Chapter Seventeen – Stephen’s Aggression

The semester break brought a shift in the house's atmosphere. The once-quiet halls buzzed with the return of Stephen, who came home from abroad with an air of entitlement and a suitcase full of arrogance. He strutted into the house as though he were royalty returning to his throne, his voice louder than necessary, his presence heavier than ever.

Cinderella sensed it the moment he stepped through the door—an unmistakable tension that returned like an old enemy. Her instincts sharpened, her back straightened, and her heart settled into a silent readiness.

He was back.

Stephen hadn't changed much, physically. If anything, his time abroad had added a slight polish to his wardrobe and vocabulary, but beneath the designer cologne and expensive sneakers, he was still the same calculating bully he had always been.

The first few days were civil. Barely.

"Still pretending to be the innocent one?" he sneered one morning at breakfast, loud enough for Desmond to hear, but quiet enough to pass as a joke.

Cinderella didn't respond with the sharp words itching on her tongue. Instead, she smiled faintly and continued sipping her tea. The game had changed, and she wasn't going to play it by his rules anymore.

But Stephen wasn't done.

He took up space, dominating every conversation, mocking her education choices, subtly demeaning her in front of Rebecca and Penelope. His aggression grew bolder with each passing day, especially when Desmond wasn't around.

One afternoon, Cinderella was in the living room studying when Stephen barged in.

"You think this university nonsense makes you better than us?" he said, yanking the textbook from her lap.

She didn't flinch. Instead, she stood up slowly, eyes cool and calm. "No. But it certainly makes me smarter than you."

His jaw clenched, nostrils flaring. He stepped forward, looming over her. "You'd better watch your mouth, Cinder."

"Or what?" she asked softly, her voice smooth as silk. "You'll hit me in Dad's house? Go ahead."

He froze. It wasn't the challenge that made him pause—it was her confidence. This wasn't the same scared girl who used to flinch under his shadow. This was someone else.

She leaned in just a little. "He's starting to notice, you know. The lies. The tempers. The way you and your mother twist things."

Stephen's eyes darkened, but she held his gaze without blinking. "Keep going, Stephen. Every time you lose control, I win."

And with that, she picked up her book and walked out, leaving him seething.

From then on, Cinderella began planting seeds.

During dinner, when Stephen made a sarcastic remark or interrupted Desmond, she would raise an eyebrow and subtly point out his rudeness with a polite smile.

"Stephen, don't talk to Dad like that. He deserves respect."

Or:

"I'm sure Dad doesn't appreciate you storming out of family dinner, even if it's just your 'way of dealing with stress.'"

Desmond began noticing the tension. The cracks in Rebecca's narrative grew wider as Stephen's behavior became impossible to ignore. Once, during a family outing, Stephen snapped at a waiter for bringing the wrong drink. Cinderella gently told the waiter not to worry, offering a smile that contrasted starkly with Stephen's outburst.

Desmond glanced at his son, frowning.

Later that night, Cinderella passed by the study and overheard Desmond's voice—calm but firm.

"You need to learn how to control your temper, Stephen."

Stephen's answer was sharp, defensive. But Cinderella smiled to herself.

It was working.

But things came to a boiling point one evening when Desmond announced they'd be hosting a small family dinner with some close friends and colleagues.

Stephen saw it as an opportunity to boast. Cinderella saw it as a stage.

Throughout the night, she remained composed, charming even. She helped serve, engaged Desmond's guests with intelligent conversation, and even impressed one of his business associates with her thoughtful comments on politics and youth advocacy.

Stephen, on the other hand, was loud and dismissive. He drank too much wine, laughed too hard at inappropriate jokes, and interrupted Cinderella during a discussion.

At one point, when she gently corrected a detail he got wrong about a political figure, he snapped.

"Why don't you shut up for once, Cinderella? You act like you're better than everyone!"

The room went silent.

Rebecca froze. Penelope dropped her fork. Desmond stared at his son in disbelief.

But Cinderella didn't flinch. She simply looked at Stephen, her expression unreadable. Then she turned to their guests and said calmly, "I'm sorry you had to witness that. Some people never outgrow childish tantrums."

The guests laughed awkwardly, the tension easing slightly. But Desmond's eyes remained fixed on Stephen, who now looked more like a spoiled child than a confident man.

After the dinner, Desmond approached Cinderella while she was clearing dishes.

"I didn't know it had gotten this bad," he said quietly.

Cinderella looked up, her voice gentle. "I didn't want to hurt you, Dad. I knew you loved them. I just hoped... one day you'd see for yourself."

He nodded, a quiet shame settling over his features. "I see now. And I'm sorry I didn't sooner."

She smiled softly, touching his hand. "It's never too late."

In her room that night, Cinderella sat by the window, staring at the stars. Stephen's aggression was his downfall, and she was finally turning the tide—slowly, strategically.

She wasn't fighting them with fists or loud accusations.

She was doing it with wit, grace, and silence.

And it was working.