Death To The Supermodels Novels & Stories

C managed to catch it right out of the air, and it happened so fast I didn't even see him make a move. The metal hissed against his palm. Every hunter instantly shifted formation. Not around him. Around me. Target acquisition. My stomach dropped. Not captive. Not victim. Threat. There it was. The final illusion dying quietly inside my ribs. There was no going back. Elias’s voice echoed coldly through the cathedral. “Selene Virell is deceased.” The words hit harder than any weapon. “She ceased to be human the moment she turned.” Some of the hunters glanced at each other uncertainly - I knew a few of them, we had been through training together, and we had been wounded together too.

Every time he killed, the mark on my shoulder bled a little more. "The Debt," Julian whispered, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. "The more I fight for her, the more I destroy her." "Exactly," Silas purred. "Biology is destiny, Doctor. You are a predator. She is the prey. The Tenth Life is the end of the loop. If you kill my men, she dies from the feedback. If you let me take her, she lives... but she belongs to the Board." Julian dropped the scalpels. They clattered against the stones of the creek, the silver fading to a dull, rusted grey. He fell to his knees, his head bowed.

“I know you had a past with the Godfather, but you can’t be so reckless anymore.” On the table lay that expensive diamond signet ring—the symbol of power of the Costello mafia family. Blair wore it and was thrown into the river to drown. Chloe wore it and died in a car crash, her body unrecognizable. Catherine wore it and had her face slashed before being thrown into a dungeon to die. And me? Chloe’s voice rang sharply in my ears. “Did you forget how you died the last time? You were covered in blood, stabbed so many times your wedding dress was soaked through!”

My phone buzzed on the nightstand. "Don’t check it," Sebastian teased. "I’ve been practically dead for a year," I muttered, reaching for it. "I miss the internet." He rolled his eyes, pulling me back against his chest as I scrolled through the screen. The headline stole my breath. "Supermodel Kaylee has passed away this morning after months of fighting for her life. Business tycoon Phillip Morris remains in a vegetative state. Investigations have revealed a massive corruption network tied to Natasha King, who is now in prison awaiting trial, thanks to evidence from an unknown source."

He is going to use me as a scapegoat, oh damn it. I grabbed my phone close to me and I saw the news about the missing model found dead in her apartment, according to the details of the news, she committed suicide because she consider herself a failure in the model industry. I really don’t know what is happening in New York anymore, a repeated case of missing models and still no news of their whereabouts.

The luxury tour bus rumbled to a halt, spewing smoke from its hood as it sputtered to a stop on the dusty road. Inside, the passengers stirred, their eyes widening as they took in the sight of the broken-down vehicle. Among them were 30 of the world’s most stunning supermodels, tall and elegant, their flawless skin glowing under the Indian sun. Candice Swanepoel, the leader of the group, stood up, her long legs stretching as she made her way to the front of the bus.

She exhaled slowly through her nose, the way she did before killing a deal. “This wasn’t a leak,” she said aloud to the empty penthouse. “This was a strike.” Her assistant Mia was already calling. Valerie answered without preamble. “Who.” A beat. Then, tight, “Larissa De Mure.” The name landed like ice down her spine. Of course. Former supermodel. Former muse. Current CEO of De Mure Atelier, luxury, couture-adjacent, eternally chasing in Sinclair Empire’s shadow and always coming up second.

So, so infuriating and seductive. Her other hand came to his arm where her other hand was wrapped, she pulled him closer on her side, the warmth of her hand sent shivers down his spine. “Julian, you're so funny.” She was having a good time. “You can only call someone a supermodel if her or she has multi-million contracts, endorsements and campaigns. If she have been on the cover of prestigious magazines like Vogue, if she have graced the catwalks in Haute Couture and pret-a-porter in Paris, Milan and New York... and if she could command an attitude of ‘I won't get out of bed for less than $15000 a day'... otherwise she's just a model...”

After the incident, Mom's cooking garnered yet another wave of attention online. "This is the fourth life Florence Winters has taken with her food. How potent can the food be?" "Jokes aside, I can't imagine how much despair Florence's daughter must've felt, having to watch her own fiance die right in front of her." The netizens even started looking for more similarities between my four exes. They wondered whether the men had been unfaithful to me and whether that had led to their deaths.

"The sculpture in the photo looks quite familiar. It looks like the one that won the grand prize just recently." "Didn't the sculptor say she created the piece based on her sister? Why are there human bones in it? This is so scary." "You should look more closely. That's plaster, not bones! You should go and get your eyes checked. Don't go around spouting nonsense." "Our lovely Layla loves her sister the most. You should show the deceased some respect and watch what you say online." "I'm not trying to pick a fight with anyone, but… Is Layla Larson's sister named Hazel? She was my classmate. Even though she had a physical disability, Hazel had always been an optimistic person. She didn't seem