The house had become a stage—each person playing their role, each day a new act in the performance Rebecca was directing. But Cinderella wasn't playing by the script anymore. She had seen behind the curtain. She had observed enough. Now, it was time to make her move. But she knew one thing with certainty: she couldn't do this alone.
It started with a list.
Late into the night, long after the house had gone silent and the walls no longer echoed with Penelope's artificial laughter or Stephen's jabs, Cinderella sat at her desk and scribbled names into her journal. People she trusted. People who had once offered her kindness, advice, or simply a listening ear. She hadn't needed anyone for years—she'd trained herself to survive in silence—but things had changed.
Now, she needed allies.
---
The first person on her list was Ms. Evelyn Hartwell, her former literature teacher from high school. A brilliant woman in her sixties with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, Ms. Hartwell had once told Cinderella that women like her were forged in fire—they didn't break, they evolved.
Cinderella reached out via email. She kept it vague, just enough to spark curiosity without giving away too much.
> Hello Ms. Hartwell,
I hope this message finds you well. I was wondering if you might have time for tea sometime this week. I would love to reconnect—and I could really use your wisdom.
– Ella
The reply came by morning.
> My dear Ella,
I was wondering when you'd reach out again. Let's meet at The Lantern Café tomorrow at noon. I'll bring the tea, you bring the story.
With affection,
Evelyn
A warmth she hadn't felt in weeks settled in her chest. This was the first step.
---
The Lantern Café hadn't changed much. The same ivy curled around its brick façade, the windows still misted with condensation from the espresso machines. Cinderella arrived early, wearing a soft beige cardigan and jeans. She wanted to look relaxed but not too relaxed—comfortable, but not fragile.
Ms. Hartwell arrived five minutes later, looking exactly as Cinderella remembered—poised, elegant, with silver streaks in her dark hair and a pair of glasses perched low on her nose.
"Ella," she said with a soft smile, embracing her. "You've grown into your mother's eyes. Beautiful and observant."
Cinderella smiled. "Thank you for coming."
They ordered tea and lemon scones, and once the small talk had faded, Ms. Hartwell leaned forward, her tone shifting.
"Now, tell me what's really going on."
And Cinderella did.
Not everything, not yet. But enough. Enough about Rebecca, about how quickly Desmond had been taken in, about the odd conversations she'd overheard between Stephen and Rebecca. She didn't mention the time loop, the rebirth, or the knowledge from her past life—that part was too much for now. But she shared her observations, her suspicions, and most importantly, her need for support.
Ms. Hartwell listened without interrupting, her fingers laced together, her expression calm but focused.
"I knew that woman was trouble the day Desmond brought her to the fundraiser two years ago," she finally said. "She doesn't blink enough when she talks—always a sign of a liar."
Cinderella chuckled, and the sound felt foreign but pleasant.
"Ella, you have something Rebecca will never have: integrity. If you're going to fight her, do it with your mind. You've always had a brilliant one. I'll help in whatever way I can."
Cinderella reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Thank you."
---
Over the next few days, she reached out to more people.
Her childhood friend Jonah Carter, now a law student with a passion for justice, was next. They hadn't spoken much since high school, but Cinderella remembered how fiercely loyal he had been, even when everyone else was mocking her for being the "quiet orphan girl." She sent him a message, and he responded almost immediately with a meet-up request at the university café.
They talked for hours. He listened carefully as she outlined Rebecca's manipulative behavior, how she seemed to be scheming behind Desmond's back, and how it was affecting her emotionally and mentally.
Jonah leaned back, brows furrowed. "She sounds like the kind of person who weaponizes charm. Dangerous, but sloppy if she underestimates her opponents."
Cinderella nodded. "She does underestimate me."
"Good. Let her. I have access to legal databases and some friends in social law who might be interested in cases like this—especially if there's financial manipulation or coercion involved. Let me know when you're ready to dig deeper."
"You'd help me?" she asked softly.
"Ella, I owe you. You stood up for me when no one else would. This is me returning the favor."
---
Bit by bit, Cinderella began building her support circle. She connected with Mrs. Langston, Caroline's old friend and trusted confidante, who had drifted away from the family after Caroline's death but had always loved Cinderella dearly. Mrs. Langston invited her over for lunch, and they shared stories of Caroline's strength and beauty, which reminded Cinderella why she had to keep fighting.
She even started reconnecting with the house staff—quietly. The gardener, Henry, had known Caroline for over a decade and saw how Rebecca had suddenly taken over household decisions without consulting anyone. The housekeeper, Lydia, had noticed Rebecca discarding Caroline's belongings little by little, replacing them with her own touches.
"I don't want to stir trouble," Lydia whispered one afternoon while folding linens, "but if you ever need someone to vouch for your mother's legacy—I'm here."
Cinderella thanked her with a soft smile. "I may take you up on that."
---
As her network grew, so did her confidence.
For the first time since Rebecca entered the house, Cinderella felt something blooming inside her—not just resistance, but strength. She wasn't the powerless girl she'd once been. She had information, allies, and clarity.
One evening, she stood in front of Caroline's portrait in the drawing room. Her mother's face was soft in the painting, eyes warm and alive. The painting had always offered her comfort, but now, it gave her resolve.
"I promise, Mom," she whispered, her fingers touching the edge of the frame. "I'm not going to let her erase you. I'm not going to let her win."
---
Back in her room, Cinderella opened her journal and wrote two words across a clean page in bold ink:
It begins.
She knew the war wasn't over. In fact, it had just begun. But for the first time, she wasn't fighting alone.
---