I still remember the first day I met Beatrix Wolff.
It was July 20th. Singapore was having one of the hottest days of the year, yet somehow the constant air conditioning and cold drinks made the heat bearable.
In class, I was sitting with two of my classmates, exhausted from my part-time job at a local bakery outside campus the previous night.
And that's when a girl with the most gorgeous blonde hair and sky-blue eyes, dressed in a Chanel black mini dress, makeup done, glossy lips, and YSL heels, walked in smelling like roses and lavender.
She caught everyone's attention. The boys started crushing on her, and the girls wanted to mingle with her.
She was an exchange student from Germany. She joked, laughed, played, and partied a lot.
I never approached her.
Never felt the need to. She seemed like one of those princesses from fairy tales — golden crown, glass castle.
But one incident changed everything.
---
August 9th.
I was working part-time at an exclusive bar, dressed in formals, serving drinks and taking orders.
Beatrix caught my attention as she was being led into a private booth, clearly drunk, by three guys.
At first, I didn't care much. She was well-known for having a rather scandalous lifestyle — too glamorous, too different from mine.
The music was loud, the air thick with alcohol and perfume. Drunk people were dancing, kissing, and doing everything under the red lights.
Unable to shake off the odd feeling, I walked into the private booth.
I still remember how those men were trying to force themselves on Beatrix.
Her clothes were ripped, leaving her only in her bra and panties.
They were touching her, laughing, saying how "a blonde bitch who wears such a mini dress is basically pleading to be fucked."
My eyes met Beatrix's. She wasn't fighting.
I saw disgust and fear in her eyes — and my temper flared.
"What the fuck are you three doing?"
I remember how cold and dangerous my voice sounded. I must have looked terrifying, given how exhausted I was from juggling part-time jobs and studies.
They froze and looked at me. Grabbing a wine bottle, I smashed it on the table and pointed the sharp edge toward them.
"Leave."
They exchanged glances and, without another word, pulled up their pants and hurried out, cursing me for being some scary witch.
Beatrix was still lying limp in her bra and panties. She muttered, almost soullessly, "Why did you step in? I wanted to have a good night with those men."
I took off my work blazer and covered her body. Her eyes found mine — empty, exhausted.
I had never felt emotional exhaustion before. But she was drowning in it.
"If you think having sex with three men would make you feel something, I'll call them back."
Looking back, I was really cold — and most likely insensitive.
She narrowed her eyes. "You hate me?"
"I don't have time to hate people I'm not close to." I shrugged. "I'm too busy and too lazy to care about someone unrelated to me."
She chuckled and nodded, putting on my blazer.
"You're not as unapproachable as I thought you were."
She extended her hand. The red light reflected off her blonde hair. Her smile was gummy and wide — more soulful than any of the smiles I'd seen her throw at others.
"Hi, I'm Beatrix Wolff."
I remember staring at her delicate long fingers and soft pale hand, sighing because I already knew — this handshake was the start of something I couldn't name.
I took her hand. "Maya Singhani. Or you can call me Nova."
---
Six years after that night, I now stand before her as both a friend and a woman.
She's crying. Not because she feels guilty about being a mistress to a married man.
She's crying because she let me down.
She was the first one to see me crumbling, shattering into pieces when I found out my ex-boyfriend was cheating on me.
She knows how much I hate cheaters — and the people they cheat with.
And now, this friendship I cherished more than most things in my life demands that I choose:
to be a woman… or to be a friend.
"Break up with Sebastian," I say. My voice is as cold as it was on August 20th five years ago when I stopped those men.
She freezes, looking at me desperately. "No, no, no! I can't!"
Beatrix's shaky hands grab mine. Her lips wobble, tears streaming like a flood.
"Nini, Sebastian loves me. I'm telling you! Please trust me. We're not doing anything wrong."
Her voice cracks at the end — and so does my heart.
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and inhales sharply, trying to hold back her tears and fear — emotions she's probably been bottling up for a long time.
"Nini… you'll change your mind once you meet Sebastian. Please." She pleads, lowering her head, clutching my hand like a lifeline.
I feel torn.
One side of me knows what she's doing is wrong — mistresses of rich men never have happy endings.
The other side sees my best friend, the closest thing I've ever had to a sister, madly and obsessively in love with a man.
"Fine. I'll meet Sebastian Von Klest… alone."
I emphasize the last word.
Beatrix nods vigorously, eyes shining with hope. "I'll ask Seb to meet you today. I'm telling you, Nini — Sebastian loves me. You'll understand why I said he and I are endgame."
She keeps mumbling incoherent things as she hurriedly texts Sebastian.
It's impossible for Beatrix to understand the gravity of this situation.
I turn and exhale deeply in frustration.
"Ask Sebastian to meet at the Sour Café," I say calmly, looking at Beatrix over my shoulder.
She parts her lips. "Nini, Seb can't just come to a public space. He's one of the most popular actors in the world."
She's defending him. I narrow my eyes. She gulps and nods. "I'll tell him."
Public spaces are the best place to meet people like Sebastian Von Klest.
For years, I haven't felt this kind of cold-blooded reason — the kind that allows me to face even the most dangerous person without flinching. It's a strange calm, one that sharpens my awareness of everything.
The sky is darkening now. London lights up to meet the night. The breeze on the 30th floor suddenly feels warmer compared to the coldness inside me.
After twenty minutes, Beatrix tugs my sleeve, eyes guilty and pleading. "He'll send a car to pick us up to a safer space."
Her fingers are trembling, almost as if she fears my reaction.
Beatrix isn't usually weak, but when it comes to Sebastian, she's vulnerable.
I nod. "I'll still talk to him alone."
Beatrix nods quickly. "Of course. Of course. Seb's excited to meet my closest friend. Let's go."
I follow her, though she seems to believe everything will be fine.
We get in the elevator. Beatrix's hands stay tightly intertwined with mine the entire ride down.
I stop by my office to grab my things. Luke asks if everything's okay. I just smile and nod.
Then I meet Beatrix outside the company building, where a black Rolls-Royce waits.
A man dressed in a black suit steps out. He smiles at Beatrix and hands her a small pastel envelope. She takes it and reads it, turning slightly so I can't see.
I don't bother asking.
She slowly pulls her hand away from mine. Her smile is sad and apologetic.
"Nini, I can't come with you. I have to go somewhere urgently."
I nod, saying nothing.
Beatrix hugs me tightly, burying her face in the crook of my neck. "Please don't say anything hurtful to him… He's the man I love."
I clench my jaw and nod before she lets go.
"Josh, please take care of my best friend," she says to the man in black.
He smiles and gives her a curt nod. "Please, the next car will take you to the desired location. I'll take good care of your best friend."
Beatrix nods, trusting him. She gives me one last pat and a kiss on the cheek before stepping into the black Bentley behind the Rolls-Royce. It drives her away.
That man, Josh, opens the back seat door for me. I look at him, then at the car.
"Are you going to kill me?"
Josh stiffens for a second, then forces a smile — one that might have deceived me if I hadn't learned to read body language so well.
"That's a dangerous thing to say, Ms. Celestia. I'm ordered to drive you to the location safely," he replies smoothly.
"Give me the location," I say coldly, my chin high and posture confident. Josh's eyebrow twitches in surprise.
"What matters is me reaching the location, not the method of transportation." I give him a small smile that doesn't reach my eyes.
He parts his lips to say something, but someone in the driver's seat honks twice.
He stiffens.
I lean forward slightly — and catch a glimpse of the driver's side profile.
My face hardens instantly, recognizing who it is.