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chapter six
LIKE FATHER LIKE DAUGHTER

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Yelena feels like she's stumbling over open air, ankles wobbling and desperately attempting to build a foundation to steady herself on. Reality used to ground her. Except now, the reality that's made sense to her since she was a little girl has been ripped right from beneath her like a rug, leaving her dangling in time and space as the truth emerges from a series of mirages. Part of her is just waiting to plummet down into oblivion, like the story of a girl who fell down a rabbit hole.

She's sitting on the edge of her hotel bed now, breathing a bit too shallow for her comfort. She's trying to do too many things at once. Her sweaty palm picks at the comforter beneath her, one of the strings beginning to fray. This tells her she's here. She's here in this world that seems like it's spinning in all sorts of directions. Her dark gaze bores into the golden lamp across from her as she silently identifies different objects in the reflection. She can see the black shade of her dress. Her hair is in a ponytail. Somewhere, water is running loudly, and the T.V. appears to be on. Caspian Steele is sitting next to her.

Caspian is sitting next to her.

His voice blurs in and out. She feels him studying her anxiously, something in his large palm that glimmers. The ring.

"Yelena? Can I get you water?" He shakes his head. "Do you need to lie down? Maybe a damp towel? You're very pale."

The second to last question yanks her from limbo, shoving her right in this very moment. Finally, she dares to look at him, brows knit into a frown as she glares. "How..." Her voice drags along her throat dryly, and she swallows the bile that's been building. "How are you my father?"

Caspian blinks at her patiently as he shifts his weight along the mattress. He leaves his palms open and splayed out on his knees, facing the ceiling. "Well, I was hoping I might get to explain that to you one day." One of his fingers scratches at his temple as he grimaces. "Not like this, but..."

He licks his lips and inhales a sharp breath, reaching to a gold chain tucked beneath the collar of his dress shirt. When he pulls it over his head, Yelena can see a pendant glimmering in the middle. It's shaped like a heart, intricate designs etched into the metal. When he clicks it open, she realizes it's not just any pendant.

A locket.

"You know that you were at least adopted... right?" Caspian tries, peering over at her uneasily. Surely, he doesn't want to hit her with two bombshells in one evening.

Yelena nods. "Yes, I was adopted from the Orphanage in Eight. My parents couldn't have children of their own..." She shakes her head, dark brows pinching together. None of this makes sense. "But how would you be my father if I'm in an Orphanage in Eight? How do Capitol children ever end up in the Districts?"

"When their fathers enrage the President beyond reason."

That makes her spine grow tight and rigid. She pauses, blinking dumbly, the words struggling to sink in. Caspian never struck Yelena as the type to break the rules, nor the kind to end up on Snow's Not So Nice List. Aren't the poor souls who tend to find their names written in such a terrifying list usually dead by now? And usually, those people also tend to be from the Districts. Not well-known Capitol Aristocrats.

Before she can ask any other questions, Caspian carefully lays the open locket in his palm, holding it closer so that she may gain a peek. There's a picture in both halves of the broken heart. He points to the one on the left first.

"This was your mother's. Here's us on our wedding night."

Both of them look beautiful. Caspian appears younger here, his hair jet black, lacking the flecks of silver that he holds now. She's never seen him smile so big. Instead of that soft, polite grin that he normally fashions, he's allowed his lips to turn up completely, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. He's cheek to cheek with a stunning woman with long dark hair, her veil lifted from her face. There's a beauty mark just beside her nose, lips painted crimson and turned into a stunning smile. The longer Yelena stares at her, the more the woman feels familiar.

"She..." She rubs her clammy palms against her knees again, blinking in disbelief. She dares to glance at Caspian, who waits knowingly, before inspecting the image once more. "She looks like me...?"

"Yes," he agrees. Another one of those small, polite smiles ghosting across his lips. This time, it seems sad. "You look just like her."

He inhales sharply, pointing to the second picture. There's the woman again, dressed in all black, a close-lipped smile softening her features. She proudly holds onto her rounded belly as she stares brightly at the camera. Yelena's stomach does a somersault, and her heart clamors violently against her chest. She picks at the fraying string from the comforter more in an attempt to stay anchored to reality.

