Cupids Got A Glock

Prologue and Viewer Discretion

🎯 Viewer Discretion is Advised — From the Author (a.k.a. Me, Vera, the Emotional Menace) 🎯

Alright, friends, gremlins, and emotionally unprepared individuals... before you crack open Cupid's Got a Glock, let me lay down the glitter-covered truth. This book is rated T for Trauma, Tequila, and Too Many Feelings. You are entering a chaotic romantic warzone, and I refuse to be held responsible for what happens next (but also, please cry responsibly).

Inside, you'll encounter:

Lamp-throwing combat (accurate aim. No training. Pure rage.)

Weaponized emotions via a divine glitter Glock™ (side effects include intense weeping and the desire to text your ex "I forgive you...maybe.")

Excessive Cupid shirtlessness — the toga? Useless. The abs? Present.

Witty banter that turns into confessions that ruin your soul

A judgmental cat named Commitment Issues who's emotionally smarter than everyone

Zeus trying to smite a minor god and accidentally nuking a Starbucks (order up: one double-shot latte and divine judgment)

Hades laughing so hard he spills wine on his death robe (he's not sorry)

An enemies-to-"Wait, why are you hot?" to soul-shattering goodbye arc

And the kind of kiss that makes angels weep, gods cringe, and your heart say "ow" in cursive."

If you experience uncontrollable sobbing, spontaneous daydreaming about winged disaster men, or feel compelled to write your own tragic love story, please call our 24/7 support line:

📞 1-800-GLOCK-LOVE 📞
For heartbreak, glitter removal, divine betrayal, and emotional CPR.
Press 1 if you've fallen in love with Cupid.
Press 2 if Cupid ruined your emotional stability.
Press 3 to throw a lamp.
Press 4 to sob into a cereal box while yelling "WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT, VERA?"
Press 5 to listen to hold music composed entirely of tragic violins and faint thunder.

Thank you for your emotional bravery. May your feelings survive the final chapter.
— Vera 💘🔫

---

"In Which Love Is Loaded, and the Safety Is Off"

The problem with gods was that they never stayed in their damn lanes.

Rain slid down the windows of the bookshop café, tapping out a soft rhythm that had once been romantic. Now, it just sounded like mocking applause from the universe. The smell of burnt espresso and damp paperbacks filled the air. A copy of Love, Actually, Sucks sat in the display window, its author — Juno Vale — currently stabbing a dry croissant with the rage of a woman who really wanted to throw a lamp.

Across from her sat a cat named Commitment Issues, licking its paw.

The bell above the door jingled.

And then chaos entered.

Not metaphorical chaos — not heartbreak, or existential dread, or some metaphor wrapped in a breakup playlist. No, this was literal chaos, six feet of muscle, wings, and misplaced divinity in the form of a man who looked like he'd walked off a Renaissance statue and gotten lost in a Hot Topic.

He wore sunglasses. Indoors. At night. He carried a weapon.

It was pink. It sparkled.

And it was a Glock.

Juno blinked. "You are not holding a gun."

He cocked his head, smiling like he knew every secret in the world and none of them were good for her mental health. "Technically, it's a highly enchanted vessel for targeted emotional combustion," he said. "But yes. It's a gun."

"Who are you?"

He pointed the glittery Glock at her with zero hesitation. "Cupid. God of love. And you, Juno Vale, are under arrest for literary treason and the murder of romance itself."

There was a long silence.

Then Juno threw her croissant at his face and hit him square in the nose.

"Ow not again!"

The gods would later claim this was the second moment everything changed — the moment destiny got tipsy, tripped on a coffee table, and accidentally sparked a love story so wildly forbidden, Olympus itself would go into crisis mode.

They would not mention the croissant. Or the glitter. Or the cat.

But Juno would remember it all — every chaotic, maddening, beautiful second.

And in the end, when the war was over and the gods had picked their sides, when the gun was cold and the goodbye was carved into her ribs — she would write again.

Her next novel?

Cupid's Got a Glock.

A warning.
A memory.
A love letter.

A time to remember