Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Flavius
It’s been three days since Sophia drafted the complaint. Three days of gathering evidence, cross-checking dates, and building her case until it was unbreakable.
Three days of watching her become something sharper than she was.
Now it is Monday morning, and she has been working since dawn—steady, focused, fierce in a way that steadies something fierce and warm in my chest.
When she woke earlier, I pretended to sleep so she could move in the quiet she needs. She dressed, made tea, opened her laptop, and did what she told me she would. She polished the complaint.
I wanted to help. I wanted to take the fight from her hands. Old instinct—arena instinct.
But that is not what she needs from me.
So I made breakfast that she barely touched. Brought her water when her mug ran dry. Stayed within arm’s reach without stepping in front of her.
Now she leans back, rubbing the base of her neck, staring at the screen as though it contains both her past and her future. I cannot read the words, but I know the shape of her work—the way her shoulders set when something is finished.
“It’s ready,” she murmurs.
I swallow the urge to say I’ll send it for you. Instead, I say, “Then you decide when to send.”
She nods—no hesitation, no tremor.
Her hand hovers over the send button for a breath, then presses it with steady fingers. Her shoulders lift, then settle, as if she’s braced for an impact that never comes.
A long exhale follows. “It’s done,” she says. Not triumphant, but steady. Grounded.
Her shoulders lower, the chaotic weight inside her finally finding direction.
I want to pull her into my arms. I want to stand between her and anything that would strike again.
But she asked me not to rescue her.
So I stay beside her instead.
“You pushed the wheel today,” I say.
She glances up. “The wheel?”
“Fortuna’s wheel in the garden. Today you turned it. You chose.”
Her eyes soften with something warm and private. Yes. She understands.
Her phone buzzes. She checks it, then exhales sharply.
“An auto-response from the ethics office,” she says, voice thin but steady. “They’ve received it. It’s been logged and assigned a case number.”
Her eyes close for a heartbeat.
Fear flickers—real, human.
Then resolve settles through her shoulders.
“I did the right thing,” she says quietly. More to herself than to me.
“Yes,” I answer. “You did.”
The part of me that always rose to entertain—to soothe danger away with noise—has been quiet these three days. The old urge still stirs—to slip into the Jester’s mask, distract, lighten, pretend—but I have learned to let it pass.
She doesn’t need the Jester. She needs the man learning how not to hide behind him.
So I stay still. Stay present. Stay true.
She looks up, and her expression softens.
“You’ve been steady all weekend,” she says quietly. “Not fixing. Not performing. Just… here.”
“Is that good?” I ask.
“It’s everything,” she murmurs.
What I feel surging through me is deeper than the night we chose to wait. Not only hunger. Something steadier. Something like becoming the man she already sees.
After a quiet moment, she rises. “I need air.”
“Walk?” I ask.
She nods.
The morning air is warm, the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. We move through the sanctuary—past the stables, past the training yard where I spend too much time teaching tourists what fighting is not.
Sophia walks close enough that our arms brush now and again. Not clinging. Not seeking rescue. Simply sharing space.
It feels right.
At the far edge of the grounds, she stops and looks toward the Roman garden. She doesn’t step in—just watches it as if it holds something personal.
“That carved wheel,” she says quietly. “It’s not just decoration.”
“No,” I say. “It isn’t.”
She’s quiet for a moment, studying the garden’s stone walls, the sculpture visible beyond. “Do you ever go in there when it’s not Fortuna’s night?” she asks.
“Sometimes,” I say. “When I need to think. Or remember.” I hesitate. “Is good place to talk to ghosts.”
She glances at me, uncertain if I’m joking. I’m not sure either.
Her palm is warm. The grip sure. And her presence—a quiet fire in my chest.
“Thank you,” she murmurs. “For everything this weekend.”
“You do not need to thank me.”
“I know,” she says. “But I want to.”
She looks lighter than she has in days. Not carefree—the fight is just beginning. But unburdened. Like she set down something heavy and discovered she could still stand.
“What will you do now?” I ask.
“Work,” she says. “Real work. The kind that matters.” She takes a breath. “I have interviews scheduled with Cassius, Lucius, and Quintus this week. The framework is mine, but it’s built from all of you. I want to make sure I honor that.”
Pride surges through me. “Then I leave you to it,” I say.
She blinks. “You’re leaving?”
“You do not need me here,” I say. “It’s your fight. You chose it. Now claim it.” I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I will be in the training yard if you want me. But you do not need me.”
Understanding softens her face.
“No,” she says quietly. “I don’t. But I like knowing you’re close.”
“I am,” I promise. “Always.”
As I walk away, I think: This is what it means not to be the Jester. To know when to stay. To know when to leave. To trust her to stand without me.
This is what it means to care about someone in a way that makes both of us stronger.
To walk beside her—even when we’re not in the same room.