The Princess of Panem | Finnick Odair x oc

XXXVII

The palace dining room is as grand as ever, its vastness only amplifying the silence between us. The walls are draped with tapestries in deep reds and golds, giving the room an air of both luxury and foreboding. The long, polished mahogany table stretches before me, set with the finest china and gleaming silverware. Chandeliers hang from the high ceilings, casting a warm glow over the setting, while the flicker of candlelight creates shadows that dance along the walls.

Seated at the head of the table is my grandfather—President Snow. He's as impeccably put together as always, every strand of his white hair in place, his tailored suit crisp and pristine. The rose pinned to his lapel is fresh, its fragrance subtle but ever-present. His cold, calculating eyes are softened only by the faintest trace of a smile as he watches me take my seat across from him.

"Ophelia," he greets me, his voice smooth, almost affectionate. "You've had quite the evening."

"Yes, Grandfather," I reply, my voice quieter than usual. The events of the day are still fresh in my mind—the speech, the crowd, the pressure. The way my heart raced as I spoke, knowing every word I said was being scrutinized by the Capitol.

President Snow picks up his silverware and begins to cut into his meal with precise, practiced movements. For a few moments, the only sound in the room is the soft clinking of his utensils. I remain still, barely touching the food before me. My appetite has all but vanished, swallowed by the tension of this dinner.

"You handled yourself well today," he continues, his voice steady, as though he's delivering a calm verdict. "The Capitol is very proud of you."

I nod, feeling the weight of his words more than ever. "Thank you, Grandfather." The pride in his voice brings a wave of relief, but it's tinged with something else—something that tightens my chest. Approval, in this house, always comes with expectations attached.

"But what's more important," he continues, dabbing the corners of his mouth with a napkin, "is that I am proud of you."

That phrase—the one I've longed to hear—causes a knot in my throat. For all the power he wields, for all the manipulation and control, part of me still seeks his approval. Part of me wants to make him proud, to prove I can live up to the Snow name.

"You've come such a long way since entering the academy," he says, his pale eyes locking onto mine. "You've grown, Ophelia. You're no longer the girl who first walked through those doors."

I force a small smile, but the words hang in the air like an unspoken truth between us. You have no idea. I've grown in ways he could never imagine, in ways he would never approve of. I've learned far more than what he's taught me. The academy, the mentor program, the Hunger Games—it all changed me. But those changes aren't the kind he would praise.

Still, I keep my thoughts to myself, my face a mask of composure, just as I've been trained to do. My mentor, Katniss, won the Hunger Games—something Grandfather is immensely proud of. Her victory reflects on me, on the Capitol. But it's Katniss who faced the horrors, not me. My hands never touched a weapon, and yet, I am the one standing in the spotlight, accepting the accolades. It feels hollow in a way that I can't put into words, but I know better than to voice that emptiness here.

"I only did what I was taught," I reply, keeping my tone humble, almost deferential.

"Sweetheart," he says softly, his voice adopting the familiar, paternal tone he uses when he wants to appear affectionate. It's disarming, almost warm, but I've learned to see the careful manipulation behind it. "You've done far more than that. You've carried the Snow legacy with grace, with dignity. The Capitol adores you, and they should."

His words land heavy, a reminder of the role I play. I am not just his granddaughter; I am his heir, the face of the Capitol's future. Everything I do, every move I make, reflects back on him. I've known that since I was a child, but now, after everything, it feels more suffocating than ever.