The mansion's silence at night had always comforted Cinderella. It was the only time she could hear herself think without Penelope's sneering, Stephen's bullying, or Rebecca's manipulation cutting through her thoughts. But now, that silence served a new purpose—research.
Cinderella sat at the edge of her bed with her laptop open, a stack of old photo albums and documents beside her. It had taken months of subtle digging and quiet observation to reach this point. But tonight, she felt closer to the truth than ever before.
The moment her father confessed regret over Stephen's behavior, something inside her shifted. The timing was right. She couldn't keep waiting for justice to fall from the sky—she had to uncover it herself.
And it began with a question that had haunted her for years: What really happened to my mother?
Growing up, her mother's death had always been a blurry, painful subject. Her father rarely spoke about it, and when he did, it was always vague—a tragic accident, a painful memory, best left untouched. Rebecca had conveniently filled in the blanks, saying things like:
"She was never strong enough for this life."
"She left your father heartbroken—he was lucky I came along."
But Cinderella had always felt something didn't add up. Her mother's face in the few remaining photos she had seen showed a woman vibrant and kind—nothing like the fragile figure Rebecca painted her to be.
Now, armed with experience, courage, and a deep desire for truth, Cinderella began gathering information.
She started by searching through her father's old office, carefully during the day when he was away and Rebecca was at her charity meetings. She discovered a locked drawer in his desk. It took her a few tries and a broken hairpin, but it finally clicked open.
Inside, she found it—a dusty folder labeled "Caroline Harper – Personal."
Her breath caught in her throat. Caroline. Her mother.
She drew in a slow breath, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened it.
The first document was a police report—an accident that occurred when she was sixteen years old. A car crash on a rainy night. Cinderella recognized the date. It was just months before Rebecca officially became her father's partner.
The report mentioned brake failure, but there was a note scribbled in the margin in blue ink, clearly written by her father: "I should've followed up on this."
Cinderella frowned. Why wouldn't he? What stopped him?
Then came another paper—an email printout from a lawyer dated several years after the accident. It suggested there had been foul play suspected at one point, but the investigation was abruptly closed. No suspects. No further inquiry.
Her heart pounded. There was more to this.
And finally, a photograph. It was torn on the edge but showed a younger Rebecca in a heated conversation with a man who looked vaguely familiar. Cinderella studied the man's face—her mind flipping through memories—and then it hit her.
He was the mechanic who used to work at her father's garage when she was little. He disappeared after her mother's accident.
There was a connection.
Over the next week, Cinderella took more risks. She skipped her part-time job one afternoon and went into town under the guise of needing a book for school. Instead, she visited the city archives and began digging into newspaper articles from the year of the crash.
One headline stood out: "Socialite Caroline Harper Dies in Sudden Car Accident."
Beneath it, the article listed a few "eyewitness statements," one of which described seeing Caroline's car "swerving erratically" minutes before the crash. The name of the eyewitness? Vernon Chase—the very same mechanic.
Her gut twisted.
What if Rebecca had done something to the car? Paid Vernon off? Or worse—framed it as an accident?
She needed to find him.
After hours of online digging, she tracked down a small auto repair shop in another city under Vernon's name. It was risky, but she called the number listed.
"Chase Motors," a tired voice answered.
"Mr. Chase?" she asked, heart hammering. "You don't know me, but… my name is Cinderella. I'm Caroline Harper's daughter."
There was a long pause.
Then came the voice, cautious and low. "I knew this day would come."
Hope surged through her.
"Can we talk?" she asked.
"I can't speak much on the phone. Too dangerous. But… meet me in person. Tomorrow. I'll text you the address. And come alone."
That night, sleep evaded her. Every possibility, every question twisted through her thoughts. What if she was wrong? What if Vernon was just a bitter old man?
But what if she was right?
What if Rebecca had orchestrated her mother's death and lied to them all these years?
The next day, Cinderella made her way to the small town two hours away. The place Vernon owned was tucked behind a row of shops, barely noticeable. The man who greeted her was older now, with greying hair and tired eyes—but his expression softened when he saw her.
"You have your mother's eyes," he murmured.
They sat in his office, the door locked behind them.
"I've been waiting to clear my conscience," Vernon said. "Back then, I didn't know what I was getting into. Your stepmother… she paid me to tamper with the brakes. Told me it was just a test, part of an insurance fraud scheme. I believed her. Thought no one would get hurt."
He looked away, shame clouding his face.
"When your mother died… I knew. I tried to tell the police, but Rebecca's people shut me down. Threats. Money. I left town."
Cinderella's breath caught. It was true. Her mother's death wasn't an accident.
It was murder.
Cold, calculated murder.
"She wanted your father. Caroline stood in her way."
Cinderella stared at him, grief and rage mingling in her chest.
"Would you be willing to testify?" she whispered.
He hesitated. "It's dangerous."
"She took everything from me. From my father," Cinderella said, voice shaking. "She made our lives a lie. I can't let her keep winning."
Vernon stared at her, then slowly nodded.
"I'll help you. But be careful. Rebecca… she's not just cruel. She's smart. And she's desperate."
Cinderella left with a copy of his signed statement and a small voice recording of their conversation. It wasn't much—but it was something.
That night, back in her room, she locked the folder away and stood by her window.
The stars blinked quietly above her.
The truth was hers now—and it was power.
For the first time, she didn't feel like a victim.
She felt like a warrior.
And the war had only just begun.