The Apple Store gleamed like a futuristic monument. Its glass facade stretched sky-high, reflecting the soft glow of the morning sun. Polished steel beams framed the entrance, with the iconic bitten apple logo perched above, radiating an almost divine simplicity.
The warm lighting, soft music, and rows of futuristic devices made it feel like stepping into another world—a haven for tech enthusiasts.
Through the massive windows, the store's interior was a world apart—bright, inviting, and meticulously organized. It felt less like a retail outlet and more like stepping into a vision of tomorrow. Warm, soft lights complemented the clean white displays, each showcasing the latest in tech brilliance. Smooth wooden tables stretched across the floor, holding rows of gadgets that seemed to whisper promises of innovation and luxury.
But the serene ambiance was shattered by a commotion near the center of the store.
A young woman wearing the standard-issue Apple Store uniform stood rigid, her arms crossed and her expression dangerously close to snapping. Her auburn hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, and her eyes darted between two men blocking her escape.
Both were dressed in designer casuals, the type that screamed money but lacked any real taste—crisp polo shirts, loafers, and oversized watches that glinted under the store's lighting. Their smug smirks were enough to make anyone cringe.
But her expression was all for show, her feelings were entirely different.
The Apple Store was like a modern temple to her, and Isis was its reigning goddess. Or at least, that's how it felt to her.
Leaning casually against the counter, she radiated effortless confidence, her sharp eyes scanning the store like she owned the place. And why shouldn't she? The mortals—customers, employees, even the wannabe Casanovas pestering her—flocked around her like moths to a flame.
They stared, they whispered, they lingered, pretending to browse just for a closer look. Isla didn't just tolerate the attention—she thrived on it.
Her Apple Store uniform—basic and bland on everyone else—looked like couture on her. The crisp white T-shirt, tucked just so into black slacks, only emphasized her otherworldly beauty.
Even the slight shine of the store's fluorescent lights seemed to accentuate the soft glow of her
Both men were dressed in designer casuals, the type that screamed money but lacked any real taste—crisp polo shirts, loafers, and oversized watches that glinted under the store's lighting.
Their smug smirks were enough to make anyone cringe.
"C'mon, sweetheart," the taller one drawled, his tone dripping with fake charm. "Just one date. I could change your life, you know? You wouldn't have to waste your time working here. I could take you from, uh…rags to riches."
He smirked, clearly impressed with his own recycled pickup line.
The shorter one chimed in, taking a step closer. "Forget him, babe. I'll do better—how about a shopping spree? I'll let you pick out whatever you want. Name it, it's yours."
Her jaw tightened, but she said nothing. It was clear she was wrestling with the urge to slap one—or both—of them. Around her, the other employees exchanged awkward glances, unsure whether to intervene. Even the store's security guards hesitated, their expressions unreadable but their lack of action loud and clear.
She stood slightly in the crowd, radiating an aura of detached confidence that was impossible to ignore. With her flawless complexion, dark hair falling in perfect waves, and a posture that screamed regal authority, she didn't just attract attention—she commanded it.
Men gawked openly, women whispered enviously, and even the older customers found themselves glancing her way. She was, after all, the Isis—the goddess. And though she was no stranger to admiration, the modern world seemed almost obsessed with her.
She basked in the attention like a queen among mortals, her sharp eyes flickering over the chaos before her. The store might as well have been hers; she had it wrapped around her finger without lifting a hand.
A satisfied smirk tugged at her lips as she thought, 'Mortals… still so predictable.'
Her gaze landed on the two fools 'harassing' her, and her smirk wavered. "Pathetic," she muttered under her breath, her annoyance simmering beneath the surface. "If only they'd run into Cleopatra. She'd have drained their wallets before they even finished their lame speeches."
It had only been a few hours since she'd arrived in this modern world, and already it was testing her patience. With no divine privileges, Chione had insisted they adapt—blend in, even.
They were mortals now, which meant jobs, school, and the indignity of dealing with human nonsense.
'Part-time jobs?' Isis had scoffed at the idea at first. But after a pointed lecture on responsibility, she'd begrudgingly agreed. It wasn't as if she couldn't excel at whatever humans did these days. Within an hour of starting at the Apple Store, she'd memorized every detail of their products and outsold her coworkers tenfold.
Unfortunately, her beauty turned out to be both an asset and a curse. Customers and coworkers alike seemed hypnotized by her presence, and instead of working, they spent their time gawking—or worse, flirting.
These two were just the latest in a string of embarrassingly bold suitors.
Her fingers twitched at her side. She was a goddess of magic, for heaven's sake, and here she was restraining herself from hexing some spoiled brats. "Mortals," she muttered again, louder this time, her irritation slipping through.
But Isis didn't just tolerate the attention; she fed on it. Every admiring glance, every stammered compliment was a reminder of who she was. The goddess of magic and kingship. The one whose beauty once commanded entire empires.
Sure, this modern world didn't quite know how to bow anymore, but their gawking eyes? That was close enough.
She tilted her chin slightly, gazing at the two men pestering her for her number like they were children begging for scraps at a feast.
Mortals, all of them. They had no idea who they were dealing with.
"Oh, you'll pay for my rent and my student loans?" she said, her voice dripping with mockery. "How original. I haven't heard that before." She gave a pointed glance at the security guards standing off to the side, too scared or lazy to intervene. Pathetic.
One of the men, taller, wearing an overpriced designer jacket, leaned in with a sleazy grin. "You don't have to work here, you know. I could get you a real job. Something worthy of someone like you. How about you quit this place and—"
"If I wanted to be insulted," Isis interrupted, flipping a strand of hair over her shoulder, "I'd have stayed in ancient Egypt and let the Romans critique my temples."