“Amara, you can’t listen to her,” Victoria begs, gazing at her desperately. “I would never tell Felix anything to hurt you, I swear it. Please, I’m begging you, please don’t do this. Please.”

Amara’s gaze slides from Victoria’s face to her throat, and she starts, as if the sight of her own hand holding the knife shocks her. She lets the blade fall, clattering, onto the tiles. Victoria collapses against the couch, holding her fingers to her neck, gasping for air like a woman who has been held underwater.

Britannica hisses through her teeth. She seizes the knife, stowing it at her belt. “This is mistake,” she says.

Amara ignores Britannica, still looking at the crumpled form on the couch, the friend she nearly murdered. “I am thousands of sesterces in debt because of you,” she says to Victoria. “I risked my life to save you; I gave you everything, and you repaid me by bringing Felix into my house.”

“And you nearly killed me,” Victoria looks up, some of her old spark returning. “I think we’re fucking even.”

“I never want to see you again. Do you understand? You will leave this house immediately.”

Victoria gets unsteadily to her feet. “I never wanted to choose between you both.” She reaches out to Amara. “I didn’t want to choose Felix over you.”

“But you did.” Amara steps away from her. The two women look at one another, and there is no trust left in the ashes of their friendship, only regret.

Victoria takes a step backward, retreating slowly, eyes darting between Britannica and Amara, as if even now, she fears one of them will try to kill her. Then she turns her back on them both to open the door and runs across the atrium, barging past Juventus and hurtling onto the street where Felix is no doubt waiting. Amara sits down heavily on the couch.

“This is mistake,” Britannica says again. “She will betray you.”

“What more can she do now?” Amara says wearily. “She’s already shown Felix the house. There’s nothing more for him to see.”

Britannica moves, leaning in so close that her breath is warm on Amara’s cheek. “Philos.” The word is only a whisper, but Amara is instantly alive to the meaning behind it. She looks up at Britannica, and seeing her expression, wastes no time pretending not to understand.

“Victoria doesn’t know,” she murmurs. “She can’t.”

“Yet, I know.”

“How? When did you guess?”

“You are alike,” Britannica says simply. “You are like him. Victoria would also see this.”

Amara looks over toward the door that Victoria left ajar, the door through which she just allowed her to escape. “Even if she does know, I couldn’t kill her,” she says, putting her head in her hands. “What sort of monster do you think I am?”

“You regret this one day. Trust me.”