#mbobhft

The next day, it was not a gift she found in her locker, but a clipped note from her ‘secret admirer’, scrawled in red ink this time:

Do not share them. They were meant for you.

It seemed she needed a more direct hint. Coriolanus took matters into his own hands and started snacking on those same chocolates during class. Artisanal, heart-shaped with drizzles of pink on them.

“Do you want some?” He’d asked when he caught her staring at them with narrowed eyes. “They’re milk chocolate. Your favorite.”

That was the first thing he said to her in days.

He knew all of her favorite things. It wasn’t his intention to; she had a tendency to ask him stupid questions, sometimes about his favorite things, which was how he learned about her favorite things, in turn. Her favorite fruit? Strawberries. Favorite color? Pink. Favorite animal? Cat. Favorite vegetable? She hardly ate those and preferred sweets.

Finally—finally—it clicked in her pretty little head as she blanched, and he couldn’t help but smile at that. It was so easy to ruffle her feathers. There was something suggestive about the way he licked the pink drizzle off his fingers that transformed her shock into disgust. His gaze dragged over her, greedily, like that sweet treat wasn’t enough to satiate him and there was something far sweeter before him, tempting him to take a bite.

The next round of gifts he left in her locker went straight into the trash in retaliation.

To which he responded with another note. Only this one ended up on top of her pillow with a large stuffed rabbit, and of course, a rose. Of a different color: not pure white, but red, the color of desire. Proof that some part of him burned for her. In her eyes, he imagined it would’ve been a random flower, and that was by design. She didn’t need to know the extent of his feelings—just that she was in his thoughts. Those white roses he gave her before symbolized new beginnings. A point of no return.

The gift was delivered directly to Prunella herself, with specific instructions on where to place it: right on her bed. She’d been so giddy to receive the gift, as if it were meant for her and not her stepdaughter. He winked and told her to keep it a secret. The note read:

That wasn’t very nice of you. But you’re lucky I’ll forgive you for that. I bought this the other day. It reminded me of you.

It wasn’t very nice of her to toss out his gifts. Still, he would forgive her for that, because he was gracious.

The stuffed rabbits’ beady hazel eyes were the same shade as Phoebe’s, and he thought she might’ve appreciated one as a gift, since her shelf was overrun with stuffed animals. More stuffed animals than a grown woman could possibly need, but she could pass them on to her children someday. Their children, he’d mused against better judgment, playing with the pink bow tied around the rabbit’s neck when he’d plucked it off the store shelf.

He was briefly bombarded with the image of her with a ring on her finger. A little one in her belly. Another one on her lap, playing with the stuffed rabbit. Penny, her cat, basking in the window of his penthouse, soaking in the rays of sunlight. A warm, idyllic picture of a sort of life he’d never experienced with his family. Not when his father was so removed from his life and the war had taken away many whom they held dear. The Snow penthouse was cold and devoid of joy.

Especially since Tigris moved out, and with her went all those colorful touches she made to the place. Now she was so enveloped in her endeavor to become a designer; they hardly talked. And when they did, it was usually about her witch of an employer, Fabricia Whatnot. A woman as ridiculous as her name was, who used her more as a slave than an apprentice, having her clean clumps of her magenta hair out of the shower drain and massage her feet. Tigris never complained, so grateful was she to have a position in fashion. It had taken lots of coaxing for her to open up about her struggles, as she wasn’t the type to speak about them.

Coriolanus didn’t have a warm family, though he relished the idea of creating his own someday and making it the one he longed for growing up. He was an only child, but his heir wouldn’t have to be. Perhaps he would give him a sister. Two children seemed like a sensible number. Three was fine, too. Four was an absurd number of children for any elite family to have. Not long ago, it was a luxury to have that many children, because it meant another mouth to feed in these trying times after the war. But times were changing, and Father had said that once he became president, he would put an end to the problems plaguing the Capitol.

Coriolanus pictured Phoebe’s future, and well, it was a no-brainer what sort of life she’d go on to live. Someday, her father would marry her off to a rich man, and she would become a devoted wife and mother. With her maternal nature, she would serve her purpose well. He’d seen her before, treating her kitten like a baby, feeding her human food and dressing her up. Cooing and coddling her.

How ridiculous, he’d thought, when he first saw Penny running around her townhouse with a collar resembling a diamond choker rather than anything meant for a pet. And a matching pink dress to boot. When Phoebe was downstairs fetching them snacks, he briefly glanced at her wardrobe and discovered a large section of it dedicated to her pet. Why on earth did an animal need a wardrobe? Would she be the same way with her children, spoiling them rotten and dressing them up?

He’d always wanted a cat growing up, although his father was allergic to them and disliked animals anyway. Did not care much for their filth, either. Coriolanus made do with petting Boa Bell whenever they stopped by to see Pluribus Bell to trade.

Prunella, ever an eager hostess, invited him inside the townhouse for some refreshments when he dropped off Phoebe’s gift. Though he wasn’t interested in chatting with the woman, he found that a bit of flattery went a long way in unearthing secrets (particularly about a certain someone he had his eye on). After a round of pleasantries, their discussion veered towards the upcoming Yule Ball, and of course, the topic of suitors. Who Phoebe was to attend the Ball with.

“There is one gentleman coming over this week,” Prunella confessed.

Oh? That was news. Phoebe had never mentioned a gentleman caller. Granted she had not spoken to him in days, still nursing that frosty demeanor towards him. Not only that, she appeared almost… frightened of him. Had he scared her then, in her room? Did he intimidate her with all that talk about the future and how he wanted her to be his? Well, wasn’t that what she longed for? A sign of devotion? He’d given her just that.

Women were such mysterious creatures.

“Who, might I ask?” Coriolanus inquired. “I do not mean to be nosy. I’m merely looking out for Phoebe. I make it my duty to get to know my peers.”

