Journal of Ra: “When Your Husband Is a God With a PR Team”

 

They call him Savior. I call him high-maintenance with cosmic delusions.

Mehen doesn’t walk—he manifests. Every room bends to his gravity, and every mortal melts at the sight of his jawline. He’s got the whole “divine authority” thing down to a science. The robes, the voice, the gold tattoos that pulse like they’re listening to prayers—they all scream salvation with abs.

But being married to a god isn’t celestial—it’s claustrophobic.
Every smile is a performance. Every prophecy, a PR campaign.

The world sees a hero who destroyed the Reptilians and rebuilt Earth’s future. I see the man who never sleeps, whose eyes flicker with too much power and not enough mercy.

And me? I’m the woman the Accord branded as his divine consort—the Womb of Ascension. Cute, right? My body’s a prophecy now. My DNA, a marketing strategy.

The news feeds call me the “Mother of the New Dawn.” They don’t show the part where I throw crystal goblets at the wall between interviews.

If Ascend or Perish is humanity’s choice, then maybe I’m the glitch that makes the universe stutter.
And maybe, just maybe, I like it that way.