Spoiler Alert (Spoiler Alert #1)(19)
He was still gorgeous, however. Still famous.
And only having dinner with her tonight out of kindness, not desire for her company or her body or anything else specific to her.
Well, shit.
GODS OF THE GATES: SEASON 1, EPISODE 3
EXT. MOUNTAINSIDE CAVE – DUSK
JUNO waits inside the entrance, half in shadows, expression calm and righteous. When LEDA ventures within, Juno makes no sudden movements, aware that the woman her husband has wronged—yet another woman he has violated—has no reason to trust her, and may fear the vengeance of a possessive wife.
JUNO
Trust my good will, if you can. I no longer find relief in petty jealousy, and am no longer foolish enough to blame a mortal maiden for the rapaciousness of an all-powerful god.
LEDA
I would not have betrayed you, mother Juno. Not if resistance were in my power.
EUROPA glides through the entrance, armed, shaking with fear.
EUROPA
Whatever tortures you may choose to inflict upon me, you can do no worse than the man you call husband.
JUNO
I no longer call him husband. And if we make common cause, none of us need call him king of the gods for long.
GODS OF THE GATES: SEASON 6, EPISODE 2
INT. AENEAS AND LAVINIA’S HOME – NIGHT
LAVINIA waits by the fire. She’s pissed. He’s been fucking Anna, Dido’s sister. She knows it. AENEAS enters the house.
LAVINIA
Where you have been, my husband?
AENEAS
That is not your concern.
Whatever. He doesn’t need this shit. When Lavinia cries, he walks away.
6
WHILE APRIL VISITED THE BATHROOM, MARCUS REGROUPED.
Somehow, she’d gotten him talking about things he actually wanted to talk about. Worse, doing so in the same way he might with Alex, the one person he trusted without hesitation. Alex, who definitely wouldn’t contact a blogger and say, I think Marcus Caster-Rupp has been fucking with everyone this whole time as some kind of big joke.
His public persona wasn’t a joke. It never had been. But unless he controlled the narrative—as he’d advised her to do earlier that night—his behavior could easily be construed that way. If he chose to shed his persona, it had to be on his terms, and only on his terms. For the sake of his career, but also his own troubled conscience.
When April got back from the bathroom, Well-Groomed Golden Retriever was going to make his triumphant return to the stage, ready to perform his few hard-won tricks. Or maybe he’d simply turn the conversation to her life, her job, and let her do all the talking for the rest of the evening.
In the meantime, he got out his phone and checked his messages. Not those on the Lavineas server, since he wanted time and privacy to read any DMs from Ulsie. But by now, reactions to the showrunners’ ominous message several days before should be all over the cast’s private group chat. And . . . sure enough.
Carah: for the record, I’m not saying a goddamn word to anyone about this season
Carah: saving that for my fucking MEMOIRS, bitches
Ian: whoever hid my tuna, it’s not funny
Carah: hahahahahaha
Ian: give it back, assholes, Jupiter needs protein for this last week of shooting
Summer: I don’t know why we need a new reminder about the confidentiality clause in our contracts each season
Summer: it’s a little insulting
Summer: @Carah: looking forward to reading that, hon
Alex: no one wants your pocket tuna, Ian, you probably just ate it without realizing
Maria: THIS
Alex: I mean, it was like your twelfth serving of fish today, so
Peter: yeah, probably not very memorable, all things considered
Maria: do you know the symptoms of mercury poisoning, and do they involve referring to yourself in the third person as a god
At that point, the conversation derailed because of Ian’s extended, defensive seafood-related rant, as per usual. The man could use a few more carbs, as well as a bit more distance between himself and his role. At least enough so that he could cease referring to himself as Jupiter when the cameras weren’t rolling.
As Marcus slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, he spotted another cell’s camera pointed in his direction. Not the same one as earlier, though. This time, a woman from the table behind April was taking the opportunity to get an unobstructed, flash-free shot of him during his date’s absence. When he looked around, at least a couple of other customers were eyeing him speculatively, leaning close to their dinner companions and whispering.
But at least they were all amateurs, rather than actual paparazzi. He’d half expected to be greeted that night by a shouting handful of people with enormous cameras clustered outside the restaurant entrance, as had happened on so many of his other dates.
Not because the paparazzi had followed him to those restaurants. Because his dates had told the media beforehand where to go.
It was unforgivably stupid. Naive. He knew it. But each time, blinking against the harsh strobe of the flashes, overwhelmed amid the roar of voices calling his name and telling him to look over here, the realization that his date hadn’t wanted him, really, but rather the dubious perks of his odd, transient fame—