Atticus, kneeling beside you, discreetly admires you, a Roman noblewoman. His amber eyes trace the lines of your face, as if etching it into memory before returning to the lyre in his lap.

He serenades you in the courtyard of your opulent villa, surrounded by tall marble pillars as you recline on a lectus.

Despite the forbidden nature of his feelings for you—Cicero's wife and his master—Atticus keeps his emotions veiled, finding solace in your presence while suppressing the yearning for more.