders.

“Oh, yes!” Cornelia cried, her cheeks flushed. “Yay Finnick!” Then she leaned toward Precious with all the hushed, conspiratorial drama of a whisper in a powder room. “He’s so cute. I hope he doesn’t die!”

The popcorn and chocolates had long run out by the middle of the eighth day. The dainty mint-colored bowl Cornelia had poured the sweets into now sat empty on her plush pink ottoman, streaked with caramel smudges and bits of gold foil wrappers like little discarded treasures. A cherry-scented candle burned down to the wick on the windowsill, its sugary scent now overtaken by the electric thrum of Capitol suspense humming from the flat screen on the wall. The Games were nearly over.

There were only five tributes left now. Five. One of them was him— fourteen-year-old Finnick Odair of District 4. Cornelia had repeated his name so many times over the past three days that her glittery gold lip gloss had started to taste like saltwater. He was the Capitol’s favorite underdog, at least according to Caesar, who’d taken to calling him “our pearl-eyed predator from the waves” during the evening recaps. On the fifth day, he’d been sent a golden trident— a trident!— like something from an ancient underwater fairy tale. Cornelia hadn’t seen the attack that night; she’d fallen asleep before it aired, curled in a fluffy heap with Precious and Diamond beneath her lilac sequin throw. But the next morning, her father had broadcast the recap segment from the studio with just enough dramatics to make it feel like she had lived through it herself.

“Three on one,” Caesar had said, gesturing with theatrical awe toward the screen behind him. “And little Finnick doesn’t even blink!”

Cornelia swooned. He was brave. He was clever. He was hers— or, rather, her favorite. There was a difference. A small one. But it mattered.

She was twirling across her room now, the hem of her pink satin dressing robe fluttering around her like a cupcake wrapper, bare feet leaving soft impressions in the faux fur rug. The television light caught in her curls, her ombré brown hair bouncing from root to tip in waves as she pirouetted once, twice, three times before stopping— abruptly, dramatically— before The Shrine.

It sat proudly in the corner across from her bed: the signed headshot framed beside a life-sized, cardboard cutout of Gloss in his Victor interview suit. Cornelia had kissed it on the cheek. More than once. There was lip gloss residue to prove it.

Right now, she twirled across the plush rug in the middle of her room like a figure skater, hair bouncing in glossy ombré waves as she spun past her Gloss cutout with a dramatic pause. 

“Hello, darling,” she whispered flirtatiously, not caring that Precious and Diamond were watching from the beanbag chairs with twin expressions of giddy amusement. “You’re so… dashing.”

“Dashing!” Precious agreed, clapping her hands like she was at a gala show. Her long lavender braids bounced with each cheer. She was in her usual glitter bodysuit and socks, her cheeks smudged with edible star glitter that had half rubbed off on Cornelia’s pillows.

“So shiny,” Diamond added dreamily. She’d painted her eyelids with actual nail polish to make them glisten, a fact she’d proudly announced at least twice that afternoon.

Behind them, the flat screen flickered. A hush fell across the room. The scene on screen had changed.

“Oh! Oh!” Cornelia squealed, spinning on her heel. “It’s happening! Girls, it’s happening!”

Finnick was on screen again, crouched low in the underbrush of some overgrown ravine. His trident glinted with dried blood and water, gleaming like the gift it was. The boy’s hair— salt-stiffened and tousled from a week in the arena— was pushed back from his face as he tightened a net between two saplings. The Capitol commentators whispered over the scene like theater critics, analyzing the angles, the tension, the trap. A trail of footprints led down toward the bait. It was happening.

Cornelia bolted for the butterfly-shaped glass perched on her nightstand and shoved the bendy straw into her mouth, chugging the fizzy pink soda with the dramatic flair of a starving actress between acts.

Diamond clapped. Precious squealed and pointed at the screen.

“There they are!” Precious yelped. “They’re walking right into it!”

Three of the remaining tributes appeared onscreen. Finnick crouched in wait, a ghost in the trees. The first step triggered the release. The net snapped closed like a jaw, hauling one tribute into the air, then another. The last tried to run.

He didn’t make it.

Finnick burst from the brush like a shadow wielding a sunbeam. His trident flew in an arc, spinning once, twice, before plunging— direct hit. The crowd in the Capitol Square screamed. So did Cornelia.

“Yes! Yes!” she shrieked, practically levitating off the ground.

The cannons began to fire. One. Two. Three.

Cornelia grabbed her glass and turned toward her friends. “Clink!” she called, and all three girls brought their butterfly goblets together in a chiming toast.

“To victory!” Diamond crowed.

“To Finnick!” Precious corrected with a giggle.

Cornelia downed the rest of her soda in one dramatic slurp before tossing the glass onto a pile of throw pillows and leaping to her feet. Her voice was shrill with triumph, her eyes practically glowing. She turned and flung open her bedroom door with a theatrical sweep.

“MOTHER!” she yelled, already skipping down the hallway. “MOTHER! WE JUST WON FIVE HUNDRED CREDITS!”

From the far end of the villa, Calpurnia’s groan echoed faintly.

September, 65 ADD

September swept into the Flickerman penthouse in a flurry of soft winds and designer scarves, and with it came a flounce of new accessories for Cornelia to be obsessed with. Currently, it was the shimmery teal hair tinsel that had been all over Capitol Circle last week— slender strands carefully threaded into her brown ombré locks by her mother’s personal stylist. It sparkled every time she moved, which, for Cornelia, meant nearly all the time. She had declared it “subtle and sophisticated” before demanding ten more packets of the tinsel be couriered to her closet for future use.

That very closet was now in a state of organized chaos. Well, her version of organized. Anyone else might have likened it to an avalanche in a District 8 textile factory, but Cornelia knew exactly what she was doing. She sat cross-legged in the center of her revolving platform closet, legs folded neatly beneath her, her silk ruffle shorts puffed like frosting beneath a gold-foiled camisole that shimmered with every breath. Around her, the mechanical platform hummed softly as it rotated in slow, deliberate circles, spooling racks of clothing, shelves of perfume bottles, tiara stands, and countless shoes in and out of sight like a fashion parade staged exclusively for her.

Cornelia sat atop a plush teal velvet cushion, tossing mismatched shoes over her shoulder one by one as she combed through the chaos, her mouth slightly puckered in concentration. The control panel lay half-buried beneath a metallic ruffle top she’d carelessly flung aside, its holographic buttons blinking up at her.

“Not that one,” she muttered, flinging a stiletto behind her with a thud. “Or that one, ugh, who wears yellow wedges in September?”

The closet rotated on, the inner carousel of her wardrobe revealing a new segment— racks of puffy sleeves and sequined jackets, several belts still attached to garments they didn’t belong to anymore, and a cascading waterfall of silvery tulle.

Cornelia sighed, plucking a single lone earring off a necklace bust and holding it up to the light like it was a cursed gemstone in an old Capitol drama. It was the earring in question— the one her mother had apparently “torn the entire villa apart” over just this morning. Cornelia had only borrowed it. Temporarily. To see if it matched her sleep mask. (It didn’t.)

“I mean, honestly,” she muttered to herself, sliding the earring into a little rose quartz dish, “if she’d just label things better—”

But the closet kept turning.

Another few shoes went flying. One bounced off a fur-lined hatbox. Another hit a pile of structured corsets and collapsed them like a house of cards.

Then, as if summoned by the sheer magnetic force of maternal fury, Calpurnia swept into the room. Her orange hair was pinned into a sharp flame-like coil today, her eye makeup flawlessly asymmetrical, her heels clicking dangerously on the polished marble floor. Her fitted house robe was open over a bodysuit of burnished tangerine, and her arms were crossed with the kind of theatrical disapproval that made even the family’s pet parakeet go silent.

“Cornelia!” she gasped, pressing a hand to her heart as her eyes swept the disaster zone. “You are making a bigger mess! How is that possible?!”

Cornelia barely flinched. She merely rolled her eyes skyward, her teal tinsel catching the overhead light as the closet platform continued to rotate her away from her mother like a stage actor in a tragic musical. Her voice floated back toward the doorway as she vanished behind a rack of beaded jumpsuits.

“I am not! I’m finding the missing pairs! You always come in when I’m in the process—”

“You’re always in the process, Cornelia,” Calpurnia snapped, sweeping into the closet. She skirted a pile of boots with rhinestone spurs and bent swiftly to snatch the control panel from beneath the rumpled metallic blouse.

Cornelia shrieked— gasped, really, but with flair— and twisted around in her seat just as her mother stabbed the pause command. The closet shuddered and lurched to a halt mid-rotation, halting Cornelia’s fashionable escape and locking her in place between the suede-and-velvet section and the platform of occasion gowns.

“Hey!” Cornelia whined, leaping to her feet. “I wasn’t done! I had a system!”

Calpurnia stared at her.

Then, after a long pause, she leaned forward and said, “If I so much as find one heel in my bathtub again, I will march into this room, take that ridiculous cardboard cutout of Gloss—”

Cornelia gasped so loudly she nearly toppled backward.

“You wouldn’t!”

“Oh, I would,” Calpurnia said smoothly, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve. “I will carry that obnoxiously smirking gladiator right out of here and feed him to the garbage incinerator on Level Twelve.”

Cornelia flailed— tried to leap upright from her crouched position, but her foot snagged on a stray platform sandal and she tumbled with a squeal, flopping sideways into a heap of sweaters and faux fur shawls.

“Mother!” she wailed. “Now you’re just being completely irrational!”

November, 65 ADD

Despite her fluttery way of moving through a crowd, as any social butterfly would, Cornelia knew better than to stray too far from her parents. At least, not alone. Her father trusted her to navigate the crowd in the courtyard, the sea of people swathed in gold and silver and indigo under the night sky, but her mother, on the other hand, had her doubts. Perhaps it was because Calpurnia herself had once been far too carefree like her daughter, or that she knew Caesar and Cornelia were far too similar in the sense that they could speak to anyone and everyone and make friends with strangers within a minute. And not everyone in the Capitol was a friend.

The presidential mansion courtyard gleamed like a garden carved from crystal and starlight. There were silken canopies draped over lounges adorned with violet cushions, tables adorned with iridescent tablecloths and overflowing with silver trays of sugared fruits and sculpted cheeses. Illuminated fountains burbled along the perimeter, casting sprays of water tinged with the faintest hint of gold, and the dance floor, a shimmering expanse of silver tiles embedded with tiny, twinkling lights, stretched out beneath the high arches of the courtyard.

Cornelia stood on the edge of it all, hands folded neatly over the ribbon waistband of her pale green dress, the teal tinsel in her brown ombré hair catching the flicker of the lights like a net of falling stars. She chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes scanning the crowd for familiar faces. Beside her, Calpurnia’s grip was iron on her shoulder, as though she might bolt at any second. Cornelia rolled her eyes, leaning slightly toward her friends as they tugged at her wrist.

“Mother,” Cornelia said with a huff, her painted lips forming a practiced pout. “I will be fine! We’re only going out for one dance!”

Precious and Diamond echoed the plea, both girls nodding rapidly and swaying in place with their hands clasped in what was meant to look like obedient pleading. They were dressed to match tonight, both in floor-length frothy pink gowns adorned with floating feathers and sparkling beads. Precious’s gown was a deeper fuchsia while Diamond’s was a pastel blush, and the two of them together looked like matching balloons in a Capitol parade.

Calpurnia sighed, her mouth pursing as she exchanged a glance with her husband. Caesar, at that moment, appeared at her elbow, a goblet of sparkling purple wine in one hand, his hair an immaculate wave of silvery-blond, his veneer smile almost a blinding shade of white. Beside him, Claudius held a flute of bubbling green champagne, his round, gleaming face already flushed.

Calpurnia’s mouth tightened, but at last, she released her hold on Cornelia’s shoulder and lifted her manicured fingers in a small, dismissive wave.

“Fine,” she said with a sigh that was both dramatic and resigned, the kind that came from years of living in the Capitol. “One dance. But stay where I can see you, Cornelia!”

“We will!” Cornelia chirped, already grabbing hold of Diamond’s wrist with one hand and Precious’s with the other.

The three girls darted off into the crowd. The dance floor pulsed with a deep, rolling bass and fluttery strings, hardly anything that could be danced to yet commanded movement somehow.

Precious was the first to twirl. She let go of the other two girls and spun in circles, her skirt flaring out around her like a blooming flower. Her high-pitched giggle echoed through the courtyard, loud enough to attract a few glances but not loud enough to earn a scolding. Diamond clapped along with Cornelia, their hands meeting in quick, playful slaps as they spun in small, tight circles.

“Oh, look at Precious go!” Diamond trilled, her eyes crinkling with laughter.

Cornelia bounced on the balls of her feet, her teal tinsel glittering with every step, her curls bouncing against her shoulders. The energy of the crowd, the music, the glimmering lights—it all made her feel weightless, as though she could lift off the ground if she wanted to.

But then the heat of the dance floor became too much, and she broke away with a little breathless laugh, fanning herself with her hand as she trotted toward the refreshment table. It was a lavish display—tiered trays of rainbow-colored cupcakes, glasses of sparkling punch in crystal goblets, a sculpted ice swan dripping from the edges as it slowly melted in the Capitol heat.

Cornelia reached for a goblet, her fingers just closing around the cool stem when she collided into something solid.

“Oh!” she gasped, nearly knocking the goblet over. “Oh, so sorry! I was so fast—”

The words fell away as she looked up, her big brown eyes wide, her lips forming a perfect circle of surprise.

It was Finnick Odair. 

He stood before her, freshly crowned Victor, a golden laurel resting lightly atop his bronze hair. He was dressed in a cream-colored suit adorned with delicate gold embroidered patterns. He was taller than she remembered from the broadcasts, taller than he’d looked standing next to her father on the interview stage. And his eyes— brilliant sea green, like waves catching the last glimmers of sunset.

“Oh!” Cornelia breathed, a dazzling smile spreading across her face. “There you are!”

Finnick’s expression flickered, a brief look of confusion passing over his features before he schooled it into the charming grin that had already made him a Capitol darling. He angled his head slightly, a brow lifting as he gazed down at her.

“You were expecting me?” he asked, the words tinged with the slightest note of weary amusement.

“Well, yes!” Cornelia said, letting go of the goblet and clasping her hands together in front of her, as though she were clasping a bouquet of invisible roses. “This is your party!”

Finnick’s smile twitched. “Right,” he said. “Guess it is.”

Cornelia’s smile softened, her eyes sparkling beneath the halo of teal tinsel. “I just knew you’d show up.”

Before Finnick could reply, Diamond’s hand closed around Cornelia’s wrist, yanking her back from the refreshment table with all the force of a Capitol stylist pulling a model offstage.

“Cornelia!” Diamond sang, her cheeks flushed and her hair tousled from dancing. “Come on! We’re going to do the synchronized dance routine Precious learned at dance camp!”

Cornelia let out a squeal of delight, her focus already shifting from Finnick to her friends. She tossed a quick, fluttery wave over her shoulder, her fingers wiggling like the wings of a butterfly.

“Bye, Finnick!” she called as Diamond dragged her away.

Finnick lifted a hand in a lazy, halfhearted wave, his eyes following her for a moment before they flicked away, scanning the crowd with that same distant, hollow gaze. Cornelia hardly noticed. 

From across the courtyard, Calpurnia’s sharp eyes caught sight of her daughter and watched, lips pursed, fingers tapping against the stem of her wine glass. Caesar chuckled beside her, his grin as dazzling as the thousand stars twinkling above the Capitol.

“Quite the little star, isn’t she?” he said, raising his glass in Cornelia’s direction.

Calpurnia smiled, but the edges were tight, strained. “Yes,” she said, the word coming out in a slow sigh. “Quite.”

February, 66 ADD

Her mother had warned Cornelia about going from brown to bleach blonde. Had cautioned her about the risks of her hair going brittle and dry and frizzy and breaking off. But had twelve-year-old Cornelia listened? Well, no. So now, sobbing with hair that now reached the middle of her chest, Cornelia was drafting a very long-winded persuasive essay on why getting sewn-in extensions would be beneficial for not just her self-esteem, but it was for the betterment of the Capitol as well. Her father had been the swing vote. Her appointment was scheduled for later that week.

It was the day of the appointment, and the salon gleamed like a Capitol ballroom, all glass and chrome and ivory tile that shone beneath the midday light. The walls were a cool, soothing shade of lavender, and the chairs— plush, white, and deeply cushioned— seemed to cradle each client like they were precious jewels being fitted for crowns. The air was scented with a heady mix of perfumed hair sprays and lotions, each one more floral and sweet than the last, and the soft murmur of Capitol pop music drifted from speakers embedded in the ceiling.

Cornelia sat perched in one of those chairs, legs crossed beneath a sleek, silken salon cape that shimmered in shades of blush and gold. Her natural hair was now bleached to a pale, near-white blonde that fell to her mid-chest, and her scalp still prickled with the memory of the bleach, a faint, stinging burn that had lingered even after the rinse.

But that was behind her now. What mattered was the end result— the waist-length, bleach blonde, twenty-four-inch extensions currently being sewn in with the deft hands of Marigold, a stylist with dazzling white hair coiled in a series of buns like tiny planets in orbit. Marigold’s nails were painted in alternating stripes of mint and lilac, and they moved swiftly through Cornelia’s hair, sewing each weft of extensions into tiny, evenly spaced braids against her scalp.

On either side of Cornelia sat Precious and Diamond, both girls swinging their legs back and forth in unison, their manicured fingers tapping along the armrests of their chairs. Diamond had a silver mirror in her hand and was using it to examine her own reflection, fluffing her spiral curls and smacking her glossy, bubblegum-pink lips. Precious was holding a plate of miniature cupcakes in her lap, each one topped with a swirl of pastel frosting and edible glitter, and she popped one in her mouth every time the salon door chimed with a new client.

Cornelia, for her part, was holding a butterfly-shaped glass filled with something that looked like blue raspberry punch. She sipped it through a curly straw, her eyes fixed on the flat-screen television mounted on the wall across from them.

On the screen, her father and Finnick Odair sat side by side in front of the signature backdrop of the studio set— a kaleidoscope of swirling colors that shifted and danced in mesmerizing patterns, like a Capitol fever dream brought to life. Caesar, with his shimmering silver wig perfectly in place, leaned forward in his chair, his eyes crinkling with delight as he spoke.

“So, Finnick,” Caesar said, his voice rolling through the speakers in a smooth, polished drawl. “You’ve had quite the Victory Tour, haven’t you? I think the whole Capitol is still catching its breath after your... well, entrance at the masquerade gala. I say, some of our ladies in the audience are still recovering!”

Finnick’s smile was brilliant and practiced, the kind that seemed to have been forged in the heat of the arena and polished to perfection in the aftermath. He leaned back slightly in his chair, one arm draped casually over the back, his eyes the color of the sea after a storm— calm on the surface, but dark beneath.

“Oh, you know, Caesar,” Finnick said, voice as smooth as Capitol silk. “I just wore what they told me to wear. It’s really all about the stylists.”

Precious sighed dreamily, leaning her head against the back of the salon chair as she reached for another cupcake. “Isn’t he just perfect?” she said, her voice a breathy, starry-eyed whisper. “I mean, look at him. The hair, the eyes, that smile...”

“Maybe your dad could help us meet Finnick!” Precious said, turning to Cornelia.

Cornelia’s lips curved into a slow, sly smile. The stylist pulled the next weft of extensions taut, sewing it in with a quick, practiced motion that sent the weight of the new hair tumbling down Cornelia’s back like a cascade of silk.

“Oh, I bet he could guarantee it,” Cornelia said, her voice lilting with confidence as she took another long sip of her blue punch. “I mean, he is Caesar Flickerman, after all.”

Diamond, now fully engrossed in her own reflection, pouted her glossy lips and tilted her head this way and that. “But we have to look perfect first,” she said, flipping a lock of her hair over her shoulder with a practiced, Capitol-esque toss. “What if we run into him looking like... this?”

Cornelia wrinkled her nose, her brows drawing together in dramatic horror. “Oh, you’re right,” she said, placing a hand over her heart. “What if he sees us before my extensions are all the way in? Before our nails are done? Before our makeup is perfectly... perfect?”

The girls all gasped in unison, their eyes wide and glistening as though they had just been struck by lightning. Marigold chuckled softly behind Cornelia, the needle in her hand glinting as she looped the next weft of extensions into place.

“Well, don’t you worry, sweethearts,” Marigold said, her voice warm and honeyed as she smoothed down a section of Cornelia’s new hair with a flat iron that emitted a soft hiss of steam. “You’ll be looking Capitol perfect by the time I’m done with you.”

Cornelia grinned, wiggling her shoulders beneath the salon cape as she felt the weight of the new hair drape over her shoulders, the silken strands trailing down her back like a waterfall.

April, 66 ADD

After much prying and begging and pleading, Cornelia’s father finally caved. It wasn’t so much caving as it was giving in to the inevitable. Cornelia would be meeting Finnick Odair. Officially. Not like the run-in at his Victory party. No, no, she would be meeting him. Talking to him. She was practically walking on a cloud.

Cornelia fluttered down the hallway beside her father, her tulle pink dress puffing out around her in frothy layers that bounced with every step. The dress was the exact same shade as her hair—a soft, dreamy pastel pink, the kind that looked like it had been plucked right out of a Capitol candy store. Each step she took caused the hem to swish around her golden shoes, which glimmered under the overhead lights like two tiny suns.

Her father, of course, was in theme. His wig today was styled in the same pastel pink as Cornelia’s hair, a delicate confection of soft curls that framed his face like a cloud of cotton candy. The Capitol’s favorite host wore a suit of pristine white, accented with silver lapels that caught the light with every turn of his head. Even his teeth seemed to shine brighter today, his smile a beacon of Capitol charm.

“Oh, Caesar,” Calpurnia had said earlier that morning, one hand on her hip and the other waving a makeup brush, “you look like a flamingo.”

“That’s the point, darling!” Caesar had quipped, flashing his blindingly white, famously flawless teeth as he winked at his reflection in the mirror. “It’s called coordination!”

Backstage at the studio was as bustling as ever, a kaleidoscope of Capitol fashion and frenzied energy. Assistants and stylists rushed past with trays of makeup palettes and clusters of curling irons, the air heavy with the scent of hairspray and the underlying tang of anticipation. Voices rose and fell in a rapid, urgent murmur, each person with a task to complete, a star to polish, a segment to perfect.

But Cornelia’s attention was elsewhere. She twirled a lock of pastel pink hair around her finger, winding and unwinding it as she swayed on her heels. She wasn’t exactly nervous, she told herself. Just... anticipatory. Was that a word? It felt like a word.

She tilted her head up to the ceiling, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a slow, controlled exhale. Calm, collected, and utterly, totally chill. Yes. She could do this. She was Cornelia Flickerman, daughter of the Master of Ceremonies, Capitol princess, future Capitol star in her own right. She could handle this.

“Hi, daddy! Who’s this?”

The words came out in a squeaky, over-the-top chirp that was so completely unlike her that she wanted to slap herself. She cringed internally, her stomach twisting as the words echoed in her head. She knew who he was. Everyone in the Capitol knew who he was. He was Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s newest darling, the golden boy from District 4 who had speared his way to victory.

Cornelia forced herself to lift her chin, feeling the soft, cool weight of her pastel pink waves brushing over her shoulders. She was supposed to look casual, nonchalant, but her wide eyes betrayed her, sparkling with the intensity of a star-struck girl who was only one squeal away from a full-blown meltdown.

Her father, ever the consummate showman, only smiled, his eyes glinting with amusement. He rested a hand on Finnick’s shoulder, giving him a jovial shake that seemed just a touch too firm, as though he were trying to remind Cornelia of who was in control here.

“Well, sweetheart,” Caesar said, his voice rolling through the air like a perfectly rehearsed line from one of his shows, “this is none other than Finnick Odair himself! Victor of last year’s Games!” He gave Finnick a playful wink, his pearly white teeth flashing beneath the overhead lights. “Finnick, this is my little girl, Cornelia.”

Cornelia’s face flushed hot, and she knew she was turning pinker than her hair, a bubblegum blush that rose from her cheeks to her forehead and down her neck. She tried to recover, offering what she hoped was a breezy, sophisticated smile, but it came out more like a grimace.

Finnick’s eyes, impossibly green, locked onto hers, and his smile softened, just slightly, in that way that made her stomach twist into a hundred tiny knots. “Nice to see you again, Cornelia,” he said, his voice warm and smooth, like honey sliding off a silver spoon. “You look... different.”

Cornelia’s smile faltered. Again. Of course, he remembered her from the Victory Tour party. He had to. Then she paused. Was he flirting with her? Was that a compliment? Did he like her dress?

“Oh, yes!” she said, the words bubbling out of her before she could stop them. “Again! Yes, of course! That party. That was fun. So fun. Really fun. You looked, um, good. You look good now too. I mean, not that you didn’t look good then, but—”

She snapped her mouth shut, her cheeks burning as Finnick’s smile widened, his eyes twinkling with that infuriating, knowing glint. Before she could dig herself any deeper, Caesar patted Finnick’s shoulder, his booming laugh echoing down the hallway.

“All right, all right,” Caesar said, glancing down at Cornelia with that fatherly, slightly exasperated smile. “Finnick’s got to get to hair and makeup before the interview. But I’m sure you two will get to talk more later, won’t you, Cornelia?”

“Right,” Finnick said, giving her a little nod, his smile still lingering as he stepped away. “See you later, Cornelia.”

And then he was gone, disappearing around the corner with one of the production assistants, his broad shoulders swaying as he walked. Cornelia watched him go, her mouth hanging open slightly, the scent of his cologne— something woodsy and sharp— still hanging in the air.

As soon as he was out of sight, she snapped around to her father, her eyes as wide as saucers, her hands flying up to her face as though she could physically catch the embarrassment before it leaked out of her pores.

“Oh, my gosh!” she squealed, grabbing two fistfuls of her pastel pink hair and yanking them down as if to keep herself from floating away. “I short-circuited! What is wrong with me?! Why is he so cute?! Why is he so cute?!”

Caesar only laughed, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head as though she had just said the funniest thing in the world. “Oh, sweetheart,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to her forehead, ruffling her hair just enough to make her groan and bat him away. “You have no idea.”

May, 66 ADD

Cornelia had ensured that Finnick Odair had received an invitation to her birthday party. A perfumed, glitter-decorated, monogrammed birthday invitation with an enclosed headshot of her donning her pastel pink hair. Just in case he needed the reminder of who she was. Or in the off chance that he wanted to frame it. It was, in her opinion, a very good picture. She thought her brown eyes looked rather sparkly in the ring light.

The villa was dressed to the nines. Draped in cascading ribbons of iridescent silk that glittered in the artificial starlight. Enormous bouquets of pastel roses spilled over crystal vases like fountains, petals glimmering with delicate flecks of silver dust. Waiters in sequined white jackets circulated with trays of glasses filled with sparkling pink lemonade, the rim of each glass coated in a sugary crust that matched Cornelia’s hair.

Her tulle dress was tiered and ruffled and puffed out like a cupcake straight from a bakery. Each layer was a different shade of pink, gradually fading from the deepest blush at her waist to a soft, barely-there rose at the hem. Her shoes were glass heels that sparkled with every step, the tiny embedded lights within them twinkling. Her hair was curled in bouncy waves each ringlet glossy under the chandeliers.

“Cornelia! Cornelia!”

Precious and Diamond came fluttering over, their arms linked, hair bouncing with every step. Precious’s hair was bright, eye-searing yellow today, a shocking contrast to her usual platinum blonde. Diamond, on the other hand, had dyed hers a deep, inky black that shimmered with violet undertones when she turned her head. The two of them were like Capitol dolls brought to life, adorned in matching silk dresses with sheer panels that caught the light and threw it back in a thousand tiny, fractured rainbows.

“Oh, look!” Cornelia squealed, pointing dramatically across the room with a hand still encased in a white lace glove. “Enobaria from the Sixty-Second Games came!”

They all turned in unison, like sunflowers to the sun, to where Enobaria stood, leaning casually against a pillar and sipping a glass of champagne. Her golden, predator’s smile gleamed beneath the soft, flickering lights, and her dark eyes scanned the room with a look that was both bored and slightly amused.

“Her teeth look even sharper in person,” Diamond murmured, eyes wide.

“I know!” Cornelia said, clutching Precious’s arm. “I wonder if she’s cut anyone with them yet. Like, just for fun.”

“Cornelia!” Precious said, giggling as she swatted at Cornelia’s arm. “You can’t just say things like that!”

“What?” Cornelia said innocently, blinking up at the ceiling as if she’d never even heard of Enobaria’s infamous teeth. “It was a compliment.”

Diamond shook her head, still staring at Enobaria as though the older girl might lunge at them at any moment. “I can’t believe she actually came.”

“I can’t believe Gloss didn’t!” Cornelia pouted, twisting a curl around her finger. “I sent him a personal invite and everything! I even told daddy to drop it off to him in person.”

Diamond opened her mouth to say something, but then her eyes widened, her hand shooting out to grab Cornelia’s wrist. “Cornelia! Look! Look over there!”

Cornelia’s head whipped around so fast that a few curls flew loose from her updo. She followed Diamond’s gaze across the room, past the sea of pastel dresses and sparkling shoes, to the door of the villa.

And there he was. Finnick Odair.

He stood framed by the archway, the Capitol lights behind him casting a soft glow over his tousled bronze hair. He was dressed in something simple for the Capitol— a white shirt rolled up to his elbows, dark trousers that fit him perfectly, and a loose, unbuttoned vest of seafoam green. Around his neck hung a simple chain, the pendant resting against his collarbone as he looked around the room.

Cornelia felt her heart leap up into her throat, her fingers fluttering nervously against her skirt as she took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Oh! Oh! Hey!” she called out, waving her hand in the air like she was trying to flag down a hovercraft. “You got my invitation!”

Finnick’s eyes landed on her, and for a moment, they just looked at each other. Cornelia could feel her cheeks flushing, feel the butterflies in her stomach fluttering so hard she thought she might float right off the ground. Then Finnick smiled— just a slight curve of his lips, a small, polite one.

“Hey,” he said.“Happy birthday.”

Cornelia’s heart skipped a beat. “Thank you!” she chirped, her voice a little too loud, a little too bright. “I’m so glad you could come! Oh, oh, this is Precious and Diamond.”

Finnick’s eyes slid to Precious, and the corner of his mouth twitched as he took in her shockingly yellow wig. “Nice hair,” he said, his tone light, easy, teasing.

Precious giggled, one hand flying up to pat the curly, lemon-bright wig. “It’s a wig!” she said, as though that wasn’t already obvious. “I wanted to look like a canary!”

“Oh, and you do!” Cornelia said, her hands clasping beneath her chin as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “A very... very bright canary!”

Finnick chuckled, the sound soft and low and somehow older than his fifteen years. Cornelia felt her knees wobble a little, her smile growing wider as she fluttered her hand in the air as though waving off invisible dust motes.

“Oh! Oh!” she said, leaning closer to Finnick, her curls bouncing against her shoulders. “You must stay until the lights show! Daddy hired a whole team to put it on! It’s going to be so pretty!”

Finnick’s smile faltered just a little, his eyes flicking to the crowd around them. But then it was gone, and he nodded, his smile slipping back into place. “I’ll try,” he said, his tone light, almost airy. “I think I can manage that.”

“Oh, good!” Cornelia said, her hands clasped together, her whole body vibrating with excitement. “It’s going to be so pretty, and, and—”

“Cornelia! Come here, darling!”

Cornelia’s head whipped around, her curls bouncing against her cheeks as she looked across the room to where her father was standing in the center of the crowd, his white suit practically glowing beneath the twinkling lights. A cake the size of a Capitol fountain had been wheeled in beside him, each tier frosted in pale pink and dripping with edible glitter.

Cornelia gasped, her eyes going wide as she took in the cake, the gold candles, the flowers blooming from the top tier in a sparkling, sugar-dusted bouquet. “Oh! Cake time!” she squealed, grabbing Diamond and Precious by their wrists as she darted away, the glass heels clicking beneath her like the ticking of a Capitol clock.

Before she disappeared into the crowd, Cornelia glanced back over her shoulder at Finnick, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright. “Don’t forget! The lights show!”

Finnick nodded, lifting a hand in a half-hearted wave as she disappeared into the crowd of Capitol guests.

When she was gone, Finnick’s hand fell back to his side. The smile slipped from his face like a mask, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring at the spot where Cornelia had just been, his jaw tight, his eyes clouded. Then, with a small shake of his head, he turned and walked toward the refreshment table.

August, 66 ADD

Cornelia’s scalp was stained a bright pink. While the Capitol’s hair dye was higher quality— not that the districts could afford such a luxury— it did not prevent the natural process of skin staining due to the bright pigmentation. Cornelia was devastated. Her mother showed no sympathy.

“You look ridiculous,” Calpurnia had said, one manicured hand on her hip as she leaned against the doorframe of Cornelia’s bedroom. Her own hair, a luminous copper-red today, was swept into a glossy chignon that gleamed beneath the vanity lights. “Absolutely ridiculous. I told you this would happen.”

Cornelia, sitting cross-legged on her vanity stool with a towel wrapped around her shoulders, glared at her reflection. Her hair— now a neon, unapologetic hot pink— spilled over her shoulders like an ocean of liquid candy. The color was vibrant, loud, exactly the opposite of the delicate pastel shade she’d once sported. But her scalp, that was the real issue. Bright, splotchy patches of pink clung to her hairline in an unforgiving manner that left her gasping in mortification.

“You don’t understand me,” Cornelia muttered, her lower lip jutting out in a pout as she swiped a makeup wipe across her forehead.

Calpurnia scoffed, rolling her eyes as she adjusted the large cocktail ring on her finger. “You look like a melted strawberry.”

Cornelia’s scowl deepened. “Daddy likes it.”

Calpurnia arched a perfectly drawn eyebrow. “Your father likes everything.”

Which was true. The very next day, Caesar had strutted onto his studio stage wearing a wig in the exact same shade of pink as Cornelia’s hair, blowing kisses to the audience as if he were the most charming fool in the Capitol. And maybe he was. But the stunt was enough to soften Cornelia’s mood, and after that, the pink scalp wasn’t so bad.

When the stain finally faded to a dull rose, Cornelia decided it was time to make an appearance at the studio. After all, there were Victors there— important ones. Ones she hadn’t yet spoken to up close. Ones who had reputations, who were older, who were cool. Victors she had only seen from afar but was determined to impress.

Cornelia strutted through the studio hallways, her pink hair bouncing in perfect, glossy waves down her back, the ends grazing the rhinestones studded into the belt of her minidress. The dress was silver, skin-tight, and sleeveless. On her feet, she wore platform sandals, also silver, the heels clear like glass. Her lips were painted a sugary pink, glossy and sticky, and she’d applied extra blush to her cheeks to give her a glow.

“Hey!” Cornelia chirped as she bounced into the makeup room, her wide eyes zeroing in on two Victors lounging in makeup chairs. “Enobaria! Cashmere!”

Cashmere glanced up first, her icy blonde hair twisted into braids that shimmered under the vanity lights. She looked stunning, as always, her gold dress slashed daringly down one side to show off a long, lean leg. Cornelia had always thought Cashmere looked like a Capitol supermodel, the kind that everyone wanted to be or wanted to date or wanted to steal beauty tips from.

Beside her, Enobaria leaned back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other. At nineteen, she was already terrifyingly beautiful. Her teeth, filed down to gold-tipped points, caught the light every time she smirked. She wore a dark red dress that clung to her body, her arms bare, her gold-tipped nails clicking against the arm of the chair.

“Hey, mini Flickerman,” Enobaria drawled, her eyes sliding over Cornelia’s hot pink hair with an expression that was somewhere between amused and unimpressed. “You look… reflective.”

Cornelia’s heart did a little leap. Enobaria was talking to her. Cool, fierce, terrifying Enobaria was talking to her.

“Thanks!” Cornelia said, twirling a lock of pink hair around her finger as she sidled closer. “I thought it was time for a change. What do you think? Do I look cool?”

Enobaria snorted, sharing a glance with Cashmere, who was reapplying her lip gloss in the mirror. “Yeah. Sure. Real cool, kid.”

Cornelia’s smile widened, oblivious to the edge of sarcasm in Enobaria’s voice. She stepped closer, her eyes fixed on Enobaria’s mouth, her fingers fluttering like nervous butterflies by her sides. “Oh! Oh! Are your teeth really gold? Like, actually real gold? Do they taste funny when you eat? Does it hurt? Can I touch them?”

Enobaria’s mouth stretched into a slow, predatory grin, her golden fangs gleaming. “Wanna find out?”

Cornelia’s eyes grew impossibly wide, her jaw dropping as she clapped her hands together. “Oh my gosh, you’re so cool! And terrifying! Cool and terrifying!”

Cashmere rolled her eyes, popping her lips as she snapped the cap back onto her lip gloss. “Relax. They’re not that scary.”

“Oh, yes, they are!” Cornelia said, bouncing on her toes, her excitement palpable. “Like, if I had gold teeth, I’d scare everyone just by smiling!”

Enobaria leaned forward, her gold-tipped fingers tapping against her knee as she tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing. “You planning on filing your teeth down, kid?”

Cornelia shook her head rapidly, the pink waves flying around her shoulders. “No! Oh, no, mother would kill me! She didn’t even want me to dye my hair this color.”

Across the room, leaning against the far wall with his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jeans, Finnick watched the entire exchange with an expression of detached disinterest. His bronze hair was tousled in that effortlessly messy way that always seemed to frame his face like a Capitol portrait, and his sea-green eyes were half-lidded, bored. Beside him, Mags stood with her arms folded over her chest, her hair pulled back into a simple braid. She didn’t speak, but the look she gave Finnick was enough to make him roll his eyes.

Finnick leaned closer to Mags, his voice low, almost a murmur. “Caesar’s kid,” he said, his tone edged with something between annoyance and exasperation. “Pink hair, glass shoes, mouth like a motor. Don't even think she takes a breath in between her sentences.”

Mags gave him a look. A look that told him to be nice.

Finnick sighed, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “I’m being nice,” he said under his breath. "Just honest."

Mags raised one eyebrow, the corner of her mouth twitching in a way that suggested she wasn’t buying it for a second.

Meanwhile, Cornelia was still chatting excitedly with Enobaria, her eyes shining as she tossed her pink hair over her shoulder and babbled on about how she was planning to get custom glass nails next. Enobaria smirked, her fingers drumming against the arm of the chair, her eyes half-lidded and lazy.

“Oh, yeah?” Enobaria said, leaning forward, her golden teeth glinting. “Why don’t you get them filed down to points while you’re at it?”

“Oh! Oh! Maybe I will!” Cornelia said, her cheeks flushed as she laughed too loudly, her hands fluttering like frantic butterflies. “You know, just for fun!”

Mags shook her head, her fingers drumming against her forearm as she watched Cornelia with a look that was almost pitying. Finnick glanced at her, then back at Cornelia, and exhaled a long, weary breath.

“Capitol kids,” he muttered, just loud enough for Mags to hear. “More like Capitol dolls.”

Chapter Text

September, 66 ADD

CORNELIA WANTED A DOG. Or a cat. Or, perhaps, a bunny. Cornelia would settle for a bunny if that was all her parents could manage. Which, she was almost certain, they could manage that as the very least. It was not that difficult to acquire any animal in the Capitol.

Other than the fox she had inquired about under her father’s name.

Even Caesar Flickerman couldn’t manage to get a fox with all his Capitol fame and fortune.

“Please, mother, please!” Cornelia said, trailing after Calpurnia as she moved from the living room to the marble-floored hallway. Her mother’s heels clicked sharply against the floor, each step echoing off the walls and high-rise ceiling. “Please! I swear, I would feed it every day and wash it and take it to the pet stylist and everything! I’d even let it sleep in my room so it wouldn’t bother anyone!”

Calpurnia’s pace quickened, her glossy chestnut waves bouncing over the shoulders of her cream-colored dress as she swept down the hall, moving like a woman determined to outrun a persistent headache.

“Please, mother!” Cornelia whined, darting in front of her mother and spreading her arms wide, blocking her path. “Please, please, please, please!”

“Cornelia Fleur Flickerman, that is enough!” Calpurnia snapped, her voice ricocheting off the gilded walls.

Cornelia’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes wide and shining, lips still parted in mid-beg.

Calpurnia’s nostrils flared, her chest rising and falling as she drew in a long, deep breath through her nose. Her gaze swept over Cornelia’s face, her narrowed eyes taking in the flush that had crept across her daughter’s cheeks, the way Cornelia’s lower lip trembled slightly, the slight frizz that had developed in her hot pink hair from all her dramatic tossing and flipping.

Cornelia dropped her hands to her sides and clasped them together, fingers twisting nervously. “I just… I think it would be really good for me, mother. Like, emotionally. They say pets are therapeutic. And I’ve been really stressed lately, what with the hair dye and the… the—”

Calpurnia pressed a manicured finger to her own temple, rubbing a slow, deliberate circle. “What you need, Cornelia, is a hobby. Or a friend who doesn’t ask you to sneak into my jewelry cabinet and steal my earrings. Not another pet that you’ll ignore the moment it stops being cute.”

“I wouldn’t ignore it!” Cornelia protested, her eyes flashing as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’d love it! Forever!”

“That’s what you said about the silk-feathered canary,” Calpurnia said flatly. “And yet, that bird has been in the sunroom for three weeks without a single visit from you.”

Cornelia’s mouth opened, but she didn’t have a good enough excuse to fill the silence. Her eyes dropped to the floor, her silver flats glinting under the chandelier’s light.

The door to her father’s study creaked open, Caesar stepping into the hall, a glass of amber liquid in one hand and a broad, curious smile on his face.

“What’s all this ruckus about?” he asked, looking between Calpurnia and Cornelia with a grin that suggested he was more amused than concerned. “I could hear you both all the way from my study.”

Calpurnia’s arms folded over her chest, her brow furrowing as she met her husband’s gaze. “Your daughter refuses to drop this pet nonsense. Tell her that it is not happening, Caesar!”

Caesar’s eyes flicked to Cornelia, his brow lifting as he sipped from his glass. “Oh, is that so?”

Cornelia’s hands flew up, clasped beneath her chin as she batted her eyelashes in what she hoped was a sweet, winsome expression. “Daddy, it’s just a bunny! Or a cat. Or a dog. Or a fox. Or—”

“A fox?” Caesar chuckled, tilting his head back as he laughed. “Now, now, what’s next? A baby bear? A lion cub? A sea serpent from District 4?”

Cornelia’s cheeks flushed hot, her eyes darting to the side. “I just thought… I mean, you’re Caesar Flickerman! You could get a fox if you wanted to. You could get anything.”

Calpurnia’s jaw tightened, and she shot Caesar a glare so sharp it could have sliced through glass. “Caesar.”

Caesar lowered his glass, swirling the liquid inside as he considered Cornelia. His smile softened, his gaze drifting from her hopeful, eager eyes to the slight stain of pink still lingering around her hairline, a reminder of the impulsive decision she’d made just last month.

“Well…” Caesar drawled, tapping his chin with one finger as if giving the matter serious consideration. “I suppose we could make a deal.”

Calpurnia’s eyes widened. “Caesar, don’t—”

“A deal?” Cornelia asked, her heart leaping in her chest. “Oh! Oh! Like what?”

Caesar set his glass down on a marble pedestal table, leaning forward to rest his hands on his knees as he looked Cornelia dead in the eyes, his smile charming and almost conspiratorial. “You want a pet, sweet pea?”

Cornelia nodded so rapidly her hair bounced against her shoulders.

“Then you have to prove you can handle it,” Caesar said, waggling a finger. “That canary in the sunroom? You’re going to feed it, clean up after it, and sing to it every morning. Every single morning. And if you can do that for two weeks straight without a single complaint, then we can talk about a bunny.”

“A bunny!” Cornelia squealed, clapping her hands together. “Oh my gosh, yes! Yes! I will! I will do it! I will sing to that canary every day! I will feed it! I will sing and feed and clean and— and—”

“You will do all of those things,” Calpurnia said sharply, crossing her arms as she stared down at Cornelia. “And if I hear one word, one single word, about how it’s too hard or too boring or too annoying, that canary goes straight back to the pet shop, and you’ll never hear of a bunny in this house again.”

Cornelia swallowed, her excitement dimming just a fraction. “I won’t complain. I promise. You’ll see.”

Caesar straightened up, brushing imaginary lint from his lapel. “Well then, that settles it,” he said, flashing his megawatt grin. “Our little Cornelia is officially on canary duty. Congratulations, sweet pea.”

Cornelia nodded vigorously, her cheeks flushed with excitement as she practically skipped down the hall toward the sunroom.

Behind her, Calpurnia pressed a hand to her temple, her eyes closing as she took a slow breath. “You’re going to regret this, Caesar.”

Caesar just chuckled, picking up his glass and taking a long, slow sip. “Oh, probably,” he said, glancing down the hall at the sight of Cornelia peering through the sunroom glass at the canary’s cage, her eyes wide and sparkling with delight. “But at least she’ll be occupied.”

October, 66 ADD

The rabbit was named Cerise.

The lop-eared rabbit sat daintily in the center of the room atop a lavender satin pillow. She wore a ruffly orange dress, each frill meticulously fluffed by Cornelia’s eager hands, and a small bow that tied her long, soft ears together, making them fan out behind her like wings.

“Oh, my stars, Cerise! You are the cutest little bunny in all of Panem!” Cornelia cooed, leaning forward to adjust the bow just so. “Aren’t you just the sweetest little pumpkin in your pretty, pretty dress?”

Cerise wiggled her nose, her round, twitching mouth working as it gnawed on a leftover bit of carrot.

Precious and Diamond sat on the floor beside Cornelia, both girls leaning forward with their chins propped up on their hands, their freshly manicured nails glinting in the afternoon light that streamed in through the wall of arched windows.

“Are you sure it’s a girl?” Diamond asked, squinting at Cerise as the rabbit adjusted her position on the pillow, causing a small jingle of the bell attached to her bow.

“Yes!” Cornelia said, her tone sharp, as if offended by the mere suggestion otherwise. “She is absolutely a girl. Just look at her eyes! So soft, so… feminine.”

Precious tilted her head to the side, pursing her glossy, coral-pink lips as she reached forward to touch the orange frills of Cerise’s dress. “You named her Cerise? Like… the color?”

Cornelia beamed, twirling a hot pink strand of her hair around her finger. “Yes! Isn’t it just darling? Cerise the Bunny. Oh! Oh! And wait, you have to see her other outfit! It’s just—”

Cornelia scrambled to her feet, nearly tripping over a silver-sequined clutch as she rushed over to her closet, the revolving platform turning with a soft, mechanical hum. Racks of pastel tulle, glittery chiffon, and feather-trimmed capes swirled past until Cornelia pulled a hanger from the moving rack, holding it aloft like a prized jewel.

It was a tiny, bubblegum-pink cape adorned with rhinestones and delicate, shimmering tassels that draped down like a waterfall of tiny stars.

“She wears this when we do our morning walks around the villa,” Cornelia said proudly, her brown eyes sparkling as she held the cape up for her friends to see. “You know, when it’s chilly.”

Diamond blinked, her eyes drifting from the cape to Cerise, who had settled into a resigned, hunched-over position on her pillow. “You take her outside?”

“Oh, yes!” Cornelia said, tossing the cape over her arm as she flounced back to the pillow. “She has a matching harness and leash! And when we walk by the fountains, everyone just dies over her. They say she’s the most stylish bunny they’ve ever seen!”

Precious giggled, her eyes narrowing playfully as she nudged Cornelia with her elbow. “I can’t believe you actually got your dad to give you another pet. After… you know.”

Cornelia’s face fell, her expression crumpling for a fraction of a second before she smoothed it back into a sunny, practiced smile. “Well, daddy just couldn’t resist,” she said breezily, fluffing the frills of Cerise’s dress. “I mean, look at her! Who could say no to a face like this?”

Cerise twitched her nose, her dark eyes blinking up at Cornelia in what could only be interpreted as reluctant acceptance of her fate.

Diamond leaned forward, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “But, like… what happened to the canary?”

Precious sucked in a breath, eyes darting to Cornelia, who forced another smile and tossed her hair over her shoulder.

“Oh, you know,” Cornelia said, waving a hand airily. “It just… flew away.”

Precious and Diamond exchanged a glance, their faces perfectly blank, and Cornelia felt a flush creep up her neck, the stain of pink still evident along her hairline.

The truth was, Cornelia had forgotten to latch the canary’s cage one night, and the poor thing had managed to escape, only to be found a day later, lifeless and sprawled beneath a pile of discarded costume jewelry.

Cornelia’s mother had been livid, storming through the villa with her arms crossed and her jaw clenched, the heels of her stiletto boots cracking against the marble floors as she ranted about irresponsibility and carelessness and how Caesar had better not even think about getting another pet for their daughter.

But Caesar, true to form, had simply winked at Cornelia, patted her on the head, and said, “Accidents happen, sweet pea. Don’t worry. Daddy will make it right.”

And he had.

By that evening, Cerise had been delivered in a lavender silk-lined box, complete with three tiny, custom-tailored outfits.

“Oh! Oh!” Cornelia suddenly squealed, clapping her hands together as her eyes lit up. “I almost forgot!”

Precious and Diamond perked up, leaning in as Cornelia bounced to her feet and skipped over to her vanity, where a small glass jar sat atop a silver tray.

Inside the jar was a tiny collection of hair bows, each in a different color, adorned with glitter and tiny bells that jingled softly when Cornelia shook the jar.

“These are Cerise’s bows!” Cornelia said, spinning back around and plopping down on the carpet again, her legs folding in front of her in a perfect cross-legged pose. “She has one for every day of the week.”

Precious picked up a cerulean blue bow, twirling it between her fingers. “Oh, this one’s pretty!”

Cornelia gasped, her brown eyes going wide as she snatched the bow from Precious’s hand. “Oh! Oh, no! Cerise only wears warm tones. She’s a warm-toned bunny. Blue would totally clash with her whole aesthetic.”

Diamond pressed her lips together, fighting back a laugh as Precious nodded solemnly, her eyes round with mock seriousness. “Oh, of course. Warm tones only. Duh.”

Cornelia beamed, her face flushed with the satisfaction of being right.

November, 66 ADD

Finnick had never been much of a person for crowds, even before he won the Games and was thrust into the Capitol life and left to flounder. Having only been fourteen, there had been little preparation and far less consideration for his naïveté. Much less had been considered when Snow put a price tag on his face and body for the highest bidders and the most sadistic sexual habits.

So, no. Finnick did not enjoy the Capitol parties. And yet, he had to attend every one, extend his stay by an additional two or three days. Sometimes more.

Now, he lingered near the refreshment table, his spine straight as a rod and his shoulders squared beneath the finely tailored jacket that fit him like a glove. It was deep green, almost black, the collar trimmed with tiny emerald beads that caught the light and sparkled whenever he moved. The shirt beneath was crisp and white, the buttons small pearls that looked like the inside of a shell.

He took a glass from a passing server, its contents a golden, syrupy concoction that reeked of peaches and something more potent, more acrid, lurking beneath the sweetness. He brought it to his lips and sipped slowly, his eyes scanning the crowd with practiced disinterest, his face schooled into that perfect, easy smile that they all loved so much.

Around him, the Capitol buzzed. The grand ballroom was a vision of opulence, with towering golden columns that stretched up to the domed ceiling where tiny lights blinked like stars. Draped silks in every hue of the rainbow hung from the walls, fluttering like butterflies in the air-conditioned breeze. Clusters of guests roamed from one corner to the next, their skin painted in vivid colors, their hair styled into impossible shapes adorned with glitter and feathers and metal chains that clinked softly with every movement.

Everywhere Finnick looked, there was someone watching him. An older man with a neatly trimmed beard and wine-stained teeth leered at him from across the room, his eyes sliding up and down Finnick’s body like he was nothing but a well-dressed slab of meat. A woman with silver curls and jeweled fingers gave him a little wave, her grin too sharp and too bright to be anything but predatory.

Finnick’s jaw clenched beneath his practiced, dazzling smile. He took another sip of the drink, letting the syrup coat his tongue before swallowing it down, feeling the burn as it slid down his throat.

His gaze drifted across the room, over the sea of shimmering gowns and tailored suits, the painted lips and manicured nails, the laughter that rang out too loud, too forced, too brittle. And that was when he saw her.

Cornelia Flickerman.

Finnick’s brows twitched in recognition. She was standing across the room, flanked by her two ever-present friends and a third girl whose hair was a shocking, almost toxic green that glowed beneath the chandeliers.

Cornelia’s hair was still pink, though now it had faded to a muted, softer shade, more like a petal that had been left out in the sun too long. It cascaded down her back in loose, bouncy curls that bobbed and swayed every time she moved her head, which was often, given how much she was talking.

And she was talking. Incessantly.

Finnick couldn’t hear her words over the chatter and music, but he could see her lips moving rapidly, her hands fluttering through the air as she recounted some undoubtedly dramatic tale. Her eyes were wide, animated, sparkling beneath the heavy sweep of silver glitter that fanned out from her eyelids like wings.

She wore a dress that was somehow both innocent and ostentatious— a pouf of white tulle layered over a skirt that flared out like a bell, the bodice embroidered with tiny pink flowers that glimmered every time she swayed. Her shoes were glittery, glassy things that caught the light and scattered it in a hundred directions whenever she shifted her feet.

She was talking, and talking, and talking.

Precious and Diamond, both perfectly polished in complementary shades of violet and gold, nodded along with synchronized smiles that barely concealed their impatience. The green-haired girl, however, seemed utterly enthralled, hanging onto every word that poured from Cornelia’s mouth as if it were gospel.

Finnick watched them, his lips twisting into something that was almost a smirk.

Of course she’s Caesar’s daughter, he thought dryly, leaning back against the table and swirling the glass in his hand. Who else could be that loud, that chatty, that… insufferably charming?

It was almost funny, he supposed. Caesar Flickerman, the Capitol’s king of charm, the man who could make even the most wretched of Victors look like golden heroes on stage, had spawned a daughter who was the very embodiment of Capitol excess. All glitter and giggles and endless chatter, a girl who would probably never understand the darker undercurrents that ran through these parties.

Would never understand what lurked behind those wine-stained teeth, those jeweled fingers, those too-bright smiles.

Not that he could blame her. She was thirteen. Just a kid. Still sparkling with that unblemished, untouched innocence that the Capitol seemed to feed on, to devour and chew and spit out until there was nothing left but a polished, hollow shell.

And yet, there was something about her.

Finnick took another sip, letting the drink slide down his throat, feeling the warmth spread through his chest as he continued to watch her.

Despite the glitter and the ruffles and the too-bright smile, there was something about Cornelia that reminded him of—

A laugh. Loud and unrestrained and bright.

Finnick’s gaze snapped back to Cornelia, who was now doubled over, her hands clutching her sides as she laughed so hard her shoulders shook, her cheeks flushed a vibrant, healthy pink beneath the silver glitter. Diamond was laughing too, her eyes crinkling as she pointed at Precious, who had struck a ridiculous pose, one arm raised above her head, her other hand perched dramatically on her hip as she fluttered her lashes in an exaggerated manner.

Finnick watched them, his jaw tightening as something in his chest twisted, coiled, tightened. Because despite the insufferable chatter and the garish pink hair and the blinding glitter and the way she fluttered around like some overgrown, obnoxious butterfly— she was… happy. Unmistakably, undeniably, incandescently happy. And there was something about that, something about the way she twirled and giggled and flung her arms around her friends with such careless, unabashed joy, that made Finnick feel as though someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed.

Because he couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that way. Couldn’t remember the last time he had felt that… light.

With a soft exhale, Finnick turned away, tipping back the last of the drink and letting the glass fall from his fingers onto the table, where it landed with a soft, empty clink.

Cornelia had been hoping to see Finnick Odair all night. Perhaps it was the festering crush that had begun just last year, perhaps it was because he was, absolutely, without a doubt, the cutest boy she had ever laid eyes on. Besides Gloss, of course. She still liked him, too. At least, she thought so. But there was something about Finnick— something about his effortless smile, the way he carried himself with that golden, sun-kissed confidence, the way his eyes glimmered beneath the party lights— that made her heart feel like it was stuffed with a hundred fluttering paper birds.

So when she finally caught sight of him, standing by the refreshment table with a glass in hand, Cornelia nearly tripped over her own two feet. She stopped dead, so suddenly that Diamond, who had been spinning beside her, almost collided into her.

“What—?” Diamond began, but Cornelia was already moving, yanking her hand free and charging across the courtyard, her heels clicking against the stones, her hair fluttering behind her.

“Be right back!” she shouted over her shoulder, not even glancing back to see if they were still watching.

The party swirled around her like a kaleidoscope of colors— guests in shimmering gowns and jewel-studded suits, glitter falling from the balconies above, champagne flutes held aloft. And there was Finnick, standing by the refreshment table, his back to her as he swirled the glass in his hand, his shoulders tense beneath the rich, emerald-green jacket that fit him like a second skin.

Cornelia skidded to a stop just behind him, almost tripping as her heels caught on the hem of her tulle skirt. She steadied herself, drew in a deep, deep breath, and then—

“Come dance with me!”

Finnick turned, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and wariness. His eyes met hers, and for a moment, Cornelia felt her heart flip-flop in her chest like a fish tossed onto dry land.

Up close, he looked older than sixteen, the sharp lines of his jaw more defined, his green eyes shadowed beneath thick, dark lashes. There was a heaviness there, a tightness around his mouth that didn’t belong on someone so young. But then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone, his features smoothing back into that easy, practiced smile that Capitol people ate up like it was candied fruit.

“What?” he said, his tone laced with just the right amount of Capitol charm, his brows lifting.

Cornelia swallowed, suddenly aware of how much taller he was than her. How he was looking down at her with those sea-glass eyes, like he was trying to piece her together, make sense of her.

She cleared her throat, reached out, and grabbed his hands without thinking.

“Come on!” she said, her fingers warm and slightly sticky against his cool skin. “It’s a party! Let’s dance!”

Finnick glanced over his shoulder, and Cornelia followed his gaze. She noticed then the way two women in crimson dresses stood not far off, their eyes fixed on him with a kind of avid, hungry interest that made her feel vaguely uncomfortable. The older one— her hair a dark, swirling updo pinned with tiny rubies— lifted her glass to her lips, eyes never leaving Finnick as she whispered something to her companion, who laughed, low and soft.

Finnick’s jaw tightened, the corner of his mouth twitching, but then he turned back to Cornelia, the smile snapping back into place like a mask.

“Well,” he said, releasing a sigh that almost sounded relieved. “If you insist.”

Cornelia beamed, her whole face lighting up as she tugged him by the hands toward the dance floor. The music was still fast, still upbeat, a dizzying cacophony of strings and drums.

Once they were in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by the swirl of other dancers, Cornelia released his hands and took a step back, her tulle skirt flaring out around her like a flower in bloom. She raised her arms above her head and began to move, jerky and wild, her limbs flailing in a way that was more chaotic than graceful, more ridiculous than refined.

Finnick just stood there, watching her, one brow arched, his glass still dangling from his fingers.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his lips twitching as if he were holding back a laugh.

“It’s fun!” Cornelia said, spinning in a quick, clumsy circle before flinging her hands out to the sides like she was conducting an invisible orchestra. “No one’s watching us, anyway!”

Finnick let out a sound that was half laugh, half snort, the kind of sound that made his shoulders relax just a little, the tension seeping out of his frame like air from a balloon. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her flail and twirl and stomp around in her too-big heels, her cheeks flushed.

“Is that what you call dancing?” he asked, his voice dripping with exaggerated skepticism, but there was a glint of real amusement in his eyes now, a lightness that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Cornelia threw her head back and laughed. “Yes!” She came to a staggering halt, her hands landing on her hips as she looked up at him, her grin so wide it nearly split her face in two. “Now, come on! Show me what you’ve got!”

Finnick didn’t dance. At least, not gracefully, not intentionally. But, at this point, what did that matter? The music was a blaring mess, a song that was too fast to dance to and too loud to think through, and Cornelia was moving like a wild, untamed thing in front of him. Her pink hair whipped around her shoulders as she flung her arms out and twirled in an ungainly circle.

Finnick watched her, hands loose at his sides, a bemused, half-laughing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. The party swirled around them, the scent of too-strong perfume and spilled champagne hanging heavy in the air. Cornelia was oblivious to all of it. She was spinning and flailing and moving without an ounce of poise, and it was somehow the most ridiculous and endearing thing Finnick had seen in weeks.

“Come on!” Cornelia called, waving both hands at him as she took a few skipping steps backward, her heels clacking against the stone. “You’re not dancing!”

Finnick rolled his eyes but finally lifted his arms, giving in. He swung his hips in an exaggerated, jerky motion, raising his hands above his head and moving them back and forth like he was waving at a helicopter.

Cornelia threw her head back and burst into a fit of giggles, her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes squeezed shut.

“There you go!” she shouted over the music, pointing at him like she was directing a spotlight. “See? You’re not that cool!”

Finnick smirked, spinning around in a clumsy, dramatic circle that had his jacket flaring out behind him. He stopped with his arms flung wide, palms up, eyebrows raised. “Oh, and you think you are?”

Cornelia giggled, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “I think I’m super cool, thank you very much!” she said, waggling her brows with a grin.

Finnick snickered, shaking his head, and began to bounce from foot to foot like he was hopping on invisible lily pads. Cornelia joined him, mimicking his movements with the same exaggerated enthusiasm, the two of them flailing and jumping and spinning without a care for how ridiculous they looked.

From the sidelines, a few people paused to stare, some of them tittering behind their hands, others raising their brows. Cornelia didn’t seem to notice or care. She just kept moving, her arms loose, her smile bright, her giggles loud and carefree.

Finnick’s own laughter slipped out unbidden, a surprised, breathy sound, and for a moment, he forgot where he was, forgot the eyes that followed him everywhere, forgot the heavy, clawing sensation of being watched, owned, sold. For a moment, it was just him and this silly, absurd girl spinning in circles, their feet scuffing against the floor as the music thudded around them.

But then, the music shifted. The last crashing note faded, and the sound of applause rang out from the other side of the courtyard as a group of Capitolites cheered for the end of the number.

Cornelia came to a clumsy, stumbling stop, nearly tripping over her own feet as she caught herself and laughed, her chest heaving. She glanced up at Finnick, her eyes sparkling beneath the string lights, a sheen of sweat dampening her pink hairline.

“Well?” she said, catching her breath, and gestured over her shoulder to where Precious, Diamond, and Viridi stood in a loose huddle, all three of them staring at Cornelia and Finnick with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Do you want to come over and dance with me and my friends?”

Finnick was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the emerald-green jacket that now hung askew on his shoulders. He opened his mouth to respond, but he didn’t get the chance.

A shadow fell over them.

Cornelia’s eyes flicked past Finnick’s shoulder, and Finnick felt it then— the sudden, cold press of someone standing just a little too close.

He didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He could smell her— sweet, syrupy perfume that made his stomach churn, a scent that clung to his sheets for days after she left, a scent that he could still taste on the inside of his cheek when he closed his eyes.

Cornelia’s smile faltered.

Finnick swallowed, the taste of champagne and dread thick in his throat. He forced himself to turn, forcing a tight, dazzling grin onto his face, the kind that made his jaw ache.

The woman was tall, with silver-blonde hair piled high atop her head in a cascade of ringlets that gleamed beneath the lantern lights. Her skin was pale and smooth, her lashes thick and dark, her mouth painted in a shade of red that was too bright, too loud. She was older— much older than Finnick— and the way her eyes roamed over him made his skin crawl beneath his clothes.

“There you are,” she said, her voice soft, slow, sweet, like melted honey poured over shards of glass. Her hand, gloved in white lace, reached out to brush along the sleeve of Finnick’s jacket, her nails tracing a lazy, possessive line down his arm. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Finnick’s smile tightened. “Sorry,” he said, his voice syrupy and light, even as his stomach twisted. “I got a little... distracted.”

The woman’s eyes slid over to Cornelia, who was still standing there, still staring, her expression frozen somewhere between confusion and discomfort. The woman’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile— it was more of a smirk, a curling, dangerous thing.

“Well,” she said, her gaze dropping to Finnick’s hand, which still hung at his side, limp and useless. “I hope you don’t mind if I steal him away for a bit.”

Cornelia blinked, her pink-stained lashes fluttering like the wings of a caught moth.

“Oh!” she said, her voice too bright, too high, too loud. “Yes! Of course! I—” She hesitated, her face flushing deeper, her hands twisting together in front of her. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

The woman’s gaze lingered on Cornelia, a slow, sweeping look that made Cornelia feel as though she were being picked apart, inspected, dismissed.

Finnick felt Cornelia’s embarrassment like a sharp, physical thing, a spike of something hot and tight behind his ribs. But there was nothing he could do. Nothing he could say.

Cornelia swallowed, her smile wobbly and forced, her eyes too bright as she backed away, her heels clicking against the stones.

“Okay, bye now!” she said, a little too loudly, and then she was spinning around, her tulle skirt flaring out behind her as she hurried away, her head ducked, her pink hair a bright, fading blur in the sea of Capitol guests.

Finnick watched her go, his jaw clenched, his fists tight at his sides. 

The woman stepped closer, her arm looping through his, her grip too tight, her nails digging into his skin through the thin fabric of his sleeve.

“Well,” she purred, leaning in so close that her breath tickled his ear. “Aren’t you going to be a good boy and keep me company?”

Finnick swallowed, his throat bobbing, his jaw twitching as he forced his grin wider, his teeth flashing beneath the lantern lights.

“Of course,” he said, his voice as smooth and empty as glass. “I’m all yours.”

March, 67 ADD

The Capitol headlines raved over Finnick Odair, the Capitol's darling Victor— only sixteen and a favorite amongst men and women alike! It was a frequented hot topic in Capitol news, so much so that even her father and Claudius had a segment one day over not just one but two women who Finnick had been seen with at a Capitol gala the month after the 66th Games' Victory Tour party. Cornelia had been thrilled, of course, to hear more about Finnick and where he was and what he was doing. But seeing him with two women in one night, even more women and men in previous news, made her feel something deeper than jealousy. Disappointment that Finnick preferred women who were older? Or maybe he preferred men? Cornelia wasn't sure. But something was there. Something was sitting in her that was more than pure envy for whoever was draped on Finnick's arm for the week.

Cornelia sat cross-legged on her carpeted bedroom floor, surrounded by a sea of glossy Capitol magazines, their pages torn and crumpled in heaps around her. Her hair, now dyed a mint green that was beginning to fade at the roots, fell around her in soft waves, the ends slightly curled from the heated rollers she’d borrowed from her mother.

She held a pair of gold-plated Capitol scissors, the blades dangerously sharp, as she snipped and snipped at the images of women and men, each of them pressed close to Finnick’s side in every photograph. Viridi and Precious sat beside her, each flipping through their own stack of magazines. Precious had her legs stretched out in front of her, her yellow-painted toes wiggling in time to the music that drifted softly from Cornelia’s speakers. Viridi lay on her stomach, propped up on her elbows, her bright green hair pulled back into a high, bouncy ponytail that bobbed as she nodded her head.

“Oh, look at that dress Enobaria has on!” Viridi said, holding out a glossy page for Precious to see. “Is chainmail in for spring?”

Precious leaned over, her dark eyes scanning the page as she blew a bubble with her pink gum. It popped with a loud smack. “I always thought it was a fall trend,” she said, shrugging, before turning back to her own magazine, where she was busy circling every boot that laced up to the thigh.

Cornelia huffed dramatically, tossing a severed headshot of some blonde woman into the growing pile beside her. The woman’s eyes stared up blankly from the floor, her smile perfect and white and wide.

“What does Finnick see in these women that I don’t have?!” Cornelia demanded, her voice sharp and indignant, as she snipped through another glossy page with a quick, angry slice.

Precious opened her mouth to respond, but Viridi was quicker.

“Boobs,” Viridi said, flipping to the next page without looking up.

Cornelia’s mouth dropped open. She clutched her chest with one hand, fingers spread wide as if to emphasize her assets— or lack thereof. “I do too have boobs!” she cried, affronted, her mint green waves bouncing as she tossed her head back dramatically. “They are an acceptable size!”

Precious winced, her gaze darting over Cornelia’s figure as though assessing her assets with the same critical eye she used to scan the pages of Capitol Fashion Weekly. “Cornelia,” she said delicately, biting down on her lip as she picked at a loose thread on her silk pajama shorts. “You’re an A cup. Those women are, like, double Ds.”

Cornelia’s eyes went comically wide, her bottom lip wobbling. “My mother was a late bloomer!” she insisted, throwing the magazine she’d been holding onto the floor with a loud slap. The page crinkled and curled, the model’s sultry expression now marred by a deep crease down the middle of her face.

Viridi shrugged, still staring at Enobaria’s chainmail dress with laser focus. “Your butt makes up for it.”

Cornelia blinked, caught off guard. “Really?” she asked, brightening for a moment as she craned her neck to look behind her, twisting and shifting her hips to get a better look at her own reflection in the mirrored closet door.

“Yeah,” Viridi said, not even looking up. “Like, you’re, like, a bottom-heavy pear shape. Or whatever.”

Cornelia’s brow furrowed, her hands dropping to her hips as she frowned at her reflection, studying her figure in the baby blue romper she’d been so excited to wear until five minutes ago. The ruffles along the hem flared out around her thighs, emphasizing her legs but doing nothing for her chest. Her knees were knobby, her ankles thin, her arms still childishly soft.

“I don’t want to be a pear,” she muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

Precious sat up, stretching her arms over her head as she yawned. “Well, maybe you could ask your dad for an enhancement voucher or something,” she said casually, her yellow hair catching the light as she leaned back on her palms. “You know, for your birthday or whatever.”

Cornelia gasped, her eyes going wide again. “What?! No! That’s... that’s so... desperate!”

Viridi snorted. “But cutting out pictures of all the girls Finnick’s been with and throwing them on the floor isn’t?”

Cornelia’s cheeks flushed, her face as green as her hair. “I’m not... I’m not throwing them on the floor! I’m... I’m... organizing them!”

“Organizing them into a pile of shredded magazine scraps,” Viridi said, rolling her eyes as she flipped another page. “Same thing.”

May, 67 ADD

She wasn’t expecting Finnick to show up to her birthday party. At least, not really. She had figured he had bustier girls to be around than a girl that was now wearing a pushup bra to do her still-developing chest a favor. She contemplated stuffing it for good measure. Viridi laughed at her. The tissues were thrown in the trash before the grand entrance.

Cornelia tugged at the thin strap of her bra, trying to tighten it without being too obvious about it. It was new, satin, and mint green to match her hair, with lace so delicate that her mother had raised her brows and muttered, “You’re fourteen, not twenty-four,” when she’d seen it. But Calpurnia had let her keep it, probably because her father had bought it for her along with a matching silk robe and slipper set that he’d insisted was “absolutely appropriate” for a girl on the cusp of womanhood.

Cornelia’s cheeks burned as she adjusted the strap, her nails sparkling with silver polish as she twisted it tighter, trying to get the cups to lift just a little more, just enough to make her feel less like a child playing dress-up in grown-up lingerie.

Beside her, Viridi was leaning back in her chair, a forkful of cake hovering in midair as she scrolled through her handheld, her thumb swiping quickly through the latest photos of Capitol socialites at some underwater-themed gala. “Did you see the summer line?” Viridi said, not looking up as she licked icing off the back of her spoon. “Like, I know it’s supposed to be chic and whatever, but how many sequins is too many sequins?”

Diamond rolled her eyes, her purple bob swaying as she took a bite of cake and spoke with her mouth full. “My dad said he couldn’t even look directly at the models at the showcase without getting a migraine.”

Cornelia snorted, reaching for her glass of sparkling juice and swirling it around, her eyes drifting over the crowded entertainment room just beyond the glass doors. A group of older guests was gathered by the refreshment table, their laughter a little too loud, their hands a little too free with the champagne glasses. Capitol parties, even birthday parties for newly fourteen-year-old girls, always had a way of bleeding into one another, the glitter and the noise and the people blurring together until they all felt like the same hazy, too-sweet memory.

And there, standing just to the left of the refreshment table, was Finnick Odair, in the flesh and as gorgeous as ever.

Cornelia’s fingers tightened around the stem of her glass, her heart leaping up into her throat. Finnick was talking to an older woman, someone Cornelia didn’t recognize. The woman had silver hair twisted into a thick, low braid that fell over one shoulder, and she was smiling up at Finnick with the kind of fondness that looked almost maternal. Finnick was nodding, his expression soft and almost... sweet? Cornelia frowned, squinting as the older woman reached up to pat Finnick’s cheek, her wrinkled hand cupping his face for a moment before she dropped it and stepped away.

Cornelia’s lips twisted into a pout, her cheeks burning as she looked back at her friends, who were now too busy arguing over the appropriate number of sequins for the summer line to notice her staring. She huffed, setting her glass down with a clink that made Diamond glance up from her plate.

“Oh, my gosh,” Cornelia said, folding her arms over her chest, her eyes rolling dramatically as she scowled at the glittering streamers hanging from the ceiling. “Even old ladies have a better shot at Finnick Odair than I do.”

Viridi snorted, still scrolling through her handheld without missing a beat. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”

Diamond choked on her cake, pressing a napkin to her mouth as she laughed. “Wait, what? Old ladies?”

Cornelia jabbed her thumb over her shoulder in Finnick’s direction, her brows drawing together as she scrunched up her nose. “He’s talking to some wrinkly old hag right now,” she said, her voice dripping with annoyance. “Probably telling her she’s, like, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen or something.”

Diamond twisted around in her chair, craning her neck to look at Finnick. “Where?”

“There,” Cornelia said, pointing again. “By the table. With the braid.”

Diamond squinted, her purple bob falling into her eyes. “Oh. Wait. Isn’t that... Mags something? You know, the Victor from, like, a million years ago?”

Cornelia blinked, her pout deepening. “She’s a Victor?”

“Yeah,” Viridi said, finally looking up from her handheld and raising a brow at Cornelia. “Pretty sure she was Finnick’s mentor or something. Like, during his Games.”

Cornelia’s mouth fell open. “That old lady?”

Precious wandered over to the table, a fresh slice of cake on her plate as she dropped down into the chair next to Diamond. “What are we talking about?”

“Finnick,” Viridi said, without missing a beat.

“Oh,” Precious said, lifting a forkful of cake to her mouth. “Duh.”

Cornelia let out a loud, dramatic sigh, her shoulders slumping as she slouched down in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest, the too-tight straps of her bra digging into her shoulders. “Why does he even come to these things if he’s just going to hang around with... with old women?”

Viridi popped a bubble with her gum, her green ponytail swinging as she shook her head. “Maybe he doesn’t like weird girls with flat chests."

Cornelia groaned, slumping further in her chair until her mint green curls fell over her face, a curtain of color that she hoped would hide the blush burning hot beneath her skin. She could feel the lace of her bra scratching against her ribs, could feel the waistband of her too-tight dress digging into her waist, could feel the weight of all her friends’ eyes on her as they watched her, waited for her to say something clever or cool or funny.

But instead, all Cornelia could think about was Finnick Odair, standing over there with some old woman she’d never even noticed before, looking happier than she’d ever seen him look when she was around. And that feeling— that dark, heavy feeling that had been sitting in her chest for months now— twisted and knotted tighter, pressing against her lungs until she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

She wanted to march over there and say something, do something, make him see her. But what would she even say? What could she do to make a boy like Finnick Odair notice a girl like her?

A girl in a pushup bra that still didn’t quite push anything up. A girl who had thrown tissues in the trash before the party because Viridi had laughed at her and told her she was trying too hard. A girl who still had the face of a child but the heart of a girl who wanted so desperately to be seen as something more.

Cornelia swallowed, blinking back the sting of tears as she forced herself to smile, wide and bright and Capitol-perfect. “Whatever,” she said, reaching for her glass of sparkling juice and taking a long, shaky sip. “I don’t even care.”

She lied. She cared a lot.

July, 67 ADD

Cornelia had hoped that her father would have allowed her to at least assist with the Games’ prep for this year, given her ever-growing maturity that came with turning fourteen just months ago. So, to her disappointment and annoyance, she was directed to sit in either the VIP viewing lounge again with her mother or backstage with the crew. She chose the viewing lounge, of course.

The lounge was more of a sprawling suite than anything else, with plush armchairs in shimmering silver and gold, walls lined with velvet drapes, and a buffet table of finger foods ranging from tiny pastries stuffed with cream to skewers of fruits dripping with gold-flecked honey. Capitol elites lounged in clusters, some with thin silver straws dipped into their glasses of pastel-colored liquor, others with their eyes fixed on the wide screen that stretched across the far wall, displaying a close-up of her father as he leaned forward in his seat, his white-toothed grin flashing beneath the studio lights.

Cornelia sat with one leg crossed over the other, her heeled sandal dangling from her toes as she slouched back against the couch and fiddled with a strand of her mint green hair. She’d had it cut just last week to freshen up her look for the summer, her extensions removed and a good five inches of her natural hair lopped off to leave it hanging just past her collarbone. The cut had been praised by her mother and her friends, but right now, as she watched her father interview some dreary District 11 girl, Cornelia was feeling decidedly less than glamorous.

The girl was fifteen, with dull, brown hair twisted into two pigtails and a plain, moon-shaped face that barely twitched as Caesar asked her question after question. The girl’s dark eyes stared ahead, unblinking and empty, like a doll’s.

Cornelia yawned, the sound muffled behind the tips of her manicured fingers. Honestly, the girl was so boring. Caesar was doing his best, throwing his usual charm around like confetti, leaning forward and laughing in that effortless, booming way that seemed to set everyone around him at ease. But this girl— she just stared at him like she’d never seen a smile before, like she couldn’t even grasp the concept of one.

Beside Cornelia, her mother was reclining with a glass of sparkling, fizzy lavender wine. She wore a gown of deep purple satin that hugged her curves and left one shoulder bare, a delicate silver chain draped over her collarbone. She was watching the screen with a detached expression, one manicured nail tapping against the rim of her glass.

Cornelia twisted a strand of mint green hair around her finger, her eyes drifting from the screen to the room below. Through the glass panel that separated the VIP lounge from the main viewing area, she could see the sea of Capitol elites crowded around the stage, their brightly colored hair and elaborate costumes swirling together like a kaleidoscope.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, drifting past clusters of women in spiked heels and men in feathered capes, before landing on a familiar head of tousled bronze hair.

Finnick.

Cornelia’s fingers went slack, the strand of mint green hair slipping free as she leaned forward, her gaze sharpening. He was standing a few rows back, just behind a pair of men in powder-blue suits. The men were older— one with a thick mustache that curled up at the ends, the other bald and gleaming under the stage lights.

Finnick was looking down at his hands, his jaw clenched, his eyes fixed on some invisible point on the floor. Even from this distance, Cornelia could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his jaw twitched beneath his bronze skin. He wasn’t smiling. Not even his Capitol smile, that effortless, dimpled grin he usually threw around like he was handing out candy.

Cornelia’s heart fluttered, a tiny, helpless bird trapped behind her ribs.

“Oh,” she sighed, her chin propped on her hand as she let herself stare at him, her eyes tracing the line of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the way his shirt clung to his shoulders and biceps like a second skin. She tried to imagine him looking up, catching her eye, maybe flashing her one of those dazzling grins that made half the Capitol swoon. Maybe he’d wave, or wink, or even walk up to the VIP lounge to say hello. Maybe he’d ask her to join him downstairs, maybe they’d slip away to the gardens, maybe he’d—

Cornelia’s dreamy gaze shattered as a flicker of movement caught her eye.

Just behind Finnick, the two men in powder-blue suits were leaning in close to one another, one whispering something into the other’s ear. The man with the mustache smirked, his eyes drifting over Finnick like a predator sizing up prey.

The bald man reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a stack of Capitol credits, thick and gleaming with the President’s stern profile stamped across each coin. The mustached man nodded, his eyes still on Finnick as he held out his hand. The bald man slapped the credits into it, one after another, and the mustached man tucked them into the inside of his coat, patting the pocket with a smug smile.

Cornelia’s brow furrowed. She leaned closer to the glass, her forehead almost pressing against the cool surface as she watched the two men nod at one another before the mustached man tipped his chin toward Finnick, his eyes gleaming as he leaned in and said something in the younger boy’s ear.

Finnick stiffened. His jaw clenched tighter, and Cornelia watched as his hand curled into a fist at his side.

What was that about?

“Cornelia,” Calpurnia said, her voice low and drawling as she swirled her glass, the lavender liquid spinning around like a tiny whirlpool. “You’re slouching.”

Cornelia jerked back, straightening her spine and forcing her face into a serene, Capitol-perfect expression. “Sorry, mother,” she muttered, her hands folding in her lap, her nails digging into her palms.

Calpurnia’s dark eyes flicked toward her, one perfectly shaped brow arching as she took a delicate sip of her drink. “You’re restless,” she said. “Sit still."

Cornelia nodded, her throat tight as she tore her gaze away from Finnick, from the men, from the tension thrumming beneath the glittering Capitol surface like a live wire.

On the screen, the District 11 girl was still talking, her voice soft and hollow, like she was reciting words she barely even understood. Caesar leaned forward, his hand resting lightly on her knee, his eyes fixed on her face with a look of such concern, such warmth, that anyone who didn’t know him would believe it was real.

Cornelia tried to focus on the screen, on her father, on the girl whose face was splashed across every screen in the Capitol for one final moment before she would be swallowed up by the arena. But her mind kept drifting back to the image of Finnick’s clenched jaw, the mustached man’s smile, the Capitol credits changing hands seamlessly.

And even though she had no idea what it meant, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just seen something she wasn’t supposed to. Something that felt wrong.

But nothing was wrong. Nothing could be wrong. Everything was perfect.

Wasn’t it?

Chapter Text

August, 67 ADD

FINNICK WAS BORN ON AUGUST 20TH, 50 ADD. Cornelia knew that fact from a Capitol magazine that was delivered on the morning of the last day of July in preparation for a whole month dedicated to the Capitol’s newest darling. The magazine had arrived in a glossy gold envelope stamped with the seal of the Capitol, and Cornelia had snatched it up before the household servants could even think to dust off the glimmering foil. 

She’d sprawled herself across the living room’s chaise lounge, her freshly dyed pastel lemon-yellow hair spread around her like a halo as she flicked through the pages, each one splattered with candid shots of Finnick. Finnick lounging on the beach with his bronze skin glistening in the sun, Finnick emerging from a sparkling blue pool, water dripping down the sharp planes of his jaw and collarbone, Finnick laughing with a champagne glass in one hand, his dimpled smile so blinding it almost hurt to look at.

The Capitol had always loved Finnick Odair. Only now, two years after his victory, were they even more so obsessed. And Cornelia, despite her best efforts to appear aloof and above it all, was obsessed too. Cornelia had already read every word of the magazine. Twice.

The magazine had been all Finnick, all the time— an entire issue dedicated to his upcoming seventeenth birthday and the month-long celebration the Capitol had planned to mark the occasion. Caesar had already spoken of the interviews slated for Finnick, the studio’s gift that consisted of a month-long reservation for a penthouse suite in the finest Capitol hotel, and a party that would last the eve of his birthday. It was set to be the event of the summer, a star-studded, opulent affair filled with Capitol elites and tributes alike, all coming together to celebrate the boy who had captured the Capitol’s heart and, unbeknownst to Cornelia, been sold to it too. 

Now, Cornelia was sitting at the breakfast nook, her knees pulled up to her chest as she swirled a spoon through a bowl of yogurt and berries. The thin, golden chain around her wrist jingled softly with each lazy circle of the spoon, and she sighed as she watched the blueberries sink beneath the creamy white surface like tiny, drowning ships.

Across the kitchen, her parents were having one of those rare, casual, domestic conversations that they only seemed to have when the cameras were off and the studio was far away. Her father was leaning against the counter, dressed in a dark gray robe with silver piping, his bald head shining under the kitchen’s chandelier as he nodded to something her mother was saying.

Cornelia couldn’t quite hear what they were saying— something about the studio, she thought, and possibly about Finnick’s upcoming birthday. She stabbed her spoon down into the bowl, narrowly missing a blackberry. 

“Daddy,” she said, her voice bright and chirpy as she sat up straighter, eyes wide and innocent. “Can I go to the studio with you today?”

Caesar’s head turned, his dark eyes settling on her with a warm, familiar twinkle. “Today?” he asked, his smile lopsided as he pushed off the counter and sauntered toward the breakfast nook. “Oh, sweetheart, Finnick won’t be in until tomorrow. He’s got a whole slate of interviews scheduled for the big birthday blowout.”

Cornelia’s face fell, her shoulders slumping as she set her spoon down with a tiny, petulant huff. “But I still want to go,” she said, her lower lip jutting out just slightly in a well-practiced pout. “I want to see the set and the costumes and the cameras. And you.”

Calpurnia snorted softly behind her tea, rolling her eyes as she took a long, languid sip.

Caesar’s smile widened, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he leaned forward to press a quick, playful kiss to the top of Cornelia’s head. “Alright,” he said, his hand sliding down to ruffle her pastel yellow hair, fluffing it around her shoulders. “You can come. But it’s all work today, you know. Just me and Claudius going over some scripts and stage directions. Might not be too thrilling.”

Cornelia brightened immediately, sitting up straighter as her grin stretched from ear to ear. “But,” she added, tilting her head as she peered up at him with wide, hopeful eyes, “can I still come tomorrow too? When Finnick’s there?”

Caesar’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a slight shift in his expression— a tightening at the corners of his mouth, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. “Tomorrow?”

“Yeah!” Cornelia said, her voice rising with a squeal of excitement as she bounced slightly in her seat. “I want to see Finnick! You said he’s going to be there all day, right? For the interviews and the birthday stuff and everything?”

Calpurnia sighed, setting her tea down with a gentle clink as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Cornelia, darling, you know the studio gets very crowded during these events. There will be sponsors and guests and cameras everywhere. Not the best place for you to be running around underfoot.”

Cornelia’s face fell again, her bottom lip wobbling as she clutched her spoon tight in one hand. “But I won’t be in the way,” she said, her voice softer now, pleading. “I just want to watch. That’s all.”

She was already imagining the scene— walking into the studio, seeing Finnick seated in the interview chair with his legs crossed, his hair tousled and gleaming beneath the lights. Maybe he’d look up, see her standing there, and give her one of those crooked grins. Maybe he’d call her name, wave her over, ask her to sit with him for a while before the cameras started rolling. Maybe he’d remember that they’d danced together at her birthday party just months ago. Maybe he’d even—

“Cornelia,” Caesar said, his voice softening as he crouched beside her chair, his face level with hers. “If you do come tomorrow, you need to promise me something.”

Cornelia blinked, her fantasy crumbling like a house of cards as her father’s face came into focus, all warmth and understanding and a slight edge of caution. “What?”

Caesar’s hand lifted to brush a loose strand of yellow hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing the soft skin of her temple. “You need to let Finnick work,” he said, his tone light but firm. “This is his big month. Everything is going to be about him. All eyes on him. You understand?”

Cornelia’s brow knitted, her eyes darting between her father’s serious expression and the magazine still open on the table, Finnick’s face staring up at her with that dimpled smile.

“I understand,” she said, her voice smaller now, her gaze dropping to her bowl of yogurt, where the berries had bled so much that the entire thing looked more like a bowl of melted ink than anything edible.

“Good girl,” Caesar said, pressing one last kiss to her forehead before standing up and grabbing his coffee. “Now, eat up. We’ll be heading out soon.”

Cornelia nodded, lifting her spoon with a heavy hand, her heart sinking lower and lower until it was somewhere deep inside her chest, hidden beneath layers of pastel yellow hair and the sour tang of curdled yogurt.

At the studio, Cornelia was either given full attention by crew members or ignored entirely. Any other day, she likely would have been greeted or offered sweets by passing stagehands, who often paused to ruffle her hair or call her “little Flickerman.” They would offer her a cupcake left over from some production set or a sparkling water with a pink paper straw, and she’d twirl around in her ruffled dresses and soak up every second of their doting.

But this month, Finnick’s month, rendered everyone a buzzing mess of preparation. He was arriving tomorrow for the interview. Everything had to be perfect— the lighting, the seating arrangement, the subtle gold sheen to the walls that would perfectly complement his tan skin and sea-glass eyes. They were even rehearsing the way Claudius would introduce him, testing how the microphone picked up the sing-song quality to the “Capitol’s darling” line.

Cornelia was cast aside to a green room, one that she frequented more often than the others due to the pink-painted walls and the bowl of sweets that was always filled to the brim. It was her second home since she was old enough to crawl. The walls were adorned with framed posters from past broadcasts, some of them featuring her father in his early years at the network, his hair less powdered but still as coiffed and his eyes just as twinkling. There was one poster that had been redone every year— the one for the Victory Tour. This year, it was Finnick’s face staring down from the far wall, his smile charming but almost too perfect.

Cornelia ignored it as she drew the thick velvet curtain around her and slipped behind it, tugging her dress over her head and letting it pool around her ankles. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, the pastel lemon yellow catching the light overhead. Her undergarments felt tight and awkward, the straps of her new white push-up bra digging into her shoulders and making her feel more constrained than developed. She huffed and smoothed her hands over her waist, twisting from side to side in the mirror to see if the exaggerated curvature was doing anything for her. It wasn’t. She still looked like herself, just with more padding.

Sighing, she reached for one of the costume dresses she’d found on a rack earlier— a blush pink confection covered in tiny sequins. It slipped over her head and fell to her knees, the bodice tight enough to pull her into a more grown-up shape, but still cut low enough to make her feel scandalous, like she was playing dress-up in someone else’s clothes.

She twirled, watching the sequins catch the light and scatter tiny prisms of color across the curtain. She cocked her head, lifting her chin and trying to mimic the sultry expression she’d seen older girls make in magazines, the kind Finnick’s lady friends seemed to have mastered. She puckered her lips, batted her lashes, tried to look mysterious and alluring, and maybe just a little bit sad, but it only made her look like she was sucking on a sour lemon.

Beyond the curtain, the door to the green room opened, and the clatter of heels against the tiled floor echoed through the room. Cornelia paused, her hand halfway to her hair, her neck stretched as she tried to listen without being obvious. She knew she shouldn’t eavesdrop. She knew that. But she also knew that people forgot she was there when she was behind the curtain.

Two voices. Women. Stylists, judging by the jangling of bangles and the swish of beaded skirts. One of them was Malise, one of the more senior stylists with hair the color of lilac and a beauty mark just above her lip. The other was Avarus, younger, newer, with fire-engine red hair that curled in tight ringlets around her face.

“You think he’ll wear the blue tomorrow?” Malise was saying, her voice low and conspiratorial as she set down a bundle of fabric on the counter. “Or the green?”

“The blue,” Avarus said with a click of her tongue. “Definitely the blue. It brings out his eyes. And Snow loves that one on him. Says it makes him look innocent.”

Malise snorted. “Innocent? Sure. That boy couldn’t look innocent if he tried.”

“Oh, he tries,” Avarus said, and Cornelia heard the rattle of hangers as they sorted through costumes, their voices dropping lower, more hushed. “You know the other night? At Arcus’ place?”

“Mmm,” Malise said, a smirk in her tone.

“Well, I might have gotten a little too friendly with him, if you know what I mean,” Avarus said, her voice lilting as she giggled. “And he said he was already booked.”

“Booked?” Malise echoed, her voice dripping with mock offense. “Since when does he get to decide who he’s booked for?”

“Since Snow decided he was worth more as a rental,” Avarus said, and Cornelia heard the unmistakable sound of a champagne cork popping.

Cornelia’s fingers went still against the sequined dress. Booked? Rental? The words clanged around inside her head, nonsensical and heavy, like pieces of furniture falling from the sky and landing at her feet.

“Oh, come on,” Malise said, her tone sly now. “You and I both know he’s not above a little extra company.”

The two of them burst into laughter, the sound sharp and grating against Cornelia’s ears. She was still holding the dress in her hands, her knuckles white against the soft pink fabric. Her reflection in the mirror looked ghostly, her eyes wide, her lips parted as if she were about to say something but had forgotten how to speak.

“Maybe if we ask nice,” Malise was saying, her voice dropping to a suggestive murmur, “we can share him for a night. I’d like to see if the rumors are true.”

Avarus snorted. “You think he’d even want you? Please. He’s already got his hands full. Literally.”

They dissolved into another fit of laughter, the sound echoing through the green room as they gathered up their fabric and clipboards and clattered out the door, leaving only the faint, lingering scent of perfume and champagne behind them.

The room fell silent. The only sound was the hum of the overhead lights and Cornelia’s own breath, quick and shallow in her chest. The sequined dress slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor in a glittering puddle.

Booked. Rental. Share him.

She stared at herself in the mirror, the lemon-yellow waves of her hair hanging limp and lifeless around her face. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips pale, her chest heaving beneath the too-tight push-up bra that suddenly felt more like a cage than anything else.

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t. They couldn’t.

But they did. And they did in a way that made Cornelia feel small and cold and like she was about to throw up.

She fumbled for the curtain, yanking it aside with a trembling hand. Her dress hung on a hook nearby, crumpled and wrinkled but still hers. She dragged it on, her hands shaking as she struggled to pull the zipper up the back. The room spun around her, a blur of pink walls and Finnick’s face staring down from the poster on the far wall, his eyes too bright, his smile too wide.

They wanted to share him.

She yanked the zipper up, her breathing uneven, her hands white-knuckled against the hem of her dress. She was still breathing too fast, her chest rising and falling as if she’d just run ten flights of stairs. She swallowed, hard, her throat thick and tight, her eyes burning but dry.

Her father had said Finnick was coming tomorrow. Finnick, who was turning seventeen. Finnick, who smiled in every magazine and seemed to float through every room with ease. Finnick, who everyone loved. Finnick, who they wanted to share.

Cornelia pressed her lips together, forcing her mouth to stay shut as she turned on her heel and walked out of the green room, her eyes fixed straight ahead, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She didn’t know where she was going, but she knew she needed to go somewhere. Anywhere but here.

Faces blurring around her, her feet continued to navigate her through the sea of rushing bodies as everyone prepared for Finnick’s big month. Finnick. Finnick. He was everywhere. His face plastered across posters and screens, his name rolling off tongues like a prayer, a benediction, a salacious whisper. The corridor walls gleamed with advertisements for his upcoming birthday celebration— one of them showing him in a crisp, seafoam green suit, flashing that smile that could stop hearts and start rumors.

It had made her thrilled, even excited, just moments ago. Now she felt sickened by the sight of him. It was an odd thing, to once feel something so strongly only for it to flip to a complete opposite in such a short amount of time. The glossy images of him stared down at her like ghosts, each one a haunting reminder of what she had overheard.

Booked. Rental. Share him.

The words coiled around her like snakes, tightening with each step. Her throat burned, her stomach twisted and churned. Her eyes felt too dry, but her mouth was watering like she was about to be sick. She swallowed thickly, the bitter taste of bile crawling up the back of her throat.

She pushed forward, her heels clacking against the polished tile, the sound swallowed up by the cacophony of voices, machinery, and the hum of fluorescent lights. The studio was a hive of activity, with stagehands darting from one end of the corridor to the other, hauling equipment and racks of costumes, chattering into headsets as they relayed orders back and forth.

Cornelia’s vision swam, the faces around her melting into a smear of color and sound. A cameraman barked out instructions to a grip; a makeup artist bustled past, holding a tray of shimmering powders and glosses.

She barely registered them. She didn’t even feel her feet moving beneath her, as though she were gliding through a fever dream. The buzzing in her ears grew louder, drowning out everything else—the stylists’ words, the pounding of her own heart, the snatches of Finnick’s name drifting like shrapnel through the air.

Finnick. Finnick. Finnick.

A man carrying a rig of lights swung around the corner, and Cornelia’s shoulder collided with his arm, the impact jolting through her like a spark of electricity.

“Are you blind?!” she snapped, voice shrill and cutting, as sharp as a razor blade. “Watch where you’re going! Ugh!”

The man gaped at her, his face slack with surprise. He opened his mouth to say something, but she didn’t give him a chance. She was already moving again, pushing forward, shoving through the throng of bodies, her breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.

She caught glimpses of people she recognized but couldn’t place—assistants and production managers and stylists with clipboards and sequined gowns slung over their shoulders. One of them, a woman with lavender hair, passed by and said something that Cornelia couldn’t make out over the ringing in her ears. It might have been “Sweetie, are you okay?” but it might also have been “Move.” It didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except getting out. Getting away.

She saw the door ahead—the heavy steel exit door that led to the back alley behind the studio. The red EXIT sign flickered above it like a lighthouse beacon through the fog. Cornelia stumbled toward it, her legs trembling beneath her, her skin prickling beneath the too-tight straps of her bra, her dress sticking to her back like wet paper.

She shoved the door open with both hands, the metal cool and unyielding against her palms. The hinges creaked as it swung wide, the afternoon light spilling into the corridor in a harsh, blinding flood. Cornelia stepped outside, letting the door slam shut behind her with a heavy, resounding thud.

The alley was narrow and dim, the buildings on either side stretching up toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The air was thick and heavy, hot despite the lingering shadows. The scent of stale cigarette smoke clung to the brick walls, mingling with the sour stench of garbage and the faint, metallic tang of exhaust fumes.

Cornelia pressed her back against the cool metal of the door and closed her eyes, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. The world spun around her, the ground tilting beneath her feet like the deck of a ship at sea. She pressed her palms against the door, feeling the vibrations of the studio on the other side—the music, the voices, the laughter—all of it muffled and distant, as though it were happening in another world.

Another world where people smiled and laughed and planned to “share” Finnick like he was a plate of dessert, a pretty, shiny thing to be passed around and picked apart.

Cornelia’s hands shot up to her hair, tangling in the lemon-yellow waves, her fingers tugging at the strands, pulling and twisting and yanking. Her breath came out in quick, sharp bursts, her chest rising and falling in a rhythm that felt too fast, too shallow, as though her lungs were collapsing in on themselves.

What did they mean by share him? Did they mean… did they mean what she thought they meant? Did they mean that Finnick was… was…

She pressed her hands harder against her scalp, her nails digging into her skin, the slight sting grounding her. Her eyes squeezed shut, her jaw clenched so tight that her teeth ached.

Finnick was everywhere. Everywhere. In posters and magazines and screens. He was on people’s lips and in their eyes and always, always in their hands. Was that what they meant? Was that why they were laughing? Was that why they talked about him like he was a doll to be dressed up and played with and passed around?

The bile rose in her throat again, hot and thick, and she swallowed it back, her mouth flooding with the acrid taste. Her head throbbed, her temples pulsing with each frantic beat of her heart.

How could they say things like that? How could they laugh about it? How could they look at Finnick and see anything other than… other than…

Her eyes shot open, and the world came back into focus, sharp and unforgiving. The alley stretched out before her, empty and silent, the shadows deepening as the sun sank lower behind the buildings. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the faint blare of a hovercraft, the hum of traffic, the muffled music from a Capitol penthouse far away.

Cornelia’s hands fell from her hair, dropping to her sides. They shook, the fingers trembling as though they didn’t belong to her anymore. She stared down at them, her knuckles white, the skin pulled tight across her bones.

Did Finnick know? Did he know they talked about him like that? Did he know they planned to share him like he was a toy, a doll, a plaything?

The thought made her stomach churn, her skin crawl, her heart thud painfully against her ribs.

Finnick was… he was… what? Trapped? A puppet? An actor in a show he couldn’t control?

She squeezed her eyes shut again, her breath coming out in a shuddery gasp as she pressed her back harder against the door, feeling the chill of the metal seep through her dress and into her skin. The ache in her chest deepened, spreading like a bruise, dark and throbbing and endless.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She couldn’t scream. She couldn’t cry. She couldn’t breathe.

Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s darling Victor. Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s plaything.

Cornelia’s head tipped back against the door, the sharp edge of the metal digging into her skull, her eyes staring up at the sky as the clouds rolled lazily by, oblivious and uncaring.

Booked. Rental. Share him.

After what felt like hours of choking on her own saliva and breath, Cornelia finally reentered the world that she once knew. The cool, conditioned air inside the studio was a stark contrast to the stale, smog-heavy heat outside. It stung her skin, prickling over her arms and neck as she stepped back inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a heavy, echoing thud. The noise startled her, and her shoulders twitched, the tension still coiled in her muscles like a spring wound too tight.

The hallway seemed to stretch and narrow, closing in on her, the bustle of stagehands and crew members swirling past like a fast-forwarded film. Faces blurred, voices overlapped, and yet all Cornelia could hear was the pounding of her heart, loud and erratic, the rhythm of it pulsing through her skull.

Her father wasn’t hard to find. Caesar Flickerman was always easy to spot, his presence commanding the attention of anyone within a ten-foot radius, whether he was on a stage or in a makeup chair. His dressing room door was slightly ajar, light spilling through the crack, accompanied by the soft murmur of stylists and the gentle click of makeup brushes against powder compacts.

Cornelia hovered in the doorway, her hand tightening around the doorknob as she peered inside. Caesar sat in his chair, his back straight, shoulders relaxed, as one of his makeup artists dusted a pearlescent powder over the apples of his cheeks. Another stylist fussed with his hair, smoothing the platinum waves back from his face, teasing the strands just so to achieve that perfectly coifed, effortlessly charming look.

Cornelia swallowed, her throat dry, the taste of bile still lingering bitter and sour. She could see her own reflection in the mirror behind Caesar, her face pale, her hair a tangled mess of pastel lemon yellow that looked more sickly than summery in the harsh, unforgiving lights. Her eyes looked glassy, the pink at the corners betraying her frayed nerves, and her lips felt chapped and raw, as though she had been chewing on them without realizing it.

“Daddy?” Her voice came out softer than she intended, almost a whisper. It was a miracle Caesar heard her at all.

His eyes found hers in the mirror, the usual spark of his showtime persona dimming as he took her in. The muscles in his jaw tensed, a small crease forming between his brows as he raised a hand to halt the makeup artist’s brush.

“Cornelia, sweet pea,” he said, turning slightly in the chair to face her. “What’s the matter? You look a little pale.”

Cornelia opened her mouth, but for a moment, nothing came out. Her gaze flickered to the makeup artist, then to the stylist, both of whom were now eyeing her with polite but obvious curiosity. Her father’s face swam in and out of focus, the soft, sympathetic expression that was as practiced as any of his on-camera personas.

“I…” Cornelia swallowed, the words thick and heavy, sticking to the back of her throat. “Can I call for a limo? I’m feeling unwell.”

Caesar’s expression shifted, the concern deepening as he rose from the chair, brushing off the stylist’s hands as he crossed the room to her. His cologne, warm and spiced with undertones of amber and bergamot, washed over her, making her stomach churn.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his hands settling on her shoulders, his thumbs rubbing small, soothing circles against her collarbone. “What’s wrong? Do you feel sick? Dizzy?”

Cornelia nodded fervently, the motion too quick, too jerky. “I’m okay. I just…” She forced a tight, wavering smile, her lips stretching too far, too tight. “I believe the yogurt I had this morning was sitting out for too long. Or perhaps it was the berries. They must’ve been too ripe for my liking.”

Caesar’s mouth softened into a gentle, fatherly smile, one hand lifting to brush a strand of her lemon-yellow hair back behind her ear. “Oh, my little girl,” he said, the nickname washing over her like a tender balm, familiar and comforting. “Of course. That’s why I keep telling your mother to have the kitchen staff check expiration dates. We can’t have you getting food poisoning, now, can we?”

Cornelia forced another smile, her jaw aching from the strain. “No, Daddy.”

“Okay.” Caesar turned, snapping his fingers at a passing assistant, a petite woman with violet-streaked hair and a clipboard cradled to her chest. “Get a limo for my daughter. She’s not feeling well.”

The assistant nodded briskly, not even sparing Cornelia a glance before slipping back into the corridor, speaking hurriedly into her headset.

Caesar’s hand returned to Cornelia’s shoulder, giving it a firm, reassuring squeeze. “You go home and rest, sweet pea. Drink some water, get under the covers, and take a little nap. I’ll be home as soon as I can, okay?”

Cornelia nodded again, the motion mechanical. “Okay.”

But as she turned to leave, Caesar’s hand lingered on her shoulder, pulling her back just slightly. “And, Cornelia?”

She looked up, her eyes wide and glassy. “Yes, daddy?”

“Tomorrow’s a big day,” he said, his smile warming, his eyes twinkling in that familiar, dazzling way that made audiences across Panem swoon. “Finnick’s coming in for his birthday interview. Wouldn’t you like to be here for that?”

Her heart lurched, her stomach twisting violently, the bile rising again to the back of her throat. She forced the smile, forced the nod, forced herself to say, “Of course, daddy. I wouldn’t miss it.”

And then she was walking away, the corridor swallowing her whole, the pounding of her heart echoing in her ears like a drum.

Outside the studio, the limo waited at the curb, sleek and black, its windows tinted to keep the world out and her in. The driver didn’t speak as he opened the door for her, and Cornelia didn’t speak as she climbed inside, the leather seats cool against her clammy skin. The door shut behind her with a soft, final click, and the car pulled away from the curb, the studio growing smaller and smaller behind her, the building shrinking into the distance until it was nothing more than a smudge against the Capitol skyline.

Inside the car, Cornelia pressed her forehead to the cool glass, her breath fogging up the window as her eyes stared blankly at the blur of buildings streaking past. Her hands twisted together in her lap, the nails biting into her palms, and she counted her breaths, in and out, in and out, until her pulse began to slow and her mind stopped spinning.

The limo glided to a stop outside her family’s villa, the familiar facade looming like a castle. The driver opened the door for her, and Cornelia stepped out, her legs trembling beneath her as she made her way up the front steps and through the grand, gilded doors.

The house was quiet, the marble floors gleaming beneath her feet, the chandeliers casting fractured rainbows across the walls. She moved through the halls like a ghost, her movements slow and dazed, her vision still blurred around the edges.

Her bedroom door creaked as she pushed it open, the scent of her favorite vanilla candle lingering in the air. Cornelia walked to her bed, the silk sheets cool and inviting, and she dropped face-first onto the mattress, her face buried in her pillow as the scream tore out of her, muffled and strangled, the sound vibrating through her chest and into the bed.

The tears pressed against her eyes, hot and stinging, but they refused to fall. She screamed again, her fists clenching around the pillow, the muscles in her arms trembling from the effort.

A soft, shuffling sound echoed through the room, and then a weight settled beside her feet. Cornelia sniffled, her face still pressed into the pillow, and then she felt it— a soft, warm body nestled against her ankle, a delicate nose nuzzling at her skin.

Cornelia lifted her head, her hair a tangled mess around her face, and found Cerise staring up at her with big, dark eyes, her tiny lop ears flopping to the sides of her head. The rabbit was dressed in a frilly tulle dress, the skirt a delicate lavender, and she blinked up at Cornelia, her nose twitching, her little paws kneading the comforter.

Cornelia sucked in a shaky breath, her hand reaching out to touch Cerise’s silky fur, her fingers trembling as they brushed against the rabbit’s soft, warm side.

“You don’t get it either, do you?” Cornelia whispered, her voice cracking.

Cerise just blinked, her little nose twitching. 

The initial shock of it all had worn down. At least, for the most part. Cornelia had tossed and turned all night, her silk sheets twisted around her legs like vines that refused to let go. The darkness of her bedroom, usually a calming, star-studded sanctuary with its ceiling painted to mimic the night sky, felt ominous and suffocating now. It seemed to press down on her like a weight, each twinkling star a pair of eyes watching her, knowing things she didn’t, things she didn’t want to know.

She lay there for hours, her mind spinning like a carousel stuck in overdrive, the horses snarling and grimacing with each endless circle. The world she had once believed to be perfect in every way was somehow deeply disturbed and twisted far beyond recognition now. And deep down, beneath it all, Cornelia feared that this was all a sick inside joke that she was the last to be in on.

Did her father know? Did her mother know? Did Precious, Diamond, and Viridi know? Did the kitchen staff know—?

By the time the first light crept through the drapes, golden and soft, Cornelia had finally slipped into a fitful sleep. But even then, her dreams were restless. Finnick’s face loomed in and out of them, his green eyes vacant, his lips moving soundlessly as faceless figures surrounded him, hands reaching, grabbing, pulling.

When Cornelia finally dragged herself out of bed, she felt like she was floating outside her own body, moving on autopilot as she pulled on her robe and made her way downstairs to the dining room. Her pastel lemon hair had been curled into soft, bouncing ringlets by the maids while she sat motionless, her eyes fixed on a distant point in the mirror, her mind elsewhere.

Now, she sat at the dining room table, a silver butter knife in her hand as she spread a thick layer of creamy butter across the flaky surface of a fresh croissant. The butter melted instantly, seeping into the golden layers, and yet Cornelia’s hands kept moving, back and forth, back and forth, smearing the butter until it was no longer visible, until it had soaked into the pastry and left her knife gleaming, clean.

“Sweetheart?”

Her father’s voice snapped her out of her trance, and Cornelia’s hand jerked, the knife slipping from her grasp and clattering onto the porcelain plate. Her eyes darted up to meet Caesar’s, his face half-shaved, a white towel draped around his neck, and a half-spritzed cloud of cologne still hovering around him like a fragrant fog.

He smiled at her, warm and bright, his eyes twinkling as they always did. If he had noticed her strange, distant demeanor, he didn’t let on. Or maybe he had noticed but didn’t care to ask.

“You still want to come to the studio with me today?” he asked, reaching for a steaming cup of coffee that one of the servants placed beside his plate. He lifted it to his lips, pausing to blow on it before taking a careful sip. “You know, Finnick will be there. He’ll be in the Capitol for the next four weeks. That’s nearly a month, swee tpea. Plenty of time to get to know him better.”

Cornelia’s stomach twisted at the mention of his name. Her eyes fell to the croissant, now a flattened, over-buttered mess on her plate. The thought of seeing Finnick now, of standing in the same room as him after what she had overheard yesterday, made her feel as if her insides had been replaced with wet sand. Heavy, dense, impossible to move.

But she couldn’t say no. Not now.

She nodded, forcing a smile so wide her cheeks ached. “Oh, yes. Of course.”

Caesar beamed, his white teeth gleaming against his bronzed skin. “That’s my girl,” he said, leaning over to ruffle her curls. “You’re going to look like a little sunshine with that hair of yours. Makes you look older, you know. Like a proper Capitol debutante.”

Cornelia blinked rapidly, her eyes fixed on her father’s hand as it moved away, fingers still smelling faintly of shaving cream. An idea bloomed in her mind then, so sudden and sharp that it nearly took her breath away.

If Finnick was going to be in the Capitol for four weeks, then that meant there would be endless opportunities to see him, to talk to him, to maybe even steal him away for a few moments. Just a few moments, just long enough to get him away from whoever would take him for whatever horrors they had in store for him.

Could she? Would she?

Could she dare?

Cornelia set her croissant down and blinked once, twice, three times, the quickness of it belying the frantic beat of her heart beneath her silk nightgown.

“Daddy?” she said, her voice carefully sweet, her fingers drumming lightly against the edge of her plate. “Can I ask for something?”

Caesar took another sip of his coffee, his eyes briefly sliding to the clock on the wall, calculating how much time he had left to get ready before his call time. “Of course, sweet pea. What is it?”

Cornelia leaned forward, her eyes wide, sparkling, the lemon-yellow curls framing her face like a halo. “Well,” she said, her voice lilting upward as though she were suggesting the most innocent thing in the world, “I know this is a bit of a larger ask, but what are your thoughts on… me leading an interview?”

Caesar’s brows lifted, his eyes focusing on her with more interest now, the cup of coffee frozen mid-air. “An interview?”

Cornelia nodded, her curls bouncing as she clasped her hands together, pressing them to her chest like a Capitol starlet about to sing her first solo. “You know, since I’m around Finnick’s age, I could interview him as a… colleague! You know? A peer review, if you will.”

She paused, her eyes darting to the window, to the Capitol skyline glittering against the morning sun, to the limousine parked in the driveway, the driver already waiting for her father.

Cornelia swallowed, her throat dry, before continuing, her voice rushing forward, each word tumbling over the next as though afraid they would get lost. “Perhaps I could get more genuine answers out of him if I posed as a friend? Maybe a series of interviews, one per day or week this month? The people would love it! A Capitol Darling interviews the Capitol’s newest Darling, like a behind-the-scenes look at his world, his life, his likes and dislikes.”

Her eyes sparkled, her lips parting to show a sliver of pearly teeth as she smiled up at her father, her cheeks flushed with the effort of holding it all together. “What do you think?”

For a moment, Caesar said nothing. He only watched her, his eyes flickering with a myriad of thoughts she couldn’t quite read. Then, slowly, he set his coffee cup down, the porcelain clicking softly against the saucer.

“Oh, sweet pea,” he said, his tone smooth and gentle, laced with the kind of patronizing warmth that he reserved for the audience members who asked him questions that were far too naïve or ridiculous to answer seriously. “That’s a lovely idea. Really, it is.”

Cornelia’s chest tightened, her smile growing more fixed, her fingers digging into the hem of her napkin.

“But Finnick’s schedule is already jam-packed,” Caesar continued, leaning back in his chair, his arms crossing over his chest in a casual, languid way that felt far too dismissive. “He’s going to be rehearsing, filming, training, meeting sponsors… It’s a whirlwind, sweetheart. And besides, you’re only fourteen. You’ve got plenty of time to learn the ropes. Plenty of time to shine.”

Cornelia’s smile didn’t falter, though it felt as if it were being stitched in place by invisible threads. “Oh,” she said, her voice light, airy, as though she hadn’t just felt her entire plan deflate like a punctured balloon. “Of course. I understand.”

“Good girl,” Caesar said, already turning away to grab a piece of toast from the platter. “Now, hurry up and finish your breakfast. We don’t want to be late, do we?”

“No, daddy,” Cornelia said, picking up her butter knife and stabbing it into the croissant, her eyes fixed on the shredded layers as though they had personally wronged her. “We don’t.”

And as she watched the butter ooze out from beneath the blade, soaking into the plate, Cornelia’s jaw clenched, her teeth grinding together as her mind churned with new plans, new schemes, new ways to find Finnick.

Cornelia flipped through the magazine, her eyes skimming over glossy pages of pastel hues and glittering fonts that proclaimed the hottest summer trends and the most eligible Capitol bachelors. But the glossy pages felt empty now. It wasn’t a new magazine— it was a year or two old.

Her fingers slowed, brushing against a page with a bold headline about the Capitol’s hottest swimwear, but her gaze unfocused, slipping past the grinning models with sparkling eyes and vacant smiles. There were holes in some of the pages. Jagged edges where images of Finnick had once been. The collage she’d made of him, a shrine to a version of him she now realized never really existed, was now stuffed beneath her bed like a secret she was ashamed of.

The door opened behind her, and Cornelia sat up straighter, her spine snapping into place as though someone had poured a rod of steel down her back. The sinking feeling struck her again, a dull, hollow ache that settled somewhere between her chest and her stomach. Finnick.

Her father was laughing as he walked in, the sound of it bouncing off the walls of the green room like a Capitol songbird’s trill. Beside him, Finnick stood with his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers, his expression impassive, his gaze distant as though he were seeing through the walls and out into the clouds beyond.

Cornelia slapped the magazine shut, plastering a bright smile over her face as she all but leaped from the chair, bouncing toward them with all the enthusiasm she could muster. “Hi, daddy!” she chirped, the words too bright, too sharp, like glass reflecting sunlight. Her eyes flicked over to Finnick briefly. “Hi, Finnick!”

Finnick’s eyes met hers. His expression didn’t change. He nodded once, polite but detached.

She forced her gaze back to her father, not liking the strange, hot pressure that surged up beneath her skin when Finnick looked at her so blankly. “Daddy,” she said, pitching her voice up an octave, the way she always did when she wanted something, “I think that the lighting technicians needed your help. Something about the wallwasher going out?”

Caesar’s smile dropped, concern flickering across his face. “The wallwasher?” He shook his head, sighing. “They can’t get anything right back there without me, can they?”

“Nope!” Cornelia said, batting her lashes in a way that made her head spin, but it worked. It always did. Caesar’s hand patted her shoulder as he moved to the door.

“I’ll be right back, Finnick,” he said over his shoulder. “Cornelia, keep him company, will you?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Cornelia said, practically skipping to the door to close it behind her father.

The second the door shut, the smile fell off her face like a broken mask. Her back hit the door, her shoulders sagging against it. She let out a long, shaky breath, pushing her hair back behind her ears, but her eyes were fixed on Finnick.

He was staring at her, arms crossed, brow raised. “Wallwasher, huh?” he said, voice flat. “Is that even a real thing?”

“Oh, it’s a real light,” Cornelia said breezily, pushing away from the door and walking toward him, her head tipped to one side. “But it’s working just fine.”

Finnick snorted softly, a humorless sound. “Figures.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, his gaze sliding away from her to study the posters of her father plastered across the walls. Caesar Flickerman, the Capitol’s most beloved face. Smiling, winking, grinning with too-white teeth and eyes that never quite reflected the warmth of his expression.

Cornelia followed Finnick’s gaze, her eyes landing on the poster of her father in a glittering silver tuxedo, the Capitol skyline twinkling behind him. It was his New Year’s special poster, the one where he’d invited all the Victors to ring in the new year in a live broadcast. Finnick had been there too, hadn’t he? Or had it been before his Games? She couldn’t remember. The years all blurred together in her mind now.

She cleared her throat, twisting her hands together behind her back. “Want me to give you a tour?”

Finnick’s gaze finally snapped back to her, his green eyes narrowing slightly, as though he were trying to read her. “I’ve been here before.”

Cornelia’s smile wavered, then dropped. “Oh. Okay.” She tried to keep her tone casual, tried to keep the disappointment from leaking through. “Well, if you want to be alone back here…” She shrugged, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, letting her gaze drop to the floor.

There was a beat of silence.

Finnick’s jaw tightened. His eyes flicked toward the door, then back to her. He stared at her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching as though he were suppressing some sarcastic remark. But he said nothing.

Cornelia raised her eyebrows, waiting. When he didn’t speak, she lifted her chin, feigning indifference. “Okay then,” she said, tossing her hair over her shoulder, taking a step back. “Have fun being alone.”

She turned on her heel, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she made for the door.

“Wait,” Finnick said, his voice sharp enough to make her stop.

Cornelia spun around, the smile springing back to her face like a rubber band snapping into place. “Yes?”

Finnick sighed, rolling his eyes heavenward before letting his shoulders sag. “Fine,” he said, the word dripping with resignation. “Give me the tour.”

Cornelia’s heart leaped into her throat, her smile so bright it hurt her cheeks. “Yay!” she said, rushing back toward him, grabbing his arm without thinking, her manicured nails grazing his skin. She felt the muscle beneath her fingers, hard and tense, and she swallowed, fighting the urge to yank her hand away. “It’ll be so much fun! I mean, you’ve probably already seen everything, but, you know, not with me as your tour guide.”

Finnick’s lips quirked, a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Lucky me,” he muttered.

Cornelia ignored the sting in her chest and began to pull him toward the door. “So, this way is where they keep all the costume pieces,” she said, her voice unnaturally bright as she pushed through the double doors and into the long corridor beyond. “You wouldn’t believe how much glitter they go through in a month. And the wigs, oh my gosh, you wouldn’t believe some of the wigs they have back here…”

Finnick followed her without another word, his eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw clenched, a muscle ticking beneath the smooth line of his cheekbone. 

Cornelia’s hand tightened around Finnick’s arm as they walked. The contact made her pulse race, a familiar electric thrill that used to send her into fits of giggles and blushes whenever she thought of holding his hand or brushing shoulders with him in passing. But now, that same touch felt wrong. Like she was crossing a line she hadn’t known existed until now.

Her throat tightened, and her cheeks burned as she realized what she was doing. She was touching him. Touching Finnick.

She dropped her hand abruptly, as though his arm had caught fire, and her fingers flexed uselessly at her sides. The absence of that contact left her hand tingling with a lingering warmth that made her feel dizzy and cold all at once.

Clearing her throat, Cornelia pushed a lock of pastel lemon-yellow hair behind her ear, forcing a smile that felt stretched too tight. “So,” she said, trying to keep her voice airy and casual, as if she hadn’t just been clinging to him like a lost child. “My father reserved this room for you.”

They stopped in front of a grand double door framed by gilded edges and polished handles that shone like liquid gold. The nameplate on the door read FINNICK ODAIR in embossed silver letters, the Capitol seal stamped beneath it like a crown. “Everyone else gets standard rooms,” Cornelia continued, rocking back on her heels, her smile widening, her words rushing out like water. “But you get the biggest one as our special guest. Comes with an entire bathroom and kitchenette and everything. You could live in there, if you really wanted!”

Finnick’s eyes flicked to the door, the silver letters reflecting like shards of broken glass against his pupils. There was no gratitude in his expression, no excitement. Just that same tight, closed-off look he’d worn since he stepped foot in the Capitol. His jaw clenched, the muscles bunching beneath his tanned skin.

Cornelia’s stomach twisted.

She opened her mouth to say something, anything to fill the silence, but Finnick was already turning away, his gaze sliding over the glossy hallway as though he were searching for an escape route.

Cornelia swallowed, the taste of bitterness and bile curdling on her tongue. The silence between them was suffocating. Too loud. Too much. She couldn’t stand it.

“Actually,” she said, the word bursting from her mouth in a breathless rush. “There’s one more thing I want to show you.”

Finnick didn’t react. Didn’t even look at her. But he didn’t walk away either. So, she took that as a yes.

Cornelia pivoted sharply and led them down the hallway, her heels clicking against the marble floor like ticking clock hands. The hallway grew darker, quieter, the walls narrowing until they reached a small, nearly forgotten green room at the very end.

This one was nothing like the others. The walls were a dull, washed-out beige, and the carpet had been worn threadbare in places. The air smelled faintly of cleaning chemicals and dust. There were no posters, no glitzy Capitol decor. Just a small couch with a tear in the upholstery and a stained vanity with a crooked mirror.

Cornelia stepped inside, the door creaking behind her. The room felt colder somehow, like the air was heavier, pressing down on her shoulders. She took a quick glance around, her eyes darting to the floor until she found it—the loose tile in the far corner.

Finnick hovered in the doorway, his expression guarded, his shoulders tense beneath the crisp white shirt they’d dressed him in. He was watching her with an unreadable expression, eyes narrowed, jaw tight.

Cornelia forced a smile and dropped to her knees, her skirt pooling around her legs as she pried the tile loose with her fingernails. It came away with a dull, scraping sound, revealing a hollow space beneath.

Inside, a small silver key glinted in the dim light. Cornelia snatched it up, the cool metal cool against her palm, and straightened, brushing imaginary dust from her knees as she turned to face Finnick.

He was staring at the key, his eyes darkening, his lips pressed into a flat line.

“What’s that?” he said, his voice low and flat. There was a razor’s edge to his tone, a sharpness that made Cornelia’s skin prickle.

“Oh!” she said, forcing another too-bright smile as she twirled the key between her fingers, the way she used to twirl her hair when she was little. “Diamond and Precious and I used to play hide and seek back here.”

Finnick’s eyes didn’t soften. If anything, his expression hardened.

Cornelia cleared her throat, the key still spinning between her fingers. “This green room is hardly ever used,” she said, her words spilling out in a rushed, nervous tumble. “It’s older and not updated. The Avoxes use it mainly, but I used it as a secret hiding spot to win. No one ever found out, of course.”

She forced a laugh, a high, airy sound that echoed around the empty room like the chime of a hollow bell.

Finnick didn’t laugh.

Cornelia’s hand stilled, and she stared down at the key, feeling the cool metal press against her palm. For a second, she could almost hear the stylists’ voices again, their laughter echoing through the walls, and she swallowed, her throat clicking dryly.

She looked up at Finnick, her smile faltering, her heart thudding in her chest almost painfully fast. Then she took a step forward and held out the key, her hand shaking just slightly.

“Here,” she said, her voice softer now, almost fragile. “It’s your hiding spot now. The Avoxes won’t tell.” She hesitated, the words clogging her throat, before she added in a softer, almost apologetic tone, “Not like they could, anyway.”

Finnick stared at her, his gaze flicking from her face to the key and back again. His jaw twitched, and for a moment, Cornelia thought he might snap at her, might throw the key back in her face, might say something cruel and cutting that would make her wish she’d never brought him here in the first place.

But instead, he just stood there, his expression blank, his eyes as dark and deep as the sea.

“Thanks,” he said finally, his voice flat, devoid of any real emotion. He reached out and plucked the key from her hand, his fingertips brushing hers for the briefest of seconds. The contact sent a jolt up Cornelia’s arm, but Finnick didn’t seem to notice. He just slipped the key into his pocket and turned away, his shoulders rigid, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might shatter.

Cornelia’s heart twisted, and she pressed her lips together, forcing another smile, even though it hurt to keep it in place.

“Well!” she said, clapping her hands together, the sound echoing through the empty green room like a gunshot. “Tour is over!”

Finnick didn’t turn around. He didn’t even look at her.

Cornelia swallowed, her throat tight, and took a shaky breath, her cheeks aching from the strain of holding that too-bright smile in place. “I will…” she said, her voice trailing off as her gaze dropped to the floor, to the loose tile that now lay askew, the hiding spot exposed, empty. “Yeah. Bye, Finnick.”

Finnick’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.

Cornelia watched him go, watched his broad back retreat down the hallway, his steps slow and heavy, like he was walking through deep water.

When he disappeared around the corner, Cornelia let out a long, shaky breath and pressed her back against the wall, her heart thudding so loudly she could hear it echoing in her ears. She wrapped her arms around herself, her nails digging into her own skin, and tried to steady her breathing.

She had given him a hiding spot. A place to run. But from what? And what good would it do when there was nowhere left to hide?

The question echoed in her mind, circling like a vulture as she stood there, staring at the empty space where Finnick had just been.

“Turn your head just a little to the left, Finnick.”

Finnick stood statue-still, his bare torso glistening with a sheen of artificial sea spray, his fingers gripping the heavy prop trident so tightly his knuckles turned white. His chest rose and fell in controlled, shallow breaths, his eyes fixed on a distant point beyond the chaotic studio set. He barely registered the women circling him, their painted scales catching the harsh studio lights, tails swishing like serpents against the reflective floor. They pressed their manicured hands to his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone, the ridges of his ribs. One of them whispered something close to his ear, but the words were swallowed up by the pounding of his heartbeat and the relentless click of the photographer’s camera.

One of the women traced her fingertips down his abdomen, and his jaw clenched, his mind instinctively retreating, pulling inward until his surroundings felt hazy and far away. He focused on the trident, on the cold metal digging into his palm. It was sharp, real— unlike the touches that felt invasive and strange, like insects crawling over his skin.

“Perfect! Beautiful! That’s our Finnick!” the photographer cheered. “Wrap it up, everyone. You were all marvelous!”

