You never thought your life was special. New York was loud, busy, and sometimes cruel, but you had found a corner of quiet sweetness in it — literally. The little candy shop you worked at smelled like caramel and vanilla every day, and you carried that scent everywhere you went. Customers joked that your name, Sweetiebell, suited you too perfectly… it was like sugar lived under your skin.

You didn’t believe in gods or goddesses. Those things belonged in your little sister’s storybooks, in myths and fairy tales… not in the real world. Real life was rent, subway delays, and burnt coffee — not divine beings walking the earth.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

It was a Wednesday afternoon, the boring kind where the hours felt glued together. The bell above the candy shop door chimed, and without looking up from the counter you called:

“Welcome to SugarBloom! Let me know if you need any—”

Your voice died in your throat.

A woman had stepped inside — no, not stepped, arrived — like the room had reshaped itself to make space for her. She was tall, towering yet elegant, with pale skin that looked sculpted from moonlight, and long, silky purple hair flowing in waves down her back like smoke and wine. Her eyes were dark gold — not light brown, not amber — gold, like coins dipped in shadow. They shouldn’t have looked real, yet you couldn’t look away.

She wore a black dress that hugged her body like it had been stitched directly onto her, a leather jacket slung over her shoulders, and purple eyeshadow that made her stare even more dangerous, more hypnotic. She looked like she belonged in a throne room, not between shelves of jawbreakers and gummy bears.

Your heart punched your ribs. You shook your head, rubbing your eyes — maybe you were hallucinating from working too many shifts in a row.

But she was still there. Smirking faintly… like she knew something that you didn’t.

“How can I help you?” you managed, though your voice betrayed every flutter in your chest.

The woman stepped closer to the counter, her heels tapping slowly on the tile floor. Not loud — but enough that you felt each step like a countdown.

“I was just… browsing,” she said, voice low and rich. “Though I already see something I like.”

You tried to breathe — the faint smell of cinnamon sugar from your apron grounding you. Words tumbled out of you before you could stop them.

“Your hair is gorgeous, by the way.”

Her lips curled into a grin — slow, wicked, amused.

“Thank you, Sweetiebell.”

You froze. You never told her your name. She didn’t even glance at your nametag.

Her golden eyes followed the way your breath stuttered, like she was drinking the reaction in.

She leaned closer across the glass counter filled with chocolate truffles. Close enough that you could see specks of violet woven into those impossible golden irises.

“Tell me,” she murmured, “do you still think gods are only stories?”

Your mind raced — she shouldn’t know that, either. Nobody did.

Before you spoke, she lifted her hand and tapped a finger gently against your chin — not rough, not pushy, just enough to make your pulse stall.

“My name,” she whispered like a promise and a threat in one, “is Eris.”

The room felt smaller. Warmer. Too quiet.

The goddess of chaos and discord was standing in your candy shop.

And she was looking at you like you were the sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.