Cinderella sat quietly in the school courtyard, the crisp breeze tugging at the ends of her hair. She had a book open on her lap, but she wasn't reading. Her mind kept replaying the slap, the sting of Penelope's hand against her cheek, and the silence that had followed in the hallway.
Everyone saw it. No one spoke about it.
Except one.
"Hey," a gentle voice said.
Cinderella looked up to find Heather standing beside her, a worried expression softening her usually reserved features. "Mind if I sit?"
Cinderella nodded, and Heather eased down onto the bench beside her.
"Does it still hurt?" she asked, nodding toward Cinderella's cheek.
"Not much," she replied. "I've had worse."
Heather stared at her for a moment. "That's not normal, you know. To just... accept things like that."
Cinderella looked away, the lump in her throat forming before she could stop it. "I know."
Heather fidgeted with the zipper on her hoodie before saying, "I've been thinking. This isn't just school bullying, is it?"
Cinderella blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… you always seem so calm, even when things get bad. Like you've seen it all before. Like this is just another storm you're already prepared for." Heather hesitated. "What's really going on at home?"
Cinderella didn't answer right away. For weeks, she had kept everything bottled up, scribbled between journal pages and disguised behind polite smiles. But something about Heather's voice—genuine, unfiltered concern—cracked through her defenses.
"I'm living with strangers," Cinderella said finally. "Rebecca and her kids moved in after my mother died. They act perfect in front of my stepfather, but when he's not around…" She trailed off. "They want me gone. They're playing the long game—turning him against me slowly."
Heather's eyes widened. "That's… horrible."
"They're smart about it. Every move is calculated. Every lie has a purpose." Cinderella closed her book and met Heather's gaze. "That's why I need to be smarter."
Heather was quiet for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. Then I want in."
Cinderella raised a brow. "In?"
"In whatever you're doing. Whatever plan you're building to survive this. I want to help."
"You don't have to—"
"No, I do." Heather's voice was firm now. "You stood up for me when no one else did. I remember how you stopped that rumor from spreading last semester. You didn't even know me. And now I do know you, Cinderella. You're strong, but even the strongest people need someone on their side."
The truth of her words settled into Cinderella like warmth on a cold day. A quiet kind of comfort she hadn't felt in years.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Heather smiled. "So, what's next?"
---
The rest of the week moved with quiet purpose.
Cinderella and Heather began spending more time together—studying, eating lunch, even walking home when the timing allowed. They were subtle about it. Heather didn't publicly challenge Penelope, but her absence from the girl's inner circle was noticeable.
Penelope wasn't stupid. She saw the shift and responded with glares and snide remarks, but Cinderella no longer flinched.
With Heather beside her, the silence she once walked through felt less lonely.
At home, things remained tense. Rebecca's eyes trailed her every move. Stephen bumped into her deliberately in hallways. Penelope pretended not to know her at school, but at home, the insults were colder, more personal.
Desmond, oblivious as ever, continued to smile through breakfast, thank Rebecca for every forced meal, and retreat to his office with blind trust.
One evening, Cinderella found herself in the garden again. The roses Caroline planted had bloomed early this year, vibrant and defiant against the chill in the air. She knelt beside one, brushing her fingers gently against its petals.
"I miss you, Mom," she whispered. "I wish you were here to see this."
Behind her, the garden gate creaked.
She turned quickly, defensive by instinct, but relaxed slightly when she saw who it was—Desmond.
"I thought I'd find you here," he said quietly.
She stood, brushing the dirt from her hands. "Did you need something?"
Desmond stepped closer, hands in his pockets. "I just… wanted to check in. You've been quiet lately."
Cinderella gave a humorless smile. "Nothing new there."
"I mean... quieter than usual."
She tilted her head. "Have you noticed anything else?"
Desmond hesitated. "Like what?"
Cinderella sighed. "Never mind."
She turned back to the roses, disappointment settling in her chest. He still wasn't ready to hear the truth.
"I miss your mother, too," he said softly.
That froze her.
"I know things have changed a lot since… she left. And maybe I've been too eager to fill the silence with something new." He paused, his voice heavy. "Rebecca makes things feel less empty. At least, I thought she did."
Cinderella turned toward him again, searching his face for signs—any signs—that he might finally be opening his eyes.
"Desmond…" she began, unsure where to start.
But he shook his head and offered a sad smile. "Let's not talk about it tonight."
She nodded, though part of her ached to scream the truth into him.
One day, she would. But not yet.
---
The next day, Heather came to school with something tucked under her arm—a thin file folder.
"What's that?" Cinderella asked.
"Documentation," Heather whispered. "Screenshots, timestamps, statements. I pulled messages from people Penelope's harassed. A few girls even agreed to write down what she's said behind your back."
Cinderella blinked in surprise. "You did all that for me?"
"I did it for the truth," Heather replied. "And because people like her only win when no one stands up."
A flicker of something fierce lit in Cinderella's chest. It wasn't revenge. It was justice—slow-burning, methodical.
"I'll add this to my journal," she said. "Soon we'll have enough to show Desmond what's really happening."
Heather grinned. "Then we're getting close."
---
That night, Cinderella wrote in her journal again, the file from Heather tucked neatly into the back pocket.
April 28th.
I'm not alone anymore. Heather sees the truth. She believes me.
Every day, the mask slips a little more from Rebecca and her children.
Soon, Desmond will see it too.
But until then, I'll keep building.
A wall of truth. A tower of evidence. A fortress of resolve.
This house may be under siege, but I'm not a victim.
I'm a survivor. And I'm not fighting alone anymore.
She closed the journal, the edges of her lips lifting into a quiet smile.
The storm was still raging, but now she had an umbrella—and a friend willing to walk beside her in the rain.
---