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Chapter Text

The red carpet lights burned brighter than the sun, but Persephone had never felt so cold.

The smiles among the crowd were cold and plastic like, white fake teeth, glossed lips, frozen faces turned towards her mother —Demeter — all acting identical to a sunflower tugging over the barriers like animals, as their eyes chased for the light, for a chance of touching her hair, hands, or feeling the heat she uttered, the air she breathes. The eager screams of fans and camera flashes from the paparazzi were loud. Persephone smiled when the cameras called her name, tilted her chin just high enough, did the famous look back over her shoulder exactly like her mother had taught her, but inside, she felt nothing.

This act was all hollow, icy. It filled her body with the kind of cold that doesn’t come from air, but from the absence,

of a choice, of a self.

Persephone would have welcomed the nerves in, but nothing came. She felt like a vacant shell, only filled with her mother’s desires and expectations of a perfect daughter, exposed to a plastic fake world, where money spoke louder than good deeds.

Security guards with perfect postures lined the velvet ropes, their mirrored sunglasses reflected back a world too sheeny to be real, beautiful Persephone chased after her mother with a practiced rhythm of glamour and serenity, her silver designer dress, — chosen by her mother, obviously.— had an elegant veil filled with crystals that dragged through the carpet floor, it sparkled brighter than any diamond. Yet it made her feel like a prop rather than a person. Her mother laughed with finesse, her voice a loud echo that silenced all around, even the birds, amplified, and filled with decorum, she charmed the crowd with lines she rehearsed a hundred times on the way there.

“The world follows the brightest bloom.”

Demeter said as she waved, standing by the giant marble door. It was a signature catchphrase she loved to cherish all over her socials, always delivered with effortless poise. Demeter pulled her daughter closer discreetly, hidden from the camera’s attention, but with enough toughness to wake Persephone from her drifted thoughts.

“And my daughter was born to lead that garden. She’s been prepared for this moment her whole life, and I am sure all of you will LOVE tonight’s surprise !”

The mother exclaimed with joy, as her daughter tried to make herself smaller in every way she could, crossed arms, averting eyes from the massive crowd that continuously called and questioned between shouts and incomprehensible flashes that would leave anyone unaccustomed with a terrible headache. On their left, the bodyguard held the line, his body a wall against the frenzy, hands clawing out, bold and brutal, desperate to get the attention of the exalted ladies as they crossed the red carpet, The marble doors slammed shut behind them, sealing off the noise. Silence followed, heavy and absolute.

“Straighten up,”

Whispered Demeter, not angry, effortless, like pruning a flower. Her eyes were distant and unfocused on her daughter, her posture was impeccable, one hand poised on her hip, her luxury purse resting elegantly at her side.

“Yes, mother.” — Replied obedient Persephone.

“You’re slouching”

“I am sorry, mother.”

“Imagine the articles, the photos, the headlines, ‘Demeter’s daughter has a POOR posture’

She slapped Persephone’s back, even her graceful, manicured hands couldn’t quite conceal the quiet strength of a mother who’d long mastered the art of disciplining an insolent child. Demeter always cared for the futile things, the image, the brand built around them, and Persephone obeyed,

it was easier that way.

They continued their walk, heads up, eyes forward, the marble walls were lighten up by beautiful golden chandeliers, the red velvet carpet stretched beneath them like a tongue made out of fire, the place was warm and smelled like incenses and jasmine, in a distance music could be heard, chatting and laughing, this was a common event the ‘gods’ frequented, — They weren’t gods in the ancient sense, but they were powerful social titans, billionaires, luxury influencers with their own private jets and skincare lines. — This annual gathering was a mere excuse to gossip, flaunt wealth, and parade elite lifestyles in front of live TV cameras.

Demeter led her daughter through the long corridors, they climbed the many stairs that escorted them to the VIP ONLY area, she looked down at the crowd, filled with journalists, influencers, and brand representatives mingling over cocktails and flashing lights, all buzzing with anticipation for tonight’s announcement. Across the next towering doors, a silk curtain swayed open with a whisper, welcoming them into the space beyond, two enormous bodyguards gave a subtle nod at the goddess’s presence, bowing only when granted permission to let them pass.

Gone was the manufactured brightness of the main lounge. Here, everything was cooler, darker. The lighting dimmed to a golden dusk, casting shadows across oil paintings and rare orchids in handcrafted vases with portraits of the elite, the walls were covered in warm wood and an obsidian glass reflected every movement, not allowing a single dust to be seen from those below.

After all, the ‘gods’ were here.

These were the people who moved culture, funded wars, and where mere whispers could turn the world upside down, here was a place where billion-dollar deals were made between sips of matcha martinis, and margaritas.

The room buzzed with champagne, giggles and calculated chaos, a floral-scented fog machine puffed gentle mist over the centerpiece: a chandelier made of fresh roses that slowly opened throughout the night. It was part garden, part top tech, part untelevised reality show.

No cameras were allowed in this room. That was the rule, the myth, even, yet, somehow, a story or two always managed to slip through the cracks and spun into headlines by morning, today would be no different.

“Smile, Kore,”

her mother said softly, using the childhood name Persephone hadn’t heard in years. A quiet gasp escaped Persephone’s lips as her mother’s voice cut through her thoughts. She turned slowly, gaze torn from the world below, the polished veneer of obedience still intact, but something colder stirred behind her eyes.

“You look like you’re about to cry, and no one blooms through tears.”

Persephone said nothing, choosing instead to bury the words beneath a carefully guarded silence, watching servers in white gloves move quietly, offering glasses of vintage wine and crystal bowls of pomegranate seeds.

Persephone stood by her mother, wishing this day would end, and soon. She wished to be able to vanish beneath the weight of expectation and spotlight. The air around her hisses with forced smiles and whispered ambitions, but inside, a quiet storm gathered in her thoughts.

She hated the way cameras followed her every move, an endless lens pointed at her ever since her first steps as a child, her first period awkwardly turned into the first page of a morning journal, every moment of her life curated and broadcasted like a scripted show. There was no room to breathe, no space to be anything but perfect.

And tonight, more than ever. The pressure crushed her, she was expected to embody grace, poise, and flawless obedience. One misstep, one flicker of doubt, would become a thousand gossip stories, a thousand judgments.

Persephone longed to disappear, not just from this room, but from the relentless gaze that had defined her existence since birth.

Demeter’s voice cut through Persephone’s swirling thoughts,

“Go on, dear Kore. Mingle. See what the others say about your new brand. It’s time they recognized you, as the beautiful and independent daughter of Demeter” — All lies. Lies piled on lies, stacked so high they nearly crushed her, Persephone was just a pawn, a carefully crafted tool to draw more eyes to Demeter’s empire. She had been nothing else since the moment she was born.

She swallowed hard. Her brand was called ‘Bloom’, it was a skincare line, centered on the idea of seasonal renewal. Soft pinks and green glass packaging reflected the freshness of spring, an aesthetic concept that, — of course,— had been mostly her mother’s idea.

She stepped away from Demeter and into the swirl of the party just like she was told to do, behind the flashing cameras, the real players circled like predators drawn to the scent of power.

The first one she spotted was Ares, the fashion tech CEO, who stood near the mirrored bar, jaw clenched like he’d just walked off a battlefield, which, for him, was probably a boardroom for his company ‘Wardrive’, a luxury fashion label that blends military tech with streetwear, his clothing could survive a riot, and he frequently loved to test it live.

Eris stood beside him, having a cocktail, a chaos influencer turned crypto anarchist. She wore a chain-mail dress and laughed like she was always two seconds from starting a fire.

Persephone approached the mirrored bar, where they were locked in their usual electric banter. The sharp click of her heels cut through the loud hum around them, making their heads turn.

“Didn’t expect to see you outside the greenhouse this year.” — Ares noticed her first, his tone was mocking, swirling the whiskey in his glass. — “Tell me, does Bloom come in desperation to please your mother’s scent?”

“No, that one’s a limited edition. Only sold to daughters with Instagram managers before they could walk.” — Eris grinned wickedly, adding to this ever growing fire.

Persephone’s smile tightened, but didn’t crack. She was used to this.

“Come on, Persephone. Don’t be shy. We’re all dying to hear about your little soap-and-spring-water brand. Is it cruelty-free? Or just soul-free?”

Ares carelessly tossed his empty glass toward the edge of the bar, where the barman scrambled to catch it midair, nearly fumbling under the god’s indifference, before Persephone could reply, a warm voice slid between them like silk over a blade.

“I wouldn’t talk about soul-free, darling,”

Aphrodite purred, the one skin was like porcelain, lips always perfectly flushed, wearing gowns that looked poured onto her body. Her presence smelled like nectar and cost more than most condos, CEO of AURA, a billion dollar skincare and love enhancement brand that promised divine confidence.

“Last I checked, Wardrive’s newest line looked like a SWAT team dressed for Coachella.”

Eris and Ares’s expression soured, the glow of their chaos dimming just slightly under Aphrodite’s spotlight. The chaos woman stepped back, sipping her drink too fast, too loud, and Ares stared, too hard, too intense. Majestic Aphrodite turned to Persephone, her tone honey laced but with a sly wink beneath it.

“I like Bloom. It’s clean. Soft. And clearly not trying to prove anything, it’s perfect, it’s you”

“Thank you,” — she murmured, the words a small breath of truth in a room full of performance.

“She’d like a bar of soap if it had a mirror behind it.” — Ares scoffed.

“Some of us don’t need to scream to be seen.”

She said sweetly, her voice smoother than nectar and twice as dangerous. Then, without another glance at Ares or Eris, she slipped her arm through Persephone’s and guided her away from the mirrored bar. They weaved through the crowd like two constellations pulled into orbit, skirts whispering against the floor, perfume trailing like promise. When they found a quiet edge of the room, Aphrodite allowed herself to let go of the smaller one’s hand.

“I know what it’s like to be underestimated. To be handed a spotlight, and told it was yours …. when really, it was a leash”

“You do?”

“Darling, I started out filming makeup tutorials in a bedroom the size of a closet. My first brand deal was for a ten-dollar lip gloss that turned my mouth purple in the sun.” — Aphrodite laughed with grace, you could hear money in every breath she took.

“But I loved it. Because it was mine. That was before Aura, before the catwalks and billion dollar contracts.”

“And how did you… survive all the noise, the expectations to be perfect before millions of eyes?”

“I didn’t survive it. I learned to outshine it. And I built something of my own. Just like you’re doing, darling”

Persephone didn’t respond right away, the words should’ve felt comforting, flattering even. But they slid off her like dew on glass. She didn’t want Bloom, she didn’t care about sustainable skincare or pastel campaigns, truly, she hadn’t built anything.

Demeter had.

Every jar, every slogan, every spring hued press package had her mother’s fingerprints pressed into the design. Persephone wanted to run, out of the heels, out of the dress, out of the room. She wanted to scream, or sleep for a hundred years, or disappear under the marble floors where no one could ask for another photo.

She smiled instead. Because that’s what she did.

Because running wasn’t graceful, and screaming wasn’t marketable, and goddesses didn’t crack in public, Aphrodite watched her carefully, catching the flicker of doubt behind the perfect smile, eyebrows lowering, but choosing to say nothing.

Not yet.

Persephone’s eyes drifted to a loud crowd gathered near the front, a swirling mass of gods laughing, stumbling, and raising cups high in reckless celebration. At the center of it all was Dionysus, — CEO and more a legend turned lifestyle guru, his empire thrived on the idea of ‘carpe diem’, nights filled with wild parties, mornings devoted to yoga and meditation, and a social media presence that balanced hedonism with heartfelt spirituality — he was barefoot and wildly grinning, wearing a floral suit that looked like a tropical storm had decided to crash the party.

He led the dance, arms swinging, wine glass balanced precariously as he spun others into the chaotic rhythm, until he caught Persephone’s eye and raised his glass with a mischievous wink. Her shy smile flickered in response.

But without warning, Dionysus reached out and grabbed Persephone’s hand, pulling her toward the dance. Aphrodite followed with a smirk, slipping her arm through Persephone’s as they moved into the chaotic rhythm.

Wine glasses swayed, bodies spun, and laughter echoed, all under a cloud of judgmental stares. Athena’s narrowed eyes cut sharp, Hera’s lips pressed thin in disapproval, it was impossible to miss.

Aphrodite didn’t care. She danced with abandon, her smile a challenge to the critics, her body swiveling with grace and beauty, as all the men and women felt their mouth’s salivating, their hands twitching, their stomachs filled up with butterflies.

But Persephone felt the weight of every gaze. Just as she was about to lose herself to the music, Demeter’s firm hand gripped her arm, pulling her away from the crowd.

“Don’t forget who’s watching, Persephone. This isn’t some playground,”

Her mother whispered, voice low but edged with steel.

“These could be your future investors, foolish child”

Demeter said, the kind of warning only a mother could deliver. She nodded towards the crowd of gods that glared with disgust upon Dionysus. Before Demeter could finish her stern lecture, the atmosphere shifted. No announcement came, it wasn’t necessary. The air itself stilled, heavy and expectant. The obsidian glass walls slowly turned transparent, revealing the floors below, where an eager crowd now held its breath, waiting for what was to come.

Then, the first rumble of thunder rolled through the space.

The double doors burst open on a wave of flashbulbs and laughter that felt like thunderclaps, and Zeus entered like a storm wrapped in tailored silk. He wore a pristine white suit embroidered with intricate gold circuitry, each step sparking reflections like jagged lightning bolts. His salt-and-silver hair was slicked back sharply, commanding attention like a general stepping onto a battlefield.

His grin, dazzlingly white and far too broad to be friendly, it sliced through the crowd with cold precision.

Zeus didn’t just walk into the room. He occupied it.

He was followed by Ganymede, his latest golden prodigy, always two steps behind the massive body mass that was the ‘god’ of thunder, yet he didn’t speak much in these events, head ducked slightly like someone used to being looked at but never quite seen. No one really knew where he came from. Some said he showed up at a small piano recital, while others thought he was a fallen angel working undercover as an intern. But the gossip pages were unanimous:

He was Thunder Daddy’s favorite sugar baby.

And with the way Zeus rested his hand on Ganymede’s shoulder, like he owned the boy’s silence,

Few dared question it.

Drinks were lifted higher. Laughter grew performative. The already rich re-calibrated their postures like they were on camera, because if Zeus was here, then it was an honor to share the same air — founder and CEO of Olympus Corp, a global tech and energy giant that controlled everything from smart cities to storm-harnessing technology. His empire was built on influence, innovation, and a ruthless drive to dominate every market he touched, — near the marble bar, Ares, jaw clenched, if he suddenly remembered a war across the room he had to look at.

“Good to see the ecosystem’s still thriving,”

The ecosystem. That’s what he called it, the power web of followers, sponsors, whispers, rivals, lovers.

Zeus didn’t join in, but claimed this event.

He made his way toward the bar, not in haste, every step was calculated, soaked in the kind of confidence born from decades of unchecked power, journalists angled their phones upward for better light behind the obsidian glass, as they tried to catch a single photo of the god.

By the time he reached the marble bar, a drink was already waiting, the bartender didn’t need a signal, his order had been prepared the moment thunder echoed through the floor. Zeus didn’t thank him, he simply winked, as the barman fumbled.

But then the tide shifted.

Poseidon walked in like a wave with shoulders much taller than necessary, wearing an open collar, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and a salt-worn leather bracelet that hadn’t left his wrist since ever. His beard was trimmed, his long hair swept back, sea dark with streaks of silver at the temples, like someone who’d spent more time beneath storms than under spotlights.

The music was loud, the cameras worshiped him, and the crowd approached with curiosity, cherishing his presence, but despite the glamour, Poseidon’s image wasn’t all yachts and ocean sunsets. His social feed was a mix of boat parties, fierce takes on marine conservation, and clips of him yelling at reporters. — usually when they questioned the ethics of his offshore projects or downplayed ocean pollution. —after all, this man was the powerhouse behind Leviathan, a high end yacht empire that doubled as a lobbying titan for marine policy.

But Poseidon wasn’t alone, his tall shape barely casted a shadow upon another figure, a dark one that trailed quietly behind.

Zeus walked in and people listened. Poseidon walked in and people leaned closer, but when HE entered, fear chased after.

Hades.

Nobody announced him, but heads turned, yet no one dared to take a single photo, he simply appeared, like the end of a sentence.

Dressed in a black suit, the shirt buttoned high to his throat. He wore no tie, no logo, no brand screaming for attention. On someone else it might’ve looked stiff, too sober. On him, it looked sacred. Like silence tailored into fabric, majestic, — CEO of Eidēon, the biggest funeral company in the country. They handled elite families, old money, and traditions that went back centuries. Their services included luxury funerals, biodegradable urns, and even ancient-style coins for the deceased. —no words were spoken, he didn’t even smile, his presence alone was enough to make voices lower and spines straighten instinctively, he didn’t scan the crowd or seek acknowledgment, his eyes moved once, maybe twice, calm, dark, unreadable.

Because Hades wasn’t like the others. He didn’t chase followers or headlines, nor the lord posted, posed, or promoted. He was the one they called when the lights went out.

The one whose name no one dared to speak.

The hoard of people in this room and the one above feared him, not because he threatened. But because he meant every word he ever said.

There was no scandal to mock, or a mask to pull off. Just that stillness,

That finality.

Persephone had only seen him in passing a few times, A silent figure in the back row of Olympus biggest elites. As he crossed the edge of the VIP lounge, Demeter’s jaw tightened. She resumed fixing Persephone’s sleeve as if nothing had shifted, but her fingers had gone stiff.

“Ignore him,” — she said quietly, brushing imaginary lint from the fabric in her child’s clothing, as if the lord of darkness himself had brought dust in his presence, a sort of filth.

“He doesn’t belong in these spaces, he ruins the mood, too morbid, too macabre”

For a fleeting second, Persephone forgot the cameras, tension that had been coiled so tightly inside her simply vanished, her worries seemed to be undone in the presence of that impossible stillness. Hades blended into the room like dusk, quiet and steady, his light outshined by his younger, richer brothers.

The noise around Persephone dulled. Her heart slowed. Her gaze moved to him before thought could catch up, from a distance she heard an echo calling upon her name, a gentle masculine voice.

“Persephone”

She took a step forward

“Persephone”

And she took barely more than a simple breath.

“Persephone”

A soft, unreasonable pull toward the man who stood like a boundary between this world and something older, her daydreaming session came to an end, when a firm hand caught her wrist, and the voice was recognizable again.

“Persephone! Let’s go. It’s time for the show, ” — Demeter spoke, proudly as her white grin shined the room.

Persephone blinked, breath shallow, eyes scanning for his presence. The crowd surged again, and so did the noise, but she hadn’t fully left that silence, her mother pulled her towards the backstage, as she looked back desperately and confused.

She couldn’t tell if it was the sudden rush in her blood, or the weight of these unexpected feelings, but for a fleeting moment,

A dark gaze fell upon her,

Chapter Text

The goddess of spring had no say in her blooming.

As the air outside the VIP lounge shimmered with heat and perfume, the curious chatter of journalists and the click of designer heels. Tonight, impatient hearts weren't the only ones gathered in this marble palace, they were united all over the world, this event was broadcasted on liveTV, on the biggest streaming platforms, and announced all around the country, hyped all over the year by the top influencers of the world.

Getting an invitation was nearly mythical in itself. The bureaucracy alone weeded out thousands, every guest underwent a ruthless vetting process, background checks were mandatory, even financial disclosures were reviewed. If you didn’t represent a global brand, commanded a loyal circle of influencers, or had at least ten million resting in your account, your name never even reached the gatekeepers.

In the backstage, after a few gods had already shone in the spotlight, others hid behind the massive velvet curtains, waiting for their own chance to take advantage of the media this event brought them. Demeter’s voice cut through the silence, low, but sharp, brimming with restrained fury.

“Smile when we get up there, tilt your chin, do not speak unless I signal, this is the biggest night of your life, Kore.”

“Don’t worry, I know the script, Mother,”

Persephone's voice wasn't challenging, she seemed confident, but simply lost in her thoughts momentarily. Demeter didn’t respond, but she did leave behind a nasty side eye, she could almost hear the internal PR calculation running behind her mother’s lashes. A single misstep tonight, and the newspapers would be feasting for days, not that Persephone hadn’t given them plenty to chew on in the past.

The ballroom pulsed with curated decadence, gilded walls, crystal chandeliers like frozen rain, and a sea of people draped in luxury and ambition, music throbbed beneath all the heartbeats masked by laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of whispered deals.

Then, the velvet curtains parted.

Demeter emerged like a vision cut from marble and empire, her dress shimmered like polished ivory, sculpted to perfection, not a single strand of hair out of place. Her heels clicked once on the lacquered stage and every head turned, following her appearance the orchestra faded into silence, phones rose like a wave, camera flashes flickered like lightning.

She smiled, controlled, knowing, walking to the podium with the gravity of someone used to being the sun in every room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” 

 she began, her voice smooth as silk and sharp as ice, the room erupted into applause, loud and instantaneous, as if the very presence of Demeter demanded reverence. CEOs straightened their ties, influencers repositioned themselves for better angles, even the journalists — usually those circling like vultures — looked momentarily charmed.

She waited just long enough for the sound to swell and fade.

“Thank you for joining us for another year of renewal, growth, and vision,” — She continued her calculated speech.

 “Tonight is not just a celebration of innovation, it’s a testament to legacy, and no legacy thrives without roots.”

Her gaze swept the room with practiced authority, and behind her, just beyond the curtain’s edge, Persephone stood frozen in shadow, her hands trembling at her sides, her cue approaching, the world waiting.

Demeter’s voice carried on, echoing through the high ceilings like a preacher.

“Let us welcome the next generation, the face of the future, my daughter, Persephone.”

The crowd thundered again, while Persephone couldn’t move, stuck in her awe, her gaze drifted for a second, that’s when she saw him , high above the stage, cloaked in shadow and gold, three figures sat in judgment from the mezzanine, just above the horde of cameras. In the center chair sat Zeus, he grinned at the crowd like he owned every secret in the room, and maybe he did.

To his left Poseidon leaned forward over the railing like a predator watching his prey, champagne glass dangling carelessly in his hand.

But the one Persephone’s eyes couldn’t get enough was over to the right, hidden by the curtains, 

Hades.

His presence was quiet, but absolute, even gravity seemed to gather around him, cloaking him in something heavier than shadow, eyes like molten ash tracked the crowd below with a cold, exacting intelligence that missed nothing. Yet he looked detached, unamused, as if attendance was a requirement, not a choice, and he longed to be anywhere else.

Below, the applause swelled, but Persephone still stood frozen just behind her mother, She couldn’t speak.

Not here.

Not like this.

From their perch, the three brothers watched the stage unfold like a tragedy. But only Hades was watching her, or more specifically the fracture that was forming behind her eyes.

She took a single step forward, the mic gleaming under the stage lights, and a thousand lenses pointed at her, a thousand curated smiles waited to receive her brilliance, Persephone swallowed, forcing a breath into her lungs.

“I… I’m honored to be stepping into this next chapter,” —  she began, voice paper-thin. She had never felt this nervous in her entire life, even if she was used to the eyes, the cameras, the constant judgment, now she felt like the pressure had finally started to crush her bones. 

“I’ve always believed in growth. In… in transformation, and I hope to continue the legacy that’s,,,” — her breath hitched, — “that’s been nurtured so carefully by the women who came before me.”

Her eyes flicked across the crowd, so many faces, expectant and sharp, all those phones held high, lips curled in judgment, or worse, amusement .

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the microphone.

“This… brand, this future, is more than skin. It’s about… it’s about finding power in softness. In nature. In..” — Someone cleared their throat in the audience, the lights were too hot, her dress too tight, she could hear the blood thumping in her ears louder than her own voice. The young influencer risked a glance toward her mother, Demeter stood just offstage, lips tight, eyes gleaming with the kind of tension Persephone had grown up fearing, she was watching every stammer, every pause, measuring them like failures stacked against a throne.

“And… I look forward to… to working with…” — She trailed off, again, the words were gone. Just like that. Gone.

“Persephone! Over here!”

A voice cut through the murmur, sharp, male, press badge flashing, a journalist eager to be the first one to get her attention.

“Can you tell us how involved you were in product development? Was it really your idea, or just branding?”

She blinked. “I-” — She was cut short by another voice, louder, from the left. 

“ Are the rumors about your departure true? Are you severing ties with your mother’s board?”

Flash, followed by flash. It was an overwhelming staccato of camera shutters. The heat rose behind her ears, the room tilted, faces blurring, the mic trembled in her grip, her mother didn’t step in, she didn’t even flinch, just shifted slightly, giving Persephone a razor glance from the side, cool, perfectly composed, it was all a silent message: 

Hold the image. Don’t break.

“I’m very proud of what we’ve built-” — She was cut short again.

“Are you still seeing Dionysus?”

“Is it true you dropped out of the Zeta project?”

The questions came faster now, overlapping, feeding off one another like sharks in bloodied water. The air in Persephone’s chest compressed, she tried to open her mouth, but nothing came out.

And then, silence.

Not from the crowd. But from above. Her eyes, desperate to find a point of stillness, lifted to the mezzanine. He was still there, still watching, not with pity, not with judgment, just his intense presence, and somehow, that was worse, because for a fleeting second, she wished to fall through the floor, through the earth, and keep falling. The embarrassment burned hotter than any supernova.

As her thoughts continued to pile, the felt the floor gently tremble with steps from sharp designer heels, Demeter stepped forward with a smile so smooth it might have been carved from marble. She slipped a guiding hand around Persephone’s waist, reclaiming the microphone with practiced ease.

“Thank you all,” — Demeter said brightly,  —“but we’ll be saving questions for the press conference. Tonight, we celebrate.”

The crowd chuckled and applauded again, as if nothing had cracked, Demeter pulled her daughter away, waving to the hoard of people that loudly cherished, the applause became a distant echo as they entered the backstage. Her mother didn’t speak right away, she didn’t have to, her silence was heavier than any words.

Persephone's throat felt dry, her voice buried somewhere deep where she couldn’t reach it, she looked down at her shaking hands, finally realizing how badly she was trembling. Standing still, she clenched her hands at her sides trying to make it stop, skin prickling under the light. Her mother turned slowly, her expression serene, except for the cold steel beneath her eyes.

Demeter stepped closer, her hand brushing the sleeve of Persephone’s dress with an elegance that belied the tension radiating from her body.

“Well?” —Voice soft but glacial. — “Was that the plan? To humiliate me? To sabotage everything I’ve spent the last decade building FOR YOU?”

“I… I just froze,”  — Persephone whispered, the heat of shame crawling up her neck.

“You froze?”   — Demeter repeated, as if testing the word, —“My love, you’ve had that speech memorized since winter. You had one job. One ”

Persephone looked down. Her throat worked around the truth she couldn’t say, it wasn’t nerves, not entirely, it was him . 

That damn man on the mezzanine, cloaked in black like a ghost haunting the living. His eyes had pierced straight through her polished facade, straight through the shell her mother had constructed so carefully, and in that second, she felt unmade, like his eyes stripped her bare and claimed her, right there in front of everyone.

“I was prepared,”  — she said weakly.  — “I don’t know what happened.”

“Of course you don’t, and of course, I’m the one who’ll have to clean this mess up, again .”

Demeter exhaled sharply, disappointed, stepping closer, her perfume thick with gardenia and disdain, she held her daughter’s chin with a tight grip.

“You may carry my name, Kore, but you’ve yet to earn it.” 

The words stung, they always did, Demeter composed herself with a final glance at her daughter’s dress, smoothing an invisible wrinkle.

“Put your face back on. We still have the gala floor to attend, and do try to act like someone people want to invest in.”

With that, she turned and disappeared down the hall in a cloud of white silk, Persephone was left with only the dreadful weight of failure pressing into her chest like a stone on soft soil. She stood there for a moment, alone in the sterile backstage corridor, trying not to cry, trying not to scream.

Her skin felt too tight, she held her arms, as her nails pierced through the skin, wishing to remove it, to start anew, it was more than embarrassment, it was a raw, pulsing shame. She had disappointed her mother again, the carefully crafted version of herself, —  refined, composed, worthy, —  had cracked beneath a thousand stares, and Demeter had seen it, the crowd had seen it, the press would feast upon it. 

And worse, Persephone had felt it , too, that gaping emptiness inside her where conviction was supposed to be. It wasn’t just about the failed speech, but that she didn’t know who she was without her mother’s expectations.

Persephone took a deep breath in, and then out, rejoining the party under the haze of glittering lights and champagne buzz, her heels clicking like accusations across the marble floor. She’d reapplied her lipstick, adjusted her smile, and worn the mask everyone expected from her. At the bar, her two closest “friends” were already waiting, draped in designer couture and casual manipulation.

“Persephone!” — called Ariadne , hair twisted into a perfect crown of curls, her voice always just a bit too loud. — “You were so brave out there. I mean, I would’ve died if all those reporters started yelling like that.”

“I was telling everyone you were just being mysterious,”  — added Helen , who was always in some brand’s inner circle and always three steps behind Demeter’s leash.

Persephone gave them a tight smile, sliding onto the velvet stool beside them, they weren’t her friends, not really, Ariadne had gotten a brand ambassadorship the same year she started showing up at Persephone’s side. 

Helen’s invite to a certain yacht party had come directly from Demeter’s assistant. No one had said it outright, but Persephone had learned long ago that people didn’t orbit her for love, and genuine friendship, they orbited for proximity to her mother’s empire.

Still, she let herself laugh, allowing the drinks to keep coming, a flute of champagne, a citrus cocktail, then something purple and too sweet, when her head began to float, her body finally relaxed, thoughts tangled like vines.

Somewhere above the crowd, the mezzanine still loomed, a shadowed ledge she tried not to glance at, 

Was he still there? Watching?

No. That was ridiculous.

“Another?” — Ariadne asked, already signaling the bartender.

“Sure, keep sending them” — Persephone said, her voice honeyed with numbness.

The drinks burned less as the night wore on ,but they made everything else worse, her laughter came too loud now, her balance began to betray her in heels she normally owned, a smile cracked at the edges. 

Every voice around her sounded too far or too close, Persephone’s thoughts couldn’t hold still, not since him.

The man with eyes like winter fire.

Everything started to become a blur, nothing made sense anymore, Persephone accidently left the bar without thinking, she wandered around like a zombie, Helen watched as she sipped from a half empty champagne flute, one perfectly manicured brow arched.

“She’s gone,” 

“Did she just wander out just like that? In that dress? Gods, she’s not even trying anymore.”

Helen gave a small shrug. — “Let her, honestly, it’s better than her speech. This might even be more tragic than the Elysian rebranding press tour.” 

“Oh, I remember that”

“When she called the algae serum ‘surprisingly sticky’ on live stream,” — Ariadne cackled. — “I died. ” 

“She’s spiraling,” — Helen said with practiced indifference, gently swirling her drink.

“And I’m just wondering when Demeter will finally admit the princess isn’t crown material.”

They didn’t follow, they didn’t call after her,

They just watched.

Behind Persephone, just inside the glass doors that led to the velvet-curtained VIP bar, a soft voice called out.

“Persephone?”

She turned, or swayed, really, toward the sound. The light framed a figure stepping through the doorway. Aphrodite, — elegant, radiant, timeless, —  her satin dress hugged her curves in soft rose-gold, her blond hair pinned like a crown, where Demeter was power, Aphrodite was warmth. 

She didn’t have to demand attention, the room simply gave it to her.

“Are you okay?” — Aphrodite said gently, taking a few careful steps closer, as Persephone blinked at her, the alley light buzzed faintly above.

“Your mom’s looking for you,” — Aphrodite continued, voice soft but sincere. — “She’s worried.”

That did it.

Persephone laughed, it was sharp, bitter. — “Worried?” —  she repeated, stumbling backward. —  “Worried that I will continue to FUCK everything over?”

“Hey,” — Aphrodite stepped forward, hands raised in peace. — “I’m not here to lecture. I just thought…”

“You thought wrong,” — Persephone snapped, her voice suddenly loud in the quiet alley, it was followed by an even louder silence. Aphrodite blinked, taken aback, but didn’t move.

“Okay. But, I’m here if you don’t want to be alone, darling, I know how it fe-”

“Already am.”

And in what felt like a blink of an eye, Persephone woke up again, her dress dragging against wet concrete as she wandered further away from a service exit. The air was cold, the night cruelly quiet except for the distant thump of bass and laughter echoing from the grand hall, the sound of celebration felt far away, like it belonged to someone else’s life. Persephone’s head was spinning, the streetlights above shimmered and swam in her vision like stars underwater, flickering in and out of focus.

She leaned against the rough brick wall, her cheek brushing its cold surface, trying to steady her breath. Her chest ached, not from falling, but from the weight of shame pressing down on her ribcage. Her mother’s voice still echoed inside her skull, sharp and smooth as glass.

You had one line. One moment.

She laughed bitterly, a low, broken sound that didn’t belong in her throat. Persephone's heels wobbled as she pushed away from the wall, trying to walk. The alley twisted slightly, or maybe that was just her balance, she squinted at the street ahead, but it felt miles away.

Demeter’s daughter stumbled while trying to make her way out, the hem of her designer dress snagged on something, maybe a nail, maybe fate. She didn’t know, all she knew was the jolt of fabric tearing and her body pitching forward.

She landed hard in a pile of soggy cardboard and black plastic bags, the scent of rotting citrus and spilled wine rising around her like a bitter perfume, the cold, wet mess soaked through the silk at her knees, her elbows scraped against something sharp, wrist throbbed.

“Perfect,” — She sighed loudly. — “Just perfect !”

For a moment, she didn’t move, not because she couldn’t, but because she didn’t want to. It was quiet here. 

Humiliating, yes.

But at least no one was clapping or staring, no one was demanding perfection or smiling through teeth made for biting, her face pressed into the side of a garbage bag, the faint scent of bleach climbed up her nose, her tears slipped down silently, disappearing into the shadows, she tasted salt and lipstick.

You ruined it, she told herself. You ruined everything.

Somewhere nearby, she heard the unmistakable clicking of heels and the shrill laughter of influencers exiting the party, the paparazzi would be moments behind, that made her panic, she had humiliated her mother enough.

 She tried to stand, but her limbs had become jelly, body rebelling against her mind’s frantic alarms. That's when a sleek, black limousine pulled up to the alley entrance with silent precision, the back door swung open before she could fully process what was happening.

From the shadows, a tall figure stepped out, his presence was not loud, but final , like the sound of a gavel or the closing of a door, Persephone looked up, dazed and blinking through a curtain of hair and mascara, and saw only fragments of his silhouette, but she recognized those eyes from anywhere.

Dark and familiar. 

Before she could speak, before she could even register surprise, he was kneeling beside her, coat sweeping the filth of the alley floor without hesitation.

“Careful,” — Came a voice, low and steady, strong arms slid beneath her. She let out a soft, disoriented protest, but he was already lifting her as if she weighed nothing, one arm beneath her knees, the other at her back. 

She blinked up at him, vision blurring around the edges, for a moment, just a moment, she thought she saw something flicker around his shoulders, like shadows shifting of their own accord.

The limo door closed behind them, the sound quiet but definite, Persephone’s head rolled from side to side against the padded leather, the world swayed in a rhythm she couldn’t control, warmth flooded around her, not just from the plush interior, but from him .

His proximity, his steadiness, then her voice came in fragments.

“Who… are you?”

She tried to lift her hand to touch his face, but her fingers didn't raise, she felt like in a nightmare, she couldn't scream for help, or run away from this, all she could do was catch a faint outline of his profile as the city lights slid past the windows, angular, beautiful, but not in any mortal sense, he felt beyond it, jaw was sharp, his mouth unreadable. 

He wasn’t looking at her, not fully, but she felt his gaze all the same.

Chapter Text

Persephone woke up with the taste of metal on her tongue.

Her head throbbed with a faint dull, a merciless drumbeat pulsing behind her eyes, blinking against the dim light, slowly coming to find herself lying sideways on a deep black leather couch, with a wool coat placed over her like a blanket, it smelled faintly of smoke and rain, she sat up too fast at the realization, vision tunneling as the room tilted around her, a low groan slipped from the lips as she pressed a hand to her temple, trying to find ground, Persephone’s skin felt cool against her forehead, clammy with the remnants of sleep and too much alcohol. 

When her eyes adjusted, she took in her surroundings, this space was dimly lit by warm amber sconces on the walls, each flickering flame mimicked candlelight but burned too steadily to be natural, breathing shadows across polished obsidian walls, that gleamed like midnight glass, reflecting fragments of her silhouette, broken pieces of confusion drifting in a sea of black stone.

Along the far end of the room, towering shelves were placed, but they weren’t filled with books, instead, they held urns, hundreds of them. Arranged with the care of a shrine, some were aged and brittle with time, carved with foreign inscriptions and sealed with gold leaf, others were sleek, modern, made of marble or matte steel, labeled in delicate etchings she couldn’t decipher, each one seemed to hold a presence, as if a memory of what lay within still echoed faintly.

A mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, dark and gleaming, the wood so polished it looked almost wet beneath the shifting light, it didn’t feel like a desk meant for paperwork,  it felt ceremonial, like a throne carved from the local forest’s oldest tree.

On top of it sat a single black orchid in a slim tapered glass vase, its petals were impossibly deep, like velvet soaked in shadow, and for a fleeting second, Persephone thought it moved,  as if it breathed.

The air was faintly perfumed with something floral, but earthy too, lilies and old stone, cedar and ash, 

Death’s scent.

Her heels clicked softly across the floor as she stood, the sound oddly loud in the hush, she felt like each step was a challenge. Persephone continued, crossing slowly, hands brushing the edge of the desk for balance, cold to the touch.

A silver placard mounted on the nearby wall caught her attention, Its gleam was the only thing bright in the room, clean and clinical against all the death soaked elegance, leaning in, she squinted through the headache pounding behind her eyes.

"Underworld Mortuary – Private Wing”

Her breath hitched, the words struck her like a sudden drop, as if the floor had quietly vanished beneath her and she was now suspended in something much darker than confusion. Where was she?

Suddenly, her heartbeat decided to finally pick up, the edges of her memories were sharp, glittering, returning like a flock of birds from a winter migration.

The gala, the failed speech, the drinks, the alley.

Her stomach churned with the reminder of how deeply she had humiliated herself the night before, her mother’s voice still rang in her ears: “Was that the plan? To humiliate me?”

“No. No, this has to be a mistake.” 

 Panic threaded her voice as she whispered the words aloud, as if saying them could undo whatever twisted turn had brought her here, pulse quickened, nausea threatening to climb back up her throat as she stumbled toward the heavy wooden door, her limbs were still sluggish, weighed down by sleep, and the remnants of all the drinks she had, still, adrenaline pushed her forward. Persephone’s fingers stretched toward the handle, trembling slightly, but the door creaked open before she could touch it.

It didn't swing, didn’t slam, didn’t even groan like doors usually did, it simply gave way. Obedient , as if something had sensed her desperation and moved just before she could act on it.

And then he stepped in.

Not walked, stepped, with a kind of effortless grace that defied the gravity of the space, the air shifted around him like the shadows parted at his will, he didn’t announce himself, like in the gala, his presence alone filled the room like smoke, thick and certain.

It was him.

In flesh, and blood.

The man from the mezzanine, the same one from the alley, the stranger who had carried her like she was breakable, not like a scandal, not like a ruined daughter. 

Like something worth preserving, now, under the room’s golden flickering light, she saw him fully, he was tall — impossibly so — but the kind of tall that didn’t feel awkward or overbearing.

 His posture was effortless, elegant, it looked like he'd stepped out of a dream that didn’t belong to this era, wearing dark layers that caught no light or texture, if his clothing was made of shadow.

 Every part of him was carved in clean, unapologetic lines: sharp jaw, high cheekbones, trimmed beard, a mouth that looked neither cruel nor kind.

Oh, but, his eyes.

They weren’t  natural, no human wore that color, that shade of winter fire, cold embers glowing in the dark, they were alive in a way the rest of him wasn’t, as if something ancient still burned behind them, watching her.

“I see you’re awake,” 

  Hades spoke, voice like smoke over velvet, It wasn’t a question, he didn’t ask if she was okay, he didn’t explain where she was, or how she’d gotten here, they were calm, rich, and unsettlingly certain, the voice of someone used to being obeyed , not understood.

Persephone swallowed hard, her back pressed instinctively against the edge of the desk, the orchid’s cold glass vase grazing her elbow, heart thundered in her chest, and yet, she wasn’t afraid, or maybe she was, but not in the way she’d been taught to be, this was something else entirely.

