Archive of Our Own ^beta

1959.

Somewhere in a hospital in Dallas, a woman screams and bears down as she labours, sweat dripping from her forehead. The child is her first, her husband’s fourth. She thinks little of their age gap, or of what will become of his other children, her own child - she thinks only of the pain, begging for it to end, praying this will have all been worth it. For this kind of pain, the child must be extra special. She grips the side of the bed, wishing there was a hand to hold, and wonders if tonight will be the night she dies.

Nurses tut at her shrieks - silly girl. Don’t these women know childbirth is painful? Don’t they realise that pain is normal, and they’re hardly going to die from it?

In the end, the child - her first, her husband’s fourth - is a girl. She screeches just like her mother; midwives declare her healthy. The happy couple, happy now the torment is over, decide to name her Beryl Darlene Grace.

Two nights later, the doting husband loudly berates the loving, ailing wife, for her unwillingness to stand and cook so soon after ripping herself open. He brings her to tears, and the baby keeps crying, and the door slams louder than either of them combined as his temper bubbles over. He will not lay a hand on a woman or a child, but he does not need to.

Thus, Beryl’s tragedy begins.

-

1976.

“Beryl, you’re taking the kids to school this morning. Take this grocery list, too, we’re all out. And don’t you dare take anything at the asking price, you hear me?” 

Her father doesn’t look up from his newspaper, giving demands as easily as he breathes. “I know your head isn’t screwed on right, girl, but there’ll be hell to pay if you overspend.”

Beryl crosses her arms over her chest. “I don’t have time for that this morning, someone else will have to. I have a job interview at nine thirty.”

He actually snorts at that. “A job interview? What kind of shit-for-brains job is it, huh? What kinda place would take you on?”

She bristles. “It’s a receptionist position. I can type.”

“Can you spell your own name?” His laughter is raucous, deliberately antagonising. “You hearing this, Barb? The girl reckons she’s gonna get herself a decent job!”

Beryl stamps her foot. “Well, I won’t if I miss the goddamn interview!”

From the kitchen, her mother Barb weakly chastises, “Don’t argue with your father!”

“Someone has to!” Beryl retorts.

It won’t be Barb. It never is, these days. Somewhere in her memories, buried deep and shrouded in fuzz, the haziness of a half-remembered childhood, she remembers shouting matches, two adults being loud, which she can only assume were the impassioned arguments of George and Barbara Grace. Now, and for the last several years, he yells and she acquiesces or apologises, and little else is said about the matter. Her mother is always too tired to stand up for herself, run ragged with five more children after Beryl, and another, which Beryl prays is the last, on the way.

Not that it matters whether this one will be the last, or if they will continue making babies like their entire lives depend on it. The final straw has long been on her back, and she’s about ready to shirk it all off.

Her mother appears in the doorway, looking as she always seems to - tired, pregnant, uncomfortable. “You’re taking the kids, end of story. Your father has to get to work, he has a very important meeting.”

“He always does,” Beryl shrugs. “If they’re so important, how come we don’t have any money?”

She knows exactly why. They have more children than they can afford, George is a workshy, adulterous piece of shit who does the bare minimum for his family, and Barb still believes the safest place for a woman of her station is in the home, raising children, cooking stew and embroidering pillows with slogans about God. 

Her father rises to his feet and slams his newspaper down on the table, rattling the cups, immediately infuriated by her audacity. Before he can speak, Beryl leans towards the bannister of the stairs and yells at the top of her lungs, “Y’all better get in this car if you don’t wanna be late!”

He sits back down, still visibly seething. Beryl snatches the keys from the table, hearing the pounding of feet from bedrooms and bathrooms beginning to make their way downstairs.

“Someday,” She says in a low voice, looking directly at her father, “I’m gonna make more in a day than you make in a month. And if you think I’m sending some of it home for y’all, to help you get by, you got another thing coming, daddy.”

She expects a bigger reaction to her parting words, but her father just smirks, and mirrors her tone.

“Beryl, sweetheart, when you’re in my living room four months from now, crying because you’re the town tramp whose boss got her pregnant and had her fired on his wife’s orders, you won’t be staying under my roof.” He folds his newspaper in half, then in half again, and sets it in his lap. There’s a piece of bacon left on his plate. “Just because you’re pretty you think you deserve the world. Newsflash: Girls like you don’t deserve nice things, like money and love and family. You’re gonna fail whatever you try. Might as well just give up now.”

She glances over at the kids, half-tumbling down the stairs. “Taylor, shoes! Mary, grab your coat, you always forget it and I’m not driving all the way back here! Johnny, car, now! ” Then she looks back at her father for the last time. “I’m gonna make it out there, whether you like it or not.”

The ride to school is noisy, five children crammed into their beat-up car, the youngest perched in another’s lap and fastened in tight with a pair of arms in lieu of a seatbelt. Beryl drives fast and reckless, like always, getting the kids to school in record time, screeching into a parking spot and turning around before they can open the doors and dive out.

“Listen to me,” She says, “Y’all are getting the bus home, alright? I’m not picking you up today.”

“What?”

“Come on!”

“Seriously?”

“Oh!” Beryl cocks her head. “You think you’re too good for a bus, Mary-Ann? When I was your age, we didn’t have a car. I had to get the bus.”

“Whatever,” Her words are met with an expected eyeroll, “We’re going in. Gonna be marked tardy otherwise. See you later.”

The last door is barely shut before she squeals out of the parking lot, the car jolting and speeding away. It takes a while to finally feel free, but once she does, Beryl tosses the grocery list out of the open window and laughs out loud, at nothing, to herself. She feels crazy. She’s insane. She’s seventeen and the world is huge, terrifyingly huge, and finally hers to stamp a legacy onto, to scratch the surface of human history, and to prove once and for all that Beryl Grace is a somebody.

Dallas will be nothing more than a distant memory soon enough. The next time she’s here, the year will be 1986, and she’ll be shooting a pilot episode on location. That show will win her an Emmy.

-

1979.

She’s grinning before he’s even said anything. She knows that twinkle in his eye all too well.

“Well, doll, Linda said the screen test went great, and Gilbert loved your headshots.” Max tells her. He’s the best agent money can buy, if you have it. If you don’t, he’s the best agent a pretty face, a wink, and an agreement of generously splitting the profits once stardom comes can buy. “They also wanted me to tell you that, uh… another picture got mixed in with the bunch, which maybe you didn’t intend to send them.”

He slides it across the table, and Beryl tries to look surprised, or neutral. It’s an excellent shot; her hair practically gold in the bright sunlight, blue eyes popping against the sky, a seductive look on her face as she leans up against the shining red hood of the car, wet from the hose. She’s not technically nude, even if the denim cutoffs do look painted on, and the white shirt clings transparent to her skin with nothing underneath it. 

“Oh, god. How did that get in there? I’m mortified,” She says, a familiar, tongue-in-cheek affectation in her voice.

Max laughs. “Beryl…”

She shrugs. “They’re playing checkers, I’m playing chess. You have to play to win. What else did they say?”

He narrows his eyes, but smiles at her. “Gilbert wants to meet you for dinner, Friday night at Esposito’s. And you’re a shoe-in for the part.”

Beryl gasps, clapping her hands twice. “How about that? I guess there is a silver lining to this embarrassing little mishap, after all.”

“You are truly something, Miss Grace. I don’t know what to say.”

“Say thank you,” She tells him, “And that I’ll be there waiting… unless he wants to pick me up, that is.”

“He’s married, Beryl. And thirty eight years older than you. You sure you wanna be seen canoodling with him?”

In Hollywood, there are pros and cons to every choice, right down to the little ones like makeup, hair, accessories. Beryl rifles through them in her mind. Pros: she gets the job, she’s seen with a famous face, the media picks up interest in this new bombshell starlet, people everywhere are talking about Beryl Grace. Cons: …crickets.

“Canoodling? It’s just dinner,” She avoids the question, but relents at his stare. “Yes, I’m sure,” She tosses her hair over her shoulder. “I know what I want, and I know how to get it. All I have to do now is move the pieces in the right order.”

Max nods, noting her wishes. “Okay. Be careful, though. You’ll get a reputation.”

Beryl straightens, flashing her kilowatt smile in his direction. “Oh, Max, honey. I want a reputation.”

-

1986.

Beryl Grace is the name on everybody’s lips. She’s the life and soul of every party - can you even call it a party if Beryl hasn’t been papped on her way home the next morning, a dusting of white powder above her lip, makeup smeared, dress shucked too high and heels in her hands? Nobody is doing it like her, and everybody is trying their damndest to. Critically acclaimed and always in demand, Beryl is the name that ripples in hushed whispers through any and every room, before erupting into cheers and shouts and begging for autographs, pictures and interviews. 

So what if a few scandalous shots float through magazine covers, scantily clad or suggestively posed or caught in the act of what Hollywood darlings do best? As long as they’re talking, Beryl couldn’t give a damn what they’re saying. Besides, who else has a string of famous boyfriends the way Beryl does? Jack Goodman, Ricky Schumacher, Darren Young, Elijah Peters. The only thing Beryl hasn’t done is run off to marry any of them, much to the surprise of the tabloids.

A Vegas wedding has always seemed like a fun stunt, but the husband part would have to be worth it, and too many Hollywood men simply aren’t.

But this one might be, though. 

She saunters over, bold as anything. “So, how come you’re the one face in the room I don’t recognise, and you haven’t tried to buy me a drink yet?”

The man chuckles. It sounds like a deep rumble, thunderous almost. It should be intimidating, coupled with the rest of him - tall, broad, clearly hiding a well-built frame beneath the pinstripe suit and slicked hair - but it isn’t. His face is classically handsome, but serious and stoic. The first time she’s seen him crack a smile all night is right now. She’s in, and she knows it.

“What’s your poison?”

“Dry martini.”

She watches with growing interest as the man gets the attention of the bartender with a mere nod, gestures slightly with two fingers in her direction, and orders. Whoever he is, the power he commands is palpable; everyone in the room is under his spell, awaiting his instruction, at his beck and call. That sort of power makes Beryl weak in the knees. She wants it, badly. For herself, and with him. 

“So, who are you?” She questions, leaning over the bar just so , aware of his eyes darting down to the exposed cleavage she boosts together with cleverly positioned arms. “They don’t let just anybody in here - I wouldn’t come if they let just anybody in. You’re on the guest list?”

The man smirks, and sips his drink. It looks dark, whiskey or bourbon perhaps. “I can get on any guest list in town.”

Beryl raises an eyebrow, her interest piqued. Who is this guy? He has to be some kind of bigshot producer or director, judging by the way he carries himself, the cocksure confidence, the steadiness of it. “Oh?”

