Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 107826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
No. No use thinking about him.
A black silk robe completes the picture. I run my fingers through my hair a bit to give it a messier look and head back into the bedroom. Pandora is exactly where I left her, snoring softly. Cute. Her dark hair is spread out over my red sheets, creating the perfect contrast.
I move to the window and lift the blinds just enough to give some natural light in the room. One of the things I learned early was how to manipulate the public. With the current situation in Olympus, that skill is needed now more than ever. If we have a chance to avoid an all-out war, we have to fight the first battles through public perception.
Right now, all the headlines are screaming about the secret assassination clause that can catapult anyone who manages to kill one of the Thirteen into their newly vacated position.
The city’s opinion of the Thirteen is a fickle thing. They love to watch us, fish in an aquarium for their entertainment, and some of them flat-out love us. But that sort of thing can turn on a dime. Power is a heady thing, and if there’s one thing Olympus idolizes even above the Thirteen, it’s power itself.
No matter how much they enjoy watching our dramas play out in the gossip sites, it won’t take long until they start wondering what it would be like if they held the title of one of the Thirteen.
If we don’t give the people something else to talk about, every one of our lives will be in danger. Even with all our security measures, there’s no guarantee someone won’t succeed.
My husband did.
And that chaos will only spread. It’s exactly the thing my brother was worried about when we had three title changeovers in a single year. A destabilized city is ripe for the picking, which is no doubt what Minos wants. Throw in a faltering barrier, and we might not be able to muster up a defense if and when the enemy comes knocking at our door.
Well, fuck that.
If I have one skill, it’s giving people something to talk about. I intend to keep them so busy gossiping about my bullshit marriage that they won’t bother to sharpen their knives. Entertainment is king, after all.
I grab my phone, ignoring last night’s increasingly irate texts from my husband, and carefully snap a few selfies. I flip through them, picking the one that has me looking soft and mischievous…and has the tiniest hint of Pandora in the background. She’s turned away from the camera, only her mass of dark hair and one soft arm in the frame. She could be anyone…
But Hephaestus will know exactly who she is.
And the rest of Olympus will drive itself into a frenzy speculating why there’s someone who isn’t my husband in my bed on my wedding night.
I post on social media with a string of emojis—sun, heart, coffee, lips—that could mean anything and will add more fuel to the fire as people try to decode the secret message. Then I wander into my kitchen and take my time with my espresso machine. This is the favorite part of my day, the careful ritual of putting together the perfect latte.
I get five minutes of peace before my phone starts blowing up. A quick glance shows Hephaestus’s name. I grin and go back to the espresso machine.
Three calls later and Pandora’s phone starts ringing. I left it and her purse on the counter, so I grab it. The photo displayed is an old one with Pandora and Hephaestus—Theseus, then. He’s got his arm around her and he’s looking down at her with a smile that’s so relaxed, I almost doubt this is the man I married. She, of course, is her customary sunny self, beaming at the camera. It’s cute.
“Gross.” I swipe to answer the call. “Hello, Husband.”
“What the fuck did you do to her?”
“Hmm?” I drizzle caramel on the inside of my cup. “I’m not sure what you’re accusing me of, but I do believe I’m insulted.”
“I swear to the gods, Aphrodite, if you’ve harmed one hair on her head—”
“That’s your role, dear husband. I prefer softer methods.” I pause and pour the espresso into the cup. “And Pandora is very soft.”
He’s silent for a beat. Two. “I’ll kill you.”
A shiver of dread goes through me at the sheer menace in his voice, but I shake it off. I knew what he was capable of when I offered to marry him. Marrying murderers is practically a family tradition at this point, though I have no intention of suffering the same fate my mother did.
Even in my head, the thought falls flat. Dark humor has kept me going through some nightmarish experiences, and it will continue to do so. I add milk to the cup, then ice, and finish it off with more caramel.