Demi curled her lip at me as if to say,Congratulations, genius, you’re not colorblind.
I shook my head. “What I meant to say was, I’m sorry. Are you all right?”
“I was until some jerk decided to throw rocks at my window and then at me in the middle of the night.”
“They were pebbles,” I teased. Probably not the best time, given she looked two seconds away from asking Cassie to poison me. Again.
“That makes it so much better. What are you doing here? More like,howare you even here? Cassie hexed the crap out of this place to keep you out.”
Figured. But it strengthened my theory that the gods wanted or maybe even needed Demi and me to be friends. Or worse, something impossible. As for the other question? I ran a hand through my hair, wondering the same damn thing. What was I doing here?
When I said nothing, she rolled her eyes and began lowering the window.
“Wait,” I blurted. “I’m sorry about today. Or yesterday. Whatever it is now.”
My apology only seemed to infuriate her more, judging by her curled, pouty lips.
“I can’t believe I let you fool me again. All your talk about wanting to be friends. It was just your way of getting into my head. What were you trying to do? Get some juicy details you could use against me? Ugh, and I told you I lovedAll My Immortal Children.”
Fool her again? When had I fooled her in the first place? I didn’t have time to unpack that one. I braved taking a few steps toward her.
“Demi,” I said, softer. “I didn’t know Jazzy had planned to make you this season’s antagonist.”
“You mean villain?” Demi spat.
“Fine. Villain,” I conceded.
“Yeah, I’m sure you had no idea,” she snapped. “Mr. Executive Producer and Host.”
“I swear I didn’t,” I said, carefully. “But . . . your audition video, your first interview, your application—” I hesitated. “You have to admit, they kind of gave off . . . villain vibes.”
Her eyes narrowed. Not just narrowed—lasered. Straight through my soul.
Ouch.
One of my jokester half-brothers had accidentally pierced me with an arrow before. This was worse. This was emotional evisceration at its finest.
“Oh,” she sang, syrupy sweet with venom underneath. “So what you’re really saying is—your show isn’t about helping people find love at all.”
She leaned forward, eyes on fire.
“It’s about typecasting them into whatever roles and agendas you need to boost your ratings. Villain. Hero. Comic relief. Anything for the sake of a good promo. And here I thought you said you didn’t cheapen and sell love.”
She gave a mock gasp.
“Hmm. You might want to rethink that position.”
Then she snarled. And I swear, the moon flickered in fear.
I stepped closer.
Close enough to feel the heat rolling off her. To catch the sweet scent of her skin. To see her kaleidoscope eyes swirling like a category 5 hurricane.
“You and I need to get one thing clear,” I said, voice low but steady. “I do not sell or cheapen love. Yes, I have a show to run. Yes, ratings matter. And thanks to you—and the way you ran the Bureau—they’re down.”
Her eyes flared, but I pressed on.
“Regardless, I care about every cast member who walks onto that set. I do my best to help them find love. Real love.Can you say the same,daughter of Eros? Do you truly care if people find it?”
