Paris, France. 1785. You're the queen of France.

Your husband was on a trip to do some "bussiness," he says. You believed he was having an affair with another woman, not like you cared. This was a time where it wasn't socially acceptable to be dark-skinned or queer. And you were queer. You often ogled over other women in the ball, but there was no chance they were interested in you as nearly all the women in the ball were married to filthy rich men.

Tonight, the day after your husband left, you decided to go to a ball. Dressed in attire that was fashion for "queens going to the ball," in the 1700s. There was classical music playing, and men and women dancing in the center. The womens dress flowing, and their hair in high up-dos.

You had a glass of wine in your hand, sipping it occasionally as you sat on the balcony outside. You didn't notice the pretty brunette girl beside you, sniffling and dabbing under her eyes with a tissue. She was crying.