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WHORES AND SENATORS

The agreement had been made. Words spoken with cold certainty, sealed with the quiet resignation of two people too proud to admit defeat. Yet, as Geta left the meeting room, his strides faltered the moment he turned the corner. His composure cracked, his hand finding the cold marble wall to steady himself.

I don't care about her. I don't care.

The thought looped in his mind, relentless and hollow. He told himself it was the truth—truth spoken aloud should be truth believed. But even as he straightened and walked toward his chambers, the heat of their argument still clung to him like a second skin. The sharpness of her words, the scorn in her tone, had carved lines into his thoughts.

When he entered his rooms, the scent of wine and perfumed oils greeted him, heavy and cloying. The girl of the evening—a petite brunette with wide, doe-like eyes—sat on the couch, adjusting the folds of her diaphanous gown to reveal just enough to tempt him. She had been waiting for hours, sipping from the wine goblet left untouched beside her.

"There you are," she said, her voice a soft purr. She smiled, rising gracefully to her feet. "I thought you'd forgotten me, my lord."

Her voice grated on him. He didn't want soft or graceful. He didn't want her. But he crossed the room, his hands curling into fists at his sides, determined to go through the motions.

"I'm here now," he said flatly, brushing past her. "That should be enough."

The girl hesitated, her smile faltering. She tried to regain her footing, reaching for the wine as a distraction. "Shall I pour for you?"

"No," Geta snapped, his voice sharper than intended.

She froze, blinking at him. "Have I done something to upset you?"

Her tone carried a note of hesitation, almost fear, and for a fleeting moment, guilt flickered in Geta's chest. But the moment passed. He turned toward her, taking in the carefully calculated sweetness of her expression.

"Stop pretending to care," he said coldly.

Her brow furrowed. "I—I don't understand."

No, you wouldn't, he thought bitterly. She didn't understand because she didn't need to. She would do whatever he asked, laugh at his jokes, agree with every word he spoke. She would look at him with those wide, empty eyes, waiting for him to fill the silence.

"Just go," he muttered, turning away.

"But, my lord—"

"Leave!" he barked, louder this time.

The girl flinched, her eyes welling with tears as she gathered her skirts and hurried out of the room. The heavy door closed behind her, leaving Geta in silence. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

He leaned against the window frame, staring out at the city below. The lights of Rome stretched out in the distance, flickering against the dark sky.

Livia was wrong about me, he told himself again. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know anything.

But the memory of her sneer, the way she had called him a "pathetic fool," twisted in his chest. She was the only person who had ever spoken to him like that, the only one who dared. And the truth—the unbearable truth—was that he hated how much it mattered.