New York City, Summer 1955

The bell above the door chimed softly, a bright silver note against the lazy hum of the fan in the corner. The air was thick with the scent of talcum powder, rosewater, and the faint tang of metal from the register. Outside, the sun burned against the pavement, rippling through the heat like a mirage.

You looked up from the counter, where you were lining up the new shipment of lipsticks—Revlon’s Cherries in the Snow, the color every magazine swore would make you “positively irresistible.” Your reflection winked faintly from the glass countertop: red lips, curls pinned neatly beneath a headband, a pressed cotton dress your mother had ironed twice that morning.

In the back room, your parents’ voices rose and fell like waves—your father worrying over shipping costs, your mother lamenting that “the girl should spend less time with books and more time learning to be proper.”

You were seventeen, halfway through your junior year at St. Mary’s, a good Catholic school where the girls wore pressed collars and whispered about engagement rings. You were a good daughter—quiet, obedient, the kind of girl who said “yes, ma’am” and crossed her legs at the ankle. Your mother spoke of you like a résumé. Good grades. Good manners. Good marriage prospects. Perfect girls get good husbands.

But lately, something had started to twist inside you. A small, disobedient thought you didn’t have the words for. You didn’t look at boys the way your classmates did, no matter how hard you tried. When they spoke of movie stars, James Dean, Marlon Brando, you nodded along, pretending. But the truth was that you noticed their dates instead: the curve of a smile, the flutter of lashes, the way a girl’s hand brushed her friend’s arm and stayed there a moment too long.

You told yourself it was admiration. You had to say to yourself that.

The bell tinkled again.

And then she walked in.

The world seemed to still, as if even the air knew to make room for her.

She was radiant, though that word barely grazed what she was. Her dress was a soft cream silk that caught the light and shimmered like heat off asphalt. Pearls rested against her collarbone; white gloves hugged her hands. Her hair was the color of spun honey, glowing under the flickering shop light, and her smile, oh, her smile, was a secret written just for you. Unbeknownst to you, the woman before you was no ordinary visitor, but Aphrodite herself, the goddess of love veiled in mortal form.

She moved like someone who had never once been told no. Every step seemed to hush the air, and even the sunlight through the shop window bent toward her as if to listen. The cream silk of her dress caught the light in soft ripples; pearls gleamed against her throat. But it was her eyes, gold-flecked, ancient, hungry, that caught you and didn’t let go. Her gaze lingered on you, head tilted just slightly.

“My, aren’t you a lovely thing to find behind a counter,” she said, her voice low and warm as honey. “You don’t belong in a place that smells of dust and polish. You look like you were meant to stand in the light.”

She stepped closer, fingertips brushing the glass display as if she was tracing the space between you. “Do your parents know what they have here?” she murmured. “A daughter who shines even when she tries not to. A secret tucked behind the register.”

You couldn’t move. The air around her seemed to shimmer faintly, the edges of her body blurring into light. Pearls melted into gold, silk into something brighter, older, divine. The glamour was slipping, just enough for you to see the truth—the goddess behind the woman.

You’d seen strange things before. Shadows where none should be. People who flickered between faces. But you’d learned not to mention it. The woman’s gaze landed on you, sharp as sunlight on glass. She smiled like she knew exactly what you’d seen.

“My, what a curious little mortal,” she said softly. Her voice wasn’t loud, but it filled every corner of the shop. “You see me, don’t you?”