Chapter 2: Accepting Reality

I lost count of how many times the maids scrubbed my skin raw before they were finally satisfied. By my estimation, I’d already been forced to soak in scalding, herb-scented water twice. Before that, they had vigorously rubbed my entire body down with a gritty mixture of olive oil and Mediterranean sea salt, and even earlier, my face had been relentlessly massaged and slathered in thick honey and oil.

I spent my entire morning enduring this relentless battery of ancient spa treatments. I was about to be presented as the bride of Ares, and everyone in the palace was operating in a state of frantic preparation.

I had checked over and over again. Searched every corner, every shadow. There were no hidden cameras. There were no fresh surgical scars anywhere on this body. Even though a stubborn, rational voice in my head screamed that it was scientifically impossible, I had no choice but to accept the horrifying truth: I had genuinely woken up in the body of a Spartan princess named Portia.

I was bone-tired. I’d spent my first night as a royal running frantically through the stone corridors of the palace, screaming like an absolute madwoman in a desperate bid to find a way back to my own body. I’d only just regained a shred of my sanity after realizing that, for the time being, there was absolutely nothing I could do. Everyone around me just assumed I’d lost my memory, completely disoriented from narrowly escaping death. They didn’t care that their precious princess was babbling in modern English—a language completely alien to their ears. They just chalked it up to the Princess of Sparta being temporarily unhinged.

I didn't know how or why this had happened. Maybe I was under some ancient, mythical spell. Or, taking a more scientific approach, maybe I was just trapped in an intense lucid dream—the kind that felt terrifyingly real. It was like I was living in *Inception*, except Leonardo DiCaprio was nowhere in sight to save me.

But even if this was just a dream, I couldn't afford to take any chances. Because there was a solid fifty-fifty chance that I had actually time-traveled into the distant past. I needed to act fast and formulate a strategy to survive in this heavily patriarchal, sword-and-sandals world.

If I really was stuck in ancient Greece, at least I knew the lore. As a feature film actress, I had once been cast as Psyche, the mortal princess who fell in love with Eros, the God of Love and the son of Aphrodite.

The movie had been a complete box-office flop, but the intense research I’d done for the role meant I actually knew a lot about Greek mythology. And I knew one universal, undeniable truth about the Olympian gods:

They were, without exception, selfish, arrogant, and deeply immoral beings.

Poor Portia. The beautiful Princess of Sparta had suffered the ultimate misfortune of being offered up as a literal sacrifice to the most brutal, unhinged Olympian of them all: Ares.

Ares, the God of War, the Lord of Battle. Just the mere mention of his name was enough to make the toughest Greeks shake in their leather sandals. The guy was legendary for his insatiable bloodlust and obsession with carnage. He had a notoriously volatile temper and would challenge absolutely anyone to a fight to the death. And as if being a bloodthirsty warmonger wasn't bad enough, he was basically ancient history's biggest player, constantly cheating with Aphrodite and fathering a small army of illegitimate children.

I honestly couldn't recall a single myth where Ares actually took a lawful, mortal wife. It seemed I was completely off-script, stepping into an unwritten chapter where the tragic princess of Sparta was forced into a nightmare marriage with the cruelest god in the pantheon.

I had spent the morning interrogating the servants and Portia’s parents, trying to pry as many details about her life from them as possible. I also possessed these faint, ghostly memories flickering in the back of my mind—genuine fragments of Portia's past. I needed to fully understand this sheltered eighteen-year-old girl, because like it or not, I *was* Portia now.

And Portia was the definition of the perfect princess. She wasn't just celebrated as the most beautiful woman in Greece; she was gentle, remarkably mature, and fiercely intelligent for her age. It was that sharp intellect that had earned her the prestigious honor of serving at the Temple of Athena.

But then, a horrifying incident had struck while she was making a sacred offering at the goddess's altar. A venomous snake had bitten her, sending her into a deep, death-like coma. The king had mobilized every physician and exhausted every known antidote in Sparta, but Portia had remained unresponsive, the delicate tips of her fingers slowly turning a morbid, icy blue.

