“It’s all coming together great,” Jazzy chirped.
I blinked.
That wasn’t normal.
Zeus was doing some serious meddling. Usually, I was the one talking Jazzy down from a panic spiral. Stress was her middle name.
“I’m glad to hear that. Let me know if you run into any issues—or if there’s a lack of qualified applicants.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jazzy beamed. “This season’s pool is amazing. It’s going to be hard to narrow it down.”
I frowned. How could that be? We’d sent out the announcement the day before.
Normally, it was a slog—wading through unqualified candidates who outnumbered the credible ones ten to one.
But this? This felt orchestrated. I didn’t know why I bothered questioning it.
Who knew how long Zeus and Eros—and maybe even my father—had been laying the groundwork?
What made Demi so special that they’d go to all this trouble? Especially considering she clearly hated our world. She’d distanced herself from everything divine—everything connected to her father’s legacy. Seemingly refusing to use her gifts. She was good at mischief, though, just like her father, judging by the photos she’d submitted.
Maybe she should have stopped and read the mortal news once in a while. See the kind of damage she was doing. Top scientists and psychologists were scrambling to explain why people were falling in love less. Which, in turn, was tanking reported quality of life across the globe.
And yet here she was. Center stage. No doubt she was going to be the star this season. I was beginning to wonder if she wanted this. I wouldn’t put it past her to sabotage the whole damn thing.
“That’s great” was all I could manage, inwardly seething at the thought of Demi’s hidden agenda. Surely she had one.
“Ooh, before I go—watch her video,” Jazzy said, practically bouncing in her chair.
I sighed, resigned. Jazzy wouldn’t let me off the hook. She was too psyched about Demi. The worst part? Iwascurious. Her photos had turned out stunning—too stunning. I had to keep reminding myself: Her outward appearance was just a façade. A distraction. Possibly a trap.
I clicked on her video audition. There she was. Sitting on a stool against a canvas backdrop, professionally styled in what could only be described as an Audrey Hepburn homage—fitted black pants, a sleek black turtleneck, ballet flats. She looked poised. Timeless. Untouchable.
And then she bit her lip. That soft, pouty hesitation. Like she wasn’t sure if she belonged there. Like she was trying not to flinch. She looked like every man’s dream. Which made her all the more dangerous.
“Um . . .” She cleared her throat. “I guess I’m supposed to tell you why I want to be onLove Unscripted.” Her eyes, covered in sleek lenses, which added to the mysterious allureshe had going on, darted everywhere but at the camera. “The truth is, I don’t want to be on this show.”
Then why the hell was she playing dress-up and going through the motions?
“But,” she sighed and paused. “My father wants me to do this . . . and maybe my mom too,” she said quieter, almost to herself.
Her admission took me by surprise.
“I wonder who her father is.” Jazzy’s face lit up. “It’s like a mystery, right?”
“Uh, yeah,” I lied. Technically, I wasn’t being dishonest. To the mortal world, it was a mystery. But I couldn’t tell Jazzy that Demi’s father was my godfather. Or that he’d been pulling strings since before the casting call went live.
I wondered what story Demi would tell about him on the show. Of course, I’d have to ask her when I interviewed her on camera. I was going to have to learn how to school my disdain for her before then. And more importantly, hide the fact that I found her beautiful. No, stunning.
“Ooh, I can’t wait for you to dive into her past. It’s going to be delicious. The ratings for the season are going to be off the charts!” Jazzy squealed.
I should have been ecstatic about that, but I was anything but. And Demi’s interview was holding me hostage.
“Have I ever been in love?” she said as if it were a ridiculous question.
I expected her to say no. She knew nothing about love as far as I could tell. And I’d never seen her with anyone over the years.
She shifted uncomfortably on the stool, still refusing to look at the camera. “Once,” she whispered. “But I don’t want to talk about it. Ever.”