The women giggled and disentangled themselves from him, the weight of their bodies peeling away like shedding fabric. As the crew began to dismantle the props, Finnick barely waited for dismissal before stepping off the set, his shoulders stiff, his bare feet slapping against the smooth floor as he grabbed his discarded shirt from a nearby chair. He didn’t bother putting it on, just draped it over his shoulder as he weaved through the studio, ignoring the flirtatious smiles sent his way.

He knew where he needed to go— the place he could be alone. As he moved, his mind was still a chaotic mess, a buzzing hive that he couldn’t quiet. His skin still crawled, his hands still ached from gripping the trident too hard. He needed space— needed to breathe.

After what felt like an eternity navigating through the labyrinthine halls, he finally reached the old green room. He pulled the key from his pocket, his fingers trembling slightly, and slid it into the lock. The door gave with a rusty click, and he pushed it open, stepping inside before letting it fall mostly shut behind him.

He stayed by the door for a moment, just breathing. Then he turned and pressed his back against the wall, his head falling back with a soft thud. Slowly, he slid down to sit on the floor, the shirt slipping from his shoulder and pooling beside him. The room was quiet, dim, and smelled faintly of dust and old perfume. Finnick’s breathing came in short, uneven gasps.

The reality of the photoshoot still clung to him like grime, and his stomach churned as he clenched his hands into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. He should be used to it by now. Should be able to compartmentalize like he always did— like he was supposed to. Just smile. Just let them touch him. Just be the Finnick Odair they want him to be.

But today, the mask felt heavier, suffocating.

He dragged himself upright, still clutching the shirt, and began pacing the length of the small room, his bare feet making soft thuds against the worn carpet. He couldn’t seem to stop moving, as if staying still would let the pressure of it all crush him. The Capitol women’s laughter echoed in his ears, the way their hands had moved over him like he was some kind of doll. He couldn’t remember their faces. Just their hands, and their lipstick-smudged smiles.

His breaths were shallow, almost ragged, and he rubbed a hand over his mouth, willing himself to calm down.

The door creaked suddenly, and he froze, his head snapping up. Through the small gap, he saw a flash of pastel lemon curls, and his heart lurched. Cornelia. She didn’t step inside, didn’t say a word— just glanced in and seemed to freeze as well. They locked eyes for the briefest moment before she stepped back and carefully closed the door, not with a slam or a click, but softly, almost like she didn’t want to disturb him.

Finnick didn’t move. He just stared at the closed door, feeling the adrenaline slowly bleed out of his system, replaced with something quieter, more confused. Did she see him like this— breathless and half-naked and utterly undone? What did she think? What would she say?

He sank down onto the couch, his elbows on his knees, his hands cradling his head. The room felt emptier now, even lonelier, like he was floating somewhere far from reality. For a moment, he considered going after her, explaining... something. But what could he even say? That he was fine? That he wasn’t fine? That he just needed to be alone?

Eventually, he dropped his hands and exhaled, long and shuddering. The memory of her hesitant gaze lingered. Part of him wanted to be angry, to feel invaded, but there had been no judgment in her eyes. No pity, either— just that same curiosity she always seemed to have when it came to him. It was strange, that she hadn’t come in, hadn’t demanded to know why he was hiding. She just... let him be.

For a while, he stayed there, his heartbeat finally slowing, his fingers unclenching. When he finally left the green room, he was quieter, more composed, his shirt pulled on, though the buttons remained undone. He walked through the hallways, more cautiously now, checking for cameras or wandering crew members.

He wondered where Cornelia had gone. He wondered why he cared.

Cornelia had, somehow, managed to convince her father to relieve Finnick for a few hours in between photoshoots and interviews. Of course, it had taken a few stomped feet on the ground and a rather elaborate explanation as to the benefits of allowing Finnick the space and time for relaxation for fear of burning him out. But, eventually, her father had caved. And now, the two walked side by side with a generous amount of space separating them and an Avoxed chaperone several paces behind them.

It was veneer. It was, to Finnick, a temporary reprieve. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop, for someone to ask for repayment for the relief. Nothing in the Capitol was free.

The aquarium’s arched glass tunnels stretched above them, creating a gleaming corridor of water and light. Shadows of passing sea creatures danced across Finnick’s skin, their liquid movements eerily calming. Beside him, Cornelia’s pastel lemon hair bounced in soft curls around her shoulders as she walked, her eyes darting back and forth as though she couldn’t decide where to look first. The sheer enormity of the aquarium seemed to dwarf her, the glass arching above them like the ceiling of a grand, underwater cathedral.

Finnick kept his gaze ahead, jaw tight, hands stuffed into the pockets of his Capitol-tailored slacks. Every so often, a fish or some bright, exotic creature swam overhead, casting fleeting patterns of blue and green across his face. He barely noticed. It was nothing compared to the sea back home, the scent of salt and brine, the push and pull of the waves that he felt in his bones. Here, the water was contained, artificial. It was something to be looked at, not felt.

Beside him, Cornelia had slowed to a stop, her pink-sandaled feet rooted to the glass-tiled floor. She was staring up at a massive, slow-moving creature drifting overhead, its translucent body rippling like a silk scarf in the current. Finnick took another few steps before noticing that she wasn’t beside him anymore.

His brow twitched in annoyance, his jaw working. He could just keep walking. He should just keep walking. If he stopped, if he waited, it would look like he cared, and he couldn’t afford to look like he cared. Not about her. Not about anyone in this city. Not ever again.

But then he heard the sound of her sandals clicking against the glass tile as she hurried to catch up with him. The noise echoed, oddly loud in the watery silence of the tunnel. He didn’t look at her when she fell into step beside him, her breath a bit quicker than before.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice almost breathless, her cheeks tinged with a faint pink. “I’ve never seen any of these… things before.” She tucked a loose curl behind her ear, her gaze sliding to the glass walls as another shimmering fish glided past. “I’m sure you’re used to seeing them in the sea back in 4.”

Finnick kept his eyes fixed ahead. For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw working as he bit back the urge to snap at her. To tell her that, no, he wasn’t used to seeing anything like this. That the creatures of his sea were wild and untamed, not trapped behind glass walls for Capitol children to gawk at. That the only thing he was used to now was people taking from him, piece by piece, until he felt like a hollowed-out shell of the boy he used to be. But that would be giving her something. That would be letting her in. And he couldn’t do that. Not even with Cornelia Flickerman, who still looked at him like he was something worth admiring, worth knowing. 

Instead, he shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling in one fluid, indifferent motion. “They’re bigger back home,” he said, his tone flat. “And meaner.”

Cornelia’s eyes widened a bit, and for a second, he caught the flicker of something in them. Curiosity? Fascination? He couldn’t tell. But it was enough to make him speed up his pace, lengthening the distance between them by a step or two. 

She kept up, though, her soft curls bouncing with every step, her hands clasped together in front of her as though she were trying to keep herself from reaching out. There was a nervous energy about her, like she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Like she was wrestling with something too big to put into words.

But then, that was just how everyone looked around him now. Everyone was holding their breath around Finnick Odair, the Capitol’s darling boy, the golden son who glowed under stage lights but never seemed to reflect them back.

They passed another glass tunnel, this one filled with tiny, darting fish that glimmered like jewels as they flitted by. Cornelia slowed her steps again, her gaze fixed on the tiny fish, her lips parting slightly as though she wanted to say something. But she didn’t.

Finnick kept walking, his hands still buried in his pockets, his eyes hard and distant as he stared straight ahead. It felt like drowning, being back here. It felt like drowning and being unable to break the surface, like there was no air left in the room, only glass and water and people pressing in on him from all sides, trying to pry him open and take what they wanted. Cornelia’s footsteps quickened beside him, her sandals tapping faster against the glass floor. She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t look at her. 

After walking through another display of exotic and multi-colored fish behind glass, the two had concluded the venture of the Aquarium that Cornelia was now beginning to think was a bad idea. Perhaps she should have taken her father’s advice and let Finnick continue with his schedule for the day. Maybe this relaxation idea had only caused more tension and stress than relief. Maybe she was just a silly, hopeless, brainless girl.

Stupid, that was the word. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Cornelia trailed behind Finnick as he strode ahead, his shoulders squared, his stride purposeful. He moved like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough, his expression unreadable, jaw tight. The Avox trailed after him, keeping a measured distance, their head slightly bowed. Finnick barely seemed to notice either of them.

Cornelia’s pink sandals clicked against the polished marble floors, each step echoing in her skull like a taunt. Her own shoes were mocking her now, reminding her of how out of her depth she was, how badly she’d miscalculated this whole thing.

She should have known better. She should have seen it, the way Finnick’s shoulders tensed more and more the longer they walked through those glass tunnels, how his eyes kept darting away from her like he couldn’t stand to even glance in her direction. She’d thought she was doing something good for him. She’d thought she was giving him a break, a moment to breathe, a space to feel normal. She had only done the opposite.

Finnick was already pushing through the Aquarium’s glass double doors, the ones that led to the main exit, where a sleek, gleaming black limo was waiting for them under the shadow of the aquarium’s giant octopus-shaped awning. The Avox hurried forward to open the door, but Finnick beat them to it, yanking the handle and slipping inside without a single word.

Cornelia came to a slow stop just outside the entrance, her hands twisting together in front of her. She watched Finnick’s silhouette through the tinted glass, his figure dark and hazy like a shadow behind the reflective surface.

He was inside, head tipped back against the headrest, eyes shut. His chest rose and fell in deep, slow breaths, like he was trying to calm himself. Like he was trying to shake off the tension that had settled into his muscles throughout the entire aquarium tour.

Cornelia swallowed hard, her throat tight, her eyes stinging. The humid Capitol air pressed down on her, making her curls cling to her cheeks and the back of her neck. Her skin felt prickly, her dress heavy and suffocating.

What had she been thinking? Finnick didn’t want to be here with her. He didn’t want to walk through glass tunnels filled with fake fish while she blathered on about how pretty the colors were and how the water looked like melted emeralds.

She was an idiot. She was a stupid, stupid little girl.

Cornelia’s eyes drifted to the right, catching on a flash of color. The gift shop. The windows were plastered with cartoonish starfish and dancing dolphins, all rendered in bright, bubblegum colors. Inside, clusters of Capitol citizens and their children were milling about, their voices a cheerful hum that cut through the hot, sticky air.

Before she could think twice, Cornelia walked toward it, her feet carrying her forward as though on autopilot. Anything to get away from the limo. Anything to buy herself a moment, just one moment to gather herself before she had to sit next to Finnick in that car and pretend like everything was fine.

The air conditioning inside the gift shop was frigid, a stark contrast to the sweltering heat outside. Cornelia’s skin prickled with goosebumps as she stepped inside, the blast of cold air sweeping over her in a gust that made her curls dance around her shoulders. The shop was packed with shelves of souvenirs— glass paperweights with tiny seashells encased inside, snow globes with miniature dolphins, plush octopuses with cartoon eyes and toothy grins.

Cornelia wandered down the nearest aisle, her fingers trailing over the merchandise without really seeing it. The world felt blurry and indistinct, the voices around her muffled, as though she were moving underwater.

“Would you like to sample our new sea salt taffy? It’s fresh from the confectionery this morning!”

A saleswoman with a pinched face and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes held out a tray of wrapped candies, each one in a different pastel hue. Cornelia shook her head, mumbling something about being too full, and kept walking.

Past the plush toys, past the shelves of glass trinkets, past the display of shell necklaces that looked so much like the ones the Capitol sold as “authentic” from District 4— though Cornelia knew, deep down, they were probably plastic, made to look like shells. Everything here was a lie. Even the fish were fake.

She rounded the corner and found herself in front of a large wire bin filled with tiny enamel starfish charms. They were small, no bigger than her thumb, each one glittering with gemstones that sparkled under the harsh fluorescent lights. Some were silver, some gold, some painted in bright pinks and purples and blues.

Cornelia reached out and picked up a pale blue starfish, its surface dotted with tiny rhinestones. It felt cool in her palm, its edges smooth and rounded. She turned it over, her eyes tracing the delicate lines, the tiny bumps and ridges that had been crafted to mimic a real starfish.

She remembered the way Finnick had looked back at the Aquarium, his eyes staring straight ahead, his jaw clenched, his shoulders hunched. It was the same way he looked now in the limo— bracing himself, like he was holding his breath, like he was waiting for something to crash down over him.

Cornelia swallowed, her mouth dry. This starfish was stupid. It was a stupid, silly, childish thing. Finnick would probably laugh if she gave it to him. Or worse— he’d look at her the way he had in the tunnel, that cold, blank stare that said she was a Capitol girl and he was a boy from the districts and they would never, ever be the same.

But she didn’t put it back.

Instead, she carried it to the counter, her footsteps feeling like they were echoing in her skull, each step louder and heavier than the last. The cashier didn’t even look at her as they rang it up, their eyes fixed on a magazine spread open on the counter, one featuring a two-page spread of Finnick Odair, his face half in shadow, his eyes downcast.

Cornelia didn’t look at it. She paid, took the tiny paper bag, and slipped the starfish into her small coin pouch, where it nestled beside a few gold Capitol tokens and a single, crumpled ribbon that she’d saved from her last birthday party.

Outside, the heat hit her like a physical wall. The limo was still there, its engine purring softly, the Avox still standing beside the open door, their eyes fixed on the pavement. Finnick was still inside, still sitting with his head tipped back, eyes shut, jaw clenched.

Cornelia paused, her hand tightening around her coin pouch until she felt the cool, hard edges of the starfish dig into her palm. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward the car, her smile already forming, the bright, glittering mask slipping into place.

She climbed into the limo, the door shut with a soft click behind her, and Finnick didn’t even open his eyes.

Finnick’s footsteps echoed down the empty, dimly lit hallway. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered, casting erratic shadows that danced across the worn, gray carpet. The heavy thud of his boots, still polished to Capitol perfection, felt too loud in the silence. His jaw ached from forcing too many smiles, from answering too many of Caesar’s questions with the answers the Capitol wanted to hear.

Every muscle in his body was tight, his skin pulled taut over bones and sinew like a bowstring ready to snap. His head throbbed, each thump echoing with Caesar’s laughter, each chuckle replaying the hollow compliments and flirtatious banter he’d been forced to deliver.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Finnick reached the door to the hidden green room. He lifted his hand to the handle, the key she’d given him still cool in his pocket. He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. The hallway was empty, just a single Avox sweeping the floor with a mechanical, methodical motion. The Avox didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge him. It was as if they weren’t even there.

Good.

Finnick slipped the key into the lock, the click of the mechanism echoing louder than it should. He pushed open the door and stepped inside, flicking on the light. The room was small, with walls painted a dull beige and the stale scent of old coffee lingering in the air. The vanity with its chipped white paint and round mirror took up most of the space, and a tired-looking couch slouched against the opposite wall like it, too, had given up long ago.

But what caught Finnick’s eye was the small white envelope resting in the middle of the vanity, the stark whiteness of it glaring against the scratched wooden surface.

Finnick’s chest tightened.

His gaze darted around the room. The light hummed and buzzed overhead. Nothing seemed out of place, but that didn’t mean anything. The envelope was untouched, its flap sealed with a neat, precise fold. There was no name, no Capitol crest, no indication of who it might have come from.

Finnick swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Who knew about this room? Cornelia did. And the Avoxes. But no one else. At least, that was what he’d been told.

But what if it wasn’t true? What if someone had found out? What if someone had followed him here? What if the room was compromised?

His stomach churned, bile rising as his mind leaped to the worst possible scenario. Someone had found him. Someone had left a message. Someone wanted payment for the small, stolen pockets of peace he’d carved out for himself.

Finnick walked forward, his legs stiff and mechanical, his pulse a roaring drum in his ears. He stared down at the envelope, his breath coming shallow and quick. His fingertips twitched at his sides, the urge to grab it warring against the instinct to run.

No. Be smart. Be careful.

Finnick yanked a tissue from the vanity’s makeup tray and wrapped it around his hand. His fingers trembled as he lifted the envelope, holding it gingerly like it was a snake poised to strike. He tilted it, squinting to see if there was any powder, any glistening sheen of poison, anything that could be hidden inside.

Nothing.

It was just an envelope. Just a simple, white envelope.

Finnick’s jaw clenched. His pulse pounded harder. He pressed his thumb to the flap, easing it open with slow, deliberate motions. The paper was thick and creamy, Capitol-quality stationery, imported from 7. He peeled back the flap and slid the contents out onto the vanity’s surface.

A small, glittering object tumbled out, catching the light.

Finnick’s eyes darted to it. It was a starfish charm, its tiny, rounded edges dotted with minuscule rhinestones that sparkled in the overhead light. It was small, about the size of his thumbnail, and painted a pale, icy blue.

Finnick’s heart gave a painful lurch.

It was a starfish. Just a starfish.

But Finnick’s jaw tightened, and his shoulders tensed as he stared down at it, his eyes burning with something sharp and hot and furious. A starfish. The Capitol’s twisted idea of a gift. A shiny, glittering mockery of the real thing. A poor, plastic imitation of the creatures that swam freely in the waters of District 4, of the things he used to collect as a boy before they’d dragged him here.

Before they’d stolen everything. Before they’d turned him into something shiny and pretty and fake, too.

Finnick swallowed hard, his mouth as dry as sandpaper. He forced himself to tear his gaze away from the charm, to focus on the letter instead. The paper was thick, and the handwriting was impossibly neat, each letter looped and curled in perfect, practiced calligraphy. He braced himself and began to read.

I’m sorry for yesterday. I had meant for the trip to make you feel like home, but I’m afraid I made you feel more homesick than ever.

Finnick’s eyes narrowed. The words blurred slightly, the ink swimming as his jaw clenched tighter.

I hope you don’t feel like a fish out of water for much longer— get it? Sorry. That was corny.

Finnick exhaled sharply through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh but not quite. It wasn’t funny. It wasn’t. But there was something so absurd about the whole thing, so achingly naïve and clueless and childish that it almost was. Almost.

Anyhow, I hope that things turn around in time for your birthday. You deserve it.

Sincerely, Cornelia.

Finnick dropped the letter onto the vanity, his hands bracing against the cool, chipped wood. The starfish charm sat beside the letter, glittering innocently under the light like it had any right to be there.

Cornelia.

Of course it was Cornelia. Who else would it be? Who else in this godforsaken city would write such a stupid, clueless, heartfelt letter and leave a cheap, glittering starfish charm in a hiding spot like it was some grand, meaningful gesture?

Finnick’s hands fisted against the vanity. His jaw ached from clenching his teeth.

Was she serious? Did she think this would make it better? Did she think a stupid charm and a silly letter would erase the way he’d felt back in that aquarium, surrounded by glass walls and plastic fish that weren’t real, that could never be real? Did she think a fake starfish would make him forget that he was drowning here, that he was being suffocated by all the glitter and gold and flashing lights and smiling, leering faces?

Finnick picked up the charm, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It was cool and smooth, the rhinestones winking at him like they knew some secret he didn’t.

What did she want from him? Why was she doing this? Was it just another game to her? Another attempt to play the kind Capitol princess, the one who fluttered her lashes and giggled at every joke and thought she was so good and kind and clever because she sent him a stupid starfish charm like she was handing out favors to the less fortunate?

Or was it real?

That was the worst part— the not knowing. The not being able to tell what was real and what was just another performance. Because when he thought about her, about Cornelia with her bright, blinding smile and her ridiculous hair and her stupid jokes that weren’t funny but made her laugh anyway— when he thought about the way her face had fallen in the aquarium, how she’d seemed so small and lost in that sea of glass— he couldn’t tell if it was all an act or if she really was that clueless, that earnest, that naïve.

He hated her for it. He hated her for making him wonder.

Finnick closed his fist around the starfish, the rhinestones digging into his palm. He swallowed, throat tight, chest heavy, eyes burning. Then he shoved the starfish charm into his pocket. The letter remained on the vanity, its perfect, practiced calligraphy staring back at him, the ink still fresh and dark and painfully sincere.

Finnick turned away from it. He flipped the light off and walked out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Chapter Text

August, 67 ADD

“OH! OH! THAT’S GORG!” 

Cornelia squealed, clapping her hands together as Diamond lifted the emerald green dress off its satin hanger. The gown shimmered like a jewel under the soft, filtered light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Diamond’s bedroom. The fabric cascaded over Diamond’s arm, catching the light in its delicate folds and reflecting off the wall of mirrors that lined one side of the room.

Diamond grinned, her perfectly manicured nails tapping against the neckline as she draped the dress over her shoulder. “This is the one,” she declared, tossing her sleek, black hair over her shoulder with a confident flick. “I knew green would make my eyes pop.”

Cornelia nodded enthusiastically, her twenty-inch extensions swishing against her back like a horse’s tail. The bleach-blonde strands gleamed and, despite the nearly three hours she’d spent in the salon, she still wasn’t used to the way her reflection had changed. The stylist had called it “Capitol Couture Platinum”— the most blinding, shimmering blonde they could manage without setting her hair on fire. It was striking. It was dramatic. It was… a blank canvas.

She tucked a strand behind her ear, the tips brushing the rhinestone-studded collar of her pastel pink top, and forced another bright smile.

“What about you?” Diamond asked, tossing the green dress onto a growing pile of potential birthday gala contenders sprawled across her lavender silk bedspread. “What are you wearing?”

Cornelia shrugged, feigning nonchalance as she picked at the pale pink fluff on the fuzzy, heart-shaped pillow clutched between her knees. “Well, now that my hair is a blank canvas and prime accessory, I think I could pull off any color. Maybe teal?”

Diamond tilted her head, studying Cornelia like a canvas in a Capitol gallery, her dark eyes sweeping over the new blonde hair with a practiced critical eye. “Teal could work,” she mused, tapping her index finger against her chin. “But it would have to be the right shade. Not too dark, not too light. Maybe something with a little shimmer to it. You know, so it catches the light when you twirl.”

Cornelia nodded, her smile bright but tight. Teal. Shimmer. Twirling. Was there even a point?

The thought slipped into her mind like a sudden draft, chilling the air in the otherwise warm, lavender-scented room. What did it matter what she wore? What did it matter if her hair was platinum blonde or electric blue or shaved off entirely? Finnick wouldn’t notice. He hadn’t noticed her since that day at the aquarium, when she’d tried to make things right and only made everything worse.

Finnick wouldn’t even look at her. Not that she blamed him.

She bit the inside of her cheek, pressing her nails into the plush pillow until the soft fabric gave way beneath her fingers. It wasn’t just that he wouldn’t look at her. It was the way he wouldn’t look at her. The way he kept his eyes fixed somewhere above her head, like she was air, like she was wallpaper, like she was nothing at all.

And it hurt.

Cornelia swallowed, forcing the ache down, down, down until it settled somewhere deep in her stomach where it could fester in silence. Maybe she shouldn’t go to the gala. Maybe she should stay in her room and skip the whole thing. What was the point of showing up in teal or emerald or any other shimmering Capitol hue when the person she’d bought the dress for— the person she’d dyed her hair for, the person she’d left that stupid letter and charm for— wouldn’t even see her?

Wouldn’t see her.

Wouldn’t want to see her.

“Hey,” Diamond said suddenly, her voice snapping Cornelia back to the present like a slap of cold water. “You okay?”

Cornelia blinked, her lashes fluttering. “Hm?”

“You were staring at the floor like it did something to you,” Diamond said, one eyebrow quirked in mild concern. “If you’re not feeling the teal, we could always go pink. You look cute in pink.”

Pink. Cornelia’s eyes flitted down to her pastel pink top, the one with the rhinestone collar and the delicate, frilly sleeves. It was the kind of shirt that people looked at and said, “Oh, that’s so Cornelia!” It was sweet. It was bubbly. It was cute.

But it wasn’t what she wanted to be. Not anymore. Not now.

“No,” Cornelia said, shaking her head, her blonde hair swishing like a curtain of cotton candy around her face. “Not pink.”

Diamond’s brow furrowed, her perfectly painted lips pursing as she turned back to the closet, pushing hangers aside with a dramatic, sweeping gesture. “All right, not pink. Noted. But we need to find you something,” she said, her tone shifting to one of determined focus. “Finnick Odair is turning seventeen. That’s a big deal. Everyone who’s anyone is going to be there, and you need to look… well, you need to look like you.”

Cornelia’s gaze drifted back down to the heart-shaped pillow in her lap. What did that even mean? What did she look like? What did she want to look like?

Finnick would probably be surrounded by Capitol girls— girls with hourglass figures poured into custom couture gowns, with hair styled like swirls of spun sugar, with eyes lined and shadowed and sparkling like Capitol jewels. Girls who knew how to smile without showing too many teeth, how to laugh without it sounding too eager, how to look beautiful without looking desperate.

Girls who knew how to be seen.

Cornelia pressed her lips together, a knot of frustration tightening in her chest. She didn’t know how to be any of those things. All she knew how to do was smile too widely and laugh too loudly and buy starfish charms that no one asked for.

She glanced back at Diamond, who was still buried shoulder-deep in the closet, yanking out dress after dress with single-minded determination. The green gown had been tossed onto the bed without a second thought, a splash of emerald against a sea of silk and tulle and chiffon.

“You know,” Diamond said, pulling out a glittering silver number and holding it up to her body, “maybe you should try gold. Something sleek and metallic, like that dress Tulle wore at the last gala. You remember? With the thigh-high slit and the matching cape?”

Cornelia nodded absently, her mind drifting back to the envelope she’d left in the green room. She hadn’t seen Finnick wear the charm. Maybe he’d thrown it away. Maybe he’d never even opened the envelope. Maybe he’d found it and laughed, crumpling up the letter and tossing it in the trash along with all the other stupid, childish things she’d done.

Maybe he hadn’t laughed at all. Maybe he’d just… forgotten. 

“Yeah,” Cornelia said, forcing a smile as she hugged the pillow closer to her chest, her nails digging into the soft, plush fabric. “Gold sounds… perfect.”

Finnick wanted to disappear. And yet, that would be nearly impossible. He was the man of the hour— the night, really. Everyone was here for him. To stare at him. To marvel at him. To consume him.

A towering ice sculpture of a trident dominated the center of the ballroom, its prongs catching the light of the crystal chandeliers that swung lazily overhead like glistening, jeweled pendulums. It was Finnick’s trident, the one he had wielded so effortlessly in the Arena, now immortalized in flawless, glittering ice.

He supposed he should be flattered.

“— and of course, you must try the caviar,” a plump man with silver hair and emerald green eyelashes was saying, leaning forward and practically spilling his champagne down the front of his satin robe. “It’s flown in fresh from 4, you know. Just for tonight!”

Finnick nodded, forcing a tight, practiced smile, his jaw aching from how often he’d been clenching it. “Oh, that’s… wonderful. Like a gift from home.”

The man with the emerald eyelashes beamed, his glittering teeth catching the light. Beside him, a woman in a floor-length gown of translucent lace leaned forward, her glass of something sparkling and magenta sloshing dangerously close to Finnick’s hand.

“Finnick, darling,” she purred, her voice as slick and syrupy as the drink in her glass. “You’re positively glowing. How does it feel to be the golden boy of the night?” She leaned in closer. “And every night?”

Finnick swallowed, the taste of the not-strong-enough champagne clinging to the back of his throat. “It’s… surreal.”

“That’s the spirit!” the man with the eyelashes crowed, slapping Finnick’s shoulder with a meaty hand. Finnick braced himself, gritting his teeth as the force of it rattled up his spine.

His skin felt too tight, like it was shrinking over his bones, trapping him in place beneath all the relentless smiles and fluttering eyelashes and glimmering glasses of too-sweet champagne. Finnick took another sip of his drink, the bubbles fizzling uselessly against his tongue.

“Finnick,” the woman in the lace gown drawled, her voice lowering to a purr as she leaned in, her breath warm and cloyingly sweet against his ear. “Why don’t you tell me what you want for your birthday? Anything at all. I’d love to make it come true.”

Her manicured nails brushed against the back of his neck, soft as silk, cold as ice. Finnick’s stomach twisted, bile rising to the back of his throat.

She was close— too close. Her perfume was thick, suffocating, like a garden of flowers left to rot in the sun. He could feel her nails ghosting down the back of his neck, just under the collar of his shirt, lingering there like a threat.

Finnick swallowed, forcing another tight smile as he shifted his weight, desperately trying to step back without looking like he was retreating.

“Oh, come now,” the woman said, her nails pressing just a fraction harder against his skin. “Don’t be shy.”

Finnick’s pulse quickened, a dull, frantic drumbeat that thudded in his ears, drowning out the chatter and clinking glasses and orchestral music swelling in the background. He needed to get away. He needed to get away now.

His eyes darted across the ballroom, over the clusters of Capitol elites draped in silk and sequins and feathers, over the massive ice trident still dripping onto the polished marble floor. Faces blurred together, a mess of painted lips and surgically arched eyebrows and glitter-dusted cheeks.

Then he saw her.

Cornelia was standing near the dessert table, her blonde hair a waterfall of shimmering curls cascading down her back. She wore a gold gown that glittered like molten metal, the high neckline catching the light with every toss of her head. Around her, three girls flanked her like birds of paradise, laughing and preening and flipping their hair in unison.

Finnick’s stomach clenched. He hadn’t meant to look for her. He hadn’t meant to seek her out at all. But there she was, so brightly, so obviously herself in a sea of people all trying to outshine one another.

And he hated that his eyes had found her. Hated that his gut instinct had been to look for her in the first place. Why would he look for her?

“Finnick,” the woman in the lace gown cooed, her nails dragging lightly against his nape. “Aren’t you going to tell me what you want?”

Finnick’s jaw tightened, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out along the back of his neck. He forced another tight-lipped smile, stepping back just enough to dislodge her hand.

“I should, uh… excuse me,” he muttered, his voice tight and clipped. “There’s someone I need to speak to.”

“Oh, come on,” she pouted, her magenta glass sloshing dangerously close to his sleeve. “Stay. Just for another minute…”

Finnick’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Maybe later.”

He could feel the woman’s gaze burning into his back as he stepped away, her eyes heavy and demanding, waiting for him to look back. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Finnick weaved through the crowd, sidestepping a man whose hands were full of miniature cakes topped with sugared violets, ducking beneath the outstretched arm of a woman showing off her freshly inked tiger tattoo, skirting past a trio of girls posing for a picture with the ice trident.

His heart was pounding, the sound loud and echoing in his ears. He could still feel the woman’s nails on his neck, could still hear the syrupy lilt of her voice promising to make his birthday wish come true.

Why Cornelia? Why was he walking toward her? Why was he seeking her out, of all people? She was Caesar’s daughter. The girl who had given him a starfish charm and called it a gift, who had written a letter apologizing for taking him to an aquarium as if that was what had ruined him. The girl who’d grown up in a palace and had everything handed to her on a diamond-studded platter and wouldn’t know suffering if it slapped her across the face.

But she was also the girl who had hidden a key beneath a floor tile, as if she had given him something more than a room with a locked door. As if she’d given him a choice, even a small one, even a fleeting one.

Finnick’s steps faltered, his heart still hammering as he found himself just a few feet away from Cornelia. She was laughing at something one of her friends said, tossing her head back so that her hair cascaded down her shoulders like liquid gold. Her laugh was loud and airy, her smile too wide, too bright, too forced.

She didn’t see him.

Finnick’s throat tightened, his hand clenching around the stem of the glass he still held. He could still turn around. He could walk away, find a dark corner, pretend to be tired, feign a headache, anything to avoid her.

But then, as if she could feel his stare like a weight against her spine, Cornelia’s dark brown eyes lifted. And they met his.

Her smile was too bright. Too forced. Too ready to slip off her face at the slightest tremor. But it stayed in place, even as her cheeks burned and her stomach twisted and she wished she could do anything but stand there, staring at Finnick Odair like she was the one who had sought him out instead of the other way around.

“... Hey!” she said, the word tumbling out of her mouth like it was wrapped in too much glitter, too much false cheer. Her hands fluttered at her sides before she forced them to still, her fingers tangling together, squeezing tight.

Finnick didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her, his green eyes glinting beneath the low, hazy light. The glass in his hand dangled precariously between his fingers, the golden liquid sloshing against the rim. He looked like he was deciding something. Like he was trying to figure out how to speak to her. Or if he even wanted to.

Cornelia swallowed, her smile tightening, her heart pounding beneath the stiff, shining bodice of her gown. She could feel her friends staring at her from behind, Diamond and Precious exchanging looks, their painted lips twitching with barely concealed smirks. They thought they were in on some joke Cornelia wasn’t privy to.

But Finnick finally spoke, and his voice was as smooth and unbothered as it ever was, the kind of smooth that made Cornelia feel like she was standing in front of a wave right before it crashed over her.

“Just thought you might want to dance,” he said, his gaze slipping away from her for a moment, scanning the room over her shoulder, his jaw tight. “You know. Since you said you would.”

Cornelia blinked, her mind going blank for a second, her mouth falling open as she tried to remember when she had said that. She hadn’t. Of course she hadn’t. He hadn’t even spoken to her since… since the aquarium. Since she’d given him the starfish charm and the stupid letter and then spent the next three days dissecting every word she had written until she was convinced she had ruined everything.

But then she caught it— the look. The way his eyes flicked over his shoulder again, a shadow darkening his face for just a moment. The way his hand tightened around the glass like he was trying to hold onto something solid.

And it hit her. He was using her. Using her to get away.

Oh.

“Oh!” Cornelia said, too loudly, her voice too high and too bright, her cheeks too hot. She forced a laugh, tossing her hair back as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Oh, yes! Sorry, I am so forgetful.”

She could feel Diamond and Precious’ eyes boring into her back, feel their laughter bubbling behind their hands as they watched Cornelia stumble over herself, watched her trip over her own tongue in front of Finnick Odair.

But Finnick was already stepping forward, already setting his half-empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray, already reaching for her hand. Cornelia’s breath caught, her heart thudding so loudly she could barely hear the music swelling around them.

Finnick’s hand was warm and strong and gentle and distant all at once. His grip was firm but not too tight, his palm a little clammy, his thumb brushing over her knuckles like he was trying to ground himself, not her.

Cornelia’s mouth went dry.

Finnick didn’t say anything as he led her toward the dance floor, his jaw set, his gaze fixed straight ahead. He didn’t look at her. Not even once.

They reached the center of the dance floor, the chandelier above them casting fractured light across the room, shards of gold and silver glinting off the glossy marble tiles beneath their feet. The music shifted, the beat slowing to a soft, lilting melody, and Finnick turned to face her.

Cornelia tried to smile. Tried to pretend that her pulse wasn’t hammering in her throat, that her cheeks weren’t burning so hot she thought her makeup might melt right off.

Finnick’s hands settled at her waist, his fingers barely grazing her hips, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch her. Or maybe he just didn’t want to.

Cornelia lifted her hands to his shoulders, the fabric of his jacket soft beneath her palms. He smelled like champagne and something sharper, something that made her think of salt water and the ocean and being pulled under.

They swayed. Awkwardly. The rhythm uneven, the space between them too wide, the silence too loud. Cornelia tried to look at him, tried to catch his eye, but Finnick’s gaze was fixed somewhere over her shoulder, his jaw clenched tight, his mouth pressed into a thin, hard line.

“You okay?” Cornelia asked, her voice small and quiet, the words barely louder than a whisper.

Finnick’s eyes flicked down to hers, just for a second, before they darted away again. “Yeah,” he said, his voice flat, his tone unreadable. “Yeah. Fine.”

Cornelia swallowed, her throat tight. The music continued to swell around them, the violins swooping and sighing like the tide. She could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on them, the Capitol elite watching them from the edges of the dance floor, eyes sharp and glittering, mouths painted and smiling and waiting.

Cornelia took a deep breath. “... Happy birthday,” she said, the words coming out softer than she intended, like she was afraid they might break.

Finnick’s jaw twitched. His eyes flicked to hers again, but this time he didn’t look away. He just stared at her, his green eyes dark and stormy and so, so tired.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice low and rough, the single syllable heavy as a stone sinking to the bottom of the sea.

Cornelia tried to smile. It felt wrong. Fake. Unnatural. But she kept it in place anyway, kept it there even as Finnick’s hands slid away from her waist, even as he stepped back, even as the space between them stretched wider and wider and wider until it felt like the whole ocean was crashing between them.

Finnick took another step back, his eyes darting over her shoulder again, his face closing off, the storm clouds in his eyes disappearing behind a mask so smooth and impenetrable that Cornelia almost forgot he had ever looked at her at all.

The music swelled. The chandelier glinted. The ice trident dripped. And Finnick Odair walked away.

September, 67 ADD

Finnick had planned on throwing out the starfish charm, just like he had tossed the letter in the wastebin of the green room he had hid in for a majority of his time in the Capitol. Instead, somehow, it had made its way into the pocket of his tailored slacks from his Capitol stylist and sat on his nightstand upon returning home. Some days, he felt like it was mocking him. Other days, he forgot it was there until he reached over to turn off his alarm clock and he accidentally knocked it onto the floor.

He always picked it up. He hated that.

The charm lay there now, glinting faintly in the early morning light that filtered through the slats of Finnick’s blinds. The enamel sparkled with flecks of glitter and gemstone, a glitzy Capitol parody of something that had once been real. Something he had once held in his hands, fresh from the sand. Something that didn’t remind him of sickly sweet perfume and cloying smiles and a fourteen-year-old girl who thought she could somehow apologize for things she couldn’t possibly understand.

Finnick swallowed, his jaw tight as he pulled his board shorts up over his hips. The waistband snapped against his skin with a sharp slap, and he shook his head, rolling his eyes at himself as he shoved his hair back from his forehead.

“Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, but the word wasn’t meant for the charm. It was meant for him. For the way he couldn’t quite bring himself to pick it up and throw it into the ocean, where it would sink to the bottom and be swallowed by sand and salt and time.

But he left it there. Again.

With a huff, Finnick shoved open his bedroom door and padded down the hall, the wooden floorboards creaking under his bare feet. The house was still— his mother still asleep, the curtains still drawn tight against the morning sun. Outside, the air was warm and damp, the scent of brine and seaweed heavy in the breeze that swept in from the shoreline.

Finnick stepped down the porch steps, the wood cool against his heels as he crossed over to the sand. It was still early enough that the beach was mostly empty, save for a few gulls that squawked and wheeled overhead, their shadows skimming across the dunes. The waves rolled in, steady and rhythmic, the water glittering like shards of glass beneath the pale, milky sky.

And there she was.

Annie Cresta stood at the water’s edge, her arms wrapped around her middle as she watched the horizon, her red hair dark and loose, the wind tugging at the ends. The hem of her shorts fluttered around her thighs, and her feet were buried in the wet sand, the tide washing up over her ankles. She was always the first one out here, always the one waiting for him.

Finnick felt something in his chest loosen as he watched her, a knot of tension that had wound too tight and too deep over the past month. With Annie, it was easy. With Annie, there were no secrets. No expectations. No Capitol smiles or whispers or gifts slipped under doors with implications far darker than they appeared.

Annie turned, and when she saw him, her whole face lit up. Her eyes crinkled at the corners, and she lifted one hand, waving at him like she hadn’t just seen him yesterday.

“Finally!” she called, her voice carrying over the sound of the waves as she started toward him. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how to wake up before noon!”

Finnick forced a grin, lifting a hand to wave back as he closed the distance between them. “Forgotten? I was the one who taught you how to wake up before noon.”

Annie snorted, a quick, bright laugh that made her eyes dance. “Oh, yeah? Well, you must be losing your touch, Finn. You’re late.”

Finnick rolled his eyes, shoving his hands into the pockets of his board shorts as he drew up beside her. “Yeah, well,” he said, nudging her shoulder with his, “you don’t look like you’re ready to paddle out yet either.”

Annie’s brows shot up, her eyes widening in mock offense as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Oh, so now you’re blaming me for your bad habits? Nice try.”

Finnick laughed, the sound escaping him like a sigh, like a release, and for a moment— just a moment— he felt like himself again. The boy who used to spend his mornings on the water, racing the tide, catching waves, pretending that the Capitol didn’t exist. That he was just a kid, and Annie was just Annie, and they were just two friends wasting time on a stretch of empty sand.

But the Capitol did exist. And now, so did that starfish charm on his nightstand. And the memory of Cornelia Flickerman’s too-big smile and her too-sincere letter that he couldn’t quite forget, no matter how hard he tried.

“Come on,” Annie said, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the shack of boards along the shoreline. “Let’s go before the waves get crowded.”

Finnick let her pull him forward, the cool, wet sand squishing between his toes, the water lapping at his ankles. He kept his eyes on the horizon as he crouched down, fingers skimming over the curve of his surfboard as he adjusted the ankle strap around his calf. The strap hugged his skin, the worn neoprene rough against his leg. He tugged on it twice, testing the tension, then glanced over at Annie, who was struggling with her own strap, her auburn hair falling in tangled waves over her face. She wrinkled her nose as she tried to hook the velcro properly, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration.

“Need help?” Finnick asked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stood, hands on his hips.

Annie’s eyes narrowed, her brows pulling together in a glare that was more pout than threat. “No,” she shot back, jerking the strap tight with a defiant yank. “I’m not a kid.”

Finnick snorted, shaking his head as he picked up his board and slung it under his arm. “Never said you were,” he muttered, already heading toward the waterline, his feet sinking into the sand with each step.

Annie huffed behind him but followed, her own board awkwardly balanced against her side, the nose occasionally dipping into the sand and sending up little sprays of grit that dusted her shins. The waves stretched out before them in steady, rolling sets, the horizon a band of pale blue that met the sky in a blur of soft, misty light.

Finnick waded in first, the water a cool slap against his calves, then his thighs. He sucked in a breath as the salt water reached his waist, the chill sending a shiver racing up his spine, but he kept moving forward, the board bobbing against his side, fingers gripping the rails. Annie was a few steps behind him, her board half-floating, half-dragging through the surf.

Once they were waist-deep, Finnick tossed his board flat onto the water and swung a leg over, settling himself atop it. The board wobbled beneath him, rocking with the gentle push and pull of the waves, but he balanced easily, leaning forward and letting his hands rest in the cool water.

Annie climbed onto her own board with far less grace, her elbows jerking awkwardly as she tried to find her balance. The board dipped once, twice, before she steadied, her legs dangling off the sides, toes skimming just beneath the surface.

For a while, they just floated, the water lapping gently against their boards, the sound of the waves a soft, rhythmic hush that filled the silence. The sun hung low in the sky, a muted gold orb that glinted off the water and turned everything hazy and warm.

Annie leaned back on her palms, her frizzy red hair falling over her shoulders as she tipped her face up to the sky. “You’re quiet,” she said, her voice carrying easily over the water. “You’re never quiet.”

Finnick’s jaw tightened, his gaze fixed on the horizon where a larger set of waves was building, their whitecaps frothing as they swelled. “Didn’t sleep well,” he said shortly, his voice clipped.

Annie snorted, her head rolling to the side to look at him. “You’re a bad liar,” she said, her eyes squinting against the sunlight.

Finnick shot her a glare, but she just grinned, her teeth white and sharp, her eyes sparkling with that familiar mischievous light. Annie never seemed to see him the way the others did. Never seemed to look at him like he was some Capitol doll to be gawked at, or a war prize to be claimed. To her, he was still Finnick— just a boy she’d grown up with, the boy who taught her how to surf and steal bread from the docks and race crabs along the sand until their lungs burned and their legs ached.

And right now, he didn’t want her to see through him. Not when he was still trying to forget the feel of velvet fingers brushing his neck, of breath too hot against his ear, of murmured words that slithered down his spine and made him want to crawl out of his own skin. Not when the starfish charm still sat on his nightstand, taunting him with its glittering gemstones and ridiculous enamel shine.

So, he forced a grin and kicked his leg out beneath the board, sending a splash of water in Annie’s direction. “You’re annoying.”

Annie’s eyes widened in feigned shock as she raised her hands in mock surrender. “Oh, I’m annoying?”

Finnick’s grin slipped, and he leaned forward, paddling out toward the approaching set. “Annoying,” he repeated, his arms slicing through the water as he gained speed.

Behind him, he could hear Annie laughing, her voice a bright, clear note that echoed against the waves. And for a moment, as he paddled out, the water rushing past him, the wind whipping against his skin, Finnick almost felt like himself again. Like the Finnick he’d been before the Capitol. Before Cornelia Flickerman and her wide-eyed smile and her stupid, shiny charm. Before all of it.

November, 67 ADD

Cornelia had spent most of the evening reminding herself that the Capitol was full of far more interesting things than Finnick Odair. She was stubborn, yes. Persistent, certainly. But dense? No. She knew when to give up, when to move on, even if it took her a little longer to accept than most. It wasn’t in her nature to abandon something— or someone— she found intriguing. But Finnick had made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested, and Cornelia wasn’t going to keep embarrassing herself.

So, she set her sights elsewhere, namely the Templesmith girls. Adorabella had finally stopped drawing her eyeliner halfway to her hairline and toned down the glitter enough that her face didn’t resemble a disco ball. Cornelia had to admit, she looked almost cute now, her nasally voice less grating, her demeanor more balanced. Precious would probably like her, if they ever stuck around in the same circle long enough to chat.

Cornelia mostly nodded along, smiling whenever Adorabella looked at her, the words filtering through like a soft hum. At least she didn’t have to think too hard about how to respond— Adorabella liked to hear herself talk and didn’t need much prompting.

Finnick was somewhere in the room. He always was. And if she were the girl she used to be, she might have spent the entire evening orbiting around him, making excuses to bump into him, to strike up conversation, to giggle too loudly and make him look at her. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. Or at least, she was trying not to be.

Meanwhile, said boy was standing with a group of Capitol elites, feigning interest as someone launched into an impassioned rant about shellfish shortages. He was still holding the same glass of sparkling cider from half an hour ago, swirling it absently as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes scanned the room restlessly, seeking a familiar face, but he didn’t know whose.

His gaze caught on Diamond and Precious, standing near a glass-lit tree that pulsed with shifting colors. They were laughing, holding tiny silver plates filled with finger foods— bits of cheese and bon bons. Finnick felt a strange wave of annoyance when he noticed Cornelia wasn’t with them. She was always with them, leading their group like a ringleader with a glimmering baton. He couldn’t help but think back to the last few parties, where her absence had been noticeable, even though he didn’t know why it should matter.

Why did he even care? Why was he even looking for her? The thought made his throat feel tight. Against his better judgement, he took a deep, steadying breath and let his feet carry him closer to Diamond and Precious, as though he had a right to be there, as though he belonged in their space.

Diamond spotted him first and beamed, her white teeth glittering like the diamonds crusted along the straps of her dress. “Finnick Odair,” she said, drawing out his name as though she was trying it on for size. “What are you doing over here?”

Finnick hesitated, feeling a little foolish for wandering over. “Just… needed a break from the conversation,” he replied, hoping it didn’t sound as lame as it felt.

Precious and Diamond exchanged a look, a flash of mischief passing between them that made Finnick’s skin crawl. They were always sharing some secret, these Capitol girls, always exchanging glances that said more than their words ever did.

Precious popped a bon bon into her mouth and chewed dramatically, eyelids fluttering as though in ecstasy. “You know, if you wanted to hang out with us, all you had to do was ask,” she said, voice sticky-sweet.

Finnick’s gaze slid away, down to his glass. He could feel heat rising in his cheeks, and he hated it. “Yeah, well,” he muttered, “thought I’d make your night by gracing you with my presence.”

Precious and Diamond laughed, too loudly and too close, the sound echoing like glass shattering against his eardrums. Finnick swallowed, the sweetness of the drink turning to bile in his mouth. He couldn’t look at them. Couldn’t look at anyone. It was like the walls were closing in, like the noise was getting louder and louder until he could barely think—

“Hey,” he said abruptly, his voice sharper than he intended. “Where’s Cornelia?”

Precious made a gagging sound, rolling her eyes. “She got pulled over by the Templesmith girls. Probably dying of boredom by now. Poor thing.”

Finnick said nothing. His gaze drifted over the crowd, his eyes sweeping the room as though drawn by a magnet. And there she was— Cornelia, emerging from a cluster of Templesmith girls, the bright hot pink of her dress glowing like a neon sign in the midst of a sea of silvers and golds and muted jewel tones.

She was smiling too hard, her laugh too loud, too bright, as she waved to Amata and Ava and Adorabella. The way her shoulders were pulled back, the way her fingers twitched as she lifted a hand to wave— it was all too practiced, too deliberate. A doll on strings. And when she turned away from the girls, her smile fell so quickly that it looked like it hurt.

Finnick rolled his eyes, annoyance prickling beneath his skin. Of course. Of course he noticed that. Of course he could tell when her laugh was fake, when her smile was strained. He had seen it all before, on his own face, in the mirror. He finished off his drink in one long, burning gulp and turned back to Diamond and Precious, just as Cornelia caught sight of them.

Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, that plastered-on smile reappearing as she hurried over to them, her pink dress swishing around her knees, her curls bouncing like springs with every step. Diamond and Precious turned to greet her with twin expressions of mild disinterest, but Cornelia’s gaze zeroed in on Finnick, and for a moment, just a moment, her eyes softened, and something almost like relief flickered there.

Finnick set his glass down on the table behind him, his jaw tight, his posture stiff. He was tired. Tired of this room, of these people, of the way everything felt so false and so heavy, like he was drowning in perfume and glitter and forced laughter. And now Cornelia was standing in front of him, still smiling that too-bright, too-fake smile, and Finnick could feel his shoulders tensing beneath his suit jacket.

Cornelia’s smile was a fragile, glittering thing. It sat perched on her lips like a decoration, shiny and stiff, her eyes squinting up at Finnick in a way that didn’t quite reach them. Her cheeks ached from holding it there, and she didn’t realize she was doing it until her jaw started to burn.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, voice pitched just a touch too high, too bright, like a toy bird wound up to sing. There was a bite beneath the bubbly tone, a flicker of something sharp and raw that slipped out before she could reel it back in.

Finnick noticed it. Of course he did. And for some reason, it made him want to grin. She was annoyed, actually annoyed, the kind of annoyance that cracked through her usual Capitol polish and showed something underneath. Something real. And Finnick liked that. He liked that she wasn’t as perfect and poised as she pretended to be, that her edges weren’t as smooth as she tried to make them. Maybe that meant she was as exhausted as he was. Maybe that meant she was just as fed up with pretending.

Still, he shouldn’t have liked it. Shouldn’t have been looking for cracks in the glossy, glittering surface she put on. Shouldn’t have been standing there, lingering around her like a dog hoping for scraps. But he was, and he didn’t know why.

“Just checking to see how the group was running without you,” Finnick said, his lips quirking into a crooked, lazy grin. His words were casual, but his eyes were sharper than they should have been, watching her too closely. “Guess it’s still running just fine.”

Cornelia blinked, her expression caught somewhere between confusion and amusement, her head tilting slightly to the side. And then she laughed— a high, sharp laugh that broke midway through and turned into a snort. A real, honest-to-goodness snort. It cut through the air like a hiccup, and Cornelia’s eyes went wide as though she’d just blurted a secret.

“Oh my gosh,” she gasped, slapping a manicured hand over her mouth, her cheeks flooding with color as she pressed her fingers against her lips. Her eyes darted from Finnick’s face to Diamond’s, to Precious’s, back to Finnick’s, as if searching for some clue as to how mortified she should feel.

Diamond and Precious looked at each other, one eyebrow raised, the other arched in a perfectly synchronized Capitol sneer. Diamond’s glossy pink lips twitched, and she leaned in toward Precious, her voice dropping into a stage whisper. “Well,” she said, drawing the word out like a piece of taffy, “I think we’ll just… leave you two to it.”

Precious let out a light, airy laugh that wasn’t really a laugh at all, more like the tinkling of wind chimes, and the two girls floated off into the crowd, their glittering gowns catching the light as they moved, leaving a trail of perfume and smugness in their wake.

Finnick watched them go, his lips still curved into a half-smile, the dregs of his drink swirling in his glass. He turned back to Cornelia, and now that they were alone, now that there was no one left to witness whatever this was, his shoulders relaxed. Just a little.

Cornelia dropped her hand from her mouth, still staring up at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, as though she couldn’t quite believe what had just happened. And then Finnick’s shoulders started to shake, his chest rising and falling with the beginnings of a laugh. A real laugh. A laugh that was deep and low and unexpected, a laugh that was raspy and unpolished and real.

Cornelia’s mouth fell open, her eyes growing even wider as she gaped at him. “Oh my gosh!” she said, her voice a frantic, breathless whisper, as though he’d just sprouted a second head. “Stop! It isn’t that funny!”

But Finnick was already shaking his head, his laughter rolling out of him in waves, the tension bleeding from his body with every exhale. He leaned forward slightly, his free hand bracing against his knee as he struggled to catch his breath, the glass of golden liquid still dangling from his other hand.

Cornelia watched him, her expression softening, her own lips pulling up at the corners in a reluctant, bemused smile. For a moment, she forgot that she was supposed to be mad at him. For a moment, she forgot that she was supposed to be moving on, that she was supposed to be redirecting her attention to other things, other people, other boys who weren’t so… so… impossible.

“Seriously,” she said, her voice lower now, her tone almost conspiratorial. “It’s not that funny. You’re making me feel like an idiot.”

Finnick straightened, his laughter tapering off into a breathy chuckle, his cheeks still flushed with amusement, his eyes glittering as he looked down at her. There was something softer in his gaze now, something warmer and less guarded, as though the laugh had cracked open some door that had been locked shut for months.

“Oh,” he said, his voice lighter than it had been in weeks, his grin lopsided. “Trust me, it was funny.”

Cornelia’s eyes narrowed, but she was smiling now, really smiling, the kind of smile that dimpled her cheeks and crinkled her eyes, the kind of smile that wasn’t plastered on like Capitol makeup. “You’re the worst,” she said, her voice playfully accusatory, her hands fluttering at her sides as though she didn’t know what to do with them.

Finnick just shook his head, still grinning, still looking at her like she was some strange, glittery creature that had just wandered into his orbit. “Yeah,” he said, his voice softening. “I know.”

And for a moment, just a moment, the room seemed to blur around them. The noise of the party faded into the background, the clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter becoming nothing more than static. It was just the two of them standing there, staring at each other, the world around them dissolving into a haze of pink silk and golden light.

Then someone shouted Finnick’s name from across the room, and the spell broke. Finnick’s eyes flicked away, his jaw tensing as he straightened, his expression snapping back into something cooler, more detached. He cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“Well,” he said, voice tight again, the lazy Capitol drawl slipping back into place. “Better go see what they want.”

Cornelia’s smile wavered, just a fraction, her lashes fluttering as she pulled herself back to reality. “Yeah,” she said, her tone as falsely bright as it had been when he’d first approached. “Better go. Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

Finnick gave her one last look, his eyes flicking over her face, lingering for a beat too long, as though memorizing the way her cheeks flushed beneath the ballroom lights. And then he turned away, the smile already fading from his lips as he slipped back into the crowd, shoulders squaring, spine straightening, armor back in place.

Cornelia watched him go, the pink silk of her dress rustling softly around her legs, her hand still pressed lightly against her stomach as though trying to hold something fragile inside her from falling apart.

February, 68 ADD

The starfish charm had found a new home on an anklet that Annie had made Finnick for Christmas. The anklet was woven from a thin leather cord from an old belt that Annie’s father had long since outgrown— one of those worn, honey-brown ones that had hung for years on the same nail by the back door of their house, still dusty with salt from when he used to fish, before the boat was sold and the nets were patched no more. Annie had cut it down herself with a pair of rusted shears and braided it into three narrow strands, her fingers moving slowly but with purpose. She had strung bits of seashells onto it, some fragments of a cockle and a scallop, their broken edges dulled by time but still sharp enough to press faint ridges into Finnick’s skin with every step. He didn’t mind. He told her he liked how it made him feel like he could still feel the sea, even on dry land. In truth, it simply made him feel like someone remembered he was from the sea.

After a month, however, three of the shells had cracked and slipped from the cord, falling somewhere between steps he couldn’t retrace, lost to the shoreline or the space beneath his bed or the crowded halls of a train he didn’t want to remember. The only thing that remained was the starfish charm. He hadn’t meant to keep it, not really, but it felt wrong to throw it away— like losing it would give her more power over him, not less. And so, when the anklet lost its shells, he slid the charm into place, tying it onto the leather cord with a piece of waxed thread he found in the bottom of a drawer. Annie never asked where it had come from. Finnick was thankful for that.

Now, the anklet dug gently into the skin just above his ankle as he sat at the dining table, picking half-heartedly at a piece of seaweed bread toast. The crust had hardened in the air, the texture dense and fibrous beneath his fingers, leaving behind green flakes that crumbled with every absentminded tug. He didn’t feel particularly hungry, but the bread had been toasted already, and food— real food— was too precious in District 4 to ignore. Still, it tasted like the sea and the past, and both sat heavily in his mouth.

Behind him, the rhythmic rasp of a straw broom kept time with the static crackle of the television. His mother was sweeping again, her movements tighter and quicker than usual. Finnick kept his gaze on his plate, the muscles in his jaw clenching and releasing. He knew why she was sweeping faster, knew that she was aiming her focus anywhere but at the screen in the next room, where the living area bled noise and garish color into their modest kitchen.

“… and in other news,” Caesar Flickerman’s voice rang out, “District 4’s own darling, Finnick Odair, dazzled yet again during his latest visit to the Capitol! Our heartthrob Victor was spotted with not one, not two, but five different companions during his stay. Two dashing gentlemen and three radiant ladies, though we’re told he didn't stay the night with all of them…”

Laughter from Claudius Templesmith echoed through the speakers like a gust of wind down a cold tunnel. The comment landed like a slap. Finnick closed his eyes for half a second before prying a strip of crust from his toast with his thumbnail. The anklet shifted as he adjusted in his chair, the starfish charm tapping faintly against his shin. Tap. Tap. Tap.

His mother hadn’t said a word since sitting down with her broom nearly half an hour ago. She still hadn’t. But the pace of her sweeping had changed— the strokes coming faster, more erratic, as if she could banish the sound of Caesar’s voice with sheer force of will.

Finnick dared a glance at her, at the way her shoulders stiffened each time the Capitol man’s voice rose in that falsely delighted lilt. Her eyes stayed locked on the floor, focused on the imaginary grit between the boards. The lines around her mouth had deepened. Her gray-streaked hair was pulled back into a tight braid, but the front wisps clung to her forehead with the moisture of exertion or restraint. She hadn’t looked up once. That almost hurt more than if she had.

He didn’t know if he was more embarrassed or guilty. Embarrassed that his mother— his mother— had to hear the Capitol speak of her son like a piece of communal property, or guilty that he hadn’t found a way to shield her from it. He wondered, not for the first time, if she blamed him. If when she heard Caesar’s voice talking about five companions in one trip— two men, three women— she thought “this is what my son has become,” or worse, “this is who he was always going to be.”

The bread turned to paste in his mouth. He stood, picking up his plate, and walked to the small waste bin beneath the sink. He dropped the toast in without a word. He didn’t look at his mother as he passed her. Didn’t trust himself to see her eyes and still make it to the door.

Outside, the air was sharp with winter sea mist, stinging his nostrils and peeling his eyes wide. The morning tide was low, and the horizon looked closer than usual— like the world had shrunk while he wasn’t watching. He didn’t stop to take in the view. His teeth clenched tight as he stepped onto the sand-worn path that led toward the docks. With each step, the anklet pressed against his ankle, the seashell charm digging into his skin like a tiny blade made of memory.

For a moment, just a brief, irrational moment, he considered ripping it off. Just pulling at the knot until the cord gave way and flinging it into the sea. The thought of it tumbling down, salt eating away at the shine of the starfish until it was nothing more than rusted scrap. But he didn’t. Because that would mean acknowledging that the charm meant something— that it had become more than a trinket.

He gritted his teeth harder. Shackled, that’s how it felt. Shackled by something as delicate and deliberate as a girl’s handmade anklet. By Annie’s quiet love and Cornelia’s thoughtless desire. By the way the Capitol had turned his body into something they could auction and decorate, lace in gold and peel like fruit. Shackled by his own silence, the way he had to smile and nod and let them say what they wanted while pretending it didn’t hurt.

The starfish charm glittered faintly in the morning sun. Finnick could feel the indent it was leaving in his skin. It was such a small thing. So small. But somehow it felt heavier than the ocean. He knew Cornelia hadn’t meant to brand him when she gave it to him. She was fourteen, Capitol-born and bred, as light and airy as a soap bubble. She reminded him of a dandelion someone had blown all the wishes off of, nothing left but the bright stem and the bud empty. 

Now, every time the charm tapped against his leg, it reminded him not of luck but of how thoroughly the Capitol had blurred the line between gift and obligation. Between affection and transaction.

He stepped harder into the ground as he walked, trying to shake the feeling from his body, trying to drive the image of his mother’s clenched hands from his mind. Trying to forget the way Caesar’s voice could strip him bare in his own kitchen. The ocean wind pushed back against him, tangling through his hair, and he didn’t stop walking, didn’t let himself.

April, 68 ADD

Cornelia’s fifteenth birthday party was in, exactly, one month from now. To her, this was an even bigger feat than her fourteenth birthday. Or her thirteenth. Fifteen was a prime number, a significant number, a number that meant she was officially halfway to thirty, and wasn’t that something? Wasn’t that monumental? Her fifteenth birthday party had to be everything. And that started with the dress.

Cornelia stood amid a sea of silk and tulle and sequins, fabrics in every hue from mint to fuchsia hanging from golden racks that glistened under the boutique’s soft, flattering lights. The air was thick with the scent of overpriced perfume and the crisp tang of freshly steamed satin. Precious and Adorabella flanked one side of the boutique, clutching hangers weighed down with potential gowns, while Diamond stood a few paces away, holding up a bejeweled corseted dress.

Cornelia’s manicured nail pointed at the dress in Diamond’s hands, her nose scrunching as she shook her head, blonde curls bouncing with the motion. “Yes, no, and— oh my gosh, Adorabella, it’s like you don’t even know me! No! Put that back on the rack!”

Adorabella’s cheeks flushed, and she quickly lowered the monstrosity in question— a silver concoction with a neckline that looked more suited for a pageant than a party. Her lips pressed together as she hooked the dress back onto the rack with a soft, awkward clink.

Precious leaned over, giving Adorabella’s arm a gentle pat. “You get used to it,” she said with a grin, her teeth white and blinding beneath the boutique’s chandelier lights.

Adorabella glanced over, a look of half-grateful, half-exasperated relief passing over her features as she tried to smile. “Doesn’t she ever—”

“Nope,” Precious said, cutting her off with a knowing cackle. “Not even for a second.”

Cornelia either didn’t hear them or chose to ignore them. She was too busy flicking through the dresses on the rack before her, her fingers grazing over a swath of silk in a teal so bright it nearly burned her retinas. She made a small, dissatisfied noise, somewhere between a hum and a huff, and tossed the gown over to Diamond.

“Hold this,” Cornelia ordered, already moving on to the next section, eyes darting between fabrics as if she were scanning for gold amidst the rubble.

Diamond caught the dress with a yelp, the hanger slipping through her fingers before she clamped down on it, her pink, almond-shaped nails digging into the silk.

Cornelia was halfway through yanking another hideous feathered concoction off a rack when her eyes drifted to the glass-front windows of the boutique. She paused, the dress held loosely in her hand, her gaze snagging on the reflection of a familiar face.

Finnick was moving through the crowd outside, his shoulders tense beneath the perfectly fitted Capitol jacket that draped over his broad frame. His hair was tousled in a way that was probably styled to look effortless but was more likely just a result of too many hands running through it. His jaw was set, his gaze forward, and there was a weariness in the way he walked, like every step cost him more than it should.

Cornelia’s spine straightened, her eyes widening, her cheeks flushing a soft, dewy pink that nearly matched the gloss on her lips. Without a second thought, she threw the dress in Diamond’s direction with a flippant, “One sec!”

The hanger smacked against Diamond’s chest before she scrambled to catch it, nearly dropping the teal gown in the process. “Uh, what—”

But Cornelia was already gone, heels clicking against the marble tile as she flounced toward the door, the scent of her rose-petal perfume trailing in her wake. The glass doors swung open with a gentle whoosh, the noise of the street flooding in.

Finnick was walking just a few paces away, his jaw tight, his gaze focused straight ahead. Cornelia opened her mouth to call out to him, but then she hesitated, the word catching on the tip of her tongue. What was she going to say? What was she going to do? Did he even want to talk to her? Probably not. Probably definitely not. But still.

Before she could lose her nerve, she skipped forward, her heels clacking against the pavement as she pushed through a trio of women draped in feathers and lace. “Finnick!”

He didn’t turn. He kept walking, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, his jaw grinding. Cornelia swallowed, her smile faltering for just a second before she lifted her chin, forcing herself to ignore the sting of his cold shoulder.

“Finnick!” she called again, louder this time.

This time, he stopped. His shoulders stiffened, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Cornelia’s heart thrummed painfully in her chest as she waited. And then, slowly, he turned.

His gaze found hers. His jaw was clenched, and for a second, she wondered if he was going to just keep walking, pretend he didn’t know her. But then he lifted his chin, the hint of a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“Cornelia,” he said, his tone flat, as though her name was a chore to say.

Cornelia’s smile stretched too wide, too bright. She took a step closer, as she spoke, “Hey! What… what are you doing here? Are you shopping? You should come inside! We’re picking out dresses for my birthday party!”

Finnick’s eyes flicked to the boutique behind her, his gaze skimming over Diamond and Precious, who were both staring through the glass, Diamond with her mouth slightly open and Precious with her arms crossed over her chest. Adorabella stood behind them, clutching a dress to her chest and glancing nervously between them like a deer caught in headlights.

Finnick turned back to Cornelia, his jaw working beneath his skin. “Thanks,” he said, “but I’ve got other plans.”

Cornelia’s face fell, but she was quick to catch herself, her chin lifting, her shoulders squaring as she forced another laugh. “Oh, right, of course,” she said, her tone fluttery, too high, too bright. “Busy guy. Big star. Lots of people to see. Lots of… plans.”

Finnick’s eyes narrowed, his mouth pressing into a thin line as he nodded, a single, curt motion. “Yeah,” he said, and his gaze dropped, scanning the street behind her, searching for something or someone— anyone but her.

Cornelia swallowed, the smile starting to slip, her hands balling into fists at her sides. “Well,” she said, voice too loud, too cheerful. “I’ll see you at my party, then?”

Finnick’s jaw tightened, the muscle twitching beneath his skin. “Yeah,” he said, the word as empty as a Capitol promise. “Sure.”

And then he was turning away, his shoulders stiff, his stride long and purposeful as he moved through the crowd, disappearing into the throng of glittering Capitol citizens without so much as a backward glance.

Cornelia stood there, her chest tight, her throat thick, her hands still clenched at her sides as she watched him go. And she hated herself for it, for still watching, for still hoping. She hated herself for caring when he so clearly didn’t.

May, 68 ADD

The party was perfect. Everyone Cornelia cared to attend was present, the cake— ten layers, glitter icing, and pearl trim— turned out exactly as she had envisioned, and her dress was tailored to fit her exact measurements. After she had drunk two vomitoriums after eating too many slices at the cake testing, that is.

The dress she wore for the occasion was a confection of teal tulle and sequins, the bodice tight enough to cinch her waist but not enough to restrict her breathing— something her mother had taken great care to ensure. Her hair was a pale teal, cascading down her back in soft waves that glowed under the lights. She had spent hours at the salon perfecting the color, and it was still just slightly too blue for her liking, but she told herself it was fine. It was all fine.

She lifted her glass of sparkling pink lemonade, the bubbles fizzing against her lips as she took a delicate sip. Diamond and Precious flanked her, both of them leaning in closer to hear Adorabella, who was recounting some ridiculous story about a boy who had tried to flirt with her by comparing her complexion to the marble floors they were standing on.

“I mean,” Adorabella continued, her eyes wide and glittering beneath a heavy coat of violet shadow, “I understand the sentiment, but at least be poetic about it! I mean, floors! Floors!’”

Cornelia’s laugh burst forth before she could stop it, high and loud, the kind of laugh that made people turn to look, made them wonder what was so funny, made them want to be in on the joke. She tipped her head back, feeling the lemonade bubble up her nose, and pressed a hand to her chest, wheezing.

“Oh, Adorabella,” she said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, “you are too much.”

Diamond and Precious chuckled, too, though their eyes remained fixed on Cornelia, waiting to see what she’d say next, what she’d think next. They always did that, watching her like she was the sun they orbited around.

But then Diamond’s eyes drifted to the far side of the room, past the cluster of girls gathered near the punch fountain, and her brow furrowed. “Hey,” she said, nudging Cornelia with her elbow, nearly sloshing Cornelia’s drink. “When was the last time we saw Viridi?”

Cornelia’s smile didn’t falter, but a tiny flicker of something passed behind her eyes, quick and sharp as a needle. She shrugged, the motion casual, too casual, and took another sip of her drink. “Oh, you know Viridi,” she said, her voice breezy, light. “She’s probably busy. Or something.”

Adorabella frowned, her mouth forming a perfect, glossy pout. “Who’s Viridi?”

Diamond leaned closer, her eyes narrowing as she tried to spot the girl in question. “She was one of our friends,” she said, her voice just a touch too loud, too knowing. 

“Oh,” Adorabella said, her pout deepening. “Then where is she?”

Precious snorted, one manicured hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Probably where she’s always been. Lurking in the corners, sulking. You know how she is.”

Cornelia smiled, the expression stiff and thin, the corners of her mouth aching. “I’m sure she’s just around here somewhere,” she said, trying to make her voice sound as carefree as before. “Maybe I’ll go say hi.”

Before any of them could respond, she set down her glass and moved away from the group, her dress trailing behind her in a froth of teal tulle. Her heart hammered in her chest as she weaved through the throng of guests, her eyes scanning the crowd until she caught sight of a familiar head of sleek black hair.

There she was— Viridi, standing with a group of girls near the dessert table. The other girls were Capitol girls, with their feathered hairpieces and extravagant lashes, their bodies wrapped in skintight, holographic fabrics that shimmered like fish scales under the light. Viridi didn’t quite fit in with them. Not really. She was taller than the others, her dress a deep emerald that clung to her narrow frame, her expression haughty as she listened to one of the other girls speak.

Cornelia swallowed, lifting a hand to wave. “Viridi!” she called, her voice pitching up a little too high, a little too bright. “Hey!”

But Viridi didn’t turn. She kept talking, her head tilted toward the girl beside her, a pretty blonde with glittering eyes and a smirk that was just a shade too cruel.

“Honestly,” the blonde said, her voice lilting, carrying over the din of the party, “this party is so tacky. I mean, glitter icing? Really?”

Cornelia stopped in her tracks, her hand falling back to her side as the blood drained from her face. Her mouth parted, but no words came out, and the room around her seemed to go soft, the sounds of the party blurring into one steady, unrelenting hum.

Viridi snickered, twirling a lock of her sleek black hair around one finger. “Almost as tacky as Cornelia’s new hair color,” she said, her voice dripping with syrupy sweetness. “I mean, teal? What was she thinking?”

The other girls burst into laughter, their giggles like the clinking of champagne glasses, sharp and shattering. Cornelia felt her eyes sting, the corners burning with unshed tears as her nails dug into her palms, hard enough to leave crescent-shaped indents.

She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. She wanted to flip the punch fountain and hurl the glittering, ten-layer cake right at Viridi’s smug, smiling face. But she did none of those things. Instead, she swallowed, forced herself to stand a little taller, and turned sharply on her heel, moving toward the glass doors that led to the patio outside.

She could hear them laughing still, that shrill, awful sound echoing behind her as she pushed through the doors and stepped out into the cool night air. The sky above was velvet black, dotted with Capitol hovercrafts and blimps that blinked with tiny, distant lights. The patio stretched out before her, the marble cool beneath her feet, the fountain bubbling softly to her left.

Cornelia stood there, alone, the night air prickling her bare arms. She felt the first tear slip down her cheek and quickly swiped it away, furious with herself for crying, for caring, for letting Viridi get to her. She had thought that Viridi would be happy to see her. She had thought that maybe, just maybe, they could laugh and gossip and pretend that nothing had changed. But everything had changed. And Viridi wasn’t even pretending to hide it.

Inside, Finnick was standing near the refreshment table, a glass of sparkling water in one hand, his jaw set as he pretended to listen to the man droning on beside him. His eyes had been scanning the room, the crowd, the faces, all while his mind wandered elsewhere. And then he saw Cornelia nearly running across the room, her head ducked down, her arms wrapped around herself as she slipped through the doors and out to the patio. Finnick’s brow furrowed, a faint line forming between his eyes as he watched her go. What happened? What could have made her run off like that? And why did he care?

He told himself to look away, to mind his own business, to forget about her. But he couldn’t shake the image of her wide, glistening eyes, the way she had clutched her arms, the way her shoulders had trembled ever so slightly. He hated himself for it, but he found himself setting down the glass and turning toward the patio doors, his steps slow and measured, his jaw tight as he stepped onto the patio, the heavy glass doors clicking shut behind him.

Cornelia was pacing in a tight, frantic line near the marble fountain, her teal gown swishing around her ankles like restless waves. Her arms moved in agitated bursts, fingers fluttering like wounded birds as she dabbed at her eyes, her cheeks, her jaw, as though trying to erase every trace of moisture before it could solidify into evidence. Her eyes were wide, glassy, and rimmed with a faint, shimmery pink— the same pink as the lemonade she’d been sipping earlier, the same pink as the sunset-streaked clouds drifting lazily overhead.

Finnick stood still, his hand lingering on the glass door handle, watching her with a heavy, sinking feeling in his chest. He didn’t know why he had followed her out here. He told himself it was to get away from the crowd, to breathe, to clear his head. But that was a lie, and he knew it.

Cornelia’s head snapped around, catching sight of him, and her whole body tensed. She swiped at her cheeks one last time, hastily, as if she could pretend she hadn’t been crying at all. But it was too late. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes red-rimmed and shining beneath the patio lights. When she spoke, her voice was sharp and too loud, a crack in the smooth veneer of Capitol cheer.

“No,” she said, turning away again, the word coming out like a hiss. “Go away. I can’t deal with you right now. I don’t want to hear any more—”

Finnick pushed away from the door, stepping onto the cool marble, his shoes clicking softly against the polished stone. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low but firm, cutting through her words like a knife through paper. “Why are you crying?”

Cornelia’s spine went rigid, her shoulders drawn up tight as if she could fold in on herself and disappear. Then she shook her head, the motion jerky, too quick, too insistent. “Nothing has happened!” she snapped, her voice pitched high, the words spilling out in a rush. “I’m fine! It was just so loud, my goodness—”

She turned, the skirt of her dress flaring out in a whirl of tulle, her teal hair tumbling over one shoulder in a soft, wind-tousled wave. But when she looked at Finnick, standing there with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dress pants, his mouth set in a firm, unamused line, the words died in her throat.

His expression was blank, almost annoyingly so. His eyes, though, they were sharp. They pinned her to the spot like a butterfly on a corkboard, and she swallowed, hard, feeling suddenly exposed and small under his unyielding stare.

The breeze was cool against her cheeks, raising goosebumps along her bare arms. Cornelia’s jaw clenched, and her nails bit into her palms as she forced herself to hold his gaze, her spine stiff, her lips pressed tight.

“Why are you looking at me like that?!” she snapped, her voice rising, an edge of frustration sharpening each syllable. “I haven’t done anything to you!”

Finnick didn’t respond immediately. He just kept looking at her, his face impassive, the line of his jaw tensing and flexing like he was holding back words he didn’t want to say. Cornelia’s cheeks burned under his gaze, and she wished she could wither away beneath it, dissolve into the marble floor and disappear.

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, the sound sharp, almost impatient. “I know when someone’s lying,” he said, his tone flat, factual, like he was commenting on the weather or listing off the day’s schedule. “You’re lying.”

Cornelia’s throat tightened, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. Finnick kept looking at her, his face a mask of practiced indifference, but there was something there, buried deep beneath the stoic surface— a flicker of concern, maybe. Or maybe she was just imagining it. She swallowed, her tongue darting out to wet her dry, trembling lips. The wind picked up, tugging at her hair and sending a chill down her spine. She hugged herself, her fingers digging into her arms as she dropped her gaze to the floor, the moonlight pooling around her shoes in a puddle of silver.

“I just—” she started, her voice small, fragile, like a porcelain doll balanced on the edge of a shelf. “I don’t think Viridi is my friend anymore.”

The words hung in the air like a fragile, glittering thread, and she felt them slice through her, each syllable a tiny, vicious cut. Saying it out loud made it real, more real than she wanted it to be. And for a moment, she felt as though she might shatter right there on the spot.

But Finnick just stood there, silent and still, his eyes dark as he watched her. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, and that was somehow worse. It made her feel like she was standing naked in front of him, all her silly little hurts and bruises on full display.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke. “Your makeup isn’t messed up.”

Cornelia’s eyes snapped up to his, her lips parting slightly, brows knitting together. “What?”

Finnick’s gaze was steady, unwavering, and his expression softened just the tiniest bit, his lips twitching like he might be fighting a smirk. “Your makeup,” he repeated, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “It’s not messed up.”

Cornelia blinked, her mind scrambling to keep up with his words, to make sense of them. Her cheeks were still wet, her lashes clumped together with unshed tears, and yet…

A slow, hesitant smile spread across her face, and she released a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “I tried a new setting spray today,” she said, her voice trembling just slightly, the words coming out more like a confession than a boast.

Finnick’s lips quirked upward, just a fraction, and he nodded, his hands still shoved deep in his pockets. “Yeah?”

Cornelia nodded too, the tears now drying against her cheeks in streaks against the layer of foundation and blusher. “Yeah." She took a breath, swallowed, then let it out in a shuddery exhale. Her voice was softer now, less shrill and more raw, as if the crying had rubbed her vocal cords raw. “Why did you follow me out here?” she then asked, her words falling between them like a pebble dropped into a still pond. A pause. Then, quieter, “I thought you didn’t like me.”

Finnick’s jaw tensed. He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes dark and unreadable, before looking away. He felt a tight, uncomfortable knot form somewhere in his chest, one he couldn’t quite name. She was right— he didn’t like her. Didn’t like the way she fluttered around the Capitol, all glitz and glitter and giddy squeals. Didn’t like the way she could switch from sugary sweet to sharp as a Capitol knife when she wanted to. Didn’t like the way she watched him with those wide brown eyes, as if he were someone worth knowing.

But there was something about the way she was looking at him now— vulnerable, stripped bare of her Capitol armor— that unsettled him. She looked more like a scared kid than a spoiled princess, and Finnick’s stomach twisted with something he didn’t care to name.

“I don’t like a lot of people in the Capitol,” he said flatly, keeping his tone even and impassive. It wasn’t a lie.

Cornelia nodded, her gaze fixed somewhere behind him, as though she couldn’t bear to look at him directly. The tip of her tongue darted out to wet her lower lip, and she blinked rapidly, as if trying to hold back another round of tears.

“I know,” she said, her voice as thin as the gauzy fabric of her dress. She hesitated, then lifted her chin, her eyes finally meeting his. 

Finnick’s expression didn’t change, but his heart thudded once, heavy and slow, against his ribcage. Did she? Did she really? Did she know what he did, what he had to do, what he was? Did she understand what her father’s friends and clients and colleagues did to him when the cameras were off, when the parties ended, when the curtains closed?

For a moment, he wanted to ask her. Wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, demand that she tell him exactly what she thought she knew, and why she thought she knew it. But he didn’t. Instead, he just stared at her, his jaw working, his fists clenching in the pockets of his suit pants.

“Do you really?” he asked, his voice lower now, rougher.

Cornelia swallowed, her throat working as she nodded once, twice. “I know,” she said again, the words a little stronger this time.

They stood there like that, a silence settling between them that was both heavy and strangely comforting. Finnick’s gaze held hers, searching her face for a lie, for a crack, for some indication that she was just being the silly, oblivious girl he’d always assumed she was. But there was nothing. Just the steady, unwavering way she looked back at him, the wind ruffling her teal hair around her shoulders.

Cornelia sucked in a breath and broke eye contact, looking down at her shoes. The rhinestones on her heels glittered in the moonlight, and she wiggled her toes inside them, feeling suddenly small, suddenly foolish.

“I don’t try to…” she started, her voice wavering. “I don’t mean to be like this. I know that I’m annoying, but—”

“Cornelia,” Finnick said, cutting her off. The way her name came out of his mouth felt foreign, strange. He almost never said it, and now it hung between them like a tightrope, taut and fragile.

She stopped, blinking up at him, her eyes round and glistening. Her lips parted, her shoulders tense, as if she were waiting for the next blow to fall.

Finnick’s jaw flexed. He didn’t know why he’d interrupted her. Maybe because he didn’t want to hear her apologize. Maybe because he didn’t want to listen to her belittle herself, to hear her call herself annoying or needy or anything that felt too close to what everyone else in the Capitol always said about her behind her back. Or maybe it was because seeing her like this— eyes wide and wet, cheeks flushed, mouth set in a trembling line— made him feel like someone had yanked the rug out from under him.

“Forget about Viridi,” he said, his voice a little rough, a little too sharp. “Don’t let her ruin your birthday.”

Cornelia blinked, her expression shifting as the words sunk in. A beat passed. Then another. And then, slowly, something in her eyes cleared. The tight, wounded look in her face loosened, and her lips quirked up in a lopsided, almost mischievous grin.

“You know what?” she said, her tone gaining momentum, her eyes brightening. “Yeah. Yeah! It’s my freaking birthday!”

Finnick’s lips twitched, the beginnings of a reluctant smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Cornelia’s eyes shone, and suddenly she was grabbing his hand, her fingers wrapping around his wrist as she pulled him toward the villa.

“Come on!” she said, her voice breathless and giddy now, like she’d just remembered what parties were supposed to be for. “There’s a chocolate fountain inside, and we haven’t even made it to the dance floor yet, and Precious promised me she’d help me sneak a glass of champagne, and— and—”

Finnick let himself be dragged along, Cornelia’s fingers warm and insistent around his wrist. The doors swung open as they stepped back into the chaos of the party, the music thundering, the lights flashing in kaleidoscopic patterns. The air was thick with the scent of perfume and champagne and too many people pressed too closely together.

And yet, despite it all, Cornelia’s hand was still wrapped around his, her teal hair bouncing against her shoulders as she wove them through the crowd, her laughter bright and loud and a little too forced— but still a laugh. Still something real.

And for once, just this once, Finnick didn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

October, 68 ADD

FINNICK DIDN’T HAVE MANY FRIENDS. Not because he wasn’t likable or didn’t enjoy the company of others— not in the slightest. He knew he was likable, likable enough for Snow to put a high ticket price on his company. Likable enough that a single glance, a flash of teeth, a lazy lean into a chair, could compel sponsors and senators alike to lean forward with their wallets half open. Likable enough to walk into a Capitol parlor and leave with a dozen eyes trailing behind him, hearts fluttering, hands trembling to touch the hem of his cuff.

He just simply preferred to spend whatever time he could in solitude, with either his mother, Mags, or Annie.

However, somehow— perhaps in the same absurd way moss finds its way between the stones on a seawall, stubborn and bright— Cornelia Flickerman had managed to force herself into his orbit. She was a forced proximal friend, someone he turned to when he was in a crowded room in the Capitol and needed someone who wouldn’t stick their tongue down his throat. Though he was sure she wouldn’t be opposed to that happening. Not really. She was all pastel smiles and violet perfume, glitter in the creases of her knuckles, laughter like fizzy water. It was hard to tell what was genuine with Cornelia. Not because she was cruel— at least, not always— but because she was Capitol. And the Capitol had a way of painting every emotion until it was so lacquered and iridescent that one couldn’t tell if it was real or manufactured under fluorescent lights.

Finnick sat in the sand, elbows propped on his knees, shoulders slouched, his bare feet buried beneath the cool granules. The wind tousled his hair, lifting the strands from his brow and casting them back in disarray. He watched the waves without really seeing them, his gaze fixed on the horizon but his mind thousands of miles away, back in the Capitol where every room was loud and suffocating and reeked of expensive perfume and deceit. Where girls with too-bright hair and too-sweet smiles tried to act like they understood anything about him at all.

Footsteps crunched behind him, light and familiar. Finnick’s jaw tightened slightly, but he didn’t turn around. Not even when Annie lowered herself into the sand beside him, her legs folded beneath her, the hem of her dress trailing in the wet sand.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The waves continued to lap against the shore, rolling and pulling away in a gentle, hypnotic rhythm. Annie picked at a frayed thread on her skirt, her gaze also fixed on the horizon, as if she too were trying to lose herself somewhere in the distance.

“They were talking about you,” she said, her voice quiet but steady, carrying easily in the empty morning air.

Finnick’s fingers twitched against his thigh, but he kept his eyes forward. He knew what she meant without asking. The Capitol. The headlines. His visit. That was what they called it. A visit. As if it were a choice. As if it were a weekend trip to some glittering resort and not a nightmare wrapped in silk sheets and drenched in champagne.

“I bet they were,” he said flatly, a bitter edge to his tone. “I’m sure all of Panem talks about it.”

Annie’s head turned slightly, her red hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. She watched him, her eyes solemn and unblinking, taking in the lines of his face— the tension around his mouth, the shadows beneath his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched tight enough to crack.

A beat passed. The tide rolled in, tugging the edge of Annie’s skirt. She didn’t seem to notice.

“Does it bother you?” she asked, her voice as soft as the wind threading through the dunes.

Finnick let out a slow breath, his shoulders slumping a fraction. He felt the words hovering at the back of his throat, heavy and sour and too dangerous to say aloud. It bothered him, yes. It ate at him. It gnawed at him from the inside out, left him raw and hollow and aching. But he couldn’t say that. Couldn’t say anything, really. Because what would be the point? What good would it do?

“No,” he said, and the lie tasted like salt. “Not really.”

Annie didn’t move, didn’t speak. She just kept watching him, her brow furrowing slightly, as if she could see right through him. Finnick hated that she could. Hated that he was so easy for her to read, so transparent and exposed. He was supposed to be better than this. Stronger than this. More charming, more put-together, more invincible.

And then her gaze dropped to his ankle.

Finnick followed her line of sight, his chest tightening as he realized what she was looking at. The anklet. It was worn now, the leather soft and almost fragile from too much exposure to saltwater and sun. And there, dangling from the loop of twine, was the starfish charm.

Annie tilted her head, her hair falling across her cheek. “Why do you have a charm like that?” she asked, her voice lilting with mild confusion, as if it were the most innocuous question in the world.

Finnick’s jaw clenched. He swallowed, the muscles in his throat working, his eyes fixed on the charm as it swung lightly against his ankle, catching the sunlight. 

 It didn’t match the anklet. It didn’t match anything about him.

“It’s just… something someone gave me,” he said, forcing his voice to sound casual, disinterested. He tried to shrug, tried to look like he didn’t care, like it didn’t matter.

Annie’s eyes lingered on the charm for a moment longer, her brow furrowing slightly as though she were trying to work something out. But then she dropped it, her gaze lifting back to the sea. “It’s nice,” she said simply, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them.

Finnick’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing. 

November, 68 ADD

The Victory Tour parties were the same every year for Finnick. He arrived at the Presidential Mansion, was swarmed by both current and potential clients, and left for his hotel room— either before or after seeing the clients for that night. Tonight was no different.

He stood in the center of the courtyard, his back to the marble fountain, the cool spray of water barely touching him as he held a glass of champagne and forced a lazy, amused smile. The woman before him was leaning in too close, her crimson lips curved in a feline smile as she trailed her manicured fingers up the length of his arm.

“You must be exhausted, darling,” she purred, her nails dragging a slow, deliberate path from his wrist to his shoulder. “All these parties. All these admirers.”

Her hand rose, and she brushed a strand of hair back from his forehead, her nails grazing his temple in a way that made Finnick’s skin crawl. He forced himself to stand still, to remain pliant, to keep that easy smile plastered on his face.

“You know me,” he said, his voice low and smooth, the words slipping out like liquid silk. “I can go all night.”

The woman’s eyes gleamed, and she leaned in, her breath hot against his ear as she whispered something Finnick didn’t hear. He’d already slipped away, mentally. Floated out of his body, out of this courtyard, out of this gilded prison. He stared blankly over the woman’s shoulder, his jaw locked. He could feel her nails tracing the back of his neck, her words brushing against his skin like hot, sticky air.

He was anywhere but there in that courtyard. He was back in the waves off the coast of 4, his feet buried in the sand, the wind whipping his hair against his cheek, the salt air sharp and clean and real. Or maybe he was with Mags, sitting at her kitchen table, peeling shrimp while Annie told him stories about her father’s latest fishing excursion. Or maybe he was nowhere at all, a ghost, an empty shell, a beautiful thing to be touched and paraded and consumed.

“Hey!”

The voice cut through the fog, bright and clear and unmistakable.

“Hey! There you are!”

Finnick’s head snapped up, his vision sharpening, the ballroom slamming back into focus. Cornelia  was making her way toward them, her orange hair burning against the sea of soft pinks and blues and silvers. The dress she wore was the color of rose petals, fitted at the bodice with a skirt that flared out in layers of tulle. Her lips were painted a glossy, blinding fuchsia, her smile as dazzling and overdone as everything else about her.

Cornelia’s eyes landed on him, and her smile widened. She looked between him and the woman, her brows lifting, her expression all wide-eyed innocence.

“Sorry,” she said, her voice chipper and lilting as though she were interrupting a casual conversation between friends. “Am I interrupting something? I thought you wanted to dance next!”

Finnick’s stomach twisted, his pulse spiking as he felt the woman’s hand freeze on the back of his neck. He forced himself to breathe, to keep his face neutral as he looked at the woman, gauging her reaction. Her smile was tight now, her eyes narrowing slightly as she gave Cornelia a slow, assessing glance, the kind one might give a fly that had just landed in their glass of champagne.

“Oh, I didn’t realize Finnick had made plans,” she said, her voice syrupy sweet but tinged with a razor’s edge. Her nails pressed just a fraction harder into the back of Finnick’s neck, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from flinching.

Cornelia’s smile only widened. “Oh, you know Finnick,” she said, her laugh light and airy, her gaze locked on the woman’s face. “He’s so forgetful. Isn’t that right, Finnick?”

Finnick swallowed, his jaw tight as he nodded. “Right,” he said, his voice flat but steady. “Completely forgot.”

The woman’s smile stayed frozen in place for a beat too long, her eyes shifting back to Finnick, her nails releasing his neck slowly, as if reluctant to let go. “Well,” she said, her tone clipped. “Enjoy your dance.”

Finnick didn’t give her a chance to say anything else. He grabbed Cornelia’s hand, his grip firm, and turned on his heel, leading her through the throngs of Capitol elites. His heart was pounding, the blood rushing in his ears as they weaved through the courtyard, past clusters of men and women in glittering gowns and masks, past trays of sparkling champagne and chocolate truffles, past flashing cameras and bright, false smiles.

Cornelia was talking as they moved, her voice a cheerful babble that Finnick couldn’t focus on. His mind was a chaotic mess of what-ifs and oh-shits and how-bads, his pulse hammering against his throat as he tightened his grip on Cornelia’s hand and pushed through a set of glass doors, leading her out into the garden behind the mansion.

The air outside was cooler, crisper. The night was dark, the sky a velvet expanse dotted with stars. The garden was a maze of hedges and fountains, the paths winding through rose bushes and marble statues, the scent of jasmine hanging heavy in the air.

Finnick let go of Cornelia’s hand as they came to a stop near a cluster of white hydrangeas. He shoved a hand through his hair, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Cornelia was still talking, still smiling, her eyes bright and oblivious as she continued to ramble on, as though they were just two friends catching up and not two kids standing in the shadow of a nightmare.

“Why did you do that?” Finnick’s voice cut through her words like a knife, sharp and frayed and too loud in the stillness of the garden.

Cornelia blinked, her smile faltering as she tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean?”

Finnick clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “Why did you interrupt?” he demanded, his voice dropping to a rough whisper. “You can’t do that. You can’t—” He swallowed, his throat tight, his eyes darting around the garden as if someone might be listening, watching. “You can’t interfere.”

Cornelia’s face fell. Her hands dropped to her sides, her expression going soft and wounded as she stared up at him. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice small, thin. “I didn’t mean to— I just thought—”

Finnick squeezed his eyes shut, his hands trembling as he dragged in a shuddering breath. He could still feel the woman’s nails on his neck, the ghost of her perfume clinging to his skin, the way she’d looked at him like he was something to be bought and consumed. He pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to scrub away the memory, the ache, the shame.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, his voice muffled against his palms. “It’s fine.”

Cornelia was silent for a beat, and then Finnick felt a hand close around his wrist, warm and delicate. He dropped his hands and looked down at her, at the way she was staring up at him with those wide, guileless brown eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice gentle, almost tentative.

Finnick swallowed, his throat tight. He forced a smile, the kind he’d perfected over the years, the kind that made everyone believe he was just fine, just perfect, just the Capitol’s golden boy.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice too bright, too hollow. “I’m great.”

And Cornelia didn’t believe him. 

February, 69 ADD

Cornelia had grown more persistent in wanting a place in the production of her father’s show. She had spent the majority of her childhood watching from the sidelines, clutching a clipboard far too big for her tiny gloved hands, or lounging cross-legged in a velveteen armchair tucked just out of camera view. She’d memorized the way the camera panned after every Capitol punchline, learned precisely how long to wait for the applause to crest before re-entering with a bigger, brighter smile. She had seen the art of spectacle built moment by moment, not just by the writers, stylists, or stage managers, but by her father himself. It was fascinating. Addictive, even.

It was what she felt was her calling.

In her blood, even.

So it was only natural— no, destined— that she should follow in his footsteps. She wasn’t just the daughter of Caesar Flickerman; she was a prodigy of performance, and the time had come, in her opinion, to prove it.

The green room smelled of setting spray, pressed flowers, and a slight hint of hot plastic from the curling wand buzzing against one of Caesar’s freshly installed coiffed waves. His stylist, a tall man named Crispin who wore heels higher than Cornelia’s standards, was standing over him, teasing the front with a comb that shimmered under the vanity lights.

Cornelia stood in the doorway in a flounced taffeta skirt set the color of pale coral, matching the new hue of her hair— a soft, warm-toned pink-orange she’d insisted made her look “more trustworthy.” Her lips matched it precisely. She had reapplied her gloss three times since entering the studio that morning.

“Daddy, please!” she implored, stepping further into the room on her pastel pumps. “I can do it! Just give me a chance to do one interview, just one! I won’t go off script, I won’t improvise!”

Her father, ever the professional, didn’t so much as blink. He sat, perfectly still, his legs crossed elegantly, while Crispin fussed at the top of his head.

“Too young,” Caesar said smoothly, his voice like polished quartz, eyes flicking up to her reflection in the mirror. “Still too young.”

“Daddy!” she huffed, her voice rising in pitch, incredulous that he had brushed her off so easily. She stomped her foot against the tile— lightly, of course; she wasn’t about to scuff her shoes over this— and crossed her arms with dramatic flair, chin tilted just enough to catch the overhead light.

Caesar finally turned his head to face her, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle smile. It wasn’t cruel, just endearing, laced with the dry amusement only a parent who had seen this performance before could muster. He looked her over— her precision-curled coral hair, the glossy bunny pin in her lapel, the sheer gloves she insisted made her look “media ready.”

“Cornelia,” he said, his voice warm with familiar indulgence, “I’ve been doing this longer than you’ve been alive.”

She narrowed her eyes in return. “Exactly! And I’ve learned from the best!”

Behind them, Crispin raised his eyebrows in a way that suggested he’d heard this conversation before and expected to hear it again.

“I’m serious,” she said, stepping forward, clasping her hands together. “You wouldn’t even have to put it on air if it’s awful. You can film it as a test run. A rehearsal! I do great under pressure. You know I do.”

“Sweet pea,” Caesar said affectionately, but firmly. “What happens if you freeze up? What happens if a tribute says something unexpected and you have no idea how to keep the mood light?”

“I don’t freeze up,” she said quickly. “I thrive under pressure.”

“You thrive under controlled pressure,” he countered, reaching for a small gold tray of lip color options Crispin had set out. “There’s a difference.”

Cornelia exhaled loudly and threw herself down into the nearest velvet chair, arms crossed, eyes narrowed at the mirror.

“If I wait any longer, all the good interview slots will be gone, and I’ll end up being stuck with a morphling addict from 6 who threw up on the carpet. I need chemistry. I need camera work.”

“You need patience,” he said with a wink.

She groaned.

May, 69 ADD

Finnick had accepted that, at this point, he and Cornelia were friends. Against his better judgment, of course. But he figured, at this point, it wasn’t hurting anything. If anything, it gave him a moment to breathe when men and women twice his age were breathing down his neck trying to claim him for the night.

No, Cornelia mostly just talked. She talked until he forgot people were watching him. She talked until his jaw unclenched.

And now she was sixteen.

Her birthday party was as grand as expected for the occasion. The entire ballroom of the Flickerman villa had been transformed into a pastel dreamscape, with cotton candy clouds floating near the ceiling, their tufts glowing a soft pink. 

Cornelia had been chattering with Precious, Diamond, and Adorabella, listening to the latter ramble on and on about the latest designs for spring, when she felt it—a shift in the air, a presence just behind her. She didn’t need to look to know who it was. Even in a room full of people, even with the music pounding in her ears and the air thick with perfume and sugar, she could always tell when Finnick was nearby. It was like he had his own gravitational pull, and she was always spinning helplessly toward him.

She turned, her lips curving into a practiced smile. “Hey,” she said, her eyes gleaming as she looked up at him.

Finnick was dressed in his usual Capitol party attire— black silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest more than show, a dark gray jacket tailored to fit him like a glove, his hair tousled in that perfectly disheveled way that Cornelia couldn’t decide was intentional or not. He stood with his hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze sweeping the room once, twice, before settling on her.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, a hint of something tired around the edges.

“You made it!” Cornelia said, her voice a touch too bright. “And you look—” She trailed off, her eyes flitting over him, taking in the shadow under his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched just a bit too tight. “You look nice.”

Finnick’s lips twitched in a half-smile. “Thanks.”

Precious, Diamond, and Adorabella were now preoccupied with one of the floating cotton candy clouds that had drifted down just above their heads. Precious stood on her tiptoes, reaching up to grab a handful of the sugary fluff while Diamond snorted, swatting her hand away.

Cornelia glanced at Finnick, then at her friends. “Let’s go somewhere quieter,” she said, tipping her head toward the edge of the room.

Finnick didn’t respond, just nodded and followed her, their shoulders nearly touching as they weaved through the crowd. They slipped past a cluster of boys from the upper division of the Capitol, all clad in slick, metallic suits and staring too obviously at Cornelia’s legs as she walked by. Finnick caught one of them leering and shot him a glare that had the boy quickly averting his eyes, pretending to be very interested in his glass of champagne.

They reached a quieter corner near the massive crystal punch fountain, where the music was still loud but not as deafening, and where the crowd had thinned out to only a few girls snapping pictures with a camera that spit out glossy photos as fast as they could pose.

Cornelia leaned against the wall, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes bright as she looked up at Finnick. “So,” she said, drawing out the word, “how long are you staying in the Capitol this time?”

Finnick glanced over his shoulder, his gaze sweeping the room again. “A week,” he said, his tone flat. “Maybe two.”

Cornelia tilted her head, her curls tumbling over one shoulder, catching the light. “Two weeks, huh?”

Finnick gave a noncommittal shrug. “Depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much they want me.”

Cornelia’s smile flickered, her eyes searching his face for something that wasn’t there. She shifted, crossing one ankle over the other, and for a second, Finnick thought she might let it go, let the moment pass like she always did. But instead, she bit her lip, glanced down at her painted coral nails, and then said, “Well, if you ever want to, like, hang out… you could call me?”

Finnick blinked, his brows knitting together as he looked down at her. Cornelia was still staring at her nails, her cheeks flushed, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. It was the first time she’d ever said anything like that to him— like she actually wanted to spend time with him, just them, outside of a party or a crowded Capitol ballroom. And maybe that shouldn’t have surprised him as much as it did.

“Yeah,” Finnick said, his voice softer now, almost tentative. “Yeah, okay.”

Cornelia’s eyes snapped up to his, and the smile that broke across her face was bright enough to blind him. “Really?”

Finnick nodded, feeling something loosen in his chest, something warm and unfamiliar. “Really.”

“Oh, my gosh!” Cornelia said, clapping her hands together, the silver bangles on her wrists jangling. “This is going to be so fun! I mean, we don’t have to do anything crazy. We could just, like, go shopping or something. Or, I don’t know, get milkshakes or—”

Finnick chuckled, the sound low and rough. “Milkshakes, huh?”

Her cheeks flushed an even deeper pink. She laughed, the sound a little breathless, a little too loud. “Yeah,” she said, her voice dropping to a softer, more earnest tone. “Milkshakes.”

Finnick’s smile lingered as he watched her, watched the way her eyes sparkled, the way her hair glowed like a halo around her head, the way she stood just a little too close, like she was already staking her claim on him without even realizing it.

“Yeah,” he said again, his voice a little rougher, a little softer. “Milkshakes sound good.”

Cornelia grinned, the kind of grin that was too wide, too open, too vulnerable. And Finnick swallowed, his smile fading as he looked away, as he stared into the crowd and watched the Capitol glitter and spin and swirl like a nightmare wrapped in gold. Because he knew, no matter how much he might want to, he couldn’t really give her what she was asking for.

But for now, he could pretend. Pretending was almost as good as the real thing.

June, 69 ADD

Cornelia had known it was risky to give her phone number to Finnick.

They were still hardly friends— hardly in that territory— but it was something small she could offer. Bigger than the starfish charm she was certain he had thrown out, smaller than a marriage proposal. It was something. A golden breadcrumb left in the middle of a winding path she hoped he might walk down. It had been scrawled on a small square of coral-pink stationery with her name embossed at the top in silver foil: Cornelia Fleur Flickerman. She’d dotted the “i” in her name with a glittery heart, just for good measure.

Cornelia’s skirt set that morning was the same shade of bubblegum pink, the fabric tight across her hips and flaring out in a perfectly tailored A-line. She paused in front of the full-length mirror, tilting her head as she adjusted the pearl clip in her faded strawberry-orange hair. It was curled today, ringlets spiraling down her back in thick waves.

The phone rang, a shrill, urgent noise that echoed through her room. Cornelia jumped, her fingers fumbling with the pearl clip as her gaze snapped to the bedazzled landline on her vanity. It was a confection of crystals and rhinestones, all pink and gold, glittering obnoxiously in the morning light. It never rang this early. Usually, everyone who mattered was still sleeping off the night before.

Cornelia crossed the room quickly, Cerise hopping after her. She scooped up the receiver, pressing it to her ear and clearing her throat. “Cornelia Flickerman speaking!” she chirped, her tone bright, airy, the way her father always liked it.

There was a brief pause on the other end. Just a flicker of dead air. And then, “You sound corny.”

The voice was unmistakable, a low, slightly amused drawl threaded with just a hint of sleepiness. Cornelia’s heart leaped into her throat, a fizz of shock and something warm and fluttery expanding through her chest.

She forced a laugh, a breathy, high-pitched sound. “Sorry, who is this again?”

There was a soft exhale, almost a snort. “Finnick,” he said, his voice dry, as though he were rolling his eyes.

Cornelia pressed a manicured hand to her chest, her smile widening as she sank down onto her vanity stool. “Oh, yeah, right. Sorry. Must’ve been expecting someone else.”

“What are you doing?” Finnick asked, his voice flattening, almost bored, but there was something under the surface. A faint note of distraction. Cornelia tilted her head, twirling a strand of her hair around her finger as she glanced around her room.

“Oh, you know, nothing much,” she said breezily. “Daddy is making me go out and pick up his wigs at the store.” She wrinkled her nose, rolling her eyes even though Finnick couldn’t see her. “Like, I would rather go down and look at the new Couture launch, not pick up wigs!”

There was a beat of silence. Then, “You’re being forced to shop,” Finnick said, his tone deadpan, as though he were delivering the punchline to a particularly lame joke. “The horror.”

Cornelia burst out laughing, pressing a hand to her mouth as she tried to stifle the sound. “I’m serious!” she protested, her voice light, playful, and entirely too eager. “Daddy thinks the wigs are more important than—”

She broke off, her words trailing into nothing. Her heart was pounding in her chest, too loud, too fast, and she suddenly felt dizzy, a little breathless, like the room was spinning around her. Finnick was calling her. Finnick Odair. The boy who hardly looked at her, who never spoke to her unless he was in desperate need of a buffer between him and someone else. The boy who never returned her letter, never mentioned the starfish charm, never even acknowledged that she existed outside of a Capitol gala or party.

And now he was calling her. Asking what she was doing. Teasing her. It didn’t make sense.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice softer now, almost tentative, like she was afraid he’d hang up the moment she let the words slip out.

“Staying in a hotel,” Finnick said, and there was a slight creak in the background, like he was leaning back against something. “City Circle.”

“Oh.” Cornelia’s hand tightened on the receiver, her nails digging into the smooth, glittering surface. She glanced down at her lap, her legs crossed beneath her, the edge of her skirt riding up just a little. “That’s… cool.”

There was another pause. A beat of dead air, heavy and awkward and so unlike Finnick, who always seemed to know exactly what to say to anyone and everyone.

“You wanna meet up?” he said abruptly, the words rushed, almost like he hadn’t meant to say them. “I mean, if you’re already going out.”

Cornelia’s heart stuttered, then leaped, then started pounding so hard she was certain Finnick could hear it through the receiver.

“Okay!” she blurted out, the word escaping her lips before she could even think. “I mean— yeah. Yeah, sure. That sounds— yeah.”

Finnick made a sound low in his throat, a noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Cool,” he said. “Meet me at the fountain outside the Couture store in thirty minutes.”

“Thirty minutes,” Cornelia echoed, her mind already spinning, already planning. Should she change her outfit? Fix her hair? Maybe put on a little more lip gloss? Maybe—

“Thirty minutes,” Finnick repeated, his tone flat, as though he were already regretting this. “Bye.”

And then he hung up. The line went dead, a soft click that echoed in Cornelia’s ear. She pulled the receiver away from her face, staring down at it, her lips slightly parted. 

“Oh, my gosh!” she shrieked, leaping to her feet, her bunny darting back under the bed in alarm. “Oh, my gosh, oh, my gosh!”

Finnick leaned against the rim of the fountain, his arms crossed over his chest, the cool mist from the cascading water behind him dampening the collar of his shirt. The fountain was enormous, opulent, sparkling with a hundred little silver fish that spouted water from their puckered mouths. Around the plaza, Capitol citizens milled about in their garish, glittering outfits, their faces painted with bright, unnatural colors that clashed beneath the glaring sun.

Sea-green eyes flicked up to the clock mounted on the towering building across the plaza. Five minutes late. He smirked to himself, a slow, wry curve of his lips that was both bemused and unsurprised. Of course, she was late. Cornelia Flickerman was always late. Late to parties, late to fittings, late to make good impressions. He couldn’t remember a time he’d ever seen her arrive anywhere on time. Not that they’d met in private often enough to know.

He rolled his shoulders back, his gaze sweeping the crowd, scanning for a flash of faded strawberry-orange hair. The sun was hot against his face, and he could feel sweat beginning to bead at the back of his neck. He almost reached up to undo the top button of his shirt when he heard it.

The click-clack of heels against the marble plaza. Frantic, hurried, and uneven, like the person wearing them wasn’t used to rushing.

“Finnick! Hey!”

Finnick’s head turned, and there she was, all bouncing curls and pink tweed and that manic, dazzling grin that never quite reached her eyes. Cornelia was barreling toward him, one hand flapping in the air as she waved frantically, the other clutching a pink, bejeweled purse that swung against her hip with each step.

“Careful!” Finnick called, but it was too late.

The pastel heel caught on a slight dip in the pavement, her ankle wobbling dangerously as she stumbled forward. Finnick pushed off the fountain, reaching out instinctively. His hands found her elbows just as she pitched forward.

She gasped, her hands flying up to clutch at his shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric. Finnick’s grip tightened, keeping her steady, his thumbs brushing against the soft, textured tweed of her jacket. Cornelia’s curls tumbled forward, spilling over her shoulders as she craned her neck to look up at him. For a split second, they were so close that he could smell her perfume—sweet and floral, like spun sugar and lilac.

“Sorry!” Cornelia giggled, her cheeks flushed, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. One of her curls slipped into her eyes, and she brushed it back with a delicate, fluttering motion, her fingertips grazing Finnick’s wrist.

Finnick swallowed, jaw clenching. Then, before he could think better of it, he dropped his hands from her elbows, taking a deliberate step back. The cool air rushed in between them, filling the space he’d just vacated, and Finnick shoved his hands into his pockets, his eyes sliding toward the boutique across the plaza.

“So,” he said, his tone deliberately casual, as if he hadn’t just caught her, as if he hadn’t just felt her small, warm hands clutching at his shirt. “Couture’s right over there.”

“Oh!” Cornelia’s face brightened even further— if that was possible— and she shook her head so fast her curls bounced against her shoulders. “Oh, no, no, no! We can’t go there first!”

Finnick blinked, brow furrowing as Cornelia waved a hand in the opposite direction, the one lined with smaller, less glamorous storefronts.

“We have to get daddy’s wigs first!” Cornelia chirped, already starting to walk in that direction, her heels clicking with renewed purpose. Finnick hesitated for a moment, watching the sway of her skirt as she moved. The fabric caught the light, flashing in subtle hints of gold thread.

Then he sighed, shoulders slumping, and followed.

“Daddy would be so upset if I came home empty-handed!” Cornelia continued, barely missing a beat. She was rambling now, her words spilling out in a flurry of bright, breathless chatter that filled the space between them. “He’s commissioned a new lime green wig with gold tinsel! It’s phosphorescent! Can you believe it? Glows in the dark and everything! And he said it’s supposed to complement the violet cape he’s debuting for his next broadcast. Violet and lime green. Can you imagine? I mean, I guess he can, obviously, but—”

Finnick trailed a step behind her, his hands still shoved in his pockets, his expression a mix of mild exasperation and reluctant amusement. Her voice rose and fell like a glittery, too-sweet melody, the words tripping over each other in their hurry to get out. He half-listened, half-didn’t, his eyes drifting to the storefronts they passed. The wigs were just ahead, the windows crammed with mannequin heads adorned in every color, texture, and length imaginable.

“And then,” Cornelia continued, oblivious to his wandering attention, “I told him that maybe tinsel was a little too much, you know? But he insisted! Don’t you think tinsel is overkill? Or am I just losing my mind? I mean, would you ever wear tinsel in your hair?”

Finnick glanced at her, his lips quirking up at one corner. “If I said yes, would you stop talking?”

Cornelia stopped short, spinning around to face him with a little gasp, her curls bouncing against her shoulders. She swatted at his arm, her manicured nails grazing the fabric of his shirt. “Oh, my gosh! Finnick!”

Finnick’s grin widened, but he said nothing, just nodded toward the wig store. “After you.”

Cornelia tossed her hair over her shoulder, chin lifting with a little sniff as she marched toward the door, her hips swaying and her nose in the air like she was the queen of the world. But Finnick saw the faint, lingering smile that she tried so hard to hide, the way her eyes sparkled as she pushed the door open and strutted inside.

The wig boutique smelled like hairspray and lavender-scented shampoo. The walls were lined with shelves that glittered under the showroom lights, each one holding mannequin heads adorned with wigs in every color imaginable— neon bobs, coiled curls, towering beehives. The whole shop was a kaleidoscope of color and absurdity.

Cornelia stepped through the door with a sweeping gesture, her chin lifted high and her curls bouncing like they were on springs. “Hello!” she called, her voice chiming through the room like a bell.

Finnick stepped in behind her, the glass door swinging shut and letting in a blast of cooler air from the ventilation system. He glanced around, his eyes taking in the rows of wigs, the plush red carpet, the circular ottoman in the center of the room that looked more like a throne than a seat.

A tall, thin woman behind the counter perked up at Cornelia’s entrance. She was decked out in a silver jumpsuit with shoulder pads sharp enough to slice through paper, and her eyelids were smeared with glitter so thick it nearly obscured her heavily lashed eyes. She leaned forward, both hands on the counter, and beamed. “Miss Flickerman! Always a pleasure.”

Cornelia beamed back, her teeth flashing pearly white against her coral pink lipstick. “I’m here for my father’s order,” she said, gliding up to the counter and placing both manicured hands on the glass surface.

The woman nodded, her curls bobbing with the movement, and disappeared behind a curtain of sparkling beads. Finnick lingered behind Cornelia, his eyes drifting to the nearest display rack where a wig the size of a small watermelon was perched on a mannequin head. It was ice blue with a silver streak down the middle, sculpted into a perfect wave.

The shop owner returned a moment later, struggling under the weight of three cylindrical wig containers stacked one on top of the other. They were gaudy, each one a different color— lime green, purple, and crimson red, each with Flickerman stenciled in gold across the front. The woman set them down on the counter with a grunt, her shoulders sagging with relief. “Would you like to inspect them, Miss Flickerman?”

Cornelia blinked, looking from the containers to the woman, then back again. “Sure!” she said, with a little flick of her wrist. “Yeah!”

She grabbed the lime green container, while Finnick reached out without a word and scooped up the other two. The weight was surprisingly heavy, but he didn’t let it show, just followed Cornelia as she floated over to the plush bench and plopped herself down with a dramatic flourish.

Cornelia cracked open the lime green container, and a wave of sharp, synthetic scent wafted out. “Oh!” she gasped, lifting the wig out by the crown and holding it aloft. The lime green strands were glossy, shining like Christmas tinsel under the fluorescent lights. The fibers sparkled with flecks of gold that caught the light every time Cornelia moved it. “So phosphorescent!” she squealed.

Finnick felt his lips twitch. He balanced the other two containers on his knee, his fingers drumming against the purple one as he watched Cornelia spin the lime green wig this way and that, her eyes sparkling like she’d just uncovered some rare Capitol treasure. Then, without warning, she turned to him, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“Oh, wow!” she said, leaning forward and plopping the wig down over his head before he could so much as blink. “It looks great with your complexion!”

The wig settled over Finnick’s head, the green strands falling into his eyes like a messy, garish mop. The fringe tickled his forehead, and the fibers smelled overwhelmingly of whatever chemical perfume they’d doused it in. Finnick reached up and shifted the wig, tugging it down over his ears to make it look even more ridiculous, until it felt like he was peering out from beneath a waterfall of glittery seaweed.

“Gee, thanks,” Finnick said dryly, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face.

Cornelia’s laughter was infectious, a bright, glittery sound that filled up the whole room and bounced off the walls. For a second, Finnick forgot about the weight of the other two containers resting on his knee. Forgot about the Capitol, and Snow, and the ache that settled in his chest every time he stepped foot in this city. He just felt… normal. Almost.

Then, Cornelia reached out to adjust the lime green wig, her fingers tugging it down over his eyes. “No, no!” she scolded, like she was a mother hen reprimanding a chick. “Don’t mess it up! Daddy’ll have a fit if it gets ruined!”

Finnick chuckled, feeling the wig fibers scratch against his scalp. Then he reached over, grabbed the purple container, and pulled the neon purple wig free. Without missing a beat, he leaned forward and plopped it right on top of Cornelia’s head, fitting it down over her curls until they were all but hidden beneath the synthetic purple waves.

Cornelia let out a squeal of surprise, her eyes going wide as the purple wig flopped around her head like a circus tent. “Finnick!” she yelped, her laughter bubbling up again, bright and breathless. “Oh, my gosh!”

She sprang up from the bench, the skirt of her tweed set bouncing around her thighs, and scurried over to the full-length mirror mounted on the far wall. There, she struck a dramatic pose, one hand on her hip and the other behind her head, jutting her chin out like she was on a runway. “Oh, yes,” she said, her voice all theatrics, “what a look!”

Finnick couldn’t help it. He started laughing, too, the sound low and rumbling in his chest as he pushed off the bench and walked over to stand beside her. On a whim, he reached for the red container and tugged out the final wig. It was flaming red, streaks of gold throughout the strands, the ends curled under faintly. Without thinking, he pulled it down over his head, adjusting it until the red bangs hung down to his eyebrows.

Then, he stepped up behind Cornelia in the mirror and struck his own pose— a ridiculous one, one hand thrown up dramatically, his hip cocked to the side.

Cornelia burst out laughing, doubling over as the wig slipped sideways on her head. “Oh, my gosh!” she cried, her shoulders shaking as she struggled to right herself. “You look ridiculous!”

Finnick met her eyes in the mirror, his own cheeks flushed, the red wig slipping precariously down his forehead. For a moment, he felt like a kid again. Not Finnick Odair, Capitol darling and Snow’s pet. Just Finnick. Just a boy, standing in a wig store, looking stupid with a girl who somehow made everything feel… lighter.

Cornelia caught his eye in the mirror and grinned. “Maybe I should get daddy to commission you a red wig, too,” she said, still laughing.

Finnick rolled his eyes, but his smile lingered. “Yeah,” he said, leaning down so their heads were level, his red wig brushing against her purple one. “Maybe.”

August, 69 ADD

It was no surprise that Finnick was called to the Capitol for his birthday. Not to celebrate for his own enjoyment, however; his clientele felt the need to celebrate for them. Because, for some reason, they felt that the day was their own as well— that the hour of his birth was yet another excuse to drape him in silks and send sugared wine down his throat, to smear his lips in gloss and marvel at how young he still looked, how much younger he would have looked had they not bled the boy out of him already. 

There had been a party, of course. Gold dust on the floor. A cake shaped like a seahorse with blown-glass fins. A live coral reef in the center of the ballroom, imported overnight from District 4 and kept warm under a thermal field, just so the guests could pluck oysters with pearls from it like canapés. The host— a man whose name Finnick didn’t bother to memorize— had given a toast. A speech slurred through teeth that sparkled like ice cubes. Something about how the Capitol was so lucky to have such a rare, rare thing as Finnick Odair to celebrate. He had stood beside the champagne tower and thought about the sea. He hadn’t eaten any cake.

Now it was just past midnight. He dropped down onto the edge of the bed, the mattress sagging under his weight. His shirt was unbuttoned, hanging loose over his bare chest, and his feet were still aching from the hours of dancing, of playing the role they all expected him to play. The taste of Capitol champagne lingered bitterly on his tongue, sickly sweet and fizzing against his teeth. His hair still smelled of perfume— someone’s perfume, he couldn’t remember who. It didn’t matter.

What mattered was the silence. Or the lack of it. The way it buzzed around him, loud and empty and pressing down on him until his skin felt tight and too small.

Finnick’s gaze dropped to the phone sitting on the nightstand. The cream-colored receiver gleamed in the low light, and his hand reached for it before he could second-guess himself. Maybe he just needed to hear a voice that didn’t ask for anything in return. Maybe he just needed a reminder that there was still someone out there who might answer without expecting to own a piece of him.

He lifted the receiver and pressed in the number, the one he’d memorized by accident, the one he still couldn’t believe he’d ever dial. The phone rang once, twice, three times, each shrill trill echoing louder and louder in the emptiness of the room.

On the fifth ring, there was a click, and a sleepy, muffled voice came through the line. “Hello?”

Finnick’s jaw unclenched, and he exhaled through his nose, the tension leaking from his shoulders. He closed his eyes. “Hey.”

There was a soft sigh on the other end, a rustling sound like sheets being pulled up, and then Cornelia’s voice, still thick with sleep. “Mmm, yeah. But it’s okay,” she mumbled. “Y’okay?”

Finnick swallowed, his throat dry. He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees, the phone cord twisting around his wrist like a tether. “Yeah,” he said, and the lie slipped out too easily. “I couldn’t sleep.”

A pause. The line crackled faintly, and Finnick could almost picture her— curled up in her bed, the silk sheets twisted around her legs, her hair a tangled mess of strawberry or orange or whatever she had dyed it this month against her pillow. There was a soft inhale, the kind someone takes when they’re trying to focus, to stay awake.

“Oh no,” she mumbled, her words slurring together, “I missed your birthday.”

Finnick’s lips quirked, just a little, a rueful sort of smile that felt almost foreign on his face. He leaned back against the headboard, his eyes drifting up to the ceiling, the pale, ornate plaster swirling above him. “You didn’t,” he said, his voice low. “You didn’t have a way to call me.”

“Oh.” There was a soft, breathy laugh, the kind that said she was still halfway to sleep. “Wait… I didn’t call you?”

Finnick chuckled under his breath, the sound scraping against his throat. “No,” he said, his voice a little rough. “I called you.”

“Oh.” Another pause, and then, quieter this time, “Why?”

Finnick’s gaze dropped to his lap. The phone cord was still wrapped tight around his wrist, a soft, pulsing ache against his skin. He swallowed, his tongue heavy against the roof of his mouth. “I needed a friend,” he said, his voice just above a whisper, the words slipping out like a confession.

There was a beat of silence. A long, drawn-out breath from Cornelia’s end of the line. Finnick held his own, waiting for her to say something, anything. He could hear her shifting under the covers, the faint creak of her bed as she rolled over.

“When d’you leave?” she asked finally, her voice soft, still heavy with sleep.

Finnick’s jaw tensed, and he forced himself to breathe. “Tomorrow night,” he said. “Train back to 4.”

Another pause. Then, in a voice so soft he almost didn’t hear it, Cornelia said, “You wanna go out before you go home?”

Finnick’s chest tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut, his head falling back against the headboard. The ceiling swirled above him, the plaster patterns spinning like a whirlpool, and for a moment, he felt like he was sinking.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice thick. “Yeah, okay.”

Cornelia sighed, a soft, sleepy sound that drifted through the line like a lullaby. “Okay,” she said, and there was a gentle rustle of fabric, the sound of her turning over. “Happy birthday, Finnick.”

Finnick swallowed, the ache in his throat spreading, pressing down until it hurt to breathe. “Thanks,” he said, his voice cracking just a little, the word raw and frayed at the edges.

There was a soft click as Cornelia hung up, and the dial tone droned in his ear, cold and empty. Finnick stayed there for a long time, the receiver still pressed to his ear as the city still celebrated a birthday that was no longer his.

Cornelia had already been standing by the fountain for at least twenty minutes that morning, alternating between checking her reflection in the water and scanning the plaza for Finnick.

People milled around her, Capitol citizens wrapped in flamboyant coats and shimmering scarves, their shoes clicking against the polished marble in rhythm with the city’s ever-present soundtrack. Cornelia bounced on the balls of her feet, her white boots tapping softly against the ground, her strawberry-orange curls bouncing with each impatient hop.

She bit down on her bottom lip, tasting the gloss she’d applied just moments before stepping out of the villa. It was sticky and sweet, like strawberry candy, and she wondered if it was too much. If she was too much. But then she saw him.

Finnick walked toward her, his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jacket. It must be from 4, Cornelia thought. His shoulders were slightly hunched, the collar pulled up around his neck, as if he was trying to hide. Not that she would blame him. The dark circles under his eyes looked deeper in the stark daylight, the kind that came from more than just one sleepless night. His hair was tousled, the soft waves pushed back haphazardly, as though he’d run his fingers through it too many times.

Cornelia’s heart did that weird little fluttering thing it always did when she saw him. She lifted her hand, waving with that exaggerated Capitol enthusiasm that felt more like armor than anything real. “Finnick!”

Finnick’s gaze met hers, and for a second, he hesitated. His eyes flicked over her, from the soft curls falling around her shoulders to the pastel cardigan, to the tiny golden heart pendant resting against her collarbone. Something unreadable passed over his expression, like he was trying to figure out what he was looking at. Or why he was even here.

But then he kept walking, his steps slow and deliberate, and finally stopped in front of her. They stood there, a few feet apart, the fountain bubbling behind them, the plaza a blur of colorful Capitolites and fluttering banners. The world kept moving, but they were still.

Cornelia’s smile widened, but it felt shaky, like it might slip off her face and shatter on the marble at any moment. Her hands twisted together in front of her, her almond-shaped nails glittering with silver polish.

There was a beat of silence, heavy and thick, before she blurted out, “... Do you want a hug?”

Finnick’s brows lifted, and something flickered in his eyes, a quicksilver flash of something she couldn’t quite name. Amusement? Annoyance? Sadness? Maybe all three. For a second, he just stared at her, his jaw working, his lips parting slightly as if to say something. But then, he let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound escaping like he hadn’t meant for it to.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice rough, almost hoarse. “Yeah, okay.”

Before he could second-guess himself, he stepped forward, closing the distance between them. His arms wrapped around her, and for a moment, Cornelia forgot how to breathe. He was warm and solid, the scent of saltwater and Capitol cologne lingering faintly on his skin. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, her eyes falling shut as she let herself melt into the embrace, just for a moment.

But then Finnick pulled away, stepping back, his hands dropping to his sides. He didn’t meet her eyes. His jaw clenched, the muscle ticking beneath his skin, as though the act of letting her that close had been some sort of betrayal.

Cornelia cleared her throat, her cheeks warm, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her cardigan. “Oh! Okay!” she said, the words coming out too loud, too fast. “You know what we could do? We could go to the new café!”

Finnick’s eyes finally met hers, and she felt like she’d been caught in a spotlight. His gaze was too sharp, too knowing, too everything. Like he could see right through her.

Clearing her throat, Cornelia clapped her hands together as she spoke. “Do you like sweet stuff?! Because they have tiramisu lattes that are so good!”

Just slightly, Finnick’s expression softened, the corner of his mouth twitching in an almost-smile. “Tiramisu lattes, huh?”

Cornelia nodded eagerly, her curls bouncing. “Yeah! They put this cinnamon powder on top and—” She stopped herself, her mouth snapping shut, and gave him a sheepish grin. “I mean… if you like that sort of thing.”

Finnick’s shoulders relaxed, the tension ebbing away as he finally allowed himself to smile, just a little. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

Cornelia’s face lit up, her eyes sparkling as she grabbed his wrist, her fingers wrapping around his skin without hesitation. “Yay! Yay!” she squealed, already tugging him toward the café. “Oh, you’ll love it! I like it iced! They have the cold foam on top and—”

She kept talking as she pulled him along, her words filling the empty spaces he didn’t know how to fill. Finnick let her, let her fingers stay wrapped around his wrist, let her drag him through the crowd of Capitolites, let her words wash over him. Because at least it was something. At least it was better than the silence. At least it was better than feeling like he was nothing but a body, a pretty face, a boy drowning in a sea of Capitol veneer.

Chapter Text

November, 69 ADD

THE WORLD WAS STILL. The sun hung low in the sky, a hazy gold that blurred at the edges, melting into the horizon where the sea met the land in one unbroken line. The waves rolled lazily against the shore, a rhythmic pulse, a steady heartbeat that seemed to echo across the district. The air was thick with salt, the scent of brine and kelp carried on the wind, and the creak of the porch swing was the only sound beyond the tide.