That was when a satyr—a literal half-human, half-goat mythical creature—strode into the palace and approached the desperate king, offering a miraculous cure.

“He claimed to be a messenger of Ares, sent with a cure to save you,” the King of Sparta told me, his regal face sagging with a profound, heavy sadness.

I listened intently, absorbing every single detail of the twisted events that had dragged Portia into this doomed arrangement.

“Never before had a Spartan encountered a satyr walking so brazenly in the realm of mortals. At that moment, I was utterly convinced he had been sent by divine intervention. The creature made a pact with me.” Despite his massive, battle-hardened frame, the King of Sparta seemed completely powerless to hold back the tears pooling in his eyes.

"So, the deal was that if I recovered, I'd be married off to Ares?" I filled in the blanks, my tone sharp, since the king was clearly too choked up to finish the story.

I had learned that although the King of Sparta had three daughters, Portia was the absolute light of his life. He had loved her so fiercely that he’d been prepared to shield her from political marriages entirely, perfectly content to let her devote her life to serving the Goddess of Wisdom.

Faced with this grim reality, the King was now drowning in regret over all the proposals from handsome Greek princes he had so stubbornly rejected. Now, his favorite daughter was betrothed to the Olympian with the most toxic reputation in existence. Portia was going to be dragged away to a divine realm, and her father knew he might never look upon her face again.

“Pray to the wise Athena, my sweet daughter. Beg her to shield you from Ares’ cruelty. You have been the most faithful servant of her temple; I am certain the Goddess of Strategic Warfare will not forsake you in your hour of need,” the Queen of Sparta pleaded, her voice breaking on a choked sob.

Honestly, I was already getting exhausted by Portia’s parents and their constant, suffocating gloom. I shifted my gaze, scanning the massive, echoing throne room. Scattered around were faces that felt strangely familiar, pulled straight from Portia’s residual memories: her older sisters, along with a flock of half-siblings born to the king's concubines. I searched their expressions, but there wasn't an ounce of genuine sorrow on a single face. It seemed Portia hadn't exactly been close to her siblings. Still, the King and Queen had insisted on summoning the entire extended royal family for a grand, morbid farewell banquet.

So, I made my public debut, radiating an almost intimidating level of beauty in Portia’s flawless body. I wore a gown of the finest, most diaphanous ivory silk that clung perfectly to every sensual curve, my delicate feet laced into intricate sandals crafted from soft buffalo leather. Heavy, ornate gold jewelry crusted with raw diamonds and blood-red rubies weighed down my neck and wrists. And to top it all off, a rich, heady scent of exotic musk wafted from my skin with every movement. Whoever had dubbed her "Greece’s most beautiful princess" certainly hadn't been exaggerating.

I had chewed on the thought several times throughout the day: honestly, living out the rest of my days as the perfect Princess Portia wouldn't have made me happy, anyway. Sure, she was royalty. She received the absolute best service, luxury, and protection as the favorite child of the Spartan King.

But the reality of her day-to-day existence? Growing old as a celibate maiden worshipping Athena, suffocating under the thumb of an overbearing, overprotective father, and existing merely as a pretty little trophy for Sparta’s ego? Being paraded around with the empty title of "the most beautiful" wasn't exactly my idea of a fulfilling life.

Weirdly enough, accepting this twisted fate as a bride of Olympus actually sounded a hell of a lot more appealing. At least up there among the gods, I’d have a real chance of figuring out exactly how my soul had been hijacked and dragged into the ancient past—and more importantly, how to get back.

I let out a long, heavy sigh, a pang of grief hitting me as I thought about the glamorous, fiercely independent life of Jill Adelaide I’d been forced to leave behind. But until I uncovered the secret to returning to my own time, I had only one real option. I was an Oscar-nominated actress, after all. So, I would do what I did best: I would put on the performance of a lifetime and play the role of Portia to absolute perfection.

