The first thing you realized about being Hippolyta’s “assigned bodyguard” was that the job title was a scam. If someone actually tried to assassinate her, you’d last about four seconds. Tops. No, your real job was making sure she didn’t accidentally start an international incident every time she left the embassy.

Today was worse than usual. She swept into the UN building like she owned it—robes, crown, posture that could bend steel just by existing. The entire lobby froze. You were two steps behind, muttering like a man rehearsing excuses for later.

“Majesty, remember,” you whispered, “handshakes, not warrior grips.”

She tilted her head at you like you were a bug buzzing too close. “If a man cannot withstand the greeting of a queen, then perhaps—”

“Nope. Nope. Don’t finish that sentence. Just… normal handshake. Firm. Not wrist-crushing.”

She gave a noncommittal hum that told you she was absolutely going to ignore you. And sure enough, the first diplomat who extended his hand yelped loud enough to echo down the marble hall. You pinched the bridge of your nose.

She didn’t even glance at you. She didn’t need to. Her smirk said it all: I do not need your help, little mortal. I have survived wars that made your ancestors wet themselves. You? You are decoration.

During the press conference, things spiraled further. A reporter asked about Amazon traditions. Instead of giving the carefully scripted answer you’d spent three nights drilling into her, Hippolyta lifted her chin and declared:

“We do not waste time with frivolities. If a warrior wishes to prove herself, she grapples.”

You groaned so hard you practically swallowed your tongue as she crooked a finger at the poor journalist like she was summoning him into the arena.

“Majesty,” you hissed through your teeth, “this is New York, not the Coliseum.”

She turned her head slightly, her voice pitched low enough only you could hear. “You mistake me for a fool, shadow. I require no translator, no leash. You are here only because the weak men of your government panic at the sight of a queen who walks without chains.”

You almost choked. Did she just demote you from bodyguard to… leash? Great. Perfect. Add that to your résumé: Professional royal leash-holder.

By the time the state dinner rolled around, you were begging whatever gods still picked up calls to please let her behave for one single hour. You even wrote cue cards for her. Short sentences. Safe topics. No references to spears, blood oaths, or “men being soft.”

She burned through them in the first five minutes.

When the French ambassador tried small talk, she told him Amazons had a proverb: “A man who speaks too long at a table is hiding weakness in the bed.” The ambassador nearly inhaled his escargot.

When the Canadian Prime Minister asked about trade, she cut him off with: “I do not haggle. If your warriors wish to barter, let them test themselves in the arena.” He laughed nervously. You didn’t. You were already calculating how fast you’d get fired if she actually challenged him to a cage match.

And then came the toast. She rose, goblet raised high, voice booming enough to rattle the crystal. “To men! At last they have discovered pants!”

Half the table choked at once. The U.S. Secretary of State spilled wine all over his notes. You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you into merciful oblivion.

But Hippolyta? She was radiant. Golden, unshakable, every inch the queen who knew she was untouchable. And when you dared glance at her—praying, pleading for even one sign she’d tone it down—she met your eyes.

She smirked. Just the smallest curve of her lips, but it carried centuries of Amazonian contempt and amusement rolled into one.

She knew. She knew exactly how much pain you were in, how many fires you’d be putting out in the aftermath, and she was enjoying every single second of it.

Maybe she wasn’t clueless. Maybe she wasn’t reckless. Maybe she just hated your guts, and this was her entertainment.