Cinderella sat at the edge of her bed, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her blanket. The faint chirping of morning birds floated in through the open window, a soft breeze carrying the scent of freshly cut grass and the beginning of something new. Yet, her mind was anything but calm.
This was the day. The beginning of the storm she once helplessly endured. But this time, she wouldn't be the broken girl swept up by the wind. This time, she'd be the eye of it.
She moved to her wardrobe and stared at the row of teenage clothes. It all felt so odd—returning to a body that was sixteen years old, with the wisdom and trauma of a 29-year-old woman. Her hands moved slowly over a pale blue blouse, the same one she had worn the day Rebecca and her children came into their home. Her lips curved into a cold smile.
Not this time.
She chose a black turtleneck and jeans instead—simple, modest, yet mature. She pulled her hair into a tight bun and stared at herself in the mirror again. Her eyes were sharper. Hardened. The girl who once wore hope like perfume was long gone. She was reborn in fire.
Downstairs, the familiar smell of pancakes drifted from the kitchen. Her heart thudded a little at the realization that this was the last day things were going to be peaceful—for now. Desmond was likely in the kitchen, humming off-key like he always did when he cooked breakfast. A small part of her wanted to run into his arms like the daughter she once had been, to believe for just a moment that her father still loved her unconditionally. But she knew better. Desmond had chosen love over loyalty. He had let her suffer in silence, blind to the poison he invited into their home.
Still, she had to play her part—at least for now.
She descended the stairs slowly. Every creak of the wooden steps echoed in her ears like whispers of the past. As she reached the final step, Desmond looked up from the stove and beamed.
"Morning, pumpkin! You're up early," he said, flipping a pancake onto a plate.
Cinderella forced a small smile. "Couldn't sleep."
"Understandable. I have some news today, actually." His voice shifted, filled with anticipation. "I have someone I want you to meet. A very special woman."
Here we go, she thought, her stomach tightening.
She crossed her arms. "Is it Rebecca?"
Desmond blinked, surprised. "Uh—yes! How did you—?"
"I overheard you on the phone last week," she lied smoothly. "You sounded... happy."
Desmond chuckled nervously. "I am. Rebecca's a wonderful woman, Cinderella. I know things have been hard since your mother passed, but I really believe she could bring joy back into this house—for all of us."
Joy? She almost laughed. The only thing Rebecca ever brought was suffering.
Instead, she nodded. "If she makes you happy, Dad, I'm willing to meet her."
Relief flooded his face. "That means a lot to me, sweetheart. She's coming over this afternoon—with her kids."
Stephen and Penelope, she thought darkly. The viper and the fox.
"I'm sure you'll get along just fine," Desmond added, sipping his coffee.
Cinderella gave another faint smile. "We'll see."
The hours passed slowly. Cinderella retreated to her room, drawing up a mental list of all the key moments she remembered—each hurt, each betrayal, every chance she had to change things. She needed to tread carefully. She couldn't reveal too much too soon. Let them show their true selves. Let them make the same mistakes while she stood two steps ahead, ready to strike.
By 3 PM, the doorbell rang. Her stomach tightened, but her expression remained blank.
From the top of the stairs, she watched her father open the door with an eager smile. There she was. Rebecca.
Tall, elegant, and dressed in a deep red dress that hugged her too perfectly for a mourning widow's new wife. Her smile was painted on like porcelain, but Cinderella saw the cold flicker in her eyes—the same eyes that had watched her die without a shred of remorse.
"Desmond," Rebecca gushed, wrapping her arms around him. "We're so happy to be here."
Behind her stood Stephen, looking smug and unbothered in a leather jacket, his hands in his pockets, sizing up the house like he already owned it. And then Penelope—petite, with big, innocent eyes and a perfect fake smile. She wore her sweetness like perfume, just as she had before.
Cinderella descended the stairs with grace, her chin held high. Desmond turned toward her.
"Cinderella, this is Rebecca, and these are her children, Stephen and Penelope."
Rebecca extended her hand. "You must be Cinderella. Desmond has told me so much about you. You're even more beautiful in person."
Cinderella took her hand but didn't smile. "Thank you. You look... exactly how I imagined."
Rebecca's eyes narrowed just slightly, and Cinderella knew she had noticed the undertone. Stephen barely nodded. Penelope stepped forward, offering a soft smile.
"I've been dying to meet you," she said. "I hope we can be like sisters."
Cinderella's stomach twisted. You mean steal everything from me like before?
She smiled sweetly. "Of course. I've always wanted a sister."
Desmond looked pleased. "See? I knew this would go well."
They moved into the living room, chatting about nonsense. Cinderella kept her answers short but polite. She watched every movement, every exchange between them. She could already see Rebecca's game—praising Desmond, flattering him, clinging to his every word. Penelope gushed over the house, while Stephen said little, just watched her with a glint of mockery in his eyes.
But they had no idea who they were dealing with this time.
Later, when Desmond went to the kitchen to prepare drinks, Cinderella was briefly left alone with them.
Stephen leaned back on the couch. "Nice house. Bet it was even better before your mom crashed her car."
Cinderella met his gaze coldly. "It was. And she didn't crash. She was run off the road."
Penelope's smile twitched.
Rebecca tilted her head. "That's an odd thing to say, dear."
Cinderella stood. "Is it?"
She walked toward the window, her arms folded behind her. "Strange how accidents happen. But stranger how secrets never stay buried."
Their eyes followed her in uncomfortable silence.
Let them guess, she thought. Let them wonder if I know. Let the fear begin to grow.
Because this time, Cinderella wasn't waiting to be rescued.
She was writing her own ending.