Chapter 3: Demigods and Divine Miracles

“Greetings, Princess of Sparta. My name is Alastair. I am here to collect you.”

A young man in a sweeping red cloak bowed respectfully before me. He had dark, striking features and a head of unruly black hair. Dressed like a hardened Greek warrior, he wore form-fitting leather pants and a sleeveless tunic that showed off his arms. He carried a lethal-looking bow and a quiver of arrows, along with a short sword sheathed in pale deerhide at his hip.

He hadn’t come alone. Alastair brought two massive horse-drawn carriages overflowing with treasure: bolts of the finest Libyan silk, masterfully forged swords and daggers inlaid with heavy gemstones, exquisite jewelry, mountains of gold coins, and even several pristine marble statues. A literal king's ransom. These were the extravagant wedding gifts from the God of War to the King of Sparta.

I offered Alastair a measured, graceful bow—playing the part of Portia perfectly. But out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of my new 'brothers and sisters.' They couldn't even pretend to hide their greedy delight at the mountain of wealth. They giggled and whispered, some of them shamelessly marching right up to the carriages to inspect the loot like kids in a candy store.

“Mind your manners—they are the God of War’s envoys!” the King of Sparta hissed, his voice trembling. He didn't spare a single glance for the unimaginable wealth. His tear-filled eyes were locked entirely on me. It was tragically clear that no amount of gold would ever replace his beloved daughter.

“What exactly is your connection to the God of War? I assumed he would come to fetch me himself,” I asked, letting Portia's sweet, innocent tone mask my irritation. I mean, if you're forcing a girl into an arranged marriage and dragging her away from her home, the least you could do is show up in person. Sending an errand boy was just rude.

The Queen of Sparta panicked, hurriedly yanking on my silk sleeve.

“Watch your words, my child. We are speaking to Ares's messenger. The Lord of Battle is an Olympian god; he would never lower his divine status or set his majestic foot on mortal soil,” she hissed under her breath, terrified of the insult.

“I am a demigod, a blood relative of the Great God Ares. I am his loyal follower and his soldier,” Alastair declared smoothly. He very deliberately ignored my pointed question about his boss's absence.

*A demigod,* I thought. I immediately recalled the chaotic, boundary-less nature of the Olympian gods. The myths were full of them sowing their wild oats absolutely everywhere—with fellow deities and unsuspecting mortals alike. The children born from those divine hookups were the demigods.

I knew the A-listers, of course: Hercules, Perseus. Alastair was probably a C-list demigod, someone whose role wasn't quite heroic enough to make the final cut in the poets’ epic verses.

The gods basically took whatever—and whoever—they wanted. Surprisingly, the women who gave birth to these divine bastards weren't exactly shunned. Quite a few of those illegitimate kids grew up to be legendary kings, powerful queens, or unstoppable war heroes.

But thinking about Ares’s notoriously brutal and heartless reputation in the ancient texts, this whole formal arrangement felt entirely off-script. The God of War could have just swooped in, kidnapped me, and used me however he pleased. Then, once I was pregnant or he simply got bored, he could have tossed me out like trash.

He was a god, after all. Mortals didn't get to defy a god's will or put them on trial for their morality. And even though Ares was arguably the most hated deity in the pantheon, he was still one of the twelve almighty rulers of Olympus.

I couldn't stop racking my brain. What possible reason would drive the Lord of Battle to court Portia in such a highly traditional, respectable manner? Sure, she was Greece's reigning beauty queen, but that didn't seem like enough to make a savage god settle down.

Looking at this so-called divine envoy standing in the Spartan throne room, a sharp wave of skepticism hit me. Were these guys actually sent by Ares? What if this was an elaborate con pulled by some bitter mortal king or rejected prince? Portia's father had turned down practically every eligible bachelor in the Mediterranean. It would be a genius move to fake a divine mandate, knowing damn well the King of Sparta would never dare defy the gods.

