The air in the Harper mansion was different now. It wasn't just that Rebecca's manipulative presence had been removed or that Penelope and Stephen were no longer flaunting their entitlement through the halls. No, it was something deeper. Something quieter. A sense of stillness, of healing, of fragile hope starting to bloom from the broken places.
Cinderella stood in the middle of her bedroom that morning, staring at the soft sunlight filtering in through the half-open window. She held the curtains back slightly, watching how the light danced on the floorboards. It had been three days since Rebecca's arrest, and the house had grown unusually silent in her absence. There were no footsteps pacing furiously in the corridors, no shrill orders barked at the help, no icy glares or forced smiles.
Just peace.
For once.
Cinderella took a slow breath in, as if trying to inhale this rare calm into her bones.
She walked over to her desk, where a stack of papers awaited her attention. They weren't school-related. She'd already finished her semester with excellent grades. These were her new plans. Dreams she'd once buried under the weight of humiliation, abuse, and fear.
She sat, pulled out the first paper—her application for the creative arts scholarship—and smiled faintly. It wasn't much, just an idea, really. But it was hers. She had loved sketching, but Rebecca's taunts and Desmond's indifference had turned it into something she did only when no one was looking. Now, she was determined to do more than sketch behind closed doors.
She was going to reclaim everything that had been stolen from her—starting with her voice.
A soft knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," she called without looking up.
It creaked open gently, and Desmond stepped in, his face showing more humility than it ever had before.
"I hope I'm not disturbing," he said quietly.
She shook her head. "No, you're fine."
He lingered at the threshold for a moment, as though unsure of his place in her life. Cinderella looked up and gestured to the chair beside the desk. "You can sit."
Desmond did, his movements stiff, awkward. He wasn't used to asking for permission. But everything had changed.
"I saw the scholarship form," he said after a beat, glancing at the paper on the desk.
Cinderella nodded. "I want to pursue my art."
"I didn't know you were so interested in that."
She tilted her head. "You didn't ask."
Desmond winced, the words cutting deeper than he expected. He nodded slowly. "You're right. I didn't. And I should have."
There was silence between them for a moment, filled only by the rustling of papers as she slid the next document into place.
"I'm proud of you," he said finally.
Cinderella paused, then looked at him. His eyes were sincere. Tired. Remorseful.
"I'm trying," he added. "To be the father I should've been."
Her voice was quiet, but firm. "It's not about what you say now. It's about what you do next."
Desmond lowered his head. "I understand."
She didn't say anything else, and he stood after a moment, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I'll support whatever you decide to do," he said before turning to leave.
When the door closed behind him, Cinderella stared at the spot he had occupied. The man who had once blindly sided with his second wife, who had dismissed her cries for help, was trying now. It wasn't enough to erase the past. But it was a start.
Later that afternoon, she met with Heather and one of her closest friends from highschool —at the café near campus. She hadn't seen them much since things had escalated at home, but with Rebecca gone, she felt strong enough to reach out again.
"Girl, you look like you slept for the first time in weeks," Eloise teased, wrapping her arms around Cinderella as she arrived.
"I did," Cinderella laughed, her heart feeling lighter than it had in ages.
They found a table by the window, and the conversation flowed easily. Cinderella told them about Rebecca's arrest, about Penelope and Stephen being stripped of their privileges. Talia's eyes widened as she listened.
"I always knew something was off about that woman," she muttered. "She had that fake-smile energy. The one that says, 'I'd poison your tea if I could get away with it.'"
They all burst into laughter, and for once, Cinderella didn't feel like she was watching life from behind a glass wall. She was living it.
"And Silvester?" Heather asked slyly, sipping her iced tea. "What's the tea there?"
Cinderella hesitated, then smiled. "He's… just Silvester. We've talked a little. I think he's trying to figure things out."
Eloise arched a brow. "Figure out that he's madly in love with you, you mean?"
Cinderella laughed, but her cheeks turned pink. "Let's just say… I'm not in a rush. For once, I want to focus on me."
The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of laughter, teasing, and shared pastries. By the time she got home, the sun was setting in a blaze of orange and gold. She paused at the gates, watching the light bathe the mansion in soft hues. It looked almost peaceful now, stripped of its chaos.
She stepped inside and took the long way to her room, walking past the garden where she used to sit with her sketchbook. The memories tugged at her, but they no longer held pain. Just quiet determination.
That evening, Silvester messaged her.
Silvester: "Hey, I heard about what happened—Rebecca's arrest. Just wanted to say… you're incredible. I hope you know that."
Cinderella stared at the message for a long time before typing back.
Cinderella: "Thank you. I'm just finally learning to believe it."
His response came quickly.
Silvester: "If you ever want to talk, or get coffee, or… sketch me like one of your French girls—I'm here."
She laughed out loud, shaking her head.
Cinderella: "I'll keep that in mind."
As she set her phone down and turned off the light, she felt something inside her shift. Not the old ache of longing, or the fear of being hurt again—but something warmer. Braver.
A beginning.
A new beginning.