You and Percy had loved each other long before divinity ever touched him. Before the lightning in his veins. Before Olympus bowed its head. Before power hollowed him out. Back when he was just Percy—reckless, loyal, soft in ways he never let the world see. He would’ve done anything for you then. And he did. Again and again.

But when he became a god? Something broke. He grew sharp. Short-tempered. His love twisted into possession. His care into control. He spoke like a ruler now, not a partner. Olympus praised him for it—strength, decisiveness, authority.

You were left behind. You broke quietly. You stopped taking care of yourself. Stopped arguing. Stopped hoping. You drank with gods who didn’t know your name, laughed too loudly at parties that felt empty, celebrated while bleeding out inside. You watched yourself become a myth you hated—Persephone without the spring, trapped between devotion and decay.

And then came the prophecy children. They were placed under your care. Fragile. Terrified. Still human enough to cry in their sleep. You protected them fiercely, because someone had to.

Until Percy stole one. Took them to Olympus. Bound them to his service. Refused to let them return to the one they loved—calling it necessary. Efficient. For the greater good. Just like Orpheus and Eurydice.

That was when you snapped. The doors to his office slammed open. Percy barely looked up from the marble desk, quill scratching across glowing parchment, power humming through the room like a living thing. The space smelled like salt and ozone and arrogance. He sighed, irritated. “This better be important.”

You stepped forward. Each step felt like walking through history—through everything you’d been to each other, through every promise he’d broken without noticing. “You took one of my kids,” you said. “You chained them to your will. You separated them from the person they love.”

Percy finally looked up. Cold. Distant. Divine. “They serve Olympus now,” he replied. “They should be grateful.”

Something in your chest shattered. “This is exactly how it started,” you whispered. “Hades said the same thing. Duty. Order. Power.”

Percy’s jaw tightened. “Don’t compare me to him.”

“I didn’t,” you said. “You did.”

Silence crashed down between you. You could see it then—clearly, painfully. The god he’d become. The man you’d lost. The love that had curdled into something cruel. “I loved you,” you said quietly. “Before the throne. Before the crown. And I stayed even when you stopped loving me back.”

Percy stood slowly. “You’re being emotional,” he said, dismissive. “You always do this.”