“Prove it,” I challenged, staring dead into Alastair’s dark eyes. “Prove that you are truly the envoys of the god Ares, and not just emissaries from some king or prince of another realm.”

Alastair’s handsome face hardened into a mask of pure ice. He clearly did not appreciate a sheltered Spartan princess questioning his authority. But I had to push him. I refused to end up in the bed of some C-list nobleman playing dress-up who wasn't a suitable match for Portia.

Without breaking eye contact, Alastair slowly raised his right hand. A heavy fluttering sound echoed through the hall, and a massive, ugly vulture swooped in from behind the entourage, landing directly at my feet. Alastair reached into his pouch and pulled out a strange, glowing purple fruit that looked like a mutated strawberry. He tossed it to the scavenger, which swallowed it whole in a single gulp.

What happened next made my jaw drop. The entire palace hall bore witness to an impossible spectacle. The vulture began to violently tremble, throwing its dark wings wide. It unleashed an ear-piercing screech, looking like it had just been injected with a lethal dose of adrenaline. Thick, pulsating cords of muscle and swollen veins ripped through its skin, highly visible even beneath its coarse feathers. Right before our eyes, the creature’s body rapidly ballooned, mutating until it was nearly the size of a fully grown horse.

The vulture, now an absolute giant, shrieked again. It haughtily snapped its massive wings, generating a localized hurricane that sent objects flying across the room. Satisfied with the chaos, the beast hopped back to Alastair's side, its beady, lethal eyes locked onto me like I was its next meal.

The Spartans were utterly paralyzed by shock. They had just witnessed a literal divine miracle. Within seconds, every single person in the hall dropped to their knees in trembling worship. I knew from my research that the vulture was one of Ares’s sacred pets. Watching this impossible, monstrous transformation, I finally had to concede: they weren't fakes. They truly were Ares’s messengers.

Back in New York, I was about as close to an atheist as you could get. I usually identified as an agnostic, perfectly content not believing in any religion. To me, the sprawling epics of ancient Greek mythology were nothing more than pure nonsense. But having my soul miraculously shoved into the body of a Spartan girl named Portia had inevitably forced a major re-evaluation of my worldview. And now, I had just watched a bird turn into a giant with my own two eyes—a phenomenon I couldn't logically explain. Was this what they called magic?

*I’ll prove for myself whether the Olympians are real gods or not.*

My resolve hardened as I reached out to take Alastair’s waiting hand, letting him guide me toward the carriage.

As I walked, I couldn't stop the skepticism from creeping back in. Back in my own era, we had master illusionists. I had literally seen David Copperfield’s show firsthand, watching the man fly around a theater inside a bubble without a single safety harness. This whole giant vulture thing? It could very well be an incredibly sophisticated magic trick.

To these ancient Greeks, a flashy parlor trick or two was easily enough to amaze them, making them worship the magician as a deity. But it wasn’t going to be that simple for me.

Pausing, I flashed my best, most perfectly cinematic smile at Portia’s parents and family one last time. Then, I stepped up into the dark, heavily carved agarwood horse-drawn carriage.

The God of War’s massive, mighty horses instantly broke into a thunderous gallop, tearing away from the palace grounds. They moved with terrifying, impossible speed. By the time the King of Sparta and his troops snapped out of their stupor and tried to give chase, Ares’s entourage had already vanished without a trace.

Chapter 4: Ares and Aphrodite

*Portia! Portia! If you’re still in here, answer me!* I shouted in the echoing silence of my own mind, desperately trying to contact the original owner of the body I’d somehow hijacked.

Nothing. Absolute silence. Portia’s soul never answered, no matter how hard I tried to reach her. Had the real Portia actually died from that venomous snake bite? Was my soul completely alone now, trapped behind the steering wheel of a dead girl's body?

I let out a heavy sigh. By now, Ares’s divine entourage had left the stone walls of Sparta far behind. Even though I hadn’t slept a single wink during the journey, I barely noticed when our carriage plunged into a dense, oppressive forest. The ancient trees grew so thick that the canopy swallowed almost every drop of sunlight, plunging us into a cool, eerie twilight.