"She was almost eight months along when this picture was taken." Caspian gently and lovingly brushes his thumb against the picture of his wife's pregnant belly. "And there's you."

Yelena wants to look away, but she just can't. She wants to sprint out of this room, fleeing through the hallway, down the elevator, and into The Capitol streets where no one could find her. But she simply can't, gravity weighing her down into the bed mercilessly. She feels tears stinging her eyes again, and she curses herself in silence, clenching her jaw. Another yank against that thread as it almost snaps.

Caspian doesn't seem to be paying attention to her anymore, losing his way in time and space as well. Whatever world he's in, it's several away from hers, his sad gaze boring into the pictures again. He cradles the locket gingerly.

"Once you were born, she was going to replace this picture with one of you."

He clicks the locket shut, closing his palm around it. His voice is barely above a whisper. "But she never got that chance."

Memories of the very first time she ever danced with Caspian replay in her brain from all those years ago at her Victory Tour. In fact, every moment she's ever spent with the man is assaulting her mind, quotes and mannerisms that she was indifferent to shouting to be understood now. Their meanings morph to something else, and she feels so oblivious, wondering if she was truly blind this entire time.

"Your wife... you said she di—"

"President Snow had your mother killed."

The M-word almost makes her flinch, the news still startling and difficult to grasp. There's no pain detected in his voice. Instead, it's cold, clinical, and detached. And... furious. Somewhere hidden beneath all the layers, she can sense the wrathful vengeance bubbling and burning.

"After they killed her, they cut you out of her belly. Made sure you were healthy, had all your toes. I didn't even get to hold you. Then they shipped you off to the Districts, promising to have you starve in one of the Orphanages. But that's not the only promise he made."

Yelena listens tensely but carefully, clinging to his every word. The story sounds unreal. Bewildering and unreal.

"He vowed that one day, you would be reaped for The Hunger Games when the right time came. That you would have no chance, and if you were lucky, your death would be quick." His upper lip twitches, almost tugging into a snarl. He shakes his head. "I made sure that wouldn't happen."

Faint tinkling and light beeping echo in her ears as she remembers those promising glints of silver raining from the sky like gifts from heaven. The parachutes seemed to come endlessly and perfectly timed, ensuring Yelena and even her allies Dahlia and Lenore would stand another day. Then she remembers how often they wound up fighting the Arena more than fellow tributes, Mutts upon Mutts nipping at their heels, natural disasters striking next, their pulses never slowing. It felt like the Gamemakers were out to get them, but Yelena just imagined it was that way for all the other tributes too at the time.

Now she knows that what it felt like was actually her reality.

She gnaws on her bottom lip as she shakes her head. Her voice is a soft whisper tucked under her breath. "You protected me..."

"I tried," he smiles sadly. Guilt and remorse flicker across his features, and the whites of his eyes are glistening more than usual. When he blinks over and over, the tears are swept away before gravity can push them over. He swallows thickly as he ducks his head and averts her gaze in shame. "I tried."

When she looks at him now, she realizes the perfectly put together Caspian Steele isn't so whole and perfect after all. Instead, he's been chewed to bits, raw and desperately clinging to his broken pieces. Unlike her, he's had more years to practice, still wrapping himself neatly like a gift tied with a sweet little bow. However, all it takes is one tug in the right place for him to unravel.

"What happened that Snow wanted to do this to you?" she dares to ask, reaching for his hand holding the locket. Hers wraps around his fist as she clings to him, waiting patiently.

Caspian shakes his head incessantly. He swallows bile down his throat as he inhales a sharp breath. His voice starts off shaky. "It's best— best if you don't know. I've already told you too much as it is, even if I was planning to tell you one day."

Just from his tone she can tell he's scared. No, not just scared. Completely and utterly petrified. He begins glancing nervously around the room, sweat shining along his forehead. Now he looks like the one who might need to lie down.

"You can't tell anyone about this, Yelena. You have to promise me. They could hurt you if they think you knew, or your friends and family back in Eight. Do you promise?"

She nods without hesitation. "I promise."

