The Harper mansion had grown quiet again, but this time, the silence wasn't peaceful. It was heavy, laden with guilt, confusion, and regrets that refused to go away. Desmond stood by the balcony railing of his bedroom, gazing into the hazy morning sky. He hadn't slept much the night before. Cinderella's words echoed in his head like a haunting melody — "You're a cheat."
He had always prided himself on being a man of discipline and structure. A protector. A father. But now, stripped of illusions, he was beginning to see himself clearly. Not as the man he thought he was, but the one he had allowed himself to become—complacent, easily deceived, and worst of all, blind to the damage done to the people who trusted him.
The door creaked open behind him. He didn't turn.
It was his assistant, Martha, carrying a small box.
"Sir," she said hesitantly, "this came from your old office drawer. They were doing a clear-out and found it tucked in the back."
Desmond nodded absently. "Leave it on the desk."
She set it down, gave him a brief glance, then left, closing the door softly behind her.
He approached the desk a few minutes later, staring at the worn brown box as if it might explode. Eventually, he lifted the lid.
Inside were old letters, a few photos, and documents he hadn't seen in years. One of them caught his eye—a folded envelope with his name scrawled in Caroline's handwriting. It wasn't addressed formally, just Desmond in a soft, familiar script.
His throat tightened as he opened it.
"Desmond,"
"I know something's not right. I feel it in the way you look at me, the way you flinch when I mention her name. Rebecca."
"I wish you'd talk to me. I wish you'd see what I see. She isn't just your assistant anymore, and maybe she never was. But she's been coming between us for longer than either of us will admit."
"If I'm wrong, I'll be the first to apologize. But if I'm right, and if you continue to let this happen… then I fear for what will become of this family when I'm no longer here."
"Still, I love you. I always have. And I hope one day, you'll see the truth for yourself—even if it's too late to change it."
"Yours, Caroline."
The paper trembled in his hand as he lowered it.
He hadn't even known she'd written him this. Or perhaps he had… and chose not to open it back then.
A sharp pang of pain hit his chest, and for the first time in years, Desmond Harper wept—not out of anger or pride—but out of sheer, bitter regret.
He had failed his wife.
He had failed Cinderella.
And the person he thought he could trust had manipulated him right under his nose.
**
Downstairs, Rebecca sat at the breakfast table, her eyes darting between her untouched cup of coffee and the staircase. She hadn't seen Desmond since the brief confrontation two days ago. His silence unnerved her. She wasn't used to it. Desmond had always been predictable—stern but soft when needed, easy to manage when fed the right lines.
But something had shifted. His expression had changed. His silence was no longer confused—it was suspicious.
And that made her nervous.
Penelope entered the dining room, her phone in hand, distracted as always. She paused when she noticed her mother's tense posture.
"What's wrong?" Penelope asked.
Rebecca gave her a thin smile. "Nothing you need to worry about."
Penelope narrowed her eyes. "Is he still mad about what Cinderella said?"
Rebecca's expression darkened. "She's poisoning him against me."
Penelope scoffed. "She's playing victim. That's what Cinderella's good at—looking pitiful while everyone else looks like the villain."
Rebecca said nothing. Her fingers tapped the cup gently, then stopped.
"We need to find out what she's planning," she murmured.
Penelope raised a brow. "You think she's planning something?"
"She said she wasn't done," Rebecca muttered. "She has more secrets to reveal. I need to know what she has… before it's too late."
**
Upstairs in her room, Cinderella wasn't resting either. She sat cross-legged on her bed, her laptop open, papers scattered beside her. The journal entries from her mother were already etched into her mind, but now she was organizing the evidence she had gathered—photos, receipts, emails, dates that overlapped in all the wrong places.
Her mother had been telling the truth all along. And now she would make sure everyone saw it.
Her phone buzzed beside her.
It was a message from Silvester.
Silvester: Are you okay? Just checking in. I know yesterday was a lot.
She smiled faintly, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.
Cinderella: I'm okay. Trying to be.
Silvester: I've been thinking about you. A lot. I hate seeing you like this.
Cinderella: I'll be fine. Just need to get through this storm.
Silvester: Let me know if you want company later. Or coffee. Or someone to punch walls with you.
She laughed quietly.
Cinderella: You're sweet. I'll let you know.
He'd been a source of calm through the chaos lately. The sincerity in his messages, the way he always checked in—he didn't try to fix her pain, he just showed up for her. That meant more than he probably knew.
A knock interrupted her thoughts.
Stephen.
"Can I come in?"
She hesitated, then answered, "Yes."
He entered with a casual smile, leaning against the doorframe.
"Silvester was here earlier," he said, trying to sound unaffected. "Thought you should know."
Cinderella raised an eyebrow. "So?"
He crossed the room and sat on her couch uninvited. "Just wondering what's going on between you two."
"Why do you care?" she asked, her voice cool.
He gave a low chuckle. "Because I know his type. He's not the kind of guy who sticks around when things get messy."
"He already has," she replied, meeting his gaze. "More than most people in this house."
Stephen frowned. "You really think he's different?"
"I know he is."
Stephen stood up, clearly irritated. "You're making a mistake."
She turned her back to him and went back to her laptop. "No, Stephen. The only mistake I ever made was trusting people who smiled at my pain."
He left without another word.
**
Back in his room, Desmond stared at the folder now lying open on his desk. Caroline's note wasn't the only thing inside. There were emails—messages between Caroline and her therapist, files he had once dismissed without reading. Now he read them with a heavy heart.
Words like emotional neglect, manipulation, and infidelity screamed at him.
Then something else caught his eye.
A small, folded receipt from a boutique hotel dated just three weeks before Caroline died. Rebecca's name was on the guest check-in list.
He frowned.
That wasn't the same week she claimed to be on a business trip out of town.
The realization sank in like cold water over his spine.
Rebecca had lied.
About her whereabouts.
About her intentions.
About everything.
His hands clenched the edge of the desk as a fresh wave of nausea swept over him. It wasn't just that she had manipulated him—she had done so while he mourned. While his wife had been crumbling emotionally, Rebecca had carefully slotted herself into the space Caroline left behind.
And he let her.
**
Later that night, Desmond found himself pacing the hall outside Cinderella's room. He hesitated, not sure if he had the right to knock.
But the door opened before he could decide.
Cinderella stood there, expression unreadable.
He looked at her with raw eyes. "Can we talk?"
She stepped aside, allowing him in.
He didn't sit. He stood, hands in his pockets, eyes on the floor.
"I read your mother's journal again," he began. "And I found something else. A letter she wrote me before she died."
Cinderella said nothing.
Desmond continued, "She saw what I refused to see. I dismissed her pain… and I let Rebecca fill the space she left behind. I'm ashamed."
His voice cracked.
"I always thought I was doing the right thing. Providing. Protecting. But I didn't protect either of you. I protected my own comfort… my own image."
A tear escaped down Cinderella's cheek, but she quickly wiped it.
"I can't undo what's been done," he said. "But I want to make things right… even if you never forgive me."
She looked at him for a long time, eyes soft but guarded.
"I don't hate you, Dad," she whispered. "But I don't trust you yet."
He nodded slowly. "That's fair."
As he turned to leave, she said, "You can help me, though."
He paused.
"Help me bring the truth to light."
He turned to face her fully, his eyes steady. "I will."
And for the first time in weeks, there was the faintest flicker of unity between them—shaky, fragile, but real.
They both knew the fight wasn't over.
But at least now, they weren't fighting on opposite sides.