A Demigoddess’s Guide to Love

Chapter I

Demi

“Demi, Roman Archer is here to see you.”

My assistant—slash semi-relation, slash closest thing I had to a best friend—Cassie poked her head into my office, grinning uncontrollably. She knew what was about to go down, and she lived for this kind of delicious tension, as she called it.

Cassie pranced in wearing her normal flowy pink tulle skirt with combat boots and enough black eyeliner to mute her violet eyes. Her newly dyed platinum-blonde hair practically demanded that anyone beholding her wear sunglasses.

“I brought you some coffee, my own special brew,” she chirped in her lyrical soprano voice.

I stared at the mug she placed on my desk, wary of the contents.

I knew all about Cassie’s brews. And the way this one was steaming and smelled of chicory root, I wasn’t sure if it was meant to boost my mood or my butt.

Maybe it didn’t matter—both could probably have used a boost. But I hadn’t been in a truly good mood for fourteen years.

And honestly, happiness scared me. Not that I would ever admit that out loud.

But I had to give her props for the mug that read, This is my happy face.

“Nice choker,” I commented. “Those spikes look lethal.”

“They are.” She waggled her eyebrows. “I could use them on Roman. Or poison him . . . again.”

“As fun as that was . . . Please don’t. The HR paperwork isn’t worth the hassle. And I don’t need another lecture from my father about why I shouldn’t let you poison his best friend’s son.”

Not that I’d given Cassie permission the last time either. And in my defense, as soon as I realized what had happened, I’d made her administer the antidote. And it’s not like it would have killed him. He got a nap and a rash. No big deal.

“Oh, fine. At least let me watch the fireworks. I love it when the two of you fight.”

“Hmm.” I thought about it. “Maybe you should stay. Act as my witness. You know, just in case.” The head of HR, Zara, granddaughter of Hades, had a killer don’t test me vibe.

“Yay,” she squealed and clapped her hands. But then her eyes drifted over my outfit, and she shuddered. “I see we are still shopping at the Hefty trash bag store.”

I looked down at my blacker-than-black, shapeless dress—a muumuu flirting with full-blown tent status and hiding every inch of me. “You love black.”

“Yes, darling, but I don’t hide behind it.”

I cleared my throat. “I’m not hiding.” Oh, I was absolutely hiding.

“All I’m saying is, if you’re going to go head-to-head with Roman, you could have at least worn something a little more . . .”

“A little more what? He’s not worth dressing up for.” Like, ever. Believe me.

“You don’t need to dress up for him. I’m just saying you could wear something that says you’re a demigoddess, not a funeral director. Show him who’s boss.”

That was the point. I wished I could forget I was a demigoddess.

But there was no running from it. I ran the Bureau of Affectional Affairs while working in a building full of magic with gods and goddesses, most of whom were distant relatives.

However, I didn’t want any of it. I wished I could go back to being just Demi Blake.

Hallie’s daughter. Not a divine surprise blessing, as my father once referred to me.

I think he meant it as a sweet gesture; I took it as if I were a mistake. A big fat one.

“Well, to be fair, approving love matches is kind of like directing a funeral,” I deadpanned.

Cassie grabbed her middle and faux laughed. “Oh, ha. You have me in stitches. Maybe you should take up stand-up comedy.”

“Maybe you should do your job and let Roman in.” I flashed her a fake smile, trying not to be too snarky.

Despite my desire to be anybody but who I was, I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

I mean, my alma mater was Olympus University, and I graduated with a master’s degree in Divine Bureaucracy and Management.

Not exactly real-world useful. Could you imagine that on a résumé?

Although my professors were some of the best: Athena, Themis, Hermes. But who would believe that?

Besides, the world didn’t need more of my kind among them.

So, in light of that, I tried my best to be a good boss. Fair and semi-pleasant. And though I despised my goddess side, I knew what I did was important, and I took my job seriously. I was protecting humankind. It was the most thankless job around, but it was all I had.

“Fine,” she sighed dramatically. “But just so you know, the moon is waning, my tea leaves formed a broken heart, and my cat refused to look at me today. So yeah, bad vibes. I don’t think this visit with Roman bodes well for you.”

Being the daughter of Hecate, goddess of magic, Cassie was always saying weird things like this. Unfortunately, she was always right.

