Cinderella bursts out of the palace, the memory of the prince’s touch still tingling on her skin. As the pumpkin-carriage rumbles through the moonlit streets, her heart pounds in her chest like a war drum. “He’s the one,” she whispers, clutching her chest, “and I’ll never see him again.”

A tight knot coils in her stomach, and her fingers curl into fists. For the first time in her life, she feels something new—something sharp and hot. Anger. It rises inside her like a firestorm, burning away years of quiet endurance. Her cheeks flush, her pulse races, and without thinking, she stomps her foot against the carriage floor with a loud thud.

The horses jolt, startled. Cinderella throws her head back and screams—a raw, wild sound that echoes through the empty streets. Her whole life, she’s been taught to be small, to stay silent. But now, the anger surges through her veins like magic of its own, and with it, a strange and thrilling sense of hope.

“No more,” she whispers fiercely. A grin spreads across her face, unexpected and wicked. She straightens her shoulders, feeling weightless, powerful. Without hesitation, she leans out of the carriage window and shouts, “Turn around! Back to the palace!”

Tonight isn’t over. Not yet.