"Snow has been watching us for years. I imagine he let me be close to you only because..." Caspian then gestures toward the hotel room around him, and his shoulders slump in defeat. Wrinkles crease when he furrows his brows into a dark and disgusted frown. "Because of what— what he's been forcing you to do. More torture for us both."

Yelena usually tries to focus on the hollow ache that's grown in her chest like a tumor mostly because it's so demanding and powerful. It's easier to be consumed by that than to pay attention to the shame and disgust that burns at her gut. Like a snake, her skin threatens to slither and crawl right off her warm body when she's forced to remember why she's really invited to The Capitol throughout the year. She's spared her parents back home of the truth.

But Caspian knows. Her birth father knows.

Can she call him that?

"The truth is, I don't know why he didn't just kill me for what I did. Poison is usually his weapon of choice. He should've killed me and he didn't, but I..." Caspian hesitates, rubbing his palms together nervously. Unease builds in Yelena's chest as she shifts her weight. She almost doesn't hear what he says.

"But I wish he did."

Her lips part, tears welling in her eyes again. Before she can argue, he straightens back up, burying his anguish once more. The pretty ribbon is tied back into its neat bow, revealing the Caspian Steele she's always known.

"I tried to give you clues slowly throughout the years. You were right, this is an engagement ring." The sapphires and diamonds flash in his grip again. "It was your mother's. The— the music box I gave you was from your Nursery."

Yelena struggles to picture it. Not necessarily the nursery, but what home its walls belong to. It wouldn't have been back in District Eight. It would've been... here, in The Capitol. Because Yelena is really Capitol born.

How? How in any world could that be possible?

"The hairbrush was your mother's, but she never used it. It was so silly, she just let it sit there for decoration." He chuckles lightly as he continues to explain nervously. Then he glances to her. "The poems. Did you ever read the poems?"

Yelena shakes her head sheepishly, stifling the urge for a poor excuse besides the fact that they merely didn't interest her.

"Your mother wrote them. She was a writer." Caspian smiles proudly. "A poet."

At the mention of that, eagerness to return home for another reason builds inside her. But she knows she can't leave The Capitol until she's been properly excused. The book of poems has been collecting dust along her shelf. She vaguely remembers the black, shiny leather that bound the pages, golden letters imprinted for the author's name.

"What was her name?" Yelena swallows the bile back down her throat, the word hovering at her lips. She decides to say it. "My mother?"

Caspian smiles a small, sweet smile. When she looks in his brown eyes, he can see he's somewhere with her in his mind. Perhaps in one of the memories from the locket, smiling with her on their wedding day, or behind the camera while she cradles her pregnant belly. She holds her mother's name close to her heart like a prayer.

"Sareena."

━━━━

That night, Yelena dreams of stolen mothers and broken fathers. A baby crying in her cradle, nursery abandoned and empty, no one to answer the call. The faces of her mother and father in Eight hover above her, cooing and smiling, eventually morphing into the tearful expressions of Caspian and Sareena. She reaches for them, only to latch onto empty air.

Yvette and Bobbin Hart sob as they cling to their only daughter before she's boarded on The Capitol's bullet train like a lamb to the slaughter. President Snow stamps her ticket, the world blurring and whirring around her. Caesar Flickerman is bursting into laughter across from her along the stage, pictures of her and her dead mother displayed along the screens behind them. "Uncanny, isn't it?" he asks the audience. They hoot and holler, and when she tries to flee the stage, the tile turns to sand and dirt beneath her feet.

Those Crab mutts from her Games pinch at her heels as they threaten to devour her, crushing her bones with sickening cracks and snaps like they did to Dahlia. Soft tinkling echoes across the sky. When she looks up, a white parachute floats downward, the silver glistening in the sunlight. She runs as fast as she can, the Mutts still after her as she desperately reaches toward the sky. Closer. Closer. Almost.

Just when the cool metal grazes her touch, strings yank the Sponsor's gift right out of her grasp. Her eyes follow their path up toward the clouds, tufts of his white hair and cold, cruel blue eyes blending in with the sky. President Snow, the merciless puppeteer of her entire life, keeps pulling the strings any way that his shriveled up heart desires. Cannon after cannon sounds off after that, exploding in her ears. As Yelena falls, President Snow smirks at her.