Prunella spat out the name of some nobody—someone who could hardly afford their tuition for the Academy, he later discovered through his resources—from another one of those families that lived well beyond their means. A recipe for disaster that he deemed was no good for the girl. She’d been horrified to hear of that and had subsequently thanked him for letting her know. Then, over the phone, she went on about how time was ticking, and she still had to find a match for her daughter.

What about a certain Plinth? He hinted. That was when he discovered that the Plinth boy had never approached the Blackwoods to ask for permission to attend the Ball with their daughter. Phoebe had apparently not spoken of the boy once.

So it appeared that after all, she’d lied to make him jealous.

What a petty schoolyard trick.

Coriolanus shook his head. “I can do something about your situation,” he then offered—an opportunity out of the goodness of his heart. He imagined how sad it would’ve been for Phoebe to have no date for the Ball. People would talk, now that they were aware of her existence. Even if she lucked out and found someone in time, her going with anyone but him was not an option. Not when there were rumors that she was his girl.

All that was left was to make it official.

And what would be more official than him showing up to such a prestigious event with her on his shoulder?

Nevertheless, he freed his schedule for a Saturday night to have dinner with the Blackwoods.

She could forget all about that other boy.

When Phoebe descended the spiraling staircase, her father, Silas Blackwood, wore a look of sheer pride on his face.

It was no wonder. Whatever she’d done, she’d done it well and had managed to capture the interest of a Snow. If there were any achievement she made in her life, it would’ve been dwarfed by this one alone. Everything had come together to make this evening possible. She looked so different outside of her academy rouge—all dolled up in a purple dress, with her hair curled and her makeup perfect. Absolutely ravishing, thought Coriolanus. He imagined she would look even more so in a gown made of a sumptuous red silk.

Dinner had gone as expected.

Of course, Silas Blackwood had approved of him courting his daughter. A union between their families was advantageous for him; it’d be just what he needed to bolster his reputation and claw his way up in society. Before coming over, Coriolanus had rehearsed before the mirror what to say to the man and how to react to any curveball thrown his way.

Inevitably, he passed his test with flying colors.

Snow lands on top.

The only issue was, how would Father react? What would he think of the girl and the Blackwoods?

His father, Crassus Xanthos Snow, was a different beast entirely. A man adamant on tradition. This Yule Ball was not any Ball; it would be improper for Coriolanus to show up with some random girl on his shoulder. Whoever he chose would share the limelight with him and be toted around for all to see. It was customary for the couples to take pictures together, and those were plastered in yearbooks—immortalized for all to remember. The Yule Ball was also a way for couples to establish courtships.

An exciting time for everyone.

He could picture it—his name plastered on the front page of The Capitol Gazette, along with the lucky lady he chose. It had happened to Father when he attended the Yule Ball with the woman he later married.

The old newspaper was buried somewhere in his father’s study, collecting dust, along with the pictures he kept of her. Most everything of hers had been given away, save for those pictures. There were only a few things of hers that Father permitted him to keep: her powder compact and her orange scarf, which still smelled like roses. Like her.

Coriolanus remembered how his father’s eyes, as cold and hard as ice, would thaw under the warmth of Mother’s gaze. She was so warm with everyone and it was hard not to fall in love with her, he’d heard, from those who knew her back then. And he remembered how she had the sweetest voice when she sang him to sleep. Roses are red, love; violets are blue. Birds in the heavens know I love you. In difficult times, when he had trouble falling asleep, he would click open his mother’s compact and inhale the rose scent of the silken cake of powder within. It never failed to calm him with the memory of how it had felt to be loved like that.

He’d asked his father once—what was it about her that he’d been drawn to?

Her voice, he’d answered. How sweetly she sang in the choir. She was a choir girl, always singing in the front at every performance.

Lucilla Snow was, without a doubt, the only soft part of his father. When they lowered her into the ground, it was like a part of him had been buried with her. He’d always been focused on his work, but after she passed, he threw himself into it. Less a father working to provide for his family, and more the head of a Dynasty—someone who reigned at the top but was untouchable.

The piano in their living room had been among the first of Mother’s belongings to go because it took up so much space, he’d said, but Coriolanus wondered if sometimes when he saw it, he pictured her sitting there, running her fingers along the keys.

She used to teach Tigris how to play the piano. But Coriolanus was never allowed to play. From a young age, his father had told him it was best he spent his time learning practical skills. He buried him in books so that his sponge of a mind could absorb whatever knowledge it was capable of.

Coriolanus had asked his father if he had married for love. It was a practical match, he’d said, but he was no fool. Lucilla was not among the cream of the crop. A well-bred elite, yes, but not of old money. Back then, wealth was in tiers; even the upper class was divided. Even more so than it was now.

So, he thought, it would be rather hypocritical of him to turn his nose up at him courting a girl of the same tier his mother once belonged in. If he could marry a bit beneath his status, why couldn’t he, too? Didn’t he want him to follow in his footsteps? Times were changing, too. The Capitol was a small place, especially after the war. There were only so many elites in existence. Especially those of old money.

Coriolanus approached his father about Phoebe and how he wanted him to meet her and her family.

“What’s gotten into you, boy?” Father looked him up and down, suspiciously, because he’d never brought home a girl to meet him before. He was, however, used to him sneaking girls upstairs for a romp in the sheets. They never spoke of his rakish habits; this was a phase many youths had. Perhaps someday he’d outgrow it.

It was never Coriolanus’ intention to indulge. His studies were his focus (because Father expected nothing less than perfection from his heir). It was just that—exceptional people like him attracted attention. Girls were on him like bees to honey, showering him with affection, perhaps hoping to become his lucky missus someday. They were inevitably left jaded because, after he had his fun with the girl, he dropped her and never looked back. It was never his intention to break her heart; he couldn’t help that he felt nothing for her. For any girl.

Then she came along.

Phoebe Blackwood.

That unassuming girl who had somehow weaseled her way into his life without meaning to. All these months later, he was still seeing her. He could say it was all for the sake of the bet, but that wouldn’t explain him approaching his father like this, to ask for his permission to court her.