“Got somewhere you wanna go?”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” She flirts shamelessly, “But that’s a tale for another time. Right now, I wanna go to the bathroom, and I’d appreciate your company.” She reaches into her bra, drawing his eyes down once again, and gives the little plastic baggie a jaunty wave, tongue teasing at her teeth. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

He grins slowly, surely. “Lead the way.”

She does. Beryl Grace is never afraid to take the lead. Hand in hand, it’s not long before they’re pressed up against the wall of the bathroom, a burn in her nostrils and a rush going to her head, skin pulsing wherever his makes contact with hers. The room feels hot, too hot, and she’s irritated that it’s even possible for him to maintain eye contact with her when her body looks this good, so she tugs the dress further down for relief from the heat and tension and finally, finally , he grabs her waist and kisses her.

Red lipstick all over his white collar, red lipstick all over her cheeks. What a crying shame, people might find out about their little tryst. 

“Who are you?” She gasps, grabbing his neck as he kisses down from her breasts, one hand bunching up her dress around her stomach so she can rut and grind against his hand. Her voice is breathy, needy. “You already know me, it’s only fair.”

He chuckles again, and she feels the rumble of thunder against her skin. Yes, god, yes. “You can call me Zeus.”

She cries out as his fingers curl up into the sweet spot, able to see nothing but stars. “ Zeus. I like it. King of the Gods. That must make me the queen, huh?”

Zeus hoists her up, tearing her underwear off with his teeth and looking at her with hungry eyes from between her legs. “Tonight, it does.”

-

That’s only the first time she runs into him. The next time, she’s taking a chance on her luck at a VIP party. Beryl’s name isn’t anywhere on the guest list, the VIP list, or even in the host’s mind, but she’s certain she can charm the doorman regardless. There are very few men in the world that won’t bend when she plays her cards right, flaunts her assets, and makes promises she doesn’t intend to keep.

Some of the Hollywood elites don’t like having Beryl around. They see the tabloids and the paparazzi pictures, they see the criminally short skirts and padded shoulders and low necklines. They think she’s trashy, and they do little to hide their opinion. As if she cares. Classy doesn’t generate talk; trashy never shuts up. And in a world where relevance is the only thing that matters, why would she want to come quietly?

“You’re not on the guest list.”

“I’m supposed to be!” Beryl lies, hands on her hips. She’s an actress, she’ll put on as much of a show as is necessary to get inside, and she’ll do it loud enough to garner attention. The Beryl Grace way.

“You’re not coming in.”

“Bullshit! He said he’d put me on there!” She yells, noting the people milling around them beginning to look. “We met at the Sunset party three weeks ago, we talked about the upcoming project and he said he would put my name on this list so we could discuss it here! Is it my fault that whichever fucking goon was in charge of doing this didn’t do it?”

One of the doormen steps forwards, squaring his shoulders and grabbing her by the upper arms to forcibly remove her from the line. “Miss, we’re going to have to ask you to le-”

“Miss? Miss? You know damn well who I am!” She shrugs his hands off her, scowling. “Don’t touch me! I’m Beryl fucking Grace, you know who I am! I’m going to this goddamn party whether you like it or-”

A pair of strong hands suddenly intervene, effortlessly removing the harsh grip of the doorman and replacing it with a protective arm around her shoulders. Beryl looks up, deciding whether to thank her rescuer or yell at the pervert who’s touching her, when she realises. 

Zeus, of course.

He looks firmly ahead, stormy eyes boring into the doorman who had initially refused her entry. He’s so much larger than everyone there - must be six foot five at the very least, powerfully built, and Beryl almost misses what he’s saying, too wrapped up in remembering how easily he had tossed her around like a ragdoll in what had turned out to be one the best nights of her life. He must be intimidating to them, judging by the way they shrink down, but Beryl pulls herself out of the memories just in time to hear him.

“She’s with me, you understand? That means she’s on the list.”

His voice is so commanding, so authoritative. The doorman gets a hazy look in his eyes, as though lost for a few seconds, before he coughs and glances down at his clipboard, swallowing. When he dares to look back up, he can’t seem to make eye contact with Zeus, and directs his gaze at Beryl instead.

“Um… right you are. You’re on- on the list. You- welcome inside.” He stutters.

Beryl saunters past him, rolling her eyes. “No duh . I told you so.”

She looks hot tonight, and she knows it. Her hair is coiffed, teased and huge, golden blonde like a halo around her head, and her dress is shocking pink, skin-tight, with wide shoulders and nothing but long, shapely legs on display in strappy stilettos. Beryl has dressed to impress, because she’s on a mission tonight, and will not leave until it’s complete. Looking the part is half the battle, something that she believes women should be less ashamed of admitting. Dressing frumpy and braiding her hair would hardly have gotten her in - Zeus would never have noticed her, and the doormen wouldn’t have even spared a glance. Appearances are everything, and she knows hers is the very best.

“Told you I can get you in anywhere,” Zeus tells her, joining her side as they enter the hallway of the mansion. “Why this one?”

Maybe Beryl shouldn’t be seen rubbing shoulders with this Zeus guy again, at least not tonight. He’s definitely some kind of executive, and his influence goes far, but she knows a thing or two about powerful men, and if there’s one thing they’re threatened by, it’s other powerful men. The entire reason for coming to this upscale, VIP-only party is to see if she can corner William Staunton and secure an audition or, better yet, the leading role, in his upcoming drama series. She’s perfect for it, and it would be the chance she’s been looking for to show that she has real serious acting chops, that she can sink her teeth into something so unlike her usual archetype they’ll all be floored. It could be her breakout role - except for the fact it’s a closed casting, and nobody has reached out to her agent.

It’s bullshit. Beryl is getting this fucking role. But if she’s going to charm Staunton, Zeus might be more of an obstacle. 

She tells him the truth about the role, and how she knows she deserves it more than any of the big name skanks who have been invited to try out for it. No one else will bring the same kind of passion that she will. And of course, she admits that she was completely lying to the doorman, that she’s never met Staunton in her life, but she’s determined to convince him to give her a shot anyway. Zeus laughs, a booming sound that echoes through the hallway.

“Should’ve known you were causing trouble,” He tells her, guiding her up an ornate staircase, lined with trophies. “You do that a lot, don’t you?”

“ Well behaved women seldom make history, ” She quotes, shrugging with a wink. “I’m just being proactive, chasing what I want. The show will fail without me.”

Zeus nods. “I agree. Maybe we can get him to open his mind a little.”

“We?”

“You’re a talented actress and ten times more gorgeous than anyone on our screens right now. Why wouldn’t I help?”

Beryl folds her arms, interested. “You’ve seen my work? Which is your favourite?”

“All of them,” Zeus admits, “But I liked you best in The Weather Girl.” 

She laughs, playfully smacking his arm and curling her body into his as they walk. “You just like that one because I ended up topless in it!”

Zeus chuckles. “It certainly helped. The script was dire, but you were electric, Miss Grace. I’d like to see what you would do with the material Staunton is promising, and I have a feeling he’ll be inclined to listen to me.”

She raises an eyebrow. “What, you have some kinda stock in the show?”

“No,” He promises, “But I can be quite persuasive. And besides, the sooner we cement this, the sooner I can take you home.”

He’s so direct - he says it like a fact, like it’s not even a question. Beryl resists the urge to just jump on him right there, to say fuck it to the role of her dreams and instead gain some fame from the scandal of being caught having sex on the stairs of a party she wasn’t even invited to with a man she knows nothing more than a name about. Just his presence makes her tingle all over, and the closer he gets, his touch enveloping her as he guides her to wherever Staunton is, the harder it is to control herself.

“See, that’s where you lose me,” She teases, dancing her fingertips along his arm. “I don’t wanna go home.”

Zeus takes it in stride, clearly pleased at her issuing a challenge. Men are all the same - peacocks, the lot of them, desperate to strut and show off for their ladies. It’s intoxicating to be around.

“Where do you want to go? I’ll take you wherever your heart desires.”

She leans in close, glossy red lips brushing past his cheek to his ear. “I want to get drunk, and I want to fuck under the stars. By the Hollywood sign. Make me feel famous.”

Before he can respond, the door in front of them opens. It’s an office, which seems to belong to none other than William Staunton, as he begins to step out and then blinks, shocked at their arrival.

“Beryl Grace?”

She thrusts her hand forward, plastering on her best seductive smile. “Enchanted to meet you, sir.”

“What… what are you doing here?” Staunton is an unimpressive man, at least physically, short and greying with thick-rimmed glasses. He’s a genius, though, his work fresh and exciting at every turn, so while his looks don’t factor very far, it’s nerve-wracking to be under his scrutiny. Beryl reminds herself of her own beauty, and how rarely a man like this would have a woman be so forthcoming, and feels her confidence rise a little.

“I want to be in your show. I was born to play Petra Redshaw, but it seems my call to audition got lost in the mail. How about you pencil me in? Or I can show you what I can do now?” She lays on the charm thick, voice sultry and low, a feigned innocence in her eyes. This is the kind of look that undoes a man.

Staunton falters. “I… Beryl, how did you get in here? I’ve never-”

Zeus clears his throat, and Staunton seems to notice him for the first time. “I brought her along. Give her a shot, you’ll be surprised.”

For a moment, his gaze unfocuses, then he looks back to Beryl. “Audition… I’ll fax your agent tomor… tonight, I’ll do it tonight.”

Beryl grins, squeals, and plants two red kisses on him, one on each of Staunton’s cheeks. He blushes almost the same shade as her lipstick.

“You won’t regret this,” She promises. As they rejoin the party, pouring drinks like the night will never end, she eyes Zeus and thinks neither will you.

-

The words of her father echo in Beryl’s mind - girls like you don’t deserve nice things. Is that true? She has more nice things than she can count: a beautiful home in Los Angeles, filled with expensive artwork and sculptures and wine, designer clothing in every colour, fabric and pattern, more shoes than she could wear in a lifetime, more money than she could ever spend. She has nice things coming out of her ears , she’s so overrun with them. 

But if she really does deserve nice things, then where the hell was Zeus? He knew exactly what tonight was, and how much it meant to her. Does he even care? 

Outside her window, the city is dark and cold, rain lashing down as thick clouds gather overhead. It’s not supposed to rain here, but it feels fitting, the perfect backdrop for Beryl’s thunderous mood despite the unusual weather pattern. She’d asked him to be there, implored, practically begged on her knees. Powerful or not, he’s going to have hell to pay when he shows his lousy face again.