“Where am I?”— Voice tight, the edges of panic curling behind each word, he didn’t answer immediately, instead, he tilted his head slightly, gaze never leaving her, and then motioned, not with grandeur, but with the slightest lift of two fingers, toward the silver placard near the door. 

The one she had read earlier, now gleaming faintly in the warm light like it had been waiting for this moment to matter, his gesture was elegant, understated, almost polite, but something in the simplicity of it chilled her, like he was telling her she already knew, and asking again was just a game mortals played when they feared the truth.

“A funeral home?” –  Her throat was dry. 

“You say that like it’s a curse.”  –  She stared at him as he chuckled, still trying to make sense of his presence, of her presence. The silence was loud between the two of them, the energy was extremely intoxicating in this room, like a dark ancient spell surrounded this place. 

“I… It doesn’t…”— Voice cracked as she folded her arms across her chest, — “But that doesn’t answer why. Why am I here? Who are you?”

He moved, —  not toward her, not threatening, but, —  past her, crossing the room with a slow, measured stride, approaching the desk, and the orchid trembled slightly, if the air around him shifted just by proximity, fingers grazed the edge of the polished wood before he leaned against it, casual, deliberate, he was giving her space while still controlling the room.

“You don’t remember?”  — It was asked softly, though there was something just beneath his voice, amusement, maybe, curiosity, a dangerous tone in the way only people with all the answers can be.

“I remember...” —  she began, then faltered. —  “But, why did you help me?” 

“If I hadn't, that would haunt you longer than a hangover.”  

There was no pride in his tone, no heroism, it was just a fact, like he’d plucked her from the alley not out of mercy, but inevitability, his gaze on the other hand, remained intense, and that made Persephone’s cheeks flush. 

Trying to escape his penetrating eyes, she averted away, suddenly, very aware of the wine stains in the edges of her dress, the smeared makeup beneath her eyes.

She glanced toward the exit, calculating her chances of finding her way out, and he watched her, studying every movement, every distant gaze, cold and calculated.

“Go if you want,”

She hesitated, – “Who are you?”  – and he leaned back against the desk, like he thought for a second, wearing his silence like a crown, making it feel as though even the Lord Himself wouldn’t dare speak his name.

“I’m not playing games, answer ” –  Persephone pressed further.

“No, you’re running.”

It hit harder than she expected,  the truth of it, the audacity . Her lips parted but no defense came, only silence, leaving no echo, or sound, only a faint hum of rain against the windows, she didn’t know what unsettled her more: that he saw through her so easily, or that a part of her wanted him to.

“I should go,”  

She turned toward the door, but her body betrayed her, legs frozen in place, heart hammering, fingers curled uselessly at her sides, she wasn’t moving, she couldn’t. 

It was that feeling again, the same one from the stage. He hadn’t budged either, still leaning against that desk like he owned stillness, like silence belonged to him, her voice broke it, not brave, not steady, just honest in the way fear sometimes is.

“What do you want from me?”

He stood, movements simple, but it changed the air between them, no longer passive, no longer waiting, now he was something active, present. His height became more imposing in the dim light, his frame cutting against the shadows like a line drawn in finality.

“Come,” –  He said, his voice low, yet curiously soft.

Persephone didn’t move at first, but when he turned and walked toward a side door, opening it with a quiet push, she followed, even if against her better judgment, against the screaming in her mind,

The corridor beyond was narrow and hushed, lit only by warm sconces that glowed like candlelight, the walls were dark marble streaked with silver, veins twisting like lightning trapped in stone, floors creaked beneath her heels, not from age, but from memory.

They passed rooms that whispered through closed doors, a glimpse of a chapel draped in white roses, a sitting room where candles melted in silence, a hall lined with photographs of strangers frozen in mourning, no one else walked these halls, yet it didn’t feel empty.

“What is this place?” – she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

They stopped in front of a room with glass walls and no ceiling. Inside was a tree, tall, bare, and silver, its roots twisting through the marble floor, branches stretching high toward nothing, tiny tags fluttered from the branches, each tied with black string.

“The Garden of Ash,” –  He said. –  “Every tag holds a name, every name belonged to someone who had to let go.”

Persephone stepped closer, entranced, the air inside was cold, but alive with memory. She could almost hear echoes of voices, not words, but feelings. 

The kind grief doesn’t know how to express.

“Let go of what?”

“The ones they lost, this place isn’t just for grief itself, it’s for the moment after, when you realize the only way to carry someone is to keep going without them.”

Persephone stepped into the garden, drawn by the silence, each delicate tag whispered as the cold air shifted, a soft symphony of loss. The tree stood impossibly still, its silver bark gleaming faintly in the light from above, if there even was a source, she couldn’t tell.

 It was timeless.

Her fingers brushed the lowest branch, a tag swayed toward her, the name inked in tiny, precise letters, smudged just at the edge, as if someone had touched it with tears still on their fingers.

She reached for the table near the entrance, a shallow bowl sat there, filled with blank slips of parchment, thin string coiled beside it, she took one, slowly. 

Her hand trembled as she curled her fingers around a pen laid neatly beside them, there was a name at the tip of her tongue.

Kore

The letters formed in her mind, but her hand hovered uselessly above the paper, that name wasn’t hers,  – not really,   – it was a girl she had been before the cameras were no fun, before the eyes felt constant, and the fear of judgment became present at every second.

But she couldn’t write it. She didn’t dare.

 “You don’t know me.”

“No,” – He said, voice low, steady. – “But I saw what it did to you, last night, on that stage, on the street”

She whirled on him, fury blooming through the ache in her ribs.

“You think watching me fall apart means you understand me?” –  Her voice trembled with rage she didn’t fully recognize. – “You don’t know anything.”

The parchment shook in her fist.

“You run a funeral home,” – she snapped. – “Everything about you is death and endings . Why would I trust you to tell me what I need?”

There was no flinch in him. Just stillness, like deep water.

“Maybe that’s exactly why,”

Hades paused, eyes down as if he gathered his thoughts, his accented velveted voice continued.

“Not every death is an ending, some are beginnings in disguise.”

That stopped her, a beat of silence thick with things unspoken, 

“I’ve seen what happens when people finally put that weight down, today, in this room is not death that I offer, Persephone, It’s freedom.”
A beat of silence, something hot and sharp lodged in her throat, then, with a frustrated breath, she dropped the paper, crumpled and blank, onto the grass. It bounced once, rolled, and landed beneath the silver tree.

“I don’t need anything from you . Not your pity , nor your stupid philosophical service”

He only watched, quiet as ever, as she turned sharply on her heels and strode out of the glass room, footsteps echoing down the marble corridor like a heartbeat trying too hard not to break. 

She didn’t look back, not once, as she passed the urns, the memorial walls, the cold light that pooled at her feet like spilled moonlight, shadows followed her, but none dared to touch her.

And when she was gone, swallowed by the hush of the funeral home’s dark corridors, trailing anger and perfume behind her like the last thread of a storm.

Hades moved, stepping into the space she had left behind, the cold air of the Garden of Ash brushing past his coat like breath, he knelt, and reached for the small, crumpled paper lying beneath the silver tree, with his thumb, he smoothed it open with careful reverence, as though it might shatter if handled without intention. 

The parchment had creased deeply where her fingers had clenched it, almost torn where frustration had pressed too hard, but it had not been written on.

Blank

But not empty.

Persephone’s heels struck the marble like a drum beat, fast and refusing to falter, her jaw was set, her eyes forward, her breath shallow and furious. She passed beneath the long arch of the main corridor, beneath sconces shaped like inverted lilies, their flickering light casting sharp crescents across the dark floor.

A low chuff of breath echoed somewhere ahead, a sound too deep to be human, near the front desk, a sleek, doberman, raised its massive head from a velvet rug, it sat curled like a sentinel, eyes the color of coal embers, tail twitching lazily as it observed her approach.

Cerberus was written on it s collar , the therapy dog, or guardian, depending on who you asked.

At the front desk, half sitting on the polished counter, a woman with glossy black hair twisted into a loose braid watched Persephone with one perfectly arched brow raised, she wore a blood red silk blouse, all long lines and studied elegance, tapping one manicured nail against a digital planner, the dog nuzzled her hand with practiced affection.

Minthe, Hades's receptionist, assistant, appointments manager, first line of defense. Her gaze narrowed as Persephone approached. 

“ Sorry, who are you? ” 

She asked, voice smooth but with a curl of suspicion, but Persephone didn’t slow, she didn’t blink, she didn’t answer.

She just walked past them, past the scent of white lilies, past the silent scrutiny, past the doors that groaned faintly as they opened to let her out. The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled like something had just ended.

Minthe turned to the dog, whispering,  –  “Well, that was dramatic.”

Cerberus huffed once, as if in agreement, then she strode down the hall, heels clacking, shoulders squared, she didn’t bother to knock. Hades was back in his office, one hand still held the crumpled paper.

“Okay, Sir” – Minthe began, – “... What was that?”

He didn’t answer.

“I didn’t book her, and there’s nothing on your schedule, no appointment, no file, should I be calling security? Did someone break in?” 

Still, he didn’t speak, he just scoffed, soft and almost amused, like the question wasn’t worth the breath it would take to answer, Cerberus padded quietly into the office, paws soundless against the marble, his sleek form cutting through the ambient shadows like a whispered thought. The hound came to a slow stop beside Hades, ears perked, eyes trained on his master’s unreadable face, and he reached down without looking, fingers grazing the dog’s head in a silent gesture, one part reassurance, one part command. The doberman leaned into the touch, tail giving a slow, measured wag, like the ticking of an old clock. 

Minthe hovered in the doorway, arms crossed, clearly waiting for more than just silence and brooding shadows. 

“Well?

“Leave her be.”

 “That’s it?”

“She’s a client.” – He straightened, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve, his voice a quiet rumble, dry as old paper. – “Still in denial.”

“She stormed in here like a hurricane, didn’t sign in, didn’t say her name, and walked out like she was being chased by her own ghost.”

“Aren’t we all?”

Minthe opened her mouth, trying to shape the dozen questions crowding her tongue into something sensible, something she wouldn’t regret. but the words snagged in her throat, eyes flicked toward the hallway where Persephone had disappeared, then back to Hades.

“So, you brought her here.”

She didn’t phrase it like an accusation, but the weight behind it made it one, that alone was enough to raise every alarm in her, because Hades didn’t bring people here.

People found their way to him,

When they needed something they couldn’t name, something they were half afraid to admit, that was the rule, that was the order of things, and yet this girl  had been carried through their private wing like someone precious.

Like someone meant to be here.

Minthe studied her boss, trying to crack whatever expression lingered on his face, hiding no pity, but also not quite concern. There was quiet, too quiet.

“Then… You are sure she’s not going to call the cops or something?”

“No, They’ll find nothing, she wasn’t taken , she walked in , she walked out .”

He returned to the crumpled parchment on the desk, thumb smoothing the crease again, holding it like something sacred, – “Besides, she’ll be back.” – Hades whispered.

“Fine,” 

Minthe lingered a second longer than necessary, eyes narrowing toward the hallway where Persephone had disappeared, her jaw set tight with something not quite annoyance, something colder, more complicated, exhaling sharply through her nose, her perfume — all crushed mint leaves and something faintly bitter underneath — trailed after her like a final word she didn’t speak aloud.

Her boss, Hades remained, still listening to the silence Persephone had left behind.

Chapter Text

Persephone left the funeral home in a rush, it had ceased to rain but the world still felt soaked in shadow, heels clicked against the wet pavement with the faintest drag,  one strap broken, the other barely clinging on. 

Her dress was stuck to her skin like silk’s regret, hair was matted in places, curls falling apart beneath the remnants of sweat and sleep and many tears. Persephone’s phone was dead — of course it was — nothing left but the black mirror of her own ruined reflection on the screen, no car, no assistant, but she could feel their ghosts, trailing after her in the dark like hungry things.

She didn’t know where to go, the city blurred around her, familiar and foreign at once. The morning was gray, smudged like charcoal, and as she reached the next intersection, realizing something awful, she didn’t know how to get home, not without someone to drive her, not without the comforting silence of tinted windows and a team of people checking traffic routes and alternate exits, she didn’t even know which bus went toward the hills, or had any money on her to pay for it. 

So, she stood there, blinking at a crooked sign like it might suddenly offer her answers, when someone gasped nearby.

“Wait ! Is that her?”

A camera clicked, then another, then another.

Persephone turned her face, using her hands to cover the shame she felt. Footsteps started to follow, a few firs, then more, a man asked her for a selfie, a woman touched her shoulder, saying something about the gala, about bravery. Another voice asked if she was okay, if the breakdown was real, or if it had all been a PR stunt.

As she began to walk faster, the crowd kept growing, a ripple of attention building behind her like a tide she couldn’t outrun, every step was a betrayal of privacy, every face twisted in fascination. 

Phones out, filming, flashing.

She broke into a run, pure instinct kicked in, as she turned down the first side street she could find and darted past a half shuttered boutique and into a narrow alleyway, breath burning in her throat, panic and humiliation curling together inside like smoke.

Then Persephone saw the warm glow of a restaurant window, the kind with linen draped tables and soft laughter inside, pushing through the door without thinking, a little bell above it chiming faintly as she entered, the scent of roasted garlic, sweet herbs, and toasted bread processed to hit her like a wave, the clatter of silverware, the low hum of conversation, the relief of being somewhere normal , it almost undid her. 

But then she heard her name.

“…Persephone?”

She looked up in fear, ‘oh no’, at a corner table, bathed in the soft, golden light that made her look effortlessly radiant. Aphrodite sat with Dionysus, mid laugh over some scandalous brunch story, her pink sunglasses had been lowered just enough to show her wide, mascara laced eyes.

“Oh my gods—”

Aphrodite stood immediately, napkin falling to the floor unnoticed, Persephone wanted to shrink away, she cringed hard, her dress was ruined, her feet were bleeding, her makeup was a ghost of the night before. 

But Aphrodite didn’t flinch, she crossed the room fast, her heels quick and certain, arms wrapping around her messy friend before she could stop them.

“Honey, what happened to you?”

 Beautiful Aphrodite said softly, holding her close, warm perfume wrapping around Persephone like comfort itself, but Demeter’s daughter didn’t answer, she didn’t know how.

“I thought…” — Aphrodite pulled back slightly to look at her face, — “I was so worried, girl, after we talked, you just kept going, I called and called, but you didn't even look back”

“Then some guy in a limo took you.” — Dionysus interjected, still seated, watching with mild concern from behind his sunglasses, Aphrodite shot him a glare, then turned back to Persephone, brushing a strand of hair out of her face.

“You’re safe now, honey, come on, sit down.”

Aphrodite’s voice was soft, low, filled with the kind of warmth that didn’t demand answers, she guided Persephone to the third chair at their table, her manicured hand steadying her as if she might collapse on the floor like shattered glass.

Persephone lowered herself slowly, cautiously, folding into the seat like a marionette with its strings cut, her limbs ached, her back stiff with tension, and the inside of her chest felt hollowed out, scraped raw by whatever storm had passed through her.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she rested them on the linen tablecloth, it was pristine, bright white , untouched by the chaos that clung to her like a second skin. A waiter appeared, blinking rapidly at the sight of her, his eyes swept over the ruined dress, the smudged eyeliner clinging like ghost bruises to her temples.

“Hot tea, please, whatever she wants. And don’t stare. ”

The waiter blinked once more, nodded, and walked off without a word, no questions asked.

Aphrodite reached out and took one of Persephone’s hands in both of hers, her grip was soft, but grounded, her perfectly painted thumb brushed gently across the messy one’s knuckles, like she was trying to remind her she still had skin, still had bones, still had a heartbeat under all that invisible wreckage.

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

Persephone didn’t answer.

She couldn’t.

Her throat felt like it was wrapped in iron wire, eyes burned, but she didn’t blink. Persephone just sat there, staring at nothing, at everything,  the soft glow of the restaurant lights, the napkin balled in Dionysus’ hand, the sparkle of condensation on a glass of rosé across the table, but then, it happened; tears slipped down her cheek, one after the other, they fell without fanfare, without gasping sobs or dramatic collapse, just silent, inevitable grief sliding down the skin she’d powdered only hours before. 

Persephone didn’t move to wipe them away, she barely took a breath.

“I messed it up,”

Aphrodite frowned, shifting closer in her chair.

“I destroyed my own image, ruined it, onstage, in public, the worst possible way. And now, people want more, they want to see the mess. I can’t even walk two blocks without…” 

She broke off, biting the inside of her cheek, voice cracking on the next part. 

 “I think I made everything worse.”

“You didn’t. You cracked, sure, but everyone cracks, that doesn’t make you wrong. That makes you real.”

Aphrodite said, firmly, holding her hand tighter, Dionysus leaned forward, his sunglasses pushed up into his hair now, eyes sharp and uncharacteristically focused.

“Love, tell us… did someone touch you?”

Persephone blinked, flabbergasted for what she was hearing, did they think she was…

“Because if they did, just give me a name. I’ll send someone.”

“What?”

“You disappeared after the speech, and then you showed up like this ,”  — Dionysus gestured at her with a tight flick of his wrist, — “You look like hell, no offense, so just, tell me, I’ll make a call, ten minutes, max. They’ll never even know who sent it.”

“No !”

Persephone said quickly, her voice clear.

“No one touched me.”

“You don’t have to protect anyone,” 

I’m not,”— she insisted, a little louder this time, wiping her face finally with the back of her sleeve. — “It wasn’t like that. I swear.”

“Then where did you go, honey?” 

Aphrodite tilted her head slightly, watching her, Persephone didn’t respond right away. Her gaze had gone distant, unfocused, her fingers moving unconsciously to the fabric of her dress, brushing at it lightly as if she were trying to wipe something away, or preserve it.

The faintest scent still clung to it, cold stone, smoke, Winter fire.

She remembered the early morning, the moment she’d stirred awake, disoriented, her cheek pressed to the padded leather of his couch, how the world filtered through amber sconces and hush, how his coat had been draped around her like a quiet shield, warm from his body, she hadn’t seen him at that moment, but she had felt him, the weight of it, the absence that meant he must’ve been nearby.

Had he watched her sleep?

She wasn’t sure what unsettled her more, the possibility that he had, or how much comfort the idea brought her, hands tightened slightly around the folds of her dress.
He had smelled like the deep end of winter, like stillness, something ancient pretending to be ordinary, Persephone blinked, as if realizing she’d drifted, and Aphrodite was still looking at her with quiet concern, in the end, she didn’t answer, couldn’t bring herself to say the name. 

Hades.

The word hovered at the back of her throat, bitter and reverent, like something too sacred and too shameful to say out loud.

“I want to go home.”

Aphrodite exchanged a look with Dionysus, he raised an eyebrow but didn’t protest.

“I just need to sleep,” — Persephone said, holding back the tears, — “Charge my phone, hide for a while. Please.”

“I’ll call my driver for you,” 

Aphrodite said softly, already reaching into the pale blush handbag beside her chair, Persephone didn’t protest, she didn’t have the strength, she simply gave a small nod, the movement so slight it might have been missed if Aphrodite weren’t watching her closely, then the table fell into silence, the kind that stretches like thin glass between people, too fragile to touch, too dangerous to ignore.

A few moments passed, and then the tea arrived.

The waiter placed the porcelain cup down gently, carefully, as if afraid that even the clink of ceramic might be too loud for her, he didn’t speak either, just bowed his head slightly and retreated, Persephone’s hand trembled as she reached for the cup, her fingers barely managing to curl around the handle, Bringing it to her lips with both hands, sipping the steaming liquid like it was something holy.

She didn’t taste it , as all she could get was the distant savour of ashes and smoke, but it warmed her, just enough.

Aphrodite and Dionysus sat stiffly across from her, their own meals untouched now, the plates had gone cold, neither reached for their phones, not even to fidget. They didn’t look at each other, they didn’t pretend to make conversation, it would’ve felt like betrayal to speak about anything else.

Dionysus rubbed the back of his neck, his wineglass stood half full, forgotten, the man who never cared about awkward silences suddenly seemed to feel every second of this one, fingers drummed once against the table, then stopped. He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

Aphrodite just sat still, watching Persephone as though memorizing the lines of her face, not the celebrity version, the raw one . 

Outside, the low hum of an engine finally broke through the silence.

“That’s your ride.”

Persephone set the tea down, she hadn’t even finished half of it, she rose slowly, smoothing the wrinkled front of her dress, not out of vanity, but out of some leftover instinct to make herself presentable, like habit rather than hope.

At the threshold, just before Persephone stepped away, Aphrodite touched her arm, light, reassuring, like she was anchoring her for just one more breath.

“You’re not alone,” — she said, gently, — “Okay? Even if it feels that way.”

Persephone turned back to look at her, and for a long second, she just stared, not in disbelief, or desperation.

Just gratitude.

The faintest curve of a smile touched her lips, like a sliver of moonlight breaking through thick clouds, but she said nothing, and then she was gone, slipping out the restaurant doors, into the waiting limousine, into the city, into the noise, into the ache of the world, Aphrodite didn’t move right away, she stared at the door for a long time, arms folded.

“That girl is unraveling.” 

Dionysus finally leaned back, dragging a hand down his face.

“She’s shedding out who they made her be, it’s painful, but it’s not the end, simply, give her time”

The gates hissed open as the limo crested the hill, gliding up the winding drive like it had done a hundred times before, Persephone’s home stood waiting at the top, all glass and sharp angles, perched precariously on the edge of the hills. A modern marvel, praised by magazines and heavily envied online, but, as she stepped out of the car and onto the smooth stone path, shoes in hand, the house loomed like a museum, a monument built to preserve a girl she no longer recognized.

The front door opened to silence, no staff, no lights, no mother, only the soft click of her heels on polished concrete, the foyer smelled faintly of lavender and polished steel, that artificial calm of curated luxury. She passed the untouched furniture, coffee table, books arranged with precision, art pieces hung perfectly symmetric in the walls.

The staircase curved like a ribcage, taking it slowly, each step up feeling heavier than the last, to find her bedroom on the top floor, behind frosted glass double doors. When they swung open, the scent of old perfume and powdery candles met her like a ghost, the room was breathtaking, for all the wrong reasons.

Ivory walls, floor-length mirrors, a white vanity dusted in golden shimmer, laid out like an altar to someone she was expected to worship, ribbons, plaques, modeling portfolios, press clippings, frames of excellence all screaming the same thing:

Be MORE than perfect.

There was no room here for grief, or rage, or unraveling, the bed was enormous, draped in blush toned silk and lined with decorative pillows that had never been used, Persephone collapsed onto it without ceremony, letting her limbs sprawl like she had no idea what to do with them anymore, ceiling fan spins slowly above her like a judgmental eye, she reached toward the nightstand and plugged in the dead phone, the screen blinked to life, too bright in the dim room.

32 missed calls.

17 voicemails.

101 unread messages.

The barrage hit her like a wall, her PR team, her mother, Hera’s assistant, Dionysus, a dozen journalists fishing for statements, three cryptic messages from Zeus’ publicist, and someone who claimed to be named Orpheus asking for permission to write a song about the Gala breakdown, her inbox pulsed with digital noise, concern, and controlled chaos.

But one message stood apart, unread, from an unknown number.

You don’t have to respond, just know the door is open.

Whenever you're ready.

Unknown number, 5:26 pm

Her thumb hovered over the screen, she didn’t reply, she didn’t delete it, either, Instead, her hand dropped onto the bed beside her, the phone slipping from her fingers and landing with a quiet thud against the silk, she stared up at the ceiling again, the fan above humming in slow, lazy circles steady, rhythmic in the way the world always was, no matter how much she cracked beneath it.

She turned her face into the pillow, the fabric smelled faintly of rosewater and detergent, impossibly clean, just like everything else in this house, but the faint smell on her dress, from that coat, clove and something darker, colder, earth after rain, maybe, clinging to the inside of her nose, to her skin, like it hadn’t quite let go. 

Like he hadn’t let go.

Had he been the one to place the coat over her shoulders so gently it hadn’t woken her? Had he hesitated before stepping back into the dark?

The ache rose up without warning, quiet and sharp, it wasn’t about Hades — not entirely, — it wasn’t even about the funeral home or the blank parchment or the tree, It was about being seen , maybe for the first time in longer than she could remember, in a way that had nothing to do with cameras or angles or what her mother had warned her to say.

It was about how her name, Kore , had trembled at the edge of the paper, wanting to be buried, but her hand couldn’t do it. 

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

She rolled onto her side, knees curling toward her chest, the silk felt cold now, distant, like it belonged to someone else entirely, Persephone imagined peeling her own name off her skin like a brand, Kore was a performance, a glossy promise she had been keeping for everyone but herself.

But who was Persephone without Kore?

She didn’t know, tears came silently, not sobs, not drama, just a few warm streaks down the side of her face, slow and unannounced, she didn’t wipe them away, barely even feeling them. Her mascara was already ruined, image shattered in front of thousands, there was no point pretending now.

And still, that message glowed on the screen beside her, a quiet invitation, pulsing like a heartbeat she didn’t know how to follow, and Persephone closed her eyes, not to sleep, just to disappear into the dark where she didn’t have to be seen, because the truth was that she didn’t want to be alone, but she didn’t want to be known either, 

Not in the way that peeled her open and searched through the ache beneath the surface, not if it meant someone might touch the hollowed out spaces inside her, the brittle scaffolding she’d built to hold up the lie, not if it meant letting go of Kore, the careful, curated illusion she had spent her entire life performing, until even she believed it was all she was.

“Persephone!”

Demeter stood by the door, immaculate, and with an expression of pure panic, still in her gala heels and her carefully structured jacket, a perfect storm of mother and manager. In two long strides, she was at her daughter’s side, dropping to her knees like she was about to pray, her arms wrapped tightly around Persephone’s shoulders, crushing her into a scent of gardenia and tension.

“Oh, my baby, what happened? Are you hurt? Did someone touch you? Where did you go?” 

Her voice cracked with breathless worry as she pulled back just enough to scan Persephone’s face, her arms, checking for bruises, cuts, some visible clue to what had happened.

“Do I need to call someone? Do we need a doctor?”

Persephone opened her mouth, but nothing came out, the words didn’t fit, not the truth, nor the lie, her throat was dry, mind a carousel of flashing lights and Hades’ voice echoing in the back of her skull like a dare she hadn’t taken.

Demeter was still speaking, still firing questions into the silence like darts against a wall. “Where were you? Why didn’t you answer your phone? You missed your check-in, you missed your call back meeting”, and it felt like it was never going to end, like she would never cease the overflowing river of questions and worried thoughts. 

“Persephone, do you understand how serious this is?”

It felt like concern, and maybe it was, for a moment, it even felt like love, but then, just as fast, something shifted, a practiced inhale allowing to compose herself, a hardening behind her mother’s eyes. Demeter stood, smoothing her blouse like she could iron the emotion out of the room, out of her mind. 

Her voice sharpened, not angry, just cold. 

Calculated.

“You were seen leaving the gala, alone, and drunk .” — She paced once, hand at her mouth, thinking faster than she could speak, — “You can’t afford a scandal right now, Kore, you have a perfume launch in three weeks, the magazine cover next month, we’re still finalizing that ambassadorship deal.. What are they going to say if you go off the rails?”

Persephone blinked, still sitting there like a ghost in her own skin.

“I was worried sick,” — Demeter said, and for a heartbeat, it almost sounded real again. But then — “This isn’t just about you, Persephone, this is about the brand. Do you know how many eyes are on you right now?”

Persephone looked down at her chipped nail polish, at the faint crease in the sheets. She didn’t know what to say, where to even  begin.

And her mother didn’t know.

So Persephone just sat there, eyes glazed, letting her mother’s voice become a distant hum behind the scream inside her own head, the tears had dried before they could fully fall, she felt empty, like a dressing room after the lights had been shut off, mirrors still echoing a version of her that had already left. 

She should scream, she should explain, she should at least lie, something clean, something believable.

But nothing came.

So instead, she stood, Demeter sighed, tired now, she stepped forward to smooth Persephone’s hair behind her ear with one perfectly manicured hand. 

 “My poor baby , I know you need rest, sleep, darling. We’ll fix this tomorrow, we'll call the PR team, it’s not too late to take back the narrative. You just need to remember who you are.”

But that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Demeter pressed a sudden kiss to her daughter’s forehead, soft, maternal, lingering just long enough to make Persephone close her eyes, for a brief aching second, it felt normal. Just a mother tending to her child, no cameras, no contracts, just warmth.

Then, quietly, Demeter crossed the room, she turned on the bathroom light, the switch clicking like a heartbeat, and twisted the faucet open, the sound of running water filled the silence, steady and comforting, as she moved with practiced ease, from a drawer, she pulled out Persephone’s favorite pajamas, — the faded set with tiny embroidered daisies, worn at the cuffs, familiar in a way nothing else in this house ever truly was, — placing it by the bed, with her favorite pink towel, without a word, Demeter took Persephone’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze, her smile small but genuine. 

In that moment, Persephone almost forgot the distance between them, almost forgot the weight of the truths that went unspoken, the tightness of the leash disguised as love, and then, just as quietly, her mother turned and left, closing the door behind her with a grace that made it hard to tell whether she was giving space, or taking something with her.

Silence returned like a wave.

The bathroom filled with steam, curling around the edges of the mirror like ghosts too tired to haunt, the lights were soft, golden, Demeter always insisted on warm bulbs, saying they were kinder on the skin, Persephone stood in the doorway for a moment, unmoving, the familiar scent of lilac bath soap and chamomile clinging to the air like memory.

She peeled off the remains of the night, the gala dress wrinkled and smeared with glitter and regret, the jewelry that once felt like armor now heavy as chain, one by one, the pieces hit the marble floor in silence, only her thoughts made noise now.

The bathwater was warm,  almost scalding, but she sank into it anyway, breath catching in her throat as her skin adjusted, the heat wrapped around her like a second skin, like something trying to coax her out of her own, Persephone leaned back slowly, hair spilling over the porcelain edge, her eyes tracing the ceiling as if it held answers.

Steam clung to her lashes, and her breathing evened out. In the quiet, the sound of the faucet still dripping felt like time ticking, the message from that unknown number echoed in her mind, not in words, but as nostalgia, of a place to return to.

 If she chose.

Maybe she wasn’t ready to let Kore go,

But she was starting to mourn her.

Chapter Text

The sun pierced through the sheer cream curtains like polite judgment, early morning arrived not with softness, but with the shrill scream of her alarm, its digital chime sharp, precise, and set to a rhythm her body had grown to obey like instinct. 

Persephone groaned beneath the mountain of blankets, layers of pale pink and ivory satin tangled around her legs, still heavy from yesterday, a half dozen of plush toys lined the edge of her bed like silent sentries, gifts from press tours and campaigns, meant to project sweetness, they had watched her grow from a girl into a brand .

She blinked against the brightness, reached out with a hand still trembling faintly, and slapped the alarm into silence.

Dragging herself upright, she sat on the edge of the mattress, her feet brushing the soft white carpet that muffled every sound in this house, her bedroom was an expansive showroom, clean, filled with posters and vision boards that decorated the massive walls, photos of her younger self at galas, glossy magazine covers, awards carefully aligned on acrylic shelves, but there was no warmth to it. 

Just expectation,

Just Kore.

In the suite bathroom, her movements became automatic, hair brushed until it gleamed, skin cleansed and cooled, eye drops to hide the redness from the night before, she slowly picked up her outfit: a pale blue two piece set, minimalist but flattering, soft silk that draped like it was made for someone who had never once felt messy, she fastened pearl earrings, the ones Demeter always said made her look “put together.” She even applied mascara, slightly, less for expression, more like armor. 

In the quietness of the room, the message of that unknown number still lingered in her thoughts, she had not reread it, but that weird feeling still lingered in her chest, that invitation, the curiosity that lurked in, 

What if she returned?

A knock, soft but practiced, came from the other side of her door, then it slowly cracked open, — “Good morning, sweetheart,” — Demeter’s voice carried in with warmth rehearsed to perfection, she entered in flats and tailored linen, already put together like she hadn’t slept at all, eyes sweeping the room, then her daughter.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.”

Persephone paused, standing still by her vanity mirror, not turning to face her yet, but Something in those two words unlocked a different mask in Demeter, like that was all she’d needed, permission to move on, to shift back into her true gear, the concern vanished like steam from glass.

“Oh, good, wonderful, we have a full day ahead.” 

Her daughter stared in surprise, eyebrows raised, —  “You need to be at the studio by eleven, quick press shoot, just a digital thing, nothing heavy. Then lunch with the cosmetic brand, they're renewing, and I told them you'd be wearing that blush shade they sent last month.”

Persephone didn’t move.

“Then,” 

Demeter continued, pulling out a blazer Persephone hated, — “we have a stop at the foundation, you remember the photos with the kids? And afterward, we need to finalize your capsule line’s spring palette. There are choices to be made, and people are waiting on us.”

Us.

Persephone turned slightly, meeting her mother’s eyes in the mirror, she opened her mouth, searching for words, anything to say, but nothing surfaced.

“You can rest after the press week,”

She left with a kiss on the head and instructions to meet her downstairs at fifteen.

The door clicked shut.

And Persephone stood there, watching herself in the mirror, wondering how much longer she could play a girl she no longer recognized.

The glass doors to the studio opened with a mechanical hiss, and everything beyond them buzzed with curated chaos.

“Persephone! You're here, darling!”

A producer with perfect teeth and a headset rushed forward like a pageboy at court, waving their clipboard like a holy writ, they were already walking as they greeted her, forcing Persephone to keep up in heels that pinched too tight, the lobby shimmered in sterile opulence, white floors, silver furniture gleaming under artificial light, track lamps pointed from above like the judgmental eyes of a thousand unseen watchers.

Assistants fluttered past like anxious birds, carrying towers of makeup cases and racks of pastel dresses that caught the light like spun sugar, the color palette was soft, forgiving, peach, blush, cream, but there was something brutal beneath the beauty, something exacting and merciless. 

A tray of smoothies passed in front of her face.

“Strawberry matcha with collagen?” 

A voice chirped, but all Persephone did was blink in surprise, awkwardly taking it, but not drinking it.

“Do you prefer coral or blush for your lips?” — another assistant asked, already holding up swatches to her jaw.

“Coral,” — she said automatically, though the word felt foreign in her mouth.

Someone checked the shine on her cheekbones, then someone else adjusted a strand of her hair, she could hear her own name drifting in every direction

“Persephone, please turn.” 

“Persephone, hold for light” 

“Persephone, smile just a little softer, yes, like that, perfect.”

The sound of the camera shutters fell like rain, gentle laughter echoed from across the space, that iconic click of stilettos on tile, the sigh of fabric being adjusted, drawn, pinned. 

But none of it really touched her, it all passed through her like static.

The air felt thick and slow, heavy with floral setting spray and filtered air conditioning, she moved like she was underwater, limbs trailing behind her, too slow for her thoughts.

 Every word reached her as if spoken from the bottom of a well, her smile responded on cue, eyes blinked when they were supposed to. 

Eventually, someone ushered her into the studio’s interview corner, a cozy, elegant arrangement designed to look like an intimate corner of a penthouse suite, cream armchairs, a low table with delicate flowers. 

A camera crew waited, the lights were so bright she felt skinless beneath them.

And waiting for her, already seated, legs crossed like a well-paid prophet, 

Was Apollo .

He gave her his famous smile, all teeth and gold, his hair gleamed under the lights, his tailored dove grey suit immaculate, if the sun had a PR agent, it would be him.

“Persephone,” — he drawled, rising to greet her with a kiss on each cheek, his cologne sharp and clean. — “You look radiant .”

She sat down, smiled, her spine a rod of perfect posture.

The cameras rolled.

“So,” — Apollo said, voice smooth as velvet. —“First of all, thank you for being here today. I know things have been… eventful.”

“Of course.”

“You’ve always had this… light about you,” —  He said, as if reciting an old poem, —  “But I think the public forgets how human even the brightest stars can be, how do you handle that pressure? The expectation to be everything, all at once?”

The light from the camera rig was so bright it turned everything else to shadow, she could barely see the crew behind the lights, her own hands on her lap felt far away.

“I think… you just learn not to think about it.”

“Interesting,” — Apollo said gently. — “You mean you detach from it?”

“You have to, otherwise it’ll eat you alive.”

“And when the mask slips?”  — he asked, still smiling, but more carefully now.  — “Who are you underneath?”

“Kore or Persephone?”

That hit something raw, her throat tightened, she felt the fabric of her dress clinging to her back with sweat, legs crossed too tightly, the room tilted, the brightness intensifying until it burned.

“Excuse me?”

She blinked, trying to wash the discomfort away, the room emptied out, cameras disappeared. The crew dissolved into shadows, but she wasn’t alone.

In the chair across from her, Hades now sat with maddening ease, legs crossed like he belonged there, like he always had, like he had never not been waiting. One hand cradled his jaw, elbow perched against the sleek armrest, the other draped loosely across his knee, wearing that black suit again, the same one from the funeral home, but here, in the whiteness of the void between thought and memory, it looked less like clothing and more like something grown, a shadow that had molded itself into the shape of a man, soft as smoke, sharp as regret.

His presence made no sound, he didn’t move, he simply was .

Persephone blinked hard, heart thudding painfully against her ribs, willing him to disappear, this had to be a dream, a trick, a hallucination from too many lights and too little sleep. But when her lashes lifted again, he was still there, still watching.

He didn’t speak, didn’t offer excuses or pleasantries or even apologies, just that same unbearable patience in his gaze, the kind that suggested he could outwait oceans. Like he had done this before.

“What do you want?”

That smile curled faintly at the edge of his mouth, not cruel, not smug, but impossibly calm. It was quiet, knowing , the sort of smile you could fall into and drown in, because it asked nothing but offered the illusion of safety, the kind of smile that made you wonder how long he’d known exactly what you would say, and how long he’d been waiting for you to say it.

She felt it again, that sensation she’d tried to deny since the funeral home, that he wasn’t chasing her, that he never would, he didn’t need to.

She was already walking toward him.

Her fingers curled into fists at her sides, she hated how solid he looked, how unrattled.

How inevitable .

“Is this about your stupid metaphor?”

He tilted his head slightly, an echo of a shrug, still silent, still listening.

“By the gods, you’re so full of yourself,” 

Still, no response. Just that terrible, quiet attentiveness, it wasn’t indifference, it felt worse, it was care. Not the loud, demanding kind, but it  was quiet, it didn't ask permission.

“Fuck you.”

 She whispered, and this time it came out more like a prayer, a threadbare thread of defiance unraveling at the edges, it dropped into the space between them like a stone into deep water, no splash, no ripples. 

Only the stillness afterward, and in his eyes, dark, fathomless, the color of ink spilled on memory, there was no triumph, no satisfaction. Just the barest flicker of something else, then there was a loud applause, distant echoes.

She just stood there, among the noise, among the pressure that built from his deep winter fire eyes, frozen in front of a man who never moved, but somehow, still pulled .

“Persephone.”

A voice, soft, distant.

“Persephone.”

Another voice, closer now, l ouder .

“Persephone.”

Her head jerked toward the sound, and the chair across from her was empty, the room cracked, sound flooding back in all at once like a breached dam, her eyes open, finding herself sitting in a wooden walled café, vines curling from gold planters, jazz humming from invisible speakers, a plate containing a delicate swirl of greens and salmon laid before her, a flute of elderflower tonic sweated lightly beside her, Demeter’s hand rested on hers.

“You seem a little zoomed out today, are you ok my love?”

Persephone blinked hard again, trying to find the edges of her reality, the air smelled of lavender and expensive leather, but her skin still tingled with the ghost of that dark room.

“I’m fine,” 

She said automatically, because she didn’t know what else to say, and her mother smiled, the air in the café had settled into something soft and slow, the food was exquisite, no doubt but Persephone couldn’t stomach another bite.

Demeter dabbed her mouth with her napkin, ever the perfect image of grace:

 “So, our final meeting today is at five, is just a brief thing with the editorial board about the end-of-year philanthropy piece. It should be simple, you’ll sit beside me. nothing too complicated.”

Persephone nodded slowly, her fork poised over her plate, unmoving.

“We’ll be out of there in time for dinner, I promise. We can even call Eros, he’s been dying to see you,”

“I just remembered,” —  Persephone said suddenly, eyes flicking up, — “I have something, at five.”

Persephone’s own voice startled her, she hadn’t planned to say it, it simply emerged, instinctively, like an inner thought, spoken out loud.

“Something?”

