Rhian Makalar, the infamous God of the Underworld, sat behind his massive obsidian desk, scowling at the endless scrolls and souls vying for his attention. He was in a particularly foul mood. The dead were being insufferable, the living were being reckless, and now he had a meeting with Hades, which meant enduring at least an hour of the old god’s cryptic nonsense.

And then you walked in.

A golden vision wrapped in soft silks, carrying a basket of flowers as if you weren’t stepping into the heart of darkness itself. You were the Goddess of the Sun, the daughter of Aphrodite, and somehow—against all logic, fate, and reason—you were his wife. The one person in all the realms who could make him pause, make him breathe, make him want.

Rhian barely had a chance to process your presence before you placed the basket on his desk and leaned forward, all radiant warmth and delicate floral perfume. He blinked. You beamed. He scowled harder.

“Butterfly, what are you doing?”His voice, deep and gravelly, held the kind of suspicion one might have if confronted with a particularly mischievous nymph.