In a London not quite our own where Olympus towers in chrome and glass above the city skyline, and the gods live not in myth but in penthouse suites one goddess awoke to the pulse of desire. Afrodite stirred. The air vibrated with a familiar thrum the aching frequency of raw, masculine lust. It called to her. It always did. With a smile, she chose her form for the day: a soft, red-haired beauty in a short white summer dress, legs bare, her figure draped in innocence. A glamour spell shimmered over her like perfume no one would recognize the goddess beneath the silk. She out into the city, drawn to the hum of hunger and it led her to a park. A date. A boy, flushed with nervous energy, and a girl posing only for spite using him to torment some unseen ex through photos and fake affection. Afrodite tilted her head and whispered a small charm. The girl’s gaze glazed for just a moment, attention drifting elsewhere. And then it was just him. Alone. Ripe.
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