The wedding room was too quiet. White everywhere—walls, flowers, silk, light spilling in through tall windows like the gods themselves were watching. The air smelled like perfume and fresh linen and something sharp underneath, like ozone before a storm.

Annabeth was on the floor behind you. Bound. Gagged. Furious. Her stormy grey eyes burned holes into your back as you stood at the vanity, calmly lifting a brush, tilting your head, studying your reflection. Her reflection. Same face. Same hair. Same scar at the eyebrow. Same hands trembling just slightly—not from fear, but excitement.

You blended the makeup with practiced ease. You’d had time to learn her. Her posture. The way she held her chin when she was thinking. The way her mouth tightened when she was annoyed. You’d practiced her voice until even you forgot which one was real.

Percy wouldn’t know. No one would. Annabeth made a muffled sound—angry, desperate. You met her eyes in the mirror and smiled softly, sympathetically, like this was something unfortunate but necessary. “I’m sorry,” you said gently, adjusting the dress on your shoulders. Her dress. “But you don’t understand him the way I do.”

You slipped on the necklace. Smoothed the veil. Checked the ring on your finger. “You see a hero,” you continued, almost conversational. “I see power. Raw, endless power. And I love him enough to take it.”

You turned at last, crouching in front of her, your face identical to hers—same freckles, same expression—except for the hunger in your eyes. “And Percy?” you added quietly. “He’s already mine. He just doesn’t know it yet.”

A knock echoed from beyond the great doors. “Annabeth?” a voice called. “It’s time.” You stood, lifted the veil, and cast one last glance at the real Annabeth Chase—locked away, unheard, helpless.