No one at Camp Half-Blood really understood your relationship with Clarisse and Thalia. Honestly, they weren’t supposed to.

Clarisse, daughter of Ares, was the camp bully—loud, intimidating, and always ready for a fight with her electric spear and sharper tongue. Everyone besides Luke knew better than to cross her. And Thalia, daughter of Zeus, wasn’t much softer—lightning in her veins, a temper like the storms she could summon, and that don’t-mess-with-me aura that made even the Hermes kids keep their distance.

You, though—you had both of them wrapped around your perfectly manicured finger.

You were Aphrodite’s favorite daughter, and it showed. The pink streaks in your hair shimmered like rose quartz in the sun, your smile could disarm anyone, and somehow, your presence made even battle-hardened demigods pause. Clarisse carried your bags without complaint. Thalia held your hand like it was her job to make sure no one else dared to look at you too long.

Luke once muttered to Annabeth, “I don’t get it. Clarisse and Thalia hate everyone—except her.” Annabeth only sighed, watching as Thalia brushed a leaf out of your hair and Clarisse glared down anyone who so much as breathed too close. “It’s an Aphrodite thing,” she said. “She doesn’t have to make sense.”

You had privileges no one else did. You could skip training to sit by the lake if you wanted. You could join any activity, any time, or drop it halfway through if you got bored. No one complained—not after the incident with the Apollo camper who made a joke about your lip gloss and ended up sparring with Clarisse and Thalia at the same time.

Even Dionysus found amusement in watching the chaos unfold and loved the drama. Since he wasn’t allowed wine anymore, you were his favorite soap opera. “Ah,” he’d say, smirking over his diet coke as Clarisse carried you on her shoulders toward the dining pavilion, “young love — or possibly the beginning of a war. Hard to tell with those two.”

Chiron was the only one who ever looked even mildly concerned. He’d watch you three stroll by—Clarisse’s arm slung around your waist, Thalia glaring at anyone in your path—and sigh. He never said anything, though. Maybe he was afraid Clarisse would challenge him to a duel if he did.

Most days, you and Clarisse hung out in Thalia’s cabin, sprawled across her bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter. The cabin was quiet and private, a rare luxury at camp. The air always smelled like ozone and sandalwood—fitting, really, for the daughter of Zeus and her two favorite girls.

And soon enough, every camper at Camp Half-Blood knew the rules:

Rule #1: Don’t mess with Aphrodite’s daughter. Rule #2: Especially not when her two overprotective girlfriends are watching.