to win - haymitch abernathy

²⁵ 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝓉𝓎'𝓈 𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇

* 𝗽𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱 𝗶𝗳 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝘂𝗻𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁𝗮𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅𝘂𝗮𝗹 𝗮𝘀𝘀𝘂𝗹𝘁, 𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀 *

Rosemary had been dreading this extravagant soiree from the moment she received the invitation. She couldn't help but feel like a fish out of water midst the opulence of the Capitol's elite. The grand ballroom was a dazzling spectacle, a whirlwind of vibrant colors, and shimmering sequins. Guests sported gowns and tuxedos that seemed to defy the laws of fashion physics. Their faces were adorned with makeup so vivid it was as if they had been painted by artists with a penchant for bold hues and glittering pigments. The air was filled with laughter, clinking champagne glasses, and the tantalizing aroma of delicacies that Rosemary had only ever dreamt of tasting.

Rosemary, on the other hand, wore a simple, modest dress that had seen better days. It was the dress she'd contemplated on wearing the day she was reaped into the Hunger Games. Her hair was nicely combed, with a few stray strands of hair framed her face. She felt like an uninvited guest, an imposter in a world of extravagance and excess. However, Rosemary had a role to play, a facade to maintain. She was not just any guest; she was the latest tribute to emerge victorious from the Hunger Games, and the president himself had singled her out for special recognition. She had been presented with a tantalizing prize, one she had hesitantly accepted earlier in the evening. Now, though, regret gnawed at her. The president's prize had brought her to this ostentatious party, leaving her separated from Porter, who had been spirited away an hour ago.

The pressure to appear grateful and cheerful weighed heavily on Rosemary's shoulders. She forced a smile and danced when called upon, all the while struggling to quell the queasy feeling in her stomach. Her heart raced like a wild stallion, and each polite word she exchanged with the Capitol's elite only served to tighten the knot of discomfort in her chest.

As the night wore on, Rosemary's unease deepened. She knew she needed to escape, just as Porter had instructed her to do before they were separated. She made an attempt to leave, her steps faltering towards the exit, but the Capitol's vigilant guards swiftly blocked her path. They informed her, with a touch of condescension, that she could not depart until the president had bestowed upon her his magnificent offer. It was then that Rosemary realized the extent of her predicament — she was a captive audience, ensnared in a web of obligation and expectation, her heart heavy with the knowledge that her fate was no longer entirely her own.

As if a sinister twist of fate had conspired against her, Rosemary found herself confronted by a formidable man. He loomed larger than she did, and the veins on his hands stood out prominently as he extended one toward her.

"Rosemary, would you do me the honor?" His voice was a deep, almost raspy timbre that sent a chill down her spine. She nodded in acquiescence, a knot of anxiety tightening in her chest as she contemplated the ominous possibilities that might lie ahead.

With a firm grip, he led her away from the bustling grand hall into a separate, secluded room. It seemed like an endless journey through dimly lit corridors, and Rosemary welcomed the brief respite from the extravagant chaos of the party. However, she couldn't shake the sense that this encounter was destined to be far more than mere small talk.

As he closed the door behind them, the room suddenly felt much smaller, and the air grew heavy with tension. Rosemary's heart pounded like a drum, and she was acutely aware of every sound and sensation. Then, with a subtle yet deliberate motion, his hand began to glide slowly up her back, igniting a series of involuntary shivers that coursed through her entire body.