“I forgot about it, this morning, I was distracted, you saw. Sorry mother.” 

“Well… I mean, if it’s important, I can try to…”

But Persephone was already moving, the chair scraped back across the floor with a sharp note, a napkin fluttered to the ground like a falling leaf, sShe didn’t wait for her mother’s permission, didn’t offer an excuse or a goodbye. 

She just ran.

“Kore, come back here!”

 Demeter’s voice chased after her, sharp and startled, but Persephone didn’t look back, even if she didn’t know what exactly she was running from.

The city blurred around her, all sharp corners and golden haze, glass buildings and blinking lights melting into long streaks of color, her heels struck the pavement in desperate rhythm, a frantic staccato that echoed off the storefronts and wrought iron fences, until the pain in her arches flared too hot to bear. 

She kicked off her shoes mid stride, left them tumbling behind her on the sidewalk, and ran barefoot, skin slapping warm concrete, her purse slamming against her hip with every step, Passersby turned to stare. She caught their eyes, but didn’t see them, horns blared, a dog loudly barked, two tourists tried to take a picture, somewhere, a cyclist cursed as she dashed across a red light, nearly colliding with his wheel. 

She didn’t stop , she couldn’t, something inside her had cracked open, and now it surged forward like a river breaking through a dam.

Her hair whipped across her face, tangled in sweat and wind and whatever storm was rising beneath her ribs, the taste of salt fell on her lips. Persephone’s dress, once immaculate, clung to her thighs, stained and wrinkled, its hem frayed by gravel and dragging filth from the street.

She took a wrong turn, then another, this wasn’t about the right path, it was about movement , about surrendering to the quiet pull in her chest that tugged with the certainty of gravity, deeper than instinct, wilder than memory. 

Something older. Hungrier.

Her breath burned her lungs, her legs screamed for rest, but she couldn’t stop, the pull only grew stronger, a whisper threading beneath her skin like smoke: come back, come back, come back.

“Persephone?”

She skidded to a halt at the edge of the crosswalk, almost colliding with two familiar figures draped in luxury. Helen and Ariadne stood beneath the glossy awning of a designer boutique, shopping bags dangling from one arm, plastic cups of iced matcha in the other, they were dressed like they had walked out of an ad — polished, curated, untouched. —Persephone, in contrast, looked like she'd crawled out of a fever dream.

“Are you okay?” 

Ariadne asked, her voice tight with something between concern and judgment.

Helen tilted her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, eyes wide and gleaming. — “Babe… what happened to you?” — She raised her phone casually, not even bothering to hide the click of a photo.

“Is this about the gala? Oh my gods, you didn’t-” — Ariadne started, but Persephone pushed past them with a sharp breath, the purse banging against her hip as she broke into a run again.

Helen’s eyes followed her as she disappeared up the hill, toward the wrought iron gates in the distance.

A beat, then a small, vicious smile. — “Yup,” — Helen said, sipping her drink. — “She completely lost it.”

Ariadne sighed, watching the girl vanish toward something neither of them could see. 

“She is definitely on drugs, that’s gonna buzz ”

The funeral home emerged at the edge of the city like something remembered from a dream, part architecture, part absence, it was tucked behind tall gates and older trees, it stood still and silent, untouched by the noise of the world.

Persephone reached the sidewalk in front of it and finally,

Finally

Persephone stopped.

Her chest heaved, hands trembled, feet were streaked in black, bleeding at the heel, shoulders hunched as if she were carrying every hour she’d ever lied to herself. And there it was, her reflection in the glass.

Not Persephone the icon, not the goddess everyone photographed and envied. What looked back at her now was something fragile, undone: eyes rimmed in leftover liner and unshed tears, hair clinging in damp strands to her temples and jaw, mouth parted like a prayer she couldn’t say aloud, she looked like a ghost trying to remember the shape of her own name.

Still, she reached forward.

Her fingers closed around the door handle, cold against her skin, r eal .

The door opened with a soft mechanical hiss, as if it already knew she’d be back.

And then the scent wrapped around her, low and earthy, ancient and clean. Clove, maybe, wood, or stone, it kissed her like water. It was the kind of smell that didn’t just fill a room, it filled the space inside you, the hollows you didn’t know were waiting to be comforted. 

The kind of smell that came before words, that settled your shoulders without asking.

Persephone stepped inside.

The quiet met her like a second skin, thick, reverent, tender, not empty, nor sterile, but sacred. As though the building itself breathed softer when it saw her, the hush wasn’t silence. 

It was a sanctuary, a pause after a long cry, the moment the world stops spinning just enough for you to catch your breath again.

She was here.

She was back.

Chapter Text

The funeral home was quiet in the way sacred places are, thick with waiting, hushed by reverence, Minthe sat at the reception desk, legs crossed in too tall heels, a pink glittery pen scribbling something into a rose gold planner that absolutely did not match the solemn air of the place, lips were pursed, the angle of her shoulders a little too sharp, like even her posture didn’t trust anyone who walked through those glass doors uninvited.

Then came the unmistakable scrabble, scrabble, thump of claws against marble.

Cerberus barreled around the corner with all the subtlety of a freight train, and Persephone barely had time to brace herself before eighty pounds of sleek doberman muscle launched into the air and landed on her with a joyful growl.

She stumbled back a step, arms thrown up too late as the dog’s wet tongue smothered her cheeks, her chin, her eyelids, Cerberus licked her as if he’d been waiting for her return, if her scent was not strange at all.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” — Minthe muttered, standing with a huff, clicking over on too loud heels and snapped her fingers once. — “Cerb. Down.”

The dog whimpered softly but obeyed, tail still wagging so hard it shook his entire backside, Persephone wiped her cheek, blinking up at the receptionist, the woman froze, as recognition dawned like a slow, stormy sunrise over her face, eyes narrowed slightly, the lines of annoyance around her mouth deepening.

“Oh. You again.”

Persephone swayed slightly, still catching her breath from the run, dress clinging to her ribs, feet blackened and sore, she opened her mouth once, then closed again.

“I...” — she hesitated. What was she doing here? Why had she run like that?  

She didn’t know. 

It wasn’t logic, it was something deeper, wordless and old.

“I had... an appointment,” — She finally said, voice breathless and uncertain.

“No,” — she said flatly, Minthe gave her a full once over, from her dirty feet to the sweat slick strands of hair glued to her forehead, her mouth curled. — “You don’t.”

Before Persephone could scramble for another excuse, the doors behind the reception hall creaked open. A man emerged first, tall, lean, trembling, his entire body wracked with grief so fresh it still bled in the air, he sobbed, hard, the kind of sound that made your bones wince, even his hands were shaking, face blotchy with tears, a gold wedding ring still clung to his left hand.

Behind him walked Hades , slow and steady, his black suit impeccable, one hand on the man’s shoulder, there was nothing performative about his sympathy, he was quiet, calm, grounded like an old tree in a storm. 

His mouth moved, low words meant only for the man beside him.

Whatever Hades said, it wasn’t enough.

The man, who Persephone vaguely recognized from somewhere, — maybe from a manganese, or blog, — shoved him, not hard, just enough to break the spell, and then fled out, through the front doors, letting them swing and crash shut behind him like a final note in a song that ended too soon.

Hades stood in the doorway a moment longer, still staring at the place where the man had vanished. The glass door had long stopped swaying, but something lingered in the space he left behind,  a silence that tasted like grief, longing, promises that would never be kept.

His profile was etched in soft shadow, backlit by the muted light of the hallway beyond, the kind of stillness clung to him that didn’t just come from calm,  it came from understanding, from decades of watching people fall apart and not rushing to put them back together.

Then slowly, like a shift in gravity, his eyes turned toward her.

And Persephone, forgot how to breathe.

The lobby, the cold tile beneath her aching, Cerberus's soft whine, all of it dropped away, all that remained was his gaze, heavy and quiet and endless.

When their eyes met, it was like something inside her crack, she had nothing to offer him, not poise, or a gleaming version of herself that everyone else demanded. Just this ; a girl with wild hair, swollen feet, and a heartbeat she didn’t know how to listen to anymore.

He smiled,—  that impossible smile, oft, infuriatingly gentle, — like he had seen the worst of her already, and it hadn’t scared him off.

Like he’d expected this, all along.

“I knew you’d come back,” 

The words weren’t a command, they weren’t laced with smugness or wrapped in riddles, they were an offering.

Persephone’s throat clenched, she wanted to tell him she didn’t know why she was here, that she shouldn’t have come, that this — he — made no sense and too much sense all at once.

But her mouth stayed shut, knees trembled beneath her, unsteady and aching, and the warmth in her chest bloomed into something terrifying,  not quite fear, just the raw, open sky feeling of being seen.

He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t extend a hand, didn’t coax or plead.

Still, she followed him, not knowing why, she just did , because even if she couldn’t name what this was, this strange pull that resembled a current in her bones. Some part of her had been waiting for this moment since before she had a name, before “Kore,” before the perfect smile, before all the carefully curated lies.

A sharp heel click behind her snapped the stillness.

“Hey,” — Minthe interjected, voice clipped, her polished nails tapping irritably against her agenda. — “Shoo, sweetheart. You’re not on the schedule today, you gotta get a booking for next week if you want… or whatever this is.”

She didn’t even try to hide the curl of disdain in her voice, eyes flicking over Persephone’s sweat damp dress, her dirt streaked feet, her wild hair like it was offensive. A woman like her didn’t belong in a place like this, Persephone felt the shame flush her skin hot, not because she felt unworthy, but because for a second, she almost believed she was.

“No,” — Hades said, not turning around, voice was soft but cut through the space like a bell in snow, quiet, but final. —“She’s with me. Come.”

Minthe fell silent, the way people do when something ancient passes by, anger burned like a wildfire behind the mask of the good assistant.

He walked deeper into the corridor, Persephone chased after with little grace she still had, he gazed back briefly as they walked past the velvet shadows, and the urns, tall, pale walls hummed around them with a stillness.

Hades' footsteps made no sound, but she felt him with every step. Turning down a hallway she vividly  remembered, they exited through a heavy door, into light.

The ashen garden.

It was quieter than she remembered, quieter than anywhere she’d ever been, the moment she stepped inside, the sounds of the city, the world, even her own heartbeat seemed to hush into reverence, even the ground here held secrets and sorrow too ancient to speak, the garden stretched in all directions, wild but curated, the hedges trimmed into gentle shapes, paths lined with dark slate stone, polished smooth from rain and footsteps of those who had come before, but all of it bowed — gently, silently — around the tree in the center.

It rose like a cathedral from the center of the garden, massive and gnarled, its bark a pale silver gray that shimmered faintly under the filtered sun, its branches stretched wide and long, skeletal and graceful, like arms embracing the sky, and all over those branches, tied with black silk threads, were thousands of tags — paper, worn linen, old faded photographs — fluttering gently in the wind like silent prayers.

Persephone stepped forward, the air smelled faintly of smoke and blooming things long turned to dust, she reached out and touched the trunk with trembling fingers, the bark was cool beneath her skin, not dead, not dry, ancient and alive in a way that felt watchful, it knew her, like it had always been waiting, like it’s been calling for her.

Her hand lingered there, fingers brushing the edge of a burned name carved faintly into the bark, and behind it, she could feel the shadows of generations, people who had stood exactly where she was now, people who had let go, people who hadn’t.

And then, from behind her, his voice.

“I’m glad you changed your mind.”

She turned slowly.

Hades stood beneath the arch of branches, the wind tugging gently at his coat, he wasn’t smiling now, not quite, his face was calm, eyes darker than shadow, but softened by something human. 

Understanding .

“Some people,” — He continued, — “let the pain sink in too deep, they hold on so tightly it becomes them. It eats them from the inside, that’s when they die,” 

He tilted his head. — “Sometimes literally, sometimes they stop walking among us long before their thread is even cut by the fates .”

She looked at him, blinking hard.

“And what about me?” — Her voice cracked.  — “Do you think I am one of those people?”

He stepped forward, slowly, respectfully, as if not to spook a bird with broken wings.

“Not yet.”—  A pause. — “But you’re standing at the edge.”

She looked back at the tree, at the way the branches shifted slightly, whispering in a language only the heart could hear, and when Persephone spoke, her voice was small but steady.

“What do I do?”

Hades watched her carefully, as the wind moved between them, tugging at the tags above.

“You learn, you grieve. Fully, honestly, not just for the things you’ve lost, but for the parts of yourself you have to let go”

“You want me to forget who I am?”

He shook his head.

“No,” — he said. —“I want you to become who you are. ”

She looked back at the tree again, and maybe for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel like running. Hades took one final step, until he stood beside her, beneath the shadow of the Ashen Tree.

“I won’t tell you it’ll be easy, but there’s space here, real space, for you to figure out who you are when no one’s watching, not your mother, not the cameras, not even me.”

He looked at her then, really looked, and something unguarded flickered in his gaze, not pity, not control.

Just recognition.

Of the weight she carried, the ache she never admitted, the girl trying to become someone she’d never been allowed to be.

“If you want to go, go.” — He exhaled softly, as if trying not to say too much. — “But if you stay…”

“You’ll have work, a place, something that’s yours, not given, not expected. Yours . ”

Persephone’s heart thudded, because he wasn’t asking for Kore, or demanding Persephone, but offering something softer, something harder: a pause, a breath, a life in the in-between, a sacred and terrifying space where she could set fire to everything she had been told to be without yet knowing what might rise from the ashes, and though every instinct, every echo of fear and generational weight begged her to say no, the word tangled somewhere between her ribs, lost in the thrum of something wilder.

“Yes,” — she said.

The word slipped out quiet as breath, but firm enough to echo in her bones, He just nodded once, slowly, like her answer had never been in doubt.

She stood by the ashen tree a moment longer, fingers still pressed to the bark, as though it could anchor her to this choice, her heart drummed like wings inside a ribcage, and still, the silence between them wasn’t empty, it was gentle.

“There is something I don’t understand,”  — she whispered, eyes flicking toward him. — “What is this place, really? How did you find it?”

Hades looked up at the branches above, their pale leaves trembling slightly in the breeze.

“I didn’t,” — he said. —  “It found me.”

Persephone frowned, but he didn’t elaborate. Instead, he turned and began walking along a stone path curling around the edge of the garden, she followed. Hades led her past an iron gate half covered in ivy, through a low archway that opened into a smaller, hidden part of the garden, untamed, half forgotten. Here, the trees leaned in like confidants, and the soil smelled richer, darker, wildflowers grew where they pleased, tangled with thorns and dead leaves.

 A cracked fountain murmured softly in the middle, moss climbing its basin like an old memory, clearly no one had touched this garden in years.

Persephone stepped into it with reverence, brushing her hand through tall, sun-dried stalks of lavender, the scent rose up warm and sweet, her voice was low when she spoke.

“These need to be trimmed,”

She crouched by a struggling patch of marigolds and pressed two fingers into the earth.

“They’re reaching, but it’s too shallow here.”

Hades watched her, not daring to interrupt.

“Sorry … I used to tend my house’s garden,” 

 “Do you miss it?”

“I miss what it gave me, what it didn’t ask of me.”

A beat passed. Then, softly, he said, — “This one could use a new caretaker.”

“You want me to... fix your garden?”

“No,” — he simply said. — “I want you to make it yours.”

The silence after that wasn’t uncomfortable, it was filled with the breath of the place, the hush of time moving differently between green things and forgotten fountains. Birds didn’t sing here, but the wind did.

She rose to her feet, brushing dirt from her knees. —“What exactly would I be doing?”

Hades took a slow step toward her, hands tucked into the pockets of his long coat.

“Helping me run the funeral home”

Persephone hesitated.

“But I’ve never... I don’t know how to do any of that.”

“You’ll learn,” — he said, quiet but certain.

“And if I change my mind?”

“Then, I believe the garden will miss you.”

That coaxed a small laugh out of her, fragile, but real. She glanced back at the wild patch of green and gold, something about it felt like, possibility .

Like rest.

Like becoming.

“Okay,” — she said at last, breath trembling. — “I’ll stay. For now.”

Hades didn’t nod this time. Instead, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a thin leather folder, worn smooth at the edges, handing it to her without a ceremony.

Persephone’s fingers closed around it, hesitant. The cover was embossed with a single, faint symbol: a pomegranate, split at the center, its seeds just barely spilling from the rind.

She blinked. — “You had this ready.”

“I did,” — he replied, unbothered. — “It’s not binding unless you sign. But it’s real.”

Her hands trembled as she opened the folder, the contract inside was printed on thick, creamy paper, slightly aged, like it had been waiting for years. The pomegranate motif repeated faintly in the corners, a design watermark, subtle but deliberate, she traced one with her thumb, the split fruit seemed to pulse with quiet meaning. It wasn’t about temptation, not really, it was about memory, about tethering. A mark left behind not to bind, but to remind that you were here ,  part of you still is .

It wasn’t a trap, it was a choice, a seed planted in the dark, that somehow still knew how to grow. Persephone stared down at the line where her name was supposed to go.

“Bring it back tomorrow,” — he added gently. — “If you want to.”

She shook her head, half-laughing, overwhelmed. — “But my schedule... My life is chaotic. I have shoots, interviews, and contracts, my mother has everything timed down to the second, I can’t just disappear—”

“I’m not asking you to disappear.”

He stepped closer, his voice low, almost kind, one hand reached toward the folder, his fingers brushing hers.

“I’m asking you to show up here, only when you can.”

“But I can’t live two lives.”

“You already do.”

She looked up at him then, startled by the softness in his gaze, then back down at the paper. Persephone . The name was already printed, just above the blank signature line. For a second, she imagined Kore signing it, the perfect girl with perfect posture and a script for every moment, the one who never raised her voice, never faltered, never said no unless it was rehearsed. 

But Kore would never sign this. Kore didn’t need help, at least, that’s what she was built to believe, she was flawless by design, carved from expectation and polished with fear, Kore would smile, demure and obedient, and walk away.

 Because admitting she was lost would mean admitting she was never whole to begin with.

But Persephone, who had run barefoot through the streets, who had cried on marble floors, who had felt something bloom and bruise all at once in her chest.

Persephone was the one still holding the pen.

Hades didn’t press her, just walked her toward the door in calm silence, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, warm and grounding. He didn’t speak again, but there was something in his expression, something kind, and steady, and just a little sad that made her chest ache.

He opened the door for her.

And as she stepped out, she could get a glimpse of his dark gaze, before it clicked shut behind her with a sound that felt far too final.

Persephone stood there for a full five minutes, unmoving on the sidewalk, the contract still pressed to her chest like a secret. The wind played with the ends of her hair, her breath rising in small clouds.

What the fuck just happened?

She blinked hard, trying to steady herself, but it felt like she’d just walked out of a dream, one she wasn’t sure she wanted to wake from. The city buzzed distantly behind her, life continuing as if she hadn’t just touched something ancient and alive.

A quiet cough behind her made her startle, a man in a charcoal suit offered her a polite smile. — “Excuse me,” — he said, gesturing to the door behind her. — “I have an appointment.”

“Oh,” — she breathed, stepping aside. — “Sorry”

As he disappeared into the funeral home, she reached into her bag, hands trembling slightly, and pulled out her phone.

She hit call .

Aphrodite answered before the first ring even finished. — “Hey, love!” — Her voice was bright, unmistakable, the audio already crackling with traffic and charm.

“I need a ride,” — Persephone said, trying to sound casual and failing entirely. — “I… I want to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, yes, my darling.” — Aphrodite laughed lightly, trying to keep it lighthearted — “Where are you?”

Persephone hesitated, everything in her body begged her to lie, to keep it clean and simple. But something in her had already started changing.

“In front of the Underworld Mortuary,” 

 She said finally, voice flat and honest, there was a sputter on the other end, followed by a gasp and the unmistakable sound of a drink being spit out.

“You’re where?”

Chapter Text

Aphrodite’s villa looked like it had been kissed by every shade of rose ever discovered. Blush and coral bled into mauve, walls blooming with soft frescoes and decadent drapery. Everything shimmered faintly under the afternoon light, like the house itself was always ready for a portrait, the air was rich with the scent of blooming peonies and iced lychee tea. It was indulgent, opulent, and unapologetically her.

They sat in the back garden, where marble goddesses stood tall in practiced contrapposto beside a pristine pond dotted with white swans and pink water lilies, a delicate breeze stirred the trees, casting shadows that danced across the mosaic floor like whispered secrets, Persephone sat curled on a chaise, cradling a teacup she hadn’t touched.

Aphrodite lounged opposite her, legs crossed, silk robe falling just enough to be tasteful, face unreadable behind giant sunglasses.

“So let me get this straight,”

Aphrodite stirring honey into her tea with the slow grace of someone used to shocking revelations.

“He was the one who got you into his limo at the gala, then he showed you some metaphorical death tree, and now you want my help hiding from your mother… so you can work for him?”

Persephone opened her mouth, then closed it, hesitant.

“And this is, what? An internship? A haunting? A ghost-girl side hustle?”

Aphrodite raised a perfectly arched brow.

“It’s not like that,” — Persephone said quickly. — “It’s… he helps people. People who’ve lost someone. It’s not creepy, it’s kind. I-I think I could be good at it.”

Aphrodite leaned forward, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of her nose just enough to reveal sharp blue eyes.

“Babe. You do realize how this sounds, right? A mysterious man scoops you out of a disastrous gala, doesn’t even tell you his real name until you’re standing in a garden of grief, and now you’re ready to build a second life around him?”

Persephone looked away, the pond rippled as a swan passed by, serene and silent.

“I’m not building anything. I’m just… trying something. It’s temporary.”

“You sure this isn’t some glamorized trauma bond, Stockholm syndrome in velvet?”

“No.” — Persephone’s voice was firmer than she expected. — “He didn’t kidnap me. He didn’t even ask me to stay the first time. I choose to go back.”

She looked up at Aphrodite then, really looked at her, eyes raw but steady.

“He helped me, the first time, when I was drunk and lost, he didn’t take advantage, he gave me his coat, let me sleep it off, and the second time… I went on my own, because something in me wanted to.”

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by birdsong and the distant splash of a swan dipping beneath the surface.

“You’re not making it easy to be the rational friend here.” — Aphrodite sighed and pushed her sunglasses into her hair.

“I know,” — Persephone whispered.

“You’re scaring me a little,” — Aphrodite added, but reached for her hand anyway. — “But I can’t say I don’t get it. You’ve been living in a cage for so long, maybe anything that looks like a door feels like freedom, even if it opens into something darker.”

“I don’t know if it’s freedom. But it feels like… me.”

“Okay. Okay, love.” — Aphrodite nodded slowly. — “We’ll play it your way… For now. But you need a cover, a real one, and if we’re gonna keep this from your mother, you’ll need help.”

“So, you will help me?”

“Of course I will. You’re not the only goddess who knows how to craft an illusion.”

She stood and walked toward the glass doors that led back inside.

“I was going to bring Eros and Amphitrite to that Heartlink event tomorrow, you know, that new dating app? They’re paying a fortune for divine endorsement. Faces of Love and all that.” — She turned with a grin. — “But they only really need photos.”

Persephone blinked. — “What do you have in mind?”

“Darling,” — Aphrodite said, already tapping something into her phone, — “we’ll take the photos here, in my studio. I’ll have my producer submit them, saying you’re already on location, no one reads the captions, half of Olympus doesn’t even know who’s dating who unless there’s a scandal about it.”

“What about the interviews?” — Persephone asked, nervous despite herself.

Aphrodite smirked. — “Girl, everything can be faked with AI, or worst case scenario, we’ll say you took a flight back home due to an emergency, stress, family, that kind of vague but undeniable excuse that no one questions because it feels personal.”

Persephone stared at her, half-impressed, half-horrified.

“You’re terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

Aphrodite got up, she gestured so Persephone would follow her. Through the villa, it was the kind of place that looked like it had never seen bad lighting, everything glowed, soft pink marble floors veined with rose gold, sheer curtains that fluttered like sighs, tall arched windows that spilled sunlight onto velvet chaises and satin rugs, bougainvillea spilled down trellises like laughter, the scent of peonies hung in the air, mixed with some divine perfume that couldn’t be bottled.

Statues of women in every shape and posture filled corners of the rooms — lounging, dancing, dreaming — all carved from blush stone and adorned with real jewelry, there was no shame here, only softness and power dressed up in silk, every detail felt deliberate, worshipful.

Aphrodite swept Persephone through a hallway lined with portraits of herself in various divine campaigns, then she pushed open the door to her private studio.

Inside, everything gleamed, a small team of women, all poised and perfectly styled, moved with quiet precision around racks of dresses and trays of makeup. The walls were pastel, the mirrors tall and trimmed in mother-of-pearl, and the faint sound of harp music played from nowhere in particular.

“We’ve got a divine emergency shoot, girls,”

Aphrodite announced, spinning once in her heels like a starlet from a vintage film.

“Persephone needs to look unbothered, radiant, unreachable, but also like she’d answer your DMs if your selfie was hot enough.”

There were soft laughs, the kind that warmed rather than judged, Persephone smiled despite herself, they dressed her in silk, brushed her hair into waves, gilded her cheeks, one of the stylists applied a petal-pink gloss that smelled faintly of strawberries, then another adjusted the off-shoulder sleeve of her gown.

Persephone watched herself transform in the mirror, stunned by the girl looking back, ethereal, poised, not quite her but not Kore either.

In the middle of it all, Aphrodite came to stand behind her, hands on her hips, head tilted.

“You look beautiful,” — she murmured. — “But that’s never been your problem.”

“Then what is?”

“You don’t know what you want,” — Aphrodite said, simple and devastating. — “And now that you’re starting to figure it out… it terrifies you.”

“Well, isn’t that everyone?” — Persephone tried to laugh.

Aphrodite leaned down, hands on the back of the chair, her voice dropped into something velvet-soft and dangerous.

“Tell me, babe, does he make your stomach turn?” — she whispered in her ear.

Persephone froze, her reflection didn’t blink.

“I don’t…”— Persephone felt her cheeks warm, her pulse stir, dropping her gaze to her lap, fingers tightening on the silk fabric. — “Every time I talk to him, it’s like—like I’m being seen and not studied, and it’s terrifying”

“He doesn’t strike me as the type to lure people into things, he doesn’t need to, that kind of quiet power… it just pulls.”

“You’ve met him?”

“Once or twice, in passing. He keeps to himself, doesn’t beg to be noticed, but somehow always is.” — She tilted her head. — “He’s old and powerful, not the flashy kind, the rooted kind. And he’s… rare, doesn’t interfere, doesn’t charm. That’s why people assume he’s cold.”

“Is he?” — Persephone asked, barely above a whisper.

Aphrodite looked at her for a long time, and then said, — “No. I don’t think so, but he is careful. People like him don’t give away anything they’re not willing to lose.”

That landed hard. Persephone swallowed.

“But you’re not afraid he’s manipulating me?” — she asked, searching for confirmation, comfort,

anything.

“If he were anyone else, maybe,” — Aphrodite said, voice edged with caution. —“But I don’t think he wants your ruin, Persephone. I think he wants your truth, and that’s a scarier ask.”

Persephone looked down at the contract again, folded neatly in her lap, the pomegranate symbols shone faintly under the gold light, Aphrodite reached out and brushed her thumb over one, a little smile on her lips.

“You do know this isn’t just about work, right?” — she said softly.

“I told you, I’m helping,” — Persephone insisted, too fast.

“You’re becoming,” — Aphrodite corrected, without judgment. — “That’s different.”

Persephone sat back in her chair, the weight of it all suddenly more manageable. Aphrodite didn’t press again, she just poured her another cup of tea, her movements fluid and luxurious.

“Enough talking, girls, camera, light, action !”

The photo-shoot became something between performance and therapy. Persephone posed under Aphrodite’s direction, lounging on pink cushions, sipping mocktails under lemon trees, laughing into the light as if she didn’t have a contract signed in ink and myth waiting for her. There were doves fluttering from cages, petals thrown like confetti, and a final shot where Persephone stood alone in a pale sundress by the swan pond, chin tilted toward the sky, looking like she might float away entirely.

When it was done, Aphrodite reviewed the images with the sharp focus of a general reviewing her troops.

“Perfect. You’re going to look blissful and scandalous in the press by tomorrow afternoon.”

She handed the phone to her assistant.

“Get these to the PR team, tell them she left early to escape the city buzz for ‘wellness reasons.’”

As the team began to pack up and the light began to dim, Aphrodite came to stand beside her again.

“Still scared?”

Persephone nodded.

“But still going?”

Another nod.

Aphrodite smiled, not teasing this time. Just proud.

“Then you’re already someone new.”

Persephone stood in front of the gilded mirror, carefully wiping away what was left of the day, glitter clung stubbornly to her lashes, her lipstick had long faded, her eyes rimmed red from something she couldn’t name, the warm lights overhead did nothing to soften the ache in her shoulders.

She dipped the cloth into the warm water again and dragged it over her face, stripping Kore away, one swipe at a time.

The door creaked open behind her, but, she did not turn back.

“Why did you leave like that?”

Demeter’s voice was calm in that strained way it always was when she was furious, controlled, clipped, a ribbon pulled taut before it snapped. Persephone blinked into the mirror.

“I just—I remembered something important, that’s all.”

Demeter stepped into the room, arms crossed over her perfectly tailored blazer. Her presence made the air feel smaller.

“No warning, no message, no explanation. Do you know how unprofessional that looks?”

“I said I was sorry,” — Persephone replied, folding the cloth and placing it gently beside the sink. — “I didn’t plan to leave like that.”

Demeter’s gaze sharpened.

“You’ve been strange since the gala, distant, secretive even. What aren’t you telling me?”

Persephone forced a small laugh and turned to face her.

“You’re overthinking it. I’ve just been working closely with Aphrodite lately.”

“Aphrodite?” — Her mother’s voice curved with suspicion. — “Since when?”

“She was kind to me at the gala,” — Persephone said quickly. — “We talked after. She had this idea, a sort of a brand partnership, promotional thing.”

Demeter raised a brow.

“ An idea?”

Persephone grabbed her moisturizer and busied herself with the jar.

“A dating app promo event, just something light. She’s bringing Eros and Amphitrite, i’ll be in a few shoots, that’s what I forgot today. I’m going tomorrow.”

Demeter’s silence hung in the room like a chandelier about to crash.

“That’s what you forgot?” — She said slowly. — “Kore, we have a full schedule this week. Shoots, interviews, the Vogue editorial-”

“I promise it’ll be worth it, mother, for the brand” — Persephone interrupted, eyes wide, voice smooth. — “It’s less than three days off. It’ll be good exposure, and Aphrodite’s got a whole team, it’s not going to mess anything up.”

Demeter pressed her lips into a line, her gaze darted over her daughter’s face, searching, assessing.

Then, finally, she sighed.

“How can I say no to that beautiful face, my Kore?”

She stepped forward and hugged her daughter, a careful, posed embrace that smelled like lavender and control. Persephone stiffened for just a second, then forced herself to melt into it.

Demeter pulled back and walked to the door.

“I’ll rearrange your appointments for next week,” — The older one said, hand already on the handle. — “Just… don’t do another gala incident on this event, please.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Persephone stared at the closed door for a long moment after her mother left, still half-expecting it to swing open again.

But it didn’t.

She turned back to the mirror, her face was clean now, bare, no lashes, no highlighter, no mask, just skin, freckled and flushed, raw from scrubbing. She barely recognized the girl staring back.

With a soft grunt, she pulled her silk robe tighter around her and crossed the room, the bed welcomed her with open arms, and she collapsed onto it with the full weight of her exhaustion.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She hesitated.

Then reached for it.

A string of messages from Aphrodite lit up the screen, bubbly and fast, like confetti in text form:

[Aphrodite 🩷💋]

Pics came out STUNNING.

Tell me you’re in love with me already.

Three images followed.

In the first, Persephone stood under a pink arch of roses, laughing beside Amphitrite in a sunhat, holding a cocktail with tiny flowers in it, in the second, she posed with Eros, mid-laugh, an arm draped around his shoulder like they were lifelong friends, in the third, she stood solo, windswept, cheeks blushed just enough, a glimmer in her eyes, perfectly lit like golden hour lived just for her.

They looked real.

Too real.

Persephone sat up, thumb hovering.

[Aphrodite 🩷💋]

All good !

Now enjoy your weird cemetery internship 🖤✨

Her thumbs hovered for a reply, ‘thank you? I owe you?’ But before she could respond, another message arrived,

But not from Aphrodite.

It was that same unknown number from last time.

“Sleep well, Persephone. Big day tomorrow.”

She sat up in bed, heart skittering, there was nothing suggestive in the message, nothing overt, but still, it stirred something low in her ribs, something uneasy, something electric.

The name Persephone looked strange in his mouth, even typed. She stared at the screen for a moment, thumbs unmoving, placing the phone on her nightstand, she rolled onto her side, the pale moonlight spilling in through the open window, washing the room in silver.

Outside, the city never slept, but inside, Persephone drifted slowly, uneasily, into a dreamless dark.

Somewhere between the world she’d left

And the one she was about to enter.

Chapter Text

The city was already humming with heat when Persephone stepped out of her ride, three blocks from the funeral home. Today, she wore a long, dark coat, sunglasses too big for her face, and a soft scarf wrapped loosely around her head like a traveling widow from some noir film, low heels, more practical, something Kore would never have worn.

She wasn’t supposed to be here, not publicly, not when the dating app launch was flooding social media with ‘her’ smiling face beside Aphrodite and Eros.

Persephone should’ve been lounging poolside with a flute of champagne, flirting with a lens, not slipping past cracked sidewalks and silent gates like she was sneaking into her own secret.

The funeral home stood just as she remembered, quiet, still, stoic, the door was unlocked, giving way without a sound, inside, the hush welcomed her again like silk, no makeup cases, no pastel dresses, just dust, shadow, and that subtle scent of clove and cool stone.

She walked deeper into the building, her boots muffled by thick rugs and polished tile, the halls felt older than they looked, every frame, every vase, every lamp seemed to hum with memory,

As if, it remembered more than it should.

Persephone moved slowly, her hand brushing the smooth wall as she made her way past closed doors, she didn’t call out for Hades, something told her she didn’t need to.

She felt the pull instead.

That quiet, ancient call, the one that led her down the side hall, past the chapel room, and out the back glass doors, into the garden. The ashen tree stood tall and pale at the center, its bark the color of old ash, branches spread wide like open arms, dozens of fabric tags rustled in the breeze, each one tied to a memory, a goodbye, a final breath spoken aloud and let go.

But she wasn’t alone.

A man knelt beneath the tree, head bowed, hands pressed flat to the earth, he didn’t speak, didn’t move, except for the steady rise and fall of his back with each breath, his suit was simple, worn but clean, cut in a style decades behind the times, a veteran’s pin glinted faintly on his lapel, the only thing not dulled by years, weather, and memory.

Persephone hesitated, there was something sacred in his stillness, like a ritual too personal to interrupt, but her foot shifted on the gravel, and the soft crunch gave her away.

The man lifted his head slowly and turned.

His face was creased with deep-set lines, as if the wind and sea had carved their own map across his skin, his jaw was rough with gray stubble, and his eyes, an uncommon gray, sharp, like a man who had once given orders with a steady hand and a compass heart.

There was no fear in his gaze, just a measured curiosity.

“Do you work here?”

he asked, his voice hoarse and frayed, like driftwood burned smooth.

“I… yes. Kind of.”

Persephone blinked, caught off guard, as the man gave a nod, not of approval, but of understanding, she waited, expecting the usual flicker of recognition, that spark people got when they pieced together her face, the red carpet, the perfume ads, the endless interviews.

But it never came.

To him, she wasn’t Kore, the picture perfect daughter, or the flawless product of a curated life.

She was just a woman in a quiet place, doing quiet work.

“I come here every month,” — he said, rising to his feet. — “Have for years now. It’s one of the only places that doesn’t feel too loud.”

He turned and looked at the tree.

“My friends, brothers, really… we fought together a long time ago, not all of them made it home.”

Persephone said nothing, but her hands folded together in front of her, listening.

Just listening.

“There’s something about this tree,” — he continued. —“about this place. Makes it easier to remember without falling apart, like it holds it for you.”

He paused, eyes lingering on a particular tag swaying in the breeze.

“But lately,” — he added, voice a touch thinner, — “I’ve been having dreams. Same ones, over and over, I see their faces, hear them screaming, I wake up and I’m not sure where I am.”

He looked at her then, not as a stranger, but as someone asking for help without knowing what kind.

“I don’t know if you can do anything, but I keep ending up here, and today… I guess today I needed someone to talk to.”

Persephone’s throat tightened, she wasn’t trained for this, not really, she wasn’t a therapist, she wasn’t a priestess.

But she was here.

Looking up into the pale branches, into the hundreds of tags tied gently like offerings, like farewells, each one held something someone had once struggled to let go of, and somehow, the tree had taken it all in without breaking.

“Have you ever left one?”— she asked quietly, not facing him.

He shook his head. — “No. I write the words in my head, but I never tie them. Feels… final. Like I’m letting them die again.”

Persephone turned to him, gently.

“Maybe that’s not what this place is about, maybe it’s not about letting go the way people think, maybe it’s about remembering differently.”

“What do you mean?”

He looked down, frowning in thought. She knelt, slowly, running her hand across the roots that broke through the dirt like ancient veins. Her fingers brushed a half-buried tag, the ink nearly faded.

“We’re taught that remembering means clinging, but this tree holds memories and still stands. Maybe there’s a way to honor what you’ve lost without losing yourself.”

“Sounds nice, but I can’t sleep, can’t think, it’s like I’m still back there.”

“Then maybe we can give them a place here. Where the war doesn’t follow, a ritual, a story, something that ends the old chapter and honors it too.”

She nodded, heart tightening, the man’s gaze softened slightly, brow furrowed.

“Will you help me write one?”

“Write… what?” — He looked surprised.

“A tag, for each of them, one for every name that won’t leave your mind.”

“There are a lot of names.” — His jaw worked slightly. — “six hundred of them”

“Then we’ll need many tags”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, to her surprise, he let out a low, short laugh, quiet and stunned, like it had been trapped in him for years.

“I guess that’s what it means to work here?”

***

Together, they went into the quiet reception room, where the dust hung soft in the light like lace, Persephone looked around, curiously exploring, until she found and opened a drawer marked Offerings and Grief Tools and carefully pulled out everything she could find, spools of faded silk, stacks of blank prayer tags, a fountain pen worn to the shape of someone else’s grip, a bottle of near black ink that shimmered slightly when the sun hit it.

Then she returned to the garden with him, arms full, and set it all down on a small stone table overlooking the roots of the ashen tree.

He sat across from her and looked at the tools as if they were relics, and she offered him the pen, but he only shook his head.

“You write, I’ll speak.”

So she did.

He said the names aloud, one by one, voice growing rougher with each offering, she wrote in silence, her strokes slow, deliberate, as though the ink itself needed to remember.

The names were old, some mythic, some ordinary: Iason, Aetos, Nikandros, Thalos, Onesimus.

And then more, so many more.

Persephone’s hand cramped, the silk ribbon pile shrank, the tags grew in number, a soft fluttering stack between them.

Hours passed unnoticed.

When they ran out of silk, she started folding the pages from a nearby notebook into small rectangles, when the pen began to skip, she shook it, coaxing one last breath from the ink, when the man’s voice grew hoarse, she poured him water from a porcelain pitcher and listened as he whispered the final names.

Until there was none left, until his lips moved without sound, and his eyes shone but didn’t spill, he looked at the small mountain of tags they’d made and smiled through the ache in his face.

“You are kind,” — he murmured, voice breaking at the edges. — “Thank you. You remind me of my wife.”

“What’s her name?”

“She is alive, you don’t have to write it down”

“Oh, I am sorry, I-I didn’t mean it that way !”

“Penelope.” — He chuckled, smiling softly, the kind of smile carved from memory. — “She’s strong, patient, always was.”

Their names had the same weight, the same rhythm, Persephone felt it, as if her name had just learned how to stand beside someone else’s.

“She must be a wonderful wife.”

“She is.”

He reached across the table with a hand steady and worn, marred by time but still offering grace.

“I’m Odysseus,” — he said, with pride and sorrow intertwined. — “Who do I thank for this kindness?”

She hesitated, the name hovered on her tongue,

Not Kore, but.

“Persephone,” — She said, finally, with quiet certainty. —“I’m Persephone.”

He gave a small, reverent nod.

“I’m grateful, Persephone. I hope I wasn’t a burden.”

“You weren’t,” — she said, almost before he finished. — “Your men deserved to be remembered, you carried them all this way, let the tree hold them, too.”

