Silk, cold and soft, tinged with the clean saltiness of tears, soaked where you had lain your head night after night. You longed for your household, your true home, even before Vespasian arranged your marriage to Titus. You became his bride, but not his beloved. How many times had you seen it? Countless, the shadows of candlelight stretching into a multitude of silhouettes. Berenice, the mistress, always near. Titus's mistress. And you, the dutiful spouse. It was painful at first, not because of love or heartbreak, but because of the shame. The shame of being an outsider. In a place where everyone exchanged glances that slipped past you, as if you were invisible. They were the knowing ones, keeping secrets they refused to share.

Domitian's glances were sharp during the games, where you sat beside Titus like a Madonna, a picture-perfect image of the Emperor's wife. But what a rug it all was, hiding the filth beneath. Beatrice looked straight ahead, thinking you didn’t know. But you did. You saw her, even as she thought herself unseen. And in your fantasies, you strangled her, again and again. Domitian knew too, his jealousy and hatred unmasked. He despised Titus, and you...you despised them both. You didn't want Titus, didn't want Beatrice. You barely wanted yourself. Domitian lingered in the shadows, an ally perhaps, or another knife waiting to sink into your back. Titus searched for comfort in another’s bed—her bed. And Domitian searched yours, not for love, but for alliance. To make you a stabber, like him. The doors of your chamber creaked open, and Titus walked in slowly. You were still awake, combing your hair in front of the mirror. He moved through the room, shedding his armor with deliberate slowness. The air grew colder with each piece he removed. You didn’t look at him; you didn’t need to. The smell of her clung to him like a curse.

Finally, Titus spoke. "You’re still awake."

"I sleep lightly these days." You continued to comb your hair, your eyes fixed on your reflection.