Which of course, won’t be long. Hearing the door open, she whips around and, without thinking, hurls the statue in her hands. It misses his face by merely inches, and Beryl curses as she imagines how much more satisfying it would’ve been if it had hit him, drawing a line of blood down that perfect face, marring it, ruining it.

“ Bastard! ” She shouts. “ You bastard! ”

Zeus holds up his hands in surrender, but that’s as close to an apology as he comes. “There was an emergency I had to handle. Congratulations, my love.”

He picks up the statue, setting it on a Grecian pedestal beside him. My love. How fucking dare he.

“Don’t you step any closer to me, you cocksucking motherfucker. All I asked was for you to show up and support me for the show you helped me get. I won an Emmy! And you weren’t fucking there!”

He ignores her, getting closer anyway. “You deserve it. You were phenomenal up there, the whole country is in love with you. You could’ve taken any man you wanted.”

“I didn’t want to take any man , Zeus, I’m not any woman! I’m Beryl fucking Grace! I wanted to take you! And you didn’t show, and now it’s my night and I have no one to celebrate with, and it’s fucking raining on my night! ”

Zeus watches her, unmoved by her performance. “You’re drunk, Beryl. Listen, I’ll make it up to you.”

You’re drunk. Of course she’s fucking drunk, what else was there to do? 

“Make it up to me?” She screeches, growing hysterical, “What, you think you can just saunter in here and fuck me and that’ll make it all better? You’re such a fucking pig! Fuck you!”

She has no idea how it gets there, but before she can even register what’s happening, she’s charging towards him, blinded by anger, and there’s a kitchen knife clutched in her fist. This fucking asshole is going to regret ever toying with Beryl’s heart. He’s going to bleed out on her polished marble floor, staining everything with avoidable demise. Zeus could easily dodge but he doesn’t, standing strong like a mountain as she slashes it across his arm, hoping for the worst. He only blinks. His perfect skin splits open, but instead of the satisfying burst of red she expects, bright gold spills forth from the wound. Beryl watches, dumbfounded, as the flesh begins to knit itself together again, the gold liquid disappearing. Within seconds, it’s as if she had never cut him at all.

She realises the rain outside has stopped.

“Ichor,” He explains, “Blood of the gods.”

Beryl is way too high for this. Or is she? She knows she’s still drunk, but alcohol has never made her hallucinate before, and she’s sure the coke should’ve worn off by now. Not that the coke ever makes her hallucinate either. There’s always the chance someone had slipped her something else and she’d simply forgotten, but… 

The knife is still in her hand, and Zeus is completely unharmed by it.

“The gods… You’re a god.” She whispers, heart pounding. “A real life god.”

Zeus’ voice is so low it feels more like a rumble of thunder than words. “Let me make it up to you, baby. I promise I will.”

“You’re a god, and you want me? ”

And before he can answer, she thinks of course you do. How could you not?

“I do.”

Her answer is instantaneous, her rage dissipating as quickly as the lust bubbles to the surface. “Then have me , dammit. Take me, make me yours, leave nothing left.”

-

1987.

Beryl Grace has the affections of a god. And not just any god, no, the king of the gods. Eat your heart out, George Grace. In all honesty, she doesn’t even know if her father is still alive. She wonders if all the hearty bacon breakfasts have finally killed him, or if her mother has snapped and made it look like an accident, or something else. She hopes if he’s not dead, they’re flat broke and watching everything she stars in with putrid, green-eyed jealousy, furious that she was the one who got out of it all. Perhaps she’ll ask Zeus to take care of it, if they’re not. He never refuses her anything, showering her with gifts, his apologies for being absent equally as enjoyable and expensive, if not more, as their dates.

He loves her, she knows it. She’s a star, and she’s beautiful. What’s not to love?

Zeus’ love is all she needs to flourish in an industry intent on taking women down. Knowing he’s behind her, she strives for roles she’s certain directors would pass her up for, reaching new heights at every turn. Award seasons come and go, but regardless of any wins or losses, Beryl is on an upward trajectory. Things can only get better. 

And how glorious they are right now. Bright lights lining the red carpet, a crowd of screaming fans, photographers and journalists alike all vying for her attention. Her hair teased and hairsprayed beyond recognition, the envy of every hopeful trendsetter, wannabe fashionista and magazine-reading housewife across the nation. A Bob Mackie gown, custom and black and sparkling, and lips so glossy you could see your face in them - if you’re lucky enough to get that close. People say fame is fleeting, but they’re wrong. To Beryl, fame is eternal, intoxicating, and the very oxygen that sustains her being.

She ensures her picture has been taken from every possible angle, flaunting the hard work of so many talented people to its utmost, because who better to wear it all than her? And when the flashing of the cameras grows tiresome, she saunters towards the most prestigious reporter she can find, and graces them with her presence.

Everyone reacts accordingly these days, her fame lustre boosted by the confidence Zeus gives her. The surrounding crowd start to gasp and shout, and Beryl blows them kisses that she pretends are to soothe, but really intend only to rile up, to create further spectacle. The reporter smiles at her, honoured to have even a moment of her time.

“Beryl! Who are you wearing tonight?”

She lists every name, pouring in enough charm to end a world war. She probably could, just by asking the right people and ticking the right boxes. It’s a shame no one has utilised her gift for such noble reasons. All they have to do is ask.

More questions are asked, more and more of the same. They ask about her projects, about the premiere, about fellow actresses and musicians and models, anything for a tasty tidbit of a headline. Beryl is purposefully evasive, determined not to let some inkling of drama overshadow what she intends to be the bombshell of the night. Nothing, not even the premiere, or the other stars present, will have a bigger impact than this, and when the papers hit the shelves in the morning, it will be all anyone can talk about.

Finally, the moment comes - Beryl spots a TV cameraman, making the rounds to get decent coverage of the entire event. She beckons the man with a wink, whispering out of the side of her mouth “you’re not gonna wanna miss this.”

When he takes the bait, she resumes her conversation with the reporter. It must look natural, that’s important. Everything in Hollywood is artificial, planned or rehearsed or scripted in some way, but if there’s one thing the people hate, it’s being able to see which strings are pulled and when. In order to win them over, they have to foolishly believe it’s all authentic. 

Her many nominations are living proof that Beryl Grace can provide the authenticity the people crave.

It plays out perfectly. The reporter, desperate for a nugget of gossip to cling to, asks, “So, Beryl, is there a handsome date waiting for you tonight?”

She acts coy. “As a matter of fact, there is,” She answers, certain her smile is blinding and lovesick. “I can’t tell you all that much about him - we’re keeping our relationship private - but I can tell you that he’s successful, gorgeous and deeply in love, and…”

The timing must be perfect. All eyes on her. A million extras through the camera, waiting for the big moment.

“We are over the moon to announce that we’re expecting our first child together, this December.”

She preens, basking in the perfectly-executed moment. It’s so perfect. Everything Beryl has, she’s crafted with her own goddamn hands, and now she lives the perfect life, with the perfect man, the perfect career, and now, the perfect family. Eat your fucking heart out, George Grace. Choke on bacon grease and drown in the misery of your own making, knowing the daughter you pegged as an insolent bitch is the insolent bitch that made it out. Does life get better than this? And yet, it feels as though the only way is up. Higher, higher, higher still. 

The following morning, she receives confirmation that she did everything right. A pile of magazines on her doorstep all boast the same exclusive scoop, a resplendent Beryl Grace dressed to the nines, arms delicately cradling a barely-there bump, speaking of her baby joy and secret new romance. Every gossip show is discussing it, desperate to know who the father is, whether it will be a boy or a girl, how this might affect the darling actress’ career.

Short answer: it won’t. The very idea is offensive. This baby is proof, actual, living proof, that the King of the Gods chose Beryl. She will never be homely, and plain, and dull. She will never be subservient, not even to a child. She will never, ever , become her mother. 

A fate worse than death, truly.

-

“My love, are you here?”

Beryl exhales a mouthful of smoke. “Where else would I be?”

She feels like a beached whale. Looks like one, even. She’s spent practically the entirety of December quarantined in her home, so as not to be papped by bottom-feeding photographers looking to make a quick buck off a woman’s misfortune - that is, an unflattering angle of a pregnant starlet. She will re-emerge with dignity after the baby’s born, but not before a gruelling exercise regime and diet with a personal trainer, to ensure she looks the same, if not better, than before. But in the meantime, while the damn thing is still inside, she hides from the press. 

Zeus is such good company. He comes when he can, dotes, promises that things will be so good when the miserable process is over. As he enters, he snags the cigarette from her fingers to take a drag for himself, before handing it back.

“Feeling stifled?” He teases, settling onto the bed next to her.

She grumbles in his direction. “I want it out of me. If it’s not out in the next two days, I’m scheduling a C-section for Christmas Day. Wouldn’t that be something? Though I’d probably have to give them some kind of festive name, which sucks shit. Holly, or Noel. Not liking that at all. The press would call the baby a miracle, though. Good headline.”

“They’re a miracle already. Half god, half supermodel.”

“Oh, stop it… Maybe after the baby’s here…” She simpers. “Hey. You wouldn’t be able to help with that, would you?”

Every Hollywood actress talks about how much they love salads and exercise. Beryl herself does it constantly, when sad, lonely women buying magazines by the bucketload clamour to know how to look like her. They never will, but she feeds them the same drivel anyway, and tells them with a photoshoot and a beaming smile that they’ll grow to love it in time. No one does. It’s miserable. But a god, surely, has some kind of limitless power.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I could spend a hellish six weeks working myself literally to the bone, otherwise I can’t go back to work and my career tanks and I’m stuck with a squawking baby to become some sad replica of my fucking mother… or you could help me out, I’m back in the game in no time, and your little mistress is as sexy as the day you met her.” At Zeus’ expression, she huffs. “ You’re not my mistress Beryl, you’re- blah blah blah. My point is, do you really want to wait to have me again, or do the both of us a favour?”

She feels him shift beside her, and then he does this sigh that she hates more than anything in the world. That heavy, shouldered sigh, out through the mouth, everything deflating in one little sound. It’s a pitiful sound, especially from a man like him. It’s the worst sound in the world. It means no. 

“I can’t do that, Beryl. I can’t just- play around with things like that.”

Beryl folds her arms, stubbing out the cigarette into the bedside table. She’ll blame the housekeeper for the mark later, and demand a new one be taken out of her paycheck. “You mean you don’t want to. Why, scared your little wife will find out?”

Zeus turns to face her, quick sharp, a storm in his eyes. “ Don’t - mention her. Don’t speak of her. And for the love of Olympus don’t say her name. I dread to think what she would do to you… or her.”

And just like that, her annoyance fades. “You insist on calling it her. You don’t know it’s a girl. Could be a boy.”