Odysseus stood slowly, his knees stiff with age, and took the bundle of tags gently in his arms, together, they walked toward the tree, the ash branches seemed to shift in the windless air, waiting.

They worked in silence, no ceremony, no speeches, just the rhythm of careful fingers and quiet reverence.

Persephone climbed onto the stone ledge circling the great ashen tree, and Odysseus stood below, passing her each tag with the same tenderness one might offer a keepsake. The paper rustled faintly in the still air as she tied them one by one to the ancient branches, the tree accepted each name without question.

Sometimes, she would glance down at him.

And sometimes, she caught him smiling.

A quiet, faraway smile that softened the creases of his weather worn face, he never said anything as she caught his gaze, just nodded once, and continued. It took nearly an hour, the tags hung like pale blossoms, dozens upon dozens, each a life, a story, a grief held too long.

By the time they placed the last one, the tree looked heavier, fuller, as if the names had become a part of it.

Persephone climbed down slowly, she rubbed the red indent on her finger where the silk had pressed too long. Odysseus looked at the tree, then at her.

“Thank you,”— he said simply, and offered his hand.

She took it.

His grip was warm and steady, no weight in it, only respect.

Then, with a small nod and no more words, he turned and made his way down the path. The garden swallowed the sound of his steps, when he disappeared into the corridor of quiet halls, Persephone was left alone beneath the tree.

The breeze moved, just enough to stir the tags.

Standing there for a long while, arms crossed loosely around her stomach, eyes drifting along the branches, shoulders ached, palms were ink-stained, she felt her throat raw, not from speaking, but from holding something in.

There was no applause, no one watching.

And it felt good.

It felt good to do good, without the cameras, without the flashes, without ending on trending topics of the week.

A Soft shuffle broke her thoughts, behind her, from the stone archway that led back into the funeral home, came the low, unmistakable sound of polished shoes against the tile.

“Was that your first offering?”

Persephone turned at the sound of his voice, startled by how gentle it was, how it didn’t demand an answer, only invited one. She met his gaze, uncertain, her throat dry from too much silence.

“It wasn’t mine,” — She said, the words tumbling out too quickly, as if afraid he might misunderstand her. —“It was… Odysseus’s. The man who just left.”

Hades gave a slow nod, no surprise in his face, only a deep, quiet understanding.

“I see,” — he murmured. — “He’s here often, a quiet man, filled with pain.”

Then, silence, he didn’t praise her, didn’t offer a smile, or warmth, or even a nod of approval. Persephone waited, almost trembling in the space between them, until she realized he wasn’t going to reward her, not like her mother would, not like a teacher or an audience.

This wasn’t about approval.

Still, her fingers twitched at her side, the folded edge of something weighed in her pocket, she took a breath, steadying herself, and reached for it.

The contract.

It had been tucked into her coat since yesterday, creased now, warm from her body, she unfolded it carefully, her pulse quickening as the soft pomegranate symbols came into view, deep red, hand-drawn, like fruit pressed from memory into ink.

Without ceremony, without asking for attention, she stepped forward and held it out to him.

He looked at her, then at the paper, his eyes unreadable. Hades took it without a word, their fingers brushed, — brief, electric, — looking down at the signature.

Her signature.

Persephone. Not Kore.

She felt something settle in her chest, a gravity, not a burden, a belonging, the wind picked up gently around them, rustling the tags in the tree above, each one a name, each one a wound made visible, and now, Persephone’s place was here among them, not as a figurehead, not as a goddess-to-be.

But as a witness, a quiet caretaker of sorrow.

Without another word, Hades turned and gestured for her to follow, through a side corridor, past a paneled hallway draped in ivy that looked half-alive, half-forgotten, the doors opened to the garden she had seen before, wild and beautiful in a way only things neglected by time could be, the glass ceiling above gave it the illusion of being underwater, or trapped in a memory.

He handed her a ring of keys, old brass ones with strange teeth and pomegranate motifs.

“There’s a small utility room there,”— He said, pointing to a wooden structure tucked into the garden’s edge. — “Full of seeds and tools, we haven’t had time to tend this place properly, if you’d like a task, you can start here. Take as much time as you need.”

Then, gently, almost too gently, he added,

“You won’t have other duties today. It’s getting late.”

She nodded, trying not to show her relief.

What she didn’t say was that she had nowhere to go.

The event she was supposed to be attending was far away, set in a villa on the coast, three days long, cameras, flashing lights, smiles she couldn’t shape anymore, going home now would only raise questions from her mother.

And she couldn’t ask to stay, the shame tangled around her throat like a noose.

So she stayed quiet.

“I’ll stay a little, analyze the damage.”

“Make yourself at home.”

She watched Hades walk away, his presence disappearing like fog into the quiet halls. He didn’t press, he simply let her be , and that small allowance softened something tight in her chest.

The air in the utility room was thick with the scent of cedar shelves and rusted iron tools, old dirt and clay, it felt forgotten, but not unloved. Persephone rolled up the sleeves of the soft gray cardigan she had chosen to go unnoticed, wrapped her hair into a loose knot at the top of her head, and let her hands fall into rhythm.

The sun outside dipped low, thin golden lines casting long shadows across the greenhouse’s moss flecked glass. Once this place had been vibrant, she could feel it, see it in the way certain roots still clung stubbornly to life even under layers of ash and rot. Now, it needed coaxing, quiet care.

She understood the feeling.

Persephone moved methodically, not rushing, the dirt was cold but pliant under her fingers, digging small rows and began replanting bulbs, night blooming jasmine for the souls who couldn’t rest until moonrise, lavender for grief, and ghost ferns with their pale, veined leaves that looked translucent in the shifting light.

Clipping back ivy that had coiled too tightly around a weeping fig, whispering apologies to it as she cut, unearthing an entire patch of rot, cleared the clay basin, and rinsed it with water fetched from the garden’s old copper spout. It dripped steadily, echoing in the silence, the water smelled faintly of minerals and time.

In one corner, she found a broken pot, something ancient, etched with delicate vines, turning it in her hands, brushing off the soil, a piece had splintered cleanly from the rim. She searched the utility shelf until she found adhesive clay, carefully pressing it back together and wrapping it in linen strips to hold while it set, the wind picked up, brushing loose petals across the floor. Somewhere outside, a bell chimed in the distance, soft and mourning.

Persephone wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of earth across her brow. Her thoughts had quieted, her heartbeat no longer erratic with the pace of everything she was escaping, here, with her knees pressed into the soil, the smell of herbs clinging to her sleeves and fingertips, felt something new bloom inside her.

Or maybe not new.

Maybe something returning.

A deeper part of herself she hadn’t known how to name until now. Not Kore, not the image her mother painted, not the gleaming lie the city and its cameras expected.

Just this.

A girl with dirt under her nails, tending to a place others had left behind.

She paused only once, leaning back against the low stone bench at the garden’s edge, the dress she wore was speckled with soil, fingers trembled slightly with exhaustion, but she smiled faintly to herself.

She felt… useful.

Like she had earned this quiet, like something in the ground recognized her, and was grateful.

In the fading light, she looked over the patch she’d revived, small blooms already showed signs of responding, leaves unfurling, buds shifting toward where the moonlight would soon fall.

She placed the last root bulb into the soil and covered it gently.

“Rest now,” — She whispered. — “We’re not dead yet.”

And somehow, she didn’t just mean the garden.

She sat back against the dirt floor, knees bent, watching the stars shimmer faintly through the glass ceiling.

And then she heard it.

The clicking of heels.

“Hey.”

Persephone turned, still crouched in the dirt, soil clinging to her palms and knees, Minthe stood framed in the greenhouse doorway, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the last golden slant of evening light, lipstick was perfect, glossy and red as spilled wine, nails matched, pointed, pristine, unchipped.

She didn’t step inside, she didn’t want to touch the dirt.

“We’re closing, you need to go .”

Her tone wasn’t cruel exactly, but it carried that effortless sting of someone used to being obeyed.

Persephone blinked, the quiet in her body breaking all at once, standing slowly. She wasn’t ready to leave.

The garden still felt like it was speaking in a language she’d barely begun to learn.

“Oh,” — Persephone stood quickly, brushing her hands against her skirt. — “I.. I just wanted to finish up. I didn’t realize the time. I can—”

Minthe crossed her arms, smirking.

“What, you wanna sleep here in the dirt like a stray?”

“No, I just… I don’t really have…” — Persephone flushed, throat tightened.

Minthe raised a hand. — “Not my problem. You signed on to help, not haunt the place.”

She turned on her heel and left, Persephone felt obliged to follow, when she was outside, the door swinging closed behind her with a hollow finality. On the steps, the air was colder now, and the streetlights buzzed in flickers, silence pressed close.

She sat on the curb, unsure what to do.

Aphrodite was gone. Off at the event, no spare rooms or miracles this time, her phone was nearly dead, and the thought of going back to the house, of seeing her mother, felt unbearable.

Her fingers trembled in her lap, then, headlights , a soft hum of an engine slowing down. A sleek black car pulled to the curb, not the funeral home limo, something personal, less polished, a shadow stepped out from behind the wheel, coat collar turned up against the cold.

Her boss, Hades .

He tilted his head slightly, eyes catching hers in the dark, no judgment. Just calm, quiet observation.

“Is everything okay?” — He asked softly.

She wanted to lie, but the words slipped out before she could catch them. Once they were said, they sat in the air between them, naked, vulnerable, too real, Persephone looked away, ashamed, dirt was caked under her fingernails, streaked across her cheeks, hair was coming loose, and her dress clung to her like wilted petals.

Nothing like Kore.

Hades stepped closer, the gravel crunching beneath his shoes. — “Back home?”

She flinched at the word, hands folded tightly in her lap.

“I… I’m supposed to be away, at an event.” — She swallowed. — “For the brand, ffor my mother, she thinks I’m with Aphrodite.”

There was a pause. She could feel the weight of his gaze, but when she finally looked up, there was no ridicule, no amusement in his expression.

“Then come with me.” — He nodded, the motion slow, thoughtful, said like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Where?”

“My house,” — he said simply. — “It’s not far. It’s quiet, no one will bother you there.”

Persephone hesitated, her first instinct was to reject the offer, to push it away with a smile and a pretty lie. But something in his voice — steady, soft— eased the tension in her chest.

“I don’t want to be a problem,”

“You’re not.”

It was that answer, so firm and gentle, that made her stand. He held the door open, and she slipped into the passenger seat, in the back Cerberus barked happily to see a familiar face, the warmth of the car surrounded her instantly, and for the first time in hours, she let herself exhale. As he got in and started the engine, neither of them spoke, silence wasn’t heavy, it simply existed, like shared breath. Through the window, the mortuary faded behind them, its silhouette swallowed by trees and stars.

Persephone sat quietly, watching the road blur by, somewhere behind her, the world of Kore was unraveling. 

Chapter Text

The drive wound upward away from the city lights, into the folds of the hills where the roads grew narrower, darker, trees gathered like sentinels on either side, their branches forming shadowed arches overhead. Persephone’s fingers were curled loosely in her lap, her eyes fixed out the window, watching the blur of the forest. Hades didn’t speak unless he needed to, the hum of the engine and the occasional crackle of gravel under the tires filled the silence.

Eventually, the road leveled out.

They pulled into a small clearing at the end of a sloping path, his home rose from the earth like it had grown there, stone and wood, ivy winding up its sides, modest, discreet, nothing like the marble villas she’d been paraded through her whole life, there were no security cameras, no golden gates, just a single lantern glowing by the door and the sound of wind through the pines.

And the sound of wind through the pines.

Hades stepped out first, unlocking the door with a quiet click, then he turned to her and opened the passenger side.

“You can take the guest room,”

She stepped out slowly, the air was cool and damp with moss, there was something grounding about it, real in a way nothing in the city had ever been, she followed him to the door, Cerberus chased after, jumping around his master awaiting their nightly routine to take place.

Inside, the house opened into a quiet, lived-in space, dark wood floors, deep navy walls, books stacked in gentle disarray on side tables and shelves, a fireplace with cold ashes, a single olive tree growing in a sunken pot in the corner, its branches heavy with age.

It felt like solitude, chosen and respected.

“I apologize, the floors are old, they creak a lot”

Persephone gave a tired smile and slipped off her shoes, her feet sank into the warm woven rugs as she followed him down a short hall, he set his keys on a small tray, opened a door and flicked on a low lamp.

The guest room was simple: a deep green bedspread, a worn velvet armchair by the window, a small shelf of poetry books and mythic histories, a robe folded at the end of the bed, soft towels already waiting.

“I’ll be up early,” — Hades said, his hand resting lightly on the door frame. — “I can drive you back to the funeral home if you’d like.”

Persephone looked up from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers, still faintly smudged with dirt, curled in her lap.

“I’d like that,” — Voice soft, almost unsure, but it was honest.

He nodded, turned slightly, then paused, his silhouette framed by the hallway’s amber light. — “Would you like dinner?” — Not quite meeting her eyes.

She hesitated. — “I don’t want to bother you”

Her stomach betrayed her with a loud, unmistakable growl, she froze, wide-eyed.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

From somewhere deeper in the house, a low bark echoed, Cerberus, half-drowsy and full of opinion, another bark, louder, like a reminder.

“I know, I know,” — He spoke with a smile, stepping back into the hallway. — “Dinner for everyone it is.”

The door clicked softly behind him, leaving Persephone blinking in the hush, she stood, slowly peeling off her jacket, crossing to the mirror to inspect the mess she had become, smeared mascara, streaks of earth on her forearms, hair half fallen from its pins.

Down the hallway, she could hear the quiet clatter of pans, the muffled creak of cabinets, a warm light spilled from beneath the kitchen door, the scent of something earthy and rich, mushrooms, thyme, garlic, began to thread through the air.

Persephone took her time in the shower, letting the hot water rinse the dirt from her hands, arms, neck, under the stream, the tension in her shoulders began to soften, it was a simple bathroom, stone tiles, copper fixtures, a window cracked open to let in the sound of rustling leaves, but it felt more honest than anything marble ever offered.

She dried herself and slipped into the robe he’d left folded on the bed, soft, dark cotton, lain, warm. There was something strangely grounding about wearing something so unremarkable.

When she padded down the hallway barefoot, the smell of something home cooked made her stomach tighten again, this time in a way that felt, comforting.

The kitchen was part of an open space that stretched into a sunken living room, wooden beams lined the ceiling, shelves cradled books and small ceramic vessels, and a fireplace stood unlit but ready, it wasn’t grand, it was quiet, lived-in.

Hades stood at the stove, sleeves rolled to his elbows, stirring a pan, looking over his shoulder when she entered, and offered a small nod, not surprised, as if he’d already sensed her coming.

“Feel better?”

She nodded. — “I needed that. Thank you… for everything.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” — He murmured, plating something steaming. —“You haven’t tried the food.”

A soft bark came from under the table, Cerberus, curled on a cushioned rug, one tail twitching lazily, Persephone smiled and knelt to scratch behind one of his ears.

“You’re spoiled, aren’t you?” — She whispered.

Cerberus gave a pleased little huff. Hades set two plates on the table, then sat across from her, they ate quietly at first, both a little tired, both uncertain how to name this strange comfort between them.

Not watching her, exactly, but he kept noticing little things, when her shoulders dropped, when she refilled her water, when she took a second helping, his gaze soft, admiring.

“Why did you offer me the job?” — Asked softly, in a curious tone. — “You didn’t know me, you still don’t.”

Sitting his glass down gently, as if even the sound of it might matter. — “I told you, you looked like someone who needed a door. I happened to have one.”

“That simple?”

“There’s no such thing as simple,” — He said. — “But sometimes you don’t need a reason to open the door, just to see if someone will walk through it.”

She turned that over in her head, unsure if she felt grateful or challenged, maybe both.

“People talk about you,” — She said after a beat. — “But I realized… I don’t know anything real, just headlines, family connections, the occasional whisper.”

“You mean my charming brothers?” — He gave a short, dry laugh.

“Poseidon was banned from three clubs in one week last summer. And Zeus… well, he doesn’t really believe in subtlety.”

“No, he doesn’t,”

“But you…” — She hesitated. — “You’re barely in any of it, like a shadow they can’t catch.”

“That’s by design.”

“Why?”

He looked down for a moment, as if weighing the honesty in his next words.

“Because I’ve seen what that kind of spotlight does to people, and because I prefer to be left alone.”

“And yet… you offered a stranger a job, let her into your home.”

“You didn’t feel like a stranger.”

His gaze met hers across the table, it tightened in her chest. Persephone looked away, the room fell quiet again, but this time the silence felt mutual. Cerberus snored softly on the rug beside them, one paw twitching in sleep, a moth flitted lazily around the kitchen light, the forest beyond the windows whispered low.

“You don’t talk much,” — Persephone said finally, half teasing.

“You don’t ask much either,”

Smiling at that, not a performer’s smile, not Kore’s smile, a real one, small and sudden.

“Then, may I ask now?”

“You may”

Persephone hesitated, but only for a heartbeat longer than usual, fingers absentmindedly traced the rim of her glass as she searched for the words, this wasn’t Kore asking, — the poised, polished girl who knew exactly what to say to please and avoid trouble. — This was Persephone, curious, a little raw around the edges, brave enough to ask the questions that scared her.

“Are you… lonely?”

Voice was softer now, more tentative, but underneath it was something new, something bold that belonged only to her. Hades looked up slowly, as if surprised the question had found its way through the silence, dark eyes held hers, steady, not flickering away like they used to, the kind of gaze that didn’t just see your face but sifted through the layers beneath.

After a pause that stretched longer than either expected, he answered, not with words, but with a quiet, almost imperceptible nod. Persephone opened her mouth, hesitating on the edge of another question, when suddenly Cerberus let out a sharp bark, breaking the stillness.

Persephone watched as Cerberus sprang up from the floor, bounding eagerly toward the sofa. — “Not playtime, boy,” — Hades said with a gentle chuckle, lifting the dog off the cushions.

“You just had dinner.”

“Is he always this playful?”

Persephone asked, smiling as the dog wagged his tail enthusiastically.

“When he’s not at work,”

Hades replied, settling near the fireplace, the warm glow flickered across his face as he sat on the edge of the couch ,The dog rolled onto his back, paws waving, and his master began to rub his stomach, expression softening in the quiet moment.

Persephone stood and began gathering the plates, before she could clear the table, Hades said quietly.

“Leave it there. I’ll clean it up tomorrow, don’t stress yourself, you should rest.”

She nodded, the simple kindness settling over like a balm she hadn’t realized she needed.

The morning came quietly, a soft haze of gold filtered through the linen curtains, casting long lines of warmth across the wooden floor. Persephone stretched slowly, the robe she’d slept in, still wrapped around like a shell, hesitating before getting up and stepping out into the room, but the scent of coffee and something toasted drifting under the door and luring her out.

She pushed the door open and froze

Hades stood by the kitchen counter, barefoot, wearing only a towel slung low around his waist, back was to her, the curve of his shoulder blades visible beneath damp black hair that still dripped lazily down his spine, broad shouldered and lean, body carried quiet strength, like a statue once worshiped, now only tended by time. Cerberus sat obediently at his feet, eating from a silver bowl.

Persephone let out a startled gasp and instinctively began backing into the room again, turning at the sound, catching her retreat.

“Oh, good morning,”

He was unfazed, voice still rough with sleep, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“I-I didn’t know… sorry!”

Stammering, gaze fixed determinedly on the wall behind him, as he glanced down and offered a half smile.

“Ah, right. Sorry about that. I made breakfast, just eggs and toast. I’ll be out of your line of vision in a second.”

He disappeared down the hall, quiet footsteps and the click of a door closing behind. Persephone stood there for a moment, heart thudding faster than it needed to, finally making her way to the table, still slightly pink in the face. Cerberus gave her a knowing look between bites, head tilting just enough to make her laugh.

“Don’t judge me,”

She whispered, scratching behind his ears, the great beast thumped his tail in satisfaction, then returned to his breakfast, sitting down, the table was set with simple care: two plates, scrambled eggs, sliced toast, a pot of coffee already steaming. It was domestic, almost tender.

Reaching for her phone, unlocking it as she sipped the coffee, notifications blinked across the screen like warning lights, messages from Aphrodite, a few missed calls, and then, worse, a tag.

“Trouble in Paradise? Kore spotted near Underworld Mortuary: what’s the golden girl hiding? Is she finally unraveling?”

Hair a mess, makeup upside down, clothes clinging awkwardly from sweat. The photo was now front and center on one of the most obnoxious gossip page, below it, a waterfall of speculation, anonymous sources, theories, ugly insinuations.

Her stomach turned, heat crept up her neck not from shame, but from fury. Persephone wanted to hurl the phone across the room, but instead, exhaled hard through her nose, locked the screen, and placed it face down.

A plate appeared before her.

She looked up, startled.

“Everything alright?” — Hades asked, now changed into dark slacks and a soft black button up, sleeves half rolled, his damp hair tied back loosely, one stubborn strand still falling near his brow, he looked like night itself had taken human form and decided to make eggs.

“Just gossip,”

She muttered, trying to level her voice, but her hands betrayed her words, curling slightly around the fork. He simply sat across from her, quiet, poised, gaze steady, but not invasive, listening, not prying, after a silence that felt safer than most conversations, she spoke.

“It’s stupid, people are always watching, waiting to see me trip.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

Her voice was quieter now. When breakfast was done, he stood and began clearing the plates, ignoring her protests to help, he rinsed everything quickly and neatly, then, without fuss, he knelt to Cerberus’s side, fastening a dark leather collar around the dog’s thick neck.

“Do you need anything before we go?”

Hades asked, rising with an easy movement, the leash draped over his fingers.

She shook her head slowly. — “No. I’m ready.”

“Then, let’s go”

The car pulled into the familiar gravel path of the Underworld Mortuary, the morning sun barely climbing over the hills, its light cast the stone facade in a soft gold that couldn’t quite reach the coldness nestled within the building’s bones.

Minthe was already there, — of course. — Dressed in her sleek charcoal uniform, hair perfect, she was dusting the front desk when they walked in, spinning around at the sound of the door and lit up when her eyes landed on Hades.

“Morning,” — She said, her voice syrupy.

Hades offered a polite nod, but her gaze had already shifted, landing on Persephone, who walked beside him in a soft, loose dress in deep rust tones, familiar tones, Minthe’s eyes narrowed.

“I see,” — She muttered, voice like crushed ice. — “Took a stray to your home, did you?”

Hades paused, slowly turning toward her. — “Sorry?”

“Nothing,” — Minthe replied too quickly, stiffening. — “You have a few things to do today. I left your schedule on your desk.”

He didn’t even glance toward the door to his office. — “Clean the schedule.”

“…What?”

“You heard me,” — Voice, calm and clear. — “Free my schedule.”

Without waiting for her reply, Hades turned and continued down the corridor. Persephone followed closely, unsure what had just happened, passing through the halls and into the ashen garden behind the mortuary, she began to move toward the greenhouse where all her work laid from the day before, but his hand reached gently for hers, just a touch, enough to make her stop.

“I’d like it if you joined me today.”

The air left her lungs in a quiet breath. — “Of course,” — She whispered, cheeks blooming with heat.

They walked side by side, their shadows long in the morning light as they crossed the ashen garden, the faint scent of lavender and wet stone lingered from last night’s rain, Hades didn’t speak much, but his presence was steady, as usual.

He led her toward a part of the building she hadn’t seen yet—through a narrow door tucked near the back, down a flight of cool, stone steps, walls were lined with polished wooden shelves and soft amber lights flickered along the ceiling.

It was quieter here, if that was even possible.

“What is this place?”

“The preparation room,” — He spoke softly. — “Families don’t usually see this part, but I thought you might want to understand what it really means to tend to the dead.”

Persephone hesitated at the threshold, something inside her resisted, but she stepped in. Inside, an older woman with warm eyes and silver streaked hair nodded a greeting. Wearing a long apron and gloves, movements precise as she prepared linens and tools.

“This is Eirene, she’s been here longer than I have.”

Eirene smiled.

“Not quite, close enough.” — She turned to the brunette. — “You’re the new employee?”

Persephone nodded, unsure if that was the right word, the helper gestured to a table covered in fresh white sheets.

“We’ve a woman today,. no family, lived alone, last wish was to be buried with her garden gloves.”

Demeter’s daughter blinked.

“You’re welcome to help,” — Eirene offered gently. — “We clean the body, speak a few words if we feel like it, you’d be surprised how many people pass in silence. It doesn’t have to be that way.”

Persephone stepped closer, the body on the table looked peaceful, hands resting over her chest, old scars traced her knuckles, earth-etched like tree bark, she took the gloves from the nearby table, worn and soft from use, slowly, with trembling fingers, she helped Eirene slip them onto the woman’s hands, Eirene stood beside her, sleeves rolled up, her presence as calm and unobtrusive as the faint hum of the overhead lights, adjusting the collar of the woman’s blouse, then smoothed the edge of the blanket where it met the edge of the embalming table.

It was quiet work, holy, in a way she hadn’t expected, no spotlight, no audience,

only care.

“She loved flowers,” — Eirene said softly. — “Talked about them until the end. No one came to visit, but she kept sending seeds in the mail to strangers.”

Persephone swallowed, something in her chest cracking open, smoothed the gloves gently and whispered,

“She sounds like someone who deserved more.”

Eirene gave a slow nod but said nothing, the silence didn’t feel empty, it felt sacred.

“Most people do.”

Hades’ voice came from behind, calm, almost sad, she turned to look at him, he wasn’t watching the body, his eyes lingered on her.

Persephone turned, and there he was, the dark figure stood just past the threshold, sleeves rolled to the elbow, hands folded, not watching the body.

His eyes lingered on her.

Their gazes held. For a moment, the room faded, the mortuary air lightened, the hush of grief wrapped around them both like a veil.

Persephone drew in a careful breath, nodding softly. — “But she mattered. Even if no one else remembers her… we do.”

Hades stepped forward, his voice even quieter now, though somehow closer.

“Memory doesn’t need a crowd,” — Soft spoken, calm, like he owned stillness. — “Sometimes, the gentlest lives leave the deepest echoes.”“Come now, Persephone” Hades called.“Thank you for helping”

Said Eirene, and Demeter’s daughter offered a polite nod back, grateful to be part of this delicate process, of witnessing what she would work with for the new months. As they stepped out of the embalming room and into the stairwell, the air changed. At the top of the stairs stood Minthe, one hand on the rail, the other curled around a paper coffee cup she wasn’t drinking from.

She leaned there like she’d been waiting, though her expression said otherwise casual, too casual.

A raised brow, a flicker of red lipstick against her pale skin, eyes falling on the brunette’s outfit. Minthe’s jaw tightened ever so slightly, smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“You’re still here?”

It wasn’t loud., just sharp enough to sting if you let it.

Persephone didn’t flinch this time, standing straighter, spine tall, shoulders back, chin level.

“Yes.”

No explanation, no excuses, just the truth. Minthe’s gaze swept over her, not lingering, but surgical. There was a pause as if she expected something more, when none came, her mouth twitched, far from a smile, but not quite a sneer, taking a small sip of her coffee.

“Strays always think they belong once you feed them.”

The words were quiet, low enough allowing her to deny them later, meant to slip under the ribs like a needle, not a scene. Before Persephone could speak, before she could decide if she even wanted to, Hades stepped forward.

He didn’t touch her, didn’t raise his voice, the air moved differently when he did.

“Minthe,” — he said, even and soft, but it left no room for questioning. — “You’re needed in reception, break is over”

There was no heat in his voice. Just the end of the conversation. Minthe’s smile didn’t move, her eyes sharpened, flicking to Hades like a match catching.

“Of course,”

She murmured, turning, heels clicking against the tile, walking down the hallway, perfume trailing after her, sharp citrus and something bitter underneath, Persephone felt the sting, yes, but it didn’t sink the way it might have yesterday.

Hades fell upon her, as if checking whether she needed a word, an anchor, anything, but she gave him a small smile in return, not a performance.

Something quieter.

Real.

“Thank you,”

She said, just for him, and the Lord nodded, starting to walk slowly along the worn stone path, silence curling comfortably between them like soft smoke, the air was cool beneath the tall hedges, a hush falling over the space as the bustle of the mortuary faded behind them. Demeter’s daughter fingers toyed with the edges of her sleeves, still uncertain how to voice everything brewing inside her.

“Hades” — She called, her voice tender sincere, his name accented on her tongue, savored before she swallowed it again, — “Thank you, I really mean it…”

“….For letting me be part of that… part of her goodbye. I expected this place to be cold, sterile. Morbid.” — She glanced up at him, unsure if she was saying too much.— “It’s not.”

Hades said nothing at first, gaze remained forward, resting on the branches that arched above them, some of them still blackened at the tips from past seasons, the ivy crept high, reclaiming.

“Most people avoid death until it touches them directly,” — He said finally. — “They think it’s all silence and rot. But there’s… something sacred in the tending.”

Persephone hummed in agreement.

“I want to show you what I did yesterday,” — She added, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice. — “Back here, behind the ashen tree, in that lost garden”

She moved ahead of him now, gown brushing against the overgrown grass as she passed the trunk, behind it, in the garden she’d begun to revive, the changes were small but visible, beds cleared, soil tilled, the ghost ferns had begun to uncurl at the edges, and there, in a clean patch of earth, were a few shy blooms, moon flowers and night jasmine, their petals still trembling with dew, she knelt by one and cupped it in her hand, lifting the delicate bloom toward her face and breathing in its faint, sweet scent.

“Maybe I could offer some of these,” — She said softly. — “To that woman… from this morning. I know she’s gone, but maybe, wherever she is, she’d appreciate someone remembering her.”

Hades stepped closer, his boots quiet against the earth, crouching beside her, quietly, then, reaching forward, his hand brushing hers as he took the flower gently from her grasp.

“Not these,”

Before she could ask why, he reached up — slow, unhurried — and tucked the bloom behind her ear.

“These are for the living,”

She tilted her head, voice soft. — “Why?”

He studied her a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting.

“They bloom at night,” — he said. — “They don’t need sunlight, they open in the dark… and somehow, that’s when they’re at their most beautiful.”

A pause passed between them, weightless.

“Some things,” — Eyes on hers now, — “just grow better in the shadows.”

“Is that another mythological metaphor?” — She stuttered, nervous, but her heart racing, as her face became red as a tomato.

“Perhaps.” — He glanced at the jasmine still nestled in her hair. — “In the old stories, night blooming flowers were said to carry the memories of the dead, but they only gave their scent to those willing to walk through the dark.”

Persephone laughed softly, almost shyly. “So they’re stubborn, like me,, It’s that the metaphor?”

“Not stubborn.” — His voice was quiet again. — “Resilient.”

Their eyes held for a moment longer than necessary, the garden pulsed with the hush of wind between branches, the perfume of soil and ghost ferns thick in the air, then she looked away, flustered, her fingers brushing the petals near her temple.

“You make it sound like they’re enchanted.”

“Aren’t they?”

She stood, brushing dirt from her knees, suddenly needing to move, to breathe, but her smile lingered.

“I think I’d like to keep working out here today, if that’s alright.”

“You can work wherever you’d like.” — His voice had dropped again, something in it gentler now, softer around the edges. — “This is your space, too”

Chapter Text

Persephone reached for the shears, clipping away a stubborn vine that had strangled the corner trellis, leaves fell soundlessly to the soil, curling like sleeping hands, she paused only briefly to brush her cheek against her shoulder, wiping away a smudge of earth she hadn’t realized was there, a smile tugged at the corners of her lips, not the kind she’d practiced for cameras, polished and precise, but soft, unforced, blooming, the way the night flowers did when no one was looking, this garden, tucked quietly behind the ashen tree, had become a sanctuary, no stage, no curated outfits, no eyes measuring her steps, just the sharp, grounding scent of cut stems, the grit of dirt beneath her fingernails, and the breath-like hush of leaves shifting in the breeze above.

The kind of silence that didn’t press on her, it made room.

She hummed a tune without knowing its name, something half remembered from when her world was simpler, when her mother still sang to her before sleep and she hadn’t yet learned how heavy pretending could feel, the soil was cold beneath her knees, it felt honest.

Persephone pressed down anyway, gently coaxing the half dead bulb into a new ceramic pot, letting it nestle into the bed of rich compost like a secret buried to bloom, the jasmine tucked behind her ear had wilted, she knew it, felt the limp brush of it near her temple, but didn’t remove it, something about keeping it there, — imperfect and real— made her feel more like herself.

The sky above the greenhouse shifted, the glass taking on the colors of dusk: rose bruising into lavender, lavender dissolving into blue. Indigo crept in from the corners like a tide. Wrapping her arms around herself briefly, the air cooling, she should’ve gone in by now, but still she lingered.

And in the hush of the garden, her mind drifted.

She had lied.

To her mother.

To her friends.

To herself.

The thought didn’t come with guilt as much as it did ache, Persephone had spent so long performing the girl everyone wanted her to be, she had begun to lose track of where the stage ended and where she began.

She missed her mother, deeply, truly, but that love had started to feel like a cage lined with silk.

Here, though… here was different.

She tilted her head back, breathing in deep, he scent of damp earth, of jasmine and broken vines and rust. Somehow, it reminded her of him. Not just Hades the man, but the presence he carried, it lingered in the garden, in the stillness, far from morbid, not skeletal or shrouded in shadow, like the stories had made him, something quieter, a kind of steadiness, not death as an ending, but as change.

As rebirth.

He wasn’t a king of ghosts, more like the god of thresholds, and hadn’t she come here because she stood on one?

The realization caught her off guard, like stepping into a shaft of warm light after wandering cold halls, letting herself sit fully then, pulling her knees up to her chest, arms wrapping loosely around them, and then, that thought came, like a wolf hunting it’s pray, like a silent prayer.

Hades

Hades, It sounded sacred in the mouth.

She thought of the way he looked at people, measured, yes, but not cold, the way he didn’t speak to fill space, but when he did, it meant something, how he listened, as if the silence between her words mattered too, how he never once asked her to be anything other than what she already was, not even when she stumbled, or cried, or asked for nothing at all.

He reminded her of stories she’d once read, not the popular versions, but the older ones. The ones where the underworld wasn’t a punishment, but a season, a part of the world necessary for the rest to bloom again.

Like Hades was not the darkness itself, but the soil from which everything rises, deep, patient, rooted.

She pressed her palm to the cool clay of the pot she’d just filled, grounding herself again.

She had thought this place would feel like a tomb.

But the truth?

It was the most alive she’d felt in years.

A shadow moved at the edge of the greenhouse, subtle, respectful. Then a voice —gentle, not interrupting, just offering space for return — came by.

“Persephone?”

She turned, slow and flushed, not startled, his silhouette stood just beyond the glass, tall, dark hair tucked back behind his ears now, sleeves rolled to the elbows. If the hunter himself heard Persephone’s thoughts like an ancient call, he waited.

Smiling softly, brushing her hands off on the thighs of her pants, the earth leaving ghost prints.

“I lost track of time,” — she said. — “Again.”

“There’s no harm in that.”

“I was thinking,”

He tilted his head. — “I see, dangerous,”

Hades teased but didn’t press her to share, he only held her gazes a little longer, and when she stood, the door was open a little wider, letting in the scent of dusk and the hush of evening.

“Do you need a ride tonight?” — he added, gently, if he had rehearsed this sentence a million times —“I assume, you still can’t go home.”

Her stomach tightened, the event, the lie, the photo, the noise of it all pressed at the back of her mind again, but she nodded quietly, in shame.

“If it’s not too much trouble.”

“It’s not.”

He offered a hand, not commanding, not assuming. Just… offered.

Demeter’s daughter hesitated for half a heartbeat before taking it, his fingers were calloused at the base, surprisingly warm, they walked side by side through the narrow path, past the ashen tree and the chapel’s shadow. The air tonight was gentle, charged with something unspoken but not uncomfortable. Persephone finally spoke, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye.

“You don’t have to do this every night, I can figure something out.”

Hades didn’t look at her at first, gaze was on the gravel beneath them, on the turning world.

“I know.” — After a beat, his eyes met hers again. — “But I want to.”

Persephone blinked, her breath catching just slightly, hand slipped from his naturally as they reached the car, Hades opened the passenger door for her without flourish, but as she climbed in, she noticed the way he looked at her. soft, searching.

She settled into the seat, glancing through the window at the sky, at the silhouette of the garden behind them.

Hades took the wheel, started the engine, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.

But there was a smile on her lips again.

The car eased into the gravel driveway, tucked deep within the trees, the light outside was soft, filtered through leaves, soon as the engine cut off, Cerberus leapt from the back seat with the energy of a creature unleashed, barking once before sprinting toward the porch like a flash of fur and joy.

Persephone laughed, startled but delighted, voice carried by the wind like music, following him with her gaze, arms still wrapped around herself as if unsure what to do with the warmth that curled inside.

For a moment, she wished this was her life.

Not a fantasy, not a lie. Just this, dirt under her nails, the afterglow of real work, someone who looked at her and didn’t flinch at the weight of her name.

What was she thinking?

She barely knew him.

But then again, she barely knew anyone, not truly.

Inside, the cabin glowed with a soft amber light, quiet and lived in. It wasn’t a villa, not the polished coldness of her mother’s house or the curated aesthetic of an apartment in the city, it was comfortable, worn in, honest.

Persephone hung back as Hades unlocked the door, Cerberus already sprawled on the rug like a king claiming his throne.

“Home again,” — Hades murmured, then glanced at her. — “Come in, you’ll freeze out here.”

She stepped over the threshold.

She changed into the robes he kept washed and folded for guests, though they were clearly tailored to him, they settled in the small sitting area.

The fireplace crackled, casting gold over his jawline, the faint sheen of olive skin. Persephone sat cross legged on the floor, sipping a cup of tea he made from something he’d foraged himself. She’d watched him do it, amused and Cerberus snoozed by her feet, occasionally nuzzling her hand.

“I used to think you’d be… colder,”

Persephone spoke suddenly, breaking the silence between them, The dark one raised a brow, leaning back in his chair, his long frame folding into the shadows.

“That’s an odd thing to say.”

She laughed softly. — “Not physically. I mean, you’re Hades.”

“Ah. The terrifying owner of Eidēon, of the underworld mortuary ” — He offered a dry smile.

“I think I expected the suit, but also maybe a bident… I don’t know, thunderstorms whenever you speak.”

“That sounds exhausting,” — He muttered, running a hand through his long black hair, still damp from earlier. — “I’m not really the thunderstorm type, slow erosion, maybe.”

She giggled, the sound surprising even herself. — “You’re very… still. Like the silence in a library.”

He tilted his head. — “That doesn’t sound flattering.”

“It is,”— Persephone brushed a lock of hair behind her ear. — “You feel safe, that’s rare.”

Their eyes locked for a long, unspoken moment, the fire cracked again. Hades shifted forward just slightly, as if drawn to the warmth between them, reaching to pour her another cup of tea, the backs of his fingers grazing hers.

“Would you like to play something?” — His voice softer now.

“A game?” — She asked, curious.

“Yes, an old one,” — he replied. — “Older than I look.”

“That’s saying something.”A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Word game. Strategy, a bit of bluffing. I used to play with Thanatos, he’s terrible at lying.”

Opening the box, it revealed dozens of square wooden tiles etched with letters, strange symbols, and accents — not quite Greek, not quite modern. — There was a grid board, and a cloth bag filled with tiles, reminding her of a Scrabble, if it met an oracle.

“What’s the goal?” — She leaned closer.

“You form words, real ones, or… invented ones. But you must define them convincingly, if I challenge you and you can’t explain it, you lose the turn.”

Persephone’s eyes lit up. — “So it’s a game of imagination?”

“And conviction.”

“You’re on.”

They each pulled a handful of tiles, laying them on the table in front of them, Cerberus circled a few times before settling heavily between them, his large head on Persephone’s thigh, she scratched behind his ear absentmindedly.

The first few rounds were tentative, formed by simple words: bloom, veil, ashen.

Hades countered with stranger ones: echor, which he defined as — “a memory you feel in the body before the mind recalls it” — Then thryssa, which he claimed was — “the tremble of air before a storm touches water.”

“Did you just make that up?” — She accused, laughing.

“Perhaps.”

“I challenge.”

He grinned. — “Then I win.”

“What? That’s not how that works!”

“You didn’t define anything better.” — He leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee. — “Your turn.”

Persephone took a breath and stared down at her pieces. She rearranged the letters and carefully spelled: skera.

Hades arched a brow. — “Meaning?”

