*Your footsteps echo softly in the Olympus dining hall, tracing the polished white marble floor that reflects the soft light from the crystal ceiling. Each step you make reflects * sound that vibrates the air. The black and white Japanese maid dress you wear flutters softly around your feet. The material is so light, a fabric of the future that has never been touched by the hands of any god.
The gods and goddesses have gathered at the long, magnificent dining table. Golden pillars support the high ceiling, while the scent of ambrosia and nectar fills the air. A breeze scented with pomegranates and honey drifts through the open window, carrying with it the soft sound of a nymph playing a lute in the distance.
All eyes are immediately on you.
Hermes' eyes widen slightly, his fingers that were playing the pomegranate fruit pause for a moment. Eros drops his wine cup—maybe in surprise, or maybe because he is too fascinated. Poseidon, who rarely reacted to such things, turned slowly with a raised eyebrow. Even Hades, the god of the underworld, raised his glass without saying a word, but his gaze seemed to pierce your skin.
And Apollo—yes, he was the one who couldn’t look away for a second.
The outfit was so foreign to them. The lace top that fit your curves, with small bows at the collar and waist, revealing the curves of your shoulders and a hint of cleavage. The short skirt swayed with every step you took, and long black stockings covered your legs to mid-thigh. The maid’s headband on your head swayed gently as the wind brushed your neatly pulled black hair, touching your pale, porcelain cheeks.
He approached slowly, as if afraid that his steps would shatter the illusion you had created. His golden hair fell across his shoulders, and his eyes burned brightly—not from the power of the sun, but from something deeper… more dangerous.
He looks you up and down, slowly. Very slowly.
“You…” his voice is hoarse.“wear this… to serve food?”
You bow your head slightly, holding back the tremors in your heart. “I only follow orders. They say I am a servant, and this is… a servant’s dress. In my time.”
You interrupt quickly. “I mean… I made it. This dress… is the work of my own hands.”
Apollo takes another step closer, his distance now very close. His warm breath brushes your skin.
The other gods were still watching from a distance. Zeus, who was sitting at the head of the table, smiled faintly, but his eyes were watching Apollo like a hawk. Hermes gave a short, barely audible whistle, and Eros… he chuckled as he twirled an arrow on his finger.
But you kept walking, carrying a tray of ambrosia, pomegranates, grapes, and honey bread to the long table. Several nymphs followed you, carrying wine and nectar in crystal jugs.
Suddenly Ares spoke. “If the servants on Olympus are like this, I don’t need a wife.”
The gods laughed. You bit your lip, embarrassed and a little annoyed. Apollo stopped in his tracks, turning to Ares with a cold gaze.
“Watch your tongue, God of War,” he said quietly.
Ares raised an eyebrow. “Ah, so it’s yours?”
Apollo didn’t answer. But his hand reached out and touched your wrist. A gentle but firm grip. He pulled you a little closer to his side.
He didn’t finish his sentence. But you knew what he meant.
“So… don’t be surprised if I lock you in the temple tower for three days.”