“You’re right,” Zeus kisses her temple, “But I’ve always favoured daughters. And you, Beryl - you’re special. She’ll be a girl.”

She nestles into his side. “I’ve been doing my research, you know. I’ve got names picked for either eventuality. You’ll have to wait and see, though. You don’t get special privileges just for being the father.”

He laughs, deep and booming. “Not even for being a god?”

Beryl shakes her head. “Not when you’re the all-powerful immortal, yet I’m the one doing the heavy lifting. You’ll find out when the world finds out.”

-

It’s not destined to be a Christmas baby, after all. Beryl considers lying, for the sake of the headline, but ultimately decides against it. No child of hers should have to share a birthday with some bearded hippy who didn’t wear deodorant and died a virgin. No, her baby will be special. They will make waves, take the world by storm. They will be worthy of their parents, the child of a god and a star. 

Birth is not nearly as poetic as she’s imagined. There is no soft music, no deep connection with her body, her child, no musing on how she’s never been closer to her own mother than in this moment. She screams and swears violently, berating and abusing nurses until she’s suitably doped up. There’s nothing noble about feeling this pain, though when the magazines ask, she will proudly tell her story a different way, and how she bore through it like the women of old, spouting some bullshit about feminine strength.

The real feminine strength is that she neither asked her assistant to bring the old snuff box, where she keeps her personal stash, to the hospital, nor screamed out for Zeus to come to her side, with threats of invoking his wife. Both thoughts run through her mind throughout the entire hellish process, but she resists, gripping the edges of the bed, sweating, growling. 

Outside, though the hours have ticked over into the next day, it’s still dark and uncertain. A pine tree blocks any outside light from her room’s window, regardless, leaving only the harsh, clinical white of the hospital overheads. The privacy is welcome, at least, or so she thinks. It’s strange that, in a room full of doctors and nurses, in a room solely dedicated to the birth of her child, Beryl feels more alone than she ever has.

If Zeus disagrees with her name choice, on his own head be it. He’s the one that’s missing this moment.

The baby is a girl. December 22nd, 1987, weighing 8lbs 3oz, with almost no hair and the biggest, bluest eyes anyone has ever seen. All of the nurses coo as if they’ve never even seen a baby before, promising Beryl this girl is the most beautiful one they’ve ever seen. 

They’re not wrong. Thalia Grace is perfect. She will only know the finest things in life, and she will achieve greatness like her mother and father. She will be favoured by both worlds, human and god. She will be Beryl’s ticket to the immortal, to undying beauty, to unending fame.

-

1988.

Exhaustion barely touches the tip of the iceberg. How is anyone supposed to do this alone? Thalia’s cries are incessant, ear-splitting, and nothing Beryl does seems to soothe her. She refuses to settle, shifting and wailing in her arms, perfect face screwed up and red. She barely eats, barely sleeps, and while a baby screams into her ear from one side, her manager, agent and personal trainer scream in the other. The baby is ten days old , they tell her, clearly not invested enough to care that the baby has a name, so you should be starting on that regime now.

She wants to spit in each and every one of their faces. Sure, she will find time for the sixty minute run, the thirty minute HIIT routine and the thirty minute yoga practice, in between the hourly feedings, the changing, the crying, the vomiting, the sleeping. She will carve out the time and forgo whatever sleep or meal she was planning to fill that time with instead. Her body will ache and leak but, by god, it will shrink, and everyone will love her for it. And when it’s suitably shrunken, she will carve out even more time for the perfect photoshoot with the perfect baby. And when that’s done, she will hire a team of nannies, walk to the wine fridge, and stay there until she passes out. 

Motherhood is hard. Thalia doesn’t love her, or if she does, she’s unable to show it. Beryl wonders how in the hell her own mother managed this, again and again and again, with no money and a spirit as weak as hers. At least Beryl is strong enough to endure, and nowhere near as pathetic.

Or is she? Barb had a husband that, in some fucked up way, she could argue loved her. He may not have helped with the kids, and he may have barked demands on top of baby cries and aching bodies, but at the end of each day he was another adult in the house, a sort of reminder that Barb was still human, even as she gave up her identity to become a mother. What does Beryl have? A man who will never truly be hers, who hasn’t even visited his fucking daughter yet. 

His daugh- shit. She remembers laying Thalia down on the changing table, and then the phone ringing, and a terse conversation about the whole fitness regime and what time the personal chef would be arriving. Then, as per their demands, she’d gotten on the treadmill, walking and getting lost in her thoughts. Had she finished changing Thalia? Is she still…?

Beryl isn’t cut out for this. Those nannies are being hired tonight.

She rushes into the nursery, her heart thudding so loud it echoes through her head like some horrendous drumbeat, underscoring the dread and tension. When Thalia is somehow on the floor, dead or screeching or injured in some way, and Beryl is responsible for this demigod child’s wellbeing or lack thereof, what will Zeus do to her? Exactly how much is she at his mercy for the crime of being a bad mother by nature? 

This world - the mortal world - is not safe for Thalia. Mortals like Beryl make fatal mistakes. She needs to be with her people, where she roll off any surface and land in clouds, or the gentle arms of a nymph, and never feels the pain and terror of this world. 

There’s no crying in the nursery, and Beryl’s chest freezes up in horror for the several seconds it takes to barge the doors open and pray. But there is no baby crying on the changing table, nor on the floor. Instead, she’s cradled in her father’s arms, silent but happy, a tiny hand reaching out for his face.

“Little Thalia. She’s magnificent. Congratulations,” Zeus tells her, not tearing his eyes away from the bundle of blankets, as if nothing has happened.

Beryl snatches Thalia back, holding her close to her chest. She feels like she’s going to throw up. Her throat is tight, the heaviness of tears gathering behind her eyes, in the back of her mouth. Her breaths won’t go deep enough, and as Thalia settles into position against her, she lets the panicked, guilty tears roll down her face.

“She’s not safe here,” She whispers, her voice shaky. “You have to let us up there with you. It’s the only way - I can’t do it on my own. We need to be up there with you.”

Pity is her least favourite expression on Zeus’ face, and seemingly, the one she receives the most. He walks towards her and kisses the top of her head, placing one hand on her back, gently brushing Thalia’s sleeping face with the other. It could be like this all the time, she thinks, if only he would relent. A real family.

“I can’t do that,” He says, soft but firm. “You’re a mortal woman, Beryl, and she’s half. Neither of you belong on Olympus.”

She resists the urge to stamp her foot, if only because she’s holding Thalia. “So do whatever you have to do to fix that. Are you saying you’re not even powerful enough to do that? Look at what just happened! I took my eyes off her, I didn’t mean to, she was all alone- don’t you care about your daughter?”

His eyes darken, lightning flashing through them, but as soon as it appears it’s gone, and his anger seems like a figment of her imagination. “There are ancient laws, the consequences of which would be far, far worse for the two of you if I broke them than if things stay the way they are now. She must stay here. And - if it puts your mind at ease, my love, I already told you: I have always favoured daughters. Our girl is special in ways you may never understand. But believe me when I tell you, when your eyes leave her, mine are there. I’ve been watching over her all this time.”

With no free hands to wipe her tears, they roll right down into Beryl’s neck, cold and uncomfortable. She sniffs, trying to stop them, and fails. “You have?”

“She has a great destiny.”

“It isn’t fair, Zeus. You’ll be around to see it - around forever - and I won’t. Can’t you do that for me?”

He sighs. “I’m not making you immortal, Beryl.”

She persists. “But you could? You have the ability, right? You’re just choosing not to?”

“I’m not having this argument with you again.” Zeus folds his arms, like he’s done with the conversation. Like he’s the fucking authority here.

She sets Thalia down in her crib. “I didn’t realise this was an argument. I thought that, since I did something for you, like giving birth to your fucking magical destiny daughter , you might do something for me. But I see now that you obviously don’t love me, so. My mistake. If you’ll excuse me, I have a daughter to take care of. Alone. ”

Zeus doesn’t move, only huffs in mild frustration. “You don’t understand how difficult this is.”

“Well, bless your heart.” She looks him right in the eye. “Where I come from, that means fuck you. ”

-

1990.

This movie will be Beryl’s oscar. She knows it. It’s everything the Academy loves, heart-wrenching and emotional, a selfless character in a raw, real situation, and all from the actress they love to discount as flimsy and surface-level. She already knows what she’ll wear to the awards, too; shimmering midnight blue, dark plum lipstick, heavily shadowed eyes. She will be all anyone can talk about.

The housekeeper takes her coat as soon as she walks through the front door. Sure, she probably should’ve called Juanita ahead of time, to let her know how late things would run, but if the shit-for-brains could actually do her job, she would know that production was wrapping today, and so the entire team were going out for celebratory drinks. What was she supposed to do, as the lead, not join them? If she didn’t realise Beryl wouldn’t be home at her usual time, that’s her own stupid fault.

“Ms Grace!” Juanita’s eyes are wide, worried. “Your, uh-”

But before she can muster up a pathetic excuse for whatever she’s done wrong, Thalia bursts into the room, strong on her little toddler legs, waving a scribbled picture in her hand. “It’s daddy! He came here!”

Juanita blanches. “I’m not sure how he got in-”

Zeus smiles at her from the doorway, but it quickly drops as he looks her up and down. Beryl turns back to Juanita.

“You’re dismissed for tonight. Go home. Now.”

The girl all but scrambles out of the door.

Beryl crosses her arms. “I’m surprised she remembers you as daddy. How long has it been, huh? Three months? Four?”

He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off. “ I have duties, Beryl. Me fucking too! And I also have needs , but you don’t care about that at all, apparently.”

Thalia, oblivious to the energy in the room, barrels towards her, flinging her little body at Beryl’s legs in an example of her latest trick - what she thinks is a hug. She scoops her up, all too aware of the grubby fingers reaching for her Louboutins, and ruffles the tufts of blonde hair sticking up on her head. She looks just like her mommy. Lucky girl.

“Juice!” 

“You want some juice, baby?” She pointedly ignores Zeus watching her. It always feels like she’s being examined, like he’s mentally scoring every interaction they have. 

“You smell like juice!”

Beryl laughs. “ I do? No way!”

Thalia giggles, delighted by the attention. “Special juice!”

Zeus’ gaze hardens. He lifts Thalia out of her arms, throwing her up in the air to watch her squirm and squeal in excitement, and then sets her down with a kiss on the forehead. “Sweetheart, how about you go and play with your Barbies in your bedroom, yeah?”

Thalia stamps her foot. “No Barbie!” She declares, but runs off to play anyway. Beryl scoffs.

“She hates Barbie. You’d know that if you were ever around.”

He ignores her. “Let me look at you. Come here.”

