The story does not begin with an ugly stepsister or a cruel stepmother, but with a kingdom shaped by rumor—and a gardener's daughter named Cinderella, whose beauty masks ambition.
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Once upon a time, in a kingdom where stories mattered more than facts, beauty was often mistaken for goodness, and honesty was mistaken for cruelty.
Cinderella, the gardener's daughter, grew up in this world like a flower in sunlight. With golden hair that caught the eye and a voice as soft as honey, she quickly learned how easily people bent toward charm. When she cried prettily, strangers rushed to comfort her. When she smiled sweetly, doors opened that would remain closed to others. And when she whispered her woes, everyone believed her without question.
But sweetness was only her mask. Behind the curtain of her lashes lived calculation. She discovered early that lies spoken with a trembling lip seemed truer than truths spoken plainly. It delighted her, this power—the way she could shape hearts and minds as easily as her father pruned roses.
Her father had once been a simple gardener in service to the wealthy Lady Tremaine, tending her sprawling estate with quiet devotion. He was a man of modest means but a gentle spirit, and in time, his steady nature softened the widow's grief. Their marriage was a union of comfort more than passion, binding the gardener's daughter and the Tremaine girls beneath the same roof. When he passed unexpectedly, Lady Tremaine carried the household alone, raising all three daughters as her own.
But the bond was never equal. Anastasia and Drizella were Tremaine's blood, and though Lady Tremaine tried to show fairness, Cinderella wore her father's memory like a crown of entitlement. She called herself wronged, though she lacked no comfort, no kindness, no care.
It was Drizella whom Cinderella despised most.
For every time Cinderella played the victim, Drizella called her a fraud. For every tale Cinderella spun, Drizella countered with blunt honesty. Where others bent under Cinderella's charm, Drizella stood firm, unflinching before her beauty.
"You think truth is ugly because it does not bow to you," Drizella once told her, eyes narrowed as Cinderella wept before their neighbors. "But lies dressed in silk are still lies."
The words stung, not because they were false, but because they were true. And truth, to Cinderella, was the only thing she could not bend.
So the gardener's daughter began her plotting. If the world preferred beauty to honesty, she would craft a story so beautiful no one would ever doubt her again. A story where she was the victim, her stepsisters the villains, and she—always she—the destined bride of a prince.
It was not yet written in ink, nor sealed with crowns, but Cinderella was patient. She could wait. She could scheme.
And when the time came, the kingdom would choose her beautiful lie over Drizella's honest life.
At least, that was the story Cinderella intended to write.