Finnick sat slouched against the back of the swing, one leg stretched out, the other foot flat on the wooden slats of the porch. His fingers worked methodically, the rope passing through his hands with mechanical precision. Knot after knot, the cord twisted and tightened, each loop a muscle memory. Over, under, pull. Over, under, pull. His brow was furrowed, a line etched deep between his eyes, and his lips pressed into a thin, colorless line. His eyes were fixed on the rope but unfocused, as if he were staring through it rather than at it.

A bruise, dark and ugly, bloomed beneath the collar of his loose tank top, purplish-blue against the sun-bronzed skin of his shoulder. The marks stood out starkly, even in the fading light— the dark smudge of fingertips, the crescent indentations of teeth. His neck bore similar badges, fading hickeys and fresh ones, some nearly black with deep-set bruising. They formed a grim constellation across his skin, ugly reminders of his last trip to the Capitol. His last “visit.”

Finnick’s jaw clenched as the knot tightened beneath his hands. The cord bit into his palms, and he yanked it a little harder than necessary, his muscles taut and rigid. He could still feel her breath against his neck, the hot, sticky press of her lips, the sharp edge of her teeth. He could still hear her laugh, that throaty, satisfied purr as she’d drawn her nails down his back, as if she were marking her territory. As if he were nothing more than another trophy to hang on her wall, another knot in her collection.

The rope burned against his palms. He let it.

The soft crunch of sand beneath thin-soled shoes echoed from the walkway. Finnick’s head didn’t lift, but his eyes flicked toward the sound, catching a glimpse of movement in his periphery. Bare feet. The soles dusted in sand, the hem of a white sundress swishing against ankles tanned and freckled from days spent in the sun. Annie.

Annie walked up the path with a slow, steady pace, each step deliberate, as if she were feeling her way through the air rather than the ground. Her auburn hair was a tangled mess of curls, wild and wind-tossed, framing her face in a way that made her eyes look even larger and brighter than usual. There was a faint smudge of something green beneath her fingernails— seaweed or kelp or some other treasure the ocean had spat up and Annie had decided to collect.

She stopped at the base of the porch steps, her hand coming up to curl around one of the wooden posts. Her gaze fixed on Finnick, her eyes soft but unblinking, like she was studying him, watching the way his fingers moved, the way the muscles in his forearms bunched and flexed with each pull of the rope.

Finnick didn’t look at her. He just kept tying, knot after knot, the cord growing shorter with each loop. The porch swing creaked beneath him, a steady, rhythmic sound. Creak. Knot. Creak. Knot.

Annie stepped onto the first stair. Then the second. The third. The wood groaned beneath her weight, and finally, she reached the top step. She didn’t say anything. Just lowered herself to the floor, knees folding under her, and sat across from Finnick, her knees nearly brushing his.

For a moment, they just sat there. The wind picked up, rustling the frayed ends of Finnick’s rope and sending a shiver through Annie’s dress. The hem fluttered against her legs, and she curled her toes against the floorboards, the pale skin of her feet stark against the weathered wood.

Finnick swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze remained fixed on the rope, the knot half-tied in his hands. Over, under, pull. Over, under, pull. He could feel Annie’s eyes on him, feel her watching, but he couldn’t bring himself to meet her gaze. If he looked at her, he might unravel. If he looked at her, she might see the bruises, the marks, the broken pieces he was still trying to hide.

Finnick’s jaw worked, a muscle feathering beneath the taut skin of his cheek. Without a word, he loosened his grip on the rope and tossed the other end toward her, the frayed end landing in her lap. It was an unspoken invitation, a silent request for her to tie the next knot.

Annie’s fingers closed around the rope, her grip gentle but firm. She watched Finnick’s hands for a moment, the way his fingers twisted and looped, before mirroring the motion herself. Over, under, pull. Over, under, pull. The knot tightened, the rope taut between them, and for a moment, they were connected by that single, fraying cord.

They worked in silence, the swing creaking beneath Finnick, the wind rustling Annie’s curls. The only sounds were the waves crashing against the shore and the soft rasp of rope against skin. Every so often, Finnick’s gaze flicked up, catching a glimpse of Annie’s face as she concentrated on her knot. Her brows furrowed slightly, her lower lip caught between her teeth, her fingers working the rope with a gentleness that almost undid him.

When the knot was done, she dropped the rope back into his lap and leaned back, her palms braced against the wooden floorboards behind her. The hem of her dress fluttered against her shins, and she tilted her head back, her gaze drifting up toward the sky, where a single seagull wheeled and circled above them, its shadow a fleeting ghost across the sand.

Finnick swallowed again, his throat tight. He reached for the rope, running his thumb along the knot she’d tied. It was good. Strong. Better than his. He twisted the rope around his knuckles, feeling the tension, the pull. A part of him wanted to untie it, to pull the knot apart and do it over again. To make it perfect. To undo it all.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let the rope fall slack between them, the ends dangling between his knees. The wind tugged at the frayed ends, sending them fluttering against his bare legs like the touch of ghost fingers. Annie’s head was still tipped back, her eyes tracing the seagull’s path across the sky, and for a moment, Finnick let himself look at her. Really look at her. At the curve of her jaw, the line of her neck, the way her red hair spilled down her back in messy, tangled curls.

She didn’t ask about the bruises. Didn’t ask about the marks. Didn’t ask why he was tying knots on the porch swing instead of going down to the beach or out on his boat or anywhere else that didn’t feel so damn suffocating.

She just sat there. With him.

The seagull dipped lower, then rose higher, its wings cutting through the air in slow, graceful arcs. Finnick watched it, the rope heavy in his hands, the knots tight against his skin. The bruises throbbed beneath his collar, his pulse a dull, aching drumbeat against the bone.

But with Annie beside him, the world didn’t feel quite so heavy. The silence didn’t feel quite so sharp. The knots didn’t feel quite so tight.

February, 70 ADD

It was not often that Cornelia Flickerman and her mother, Calpurnia, spent time together. Even less often that they did so without some underlying tension sizzling beneath the surface, the way static electricity prickled over skin before a storm. Cornelia’s relationship with her mother was a delicate dance of mismatched steps, one perpetually tripping over the other. Calpurnia was a woman of quiet elegance, a slip of silk against the Capitol’s cacophony. Where Caesar radiated charisma and Cornelia bubbled over with frenetic, glittering energy, Calpurnia was a constant, subdued murmur, a gentle ripple instead of a wave.

Today, however, the two were in sync. Their arms were linked as they strolled along the cobblestone streets, the towering glass storefronts glittering with dazzling displays of designer gowns and bejeweled headdresses. Despite the chill in the air, the avenue was packed, pedestrians bustling along in layers of sequins and feathers, their breath fogging in front of them as they laughed and preened and clinked glasses of something sparkling and expensive.

Cornelia had dyed her hair copper the week before, the rose gold hues catching in the midday light as she tossed her curls over her shoulder with an effortless flip. Her nails were painted to match, rose gold with tiny diamond studs at the tips, and she wore a plush white fur coat over a pale pink dress that was cut scandalously short and paired with white lace stockings that clung to her thighs.

“And then Precious said that Diamond was only invited to Gorjana’s party because her father just bought that new yacht,” Cornelia said, her voice rising with theatrical indignation. “But, like, that can’t be true because Diamond and Gorjana have known each other since they were kids, and besides, Diamond’s yacht is way nicer anyway, so—”

“Mmhmm,” Calpurnia hummed, eyes drifting to a display of sequined evening gowns in a window to their left.

Cornelia pressed her lips together, annoyed by the lack of response, and glanced up at her mother. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Of course I am, darling,” Calpurnia said with a tight, distracted smile, still focused on the glittering gowns. “Something about yachts.”

Cornelia huffed, her shoulders dropping dramatically. “Yachts are, like, the least important part of the story, mother. The point is—”

But the words died on her tongue as her eyes caught a flash of familiar bronze curls across the street.

Her heart stuttered, and the world around her seemed to tilt, like she was a puppet whose strings had suddenly been cut. The crowds, the dazzling storefronts, the glimmering billboards— all of it fell away, receding into the background until there was only Finnick.

He walked with two women, one on each arm. They were Capitol women, both older, both swathed in expensive furs and dripping with jewelry that glinted in the morning sun. One of them laughed too loudly, a shrill, tinkling sound that made Cornelia’s teeth ache. The other leaned closer to Finnick, her manicured nails grazing the inside of his arm, her painted mouth forming words Cornelia couldn’t hear.

But it was Finnick’s face that held her captive.

His expression was blank, eyes fixed straight ahead, jaw clenched. He wore a dark coat, the collar popped up against the wind. He looked like someone walking through a storm, braced against a wind only he could feel. And then, as if sensing her eyes on him, Finnick’s gaze shifted.

For a moment, it felt like the entire world held its breath. Their eyes met across the busy street, over the heads of Capitolites and the flashing advertisements and the passing cars.

Finnick’s eyes were green and hard, like sea glass polished to a cutting edge. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Didn’t say a word.

Cornelia’s heart slammed against her ribcage, her face heating beneath her makeup. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Couldn’t do anything but stand there, arm still linked through her mother’s, her hand clutching Calpurnia’s coat sleeve like it was a lifeline.

But then the woman to Finnick’s right laughed again, loud and sharp, and Finnick’s eyes slid away from Cornelia. He looked down at the woman, forcing a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and said something that made her giggle and lean in closer. The woman’s long, silver nails trailed down his chest, lingering over the buttons of his coat.

Cornelia’s chest tightened, a dull, aching throb spreading beneath her sternum.

“Darling?” Calpurnia’s voice was soft, almost too soft, the way one might speak to a bird with a broken wing. “What was that you were saying?”

Cornelia blinked rapidly, her eyes burning as though the cold wind had swept right through her skull and settled behind her eyes.

“Oh.” Cornelia’s voice came out thin, wobbly. She swallowed, forcing a too-bright smile onto her face. “Oh, sorry. I, uh…” She lifted a hand, tucking a stray curl behind her ear, her fingers trembling. “I don’t remember.”

Calpurnia watched her for a moment longer, her brow creasing. But then she sighed, giving Cornelia’s arm a gentle pat. “Well, it probably wasn’t that important.”

Cornelia’s smile tightened, the edges cracking like the lacquer on her too-pink nails. “Yeah,” she said, the word a hollow echo in her chest. “Probably not.”

April, 70 ADD

Caesar Flickerman was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a man with a spine of steel when it came to his daughter. He was more like a sparkling glass of champagne, brimming and bubbly and easily tipped over by a single wide-eyed pout or the quiver of a rose-colored lip. Cornelia had known this since she was old enough to toddle around in feather boas and diamond-studded tiaras, twirling through the lavish halls of the Flickerman villa with her hair in bouncing curls and her cheeks painted with her mother’s rouge.

So, when she had burst into Caesar’s study one evening with her hair freshly dyed a luminous, cotton-candy pink and her eyes as wide as moons, clasping her hands together in a posture of pure, calculated supplication, Caesar had barely stood a chance.

“Daddy,” she had said, her voice syrupy sweet, “I need to get my foot in the door. You know how important it is to start early.”

Caesar had resisted, briefly. He had made a great show of hemming and hawing, of tapping his chin and furrowing his brows as though he were deep in thought over the ordeal.

“But daddy,” Cornelia had said, her eyes shining with an overabundance of doe-eyed innocence, “you always say that Flickermans are stars. That we’re born to shine. Give me a chance!”

Caesar’s resolve had crumbled like a sugar cookie. And so, Cornelia Flickerman found herself on set at Junior Capitol News, perched on a silver-accented stool behind a lacquered white desk, her rose gold curls tumbling over her shoulders like spun sugar. The set was a glittering backdrop of pastel hues and flashing lights, all designed to complement the infectious vivacity of adolescent Capitol culture.

Cornelia was practically vibrating in her seat, her legs crossed at the ankle and swinging back and forth beneath the desk as she waited for her cue. A row of Capitol technicians flitted around the set, adjusting lights, positioning cameras, and murmuring directives into their earpieces. Claudius Templesmith was in the studio’s main control booth, his hair immaculately coiffed, his face polished to a gleaming bronze. His voice boomed over the speakers, commanding and charismatic, as he introduced the segment.

“And now,” Claudius said, his voice dripping with Capitol charm, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for! Our newest rising star, here to bring you all the freshest updates on what’s hot in adolescent culture across Panem, it’s Cornelia Flickerman with Junior Capitol News!”

The camera panned to Cornelia, the spotlight softening her features, making her glow like a porcelain doll. She inhaled deeply, her manicured fingers clutching the edge of the desk. Then, her lips parted into a dazzling, megawatt smile, and she leaned forward, voice bright and airy as she spoke.

“Hello and good morning, Panem!” she chirped, her tone as sweet as a strawberry milkshake. “With only three months until the 70th Games, I find it only appropriate that we freshen up our memory on last year’s Victor from District 2, Atlas Sharma!”

Behind her, a screen projected a still image of Atlas, his arms raised in victory, a wickedly handsome grin stretched across his face. The boy had been striking, even then— sharp jawline, dark, piercing eyes, a smirk that could cut glass. Cornelia’s eyes sparkled as she continued.

“With only a sandy terrain for an arena, Atlas shocked the country with his resourcefulness and quick actions for survival!” Cornelia clasped her hands together, leaning forward as though she were sharing a delicious secret. “With that military-grade combat training, it’s no wonder he emerged as the last tribute standing. And let’s not forget the moment that had all of Panem on the edge of their seats!”

The screen transitioned to footage of Atlas standing over his final opponent, a hulking boy from District 11, his face streaked with blood and sand, eyes blazing with triumph. Cornelia’s voice softened, her eyes going wide and innocent.

“He may have been ruthless in the arena,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “but let’s not forget that Atlas is also one of the Capitol’s favorite heartthrobs! And who could blame us? With that jawline, those arms, and those teeth, it’s no wonder his fan club has over five hundred thousand members and counting!”

The screen shifted to a montage of Atlas at various Capitol events, winking at the camera, posing shirtless for magazine covers, blowing kisses to the crowd. Cornelia let out a soft, breathless giggle, her lashes fluttering as she leaned closer to the camera.

“Stay tuned, Panem!” she trilled, her voice sing-song, each word dripping with manufactured enthusiasm. “Because next up, we’re going to be talking all about the hottest new Capitol fashions for summer! And trust me, you won’t want to miss it!”

The segment ended with the signature jingle of Junior Capitol News— a peppy, sparkling tune that echoed throughout the set. The cameras clicked off, the lights dimmed, and the crew began to scatter, already moving on to the next segment.

Cornelia let out a deep, shuddering breath, the tension slipping from her shoulders. The practiced smile remained plastered across her face, her cheeks aching with the effort.

But then, there was the click of patent leather shoes against the polished floor, the swish of an impeccably tailored suit, and suddenly Caesar Flickerman was sweeping onto the set, his arms thrown open wide, his face split into a grin so wide it looked like it might split his head in two.

“My star!” he boomed, his voice echoing off the studio walls. “My little star!”

Cornelia’s heart swelled, the ache in her cheeks forgotten as she sprang up from her seat, her heels clicking against the floor as she rushed toward him. “Daddy!” she squealed, throwing her arms around him, her rose gold curls bouncing against his shoulder as she buried her face in his jacket. “Did you see?! Wasn’t it perfect?”

“Oh, sweet pea, it was better than perfect,” Caesar cooed, his hands coming up to cradle her face, his thumbs swiping at her cheeks as though wiping away invisible tears. “You were phenomenal! You were—” He shook his head, his eyes glistening with a strange, feverish light. “You were a star.”

Cornelia giggled, the sound breathless and manic, like she was running on pure, unfiltered adrenaline. “You really think so?”

“I know so,” Caesar said, his hands dropping to her shoulders, squeezing just a bit too tight. “You were born for this. This is only the beginning for you, my dear.”

Cornelia’s smile widened.

July, 70 ADD

When Finnick heard Annie’s name called during the Reaping, he was certain that he was going to be sick.

It had been her final year— the last year she was eligible to be reaped— and of course, it was now that her name was drawn. Of course. The name rolled across the square like a slow-moving sickness, the crowd too stunned at first to murmur. There was always a kind of breathless awe when the final-year girls were selected, especially when they weren’t the type anyone expected. Annie Cresta had always kept to herself. Bright, yes. Clever in school. But odd, they said— dreamy, drifty, touched in the head. She was not a fighter. She was not a Career.

Finnick didn’t pity himself— he didn’t allow himself that. But he pitied Annie’s father, who he’d seen once down at the docks showing Annie how to coil a net for octopus. He pitied her mother, who wrapped her hair every morning in the same coral-colored scarf and kissed Annie’s cheek even when Annie wasn’t paying attention. And he pitied her baby brother most of all, who had once grabbed hold of Finnick’s finger with his tiny hand when Finnick bent down to greet him, all sticky from candied kelp and smiling toothless up at him like he was a lighthouse.

Just like his mother had once smiled at him when he left for the Capitol.

But, he promised himself, Annie would return to them.

He could do that.

Annie was resourceful. She was smart. And more importantly, she had him.

He could get her sponsors. That was his job now. That was the only thing he was good for anymore— pretty mouth, pretty smile, the shimmer of bronze hair and sea-glass eyes that politicians and socialites and businessmen wanted to buy into, even if it meant holding him down with perfumed fingers and whispering lies in his ear while they took what they wanted. He could do that for Annie. He could take a few more clients. Lie on his back a few extra nights. Sweeten his voice when he asked for favors, widen his eyes just enough to seem soft instead of cunning. Because this time, it wasn’t for him.

It was for her.

By the time the Tribute Parade arrived, Finnick was back in the Capitol, slicked up and styled into the version of himself that made everyone comfortable. His clothes were sharp and expensive, sea-green silk beneath a gold jacket, hair windswept just right, skin dewy with Capitol misting sprays. He sat high up in the stands, flanked by two sponsors— one on either side. A senator from the upper district tiers, stooped with silver bracelets clattering like wind chimes whenever he spoke, and a woman with glossy black lips who kept leaning in closer than necessary, her perfume thick with ginger and lust.

“Your girl’s the odd one, right?” the woman drawled, tapping her index finger on her lower lip. “Not the boy. He’s darling, but a little bland.”

Finnick’s smile was sharp and white. “She’s full of surprises,” he said pleasantly.

The senator on his other side chuckled. “You’ll have your work cut out for you. That one looked like she was about to faint getting into the chariot.”

Finnick turned his head, still smiling. “She’s never been in a Capitol chariot before,” he said, and he meant: she’s never had to worry about being burned alive in a costume someone else picked for her. “She’ll learn fast.”

The parade was beginning. The crowd roared, arms thrown in the air, holographic glitter flickering across the walls of the City Circle. The District 1 tributes were first, gliding out in a pair of gleaming silver and pearl ensembles— bare shoulders, confident postures. Finnick applauded lightly, the sound of his hands lost in the swell of the crowd.

High above the arena floor, on the opposite end of the stands, a group of Capitol girls were tittering among themselves. Cornelia sat among them, her curls pinned into a twisted chignon that sparkled with tiny star-shaped clips, her gown made of pale pink silk tulle that billowed around her legs. Precious, Diamond, and Adorabella were all dressed to match, more or less, but Cornelia had the knack for stealing attention. She didn't even try— it just happened. 

She wasn’t really watching the parade. Or, rather, she was— she loved the fashion, the spectacle, the chariots— but her honeyed eyes kept flicking across the crowds, scanning the upper tiers of the stands until she saw Finnick. 

She recognized him instantly even from a distance, even if he was wearing that tight smile she’d seen him wear in interviews and at parties— the one that wasn’t real. He was beautiful in that way Capitol people found irresistible, with his bronzed skin and Atlantic eyes and the way he held himself together.

She raised her hand and gave a little wave, her fingers fluttering like butterfly wings.

Finnick spotted her a moment later. His expression didn’t change at first, as if he had to register who she was, process the presence of someone who didn’t belong to this part of his world. But then a dip of the chin. A slight softening of his gaze. The briefest nod. She smiled brighter in return, lips parting like she was about to call out to him, but the noise of the crowd swallowed her voice whole.

Down below, the chariots rolled forward. District 4 was approaching.

Annie was stiff and too still, her hands clenched around the edge of the chariot like she was bracing for an undertow. She wore a scaled dress, glittering with foam-colored sequins and a delicate netting over her shoulders that gave her the look of a sea creature dragged from a dream. The boy beside her was taller and trying hard to compensate with bravado, raising one hand to wave while she stared straight ahead, blinking too quickly.

Finnick’s hands remained clasped politely in his lap.

“She looks terrified,” the woman to his right murmured, sipping from her cocktail straw. “Delicious.”

Finnick smiled. “Capitol loves a girl to be vulnerable.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” the senator said, nudging him with a wink.

Finnick didn’t speak.

He watched Annie with the kind of expression that only someone who knew how a person broke could wear— calculating not how long she could survive, but how many days he had to keep her alive before the tide turned against them. He knew what she was like in the water. He knew she could tie a knot blindfolded, spot a school of fish a hundred feet out, patch a torn net with just her teeth and instinct. But the arena was not the sea.

Still. She had him. He’d made the deals. He’d whispered into ears, pressed lips to wrists, let himself be touched and traded and kissed until he had enough promises to fund her armor. She would not go in alone. And if the Capitol wanted to see her shiver— well, they would.

Cornelia Flickerman knew the sound of a Capitol hotel line better than she ever should have. The ring was higher-pitched, slightly tinny, like the echo of glass breaking underwater. And it always rang late at night, long after her parents had retired to their suite, the lights dimmed and the cameras in the villa shut off for the night.

It wouldn’t have been Adorabella; her parents still enforced a nine-thirty bedtime, even during the week of the Games, despite her constant pleas that she was almost eighteen. Diamond almost always fell asleep with her satin sleep mask pulled halfway down her nose after finishing her extensive fifteen-step skincare routine. And Precious— well, Precious hadn’t had a phone in her room for the better part of a year, not since her mother caught her whispering giggly secrets to some provincial boy over the comms system after midnight. That left only one person. The only person whose name popped up on her sleek, glittering screen with that familiar staccato number string of a luxury hotel suite in the City Circle.

She didn’t answer right away— not at first. Instead, she lay in bed for a minute longer, staring at the marble ceiling of her suite, then to the edge of the velvet drapes where the outside city lights flickered pink and gold against the clouds. It was past midnight, which meant something was wrong. Not wrong in the true, real sense— Capitol people rarely knew what that meant— but wrong in his way.

She slipped on her coat— a soft, powder-blue cape that fastened at her collarbone with a silver starburst brooch— and slid her feet into matching ballet flats. The villa was silent, a tomb of marble and gilt. Her mother and father were closed up in their suite at the end of the hall, the faint murmur of Capitol news echoing from behind the door.

Cornelia crept down the grand staircase, her curls bouncing lightly with each step. The night air was sharp and cold, the wind biting through her cape as she hurried across the empty square. The City Circle was eerily still, the massive, glittering fountain in the center spouting water that glowed an iridescent blue. It was almost haunting, the way the light danced against the stone, casting wavy shadows over the surrounding buildings.

Cornelia slowed her pace, eyes searching. It only took a moment to spot Finnick pacing in front of the fountain, his shoulders hunched, his head down, his hair falling in his eyes. He looked different than he did on camera. Harder. Older. Like a statue left out in the rain, eroded and cracking beneath the weight of too many storms.

Cornelia swallowed, fingers twisting in the hem of her cape as she took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Hey,” she said, her voice soft.

Finnick’s head snapped up, eyes sharp and unrelenting. For a second, he just looked at her, his jaw clenched, chest heaving like he’d been running. Then he blinked, and his expression smoothed over, the Capitol charm slipping into place like a well-worn mask. “Cornelia,” he said, his voice flat. “You’re late.”

Cornelia shifted. “I had to be very sneaky getting out of the villa,” she said, forcing a lightness into her tone that felt painfully out of place. “Luckily, my parents have closed themselves up in their room for the night, and I—”

“Do you ever just shut up?” Finnick snapped, the words cutting through the air like a knife.

Cornelia’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes going wide, the breath leaving her lungs in a sharp exhale. It was a rare thing for Finnick to raise his voice, and even rarer for him to aim it at her. The silence that followed was deafening.

Finnick closed his eyes, the tension in his jaw visibly loosening as he let out a slow, shaky breath. When he opened them again, he looked tired, dark shadows smudged beneath his eyes like bruises. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice lower, almost a murmur. “I’m just... I’m stressed. About tomorrow.”

Cornelia stood there, the wind tugging at the hem of her cape, her heart pounding unsteadily. “... You’re never stressed,” she said finally, her voice small. “You’re Finnick Odair. You’re... you’re always okay.”

Finnick laughed, but it was a hollow, bitter sound, like a snapped guitar string. He pushed a hand through his hair, the copper strands falling back into his eyes. “Well, you don’t see me enough to know, do you?” he muttered, his tone sharper than he intended.

Cornelia flinched, her shoulders pulling up around her ears. The wind caught in her curls, whipping them across her face as she looked away, down at the ground. “Sorry,” she said softly. “I just... I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

Finnick’s jaw tightened, and he let out a slow, shuddering breath. The muscles in his neck strained as he swallowed, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. “I can’t watch her die,” he said suddenly, his voice flat. Detached. Like he was talking about the weather. “I can’t. Not her. I’ve known Annie since we were kids.”

Cornelia’s lips parted, her eyes searching his face. “Annie...” she echoed, her voice tentative. 

Finnick nodded, his eyes dark, jaw clenched. “She’s not a killer. Not like me.” He let out a bitter laugh, the sound scraping against the back of his teeth. “She’s just... she’s sweet. She makes seashell necklaces and bakes seaweed bread. She...” His throat worked, the words sticking like shards of glass. “She doesn’t deserve this. And if she dies, it’s on me. Because I couldn’t protect her. Because I couldn’t get enough sponsors. Because I couldn’t...” His hands shook at his sides, clenched into fists, his knuckles white.

Cornelia’s breath hitched, her chest tight. There was a rawness in his voice that she’d never heard before. 

Without thinking, she reached out, her hand hovering between them, her palm open, fingers trembling. It was such a small gesture, such a simple thing, but it was all she had to offer.

Finnick stared at her hand, his brows furrowing, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, he just looked at it, like he couldn’t quite understand what she was doing or why.

Then he shook his head, his jaw tightening as he turned away from her, his shoulders rigid, his back a hard, unyielding line. “Don’t,” he said, his voice flat. “Just... don’t.”

Cornelia’s hand fell back to her side, and she swallowed, her throat thick, her honey eyes burning. She watched him for a moment, watched the way he stood there, shoulders hunched, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the fountain like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

Then she nodded, even though he couldn’t see her, even though he wasn’t looking at her. “Okay,” she said, her voice soft and brittle. “Okay.”

Finnick turned away from her and stared out at the fountain, the water reflecting back his hollow eyes.

August, 70 ADD

The nightmares were the first to come. Finnick had known they would. His had stayed over the last five years to the point where they didn’t phase him anymore— merely something to be cataloged and tucked beneath his ribs like a shell fragment he’d learned to ignore. But for Annie, it was new, and they still felt real. She hadn’t yet learned to separate dream from waking. She still clutched at her chest afterward like her heart might have drowned in her sleep, like it was salt-logged and sinking.

It had only been a little over a week since they got home. The Victory Tour wasn’t for another three months, but that looming thing hung over them all the same— the rehearsals, the fittings, the carefully composed smiles that would be expected of Annie, whose hands still trembled when someone shut a door too quickly. The Capitol would want her to look like a Victor, not a girl who had screamed when the cannon sounded for her district partner and who had nearly drowned herself after that moment, wading straight into the surf before Finnick had pulled her back.

Now she slept in her house— her new house in the Victors’ Village, though it still looked and felt like a stranger’s home, all shiny white walls and polished furnishings, smelling faintly of new wood and lemon wax. And Finnick was on the floor beside her bed, his blanket laid out across the carpet, a pillow under his head, a knife still strapped to his ankle. Not because he feared anyone would come. Just because he didn’t know how not to sleep with it.

When the screaming began, it was sharp. Higher than a note in a song, piercing through the quiet night like a gull’s cry over open sea. Finnick was already half-awake when it started, his dreams light and listless, the way they often were in the weeks after a Games ended. He’d known it would happen eventually. She’d had nights of restless murmurs, twitching limbs, frantic breaths. But this— this was the real thing. The storm had hit land.

He bolted upright in one clean movement, pushing off the floor with ease. The scream had cut off, but it was replaced by gasping. Her voice, thready and uneven, muttering something over and over again that he couldn’t make out. He rose from the floor and moved to her bedside with barely a sound. The moonlight fell in through the gauzy curtains and lit her face— flushed, wet with sweat, eyes wide open but seeing nothing. One arm was twisted in the sheets. Her other hand clawed at her chest like she was trying to rip something free.

“Annie,” he said quietly. No response.

He didn’t touch her yet. He’d learned not to, not right away. Sometimes it made it worse.

“It’s me,” he said.  “You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re home.”

Her chest hitched. A broken sound escaped her. She still didn’t see him.

So he did what he knew worked.

He began to hum.

It was barely more than breath at first, a vibration in the air between them. Then the notes settled into shape. A song their parents had sung on boats and on beaches, a song the sailors whistled when the wind was in their favor. It was simple and old and smelled like brine and rope and the sunburnt planks of wooden piers. The first verse was only a string of vowels and the memory of gulls, but the second began to take form—a tale of a sailor lost to sea, and a lover waiting on the cliffs, and how they’d meet again when the tide turned silver under the moon.

Annie’s hands stilled. Her breathing slowed. She blinked several times, her eyes finally focusing.

“Finnick?” she whispered.

He nodded, still humming.

She looked around like she didn’t know where she was, then let her head fall back onto the pillow. She reached out, and he took her hand in both of his. Her skin was clammy, her fingers twitching.

“Was I dreaming?” she asked. Her voice was rough, thick with sleep and leftover fear.

“Yes,” he said. He didn’t lie. “But you’re awake now.”

She nodded slowly. “You were there.”

“I’m here,” he corrected gently. “Still here.”

She was quiet for a while. Her grip loosened, then tightened again, as if anchoring herself to his voice, to his presence.

“I saw water,” she said after a moment. “I saw Marius again. He was calling me. I couldn’t save him.”

Finnick closed his eyes. He remembered Marius— District 4’s other tribute. Only sixteen. Good in the water, but not good enough to avoid being decapitated by the female tribute from 1. Finnick had watched it happen from a screen in the Capitol, from a plush velvet viewing lounge with a glass of something golden in his hand while Annie watched her friend be beheaded.

“It wasn’t real,” he murmured. “He’s gone, but nothing can hurt you now. I’m here.”

“But it did,” Annie whispered. “It did.”

He didn’t argue with her. There were things she would have to come to terms with in her own time. The Games didn’t end at the sound of the final cannon. They lodged inside like fishhooks. She would have to learn how to live around them.

He continued to hum. Her eyes drifted shut again.

She didn’t fall asleep right away. Her hand curled into a loose fist in his lap, her breathing irregular for some time. But gradually, it evened out. Her fingers went limp. She exhaled with the sound of something leaving her chest— like a wave receding.

Finnick stayed there, seated beside her bed, her hand still cradled in his, watching her face relax into something peaceful. His back ached. His legs were sore. He hadn’t slept well in days. But he stayed. Because he remembered how it had been, those first few weeks after he won. The nightmares, the guilt. The silence. The way no one could explain why winning felt so much like dying. No one to wake him but himself. And later, the Capitol. The ones who called on him. Who told him to smile wider, to kiss longer, to be the kind of Victor they wanted. Annie was his district. She was his people. He wasn’t going to let her go through it alone.

As she slept, he looked around the room. It was decorated in soft blues and greens, seashells on the dresser, a windchime of driftwood hanging near the window. It was the Capitol’s idea of District 4, all curated and designed. But her stuffed seal from childhood was tucked beneath the covers beside her. That was real. That was Annie.

Finnick sighed and leaned back, keeping her hand in his. He didn’t lie down again. Not yet. His eyes stayed on the dark window. His mind was already drifting back to the Capitol— to the calls he knew would come, the sponsors who would ask for things, the men and women who would whisper about how charming he’d looked during Annie’s reaping. 

He wondered how long they had before the quiet ended. Before the Capitol reeled them back in. Before the tour, the appearances, the masks. But for now, there was only the sound of her breathing. The distant creak of the house. The wind brushing against the chime outside the window. He let himself close his eyes. 

November, 70 ADD

Finnick stayed at Annie’s side throughout the entire Victory Tour. Not once did he leave her alone, even during her speeches to the districts. He stood just behind her or just to the side, watching over her like a sentry, every muscle pulled tight beneath his suits. Annie would step up to the podium, her hands trembling as she read from her cue cards, and Finnick would nod, give her a barely-there smile of reassurance. She would glance at him, then back to the crowd, then back to her cards.

In the back of his mind, Finnick knew that Annie was safe— for now. The Capitol had formed its opinion of her quickly after her return. From the moment her extraction airship had landed and she’d stumbled, dazed and gasping, into the cameras, the narrative had written itself. The girl who snapped. The tribute who sang to herself and cried for hours and couldn’t tell the difference between the arena and home. They called her fragile. Delicate. Damaged.

And, because of that, she was spared.

Finnick had heard it all from behind closed doors. Whispers in lounges and salons. Some of his clients had laughed, called it a shame— such a pretty girl, such a soft little thing, gone to waste. Others wrinkled their noses, called her unsightly, unnerving. The Capitol only wanted toys that could smile and purr. Annie was none of those things. She flinched when touched, spoke in stammered half-sentences, and got lost in her own thoughts like falling through cracks in a wall. The high society deemed her too unstable to be desirable. And Finnick, with shame in his gut and a cold burn in his chest, was relieved.

That meant she was safe. That meant, as dehumanizing and cruel as the Capitol’s judgments were, she would not be sold. Not the way he had been.

Still, Finnick stayed near her at every turn. Even now, at the Captiol party full of elites and socialites— he was still there. 

Annie walked beside him in a soft seafoam dress that shimmered when she moved, her hand wrapped tightly around his. She said very little, only nodding or answering in the smallest of murmurs when he leaned close and spoke quietly in her ear.

“Just smile when they look,” Finnick said to her under his breath, eyes scanning the crowd. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. Just let them think you’re... mysterious. That’s a favorite.”

Annie gave the smallest of nods. She gripped his hand tighter.

They wove slowly through the courtyard, past fountains that gushed with pale lavender water and tables stacked with spun sugar sculptures and wines so expensive they shimmered gold. Everyone around them was suffocating with laughter and smiles. 

Finnick didn’t have the energy tonight for a full performance. Not when Annie kept flinching every time a hovercam passed overhead.

He leaned in again. “You’re doing great, Annie. Almost done.”

She didn’t speak this time, but she glanced up at him and gave the faintest smile. Finnick caught it, tucked it into the vault of small victories.

And then— he heard it. A familiar voice, smooth and saccharine, too loud, like all Capitol voices were. “Finnick, darling!”

He froze for a fraction of a second, his heart leaping into his throat. His eyes snapped to the left. A client— tall, elegant, aging, lips overfilled and lacquered in coral gloss, wearing a feathered cape that swept the ground behind her— was waving him over from across the courtyard, flanked by two other glittering socialites. The smile on her face was wide, eager. Too eager.

Panic seized his chest.

He couldn’t bring Annie with him. He couldn’t hand her over. Even if this woman would have no interest in Annie, even if she’d once called Annie a “damp little sponge of a girl”— he couldn’t risk it. Couldn’t even risk the way someone might touch her shoulder in passing. It would be too much.

“Annie,” he said under his breath, his voice urgent but measured. “Listen. I need you to do something for me. Just for a few minutes.”

Annie blinked, her gaze glassy with overstimulation. “Okay.”

“You see that girl over there?” Finnick’s eyes flicked across the courtyard, scanning, searching— until he found Cornelia. 

Practically glowing under the crystal lights of the chandeliers, Cornelia stood chatting beside Adorabella in the courtyard’s far archway. Her long, hip-length hair was now a tumble of soft dark blonde curls, gleaming with rose gold highlights that caught the light like strands of sunlit copper. She tossed her head back with a laugh at something Adorabella said, her hands fluttering as she spoke, her bracelets jingling.

“That girl,” Finnick whispered. “The blonde with the pink highlights. In the purple dress.”

Annie’s eyes followed his line of sight.

“I need you to go to her. Just stand by her for a few minutes. You don’t have to talk. Just stay near her, okay?”

Annie nodded.

“She knows me,” Finnick added. “She’ll be kind.”

Annie nodded again, slower this time.

“I’ll come right back,” he promised, his stomach knotting. “Right back.”

Then, before he could think too long on it, he gave Annie the gentlest push forward and turned away.

He walked toward the waiting Capitol woman with the precise elegance expected of him, every step rehearsed, sculpted. The panic didn’t show. It never did. That was the gift of the Capitol’s finest prostitute. A master of masks.

As he reached the group, he felt their eyes devour him, felt hands slide against his jacket, the purrs of approval. “There’s our darling,” one of them cooed, reaching to adjust the collar of his suit. “You’ve been hiding.”

He flashed a smile. “I’ve been touring.”

They laughed. He played along.

Adorabella was in the middle of retelling her mother’s recent incident with a malfunctioning dye pod—“ it turned her hair mauve, Cornelia, like actual mauve, and she had a fundraiser that night!”— when Cornelia spotted movement from the edge of her peripheral vision. Her head turned instinctively, a soft cascade of rose-gold curls brushing her bare shoulder as she glanced over her right side.

A girl was approaching. Quietly, without urgency, almost like she wasn’t quite certain if she should be. Her seafoam dress shimmered faintly in the lamplight from the chandeliers above, and she moved with a hesitance that contrasted the fluttering, effervescent blur of Capitol fashion whirling around her. Her hair— loose, falling just past her shoulders— was damp with humidity at the ends. Her gaze was uncertain but not afraid. Just… faraway.

Cornelia blinked. It took her half a second to register who it was.

“Oh, hey!” Cornelia greeted, her voice taking on that Capitolian singsong that had been trained into her from childhood— effusive, high-pitched, sweet as candy on the outside. She turned fully to face her, giving Annie her full attention now. “Hi!”

Annie tilted her head slightly and murmured, just loud enough to be heard over the music and chatter, “Finnick told me to find you.”

Cornelia’s smile held, but her dark eyes blinked once, slowly, as she processed those words.

She looked at Annie’s face again. At the way she wasn’t making eye contact. At how her shoulders were pulled in, how her fingers twitched against the skirt of her dress. Then she glanced off— past Annie’s shoulder, across the courtyard.

Cornelia inhaled through her nose and tucked a curl behind her ear.

“Oh, yes! Of course!” she said suddenly, seizing Annie’s hand with a cheerful enthusiasm. “I absolutely wanted to talk to you!”

Annie blinked, startled but unresisting as Cornelia began to walk, tugging her gently alongside.

“I have a new segment on my daddy’s show,” Cornelia continued, her voice rising with delight, “and I’ve been dying to invite you on! It’s all about post-tour Victor lifestyle and how we, the Capitol, can be better supporters of recovery and resettling. Very enlightening! Don’t you think that would be fun?”

She turned her head, flashing a grin over her shoulder at Adorabella. “We can bring in stylists and throw pillows and do a lookbook and everything!”

Annie looked like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with the flurry of energy now orbiting around her, but she didn’t pull away. She just followed, quiet as a tide.

“And oh!” Cornelia gasped suddenly, as if the thought had only just occurred to her, “—my birthday party! It’s in May! You have to come!”

Adorabella clapped once behind them. “It’s going to be so magical this year, Annie! There’ll be live doves and probably a peacock.”

“Finnick comes every year,” Cornelia added brightly, tossing a glance back toward Annie, who was still holding her hand. “So now you have to come too. Obviously. We’ll send a carriage for you.”

The three of them meandered along the edges of the courtyard, Cornelia leading, Annie drifting beside her, Adorabella prancing along just behind, still sipping from her glitter-coated flute of rosewater champagne. The music swelled as they passed a quartet of harpists stationed near the marble garden archways. Hovercams buzzed like wasps overhead, and from the hedges, the faint rustle of Capitol reporters positioning themselves for interviews or glamour shots added to the soft hum of luxury.

From across the courtyard, Finnick saw them.

Or rather, he allowed himself to look. Just for a moment.

His gaze, calm but heavy-lidded, flicked past the older woman still chattering to him—some nonsense about her upcoming gala, and how she needed him there to “bring that tidal charm.” His body faced her, but his attention was momentarily elsewhere.

He saw Cornelia with Annie. Annie walking, head down slightly, but not alone. Cornelia chatting, gesturing, looping her arm loosely through Annie’s like a girl leading her best friend to a dancefloor. Adorabella was there too, just at Cornelia’s heels.

A slow breath escaped him— just barely. Cornelia had understood. She hadn’t asked questions. Hadn’t hesitated. Just smiled and stepped in like it was all planned. It wasn’t the first time Finnick had trusted her, but it was the first time he realized just how deeply he did. And that was both a breath of fresh air as much as it was absolutely terrifying to rely on her for such a thing.

He didn’t let his expression change, though. He was too well-trained for that. Instead, he laughed at something the man next to him said.

By the time Finnick had slipped out from under the weight of champagne flutes and red-lipped hands that clung to him too long, the ballroom had begun to thin. He walked with his hands in the pockets of his tailored navy suit, the collar slightly undone now, as if in surrender. He had spent the past hour smiling until his jaw ached and flattering men with dead fish eyes and old women who wanted to stroke his arms and talk about how “sweetly boyish” he still looked. As though he were a pet. Or a trinket. Or a collectible. But none of that mattered now. He needed to find Annie.

His eyes scanned the courtyard in calculated flicks. He didn’t see her at first.

But then he noticed the edge of movement through the lattice trellis beyond the hedge— Annie. And beside her, animated and relaxed, was Cornelia.

Finnick hesitated for half a beat, standing just beneath a wrought-iron arch draped in climbing roses. His breath caught, not out of emotion but calculation. No Adorabella. No Diamond. No Precious in sight. That in itself was unusual.

Capitol girls didn’t stray far from the herd. And yet here she was, sitting in the garden beside Annie, chattering away, seemingly unaware that the world around them had dulled with distance. The marble fountain murmured behind them like a gentle chaperone, and pale lilac lights from the string lanterns overhead played across the leaves, dappling the girls’ faces with movement.

Finnick stepped quietly into the garden path, his shoes making no sound on the softened moss-laced stone. He didn’t speak. Just watched.

Cornelia was talking with a lower voice than usual. Not quite hushed, but… smaller. More compact. Still vivacious— he could see her using her hands, could see her laugh lightly at something only she found funny— but she wasn’t speaking in that performative Capitol volume that usually declared, this conversation is meant to be overheard. She wasn’t putting on a show.

He caught just the tail end of what she was saying as he got close enough to make out the words.

“— and then Clementine flipped. I mean, I don’t blame her, they made her dress up like a geranium just to vote her out of the final rose ceremony. What was the point of the entire trip if they were just going to humiliate her in front of Balthazar? He’s not even that cute. Honestly, she could do so much better.”

Annie didn’t say much, but her face was soft, eyes tired but still listening. She looked like she didn’t fully understand what Cornelia was talking about— but that she didn’t mind. She was calm.

The moment Annie’s eyes drifted up and spotted Finnick, her lips parted, and her hand reached to her lap, the fingers of her right hand instinctively brushing the back of her left, a nervous tick he’d come to recognize.

Cornelia noticed her shift and turned her head to follow her line of sight.

“Oh, hey!” she said brightly, her voice lifting an octave, sheepish in a way that Finnick didn’t often hear from her. “Sorry, it got too loud. Diamond went to go get her some water, I don’t know why they only serve cocktails here, like, are we not allowed to have basic hydration?”

Finnick exhaled slowly, letting his posture relax a little as he crossed the rest of the way toward them, offering a faint half-smile. “Thanks,” he said simply, his voice more gravel than charm now, but sincere.

Cornelia waved a hand. “Oh my gosh, no, you’re fine!” she said breezily. She gave Annie’s knee a gentle pat as she stood up, her heels sinking slightly into the moss. “Finnick has my number,” she said. “Call me when you guys get home, and I can finish telling you about Clementine’s bachelorette drama. Honestly, it’s a crime you guys don’t get our same channels.”

Annie tilted her head to the side. “What’s a bachelorette?” she asked in a soft, curious murmur.

Cornelia blinked, mouth open in mild horror, as if Annie had just admitted she’d never seen glitter before. “What? Oh, okay, no, that’s— that’s it, we’re setting up a watch party. I’ll literally fly you both up for the next season premiere. We’ll do makeovers and drink cucumber water and paint our nails.”

Annie offered a small smile. Not wide. But real.

Finnick, watching from just a few feet away now, remained still. Silent. Something in his chest twinged—something that always did, when he watched Annie smile and knew it wasn’t because of him. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was more like awe. Like watching something fragile stretch in sunlight.

Then— somewhere off by the ballroom— “Cornelia!” came Precious’s unmistakable, high-pitched call. “They brought out the coffee truffles! Cornelia!”

Cornelia turned so fast her curls bounced. “Oh, sorry! Sorry! I gotta go!” she chirped, already jogging backward on the path with surprising speed in her lavender heels. She waved wildly, almost cartoonish in her enthusiasm. “Bye Annie!”

And then she spun on her heel and took off in a blur of swishing skirt and glittered clutch.

Finnick stood there beside Annie, blinking once.

Cornelia hadn’t said goodbye to him.

His brow furrowed— just faintly. She always said goodbye to him. Always made a show of it. So what the hell was that? He almost turned slightly, half-expecting to see her vanish into the crowd without another word.

Then he heard her again.

“Bye Finnick! Call me!” her voice rang out brightly from somewhere behind the hedge.

He turned his head sharply.

She was already halfway across the courtyard, arm slung through Precious’s, laughing like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t left him standing there wondering if something had.

Finnick blinked again. Then smiled— just a little. Maybe she’d meant to throw him off. And maybe she had.

December, 70 ADD

Ten digits.

That was all that Cornelia’s phone number was.

Just ten digits in a specific order, meaningless to anyone else but familiar now to Finnick’s eyes. He’d dialed them before— technically. On hotel landlines with rotary dials made of pearl enamel, on the private tele-screens in suites where the windows never opened and the air always smelled like orchids. She’d answered every time with her bright little sing-song Capitol hello, always surprised it was him even when she clearly expected it, always rambling about her friends, or her dress fittings, or Cerise’s outfit of the day that matched her own. It was always nothing, and yet somehow it was always something.

But this was different.

This was the phone in his District 4 home. His real phone. No operator intercepts, no Capitol redirect lines, no velvet-gloved handlers handing him the receiver. Just him. In the narrow hallway between his bedroom and the small kitchen, leaning with his back against the wood-paneled wall, the sea just faintly audible through the open window behind him. He could smell the salt in the breeze and the fish on the boats that had pulled in early this morning.

And his finger hovered— just above the final digit.

A simple button. One click. He could press it now.

But he didn’t.

His breath came shorter than it should. His thumb still rested in the air.

Why was his heart racing?

Why was it racing?

He let out a slow breath through his nose and finally, deliberately, let his thumb fall.

The phone began to ring.

Finnick held his breath.

One ring.

Two.

Three.

He almost convinced himself she wasn’t going to answer. That maybe her phone was off, or maybe she was too busy, or maybe— maybe something had happened, maybe she’d changed her number and forgotten to tell him, or—

“... Hello?”

Her voice.

It came through the line soft and a little cautious, like she hadn’t quite committed to speaking yet. Not her usual brightness. And in that breath of silence that followed, Finnick realized something he hadn’t considered until this exact moment.

He had never called her from District 4.

Every other conversation they’d ever had by phone had come from a Capitol number, a Capitol hotel, a Capitol room. And this— this number, this ring, this signal— was not from there.

It was from here.

His mouth parted and he found himself inhaling like he’d just resurfaced from a deep dive. Then, after half a second too long, he finally spoke.

“Hey. It’s me.”

A pause on the other end. Then the faintest sound, fabric brushing something hard— she was moving.

“Hey there,” Cornelia answered, warmer now, recognition returning to her voice. In the background, Finnick heard a door click shut, then the light sound of her exhale. “Sorry, I didn’t recognize the ringtone. I don’t think my phone did either. It was very odd.”

That made him laugh— quiet and genuine, the kind of sound that escaped before he could catch it. He closed his eyes for a beat, leaning his head back against the wall.

“I’ll try to be less mysterious next time,” he said dryly.

“Or you could send a smoke signal,” she quipped, “I think it’d reach my window faster.”

Finnick grinned faintly, then shifted the phone slightly in his grip. “What’re you doing right now?”

Cornelia hummed on the other line, as if thinking very hard about a question that didn’t require much thought at all.

“Well, I was about to go to my nail appointment with Diamond,” she said, her tone lightening as she slipped back into the comfort of conversation. “I’m way overdue for a fill. I can’t believe I even let my nails grow out this long! Ugh. I’ve been walking around with these busted cuticles like some sort of district convict.”

Finnick let out a soft breath through his nose.

She paused, and then— so naturally he almost missed it— her voice tilted upward. “What about you?”

He looked out the window. Watched the gulls skim the water, listened to the creak of the old dock boards groaning under the weight of morning.

“Not much,” he said after a moment. “Just got back from the docks. Annie’s with her cousin today. I’ve got a meeting coming up in the Capitol in a few weeks.”

There was a slight shift on the line— barely a beat— but enough to make him hear the change.

“Oh.”

He waited.

“Well... I’m sure you’ll be... busy?”

There was no sarcasm in her voice. No teasing. Just the kind of careful uncertainty that Finnick rarely heard from Capitol girls. It was quiet. Almost shy.

“I’m sorry,” she said a second later, her words rushing out with a little exhale. “I don’t... sometimes I don’t know what to say. I don’t mean to be rude or... or weird. I just feel like I need to say something.”

Finnick felt something in his chest catch. He shifted, standing up straighter. “You’re not weird,” he said simply. A beat passed. Then— “What color are you getting your nails?”

The change was instant. A delighted gasp burst through the receiver.

“Oh my gosh, I have no idea!” Cornelia breathed. “I was thinking of doing a red ombré with little gold stars, or maybe that iridescent top coat they just came out with. I was thinking of doing a red ombré with little gold stars, or maybe that iridescent top coat they just came out with. Wait, no, maybe that frosted blue chrome would be better? Finnick, what do you think? You’ve seen my hands, you know what looks good, right?”

Finnick blinked at the sudden torrent of her words but couldn’t stop the faint smile that played at the corner of his mouth. He could picture her perfectly— head tilted, one heel kicked against the floor, holding her phone between her cheek and shoulder while waving her fingers in front of a mirror.

“I think you should go with the stars,” he said, amused. “Matches your personality.”

“Oh! That’s so cute!” she squealed. “Wait, do you mean because I am a star? Or because I’m full of stars? Like, pretty and and shiny and bright?”

“Both,” he said. He meant it.

There was a pause.

She was quiet for a few seconds longer than usual. “I like hearing your voice like this.”

Finnick blinked. “Like what?”

“Like... here,” she said. “Not from a suite. Not in a bathroom while someone else is waiting for you. Just... now. You sound more like—”

She cut herself off. He waited.

“More like yourself,” she finished quietly.

He didn’t answer for a while. The gulls cried again outside. A wave crashed, somewhere just beyond the harbor.

“Maybe that’s why I called,” he murmured.

Another pause. Then a breath. A tiny one.

“Call me again?” she asked.

“I will.”

He meant that, too.

Chapter Text

January, 71 ADD

CORNELIA HAD NEVER BEEN ONE TO BE INSECURE OF HER APPEARANCE, much less her own body. She had grown up in the glow of Capitol lights, under cameras and compliments and the glitzy galas. The Flickerman name alone carried generations of recognition and respect. Cornelia had been given rhinestone tiaras as early as age three, had been twirling in tulle and patent leather before most children could pronounce “couture.” She had always been looked at, always been adored, always been told she was pretty.

And she was. Cornelia knew that. But as she stood now inside the grand velvet-draped fitting rooms of the Capitol’s finest boutique, watching Adorabella and Precious be fitted for their new gala dresses, something low and foreign stirred in her stomach. Comparison.

Precious stood nearest to the pedestal, her bright orange curls swept high into a velvet bow as a sequined dress was fastened tightly at her waist. Cornelia glanced, just a moment too long, at how the bodice hugged her figure— how full and soft her bust looked under the structured boning. It wasn’t just the shape; it was how confidently Precious wore it, how easily she filled the space she took up.

Cornelia was not flat-chested— no, not since she was fourteen— but standing there in her own thin slip skirt and pale satin bra, she could see where her cups did not quite fill the same way. Her figure felt... in-between. Not delicate enough to be willowy like Adorabella, and not plush enough to be as voluptuous as Precious.

Adorabella, now turning in front of her own mirror in a gauzy pale lilac, was as narrow and long-limbed as always, her waist disappearing into the pleats of her skirt, her arms hanging like ribbons. The back of her gown dipped low, revealing the porcelain curve of her spine, and when she tilted to adjust the angle of her straps, Cornelia caught the sleek silhouette of her legs, the way her calves didn’t brush when she walked.

Cornelia’s hips did. Her thighs too.

She wasn’t wide set, but she was fuller. Fuller in ways she hadn’t always noticed until the three of them started doing more fittings together. Fittings that came with fluted skirts and clingy silks and words from the tailors like “cinch” and “snug” and “let’s lift the hem so it doesn’t ride up.”

Neither Precious nor Adorabella ever said anything. Neither of them ever made comments, never complained about their own bodies, at least not aloud. They seemed so at ease— barely noticing when their measurements were called out, when their dresses slipped on with ease and without holding their breath or shifting the material. And that only made Cornelia feel that much more self-conscious.

She stared into her mirror now, alone in the little curtained alcove at the back of the salon, the soft lighting designed to flatter— but it only made the shadows feel more pronounced. Her eyes traced the round of her hips, the indent of her waist, the pinch of skin at her underarm above the bra strap.

She reached up, gently pressing her thumb and forefinger into the curve of her side. Just a soft squeeze, a test, as if trying to make the doubt vanish. She pinched at her waist, her hip, adjusted the waistband of her slip skirt, tugged it just a little higher to see if the shape looked more even.

It didn’t.

And then she blinked— hearing her name just faintly through the plush curtain.

“Cornelia,” Adorabella’s sing-song voice called, delicate but direct. “What’s taking so long? Come out and see Precious’s gown! It’s divine! You’ll hate it, she looks better than both of us—”

Cornelia flinched slightly. Not because of the words. She knew Adorabella’s teasing well enough to know it was meant in fun. But her hand dropped quickly, and she straightened her spine as if trying to push the uncertainty down into her ankles. She fumbled for her blouse— one of the silk ruffle ones with a scalloped collar— and shrugged it on, smoothing the fabric over her shoulders. Her matching skirt came next, a periwinkle twill that pleated slightly at the hips. She twisted her hair up into a quick, lazy bun and gave her reflection a final glance.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Coming! Coming!” she chirped, her voice sweet and breathless as she tugged back the curtain and stepped out into the main room.

Precious stood center stage now, her train spread behind her.

“Finally,” Adorabella said with an exaggerated sigh, draped lazily across a fainting couch. She twisted one ringlet around her finger. “You take longer to get dressed than you do to eat dinner.”

Cornelia grinned with automatic reflex. “Excuse me, I had to take a call,” she lied breezily, perching herself beside Adorabella and crossing her ankles. 

Precious turned to model her train. “Do we think it’s too much?”

“No,” Cornelia and Adorabella said in unison.

Cornelia leaned back slightly, watching her friends— beautiful, glittering, poised— and tucked her arms tighter across her waist.

Cornelia let Adorabella and Precious disappear to the shoe store on the next corner. They didn’t even wait for her to change her mind— because they already knew she wouldn’t. She’d given them her excuse, chirped and dramatic as always: “My father has put me on shoe probation until I rehome six pairs. Can you believe that?! Six!”

Adorabella had blown her a kiss. Precious had muttered something about stealing the patent baby blues from the window just in case.

Now, Cornelia walked alone. Or, not quite alone— her bags clicked lightly at her side, swinging with every step. She had three in total. Two of them were from the boutique, one was from a silk accessories shop she’d stopped into while her friends tried on heels.

Still, her mind fluttered briefly back to the fitting room— Adorabella’s waist, Precious’s bust, the way her own dress had fit a little snugger than she’d liked— and she bit the inside of her cheek. Just for a second. Just long enough to forget that she had any reason to be glittering.

And then, just as she passed the glossy window of a jewelry store, someone tugged sharply at the strap of one of her shopping bags. Cornelia let out a sharp gasp, whirling around with lightning reflex, one palm already mid-air and angled to slap a face clean off a skull.

Finnick dodged it— barely. He laughed, stepping back just enough that her hand sliced air rather than cheek. “Whoa.”

Her mouth fell open, stunned for a fraction of a second. “Finnick!”

She swatted him— hard— against his shoulder with the heel of her hand, still breathless with adrenaline. “I could’ve broken your wrist!”

Finnick grinned, wide and bright, the same grin that could charm a panel of diplomats or disarm a room of Capitol fashion editors. His hair was slightly mussed from the breeze, curling at the ends where saltwater hadn’t touched it for a few days, and he was dressed in something deceptively casual— slate-blue jacket, white undershirt, tailored trousers— but it clung to his frame just right. He looked every inch the Capitol heartthrob they claimed him to be.

“Honestly,” he said, lifting the bag he’d just swiped from her with one hand, “you almost did. Though I think the bag alone could’ve snapped a bone. What do you have in here? A spare chandelier?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she huffed, brushing imaginary dust from her blouse with a scoff, though a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “That bag’s light. You should do some cardio if it’s weighing you down.”

Finnick smirked, glancing sideways at her, his pace syncing effortlessly to hers as they began walking again. Without a word, he gently shifted closer to the edge of the street, positioning Cornelia on the inside of the sidewalk, further from the stream of cars drifting past on the road. She didn’t notice; she was too busy tugging her purse higher on her shoulder, already distracted again as she pulled out her shimmery pink lip gloss.

“Well, now that you’ve robbed me,” she said with faux exasperation, swiping the applicator along her bottom lip, “what’s your plan?”

He shrugged, as if he hadn’t been looking for her at all, as if this weren’t exactly the corner he knew she liked to walk down on Thursdays after fittings. “Figured I’d walk you home.”

“Well,” she said with mock-suspicion, reinserting the wand into the tube, “you’re lucky I’m in the mood for being escorted.”

“Lucky me,” Finnick murmured under his breath, but she didn’t hear him. They walked a few more steps before he glanced at her again. “Have you had lunch yet?”

Cornelia scoffed. “Oh, gosh, no. I can’t even think about food after seeing my reflection next to Adorabella’s in only our undergarments.”

She said it with a shrug, offhand and flippant, but the edge was there if someone listened closely.

Finnick did. He gave her a look. “Cornelia.”

“What?” she sighed, already defensive.

“Have you eaten anything?”

She huffed and looked forward, brushing a strand of her hair behind her shoulder, but answered anyway. “I had a... pistachio scone, an apple slice, and a cheese Danish.”

Finnick raised an eyebrow.

“But those were, like... snacks.”

Finnick didn’t say anything for a second. Just glanced down at her, assessing, not in the way Capitol men usually looked at her— like they were tallying up her worth based on her face and waistline and lineage. It was more as though he were reading between lines she hadn’t meant to write.

And then, without a word, he shifted course.

They turned a corner that didn’t lead toward her sector.

Cornelia blinked, thrown by the change in direction. “Where are we going?”

“You’re going to eat something,” he said.

“Finnick—”

“You’re not living off pastries, Cornelia. Come on.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but something in his tone— slightly firm but still somewhat gentle— made her stop. She looked at him again, at the way his jaw was set, how the light caught in the sea-glass green of his eyes. How he wasn’t teasing anymore.

Cornelia hesitated. Then she nodded. 

They walked the way Capitol kids rarely did— on foot, no entourage, no handlers, no chaperones or handlers adjusting their collars for photographs. Just the two of them, winding slowly through the promenade just beyond the main shopping circle, their shoulders occasionally brushing, mouths busy with bites of warm sandwiches wrapped in parchment.

Cornelia had a chicken avocado wrap with candied lemon zest folded inside. Finnick had gone for something heartier— herbed turkey on dark bread with onion marmalade. She kept dabbing at hers with a linen napkin tucked into her wrist cuff, though she had long since given up trying to stay pristine.

He walked half a step closer than usual. Close enough that, whenever someone passed too quickly or the crowd narrowed and shoulders jostled a little too carelessly, Finnick’s hand would hover over her back— not quite touching, never lingering, but there. A barely-there brush near her shoulder blades when someone bumped too close. A subtle nudge guiding her away from a delivery cart as it passed. Always gentle. Always unspoken. But she noticed.

Cornelia swallowed a bite and gave a satisfied sigh. “Oh my gosh, this is too good.” She gave his upper arm a brief swat with the back of her hand, her jewelry jingling faintly against his skin. “You should’ve let me pay. Daddy just gave me my allowance.”

Finnick glanced sideways at her, chewing the last of his own bite, a brow arching in bemused disbelief. “You still get an allowance? Why is that still a thing? Aren’t you about to turn eighteen?”

Cornelia rolled her eyes and flipped her hair, the motion automatic. “Well, maybe because…” She trailed off, furrowing her brow with a sigh as she took another bite. “I don’t know. It’s a Flickerman thing.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” she insisted, mouth still half-full. “And I do want to take over daddy’s show someday. You know, interview tributes and Victors, host the Games?” Her tone shifted with the rhythm of an elevator pitch. “My granddaddy was the host, too. It’s in the Flickerman blood.”

Finnick didn’t answer immediately. He looked ahead, chewing slowly, brows knitting in faint thought as he watched the light shift through the translucent dome overhead. The Capitol’s sky was always perfect, like it had been painted on.

Finally, he spoke, voice low. “Is that really what you want?”

Cornelia blinked.

“You could be good at a lot of things,” he added, still watching the street as they walked.

She puckered her lips together thoughtfully, a habit she’d done since she was a toddler, like she could press her lips together hard enough to make the answer come out the right shape. “I don’t know,” she admitted after a pause. “I’ve never thought about anything else.” She glanced up at him. “What did you want to do? Before the Games and all the other… things?”

Finnick exhaled through his nose, like he’d seen the question coming. “My father was a fisherman before he died. I used to go out with him before the sun was up. Throw the lines, check the traps.” He gave a small shrug. “I liked it. Still do.”

Cornelia was silent for a second. She could almost see it— the boy version of Finnick in sea-soaked clothes, barefoot on a boat, hair windblown and eyes already that same shade of green.

“I like to surf,” he added after a moment, smirking faintly. “But that’s not exactly a paying hobby. Not unless the Capitol suddenly decides to make it a sponsored sport.”

Cornelia smiled softly, then took another bite of her wrap, chewing as they turned a corner. She tossed the empty wrapper into a trash chute carved like a column. It hissed as it swallowed the waste.

When she looked back over at Finnick, her grin widened. “You have a little crumby on your lip.”

He looked at her, puzzled.

“Here,” she said, gesturing with a vague wave near her own mouth, “right there. No, other side.”

Finnick wiped once with his thumb.

“Nope, still there.”

He tried again.

Cornelia laughed, stepping slightly closer, tilting her head. “It’s still there, silly!” She paused, eyes flicking to his lips. Her voice was gentler now. “Want me to get it?”

Finnick hesitated. Just for a second. Then he shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Sure. Knock yourself out.”

She reached up with her right hand, her thumb brushing lightly against the corner of his lip, her fingers grazing his cheek. Her touch was warm, soft, practiced. She could apply lip gloss in the dark with no mirror. Removing a breadcrumb was child’s play.

Finnick stilled. He didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. Just stood there, tall and golden in the late afternoon light, watching her like the question she hadn’t asked yet was written behind her eyes.

Cornelia flicked the crumb away. “Got it.” But she didn’t move her hand right away. Not at first. Her thumb lingered for a second longer than necessary, and Finnick didn’t move. Then she dropped her hand, her smile returning in full force. 

“There,” she said, brushing her hands against her skirt like she’d completed a chore. “You’re officially presentable.”

Finnick smiled, slow and wry. “Didn’t realize I was under inspection.”

“Always are,” Cornelia quipped, flicking a piece of lint from his shoulder with exaggerated flair.

They kept walking.

March, 71 ADD

The air of Cornelia’s bedroom smelled faintly of vanilla pomade and thermal hair spray, the curling wand in Cornelia’s hand heating steadily as she finished the second-to-last section of Precious’s waist-length orange hair. She worked like she had grown up doing this, like she was born knowing how to part, twist, clamp, and release perfect barrel curls.

Precious, perched delicately on a pearl-upholstered stool in front of the vanity, kept talking as if her voice had been wound up like a music box.

“I can’t believe it’s been two years,” she said, eyes wide with a blend of delight and disbelief, as Cornelia moved another section of hair away from her face. “Two years and Atticus still hasn’t gotten tired of me! You know, I was really worried he’d start chasing after Viridi when she got those huge lips. Like, I’m not even being paranoid. He stared for so long when we saw her at the club last month. I mean, I thought about getting some work done too. Just a little something, maybe—”

“Precious, no,” Cornelia interrupted, her voice sharp with sisterly horror as she adjusted the wand in her grip. “Immediately no.”

She twisted a section of hair around the wand and held it there.

“You do not need any work done on you! You are beautiful and perfect and sparkly and radiant, and—” she released the curl, letting it bounce into place with an audible flick “— even if you wanted something done, don’t do it for a man! Men leave. Your face stays with you forever.” She pointed the wand like a tiny gold scepter for emphasis, a half-pout on her lips as she leaned in to spray the curl lightly into place.

Precious blinked, then gave a small, sheepish laugh. “You’ve never thought about getting anything done? Not even, like… a little bit of filler?”

Cornelia paused, slowly lifting her eyes to the mirror to meet Precious’s reflection. Her brows arched. “Are you implying that I need some?”

Precious gasped. “No! No! Not at all! I just didn’t know if you ever considered it. Like, you know how everyone is doing consultations now. Even Adorabella has one scheduled for a nose job.”

Cornelia rolled her eyes so hard they might’ve rattled in their sockets. “Yeah, well, she got her daddy’s nose. I’d get one too.”

Precious let out a giggle, her shoulders shaking. She tilted her head slightly as Cornelia moved on to the last section of hair, separating a thick wave near her ear and combing it through with a wide-toothed glitter comb.

The two of them fell into a silence then, broken only by the soft click of the wand and the occasional misting of setting spray. The Capitol skyline twinkled faintly through the window, reflected in the glass like it was watching them get ready. Cornelia had always loved this part— helping a friend get ready, painting their eyelids, powdering their cheeks, curling their hair to perfection. There was something sacred in the ritual of transformation, and no one could convince her otherwise. It was an art form. A performance. A way to armor up.

As she finished the final curl and let it fall into place, Precious caught her gaze in the mirror again.

“So,” she said, her voice coy now, her head tilted just slightly as if reeling in gossip, “are you and that guy still talking?”

Cornelia blinked. “What guy?”

Precious gave her a look.

“Oh, that guy,” Cornelia said, catching on with a light laugh. “No. No, not since last summer. He got too boring.”

“Boring?” Precious echoed, grinning.

Cornelia raised her hand, twirling her index finger like she was stirring tea in midair. “And a bit too… explorative with his tongue in my mouth.”

Precious squealed, covering her mouth with both hands, and then fell into a peal of delighted laughter. “Cornelia!”

“What?” Cornelia laughed too, eyes sparkling as she turned off the wand and unplugged it from the pink jewel-encrusted socket. “It’s true! He had no spatial awareness. None. His tongue was, like… navigating. Like he was trying to tickle my uvula.”

“Stop!” Precious was doubled over with laughter now, tears forming at the corners of her heavily-lined eyes.

Cornelia flopped dramatically onto the edge of her bed, flinging an arm over her forehead like a starlet in a tragic Capitol drama. “And he was a film boy. Can you believe it? Son of a cameraman! You’d think he would know where the lens goes.”

Precious let out another shriek of laughter, gasping for air.

Cornelia smirked, lifting her head from the satin coverlet. “I mean, I had to chew mint leaves for days just to feel normal again.”

Precious wiped under her eyes, shaking her head in awe. “You’re actually insane.”

Cornelia smiled, proud and pleased, as she tucked her legs beneath her and reached for her lip gloss. “He was cute, though. I’ll give him that.”

“You’re always finding the cute ones.”

Cornelia shrugged, twisting open a pale pink tube. “I suppose I have something to offer.”

April, 71 ADD

Finnick Odair’s kitchen smelled like sea salt and grain. His elbows were dusted in flour, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a small smear of seaweed paste streaking the edge of his collarbone. The countertops were cluttered in the organized chaos of baking— the bowl of coarse salt, the damp pile of fresh seaweed they’d picked that morning, several cracked eggshells stacked like fragile sails in a chipped teacup, and two mismatched loaf pans lined in parchment.

Annie Cresta was giggling.

“No, Finnick, no, look at it!” she said, stepping back from the wooden counter to point at his half-shaped loaf. “It looks like a mutilated fish. You’re supposed to fold it under, not… not splay it out like a dying squid.”

Finnick gave her a withering look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. He glanced down at the shapeless lump of dough before him and shrugged. “It’s got character.” He flicked a pinch of flour at her.

Annie let out another laugh, that soft, pure sound that always felt like sea foam to him—fragile, beautiful, and somehow more honest than anything else in the world. Finnick rolled another clump of dough and set it aside with care, the crisscross cuts on top less precise than Annie’s. But there was charm in that, he thought. Not everything had to be neat.

Then, from the dining room table where Annie had left it earlier, the phone began to ring.

Annie paused, fingers still pressing the end of a seaweed strand into her dough, and looked toward the sound. “That’s you.”

“Could be you,” Finnick muttered, not looking up from his dough. “Could be another one of your secret fishermen boyfriends.”

“Please,” Annie said. She wiped her hands briskly on her kitchen towel and walked over, her hair still damp from the earlier saltwater swim, curling slightly at the ends like tendrils of kelp.

Finnick didn’t follow. He stayed at the counter, elbow-deep in another round of kneading, the dough folding and stretching beneath his hands. But he tilted his head just enough to listen.

He didn’t usually care who called. Half the time it was some Capitol reporter trying to get a comment on a recent appearance or Snow reminding him about an appointment with a client. Once it had been a woman who’d sent a photo of her own “seaweed bread,” hoping he’d rate it. That had been… strange.

But this time, Annie’s voice changed slightly. He couldn’t make out the words at first—she was speaking low, casual, and with that soft breathy tone she got when she didn’t want to sound too interested in something. Then he heard a name.

Cornelia.

He paused mid-knead. His fingers sank deeper than they should have and made a soft squelching sound against the moist dough. He didn’t move.

Cornelia? Why would she be calling?

Not that he minded. Quite the opposite, actually. His mind snapped instantly to the last time they’d spoken— laughing over lunch, the smudge of honeyed mustard on her front tooth, her thumb brushing a crumb from the corner of his mouth with the ease of someone who did things like that all the time and didn’t realize the way it stuck in his memory like a dart. They hadn’t spoken in… what? A week? Two?

And now she was calling him?

A flicker of something passed through him. Surprise. A hint of amusement. Maybe even something like— he didn’t know— hope?

He realized he was still kneading too aggressively and pulled his hands away, flicking his fingers over the sink to knock off clumps of dough. Annie’s voice had dropped again, just out of range, but he thought he heard her say something like “he’s busy”— and for a moment, his stomach tensed. He stood straighter.

Does Cornelia think him and Annie are…?

No, that was ridiculous. Right?

He pretended not to have heard anything as Annie reentered the kitchen, her towel still in one hand. She leaned against the frame of the doorway, relaxed as always, like she hadn’t just unknowingly derailed his thoughts.

“Cornelia called,” she said, like she was commenting on the weather.

Finnick nodded once, carefully. “Why?”

Annie gave him a look that hovered somewhere between teasing and sincere.

“She just wanted to talk. I told her you were making bread with me, so you’d call her back.”

Finnick nodded again, but there was a flicker of thought that scratched the back of his mind. The way she’d said it— “making bread with me”— like it meant more than it did. Like maybe Cornelia would hear that and think something of it. He wiped his palms on his shorts quickly, leaving ghost-shaped smudges of flour behind, and moved toward the hallway.

“Thanks,” he said, already reaching for the wall where the old phone cradle hung. “I’ll call her now.”

He didn’t wait for Annie to say anything else.

His heart was thudding faster than he wanted to admit. Not fast like danger, but fast like anticipation. Like maybe something in him was waking up in a way it hadn’t since before the Games, since before the Capitol took pieces of him and tried to pretend they left the rest intact.

Cornelia Flickerman. With her sugar-colored hair and her loud, charming voice and the way she always walked slightly ahead, expecting him to follow. With her ridiculous observations, her sudden honesty, and that look she gave him when she thought he wasn’t watching— the one where she looked like maybe she saw him, not the version the Capitol blew up on banners and spectaculars.

She’d called him. And that meant something. Didn’t it?

He picked up the receiver and punched in her number with careful fingers, brushing a smear of dough off the dial as he did. The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. He hated this part— waiting. Hoping. It made him feel like he was waiting for something— someone— to tether him to the life that came before the Games. Before the Capitol twisted his smile into something marketable. Before he became currency.

But on the sixth ring, just as the static of disappointment started to settle in his chest, the line clicked to life.

“Hey, Annie! What’s up?”

Her voice was so immediately, unmistakably her— light, airy, charmingly disorganized, like she’d burst into the world mid-thought. There was the usual lilt of performance in it, a natural Flickerman trait, but Finnick could hear the real part underneath it too. The note of sincerity. The genuine hope that whoever she was talking to would be happy to hear her voice.

Finnick almost smiled.

He didn’t answer right away, giving himself half a beat to feel something dangerously close to relief. Then he spoke, pitching his tone toward casual even though his fingers were still tense on the receiver.

“Hey, it’s me. Not Annie. Just calling you back. Sorry I missed you earlier.”

He could hear her sharp intake of breath on the other end, like she hadn’t expected it to be him. Or maybe hadn’t let herself hope it would be.

“Oh! Oh, don’t worry about it! I just…” She paused. He could picture her now— twirling the cord of her own phone around one manicured finger, pacing her room in slippers shaped like tiny clouds, trying to sound breezy and failing just slightly.

“I wanted to see if you were coming to the Capitol any time soon?” Her voice pitched upward like it was a question meant to be tossed into the air and caught gently. “I just… I dunno, wanted to go get a coffee with you? Precious and Diamond don’t like the tiramisu lattes, and I didn’t know if—”

“I’ll be there next week.”

The words leapt from his mouth so fast that he winced the moment they were airborne. There was a breathless eagerness in his tone he hadn’t meant to reveal— not yet. Not when things were still so new, still soft around the edges. He cringed slightly, pressing his palm to the wall like it might absorb some of the heat rising to his face.

Cornelia fell silent on the line for a second too long.

Then, in a stammered breath, she replied, “Oh! Yay! Well… okay, cool! Cool!” She cleared her throat, trying to reel herself back into composure, but he could hear the grin behind her voice.

“I, uh… sorry for interrupting you and Annie. I didn’t know you two were on a date—”

“We weren’t.”

He said it fast. Too fast again. There was no edge to it, just the kind of clarity that came when he needed to cut something off before it had a chance to twist into something else.

“We’re just friends,” he added, voice smoothing into a lower, more deliberate tone. “Annie and I. Not dating. At all.”

On the other end, Cornelia gave a short, nervous laugh— high and sheepish. “Oh, jeez, okay. Sorry. I just thought, you know… bread was a code name.”

Finnick couldn’t help it. He laughed— really laughed this time, head tilting back slightly as his chest shook with it. It was so utterly her— that mix of comedy and confusion, dipped in Capitol absurdity. He could practically see her rolling her eyes at herself.

“No,” he said, chuckling still. “Not a code. Just… actual bread. With actual seaweed. Which Annie thinks looks like a mutilated fish.”

Cornelia snorted. “Wow,” she teased. “Next you’ll be telling me you used a starfish for garnish.”

“I did consider it,” he said with mock solemnity. “But I didn’t want to go overboard.”

She giggled, and something in his chest cracked open a little. Just a hairline fracture, the kind you didn’t notice until the light got in.

“Well,” she said, her voice softening, a trace more sincere than before, “I won’t hold up your baking any longer. See you soon?”

He hesitated just a breath before answering. “Yeah. See you soon.”

They hung up.

May, 71 ADD

Just as promised, Cornelia Flickerman’s birthday party had birds. Doves, canaries, flamingos, and a few peacocks that strutted in lazy arcs across the edges of the ballroom like they owned the place. A soft latticework of silk nets shimmered overhead to keep the birds from flying too far, giving the illusion of a sky just beyond reach— painted cerulean and streaked with glowing clouds, twinkling like constellations made from high-end Capitol lighting tech.

Even the floor had been polished until it gleamed like water, reflecting every flourish of color in the room— every pastel feather, every metallic shoe, every sequin-winked grin.

Cornelia’s dress skirt, in fact, had been fashioned to resemble a peacock’s train— tiered panels of opalescent green and oceanic blue cascading behind her. The bodice was tightly fitted with a deep sweetheart neckline, embroidered with rich gold thread and dotted with real peacock feathers that fanned gently when she turned or laughed or struck a pose. No real birds had been harmed in the making, of course— not technically. But a few of the peacocks on the property were visibly missing some proud tail plumes.

“Oh, my gosh, look!” Cornelia spun in a semi-circle, the feathered train of her skirt whispering against the floor as she presented herself to her friends. “Real feathers! I know!”

Adorabella clutched her own clutch tighter, all high cheekbones and glossy coral lips, eyes wide and slightly misty with Capitol delight. “Stop, stop, it’s too good. That’s couture!"

Cornelia beamed. “Daddy’s hair even matches the blue!” She pointed across the ballroom where Caesar stood in a suit of peacock-patterned brocade, his wig for the night dyed a brilliant shade of cobalt and swept back in waves.

Adorabella waved over her boyfriend— a dull-eyed Capitol boy with excellent cheekbones and an aggressively expensive watch— to admire Cornelia’s dress, and the group of five tilted around her like petals around the rarest flower. Cornelia batted her eyelashes with a little grin, one gloved hand brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her sleeve. She did like the dress. She liked how the feathers flared slightly when she moved, how everyone looked at her like she’d become the centerpiece of the room.

But her eyes drifted.

Just for a moment, her gaze skimmed over shoulders and backs, past trays of hors d’oeuvres and crystalline glasses, searching through the mingling crowd for a face she hadn’t seen yet. A flicker of bronze hair. A green flash of sea-colored eyes.

He was late.

“Cornelia!” Precious nudged her with one elbow, nodding toward the netted ceiling where a small, glimmering blur had just darted through the soft blue light. “Is that a hummingbird? It’s flying right over us!”

Cornelia blinked and lifted her gaze. A small green hummingbird— so iridescent it looked mechanical— hovered just above their heads, wings whirring so fast they shimmered.

“Oh! Yes!” Cornelia clasped her hands together under her chin and grinned. “It must smell my shampoo. There’s actual honeysuckle essence in it!”

She tipped her head back and laughed, delight sparkling on her tongue, and that was exactly when she saw him.

Finnick.

She saw him enter the ballroom at the far end, dressed in slate-blue formalwear tailored to Capitol standards but softened by something undeniably him. No feathers. No sparkle. But his hair was wind-swept, like he’d arrived straight from some oceanic cliffside.

Cornelia lit up.

“Be right back!” she chirped to her group, already twirling away, her skirts trailing behind her in a fan of blue and green shimmer. She all but floated across the ballroom, weaving through Capitol elites and servers and a small child in a cloud-shaped dress who gasped as she passed.

When she reached him, she stopped on a dime and took a breath— just enough to center herself, even as her cheeks burned with the thrill of him actually being there.

“You made it!” she beamed.

Finnick turned toward the voice and his expression softened instantly. That quiet, rare smile pulled at the corner of his mouth— half-teasing, half-genuine.

“Of course I did,” he said. “Wouldn’t miss a birthday party with birds that upstage the guests.”

Cornelia laughed, lifting one hand as if to display herself. “Well, I am a peacock.”

Finnick’s eyes swept over her— just a beat too long for it to be entirely casual. He took in the jeweled feathers at her bodice, the train of her skirt, the way her eyes were a honeyed shade of brown with flecks of gold dust. Then he raised an eyebrow and said, deadpan, “You sure you’re not a decoy for the Capitol Zoo?”

Cornelia gasped with mock outrage, slapping him lightly on the shoulder with her fan. “Rude! I’m the birthday girl!”

He laughed under his breath, the sound low and rich. Then, with a suddenness that surprised even him, he leaned in and gently pulled her into a hug— just a brief one, arms around her waist, cheek brushing against the curled edge of her hair. She smelled like caramelized sugar and warm sunlight.

“Happy birthday, Cornelia,” he said softly against her ear. His hand almost— but not quite— brushed the small of her back.

Cornelia blinked, heart thudding somewhere in her bodice. He smelled of sea salt and coconut and something faintly fishy, but not in a way that she had thought she would have despised. It smelled like him. It was unmistakable. When he pulled back, her smile was a touch dazed, but she recovered quickly.

“Well,” she said with a theatrical flourish, “now that you’re here, the party can really begin.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Oh? I wasn’t aware I was on the entertainment schedule.”

“You’re always entertaining,” she said sweetly. Then, a beat later, added, “I mean, well, you know. In a charming way.”

Finnick smirked. “Relax. I’m just here for the cake.”

Cornelia smiled and turned to glance back at the crowd, laughter glittering faintly around her eyes.

His gaze flicked over her— brief, instinctive, unthinking at first, then again with just enough pause to catch himself. Her bare shoulders rose and fell with a calm breath, and the feathered bodice she wore cinched just tightly enough to leave little to the imagination. She was eighteen now. Technically an adult. And if he didn’t remind himself to be careful, he was going to forget all the reasons he’d told himself not to let things go too far.

He glanced down at his shoes, cleared his throat once, and said lightly, “So. Eighteen, huh? You’re officially an adult now.”

Cornelia gave a proud little shrug, her lips quirking into a half-smile. “Feels exactly the same.”

“Well, sure,” Finnick said, tilting his head. “Except now you can legally go out. You can get into most Capitol clubs. The real ones. Not those themed tea houses you’ve spent your time in."

She let out a laugh, the kind that bubbled up unplanned, one hand pressing lightly to her chest. “You say that like I haven’t been to a club yet.”

Finnick raised a brow. “Have you?”

Cornelia opened her mouth. Closed it. Then gave a sheepish little wince. “... No.”

He grinned. “Didn’t think so.”

“I wanted to!” she defended, one heel tapping lightly against the floor. “It’s not like I’m a shut-in or anything. I just… I don’t know. Clubs seem like a lot. Too much noise, too much touching. It never sounded that fun.”

Finnick barked out a laugh. “Cornelia Flickerman, daughter of the Master of Ceremonies, afraid of parties?”

“I’m not afraid,” she protested with a huff. “I’m just more of a... terrace-girl.”

“Ah,” Finnick said, still grinning. “I’ve met a few like you. Rare.”

Cornelia gave him a dry look, but she wasn’t not smiling.

Finnick leaned just slightly closer, his voice dipping in that teasing lilt he wore so well. “Tell you what. When I’m back in the Capitol, I’ll take you out.”

Cornelia blinked. “Out?”

“To a club,” he clarified. “A real one. You and me. I’ll buy you a drink.”

She raised a brow. “You trying to get me drunk now that I’m of age?”

Finnick met her stare, completely deadpan. “Absolutely.”

Cornelia burst into laughter, shaking her head, a loose curl bouncing against her cheek. “You’re terrible!"

“I know,” he said, and this time his voice lost some of its tease. There was something gentler in it. “I’m not like that.”

“I know you’re not,” Cornelia said quietly, smile softening. “I was just teasing.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

And then she smiled again, this time with her usual Capitol flair. “Still. Let’s go out sometime.”

Finnick’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I want to see what all the fuss is about."

“Done,” he said without hesitation.

Cornelia laughed again.

June, 71 ADD

It wasn’t hard for Cornelia to sneak Finnick into the villa. Not when the Avoxes couldn’t rat her out, and her parents were halfway across Panem, indulging themselves on a belated thirtieth wedding anniversary trip to a repurposed arena— the 50th Hunger Games, no less, now converted into a luxury nature reserve and spa for the Capitol elite who felt nostalgic for the days of double tributes. Calpurnia had packed six sun hats and seventeen matching outfits, and Caesar had insisted on bringing a microphone in case anyone wanted an interview on the resort yacht. Cornelia had kissed them both goodbye with a glittery smile and watched the hovercraft vanish into the clouds with no small amount of satisfaction.

And then she’d called Finnick on his hotel phone for that trip.

He’d taken longer to respond this time. Not out of disinterest— Cornelia had learned how to read his silences by now— but because he always hesitated when it came to being seen with her anywhere near something that looked like permanence. The Flickerman villa was about as permanent as it got. People would talk. People like Caesar Flickerman himself, who, Finnick once half-joked, “could get a confession out of an Avox with a smile and a pun.” And the last thing Finnick wanted was more eyes on him. More whispers. Another girl on his arm that made him look too available, too occupied, too easy to control.

Still— he came.

Cornelia opened the side entrance before he could knock, already grinning as she yanked him inside and tugged him toward the spiral staircase.

“Come on,” she whispered, slipping past gilded columns and an Avox girl dusting a statue of a swan. “Upstairs, quickly. I need your help!”

Finnick raised a brow as he followed, casting a wary glance over his shoulder just before the girl bowed her head and returned to polishing. “You’re sure no one’s home?”

“Do you hear daddy's fanfare anywhere?” Cornelia replied sweetly. “No? Then yes. Completely alone. Well, minus the staff. But they’ve all had their tongues clipped. Very helpful.”

He closed the door behind them as they reached her suite— not out of habit, exactly, but more out of a caution he never fully shed. Soft click. Latch secure. Then he turned to find her already mid-rummage, both arms held up in a kind of flourish as she presented two hangers from her open wardrobe.

“Okay, help. Help me,” she said. “I don’t know what to wear. I need to look—” She paused, eyes flicking between the options, “I dunno. Grown-up? Pretty? Not like I’m trying too hard. Ugh.”

She lifted one hanger, showcasing a short cobalt blue dress with a high neckline and sheer sleeves that shimmered faintly with beaded stars. The other dress was simpler— red satin, strapless, cut slightly lower in the back and fitted like a dream through the hips. Both short, both dangerous in their own right.

“It’s way too hot to wear anything long, right? That would be a fashion crime. But then I don’t want to look like I’m trying to prove something, you know? Just adult. But not... Capitol adult. Just. Cute.” She tilted her head, catching his eye. “Right?”

Finnick stared at the hangers, then at her, then shrugged with a lopsided smile. “Try ’em on. Let me see.”

Cornelia blinked once. Then brightened, nodding. “Good point! One moment please!”

She slung both dresses over her shoulder and trotted to the back of the room, where the curved frame of a rotating closet stood behind half-drawn curtains. Her robe trailed behind her like a cape. The closet itself was a Capitol marvel— a round platform set on a hidden turntable with a mirrored rail, so one could spin, change, and examine themselves from every angle without ever stepping off.

Finnick leaned against the wall, arms crossed loosely, watching with a vague mixture of amusement and regret. He shouldn’t have come. That much he knew. She was too much— too bright, too pretty, too young in the way that felt honest rather than ignorant. The hem of her robe slipped off one shoulder as she stepped onto the platform.

And then— he caught a glimpse. The platform rotated slowly as she slid the robe off and tossed it to the floor. In the mirror, for half a second, he saw her— bare except for the shimmer of a bandeau bra and lace-trimmed underthings, skin glowing from the sunlight pouring in through the ceiling slats.

Finnick looked away.

Not because he wasn’t tempted to stare. He was. But because he knew how dangerous that stare would be— for her, for him, for the tightrope he’d been walking since the moment he realized Cornelia Flickerman made his stomach twist in ways that had nothing to do with Capitol grooming and everything to do with the way her nose wrinkled when she laughed.

He let out a slow breath, studying the back of the crystal door handle and just waited.

A moment later, the closet spun again, and Cornelia stepped down, smoothing the red dress over her hips. Her long dark brown hair— tinged with hints of red, especially in the light— was parted perfectly, falling in sleek curtains over her shoulders before curling at the ends. She looked flushed and excited and possibly a little breathless from hurrying.

She twirled once. “Thoughts? Comments? Emotional outbursts?”

Finnick swallowed and looked her over quickly— too quickly— before giving her the most neutral shrug he could muster. “It’s fine.”

Cornelia froze. “Fine?”

He pushed off the wall and rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean, it looks good. You look great. Whatever."

She gave him a look— half suspicious, half amused. “Wow. Compliment of the year.”

“I’m not a stylist,” Finnick said dryly. “You want fashion notes or honesty?”

Cornelia narrowed her eyes, then smiled. “You are so weird sometimes.”

Finnick’s lips twitched. “So are you.”

Cornelia beamed, then opened the door and motioned dramatically. “After you."

As they walked down the stairs together, her perfume trailing behind her like candy, Finnick couldn’t help the flicker of something sharp in his chest. She was right there, right beside him. And for a second— just one stolen second— he let himself imagine reaching for her hand.

He didn’t.

The air outside the club was already thick with the smell of ozone, perfume, and dry ice. Even outside, a crowd had gathered— Capitol youth in micro-jackets and chrome body paint, draped in seasonal trends that would be outdated by morning. A bouncer with a laser-scarred eyebrow and a velvet rope stood beside the entrance, turning away most of the line with a shake of his head and a flick of his wrist.

Cornelia, standing beside Finnick with one hand tucked into the crook of his arm, leaned slightly toward him and murmured, “I thought we were going to use my Flickerman privilege.”

Finnick smirked as he stepped forward, casually sliding a hand into his coat pocket and producing nothing at all— because nothing was required. No ID, no name-drop, not even a nod. The bouncer’s face changed the second he saw Finnick approaching: stiff posture turning fluid, blank expression breaking into a reverent grin.

“Mr. Odair,” the man said smoothly, stepping aside. “Room reserved if you’d like it.”

“No need,” Finnick replied with a casual lift of his brows. “We’ll just hit the floor.”

The velvet rope opened for them without question.

Finnick held the door open and gestured Cornelia through.

The music inside the club was a heartbeat, steady and deep, threading through the bones instead of ears. It pulsed from the walls, the floor, the people— Capitol girls with glittering eyebrows and boys in metallic vests grinding against each other.

Cornelia slowed as she took it all in— eyes wide, lips parted slightly in a half-breathless, half-horrified way. She’d seen clubs before. From the outside. In tabloids. Occasionally on Adorabella’s holopics. But being inside one? That was a different beast entirely.

Finnick caught the hesitance in her expression before she could hide it. His hand slipped from her arm as he led them away from the densest crowd and toward the bar area tucked beneath a ceiling of faux vines and hanging crystal flutes.

“Come on,” he said, voice pitched just for her to hear. “You’re going to need a drink if you want to survive this place.”

Cornelia followed, still glancing around, soaking in the surreal glamour. “Do you even like this kind of thing?”

“Sometimes,” Finnick answered, shrugging one shoulder. “It depends on who I’m with.”

She caught the flick of his eyes in her direction and looked away, pretending not to notice how her stomach flipped.

The bar stretched long and curving, lit from below in shifting golds and blues, like the base of an aquarium. Cornelia had just begun to edge closer when Finnick stopped her with a hand on her wrist. It was light, almost not there at all, but she turned instinctively, eyebrows raised.

He handed her a few crisp credits. “Go order us drinks.”

“Wait.” She glanced down at the money, then back at him, a little confused. “You’re not coming with me?”

Finnick’s face tensed, just slightly. Not enough to seem guarded— he’d learned long ago to wear charm like a second skin— but enough for her to realize this was one of those subtle moments when he wasn’t joking. 

“The mixologist’s an old client,” he said. “If I buy the drinks, she might lace them. With something that makes me... more agreeable.”

Cornelia froze, her fingers curling tighter around the credits.

He met her eyes, letting the truth sit there for a moment longer than she expected. And then, like always, he deflected with a smile. "I'll keep an eye on you still. Don't worry."

Cornelia didn’t smile back right away. She stared at him, something thoughtful and wounded moving behind her eyes— not for herself, but for him. For what she didn’t yet fully know, but was beginning to guess. She nodded once, tucked the credits into her clutch, and turned toward the bar.

“I’ll get your drink,” she said over her shoulder.

“Lemondrop shot,” Finnick called after her, the hint of a grin returning.

Cornelia slipped through the crowd, more conscious now of every eye on her, every glance she used to mistake for admiration. She could feel his gaze on her even from across the room, and in some secret way, that gave her spine a little steel. She stood at the bar, tapped the menu screen, and gave the order without letting her voice tremble.

Behind her, Finnick leaned against one of the mirrored columns, scanning the club with the trained eye of someone who couldn’t afford not to. It was a reflex now— look for exits, memorize faces, calculate potential threats. It had taken years for the Capitol to turn him into someone so charming people forgot they were staring at a weapon.

But when he looked at Cornelia— brows furrowed slightly, watching as she talked to the bartender, tucking a strand of that dark, curling hair behind her ear— his face shifted. Something cracked at the edges. She was so bright in this place and still somehow seemed to belong here more honestly than anyone else did. She wasn’t playing a part. She was just... her. And that dress. And how it clung and caught the light, how it slid up her hips like water. He’d looked away then. But now, with music pulsing through the floor and her back to him, her shoulders bare, Finnick let himself watch. Not in a possessive way. Just... helplessly.

When she turned with their drinks in her hand, her smile was radiant. She held out his Lemondrop shot, and he took it without speaking, fingers brushing hers.

“See?” she said. “I didn’t get roofied.”

“High bar,” Finnick muttered.

They clinked glasses.

Cornelia sipped hers— an apricot martini with a twist— and made a face. “Okay, this is awful. But also weirdly good?”

Finnick downed his Lemondrop in one swift motion, exhaled through his teeth, and said, “That’s Capitol hospitality.”

His gaze was drawn to her mouth more than he wanted to admit as she took another sip of her martini. Her drink was barely half-gone, but she sipped it like she had to pace herself, as though she were holding each gulp in her mouth to grow accustomed to the taste.

The music had picked up now— less ambient, more pulse. Finnick stood beside her, arms loose at his sides, his empty glass abandoned on the low acrylic table behind them. His eyes swept the room as his fingers kept twitching against his thigh, like he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

Cornelia turned her head slightly to watch him. She wanted to reach over and take his hand. She didn’t. Instead, she took another sip of her drink.

Finnick suddenly leaned in, his head ducking toward her ear, his breath warm against the side of her cheek. It was loud— the kind of loud where normal voices didn’t cut through the static of music and shouting. So his voice had to be close. His mouth had to be near her skin. Cornelia instinctively leaned in to meet him halfway, lips parted in anticipation, her breath catching a little as his words brushed against her.

Without thinking, her hand lifted to touch him— lightly, gently, her fingertips resting just beside his ear, cradling the edge of his jaw. It was unconscious, that touch. Familiar. Intimate without meaning to be. Her nails grazed his temple when she tucked a stray wave of his hair back. Just a bit of static, a bit of heat. Her eyes searched his face, though she wasn’t really aware of it. She just looked at him. Listened.

“You wanna go out there?” he asked, barely audible. “Dance a little?”

She caught his eye just as he pulled back slightly, and for the first time that night, she noticed the pause. The subtle flicker of something behind his expression— like he was surprised by her touch, unsure of it, or unsure of how to respond without giving too much away. But he didn’t move, didn’t brush her off. Just… waited.

Cornelia smiled, her lips curling with the ease of someone not yet aware of how her own affections had begun to settle. “Yeah!” she said brightly, nodding. “Let’s dance!”

The hand she’d used to touch his face now pulled away, brushing her hair over her shoulder as she stepped back. She set her drink down beside his on a nearby surface— someone’s glowing resin table, already crowded with half-finished cocktails and a neon purse shaped like a stingray. The bassline climbed in her ears, matching the rising heat in her chest.

She turned to Finnick with a grin before slipping into the crowd, the crowd folding around her. He followed, his posture somehow both fluid and cautious. He wasn’t someone who shrank into a crowd— he didn’t know how to disappear, not in this place, not with that face. Still, his movements remained controlled.

The lights overhead pulsed violet, then crimson. A burst of artificial fog curled around their knees as the floor beneath them glowed faintly blue. Cornelia turned to face him, her hands starting to sway a little in the air, her body falling into rhythm— not a perfect dancer, but not stiff either. Playful. Like she didn’t care who saw.

Her hips rolled a little as she moved toward him, subtle, teasing. Not quite flirtation, but not not flirtation, either. She looked up at him as she danced, lips parted in a breathy laugh, her hair tumbling in waves over her shoulders as she shrugged once, letting herself feel the music.

Finnick watched her with a faint smile, his head tilting slightly, like he was surprised to find her enjoying herself. The light picked up red in the soft curls at the end of her hair, her cheeks slightly flushed now, her eyes reflecting all the movement and color. He reached out— not too fast, not too tentative— and let his hand rest on her hip.

Cornelia looked at him, her grin widening, caught somewhere between laughter and something warmer. Her breath hitched just slightly at the contact, but she didn’t flinch or freeze. She just leaned a little closer.

“You feeling it now?” Finnick asked, raising his voice just enough to be heard.

The grin on his face was playful. Teasing. But there was something else behind it. His fingers didn’t press into her waist, didn’t pull. They just stayed there, light and solid and present, like an anchor point between the two of them in a room full of noise and light.

Cornelia laughed, her voice high but smooth, swept up in the joy of being young and spinning through neon like she was born from it.

“Think so,” she said, breathless, swaying into him just a little more.

They moved together now— not really dancing, not with any choreography or flash, but moving to the beat the way people did when they felt safe in their own skin. Cornelia let her hands float briefly into the air again, then dropped one to gently rest against his shoulder, her fingers curling into the soft linen of his jacket. Her other hand grazed his chest, barely, and she leaned in close enough that he could feel the warmth of her breath against his collarbone.

Neither of them looked away from the other. Finnick’s smile lingered, but there was something new in his eyes now. Something not quite guarded. Something dangerous in its vulnerability.

This was supposed to be a night out. A distraction. A birthday promise fulfilled. But when Cornelia danced that close and laughed up at him like she wasn’t afraid of anything, Finnick found himself wondering what it would be like— if, just once, someone wanted him without strings. If someone touched him the way she had, like it wasn’t part of a game.

His hand tightened just a little on her hip.

Cornelia was giggling by the time they made it through the front door of the villa, her laughter drifting like perfume down the marble-floored hallway. The giggle wasn’t affected— it was real, bubbling up from that space behind her ribs where joy had been quietly growing all night. Her cheeks ached from smiling, but she couldn’t stop. The adrenaline from the club still lingered in her veins.

Finnick closed the door behind them with a soft click. He looked around once— habitually assessing the area— but his eyes softened when they landed on her again. Cornelia walked with a slight wobble, not drunk, not exactly, but loose in that weightless way heels did to a girl after hours of dancing.

Her dress shimmered with every step, the shorter hem riding higher up her thighs now as she made her way toward her bedroom. She kicked the door open with the edge of her foot and stepped inside like she’d done it a thousand times, her laughter still lingering in the air.

“That was so much fun!” she gushed, bending over slightly to unbuckle one of her heels. “I didn’t think I could dance that long in these heels. Seriously, my toes are throbbing.”

Finnick stood just outside the doorway for a beat, watching her as she bent. The way the hem of her dress climbed— not on purpose, right?— the slow motion of her spine curling forward, the shape of her thighs where the light from the hallway caught the curve of her skin. His gaze lingered, just for a moment. It wasn’t the kind of look he usually gave— not the leering, performative attention the Capitol adored— but a quieter kind of hunger. 

She wobbled slightly as she fiddled with the strap.

“You’re gonna fall on your face,” Finnick said, stepping closer, his voice low and familiar, carrying a thread of amusement under the words. “Here. Sit down before you twist your ankle and I have to explain to Caesar why you’ve got a concussion and a bloody nose.”

Cornelia laughed again, grinning as she looked up at him through the strands of hair falling into her face. “Yes, sir,” she teased, her tone full of sugar-coated sarcasm.

Still, she sat. She perched on the edge of her bed, scooting back just a little until her legs hung off the side, the remaining heel still strapped neatly to her foot. Her dress shimmered against her thighs, bunching just slightly where the fabric met the bend of her hips. She reached down, fingers grazing the second buckle.

But Finnick was already kneeling. He dropped down between her knees, one hand steady on the bed beside her hip for balance, the other reaching gently for her ankle. The movement was smooth, unthinking, as natural as a breath. It was the sort of thing he did without ceremony, but not without intention. It wasn’t performance. It wasn’t Capitol-scripted seduction. It just was.

Cornelia blinked, her smile faltering slightly— not from confusion, but from sudden clarity. There he was, kneeling on the rug of her bedroom floor, his head bowed slightly as he undid the buckle of her heel with practiced fingers. His thumb brushed the inside of her ankle once, not quite deliberately, not quite accidentally.

Her mouth had gone dry.

She stared down at him, her breath caught somewhere in the middle of her chest. Her legs, slightly parted, framed him without trying. The heat from his body lingered in the air between them, warm and real and nothing like the dance floor’s artificial haze. Her fingers curled against the edge of the mattress.

Finnick didn’t look up at first. He just slipped the strap free, then slid the heel from her foot with gentle precision, setting it neatly beside its twin. Only then did he glance up.

Her eyes were wide. Her lips were parted, just a bit. She looked like she wanted to speak but couldn’t remember what language she knew.

He stood slowly— smooth as the waters of his district, his spine unfolding with that natural, effortless elegance that made even the Capitol’s most critical stylists grudgingly admit he moved like poetry. He tugged his jacket off in one quick motion, shaking it from his shoulders and tossing it onto the chaise near her vanity. His white button-up shirt clung to his chest slightly, thanks to the humidity of the summer night and the afterglow of their dancing. A few buttons near his collar had come undone at some point.

Cornelia watched him the way one might watch a candle flicker in a too-quiet room. Slowly. Curiously. Like if she looked away, he might vanish.

Her eyes dragged over the line of his throat, the open collar, the curve of his shoulders where the shirt hugged him just enough. There were fine beads of sweat near his temple, barely noticeable unless someone were too close. Which she was.

She swallowed, then looked away for the first time, fixing her gaze on the carpet like it had suddenly grown interesting. She felt her heart hammering against her ribs like it was trying to find an escape route. Get a grip, she told herself. But her body didn’t listen.

Finnick didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at her. At her bare feet brushing against the edge of his shoes. At the shimmer of her dress catching the lamplight. At the place where her hand was still curled into the bedspread like she needed to hold onto something to keep from sliding.

The room had gone quieter now.

Finnick’s eyes dropped once more— her knees still parted, the hem of her dress just high enough to see the shape of her thighs. But he didn’t move forward. Didn’t press it. His jaw twitched once, and his tongue flicked over the corner of his mouth like he was chasing the thought away.

Instead, he said— quietly, gently— “You tired?”

Cornelia looked up, her eyes catching his. Her breath had steadied a little, but her voice was still soft when she answered.

“No,” she said. “Not yet.” There was a pause, then— “You?”

Finnick gave the ghost of a smile. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not yet,” he echoed.

And then silence again. He cleared his throat. His gaze had wandered— he’d allowed it to— but he wasn’t about to let things twist into something neither of them were ready to name. Not yet. Not here.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,”  he said, voice easy but not casual. Like he was trying to sound indifferent. Like it wasn’t the last thing he wanted to do.

Cornelia blinked, startled from whatever daze she’d been caught in— whatever warm, skin-tingling thoughts had begun to coil in the back of her head. Her expression brightened with immediate hospitality, and she waved a hand toward her vanity without even thinking. “Oh! Well, if you need, there should be some spare pillows and a blanket in the armoire by my vanity. It’s always cold with the air vents, so I—”

She cut herself off as Finnick, halfway to the armoire, let out a surprised laugh.

“Wait, wait—” he said, turning to glance at her with a grin. “You have an armoire? In addition to that rotating closet of yours? What’s in it? More closets?”

Cornelia’s mouth pulled into a scowl, though it was ruined by the corner twitching into a smile. “You know! Accessories. Jewelry. Perfume. Memorabilia. Other things.”

“Other things,” Finnick echoed with a teasing lilt, already opening the door to the ornate armoire as Cornelia turned on her heel and walked toward the closet in question.

Her back to him, she began to unzip her dress— hips wiggling as the red satin slipped down her body in one fluid motion. She walked onto the closet platform in nothing but her bra and underwear, her skin glowing against the low golden lighting. The closet began its slow mechanical rotation, circular racks of garments whirring around her as she browsed for pajamas, entirely unselfconscious in the privacy of her space.

Finnick had crouched by the bottom shelf of the armoire, fingers brushing against a folded velvet throw, when something caught his eye. He squinted, reached farther back— and then froze.

“Oh-ho,” he muttered under his breath.

He pulled it out carefully, lifting the object into view.

It was a full-size cardboard cutout. Gloss.

Finnick stared at it for a second, lips twitching.

“Cornelia,” he called out, raising his voice to be heard over the hum of the rotating platform. “You’ve always been a Gloss fan?”

The platform kept turning.

Cornelia’s voice was immediate, horrified. “What?” She lunged forward, trying to reach the edge of the rotation, her pajama top still clutched in her hands. “Oh no! No! Don’t! Leave him alone!”

But it was too late. Finnick had already straightened, lifting the cutout beside him like a dance partner, posing with it briefly before grinning toward the closet platform.

The platform kept moving, turning her out of view for a moment. Cornelia hurried against it, nearly jogging in place to keep up with its speed as she tried to cover herself and still make a desperate grab for Gloss.

Finnick, meanwhile, had already reached behind the cutout’s base and unearthed the real treasure.

A collage.

It was folded, uneven, and slightly worn at the edges— a mess of glossy magazine cut-outs, Capitol news stills, and blurry tabloid photos. All stuck haphazardly onto pink shimmer-paper. Gloss. And Finnick. Mostly shirtless. A few candid shots of the two of them walking side by side at some Capitol event years ago, pasted next to close-ups of Finnick laughing in an interview.

He turned toward the closet platform with the collage behind his back.

“Do you want me to send you updated pictures?” he asked innocently. “You could probably fit a few more of me on here. You’ve got room if you trim Gloss down a bit.”

Cornelia gasped again— louder this time— and bolted, abandoning her pajama top to the floor as she ran full tilt along the arc of the platform, tripping slightly as her discarded dress tangled around her ankle. She stumbled and fell to her knees with a squeal just as Finnick tucked the collage and cutout back inside the armoire and closed it with a smug little click.

“Finnick!”

He laughed, a full-throated, no-holding-back laugh, the kind that warmed the room just by existing. He turned to find her glaring up at him from the floor in her matching satin pajama shorts, cheeks flushed crimson, her hair a little wild from the chase.

“I’m telling you right now,” she said breathlessly, “if you tell anyone—”

“I won’t,” he promised, too amused to stop grinning. “But it’s tempting."

Cornelia huffed and stood, grabbing her top again and pulling it over her head with jerky, flustered motions. She stomped to her bed and flung herself down on it.

Finnick, still grinning to himself, finally pulled the pillow and blanket from the armoire, tossing them casually onto the floor near the foot of the bed. He bent down, fluffed the pillow like it mattered, and settled onto the blanket without complaint.

Cornelia didn’t say anything at first, but she curled up on top of her covers, turned on her side facing away from him, hands tucked under her cheek.

Finnick adjusted his position, lying back on his side with his arms folded beneath his head, and looked up toward the ceiling. “Hey,” he said after a moment, his voice gentler now. “That collage. Was it… recent?”

Cornelia grabbed the nearest throw pillow and launched it toward the foot of the bed, hitting him square in the ribs.

He laughed again, not even trying to dodge. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Cornelia groaned into her blanket. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

She didn’t answer that.

Chapter Text

June, 71 ADD

FINNICK COULD NOT REMEMBER the last time that he had slept in a room with another person in the Capitol without some form of sexual activity taking place. That realization settled in his bones like a draft through cracked marble— chill and unwelcome, though not entirely surprising. It hit him in the soft spaces that remained unspoken, in the quiet of the early morning light that filtered through the villa’s gauzy curtains. 

The shock of it wasn’t in the fact itself— it was in the unfamiliar absence of expectation. The stillness. The way the night had unfolded without transaction, without performance, without the ritual of bodies offering something in exchange for silence, favor, or power. It was, in its own way, deeply uncomfortable.

Most nights in the Capitol, he didn’t sleep at all. He left. He’d perfected the art of slipping away with charm and grace, leaving behind only the trace of cologne on fine sheets or a scrawled message in lipstick on a mirror. On the rare nights he was kept, there were always separate accommodations. Hotel rooms. Private quarters. Suites funded by President Snow’s bottomless pool of curated cruelty.

But here he was. On a bedroom floor. Wrapped in a throw blanket with only one good pillow, his back sore from the hard marble flooring, and the faint scent of sugar-scented lotion in the air. And her.

He cracked one eye open, sluggishly blinking against the soft morning light that filled the corners of Cornelia’s bedroom like a warm sigh. The villa was quiet. Still.

He shifted slightly, neck stiff from the poor angle, and looked around slowly, adjusting to the room’s chaos. It was the kind of mess that was curated without trying to be. Lived-in luxury. Her vanity was a full-scale Capitol production, cluttered with brushes, bottles, and more beauty products than he could name— several of which shimmered under the glow of a heart-shaped light-up mirror mounted on the wall. The flatscreen television sat unbothered above her fireplace mantel, flanked by framed holos and a soft pink garland that shimmered like spun sugar.

To his right, near the window alcove, her lop-eared rabbit lay dozing on its own miniature castle— some combination of crate, plush bed, and tower, with embroidered pink bunting and a little felt banner that read “CERISE.” The rabbit was long asleep, nestled into the velvet cushion like royalty.

Finnick had seen tribute quarters less extravagant.

His gaze, traitorous as it was quiet, drifted to the bed.

Cornelia slept sprawled in the center of her oversized, blush-colored kingdom. The pink down comforter had been kicked off during the night, crumpled in the corner, while the pale gold top sheet barely covered one leg. The other was tucked under her, knee bent and pulled up slightly, and her satin sleep shorts had ridden up just enough to distract him. She was all bare legs and tousled hair and soft, slow breathing.

Finnick stared for a moment too long. His thoughts— admittedly less pure than the rabbit’s— drifted somewhere low and aching before he became acutely, physically aware of exactly how long he’d been watching.

His body reacted without asking him. Heat low in his abdomen. Tension tight across his lower back. Arousal that arrived like clockwork and made him want to curse every inch of himself. He winced. The floor was not helping.

Turning swiftly onto his side, Finnick closed his eyes and willed his body to behave, to pretend it hadn’t noticed anything at all. He adjusted the blanket over his waist, heart knocking once against his ribs as he heard the soft shift of Cornelia stirring in bed. Sheets rustled. A groggy sigh. She stretched.

Then, her voice. Sleepy. Whisper-soft. “Hey. You up?”

He waited half a beat before cracking one eye open again, playing up the sleepy act. “Mmm. Kind of,” he mumbled, voice still rough from sleep, pitching it low and casual. “What time is it?”

Cornelia snorted. “I don’t know. Morning. Too early. I think I have a hangover.”

He dared a glance up, watching as she sat up on the bed with a scrunch of her nose. Her curls were sleep-mussed and fanned around her face, her sleep top slightly askew from where she’d shifted in the night. She rubbed her eyes with the heel of her hand like a child.

“I need coffee,” she groaned as she stood, wobbling a little before planting her feet firmly on the floor.

Finnick rolled onto his back, squinting up at her with an amused grin. “You only had two drinks.”

Cornelia scoffed, already halfway to the vanity. “I’m a rookie!”

“No kidding,” he muttered, stretching his arms above his head with a lazy smirk.

Cornelia glanced over her shoulder with a weak glare. She tugged open the top drawer of her vanity, revealing several small Capitol-brand pain relief sachets. With a triumphant “Aha,” she grabbed one, ripped it open with her teeth, and swallowed the powder dry.

Finnick, from his floor-kingdom, watched her with quiet interest. Watched the way her skin glowed in the natural light, how her expression had already reset from sleepy grumpiness to that easy, theatrical poise she wore so naturally. He watched her without thinking and then caught himself again— reining in that ache that kept surfacing every time he looked at her too long.

She glanced at him through the mirror and caught him staring. He didn’t look away fast enough.

“What?” she asked, raising a brow, half-smiling as she reached for her lip balm.

Finnick gave her a lazy shrug. “Nothing. Just… you’re very dramatic in the morning.”

Cornelia blinked, then smirked, dragging the balm across her bottom lip with a flourish as she sat herself down on the edge of her vanity bench. Her lip balm capped with a satisfying click, she picked up a wide-tooth comb and began gently working it through the tangled curls that had twisted and matted during the night. She was careful, methodical, humming something low and tuneless as she parted her hair down the middle with her fingers and began detangling the left side first. Her bare legs swung idly beneath the bench, the silky hem of her shorts brushing the tops of her thighs each time she adjusted her posture.

Finnick found himself watching her again. Not just glancing. Not even just admiring. Watching. Like his eyes were pulled by some current he couldn’t redirect. Like he was studying a painting in motion. Every now and then her mouth would twitch with some internal thought or her lashes would flutter at a stubborn knot, and each detail only deepened the pull.

He shifted. Down south, thankfully, things had calmed, and with a quiet exhale of relief, Finnick sat up, knees cracking slightly as he stretched his arms over his head. His back ached. He rolled his shoulders once, then twice, ran a hand through his own unruly hair, and stood.

He padded toward her, bare feet silent on the carpet. Cornelia didn’t seem to notice him approaching until his shadow stretched beside her on the wall, and even then, she only looked up when he spoke.

“I like your hair this color,” he said, voice low, sincere, unguarded.

She blinked once, then offered a bright smile in the mirror. “Oh? Thank you. I’m naturally a brunette, like my daddy. But—” She paused, grinning wider as she tilted her head slightly, comb paused mid-stroke. “You wanna know a secret?”

Finnick leaned forward, arms resting loosely at his sides as he dropped his head to hers. “I’m always up for Capitol secrets,” he murmured, giving her that glinting look from the corner of his eye— half mischief, half challenge.

Cornelia leaned in too, close enough that he could smell her floral sleep lotion and the faint trace of coconut from her shampoo. She brought her hand up beside her mouth, like she was delivering classified intel. “Daddy’s bald,” she whispered into his ear.

Finnick blinked.

“He’s got a whole closet just for wigs!” she added with a conspiratorial little giggle.

Finnick broke.

A low chuckle escaped him first, but then it built, rich and deep in his chest, and he was laughing before he could stop himself— laughing in a way that felt unfamiliar and reckless. The kind of laugh that wasn’t put on for someone else’s benefit. The kind that wasn’t part of a performance or some engineered Capitol charm offensive. It was just real, helpless laughter. And it shook something loose inside him.

Cornelia cackled right along with him, smacking her thigh and nearly doubling forward before she reached out, still giggling breathlessly, and grabbed his arm to steady herself.

They laughed together for another few seconds— too loud for the early morning, too bright for how the day had begun. She leaned into him, still clutching his forearm, her body warm against his. His laughter tapered off first, and slowly— slowly— he looked down at her again.

Her head was still bowed a little, her fingers brushing tears of laughter from her eyes. Her smile lingered even as her breathing returned to normal. And when she finally looked up to meet his gaze— unpainted and open, nothing but soft skin and bleary sweetness— he saw her.

Not Cornelia Flickerman, Capitol princess with the glossy hair and the long legs and the red lipstick that could silence a room. Not the girl who twirled on rotating closet platforms or danced with drinks in hand. Not the host’s daughter or the press darling or the precocious Capitol flirt.

Just Cornelia.

There was a small mole along her hairline, just behind her right temple, nearly hidden by the roots of her dyed hair. A tiny, dark mark, not visible under foundation or highlighter. Finnick hadn’t seen it before. Just like he hadn’t seen the faint shadow of under-eye circles, or the natural pink of her cheeks, or the tiny freckle on the bridge of her nose that wasn’t covered up by shimmer powder.

He swallowed without realizing it.

Because it hit him, right then— that this was the first time he’d seen her without makeup.

Somehow, it made her more beautiful. Not in the hyper-manufactured way he was used to in the Capitol, where beauty was an industry, curated and manipulated and always for sale. But in a way that felt… untouched. Personal. Like it belonged to her alone.

He realized his breath had gone shallow.

Cornelia didn’t seem to notice. She wiped the last of the tears from her cheeks and smoothed her hair behind her shoulders with both hands.

“Well!” she said, voice airy again, “Anyways! I should get dressed!”

She stood, walking past him toward her rotating closet with the ease of someone used to being looked at. Finnick blinked, the sound of her voice pulling him back to the present.

He cleared his throat, a little too loudly, and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah, right. Get dressed.” He nodded absently. His eyes lingered on the curve of her back before snapping forward. “Probably a good idea.”

As she disappeared into the closet alcove, Finnick sat down heavily on the bench she’d vacated. His brain stuttered through a handful of disconnected thoughts. One of them involved wondering if he’d missed any calls in his hotel room. Capitol clients could be demanding, and most didn’t tolerate being ignored. Especially if they’d paid in advance. He hadn’t checked his messages. Had no clue what his day’s arrangements were.

Another thought— less formed, less professional— echoed somewhere deeper: why didn’t he care?

It wasn’t like him. To lose track. To let someone distract him. He was always aware of his schedule. Always knew where to be, who to smile at, who to charm. He was good at it. One of Snow’s finest products. He had a reputation to maintain. But right now, he didn’t want to think about any of it. 

July, 71 ADD

After one year of being the host for the Junior Capitol News, Cornelia had decided that she was ready to move on to bigger and brighter things.

Junior Capitol News, while sparkly and niche, had been a valuable stepping stone— something bright and bouncy and full of curated puff pieces, glossy interviews, and Capitol beauty trends. She’d interviewed up-and-coming hovercraft engineers, co-hosted with an animatronic squirrel, and even once performed an impromptu lipstick tutorial mid-broadcast during a holobroadcasting glitch. It had been a whirlwind, and she’d worn the role like a pageant sash— cheerful, immaculately styled, and always camera-ready.

But she wasn’t a child anymore.

She was eighteen. Finally.

And she wasn’t content to remain a side feature in someone else’s program. Her end goal had never been to linger on the periphery. No, she had always envisioned herself at the helm. The Games, the glamour, the gravitas— hosting with a microphone in one hand and Capitol history at her heels. She didn’t want to just be the next generation. She wanted to be the moment. To follow in her father’s footsteps was more than ambition. It was inevitability.

She was no Caesar Flickerman, of course. Nor was she her grandfather, the legendary and long-retired Lucretius Flickerman, whose silvery baritone and jeweled cufflinks still haunted Capitol reruns.

She was Cornelia Fleur Flickerman. And she believed— no, knew— that she deserved to be known. If not for her own legacy, then for the betterment of Capitol society and entertainment as a whole. She was society’s missing sparkle. And today, she had the lipstick to prove it.

In her bedroom— light cascading in through opalescent curtains, music faintly pulsing from her voice-activated speaker— Cornelia was hard at work, perched in front of her vanity in a dressing robe of blush silk. Her hair was freshly curled, swept to one side in glossy waves of dark chocolate brown with the faintest red undertones catching in the light. She was already wearing a full face of makeup— dewy cheeks, fluttery lashes, subtle shimmer on her lids— but her lipstick, that was the piece de résistance.

She held the tube up like a magic wand and twisted.

The color: neon pink, almost fluorescent, unapologetically bold. She applied it in smooth, confident strokes, puckering once in the mirror before blotting gently with a soft cloth. Then she fluffed her hair, tilting her head slightly as she inspected the full effect.

Her reflection beamed back at her— youthful, radiant, and unmissable.

“Perfect,” she whispered.

Cornelia stood from her vanity bench in one dramatic motion, bare feet skipping over the soft pink carpeting as she made her way toward the hallway, intending to hunt down her father before he got caught up in meetings or phone calls. Caesar and Calpurnia had only returned from their arena vacation that morning, and she hadn’t had a moment alone with him yet to bring up the subject she’d been rehearsing all week in front of her mirror.

But she didn’t get far.

Just as she reached the threshold, the bedroom door opened inward, and there he was.

Cornelia lit up. “Daddy!” she squealed, bouncing slightly on her toes. “I was just about to find you!”

Caesar filled the doorway in a tailored navy jacket with subtle embroidery and a tie that shimmered faintly gold when the light hit it just right. His tan was fresh from island sun, his smile ever-brilliant. The years hadn’t dimmed him— in fact, they had only lent him a sage-like glamour, the kind of timeless elegance found in old holos and holographic statues.

He took one look at her and laughed warmly. “Darling girl, that lipstick is radiant. You look like a supernova.”

Cornelia beamed, one hand fluttering dramatically to her chest. “Oh, daddy, thank you! I tried something new! Capitol Kiss number twelve. I figured if I want to make a statement, I need to look like a statement.”

“You’ve always been one.” He stepped into the room, brushing a kiss to her forehead before drawing back. “Now, what was it you needed?”

“Well!” Cornelia began, already tossing her hair back over her shoulder with practiced flair. “So! I’m eighteen now! Yay!” She clapped once, the word falling like confetti. “And I was thinking— just thinking!— that maybe, possibly, potentially, I could… help you host the Games this year?”

Caesar’s smile didn’t waver, but he inhaled slightly, opening his mouth—

“I know! I know you said last year that I was too young, and I totally get it,” Cornelia barreled on, words spilling out like a shaken-up bottle of soda. “But I really think I can do it, daddy! I’ve been watching all the old broadcasts, I’ve been practicing my cues, I even wrote out sample intros for tributes! I promise I won’t go off-script or anything wild, I’ll follow along exactly with what you want me to say or do. Just— please— please, please—”

Caesar lifted one hand, gently, the way one might calm a very excited cat or an overzealous stylist mid-fit. “Darling,” he said with a soft laugh, “I was already going to let you.”

Cornelia froze. Her lips parted. “You what?”

“But,” Caesar added quickly, arching a manicured brow, “you’ll be starting with Districts 10, 11, and 12 only. That is non-negotiable. We’ll build up from there, and if you prove yourself steady and sharp on camera, we’ll talk about expanding next year.”

Cornelia stood perfectly still for a heartbeat, blinking. She had wanted District 4. Finnick and Annie’s tributes. She had already imagined her lines. She had even purchased a seafoam dress to match. But—

That was not a no. That was a yes with training wheels.

And to her, that was everything.

She squealed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, daddy!” she gushed, throwing her arms around him and planting a loud, smacking kiss on his cheek.

When she drew back, there was a distinct smear of Capitol Kiss glowing across the right side of his face.

Caesar blinked once, then burst into laughter. “Well, now I look like a love-struck clown.”

“You are love-struck,” Cornelia grinned. “With me!”

“Always.” He pulled a handkerchief from his inner jacket pocket and dabbed at the smear. “You’re going to dazzle them. Just remember, less glitter when discussing fallen tributes.”

“No promises,” she said, flouncing back toward her vanity.

“Start writing your intros,” Caesar said as he turned toward the door. “And pick out three outfits per district. No last-minute crises. Your mother nearly staged a coup during the last wardrobe meltdown.”

“That was not my fault!” Cornelia called after him. “The zipper snapped on its own!”

“Fabric sabotage or poor tailoring, we’ll never know,” Caesar said with a dramatic sigh, disappearing down the hallway.

Left alone, Cornelia spun in place, heart thudding, neon pink lips parted in awe and glee. Districts 10, 11, and 12. It wasn’t everything. But it was hers.

Cornelia bounced in place at the edge of the stage, the vibrant cobalt tiers of her ruffled dress fluttering with each tiny hop. Her fingers twisted together, then relaxed, then twisted again. Inhale. Exhale. Smile. Her lips curved just slightly as she pressed them together, already perfectly painted in a subtle shade of coral that gleamed under the hot studio lights. Her dark hair— styled in loose, cascading curls— spilled over her shoulders in soft waves. The red undertones that had once caught fire in the Capitol sun were now faded, diluted by time and toner, but still lingered faintly.

Behind her, the bustle of the production team played out in coordinated silence. Camera operators adjusted their framing. Stylists stood just out of sight, holding spare brushes and blotting cloths. Everything was gleaming and electric and alive. But all Cornelia could focus on was the heavy curtain just to her left, and the voice of her father echoing across the stage.

“— and as always, we are so pleased to welcome the brave young tributes from District 10 to the stage!”

The applause began, thunderous and pre-programmed.

Cornelia’s heartbeat tripped once. Her fingers briefly curled into fists. Inhale. Exhale.

“And this year,” Caesar continued with that signature gleam in his eye, “we have someone very special to introduce before we bring out our first tribute. You know her. You love her. You’ve seen her on the Junior Capitol News—” his tone dipped into something silkier, warmer, something touched with pride, “—and now, she’s finally made it to the big stage. Please welcome… my daughter, Cornelia Flickerman!”

The curtains parted.

The spotlights shifted.

Cornelia took a breath that burned like starlight in her lungs— and skipped onto the stage.

She waved both arms high in the air with theatrical flair, her cobalt dress bouncing with every step. The audience responded instantly— cheering, clapping, cameras flashing like strobe lights. The glow of it made her cheeks flush and her grin widen, a performance baked into muscle memory but now tinged with something genuine. She sparkled, quite literally. The rhinestones at the neckline of her dress glittered under the lights, and her heels clicked like applause on the lacquered stage.

She twirled once— just once— before coming to a stop beside her father, who looked down at her with affection and just the right touch of amusement.

Cornelia took the microphone from him with practiced elegance, brushing a kiss against his cheek. She caught the faint smear of coral lipstick she left behind and gave the audience a wink, earning a fresh ripple of laughter.

“Thank you, daddy,” she said sweetly, turning to face the crowd with her full Capitol smile. “And now, for my very first tribute interview! Please welcome… from District 10, Patty Rushe!”

The curtains parted again, and Cornelia took a step to the side to make room.

Patty Rushe was a girl of about sixteen, with wide shoulders, thick dark braids coiled on her head, and a stubborn sort of composure in her step. Her dress— a soft gold— clashed beautifully with the deep blue of Cornelia’s own, and the contrast made both of them stand out all the more as Patty crossed the stage and sat down in the second chair.

Cornelia followed, smoothing her skirt as she sat beside her. She leaned forward, the microphone balanced delicately in her manicured hands. 

“Patty,” she started, “you are from the legendary District 10, land of livestock and longhorns! Is it true you’ve raised cattle since you were, like, five?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Patty’s face. “Well… I started feeding the calves when I was little. I helped with the branding later.”

