Chapter Fourteen – Desmond’s Blindness

Cinderella stood by the kitchen window, watching the rain tap lightly against the glass. The garden below looked fresh and alive, a stark contrast to the heaviness that weighed on her chest. In the past few weeks, she had grown in quiet power—earning respect, finding her voice, and even surrounding herself with allies—but one thing hadn't changed: Desmond's unwavering trust in Rebecca.

It was like living in two different worlds. Outside the house, she was becoming someone others looked up to. But inside, under the same roof as the man who once promised to care for her, she was still invisible. Or worse—misunderstood.

Desmond's blindness wasn't cruel. That was what made it harder. He wasn't ignoring her on purpose. He genuinely didn't see the manipulation, the cruelty hidden behind Rebecca's charming smiles and sweet words. He still saw the elegant, soft-spoken woman who made him laugh, who kept the house organized, who made breakfast every now and then just to appear nurturing.

He didn't see the way Rebecca would brush past Cinderella with veiled insults disguised as advice. He didn't notice how Stephen deliberately created messes and blamed them on her. He didn't question why Penelope always seemed to be the victim when she and Cinderella had disagreements.

Cinderella had tried talking to him once. Just once.

"Dad, can I ask you something?" she'd said, her voice careful.

He had looked up from his laptop, smiling, "Of course, sweetheart. What's on your mind?"

"Do you ever wonder if people aren't always who they pretend to be?" she'd asked, her heart pounding.

He chuckled softly, not unkindly. "Well, that's life, isn't it? People wear masks sometimes. But Rebecca? She's honest. Kind-hearted. Why do you ask?"

Cinderella had smiled tightly and shaken her head. "No reason. Just thinking."

That was weeks ago. She hadn't tried again.

Now, as she walked down the hallway, she could hear laughter coming from the living room. Rebecca's laughter. Light, melodic, and practiced. Desmond was with her, and so were Penelope and Stephen. A perfect little family.

Cinderella paused by the doorway, just enough to listen without being noticed.

"She's always so quiet," Rebecca was saying, her voice dipped in syrup. "I try to include her, Desmond, but I think she prefers to be alone."

"She's been through a lot," Desmond said, his voice thoughtful.

Penelope chimed in, "We tried asking her to join us the other day, remember? But she said she was too busy."

Stephen scoffed. "She always acts like she's better than us."

"Stephen," Rebecca warned gently, "don't be unkind."

Cinderella felt her stomach twist. The performance was flawless. She turned away before they could see the expression on her face.

They were planting seeds—subtle suggestions that she was distant, ungrateful, even arrogant. And Desmond, in his eagerness to see the best in Rebecca, was starting to believe it.

Later that evening, while everyone was asleep, Cinderella pulled out her journal. She flipped through pages filled with dates, incidents, overheard conversations, and Rebecca's carefully worded lies. She had enough to prove a pattern, but not enough to break Desmond's trust in one clean blow.

She didn't want to hurt him. That was the worst part. Desmond had always tried to be kind to her in his own distracted way. He wasn't a villain—just a man in love with the wrong person.

"I need a way to make him see," she whispered to herself.

A plan slowly began to form in her mind. She couldn't confront Rebecca directly—not yet. But what if she could show Desmond who she truly was without tearing Rebecca down? What if she made herself so undeniable, so reliable, that he would start to question what he thought he knew?

The next day at breakfast, Cinderella arrived early and set the table. She placed Desmond's favorite mug where he liked it, brewed his preferred coffee blend, and even added a small vase with fresh flowers from the garden.

Desmond blinked when he walked in, surprised. "Did you… do all this?"

"Yes," Cinderella said, meeting his eyes calmly. "I thought it might be nice to start the day with peace."

He looked at her, as though seeing her for the first time. "Thank you, Cinderella. That was… thoughtful."

Rebecca entered just moments later, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of the table.

"Oh, my," she said with a soft chuckle, "Cinderella's becoming quite the little homemaker."

There was a faint edge to her tone. Desmond didn't notice, but Cinderella did. She smiled sweetly and replied, "Just wanted to show some appreciation."

She began doing more over the following days—helping the staff with chores, tutoring Penelope in math when her grades dropped, and even standing up to Stephen with calm, measured words that left him speechless. She was always respectful. Always kind. But undeniably strong.

Desmond noticed. Slowly, gradually, he began watching her more closely. Listening when she spoke. Asking about her day. He smiled more when she was around, and Cinderella could see the shift. A tiny one—but a shift nonetheless.

One evening, while she was reading in the study, he approached her.

"Cinderella," he said, "I've been thinking lately… I haven't really taken the time to know how you've been adjusting."

She looked up, surprised.

"You've been through a lot," he continued, "and I want you to know I appreciate everything you do around here. I know it can't be easy."

Cinderella closed her book slowly. "Thank you, Dad. That means more than you know."

She didn't push the conversation further. She knew he needed to come to the truth on his own. But for the first time, a door had opened.

That night, as she sat by her window, the moonlight falling over her face, she realized something.

She didn't have to shatter Desmond's illusions. She just had to shine brighter than Rebecca's lies.

One truth at a time.

And so, her quiet resistance continued—with strength, with grace, and with an unwavering belief that eventually, Desmond would open his eyes.

And when he did, she would be ready.