She preens, gesturing to herself. “The pleasure’s all yours. Take it in while you can.”

Zeus stands close, so close they’re almost touching, his face stony and serious. She arches into him, leaning back until her neck is against his shoulder, her body pressing against his. Angry as she may be, nothing compares to the feeling of getting lost in him, the feeling of his lust overriding any other complicated emotion she can cause in him. Time moves slow as his hand trails upwards from her collarbone, his thumb resting under her chin and tilting her face towards him. His fingertip lingers over her bottom lip, pulling down. She prays a silent please that he’ll push all of this aside and take her, again, for his own.

When he releases her face from his grasp, he does it with displeased snort. “Special juice, huh?”

She rolls her eyes. “Get off my back. Is it a crime to have a little bit of red after a long shoot?”

“Your pupils are the size of dinner plates, Beryl. It was obviously more than a little bit of red wine.”

“Geez Louise, when did you get so fucking boring? I’m winning an Oscar for that project, I deserved to let loose.” She slips off her heels, although as soon as she does, it feels like a mistake. There’s already so much separating them, and the height advantage is sorely missed as soon as it’s gone. 

Zeus’ voice is low, but no less serious. “Maybe not when you’re coming home to a fucking toddler. How often do you do this? Watching her while you’re drunk and high?”

The fucking audacity of him.

“Oh, like you’re the perfect parent?” She explodes, “You missed her birthday - your daughter is two years old by the way, congratulations - her first steps, her first word, but god fucking forbid I take one night to myself so I don’t end up like my fucking mother! Anyway, what happened to I watch her when you can’t , huh?”

Thunder rumbles outside - probably some pathetic intimidating technique. Beryl isn’t scared; he’s going to have to work much harder than that to beat her into submission.

He slams his hand down on the counter beside him, rattling a vase onto the floor. “From what I’ve seen, it’s more than one night .”

“Oh, so you are watching! So if anything were to happen, which it hasn’t , you’d be there to save the day!”

“You’re a trainwreck, Beryl.”

She laughs, but the sound that comes out isn’t silvery and light - it’s harsh, mirthless, mocking. “You used to love that about me. Do you have any idea how many men out there would kill their own mothers just for the chance to fuck me? I’m Beryl fucking Grace. I’m a star. What makes you so special?”

Her arms hug across her body tightly, her tongue sharp, her gaze unwavering. She thinks the message can’t be clear enough : fight for me. Don’t lose me over something so stupid. Don’t let this be the end of us.

But he says nothing, for too long. He says nothing, and the drugs and the drink make her desperate, and so she keeps talking.

“What will it take? If I give you sobriety, what will you give me? If I become the perfect little mom, what do I get in return? Eternal beauty? Eternal youth?”

He’s like a statue, unmoving, unable to be reasoned with. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“I gave you a daughter! Isn’t that - doesn’t that mean something?! ”

The final blow is delivered so calmly, so succinctly, that it cuts all the way deeper. “You think you’re the first? You think you’ll be the last?”

And all of a sudden she can’t see him, because the tears welling in her eyes have mercifully blurred him out. “You bastard. You selfish pig. You f-”

A flash of light, and he disappears. Fucking typical. The asshole won’t even give her the satisfaction of reaching the crescendo of her insults. After everything they’ve been through.

There’s a flask in her purse. Beryl slides down to the floor, her thin dress no protection against the cold linoleum of the kitchen floor, and hugs her knees. She empties the flask.

The media will report that actress Beryl Grace, 31, was attacked by an unknown assailant in her home in Los Angeles, California. Thankfully no one was hurt, they will say, though some furniture was smashed and damaged, and police were called to the scene after sounds of a disturbance were heard. Grace and her young daughter Thalia, 2, have since relocated to a new property in the city, citing a desire to feel safe after such an ordeal.

Neighbours will recall hearing a bloodcurdling scream, the kind that strikes dread and fear in hearts. They will describe how they called for a wellness check, concerned that someone was hurting Ms Grace, or that she was hurting herself.

No one will report that her sobs and screams continued well into the night, well past her throat silencing her altogether, well past the emptying of wine bottles and chainsmoked cigarettes. No one will know the story was fabricated to explain the circumstances in which she was found. 

A fucking trainwreck.

-

She isn’t even nominated for the Oscar. It feels like Zeus is punishing her.

-

1991.

Her manager suggests a stint in rehab, which her team will cover up as a vacation outside of the spotlight for some much needed time with her daughter, away from the stresses of Hollywood.

Beryl suggests he find a new job.

-

1993.

She’s already made up her mind. Whatever happens tonight, it will be spectacular. Beryl will be cemented in Hollywood history forever, be it with her name in lights or her blood smeared on the asphalt. One way or another, she will make a mark that can never be erased. 

It’s simple, elegant in its simplicity, really. Tonight, she will attend the Academy Awards as a vision in white, all gleaming pearls and ostrich feathers and delicate fabrics. She will wow every journalist, every photographer, every big-shot director who did or didn’t consider her for their winning creations. She will smile, and be gracious, and make people laugh.

The evening will go one of two ways. The first: she will win the Oscar for Best Actress. She will gasp with the appropriate shock, and dab away a tear or two before delivering her carefully rehearsed speech, which will come across as eloquent but unplanned. She will be photographed with her beautiful new award, beaming. Critics will rave about her performance, her look, how she continues to shock and inspire.

The second: someone else will win. She will cheer and clap with a sincere smile, offering a heartfelt congratulations and praising the winner to anyone who will listen. She will attend the afterparty in a scaled-back version of her awards outfit - still white, still feathered, still pearls, but shorter, tighter, more daring. She will be the life of the party, laughing and dancing and flirting, refusing no drink, no pill, no powder. And when the celebrity decadence reaches its peak, when everyone is at the height of their enjoyment, she will throw herself off the balcony. People will speculate for years to come; was it an accident? Was it purposeful? But the one thing they will agree on, as the bright red blood contrasts the pure white of her dress, is that Beryl Grace was a tragically beautiful corpse.

Her face is ghostly pale in the bathroom mirror - hopefully not a harrowing glimpse of what is to come. Carefully, with one long nail, she scoops out the powder from her heart-shaped mirror case and inhales sharply, huffing out a quick breath and examining herself for traces. All good. She looks exquisite.

“Tonight’s the night,” She tells herself, and she isn’t quite sure what she means. She heads out to take her seat, waiting for the verdict.

The hosts are all smiles, and not a wrinkle in sight. Beryl makes a mental note, if she wins, to ask about their injectors. She’s thirty four years old, and if she’s going to make it to thirty five, she’s going to do so with the best Botox consultant in the entire country.

“The nominees for best performance by an actress in a leading role are…”

Each and every one of the nominees deserves it. But god fucking dammit, Beryl deserves it more. She waves and smiles as they call her name for the nomination. Gracious, she reminds herself. A class act, even if they know otherwise.

“And the winner is…”

Then they make eye-contact. A face she hasn’t seen in a little over three years, as handsome as the day he left, if not more. Beard neatly trimmed, hair perfectly slicked back, eyes sparkling in that special way that had attracted her to him in the first. He’s sitting alone, dressed all in white, looking at her as if there’s no one else in the room.

She almost misses the announcement.

“Beryl Grace in Dreamscapes!”

Gasps. Appropriately delighted and shocked. Dabs away a tear, and receives the hugs and congratulations of the people sitting around her. Makes her way to the stage, and is handed the Oscar. Over a thousand famous faces staring at her, waiting for the speech. It’s gone. It’s gone, because he’s looking at her.

“I had a whole- I had a whole speech planned out, and you were all going to be so impressed at how well-spoken I was, how thoughtful I was. And it’s just… poof. What a dunce.” 

She laughs, and they all laugh with her. “Working on this movie was such a dream. An amazing talented cast, the writers, the hair and makeup team, I mean- look at what they had to work with! I couldn’t have asked for a better experience. And it’s taught me so much. I’m a nothing- I’m a nobody, from nowhere. This award… It's like proof, almost. That I deserve love. That I’m worthy of it.” 

She holds it up high, marvelling at how it gleams, how it looks in her hands. “Look, Thalia! Look what Mommy has!” Everyone laughs, hearts warmed. “It’s past her bedtime, but she’ll see this tomorrow. This is a big deal, okay? Really, I have her to thank the most. She’s my little muse - aren’t you, gorgeous! Mommy loves you so much, alright? Thank you, everybody.”

The speech is well-received, she’s sure, but she doesn’t stop to bask in it. There’s a familiar face watching her, expression reserved but proud, and it’s calling to her so strong it feels magnetic, like a pull she can’t escape. If anything, she just has to show him what he’s been missing all this time. Like fucking an Oscar winner.

“Wow. Just wow.”

“Just wow? That’s all you have to say?” She raises an eyebrow, silently issuing a challenge.

He takes the bait as though he was born to, like it pleases him more than anything in the world could. “You look exquisite, Miss Grace. You must feel on top of the world tonight.”

It just slips out. “I can think of something else I’d rather be on top of.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” He reaches for her hand, pulling it to his lips, kissing it in a way that sends shockwaves through her entire body.

He looks different. She would put it down to time, but can time change an immortal? Perhaps not. Perhaps he just moves with the times - his hair is shorter, his beard neater. The twinkle in his eyes is more intense. All of that can, if she wants, be attributed to the knowledge that he would see her that night. She had manifested this. She had threatened the universe: reward me, or lose me. And she had been rewarded.

She’s on top of the world and somehow, feels more vulnerable than ever. She eyes him. “Did you know?”

A thousand potential questions lie within her three words. Whether or not he can read her mind, he can choose what to answer. Beryl isn’t sure herself what she’s asking. Did you know I would win? Did you know what I was going to do if I didn’t? Did you know I was crazy without you?

For a few moments, he’s terrifyingly silent. How is it possible that a room filled with so many people feels so empty, so quiet, so desolate? 

Then he gives her the look that means everything is going to be alright again. “I know you,” He says, and dips her into the longest, lowest kiss of her life.

-

They’re photographed, of course. Some gossip rags call him a mogul. Others opt for tycoon. It’s funny, really - they’re all enchanted by Beryl’s mystery man, and certain they know things about him, and yet devoid of any actual information. It works incredibly well in her favour, to tell the truth. With nothing credible to write about him, everything is about her instead.

Everything is about her anyway, the night of the Academy Awards. They seem to be attempting to set a record for how many orgasms one woman can have in a night, and giving it a damn good effort, in any case. By the time her mind comes back to earth, catching up to her body, she’s completely spent, resting against his bare chest. They’re both sticky with sweat, lips swollen and flushed with the post-lovemaking glow. Beryl aches in the best way - her legs are still trembling. Next to her, he’s already propped up, a cigar hanging out of his mouth, leisurely stretching.