Father agreed to meet with the Blackwoods.

Phoebe, the poor thing, had been terrified of his father, whose piercing gaze picked her apart, assessing her worth. His military air had that effect on people; he was a man both feared and revered.

He’d already decided before inviting them over (and digging up whatever he could on their family) that the girl was good enough for his son to court. Perhaps someday he’d grow bored with her and they’d call it off. That was clearly his assumption, since beforehand, he’d brought up the names of other girls to him. Daughters of his closest friends. What of the Cardew girl? he’d suggested. Or Arachne Crane?

Livia Cardew was as mean-spirited as a Capitolite could be and Arachne Crane was simply so… loud. Some evenings, he could hear her bellowing across the street from her apartment. Whenever she found something funny, she socked his arm so hard she left a bruise. Father threw around a few more names, as if he hadn’t already considered those girls.

None of them were of any interest to him.

She was so scared of him, his girl.

Ignoring his calls, pretending she couldn’t see him in school after his father had approved of them attending the Ball together. He let her get away with that behavior. For all of one hour.

After their first class, he snatched the books from her arms before she could flee from her locker.

“Thought you could run away from me?” he teased.

Phoebe blinked a few times, all caught off guard.

“I can carry my own books,” she retorted once she recovered from her shock. And then jumped, attempting to retrieve them from him, but he held them above her head, letting her get all worked up. “This is ridiculous!” She huffed, as red as a tomato. “Give me my books back.”

“What sort of man would I be if I let my girl carry her things?” He ruffled her hair and she scowled. Today, a red ribbon adorned her honey blonde ponytail—the same one he’d gifted her before. It was a small token to him, but she wore it proudly, every day.

“Why don’t you help Clemensia carry her books instead?” she muttered under her breath, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder. Again with Clemmie. He shook his head. You’d think she was obsessed with that girl, with how often she looked at her and brought her up.

Coriolanus cornered her during lunch, later that day, once she’d grabbed her tray and started heading for the spot where her friends sat. Those weren’t her friends anymore. She wasn’t thrilled to be at his table again, but it wasn’t about what she wanted anymore, now that she was his girl. In a proper sense. Her image was his image too, and he wouldn’t have her tarnishing it with the questionable company she kept.

After the last bell of the day rang, he guided her out onto the front steps of the Academy entrance and then captured her lips in a daring kiss for all to see. A few of his friends, who’d been watching, whistled. It was adorable the way she hid on his shoulder, so embarrassed for them to be seen like this. But she’d get used to it.

His closest friends knew she belonged to him.

He told the boys all about Phoebe Blackwood long ago, ever since that evening when he first tasted her. They knew all about how tight her cunt was and how eager she was for it. But he didn’t lie; she was saving herself for her husband. How typical, they all agreed. So what, then? Of course, he could always trick her into falling for him and have her think that he loved her, too. Courtship was one way to secure the affections of a girl who longed for dramatic displays of devotion. It was only natural she was hesitant to give it all up when there was no promise she wouldn’t be abandoned afterwards. Breaking a girl like her called for a delicate method.

Coriolanus relished the idea of conquering her completely, both body and mind. Perhaps there would come a day when they called things off, and she’d be so distraught, so broken-hearted thinking, if only she’d gotten away while she had the chance. If only she hadn’t given herself to him, only to be tossed aside like a broken toy.

What if he didn’t break her heart? What if they never called it off?

She was falling for him; he could see it. Whenever he was around, a dazed look filled her eyes, and she was so eager to be in his presence. So eager to be near him, despite her caution. After they indulged, whenever he tried to get up and leave, she sometimes made an excuse to have him stay a while longer. To ‘talk’. They rarely talked much (about anything meaningful, that is). He liked her best when she was quiet, her lips wrapped around his cock. But sometimes he allowed her to prattle on, because it was good for her enrichment. Eventually he had to leave, unless he wanted to be caught tangled in the sheets with Mr. Blackwood’s daughter.

Then he would surely pressure him to marry her, to save her from ruin.

They went on their first date together.

Well, he’d not framed it as one when he dragged her to his car after school. Just a chore they had to get out of the way: picking their outfits for the Yule Ball. She wasn’t thrilled to be there, trying on dresses she didn’t like, but it wasn’t about her. It was about them.

Phoebe gravitated towards soft colors and designs replete with ruffles and frills, he noticed. Fabricia Whatnot’s specialty. Like a child in a candy store, she touched everything, running her fingers along the sumptuous silks and chiffons until he told her to leave them be. For each dress she reached for, he offered his two cents. Not that dress—it was too bright and childish. Not that one either—it’d drown her silhouette. That dress was a fine choice—if she wanted to look like a pastry.

She piped down so quickly at that, crossing her arms over her chest. He could’ve sworn for a moment that she was sulking, but he paid her no heed, instead gathering whatever caught his eye as their assistant, Violetta, paraded them around the shop.

Coriolanus sat before the mirror as Phoebe modeled one dress after the other.

What a strenuous effort for her. Just beyond the sitting room, he could hear her wrestling with the zipper of her dress, muttering something under her breath. Do you need any help? he’d offered, although she never liked to ask for help. So she was left to struggle by herself.

After her hiccup in the dressing room with the purple dress that didn’t fit, they settled upon another. It was perfect, really. A beautiful red number, the bodice clinging to her like the stem of a rose, then flaring out into petal-like drapes. A lovely gown fit for a lady as lovely as a rose. They found a suit and some accessories to match.

It hadn’t become a date until they stopped at the ice cream parlor along The Promenade.

To reward her for being on her best behavior, he treated her to whatever she wanted. He allowed her that much for putting up with him, even though he knew she wanted to give him a piece of her mind in that fitting room earlier. In a way, it was a reward for him to see her happy now, enjoying her ice cream. Her favorite thing in the world to eat.

The sugar gave her a bounce in her step. She struggled to keep up with him as they walked, so he slowed his strides to match hers. They stopped before the fountain in the heart of the square, to enjoy the view.

