𝐌𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫, Finnick Odair

𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑭𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍 𝑺𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒘

Three months had passed since she and Finnick had kissed, and Aphrodite's life had become an uneasy mix of survival and fleeting moments of relief. Finnick was there, a steady presence, a comforting warmth, but there were still things she couldn't escape, no matter how much she tried.

Today, it was him. The Capitol man. The one who had bought her after the Games, who had claimed her as one of his prizes.

She didn't want to return, not after constantly visiting throughout the last three months. But there were things she still had to face—things that wouldn't go away until she did.

Her steps were slow as she entered his penthouse. The same cold, sterile atmosphere, the same too-perfect decor. Nothing had changed. It felt like nothing ever would.

"Aphrodite," the man greeted her with a voice like silk, his smile something she had come to dread. "It's been too long. 2 weeks, in fact. You've been keeping to yourself, haven't you?"

Aphrodite stiffened but didn't respond. She refused to let him see her unease, even if it gnawed at her insides. The air felt thicker here, heavier somehow like it always did when he was around.

"Come in," he urged, his voice smooth. "Please, sit."

She didn't want to. But she did, knowing the power he held over her was more than just a matter of money or manipulation—it was psychological. She could feel his gaze on her as she lowered herself onto the couch, her body tense, coiled like a spring.

He studied her for a moment as if savouring her discomfort. "I must say," he began, his eyes flicking to her every move, "you've been particularly... distant. I do hope I haven't upset you."

Aphrodite forced herself to meet his eyes, her voice carefully neutral. "You didn't upset me. You just... did what the Capitol does. Took what it wanted."

The smile on his face never faltered. "Ah, but that's not all I took, is it?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping lower, almost conspiratorial. "You still remember our little... arrangement, don't you?"

Aphrodite's breath caught in her throat, and for a split second, she felt a flash of heat—fear, resentment—flood through her. The Games. The things he'd made her do.

He saw the flicker of emotion in her eyes, and his smile widened. "I think you do. I think you remember perfectly."

She couldn't help it. The memory was still so sharp, so vivid. The way he'd made her perform for him, the way he'd enjoyed her discomfort, her submission. It had been one of the worst parts of the Games, and now... now it was here again.

"Let's not be coy, Aphrodite," he continued, his voice now smooth, commanding. "I've been thinking a lot about what we shared. You were such a... willing participant in the Games. A beautiful thing to watch. I thought we could revisit some of those moments."

His hand slid to the small table between them, picking up a small vial of something—perfume, or something more dangerous. The glint of it caught in the light, and Aphrodite's stomach dropped.

"You remember how you used to perform, don't you?" he asked, his voice almost a whisper now, dripping with satisfaction. "The way you would entertain me... those little tricks, those moments when you'd do exactly what I wanted. Do you remember how much you enjoyed it?"

The words hit her like a slap. They made her feel small and powerless.

Aphrodite's mind raced, but she knew there was no way out. Not yet. Not unless she played along.

She swallowed hard, her voice strained but steady. "What do you want me to do?"

He didn't need to answer. He was already standing, moving toward her, his steps slow, deliberate. He reached out, taking her hand in his, his fingers cold against her skin.