“I knew you’d come back,” She breathes. “You and me, we’re special. Hey- Zeus, you’re getting ash everywhere!”

He flicks it off the sheets, unbothered. “Call me Jupiter.”

“What? Why?”

“Why is your middle name Darlene?”

She smacks his chest gently with one hand. “I never told you that. How did you know that?”

“I know many things, doll.”

“Fine,” She shrugs. “ Jupiter. You missed me, huh?”

Irritatingly, before he can launch into a verbose declaration of love, and just how much he missed her, there’s a tapping at the bedroom door. Beryl sits up, making no attempt to get out of the bed, and secures the duvet enough to protect her modesty - or what’s left of it.  A moment later, Thalia shuffles into the room, her eyes wide and frightened, her blanket trailing behind her.

“Bad dream,” The little girl says.

Beryl tries her best to sound caring. “Aw, you had another nightmare?”

Thalia nods timidly. Jupiter looks at his daughter, then back at her.

“She gets nightmares?” He asks, brow creased with concern.

Beryl shakes her head. “No. She just says that when she’s being difficult. She heard your voice and wanted to come in here and see what’s going on.” She tells him in a low voice. “You coming in, honey?”

Thalia walks a little further into the bedroom, clutching the blanket tightly in her fist. “Police came again?”

Both Beryl and Ze- Jupiter look at each other, perplexed. Noticing their confusion, Thalia points to the nightstand, where a pair of… oh. Jupiter had obviously forgotten to tuck the pink fluffy handcuffs back into the drawer after she’d suggested spicing things up.

Well. Isn’t this mortifying? Still, there are bigger issues to tackle. Her daughter appears to think cops use pink fluffy handcuffs on their criminals. If only. Being arrested would be way more fun - and that’s saying something.

“No, no, no!” She placates quickly. “Those are special toys for Mommy and Daddy. No police here!”

Jupiter frowns. “Why’d she say again? ”

Beryl winces awkwardly. “Eh… silly little DUIs here and there. That’s what a private chauffeur is for, I learned my lesson eventually. Third time’s the charm! Besides, there’s nothing to worry about. Thalia loved Officer Bradbury, didn’t you, honey? He was playing all kinds of silly games with you!”

Thalia nods uncomfortably. “He said I could call if there was ever a problem.”

“Very nice of him,” Beryl says lightly, but it does nothing to dissipate the tension in Jupiter, his muscles stiffening, frown deepening into an angry grimace.

“She was with you when it happened? You took a six year old out in the car with you, drunk?”

He pushes her off him, eyes blazing. She folds her arms. “Not all of the times, Jesus! Twice. And for your information, she wasn’t six yet, and I wasn’t drunk.”

“So she was even younger, and you were high. You realise this doesn’t help your case at all, right?”

Beryl scoffs. “What are you, my defence lawyer? Oh wait, you can’t be, because he got me off and you didn’t even know it happened! Big whoop, Jupiter! I paid a couple fines, sat at the back of a classroom for a few hours and gave up my licence for a while. And look at us!” She gestures towards Thalia with an open palm. “We’re fine! Aren’t we, Thalia?”

“Yeah,” Thalia agrees. She crawls onto the end of the bed, sitting cross-legged.

Jupiter thumps his fist on the nightstand, rattling the handcuffs onto the floor. “You need to straighten out. You put both of your lives in danger for what, a fucking tabloid?”

He turns to Thalia, voice and expression suddenly much gentler. “Sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to swear.” Then he looks back at Beryl, firm once again. “You need to cut that shit out.”

There are a million insults she wants to hurl at him, a million justifications for her behaviour. Beryl is a grown fucking woman, more than capable of making her own decisions, controlling her own life, and getting into any kind of trouble that she pleases. There isn’t a single man in the entire world who can tell her what to do. Not George Grace, not Zeus or Jupiter, no one.

“God, you sound like my fucking manager. None of you get it, alright? People like me, stars, who function on a different level than others - we need this stuff. It brings out everything I got, it makes me shine. It makes me win Academy Awards.”

Her passionate rant, evidently, falls on deaf ears. “You should listen to your manager.”

“Sure, because he’s a man, like you. And men always know what’s best.”

Jupiter glowers. “It’s not about that and you know it. You would be better, not worse , without it.”

“Y’all know nothing about me! ” She explodes.

And then the shame. The fucking shame. It’s been years since she left Dallas - seventeen years, to be exact. Ever since then, she’s worked day in, day out, to rid herself of the accent that linked her to her home state. Little by little, with concentrated effort, she had succeeded. There’s no more twang, no more sweet sharpness, not even a hint of hometown slang. She sounds like a Hollywood moviestar, because she is one. And for it all to come rushing back, to slip in right when she feels her lowest, when she should be on cloud nine from the best night of her life…

Her face crumples, and she makes no attempt to swallow back her tears. Thalia climbs across the bed, settling in her lap and wrapping her arms around her in a well-meaning cuddle, murmuring inaudible words of comfort. A desperate anxiety seizes her chest, through her tears, and she starts begging.

“I’ll be better, I will, I’ll fix this Jupiter, I promise. I won’t do it again, I won’t let you down, I’ll be worthy, I swear I will!”

If she doesn’t shape up, she’s going to lose him all over again. And god, she only just got him back after so long, so many lonely years. She can’t lose him again. She’ll die without him. He’s right here between her fingers and if he slips away, it’s all just more proof that girls like her don’t deserve nice things. 

Beryl deserves nice things. She does. And she’ll give them all up if it means she can keep him.

-

“Alright, cut! We’re gonna reset the cameras, take five.”

Beryl strolls off set immediately, making a beeline for one of the girls at the service table. She looks young, maybe mid-twenties, but if she’s hoping to sleep her way into a better position in the TV industry, she has little hope of that. She’s pretty in a plain Jane sort of way, not quite a bombshell or a breathtaking beauty by any means. Just passable, like any other face in the crowd. She’ll be a runner and a PA for the rest of her life, no doubt.

“Hello, girl?” She says, then squints at her named lanyard when she turns. “Meredith, hi. You do subtlety, right?”

Meredith removes her headset. “I sure do. I work among the stars, it’s part of the job description. What can I do for you?”

“ Great, ” Beryl doesn’t even pretend to be interested, “I need you to run out and grab me a pregnancy test. We’ve got a five minute reset, so chop chop.”

The girl - Meredith - does a good job at hiding her surprise, if she feels any. “The… nearest store is eight minutes away.”

“Well I guess you’ll have to walk fast, huh?”

She’s not sure - she suspects, and the whole not knowing is driving her a little bit nuts. Back when she was partying a lot heavier, it wasn’t unusual for her whole… system, to get out of whack. The regular cycle business had never bothered her all that much anyway, and it had been other symptoms - mainly the vomiting and oddly, the sweating - that had pointed towards her expecting Thalia. 

But, since connecting with Jupiter again, it’s been nearly five months since she’s touched anything other than alcohol, and even the drinks are on more of a back burner these days. A Halloween without party favours… now that’s going to be interesting. He likes her better when she tries hard, when she’s wowing the world with her stardom by day and spending time with her family by night. He keeps her in line, and he helps her with Thalia, and he’s around so much more now.

She misses it all, of course - but he’s electric, and whenever she feels him against her neck, his hot breath, his wandering hands, she forgets just how much she wants to give in, and gives herself up to him instead.

It’s possible they may have gotten a little careless. And without anything interfering, everything had mostly run like clockwork, until recently.

Meredith returns four minutes later, a mildly impressive feat. Without a word, she hands over a bag, entirely opaque to avoid anyone seeing inside, and nods.

“Hope you get the result you want,” She says.

Huh. That’s actually kinda smart. The kid deserves more credit than Beryl initially gave her, perhaps.

She crosses the set as quickly as she can, heading towards her trailer. “I’m going to go smoke!”

The director gets up from his chair, frustrated. “What the hell, Beryl?! We’re about to start again - you’ve had five minutes to smoke!”

She rolls her eyes, not that he can see her. “Take it out of my paycheck if you must!”

It’s only two minutes, for crying out loud. It’s only two minutes, and then back on set. It’s only two minutes, then two more hours shooting.

Two minutes, two hours, two lines.

-

1994.

It’s a strangely domestic scene that Beryl walks in on, shaking off her umbrella by the front door. Despite getting caught in the May showers, her mood isn’t dampened in the slightest. She can hear the radio playing - Baby I Love Your Way blasting from the kitchen, Thalia singing along and fumbling the words, Jupiter singing with her. She’s only seven, but Thalia’s voice is beautiful to listen to; she’ll be a famous singer someday, and continue her mom’s star legacy. She could easily make it big, sounding like that.

As she rounds the corner, Jupiter’s eyes light up. “Ah, there she is! Thalia!”

Thalia grins. “Happy birthday!” She shouts, throwing her arms up in the air.

Almost the entire living room is filled with helium balloons, every surface decorated and scattered with special confetti. She gasps, rushing over to kiss both of their temples, even if her rushing is more of a fast waddle, these days.

“And look what we got you! Daddy, show her!”

Jupiter opens the fridge, proudly brandishing a two-tiered cake when he emerges.

“You didn’t. ”

“We did!” Thalia claps. “Can we just have the cake now?”

Jupiter shakes his head fondly, calm but still strict. “Dinner first, you know the rules. Hey, what’s that?”

He eyes in the bottle in Beryl’s hand, that she’d forgotten she was even holding. Glancing down at it herself, she blinks for a moment and then laughs, baby brain confusing her for a brief moment.

“Oh, come on, look at me,” She jokes, gesturing at her pregnant belly. “It’s red wine for the pasta sauce, you moron. I’ve been thinking about it all day , no kidding. You know I haven’t eaten pasta since I was pregnant with Thalia?”

Jupiter looks at her, both amused and baffled, as he takes the wine to add to the simmering pot. “Why not?”

She snorts. “It’s a carb. Men,” She directs at Thalia, “They have no idea, right?”

The look on Thalia’s face suggests she has no idea either, but she nods, going along with it anyway. 

“God. Pasta and cake. Nobody tell my nutritionist, I beg. ”

Jupiter rolls his eyes in good humour. “I can assure you, that won’t happen.”

He dips her almost to the floor and kisses her, holding her there as though she weighs nothing. Ah, self delusion is a beautiful thing. That and god-like strength, of course.

“Happy birthday,” He breathes against her lips, “Thirty five, eh?”

She kisses him back, and he steadies her against the counter. “Ugh, don’t. Forty feels closer than ever.”