When she stirs, crossing back to the real world, the cannons are still pounding. Sunlight from her hotel window nearly blinds her as she struggles to open her eyes. It's when her knuckles wrap around the sheets beneath her that she remembers where she is. She's in The Capitol, not the Arena.

So why are the cannons still firing?

Yelena straightens in bed suddenly, clutching the sheets as her dark and wild hair falls into her eyes. Still in somewhat of a daze, she scans her surroundings with a narrowed gaze, blinking away the sands of slumber. She's completely alone, probably the first time she ever has been while staying the night in The Capitol these past few years.

The evening comes back to her when she glances to her hotel nightstand. Sapphires and diamonds beam back at her in the morning sun. Beside them, there's something new. The golden and intricate patterns along the perfectly carved heart tug at her own. Yelena's about to grab the locket when the pounding returns again. Her fiery eyes shoot toward her hotel door.

Someone relentlessly knocks over and over again. Their persistence churns uneasy in her gut. For once in her life, she prays it's just Cersei, her Escort. After last night's events, that might be the only harmless possibility.

Another incessant knock, and Yelena stumbles out of bed, bare feet padding over to the door. Her gaze locks onto a nearby mirror, her reflection blurring with images of Sareena. Except where that woman seemed to display a beautiful smile, Yelena simply just appears worn and tired, eyes still red and swollen from hours of crying after Caspian left. She has to stand on her tippy-toes to peek through the Peep Hole.

She clears her throat, voice raspy from her slumber. "Who is it?"

"Room service!" An abnormally high voice responds.

Yelena's fist clenches the door knob, and she remains frozen in place. Perhaps if she weren't clinging to that, she might be trembling instead. She shakes her head. "I didn't order any. You must have the wrong room."

"Nope! Right room!" The voice chirps back. She can make out a faint tuft of unkempt blondish hair. The familiarity of it causes her to rock back onto her heels, a scowl forming on her features. He doesn't seem to give up the rouse. "Someone ordered it for you!"

Her nostrils flare and she inhales a sharp breath, unlocking the door with a rapid click. She yanks it open, and the figure leaning along it stumbles. Finnick Odair gasps, yet manages to steady himself quickly. And the silver plate of what must be breakfast, the lid concealing something that smells like cinnamon.

Finnick straightens, meeting Yelena's scalding glare with stride, those green eyes twinkling like a devil's. They match his silk pajamas, the buttons undone and revealing his bare chest. "Ah, she wakes." She shuts the door behind him as he slowly emerges into the heart of her hotel room. He glances around curiously. "Did they put away your coffin for you? Or is it kind of hard to transport?"

Yelena folds her arms across her chest, forcing a sarcastically sweet smile. "They were too busy finding a big enough room for you and your ego."

"Ouch," he pouts, mild hurt feigning across his features. The Victor from Four saunters past her messy bed, seemingly inspecting it. Yelena tugs at the fabric of her robe uneasily as she glances toward the locket and ring on her night stand. If Finnick notices them, he doesn't mention it, swiveling on his heels to face her again. "Because you said that, I get the last bite of French Toast."

Lifting the silver lid, he reveals the source of that mouth-watering cinnamon aroma. Sure enough, there's a steeping stack of French Toast waiting to be devoured, several pieces of sausage off to the side. Yelena frowns, the skin around her eyes raw from tears and a growing ache washing along her skull. Just when she's about to decline and kick him out of her hotel room, her stomach betrays her, bellowing a low rumble. Finnick smiles a faint but arrogant smile at that, slowly placing the lid back down with a soft Clink.

"I don't like French Toast," Yelena lies, shrugging her shoulders.

He doesn't buy it as he frowns with disapproval. "That's weird."

Finnick lowers himself to the carpet just at the foot of her bed, sitting criss-cross-applesauce. There's no sign of difficulty when it comes to making himself comfortable as he sighs. He removes the silver lid once more, splaying a napkin across his lap and snatching one of the forks. Yelena remains as still as a statue as she watches him cut off a piece of French Toast before stuffing it into his mouth.

When he speaks, his speech is garbled from the chewing. "So. How was your night?"

"We're not doing this," Yelena denies sharply, shaking her head. "We never do this. I'm not doing this."

