Cinderella sat at the dining table, her fingers curled around a warm mug of tea. Her eyes, sharp and observant, scanned the room. The once peaceful atmosphere of the house had shifted dramatically since Rebecca and her children had moved in. The quiet solitude that had once been her sanctuary had been replaced with an uncomfortable tension—a tension fueled by fake laughter, forced politeness, and the constant presence of people she didn't trust.
Stephen entered first, strutting through the door like he owned the house. His chin was high, his posture deliberately arrogant, and his lips stretched into that same smug smirk that always irritated her. He glanced at Cinderella, barely acknowledging her presence with a half-hearted nod before making his way to the table, claiming the seat opposite her.
Behind him came Penelope, the ever-present picture of sweet innocence. She twirled a lock of her curls between her fingers as she glided into the room. She was dressed in a soft pink dress, a perfect contrast to the wickedness she concealed beneath that sugary exterior. Penelope's eyes met Cinderella's, her smile too wide, too perfect. It was the smile of someone who had learned how to charm others, to manipulate them with just a glance. Cinderella felt a shiver run down her spine, but she refused to show any sign of discomfort.
And then came Rebecca, her stepmother. Her entrance was nothing short of calculated. She was dressed impeccably, her red lips painted with precision, her hair arranged in glossy perfection. But it was the way she carried herself that made Cinderella's skin crawl—so confident, so aware of the power she held over everyone in this house. The smile she gave Cinderella was wide, almost motherly, but it was a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Cinderella saw it for what it was—a cold, calculating gesture.
"Good morning, darling," Rebecca said sweetly, her fingers brushing against Cinderella's shoulder in a gesture that was meant to be comforting, but felt far too familiar in a way that unsettled her. Cinderella remained still, though. She wasn't going to let Rebecca get to her—not yet.
"Good morning," Cinderella replied, her voice calm, even, masking the storm that was brewing within her. She had learned long ago how to hide her emotions, how to keep her reactions in check. The time for her to fight back would come, but it wasn't today.
Desmond, her father, entered the room a few moments later, his presence as commanding as ever. He walked in with a smile, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "I hope everyone had a good night," he said, his eyes scanning the room. "Rebecca made breakfast."
Cinderella's gaze shifted to the plate in front of her. It was a full breakfast—pancakes, eggs, and syrup—far too much for her, but what caught her attention was the fact that Rebecca had prepared it. She had never cooked a single meal since moving in. And yet, today, she had suddenly decided to play the role of the doting wife. Cinderella couldn't help but wonder what Rebecca's game was.
The fake kindness didn't end there. Throughout breakfast, Rebecca was overly cheerful, laughing at every word Desmond said, her eyes glancing at her children to make sure they were also playing their parts. Stephen nodded in agreement with every statement, and Penelope sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap, the picture of obedience. And then there was Cinderella, who quietly observed it all, her mind sharp, already gathering the pieces of the puzzle.
It didn't take long for Rebecca to drop her first subtle jab.
"So, Cinderella," she began, her voice sweet, almost sickly so, "I noticed your closet is a little outdated. Would you like some help choosing something more... refined?"
Cinderella's stomach churned, but she didn't flinch. She kept her expression neutral, her hands holding the fork steady in her grip. "Thank you, Rebecca, but I think I manage just fine," she replied, her tone polite but firm.
Rebecca's lips curled into a small smile, a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course, dear. Just trying to help."
Stephen, ever the troublemaker, snorted under his breath. "Maybe she should accept. She looks like she stepped out of an old yearbook."
Penelope giggled, her hand covering her mouth as if to feign innocence. "Stephen!" she scolded softly, but Cinderella could see the gleam in her eyes. The perfect act.
Cinderella's grip on her fork tightened, but she kept her voice steady. Let them laugh, she thought. Let them show their true colors. She knew how this story ended—and this time, she was going to make sure it was different. Desmond would see it all, eventually. He would see their cruelty, their manipulation. He would see how they made her life a living hell, but this time, she wouldn't be a victim.
The rest of the breakfast passed in a blur of fake laughter and meaningless chatter. Rebecca made sure to drop in a few more backhanded compliments, each one designed to subtly put Cinderella in her place. Stephen made rude remarks every now and then, all while trying to maintain that cool, aloof demeanor. Penelope alternated between pretending to be the sweet, innocent girl and subtly turning Desmond's attention away from Cinderella.
After breakfast, Cinderella excused herself, needing a moment to breathe. She couldn't stand being in the same room with them for much longer. She slipped outside into the garden, a place that had once been a sanctuary for her—a place where her mother had tended the roses with such care. The roses that Caroline had loved, that she had poured her soul into.
As Cinderella walked through the garden, she touched one of the petals gently. The soft breeze ruffled her hair, and for a brief moment, it felt like nothing had changed. This was her mother's garden, the place where she could escape the horrors of the house. But now, it was a reminder of everything that had been taken from her.
She made a vow to herself, as the wind whispered through the leaves. I won't let them destroy what's left of her. Not this house. Not my peace. Not me.
From the kitchen window, she could see Rebecca watching her. Not smiling. Not pretending. Just watching. Their eyes locked, and Cinderella held her gaze, unblinking. Rebecca was the first to break the stare, but not before Cinderella saw the flicker of irritation in her eyes. She had a feeling Rebecca didn't like being challenged, and that was exactly what Cinderella intended to do—challenge her at every turn.
Back in the house, the lies were already beginning. Small jabs, subtle manipulations, whispered gossip. Rebecca was already at work, turning Desmond's attention away from her, making him believe that everything was fine, that Cinderella was the problem. Cinderella could already feel it—a repetition of what had happened before.
But this time, it was different. This time, Cinderella had a weapon she didn't have before: foresight. She had the knowledge of what was to come, the ability to see through their lies before they even spoke them.
That night, she began to keep a journal. She recorded every word Rebecca said, every sneer from Stephen, every passive-aggressive comment from Penelope. She wrote down the dates, the times, the moods—every detail that could be used to expose their lies. It was proof, evidence, and strategy.
She wasn't going to let herself be blindsided again.
If Rebecca wanted to play games, Cinderella would play better.
And this time, she wasn't going to play fair.
---
The lies had begun. But so had Cinderella's plan.