The room was pristine — all glass, marble, and hushed ego.
At the end of the long table, the agency’s creative director adjusted his glasses, reviewing Athena’s portfolio with clinical detachment. His eyes flicked up, hesitating.

“Your look is… unconventional. Exotic, even. But this agency has a certain image to uphold.”

Athena didn’t flinch. She tilted her head slowly, her glowing eyes narrowing—not with anger, but with the quiet confidence of someone who’s had to conquer disbelief more times than she could count.

“You mean because I have horns?”
Her voice was velvet wrapped in iron.

He cleared his throat. “Among other things. You’re... memorable. But not necessarily what our clients are used to.”

She rose from the chair without asking.

In one fluid motion, she crossed the room—hooves clicking like a war drum—and leaned back against the red leather sofa near the window. Then faced her Glorious butt to the CEO pulling her pants down slowly, the light caught her curves, her posture unapologetic, commanding, divine. Her tailored jacket barely contained her form, and the soft shimmer of fabric underneath suggested power restrained, not exposed.

She unveiled presence.

“I wasn’t made to fit an image,” she said, voice low and deliberate.
“I’m here to become the image.”

For a moment, the room forgot how to breathe.
The director sat frozen, mouth slightly parted, the contract on his desk now feeling... embarrassingly small.

“We… will need to adjust our campaign.”

Athena smiled, slow and devastating.
“No. You’ll adjust your standard.”