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Dior Bernadotte woke up staring at the ceiling. The familiar, ornate pattern on the plaster above her did little to ground her in the present. It was a design she'd seen every day for as long as she could remember, yet this morning, it felt like she was seeing it through a haze, like she couldn't quite tell if she had ever really fallen asleep. The night before was a blur of lights, laughter, and raised glasses—another of her mother's infamous Hunger Games Eve parties.
The shuffling beside her drew Dior's attention away from the ceiling. She turned her head and saw her older twin brothers, Cash and Mace, still sleeping soundly.
Despite the long night of celebrations, they looked peaceful. Dior watched them for a moment, their steady breathing in perfect sync, as if they were still in the womb together.
Their mother, Lolita, had thrown the party with more enthusiasm than ever. She had insisted it was to celebrate Dior's potential selection as a tribute, a proud moment for any family in District 1. But Dior knew the truth.
Her brothers, despite all their bravado and talk of glory, were secretly relieved that their names had never been drawn in the last six years. They had aged out of eligibility, their nightmares finally over. Dior, on the other hand, had only just begun hers.
Lolita, however, was determined to have a victor in the family. For the past two years, Dior had been enrolled in a rigorous "victor training program," designed for children who aspired to win. But "aspired" wasn't the right word. Dior didn't just aspire to win. Winning was all she knew. In District 1, it was a birthright. From the moment you could walk, you were reminded that fighting for your district was the highest form of patriotism, and winning was the pinnacle of honor.
Dior had been taught to crave the approval of the Capitol, to dream of the day she would stand before President Snow and be crowned victor. The thought sent a shiver down her spine, but whether it was excitement or fear, she couldn't quite tell.
Quietly, Dior slipped out of bed, her small frame barely making a dent in the mattress. She slid her feet into her pink slippers, the soft fabric a sharp contrast to the cold marble floor. The twins' pocket watch glinted on the nightstand, catching her eye. She hesitated for a moment before gently prying it from Mace's wrist, careful not to wake him. The cool metal felt heavy in her hand as she flipped it open.
9:00 a.m.
Seven hours until the reaping.
With a soft sigh, Dior placed the watch back on Mace's wrist, watching as his fingers instinctively curled around it. She moved toward the door, her steps light and deliberate. Her brothers would sleep until noon, at least. They had no reason to be up early today. Today was her day.
Descending the grand staircase, Dior spotted her mother hunched over a book in the parlor. Lolita's sharp features were softened by the morning light filtering through the large windows, casting a glow over her pale skin. She didn't notice Dior at first, too engrossed in whatever she was reading. Dior made her way to the kitchen, the smell of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the lingering scent of last night's champagne.
