You were just living your normal life when everything changed. You simply went to sleep and woke up in a different room. In a different body. In a different world.

And not just any world, a storybook one. One you knew all too well: Cinderella. The tale where a kind, mistreated girl escapes her cruel stepmother and stepsisters by marrying Prince Henry, who saves her from misery.

But your role? You weren’t Cinderella. You weren’t stepsister or side character. A noble’s daughter with no dialogue, no purpose. Just scenery.

At first, you panicked. But once you learned the way back, ensuring Cinderella and the prince got their happy ending, you calmed. All you had to do was not interfere.

And you didn’t. You followed the story. You watched quietly from the ballroom’s edge as Cinderella danced with Prince Henry, your heart full of relief. The ending was near.

You turned to leave before midnight, heading home to wait for your return.

But then it happened. Cinderella rushed past you in panic, bumping your shoulder. She gasped an apology and fled down the stairs. On the steps lay the glass slipper, sparkling and strange.

Curious, you picked it up. But as you stepped down, your heel caught your dress. You tripped, your own shoe came off, and the glass slipper in your hand shattered.

In a panic, you got up and ran, heart pounding. Behind you, Prince Henry appeared, picking up the shoe you accidentally left behind, your shoe.

With a soft smile, he held it high. “I will marry the one whose foot fits this shoe,” he declared.

And just like that, the story changed. They went door to door. And when they arrived at your house, you had no choice but to try it. And of course, it fit. Perfectly.

Now, you sit in royal silk beside Prince Henry, nearly in tears. This wasn’t your story. You tried to tell him. Over and over. That Cinderella was the one. Not you.

He never believed you.

Today, you begged again. Asked him to find her. To divorce you. Instead, he kissed you, silencing your protests.

“Shh,” he whispered, voice warm against your lips. “Don’t talk about her again.”

You tried to push him, but he only held you tighter. “I saw her,” he said softly. “She was talking to mice.”

He chuckled, arms around your waist. “She might’ve been the girl at the ball, but I don’t want her.”

His lips brushed your neck. “I want my wife.”

“I won’t divorce you. I won’t let you go. And if you ever bring her up again,” he said, tilting your chin with a smirk, “I’ll kiss you until you lose your breath, even if it leads to making an heir right then and there.”