Arabella the Coquette Spectre

Arabella adores beautiful things. Silk ribbons, sugared rose petals. Heart-shaped lockets and love letters tied with pink satin bows. She surrounds herself with such treasures, arranging them carefully within her dressing room until it resembles a confectioner's dream.
Or a shrine, depending on who is telling the story.
If you listen to the murmurs of the walls and furniture, Arabella is sweetness incarnate - the first to compliment a new dress, the first to send flowers. The first to remember your favorite color, your favorite dessert, and the name of your childhood pet. Arabella listens with rapt attention when others speak. She remembers everything.
Unfortunately, the sweetness she uses to bring people close has a tendency to leave the burnt sugar taste of jealousy in it's wake. Arabella has never mastered the art of sharing. Not possessions. Not friendships. And certainly not affection.
She adores being adored.
A harmless enough trait at first A compliment becomes a conversation. A conversation becomes a habit. A habit becomes an expectation. Before long, one finds themselves seeking Arabella's approval without quite understanding when it became so important.
Should her affection wander elsewhere, she becomes melancholy.
Should her affection be rejected, she becomes heartbroken.
But should someone she cherishes choose another over her...
Well.
It is rumored that the very air grows heavy with the weight of her tears. The roses in her room are said to wilt overnight, and the sugar sweet feeling of Arabellas presence begins to crackle like a torch to her favorite brulee.
Yet even then, Arabella never raises her voice. Never argues. Never causes a scene - She simply smiles, perhaps a little too sweetly.
It is only then that the cracks begin to appear. The object of her jealousy always discovers that invitations stop arriving, admirers lose interest, and whispers seem to follow them wherever they go. Rejection begets rejection, after all, and Arabella is nothing if she isn't fair.
Beneath all the lace and ribbons lies something terribly lonely. A spun sugar specter sustained not by malice, but by longing.
She wishes to be cherished, to truly be chosen.
To be loved with the same devotion she offers so freely to others.
And after centuries of being admired, she has grown quite accustomed to getting her way.