Page 323 of Poor Little Rich Girl

Nero holds up a flash drive. “I have more than just photographs. All the evidence I’ve collected against him is on here. I had hoped to do this privately, between the Imperators after our wedding, but you forced my hand. I could not allow a man secretly working with the Feds to obtain such power over the August family, not without stepping in.”

I grit my teeth. He’s trying to undermine me, make it look like I’m the weak girl who needs his help.

Nero continues, “I’m sure Claudia August was thoroughly unaware of these facts. Please, do not assume she knowingly intended to align with this traitor. But I could not allow her to unwittingly sign her empire over to him. I had to act.”

“Give me those.” I snatch the photographs from his hand and flip through them. They’re immaculate, I’ll give him that, but that doesn’t mean much these days. George could pull off ‘evidence’ like this in a couple of hours. “This should have been dealt with in a trial, as is the right of all Imperators.”

“Do you mean the same courtesy he showed your father?” Nero sneers.

I drop the photographs into the sand. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Do you think Brutus pulled off Julian’s execution single-handedly? How can you be so naive?” Brutus pulls out another envelope. “I have the documents right here. The signed contract between Constantine Dio and an anonymous party – for three bodies.”

The guys reach me as I stare at the document in my hand – the scrawl of Constantine’s signature smudged at the edge. My finger lifts the wax edge of the seal, where Constantine’s signet ring has been pressed into the wax. An Imperator would never take their ring off or allow another to use it.

This is real.

All these years, Constantine knew Julian August’s child wasn’t legitimate, but that secret was his own personal sword of Damocles. When Brutus came to him with this job, he must’ve thought he’d been handed the keys to the August empire on a platter. He miscalculated Brutus’ influence and Nero’s cunning, and that miscalculation is the only reason I still have an empire left to claim.

Alea iacta est. The die is cast.

I think back to the night my life changed forever, to the rough hands pulling me out of bed, pinning my arms so they hurt. My mother, propped up in her favorite chair, knife handle buried in her neck and a pool of claret widening at her feet. My bloodied reflection glaring at me from the window. Waking up in the coffin, my throat closing from lack of oxygen, Antony pulling me from my grave, holding me while I gasped in fresh air.

I never saw Brutus that night. I assumed he had loyal followers who did the work for him. Followers like Eli’s father who supplied the coffins and the graves. But I should have guessed he’d hire out the job. You can always find an assassin for any job if the price is right.

I see red. The paper crumples in my hands. I want to bring Constantine to life again so I can choke the life from him with my bare hands, then fuck his eye sockets with the handle of my knife.

Death is too good for him.

And Nero… fucking Nero robbed me of the satisfaction of killing him.

“Constantine has no immediate children,” Nero says, moving things along as if my rage isn’t a living, breathing thing that expands to fill the entire arena, crowding out the mundane concerns of succession. “The rule of blood decrees that his empire goes to the next in his line, which is his cousin, Marcus Dio. Marcus, if you would make yourself known.”

A man shoves his way through the crowd, his hand raised. He’s flanked by two burly bodyguards, their weapons trained on the crowd. His parade reeks of planning – he knew he’d be called forward tonight. The air crackles with tension as he tries to enter the ring, and Antony’s guards stop them.

“I know that man’s face,” Eli whispers. “He’s always at Vault. He’s one of Nero’s men.”

And just like that, I know Nero planned this. All of this. The bastard knew I’d never consent to the double wedding. He anticipated that I’d make an alliance with Constantine. And he set about putting together this evidence to ensure we could never stand against him.

Nero reaches down and tugs the signet ring from Constantine’s bloody hand. He holds it up, letting the harsh floodlights highlight the distinctive planes and dents of its surface, the eagle that symbolizes Constantine’s line. Antony glowers, but he lets Marcus into the ring. He doesn’t have a choice, and neither do I.

Cali steps in front of him, her knife pointing at Nero’s throat. “Stop.”

“You can’t stand in the way of a succession,” Nero says. “You’ve been an excellent tribune. I’m certain Marcus will give you an important role in his empire. But for now, you need to step aside and allow our sacred ceremony to continue—”

“Marcus won’t give me jack shit, and you both know it.” Cali fixes Nero with a terrifying glare. “He has no right to the empire. I’m Constantine’s rightful heir.”

A rattle of unease settles in the audience. They know Cali isn’t Constantine’s blood.

What the fuck is she doing? She’s going to get herself killed.

Cali reaches into her bra and pulls out a folded piece of paper, which she hands to Nero. “Check it. It’s all legal. Constantine officially adopted me. As far as he was concerned, I am his daughter, his rightful heir.”

“But you’re not blood,” Marcus splutters.

“What does blood matter if it isn’t worthy?” she snaps. To prove her point, she spins on her heel and slices her curved blade through his neck. His head wobbles on his neck, his mouth open in a bloody scream before it topples from his shoulders and his headless torso crumples to the ground.

Checkmate, bitches.

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