It is a truth universally acknowledged that parents in possession of a kingdom must have a capable heir if they're ever going to retire.

Sadly, Weston, the only child of mattress magnates Gerald and Victoria Fitzgerald, had a great many skills, mostly related to hosting lavish luaus with well-toned grass-skirted dancers in colorful leis but none having to do with running a business.

Every weekday promptly at eight, Gerald and Victoria drove to the office in their Lamborghini, drifted into the designated spot labeled "Park at Your Own Risk" and took the elevator to their second floor office overlooking the showroom of Bullseye Mattress Kingdom's flagship store. The store had been in the family for three generations.

The Fitzgerald's office held three identical desks side by side facing a one-way glass window overlooking their glittering showroom where rows of chandeliers hung from the forty-foot ceiling—each mattress elevated on its own pedestal.

Strewn across two of the three desks were dozens of glossy travel brochures—each offering the promise of adventure in a vast landscape. An assortment of mermaid collectibles adorned the unoccupied desk.

"I like the river rafting in Zambia," said Victoria. After an hour, they'd whittled it down to ten options.

"We could do that on our way to Antarctica for the Ice Marathon," agreed Gerald.

"Still not sure about that one," said Victoria. "Sounds cold."

"After thirty years of warm, I'm ready for some cold. But this coffee. Ugh." He grimaced and set the Bullseye cup on the desk.

"It does that when you forget to drink."

Victoria traced the photo of the young couple trekking across the frozen landscape, holding hands, the sun low behind them. She sighed. "Where is he?"

Each click of the secondhand on the bullseye-shaped clock, was a reminder that Weston had not yet arrived to work.

Almost in answer to her question, something stirred from within the playhouse in the children's department at the far end of the showroom. The Fitzgeralds provided the house, along with boxes of toys and books and pretend stores with pretend cash registers to entertain young shoppers while their parents were encouraged to spend actual money.

A form, vaguely Weston-shaped, emerged—rumpled, several smashed leis wrapped around his neck.

"Not again," said Victoria, sighing in exasperation.

"Weston," Gerald yelled over the loudspeaker.

Weston smiled and waved at the office window. "Be right there," he mouthed, limping toward the men's restroom.

"This ends now," said Victoria.

"You're going to kill your own son?" said Gerald. They hardly ever talked about their old life as hit-people, (hit-men being a sexist term).

"Of course not," said Victoria, her trigger hand clenching. "We'd still be minus an heir. There's only one solution. He must marry a highly competent woman with a business degree."

"Brilliant plan, my queen."

"The problem is, Weston is 27 and still can't be bothered dating a woman more than once. God forbid he'd have to remember her name. We'll have to find the woman for him."

"How do you propose we find this business genius? Should we hire a headhunter? I mean the kind that finds employees, not the kind that ..."

"I know what you mean, Fitzy. Hmm. We'll need someone young and impressionable but smart. Someone we can mold into the perfect wife/business manager. We'll place an ad for a management trainee."

"Brilliant, my dear."

"There'll be a test. Any potential bride must be proficient at all aspects of business—accounting, marketing, and quality control."

"You are wise, my darling."

The door opened, revealing a slightly less disheveled Weston. His hair was slicked back with water and combed. His shirt tucked in. The leis must've been abandoned in the bathroom trash. He looked nearly presentable, though his suit was damp and he smelled like smoked pork and rum.

"Hey, Mom. Dad. Sorry I'm late. Ran into this hot mermaid at the luau."

Victoria and Gerald shared an incredulous frown and nodded their heads at one another in solidarity.

"Hey, wait," Weston wrinkled his brow. "What's up with you two? The last time you looked at me like that, you wanted to send me to military school."

"Would've done you good," Gerald grumbled.

"I was in third grade."

"My darling boy, we have a wonderful idea. If you'll have a seat, we'll go over our plan for the rest of your life."

Cupid despised the Underworld. It smelled like brimstone and three-headed-dog breath, and there were lost souls everywhere. He hated when they flew inside his toga. They tickled and not in a good way.

He tousled a few of his golden locks, folded his hands across his lap, and admired his stunning new booties. Hades' inner sanctum was so cold, it froze Cupid's bones. Hades chose to live in a wintry, dark cave with the most unflattering lighting ever. Worse than that was the poor design. Cupid imagined Feng Shui-ing the place.

How did that nice Persephone live here? He'd have to ask her next time they met for billiards in Mt. Olympus.

The lava lamp went dark. Cupid's eyes ached from the effort it took not to roll them after watching that stupid scene with humans planning the most unromantic coupling for their son—so last millennium.

"Thanks for that, Hades. Well, I'll be off. Great punishment, though. Watching that nearly killed me. Honestly, so original." Cupid slow-clapped.

"Eros, you have displeased me for the last time," Hades boomed. He was always cranky when Persephone wasn't around. Gods. It's been how many eons, and the guy still can't get over it?