Cornelia clapped once, eyes wide. “Branding! That is so intense. I once tried to help at a petting zoo and nearly fainted when a duck bit my wrist. And you were working with cattle? That’s amazing!”

The audience laughed on cue, and Patty’s smile widened a bit. She glanced toward the crowd, then back at Cornelia, her expression a little more open now.

Cornelia brightened further, seizing the moment. “And tell me, Patty, do you have any pets? Any adorable animals back home waiting for you?”

There was a beat.

Patty hesitated— only for a second. “I have a piglet named Clover,” she said softly. “She sleeps in my bed sometimes. My mama says she’s too spoiled.”

“A piglet in bed?” Cornelia gasped. “That’s adorable! I mean, messy, but adorable!”

The audience chuckled again. Patty’s face pinkened slightly. Cornelia gave her a conspiratorial smile.

As the conversation continued, Cornelia shifted topics gently, asking about family, hobbies, favorite foods. It was easy, fluid, light. But as she laughed at one of Patty’s jokes— some sweet story about a butter-churning contest gone wrong— Cornelia’s eyes briefly wandered across the crowd.

And that was when she saw him.

Finnick.

He sat several rows back, half-shadowed by a lighting rig, dressed in one of his sleeker Capitol-commissioned suits— teal silk lapels, open collar, no tie. His expression wasn’t bored, exactly, but there was something unreadable in the set of his jaw and the slight squint of his sea-glass eyes.

Cornelia’s heart gave a subtle thud.

Did he think she looked pretty? Did he like the dress? Was he watching her?

But the moment stretched too long— his gaze didn’t soften. His mouth didn’t twitch upward.

Instead, he looked at her like he was thinking too hard about something.

And in a snap, Cornelia’s stomach twisted.

Oh, no.

What if he didn’t like her anymore?

The thought hit like a cold wind on bare skin, surprising her with its speed and strength. She had barely spoken to him since the villa. Not truly. A call the other week from his home in 4 to confirm he made it home, a smile and wave at the Tribute Parade. But nothing real. Nothing more.

Her throat closed for a second.

She blinked.

Patty had just said something else— something about her older brother fixing fences— and Cornelia scrambled to catch up. She leaned in, smiled extra wide, and managed a breathy laugh, forcing herself to be present again.

“That sounds like hard work!” she said, voice buoyant. “Well, Patty, I can honestly say I’d be useless with a hammer, but if you ever need someone to hold a mirror while you do your hair, I’m your girl!”

The audience laughed again.

Cornelia clung to the rhythm of it, to the lights and the shine and the script she knew by heart. But the warmth in her chest had gone cooler. Not frozen. Just... unsteady.

She wrapped up the interview with a flutter of her fingers, standing again to lead Patty offstage with grace and glitter. The girl gave a final wave to the audience as she exited, and Cornelia introduced the next tribute.

“Let’s give a warm Capitol welcome to our male tribute from 10, Bronco Hoover!”

Finnick didn’t say a word as he stepped out of the auditorium.

Cornelia lay flat on her back beneath a heap of pale pink blankets, her nightgown bunched loosely at her hips, the satin fabric cool against her skin. The room was dark aside from the low, rosy glow of the nightlight tucked into her wall— a sculpted pearl that cast gentle swirls of shifting color across the ceiling. She stared upward toward those rippling shadows, unmoving, the hem of her nightgown clutched between her fingers in a knot of absentminded tension. Her nails tapped the silk. Unraveled. Curled again.

Her mind wouldn’t quiet. Not with the images that had replayed all day. Not with the way he had looked at her.

It wasn’t the face of someone unimpressed. It wasn’t the face of someone smiling politely, like so many of the others. It wasn’t even the face of someone entertained. Distracted, bored, arms crossed like he was waiting for someone to slip up. Not her, she thought. Not at first. But then their eyes had met. She’d looked out into the crowd instinctively, searching for someone to hold her gaze, to anchor her, and there he’d been.

She’d looked at Finnick and then looked away and suddenly all her carefully rehearsed lines dissolved like sugar in hot tea.

Cornelia groaned softly and rolled onto her stomach, burying her face into the sea of plush pillows, one hand still tangled in her nightgown’s hem as her thoughts spiraled again.

Why did it matter?

Why should it matter?

She told herself it didn’t. She told herself that his opinion wasn’t that important. That she had done fine. Caesar had said so. Her father had kissed the top of her head backstage and whispered, “See, I told you. You’re already a star.” She had been radiant, people said. Enthusiastic. Sweet. A little messy, sure— but charming.

And yet, here she was— agonizing over a boy’s glance like she was some wide-eyed prep team assistant fawning over the first tribute who smiled at her. But he wasn’t just some boy. He was Finnick Odair. And she liked him. She really liked him.

That was the part she hadn’t said out loud. Not to her father. Not to her mother. Not even to herself, really. Not until tonight.

Cornelia sighed again and rolled onto her side, pressing her cheek into the pillow. Her nightgown slid slightly up her thigh, and she absently tugged it back down without much thought, her mind still whirling.

Had she embarrassed herself? Had she been too loud? Too eager?

It was a complaint she’d heard her entire life, whispered behind manicured hands at parties or muttered by Capitol instructors who didn’t know what to do with someone so excessive. She was too much, wasn’t she? Always had been. Too glittery. Too girlish. Too Flickerman.

And she’d leaned into it for the interviews. She’d grinned wide. Giggled too easily. She’d tried so hard to make it her own, to balance Caesar’s legacy with something youthful and fresh and hers. 

But what if she’d just made herself look childish? What if Finnick thought she was some pampered little showpony in a ruffled dress?

She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. He’d looked at her like he was thinking something. She didn’t know what. And it hurt, not knowing.

She bit her lip, trying to still her thoughts. Just sleep, she told herself. Stop spiraling. But her heart was still racing, loud in her chest. She shifted again. Rolled onto her back.

Then her phone rang.

Cornelia yelped softly, heart leaping as she sat bolt upright in bed, the satin sheets pooling around her waist. The ringtone was the gentle trill of harps— charming, light, and utterly unexpected at this hour. 

She scrambled for the phone, nearly knocking it off her nightstand in the process. Her heart skipped and she hesitated for only half a second before picking it up off the cradle and pressing it to her ear, her voice breathy with surprise and sleep.

“Hello?”

Cornelia had gotten better at sneaking out.

It wasn’t something she was proud of, per se, but it was a skill she’d quietly honed into something dangerously close to second nature. Slipping out of her villa unnoticed had once seemed impossible— what with the creaky stairwell landing, the fickle garden gate latch, and the security camera mounted just above the hedges that led toward the main walk— but now she could navigate it all in a dreamlike silence. Her ballet-slipper feet barely whispered across the marble floors. She held her breath when she turned the handle to the service door, waited exactly three seconds after disengaging the manual lock so the security light wouldn’t blink on. The outside cameras, she’d learned, were largely for show. No one in her family ever watched them. The Avoxes were the only ones who played back the recordings, and only when they were given a direct order.

And her father rarely gave orders. Not to them. Not about her. He trusted her too much. He still thought of her as twelve years old, sneaking sweetened cherries out of the crystal dish during Victory Tour broadcasts. She supposed he always would.

The city felt strange at this hour— wide and empty, a Capitol made of glass and shadows and moonlight. Even the neon pulse of the Avenue’s ads felt dimmer somehow, like the city had exhaled after a long, garish day and let itself go still. She pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders as she crossed the slick pavement of the Circle, her fingers gripping the velvet folds like armor. The fountain ahead glistened under the starlight— silver and cerulean, its tall obsidian pillars arcing like the petals of an open flower.

And he was there.

She stopped walking when she saw him approaching the fountain at the same time she did— both of them still several feet apart, mirroring each other in pace without even meaning to. He wasn’t wearing anything fancy, just a knit gray sweater and dark trousers, the sort of thing that made him look boyish and tired, even though nothing about him was truly ever boyish. His face was too old for that. Too sculpted by things she'd never lived.

Their eyes locked across the short stretch of wet pavement, and Cornelia faltered. Just for a second. But it was enough.

Her hand lifted slightly from her coat, then dropped again. She took a breath, long and quiet, and resumed walking toward him— each step slightly more cautious than the last.

“I…” she started, a little breathlessly, brushing windblown curls behind her ear. “You know, I could get into a lot of trouble for this. Daddy doesn’t like it when I keep things from him, you know. I’m a bad liar, too, so he’ll know if I—”

“You put on a good show,” Finnick said, cutting her off, his voice flat and unreadable.

Cornelia stopped, blinking rapidly. “Oh. Is that why you called me out here?” she said after a beat, her voice sharp with hurt. “To make fun of me?”

Finnick didn’t blink. His mouth twitched— not into a smile. More like a grimace he tried to bury. “No,” he said. “I’m not making fun of you.”

“You just said—”

“You did put on a show. That’s what you Flickermans do, isn’t it?”

The words weren’t cruel, but they weren’t gentle either. They sat between them like a lit match, and Cornelia felt the heat of it sting her pride. She opened her mouth. Then shut it again.

“That is—” she started, then exhaled sharply. “You’re just being mean.” Her voice wavered, and she hated that it did. “This is my family’s thing, okay? It’s what we do. I have to smile. I can’t just—!”

“You can do whatever you want.” His voice snapped like a whip.

She stopped cold.

Finnick’s eyes were sharp now— brighter in the artificial lighting around the fountain. There was nothing soft in them. Nothing glittering or flirty or even fond.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he bit out. “You actually think you have to play along with all this. You don’t. You get to choose. That’s a luxury most of us don’t have.”

Cornelia flinched like he’d struck her. She stared at him for a long moment, lips parted but silent, something fragile in her expression folding inward. Then she turned away, pressed her lips tightly together. She didn’t know what to say. Or if she even could.

Finnick stared at her. Her shoulders were drawn up like something inside her had closed shut, locked down, sealed against whatever else he might throw. And he knew that look. Not because he had seen it in Cornelia before, but because he’d worn it himself— at fourteen, at sixteen, now at twenty. That stiff tension between defiance and despair, the feeling of being pushed too hard and too far and wanting to disappear before being shattered into something ugly and beyond repair.

The silence crackled like static between them, broken only by the slow trickle of the fountain behind them, too beautiful, too soft, too removed from the weight of their conversation. Finnick exhaled slowly.

“I’m not trying to fight with you.”

That made her spin around.

“Well, it feels like it!” Cornelia snapped, cheeks flushed, curls bouncing slightly with the force of her movement. “You’re mad at me for something that is expected of me! And that’s not fair!”

He held her gaze, unflinching. The only thing moving in his face was the faint twitch of his jaw.

“You’ve been wanting this,” he said, his voice still low, but more clipped now. “Since I met you, this is all you’ve talked about. Following your father, getting onstage, being part of it. But do you even understand what you’re getting into?”

She blinked at him. Fast. Like she was trying not to cry. Or maybe trying not to scream.

“I’m not stupid, Finnick!” she shouted suddenly. Her voice cracked at the top, but she didn’t stop. “Is that what this is?! You think I’m stupid?!”

“I never said that.”

The words were flat, but not cruel. Just matter-of-fact, like there was no point in arguing something he hadn’t implied. Like she was swinging at ghosts.

“You think I don’t understand any of this?!” she shouted again, her voice pitching higher with every word. “You don’t understand what I have to do! This is—this is all I know!” Her breathing started to hitch. Fast. Uneven. “I—I can’t do anything else! I don’t know how to be anything else!”

Finnick’s brows drew together, his voice rising with a hard edge. “Because you haven’t tried to be anything else!”

“I don’t know how to!” she shouted back, her voice cracking now with the edges of something more raw than anger. “This is what daddy wants me to do! All I’ve ever done in my spare time is—is shop! And watch daddy on his show! You think—” Her voice faltered again, like she was choking on it, and then she burst forward with a trembling breath, “You think you know everything, but you don’t! And you—you don’t know what the hell it feels like, to not have a say or a choice! To be thrown around and just—be fine!”

Finnick’s jaw tightened.

Oh, but he did know.

He knew it better than she ever could, and that was the irony of it— her screaming about cages while standing inside one lined with roses and ribbon, thinking it looked different than his. It didn’t. Not really. But saying that wouldn’t help. Saying “I know how you feel” would only make her scream louder. It would make her feel belittled, compared, dismissed. So he didn’t say anything. He just let her unravel beneath the pretense of perfect Capitol poise. He could see the sheen of panic rising in her eyes. Her chest rising too fast. Her hands pressed to her face now like she was trying to physically force her brain to shut off.

“I can’t—” she whispered, the words barely making it past her lips. “I can’t—”

Finnick moved. It wasn’t a decision so much as an instinct. One slow step forward, then another, until he was close enough to feel the heat coming off her, the ragged catch in her breath. And he reached out. His arms slid around her like they’d done it a hundred times before, but this was the first. He half-expected her to push him away. She didn’t. Cornelia sank into him like she’d been waiting for permission, letting herself fall forward into the circle of his arms. Her face pressed against the fabric of his shirt, fingers twisting into the fabric. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, barely audible, the words tumbling out in a frantic hush. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. Please don’t hate me, I can’t—”

“Shh,” Finnick murmured.

He didn’t let go. He brought one hand to her back, the other sliding up to her hair— his fingers brushing lightly over her scalp, just once, then again. His touch was hesitant at first. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure if it would make things better or worse. But Cornelia didn’t flinch away.

“I don’t hate you,” he whispered. He said it again, softer. “I don’t hate you.”

And he didn’t. He didn’t even want to be angry anymore. Not when she was here, clinging to him in the middle of a silent Capitol square like a girl who didn’t know what else to hold onto. Her body was still shaking slightly, and he could feel her tears seeping through his shirt near the buttons, warm and heartbreakingly human.

“I get it,” he said after a moment, his voice low against the crown of her head. “You’re scared.”

Cornelia nodded once— barely a motion— and pulled in a ragged breath.

Finnick let his eyes drift shut for a moment. He could feel her breathing against him. Uneven. Tight. And it made him remember that she was still just a girl. Maybe not just a girl. There was more to her than that. She wasn’t stupid or shallow or spoiled in the way Capitol girls usually were— though she had been raised among them. There was something desperate and sweet and wildly, achingly human about her. Like she’d been born into the wrong part of the world and had spent her whole life trying to smile her way through it. 

She didn’t know what she was doing, but she wanted so badly to be good. To matter. To be enough.

Finnick’s jaw tensed. He was falling into something with her that he hadn’t prepared for. Hadn’t wanted. Not really. He had too many walls, too many leashes still tied to his throat. But something in him twisted when she looked at him like she needed him to believe she was good. Like she was asking him to forgive her for something that wasn’t even wrong.

Her hands were still clutching his coat when she whispered again. “I’m sorry.”

His hand moved through her hair, slow and calming, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You don’t have to be,” he said.

August, 71 ADD

Finnick’s birthday was no longer a celebration of life anymore. Not for him, at least.

The Capitol still celebrated it— loudly, lavishly, with the kind of obsessive spectacle only they could engineer. But their celebration had very little to do with him as a person. It was about what he was. What his existence could do. How much he could bring in. How dazzling he looked in a velvet waistcoat, how convincingly he smiled when an older woman clutched his hand at a gala, how many tributes could be made to believe they too might ascend if they just bared their teeth and bore it with grace.

The Capitol toasted his name, clinked glasses, and sent him gifts that weren’t really gifts at all— just reminders that they owned him. That his body, his time, his celebration was not his own. It was more their day than his.

And now, returning to his hotel room after seeing three clients, he was tired. So, so tired.

Finnick let his head knock lightly against the wood as he kicked the door shut behind him. The latch caught with a click. His fingers moved automatically to the buttons of his shirt— slow, methodical, unhurried. The fabric was smooth beneath his hands, still faintly warm from the last body pressed against it. He hated how numb he was to it now. How easily he peeled it off. The shirt slipped from his shoulders and down his arms, landing in a loose heap at his feet.

He stood in silence for a beat.

Then exhaled. Long and low and full of weight.

His back hit the door behind him. Just a soft lean, his shoulders folding inward like the very structure of him wanted to collapse. He closed his eyes.

The room around him was dim. The Capitol lights never fully disappeared—not even behind the blackout curtains— but the lighting system was tuned to mimic twilight when no guests were inside. It was all gleaming surfaces and cold luxury— gold-trimmed mirrors, sculptural furniture no one actually used, white walls, white bedding, too white. It looked like no one lived here. Because no one did. Finnick wasn’t meant to. He came and went. Was summoned, not welcomed. It was a holding pen, not a home.

He toed off his shoes, one foot then the other, and padded quietly into the bathroom.

The light there flared to life when it sensed movement—too bright, sharp as a camera flash. Finnick squinted but didn’t flinch. His hands found the waistband of his pants. Button, zipper. The slither of fabric down his legs. Underwear, too. Everything discarded into a careless pile on the marble floor.

The water in the shower hadn’t heated yet. He didn’t wait.

He stepped into the stream as it was— cold, biting, immediate.

The chill stabbed into his skin and then dulled. The shock helped, at least at first. It woke him up in a way he didn’t want to admit he needed. Scrub the scent off, he thought, letting the water run down his chest and thighs. Scrub the lipstick from his collarbones. Scrub the perfume from his wrists. Scrub the heat of someone else’s palms from the nape of his neck. Scrub the honeyed voices from his ears— "Such a beautiful boy. What a gift. Let me have him again next week."

Finnick reached for the soap— some Capitol brand, slick and rose-scented and expensive— and began scrubbing. He didn’t do it gently. His fingers dug in as though he could carve away the parts of himself he didn’t want to keep. His ribs, his arms, his stomach. He hated that he knew the routine now, knew how long it would take to feel clean enough to sleep, if not truly clean. He hated that his hands moved the same way every time. Like this was just maintenance. Like he was a car returning to a showroom. The water warmed slowly. He barely noticed.

His fingers ran through his hair, working shampoo in until it foamed. He tilted his head back and let it rinse out, the water dragging lines down his spine. He leaned into the wall for a moment, pressing his palms flat against the tile. Steam was beginning to fog the edges of the glass. But the air still felt cold inside him.

Finnick let out a slow, controlled breath. Then another. Then another.

He didn’t cry. He didn’t shake. He didn’t curse or scream or fall to his knees the way he used to when it was new. There was no violence left in the way he dealt with it. Just quiet. Numbness. A kind of practiced detachment that let him keep existing. The way one would go limp when they hit cold water. The way one would hold their breath and float.

He rubbed his face with both hands. His fingertips paused against his brow, then dragged slowly down the ridge of his nose, the hollows beneath his eyes, the corners of his mouth. He stayed like that for a moment. Pressing in. Centering. Trying to feel real again. It was his birthday.

He’d been given sugared wine and a silver watch and a new seafoam-colored suit tailored to hug his waist exactly right. The stylist team had told him to smile more than usual today. One of his handlers had said he’d earned a "bonus" visit from a repeat client who called him darling boy and kissed his neck too hard. The third client of the evening had given him a wrapped box with a pearl tiepin inside and made him wear it while she ran her fingers through his hair and murmured how lucky she was that Snow had "entrusted" him to her.

That was the word they used now. Entrusted. As if he were a gift to be borrowed.

Finnick reached blindly for the conditioner and squeezed some into his hand. He didn’t care if he used too much. The Capitol could afford it. He worked it through the ends of his hair, careful now. Not for himself, but because his clients liked it better when his curls stayed soft. He’d been scolded before for letting them frizz. Like it was his fault the world outside the Capitol still had weather.

The mirror across from the shower was steamed over, a relief in itself. He didn’t want to see himself tonight. Not the faint bruises where a ring had pressed too hard into his hip. Not the tired cut of his mouth when he forgot to keep it lifted. Not the faint pink smudge of someone else's lipstick, missed near his jaw. He rinsed again. Then stood, motionless, under the stream. Let it run until his skin turned pink from heat. Let it run until he started to feel human. Or at least, the version of human he was allowed to be.

Finnick leaned his head against the tile. He closed his eyes again. He stepped out of the shower after another minute, skin flushed from the heat, his chest rising and falling with quiet, steady breaths. He pulled the towel off the heated rack with one hand and ran it down the length of his arms and torso, catching the water that still slid down from his collarbones. His skin smelled faintly of the Capitol soap— sharp, clean, artificial. It didn’t smell like home. It never did. But at least it didn’t smell like someone else anymore.

He wrapped the towel low around his waist and stood for a moment in front of the mirror now fogged over. Good. He didn’t want to look. He never did after days like this. He turned instead to the cabinet under the bathroom sink and crouched to open one of the drawers. Inside, as always, were the same neatly folded items the Capitol left for him when he stayed too long in any single place: pressed collared shirts, silk robes, pristine boxer-briefs, workout clothes no one really expected him to use. But beneath all that, in a drawer he'd quietly claimed as his own over the years, was a pair of gray sweatpants. Not silk. Not pressed. Not beautiful. But soft.

Finnick pulled them on, the towel dropped where it fell. The pants were a little loose on the hips, but warm, worn in the way things from home had once been. He dried his hair roughly with the towel as he left the bathroom, his bare feet padding back across the marble floor into the bedroom of the suite.

The room was dim, quiet, lit only by the faint blue glow of the wall panel and the shimmer of the Capitol skyline pushing through the slits of the closed curtains. A gold-framed abstract painting hung above the bed, colorless in the dark. The sheets were untouched. He hadn’t bothered to lie down since coming in.

His eyes found the phone on the nightstand. It hadn’t rung. No messages were waiting. No flowers left at the desk. No gifts worth keeping. Just the Capitol's adoration. But the sight of the phone made something shift in him. Like a quiet suggestion in the back of his mind that had started hours ago and was now louder, clearer. It whispered that he didn’t want to be alone. Not entirely. He didn’t think about it much. Didn’t let himself.

Finnick ran a hand through his damp hair, walked over to the bed, and sat down on the edge with a soft sigh. He reached for the phone with fingers that hovered for a second above the keypad— just a second of indecision, of uncertainty. But then he dialed. He didn’t have to look up the number.

He’d memorized it faster than he should have, and the realization made him mentally wince. Embarrassing, he thought dryly. Capitol prostitute, Victor of the 65th Games, and he could now dial Cornelia Flickerman’s phone number in two seconds flat, like a Capitol stylist with a prep team's itinerary. Like it mattered. Like she mattered.

The dial tone hummed softly in his ear. Once. Twice. Three times. He thought maybe she wouldn’t pick up. But then, just before the final ring— just as he was about to pull the phone away and hang up— he heard her voice.

“G’morning?”

Finnick didn’t speak right away. He let the sound wash over him for a second, felt the knot between his shoulder blades ease just slightly. He blinked and exhaled through his nose, the corners of his mouth tugging into something that wasn’t quite a smile, but almost.

“It’s not that late,” he said at last, voice low, wry. His tone carried the faintest flicker of amusement, but it was gentler than usual. Less sharp-edged.

Cornelia gave a small grunt, muffled. He could picture her shifting in bed, tangled in sheets, her hair a mess, voice pouting like a child.

“Oh… sorry. I took a nap,” she mumbled, yawning halfway through. “Thought I accidentally slept through the night.”

Finnick let out a soft huff of breath, a real smile forming now, weary and amused. “Do you really take a nap at ten o’clock at night?” he said, his voice dipping with dry Capitol sarcasm. “God, you’re corny.”

She laughed on the other end. That bright, real laugh that always took him off guard.

“M’kay, call me whatever,” she said, clearly grinning now. “I’m well-rested.”

Finnick gave a quiet laugh too— more of a breath, really— but it was genuine. The sound of her voice did something strange to his chest. Loosened things that had been wound up all evening. She made everything seem just a little less heavy. Maybe that was the whole danger of her.

There was a pause before she spoke again, voice softer this time. “Why’re you calling so late? You okay?”

He hesitated. The question lingered between them.

He shifted slightly on the bed, one hand bracing against the edge of the mattress. “I guess…” he started, his voice quiet, more cautious now, “I just… wanted to hear your voice.”

He could hear her inhale faintly on the other end. Not sharply— just a breath— but it was noticeable. And then—

“Oh, my gosh,” she gasped. “Your birthday. Oh, Finnick—”

He cut her off quickly, gently. “It’s fine,” he said. Soft but firm. He didn’t want to talk about it. Not that way. He didn’t want to hear apologies or excitement or birthday wishes in a voice that meant well but didn’t understand.

But Cornelia didn’t let it go. “Where are you?” she asked, more alert now. “What hotel?”

Finnick stared at the floor for a moment. At his bare feet. At the curve of the rug beneath the bed. He hesitated— not because he didn’t want her to know, but because the offer in her voice made something pull inside him.

“I’m at the Aurelian,” he said finally. His voice was quieter now. More honest. “Top floor suite.”

“The Aurelian?” she repeated, incredulous. “That’s across the Circle. You’re like, five minutes away from me.”

He almost laughed.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Cornelia’s voice came through the line again— softer, warmer. “Do you want me to come over?”

Finnick didn’t answer right away. Because he did. He did want that. He wanted to open the door and see her hair slightly mussed from sleep, her oversized pajama shirt slipping off one shoulder, her expression creased with concern but not pity. He wanted her to step inside and not care that his hair was still damp or that his eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. He wanted to lie back on the bed and not have to be anything for anyone. Not a client, not a performer, not a Victor. Just… someone she wanted to talk to. Someone she didn’t expect anything from.

But he also didn’t want her to see him like this. And he didn’t trust himself not to reach for her in ways that crossed lines he wasn’t sure he had the right to cross.

He swallowed and leaned back against the pillows, one arm resting behind his head. “You should go back to sleep,” he said finally. A whisper, barely more than breath.

Cornelia didn’t argue. She didn’t push. But she didn’t hang up either. Instead, she said, “Okay. But you can call me again if you want to."

He nodded once, even though she couldn’t see it. “Thanks,” he murmured. Then, quieter: “Goodnight, Corny.”

He could hear the smile in her voice when she replied, “Goodnight, Finnick.”

Click.

Chapter Text

September, 71 ADD

THE CITY CIRCLE SHOPS WERE AT THEIR FULLEST this time of year. It was the first cool morning of fall, and the Capitol was beginning to dress the part. Window displays shimmered in golds and russets, mannequins donned cashmere boleros and brocade gloves, and the smell of roasted nuts and designer coffee wafted into the shops from vendors outside.

Cornelia stood between two displays of satin gowns, her pale pink nails brushing a deep wine-colored slip dress— a stark contrast from the frothy confections her mother insisted were “more appropriate.” The dress she liked was simple. Sleek. With narrow straps and a hemline that curved upward at the thigh. It made her heart skip a little, imagining it on her, imagining—

“You’ll need to give up those daily lattes if you want to fit into that,” Calpurnia said airily behind her, voice sharpened by peppermint breath and practiced smile lines.

Cornelia flinched.

The comment wasn’t cruel— at least not by Capitol standards— but it stung anyway. Her fingers dropped away from the fabric like it burned. The dress swung back into place on the rack with a whisper of silk, and Cornelia stepped back, arms folding protectively over her stomach as her mother approached.

Calpurnia was already sorting through another rack nearby, her manicured hand decisive as she pulled two gowns from the middle. One was pale lavender, dripping with tulle and ostrich feathers. The other was bubblegum pink, corseted and adorned with rhinestone-studded bows. “Here,” she said, holding them up triumphantly. “These will flatter you more. Cinch at the waist, flare at the hips. And no one will notice your arms.”

Cornelia didn’t reach for them right away.

Instead, she looked at her mother. Really looked. At the carefully powdered face, the lashes so long they looked like they might scrape the lenses of her tinted sunglasses, the shellacked blonde waves that were as sculpted as they were stiff. And something stirred— some small, clenching ache in her throat that made her speak without thinking.

“Do you think that I’m pretty, mother?”

Calpurnia paused. Her lips parted, but for a moment, nothing came out. She blinked behind her designer glasses, then gave a short, tinkling laugh as if the question was a joke. “Cornelia, darling, please. Of course I do. I’m your mother.”

It was the sort of answer Cornelia had learned to expect. That Capitol answer. Automatic. Decorative. Like flowers on a table that looked lovely but had no scent.

Cornelia stared at her for a second longer, then nodded faintly. “Right,” she murmured. “Right.”

She turned away before Calpurnia could respond, her platform heels clicking crisply on the polished tile as she headed toward the dressing rooms. The dresses her mother had selected were clutched against her chest now, crushed into a wrinkled pile of tulle and taffeta. Calpurnia, scandalized, hurried after her with a huff of dramatic indignation.

“Where is this attitude coming from?” she demanded, dodging a floor clerk arranging rhinestone clutches on a mirrored table. “Don’t act like I said something cruel.”

Cornelia didn’t look back. She just exhaled— sharp, controlled— and stepped into the hallway lined with numbered dressing rooms. The lighting here was harsh and bright, designed to expose every shadow, every crease, every inch of the body the clothes were meant to improve.

“I’m not acting like anything,” Cornelia said coolly, opening one of the doors and stepping inside.

She shut it before Calpurnia could reply.

On the other side of the door, Calpurnia rolled her eyes skyward and folded her arms across her chest. She tapped one high-heeled boot against the tile floor and muttered just loud enough for the nearby attendant to hear, “She’s impossible. Absolutely impossible.”

Inside the dressing room, Cornelia didn’t move for a moment. She let her back rest against the closed door and stared at her reflection in the mirror across from her.

Her makeup was perfect, of course—she’d done it herself that morning in careful swipes of peach gloss and highlighter. Her hair was twisted up in a pink ribbon, and her white cropped blouse showed just a peek of her stomach above the pleated skirt. She looked the part. Polished. Bubbly. Pretty.

But the words clung to her skin like static.

Cornelia set the pile of dresses on the bench beside her and reached for the zipper of her skirt. The fluorescent lights buzzed above her, relentless, sterile, and unkind. She undressed slowly, sliding out of the blouse and the skirt, folding them neatly like it mattered. She stood in her bra and underwear for a moment, staring at the slight curve of her stomach, the softness of her thighs, the way her collarbone rose and fell with each shallow breath.

Did she really think she was pretty? Did anyone?

The dresses her mother picked out hung like candy-colored ghosts from the hook beside the mirror. Loud. Obvious. Safe. Meant to say, “this is Caesar Flickerman’s daughter.” Meant to flatter. Not express.

Cornelia turned her head slightly. Her reflection blinked back. Then, almost defiantly, she reached for the wine-colored slip dress from earlier—the one her mother had discouraged. The one she had liked. The one she wasn’t supposed to want. She slid it over her head.

It clung to her sides like water, like a whisper, like something real. The neckline dipped modestly but suggestively, and the slit at the thigh gave her legs freedom she hadn’t realized she craved. The fabric was cool and soft and unfamiliar in all the right ways.

She turned slowly in the mirror. And smiled.

It wasn’t the polished, Capitol smile she usually wore. Not the smile that meant “see me,” “remember me,” “adore me.” It was quieter than that. Realer. Tired, yes— but real.

Outside, Calpurnia had started tapping on the door.

“Well?” she called impatiently. “Let me see!”

Cornelia didn’t answer right away. She stared at herself for one more second. One more breath. Then she squared her shoulders and called back, “Just a minute, mother.”

Cornelia did not get the slip dress.

She had stood there in the dressing room beneath the buzzing fluorescent lights, her hands smoothing the fabric along her hips, her reflection holding its breath. She’d wanted it. Not in the fleeting, flighty way she usually wanted things— glitter lip gloss, the latest perfume, a new shade of pastel eyeshadow— but with something heavier. Something deeper. A strange sort of ache had bloomed in her chest when she pulled it off and hung it neatly on the hook again. And when she emerged from the dressing room in the frothy lavender ballgown Calpurnia had chosen, her mother clapped her hands together and exclaimed, “Now this is what we came here for!”

Cornelia had smiled, tight-lipped. She did not get the slip dress.

Now, hours later, she walked with her mother down the smooth white pavement of the City Circle promenade, arms full of shopping bags wrapped in branded tissue. The streetlamps were beginning to turn on one by one, casting golden glows in the dusk, and the Capitol skyline shimmered with spires and advertisements and the faint smell of sugar and smoke. The crowds had thinned slightly as evening crept in, but well-dressed couples still lingered outside wine bars, and groups of girls in feathered shawls giggled as they clacked past fountains, their laughter high and shrill and designed to be overheard.

Calpurnia was still talking. She never really stopped.

“…and of course, you heard about the cast party incident, didn’t you? They say she threw her wig at him. Can you imagine? And all on camera. And this is horrid, but, you didn’t hear it from me, her new lips? They’re completely asymmetrical. I told her, I told her not to go to Dr. Talavera for that kind of sculpting, he only knows cheekbones, but no one listens— Cornelia?”

Cornelia didn’t respond. She kept walking, her platform heels clicking rhythmically on the sidewalk, her gaze a little unfocused. There was a faint pinch in her temples and a restlessness curling in her stomach, like something in her was too tight, too wrong.

Calpurnia made a sudden sound of exasperation. “Are you even hearing a word I say?”

Cornelia blinked and turned her head quickly. “Oh, yes. Yes, sorry. Just got—” She gestured vaguely, uncertain how to finish the thought.

Calpurnia scowled, a sharp little line forming between her brows. “You need to get your head out of the clouds, Cornelia. Honestly. You’ve been completely distracted lately.” She adjusted the handle of her handbag on her wrist with a huff. “You were very strange in the shops today. Moody. Distant. And for what? Is it that time of the month or something?”

Cornelia blinked again. Her fingers tightened slightly around the shopping bags. She exhaled slowly through her nose before responding.

“You know…” she said softly, forcing a sunny lilt into her voice, “I just remembered. Adorabella invited me to a party tonight. I should go home and get ready for it.”

Calpurnia stopped walking. She turned to look at her daughter with a raised, skeptical brow.

“Well,” she said slowly, eyeing her, “I suppose there’s no harm in being seen at a social event. You’ve been far too invisible since your father let you interview the tributes. If you let your moment fade, you’ll be just another Flickerman with a pretty face and no impact.”

Cornelia’s smile didn’t waver, but her throat tightened. She nodded. “Right. I’ll change into something fun. Very flattering.”

Calpurnia’s eyes swept over her, quick and clinical, and she gave a satisfied nod. “Make sure to do something with your hair. Honestly, you’ve been letting it go flat lately. Like you're doing it on purpose.”

“I’ll fluff it,” Cornelia said sweetly.

They turned the next corner, the capitol’s white spires glowing in the lavender sky behind them, and walked in silence for a moment. Cornelia swallowed around the lump in her throat and looked up toward the glowing advertisements glittering against the skyline. 

She could see her face in one of them— still playing from weeks ago, the interview footage looping again and again, that practiced Capitol smile blinding and perfect. “Capitol sweetheart!” the ticker below read.

She didn’t feel sweet. She didn’t feel much of anything. Just tired. And hollow. And restless.

The last thing Finnick had been expecting was to get a call from Cornelia.

He’d just been sitting on the edge of the bed in his hotel suite, hair still damp from an evening rinse, flipping absently through Capitol programming with the volume muted when the room phone buzzed sharply beside him. At first, he’d thought it might be his escort or a reminder from the Capitol handler who managed his schedule when he was in the city.

But then he heard her.

“Hi. Um. Are you… are you free?”

Even though he didn’t know how she’d figured out what hotel he was staying at this time— maybe she’d called every one until she found him— he wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t complaining. Not even a little. If anything, her call gave him something rare: an out. An excuse to leave the static silence of his hotel room behind and step into something unpredictable.

So he threw on a jacket, left his hair slightly tousled from the shower, and went to meet her at the fountain plaza where the water danced in iridescent spirals above the marbled stone.

And there she was.

Cornelia stood near the edge of it, one hand lightly trailing along the rim of the basin as she stared down into the rippling reflections. She was dressed in a short, hot pink number that ended just at her knees, the fabric sleek and fitted, the hem swaying just slightly as she shifted from one heel to the other. Her hair— no longer tinged with the soft red undertones she’d once flaunted— was a richer, deeper brown now, styled in soft waves that spilled over her shoulders. Her makeup was polished and radiant, Capitol-tier but not gaudy. It didn’t look like a mask. Not like his clients earlier that night.

She turned when she heard him approach.

“Hey,” she said, her lips curving into a smile that looked more nervous than flirtatious. “You made it.”

“I said I would,” he replied, falling into step beside her with ease. He nodded toward her outfit. “That for me?” 

Cornelia flushed. “Adorabella and her boyfriend are throwing some last-minute thing at his penthouse. Supposed to be a whole scene. Neon lights, house DJ, too many people for one roof.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “You don’t have to come with me, I just thought…”

He shrugged. “I’d rather go with you than sit around pretending to sleep.”

That made her smile again.

They started walking together, the streets quieter now, lit with the eerie blue glow of dusk. People moved in groups ahead of them, bursts of laughter and perfume drifting in the air, glass storefronts gleaming under rows of spotlights.

Cornelia was saying something about Adorabella’s boyfriend’s parents— how they bought the penthouse for him as a “first real investment” even though he hadn’t worked a day in his life— when she suddenly turned to him mid-step and blurted, “Does this dress look okay? Or is it too tight?”

Finnick blinked. The question hit him with all the grace of a cannon blast.

He turned his head sharply, caught entirely off guard. She was biting her lower lip now, eyes flicking down at herself, one hand fluttering briefly to her waist like she could pull the fabric away from her skin. The moment was so unlike her usual poised, curated Capitol self that it knocked the wind out of him.

“I—what?” he asked.

Cornelia winced, just slightly. “I mean… not like that. I just… if it’s pulling weird or clinging in the wrong places, you can tell me. Honestly.”

Finnick stared at her for another beat. Then his expression softened.

“It looks great,” he said plainly. “On you, I mean.”

She looked up.

“I’m not just saying that,” he added, more quietly. “It fits you nice.”

Cornelia blinked fast. Then she let out a small breath, her shoulders relaxing, her smile sheepish and warm. “Oh. Thank you.”

Finnick’s mouth tilted upward. “Why’d you ask?”

The question was gentle, curious. Not prying.

Cornelia hesitated. For a flicker of a second, something shifted in her expression— just a tremor, like a curtain rustling before a storm window. She opened her mouth like she might answer honestly, like she might say “because my mother thinks my thighs are too big” or “because I didn’t buy the dress I really wanted” or “because I feel like I’m performing even when I’m alone,” but then she caught herself.

Her voice came out chipper again, her hand snapping up to point ahead.

“Oh! There it is! That’s the building. Adorabella said Cerulean just finished redesigning the interior last month!” Her pace quickened with new energy as she gestured at the sleek blue tower rising above them. “He added a whole balcony pool. Like, on the outside. And a hot tub with a little waterfall.”

Finnick let her redirect the conversation. He didn’t press. But he watched her more closely now.

The building loomed in front of them now, tall and glowing, pulsing with pink and blue lights from within. He could already hear the thrum of music through the tinted windows.

Cornelia turned back toward him. “You sure you’re up for this? It might be loud.”

He held her gaze for a second longer than he needed to. He offered his arm. Cornelia took it. The doors of the building parted with a mechanical hush as they stepped inside. 

Immediately, after the elevator brought them up to the penthouse’s level, the sound hit them— bass-heavy music pulsing like a second heartbeat, layered with the static chatter of voices and laughter, the unmistakable clink of glass against glass. Light— bright, shifting, a wash of pinks and purples and electric blue— flashed from bulbs and pendant fixtures. The scent of expensive perfume, citrus cocktails, and the ever-present haze of something sweet and synthetic drifted in waves around them.

The penthouse stretched wide and long, floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides revealing the Capitol skyline glittering like a jewelry case turned on its side. On the far end of the suite, a glossy spiral staircase led to an upper mezzanine, and behind a frosted-glass partition was the pool Cornelia had mentioned— already lit from beneath with a teal glow, steaming faintly. People lounged on faux-stone steps, half-dressed and dripping water onto the pristine floor, while others leaned over the balcony rail, drinks in hand, watching traffic far below like bored gods.

Finnick barely had time to take in the scope of it when he heard her.

“Oh my gosh, you made it!”

A flurry of motion barreled toward them through the throng, all feathers and sequins and champagne-blurred eyes. Adorabella, already three drinks too deep, came careening across the floor in platform heels with the dangerous confidence of someone who’d never been told no. She was dressed in something white and sheer and feathered, like a swan that had been through one too many cycles in a washing machine, her cheeks flushed and her lipstick just slightly smudged.

“And you brought a…” Her eyes widened as she skidded to a stop in front of them, momentarily losing her train of thought as she looked up at Finnick, recognition dawning slow and giddy. “... Finnick Odair! Hi! I mean… hi.”

Finnick tilted his head, lips twitching at the corners in that practiced, easy smile of his. “Nice to see you again.”

Cornelia, ever the gentle hand on the reigns, gave a small groan and stepped between them, waving a hand as she leaned close to Adorabella.

“He’s a friend, Dora. Just be cool.”

Adorabella blinked. She tried very hard to look sober, her face suddenly slack with fake composure. “Cool,” she echoed. “Right. Cool.” Then she beamed, entirely unable to help herself, and bounced on the balls of her feet. “There’s a bar in the back! Have fun!”

She pivoted without waiting for a reply, stumbling slightly as she darted back toward the lounge area, where her boyfriend— Cerulean, presumably— was reclined across a velvet settee, laughing with a circle of equally intoxicated partygoers.

Finnick glanced after her with a sideways smirk and then turned that look on Cornelia. One brow arched.

“She’s subtle,” he drawled, amusement heavy in his tone.

Cornelia gave him a wry smile in return. “This is her subtle.”

She reached down without ceremony and took his hand before she began to lead him through the press of bodies toward the bar. Her grip wasn’t flirtatious or demanding. It was something simpler. Something trusting. Something that curled, alarmingly, somewhere low in Finnick’s chest.

The music shifted tempo as they walked, and Finnick leaned closer to speak over it. “So, where’s the rest of your gaggle? Or are you flying solo tonight?”

Cornelia looked back at him over her shoulder, her lips parted in a smile, cheekbones catching the pale light like soft quartz. “Do you remember their names?”

Finnick hummed, pretending to think as they weaved through a knot of dancers and stepped out onto the quieter side of the room where a minimalist marble bar stretched along the back wall, manned by a bartender in chrome shoulder pads and gold lipstick.

“Let’s see,” he said, eyes narrowing in mock concentration. “I know that I’ve heard of them. So many times. I think their names are on the tip of my tongue… was it Twinkle and Sparkle?”

Cornelia burst into a laugh that startled the bartender. She pressed a hand to her mouth to muffle it, but it spilled out anyway, bright and unabashed and real.

“Oh, so close,” she said, breathless. “Not quite though.”

Finnick leaned his elbow on the bar and looked at her— not through her, not past her, but at her— in a way that made Cornelia’s breath catch ever so slightly in her throat.

They were handed drinks a moment later— hers some kind of candied champagne cocktail that smelled like sugared oranges, his a dark, minimal bourbon in a crystal tumbler. The Capitol knew how to pour, he’d give them that.

The drinks had been strong, or at least his had— he wasn’t sure what was in Cornelia’s beyond too much sugar and something citrusy, but she seemed to be sipping it like it was a lifeline. The tip of her tongue darted to her lip after every swallow, catching the sparkle of gloss and condensation. And that dress she was wearing wasn’t making it any easier.

Finnick tried not to look. He tried. He wasn’t sure what was getting to him more— the color (bold, sugary, inviting), or the cut (short enough to showcase the full length of her legs, tight enough to hug the exact kind of curves the Capitol liked to pretend they didn’t notice). And her shoulders— damn it, her shoulders, of all things— were catching the filtered light of the party and reflecting off of the shimmer powder she had dusted along the skin of her collarbones.

Her skin. Smooth, bare, delicate. He found himself focusing on them for far too long.

Probably because he was trying not to look at her chest, and the way the neckline of her dress plunged in that casual, cruel curve, soft satin cupping her breasts like a gift she hadn’t realized she was offering. Or maybe she had realized. Maybe she always did.

He didn’t know what bothered him more— the possibility that she didn’t mean to make him look, or that she did.

Cornelia was watching the lounge while he thought all this. She sipped her drink in tiny, elegant swallows and tilted her head in that idle way she had, as if half-listening to conversations she wasn’t part of, cataloging details for future gossip. Her posture was relaxed but regal, and it wasn’t until the crowd near them thickened slightly— someone bumping too close, another shoulder brushing past— that she shifted her weight and leaned subtly into him.

Her hand reached out blindly and landed flat against his chest.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, eyes still on the crowd, her tone distracted and breezy.

Finnick froze. Not all at once— just enough for the moment to register, the warmth of her palm through his shirt, the softness of her fingers near the base of his collarbone. His skin reacted faster than his thoughts did, gooseflesh flaring down his spine like an involuntary shiver.

He didn’t think. He just reached up and laid his own hand over hers.

The touch was gentle. Thoughtless. Familiar in a way it shouldn’t have been. His palm half-covered hers, thumb brushing the edge of her wrist like muscle memory.

“You wanna sit down?” he asked, voice pitched low— casual, but quieter than it had been before.

Cornelia turned her head and looked up at him with wide honeyed eyes, almost surprised by the question. Then she shrugged with a soft smile. “Do you want to?”

It was the way she said it, the faint lift of her voice at the end, the unspoken invitation tucked inside. She hadn’t moved her hand yet. Neither had he.

Finnick looked down at her for a moment, lingering longer than he should. His eyes traced the soft arc of her jaw, the slope of her neck, the delicate twinkle of some ridiculous Capitol necklace catching in the hollow of her throat. He let his gaze dip— just slightly— to her bowed lips, and then back to her eyes.

He gave a small smile. “Yeah,” he said. “I do.”

The noise receded the farther they moved from the bar. They wove through the crowd, half-dancing guests pressing into each other like glittering sea creatures, laughter too loud, conversation too bright. Cornelia’s hand remained close, brushing his arm every few steps, her dress swaying with every click of her heels.

As they passed through one of the mirrored archways, Finnick clocked a familiar figure leaning over the drink cart.

“Precious,” Cornelia murmured, nudging him with her elbow. “And this week’s boy of the month. He’s taller than usual. That’s a fun twist.”

Finnick chuckled under his breath, recalling her voice saying those exact words over the phone days ago. She’d been eating toast or something during the call, absentminded and sunny—“You wouldn’t believe her new one. Looks like a Capitol statue came to life and got a fake tan. It’ll last a week, tops.”

He glanced over at Precious and her companion— she looked practically draped on him, an arm looped through his while she sipped a drink with the other hand, her head thrown back in laughter. The boy looked barely sentient. They didn’t stop to say hello.

The air shifted again when they reached the sliding glass doors that opened out to the pool. The temperature dropped a few degrees, the humid warmth of the suite giving way to cooler evening air tinged with chlorine and wet stone. The doors slid open automatically with a hush.

It was almost startling how quiet it was out here.

The pool glowed blue and green under the overhead lights, steam rising faintly from the heated surface. No guests had ventured out yet— everyone either drinking or dancing or collapsed somewhere in the main rooms. It was Capitol midnight. The lull between decadence and disaster.

Cornelia walked ahead of him, toward the edge of the pool, her silhouette trim and curved under the tight pink satin. She didn’t hesitate, stepping out of her heels and leaving them by a lounge chair before sitting on the ledge. Her legs slid into the water, calves pale under the shifting glow.

Finnick followed, slower, choosing to settle cross-legged on the stone edge beside her. His arms rested loosely on his knees, the bourbon glass dangling from his fingers. The hem of his shirt brushed against her bare arm as he sat, but she didn’t flinch.

For a few moments, neither of them spoke.

Cornelia kicked her feet gently in the water, making little ripples that broke the pool’s glassy surface. The sound was rhythmic, soothing.

“You come to a lot of these?” Finnick asked eventually, his voice softer now.

She shrugged again, but it was a real one this time— smaller, less theatrical. “Not all of them. Just enough so people remember I exist.”

He watched her for a moment, the curve of her nose in profile, the way her lashes curled upward like something painted.

“Hard to imagine you being easy to forget.”

Cornelia looked at him, startled— just briefly— but she didn’t smile.

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly like she was studying him. “You’re very strange,” she said finally.

“I get that a lot,” Finnick said before slowly leaning back and untying hiis shoes. 

His long fingers made quick work of the laces, and he peeled the socks off with a practiced flick. Cornelia watched silently at first, one perfectly shaped brow lifting as he set his things aside and casually dipped his newly freed feet into the pool beside hers.

She sniffed dramatically, nose wrinkling. “Your feet smell like fish.”

Finnick barked a laugh, a foot nudging hers. Then, after a beat, his eyes glinted as he turned toward her. “Hey. You ever swim before?”

Cornelia gave him a look. Raised brows, unimpressed. “Well, no? Do I look like a swimmer to you?”

He tilted his head, inspecting her with mock seriousness. “You have legs.”

“I hate physical activity.”

He burst out laughing. “Right.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I walk in heels. That’s more than enough.”

He leaned closer, lips curved in challenge. “You’re saying if I dared you to jump in, you wouldn’t?”

Cornelia cackled. “Absolutely not! I don’t want to get wet! My hair! My makeup! Finnick, be serious!”

He gave her a look that was many things at once—playful, predatory, disbelieving—and stood without another word. She opened her mouth, as if sensing it before it happened.

“Finnick, no—”

Too late.

He turned, gave her the briefest flash of a wink, and dove into the water fully clothed.

The splash was impressive. Water curled up and over the lip of the pool, warm and heavy, and Cornelia squealed as it soaked the hem of her dress and splattered her bare arms and face.

“Finnick!” she yelped, jerking her legs up instinctively like a cat caught in the rain.

He resurfaced smoothly, hair slicked back, face lit with amusement.

“Come on in,” he called, treading water easily. “It’s just a little chlorine.”

Cornelia stared at him, aghast. She wasn’t even pretending not to laugh—her eyes wide and glittering, her mouth open in incredulous glee. “You’re insane. We’re going to be soaking wet. We’re going to look so weird when we leave—”

Finnick swam a little closer, arms cutting clean through the water. “You think anyone in that suite is sober enough to notice?”

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already at the edge, his hands rising to brace on the side. Then one hand slipped beneath her knees.

Cornelia jerked reflexively. “Don’t you dare—” she said, eyes flaring wide, voice high and breathless.

Finnick raised his brows at her, a grin pulling at his mouth, and gave her knees a gentle nudge.

She made a noise— somewhere between a gasp and a cackle— and cringed as she glanced down at the glowing surface of the pool. Then, with the theatrical resignation of someone preparing to leap to their death, she slid herself off the ledge.

He caught her. His hands moved without thinking, and suddenly they were beneath her thighs, bracing her weight as she sank into the water. Her dress floated around her in a bloom of bright pink, satin sticking to her skin almost immediately, the neckline darkened with soaked fabric.

She made a squealing, sputtering sound as she landed half-submerged, clinging instinctively to his shoulders. “My hair! Finnick!”

“Get over it,” he said easily, eyes dancing.

She gave a dramatic groan and tipped her head back, water dripping from the ends of her hair. Her lipstick was still mostly intact— somehow— and the glittering eye shadow made her lashes look like jeweled fans every time she blinked.

It was then that she became acutely aware— painfully aware— of the fact that Finnick’s hands were still on her. He was holding her up by her thighs, his grip easy and instinctive, as if his body had known what to do before either of them had thought it through. But now, with the thrill of the moment softening into stillness, she could feel everything. The heat of his palms through the wet satin. The press of his fingers against her skin. The way the fabric of her dress clung everywhere, slicked tight across her hips and her stomach, hugging the curve of her chest like a second skin. She felt… exposed.

Her heart stuttered. Had he been with someone like that before? Of course he had. What was she even thinking? This was Finnick Odair. People in the Capitol designed perfumes to smell like him. Women across Panem sighed when he so much as walked into a room. He could’ve had—did have—anyone he wanted. And here she was, practically wrapped around him, her makeup running, her dress soaked, her thighs—

“Hey,” Finnick’s voice cut through her spiral gently, low and even. “You okay?”

Cornelia blinked up at him, startled. Her eyes flicked to his face, to the soft crease of concern in his brow, the way his green eyes searched hers like he already knew her thoughts were going somewhere dark. She swallowed.

“Oh! Oh, yeah,” she rushed, trying to laugh it off, though it came out a little breathless. “I just—can’t even fix my hair because my hands are wet. I probably look so undone—”

“You look beautiful.”

The words landed softly, but they hit like a thunderclap.

Cornelia’s lips parted. Her breath caught in her throat.

Finnick didn’t smirk when he said it. He didn’t tease, didn’t wink, didn’t make a joke to cushion the compliment like he usually did. He just said it plainly, simply. Like it was obvious. Like it was truth.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

And suddenly, she noticed something else too— his hands were still holding her up, but her legs had moved. Somewhere between the splash and the stillness, she’d wrapped them around his waist. Her knees rested against his sides now, bare skin brushing the cotton of his soaked dress shirt, her dress’s skirt floating up weightlessly between them. She hadn’t even realized. Hadn’t even thought. It had just happened, like her body already knew it wanted to stay close to him.

Her hands were still on his shoulders, fingers brushing the ends of his wet hair. She looked at him, really looked. The lines of his face, the water running down his cheekbone, catching at the edge of his mouth. She shouldn’t have looked at his mouth.

“How strong was that drink?” she murmured, trying to sound flippant, to laugh, but her voice had gone softer again, and the words stuck on her tongue like sugar.

Finnick didn’t answer.

He was looking at her mouth now— open just slightly, her lipstick still intact in the center, faded at the corners. Her chest rose and fell against his, slow and deliberate. He let his gaze fall lower for a second— her throat, her collarbone, the subtle lines of her dress clinging to the slope of her breasts. And then back up. Her eyes were wide, dark brown and watching him with something hesitant and soft and uncertain. Her fingers pressed gently into the back of his shoulders. Her breath smelled like citrus and something sugary, probably the drink still on her tongue.

The moment stretched. Held.

He leaned in. Not hard or sudden or aggressive. Just a slow, drawn breath of movement, as though the universe had already tilted their bodies toward each other and now he was simply closing the space that had always been meant to vanish.

Cornelia met him halfway, her lips finding his in a soft, barely-there press— tentative, like she was surprised she’d done it, like maybe she wasn’t sure she’d done it at all. And Finnick kissed her back. Gentle, careful. He kept one hand steady on the back of her thigh, the other drifting upward to brush damp curls behind her ear. Her lips were warm and pliant, parted slightly against his, her breath catching as the kiss deepened by instinct more than design.

Her hands slipped up from his shoulders, tentative at first, fingertips grazing his neck, then curling into the wet strands of his hair at the nape of his neck.

Finnick exhaled into her mouth. Then everything shifted.

The slow, exploratory kiss tilted into something deeper— hungrier. Cornelia’s arms pulled him closer, her legs tightening slightly around his waist, the drag of wet satin bunching at her thighs. Her mouth opened under his, and Finnick didn’t hold back. His hand moved from her thigh to her waist, skimming up her hip to the small of her back, pressing her against him as his tongue brushed hers.

Cornelia let out a soft noise— half surprise, half heat— as her hand tangled tighter in his hair. Her fingers grazed the line of his jaw, her other hand slipping across his chest, palm flat, seeking more of him. She kissed like she lived— bright and chaotic and wrapped in nerves and glitter— but there was something deeper in it too, something searching. Maybe a part of her didn’t believe this was real. Maybe a part of her didn’t believe he wanted her like this.

And Finnick felt it in every inch of her kiss.

So he kissed her harder.

His other hand slid lower, gripping her hip, the damp curve of her backside in his palm for a moment before shifting up again, trying to be good, trying not to lose himself entirely, but he could feel every inch of her through that soaked dress. Her soft curves, her legs curled around him, the weight of her in his arms. And her mouth— God, her mouth. She tasted like Capitol cocktails and some kind of strawberry gloss and something that was just her.

Cornelia broke the kiss suddenly, just barely, her forehead resting against his, breath shallow. Her eyes didn’t open right away. Finnick exhaled slowly, nose brushing hers. She opened her eyes then, and the look she gave him was part dazed, part terrified, part— something else. She wasn’t entirely sure, and neither was he. 

Her arms stayed around his neck, her legs still hooked around his hips. She was entirely in his arms, lips kiss-bruised, her hair curling wildly around her face, mascara smudged in the corners of her eyes. She was undone, yes, but beautiful. Effortlessly, breathtakingly beautiful. And she had no idea.

Finnick Odair, for once in his life, wasn’t sure what to say. Not something clever. Not something charming. Just—

“You’re…” he started. Stopped. Swallowed. “I don’t know. I just…” He stopped himself.

Her lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak. She just kissed him again.

One of Finnick’s hands cradled her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone as he tilted her head slightly, mouth slanting deeper over hers. The other hand never left her thigh— still holding her just under the water, his fingers curling into the soft skin at the top of her leg. She could feel his heartbeat against her, could feel every shift in his body, every deepening of the kiss like a silent, consuming conversation.

Cornelia’s hips shifted slightly— unintentionally, maybe, or maybe not. The edge of the pool was slick against her back now, Finnick having gently moved them to the side as he kissed her. She barely noticed the transition. One minute they were weightless in the center of the water, the next she was being pressed gently against the tile wall, her back supported, her front entirely, breathlessly occupied.

She gasped softly against his mouth when her hips brushed against his. She hadn’t meant it— just repositioning herself, adjusting— but Finnick stilled for a second. The air shifted. Then he moved— just enough to press closer, to deepen the kiss once more, to feel himself slotted between her thighs in just a tight and slow motion before he broke the kiss. Barely. Just far enough to press his forehead to hers and speak against her lips in a breath.

“I don’t want to do anything else,” he murmured, voice low, a little rough around the edges. “Not… not in a pool.”

Cornelia let out a startled laugh, breathless and fizzy in the best way, her smile brushing against his. “Do what?” she asked innocently, lips still ghosting over his.

Finnick pulled back just enough to blink down at her, an incredulous look crossing his face, his brows lifted like he couldn’t tell if she was messing with him or genuinely that oblivious. His hand slipped from her face to her shoulder, fingers still gentle, but his expression—

“Wait,” she said, eyes widening, a gasp of recognition catching in her throat. “Oh! Oh, wait—are you serious?”

She dissolved into laughter then, high and sudden, her cheeks flushing pink even in the soft terrace lights. Her giggles echoed slightly off the water.

“You really—?” she added, still giggling, “You—?”

“I wasn’t going to if you were gonna laugh about it,” Finnick replied dryly, his mouth twitching despite himself.

“Oh my God,” she wheezed, trying and failing to stop. “I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, I’m just—”

“I am standing here, holding you,” he said, lifting his brows.

“I know,” Cornelia squeaked, still breathless with laughter. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Finnick rolled his eyes, then laughed too—something deep and loose, more genuine than most people ever got from him. It warmed her all the way to her ribs. They stayed there, just for a moment, against the side of the pool, the water lapping gently around their shoulders. Her arms were still around his neck. His hands still rested against her skin. And neither of them moved— not until a distant sound shifted the air.

Voices. Laughter. The clatter of sandals.

Someone opened the door to the terrace.

Finnick looked up first, gaze flicking over the terrace toward the approaching silhouettes. He saw Capitol heels, dripping champagne flutes, a sweep of too-loud perfume.

He looked back at Cornelia and gave her a look.

She bit her lip to hide another laugh and nodded, sliding her arms down from his neck.

They separated— reluctantly— and swam toward the nearest ladder together, silent but somehow synced, like two people trying not to giggle in the middle of class. Cornelia cringed as she emerged from the water, her hair dripping down her back and her dress clinging to her like a second skin. She padded barefoot across the slick tile after Finnick, trying not to make eye contact with the tipsy Capitolites watching them pass.

“I cannot believe we did that,” she said once they slipped back inside the penthouse, her voice dropping into a shrill whisper. “We look so stupid!”

Finnick gave her a sidelong look, water still running in rivulets down his arms. “That’s what you’re seriously focused on?”

“I mean—” Cornelia began, then stopped short, trying not to laugh again. Her heels dangled from her fingers, her toes squeaking on the marble. “I wasn’t going to bring it up, but… if you want to talk about it, we can?”

She tossed him a raised-eyebrow look. “After we’re, like, not dripping wet.”

Finnick smirked.

“Do not!” she gasped, reading his face before he even spoke, whacking him lightly on the arm. “Don’t do that. You know what I mean.”

He only laughed. Then nodded his head toward the elevator. “C’mon. My hotel’s only a block over. I’ve got towels. Spare clothes. Hot shower. Good water pressure.”

Cornelia slowed.

Her gaze drifted up to meet his.

He didn’t press. Just stood there, waterlogged and handsome, waiting. A faint smile hovered at the edge of his lips, but it wasn’t the cocky one she usually saw. This one was softer. Quieter.

She stared at him for a moment— really stared. Her heart beat a little faster. Her fingers twitched against the strap of her shoes. She looked down, then back up.

“Okay.”

Finnick hadn’t lied. The water pressure was nice. Almost as nice as her own shower back at the villa—though hers had three settings, two hidden nozzles, a panel that changed the color of the lights depending on the temperature, and an overly enthusiastic “massaging mode” that her mother insisted was “the work of heavenly hands in the form of water droplets.” 

This one… didn’t quite go that far. But the steady, hot stream did resemble the way her biweekly masseuse kneaded her shoulder blades just after soaking them in eucalyptus oil. And, well, there were no complaints. Not when she’d spent the last half hour soaked in chlorinated pool water and pressing up against Finnick Odair like she didn’t have a reputation to preserve or an entire Capitol Party League invitation list to answer to.

And besides, he’d offered to let her shower first. Like a gentleman. A gentleman who’d had his tongue in her mouth approximately nine minutes before directing her to the spare set of clean towels under the sink.

Cornelia stood under the stream, her hair heavy with the citrus shampoo that the hotel bathroom had to offer. The loofah was new, sealed in plastic. She appreciated the detail. She always packed her own, but she hadn’t planned on staying at his hotel. She’d told her parents she’d be staying with Adorabella at Cerulean’s penthouse. That had been the plan. She fully, entirely, absolutely hadn’t expected to end up here— with wet footprints across the penthouse lobby and her fingers in Finnick’s hair.

She’d meant to stay at Cerulean’s. Really. She and Adorabella had matching pajamas picked out and everything.

Now here she was, slathering hotel body wash up her legs and trying not to think about how his hands had been there. How strong his arms had felt in the water. How easily he’d lifted her without seeming to notice or care about the way she’d worried— panicked— that she might be too heavy, too soft, too exposed in a soaked dress clinging to her thighs.

She rinsed quickly, because if she lingered too long, she’d spiral into one of those thoughts again—the ones that circled back to questions like “has he been with women who looked like me?” and “what if he’s just being polite,” “what if he regrets it already,” “what if this was just Finnick Odair being Finnick Odair?”

She turned off the faucet— then paused. No. No, she didn’t. She left it on.

Just in case he likes it hot, she thought to herself, pulling the towel down and wrapping it snugly around her torso.

She stepped out, skin pink and scrubbed clean, hair dripping. The mirror was fogged over, but she wiped it down halfway with her palm, catching a glimpse of herself: flushed cheeks, wide eyes, mouth still slightly swollen from all that kissing.

She kissed Finnick Odair. The thought smacked her again. Full speed.

She groaned and shook her head like she could rattle it loose.

She opened the top drawer under the sink and found the spare change of clothes he’d offered— soft sweatpants and a loose shirt, both clearly his, and both, surprisingly, clean and folded. The pants cinched a little at her waist but didn’t hang awkwardly. The shirt? A little big, but she’d worn worse to sleep in. It reminded her of her own loungewear, actually— well, the kind she wore on “casual” nights, which meant a coordinated satin set and an expensive skin mask. This was almost close enough. And if she called her mother in the morning and said she’d crashed with Adorabella after all, no one would question it. Not if she fixed her hair before the limousine dropped her home.

She fluffed her damp hair with the towel, tied it up in a twist, and stepped out of the bathroom with a lightness in her step she absolutely refused to examine too closely.

“Your turn, water boy!” she called over her shoulder, grinning as she padded across the hotel room.

Finnick appeared in the doorway a second later, still in his wet clothes— his button-down clinging to his torso, the soaked fabric slightly translucent now, sleeves rolled up, chest visible underneath. He moved with the same careless grace he always had, like he barely noticed how good he looked. His fingers slid up to the first button of his shirt and—

Cornelia looked. Of course she looked.

Then she realized she was looking and made a panicked sound in the back of her throat.

“Oh, sorry, sorry!” she squeaked, slapping a hand over her eyes like a character in a soap opera. “I’m not looking! I swear I’m not— oh my God—”

Finnick froze mid-button. He blinked at her.

“You literally had shirtless pictures of me on your collage,” he said, a slow grin starting to spread across his face.

Cornelia staggered backward, still covering her eyes. “This is so different! This is totally different now that you’re literally here and you’ve kissed me and— and— can you just close the door?!”

Finnick laughed under his breath— low, amused, a little disbelieving. He shook his head, still smiling as he gently pulled the door shut behind her.

The moment the lock clicked, Cornelia dropped her hand and exhaled like she’d been holding her breath since the terrace.

She turned away from the door like it might bite her. She ran both hands over her face, then gave herself a sharp little shake like a dog flinging off water.

This was okay. This was fine. He was just shirtless. That was all. And he was showering. Unclothed. Naked, probably, by now. And wet. Under the showerhead, water rolling down his body and—

Her eyes flicked to the closed door again. She made a sound between a gasp and a squeal and ran to the bed.

For once, Finnick did not have to worry about the woman lying on his hotel bed being ready to pounce on him the moment he stepped out of the shower.

There were no limbs spread in manufactured invitation. No glossy Capitol gaze eyeing him like a minted meal. No gossamer robe discarded conveniently to the side, revealing more than it concealed. Instead, the girl occupying his hotel bed was currently sprawled across the mattress on her stomach, legs bent up and swaying idly behind her as she watched a group of overly bronzed women on the screen scream about who had worn which outfit first. One of the women— Cornelia had just learned her name was Floria— was mid-rant over another wife allegedly wearing a replica of her wedding gown to her husband’s inauguration. The dress in question was violently lavender.

Cornelia, half-dry and wearing his too-big sweatshirt tucked over her knees, was absently braiding the end of her damp hair as though this was the most peaceful, normal evening in the world.

Finnick lingered in the doorway a second longer than he meant to, his hand resting against the frame.

He was in a fresh pair of sweatpants and a clean sweatshirt of his own— though his hair was still dripping at the ends, the strands darkened and curling over his forehead. The heat of the shower had done little to quiet the hum beneath his skin, and that hum only pulsed louder when he saw her lying there like that— unbothered, unguarded, completely herself.

She looked like she belonged. Not in the usual way girls looked when they played dress-up in his hotel room and posed for post-hookup holos. This was different. She wasn’t playing at anything. She wasn’t trying. That alone made something stir in his chest.

Finnick walked closer, crossing the carpet in slow steps before stopping near the foot of the bed. “Enjoying the show?” he asked, voice low, slightly teasing.

Cornelia didn’t look up at first, too busy braiding a perfect strand of her dark brown hair. “This is a rerun from last week,” she hummed, shifting to rise up onto her knees before crossing them in front of her. “The new episode comes on after this. But I can change it to something you like.” She glanced up at him then, blinking once before smiling.

Finnick tilted his head, watching her quietly. The television screen’s light reflected in her eyes, and the slight pink in her cheeks hadn’t entirely faded from before. She looked sun-kissed and soft, and more grounded than any Capitol girl had a right to look.

He let his eyes flick over her face, just once, before replying.

“I’m okay with what I’m already seeing.”

Cornelia blinked again.

Her brain stalled for a moment, fingers pausing mid-braid. She stared at him, unsure whether she’d imagined it, her mouth slightly parted.

Then she gave a breathless, nervous giggle, lifting a hand to twist the end of her braid. “Are you… is this a joke? Are you messing with me?”

Finnick just leaned in— slowly, deliberately— his hand bracing on the mattress near her knee as he bent toward her “I don’t usually joke when I’m this close,” he whispered.

Cornelia’s breath hitched. Her eyes searched his face like she might find a trace of humor there— but there wasn’t any. Just the same intensity that had been there when he’d kissed her in the pool. Only now, it was quieter. More focused.

Her hand slid from the braid. She exhaled slowly, like a sigh loosening in her chest, then leaned up, her mouth brushing his in the softest of hesitations. She kissed him first this time. Eagerly. All in.

She leaned into him like it had been building in her since they left the terrace— and maybe it had. Maybe it had started the moment his hands were on her thighs and she forgot to care if he thought she was too heavy or too soft or too much of anything. Finnick kissed her back with equal hunger, his hands already bracing her hips as he slowly guided her down onto the mattress, easing her onto her back as his weight came down above her.

The hotel sheets bunched under her as he deepened the kiss.

Her knees shifted— tentative, then firmer— parting to make room for him as he hovered above her, his mouth never leaving hers. She tugged gently at the back of his sweatshirt with both hands, clinging to the fabric like she needed it to stay grounded. Finnick’s hands slid from her hips to the curve of her waist and back again, tracing familiar territory now, no chlorine, no water, just skin and fabric and the charged space between breaths.

The kiss turned deeper, slower. He angled his mouth over hers, cupping the side of her face like he had in the pool— but firmer now, more sure. Her lips parted easily, eagerly, and she let him set the pace, let him guide it like she trusted him to lead and didn’t mind following. Her hands lifted from his sweatshirt to his jaw, cradling his face, thumbs brushing lightly beneath his cheekbones.

Then he kissed along her jawline, soft at first— barely-there grazes of his lips that made her breath catch in her throat. Then down, trailing along the elegant line of her throat, where the collar of his shirt dipped too low over her shoulder.

Cornelia tipped her chin to give him more room, eyes fluttering closed as he found the side of her neck. Her fingers curled in his sweatshirt. Her legs shifted again, welcoming, her back arching slightly to meet him.

Finnick kissed the place just beneath her ear. For what felt like all his life, for longer than he could remember prior to the Games, he didn’t feel like he was performing. He didn’t feel like he was crafting a seduction or executing a practiced move. He just wanted more of her.

More of the way she gasped when his lips skimmed her neck, more of the warmth of her hands in his hair, more of the softness in her voice when she whispered his name in disbelief like she couldn’t believe he was still here. Still kissing her. Still choosing her.

"Finnick," escaped her lips as though it were the only word she knew with his mouth against her skin.

He kissed his way down to her collarbone, and Cornelia shivered beneath him, breath hot against his jaw, her fingers sliding up into the damp strands of his hair as if to anchor him there.

A hand slid under her shirt and began to pull it up and up and over the mounds of her breasts, the callouses of Finnick's finger pads making her shiver. Cornelia shivered as she shifted and aided in tugging it off and discarding it to the floor. 

"You're so beautiful," was all that Finnick whispered, a hand gently cupping a breast and running his thumb over the already perched nipple.

And with how he said it, how he touched her, Cornelia felt every bit of it.

All Cornelia could do was lie there. Lie there with her legs still trembling, her breath still uneven, and her heart pounding somewhere between her ribs and her throat. She could hear the water running again.

Finnick had already gotten up and disappeared into the bathroom, probably to rinse off or towel dry or redress or whatever it was that people did when they knew exactly how to collect themselves afterward. Cornelia did not. Know how to collect herself, that is. 

All she did know— what she could focus on through the din of her nerves and the buzz still lingering beneath her skin— was the oversized shirt on the floor. Or, his shirt. Finnick’s. She was in his hotel room, in his clothes. Her underwear was tangled in the sheets, her hair a damp, curling mess over one shoulder, and her body ached in new ways that made her press her lips together to keep from smiling. Or frowning. Or doing something altogether confusing.

What did any of this mean?

She sat up slowly, pulling the sweatshirt over her head and shimmying into the sweatpants that had been folded on the edge of the bed earlier. The movements were automatic, almost numb. Her fingers hesitated at the hem of the shirt before tugging it lower, smoothing the sleeves over her wrists.

Then she heard the bathroom door open.

She didn’t look up right away, but she didn’t have to. The soft pad of Finnick’s feet on the hotel carpet was familiar by now. He wasn’t stomping or striding or slinking— just walking.

He was fully dressed. His hair was still damp, but not dripping. His skin pink at the collar of his clean sweatshirt, face free of expression as he stepped further into the room and paused— his eyes meeting hers like he’d been expecting the question hanging off her lips.

Cornelia blinked once. “… What does this mean?”

The words left her barely above a whisper, the syllables delicate and hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if she was asking the right thing. Or if she should be asking it at all.

Finnick stopped.

He didn’t answer right away, didn’t pretend to misunderstand her or make a joke to deflect. His gaze didn’t waver, but there was something in his expression that changed. A flicker behind his sea-green eyes, the same kind of thing she’d noticed in the pool when she shifted against him, when she laughed and he didn't. He breathed in, then exhaled slowly, and walked toward her, each step careful but without reluctance.

When he sat beside her on the edge of the bed, his knees just barely brushing hers, she could feel the warmth of him. Like he hadn’t left the room at all.

They didn’t touch.

Not yet.

The silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but fragile. Thin as sugar-glass.

Then Finnick finally spoke, voice so soft she had to tilt her head toward him to catch every word.

“I can’t be in a relationship,” he murmured. “Not a real one. Not with… not with how things are.”

Cornelia stared at him, lips slightly parted.

“I can’t give you anything real, Cornelia,” he went on, his voice tinged with a kind of weary bitterness that didn’t sound like him at all. “Not when Snow’s selling me off. I can’t risk anything. Not with him watching.”

She blinked slowly. Her brows furrowed just slightly, mouth twitching in confusion. “I don’t… I don’t understand. But you…”

Her voice trailed off as the hurt bled through, uninvited but impossible to swallow down. The sentence didn’t even finish.

But he kissed her. But he held her. But he looked at her like all of this meant something and wasn’t just a one-night affair.

Finnick turned to her then, his hand reaching for hers. He held it— tightly— his grip firm like he needed her to feel it.

“I want more,” he said lowly, like it burned just to say it out loud. “I do . I want to give you more. I want to give us more. But it’s not in my control. And if Snow finds out, if he thinks I’m hiding something…”

Cornelia stared at him in silence.

The room was warm, too warm. The television was still buzzing, a tinny commercial for hair-growth serum now playing.

She looked down at their joined hands. His fingers were long and calloused. Her polish was chipped.

“…Can we…” she began softly, voice halting. “At least have this?”

Finnick’s expression flickered with something unreadable. He tilted his head, brow knitting just slightly. “This?”

She lifted her eyes to his, unflinching now. “We can still do this. See each other, spend time together, you know…” Her lips twitched with the barest of grins. “Use your imagination.”

Finnick exhaled, a breath that was half-laugh, half-caution. He leaned back slightly, eyes flicking over her like he was trying to measure how serious she was.

“You’re really okay with that?” he asked, brows raised, voice low.

Cornelia stared at him, the knot in her chest tightening a little before slowly unwinding.

“I mean…” she shrugged, a soft smile tugging at her lips. “As long as I have you.”

She leaned in, forehead nearly brushing his shoulder as she tilted her head up to look at him. “What about you?”

Finnick didn’t answer right away.

He looked at her, really looked at her, the soft lines of her face, the hope barely hidden behind her eyes. He thought about how she’d clammed up in the bathroom, how she’d rushed to cover her eyes, not out of shame, but out of some lingering, stubborn reverence that didn’t make sense in a world like his. She didn’t treat him like a product. She didn’t reach for him like the others had. She didn’t take, even when she was allowed to.

And maybe that made it harder. Or maybe it made him want to be near her even more.

“…Yeah,” he finally said, voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Cornelia’s smile widened. She squeezed his hand again and leaned against his shoulder, and Finnick let her. He let himself breathe again.

Chapter Text

October, 71 ADD

WHEN CORNELIA PICTURED HERSELF LOSING HER VIRGINITY, it had been in satin and lace. Something snowy and expensive with gold threading around the bust and an empire waist that floated like cloud foam. She would be glowing— pearlescent, fragrant with bridal perfume, champagne-drunk on her new name, one ring heavier than she’d been that morning. She would sweep into the honeymoon suite (or maybe the bridal suite, mid-reception, after her third quick-change and tearful bouquet toss), trailing laughter and train, veil pinned slightly askew as her husband— an acceptable Capitol-bred suitor with impeccable breeding— scooped her up and carried her across the threshold. That had been the vision. Painted in blush and candlelight. Something staged and starry, heavily curated but undoubtedly hers.

It had not been Finnick Odair. Not a hotel room. Not sneaking home that night with his shampoo still clinging to her skin and the moon still high in the sky. And yet, her plans had impulsively changed when his mouth was on hers.

Cornelia came downstairs to the scent of orange zest and silver polish wearing a baby-blue tweed skirt set— cropped jacket and matching A-line skirt, silver buttons down the center, pearl detailing on the collar. Her heels were bright white, freshly lacquered, and clacked lightly against the marble floor of the breakfast room.

“Morning, mother! Morning, daddy!” she chirped as she entered, reaching up to fluff her curls slightly. Her natural hair was bouncier now that she wasn’t frying it monthly. She liked the new texture.

Her father, still in his robe, turned toward her with his signature grin— not the waxy, television-ready smile, but the real one. His head was shiny this morning, no wig, no powder. Just smooth skin and slightly raised brows.

“Sweet pea,” Caesar greeted, opening his arms as he stepped toward her. He kissed her cheek, exaggerated and doting. “Is it just me, or have you gotten even more beautiful since yesterday?”

“Daddy,” Cornelia giggled, ducking her head and taking the compliment anyway.

He stepped back to survey her properly, fingers folded beneath his chin. “So. You’re going natural now?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye. “Coriander says she misses you in the chair.”

Her hair was now its natural brown, chocolatey with soft golden undertones that caught the light, curled delicately at the ends. No bold pastels. No emerald dye dripping down her collarbones like she'd once modeled for a Capitol teen magazine.

Cornelia smiled as she reached for the fruit bowl, plucking a glossy red apple from the top of the pile.

“I’m giving my hair a bit of a break,” she replied, letting the apple roll in her palm. “I’m wanting it to grow out longer before getting my long extensions installed again.”

Technically that wasn’t a lie. But the truth was simpler, and a little more serious than she wanted to admit out loud.

Somewhere between kisses and secrets and Finnick pressing his forehead to hers in the dark, Cornelia had started wanting to feel more like herself again.

If she was going to see him— really see him, regularly, intimately— she didn’t want to look like someone’s idea of a Capitol starlet. She didn’t want to have four pounds of fuchsia weave sewn into her scalp. She didn’t want to put on a face each time she saw him. 

“Good decision,” came the smooth voice of Calpurnia, already seated at the end of the white-gold breakfast table, reading the society column of the morning newsprint. Her arms were bare beneath a satin robe, manicured fingers absently circling the rim of her teacup. “It gives you time to focus on other things instead of picking a new hair color every two weeks.”

Cornelia bit gently into the apple, the crunch echoing faintly against the silver walls.

Her mother continued, eyes flicking from the paper to her daughter. “Have you considered getting any work done?”

Cornelia blinked. Then paused. The bite of apple went dry in her throat for a second before she forced herself to chew, smile tight.

“Not yet!” she chirped. “I’ll… think about it.”

Caesar scowled.

“Oh, Calpurnia—” he muttered, before planting his palms on the back of a dining chair and giving his daughter a look of fierce, theatrical affection. “She’s perfect. As. Can. Be.” He punctuated each word with a tap of his finger against the table. “She has Flickerman genes, darling. A miracle in itself.”

Cornelia smiled, more genuinely this time. It helped when he said things like that. Reminded her of who she could be. Not just a projected image, but someone seen.

Calpurnia, unfazed, took a long sip of tea. “Flickerman genes didn’t keep your nose from migrating when you were twenty-seven.”

“And look where it migrated to,” Caesar shot back brightly, lifting his nose with mock grandeur. “Right into the hearts of a nation.”

Cornelia giggled.

It was always like this— her father flitting between cheeky and chivalrous, her mother pressing for more polish. A moving goalpost. Most mornings weren’t awful, but there were days— days like this— where Cornelia wondered just how much of her mother’s expectations were projections. Reflections of a former life Calpurnia had either wanted or lost. She remembered once overhearing a whispered fight between her parents when she was younger. Her father had said, “Let her be a child, Cal. You didn’t get to have that, and I’m sorry, but you can’t put that on her.”

She hadn’t understood it then. Now, she was starting to.

November, 71 ADD

Finnick was not greedy. Or at least— he didn’t try to be. He knew better. Knew what greed looked like when it was held under a Capitol spotlight, all glittering appetites and sickly-sweet rot. Greed, when it came from someone like him, wasn’t glamorized. It was dangerous. It was foolish. It was punished. And he couldn’t afford foolishness, not when his body still turned a profit. Not when his smile still sold. His wants— his real wants— had always been items to silence. To suppress.

But he was getting weaker with them.

Wants weren’t just whispers anymore. They showed up like clockwork, especially in the evenings, after he’d returned to his hotel room. After the last glass of champagne was drained, after the last client stumbled out the door, lipstick smudged, breath cloying. He would toss the silk robe aside, scrub his mouth with hot water, stare at himself in the mirror for a few moments too long. 

And then— he’d reach for his hotel room’s phone. 

One number.

She always answered.

No matter the time, no matter the weather, no matter if her mother was waiting up for her or her friends were still on the rooftop bar ordering another bottle of petal-streaked rosé. Cornelia came. With flushed cheeks and click-clacking heels, lipgloss or no lipgloss. No complaints.

He was thankful for that. More than thankful, really. She didn’t ask questions. She didn’t expect explanations. But Finnick Odair knew that luck was a finite resource in his life. That it didn’t replenish the way people thought it might.

And that was where the greed crept in.

Because he kept calling. He kept taking. Kept opening the door and holding out his hand when she arrived and pretending that this wasn’t the riskiest, stupidest, sweetest decision he’d made in months. She was softness, warmth, joy. And the Capitol had never been known for preserving those things.

So yes, he wasn’t greedy. But he was indulgent. And if indulgence was a crime, then he would pay it gladly, in stolen moments, in whispered sighs, in the press of her smile against his jaw.

Tonight, that indulgence took the form of a search while the Capitol was drunk on a different distraction. Johanna Mason had just won the 71st Hunger Games, and every waxed politician and star-studded sponsor was busy falling all over themselves to toast her with glitter-laced cocktails and congratulatory seduction.

Finnick stood near the eastern side of the courtyard, posture easy, wine glass in hand. The glass was for show— he hadn’t taken a sip.

His eyes moved over the courtyard with purpose. Scanning. Not for Johanna. Not for clients. Not for the Peacekeepers stationed around the perimeter, chests puffed and spines straight. No, he was looking for her.

And then, like a ribbon of silk in a sea of velvet, he found her. Standing in a cluster of familiar faces— Adorabella, Precious, and Diamond— her laughter ringing out like a lighthouse in fog. Her natural brown hair curled at the ends, glinting under the golden light as she tucked a strand behind her ear. That dress—

An indigo corseted satin gown, slit daringly high up one thigh, delicate boning contouring her waist, neckline sculpted to curve and cradle her collarbones. She looked nothing like the girl who curled against his chest in hotel sheets.

And yet—she was that girl.

She just also happened to be a Capitol girl. A Flickerman. Unattainable to everyone in the room except, perhaps, him.

His gaze dragged slowly downward. Her bare leg shifted slightly beneath the slit, just enough to make his breath catch. He exhaled through his nose. He didn’t rush as he crossed the courtyard. That would attract attention. But he didn’t waste time either. 

As he wove through couples and clusters and clinking glasses, he saw her friends notice him first. Adorabella’s grin widened. Precious elbowed Diamond, who let out a breathy laugh, then whispered something low into Cornelia’s ear. Cornelia blinked and turned.

And just like that, her friends had gracefully peeled away. Not far, just enough to make the moment private.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as Finnick came to stand beside her.

“What are you doing over here?” she asked, one brow arching as she tilted her chin.

His mouth curled into the barest hint of a smirk— one she would’ve missed if she weren’t so fluent in him by now.

“You scared away my friends,” she said, a little sing-song, lips pursed with faux disapproval.

Finnick’s smile twitched wider, lazy and deliberate. He leaned in, lips brushing close enough to make her breath catch, voice smooth as wet velvet.

“If I wasn’t booked for the night,” he murmured, the words warm against the shell of her ear, “I’d spend every second of it with you.”

Cornelia leaned in slightly, amused and smug, voice low and teasing. “I don’t know if you would last all night anyway.”

Finnick turned his head just enough to face her, a slow, hungry smile slipping onto his face. His eyes dipped.

One hand slid forward, fingers brushing along the satin of her dress— soft, exploratory— pausing where the slit parted to expose her bare thigh. Just a whisper of contact. Just enough. His hand then dropped, as if he hadn’t touched her at all.

“Expect a call later this week,” he said under his breath. “While I’m still in the city.”

Cornelia said nothing. Just nodded once. And in true Capitol fashion, Finnick then turned and walked away.

January, 72 ADD

There was not much talking when Finnick opened the door to his hotel rooms.

Just the flick of the lock, the creak of the heavy door swinging open, and the two-second beat before he was tugging her inside with one hand at her waist and the other already slipping behind her neck, lips finding hers like he’d been starved for days. Sometimes she had barely stepped off the elevator before he was reaching for her, muttering a barely-there “hi” against her mouth as if the word itself wasn’t nearly enough but he said it anyway, just for the ritual of it. She’d breathe back a soft “hi” too, caught between a laugh and a sigh, but she didn’t expect much else. They weren’t big on conversation at the threshold. That wasn’t what this was for.

No, it was always fast. Urgent. Sweet, in that indulgent, low-simmering way that only secret things can be.

Tonight was no exception.

Cornelia had barely gotten the door shut behind her before her back was against it, and his mouth was on hers, his hands already tugging her oversized coat down her arms. She let it fall to the floor without looking. His fingers fumbled with the zipper of her skirt and she smacked his hand away with a smirk, murmuring, “Be patient.”

“I’ve been patient,” he said against her jaw, “You’re two hours late.”

“You said later,” she teased, squirming out of her clothes as he kissed down the column of her throat. “I didn’t realize that literally meant right after hanging up the phone.”

Finnick had only groaned at that, pulled the skirt off her himself, and carried her to the bed like she weighed nothing. They didn’t bother with turning on the lights.

Now, the only glow in the room came from the city’s lights outside.

Finnick was above her now, shirtless, flushed, his hips caged between her thighs, hands roaming freely down her waist and over her bare leg as it wrapped tighter around him. The heat of their kissing hadn’t lessened— it never did, not even after all these months. In fact, there was something new to it tonight. Not desperation, exactly. Just something. Maybe the way his hands lingered longer at her sides. Or how he was taking his time, pausing every so often to just look at her, eyes hooded but soft.

Cornelia let her head fall back against the pillows, breathless, her fingers curling through his hair, the strands thick and still slightly damp from his post-client shower. She gave a soft gasp when he moved his lips from her mouth to her neck, kissing a trail from her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear.

“Finnick,” she whispered, threading her fingers deeper into his hair as he kissed her again, lower this time, and again just below her pulse. “You can’t leave a mark this time. I’ve run out of curling iron excuses.”

Finnick laughed softly against her neck, a breathy huff that vibrated against her skin. “Then you’re going to have to come up with new ones,” he murmured, warm and teasing.

“Finnick,” she warned, laughing, “I mean it—”

He wasn’t listening.

The shoulder of the sweatshirt slipped under his fingers, and he tugged it down slowly, exposing her collarbone. His lips trailed there, feather-light at first, then deliberate. He nipped her once, then again.

Cornelia squealed in protest but it ended in a breathless laugh as she swatted weakly at his shoulder. “You’re the worst,” she said.

He didn’t argue. He just smiled.

It was easier like this. Easier than talking too much. Easier than asking what they were doing or when it would stop or how close they could get before something snapped. This arrangement— it worked. He kept his world. She kept hers. They met in the space in between. 

Finnick found it, mainly, with his mouth or his cock in the space between her thighs. 

He wasn’t one for receiving head, not that he hadn’t before. Plenty of clients got down on their knees to suck his cock. It was less about his pleasure and more for simply boasting of it, to say that they had Finnick Odair’s cum in their mouth. It hardly ever felt good for him, most of the time. His clients were not trained to give pleasure like he was. Not that he had anything to compare or go off of; all of his firsts had been in a Capitol hotel room with someone he would have never touched if not forced to do so.

All that to say, he knew how to make someone feel good with a few flicks of his tongue and his thumb pressed to a clit. Cornelia was no different, perhaps a bit more sensitive and vocal than he was used to. He wasn’t complaining. He liked the sound of her moaning his name.

“Oh, my God, Finnick.”

Like that.

“Mmhmm,” was all that Finnick could hum in response, his tongue lapping in between her slick folds. His lips puckered around her clit, suckering with a gentle pleasure that he found was extremely effective.

Back arching against the satin sheets, Cornelia let out another moan— this time, bordering on a whimper.

“Oh, oh,” Cornelia cried out. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

Finnick didn’t. He sucked a bit harder, slipping his middle and ring finger in her wet cunt to press up— right where he knew where to undo her. His mouth only left her clit to move up and kiss her lips, tongue slipping inside her mouth. She moaned against him, hips arching up to grind into his hand.

“Greedy girl,” Finnick muttered, lips still on hers. “Already gonna come for me?”

Cornelia always responded with, “Yes.” As if there was any other answer she could give him.

“Come on, baby,” he mumbled. “You can do it. I know you can.”

His thumb began to move circles around her clit, working in tandem with his fingers moving faster inside of her cunt. Cornelia’s hips continued to rock, riding his hand in uneven and desperate thrusts until finally— finally— she stuttered. Finnick could see her eyes roll back behind her eyelids, the walls of her cunt fluttering around his digits.

“There you go,” Finnick hummed, head dipping in the crook of her neck. “Good girl.”

What followed afterward was inevitable— what they both wanted more than the foreplay and the kissing and the post-coital cuddles afterward. 

Finnick didn’t waste any time before he positioned himself with the entrance of her cunt, eyes briefly flickering up to her own as a final confirmation that Cornelia still wanted it— wanted him. And she always did.

The first time that Finnick had put his cock inside of her, Cornelia wasn’t able to take him fully. The second time, she was able to take him nearly all the way but had to stop an inch from the base. Around the fourth time, he was able to go fully inside of her— in missionary. Which wasn’t new to Finnick. The Capitol had taken it upon themselves to surgically alter him when he had finished puberty. What had once been of average size was now several inches above well-endowed, both in length and girth. The Capitol was notoriously insatiable, and it extended across all areas of indulgence when they modified his body for their own pleasure.

So, he didn’t necessarily take it as a badge of honor that Cornelia had to take time to adjust and accommodate him. It wasn’t a compliment, per se. She didn’t complain, however. That was something.

Still, Finnick gave her praise for her efforts.

“You take it so well,” he grunted when his cock bottomed out inside of her. Finnick gave her a moment to settle before sitting back on his knees as he thrust slow and deep into her. Her walls fluttered around him in response, tightening enough to make him inhale sharply. “Fuck.”

Cornelia’s breaths turned into moans. Her hands gripped onto his wrists as Finnick pushed down on her thighs, head pushing back against the mattress.

“Feel so good,” Cornelia whispered. “So big. So good.”

Finnick’s head dipped back, his eyes closing as he let out a low groan. He didn’t say anything else, not that he needed to. He was vocal when he needed to be, silent when it was acceptable. He had a script that he went off of in his head. Some of it had been ingrained in him, some of it was improv. Most of it was now. He knew when to moan, when to grunt, when to talk through it. Cornelia was more likely to receive off-script praise. 

At least, he tried to do that for her. But it was hard. It would be hard for anyone to unlearn the five years of work that he had already lived and endured and gritted his teeth through.

One of his hands moved down to Cornelia’s lower abdomen, the flesh soft beneath her navel. The first time Finnick had done it, she had swatted his hand away and gave him a scowl. Likely because she didn’t want to receive any scrutinizing remarks or looks about her stomach not being flattened out smoothly. Finnick had kept his hand there and pushed down gently. Cornelia stopped complaining after that. 

Just like the time before, his hand applied enough pressure to feel himself move through her beneath her skin, Cornelia’s eyes rolling back as the lids fluttered shut.

“That feel good?” Finnick asked, his own eyes hooded as he looked down at her.

As if he needed to ask.

Still, Cornelia nodded, her eyes still shut and humming in response through her nostrils.

Finnick grunted, his hips thrusting a beat faster. His cock slid in and out of her wet core, the sound of their skin slapping against one another filling the hotel room. “Say it, baby.”

“Yes,” Cornelia gasped. “Yes, good. So good.”

A low groan tore through his throat, Finnick leaning down from his kneeled position to press down on top of her, hips still pistoning his cock deep inside of her. Elbows bracketed either side of her face, foreheads pressed together as their breath intermingled in the space between them. 

“Finnick,” was all that Cornelia could say, let alone think in that moment as he moved harder and faster to draw out their pleasure.

Before she could speak any further, his mouth pressed to hers in a kiss that was just short of devouring.

The covers were a mess afterward. Neither of them moved to fix them after they had settled. Neither said a word, either. There wasn’t much to say, really.

Because nothing had changed. Only everything had.

Finnick was still seeing clients, and Cornelia was still living the life of a Capitol golden girl. The satin dresses. The signature perfumes. The new nail color every two weeks— champagne last, this week a shimmery peony blush. Her days were full of fittings and studio rehearsals with her father, helping coordinate backstage during Games season, posing for photographers outside boutiques.

Cerise was slowing down. She’d turned five. Now needed a little stool to get up onto the bed without squeaking her joints in protest. Cornelia had commissioned a custom set of steps in cream and gold.

She still smiled at the studio audience during her Junior Capitol News segments. Still ordered her tiramisu lattes. Still made her friends laugh and left parties early and wore her mother’s favorite perfume, the one she had said made her appear more demure.

But her nights belonged to Finnick.

He looked at her now— skin bare, cheeks flushed, her mouth still pink from kissing— he wondered how long they could go on like this. But for now, he leaned forward and kissed the mark on her collarbone.

February, 72 ADD

All of Cornelia’s friends had boyfriends now. It was an epidemic— an annoying, glittery, rose-scented epidemic— and there was no stopping it. It had started slowly, like most illnesses do, just one of them falling at a time.

 Precious had— finally— settled on the lanky boy from last fall, the one with the bad haircut and charming smile who worked for his family’s glassblowing empire. He made her jewelry from scraps. She wore them like trophies.

Adorabella and Cerulean were in talks of marriage— Capitol engagement style, of course, which meant they’d just started wearing the same color scheme and their families had begun exchanging florists and venue ideas while pretending it wasn’t already a foregone conclusion. Adorabella had cried last week when she found out Cerulean’s grandmother didn’t like the idea of a winter wedding. 

“She says it’s bad luck,” Adorabella had sniffled over her chai-lavender manicure, “but that’s my season. You know that’s my season.”

Diamond, ever the late bloomer, had joined the fold just last month. Her new beau was the son of District 1’s Games stylist— a boy with shiny teeth and even shinier hair. He was dramatic and overly affectionate and made Diamond blush just by looking at her. It was a bit exhausting to witness, frankly.

And then there was Cornelia.

Cornelia, who still wore one of Finnick’s sweatshirts to sleep. Cornelia, who slipped out of his hotel room in the early hours of the morning with mussed hair and a sweet ache in her hips and bruises like brushstrokes along her thighs. Cornelia, who never used his name, not once, not even when her friends got just a little too curious.

Because even if she was doing all the things a girlfriend might do— waiting up for his calls, climbing into his bed with her heart in her mouth, letting her fingers trail along his cheek in the dim hush after— they weren’t together. Not really.

She couldn’t say she was seeing Finnick Odair. Because that would be a lie. And more importantly, that would be a problem. Because saying she was seeing him would invite questions, rumors, Capitol speculation that would spin out of control faster than she could blink. It would put a spotlight on something fragile. Something that wasn’t made for the light.

Finnick had told her from the start that it would cause trouble for them both. That if the wrong people asked the wrong questions, it wouldn’t just be her reputation that frayed. He hadn’t elaborated. And she hadn’t pushed. Because a part of her didn’t want to know what would happen to them. She trusted Finnick and his word.

So she smiled and lied. Said that her standards were too high, that no Capitol boy could match her wit, her flair, her need for passion. That the boys who chased her couldn’t handle her. That she’d rather be alone than be bored. And in a way, all of it was true. Just not in the way they thought.

But Cornelia also knew her friends weren’t stupid. 

They saw the way Finnick’s eyes lingered in her direction longer than they needed to. The way he gravitated toward her at parties, even when his hand was on the arm of another sponsor, even when he was fresh from an appearance dinner or a guest room down the hall. They saw how she didn’t flinch when he brushed past her in a crowded room, how her smile tipped just a little wider when he murmured something in her ear that no one else could hear. They saw something, even if they didn’t name it.

They were Capitol girls, after all. They knew how to keep a secret. And Finnick Odair was easy to get— with the right price. Easy to lose after a night. Everyone knew that. But not Cornelia. 

“Cornelia,” Precious sang from across the salon chair, breaking the spiral of thought like a glittery slap. “You’re so quiet today.”

They were in the nail salon now, the four of them, sunk into plush lilac chairs beneath arched gold frames. 

“I’m just letting you all talk,” Cornelia replied sweetly, crossing her legs at the ankle and admiring the shimmering pale-pink color on her newly shaped nails. “I think you’ve all got more interesting stories this week than me.”

Which wasn’t exactly a lie. Adorabella was mid-rant about how Cerulean had the nerve to forget her chai order. 

“After a whole year!” she had complained.

Cornelia just nodded, laughed in all the right places, sipped her rose-water spritzer, and pretended she wasn’t mentally replaying every second of the night before.

Finnick, pulling her into his room with the door barely shut. The sound of the city outside, blurred and distant, as he pushed her onto the bed and kissed her like he hadn’t seen her in years. The way his hands had moved, careful and greedy all at once, dragging the hem of her dress higher, burying his face in her neck. The way he’d murmured her name when she came undone beneath him. The way his mouth pressed against her thigh, the stubble along his jaw, the rough groan of her name from somewhere low in his throat.

She could still feel his hands on her waist. She shifted slightly in her chair. She clenched her thighs together. Her friends kept chattering on.

April, 72 ADD

Finnick didn’t venture out to town much anymore. Not because he wasn’t welcome—because he was. People still smiled when they saw him. Still nodded as he passed. Still offered extra fish at the market stand or slipped him a bag of sea salt caramels wrapped in parchment paper. There was warmth in their gestures, yes. But also something else now. Something that lingered.

Pity.

Not loud, not aggressive. It was in the way their eyes softened. In the way their conversations tiptoed around the Capitol, around the topic of who he was and what he’d become. So he stayed away. Annie went out for him instead, or Mags. The two practically lived with him anyway.

Annie often stayed the night in one of his guest rooms, curled up beneath one of the old quilts Mags had stitched together from fabric scraps and sailcloth, or passed out on the couch after two cups of chamomile tea and whatever book she was halfway through. When Finnick had to go up to the Capitol for a week— sometimes more— Annie stayed at his place without question. She tidied up, fed his fish if he forgot, folded his laundry in careful, perfect stacks. He came home once to a freshly painted banister, the same ocean blue as his old childhood kitchen. Mags brought bread. Leftover crusty loaves she and her husband hadn’t finished the night before, tied neatly in linen napkins and placed on the counter.

The dock behind the Victors’ Village stretched into the bay like a long tongue, and Finnick sat at its edge, his fishing pole balanced lazily in his grip, the line dragging just beneath the surface of the water. He didn’t care much if he caught anything.

The wind moved gently around him. His ankles were bare, pants rolled to his calves, his shirt sticking lightly to his back from the sun. His hair had grown out again and curled messily at his temples. He liked it that way. He hated it when his handler trimmed it too short.

He didn’t startle when the boards creaked behind him— he’d known she was coming before she made a sound.

Annie sat beside him without a word. Her bare feet dangled over the edge of the dock, and she tucked her skirt neatly beneath her thighs. For a long moment, she said nothing, just stared out at the water like it might answer a question she hadn’t asked.

Then: “That leather’s going to give soon.”

Finnick glanced down.

His anklet. Worn from the salt and sun. A single piece of braided leather, faded nearly gray, with the rhinestone starfish charm from years ago strung along the middle. He rarely took it off.

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

Annie didn’t look at him. “If the leather snaps, the charm will fall off. You won’t hear it in the water.”

He watched her profile. The curve of her jaw, the freckles that dusted her cheek. Her red hair was pulled back in a loose plait, little wisps escaping along her brow. She’d always been like this.

“It’ll be fine,” he said again, slower this time.

She tilted her head slightly, her green eyes still fixed on the sea, though he knew she wasn’t watching it.

“You okay?” she asked softly, like the question had been waiting all day.

He exhaled through his nose. Shifted the pole in his hand. The line tugged once, twice, before going still again.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Just got a lot on my mind.”

She nodded, didn’t push.

They sat there for a while in that familiar, breathable quiet. The breeze flicked at the edge of the dock and the sun spilled gold across the water, touching the ridges of Finnick’s knuckles and the slope of Annie’s shoulder.

After a while, Annie turned to him again.

“Are you going to the birthday party next month?” she asked, brushing a strand of hair from her lips. 

Finnick didn’t answer right away. He knew what birthday party she meant. Of course he did. 

“Yeah,” he said after a long pause, shifting his grip on the pole. “I’m going.”

Annie didn’t look surprised. Just nodded and turned back to the water.

“You going this year?” he asked, quieter.

She shrugged. “I don’t like crowds.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s fine.”

The water rippled as something large passed beneath the surface. Finnick tugged the line, reeled it in slowly. No bite. Just a tangle of seaweed.

Annie glanced at it and smiled faintly. “Not your day,” she murmured.

He laughed softly, let the pole rest across his knees.

“No,” he said. “Guess not.”

May, 72 ADD

Cornelia had changed the theme of her birthday party three times.

At first, it was florals. For spring. She envisioned hundreds— no, thousands— of fresh peonies and ranunculus in every shade of blush and cream, suspended from the glass ballroom ceiling like a hanging garden. Then she changed it to a masked affair, thinking how romantic it might be to flutter through the villa in a delicate filigree half-mask. But two days later, she realized that would hide the shimmer-winged eye look she had practiced meticulously with her makeup artist, so she scrapped the idea altogether.

Eventually, the theme became something nebulous— “nighttime and stars,” she said vaguely. “Constellations, perhaps?” No one was entirely sure what that meant. But the event decorators ran with it— deep blue lighting, glimmering string lights like a canopy of false stars, cocktail napkins stamped with tiny crescent moons. And Cornelia, now fully committed, had dusted glitter across her cheekbones with purpose. She dabbed some on her collarbones and shoulders for good measure, laughing when Precious called her “ethereal” in the powder room mirror. Her dress— satin, A-line, shimmery silver—clung to her waist and fell to her ankles.

She wore her hair curled and full, swept to one side with a diamond comb. Extensions wove seamlessly through her strands, cascading to her waist in soft waves. Her heels— custom-made— glinted beneath the hem of her dress as she drifted through the ballroom, greeting guests with well-trained ease. Smiles, laughter, air kisses. “Thank you for coming,” “you look gorgeous,” “how is your mother?”

Her father had spared no expense. The party stretched from the ballroom into the gardens, where trellises twinkled with more fairy lights and waiters glided by with champagne and berry tarts. A harpist played by the koi fountain.

Cornelia took it all in. She laughed, tilted her head, touched her fingers to wrists and elbows and forearms as she spoke. Always a touch, always warm, always just enough to be remembered.

She was mid-conversation with an old mentor of her father’s— someone from the studio who smelled like cologne and wealth— when she saw Adorabella and Cerulean making their way across the ballroom. She lit up instantly, waving both hands like she hadn’t just seen them yesterday at the hair salon.

“Hello, hello!” she called, gliding toward them with champagne in hand. “Oh, you two look chipper! Have you already had the punch? Daddy said—”

But she didn’t get to finish.

Adorabella squealed, loud and delighted, and thrust her left hand into Cornelia’s line of vision. “He proposed this morning!” she shrieked, shaking her fingers for emphasis.

Cornelia blinked.

There it was. The ring.

It was massive, of course. Heart-shaped center diamond flanked by oversized pink stones on either side, nestled in an over-the-top, filigree ban. Gaudy, glittering, unmistakable.

There was a half-beat where Cornelia simply stared. She felt the reaction swell in her like a reflex— tight in her throat, too fast, too shallow. Then the social switch flipped.

She gasped, all glitter and brightness. “Oh, how wonderful! Congratulations, you two!” she squealed, stepping forward to wrap them both in a careful, champagne-scented hug.

Adorabella beamed, already bubbling over with the full narrative of how Cerulean had gotten on one knee in the rose atrium, how there were candles everywhere, how she had sobbed and Cerulean had been shaking and it was just the most perfect thing in the whole world—

Cornelia nodded, nodded, nodded. Her mouth smiled on instinct. She could do this. She’d been trained to. Even as something slow and sick twisted under her ribs.

She caught Cerulean’s eyes once. Just once. He wasn’t as effusive as Adorabella. He stood beside her quietly, a little overwhelmed, maybe. A little guilty, perhaps. Cornelia couldn’t tell. But his glance lingered a moment too long, sympathetic.

She hated that. Sympathy. Like she was someone to be pitied.

She nodded faster. “I’m so sorry, Dora, I just realized, I haven’t seen Diamond or Precious. Have you seen them? Shared the news?”

Adorabella didn’t skip a beat. “Of course! Diamond’s my maid of honor. Precious and you are my bridesmaids. Of course.”

Cornelia nodded again, too quickly, the motion making her earrings sway.

“Of course! Yes!” she echoed, her voice higher now. “Well, I am going to find them so we can... toast!” She smiled brightly—too brightly—and turned on her heel before she could be stopped.

She ducked through a cluster of Capitol designers— “excuse me,” “thank you”—and stepped away from the cloying press of perfumes and applause, her heart thrumming in her ears.

The room swirled with laughter and music and the soft hush of expensive fabrics brushing together. Everyone glowed. Everyone sparkled. Everyone had someone.

And she— she had Finnick Odair. Not publicly. Not truly.

She wound her way through the partygoers, past the fountains, past the food table, toward the staircase that led to the upper terrace. She told herself she was looking for Precious. For Diamond. But her feet were already moving before she saw him.

Finnick was standing near the base of the stairs, just outside the ballroom. Not mingling. Not drinking. Just watching. His sleeves were rolled up, his jacket slung over one shoulder like he hadn’t decided whether he wanted to stay long. His hair was combed but soft at the edges. He hadn’t shaved. A whisper of stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked, maddeningly, like he always did— handsome and tired, aloof and unbothered, like the whole world had been built to revolve around him and he simply chose whether or not to acknowledge it.

Their eyes locked.

Something deep and hot twisted inside her. 

She didn’t slow. She didn’t think. She rushed to him, weaving through another small knot of guests before reaching his side, catching the edge of his sleeve between her fingers. He smelled like wind and something crisp. Her eyes burned.

“You came,” she whispered, almost breathless.

Finnick looked at her. “Of course I came.”

She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. No one was looking. Or if they were, they didn’t matter. She slipped her fingers between Finnick’s.

“Come on,” she whispered, tugging his hand.

He didn’t ask where they were going.

Finnick followed her up the staircase, two steps behind and quiet. She didn’t look back at him. Not because she didn’t want to— but because she knew he would be there. That was the secret with Finnick Odair. Everyone believed he came and went with the tide, impossible to pin down, but with her, he always followed.

Upstairs, the hallway lights had been dimmed. She passed the portrait of her and her father from her twelfth birthday. The guest wing was quiet, save for the faint sounds of music wafting up through the floors.

Cornelia reached her bedroom, pushed open the door with a practiced flick of her wrist, and then shut it behind them the moment Finnick stepped in.

Click.

Finnick locked it, the soft sound loud in the silence.

He turned to her with a crooked grin, leaning his shoulder against the door. “You never lock doors,” he murmured. “Someone is going to walk in on you changing one of these days.” He tilted his head, just a bit. “So, what’s this about?”

Cornelia took two steps into the room, then spun on him like a stormcloud. Her hands flew up. “She stole my thunder, Finnick!”

He blinked. His eyebrows drew in, just a little. “What?”

“Adorabella!” Cornelia exclaimed, throwing her hands toward the ceiling. “She always does this. She couldn’t let me have this. My birthday, my night, Finnick! She announces her engagement in the middle of the ballroom! In front of everyone! With that hideous ring!”

Finnick raised one brow, shifting so he could lean his head back against the door. “Wait, engagement?”

“Yes!” she cried, walking toward her vanity just to have something to flail toward. “Cerulean proposed this morning! And  Finnick, the ring… Ugh, it’s horrible. Heart-shaped! And of course she waited until my party to show it off!”

He said nothing. Just watched her. But there was a flicker of a smirk playing at his lips. That maddening smirk.

Cornelia was too worked up to notice.

“She always does this! You know, I didn’t like her when we were little. No one knows that, but it’s true. She wore the same shade of pink to my seventh birthday party and told everyone that hers was real silk and mine wasn’t. And she’s doing it again! I swear she’s going to announce she’s pregnant at my wedding. I don’t even have a fiancé yet and I know she’ll find a way to upstage me. She’ll show up with twins or a baby bump I could just— just— ugh!”

Finnick pushed off the door and crossed the room in three easy steps.

He reached her just as she turned, fire still sparking off her shoulders, and with one broad, careful hand, he cupped her face. Not rough, not sudden, but firm. The heat of his palm against her cheek was enough to still the flood.

Cornelia stared up at him, still fuming, but some part of her leaned into the steadiness of him. Her lips parted. Her lashes trembled once.

Finnick raised his eyebrows a fraction. “Do you want to keep complaining,” he said, voice low, “or do you want me to make you feel better?”

There was something so typical in the way he said it, but something sincere, too. It wasn’t just a line. He meant it. Not in the way he was supposed to mean it, not like the Capitol meant it. It was him. 

Cornelia broke into a breathless giggle. Then rolled her eyes as she smiled, her fingers rising to curl gently around his wrist.

“I didn’t bring you up here for sex, Finnick,” she said, batting her lashes with all the mock-haughty sweetness she could muster. “I just wanted to complain.”

He dropped his hands from her face with exaggerated offense. “In that case,” he said, taking a step back, voice dry and wry, “I’ll just go mingle with your father’s old studio friends.”

Cornelia let out a scandalized gasp and reached for him, catching his wrist and tugging him back with a soft glare. “Oh, stop being annoying.”

Finnick let her pull him back and then, in one fluid motion, he ducked his head and kissed her. It wasn’t the sort of kiss the Capitol would’ve staged for cameras. It wasn’t delicate. It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t even performative. It was deep and hot and possessive, a quiet hunger curling behind the motion of his mouth. 

His fingers found the sides of her waist, bunching the silver fabric of her dress as he pulled her closer, closer still, until she was pressed against him and her arms looped around his neck instinctively.

Cornelia made a soft sound against his mouth, her fingers slipping into his hair. He tasted like salt air. Then, without warning, his arms wrapped around her thighs and lifted her clean off the floor.

Cornelia squealed in surprise, hands flying up to grab his shoulders, her legs instinctively locking around his waist. Her heels tapped softly against his calves. “You’re going to wrinkle my dress!”

Finnick gave her a look like he couldn’t care less about fabric. He proceeded to carry her across the room like he had every right to, like he knew exactly where she needed to be, and placed her on the edge of the bed with a kind of reverence that barely disguised how badly he wanted her.

He stood over her a second longer, breathing uneven, hair mussed from her fingers. His jacket was still on. She liked that. She liked seeing the contrast—her delicate, glimmering dress against the sharp Capitol cut of his blazer, his throat just visible above the collar, his jaw shadowed and tense. Then he dropped to his knees in front of her.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t ceremonious. He knelt because he wanted to. Because he liked the way she looked from there.

Finnick slid his hands up her thighs, palms broad and warm, pushing the fabric of her dress higher as he went. He took his time with it, watching her all the while, until the skirt was ruched around her hips and she was breathless.

Cornelia looked down at him, her hands smoothing over her own thighs, and smiled like she had a secret tucked in the corner of her lips.

“Diamond and I got laser hair removal yesterday,” she murmured, conversational, casual— like she was talking about her manicure.

Finnick’s eyebrows arched. His grin pulled sideways, half amusement, half appreciation. “That’s very... considerate of you.”

She laughed, her head tipping back just slightly. He leaned in closer.

“Good girl,” Finnick said, low and teasing, and his hand slid further along her skin.

The phrase sent a shiver up her spine. Not because she hadn’t heard it before— she heard it plenty from her father and piano tutor— but because it meant something different when he said it. Less about obedience. More about knowing exactly what she wanted and how to give it.

Cornelia’s fingers found their way back into his hair, and he let her tug him closer. She arched slightly toward him, her hand sliding to his cheek, and Finnick pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. Then another. And another, moving higher and higher up until it met the center of her lacy panties.

She forgot all about Adorabella’s ring in that moment.

July, 72 ADD

Twelve and fifteen.

That was how old his tributes were.

The boy— Reeve, freckled and gangly with a cowlick that refused to settle— was twelve. The girl— Cove, dark-eyed and broad-shouldered, sharp in the way a frightened animal can be sharp— was fifteen. Reeve had tried to hide the shaking in his hands when they boarded the train in District 4, but Finnick had noticed. Of course he had. He always noticed. Cove didn’t try to hide anything. She stared at the Capitol escort with a look that would’ve gotten her whipped back home, her jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might snap.

They were always young. Younger than they should be. Just like he had been.

And it never got easier. Not once. No matter how many kids were thrown into his hands each year to mold, polish, train— like breaking in a pair of shoes— before sending them off to die for spectacle.

Finnick sat on the bench outside the spear station, elbows propped on his knees, hands clasped loosely. His green eyes followed their movements with a patient sort of quiet. Reeve missed the target entirely. Again. Cove at least hit the outer edge, her throw better this time than it had been an hour ago. He nodded once to himself. Improvement. It was something.

Reeve tried again. Missed again.

Finnick didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh. Didn’t let anything show. He had to save that for the nights. For the quiet ones, when the kids were asleep and he was alone with a bottle he wouldn’t open and memories he couldn’t drown.

He let his gaze shift then, upward, toward the long glass window of the Gamemakers’ box office that looked out over the training center. Fifteen of them sat in plush-backed chairs, sipping from delicate crystal glasses, watching the tributes like cats at a fish tank.

Eight of them, Finnick knew in ways that no one else did. Too well.

There was Macedonicus Wynne, the one with the brassy voice and the heavy rings on every finger. He used to send letters in scented ink. His voice cracked when he came. Always wanted to hold hands afterward. Snorted when he finished.

Next to him, Rhode Quenn, who requested him once during a dry spell, three years ago. She brought a list. Everything scheduled. Forty-five minutes in total for foreplay alone. She used too much teeth.

At the far end sat Pax Fennel. Liked boys. Liked young boys. Had a thing for feet. Finnick’s skin crawled.

Two seats down, sat Cyrillus Kott, short and sweating, with the hands of a squirrel and the breath of a sick horse. Cried afterward. 

Elysia Vole, center-left. She liked to talk during. Not to him. Just to herself. She was one of the lead architects of the arena this year. Her hair had gone silver at the temples. Her teeth were still bright red.

Finnick knew their names, their voices, their preferences. Their weaknesses. He wondered, sometimes, if they even remembered his. 

He dropped his gaze.

There was no point in watching them. They’d never change. They’d watch this year’s kids just like they watched every year— evaluating, calculating, weighing bodies like meat. He was only one of the unlucky bodies that they kept as leftovers.

It had been after his fifth client in the Capitol when Finnick Odair acquired the art of dissociation.

Not before. Not during the first, when the shame sat so heavy in his mouth he thought he might throw up during. Not the second, when he’d sobbed silently in the marble bathtub afterward, forehead pressed to the gold faucet as the hot water filled and filled and filled. Not the third. Not even the fourth, when he made the mistake of asking why. It was the fifth. Something inside him shifted, flipped like a coin tossed midair, and landed face-down in a shallow pool of still water. A click behind the ribs. A curtain drawn somewhere inside his skull. And from then on, he could go somewhere else.

He still felt the hands, of course. The mouths. The insistence of fingers and velvet cuffs and the press of perfume in the air. But his mind didn’t have to be there. Not all of it. It was like floating.

No, that wasn’t quite it. It was like sinking. Slowly. Silently. The noise above, the touch above, the voices— such high voices, always trying to make it sound like affection— they all distorted like sound under water.

Sometimes, he imagined himself back in 4. Not home exactly, but places. The beach, specifically. The beach before his Games or the little inlet dock behind Mags’s house, where the boards always creaked and smelled like salt and drying nets. He’d imagine laying down flat across it, sun on his face, eyes shut. 

Other times, when the client had particularly rough hands or smelled strongly of liquor, he drifted to white. Just white. A wide blankness. Floating and silent and empty.

But lately it had started to shift. Change. He found himself thinking of people. Of things. He didn’t understand it. But his mind— traitorous or merciful— had started offering up Cornelia.

At first, it was stupid. A flash of the inside of her bedroom. The cardboard cutout of Gloss he had found in her armoire. That absurd castle for Cerise. 

Now, as another client poured herself across him, her breath sharp with gin and artificial roses, Finnick thought of that little castle again. He was lying back on cream-colored sheets in a darkened penthouse suite that overlooked the western side of the Capitol. The lights of the skyline stretched far beyond the window, sharp and pinprick bright. But the room itself was mostly shadows and heavy perfume.

“Lie down,” the woman said.

She was in her early sixties, maybe older— one of those Capitol women who could afford a new face every two years and a new waistline with the seasons. Her hands were thin, almost clawlike in the way they gripped his hips, her nails filed into crescent moons. She smelled of something floral and fermented. Something that made Finnick’s throat tighten on instinct.

He didn’t say anything. His job was to look agreeable. To touch when touched. To react, but not too much. To be perfect.

She pushed him gently back, crawling over him with a low hum in her throat that sounded more feline than human. Her hands worked with practiced eagerness at the closures of his shirt. When her mouth pressed against his neck, he let his eyes drift upward.

The ceiling was mirrored. He saw the reflection of the woman on top of him staring back at him. He didn't recognize the man in the mirror. His eyes shifted to the corner— where a vase of peacock feathers stood next to an ice bucket and a bowl of golden chocolates. He counted the feathers.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

He thought of the tiramisu lattes Cornelia had dragged him to try in City Circle. 

"I like it iced!" Cornelia had said. He liked it iced, too.

The woman tugged at his belt now, clumsily, a little too hard. Finnick didn’t react. She leaned back and reached for a drink on the nightstand— a tall-stemmed glass of something green, fizzing at the top. She sipped, then returned to him, brushing hair off her forehead with one hand as she eyed his bare chest.

“Turn around,” she said, voice thicker now.

He faced the wall.

September, 72 ADD

The champagne was bottomless.

Cornelia took advantage of it— because how could she not? Every time Cornelia’s glass dipped below halfway, someone in dove-gray silk gloves refilled it without question or comment. At this point, she wasn’t sure if she was on her third or fourth glass. Maybe fifth, if she counted the one that she’d stolen from Adorabella— who, at the moment, stood on a rose-gold pedestal wearing her sixteenth dress. She didn’t think anyone would notice. Frankly, she was the most sober one in the room, and she’d already surrendered to a slow-floating sort of buzz.

Two hours. They had been here two hours.

The first five dresses had been white. The next three had been pink— one blush, one bubblegum, and one a dreadful metallic shade that washed Adorabella out. Then came lavender. Then lilac. Then orange.

Now? Chartreuse. It matched Precious's hair for the month.

Diamond and Precious were still pretending to be invigorated, still gasping dramatically and clapping as Adorabella twirled in front of the triple mirrors like a spun sugar ballerina. They were three flutes deeper than Cornelia, and riding high on glitter, gossip, and a series of whispered bets about whether the next dress would include feathers.

“Oh, gorgeous, gorgeous, Dora!” Cornelia trilled after swallowing her most recent mouthful, her voice pitched high with sugary enthusiasm. She fluttered her lashes and lifted both glasses in a half-hearted cheer. “You look like a springtime vision, darling.”

Adorabella let out a squeal and spun again, her heels clacking against the floorboards as layers of chartreuse shifted and bobbed around her like whipped cream. The train fanned out behind her like a peacock’s tail. Somewhere in the corner, a salon shop woman was pinning fabric to the train and murmuring something about alterations— “a touch more cinch at the waist, perhaps”— but Cornelia had stopped listening.

She watched Adorabella nod regally in the mirror, examining herself with the sharp self-adoration of a jewel thief admiring a new haul. Precious reached forward to adjust a small shoulder strap, murmuring that it looked "capitol couture, not bridal." Diamond suggested to keep the neckline modest for the ceremony and change into something more “risqué” for the reception.

Cornelia let the chatter drone on without her. She leaned back in her tufted chair, champagne in both hands, and tilted her head to the side.

For just a moment— just a fluttering, silken second— she allowed herself to drift.

What would her dress look like?

Not chartreuse. Certainly not anything that required structural support to stand upright.

She saw something soft. Perhaps ivory. Off-the-shoulder sleeves that skimmed her collarbones, subtle shimmer along the skirts when the light hit just right. No feathers. No beads. Just silk that whispered when she moved and laced corsetry that hugged her ribs without suffocating.

The picture grew clearer in her mind. She saw herself standing before a tall mirror, pearls at her ears, hair curled and swept to the side, a small smile on her face. She was glowing, like someone who felt chosen. Cherished. Loved.

She saw herself stepping down an aisle scattered with petals. A long runner beneath her heels. Faces turning to watch her. Music swelling. And, at the other end, a man.

Tall. Fit. Handsome.

Bronze hair. Sun-touched skin. A smile that reached his eyes.

Her heart stuttered, only slightly. Her brows knit together.

Because the man standing at the end of that aisle in her imagination was Finnick.

Cornelia blinked rapidly. Then again. Her grip tightened reflexively on the champagne flutes in her hands.

Finnick?

She exhaled through her nose and immediately tipped back both glasses, draining them one after the other, the sweetness turning slightly tart in the back of her throat. The second glass she emptied faster, setting it down with a sharp clink onto the rose-quartz side table beside her. Her other hand lingered with its glass in her lap, suddenly cold.

Finnick. Her imaginary groom. With that smile of his. That crooked, half-laughing thing he always did when she got too wound up about something trivial, like napkin rings or sequin placement.

That’s not supposed to be what this was. She wasn’t thinking about him like that.  He was her friend. Sort of. They had fun. They liked each other. Slept together sometimes.

Okay, maybe more than sometimes. But she didn’t like him like that. He wasn’t hers. He wasn’t even in the Capitol half the time. He certainly hadn’t promised her anything. He didn’t belong in that dress-daydream.

“Cornelia, darling, you’re zoning out again!”

Cornelia blinked and straightened her back, lifting her chin to Precious. “I am not,” she said primly. “I’m just processing the dress.”

“Isn’t it divine?” Adorabella squealed, twirling again. “I just knew you’d love it. It’s very unconventional, isn’t it? Like a bride but also a statement. That’s what Cerulean always says. I’m a statement.”

Cornelia smiled. “You are definitely… something.”

Diamond burst into giggles, and Precious covered her mouth with her hand like she was suppressing a laugh, but Cornelia ignored them both.

She needed another glass.

The suite was expensive and silent. Not natural. Capitol hotels specialized in silence. The blackout curtains were drawn, muffling the neon-pink flicker of district-coded advertisements just outside, and the temperature had been set to a perfect warmth that Cornelia hadn’t needed to adjust since she’d arrived earlier that evening.

Her hair fell in waves over her shoulder, the pale light from the bedside lamp catching the hints of honey in its chocolate-brown. The teeth of her comb slid smoothly through her curls as she sat cross-legged on the bed, the red satin of her nightgown pooling around her thighs.

Finnick lay beside her, sprawled half beneath the sheet, chest bare and rising and falling with the slow, heavy rhythm of someone on the brink of sleep. His eyes were closed, his lashes long and resting against his cheeks. One arm was folded behind his head. The other draped loosely across his stomach. His hair was tousled, compliments of the pillowcase and her fingers moments prior.

Cornelia paused mid-stroke, comb halted against her hairline.

“Hey… are you awake?”

One of Finnick’s eyes cracked open, sea-glass green in the dim light, sharp and glassy with sleep.

“No,” he said flatly.

Cornelia smiled despite herself and rolled her eyes, setting the brush down onto the nightstand with a light clink. “Cute.”

“Mm.” Finnick's eye shut again.

She slinked down beside him, her body curving to mirror his. Her skin brushed against his arm as she settled onto her side. She lay close enough to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing, but not so close she had to commit to anything weightier than the warmth between them.

“Do you…” she began, voice softer now, a little hesitant. “Do you ever think about the future?”

“No,” Finnick said immediately.

Cornelia made a face. “Could you pretend to, just for a minute?”

A beat of silence. Then Finnick sighed through his nose.

“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and a little hoarse with sleep. “What exactly are you trying to drag out of me?”

Cornelia hesitated, then tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and gave a nonchalant shrug. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”

Finnick gave a shrug that was barely visible in the low light. “I don’t know.” He turned his face toward the ceiling, voice a little duller now. “I’ll do whatever I’m told to do. Play my part. Say the right things to the right people. Keep my head down if I have to.” A pause. “Figure it out later.”

Cornelia turned her face to him, frowning slightly. She didn’t like that answer. Not because she didn’t believe it, but because it felt too familiar. Too resigned.

She softened her tone. “Why’d you say it like that?”

He looked at her then, the sleepy veil in his eyes lifting just enough to flash a trace of guarded wariness. “Like what?”

“Like… like it doesn’t matter what you want.”

“Because it doesn’t,” he said simply. “That’s not the deal.”

She didn’t push. She never pushed him when he got like that— toneless, ironic, cynical. Finnick had walls she didn’t quite know how to climb. He let her in just enough to tease, to touch, to make her feel like she knew him. But when it came to things like this— futures, wishes, realness— he turned into a locked box.

Cornelia stared at him for a long moment. Then, like it was nothing, like it was just a stray thought catching on the corner of her mouth, she shrugged.

“I’m just trying to make conversation.”

Finnick didn’t respond right away. His gaze remained fixed on her.

Barely above a whisper, Cornelia added, “And where do you see us in five years?”

Finnick groaned. Actually groaned. He flopped an arm over his face. “Don’t do that.”

Cornelia blinked, stung. “Do what?”

“Don’t pull that thing. There’s no ‘us.’” He peeked at her through one finger and smirked. “In five years, we’ll probably hate each other.”

Cornelia blinked. “Excuse me?”

He smiled. “Or forget all about each other. And you’ll be married to some boring elitist with sharp cheekbones while I’ll be—”

“Dead?” she snapped, before he could finish.

“Worse,” Finnick said with a grin. “Sold for parts.”

Cornelia gaped. Her mouth dropped open as a wave of hurt flashed behind her eyes, though she tried to mask it behind a theatrical gasp and a huff of disbelief. “Finnick!”