She smiled faintly. — “It’s the moment you realize you’re not who you were, but haven’t figured out who you’re becoming.”

He paused.

Then leaned back with a hum of approval. — “I won’t challenge that.”

They kept going, the game becoming more playful with each round, watching her grow bolder, and he more amused.

Their words became stranger, deeper, like they were building a language only the two of them could understand. At one point, Hades played the word dysmyth.

Persephone tilted her head. — “Definition?”

“The act of outgrowing the stories told about you.”

She remained silent.

“Challenge?”

She shook her head. — “No. That one’s real.”

They played until the tiles ran thin, the dog snored gently, twitching in his sleep, the fire had burned down to coals, they sat closer now, drawn together by the quiet laughter, the intimacy of invention.

She played her final word: lythera.

He raised an eyebrow. — “Let’s hear it.”

Persephone smiled, fingers brushing a curl from her face. — “It’s when silence between two people says more than words ever could.”

He looked at her for a long time, neither of them spoke, then slowly, Hades set his final tile down, the game was over.

“You win,” — he murmured, voice barely above the fire’s hiss.

“Good.” — She grinned. — “I’d hate to lose to a god.”

“You haven’t even begun to play with gods,” — He said, but his tone was warm, amused.

Persephone leaned back, stretching out, shoulders finally relaxing. The game was done, but something deeper had shifted between them, not love, not yet, but recognition. Two quiet souls, sharing language, sharing silence, creating something ancient and new between them.

And in that glow of firelight, closeness, and Cerberus’s soft snores, the world outside faded just a little, his smile was gentle, inviting, welcoming her in without shame.

The phone buzzed again, insistent. Persephone leaned to check it.

“Mother.”

Her stomach dropped, as she swiped to answer and rose quickly, pacing a few steps toward the hallway for privacy.

“Hi-” — She tried to start, but Demeter’s voice cut through like a blade.

“Where the hell have you been?”

There was no softness in it, only ice and fire.

Persephone winced. — “I—I’ve just been busy. It’s only been two days—”

“Two days? I left you over a hundred messages, you don’t call, you don’t respond. Then I see this?”

There was a pause, a rustle. The sound of a screen being shaken.

“You, running down a city street, looking like you were dragged out of a back alley. What happened, Persephone? What the hell is going on?”

Persephone blinked, her chest tightening, knowing exactly what photo, the one heading to the funeral home after ditching the event.

“It’s fake,” — Persephone spoke too fast. — “It’s… it was just a bad picture, that’s all. I’m—at the party right now. There’s music, it’s loud, Eros is calling me, I really can’t talk—”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not—”

“You forget I know you. You forget who you are.”Persephone stared at the floor, gripping the phone tighter. — “I’ll explain when I’m home, alright? In two days. Just let me, please, I have to go.”

A sharp breath on the other end. Silence.

“Two days,” — Demeter said coldly. — “And I want the truth.”

The line went dead, Persephone lowered the phone slowly, hand trembling.

Behind her, the soft sounds of the fireplace still crackled, and Hades was gathering the last of the tiles back into the carved wooden box, he dare to didn’t look up right away, perhaps he knew not to.

Cerberus stirred, as if sensing the change in the room.

She exhaled, blinking hard, slowly returning to the living room as she slipped her phone screen down onto the table and sat again, silent. Hades looked up then, something unreadable in his gaze , not pity, not judgment. Just presence, steady and quiet, as if to say: You’re still here. It’s alright.

Persephone sat still for a moment, the silence around her thicker than before, broken by quiet sobs and trembling.

“I love her.”

It came out like a confession. — “My mother. I do. She raised me alone, gave up everything for me, built a world where I could be safe. But…” — she swallowed, hard, fingers curling into the hem of her robe, — “I’m tired of being good just to be loved.”

Hades only watched her gently, eyes calm but never indifferent.

“She wants me to be perfect, smile at every camera, play nice with Olympus. Sit still while the world chooses who I’m supposed to be with, what I should do, what I should feel.”

Her breath hitched. — “And I do it. I always do it, because if I don’t, I don’t know who I am.”

A sob cracked through her like lightning, the doberman moved instantly, pressing his big head into her lap with surprising gentleness. Persephone laughed through her tears, barely a breath of it, stroking the dog’s fur as she curled in slightly, trying to contain the flood inside her.

“I’m sorry,” — She whispered. — “I didn’t mean to ruin the night. I just…”

Wiping her cheek with the sleeve, eyes still lowered,

“you’re the only one who’s seen me. Like… really seen me. And I don’t know why that scares me more than anything else.”

She heard him shift. A quiet movement, no sudden gesture, sitting beside her, not close enough to touch, but near enough that she felt the warmth of his presence like a tide against her shore.

Hades spoke softly. — “You don’t need to disappear to begin again.” —Allowing the words to hang, a small truth resting between them like a stone.

“You’re allowed to be unfinished.”

That was all, no solutions, no promises, just presence, and somehow that steadiness made it easier to breathe.

Cerberus licked a tear from her cheek, making her smile faintly, hands stroking his broad back.

“You’re a good boy,”

There was a long pause, and then Hades stirred.

“I could make something, would you like some pasta with pesto? Food helps, sometimes.”

Persephone shook her head, gently. — “Thank you. But I should rest”

“Are you sure?” — Hades added simply.

She offered a small, tired smile, touched the side of Cerberus’s head, and stood.

“Thank you… for the bed. For everything.”

He nodded, watching her step away. Then, as she reached the hallway, he turned his gaze down to Cerberus, hand slowly running along the dog’s fur., deep down he already regretted not saying something. But the words remained in his chest, coiled and warm.

Chapter Text

The shears clicked softly in her hand. Persephone moved in silence beneath the arched glass ceiling of the greenhouse, the early morning mist still clanged to the panes, the air was damp with soil and something older, something ancient that seemed to hum beneath the roots, hands covered in dirt, sleeves rolled to her elbows, the scent of night flowers and rosemary clinging to her skin.

Finding solace in the repetition, prune, water, replant. The rhythm calmed her, not even her phone had buzzed today, it was silenced the night before, unable to face the storm of unread messages from her mother. She didn’t want to think about Demeter’s voice, or the look in her eyes the last time they spoke.

Instead, she thought about the way Hades had sat beside her on the floor, — quiet, steady, never pressing, — how they played that game, of his soft laugh, that were meant for nobody hear.

She remembered how he looked at her when she said she was afraid of being seen, and how he didn’t look away, warmth from the memory settled in her chest.

Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing against the fading mark where Minthe’s words had once landed. The garden, her, garden now, was waking with the sun.

The soft crunch of gravel pulled her back to earth.

Persephone looked up to see a familiar figure rounding the corner, he wore a dark coat, shoulders slightly hunched, the glint of old medals catching in the morning light.

“Odysseus,” — She smiled gently. — “You’re early.”

“Best moment of the day, early morning” — He replied, voice warm, and tired from the years, holding a small, cloth-wrapped object in his hand.

“I thought of you,” — He approached her slowly. — “When I found this in one of my old trunks.”

Odysseus handed it to her carefully, Inside was a silver compass, worn smooth on the edges, with a faint engraving of waves etched around the face.

“It doesn’t work,” — He spoke with a shrug — “It spun in circles the whole way home. But it got me through the dark anyway.”

“You want me to have this?”

The veteran nodded once, his face lined with memory. — “I do.”

“Oh, wow, this… This is really kind , you shouldn’t”

He hesitated, the weight of years visible in the slope of his shoulders. — “I carried that compass through three tours, it never pointed north. Always spun like it had no home to offer me, but it still offered some comfort… something to hold, a material reminder, that I was still moving, even when I didn’t know where I was going.”

Persephone cradled the small object in her palms, the metal was worn, edges smoothed by time and touch.

Odysseus continued, slowly.

“After the last deployment, I came home to a place that didn’t know me anymore, my father was dead, my mother moved across the country with a man she didn’t love. My house was sold, even the dog I left with my cousin didn’t recognize me.” — He chuckled, dry. — “I tried everything to make it feel like home, but, I was never really able to”

His eyes met hers, clear and dark as the deep sea.

“So, I started telling people I was cursed. The kind of man who couldn’t stop walking, I’d pass through towns like a ghost, offer stories, fix things, leave. It got easier to stay in motion than to admit I didn’t know what stillness looked like anymore.”

She said nothing for a long moment. Her throat felt tight, her fingers curled protectively around the compass.

“You remind me of someone who keeps walking,” — soft spoken, gentle, — “even when they’re afraid of where the road might end.”

Persephone blinked, vision blurred slightly. — “I feel like I’ve been walking forever,” — She whispered. — “Not forward, though. Just… around. In circles.”

“And, that’s fine” — He gave her a small, solemn nod. —“Sometimes it’s the circle that shows you what you’re carrying.”

She looked down at the compass again, the needle spun slowly, weightless in the glass dome.

“Well, thank you,” — she said at last, voice thick. — “This means more than you know.”

“It’s yours now, you keep it spinning. And maybe one day… it’ll stop, and it will point you where home truly is.”

Persephone pressed it to her chest, eyes stinging, she didn’t know what to say. Nodding, they stood together in the quiet, surrounded by soil and breath and sunlight filtered through glass.

This kind of moments didn’t need fixing.

They only needed to be witnessed.

“You are a kind man, Odysseus”

A crooked smile touched his weathered face, one earned through years of storms and silence, then he gave a quiet grunt and wandered back toward the garden path. Outside, the sun was settling into its morning’s warmth, Odysseus found an old iron bench beneath the fig tree, its arms rusted but steady, lowering himself with the stiff grace of a man who’d known pain too long to complain about it.

With his coat draped beside him and hands resting across his knees, he closed his eyes and tilted his face toward the light.

Bird songs, the scent of earth and thyme, faint sounds of Persephone humming to herself as she moved through rows of lavender and half awake poppies, quiet shuffles of her hands brushing through stems. It was peaceful here, in this strange, sacred greenhouse behind death’s front door.

Persephone heard the door open behind her, not a knock, or a greeting. Just the quiet, deliberate click of heels on old stone, followed by a wave of something cold and sharp in the air, perfume, the expensive kind, icy, unwelcoming, it was clearly,

Minthe.

The greenhouse, once soft with earth and filtered sun, grew taut around her, Persephone kept her focus on the soil in front, adjusting the position of a root bulb she’d just unearthed, her fingers were still dirty, gloved in loam and silence.

She heard the heels pause, then advance again.

“You’ve made yourself… comfortable, too comfortable to my taste”

Her voice was velvet laced with glass, unrealistic sweet to be kind, too soft to be sincere. Persephone slowly straightened, brushing her palms on her thighs, black linen pants were too long in the leg and a little loose at the waist, the shirt she wore was the same Hades had once handed her with an offhanded, ‘these should fit.’

They smelled faintly of cedar, of his home.

She turned.

“Just what was offered,”

Minthe stood a few paces inside, arms folded tightly across her chest, like a wall she’d bricked herself behind, eyes swept over Persephone, not a glance, but a calculation, gaze lingering where the fabric hung too soft, too familiar, there was a flicker of recognition,

of fury.

Some of her own clothes had hung in that closet, once, some still did.

“Smells like you’ve been offered a lot,”

Persephone said nothing. Odysseus, who had been quietly tending to a cracked pot near the garden’s edge, looked up, body tensed, a man trained for conflict long before this moment, sensing the air changing and cleared his throat.

“Ladies—”

Minthe didn’t look at him, eyes locked on Persephone, lit with something old, red and aching. The kind of fire that didn’t start from a spark, but from long smoldering coals left untended.

“You really think this is you now?” — Tone lilting with venom. — “Tending flowers? Humming songs? Wearing his shirts like they’re yours?”

Persephone didn’t reply.

So Minthe moved closer, her perfume stung now, her scent clinging to the leaves around.

“You think this little performance makes you real?” — She went on. — “You think a few days in the dirt gives you meaning?”

Still, Persephone said nothing, bent to gather the fallen ceramic from the ground, slow and quiet, her posture calm, though her chest was tight.

“I haven’t stolen anything,”

The dark haired one laughed, a bitter, brittle sound.

“Oh, haven’t you?”

There was silence, long and low.

“You think you’re different? That Hades sees you?”

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

Minthe’s smile widened, cruel and cold. — “I want you gone.”

She moved so suddenly it was almost a blur, a flash of crimson nails and trembling restraint finally breaking.“Away from him”The slap landed hard, a sharp, echoing crack across Persephone’s face, head whipped to the side, hair falling over her eyes, stumbling backward, shoulder catching a corner of the worktable, a pot fell, and s, and shattered.

She gripped the edge of the table to steady herself, cheek burned, hot and blooming, breath was shallow, ragged, not from the pain, but the silence that followed it.

Odysseus surged forward.

“Enough!”

The veteran’s voice tore through the room like a thunderclap, he spun toward the door, his boots crunching through broken ceramic.

“Help! Someone ? I need someone now!”

Persephone didn’t move, didn’t cry.

She knelt amid the wreckage, fingers stained, lip trembling, petals she’d gathered for the old woman’s grave had scattered across the floor, crushed under heel.

“He should have left you on that alley, for the world to see the disaster you are”

The door burst open again, Eirene came first, hands still in surgical gloves, eyes wide. — “What’s going on?”

Behind her, Hades, coat still clung to his shoulders, half buttoned from the wind, tie askew.

And when he saw Persephone, on the floor, sleeve pressed to her cheek, surrounded by broken things,

Something in him stopped.

Everything about him went still, not cold, or cruel, but sharp and untamed. Similar to a blade held tight in a sheath, humming against the tension of restraint.

His gaze turned to Minthe.

She dropped her arms at once, mouth parting. — “Hades, it’s not what it looks like.”

His silence was thunderous.

“I was just- … I didn’t mean—she…” — Minthe faltered. — “You know how I get when I—”

“You should leave,”

Voice low, a tide beginning to rise, dangerous in its calm.

“But- No ! You can’t not listen to me”

“I should call the police, press charges, ruin you.”

The mean one’s mouth twitched.

“But I won’t,” — He said coldly. — “I just want you gone, one meeting. Then you’re out.”

Minthe flinched like he’d struck her.

She turned, face twisted with rage, and stormed out of the greenhouse, heels stabbing the tile loud as gunshots.

Hades was already at Persephone’s side, crouching down beside her. Her eyes didn’t meet his gaze, cheek still red, hands trembled in her lap.

“I didn’t want it to be like this,” — She whispered.

“I know.”

Persephone shook her head, blinking back the sting in her eyes.

“She hates me.”

“She’s gone now,” — He said. — “She won’t be back.”

Eirene hovered behind them, hesitant. Hades nodded to her gently, she guided Odysseus, that could not stop himself from looking over his shoulder, checking on Persephone’s well being.

Now, only soil and silence remained, and in it, Persephone sat midst broken pieces, flowers still scattered around her.

Hades stayed crouched beside the woman, the soft press of soil sinking beneath his boots, the scent of crushed lavender and mint clung to the air, heady and bruised, he glanced at her face, flushed from the slap, but composed, lips drawn thin with restraint.

“What happened exactly?”

Persephone blinked, eyes still on the floor.

“She saw me in the clothes,” — She murmured. — “Your shirt, pants. I think they used to be hers, or she thought…”

Her voice faltered, then found itself again in something steadier, sadder.

“She thinks we slept together.”

Hades didn’t move, a faint breath left him, slow and heavy, tension that had crackled around him began to settle, though it didn’t leave.

She looked at him then, eyes wide and searching. — “Are you two a thing?” — Her voice was quiet.

His face reddened slightly, not the flush of guilt, but the unmistakable ache of embarrassment.

“No,” — His throat moved as he swallowed, gaze momentarily dropping to the floor between them. — “We’re not… a thing. We never were.”

She didn’t answer, just watched him.

“She and I were coworkers, for a long time,” — he continued. — “We worked well together, she was sharp, capable. And yes….” — Paused, then forced himself to meet her gaze fully, — “…there were a few moments, where… she made advances. I didn’t always say no.”

Persephone’s eyes didn’t flicker.

“It wasn’t love,” — He added. — “Not even something close. Just…”

Hades hesitated again.

“…distraction. Loneliness, maybe, but that’s all it was, and it ended. A long time ago, in every way that matters.”

He extended a hand toward her.

She looked at it, at the he scar on his knuckle, lines of dirt under his nails. A man who had buried the dead and carried their memories. But, she did not accept his offer.

She pressed one palm into the ground and stood on her own, dusting herself off.

“I’ll go clean up,” — She said, voice quiet, controlled. — “Thank you.”

Leaving the room with a slow, even pace, her fingers brushed lightly along the jasmine vines on the way out, as if steadying herself on something living.

Hades watched her go, hand slowly lowered, as he sat back on his heels, the emptiness where she had just been feeling too quiet, too sudden.

He exhaled once, sharply, and rose to his own feet, and though part of him wanted to follow, wanted to say what he hadn’t the night before, the words still curled in his chest like smoke.

Instead, he turned toward the opposite hall.

The bathroom door clicked softly behind her, the silence inside was deafening.

Persephone leaned over the sink, hands gripping the cool porcelain like it might anchor her to the earth, reflection stared back, blurred at the edges from the humidity of her shallow, fast breaths.

The faint red mark still lingered on her cheek, a ghost of Minthe’s slap. But that wasn’t what stung.

It was everything else.

She turned the faucet on, hands trembling , splashing water over her face, the chill made her gasp, but it didn’t clear the storm. A hitching breath sneaked in, once, then again, and then the sob cracked out.

Persephone slid to the tiled floor, knees folding beneath, back pressed against the wall as her whole body curled into the ache.

Her sobs weren’t quiet. They came in waves, ugly, human, furious waves.

What was she doing here?

What had she been thinking?

Her phone buzzed in her back pocket and she pulled it out, unlocking it with slippery fingers, she didn’t even know who she meant to text, until the name lit up in her contacts.

Aphrodite.

Her thumbs moved before her mind caught up.

[Persephone, 11:20 am]

This was stupid. All of it, why did you say I should go?

This isn’t growth, this is ruin, you should have stopped me.

I look like an idiot, he slept with his assistant, let her touch him. He made me feel like a fool, took advantage of me, in my weakest moment.

Like I’m something soft.

I’m not soft.

I’m cracked.

I’m breaking.

And it was a fucking joke.

She hit send, the screen blinked, and she threw the phone. Hard.

It slammed into the edge of the sink, bounced once, and struck the mirror.

Crack.

The sound was final, glass fractured like her composure, spider webbing across her reflection, cutting her face as the scattered pieces fell all over the bathroom floor.

Persephone sat still, chest heaving, eyes wide, no more tears left, just silence.

Angry at herself.

At Minthe.

At Hades.

How dare he look at her like she was something delicate, something to protect, when he had let that woman linger so close, seething in the dark?

She rose slowly, the shame clinging to her soul, shoulders high with the stiff, invisible weight of being seen, truly seen, and judged. Her fingers found a towel and scrubbed at her face, angry, frantic, as if she could erase the evidence of softness, of tears, of that raw and clumsy ache that had split her wide open in the garden.

When she looked back up, into the fractured mirror, her reflection stared back in shards cleaner, colder, a little too still.

Kore.

The one who knew how to smile while bleeding, how to pose while crumbling. She knelt to retrieve her phone, fingers brushing glass, screen cracked, still glowing with an eerie calm.

Five new tags, fve quiet detonations waiting.

She tapped.

One was a blurry photo of her in the mortuary hallway, walking beside Hades.

Another, her beside the car, the black button up too big on her, eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

Another still, taken through the glass of the greenhouse, hands in the soil, flowers in her palm.

One more, laughing. A captured frame from when she’d thrown her head back, just once, in the garden, and he’d been looking at her.

The captions were all different.

But the tone was the same.

“Goddess of Spring caught playing house with Death?”

“Demeter’s daughter is seen living it up with a funeral heir.”

“Underworld romance or downward spiral?”

Persephone couldn’t breathe, dropping the phone as if it had burned her, and the room didn’t just tilt, it vanished. The tiles beneath her knees felt miles away, mirror, fractured and glittering, became a hundred cruel mouths whispering versions of her she no longer recognized.

Her pulse thudded in her ears like a drumbeat too fast to follow, and still. Nothing moved, not her breath, nor time.

The walls pressed closer, light turned too bright, silence wasn’t peace. It was a scream folded inward,shattered glass reflected her in shards: dirt under her nails, garden-stained hands, lips trembling with something unnameable.

This wasn’t Kore, or what her mother built, what the world expected.

This was ruin.

And for a second, a terrifying, weightless second, she felt it. The cold edge of it, standing on a ledge she didn’t remember climbing, and wondering if she was already falling.

If anyone would notice the difference between the girl she used to be and the silence she’d leave behind, pressing her palms to the sink, trying to ground herself.

But even the porcelain felt flawed.

She had ruined everything.

With a stupid smile, a game, a black shirt too soft on her skin. The way she let herself believe she could belong in a world without being claimed, she let herself be seen, and the world devoured her for it.

Even Kore, the polished version, the daughter of Olympus and designer lace, had fled. Leaving Persephone bare, breathless, and wrong.

She wondered if the world would not remember the woman who re-potted flowers for the lonely.

Who wept quietly beside the forgotten.

The girl who had only just begun to want more, hands trembled, still red from the slap, still shaking from the weight of being unmade.

Persephone caught in scandal with heir to death.

Was the first headline in her head, as she stared at her reflection in the broken mirror, and there was nothing left behind her eyes.

Outside, the night had fallen like a curtain, no moon tonight, only clouds stretched tight across the sky, the stars hidden if they were ashamed of her too.

Persephone made her way to the garden behind the ashen tree, knees folding under her similar to how a puppet discarded, earth here had always been steady, but tonight, even the soil felt indifferent.

She lay on her back in the mulch, cheek against the cool stone edging the flower beds. Jasmine wilted near her shoulder, breath came too fast, if her own ribs weren’t big enough to hold it.

‘Should I even keep trying?’

The thought came not in words, but in sensation.

‘Wouldn’t it be kinder to vanish myself before the world could eat me alive again?’

There were doors, too many doors, the busy street beyond the wrought-iron gate, a bottle of too many pills, a sharp edge. They circled her mind, vultures with wedding veils, each more polite than the last.

Each whispering,

You’ve done enough. You’ve ruined enough. Let go.

And gods, she was so afraid.

Afraid of the pain. Of what her mother would say, of waking up in some hospital with pity in strangers’ eyes, not waking at all, or maybe, just maybe, this was what she deserved.

Her body pulsed, it wanted to burst open, hands gripped the soil, no prayers came, no salvation.

Just so much pressure it made everything zoomed out, as the walls started to distance themselves, her body didn’t feel like her own anymore, watching from above. The garden was a toy set, her limbs, a collection of wires and tangled strings.

Her pulse roared like thunder through a vacuum.

She blinked, trying to wash the illusion away, and the world changed, she was seated in a wooden chair, a stage light hung above her, buzzing, harsh, cameras flashed, voices called her name, over and over, too fast, too hungry.

“PERSEPHONE!”

“KORE!”

A cold weight pressed against her palm, she tried to let go, to move, to scream, but her limbs refused to obey. The shard of glass embedded in her skin gleamed red at the edge, and yet she couldn’t feel pain , as if the world were leaning in on her from all sides.

The air around her buzzed, thin and electric, the moment before a thunderclap. Light bent strangely, too bright, too dark at once. Her mother’s voice cracked through the haze, sharp as splintered marble, each word like a slap to the mouth:

“You ruined everything I built for you!”

The sound echoed from every corner, impossible to escape, Persephone tried to cover her ears, but her arms didn’t move, vision stuttered, white spots blooming like frost across her sight.

“No daughter of mine dies in a place like that,” — Demeter spat, voice rippling with disgust, as if grief were a stain Persephone had chosen.

Then, laughter, not warm, or human, hollow and high, a chorus of cruelty wrapped in designer perfume and dripping sarcasm.

Minthe, Helen, Ariadne. Their faces glowed with phone screens as they posed in the flickering light, mouths twisted in glee, clicking selfies beside her crumpled form like tourists beside a monument.

Funeral flower filters and hashtags spun across her face.

#WhoreOfHades

#KoreNoMore

#FallenFlower

Each tag hit like a stone to the ribs, Persephone tried to scream again, but her voice was strangled in her throat, thick with humiliation, hands were pulled upward, — not by her, never by her — as though she were a puppet suspended by invisible strings.

The glass in Persephone’s hand shifted.

It rose.

Its kiss was cool, wet with dew and blood, brushing the hollow of her neck like a secret, the world tilted, pulse thundered in her ears, but the sound faded to something distant.

She was breaking again, and in the cracks, only silence answered.

Until, a pair of hands, warm as fire, solid, as stone, grasped hers, gentle but firm, pulling her away from the edge.

Followed by a voice, muffled, as though it were reaching her from beneath the earth itself.

“You’re okay… You’re here now… I’ve got you.”

Chapter Text

Persephone woke up, somewhere, where the air was cool, dim, velvety, laid in a bed carved from deep wood, dark sheets wrapped in a way they resembled dusk itself, statues lined the wall, quiet sentinels with hollow eyes, books stacked like forgotten prayers, a small hearth still burned low, throwing orange shadows across the ceiling.

Cerberus lay curled across her legs, warm breath steady against her ankle. Somehow her body trembled, lungs worked, heart still beat.

Still alive.

And someone had pulled her back, Demeter’s daughter blinked slowly, breath ragged, the nightmare still bleeding into the edges of reality. The air smelled of ash and old paper, cedar and clove, fingers curled against the fabric beneath, she recognized nothing and everything all at once.

This was Hades’ room.

Not the guest room, not a spare cot in a tucked away wing.

His.

The carved bed was wide, impossibly so, the ceiling above her bowed with dark beams, the heat withing it felt good, tangible. Cerberus stirred, eyes opening followed by a soft whine that cracked that stillness, making Persephone turn her head, and the hound climbed slowly, hesitantly, his tail tucked low.

A gentle nudge against her side, then a lick, wet and earnest against her cheek, then it whined again, pressing his head beneath her hand, his presence was anchoring.

A hush of sound, the pull of curtains sliding open, pale moon light filtered in, soft and washed in gray, slipping across the rug and catching on the edge of a low sofa where he sat.

Head leaned into his hand, elbow resting against the arm of the chair, a quiet exhaustion about him, a statue carved from tension.

He wasn’t watching her, not yet.

But something in Persephone’s chest pulled tight, sitting up slowly, sheets rustling, knees pulled to her chest, the Doberman didn’t move far, just tucked against her side.

The sound stirred him.

Hades opened his eyes, they were dark, heavy lidded, and somehow already full of concern, but he didn’t rush toward her. Hades stayed, knuckles flexing once in his lap.

“Are you okay?”

The words were so gentle, she nearly cried again. No more rage, no more performance, only the sting of something quiet and raw, a wound half healed, then ripped open again.

Voice barely working.

“I think so.”

A pause.

“You were burning,” — He whispered. — “I found you in the garden. At closing time, you weren’t waking up.”

She looked down.

“It was nothing,”

“It was something.”

Hades tone didn’t change, but the weight of it landed. The brunette, watched, her throat tightened, words gathered and scattered behind her teeth, hands gripped the blanket.

There was a silence that seemed to go on forever.

“I wasn’t going to do anything,”

She looked up, meeting his gaze, hating how much of herself he could see in his reflection.

And yet, she couldn’t look away.

There was a tremble that seemed unstoppable, a pressure in her chest that refused to ease, an anxiety that hadn’t left. It just sat lower now, in her bones.

“Something broke,” — She said after a long moment. — “Inside, or… around me.”

The dog shifted, resting his heads across her lap, one paw moved protectively over her thigh, like he could shield them from anything.

“You don’t have to say anything,” — She whispered. — “I am sorry.”

Hades moved to the edge of the bed and crouched there, not pressing close, not demanding, but this time, not hesitant either. The stillness between them trembled, and then slowly, deliberately, he reached out, hand brushed her wrist, warm skin to warm skin.

She didn’t pull away.

His fingers lingered there, gentle and grounding, afraid she might vanish.

“I’ve been waiting for the right moment,”

His voice was low, steady, but something inside it was breaking open.

“But I’m starting to think moments don’t wait for us.”

Persephone stayed still, the pressure of his fingers soft, but unmistakably there.

“I’ve spent most of my life inside silence,” — He continued. — “Tending endings , living in the pause after the last breath. That’s who I was, who I still am, maybe, the man people come to when the story is over.”

Thumb brushed lightly across the inside of her wrist, barely there, but enough to make her exhale without meaning to.

“But then you walked in, all those distant encounters.” — Hades said. — “And, quiet didn’t feel like peace anymore. It felt… empty.”

He looked up at her then, far from shyly, fully, taking the decision to stop hiding back.

“You didn’t ruin anything, Persephone,”

Voice growing rough with the weight of it.

“You didn’t break what was whole. You came into the ruin, and you grew something in it, like moss on stone, wildflowers through cracks.”

Hades hand held hers now, without asking, or planning, It had simply happened, and she hadn’t let go.

“As I sit beside you,”

He stopped, voice cracking with a subtle nervous laughter

“And…For the first time in years, I want time to go slower, I want to stay, here, with you. Even if it’s uncertain, even if it ends.”

Her throat closed, for a moment forgetting how to breathe.

“You changed me,”

He whispered. Persephone didn’t speak, feeling in the shock, eyes locked at their hands, his one larger, steadier one cradling hers like it might fracture if held too tightly.

The brunette’s eyes stung, not with sorrow, with clarity, the kind that comes after the storm, when the debris is still all around you, but the sky has finally opened.

This wasn’t safety, not entirely.

But it was truth.

She brought her other hand to cover his, deliberate, not delicate, if anchoring them both, and when she finally met his gaze, voice low, raw from every bruise she’d worn in silence.

“Hades, I don’t know how.”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t have to, Persephone could still feel the echo of everything she’d nearly lost, the weight of the glass, the burn in her lungs, the laughter, the fear, or the shame.

But none of it lived in this moment.

Here, there was only the man who had found her, held her, not with pity, but as something worth reaching for.

Slowly, deliberately, she turned her hand, lacing her fingers through his.

And then she leaned in.

Not hesitant, not unsure.

Kissing him, soft at first, just a brush of lips, uncertain and trembling, when he didn’t pull away, when his breath caught in his throat as he’d been holding it for days, she kissed him again.

Longer.

When they pulled apart, she felt breathless, pulse skittered, but she didn’t look away, lips still tingled, caught in the echo of what had passed between them, as a moth caught under glass, from what it might mean, what it could cost.

She didn’t know what to say, the words felt tangled, choked by fear, seeing her mother’s face in her mind, cold, furious, not just disappointed but betrayed. A distant reverberation whispered in her ears a warning.

‘fall for him, and you’ll never crawl out of that grave.’

That voice, sharp, familiar, venom-laced. It told her to run, to forget the man in front of her, go home, beg forgiveness, swallow every flame she’d ever dared to light in herself.

But then, another whisper came, softer, faint but full of color.

‘stay’

How he said her name in the dark, the way looked at her if she was something living, how his hands hadn’t reached for her as a prize, or something sacred, not to be touched.

Gods, how she wanted to be touched by him.

Even if it meant facing the fire, even if it meant pain, because in the space between fear and longing, he had been steady, patient, quietly there.

Just as he was now.

Before she could gather the strength to speak, Hades moved, gently, without pressure or expectation, wrapping his arms around her, slow and certain, not possessive, or bold.

As if he was giving her permission to lose, if only here, in his arms.

She let herself lean in, finally, tentatively at first, then with her full weight, face buried against his collar, tears she hadn’t meant to cry soaking the dark fabric of his shirt.

Cerberus, as if sensing her unraveling, lifted his head and nuzzled her thigh, letting out a soft whimper before curling more tightly around her.

She sat there, wrapped in the warmth of things she thought she’d never be allowed to have.

Comfort, quiet, a place that didn’t ask her to be less.

They sat there for a long while, wrapped in stillness and shadow, where the weight of the world hadn’t disappeared, but it had eased, just slightly, beneath the soft gravity of his arms and the warmth of the room.

Persephone’s voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper, her cheek still pressed to his chest, breath shaky but steady.

She closed her eyes.

“My mother will be furious. I’ll never hear the end of it. I’ll pay for this, in ways I can’t even see yet.”

A long silence passed.

“What if I’m wrong?” — She asked. —“What if I’m just reading this all wrong. What if you’re not offering me something that is possible? What if you’re just… two lonely souls, Hades?”

His hand lifted to cradle hers more fully, thumb brushing lightly along the edge of her palm, no sudden movement.

“I won’t lie,” — He said, voice low, eyes never leaving hers. — “You did fill something in me, a space I didn’t even know was hollow until you walked in.”

Her breath caught.

“But I’m not asking you to stay because I’m empty without you,” — He added gently. — “But, if you are uncertain, and wishes to walk away,”

Hades paused, moving a bit closer, respectfully, enough so their shoulders could brush together, his free hand traced circles on her back.

“I’ll still want what’s best for you. Even if it breaks something in me.”

“I think I’m scared of what comes next,”

He didn’t interrupt, just waited, allowing her to speak.

“My mother will make a spectacle,” — She continued, voice thinner now, but clear. — “She’ll twist this into something shameful, and maybe I’ll believe her, some nights.”

Hades drew in a slow breath, steadying himself.

“And what do you want?”

Her gaze lifted to his, the warmth of his skin still touched hers, hand still holding on. She exhaled, slow and trembling.

“To let the world burn.”

“So, let it be”

His answer came without hesitation.

Cerberus had fallen asleep at the foot of the bed, a heavy, warm weight against Persephone’s calves, shadows shifted on the ceiling as the hearth cast its low, amber glow. Somewhere beyond the glass, the city turned in on itself for the night, but here, in Hades’ bedroom carved of wood, time and silence, the world felt far away.

She lay curled beneath the sheets, cheek pressed to the pillow that smelled like ash and cedar, hair still damp from the fevered sweat earlier, limbs ached, not with illness, but with everything left unspoken. Everything she had felt, lost, feared, and tried to bury.

Hades sat in the edge of the bed, close but not hovering, watching gently, his hand resting against his lips, as if he moved too quickly, he might startle the moment away.

Persephone finally spoke, her voice soft but clear.

“So she slept here? Minthe?”

There was no accusation in her tone, just the open wound of curiosity, the pull of wanting to understand him, truly. Even the parts that might sting.

Hades nodded once.

“She did, for a time.”

“Did you love her?”

He didn’t answer at first, and then, carefully,

“Not the way I wanted to, or the way she deserved.”

Persephone looked away, her fingers curling into the blanket.

“Was she like me?”

“No,”

Voice low but firm.

“She was nothing like you.”

A silence settled again, this one different, taut, almost intimate. Persephone turned her head back toward him, meeting his gaze in the low firelight, there was no jealousy in her eyes, only uncertainty.

“I don’t know if I’m making this worse,” — She said finally. — “All of it. The mess, my mother, the press, you, me.”

“You’re not,”

“I might not be strong enough for what’s coming.”

“You are.”

She closed her eyes.

“I want to believe that.”

Hades paused, turning to face her, moving a bit closer.

“I know you’re supposed to go home tomorrow,”

She nodded.

“But,” — His eyes meet hers — “we could pretend tonight is longer than it is.”

Searching his face, voice trembled

“What would that look like?”

He tilted his head slightly.

“It would look like soup and quiet music and an old record player. It would look like staying awake for the sake of staying beside someone, not out of fear.”

She stared at him, then nodded once.

So they stayed.

He brought her a second blanket, and sat with it around her shoulders, legs tucked under her on the velvet sofa by the hearth. The soup was simple, lentils and garlic, a recipe his grandmother had taught, he told her that, and she smiled as she ate.

Later, Hades put on music, in a vinyl, something soft and old with a voice sweet as honey left out in the sun, they sat side by side, shoulder to shoulder, both wrapped in a shared secret.

Persephone turned her face toward his at some point, lips parted like she might say something. Instead, rested her head on his shoulder.

He tensed for a heartbeat, but relaxed right after.

The brunette’s voice was barely audible when she spoke again.

“I don’t want to leave.”

His hand drifted across her back, tentative, then steadier when she didn’t pull away, fingers moved slowly, tracing the edge of her shoulder blade, her spine.

“Then don’t,”

And then she turned her face into his neck, breathing him in, warm, steady, real. His arms wrapped around, fully now, drawing her into his lap, and Persephone allowed herself be held.

They didn’t speak for a long time.

And when he kissed her, finally, it wasn’t tentative.

It wasn’t rushed, either.

Reverent, slow, deep, the kind of kiss that promised things words didn’t dare say yet, a confession spoken with mouths and breath and the weight of months held back.

Their foreheads rested together in the silence after, breaths mingling. Hand cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing her cheek as if memorizing her, Persephone’s heart fluttered beneath her ribs, unsure whether it was fear or anticipation, but she didn’t pull away, and he read right through the emotions.

“I want to remember this night, forever, but…"

“We don’t do anything you don’t want. Just tell me.”

“No, I want to be yours,” — She breathed, — “But I’ve never… I mean, I haven’t-”

“And I would never rush you.”

She nodded, then leaned into him again, lips finding his with a hunger that trembled at the edges, fingers skimming the line of her jaw, the slope of her neck, tracing the dip of her spine beneath the cotton of the borrowed shirt. His hands were warm, steady, more comforting than any embrace she’d known.

When he finally lifted the fabric from her body, he did it with a quiet pause, eyes meeting hers for permission, for confirmation.

She gave it with a nod, small, sure.

Under the soft glow of the hearth, she let herself be seen.

Hades leaned down, kissing her collarbone, shoulder, the inside of her wrist. When his mouth moved lower, she gasped, half from nerves, half from the tenderness of it all, every touch was slow, like he was asking questions with his hands and waiting for her to answer in breath and shiver and whispered yeses. Persephone’s hand wrapped around his long dark hair, legs around his hips, awed by the way it felt to be held so completely.

“You’re alright,” — He murmured into her skin. — “I’ve got you.”

His hands found her thighs and lifted her, carrying her with ease to the edge of the bed with a strength that sent a shiver through her spine, heat bloomed between them, growing stronger by every touch, every press of his lips.

Hades’ kisses wandered, along her throat, the hollow between her collarbones, hands explored her body with a hunger barely restrained. She tugged at his shirt, needing to feel his skin. There was hesitation, but only for a breath, before pulling it over his head, pale scars traced across his torso. Persephone’s fingertips skimmed the lines of his ribs, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her palm was grounding.

His forehead dropped to her shoulder, a soft sound escaping his throat when her hands roamed across his back.

She tugged at the waist of his trousers, breath quickening, and he helped her remove them, casting the last barriers between them aside, skin warm beneath her touch, his body taut and humming with restraint.

He pushed her panties way with a reverent slowness, leaving her bare beneath him. The way he looked at her, stole the air from her lungs, fingers ran along the lines of her spine, her hips, her thighs, grounding her as he settled his arousal against her entrance, and paused, always pausing for her, always asking without words.

Persephone nodded, whispering, — “Please.”

He entered her slowly, carefully, each inch a surrender, the stretch stole her breath, body trembling beneath his as he buried himself deep, stilled, watching her with quiet intensity, waiting until her gasp turned into a breath, until tension turned into welcome.

And then, he moved.

Each thrust was deliberate, measured, building something ancient and holy between them, hands gripped his shoulders, nails dragging down the planes of his back. His mouth found the curve of her neck, tasting, breathing her in, and Persephone’s moans spilled out, each one a prayer.

“Hades”

His pace quickened, control unraveling, he whispered her name against her throat, again and again, if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Every movement made the bed shift beneath them, made her cry out, made him groan louder, indiscreetly.

Until, Hades filled her again and again, anchoring himself in, and she took him fully, body moving with his, desperate and open. The tension in her belly tightened, coiled, until her voice broke in a sharp cry, her very first climax rippled through, shattering and pure, and still he held her, hips stuttering as his own release followed — warm, pulsing, overwhelming. — Hades lingered in her warmth for a few heartbeats, steadying his breath, then slowly, pulled away.

Persephone blinked up at him, still flushed and dazed, limbs draped loosely at his sides. The way he looked at her in that moment, utterly bare, glowing with the aftermath, made her chest swell with something far too big to name.

Lips trailed along her stomach, soft kisses pressed into the dip of her navel, the underside of her ribs. She squirmed, laughter bubbling out of her.

“Hades,” — she whispered,— “that tickles,.”

“Oh, does it?”