"Call me Cupid," said Cupid. He despised his Greek name. Cupid had nice hard consonants. Much more manly. Eros was a name for a chubby, winged, baby god, not a muscular, handsome, grown-up god like himself.

"Eros," Hades stared at Cupid from his elevated throne. "You have angered me for the last time."

"It was one little boat."

"It was Charon's ferry you idiot. You sunk Charon's ferry!"

"Epic party though," Cupid recalled the finer attributes of the water nymphs who'd attended.

Hades' face flushed, and the cave vibrated.

"Come on, dude, you must have a backup boat. Besides the old one was pretty grotty. Big important god like you, one of the major Olympians, must be able to magic up a new ride. Something with indoor seating? Maybe a wet bar? A motor might be nice. Charon's got to get tired ..."

"Silence," Hades bellowed.

Cupid sat as silently as possible because Hades' hair was flaring. At least the temperature in the cave rose several degrees.

"If you'll recall," Hades began, teeth clenched, "I told you that if you provoked me again I would spear you to a rock with your own arrow for all eternity."

"How could I forget?"

"Hand over an arrow."

Cupid clutched his quiver of golden arrows to his chest.

Hades rolled his eyes, held out his hand, and an arrow shot through the air. He caught the shaft. Stupid telekinetic god. "I know the perfect rock. You'll have company."

"Not Prometheus. Please no. Titans are so boring. And don't get me started on their grooming."

"Sorry, it's the only rock the gods may legally use for spearing purposes."

"Is there no other punishment?" Cupid knelt before Hades.

"Well ..." Hades pretended to give it thought. Cupid knew Hades had something up his sleeve, er, chiton. "... there is something you could do."

"Let me guess. It has something to do with that scene you made me watch in the lava lamp?"

"It does. I expect ultimate discretion in what I am about to relate."

"Of course." Cupid twisted his lips as if buttoning them.

Hades cleared his throat. "It began about twenty-one years ago. You see, Persephone and I have been married a long time."

"I'm aware. Heck, everyone's aware. Winter, duh."

"Anyway, a god gets restless after so many millennia."

"I get it," said Cupid. "Marriage is like carrying the earth on your back. Or so I've been told."

"Yes, well ..." Hades shifted in his chair. "Anyway, I decided to go somewhere to get a tan and watch human women in those wonderful inventions. Bikinis?"

"Correct."

"There was this woman. To say she was beautiful would be a disservice to beauty. She was more beautiful than Helen, then Hera even than Aphrodite. Don't tell them I said that," said Hades.

"I'm not an idiot," said Cupid.

"This woman had olive skin. Raven hair. Eyes the color of the Mediterranean at daybreak. I had to have her."

"Yes ..." Cupid leaned forward.

"So I had her, and she got pregnant, and Persephone cannot ever know."

"Could you be a little more specific about the "having" part? It's important to my understanding."

Hades glared.

"Okay, no specifics. Fine."

"After I discovered the pregnancy, I escaped to the Underworld. Three days after the baby's birth, Clotho stopped by. She foretold my daughter's future. She saw two possible outcomes. One—she's destined to become a demi-god on her twenty-first birthday. Once this happens, Persephone will, of course, find out about my slight indiscretion and divorce me. The other—my daughter never comes into her demi-god powers. She remains hidden from my wife, and I continue to be blissfully married."

"So you want me to ensure your daughter doesn't get her powers?"

"Correct."

"How?"

"Simple, she must kiss the heir to a kingdom in the last hour before her twenty-first birthday."

"That's rather specific."

"I don't make the prophecies."

"Understood. So I get this daughter of yours to kiss some guy who is an heir to a kingdom? Easy. One arrow from my quiver will take care of your problem."

"You cannot use your arrows."

"Why not?"

"The love must be true."

"Are you saying my god powers don't result in true love? I pride myself on my results. I have a full ardor money-back guarantee."

"That may be, but it won't work here. Sadly. You must get her to apply for that job, help her pass the tests, fall in love, and kiss Weston Fitzgerald at the appointed hour one week hence."

"Sounds hard."

"It's that or the rock," said Hades.

"I choose the rock."

"Are you serious?"

"Nope. Besides, I have ethics."

"You don't know the meaning of the word."

"I think I know better than you, Mr. Philanderer."

"You have angered me once again. I revise my punishment. Do as I say, or I'll turn you back into a teenager and send you to repeat high school."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, yes I would. Acne and all."

"Fine. I'll do it."

"Excellent. One week," said Hades. He raised his hand in an arc. Cupid found himself transported to a sun-drenched beach, wearing Hawaiian-print bathing shorts and holding a rum cocktail with a tiny umbrella. Cupid took a huge gulp. Delicious.

Maybe Hades wasn't entirely bad.