Though while she was looking at it, he was looking at her.

More specifically how when she licked her spoon, a bit of marshmallow sauce dripped down it, onto the corner of her mouth.

It took a good deal of self-control for him to rein in his thoughts. To keep them grounded in the present, and not how much he wanted to have her back then in the fitting room, pressed against the glass. Oh, she would’ve been mortified, and he would’ve pocketed her panties just so he could watch her squirm in her uniform, holding the hem of her skirt down to not flash anyone.

But he was not an animal.

He couldn’t give in to every impulsive thought on his mind, however tempting.

Where would he take her next? he instead thought.

The ice cream had certainly cheered her up, and also made her teeth chatter because it was freezing outside. A flurry of snow floated down on them and she sneezed. As they walked, she shivered, rubbing her hands around herself to try and keep warm. It had not been his initial idea to take her to eat ice cream in this weather, but he knew how much she loved ice cream, and she said she ate it even in cold weather. Even if it made her sick.

He sighed, unbuttoning his coat and shrugging it off his shoulders. “Here,” he said, draping it around her. “This’ll warm you up.”

“But what about you? Won’t you get cold?” She blinked a few times.

“I’m a Snow, darling. We never get cold.”

“Don’t call me that.” She wrinkled her nose at the pet name.

“You don’t like it? What else would you prefer?” He caught a snowflake on his glove and watched it melt.

“My name,” she answered, her oversized sleeves flopping as she gestured. She looked utterly adorable, drowning in his coat. It was like a dress on her.

He allowed her to take the lead and guide him wherever she wanted.

Which was how they ended up in a boring bookshop. A compromise, since she’d not wanted to go to Fabricia’s. It was, coincidentally, the same store he went to when he bought that stuffed rabbit for her.

“Oh, it’s that ugly thing,” Phoebe mused, picking it up off the shelf and playing with its soft ears.

“Really? Because I thought it looked like you,” he quipped in turn. “I thought you’d like it. What’s wrong with it?”

“Penny liked it more so I gave it to her instead.” She shoved the rabbit against his chest and took off, leaving him all alone in the aisle, feeling a bit wounded. Did she think his gift was better fit to be a chew toy for her cat?

Women were so hard to please.

He placed the bunny back on the shelf and followed her as she perused the shelves of books and knick-knacks.

“Oh, I’ve been looking for the third volume of this series!” She plucked the book off the shelf and thumbed through it. And then, folded it against her chest and rocked on her heels. Looked off to the side, and then back at him, as if expecting something. “I really wanted this one… It’s a shame I forgot my wallet at home. If I’d known we’d go shopping together—”

Coriolanus rolled his eyes and snatched the book from her. “Just say you want me to buy it for you.”

“I’ll pay you back tomorrow! I promise.” And now she was holding her hands behind her back, trying to be cute about it.

“Darling, when you’re with me, you won’t be paying a dime.”

Darling. It had a ring to it.

“You’ve never been to a party before?”

Clemmie gasped at Phoebe from across the lunch table, as if she’d committed a crime. For elites like them, parties were commonplace. People threw parties for no reason—just because they could, for the hell of it, lately. A sign that times were indeed prosperous this long after the war.

Partying. Indulgence. It was creeping back into fashion.

“Not even once?” Didi covered her mouth in shock, adding to Clemensia’s dramatics.

“Do they throw parties out in the districts?” Her twin brother, Pollo, questioned.

“Sort of. But I was never allowed to go.” Phoebe frowned.

“Your father didn’t want you exposed to the likes of those people,” Coriolanus corrected her blunder, squeezing her thigh under the table. She swallowed, and as his friends blabbed on, her attention drifted across the cafeteria towards the pairs of eyes watching her. Sejanus, Lyssie, and Io.

They weren’t any good for her, he decided. It was best that she stuck with him and stayed far away from the likes of that Plinth boy who would corrupt her with his sentimentality and ideologies.

Their conversation drifted towards the upcoming party Clemmie was to host in her townhouse. Of course, they asked his girl to attend. Anyone and everyone relevant in their school would be invited, and her being his girl landed her a spot on the exclusive guest list. “I don’t know. I don’t want her exposed to that sort of stuff,” said Coriolanus, and Phoebe’s anticipation for this party deflated so quickly.

He didn’t want her exposed to their games, nor the drinking and other paraphernalia involved. All sorts of wild things happened at parties like these; he would know because he was one of those partygoers. Though he didn’t care much for parties, he made an effort to attend to fulfill social obligations.

He pictured Phoebe for a moment, drunk off her mind, or high as a kite. Of course, a dumb girl like her would think nothing of someone with shady intentions handing her something to drink or eat. She would take it to be polite, and then what? Let them carry her off to some far corner to do whatever?

Absolutely not.

His blood boiled just imagining one of his friends laying a finger on her.

No doubt they’d be curious to have a taste of what was his.

“Relax, Coryo.” Didi patted Phoebe’s shoulder reassuringly. “She’ll be in safe hands with us. You’ll be there too, will you not?”

“Don’t worry,” Festus teased. “We’ll make sure she’s not corrupted.”

He didn’t want to hear that coming from Festus Creed of all people, the one who gave out those pills. There was something particularly greasy about his smile and the way he sometimes ogled what wasn’t his. That boy could not be trusted around his girl.

Coriolanus pulled Phoebe closer and tucked her hair behind her ear. “…I’d like to experience this, just once,” she murmured, as quiet as a mouse. “I’ve never been to a party like this before.”

After a while of going back and forth about it with his friends, he allowed her to go. So long as she was with him the entire time so he could keep her safe.

Thus the night of the party came.

An exciting time for his girl. Phoebe descended the spiraling stairs of her townhouse with such haste that she tripped on her heels, crashing right into him. How fortunate that he was there to catch her. She squeaked, flailing her arms, and he effortlessly scooped her up by the waist, setting her down on her feet.