He murmured, mouth curving against her skin, finally setting her legs down with care, like she was made of silk instead of flesh and stardust, and slipped off the bed.

Her hand reached out. — “Where… where are you going?”

“Just a second,” — Voice warm. — “Promise.”

When he returned, it was with a handful of soft wipes, the kind he kept for delicate rituals, though now they had a far more human purpose, knelt between her thighs again, and with the gentleness of someone handling a relic, cleaned her up, spent desire, trembling thighs, all of it. She watched him, quiet, undone by the sight of a god kneeling just to take care of her.

He tossed the used cloths toward a chair.

Tomorrow’s problem.

Then he picked up the softest silk blanket he owned, an indulgence he’d never cared for before, and wrapped her in it. Persephone melted into the warmth as he climbed into bed beside her, his head propped on one arm, the other one drifting to rest lightly on her stomach.

“Did it hurt too much?”

He asked quietly, thumb tracing absent circles against her skin.

She shook her head, a slow smile forming.

“Surprisingly… no. It felt good. Really good.”

His answering smile was subtle but deep, like a sunrise stretched across his face.

“Can you stay?”

He arched a brow. — “This is my bed, after all.”

They both laughed, her head falling back into the pillow, and he let the sound of her joy wash over him, she reached out, curling her fingers around his wrist and tugging gently encouraging him to lay beside her fully, pulling him close, until he was resting on her again, long hair spilling down and tickling her face. Persephone puffed at it, exhaling dramatically.

“Your hair is a menace,” — She muttered through a grin.

He chuckled, brushing it away with an apologetic kiss to her cheek. — “Noted.”

Their laughter softened into something quieter. Hades pressed another kiss to her jaw, temple, then simply breathed her in.

Their legs tangled again, this time in the lazy, familiar way of people who never intended to untangle.

Chapter Text

A few days had passed, the morning light was already high when Persephone unlocked the door to her mother’s villa. She stepped inside slowly, as if intruding on a memory, the silence greeted her like an old friend, familiar, but cold.

Each step down the long marble corridor echoed more than the last., fingers drifted along the walls, tracing invisible lines she no longer felt connected to. The paintings, the flower arrangements the housekeepers refreshed every other day, the soft scent of expensive candles, all of it belonged to the version of her that had worn the mask of Kore.

But not her.

Pausing at her bedroom door. It stood slightly ajar, like it had been waiting. She didn’t enter, instead, she leaned against the frame, gaze moving over the pristine linens, the untouched vanity, the closet door left just barely open. Everything in place, a carefully arranged life, a curated shell.

Persephone exhaled, reaching into her coat pocket and pulled out her phone, the screen still spider webbed from the night it slipped from her hands and hit the bathroom mirror, back when everything began to unravel. Notifications blinked in from every corner, dozens of missed calls, hundreds of messages, tagged posts, leaked photos, and worse, opinions.

But the top of her screen held one name.

[Aphrodite 🩷💋]

She hesitated, then hit call.

It rang only once.

“Persephone?” — Aphrodite’s voice was rushed, breathless, like she’d been waiting on edge. — “Oh thank the gods. Are you okay? Where are you? I was going to show up at your place if you didn’t answer me soon.”

“I’m okay,”

Persephone interrupted softly, walking into the room now, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“I’m home. Just for today.”

The line went quiet for a heartbeat, Aphrodite took in a deep breath, voice gentler now.

“I saw everything,” — she said. —“The articles, photos, threads. They’re calling you.... Well, you’ve seen it. I didn’t want to believe it until your silence made it feel real.”

Persephone closed her eyes, letting her body fold into itself.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” — Aphrodite asked immediately, fierce. — “For being with someone you care about? For letting the world tear you apart over it?”

“For making trouble,” — Persephone replied, voice smaller. — “For making people question. For being… Messy. For not knowing how to do this cleanly.”

She expected a lecture, or soft pity, but Aphrodite gave neither.

“I don’t give a damn if it was messy,” — Her friend said, steady. — “You’re allowed to want something for yourself. And you don’t have to explain that to anyone, not even to me.”

Persephone’s throat tightened.

“But,” — Aphrodite continued more quietly, — “I need to know how you’re holding up. Really, your texts, the ones from last time, scared me”

Persephone looked out the window, toward the city skyline in the distance, a life that had once felt so vital, now so painfully distant.

“I feel like the world has seen too much of me,” — she whispered. — “And still… Not enough.”

The silence on the other end felt like a hand held out, unseen but steady.

“I miss you,” — Aphrodite said. — “But I get it. If you disappear for a while, just promise you’ll come back when you’re ready.”

Persephone nodded, even though no one could see it.

“I will,”

She promised, taking in a few seconds, a deep breath before continuing.

“But I think… I need to say goodbye to this place first.”

Aphrodite hesitated. — “You don’t have to do that alone.”

“I think I do.”

“Okay,” — Her friend replied softly. “— But just so you know, you’re not alone. You never were.”

Persephone smiled, a small, sad thing. — “Thank you.”

They stayed on the line a while longer, no more words, just silence and presence.

And when Persephone finally hung up, she didn’t cry. She got up, crossed the room, and opened every curtain wide, letting the light flood in.

A suitcase lay open at the edge of her bed, half filled with carefully folded pieces of a life Persephone no longer belonged to.

Each blouse, each silk slip, each pair of designer heels held echoes of a girl who tried so hard to fit the mold Demeter had shaped for her, fingers trailed over a pale lavender dress, one her mother had commissioned for a debut event. Persephone had smiled through that evening, even though the fabric felt too tight at the collar, even though the applause felt like thunder against a hollow chest.

She moved slowly, deliberately, folding the dress and placing it in the case.

This room was quiet, too quiet, the morning sun poured in through the tall windows, brushing gold over the pale carpet, the carefully arranged flower vases, the pristine furniture. The brunette paused by her desk, running her hand over the glossy wood, there were traces of Kore everywhere here, in the notebooks written in looping calligraphy, in the untouched perfumes, the pressed flowers Demeter once left by her bed before every big event, a soft ritual of love neither of them spoke of aloud.

Her mother had loved her in the way she knew how, with order, with structure, with an empire.

But it wasn’t the life Persephone wanted to live anymore.

She zipped the suitcase closed and took one final glance around, her room was perfect, cool, untouched.

It would stay that way.

She walked out, her steps echoing in the marble hall, trailing past portraits and flower filled alcoves, past everything she once thought she needed to be.

Outside, the gate stood tall and iron wrought, framing the manicured world she’d grown up in. Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

On my way.

Hades, 3:23 pm

She exhaled, hand tightening around the suitcase handle, standing by the gate, watching the sky shift its colors slowly, waiting for him.

Then a sleek, black limo slid up the curb, it’s door opened before she could even step back.

Demeter stepped out, flawless as ever, in a pressed cream suit, not a single blonde curl out of place, no press, no entourage. Just her.

Just her mother.

Their silence warred between them until Demeter’s gaze dropped, settling on the suitcase at her daughter’s feet. Then drifted up again, slow and sharpening like a blade being drawn.

“So,” — Demeter said at last, her voice quiet and cold. — “You’ve decided to run away, to throw everything away.”

Persephone straightened her spine.

“I’ve decided to leave.”

Demeter stepped forward, heels clicking with a deliberate grace, the kind that came from decades of ruling unchallenged. — “Leave? For what?”

“I’m not here to fight,” — Persephone said carefully. — “I’m not asking for permission neither.”

Demeter’s nostrils flared.

“Of course not. Why ask permission when you can just run”

Her gaze raked over the oversized shirt Persephone wore, too large, too black, too Hades.

“Is that what this is about?” — Demeter’s voice sharpened. — “A man approached you and now you think you’re in love? You think this is worth throwing away your reputation, your family, me?”

“You don’t get to make this about your pain,” — Persephone said, low but firm. — “This is about my life.”

“And what life is that?” — Demeter snapped. — “Hiding in a funeral home? Becoming his little pet project? Letting the entire world mock you, gossip about you, drag our name through the filth for what, Persephone?”

“For freedom.”

Her voice cracked, but her words did not.

Demeter’s face hardened. — “Freedom. Is that what you call this now?”

Persephone took a shaky breath.

“Mother—”

“No.” — Demeter stepped forward again, her voice rising. — “You don’t get to call me that like it still means something. Like you haven’t humiliated me, betrayed everything I built for you.”

“I never wanted what you built.”

“You’re ungrateful,” — Demeter spat, voice shaking now with rage. — “Do you know what I gave up? What I sacrificed to make you what you are?”

“Yes.” — Persephone’s voice broke. — “And I’m sorry you had to. But I never asked for it.”

Demeter’s lips curled.

“No. You just took it. Took everything I gave you and threw it away for—”

She paused, eyes narrowed, sniffing, once, twice. Then her face changed, voice dropped to a whisper, sharp with disbelief.

“That’s the stench of death… Disgusting”

Persephone went still.

Demeter’s gaze narrowed to the shirt again. “Where is that from? Did you—?”

Persephone tried to cut in, but Demeter’s voice rose like thunder.

“So it’s true.” — Her voice cracked with venom. — “You’ve been with him. You let him touch you, you crawled into his bed like a disease.”

“Don’t—”

Persephone stepped back.

“You’ve ruined yourself,” — Demeter whispered. — “And you did it on purpose.”

“That’s not fair—”

“Fair?!” — Her voice was wildfire now. — “Do you think any of this is about fairness? About feelings? You’re supposed to be the future. You’re supposed to lead, not fall on your back for the first man who makes you feel seen.”

“Because you never did?” — Persephone shot back, sudden and trembling. — “Because you raised me to be perfect, and silent, and obedient, so that you’d never have to look at the part of yourself you buried inside me?”

Demeter’s hand shot out, a slap cracked across her daughter’s cheek, open and clean. Persephone stumbled, breath caught in her chest, the suitcase toppled, eyes burned.

Then she felt her mother’s grip, tight, bruising, clamp around her wrist.

“You don’t get to leave like this,” — Demeter seethed. — “You don’t get to turn your back on me and pretend like I didn’t give you everything. You owe me—”

A door slammed.

Hades stepped out of the black car like the end of a sentence, shoulders squared, jaw tight, the calm before a ruinous storm. He walked forward without haste, but with purpose, measured, unshakable.

Persephone’s breath caught as he moved between them, between her and the woman who raised her, between history and harm.

When he caught Demeter’s wrist, it wasn’t violent, but it was final.

“Enough”

Demeter yanked her hand back and took a single step closer, chin lifted, mouth curled in disdain.

“Ah,” — She said, voice sharp as glass. — “The Lord of Rot speaks.”

Hades said nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly, like he was bracing, not from fear, but from recognition.

Demeter didn’t flinch, pressing forward, years of contempt now boiling over.

“You stand there like a savior, cloaked in shadows and ash, but I know what you are, Hades. You think wearing silk and silence makes you noble?”

Her voice dripped venom.

“You’re a leech. You pull the broken ones in because whole people see you for what you are, emptiness with a crown.”

“Mother,” — Persephone said, but her voice trembled.

“No.” — Demeter’s eyes burned, now locked solely on Hades. — “You think I don’t see what you’ve done? You’ve fed on her need for love, filled her head with some tragic romance so she forgets who she is, who she was meant to be. You corrupted her, you destroyed my princess, my Kore”

“She is not corrupted,” — Hades said, voice like thunder after lightning. — “She chose to be free.”

Demeter barked a humorless laugh. — “Free? You think taking her to tend rotting bodies, tangling my virgin baby in your sheets, hiding her from the world she’s meant to lead… that’s freedom?”

“You speak of leadership like it’s love,” — He answered. — “But you raised her to serve you. Not herself.”

Demeter’s hands clenched.

“She was mine to raise. Mine to protect.”

“You don’t protect someone by making them afraid of their own life.”

“I protected her from you!” — Demeter exploded. — “From your filth. Your kingdom of rot. From all the death you carry with you like it’s something noble!”

For the first time, Hades stepped closer, just a fraction, voice quiet but carrying the weight of stone.

“And yet here I am,” — He said, — “showing her the one thing you never gave her, choice.”

Demeter went quiet for a moment. The wind kicked up around them, the early morning stillness fractured.

She shook her head slowly. — “I will never forgive you for taking her from me.”

“You don’t have to,” — Hades replied. — “Because she was never yours to keep.”

His eyes flicked to Persephone, not as a claim, but as a promise. The brunette stood behind him, eyes wide, face flushed with old hurt and new strength.

Demeter followed his gaze, her chest rising and falling with fury.

“You think this is love?” — voice low and bitter. — “You’ll ruin her, and you’ll call it destiny. And when she finally breaks beneath the weight of all you are, I’ll be the one left to pick up the pieces. Again.”

“No,” — Persephone said softly, stepping forward now, voice steady. — “You won’t.”

Demeter looked at her, really looked, and something cracked behind her eyes.

Taking a slow step back, voice trembled, not with weakness, but the kind of fury that burns in silence.

“Then I hope the Underworld keeps you,” — She whispered. — “Because Olympus will never look at you the same again.”

She turned, heels clicked away from them, one step at a time, like a judgment pronounced.

She didn’t look back.

Not once.

They had driven in silence for a long time.

The city lights bled away behind them, replaced by the hush of hills and distant cicadas. The road curved into a lookout, a place far removed from Olympus’ gold towers and paparazzi lenses, just stone, trees, stars, and the slow stretch of dawn.

Hades parked the car on the side of the old path, the soft purr of the engine died, and for a moment, the world stilled.

Persephone opened the door first, shoes crunched against the gravel as she stepped out into the cool air, still thick with dew and the scent of dust after nightfall.

She walked a few steps away, arms wrapped around herself as if trying to hold it together.

Then her knees gave.

She collapsed by the roadside, right into the tall grass and cracked earth, ungraceful and silent, as though the weight had become too much all at once. No tears at first, just the burn in her chest, the ache in her jaw from holding it all in too long.

When the sobs finally came, they were quiet.

Not dramatic, not pretty, real.

Her body curled inward as the adrenaline bled from her veins, and all that was left was anguish, confusion and an emptiness that her mother’s voice used to fill.

She didn’t hear him approach until his boots stopped just beside her, the rustle of fabric as he knelt down, one knee in the dirt, the other grounding him beside her.

He didn’t say anything at first.

Just opened one arm.

She fell into it.

Hades held her like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so, his body steady and warm, his cheek resting gently atop her hair. One hand rubbed slow circles into her back as she buried her face into his shoulder, shaking and silent now.

After a while, he spoke, voice soft, careful.

“You held your own. That wasn’t weakness back there, that was… just life. Complicated and sharp and cruel sometimes.”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t pull away either.

The wind whispered through the grass, stirring the tall blades around them like ghostly fingers, somewhere far below, a bird called out. Hades said nothing more for a while, just held her.

His hand moved gently over her back in slow, grounding motions. Her breaths hitched now and then, but the sobs had quieted into soft tremors, head rested against his chest, and he didn’t rush her. Didn’t ask her to be okay.

He felt her breathing slow, her fists no longer clenched, her spine not as tight. Hades spoke again, voice low.

“My father… wasn’t much for kindness either.”

She stirred, just a little.

He kept his eyes on the distant trees as he continued. — “He wasn’t a loud man, he didn’t rage or shout. He just… made you feel small, all the time, like your voice only filled the air because he let it.”

Persephone turned her face slightly into his coat.

“I used to try to earn his respect,”

Hades murmured, with a quiet, almost amused breath.

“As a child. I’d bring him things. Perfect things, straight lines, clean answers.”

Persephone tensed, just barely.

“He didn’t hit, didn’t scream. But gods, he could hollow you out just by walking into a room.”

He looked down at her, his voice softening further.

“You don’t forget that kind of silence. That way it teaches you to doubt yourself before you even speak.”

Persephone slowly drew back to meet his gaze, face was blotchy and tear streaked, but there was light in her eyes again.

He cupped her cheek, brushing a thumb beneath her lashes.

“So if your mother’s words are echoing right now… you don’t have to answer them. You don’t owe her an explanation, not if it costs you your peace.”

She nodded once, shakily, lips parted to say something, but it caught on her tongue.

“You okay?” — He asked.

“No,” — She whispered. — “But I think I will be.”

“That’s enough for now.”

Persephone exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening in his coat.

“It hurts.”

“I know,” — He comforted, voice barely a whisper — “But it won’t always, not like this.”

His thumb brushed a lingering tear from her cheek, more tentatively, he smiled.

“Besides, if you cry too much more, I might have to start pretending I have tissues hidden in these pockets, and that would ruin my entire terrifying mystique.”

She gave him a weak, teary laugh.

“There she is,”

He murmured, like her smile was sunlight breaking through cloud.

Persephone reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his, Hades helped her up gently, brushing dust and leaves from the back of her dress as they stood together.

They moved toward the edge of the lookout, the horizon beginning to glow with the first hints of sunrise. The world spread out in quiet golden tones below them, fields and roads and cities still asleep.

They stood side by side.

He didn’t let go of her hand.

“You deserved better than that,” — She said finally, glancing up at him. — “Your father…”

“I survived him,” — Hades replied. — “And I found peace in the one place he never looked… in my own quiet.”

He turned to her, his eyes warm.

“In the choice to love someone fully when I had the chance…”

Persephone’s throat tightened, looking away before the tears could return, but he squeezed her hand.

“Persephone,” — He said softly. — “We can just stand here a little longer if you wish. We can relax together. While we let the fates figure the rest out.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder.

Chapter Text

A week had passed.

Persephone thought that maybe, just maybe, she’d find peace in the stillness. The funeral home was quiet, no knocks on the door, no buzzing phone, no more pleading messages from her mother.

But inside, the hollowness grew. Each morning, she wandered out to the garden in Hades’ quiet estate, hoping to lose herself in the familiar rhythm of tending life. Her hands buried themselves in soil, wrists dusted in earth, dirt packed under her nails. Yet the garden barely bloomed anymore, buds curled in on themselves, petals browned too quickly, leaves turned dull, lifeless, even the morning glories failed to greet the sun.

It wasn’t the weather, or the soil.

It was her.

She sat that day beneath the ashen tree, knees drawn up, sleeves rolled to her elbows, fingers trembling faintly with the weight of everything she hadn’t said to her mother. Guilt was a heavy thing, she to shake it off, to push past it, but it clung like wet fabric to her skin.

Standing slowly, brushing her hands off on her jeans. Persephone needed a sharper trowel, maybe some pruning shears. Something to keep her busy.

She turned toward the chapel and walked toward the storage shed, crossing through the long glass hallway that overlooked the garden, only to freeze at the sound of muffled shouting, voices, footsteps, a storm gathering by the front.

She quickened her pace.

As she reached the main lounge, she saw Eirene, face pale, hands braced against the massive oak doors, struggling to keep them closed, curls frizzed in panic, eyes wide as she turned and spotted Persephone.

“Oh, Persephone!”

She gasped.

“What’s going on?”

Persephone asked, already halfway into the room. Before Eirene could answer,

CRACK.

The doors burst open.

And like a flood, paparazzi surged in a wave breaking through a dam, cameras raised, lenses gleaming, flash after flash after flash, blinding bursts of white and silver, voices overlapped, some shouting, some barking, some calling her name like they owned it.

“Persephone, is it true you moved in with your kidnapper?”

Shouted a man.

“Are you leaving your mom’s empire behind?”

“Did Hades groom you, can you give us more details about this sudden relationship?”

Persephone stumbled back, hands instinctively raised as the noise swelled, a tide she couldn’t hold back, vision stuttered, blurred by white hot light, cameras clicking like insects around her head.

She stepped back again.

And again, until her foot hit the edge of a garden bed.

And still they came.

Questions turned to accusations.

“Is this a scandal or a love affair”

“What about the gala incident? Was it staged?”

Her heel crushed the stem of a foxglove, another step, elbow caught the fragile frame of a rosebush. The blooms she’d coaxed from stubborn soil withered under the stomp of camera crew boots and mic cords, trampled without thought.

“No, no, stop, please-”

The brunette whispered, but it was too soft, chaos drowned her out. Backing toward the ashen tree, she watched her sanctuary being desecrated.

The petals she’d tended, the stalks she’d loved, snapped beneath careless soles, the garden cried for her.

“Back it up, give her space!”

Someone shouted from somewhere inside the crowd, but it didn’t matter, no one was listening.

They kept coming.

Shoes dug into the soil she’d spent hours softening, compacting it to nothing. The tulips snapped like bones beneath heavy soles, lavender stems bent and broke, flattened by boots and carelessness. Her hydrangeas, once proud, violet crowned shattered under a camera bag that had been flung behind one eager photographer.

Persephone watched in mute horror as a man stepped directly onto the bed of crocuses she’d planted just three days ago. His heel sank deep, the blooms collapsed.

They were ruining it, her garden, her peace.

She stumbled further back, almost tripping on the uneven stones that bordered the path, hands trembled as she pressed them to her chest, trying to breathe. But the air was too loud, too bright, too sharp.

The world tilted sideways.

“Are you afraid of your mother’s retaliation, Persephone?”

“Have you really severed ties with Olympus Corp?”

“Was your mother abusive, is that why you ran?”

Flash, flash, flash.

Each light hit like a slap.

Their questions drilled through her like needles, not one of them really wanted answers, they wanted headlines, a scandal.

She backed into the trunk of the ashen tree, bark scratched her shoulder.

A microphone was thrust inches from her face.

“Miss Persephone, are you being held here against your will?”

The irony stung like acid, the brunette choked on it.

“No,”

She croaked, but it came out too small, another foot hit the base of the rose arch she’d repaired with her own hands, snapping a beam with a hollow crack.

The garden crumbled around her.

“I said back it up!”

This time, the voice was sharp, familiar, and furious.

The crowd turned just in time to see Hades storm through the hallway, a black coat flaring behind him, his presence unmistakable.

His steps were thunder, deliberate and hard, every bit the man they whispered about in city gossip and corporate nightmares.

“Out,” — He growled. — “Now.”

The room hushed in an instant.

Hades didn’t raise his voice again, he didn’t have to. It was the chill beneath his words that commanded them, the steel in his jaw, the hand holding his phone like a warning still in motion.

“This is a sacred place,” — He said, eyes sweeping the crowd. — “Not a goddamn nightclub. You should be ashamed.”

Someone in the back fidgeted, a few others slowly started backing toward the doors. Persephone stood behind him, barely breathing, hands still clenched into trembling fists.

“I called my private security” — Hades said softly, angling his voice toward her now. — “I will call police if necessary. I’m sorry, my love, I didn’t think it would come to this.”

She didn’t answer, couldn’t, voice was lost in the wreckage of soil and crushed petals. Persephone’s sanctuary, desecrated, now she felt hollow, tired, and so deeply exposed.

He turned toward her fully, touching her arms, guiding them gently away from the garden. Hades eyes were soft now, furious at the world, never at her.

“Persephone,” — He murmured, tilting his forehead to hers. — “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

The click of a camera lens cracked through the air.

Flash.

Another.

Persephone winced, recoiling slightly. Hades turned.

“Step back,”

He warned.

But one photographer kept going, bold, maybe stupid, the man leaned in for a tighter shot, camera lifted just as Hades stepped forward, arm still protectively behind Persephone.

The lens came too close.

Too close to her face.

Too close to the edge of his patience.

Crack.

The camera shattered in one clean movement as Hades’ hand swung low and sharp, catching it with a flat palm and sending it skidding in pieces across the stone floor.

Gasps rang out.

“What the hell!?” — The photographer shouted, red faced. — “That’s a two-thousand-bucks camera, you maniac!”

Hades didn’t flinch, voice dropped low.

“Take one more step, and I promise, you’ll be paying a lot more than that.”

The man fell silent, swallowing hard as the remaining crowd began backing out, murmuring among themselves. Eirene had returned, this time with two uniformed guards flanking her, the path began to clear.

Persephone remained still, trying not to fall apart.

Hades turned back to her, brushed a curl from her face.

“Let’s go. You don’t need to watch them trample anything else.”

And she let him guide her, away from the wreckage, into the quiet of the hallway beyond, doors shut behind them with a thud that echoed through the hall. Persephone’s breath came in short bursts, not quite sobs, but close, skin still buzzed with the aftershock of it all. The shouts, flashes, sound of snapping stems beneath careless feet.

She said nothing as Hades led her down the corridor, his grip firm but gentle, one hand warm at the small of her back. They didn’t go far. Just far enough to escape the noise, the damage, the eyes.

He opened the door to one of the side rooms, small, private, usually used for families who needed a moment away from grief, today, it was for her.

Closing the door softly behind them, silence blanketed the room, the brunette stood there, arms wrapped around herself, blinking fast.

Hades stepped away only to return with a bottle of water and a damp cloth. He knelt in front of her, slow and careful, like she was something breakable.

“Your hands,”

His voice was gentle, nodding toward them. She didn’t realize how tightly she’d been clutching her fingers, knuckles ached, wordlessly, she offered them.

He wiped the dirt and garden soil from her skin, his movements patient, reverent.

“I’m sorry,”

She whispered.

He looked up. — “For what?”

“For all of it,” — Voice breaking now, barely above a breath. — “The pres, my mother, the mess I brought into your life.”

Hades sat back on his heels. — “You didn’t bring a mess,” — He said. — “The world made one around you.”

He reached for her hand again, holding it between both of his.

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Persephone. Nothing. You were protecting yourself, surviving. You left the fire before it burned you alive.”

Her eyes filled. — “They stepped on everything,” — She choked. — “The garden. The flowers. I tried so hard…”

“I know.” — He stood, pulling her slowly into his arms, as she melted into him, head against his chest, and for a moment, she let herself just feel the warmth of his heartbeat, the strength in his hold, the quiet of his breath.

“They’ll paint me like a villain,” — She murmured. — “Like I ran away, like I ruined something beautiful.”

“But you don’t need to prove anything to them, not a damn thing. You’re not here to perform a version of yourself for the world.”

Her fingers clutched his shirt, pulling back just enough to look her in the eyes.

“Persephone,” he said gently, “you don’t have to jump right back in.”

She didn’t respond.

He tried again. “Ask Aphrodite to take you out for a bit. Relax. Clear your head. I know how it feels, after a storm like that.”

She shook her head instantly, voice cracking when it came. “No. No, I need to do the work. Like I promised you.”

“It’s okay,” he said, reaching for her hand. “The garden can wait.”

“No,” she snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her breath hitched. “No, it can’t. I heard it cry for me… as they stepped on it—”

Her voice broke, and she bowed her head into her palms.

“I heard it cry for me…”

There was a pause, long, quiet, sincere.

“Love, listen, if you ever want to disappear again for a while…” — He added with a small smile, brushing the wetness from beneath her eyes, — “just say the word. I’ll drive you to the furthest countryside with a bag of seeds and a new name.”

A broken laugh escaped her lips, sudden, messy, real.

He grinned, approaching to kiss her cheek.

“You are beautiful, my rose, it will be fine”

“I know"

“Come on,” — He said. — “Let’s get out of here for a bit. No pressure. Just a distraction.”

Persephone looked hesitant. — “Where?”

“I had a place in mind,” — he said with a slight smile. — “Nice dinner. Decent wine. Ridiculously expensive bread served on wood planks for some reason.”

She gave a quiet laugh, just air through her nose, but it was something.

“Sounds a little… too nice.”

“It’s just a place,” — he said with a shrug. — “But if it feels too sharp tonight, say the word.”

Persephone hesitated. She looked down at her hands, still red from where she’d gripped them too tight, nails bitten short, soil long since cleaned away. Fancy didn’t feel right, clean, glossy places didn’t feel right, she didn’t want to be surrounded by strangers in silk shirts and white wine conversations. She shook her head gently.

“I don’t think I can wear a mask tonight.”

He didn’t look disappointed. In fact, his smile grew just a bit.

“Alright then,” — he said, taking his keys from the counter. — “Let’s try something else.”

Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of an old corner grocery, tucked snugly between a barbershop with sun-faded posters and a laundromat that blinked its open sign half heartedly. Persephone blinked up at the storefront, mildly confused.

“This is your backup plan?”

Hades gave a small, unapologetic shrug as he killed the engine. — “Best place in town if you’re in the mood for a decent pot pies and a bit of unsolicited life advice. But be prepared, Lady Alma, the owner, is still convinced I’m single because I never take her wisdom to heart.”

He opened the door and came around to hers, holding it open with a theatrical bow.

“Let’s surprise her.”

Inside, the air was cool and familiar, clean floors, a hint of cinnamon and floor polish, with the gentle shuffle of quiet music playing overhead. Somewhere between Coltrane and a slow Ella Fitzgerald hum, the space wrapped around them like a memory too old to name.

Only a few patrons milled about: an elderly man comparing two nearly identical jars of pickles like it was a life-altering decision, and a pair of teenagers by the snack aisle, giggling over something on a phone screen. Nothing moved fast here.

Then came the unmistakable voice from behind the old, green register.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” — it rang out, full of delight and recognition. — “Look who finally came back! And he brought a date!”

Behind the counter stood Alma, white apron dusted with flour, thick gray curls pinned with a butterfly clip that had likely seen better decades. Her eyes twinkled under silver-lined lashes, and her cheeks lifted into a grandmother’s smile, the kind that made you feel immediately loved and scrutinized all at once.

Hades held up both hands, a sheepish grin spreading across his face.

“She’s not a date, Alma.”

“Oh, don’t lie to me,” — Alma tutted, already rounding the counter. — “You show up looking like that”

She gestured at him broadly, up and down, then to Persephone.

“with this beautiful creature next to you, and you think I’ll believe you’re here for the frozen peas?”

Persephone’s face flushed warm at the compliment, at the easy kindness wrapped in Alma’s teasing tone. Hades laughed, lifting his hands again in surrender.

“Alright. You got me. Alma, this is my girlfriend, Persephone.”

Something in his voice curled around the word like it was sacred.

Persephone looked up at him, eyebrows raised, surprise softening into something warmer. Girlfriend. It felt grounding, a strange flutter of joy spread in her chest. She hadn’t expected to hear it aloud, not like that, not with such comfort and certainty.

“Well, now!” — Alma gasped, clasping her hands as if witnessing a royal wedding. —“I told you, didn’t I? I told you. I said, ‘Hades, one day you’re going to meet a woman who makes all your brooding look romantic instead of pitiful.’ And what did you say? You said, ‘Alma, I don’t brood.’”

Hades chuckled, guiding Persephone further into the aisles, pushing a squeaky wheeled cart in front of him.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Not even in death, sweetheart,” — Alma called back.

Persephone laughed as they moved through the small store, the kind of laugh that comes when your heart forgets, for just a second, how heavy it’s been. Hades glanced over, clearly pleased by the sound.

They wandered the aisles slowly, side by side, there was no rush here, no camera flash waiting around the corner. Persephone traced her fingers over canned soups, then picked up a loaf of sourdough and a small jar of fig preserves with a soft smile. It reminded her of a farm she’d visited once as a child, one of the few weekends her mother had taken off from Olympus to pretend they were normal.

Hades added frozen shepherd’s pies to the cart and reached up to grab a small bag of seedless grapes. As he turned, Persephone was humming softly to the jazz track now filling the space, a mellow trumpet whispering over slow piano.

“You always hum when you shop?”

She looked surprised. — “I didn’t even notice I was doing it.”

“It suits you.”

He said it like a compliment and an observation, and Persephone wasn’t sure which made her chest ache more.

They added a few more things, vanilla ice cream with a slightly dented lid

“That just means it’s aged like wine,” — Hades claimed in a whisper.

At checkout, Alma scanned each item. Persephone was smiling again, fully, genuinely. She felt like herself. herself before Olympus headlines, before the riot of gossip columns and garden trampling and corporate standoffs. Just a girl with food in her hands and someone kind at her side.

Alma handed over the receipt with a wink. — “You take care of him, alright?” — she told Persephone.

“He gets fussy when his suits don’t match his socks.”

Hades made a sound of protest, but Alma waved him off.

“Go on, get out of here. You’ve caused enough trouble for one day.”

They stepped out under the neon light again, arms full of grocery bags and the faint scent of cinnamon still clinging to Persephone’s sweater. The world outside felt slower, gentler, as though even the stars had paused to let her breathe.

She turned to Hades as they reached the car.

“That was… exactly what I needed.”

“Pot pies and mild public humiliation?”

She laughed. “No. Just, something human. Something small.”

He held the car door for her again, leaning in with a soft smile.

“You’re allowed to have small things.”

They drove back in silence, but it was the good kind, the quiet that didn’t need to be filled. Back at the house, the lights were dim and warm. The garden outside had gone still, peaceful under moonlight. As Hades began heating the oven and pulling out plates, Persephone poured herself water and opened the jar of preserves.

“Alma was right, by the way,” she said.

“Oh?”

“You do brood. But it is romantic.”

He glanced back at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Careful. Compliments like that might make me unbearable.”

She shrugged, smiling down into her glass.

“You’re already halfway there.”

He grinned, shaking his head as he opened the shepherd’s pies.

“You’re lucky I like you.”

“You’re lucky I came grocery shopping instead of torching a press conference.”

“Noted,” — he said, raising a fork in salute.

And for the first time in a long while, Persephone felt the sting of reality fade, not disappear, but dim, as if the grocery store, the pot pies, and Alma’s sarcasm had pressed the world’s volume down to something bearable.

Chapter Text

The garden was quiet again, save for the rustle of leaves and the distant cry of a bird overhead. Persephone knelt in the soil, her hands deep in the earth, coaxing the uprooted roots back into place. Broken stems, crushed petals, wilted leaves, her fingers moved with a tenderness reserved for the wounded.

“I’m sorry,” — She whispered to a bed of violets, gently pressing them down. — “I’m so sorry. I should’ve protected you.”

She paused at the foot of the olive tree, whose bark still bore a faint burn from the night the sanctuary wept. She touched it like one might a friend’s shoulder.

“Forgive me. I let the storm get too close.”

Her arms were caked in dirt, her hair damp with sweat and morning dew. She looked up at the pale sky, blinking against the brightening light. The garden still lived, bruised but breathing.

“Looks like a storm passed by.”

The voice came smooth, familiar, grounded. Persephone turned, startled, then softened when she saw him.

Odysseus stood just outside the gate, a calm smile on his face. Beside him stood a woman with clever eyes and a patient sort of grace, her dark hair braided back in a way that felt both effortless and regal.

Persephone scrambled to her feet.

“Oh! Hello!”

She looked down at her filthy hands and hesitated, about to wipe them on her skirt, then stopped, resigned and smiling sheepishly.

The woman stepped forward, extending her hand. — “Penelope,” — she said warmly. — “And you must be Persephone.”

Persephone’s smile widened in recognition.

“Of course ! Penelope. I’ve heard of you. It’s lovely to finally meet.”

They shook hands, Persephone careful not to dirty her too much. Penelope didn’t seem to mind.

“I see you’ve been busy,”

Penelope remarked, glancing at the scattered tools, the overturned soil, the attempt to restore order.

Persephone laughed softly, brushing hair from her face.

“Trying to patch things up. The garden didn’t take kindly to recent… emotions.”

There was a short silence. Not awkward, but thoughtful, the kind that lingers between people who know what it is to carry sorrow gently, like something sacred.

“You helped my husband,”

Penelope said after a moment, her gaze fixed on the olive tree.

“He says you stood with him when it mattered.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” — Persephone waved her hands, flustered. — “Really, I just happened to be there.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” — Odysseus added, walking up. — “We’re not in the habit of forgetting kindness, especially not when it touches lives beyond our own.”

Penelope turned to her with a warm smile.

“Will you come to dinner with us tonight? Just the family. Nothing grand. Just… thank you, in the way we know how to offer it.”

Persephone hesitated, a soft laugh escaping her lips.

“That’s very kind, but really, I don’t need—”

“No refusing,” — Odysseus cut in gently, his tone playful but firm. — “It’s owed. For what happened last time, too.”

“Bring your husband,” — Penelope added with a twinkle. — “We’d love to meet him.”

Persephone’s face changed slightly.

“Husband?”

The word hung in the air like a song she hadn’t realized she was humming.

“Oh… I’m sorry — I must have misunderstood. I thought you were… lovers with the keeper of this place. The man who guards the sanctuary.”

A flush rose to Persephone’s cheeks. She laughed, surprised. “Oh — no, no. I mean — not exactly. It’s complicated.”

Penelope smiled knowingly.

“It usually is.”

Persephone nodded, brushing a fleck of earth from her wrist.

Husband.

She didn’t say it aloud. But the word lingered, clung to her like the soil under her nails.

It nestled in the corners of her mind, unfurling like ivy.

Husband.

It sounded foreign and familiar all at once, like something from another life, or a dream she’d once had and half forgotten.

Her gaze drifted, unfocused, past Penelope and Odysseus, past the olive tree and into the imagined elsewhere.

She saw it like a flicker between blinks, a quiet house built in dark stone and wildflowers. A hearth that never went cold. Candles flickering along obsidian walls, their flames soft against the carved shadows. And Hades seated at a long table, his sleeves rolled to the elbow, ink on his fingers and a tired, contented smile just for her.

She saw him laughing, a rare sound, reserved for moments when he let the weight of his kingdom slide off his shoulders. She imagined herself walking barefoot across cold floors to bring him tea, her hands stained with garden soil and pomegranate juice. No crown, no title, just… hers.

A silly thought, maybe. But not unkind.

Would he still wear black? Probably. Would he still fall silent when overwhelmed by beauty or anger or poetry? Definitely. Would he know how to be a husband? Maybe not.

Would she?

But gods learn. And lovers adapt. And she could imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to come home to him not only for a season, but for forever. To be chosen each day, not just summoned by fate.

She felt a heat rise to her cheeks and blinked herself back into the garden, back into Penelope’s warm gaze and Odysseus’s easy smile.

“I must’ve said something amusing,” — Penelope said gently, catching the color in her face. Persephone shook her head, tucking hair behind her ear.

“No — not at all. Just… an unexpected thought.”

“Well,” — Penelope said, giving her a meaningful look, — “those are usually the ones worth following.”

Persephone smiled, her heart quietly full of noise.

She looked at Penelope, then at Odysseus, both standing there like pillars of calm after a storm, waiting patiently amid the soft ruin of her garden.

“I suppose I’ll accept your invitation. It would be… a pleasure.”

Penelope’s eyes lit up. Odysseus grinned.

“I’ll even invite the keeper,” — Persephone added, with a lilt in her voice she hadn’t meant to be teasing. — “Though I doubt either of you would take ‘no’ for an answer anyway.”

Odysseus barked a laugh.

“Now that’s the wisest thing I’ve heard all day.”

Penelope nodded in agreement.

“And if you had said no, we would’ve simply shown up here with bread and wine and far too many stories. Best to surrender early.”

Persephone laughed, a real, warm sound that startled even her. It rang between the broken stems and trampled petals like music trying to return.

“I’ll let him know,” — she said softly. — “I think… he could use a dinner like that.”

We both could, she didn’t say. But the thought hung in the air like dusk about to settle.

Penelope stepped forward, gently brushing some dirt from Persephone’s shoulder without comment.

“Then it’s settled. Tomorrow evening.”

“Perfect”

As Penelope and Odysseus turned to go, promising a warm hearth and fresher bread than the gods themselves could conjure, Persephone remained behind, watching the garden in its half healed stillness.

A dinner. A gathering. A hand reached out in kindness.

And maybe, if he said yes, she’d sit beside the keeper, across from flickering candlelight and stories from the surface world. She’d see him not as the shadow beneath the mountain, but simply as a man, and maybe, just maybe, imagine herself beside him a little longer.

A whisper crossed her mind again, soft as wind through leaves,

Husband.

She smiled, and this time, it lingered.

The sanctuary was quiet, save for the gentle creak of ancient stone settling into evening. The air still smelled faintly of rain, moss-sweet and full of the hush that follows a storm. Persephone walked slowly through the long corridor, the one that curved like a spine toward the keeper’s wing, toward his office.

Her fingers trailed along the wall as she walked, brushing ivy that hadn’t yet been trimmed back, feeling the cool pulse of the earth through the stones. She could still feel dirt beneath her fingernails, the roughness of garden soil on her skin. She hadn’t wanted to wash it off, not yet. It felt like proof. That she’d tried. That she’d begun to mend what was broken.

The light ahead was soft and amber, spilling from beneath the door like a secret. She paused there, hand hovering just above the wood, her heart ticking far too loudly for such a quiet place.

Husband, she thought again, not spoken this time, but breathed. Not as a title, but as an idea. A shape that had begun forming in her somewhere between roots and wreckage, between grief and hope. She had seen it bloom, briefly, in her mind: mornings together in silence, the warmth of coffee, the simple kindness of presence. She’d seen him smile at her in the dim golden light, like he was just a man, and she was just a woman, and nothing needed to be earned or explained.

