A Rose Is A Rose, With Or Without A Prince

Florence Wiseht reclined into the sumptuous leather seat of the private jet as the engines roared to life, heralding the start of her odyssey. Beyond the window, the golden rays of the setting sun sprawled across the airport tarmac like a warm embrace. While the world bustled around her, Florence remained in her own serene bubble, lost in contemplation, her fingers gently caressing the dog-eared copy of The Little Prince that lay on the tray table. The book, tattered from years of companionship, had been her steadfast anchor since childhood. Once a source of joy and whimsy, filled with tales of love, loss, and connection, it had evolved into a vessel of profound personal meaning.

As the jet ascended and the city faded into a blur below, Florence’s memories tugged at her like a tide, drawing her into the past.

A Glamorous Beginning

It all began at a gala in downtown Los Angeles—an event alive with sophistication and opulence. Florence had entered the venue clad in a stunning crimson silk jumpsuit, adorned with a dramatic train that flowed gracefully behind her. Her golden stiletto boots tapped rhythmically on the gleaming marble floor, while her jewelry, designed to mimic entwined vines, sparkled magnificently beneath the chandelier's glow. She embodied confidence and magnetism—a woman who attracted attention with ease.

That night, amid the dazzling crowd, Florence encountered Prince Alaric of Lamtinialand, a quaint nation situated near Greece. Alaric was equally enchanting in his impeccably tailored navy suit, his noble charisma providing a striking contrast to her spirited vivacity. Their bond ignited when The Little Prince serendipitously emerged in their conversation. Alaric approached her following her presentation of the latest collection on the runway.

“You’ve outdone yourself… my rose," he'd whispered, holding out a small Cartier box. Memories rushed back to Florence—a rainy afternoon spent huddled together, turning the pages of their beloved book, as they had fervently debated the meaning behind the rose symbolism nestled within its lines. Inside the box were earrings shaped like roses, a deliberate and deeply thoughtful nod to that very moment. The gesture struck a chord, blending charm, boldness, and a palpable vulnerability. Florence hesitated, sensing the weight of his intentions now infused with nostalgia, but eventually accepted the gift. From that moment, their story unfolded with the intoxication of a fairy tale.

Their romance thrived in stolen seconds during rooftop dinners in Manhattan, the air fragrant with grilled seafood and fresh herbs, accompanied by the soft clinking of glasses and distant city sounds humming a melodic backdrop. Spontaneous escapes to the glittering allure of Monte Carlo were filled with the salty tang of the sea breeze and the laughter of revelers, creating an atmosphere thick with excitement. Hushed confessions floated softly under midnight skies, dotted with stars that twinkled like diamonds, yet a quiet tension lingered just below the surface.

"You remind me of the rose in The Little Prince," Alaric told her tenderly one evening while his fingers brushed her cheek, the warmth of his touch igniting butterflies in her stomach. Yet, beneath that fluttering sensation, a small knot of doubt tightened within her. What if she wasn't enough? Surprised but amused, Florence began to play along, calling him "my fox," the nickname a playful echo against the night, even as unspoken worries crept into her mind. Did he truly see her that way, or was it just a fleeting fancy?

In return, Alaric called her "mon étoile," his star—a private lexicon of lovers that built their little world. But within that warmth lurked the fear of what might tear them apart. She glanced at him, a smile wavering on her lips. Could she really trust this magic? Did he understand the fragility of their moment? Yet even fairy tales have cracks, and the first strains began to show, whispering hints of a tempest that loomed just beyond their horizon.

The First Clashes

Their love, as passionate as it was, faced the pressures of reality. Florence’s career in fashion consumed her life—a whirlwind of brand launches, press tours, and demanding deadlines, like a relentless storm that swept through her days. What had initially drawn Alaric to her—the sheer radiance of her ambition—now seemed to overshadow him completely.

One evening, in their chic New York apartment, their long-simmering tension erupted. Florence was buried in her sketchbook, perfecting a design with her usual intensity, while Alaric sat across from her with an untouched glass of whiskey, the gleaming barrier between them, reflecting the distance that had grown in their relationship.

“Do you always have to command every spotlight?” he asked finally, his voice sharp, bitterness spilling from his words.

Florence looked up, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she replied, bristling.

“You dominate every room you walk into. There’s no space for anyone else. I feel like I’ve disappeared in your shadow,” he said, his frustration evident.

Her voice, fiery and brittle, cut through the room. “I’ve worked my entire life to succeed in a world that barely gave me room to exist. That’s not a crime, Alaric.”

“It’s not about your success,” he countered, his voice rising. “It’s how being near you makes me feel small. I’ve tried standing next to you, Florence, but it feels like there’s no room for anyone else.”

Their argument left them entrenched on opposite sides, neither yielding, the silence between them growing unbearable. Yet the unresolved tension did not fade—it festered.

Discovery of Betrayals

Months later, the whispers of Alaric’s infidelity began to spread. Colette, a French painter, had appeared in tabloids alongside him, and the rumors became impossible for Florence to ignore. When she confronted him, her voice trembled with a mix of anger and heartbreak.

“I gave everything to make this work,” she said, clutching her signature rose-scented perfume she always carried—a token of her strength. “Have you lost all respect for us?”.

Alaric’s guilt was unmistakable. “Colette listens to me,” he admitted softly. “She doesn’t demand anything. With her, I feel like I can finally breathe.”

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. “You think I don’t want the same? To escape all the demands—the weight of expectations? But I didn’t run. I stayed. I fought.”

It wasn’t just Colette; other names followed. Each revelation struck like a fresh wound, deep and irreparable. As her heart sank with every new discovery, a dark thought gnawed at Florence—was she not enough to keep him? Finally, on a freezing winter night, she looked at him, her voice barely audible as she asked, “Why wasn’t I enough?”.

“You demand so much from life, Florence,” Alaric replied after a long pause. “It’s extraordinary, but it’s also exhausting. I couldn’t keep up, and I hated myself for it.”

The Final Goodbye

Now, back on the jet, Florence could still feel the cold of that final winter evening. She had stood in their living room, resolute, her black blouse and flowing satin trousers reflecting her inner strength. Her copy of The Little Prince rested on the table—a silent witness to their last exchange.

“Why did you destroy us?” she asked, her composure slipping only slightly, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air, as the remnants of their hopes lay shattered around them.

“Because I was narcissistic,” Alaric admitted. “Because I wanted easier answers instead of doing the work. And because I resented how bright you shine.”

Tears filled her eyes, but her voice remained steady. “I will never feel guilty for shining. I don’t dim for anyone—not even you.”

With those words, she vanished, leaving her prized book and the perfume as an enduring farewell..

Roses of Resilience

As the sleek private jet sliced through the heavens, a gentle hum resonated around her, the soft purr of its engines blending seamlessly with the whisper of the wind outside. Florence wiped a tear away before it could fall, the vibrancy of the blue sky contrasting sharply with her inner tumult. The past had made her stronger, carving resilience into her very essence. Her next collection bloomed with roses, each one a symbol of her defiance and strength. Like the rose in The Little Prince, she had endured storms and emerged unbroken.

Years later, photographs of Florence at the Met Gala in a rose-inspired gown captivated the world. Her triumphant return wasn’t about Alaric or anyone else—it was about her. Florence Wiseht, a woman who bloomed fiercely, had created a garden of her own making, emerging from the long winter of her past struggles into a vibrant spring of renewal. She smiled as the stewardess laid a blanket over her, the plane gently rocking like a cradle as Florence finally rested, dreaming of endless skies and the brilliance of her next journey.