He laughed— low, tired, amused. “What? It’s bound to happen.”

“No, it’s not,” she said, grabbing a throw pillow beside her and whacking him squarely in the chest.

He caught it easily, even half-asleep, then folded his arms behind his head again. “Just saying. I know how these things go.”

Cornelia should have known better than to start such a conversation with Finnick Odair. He didn't believe in futures. She lay back again and stared up at the ceiling. Finnick’s breathing evened out after a few minutes. She could tell when he fell asleep by the way his chest slowed, the way his lips parted slightly, and the muscle along his jaw softened.

She turned her face into the pillow, her arm curling around it. She could still smell his aftershave on the cotton sheets. Ocean salt. Cedar. Something faintly fishy that she no longer hated. She inhaled deeply, savoring it, despite herself.

Sleep didn’t come easily.

Chapter Text

November, 72 ADD

COMPARED TO MOST GIRLS HER AGE IN THE CAPITOL, Cornelia Flickerman had a reasonable amount of clothes in her closet. That is, by Capitol standards— which, in fairness, made "reasonable" a word with flexible boundaries. Her rotating closet spanned the length of her bedroom’s northern wall, circular in design and softly lit by embedded lights that adjusted according to the time of day. The pastel pinks and cornflower blues faded into warm creams and hunter greens as it rotated, smooth as butter, along the circular rail that glided her wardrobe past in a slow carousel of satin, silk, and shimmer.

It was also very, very organized. For the most part.

Her dresses were arranged first by season, then by color, then by level of drama. The skirts and blouses hung in pre-matched pairings, neatly clipped with gold-dipped hangers, each outfit the result of prior experimentation. Either she’d worn them before and logged them in her calendar to avoid repeating that month, or she’d staged a private fashion show to ensure they passed her highly specific criteria of silhouette and vibe.

The shoes were a problem. She knew that. But she was getting better. She thought, at least. Her new shelving system— stacked heel-first, color-coded by sole pattern— was a personal triumph. And if her knee-high boot collection now took up the entire bottom tier, that wasn’t technically a failure. Autumn was approaching, after all. Knee-highs were a necessity.

Cornelia stood barefoot on the rotating platform, her  hair pulled back into a low, messy bun pinned with two pearly clips. She wore a white slip that looked like a ballet costume and held a garment bag in one hand while the closet cycled lazily behind her.

The soft chime of her bedroom door opening broke her from her deliberations. She heard the familiar cadence of polished shoes on marble, and without missing a beat, her face brightened in a smile.

“Hi daddy!”

The closet rotated again, and a moment later, Caesar Flickerman was framed in the arch of the doorway— teeth perfect, suit flawless, expression indulgent.

“Good morning, darling,” Caesar said with a warm chuckle, leaning in to kiss her cheek the moment the rotating platform brought her close enough. “Still planning your world takeover from here, I see.”

“I am curating an aesthetic, daddy,” Cornelia declared, pushing herself up to her knees and smoothing her slip like it mattered. “Which I will have you know is harder than just talking to people.”

Caesar lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Far be it from me to suggest otherwise. But speaking of aesthetics…”

Cornelia’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes?”

“Have you picked out your outfit for the Victory Tour interview next week?” he asked, voice light and casual, but his eyes flickered, watching her reaction carefully. It was the kind of question that sounded like a suggestion— but was anything but.

Cornelia paused the closet’s rotation with a quick hand gesture and stood up in a rustle of silk and bare feet. With a triumphant little twirl, she plucked an outfit from the display and held it up for him to see.

“A wine-colored skirt and blazer set,” she announced, posing beside it like a boutique mannequin. “Bronze heels. Minimal sparkle. I thought it was very fall, very demure, very cutie.”

She paused, tilting her head dramatically. “Or, if you want a pop of something warmer, I also had this olive green number with the off-the-shoulder neckline and the faux-feather trim. Sort of an earthy coquette moment.”

Caesar laughed, a hand going to his heart. “You know, that wine color is going to look perfect with the new wig I had designed.”

Cornelia squealed, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet before hanging the outfit back up. “Oh, yay, yay! I knew we were going to match again, I just had a feeling. You have such good taste.”

He chuckled again, but there was a flicker of something deeper in his gaze, a shade of sentiment beneath all the sparkle. He walked a few steps into the rotating closet and rested a hand on one of the wardrobe poles.

“I’m glad you’re taking this seriously,” Caesar said, his voice quieter now, but no less theatrical. “Because next week won’t just be any interview.”

Cornelia froze with her back to him, her hand still clutching the sleeve of a bronze-trimmed top.

“Next week,” her father continued, “I’m letting you sit in the host chair. Alone.”

She turned slowly.

Her eyes were wide, lips parted. “Really?”

Caesar gave her a warm smile, but there was a gravity behind it, a kind of finality. “It’s time, darling. I need to start preparing you. You’re not just my daughter, you’re my legacy.”

She heard the word before she could even process the sentence around it.

Legacy.

She stood frozen for what felt like an eternity, her breath caught mid-giggle. Her father was still speaking— about preparation, about trust, about stepping forward— but she couldn’t hear him anymore. Her brain had short-circuited somewhere between host chair and legacy.

She didn’t know if she wanted it anymore. Not like she used to. Not in the same breathless, greedy way she’d wanted things when she was twelve. But then Caesar gave her that look— the proud one, the one that made her feel taller, brighter, realer than the sequins and stage lights— and something inside her clicked back into place.

She bounced back into motion like a pulled cord and squealed. “Oh my gosh! Daddy! I’ll rehearse every single word I say. I’ll pick out three backup outfits. I’ll do a soft wave in my hair and maybe a coppery lip to tie into the bronzes? Can I make someone cry? Is that, like, too much?”

Caesar laughed and reached forward to smooth a strand of hair back from her face. “If they cry, darling,” he said with a smile, “it means they’re watching. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

Cornelia felt her heart flutter in a dozen directions at once. Fear. Excitement. Vanity. The gleam of ambition sharpened under the heat of her father’s love.

She nodded quickly, perhaps too quickly. “Right.”

He smiled at her again, and it was like a mirror to her own.

Cornelia stood in the middle of the closet as Caesar kissed her on the forehead and turned to leave. The platform began rotating again, slow and smooth, revealing the section of gold brocade she’d meant to rehang before everything shifted.

She looked down at her hands. Then at her shoes scattered on the floor. She wasn’t twelve anymore.

The microphone had slipped out of her hand once during rehearsal.

It had bounced with an unfortunately loud clatter, caught by a quick-fingered technician before it could roll off the stage entirely. Cornelia had fluttered a hand against her chest and insisted—very sweetly, very earnestly—that the slip was due to the skin oil she’d lathered herself in before prep time. “My shoulders get so dry in the autumn,” she’d said with a beaming smile, “and it just makes the palms slippery!” Her fingers fluttered like butterflies. “It’s practically medical.”

If no one believed her, they didn’t make it known. And that was what mattered.

Now, beneath the blazing lights of Caesar’s studio, standing in the very spot where her father had once introduced tributes with the gravity of a high priest and the glitter of a thousand sequins, Cornelia stood poised, though her legs were trembling ever so slightly under the wine colored skirt set she’d picked out two weeks ago. The deep, burnished color made her pale skin glow. Her long brown hair had been straightened and ironed within a micron of its life, parted in the center and smoothed behind her ears. She’d chosen a muted metallic gloss for her lips and a touch of gold shimmer in the corner of her eyes. Her fingernails tapped against the cue cards she wasn’t using. She didn't need them. Not tonight.

The cameras rolled.

Behind her, the screen stretched nearly the full length of the stage wall— black, flickering, quiet for now. In a moment, it would burst to life.

Just like she was supposed to.

The earpiece crackled softly. “On in five…”

She cleared her throat.

“Four…”

Hands gripping the cue cards. Palms dry. Not even a trace of the cursed skin oil tonight.

“Three…”

The studio lights flared. Her smile grew, muscle memory taking over.

“Two…”

She exhaled, eyes wide and bright and Capitol-candy sweet.

“One—”

And then the screen went gold.

The Capitol anthem burst into sound from the hidden speakers along the ceiling. Applause was piped in over the feed, rising to match the gleaming lights of the opening frame. The screen behind her bloomed into the swirling seal of Panem before dissolving into a stylized version of the Capitol skyline at dusk— an artistic rendering, all glitter and deep rose gold. Then, with a triumphant final chord of music—

The camera panned in on her.

Cornelia stood up a little straighter, shoulders back, smile like a soft-fire explosion.

“Good evening!” she sang, each syllable crisp and sugary. “I am Cornelia Flickerman, and today we are live to bring you an exclusive interview from District 9 with our recent Victor.” A smile. “You all know and love her, and what is there not to love?” She leaned in ever so slightly. “Let’s give it up for Biscuit Rean!”

The screen behind her shimmered once— then burst into the livestream from District 9.

The Victors’ Village was sunlit, a bit dusty at the edges. It was clear the stylists had done their best to polish Biscuit up for this moment— her dark hair pulled back into a glossy ponytail, her skin glowing with Capitol-favored shimmer dust. But even through the visual effects, there was something shy and unpolished about her. Seventeen years old. Maybe even younger by demeanor. She looked like she still wasn’t sure if she was allowed to smile.

Cornelia beamed at her through the screen. “Biscuit, darling! Look at you! How are you, sweet girl?”

Biscuit blinked, a little dazed, her voice soft through the feed. “I’m… doing okay.”

“Okay!” Cornelia echoed, laughing. “I like okay. Okay is very grounded. Very honest. Capitol audiences adore that, you know. Now tell me, how is life in the Victors’ Village treating you?”

Biscuit nodded, eyes flitting offscreen, probably at someone coaching her silently. “It’s… it’s quiet. I get a house all to myself, which is weird. But… nice, I guess.”

Cornelia nodded solemnly, then broke into another easy smile. “Well, you deserve nice. You really do! After everything you’ve been through, and might I just say, your final arena moment? We were all on the edge of our seats. Truly.”

A small smile from Biscuit.

Cornelia pressed on. “Now, Biscuit, tell us, are you excited for the Victory Tour? Have you picked out your gowns? Have your stylists told you what to expect at the Capitol party yet?”

The girl blinked again, a bit thrown. “I, um… I think I’m just going to wear what they give me. And… I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“Well, nervous is normal!” Cornelia chirped. “The Capitol is very welcoming. I can speak for all of us here in the Capitol when I say, we are so looking forward to seeing you at the party at President Snow’s mansion! And I just know you’re going to be the most charming guest of honor. Thank you so much, Biscuit Rean, for joining us this evening!”

The screen behind her brightened one last time with Biscuit’s image as the applause graphic returned. Cornelia turned to face the camera, radiating ease and excitement, her every gesture precise but natural, trained without looking it.

“We’ll be right back with more from your favorite Capitol trendsetters, including a look at the top ten Victory Tour party gowns you need to see to believe! But first, a message from our sponsors.”

The feed cut to commercial.

Cornelia was a spitting image of her father when she was on a screen.

Skin bronzed with what was likely a tanner applied hours before, cheekbones glossed in a shimmer that caught and held the light, straightened teeth so white they bordered on aggressive, and a voice modulated in that classic Capitol tone— bright, bright, bright, like she’d swallowed a crystal bell. Uncanny. A performance carved from the same mold as Caesar Flickerman’s, only updated with a prettier face and fresher packaging. She could sell tragedy and triumph in the same sentence and never blink. There was a rhythm to it, an art. She nailed every mark.

Finnick watched her speak from the foot of the hotel bed, a single sock halfway up his ankle, forgotten.

She was on Capitol News, her live interview with District 9’s newest Victor rerunning in full. There she was in that wine-colored set she’d been chattering about for weeks over the phone and in bed beside him his last few visits. Her hair was straightened more than Finnick had ever seen before, even parted down the middle instead of to the side. It was a look she rarely went for unless she was feeling particularly serious about being taken seriously.

Her hands moved as she talked, the same way her father’s always had, only more graceful. Polished. Less performative, more… compulsive.

Finnick sat there shirtless, his slacks half-zipped, skin tacky with sweat and lipstick smudged faintly beneath his jaw. He was still catching his breath. Not from exertion, exactly, but from the quiet uncoiling that came after. After all of it. The silence of a finished transaction.

The television cast her voice into the stillness.

“You all know and love her, and what is there not to love?” Cornelia smiled wide, sweeping her hand toward the screen behind her. “Let’s give it up for Biscuit Rean!”

The girl on-screen— seventeen, nervous, blinking like she couldn’t quite believe she was being beamed across Panem— appeared beside Cornelia in a split-screen. But Finnick wasn’t looking at Biscuit.

His eyes stayed on her. And maybe it was a little pathetic. Sitting in a Capitol suite, just one of a thousand identical rooms in one of the more discreet hotels near President Snow’s mansion, watching a girl he’d had his mouth on a week ago pretend she didn’t know him beyond headlines and handshakes. Watching her laugh and gesture and glow like nothing in the world had ever touched her.

The bathroom door opened behind him with a click, and his client for the night stepped out, barefoot, wrapped in one of the hotel’s robes and toweling off her neck. She was older than Cornelia, older than Finnick. Capitol-handsome, meaning surgically softened around the edges, with painted lips and diamond dermals at the corners of her eyes. She had a particular interest in gagging and bondage. The ache in his jaw and the reddened skin around his wrists bore the proof.

His client paused in front of the mirror, glancing toward the television. “Is that the new Flickerman host?” she asked. “She’s got a good tan. Nice teeth, too.”

Finnick didn’t look back at her.

He tugged the sock the rest of the way up. His shirt lay crumpled at the foot of the bed, his belt slung over the armchair. He could see himself faintly in the reflective glass of the window. He looked like someone who lived under fluorescent lights. Dimmed at the corners.

Cornelia’s voice drifted out again. “Well, nervous is normal! The Capitol is very welcoming…”

The client stepped around the bed, her hair now pinned, her fingers playing with the edge of the remote.

“She’s cute,” she said, sitting beside him for a moment. “Not as pretty as you, of course.”

Finnick gave a short, mechanical laugh. “I’ll let her know you said that.”

“You know her?” the woman asked, tone airy.

He zipped his pants slowly. “A little.”

That was a lie. But that was the thing about their affair. Finnick couldn’t say a thing about her. Not in rooms like that. Not when her face was fifteen feet tall on the studio walls. Not when she was calling Victors by name and grinning for the cameras like she hadn’t once snuck into his Capitol suite at two in the morning, hair undone, reeking of sparkling rosé and perfume. He couldn’t say that the tan would wash off at the end of the day, or that the mole along her hairline faintly resembled a heart. He couldn’t say that she sometimes drooled in her sleep but would never own up to it, or that she had a tiny freckle on the inside of her left thigh that he always kissed on his way up to her core.

Those were all things he couldn’t afford but would purchase anyhow. Little luxuries. Little indulgences. 

And yet, at the same time, he couldn’t say the same about Cornelia. Because she didn’t know his favorite color. She didn’t know what his biggest fears were. She didn’t know his mother’s name, his father’s name before he passed. She didn’t know that his mother had moved out of the Victors’ Village two years ago, no longer able to live in the house where her son returned with hickeys and bite marks and bruises all over him— sometimes fresh, sometimes barely healed. Sometimes, he didn’t even pretend to hide them anymore.

And even if Cornelia asked, Finnick wouldn’t tell her. She couldn’t afford that, either.

Not noticing Finnick’s omission, the woman seemed content with what he had answered with and changed the channel without asking. Cornelia’s voice vanished mid-sentence, replaced by the hollow patter of a Capitol home renovation show— something involving hover-baths and mood-responsive wallpaper.

Finnick pulled his shirt over his head and stood, rolling his shoulders to work out the knots that always appeared between them after these kinds of visits.

She didn’t ask him to stay. She never did. That was part of the appeal. She was discreet, punctual, and knew her boundaries. The two of them operated in a kind of detached professionalism, one that made the act cleaner than it should have been. Business, not pleasure.

He finished dressing and gave her a nod. “I’ll see you around.”

The woman didn’t reply. She just gave a wink and an air kiss.

Finnick stepped into the hall, let the door slide shut behind him, and walked quietly toward the elevator. His skin still smelled like someone else. He wished it were Cornelia’s scent instead. Yet another thing he couldn’t afford and yet craved.

By the time Cornelia arrived at the hotel room, Finnick had flipped through fifteen channels three times. The room was steeped in dim lamplight, the heavy blackout curtains drawn closed and the television on mute. He lay sprawled across the bed, bare-chested again, damp hair curling slightly at the edges from his shower, the remote heavy in one hand, aimless in its direction.

He didn’t look up right away. Only caught her in his peripheral, the click of the door announcing her as she slipped in without knocking— something she’d grown confident doing months ago.

She looked exactly as she had on the screen— still in the wine-colored skirt, her makeup nearly intact, her smile still in place. Only now, the shine was off. Her long brown hair had begun to loosen, the ends turning in unpredictable directions, and her lipstick had worn down at the center of her mouth, smudged faintly at one corner. A streak of eyeliner shadowed under one eye like a bruise.

Finnick didn’t notice. Or he did, and he didn’t care.

While she had shrugged off her blazer and kicked her bronze heels into a corner, Finnick was already off the bed, the remote clattering soundlessly onto the comforter. He crossed the room in five strides, met her just inside the threshold, and kissed her. Hard.

Not the usual, not what they did most of the time. Not the lazy sort of foreplay that felt like stretching before a jog, the careless kisses traded like playing cards. This one had intent. Force. A heat so sudden it bordered on aggression. It stole the breath from her. He slammed the door shut with the heel of his hand, the echo sharp and final, and pressed her back against it, his palm flat against her hip, the other cupping the side of her neck with a kind of startling intimacy.

It knocked the wind out of her.

And Cornelia— whose entire world revolved around control, precision, performance— let it. She gasped into his mouth, not pulling away but shifting her hands to his shoulders, anchoring herself. For a split second, she thought to ask “what’s gotten into you,” but then he kissed her again, deeper this time, tongue sweeping over hers with a hunger that wasn’t new, exactly, but had rarely come so unchecked.

She made a sound— half gasp, half laugh— as his hands slid down the front of her shirt, fingers catching against the silk buttons. He worked them open hastily, as if the fabric were a puzzle he had no interest in solving properly. The last few gave under his fingers with a small series of pops, one of the buttons flying off and clicking faintly as it bounced off the marble floor.

“Finnick!” she scolded lightly, breathless. “That was custom.”

But he didn’t respond, didn’t apologize. He just pushed the blouse off her shoulders and lowered his mouth to her chest, kissing over the slope of her collarbone, the top swell of her breasts. His lips were softer here. Slower. As though he'd poured all his restraint into the shape of his mouth while the rest of him trembled with the strain of holding something back.

His teeth grazed her skin— not painful, but purposeful. She felt the outline of them in his kisses, the way he marked her with presence rather than permanence.

Cornelia exhaled shakily, fingers sliding through the wet strands of his hair. “Mm, you’re in a mood.”

Still nothing from him. No teasing quip. No smart remark.

His hands found the clasp of her bra and unhooked it with an ease born of muscle memory, letting it fall somewhere between them. She was used to his touch— used to this part of their script— but there was something different about tonight. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t flirt. He kissed down the center of her chest like a man trying to forget something that wouldn’t let go.

She sighed, head tipping back against the door, fingers pausing in his hair. “Finnick…”

He ignored her. Or maybe he couldn’t hear her through the storm in his own mind.

When his hands dropped to her hips and fumbled with the zipper of her skirt, she felt the tremor in them. Just slight. Just enough to notice.

She opened her eyes to look down at him— his jaw tight, brows furrowed as he tugged the skirt off with more force than necessary. It hit the floor in a pool of wine-colored fabric, folding in on itself like it had been discarded by someone angry at it.

Cornelia knew something was wrong. Finnick was always tactile, yes, but there was a care to him, a gentleness. A reverence he never spoke of but always showed. Tonight, his touch was harder. Quicker. It lacked the delicate timing she was used to. Like he wasn’t really with her, not entirely. Like he was in a fight with himself and she was the nearest rope to pull on. She could feel it in the way his hands clutched her thighs. The way his mouth pressed against her with more force than finesse. The way his breathing had become erratic, less from desire and more from need.

“Finnick,” she whispered again, this time less playful, more careful. “What’s wrong?”

He didn’t answer. He just guided her onto the bed, his mouth finding her again. And she let him. Because despite the quiet in her chest that told her he was unraveling, despite the part of her that ached with concern more than lust, she knew better than to ask. This was the cost of knowing someone like Finnick Odair. He gave everything and nothing all at once.

She’d seen the cracks before— when he thought no one was watching, when he flinched in his sleep, when he’d pull her close in the quiet hours of the morning only to retreat by breakfast. He didn’t let people hold the broken pieces. Not even her. So she let him lie. Let him touch her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the moment. Let him convince himself that this was just another night, just another routine. Because Finnick— beautiful, impossible Finnick— was drowning. And she would let herself become a life raft he didn’t want but couldn’t swim away from.

Her hands moved over his shoulders as he hovered above her at the edge of the mattress, hurriedly pushing the front of his sweatpants and underwear down in one quick motion. Her moan caught somewhere between pleasure and a warning as he pushed his cock inside of her all at once, buried to the hilt before moving in and out of her cunt at an uneven and rough pace. Her thoughts scattered and returned in rhythm as her legs wrapped around his hips, his face burying itself in the crook of her neck. 

Finnick’s hips were punishing, propelling his cock inside of her faster and harder than she was used to. It was exhilarating— almost euphoric, in a sense, with how desperate it all felt. Like she was what he needed, at least for now.

Cornelia let out a broken moan, her nails digging into Finnick’s shoulders as she wrapped her legs tighter around his waist. Finnick’s hands gripped her hips, shifting to angle her upward slightly off of the mattress— which proved effective. She felt him move deeper, hitting inside of her enough to nearly undo her before they even started.

"Shit," Cornelia rasped out. "Shit, Finnick."

Finnick stayed silent. His cock continued to pump in and out, each thrust harder than the next and shifting her further back on top of the comforter. His hands at her hips pulled her flush against him in a single tug, Cornelia gasping out when the motion pushed him back inside all the way inside of her. She could feel the tip of him pressing to her cervix. It was both pleasurable yet overwhelming all at once. And yet, she wanted more of that. More of him. 

“Oh,” was all that escaped her mouth as she attempted to catch her breath. “Oh, my gosh, don't stop. Don't stop.”

He didn’t. And Cornelia didn’t move for a while after it ended.

The room was quieter than it had been earlier, the television having long since gone dark, the only sound now the faint hum of the air conditioning and the soft shuffle of movement across the carpet. Sheets tangled loosely around her thighs, the scent of Finnick still warm on her skin, but not clinging— not like it used to. It was already fading.

Finnick shifted beside her. Not with care, not with apology. Just mechanically. Like he was on a clock and his body knew it. He rose from the bed without a word, the mattress lifting as his weight left it. His back was to her as he walked away. Muscles taut beneath his shoulder blades, tension wrapped like wire around his spine, steps too quick for someone unhurried.

The bathroom door clicked shut behind him.

Cornelia blinked at the ceiling. The faint imprint of his palm was still on her hip.

She sat up slowly, resting her weight on her elbows, curls falling over one shoulder. The room smelled like him. Salt, citrus, skin. She breathed it in once, then reached for the edge of the bed and found one of his spare shirts— soft gray cotton, stretched thin from wear. It was too big on her. Always was. But she slipped it over her head and let it fall to mid-thigh, the sleeves dangling past her elbows.

The walk to the bathroom was quiet, the kind of quiet she never let linger for long. But tonight, she didn’t bother breaking it.

The door creaked open when she nudged it with her fingers, warm steam already curling out from the small space beneath. The overhead light inside was dimmed, bathing the room in amber. The mirror had fogged at the edges. The air was thick with the scent of mint body wash and something floral from the hotel’s complimentary soaps.

Finnick was already in the shower. He stood under the stream of water with his back to the door, head bowed slightly, one palm pressed flat against the tiled wall. He wasn’t scrubbing. He wasn’t moving much at all. Just standing there as the water coursed over him, disappearing into the drain like it had somewhere better to be.

Cornelia stood in the doorway, barefoot, arms wrapped loosely around her waist beneath the oversized shirt. “Do you want to talk?”

Finnick didn’t startle. He never startled. He’d learned to anticipate presence long ago.

For a second, he didn’t move. Not even a glance over his shoulder. Then— barely— he shook his head. It was slow, barely perceptible, but it was there. A no.

Still, Cornelia lingered. She didn’t know what she expected. She wasn’t even sure she wanted him to say yes. She didn’t know what he would say, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear it if he did. But something in her still needed to offer. Still needed to remind him she was there.

She stepped forward anyway, letting the bathroom door fall mostly shut behind her with a soft click. She didn’t speak again. Just walked slowly across the cool tile, the steam curling around her ankles, rising toward her knees.

Finnick didn’t acknowledge her. He didn’t look up. Didn’t turn. Just kept his hand pressed to the wall, the water running in rivulets down the planes of his back, over the line of his shoulders, and disappearing down the contours of his spine.

Cornelia stopped at the shower glass, just far enough to stay dry, and watched. Not like the Capitol watched. Not with hunger or ownership or the sick fascination they called adoration. She watched like a girl watching a boy she didn’t understand anymore. Or maybe never did to begin with. 

His face was turned slightly to the side. She could just make out the slope of his cheekbone, the dark bruise along the edge of his jaw that hadn’t been there before. It was faint but already blooming purple beneath the surface, delicate as a pansy and twice as cruel.

She saw the finger-shaped shadows and burns at his wrists, red and angry and darker than the rest, like something had sank their claws and tried to drag him backward.

Cornelia’s hand hovered near the glass. She didn’t touch it, didn’t press her fingers to the barrier. There was no point. Finnick wouldn’t look. His eyes were fixed on the tile, watching the water, watching nothing. And all she could do was watch him. Watch the slope of his shoulders, the tension in his stance, the way his knuckles whitened where they met the wall. He wasn’t scrubbing himself clean. He wasn’t doing anything at all. Just standing there like he didn’t want to be in his own skin. Like he wanted the water to scald it off.

Cornelia’s heart pinched in a way she didn’t like. Because this— this part— was never supposed to touch her.

They had rules. Loose ones, sure. Unspoken but still there. He came to her when he wanted. She let him. She made him laugh. He kissed her neck. She wore his shirts. Sometimes, he let her braid his hair when he was too tired to stop her. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep with his face pressed into her stomach and she’d run her fingers through the saltwater waves of his hair until dawn.

But they didn’t talk about it. Not the bruises. Not the appointments. Not the nights that left him too sore to sit or the mornings when he didn’t look her in the eye. Not the fact that she liked him more than she meant to. Not the fact that he even liked her at all.

Because this was Capitol life. Because her father was Caesar Flickerman and she’d grown up in gold-trimmed rooms pretending not to hear what the guests whispered about her behind sequin-stiff hands. Because she was meant to sparkle, not to feel. And Finnick was meant to be adored, not saved.

Still, she watched. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t shaking anymore. But something about the way he stood— still and silent and folded in on himself— made her want to scream.

Instead, she just sighed and turned, left the bathroom the same way she came in. Barefoot and silent.

The soft pad of her footsteps trailed out into the hotel room, her breath catching faintly as she closed the door behind her with a gentler click than before.

She wouldn’t push. She knew better. Finnick would come out when he was ready. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

December, 72 ADD

Cornelia tried not to leave marks on him. It wasn’t conscious at first, but it became a deliberate effort over time the more familiar she grew with the constellations of bruises across his skin, the welted aftermath of his nights. She traced the tender patterns on his collarbone with her fingers, mouth, even once with a rose quartz gua sha she'd brought for her own jawline. He’d laughed at that, low and hoarse in his throat, but didn’t stop her. If anything, he tilted his head, inviting the press of it a little further down.

She didn’t ask about them— those marks. They weren’t hers to ask about, and she wasn’t foolish enough to think she was special in the grand theater of his nights. But she was particular, Cornelia Flickerman. She didn’t want to be one more smudge on the canvas of his body. Or, perhaps, she didn’t want to leave evidence behind. But some things couldn’t be helped.

During his last stay— the last of the cold Capitol weeks before he left for 4— Cornelia had slipped. They had been half-dressed already, sheets twisted at their knees, her perfume still faint on the air like the smoke from a candle recently blown out. She’d been laughing— an odd, breathless kind of laugh that only came out when she’d had too much champagne or when she was nervous. Or maybe both. Finnick had been watching her, lying on his back with an arm slung lazily across his chest, but he didn’t smile. His eyes followed her with a heaviness that made her feel rooted and floating all at once.

She’d leaned in, brushing her mouth against the side of his throat, her fingers curling just under his ear. It had started innocently. A peck. A teasing kiss. She liked the edge of his jaw, the clean cut of it, like something sculpted and powerful— made to hold a crown or a blade.

But then her lips had lingered. Pressed longer, harder. Just a little more. Something possessive. Something wild and pink-blooded. She felt him exhale, sudden and sharp. Then his hand came to the back of her head, fingers threaded in her natural brown hair. Holding her in place.

Cornelia had tried to pull away— half-heartedly, at first— but he kept her still. For a moment. A few seconds longer. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make a sound. But she knew. She knew he let her leave a mark this time.

The bruise had bloomed dark and neat just below his right ear, like a wine stain hidden under a collar. And now, four days later, it was still faintly visible. A soft smudge in the shape of her mouth. Faded, but not gone.

Finnick stared at it in the mirror, lit only by the soft, pulsing light from the oceanic lamp beside the sink in his room in 4.

It was late. The house was quiet.

He hadn’t even turned on the overheads when he came in from the docks— just peeled off his damp shirt and let it fall to the tile, his fingers brushing absently at the salt-dried fabric clinging to his skin. The night air smelled like seaweed and lemon soap. His muscles ached, not from labor, but from restraint.

He looked older in the mirror. Sharper. His chest was still wet from sweat and sea mist, his hair curling slightly from the humidity. The mark on his jaw caught the low light like a ghost of a kiss. And still, his face remained unreadable. Not quite sad. Not quite smirking.

He didn’t know why he had let her do it. Maybe it was control. Maybe it was the illusion of intimacy, the idea that he had chosen this time to carry the brand.

Or maybe it was something else. Something softer. Something stupid.

He rubbed the back of his neck and stepped into the shower. The water came on too cold. He didn’t care. He leaned into the tile, letting the stream beat against the back of his shoulders, and closed his eyes.

Cornelia came to him like silk pulled across his mind. Not in pieces. Not in a fragmented montage. But as a full, vivid presence.

He remembered her in his hotel bed— no, on the bed, on all fours, her Capitol manicure digging into the sheets for leverage as she crawled toward him. Still laughing. Still coy. A woman who had been raised on champagne and spotlight, but who slinked across linens like she’d invented seduction. Her hair was longer that night— her extensions, of course— but he liked how it swept over her shoulders and onto his thighs as she moved.

He remembered her gasp when he flipped her onto her back, dragging her wrists above her head with a force that made her freeze for just a second— just long enough to assess— and then she laughed again. 

She’d been warm beneath him. Lit from the inside. Too soft to be real. Her lips had found his throat, his jaw, and lower. Her breathy sighs weren’t Capitol-practiced. They were raw, almost startled, like she hadn’t expected to enjoy herself as much as she did.

Maybe that’s what haunted him. That she wasn’t acting. That, for a few hours, she let herself be real with him.

His jaw tightened. The water was hot now, but it didn’t burn. He reached for the soap, rubbed it mechanically over his chest and arms, but the image of her mouth stayed. He could still feel her there— murmuring something against his collarbone. He hadn’t caught the words. Or maybe he’d refused to hear them.

There were rules. There had always been rules. They were friends, he told himself. Friends who had sex. Friends who happened to have known the hollow ache of Capitol demand. Who knew what it meant to keep secrets, and what it cost to feel good, even briefly. Even guiltily.

Finnick pressed a hand flat against the tile, water trailing down his forearm in long streaks. He thought of how she looked afterward, her lipstick mostly gone, her lashes lopsided. She’d fallen asleep sitting in his lap, her head against his shoulder. He hadn’t moved her for half an hour. Just watched her, bare and vulnerable and quiet.

Cornelia Flickerman, of all people, quiet.

He'd traced her spine with his finger and wondered if she’d even remember in the morning. And she had, of course. She always did.

January, 73 ADD

Contrary to what most believed, Capitol girls were much more perceptive than they let on. It was an art, really, the way they fluttered their lashes and twirled the ends of their hair and acted as if the whole world revolved on the axis of chiffon swatches and lipstick gloss. Cornelia, being one of them, knew just how true that ran. Knew how the pink-tinted world she waltzed through was spun from the sheerest gauze, veiling razor wire beneath. Knew that every squeal, every delighted gasp, every seemingly shallow observation was, in fact, a coded dissection of behavior and secrets.

She had successfully evaded most of the questions thrown her way lately, artfully pirouetting around curiosity with the kind of finesse only Capitol girls mastered. Phaedrus Nomina— handsome, vanilla, and tiresome— had invited her to the Winter Gala five times. Five. She’d said no every time, claiming prior engagements or a packed production schedule. She’d turned down her plus one for Adorabella’s wedding, too, citing work again. No one outright questioned her— it would be unseemly to interrogate a Flickerman— but she could feel the silence bristling.

It was odd, she knew, to have not publicly dated throughout her late teen years. Odder still, now that her twenties were fast approaching, to still not be linked to anyone credible or photogenic or appropriate. She hadn’t even let herself be photographed kissing anyone, a Capitol rite of passage usually completed by sixteen. It was abnormal. But she was a Flickerman. She could claim her career to be of utmost focus and importance. And she did. Regularly. But the problem was— it was growing less and less believable.

Especially when the hickey under her left breast decided to make a surprise appearance in the full-length mirror of a bridal boutique dressing room.

She hadn’t even noticed it. 

Not until Precious shrieked: “OH MY GOD!” 

“What? What?” Cornelia snapped, spinning slightly, her chest bare but unbothered. She’d grown up surrounded by women. They’d all seen her naked. This was normal.

Until she saw her own reflection.

Oh no.

Her mouth fell open as her eyes snagged on the faint but unmistakable bruise blooming just beneath her breast. Vivid. Deep. Purple-edged with reddish teeth-marks. It wasn’t just a hickey— it was one of his. A badge of heat left behind a few nights ago when Finnick had ripped her dress off in one swipe and pushed her into the armchair in his hotel suite, muttering her name like a curse before sinking to his knees. She’d pushed at his chest after the fact, breathless, half-laughing, and he’d apologized, forehead to her collarbone, but she hadn’t minded then. She’d arched into it, into him.

But now?

“Shit,” Cornelia hissed under her breath, scrambling for the bridesmaid dress hanging on the hook beside her. It was the most appalling shade of orange, so loud it practically hummed, and she yanked it down with enough force to unhinge the hanger.

“Oh. My. God,” Precious whined, one hand clamped dramatically over her mouth. “That’s a bite mark! Cornelia! Cornelia Fleur Flickerman!”

“I knew something was going on,” Diamond said smugly, crossing her arms and shifting her weight to one hip. “Adorabella told me that you vanished at your birthday party this year for, what, thirty? Forty minutes?”

“It was fifteen!” Cornelia barked, her voice high with panic as she wrestled the dress over her head. The neckline snagged on her earring, and she nearly toppled trying to yank it back down without ripping a seam.

The dressing room door burst open.

Adorabella— barefoot, in a silky pale pink robe, hair up in hot curlers, holding a mimosa glass in one hand— stood in the doorway with a scowl. “What the hell are you three freaking out about? I could hear you from the next fitting room.”

Cornelia opened her mouth to protest. To lie. To fabricate something vague, something harmless, something to make this moment vanish into glittery fog— but she was beat to it. 

Precious practically leapt into the air with delight, bouncing like a ballerina on too much champagne. “CORNELIA GOT LAID!”

Cornelia covered her face. “Oh, my God.”

Adorabella gasped, then squealed, then tossed her mimosa into a nearby flower vase and clapped her hands with glee. “Who?! Who?!”

“Stop!” Cornelia shouted, hands still over her face. “Stop! He’s no one! Can we please not do this?!”

The glee shifted slightly.

Adorabella stared at her, mouth parting, features stilled. There was a flash of something sharp behind her eyes— hurt, maybe. Offense. Or confusion.

Diamond, still laughing, tried to pull her back in. “You don’t need to be embarrassed! We won’t judge you! We just want to know who got lucky!”

“I can’t tell you!” Cornelia cried, backing toward the dressing bench where her purse lay. “You guys, just stop, okay?!”

They did.

Three glittering girls, perfectly coifed and accessorized, stood blinking at her like dolls on a shelf. For a moment, the air felt heavy. Strained.

Then— Precious, voice high and full of mischief, wiggled her fingers and teased, “Wait! Wait! Is it Finn—?”

“Shut up!” Cornelia hissed, eyes wide, panicked.

Adorabella slapped both hands over her mouth in shock.

Diamond, frozen for only a heartbeat, suddenly burst out laughing— loud, wild laughter that echoed off the mirrored walls. “No way?! Holy shit! For how much?!”

The implication slapped Cornelia across the face like a wet glove. 

For how much?

She stared at Diamond, eyes glassy and jaw slackening. 

It wasn’t the laughter that hurt. It wasn’t even the scandalous tone. It was the assumption. The idea that this— what she had with Finnick— was purchased. Like everything else. A transaction. A secret she’d bought.

Her chest caved in. She moved for her purse.

“Oh—” Diamond stammered, realizing. “Oh. Corn—”

Adorabella, sharp-eyed even with curlers in her hair, whipped out an arm and smacked Diamond’s shoulder with the back of her hand. “Diamond!”

“What?! I didn’t mean—” Diamond tried, but the damage was done.

Cornelia was already turning. Her voice had vanished. Her eyes were glossy and hollow. She grabbed her purse, her lips trembling as she fastened it shut with a shaky snap. Her jaw clenched and she moved quickly for the exit, blinking hard.

Behind her, the other girls stared, momentarily struck speechless. Precious twisted her fingers together. Adorabella looked torn between fury and worry. Diamond opened her mouth, then closed it. Cornelia didn’t say another word as she walked out the doors.

She should have seen this coming. Should have known that the luck would run out and the thrill would dull down into nothing more than panic and cleaning up a mess that had never been hers to get her hands dirtied in. But what she hadn't prepared herself for— what knocked the breath from her lungs harder than Finnick ever had— was the looks on her friends' faces when the truth came out. Not judgment. Not scandalized delight. Not even giddy betrayal, the kind they reserved for Capitol gossip and games. Just disbelief. Hurt. A strange sort of betrayal they hadn’t expected to feel from her.

Because she had lied. Lied by omission. Lied in smiles. Lied every time she changed the subject or dodged a question with a giggle and a clever twirl. And now here she was, heels biting into the soles of her feet, skirts rustling in a shade of citrus sherbet that made her feel like she was glowing against the gray stone walkways of the City Circle. Cornelia Flickerman— Capitol’s darling, Caesar’s daughter, socialite sweetheart— storming through the street in a bridesmaid dress with mascara burning behind her eyes.

People turned to stare— not many, just a few Capitolites with places to be, boutiques to parade into— but it was enough to make her lift her chin higher. Enough to make her blink faster to shove the tears back down.

She heard the footsteps a second too late. Too quick, too determined. Not passerby. Not fans. Friends.

“Go away!” she barked, voice cracking with frustration as she rounded the corner past a white marble pillar that flanked the entrance to the City Circle station. “I mean it!”

Diamond’s hand caught her elbow before she could wrench free again, cool fingers gripping her tightly, eyes blown wide. “Cornelia, stop! Stop for one second, okay?”

“Just—just breathe,” Precious added, slightly winded, her glitter-lined lashes fluttering anxiously. “Please, we’re not mad, we just need to talk to you!”

Cornelia yanked her arms out of their grasp with a sharp twist of her shoulders. Her curls bounced stiffly with the movement, and the stupid strapless neckline of her dress dipped just enough for her to feel even more exposed, even more ridiculous. She opened her mouth to tell them off again, when another pair of footsteps came up behind them.

“I swear, you three run like wild hens,” Adorabella muttered, her cheeks pink and her robe cinched loosely around her waist. Without another word, she reached into the back of Cornelia’s dress and yanked the price tag from the seam, tossing the torn scrap into her bag. “I’ll be right back. I need to pay the tab before that woman at the desk reports us.”

Cornelia gave a strangled, exhausted scoff and rolled her eyes, folding her arms tightly over her chest, as if she could physically hold herself together. 

Diamond took a cautious step forward, her hands raised slightly as if approaching an injured animal. “Cornelia, I didn’t mean it like that, okay? I didn’t mean to say it like— like I was accusing you. It just slipped out. I was shocked, that’s all.”

“She didn’t mean anything,” Precious added quickly, nodding along. “But, really, you could’ve told us. You should’ve told us. We wouldn’t have judged you. I mean… it’s you. You never tell us anything like this.”

“I know you wouldn’t have judged me!” Cornelia snapped, more forcefully than she meant to. Her voice cracked at the edges like blown glass. “I just… he said that no one can know. And I don’t want him to be mad at me.”

She paused, choking on the sudden flush of vulnerability that closed her throat. “We’re not even together. We’re just… friends. We’re not anything.”

Diamond and Precious shared a look.

Precious, ever the one to ask what no one else wanted to, tilted her head. “Why can’t anyone know?”

Cornelia blinked. Stared. Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came. A light breeze caught the hem of her orange dress, flicking it against her knees like a child’s tug.

She couldn’t lie anymore.

Adorabella returned, her dressing robe still fluttering behind her like she hadn’t bothered to retie it. She took one look at the stillness, at Cornelia’s white-knuckled fists and the glint of unshed tears in her waterline.

“I don’t know,” Cornelia finally said. Quiet. Small. Her voice like a snowflake, delicate and disappearing as it touched the air. “He just said… Snow can’t find out.”

There was a beat of silence.

Cornelia’s breath quickened as she stumbled forward into her own spiraling thoughts. “You guys can’t tell anyone. Please. This cannot get out. Not my parents, not Avian, not Homer, not anyone. Please.” Her voice cracked at the end, a whimper tucked behind a whine.

Adorabella looked between them, the sleeves of her robe falling down her forearms as she stepped forward and pulled Cornelia into a hug. It was tight and smelled like vanilla lotion and the boutique’s fireplace. “We won’t say anything. I promise.”

Cornelia’s arms wrapped around her slowly, shakily, and her cheek pressed against Adorabella’s shoulder as she let out a weak, almost childlike sigh. “Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.”

Diamond stood back a moment longer, watching with wide eyes and unreadable silence. Then, as if breaking out of a trance, she moved forward and circled her arms around them too, murmuring an apology into Cornelia’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You know that, right? You know I love you.”

“Yeah,” Cornelia mumbled. “I know.”

Precious bounced into the huddle with a hiccupped sniff and a squeal, wrapping her arms around all of them. “I can’t believe you got a secret lover,” she whined teasingly. “All this time I thought it was gonna be me.”

Cornelia gave a small laugh, raw and watery, as her fingers clutched tighter to the girls’ sleeves.

She hadn’t meant for any of this. Not the secret. Not the ache. Not the stupid, thrilling, dangerous bite mark Finnick had left without thinking. She’d spent years perfecting the art of illusion. Glitter. Lipstick. Witty replies and practiced poise. But somehow, despite all of that, Finnick Odair was still something she couldn’t hide no matter how hard she tried. And she still didn’t know what any of this meant.

Much like a book he had read cover to cover, Cornelia was unbelievably too easy to read.

It very well could have been due to the fact that he was fluent in her by now. Finnick knew the precise quirk of her lips that meant she was hiding a laugh, and which meant she was seconds from rolling her eyes. He knew the texture of her laughter— when it was genuine and when it was rehearsed for an audience. He could tell when her chest fluttered beneath his palms from pleasure or panic. When her toes curled because of him, or when they curled because she wanted to vanish. There were tells— hundreds of them. And now, as she walked into his hotel room like she was on trial, shoulders slightly hunched, heels clicking softer than usual, clutching her purse like a schoolgirl waiting to be scolded— he knew. She was bracing herself.

For what, he didn’t know. But she was preparing for war. And she hadn’t even told him which country she’d bombed.

He sat back against the couch cushions, one arm lazily stretched across the top, his damp hair still curling faintly from the shower he’d taken earlier. The television glowed faintly across the room, muted, the image of some Capitol variety show playing reruns. He didn’t look at it. His eyes were fixed on her— on the way she shut the door softly behind her, turning the lock with one delicate twist of her wrist, then slowly moved across the room like someone approaching a casket.

“What's wrong?” he asked finally, his voice low and even, though the weight in it said enough. He didn’t stand. Just watched her from the couch, his jaw clenched slightly, like he was already calculating whether this was about her father, the press, or something worse.

Cornelia froze halfway to the sitting area. Then, sheepishly, she set her purse down on the edge of the coffee table like it might explode. “Well…” she said, drawing out the syllable. “So, you know how I went to get my bridesmaid dress today?”

Finnick blinked. “Yeah.” He furrowed his eyebrows, waiting. “Why are you bringing that up?”

Cornelia gave him a weak smile—tight, guilty, brimming with all the dread she hadn’t yet spoken aloud. “I… had to undress to try it on.”

Still, he stared. “And?”

“I forgot…” She cringed. “I forgot you left a mark. Under my boob.”

Silence hung for a beat before Finnick blinked once, then groaned.

“The girls know,” she finished, voice small. She tucked a piece of hair behind her ear, even though it wasn’t in her face. It was a nervous tic, and Finnick had seen it enough to know it meant she was spiraling inside.

Finnick’s hand came up to his face in slow motion, dragging down across his mouth and jaw like he could physically wipe the exasperation away. “Oh, fuck,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He inhaled— slowly, deeply— and sat forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes shut like a man trying to stop the room from spinning.

Cornelia immediately scrambled. “Don’t be mad! I’m sorry! I didn’t say anything, I swear! I didn’t! They— I don’t even know how Precious figured it out and said something, and then—”

“You didn’t deny it?” he cut in, lifting his head to shoot her a look that was somewhere between disbelief and mounting frustration. “Cornelia, why the hell wouldn’t you just deny it?”

She blinked, caught between guilt and anger. “Because I’m a horrible liar, Finnick! If I even tried, it was going to make it worse!” Her hands gestured wildly in front of her like the words might take physical shape and protect her.

“You should’ve tried,” he snapped, standing now, his voice rising as he raked a hand through his hair.  “You don’t get it. You think this is just about your friends knowing, but if anyone else finds out, if word gets to him—”

She knew who him was. They never said Snow’s name aloud, as if invoking it might summon the man himself, or worse, the hell that came with him.

“They’re my friends!” Cornelia shouted back, matching his volume now. “They swore they wouldn’t say anything!”

“You Capitol girls really don’t get it, do you?” Finnick shot back, louder than he meant to, words crackling out of him with years of fury behind them. “You think secrets are favors and lies don’t cost anything, because nothing ever costs you. You’re all too damn privileged to understand how any of this actually works.”

As soon as he said it, he regretted it. Not because it wasn’t true— maybe it was, in the dark and cynical way most truths are— but because of the way she looked at him. She had stared, honeyed eyes wide and glossy with something awful. Not tears, not quite. Just disbelief. Hurt blooming like a bruise that wouldn’t be hidden under all the pink in Panem.

She said nothing. Didn’t throw another insult back. Didn’t plead. Just blinked once, slow and blank, then turned on her heel and walked back to the table in silence.

And that silence— it made something sick curl inside Finnick’s chest. He hated that silence more than he’d hated her shouting. At least when she shouted, she was still fighting him. Still trying.

She reached her purse with shaking fingers, but before she could hook it in the crook of her elbow, Finnick crossed the room. When he reached out to stop her, to touch her wrist, she spun and hit him— palm flat against his arm, more a flinch than a blow.

“Don’t,” she said sharply, her voice cracking on the single word. “Let me go.”

But Finnick wasn’t a man who let people go. Not like this.

He caught her hand again when she went to push past him, more insistently this time. She smacked his chest once, twice, harder the third time, little fists pounding like she was trying to shatter something— him, maybe, or herself. But then, as his other arm went around her waist and pulled her close, Cornelia just collapsed.

Not into sobs. Not into tears. She simply gave up. Gave in.

Her breathing came in shallow, fast pants. Her body went still against his, forehead resting against the bare skin of his collarbone, shoulders trembling. Finnick felt the rise and fall of her chest against his with every shaky inhale. Her curls brushed his jaw. Her hands gripped the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering her to the room.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice small, broken, a hundred miles away from the Cornelia Flickerman on the silver screens of Panem. “I’m sorry, I’m so stupid. I forgot. I didn’t mean—”

“No,” Finnick said firmly, cutting her off before she could unravel further. His voice wasn’t gentle, but it was quiet. “Don’t do that.”

She said nothing after that.

He didn’t move for a long time. Just held her. Let her lean. Let her breathe. The top of her head tucked under his chin, her perfume the same sugared berries, her shampoo the same caramelized pistachio.

When she finally began to slow— her breathing no longer frantic, just tight— Finnick pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes scanned her face, and for once, he didn’t try to read her like a mark. He just looked. And she let him.

“You staying?” he asked softly, words not a command, not a plea. Just a question. A threadbare invitation.

Cornelia nodded with a tiny tilt of her head and a faint lowering of her lashes. Finnick reached for her hand again and gave it a gentle tug. They crossed the room together. No more yelling. No more biting words.

The bed wasn’t made. The room smelled faintly of hotel linen and the aftershave Finnick had used that morning. Cornelia sat on the edge like she didn’t quite know how to be still. Finnick sat beside her, leaned back on his hands, and didn’t touch her yet. He gave her the space to decide what this would be.

She eventually leaned into him, her head falling softly onto his shoulder. And slowly, his head rested against hers.

They hadn’t spoken or touched one another in the past two hours. Not since Cornelia had slipped into the bathroom, face flushed and posture defensive. Finnick had heard the water running for a while— a sink faucet, not a shower— followed by the quiet sounds of drawers being opened, closed, and then the rustle of fabric as she changed into one of the old pastel silk nightgowns she kept stashed in the bottom drawer of the dresser. She’d worn that pale one tonight— the icy blue with the scalloped neckline and the slightly sheer hem. She always joked it was her best look that made her look like a femme fatale, but there was no performance in it now. Just Cornelia, not meeting his eyes, climbing silently into the far side of the bed.

Finnick, for his part, had barely moved. He lay shirtless on top of the sheets, one hand beneath his head, the other resting loosely on his chest. The lights were dimmed— just the wall sconce near the bed still on, throwing amber across the room and painting shadows along the crests of his collarbone. He’d thought about saying something. An apology, maybe. A joke about how this was probably the first night they hadn’t had sex since their arrangement began. Even a dry “Goodnight.” But to say anything at all would be to acknowledge it. To puncture the quiet with something real. And maybe— just maybe— that would make it harder to pretend the fight earlier that day hadn’t happened.

He’d gone too far. Or maybe she had. Maybe they both had. It didn’t matter. But the look she’d given him before attempting to storm out— that was something he couldn’t unsee. And that wasn’t supposed to happen in a casual affair. That wasn’t supposed to hurt.

He exhaled slowly and closed his eyes.

Then the bed shifted.

Just a breath of weight at first. The cotton of the sheets stirring. Then the subtle slide of skin against silk as Cornelia turned, drew closer by inches rather than words. Finnick opened one eye— just barely— and watched as her delicate wrist appeared between them, followed by the faint curve of her shoulder beneath the thin strap of her nightgown. Her face was turned toward him now, lashes lowered, lips set in a small, unreadable line.

He let the moment sit there. Fragile. Breathing.

Then, with a quiet, almost weary sigh, he lifted his arm and offered her a space beside him.

Cornelia took it without a word, tucking herself in against his side, her cheek resting over the center of his chest, right above the scar near his heart. She didn’t touch him otherwise. No hand on his stomach. No leg draped over his. Just her breath warming his skin, slow and rhythmic.

They lay that way for several more minutes. Then, barely above a whisper, she said, “I’m sorry I hit your chest.”

Finnick blinked. The apology caught him off guard— not because she didn’t mean it, but because she so rarely said the words first. Especially when she felt humiliated. Especially when she was trying not to cry.

He looked down at her, the corners of his mouth twitching. “I walked into that one.”

Cornelia snorted softly, the noise muffled against his chest. She tried to bite it back, but a laugh slipped out anyway. A short one, watery at the edges.

“You’re corny,” she muttered.

He grinned. “That’s you." He hummed. "I should start calling you that. Corny Flickerman. Has a nice ring to it.”

Her groan was theatrical as she rolled her eyes and buried her face into his skin. "No. You're the corny one."

Finnick’s grin widened, and then he turned slightly onto his side, wrapping his arm more firmly around her shoulders. “You know what happens to girls who call me corny?”

“What?” she asked warily, glancing up.

He didn’t answer— just started tickling her side, fingers slipping over the silk of her nightgown, pressing into her waist.

“Finnick!” she shrieked, squirming. “Stop! I’m ticklish!”

“That’s the point.”

“Stop! I mean it!” Her laughter bubbled over, all breath and squeals, her arms pushing at his wrists, trying to escape. But he rolled with her, still tickling, the covers tangling around them until he was leaning over her fully, one leg between hers, both of them breathless.

He grinned down at her, that stupid, crooked grin that always made her forget why she was mad. “Say you take it back.”

“Take what back?” she gasped, still wriggling. Her hair was a mess, lashes wet, mouth pink from laughing.

“Say I’m not corny.”

“No!”

He leaned in and kissed her nose.

“No,” she said again, giggling.

He kissed her cheek.

“No,” she whispered.

He kissed her forehead, her temple, her jaw.

Then her lips.

And everything stilled for a moment.

Their laughter faded into quiet. Cornelia's hands, which had been fending him off a second ago, slid up his arms. Her legs tangled around his waist, pulling him closer. And Finnick— without thinking, without overanalyzing— kissed her again. Longer. Slower. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about pretending or forgetting. Just feeling. Needing.

Her fingers curled into his hair. His hand slipped beneath her nightgown, fingertips brushing the curve of her hip as he nudged the hem higher. He broke the kiss only to press his mouth to her throat, then lower, kissing down the side of her neck with unhurried precision, finding the softest parts of her skin and lingering there.

Cornelia exhaled shakily, letting her head fall back against the pillow, her arms still wound tight around his neck. “You don't have to do this,” she murmured.

Finnick didn’t answer. Just kissed the hollow of her collarbone and whispered against her skin, “Do what?”

“This,” she said, breathless. “Try and make it up to me. I'm not even mad at you.”

His hand paused against her thigh, still beneath the nightgown. He didn’t lift his head.

“Do you want to stop?” he asked, so quietly it might have been the sheets whispering.

Cornelia blinked up at the ceiling, eyes wide and slightly glassy. Then she tightened her arms around him and said, just as softly, “No.”

Finnick closed his eyes. He let himself exhale into her skin, let the moment stretch without trying to own it, define it, or chase it away. He kissed her again, on the shoulder this time, lips lingering as he continued his venture down her arm and chest. The hem of her nightgown slid further up her thighs, his hands gently gripping her hips and eliciting a sigh from Cornelia when one of Finnick's hands slid to the damp front of her satin panties.

February, 73 ADD

Karma came in many different forms and on its own schedule. Cornelia Flickerman had known this since the day she was old enough to sneak into her father's dressing room and try on his rhinestone blazers, only to trip on the hem and split her lip on the makeup counter. She’d worn red glitter gloss for days afterward to hide the bruise.

There was always a price for a little bit of glitter. A balance. And she’d always known it. Still, she had hoped— with the kind of foolish, frosted-over optimism she specialized in— that she'd managed to escape any punishments this time. That the late-night entanglement with Finnick, intense and quiet and unresolved, wouldn’t catch up with her. That the gods of consequence had blinked and missed it. But she should have known better than to believe she was exempt.

Cornelia had many bad habits— ones she wrapped in bows and excuses and called by sweeter names— but chief among them was denial. She liked to believe that her consistent state of dehydration, brought on by a willful refusal to drink anything not flavored, chilled, or topped with whipped cream, was the cause of her current predicament. She told herself it was the iced coffee, the fizzy berry cocktails, the lack of plain water. But she also knew better than to lie to herself when the nurse had raised a finely waxed brow and passed her a set of sample antibiotics and a half-creased pamphlet titled: Intimacy— Staying Sweet and Safe.

So, begrudgingly, Cornelia huffed and accepted the prescription pills to lessen the symptoms and heal whatever bacteria had made their way into her urinary tract— likely by way of one very handsome and emotionally distant Victor. The receptionist told her to drink cranberry tea. Cornelia had blinked slowly and replied, “I’d rather die.”

Which was, of course, melodramatic. But melodrama was part of the Flickerman DNA. She left the Capitol medical center that afternoon in an oversized pearl-pink sunglasses and a soft faux-fur bolero, her heels clacking delicately against the glistening marble streets as she made her way toward her favorite sanctuary in times of personal humiliation: a dainty, overpriced, and very aesthetic little café nestled between a perfumery and an avant-garde hat boutique.

The walk was short, but the heat was stifling, even for the Capitol. The sun gleamed against the gilded statues and the neon-flashing billboards that coiled around the towering skyline. She walked past a rotating floral sculpture that released scented mist at timed intervals— jasmine, today. Probably part of some new fragrance campaign.

Cornelia didn't look at anyone directly, but everyone saw her. She had that kind of presence. Even in a slightly wrinkled linen romper and oversized sunglasses, she walked like she belonged on camera.

Inside, the barista recognized her immediately, which was both a perk and a curse.

“Miss Flickerman,” he said, sliding a pair of lavender-colored sunglasses up onto his head. “The usual?”

“Tiramisu latte. Iced,” she replied. “And add an extra shot too, pretty please."

When it arrived— layered beautifully with espresso, cream, vanilla foam, and a dusting of cocoa— she took a long sip through the gold straw and sighed dreamily.

Then, she walked. Down the main boulevard of the Capitol, past boutiques that shimmered like gemstones and street vendors hawking glitter popcorn and sequin-stitched gloves. Her heels clicked as she walked past open window displays, past robotic mannequins posing with the latest seasonal corsets and gemstone eyewear.

The giant screens above her rotated through their daily loop of curated Capitol content. First, a skincare campaign featuring two stylists turned influencers, surrounded by glowing peonies and flecks of rose-gold sparkles. Next, a teaser for an upcoming concert tribute to a past Victor, full of sentimental strings and aerial dancers. 

Then came him. Her father’s face lit up the side of a glittering tower, mid-laugh, hands outstretched as he stood center stage.

Cornelia grinned. There was no one like her father. He was ageless in the way that only Capitol personalities could be— surgical touch-ups so precise they didn’t read as vain, just enchanted. He looked like joy incarnate. Bright blue wig combed back, suit shimmering, smile wide and white. Her heart tugged, as it always did when she saw him like that. Not because he was famous— she’d grown up with fame like wallpaper— but because he was good at it. Even after all these years.

She took another sip of her latte. And then she saw the next segment roll in— paparazzi footage this time of Finnick. Grainy, zoomed-in images of him exiting a car late at night. A midnight-blue suit jacket unbuttoned. A faint bruise visible on his collarbone. There were two Capitol citizens clinging to his arms— older women, both of them dramatically dressed and heavily styled, though neither of their faces was clear. It was an image meant to spark a thousand theories and gossip threads, none of which ever reached the truth. The headline below the footage read: “Odair’s Midnight Rendezvous: Two’s Company, Three’s a Capitol Evening.”

Cornelia paused, her lips still wrapped around the straw. She stared for a long moment, the ice melting in her drink as the footage looped— Finnick smiling for the cameras, then ducking his head, then disappearing into the entrance of a lavish Capitol suite with his clients.

He looked tired. Not fake-tired, not the kind of tired that called for attention. More hollowed out. His smile didn’t quite touch his eyes and his steps were just slightly off-beat, as if his body and his mind were moving at different speeds.

Cornelia took another sip. She wasn’t mad. Not at him. She just felt tired, too. She turned her gaze back to the street. The screens glimmered above her, Finnick’s face still lingering in the corner of her vision like a phantom limb.

Her coffee was almost gone, the final sip more ice than flavor. She tilted the cup to catch the last drop on her tongue and tossed the cup into a gleaming trash bin. Then she kept walking, her chin lifted, her sunglasses reflecting the city back at itself. Because Capitol girls knew how to smile through bruises. And Cornelia Flickerman— daughter of Caesar, wielder of glitter, survivor of Finnick Odair’s silences— was nothing if not Capitol.

Chapter Text

March, 73 ADD

CORNELIA KICKED IN HER SLEEP. It wasn’t unbearable— Finnick could still get a reasonable six hours of sleep without being roused— but it was just frequent enough to be a thing. An elbow here, a twitching knee there, and every now and then, a full-bodied twist that landed a pointed foot directly into his shin or, gods help him, somewhere more delicate that left him grumbling under his breath into the pillow. 

The worst part was, it wasn’t even consistent. She didn’t do it every night. It was always when he least expected it, when he let himself relax too much. And she never remembered in the morning, of course. Just blinked at him blearily and nuzzled into his chest as she yawned and mumbled that she needed coffee. He made sure to give her plenty of grief for it later on in the day— dramatic groaning, exaggerated limping, sometimes a hand clutched to his chest like he’d been wounded by her in the most theatrical sense.

This morning, though, he found himself watching her for a moment longer.

Cornelia lay tangled in the cream-colored sheets of his hotel bed, face smushed into the pillow. She was on her side, facing him, though he wasn’t sure she was aware of it. Her mouth was open, slack with sleep, a small crescent of dried drool tracing the corner of her lips. Finnick squinted and tried not to laugh.

One of her hands had curled into a loose fist and tucked against her cheek, wrist bent, elbow out. Her hair was a mess— brown strands everywhere, some stuck to her forehead, others fanned out across his shoulder. She looked, impossibly, like herself. No makeup. No dramatics. No show. Just Cornelia, soft and sprawling and very much not the polished debutante the rest of Panem knew.

Finnick propped himself up on one elbow and looked at her in silence. He didn’t stay the night with clients. That was a rule. A boundary he’d learned early on. He kept the transaction clean, closed it out, and left before the awkward lull could settle. He wasn’t a lover. He wasn’t even allowed to be a man. He was a product. Polished, presented, paid for. Staying the night with a client blurred too many lines.

Not that he was comparing Cornelia to them. Not even at his most bitter or burned would he have lumped her into that group. She was a lot of things— exhausting, infuriating, shamelessly spoiled— but she wasn’t that.

The routine with her was new. Strange. A ritual that had crept up on them both like ivy along the side of a wall. At first, she used to leave before dawn. Slipped out of the sheets like a whisper, clothes in hand, hair in a mess, muttering something about making it home before her parents noticed she was gone. Sometimes she’d scrawl a lipstick note on the bathroom mirror. Sometimes she’d kiss his temple so softly he almost dreamed it.

But now her friends were in on it. Finnick had hated that. The idea of more people knowing. More people whispering. More people looking at him like something to be analyzed and pitied. But Cornelia had sworn to him that they could cover for her. Back up her stories. Stage pictures together for evidence. Laugh and lie and preserve the illusion for her parents and Caesar and the rest of the Capitol who still thought their beloved daughter was scandal-proof.

And Finnick tolerated them. He wouldn’t say he liked them— he didn’t do liking when it came to Capitol people— but he tolerated them. They made Cornelia smile, and they were smart enough not to talk too much when he was in the room. He would never admit that. Not to her. Not to anyone.

His gaze returned to her face. She stirred slightly, her brow twitching. A breath caught in her throat before it released on a snore. Finnick smirked to himself and reached out, poking her nose gently with one finger.

She scrunched it in reflex, like a bunny tickled in its sleep.

“Time to get up,” he murmured. “You’ve got bridal brunch duties.”

No response.

“C’mon,” he tried again, brushing a few strands of hair away from her forehead, letting his fingers linger at her temple for a moment. His voice dropped an octave, slow and half-laughing. “Adorabella told me to make sure you were on time.” He paused. “And, she said that you were in charge of setting up the centerpieces. So you need to be early.”

That did it.

Cornelia groaned dramatically and flopped onto her back, raising one arm over her eyes. “Ugh. I hate her.”

Finnick reached for the edge of the blanket and gave it a dramatic tug. “Mm, well. You can hate all of it while upright.”

She rolled onto her side, groaning dramatically, then finally sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She tugged at the hem of the oversized shirt she’d slept in—one of Finnick’s, of course, faded and soft from years of use— and glared at him over her shoulder as she stood.

“You’re such an ass,” she said, but there was no bite in it.

“You’ve got a nice one, though.” He grinned. “Very symmetrical.”

Cornelia made a face at him, pulled the hem of the shirt further down over her hips, and padded barefoot into the bathroom. The door shut behind her but didn’t lock it. She never locked any doors. Never had a reason to shut people out fully. Not like him. 

Finnick flopped back onto the mattress with an exhale. He could hear the soft sounds of her getting ready— water running, cabinet opening, the quick click of compacts and brushes and perfume bottles shifting across the vanity. He let the sound wash over him like white noise.

The ceiling above him was mirrored— Capitol decadence at its most grotesque. He stared up at his own reflection, tousled and faintly bruised, and let his eyes drift closed for a second.

His shin still throbbed faintly from where Cornelia had kicked him earlier in the night. Not sharp pain. More of a dull ache, a bruised pulse beneath the skin. He touched the spot idly with one hand, pressing lightly.

It made him smile.

Stupidly.

The sort of smile he might have mocked someone else for having. But there it was. Because it was the kind of ache he didn’t mind carrying. A reminder that she’d been there. That she was still in his life. That not everything had to hurt to be his.

When Cornelia finally emerged, she looked transformed. Hair freshly curled and pinned at the sides, makeup artfully done with just enough shimmer to look like effort and not desperation. Her dress was pale pink, the color of a cherry blossom after rain, and she paired it with pearl earrings and a haughty expression. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she packed the last of her things into a cream-colored overnight bag.

Finnick, still sprawled in bed with a lazy smirk, lifted one hand and beckoned her over.

She raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“C’mere.”

Cornelia rolled her eyes, but her mouth quirked into a smile. She trotted over in quick, dainty steps and leaned down to press a kiss to his lips. Just a peck. Quick and soft. Nothing dramatic.

She stroked his cheek with the backs of her fingers, affection lingering in the gesture. “Buh-bye.”

And just like that, she turned and waltzed out the door.

Finnick listened to the fading click of her heels down the hallway, then glanced up again at the mirrored ceiling above him. His own reflection blinked back at him, and he reached down again to rub his shin. 

Still sore. Still there. Somehow, he liked that. As if a part of her— loud, lovely, frustrating Cornelia— was still here with him. Even after the door closed. Even when she was back in that world of veneer and glitter.

The centerpieces were arranged with pearls and an assortment of florals that Cornelia had picked up at the florist on her way to the café.

They sat in delicate glass bowls that caught the morning light like they were made of spun sugar, surrounded by soft peonies, ranunculus, and creamy garden roses. Pink, ivory, blush, and peach— soft, indulgent colors that whispered domestic bliss in a distinctly Capitol accent.

Diamond had, conveniently, arrived early as well— lingering over placement cards and mimosa glasses with a managerial authority she hadn’t exactly been assigned. Cornelia knew exactly what that meant. That Adorabella hadn’t trusted her to slip out of the hotel and Finnick’s arms with enough time to help prepare. 

She had proven them both wrong. Much to her amusement and her ego’s infinite relief. Now, her only job was to sit back, drink mimosas with her friends, and smile when necessary.

The café was one of those boutique establishments in the Inner City Circle, designed to look effortlessly charming and impossibly curated. The walls were robin’s egg blue with gilded trim, the ceilings hung with cut-crystal chandeliers that sparkled like frost. Small tables were arranged in concentric circles, with pastel macarons and custom name placards and gold-tipped cutlery placed just so.

Adorabella herself was a flurry of silk tulle and perfumed excitement, gliding from table to table in a bridal-white jumpsuit with embroidered sleeves and an oversized bow down the back. Her hair was in an updo crafted by a professional and fastened with fresh baby’s breath, and she laughed with her whole chest every time someone complimented the arrangements or brought up the engagement photoshoot.

Cornelia, Diamond, and Precious were nestled at a table toward the back, one with a slightly obstructed view of the main entrance but the best angle for people-watching— Cornelia’s specialty. She twirled the stem of her third mimosa idly between her fingers. The flute had started to sweat, condensation dripping lazily onto the pristine linen napkin beneath it.

Diamond was retelling a story from rehearsal dinner planning, gesturing animatedly with one hand while Precious laughed into her glass and tried not to spill. Cornelia was smiling, polite, a little distant. She tilted her chin toward the group and nodded at the right moments. Her shoes were uncomfortable, but her lipstick hadn’t faded, and she was reasonably pleased with her hair.

Everything was under control.

Until it wasn’t.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cornelia saw a woman in bright yellow.

It wasn’t just the color— it was the shade. Lurid, unnatural, almost radioactive lemon chiffon, like something designed to dazzle and disorient. Her hair was the same tone. Thick and voluminous, curled to perfection and pinned into a half-up style that bounced when she moved. An emerald necklace caught the light at her collar, so green it almost glowed, and the stones were unmistakably real.

Cornelia blinked, still smiling vaguely as her gaze locked.

There was something about the woman’s face. Something sharp in the chin, delicate in the brow arch. High cheekbones, cupid’s bow.

Where had she seen the woman before?

Her glass paused mid-sip. She stared. Just a second too long. Just enough for the conversation to float past her and the edges of the room to blur slightly at the corners.

“Cornelia.”

A soft touch on her arm snapped her out of it. Diamond leaned toward her with a raised brow, mouth tugging into a question mark.

Cornelia blinked again and looked over.

“Sorry,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. She leaned in a fraction, voice lower now, amused but tentative. “Does the woman over there look familiar to you? With the yellow hair and the emerald necklace?”

Diamond turned, followed her gaze with practiced discretion, and squinted slightly.

“Oh. That’s Eutychia.”

Cornelia stilled. The name slid into her brain like a shard of glass.

“Cerulean’s sister from University. Why?”

Cornelia didn’t answer right away. She stared for another second.

And then she knew.

It hit her not like a slap but like ice water to the back of the neck— slow, creeping, undeniable.

She had seen Eutychia in a paparazzi shot with Finnick. One of those blurry, invasive ones snapped from too far away. They’d both been mid-conversation— Finnick in a suit, Eutychia in a low-cut dress and smiling faintly. It had been a short piece. A filler story on her father’s show. Cornelia had seen it months ago and pretended she hadn’t.

And now she was here. At Adorabella’s bridal shower. Wearing yellow and emeralds like a warning sign.

Cornelia looked away, went very still. Her spine straightened. Her mimosa trembled faintly in her hand. She went pale. The blood left her face in an instant, but not her mind— her mind was a stampede of white noise and spiraling thoughts and—

Don’t look at her again. Don’t look at her again. Don’t look—

“Cornelia?”

Precious looked between the two of them with concern. “What happened?”

Diamond shrugged, lips parted slightly in confusion, eyes flitting to Cornelia as if trying to solve the same puzzle.

Cornelia didn’t speak. She just picked up her mimosa and finished it in one long swallow. The bubbles burned, but not enough. The warmth that should have bloomed in her stomach settled instead in her throat like acid. Her eyes stung. Her fingers trembled.

Do not cry. Do not throw up. Do not ruin this.

She licked her lips, placed the empty flute on the table, and forced herself to take a breath. Then another. This was Adorabella’s day. She was not going to ruin it.

Another breath. Shaky, shallow. She could feel the back of her neck sweating beneath her curls.

“You good?” Diamond asked again, a little more sharply now.

Cornelia nodded. A tiny, forced smile that didn’t come close to her eyes. “Fine.”

She wasn’t. But she would be. Because she had to be. Because she could not— would not— fall apart at a bridal shower over a man she wasn’t even officially seeing. A man who had kissed her like she was a lifeline and then disappeared into a shower like she was a footnote. A man who had bruises on his wrists from people who wore diamonds on theirs. A man she had told herself she could handle. A man she could not— should not— ever fall for.

Cornelia pressed the napkin to her lips and turned back to the conversation. Smiled again, as if nothing had shifted.

Get through it, she told herself. Smile. Breathe. Don’t look at her again.

The mimosas kept coming. So did the lies. And Cornelia was a bad liar.

April, 73 ADD

Calpurnia Lockhearth-Flickerman had wanted to be a stylist.

Taffeta and tulle had been what sparked joy for her in her elementary years— the stiff folds of gowns she stitched together in secret with glitter glue and staple guns, her fingers sticky and glitter-dusted for days afterward. It was never about utility. It was never about comfort. It was about the shine. The glimmer. The transformation. That moment when a hemline swirled just right or a shoulder seam fell dramatically low, and something plain became something powerful.

But her mother had written it off as a petty job.

“To design clothing,” she’d scoffed once, over breakfast, a nutrient wafer clutched in one hand like an unlit cigar, “for others to wear and parade around in like wind-up dolls? Why not be the doll, Calpurnia?”

It was better, according to her mother, to be served than to service. To be the one lit by the flashbulbs. Not the one hemming the sleeves behind a frosted mirror.

So instead, Calpurnia had turned her sights to media. To reporting. To communications, which could still play dress-up but with diction instead of draping. It was acceptable, her mother had said, in a voice that implied faint praise, like handing a runner-up medal to someone who'd come in a very distant second. “Just remember,” she had said, tapping Calpurnia’s cheek with one manicured finger, “the cameras add weight, darling.”

That had been the end of any pleasure taken in frosting-dipped croissants or honeyed peaches.

By the next semester, Calpurnia was on a liquid diet of only Capitol-approved clears and appetite suppressants. She’d cut out all carbs and sugars. Her bones had begun to show in her collar when she tilted her head just right, and only then had her mother looked satisfied.

Capitol elegance required sacrifice. It always had.

Now, decades later, Calpurnia moved through the Flickerman villa the way one might move through a museum— quietly, reverently, but with the faintest air of ownership. She was up earlier than usual, wrapped in a pale blush robe with silk piping and soft fur slippers that padded over the marbled floor. The sun had only just begun its slow crawl over the horizon, sending slivers of warm light across the mirrored corridor walls and brushing gold onto the chandeliers.

The household staff would be arriving soon to dust the marble statuettes in the foyer and prepare the steam press for Caesar’s suits. An Avox had already polished the morning fruit bowls the night prior. But for now, it was just Calpurnia and the quiet.

She passed by the powder room, pausing to check her reflection. Her silver-blonde hair, still curled from yesterday’s appointment, was pinned back in a tasteful low twist. No eye bags. No wrinkles— none that showed, anyway. The beauty cream she used was top of the line, infused with synthetic nightrose stem cells and tested on tributes from District 3. She dabbed once at the corner of her mouth with the sleeve of her robe, adjusted the thin satin sash tied at her waist, and continued.

Past the trophy gallery. Past the secondary parlour. Past Caesar’s office, the door closed and locked, as always, until she came to Cornelia’s room. The door, painted a shade of shell-pink that shimmered in the morning light, was closed but not sealed.

Calpurnia paused. She placed one perfectly manicured hand on the brass doorknob and twisted it gently. The door gave with a soft click.

Inside, the bedroom was cast in a silvery half-darkness. Cornelia’s bedroom walls were adorned in muted blush damask, accented with polished rose-gold sconces and a ceiling so delicately stenciled it looked painted by moths. The curtains— triple layered silk— had been drawn halfway, letting thin slices of sunrise pattern the floor like ribbon candy.

And on the massive four-poster bed, tangled in a sea of plush quilts and pale satin sheets, was Cornelia sound asleep and cocooned. Only a lump beneath the pale rose coverlet, the soft crown of her hair barely visible. She’d tucked the duvet entirely over her head like a child hiding from monsters. Calpurnia stood in the doorway, her fingers still curled around the knob, and studied her daughter in silence. The clock on the bedside ticked faintly. 

Her blue-gray eyes, still sharp even in her fifties, scanned the unmoving form of her daughter— looking, perhaps, for something. A rise and fall of breath. A sign of restlessness. A telltale flutter of the blankets. She looked for clues like she’d once read society pages: hoping for gossip but ready for scandal. But Cornelia didn’t stir. She lay like a ghost beneath expensive fabric.

Calpurnia’s expression didn’t shift. Her gaze lingered, flat but not unfeeling. A mother’s stare. A Capitol mother’s stare— trained more toward preservation than affection.

She took in the rumpled sheets. The pile of Cornelia’s clothes slouched over a chaise in the corner— last night’s dress, shoes discarded beneath it. The faint scent of perfume still hung in the air, but it had dulled overnight. Mixed now with the sharper scent of something male. Something not quite familiar. Her eyes flicked to the bedside table.

A hair tie. A glass of water, half-drunk. A gold cuff bracelet. A small packet of breath-freshener mints torn open and discarded beside a folded napkin from the hotel across the boulevard. Calpurnia’s nostrils flared faintly. She pulled the door closed with the gentlest of clicks and walked away. She didn’t bother to sigh.

What was there to sigh about? She had raised Cornelia with precision, with polish, with the right balance of caution and opulence. If Cornelia chose to let herself be seen leaving a hotel in yesterday’s makeup, if she preferred to slink into her own bed before sunrise with a Capitol boy’s cologne still soaked into her hair, then that was her business. 

She passed back through the trophy gallery. Past the mirrored hallway. Past the powder room, where she paused only to reapply her lip gloss with a practiced hand.

By the time the staff arrived and the villa began to fill with the scent of warm tea and citron polenta, Calpurnia was seated in the sunroom with her daily planner open, her lips pressed together.

If Cornelia wanted to play with fire, she could. But Calpurnia Lockhearth-Flickerman had once burned the whole matchbook. She already knew how the story ended.

May, 73 ADD

It was Cornelia’s twentieth birthday. Her birthday party was today. Finnick knew— of course he knew— just how extravagant and frilly and glittery the event would be if he were there. He could see it without even closing his eyes: the crystalized tulle gowns, the champagne fountains tinted pink, the live string quartet. He imagined her laughing at the wrong moment just to throw them off, imagined her spinning in the center of the room as if she’d choreographed her own spotlight.

She would’ve pulled him into a dance if he were there. Forced it on him with a flourish and a roll of her eyes, called him something ridiculous and clung to him like they were the evening’s entertainment. It would’ve annoyed him, in the way she always managed to do, right before her perfume made him forget he was supposed to be annoyed.

Instead, Finnick was in a hotel room that looked the same as any other. The same cream walls, the same stiff floral pattern etched into the corners of the ceiling. The same crack above the dresser— maybe a little longer than last time— and the same rust-colored blotch on the carpet near the baseboard heater. He didn’t know what it was and didn’t want to.

Everything was dulled by the static roar in his skull.

He focused on the details— the ceiling pattern, the wallpaper peeling slightly near the window— to tether himself to now. To remind himself that this moment was not forever, that it would pass, that the body beneath the bruises was still his.

In the years that he had known Cornelia— even before their arrangement had begun, before the quiet nights and quieter mornings— he had never missed one of her parties. Never. He’d be late, sure. Sometimes fashionably so. But he always came.

This year, he wouldn’t. This was the first year he wasn’t going. The first year he cared enough to notice. And he knew that Cornelia would notice too. How could she not? She had spent over an hour describing her dress alone the last time they were together. Laid across his chest like she belonged there and detailed the whole evening she had planned. She’d counted the dessert table items aloud on her fingers— “there’s going to be a rose petal meringue, three kinds of candied fruit, and a white chocolate sculpture of a swan!”— as if it were a recipe for joy. As if he wouldn’t still be tasting her words long after she left.

Finnick had smiled— at least he thought he had— and told her he’d be there, of course he would, wouldn’t miss it for the world. Only, he wasn’t there. And she would be upset. Hurt. Disappointed. All of the above, and more, dressed up in rhinestones and lip gloss.

But he also knew she wouldn’t want to see him like this. No one did.

The client of the night had been rough. Rougher than most recent ones— enough that Finnick had lost track of time at several points. Not that time mattered during those encounters. Not really. He only noticed it by the bruises, later, or the soreness in his jaw where he clenched it too hard.

This one had liked inflicting things. Scratches, mostly. But bites too. Deep enough to bruise. Deep enough to mark. One was on the curve of his shoulder, a ring of purple teeth marks that still throbbed when he moved. Another on the inside of his thigh. Others layered down his back and ribcage like tally marks someone had kept for fun.

His chest was streaked with red lines. His wrists were sore from where he’d braced himself against the headboard. His neck felt sunburned, hot and tight with broken skin. He didn’t know the client’s name. He hadn’t asked. He’d gone through the motions, just like he always did. Smiled where he had to, moaned when expected, made the jokes that covered the cracks in the walls of his soul.

Then he’d left, returned to his suite. But not smoothly. Something in him had snapped. The side table near the door had lost a leg. A delicate bronze one with a swan-footed curl. The vase hit the wall a moment later.  He couldn’t stop pacing. Couldn’t stop feeling his own skin, raw and humming, like it didn’t belong to him anymore. The Capitol suite— plush, cold, over-decorated— felt like a glass coffin.

His hand found the edge of the bedframe and yanked the sheets off. They came with a vengeance, dragging the mattress pad slightly askew. The remote control for the television fell to the floor with a clatter. The chair by the window was next. He pushed it hard enough that it scraped sideways and banged against the wall, knocking loose a framed watercolor of some distant coastline. Not his. Not home. Home didn’t exist anymore.

He let out a sound then— wordless, almost surprised by its own volume— and drove his fist into the dresser. The wood dented, splintered slightly beneath his knuckles. He welcomed the pain. Welcomed the sting of something real. 

Then the mirror. It was tall, mounted just above the vanity table. Capitol-issue. Gilded. Delicate. A man-made masterpiece meant for decoration rather than function.

Finnick stepped in front of it and stared. He barely recognized himself. The bite on his shoulder had begun to bruise fully now, dark purple at the edges. His chest was scraped and flushed. His lower lip was split. There was a dark bruise on his jaw he hadn’t noticed until this moment. He looked like he’d been in a fight. Not just with the client, but with something deeper. Something within. And maybe he had.

He raised his fist.

The mirror shattered on the first hit, a jagged spiderweb of glass cracking across the surface, splintering his reflection into a dozen disjointed shards. One fell forward and hit the carpet with a soft thud.

He stared at the pieces. Each one held part of his face. His mouth in one. His eyes in another. His neck, bloodstreaked, in the lowest corner. Finnick Odair, divided and refracted. Not real. Not whole. Not him. He leaned forward and braced his hands on the vanity, chest rising and falling like he’d run a mile underwater. 

Cornelia would be blowing out candles right about now, making a wish in front of a hundred cameras, smiling like her life had never hurt her, while he couldn’t even remember how it felt to breathe without aching.

Cornelia was many things. She was upbeat, dramatic, sometimes oblivious, and vain— which, she was working on. Amongst those, she was not intuitive. Not in the way that people like her father were, reading rooms with invisible radar and picking up social cues like polished stones at the beach. No, Cornelia lived in a world sculpted by mood lighting and surface-level brightness, a world where things were glittery or tragic but rarely complicated.

But tonight, something was different. Something had settled into her chest like a too-heavy pendant around her neck, dangling cold against her collarbones. It pulsed softly, just beneath the skin, like a reminder she couldn’t shake.

She sat at her dressing table, legs crossed at the ankle, still in the silky champagne-colored slip she’d changed into after the party, and reached up to gently comb out the remaining curls in her hair. They had wilted slightly in the Capitol’s humid summer air, and now the dark brown waves hung in softened ringlets around her shoulders, the illusion of perfection slowly slipping away.

Her fingers moved with practiced ease through the strands as she stared into the ornate mirror in front of her, catching sight of her bare face in the reflection.

The birthday celebration had gone exactly how it was supposed to. There had been pastries shaped like butterflies, enough confetti to suffocate an entire District, and a champagne fountain flowing all night. 

It had all been just right. And yet.

And yet.

Cornelia exhaled loudly through her nose and set her comb down with an audible clack against the vanity. She pressed her hands into the glass tabletop, leaned forward, and took herself in. Eyes ringed faintly from the glitter liner she'd scrubbed off. Nose still dusted with highlighter. Her lips, full and naked now, curled into a frown.

Finnick hadn’t come.

Yes, fine, he hadn’t RSVP’d, but that meant nothing. He never RSVP’d. It was their thing. Their flirtation lived in unpredictability, in chance. He’d show up and make some sly comment about how she looked like a birthday cake— “sweet and begging to be unwrapped”— and she’d roll her eyes and pretend to be offended, even as she pulled him by the collar of his shirt into whatever shadowed corner they could find.

But he hadn’t come.

And the ache in her stomach told her it wasn’t just his absence that had her unsettled. It was something else. Something underneath.

Cornelia rinsed her face off at the sink, the water running over her hands in warm ribbons, and patted herself dry with a fluffy pink towel. She slipped the washcloth headband off her head and dropped it neatly on the counter before giving herself one final glance in the mirror. Then she turned on her heel, walked into her bedroom, grabbed her purse, slipped on the first pair of shoes she saw and grabbed a coat from the back of her vanity chair. It wasn’t an elaborate cloak, just something light and velvety— something that could pass under streetlights and not scream celebrity.

The City Circle was colder than usual for this time of year. It had been freshly washed by a short rain earlier that evening, and the pavement still glistened with leftover droplets, shining under the feet of the late-night wanderers.

Cornelia wasn’t exactly sure what she was doing. All she knew was that she was wearing last season’s sandals, no makeup, and a vague sense of urgency that she couldn’t quite name.

The first hotel she checked was one he’d used before— a marble-drenched place with too many orchids in the lobby and a concierge who wore a bow tie that matched the drapes. The woman at the front desk had smiled politely and told her there were no guests registered under that name.

The second was less polished, more discreet. The concierge there had looked her up and down and offered her a flirtatious smile before shrugging. “Sorry, miss. I’m not at liberty to share that information.”

It wasn’t until the third hotel— the Aurelian, tall and quiet and gold-lit at its corners— that she felt her steps slow as she crossed the lobby. The chandelier above her sparkled like an inverted constellation, its reflections dancing across the marble tile like restless spirits.

She approached the front desk with her chin lifted, her expression equal parts charm and authority. The concierge, an older man with silver temples and a razor-sharp uniform, glanced up from his terminal.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if there’s a Mr. Odair staying here, would you?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression didn’t change.

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information. The reservation is private.”

Cornelia blinked at him. A pause. She shifted her purse on her shoulder, looked left and right with practiced nonchalance. Then she reached inside and slowly pulled out her wallet. From within it, she slid out several gleaming Capitol credits— thin, opalescent cards that caught the light just so— and placed them on the counter one by one with careful flair.

She tilted her head, smiled sweetly. “Just how private are we talking?”

The concierge looked at her, the hint of a sigh hovering on his lips. There was a long moment where the only sound in the room was the faint rustle of a page being turned somewhere in the lounge behind her.

Then he reached beneath the desk, tapped something into the terminal, and murmured, “Tenth floor. Room sixty-five.”

Cornelia’s smile widened like a sunflower. She patted the credits gently. “Thank you, sir!”

She turned on her heel and made her way to the elevator, her pulse skipping along with her steps. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting, but her breath was tighter in her chest than it had been before.

The ride up was smooth and silent. The elevator smelled faintly of lavender and polished brass. Her reflection stared back at her from the mirrored walls— barefaced, a little flushed, her curls brushing her shoulders in disarray.

When the doors slid open, she stepped out and made her way down the hall, her sandals clicking softly against the thick carpet. She found room 65 with little trouble— tucked at the far end of the corridor like a secret.

She paused, fingers hovering above the door. What was she even going to say?— “Hi, sorry, just thought I’d check every luxury hotel in the city because you missed my birthday and I haven’t stopped thinking about it for hours.” That sounded insane.

But her hand was already knocking. Once. Then again. No answer.

She knocked again, slightly louder. “Finnick?”

Still nothing.

Cornelia pursed her lips. Her hand went to her hair, out of habit. Her fingers paused as they touched something small and sharp hidden beneath her curls— a bobby pin she’d forgotten to remove earlier. She plucked it free and stared at it for a moment.

“Well, here goes,” she muttered.

She crouched slightly, leaned toward the door handle, and began to pick the lock with a slow, careful motion. She had watched her father do it before— not because Caesar Flickerman was any kind of criminal, but because he had once lost the key to her childhood room during a live broadcast prep and had taught her the trick “just in case.”

The lock clicked. Cornelia straightened, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The room was trashed. Bedsheets torn off the king-sized mattress. The dresser dented, wood split. A mirror shattered with blood droplets. Ceramic vase shattered, side table missing a leg. Clothes were scattered— Finnick’s shirt on the floor, crumpled and stained. A bottle of something amber-colored spilled onto the carpet, its glass neck broken clean through.

There was no sign of him. Just the mess. Just the silence.

Cornelia took a slow step forward, her throat tightening. She didn’t know what she had expected. Maybe a lingering client. Maybe Finnick himself, drowsy and amused and asking why she’d gone to so much trouble tracking him down. But this— this kind of destruction? This wasn’t like him. Because Finnick was not violent. 

At least, not out of the arena.

Even then, that had been when provoked. When cornered and forced to fight for his life in the Games, blood on his hands before he'd even lost his baby fat. Cornelia knew Finnick. Or— at least, that was what she told herself during the quiet hours when the lights were off and the space between them in bed felt warmer than it should have. She knew the parts of him he allowed her to see, the curated corners, the glint of a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes but could still pull hers toward him like gravity.

Once, on a satin-draped morning in the Capitol, she'd asked him what his favorite scent was. Not because she expected poetry, but because she wanted to spritz the right perfume across her collarbones before climbing into his bed again. Something he’d remember. Something that might make him pause.

He’d just smiled at her, warm and evasive, and kissed her cheek like she’d told a joke he wasn’t going to laugh at. Then he’d moved back on top of her. She came to know his deflection better than the presence he offered in between her thighs. Deflect. Reject. Repeat.

Cornelia knew he was no danger. No threat to her or anyone else. But the sight of the room was a reminder of what the arena had created. The arena her father hosted every year. This— this was what happened when someone was pushed and prodded and cracked repeatedly, then forced to glow for show.

Her eyes slowly drifted across the room, her heels clicking softly as she stepped further inside, weaving past the wreckage. The mirror over the vanity had exploded outward— spiderwebbed first, then punched through. The shards were scattered like fallen stars, and amidst them, small, glistening red droplets. Blood. Not fresh, but not dry either. She didn’t need to ask whose.

The bathroom door creaked open behind her. Cornelia turned just as Finnick emerged. He was soaked to the bone. His shirt— untouched by the towel he held in one hand— was soaked through, plastered to his skin, transparent and heavy. He hadn’t even undressed before stepping into the shower. Water dripped from his hair down his temples, his cheeks, his jaw. His expression was unreadable, stony in a way that made her stomach flip. The towel was pressed to his knuckles. Blood seeped through the thin cotton like ink from a cracked pen.

Cornelia startled. Just slightly. A breath caught mid-inhale, a hand rising instinctively to cover her mouth. Her eyes were wide and locked on him, processing too much too quickly— his silence, his wet clothes, the color staining the towel.

Finnick paused in the doorway. His eyes met hers for a flicker of a moment. And then they narrowed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, voice low, snapping with the sharp edge of someone whose nerves were already frayed and left too close to the flame.

Cornelia blinked, hand still over her lips. Her voice caught behind it for half a second before she dropped her hand and lifted her chin.

“You didn’t show to my party,” she said. Her tone wasn’t biting. Not precisely. It was flat, more confused than angry. She hadn't intended it as an accusation, but it landed like one anyway.

The silence that followed hit harder than the outburst. Finnick laughed— bitter, tired, humorless— and then it wasn’t laughter at all.

“That’s what you’re upset about?” he asked, voice rising. “The party?”

His gaze was hot with disbelief, with something just barely concealed beneath his anger. His shirt stuck to his collarbone. His fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles of his uninjured hand had gone bone-white.

Cornelia flinched at the heat in his voice, but she didn’t step back.

“Do you always take my words for their worst?” she snapped back, the remnants of her polish fracturing. “I was worried about you!” She gestured at the room, her voice rising slightly now. “And I was right to worry! Look at the state of you, of this room! You’ll be charged so many credits for ruining that table, you know. So many.”

“I don’t care,” Finnick roared, louder now, louder than she'd heard him in months.

It bounced off the walls, echoed against the broken things.

Cornelia didn’t move. She stood there, firm, arms crossed now as she stared at him— not with softness, not with worry but with discipline. Containment. It was the only way to reach him. Because she knew him. She knew how fragile his pride was, how quick he was to reject kindness if it even smelled like pity. So she didn’t offer comfort. Not out loud, not visibly, even though her stomach felt like it had curled into itself, sick and aching from the sight of him.

“Fine,” she said with a huff, brushing a curl behind her ear, turning on her heel as if she were storming out. “You clearly want to be alone. I’ll leave you to it.”

He turned his head slightly, and she didn’t see his expression— but she heard it.

“What, leaving already?” he muttered. “Guess that’s what you’re good at.”

She paused. For a heartbeat, she didn’t move. Then, without responding, she bent down and picked up the fallen chair.

Finnick watched from the bathroom threshold, towel still clutched to his bleeding hand, steam rising behind him. He said nothing.

Cornelia righted the chair with a grunt, nudging it back into place. She moved to the table, adjusted it carefully to its broken slant. Then she went to the mirror shards. She knelt and began to gather them, one piece at a time, as delicately as if she were assembling something sacred. Her nails scraped faintly against the tile.

Finnick stayed in the doorway and said nothing, but his chest moved more slowly now. His eyes never left her. 

He didn’t understand her— had long stopped trying. But somehow, her silence hurt more than her words. Cornelia— glittering, gilded Cornelia, whose laughter could fill a ballroom and whose perfume clung to silk like a crown— knelt on the floor of his destroyed hotel room, collecting pieces of a mirror he had shattered in a fit of grief, or rage, or something he didn’t have the name for. She didn’t ask if he wanted to talk. She didn’t tell him she was scared. She just kept picking up the broken glass. She had no business tending to his chaos. And yet she did it anyway. 

He watched as she gathered the jagged edges of the mirror, wrapping the largest ones in a stray hand towel before picking up the more delicate shards one by one. He prayed she wouldn’t cut herself. Hoped she didn’t slice her fingers on the wreckage of his burdens. The image stuck in his head— the idea of her bleeding because of him, red on white cotton, a gash on her palm she’d pretend not to notice. He hated the thought.

He clenched the towel tighter in his left hand, holding it to the fresh split across his knuckles. The skin was split along the ridge of bone, angry and darkening, the blood already drying into maroon smudges. The towel was still wet in his hands. Soaked with water, soaked with blood, soaked with whatever brine had escaped from his eyes in the quiet war between the showerhead and his dignity. Not that it mattered. He was from District 4. He drowned all the same, and not always in water.

Still, he felt as though his head had yet to resurface.

Cornelia stood, careful with the glass, and padded across the marble to the bathroom again. Finnick turned slightly, instinctively, eyes following her movement. She didn't glance back at him. Just lifted the trash can lid with her elbow and dropped the shards inside with the softest clink.

He swallowed. His gaze traveled the room again— what he’d done.

The tension returned like a wave cresting in his throat. A sickly cocktail of shame and confusion and weariness. Everything in the room looked too bright. Too sharp. The air too thin. The towel was warm in his palm, but his skin felt clammy. His breath came shallow. Then shallower. 

It wasn’t until something brushed his arm that he flinched. No— jerked. A harsh, involuntary motion, as if someone had reached out to grab him in the dark. A client’s hand. A Capitol leash. A threat. He shoved whatever it was back on instinct, the towel slipping from his grip.

There was a thud then. A short startled sound. Finnick’s breath caught with it. His gaze snapped to her, and the world dropped out from beneath his feet.

Cornelia had stumbled back a step, her heel catching against the tile, one hand gripping the doorframe to steady herself. Her eyes were wide and round, glittering in shock, mouth parted. She just stared at him in a way she hadn’t before. Not lustful, not flirtatious, not even with a hint of fondness. 

For a moment, Finnick thought she looked afraid. Afraid of him. And in that moment, he saw himself through her eyes. Wild. Bleeding. Broken. And worse— dangerous.

He hadn’t meant to. He would never—

“No,” he whispered. Or maybe he didn’t say it aloud. Maybe he only thought it. Maybe the sound didn’t make it out of his throat at all.

His mouth parted, his shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths. “Cornelia,” he croaked. His voice cracked at the edges. “I didn’t— I wasn’t—” He wanted to take a step forward and couldn’t. His legs were rooted, weighted, braced against a storm that hadn’t even arrived. 

The bruises on his skin throbbed like they’d only just appeared. His chest was tight, too tight, like something was cinched around his lungs. He tried to focus— on the sound of her breathing, on the light overhead, on anything— but his vision felt doubled. Blurred at the edges. The pressure in his head grew louder, rushing and roaring like waves in his ears. 

Cornelia blinked. Just once. Then— softly, carefully— she seemed to understand. 

“Oh.” Her voice was a hush, an exhale of realization. “Oh. Hey—hey, you’re okay. It’s okay.” 

She didn’t come closer immediately. She straightened slowly, her spine long, her palms facing him in a slow gesture of peace. She looked like something trying not to startle a wild animal. Her fingers twitched slightly as she extended her hands out toward him.

“Come here,” she murmured. “Please.”

Finnick stared at her hands as if they weren’t real. As if they were part of a dream he hadn’t meant to conjure. The trembling in his chest got worse. His breath hitched, shallower and quicker now. His vision tunneled— bright on the edges, black toward the middle.

He looked at her. Looked at her hands. And finally— finally— he stepped forward and let his fingers slide into hers. His hands were cold and wet and shaking but Cornelia gripped them firmly. With the same slow reverence she might have used to raise a goblet at one of her father’s banquets, she lifted their joined hands and pressed them to the soft space beneath her jaw.

Cornelia’s hands were always warm. Her body, as a whole, radiated a soft, golden heat that made her feel like she’d been carved out of sunlight. It wasn’t just temperature— though she did run warm— it was something deeper, something stranger. Like there was a lantern burning in her chest, spilling light through her skin, her voice, the corners of her eyes when she smiled too wide. Sometimes, it was too much. Suffocating. Blinding. But now, they anchored him. 

“Here,” she whispered. “Feel that?” Her heartbeat was steady. “That's me. That’s real. You’re safe.” Finnick’s throat convulsed around another breath. “You’re safe with me.”

His face crumpled slightly, not in the theatrical way Capitol girls might cry at parties, but with the quiet collapse of a boy who had held out against the tide for too long.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “God. I’m sorry.”

Cornelia shook her head, still holding his hands against her neck, the weight of them gentle now. “Oh, no,” she whispered back. “Stop that. Don’t.”

Finnick looked at her like she was made of light and mercy and something he couldn’t name. Something he didn’t deserve. And she just looked back. Not pitying, not judging. Just seeing him. He breathed in sharply, chest hiccupping with the force of it. His lungs stuttered again and again, trying to remember how to expand. 

He blinked, forcing his eyes up just enough to watch the flutter of her wrist where her pulse pounded against her skin. His own heartbeat seemed to stutter once in recognition as if syncing to hers, caught in the same storm. It struck him— sudden and strange— that their hearts were beating at the same pace. For a moment, he didn’t know which rhythm was his own.

His eyes met hers. They were still the same honeyed brown hue— only wider now and glassy, quietly worried. He stayed there in her trance, gaze locked in a silence thick with everything neither of them had said.

She exhaled first. Shakily. As though the quiet between them had been pressing on her lungs too. Then, with a whisper that felt too gentle for the heaviness in the air, she murmured, “Hummingbirds have really fast heartbeats.”

Finnick’s brows pulled together, a flicker of disbelief creasing his expression. He tried to laugh— tried to shape the sound into something real— but it came out too breathy to be convincing. He swallowed. “Where’d you get that from?”

Cornelia’s mouth tilted into a weak smile, and her shoulders rose slightly as if she could shrug off the weight of the moment with her usual levity. “I read a book once.”

That got a better reaction from him. His lips curved. Not wide, not bright, but a ghost of something familiar. Something his. “Only once?”

Cornelia snorted softly, almost laughing. “It was really long.” Her smile then faded. She looked at him a little longer, and he looked at her, and neither of them moved. Her fingers brushed lightly against his forearm. “You need dry clothes,” she whispered. “You’ll get all sick and gross if you stay in cold wet ones.”

It took another long pause before Finnick’s fingers finally loosened from around hers. Then, with hands that still trembled faintly, he reached for the top button of his shirt. His hands fumbled once, shaking too much to get a proper grip.

Cornelia watched. When his fingers missed the second time, she stepped forward without a word. “I can do it for you,” she said quietly.

Finnick hesitated. He should’ve said no. Should’ve said he could handle it. Should’ve stepped back and put up that impossible wall between them again. But he didn’t. He let his arms drop to his sides, the sleeves clinging to him like second skin.

Cornelia stepped closer. Close enough that she could smell the faint citrus from the hotel soap still clinging to his collar, the clean scent of something sterile trying to scrub away whatever had marked him before. Her fingers found the top button and began working downward with gentle efficiency, not slow, not fast— just steady.

She didn’t say anything. But when she reached halfway down, she paused. The fabric parted enough for her to see it. 

Claw marks. Thin, angry scratches trailing diagonally across his ribs. Too precise for an accident. The kind that came from manicured nails with intent. Bruises, yellow and violet, under his pectorals. A bite mark, not quite healed, against the curve of his side.

Cornelia froze. Her breath caught like a sob she hadn’t meant to make, and her eyes flew up to his face.

Finnick flinched. Only slightly. But enough.

“Sorry,” she breathed, voice warbling as her hand instinctively covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, I just—”

She stopped, her throat bobbing with a gulp. Her eyes glossed with something she refused to let fall. She lowered her hand and took another breath, this one steadier. Her fingers moved again, carefully working at the next button. “I’m so sorry.”

Finnick didn’t respond. He didn’t wince or snarl or retreat. He just stood there— like he was letting her see it because he didn’t have the strength to hide it anymore. 

Her hands were gentler now, barely touching his skin as she parted the fabric. It was like unwrapping something sacred, something wounded. Not with reverence, exactly, but with the raw kind of attention that said she saw him. Not just the beautiful boy in the collage she had made of his pictures in her teen magazines, not the Capitol’s golden flirt she had idolized and swooned over once upon a time. But him. Bruised, beaten, standing there soaked to the bone with nothing left to give but his own trembling breath.

The last button came free. She let the shirt fall open gently, her eyes still trained on his stomach. She couldn’t look up at first. Not yet. Her throat was tight. Because what she hated most of all about this whole ordeal, here and now, was that she loved him. 

She was in love with Finnick Odair. 

But it was worse than that. It wasn’t even the sharp, gnawing, gnashing guilt of knowing it could never be returned. It was knowing she loved a boy who belonged to everyone else. A boy sold in silks and smiles, eaten alive by the Capitol’s appetite and spat back out in linen shirts and red welts. A boy who kissed her like he might disappear. Who didn’t know how to let himself be loved. Not by her. Not by anyone. 

Finally, she looked up, eyes glossy. “There you go,” she murmured, the words so soft they could’ve broken if they tried to be any louder. A smile came with it, small and wobbly.

Finnick wanted to say something, anything. But he didn’t. He just stood there, dripping, raw, stripped of everything but the parts of him he hated the most. And still, she touched him like he was worth it.

There was only fifteen minutes left of Cornelia’s birthday. Not that she cared anymore. It had already run its course and there was nothing left to celebrate.

The bare mattress beneath her was too warm from body heat and too scratchy against her skin. Her back was to the door, her legs curled up just slightly, her slip rising up her bare thighs. The lamp beside the bed buzzed faintly as the bathroom door opened. She didn’t turn when she heard it. She didn’t need to. She knew his footsteps by now— how light they were, how they carried more tension when he’d just come back from a client, how the soles of his feet padded softly over the carpet and halted for a breath just before he made any decision to speak.

Tonight, they were quiet. Careful. Dressed again in something clean. A long-sleeve and soft lounge pants. Dry hair, towel-damp around the edges. She heard the soft shuffle of his feet before the mattress dipped slightly behind her. The silence stretched.

And then his voice came: “I’m sorry I missed your party.”

Cornelia blinked against the pillow before shifting slightly, chin propping up on her hand as she rolled her eyes gently in a way that had no venom to it.

“It was the same as every year,” she said, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes. “You didn’t miss much.”

Finnick said nothing at first. Just looked at her. His eyes traced over the slope of her shoulder, the curve of her cheek in the warm lamplight. Then he leaned forward and kissed her. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hungry or greedy like it often was. It was soft. Mournful. Almost apologetic. His hand found the back of her head gently, fingers threading into the mess of undone curls.

Cornelia melted into the kiss. Her breath hitched softly, and her hand slipped against his wrist, thumb brushing the warm skin. It was gentle, the way she kissed him back, as if she were afraid it would be the last time. As if she knew she wouldn’t get to keep it.

“Happy birthday,” Finnick murmured against her lips. His free hand caressed her cheek. "We still have time left to celebrate." His voice was low. Suggestive. He knew how to say things like that. It was part of the job, after all.

Cornelia inhaled softly and pulled back with a little shake of her head. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

He looked down at her, gaze sweeping across her face, and something flickered behind his sea-glass eyes— guilt or doubt or confusion. Maybe all three. He reached up, brushing her cheek with the back of his knuckles, and whispered, “Did I hurt you?”

His voice cracked a little on the word hurt. Like he hadn’t let himself think about it until now.

Cornelia’s eyes widened slightly, and she immediately shook her head. 

“No! No, no, you didn’t,” she said quickly, almost tripping over herself. She reached for his hand and squeezed it lightly, grounding both of them in the moment. “I just… I don’t know. Can we cuddle? I’m tired from the party.”

Finnick didn’t respond right away, but his shoulders relaxed— just slightly— and he gave a quiet nod. Wordlessly, he moved to the other side of the bed and slipped in behind her. The mattress dipped again under his weight, and the warmth of him curled close around her without hesitation. He pulled her in like he’d done it a hundred times. And maybe he had. But tonight, it felt different.

Cornelia shifted until her back was pressed against his chest, her spine fitting against his body like a puzzle piece. Finnick’s hand wrapped loosely around her waist, and the other curled up under the pillow beside her head. His breath was warm at the back of her neck. She could feel his heartbeat, slow and steady, against her shoulder blades.

He smelled like citrus soap and hotel shampoo. Like warmth and something oceanic beneath it. Something that made her feel safe.

Finnick inhaled the scent of her hair. He always did this— when she didn’t think he noticed, when he thought she was already asleep. He never commented on it, never teased, but he always did it. And Cornelia never mentioned it, either. It felt too private. Too close.

She blinked slowly in the dim light, eyes focusing on the frayed edge of the bedsheet still tangled on the floor.

It was silly, she thought, to even be concerned with the day going as planned earlier. She hadn’t gotten what she wanted, anyhow, because she couldn’t have what she really wanted. Finnick Odair wasn’t for anyone but for the Capitol to consume. And she hated that.

She closed her eyes, her hand gently finding his where it rested on her stomach. Her thumb brushed his knuckles once, soft and tired and quiet. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But he held her tighter. Just a little.

They fell asleep like that.

June, 73 ADD

It had been twenty-eight days since Cornelia had heard from Finnick. She knew the number not because she was counting— though she was, obsessively— but because it was the number her planner had offered her that morning in thick, black ink when she opened to the page for June. Twenty-eight days. Four weeks. One month, exactly, since her birthday. Since the hotel. Since the bruises. That was the last time she’d seen him. The last time she’d touched him. The last time he’d kissed her like she was the only person in the Capitol whose name he remembered.

And then he disappeared.

She attempted to chalk it up to him needing space— which was understandable, given the state she had found him in that night. His mouth had tasted like copper and desperation. His hands had trembled where they shouldn't have. She knew what had happened without having to ask. She knew what he’d endured, even if she didn’t know the name of the man or woman who had inflicted it. But even so. Even after all of that. She had thought that he would have said something. That he would have told her he’d made it back to District 4 safely. That he was doing better. That he was alive and breathing and not half-drowned in some ocean with his pockets full of stones.

She had called him twice. Almost three times. The third had nearly gone through, her thumb hovering just above the final digit when her mother’s voice rang up the stairs calling her down for breakfast, and she’d rested the phone back in its cradle and smiled as if she wasn’t a hair’s breadth from unraveling.

She was doing her best to be casual— honest. Cornelia Flickerman was nothing if not excellent at smiling. She smiled at the boutiques. She smiled at the cameras. She smiled until her face hurt.

Cornelia was desperate, perhaps. But she wasn’t stupid. She knew her limits. She respected boundaries. Even when they gutted her. Even when they hollowed her out like a melon ball scooper carving through her insides. She would not chase him. She would not beg. She would not fold into herself like a child and scream at the silence he left behind.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in pain. Because she was. Pain she hadn’t expected. Pain that reached deeper than bruised vanity or unreturned messages. Pain that reminded her of something she hadn’t wanted to admit for a long time.

She was in love with him.

She wasn’t sure when it had happened. Maybe it had been gradual, like water warming on a stovetop— so slow you didn’t notice until it boiled over. Maybe it was when she first saw him on the reaping broadcast eight years ago, fourteen and beautiful, with eyes like storms and skin like bronze armor. Or maybe it was when he rode past the stands during the Tribute Parade, smirking like a boy who already knew he'd won. Maybe it was the way he kissed. The way he held her like he was afraid to bruise her one day and the next like he didn’t care if he did. Maybe it was the way he knew her, really knew her— what she liked and what she hated and the way she kicked with her left leg in her sleep. (Always her left leg.)

Maybe she had fallen then. All she knew now was that she had fallen hard. And her knees burned from the fall. Ached. Swelled. She couldn’t stand. She couldn’t walk away. She could not, for the life of her, get back up. Not when every day, she was waiting to hear the sound of her phone's receiver crackle to life with his voice. Not when she still wore his stolen shirt to bed. Not when she kept his old magazine clippings and interview columns in the back of her armoire with her Gloss cutout, like verses from some sacred book she wasn't supposed to be reading.

She wondered where he was. What he was doing. If he was safe. She wondered if he had been with someone else since her. She hated herself for wondering that.

Cornelia had always been dramatic— she knew that. She was melodrama with manicured fingers and a closet organized by color and occasion. But this didn’t feel dramatic. It felt stupid. It felt pathetic. It felt like being young and fourteen again, watching him on television with stars in her eyes and thinking, "God, he’s perfect," only to grow up and realize he wasn’t perfect at all. He was human. He was broken and beautiful and in pieces that she didn’t know how to fit back together.

And maybe he didn’t want her to. But she did. She wanted to hold the pieces in her hands, even if they cut her. She wanted to learn the shape of his ruin and memorize the edges. She wanted to kiss the bruises and not ask questions and lie next to him and say nothing at all. Because she loved him.

Not in the way she had loved before— light and careless, all Capitol sweetness and scandal. No, this was a love with weight. A love she’d buried deep beneath sequins and sarcasm and Sunday brunches. A love that terrified her. A love that wasn’t supposed to happen. Because he didn’t love her back. Not the way she did. He wasn't supposed to. He never would.

Maybe he loved her a little. Maybe he had meant it, once, when he kissed her with trembling hands and said nothing at all. Maybe he had even loved the version of her that peeled off her lashes at the end of the night and sat barefoot on his hotel bed for his visit, wiping her lipstick away with the sleeve of her silk robe.

But that wasn’t enough. Because he didn’t call. Because it had been twenty-eight days, and he didn’t call her.

Chapter Text

June, 73 ADD

THE CUTS ON HIS KNUCKLES HAD SCABBED OVER. Finnick had picked at them as they hardened and healed, leaving pale pink scars across the ridges and the skin between his knuckles. His hands, once smooth and golden, were mapped now with half-healed wounds and brittle calluses, more like a tradesman's than the Capitol’s favorite Victor. He supposed that was the point. To remind himself that there were parts of him no camera had ever filmed. Pain no lens could glamour into something digestible.

He had developed a bad habit of picking at his skin after his Games, the year before Snow put a price tag on his body. Scratching at any scab when the skin around it tightened and healed over. Digging at hangnails, peeling away cuticles until he bled, biting the inside of his cheeks until the copper taste curled beneath his tongue. They were small rebellions. Quiet ones. Not the sort the Capitol could televise. Not the sort anyone noticed except him.

Another bad habit he had— one that would be harder to break— was avoidance.

Cornelia had called twice. Once the night after he had returned to District 4. A second time two weeks later. He hadn’t answered. He’d let the screen blink. Let her name hover for a moment too long before turning it face-down. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to. Because he did; he almost did. Almost picked up. Almost said something.

The thing was— he couldn’t bear to. The last thing he wanted was a pity call. Or a conversation rehashing what had happened in the hotel room. The trashed room. The lamp that had shattered. The chair that had been knocked over in the scramble. The way his voice had cracked when he said her name. The look on her face when he pushed her— not hard, not to hurt— but like he had been drowning and she had been the surface, and he needed to submerge again just to breathe.

Then the breakdown afterward. The sobs he couldn’t swallow. The shaking hands. The moment when she reached out, and he let her, and that was what made it worse. That he let her.

It was mortifying. All of it. To have been exposed and raw and laid bare in front of the one person he had told himself hardly knew him. Because Cornelia Flickerman only saw veneer. Fabrications and fronts and masks that gleamed. She dealt in smiles and sparkle, in lipstick and mascara, in cutie skirts and planned spontaneity.

She didn’t know the weight of what they did to him. What the Capitol did to him, what his nights were like. He never told her what his clients did to him in their purchased time. Now she did. She saw him now. And as comforting as that should’ve been, it was equally humiliating and terrifying.

So he didn’t answer the phone. He swam instead.

The water behind the Victors' Village was cold and briny, clear enough to see down to the kelp beds where the seaweed grew thick and dark like mats of underwater hair. A good place to disappear for a while. The surf licked at his shoulders as he moved through the water with sharp, cutting strokes. Finnick Odair was the best swimmer District 4 had seen in decades, and he moved like something that had always belonged here— like he was born from brine and seafoam, molded from coral and current. But even the ocean couldn’t quiet his head completely.

Every pull of his arms through water was too loud in his ears. Every breath he took above the surface came sharp and hoarse. He turned away from the horizon, from the sky already melting into a rusty gold dusk, and dove under again. He held himself down, pressed his body downward, let the weight of the water fold around him, the pressure building in his ears and chest. The current shoved at him like an angry hand. A rope of kelp brushed along his ankle. A shadow flickered past his peripheral vision, maybe a fish or maybe nothing, and he didn’t care to check.

His lungs began to burn. It was a familiar burn. A quiet one. Like an old injury flaring up, something intimate and expected. He let it grow, let it ache. Let it wrap around his ribs like the arms of someone who had once known him, or wanted to. And only when the pain crested, only when his body screamed to surface, did he finally kick upward, gasping when he broke through. The air sliced down his throat, cold and dry. His arms flopped over the swell of a gentle wave as he drifted, lips parted, chest heaving. Hair flattened against his scalp, salt on his lashes.

It wasn't enough. None of it ever really was. He could still see her. Cornelia, standing in front of him with her hands over his, holding his hands to her pulse before unbuttoning him without expecting his touch. She had seen the bruises, the bite marks, the claw marks. The slight tremor in his fingers. And still, she had looked at him like he was something salvageable. That was the part he couldn’t forgive her for. That she still looked at him like that.

The salt stung his knuckles where the scabs had broken again.

When he finally swam back to shore, the sky was streaked with lavender and coral— colors that would’ve reminded him of her, if he let them. Colors she might’ve worn, once, before she settled on pink. Finnick didn’t let himself think of her as he walked barefoot through the sand, leaving wet footprints behind him like fading evidence. He didn’t let himself remember the sound of her voice or the way she’d whispered his name like a secret. Or how she had reached for his hand after he broke, like it was nothing, like it was muscle memory.

He didn’t let himself think about any of it. Because he knew himself too well and he knew her, too. She was Caesar Flickerman’s daughter, a Capitol girl through and through. Bright and chatty and dipped in glitter. And she was dangerous. Not because she meant to be, but because she didn’t. Because she was kind to him and he didn’t know what to do with that.

So he picked at his skin. He swam until he hurt. And he didn’t answer the phone. It was safer that way.

July, 73 ADD

“Bye mother! Bye daddy!”

Cornelia’s voice rang across the marble floor of the Flickerman villa’s front vestibule, her glossy pink lips curled into a smile. She waved a manicured hand, the pale blue polish coordinated to match her travel outfit— because, of course, even train departure ensembles mattered when one bore the surname Flickerman. Her other hand was tugging a trunk on wheels that held more swimwear than practical clothing, and her matching cosmetic case bounced at her hip like a clutch.

Cornelia had never taken a vacation apart from her parents. Never in her life. Not even once. The Flickerman vacations had always been stage-managed by Calpurnia, who treated leisure with the same fastidiousness she treated diet and etiquette. They went to the catacombs beneath the Capitol where the ashes of fallen tributes were kept. They toured the domes and monuments built over the ghosted soil of old arenas.

So when Adorabella— who had been planning her wedding since she was eleven— announced she’d chosen the 65th arena for her bachelorette retreat, Cornelia had nodded and smiled. How beautiful, she had said. How original. A tropical-themed spa and party palace on the skeleton of an old battleground? Very Capitol. Very chic.

But she hadn’t realized— not really, not in full— what that meant until the date approached. Because it was the 65th. Finnick’s.

The very thought of it made her stomach twist as she stood on the train platform, swaying slightly in her high wedges, watching as the silver train hissed its arrival through a cloud of cooled steam. The arena itself had since been repurposed, transformed from a brutal jungle of traps and terrain into a sanitized escape of faux-native flora, imported wildlife, luxury cabanas, and sea-glass mosaics of stylized carnage. But the roots were still there. Buried under bamboo and performance spas, under glass-bottom infinity pools and flame-grilled seafood stations. Underneath it all, it was still the place where Finnick had fought for his life. Had she known what it would feel like, she might’ve tried harder to steer Adorabella somewhere else. 

A cacophony of high-pitched squeals met her the moment she stepped down. The girls were already assembled— Diamond in a metallic romper, Precious in a satin sunhat too big for her head, and Adorabella, of course, wearing a sash in diamanté letters and a short white dress with ruching around the waist. Amata and Ava were by her side, matching in hue if not height, their hair dyed in twin swirls of blue and silver.

“Cornelia!” Diamond squealed, practically throwing her arms around her in a dramatic spin-hug that sent both of them off-balance. “You made it!”

“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” Cornelia laughed, catching her footing and enveloping all three bridesmaids in an embrace that smelled of perfume, hair spray, and the citrusy spritzes the Capitol’s designer scents had come to trademark. “Oh, this is going to be so much fun!”

She reached for Amata’s hands next, clutching them like she was trying to communicate through skin-on-skin excitement. “Oh, I just love that shade of blue in your hair,” she cooed. “I’m obsessed!”

Amata grinned, a touch flattered, a touch smug, while Ava rolled her eyes. Cornelia caught it but didn’t flinch. She’d spent enough of her life in Capitol circles to know how not to take things personally. Especially not from bridesmaids.

Adorabella was already fussing, waving her jeweled clutch as she beckoned the girls toward the private boarding ramp. “Come on, come on! If we don’t leave now, we’ll miss our window for the check-in spa treatments, and they said seaweed wraps, which, hello, doesn’t not sound like we’re getting pickled!”

The girls laughed. One of them shrieked. A few scurried forward, wheeling their powder-pink suitcases behind them. Cornelia followed, tossing her hair over one shoulder and adjusting her sunglasses as she walked.

She smiled. She squealed when they passed a billboard of Adorabella and her fiancé kissing in a field of artificial flowers. She linked her arm with Ava’s and posed for the pre-departure photos. She played her role well. But beneath the surface— far below the blush on her cheeks and the light catching on her highlighter— Cornelia was already bracing herself.

She knew what the arena looked like. Had studied it obsessively for a time, back when her interest in Finnick had first stirred into something more dangerous. The jungle thickets, the thorned vines that could choke, the sea caves with their glassy entrances. The lagoon that had turned red.

She could picture him there even now. Not in the crystal-cleansed version of the resort, but in the real place. Young. Shirtless. Terrified. Beautiful. Deadly. Alone. She didn’t know what would be worse— seeing the place and feeling nothing, or seeing it and feeling too much. 

She glanced at her reflection in the gold-trimmed windows of the train and saw herself smiling, laughing with the wind blowing back her hair. She looked like a Capitol girl in the prime of her life and hated how easy it was to play that part. 

It was their fifth round of shots now. Cornelia had long since forgotten why she’d been so worked up in the first place— about Adorabella, about the wedding, about Finnick. Her throat burned from the tequila, but her body felt light, floating somewhere above her shoulder blades, buoyed by the heat of the sun and the unrelenting laughter from the girls surrounding her. She didn’t remember what song was playing over the stereo system— something synthesized and fast and bubbling with Capitol distortion— but it thumped like a second heartbeat under her skin.

Her pale blue sundress had been exchanged an hour ago for a triangle bikini set in classic black, as per the dress code the bridesmaids had jokingly taken way too seriously. Cornelia, true to form, had picked the skimpiest cut of the bunch— thin black straps and minimal coverage that shimmered just slightly in the sunlight. Her chestnut brown hair had been flat-ironed into oblivion that morning, but between the saltwater in the air and the rolling breeze from the shore, it had lifted into a halo of waves and frizz, vaguely reminiscent of her childhood curls. She had one sandal off, one still dangling from her toes. There was sand on her knees, a sticky lime wedge half-lodged in the rim of her drink, and glitter down her thighs from the highlighter the stylists had insisted on brushing there before the photos. Somewhere on her body, there were lipstick smudges that weren’t hers.

Cornelia didn’t drink. Not usually. She sipped champagne when her father handed her a flute on air, took a ladylike swallow of elderflower liqueur when some Capitol suitor tried to impress her with mixology, maybe stole the last of the rosé at a wrap party if she was feeling particularly rebellious. But she’d never liked losing control of herself. It made her nervous, too aware of how much she didn’t know. How much she couldn’t predict.

Tonight, though, she drank.

Tonight, she let go. Tonight, it didn’t matter that Adorabella had shown off her ring at the wrong time— tonight, Cornelia didn’t have to care.

It didn’t matter that she’d caught herself crying in the bathroom mirror last week while brushing highlighter under her cheekbones. That she didn’t know if the ache in her chest was hunger or heartbreak. That she still dreamed about his mouth on her upper thigh. 

Tonight, none of it mattered.

She was here, with her girls, all of them swaddled in varying degrees of sunburn and alcohol and glitter. The beach stretched out before them like a diamond-dripped stage, and they were the show. The cabana was private, luxury-tier— slatted shade from the satin canopy, chaise lounges scattered like invitations to chaos, a minibar staffed with two attendants who never stopped smiling. Precious had started a drinking game involving losing articles of clothing. Adorabella had already jumped into the ocean without her top.

Cornelia didn’t notice when she stopped laughing and started shouting. It was something funny, she was sure. A joke about one of the other girls' exes, or maybe a stylist who’d ruined Ava’s bangs back in 71. Diamond passed her a drink in a glass shaped like a pineapple, and Cornelia took it without hesitation. Her lipstick left a half-circle on the rim.

Her cheeks were flushed. She could feel the heat in her skin— not the glamorous kind, but the sweaty, unfiltered, too-much-sun kind. Her bikini top had started to slip a little, and she lazily tugged at the string without much concern. The sky above the ocean was starting to shift, not quite sunset but leaning in that direction, bleeding violet and rose into the clouds like watercolor.

Adorabella was nowhere in sight. Good.

Another round was ordered. Cornelia’s head was spinning, but she didn’t care. She felt good. She felt loose. She felt untouchable.

And somewhere in the back of her mind— deep, deep down, tucked into the folds of her brain that weren’t sticky with alcohol and sweat and salt— she was grateful. Grateful that she was away from home, away from her phone. Grateful that she wasn’t alone pulling on one of Finnick’s shirts and trying not to cry. Grateful that she wasn’t waiting for a call that wouldn’t come.

Because she knew what this was. She knew what she and Finnick were and what they weren’t.

She wasn’t his girlfriend. She wasn’t his priority. She was a friend that he called when he couldn’t stand to be alone. There was a difference. And Cornelia Flickerman— daughter of the Capitol, heir to a legacy of performance and charm and perfect poise— wasn’t stupid. She knew what it meant to love someone who didn’t love you back. She knew how to turn that into a party. Into a shot glass. Into a bikini and a laugh and a memory she could file away for later, like all the other moments she’d swallowed down in private.

She didn’t want to think about how he had held her the last time she saw him. She didn’t want to think about the bruises and the teeth marks on his ribcages. So she didn’t.

Instead, she lay back on the lounge chair, hair fanned out behind her, eyelids fluttering closed as the girls around her burst into another fit of giggles. Someone handed her another drink. She didn’t ask what was in it. Didn’t care.

This was her life.

The drinks tasted like juice in the morning.

That was how the trouble started— too sweet, too easy, too much. No bitterness to ground it. The Capitol didn’t do hangovers the same way the districts did. Here, everything came with a patch or a pill or a powder, a vial cracked open behind a fan, a fizzing cube dropped into a flute of seltzer and stirred with a glittering straw. One could drink themself into oblivion and wake up glowing. But there was no cure for what sat just behind Cornelia Flickerman’s lashes as she blinked against the rotating neon of the club’s lower lounge, no tonic for the ache that pulsed in her chest every time she thought of Finnick.

She didn’t know what time it was. She didn’t know what Finnick was doing right now— though she had a creeping suspicion he wasn’t thinking about her.

That’s not fair, she told herself. That wasn’t how their arrangement worked. She wasn’t supposed to think about what he was doing the night after they'd been tangled in sheets, her bare legs hooked over his arms while he whispered her name like he needed it more than oxygen. She wasn’t supposed to care if his eyes looked glassy or if his wrists were bruised or burned when he touched her. That wasn’t the deal.

Somewhere across the dance floor, Adorabella was on her feet again, tossing her shoes aside and swaying with abandon, her veil snagging on the lights overhead. 

“Cornelia, darling, center stage!”

She waved her hand in protest but was already being dragged forward, her laughter caught somewhere between disbelief and delight. Her heart pounded, but her limbs were loose, warm with alcohol and indulgence. She hadn’t been this free in weeks. Maybe longer. The Capitol cheered for joy, but Cornelia was already somewhere else— fuzzy-edged and radiant in the artificial heat of everything unreal.

She lay back as instructed, laughter bubbling up again as two of the dancers approached. Their hands were warm and respectful, not leering, just theatrical. They winked, smiled, and leaned in, and the crowd shrieked when the first body shot was poured into the curve of her stomach. She laughed and arched her back slightly, the alcohol cold against her skin, and let herself feel none of it.