The Victor from Four raises a quizzical brow. Silverware screeches softly against the porcelain plate as he cuts himself another piece. "Having breakfast together...?"

"No. Talking about our nights." She gestures toward her hotel room like it's obvious. "These nights."

"That's understandable," Finnick concedes, his thumb dabbing at syrup along the corner of his mouth. His thoughtful gaze peers up at her briefly. "They're not my favorite topic either. I was just trying to make conversation." Another bite, and he moans, snapping his eyes shut while savoring all the flavors. He points to the French Toast with his fork. "This, this is really good though. Shame you don't like French Toast."

Yelena's stomach betrays her again, uttering another famished growl. Warmth floods her cheeks, traveling all the way to the tips of her ears, and her nostrils flare. She clenches her jaw, silently sitting across from Finnick, tucking her legs beneath her. His satisfied smirk might be brighter than the sunlight glaring through her hotel shades.

She carefully saws off a bite, popping a piece of the sweet, cinnamon goodness into her mouth. When she glances back over at him, he's still staring, both brows raised as he waits.

"It's pretty good," she shrugs, flattening her tone.

He grins, nodding. "I'm glad you like it." Yelena averts his gaze, watching his knife cut away at one of the sausages. She wrinkles her nose when he swipes it through the syrup. "It's one of this hotel's only redeeming qualities."

Yelena hums bitterly in agreement. When she expects him to ask her more questions, or perhaps attempt another round of banter, he doesn't. Instead, her room is just filled with the sound of silverware scraping and light chewing. The two eat silently and peacefully. To her surprise, Yelena finds some comfort in the whole scenario.

However, it doesn't take long for the girl to lose her appetite. Her sad gaze centers on the bed looming beside her again, remembering how it looked last night to sit on the edge of it with Caspian, knee to knee while he confessed perhaps the greatest secret of his lifetime. A secret that's now hers to bear.

Perhaps it sounds cliché, but it's been a long time since Yelena has ever felt even a semblance of wholeness. When they revived her on that table, jarring her out of her six minutes of peace, they didn't bring her back the way she left. Now she feels like a broken, porcelain doll, walking around with all her pieces in her arms, struggling to carry them. She thought she at least had them all. However, as revealed last night, it seems she doesn't.

She's furious. Devastated. Confused. Lost and drowning in sorrow. She doesn't know who she's angry with most, who she wants to feel her wrath in hopes of salvation from all these heavy feelings weighing her down like anchors. Part of her is furious at Caspian for burdening her with his secret, but another is exceedingly grateful for the truth. She just isn't sure how to bear another tragedy when she's already tending to a hefty collection.

But there is one man at the center of it all that her anger feels justified for. She feels it brewing inside of her, growing venomous and inconsolable. It's not just anger. It's hatred. Hatred for Coriolanus Snow. Her knuckles turn white around her fork as the metal grows warm from her touch.

"I'm sorry about Caspian."

Yelena jerks out of her trance, whipping her dark gaze toward the man in front of her. Finnick glances between her and the bed she's been glaring holes into. He gently places his fork down as she observes him uneasily. She almost flinches when she watches him study the puffy skin around her eyes.

Does he know? How would he know? Perhaps the whole country does, the running sink and roaring T.V. not loud enough to conceal their secrets last night. Will she come home to a funeral for someone she loves for this secret?

The way he looks at her reminds her of their dance last evening, when that arrogance managed to fade, the mask Finnick always wears finally slipping down. It made him seem less insufferable. Just another man, another Victor, with pieces of his own that he's trying to hold together.

Finnick clears his throat, ducking his head as his fingers pick mindlessly at the rug beneath them. "I know you considered him a friend, so..."

Calling him a friend almost seems laughable now. But not for what Finnick may assume.

Yelena nods softly. "Yeah." She pauses, tucking her knees closer to her chest now. Her arms bind them together, the left hand clasping her right wrist. The silence scratches at her skin like an uncomfortable blanket, and she peers back at the bed again, only one side slept in. She shakes her head and speaks before she can think better of it. "We didn't uh... you know."

