Chapter IX #2
Meanwhile, I was cursing the Greek gods. Well, one in particular—Zeus. Only he would think to meddle in this way with a Roman. The worst part was I could do nothing about it. I knew if I retaliated, I would pay for it. Not like I wasn’t already.
I could hear the online commentary now:
Roman Archer’s gone soft.
What happened to the tough-hitting interviews?
Not that I was unkind, but I took love seriously.
And admittedly, the kind of people who came on our show looking for love typically had some issues that needed to be worked through.
Either that or they were attention seekers looking to launch a career or save one.
But as an Archer, it was my job—my privilege—to help anyone who sought love to find it.
And sometimes that meant asking the hard, at times uncomfortable, questions.
In my experience, when people faced their demons and dealt with them, it opened the door to love. Then Demi, acting as the head of the Bureau, would slam the door on them because they didn’t meet the criteria of her forsaken guidebook.
I was no fan of Demi’s, and hadn’t been for a long time. So the fact that was I sitting there acting like a fangirl was not only out of character—it was infuriating.
Demi bit her velvety, pouty lip, bewildered, not saying a thing.
Finally she whispered, “Did you really have a poster of me?”
I cleared my throat. “Yes,” I reluctantly admitted.
The corners of her lips ticked up just a little, but she quickly suppressed the smile. “Huh,” she breathed out.
“Huh” was right. I had no idea where to go from there. Then the damn voice that wasn’t my own whispered, Get her to tell her story.
I had to stop myself from groaning aloud.
Instead, I gently nudged her. “The world is going to want to know where you’ve been. Here’s the chance to tell them your story. Why did you disappear? What have the last fourteen years looked like for you? Why return now and here on my show?”
Demi cautiously looked around the room, at the crew, the cameras, Jazzy, who was nodding at her encouragingly, and then back to me. It was easy to see—she didn’t trust me.
She clasped her hands together and let out a long, slow breath. Her gaze shifted away from me, settling on the camera lens like it was safer than my eyes.
She wasn’t going to tell me her story.
But she was resigned to tell the world.
“Well,” she whispered. “After the accident, my life changed in ways I never anticipated, and honestly, it crushed me. My mom,” her voice cracked. “My best friend and cheerleader died.” She barely kept her emotions in check.
And somehow, I felt it too. A lump formed in my throat—uninvited, unwelcome. But it was there all the same. I hadn’t expected to feel anything.
Not for her.
Not like this.
The room was silent. Even the crew had stilled, as if afraid to breathe too loudly for fear of sending her back into hiding.
“Not only was my mom gone,” she began, “but so were my Olympic dreams. And then for the father who had never been part of my life to suddenly take custody of me—it was overwhelming. I didn’t know who I was anymore.
And I couldn’t bear to face my fans, the world, anyone who knew me before.
How could I face them when I didn’t even know who I was? When I still don’t.”
She paused. Then turned her beautiful head just enough to meet my gaze. Her eyes were as steely as ever when they connected with mine. But this time, a part of me felt like I deserved it.
Eros was right. I didn’t know his daughter. And for the first time, I felt like that was my fault—not hers.
“I guess that’s why I’m here,” she said quietly. “To face myself.”
The room collectively let out a breath.
I opened my mouth to ask a follow-up—but Demi beat me to it.
“I know the world will want to know who my father is. And where I’ve been.” She straightened, voice steady. “My father is Niko Themelis. World-renowned artist.”
I’d wondered what story Eros would let Demi tell about him. Using that alias made the most sense. His alter ego was almost as reclusive as she had been.
Jazzy mouthed, No freaking way, salivating at the news.
“We’ve lived all over the world,” Demi said, her voice smooth, practiced. “But I spent a lot of time in Greece, where the best specialists helped me recover from my injuries. It’s also where I attended an exclusive private university.”
She was steering now. Of course she was. Once upon a time, she had been a pro at this.
But it was time for me to take back the wheel.
“If you say you don’t know who you are,” I said, voice steady, “how do you expect the men you’ll date on this show to know who you are? Is that fair to them?”
The question hung in the air like a challenge.
It surprised me that Zeus had let me ask it. I’d braced for something ridiculous to fall out of my mouth without my permission.
But this time, the gods stayed silent.
Demi flashed me an annoyed look that said, Touché.
I expected her not to answer or, at the very least, to sidestep the question with her usual snark. But once again I found myself dumbfounded by her.
“Honestly, I doubt any of them will truly get to know me,” she said. “I don’t know if that’s unfair, though. How many people do we ever truly know? I think most of us reserve our real selves for the ones who matter. The people we trust to love all of us—even the bad parts.”
My jaw nearly dropped. Note to self: Never underestimate Demi.
“So,” I said, trying to sound neutral, “how does someone go about getting to know the real you?”
It came out too soft.
Too personal.
Like I was asking for myself.
What in the Titans was wrong with me?
“Carefully,” she said, with a laugh that curled around the room. “Very carefully.”
She knew exactly what she was doing.
And the viewers were going to eat it up.
I hated how much I was eating it up. Hated it even more that I wanted to proceed with caution and get to know her better. Had Zeus and Eros done something to me?
Or had Demi?
Hard to tell.
“Two final questions,” I said, though I had a dozen more inside itching to be unleashed.
She had me fascinated. I wanted to know when and why she’d locked her heart. But I couldn’t ask that directly. So I circled the question like a hunter in fog.
“Do you think it’s possible you’ll find love this season? Do you think I—or anyone—can architect that for you?”
She smirked. “It will take a miracle.”
Jazzy spat out a laugh and an “Oh, this is going to be good” that would definitely need to be edited out.
I had a feeling it was going to be anything but good. Little did Jazzy know, we had a divine disaster in the making on our hands.
“I hope to prove you wrong, Demi.”
I had to. My own happiness hung in the balance here.
“I’m not holding my breath,” she quipped.
Neither was I. Neither was I.