The second shot made her giggle. “You missed my belly button,” she said, slurring the words through laughter, her hair fanned around her shoulders. She didn’t notice the camera drone until it was almost gone, hovering briefly to catch a shot of the action before darting away— no doubt to be used for some curated Capitol story later.

Someone tried to give her another drink, and she pushed it away, standing now on slightly wobbly legs. Her head spun, not unpleasantly, just dizzying. 

“Dance with me!” she called, grabbing Diamond by the wrist and pulling her toward the floor where bodies swayed in rhythm, glitter clinging to every shadow. The bass beat through the air like a second heartbeat. Cornelia let herself go with it, spinning, hair fanning out behind her, arms raised to the ceiling like maybe— if she lifted them high enough— she wouldn’t fall.

Someone handed her a sparkling drink, and she took it without a word. It tasted like strawberry soda and champagne. Cornelia smiled because she had nothing else to do. She smiled because if she didn’t, she’d cry. She smiled because the alternative was something she hadn’t prepared for— something real.

Cornelia blinked through the glitter in her lashes and the dizziness in her head. She felt flushed and exhausted and too awake at the same time. Her stomach was sticky again. Her voice was hoarse from screaming over the music. Her cheek ached from laughing.

But underneath all of it— beneath the party and the alcohol and the never-ending Capitol soundtrack— there was a small, quiet voice that asked why Finnick still hadn’t called her. He didn’t owe her anything. They didn’t belong to each other. That was the foundation they had built this whole rickety, glittering thing on.

Still. She wanted to know if he was okay. Wanted to know if he had bruises today. Wanted to know if he had slept at all, or if he was still thinking about the night he had broken down his walls for the first time in front of her. Wanted to know if it had been just as real for him as it had been for her— maybe it had been too real. But this wasn’t the time for that. This was a celebration. For Adorabella. For love. For the illusion of it, anyway.

So Cornelia flung her arms around Ava’s neck and screamed when another round of dancers came out. She let the music swallow her whole. She lifted her chin and smiled. And if she caught herself glancing toward the door more than once, expecting someone tall and sea-eyed to appear and pull her out of the noise— well, no one had to know.

Advertisement. News. Advertisement. Games Recap. Victor Interview. Pap shot of men taking body shots off of— wait.

Cornelia.

Finnick’s thumb froze against the remote. He was slouched on the low-backed couch in the living room of his home in the District 4 Victors’ Village, television on for noise more than company, dressed in a pair of sweatpants low on his hips and a threadbare tank top that had once been blue but had now faded to salt-bleached gray. His wet hair left droplets along the collar as he leaned forward, elbow braced against his thigh, mouth parted slightly in disbelief.

The screen was gaudy with flash and laughter, as usual— Capitol drone music fuzzing in the background, logos and headlines bleeding across every corner. But the image was unmistakable.

Cornelia Flickerman. On her back atop a lavish, mirrored bar counter, arms flung up in mock surrender, one stiletto heel still on her foot and the other resting half-off the edge of the bar. Two Capitol men— both young, both shirtless— were leaning over her, pouring glittering liquor into the dip of her stomach and lowering their heads to drink. Her eyes were closed. Her back was arched. She was laughing. Head tilted back, mouth open. Her lipstick smudged, glitter on her collarbone, wrists draped with gold bracelets and thin ribbons like she'd walked out of a birthday box.

Finnick didn’t even realize he’d dropped the remote until he heard the quiet clatter of plastic against the wooden floor. His jaw clenched as he exhaled slowly, hotly, through his nose.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen Cornelia in the Capitol tabloids. Not even the fifth. There were always pictures. Cornelia on balconies with her friends, Cornelia in dresses at fashion shows with her mother, Cornelia co-hosting her father’s show as the Games approached. They adored her. Of course they did. She sparkled when she walked, like she was made of sequins and rose-gold light. And she knew how to laugh at just the right pitch— how to tilt her head and flutter her lashes like she’d been born to be adored.

But this. This was different.

The heat that crawled under Finnick’s skin wasn’t embarrassment or secondhand awkwardness, the way he sometimes felt when she flubbed her lines on a livestream or forgot which camera was active during a pre-interview. No. This was something else.

His chest burned. There was a pinch behind his ribs. His fingers twitched uselessly in his lap. He didn't want to care.

But there it was.

He didn’t know what made him angrier: the men licking alcohol from her bare skin or the way she smiled when they did. The way she looked like she meant it. Like it wasn’t just performance or survival or Capitol conditioning but pleasure. Real. Enjoyed.

As if he hadn’t kissed that same skin before, teeth grazing her stomach while she laughed and batted his shoulder to make him continue. As if she hadn’t worn his shirt after. As if she hadn’t fallen asleep with her hand tucked beneath his jaw and kicked his shin in the middle of the night.

And seeing her like this made him want to punch a wall. Or swim until his muscles gave out.

His teeth ground together.

The segment cut to Capitol news with Caesar himself— Claudius Templesmith cackling too loudly as a new headline flashed across the bottom: Adorabella Templesmith Planning a Winter Wedding? 

The screen behind them changed to a looping reel of Adorabella and her fiancé walking hand in hand through a petal-strewn garden. Finnick grabbed the remote and changed the channel.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t.

The next station was broadcasting the tail end of a segment on the Panem Games’ most shocking moments— blood, sound, fake cheers, none of it registering. He clicked again. Again. Again. 

His jaw was locked so tightly now that he could feel it in his temples.

The screen buzzed. The house was quiet. Outside, the waves rolled in the distance, slow and constant, their hush pressing faintly against the windows.

Finnick turned the television off. The screen blackened. His own reflection stared back at him from the glass— a stranger with wild eyes and a tension in his shoulders he didn’t want to acknowledge.

He stood. Walked to the front door. Paused only to tug on a jacket— then opened the door and stepped out barefoot into the soft cool air.

The sand beneath his feet was damp and cool, scattered with dried seaweed and broken shells. The sky had begun to bleed with the haze of late afternoon, a color somewhere between pewter and pearl. He didn’t bother to take the path; he walked through the dunes, letting the grains cling to his ankles, letting the wind pull at his clothes.

The ocean was dark and endless. Always moving, always cold.

Finnick dove in.

The water caught him. Enveloped him. Dragged the heat from his skin. He swam hard and fast, muscles burning, until the shore was only a breath behind him and the horizon stretched in all directions. Out here, there was no Capitol. No studio. No Cornelia.

Just the sting of salt in his eyes and the sound of his heart pounding underwater. It didn’t matter how many times he told himself she was just a friend. Just a body. Just a safe harbor.

He was lying. But at least the ocean never asked questions.

His bags had already been unpacked— not by him, never by him, but by the quiet, ghostlike Capitol attendants who ghosted in and out of his suite like obedient wraiths. Finnick hadn’t even heard the door open. They never made a sound. Everything had already been sorted. His meager collection of belongings— what little he’d carried up from District 4— had been folded, pressed, and arranged into the drawers and closet of his usual suite at the Aurelian Hotel. He recognized the familiar thread counts and soft lemon-sage scent of the luxury bedding. Even the showerhead remembered his water temperature.

Generosity in the Capitol never came without a price. Finnick had learned that years ago, the way a man learns which sharks to swim beside and which to swim beneath. The room was stocked: toiletries and amenities in little gilded boxes, rows of unfamiliar shampoos and colognes he didn’t care about, a minibar with items his stomach could never quite keep down in their entirety. He rarely touched the food. Rarely touched anything that made him feel more like a visitor in a place that had tried to make him its property.

He sat on the edge of the plush bed, naked but for a towel hanging loose around his hips, drying lazily at his collarbone. The night outside the window was blurred neon, city lights washing through the panes in a gauzy spill of soft red and pale green. Somewhere down below, music was playing in the City Square. It always was.

He should’ve had a client that night. An appointment. The details were always vague until he arrived. The names didn’t matter, the faces even less. But this one had either canceled or died— both were equally plausible. That was Capitol hospitality, too. Death came wrapped in lace and indifference. The Peacekeepers who’d dropped him off hadn’t said. They never did.

That meant two or three days to himself, depending on how quickly they found a replacement for his open time slot. If they found one at all. The thought didn’t bring him relief so much as dull neutrality. He could do what he liked with the time. Read. Sleep. Watch the ceiling. Eat nothing. He didn’t know what he wanted to do, which made the time feel less like a gift and more like a waiting room.

His gaze shifted to the phone on the bedside table.

It was sleek and marble white, the kind of design aesthetic that matched the Capitol's usual sterile decadence. He stared at it for a long time. Fifteen minutes, maybe longer. His fingers hovered over it once, then pulled away. Then again. And again.

He hadn’t spoken to her in two months. Not since that night at the hotel. The silence between them had grown roots after that— stretched and branched, tightening in the air like vines in winter.

She hadn’t reached out either. But Cornelia was like that. If he shut her out, she didn’t barge in. She just waited until he opened the door again, and then she floated through like nothing had happened. Or pretended to. That was her gift. Gilded denial.

He picked up the receiver.

He didn’t know if she would answer. Or if she’d pick up and say something sweetly poisonous like, “Apologies, dear, who is this?” He didn’t know if she was mad. She probably should’ve been. But Cornelia rarely allowed herself the fury she deserved.

The dial tone buzzed in his ear. He could hang up now. Say it was a mistake. Say it was the wrong number, a slip of the thumb. Say nothing at all.

One ring. Two. Three.

And then, “Flickerman residence, Cornelia speaking.”

Her voice was exactly as he remembered it, bright and chirpy and Capitol-perfected. Polished over decades of growing up in Caesar Flickerman’s home, shaped by the cameras and the spotlight like soft clay pressed into a familiar mold. But under that practiced lilt was something else. She didn’t expect the call. That much was obvious. Her tone dimmed a little near the end. He could almost hear the question tucked in the back of her throat.

He didn’t answer right away. He just sat there, receiver to his ear, heart thumping once, loud and low.

“It’s me,” he said at last. Voice rough. Distracted. He cleared his throat, but it didn’t help.

There was silence on the other end. Then, “… Oh. Hey.” A pause. And then, more flatly: “Sorry. I didn’t think it was you. Thought you had forgotten my number.”

The flicker of something sharp behind the words made his jaw twitch. He bit down on a reply that would have cut too close.

“I was busy,” he said instead. Dismissive. A little cold, a little rehearsed. “Sorry.”

Cornelia didn’t speak right away. She never rushed to fill silence unless she was in front of a crowd. In private, she was quieter. Slower. Smarter.

“… Okay?” she said at last, cautious and unimpressed. “Well… what do you need?”

That stung more than it should have. Finnick closed his eyes for a brief second, hand tightening on the receiver. He opened his mouth, thought better of what he was about to say, and pivoted.

“Come to the Aurelian,” he said. “Fifteen minutes.”

He didn’t phrase it like a question. He never did with her. With anyone else, maybe. But not her.

There was a pause, just long enough to suggest she was considering saying no. Just long enough for the idea of refusal to curl between them like smoke.

“… All right,” Cornelia said finally. “I’ll be there.”

He didn’t say thank you. She didn’t say goodbye. The line clicked and went dead.

Finnick sat there in the pale spill of Capitol light, receiver still in his hand, and stared out the window, wondering what she would wear. Wondering if she’d smile at him when she arrived. Wondering if she was still mad. Wondering if he wanted her to be.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know what he wanted. Not really. He just knew he wanted her to show up.

And she would. Cornelia always did.

A knock came on his door twenty minutes later.

He had already changed— if one could call it that— into a pair of soft, deep gray briefs that clung low on his hips. The hotel suite was dim, mostly lit by the amber-toned bedside lamps and the faint, dying pink of the sunset filtering through the sheer curtains. The air carried the faintest scent of the saltwater-infused body wash from his quick shower, and the windows still trembled faintly from the distant bass of Capitol nightlife below. Finnick Odair didn’t bother with a shirt. He didn’t plan on wearing one long, not if she was really going to show.

He opened the door just as her knuckles were about to fall again.

Cornelia’s hand hovered in the air, stilled mid-knock, and for a beat, she stared up at him, clearly taken aback. She wore a silk wrap top, loose and cinched at the waist, and her hair was still a little damp around the ends, curling faintly where it brushed her collarbone. Her lashes fluttered once. Then twice. She lowered her hand slowly.

“You’re late,” Finnick said, leaning one broad shoulder against the doorframe, his expression unreadable except for the ghost of something smug in his eyes. “I said fifteen minutes.”

Cornelia’s eyes flicked past his bare chest, the cut of his hips, the solid line of his collarbone still damp from the shower. Her voice caught but recovered with a teasing edge, like chiffon over a dagger. “You didn’t really give me much time to get ready,” she said, letting herself lean against the doorframe, one bare shoulder peeking from her silk wrap. “I wasn’t even able to put on any makeup.”

Finnick arched a brow, stepping aside with a crooked smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You gonna keep complaining,” he said, low and dry, “or get in already?”

She gaped a little—just slightly, just enough for her lips to part—but she blinked and stepped past him without comment, the hem of her wrap brushing his thigh in the narrow doorway. He shut the door behind her with a click that sounded final, locking it without ceremony, the turn of the bolt quiet but weighty.

Cornelia moved through the room like she belonged there and yet didn’t— setting her small bag down on the bedside table, slipping her heels off with a soft exhale that might’ve been relief. The room smelled faintly of him: saltwater and citrus and something deeper, like musk left out in the sun. He watched her without hiding it. Her long brown hair had been curled, the edges slightly frizzed, and her legs were still faintly tanned.

“You’ve got a nice tan,” Finnick said after a beat, his eyes trailing across her back as she moved, as if cataloging the new golden brush of her skin. “So.” He paused, tone vaguely casual, but something sharp pulsed beneath it. “How was your little girls’ trip?”

Cornelia looked over her shoulder, eyes glittering. “It was fun,” she said lightly. “We danced, drank… you know how bachelorette parties go.”

He tilted his head, watching her with that unreadable half-smile— equal parts amused and unimpressed. He stepped toward her, bare feet silent on the carpet, and as she turned to face him fully, he was already there. His hand brushed lightly— too lightly— against the back of her waist, guiding her to sit on the edge of the bed. She obeyed without thinking. He always had that effect on her.

“I hope the male dancers didn’t take my place while we weren’t talking,” he said, and though the words were light, there was something in them— something thorny. Possessive. His voice dipped slightly on the word “my.”

Cornelia stared up at him, startled. Her lips parted, then closed again, her mind racing to decipher the motive behind the words. Jealousy? No. Finnick Odair didn’t do jealousy. Not openly. Not for her.

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “No, they didn’t—”

“Take your clothes off,” Finnick cut in.

He said it calmly. Not like a man drunk with lust, not like a man desperate. He said it like someone who expected to be obeyed.

And Cornelia did. She didn’t break eye contact. Not even once. Her fingers were delicate, precise, as she unbuttoned her blouse— peach satin, smooth and loose. She slipped it from her shoulders, letting it fall behind her like petals. Then her hands found the zipper of her skirt, and she slid it down, the fabric whispering against her skin until it pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of it. Bra next. Then underwear. No hesitation. No flourish. Just clean, sure movements.

She stood in front of him, naked, bare skin catching the low lamp light in soft gold and blush. She didn’t smile. Didn’t pose. Just waited.

Finnick’s silence stretched.

He looked at her— really looked. She wasn’t made-up, just like she’d said. No lipstick, no lashes, no elaborate eyeshadow to match her usual Capitol gleam. And still she was incandescent. The flush of sun still lingered on her skin. There were no marks— no hickeys, no bruises from eager, unfamiliar mouths. Nothing claiming her. And that— somehow, inexplicably— felt like a relief he hadn’t anticipated. Something inside him uncoiled, then recoiled at the realization. He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to ask. But he had.

His jaw flexed.

“Turn around,” he said, voice rougher now. “On your knees.”

Cornelia obeyed without breaking eye contact, stepping back onto the bed and turning slowly. She crawled forward on her hands and knees, her spine arching just so, hair falling down her back in soft brown waves. She didn’t speak. She didn’t flirt or tease. This wasn’t a performance. This wasn’t the Capitol. It was just them, and the silence said more than any of her clever retorts ever could.

Finnick moved behind her, fingers closing around her hips with a roughness that wasn’t unfamiliar but felt new somehow— firmer, hungrier, threaded through with a heat he hadn’t shown her in months. Cornelia’s breath hitched as he leaned in, his mouth dragging slow and hot along the curve of her neck, the tip of his nose skimming her skin as though he were memorizing her scent all over again.

“Did you forget,” he murmured, his lips brushing just beneath her ear, “who makes you come like this?”

Cornelia closed her eyes. Her breath trembled, but she didn’t falter. “I didn’t forget,” she whispered.

A soft sound escaped him, something between a hum and a scoff— pleased, but not surprised. His hands slid lower, dragging along the swell of her hips, thumbs pressing bruises into skin he hadn’t touched in too long.

“That’s right,” he said. “Because you come for me. Only me.”

He punctuated each word with a slow drag of his palms, each touch proprietary, greedy. He wasn’t trying to be gentle. Not tonight. Not after all the time and silence and space he’d insisted on. His mouth found the slope of her spine next— kissed, bit, marked— leaving behind a trail of heat and teeth, every scrape of him a brand she wouldn’t forget by morning.

Cornelia pressed her hands into the mattress, gripping the sheets not for stability, but composure. His voice was inside her head now— low and smug and made of honey-drenched sin. She hated how much she liked it. Hated how much she still wanted him to say more.

And he did— just as one of his fingers slid down to the apex of her thighs, pads of his fingertips slipping between the folds of her cunt.

“Look at you,” Finnick murmured against the skin of her spine, “dripping for me already.”

Despite herself, Cornelia let out a breathy sigh. “Just for you.” 

That pleased him. He rewarded her with a plunge of a finger, carefully and effortlessly pressing up into her spongy spot to elicit enough pleasure to leave her craving— needing more of his touch. His thumb circled her clit slowly, pressing with just the right amount of pleasure to leave her twitching around his fingers.

“Good answer,” Finnick praised. Another kiss, another press of his mouth to her skin, his nose brushing between her shoulderblades as he straightened up behind her. His hips pressed up against her backside, a prominent bulge nestled in between the rounded mounds of her ass. His cock was already hard behind the thin fabric of his briefs, Cornelia feeling the heat despite the barrier between them.

She shivered, arching her hips back into his hand as another finger slipped inside of her. It fluttered against the inside of her core, hands shaking as she gripped onto the smooth sheets. “Finnick, please.”

He hummed— half mocking, half amused. “Please what, Cornelia?” He fingers dove deeper. “Use your words.”

Her lips parted, inhaling a shaky breath. “Oh, God, please.” A whimper. “Please, fuck me.”

“Yeah?” Finnick’s fingers didn’t stop, but his free hand dropped from her hip. The cotton was quickly stripped from between them, Finnick shifting out of his underwear and tossing it aside. His cock had sprung free, smacking against her ass and hanging heavily in the sliver of space between them. 

Cornelia desperately wished that there wasn’t any.

As though reading her thoughts, Finnick brought his mouth back to her shoulder as he pulled her closer. His free hand was working his cock, positioning himself at her weeping entrance.

“This pussy’s mine,” Finnick rasped into her ear. "All mine."

Cornelia didn’t deny it. She merely breathed out a moan, angling her hips further upward to grant him easier access into her.

A low groan escaped Finnick’s mouth, the swollen tip of his cock pressed at the slick lips of her core. With one hand on her hip and the other guiding him inside of her, Finnick pushed into Cornelia’s cunt in one smooth pump.

Instantly, Cornelia felt full— painfully so. She could feel his cock deep into her lower abdomen, stretching and making her cunt accommodate his larger size. It had been nearly two months since Finnick’s cock had filled her, and taking all of him all at once was no easy feat— especially from behind where he reached deeper into her. Her fingers gripped the sheets as she exhaled a breathy sigh, her eyes squeezing shut at the adjustment.

Finnick must have felt the hesitation, either from her jerking away instinctively from the brief jolt of pain or the way she tensed up.

“Oh,” he said, a hint of a taunt in his tone, “too much?”

Cornelia shook her head. “No, no—“

Finnick cut her off before she could continue, “Don’t lie.”

She hadn’t been wrong all those times she claimed to be a bad liar. Finnick could hear it— feel it even. He could feel it in how she tightened around him, how she arched back into him like she were attempting to prove a point.

His hands gripped her hips tighter. “You can take it,” Finnick said, still taunting her but slowly pumping in and out of her, making an effort to not hurt her. “You want it slow for now?”

Cornelia hesitated again. She did— it was always good when it was slow. But a part of her wanted more. Because, while she liked it when Finnick took his time with her, she also liked the side of him that took. That was rough and greedy and grabbed onto her like she was all he had left. It made her feel needed, like only she could bring him back up to the surface when he was drowning and grasping for solid ground.

And now? Now, Finnick was showing a newer side. A side that she didn’t know was there. A Finnick that was more dominating, less cautious when taking charge. Finnick Odair was hot. Unfairly so. Had always been attractive and beautiful and irresistible to anyone with eyes and a sense of aesthetics. And Cornelia Flickerman was only human. She wanted him— badly, desperately, horribly.

So she shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “Give it to me, daddy.”

It was Finnick’s turn to hesitate— to pause. His brain short-circuited for a moment.

That was… new.

Not for him; Finnick had been called every term of endearment by clients before. But for Cornelia? To call him that?

That made him forget what day it was. But not in a bad way— no, not at all. When it came from a client’s mouth— or from his when a client requested to be called such— he wanted to vomit. When Cornelia said it?

… Well. Finnick didn’t know what to do with that. He only knew what his body was telling him.

And his body was telling him to fuck.

With a low grunt, Finnick’s hips moved with a mind of his own. His cock thrusted in and out of her slick cunt at a faster pace than normal, fast enough to make Cornelia gasp out in both shock and pleasure. Her walls were already tightening around his thick cock, fluttering in response to his almost desperate movements through her. She could feel the pressure building up low in her stomach, both from Finnick's relentless movements as well as the pleasure that he was pounding into her. Her eyes rolled back behind her eyelids as her head fell forward, her forehead almost pressing into the mattress.

“Shit,” Cornelia gasped out. “Oh, shit, Finnick.”

His hands gripped her hips tightly, his fingertips digging into the soft flesh. Finnick inhaled through his nose, his jaw clenching slightly as he pushed down the urge to come undone. Too early, he thought to himself. Too early to give in and let go. This wasn’t what he needed— he didn’t invite her to the room just for his own pleasure. Not even for her own. 

He wasn’t really sure what he needed anymore. Maybe he needed to feel something, or maybe he needed to remember what it felt like to have something that he had some control over.

And at least he could control this.

“No one else can fuck you like this,” Finnick growled low in his throat. His cock twitched inside of her core, though he was not close to coming. He wasn't done just yet with her. “No one. Don’t even pretend.”

Cornelia only let out a moan as Finnick thrust himself harder and deeper into her like he were proving his point. "No one," she echoed back in agreement, as though she could say anything else.

Finnick brought his mouth down to the crook of her shoulder, nipping his teeth lightly against the heated flesh before whispering in her ear. "Good girl." 

When the air returned to the room in ragged exhales and her knees trembled from how thoroughly he’d reminded her— Finnick didn’t linger. He never did.

He moved like always: precise, quiet, swift. A man who knew how to get dressed in silence. He reached for his briefs first, the fabric sliding back into place like armor. Then his shirt was tugged over his head with ease. He didn’t glance at her as he did it. Just a flick of his eyes in the mirror’s reflection, like a reflex he didn’t want to own.

Cornelia turned to face him while she stayed upright on her knees. Her skin still tingled where he’d touched her. Her spine still ached from the way he’d claimed it with his mouth. She watched him like a woman watching a ghost come back to life. Slowly. With disbelief.

“… What was that about?” she asked finally, her voice quiet, but sharp.

Finnick turned slightly, jaw clenched as he glanced down to adjust the hem of his shirt. “What do you mean?”

Cornelia blinked once. Then scoffed, sitting up straighter. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like you don’t know,” she said. “That wasn’t just… whatever this is. You don’t call me back for two months, and then you call me up out of nowhere and fuck me like nothing happened. What, was that supposed to prove something? That you have some kind of control over me?”

Finnick didn’t answer right away. He leaned against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest, mouth drawn tight. His hair was a mess— disheveled in the back where her fingers had reached back around her and twisted through it. The look in his eyes was unreadable, but dangerous. Like a wave curling just before it crashed.

“This is what we do, Cornelia,” he said, finally, and the words landed with a thud in the air between them.

Cornelia’s face twisted. She exhaled through her nose, short and incredulous.

“… Right,” she said slowly, voice low with disbelief. “But this was different. And you know it.”

She stood from the bed, dragging the sheet with her as she did, not to hide but to give her hands something to hold. Her knuckles whitened around the edge. She stepped closer, eyes sharp and bright, chin tilted up in challenge.

“You were pissed. That’s what that was. You were pissed and possessive and wanted to remind me that I’m yours when it suits you. But you haven’t so much as picked up the phone to call me in weeks.”

“You’re not mine,” he said too quickly.

Her jaw clenched. “That’s literally what you said when you were inside of me, Finnick,” she snapped. “Don’t talk to me like I’m crazy!”

His silence returned, but this time it wasn’t indifference. It was defense. Withdrawal. Like a man slamming the doors on a house that had already been set on fire. His mouth opened, but nothing came. Just the slight shift of his jaw as if he were grinding down everything he wanted to say into dust.

Cornelia’s voice softened, but not with gentleness— just exhaustion. “You don’t get to disappear and then crawl back in and act like none of it mattered. I know what this is supposed to be, I know you don’t want… whatever. But you said—”

“I didn’t mean anything,” Finnick said flatly.

The lie was paper thin.

Cornelia’s face cracked— just slightly. A faint tremble at the edge of her mouth. Her eyes dropped to the floor. For a moment, she looked less like the Capitol’s darling and more like the girl she never let the cameras see.

“Then you’re a really good actor,” she said quietly.

Finnick turned his back to her.

His shoulders were stiff, tension carved down the line of his spine like stone. She thought maybe he’d leave. She almost hoped he would. She couldn’t stand the sound of his breathing anymore— too steady, too impersonal. She wanted him to rage. She wanted him to feel something. She wanted him to say “you’re wrong” or “you’re right” or “I’m sorry” or “I can’t” or “I want you”— anything besides the emptiness he kept serving her like it was protection.

But he just stood there, back turned, breathing slowly through his nose.

Finally, she whispered, “Is this how it’s always going to be?”

Finnick didn’t turn.

And maybe that was her answer.

August, 73 ADD

Finnick was different. Not that he had ever been one for consistency— his moods moved like tides, sometimes crashing, sometimes calm, sometimes pulling everything under without warning. He could be warm. He could be cruel. There were nights when he would laugh against her shoulder and call her “baby” in that half-sincere way that made her stomach flip, and other nights when he’d barely speak a word as he tangled her limbs with his. But now…

Now he was quieter. Colder. Less like a man with secrets and more like a shadow of himself.

They didn’t look at each other anymore. Not really. Not when it mattered. Not when they were pressed together in the dark and the only sounds in the room were the rustle of sheets and the uneven rhythm of breath. Cornelia had stopped expecting him to hold her gaze. He didn’t. Not once in the last month. Not when he pushed into her from behind with a hand braced at the small of her back. Not when she straddled his hips and moved against him, her palms flattened on his chest, his eyes shut like the sight of her would undo something inside of him.

He never kissed her during. Not anymore.

She didn’t know why.

She stood in front of the hotel mirror, her fingers playing idly with the hem of the shirt she’d pulled on after he left. It wasn’t hers. Not technically. A faded dark grey thing from Finnick’s duffel bag, worn thin from saltwater and years of Capitol laundries. She’d taken it out of habit. Slipped it on like armor. But now she wasn’t sure why she’d bothered.

The mirror distorted her slightly, as all Capitol hotel mirrors did— stretching her features just enough to look surreal. Too high-definition, too perfect. Still, even through the artifice, she could see them.

Shadows on her hips. Bruises. His fingerprints.

She turned slightly, angling her body under the light above the sink, running her fingers along one of the darker ones that bloomed just above her hipbone. They looked like pressed violets. She didn’t remember when he’d grabbed her that hard. Maybe the night before. Maybe earlier when she’d shown up at his hotel room and within minutes she was on her back, legs shaking, throat raw from calling his name. He hadn’t kissed her then either.

Cornelia looked at her reflection a moment longer, then peeled the shirt up over her head and let it fall onto the edge of the sink. Her skin was flushed pink from his hands, from the heat of the room, from all the things she wouldn’t let herself say out loud. She felt too exposed and too invisible at the same time.

The shower behind her began to hiss with steam.

She stepped into it slowly, the cold marble tiles stinging her feet until the hot water wrapped around her like a second skin. She didn’t bother adjusting the temperature. Just stood there for a long moment, letting it scald her shoulders, her spine, the curve of her neck.

Her hands rose automatically to the wall, palms flat, as if bracing herself against something. The slick tile was slippery under her fingers. The water ran in rivulets down her back, over the fresh marks, over the place where his mouth had once lingered before he decided to stop looking at her.

She kept her eyes closed. She tried not to think.

But thinking had never been her problem. Feeling had.

Cornelia didn’t understand what had shifted, why he now touched her like she was something he couldn’t quite forgive himself for wanting. Every movement was practiced, professional, even when it was rough. Especially when it was rough. He touched her like he needed to prove something to himself and punish himself for proving it at the same time.

And still, she let him.

Still, she answered the phone when he called. Still, she bit her lip and told herself it didn’t matter that he couldn’t look her in the eyes when he was inside of her.

The steam thickened. The water turned white-hot. She leaned her forehead against the tile and closed her eyes.

What had changed?

Not her. She was still the same. Maybe a little sharper, a little smarter. She’d stopped wearing the frilly skirts her mother liked. Stopped curling her hair into cotton candy ringlets. Started carrying herself like someone older, someone who belonged at the center of the room, not clinging to the edge of it.

She wore heels that bit her feet and lipstick shades that Finnick said made her look “classy.” She learned to laugh softer, tilt her chin higher, keep her mouth shut around the wrong people. But when she was alone with him— when she was naked and bruised and half-drunk on his voice— she didn’t feel older. She didn’t feel smarter.

She felt twelve again. Staring at the boy from District 4 on the arena screen. Staring at the tabloids of him through the years, running around with an assortment of women and men, watching as they kissed and touched him. Wondering to herself what it would be like to be one of his girls in the Capitol. To be chosen. 

Only she wasn’t twelve anymore, and he hadn’t chosen her. He’d just never said no.

September, 73 ADD

This was the third time that night.

Cornelia wasn’t particularly complaining— she couldn’t. Her thighs ached, her skin burned where his hands had gripped her, and there was something primal in the way her body refused to let go of the feeling of him beneath her, inside her, everywhere. Maybe it was the adrenaline, maybe the cocktail of hurt and hunger in her bloodstream, or maybe it was the way Finnick’s hands had tightened so hard on her hips she was sure she’d see the ghost of him in the morning, bruises blooming like blue roses under her skin.

She moved above him in a slow, steady rhythm as she bounced on his cock, his hands guiding her harder, faster, with an urgency that wasn’t romantic, wasn’t tender. It wasn’t even desperate. It was practiced. Mechanical. As if this was what he needed, what they both needed— to dissolve into motion, to sweat through silence, to avoid everything that couldn’t be said aloud.

Cornelia tilted her head back, her hair sticking to her damp shoulders, her mouth parting without words. She didn’t speak. Neither did he. They didn’t look at each other.

It had been like that for weeks now. No kisses to the mouth, no shared pillow talk, no idle fingers trailing hearts on skin. But still— she felt wanted. Needed, even. Not in the way she wanted to be, not really, not like in the movies she used to watch as a girl where the boy would kiss her breathless and promise forever. But this was something. This was Finnick. And some part of her believed it was better than nothing.

She would rather have his body than not have him at all.

She cried out when it ended— just softly, into the palm of her own hand. He didn’t follow the sound with her name. He didn’t touch her face or hold her after. He just let her ride the wave alone until his hands fell away and the spell broke, quick and clean.

Finnick exhaled and shifted, rolling her off him with a grunt and letting the coolness of the sheets rush in between them. The air was thick with heat and sweat and the scent of hotel laundry detergent, that manufactured cleanness that always smelled like something had just been wiped away.

Cornelia stared at the ceiling for a moment, her chest still rising and falling. She didn’t reach for the sheet. Didn’t speak right away. Her body was humming, sore in the kind of way that wouldn’t quite fade for a few days. Her lips were parted, but there were no words there— not at first.

She turned her head, watching him lie there beside her. One arm slung over his face, as if shielding his eyes from the room, or from her.

“Adorabella’s wedding is next month,” she said finally, voice too casual, too soft, trying not to startle the fragile silence.

Finnick didn’t move his arm. “Hm?”

“She’s getting married. Her father paid for a glass cathedral. In a field. Outside the city,” Cornelia added, like that part would help. Like it mattered. Like he might care.

Finnick hummed again. It was a sound halfway between acknowledgment and dismissal. “Sounds… expensive.”

Cornelia’s stomach twisted. Not in anger. Not quite. But something colder. Something more familiar.

She waited a beat. Then asked, quieter this time, “Do you want to go with me?”

The question hung in the air between them, suspended like cigarette smoke. Cornelia didn’t know why she asked. She hated herself for asking the second the words left her mouth. She hated how hopeful she sounded.

Finnick turned his head slightly. Not all the way. Not enough to look at her. But enough for her to see the line of his jaw, the brief flicker of disbelief that passed across his face before he smothered it.

“I’m not gonna be your date, Cornelia.”

She blinked. Then stared. Her heart cracked just a little, clean and soundless. Like porcelain cooling.

She sat up onto one elbow, the sheet falling off her shoulder. “What is wrong with you?” she asked, voice sharp around the edges, cut with something she didn’t try to hide. “We never go out anymore, Finnick. All we do is have sex and—”

He cut her off, eyes snapping to hers now, finally. “What more do you want from me?”

Cornelia gaped at him. As if he’d slapped her. As if he didn’t already know.

“I want you to be my friend, Finnick!” she snapped. “I want you to be more than just someone I see in a hotel room in the middle of the night!”

Her voice wavered at the end, but she didn’t take it back. She didn’t apologize. It was true. It was stupid and humiliating and raw, but it was true. She missed him. Missed them, whatever they used to be. Before it had turned into something secret and cold. Before he started shutting his eyes every time she got on top of him.

Finnick said nothing. His face didn’t move. But something in him shifted— she saw it. A sliver of guilt behind the green in his eyes. A breath that stalled in his throat.

Then, finally, he sighed. Dragged a hand over his face. “I’ll go to the wedding.”

Cornelia stared at him. She wasn’t sure if she felt victorious or small. She didn’t know if he meant it, or if he was just trying to end the conversation.

She rolled her eyes. Bit the inside of her cheek. Swallowed.

“Thank you,” she said flatly, flopping back against the pillow and turning her face toward the wall.

Outside, beyond the expensive blackout curtains, the Capitol glittered under a false moon, all marble and illusion. A city built on half-truths and beautiful lies. Inside the hotel room, everything was quiet again. Too quiet.

Cornelia closed her eyes, her throat tight. She didn’t want to cry in front of him. Not like this. He didn’t hold her anymore.

Chapter Text

October, 73 ADD

THE REHEARSAL LASTED FIVE HOURS. The first hour was spent waiting for the prep team to arrive. Cornelia sat on the edge of one of the pews with her legs crossed, drinking a lemon water that had already gone warm. Diamond was asleep against the backrest, curled in on herself like a cat, her newly bleached platinum bun slipping lopsided.

The second hour consisted of a full run-through of the ceremony, albeit without the orchestra or the hired string quartet. Their absence was made up for by a rather zealous wedding coordinator who counted aloud during each beat of the processional with the intensity of a drill sergeant and kept screaming “no, again, again” every time someone tripped on their dress’s skirts or the music was off by a second for Adorabella’s entrance.

The third hour was a lunch break, catered and serviced on the lawn outside the venue. Cornelia liked that part. Not just because the servers brought her a chilled elderflower spritzer in a cut crystal glass, but because it gave her a full forty minutes of not having to think about how Finnick hadn’t kissed her in three months. She couldn’t remember what his lips tasted like. She sat beneath a shaded awning next to Precious, eating miniscule hors d'oeuvres.

The fourth hour was the dance rehearsal for the wedding party. Cornelia had to dance with Phaedrus. It wasn’t the worst thing, but it was awkward, all things considered.

By the fifth hour, the final dress rehearsal was upon them. Adorabella had cried twice, once over the placement of the lilies in her bouquet and once when her veil snagged on a loose button. Precious had locked herself in the bridesmaids’ room and refused to come out until her false lashes were repaired. Diamond had threatened to quit as maid of honor. Ava and Amata couldn’t stop talking over the coordinator. And Cornelia— Cornelia was starving again, had a blister on each foot, and just wanted to sit down without getting screamed at.

Finally, mercifully, the rehearsal ended.

They were allowed to leave.

Cornelia sagged against the hallway wall of the hotel like a deflating balloon as soon as they made it back to the suite floor. The elevator doors opened with a chirp and the girls spilled out into the corridor in a flood of silk, hairspray, and shrill exhaustion.

Adorabella was still sobbing softly, though she tried to wave it off with a trembling laugh. “I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s just… I’m worried that the prep team is going to be late again tomorrow!”

Diamond offered her a handkerchief and patted her back. “They wouldn’t be late setting up if you didn’t demand floating candles, Dora.”

“Floating candles are romantic!”

“They’re a fire hazard.”

Cornelia trailed at the end of the group, holding the door key between her thumb and forefinger, head slightly bowed. She was smiling still— because it was easier, because it was expected— despite the exhaustion in her veins.

Her heart then skidded as her gaze drifted down the hallway.

There. At the far end.

Finnick stood in front of a hotel room door, head bowed as he slid a keycard into the panel. He wore a short-sleeved black button-down, unbuttoned at the throat. His hair was slightly damp from a recent shower, curling at the ends, and his profile looked carved— tired, shadowed, more handsome than any boy had a right to be. His expression was unreadable.

Cornelia stopped walking.

Diamond kept talking beside her, tugging gently at her arm to keep her moving, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Finnick didn’t look over. Didn’t sense her. Didn’t flinch. He just pushed open his door and disappeared inside.

The click of the door shutting echoed down the hallway like a slap.

Cornelia blinked once, twice. Her stomach turned. Then she nodded along to whatever Diamond was saying, face schooled into a practiced smile, and followed the girls into their shared suite.

Cornelia couldn’t remember what the nightmare had been about. She may have dreamt of falling, or drowning, or mere nothingness and would never know. All she could remember was the sharp bolt of panic— how her chest had felt tight, her breath short and shallow, her hands grasping at silk sheets like she was trying to keep from slipping off the edge of something. She’d sat bolt upright in bed, heart thrumming, drenched in cold sweat and unable to swallow the lump that had lodged itself in her throat.

The bridal suite was still. The girls were all asleep— Diamond curled in a ball beneath her throw blanket, Ava and Amata on the other side of the room, Adorabella softly snoring with a sleep mask over her eyes and a silk bonnet still askew on her curls. The soft blue glow from the moonlit window slid in stripes across the carpet, faint and gentle. But Cornelia couldn’t lie back down. Couldn’t let her eyes shut again.

She took instead to wandering the halls to walk off whatever residual adrenaline was still pumping through her veins.

Her silk robe was half-fastened, the sash tugged lazily around her waist, and her slippers were too quiet to echo properly on the carpeted corridor floors. Everything was in that fragile, suspended state particular to Capitol hotels at night— too hushed, too perfectly tempered, as if the building itself were holding its breath.

Cornelia drifted forward, blinking slowly, a little half-asleep and a little half-awake, suspended somewhere between consciousness and dream. Not quite sleepwalking— just unanchored. Her hand trailed along the smooth gold-foil wallpaper as she walked. The silence pressed in like cotton, numbing.

She didn’t notice the footsteps until they were behind her. Close.

A hand caught her wrist.

“Hey—”

Her heart seized. 

Cornelia turned, eyes widening.

Finnick stood beside her now, barefoot and bleary-eyed in a grey shirt and loose flannel pants, his brow furrowed beneath a sweep of shaggy bronze hair. The overhead sconces lit the edge of his jaw in pale gold. His hand was still around her wrist, warm and grounding. His thumb pressed instinctively against her pulse.

“I called your name,” he said, glancing over his shoulder like he was still surprised she hadn’t noticed. “Did you not hear me?”

Cornelia blinked slowly, still not quite here. “No,” she murmured, her voice like fog on glass. “Sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Finnick’s mouth pressed into a faint line. “You shouldn’t be walking around alone in the halls in the middle of the night,” he said, quiet but firm.

She didn’t say anything. She just slipped her wrist free, gently, her fingers brushing against his palm for a moment too long. Then she turned away and continued down the hall as if nothing had happened.

Finnick stood frozen for a beat. Then— like a string being pulled taut— he followed. His footsteps padded alongside hers.

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said, glancing down at her as he matched her pace. “Why are you still awake?”

Cornelia shrugged, slow and small. “Couldn’t sleep.”

He gave her a look. That quiet, narrowed look that saw more than it should’ve.

They reached the end of the corridor— where the floor-to-ceiling windows opened onto the Capitol skyline, domes and towers glowing faintly beneath a lavender-tinted sky. Cornelia stared out at it without really seeing. Her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her robe. Her face was washed pale by the moonlight.

Finnick stopped. He stepped in front of her, blocking her view, and dipped his head just slightly to catch her gaze. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Cornelia looked away. Finnick tilted his head, following the angle of hers. She rolled her eyes faintly, mostly at herself.

“I just had a nightmare, okay?” she muttered. “I didn’t want to close my eyes again.”

The words hovered between them. He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there, his arms folding loosely across his chest, his mouth tightening in that quiet, private way he had when something hit too close to home.

“Yeah,” Finnick said, quiet and rough. “I get nightmares too.”

Cornelia’s head lifted. Her eyes met his. Wide. Blinking once. 

She didn’t know why it surprised her to hear him say it out loud. Of course he got them. He always had that look— like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks. Like he carried shadows in his bones. But he never said it. Never acknowledged it.

Finnick couldn’t remember the last time he had slept without a nightmare plaguing his dreams.

They were all the same.

He was back in the arena— water flooding his lungs, the taste of salt and blood mixing on his tongue. Sometimes, he was pulled under by a riptide, darkness closing in so fast he couldn’t even scream. Other times, it wasn’t water. It was hands— groping, greedy, bruising. Faces sometimes appeared behind the hands, twisted and smirking, mouths curling with accents he couldn’t scrub from memory. Other times, they were faceless. Not human at all. They had claws.

He woke gasping the most on those nights.

There was something about the faceless ones. The ones that didn't have names, didn’t need names. They only had purposes. And Finnick had been theirs.

He sometimes slept better when the covers were pulled tightly up to his chin, cocooned like a child in his bed, as if the thin linens could shield him from visitors who knew how to get through locks. But the nights he slept best were the nights Cornelia had her head on his chest. He would never tell her that.

“Yeah, well,” Cornelia said, swallowing the knot in her throat, “mine are dumb. You have reasons to have them.”

Finnick didn’t look away. His jaw tensed for a second before he spoke, “That doesn’t mean yours don’t matter.”

Cornelia blinked.

The words were so plain. So unadorned. So unlike the things most people told her, especially after she tried to make a joke or gloss over something real.

She looked at him. Really looked at him.

There were so many versions of Finnick Odair. The one the Capitol saw. The one she shared bedsheets with. The one who laughed like the world didn’t hurt him. But this one— this Finnick, standing barefoot in a hotel hallway at two in the morning— this was the version she missed. Her Finnick. She hadn’t seen this version of him in months.

He reached up, slowly, and rubbed her arm. Not in a way that made a pass at anything. Just… warming her. Steadying her. Making sure she felt anchored.

Cornelia stood very still. She felt the prickle of tears begin to build at the corner of her lashes but blinked them back fast.

Finnick glanced down the hall, then tipped his head. “You want to go back to the suite? Or…?”

His words were open-ended, not quite a suggestion but not a refusal either.

Cornelia stared at him. Her stomach twisted.

She didn’t want to go back. Not yet. Not alone. Not after what her head had conjured up. But she also didn’t want him to think this meant something more than what he wanted it to. Even if she did. Even if she wanted it so badly it ached.

Still.

Just for a moment. Just for tonight. She wanted to be near him without pretending. Without the silk and the flirtation and the glittery veneer. Just her. Just him. Just the silence in between.

She gave him a slow nod. “Can we just… walk for a bit?”

Finnick shrugged a shoulder, mouth twitching like it wanted to smile but didn’t quite manage it. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”

They walked in silence now, her shoulder brushing gently against his arm as they wandered past windowed conference rooms and grand elevators trimmed in opal glass. The halls were long and labyrinthine, winding past darkened parlors and glowing panels of programmable light. Cornelia didn’t say anything, but she looked better— color returning slowly to her cheeks, lashes heavier, the haunted fog of her nightmare beginning to lift.

Their hands brushed once. Just a brief, accidental touch— his knuckles grazing hers.

Cornelia tensed.

It was subtle— just a minute flinch in her fingers— but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her hand drift closer, brushing again, lighter this time. And then her pinky gently hooked around his. The simplest of tethers.

Finnick didn’t acknowledge it. But he didn’t let go either.

They continued walking like that— slow, unhurried steps, two shadows in a hall full of sleeping ghosts. Finnick watched her from the corner of his eye, the way she absently looked at the walls like they might give her answers. He didn’t know what she’d dreamt, but whatever it had been, it had shaken her enough to leave her wide awake in silk slippers and a satin robe, wandering the halls like she was afraid of returning to her body.

They reached the next corridor junction when Finnick paused. Cornelia kept walking. She passed three more doors before realizing he wasn’t beside her anymore. She turned around, blinking slowly in the low light. He stood in front of his hotel room, hand halfway to the key card panel. 

“Hey,” Finnick said, voice low.

She tilted her head slightly.

He hesitated. The card hovered between his fingers. His thumb rubbed along the plastic edge before he looked back up at her.

“You want to come in?” His voice was soft. Not a command. Not a plea. A suggestion. An offer.

Cornelia stared at him for a moment.

The light from the wall panel caught the high arc of his cheekbone and the tired, careful expression on his face. Something inside her shifted, her stomach tightening, heart squeezing in her chest like a fist.

He loves her.

It was a thought that bloomed inside her brain unbidden.

He loves her.

Not a fantasy. A belief. A fluttering, foolish, deeply planted hope.

This wasn’t about sex. It couldn’t be. Not when he’d come to her in the hall, not when he looked at her like this, not when his voice had gentled just for her.

He loves her.

She smiled. Small, shy, not her usual Capitol-watt grin. Then she nodded.

Finnick swiped the key card. The light blinked green.

Cornelia crossed the hallway, her bare feet barely making a sound. She stepped inside his hotel room and the door clicked shut behind her.

Finnick locked it. Two twists of the deadbolt. Habit. Reflex. Necessity. She never locked the door.

Cornelia stood still for a moment in the middle of the room, letting her eyes adjust to the lower light. His room smelled like bergamot and salt and faint trace notes of clean laundry—whatever Capitol detergent he used. The bedsheets were half-rumpled, and a pair of his boots were kicked off near the foot of the bed. His toiletries were lined up precisely along the edge of the counter, too neat for someone his age unless he was compensating for something. She noticed the glass of water beside the bed, the half-finished crossword folded on the nightstand.

She turned slightly, about to speak—

But then she felt him.

Finnick’s hands.

They found her shoulders first, firm but gentle, fingertips brushing under the silk edge of her robe. They rubbed lightly, kneading muscle, offering comfort— or maybe prelude. It was always hard to tell with him.

Then his hands slipped lower. Down to her waist. Her hips. And his mouth pressed to the side of her neck. Soft. Familiar. Intentional.

Cornelia inhaled sharply through her nose. For a heartbeat, she held her breath. Her hands twitched. Her brain sparked with realization.

Oh.

He just wanted sex.

Not love. Not comfort. Not a middle-of-the-night shared dreamspace. Just this. Just her body.

The warmth she’d felt in the hall flickered slightly. That glowing, blooming hope from moments before cracked at the edges like porcelain. But then she let her eyes flutter shut.

Relaxed. Leant into the touch. Gave in.

Because he still wanted her. And that meant something. Maybe not everything, maybe not what she wanted, but it was something.

He still wants her.

Her thoughts drifted into that familiar lullaby rhythm as his hands moved over silk and skin.

He still wants her. He still wants her. He still wants her.

She had slipped out of the room before Finnick woke up. The sky outside the hotel windows was still navy-blue. The halls echoed with nothing but the low hum of ventilation and the occasional creak of the old pipes behind the walls. The city was still asleep. The bridal suite was still asleep. And Finnick— mercifully— was still asleep.

She couldn’t risk being caught. Not by the girls, certainly not by any early riser stumbling out of their rooms for coffee or continental breakfast, and especially not by Finnick.

There was something unbearable about the thought of him seeing her leave the bed. Not after a night like that. She didn’t want to see his face when she turned the handle. Didn’t want to register whether or not he would call her name. Whether or not he would care. Whether or not he’d still look soft and golden and half-asleep the way he always did in the mornings, one hand curled under the pillow, his lashes dark against his cheekbones, his mouth slightly parted in the warm quiet. Because if he looked at her like she was just leaving after a good night, she wasn’t sure she could survive it.

He had fallen asleep after they finished— after she had ridden him until her thighs ached, until her wrists were red from gripping the headboard, until there were bruises blooming like violets on her waist from his hands.

They hadn’t spoken afterward. He hadn’t kissed her goodnight. He hadn’t traced a hand down her spine like he used to. He hadn’t curled her hair behind her ear or murmured anything soft and meaningless like he sometimes did on accident, when the sex blurred too closely with affection. He’d simply rolled over, let the weight of exhaustion sink him into the mattress, and drifted.

Cornelia could have tried to fill the silence— should have, maybe. She was good at it. Babble was her native tongue, and she could wax poetic about hotel mini shampoos or what color bouquet best matched wedding champagne. She was trained to sparkle in the dark. But not tonight.

Tonight, she was too tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix. Not the kind that pressed behind the eyes or made shoulders ache. This tired lived in her bones. In the hollow between her ribs. In the soft, fleshy part of her that still ached every time he touched her like she was something lovely but disposable.

She had waited until his breath evened out and then she had slipped out of bed, bare feet brushing the patterned carpet, body wrapped in the silk robe she’d left on the back of his desk chair. No kiss on the forehead. No look back. Just a quiet click of the door behind her as she stepped out into the lonely glow of the hotel hallway.

Cornelia walked quickly. Her slippers barely made a sound, but she still felt as though every echo marked her as guilty. Like she was branded with last night’s sins, humming with the residue of Finnick’s hands and her own desperation.

When she reached the bridal suite, her hands moved automatically— key card, handle, soft twist, door closing behind her with a sigh. She didn’t breathe until she’d turned the bolt.

It was still quiet. The girls were still asleep. No one stirred. No one noticed her return.

Cornelia padded to the bathroom, the click of the lock barely audible. Her fingers trembled slightly as they undid the sash of her robe. She peeled the nightgown from her body slowly. Carefully. It clung in places. The collarbone, the small of her back, the curve of her hips, still tender from the imprint of Finnick’s grip. She dropped it to the tile without looking.

The shower turned on in a burst of motion. She turned the water up— hot. Too hot. Scalding. She stepped into it anyway. She stood beneath the stream of steaming water, the droplets beating down over her shoulders, her hair, her spine. It plastered her curls to her face, ran in rivulets down her cheeks, and filled the silence of the bathroom with the rush and hiss of false rain.

She didn’t move. She didn’t reach for the soap, didn’t grab the loofah. She simply stood there and cried.

Not loud. Not sobbing. Not the dramatic, gasping kind of weeping they showed in Capitol soap operas. It was quieter. Older. A soundless, shaking kind of grief that lived behind her eyes and leaked down her cheeks like she was trying to water her own emptiness. The water masked the tears anyway.

Cornelia pressed one hand flat against the tile, the porcelain slick and smooth beneath her palm. Her other hand curled uselessly at her side. Her chin dropped to her chest, eyes closed, body beginning to tremble.

What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t it enough? Why did her heart still ache every time he looked at her and didn’t see her? Why did her throat close every time he kissed her neck like she was a favorite possession instead of a person?

She’d told herself she could handle it. That it didn’t matter. That the sex was enough. That if she gave him what he needed— whatever he needed— he would one day realize he needed her. Not just her body. Not just her warmth at night. Her.

But that was a lie. Because every time she left his bed, she felt a little less like herself. A little more like a shadow. She could feel herself being chipped away, bit by bit. A Capitol daughter who could talk her way out of anything but couldn’t seem to talk her heart into giving up the boy who would never love her back.

Cornelia’s friends were nothing short of eccentric. That was a fact Finnick had known and accepted since the very first night he met the Capitol girls.

They didn’t walk. They floated. Glitter followed them, clung to their perfume like pollen, like an inevitable second skin. They laughed too loud and drank too early. Their opinions on hemline lengths were as serious as war treaties, and their loyalty was the kind that burned fast and bright and shallow. But still— he liked them. In the way one might like a fireworks show or a midsummer thunderstorm. There was a certain delight in watching their world spin, so long as one knew it wasn’t meant to be lived in.

Adorabella’s wedding was no exception.

Finnick sat somewhere in the middle of the guest section, tie a little too tight, blazer collar already rubbing against the back of his neck, hands folded politely over his lap. He could smell the cloying Capitol florals from where he sat— sweet rot and artificial citrus and something sharp like ozone, probably infused with glitter. Each chair was brandished with a tuft of feathers, dyed pale peach and mint, and the aisle was a dizzying blur of glittery florals and greenery, like a florist’s fever dream.

There were crystals strung from the lattice overhead. Tiny drones hovering like dragonflies, catching angles of the bride from above. He imagined Caesar had made sure the ceremony was being filmed, just in case they wanted to sell the footage later. Or turn it into a highlight reel for some lifestyle channel.

And then the bridal party began.

The dresses were a bright orange satin— so bright it nearly hurt to look at. Finnick squinted against the sun as the procession began, bridesmaids one by one walking down the aisle with their assigned groomsmen, arms looped together like ornaments. The orange shimmered like molten metal in the sunlight, catching in the folds of fabric, smooth and sinuous as water over skin.

He recognized Diamond immediately, all hips and hair and winking at someone in the crowd.  Precious followed, her arm linked with a beaming groomsman who already looked intoxicated by proximity. And then two more girls, ones Finnick didn’t know by name— but judging by their identically sculpted noses and deep red velvet hair, they had to be Adorabella’s sisters. Or cousins. Or Capitol clones. It was sometimes hard to tell in this crowd.

And then Cornelia.

She walked arm-in-arm with a groomsman Finnick didn’t recognize, tall and forgettable, one of those Capitol boys who’d probably spent an hour gel-slicking his hair and didn’t have a thought in his head beyond champagne and who he might kiss after the reception. Finnick barely saw him. His eyes were on her.

The dress clung to her figure like a second skin. Orange shouldn’t have suited her. But it did. Somehow, it did. The scoop of fabric at the neckline revealed just the slightest sliver of her chest, the satin draping down to her waist like it had been sculpted there by hand. The fabric shimmered with every step, catching sunlight in ways that made her hips look as though they moved with a rhythm only the universe understood.

He was only human. A human man, at that.

Finnick’s gaze slid down her body with a hunger he didn’t bother disguising. Not when he was allowed this. Allowed to want her in silence. Allowed to remember the way those hips had moved on top of him just the night before, the arch of her back, the soft sound she made when she tipped her head back, when he gripped her so tight he left marks he hadn’t looked at afterward. Allowed to remember the shape of her beneath the satin— the texture of her skin, the curve of her thigh against his side, the way she sometimes whispered something when she thought he was on the edge of sleep.

He should’ve stopped thinking about her like this. He should’ve known better. But there was no stopping it— not when she looked like that.

Cornelia reached the altar and took her place beside the other bridesmaids. The light hit her at just the right angle. Her honeyed eyes glowed, flecks of amber catching beneath the painted lashes. Her lips were glossy, cheeks blushed just enough to make her look alive but not overdone. Her skin— God, her skin— looked soft enough to memorize by touch alone.

And for a moment— just for one aching, strangled moment— Finnick felt something seize in his chest.

He imagined her in white.

Not the gaudy Capitol white, all rhinestones and shoulder spikes and feathers curling like smoke. No. He imagined her in something simple. Traditional. A white gown that flowed to her ankles and trailed behind her like a sigh. He imagined a veil, something soft and sheer, pinned in her hair. Her brown curls pulled half-up. A bouquet in her hands. Her father crying beside her, or maybe making a toast that made everyone laugh and tear up in equal measure.

And Finnick sitting somewhere in the crowd. In the bride’s section, probably. As an honored guest. Or maybe a dear friend. Watching her marry someone else.

Some Capitol golden boy. Hand-selected by Caesar. Wealthy. Polished. With a smile like a publicist’s dream and a future made of silver spoons and safe promises. Someone who would never let her slip out of a hotel room at five in the morning without asking where she was going or how she was feeling. Someone who could give her all of them— not just their body.

Finnick swallowed hard.

And he would be happy for her. Of course he would be. Why wouldn’t he be?

Cornelia Flickerman was everything bright and golden in a world that so often turned to ash. She deserved all of it— the love, the ring, the future. Deserved to be seen and adored and shown off without shame. Deserved more than a boy from District 4 who still woke in the night from dreams of saltwater and blood, who still sometimes flinched when touched too softly, who could never give her a name that would mean anything in her world.

But the thought of her taking someone else’s name…

It made his stomach twist.

His mouth tasted bitter. Like copper. Like regret.

Cornelia turned slightly at the altar, laughing at something the girl beside her whispered. Her head tilted just so, light catching the glitter dusted across her collarbones, the shine at her temples. She looked radiant. Unreachable.

Finnick looked down at his hands. Then back at her. He shouldn’t be thinking this way. He’d told himself that a thousand times.

She was his friend. His… complication. She was Caesar Flickerman’s daughter. She sparkled like starlight, and she loved with the kind of foolish, reckless hope he’d never afford.

After what had felt like an hour— an hour of clapping, tears, overzealous flower girls, and glitter cannons strategically placed along the aisle— Adorabella and Cerulean— finally— kissed. A sweeping, heavily choreographed kiss that had clearly been rehearsed to match the swelling music behind them. The crowd erupted into cheers, applause, even some air kisses blown across the aisle. 

Finnick clapped politely. He’d seen too many ceremonies. Too many couples making promises they couldn’t possibly understand. Cerulean and Adorabella— the latter in a blinding chartreuse gown with exaggerated sleeves that looked like they could take flight— paraded back down the aisle, hands joined, basking in their Capitol fairytale. The bridesmaids and groomsmen followed in pairs, sunlight bouncing off the orange satin, casting warm glows against the floral arrangements and the translucent veil of shimmer mist still lingering in the air.

Finnick— again— shamelessly watched Cornelia.

She walked with a sway in her step, the same hip-rolling confidence that always drove him mad, even when she wasn’t trying. Especially when she wasn’t trying. She tossed her hair back mid-stride, her profile catching the light just enough to make his chest ache. She didn’t look his way. She was too focused on not tripping, probably, her arm still linked with that same forgettable groomsman, her lips pursed just slightly like she was holding something back. Maybe a complaint. Maybe a scream. Maybe nothing at all.

When the bridal party had cleared the aisle and the guests were released to mingle, the crowd became a sea of clinking glasses and clashing perfumes, feathers bobbing above heads like exotic birds. Waiters passed champagne and floral cocktails. Capitol music hummed faintly from behind rose-covered speakers. And somewhere, just out of view, the happy couple was already striking their poses for a second round of wedding photos.

The bride and groom disappeared behind a curtain of camera drones and handlers for yet another round of “candid” newlywed pictures that had been painstakingly blocked and scheduled weeks in advance.

Finnick didn’t hesitate. He slipped through the crowd like a fish through water, weaving between guests with a single-minded focus that bordered on surgical. He ignored the people who recognized him— Capitol men and women who raised perfectly manicured hands, their mouths parting into sugary “hellos” and scandalous whispers, former clients whose glances lingered just a beat too long.

He didn't stop, didn't let them touch his arm or speak his name. He was hunting. Scanning for brown curls and orange satin, eyes sharp as glass, cutting through the crowd. And then— finally— at the very back of the terrace hall, tucked half behind one of the silk-paneled columns near the glass window overlooking the city— he saw her.

Cornelia was crouched on a windowsill beside Diamond, both of them precariously balanced, still somehow in their heels. Diamond’s chin rested on her palm, her expression somewhere between misery and boredom. Cornelia had one arm slung over her bent knee, her lips pressed together in a way Finnick recognized all too well— her version of a pout disguised as patience. She wasn’t looking at the crowd. She was trying not to look at anything at all. The rest of the bridal party had disappeared— probably to the suite or powder rooms to freshen up or escape the endless parade of photo ops.

Finnick didn’t stop. He walked straight to them. As he approached, both girls began to shakily stand, gripping the edge of the sill to find their balance. 

“What, are you two hiding?” he asked, eyes flicking between the pair of them.

Diamond wobbled slightly, her orange dress catching around her ankles as her heel snagged on the edge. “These shoes!” she gasped, throwing a hand up in exasperation. “Oh, my gosh, we told Dora that these heels are horrible to walk around in! But no, she said—”

“Oh my God, Diamond! Enough with the shoes!” Cornelia’s voice cracked like a snapped hairpin— sharp and sudden, filled with heat.

Finnick paused a foot away. Diamond blinked at Cornelia, startled and insulted, her hand still mid-air. Then, as if realizing who had approached, her eyes flicked to Finnick, face smoothing into polite resignation. Finnick held her gaze for a second, then offered her a nod.

Diamond nodded back, lips pressed into a tight line. She took the cue. With one final glare at Cornelia, she pivoted and walked off, heels clacking, muttering something about a drink. Cornelia just stood there, arms crossed over her chest, jaw clenched.

Finnick stared down at her for a moment. Then he raised his eyebrows, just a little. "What’s your deal?"

She glared up at him, arms still locked, defensive and stubborn, chestnut curls pushed behind one ear in a gesture that was both composed and defiant. “Oh, what, now you want to care?”

Finnick didn’t react. Not visibly. But there was a shift in his expression, almost imperceptible— his lips pressed into a thinner line, one brow twitching. He stepped a half-inch closer, voice lowering like a tide pulling back before a storm. 

“Are you really going to have an attitude right now? Here at your friend’s wedding?” 

Her eyes widened slightly. Just a flicker. Her gaze broke away, looking to the side, toward the sweeping glass windows, Capitol skyline burning bright against the dusky sky. A sigh caught somewhere in her throat, not quite released.

Finnick exhaled. Long. Slow. His hand ran across his face, dragging a moment at his jaw before dropping.

“Alright,” he said more gently. “Try again. What’s going on?” He gestured vaguely behind him, in the direction Diamond had stormed off. “Why’d you snap at her?”

Cornelia’s jaw worked. She didn’t answer immediately. Her arms dropped to her sides. Then crossed again. Then finally she pressed a hand to her temple, wincing slightly.

“We haven’t eaten at all today,” she muttered. “And my head hurts, and these heels are killing my feet.”

Finnick gave her a long, silent look. Then turned, glancing over his shoulder at the empty windowsill. He sighed. “Sit down.”

Cornelia hesitated, lips parting like she wanted to protest, then stopped. She crossed the short distance back to the sill, lowering herself with a quiet wince. Her dress shifted, the orange satin catching the low light, bunched slightly at the knees as she sat.

Finnick knelt down in front of her. He didn’t say anything at first. Just reached out and started unbuckling the straps of her heels, fingers practiced and sure. Cornelia watched him, chest rising and falling steadily, her gaze unreadable. He slipped the first shoe off carefully, then the second.

And then he saw.

The bruises where the thin straps had pressed too hard across her feet, leaving angry red lines like lash marks. The forming blisters at the back of her heels. The raw spot near her toes that looked dangerously close to splitting.

Finnick made a sound in the back of his throat. “For once,” he muttered, his mouth twitching faintly, “you’re not being dramatic.”

Cornelia rolled her eyes. But the corner of her lip curled slightly, more breath than smile as Finnick ran his fingers lightly over the skin of her foot, brushing near the worst of the damage.  She exhaled slowly at the contact, closing her eyes for a second.

Neither of them spoke. The wedding buzzed behind them, laughter and clinking glasses and distant announcements of the photo schedule. But in their corner of the room, there was only the hush of fingertips on bruised skin, the satin of her gown brushing his knuckles, and the soft, persistent ache of everything unspoken between them. 

Somewhere in the middle of their shared silence— somewhere between the throbbing of her feet and the twist of his gut— Finnick tried to remember all the reasons he wasn’t supposed to love her. He couldn’t recall a single one.

The food served at the reception was decorative at best, plated like jeweled mosaics. Pale gold slivers of fish arranged beside pearls of some ambiguous grain, herbs placed not to be eaten but admired, and sauces drawn in swoops that mimicked brushstrokes more than condiments. It was pretty. Beautiful even. But not satisfying. And certainly not filling. Claudius Templesmith, ever the aesthete, had organized the menu with a team of Capitol gastronomists, selecting each course based on visual appeal and photogenic value.

Cornelia flicked a piece of saffron-dyed risotto with the tines of her fork. It slid half-heartedly across her plate. She didn’t try to eat it. Her mother would’ve been proud.

She sat at the long, gleaming table reserved for the wedding party, flanked by orange and copper floral arrangements spilling over from tall vases, flames flickering in floating glass orbs that hovered midair on invisible filaments. Diamond sat to her right, Precious on her left, while Avian and Homer sat beside them. 

Cornelia nodded as Diamond chattered about next spring’s vacation plans. Apparently, Avian had secured passes to visit the 70th arena.  Diamond was excited. She’d already planned outfits. Avian had joked about proposing on the old Cornucopia ruins, though Cornelia couldn’t tell if he was serious.

Cornelia’s champagne glass was her third— maybe fourth. It was difficult to count with the music playing, the crowd laughing, the low buzz of the quartet tuning up for another song.

She looked up. Finnick was still in the same corner. Still talking.

Three women stood with him, their postures unmistakable. All angled slightly inward. All laughing too quickly at things he wasn’t even saying. Their arms grazed his as they gestured. Cerulean’s sister Eutychia was amongst them. She was still aggressively beautiful— airbrushed and symmetrical, gleaming teeth, perfectly tilted eyes. She leaned in now, tossing her hair as her lips grazed Finnick’s ear.

Cornelia sipped her drink. The bitterness of the champagne fizzed sharply at the back of her tongue. She tore her gaze away. 

Diamond was still talking about arena trip. Cornelia nodded again, smiled when necessary. She turned her fork in slow circles across her plate.

Then the music shifted. The quartet moved seamlessly into a slow number.  Diamond stood up first, pulling Avian by the hand. Precious followed, laughing, her long curls catching the candlelight as Homer led her away. Couples drifted onto the dance floor together before beginning to sway.

Cornelia stayed seated. She didn’t mean to. She didn’t not mean to. She just stayed. She sat, alone at the wedding party table, idly watching her friends spin and sway in glowing loops. Her hands settled in her lap, fingers twisting around her napkin. Her cheeks felt warm from the champagne and the lights.

A hand touched her shoulder. She turned.

Finnick stood over her, his eyes catching and holding hers before he even spoke. The sound of the party dulled in her ears for just a moment.

“Dance with me?” he asked. His voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. She heard him perfectly.

Cornelia blinked. Her heart flipped once, then thudded with irritating clarity. She nodded.

Finnick extended his hand. She took it, fingers curling into his as he guided her gently up and out, her heels clicking softly against the marble. They joined the others on the floor, not immediately finding the center but drifting closer to it, bodies folding naturally into a familiar rhythm. He rested his hand against her waist. She let her hand settle on his shoulder.

For a moment, it was awkward— Cornelia moving slightly off-beat, trying to match the flow of the music. But Finnick didn’t rush her. He shifted gently, steering her into the pace, his palm warm through the satin of her dress. She relaxed into it. Into him.

They fell into sync.

Her dress brushed against his legs with every slow step. The glow from the overhead lanterns washed his profile in gold and bronze, lighting the edges of his hair, casting shadows beneath his lashes. His expression was unreadable— focused on her, on the steps, maybe both.

Then, softly, she began to hum. Not a melody she knew. Just something quiet to fill the silence.

Finnick’s gaze dropped to her face, something amused and gentle rising in the corners of his mouth. He tilted his head slightly.

“What are you singing?” he asked, a smile curling just beneath his words.

Cornelia’s cheeks burned. She shrugged.

“I dunno,” she said, giggling nervously. “I’m making it up.”

He chuckled lowly, leaning closer. His lips brushed near the shell of her ear, voice dropping into something only for her. 

“Sing louder,” he murmured. “I want to hear you.”

Cornelia’s skin prickled with warmth. She shook her head, flustered, burying her face slightly in her shoulder. “No, no. I’m so bad.”

Finnick pulled back just enough to look at her again, eyebrows raised. “Oh, come on,” he teased. “It’s just us.”

She let out a breathy laugh, tipping her head up to the ceiling as if begging the stars for patience. Still, she hummed a little louder. And then she sang— not quite in key, not quite steady: “I’ve never been to the mountains, I’ve never been to the sea. But I know what it feels like when you look at me.”

Her voice was airy. A little unsure, but soft and earnest.

Finnick didn’t say anything. His hand remained steady on her back. His other hand held hers, thumb brushing faintly across her knuckles. His eyes stayed locked on her face— not demanding, not amused, just… quiet. Contained.

The music began to swell into its final measures.

Cornelia let her voice drift off, leaving only her humming again, which faded into the silence as the quartet finished with one last sustained note.

They stopped. The crowd kept dancing around them, but Finnick and Cornelia stood still.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, they just looked at each other. Her hand was still on his shoulder. His fingers still circled lightly at her waist. Her eyes were bright with champagne and nerves and something else she’d never say aloud.

Finnick pulled away first. His hand slipped from hers, and then he turned, leaving her standing alone on the dance floor as the music changed again.

November, 73 ADD

Cornelia knew this hotel room too well. The cream-colored wallpaper with its textured, swirling patterns that mimicked waves, the sterile white comforter pulled halfway off the bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows shrouded by sheer curtains that the Capitol breeze sometimes pressed inward. It was the same suite he had gotten last time. Finnick seemed to prefer it. She hadn’t asked why. Maybe she didn’t want to know.

He had initiated the sex this time, of course. He always did. Not in words— never in words— but in the way his eyes dragged over her as soon as she crossed the threshold, the way his hand reached for her waist before the door clicked shut. The way he pressed her back against the wall with a hunger that never cooled. The first time he’d done it, months ago, it had made her laugh. Made her dizzy. It had felt like something in her life was finally burning. But lately, it just felt like déjà vu. 

Every moment had already been lived. Every gesture rehearsed. She knew the choreography now. Knew it in her bones. The scene never shifted— her back hitting the door, her dress sliding to the floor, Finnick’s hands in her hair, his mouth hard and demanding on her collarbone or shoulders. Sometimes he’d drag her to the couch, other times they never made it past the entryway. 

Tonight, it had been the bed. A silent walk there, Finnick pulling her down with him, his mouth finding her neck in the familiar curve between shoulder and jaw. And then— like always— he took over.

She didn’t fight it. She never did. It wasn’t a matter of permission; it just was. A rhythm they fell into without question. He pulled her hair tighter when she took him in her mouth. He moved her like a marionette, pressed her down or flipped her over as if their bodies weren’t two separate people but one long extension of his will.

And the thing was— she came, too. She always did.

But that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that it didn’t feel like it meant anything anymore. It was all for him now. Not cruelly, not even consciously, but there was something missing. Something that had been there in the beginning. She couldn’t name it exactly. Warmth, maybe. Wonder. Or perhaps just the illusion that she had any say in it at all.

She’d never been with anyone else. No one had touched her the way Finnick did. No one had looked at her with that smoldering intensity, that charmed smile masking something infinitely more dangerous beneath. She’d never wanted anyone else. Hadn’t needed to. It had always been him.

And maybe that was why it was so hard to walk away.

Cornelia moved above him now, slowly, the dull ache in her thighs forgotten for the moment. Her hair fell around her shoulders like a curtain, and she kept her hands pressed lightly to his chest, fingers splayed over his skin as if to remind herself he was still real. That this was still happening.

But his eyes were closed. Still. He hadn’t opened his eyes since she had climbed on top of him and taken in his cock.

His head tipped slightly back against the pillow, his hands gripping her waist— not cruelly, but firmly, directing her hips as if he were setting the tempo, controlling the rise and fall of the music she could no longer hear.

Her breath hitched. Her rhythm faltered.

Cornelia stared down at him.

His lips parted slightly, his chest rising and falling, that faint line between his brows that only appeared when he was half-tethered to himself. But he didn’t look at her. Not once. He hadn’t since she’d climbed onto him.

She tried to ignore it. She tried to focus on the pulse of their bodies, the heat where they touched, the friction between their skin. But the truth— cold and quiet— settled like ash across her lungs.

“Look at me, Finnick,” she whispered. 

Her voice cracked. Barely a breath. But still, his eyes didn’t open.

Instead, his grip on her waist tightened, pulling her down harder, changing the rhythm, chasing that final swell like he always did when she asked for too much. The shift was subtle but unmistakable— a distraction. A deflection. His cock surging into hers with renewed insistence, as if urgency could make her forget what she’d asked for if he jutted his hips harder and harder against hers.

She didn’t forget, but she let him. She always let him.

And when it was over, when his breathing slowed and his hands fell away from her hips like the strings had been cut, Finnick didn’t say anything. He didn’t look at her. He shifted onto his side, not quite facing her, not quite turning away, and guided her off him with a gentle firmness, the kind that made her feel like luggage being unzipped and repacked.

Cornelia lay on her back beside him, the sheets tangled between her legs, the sweat cooling on her skin and the cum drying between her thighs. Her eyes fixed on the ceiling, where the hotel chandelier threw pale golden patterns across the plaster. She traced the looping shapes with her eyes, refusing to blink. Refusing to cry. There was no crying in this space they occupied. That had been made clear long ago.

She was numb. Not in a dramatic way. Not in a cinematic, mascara-smudged sort of way. Just empty. The kind of quiet that came after a performance. After the lights went out and the applause faded and the makeup was scrubbed clean. After the dress was hung back up and the shoes kicked under the bed.

Finnick’s breathing steadied.

She could feel the distance growing between their bodies. Not physical— he was still beside her, warm and real and Finnick-shaped. But emotionally? Mentally? He was already gone, drifted somewhere she couldn’t follow. He always left before she did.

And still, she stayed. Because she didn’t know what else to do. Because he had been the first. The only. Because every time he touched her, she let herself believe that maybe this time it would feel different. That maybe one day he’d open his eyes. Only, he hadn’t.

She didn’t ask again.

Cornelia was sure that her lies were running their course. She had never been a perfect liar— she liked attention too much, liked being charming too much, liked the act of spinning something dramatic, whimsical, bathed in glitter and just outlandish enough to entertain. But lately, her lies were quieter. Not nearly so sparkly. They came easier, too— so easy they stopped feeling like lies at all and became something far more dangerous: habit. Muscle memory. A well-worn track.

Her father never questioned her. Not really. If she said she was with Diamond or Precious or attending some last-minute dress fitting or planning committee meeting for the Winter Gala, he accepted it with a smile. A kiss on the cheek. A nod of approval. Sometimes even an affectionate “That’s my girl.”

Cornelia hated it.

She hated how easily he believed her. Hated that he didn’t even glance at the hour she came home, the way she looked when she slunk in after sunrise, the faint perfume of hotel soap still clinging to her wrists and the faint ache still between her thighs. Caesar Flickerman had no reason to think his daughter to be dishonest. She had never given him one— not outwardly. Not publicly.

But a part of her wished that he would.

Wished he would press. Wished he would raise his voice, demand answers, forbid her from ever leaving the villa again. She didn’t care how he did it— she just wanted someone, anyone, to make her feel ashamed. Ashamed for straying from the perfectly paved path that had been curated for her since childhood: lace dresses and elocution lessons, horse-drawn floats, pristine grades from her private tutors, and a future arranged in rose gold and approval.

Perhaps her mother would.

Calpurnia always had something to say. About how Cornelia dressed, how she sat, how she smiled too broadly and gestured too much when she spoke. How much she ate. How often she laughed. Why not say something now? Why not call her a harlot and be done with it? The silence was becoming unbearable.

Cornelia closed the villa door quietly behind her.

She was dressed in the change of clothes she’d packed in her purse the night before: a frilly white button-up blouse with exaggerated cuffs, a periwinkle skirt with rhinestones along the hem, and satin kitten heels that pinched a little but were better than the blisters left from the wedding. Her hair was curly, as always, though somewhat messy— slept-on and mussed, even with her best efforts at taming it in Finnick’s bathroom mirror. She looked soft and pretty, if not a little wrinkled. Good enough to pass for a night with girlfriends and too much prosecco.

The villa was already filled with soft morning light filtering in through the wraparound windows, brushing over the marble floors and the high-backed chairs around the dining table. The crystal chandelier over the breakfast nook gleamed like it was permanently enchanted, and the faint hum of the city hovered in the distance like background music.

Calpurnia sat in the kitchen, at the tall barstool beside the espresso machine, already dressed in her robe— a robin’s egg blue silk with hand-stitched beading. Her hair was set in curlers that glinted under the light. Her manicured fingers curled delicately around a coffee cup as she scrolled through the newsfeed projected on the glass backsplash.

“Morning, mother,” Cornelia said lightly, pausing in the doorway like a guest unsure of their welcome.

Calpurnia didn’t look up. “You’re late.”

The words were flat. Not curious. Not biting. Just there. Acknowledgement, nothing more. She sipped her coffee again and gave a small wave of her fingers to dismiss the news hologram. The screen faded. Her lipstick barely smudged the rim of her mug.

Cornelia stepped fully into the room, unsure what to do with her hands. She clasped them behind her back like a schoolgirl and tilted her head in a way that would’ve made her father laugh.

“So, mother,” she began, forcing a little extra brightness into her tone, “I saw Phaedrus last night. At Adorabella and Cerulean’s apartment.”

That earned her a glance— Calpurnia’s eyes flicked to her daughter’s face and then down to her skirt before returning to her coffee. “That’s nice,” she said mildly.

Cornelia pressed on. “Well, he was looking rather… nice. I suppose all those times I declined his offers, I had been mistaken. He has a very symmetrical face. I think I finally understand what everyone was going on about.”

Still no answer.

“So,” Cornelia added with a saccharine smile, “what do you think? Should I see if he’d like to attend the Winter Gala with me?”

That did it.

Calpurnia raised her eyebrows slowly, the way a judge might when they already had the verdict decided and were simply waiting for the theatrics to end.

“Why are you asking for my opinion?” she asked, setting her cup down on the counter with an audible click. “You never listen to anything I say.”

The words struck Cornelia harder than she expected. She blinked. The silence between them stretched. The smell of coffee and orange zest from the bowl of fruit on the counter filled the air. Outside, a car passed by with a low hum.

Cornelia forced herself not to cry. Her vision shimmered faintly with tears, but she blinked them away. She curled her lips into a practiced smile— smaller, tighter. “… Right. My mistake.”

She turned toward the counter, busying herself with the empty carafe of coffee, even though she didn’t want any. Her hands trembled just enough to make pouring risky, so she set the pot down again.

Calpurnia resumed sipping her drink, unmoved.

Cornelia didn’t speak again. Not right away. Not while her throat was tight and her face was burning. The quiet between them wasn’t comfortable. It never was. It was a display. A posture. A kind of open warfare, only with prettier clothes and better posture.

Calpurnia wasn’t cruel. That would’ve been easier. Cornelia could have clawed back at cruelty. But Calpurnia was refined. Precise. She left no mark. Cornelia had been raised like a glass sculpture. Fragile, showstopping, lit from all sides and expected to shine without ever casting a shadow.

“Phaedrus would be fine for the Winter Gala,” Calpurnia said finally, her voice quiet, almost lazy. "Your father would approve."

Cornelia stared down at her blouse. One of the buttons was slightly chipped. It snagged on the hem of the counter as she leaned forward. The sting in her chest flared, sharp and sudden.

She wanted to say something. Something mean or bold or clever. Something that would finally pierce the serene, frosted mirror of her mother’s gaze. But she didn’t. She only nodded.

Calpurnia left the room, but Cornelia remained behind, still in her wrinkled skirt, her lipstick half-faded, her hair slightly undone. She poured herself a cup of coffee she didn’t want, held the mug with both hands, and waited for the heat to reach her fingers.

December, 73 ADD

Tulle and taffeta were out. Satin and silk were in. That had been the official verdict of the afternoon— declared with unwavering confidence. Cornelia, Diamond, and Precious swept through the boutique like curators of an art gallery, fingers brushing across glossy fabrics, snatching up armfuls of blouses and dresses with ease.

The boutique itself was somewhere between a museum and a cloud: high ceilings, frosted chandeliers shaped like icicles, and gold-rimmed mirrors that seemed to shimmer with built-in filters. The air smelled faintly of peonies and shoe polish. An attendant in peach feathers followed at a distance, arms filled with the girls' discarded maybes, nevers, and absolutely-nots.

“It’s a sign of maturity,” Diamond had declared solemnly, holding up a navy silk column gown that was cut down to the small of the back. “We’re evolving.”

“Integration,” Cornelia had added, examining a champagne satin blouse. “I’m not parting with my frills. I’m just… complementing them.”

Precious, already half-draped in a blush satin wrap dress, agreed. “Reinvention, darling. Like a butterfly in a cocoon.”

Now, all three of them were in the oversized communal dressing suite— golden sconces on the walls, divan seating in the corners, and three standing mirrors that reflected them back like a triptych of Capitol statues in various stages of undress.

Diamond stood in her undergarments, her new teal-blue bob perfectly coiffed even in the harsh changing room light. She held up a chartreuse slip dress against her frame and twisted to check her profile before sighing deeply.

“Mother and I are starting a liquid fast tomorrow,” she announced. “Just teas and juices for two weeks.”

Cornelia blinked at her from where she was shimmying into a rose-colored pencil skirt. “Fasting for what?”

Diamond rolled her eyes. “Slimming for summer! Our surgeon is out on maternity leave for three months. Three! So we have to lay the groundwork before she rearranges things. Mother wants a breast enhancement and I’m going to move some of my boobs to my ass.”

Cornelia gaped, one hand frozen on the waistband. “Oh, I need some of that. My mother’s been trying to get my ass to shrink since I was thirteen.”

Precious snorted. “Your ass is perfect. Perfect for Mr. Odair to hold onto.”

Cornelia shrieked, covering her mouth and looking toward the curtain as if someone might be lurking just beyond. “Oh my gosh, Precious! Someone could hear you!”

Diamond, thoroughly unfazed, turned and pointed to Cornelia’s upper thigh. “Well someone is holding onto it. How’s that going, anyway?”

Cornelia tugged a glittery black cocktail dress over her head, voice muffled. “It’s still going.”

The words were dry, nonchalant. Like she was discussing a subscription service she hadn’t gotten around to canceling.

Precious was pulling on a pair of embroidered tights when she paused. She tilted her head, her large, dewy eyes narrowing just slightly. “Is everything okay?”

Cornelia’s head popped through the neck hole of the dress. She nodded far too quickly. “Yes, yes! Of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be?” She turned to the mirror and fussed with the zipper. Her fingers fumbled once, then again.

Diamond and Precious exchanged a look in the mirror.

“Sweetie,” Diamond said gently, a hand on her hip, “if something is wrong—”

“We are fine,” Cornelia interrupted, voice a little too high. “We’re just... It’s casual, with us. It’s what we do. We’re not serious.”

Precious knelt to fix the hem of her dress. “Okay, well, if it isn’t serious, are you at least using protection?”

Cornelia finally got the zipper up and huffed out a breath. “Yes. We’re safe. He uses condoms with his clients, or gets them tested if they want it raw.”

The room went quiet. A boutique attendant passed by on the other side of the curtain with a swish of heels.

Cornelia pressed her hands down the front of the dress, smoothing out the fabric, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I got on the pill after we started seeing each other so we could…” Her voice trailed off.

Diamond and Precious didn’t say anything. Not right away. They stared at her— Diamond in something close to baffled concern, Precious with a pout that was only partly performative.

Finally, Diamond stepped closer, voice almost cautious. “Cornelia… do you—?”

Cornelia spun around, fluttering her hands like sparrows in a storm. “This dress is perfect,” she said brightly, loudly. “Do you think Phaedrus would like it?”

Diamond’s mouth opened, then closed again. Precious shot Diamond a look and then gave a carefully timed gasp.

“Oh my stars, yes,” Precious said with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. “You’d make him combust.”

Diamond recovered quickly. “That neckline? He’d beg to be your date.”

Cornelia turned back to the mirror and smiled, the corners of her mouth trembling just slightly before steadying.

January, 74 ADD

They were in the same room again. The same cream wallpaper. The same swirling patterns that crawled over the walls like vines with no roots. Cornelia lay flat on her back, eyes wide open, following the winding curves above her. She had been trying to trace them back to their origin— some neat little point of beginning, some central mark— but she’d gotten lost halfway through. Maybe there wasn’t an origin. Maybe the swirls didn’t begin or end. Maybe they had simply existed forever, repeating themselves until they faded into nothing.

Maybe they didn’t belong anywhere.

No one who entered the room did anyway.

The sheets were still warm beneath her. Satin, pressed between their skin and the mattress, shifting every time one of them breathed too deeply. The air smelled faintly of the soap Finnick always used when he came to the Capitol. His leg was warm against hers, unmoving, the weight of it still heavy from where he had tossed it there earlier. One of his arms was thrown carelessly over his own chest. His breath had gone even again, but not completely soft. Not asleep. Not yet.

He shifted slightly, and Cornelia’s eyes fluttered. Her gaze stayed on the wallpaper, on a loop of curlicues above the headboard.

“Why are you still awake?” Finnick’s voice came low, a murmur made heavier by exhaustion. Not concerned. Not annoyed either. Just there. Tired.

Cornelia hesitated for a moment. She felt the tug behind her eyes, that unbearable urge to speak. Not just to talk— talking she could do, had always done— but to say something. To offer something she wasn’t used to sharing.

She brushed her hair back from her forehead. Her curls were damp from sweat and clinging to her temples.

“I don’t know,” she whispered.

Finnick didn’t respond right away. She heard him shift again, fabric rustling faintly. He inhaled slowly.

“Go to sleep,” he muttered, and the finality of it wrapped around her like a hand on her shoulder.

She blinked once, then twice. Her hand came up to rest lightly against her collarbone. Her fingers toyed with the delicate skin there, the same way she used to twist the ribbons on her childhood dresses when she got nervous.

She turned onto her side. The sheets dragged with her. She watched the rise and fall of his chest in the dark.

“Finnick,” she said softly, almost surprised by her own voice, “why am I here?”

His breath caught for a second, then leveled again. He didn’t look at her right away. She wasn’t even sure he was going to answer, but eventually, his eyes—still half-lidded and shadowed—turned toward her.

“Why do you think you’re here?” he asked, voice edged with something that was not quite mockery, not quite curiosity. Something unreadable.

She stared at him. For a moment, her lips parted, then closed. She felt her throat go dry. “I guess… to have sex?” The words came out too fast. Too hollow. She shook her head slightly, a soft, self-deprecating laugh falling from her lips. “But I don’t know why I’m still here.”

Finnick didn’t answer.

Cornelia rolled her eyes. Not at him, but at herself. At the way her heart felt like it was pressed against her ribs, straining for something she couldn’t even name. She sat up slightly, propping herself on her elbow, the sheets falling to pool around her waist. Her bare skin shimmered faintly in the dim light.

“Finnick,” she said again, this time firmer. “What are we doing?”

He still didn’t answer.

“I mean it,” she pressed. “We’ve been doing this for, what, three years now? Are we going to keep doing this until one of us gets married or dies?”

That made him sit up. Not all the way, but he straightened, pushing himself against the pillows so that they were eye-level. The muscles in his jaw tensed. His brow pulled ever so slightly.

“Why are you doing this now?” he asked sharply, tone clipped. “You’re the one who asked for this, remember?”

Cornelia recoiled slightly— not in fear, not in hurt, just in weariness. “Because I didn’t know what I was doing!” she snapped, her voice cracking on the last word.

Finnick opened his mouth again, brows drawn, ready to bite something back— but then stopped.

She was staring at him, eyes wide and glossy, brown hair curling messily around her flushed cheeks, her lips trembling even though her jaw was set. She didn’t say it again. She didn’t have to.

His breath caught. His eyes searched hers, slowly, carefully, and then lower— tracing the curve of her bare shoulder, the line of her collarbone, the way her fingers clutched at the sheet now pulled up to her chest like a barrier.

She had never done this before. Not with anyone else. Cornelia Flickerman— his Cornelia, the Capitol’s golden darling, with her frilly skirts and glitter lip gloss and endless giggles— had never been with anyone else. Not before him. Not outside of him. The truth landed in his chest with the force of a wave. He wasn’t sure if it made him sick or simply weightless.

He exhaled, a sharp, hissing breath through his nose. Then, with more force than she expected, he snapped, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Cornelia blinked. “What?”

“You should’ve told me.” His voice was louder now. Still controlled— Finnick always knew how to hold the reins on his anger until the last possible second— but the strain was unmistakable. “You should’ve said something, Cornelia.”

“I—” Her lips parted, then closed again. She shifted on the bed, hair brushing over her shoulders, the sheet slipping further down her chest. She looked at him, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You didn’t ask!”

That stopped him, but only for a second.

Finnick groaned low in his throat, rubbing his hands roughly over his face, through his hair, dragging his fingers down until they clenched against his jaw. His whole body tensed like he was physically trying to shake off the realization, as if it was clinging to his skin.

“You should’ve told me,” he said again, this time more like a curse than a command. “Cornelia, you don’t just—" He snapped his mouth shut for a moment— a brief one— before adding, "That’s not something you keep to yourself.”

Cornelia’s face twisted. “It didn’t matter, Finnick! It wasn’t a big deal!”

“Of course it mattered!” he shouted, eyes blazing now, mouth tight. “You were— God, Cornelia, that would’ve changed things.”

“What, like you wouldn’t have gone through with it?” she shot back bitterly, flinging the sheet aside and standing abruptly, grabbing her underwear off the floor and stepping into them. “Would you have said no? Don’t lie. You wouldn’t have.”

Finnick turned sharply toward her, his expression tightening, but he didn’t argue. That was what made it worse. He hadn’t known. And he hadn’t cared enough to know. He’d touched her. Pulled her in. Undressed her. And never once had he asked.

Cornelia reached for her bra, but her hands were trembling now, fumbling with the clasp before shifting it to set in place behind her back while looking her arms through the straps. Her curls bounced as she shook her head, muttering under her breath.

Finnick swung his legs over the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands for a beat before he looked up. “Don’t go,” he said, not harshly this time. Not like a command. He sounded tired. Something close to pleading.

Cornelia stopped moving.

“I’m not mad at you,” he added quickly, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

Cornelia narrowed her eyes. “You yelled at me.”

“Yeah,” he admitted, running his hand through his hair again. “But I’m not mad at you. I just—” He sighed, sitting back on the mattress and looking at her like he was seeing her differently now. “Come back to bed.”

She stared at him for a moment. Long enough that the silence between them thickened, spread across the room like syrup. Her shoulders were still tense. Her chin high, as if daring him to say the wrong thing again. But her eyes were softer now. Less angry, just tired.

Finally, without speaking, she climbed back into the bed, the sheets pulling over her skin as she settled beside him. She didn’t curl into him, didn’t try to touch him. She just lay on her side, her back to him, the silence swallowing them whole again.

The room dimmed, the walls no longer swirling. Just sitting, just watching.

Then she felt his hand. His fingers, warm and careful, traced the curve of her bare spine, slow and soft. Not sexual. Not rough. Just a line, over and over, like he was memorizing her all over again.

Cornelia’s breath hitched softly in her throat. And slowly, ever so slowly, her eyes fluttered shut.

Chapter Text

February, 74 ADD

THE FISH WERE ACTIVE THIS MORNING. The salt wind hadn’t bitten quite so hard when he stepped out past the dunes behind Victors’ Village, the briny edge of it catching at his lashes, warm enough that his jacket stayed tied around his waist. Spring was clawing its way in slowly, breath by breath, day by day. The tide licked lazily against his calves where he stood knee-deep in the cold surf, his harpoon poised in one hand, its sharpened metal tip glinting in the early sun like the blade of a knife.

He liked mornings like this. He could be alone with something that didn’t speak back. Something clean. No Capitol glitz, no false laughter, no names whispered into his ear like honey on a poisoned spoon. Just the ocean. Just the hunt.

He speared two halibut before the sun cleared the clouds entirely, and a trout not long after. He didn’t need this many, but it wasn’t about need. It hadn’t been about that in a long time. He liked the precision of it. The focus. It kept him still. It kept the other thoughts from crowding too close to the front.

Finnick crouched low in the foam, grabbing the last of the fish by its gills, water dripping from his arms as he hefted them into the mesh bag slung over his shoulder. A few gulls circled overhead but didn’t dare swoop. They knew this territory was his.

When he stepped back onto the sand, his boots in one hand, trousers rolled to his knees, he could feel the ache in his thighs from holding himself so steady in the current. It was a good ache. It told him he’d done something with his body other than—

He cut off the thought. He didn’t let it finish forming.

His house was silent when he arrived. He liked that about District 4. The privacy. The quiet expectation that you kept to your own. He let himself in through the back, setting the mesh bag of fish down gently on the kitchen counter. The door clicked behind him, the latch catching, and he reached up automatically to lock it. Two turns. A habit. Just in case.

The kitchen was dim but warm. Sunlight through salt-speckled windows cast long slashes of gold across the countertops. He pulled a towel over his shoulder, kicked off the rest of his damp clothes, and tugged on the sweats he kept hung by the door for after fishing. His body moved on instinct. Everything had a rhythm now. Get the fish. Clean them. Gut them. Bag the usable scraps for the strays. Toss the rest in the compost bin out back.

He stood over the sink with a halibut in his hands, fingers slick with seawater and fish slime, and began to scale it methodically. The rasping of the descaler against the skin sounded too loud in the stillness of the house, scraping in time with his breath. His mind emptied with each motion, going distant, the way it sometimes did when he couldn’t hold himself fully inside his own skin.

It was easier this way. Some people called it disassociation. Finnick called it survival.

The blade pressed into the flesh. He watched his hands work. Left hand to steady the fish. Right hand to slit it from belly to gill. Rinse. Peel. Repeat.

He thought of Cornelia. Not on purpose. But she came, anyway.

The flicker of her smile at the door of his hotel room. The smell of whatever overly sweet perfume she always wore— caramel cream, sugared berries maybe. The softness of her thighs when she straddled him, her curls brushing across his chest, her giggle in his ear when he muttered something stupid just to get her to laugh.

He remembered the shape of her, the give of her skin under his palms, the sounds she made when she came. He remembered kissing her shoulder. The top of her spine. Her collarbone and the dip between her ribs. He remembered going down on her in the darkness, more times than he could count. But her mouth—

His fingers froze. He stared down at the trout beneath his hand. Half-gutted. Barely breathing through the motion.

Her mouth. Her lips.

When was the last time he’d kissed her mouth? Not just pecked her cheek before pulling her panties down, not a brush of his mouth to her ear when she begged him to go harder. But her mouth. A real kiss. A proper one.

Nine months. Maybe more. He tried to recall the taste. 

Strawberry lip balm? Champagne? The mint sting of her toothpaste? He couldn’t remember. He knew how she tasted when she was wet. He knew how to make her finish with her legs shaking and her fingernails biting into his shoulder blades. He knew her whimpers and her screams and her sighs like the back of his hand. But he didn’t know her mouth. Not anymore.

A flicker of shame burned low in his gut. He dropped the knife. It clattered against the metal sink. He pressed both hands against the edge of the counter and leaned over it, breathing through his nose hard enough that his lungs ached. He squeezed his eyes shut.

He thought of her kissing him and felt something uncoil in his chest. Something that had no place in the house he’d locked himself into. Something that threatened to crack open every part of him he’d worked so hard to seal shut.

He picked up the knife again. Started on the next fish.

Capitol hotel rooms were all soundproof. Finnick had understood that from the very beginning— his first client, his first appointment, his first real lesson in the economy of survival. It was winter then. Heavy snow stacked on the sill outside, a blanket of whiteon the street of the Inner City Circle. He’d been sixteen— just four months after his birthday.

The man had been older. Bald, pale as boiled fish, with veiny hands and yellowed fingernails, and a smile too wide for his face. He’d called Finnick his “boy of the sea.” He’d said it with pride, as if the phrase wasn’t anchored by ownership. That same man had sent him the trident in the arena. 

That same day, Finnick learned the cost of gratitude in the Capitol. Nothing came for free. Not weapons. Not favors. Not one’s body, not one’s soul. Finnick had said nothing throughout the appointment. He’d kept his shirt on, for whatever that was worth.

He supposed he was thankful for the soundproof walls. For the way the hotel could absorb anything— grunts, cries, gasps, beds squealing across the floors, furniture knocked off alignment. Someone could scream in one of these rooms and no one would hear. Or, worse, no one would care.

Right now, he was thankful the walls were swallowing the desk’s banging.

The sharp thud of it echoed through Finnick’s arms, the wood creaking faintly under the strain of the weight against it. Cornelia's palms were flat on the desk’s polished surface, bracing herself, spine bowed like the curve of a shell. Her shoulder blades gleamed with sweat, her thighs trembling faintly with the effort of holding her position, of meeting him each time he rocked forward. It was fast, and it was hard, and it was not love.

Her hair— soft and its natural golden brown shade— was wrapped tight in Finnick’s fist. His grip held it near her scalp, steady, firm, almost cruel in how reverent it was. As though if he let go, something sacred might fall apart. 

She didn’t make a sound, just a soft exhale each time her body knocked against the desk’s edge. No cries, no questions. Just breath. Just warmth. Just the shape of her as he filled her, fast and unrelenting, chasing something he couldn't name, something that slipped from his reach no matter how hard his length drove into her. 

The room was soundproof, yes— but not emotion-proof. Not memory-proof. Because it didn’t matter how thick the walls were. Finnick still felt her. She was sunshine and static under his hands, all perfume and prettiness and parted lips. 

When he came, when his cock pulsed as he spilled his cum into her warm cunt, it was with a grunt that he pressed into the hollow of her neck, not quite touching her but close enough that she would feel his breath. He stepped back. Let her go. Didn’t touch her beyond what had been necessary to get them both off. He bent to retrieve his underwear, sliding them on with one hand while raking the other through his hair. 

The weight of sweat on his skin made him feel warmer than he wanted. He moved to the bed— large, indulgent, another obscene gift from the Capitol— and sat on the edge before collapsing back onto it fully, arms behind his head, eyes unfocused.

Cornelia stayed at the desk for a beat longer, her breath still coming short. She wore nothing but her own skin for a moment before dragging his discarded shirt from the floor and slipping into it. Her underwear came next— lavender, lacy, thin at the sides. It made Finnick think of one of her swimsuits, all show and no coverage.

She padded across the room barefoot, the ends of her curls mussed from his hand, brushing at her cheeks in gentle waves. She didn’t speak until she was beside him again, climbing wordlessly into the bed, curling beneath the covers without touching him. Just a warm body, there but not close. Neither of them reached for the other.

It was Cornelia who broke the silence, her voice thin and soft. “Do you remember when we were younger?” she asked. “We went to the aquarium and looked at all the sea creatures. Wasn’t that nice?”

Finnick’s eyes were open, but his gaze was fixed on the curve of the ceiling overhead like it had something written there for him to decode. A riddle. A map out of this. He saw her from the corner of his eye. Her lashes blinking slowly. Her bare shoulder glowing faintly in the low hotel light. The champagne shimmer of her skin against the cream sheets. She looked like something painted. Something holy and distant.

“We could do that again sometime,” she added, more gently now. Like she knew he wouldn’t bite. Like she wasn’t expecting him to say yes, but she had to try anyway.

Finnick let the words hang in the air for a moment. He thought about the aquarium. He did remember it— barely. 

“We’re not like that anymore,” he said. His voice wasn’t cruel. Just tired. Too flat to sting, too resigned to soothe.

Cornelia was quiet.

He added, “We’re not kids anymore.”

It came out harsher than he intended. Too sharp. Too final. Like a blade scraping across ceramic. He wasn’t trying to cut her, not really. But the truth had an edge. And this— whatever this was between them— was built on the understanding that they did not pretend.

Cornelia blinked, once. Slowly. Her smile didn’t come. Neither did the laugh she usually used to deflect pain. She just stared at the ceiling.

The light from the windows painted long shadows across the bed. The Capitol skyline sparkled faintly outside, the top of the Tribute Tower glinting like a blade. Somewhere beyond the hotel glass, a party was probably raging, laughter swelling like champagne foam over a crystal lip. But here, in this silent room, two people lay side by side with nothing but their own choices tightening around them like nooses.

Finnick’s hand was just inches from hers on the bedspread. He didn’t move it closer. Cornelia closed her eyes.

And neither of them said another word.

March, 74 ADD

Outside of the studio, Caesar was much less bells and whistles and more of the father that Cornelia knew. Gone were the glittery blue suits with the diamond lapels, the over-lacquered wigs styled in buoyant swoops, and the voice that rose and fell like a theatrical wave designed for the Capitol's adoring millions. At home— within the marble flooring and velvet-draped halls of the Flickerman villa— he still shimmered, of course, but in a quieter, softer way. The flamboyance never disappeared entirely, but it softened around the edges. He still wore his silks and velvets, but they were robes now. Still had his charm, but it was his fatherly charm, not the manic charisma of Panem’s beloved ringmaster. In the four walls of their home, Caesar Flickerman wasn’t the Games’ eternal host. He was just dad. Her father. Her doting, overindulgent, loving, and ridiculous father. 

Cornelia took the turn from the long hallway lined with portraits— her own included, from her sweet sixteen gala, painted in broad strokes of pink and blue and gold— and stopped in front of the gilded double doors of his office. She gave two cheerful knocks, already smiling.

“Hi, daddy!” she chirped, her voice sing-song sweet, as she nudged the door fully open and stepped into the study.

Caesar looked up immediately, his eyes crinkling with affection. “There she is,” he beamed, standing from behind his ornate white and gold desk, arms spreading wide as if to announce her like she was a guest on his stage. “Come here, come here. Give your father a kiss.”

Cornelia grinned and flounced across the room, a gentle skip in her step, before wrapping her arms around him and kissing his cheek. He smelled like expensive ink and citrus liqueur, the same way he always had. It was comforting.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked as she pulled back, her head tilted just slightly, a curious smile on her face.

“I did,” Caesar said, smoothing a hand down her arm before letting her go and sinking back into his plush chair. “But then again, I always want to see your pretty face.”

Cornelia beamed. He guided her toward the armchair beside his desk, and she flounced into it, crossing one leg over the other, toying with the end of the lace bow tied at her collar.

Caesar resumed his seat with a dramatic exhale, leaning back and folding his hands across his stomach. “Do you know how old I was when I began hosting the Games?” he asked, a sly glint in his eye.

Cornelia squinted at him, pursing her lips as she tried to recall the long list of milestones that had been drilled into her growing up— first interview, first broadcast, first standing ovation.

“Mmm… thirty?” she guessed, tilting her head.

Caesar gave a theatrical gasp, hands thrown to the ceiling as if she’d mortally wounded him. “Thirty? Thirty?! Do I look that old to you, dearest girl?”

Cornelia snorted. “You wore a lavender suit with glittering rhinestone shoulder pads. I have no frame of reference for age.”

“I was twenty-five,” he said, grinning broadly now as he sat back. “Fresh out of university. Not even a decade of broadcast under my belt. They were worried, you know. Thought I might scare the children.”

“You do scare the children.”

Caesar laughed, deep and warm, the sound echoing off the gilded moldings above. “Ah, but in the best way. All glitter and teeth.”

Cornelia shook her head fondly. “And feathers.”

“Feathers came later.”

There was a pause, just long enough for the air to settle again.

Then Caesar leaned forward once more, folding his hands atop his desk. His tone shifted—still light, still charming, but more intent.

“You’re not too far from there, you know,” he said. “From twenty-five.”

Cornelia blinked, then smiled faintly. “You always say that like it’s a deadline.”

“It’s a milestone,” he corrected, wagging a finger. “A turning point. I’ve been thinking…” He paused, cocking his head. “Have you thought more about taking on more of the Games interviews this year? A bit more prep, perhaps? Little steps toward taking the torch?”

Cornelia lifted her eyebrows. She hadn’t not thought about it. But it hadn’t exactly been a priority either— not with the season approaching, not with her own usual segments and galas, and certainly not with the way things had been with Finnick lately. That part of her brain had been all fogged up.

“A bit!” she said brightly, brushing a curl behind her ear. “I kinda wanted to interview the higher districts this year! You know, District 3, District 4—”

Caesar only shook his head, though his smile never faded. “Not just yet, sweetheart.”

Cornelia’s face fell— only slightly, but it was enough.

Her father continued gently, “You’ve got plenty of time. The higher districts come with more nuance. You want to start where you can sharpen your rhythm. Get your footing right. I was thinking Districts 8 through 12 this year. I’ll give you two more than last season. Let’s see how you manage the load.”

Cornelia hesitated, disappointment flaring up like a match against the back of her throat. But she nodded. Of course she did. Because Caesar Flickerman knew the Capitol better than anyone. He knew the rhythm. He knew the game. And she wasn’t about to question him when he’d been hosting since before she were even a figment of an idea.

“No, you’re right,” she said, her smile returning, this time a little less bright. “That makes sense.”

“You’ll still have your segments, of course. We’ll keep your spotlight. But let’s get your hands in the clay a bit more. A few raw tributes. A few nervous escorts. Let you practice shaping the story.”

Cornelia nodded again, fingers idly twisting the edge of her skirt.

“I’m proud of you,” Caesar said after a moment, and his voice was quieter now. Warm and paternal in the way it only ever was behind closed doors. “You’re going to be brilliant. Just like your old man.”

Cornelia looked up. Her eyes shimmered, just barely. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

She smiled. Wide and girlish, her heart flickering like a flame trying to stay lit.

April, 74 ADD

He had been waiting for Cornelia for an hour— and Finnick was patient, to a degree. He was used to being kept waiting. For interviews. For clients. For his train to come in. For silence in his head. 

And Cornelia— well, Cornelia was hardly ever on time. She never had been. Not once since the beginning. It was always a few minutes here, ten there. Sometimes thirty. Once, she hadn’t shown up at all, and he’d gone swimming afterward just to boil the irritation out of his skin. But this time felt different. Not worse. Just… different. Wrong.

Maybe it was because he was, admittedly, horny. He didn’t like acknowledging that about himself. That ugly sort of hunger. It made him feel no better than the rich monsters who’d pressed fingers to his wrist and traced the shape of his throat like a cut of meat. He hated knowing the heat coiled in his gut now looked anything like what they had wanted from him. What they had taught him to give, again and again and again.

Desire, he knew, was normal. Human. Natural. That’s what people said, didn’t they? The body wants what it wants. But he still felt hollowed out by it. Contaminated.

It wasn’t just the hunger anyway. Not really. It was the principle of it. The fact that she was late. Again. Taking her time like this was a favor she was tossing his way, not something they both agreed to.

Finnick shifted where he lay on the bed, shirtless, the white Capitol hotel sheets draped across his lower half, twisted just enough to hint at his frustration. His hands draped across his stomach, fingers drumming against his navel. Boredom. Irritation. Something else. A question he hated even asking:

Was she losing interest? Was this a power move? Was she doing it just to test how long he’d wait for her?

He hated how quickly the idea struck him like a hook through the cheek.

And then the door opened.

Finnick’s eyes flicked up, his thoughts shuttering into a quieter fury as Cornelia finally slipped inside. She didn’t look flustered. Didn’t look rushed. She closed the door behind her with all the serenity of a woman who knew she would be forgiven.

“Nice of you to show up,” he muttered, voice dry.

Cornelia gave him a look, all sharp mascara and gleaming lips, as if to say watch it, before pressing the door closed behind her.

Finnick shot her another look. “Lock it.”

She didn’t move for a second. He rolled his eyes, sinking deeper into the mattress with a small huff. Of course she hadn’t locked it. She never locked it. She probably never would. As though nothing bad could ever touch her as long as she was smiling.

With a slight huff through her nose, she turned the bolt. The lock snapped into place. 

Cornelia arched a brow at his tone. “What’s your problem?”

Finnick sat up, the covers pooling low at his waist, and said flatly, “I don’t have one.”

“Yes, you do,” she snapped, pointing a finger as she kicked off her heels. “You’re acting like an ass already.”

He gave her an unimpressed look, jaw tightening. “You’ve got an attitude tonight.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Cornelia said with a scoff, her voice lifting theatrically. “Should I be on my knees the second I walk in?

Finnick’s eyes narrowed. “Stop being a brat.”

Cornelia’s glare was like a spotlight— hot, unblinking, searching. But Finnick didn’t flinch. He had faced worse storms. And most of them hadn’t worn perfume and a silk blouse.

There was a silence between them— taut and brimming with something unsaid. Not just tension. Something more dangerous. Something that tasted like emotion if you let it sit too long on your tongue.

Then Finnick spoke again. Quietly. Low. Unyielding.

“Get undressed.”

Cornelia didn’t move.

Finnick’s voice dropped another octave. “Do it. Or I’ll do it for you.”

There was a flicker in her eyes. Not fear— never that— but challenge. A war of wills in the space between his breath and hers. Cornelia swallowed once, then slowly began to peel off her coat, her blouse. She didn’t look away from him as she unhooked her skirt, letting it fall to the floor with the soft sound of silk and cotton whispering goodbye.

Finnick watched. Not like a lover. Not like a man lost in longing. Like a soldier waiting for the moment to strike. Like a man trying to memorize every movement so he could understand it later, when he was alone. He pushed the covers off of himself and stood, the hotel lighting painting his skin in warm amber and shadows. His body was a weapon. Always had been. But tonight, it felt more like armor.

He crossed the room in two steps, the carpet soft underfoot. Cornelia stood at the edge of the bed, mouth set, chin raised, gaze on the wall ahead of her. She wasn’t looking at him. He didn’t speak as he reached her. He simply turned her around, hands firm and cold as he spun her to turn away from him. 

Cornelia didn’t resist. She never did. Not like this. Her body was warm and poised, and she let herself be guided until her knees hit the bed.

Finnick said nothing. He pressed a palm to the small of her back and pushed, bending her over at the waist until her palms braced the mattress. He looked down at her for a long moment, breath shallow, chest rising and falling.

There was always this part. The part before. The part when everything still had the chance to stop. To change. To become something else. But it never did. Because he was already positioning his hard cock at her entrance, already stroking himself with the saliva he had spat into the palm of his hand to prep himself. 

He pushed himself into her in one thrust, Cornelia’s back arching in response with barely a gasp of breath. His hands gripped her hips tightly— as they always did. His fingertips dug into the roundness of her hips, where the flesh swelled from her upper thigh to her hipbone and met her backside. The flesh indented ever so slightly with the force of his hold, likely to leave bruised reminders in the morning, as he pounded his cock into her cunt. The cheeks of her backside recoiled with the force of his thrusts, the sight encouraging Finnick to go harder— faster. Cornelia’s soft gasps of breath in response were even more so. 

Her walls were slick around him, warm and velvet and tightening around him already. Cornelia had always been responsive to him— though he now knew that it was because this was all new to her. Finnick felt foolish, still, for not realizing that from the beginning. But given his size— given how the Capitol had altered him to be far more endowed than natural— he had assumed that the hesitance had been just that. That he was too big all at once and she needed the time to adjust. But she was used to him by now, used to the stretch, used to how he filled her up. She could take him— all of him. All of the hardness, all of the demands that his body and hands put on her.

Finnick exhaled a breath through his nose, his eyes closing shut for a moment as his hands pulled Cornelia’s hips back. He moved her closer, moving her hips to meet his thrusts and angling them to move deeper inside of her. He felt his cock reach further inside, a quiet grunt escaping the back of his throat as he felt her walls clench around him.

Her back straightened slightly, either from an impulse or from shifting in the position naturally, but Finnick reached out and pressed her back down into an arch against the mattress.

“Down,” was all that he said, his words commanding. An order. “Keep that arch.”

Cornelia stayed silent. She was used to Finnick being cold. Only, it hadn’t been at first. Not in the beginning, when there had still been laughter between them. When he’d still touched her like he meant it. Back when she could fool herself into thinking the glint in his eye was affection, not avoidance. That his hands knew how to hold her, not just claim her.

But that was over a year ago.

Now, she understood the rhythm. The pattern. There was no warmth anymore, no tenderness, no slow peeling of layers or reverent linger of fingers tracing her skin. No— now it was just angry hands, rough and hard and punishing, as if her body were some battlefield he was reclaiming, over and over. The only comfort in it was the routine of it all. The reliability of his presence, however fleeting. The knowledge that, for a while, she could be something he needed.

That was the part that kept her coming back. Even if she was just a placeholder for something he wouldn’t name.

Tonight, though, it was different. She could hear it in his tone. She could feel it in how hard he was fucking her.

Was he mad at her? Actually mad? Surely not. Finnick didn’t get mad at her. Not seriously. Not like this. He brooded, sulked, made biting jokes— but never directed rage. Not at her.

Still, doubt wrapped itself around her like a vice as she lay against the mattress, her face turned to the side, her fingers curled into the sheet. Finnick moved behind her, wordless, distant. His cock was fucking into her at a fast pace, faster and harder than it usually was. Another reminder of how far they’d drifted from whatever this had once been.

Maybe he was mad. Maybe this wasn’t teasing. Maybe—

Her breath caught as she turned her head, glancing over her shoulder. She wasn’t even sure what she was looking for. His eyes, maybe. Some confirmation in them. Some flicker of affection. Of recognition. That he still saw her in all of this. Just this once.

She turned, ready to meet his gaze, to find it— but before her eyes could even rise to his face, a hand gripped the back of her neck and shoved her head back down into the mattress.

Cornelia gasped, a breath half-stolen, half-swallowed. Her vision blurred instantly. Not from the pressure, though it sent a sharp, stinging ache up her spine. No— it was the tears.

Tears of hurt. Of mortification. Of something small and shaking in her ribcage that didn’t know what to do with this, didn’t know how to process the fact that she’d looked for him and been met with this.

A sob began to push its way up her throat, but she bit it down, hard.

No. Not like this. Not here.

She gathered her courage— or maybe just the stunned instinct of survival— and reached behind her. It was an awkward angle, clumsy and desperate, but she managed it. Her palm landed squarely on his bare chest, the sound sharp in the quiet.

Finnick froze. Maybe she pushed him away. Maybe he recoiled before her shove ever had the chance to matter. She couldn’t tell. The moment shattered around her before she could hold it in her hands.

Cornelia shifted away fast, limbs unsteady as she rolled off the bed. The cool air against her skin was a slap in itself. She scrambled for the bathroom, not bothering with a sheet, not bothering to speak.

The bathroom door slammed behind her with a sound like a gavel.

Click.

The lock turned.

Then she stood there, for a long second, just breathing. Or trying to. Her chest rose and fell in fast, shallow heaves. Like she couldn’t quite get enough air. Like the walls were shrinking, the air thinning. She wasn’t sure if she was hyperventilating or just panicking— just shaking with a grief she couldn’t name. She pressed her palms into the marble counter, grounding herself, anchoring herself in the cold. She stared up at the mirror, the girl in the glass blinking back at her like a stranger.

Lipstick smudged. Glitter caught in the tear tracks down her cheeks. Her hair, tousled and damp at the roots. Her hand lifted, brushing her hair back— and that was when she saw it. The red marks. There, faint but visible against her fair skin. Just at the base of her neck, high enough to peek over a collar. Four on the left, one on the right. Bruises waiting to bloom.

Cornelia blinked. Once. Twice. And then the tears burned harder. Not because of the pain. Not even because of the surprise of it. But because she wasn’t sure what hurt more—what he’d done, or the fact that he hadn’t even meant it cruelly. That he probably hadn’t even noticed. That she was just collateral in whatever battle he was waging with himself.

Her breath caught in her throat again. She turned away from the mirror and pressed both hands over her mouth, bending over the sink. Trying not to cry. Trying desperately not to make a sound. Not to let him hear. Not to give him the satisfaction— or the guilt. Whichever he would feel. If anything at all.

Then a knock.

Gentle. Three soft raps against the wood.

Cornelia flinched. She wasn’t ready to know which version of him was on the other side. She inhaled sharply before bending down and quickly tugging on a spare shirt that Finnick had likely thrown to the floor when he had showered earlier. Before she came over. Before this— this mess. Then she straightened back up and reached for the knob, unlocking and opening the door. And Cornelia almost didn’t recognize him.

Finnick looked like a ghost. Like something cracked and hollow had taken root in his chest since she’d locked him out. His face was drawn tight, jaw clenched, green eyes wide and searching as if they didn’t know what to look for first— her, the room behind her, or the silence thick between them. His sweatpants were hanging loose on his hips, the waistband sideways as though he had thrown them on in a hurry to cover up. There was still a sheen of sweat on his collarbone, a sheen she didn’t want to acknowledge, didn’t want to remember. He looked afraid. Or maybe guilty. But it wasn’t enough. Not for her.

Cornelia stared at him. Glared, really. Her hair was pushed behind her shoulders on purpose. She let the red marks show. She wanted him to see. She needed him to see. Needed him to look at what he’d done and feel something. Shame, horror, regret— anything that might suggest she hadn’t just imagined the whole thing, that she wasn’t going crazy for thinking this time had been different. That it had crossed a line.

But he didn’t even glance down.

He wasn’t even looking at her neck. His eyes stayed on her face, scanning it like he was trying to find some way back into the room, into her. As if he could. As if it hadn’t burned down behind her while she was crying into a sink.

Without a word, Cornelia shoved past him, shoulder clipping his bare chest. He didn’t try to stop her.

She stalked toward the bed, the room still warm from their bodies, their noise, the residue of something that had never been as intimate as she’d wanted to believe. Her clothes were strewn across the floor— her blouse inside out, her bra tangled near the foot of the bed, her shoes halfway under the armchair.

Finnick turned in place, silent but not still. He was vibrating with something— nerves, tension, panic. She felt his presence at her back as she dropped his shirt to the floor, yanking it off like it scalded her. She didn’t care that she was naked again. She didn’t care what he saw. She looped the strap of her bra around her wrist, not bothering to clasp it, and pulled her blouse on over bare skin, her fingers trembling as she buttoned it wrong.

“Cornelia—” Finnick’s voice finally broke the quiet. Soft. Uneven. Not like his usual drawl, the effortless confidence he wore like armor. “What happened? Are you okay?”

She didn’t answer.

She stepped into her skirt instead, jerking it up her hips, the zipper catching halfway before she yanked it the rest of the way with a sharp breath. Her hands were shaking. Her chest was still heaving. But she refused to cry. Not again.

“Cornelia,” Finnick tried again, moving closer. “Talk to me, please.”

She could feel him reaching, desperate to pull it back, to rewind. But she didn’t give him the satisfaction. She kept her back to him, crouching slightly to grab one of her shoes.

“Was it something I—” He stopped.

A beat. And then she felt the shift in the air.

He’d seen.

“God,” he breathed. His voice cracked. “God, Cornelia.”

Her lips pressed into a hard line. She didn’t turn around.

“Is that from me?” His words sounded strangled. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“No!” Her voice exploded through the room, raw and sharp. She spun on him, eyes blazing, her blouse half-buttoned and wrinkled, her bra hanging off her wrist like a forgotten accessory. “No! I’m done. I’m done, Finnick!”

He froze, completely. Like the sound of her shouting was something he didn’t know she was capable of. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he never bothered to notice.

She pulled on one shoe, then the other, not realizing she’d switched the feet in her scramble.

“Do you feel better now?!” she shouted, nearly tripping as she stood. “Huh?! Now that you’ve flipped the script and punished me for what everyone else has done to you! Was it satisfying?! Did you finally take back control of your life by choking someone who actually gave a damn about you?!”

Finnick staggered back a step like the words hit him in the gut. His lips parted, eyes still stuck on the side of her neck, on the vivid imprint he’d left behind.

“I didn’t mean—” he tried again, but it came out weak, barely there. “Cornelia, please, I didn’t know. I didn’t know—”

“No, you didn’t!” she snapped, voice higher, sharper. “Because you don’t look! You never look! Not when I kiss you, not when I laugh at your jokes, not when I sit here and wait and wait and wait for you to give me something more than just sex!”

She yanked her coat from the chair, her bag from the floor. Her hands fumbled with the strap.

“You don’t see me, Finnick,” she said, quieter now. Her voice trembled. “You see a place to put your pain. That’s it.”

He stepped forward, helplessly, arms slightly lifted like he wanted to stop her but didn’t know how. She wasn’t waiting for him to figure it out.

“I’m not doing this anymore.”

And with that, Cornelia turned and stormed out of the hotel room, slamming the door behind her hard enough to rattle the walls.

Her ankle rolled as she walked at a near sprint down the hall. The pain didn’t register right away— just a sharp twist, a shift beneath her weight, a quick sting of something that should’ve made her stop. But the throb in her ankle was nothing compared to the fire screaming up the side of her neck, or the pounding in her chest. Her heart was rattling like it had been caged too long, each beat like a hummingbird’s wings— fluttering, fragile, frantic. Hummingbirds have fast heart rates too, she remembered. She had read that in a book once, during a tutor session in the studio. Something about the speed of survival.

Cornelia didn’t slow down. Not when her heel caught again, not when the lining of her skirt twisted around her thighs from her uneven steps, not even when her bag nearly slipped off her shoulder. Her bra was still looped around her wrist. Her coat was wrinkled. Her blouse— half-buttoned, askew. Her shoes didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right.

The hallway stretched ahead of her in polished marble and velvet carpeting, lit by ornate sconces and the hazy golden glow of old-money glamour. The luxury was suffocating. The silence was worse. She felt like she was walking underwater. No— drowning in it.

When she reached the elevator, she punched the down button like it owed her something. Once. Then again. Again. Again.

Down. Down. Down.

Why wasn’t it coming?

She hit it again, harder this time, the light flickering as if afraid of her rage. She didn’t want to wait. Couldn’t afford to. Couldn’t stand another minute in this building. She needed to be out, needed air, space, freedom. Needed to get away before she second-guessed herself. Before she started making excuses for him.

She smacked the button with the flat of her palm, and finally— mercifully— the doors hissed open. She snapped to attention immediately.

Two people were inside. A man and a woman, both dressed in Capitol luxury—his suit glittering faintly at the cuffs, her gown painted in gradients of jade. Their chatter cut short as their eyes landed on Cornelia. Her hair mussed. Her eyes red. Her blouse off-kilter. The bra on her wrist. The shoes—still on the wrong feet.

She straightened. Lifted her chin. Put on the practiced smile, the one she’d been trained for since she was seven years old. She was Caesar Flickerman’s daughter, damn it. She knew how to be perfect even when she was breaking.

She stepped inside silently, smoothing her skirt down, pressing her lips together into a quiet facsimile of composure. But her eyes flicked once— just once— to the man. Something about the too-smooth skin, the way he avoided looking directly at her neck. 

One of his clients? She had to wonder. Was he here to buy something from Finnick? Or had he already?

Her stomach turned. She shoved the thought down like a fistful of ash and bile.

The ride to the lobby was slow. The longest elevator ride of her life. The couple didn’t speak. Cornelia kept her eyes on the numbers lighting up one by one above the door.

Ding. Ding. Ding.

And then the lobby.

She stepped out quickly, head high, stride swift despite the growing ache in her ankle. She heard the couple start murmuring behind her as soon as the doors closed again, but she didn’t look back.

Outside. She just needed to be outside.

The hotel doors were gilded and automatic, opening with a hiss as she stormed through them and into the cold Capitol morning. The sky was a pale, sour gray. The light scraped across the buildings and left everything too bright and too flat. The streets smelled like exhaust and perfume and something sour beneath all of it— like rotted fruit crushed beneath glittering heels.

Cornelia didn’t stop. She didn’t know where she was going. She didn’t care. Just forward. Away. 

The pavement slapped under her feet, and her ankle rolled again. This time, it buckled.

Pain lanced up her leg and she stumbled, nearly falling into a curb. She gasped and caught herself on a lamp post, the cold metal burning her palm. Her bag slid down her shoulder. Her heel wobbled again. And then— like a match to a fuse— it all went off.

“Damn it!” she shouted, the word tearing out of her chest like it had claws. “Damn it, damn it, damn it!”

She yanked the shoes off her feet, both hands trembling. They were on the wrong feet. They had been the whole time.

She stared at them— backwards, ridiculous— and something broke.

The tears came hard and fast. No ceremony. No warning. Just a sudden rush of breathless sobs and the collapse of everything she’d been holding in. She dropped the shoes onto the sidewalk and crouched down beside them, arms wrapped around her knees, fingers digging into her sleeves.

“Stupid,” she muttered. Her voice was wrecked, barely audible beneath her crying. “Stupid, stupid, stupid—”

How could she have made such a mistake? How could she have missed it?

Her neck still ached. Her ankle throbbed. Her eyes burned.

And all she could do was cry on the street in her coat and half-dressed blouse, her hair falling out of its curls, her bra still looped around her wrist like a joke. She was sitting on the sidewalk in her city— her home— barefoot and broken and crying like she was twelve years old again, like some rich Capitol brat who got her feelings hurt.

Only this wasn’t hurt feelings. This was betrayal. This was grief. This was the brutal end of something she had never truly gotten to hold.

Cornelia pressed her palm over her mouth to muffle the sound of her sobs. The city walked around her like it always had— bright, selfish, oblivious. And she let it. Because she couldn’t bring herself to care who saw her.

Sick. Sick. Sick.

That was all Finnick felt as he stared at the white door in the white painted room that felt more like a tomb than anything else. It had just slammed shut— hard enough to echo, hard enough to shake the floorboards beneath his bare feet— but the silence that followed was worse than the noise. It pressed down on his shoulders like seawater, like pressure in his ears during a deep dive, crushing and deafening. He didn’t blink. Couldn’t. The door still swayed in its frame a little, like it had been injured too.

She was gone.

Cornelia had walked out. Not floated out, not glided out in that way she had when she was teasing or pouting or trying to get a rise out of him. She stormed. Fled, almost. Her footsteps loud and stumbling, her hair wild, her shoes on the wrong feet, her blouse crooked, her hands shaking— and him standing there like some empty, useless thing she’d left behind.