“Um . . . what do you mean by that?”

She shrugged. “You know I never get specifics, just feelings.”

I gripped the seat of my chair and nodded, trying to pretend this didn’t affect me at all. However, my insides were squirming.

Honestly, what could Roman do to me? He had zero authority.

If anything, I was technically his boss.

Cupids—or Archers, as they preferred to be called (despite the whole arrow thing being a myth)—couldn’t act unless the relationship was sanctioned by my department.

That was the deal between his father and mine.

It worked well, considering my father’s children—a.k.a. me and my sister—had abilities that went far beyond Cupid and his offspring. Cupids needed to touch someone to know their heart. But our powers weren’t bound by time or space. We knew things we probably shouldn’t. But that was another story.

Regardless, Cupid and most of his children preferred fieldwork, as he called it.

Roman, I suspected, resented it. Especially the part where I had the final say on his so-called love matches.

Naturally, this brought me pleasure. He was my least favorite person.

And while Cassie lived for his visits, I abhorred them.

I swallowed hard. “Well, on that fun note, let him in.”

Cassie’s devious eyes lit up, and she pranced toward the shimmering sliding glass doors, which I could see out of but no one could see into.

She pushed a button, and there he was: Roman Archer.

Son of Cupid. Living proof that even swine could be accessorized, ridiculously handsome, and annoyingly well dressed.

In case you’re wondering, history got it wrong about Greek and Roman gods.

They are completely separate entities. Mortals might confuse them due to their similar names and overlapping domains, but the gods themselves resented the comparison.

For instance, my grandmother, Aphrodite, who insisted on me calling her “Goddess Divine,” scoffed at Venus’s so-called beauty like it was a knockoff perfume.

And my grandfather, Ares, thought Mars was a reckless embarrassment who gave war a bad name.

And yet, somehow, despite all that divine rivalry, my father and Cupid are the best of friends. Go figure.

Roman leaned against the doorframe like he’d been sculpted for dramatic entrances.

Tousled dark hair, a beard that was both rugged and refined, tailored navy suit, and that signature smirk that no doubt had made countless women swoon and launched a thousand regrettable decisions.

His eyes—stormy gray with flecks of gold—swept the room, landing on me like I was both a challenge and a chore.

“Demi,” he said, voice smooth and infuriating. “Still allergic to color, I see.”

“Oh, I’m allergic to something.” I scratched my neck for effect. Seriously, if they made a vaccine to prevent him, I would get inoculated ten times over.

It was probably worth noting that Roman, like me, was a demigod. And apparently our mothers shared a twisted sense of humor when it came to naming their children—each name a wink at divine parentage.

If only my mom had given me a heads-up about who my father really was before . . . well, just before.

Cassie pulled up a chair in the corner and conjured a bowl of pink popcorn, shoving handfuls into her mouth like she was front row at a scandalous show.

Roman’s gaze flicked to Cassie, then back to me. “Is she here to supervise or sabotage?”

“She’s HR adjacent,” I said. “And she’s promised not to poison you. Today.”

“Shame. I was hoping for a little excitement.” Could he be cockier? The answer was a resounding yes.

He took a seat in one of the chairs positioned in front of my desk—it was absurdly made of one enormous diamond. My father once occupied this office, and he’d spared no expense. Roman leaned back like he owned the place, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

“You know why I’m here,” he growled. The gloves came off, and his nice-guy facade faded faster than the Plain White T’s fame.

I pushed my glasses up out of habit. I in fact did not need glasses. Like everyone else around me, I had perfect vision. Perfect everything. It seemed so wrong.

“I had my people send you a warning,” I said innocently.

“Damn it, Demi, why couldn’t you have at least approved one match? This is three seasons in a row now with no love matches. The network is thinking of canceling Love Unscripted thanks to you.”

Roman was the producer and host of a reality TV show about finding the perfect love connection. He referred to himself as the “Architect of Love.” It was as gag-inducing as his cringey show.

And lest any of you mortals think you are in charge of your own love lives, think again: Any and all matches must be approved by the Bureau of Affectional Affairs.

Do we guarantee happily ever afters? No.

Do mortals still screw up relationships even after we give the go-ahead?

Constantly. Yet, we try. Or at least I did.