The Princess of Panem | Finnick Odair x oc

XXXI

The heavy scent of roses fills the room, as always. Their overwhelming sweetness makes my throat tighten, and I have to fight not to cough. I've grown accustomed to the sensation, to the way the scent clings to everything here—the palace, the halls, my own skin. But there's a shift now, a discomfort I didn't use to feel. This room, this scent, used to calm me, make me feel protected. Now, it feels like a trap.

"Come in, Ophelia," my grandfather calls from behind the wide, dark-wood desk, his voice steady but with that familiar thread of command running through it. He doesn't raise his head to look at me, already aware that I've been standing in the doorway, hesitating. He's always aware. Of everything.

I step forward, each movement deliberate, careful. My fingers twitch by my side, instinctively checking the bracelet that's become a permanent fixture, the one that signifies far more than a mere accessory now. But I can't afford to be distracted. Not in here.

I sit across from him without a word. The chair is softer than I remember, the cushions yielding beneath me. Everything is always meticulously arranged in this room. The polished desk, the lined-up papers, the vase of perfect roses. Everything speaks of control. Order. A kind of power that's absolute.

But that same power... it's fragile too, isn't it?

"You've been distant," my grandfather says after a pause, finally glancing up at me. His pale blue eyes—cold as ever, but something flickers behind them. He's assessing, reading every inch of my expression, every subtle twitch of muscle. He always was good at seeing through people. I used to think he could see straight into my soul.

I shift slightly in my seat, measuring my response. "I've had... a lot on my mind."

It's not a lie. The Games... Finnick... the rebellion. The truth. It all weighs on me, twisting my perception of the man sitting across from me. Once, I would've given anything to seek his comfort, to be wrapped in the warmth of his approval. Now? I can't trust that warmth. I can't trust him.

"You've always had a mind that wandered," he says, his gaze still fixed on me. "But this seems... different."

I don't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch. My thoughts are carefully guarded behind the mask I wear. He's waiting for a mistake, a crack in my façade. He has no idea that it's no longer a mask just for him, but one I'm perfecting for everyone.

"I've been trying to make sense of everything," I say finally, keeping my tone neutral, letting the words hang between us like bait. I watch his reaction closely, waiting for that flash of understanding—or suspicion.

"The Games?" he asks lightly, as if we're discussing something as mundane as the weather.

"They... changed things." I match his casual tone, though my fingers dig into the armrest of the chair, my knuckles tight.

He leans back in his chair, fingers brushing against one of the roses on his desk. It's a gesture so casual, yet there's a menace to it. The image of him tending his garden with such care and precision always clings to my mind. I wonder how much blood has been spilled in the name of those roses.

"Things always change, Ophelia," he says, his tone smooth. "It's how we adapt to those changes that define us."

There's something in his words, a subtle hint, but I can't quite place it. I swallow down the unease creeping up my spine. "I used to think I understood the world. The Capitol. You."

He arches an eyebrow, his expression unreadable, but I notice the way his fingers still against the rose stem. "And now?"

Now I know better. I know the façade. I've seen the cracks, the lies, the manipulation. But none of this can be said aloud.