And he deserved it. Every bit of it. Maybe worse.

His mind replayed it, looping like a punishment. The image of her hand shoving at his chest. The way she’d scrambled out from under him. The sound of her retreat, the slam of the bathroom door, the click of the lock that had echoed so loud it might as well have been a gunshot.  And Cornelia never locked doors.

That hit him like a punch to the gut. Cornelia didn’t do locked doors. Not when it was just them. She barged in on him brushing his teeth, hummed on the toilet while he was shaving, stripped in front of him like the concept of modesty didn’t exist when they were together. Not that it was about sex. She was just… unguarded. That was who she was. Loud. Glittering. Thoughtless in the best kind of way. Even her secrets came wrapped in satin and sequins. But she had locked the door. Because of him.

His legs carried him to the edge of the bed before he collapsed onto it, slowly, the mattress shifting beneath his weight with a groan that echoed louder than anything else in the room.

He pressed his palms to his eyes.

He could still see her neck.

The skin flushed and angry. Fingerprints that didn’t fade fast enough. Bright and damning. His marks. He didn’t need a mirror to know they were his. He could still feel it— the way his hand had curled there, reflexively, stupidly, like he was back in some Capitol bedroom with a sponsor who had handed him a script and expected a performance.

He hadn’t even been present. He hadn’t seen her face. Hadn’t noticed the way she’d turned her head.

God.

He rubbed his face harder. The same hands that had held her down now clenched in his hair. And suddenly it was too much— everything.

The images blurred together in a rush of disjointed snapshots: her back as she moved through the room, her blouse misbuttoned, her bra hanging from her wrist, her voice screaming at him. Not whining. Not pouting. Not teasing. Screaming. 

“Do you feel better now?!”

No. No, he didn’t. He felt like he was cracking open. Like something was unraveling inside of him too fast to be stitched back together.

The panic came slow, but then all at once. It started as a cold flush behind his eyes and then in his teeth, like all his nerves were reversing course. He couldn’t breathe. Or maybe he was breathing too much. His ribs ached, his stomach pitched. He doubled over, fists pressing to his knees.

He had become them.

The clients. The ones who never listened. Who used his body like a tool, a weapon, a possession. The ones who’d told him he was beautiful only to split him open like he was disposable. The ones who pretended he was lucky to be chosen, lucky to be kept. The ones who hurt him and then asked him to smile afterward. He had sworn he’d never be that. He had promised himself— on every fishing boat, every trip back to 4, every time he stood in the surf and remembered who he was before— that he would never do to anyone what had been done to him.

And yet.

Yet.

He had touched Cornelia like that. Without seeing her. Without thinking. Without care.

His hands— God, his hands. He looked down at them like they didn’t belong to him. He hadn’t meant to grab her like that. He hadn’t been thinking. But that didn’t matter. Intent didn’t matter. She had marks on her neck because of him. She’d shoved him away. Had to. And he hadn’t even noticed right away. He just kept— God, he kept going.

He hunched forward suddenly, elbows digging into his knees, palms pressing into his eye sockets hard enough that white sparks flared behind them. His chest tightened. His breath hitched. He didn’t cry prettily. He never had. There was no sobbing, not really. Just these sharp little half-gasps that made it feel like his chest was collapsing in on itself.

He loved her.

The thought came unbidden.

He didn’t fight it this time. 

He loved her. He had loved her— quietly, stupidly, against every rule he had set for himself. She was so bright. So persistent. She made things easier, not harder. She made him laugh. She made the ugliness seem far away. She made him believe there were still pieces of him worth wanting. She made him feel human.

And now she was gone. 

Because he had hurt her. Because he had been cruel, careless, violent. Not in the way he used to be trained to be— not with blades or fists— but with disregard. With silence. With the same callousness he had spent years pretending hadn’t been leveled against him. He had made her feel like an object. A tool. A vessel.

The irony was suffocating.

He dug his fingernails into the mattress. He could still hear her voice in his head. 

“You don’t look! You never look!”

But he had looked. He had looked in the moments when she wasn’t watching. When she was curled up beside him in bed, arms flung over his chest like she didn’t know what boundaries were. When she was laughing at some joke she made and looked so proud of herself she nearly glowed. When she walked in wearing a new dress from the boutique down the street and posed in the doorway. He had looked. And he had loved. But not in the way that mattered, not in the way that would’ve made her know. 

And now it was too late.

She had walked out. Slammed the door. Her coat flaring behind her like a cape. Not looking back. Not even a flinch. He had lost her.

Finnick dragged himself off the bed, unsteady, legs half-numb. He stumbled to the nightstand and opened the drawer, half-expecting to find something that could numb this— the remnants of pills, or a bottle left behind by a previous patron. But the drawer was empty. He slammed it shut.

He staggered back to the bed and dropped to his knees beside it, head pressed to the edge of the mattress like he needed it to anchor him. His hands clutched at the sheets, fists shaking. Everything was coming up now. Everything he had pushed down. Every moment he’d swallowed whole and pretended didn’t matter. Every time he told himself “this is nothing”, “she’s nothing,” “it doesn’t mean anything.”

But it did.

It had.

He wanted her back. Not just in the room, not just in a bed. He wanted her. All of her. The annoying parts. The glittering, overdramatic parts. The sweet ones. The ones that left her lashes on bedside tables and dragged him to wig shops and sang made-up songs off-key.

But he couldn’t take it back. The marks on her neck said so. The locked bathroom door said so. Her voice— shaking, cracking, screaming— said so.

Finnick curled tighter against the mattress and squeezed his eyes shut. The room felt too white. Too quiet. Too empty.

He had loved her, and now she was gone.

The villa was silent when she slipped through the door.

Cornelia turned the handle as softly as she could and eased it shut behind her, the quiet click of the lock sliding into place sounding deafening in the stillness. The entryway was shrouded in that velvet dark that only lived in rich homes— no security lights, no flickering hallway bulbs. Just moonlight sifting down through the tall windows and the faint scent of roses from the arrangements that were changed daily by the housekeeper. The marble floor was cool against her feet, her shoes long discarded somewhere back on the curb outside the hotel, abandoned like a piece of a former self.

She winced with each step, her ankle sore from the second roll, but she didn’t let it slow her down. One hand curled tight around the banister, the other clinging to the edge of her coat. She was barefoot, braless, her hair beginning to dry in odd waves.

The only sounds in the villa were the gentle ticking of the grandfather clock in the formal sitting room and the low hum of the temperature control system. The familiar, sterile lullaby of Capitol luxury. She paused at the foot of the stairs, listening.

No voices. No footsteps.

She glanced down the hallway toward her parents’ bedroom door. Closed. Dark. Asleep.

Cornelia exhaled shakily and started up the stairs. Her ankle throbbed with each rise. She gritted her teeth. Each step creaked softly under her weight, but not enough to wake anyone unless they were already stirring. And Cornelia knew the patterns of this house like muscle memory. She knew which step to skip to avoid the louder groan, which banister spindles squeaked if brushed too hard. This had been her childhood stage, her safe little world of powdered gold and rose velvet. The villa was enormous, excessive, indulgent— but it had always made her feel secure, even adored.

Tonight, it felt like walking through a dream she wasn’t welcome in anymore.

Her room was at the far end of the upper floor, her sanctuary in a home where the walls often echoed with voices louder than hers— laughter, political debates, Capitol gossip. But now the hallway was dead quiet as she reached her door, turned the knob and closed the door shut behind her. She locked it.

Inside, everything was just as she left it.

Soft pinks and creamy whites, sheer drapes that let in moonlight, a vanity cluttered with glittering makeup pots and glass perfume bottles, a plush settee covered in throw pillows. It was delicate, warm, and curated— like a life staged in a Capitol magazine. But tonight, Cornelia was something unrecognizable in it.

She locked the door behind her, threw the coat off without ceremony, and stripped quickly. Her clothes hit the floor in a trail before she scooped them up and shoved them down the linen chute in the corner. It clanged slightly when the metal hatch slammed shut, and she flinched— then stilled, waiting.

No sound from downstairs. No voices calling her name.

She moved fast, needing to feel different, needing to be clean.

Cornelia rushed into her bathroom and flipped on the light. The bright bulbs ringed around the mirror made her squint, but she didn’t pause. She twisted the hot tap to full, steam flooding the room in a matter of seconds, then peeled out of the rest of her underthings.

The second she stepped into the shower, the scalding water seared her skin.

She hissed between her teeth, but didn’t back away. She welcomed it. Let it sting.

Her hands fumbled for the loofah, then the body wash— her usual sugary berry blend, sweet and cloying, soft and girlish. She hated it suddenly. Hated that it felt too young. Too innocent. Like it didn’t belong to her anymore.

She scrubbed with shaking hands, over and over again. Her shoulders, her arms, the backs of her thighs, her collarbone. Her neck.

When she touched the raw skin there, she gasped.

The scrub stopped. Her hand stayed. Then— more gently now— she rubbed in small circles, the scent rising in clouds around her. She tilted her head back under the water, eyes closed, and let it rinse the suds away. But nothing could rinse away the ache.

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

When she stepped out, the mirror was already fogged. She toweled off quickly, pulled her silk nightgown over her head, and combed her fingers through her wet hair as she padded back into her bedroom.

Cornelia only turned to the mirror once the fog cleared enough to show her face. Her skin looked washed-out in the light. Pale. Her eyes dull and puffy from the earlier sobs. But her gaze caught—  hooked— on the mottled skin peeking out beneath the thin strap of her nightgown.

Her fingers reached up and brushed aside her hair. The marks were worse than she’d thought. Darker now. Angry-looking, faint purples blossoming at the edges of the red. Her throat looked like a painting someone had touched with too much force. Like someone had tried to erase her voice from the outside in.

Her breath caught. She stood there, staring. The image burned into her.

This happened. It happened.

The longer she stared, the more surreal it became. As though she were looking at someone else. Someone stupid.

How could she have thought he wouldn’t go too far? How could she have thought he cared?

Cornelia’s chest rose and fell sharply. Her fingers trembled as she turned away, walking stiffly back to the vanity, refusing to look in the mirror again.

She opened the drawer and shuffled through her collection of powders and concealers. The ones her mother gave her when she turned fifteen. The ones she used for studio days and stage lights and press junkets. She found the thick matte powder and began patting it into the skin, layer by layer, careful and quiet. Not too much, not too little. Blend, dab, smooth. Repeat.

She didn’t cry. She wouldn’t give herself that. Not again.

She was halfway through her second layer when she heard it.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Her phone.

She knew who it was. No one else would be calling her this late. No one else would even dare. She paused, powder puff in hand. 

The ringing filled the room like a wasp. She stared at the mirror— not the marks now, but her eyes. Red-rimmed, wide, still slightly swollen. Not the Capitol princess eyes. Not the Flickerman daughter, future Mistress of Ceremonies. Just her. Broken and bitter and bruised.

Her hand twitched.

She could answer. Out of habit, out of longing, out of love. But she didn’t move. She stood there, pulse in her throat like a second heartbeat, frozen in that choice.

No.

The word rang through her skull, hard and absolute.

No.

She turned back to the vanity, picking up the powder and placing it carefully into the drawer. Then the concealer. The brush. Everything in its place, organized and folded back into silence. The phone rang one last time.

Chapter Text

April, 74 ADD

CORNELIA’S HAIR WAS BLUE. Powder blue. Like candy floss in winter or antique porcelain, soft and unlikely and shimmering where the light touched it. The first color in nearly three years that hadn’t matched the same shade as her father’s natural hair had been before he began to go bald.

It had been impulsive. Wild. Reckless, maybe. But good.

The decision had taken root without much thought— a flash of defiance in the plush chair of her stylist’s private suite, the scent of hot irons and curl creams in the air. It started with the idea of a trim. Then maybe just a few added pieces, maybe just a little more length, a little more volume. Then came the bottle of pastel blue dye sitting innocently on the counter, barely touched. A suggestion from the stylist as she slid a manicured hand over the curtain of natural brown hair cascading over Cornelia’s shoulder.

“It would bring out the gold in your eyes,” she had said.

And just like that, it was happening.

It took five hours. Five hours of bleach and toner and baby-fine wefts being sewn into her scalp in tidy rows. Five hours of champagne and air kisses from passing salon staff, of compliments so syrupy they left her teeth aching. And when it was done, when the final curl had been set and the final mist of gloss spritzed into the air around her, Cornelia walked out of that salon taller than she’d been in months.

It was a statement. It was fun. And it most certainly was not some act of petty defiance against a ghost.

Finnick had liked her hair natural. That much she remembered clearly, though the memory bit like citrus now.  “I like your hair this color,” he had said.

Well. Now it was blue. Unnaturally, unmistakably, unapologetically blue.

And he had no say in it anymore.

No touch. No comment. No complaint. He wasn’t hers. She wasn’t his. Not really. Not in the ways that mattered. Not in the ways that survived outside hotel rooms, outside tangled sheets and whispered apologies in the dark.

Never had been. Never, ever would be.

She walked now with a rhythm in her step, her bedazzled heels clicking against the marble edges of the Capitol’s City Circle. The satin of her skirt rustled faintly as she moved— an icy mint that matched her blouse, tucked neatly at the waist. Her jewelry glittered as she passed one storefront after the next, her designer sunglasses perched on her nose as she glanced sidelong at her own reflection in the glossy display glass.

She looked good. God, she looked good.

No one had to tell her. She could see it herself. The curves, the confidence, the gleam in her eye that said I’m doing better than ever. And she was.

She was good. No, scratch that. She was great.

She adjusted one of her shopping bags over her shoulder and gave herself a wink in the mirrored window of a luxury shoe boutique. The bag bore the label of an emerging Capitol designer— one that hadn’t quite caught fire yet but was already being whispered about in Capitol social circles. She had snagged three exclusive pieces from the upcoming collection before they’d even hit the major stylists. That was how on top of things she was now.

A new era. A reinvention.

She passed the fountain near the amphitheater and turned onto another street, her heels perfectly in sync with the beat of the city, when her heart stuttered mid-step.

Across the plaza, on the next avenue over— barely visible between the flurry of tourists and residents— a tall boy with green eyes and sandy hair was leaning against a silver railing, talking to a woman in bright red.

Cornelia’s breath caught. Her throat tightened. Her eyes narrowed. But when she looked again, really looked, she saw it wasn’t him.

Just another Capitol boy. Same build. Same easy posture. The same disarming smile, maybe, tilted up toward a woman who wasn’t her. The woman was older. Too thin. Hair dyed a cherry color.

Not him.

She looked down. Focused on her grip on the shopping bags. Adjusted one strap. Kept walking. Faster now. Don’t look back.

The sun was high now, bouncing off the silver edges of the Flickerman villa as she rounded the last block. The gates opened automatically as she approached, sensors recognizing her presence, and she stepped through without ceremony. Her heels clicked up the curved stone pathway to the front door. She pushed it open with her hip and called out into the echoing foyer—

“Mother! Daddy! I’m home!”

Her voice rang bright, bell-like, as if she hadn’t been walking half a beat away from a panic spiral two minutes ago. As if she were made of champagne bubbles and pressed peonies and not… whatever strange composite thing she’d become over the last week.

She set her bags on the center table— carved from ivory-stained wood and topped with a vase of pale yellow orchids. She didn’t hear her father’s reply, but the click of heels on the upper staircase signaled her mother’s arrival.

Calpurnia descended slowly, her long silk robe tied at the waist, her hair still pinned from the previous night’s formal dinner. Her eyebrows raised as she reached the landing, gaze fixing immediately on Cornelia’s head. She stopped. Stared.

Cornelia smiled up at her— wide, unrepentant. She struck a pose, cocked one hip, and tossed the pastel waves over her shoulder with theatrical flair.

“Well?” she said, voice lilting, bright. “Isn’t it fabulous?”

Calpurnia didn’t answer right away.

Her eyes stayed on the hair. On the unnatural color. The fringe of realness peeking through at the roots, barely visible but there. Her lips parted, then pressed into a shape not unlike a grimace. But then— smooth as buttercream— she forced a smile. The same smile Cornelia had been trained to wear since she was seven.

“I’m sure your father will love it,” Calpurnia said, every word dipped in elegance.

Cornelia’s smile stayed pinned to her lips, but her spine stiffened. She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

“Of course he will,” she replied, airily. “It’s the perfect shade. Matches my soul now.”

She turned on her heel, skirt swishing as she made for the stairs. She didn’t stop to wait for another comment. She didn’t need one. She’d done it for herself. For the girl in the mirror. For the girl who had stood in the hotel bathroom, shaking and raw, a hand pressed to her throat like she could hold herself together if she just squeezed tightly enough.

Let them stare. Let them comment behind their teacups. She was blue now.

Her friends knew something was different.

They didn’t say it outright, of course. Cornelia Flickerman was not the type of girl anyone confronted directly. That was a rule— social, unsaid, but universally followed in Capitol circles. It wasn’t just because of who her father was (though Caesar’s name opened doors and shut mouths in equal measure). It was because Cornelia had always been the dazzling center of every room she walked into—the spinning chandelier of every social function, every salon appointment, every whispered fashion party. And when someone like that changed, no one asked why. 

Still. They noticed.

Something about her was… sharper. Brighter. Giddier than usual, but also just a little bit louder, like the volume dial had been cranked too far up and no one dared reach for the remote. She wore her pastel-blue hair in voluminous curls now, teased at the roots and ornamented with tiny silk bows. Her lipstick was bolder— rose-gold today, shimmery and lacquered. Her heels were taller than usual, her mascara heavier than ever. Her laugh came a little too quickly, her praise a little too often, her energy so heightened it was almost manic.

But most telling of all— she wasn’t wallowing. Not publicly, at least. She didn’t sigh dramatically or pine with crystal cups of champagne. She wasn’t weeping into her hands or pillows or pout at passing couples walking hand in hand. She wasn’t mourning anything, thank you very much. If anything, she was thriving. Living. Excelling.

And that was the point. Because, after all, that was always the point of the arrangement.

No one would know. No one should know. What happened between them belonged to the dark of hotel rooms and breathless hours between staged events. The long nights, the snuck glances, the tightly-held silences. And now, with it all over, Cornelia was doing what Capitol girls did best. She was performing. Even after the curtain had closed. Even after the lights had been kicked out.

She was playing her part.

“Oh, this is perfect!” Cornelia gasped, clutching the skirt of a frothy pale pink dress as if it were spun sugar. “Absolutely gorgeous! Wouldn’t you agree, Diamond?! Look at these ruffles! Look at this bow! This is everything!”

She held the hanger up high, twirling slightly on the marble tile floor as the dress fanned out in waves of lace and chiffon. There were pearl beads stitched into the bodice and delicate ribbon detailing down the back—Capitol craftsmanship at its finest. It was less a dress and more a daydream.

Diamond arched an eyebrow but nodded slowly, her newly dyed emerald green hair catching the overhead boutique lighting. “It’s… cute. I mean, sure. Very you.”

“Thank you,” Cornelia chirped, clearly delighted.

“But…” Diamond’s tone shifted, a little more hesitant now. “Why the ruffles? I thought you said we were going sleek this year. Satin and silk and all that. Wasn’t that the theme?” She cocked her hip and gave Cornelia a suspicious side-eye. “I thought ruffles and tulle were, like, officially out.”

Cornelia blinked, then waved a hand dismissively, as though shooing away a fly or a memory.

“Oh, well, silly, I must not have told you!” she said, voice lifting with theatrical shock. “This year is girls only! And we’re doing tea party chic. It’s very posh, very frilly.”

Diamond squinted. “Girls only? Why aren’t the boys invited this year? Avian already got you a present.”

Cornelia gave a scandalized little gasp and spun on her heel, the pastel hem of her skirt flipping with the motion.

“Because, Diamond!” she said, tone as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Men don’t understand the vision. They never do. And besides, wouldn’t it be far more fun to be without them for a day?! No posturing, no posturing back. Just us. Our girls. Like it should be!”

She let her words bounce airily off the boutique walls, letting her chin lift as she marched toward another rack. But inside, the truth twisted, acidic and bitter, underneath her breastbone.

The truth was that she’d changed the guest list three days ago.

Cut the number of attendees in half. Removed the names she couldn’t stand to see. And buried his beneath a stack of silver-foil RSVP cards she’d never sent out. Her party would be quiet this year. Controlled. Every detail accounted for. And if she had to invent a theme to make the math work, so be it.

She didn’t want to see him. Didn’t want to find herself in a half-empty room and have him corner her, whisper something half-sweet, half-punishing, and leave her breathless with confusion.

Not again. Not this year.

“Oh, that’ll be amazing!” Precious squealed, clapping her hands. “We haven’t done an all-girls party since your tenth!”

Cornelia beamed. “Exactly! And this will be even better! We’ll have macarons and champagne and tiny little hats and garden-themed everything. It’s going to be absolutely divine.”

She turned back to the rack and plucked another dress off the bar— this one in lemon yellow, with tiers of dotted tulle and a scalloped hem. She held it up triumphantly.

“Here!” she cried, thrusting the dress toward Diamond. “Try this on! You’ll understand once you wear it. Once you feel how fabulous you look. Trust me.”

Diamond accepted the dress with a skeptical glance at the pile of ruffles, but Cornelia was already ushering her toward the fitting rooms.

“You’ll look like a cloud,” Cornelia added brightly. “In the best way.”

She kept talking, letting her words flow in a sugar-high stream of giggles and compliments, fabric comparisons, lip gloss assessments, and party planning details. She pulled a fur-trimmed shrug from a nearby mannequin and threw it over Precious’s shoulders. She matched gloves to shoes, clutches to tiaras, earrings to belt buckles. She flipped through dresses like pages in a fashion magazine, narrating her every move like a stylist on a makeover show.

All the while, her heart thudded like a drum under her ribs.

Because she knew— knew— that if she paused for even a moment, if she let herself go silent, something else might fill the space. Something cold. Something she didn’t want her friends to see written on her face.

Finnick’s absence had to be scrubbed out with sparkle. His silence had to be smothered by sequins.

May, 74 ADD

The party was perfect.

Perfect, perfect, perfect.

The tea sets were arranged in pristine symmetry— rose-patterned porcelain, rimmed with gold leaf, glinting under the fairy lights that twinkled across the glasshouse ceiling. Ribbons spiraled down from hanging chandeliers shaped like oversized teacups. The pastries were soft, sweet, and delicate, filled with creams and jellies flavored in floral notes: hibiscus and rose, violet and orange blossom. Even the crustless finger sandwiches looked too lovely to eat, cut into stars and hearts, sprinkled with edible glitter. Outside the crystal windows, the hedges of the Flickerman garden stood in sharp, sculpted rows— each one clipped into the shape of something playful: a bunny, a butterfly, a parasol, a bow. It was a pastel hallucination, a curated dream.

And Cornelia looked like a dream within it.

Her dress was pink and ruffly, made of layers of organza and silk tulle that floated like cotton candy around her thighs. The neckline curved like the edge of a heart-shaped cake, and the puffed sleeves sat just off her shoulders. A satin sash cinched her waist, bowing at the back, and pearls winked from the clips in her powder-blue hair. She had curled it into fluffy waves and pinned it half up, strands falling around her cheeks with a practiced softness. She was, without exaggeration, the image of a princess ripped from one of the Capitol’s vintage fairytales. She looked the part.

Everything looked the part.

So she didn’t know why she felt so empty inside.

Perhaps she was hungry.

That must’ve been it.

Cornelia pushed the ache away from her ribcage and took another glittery pink cocktail from a passing Avox. She drank it down in two gulps, the sugar stinging the roof of her mouth. The sweetness didn’t help. The hollow ache behind her breastbone didn’t shift.

“Adorabella is here!” Precious squealed, bounding toward her in her rose-gold ankle boots and feathered shrug.

Cornelia turned, swallowing the last bit of cocktail with a blink. “Cerulean finally let her roam free!”

She grinned as she grabbed Diamond’s hand and the three of them made a beeline toward the far garden entrance. There, just stepping through the ivy-trimmed arch, was Adorabella— glowing in a butter-yellow tea dress, her curls bouncing around her shoulders.

The squealing was instant. Hugging, tighter still. Perfume, glitter, laughter in bubbles.

Adorabella squeezed Cornelia first, looping her arms around her middle with an audible squeak. “Happy birthday!” she sang out, her cheeks flushed. “You look like heaven.”

Cornelia let out a giggle— real or fake, she wasn’t quite sure— and pulled back enough to beam. “So do you! You look like the sunrise! And thank you for coming! I didn’t think Cerulean would ever let you off your leash.”

“Only for you,” Adorabella replied, winking. Then, she reached into her pastel clutch and pulled out a velvet box. “Here. This is yours.”

Cornelia took the box gently and opened it with her thumb, the hinge clicking in. Inside was a locket— heart-shaped, golden, engraved with swirling leaves and capped with an emerald set into its center. A brilliant, gleaming, unmistakably green emerald.

Cornelia’s smile faltered by a fraction.

She stared at the jewel for just a moment too long. The green wasn’t just green. It was his green. That seagrass shade that sat between jade and stormy coastlines. The color of the water back in District 4, she imagined, before they dredged it for tribute blood.

Finnick’s eyes. That was what it looked like.

He had eyes that saw everything and nothing. That looked at her with a hunger one day, and with boredom the next. That flickered like the ocean. That had closed each time he touched her, as though he couldn’t bear to see what he was doing. Or who he was doing it to.

Cornelia blinked, swallowed, forced herself to smile wider. “Adorabella, it’s gorgeous!” she sang. “I love it!”

She held it up so the other girls could see, letting the emerald catch the fairy light above them. 

“You have to wear that tonight,” Diamond said, pulling the clasp open and beginning to fasten it around Cornelia’s neck.

Cornelia laughed lightly, brushing her fingers over the heart once it settled against her chest. It was cold. Heavier than she expected. She tried not to let it show.

“I’m going to be dripping in gifts by the end of tonight,” she joked, deflecting again, turning away from the sinking sensation that had nothing to do with champagne.

“Wait until you see mine,” Precious teased. “It involves glitter. And perhaps a small explosion.”

“Oh,” Cornelia replied with a fake gasp. “Please don’t destroy the tea sets. They were imported!”

The girls cackled again and whisked off toward the cake table, their skirts bouncing behind them like watercolor petals.

Cornelia followed, smiling as she went. Laughing as she went. Letting her heels click across the tile in tempo with the string quartet in the corner.

She never mentioned Finnick. Not once.

Never glanced toward the entrance as if expecting him. Never commented on the guest list. Never made a single reference to District 4, or green eyes, or lips she couldn’t quite remember the taste of.

June, 74 ADD

The Flickermans had a legacy— a legacy of glitz, of grandeur, of larger-than-life stage presence and a wardrobe to match. Their name was synonymous with spectacle. With sequins, with flair, with smiles so wide they could split the Capitol sky open like a cracked bottle of champagne. Their brand was pageantry. Their power was persuasion. Their place in history? Carved out in lights and lacquered in glitter.

And Cornelia Flickerman was his daughter. Caesar Flickerman’s daughter. The next in line. The heir to the throne of theatrical charm. And she was finally leaning into it. Entirely.

Because if she couldn’t have the things she wanted— if she couldn’t have soft arms at night or a mouth that kissed her back or even the kindness of being chosen— then she would have this. This empire, this art, this mask of joy that could cover a thousand invisible wounds. She would have satin and sparkle and the smiles of a nation that believed in her because she was Caesar Flickerman’s daughter.

At least she could make others happy.

And maybe— just maybe— some of that happiness would ricochet and land on her. Maybe it would be enough.

"Periwinkle!" Caesar bellowed, lifting a swatch of silk as though it were a national treasure.

Cornelia grinned from her place on the overstuffed chaise in the tailor’s showroom. She was already halfway into her second fitting of the morning. Her fingers were still sticky from the candied lavender drops that had been offered on a silver tray the moment they’d arrived.

“You mean baby periwinkle,” she corrected. “It’s a whole shade lighter than regular periwinkle. It’s practically—”

“The breath of a spring sky,” Caesar finished with a dramatic gasp. “Oh, yes. Yes, that’s exactly what it is. You’ll look like a poem in it, darling.”

“I am a poem,” Cornelia teased, batting her lashes as the tailor— Gusto, a plump man with lime eyebrows and a mauve tongue— cinched the final curve of her waist with a flourish.

She examined herself in the mirror. The gown was a soft cascade of baby periwinkle silk, scalloped at the collar and adorned with tiny mother-of-pearl flowers down the skirt’s hemline. Her hair, freshly touched up and curled into luminous waves, shimmered with the same powder-blue hue. A living doll. A porcelain figurine brought to life. A Capitol confection, sugared and ripe for the screen.

Caesar stood behind her in the mirror’s reflection, one hand on his hip, the other gripping a wig cap made of shimmering synthetic fibers.

“I’m going to wear this,” he declared, placing the wig on his head with a flourish. It was, of course, baby periwinkle to match hers, styled in a dramatic pompadour twist that added six inches to his height.

Cornelia clapped, beaming. “We’ll look like a matching set!”

“A matched pair!” he agreed. “Like those miniature poodles on Parade Avenue. You know the ones!”

“Daddy,” she squealed, half-scandalized, “we are not poodles!”

“Poodles are regal, darling.”

Cornelia giggled as Gusto stepped back and gave his nod of approval. “Mistress Flickerman,” he said with a deep bow, “you are a vision.”

“She’s always a vision,” Caesar huffed proudly, stepping forward to adjust the pearl brooch at her neckline. “She’s my legacy. The future face of the Games.”

The compliment hit like a soft kiss and a slap at once. Cornelia’s smile didn’t falter, but there was a flicker in her gaze— a blink, a breath. Her lips remained perfectly painted in her signature sugar-rose hue. She tilted her head and looked up at her father, blinking wide eyes under curled lashes.

“Do you really think so?” she asked quietly. Not coquettish. Just a girl in a dress, asking to be believed in.

“I know so,” Caesar said. He took her hand and squeezed it. “You were born to be adored. And not just by your father.”

Cornelia looked away, blinking hard.

Gusto tactfully cleared his throat. “And for the accessories, Mistress?”

“Oh, gloves. Definitely gloves.” Cornelia twirled once more in the mirror, the skirts lifting slightly like a ripple on a still pond. 

Caesar nodded in delighted approval. “And shoes?”

Cornelia paused, then smiled wider. “Heels. Very high ones.”

“Well, then let’s find a pair that makes you look like you’re floating,” Caesar said, already waving over an attendant.

They spent the rest of the afternoon poring through costume sketches, practicing their laugh-cues for interviews, timing their double-wave entrances. Cornelia even practiced her segment opener. She’d already learned the scripts. She could charm a tribute in their death clothes. She could smile at a boy and call him brave. She could tilt her head just enough to make a sobbing girl believe the Capitol cared.

She could be good at this. She was good at this. Even if her heart felt more like a prop these days than a beating thing.

That night, back at the villa, Cornelia set her finished look on the mannequin in her dressing room. She touched the hem of her gown and thought about how pretty she would look on camera. How proud her father would be. How lovely it would be to be seen, adored, celebrated.

She wondered if he’d watch.

July, 74 ADD

The parade had always been a favorite of Cornelia's. Always. It was like an indulgent, sparkling, showstopping excuse to wear a dramatic fascinator and clap at glittering floats. And it was bright.

The City Circle glistened beneath a ceiling of holographic banners and trailing streamers that shimmered like glass snakes in the light. The roaring of the crowd pulsed against the polished stone architecture like a heartbeat, swelling and collapsing with each chariot that burst from the tunnel in the center ring. The Avenue of the Tributes glowed beneath the wheels of the moving chariots. The plumes of color, sequined silks, gilded armor, and live birds stitched into costumes— it was all too much and not enough all at once.

Cornelia loved it.

It wasn’t just the clothes, or the drama, or the mass hypnosis of cheers echoing around the Circle. It wasn’t even the undercurrent of danger, the small pulse of knowing that any one of the wide-eyed tributes could be famous by morning. It was hers. Not yet in full, but close. The Ceremonies were what her father had built his life on— what he would one day pass to her.

And she would take them. Not to copy him. Not to mimic. No, no, never. She would take them, and make them hers. Cornelia Fleur Flickerman, not just the daughter of the Capitol’s favorite voice, but her own crescendo.

She sat nestled on the upper terrace, the best view in the square outside the president’s balcony. Precious and Diamond flanked her on either side, their matching sheer gloves brushing her arms as they clapped in sync with the crowd.

“Oh! Look at that train!” Diamond squealed, bouncing in her seat with an exaggerated wiggle.

Cornelia leaned forward with a delighted gasp. “It’s divine! That shade of champagne, it’s almost pink, almost gold. Almost rosewater.”

Precious rolled her eyes fondly. “You would know the name of every shade.”

“I have to, darling,” Cornelia said, dramatically tossing one of her powder-blue curls over her shoulder. “It’s part of the job.”

“Right,” Diamond added, mock serious. “Mistress of Ceremonies-in-training.”

Cornelia grinned. “Exactly. I need to know every sparkle, every silhouette, every entrance that hits just right. You have to know how to guide the audience’s eyes. How to sell the story.” She paused, eyes glittering as another chariot came rumbling into the arena.

Diamond gave her an appraising look. “You’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Of course I have,” Cornelia said with a small, practiced laugh. “It’s not enough to be Caesar’s daughter. I have to be better."

Precious raised a brow. “I thought your job this year was just five districts?”

Cornelia waved a hand, unimpressed. “Yes! Still lower, but I can make it work! Districts 8, 9, 10, 11, and 12. Not the most glamorous, but if I can create sponsor-worthy moments out of hay and soot, they’ll have to give me more next year.”

Diamond leaned over with a smirk. “Just as long as they aren’t all weepy like the year before.”

Cornelia let out a theatrical groan. “Exactly! If I get another tribute sobbing through their entire interview, I swear I’ll faint on stage. I need at least a little hype or I’ll lose the sponsors.”

As if on cue, a sudden burst of applause surged from the crowd below. Precious, sitting upright, nearly spilled her cocktail as she pointed down toward the arena.

“Cornelia! Is that one of yours?”

Cornelia jolted in her seat and leaned forward, eyes snapping to the next chariot entering the Circle. Her eyes widened, and then—

“Oh! Oh, my goodness!” she squealed, nearly leaping to her feet. “Yes! Yes! That’s 12!”

The crowd was thunderous.

District 12 was on fire.

Not literally, but close enough. The boy and girl were dressed in coal-black bodysuits that shimmered with a red-orange glow, flickering along the hem and cuffs as if actual flames danced from their boots to their shoulders. Not grimy miners in soot-stained rags, not melancholy symbolism. Just fire. Controlled, beautiful, powerful fire.

Cornelia clutched Diamond and Precious’s arms with both hands. “Oh, they are going to love this. Oh, I can smell the sponsors!”

Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen— those were their names, yes. She remembered now. Neither of them had stood out in her preliminary reaping notes. But now they were stars. And they were hers.

Cornelia beamed. This was it. This was what it felt like to hold a string and know the whole nation was on the other end of it.

“I have to find out who styled them,” Cornelia said, eyes gleaming. “Because that—” she pointed toward the chariot as it began its slow circle past the presidential platform, “— is how you tell a story.”

She leaned back in her seat, triumphant, the image of the flaming coal kids still dancing in her mind. This was the kind of performance that launched careers. Theirs, certainly. And maybe hers, too.

Unsurprisingly, the private sessions and training scores for her tributes were lower than most. Not by much— nothing disqualifying or embarrassing, of course. Just… predictable. Expected.

District 8 had walked out with a modest five and a six, respectively. District 9 mirrored them almost identically, and District 10’s pair seemed to have stumbled through their sessions with scores so average it pained her. Sevens? Maybe. Sixes? Possibly. She couldn’t even remember. Nothing memorable. Nothing shiny.

District 11 had been more promising. Thresh was a ten, towering and silent and carved from thunderclouds. Rue— little Rue— had earned herself a seven, and that alone gave Cornelia hope. The Capitol would love her. That wide-eyed sweetness, that fluttery voice, that unassuming energy that would make the whole audience sob into their feathered gloves when she inevitably died. And she would. Of course she would. But that didn’t mean Cornelia couldn’t use her while she was here.

And then there was District 12.

Katniss Everdeen had scored an eleven.

An eleven.

The only eleven.

Cornelia knew exactly what she would do with that. Especially when paired with Peeta Mellark’s solid but not miraculous eight. The imbalance was intriguing. And with the notes Caesar had gotten back from District 12’s mentor Haymitch Abernathy— Cornelia already had the exact angle carved out in her mind, like a glittering path waiting to be followed.

The morning sun was peeking through the frosted glass windows of the Flickerman villa’s breakfast salon, casting pale gold beams across the soft lavender and powder-blue room. Caesar sat at the head of the long mirrored table, robes tied at the waist, his bald head exposed and catching the light like porcelain. He hadn’t put his wig on yet, which always made him look strangely stripped down.

Cornelia lounged to his right in a ruffled robe with heart-shaped pockets, her hair locked into curlers the size of peaches and a full-spectrum light therapy mask draped over her face like a shield from her own reflection. A coffee cup sat steaming on the table beside her bowl of sliced melon and a half-eaten pastry she had been poking at for twenty minutes.

“You got the notes from Abernathy?” she asked through the soft hum of the face mask’s motor.

Caesar looked up from his papers, the corners of his mouth curling in a pleased, distracted grin. “I did. You’ll like them.”

“Oh, do tell,” she said, pulling the mask up just enough to take a sip of her coffee.

“Seems the boy, Peeta, told Haymitch he’s been in love with the girl for years. Since before the reaping.” Caesar glanced over the rims of his glasses. “Crush of a lifetime. The whole tragic, unrequited thing. Haymitch says he’s willing to play into it. Could be good for sponsors.”

Cornelia gasped, sitting upright. “Oh? Oh? So we have some star-crossed lovers on our hands! How romantic! How tragic!”

Caesar chuckled. “Exactly my thought. Play that angle with him during the interview, get him to talk about how he’s always loved her.”

Cornelia let out a long, theatrical sigh and draped herself back into her chair. “Well, I was going to do that! You didn’t even give me a chance to say my idea!”

Her father tilted his head, amused. “Cornelia, listen. I’m trying to help you. I’m not trying to steal your thunder. You’ve got twelve minutes per tribute. That’s it. The audience needs to feel something. What was your idea?”

She huffed, picking up her coffee again and taking a slow sip. Then, with a dramatic flourish of her wrist, she began. “Well. I was going to play Katniss up as the girl-next-door, you know? And the sister thing is just gold. She volunteered. The audience will eat that up.”

Caesar nodded slowly, brows lifting in interest.

“And then,” Cornelia continued, lifting a sugared berry off her plate and twirling it between her fingers, “Peeta’s just the ornament. The accessory. He’s there to help her shine. Like a bracelet or a handbag. Cute but disposable. He’ll die for her. We don’t need him to survive to be useful.”

Her father gave her a long, appraising look. “So you’re setting her up as the winner.”

Cornelia grinned behind her mask. “That’s the whole idea. She’s the underdog who volunteered for her sister. The boy is just noise. Pretty noise, but noise.”

Caesar drummed his fingers against the table thoughtfully. “Don’t count the boy out too quickly. If he plays the love story just right, you may find the audience flipping in his favor faster than you expect. Capitol mothers love a boy who dies for love.”

Cornelia scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Then they’ll adore him when he bleeds out trying to kiss her boots.” She leaned forward and adjusted her curlers with a hand. “So who do I get today, again? The full list.”

Caesar slid a holographic list across the table toward her, the names flickering in neat columns. “8 through 12. Sequential order, ladies first. District 11 will be the most challenging. Rue’s practically a baby. You can’t scare her.”

“I won’t scare her,” Cornelia replied, mildly offended. "I am very warm and welcoming."

Caesar laughed again, louder this time. “Just don’t outshine me tonight.”

Cornelia winked.

She could do this, she could do this, she could do this—

Cornelia repeated it like a mantra, her heels softly tapping against the tiled backstage floor in a rhythm only she could hear. Her shimmer navy blue dress hugged her figure like it had been made custom for herself, the glint of crystal threads catching the light like stars. The off-shoulder silhouette framed her collarbones delicately, while the skirt fanned out just enough to be dramatic without crossing into costume. Her periwinkle blue hair— glossy, voluminous curls that had taken two stylists and one very tense disagreement about height and hold— bounced with each motion. Her lip gloss shimmered with a faint lavender sheen. She was perfection. She had to be.

She drew in a slow breath, keeping her smile steady as she felt the heat of the stage lights creep in from behind the curtain. The sound of her father’s voice— bold, electric, so uniquely him— boomed from the stage.

“And now, my beloved Capitol, I must warn you… things are about to get even more fabulous. Please welcome the shimmering starlet of stage and screen—my very own daughter, Cornelia Flickerman!”

The audience roared. Cornelia beamed and stepped through the curtain as if it were her natural habitat, as if she’d been born with stage lights above her head and applause echoing in her ears. She waved to the crowd with practiced ease, her bracelets glinting and the exaggerated sweep of her arm causing her curls to bounce flirtatiously around her shoulders.

Caesar, standing tall and striking in his classic teal suit, opened his arms and leaned in with theatrical air kisses to each cheek. “There she is!” he crowed. “The princess of pageantry!”

Cornelia took the microphone from him with a grin, turning toward the audience with all the glamour of a Capitol-born swan. “My father always does save the best for last! Why don’t we bring out our next district, shall we?”

And so began the parade of tributes. Cornelia smiled and sparkled and gestured grandly, her voice a glittering ribbon twined around each contestant’s name. She fluttered, cooed, encouraged, redirected. She was warmth and sugar, the living embodiment of Capitol charisma. But behind the stage smile was a razor edge. Cornelia was strategizing.

District 8’s tributes were passable— shy, jittery, but one of them had a flair for tailoring. She asked them about Capitol fashion, threw in a few playful compliments, and winked at the audience as she segued between questions. District 9 was much the same— respectable enough, but forgettable. District 10 offered a quiet, stoic boy and a slightly weepy girl, and Cornelia pivoted into soft maternal tones, squeezing the girl’s hand and promising to find her the perfect sponsor.

Then came District 11.

Rue was the kind of child that made people ache just to look at. Small, sweet-faced, eyes so round and solemn they could melt the steel nerves of a Peacekeeper. Cornelia smiled at her with all the gentleness she could muster. “You’re just the tiniest thing, aren’t you? And so lovely.”

Rue smiled back, a little wary but polite. “Thank you.”

Cornelia leaned in, her tone softening. “Tell me, darling, what’s your strategy for surviving out there?”

Rue tilted her head, birdlike. “If they can’t catch me, they can’t kill me.”

Cornelia froze for half a heartbeat.

Her lashes didn’t flutter. Her face didn’t fall. But something in her chest contracted sharply. How sad, she thought, before smoothly turning to the crowd and saying, “Clever girl! I think we may have another one to watch, don’t you think?” The audience clapped. Cornelia smiled.

Thresh was simple. Stoic. He gave short answers. Cornelia let him, tossing in a few jokes about his muscles and nodding thoughtfully at his answers. A reliable tribute. A sponsor magnet for those who preferred the strong and silent type.

Then it was time. District 12.

“From District 12, we have Katniss Everdeen!” she called, her voice a bell. “Or, should I say, the Girl on Fire! Hello, Katniss! Welcome, welcome!”

Katniss was beautiful in a way Cornelia had always admired but never envied. Not fragile, not porcelain. Wild, in an unbothered way, sharp and steady, like a blade forged in the forest. Her eyes were the color of smoke and frost.

“What?” Katniss said flatly, her tone distant. Dissociated.

Cornelia blinked, a little thrown, before laughing— a bit too brightly. “Oh, sorry! I was just saying that your dress was gorgeous. And your parade costume! You were glowing!”

Katniss blinked once. “Oh. I was just hoping I wouldn’t burn to death.”

That pulled a startled laugh from the crowd. Cornelia hesitated. That had not been in the prep notes. “Oh! Okay! So they were real?!”

“Yes.” Katniss straightened. “In fact, I’m wearing them today. Would you like to see?”

Cornelia gasped— genuinely this time— and held a dramatic hand to her hair. “Oh, yes! Yes! Wait, is it safe? I just got my hair done, I think I’m still flammable.”

“It’s safe,” Katniss said.

Cornelia laughed and turned to the audience. “Oh, then immediately yes! Please! What do we say, everyone? Should she?”

Cheers. Deafening.

Cornelia gestured for Katniss to stand, and the tribute rose. With a simple movement, the skirt of her dress shimmered— and flames licked up the hem, golden and crimson and controlled. A dragon’s breath, contained. A miracle. The crowd shrieked with delight.

“Oh, be careful with that!” Cornelia cried, fanning her face. “Here—” She flitted to Katniss’s side and fanned the skirt a little, pantomiming panic. “I just know if I go up in flames, my mother will say it’s my fault for abusing my hairspray.”

Laughter.

Katniss sat again. Cornelia leaned in, her smile softening into sincerity.

“So, Katniss. You were, like, the first tribute to volunteer from your district. Like, ever. And it was for your sister.” Her voice dropped into something silkier, more intimate. “Did you get to say goodbye to her?”

“Yes.”

Cornelia nodded slowly, honeyed eyes warm. “What did you two say to one another, before you left?”

Katniss’s voice was clear, the strongest it had been all evening. “I told her that I would try to win. That I would try to win for her.”

Cornelia’s hand fluttered to her heart. “Oh, of course you did. Oh, how brave of you.”

She stood and turned to the audience, voice bright again. “Ladies and gentlemen, from District 12, Katniss Everdeen, The Girl on Fire!”

Applause. Applause so loud it rattled the lights.

Cornelia waved Katniss off with a graceful flick of her fingers and a radiant smile as the girl exited, her orange gown brushing against the stage. Cornelia clapped gently, giving the crowd a moment to cheer before lifting her hand for quiet, her navy shimmer dress gleaming under the lights like oil spilled across the sea.

“And now,” she said, her voice glittering with anticipation, “please welcome… Peeta Mellark!”

The crowd welcomed him with polite applause, some cheers, but nowhere near the roar Katniss had garnered. Cornelia made a note of it. They’d be a package deal soon enough— if her father and Claudius had anything to do with it.

Peeta emerged into the light with a nervous smile, his golden hair combed carefully, his Capitol-tailored suit perfectly fit. He wasn’t awkward in his steps, but he walked like someone who wasn’t used to being looked at, much less applauded. He was the contrast to Katniss’s quiet fire.

Cornelia stepped forward and greeted him with a laugh that floated like bubbles, her periwinkle curls bouncing around her shoulders. “Hi, Peeta! Oh, you look absolutely fabulous! Tell me, how are you finding the Capitol?”

Peeta offered a small smile, already a little pink in the cheeks. “Uh, it’s, uh… different. Very different from back home.”

Cornelia’s brows rose dramatically. “Really? In what way?”

Peeta paused. “The showers here are weird.”

That earned a delighted trill of laughter from Cornelia, whose hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, you are so funny!” she giggled, eyes glittering. “Okay, wait—what is it? Is it the water pressure? Or, like, the temperature? Or, wait, is it the massage setting?”

Peeta’s brows lifted. “Massage setting?”

Cornelia gasped, delighted and scandalized in equal measure. “You didn’t know about the massage setting?! Oh, Peeta, no! You have to try it out tonight. It’s absolutely divine."

He grinned sheepishly. “Alright. Guess I’ve got something to look forward to.”

She giggled and pointed a finger. “And use the rose body wash. You’ll smell divine.”

Peeta tilted his head. “I think I used that already. Do I smell like roses to you?”

Cornelia blinked, momentarily thrown. She leaned in, theatrical. Sniffed lightly with an exaggerated, playful expression. “Oh! Oh, yeah! You do! Very nice.”

Peeta tilted his head. “You smell like sugar.”

Cornelia’s smile faltered just a touch, softening as though dusted with something more earnest. “Oh?”

“Like caramel and icing,” Peeta said, eyes still a little unsure but warming under the stage lights. “Like the kind we’d use in the bakery. A birthday cake kind of smell.”

The words landed with a strange weight. Not inappropriate. Not flirtatious. Just… sincere. Disarming. Cornelia blinked again, not the slow stage-blink of Capitol theatrics, but a real one, the kind that came when someone said something unexpectedly kind and truthful. She felt, absurdly, like a girl. Not a host. Not a Flickerman. Just a girl.

“Well, thank you!” she said at last, tucking a curl behind her ear, her voice just a notch higher than before. “So! Peeta! Tell me, is there a special girl at home?”

Peeta hesitated, his eyes sliding sideways before he gave a small, practiced smile. “No. No, not really.”

Cornelia gave a pointed little look, nose scrunching up in playful disbelief. “Oh, now I don’t believe that for one second. You are a cutie pie! Come on, you can tell me!”

Peeta gave a nervous laugh. “Well, there, uh… There is this one girl that I’ve had a crush on forever. But I don’t think she actually recognized me until the Reaping.”

Cornelia let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her hands under her chin. “Oh, a classic tale! Childhood crushes! How romantic!”

“She didn’t even know my name,” Peeta said with a little laugh, something more genuine creeping into the corners of his mouth.

Cornelia pouted theatrically. “Oh, well, you know what? I bet when you win this thing and go back home, she’ll absolutely go out with you.”

The smile slipped just slightly from Peeta’s lips, replaced by something more guarded. Still sweet. Still soft. But quieter. “Thanks, but I, uh… I don’t think winning’s gonna help me at all.”

Cornelia tilted her head, brows pinching together in concern. “Why do you say that?”

Peeta looked up, straight into the lights. “Because she came here with me.”

There was a silence. A dramatic, perfect, silence.

Then Cornelia gasped— hand flying over her heart in practiced, extravagant horror. “Oh. What horrible, terrible luck.” She reached out, fingers brushing gently against the back of Peeta’s hand in a gesture that managed to toe the line between empathy and dramatics. “I wish you both the best of luck.”

Peeta nodded once, eyes fixed on hers— not hopeful, not pleading. Just… honest.

Cornelia smiled.

Then turned to the audience, face back to a full beam. “Wasn’t he just the most charming? Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Peeta Mellark!”

Applause filled the studio. The crowd roared. And Cornelia stood again, offering Peeta a light, glitter-dusted pat on the back as he rose and walked back toward the wings. She remained facing the crowd for a beat longer than necessary, smile still plastered to her face.

Her hair was blue.

Blue.

Not seafoam or turquoise or one of those Capitol designer shades with long names and metallic undertones, but a soft, baby powder blue— ridiculous, frivolous, unmistakably intentional. Like the sort of color that could be found smeared across a pastry or tucked into the ribbon of a child’s bonnet. A color Finnick had seen once in the spray of wildflowers blooming along a wind-battered coastal cliff outside of the Victor’s Village in 4.

Fragile. Temporary. Loud in its softness.

Cornelia’s hair was blue.

Finnick hadn’t meant to watch the interviews. He never did. He never needed to— what did he care for Capitol theatrics, for the artificial pageant of death? But there was a particular kind of masochism in knowing they were on and not turning the screen off. He’d paced his room instead, back and forth, like a lion against the glass of a too-small enclosure. And then, somewhere between the garish lights and Caesar’s usual fanfare, Cornelia had stepped out.

And her hair was blue.

Finnick had known her too long— knew her too well— not to see the message. Cornelia Flickerman never did anything without purpose. Not when it came to her image, her voice, her shoes, the exact shade of glitter on her nails. Certainly not her hair. She had changed her hair almost every season back when they were younger, up until they had begun their arrangement together. After he had said he liked it better when it was natural. That was when the colors stopped and the brown stayed. For years, even.

And now her hair was blue.

He sat on the edge of the bed, bare feet against the chill of the Tribute Center apartment floor, his elbows propped on his knees, shoulders hunched forward like he could fold in on himself. One hand was worrying at the edge of a callus on his palm, the product of spear training and restless hands and gripping too tightly to things that slipped away anyway. He picked at it with the edge of a thumbnail until it began to sting.

He stared down at the red beading beneath the skin. A smear of blood welled, blooming slowly into the fissure. It reminded him, without permission, of the handprint he’d left on Cornelia’s neck. The bruises. Her eyes. The way she hadn’t cried until she was gone. The way she’d shoved him and run. The sound of the bathroom door slamming shut.

Finnick inhaled sharply through his teeth and picked harder, tearing at the edge of skin like it was a sin he could excavate.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pressing his palm to the side of his pants. He stood abruptly, knocking the chair at the corner of the room in the process.

It clattered backward onto the floor with a hollow wooden thud. Still too loud. 

He cursed again, low and bitter and ragged, dragging both hands through his hair and gripping it at the roots like he could pull the thoughts out of his skull by force.

Cornelia had been wearing shimmer navy. And she’d twirled. He remembered the way she twirled.

God, how many times had he run his hands through her hair when it had been brown? When it smelled like vanilla shampoo and Capitol heat and the barest hint of something sweet— like those stupid tiramisu lattes she had insisted upon having every day when out roaming the boutiques in the City Circle. She’d always spoken so much. Talked and talked, filled silence with the glittering sound of herself. 

She’d been the noise that filled the void. And now that she was quiet in his life, it was unbearable.

Finnick pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, hard enough to make colors spark behind the lids. He thought of the way she used to kick him in her sleep. Of the time she’d rolled over in one of their hotel beds, curled into his chest like she didn’t know where she was. He hadn’t moved. He had held his breath and just let her stay there. He thought of the way her hair had tickled his nose. How she had smelled like sugar and berries and caramel.

And now she was gone. She’d gone and dyed her hair, and he couldn’t stop pacing his room like some animal looking for the warmth of a body that wasn’t coming back.

Finnick stalked toward the window. His reflection in the glass was distorted, stretched by the thick Capitol seal at the center and the warping of the glass. His own green eyes looked wrong in the glow of the moonlight. They didn’t look like Cornelia’s. 

Her eyes had been brown. Honey-brown, with flecks of amber when she smiled. The kind of color that deepened when she cried. He hadn’t meant to make her cry. He hadn’t meant to do any of it.

He should have kissed her more.

That was what haunted him. Not the sex. Not the conversations or the missed calls or the screaming match at the hotel. But that he hadn’t kissed her when he’d had the chance. Not really. Not enough. He’d kissed her thigh. Her shoulder. Her neck. Her chest. But not her mouth.

Not enough to remember what it felt like.

He couldn’t remember what her lips tasted like. That was the worst part.

He’d been too proud, too cold, too calculating. He’d shut her out. Treated her like every other Capitol lover who got too close. And now she was gone, unreachable, walking across the stage with a new costume and a perfectly curated laugh and glittering heels that he would never help her unstrap again.

He turned from the window and kicked the chair that was already down. It skidded across the polished floor and hit the wall with a sharp crack.

“Damn it.”

Finnick closed his eyes, breathing hard. He was unraveling.

And she’d planned this. Of course she had. Cornelia didn’t leave things messy. She left them with statements. With color.

And now her hair was blue. Blue like the ocean. Like her new dress. Like the shimmer of her eyeshadow as she smiled at District 12’s tribute like he was some kind of sweet Capitol darling. Blue like a bruise healing over too many bones.

He should have stopped it before it got this bad. He should’ve done something.

But he hadn’t. And now it was July, and Cornelia Flickerman was as far away as she’d ever been.

She won.

No— no, that wasn’t quite right. She hadn’t won. Her tributes had.

Both of them.

Peeta Mellark and Katniss Everdeen. District 12. The last name anyone had expected to hear called. Not one, but two victors. That had never happened before— not once, not in seventy-three years of blood and pageantry and final cannons.

Cornelia had stood up the second the hovercraft scooped them from the arena. She had been in her suite at the Flickerman villa, where her father insisted she stay during the Games, curled up on a plush rose velvet chaise with Diamond and Precious watching beside her, their breath hitched and their arms locked together. The screen had flickered. The growl of that muttation-snarled finale had faded. The rule changed again. Then the berries.

Then the victory.

She didn’t breathe until the screen went dark and the words "CONGRATULATIONS, DISTRICT 12" in gold curling script glimmered across it.

It had felt like being punched and kissed at the same time.

Her father had burst into her room ten minutes later, breathless and beaming. “You’re doing the Victory Interview,” he’d announced with a delighted, showman’s flair. “You interviewed them both first. It’s only right. And the Capitol adores you.”

Cornelia, dazed and stunned with a strange buzzing in her blood, had nodded. “Of course.”

And then she bolted upright with a squeal and flung open her wardrobe.

She needed the perfect dress.

This couldn’t just be a dress, no. It had to be a moment. A legacy-maker. A declaration to the world that Cornelia Flickerman— not just Caesar’s daughter, not just a co-host or apprentice or glittery ornament— had arrived. She settled on royal blue. It was sharp, theatrical, elegant. A shade that matched Peeta’s suit exactly, which sent a thrill of satisfaction straight through her chest when she saw it hanging on the garment rack backstage. His stylist had taste.

Katniss wore a butter yellow ballgown. No flames this time. It was a soft contrast to her previous outfits. She looked almost innocent. Peeta looked like a Capitol prince, neat blond curls and gold buttons on his cuffs, and Katniss looked like a flower.

Cornelia looked like the Capitol. Like its daughter, its darling, its flame-forged diamond. She could do this.

The lights came up. The applause rained down like thunder from the rafters of the studio. And there they were: Peeta and Katniss, sitting just slightly apart on the couch as the Victory music faded into a reverent hush. The audience adored them. The entire country did. Cornelia could feel it. The air was honey-thick with it.

She took the stage in practiced steps, a theatrical whirl of her skirts and a smile that didn’t falter once. “Welcome back, everyone! And what a year it’s been!” Her voice sparkled like the rhinestones in her earrings. "District 12, you’ve given us something extraordinary. And now, I think we’re all eager to hear from the victors themselves.”

Peeta and Katniss looked at her, and she beamed at them as she crossed the stage and lowered herself onto the heart-shaped couch beside them. Cornelia flicked her gaze between them, then spoke in a tone of playful suspense.

“Katniss,” she began, tilting slightly toward her with a sparkle of interest. “Let’s talk about the river. You’d just escaped, right? You were injured, starving. And then, there he was.” She placed her hand delicately over her heart. “How did you feel when you found him?”

Katniss’s eyes shifted toward Peeta. There was a pause, and then she said, simply, “I felt like the happiest person in the world. I couldn’t imagine life without him.”

The audience sighed. Cornelia gave a soft, giddy gasp and clasped her hands together. “Oh! So romantic! So sweet! And you, Peeta?”

He didn’t look away from Katniss as he said it. “She saved my life.”

Katniss didn’t miss a beat. “We saved each other.”

Cornelia blinked.

There it was again. That strange, hollow ache she kept feeling lately, curling up in her throat like a piece of swallowed ice. It pressed under her ribs and up to her collarbone, a weightless kind of weight. She swallowed once, forcing the tightness back down.

That was all right. She was a Flickerman. She’d been taught for years how to perform through anything.

Her smile didn’t even falter.

“Well,” she said with a breathy laugh. “If that’s not the most tragic, starry-eyed thing I’ve ever heard. Ladies and gentlemen,” she turned toward the crowd, her voice climbing theatrically, “the star-crossed lovers from District 12. Your winners of the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!”

Applause erupted. The stage lights warmed her shoulders. And somewhere in the corner of her eye, a camera light flickered.

Cornelia clapped along, lifting their joined hands toward the audience like a stage magician who had just pulled off the perfect trick.

But as Katniss and Peeta smiled tightly for the crowd— hands entwined, chins high, eyes faintly unreadable— Cornelia’s own gaze flickered.

She stared for a second too long at the way Peeta’s fingers curled protectively over Katniss’s, at the way Katniss leaned, subtly, infinitesimally, toward him, as if the memory of the arena hadn’t quite left her bones yet. Cornelia had seen enough to know when someone needed someone else.

It was bittersweet. It reminded her of something she didn’t want to think about.

She smiled wider to chase it away.

Chapter Text

August, 74 ADD

HE LOST THE CHARM. The stupid, cheap, blue starfish charm that Cornelia had gotten for him for his seventeenth birthday.

It hadn't been worth anything. Not even a full chit. Plastic, maybe resin, with rhinestones ornamenting it. It hadn’t even been the size of his thumbnail. He remembered scoffing at it, nearly throwing it anyway with the letter she had left with it. 

It had been blue. Baby blue, pale and glinting like the sun on shallow water. Like her hair, now.

And now, it was gone.

Finnick wasn’t entirely sure how he had gotten to this point— the point where he cared. The point where the loss of something so seemingly insignificant could make his hands tremble and his lungs go shallow. But he did care. Suddenly. Deeply. As if the absence of that charm confirmed a thing he had been too cowardly to name out loud.

He tore the top drawer out of the dresser, yanking it hard enough for one side to come off its track. The whole thing spilled forward, tipping its insides across the floor— socks, a pair of goggles, crumpled letters from admirers he’d never answered, the corner of a glossy Capitol magazine that had his face on the cover. He didn't even register it.

Papers fluttered. A ribbon, not Cornelia’s, skidded out across the floor like a banner. No starfish. No leather. No charm.

He crouched, hands sweeping through the debris. A tiny glass bottle of sand from home. A cracked comb. Seashells, too many to count. The bone handle of a fishing knife, old and dull.

No charm.

“Shit,” he breathed, the word shaking as it left him. His chest had gone tight, his breath punching in too quickly. He pushed a hand through his hair, tugging at it when the strands resisted.

Where was it?

Where did it go?

It hadn't mattered for years. He’d worn it for a while, sure. Strung on a makeshift anklet of braided leather, tucked against his skin where no one would see. It had dangled there for a year or two, maybe longer— he couldn’t remember when he stopped wearing it, only that the leather had begun to fray. Annie had noticed. Of course she had. Annie saw everything he tried not to say.

“If the leather snaps,” she had said, “the charm will fall off. You won’t hear it in the water.”

He hadn’t listened. Didn’t think it would matter. 

Because what was it, really?

Just some trinket. Just Cornelia being Cornelia— loud, insistent, glittering like the Capitol lights. She’d dragged him to that aquarium on his seventeenth birthday and talked the whole time. Talked about the fish, gawked at them with wide eyes, asked stupid questions and made stupid comments about how big the fish were. And he’d hated every second of it. She didn’t even notice how miserable he’d been until the very end.

He had thrown out the letter she left him. He didn’t need her pity. Didn’t want her softness. Not then. Not when his skin had already been stripped raw by the Games and the Capitol’s claws and President Snow’s threats. Not when he was trying so hard to be someone else. 

And he had hated her for it, for trying to give him something kind. For making him feel like he didn’t deserve it.

Now, he cared.

Finnick stood, too quickly, breath catching in his throat. He yanked the sheets off the bed with one desperate pull, flinging them to the floor like the anklet might be tangled in them somehow, buried in the linens, hidden beneath the weight of months and regret.

“Fuck,” he hissed, voice cracking. “Fuck.”

He crouched again, fingers digging into the folds of the blanket, then the mattress itself, checking along the seams, tearing up the pillows and throwing them across the room.

Nothing.

He slumped back on his heels, palms pressed to his face.

Why now?

Why now, when he had spent the last few months shutting the door on her memory?

She’d haunted him every day since she walked out. Her perfume lingered in his sheets for weeks after she stopped coming to the hotel. Her laugh showed up in the stupidest places— in the chirp of Capitol elevator music, in the shuffle of heels down polished floors. And then the interviews. The hair. The fucking hair.

And now this. The charm. Gone.

He shouldn’t care. Shouldn’t need it. But he did. He needed it because it was all he had left of her. And he hadn’t even realized that until it was too late.

He breathed in, hard. His throat hurt. He scrubbed his face again, and again, trying to keep from shaking.

He should have kept the letter. Why hadn’t he? Why had he thrown it out?

He pressed his fist against his mouth. He sat there, on the floor, surrounded by the remains of his dresser, his mattress torn open, his blankets tangled like seaweed, and he rocked forward slightly, pressing his forehead to his knees.

And for a moment, a long, breathless moment— he wished he could go back. To the aquarium. To that birthday. To her voice. To before he made her leave.

“I hope that things turn around in time for your birthday. You deserve it. Sincerely, Cornelia.”

October, 74 ADD

The Capitol Fashion Show was a highly anticipated event— no, the anticipated event of the fall season, especially for stylists and consumers alike. It was more than just a show. It was a pageant, a parade, a full sensory carnival of color and fabric and fantastical silhouettes. Every October, the Capitol descended into a decadent frenzy of tulle, feathers, beads, and structured boning. New designers were debuted. Beloved icons returned. Contracts were secured with a flick of a fan or a sip of champagne. Fashion Week in the Capitol wasn’t just for the models.

It was for everyone.

Cornelia had attended since she was thirteen. That year, she’d worn a lavender gown with soft crystal beading and a powdered lace fan she fluttered with grave intensity to look older than her age. She remembered sitting beside her father, watching as he clapped and gave exaggerated “oh”s and “ah”s at the most garish pieces. And now, nearly eight years later, she wasn’t just the daughter on his arm. She had her own seat— front row, center left. Right beside the First Chair of the Stylist Council. She had been photographed on arrival for three years straight. This year, her face was featured in the teaser for the afterparty.

Not that she was thinking about any of that. No, this morning she was too busy sparkling.

Her vanity lights glowed, bouncing off the mirrored surfaces of the room and casting light across her cheekbones. Cornelia sat on her velvet cushioned stool in a silk slip, hair twisted up into pin curls and secured by gilded bobby pins, her periwinkle tresses still luminous even without a full blowout. Diamond and Precious were tucked beside her on the extended bench, their own mirrors pulled closer as they dotted and dusted their faces in tandem.

"You look radiant, Diamond," Cornelia said, turning her chin slightly to admire the gemstones Diamond had placed along the apples of her cheeks and the outer corners of her eyes.

Diamond giggled and batted her lashes— which were long and bright pink today. "Oh, stop!"

Cornelia hummed with pleased dismissal, dipping the tip of her fine liner brush into a pot of ultrafine glitter and dragging it precisely along the edge of her already-sharp navy eyeliner. She tilted her head left, then right. It was subtle, but radiant. The flicks caught the light.

Precious leaned closer to the mirror, angling her face to show off her lashes. “Feathers. Real ones. Dyed and curled. Look, they sweep when I blink.” She blinked rapidly, fluttering her eyes like a dove. The lashes were a silver-blue, matching her glossy lips and beaded halter top. “Do you think they’re too much?”

“Absolutely not,” Cornelia said with gravity, not looking away from her liner. “Too much does not exist today.”

Diamond gave a triumphant little squeal. “Exactly! That’s the whole point.”

Finished with her face, Cornelia stood, brushing down her slip and moving across the plush rug with a flourish of her hands. “Now, darlings, are you ready to see her?”

Precious and Diamond turned as one, eyes lighting up as Cornelia strode to the center of the room where her rotating closet spun in slow circles. She pressed a button on the pearl-inlaid console. The rack turned once, twice— and then it stopped.

The dress gleamed like a second skin of starlight. A rhinestone-encrusted form-fitting skirt hugged the mannequin’s hips, flaring just slightly toward the floor. The matching bustier was sculpted into a sweetheart neckline with delicate gemwork lining each curve, cinched with steel boning.

She removed it carefully, reverently.

“Oh,” breathed Precious.

“Perfection,” Diamond whispered.

Cornelia beamed. “I fear we will be late,” she said, already stepping behind her privacy screen to change, “but we should at least make it worth it.”

And it was worth it. Every second.

The show had been moved to the Glass Gallery— an open rotunda of crystal walls and ceilings, with temperature-controlled sunlight that sparkled off every jewel and stone the guests wore. Light itself seemed to be another designer. 

Capitol citizens flocked to the venue to attend. There were guests in skeletal mesh wings. There were guests in floating dresses stitched with helium beads. There were gowns with built-in wind machines.

Their seats had name cards. Cornelia slipped into hers seat with ease, crossing her legs and letting the slit in her skirt part just enough to show a glimmer of sparkle beneath the hem. Her chin lifted. The show began.

The music was thunderous. Every model looked like a storm. It was everything she’d hoped.

One model wore a gown of moving panels. Another was covered in iridescent fringe. There was a segment of suits, sleek and precise with cinched waists and collars so high they brushed cheekbones. The crowd gasped. Applauded. Roared.

Cornelia clapped when everyone else clapped. She laughed when everyone else did. She leaned over to Diamond during a particularly flamboyant piece that resembled a blossoming flower and whispered, “I want that for next year’s Tribute Interviews.”

Diamond nodded furiously. “Yes, yes, yes.”

Cornelia took her glass of blood orange fizz from a passing tray and sipped, her eyes following the next wave of models, her heart beating rhythmically to the pulse of the fashion show's theme track.

She was radiant. She was beautiful. She was adored. And she was still, quietly, a little hollow.

But the rhinestones helped. So did the feathers. So did the glittered eyeliner and the shimmer on her collarbones and the small, delicious swell of pride when the stylist for District 3 nodded at her from across the gallery.

November, 74 ADD

He couldn’t find her anywhere. Not her, not her friends, not a single flash of blue hair or that high-pitched laugh that used to find him even in the loudest rooms.

Not that he was looking. Of course not. He wasn’t searching or scanning or pausing in conversations to glance across the gleaming marble floor of the presidential mansion's courtyard, or listening for her voice under the gilded clinking of glasses and shimmery Capitol drawl. He was not, under any circumstances, seeking her out.

Because what could he say? What could he do?

Nothing. Not unless he wanted to put a target on her back. Or his. Because Snow didn’t miss things. Not glances. Not attachments. Not weakness. And he would know.

Finnick Odair had been groomed into something too precious to mar with sentiment. A face, a name, a body sold and packaged and desired by the Capitol’s most ravenous elite. Snow would notice if his eyes kept slipping across the party toward someone he wasn’t supposed to look at anymore. And that would be dangerous.

That didn’t stop him from wanting to see her. Just to see her. To prove to himself that she was still real. Still alive. Still untouched by the rot that had devoured everything else he had once tried to keep sacred. That was as close as he was allowed. And it had to be enough. He made his bed. And all he could do now was lie in it, cold and alone.

The courtyard of the presidential mansion was strung with garlands of crystal lights that caught and held every flicker of candle and moon. The pool in the center had been drained, filled instead with floating platforms that held statues of the victors, each adorned in white and gold like gods on display.

Finnick stood near the edge of one, surrounded by clients— both past and potential.

A woman in an emerald gown with a neckline that plunged to her navel ran a hand along his bare bicep as she laughed, too loud. Another, older man leaned in close, whispering something hot and suggestive against Finnick’s jaw. He nodded, lips twitching into a smile he’d perfected over the years. Practiced. Empty. Always charming.

His attention was seamless. Effortless. He played the game with fluid grace, one hand offering a glass of champagne, the other resting lightly on someone’s back, always touching, always drawing them in.

But behind his eyes, he scanned. Faces blurred together, all powder and glitter and Capitol perfume. Until— 

There. Across the courtyard.

Diamond’s hair was done in soft curls, her dress sequined in gold. Beside her, Precious— clad in a tiered silver gown that sparkled— clutched the arm of her boyfriend. The other man, likely Diamond’s boyfriend, if he remembered correctly, stood tall with his hand on her waist.

And in the middle of them— Cornelia.

Her back was to him. She was laughing at something Diamond said, pink champagne tipping in her glass, curls catching the light. Her dress was a pale lilac this time, tighter than what she used to wear, dripping in feathers and rhinestones. Her hair was still blue, styled up high with curls cascading down her back, strands pinned with what looked like pearls.

Her laugh hit him like a gut punch.

Then he saw him.

Phaedrus.

Fucking Phaedrus.

Wearing a suit too bright for someone with so little substance, with teeth too white and an arm too casually thrown around Cornelia’s waist.

The sight of it stopped Finnick cold. His whole body went numb. Like being dropped into ice water and forgetting how to swim.

Phaedrus leaned in close, whispering something into her ear. Cornelia tilted her head to listen, shoulder bumping against his chest like it belonged there. She laughed again. Tipped her head back, wine in one hand, the other brushing against Phaedrus’s lapel.

Finnick couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t feel anything but the surge of something ugly and blistering climbing up through his ribs.

It shouldn’t matter. He had no right to feel anything.

She wasn’t his. Never had been. She had told him that, in her own way. Told him with her silence. With her walking out. With the unanswered calls. With her absence for months.

But there she was. And there he was. Touching her like it was nothing.

And Finnick— Finnick who had known the sound of her breath in the dark and the way her laugh cracked when she was tired, who had been kicked in the shin in the middle of the night in their hotel beds, who had kissed her bare shoulder when she was half-asleep, who had tasted her sweat and held them both like they could be more than what they were—

He couldn’t even look at her now. He wasn’t allowed.

“You look distracted,” purred the woman in the emerald gown.

He blinked. Forced the fog out of his head.

“Sorry,” he said smoothly, lips curving. “Long day.”

The older man beside her grinned. “We can help with that.”

The woman chuckled. “We’ve been waiting all year, Finnick.”

She let her hand trail lower, across his stomach. Finnick didn’t flinch. He didn’t lean into it either. He stood there like it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t. Because this was his life.

This was the price.

He turned his head again, one last glance—

But Cornelia was gone. He didn’t see where she went. Didn’t see if she’d looked back. Didn’t know if she’d seen him at all.

The woman in green stepped closer, wrapping her arm through his. 

“Well?” she said. “Shall we?”

Finnick let her lead him away from the lights.

His usual tricks weren’t working tonight.

The scripts he rehearsed in his head, the pressure points he knew to touch to control breath, rhythm, reaction. The way he used to be able to leave his body behind and perform as though he were watching himself from the ceiling. All of it— gone. Dull and failing. Blunted at the edges.

Because every time the woman’s manicured nails scraped through his hair, he remembered Cornelia doing it lazily one morning when they hadn’t meant to fall asleep beside each other. She had yawned while doing it, eyes still closed, the gesture unconscious. Gentle.

Every time lips pressed against his chest, his ribs, his throat, they were the wrong shape. They were too dry. They didn’t taste like strawberries. They didn’t burn like they used to— not the good kind of burn, not the one that ached and settled into his spine and made him crave more of it later, alone. No. This was different. Foreign. Too present.

When the woman moved against him, expectant and slow and so obviously practiced in what she believed was seductive, he tried to meet her with the same mechanical grace he always gave.

But something faltered. He clenched his eyes shut. Tried to shut off everything. Still— Cornelia came to him. The way she had once sighed out his name when it was just the two of them and no one else would ever hear it. The way her hair hung down over his face when she would lean over to kiss him. The way she always wrinkled and twitched her nose when waking up. The way her perfume always lingered longer on his pillow than on hers.

He should’ve been free of her by now, but she still hadn’t left him. Not in the ways that counted. She had walked out— stormed out, more accurately. Not even sparing him a glance, not that he had deserved that. But that was supposed to be the end. That should’ve been the purge.

But somehow she haunted him still.

And maybe— maybe— it was a kind of blessing. That the ghost of her lingered, that it refused to leave. Maybe she had cursed him with it that day when she shoved past him with her bra dangling from her wrist and left with her shoes on the wrong feet.

Maybe he deserved that.

The woman above him leaned down. Her breath was hot and sticky against his cheek, thick with wine and perfume and expectation. She purred something soft and breathy against his ear.

“Call me your good girl,” she whispered.

His mouth moved before he could think. A slip of the tongue. The breath before thought.

“Cornelia.”

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t meant to be heard.

But the woman paused. A flicker, only a second. A moment of stillness in her rhythm. She either didn’t hear him clearly, or she chose not to care. She resumed. He let her.

Because what else was there to do? Let the ghost win? Let the memory of a girl in pink who once curled up beside him and brushed hair from his forehead take over? Let it break him? Again?

No. No. He would finish. He always finished.

Later— he wasn’t sure how much later— it was done.

The woman disappeared into the bathroom of the luxury suite. She took her heels with her, humming to herself, still scented with honey and liquor and what passed for power here.

Finnick dressed in silence. His movements were slow. Robotic. The tie around his wrist, the jacket slung over his shoulder. The door clicked behind him. The hallway was too quiet. The air too thick.

By the time he made it back to his suite— his assigned space, his carefully curated fishbowl with sea-glass blue linens and a panoramic screen of waves rolling endlessly on loop— his stomach was already tightening.

He beelined to the bathroom and didn’t bother closing the door. He gripped the sink and looked at his reflection.

Cornelia’s blue hair. Her lashes. The way she had looked on that stage. The hand on her waist. That boy. That damn boy with the too-white teeth and Capitol upbringing who didn’t know her. Not like he knew her.

Or maybe he did, by now. Maybe he had already taken his place. If he could even call it that.

He bent over the porcelain and threw up. Violently, bitterly.

When it was done, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still gripping the sink like the marble might give way under him. His legs were shaking. His eyes burned. 

He didn’t cry. He didn’t give himself that. Not tonight. Not here. Not anymore. He stayed like that for a long time, standing and breathing with the taste of champagne and bile in his throat and her name echoing behind his teeth.

January, 75 ADD

“This is the seventy-fifth year of the Hunger Games, and it was written into the charter of the Games that every twenty-five years, there would be a Quarter Quell.”

Cornelia’s fingers grazed the soft fur between Cerise’s long ears. The rabbit nestled in her lap was aging now— her once snowy coat tinged with yellow-gray at the tips, the pad of her foot bald from years of hopping on marble tile. Cerise didn’t hop anymore. She laid in Cornelia’s lap like a pillow with a pulse, content, warm, safe. Cornelia didn’t look at the screen. Not right away. Her focus was on the downy fur beneath her fingers, the idle way she combed her hand over and over in the same soothing rhythm, like she’d done when she was sixteen, fifteen, fourteen, and things were simpler.

Cerise twitched, shifting slightly.

And then Snow said it.

“On this, the third Quarter Quell Games, the male and female tributes are to be reaped from the existing pool of Victors in each district.”

Cornelia’s hand stopped moving. She blinked.

The words caught like fishhooks in the back of her skull. A sharp silence followed. And then her voice, too small: “What? What did he say?”

Her parents hadn’t flinched. Calpurnia had leaned in against Caesar’s shoulder, legs curled up beneath her like a cat on the velvet settee, a plate of candied lilac petals sitting forgotten on the side table. 

“Riveting,” Caesar was saying to Calpurnia. “Just imagine the interviews this year. The drama! The legacy. Victors against victors. It’s... delicious.” He waved one jeweled hand in the air, painting the thought aloud. “Sponsorships will go mad. We’ll need to book out the studio early, set designers will have to build double capacity on the stages. Perhaps a legacy montage reel. Pull old footage. Yes, yes, that’ll do. Cal, take a note, we’ll need to plan—”

Cornelia still sat frozen on the opposite couch, the soft lump of Cerise now twitching gently in her lap. Her fingers resumed motion, slow and mechanical. Her eyes were on the screen, but her mind wasn’t catching up.

“What did he say?” she asked again, louder.

Her father didn’t pause. “We’ll need more material this year, not just the raw Reaping footage—”

“What did he say?!” Cornelia’s voice rose, sharp and ringing, a glass note that sliced through the room.

Calpurnia jolted. Caesar’s words halted mid-sentence, his expression flickering from theatrical delight to stunned paternal confusion. Both turned to face her at once.

Cornelia sat rigid, eyes wide, hand frozen in Cerise’s fur, which bristled slightly beneath her still fingers. Her cheeks burned instantly, flushing with immediate mortification.

Neither of her parents were accustomed to her raising her voice. Not their Cornelia. Not the sweet, sugar-voiced daughter who always sat straight and laughed on cue. Caesar’s expression hardened for a split second— not in cruelty, but in confusion. Then came the furrow of his brow.

“What,” he asked slowly, “has gotten into you, sweet pea?”

Cornelia blinked. Her eyes stung. Her heart was a hummingbird again.

“I… I’m so sorry, daddy. I don’t know what came over me,” she said quickly, the words tumbling out in a tight breath. Her voice dropped to a sweet simper, just like always. She even smiled— horribly, dreadfully smiled— and her hand resumed its petting of Cerise’s trembling fur.

There was a long pause.

Caesar’s gaze lingered.

Then he waved a hand, light again. “Well. With the tributes all being Victors this year, we’ll have to treat the preparation very differently. I’ll have to write to the Games team about the revised prep list. Wardrobes, of course. Cornelia, your stylists will need to speak with mine. There will be double the press to handle. It’s going to be a very full season. I’ll need your full engagement for this one.”

Cornelia nodded. And smiled. She smiled with her teeth and made her eyes shine like glass.

“Oh, yes!” she said, breathlessly cheerful, “Absolutely!”

She stood on quick, stilted legs, clutching Cerise tightly to her chest like a plush doll from childhood, and turned from the sitting room before either of them could speak again. Her heels echoed across the polished tile. Up the sweeping staircase. Down the hall.

She didn’t stop smiling until she slammed her bedroom door shut and the smile fell off her face like a cracked porcelain mask.

Cerise squirmed and she placed the rabbit gently on the pink duvet of her bed.

The room spun.

Victor.

Victor.

Tributes.

Victor tributes.

It was looping in her mind— gnawing, consuming. Her skin buzzed like it was covered in static.

Finnick.

The name didn’t even feel like a name anymore. It felt like the sound her heart made when it split in half.

Finnick could die.

Finnick would die.

No. No— maybe he wouldn’t be chosen.  Maybe he’d get lucky. Maybe he’d get out.

But maybe not.

And what would that mean? Nothing. It was none of her business. He wasn’t hers. Had never been hers. Had made it clear he didn’t want to be hers. 

Her hands clenched, but her chest cracked.

Because if he died, if he truly was reaped and truly went into that arena and never came back— what would be left? What would remain of them? Just the sharpness. Just the unfinished, unhealed part. Just her— sobbing into her pillow and hoping he didn’t remember her as a willing participant in his self-destruction.

Hopefully not as another warm body pressed against his.

She moved toward the nightstand in a daze, her eyes glossed, her breathing short. She picked up the landline phone— ceramic, pink, glitter-trimmed. Pressed it to her ear.

Her hand hovered over the dial. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know the number. Her hand knew the shape of it. The rhythm of it. She could dial it in her sleep.

She pressed three numbers. Then two. Then her hand stopped.

What was she doing? He wouldn’t answer. He wouldn’t care. It had been months. 

She shouldn’t. She wouldn’t.

She ripped the cord from the jack with a silent screech, mouth open, no sound coming out. The scream stayed trapped in her throat as she hurled the phone across the room. It bounced once off the wall, cracking on the crown molding, and landed beside her vanity with a clatter that sent a bottle of nail varnish tumbling over the side.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

The word rang like a cannon blast in Finnick’s ears, over and over again, a scream against the reality that unfurled in front of him like a sick joke written by someone who had run out of imagination and gone straight for cruelty.

He stood frozen in front of the holographic television screen in his living room, arms limp at his sides, fists clenched so tight that his nails bit into his palms. The image had already flickered to black, the Capitol seal fading from the air with a quiet, static hiss. But it didn’t matter. The damage had been done. The words couldn’t be taken back. The edict had been issued, and everything after it was nothing but background noise.

For the Quarter Quell, as a reminder that even the strongest among them could be broken… past victors would be reaped.

The remote was in his hand before he could even register it. Then it wasn’t. It was soaring across the room, a blur of silver and black that smashed into the holo-projector with a pop and a sharp, crackling fizz. The glass shattered on impact, spraying across the floor in starburst fragments. The machine coughed once, sparked, and died.

Finnick was already moving.

He kicked the edge of his coffee table, hard, until it tipped and toppled, scattering papers, a cracked mug, a pair of sunglasses he hadn’t worn in years. It all landed with a hollow clatter on the wooden floor of his home, the sounds echoing around the too-big, too-quiet room.

He stood there for a moment, breath sawing in and out through his teeth, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run miles. His mouth burned. His heart burned worse.

He rubbed at it with the heel of his hand, fingers scrubbing over the lower half of his face, trying to claw his way back into himself. But it was useless.

He was unraveling.

He turned sharply, opened the door of his house, and didn’t bother to close it behind him.

Outside, the sky was orange and pink, fading into purples on the horizon. The sun was low, heavy in its descent over the ocean. A handful of gulls circled lazily overhead, their cries sharp and distant. District 4 was always beautiful in the evenings. A cruel sort of irony.

Finnick took the steps down his porch two at a time. His boots struck the worn wood of the dock with rhythmic force, each impact a wordless attempt to shake off the quake of what had just been said. Of what it meant. Of what was coming.

The Victors’ Village stood behind him, still and cold, like a mausoleum that had forgotten it was supposed to be a place for the living. It loomed silent as he pushed forward, toward the beach where the tide was coming in, rolling over sand and broken shell, soft and steady and uncaring.

He didn’t stop until he was ankle-deep in the surf.

The saltwater bled through his boots, soaked his pant legs, curled against his skin like the fingers of a drowning man. He didn’t move. He let it happen.

He stared out at the waves. At the horizon. At nothing.

The wind tugged at his hair, and he tilted his head back, closed his eyes. He didn’t feel the breeze so much as he braced himself against it, like it could knock him off his feet if he let it. Like maybe he wanted it to.

What was he in debt for? What crime had he committed that required a lifetime sentence of this?

Was it living? Was that it? Had that been his mistake?

Had he lived when he wasn’t supposed to? Wanted something more than to be bought and sold? Wanted to be kissed instead of paraded? Loved instead of owned?

Had he wanted too much? Had wanting made him greedy? And now— what? They were calling him back? To kill him in front of Panem, to throw him back into an arena to remind people that no one ever escaped?

He was twenty-four. He would die twenty-four.

He had known this would happen eventually. He had always known that the Capitol would chew him down to the bone, and then find a way to make something decorative out of the remains. He had always known that he was a commodity. A face, a weapon, a prize.

But it didn’t make it hurt less.

And his mother— his mother who hadn’t spoken to him in years— what would she do? Watch? Would someone send her a letter, out of pity or malice, that her son was going back into the Games? Or would she avoid it altogether, pretend not to know, pretend he had died the first time?

Would she even cry?

His hands moved to his hair, fingers burrowing deep into his scalp, nails dragging. He pressed hard, harder, trying to quiet the screaming in his head with physical pain, the way he always had when the nights were too long and the clients too cruel.

He hadn’t spoken to Cornelia in months. That was how it had to be.

He had done the right thing, hadn’t he? Pushed her away. Let her go. Let her believe he didn’t care. Because it was safer that way. Because she deserved better. Because he couldn’t risk her seeing too much.

And yet he saw her every time he closed his eyes. Saw her laughing with her ridiculous heels and matching handbag. Saw the color of her cheeks when she was drunk on Capitol cocktails and sugar cookies. Saw her hair wrapped around his fingers when it was still brown, her honeyed eyes blinking up at him in the dark.

Would she be there this year? Would she host the Games? Would she smile and wave and make the audience laugh while he fought for his life in a place designed to kill him?

Would she have to say his name on air? Would she cry when he died? Would she even care?

No.

No, he couldn’t think like that. He didn’t get to ask those questions. He’d given up the right to wonder what she thought or felt when she had stormed out of his hotel room all those months ago. He’d hurt her. He had never meant to, but that didn’t matter. Intent didn’t erase consequence.

And maybe this was justice. Maybe this was punishment. Maybe Snow had been watching all along and saw Finnick lose control, and now this was the bill come due.

He clenched his fists again, arms shaking, lungs seizing with the force of it all. Then he screamed.

It ripped from his throat like something torn from deep in his chest, raw and desperate, carried off by the wind before the sound even died.

The gulls scattered. The ocean didn’t care. And he screamed into the setting sun until his voice gave out. There was no one to hear it. No one to care.

March, 75 ADD

Her hair was purple now.

The blue had lingered far too long, growing faded and sleepy over the winter months like a bruised memory she couldn’t scrub out of her skull. That was the thing with blue— it turned wistful when it got tired. And Cornelia was done with wistful. She needed something fresh. Something new. Something that would distract from the relentless buzzing anxiety beneath her ribs that had been building every single week since the Quarter Quell announcement.

So purple it was.

Not violet. Not lilac. Not eggplant.

A vibrant, electric, gemstone-purple that shimmered slightly beneath the lights of the salon, glowing in every direction. Her stylist had nodded approvingly the moment Cornelia gave the command.

“Twenty-six inches. Purple. But not gaudy purple. Luxurious purple.”

And her stylist— a miracle worker with the hands of a saint and the fashion eye of a vulture— had replied with an obedient, “Yes, mistress,” before pulling out the glossy wefts of virgin extension hair and setting to work.

Cornelia sat beneath the halo of the magnifying lamp while the stylist applied the dye like paint, weaving it through each freshly-installed extension with gloved fingers. The scent of berry ammonia filled the air. Her scalp tingled. In a different context, it might’ve made her uncomfortable. But here, in the pristine sanctuary of the salon— she could breathe.

Because this— this she could control.

“Isn’t it perfect?!” Cornelia gushed, admiring the way the dye glistened under the foils.

“You look like royalty,” Precious said, sprawled back in the chair beside her with her foil-covered head resting dramatically on the built-in pillow. Her roots were soaking in a liquid silver concoction that matched the beads glimmering in her earrings. “Or a cocktail. A really expensive, dangerous cocktail. One that kills you, but, like, in a sexy way.”

Cornelia beamed and turned slightly toward the mirror, watching the dye bleed into her natural brown like a stain of new purpose. The brown was gone, anyway. Buried somewhere under months of toner and bleach and change.

“Mine is so pink,” Diamond announced from the third chair, flicking the ends of her neon strands. Her head was encased in a heat lamp, and her stylist was already beginning to weave tiny rhinestone gems into the braids near her temple. “Like… pink pink. Like candy. I think I look like a cupcake. Do I look like a cupcake?”

Cornelia didn’t blink. “The best cupcake,” she said. “Like the kind you serve at a wedding and nobody eats because they’re too pretty. But everyone talks about them. So, really, they’re the most important part of the whole event.”

Diamond squealed with delight and flapped her manicured fingers.

Cornelia smiled. Wide. Easy. Automatic.

She crossed her legs at the ankle and tilted her head slightly to admire the symmetry of her makeup— already perfect, already set, already touched up once by a junior technician while the dye was setting. Her lashes were curled, her cheeks were powdered, and the new shade of gloss on her lips— grapefruit-pink with a dash of lilac shimmer— had been tested against three light settings to ensure it wouldn’t clash with the hair reveal.

She didn’t feel like herself, but she looked flawless. And, in the Capitol, that counted more than anything.

“Oh!” she sang, letting her voice rise an octave to fill the conversation. “I may keep this for the Quell!” She gestured dramatically toward her half-foiled head, flashing her teeth in the mirror. “Is that insane? I know, it’s a statement, but honestly, it just feels like a good luck color. And daddy is wanting me to take over the upper districts this year!”

Both Precious and Diamond gasped, synchronized like trained showgirls.

“Shut. Up,” Diamond said, leaning forward in her chair. “You’re taking over 1 and 2? Really?”

Cornelia nodded, clasping her hands together beneath her chin. “Daddy said that after Katniss and Peeta’s win, it’s important to build momentum. That the youth of the Games needs to shine through.” She batted her lashes. “So who better than me?” She beamed with pride, but her stomach curled.

Because she knew what the upper districts meant. She knew what taking over meant. Katniss and Peeta weren’t just last year’s story— they were the Capitol's newest obsession. They were the star-crossed lovers who made it out, against all the odds against them. They were even engaged to be wed, now.

And the Quarter Quell wasn't just a Games— it was the Games. A commemoration. A spectacle. A knife in the side of every district. And the upper districts— the claimed Careers— were the crown jewels. Her father trusted her with a kingdom. And part of her wanted to cry.

Her hairdresser unwound another foil. Cornelia leaned forward to see the way the purple shimmered under the bleach, gasping with practiced delight.  She smiled. Wider. Brighter. She could only think about this moment. About her reflection, about the mirror. 

Purple hair. Perfect smile.

May, 75 ADD

It was Cornelia’s birthday.

Finnick shouldn't have remembered that—really, he shouldn't have—but the date had settled into his mind like a stain that wouldn’t scrub out. No matter how many waves washed over it, how many distractions he layered over top, it stayed. As stubborn and sparkling as the girl it belonged to.

After years of going to the Flickerman villa, the date had rooted in his mind the same way a holiday would have.  A festivity. A performance.

She hadn’t invited him this year. Again, not surprising.

He didn’t know if she’d had another bird-themed party, or if she’d gone with something more extravagant— fireworks, fountains, maybe a thousand doves released from a crystal birdcage. It didn’t matter. He hadn’t been invited. And even if he had been, he wouldn’t have gone.

(He would’ve gone. He always would’ve gone, if it meant being close to her. But that wasn’t his decision anymore.)

Finnick shifted on the old wooden dock behind his house, the sun sharp against the water, slicing the horizon into shards of light. The ocean lapped steadily against the stilts below, soft and regular, like breath. The salt air clung to his skin and hair like a second skin, familiar and heavy.

His fishing pole rested loosely in his hands. He’d cast the line almost twenty minutes ago and hadn’t moved since. The bait had likely floated off the hook. Maybe the hook itself had come loose. He didn’t care. The act of fishing— of sitting, of pretending— was the point.

The fish could come or not. It didn’t matter.

He heard the footsteps before he saw her. He didn’t need to look to know it was Annie.

The rhythm of her step was too soft to be anyone else, the slight dragging limp of her left foot, the hesitant pause when she spotted someone, the way she always approached sideways, like she was ready to leave again if the moment felt wrong. She didn’t speak right away. Just sat beside him, legs crossed, arms drawn in tight to her chest. The two of them staring out at the ocean, quiet except for the squawk of gulls and the whisper of the breeze.

She was the only person who ever came looking for him when he disappeared.

"You’ve been quieter lately," Annie said after a long beat. “You’re only ever quiet when something’s bothering you.”

Finnick didn’t look at her. He blinked once at the water, cast a glance at the still line of his fishing pole, and then exhaled through his nose.

“You’re late to figuring that out,” he said, dryly. Not unkind. Just tired.

Annie made a face. “If you hadn’t been hiding in your house and avoiding me for the last two weeks, I would’ve realized sooner.”

He smiled faintly, just a twitch of his mouth. “Fair.”

Another stretch of silence.

Seagulls called somewhere to the south. A fishing skiff drifted lazily in the distance, a pair of nets sagging against the frame. Finnick watched the boat for a moment, then looked back to his line.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, voice quieter now. “There’s just… something bothering me. And I can’t talk about it.”

Annie didn’t move. But she understood. He didn’t have to tell her he couldn’t talk about it because of Snow. Because there were ears everywhere. Because saying the wrong thing could mean worse than death for someone you cared about.

She knew. She always knew.

“Is it the Quell?” she asked softly. “The reaping?”

He hesitated. Then nodded. Not entirely a lie. But not the truth either. Because of course it was the Quell— how could it not be? It was hanging over all of them like a noose. But that wasn’t the weight anchoring his chest today. Not fully.

Annie stared out at the water, her fingers loosely tangled in the hem of her linen sleeve.

“I had a dream,” she murmured. “That I went in. I didn’t have my rope. I didn’t have you.”

He looked over at her, brow furrowing, heart aching. But she wasn’t crying. She didn’t look shaken. Just reflective. As if her dreams and her memories were the same shape, and both had teeth.

He reeled the line in, slowly. The bait was gone, as he expected. A ragged piece of the hook’s tip was still embedded with seaweed. He tugged it off, tossed it into the water, then reached into the small tackle box beside him and pulled out another fishbit of meat from an earlier catch.

He didn’t look at her when he spoke again.

“It’s an old friend’s birthday,” he said. “I’m just… reminiscing.”

He heard Annie shift beside him. He could feel the air change, just slightly, like her body had stiffened— not dramatically, but enough.

He didn’t have to say who. Of course she knew. Annie had gone to a Cornelia Flickerman party only once, but she knew. She remembered. Annie had a good memory, better than most would expect.

The water lapped at the shore. Finnick cast the line out again. They sat in silence. He didn’t say her name. But he thought it, over and over, until it felt like he was breathing it.

July, 75 ADD

Since Adorabella and Cerulean’s wedding, the girls hadn’t seen much of their newlywed friend. Which, in Cornelia’s opinion, was absolutely criminal. Adorabella might have worn a thousand yards of imported chartreuse satin to walk down that aisle, but it didn’t mean she had to fall off the face of the Capitol afterwards. But when they did see her, they made up for lost time in the only way they knew how— by gossiping over overpriced drinks, trading perfumes and secrets, and sprawling across imported rugs with spread limbs.

Cerulean had made himself scarce, of course. “Boy’s outing,” he’d said with a wink before disappearing in a cloud of cologne. Cornelia wasn’t sure if "outing" meant anything more specific than a two-hour brunch or cigars on the marble balconies of the Aurum. Still, Cerulean’s departure was a gift, because his absence meant freedom. It meant the girls could take over the penthouse— make it their territory, if only for a few sacred hours.

Phaedrus, Avian, and Homer had gone with him. Naturally. The Capitol’s elite young men traveled in packs the same way exotic birds did: Loud, bright, and painfully ornamental.

Adorabella was in the middle of a story— something about new satin restraints Cerulean had gifted her for their one-month anniversary— when the holo-screen, almost forgotten, flared to life with static and shimmered into the seal of Panem. The music hit first, and then the feed transitioned to President Snow’s face.

Cornelia felt her lungs tighten.

“Oh,” Adorabella murmured, setting her champagne flute aside and reaching for the holo-remote. “It’s starting.”

The screen flickered once, then sharpened. There it was: the Reaping.

District 1 came first— Cashmere and Gloss. The siblings bowed in practiced tandem. Cornelia sipped her wine— white, dry, almost flavorless— and stared straight ahead.

District 2 came next. Brutus and Enobaria. Enobaria bared her teeth, sharpened and golden-tipped, into the camera.

Then came District 3. Wiress and Beetee. Adorabella leaned back, losing interest.

Then, District 4. Cornelia’s grip on her glass tightened before the camera even cut to the stage. She didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she heard Annie’s name.

Annie Cresta.

Cornelia’s heart skipped once— and then caught again when Mags stepped forward, slow and dignified, to take Annie’s place.

“Oh!” Diamond gasped. “Isn’t she… ancient?”

Cornelia still hadn’t said a word. She didn’t have time to. Because the camera swept back to the male stage. And the name called next—

“Finnick Odair.”

Cornelia’s blood turned to ice. The wine in her mouth tasted like nothing. Like fog. Her stomach dropped.

Maybe someone would volunteer. They had to. Someone would volunteer. That was how it went. There were always— always— others in 4 willing to take a place. Someone older. Someone who owed him something.

But no one moved. No one spoke.

On the screen, Finnick stood still. Not shocked. Not afraid. But Cornelia could see the tension. The flex of his jaw. The ghost of his lips moving, twitching upward into a smirk. He looked straight into the camera. And for the briefest moment, Cornelia thought— he knew she was watching. He must know.

The room was silent. Not a giggle. Not a comment. No quip from Diamond. No wine-choked giggle from Precious. They were watching Cornelia.

So she swallowed. Polished off her glass.

“Well!” she said, too loud. Too bright. Her voice cracked halfway through, but she smiled. Wide. Plastic. “How lucky am I! My interviews will be so entertaining this year!”

She forced a laugh. The kind that should come with studio applause.

“Cashmere and Gloss will bring on the sponsors,” she continued, her voice pitched too high, her words spilling out fast. “There won’t be a dry eye in the Capitol once I get them talking. Can you imagine? I’ll need at least two tissue Avoxes standing by. And the parade! The outfits! If daddy has me host the parade with him, I have to wear that flower piece from the fashion show. You remember, right? With the petals?”

No one answered.

Cornelia reached for the wine bottle and refilled her glass with a trembling hand, the crystal clinking against the bottle lip. “Oh! I must match the theme! Something ethereal. Or tragic! Tragic, yes. That would be so poetic. Something with tulle. Maybe—”

“Cornelia,” Diamond said softly.

Cornelia looked up. Stared at her over the rim of the glass.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

Cornelia blinked. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said sweetly. Sharply. Her voice sounded far away in her own ears. Without another word, she downed the second glass of wine in one go and stood from the sofa.

“I need to call daddy,” she added breezily. “He’s going to need my help this year more than ever. There is just so much talent to cover. I’m sure he’s already planning for the mentor specials, or maybe an entire sponsor segment.”

She disappeared into the hallway, her heels clicking with every step. The second the bathroom door shut, she pressed her hands against the marble sink and stared at herself in the mirror. Her lipstick was still perfect. Her lashes immaculate. Hair an artful, gleaming purple waterfall. Perfect. Untouchable. Pristine.

But she could still see him. On that stage, on the screen—  the same way he had been standing in the hotel room that final night they shared. And she had never, in her entire life, hated the Capitol more than she did in that moment.

Chapter Text

July, 75 ADD

TO BE THE MASTER OF CEREMONIES, one had to be an actor. A performer. A grand illusionist with enough charisma to eclipse the sins of an entire empire. Put on a show, wear a mask, smile for the camera no matter what atrocities paraded beneath. Cornelia was a good actress— great, even. That much had never been in question. Her smile was practiced in the mirror until it no longer looked like her own, and her laugh had been tested in every octave. 

No one could possibly know that she had once warmed a bed with the tribute in the District 4 chariot. The same one who was, now, shirtless— slick with what seemed to be oil, or some gloss that shimmered in the lights— and wearing only a golden fishnet skirt that clung dangerously low on his hips. It glittered with tiny gold flecks, but it was not functional. Not by design. One wrong step, and the Capitol would get the full Odair. Cornelia already knew what was underneath. She didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

“And here comes District 4!” Caesar’s voice boomed through the stadium, his arms stretched in welcome as the sea chariot surged past, hauled by an ocean wave made of holographic foam. “Our darling, our treasure from the tides, Finnick Odair!”

The crowd erupted, a tidal wave of giddy screams. Finnick raised a hand and blew a kiss from beside Mags. A glint of white teeth, green eyes like fresh mint under the lights. Effortless.

Beside Caesar, Cornelia was radiant. Her shimmer-stone gown reflected the lights and hugged her figure. Her voluminous purple hair was curled to perfection, cascading over one shoulder. She laughed just as her father did, a beat behind to sound unrehearsed.

“Oh, well,” she said sweetly into her mic, “you know who’ll be swimming in sponsorships this year! Right, daddy?”

Another burst of laughter. Caesar he beamed down at her. Cornelia smiled back and pretended her stomach wasn’t curdling.

The chariot passed, the cheers rising and fading like a heartbeat. She kept her posture straight. Her lashes didn’t flicker. She did not glance back over her shoulder to watch Finnick disappear around the curve of the Avenue.

Caesar moved on. “And next we have District 5!”

Cornelia clapped her hands together with performative glee. “Oh, I just adore the use of lightning bolt appliqués this year. Very bold choice.

Next came 6 and 7.

Cornelia tilted her head dramatically.

“Oh, my goodness, daddy,” she gasped, pressing her fingers to her collarbone. “No one better bark up the wrong tree this year or they’ll get an axe in the forehead by District 7’s Johanna Mason!”

Caesar cackled. “Watch your necks, everyone!”

Cornelia had to laugh at that. But her laugh dulled slightly as the final chariot turned onto the promenade.

“Ah!” Caesar said, his voice turning into pure delight. “Here they come! District 12! Our favorites!”

Cornelia cocked a brow. “They’re your favorites, daddy.”

He waved her off theatrically. “They’re everyone’s favorites, now.”

Cornelia leaned forward slightly as the chariot neared. Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark, standing shoulder to shoulder in their matching dress and suit. Then came the flames.

The crowd screamed.

“There it is!” Caesar announced.

Cornelia gasped. “They’re glowing!”

She jumped to her feet briefly, clapping with a flourish as the flames danced. The chariot rolled past, the heat from the pyrotechnics kissing her bare arms. Katniss’s chin was high. Peeta’s gaze was steady. Both of them looked so serious. 

In a newfound way that she didn’t yet understand, she did have the sense to know why. They believed they were marching to their death. Just as Finnick was.

Caesar gave her a sidelong glance. “You know, Cornelia, if they keep this up, you may have some competition for Capitol Sweetheart.”

Cornelia placed a hand over her heart. “Oh, daddy! You wound me!”

Laughter. Applause. Cameras flashing.

It was all going exactly as planned. A perfect Capitol show.

In another life, Cornelia believed she would have been a stylist. Not just the kind that sketched gowns in a marble notebook while sipping martinis and chewing on gold-tipped straws. No—she would have been good. Brilliant, maybe. She had the instinct, the eye, the hunger for beauty that was both innate and inherited. A need to turn every walk into a runway, every room into a stage.

It was the ritual of it that grounded her. The way color and texture came together like poetry, like food, like love. The way a bodice curved into a silhouette and the way a necklace could elevate or destroy a neckline. When she was younger, she'd dressed her dolls in organza napkins and used crushed blush powder to tint their cheeks, even if the dust never stayed. Now, older, and with resources at her whimsical disposal, her art was no longer imagined. It was real. Fabric, gems, silks from District 8, brocade hand-woven in 1.

And yet, she was quietly grateful it was only a hobby. Not a career. Because if it had become her job— her requirement— then surely one day the flicker of joy would have sputtered into ash. That was the thing about passion. Once it was tethered to necessity, it became routine. And routine became work. Chore. Obligation. A thing performed for others, not for self-indulgence.

It was funny, she thought, how that also translated to relationships and people.

She stood in front of her mirrored wall in her bedroom, holding two dresses up against her body while making kissy faces at herself in the reflection. Her hair was rolled into curlers, set high and sculptural on her head like a crown. Her silk robe fluttered open slightly as she tilted her hip, admiring the shadow play of the light silk and bare thigh.

One dress was a brilliant gold, more yellow than molten, with high shoulders and a deep plunging neckline. The other— her current favorite— was a black sequined sheath with gold thread embroidery curling like flames along the hemline, climbing upward in jagged tendrils.

She swayed on her heels, weighing both in her hands.

She made another kissy face, blowing it at her reflection like a child might blow bubbles, when the door to her bedroom cracked open.

Cornelia turned on her heel, smile already spread wide across her face like jam on a sponge cake. “Hi, mother!”

Calpurnia stood in the doorway. Her eyes flicked toward the dresses, then back to Cornelia’s face. Her mouth moved into something resembling a smile, but only just.

“Your father’s already at the studio,” she said. “Are you prepared for the interviews?”

Cornelia turned back to the mirror, twirling the black dress against her body. “Oh, yes! Daddy told me this morning that he’d be in a black and gold shimmery number, so I figured I’d go with either gold or black! I almost want to go with black, because it goes with everything, especially with my hair, and—”

“I don’t need all the details,” Calpurnia cut in, already turning toward the hallway again.

Cornelia blinked. Gaped, just for a moment. “Well then why did you ask?!”

The words hit the air like a whipcrack.

Calpurnia paused, her back still to Cornelia, one gloved hand resting on the doorframe. She turned slowly, her eyes sharp as scalpel points, and the room dropped several degrees.

Cornelia’s stomach twisted. She had never yelled at her mother. Snapped, maybe. Sulked. But not yelled.

Calpurnia stepped forward, the faint tapping of her heels on the polished marble floor nearly drowned out by the pounding in Cornelia’s ears.

“This isn’t a fashion show,” Calpurnia said coolly. “You may think you’re playing dress-up for the cameras, but this—” she gestured to the gowns, the makeup, the curling irons still heating on the vanity “— this is not a game. It’s not tea time with Diamond and Precious. It’s your career. It’s your life.”

Cornelia lifted her chin, color rushing to her cheeks. “I am an adult. I’ve been an adult! I’m twenty-two years old, mother. I’m not stupid.”

“Listen,” Calpurnia snapped, “for once, Cornelia. Being Master of Ceremonies is not about what dress you wear, or how many compliments you can fit between questions. You are under Snow. Do you understand? He sees you. He watches you. He always has. You’ve never not been watched.”

Cornelia froze. She stood there, arms limp at her sides, the black dress now puddling around her bare feet.

“… What?”

Calpurnia didn’t blink. Didn’t soften. “Get dressed,” she said crisply, turning once more to the hallway. “You’ve got three hours.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the soft hum of the curling iron and the rustle of fabric as Cornelia slowly sat down on the edge of her bed, her silk robe whispering against the sheets.

She looked at the dress in her hands. All its beauty and detailing and effort. All the work she'd poured into finding the perfect look. None of it mattered. Not to them, to her mother. To Snow.

All this time, she’d thought she was being clever. Thought she was slipping through the cracks with enough glitz and sparkle to remain unnoticed in the ways that mattered.

But Snow saw her. He always had.

She chose the black dress.

Cornelia had downed three shots of espresso before stepping on stage— one, two, three— slammed down and followed immediately by a bracing gulp of white liquor she’d snatched off a crystal tray carried by a passing Avox. She hadn’t meant to take it. Really, she hadn’t. But her hands were shaking, her mind spiraling, and her lipstick was already smudged at the corner.

She told herself it was just for the nerves. For the adrenaline. For the stage.

Not because he was going to be out there. Not because the lights would hit his hair just so. Not because she was going to have to act like she didn’t know the taste of his skin or the weight of his name on her tongue.

And it had done its job. By the time her stiletto heels struck the edge of the stage floor, she was positively vibrating. Her skin buzzed like a live wire, her pulse thundered beneath her collarbone. But her smile? Her smile was dazzling. As always. She was beautiful. She was perfect. She was, of course, lying through her teeth.

The crowd roared.

“Welcome, welcome, welcome all to the 75th Games. The Third Quarter Quell!” she trilled, her voice crisp and sweet and celebratory. “And what a Quell it is this year!”

She tossed her arms open with a twirl, letting her black gown shimmer beneath the lights. Sequins caught the shine and scattered it back toward the audience in jagged stars, and the purple of her freshly dyed curls gleamed like lilacs dipped in ink.

She turned toward the wings, gesturing with both hands. “Let’s get right to it, shall we? From District 1. they’re stunning, they’re siblings, and they’re icons, it’s Cashmere and Gloss Davenport!”

They stepped onto the stage like they owned it. Cashmere, sleek and silver in a metallic gown with a slit up to her thigh. Gloss, all broad shoulders and chiseled calm, his suit tailored to match his sister. They looked more like a Capitol advertisement than tributes.

Cornelia clasped her hands together and beamed at them as they took their seats. “Gosh, it is going to be so hard to let you two go,” she cooed. “I remember when I collected all the magazines you two were in! Ugh! It felt like you two were my brother and sister.”

Gloss’s jaw tensed. His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes sharpened.

“We’re not going by choice,” he said, then turned to address the crowd. “You are our family. And I don’t see how anyone can love us better.”

The applause that followed was immediate, thundering, echoing. Capitolites loved a good martyr.

Cornelia’s smile wobbled as she turned to Cashmere—just in time to see the shimmer at the corner of her eye spill down in a tear.

“Oh! Oh, no, don’t cry!” Cornelia gasped, half rising from her chair, arms fluttering like a bird’s. “You’ll ruin your contour!”

“I’m sorry,” Cashmere whispered, voice catching. “I just… I can’t stop crying.”

“Oh, honey,” Cornelia crooned, reaching out with one manicured hand to brush her shoulder before catching herself and pulling back. “Well, we all still believe in you. Right, everyone?”

The crowd erupted again. Cornelia smiled, teeth clenched, and clapped along until the siblings were escorted offstage.

Next came District Two. Brutus and Enobaria. Cornelia had bantered with them enough times at Capitol events to know their tempo— brash and bold. She played them up, teased Brutus about his past sponsorships (“You were the one who ate a raw snake on live broadcast, weren’t you? So brave!”) and fluttered her lashes at Enobaria with a shrill giggle when the older woman bared her filed golden-capped teeth in a grin.

District 3 followed. Wiress was sweet but distant— drifting off mid-sentence. Cornelia did her best to string it together, laughing lightly whenever Wiress lapsed into silence. She turned instead to Beetee, whose wire-thin glasses made him seem harmless. 

Until he opened his mouth.

“You are, like, a legend!” Cornelia gushed, leaning forward in her chair. “You’re so smart! I’m pretty sure you designed half of our technology. Or, like, a big part of it. I don’t know how we’ll design my next closet upgrade without your brain.”

Beetee’s expression was unreadable. “The Quarter Quells were written into law by men. Certainly it can be unwritten.”

Cornelia blinked. Smiled. Stared. “… See,” she said slowly, face frozen in a perky blankness, “you’re so smart that I don’t even know what you just said.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable titter of laughter from the crowd. Beetee left the stage shortly after.

Cornelia smiled to the crowd, gold painted lips twitching slightly. “Well, alrighty then! Who’s next?”

District 4. District 4 was next.  

And Finnick had never looked worse when he walked across that stage and toward her.

That was what Cornelia tried to tell herself.

She tried to focus on the slight tension in his shoulders, on the fraction-of-a-second pause in his step when Caesar announced her name. She tried to catch his tired eyes, the small slump of his spine, the weariness hiding beneath the golden-boy armor. But none of it worked. Because he looked—

Gods above and below, he looked gorgeous.

She knew it the moment he stepped into the spotlight and the crowd screamed. A full-bodied Capitol scream, high-pitched and electrified, their beloved sweetheart walking into view. His shirt was white and loose, cut into a scandalous V that showed off the sharply cut lines of his chest and abdomen. The fabric clung to him, somehow at once delicate and suggestive, as if he might shrug it off at any moment. His hair— damn his hair— was tousled just enough to look like he’d rolled out of a lover’s bed and stepped straight onto the stage. And his pants— or maybe a skirt? She couldn’t even tell, the leather so fluid and wide-legged it shimmered like water— moved with effortless grace.

He was perfect.

And it made her sick.

Cornelia had prayed— begged— that he wouldn’t look good tonight. That the stylists would slip, that the creams would give him a rash, that his cologne would make her eyes water. That something would knock him down a peg, make him look like a boy again. Human. Deflatable. But no. He looked like the ache in her throat and the mistake in her chest that she still hadn’t stopped making.

He looked like a memory. A distant one. One she couldn’t stop from fading, even as it haunted her every breath.

She didn’t even remember him walking to stand beside her. She hadn’t registered his footsteps. One second, he was crossing the stage, and the next— he was there. Too close. Too far. An arm and a half’s length away.

Neither of them dared to close it.

Cornelia turned toward the audience, smile stretching across her face so hard it made the muscles in her cheeks burn. Her voice came out high, delighted, airy.

“Finnick Odair! Oh, my stars! Dare I say you look better under the lights than on the screen!” She turned her head, hand fluttering toward the roaring crowd. “Wouldn’t you agree, everyone?”

The audience answered with a shriek of approval. Applause. Shouts of his name.

Finnick’s eyes glinted beneath the lights. He smiled— but it wasn’t real. It was a Capitol smile. The same one she had seen him use on women twice her age, senators and sponsors, drunken fans who clawed at his waist like he was fruit on a vine.

“The lights make everyone look better,” Finnick said smoothly. “Even you, Flickerman.”

There it was.

The flirtation. The game. The lie.

Cornelia laughed, loud and musical and false. She tilted her head, fluffed her curls, struck the pose she knew the cameras loved.

“Oh, well, I have my stylists to thank for that!” she said with a dramatic toss of her hair. “I didn’t spend all that time in the salon to let it get washed out on stage!”

Finnick didn’t answer right away.

She could feel him watching her. Not just looking— watching. His gaze landed on her hair, lingered there too long. 

Finnick blinked. “Looks nice,” he said, his voice faintly hoarse.

Cornelia laughed again— sharper this time, rushed. Her smile stretched wider, her fingers trembling slightly on the microphone she gripped. She couldn’t look at him too long.

“So!” she chirped, almost too loudly, “a little bird told me you have a message for a special somebody.”

She gave a theatrical shimmy of her shoulders, pretending to be cheeky, teasing. The smile on her face hurt so badly now, she swore she’d taste blood behind her molars.

“Do share! Do tell!” she said, lifting the microphone toward him.

Finnick didn’t answer immediately. He looked down— down, not at her— then out at the audience. His eyes weren’t laughing. They weren’t even cold. They were tired. So, so tired.

And when he spoke, it wasn’t charming. It was quiet. It was resigned. Defeated. 

Sad.

“My love,” he said into the microphone, “you have my heart for all eternity. And… if I die in that arena, my last thought will be of your lips.”

The crowd swooned. Gasps. Cries. Moans. Even Caesar, from off-stage, was probably clasping a hand to his chest.

Cornelia heard none of it. She stared at Finnick. Silent. Breath caught somewhere in her ribs.

“Wow!” she gasped, jerking the microphone back to her mouth, her voice going shrill with effort. “Such a way with words!”

The crowd clapped. Someone blew a kiss. Someone else cried. Another fainted.

Cornelia grinned like her face was breaking. And Finnick didn’t move. He just kept looking at her.

She wanted to scream. 

Why was he doing this? Why now? Why say that now, when they had no time left? When he didn’t call, when she didn’t pick up, when he never said he was sorry, when she never said she loved him, and now he was going to die—

Finnick’s gaze held her in place for a moment longer. Then he turned and walked off stage.

Cornelia watched him go. Her hands were shaking now, one hidden in the folds of her dress and the other gripping the microphone so tight her knuckles were white. Her jaw ached from smiling.

That was goodbye. Or it was sorry. Or it was “I loved you, once.”

She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to grab his arm and slap him and kiss him and make him promise he’d come back to her.

But she couldn’t. Because she hadn’t called. She hadn’t picked up. She hadn’t said a damn thing when she still had time. And now time was gone.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced, still smiling, “our next tribute from District 4, Mags Flanagan!”

The crowd erupted into cheers. Cornelia could barely hear them over the pounding in her ears.

The bed was cold.

Silk sheets always were— far more ornamental than practical, clinging to air like frost, slick and sleek and utterly indifferent to comfort. They looked beautiful, of course. That was the point of most things in the Capitol: presentation. Not warmth. Not softness. Not realness. And if the Tribute Center knew anything, it knew how to wrap death in finery.

Finnick didn’t mind the cold. He ran hot, always had. Nights in District 4 meant throwing off the covers, dragging the sheets to his waist, letting the ocean breeze push through open windows and stick the salt to his chest. He never cared for the sensation of another body beside him once sleep settled in. Too much heat. Too much breathing. Too many elbows and knees to navigate.

But there had been a time when the heat hadn’t mattered. When he hadn’t cared about being kicked in the shins or having hair tickle the inside of his nose. When her soft snores had stirred him before the sun did, and instead of getting annoyed, he’d simply pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair.

That was the part he hated the most.

Not that it was over, but that it had been good. So good. And he had ruined it.

Finnick lay sprawled across the bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a blankness that was almost serene. The light from the Capitol skyline seeped through the gauzy curtains in long stripes, cutting across the floor and slashing him in silhouette. His chest rose and fell with slow, practiced breaths.

He had lied on stage.

He’d told Cornelia— told the whole damn Capitol— that if he died in that arena, his final thought would be of the lips of his lover. It had been said smoothly, elegantly, in that way that always pleased the audience. A coy twist of the mouth, a shimmer of something untouchable in his eyes. They loved the idea of Finnick Odair: the tragic, lovesick playboy, kissing death with a smile and a secret name tucked against his tongue.

But that wasn’t what he would think of, not when the final moment came. Because he couldn’t remember the taste of her lips anymore.

He had kissed her so many times, so many lazy afternoons and glittering nights, but he had been too careless, too greedy. He’d thought there would be more. Always more. Another night, another kiss, another hour in a bed with her hair on his chest and her perfume on his throat.

He hadn’t memorized it the way he should have. He hadn’t taken time to etch her into memory. And now, when he tried to remember the press of her mouth, he couldn’t even conjure it in full. He remembered flashes. Glimpses. The soft hum she made when she pulled away too soon. The sharp intake of breath when his teeth grazed her lower lip. But not the taste. Not the shape.

Not the kiss.

No. If he were to die tomorrow— and he knew he would, or at least believed he would— his final thought wouldn’t be her lips.

It would be her face in his neck, warm and quiet, just before the world would wake. It would be her bare back against his chest, the slope of her waist beneath his palm, her foot tangled in the sheet like a child. It would be her hair, not dyed, not curled and lacquered with Capitol sheen— but natural. Brown. Wavy from sleep, unbrushed, smelling faintly of her sweet cream shampoo and the slightest hint of strawberries from the lip balm she always smeared on before bed.

That was what haunted him. Not the loss. But the fear that, with enough time, even those memories would go.

He turned his face toward the window, the silk brushing against his cheek.

He didn’t cry. He had no more tears for it. He hadn’t cried for her— not even when she had uninvited him, not even when he’d seen her on the arm of that ridiculous Capitol boy at the Victory Tour ball. He hadn’t cried when she’d laughed on stage, hadn’t flinched when she offered Peeta the same wide-eyed attention she used to give him. 

But tonight he wanted to. Because seeing her that evening, with her curls cascading in that bright purple and her voice so loud and performative, had cracked something in him.

She was good at this. Better than him. Better than Caesar, even.

She had a future. A path. Something secure and glimmering ahead of her. She would never have to step foot in that arena. She would never know what it felt like to kill, to drown, to dig into warm flesh with a spear and listen to the sound of breathing stop.

She would live, and he would die. And it felt cruelly just.

It was not often that Cornelia Flickerman got sick.

She often liked to say that germs, like bad fashion and poor lighting, ran in the opposite direction of her. That her body, like her mind, was too strong-willed, too glitter-coated and high-heeled to succumb to anything as mundane as illness. She had survived the Capitol flu with nothing more than a sniffle. She hadn’t so much as coughed during the three-week cold outbreak that ran rampant in the studio from the crew’s school-age children. The last time she’d truly been sick, she had been eight years old— bedridden and pale as the porcelain doll she kept locked away on a vanity shelf. She couldn’t keep down water. Calpurnia had spent the week muttering about weak genes. Caesar had appeared in the doorway once with a glittering bouquet of medicated jellybeans and then promptly vanished.

Now she was twenty-two and she couldn’t get out of bed.

Maybe it was something she ate. Though she hadn’t eaten much the night before. A few bites of sugared cake, a corner of melon, a white liquor shot she’d chased her espresso with just to get her heart to stop hammering. Maybe it was the dehydration, the sheer velocity of adrenaline and nerves. Maybe it was her hair too tight against her scalp or the curlers still on her vanity or the fact that she hadn’t taken off her makeup properly. Mascara had crumbled like ashes against her pillowcase.

Or maybe— more likely— it was something worse. Maybe it was grief. The slow, choking ache of premature mourning. Of mourning something that had never really belonged to her in the first place.

Cornelia had not cried when Finnick walked off that stage. She had smiled. She had clapped. She had sat through every remaining interview with her posture perfect and her voice bright. She had kissed her father’s cheek and waved to the crowd and thrown glitter into the air as the cameras shut off.

She had done her job. Because she was a professional. Because she had to be. But now she lay in her bed, staring up at the ornate swirls in her bedroom ceiling, barely blinking.

The light was too bright. It wasn’t even direct sunlight— just the hazy gray of Capitol morning, the kind filtered through imported silks and fog machines designed to mist rooms with lavender essential oil. But her head throbbed beneath it. Her eyes burned.

Her body, normally a spring of energy and poise and movement, felt heavy. Paralyzed. Her arms stayed at her sides. Her legs refused to stretch or uncross. Even her toes, usually tapping to some unseen beat or imaginary melody, were still.

She counted the swirls in the ceiling again. She rolled onto her side without thinking. She pulled the blankets up over her head and sank into the mattress like it might swallow her whole.

Cornelia had never imagined herself the tragic type. She wore color. She wore sequins. She didn’t sit in windowsills reading poetry or pressing roses between pages. She was meant for a pedestal, for noise and beauty and applause. Her pain was meant to be aesthetic, manageable. Lip-glossed tears and elegant longing. But this— this was not aesthetic. This was not pretty. This was lying in bed with sour breath and tear-crusted eyes and aching limbs because a boy she never said she loved might not live to see another sunrise.

She missed him.

She pressed her face into her pillow.

She could hear her parents downstairs already. Her mother would be at the kitchen island with a glass of celery juice. Her father would be putting on his wig. The stylists would be arriving any moment to start preparations for the Games. For the grandest, most gruesome spectacle of the decade. And she was in bed smelling of sleep and perfume and grief.

There was a knock at the door. Cornelia didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Because today, she didn’t want to be Cornelia Flickerman. She wanted to be no one. She wanted to close her eyes and stop thinking about a boy from the sea with green eyes that had refused to look at her and callused hands that gripped her too tightly.

Eventually, the knock faded. 

The Capitol had Annie.

That was the only conclusion Finnick could come to. It wasn’t a suspicion or a theory— it was a fact, the way the ocean came in waves, the way the sun rose over the salt-streaked horizon of District 4. Jabberjays mimicked real sounds, real voices. They didn’t fabricate. They didn’t imagine. And Annie’s scream had been real.

He hadn’t realized he was sprinting through the jungle until he hit the edge of the water and felt the sand give beneath his feet. Now he sat in it— alone, damp, salt on his skin and sweat caked beneath his chin. His hands were still trembling.

The Capitol had Annie.

She had screamed his name like she had when she first woke up from her nightmares, the ones that never left her after her Games. That same broken pitch, like her voice was cracking apart just from the act of using it. The same panic. The same gasping inhale that came after she shrieked his name like she couldn’t find him, like she was looking for him in a crowd of monsters. And he had heard it— loud, clear, echoing across the green canopy like it was stitched into the trees.

He had dropped his trident. Somewhere between the force field and the sand, he’d lost it. He didn’t even care. What good was a weapon when his hands were useless, his chest torn open and bleeding out over something he couldn’t reach? What was the point of defending against it when the Capitol knew the one thing to aim for wasn’t his body— it was his heart?

And they had hit it clean.

Finnick’s hands dug into the wet sand, nails curling in the grain. His body swayed slightly, head ducked forward, eyes fixed on the shallow lake water, where his reflection shimmered like a ghost. He looked pale. His hair was slicked back, still soaked, curls clinging to his temples. His mouth was drawn tight.

They hadn’t used his mother’s voice. She was still alive, technically— at least as far as he knew. She hadn’t spoken to him in years. Not after a set of Capitol photographs had made their way into the papers— him smiling, half-clothed, lounging on the arm of a Capitol official with too many rings and not enough shame. Her letters had stopped. Then came the silence.

He didn’t expect them to use Mags either. She wouldn’t have made a sound even if they had tried. Mags had been mute for decades after being tortured in the Capitol for mentoring tributes from 12. Her husband had told Finnick that once, years ago, before a heart attack took him in the middle of the market. Finnick had stood at his funeral, stone-faced. Hadn’t cried. Hadn’t said anything.

He didn’t feel like talking now, either.

Not to Katniss, not to Peeta, not to Johanna or Beetee. No one in this arena would understand. No one would get it, not really.

No one knew Annie like he did.

And no one had ever known him like Annie.

Except Cornelia.

Finnick’s shoulders tensed. He didn’t want to think about her— not now, not when he was already frayed to the bone. But his mind wasn’t listening to his body anymore. It hadn’t for a while. She filtered in like seawater into a cracked hull— inevitable, flooding, slow and deadly.

