Time had passed like sand slipping through fingers, silently but steadily. High school had come and gone, marked by late-night studying, quiet triumphs, and a graduation ceremony that seemed more surreal than celebratory. For Cinderella, the victory wasn't in the applause or the scroll in her hands—it was in the quiet knowledge that she had made it out, scarred but not broken.
Now, university life stood before her like a new world—bigger, faster, freer. A chance to truly reinvent herself.
Cinderella had chosen to major in Political Science—her interest in justice and systems had only deepened over the years, and she was determined to be a voice that mattered someday. Silvester, ever the logical mind, had gone into Engineering. Yet, despite their differing paths, their bond had only grown stronger.
He was taller now, more mature in the way he spoke and carried himself, but the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her hadn't changed. If anything, it had deepened—though he had yet to admit that even to himself.
They still met often on campus, whether by chance or subtle planning. Study sessions turned into late-night walks, and group projects somehow always included both of them. There were unspoken things between them, but neither had dared cross that line.
Until Penelope tried to blur it.
She had also gotten into the same university, much to Cinderella's dismay. While Stephen had gone off to study abroad—an arrangement no doubt fueled by Rebecca's schemes—Penelope had slithered her way into their space once again.
Her methods hadn't changed, only evolved. She no longer bullied openly. Now, she whispered. Manipulated. Smiled while twisting the truth.
One afternoon, Cinderella and Silvester were sitting beneath the old almond tree near the campus library, books open between them.
"You won't believe what I heard today," he said suddenly, setting down his pen.
Cinderella looked up. "What?"
"Penelope told my roommate that you used to bully her in high school. Said you made her life miserable. That the whole 'poor stepdaughter' act was just a cover."
Cinderella blinked, a mix of disbelief and tired amusement crossing her face. "Did she now?"
He nodded. "I didn't believe it, of course. But she's been saying things to a lot of people lately. That you're manipulative. That you only act sweet when someone's watching."
Cinderella stayed quiet for a moment, her fingers gently tracing the edge of her notebook. She had learned, over the years, that the best way to deal with venom was not to spit it back—but to expose it to the light.
"Would you believe me if I told you she once locked me in the school supply room and blamed it on me?"
His brows furrowed. "She did what?"
"She told the principal I broke in. I got detention. She got praise for 'reporting bad behavior.' That was the first time I realized how far she'd go just to twist the truth."
Silvester leaned back against the tree, his expression thoughtful. "I remember that. You wouldn't even talk about it back then."
Cinderella smiled faintly. "Because it wouldn't have made a difference. Everyone already believed the version she told them. Even Dad did."
Silvester's gaze softened at her use of "Dad" instead of "Desmond." That had changed too. Her father had started noticing cracks in Rebecca's mask, slowly—thanks to Cinderella's subtle efforts. But that battle was still far from over.
"She's been lying for so long," Cinderella continued, her voice quiet. "And not just about me. Do you know why she transferred here? She failed her entrance into the school she wanted. Blamed it on me, of course."
Silvester chuckled dryly. "Of course."
There was a pause, then he looked at her more seriously. "Why didn't you ever say anything? About what they did to you?"
Cinderella hesitated. "Because I didn't want to sound like a victim. I wanted to prove I could rise above it. And... maybe I hoped someone would eventually see the truth on their own."
Silvester's gaze didn't waver. "I do now. And I'm sorry it took this long."
Their eyes met—and something silent but powerful passed between them. A kind of understanding. A flicker of something deeper.
The next week, the truth came out in the most unexpected way.
During a group presentation in their communication class, Penelope had been paired with a few students, including Silvester. Cinderella wasn't in that class, but she heard the fallout from three different people.
Penelope had taken credit for the entire project, dismissing her teammates and even publicly embarrassing one of them during the presentation. What she didn't know was that Silvester had recorded part of their group meeting—where she had explicitly refused to do any work and called the project "a waste of her time."
He didn't share the recording to shame her. He shared it to defend the others. But in doing so, Penelope's mask cracked wide open.
The story spread. People began to whisper—not about Cinderella this time, but about Penelope. About her lies. About how she manipulated people to get what she wanted.
Later that day, Silvester found Cinderella at the library steps.
"She won't be able to twist her way out of this one," he said, handing her a coffee.
She raised a brow. "You didn't do it for me, did you?"
"I did it because it was right," he replied, then added, "but if it helps you even a little, I'm glad."
Cinderella smiled and looked at him—really looked. And for the first time, she let her walls slip just a little.
"You've changed," she said softly.
"So have you."
Their fingers brushed as she took the cup from him. Just a brief touch. But it was enough to send a current through the air between them.
As they sat together under the warm sun, Cinderella realized that while she still had battles to fight, she wasn't alone anymore. Silvester saw her. He believed her. And most of all—he cared.
Maybe even more than he understood.