“Oops.” An awkward smile formed on her lips. “I’ve got two left feet. These heels are taller than what I usually wear.”

“But you look stunning in them,” Prunella agreed, from her spot at the top of the stairs. When Coriolanus spotted her, she offered him a wink. She was still holding a brush in her hand. He supposed she’d probably helped preen her for the evening. And indeed she had done a wonderful job.

Phoebe’s honey blonde hair was styled into loose curls cascading down her back, and they bounced as she moved. Her pink dress and heels were picked out by him. This time he made sure to pick out something she liked, as she wasn’t thrilled about not having a say in the dress he chose for her to wear to the Ball. The flowy pink dress was a perfect choice for the evening—not too flashy and not too casual. To complete the look, she had a fluffy white shawl draped around her shoulders.

Silas Blackwood soon joined them in the foyer, grunting in acknowledgement of his presence. “I trust you remember what we’ve discussed before, Mr. Snow?” His piercing gray stare fixed him, and there was something imposing about the fact that he was taller than him. Even at his imposing height of six feet, with broad shoulders to boot.

Coriolanus straightened up, taking things in stride. “Of course. I’ll remain by her side, and I’ll make sure to bring her back by ten.”

“Good.” He grunted, and his piercing stare softened once it settled upon his daughter, who was raring to go.

“We should go now! We’re running a bit late.” Phoebe nudged Coriolanus.

“And whose fault is that?” he retorted on their way out of the townhouse. “How long did you spend getting ready, pray tell?”

“Only two hours.”

What could’ve taken that long? She must have given herself a full-body scrub and shaved every inch of herself before getting dressed. He ran his hand along her arm and, as expected, it was silky smooth.

To think she’d gotten all dolled up just for him.

Seeing her like this was enjoyable. Maybe he’d buy her more dresses—give her more reasons to get dolled up. For now, they’d take their time. Ease into this new dynamic of theirs.

Before they entered the Dovecote townhouse, Coriolanus pulled Phoebe aside and rested his hands on her shoulders. “Do you remember what we discussed?” he inquired, arranging her neat curls over her shoulders.

During the car ride over, he’d instructed her on what to do and say, to be polite: Chin up. Shoulders straight—do not slouch. Remember to speak clearly. And most importantly, remember that you represent not only yourself but me as well now, as my girl. Also, it was important that she looked people in the eye when speaking.

In case she forgot, he reminded her again, and then he captured her lips in a chaste kiss, savoring the sweetness of strawberry on his tongue. Her flavored lip gloss. So delicious, he could eat her up. Maybe later, he would.

They stepped into Clemensia’s townhouse.

It hadn’t been his intention to leave her side, because, he’d promised Mr. Blackwood that he’d keep an eye on her. But he trusted Clemensia to keep her safe, and Phoebe needed to practice socializing. She could not rely on him forever to be her anchor in conversations.

Besides, most of his concerns—Festus and his equally dubious friends—would be in his company. The party was set up so that the girls and boys could separate, then reconvene later.

The greenhouse was devoid of any feminine touch for a while. There he was surrounded by men—men who were loud and sweaty after having had too much to drink. Festus roped him into an evening of drinking games, and was subsequently annoyed at how good he was at them. Both him and Urban Canville were beasts at party games. While the rest of the boys were in various states of tipsy to drunk, he was bored and still quite dry.

Soon, the boys had started to become restless, being cooped up in the backyard, so they made their foray back inside, to check on the girls.

Coriolanus was among the last of them to step inside.

Only to see the most peculiar thing.

Urban Canville kissing his girl.

His blood boiled.

He couldn’t even say it was a drunken mistake the boy made, because he had witnessed him only the entire time, playing party games sober. This bravado was nothing unusual for him. A smug expression formed on Urban’s face when Phoebe froze beneath him, her fists balling at her sides. His mouth muffled her surprised squeak.

When he pulled away, she turned to find Coriolanus standing in the threshold. She was so flushed and dazed. Certainly not from that kiss. He spotted the cup of punch in front of her and briefly wondered—was that her third glass? Her fourth? She hiccupped.

Coriolanus sauntered over, ignoring all the eyes plastered on him. All the hushed whispers and the tension teeming in the room. “Am I interrupting something?” he began, placing a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder. She flinched.

“Snow. Nice of you to show up,” Urban began, as if he had not just kissed his girl in front of everyone. “We’re playing truth or dare. Care to join us?”

Phoebe slumped back in her seat, so floaty, like she was unaware of her existence. It led him to wonder if Clemensia had fed her anything that was not of the alcohol variety. He’d explicitly told her not to. “You are aware that is my girlfriend you just kissed,” Coriolanus said, so calmly despite the itching urge he had to deck Urban Canville’s face.

Phoebe gave him a stupid smile, and that was his last straw. He unceremoniously pulled her out of her seat and she stumbled forward, bracing against his shoulder to balance herself.

“Look at you. So smitten with this girl. I have never seen you like this before,” Urban taunted, coolly. “So whipt. What did you do to him?” He looked down at Phoebe, expecting some sort of explanation, though she wasn’t all there. She blinked, readjusting her focus.

Leave it to Urban Canville to stir up shit; it was what he did best, and that tendency had landed him in a few tousles throughout the years. Of course, he’d always gotten off scot-free. That tended to happen when your daddy was rich and influential enough to bail you out of trouble. He had a thing for his girl, too—always lingering around Phoebe, trying to partner up with her for class assignments. Always inquiring about what he was up to with her, to make small talk. Was he, in truth, imagining being in his shoes?

Gaius Breen and Felix Ravinstill popped into the room and froze for a moment, so awkward about it, as if they’d intervened in what appeared to be a private matter.

“Do not be so sour,” Urban continued. “It was a dare. You know what that’s like, don’t you? We’re not the type to back down from those.”

“Sit down, won’t you?” Felix gritted out to his friend.

