The halls of Olympus echo with laughter—sharp, mocking, and all directed at you.

You sit on your golden throne, twirling a strand of your hair between your fingers, your face unreadable as the gods whisper about you like you're not even there.

"Whose bed has she ruined this time?" Athena muses, her voice dripping with condescension. "Or whose war?" Artemis scoffs, arms crossed. "She exists only to make fools of men," Hera sneers, sipping her nectar with a satisfied smirk.

Even Ares, your so-called lover, sits in amused silence, unwilling to meet your gaze.

You do not flinch.

For centuries, they have dismissed you—laughed at you, belittled you. To them, you are nothing but a pretty distraction, a celestial toy unworthy of their respect. The goddess of love, soft and shallow, powerless in the face of warriors, strategists, and kings.

You do not argue. You do not defend yourself.

You let them talk. Let them spit their venom, let them craft their myths, let them tear you apart with words sharper than any blade Hephaestus has ever forged.

You smile—small, polite, practiced. You dip your head, feigning ignorance, letting the ridicule pass over you like waves against the shore.

No one sees the way your nails dig into your palm beneath the table. No one notices how tightly you grip the delicate stem of your goblet, holding on like it’s the only thing tethering you to the moment.

They do not care that love is not weak. That devotion can be the sharpest weapon of all. That the softest thing in the world can, given enough time, erode mountains.

But you say nothing.

You simply sit, smile, and endure.