Cinderella's POV
The first weeks of exile were a blur of rage.
The palace guards had escorted her to the remote estate under the cover of night. No public announcement, no trial—only whispered words: disgraced, deceiver, liar. The court wanted her forgotten.
But Cinderella had never been one to fade quietly.
The estate was lavish by common standards—gilded mirrors, silk drapes, sprawling gardens. To her, it was a gilded cage. She smashed the mirrors one by one until only jagged shards remained, each reflecting her twisted expression.
"How dare they," she hissed to her reflection. "How dare they strip me of what I earned."
She had clawed her way up from cinders, outwitted those insipid stepsisters, charmed a prince who should have been hers by right. And yet—one mistake, one slip of her tongue overheard, and the entire game crumbled.
The kingdom now adored Drizella. Drizella, of all people. The thought made her stomach turn.
Her punishment was not chains or dungeons—it was silence.
No visitors. No letters. No audience. Servants delivered meals with eyes lowered, fleeing before she could speak. When she tried to order them, they ignored her. When she screamed, the halls swallowed the sound.
For the first time in her life, her beauty held no power.
And yet, in the oppressive quiet, her mind sharpened.
She began pacing, planning. Writing fragments on scraps of paper she hid beneath floorboards. Notes on allies in the capital who still admired her. Lists of names—merchants, discontent nobles, hungry villagers. Every empire, she reasoned, had cracks. And cracks could be widened.
"Drizella thinks she's won," she whispered into the empty chamber. "But she's soft. She plays at honesty while I… I know how to bend truth until it breaks."
At night, she dreamed of the ball—the glittering chandeliers, the music, the prince's eyes on her. In her dreams, he always chose her again. And when she woke, she clenched her fists until her nails cut her palms.
One rainy evening, a servant left a tray of food at her door. Beneath the bread roll was a sliver of parchment, smudged with hurried ink:
"You are not forgotten."
Cinderella's lips curled into a slow smile.
Someone still believed in her. Someone inside the kingdom wanted her back.
And with that single scrap of hope, her plotting took on a sharper edge.
She would rise again. And when she did, Henry and Drizella would regret ever daring to take her crown.