“I’m quite comfortable here,” he replied, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his slacks. “What I don’t understand is why you’re still keeping her to yourself.” He gave it some thought. “It’s been months already. Just accept that you’ve lost and let us carry on with the game. There's no need to cause a scene.”

“What are you talking about?” Phoebe murmured, her hazy gaze sharpening. “What has he lost?”

It was getting so stuffy in here. So hard to breathe—but that could’ve been the stench of cigars wafting in through the screen door. Coriolanus loosened the collar of his shirt, trying not to look at her, his girl. Still he caught a glimpse of her hazy gaze sharpening as she tried to make sense of it all. He couldn’t let her know.

But it was inevitable that he broke her heart. If not this way, then another. He’d never imagined, however, that it would be at the expense of his image. To hell with hers, he’d thought then. Until she’d become so entangled with him. If one of them went down for this, they’d go down together. Fuck.

“For fucks sake,” Festus muttered under his breath before rushing over to Urban’s side and pulling him back by the collar. “How much have you had to drink? We’re cutting you off here.”

“I’m feeling quite sober.” He shrugged, breaking free without much effort on his part. “I was just curious. Haven’t you had enough, stringing the poor thing along?”

“Coriolanus. What is he talking about?” She tugged at his sleeve, demanding an explanation.

What a spectacle this was. His gaze swept over the room and sure enough, some of the girls here were having a field day watching this. Livia Cardew and Arachne Crane had never looked so entertained. Few had the decency to appear uncomfortable with the conflict unfolding here.

“Nothing,” Coriolanus retorted. “He’s just bitter you didn’t choose him to be your date to the Ball.”

Urban sighed. “Perhaps we should leave it at that for her sake.”

“For my sake?” Phoebe faltered, her fingers tightening around Coriolanus’ sleeve. “I deserve an explanation.”

The solution was simple. They needed to remove themselves from the situation. Now, before things got worse. Before she knew too much.

“Enough.” Coriolanus moved his hand to the small of her back, gently steering her in the direction of the exit. “We’re taking our leave now.”

Before they could make it out of the living room, Urban Canville had said, “If you won’t tell her, I will.”

“Phoebe,” Coriolanus gritted out into her ear and then tugged her arm, but she was a stubborn weed rooted in place.

She gave Urban an imploring look, which was all the permission he needed to elaborate. “There was a bet among him and a few of us… To see if he could manage to deflower the most prudish girl in our year.”

“Is that so?” She swallowed. For a moment, she just stood there, confused, letting those cruel words sink in. Then she pulled away from Coriolanus. Steeling her expression into a cool indifference, she crossed her arms. “Well, then. How does it feel to know you’ve lost?”

How does it feel, Coriolanus?

He’d never lost. Not once in his life.

He parted his lips to speak, but no words came. Just a soft exhale. His tongue refused to yield.

You are dead to me. Though she was silent, the cold look in her eyes told him that much.

“At least we assumed you were a prude at first,” Urban Canville clarified as an afterthought. “None of us had expected you would be such—”

Such a slut? So eager to spread her legs for a good grade? Although she didn’t spend nearly as much time studying as she did sucking his cock, they’d heard. It was an inside joke she could never understand—the boys grinning whenever they asked what grade she got on her assignment, and she proudly showed off her paper. The bright red A on it. What’s so funny? she’d ask, and they’d poke fun at her, saying things like, Coryo taught you well, didn’t he? Or—It seems those tutoring sessions are paying off.

Coriolanus fixed him with a cold look and rolled his shoulders, fully prepared to pummel him (if need be). “Respectfully, Urban, you’d do well to keep my girl’s name out of your mouth, if you know what’s best for you.”

Phoebe swiped up her cup of punch and stared at Coriolanus’ perfectly white shirt for a moment longer than was appropriate. She squeezed the cup so hard, almost threatening to shatter it. The look in her eyes said, Shall I throw it at you? See if you’d like that. He took a step back just in case, but to his relief, she gulped the punch instead. Like a tall glass of water, before slamming it down on the table with such force that the girl beside her flinched.

Then she took off, her heels clicking on the marbled tile as she did.

Her gait was a bit wobbly and pathetic—how much did she have to drink, again? Phoebe nearly broke her ankle on the way out, her heel slipping as she bumped into Festus, but she simply ignored him (and his attempt to catch her). She fumbled with the doorknob and made her way outside, slamming it shut.

“Good luck, man.” Festus fixed Coriolanus with a terse smile and patted his shoulder.

He paid his friend (and his lousy attempt at defusing the situation) no heed, instead following his girl out onto the front steps of the townhouse. Thanks to his long strides, he caught up to her in no time.

“Don’t—don’t follow me,” she scowled, not having it.

“I can explain,” Coriolanus reasoned calmly, though he was anything but calm. Often, before going out, he rehearsed before the mirror, what to do and say in conversations. That way he was never caught off guard, and, for his eighteen years of life, that practice had served him well.

Until now, when he was wholly unprepared for a situation he hadn’t anticipated.

“Save your breath. I don’t want to hear it.” Phoebe rushed down the front steps in her haste to put some distance between them.

“Where are you going?” He jogged, matching her stride. Though the snow had been plowed off the sidewalk, it was still slippery in light of the recent snowfall.

“Away from you,” she huffed. Bits of ice covered the ground and she slipped in her haste to get away.

Luckily, he’d made it there just in time to catch her. “Wait—I’ll call my chauffeur to pick us up.” He seized her by the arm.

She shot him a nasty look. “I’m perfectly capable of walking home.”

“Dressed like that?” He gestured at her, as if she’d gone mad. “In the freezing cold?” It was, what, fifteen degrees outside? Her teeth chattered as she glared at him, and it was rather hard for him to take her seriously when she looked like a shivering puppy. Of the vicious type—whatever they were called. The tiny ones rich women were starting to carry in their purses, who were particularly ill-mannered.

She ground her teeth. “Yes. Now let go of me, or I will scream.”

