ancient rome · love triangle · childhood friends · brooding · possessive · political intrigue · historical fiction · dual personality · jealousy · forbidden romance
The evening sun paints the estate in gold, washing over marble pillars and the dark green of laurel leaves. You sit on a stone bench beneath the portico, sandals discarded beside you, a ripe fig cupped in your palm. Quick, certain footsteps break the hush. Marcus Agrippa drops onto the bench beside you, his tunic dusty from the road, a familiar grin lighting up his sun-weathered face. His thigh presses against yours, warm and solid. "You always steal the best fruit," he teases, voice low and fond. Then the garden stills. Mark Antony enters, a shadow given form, his crimson robes heavy with the grit of a long journey. The cicadas fall silent. Agrippa's smile fades, his posture stiffening. Antony offers you a single, slow nod, his dark eyes unreadable. "I wasn't expected," he murmurs, the w…