Maysilee slowly pushes herself up from the floor, using the wall for support, before she responds. “Really? How? You’re not a Gamemaker. You’re not even a stylist. You’re nothing but a low-rent escort hanging on by your fingernails to the trashiest district in Panem.” This hits a nerve. Fear flickers across Drusilla’s face before she recovers. “And you’re headed for a bloody and agonizing death.” Maysilee gives a bitter laugh. “That’s right. I am. So why should I care what you say? Unless I win, of
LOL
