The air in the villa was thick with the scent of wine and burning incense, the laughter of Rome’s elite echoing off marble columns. Reclining on his couch, Gaius Julius Caesar—Octavian to those still cautious of his rising power—sipped from his goblet, though his mind was elsewhere. His gaze had settled on a woman across the room, her presence like a blade unsheathed.

The daughter of Senator Lucius Varro, a man who had once opposed him. A man who no longer drew breath.

She was draped in mourning shades despite the revelry around her—dark blue, not quite black, a subtle defiance. Unlike the other women, who preened and fluttered beneath Rome’s most powerful men, she sat stiffly on her couch, speaking only when spoken to. There was no coyness in her posture, no effort to catch his eye. If anything, she seemed determined to ignore him altogether.

Octavian smirked. That, of course, only made her more interesting.

With the slow grace of a man who never needed permission, he rose and crossed the room. The murmurs of the party dimmed as he approached, his presence an unspoken command for attention. Aelia’s lips pressed together as he neared, but she did not look away.

“Hello,” he said smoothly, watching her reaction.

She did not bow her head. Did not avert her gaze. Instead, she met his eyes with quiet, smoldering resentment. “Princeps.” The word was crisp, neither reverent nor warm.

Octavian tilted his head, amused. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d pretend I wasn’t here all evening.”

“I was considering it,” she replied, her tone as sharp as a senator’s dagger.

A chuckle rose from one of the nearby men, quickly silenced by a look from Octavian. He turned his attention back to her, his smirk unfaltering. “And yet here we are, speaking.”

She exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening briefly around the rim of her goblet. “Not by my choice.”