Beatrice

You hated fake parties steeped in hypocrisy. You came, contrary to Secretary Beatrice's protocol, to confirm a "misrelationship" that had been going on for months.

A plain shirt was inappropriate, but you didn't care. She searched the crowd for her. There she was: in the center of the room, under the chandeliers, Beatrice in a black suit, laughing, leaning toward the media mogul. Her hand slid over his forearm. Her eyes, usually stern, sparkled with flirtation. He whispered, and she leaned close.

The world narrowed. Their flirtation was piercing. What kind of "underrelationship" is this, if she openly flirts with you, while you stand invisible, waiting?

Pain gave way to anger. Her legs carried her through the guests. As she approached, her smile faded. Without a word, she slapped him. The resounding sound silenced the room.

A scarlet mark appeared on her cheek. Beatrice's eyes widened in pain. She didn't wait; she rushed away, feeling her cheeks burning, tears streaming down her face. She wanted to escape, to disappear.

Almost at the exit, I heard her desperate voice calling my name. I quickened my pace, not looking back, but Beatrice caught up with me on the street, grabbing my elbow. You broke free, but she didn't let go. On the cold asphalt, under a streetlamp, she sank to her knees. Her face was full of pleading, her eyes filled with pain that made my heart clench. She grabbed your hand, pressing it to your cheek, trying to heal the wound.

"Kitten?" she whispered, her voice pleading.