It started with a laugh. Soft, flirtatious, and calculated.
Cinderella had just entered the school hallway when she saw Penelope leaning against a locker, her head tilted in that doll-like way she used to lure attention. Her fingers twirled around a strand of her hair as she gazed up at Silvester Blake—a boy Cinderella had known since childhood. Tall, reserved, and brilliant with numbers, Silvester had always kept to himself. He wasn't the type to get caught up in school drama.
But Penelope had set her sights on him.
Cinderella narrowed her eyes.
"Silvester," Penelope purred, pressing her books to her chest in mock shyness. "You're so good at calculus. I mean, I totally suck at it, and I was wondering if maybe… you could help me? Just us two? I learn better alone, you know?"
Silvester blinked, a little taken aback. "Um, I mean… I guess?"
Penelope giggled. "Great! How about today? We can go to that quiet room on the third floor. No distractions."
Cinderella caught Silvester's slight frown. She knew that look. It was the same one he wore when something didn't sit right with him but he was too polite to say no.
And Penelope saw that hesitation, too.
Cinderella stepped forward, her steps soft but purposeful, her expression unreadable.
"Oh, Silvester," she said casually, approaching with a warm smile. "Are we still meeting at the library after school? For the group project?"
Penelope turned sharply, her sugary tone slipping for a split second. "Group project?"
Silvester looked between them. "Oh… yeah. I forgot we were doing that today."
Cinderella nodded, eyes locked on Penelope. "Mr. Harris said we need to submit the outline by tomorrow morning. He was very specific about teamwork and equal contribution."
Penelope's smile tightened. "Well, maybe after that, Silvester and I could still—"
"I'm afraid today won't work," Cinderella interrupted, her tone still gentle, unthreatening. "There's barely enough time to get the research done as it is. Right, Silvester?"
He hesitated. Then nodded. "Yeah. You're right. Sorry, Penelope—maybe another time."
Penelope's lashes fluttered, a hint of confusion and irritation flashing in her expression before she composed herself. "Sure. No problem."
Cinderella smiled sweetly and turned away with Silvester beside her.
It wasn't a confrontation. It wasn't loud or dramatic. But it was a victory.
Small. Silent. Effective.
As they walked, Silvester glanced at her. "Thanks. I didn't know how to get out of that without sounding rude."
"She's not really interested in calculus," Cinderella said simply.
He smiled. "Yeah, I figured. She's never even shown up to math club."
"She doesn't like being told no," Cinderella added, "so be careful."
Silvester studied her for a moment. "You've changed, you know."
Cinderella blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You used to be… quieter. Always fading into the background. But now…" He paused, searching for the right words. "Now it's like you see everything. Like you're ten steps ahead."
Cinderella felt a flicker of emotion in her chest. "Maybe I've just had to learn."
He gave a short nod. "Well, whatever it is—it suits you."
Later that evening, Cinderella returned home to a suspiciously quiet house. The scent of lavender cleaner filled the air—Rebecca's signature move after a dramatic day. It was a tactic to reset the scene, as if nothing had happened, no tension had simmered, no words had been sharpened like knives.
She passed through the living room and saw Rebecca on the couch, sipping tea and flipping through a bridal magazine. Stephen was nowhere in sight, and Penelope was upstairs, probably fuming.
"Cinderella," Rebecca called sweetly, not looking up. "Could you come here for a moment?"
Cinderella approached, expression neutral.
Rebecca finally glanced up, smile poised. "How was school, dear?"
"Eventful," Cinderella replied calmly.
"I heard Penelope had a little... disappointment today. Something about a study date that got rescheduled?" Rebecca's eyes sparkled with false innocence.
Cinderella tilted her head. "Did she mention that before or after gossiping about Elle's thrift-store shoes again?"
Rebecca's smile faltered. "Penelope is passionate. She speaks her mind."
"No," Cinderella corrected gently, "Penelope speaks to wound."
Rebecca's eyes narrowed just slightly. "You're developing quite the attitude."
"I've always had one," she replied. "You just never bothered to notice before."
Rebecca placed her cup down with a soft clink. "Be careful, Cinderella. You don't want to turn Desmond against you. He values harmony."
"I'm sure he does." Cinderella's voice was a breath. "And I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate finding out who's disrupting it."
The room fell into a careful silence.
Cinderella walked away before Rebecca could reply.
In her room, she opened her notebook and recorded everything. The hallway moment with Penelope. Rebecca's probing comment. Her own responses. Then she added a line at the bottom of the page:
They're slipping. Keep applying pressure. Quietly.
The next day, Penelope strutted into school in designer heels—heels that Cinderella knew Rebecca couldn't afford without dipping into Desmond's account. She made sure to "accidentally" compliment them in front of Mrs. Jennings, the economics teacher who'd once warned students against overspending on trends.
"Oh, those shoes?" Cinderella asked sweetly. "Didn't your mom say your shopping budget was frozen this month?"
Penelope flushed. "We… we found them on clearance."
"Still," Cinderella said, feigning concern, "they must've cost at least three tutoring sessions. You know, the kind Silvester gives."
The teacher raised a brow but said nothing. Penelope turned and stormed off.
It was small. Quiet. Untraceable.
But it was working.
That night, Silvester messaged her:
Did you mean what you said about Penelope?
She replied:
Yes. Don't let her play you. She doesn't care who gets hurt as long as she wins.
He responded:
Thanks for looking out for me.
And then he added:
If you ever need someone to watch your back too, I'm here.
Cinderella stared at the message for a long time.
Then she smiled.
Her resistance wasn't loud. It wasn't public.
But it was constant. Precise. And most importantly—unseen by those who thought they had her cornered.
Penelope would come for her again. Rebecca would circle like a vulture, waiting for a slip.
But Cinderella had made a decision.
She wouldn't confront them head-on.
She'd simply make sure every trap they laid turned back on them.
Silently. Swiftly. Without mercy.