I casually flick the end of my cigarette, the grey ash drifting away in the dry August wind. My loose brown curls blow gently in the breeze, my blood red dress doing the same. Leaning on the railing of my penthouse balcony I stare aimlessly out into the distance. The buildings across the park are brightly lit, and even now in the late hours of the night there are still people milling about. I smirk and muse aloud, "no wonder they call it the city that never sleeps." I raise the cigarette to my lips and inhale deeply. The taste of wet paper and hints of menthol mix in my mouth, and I savour the smoky flavour before exhaling slowly. It was going to be another long, emotional, and volatile night.

The buzzing sound of traffic below is nothing but white noise compared to the dialogue being rehashed in my head. Just minutes ago Yoongi stormed out of our shared apartment, slamming the door shut behind him so hard that the mirror on the wall fell and shattered to pieces. He had come home late looking dishevelled, meanwhile I was exasperated beyond words and halfway into a bottle of Cabernet. He wanted to know where I got the wine, I wanted to know why he was so damn late. He raised the issue of my seventh half-assed attempt at sobriety, I fired back about the blood red lipstick stain on his white shirt's collar. Back and forth we went, ceasing only when he left in a firey rage.

The sound of a sliding glass door opening interrupts my thoughts and the soft melodies of 1950s jazz and swing fill the air. I glance to my right where I'm anything but surprised to see my well-bred neighbour with his equally debonair girlfriend preparing for a late-night dinner date. A simple yet stunning table is set for two, and I watch as he chivalrously pulls out the chair for his lady. He's pulled out all the stops for her tonight: red roses in a crystal vase, tea candles in mosaic glass holders for ambiance, Chateu Petrus in two long-stemmed champagne glasses. I roll my eyes at the platitude of it all. Why waste your money wining and dining when you can go straight for the jugular?

I take another drag from my cigarette and watch the couple as they dine hand in hand. Not once does my neighbor make a suggestive gesture, nor do I catch any innuendos leaving his lips. In my heart of hearts, I can admit that I wish Yoongi would treat me that way, that he would really try to woo me and court me as opposed to simply taking the fast lane into my pants. He always blames it on his "traditional Korean upbringing," but with me having grown up the same way, we both know that it's nothing but a load of bull. What's different is that I've grown up not only as an heiress, but I've become a dominatrix as well. Either one of those titles alone would be intimidating, but together they are lethal. But that's how you've got to be as a single woman of stature and money in this dog-eat-dog world today. You have to be tough and carry a chip on your shoulder to survive, even if it means having superficial, self-destructive, and tempestuous relationships. And yet — I can't help but think that maybe I could break out of the mold and try a little tenderness, try to open up and be vulnerable instead of supercilious.

Rolling my eyes, I instead just sigh heavily and flick my cigarette, sending dry cinders floating off into the night sky. I know I could never allow myself that opportunity, not after what I've been through. Too many scars left by battles fought that only I know of have left me jaded and unwilling to let my "resting face" mask down. And as such I've knowingly stamped myself as the foxy socialite, or as some of my rivals and enemies affectionately call me, "The ." I simply can't let my guard down. I've always needed — no, wanted — someone to protect me, my assets (both physical and monetary), andmy hardened yet fragile heart. But that someone has to be me. There is no one else who can keep me safe. Not even Yoongi, my childhood best friend who's turned to on-and-off lover, can help me. As much as I want that fairytale romance my neighbour appears to be living, I know it'll never be mine. But it's a sacrifice I have to make if I want to play in the big leagues with the big boys and still command some kind of respect.

I take a final glance at my next-door couple, inhaling the bittersweet cigarette smoke one last time. They're still outside, only now they're slow dancing to the silvery smooth voice of Sinatra. Re-arming my heart and masking it with my callous persona, I mutter under my breath about their "ignorant bliss" solely to reassure my conscience that my thick-skin and iron-walled heart is necessary for my survival.

"Those poor puritans," I say with a condescending sigh and a slight shake of my head. "They don't even know what they're missing."

I turn my back to the couple and put out my cigarette. I sashay back into my apartment where I'm unsurprisngly greeted by a salaciously apologetic Yoongi. I let a sly smirk spread across my face. The walls are up again. The dominatrix is back. No more sentimentality tonight.

I grab Yoongi by his tie and lead him to our bedroom. As I walk down the hall, echoes of Sinatra's plea to "try a little tenderness" reverberate through my mind. And maybe I will, just not tonight. Tonight is going to be just like all the others, a night with my mask tightly fitted to mask my breaking heart. A night full of nothing but the same old song and dance.