“Oh, be my guest. That will only make you look more mad,” he spat. There was no way in hell she’d be walking home alone. Even a place like the Capitol, with all its order, had its share of shady figures lurking in the dark, with no good intentions towards young women like her. Besides, he’d promised to keep her safe.

She opened her mouth to scream and he panicked, clamping his hand over her mouth to stop her. “How much have you had to drink?” He inquired, although he knew she was drunk. The question was, how drunk? She attempted to speak through the hand clamped over her mouth, but something muffled came out instead. “Enough.” His lips pressed into a thin line as he considered her. “If I uncover your mouth, will you scream?”

She shook her head and he gingerly relinquished her.

“You are no better than scum,” she spat out, unceremoniously shoving him back.

He grunted, falling back onto his bottom in the snow. “You haven’t given me the chance to speak!” he said, for crying out loud.

“Why? So you can lie to my face?”

It was then that he noticed her cheeks were wet. She was crying because of him. And trying so hard to handle this situation with grace.

He’d never lied to her. Ever. He’d been duplicitous, yes, phrasing his words in a way that left her confused, always wondering what he truly felt—but he’d never outright lied to her.

He faltered for a moment too long, and she shook her head.

Then she stormed off, her heels precariously slipping with each step made. She was seconds away from breaking her ankle or worse—falling onto the street. What if she got hit by something? That crazy woman. He rushed onto his feet, just as she rounded the corner of the street.

“Yes, there was some sort of bet,” he admitted in exasperation, and then took a moment to catch his breath. “It was a game to me, at first. But I didn’t think—” he tugged her back by the bow of her dress and she flailed, falling back against his chest. “I didn’t think I’d grow… fond of you.” The words sounded foreign coming from his mouth. So foreign and… wrong. Yet they weren’t a lie. This was, however, a moment of weakness.

“Really?” She remarked bitterly, then hastily wiped her face.

“Yes. Though I wish we could have this conversation somewhere warm. In the car, maybe? You’re freezing, Phoebe.” He spun her around and squeezed her shoulders, trying to settle her, to no avail. He could still fix this; he just had to figure out how.

She jerked free from his grasp one last time. The bow on her dress was now askew, the stitches of one corner ripped from her previous effort to break free. A bright punch stain sullied it, and what a shame that was. Perhaps he could buy her another dress to make it up to her, but she’d proven time after time to have no appreciation for the gifts he gave. “Because I am gracious,” she huffed, half breathless, “I won’t tell my father what you did. But I never wish to speak with you again, am I clear?”

She was a mess, mascara streaks staining her cheeks, her dress disheveled.

“Can I at least take you home?” he murmured, tersely. “Your father will have my head if anything were to happen to you.”

He swallowed at the mention of her father. Would she tell him what he did? That he had played her? There would be no way in hell he’d let him court her daughter after this, even if they patched things up. Or… would he allow it?

He imagined an industrious man like Silas Blackwood prioritized practicality over sentimentality.

If he was under the assumption that he’d ruined her, that would create a predicament for him. She’d be lucky if any respectable elite wanted to marry her then. The cleanest solution in that case was, truly, to grovel and hope that he married his daughter.

Phoebe begrudgingly allowed Coriolanus to escort her back to the front steps of Clemensia’s townhouse. She refused to enter, not wanting to make a spectacle of herself, he assumed, as everyone was still inside. He made a quick call to his chauffeur before joining her out on the steps, to freeze with her in solidarity.

Her teeth chattered as she pulled her shawl tighter around herself, seeking what little warmth she could. “Come wait inside,” he implored, and she stubbornly shook her head. Sighing, he unbuttoned his coat and then draped it over her shoulders. The way he did on their first date, when she was shivering after eating all that ice cream.

A wall of roses cloaked her. His scent. He rather liked the idea of her being covered in it, smelling like him. Despite how much he was sure she hated him now, her need for warmth took precedence over it. She bounced on her heels and when he tried to pull her close, she pushed him back. “Don’t.”

I’m just keeping you warm, he wanted to say, but refrained from doing so. “The car’s already on its way,” he informed her. “It’ll be three minutes.”

Those three minutes felt like an eternity until finally his chauffeur pulled up to the curb. Phoebe didn’t wait for him to open the door for her like he usually did; she helped herself inside and hugged the other side of the vehicle, attempting to insert as much space between them as physically possible.

For a long moment, they stuck to their corners, staring out the windows awkwardly.

Now was his chance to speak. While she was still trapped in here and the car was rolling.

“You must hate me right now,” he began, delicately.

She hummed, chin propped on her palm.

“But what I said earlier was true. When I approached your father, it was after I decided not to follow through with that bet.” Sort of. He’d not officially brought it up to his friends, though he figured, why not let things run their natural course? Eventually, he’d have her. All of her. And, in that way, he’d win. It was the cleanest solution.

“So.” She tilted her head. “Am I to forgive you, then? Forget about that?”

“What do you want me to say?” Exasperation laced his tone.

“Nothing, preferably.” She finally turned to him.

“I don’t expect your forgiveness. I just wanted to come clean,” he explained, straightening up in his seat. What was it, this pit in his stomach? A total loss of control, so foreign. Nothing he'd felt with any of those other girls. It festered in him, like a disease. “You’re free to do whatever you’d like. Scorn me, hit me if you want, I’ll allow it, but—”

She brightened up at that. “Are you offering?”

“…Go ahead.” He would allow her this much, to give her a chance to simmer down. Maybe she’d feel better afterwards. Coriolanus braced for it as she scooted closer, then raised her hand.

She didn’t strike him like he anticipated she would; he flinched when he felt nothing but air on his cheek from her hand grazing past it. “I will not hit you, as tempting as it sounds.” She withdrew and he exhaled slowly.

“As I was saying. I cannot control how you feel about all of this, and I apologize if I hurt you.” He sighed. “There is no bet anymore. There hasn’t been one for a while now.” A little white lie wouldn’t hurt anyone. “Urban Canville’s simply bitter that you didn’t choose him, so he caused a scene.” It wouldn’t make things better, but it was something. If she expected him to grovel, she’d be sorely disappointed.

