“You are to dispose of my stepdaughter. Neve Blanca,” she says as if she’s giving orders to the maid to make sure they dust the windowsills. She reaches into the desk and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the shiny oak.
“Don’t need it,” I say. I know what Neve looks like. I know her face better than I know my own.
She pulls her fingers from Neve’s picture. “Don’t let her beauty sway you from your task. Take it from me, beauty has a way of causing men to make decisions that aren’t best for them.” She leaves the picture on the desk, then takes a large swallow of her drink. “As I said, I need you to dispose of her. Somewhere. Anywhere. Make it look like an accident, but not a missing person. They need to know she’s dead. Leave blood. As much as you can so I won’t have trouble obtaining a death certificate, but no body. I don’t want all the irritation of a wake and a funeral, but I can stomach a small drab service. If you must leave her body to be found, I request that you slash up her face.” She sighs as if she’s bored of the entire ordeal. Like Neve is a puppy who’s peed on the carpet one too many times and Regina just wants it gone. “Am I understood?”
I nod my acceptance of her terms while clenching my fists to my side and tightening my jaw to the point of pain. My mouth fills with saliva, watering to kill. I’ve got to get out of here before it’s this bitch’s blood I spill. “It’s as good as done,” I say, turning around to leave before I lift Regina out of the chair and toss her into the raging fire.
“Wait,” she calls out. “There’s more.”
I look over my shoulder, not able to hide the look of disgust on my face, but thankfully she can’t see me. “More?”
“Yes, for example, what about payment?” She asks, raising an eyebrow. “We haven’t discussed it.”
“It’ll be expensive. I’ll send you my bill.” Little does she know that the payment I will be seeking will be for more than she’d ever be willing to pay and won’t have anything to do with money.
“Also, I’ll want my own proof of her death beyond the blood of course,” she says, tapping her nails along the desk.
“What kind of proof will you require?” I ask, keeping my voice monotone and unimpressed.
She leans back in the chair and again crosses her legs at the ankles, resting her heels on the top of the desk. She presses the tumbler to her cheek. An evil like I’ve never seen flashes in her bright blue eyes. “Bring me her heart.”
2
Neve
A thrill surges through my entire body. An excitement like I’ve never felt before.
For years I’ve been asking my stepmother to allow me to attend one of the grand functions or fundraisers she frequents on a regular basis, only to be met with a stern ‘no’ or a roll of her eyes.
Tonight is different.
For the first time, it was Regina who invited me to attend the ball with her. In fact, she quite insisted on it.
Tonight’s elaborate affair is to celebrate the coming out of Tinsley Constantine, of Manhattan’s powerful Constantine family. However, the hair standing on my arms and the feeling as if someone is whispering in my ear makes me feel as if tonight is the beginning of more than the entrance of a young girl into elite society.
“Are you ready?” My stepmother asks, not waiting for me to answer as she tugs me down the stairs beside her. She pulls me so hard I have to hold on to the ornate gold railing to prevent taking tumble down the stairs. As much as my stepmother wants to make an entrance, I’d rather go unnoticed. Falling face first in front of the elite of Manhattan isn’t the way to go about blending in with the tapestries. I stumble with each step as Regina smiles brilliantly, looking very much like the ex-beauty queen she is, or like an actual queen, about to greet her loyal subjects. Her entire presence exudes beauty and power, and then there’s me, fumbling along beside her, barely able to keep upright in the five-inch heels I’m not used to wearing.
My stepmother and I are opposites in every way. Everything about her screams cold from her icy blonde hair and even icier blue stare. The only thing that indicates warmth is her tanned skin and that isn’t even a product of the sun, but a team of spray-tanners who visited our house earlier in the day.
Whereas, I am pale skinned with ebony hair.
Even our dresses for the evening couldn’t be more different. Where hers is an all-white ensemble, complete with satin mask dripping with crystals that brush her pink lips, mine is a simple black lace gown with a sleeveless heart shaped neckline and matching simple mask that highlight my blood red lips.
I feel pretty as the gown swooshes around my feet, even though Regina would never say as much, because even if she wasn’t wearing a mask, she always has one on.
The ceiling of the Constantine mansion ballroom is draped in elaborate strings of lights, crisscrossing the entirety of the ballroom. There are so many that they appear like a golden spiderwebs casting a dim glow on the crowd dressed in elaborate ball gowns and beaded masks gathering beneath.
The back of my neck tingles, and it travels down my spine as I glance at the erotic scene playing out below. Heavily beaded gowns showcase full skirts and even fuller rounded breasts bursting from their confines. Smiles and laughter float above the sensual slow movement of bodies brushing up against one another.
When we reach the bottom of the stairs, we are fully immersed in the Victorian era fairy tale. Only it’s 2020 and we aren’t in London; the ball is taking place right here in Bishop’s Landing, in a mansion overlooking vast grounds and gardens.
Feather plumes jut out from tall, intricate hairstyles and wigs. Some of the men wear tuxes, complete with tails and top hats. A few others have elaborate labyrinth-style masks with long, curved skull-like beaks. Tall crystal champagne glasses clink together, adding to the music wafting from the orchestra. They play a slow seductive tune; each pull of the bow across the strings adds to the siren call. A poison weaving its way through the silk and satin like a plume of deadly gas.
“Neve, your pores are huge,” Regina points out, inspecting my nose at too close a range. She crinkles her nose then steps away as if disgusted by what she saw.
“Uh, huh,” I reply, knowing it’s not true and not caring if it is. I don’t share the same fixation on beauty that she does. She’s narcissistic and money-hungry and selfish. The thing is, I’d probably still be okay with all of that, but it’s her vanity, her single-minded view on how people should look, which is of course beautiful, but not as beautiful as her, that makes me truly despise her.
Besides, she can say whatever she wants tonight. I’m not going to let her ruin this ball for me.
“You need to get more sleep if you want to get rid of those bags under your eyes,” she tells me between her teeth, extending a short wave to someone in the crowd.
“I didn’t sleep well last night,” I reply. It’s true. I didn’t. I haven’t for weeks. I wake every night feeling as if someone is watching me, and every time, even after I’ve calmed myself down and told myself I’m just being silly and paranoid, I’ve been unable to fall back asleep.
“Your father never slept well either,” she says, her eyes turning sad as she looks for a brief moment at her sparkling Jimmy Choos, jutting out from beneath the silk of her white form-fitting gown.