The carriage moved with an impossible, ghostly speed. Even as we tore over jagged, rocky terrain, I didn't feel a single bump or vibration. Back in my world, if you drove a million-dollar sports car over a pebble on freshly paved asphalt, you’d still feel it in your teeth. This was definitely magic.

No mortals had been allowed to accompany me. I’d parted ways with Portia’s weeping family carrying practically nothing but the clothes on my back. Alastair, the brooding demigod, had informed me that we were heading straight for the Palace of Ares, nestled high in the treacherous peaks of Mount Olympus.

According to him, the gods had erected a massive, invisible barrier. Only immortals, ancient Titans, demigods, and mythical creatures—like satyrs, centaurs, and nymphs—could pass through. It wasn't the entire mountain range that was restricted, just the elite, divine real estate where the gods actually lived.

“If mortals could reach the gods too easily, they’d constantly bother us with their endless, petty requests,” Alastair had deadpanned when I’d asked about the magical border control.

Fair enough. Humans could be pretty greedy and exhausting. The gods couldn't exactly play a 24/7 wishing well for millions of prayers. Alastair had explained that the Olympians usually offered their divine intervention from a comfortable distance.

For instance, if a circle of priests sacrificed enough to beg for rain, Zeus might secretly manipulate the weather fronts to send a storm. If an army prayed for victory on the battlefield, Ares or Athena would typically deploy their mortal followers or demigods to tip the scales, rather than getting their own divine hands dirty.

The Olympians acted more like untouchable VIPs. They didn’t hear every single prayer, and they only granted the ones that entertained them or served their political agendas. Listening to him, I quickly realized that the power of these gods had actual limits. They weren't omnipotent; it wasn’t just a matter of snapping their fingers and yelling *abracadabra*.

“Tell me, Alastair, what is Ares actually like? How am I supposed to act when I finally meet him?” I asked, leaning forward with genuine curiosity.

“He is a fierce, unyielding warrior, but a remarkably generous lord,” Alastair replied without a second of hesitation. It was obvious the guy totally hero-worshipped his boss.

“And what kind of women is he into? Does he prefer the quiet, obedient type, or someone with a pulse who actually talks back?” I probed. If I wanted to survive this insane arranged marriage, I needed to figure out how to play my part flawlessly.

“He likes beautiful women,” Alastair stated dryly.

“And do you think I’m beautiful?” I teased, flashing him a slow, perfectly calculated Hollywood smile, just to test his reaction.

“Of course you are, Princess of Sparta. You are the most beautiful woman in all of Greece,” Alastair said with absolute, unwavering certainty.

I let out a soft, breathy chuckle.

“So Ares won’t be disappointed when he unwraps his new toy? Since this is our first time meeting, I’m feeling just a little bit nervous,” I said, keeping my tone light.

“Hmm… not quite,” Alastair corrected smoothly. “Ares has met you before.”

*When?* I scoured through the fractured shards of Portia’s residual memories, but there was absolutely zero trace of an encounter with the God of War. Had the sheltered Spartan princess secretly crossed paths with a murderous Olympian, or was Alastair just terribly misinformed?

***

“Ares… you truly are my greatest lover,” Aphrodite purred, pressing her impossibly flawless body against the hard, muscular expanse of Ares’s chest.

The Goddess of Love and Beauty trailed her slender, delicate fingers along the thick cords of his neck, her every movement dripping with calculated seduction.

The divine lovers had spent the entire night tangled in the sheets. As was her habit, Aphrodite had slipped away to Ares’s luxurious palace while her lawful husband, Hephaestus, remained isolated in his sweltering workshop, obsessively forging tools and weapons of war.