Finnick straightens thoughtfully, lips forming a small 'O.' Then his brows furrow. She shifts uncomfortably, spine aching, when his gaze traces the swollen skin around her eyes again. "So what did he want then?" A pause, and he turns his head to the side, the green in his stare darkening with unease. "He didn't—"

Yelena shakes her head immediately and earnestly. Finnick stops himself before he can say it, just straightening with interest while he patiently waits. She inhales a shaky breath, and soon, her stomach isn't the only organ to betray her. The corners of her eyes burn with tears as her heart double-crosses her too. Yelena reaches for the T.V. remote, clicking it back on and adjusting the volume to twenty. Finnick scoots forward slightly in recognition.

"Can you keep a secret?"

Something ripples across his features, and a breathy chuckle shakes through his chest. A corner of his lips tucks upward with amusement and something else she can't place. "Boy, if you only knew." Then he nods a sincere nod. "Yes, yes I can."

She tries to smile so that the glass in her eyes nor the quake in her voice triggers alarm. Yelena clings to herself tighter. "He told me a secret of his own." She peers down at her polished toes, a blister burning at the pinkie from her stilettos the night before. Dark hair falls into her face as she inhales a shaky breath, shoving the tears back down like she always does. "A big one."

Finnick patiently and gently leans forward, green eyes searching for her brown ones. "Did you... promise to keep it?"

"I did," Yelena admits. She laces her fingers together as she straightens her spine, raising her chin bravely.

Nodding, Finnick raises both his hands. "Then you don't have to tell me. Only if you want to."

Yelena remembers Caspian's tale of murdered mothers and stolen daughters, the cruel hand of Fate seemingly merciless. She remembers his fear and concern when he begged her to vow the secret stay with her. It's hers to bear now too. The truth shackles and frees her all at once.

Eventually, she shakes her head, a heavy sigh making her chest heave. "I shouldn't."

"That's fair. I understand."

Finnick shows no signs of annoyance or frustration. Just a patience and empathy she didn't know he could fashion. It sounds unkind to think of him as incapable of such things, but when he's been decorated as a mere sex symbol by The Capitol, allowing his arrogance to help him play the part, Yelena hates to admit even she was almost fooled.

"Here." He slowly and carefully pushes the breakfast plate toward her. "I saved you the last bite."

━━━━

By the time Yelena arrives to her mansion in the Victor's Village, it's noon on a Monday, meaning she likely has it to herself. Mondays are her mother's day to help her sister at the family Tailor Shop. Then there's her father, the owner of one of the Textile factories, still going to work every day like he had before. Their routines give her sanction after such an eventful weekend. She's truly not in the mood to be coddled or questioned, simply just wanting to be left alone.

Gravel crunches beneath her feet, the wheels of her suitcase awkwardly dragging behind her. She hangs her head, watching her strides as she grows closer and closer to the steps of her front porch. It isn't until she's almost at the door that she feels the heat of several stares.

Yelena finds Cecelia first, her house further down the Village. Her former mentor stands stiffly in her yard, a toddler on her hip. Yelena tentatively bids her a smile and nod, waiting for the woman to return it. She just stares, dark brows pinched together and brown eyes glistening with worry. Her stomach knots.

There's a flicker of a curtain at the edge of her vision. Yelena uneasily follows the movement up to Woof's bedroom window, the shadow of the old man peering down at her. She's startled by the sound of fast and long strides crunching in the gravel. Rudy crosses from his own porch, clutching what looks like mail in one hand and an unlit cigarette in the other. He juts his chin out at her. "Hey. They gave me your mail again."

Yelena straightens, clenching and unclenching her hand around the handle of her suitcase. She blinks repeatedly, lashes almost knitting together as she glances between him and the other Victors. "Oh. Thanks." Rudy draws closer, standing on the step below hers so that they're almost eye level now. Just as she reaches for the mail, she looks back toward Woof and Cecelia. "What's with—"

Rudy isn't letting go of the mail. He still holds it firmly in his grasp, green eyes boring into her brown ones pointedly. They fall down to the letters in their hands, then back up to her. The unease creeps back into her gut like an eerie fog. Yelena follows his gaze down to the mail.

On the top letter, there's a small sticky note, slanted writing with letters blending together scrawled across it.

