"Her Royal Highness, Princess Belle Avril de Bourbon."

Silence befalls the entire ballroom. All heads turn to the west.

The Princess waves her lace-gloved hand to the crowd below, slowly taking her descent from the top of the grand staircase. Gasps of wonder fill the air as the crowd gazes upon their Princess, adorned in exquisite gold silk and bedazzled with jewels from head to toe.

A series of bows and greets, followed by remarks of her beauty follow her as she steps into the ballroom. She slowly strides her way across the polished marble floor, not bothering to acknowledge most of the greetings and admiration she receives. Her head was already held high with pride.

The floor was bustling with the presence of all royal and noble invitees; the orchestra performed a piece they had written just for their Princess' eighteenth birthday. Her eyebrows scrunch and she scoffs, the music could have been better.

She glances around...the decorations and refreshment arrangements could have been better. With all the seemingly underwhelming preparations, she knew her presence was the only saving grace that the light of the chandeliers would ever behold.

"Your highness looks the most beautiful tonight."

A particular voice from behind stirs her attention. Her chestnut curls slide off her shoulder as she turns to face the young man. Her gleaming hazel eyes linger upon him, his regal attire and tall physique. Surely this man must've been a royal. She smirks, "Oh? Does that mean all my looks from the other nights have appeared shallow and plain?"

The man chuckles, "Oh, forgive me, your highness. Your beauty is everlasting and simply...ethereal."

He retrieves a bright red rose from his coat and holds it to her. "May I offer you this rose in reminiscence of your beauty, and ask you for the next dance?"

The Princess snatches it, holding it inches from her face. She eyes the flower with pretend interest. "Roses are indeed beautiful…"

The man's eyes fill with hope.

"But if you think a mere rose comes as equal to my beauty…" A smug smile appears on her face. "You, sir, are looking at the wrong Princess." She drops it to the floor, before stomping on it with force.

"The dauphine of France doesn't wish to have her time wasted with a flower that even a peasant could pick for his wife." Her tone is bitter and sharp as she furiously treads on his gift. "Such acts of peasantry, I condone as an offence. I only demand gifts of the highest grandeur and the highest extravagance."

The smile from the man's face falters as he watches the Princess abruptly turn on her heel and leave his sight. The rose he had offered her laid in fragmented ruins before him, just like his heart.