And then, she waits.
Later in the day, Regina’s phone dings, alerting her to a notification from The Fairest. She releases a great sigh of relief when she reads the words, Regina Blanca, you have once again been voted Manhattan’s fairest of them all!
She smirks and pretends, even to herself, that she wasn’t worried about losing her much deserved rank as Manhattan’s most beautiful. She’s about to tuck her phone into her Prada bag when again her phone dings. It’s once again The Fairest app, but this time the notification reads: You are number one. For now. Check out the rest of the top ten!
The widow rolls her eyes. She could care less about who else is on the list. At least, that’s what she tells herself. It’s only when she catches her reflection in the ornate gold mirror in the hall that she pauses. Her chest tightens as she slowly moves closer to inspect a possible wrinkle around her eye. She holds her breath and again sighs in relief as she realizes it was nothing more than a shadow.
But it won’t always be a shadow, an annoying voice from inside of her head reminds her.
With a grunt of annoyance, she again clicks the notification that takes her to the list of beauties that threaten her spot at the top.
Regina recognizes all of their faces as they run in the same elite circles as she does. She scoffs. Of course, they are all younger girls, at least ten years her junior, but she smiles as she scrolls through because although the girls have youth, their smooth skin and rosy glows will fade with time, and what will be left over will never compare to her own beauty. None of these girls will ever possess the kind of elegant perfection she has been blessed with these thirty years.
Twenty-six if anyone asks.
That is, until Regina reaches the top of the list where a picture of the number two beauty in Manhattan appears below her own.
Neve Blanca.
Her own stepdaughter. Unlike the widow’s photo, Neve’s is a candid shot taken from a hospital fundraiser Neve helped put together. She’s kneeling as she talks to a small child in a hospital gown. Neve’s shiny ebony waves are falling over her shoulder in dark contrast to her perfectly pale skin. She’s smiling, drawing attention to her high cheek bones, lusciously full rose red lips, and of course, straight bright white teeth. Her eyelashes are so long and dark, creating perfect picture frames for her deep ocean-blue eyes.
The account holder is listed only as anonymous, which makes sense since Regina can’t fathom the thought that Neve would upload such a thing herself. She’s too busy with her studies and her charity work to be concerned about being beautiful, and she isn’t. Unusual, yes, but beautiful? Absolutely not.
Still, as Regina reads the comments below Neve’s picture she finds herself only growing more envious and angrier with each word. Although some are the standard crude comments from trolls on her body or what they would like to do with those lips, those aren’t the ones Regina is concerned with. No, the ones that make her walk back to the settee until the backs of her knees hit against it, then plop down with much less grace than she is accustomed to showing are worse. Hundreds, all saying the same thing.
You should be the most beautiful woman in Manhattan! Because you are! This app is wrong!
Regina is pretty on the outside, but Neve has the kind that shines from the inside. Look at that smile!
I don’t know what people are thinking voting for the old crow above you. You have everything and more.
It doesn’t matter what the app says, this girl deserves to win. Who is the old chick above anyway? She probably votes for herself.
Natural, beautiful. She should be a model. I’ve never seen anyone like her!
Regina probably paid to be on top of this list.
Neve is the most beautiful woman in this city by far! Or in the world. Too bad she’s rarely seen in public.
Neve, will you marry me?
Regina gasps and throws her phone in a fit of rage. It connects with the mirror, showering the entry hall in shards of glass and pieces of jealous rage.
She stalks over to the mess. She catches her distorted reflection staring up at her from one of the broken slivers. Next to it is her phone with Neve’s photo peeking out from underneath the many new cracks.
It’s in this very moment that she knows what needs to be done, and begins to form a plan…
1
Chase
Being rich is boring as fuck.
Sure, I can have anything in the world I want. A yacht in the south of France. A bevy of the most beautiful women in the world falling over one another at the chance to suck my cock. And for a while, that is exactly what I had and what I spent my time doing. But as I said, being rich is boring as fuck.
Wealth doesn’t feed the dark desires that heat my blood and make my cock hard.
What does?
Death.
Causing it. Witnessing it. Spilling blood by my own privileged hands.
I’m like batman, except my intentions are darker and bloodier.
Sweeter.
That need and dark desire are the reasons why I find myself on the sprawling grounds of the Blanca mansion at midnight. I’ve received a request though the dark web from Regina Blanca, Manhattan’s well respected and admired, money hungry black widow. Of course, she didn’t send a request to meet the real me, Chase Huntington III, the pampered rich kid cut off by his father for failing to march in line. No, the message was intended for The Hunter. Regina just doesn’t know we are one in the same, and she won’t.
Tonight, I have on my oversized hood and a dark mask to cover my eyes. She won’t recognize me when she asks me to carry out whatever nefarious plan she’s plotted against the unfortunate soul who, in Regina’s eyes, deserves the death penalty.
I enter through the window on the second floor after scaling the small garage attached to the mansion. I’ve been in this house a thousand times before and mostly at night. I know my way around. It only takes a few moments to locate Regina in what used to be her late husband, Carl Blanca’s, office. She’s seated behind a large oak desk in front of a blazing fire, holding a tumbler of whiskey in her hand. Her feet crossed at the ankles, perched upon the desk.
She doesn’t hear me enter until I click the door shut.
Instantly, she’s on her feet.
“Who…who are you?” She demands with a shaky voice, squinting as she searches the dim room.
I chuckle. “You’re the one who called me,” I remind her, slowly walking along the far side of the room, making sure to stay in the shadows of the flames dancing along the high walls.
“Ah, you must be the notorious one they call The Hunter. I wasn’t sure you’d gotten my message, or if you are even real. The people I spoke with have said that they didn’t receive answers to their replies.” She lifts the crystal decanter in my direction.
I shake my head. “I don’t reply to everyone.”
“Well, I’m glad you replied to me. We have business to discuss.” She waves her hand to the high-backed chair in front of the desk.
I shake my head. “I’ll stand.”
“Very well then,” she says, again taking a seat behind the desk, straightening the white jacket of her suit.
“What do you want from me?” I ask, dread rising in the base of my throat. A foreboding washes over me. I know what she’s going to ask before she even asks it.