They're here.

Blood drains from Yelena's face as she stares at the words stiffly. Dread weighs like lead in her stomach, and her wide gaze snaps up towards Rudy's. He meets her evenly, lips forming a tight line as a flicker of sympathy crosses his stare. He gives her a curt nod before carefully peeling off the sticky note, crumpling it into his fist. Immediately, he stuffs his hand into his pocket.

"Hopefully they stop mixing it up."

With that, he swivels on his heels, the gravel crunching beneath his feet. Yelena forces a shaky nod. "Hopefully."

When she looks back up at Woof's window, the curtain hangs down, no sign of a silhouette. Down the drive, Cecelia is back to playing with her toddler, the other two children joining her in her yard. Yelena feels sweat build at the nape of her neck and beneath her thick hair. The golden locket from Caspian seethes against her chest, and she silently curses herself for being sentimental and foolish enough to wear it.

Tucking it carefully beneath the collar of her shirt, Yelena turns back toward her front door, fumbling for her key. It clicks and turns, slowly opening. She expects footsteps, chatter, maybe even a greeting, but there's nothing. Just unnerving silence. She tentatively shuts the door behind her, holding the knob to stifle another click. She tosses the mail onto the bench.

My parents are at work. They're safe, they're okay, they're at work, and they're safe, and they're okay.

They've got to be safe and okay.

Yelena shrugs off her coat and hangs it on the peg by the door. She glances down to her suitcase, then to the stairs, but decides to leave it where it sits. The floorboards creak beneath her feet as she stalks toward her kitchen, causing her to wince. Thump, thump, thump. Her heart is pounding.

When she rounds the corner to her kitchen, she isn't surprised to see the Devil making himself comfortable at her kitchen table, his white hair gelled and blue eyes cold. President Snow straightens at her entrance, swollen lips peeling back into a venomous grin.

"Hello, Ms. Hart." His voice causes her fingers to twitch, knuckles curling at the thought of wrapping themselves around his throat. He tilts his head, drumming his fingers softly against the table. Behind him stand several henchmen adorned in black jackets with black leather gloves. "I apologize for the intrusion, but I missed you at the train station."

President Snow glances toward the windows behind her. "What lovely curtains. Did you make them?"

"My mother did. I'll tell her you liked them." Yelena feels her voice threatening to quiver in her throat, and she sets her trembling jaw. The nervous quirk of a dark brow. "Can I get you some water? We might have some croissants from a bakery in town, they're delicio—"

He holds up a firm hand. "No need." Then he gestures to the empty chair across from him. "Would you join me?"

Yelena glances to the henchmen looming behind him. She forces a nod as she slowly approaches the chair. "Certainly, Mr. President."

It creaks beneath her weight, her spine unnaturally straight. She sits on the very edge, forcing herself to fold her nervous hands along her lap. Whatever hatred seethes inside, she has to hold it at bay for now. Now, she's just another gracious, oblivious and sickeningly sweet Victor.

President Snow raises his white brows, voice unnervingly light. "How was your latest visit to The Capitol, Ms. Hart?"

"Lovely." She doesn't miss a beat as she forces a smile. "As always."

"I hear you had the privilege to attend your Stylist and friend's Fashion Show. Greer, is it?"

"Yes. She's very talented."

"Any other friends you had the chance to catch up with?"

Yelena's heart hiccups in her chest. He knows. He knows, he knows, he knows— he has to know.

Another strained smile poorly disguised as coyness. "I'm fortunate to have many friends in The Capitol."

President Snow's eyes ice over like a glacier, the lightness sucked right out of his tone. "Caspian Steele. What about him?"

Fuck.

She must take too long to respond, because President Snow snaps his fingers, one of the black suits coming forward. Yelena flinches in her chair. He sets down a projection device, and with a click of his gloved finger, a hologram flickers in the air. A sour taste burns her tongue and the inside of her cheeks as she watches footage of Caspian Steele entering her hotel room at Ambrosia.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, Ms. Hart, but you two usually meet under different circumstances. Is that true?"

"Yes," she answers quickly, shifting in her seat.

