The morning sun crept slowly across the curtains, casting a soft golden glow over the room. Cinderella stirred gently beneath the covers, her bare leg tangled with Silvester's. She turned to look at him, still asleep, his arm resting protectively around her waist. A quiet smile curved her lips. There was something sacred about waking up like this—with peace in her heart and no storm on the horizon.
She rose slowly, careful not to disturb him, and slipped into her robe. As she padded quietly to the living room, the scent of roses still lingered from the night before, mingling with the faint warmth of early morning coffee from the nearby café. Her fingers brushed across the petals Silvester had laid along the hallway, now slightly wilted but still beautiful. Like echoes of a perfect moment.
The knock on the door was unexpected.
She hesitated for a beat, then opened it.
Desmond stood on the other side, looking older than she remembered. Not aged, but weathered—like someone who had finally taken stock of every mistake, every shadow from his past. He wasn't dressed in his usual stiff suit. Instead, he wore a simple shirt, slacks, and that same unsure expression he'd carried the last time they spoke.
"Dad," she said softly.
"Hi," he replied, a little awkwardly. "I hope I'm not intruding."
Cinderella stepped back to let him in. "You're not."
The silence between them felt delicate, like a fragile thread trying to reconnect two parts of a long-torn fabric.
Desmond looked around the apartment, taking in the photos on the wall—Cinderella and Silvester laughing at the beach, Cinderella holding a bouquet on her graduation day, Cinderella and her friends clinking glasses on their vacation.
"She's really gone," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
"Who?" Cinderella asked gently.
"Rebecca," he said. "Penelope. Stephen. All of them. They've been gone a while, but… it finally hit me. The quiet. The empty halls. No schemes, no chaos. Just... silence."
Cinderella nodded slowly. "It's peaceful when the noise is gone, isn't it?"
Desmond gave a weak chuckle and sank onto the edge of the couch. "You know, I used to think control was love. That if I could just manage everyone, keep the house in order, everything would be fine."
"You confused fear with respect," she said plainly.
He winced at her honesty but didn't protest. "I did. And I confused silence with loyalty. But you—" he looked up at her, eyes clear and tired—"you broke the pattern."
She sat down opposite him. "I had to."
Desmond exhaled. "You remind me of your mother. Caroline. She always said people's true strength shows not when they win, but when they're broken and still choose to get back up."
There was a long pause.
"I didn't just come here to see the apartment," he said. "I came to say thank you."
"For what?"
"For surviving me," he said, voice low. "For surviving Rebecca. For not becoming what the world tried to turn you into. I was supposed to protect you, and instead, you protected yourself."
Cinderella looked down, emotion swelling in her chest.
"Dad," she said finally, "I don't think we'll ever go back to how things were. And I'm not sure we should. But I do want peace. I want to move forward."
Desmond swallowed hard. "I would like that too."
They sat there in the quiet morning light—father and daughter, two people bound not just by blood, but by a shared history of pain, loss, and ultimately… growth.
"I'm proud of you," he added quietly.
Those words sank deep into her, warming the parts of her that had once ached so fiercely for approval. But now, it wasn't about needing to hear it—it was about knowing she had earned it, and she didn't need it to validate who she had become.
"I'm proud of me too," she said with a soft smile.
Desmond stood slowly. "If you ever need anything… you know where I am."
She nodded. "Same here."
At the door, he turned one last time. "You've become someone remarkable, Cinderella."
When the door closed behind him, she stood there for a moment, feeling a strange sense of lightness—like a cord had finally been cut, not in bitterness, but in understanding.
Silvester appeared behind her, shirtless, sleepy-eyed, rubbing his head. "Was that who I think it was?"
Cinderella turned, walked into his arms, and nestled against his chest. "Yeah. It was Dad."
He tightened his hold around her. "You okay?"
"I think I finally am," she whispered.
And she was.
Because sometimes, letting go isn't just about cutting ties—it's about reclaiming power. About rewriting what once was, with grace instead of grief.
And Cinderella… was free.
Silvester's arms stayed wrapped around her as they stood in the soft morning light, neither of them rushing the moment. Then, with a mischievous grin, he lifted her off her feet and spun her around.
"Now that your emotional reunion with your dad is out of the way," he teased, setting her gently back down, "it's time for round two of you being completely spoiled."
She raised a brow. "Round two?"
"I didn't get to properly celebrate you last night," he said. "Too busy making you moan."
She swatted his arm, blushing. "Silvester!"
He laughed and pulled her closer again. "You're blushing. Cute. But come on—bathrobe off, socks off, and let's see if I can still make you laugh harder than your friends do."
With music playing in the background, he dragged her to the center of the living room. They danced barefoot on the hardwood floor, twirling and swaying, bumping hips, and giggling like teenagers. When she tripped over his foot and collapsed onto the couch in laughter, he followed her down, raining kisses on her cheeks and neck.
She was still breathless when a loud knock hit the door.
Silvester groaned dramatically. "Who dares interrupt the romance?"
Cinderella smirked. "It's probably the girls."
When she opened the door, Heather, Eloise, and Lily burst in like a whirlwind of energy, each carrying snacks, a board game, and enough bubbly laughter to fill the room.
"Hope we're not interrupting!" Lily called out, already spotting Silvester shirtless. "Oh, we definitely are."
Cinderella rolled her eyes and laughed. "Come in, you clowns."
"Is that the robe you wore last night?" Eloise asked, narrowing her eyes playfully. "Because that's the robe of a woman who had a very good night."
Heather threw herself onto the couch dramatically. "I've missed this chaos."
Silvester raised his hands in surrender. "I'll go put on a shirt before you all traumatize me."
"No, you're fine," Lily said with a wink. "You're practically family now."
The afternoon became a blur of games—charades, card rounds, and a trivia challenge where Cinderella and Silvester absolutely demolished everyone. The girls ganged up to take them down in the next round, and the laughter echoed through the apartment like a warm hug.
Later, as the sun began to set, they all lounged on the balcony with drinks in hand, basking in the calm of friendship, freedom, and fresh starts.
And for the first time in a long while, Cinderella felt like her life was not just good—but truly whole.