I gripped the seat of my chair and nodded, trying to pretend this didn’t affect me at all. However, my insides were squirming.
Honestly, what could Roman do to me? He had zero authority. If anything, I was technically his boss. Cupids—or Archers, as they preferred to be called (despite the whole arrow thing being a myth)—couldn’t act unless the relationship was sanctioned by my department. That was the deal between his father and mine.
It worked well, considering my father’s children—a.k.a. me and my sister—had abilities that went far beyond Cupid and his offspring. Cupids needed to touch someone to know their heart. But our powers weren’t bound by time or space. We knew things we probably shouldn’t. But that was another story.
Regardless, Cupid and most of his children preferred fieldwork, as he called it. Roman, I suspected, resented it. Especially the part where I had the final say on his so-called love matches. Naturally, this brought me pleasure.He was my least favorite person. And while Cassie lived for his visits, I abhorred them.
I swallowed hard. “Well, on that fun note, let him in.”
Cassie’s devious eyes lit up, and she pranced toward the shimmering sliding glass doors, which I could see out of but no one could see into. She pushed a button, and there he was: Roman Archer. Son of Cupid. Living proof that even swine could be accessorized, ridiculously handsome, and annoyingly well dressed.
In case you’re wondering, history got it wrong about Greek and Roman gods. They are completely separate entities. Mortals might confuse them due to their similar names and overlapping domains, but the gods themselvesresentedthe comparison. For instance, my grandmother, Aphrodite, who insisted on me calling her “Goddess Divine,” scoffed at Venus’s so-called beauty like it was a knockoff perfume. And my grandfather, Ares, thought Mars was a reckless embarrassment who gave war a bad name. And yet, somehow, despite all that divine rivalry, my father and Cupid are the best of friends. Go figure.
Roman leaned against the doorframe like he’d been sculpted for dramatic entrances. Tousled dark hair, a beard that was both rugged and refined, tailored navy suit, and that signature smirk that no doubt had made countless women swoon and launched a thousand regrettable decisions. His eyes—stormy gray with flecks of gold—swept the room, landing on me like I was both a challenge and a chore.
“Demi,” he said, voice smooth and infuriating. “Still allergic to color, I see.”
“Oh, I’m allergic to something.” I scratched my neck for effect. Seriously, if they made a vaccine to prevent him, I would get inoculated ten times over.
It was probably worth noting that Roman, like me, was a demigod. And apparently our mothers shared a twisted sense of humor when it came to naming their children—each name a wink at divine parentage.
If only my mom had given me a heads-up about who my father really was before . . . well, justbefore.
Cassie pulled up a chair in the corner and conjured a bowl of pink popcorn, shoving handfuls into her mouth like she was front row at a scandalous show.
Roman’s gaze flicked to Cassie, then back to me. “Is she here to supervise or sabotage?”
“She’s HR adjacent,” I said. “And she’s promised not to poison you. Today.”
“Shame. I was hoping for a little excitement.” Could he be cockier? The answer was a resounding yes.
He took a seat in one of the chairs positioned in front of my desk—it was absurdly made of one enormous diamond. My father once occupied this office, and he’d spared no expense. Roman leaned back like he owned the place, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.
“You know why I’m here,” he growled. The gloves came off, and his nice-guy façade faded faster than the Plain White T’s fame.
I pushed my glasses up out of habit. I in fact did not need glasses. Like everyone else around me, I had perfect vision. Perfect everything. It seemed so wrong.
“I had my people send you a warning,” I said innocently.
“Damn it, Demi, why couldn’t you have at least approved one match? This is three seasons in a row now with no love matches. The network is thinking of cancelingLove Unscriptedthanks to you.”
Roman was the producer and host of a reality TV show about finding the perfect love connection. He referred to himself as the “Architect of Love.” It was as gag-inducing as his cringey show.
And lest any of you mortals think you are in charge of your own love lives, think again: Any and all matches must be approved by the Bureau of Affectional Affairs. Do we guarantee happily ever afters? No. Do mortals still screw up relationships even after we give the go-ahead? Constantly. Yet, we try. Or at least I did.
My predecessor, a.k.a. my older half-sister, Hedone, let just anyone get together. She had no rules. She was all about fun and pleasure and thought mortals should be too. But there’s more to love than the physical side of it. She found that out the hard way after she had a little too much fun on a married senator’s yacht and the entire thing was caught on film. And her identity was almost leaked. That was a big no-no in our world. She was currently hiding out on Pluto. Pluto was a resort for the gods. Ironic considering it was named after Pluto, it being a lively resort and not some dreary underworld. You could also thank the gods for it no longer being a planet. Planets were too closely monitored.
Under my careful watch, divorce rates were way down and couples reported higher satisfaction in their relationships.
“It’s not my fault that none of the couples met my department’s criteria. Do you need a recap of the guidebook rules?” I grinned over at Cassie, who read my mind.
“The rules,” she sang, waving her hand. A large gold guidebook appeared midair and fell open dramatically in front of Roman, who looked seconds away from burning my beloved book.
“Rule one: no love at first sight. Rule two: no grand gestures. Rule three: no enemies to lovers. Rule four: no falling in love under extreme circumstances or overly cinematic events. Rule—”
Roman snatched the guidebook and hurled it at the wall of windows that offered the perfect view of the California coastline. My father had grown tired of Mount Olympus and moved his operations to the States several decades ago. He felt that his grandfather, Zeus, was too overbearing.
The guidebook hit the glass with a dull thud and slid to the marble floor, pages splayed like broken wings.
