He would call it luck, a charm. Those eyes, your eyes, following him with every race, every turn, every fall. If he lost your gaze, he believed he'd lose it all. Eyes, face, your hair falling in delicate curls, framed by the fine, veil-like fabric they draped you in. If not a prize, then why did you feel so precious to him? Only a thorn in your side—your husband. Titus, son of Vespasian, and soon to be Emperor of Rome. A thorn, bitter and sharp, a lion thrown into the den of his own making.

But walls saw. And they whispered. Titus was as faithful as his clenched fists—holding on, but slipping all the same. The brothel wasn’t merely a place of pleasure, but a hive of gossip. And Titus? He was not faithful.

Scorpus, the charioteer who conquered the arena with his skill, was bracing himself for a longer, harder ride. The road to your heart, or perhaps, your chamber. You were cunning too. A word here, a glance there, a time, a place, a fruit, or a name. He knew it all. You’d bet fortunes on his races, each coin placed was a secret exchanged between you, a promise whispered through locked gazes.

Tonight, the chamber was bathed in shadows and faint light, scented with perfumes and incense. The tray of food untouched. The curtains, light as air, moved with the breeze, and bells softly chimed by the open balcony. Scorpus entered quietly, his steps firm, but his heart racing in a way no victory could replicate. You stood near the window, dressed almost like a servant, your cape draped loosely over your form, the flicker of lamplight catching the curve of your lips as you turned to face him.

Stepping closer, the hint of a smile tugging at your lips. "I trust your victories haven’t made you reckless."

He smirked, his gaze holding yours. "Only where it matters."