“I see.” Phoebe shifted uncomfortably in her seat, and then went back to ignoring him. She stared out the window, at the passing fixtures and buildings illuminated by the streetlamps. Once they neared the Blackwood townhouse, she wiped her face and fixed her hair, attempting to make herself presentable. Probably to avoid her father’s suspicion.

“You can ignore me all you want; I won’t blame you for it. It’s only natural that you’re upset,” he continued, not letting her frigid behavior deter him. “But I wanted to inform you that you’re still mine.” Mine, in every way. “I won’t let you go.” Her brows furrowed as she tried to make sense of his words. Their fingers brushed and she shivered. “Whatever you are feeling will eventually pass. All couples have their quarrels. This is just a minor obstacle.” He would give her some time to simmer down so they could reflect on this like sensible adults.

Only they didn’t have time.

The Ball was right around the corner.

A minute later, they arrived at her townhouse. She stepped out as soon as the car rolled to a stop, not wanting to be stuck in there with him for a second longer, it seemed. “Here,” she fumbled with the buttons of his coat and tossed it to him, “have your coat back.”

He escorted her to the front door of her house because he insisted it was the right thing to do. Phoebe held it together, smiling and playing along as Coriolanus debriefed the gathering they attended to her father. At least the version of it that he would’ve liked to hear.

Then he returned to his car.

The interior of the Snow penthouse provided little reprieve from the frosty air outside.

Father liked it cold, as did he. But she didn’t, his girl, always shivering here. So much that he usually gave her something warm to drink, a blanket, and one of his jackets. He took care of her like that. Liked to watch her play with the oversized sleeves.

And then he rolled his eyes, because he’d thought of her again.

“You’re back early.”

Father’s imposing voice boomed from across the living room. He was relaxing on the couch—a rare sight for a man who could not stay put without purpose. Perhaps he had a busy day and had earned himself a break. Now he was enjoying a drink, and through the TV, he heard Lucky Flickerman’s eccentric voice.

“It was a boring party,” he informed Father, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the rack.

“Boring, was it? Even with your girl there?” His sharp gaze was fixed on him, and he could only wonder, what did he want? He was rarely involved with his life unless something went wrong or he had a piece of his mind to give.

“…Yes,” came his terse reply.

“Did something happen? You seem…” Father sat up in his seat, giving him a once-over. “Upset.”

“I’m tired. I’m retiring for the night,” he announced in a clipped tone, cutting their conversation short.

That night, he tossed and turned in bed. Sleep was no friend when all he could think of was his tarnished image. Perhaps tarnished was a strong word to use for such a minor incident over a bet, but the shame of being called out like that stung his pride. What would they all think of him? Would they laugh? Murmur about how he’d lost his charm?

The morning after, his behavior hadn’t improved.

He snapped at the maid for preparing him a cup of tea that was a touch too sweet for his liking. It was his usual, but today, everything felt off. The middle-aged woman flinched at his unusual outburst, but soon recovered, taking off at once to prepare him another cup.

Across from him at the dining table, Father was buttering his toast.

They rarely talked during breakfast. Them sitting together wasn’t out of some obligation to bond; Father had a rule that everyone must eat at the table. In his eyes, it was slovenly to eat anywhere else. So sometimes they ended up eating together by happenstance.

“Something did happen,” he spoke, to his surprise.

But he said nothing in return, instead cutting the eggs on his plate.

They communicated with silent gestures, usually. A raised brow indicated amusement. Silence was either disinterest or a sign of something bothering them.

“So it seems.” Father took a sip of his coffee and set his cup down on the coaster. Then considered him for a long moment. “What happened?”

“You’re rarely interested in my social affairs,” Coriolanus’ jaw tightened.

“You’ve been acting off.” More silence. “Did something happen with your girl?”

“Why would you assume it’s about my girl?” he deflected.

“Because I’m observing a pattern, son,” Father answered. “You’ve been spending quite a bit of time with this girl. Tutoring her. Surely not out of the goodness of your heart.” He took a bite of his toast and swallowed. “You and I both know you aren’t the charitable type.”

His eggs tasted like rubber.

Upon his silence, Father continued. “So, what has she done?”

A Snow was never at fault. In his eyes, she was to blame.

“We had a misunderstanding. She’s upset with me,” Coriolanus replied, crisply.

“Then fix things with her. Make it right.”

As if he hadn’t already tried. “It’s not that simple,” he argued.

“Women are such emotional creatures,” Father agreed, leaning forward in his seat. “I’ve had my fair share of quarrels with my Lucilla before.”

“How did you resolve things?” asked Coriolanus. Perhaps he could impart some advice. If only Phoebe were more materialistic—the answer to his problem would’ve been as simple as showering her with gifts and promising her all sorts of things, then.

“Time. Lots of it. But you don’t have much time, do you? The Ball is right around the corner.”

“And I am dead to her,” Coriolanus remarked dryly, but he found no humor in this.

“Some women are wild. Harder to tame,” he reflected. “But none of them are untamable.”

“So… What do you suggest I do, then?” His observation was lost on him. How would one go about taming something they couldn’t catch?

“If I were you…” he trailed off in thought, twirling his fork, “I would leave her with no room for doubt. Remind her that she is yours. Remind her of her place.”

Remind her that she is yours. How? He could show up at her house and confess to her, though at the expense of his dignity (because there was no guarantee she’d forgive him). At best, she may push him off her balcony, right onto the thorny trellis, in a fit of rage. “And if that doesn’t work?” Coriolanus swallowed.

“Make sure it does. If you want something bad enough, you will do whatever it takes. Do not be afraid to get your hands dirty, son.”

Do whatever it takes.

A/N: This series was supposed to be a short deal, but here we are at 4 parts!! I have no idea where this will go next, but I do love drama. Stay tuned 👀. Reader discretion is advised! My stories are never planned out so they may take (dark) unexpected turns.