Richer Than God - Amelia Wilde

Prologue

Zeus

Twenty-six years ago

The first thing I see when I step out of the car is a woman, running. Not all of her, just a kick of her heel and a flash of strawberry blonde hair and then she’s gone. The corner of the massive building hides her. It’s a dark, hulking place, the size of a city block, which still does not seem big enough to contain my father.

He’s already at the steps, glaring back at me. “Pay attention, Zeus. Keep up. I’m not going to teach you this twice.”

I hurry to meet him on the steps, my stomach tight with excitement and nervousness.

My father owns the city in lots of ways. Some are less obvious. Handshakes and money changing hands. And some can’t be ignored, like the whorehouse.

He takes off his jacket as we go inside, throwing it at a woman who stands nervously by the threshold. I’m trying to listen but it’s so dark in here, so completely forbidden, and there’s a scent in the air like perfume and fear. Like the burn of a lightning strike in the forest by our house. He’s talking about expectations. He’s talking about women. We go through the lobby and up a staircase and down a hall.

I’m too busy looking at the fine furnishings—built-in couches everywhere, so different from home—and I only stop because he puts his fist in the shoulder of my shirt and yanks me back.

“You’re not fucking paying attention.” His blue eyes look into my brain.

“Yes I am.” I cast around for the main points of what he said. “There are ways of being with a woman,” I repeat back, instincts kicking in to save my ass. “And the heart of it is—”

“Power,” he supplies.

I don’t know what he means. Not exactly. “Power,” I repeat. And then we go into the room.

It’s dim, shadowy, and the twist in my gut turns instead into a shiver that I only just manage to hold back. This isn’t about the women. This is about pleasing my father. If I can do that, then I can live another day.

He opens the curtain. The sun sinks down over the city, bathing everything in orange, and it makes the room glow. “Come in,” he calls.

The door opens, and two women come in. They weren’t in the hall but they had to have been waiting close by.

They’re beautiful. One blonde, one brunette. Both with tits encased in lace and thongs so small I can’t look without my face heating. I pretend not to notice, or care, but I’m hard—painfully hard. I could touch them. Kiss them. Taste them.

Scare them.

But—they’re already terrified. I’ve seen this look on my sister’s face before when she thinks no one is looking. Wide eyes. Darting glances. Their smiles are fragile.

My father rubs his hands together. “Over here, darlings.”

Darlings. It sounds strange in his voice, and as the women brush past me, I see the blonde one reach back to squeeze the other’s hand. Is it so bad, what happens in these rooms?

He makes them stand by the window so the fading light settles in their hair. “I get first pick. That’s your first lesson,” he says. “The man with the most power gets to pick the best woman.”

My father stalks around them, leaning in to taste their skin and test their tits in his palms. The blonde is bigger, the brunette is smaller. “You,” he says to the blonde.

There’s a crack in her smile, a flash of fear in her blue eyes, but she nods a little, pretending to be excited. That means the brunette is mine. She’s slender, smaller, but I like the look of her. I like everything about her. I like the way her hair falls over her shoulders and the way her breath rises fast and shallow. Now I’m hard for her, not just in general—I want her.

I want her so much that I don’t notice my father’s trip to a dresser at the side of the room.

Until he comes back with the whip.

“Now it’s time for your second lesson.” His eyes light up, but he keeps it contained. My blood freezes. When he contains his excitement, it’s worse—it’s more calculated. “The man with the whip has the power.”

Tears gather at the corner of the brunette’s eyes, but she keeps smiling. Why doesn’t she run? Probably the same reason I don’t run from my father. It would be pointless. None of us run. Not my sister. Not Poseidon. Not even Hades, who is currently sitting in the

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