A classical beauty, she was tall and slim with an enviable female silhouette. Her flawless skin was as soft and creamy as porcelain; her shoulder-length hair as pale and lustrous as cornsilk. High cheek bones and a caustic tongue, both sharp enough to inflict mortal pain.
She sat on a high stool at the bar, surveying her subjects, a dewy glass of chardonnay in her right hand, a frat-boy ingénu kissing her left.
Little did she know, a usurper was in her midst. A younger, more glamorous arriviste plotted her dethroning.
The Queen is dead, long live the Queen.