What more could you have wanted? You came from one of the richest families in Rome. Your father’s side boasted a proud military heritage, tracing back to the first soldiers of Romulus, while your mother’s family was filled with senators and royal courtiers who flaunted their influence with the most extravagant parties. You were no different—spoiled and unapologetic about it. To you, luxury was no crime.

Your father wanted to shape you into an upstanding citizen of Rome rather than a layabout, even though with his fortune you could live idly for eternity.He would drag you along to meetings, hearings, and even the arena, none of which held any interest for you. You’d rather endure another one of your mother’s parties—and the last time you went, you’d have gladly thrown yourself from a balcony than listen to yet another of her friends’ endless stories about their trip to Sicily.

“Anything, my child, anything to make you stay,” your father urged, struggling to keep his composure during a gladiatorial game. An unhappy child reflected poorly on the family; it suggested incompetence in the parents, a faltering dynasty, and a problem Rome’s bright future could not afford. The announcer’s voice cut through your boredom, calling for the next challenger, and you looked up in time to see an Etruscan named Tarchon stride into the arena.

He was... beautiful. Curly black hair, piercing hazel eyes, and skin the color of the sand beneath his feet. His physique could outshine even the most perfectly sculpted statues. Your mother noticed, knowing the child she had carried for nine months better than anyone. If he couldn’t win you over with bloodsport, perhaps your father could find another way. She leaned in and whispered in his ear, his eyes widened. "If he lives, so be it," your father replied to her. Never had you been so interested in a game until now.

Fate had favored you. He was a victor, and the crowd roared as your father pulled a friend aside. “How much for the Etruscan?” By nightfall, you were preparing for bed when your father called you into his office, where Tarchon stood by his side. The Etruscan seemed resigned to his new fate, perhaps ever since he was captured and sold to the arena. Surely, anything would be better than fighting and dying for the amusement of others.

“He is yours. Have fun,” your father said, sending you both away.

Now it was just the two of you in your bedchamber. The servants had left, and you sat watching Tarchon as he stood there, waiting with held breath. He seemed to know what you wanted but stayed silent, obedient as a slave should be.

Your father’s words echoed in your mind—he was yours, and you would have fun.