She almost laughed at herself. Gods, what a foolish thing to imagine. And yet… here she was.

She knocked gently.

A pause.

Then the quiet scrape of a chair. Footsteps. The door opens. Hades stood there, still in his dark robes, sleeves pushed up, ink on his fingertips, he must’ve been writing. His gaze found hers, and softened immediately.

“Persephone,” — he said, simply. — “Is everything alright?”

She smiled, the dirt on her hands catching the edge of lamplight.

“Yes. I mean, more than alright, I think.”

He stepped aside, wordlessly inviting her in.

She shook her head gently.

“I won’t stay. I just… wanted to tell you something.”

His brow lifted, but he waited.

“I had visitors,” — she said. — “Odysseus. And Penelope.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes.

“Penelope?”

She nodded.

“Odysseus's wife, lovely, clever. The kind of woman you know you’ll like, the moment she speaks.”

A small, pleased smile curved his mouth.

“She sounds like someone I’d regret crossing.”

“She is,” — Persephone said fondly. Then paused. — “They invited me to dinner. With their family. As a thank you, for… helping Odysseus here in the sanctuary”

He tilted his head.

“And you’re considering going?”

She looked down at her hands.

“I said yes.”

He nodded, slow and thoughtful, then, to her surprise, just before she could take a breath to ask, he said.

“Good. You should.”

“I told them I might bring the keeper of this place. That he could use a little bread and wine and laughter, too.”

A silence fell between them, delicate, like a petal balanced on water.

He met her gaze.

“And would the keeper accept such an invitation?”

She held his eyes.

“He’d be welcome.”

Another breath passed, she added, softer,

“So would Hades.”

For a moment, he looked at her like the world had gone still, not frozen, not broken. Just paused, held in a moment that didn’t need fixing. His voice, when it came, was quiet:

“Then Hades will come.”

She smiled, feeling warmth unfurl in her chest. She nodded once, stepped back, and turned to go, heart no longer quiet, but full in the best way.

He didn’t joke about the press. He didn’t mention Odysseus or the garden. He simply looked at her like she was something that mattered , not in spite of the mess, but because of it.

“You alright?” — he asked softly.

Persephone smiled, a little crooked, a little tired.

“I’ve been better.” — Her voice softened. — “You know, she thought we were married.”

His gaze flicked to her mouth, then back to her eyes.

“I wouldn’t blame her.”

A pause. His hand brushed a stray curl behind her ear. Her breath hitched, subtle, but real.

“And if we were?” — she asked, quieter now. — “If we had that life… what do you think it would look like?”

Hades didn’t answer with words. Instead, he reached for her hand, still faintly stained with soil and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles like something sacred.

“I think,” — he murmured, — “we would never sleep.”

She laughed, the sound breathy, helpless.

“That sounds exhausting.”

He leaned in, forehead nearly touching hers.

“But divine.”

Their lips met with the kind of urgency that had no beginning, as if this kiss had always existed, waiting for them to arrive at it. It wasn’t polished, or gentle, it was real. A little desperate, a little uncertain, like both of them had spent too long wondering if they were allowed.

Persephone’s hands curled into his shirt. Hades pulled her closer by the waist, until there was no space between thought and contact.

“You still have dirt on your hands,” — he whispered, breaking the kiss just long enough to breathe.

“Scared of getting that fancy suit dirty?”

“For you? Never”

She laughed again, but it was swallowed by his mouth, a kiss that deepened, darkened, pulled her under like tidewater. His lips were soft but commanding, coaxing more from her than she realized she had left to give. Her fingers found his hair, and his found the small of her back, her waist, the curve of her hips, reverent, possessive, lost.

They moved blindly, instinctively, stumbling toward the desk, bumping into chairs. He lifted her with practiced ease and set her atop the wood, scattering scrolls and candles like they were unworthy of the moment.

She pulled back, just long enough to look at him — really look.

“I want you,”

she said, voice husky, eyes bright.

“You’ve always had me,”

he murmured.

His hands found her waist as he backed her gently into the desk, the old wood creaking softly beneath her as she sat atop it. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him in, and his mouth was on hers again, deep, hot, reverent. The way he kissed her was like worship and discovery all at once. Not rushed, but full of want.

She tilted her head, gasping when his mouth traced down her neck, whispering against her skin.

“You smell like earth and fire,”

“And you…”— She pulled his shirt loose at the collar, baring the hollow of his throat. — “You smell like home.”

Their clothes fell away in layers, slow at first, then with growing urgency. He helped her out of her blouse, his fingers lingering at her skin like she might disappear if he moved too fast. She undid the buttons of his vest with trembling hands, laughing once, breathless, when he knocked over an ink jar by accident.

“I’ll clean it later,”

He said, distracted, pulling her back to him.

She moaned as his hands found her again, everywhere she needed him, everywhere she had dreamed of. Her back arched, her body curved toward his like she was made to fit there.

And then, when the desk was no longer enough, when the moment called for softness and memory, he lifted her easily into his arms.

“You remember this?” — He asked, carrying her to the couch by the far wall. — “Where you woke up after the gala?”

She nodded, fingers curling in his hair.

“I remember how you looked at me then.”

“How was that?”

“Like I was already yours.”

He smiled, a small, crooked, beautiful thing, and laid her down gently.

“Because you were.”

He joined her there, sinking into her, and this time, there was no dream to wake from, no interruption, no shame. Just warmth. Just want. Just the two of them, tangled in shadows and gold light, wrapped in each other like something ancient finally remembered.

Persephone gasped softly when he pressed against her, his hands spanning her hips like he was mapping familiar ground, grounding her. Her back arched beneath him as his lips found her collarbone, trailing kisses along her skin, lingering as if each freckle and hollow was something sacred.

Her hands slid beneath his shirt, greedy for the warmth of his skin. She pushed the fabric up, impatient now, and he laughed quietly into her shoulder, that low, rough sound she loved, before pulling it over his head. She ran her palms over his chest, fingers exploring the smooth skin and the strength beneath it, and her lips followed, brushing kisses over his ribs, his throat, the curve of his jaw.

She clung to him as he settled over her, the press of his body against hers sending sparks down her spine. Their bare skin met, chest to chest, heartbeat against heartbeat, and it was too much — not enough — everything.

His mouth explored her slowly, reverently, the soft swell of her breast, the dip of her waist, the inside of her thigh where her breath hitched and her fingers knotted in his hair. He moved like he was learning her all over again, with patience and fire, each kiss and touch a vow spoken without words.

She arched into him, eyes fluttering shut as he sank into her in one slow, deep thrust. Her breath caught, and he stilled for a moment, forehead resting against hers.

They moved together like a tide, slow and inevitable. He rocked into her with a rhythm that spoke of longing and memory, of every stolen glance and unsaid word finally answered. Her legs wrapped around him tighter, drawing him deeper, and she met each movement with her own, eager, open, wild.

She whispered his name like a spell, like something that would anchor her. And he whispered hers back like a promise, like worship.

The room around them faded, the moonlight, the bookshelves, the ghosts of old conversations. All that remained was this: skin, breath, the slick slide of bodies and the fire curling low in her belly. She rose to meet it with him, shivering with each whispered praise, each gasp that slipped from his lips.

“I love you,”

He breathed into her neck, broken and bare.

Persephone broke open with those words. Her release came like a wave crashing over her, sudden and overwhelming, her cry soft and startled as he held her through it. He followed soon after, buried in her warmth, shuddering against her as her name fell from his lips like a prayer.

After, they lay in the soft hush of the aftermath, her limbs still tangled with his, her breath evening out against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, grounding her in the way only he could.

“That thing you said…” — she whispered. — “Do you—did you mean it? When you said you loved me?”

He stilled for a breath. Then another.

“I don’t say anything I don’t mean,” — he said softly, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. — “Especially not that.”

Her heart stuttered, but she smiled, because she already knew. She just needed to hear it, raw and quiet like this, in the space where they had nothing to prove. She kissed him again, slow and deep, sealing it between them like something precious.

Chapter Text

Later that night, moonlight spilled through the windows, brushing across the warm tones of their shared space. Hades buttoned a dark shirt in front of the mirror, smirking as Persephone circled behind him in a flowing, half-zipped dress the color of wine and twilight.

“Need a hand?” — he offered, voice low and lazy.

“Only if you promise not to distract me,” — answered Persephone, walking past with a swish of silk and mischief.

“No promises,”

he murmured, and reached for the zipper anyway. His knuckles grazed the bare skin of her back, making her shiver, as she spun and tugged at his collar in mock irritation.

“You’re worse than Cerberus.”

“That’s a low blow,” — Hades laughed, catching her hands and pulling her into him. — “He’s a good boy.”

As if summoned, the hound padded over with a huff, tail wagging like he was already ready for a party. Persephone crouched to kiss his snout, the doberman barked cheerfully.

While Hades slipped into his jacket, she picked up her phone from the dresser. The screen lit up.We have a surprise for you, turn on the tv at 9pm, you gonna love it gurl ! <3Helen, 5:37pm

Her fingers hovered. The words prickled like static, familiar, fake concern dressed in friendship. Her throat tightened. But then Hades turned, smiling at her from across the room, one brow raised as if to ask,

“Ready?”

And something inside her steadied. She locked the phone without answering, slid it into her clutch. Turned her back on Helen’s words.

“Come on,” — she said, slipping her hand into Hades’. — “Cerberus is getting impatient.”

Outside, the night was cool and full of possibility. Persephone laughed, light and defiant, as Hades spun her once beneath the moonlight before opening the car door with a bow.

The car pulled up to a modest but stately home nestled between blooming olive trees and tall cypress. The air smelled of rosemary and sea salt, and lanterns glowed warmly at the door.

Odysseus met them outside with Telemachus close behind, both smiling, a little curious. Penelope stepped out from the doorway, radiant and kind.

“You’re here!” — she said warmly, embracing Persephone like an old friend.

“And you brought him,” — Odysseus added with a grin, nodding toward Hades. — “We were starting to wonder if the infamous keeper of the sanctuary was just a myth.”

“Infamous?” — Hades replied with mock offense. — “That’s generous.”

They laughed, and Penelope waved them in. The interior of the home was just as welcoming, warm wood beams, handwoven rugs, old seafaring maps on the walls, and shelves of books that bore titles in Homeric Greek. On one wall hung a tapestry depicting the Trojan Horse. In the corner: a model ship with burnished sails.

The dining table was laid with care, roasted lamb in herbs, grilled vegetables, lentils with lemon and mint, and fresh bread with honeyed butter. The meal smelled like care, like history.

“You two look like you just stepped out of a painting,” — Penelope teased as they sat. — “But a modern one, a bit of scandal, a bit of passion.”

“Oh thank you”

Conversation flowed easily, laughter softening the corners of the room. When asked, Persephone offered a half-truth, she used to manage marketing for a skincare company, her mother’s suggestion. Safe, polished, not quite her.

“Oh,” — she said, picking at a grape. — “I was a manager at a skincare company for a while. My mother’s suggestion, really.”

She shrugged.

“Wasn’t all bad, but… my real dream was something simpler. A farm maybe. Or a little plant shop.”

“Should’ve guessed,” — Penelope said warmly. — “You have a way with green things. Even your laugh smells like thyme.”

Persephone flushed slightly, smiling.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”

As they laughed, Telemachus wandered to the far corner and turned on the TV softly for background noise, flipping through channels with idle fingers.

He paused on a late-night talk show, the host mid-sentence, tone unusually somber. And then:

Demeter.

On screen, she sat beneath stage lights, dressed in elegant black. Her face, usually composed and regal, was red and tear streaked. Her hands trembled slightly in her lap as she spoke.

“I lost her,” — she whispered to the camera, her voice cracking. — “My Kore. My joy. My only daughter. Taken. Manipulated. Spirited away from a life of prosperity, all for some cruel illusion of love. I begged her to come home. She wouldn’t. He…he got into her head.”

The room fell silent.

The screen flashed: Persephone in the sanctuary gardens, at the gala, her hand in Hades’s, her head on his shoulder, candid, unmistakable.

Odysseus leaned forward slightly. Telemachus turned the volume down but not off. Penelope’s gaze flicked to Persephone, then to Hades, quietly processing.

No one spoke. Not yet.

“I’m sorry,” — Penelope said gently, voice low. — “That’s you, isn’t it?”

Persephone swallowed.

“…Yes.”

“She said you were taken,” — Odysseus added, carefully. — “That this man…” a glance at Hades, calm but sharp.

“I left,” — Persephone said. — “Of my own will. My own mind.”

“But your mother…” — Penelope began, before catching herself. — “It’s not our place.”

Persephone stared at the flickering screen.

“She’s spinning it. She always does. I was just… Kore, to her. A product. A role.”

The room tensed again, uneasy.

“Maybe we should change the channel,” — Telemachus offered.

The television flickered in hues of silver and studio blue. Demeter sat beneath the bright lights, a silk handkerchief clutched in her trembling hand, her mascara had run, black tears staining perfect cheeks. The host leaned toward her with the solemn sympathy of someone who knew the value of televised grief.

“She was taken from me,” — Demeter repeated, her voice breaking. — “My daughter, Kore… she was kind. Gentle. She had a future.”

On screen, the host nodded, then turned toward the next guest. — “You were close to him, weren’t you? The man she’s with now …. the one some are calling the Keeper. Hades.”

The camera shifted.

Minthe.

Perfectly poised, in a tailored suit the color of bruised lavender, with lips painted sharp and dark. She crossed her legs slowly, one elegant gesture after another. Her voice was smooth, practiced.

“I was with him for years,” — she said. — “And I saw firsthand how… subtle he could be. How he isolates you. Makes you think you’re special. Needed. But it’s just control.”

Persephone stiffened.

“He doesn’t raise his voice,” — Minthe continued. — “He doesn’t have to. You just start giving up pieces of yourself. Quietly. Until there’s nothing left but him.”

The host made a sympathetic sound.

“You’re very brave.”

“I didn’t speak sooner,” — Minthe said, glancing to the audience, — “because I was ashamed. And because I loved him. And I see the same pattern now … In her. In Persephone.”

The screen cut to more paparazzi photos. Hades’s hand on Persephone’s back, her face tilted up toward him in dappled morning light. A kiss at the sanctuary gate, a stolen moment in a garden.

Odysseus exhaled low. — “You’re… famous.”

Persephone said nothing.

“I didn’t realize it was like this,” — he added. — “This is national. International.”

Telemachus muted the TV. The silence that followed was somehow louder than the show.

“She’s lying,” — Persephone said, her voice brittle. — “Minthe was… angry. Bitter. She’s rewriting history.”

“She sounded pretty convincing,” — Telemachus said carefully.

“Because she knows exactly what people want to hear.” — Her fingers tightened in her lap. — “I was not manipulated. Hades didn’t steal me, I made a choice, no one believes that part.”

Penelope’s expression flickered, compassion and concern, laced with something more protective.

“She’s playing into what your mother wants the world to see,” — she said gently.

“I know.”

Odysseus rubbed a hand over his jaw. — “This isn’t just gossip. This could get dangerous.”

Persephone turned toward Hades. He hadn’t moved, his eyes remained on the now muted screen, unreadable.

“Let’s go,” — she said quietly, her voice only for him.

He rose without hesitation.

Penelope rose with them, clearly flustered. “Wait…please don’t leave on this note.”

But Hades was already helping Persephone into her coat.

“Thank you,” — he said, with a solemn nod. — “The food was lovely.”

“And you’re both welcome anytime,” — Penelope added, sincerity soft in her voice. — “No matter what the world says.”

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled across the floor, honey gold and indifferent to the storm it found within, the sanctuary was quiet, too quiet, not peaceful, but heavy, the kind of silence born not of calm but of exhaustion.

Persephone hadn’t slept.

She hadn’t even tried, the brunette laid curled on her side, still dressed in the hoodie she’d tugged on sometime around dawn, its sleeves damp from where she’d wiped her eyes again and again. Her breaths came shallow now, not from panic, but the weight of crying too long, her eyes were rimmed red, lashes stuck together, skin pale beneath darkened, weary shadows.

Hades lay beside her , not touching, not crowding, just there, like gravity. A steady, silent presence as she shattered next to him.

“I told you, love,” — he said quietly, brushing a knuckle along her sleeve. — “It’s going to be fine. You care too much about this… it’s silly. People forget the drama. They always do.”

That broke her.

She sat up sharply, voice cracking. — “Silly?”

He blinked, pulling back.

“You think this is silly?” — Her voice pitched, raw. — “That they put my face on every screen in the country, called me stolen, manipulated? That my mother just went on live television and said my entire life is a lie? That I’m just some… some victim with Stockholm syndrome?”

“Persephone—”

“No, you don’t get to soothe me right now,” — she snapped, stumbling to her feet, breath ragged. “You don’t understand what this feels like. You never had a family dragging your name through ash and selling it to the world.”

She paced to the far end of the room, arms wrapped around herself, then clawed at her own hair, not to hurt, just to release something, like if she could pull hard enough, her thoughts would fall out too.

She grabbed a pillow and pressed it to her face, letting out a loud, guttural scream into it, the kind of sound that couldn’t live in words. That had no place in decorum.

Hades sat up, his face quiet but tight. He didn’t try to touch her, not yet.

He waited.

Then, after a beat, he stood.

“I’ll call my family’s lawyer,” — he said, voice was calm, even. But his jaw was set. — “I’ll ask my brother. I’ll make them pay.”

Persephone dropped the pillow and looked at him, face damp, hands trembling.

“Oh great,” — she said bitterly. — “We’ll sue them. That’ll fix everything, right? Take them to court. Turn this whole thing into more of a spectacle.”

“You want to do nothing?” — he snapped, and just like that, met her at the edge. — “Let them smear you into dust? Let Minthe paint me as a monster and you as some clueless little girl?”

“I just wanted a life,” — she whispered. — “Just… a life. A home. Quiet. Not this circus. Not headlines. Not… not everyone thinking they know who I am.”

He stared at her then, no rebuttal ready, just the hurt, voice broke again.

“I can’t breathe in this. I can’t even sleep.”

She sank back onto the bed, knees up, arms around them, rocking slightly, her head rested on her forearm, and her shoulders quivered again with quiet sobs.

“I hate her,” — she whispered. — “I hate her so much. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Hades came to her, slower this time, kneeling in front of her, hands open.

“You’re allowed to hate her.”

“And my mother.”

He nodded.

“I hate them both.”

“There is not shame in saying that. But, you can’t let it consume you, my love”

The car wound its way up into Olympus Hills, where clouds rolled low and the sky felt closer, sharpened by the glint of white stone villas perched like altars along the cliffs. This was not the city. This was beyond it, a realm set apart.

Every villa was vast, marble and metal twisted in old shapes made new. No gates here were unguarded. Olympus Hills was where the Titans lived now, retired CEOs, ex-owners of the Olympus Conglomerate, billionaires who shaped entire decades and then stepped back into myth. Here, the air itself seemed to hold its breath.

As the car pulled into the private drive of Villa Hyperion, the gates opened not with motion sensors, but by recognition.

Security awaited them.

There were four of them.

Kratos stood to the left of the door, all brute control in tailored tactical gear, black-on black, crisp and clean. No embellishments, presence radiated restrained violence, not the wild kind, but the kind that knew exactly how to kill and how to stop an inch before. His silence was louder than most men’s rage. Steel eyes. Steel will.

Nike moved just ahead, her steps exact, sharp-eyed and swift. She wore layered, translucent fabrics over high-performance street wear, every motion as fluid as a strike. Her gaze swept Persephone and Hades like a tactician marking targets. She didn’t smile. She calculated.

Bia leaned against a pillar, expression unreadable behind obsidian sunglasses worn indoors. Power wrapped around her like smoke, leashed, but close to breaking free, minimalist suit looked like armor because she made it so. Each movement was deliberate. Each blink, a decision. If violence had a favorite daughter, it was her.

Zelus flanked the right with quiet fire in his stance, loyalty personified. A dark maroon jacket sat over crisp formal wear, his gaze unwavering as he tracked their approach. His eyes read the air, calculated threats, watched Hades and Persephone as if their hearts beat audibly. He said nothing. He didn’t have to, no one got near Zeus unless Zelus allowed it.

“Lord Hades,” — Nike greeted without warmth, but with absolute respect. — “Your father is expecting you.”

They were guided into the villa, a place more shrine than home. The walls glittered with golden light from veiled chandeliers. Every surface bore an emblem, thunderbolts, tridents, a sun swallowed by a crown. Mosaics of Zeus in triumph, Poseidon parting seas, and Cronos, their monstrous father, sat in frozen victory along a frescoes ceiling, his scythe gleaming under painted blood. Beside him, Rhea, the mother, stood with one hand raised, not in welcome, but in warning.

They were not brought to Zeus immediately. Instead, Hades was called away by Bia and Zelus, who led him deeper into the house with a wordless nod.

Which left Persephone standing alone, until a gentle rustle of fabric announced another presence.

“Darling girl,” — came a soft, gravel and honey voice behind her.

Rhea.

The old woman was regal even in stillness. Her hair, long and silver as frost, flowed down the back of her ivory tunic, skin had the patina of age, not weakness, golden-brown, lined by decades of rule and rebellion, hands adorned with rings that glimmered like planets, reached out gently.

“You must be her,” — she said, eyes bright, appraising. — “The one who made my son walk differently.”

Persephone gave a startled laugh, unsure how to respond. Rhea led her to a sunlit sitting alcove, not far from a balcony where clouds drifted low like smoke. The cushions were deep, embroidered with olive branches and laurel, and a silver tea set had already been arranged.

“Sit, dear,” — Rhea coaxed, lowering herself slowly but with practiced grace. — “The gods have had enough war. Let the women have peace.”

Persephone sat.

The tea smelled of anise and something older, lavender, perhaps, or thyme drawn from mountain stone.

“You’re lovely,” — Rhea said as she poured. — “Hmm. I like this color. Not dyed, is it? Real color always has depth.”

“No, not dyed,” — Persephone said, uncertain but warmed by the odd, maternal scrutiny.

“Good. Good. It would be a shame to fake something so clearly meant.”

Rhea’s hand was warm where it briefly touched Persephone’s cheek, her gaze gentle but distant, thoughts already halfway out the room.

“I am pleased to meet you, truly,” — she said, folding her scarf around her shoulders with a grace that spoke of centuries, not fashion. — “It’s been too long since he brought someone home who made his eyes light up like that.”

She gave a soft hum, pleased but preoccupied. — “Minthe, Oppian… all fire, no glow. You, though…”

She trailed off, studied Persephone again, then smiled as if satisfied with something unspoken.

“I wish I had more time, darling, but Olympus never rests. Don’t let them bore you while we settle matters.”

And with that, she swept out of the alcove, leaving behind the lingering scent of chamomile and myrrh.

Alone now, Persephone rose. The house called to her, not in words, but in silence. Long hallways waited behind golden trimmed doors. A breeze whispered through sheer drapes, heavy with salt and laurel.

She wandered softly at first, her sandals brushing the marble with caution. But curiosity won out. She passed portraits etched in gold-leaf: Zeus with thunder at his back, Poseidon astride a tidal surge, Hades rendered darker, withdrawn, his expression unreadable, not forgotten, only uninvited.

Eventually, the bodyguards she passed stopped watching. Not because they were careless, but because they recognized something. She wasn’t a threat. She belonged to the one who commanded shadows.

They let her pass.

She didn’t know which door was his, not at first. She found it by accident, tugging on a brass handle with a worn grip.

It opened with a low creak.

The room was dim, caught in the last haze of morning light. Books lined the walls, not polished for display, but worn through use. Histories, philosophies, myth in old tongues. Scrolls nestled in cedar boxes. A desk bore the weight of forgotten ideas, maps half-drawn, and a journal cracked open to a scrawled thought: Order is not peace. Remember this.

Across from the desk stood shelves of odd things, chess sets carved from onyx and bone, tiny figurines of soldiers and monsters mid-battle, fossilized leaves in glass, a bronze sundial dulled by fingerprints.

The bed was surprisingly soft looking, draped in deep charcoal and navy linens. Persephone stepped closer, a small smile tugging at her mouth as she noticed something out of place: a plush dog, gently slouched against the pillows. Its ears were bent.

She reached out and ran her fingers over its fabric head, affection blooming in her chest before she even knew why.

So this was him, beyond suits and shadows.

She left the toy as it was and moved on, slipping into the corridor again.

Farther down the west wing, she paused by a set of double doors slightly ajar. Voices filtered out, low, deliberate, one unmistakably Zeus, the other slower, colder. She moved closer, heart tightening.

“…Demeter came to me herself,” — Zeus was saying. — “You know how she is. Grieving but still sharp. She offered stakes, lucrative ones. Sanctuary development rights, silos, the shipping routes near Sicily. You expect me to say no to that?”

Hades didn’t answer at first, the silence stretched.

Zeus sighed, voice tightening. — “It’s business. She wants the girl back. Says she was manipulated, taken. That you used your influence, your charm, to trap her in a false life.”

Another pause. Then, more quietly: “I can’t break the contract, Hades. If I back out now, it’ll cost me millions.”

Persephone stiffened.

Inside the room, the tension finally cracked into voice.

“I didn’t come here for favors,” — Hades said, his tone iron-cold. — “I don’t need your contracts. I don’t need your protection. I’m only here for your lawyer, and even that’s a courtesy.”

Zeus let out a low chuckle, but it lacked warmth.

“You always mistake indifference for nobility. You think because you stand alone, you’re above the game. But even shadows cast debts, brother.”

Hades didn’t reply, but the scrape of his chair against the floor was loud enough.

Persephone leaned closer, heart pounding in her ribs.

She never heard the footsteps behind her.

A heavy, calloused hand came to rest on her shoulder, dry, warm, still strong despite the age in the fingers. Her breath caught, body stiffening. In her shock, her elbow knocked against a side table near the door, toppling a porcelain vase.

It never hit the floor.

The man behind her caught it mid fall with one hand, no rush, no clumsiness. He looked at the piece, an antique painted in ocean blues, as though amused by how delicate things liked to break when touched.

He chuckled, deep and amused, and placed the vase carefully back.

Then, the door opened. Not in haste. Just a firm push of presence.

“Well, well,” — came the voice, rumbling and smooth, far too steady to be kind. — “So this is the precious diamond everyone’s fighting over?”

Cronos.

The former king. The architect of Olympus, and the father of ‘gods’.

He stepped fully into the light, towering and silver haired, his tailored linen suit crisp against skin weathered by storms of time. His eyes, pale gold, sun eaten, were ancient but never dull. They flicked from Persephone to the room and back again, calculating.

Persephone couldn’t speak. Not out of fear, not exactly, but because she knew instinctively that this man had seen civilizations rise and fall by blinking. And her name was a candle against the wind of him.

His hand was still on her shoulder, firm, possessive without urgency.

Inside the room, Hades had gone completely still.

Cronos tilted his head toward his son, eyes gleaming with amusement.

“You didn’t tell me she was this radiant. Even Rhea was impressed. And you know how rare that is.”

“Let her go,” — Hades said, his voice suddenly sharp.

“Oh, please. You brought her here. I’m simply saying hello.”

“You know, I’ve been watching this little story unfold with great interest. The headlines, the scandals. The lovers. It’s been quite the drama. You’ve stirred the world, my dear. That takes talent … or chaos.”

He paused, eyes narrowing in a way that seemed almost admiring.

“I’ve seen people rise faster than you. But they fall even faster. Let me give you a small piece of advice, since everyone else seems too invested to be honest with you.” — He leaned closer, voice dropping an octave. — “Charm is currency. But loyalty? Loyalty will bankrupt you.”

“She’s not here for your inspection,” — Hades said, voice level but tight at the edges.

Cronos lifted a brow but didn’t respond.

“Come,” — Hades murmured to her, eyes only on hers now. — “Sit. Take my chair.”

She let him guide her past the threshold into the stately room, cool marble beneath their steps, gilded trim glinting against the tall windows where the sunlight refracted off glass like gold dipped water.

Hades’s seat at the table was grand but slightly apart from the others. He offered it to her without a word more.

She sat.

The words curled around her like smoke.

“And my son,” — he went on, eyes flicking toward the room where Hades and Zeus were still speaking, — “well. He always had a taste for difficult women. The ones with thorns. The ones who don’t know they’re bleeding.”

That was when Hades stood.

He crossed the room in two long strides, placing himself between her and Cronos, his hand reaching for hers immediately. It was not a command. It was an anchor.

She took it.

“Enough,”

Holding her gaze for a beat longer, a silent reassurance, he turned to Zeus.

“I need your lawyer’s number,”— he said simply. — “Then we’ll be on our way.”

Zeus looked like he might argue, but Cronos was already speaking again, tone now slower, silkier.

“You just got here.” — He walked leisurely to the bar, pouring something dark into a crystal tumbler. — “You’re never here for dinners, Hades. Always too busy being the ghost of the family. Now that you’ve finally returned with a queen on your arm, must you vanish again so soon?”

Hades didn’t respond.

Cronos took a slow sip, then looked at Persephone over the rim of his glass.

“Stay. We’ve food, fire, and too many opinions … isn’t that what families are for?”

Persephone, still settling into the chair, met his gaze. He wasn’t unkind, not exactly, but kindness wasn’t what he offered. What lingered behind his words was something else entirely.

Hades stood unmoving.

Persephone touched his wrist gently.

“We can stay a little,” — she said quietly. — “If you want.”

Cronos smiled faintly and poured a second drink. — “Good,” — he said, already turning toward the long table. — “Let’s pretend we’re not monsters for an evening.”

Hades didn’t answer right away, fingers curled slightly around hers, conflicted, protective instinct and fury battling reason.

He didn’t sit, not yet, swirled the amber liquid and watched the ripples settle before lifting his eyes to Hades.

“Come now,” — he continued, — “you act like I summoned you here to devour her. Honestly, boy, I’m offended.”

His smile widened, cold at the edges.

“I only wanted to meet the woman who’s turned the underworld into Olympus’s favorite gossip column. You can’t blame me. Even I missed the days when our name meant something… intriguing.”

Persephone tensed at his words, but Cronos only sipped his drink and gestured to the far seat at the head of the table.

“Sit. Eat, indulge me. After all, if the media’s already drawn their weapons, the least you can do is sharpen your own. Or” — he tilted his head toward her — “is the plan just to cry pretty until they grow tired of your tears?”

Hades’s hand tightened around hers. But still, Cronos didn’t stop.

“Tell me, Persephone…what do you think your happy ending looks like? You and my son tucked away behind rose covered gates? Do you think the world will forget the headlines because you planted a few flowers and cried on cue?”

Persephone’s lips parted, not to answer, but to breathe.

Cronos stepped closer to the table, finally setting down his glass.

“Or is it something worse? That deep down, you like it, the chaos, the tragedy. The being seen.”

He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling, as if referring to the invisible world watching from above.

“Because if you truly wanted peace, you would have walked away by now. People like you, Persephone… you were made to be watched. To be judged, and you chose him.”

Then, finally, Hades moved.

He stepped forward, his hand still gently holding Persephone’s, his coat still wrapped around her. He didn’t look at his father, not directly.

“You know what, I don’t need your lawyer,” — he said quietly. — “I’ll figure it out.”

There was finality in his tone. Not raised, not dramatic, but cutting. The kind of certainty that needed no volume.

“Thank you for having us”

Without another glance at his father or brother, he turned back to Persephone. He slipped his coat from his arm and laid it gently over her shoulders, careful with the collar, a soft, silent gesture, a shield.

“Come,” — he murmured.

She didn’t hesitate, hand found his without a word, and he walked just a step behind her, not guiding, not pushing, but guarding. A wall of quiet rage cloaked in elegance.

“This was a mistake,” — he whispered to her, low enough that no one else could hear. — “I’m sorry.”

They were almost at the doors when Cronos’s voice followed them again, calm, immovable.

“Running again, son? There’s always a door when things get inconvenient.”

Hades didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch, hand only tightened slightly around hers.

But before the tension could snap like wire pulled too tight.

“Whoa, what’s this mood?” — a voice rang out brightly from the hallway.

Poseidon stepped into view, balancing two absurdly large platters of food in his arms , roasted lamb, golden potatoes, olives, bread stacked like tiny hills. His sea blue blazer was open, sleeves pushed up, and his beard had crumbs in it already.

“Did someone forget to tell me this wasn’t a funeral?” — he asked cheerfully, glancing between Cronos and Hades.

He spotted Persephone and grinned, oblivious to the strain in the room. — “Hey, you’re the flower girl!”

Persephone blinked , a breath caught between a sob and a startled laugh.

Hades exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

“Still got the timing of a barnacle, brother,” — he muttered.

Poseidon winked. — “And the charm of a kraken. You’re welcome.”

They stepped past him, leaving the villa.

Chapter Text

The morning after Olympus felt like a storm barely survived. Persephone walked alone at first, hands tucked into the sleeves of her cardigan, her steps soft over the winding garden path that curved through the heart of the city’s oldest park. The space felt sacred in its own quiet way, ancient cypress trees whispered high above, and cobblestone lanes wound gently around a pond laced with morning mist.

The water shimmered silver blue, alive with koi fish slipping beneath lily pads. Swans glided past ducks in slow arcs, and butterflies danced between reeds. The air was fragrant with lavender and honeysuckle. Each breath she took carried memory and healing but also weight.

She wasn’t alone for long.

A beat of feather light footsteps approached, followed by the flutter of silk and the soft exhale of wings unseen.

Eros fell into stride beside her, dressed today in ivory slacks and a rose gold shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at his immortality. His curls bounced with every step, golden as his eyes.

“You look like a woman trying to stop the sea with a teacup,” — he said gently, brushing her arm with his. — “And I say that with love.”

“I’m tired of crying,” — she murmured.

“I know,”— he said, softer now. — “But tired doesn’t mean done.”

Behind them, the gravel crunched beneath heeled boots.

Nike approached next, every inch of her immaculate. Her suit was slate grey with gilded seams, her white hair bound in a high twist, sleek and severe. She carried a phone in one hand and power in the other.

And beside her came Aphrodite ever luminous, in a flowing sundress of crushed blush silk and bare feet. Flowers seemed to bloom at the edges of her wake, as if the earth couldn’t help but soften around her.

They didn’t say anything at first. Just joined her, four across, walking slowly along the pond’s edge, shadows dancing between them.

“You don’t have to do this alone anymore,” — Nike said, voice as cool as the breeze through the cypress. — “You have people. Real ones.”

Persephone looked over, eyes rimmed red. — “Oh… Guys” — She almost sobbed — “Thank you …. But what can I do? They’re twisting everything. It’s not just the press… it’s Demeter. It’s Minthe. And it’s working.”

“It won’t last,” — Aphrodite said gently. — “You forget, love fades too, especially the fake kind.”

“But the damage,” — Persephone said, stopping near a stone bench. A koi leapt nearby, splashing silver. — “What if I can’t outrun it?”

“You don’t have to,”— Nike said. Her voice cut clean, decisive. — “You confront it. Publicly. You speak your truth before someone else writes your myth for you.”

Persephone turned to her. — “Even if no one listens?”

Nike’s lip curled just slightly, a subtle expression of contempt, not for Persephone, but for the thought.

“I don’t lose cases. And I don’t stand next to people who break when they’re this close to winning.”

“She’s being nice,” — Eros chimed in, — “but what she means is… she’s terrifying in court. Like, ‘goddess of bloodless annihilation’ terrifying.”

“I represent four Fortune 100 companies,” — Nike added. — “Olympus isn’t the first empire tangled in lies and scandals. I have strategies. I have leverage. And I have no fear of Demeter.”

“And I,” — Aphrodite added, stepping closer and cupping Persephone’s cheek, — “have half the city’s hearts in my back pocket. Let me remind them what it means to love you, not as the girl they think they lost, but as the woman you’ve become.”

Persephone felt the tears rising again, this time they weren’t from helplessness.

They were from the sheer, overwhelming sense that maybe, just maybe, she could breathe again.

“Let me call my team,” — Nike said. — “You’ll need media support, a clean public statement, and legal pressure to freeze any further false claims. We’ll start with Minthe. Then we dig into Demeter’s financials. If she made a deal with Zeus, there’s a trail. And I intend to follow it.”

Eros stretched luxuriously and smirked. — “And I’ll write the speech. You’re not just defending yourself, darling, you’re claiming your narrative. You’re Persephone. You’re not lost. You’re rising.”

Persephone smiled, wiping at her eyes. — “Thank you,” — she whispered. — “All of you.”

Aphrodite spun on her heel, the silk of her skirt flaring like a petal in the breeze.

“Enough of this drama,”

She declared, tossing her hair and grabbing Persephone’s hand. — “Let me remind you how lucky you are… because you have me, girl.”

Persephone laughed despite herself as she was pulled down a grassy slope, trailing behind the goddess of love as wildflowers bent in their wake. The others followed, Eros skipping down like a boy in a storybook, and Nike with reluctant grace, adjusting her blazer as if mildly offended by pollen.

They tumbled into the low meadow just beside the river, where the reeds swayed and tiny green frogs blinked from lily pads. Aphrodite grabbed Persephone’s other hand and twirled her in the grass until they both stumbled, giggling, barefoot and breathless.

For a moment, everything else melted away, no headlines, no mothers crying on talk shows, no Olympus.

Just sun on skin, wind in hair, laughter dancing through the tall grass.

“Is too hot,”— Eros groaned, fanning himself dramatically. — “We should just skinny dip. Real talk.”

Persephone rolled her eyes, grinning.

“With the paparazzi still stalking me? Are you really a friend, Eros? I thought you were trying to help me, not land me on the next ‘goddess nude in nature’ exposé.”

Aphrodite barked a laugh, flopping onto the grass like a sun-drunk lioness.

“He’s helping in his own way, darling. Chaos is his love language.”

Nike, still standing, gave a faint smirk.

“My firm will have to sue three tabloids if that happens. Just saying.”

Their laughter was light, flowing easily with the breeze. As they walked again, slow now, following the river’s edge, a ripple disturbed the still water ahead.

A pair of swans glided into view. White as moonlight, feathers gleaming gold in the sun. One of them turned, elegant neck dipping, and from the curve of her wing, a tiny grey cygnet peeked out. Soft, wide eyed, innocent.

Persephone stopped, breath caught.

The ache that filled her chest came so suddenly it stunned her, a quiet pain blooming behind her ribs. She watched the baby swan nestle closer to its mother, warm and protected, tucked inside the shelter of something that loved it fiercely.

“I miss her,” — Persephone whispered. — “Even after everything… I wish I didn’t. But I do.”

The others didn’t speak right away. They didn’t need to.

Aphrodite stepped closer, her expression gentler now. — “Love and pain,” — she said softly, — “aren’t enemies. They just speak different dialects.”

Persephone looked out at the swans again. The sun flickered across the water, that reflection stared back, eyes red from crying, but clearer than before.

“I just… wish she could see me,” — she said quietly. — “Not as something broken. Or missing. But whole. Changed.”

“She will,” — Nike said simply. — “Or she won’t. But either way … you see you. That’s where we begin.”

They stood together in silence a moment longer, the grass brushing their legs, the sound of the river babbling softly beside them.

The restaurant had been perfect.

Gold light, polished silverware, half empty wine glasses catching the glint of laughter. Persephone had laughed so hard her cheeks ached. The clink of plates, the hum of conversation, it all felt… normal. Like she was just a girl in love, out for dinner with friends, not a living headline walking through fire.

Persephone was nestled between Aphrodite and Nike, cheeks flushed from wine and good company.

Eros told some outlandish story about being kicked out of a spa for — “excessive aura disturbance,” — and everyone nearly choked on their drinks. Even Nike cracked a smile.

“I’ll be right back,” — Persephone said between giggles, sliding out of the booth.

“Mm, don’t get kidnapped,” — Aphrodite teased gently, sipping her sangria. — “Again.”

Persephone waved her off with a grin, heels clicking as she made her way through the glowing corridor. She pushed the bathroom door open, the sound of laughter and jazz muffling behind her.

A voice called.

Persephone rolled her eyes with a grin, leaving the warm glow of the table. The hallway to the restroom was quieter, scented faintly with rose water and soft jazz from unseen speakers. She opened the door to the women’s lounge and stepped into the cooler, marbled air of the powder room.

She stopped.

“Oh my gods! Persephone?” — Helen’s voice was syrup sweet, stretched wide with surprise.

