Cicatrice

Chapter II

PRINCESS ESTELLE BELSHAW

"How could you not consult me about this first, father?" I clench my teeth, slamming the door behind him with my fists held so tight, that I could draw blood. I felt furious. Betrayed. "Don't be dramatic Estelle, you knew this was coming," Father muttered, taking off his red regal cape and tapping sweat off of his forehead with a white handkerchief.

"I didn't think you would go through with it," I admit, furrowing my eyebrows and shaking my head. "Well, that's what you need to expect as a queen," he mentions.

"What?"

"The unexpected," father proclaims. He always liked to give me small lessons without elaborating further, like he wanted me to come up with my version of the answer. Perhaps mother was the teacher. The tutor. Father was never good at explaining things, even her death. I still find myself wanting to know the gruesome details of how she died whilst she was giving birth to me.

I glance outside the stained window, watching dawn fall upon Toulouse quickly. I inhale deeply, trying to process every little thing. What made things even greater is that I had to accompany my father to a royal private gathering. All I wanted to do was be alone, in my suite, with my thoughts. But that would be impossible. It's absurd for me to even have that thought cross my mind.

I began to wonder if I would ever be genuinely satisfied.

Marguerite spends hours styling my chestnut coloured hair into a chignon bun before delicately dabbing scarlet lipstick onto my lips. So this would be the life of a queen. Spending hours in a chair. Speaking to the public. Making decisions for the public. Being responsible for a whole nation. And if something goes wrong, you're the one they blame and hang on a stake.

She escorts me down the main hallway that is decorated with crimson carpeting and family portraits on the concrete walls, some of them go as far back as the 1400s. I gaze at their eerie faces, realising that one day, I'll be painted, and plastered on that wall too.

A black and white horse and carriage stand outside, the driver respectfully salutes me with a sharp grin. He holds his hand out for me, helping me in the carriage and shortly enough, he steadies the horse and we head off into the crisp, dark atmosphere.

Twinkling lights enter my sight as we come in contact with the ball hall. Socialites gather outside, standing eloquently whilst sipping Cabernet Sauvignon. Bells signal when I have arrived, all the attention drawn to me, as if I were in some sort of spotlight, yet, all I wanted to do was disappear.

After being led into the grand foyer, I am greeted by embellished plastered beige walls, golden details like picture frames holding iconic masterpieces, and a magnificent chandelier that stood out above everything else. The orchestra band really polished the ambiance and established the tone, which is what truly captured my attention.

Father is seated and holding his dazzling, gold cane in between his fingers. He converses with Victor Laurent, one of Toulouse's most well-liked socialites and his best friend, along with his son Malcolm. He sees me standing in the archway, and beckons me over.

"Estelle, darling, you remember Victor and his son, Malcolm, yes?" Father chuckled as I faked a wide smile, my hands fiddling with my white, laced gloves. "Why, yes, it's a pleasure," I sparkle, doing my best to appear courteous.

Catching me off guard, Malcolm grabs my right hand, holding it up to his lips and delicately planting a kiss on it whilst making intense eye contact with me. His eyes were as dark as a night sky, and you could fall and get lost in them, just like a black hole.

"The pleasure is all mine, your royal highness," he smiles, slowly dropping my hand.

If I didn't admit that Malcolm has had an impact on me in the past, I'd be lying. He occasionally exhibited conceitedness, but his charm was undeniable. Every woman in France wanted a piece of Malcolm, and it was quite difficult to blame them. They were completely smitten by his muscular frame, his chestnut, dreamy eyes, and flawless brunette waves - not to mention the package that he allegedly has, according to numerous ladies.

But I don't like a gold rush.

I sit with my quietly thoughts, sipping a glass of wine, observing the orchestra ensemble. Surprisingly, no one has bothered the future queen. Everyone else was chatting amongst themselves, fine dining, and digging into their bread with butter and escargot.

"Care to dance with me, your highness?" A familiar voice calls from behind me, and when I turn around, it's Malcolm. His pink lips flash a daring smile as he extends his hand in my direction. I eye him up and down, observing his intellectual suit. "Sire, I intended to enjoy the rest of my Cabernet Sauvignon. Nevertheless, the offer is appreciated," I flash a cocky smile, taking a sip of the rather dry, red wine.

I knew I had offended him and utterly destroyed his ego. "What must a man do to gain your attention, bird?" he scoffs, tilting his head to the side and staring through my soul. "Stop begging for it," I simply state, delicately licking the wine off of my red lips. "Although, out of pity, I'll give you this dance, sire," I quickly change my mind, taking his hand.

It had been a while since I stepped on the dance floor. The click of my heels against the tiles, my dress dragging along the floor were sensations I didn't know I had grown to miss, but alas, I did, very much so.

"Your face is very fair," he utters, and I look away from his annoyingly dazzling eyes. I fought the urge to blush or compliment him back, because I knew it was all an act. Malcolm was not the kind of man I wanted. I desired somebody who would see me for who I am, and not for my status. Someone who would want to know every detail about me, and even then, wouldn't turn away.

That would be my one wish.