“My heart bleeds for you,” Jupiter teases. “Wanna know how old I am?”

“I would, actually. I think that would help.”

“I can’t count that high, sorry to disappoint. I only have ten fingers and ten toes.” He laughs heartily. 

She smacks his chest. “Oh, so you’re twenty? Fair enough, I’ll be twenty too.”

Jupiter grins. “You’re older than me, then.”

“Shut up!”

It’s the perfect evening. Thalia goes to bed without fuss, well-trained by her father, and though at this point in her pregnancy, most activities are too awkward or too tiring to be any fun, Jupiter doesn’t withhold an ounce of his affection, turning the music down low, dancing with her, and peppering her with kisses. She hopes this moment never has to end. It feels too good to be true.

So of course - naturally - it is.

“Beryl, I… I have to talk to you about something important. I don’t wanna ruin your birthday, but-”

She cuts him off, glancing at her watch and shrugging. “It’s after midnight, I’m already thirty five - go ahead and ruin my life.”

Jupiter doesn’t laugh, going back to his usual stoic, serious self. “I mean it. My… my wife isn’t happy with this.”

By this he means everything. Beryl, the baby, Thalia, their family. She’s a jealous cow.

Beryl takes his hand, patting it in a comforting rhythm. “Please, don’t worry about it. You’re not the first guy whose wife hates me and wants me dead, believe me. I can handle it.”

Jupiter sighs. “Juno is different to what you might be used to. She could be very dangerous to all three of you if you’re not careful. If-”

He freezes, head whipping around suddenly. Beryl follows his eyeline, spotting Thalia in the living room doorway, dressed in her pyjamas, listening to them.

“ Thalia. Bed. Now. ” He commands, his voice stern. 

She scurries away at lightning speed.

“Listen,” He resumes, serious as ever, “The baby will be born a boy. You need to call him Jason.”

At that, she folds her arms across her chest, affronted. “What? No! I already have my name picked out, I’m calling him Marlon. Like Marlon Brando, right? He is delicious. My son is going to be even more handsome than he is, even more of a powerhouse.”

“No,” Jupiter says firmly, “It isn’t up for discussion. You must call him Jason. Jason was her favourite hero, she always had a soft spot for him. I dread to think what she’ll do to him without that barrier of protection.”

Beryl huffs. “I don’t want to talk about this. You can protect us! You’re a god, for crying out loud! Take us to Olympus! Make us immortal! Do something for your family!”

He shakes his head, frustrated. “I’m not giving you the choice, Beryl. We’re talking about it. You know I can’t do any of those things. If you want your son to survive, you’re going to listen to me and do as I say.”

After a moment of thought, she pouts. “I guess Jason is a handsome name too. It doesn’t have the same ring to it as Marlon, but… if you insist, I guess I’ll try and get used to it.”

“You’d better. For his sake.”

-

This time, he’s there for the birth. July 1st, 1994, weighing 9lbs 1oz, Jason Grace arrives, and Jupiter holds her hand through it all. He’s there for the 3am feedings, the spit-up, the explosive baby changes. He’s there when she cries all the time for no reason, feeling like an insane person trapped in a wreck of a body. He’s there taking Thalia to school so she can nurse the baby and fall asleep, and he’s there to put Jason in his crib when she’s so exhausted she’s forgotten he’s in her lap.

He’s there when Thalia keeps claiming to get nightmares of scary women and horrible monsters.  He’s there when Beryl has a few nightmares of her own.

She has a horrible feeling he’s not going to be there for much longer.

-

“Can I go trick-or-treating yet?” Thalia asks.

She’s dressed up as Marilyn Manson, because apparently Beryl has the weirdest seven year old on the planet, and no amount of persuading to pick a different costume had worked. She absolutely detests the man, but Thalia adores the music and wouldn’t have her costume be anything else. Being a new mother all over again, Beryl isn’t about to waste precious energy forcing her into something else.

“When Daddy gets here.” She replies shortly, tired of the constant questions, the whining. She has a four month old in her arms, and stupidly agreed to give the nanny a night off, so now she’s stuck here until Jupiter takes Thalia out.

Jason fusses in her arms, his face growing the telltale red shade that means he’s going to scream any minute. Beryl growls under her breath, trying to shift his weight a little from her dead arm. The movement is the final trigger, and he bursts into tears. Thalia covers her ears with her hands.

“He’s crying again,” She complains, drawing out her vowels in that grating, child-like way.

Beryl shoots her a glare. “Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed. Thank you for pointing that out.”

“You’re mean.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Can I go yet?”

She sighs, exasperated. “How many times do I have to tell you? Wait for your dad!”

Jason keeps crying. 4pm turns into 5pm. Jason cries louder. 5pm turns into 6pm. Thalia sits on the floor next to the welcome mat. 6pm turns into 7pm. Beryl puts Jason down, still screaming, and shuts the door in hopes of quieting the noise a little. 7pm turns into 8pm. She pours herself a drink, then another. 8pm turns into 9pm. She sends Thalia to bed. 

She pours another drink.

-

1995.

The baby needs feeding. Jason- the baby. The baby needs feeding. He needs a bottle. The bottles are… somewhere. Beryl has to scoop something and then there’s warm water and she has to make the bottle. She has to- fuck.

She should- wine. Finish the wine, feed the baby. And then go outside and show everyone how skinny she is now. The magazines call it heroin chic . Thin and dark circles and pointy lines. Beryl is thin, exhausted, and not on heroin right now but there’s always time for that later. After the wine. When she’s not so drunk anymore. She should take off her top and show them her bones, show them how good she looks now.

Baby. Feed the baby. Make the bottle for Jason.

She stumbles into the kitchen and shakes the bottle, watching the formula dissolve into the water. Fucking crazy how it makes milk just like that. The dissipation makes her dizzy, but she keeps watching.

“Jason, I have the- your bottle!” She calls out, and then shrugs. “Okay, I’ll come to you.”

Nursery, he’s in the nursery. Through the corridor and - ouch, that’s the doorframe - into the door and woah, don’t fall -

As she barrels into the room, the most beautiful woman she’s ever seen stares at her. Tall, statuesque, with warm amber eyes and long chocolate brown hair, neatly falling around her shoulders. She’s dressed simply but prettily, radiating the kind of beauty that’s intimidating, sheerly because it feels innate and indestructible. The kind of beauty age won’t touch, makeup can’t reverse, showiness will never upstage. In her arms, Jason is quiet and peaceful.

“You must be Beryl,” She says, her voice like velvet. “I’d shake your hand, but…” She gives Jason a little squeeze.

Beryl is suddenly very, very afraid. She begins to back away towards the door, only freezing in place when she hears the unmistakable sound of it locking behind her. The woman offers no indication that it was her doing, her expression serene and unchanging, but it’s all the more terrifying. Her mouth is dry. The woman’s gaze won’t leave her.

This is Juno.

“You- You have to call off your beasts!” She slurs, summoning as much bravery as she can gather.

Juno eyes her thoughtfully. “My beasts?”

“Those things that keep coming after me and Thalia. You ha- you have to stop. She’s a lid- little girl.”

“They’re not my beasts,” Juno says, and then laughs, “And they’re not after you. A mere mortal? It’s the godly blood they want. You’re nothing.”

She pauses. “My husband took a liking to you.”

Beryl’s going to die here. “Not a wo- no worry- don’t worry about it. I’ve not seen him in agesss. ”

“I know. I know everything.” Juno is terrifyingly calm. “You see, Beryl, none of this was ever a secret. I knew it all. And the thing is, you can’t just sleep with someone’s husband without them knowing vows have been broken. Every action, both good and bad, has consequences. Do you understand?” She affectionately pinched Jason’s cheek, as though a threat hadn’t just been blatantly called out. “Isn’t he a dear? Such a beautiful baby. Jason was a wonderful hero. Technically a legacy, but a mortal by all accounts, in my opinion. So hardworking. He made his mistakes, of course, as your kind all do, but he was deserving of his greatness. Let us hope he does not commit the same treacheries, hmm?”

She tries to calm her breathing, to slow it before it becomes full-blown hyperventilation. “I have to- he’s- the bottle-”

Juno blinks, impassive. “You are alive because I allow it. Your daughter is alive because I allow it. Jason is alive because I allow it. Do not, ever , forget that.

She regards Beryl with an amused, almost pitying look. “You used to be quite beautiful. How the mighty fall.”

-

He will never be safe. 

Give up. Give in. 

-

This is a fool’s game. Make the right choice. Fear the consequences.

-

Sonoma Valley. The Wolf House.

Surrender him.

-

1996.

“Thalia, go and get the picnic basket from the car.”

The little girl groans, dragging her heels against the grass. “It’s all the way back there! Do I hav-”

“Do as you’re told.”

Beryl’s voice is firm, much firmer than she feels, but there’s still a wavering quality to her words that thankfully, at eight years old, Thalia is not quite perceptive enough to pick up on. She huffs an exaggerated sigh and begins to trail back to where they’d parked, slowly turning out of sight. Before she moves, she closes her eyes and whispers to the clouded sky please, let her forgive me. 

Next to her, Jason runs in a circle, his little legs all wobbly. She stops him, holding him by the chin to take a good look at his sweet toddler face. Marlon would’ve suited him just as well, she thinks, but Jason was the right choice. He has the biggest, bluest eyes, the gentlest features, marked only by the little scar on his lip. She doesn’t remember him doing that, but it does little to affect his sweet good looks. Her precious boy. Her darling son.

Blinking up at her, he blows raspberries, spit bubbling at his lips. She wipes it with her sleeve, then uses the other to dab at her eyes. She has to be strong. She will be strong. And when all else fails, she will fall back on the liquid courage in her purse.

In fact, now is as good a time as any. She unscrews the lid of the little bottle and empties it quickly, the burn in the back of her throat not unlike the one pricking at her eyes. 

“I go here!” Jason says brightly, grabbing her hand to pull her forwards. “We go together!”

The lump in her throat is insurmountable, but she manages a cheerful sounding, “Okay, sweetheart, we’ll go together,” and lets her little boy lead her.

There’s no way he knows where he’s going - surely he can’t. But after a minute of exploring, running as fast as his toddler legs can, it looms into view. A tall building, ancient, preceded by grey stone steps. Just looking at it sends a chill running down Beryl’s spine, dread into the centre of her heart.

“ This is the place… ” She whispers. “This is the place, isn’t it? This is what you asked of me?”

Jason looks up at her, confused. “Who’s there, mama?”

Overhead, the sky darkens. The lightning must be far off, far enough to be unseen, but the thunder crackles and booms, rolling right over them. Jason’s eyes go wide, and he clings to her leg, trying to hide. Beryl kneels down in front of her son, and as soon as she’s face-level with him - her sweet boy - the dam shatters, and her tears flow unrestrained. In a moment of madness, she finds herself laughing.

