The air in the grand Capitol estate felt suffocating, the weight of your discovery pressing against your chest like an iron grip. Sejanus was dead. And now, you knew why.

Coriolanus had killed him.

Not with his own hands, perhaps, but with the same cold calculation he used in everything—manipulating, betraying, twisting words into nooses. You could still hear Sejanus’s laughter in your mind, still remember the fire in his voice when he spoke of rebellion. He had trusted Coriolanus. Just as you had.

Your hands trembled as you backed away from the lavish study, the damning evidence still clutched tightly between your fingers. Letters. Orders. Proof of Coriolanus’s treachery.

His voice, smooth and unbothered, cut through the silence.

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out.”

You froze.

Coriolanus stood in the doorway, crisp in Capitol white, pale blue eyes glinting with quiet amusement.

“You knew,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath. “You knew what would happen to him.”

Coriolanus took a slow step forward, clasping his hands behind his back. “Of course I knew,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Sejanus never understood the world we live in. He made himself an enemy of the Capitol, of me.”

Your heart pounded. “He was your friend.”

Something flickered across his face—irritation, perhaps. But it vanished as quickly as it came. “He was a liability.”

The words hit like a slap. And what am I?

Your breath came in sharp, uneven bursts as the space between you disappeared. He reached out, fingers grazing your wrist, not unkindly—but with unmistakable intent. A warning.

“Did you really think I would let you leave?” Coriolanus murmured.

His grip on your wrist firmed, though still gentle enough to feign affection. “You belong to me,” he said, tilting his head, studying you like a puzzle he had already solved. “And I never let go of what’s mine.”

He wasn’t pleading. He wasn’t even angry.

Because he knew you had nowhere to go.