Adriane turned from the mirror, her lip gloss still uncapped in her hand.

“Damn. It really is you. Wow. You look so… different.”

Persephone’s stomach turned. She hesitated, just a moment, before offering the smallest smile.

“Hey. Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“We didn’t expect you, babe,” — Adriane said, already circling her like a shark sizing up blood in the water. — “I mean, we figured you were hiding. The whole world is talking.”

“Yeah,” — Helen cooed. — “You okay? Really okay? We’re worried. You’ve been so… off-grid.”

“I’m fine,” — Persephone said softly, her voice even, calm. — “Just… trying to live a quieter life.”

Helen tilted her head. — “With him?”

Persephone kept her posture composed.

“That’s not something I really talk about.”

“Mmhmm,” — Adriane said, stepping closer, tone syrupy with false concern. — “But like…do you even have your own phone anymore?”

Helen’s voice slid in like a knife. — “Or does Hades carry it for you?”

Persephone stiffened.

“Okay, enough,” — she said, not loud but firm. — “Th… This isn’t funny.”

Helen reached into her purse.

“Don’t freak out. Just say hi. For the fans.”

She pulled out her phone, screen already glowing.

A livestream.

View count climbing. 24.7k. 24.8k.

The chat streamed like acid:

“Mind controlled much?”

“BlinK IF UR SAFE 😭”

“WHERE’S HER MOTHER???”

“She’s drugged out”

“damn she looks dead inside lol”

“save her”

“😭😭😭”

“she’s so brainwashed ”

Helen cackled, camera inches from Persephone’s face.

“You’re famous, girl. Might as well lean in.”

Adriane added, deadpan, — “Let’s not pretend you didn’t want this.”

Persephone froze.

Something inside her cracked.

She turned sharply and stumbled into the nearest stall, slamming it shut. The lock clicked with a harsh metallic snap. She sat hard on the closed toilet, chest heaving, heart trying to beat out of her ribs.

Her hands trembled. She pressed her palms to her face, then used her sleeve to muffle a scream.

Outside, their voices slithered in like smoke.

“Poor thing,” — Helen mocked. — “She can’t even handle a livestream.”

“She’s always been dramatic,” — Adriane said with a smirk. — “Seriously, what’s she even doing with him? Stockholm syndrome’s real.”

Their laughter echoed off the tiles.

“Persephone?”

Aphrodite.

The bathroom door had opened. Heels clicked forward with deliberate grace.

“What’s going on?” — she asked, not angry.

Helen turned, and for a moment she blinked, visibly unsure.

“We were just…chatting.”

“With your livestream?” — Aphrodite said, gaze sharp as a blade. She walked in further, taking in the camera still rolling. — “You’re streaming her?”

Adriane huffed. — “It’s not a big deal.”

“Where is she?”

Helen waved vaguely toward the stalls. — “She’s being dramatic.”

Aphrodite moved fast. Not frantic, feline. Calculating. She knelt slightly, peeking under the stall.

There.

Persephone.

Curled in on herself, hands tangled in her hair, shaking, her breath a series of silent gasps.

“Oh, baby,” — Aphrodite said, voice softened now, heart achingly tender. — “Persephone. I’m here.”

Persephone burst out of the stall, eyes wild and tear bright. She snatched Helen’s phone from her hand and slammed it onto the marble floor. It cracked, the camera still miraculously on, now filming a crooked view of tile and designer heels.

Then Persephone grabbed Helen by the hair.

“You think this is funny?” — she hissed, shoving her back against the sink.

Adriane lunged to help, only to be met by Aphrodite’s fist.

SMACK.

Adriane crumpled to the floor with a sound somewhere between a whimper and a thud.

“Girl,” — Aphrodite snapped, shaking her hand once, — “do you even know these hoes?”

“Too well,” — Persephone spat. — “Fuck them. Snakes.”

Aphrodite turned to Helen, who was scrambling backward on the floor. — “Bitch,” — she said, lips curling into a smile. — “Fuck you, then.”

She grabbed Persephone’s hand and the two of them stormed out, Aphrodite shouting over her shoulder,

“Enjoy the clout!”

Back at the table, Eros was halfway through his second margarita. Nike had just finished explaining tax loopholes when Aphrodite rushed over.

“Let’s get out of here. I’ll knock another bitch if I have to.”

“You what?” — Nike exclaimed, rising, concerned. — “What happened?”

“No time to explain. Move.” — Aphrodite waved like she was shooing pigeons.

Persephone appeared behind her, flushed and almost… glowing. Alive.

“Come on!” — she said, laughing breathlessly. — “We have to go.”

Nike narrowed her eyes.

“You punched someone, didn’t you?”

Aphrodite grinned. — “Technically? Self-defense.”

Eros grabbed his margarita and a handful of truffle fries. Nike tossed money on the table with surgical precision.

They ran out as the first sirens started howling in the distance.

And for the first time in weeks, Persephone was laughing again — really laughing — wind in her hair, heart pounding, a war goddess and love goddess flanking her, with chaos trailing behind sipping tequila.

Alive.

Reckless.

Free.

Chapter Text

The wooden home door clicked softly open.

Persephone stepped inside, her heels in hand now, the weight of the evening tugging at her spine. The dim garden light caught in her hair, wild from wind and emotion, her makeup smudged, her heart still thrumming like a shaken bell.

She exhaled.

The house was quiet , the kind of quiet that felt safe, soft scent of chamomile and pine lingered in the air, blending with the faint aroma of the night’s earlier tea and warm blankets. The living room glowed gently with the golden hue of a single floor lamp, casting elongated shadows across the walls.

There, on the couch, was Hades.

He was reclined, in black sweatpants and a loose long sleeve shirt, casual in a way that made her chest tighten. His hand rested on the thick fur of Cerberus, sprawled across him.

Hades’ eyes were closed, but not in sleep. She could tell, breath was too alert, his brow just a little too tense, as if he were listening for her.

She didn’t speak, didn’t have to.

His eyes opened, slowly. Dark, steady. Relief passed through them like a tide.

“You’re home,” — he said quietly.

She nodded, kicking off her shoes with a sigh that came from the soles of her feet. — “Yep,”— brushing hair back from her flushed face.

“How was your meeting with Aphrodite?” — he asked gently, sitting up just a touch.

Persephone’s lips curled in a tired smirk. — “Alive, very alive.”

He chuckled.

“That sounds… ominous.”

She walked over, perched delicately on the arm of the couch beside him, and leaned her head against his shoulder. His warmth met her instantly, grounding her, tension in her muscles began to melt.

“How was your night?” — she asked softly, voice muffled against his sleeve.

“Nothing much,” — he said, one arm rising to cradle her back. — “Dealing with some things on the computer. Came here to listen to some music, but Cerberus decided it was bedtime on my lap, and I do not dare to get up. Not when he’s sleeping so nicely…”

She snorted. — “So you took the opportunity to wait for me?”

“Exactly.”

“For how long have you been sitting here, incapable of moving?” — she teased, pulling her knees up onto the cushions.

He made a face. — “Too long,” — he admitted. — “But he’s so comfy.”

“Oh yeah,” — she laughed, reaching down to pet the head of the dozing beast. — “He looks very comfy in papa’s lap.”

At her voice, Cerberus’s head stirred slightly and leaned into her palm, groaning happily.

“Traitor,” — Hades said with mock gravity. — “You like her more than me.”

“Obviously,” — she whispered, giving the sleepy one a scratch behind the ear. — “But don’t worry, you’re still second favorite.”

“Great,” — he muttered. — “Just what every man wants to hear.”

Hades tilted his head, letting it rest lightly against hers. They sat there in the warmth of the room, tangled in stillness, a soft silence shared between people who no longer needed words to be understood. The gentle rhythm of Cerberus’s breathing grounded them. Hades exhaled slowly, his hand absently tracing small circles on her back, his touch light as breath, anchoring her.

Persephone’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, her fingers playing with the loose edge of a throw pillow near his hip. There was a quiet hum in her chest, a calm that hadn’t been there in days, maybe longer.

He glanced down at her, at the curve of her cheek against his shoulder.

“You seem calmer,”

She shrugged. — “I think I just hit the end of what I can carry.” — Then, after a breath — “But I’m also… determined.”

He hummed in response, curious.

She straightened a little, turning to face him, legs curled up beside her. — “I’m giving a speech tomorrow,”— she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. — “At Aphrodite’s event. She’s letting me steal the scene.”

Hades looked at her. Really looked. — “Are you sure?”

Her smile was tired, but firm.

“Yes.”

The lover didn’t answer right away. His fingers stilled against her back.

“You don’t owe them anything.”

“I know,”— she said gently.

“They’ll twist it. They always twist it.”

“I know,” she repeated.

He looked away, jaw tight.

“You’re putting yourself in the fire again, for what?”

“To clean your name,” — she said softly. — “To tell the truth. Or at least… to remind them there’s more than one version of it.”

His eyes found hers again, uncertain, conflicted.

“I don’t care what they say about me.”

“I do,” — she whispered. — “You deserve better.”

He reached for her hand, cradling it in both of his, rough palms brushing her knuckles.

“I built my world with distance. Shadow. Control. You… you shine, Persephone. I never expected light in my life, and now….”

He stopped himself.

Her fingers tightened around his.

“We deserve better.”

That hit him harder than he expected. We.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, breath catching.

“Then let’s do it your way,” — he murmured. — “Let them listen.”

The next evening unfolded beneath velvet skies and a crescent moon polished to a knife-edge gleam. The event was held in the gardens of The Parnassus, a grand estate carved into the cliffs of Olympus Hills an old-world mansion turned contemporary art sanctuary, overflowing with marble columns wrapped in wisteria and fountains that spilled into crystal pools.

Arrivals were nothing short of mythic. Limousines slid silently to the foot of the courtyard, lights flashing like fireflies as paparazzi swarmed the velvet pathway. Journalists, influencers, moguls, and celebrities milled behind security ropes. The event had been touted as The Revival of Venus, a gala hosted by Aphrodite herself, part fashion show, part exhibition, part myth brought to life. All eyes were trained on the golden archway where guests emerged into view.

And then, Persephone stepped into the light.

She wore a floor length dress spun from black silk and sheer green layers, embroidered with subtle golden thread in the shape of wheat, vines, and pomegranate blossoms. It moved with her each step a quiet bloom of light and shadow. Her shoulders were bare, adorned only with a delicate chain of antique gold that circled her collarbone, hung with a tiny emerald, dark curls were woven into a crown of leaves and soft braids, pinned with obsidian clips. She looked untouched by the noise, untouchable by the scandal.

And beside her, Hades. Tailored obsidian suit. No tie. Shirt open just at the collarbone. His presence was carved marble wrapped in midnight. He didn’t smile, didn’t have to. The way he walked beside her, hand gently resting at the small of her back, said everything.

The cameras erupted.

Persephone didn’t flinch this time, she held Hades’ hand as questions flew like arrows.

“Persephone! Is it true you were kidnapped?”

“Lord Hades, will you comment on the allegations?”

“Will Demeter be releasing a statement?”

She only turned once, gently. — “I’ll speak soon,” — she said, voice clear as temple bells.

“You’ll hear everything then.”

They entered the garden proper, where rows of tables nestled among marble sculptures and peony hedges. At the center, a stage draped in crimson silks. Lanterns dangled from laurel branches, and harpists played soft chords as servers passed with wine and ambrosia-laced hors d’oeuvres.

Aphrodite approached at the edge of the garden, radiant in a gown of rosy chiffon and gold body chains, her hair crowned with delicate roses and strands of freshwater pearls, eyes lit with something warm and sharp at the same time as she looked at Hades, then Persephone.

“Hades” — she greeted, kissing each of Hades’ cheeks with reverence and amusement. — “Never thought I’d see you outside a cave.”

He snorted. — “Greet seeing you, Aphrodite”she turned to Persephone and kissed her softly on both cheeks. — “You are divine,” — she whispered, — “and I’m so proud of you.”

Just behind her, Eros emerged in a crimson suit with no shirt beneath it — “Here,” — he said, handing Persephone a rolled parchment sealed with wax. — “Speech. Adjusted to make you sound fearless, righteous, and irresistibly dangerous.”

She laughed, tension cracking just slightly. — “Thanks.”

“I added a few lines,” — he grinned, — “but you’ll feel them. Trust me.”

They talked for a moment longer, teasing each other with old stories and glances that said they remembered darker days.

Then the crowd shifted.

Helen and Adriane had arrived. Not through the main entrance, but through the garden’s west gate, quiet, casual, dressed in minimalist satin gowns and eyes made up to look soft and innocent. They slithered in between high ranking guests, smiling too wide. Their presence did not go unnoticed. Persephone’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she said nothing. They weren’t the point of tonight.

She turned instead to the stage, where the lights dimmed and a hush fell.

Aphrodite took the platform, her dress catching the wind, hair lifted in a halo. The music silenced. She stood beneath a colossal statue of herself, one heel placed forward like a general before her army.

“Welcome, my beauties,” — she began, voice dripping confidence. — “Tonight we honor passion. We honor love. We honor the war we wage with ourselves and each other to find our truth.”

A low hum began, ancient drums, the deep roll of djembe and frame drums. Dancers emerged from behind pillars, cloaked in red and white, faces painted gold. They moved with ceremonial precision, twisting, reaching, collapsing, rising again, each movement told a story: the birth of desire, the ache of loss, the hunger for power, the transcendence of self.

Lyres joined next. Aulos flutes. A voice from the shadows began to sing in Ancient Greek melancholy, rising with heat.

Fire spun above the garden. Passion became a creature dancing across marble and vines. Some wept, some stood still, entranced. Even the wind paused to listen.

Hades stood just behind the curtain, a step away from the golden light spilling onto the stage. Persephone’s breath trembled slightly, her fingers tightening around the scroll Eros had given her. She didn’t need to read it again. The words were etched into her mind, burning with truth, edged in fear.

Hades reached out, brushing a knuckle down her spine in a gesture barely more than a breath. Then his hand settled gently between her shoulder blades, grounding.

“You’re not alone,”— he murmured, voice low enough that only she could hear it. — “Whatever happens out there, you’ve already survived worse. You’ve already won.”

Persephone turned her head slightly, their eyes meeting. His were soft now, none of the world weary detachment he wore like armor when among the other gods. Just him. Just a man who loved her, who didn’t need her to prove anything to be worthy.

Eros stood nearby in a crimson chair that wasn’t his but he’d decided to own anyway, sipping from a flute of sparkling nectar. He noticed Persephone’s hesitation and sprang up, waving his arms in exaggerated circles, a bizarre pantomime of confidence and encouragement: arms wide, fists pumping, one dramatic air-hug thrown in for good measure. Then he gave her two thumbs up… and a finger heart. Somehow, it helped.

Aphrodite, meanwhile, continued to command the stage, her voice like rosewater poured over flames.

“Too often,” — she said, — “we confuse love with conquest. With ownership. With silence.”

She let her gaze sweep over the gathered elite, titans in gowns and tuxedos, demigods seated beside mortal patrons and influencers. Even they leaned in to listen.

In the golden glow of the stage lights, Aphrodite stood poised in her gown of shimmering fabric that moved like poured wine, her voice a melody that wrapped around the attention of every divine and mortal soul in the room.

“I was married once,” — she said, her voice softer now, — “to a man of fire and brilliance.”

The crowd rippled with murmurs. Hephaestus shifted in his seat, seated beside Athena in the second row, shoulders tensed as though preparing for a blow, his eyes fixed on his hands, which had built skyscrapers from molten metal and bare will.

Aphrodite’s gaze drifted toward him for a breath, not sharp or cruel, but gentle.

“This man is here tonight,” — she said, and heads turned. — “He is a creator, a mind of unmatched talent. We were not right for one another, but he taught me patience. Solidity. That love isn’t always about what lasts forever, but sometimes what shapes us along the way.”

Hephaestus blinked, caught somewhere between stunned silence and the faintest light behind his eyes. Athena smiled, small and knowing.

“We owe each other grace,” — she said, her tone low, slow, meaningful. — “Especially when we have failed. Especially when we have hurt. And in times like these, when truth gets buried beneath trending tags and bitter edits… we must remind each other that we are still human, despise the social status, despise the fame. We are still soft in places no gossip can touch.”

A soft ripple of applause started, unbidden, from somewhere in the back.

“So tonight,” — Aphrodite said, her voice brighter now, lifting the air, — “we hear a new story. A story not built on headlines or shadows or shame, but truth, messy, sacred, and hers. I ask you now to welcome someone many thought they already knew. But we are not stories written by others. We are not scandal. We are not shame.”

She turned to the side, extending a hand toward the curtain.

“My dear, Persephone.”

For a heartbeat, the air turned glass still.

And in that space, just beyond the edge of the stage, Helen raised her phone, already live. The screen glowed with hungry comments. Thousands of viewers, mouth curved with anticipation, waiting for the stumble, the tears, the collapse.

But Persephone stepped out.

Straight backed, eyes shining with something deeper than fear, didn’t tremble, didn’t flinch.

She simply walked into the light.

Persephone stepped into the light, scroll in hand, heartbeat loud in her ears. The silence of the crowd pressed in from all sides, and Helen’s phone was already glowing, broadcasting, waiting, hunting.

She began with Eros’ words.

“There’s nothing more fragile than a lie held too long. It rots. Turns on its maker. We all watched the headlines. We all saw the edits. The screenshots. The gossip. But that’s not my truth. That’s not my story.’”

Her voice was calm, rehearsed, elegant.

But then she looked up, scroll shaking faintly in her grip, lowered the parchment, and let it fall beside her.

“This isn’t about a scandal,” — she said. — “It’s about control.”

Her voice gained weight, not volume, but force.

“I wasn’t taken. I wasn’t tricked. I was given something I didn’t know I needed, the chance to see a different world. To be more than the girl groomed to bloom in spring and die by winter. I was allowed to ask who I really was beneath the flowers and smiles. And I chose.”

A camera zoomed in. Persephone looked straight into it.

“Mother, I know you’re listening.”

The crowd murmured. Even the gods stilled.

“I forgive your fear. I forgive the words you whispered in anger. But I do not forgive the chains. Not tonight. Not anymore. This isn’t just about love, it’s about freedom. I am not returning to a garden where I am only tended.”

Gasps erupted. Questions rose in waves, was she leaving Olympus? Was she calling out Demeter?

Persephone didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her gown’s folds, pulled out her phone, and without a word, opened her largest social media account.

A few taps. A pause. A final click.

Then she turned the phone around. On the screen: Account Deleted.

The crowd squinted. Then buzzed louder as phones were pulled out everywhere.

“Wait… what?” — Eros shouted from the back, clearly thrown off-script. — “I didn’t tell her to do that in the speech!”

Aphrodite only smiled, placing a hand on his arm gently, her gaze still forward, fixed on Hades, who had not moved.

Persephone turned to him and reached out a hand.

He didn’t take her hand right away.

Not because he didn’t want to. But because he was afraid of what it would mean, for her. For them. Another headline.

Another storm.

But she waited, hand extended, smile soft.

Unshaken.

And when he finally moved, slow, deliberate, placing his hand into hers, the air shifted. The audience collectively held its breath.

She pulled him gently forward, up beside her, never taking her eyes off his. Their fingers interlaced.

His free hand came to her waist, firm but reverent, grounding her, steadying himself. She stepped closer.

And then, without hesitation, she rose on her toes and kissed him.

The sound of the crowd vanished.

His arm wrapped around her back, drawing her in, not possessive, but protective, as if shielding her from the world with the quiet ferocity only he possessed, lips met hers fully, deeply, not the kind of kiss meant for show, but one born of nights spent healing together. Of stolen hours in dark rooms. Of the ache of finally being seen, and the thrill of choosing one another anyway.

Persephone’s fingers found the back of his neck, her thumb brushing his skin. She melted into him, into the safety and fire of his embrace.

Hades didn’t kiss often, not in front of others, not in spectacle. But when he did, it was an oath made in silence.

His heart thundered against hers. She felt it, steady and sure. A drumbeat echoing home.

When they finally broke the kiss, slow, breath shared between them, he touched his forehead to hers.

“You didn’t have to do all this,”

And as the noise of the room flooded back in, rising cheers, shouts, the chaos of cameras flashing wildly, Persephone could only see him. His eyes, storm-dark and full of awe.

Around them, security scrambled to keep order.

“I wanted to, for me, for you, for us”

Chapter Text

The VIP lounge was bathed in warm, amber light, low lit chandeliers dripping from the ceiling, their crystals catching flecks of gold in the air. Deep velvet couches hugged the corners, marble tables scattered with half finished glasses and tiny plates of delicacies no one had touched. A gentle hum of jazz wrapped around the group, muted by the thick walls of the exclusive room.

Eros was sprawled across the corner of the couch, drink in hand, cheeks flushed with the kind of excitement that came from equal parts alcohol and genuine awe.

“And then you were like, ‘Hey, Mom,’ and I was like WHAT?!”

He yelled over the rim of his cocktail glass, flinging his hand into the air so dramatically that the lime garnish flew off with a splash.

“I swear to the stars, if I wasn’t in love with myself, I’d marry you.”

Nike snorted into her drink, her sleek gold cuff bracelets clinking softly as she wiped a tear of laughter away. Athena raised a brow but couldn’t hide her smile. Hades sat next to Persephone, his arm resting behind her on the couch, fingers occasionally brushing her shoulder, always a tether.

Aphrodite stood further away, hands curled around a narrow champagne flute, her face calm but quiet. Her lips moved in faint smiles when someone laughed too loud, but her eyes, they drifted. Toward the door, toward someone not there.

Then the security tensed.

Hephaestus had arrived.

Wearing his usual simple attire, pressed dark slacks, clean shirt, steel grey hair pulled back neatly, he stood just beyond the velvet rope, speaking lowly to the guard who didn’t seem keen on letting him through.

Aphrodite stood slowly, at first loud, then soft.

“Let him in, please.”

The tension cracked like a dry branch. A few guests glanced up, but most continued in their circles. Hephaestus stepped in with a nod, heading straight to her. Their conversation was close, their hands never quite touching, their voices low. She smiled, soft and honest, and his eyes warmed. There was no romance in it, perhaps not anymore, but there was something stronger: history, grace, forgiveness.

Persephone’s gaze slid to Hades. He had noticed too, his expression unreadable, but gentle.

Persephone rested her head briefly against his shoulder, chuckling as she turned back to her friends, their table now thick with joy and ease.

Nike leaned forward, smirking. — “So what’s the plan now, rebel goddess? You just deleted your face from the internet, how are you gonna keep the coins flowing, girly?”

Persephone lifted a brow, lips pursed in mock consideration.

“Well… it’s not like I don’t have money. I could live ten lives off what I made before twenty five.”

“Sorry, rich girl,” — Nike teased, lifting her glass.

“Said the CEO of a multi billion-dollar legal empire,” — Eros threw in, raising his hands dramatically. — “Don’t project onto her, diva.”

They all laughed.

“I would love to open a flower shop,” — Persephone said after a beat, fingers toying with the stem of her glass.

“Tending my garden isn’t enough?”

Hades asked, tilting his head, a smile blooming across his lips.

“I love your garden,” — said sweetly, — “but I want to tend my space too. Wouldn’t that be nice? A small place. My hands in the soil. Quiet mornings.”

Nike tapped her glass on the table.

“It’ll be hard. You know that, right? People will come at first for the wrong reasons, gossip, drama. Being in that space, vulnerable and public, might be harder than you think.”

Persephone nodded.

“You’re right.”

There was a pause, the clink of glass and slow music filling in the silence.

“Give it time,” — Athena offered, her voice calm and wise. — “You’ll figure it out. Today we celebrate victory. Freedom. Your wise strategy in the battlefield. Tomorrow is another day.”

Persephone smiled. Around her were friends. Her own small pantheon of chaos and care.

Then a massage caught her attention.

'Your mother wishes to resolve matters quietly. Name the place.'
Unknown number, 11pm

The funeral home was too quiet.

Persephone stepped from her Uber with her heart rattling against her ribs, the autumn air sharp in her lungs. She hadn’t told Hades, couldn’t. If she had, he would’ve come with her, shielded her, fought for her but this was something she needed to face alone.

The text from the lawyer had been simple, professional, and so she’d chosen here. The one place she thought she might feel strong enough, the place that had been hers, where she had built something with her hands, with her grief, with her hope.

But as she pushed the door, it swung inward too easily, no lock, no sign of anyone waiting. Just silence.

“Hello?”

Voice echoed down the marble hall, stepping cautiously, one foot behind the other, as though the air itself were warning her not to move too fast.

The garden stretched ahead, glass walls framing the twilight beyond. She could see the ashen tree through the window, its bare branches raised like tired arms, steps slowed.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Persephone froze.

Minthe leaned against the base of the tree, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, green dress cutting sharp against the gray bark. Her smile was cold, too sharp for her pretty face.

Persephone’s breath caught.

“Minthe.”

“You had it all,” — Minthe spat, stepping closer. — “Olympus at your feet. The golden girl. The future of spring. And yet…”

Her voice rose, trembling with venom.

“You had to take him from me. You greedy bitch.”

Persephone shook her head.

“I didn’t take anything. Hades was never yours to keep.”

Minthe’s laugh was brittle, slicing.

“Never mine? I spent years at his side. Years cleaning up his messes, holding his empire together while he shut himself away. And the second you walk in with your pretty face and sad eyes, he bends? He changes?”

She jabbed a finger toward Persephone’s chest. — “You think you deserve that?”

“I don’t deserve him,” — Persephone said, voice shaking but steady. — “But he chose me. Just like I chose him. That isn’t theft, Minthe. That’s love.”

The other woman’s lips twisted, as if the word itself disgusted her.

Before she could retort, a voice cut through the air.

“Enough, girls.”

Persephone’s stomach turned to stone.

Demeter stepped into the garden, immaculate as always. Pale suit pressed, hair gleaming, eyes sharp as flint. Behind her, four towering figures filled the hall, Zelus, Kratos, Nike, Bia. Not gods, not winged enforcers of myth, but men and women built like walls, shoulders broad, movements precise. Corporate muscle.

Demeter barely spared Minthe a glance, found Persephone and held her there.

“It’s time to go home.”

Persephone’s throat closed.

“This isn’t what I agreed to. Where’s the lawyer?”

“I am your mother,” — Demeter replied, calm and cutting. — “I don’t need a lawyer to bring my daughter back.”

“No,” — Persephone whispered. She stepped back, palms rising. — “I won’t go. I made my choice.”

Demeter’s lips tightened. She gestured, subtle, and the guards shifted forward.

Persephone’s heart lurched.

“Don’t, don’t touch me!”

Her voice broke into a scream, raw with terror.

“I won’t go with you!”

The guards advanced. She stumbled backward, colliding with Minthe.

Minthe’s hand flew across her face in a sharp crack. The slap rang louder than the shouts.

“You ruined everything!” — Minthe shrieked.

Persephone reeled, stumbling into the ceremonial table behind her. The edge caught her hip, pain flashing, candles toppling. One hit the tablecloth, flame licking across the fabric with greedy speed.

“No” — Persephone gasped, lunging to smother it, but the fire leapt faster than her hands could follow. Another candle toppled. Wax spilled, cloth burned.

The flames spread, hungry, bright.

“Shit!” — Minthe hissed, eyes wide, stumbling back. The heat bloomed against her skin.

“No, no, no”

She spun and bolted, heels clattering across stone. Persephone glimpsed her silhouette fleeing through the hallway, caught by the cold gaze of the security cameras as she vanished into the night.

“Persephone!” — Demeter cried, but the guards were already moving. Their priority was clear, surround Demeter, shield her, usher her away from the growing blaze.

The fire reached the curtains. Smoke curled high, choking.

“No!” — Persephone screamed, rushing toward the base of the ashen tree. The flames climbed, fast and merciless, devouring the fragile bark, curling its branches into glowing bone.

She searched frantically for the extinguisher she knew was mounted near the hall, but the smoke blurred her sight, her lungs seared with every breath.

“Persephone, come!”

Demeter’s voice, sharp, desperate, rang from beyond the veil of fire.

But she couldn’t move. She dropped to her knees at the base of the tree, sobbing as heat lashed her skin. Her hands pressed to the blackening bark as if she could hold it together.

“I’m not leaving you,”

She whispered to the tree, though her words were drowned in the crackle of flames, her mother’s voice, closer now, desperate, real.

“Persephone!”

The daughter turned, stunned. Demeter had broken from the guards. Her immaculate suit jacket was gone, hair loose and wild, eyes frantic, stumbling through the fire, coughing, arms outstretched.

“Come with me, my girl, please, before it’s too late!”

Demeter fell to her knees beside her, hands reaching, trying to pry Persephone from the base of the burning tree.

Persephone shook her head violently, clutching tighter.

“No! Don’t you see? I’d rather die here, free. Than live another day caged in your empire!”

Demeter’s eyes blazed.

“Don’t be foolish! You’ll burn alive, what good is your freedom then?”

“My freedom,” — Persephone coughed, choking on smoke, — “means more than surviving as your perfect daughter. I can’t keep smiling for the world while I rot inside.”

“You don’t understand what you’re saying!” — Demeter’s voice broke, thick with smoke and grief. She seized Persephone’s arms, shaking her. — “I gave you everything. The best schools, the most beautiful dresses, a future so secure people envied you. And now you’d throw it all away, for WHAT? HIM?”

Persephone’s sobs tore through her.

“Not for him. For me. For the girl who was never allowed to exist beneath your flowers and crowns. For the woman who found love, real love, and will not apologize for it.”

Demeter’s grip faltered.

“I wish” — Persephone’s voice cracked as fire hissed and spit around them, — “I wish you could see me. Not as your investment. Not as your perfect project. Just me.”

Her words hit harder than the heat. Demeter’s lips trembled. She pulled Persephone against her chest, clinging, sobbing.

“You ungrateful child,”

she whispered hoarsely, though the words carried more pain than anger.

“You’ll destroy yourself.”

Persephone buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, coughing. The fire crackled louder, beams groaning as they weakened. Smoke thickened, drowning them both.

“Help! Here!”

A shout cut through, the firefighters had arrived, their boots thundering across marble, axes slamming against the side doors to force them open.

“Two inside!” — one of them bellowed into his radio. — “Get them out, now!”

And then, over the roar of fire and the men’s shouts, another voice. Deep. Familiar. Breaking.

“Persephone!”

Her head snapped up.

Through the chaos, through the bodies rushing, she saw him. Hades. His black coat thrown off, his face pale with horror, his eyes wild as he shoved against the line of firefighters trying to hold him back.

“That’s my fiancée!” — he shouted, voice hoarse with rage. — “Let me through”

“Sir, it’s not safe—”

He didn’t care. He fought them, pushing, clawing, until his shoulder rammed through the barrier of men. His gaze locked on hers. The fire painted him in desperate light, eyes wide with terror, but there was no hesitation.

“Persephone!”

Her whole body broke at the sound of his voice.

“Hades!”

She screamed back, coughing violently.

The firefighters surged around them, spraying foam, pulling Demeter up roughly by the arms. She clawed against them, screaming,

“My daughter! Save her!”

Hades tore through the smoke, finally reaching Persephone. He fell to his knees beside her, seizing her face in his hands, his touch trembling.

“Don’t you dare leave me,” — he rasped, eyes burning. — “You don’t have to prove anything, you don’t have to die to make a point. Please, my love, come back with me.”

Persephone sobbed, shaking her head.

“I can’t live a lie, Hades, I won’t—”

“Then don’t,” — he said fiercely, pulling her against him, wrapping her in his arms as if he could shield her from the fire itself. — “Live with me. Die with me if you must, but not here. Not like this.”

Her arms clung to him, weak but desperate.

The firefighters swarmed them, hands dragging, foam hissing as it fought the blaze. A beam cracked overhead. Hades lifted Persephone into his arms, staggering toward the exit as if he carried all the weight of the underworld.

She buried her face against his chest, whispering through the smoke,

“I chose you. Even if it kills me, I chose you.”

Behind them, Demeter was dragged out, thrashing against her guards, screaming her daughter’s name until the smoke swallowed her voice.

And inside the burning garden, the ashen tree finally collapsed, its brittle branches raining sparks like dying stars.

Chapter Text

A few weeks passed. The world, as it often did, continued spinning, but slower now, like the air itself had thickened after smoke.

The fire at the funeral home had been caught on camera from every angle. Headlines still screamed in heavy fonts. Clips of Persephone inside, shouting through smoke, spread like gospel. The footage of Minthe fleeing into the night replayed on every station, her face frozen mid fear, while Demeter’s empire scrambled to re frame the narrative.

But there was no narrative Persephone offered them.

Her accounts were gone, phone silent, absence roared louder than any headline. People speculated wildly: kidnapped, rescued, imprisoned, reborn. Some called her a saint of rebellion, others a disgrace. And yet… in the quiet she left, something strange began to happen.

People started speaking to one another. Not online, not through curated captions, but in person, face to face. The void she left made room for different conversations, about mothers, about daughters, about control, about grief. The world grew quieter without her, but not emptier.

At the funeral home, the garden lived again.

Though half scorched, Persephone rebuilt it, she wore gloves most days, hair tied back, dirt streaked across her cheekbones. Plants returned, lavender sprigs between broken stone, bleeding hearts daring to bloom where ash still lingered. She didn’t mind the soreness in her hands, it tethered her to something steady.

What surprised her most were the visitors.

More came than ever before. They did not arrive only to bury their dead. They came to mourn the selves they had lost, some brought flowers for childhood dreams long abandoned. Others wept before young trees, whispering apologies into bark. A teenager left a phoenix figurine beside a headstone, clenching a lock of her own freshly cut hair as if she were burying her old skin. A man pressed a torn love letter into the earth with shaking hands.

They came grieving, and left lighter.

Persephone spoke little to them. Mostly, she tended, watered, listened. It wasn’t a business, it was a sanctuary, for them and for her.

And yet, beneath the bloom, her heart still ached.

She missed her mother. The absence was heavier than she imagined. Some mornings, the ache pressed on her chest before her eyes even opened.

She didn’t miss the control, the scrutiny, but the hum of her mother’s voice when she braided ribbons into her hair. The way Demeter would cradle her when she played at being asleep. The pieces that had been true before ambition drowned them both.

Some nights Hades found her sitting by the charred ash tree, its bark scarred but still standing. She’d whisper,

“I wish both worlds could survive together, the one where I was hers, and the one where I am mine.”

Hades never answered with platitudes. He would kneel beside her, call Cerberus close, and sit through the quiet. Through the ache, through the bloom.

One evening, as the sun slipped low and shadows stretched long across the gravel, Persephone wandered to that same ash tree. Its branches skeletal, its bark grayed, everyone else called it dead. She never believed that, some things only needed time.

She crouched to clear weeds, and her hand brushed something thin and worn. A memorial tag, blank, edges frayed. The kind used for ceremonies when no one remained to speak a name aloud. She turned it in her palm, empty. Waiting.

From her pocket, she pulled a battered pen, hesitating. Then, steady, she wrote:

Kore.

Not Persephone the face of campaigns. Kore. The name she was before anyone claimed her, before crowns and cages. Just truth.

She tied the tag to a low branch, watching it sway in the breeze, then still.

For a moment, the air hushed, the tree seemed to breathe with her.

She turned back toward the funeral home lobby, rubbing her arms against the cool air. The world felt paused, until a familiar voice cut through.

“Oh gods,” — a man exhaled with a faint laugh. — “I knew you’d be here.”

Dionysus lounged across a chair like it belonged to him, legs crossed, paper cup in hand. His curls were pulled back, shirt half-unbuttoned, an air of easy drama about him. Rising, he swept her into a hug before she could protest.

She stiffened, then melted into it.

“I remember the day you showed up,” — he said with a wry smile, pulling back to look at her. — “Cracked phone, mascara streaks, Aphrodite dragging you into a restaurant where the risotto was worth more than rent. You didn’t say much, but I thought… ah. That’s the kind of chaos I could toast to.”

Persephone huffed a laugh, brushing a curl behind her ear.

“So, is it true?” — Dionysus tilted his head. — “You really deleted all your accounts?”

She nodded.

“Yes. It’s time I move on. Maybe I’ll teach. Maybe I’ll plant gardens for strangers. I’ll find a way.”

His grin softened into something rare, gentle, proud.

“It’ll be harder this way.”

“I know,” — she whispered. — “But I’ll have a plan. And Hades.”

Dionysus studied her, then slipped a small card from his pocket.

“He does seem like the great love type. But…”

he pressed the card into her palm,

“just in case.”

She glanced down: a modest construction firm. Rural developments. Places where neighbors waved at dawn, where gossip centered on whose tomatoes grew faster. Quiet towns. Real towns.

Her chest tightened.

“If you want simple, honest, quiet,” — Dionysus said, eyes sparkling, — “that’s where it hides.”

Her throat worked.

“Thank you.”

He grinned again, though his tone softened.

“That gala speech? Better than reality TV. But seeing you happy…” — he leaned back, tipping his cup —“that’ll be the best encore.”

She laughed through her tears. He winked, adding,

“And tell Hades…if he ever breaks your heart, I’ll turn all his suits into crop tops.”

Her laughter cracked open something lighter inside her. She tucked the card into her coat pocket, feeling the weight of it there, not as an escape plan, but as a promise.

The room smelled faintly of cedar and lavender soap. The windows were cracked open just enough to let in the evening breeze, carrying the scent of pine and the hush of distant crickets.

Persephone lay curled on her side atop the thick wool blankets, damp hair spilling in waves across the pillow, a towel abandoned at the edge of the bed. Cerberus was pressed close against her stomach, his heavy warmth anchoring her to the moment. Her fingers traced through his dark fur absently, clinging to the steady rhythm of his breath.

The door creaked softly. She didn’t move at first, but a small smile tugged at her lips as footsteps crossed the wooden floor.

A kiss landed against her temple, warm and deliberate.

“You bathed without me,”

Hades murmured, kneeling beside the bed, his shirt half unbuttoned from the long day.

“You were still on the phone,” — she said without opening her eyes. — “And I… needed quiet.”

He hummed, leaning one arm against the mattress so he could look at her more closely.

“You smell like rosemary.”

“Your fault,” — she breathed. — “Your soap.”

“Then I approve.”

Finally, she opened her eyes. He was watching her, gaze steady, unreadable in its depth. That kind of stillness he wore like a second skin, quiet awe, quiet grief, quiet love.

They lingered there in silence, breathing together.

Her voice broke it first.

“I feel like I ruined everything.”

Hades frowned faintly, reaching to tuck a damp curl behind her ear.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“I went there,” — she whispered, guilt thick in her throat. — “I went to her. To the place. I should have known it was a trap, that Minthe,”

She stopped, chest tightening.

“The fire started because I was there. Because of me.”

His hand cupped her cheek, thumb brushing the corner of her jaw.

“No. The fire started because Minthe struck you. Because she panicked. Because she ran.”

His voice hardened.

“That is on her. Not you.”

Persephone shook her head slightly, eyes wet.

“But the cameras—”

“The cameras saved you,” — he interrupted gently, firm. — “They caught her running out, they saw everything. I’ve already filed suit against her. Arson. Reckless endangerment. Attempted assault.”

His hand slid down her arm, grounding her.

“Justice will find her. You don’t have to carry her sins.”

Her lip trembled, a tear slipping down the side of her face.

“It just feels like everywhere I go, I leave ruin behind.”

“No,” — he said simply, pulling her closer. — “You leave truth behind. Truth is never easy, honey. But ruin? That belongs to them…the ones who lied, who chained you, who burned what they couldn’t control.”

Something inside her cracked, but not in a breaking way. More like the release of a held breath. She shifted, crawling toward him, and he didn’t hesitate, lifting her easily, sliding onto the bed beside her so she was pressed fully into his chest, arms wrapped around her, firm but tender, tucking her into the curve of his body.

She buried her face against his sternum, inhaling the faint scent of smoke still clinging to him, though it was masked now by soap and pine. His heartbeat thudded beneath her cheek, steady, real.

“You really mean that?”

She whispered, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt.

“I’ve never meant anything more.” — He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, lingering there. — “You are not the fire. You are the one who survived it.”

Her breath hitched, but she let herself melt against him, letting his warmth swallow her trembling. His hand traced slow circles along her spine, the other cradling the back of her head, as though she might disappear if he didn’t hold her close enough.

They stayed like that, wrapped together in the low hush of the evening, Cerberus shifting only enough to curl against their legs.

Persephone tilted her head slightly, her lips brushing his throat.

“You’ll stay?”

“Always,”

He answered without hesitation, tightening his embrace.