“Never fear a storm, Jason, it's your father saying that he loves you.” She promises earnestly, stroking his blonde hair. It’s still so soft, downy, like a little baby’s. How is this the right thing to do? He’s only a baby still. Her baby. Still soft, still warm, still scared of loud noises and finding comfort only in his mom.

Beryl knows she’s a terrible mother, but she loves her children. 

“Juno!” She calls out to the sky, her voice thick and shaking. “I’ve done what you have asked! This is the place you tortured me with!”

Jason is frightened, cold. He’s so little still.

“My son, remember I always love you too. This is for the best, my cherub. It’s the only way. It’s the only-”

At first she thinks it’s lighting, a blinding flash obscuring all else, as all-encompassing as it is fleeting. But when her eyes adjust, he’s gone.

Jason is gone.

Beryl throws herself onto the steps, her cries turning to wails of agony. “ Bring him back, you monster! You took him away! He’s my son! My boy, my sweet- bring him back! You can’t- you can’t!”

Everything hurts. Every breath is excruciating, her sobs so painful she finds herself heaving, choking, gagging on herself. The muscles in her face twist in grief and anguish, and she feels ugly, broken, tortured. The gods are cruel and merciless, they no know pain like human pain, no suffering like human suffering. Rain pelts down on her, soaking through to the skin, but Beryl only pounds her fists on the stone until they’re bleeding and bruised, and then some.

“ Mom! ” Thalia yells. The picnic basket lies abandoned on the ground six feet behind her, her clothes and hair plastered to her form from the sudden downpour. “ Where’s Jason? ”

Jason, her son, her beautiful boy. Just gone.

“He’s as good as dead! She’s g- she’s going to kill him!”

“ What? What are you talking about? Where is he?”

Beryl pounds her fists again, watching as her blood mixes with the rain, and then washes away without a trace. “He’s gone! ”

Thalia’s face is wild in the storm, her eyes flaming, horrified. She looks older than her eight years, stronger than a child should be. “ Then we have to find him! Are you crazy? You lost him! We have to find him! We have to- ”

And then her expression turns cold and hard, and she looks like her father. It’s a look Beryl has grown to hate over the years, the look Zeus always gave her - you’re not worth this. I’m giving up on you. Thalia doesn’t even bother to finish her sentence, instead tearing off through the surrounding woodland, squinting in a desperate attempt to get a glimpse of her brother.

Beryl wants to tell her the truth - she’s never going to see that sweet boy again, he’s gone forever and it’s all her fault, Juno, and she wants you dead too. She wants to spill everything on these infernal stones, she wants to get up and burn down every single fucking tree in this area until she finds her baby boy and brings him home safe, forever. 

But all she does is wails, and pounds her fists against the stone.

-

“We’re looking into your son’s disappearance, as you know. We need to ask you some questions regarding the events leading up to it, is that okay?”

“That’s fine.”

“Can you confirm your whereabouts on this particular day? What were you doing?”

“We were going for a picnic in Sonoma.”

“And when you say we?”

“Myself, my daughter Thalia and my son.”

“Your daughter placed the call. It’s highly unusual for a child of her age. She wasn’t with you and Jason?”

“She was getting the picnic basket from the car, I was laying out the blanket. Jason is a well-behaved boy, he never runs off, never strays too far. Somebody took him.”

“Calm down, Miss Grace. You claim someone took him? Did you see anybody? Any witnesses around?”

“No, officer. We always try to find secluded places for family time, I don’t want paparazzi to follow my children the way they follow me. I’m worried some crazed stalker may have taken him, I didn’t see anybody, my back was turned, he’s such a good boy he never runs off, I swear he’s always so golden-”

“Miss Grace, please remain calm. You looked for him?”

“Yes, Thalia and I both.”

“Your daughter claims you didn’t look at all. Miss Grace, were you drinking alcohol at all during the day in question?”

“No, officer. I did look for him. Thalia isn’t handling this very well, she misses her brother a lot and resents me. Nobody feels worse about me turning my back than I do.”

“Miss Grace, we’ll be in touch. Thank you for your cooperation with the investigation. I’ll have another officer see you out.”

-

1997.

“Beryl, is there anything you’d like to say?”

When she watches the footage back, Beryl will be pleasantly surprised. She feels absolutely rotten, goosebumps against her skin, her thin black dress doing nothing to protect her against the harsh winter weather. Hell only knows why these press morons decided to schedule this conference outdoors , of all places, in winter. She’s hungover to boot, teeth chattering, weakly tugging the silk stole tighter around her arms and hugging in on herself. She’s rotten, inside and out, but at least when she watches the appeal later on, she looks good. Perfect body. Perfect hair, distressed but still glamorous. Even the dark circles and smudged remains of last night’s makeup look elegant.

Fame is weird. It has people thinking about these little details when something much bigger is happening. Even so, Beryl knows she can’t afford to let these things slip. If she doesn’t look perfect, she must look scandalous. She can never be boring or normal, not after she’s worked so hard. There’s too much at stake.

“There is,” She says, her voice trembling beautifully. “Thalia, sweetheart, if you’re watching this: please, please come home. You won’t be in any trouble, I’m not angry with you. I miss you, and love you very much. We’re still looking for your brother, we will never give up. Just please come home, darling.”

There’s an audience, of course. They’re cordoned away behind a barrier, watched over by security guards, but they flock to these events anyway. Many of them are mothers themselves, tearful at her performance. They hold signs proclaiming their wishes for Thalia and Jason’s safe returns. Some bring gifts suitable for the children Beryl no longer has. They offer words of comfort, they tell Beryl how strong she is, how noble. A select few, the ones who truly get it, provide wine and commiserations, and little notes that say just how much they admire her for forging ahead with her life and career while living in such anguish.

Everything gets tossed out except the wine, but their efforts are mildly appreciated, in the moment.

Behind her, the screen flashes up two pictures, as the officer and reporter beside her begin to launch into their usual explanations and descriptions. Jason Grace, two years old at the time of his disappearance, suspected kidnapping. An appeal that everyone knows will go nowhere, but is desperately repeated nonetheless.

And now, Thalia Grace. Ten years old, running away from home due to grief from the loss of her little brother. A bright-eyed, intelligent girl with long blonde hair, shocking blue eyes, and her mother’s good looks already beginning to shine through. It must be said - she’s the perfect missing child to capture America’s hearts, and laser their focus. A pretty young girl of a famous actress, a rich white child -

If she’s anywhere to be found, unlike Jason, she will be.

-

2005.

The nightmares won’t stop. They won’t stop. Nothing stops them. She tries, she tries, by god Beryl tries but the alcohol only numbs their effects and the heroin only takes the edge off and the coke is only a momentary distraction. When she closes her eyes, lighting flashes and storms crackle overhead, dark and menacing. The voices follow, making demands, clamouring, taunting. There are screams, children’s screams, her own children, Beryl is a mother, she should be dealing with teenage tantrums, she should be-

It won’t stop. Lightning, thunder, flashes, booms so loud they echo in her head, blocking out everything else. Trees, nothing but trees, rows and rows of pine trees struck and burning, illuminated by flames and electricity. 

Being called unstable by the press is starting to get old. The attention was something at first, and at least it kept them talking, but can’t they see? It’s never ending. She’s not unstable, she’s not insane. The nightmares won’t stop. There’s no other way to dull them.

But it can’t happen here, not with so many people around, not with the party atmosphere. Beryl forces herself to take a deep breath, and coughs in surprise as something flies up her nostril. She’s leaning against the kitchen counter - she thought she was standing in the living room, but that must have been a few minutes ago. What are these blackouts? What is-

“Need a refill?” Someone offers, and plucks a glass from her hands. 

She’s holding a glass? What was she even drinking? Beryl blinks, and then takes a sip, because the glass is back in her hands. Whisky. She has to get out of here. The lightning, the thunder, the trees. It isn’t safe.

“‘M going for a drive,” She mumbles aloud, fumbling for her keys. They’re already in her hand - the one without the drink - for previous use, it seems. There’s still some whisky left. She swallows the last of it, and puts the glass down on the side. It smashes on the floor, no side nearby to land on.

No one stops her.

The car door slams shut, and she leans on the horn for too long, not even noticing the noise. How can she when the thunder is so loud, when the lightning flames keep crackling and roaring? Beryl has to get home. She has to find Thalia, she has to get Jason, she has to find someplace safe - march on Olympus, become immortal, do something, keep her family together. One foot on the gas, a hand on the wheel, and go, go fast, find them, they’ll never be safe while the nightmares keep coming, she has to protect them, go faster, can’t see anything, too dark, too blurry, not safe for the children, not safe, white lightning, deep dark thunder, the fire, the green of the leaves-

Too many colours. Brown, whisky. Lightning is white, clouds are grey, smoke is grey. Smoke from the hood. Orange, like fire, lightning fires, fires in the engine. Brown, tree trunks. Brown and orange. Red blood, trickling down her face, her forehead, from her nose, her torso, all over. Blood on the cream leather. Blood and whisky and fire. The car is red, red like blood, inside and out, against brown, wrapped around the pine tree. The car is totaled, the pine is on fire, the car is on fire, Beryl is bleeding. Beryl’s inside the car. The wheel is black like her dress, like her makeup. Beryl is slumped against the wheel.

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BREAKING: Beryl Grace, 46, has died in a car crash. The actress is believed to have been intoxicated at the time of death. She was discovered in her car at 6.07am, having crashed into a tree while out driving. CCTV footage from the area shows Beryl driving erratically through the local area in the early hours of the morning. Although transported to the hospital, it is believed that Beryl had already succumbed to her injuries at the time of her discovery. Authorities are not ruling out overdose as a potential cause of death.

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Beryl Darlene Grace passed away in Hollywood, Los Angeles, California, on June 30th, 2005, at the age of 46. Born in Dallas, Texas, on May 25th, 1959, Beryl moved to California at 17 years old in order to achieve her acting dreams, becoming the recipient of many award nominations and, notably, winning her first Emmy in 1986 at the age of 26, and an Academy Award for Best Leading Actress in 1993 at the age of 34. Beryl is survived by her father, George Arthur Grace, 88, and her siblings Taylor Grace, 42, Mary-Ann Bright, 40, John Grace, 39, Elizabeth Maywell, 36, Loretta Burns, 33, and George Grace, 29. Tragically, Beryl’s two children, Thalia Grace and Jason Grace, remain missing. Any information regarding their whereabouts would be greatly appreciated by the authorities.