Torn: Sequel to Ruthless

Chapter 20

Octavia

The lights are blinding. The stage is so bright it feels like a dream—or maybe a nightmare. The Capitol's cheers are deafening, but I can barely hear them. All I can focus on is the knot twisting in my stomach as Caesar Flickerman turns his glittering smile toward me. His eyes glint with curiosity, that same knowing look he gives when he's about to pry open a wound for the audience's entertainment.

"So, Octavia," he begins, leaning forward, the sequins of his suit catching the light, "your emotional goodbye to Kai has been the talk of the Capitol. Everyone wants to know—what was your relationship with him like? It seemed... so personal."

I knew this was coming. I knew it the moment they announced this interview. But knowing doesn't stop the sharp jab in my chest or the heat rising to my face. My heart clenches as memories of Kai flood my mind—his quiet strength, his loyalty, the way he could calm me down with a single look. But I can't tell them that. I can't let the Capitol take something so raw, so real, and twist it into their spectacle.

So, I lie.

"Kai was like a brother to me," I say, forcing a soft, bittersweet smile that I've rehearsed a hundred times. "He reminded me so much of my real brother, Rowan. That's why it was so hard to say goodbye."

The words taste like poison, every syllable burning my tongue. They cut deeper because they're not true. Kai wasn't my brother. He wasn't Rowan. He was... so much more. And yet here I am, reducing him to a hollow version of what he meant to me because it's what the Capitol demands.

Caesar's eyes light up as he leans back, nodding like he's just uncovered some precious secret. "Ah, yes! Family bonds! The Capitol loves a strong connection like that. It must've been incredibly difficult for you, losing him."

I swallow hard, my throat tight, the lie sitting heavy in my chest. "It was," I say softly, casting my gaze downward for dramatic effect. "It felt like losing a piece of myself."

The crowd coos in sympathy, their artificial empathy as shallow as the glitter on their faces. To them, I'm a character in their favorite drama, a tragic heroine torn between loss and love. They'll never know the truth. That when I kissed Kai's forehead, it wasn't as a sister. That I didn't just lose an ally or a friend—I lost the one person who truly saw me. But the Capitol can never know that.

Caesar doesn't notice the crack in my voice. Or if he does, he doesn't care. He thrives on it. He leans forward, his tone softening, drawing the audience further in. "And now, here you are, Octavia. A Victor. How does it feel to stand here, having survived what so many others could not?"

Victor. The word feels wrong, foreign, suffocating. A title I didn't earn but stole, paid for in blood and betrayal. I'm supposed to feel proud, triumphant. Instead, all I feel is hollow.

"I'm... grateful," I manage, my voice steady even as my insides churn. "Grateful to be alive. But it's hard to celebrate when so many others didn't make it."

The half-truth settles uneasily in my chest. Caesar nods solemnly, his perfect picture of empathy as polished and fake as the Capitol itself. The audience eats it up, their applause thundering in my ears.

"And Apollo," Caesar continues, his voice dipping into something softer, more conspiratorial. "The Capitol is enchanted by the connection between you two. How does it feel to have him by your side now, after everything you've been through?"

I glance offstage where Apollo waits for his turn in the spotlight. His gaze meets mine, steady and unflinching, a rare source of stability in the chaos of my life. For a moment, the stage, the cameras, the Capitol all fade away.

"It means everything," I say, and this time, it's not a lie. "Having him with me... it's the only thing that's kept me going."

The crowd erupts into applause, their cheers washing over me like a tidal wave. I smile for the cameras, hiding the fractures beneath. All I want is to escape this stage, this Capitol, and mourn the people I've lost. But peace isn't something I'll ever have—not here.

The lights, the applause, the cameras—it all blurs together as I leave the stage. Exhaustion weighs heavy on me, and by the time my head hits the pillow, I'm already slipping into unconsciousness.

When I wake, sunlight streams through the window of the Capitol's Training Center. Today's the day I leave. The day I go back to District 2. The day I see my family again.

Apollo greets me in the foyer, his expression unreadable but his presence grounding. I throw on a simple crop top and skirt, not bothering with the Capitol's usual theatrics, and follow him out.

The train ride feels endless, the luxury around me suffocating in its extravagance. Apollo sits across from me, silent but steady, the only anchor in the chaos of my thoughts.

Finally, District 2 comes into view. As the train pulls into the station, I catch sight of the crowd gathered to welcome us. The roar of their cheers is deafening, their faces alight with celebration. But all I feel is a gnawing emptiness.

I step off the train, Apollo's hand in mine, his grip reassuring. The crowd surges forward, their voices a cacophony of joy and pride. My mother stands at the front, her eyes shining with relief and pride.

"You're back," she whispers, pulling me into a tight embrace.

Rowan is next, his expression harder, older than I remember. "You did well, Tavia," he says gruffly, his tone carrying a mix of pride and something else I can't quite place.

And then, through the crowd, I see her.

"Missy?"

She pushes through, her tears streaming down her face as she runs to me. The second her arms wrap around me, I break, clinging to her as if she's the only real thing left in my world.

"You're alive," she sobs. "I thought... I thought I lost you."

"I'm here," I whisper, but even as I say it, I know part of me isn't. Part of me is still out there in the arena, buried with Kai and the others I couldn't save.

The crowd cheers on, oblivious to the storm inside me. I stand there, surrounded by the people who love me, yet feeling more alone than ever.