President Snow just stares at her, waiting for something. He seems to believe her. So he must be waiting for more. Yelena clears her throat as she offers a sheepish grin. "Nothing happened between him and I. It's silly..." Her voice trails, and she swallows thickly as President Snow raises another white and bushy brow. "I uh— I thought I was going to marry him."

Those swollen lips splinter into another smile, the acrid stench of roses burning her nose. She stifles a grimace. "How silly indeed. He's twice your senior."

"Age doesn't usually matter," Yelena replies a bit too quickly. Immediately, she clamps her teeth down on her lip, cursing her anger.

President Snow tilts his head to the side like a cat, a hum vibrating in his throat. His swollen lips press themselves into a smaller grin. "I suppose you're right. That is, for your Customers."

He rests his cheek on his knuckles. "What on Earth made you think you were going to marry him, my dear?"

In this very moment, Yelena doesn't seem to have many cards. Reaching into the back pocket of her pants, she decides to play what might be her only one. She carefully offers President Snow the ring gifted to her by Caspian.

"It's pretty, isn't it?" She stares thoughtfully at the sapphires and diamonds. "I thought it was an engagement ring, maybe he was going to propose or—"

"What was it that you two discussed, Ms. Hart?"

She can tell from his tone his patience is wearing. He lets the ring rest in the middle of the kitchen table beside the hologram.

Yelena shrugs as her stomach churns. "Just that I was foolish to think that. That he actually... doesn't want anything to do with me anymore."

"I hate liars, Ms. Hart," President Snow snaps.

"I'm not—"

"Not you, my dear. Our little friend Caspian Steele." He pinches the ring between his fingers as he inspects it with a narrowed gaze. His lips twitch upward in disbelief. "Why leave you with such a beautiful ring then?"

"I imagine he has many more like it, knowing him."

"Ah, knowing him." President Snow clicks his tongue to the roof of his mouth loudly. "Doesn't matter. You should be relieved. You're far too young to be married. Not when you have so many Suitors to dedicate your youth to."

Unlike President Snow, Yelena has killed with her own hands. While he gives off the orders to men and women like the ones behind him, Yelena has done the dirty work to take a life. Something she's not proud of. But in this moment, she knows she could kill him if she wanted to. All she'd need is a knife and less than a second to send it twirling right between his icy eyes.

The man smiles sweetly at her as she stares. "I know you may be disappointed, but it sounds like you won't have to worry about running into Caspian anymore. I'm sure it's painful to see the man who broke your heart, Ms. Hart."

She feels like she's going to implode right where she sits. Digging her heels into the ground to hide a reaction, images of how Caspian might've been tortured and murdered drown her mind. Is he dead? He has to be. If he isn't yet, surely he will be soon.

Why? Why couldn't he have just taken the secret to his grave? At least then she wouldn't find her father only to lose him in just twenty-four hours.

Did she lose him? Did Snow take him away from her too just like everything else?

The man stands from his chair, the wooden legs dragging against the floor. Yelena clenches her jaw, boring her glare into the ring still sitting at the middle of the table. President Snow makes his way toward the kitchen entryway. Then he stops right beside a sitting Yelena, glacial eyes combing over her coyly.

She winces when she feels one of his fingers tuck themselves carefully beneath the gold chain wrapped around her neck. A shaky breath escapes her as he slowly tugs it upward, the pendant revealing itself. His throat hums.

"How lovely."

President Snow let's the locket sink back down. Yelena grips the sides of her chair with white knuckles, stiffly watching from the corner of her eye as the men in their black jackets shuffle out of her kitchen. She counts each of their pounding footsteps until the last one echoes onto the porch.

When her front door slams behind them, Yelena finally allows herself to burst into sobs.

━━━━

»»————-　♡　————-««

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed!! Feel free to comment, I love hearing from you!!

So what do we think?? I've been so excited to share Yelena's backstory since I came up with it five years ago! Also, opinions on her interactions with Finnick? I'm always worried it's choppy or I'm writing characters out of character.

Peep the Victors from Eight looking out for our girl. I love them all together :')

There will probably be another time jump or two before we finally get to Quarter Quell time, but I promise I'll try to make it obvious so you don't get confused what's happening!

Thank you again!!

Word Count: 6810