Their scandalous affair was the worst-kept secret on Olympus. Aphrodite felt absolutely no shame in flaunting her numerous conquests. Ares wasn't her only distraction; she frequently entertained tragically handsome mortal lovers, like Adonis. To her, her lame, soot-stained husband was virtually nonexistent—a bitter consequence of a marriage forced upon her by the King of the Gods.

Zeus, terrified that the other gods would tear Olympus apart warring over her beauty, had tied her down. He had forced her into an eternity with Hephaestus, the crippled god of the forge.

It was a cruel irony. Why Hephaestus? Why not bind her to one of his stronger sons, like Ares? Even though the Lord of Battle was widely considered a brutal outcast among the heavenly elite, he was infinitely more desirable than the blacksmith.

That seething resentment fueled her chronic infidelity. She was the Goddess of Love and Beauty; it was her divine right to share her affections and her body with whomever she pleased. No man—mortal or immortal—had the right to cage her or claim exclusive ownership of her perfection.

Aphrodite arched her elegant back with a feline stretch, flicking her heavy waves of blonde hair—strands as soft and luminescent as spun gold. She ran her fingers through the silky locks before gracefully smoothing down her sheer gown, intricately embroidered with celestial silver thread. The goddess was preparing to slip back to her own palace, back to the dreary existence with her gloomy husband.

“I am taking a wife, Aphrodite,” Ares announced. His massive, scarred, and nearly naked body lay sprawled lazily across the rumpled bedsheets. A single, faint beam of moonlight sliced through the high arched window, casting severe shadows over his perfectly sculpted, lethally powerful physique.

“Excuse me?” Aphrodite gasped, spinning around in sheer shock.

Her perfect features twisted into a mask of ugly displeasure. “Who is it?”

“The Princess of Sparta,” Ares replied, his deep voice maddeningly flat and unbothered.

“You mean the mortal rumored to be the most beautiful woman in Greece?” Aphrodite’s eyes flashed with a dangerous, volatile fury.

“Yes. And consider this a warning, Aphrodite,” Ares growled, the lazy demeanor vanishing as he sat up. His burning, dark gaze locked onto his lover’s eyes. “Do not even entertain the thought of tormenting her the way you did Psyche. I chose this union.” He knew her temper well; her past jealousy over Psyche’s legendary beauty had driven her to concoct a series of vicious, deadly trials to ruin the poor mortal.

“Why on earth are you playing these pathetic, romantic games with a fragile human?” Aphrodite snapped, her voice trembling with raw emotion. “Just take her to your bed! Sleep with her until the novelty wears off, and then throw her away, exactly as you’ve done with all your other mortal playthings!”

“That is my business, Aphrodite. Not yours,” Ares countered, his tone as hard and unyielding as iron.

The Goddess of Beauty looked utterly unglued, her flawless face flushing with a mix of rage and genuine insult. She didn't actually love Ares, not in the truest sense, but she had always relished the absolute certainty that—despite his other dalliances—he belonged to *her*. He worshipped *her*. Realizing that the God of War was willfully defying her for a mortal bride stung her colossal ego.

Seeing the wounded distress cracking her perfect facade, the rough edge in Ares softened. He reached out, gently wrapping his massive hand around her slender arm, and drew her close. He pressed a surprisingly tender kiss to the back of her hand.

“My beloved Aphrodite…” Ares coaxed, his deep, rumbling voice dropping to a hypnotic, masculine purr. “I am marrying the girl because she may prove highly useful to my plans. Circumstances have forced my hand in taking her as a wife. But you must believe me—as it has always been, you will remain my greatest desire. My primary lover.”

Instantly melted by his rough, possessive reassurances, Aphrodite sighed, abandoning her jealousy as she threw herself back into the God of War’s muscular embrace.

“Just promise me one thing,” Aphrodite whispered softly against his ear, her tone laced with a lingering, poisonous edge. “Do not fall in love with her.”

Ares remained silent for a long moment, his heavy hand slowly stroking his mistress’s bare spine. “I do not know, Aphrodite,” he finally murmured, his gaze drifting back to the moonlit window. “No one can truly know the future.”