Page 6 of Ungodly Rich

Aphrodite? She was the token bitch.

She hadn’t always been this way. Once upon a time—it felt like eons ago—she had been young and naïve, desperate to be understood. To beloved.

But when you looked like Aphrodite, it was hard to be truly loved. She had been objectified and resented, manipulated and leered at and lusted after. Love, however…that remained elusive.

The sounds of horns and traffic wove around her as she turned onto Park Avenue. Everyone stared as she passed, male and female, young and old. Waiters froze midmotion, plates half-delivered to impatient tables; shopkeepers drifted out of their boutiques just to get a closer look. Aphrodite could practicallyfeeltheir desires, as tangible as the brush of a feather over her skin.

This was the reason she walked home from work instead of takinga company car, the way a wealthy mortal would. She liked being looked at.

At Seventy-Second Street, the green awning loomed up before her: the entrance to her building. Aphrodite hesitated, then turned into the gourmet coffee shop on the corner.

“A chai latte, please. And a croissant,” Aphrodite told the barista behind the register, whose name tag readKimberly.

As she waited, Aphrodite studied the girl. Her muddy brown hair was frizzy and riddled with split ends, her forehead covered in angry red acne. Kimberly seemed painfully aware of this from the way she hunched over, tugging her hair forward to hide her face.

But when Aphrodite handed over her credit card, Kimberly came to life.

“Oh my god! Are you really Valentine Ellene?” She pronounced Aphrodite’s mortal name with a perfect French accent, Vahl-an-teen,rather than butchering it as so many Americans did.

Aphrodite blinked in surprise. “I am.”

“I’mobsessedwith your Amour line! I save up all my tip money for the candles. Sometimes, after the holidays, they sell them half-off at Bergdorf’s.” Kimberly was talking rapidly, her self-consciousness temporarily forgotten. “That scent! I can’t figure out, what isinit?”

“Company secret,” Aphrodite teased. The famous Amour candles, which retailed for a whopping one hundred dollars for the mini size, had been the foundation of her whole career.

Kimberly ran her hands down the front of her apron. “Sorry! Let me get you that latte,” she said hastily.

As Aphrodite tucked away her wallet, her eyes lit on the small red product samples jumbled at the bottom of her purse. An idea struck.

“Want some goodies?” she offered, and Kimberly’s face lit up.

As she withdrew each item—a face serum, a lip gloss, a perfume—Aphrodite squeezed it between thumb and forefinger, willing the beauty products to take on a little spark of magic. To make this girl beautiful in the eyes of the world, but more important, in her own eyes.

Confidence was always the most powerful aphrodisiac. Men hadknown this for centuries, but for some reason, women still hadn’t figured it out.

“Thank you,” Kimberly breathed. She accepted the samples as reverently as if Aphrodite had passed her the mythical treasure of Troy.

Aphrodite walked the remaining half block to her building, ripping off bites of the buttery croissant and popping them into her mouth. She noticed a few women casting her bitter glances as they passed, probably wondering how someone with her figure could snack onbread,but calories were a mortal problem. And the croissant helped restore some of her flagging energy. That hadn’t been a complicated enchantment, but still. Magic was magic.

When the elevator doors opened into the penthouse, Thalia stood there, waiting. “Your husband is home,” she announced without preamble.

Thalia was a minor goddess, one of the three Graces. Aphrodite had long ago selected her as a handmaiden, which these days meant Thalia functioned as a personal assistant—plus—nanny.

Aphrodite’s mouth went dry, and she started toward the playroom. She hadn’t seen Hephaestus in…a month? Or was it two?

She reached into her bag and spritzed on a dose of the Amour perfume. As always, the scent of it steadied her. It was the same feeling she got from a good blowout or a new pair of Manolos—it made her stronger, more grounded.

She found Hephaestus on the playroom floor, patiently assembling a plastic racetrack. Next to him, a toddler with platinum curls, the same color as Aphrodite’s own, clapped in delight.

“Mommy!” Eros cried out, noting her arrival.

Hephaestus drew in a breath and looked up. “It’s good to see you,” he said slowly.

Was it? Aphrodite never knew how her interactions with Hephaestus would go. He was taciturn, his emotions as unruffled as the waters of some subterranean lake, while Aphrodite’s mood swings were volatile (albeit short-lived). He was content to sit for hours in silence while she craved conversation and laughter. Aphrodite usually invited Hermes toher society galas or fashion shows because she never could drag Hephaestus out of his workshop.

Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she wondered if he regretted marrying her. Whyhadhe married her, anyway?

Of course, she knew why. Lust. He had wanted her, plain and simple, and Hephaestus was too honorable to simply take what he wanted. Their marriage was a trade, her beauty for his position and security.