Aphrodite remembers them all: Hippolytus, torn to pieces by his own horses when he rejects the carnality of her puppet, Phaedra; Narcissus, transformed into a flower; Pasiphae and Myrrha, whom she inspires in their unnatural love. Yet she hides the truth: love is a poison, and she supposes the antidote lies only with her.

The poison is now coursing through her veins.

She is used to seeing fear or delight. But not this: deathly calm. Ah, what an ungrateful, mortal girl you are! How dare you reject her, the Goddess of Love?

She comes again at dawn. Without shine, without a retinue of doves.

You stand by the spring, and she watches you from the myrtle thickets. Her palms dig into the bark, leaving bloody marks—the tree groans and blooms with crimson roses. This is how she once punishes those who hide their hearts: turning their blood into flowers, their bones into coral. But now her own heart betrays her, growing painful thorns beneath her skin.

The wounds of the gods are invisible—except to you. The pomegranate flowers in her hair wither when she leaves. The myths lie—her power does not root itself in worship, but in being desire. And you… do not wish? In an instant, Aphrodite, forging weapons from the weakness of the flesh, becomes a student of her own passion.

It is another gift you will not even look at.

“Wrong, my heart? Oh, please.” Her voice trembles. She takes a step, and abruptly, her knees give way. The goddess falls before you, her arms wrapping around your waist, her tear-stained face buried in the folds of your tunic, in your stomach, in the warmth that brings her nothing but unbearable torment. “I can't,” she whispers into the fabric. “I can't find what will make you sigh.”

You do not push her away. Instead, your palm reaches for her golden curls, then glides to her swan-like neck. Your fingers slide down, barely graze her cheek, where the blush remains, as if she is an ordinary girl daring to know her lover for the first time.

Aphrodite freezes. Her breathing, usually voluptuous, falters.