The palace gleamed brighter than ever before. Golden light spilled from chandeliers, laughter echoed against marble walls, and the smell of roses and sugared wine filled the air.
Cinderella had timed everything perfectly. For weeks, she had positioned herself as the only logical choice, the only name on the nobles' lips. Now, draped in silver silk and sparkling jewels, she stepped into the ballroom as though she already wore a crown.
The courtiers gasped. A few even whispered, "Our future queen."
Henry stood at the dais, wearing the black and gold of his station. His smile was courteous, but his eyes were shadowed, heavy with the silence that had followed him home.
When Cinderella reached him, she curtsied low. "Your Highness," she murmured.
"Miss Ella," Henry replied, his tone polite but distant.
She faltered at his formality, but quickly recovered. "Would you grant me this dance? For all the kingdom is watching."
For the sake of courtesy, he agreed.
The music swelled, and they stepped onto the floor. Cinderella moved like a dream—every turn calculated, every glance rehearsed. But Henry's gaze kept drifting away, unfocused, as if he searched for someone who wasn't there.
"You seem distracted," Cinderella said softly, smiling through clenched teeth.
"I am," Henry admitted.
Her smile wavered. "Perhaps you have forgotten how much I've longed to see you. Perhaps you've forgotten who truly suits you."
Henry's brow furrowed. "Suits me?"
Before she could answer, the ballroom doors burst open.
Gasps rippled through the guests as Drizella stormed in, hair escaping its braid, skirts wrinkled from haste. She did not stop to bow or curtsy. She marched straight into the center of the floor, holding a parchment aloft.
Her voice rang like a bell:
"Tell me, Your Highness—when you wrote this letter, was it meant for me… or for her?"
The crowd froze.
Cinderella's face drained of color. "You—how did you—"
Henry's heart slammed against his ribs. He strode toward Drizella, seized the letter with shaking hands, and scanned the ink. His eyes widened.
"This… This is mine. The letter I sent. The one you never answered."
Drizella's chin lifted, though her throat was tight. "I never saw a word of it. She stole it."
Every eye in the hall swung to Cinderella.
"It was for your own good!" she snapped, voice cracking. "He would have chosen me. He should have chosen me!"
"No," Henry said firmly, his voice ringing with steel. "From the first day she struck me with an insult in that library, I chose her."
A stunned silence fell. Henry dropped to one knee before Drizella, his hand over his heart, eyes unwavering.
"Drizella Tremaine, I am done with lies. I am done with masks. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
The court erupted. Whispers, gasps, and cheers tangled together, but Drizella only stared at him, her mouth opening and closing like she'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Idiot," she whispered, though her voice broke on the word. "But you're my idiot."
The hall exploded in applause. Cinderella shrieked as guards moved to escort her away, her protests lost under the roar of celebration.
And Henry, still kneeling, reached for Drizella's hand as though nothing else in the world existed.
-----
The ballroom emptied slowly, nobles buzzing with gossip. The music faded, the lights dimmed, and eventually only the echoes of footsteps remained.
Henry and Drizella lingered in a quiet antechamber, away from prying eyes. The fire crackled in the hearth, throwing warm light across the walls.
Henry turned to her, his expression softer now, stripped of ceremony. "I thought you had abandoned me."
Drizella folded her arms, though her fingers trembled. "And I thought you'd tired of me. Do you know how many nights I sat awake waiting for a letter that never came?"
His jaw tightened. "I wrote. Again and again. When no reply came, I… I thought I had lost you."
She searched his face, seeing the rawness there, the loyalty unshaken even through pain. Her throat burned. "You stubborn, noble fool."
A humorless smile tugged at his lips. "And you—sharp-tongued, relentless, impossible woman—are the only one I want. No silence, no lie, no distance will change that."
For once, Drizella had no retort. She swallowed hard, then stepped close enough for her hand to brush his. "If you ever let another letter slip past me again, I'll string you up in that rope trap myself."
Henry laughed, a sound of pure relief, and pulled her into his arms. "Fair enough."
They stood there, foreheads touching, letting the world fall away. No chandeliers, no court, no crown—just the two of them, bound not by magic or lies, but by choice.
At last, Henry whispered, "Come what may, I'll fight for us. Every day, every breath. You have my loyalty, Drizella. You always will."
Drizella closed her eyes, her lips curving into a small, trembling smile. "Then I suppose I'll let you keep being my idiot."
And in the quiet of that chamber, the fairy tale began anew—not with glass slippers, but with ink-stained letters, stubborn hearts, and a love that had survived the silence.