The morning after...

Liam stirred awake, the faint morning light filtering through the blinds casting golden stripes across the cluttered dorm room. He blinked against the soft glow, groaning as he shifted under the covers. His body ached in that oddly satisfying way that only followed a night of indulgence and exhaustion.

For a brief moment, he smiled, a hazy warmth spreading through him as he recalled the sheer debauchery of the night before. The memories were fragmented—flashes of Aphrodite in various forms, each more alluring than the last. Her laugh, the sultry teasing of her voice, the way her body moved against his, her lips capturing his own over and over again… The vivid recollection made his breath hitch.

But as he stretched his arm out, expecting to feel her warm, soft body beside him, all he found was an empty mattress.

He frowned, his hand patting the sheets as if she might materialize beneath his touch. He sat up, his eyes scanning the room. It was unmistakably empty. The space where she had been—pressed close to him, her head on his chest—was cold now, as if she'd vanished hours ago.

“Of course,” he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse. “She’s a goddess, Liam. What did you expect? Breakfast in bed?” He chuckled dryly, running a hand through his messy hair.

Still, it stung. For all her divine confidence, Aphrodite had felt real in those moments. The way she teased him, the way she rode him with that knowing smirk, her nails dragging down his chest, her full breasts bouncing as she taunted him about just how badly he wanted her.

And then he'd gotten creative.

Liam’s head dropped into his hands as flashes of her transformations came flooding back. Sydney Sweeney in that scandalously tight bunny suit, pressing up against the wall and banging her against it until he thought he’d lose his mind. The way she arched her back, panting in his ear, whispering filth he’d never imagined hearing from anyone, let alone her.

And Zendaya. Jesus Christ, Zendaya. Dressed in that lingerie set that left nothing to the imagination, her caramel skin gleaming under the dim light, her toned legs trembling as he’d taken her.

He had lost track of how many times he’d climaxed, especially since the night continued long after Zendaya. She had granted him what she called a “divine privilege”—unlimited stamina and release, “to enjoy her in all her forms.” And he had. God, he definitely had.

But then, he remembered the consequences.

His stomach twisted. He remembered what she said: Every fantasy, every indulgence, would come at a price. Not for him, but his dear friend, Lucas. And he had agreed. He had agreed to everything.

The shame hit him like a wave, crashing over him as he stared down at his hands. What had he done? He had let her manipulate him, seduce him into betraying the person who had been his closest friend for years. The thought made his gut churn.

But then another memory surfaced, unbidden and sharp: the fight. The way Lucas had shouted at him, accused him, torn him down when he was only trying to help. The words stung even now, the bitterness behind them twisting the knife in his chest.

“She doesn't care,” Liam muttered to himself, his tone bitter. “Not about me, not about what I’ve done to help. I’ve been bending over backward, sacrificing everything, and for what? To be treated like the enemy?”

He clenched his fists, anger and hurt warring within him. For a fleeting moment, he’d felt guilty—ashamed of what he’d allowed Aphrodite to do, of the consequences he’d unleashed. But now? Now he felt justified. Why should he keep bending over backward for someone who couldn’t see it?

“She brought this on herself,” he muttered, the words sounding harsher than he intended. He wanted to believe them, to bury the guilt under layers of resentment.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Liam stood, stretching out the kinks in his back. Luckily, Lucas was nowhere to be seen this morning. He glanced around the room, his gaze landing on the empty bottle on the desk—a reminder of the night’s excess. Aphrodite had poured him drink after drink, her laughter echoing in his ears. Her touch, her kiss, her whispered promises…

He shook his head, trying to clear the lingering fog. No use dwelling on it now. What was done, was done.

But as he crossed the room to grab a clean shirt, his reflection in the mirror caught his eye. He looked… different. Tired. Worn down. Yet there was something else there too—a hardness in his expression that hadn’t been there before.

“This is how it’s going to be now,” he told himself firmly. “No more trying to fix things. No more bending over backward. If she wants to handle the trial their way, fine. Let her.”

And with that, he grabbed his things and headed for the shower, pushing the guilt and regret to the back of his mind, locking it away where it couldn’t reach him.