Zeus always said I was too proud. So instead of flexing his bank account, he’d sit beside me in the campus cafeteria, slipping protein bars and fruit into my bag when he thought I wasn’t looking.
“What if my future wife passes out from low iron?” he’d grin. “Can’t have that, now can we?”
Honestly? I never really got why Zeus liked me.
He was six-two, sharp jaw, power in every step. Name carried seven. Cash flowed like wine.
And me? Just some waitress with no family, no name, and a whole lot of pride.
But once he made up his mind, nothing—and I mean nothing—could move him.
I still remember that Christmas Eve he brought me to meet his parents. I was stiff as a board in my knock-off wool coat, holding a plastic-wrapped chocolate cake I bought with tip money.
His parents were cold but polite. The kind of polite that makes your skin crawl.
When dinner ended, one of the maids whispered something to his dad, and he tapped Zeus’s arm with his hawk-like fingers.
“Come,” he said.
I sat alone in that glittering room, feeling like a stain on their marble floor. Then I heard his voice from the hall.