There he is, right on time, she thought to herself, turning a bit in her seat at the bar to face him more fully. He hadn’t seen her yet, but he would soon. She fluffed her russet waves and waited patiently for his gaze to land on her.

He looked surprised to see her there already, taking an appreciative, hungry glance at the thigh-high slit in her skirt.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be able to find the place,” he said, sliding into the seat next to her.

“Yes, well. GPS and all, right?” she replied, enjoying how he watched her painted red lips as she spoke.

“Yes, of course. I just didn’t know how often you were in this part of town,” he replied, turning to rap on the wooden bar to catch the bartender’s attention. It wasn’t busy just yet: it was only 5 PM. Plenty of hours ahead. He was right about the area—she wasn’t often in this part of town: she typically kept to the Old City taverns with their loud music and party lights, but this was worth the trip.

He barked an order at the bartender: “Manhattan, top shelf shit, okay?” and turned back to her, rolling his eyes as if she was in on his private joke. She smiled, caressing her blood-red nails along the back of his hand, which he put on her thigh possessively.

They’d been building up to this meeting for weeks. At first it was just simple chatting—they’d met through a mutual friend weeks back. He’d published her friend’s first novel, and it was only natural that she’d show support for his company’s social media posts about the book. His publishing house was up and coming, and it was rumored that he himself had a movie deal for one of his own books down the pike—some wartime drama. He was charming and generally handsome in the way of someone who has wealth: a slick haircut (of thinning hair), designer clothes, a big clunky watch he made sure she noticed.

Innocent comments under social media posts turned to him sending her private messages. Simple chats about her friend’s work, her own thoughts on the creative process. She herself was a writer, though not quite the genre he focused on, but they connected on quips about the common struggles all creative minds face.

One day, he’d pushed the envelope a bit and began commenting on her physical appearance. Her hair, how it looked so silky in a photo of her at the beach. Another: how a dress emphasized her curves well. She was a free spirit who enjoyed flirtation when it came her way, so she played along. She knew he was married—he was constantly posting photos of his lavish home and vacations with his slim, blond wife. The perfect family: a study in curated photos. But even apart from knowing he was married, she’d begun to feel uncomfortable with their back and forth. He had a barely-contained, underlying cockiness: it became more and more clear he thought himself superior to everyone in his circles, especially women.

Soon enough, while she was cooling on him, his flirtatious messages became more aggressive and more bizarre. He typed out paragraphs laced with esoterica about Greek gods and goddesses—his requests for expedient replies felt like a challenge to her intelligence, one that he clearly expected to win. Could she keep up with him when he referred to himself as Zeus and she Aphrodite? Honestly, it was an underwhelmingly commonplace reference when trying to prove some kind of point. It was so strangely arrogant that she messaged back a few times just out of spite, but soon she became bored with him and began leaving his messages unread. She knew herself—how she could get when pushed too far. It was best for everyone if she just let this one go.

Weeks later, her friend’s book was released to lukewarm sales. The book itself was brilliant, but in a saturated market, some projects just don’t get the attention they deserve, plain and simple. However, the man was suddenly vicious on social media, berating her friend, decrying that they never should have taken a chance on a new female writer. A tragic misstep he wouldn’t be making again, he’d return to his core group of men he’d published before, and the like. Her friend was devastated at the betrayal and public shame. Once a vivacious and brave creator, a bright light in this darkened world, her friend closed in on herself. This would not stand.

It was then that the woman sent him some new messages. He was quiet at first, viewing her messages but not responding. He likely felt she needed to beg. She was patient, a predator on the hunt for her prey. A few racy photos, and just like that, he picked back up with where he’d left off.

Well well well, did you miss me, gorgeous? he typed at 2AM one night, probably laying in bed next to his wife.

🦇🦇🦇

And here they were now, a few weeks later, sipping cocktails as she rubbed the toe of her heeled shoe up his calf.

He’d never noticed the pill she’d put in his drink. It never crossed his mind for a moment that this woman wasn’t actually willing to drop to her knees for him.

🦇🦇🦇

He woke, the room spinning around his pounding head. She stood at the end of the bed, her breasts in a lacy bralette catching the shaft of light filtering from the hotel bathroom’s half-closed door. He moved to sit up, but found his wrists and ankles tied. He was fully clothed, spread eagle on the bed. She watched him awaken, her ruby lips curing into a beautiful grin.

Despite the pain in his head, he grew aroused, watching her crawl onto the bed, straddling him in her undergarments.

She leaned down across his chest and he turned his head, expecting a sultry whisper in his ear. Instead, he heard a metallic sliding sound. When she sat up, she was holding a short but fierce blade in her hand. She stroked it lovingly.

He started to tremble, confusion and terror hitting him in equal waves.

She sat back, feeling his hard member going soft underneath her.

“What are you doing, you crazy bitch?” he asked, wrestling against the bonds that held him.

She’d been taught well. The ties would not be undone. She was the portrait of calm.

She leaned forward as he thrashed and bucked his hips under her. “Woohoo! Ride ‘em, cowgirl!” she cried, giggling, waving the knife above her.

In a flash, she went solemn and swiped a button off his shirt with the knife. “Better stay still and listen up, Zeusy. You’ve been a bad boy.”

“You fucking crazy whore, I’ll kill you,” he said through gritted teeth, though he looked as though he might wet himself.

“Tsk tsk. No manners, even on your deathbed? Your mother did a number on you, didn’t she?”

She watched his face as her words slid home in his ears.

“That’s right, you pretentious son of a bitch,” she said, looking down at him. “Time’s up.” He started screaming for help.

She just smirked and climbed off of him. He really did think she was that dumb. It only proved her point.

She casually rifled through her bag, pulling out a thick roll of duct tape, humming to herself as she maneuvered it from one side of the bed, over his mouth, and under the lip of the other side. She had to repeat the action four more times before she was satisfied. He glared at her with hatred in his eyes.

She wiped her brow.

“Vengeance is sweaty work!” she said, sipping from a water bottle next to the TV.

She sat on the bed beside him and brought up her phone gallery. She showed him dozens of screenshots of what he’d sent to her: flirtatious (and increasingly filthy) messages, with unsolicited dick pics and videos galore. Then there were his messages complaining about his wife and children, and their unsatisfying family life. She’d done more digging and befriended others in his social circle—it was no shock that he was not the most popular man in any room. She had in her possession countless screenshots of all the terrible things he’d said about his authors, colleagues, friends, family . . .

Zeus indeed. The most hated, arrogant, false god.

She told him she’d sent all of the messages to his wife and every contact in his company’s directory. The man didn’t have a bridge he hadn’t burned, not that it mattered to him much at the moment.

He began screaming under the tape across his mouth, panic and rage warring for his voice. Having heard enough from the mouths of men like him, she merely sighed, spun, and drove the knife into his throat in one fluid movement. It stayed vertical in his neck, having gone all the way through to the bed underneath him. Blood spurted around the handle.

She ripped his top open, buttons popping, and lifted his undershirt, exposing his pale belly. She dipped her finger in a puddle near his shoulder, and painted in red:

#blessed.