Thalia POV

Running away... It's easy and comfortable and probably not very wise, but she has no cause for concern. (And who ever said she was Annabeth?) This is Paris, it's almost spring, the air is light and lovely, and there's nothing to worry about. If one were not observant, she could almost be normal, a socialite like society expects from her, a society girl whose only problems are selecting a dress to wear for the latest ball, choosing a set of bracelets to match hairpins, or deciding on which pearls to wear... All of which she is currently doing.

"I haven't the slightest inkling how you can call yourself a lady and yet have no idea that you cannot wear amber beads with those pins." Nico says, coming up from behind her and taking a set of spiralling silver bracelets that are tipped with floral tracery and removing the amber beads from her hands.

"Well, you're male. Why do you even require the knowledge of which colours look best together?" Thalia shot back, slipping the bracelets onto her wrists.

"Are you avoiding the question?" He answers her question with a question, and it vexes her to no end.

"I'm colour blind," She lies, her refusal to meet his eyes betraying her. "And why are you evading my question?"

"Because you're not colour blind. Let me have my secrets, will you?" He winks playfully, and she knows that the only secret there is involves a lack of both their clothes. He offers her his arm, and she takes it both for propriety and to hold herself up in these ridiculous shoes.

Her dress is violet chenille at the bodice, as deep and luxurious as the night sky. This theme is continued in the silk skirt, which is speckled gold and silver before flaring out into a mermaid hem bedazzled in sequins. At first glance, the gown appeared to be strapless but it was held up by a dramatic necklace- more of a collar, really, al glittering chains and diamonds and pearls dripping off her shoulders. With a bodice like that, she probably doesn't need any jewelry but there are silver pins shaped like crescent moons in her hair, a amethyst and white gold "engagement ring" (as part of their cover while they are here) and the silver bracelets have been slid onto her wrists. This gown was tailored for her and fondly she recalls that when she bought (read: was forced into buying) this bloody thing, she was complaining that there was no way she'll ever need it. But now she's just happy to have something to wear to a fancy Paris event with a false (and handsome and gallant) husband.

Tonight's event is somebody's wedding reception held at a lavish hotel with a name she can't pronounce. Their own hotel room had been booked with the use of her schoolgirl French. The man at the reception desk had nearly given her a heart attack when he mentioned Thalia's appearance as that of a socialite before asking if they were on their honeymoon and causing her heart to stutter for an entirely different reason. Being unnerved has never really been a familiar feeling for her, but when the concierge asked if she was married to Nico... She can't help but admit that she has taken a fancy to that idea, even if it's only an act.

The ballroom proves to be as sybaritic as its guests; draping fabrics in cream edged with lacy scalloped gold and numerous Murano hand-blown chandeliers with glittering crystals, the sounds of heeled shoes on marble and champagne glasses clinking together, light conversation and staid small talk all hiding snake-tongues spreading gossip and court intrigue. She's not at home here in the slightest, even with Nico by her side. The sad thing is, that even though she doesn't fit in here, she doesn't know where she belongs.

As if sensing her inner turmoil, Nico unravels his fingers from hers and sets his hand on the small of her back in a touch that said I'm here for you no matter what that throws all her problems to the wind.

Smiling at him, she loops her arm through his and strides as best as she can in silver strappy heels and a floor-skimming dress towards the drinks, leaving Nico to groan as he's dragged along behind her. She takes two flutes of champagne and passes one to him.

"What are you so happy about?"

She aims for flirtatious and says, "That's for me to know and you to find out,"

"How cruel of you," Playing along, he tilts his lips upwards in a devilish grin, pulling a strand of her hair free from its knot and winding it around his finger.

"Cruel? Am I torturing you?" She moves her hands to the back of his neck, rubbing her knuckles against the knobs of his spine and moving to dig her fingers into his shoulder because she knows it reminds him of late nights and bare skin and her raking her nails down his back. "I'm sure that feels terrible, doesn't it?"

"Yes, I am a man in hell," He teases right back, only half-joking. "Would you care for a dance, love?"

"You will regret those words when I step on your toes for the first of many times," She laughs, not joking at all. How could she be happier?

Zeus' POV

He rubbed his temples, sighing. Why did his daughter always have to run off when he only wanted the best for her; when he only wanted for her to be happy? She loved Luke, so he struck an engagement between them, and she was still causing all kinds of trouble. It was absolutely infuriating.

In that way, he mused as he stared at the portrait of a lovely woman, she was just like her mother. He only hoped they did not share the same fate.