Everyone knows the story of Cinderella—the girl by the fireplace who scrubs floors, talks to mice, and somehow ends up married to a prince.

  She gets her happy ending. Her glass slippers. A wardrobe full of gowns she can barely breathe in.

  Lovely.

  But this is not that story.

  This is about a 'rella who didn't get the prince, or the slippers, or anything remotely close to a happy ending.

  ***

  "Ophelia!"

  The shriek echoed down the stone corridor, sharp and shrill as ever.

  "Where is that blasted servant girl?!"

  "I am coming!" I shouted, hurrying out of my room—only to smack straight into her.

  Lady Calantha.

  I suppose you would call her my stepmother, but I prefer Evilantha. Much more accurate.

  She glared at me, eyes narrowed like she was seconds from breathing fire.

  "Have you gone deaf?" she barked.

  I opened my mouth to answer, but she was already yanking my ear. Honestly, she treats me like a misbehaving hound.

  "I am sorry," I muttered, swallowing both the pain and the thousand things I actually wanted to say.

  She let go with a sharp exhale and turned away, storming down the corridor like some villain in a gothic novel.

  I followed. Of course. What else was I to do?

  A brief explanation, since I doubt I will get a proper introduction.

  Lady Calantha married my father, Mr. Nightshade, after I was born. She is elegant, poised, and has the heart of a wasp. A beautiful one, I will give her that. But still a wasp.

  Mr. Nightshade, bless his deluded heart, thinks she is an angel sent to reform our household. In truth, she is the plague. But try telling him that—he would probably accuse me of jealousy and send me to scrub the floor with a toothbrush.

  Her five daughters? Spoiled, dramatic, and far too comfortable having me at their beck and call.

  Me? I am the unfortunate byproduct of my father's less-than-honourable youth. I was born out of wedlock, raised as a servant, and considered little more than furniture that answers when called upon.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  We arrived in the drawing room where her daughters lounged across plush cushions, pretending they had burdens heavier than deciding which ribbon to wear.

  "You called, Mother," I said, head bowed in what I hoped passed for courtesy.

  She wrinkled her nose like the word offended her personally.

  "Do not call me that," she snapped. "I would never claim such an... unflattering role."

  I smiled, ever so slightly. "Terribly sorry. I did not realise the title was beneath you... Mother."

  She gave me the kind of look that might have scared the curtains into bursting into flame.

  But truly, if she wanted me to care, she was about five years too late.

  She adjusted the lace on her sleeve—a sure sign she was about to issue a royal decree. One that was not in my favour, of course.

  "Ava, Ruby, Annie, Lyra, Bryn," she called to her darling offspring. "Go fetch your most extravagant, frilliest gowns. The ball is tomorrow"

  She smirked like she had just set something on fire and wasn't planning to confess.

  My stomach dropped.

  Frills.

  Five gowns. All fluff, all lace, all horror.

  And of course, guess who would be washing and ironing out every last one of them before tomorrow evening?

  Sleep and I had a very short-lived friendship anyway.

  The girls scampered off, squealing with excitement.

  Lady Calantha turned to me with a satisfied smile. "Have the gowns washed and the frills pressed perfectly before the ball. Or else..."

  She did not need to finish. She never did.

  Moments later, I stood over a tub of water, sleeves rolled, dignity long forgotten.

  The first dress was lavender. Naturally. It had enough ruffles to bury a small village. The moment I dropped it into the tub, it absorbed the water like a sponge and tried to drown me.

  I wrestled with it, muttering under my breath. These gowns were practically armour. How the girls wore them without fainting is beyond me.

  Sometimes, I am honestly grateful for my plain black dress and apron. No frills. No corsets. No hidden hoops that force you to walk like a baby giraffe.

  Just simple, breathable fabric. Freedom in cloth form.

  By the time I finished waging war against silk and lace, my arms felt like they had been borrowed from someone stronger and less resentful.

  I hauled the dresses out to the line, water streaming down my back as the sun bled slowly over the horizon.

  They were so heavy I nearly tipped forward under the weight. If a stiff breeze had caught the lace, I would have been launched into the next county like a very expensive, very ruffled sacrificial kite.

  I dusted my hands on my apron and turned toward the window, only to catch my reflection in the glass.

  Fair skin. Severe black dress. Hair that looked like it had lost a fight with a hedge.

  I scoffed softly.

  Beauty was a useless currency when no one wanted what you were selling. Just a shiny wrapper on a life that had already been discarded.

  I lived in the Nightshade mansion, yes—but I was less heiress and more unpaid inventory.

  I still remember the day I arrived.

  I had been clutching my father's hand, staring up at the house as if it were a cathedral. He had smiled down at me and said, This is your home, Ophelia.

  I had believed him. I had been young, foolish, and catastrophically hopeful. I had looked at Calantha, all polished smiles and careful grace, and called her Mother.

  She had smiled back.

  It had been cold. Practiced. A threat I had not yet learned to recognise.

  The moment my father's carriage disappeared down the drive, the illusion died.

  Calantha did not wait for dust to settle. In one afternoon, I lost my status, my name, and any illusion of belonging. I was not just demoted.

  I was erased.

  "Ophelia."

  Her voice cut through my thoughts like a blade.

  I turned.

  "You will come with me," Lady Calantha said, already walking away.

  No explanation. No warning. As usual.

  My stomach tightened as I followed her back into the house, black skirts whispering against stone.

  Whatever awaited me, I knew one thing for certain.

  It wouldn't be optional.