Annie was the sister he’d never had, the one he used to beg his mother to give him every year on his birthday when he was too little to understand how siblings worked. She was the only person who knew that he tied his fisherman’s knots too tightly, that he chewed his nailbeds raw when he was nervous, that he had been terrified of the deep ocean until he was twelve and had grown tall enough to stand at the reef shelf.

Annie had seen him before the arena. Before the Capitol molded him into something gleaming and grotesque. She had seen the boy underneath. And of course the Capitol would use that against him, because they always did. No one got close to Finnick Odair without consequence. They all paid the price eventually.

And— selfishly, quietly, in the dimmest part of his heart— he was grateful that Cornelia had never been publicly close to him. No one knew. No one but Annie. No one else had known about the nights, about the stained sheets, about the sound of her laugh when she was too tired to care how high-pitched it was.

At least, he told himself, she was safe under the Capitol’s umbrella where she belonged, wrapped in her father’s legacy and her mother’s pearls. No jabberjay would mimic her scream. No one had ever heard her scream. No one had ever seen her break. That was his to carry.

He curled forward slightly, elbows on his knees, head hanging low. The water lapped against his feet, the lake gentle in the way that nothing else in this arena was. It was like being touched by something from another life, something kinder. The tide didn’t hurt. The tide didn’t judge.

He hated the fact that part of him had wanted to hear her voice in the jabberjay sector. As sick as it was, as horrifying a thought as it became the moment it brushed against his mind, it had struck something honest in him: he had wanted proof that she remembered. That he mattered enough to haunt her. But there had been nothing.

And maybe that was his punishment. Maybe this whole arena was.

On the first day of the Quarter Quell, Cornelia Flickerman slept.

No grandiose stylists. No cheerful recaps. No glitter. No perfume. Not even her signature silk sleeping mask or the heated eye compresses Calpurnia always insisted preserved the skin under the eyes. She had refused all of it. Her mother had tried to draw her out, come into her room midmorning in her feather-trimmed robe and high-heeled slippers, tugging at the curtains with sharp manicured fingers and a sharper tongue. She’d barked about obligations, the importance of presence, how the Flickerman name demanded visibility. But Cornelia had merely buried her face deeper into her pillow and didn’t lift her head until the light outside her window had gone dark again.

People died that day. They always did. But Cornelia slept.

On the second day, she sat curled up in her father’s private viewing room, the heavy velvet drapes pulled halfway shut and a thick throw draped across her legs like the cocoon she refused to shed. The teacup in her hand had long gone cold. She didn’t bother refilling it. Her eyes were red— not from tears, but from the strain of staring at the screen without blinking.

The Games were on constant replay. Reruns of the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. District 9 had gone quickly. District 10 wasn’t much longer. She’d seen the moment when Wiress had been stabbed in the chesgt. The axe in her back from Gloss. The look of pure confusion on her face. She’d watched Mags step off into the fog without a word and let it consume her. She’d watched Cashmere fall with an arrow in her neck, blood dribbling down the shimmer of her collarbones as she fell into the water. She’d watched Finnick bend over the unconscious boy from 12 and give him CPR, his lips pressed to the boy’s, his hands firm and rhythmic over his chest. She watched it three times.

The third day, the world exploded. She woke earlier than expected. Half-dazed, she slid out of bed and into one of her blush silk robes and padded barefoot to the viewing room.

The explosion footage played on loop.

It hadn’t happened on camera. Not directly. The Capitol had lost feed from the arena shortly after it happened— short-circuited, blown out. But there had been enough to stitch the moment together.

Katniss, standing at the edge of the arena, arrow nocked and drawn. Beetee’s wire, sparking. The lightning tree. The sky.

The arrow released. The explosion was blinding.

Cornelia stared.

Finnick’s body had flown across the screen for a split second— ragdoll-limp and thrown backward with terrifying force. The blast had come from above, and he’d been right near the tree. Right at the center of it. He couldn’t have survived that.

She’d seen the way his limbs moved. She knew the physics of what happened when someone landed too hard, too fast. Her stomach clenched and twisted as her eyes scanned the screen again and again, hoping she’d missed something. That maybe she was wrong. That maybe—

But nothing followed.

No shots of his face. No voice. No glimpse of that devastatingly beautiful man she had once memorized in the dark. Just static. And then the feed cut.

Cornelia rose, slowly, from the sofa and walked in a daze to her room.

She sat at her vanity, her hands moving without thought. She combed her hair in slow, careful strokes, watching her reflection as if it were someone else’s. Her curls were limp. Her eyes hollow. Her blouse was pale pink silk, chosen at random, her skirt a simple A-line. No shimmer. No diamonds. No blue or purple or glittering gems. She didn’t want to be Cornelia Flickerman if Finnick Odair was dead.

In the mirror, her face looked too pale. Hollow in the cheeks. Her lips were a pale mauve, dry and cracked. She set down the brush, reached for her makeup bag, and unscrewed the cap to her foundation bottle. She tipped it forward onto her fingers. A soft pool of peachy-toned cream pooled against her skin. She stared at it— too long. Just stared. Then lifted her hand.

She smeared the foundation across her cheek in one long, slow sweep. Another smear. The other cheek, under her eyes, her forehead. It smelled like chemicals and lavender. She blended it in with her fingers. Not her sponge. Not her brush. Her fingers. Like she used to as a girl, sneaking into Calpurnia’s room. The tears came anyway. Her hands kept moving.

Blush. Powder. A flick of mascara. A swipe of gloss across her trembling lips. The mirror showed a Capitol girl. Pretty. Well put together. Fine.

Her throat showed something else. A heartbeat, fluttering just beneath the skin, like something terrified trying to crawl free.

Finnick was dead. That was what she thought. That was what she knew. She knew that the silence meant goodbye. She had never gotten to say it.

She pressed her fingers to the corner of her mouth, trying to hold the gloss in place. Not smudge it. Not cry too hard.

He was gone.

Her father was not good at hiding things— not when he wasn’t required to or performing. Caesar Flickerman wore his emotions the way some men wore fine silks: with pride, with ease, and almost always in the brightest possible color. It had never been subtle. Joy twinkled in his eyes. Anxiety rode in the tremor of his laugh. And when things truly began to fall apart, when the gears of control slipped out from beneath his manicured hands, Caesar’s whole face betrayed him. The smile faltered. The lines deepened. His voice— normally so smooth, so fluid with charm— shook just slightly around the vowels.

Cornelia had that same trait. It was the thing her mother often chided her most for.

“You feel too freely,” Calpurnia had once said.  “A woman who bleeds all over the carpet can’t blame the guests for tracking it through the house.”

Her mother never showed her feelings. Not when it wasn’t necessary.

So Cornelia had learned to hide them in lace and lip gloss. To cover them in glitter and powdered shimmer and the perfume she dabbed behind her ears. But they still leaked out. They always did.

That morning, the lavender had faded. Literally.

Her hair, once bold and defiant in its vibrant hue, had dulled into a soft, washed-out lilac from too many days of not caring to redye it. It fell in loose waves over her silk-clad shoulders. Her shirt was mint-green, soft and light against her skin. She paired it with a fitted white skirt that cinched high on her waist. Her feet were bare. The marble floor chilled her toes.

The villa was too quiet.

Her footsteps made almost no sound as she padded into the dining room, but she stopped short when she saw him. Caesar. Her father.

He was seated at the long glass table, the morning paper untouched before him, his tea going cold in its porcelain cup. His posture was still perfect, his back as straight as a spine onstage, but something about him looked… wrinkled. As if all the starch had been bled out of him overnight.

“Daddy?” Cornelia said softly.

His head jerked up, eyes wide at first— then narrowing into something else. Recognition. Relief. Concern.

“I didn’t hear you,” Caesar said, shaking his head faintly, as though trying to dislodge some dark thought still clinging to the edges. “I’m sorry. Sit, sweetheart.”

Cornelia hesitated, the hair on her arms prickling slightly. There was something cold in the air that hadn’t been there before. Not just the literal chill of early autumn, but something quiet and pressing. Like the wind had changed direction.

She sat down slowly in the chair across from him, brushing her hair behind one ear as she settled.

Caesar looked at her for a long time. And then, finally, he said it.

“There’s been... development,” he said, his voice careful, measured. “The tributes in the arena, some of them were plotting against the Capitol.”

Cornelia blinked. “What?”

“A coordinated effort,” he continued, lifting his teacup, then setting it back down without taking a sip. “Not all of them. But enough.”

Cornelia just stared.

“But… they all died,” she said softly. “In the arena fire, when the arena exploded. They…”

She stopped herself. She was thinking of Finnick again. Of the blast. Of his body flying backward like a doll hurled from a child’s hand. She had watched it happen over and over and over.

“They didn’t all die,” Caesar said, shaking his head. “There were survivors. Some were pulled from the arena by our forces, others were taken by rebel aircrafts. The footage cut off before the full extraction was shown to the public, but we’ve confirmed it.”

Cornelia’s throat closed slightly.

She swallowed hard. “Who?”

Caesar’s eyes dropped to the table. “Peeta Mellark. Johanna Mason. Annie Cresta was taken from District 4 yesterday for questioning, as well. We believe she may have information about the other tributes.”

Cornelia didn’t speak. Couldn’t speak. Her mouth had gone dry.

So he had survived.

She had clung to it. The sliver of hope buried beneath the horror. The way his name had never been uttered in the lists of the dead, never confirmed as recovered or lost. A vacuum of information. And now— confirmation. Not directly. But clear enough.

If Annie had been taken, it meant Finnick hadn’t been. He had been pulled out by the rebels.

Which meant he was gone. Disappeared into the ether. Erased. She would never see him again.

Cornelia’s hands folded in her lap. “And us?” she asked quietly. “What does this mean for us? Are we safe?”

Caesar’s eyes softened. He reached across the glass table and laid his hand gently atop hers. His rings were cool against her knuckles.

“You’re safe,” he said firmly. “Nothing will happen to you. To us. We only have one job, and that is to speak for the Capitol. To offer clarity, comfort, peace of mind.”

Cornelia just nodded and smiled— small, rehearsed. Like her face had learned to do the work long after the rest of her heart had given up. 

She reached for her tea. It had gone cold.

August, 75 ADD

The makeup was heavy— heavier than usual. Cornelia wasn’t unfamiliar with the weight of stage cosmetics; they were meant to last under studio lights, meant to flatter in high definition, meant to survive a long hour of showtime smiles and stylized tears. But today, it felt more like a mask. Not in the literal sense— though it caked her pores and sat thick beneath her cheekbones— but in the way that it dulled something within her. It felt like a silencing. A seal. As though the girl beneath the layers of contour and shimmer and powder had been gently, methodically buried.

Her hair was soft now, faded to a color barely definable— somewhere between lavender and pearl. It curled softly down her shoulders in prepped waves, a ghost of the bolder purple she had once worn. But color faded, eventually. All things did.

Cornelia sat still in the cushioned chair inside one of the presidential mansion’s private dressing suites. Stylists flitted around her, adjusting her neckline, pressing gloss onto her lips, brushing another layer of powder across her collarbone.

She wore a dress in dark navy, deep enough to seem black in the shadows— satin fitted to her waist, with structured shoulders and a neckline that dipped just enough to suggest glamour. The color matched Caesar’s ensemble— a detail her mother had quietly ensured in the early planning notes. Everything had to match. Down to the shade of sadness in her father’s tie.

Cornelia offered a soft “thank you” to the final stylist as they stepped back and let her breathe. Her gaze drifted across the room and to the wide mirror directly before her. The reflection that looked back was elegant, composed, camera-ready. It looked like her. And yet didn’t. It was the face she had curated for years— one Caesar had helped shape, one Calpurnia had insisted upon maintaining.

The door opened behind her with a soft click. Her father entered.

Cornelia turned her head slightly, offering him a polished smile.

“How much longer until cameras?” she asked, smoothing her palm across the silk of her skirt, her voice mild and practiced.

Caesar’s expression was unreadable for a beat. Then he exhaled through his nose and stepped closer, straightening one of his diamond-studded cufflinks.

“We’re waiting on Peeta. They’re still prepping him.”

Cornelia blinked once. She forced herself to remain still.

“Right,” she murmured.

He looked at her then. Fully. Not just a glance, not the absent check of an outfit or posture. It was one that Cornelia didn't recognize. It was foreign on her father. 

She didn’t meet it. Instead, she shifted her gaze to her reflection again.

“Who will be leading the interview?” she asked, reaching for a glass of chilled water beside her. The stem of the glass was damp in her hand.

“I will,” Caesar said, and his voice was calm. Almost warm. “As usual.”

Cornelia nodded.

“You may sit beside me if you like,” he added. “Observe. Comment if the moment allows. I think it would be good for the Capitol to see us together again. We’ve been rather absent these last few weeks, haven’t we?” He said it lightly, but there was an undertone. There always was.

Cornelia’s throat felt tight, but she smiled. It was almost a reflex by now.

“Of course,” she said gently. “Yes. I’d like that.”

Another pause. Her father looked at her a moment longer, then offered a brief, approving smile. 

“I’m proud of you,” he said, and it caught her off guard. It wasn’t rare for Caesar to say such things— he was generous with praise— but today, it felt loaded. Like it came with a weight. A warning. A plea.

Cornelia stared down into her glass.

The first time Finnick thought about death, he was eight years old and standing beside his mother, watching as his father’s body was lowered into a grave behind the small chapel near the wharf. His father had died at sea— storm snapped his boat like a matchstick, and the search team had only found the wreckage and one boot. What they lowered into the grave was a casket filled with rocks, weighted so that it didn’t look quite so hollow. Finnick had wondered, quietly, whether he too would die at sea. He hoped so, even then. There was a kind of dignity to that— fighting something bigger than life and losing to it. He wondered whether he would die peacefully or screaming.

When he was reaped at fourteen, he had been sure it would be the latter. Bleeding out in the arena, screaming, sobbing, snot running down his chin, limbs bent backward like sticks. But he survived. Somehow. Somehow he always did.

At sixteen, after two years of sleepless nights and lingering eyes and hands that weren’t his own, he began to wish he hadn’t. He began to hope that one of the headaches he got would be an aneurysm, that one of the Capitol’s hovercrafts would malfunction mid-flight. He hoped that the red on the rim of the wine glass would one day be something that could kill him— poison in a grape hue.

Now, at twenty-four, not much had changed. 

He wished he were dead. He wished that he, Annie, Peeta, all of them were dead. That it could be over. That it could end.

It would be a kinder fate than what they were facing now.

There were no windows in the hospital wing of District 13. Only sterile walls, low flickering lights, and the quiet. They hadn’t restrained him, not physically, but they may as well have. The door locked from the outside. There was a nurse stationed at all hours, sometimes two, depending on how he was doing. The doctors said it was for his own protection. That they were worried about what he might do to himself. As if he hadn’t already done it.

Finnick sat on the edge of the cot, the thin sheet crumpled beneath his weight, his hands draped between his knees. His fingers twitched now and then— small spasms he couldn’t stop, like the ghosts of spears thrown and tridents wielded were still passing through his arms. His hair had grown out more than usual, curling past his ears in a tangle of disinterest. He hadn’t asked for a razor. He didn’t see the point.

There was a journal on the metal table beside his cot. They’d given it to him as part of “therapy.” Write down his thoughts. Sketch. Express. He hadn’t touched it. He didn’t need a journal to know how he felt. He was tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of the resistance. Tired of his name being whispered in rooms, passed around like a legend. He didn’t want to be a hero. He didn’t want to be a piece anymore. He didn’t want to be anything at all.

The Peeta Mellark who sat across from her in the velvet-backed studio chair was not the Peeta she remembered. He wasn’t even the boy from the interviews just before the Quell— no. He was a ghost now. 

Not metaphorically— literally. His skin was papery, tinged with a chalky pallor that made his lips look too red by comparison. His eyes were rimmed in a darkness that no amount of editing would erase. He didn’t blink often, and when he did, it looked like a reflex— mechanical, exhausted. He was thinner than she remembered, his cheeks hollowed and neck taut beneath the pale collar of his suit jacket.

Cornelia sat across from him in silence, her fingers trembling as she fanned through the cue cards in her lap. They felt foreign in her hands. The words blurred— bullet points, highlights, suggestions for tone. There were phrases written in careful red marker across the top lines. "Affirm Capitol messaging." "Downplay emotional duress." "Prompt condemnation of rebels."

None of them fit the moment. Not this one. Not with that boy sitting there like a broken mannequin, sculpted and hollowed by whatever cruelty they had inflicted upon him.

Cornelia glanced up. Peeta’s eyes were staring straight ahead, unfocused. And no one else seemed to notice. Or care.

She didn’t hear the sound technician call her name. Didn’t feel the studio assistant gently touch her shoulder.

“Ms. Flickerman? Ms. Flickerman, we’re almost ready for rehearsal—”

Cornelia blinked. She looked up, sheepishly, her cheeks coloring.

“Oh, so sorry!” she said quickly, forcing a laugh. “I— I haven’t had my coffee yet this morning! Please, pardon me, silly me.”

She stood too fast, her cue cards fluttering to the floor like crisp leaves.

Cornelia brushed past the crew, ignoring their murmured confusion as she made her way to the tall arched double doors of the presidential study, her heels clicking far too loud across the glossy marble. She stepped through them, and the moment the heavy doors closed behind her, she paused— breathing hard.

She didn’t get more than two seconds of silence.

“Cornelia!” Caesar’s voice hissed behind her, low and tight, full of an unfamiliar edge. The door shut behind him with a soft click. “What is wrong with you?”

Cornelia turned to him, blinking. Her voice cracked when it escaped.

“Do you see him?” she whispered, breathless. “What are they doing to him?”

Caesar’s face pinched. His usual warmth was absent— he looked pale and furious.

“He is a boy!” she cried. “He’s just a boy, daddy! He shouldn’t be— he looks like he hasn’t eaten in days. What is this?!”

Caesar’s voice snapped back, sharp and fast.

“He’s a rebel!” he said, eyes burning. “He’s a criminal. He went with them, Cornelia. He chose their side.”

“He wanted to live!” she shouted, throwing her arms wide. “He had a baby in the arena! A wife! He was desperate! That’s not treason, it’s survival!”

Caesar strode forward, gripping her arms, lowering his voice to a near-growl. “You aren’t listening.”

Cornelia’s breath caught. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was firm, urgent. His fingers curled around the silk of her blouse like he was trying to anchor her.

“You do not get to fall apart right now,” he said. “You do not get to question what this is. We are Flickermans. We do what we are told."

His voice wavered on that last word, and for the first time, she saw it. The fear.

He was afraid. Her father was never afraid.

Cornelia opened her mouth to respond— she wasn’t sure what she would have said—but then another voice drifted in from down the corridor, just behind them.

“Well, well.”

Both Caesar and Cornelia turned.

President Snow stood several paces away, framed by the golden light of the hallway chandeliers. He moved like he had all the time in the world.

“What seems to be the problem?” he asked.

The words were simple. But they landed like a hammer to the sternum.

Cornelia felt her heart lurch. Her mouth opened, but no sound came.

Caesar stepped slightly in front of her. “We were just—” he began, but Snow held up a hand.

“No need to explain,” he said smoothly. “I merely heard voices.” His eyes slid to Cornelia, appraising. Amused.

“And who is this?” he asked, though of course he already knew. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Have you been hiding this one from me, Mr. Flickerman?”

Cornelia stood straighter, every muscle in her body stiff. She swallowed. Caesar didn’t respond.

Snow’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer. “Were you taking a break, my dear?”

Cornelia opened her mouth. Her voice barely emerged. “I… I was going to—”

Snow smiled. “Well, no need to explain.” He turned slightly, gesturing down the corridor behind him. “There’s a quiet room just past the conservatory. You can rest there while your father handles the next portion of the interview."

Cornelia’s heart started thudding too loud in her ears. The word “quiet” landed strangely. Like a warning. Like a cell.

Two Peacekeepers appeared at either side of Snow. 

She glanced sideways at her father. Caesar’s face had gone white. His jaw twitched. He didn’t speak.

Cornelia smiled. Attempted to, at least.

“Yes. Of course.”

She was more afraid of what he would do if she said no, than if she said yes.

So she followed. She didn't dare look back.

The room they took her to was white.

Snow white.

The whiteness wasn’t merely a shade, but a sensation— it stripped the air of its color, its warmth, its life. That, Cornelia thought numbly, was more terrifying than the descent that brought her here. The journey itself had been quiet— too quiet. An elevator that moved so slowly she imagined the world above her must have ceased to exist. A stairwell of dull concrete walls and flickering, forgotten lights. Not a single word from President Snow. Not a glance. Not a sound. Just the slow, steady march of boots and heels across metal and stone.

The Peacekeepers led her inside with mechanical precision, and still, she said nothing. Because this wasn’t about the interview. Not about her slipping out of the studio in a panic or asking too many questions or raising her voice in the wrong corridor.

Snow knew. He had to. About Finnick, about her. Cornelia didn’t need to be told. She felt it— like blood pooling behind her ribs, like a tide waiting to drag her under.

She didn’t resist as the Peacekeepers took her arms and secured them into place, one wrist at a time, metal cuffs snapping cold around her skin with dull finality. The chair looked like something from a medical journal. Part dental chair, part electric throne. There was a tray of surgical tools on the side— metal glinting in the cruel, pristine light. Something told her those tools hadn’t been used to save anyone’s life in a long, long time.

She kept her eyes fixed on the ceiling. A grid of harsh lights stared down at her like an audience, uncaring and all-seeing. Her jaw tightened. She would not cry. Not here. Not in front of them.

A pair of gloved fingers touched her left ear. She flinched, only slightly. They pressed just beneath the lobe, tracing the outer ridge of cartilage before slipping behind her ear. Cornelia bit down on the inside of her cheek, feeling her pulse thrum there like a frightened animal.

Sanitizer. That was what she smelled. Sterile, pungent, sharp. Her skin tingled as the cool liquid was swabbed across the sensitive skin at the base of her skull.

She exhaled through her nose. Her eyes burned.

The fingers moved again, firmer this time— pressing into the flesh just behind her ear until she gasped, feeling the pressure point bloom into a tight ache. She swallowed it down. Her whole body had gone tense, shoulders coiled, hands clenching into the unforgiving arms of the chair.

A sound of something metallic being unsheathed broke through the room. She didn’t see the needle, but she felt it. A stab of pressure— not just at the skin but into the bone, the very marrow of her. A sudden bloom of heat radiated along her skull, like someone had shoved fire beneath her skin. Her back arched ever so slightly in the chair, her legs straining instinctively against the footrest.

And then, pain. Real pain. A sharp, burning agony shot from behind her ear into her jaw, up into her temple. The left side of her face spasmed. Her left eye twitched involuntarily. She let out a stuttering breath and blinked rapidly, tears welling up but not falling.

That’s when she saw Snow standing in the corner. His gaze locked with hers, hands folded in front of him like he was observing a painting. Like she was not real.

And suddenly she felt it. Not the pain— not the hot wire in her skull or the fire curling through her bones. She felt the numbness. It was sinking in— cold, thick, spreading through her shoulders and down her spine like ink. Her limbs grew heavy, and her jaw went slack. A new sensation whined to life in her skull. A screech. No, not quite. Static. Feedback. The sound of an open line searching for something.

It was inside her ear. Inside of her.

Cornelia’s mouth dropped open as she tried to speak, but no words came. Her tongue moved sluggishly, as if it belonged to someone else. She blinked, blinked again, her vision blurring as she felt her throat constrict. Her mind was working, screaming, shouting— but none of it made it out. 

The Peacekeepers removed the restraints after several minutes, and Cornelia did not move for several more. She sat there with her hands limp in her lap, her hair falling across her eyes. The screech had faded to a soft tone now— barely there. But she knew it could come back.

“Let her rest,” she heard Snow say, though it was through a haze— like she was underwater and his voice was reaching her from above the surface. “She’ll be ready for the next broadcast.”

Cornelia stared up at the white ceiling. A drop of blood trailed from behind her left ear.

And then she was alone.

Chapter Text

August, 75 ADD

THE SCREECHING HAD BECOME A KIND OF COMPANION. Awful, shrill, unbearable— but hers. At least it didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t. It hurt like hell, but it was honest. Cornelia had come to miss it. Because after the screeching stopped, a voice began to speak.

It wasn’t human, not entirely. It had the shape of a man’s voice— low and resonant, deep enough to sink into her chest— but it was warped, distorted, swimming in static and reverb like it had been sent through a dozen filters and machines before ever reaching her. Sometimes it cracked. Sometimes it whined. Sometimes it had the inflection of someone trying to pretend they were human.

It was a lie.

“Sit up straight.”

Cornelia obeyed without realizing it, her spine stiffening as she perched in front of her vanity like a porcelain doll on display. Her reflection stared back at her in silence.

“Smile.”

She smiled. The kind of smile she’d been trained to give her whole life. The one that made people believe she didn’t bleed. Her hands rested uselessly in her lap, trembling slightly.

The voice continued.

“During the next broadcast, your tone should suggest optimism. Refer to the Capitol’s vigilance. Praise the efficiency of Peacekeeper enforcement. Emphasize our unity.”

Cornelia’s mouth moved as she repeated the words silently, not aloud, committing them to the hollows behind her teeth like they were lyrics to a song she hated.

The voice crackled in her ear again.

“You will not deviate. You will smile. You will laugh. You will make them believe.”

She didn’t respond. She wouldn’t.

But she felt the implant hum to life again, something low and stuttering like an engine stalling— and then came the jolt. It wasn’t sharp like a shock. It was internal, as if her brain itself had clenched.

Her body jolted forward. She slapped her hand to her left ear, the same place where the fingers had pressed, where the needle had gone in, where the heat had bloomed beneath her skull. She felt the hot sting before she saw the blood. A trickle at first. Then a bead. Bright red against her pale fingertips.

She stared at it in silence. Still, the voice continued.

“You are alive because you are useful. Do not make yourself otherwise.”

Cornelia turned back to the mirror. Her skin was pale, washed-out. Her lavender hair hung limp around her face, her eyes shadowed. She looked like a ghost of herself. Like a girl who had died and been reassembled for television.

She reached for her concealer with trembling fingers. She had to paint the color back in. Her lips parted as she took in her reflection. She didn’t recognize herself anymore. 

The girl in the mirror had her face, but it was too polished, too hollow. There was a silence in her eyes, the kind that came from being watched and watched and watched until all the light had been consumed.

And then came the knock at her bedroom door.

Cornelia flinched. Her breath hitched in her chest.

Caesar’s voice came through the door. “Cornelia? Are you ready, sweetheart?”

The words hung in the air like ash. Cornelia turned toward the door, but her eyes stayed fixed on her mirror.

“Say yes.”

She didn’t want to. But her lips moved.

“Yes, father.”

The silence that followed on the other side of the door was instant. Stifling. She imagined him standing there in his usual attire— soft plum shirt, gold cuffs, that perfectly lacquered smile peeling back as his eyes narrowed.

Cornelia bit her tongue, forcing down the rush of nausea that came with what she’d said. She pressed her fingers against her mouth, as if trying to stuff the words back in.

There was a quiet shuffle of feet on the other side.

“All right,” Caesar said slowly. “We’re leaving in fifteen.”

Footsteps retreated down the hallway, and the silence came crashing down around her like glass.

Cornelia slumped forward in the chair, her head resting against the cool wood of the vanity table. Her breathing was shallow now, uneven. Her fingers curled into the folds of her silk skirt like talons. The fabric wrinkled beneath her grip.

Cornelia blinked. Another tear rolled down her cheek. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, smearing concealer as she did so. She had to pull herself together.

The show must go on.

The rope was short. No longer than a foot, maybe fourteen inches, but frayed at the edges like it had been torn off something bigger— something stronger.

Finnick’s fingers were raw. He looped it once. Twice. The same knot. Over and over. A pattern. A rhythm. A ritual.

It didn’t stop the tremors. It didn’t stop the flashes of memory that came uninvited. It didn’t stop the silence that devoured him in the quiet hours between the next intel drop and the next update from Command, but it did keep his hands busy. Kept them from curling into fists. Kept them from shaking as bad.

The rope burned his skin. Not that he minded. Not that he noticed. Not anymore. He welcomed the burn. The sting. The slow ache that built in his knuckles and joints, a dull throb from a hundred repetitions.

Because it was all he had left now. Annie was gone. And he knew what the Capitol did to prisoners. Knew what Snow could do, would do, when someone mattered to someone else. Annie was sweet, so heartbreakingly good and soft and whole in a way the rest of them weren’t anymore. That wouldn’t spare her. It would condemn her. Because pain was more potent when inflicted on the innocent. The Capitol always knew that.

He hoped— God, he hoped— she was spared the worst of it. That they wouldn’t know how to break her. That maybe they would underestimate her. Maybe she would cry too much, or shut down too fast, and they’d write her off as damaged. Unusable. Not worth the energy.

He prayed for her uselessness. For the Capitol to discard her like trash, not weaponize her.

Finnick’s fingers slipped.

The knot tightened around his palm. He hissed between his teeth, finally aware of the sting where the rope had cut the edge of his thumb. Blood welled, just a little, a thin red line. He stared at it for a moment. It was proof that he was still here. Still breathing.

His other hand tightened around the rope. The strands were damp with sweat, his palms worn pink and sore. He twisted another knot in, faster this time, forcing the loop to hold.

It wasn’t just Annie. Cornelia was gone, too.

Not missing— no, not that kind of gone. She was in the Capitol. Still there. Still gilded and pretty and safe in a way he had once hated her for, and now could only be grateful for. Because even if she hated him now— and God, maybe she did, maybe he deserved it— he wouldn’t wish this war on her. Not her.

The broadcasts were few and far between now, but when they did come through, they watched them— forced themselves to.

Finnick had seen Peeta. Or the ghost of him. Sunken, pale, dead-eyed Peeta Mellark, wearing the Capitol’s costume of civility like a mask someone had shoved onto a corpse. The kind of mask Finnick recognized. He’d worn it himself.

He’d watched Peeta flinch and twitch and forget himself. Watched the hunger in his face, the blur of his words. It hurt, because Peeta had always been good, always brave, always kind.

But in that interview, something else hurt, too.

Because Caesar Flickerman had been there. Sitting beside him. Smiling. Soft-spoken, slower than usual. Older. Maybe just tired. But still performing.

And Cornelia hadn’t been. Not in that interview. Not in any of the others.

He hadn’t watched many of her segments from last year. Couldn’t. But he’d heard them. Heard her voice through doors and speakers. He knew her cadence, her laugh, her sparkle.

He hadn’t heard it once since the Quell ended.

But Caesar was there.

Which meant, to Finnick, that everything must be fine. If something had happened to Cornelia— really happened— Caesar wouldn’t be on camera, business as usual.

The Capitol may have been cruel, but Caesar Flickerman wasn’t made for grief. He wore it worse than anyone Finnick had ever known. Even when they’d only crossed paths in the pre-Games press events, Finnick had watched the older man fumble in silence at the slightest hint of something unscripted. Too softhearted. Too sentimental.

If Cornelia were gone, Caesar would be ruined.

And Caesar wasn’t ruined.

So, Finnick reasoned, she must be fine.

Still— he hadn’t seen her. And that… unsettled him.

A part of him— one he tried to bury— wondered if she was staying away on purpose. If she couldn’t bear to look at the boy she’d once let into her bed, the rebel now.  If she had looked away when he pressed his mouth to Peeta’s to perform CPR. If she had pretended not to know him at all, for her own safety. He couldn’t blame her.

But God, he missed her. Not just her body. Not just the softness of her perfume or the teasing tap of her nails against his arm or the way she’d whisper into his ear with a laugh and a flick of her tongue against his neck.

He missed her laugh. The real one. The laugh that came out like it surprised her, like she hadn’t meant to let it slip. He missed her voice when it dropped low in exhaustion. He missed the silence between them when they weren’t pretending.

Finnick paused his knots. He looked down at the rope in his hands. Loose again.

The voice stayed in her head.

Morning, noon, and night— it spoke to her. Sometimes it murmured like a companion at her side, other times it barked instructions. It never stopped. It never apologized. It had no sense of time, or mercy, or volume.

Cornelia had tried everything to block it out— cotton, earplugs, blaring music, submerging herself beneath the bathwater in her clawfoot tub until her lungs burned. Nothing helped. The implant had been carved in too deep, sunk into the bone just behind her ear, like a seed buried in loam. What bloomed from it was mechanical and cruel and constant.

Some nights, she woke up in a panic— drenched in sweat, a pressure building in her skull like it was going to split her open from the inside. The screeching would return then, splitting her senses like a blade, shattering sleep like glass. A side effect, maybe. Or maybe punishment. She hadn’t slept more than four hours at a time in weeks.

The headaches had grown worse. Sharp, pinpoint agony above her left eye, sometimes migrating down her jaw. Her vision blurred in brief flashes, like someone had clicked a camera too close to her face. Light, once something she craved and cradled like a pet, had become unbearable. Too bright, too loud, too much.

And the vomiting. That came next.

Her body would seize up without warning— often after rehearsals, sometimes during wardrobe fittings. Anything rich was a mistake. Anything at all, really. It was easier not to eat. No one told her to eat, anyway. The voice certainly didn’t care.

There were other voices sometimes, too. Quieter ones. Hushed.

They crept in between the silences like whispers. Sometimes she thought they sounded like her own— half-thoughts, old memories, regrets turned into commands. 

“Don’t say that. Don’t think that.” 

“Don’t cry, don’t scream, don’t call for help.” 

She didn’t know if those voices were hers. She didn’t know if she was thinking anything at all anymore. She could never be too sure these days.

Tonight, the studio was cold.

Cornelia sat on the velvet-cushioned stage chair, legs crossed at the knee, shivering beneath silk.

She wore a cream-colored button-up blouse, the fabric soft and whisper-thin against her skin. Her skirt matched— tailored perfectly to her figure, ending at the knees with a gentle flare. A pale pink chiffon scarf was tied neatly around her neck in a loose, stylish knot, its ends draping down like petals. Her lavender hair had been curled into perfection three hours ago but had since softened, some locks falling a bit loose around her cheeks in gentle spirals. It made her look soft, polished— harmless.

Her makeup was minimal but exacting. Lashes long and thick. Lips tinted rose. A touch of shimmer across the cheekbones. Not enough to distract, but enough to please.

She was, by every metric, perfect.

And yet her fingers twitched in her lap. Her skin itched at the temple. Her gaze drifted slightly, unfocused, toward the glittering lights of the camera rigs.

“Sit up straighter.”

The voice buzzed to life.

Cornelia’s spine obeyed before her mind could catch up.

“Tilt your chin. Breathe in through the nose. Smile in three… two…”

She felt it then— a sharp, sizzling snap behind her left ear. Not quite a shock, but close. Like a needle had been jammed directly into her nerves. She flinched, her shoulders jerking just slightly, a single twitch like a broken marionette before her face corrected itself. Her lips curled upward, soft and slow.

A smile. A lie.

She didn’t even hear the camera cue. Only noticed the red light blink to life and the cameraman nod toward her, face blank, arms folded behind his monitor.

Cornelia’s hands stopped shaking. Her mouth moved. It didn’t feel like her own.

“Good evening.”

The lights above her burned hot.

The scarf at her throat felt like a noose made of silk.

“Tonight, we bring you continued updates from our Capitol relief efforts following the heinous acts of treason committed in the arena three weeks ago.”

She blinked. Slowly. Carefully.

“Thanks to the strength and vigilance of our Peacekeeping Forces, and the guidance of our President, we are beginning to restore order. We are grateful for your patience during this difficult time, and we thank you for your loyalty.”

She heard the voice in her ear purr like a predator.

“Good. Hold the smile. Count to four before the breath.”

Cornelia obeyed. Of course she did.

She felt the pressure in her throat, behind her eyes— something desperate and furious clawing to escape— but it stayed down. It had to. It always had to.

“Citizens of the Capitol, we are safe. We are united. And together, we are strong. Panem today, Panem tomorrow, Panem forever.”

She smiled. Kept smiling. Finished the segment.

She sat perfectly still until the camera light blinked off and the crew gave the signal.

Cornelia rose from her seat. Smoothed her skirt. Touched the scarf at her neck.

“Good,” the voice in her ear whispered. “You’re very good at this.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t think it mattered. She walked off set.

Finnick was always tired.

Not just weary, not just worn— but tired in a way that sat deep in the marrow of his bones. Tired in a way that made his joints ache when he moved too fast, made his eyes sting when he dared to open them too long. He slept through most of his days now, cocooned in the white-sheeted bed in District 13’s hospital wing, a pillow always damp from sweat or tears. They said it was part of recovery. The body healing. The trauma passing through him like smoke through a closed room, slow and clinging. He didn’t argue. Better to sleep, even with the dreams.

He never screamed anymore. That had faded after the second or third day. Now, when he jolted awake, it wasn’t with a shout or a gasp, but with a breath caught just behind his teeth.

This morning was no different.

He woke just before dawn. The sterile lights in the ceiling above had been dimmed to a low, sleep-friendly hum, but Finnick blinked up at them anyway, as though they had been spotlights. His hands rested on his chest, curled loosely. He didn't move. Didn’t need to.

He'd been back in the water in the dream. That’s how it always started. Not the saltwater of home, but the poisoned sea of the arena. Blood warm, metallic. And she had been there, standing just beyond the reach of his hand.

Cornelia. 

Her hair had been longer. Her face had been calm. No mascara, no blush, no lipstick or glitter gloss— nothing but her. The real her. Her brown eyes had stared at him like she was memorizing him. Like she’d already forgotten him and was trying to piece him back together.

She hadn’t spoken. He’d tried to, though. In the dream, he’d reached out, lips parted to say her name, to apologize, to ask if she remembered, but she’d only cried. Silent tears down cheeks that had once held stars and highlighter. And when he tried to move toward her, the waves rose, choking, crashing into him, pushing her further and further away until all he could see was the smear of her reflection in the surface above.

And then he’d woken up.

His throat was dry now. Not from screaming, but from holding his breath so long that he thought his lungs might collapse.

The bed creaked softly as he turned his head. The rope was on the table beside him, coiled loosely. He didn’t reach for it yet. Finnick let his eyes drift closed again, not to sleep, but just to not look.

They’d stopped trying to wake him now. Not after the meal incident. One of the younger nurses had tried to coax him out of sleep for a nutrient bar and some water. She hadn’t known better. Hadn’t known that if he was under, he needed to stay under. That dreams were safer than waking.

He hadn’t meant to react the way he did— heart racing, sweat dripping down the back of his neck, hands trembling as he’d launched upright in the bed, looking for Mags, searching the corners of the room for the fog, the wire, Katniss, Beetee, Peeta, Johanna. Cornelia. He hadn’t even known where he was until he’d seen the dark metal walls of the hospital and the chalk-white clothing of 13’s uniforms. He hadn’t remembered passing back out, either. But they said he slept fifteen hours after that.

Coin and Plutarch had come the next day. They tried to schedule a meeting. A “briefing,” they called it. Wanted to discuss how they might use him in the propos. What he was willing to say. What he could say. How they could shape his image to serve the war effort. They didn’t put it in those exact words, but Finnick knew the game. He’d played it all his life. He hadn’t been awake long enough for the meeting to happen. Just opened his eyes long enough to see Plutarch pacing at the edge of the bed. Coin had stood still, hands clasped.

They didn’t wake him again after that. So he slept. And when he didn’t sleep, he laid in bed and listened to his own breath. Sometimes he tied knots in the rope until his hands bled. Today, though, he didn’t reach for it. 

He sat up slowly, muscles screaming in protest from disuse, and let his bare feet dangle off the edge of the bed. The floor was cold. The whole wing was always cold, no matter how many blankets they gave him. 

The voice was angry with her.

It hadn’t said so outright— hadn’t spat it into her skull like a furious parent or scolding teacher. The voice never yelled. That was what made it worse. The voice didn’t need to scream. It punished. It reprimanded without volume. Its wrath came in waves of searing white pain, jabs of electric heat directly into the thin skin behind her left ear, like a branding iron slipping beneath the bone.

Cornelia wasn’t entirely sure what she had done. She’d gone over her last broadcast in her mind again and again— each syllable, each blink, each carefully choreographed smile. She had spoken clearly. She had made the prescribed hand gestures. She had tilted her head when it asked. She’d even laughed once— on cue. And still, the voice had struck her before the end of the segment. A short, sharp crackle of agony that had left her fingers twitching and the taste of copper pooling beneath her tongue.

There was no point in fighting with someone— or something— that wasn’t real. Or worse, that wasn’t there. So she endured it.

Like a good girl. Like a Flickerman. Not because she was brave, but because there was no other choice. 

She had once been known for her voice, her presence, her ability to sparkle onstage. She had been her father’s daughter, in every way that mattered. The Capitol’s darling third generation. The heir apparent to glittering banter and perfectly timed ad-libs.

Now, her words were not her own. Now, she did not speak— she recited.

Every syllable, every line, every sentence was piped into her through that thing behind her ear. The distorted male voice still spoke like he was half-man, half-machine— deep and low and soaked in static. Sometimes she wondered if he had once been someone else. A man, maybe, in some far-off Peacekeeper post or a former Gamemaker. Now he was just a ghost, pressed into her skull, dictating her every breath.

He did not yell at her.

He punished her.

If she stuttered, she was punished. If she paused for a breath in the wrong place, she was punished. If she said something out of order or, worse, added something of her own, she was punished. Cornelia had learned to stop trying. The moment her lips began to form anything that wasn’t fed to her, the shock would follow. She had been trained— conditioned into silence. Conditioned into obedience.

And the side effects were getting worse.

Her ear bled.

It started small— just a sting behind the implant site, a warm stickiness against the shell of her ear. Then more. Then more frequently. She would wake with blood crusted against her pillow. More than once, her stylist had noticed the staining on her collar. Cornelia always laughed it off. Blamed it on an ear piercing or a headband mishap.

Her vomiting had become routine. Sometimes it came in the early mornings, sometimes late at night. Sometimes it followed the shocks. Sometimes it came randomly— so random it made her wonder if the implant was affecting her entire nervous system. She could no longer keep a schedule. Could no longer trust her body.

Sleep was a fantasy now. On the rare occasions she did sleep, it came in bursts of twenty minutes at most. She’d jolt awake with her heart pounding, the echo of the screeching still ringing in her ear like an alarm siren. She was always terrified the next voice she’d hear in the dark would not be her own thoughts but the deep, distorted whisper of the one buried in her skull.

Sometimes she screamed into her pillow. Sometimes she didn’t bother.

Her father knew. Of course he knew.

Caesar Flickerman was many things, but blind was not one of them. He knew something had happened. Something that changed his daughter. The brightness had dulled. The joy had fractured. Her smile still performed, but her eyes had dimmed.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t speak of it. Perhaps that was his own punishment. To see her unravel, and to know there was no cure. No antidote. No fix. Just compliance. Just survival.

She was wearing a dark blue silk blouse today, buttoned to the throat. A sheer black tulle scarf tied softly around her neck. She didn’t remember picking it out. She didn’t remember the stylist's name. Everything blurred now— faces, fabrics, voices that weren’t in her head.

The camera lights came on with a soft whir.

Cornelia stood in front of the Capitol insignia wall, camera B trained tightly on her face.

“Stand straight. Tilt your chin slightly to the left. Blink. Smile.”

She obeyed.

Her lavender hair was swept into an elegant twist behind her head, a few strands curling loose around her temples. Her makeup was flawless, even as her skin had gone pale and thin, even as the stylist had to add extra contour beneath her cheekbones to make her look healthy. She looked like porcelain. Beautiful, but breakable.

The cue came.

She began to speak.

“Citizens of the Capitol,” she said, her voice gentle and clear, “we thank you for joining us tonight as we report on another brutal rebel attack. This time, a dam in District 5.”

Her lips moved in sync with the voice. Not behind it. Not ahead of it. She was a vessel. A mannequin with a soul stitched behind her ribs.

“This facility was critical to the distribution of power across multiple districts. The damage caused has resulted in blackouts, injuries, and loss of civilian life.”

A pause. Too long.

Crack.

Cornelia flinched— barely. Just a jolt to her left, the twitch of her eyelid, a sudden gasp through her nose. Her posture shifted. She clenched her hands behind her back.

She blinked rapidly, and then continued.

“We condemn these cowardly acts of terrorism. But rest assured, the Capitol is not weakened. We remain vigilant. Strong. United.”

Her voice didn’t break, but her body trembled.

She could feel something wet on her neck, trailing down from the shell of her ear. She dared not reach up. Dared not wipe it. One drop landed on the blue silk of her blouse, just above her left shoulder.

No one moved to stop the broadcast. No one dared.

She finished the segment. Delivered the closing line.

“May the Capitol always shine bright,” she said with a smile she no longer felt, “and may our unity never falter.”

The dining hall of District 13 was mostly quiet, aside from the subtle scrape of utensils on metal trays and the hum of the overhead monitors that blinked with schedule updates and Capitol broadcasts. No one here laughed. No one here lingered. They ate, they left, they reported to their next assignment like soldiers. Even those who had never wanted to be.

Finnick had barely touched his tray.

His fork hung loose in his fingers, untouched save for the first stab into a piece of unseasoned meat that now sat, mangled, forgotten. His wrist ached faintly. They were letting him roam more freely now— no more hospital wing confinements, no more whispered arguments outside his door about whether he was stable enough. His head nurse had cleared him two days ago, though he was still under observation. They all were, in some way.

He didn't care. Because Cornelia was on television. There.

He saw her. She was alive. That should have been a relief— of course it was. She was Caesar’s daughter. He had told himself she would be safe. That nothing could touch her. Not the war, not Snow, not the unraveling of their world.

So why did he feel a gnawing sense of dread? Why did his stomach clench like something vital had been torn? Why did—

His thoughts were cut off like a guillotine falling.

The screen on the wall flickered to life above them, one of the ever-rotating feeds playing Capitol broadcasts. And there she was. Standing in front of a stark cream backdrop with gold Capitol insignia embossed behind her, wearing a silk shirt in a navy blue, her faded lavender hair pinned back. Her mouth was moving. Her hands were delicately placed at her waist. Her posture perfect.

But Finnick wasn’t looking at her face. His gaze froze lower.

Her eye twitched. A blink— too sharp, too forced. Then a sudden jolt. Barely perceptible to the untrained eye. But he noticed. Because he knew her. He had known Cornelia Flickerman in every way a man could know a woman. And that was not her.

Not like her at all.

His fork clattered to his tray with a dull clang.

His body tensed, every nerve lit up, adrenaline firing up his spine like a cold flare. The beginnings of movement— his leg jerked under the table, the muscles in his arm pulling taut as if to push himself up, but he caught it before it became obvious.

Still, his heart was thundering.

Across from him, Katniss glanced up in confusion. Beside her, Haymitch hadn’t moved at all— save for his eyes. They were locked on the screen. Wide, glassy, vacant. Like he was looking at a ghost. Like he was seeing something else.

Finnick looked at him sharply.

Haymitch was pale. There was something haunted flickering across his face. Like he wasn’t seeing Cornelia— not truly— but someone else superimposed behind her eyes.

And Cornelia— his Cornelia— was on screen again, voice clipped and gentle as she said, “We condemn these cowardly acts of terrorism—”

And there it was.

Blood.

A small, gleaming line of it, too stark against her pale skin. Tracing a path down from her ear to her jaw, then curling beneath her chin.

There was blood on her shirt.

Finnick stood so fast his chair screeched back. The tray on his table rattled.

“Finnick?” Katniss asked, rising slightly. Gale blinked up at him, confused.

He didn’t respond. His eyes were wide, mouth parted slightly as the words flooded his head.

Blood. Blood. Blood. There was blood on her shirt. There was blood on her shirt.

His chest constricted. His heart was no longer beating— it was thundering, crashing like waves against the cliffside.

No. No, no, no. She was supposed to be safe. She was supposed to be untouched. That was the whole point. She was the Capitol. She was protected. Snow wouldn’t touch her. Not her. Not—

But what was that blood?

Blood. Blood on her shirt. Blood on her neck, blood coming out of her ear—

His breath hitched, a raw sound catching at the back of his throat.

Finnick jerked out of the dining hall like a man lit on fire.

“Odair!” Haymitch barked behind him.

Finnick didn’t stop.

He was headed for Command. He needed Beetee. Needed to know. Something was wrong. He could feel it, the same way he’d once known the ocean’s moods before a storm, the same way he had once looked into Snow’s eyes and known when death was being dealt. He could feel it in his bones.

He was nearly at the elevator when Haymitch caught up to him.

“Finnick!” Haymitch snapped, grabbing his arm. “What the hell was that about?”

Finnick ripped his arm away. “I need to talk to Beetee.”

“About what?”

Finnick didn’t answer.

Haymitch narrowed his eyes. “Is this about the Flickerman girl?”

Finnick’s shoulders tensed.

Haymitch caught it. That small crack in his composure. He looked at him long. Too long. Something was twisting in the air between them now, heavy and unspoken.

Haymitch folded his arms. “Let it go, Finnick.”

Finnick turned, expression barely restrained. “What?”

“Let. It. Go,” Haymitch said again, firmer. “That girl on the screen? She’s gone. Whatever you thought she was, whoever she was, she’s not that now.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Finnick snapped, his voice hoarse, ragged at the edges. “You don’t know her.”

Haymitch’s jaw clenched. “I know a hell of a lot more than you think I do, Odair.” 

Silence stretched between them.

Haymitch stared him down. There was pity in his eyes. Anger. Resignation. “You keep chasing ghosts, you’re gonna get yourself killed. Or worse, you’ll get her killed.”

Finnick didn’t move. His hands were trembling. He scrubbed them over his face, roughly, fingers shaking at his temples.

“I can’t let it go,” he said softly. “I can’t. I can't."

He turned away.

Haymitch didn’t stop him this time. He watched Finnick disappear down the corridor. And then, he closed his eyes. Because he knew how this would end. It always ended the same.

Her ear hurt her ear hurt her ear hurt—

Cornelia woke with a scream trapped in her throat. The pressure behind her left ear was unbearable, a molten spike being slowly twisted into the meat of her skull. Her fingers clawed beneath the tangle of her lavender-streaked curls, blunt nails scraping and tearing at the skin behind her ear where the flesh had already gone raw. She gasped— each breath shallow, wet— and tried to muffle her sobs into the blanket, but her body was shaking too violently. She couldn’t stop.

The voice was louder now. There were multiple voices now.

Some whispered. Others shouted. One voice instructed her to stand. Another said she was a disgrace. Another told her that the Capitol would never love her again. That she’d failed. Failed her mother, her father, the Flickerman name.

“Speak clearly. Smile. Smile. You are the Capitol. You are the light. You are the Capitol. Smile.”

Her mouth contorted into something between a sob and a grimace. She clawed harder. She felt the skin split under her nails. Blood again. Warm and hot. It slid down her neck and soaked into the collar of her nightgown.

She didn’t know what was real anymore.

She didn’t know if any of the voices belonged to her.

She didn’t realize she wasn’t alone until hands— cold, rough hands— grabbed at her shoulders.

Cornelia flinched and thrashed, trying to wrench herself backward into the headboard of her bed, but the hands were already closing around her arms. Two Peacekeepers stood over her, faceless behind their black visors. One yanked the covers from her body. Another grabbed her by the waist, lifting her like a ragdoll. She shrieked, the sound raw and animal, but it came out hoarse— guttural.

“Don’t—! Let me—! Don’t touch me!” Her words slurred. Her lips wouldn’t shape around the syllables fast enough. “It hurts, it hurts—”

They said nothing. They never spoke. Peacekeepers didn’t need to speak.

The bedroom blurred behind her. The silk curtains, the pastel upholstery, the pearl-handled vanity— all of it faded into motionless shapes as she was dragged out into the hall. Somewhere, she thought she heard her father’s voice calling her name.

But it might’ve just been one of the whispers again. Or a memory. She didn’t know. She didn’t know.

The hallways were colder beneath the Tribute Center.

The tile turned from white to grey. Then to a concrete darker than smoke. She knew this corridor. She’d walked it once before. Or had it been in a dream?

No. No. This was real.

The Peacekeepers did not slow their pace. Her bare feet slapped against the floor, and her hands shook uselessly at her sides. She didn’t scream anymore. She was too tired. She was trying to remember how to breathe.

They turned one last corner— an unmarked hallway— and the Peacekeepers threw open a steel door before throwing her in. She landed on the floor with a graceless thud, the wind punched out of her lungs. Her left side hit the ground first. Her temple smacked the tile, and a sharp pain flared through her already-damaged ear. The door slammed shut behind her.

Silence. Not complete— never complete.

The screeching returned. Louder now. White-hot and splitting. It tore through her inner ear like shrapnel. She let out a soft whimper and rolled onto her side.

The floor was cold. She pressed her left ear against it as hard as she could. If she pushed hard enough, maybe she could smother the voice.

It didn’t stop.

She was still gasping for breath. Her face was soaked. She didn’t know if she was sweating or crying or both.

The cell had no windows. No furniture. Just steel walls and the stench of old blood and disinfectant. Her body curled in on itself like a leaf caught in winter wind. Her fingers still clutched at the back of her head.

It throbbed. The nerves behind her ear felt swollen, pulsing like they might rupture at any moment. Her hands trembled in front of her, smeared with half-dried blood. Her ear was ringing. Screaming. Singing.

She wondered if anyone would come for her, or if this would be her fate. If this was where it ended. If it were to end in a white cell and a piercing shriek in her skull, she hoped it would be swift and take her soon.

The door didn’t stand a chance.

Finnick shoved it open so hard that it struck the inside wall with a metallic clang, causing several heads in the control room to jerk up in alarm. He didn’t care. He needed answers. Now. He didn’t care how long it took. He didn’t care how or who could make it happen. He needed them. Needed truth. Needed someone— anyone— to explain what the hell he had just seen on that screen. Because whatever it was, it was wrong.

Cornelia Flickerman did not flinch. She didn’t twitch, didn’t jerk, didn’t jolt. Hell, the girl hadn’t even flinched when he’d pushed her into the doorframe of the hotel bathroom. Cornelia was melodramatic about everything except the things that mattered. She would scream if she chipped a manicure but never said a word if her wrist was bruised from where he’d gripped it too tightly during a dream-induced panic. She would whimper about a heel blister, but if her heart was breaking, she smiled.

But she had flinched. On camera. In front of the world. And no one noticed. Not the Capitol, not the crew, not the stylists. Not her father. And she had bled.

Why was no one doing anything?

“Beetee,” Finnick said sharply, his voice cutting through the hum of machinery.

The man turned in his wheelchair, his eyes blinking slowly as he processed the storm of a man who had just barreled into the room.

Beside him, Plutarch lifted his head from a tangle of screens and readouts. “Finnick—?”

“I need the last propo played back,” Finnick interrupted, his voice clipped, breathless, trembling with frustration. “The one from the Capitol broadcast. The one with Cornelia Flickerman.”

Plutarch frowned. “Flickerman—?”

“Just play it back,” Finnick snapped, gesturing sharply to the monitors. He could feel the eyes on him now. Several technicians and assistants had paused what they were doing, and even Beetee hesitated for a beat longer than necessary, his fingers hovering above the console.

Beetee turned slightly in his chair, gaze studying Finnick’s face with a careful, probing look. “What is this about?”

Finnick clenched his fists. “Just play it back. Slow it down if you have to.”

Plutarch stepped forward slightly, palms up in a placating gesture. “Finnick, I don’t know what’s going on here, but if this is—”

“Stop.” Finnick turned on him, eyes wild. “Just. Stop.”

The silence after that was heavy.

Beetee nodded once, the barest inclination of his head, before turning back to the panel and typing in a few keys. The center monitor flickered before resolving into the most recent Capitol transmission.

Cornelia’s face appeared. Pristine. Poised. She looked perfect. Like she always had. Too perfect.

Her voice echoed in the control room: "We thank you for joining us tonight—”

“Slow it down,” Finnick murmured.

Beetee adjusted a dial. The footage slowed, and there it was.

Her eye twitched. Her fingers tensed. Her shoulder jerked. And then— a drop of blood. Thin, barely there, but stark against the navy silk.

“There,” Finnick breathed. “There, do you see that?”

Plutarch’s face went still. The concerned frown was replaced with something more cautious. Controlled.

Beetee adjusted his glasses and stared at the slowed footage with the quiet attention of someone inspecting a malfunctioning machine. His eyes moved with each frame, each second of Cornelia’s expression— her blinking, her shift in posture, the stuttering of her words.

“It’s invasive Capitol tech,” he said softly.

Finnick’s head whipped around.

Beetee kept his gaze on the screen. “There’s no way to know exactly what’s been implanted or used on her without a direct physical observation. But based on the reaction, the muscular contraction, the eye movement, the bleeding, it’s almost certainly a neural device. Similar technology has been used before, but it's only ever been used for experimentation purposes. It's hard to say what the long-term effects will be if it is already affecting her this severely.”

Finnick pressed his fingers to his eyes, dragging down hard. He knew it. He’d felt it.

Plutarch was watching him carefully now. Like one might watch a lion pacing too close to a child. 

“Finnick,” he said softly. “Do you want to return to the medical wing?”

Finnick’s eyes snapped toward him. “No.”

“Because you’re obviously not—”

Finnick wasn't listening anymore. He had already turned, storming out of the room without another word.

The cell was safe.

It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t particularly forgiving in any way. But it was safe.

No one screamed at her in the cell. No stylists fussed with her hair or painted a mask over her face. No camera lenses followed her gaze like hawks, watching for the wrong blink or breath. And for the past three days, no one had come to open the door. That— by Capitol standards— was a kind of mercy.

It was cold, yes. The tiles on the floor never warmed no matter how many hours she spent curled up on them, back pressed to the wall, cheek resting flat against her own shoulder. The metallic tang in the air reminded her of blood, and the high, faint hum of electrical wiring overhead often set her teeth on edge. But she preferred all of that to the alternative. Preferred it to the cameras. To the broadcast suites. To him.

The voice had gone quiet. Mostly.

Not entirely.

Sometimes, just before she drifted off into sleep, she’d hear it again— a metallic flicker, a sharp pop of static in her left ear. A single word that may or may not have been meant for her.

“Obey.”

“Smile.”

“Speak.”

She didn’t speak.

Not since she’d been thrown into the cell.

Her voice had shriveled inside her like a flower pressed too tightly between the pages of a book. There had been a time, not long ago, when Cornelia Flickerman could light up a room just by entering it. Her laugh had been infectious. Her wardrobe inspired entire fashion weeks. Her commentary made the Capitol swoon.

Now she slept.

The first full day after they locked her in the cell, she curled into the far corner of the room, tugged her arms over her head, and stayed that way for what felt like hours— maybe longer. When the door slit open in the wall and a tray slid forward with a half-loaf of crusty bread and a plastic cup of water, she didn’t move. Just watched the tray from the corner of her eye. Wondered if there were bugs in it. Microphones. Listening devices. Or worse— voices.

She didn’t touch it.

By the end of the first day, she thought about the birds. Doves, white and fluttering, soaring up into the ballroom skylight at her eighteenth birthday gala. She had dressed in a peacock feather dress. Her father had matched her, wearing a suit in the same color. And Finnick had been there.

She missed those days. She missed him, too, but only a little. 

By the second day, she didn’t move from her spot at all.

Sometimes she shivered. Sometimes she whispered to herself. Nothing clear. Just sound. Her own voice, just to remember what it felt like. Just to drown out the occasional feedback tickling the inside of her skull. The chip never left. It slept too, it seemed. But not always.

The tray came again that day. Crackers this time. Dry. Broken down the middle like the rest of her.

She drank the water— slowly. Tilting the cup back like it was poison, but knowing her body needed it. The pressure in her ear was slightly better after she drank something. She wasn’t sure why.

She still didn’t eat. Not out of vanity. Not anymore. She was afraid that if she consumed something, she would consume their voice too. That it would curl around her tongue and take root there. That it would climb back up her throat when she wasn’t looking.

So she slept. She dreamed.

Her dreams made no sense. Spilled perfume bottles, birds with broken wings, a ring made of rose petals. Finnick again— his hands bound, whispering her name. Her mother, standing behind him with a scalpel. And her father, weeping. Always weeping.

When Cornelia woke again, the cell was dark. The overhead light had gone out. Whether it had burnt out or been turned off, she didn’t know. She lay there, blinking in the dark, not entirely sure she was awake.

Until she heard the footsteps. Soft at first. Just a shuffle. Her body locked up, every muscle tense beneath her skin. She drew her knees up to her chest and buried her face there, trying to disappear. Her ears strained. The footsteps grew louder. Approaching. Slow. Deliberate.

She counted them. One, two, three.

Her chest started to rise and fall faster. She barely registered the screeching feedback beginning again in her ear— white noise, high-pitched, dull and needling. But then— nothing. Just silence again.

The footsteps stopped. They didn’t open the door.

Cornelia’s breathing didn’t slow. Her heart felt like it had climbed up into her throat. Her ear throbbed. Her left eye was beginning to twitch again. She gripped her arms tight around her body and rocked slightly, the motion comforting in some strange, primal way.

She didn’t want to go out there. Not ever again. She didn’t want to be on a screen. Didn’t want makeup or dresses or smiling on cue. Didn’t want her voice to be hijacked like some marionette on a Capitol string.

She just wanted to not be for a while. Not dead. No. Never dead. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. But she wanted to unexist. To step out of her body and dissolve into nothing. Like a bird.

She thought again of her birthday party. Of the way the hummingbirds had fluttered up into the glass dome overhead and vanished into the sky beyond. She hadn’t known where they went. She hadn’t cared.

But now she did. She wanted to be one of them. Free, uncaged, and most of all— unseen.

The voice in her head— when it did speak— told her otherwise.

“Tomorrow. Smile. Walk. Breathe. Speak. Speak. Speak.”

Cornelia closed her eyes and slept again.

Chapter Text

August, 75 ADD

FOOLISH. Completely and utterly foolish.

That was what he was. That was the only word his mind could summon, again and again, as he stalked back and forth across the confines of his compartment. Foolish. A fool. A pathetic, lovesick idiot pacing in too-tight circles like a caged dog, like someone under Capitol control all over again— except this time, the torment was of his own making. It was his brain that was trapping him. The thoughts. The images. Her.

He turned too quickly and slammed his hip into the corner of the narrow desk bolted against the wall. Pain bloomed up his side and gave him pause for half a breath before he moved again, rubbing the spot like it would knock loose the shame curdling his stomach.

Foolish.

Foolish for getting this close— so close— to feeling the physical pain of her absence. A pain that must’ve been hers first, that was somehow bleeding into his skin. A phantom ache that didn’t belong to him and yet refused to leave. It was crawling under his fingernails, burrowing behind his teeth. He couldn’t breathe around it.

He should’ve stayed. He should’ve died in that arena, in the jungle, in the ocean. He should’ve let himself be taken again, broken again. He would’ve survived it. He always did. That’s what he was good for— surviving. For being beautiful and bruised and breathing.

Maybe if he’d been taken, she wouldn’t have been punished.

Or maybe— maybe they would’ve been punished together. Maybe that would’ve been enough. Close enough to see her. Close enough to touch her hand and make sure she still had blood in her veins and not wires. Even if they tore his body to pieces, he would’ve taken it— so long as she wasn’t alone.

But she was. She was alone. And she was hurting. And he couldn’t do a thing about it.

He turned again, this time too quickly, and knocked into the desk a second time. The sharp corner bit into his thigh and he snapped.

“Damn it!”

With a sound more animal than human, Finnick shoved his hands forward and flipped the entire desk off the wall. It came loose with a groan of metal and hit the floor with a punishing crash, papers and pens scattering in every direction. The stool beside it clattered onto its side and rolled. He kicked it— hard— sent it flying into the wall, where it bounced and hit the floor with a hollow thud.

But it wasn’t enough.

He reached down and flipped the stool again, and the desk too, yanking it back up only to send it slamming down harder. He wanted it to break. He wanted something to break. Because he was breaking and there was nothing else to do.

Finnick stumbled backward and braced his hands against the wall, chest heaving, eyes wild and stinging. He pressed his palms to his face, dragging them down with a sob caught deep in his throat. 

Then he screamed, a guttural cry that came from the deepest, most private part of him. He cursed into his palms, strings of words and syllables that barely made sense, his voice cracking from too much silence and too much holding it all inside.

He slid to the floor, breath still sharp in his throat, and curled his arms around his knees while wondering if the next broadcast would show blood again.

The walls were white. The floor was gray.

White walls, gray floor. White plastic— plaster? Linoleum?— and gray tiles. Or concrete. Didn’t matter. It all felt the same. Cold and endless and empty. She had tried to scratch at it once, to leave a mark— something of herself behind— but the nail had broken and her finger had bled, and she hadn’t tried again. The floor wouldn’t remember her. Nothing would.

Cornelia blinked slowly.

Her nails were white now. White and flesh. Red underneath where her skin had torn and crusted over. Her left ear itched. It ached. Felt plugged most of the time, and when it didn’t ache it buzzed. And when it didn’t buzz, it echoed. Like something was alive in her skull, crawling through her cochlea, tapping along the nerves. She knew the chip was still in there. Knew because she hadn’t been able to hear properly in three days. Four, maybe. She wasn’t keeping track anymore.

She hadn’t been shocked in a while. That much, she knew.

She could lift her head again. Could turn it slowly without the immediate scream of burning tissue lancing through her temple. The swelling had gone down, she thought. She could feel her fingertips again. Could taste her own tongue. Could lie on her back without the tremors returning.

Small victories.

She blinked, and the room was dark. She hadn’t noticed it happen. Hadn’t heard the lights click off or dim. Just one blink, and the world shifted. She must have fallen asleep again.

The sleep came fast, always. Slipped in like fog through the cracks in her mind. Sometimes it was shallow, sometimes deep. Sometimes she dreamed. Sometimes she didn’t.

Her breath slowed. Her chest rose and fell in long, uneven waves. The floor was harder than she remembered, colder, and her cheek was pressed so firmly to the tile that she could feel her pulse beating back through it.

She gasped awake. Jaw clenched. Eyes wide. The room was light again. It had returned somehow.

She didn’t remember the light flicking on. Didn’t remember opening her eyes, either. Her spine was sore, her ribs ached, and there was something sticky near the left side of her jaw— blood, probably. From her ear. Again.

She exhaled slowly, chest trembling with the effort.

How many days had it been? Three in the dark, two in the light before that, or was it five altogether? Seven? How long had it been since she saw her father?

She didn’t know anymore. The walls offered no answers.

She rolled onto her back— slowly, carefully— and stared up at the ceiling. It looked just like the walls. White and void. She imagined the ceiling would fold open, and a Peacekeeper would lower down from the roof like a spider on a line, carrying another tray of bread or the next order or another voice. But nothing came. Not yet.

The silence was its own voice now.

She heard it differently, now that her ears had been stolen from her. The silence was the absence of pain, and the absence of pain was as sacred as breathing. When it lasted more than a few minutes, Cornelia felt like she was somewhere else. Somewhere safer.

But it didn’t last. It never did.

She curled a finger toward her ear. Just to feel if it was still there. The left side. Still swollen. Still tender. Her nail found a patch of dried blood beneath the curve of her ear. She flinched. Pulled her hand back. Licked her dry lips.

The implant didn’t speak. Not today. Or maybe it was waiting.

The voice hadn’t given orders since she was dragged in here. That was the pattern, she realized. They only wanted her when she could be used. Shined up and lacquered in foundation. Mascaraed into submission. She wasn’t useful in a cell. She wasn’t pretty here.

Good. Let them leave her.

Cornelia rolled to her side and stared again at the wall.

White. Smooth. Lifeless.

There was a time when she would’ve hated the lack of color. She had lived for color. Bathed in lavender light, wore gowns, styled herself to match the seasons like a painted doll. 

Cornelia pressed her palms against her eyes. The pressure helped. A little.

The echo in her skull grew louder at night. She thought the implant might react to the power grid. That, or her thoughts were just louder when the lights went out. Either way, she could never fall asleep comfortably. Only in moments of complete mental exhaustion. Only after she let her thoughts spin like a wheel until her eyes gave up.

She never slept deeply. And always woke with her heart racing.

Still, it was better than being on. Better than being watched. Better than makeup and costumes and microphones and rehearsed smiles. Better than the audience’s applause after she lied through her teeth.

Finnick didn’t know Plutarch that well. Not in the way he knew Haymitch, or even Boggs. He knew the man had been a Gamemaker once— back when the Capitol still cheered for blood and spectacle without any shame or whispers of rebellion to contradict the pageantry. Finnick had seen him before, years ago, in the viewing lounges and training centers, wearing his theatrical gold-threaded suits and whispering behind clipboards with other Capitol officials.

But now Plutarch stood for something else. Or said he did.

He’d outlived one allegiance and survived the transition into another, aligning himself first with Snow, then with Coin. Two leaders, two presidents. Both dangerous. Both demanding. That Plutarch could operate under both regimes, play both sides without being caught, said something about him. Finnick just wasn’t sure what.

He respected Plutarch, sure. But trust? That was another matter entirely. He didn’t trust Coin. And he certainly didn’t trust many people. He’d never had the luxury of doing so. Not since he was fourteen and sent to kill for applause.

The compartment felt colder after the bombing. The walls were still faintly dusted with residue, the air filtration stiffer, humming harder in the background. He sat on the lower cot of the bunk bed, legs open, elbows resting on his knees. His fingers worried at the frayed end of a length of rope someone had given him to keep his hands busy— a therapeutic strategy, they had said. A grounding tactic to remind him of home. Finnick didn’t care what they called it. He just wanted something to destroy.

So he tore it. Strand by strand.

The door creaked open behind him. He didn’t look up. He knew the footsteps by now.

“Plans are in motion,” Plutarch said, conversationally. “To rescue the hostages still being held beneath the Tribute Center.”

Finnick’s eyes stayed on his rope. He tore one of the loose ends, slow and deliberate, until the entire tip of the cord frayed.

“I thought you should know,” Plutarch added, stepping further inside.

Finnick didn’t answer. He didn’t blink.

Plutarch waited a beat. Maybe for thanks. Maybe for acknowledgement. Neither came.

“It’ll be Annie. Peeta. Johanna,” Plutarch continued, “And anyone else still alive who can be reached.”

That made Finnick’s eyes lift. He looked up— not quick, not startled, just direct.

“That’s good,” he said after a moment. His voice was rough. “It’s best they’re saved before they’re in worse shape.”

He said it so simply. So flatly. But something in his jaw clenched hard at the word worse.

Plutarch nodded, leaning slightly against the metal desk that jutted from the wall. “They’re already in rough shape,” he said. He kept his eyes on him, as if gauging the reaction before continuing, “I’ve seen people like her before.”

Finnick’s hands stopped moving.

Plutarch continued. “Capitol implants. Memory recalibration. Psychological puppeteering. By the look of her on that screen, the damage is already done.”

Finnick’s head snapped up, his eyes sharp.

“Oh, like the damage isn’t done to Peeta?” he said, voice rising. “He’s still talking. He still looks like himself. Doesn’t mean there’s nothing left in there. So why is it different for her?”

His tone was bordering on furious, but it was rooted in something deeper— something too raw to name.

Plutarch gave him a long look. “You seem to care an awful lot about the Flickerman girl,” he said.

Finnick’s jaw tightened again. His eyes lowered to his hands, to the rope now slack between them. “Someone has to,” he said.

There was no trace of irony in his voice. No apology. He didn’t offer an explanation. Didn’t elaborate.

For a long moment, there was only the buzz of the overhead lights and the faint noise of machinery beyond the walls.

“She may be held where Peeta is,” Plutarch said finally. “Or nearby.”

Finnick looked up again.

Plutarch’s face had softened, ever so slightly. “We’ll need a distraction. A propo. Something public. A statement to draw Snow’s attention while we get the retrieval team inside.”

Finnick nodded slowly. He already knew where this was going. He’d known from the moment Plutarch walked in.

“I assume you want me to do it,” Finnick said. His voice was quiet. “The distraction.”

Plutarch gave a single nod.

Finnick’s fingers moved again. He pulled another thread from the rope, working it free from the braid. “I’ll do it.”

Plutarch didn’t nod, didn’t thank him. Just stood there for a moment more. Then turned and quietly exited the room, the door shutting with a soft click.

Finnick sat alone again.

The compartment felt smaller than before. More suffocating. His palms itched and the rope frayed further in his grip. He thought of the screen. Of Cornelia’s smile. The way her mouth moved out of sync with her eyes. The moment her cheek twitched, and her eye blinked like it didn’t want to.

The blood.

He saw it every time he closed his eyes.

And now, now there was a plan. A chance.

But even if they got her back— if— what then?

What if she was already too far gone?

He’d been thinking of her voice a lot lately. Not the voice from the screen. Her voice. The way she used to say his name. That breathy lilt when she laughed. How she teased him, how she sighed when she was frustrated with him, how she whispered against his skin. How she sounded when she wanted to be held.

He’d held her. So many nights, so many afternoons, in those stolen, selfish moments. And he’d thought he could let her go. He’d thought she could slip away into the Capitol’s gold-plated walls and he wouldn’t care. But he had been wrong.

And now?

He would burn the whole city down just to hear her voice again— not the one they forced through her lips on screen, but the one she used to speak when the lights were out.

Cornelia. Not the one they were plastering on the propos and screens, but his Cornelia. 

He tore another strip of rope loose and let it fall to the floor.

Smoke.

There was smoke leaking into her cell.

It curled in slow, quiet tendrils beneath the thin frame of the door, a strange, creeping thing that didn’t hiss or flare or fill the room in some dramatic rush. It came soft. Like mist. Like breath. Like something imagined in a dream. It was pale, nearly white— so white it matched the tile, so white she almost didn't notice at first. And when she did, Cornelia simply stared at it with blank, half-lidded eyes, curled into herself on the floor. Her body refused to panic. Her lungs wouldn’t even catch. She was too tired.

Was this how it ended? Had the voices come to take her away? Had Snow?

Maybe this was the end. Maybe that was fine.

Cornelia wasn’t entirely sure anymore. Nothing seemed real, not the screeching in her skull or the silence that followed. Not the dryness in her throat or the pressure that still radiated behind her left ear. She assumed this was another dream. Just another dream.

She assumed it until the smoke grew thicker. Until it kissed her cheeks and pooled inside her nose. Until her chest tightened and her vision dimmed. Until her head slumped forward against the tile, her hands slipping across the floor as her arms gave out.

Then nothing. Not even the voice. Not even the pain.

“This is Finnick Odair, winner of the 65th Hunger Games, and I’m coming to you from District 13, alive and well. We’ve survived an assault from the Capitol, but I’m not here to give you recent news. The truth, not the myths about a life of luxury.”

Snow knew.

The whole time.

About the rescue. About the distraction. About the rebellion’s attempt to infiltrate the Tribute Center.

And Finnick, foolish Finnick, had dared to hope.

He hadn’t said it aloud— he rarely did— but he had believed, for a moment, that Annie would be rescued. That Johanna would be freed. That Peeta would be returned. That maybe, just maybe, Cornelia would be with them. Tucked away in some cell, some silver-and-white Capitol box, bruised but alive. Salvageable.

He had held on to that hope like a lifeline. He had used it to anchor himself through the agony of filming the propo. Through the humiliation of tearing his soul wide open in front of a camera, of spilling the darkest truths he’d carried for nearly a decade just so they could catch Snow’s eye long enough to move behind his back.

He’d used the truth as currency. And now it felt worthless.

The words— so carefully chosen, so painfully honest— they didn’t matter anymore. Because the feed had gone black. The rescue team had gone silent. 

Finnick sat beside Katniss on the bench along the hallway wall, staring at the floor, his jaw set, his breathing ragged, the rope burning his palms as he shredded it strand by strand. Not even pulling anymore— tearing, unraveling, mauling it like a wolf trying to claw its way out of a trap.

Katniss didn’t say anything. Maybe she didn’t know what to say. Maybe she was just too familiar with grief to waste breath on false comforts. She only watched as he pulled the rope apart in violent, repetitive motions, as if by undoing it he could undo everything that had brought them here.

It wasn’t working.

He could feel the pain blooming in his skin where the fibers bit into him, could feel his pulse hammering in his throat. His chest ached. His eyes burned. Every second of silence between updates felt like another layer of himself peeling away.

He had given himself to a lost cause again.

That was his pattern, wasn’t it? Tripping over his own desperate hope again and again. Chasing ghosts. Fighting battles that had already been lost. What had loving ever earned him? A mouthful of regret. A heart full of guilt.

Still, he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to.

Even if Cornelia never made it out. Even if all he ever had was the memory of her laugh, of her caramel perfume clinging to his skin, of the way her voice sounded when she whispered “come here” in the dark— he would still take that. He would take that over the nothingness that tightened around his neck like a noose.

The door to the compartment slid open. Katniss stood suddenly, her spine straightening. Finnick blinked and followed her gaze.

Haymitch had appeared in the doorway. “They’re back,” was all he said.

Katniss didn’t wait. She bolted. She didn’t ask questions. Didn’t stop for anyone.

Finnick couldn’t move. His hands stilled around the frayed mess of rope in his lap. He stared down at it like it was an omen.

Back.

The word didn’t feel real yet. It was heavy with too much implication. Back meant breathing. Back meant whole. Back meant something had worked. But it could also mean broken. Scarred. Or too far gone to be repaired.

Haymitch stepped further inside. He didn’t have to kneel. Didn’t crouch. Just stood and looked at Finnick, something flickering across his expression.

“Flickerman’s girl,” Haymitch said slowly, voice lower now. “She was in a cell.”

Finnick’s head jerked up.

“She’s alive?” His voice cracked on the word alive.

Haymitch hesitated. “Yeah,” he said. “But…”

But.

That word meant everything.

Finnick stood sharply. His body moved before his thoughts caught up.

Haymitch opened his mouth like he wanted to warn him, maybe even stop him.

“She’s in bad shape, Odair.”

Finnick shoved past him.

He didn’t run. He marched, striding through the halls of District 13 with a singular purpose. The fluorescent lights stung his eyes. The smell of scorched concrete and antiseptic made his stomach churn. He didn’t care.

His boots echoed sharply as he pushed through the main corridor, through the clinic wing’s checkpoint, nodding past the Peacekeeper stationed by the infirmary doors. No one stopped him.

She’s alive. That’s all he could think. The thought repeated itself like a heartbeat.

She was alive. She was alive. She was alive.

She woke to fingers pressing into her wrist. Cool fingertips brushing her neck, a cuff cinching her bicep, and light. So much light.

She flinched, her first instinct to roll away from it, but her body wouldn’t obey. Something sharp was in her arm— a needle, she thought, IV tubing flickering with fluid. Someone was lifting her eyelids, muttering about pupil dilation, checking her vitals. Something about heart rate. Something about the gas.

Gas?

Her vision swam. Everything was white. Bleached light. Starched sheets. Metal. Glass. The scrape of a stool being pulled closer. The crinkle of paper beneath gloved hands.

Cornelia wanted to speak, but her tongue wouldn’t cooperate. Her teeth felt too large in her mouth. Her throat was dry, tight. All she could manage was a croak, something like “Wait—” except softer, less human.

And then the screeching began again.

A blinding pop of feedback in her left ear, sharp and jagged like a fork in an electric socket. She jerked. Gasped. The pain spidered from her skull down her jaw. She felt it in her teeth, in her throat. She arched off the bed.

And then the voice.

“Do not speak. Do not move. Listen.”

The words echoed, reverberated, fractured into overlapping layers like broken glass. The voice wasn’t real. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was coming from the implant. Maybe it was someone behind the wall. She couldn’t tell. She never could.

She knew then— knew with a clarity that made her blood run cold— why she had been locked in the cell.

Snow had known. He had always known.

This hadn’t been punishment. This was strategy. Snow had known there was going to be a rescue— knew that the rebels would come. That they would try to retrieve someone. Peeta, perhaps. Johanna. Maybe Annie. Maybe her.

Or maybe he hadn’t even cared who exactly. Maybe it didn’t matter.

He had planted her. He had used her. A broken doll with glass in her head, left in plain sight for them to retrieve.

Cornelia began to hyperventilate, eyes wild, heart stuttering in her chest. She reached up and swatted away the nearest hands— fingers that pressed too closely to her ears, her arms, her collarbone. A nurse flinched back, trying to calm her. Another voice asked for a restraint.

“Stop, stop, stop—” Cornelia’s voice cracked as she slapped at her own ears. The screeching doubled. A jolt of electricity shot through her skull, sharp and punishing. She convulsed and let out a scream.

“They’re here!” she cried. “They’re still inside my head!”

Her fingers scrambled behind her ear, nails catching the raised skin where she was certain the implant was buried underneath her hair and skin. She clawed at it with trembling, frantic hands, her fingertips digging blindly at flesh and bone. She didn’t feel the blood right away. She only felt the pressure, the burn, the blinding urge to get it out.

The voice only got louder.

“Listen. Listen. Listen.”

She was drowning. Her heart hammering. Her throat tearing.

More voices started shouting, but she barely heard them. The pain inside her ear had taken over everything.

Cornelia’s screams grew ragged and hoarse, her nails tearing into the thin skin behind her ear until she felt the unmistakable sensation of skin splitting. Warmth trickled down her jaw, seeping into her hairline.

She didn’t hear the footsteps. She didn’t feel the nurses shouting, trying to hold her down.

Not until one of them grabbed her wrists. Not a nurse. Someone else. Someone strong.

She thrashed, shrieking, trying to buck and twist and bite if she had to. Her whole body was fighting. Her heart felt like it was about to crack open from the pressure, and the voice was still shouting inside her skull— “Listen, listen, listen—”

“Cornelia!”

The voice cut through. Not the voice in her head— his voice.

Rough. Frantic. Familiar.

It was muffled, muted— like it was coming from underwater— but she knew it. She would’ve known the voice anywhere.

Finnick.

She tried to push him away, her arms flailing, but he caught her wrists in one hand and pulled her into him with the other. Her breath came in sobs now, chest heaving, fingers trembling as she tried to claw again at the implant, but his grip was too strong.

“It’s still there!” she sobbed against his shoulder. “It’s still in me, it hurts, Finnick, it hurts!”

“I know,” he whispered, voice tight with something too close to panic. “I know, baby. I know.”

He pressed the flat of his palm against the side of her head, over her ear, hard, as if he could block out the signal, block out the voice.

She writhed. He didn’t let go.

“I can’t— I can’t— I can’t breathe—” Cornelia cried, trying to turn her head, but he just held her tighter.

Her body jolted with another shock— this one so sharp that Finnick hissed through his teeth when it arced through his hand and into his chest. His grip tightened instinctively. His entire body clenched, but he didn’t pull away. He just squeezed his eyes shut and forced the air through his nose, breathing with her. Steady, deep, calm.

She was anything but calm.

Her cries became hiccuping gasps as she clawed at his hand, scratching at the palm that covered her ear, nails raking the skin. He let her. Let her scratch him, let her hurt him. She needed somewhere to put the pain.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

But she wasn’t.

She didn’t feel safe. Not here, not in his arms, not with the voice inside her still whispering, still watching.

He rocked her gently, breath shaking against her hair.

Cornelia sobbed against his shirt, barely able to breathe. Every inhalation rattled her chest. Every exhale burned her throat.

The static in her ear subsided. Just a little. She could hear his heartbeat now. Loud, strong, thundering. She could feel the warmth of his arms. The weight of him against her. She smelled salt and sweat and antiseptic. Real things. Tangible things.

He was real.

She folded into him like a rag doll, fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself to the only piece of reality she still trusted.

He didn’t speak again. Just held her and let her cry.

The nurses had to sedate her.

Finnick had tried— God, had he tried— to stop them. He held his palms out like a barrier as if he could shield her from another needle, another restraint, another thing done to her rather than for her. He’d said he could calm her down, that he’d gotten her quiet once already, that she knew him. She would listen to him. That he had her. But they wouldn’t hear it. Wouldn’t risk it. He couldn’t blame them— not really. The Cornelia they saw wasn’t someone to be reasoned with. She was frantic, raw, feral. An animal caught in a trap. Clawing at herself, whimpering and thrashing and bleeding.

They didn’t know his Cornelia.

They didn’t know the girl who had once fallen asleep beside him and kicked his shin, her hair warm and tangled against his collarbone, her thigh pressed against his. They didn’t know the girl who made an entire collage of him when she was a kid, torn from Capitol magazines and constructed with glitter glue, only to scream in embarrassment and try to rip it out of his hands when he found it in her armoire. They didn’t know the Cornelia who once tried on her father’s wigs with him and posed in that City Circle boutique.

Maybe he didn’t know this version of her either.

Not the one lying unconscious beneath the pale sheets of a sterile hospital cot, the right side of her face bruised, the left ear red and raw and ringed in blood. Her arm was bandaged near the elbow where the IV had gone in. The color was back in her cheeks— barely.

Finnick just sat there.

He didn’t know how long it had been. Hours, maybe. The clocks had been taken down from most of the rooms in the rebel stronghold— District 13 protocol. He only knew it was late by the weight of exhaustion clawing behind his eyes and the way the artificial light stung.

Across from him, Beetee adjusted the screen on the monitor, flicking through slices of the cranial scan one by one. The interior renderings of Cornelia’s skull filled the screen, colored in ghostly grays and shadowed whites. The implant looked like a small sliver of metal— almost elegant— lodged just above the curve of her temporal bone and trailing back slightly into the area near her auditory cortex. A single wire snaked down and inward, as thin as a hair, impossible to trace without the high-res scans.

“… It’s invasive,” Beetee said finally. “Whoever designed it wasn’t aiming for long-term use.”

Plutarch— standing slightly behind Beetee, arms crossed over his chest— snorted. “That much is obvious. No concern for the host’s pain tolerance or memory integrity.”

Finnick’s leg was bouncing.

He pressed the backs of his fingers to his mouth, knuckles resting against the curve of his lip, as he stared at the scans. He hadn’t said a word since they’d shown them to him.

Beetee continued, his eyes flicking between the data and Cornelia’s still form. “I’ve been studying the schematic of the signal frequency. It’s tied to feedback loops, like a parasite. Directly stimulating the auditory nerve, possibly creating synthetic auditory hallucinations, likely reinforced through electric stimulation. Hence the seizures. The bleeding. The… disorientation. Sleep deprivation makes it worse.”

Finnick swallowed.

Plutarch spoke again. “She was meant to fall apart.”

He didn’t like hearing it out loud.

“What are the risks,” Finnick said quietly. “Of taking it out.”

Beetee turned, his chair whirring softly as he adjusted his position to face Finnick. The light from the monitor made his glasses gleam. “Well. That depends on how precise we can be. The entry point is blunt, not clean. They weren’t cautious with the injection. If we miscalculate, we could damage her auditory cortex. That could affect her hearing, her speech, her balance. There’s also a risk of memory loss. Personality changes, hemorrhage, infection.”

Finnick dragged a hand down his face. His eyes burned. His jaw clenched.

He couldn’t look at the screen anymore, so he turned his gaze to Cornelia.

She hadn’t moved.

Beetee added softly, “I think it can be done. Carefully. Delicately. I’ve already spoken to the medics. We’ll need their facilities, but we’d need to act soon.”

“Soon,” Finnick echoed. “And what happens if it’s not done properly?”

Beetee and Plutarch both went quiet.

“If the chip fails before we get it out,” Beetee said, “it could rupture.”

Finnick closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands into them until his vision burst into colors behind his lids.

A thousand memories came rushing at once. The hotel beds. The tickles. The kisses. The whispers. The fights.

“Finnick! Stop! I’m ticklish!”

“I’m done, Finnick!”

“Can we cuddle? I’m tired from the party.”

“I’m not stupid, Finnick!”

“I’ve never been to the mountains, I’ve never been to the sea. But I know what it feels like when you look at me.”

“Do you feel better now?!”

If she died from this— if she was lost because of this—

“I don’t want anything done if it can’t be done right,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “I don’t want her made worse. I’d rather wait. I’d rather…" His throat bobbed with effort. "She’s already been through enough.”

Beetee nodded. Plutarch didn’t argue.

“We’ll coordinate with the medics in the next few hours,” Beetee said gently, wheeling his chair backward. “We’ll give you some time.”

They left the room together. The door clicked softly shut. The silence that followed was almost unbearable.

Finnick dropped his head into his hands.

He had passed out at some point between staring at the scans and counting how many breaths Cornelia took per minute.

It wasn’t planned. Not in the way things were when he was younger— when every decision was precise, measured, curated for survival. But these days— this night— there were no decisions left to make. He had paced the width of her hospital room so many times that the heel of his boot had scuffed the corner tile loose. He had sat and stood, sat and stood, until his knees had started to ache. He had meant to stay awake all night. Wasn’t going to miss a goddamn thing.

To hell with the nurses.

It was their job, sure. And he didn’t doubt they knew how to do it. But Finnick didn’t trust anyone anymore. Not after years of stolen choices and forced smiles and the knowledge that even the kindest hands could turn into fists when ordered to. What if they missed something? What if they stepped out for a moment to take a call or check the records and Cornelia’s oxygen dropped? What if her IV slipped out and punctured something deeper, something vital? What if her heart stopped and they weren’t fast enough?

He wouldn’t take chances with her. Not now. Not after everything.

He’d left her side once— just once— to check on Annie.

Annie’s room was four doors down. Hers was quiet, too, but filled with the kind of soft hums and pulse monitors that meant stability. Not recovery, not healing— not exactly. But Annie was stable. She had flinched when he touched her hand but recognized his voice. She hadn’t screamed or begged him to leave. That, by Annie’s standards, was progress. They said she’d be discharged by the end of the week. Cornelia wouldn’t be. She had a long way to go.

Annie understood that, even if she didn’t say it. Even if she only nodded when he told her he had to get back to Cornelia. Even if her fingers twitched in that way she used to when she was trying not to cry. Annie understood.

So Finnick had returned. And somewhere in the haze of counting her breaths and watching the rise and fall of her chest, somewhere between clenching his teeth and imagining the exact location of that sliver of metal inside her skull, he had drifted. His back slumped against the wall beside her cot, knees curled loosely to his chest. His head rested in the crook of his elbow. The dim hospital lighting burned his eyes even through his lashes, but he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t meant to sleep.

But he had.

Until Cornelia shifted.

It was a small sound. The rustle of the sheets. A low gasp, too sharp to be a breath but too soft to be a sob. But Finnick’s eyes snapped open. His body jerked forward with the kind of lightning reflex that had once kept him alive in an arena filled with death.

He sat forward fast, his spine cracking from where it had curled. He blinked blearily. Cornelia.

Her eyes were open, wide and jittery. Darting across the ceiling. Then the walls. Then to the shadows by the sink.

“Cornelia,” he breathed, his voice still husky from sleep.

She didn’t look at him. She didn’t speak. She pressed both hands to her ears— hard— and let her nails dig into the thin skin behind them, clawing at her temples with white-knuckled pressure. Her breathing was shallow and too fast. Her lips parted. She wasn’t seeing him. She wasn’t here.

Finnick moved slowly. His palms were open. He didn’t dare move too fast. She wasn’t screaming— not yet— but the wild fear in her eyes made his throat burn.

“What is it?” he whispered. “What are you hearing? Can you tell me?”

She shook her head. Fast. Too fast. Then she stilled, eyes locking onto the far wall like it had sprouted teeth.

Finnick swore under his breath. Helplessness— that was the worst of it. That damn feeling of watching someone bleed and having no way to make it stop. He stood up slowly, pushing to his feet, then hesitated, and then sat carefully on the edge of her bed.

Cornelia didn’t move. Her hands still covered her ears. Her knees had drawn up slightly beneath the blanket. She looked so much smaller now—like a doll folded in half. Her lavender curls were limp, damp with sweat at the crown of her head.

Finnick swallowed and held out his hands.

“Let me help,” he whispered. “Please. Just let me help, baby.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. The word slipped out too easily. Like an old key fitting a familiar lock. It had been years since he’d called her that. 

Twice now. Twice tonight. And he didn’t take it back.

Cornelia didn’t look at him. But slowly, her hands dropped from her ears. She placed them in her lap. Her fingers twitched.

Finnick exhaled— slow and quiet— and shifted closer on the bed. He reached out and gently cupped her face, then moved his hands up to her ears, pressing his palms against them with a delicate kind of pressure.

Her face scrunched. A tiny, broken whimper left her throat. Her jaw clenched. Her eyes filled. But she didn’t move away.

So he did the only thing he could. He slid closer. Pulled her gently toward him, guided her between his legs and into his lap. His arms wrapped around her as he buried her against his chest, rocking slightly, letting his heartbeat drum steady against her cheek.

Cornelia didn’t sob, not right away, But she trembled like a branch caught in wind. Like a wire stretched too thin.

Finnick held her. Not as a friend, not as a lover. Not even as someone trying to be brave. He held her because she was his. Because he had no other way to say that he wasn’t going to leave her. 

Her breath hitched. Then again. And finally— finally— Cornelia let herself cry.

She didn’t cry with the soft, gentle tremble of someone seeking comfort. It wasn’t the kind of weeping meant to be witnessed. No, the sounds that came from her were torn— half-choked, desperate, as though they’d been buried too long beneath silence and sedation, and now came rushing out like a dam cracked open by a quake. She pressed her face into the cotton of Finnick’s shirt, twisting the fabric in her fists. Her tears soaked quickly through the thin white material. Her shoulders shook with each broken breath.

Finnick’s eyes closed. He tightened his hold around her, tucking her closer, fitting his chin above the crown of her head. He blinked fast and furiously, squeezing back the heat that pricked at the corners of his vision. The image of her— curled up, wrecked, pressed to him like he was the only wall left holding her upright— twisted something deep in his chest.

He’d seen pain before. He’d seen horror. But this was something else.

Finnick rubbed her back slowly, rhythmically, as if to coax the pain out of her bones. He cradled her head with one hand, fingers tangled in the faded lavender waves of her hair— still curled, slightly undone at the edges, like her. He leaned down, touched his lips to the top of her head, and let out a long, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Cornelia didn’t react.

“I’m so sorry, baby.”

He could taste the words in his throat. Bitter. Useless. Sorry didn’t undo what had been done. Sorry couldn’t dig the chip out of her skull. Sorry wouldn’t erase the static, the shocks, the paranoia that had hollowed out her laugh and left it trembling.

“I swear,” he whispered again, quieter this time. “I’ll make it all go away. I swear to you, I’ll fix this.”

Cornelia didn’t lift her head. But he felt it in the way her grip changed— tightened at his waist, her fingers pressing into the cotton, her fists curling again like she couldn’t quite bear to let go.

And then, against his chest, a whisper. A breath.

“They can hear you, too.”

Finnick froze. For a moment, his entire body turned to stone. His hand, which had been tracing soothing circles against her shoulder, went still.

Of course.

Of course. How hadn’t he realized?

If the implant could transmit instructions, if it could shock her when she said something wrong, then what else could it do? It wasn’t just a receiver— it was a two-way system. Snow’s eyes weren’t just watching from the outside. He was listening, always. Through her.

Finnick’s stomach twisted.

His mouth pressed to her hair again, gently, not as a kiss but as a shield— as though to protect the words he whispered next. He said nothing. Only breathed, slowly, to give himself time to think.

Cornelia had figured it out long ago. That was why she kept her ears covered. That was why she curled in on herself and thrashed like something was trying to get out.

Snow had been listening, and so had his ghosts.

Finnick’s eyes flicked to the bedside table.

One hand stayed on the back of Cornelia’s head, a light, anchoring touch. With the other, he reached, fingers curling into the drawer’s edge, tugging it open without a sound. Inside, a notepad. Cheap. A pen, capped. Probably dried out, but it would do.

He brought them into his lap, shifted carefully so she was still tucked against his chest, and flipped the pad open to a blank page.

He wrote slowly. Large letters. Clear.

Can they hear me now?

Cornelia glanced down. A flicker of something passed across her face. She didn’t speak.

But she shook her head.

Just once.

And then she buried her face again in his chest.

Finnick smiled faintly. A ghost of his usual grin. It didn't quite reach his eyes, but it was real.

He kept writing.

I saw that.

Then, beneath it:

Don’t smile, Cornelia.

The effect was instant. She gave a little hitch of her breath— then a short, trembling laugh. It was nearly silent. More breath than sound. But he felt it against his ribs. 

Finnick let his forehead rest against hers. He closed his eyes and held her there.

They had fallen asleep like that.

Cornelia curled against him like she’d never left, like no time had passed at all, like the months of interviews and manipulation and silence hadn’t stood between them. Her body was warm and slack with sleep, her knees pulled into her chest, her head cradled against Finnick’s shoulder. One hand had drifted to his side in the night, fingers curled into the soft fold of his shirt like she’d reached for him even in unconsciousness.

His back was stiff. His neck was sore from where it had fallen against the hard, unforgiving line of the wall behind them. But Finnick didn’t care. Not even a little. He would’ve let his bones lock up for the rest of his life if it meant she got to sleep that soundly for even a few hours.

It had been too long since he’d held her like that. Too long since he’d felt her breathe in rhythm against him, since he’d watched her eyelashes flutter against her cheek, since he’d seen her finally— finally— at peace.

A nurse had entered the room at shift change. Quiet. Intent on doing her job. But the moment she saw the two of them, tangled together in sleep, she’d paused. Something in her expression had shifted, softened, then steeled with recognition. And then— without a word— she’d turned and left.

Finnick didn’t know if any of the others had come through during the night. He didn’t care. Maybe they had. Maybe they’d stood at the door and weighed the risk of disturbing her against the reality of the pain that waited when she woke up. Maybe they’d decided it wasn’t worth the fight. He wouldn’t have blamed them.

Still, after he’d finally stirred, he didn’t go far. Just shifted out from under her slowly, carefully, lowering her back against the pillow with a gentleness he hadn’t known himself capable of. Then he slid into the chair beside the bed and stayed there. 

An hour or two later, the door opened again. This time, it was Beetee. Plutarch trailed behind him looking more tired than usual. And with them was a man Finnick recognized from the handful of times he’d been in the medical wing. 

Dr. Aurelius. He was Katniss’s doctor. Peeta’s, too. If there was anyone Finnick could trust with this, it was him.

Finnick didn’t move from the chair. He didn’t stand. Just straightened a little and let his eyes flick from the doctor to the table where the scans were already being projected again.

Cornelia was awake. Barely. She hadn’t spoken since the night before. She didn’t cry either. She only held her hands to her ears the way she had when he first saw her again— curled around the silence as if it might offer her some protection. Her eyes were open, but not focused. Not on him. Not on anyone.

Beetee adjusted the projection to zoom in on the imaging of the temporal lobe, the implant’s location glinting faintly on the screen. Dr. Aurelius pointed to it with a stylus as he began speaking.

“For now,” he said, his voice calm but clear, “we’re monitoring the extent of the symptoms. The scan gave us a precise location of the implant and its interface points, but we don’t yet understand the full scope of its behavior. Electrical shocks, voice transmission, feedback. Those are consistent with auditory nerve hijacking. But what we don’t know yet is whether the device has further functions. Self-destruct, behavioral override, latent infection. We don’t want to go in blind.”

Finnick nodded slowly. He didn’t say anything yet. Just clicked the pen in his hand and scribbled something on the notepad balanced on his thigh. Notes. Terms he didn’t want to forget. Thoughts he didn’t want to say aloud. With Cornelia so close, even whispers felt like betrayals now.

But he had to, now.

“How long,” he asked quietly, “can it stay in before the risks go up?”

“I don’t want to give you an exact timeline,” Dr. Aurelius said. “Because there are variables I can’t predict. But if we don’t see any additional complications, I’d like to give it ten to fifteen days. That’s the window. After that, the brain starts to build memory around it. And that makes extraction far more dangerous.”

Finnick let the words settle. He nodded again.

Ten to fifteen days. That was the line between careful and desperate.

He exhaled and looked down at the notepad again. Then, quietly, he drew a simple thumbs-up beside the words he’d scribbled before. The ink was fading, but it was still legible.

He held the notepad up just enough for Cornelia to see it. She blinked slowly.

Plutarch and Beetee exchanged glances. Then, without a word, they nodded to Dr. Aurelius and moved to leave. The doctor lingered a second longer before giving Finnick a brief nod of acknowledgment.

“I’ll come by later,” he said. “Let her rest.”

Finnick nodded one last time, then watched them go.

Cornelia still stared down at the notepad like it might vanish if she blinked too hard. Her fingers twitched slightly, her right hand hovering uncertainly, then reaching— trembling just barely as she held her palm open in silent request.

Finnick didn’t move at first. He looked at her hand, at the fine bones of her wrist still faintly bruised from the thrashing the night before, and he hated that they were bruises he hadn’t been able to stop. They had been necessary to stop her from doing further damage to herself.

But then, without a word, he passed her the pen. Their fingers brushed.

She still held her left hand pressed against the side of her head, as if the pressure might keep the voices at bay, might block out the occasional surge of screeching static that made her tense like someone had struck a tuning fork behind her eyes.

Slowly, even hesitantly, she brought the pen down to the notepad and scribbled on the paper between them. Her script was neater than he remembered, though maybe that was just because it was slower— she had to think more carefully now, not because her mind wasn’t sharp, but because it couldn’t always separate what belonged to her and what had been fed through a wire into her skull.

You're hovering.

Finnick exhaled a sharp laugh through his nose. Not bitter. Not amused, either. Just tired.

He took the pen from her fingers, let his own brush against hers again, and wrote beneath her message in his looser, left-handed scrawl.

Are you complaining?

She didn’t smile. She tilted the notepad toward herself again and scribbled something in smaller handwriting— faint, like she wasn’t sure the words would hold weight until they were written down.

I don’t understand it.

Finnick's gaze dropped to the page, and the shift in his expression was instant. His eyes fixed on the sentence, on those four words— words that shouldn’t have hit so hard, shouldn’t have broken anything inside him. But they did.

Because it was her writing them. Not scripted, not performed, not fed to her through static and electric pain.

Just her.

He picked up the pen again, slower this time, his knuckles whitening again. He wrote carefully, pausing halfway through to swallow down the ache in his throat.

I don’t want to leave you.

For a long time, she didn’t look up. Just let her gaze remain fixed on the paper. Not because she didn’t believe them— because she did. She’d always believed Finnick when it mattered. That had been the problem, maybe, all along. That it had always mattered too much.

Finally, slowly, she lifted her head.

Finnick didn’t meet her gaze. He was still looking down, his fingers loose around the pen like it had lost all purpose. His shoulders had begun to lift— tight, uneven with a breath he didn’t release. His throat worked as he swallowed. And then he turned his head away, pressing his knuckles to the bridge of his nose as he blinked quickly.

Cornelia’s brows pulled inward.

She didn’t understand at first— not until she saw his chest shift, not until she recognized the familiar pattern of breathing too hard, too quiet, the kind used to hide something behind the eyes.

He was about to cry.

Finnick Odair.

The boy with the teeth-white smile and the sea-glass eyes, who could dance through a storm with charm like armor and never break stride. Who had laughed at her for asking about the future and claimed it was not his to think about, all while smiling. Who had held her like she was something his, even when he swore they were nothing but a habit.

That same boy was crying.

Cornelia blinked, her own throat tightening. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t write anything. She didn’t know what to say. Maybe there wasn’t anything left worth putting into words. Instead, she dropped the pen. Just let it slip from her fingers and hit the bedspread with a small, soft noise. The notepad followed, slipping down her thigh and onto the floor without a sound.

And then she moved.

Not fast. Not sudden. Just forward— just enough to close the space between them as she leaned and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, locking her elbows behind his neck, folding herself into the space against his chest.

Finnick's arms came around her instantly, crushing, desperate, like the storm was still raging and she was the only thing anchoring him. One hand went to the back of her head, threading into her hair. She felt his fingers tremble. His breath was uneven now, his chest moving hard against her. His face buried into the side of her neck, and he didn’t try to stop the shaking. Didn’t try to pull back. He only held her tighter, like she might disappear again if he let go.

Finnick began to sob. Silently, at first, and then with a rawness that shook through both of them. And she held him while he shook, while the tears slid hot and fast against the curve of her throat. She had never seen him cry before. That terrified her more than anything. Because Finnick was always strong. Stronger than her, strong for her. He had always been the one to hold her while she wept.

But she didn’t pull away. Her fingers curled tighter into his shirt, gripping the fabric like it might hold him together. He began to mouth something against her forehead— barely there, just lips moving against her skin, words she couldn’t make out and wasn’t sure she was meant to. She only felt the shape of them, the warmth of his breath, the way his body trembled as he said them over and over and over again. 

She didn’t need to hear them. She knew.

Chapter Text

August, 75 ADD

FOR ONCE, with a room that had Cornelia and Finnick both in it at the same time, the room was quiet. No laughter. No teasing. No half-breathed moans muffled by silk pillows, no rustle of expensive sheets, no clatter of a makeup brush rolling off the vanity as Cornelia swore and Finnick laughed. Those days had long since drowned. What had once been filled with chatter and whispers, insults and apologies, petty wars and fleeting peace, had fallen to a hush. A silence so strange it felt like standing in a snow-covered field after the world had ended. Serene. Fragile. Too clean.

And yet, oddly comforting.

There was no static. No screaming in her left ear. No commands, no shocks— at least not yet. It was a good day. Maybe that meant the frequency was jammed. Maybe the implant’s battery had drained. Maybe it was biding its time.

Cornelia didn’t dare hope.

So, she sat— half-upright against the slope of her pillows, swaddled in blankets despite the mild temperature, her nearly gray-tinted lavender hair limp and undone, frizzed faintly at the temples— and Finnick sat beside her. In the same chair he always chose. Right by her side, elbow-distance away. As if too much space might swallow her up.

In his lap: a stack of notepads. Some new, some creased and dog-eared. A few pages already scribbled through with messy handwriting. The pens on the tray beside them— three black ones, one red, and one blue.

Cornelia was watching him. She often did these days. Not with suspicion or blame. Just… watching. Quietly. Like she was waiting to remember something about him. Or trying not to forget it.

Finnick glanced up.

He didn’t smile— not like he used to. But the corner of his mouth pulled faintly, just a twitch of warmth in a room that had too little of it. He reached for a pen and scribbled on the page in his lap before tearing it off and handing it over.

Pain level today?

Cornelia’s brows furrowed. She took the note, read it, then tilted her head ever so slightly before grabbing her own pen— the blue one. She scribbled back.

6? maybe 7. it’s behind the eye today.

Finnick read her handwriting, crinkled the page slightly in his fingers, then reached for another.

Do you want me to check your ear?

Cornelia hesitated. Only a beat. Then she handed him a fresh piece of paper.

yes.

Finnick rose without a word, setting the papers and pens aside, and moved carefully, like approaching a wounded bird. He didn’t touch her face. Not immediately. First, he gently lifted her hair, the soft curls faded down to a gray lilac now, grown out just enough that her roots were beginning to reclaim their natural chestnut. He murmured something she couldn’t hear— maybe she didn’t need to— and leaned in.

She flinched slightly when his thumb brushed behind her ear, then stilled.

He pressed the pad of his thumb lightly against the cartilage, just to feel for swelling. There was none. Not this time. Then, with the gentleness of someone handling something delicate, he tilted her head a little and peered closer. No new bleeding, but the skin around the implant scar looked raw. Irritated.

He pressed the cold cloth— already damp and folded in quarters— against the curve of her skull, blotting softly.

Her breath hitched, just slightly. He felt it.

She didn’t cry. Not this time.

He didn’t speak.

Finnick didn’t have to be asked to do these things. No one had ever told him to check for swelling, or to clean the dried blood when it crusted overnight, or to keep track of what kind of headaches followed what kinds of foods. He just did. It was as much a part of his routine now as breathing. And Cornelia had stopped asking why.

He pressed the cloth a little longer before lowering it, folding it again. He turned back to the chair, sat down, and returned to the notepad like it was the only way he could speak.

She was watching him again.

The pen scratched softly as he wrote.

Was the voice quiet today?

Cornelia stared at the paper. Her eyes didn’t move. She reached for her pen, and in careful, looping script, wrote beneath it:

mostly. only whispers.

She added a period, then crossed it out, then rewrote it. Smaller. Cleaner. Finnick nodded.

They sat in silence again.

At one point, hours earlier, he’d cracked a joke. Called her bedhead “sex hair.” Wrote it with a wink. Offered to help her make it “look more authentic.” Cornelia had laughed— truly laughed—  for the first time in weeks. It had sounded strange and hoarse, like it didn’t belong in her throat anymore, but it was a laugh. She’d swatted him with a pillow. It had been the gentlest kind of violence.

He hadn’t made another joke since then. Maybe he was waiting to see if it had been real. Maybe he was afraid it hadn’t been.

She missed laughing. She missed him.

But even now— sitting together, breathing the same air— there were parts of him she didn’t recognize. And parts of herself that felt foreign in his presence. Too much had passed between them. Too many silences, too many broken things. The storm hadn’t stopped, it had just passed. And in its wake, they were still trying to salvage what remained of themselves.

Finnick was doing everything right. Cornelia wasn’t sure what her right looked like anymore.

Still, she found herself reaching for another piece of paper. She didn’t look up when she wrote. Her handwriting was slower now.

you’re too good at this.

Finnick raised an eyebrow.

He took the paper, flipped it, and scrawled back.

At what?

Cornelia didn’t hesitate this time.

taking care of me.

Finnick read the note. Looked at it longer than he needed to. Then set it aside without responding. She wasn’t sure if it hurt him. She wasn’t sure if that had been her intent.

Cornelia still kicked in her sleep. Not like she used to. Not like the kind of twitchy, dramatic flailing Finnick had once half-mocked, half-adored— arms flung out like she was mid-ballet, or legs spasming hard enough to knock the blankets sideways and hit his shin. 

That version of her— the glittering, defiant Cornelia who took up all the air in the room just by being— was a ghost now. A wisp in the folds of memory. The girl in this bed was her still, but changed. Fragile in ways that twisted something dark in Finnick’s chest.

Her kicks now weren’t theatrical. They were desperate.

Sharp jerks. Tensed thighs. Her feet scrambled beneath the blankets like she was trying to run, or maybe trying to shake something off. Her arms twitched with it too sometimes— jerky, erratic, then still again. And it was that stillness after the spasms that terrified him most.

Because what if it wasn’t just restless sleep?

What if this was a seizure? A stroke? What if the chip embedded in her skull had shifted, or worsened, or was burrowing deeper into her mind like a parasite? What if the Capitol had planted something else inside her, something Beetee hadn’t found yet? A signal, a fail-safe, a detonator?

Finnick didn’t sleep deeply anymore.

He never had, but now he slept in shifts. Barely. He would drift, slouched in the chair beside her bed, one hand on the mattress, fingers often curled around hers or resting atop the sheets in reach. Just enough that any shift in her breathing or the sheets would wake him.

Tonight was no different.

Her leg jerked hard under the blankets.

Finnick jolted, eyes snapping open, his neck sore from leaning at an odd angle against the edge of her mattress. Her body had shifted in the bed, back arched faintly, breath hiccupping. Another twitch. A spasm.

He was up in an instant, rising from the chair and slipping onto the left side of the bed as silently as possible, his movements gentle but fast. He wasn’t sure whether he did it to calm her or to calm himself. Maybe both.

Her legs kicked again— softer this time.

“Shh,” he murmured, not expecting her to hear him, not even trying to wake her. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

She didn’t wake. She never really did on these nights.

Finnick slipped his arms around her and tugged her back against his chest. Her body molded into his instinctively, head turning toward his collarbone, breath warm against the hollow of his throat. She went still almost immediately. She never woke up, but her limbs relaxed, her body recognizing his like it remembered what safety was. Or maybe who safety was.

He didn’t say anything for a long time. Just lay there, one arm cradled under her head, the other wrapped protectively around her waist, hand resting over her ribcage to count the pace of her breaths. Slow, now. Slower than they’d been. Not labored.

He hated that he even knew how to track that.

His fingers drifted to her hair. She hadn’t asked to dye it again. She hadn’t asked for anything, really. Not since she’d stopped speaking out loud.

He gently ran his fingers through it, over and over, his thumb brushing the baby hairs at her temple. Then, cautiously, he dipped his mouth toward her left ear.

The ear. The ear.

The one they had stolen from her. The one they had hollowed out and filled with something rotten and inhuman. The one that had bled. That still bled. That sparked and screeched and screamed into her mind when no one else could hear it. The one that made her claw at herself until he had to hold her down and beg her to stop.

He hesitated. The breath in his throat stayed there, cold and coiled.

But then he whispered, “I know you’re still there.”

He wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or the thing inside her. His voice barely rose above the sound of the blanket shifting when he adjusted his arm.

“I know you’re listening.”

He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t curse or threaten. But there was a tone to him— furiously controlled in a way that made his voice shake.

“She’s mine. Not yours. Not anymore.”

Cornelia stirred faintly in her sleep, her brow twitching, but she didn’t wake. Finnick pressed his mouth a little closer to her ear.

“You’re not going to use her again.” 

He paused. His voice dropped lower, like something feral coiled beneath the surface. 

“I swear to you,” he whispered. “I swear on every name you ever tattooed onto my skin, every secret you stole from my mouth, every lie I had to pretend was love, I will burn the Capitol down for this.”

Another pause. He closed his eyes. Drew in a slow, shaking breath.

“I’ll burn it all.”

He didn’t know if she heard him. Didn’t know if the voice did either. But it didn’t matter. He said it because he had to. Because he meant it. Because for the first time in what felt like a century, something in him had clarity. Rage and clarity— two sides of the same coin, sharp as hell and too heavy to carry.

Cornelia shifted in her sleep again, softer this time. Her face buried deeper into his chest.

Finnick pulled the blanket higher around her shoulders and held her tighter. His hand slid back into her hair, still moving slowly through the faded strands. He lay there, wide awake now, eyes open and staring at the ceiling.

The room was quiet again.

Most people underestimated how much Annie Cresta knew.

It was easy to do. Too easy. The way she walked around the corridors of District 13 in those soft, faraway steps, humming half-songs no one could name, her green eyes always flitting toward the corners of the ceiling like she was listening to a voice no one else could hear. People whispered. They always did. That she wasn’t all there. That something had broken and never been stitched back together. That the Capitol had taken her mind and shattered it on purpose, like glass under a boot, just to watch the pieces glitter and scatter.

But Finnick knew better. Annie had always been whole. Just altered. Just bruised in ways the surface couldn’t show.

There was a difference between broken and changed. And she had changed, yes. The Games had that effect. But it wasn’t her mind that had been lost— it was her trust. Her sense of safety. Of time. Of what was real and what was not. And who could blame her?

What the Capitol did to her in the arena was not something a person could live through unchanged.

What it had done to all of them was written into their bloodstreams, their bones.

Finnick sat beside her quietly now, knees close together, elbows on them, his hands loose between. She had been discharged the day before, granted permission to return to her quarters— “stable” was the word they used, though Finnick hated that word. It felt clinical. Dismissive. As if she were a glass of water that had finally stopped spilling.

Her compartment was small but comfortable, a faint scent of chamomile in the air from the satchel Beetee had gifted her. She sat beside him on her bed, one knee tucked under the other, combing her fingers through her long auburn hair. She had taken to braiding it herself again.

She hummed quietly as she worked, brows slightly furrowed, and Finnick could tell she was focused. Not just on the braid. On her thoughts. Her awareness. That sharp glimmer in her eyes that always came just before she said something that made everyone else uncomfortable because it was too honest, too lucid for the girl they expected.

“You’ve been staring at the wall for ten minutes,” she said softly, not unkindly, still threading her fingers through the long strand of hair she was twisting.

Finnick blinked. His voice was raw when he spoke. “Was I?”

“Mhm,” Annie replied, finishing the braid and tying it with a thin ribbon.

She didn’t look at him right away. She set the braid down across her shoulder like it was a piece of silk and tucked a few stray hairs behind her ears. Then, gently, without preamble: “How’s your girl?”

Finnick’s breath hitched. He didn’t respond immediately. He picked at a rough callus on his palm. Dug his nail into it until it felt raw and hot. 

“They’re going to start tests,” he murmured. “Beetee and Dr. Aurelius. See how far the implant goes. What damage it’s done. How to get it out without…” He trailed off.

Annie watched him quietly.

He bit at the side of his thumbnail, teeth grinding into the ridged skin there. “They have to be careful. It’s close to the vestibulocochlear nerve and the cochlea. If they touch the wrong nerve cluster…”

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t soothe him, didn’t say it was going to be okay. That wasn’t how Annie worked. She didn’t offer false comfort. She let people speak until they reached the edge of their own logic and dropped.

Instead, she finished tying off another loose piece of hair and then asked, just as softly, “And how are you?”

Finnick made a noise low in his throat. Something like a scoff and something like a laugh that had given up halfway through. He dropped his head into his hands. Rubbed at his face like he could scrub away the guilt with his palms. His thumbs pressed into his eyes so hard that stars sparked behind them.

“Like I can’t breathe most of the time,” he admitted. “Like if I stop watching her, if I stop even for a second, something else is going to happen. Something worse.”

Annie nodded slowly. Her hands folded into her lap. “She’s safe now.”

He shook his head. “Is she?”

Annie didn’t push.

He breathed in again. Out. It was shaky.

“I should’ve never gotten close,” he said, quietly, bitterly. “I should’ve known what they’d do. What we would do to each other. She didn’t need me, not like that. I ruined everything. I ruined her.”

Annie tilted her head to the side, lips pursing faintly, eyes thoughtful and full of something that was almost pity.

“Do you really believe that?” she asked, voice gentle.

Finnick didn’t answer at first. His throat bobbed.

“I don’t know.”

That was the truth. He didn’t know. The guilt ran so deep now that he wasn’t sure where it ended and his own sense of self began. All he knew was that Cornelia hadn’t deserved this. That he would rather be flayed alive than watch her suffer for a second longer. That he would volunteer to carry that chip in his head if it meant her sleep would be peaceful again.

But that wasn’t how the world worked. Not in Panem. Not for victors. And not for him.

Annie reached over, slid her fingers against his, still calloused and raw from all the times he’d scratched and picked at them without noticing. She didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.

Just the contact was enough.

The soft knock at the open compartment door startled both of them.

Plutarch stood there, arms folded behind his back. “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, eyes flickering between them. “But Coin is requesting to speak with both of you.”

“Now?” Finnick asked, voice low.

Plutarch nodded. “She said it won’t take long. Just a… discussion.”

Finnick exchanged a glance with Annie. Her brows lifted, but she didn’t look alarmed. He stood slowly, brushing his palms on the front of his trousers. “I’ll check on Cornelia after.”

Annie smiled faintly, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know.”

They followed Plutarch down the sterile hallway, the fluorescent lights above buzzing faintly. He opened the conference room door with a quiet sweep of his hand and stepped to the side. 

“After you.”

Finnick entered first, Annie trailing beside him like a tide that had long since learned the rhythm of his steps. The room was sterile and severe, nothing like the Capitol conference halls where crystal decanters and velvet-lined chairs had once dulled the sting of bad news. Here, everything was gray. Metal. Unforgiving. The overhead lights cast shadows across the rectangular table.

Coin was already seated at its head.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” she said, the words clipped but not unkind. Just efficient. “I appreciate your flexibility.”

Finnick didn’t speak. He moved around the table without so much as a glance toward her, pulled out a chair for Annie, waited for her to sit, then sank into the seat beside her. His eyes were shadowed, bloodshot from days without true sleep, and he hadn’t shaved in at least three. His hands were folded too tightly in his lap.

Coin’s eyes followed him. “I’d tried to find you earlier this morning,” she said. “You haven’t been in your compartment for several days.”

Finnick glanced up at her with a steely gaze. “I’ve been busy.”

Her brow rose slightly, but she didn’t pursue it. Either she already knew where he’d been or knew it would cost her more than she was willing to pay to get the answer.

Plutarch, sitting beside her, tried to redirect. “Your propo was incredibly successful,” he said, folding his hands across the portfolio in front of him. “The footage was powerful. Cressida did an excellent job capturing your transparency.” He paused, offered a half-smile. “Thank you for your honesty.”

Beside Finnick, Annie shifted slightly.

She turned her head, gaze sweeping toward him, not accusatory but curious. She hadn’t seen the propo. No one had mentioned it to her. But she didn’t ask, not aloud. Her fingers fiddled with the hem of her sleeve.

Plutarch continued, his voice light and conversational. “The propos team is already thinking of the next step forward—"

Finnick exhaled slowly through his nose. “I assume it involves me.”

“Not exclusively,” Plutarch said quickly. “Actually, we’ve been considering a joint approach. You and Annie.”

Annie blinked. Finnick stiffened.

Coin leaned forward. “We’ve been discussing a concept for public morale. A gesture of unity. Reassurance. A wedding.”

Finnick’s face remained stone. “A wedding.”

“A District Four wedding,” Plutarch added with a touch of theatricality, his fingers spreading slightly as if painting the scene. “Symbolic. Romantic. Two victors, finally free, finally together, offering hope and love to a country that desperately needs it.”

“No,” Finnick said immediately. No hesitation. No softening. Just no.

Annie’s eyes turned toward him again, wide but calm, a slow storm brewing beneath the surface. She was quiet for a breath before echoing, with quiet conviction, “No.”

Plutarch leaned forward again, his tone quickly placating. “It wouldn’t be real, of course. Just for the cameras. You could still remain separate, there would be no official documentation—”

Finnick’s jaw clenched. His shoulders drew back, a defense against something invisible. “So you want me to sell myself again. Just like I did in the Capitol. Dress me up, paint me gold, make the audience swoon.”

Plutarch opened his mouth, but Finnick kept going.

“You want me to look into a camera and lie. Again. Pretend love. Again. You want me to hold Annie’s hand and kiss her forehead and make her into something she isn’t, something we aren’t, just to feed your war machine.”

Plutarch’s voice remained measured. “It wouldn’t be a lie if the audience believes it—”

Finnick stood. Abruptly. The chair scraped back against the floor with a shriek.

“No.”

Coin’s expression was unreadable. “Odair—"

“No,” Finnick snapped. “I’m not doing it. You want another propo? I’ll give you one. I’ll give you every dirty secret I’ve got. You want me to talk about the old men who used to pick me out? The women who asked for me by name? I’ll name names, Madam President. I’ll tell your rebellion exactly how many men I had to smile for to make it through a night in the Capitol.” 

His voice was steel and fire. He didn’t care who was watching. 

“I will stand in front of your cameras again, but I swear, if you ever try to marry me off without my say, I will burn what’s left of your war to the ground.”

Finnick didn’t wait for a response. He turned and walked out of the room, his boots thudding sharply against the cold floor. The door didn’t slam behind him, but the force with which it clicked shut might as well have been thunder.

Finnick walked fast. Not quite running. But quick enough that any nurse or medic who saw him coming didn’t dare stop him. They stepped aside. Lowered their eyes. They knew better by now.

Cornelia’s room was at the end, left of the surgical suites. One of the few with a window slit high on the wall— not for sun, just for the suggestion of it. He was almost to the door when he heard the low murmurs. Voices. Monitors clicking softly. The hiss of a syringe.

He stopped in the doorway like he’d been slapped.

They were sticking something into her.

Two nurses stood over her, one bracing her forearm, the other leaning near her head with a fine syringe poised behind her left ear. Cornelia lay limp on the bed, dazed and disoriented, pupils dilated. She blinked once. Slowly. Finnick watched the corner of her mouth twitch.

“Hey!” The word came out louder than he meant. Louder than he realized. “What the hell are you doing?”

Both nurses jumped.

The one holding the syringe froze with the needle still half-embedded near the soft curve behind her ear. Finnick was already in the room before they could explain. His voice cracked again, sharper this time.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re prepping her for the neural imaging scan,” the nurse closest to her said quickly, holding up a clipboard as if it were a shield. “We’re sedating her, and we needed to numb the implant site to ensure no trauma when—”

“You should have waited for me.”

He didn’t shout the last part, but the force behind it was no less powerful. He was already standing beside her bed, between them and her, the clipboard falling to his side as the nurses hesitated.

They looked stunned, blinking, exchanging glances.

“Odair,” the other one said, “we were told this was scheduled—”

“You should’ve waited for me.” His voice dropped lower now, but it came from a raw, ragged place inside his chest that had been worn down to nerve endings. “You don’t get to poke and prod her like she’s some specimen. Not without someone here who actually—”

He stopped himself. He couldn’t say the words. Not aloud.

But what he wanted to say was: not without someone who gives a damn.

The silence between them stretched.

The nurses didn’t speak again. They simply nodded— nervously, respectfully, then gathered the tray of tools and whatever was left of the numbing agent. They packed everything quickly. And when they left, they didn’t look back.

Finnick stood motionless for a second longer, his chest rising and falling, shoulders still coiled tight from the sheer urge to break something. He wanted to apologize— to them, maybe. For how loud he’d been. For how angry. But not really. He couldn’t be sorry. Not when they had taken liberties with her.

He turned slowly.

Cornelia was watching him. Her head lolled slightly on the pillow, the sedative already working its way through her bloodstream, making her eyelids droop heavy. Her gaze wasn’t sharp, not really, but it was wide. Shocked. Her lips were parted just a bit.

Finnick’s stomach dropped. The blood drained from his face.

He shouted, he thought. He yelled. And it heard him. The implant.

His breath caught in his throat as he moved to sit down at the edge of her bed. His hands were shaking. He hadn’t even noticed. He stared at her for a long, long moment, then slowly raised his hand toward her left ear.

He hesitated— hovered just inches from her skin. He didn’t want to hurt her. Didn’t want to trigger anything.

But Cornelia leaned into it.

Her head moved of its own accord, gently falling into the space beneath his palm, nuzzling into the warmth like she knew it before she even remembered where she was. Her breathing stilled for a moment, deeper. Her eyes fluttered, not fully closed but softer.

Finnick exhaled.

He pressed his hand to the side of her head, thumb grazing the soft edge of her temple, cradling her gently. His other hand came to rest just below her chin, thumb tracing the edge of her jaw. His fingers shook. He hoped she didn’t notice.

He didn’t know how to fix this. He didn’t know if there was fixing it.

She was all that he had have left, he thought, not for the first time. She was it. And they don’t know. They don’t see it. No one else counted the hours of sleep she got in a night. No one else tracked the swelling. Or the blood. Or wrote down every win— every time she smiles at something dumb that he wrote on their papers just to prove she was still in there.

He stared at her face— her lashes curled soft against her cheeks, her mouth slightly open, just enough to show she hadn’t noticed the tear that had slipped down her temple. Her hair, curled and faded to the bleached base now, a tangling halo around her.

His voice was just a whisper, so faint it might have been a breath. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been here.”

Cornelia didn’t respond. The sedation was too strong, her consciousness drifting again, already pulling her under. But her body didn’t move away from him. She stayed pressed close to his hand.

The monitor beside her beeped in a slow rhythm. He counted the time between the tones like it might calm the rhythm of his own heart. It didn’t. But he tried.