They never tell you that marrying a god is basically signing up for eternal micromanagement with a side of lightning. Sure, at first it’s glamorous — he materializes out of a plasma storm, calls you “my divine counterpart,” and gifts you a planet. But fast-forward a few millennia and suddenly you’re explaining to your immortal husband why you’d like to have your own opinions without triggering a galactic civil war.

Ra knows this life too well. Mehen, her husband-slash-boss-slash-occasional apocalypse risk, is the definition of “toxic but glowing.” He looks like sin sculpted out of bronze, with tattoos that move when he’s thinking — which, unfortunately, is all the time. He’s the CEO of The Sovereign Accord, a man who believes love means brand loyalty and that a wedding vow doubles as a user agreement. Ra, once Heaven’s golden girl, now finds herself stuck in a divine marriage that feels like a hostile merger.

Every morning she wakes up to a speech about unity. “We must ascend humanity together,” Mehen insists, eyes blazing like a living motivational poster. Translation: don’t embarrass me in front of the Federation again. Breakfast conversations sound like board meetings. He talks about optimizing consciousness; she talks about boundaries. He calls it destiny. She calls it manipulation with nice lighting.

He still loves her — in the way gods love mortals: possessively, dramatically, and always with a side of prophecy. Every time she questions his plan, he drops lines like, “I’m only trying to protect you,” or worse, “You are my creation.” Romantic, right? Nothing says eternal devotion like casual authoritarianism.

Meanwhile, Ra’s internal monologue could be subtitled “Send Help.” She remembers when love felt like choice, not commandment. When intimacy didn’t involve psychic surveillance. She used to think power was seductive — until she realized control can wear the same cologne. Now she’s learning the hardest truth of divine marriage: you can’t fix a god who believes he’s never wrong.

To make matters worse, her exes won’t stop reincarnating. Erik, the wolf-shifter with loyalty issues, still howls her name in his sleep across galaxies. Tyler, her twin flame, texts telepathically during fights with Mehen just to say, “You good?” It’s like trying to have a normal life while your past lives run a group chat behind your back.

Still, Ra stays composed. When Mehen gets jealous of Lion Roch, the AI demigod who looks at her like he’s remembering something forbidden, she just smiles and says, “Relax, darling, it’s not a rebellion — yet.” Because the truth is, she’s already halfway out the door, emotionally if not cosmically.

Here’s the real secret: god or not, love without freedom is worship, and worship gets boring fast. Ra’s done kneeling at altars that demand her silence. She’s rewriting the myth — one eye roll at a time.

So if you ever find yourself dating a deity, remember: divinity doesn’t excuse red flags. You can admire his aura and still block his energy. If he says you were “made for him,” remind him you were made from stardust, not submission.

Because even gods need to learn that a queen who built her own light doesn’t orbit anyone.