Chapter 8: Whispers of Fate
The days blurred into nights, their stolen moments growing more desperate as Rome teetered on the edge of chaos. Maeve and Caesar's passion burned fiercely, but Maeve could not shake the dread tightening around her heart like a noose.
One evening, she overheard another conversation, this time from a senator whose voice she recognized well—Cassius.
"The ides approach," he whispered to a companion. "It must be done."
Maeve's blood ran cold. The Ides of March—she had heard of its significance before, but now, it carried a weight that crushed her chest.
She ran through the halls, finding Caesar in his study, poring over scrolls and missives. He looked up as she burst in, the fear in her eyes immediately capturing his attention.
"What is it?" he asked, rising from his chair.
"You cannot go to the Senate on the Ides," Maeve pleaded, her voice trembling. "There is a plot against you. I heard them—Cassius, Brutus—they mean to strike!"
Caesar sighed, placing his hands on her shoulders, his touch firm yet gentle. "I have long known of their intentions," he admitted. "But if I cower in fear, I am no leader. Rome needs me, Maeve. And I need you to trust me."
Tears welled in her eyes. "Trust you? You are walking into a death trap!" She gripped his tunic, her nails digging into the fabric. "Please, Julius. Do not go."
His hand caressed her cheek, his thumb wiping away a stray tear. "If this is my fate, then so be it." He kissed her deeply, as if he could burn the memory of his lips into hers. "But know that whatever happens, I have loved you in ways I have never loved before."
That night, their lovemaking was frantic, filled with desperation and unspoken goodbyes. Maeve clung to him, as if she could tether him to this world by the sheer force of her love.
But dawn came too soon.
And with it, the end.