I try…and I fail.
How can I lock everything away when I’m one giant exposed nerve right now? I know I have to do this, but expectations about the wedding I always wanted are crashing against the reality of this moment, and it hurts so much more than I expected. It feels a whole lot like grief.
The elevator doors slide soundlessly open, revealing a long hallway that reeks of money for all that it’s gone the same minimalist route that Eros’s penthouse leans toward. Brushed concrete floors gleam in the bright light, and the walls are painted gunmetal gray. It might feel like walking through an expensive prison if not for the mirrors.
They line the hallway on either side, stretching nearly from the floor to the nine-foot ceiling. Wrought iron and shining silver create the frames, and I have the near-hysterical thought that if I pressed my hand against one, it would give way and I’d end up in another world entirely.
What is it with this building and mirrors?
Halfway down the hall, a door opens and my mother steps out. She’s dressed in an elegant gown that covers her slim body from neck to wrists to ankles, and the silver and structure in the bodice and hips give the impression of armor. She’s twisted her dark hair, so similar to mine, back from her face and her makeup is, as always, flawless.
It takes every ounce of courage I have to keep walking next to my sister until we stand before Demeter. She surveys me from head to toe and back up again. “If you wanted to make a statement, you’ve succeeded with that dress.”
Persephone gives my hand a squeeze. “I’ll see you inside.” She slips through the door, leaving me to face Demeter alone. Coward. But then, I was always going to face my mother alone in this. I chose this path, was forced to choose this path because I wasn’t good enough to outmaneuver Aphrodite.
This time.
“Mother—”
She lifts a hand and shakes her head. “We are due for a discussion, but not here. You’re set on marrying Eros?”
Something like relief courses through me. No matter what else is true of Demeter, she’s not one to waste a valuable asset. My marrying Eros gives her a direct line to Aphrodite, or, rather, a direct way to constantly needle and undermine the other woman. She might have learned her lesson about selling her daughters into marriage without their knowledge—and that’s a rather large might—but if one of us is foolish enough to stumble into a marriage with a powerful person, she’s hardly going to stop it. “Yes, I’m set on it.”
“Then let’s go.” She pivots to face the door and holds out her elbow. “I’ll be damned before any of my daughters walk down the aisle alone.”
We don’t really talk about my father—about any of our fathers. Three marriages resulting in four daughters, and every one of our fathers disappeared off the face of the earth within weeks of the divorce. Or, rather, they disappeared out of Olympus. If not for the rather active social media accounts of her ex-husbands, my mother might have a reputation as a black widow. As it is, my sisters and I are pretty damn certain she paid off our fathers and ensured they found a way out of Olympus.
I suppose I could blame her for my not having a father figure, but the truth is that my mother never goes with a stick when a carrot will work just fine. My father chose to take her money, take passage out of Olympus, and never look back. Why would I mourn the loss of such a selfish man in my life?
So, yes, it’s entirely apt that my mother be the one to walk me down the aisle and give me away to my new husband.
I slide my hand into the crook of her arm. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You are my daughter, Psyche. More than the others, you are the apple that doesn’t fall far from my tree. I trust that you have a reason for doing this.” She shoots me a severe look. “You should have told me. We could have negotiated for more favorable terms.”
Despite everything, I huff out a laugh. “Maybe on my next marriage.”
“That’s my girl.”
15
Eros
I never expected to get married. It’s not that I have an issue with monogamy, though I’ve only flirted with it in the past. Something as relatively permanent as marriage is more than just a relationship. It’s more than sex, more than moving someone into your space and figuring out how to share it. It’s a partnership. An alliance.
But as I stand before the altar, Hermes bouncing on her toes in her silver three-piece suit, it just feels fucking right.
I refuse to examine that sensation too closely.
Instead, I focus on the door opening and Psyche walking through. On the expression on her face as she takes in what I’ve spent the last few hours putting together.