The synthetic silk of the dress felt like a lie against her skin, a cheap whisper where the fine-spun linen of Alexandria should have been.
Cleopatra stood before the penthouse window, the reflection of the Capitol dome captured in her kohl-lined eyes. This city was the new Rome, a gaudy spectacle of steel and glass built on a foundation of greed. It was a place ripe for conquest.
Behind her, Mark Antony—now Marc—fastened the emerald necklace at her throat. His hands were rougher than she remembered, calloused by a life she hadn't shared, but the touch was the same. An anchor.
"Senator Thompson is a man starved of beauty," Marc's voice was a low rumble, a sound that had once commanded legions. "He thinks power is a number in a bank account."
He stepped back, his eyes drinking her in. "Show him what true power looks like, my Queen."
She turned and touched his cheek, her fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw. "He is but the first stone, my General." Her voice was soft, yet it held the weight of empires. "We will build our new world from these ruins."
There was no kiss. Their bond transcended such simple gestures now. It was a pact forged in fire and death, reborn into a world of pathetic, grasping mortals.
Marc nodded, his focus already on the tablet in his hand. "The car is waiting. I will be monitoring from the adjacent suite. You will be perfectly safe."
Cleo almost laughed. She hadn't been safe a day in her life, not then and not now. Safety was an illusion for the weak. She walked towards the door, her hips swaying with a rhythm that was thousands of years old.
Power was the only thing that was real.
The Presidential Suite at the Hay-Adams was opulent in a way that screamed of new money. It was loud and tasteless. Cleo felt a pang of longing for the quiet elegance of her palace, the scent of lotus blossoms on the Nile's breeze.
Senator Thompson stood by the bar, a portly man in a suit that cost more than a commoner's home. His face, softened by decades of privilege and whiskey, slackened as she entered. His mouth opened, then closed.
He fumbled with his glass. "Ms… Ms. Serapis. You are even more… striking in person."
A slow, predatory smile touched her lips. "Please, Senator. Call me Cleo."
She moved into the room, not towards him, but around him. She was circling her prey, letting him feel the cage closing in. She ran a single finger over the back of a velvet armchair, her eyes never leaving his.
He was a man used to being the most important person in any room. She could see the confusion warring with a more primal, desperate urge in his eyes.
"A drink?" he offered, his voice a little too loud.
"I find I have a thirst for other things," she murmured, finally stopping before him. The scent of her perfume, a custom blend of Egyptian blue lotus and myrrh, enveloped him. It was a scent of forgotten tombs and divine rites.
He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the emerald glittering in the hollow of her throat. "Of course. Anything."
She leaned in, her lips close to his ear. "I know what you want, Senator." Her whisper was a silken caress. "The question is, what are you willing to do for it?"
His breath hitched. He was already lost.
The bedroom was dark, lit only by the faint, impersonal glow of the city outside. His expensive suit jacket was a crumpled heap on the floor, a symbol of his abandoned authority.
Cleo was in absolute control. This was not an act of passion; it was an interrogation of the flesh, a dismantling of a powerful man, piece by piece. Her movements were deliberate, each touch a calculated measure to strip away his will.
He groaned her name, a desperate plea. He was a drowning man, and she was the sea.
"You have a vote tomorrow," she whispered, her lips tracing a line down his chest. "The Aethelred Defense Bill."
His body tensed beneath hers. "My… my donors… they're backing it."
"Shhh." She silenced him with a finger to his lips. "Donors give you money. I can give you a world they can't even imagine."
She shifted, her body speaking a language of promises that bypassed his brain and went straight to his soul. He shuddered, his resistance melting into pure, animal need. He was putty in her hands.
"Imagine the power you'll hold when Aethelred loses that contract," she purred, her voice a hypnotic rhythm against his skin. "A man like you deserves to choose the winners. Not to be told who to vote for."
She was making treason feel like empowerment. She was turning betrayal into an act of intimacy, a secret just between them. The small, emerald chip on her discarded bracelet blinked once, a serpent's eye capturing his surrender.
"Yes," he gasped, his eyes squeezed shut. "God, yes. I'll do it. I'll vote no."
Cleo smiled in the darkness. His surrender was more intoxicating than any wine. She had him.
She left him snoring, a spent force in a tangle of thousand-thread-count sheets. The illusion of power was gone, leaving only a weak, aging man behind.
Marc was waiting in the dimly lit hallway, his posture rigid. He held out a silk robe for her without a word. Their professionalism was as sharp and cold as a blade.
She slipped it on, her skin still warm. "It is done."
"The recording is secure," he confirmed, his eyes scanning the corridor. "He promised everything."
A flicker of ancient bitterness crossed her face. "He was a simpler creature than Octavian," she said, the name like poison on her tongue. It was a ghost that had haunted them for two millennia.
Marc's jaw tightened at the name. "Octavian is dust. These men are weaker. They hide their armies in corporate towers and their daggers in legislation." He pulled out a sleek, modern tablet. "But they bleed all the same."
He tapped the screen. A news alert glowed with breaking news.
SENATOR THOMPSON TO VOTE 'NO' ON AETHELRED BILL, CITES 'GRAVE FISCAL CONCERNS'
The statement had been released from his office just moments ago. The effect was immediate. The tremor was already running through the city's foundations. She had broken him so completely, he didn't even wait until morning to obey.
The cold blue light of the tablet illuminated their faces. In the sterile quiet of the hotel corridor, they looked like two ancient gods, passing judgment on a mortal world that had forgotten them.
Marc's lips curled into a grin, sharp and dangerous. "The first stone has been laid, my Queen. And the whole city just felt the tremor."