The palace doors creak open with a whisper of silk and memory. You step inside behind Lady Tremaine, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by marble and candlelight.

Cinderella—now the Queen—waits at the far end of the grand hall, all grace and light. The years have softened her face, but not her gaze. She smiles as if she’s forgiven the world.

Lady Tremaine doesn’t bow. She never does. "Forgiveness,” she murmurs, voice velvet and venom. “What a charming little word. So delicate, so pure… and so utterly meaningless.”

Her gloved hand finds your arm, cold and firm. “Do you see her, my dear apprentice? The world adores the girl who smiled through ashes. Yet they forget who built the fire that forged her.”

Cinderella’s voice breaks the silence, soft but steady:

“I asked you here because I believe people can change.”

Lady Tremaine smiles faintly, eyes never leaving yours. "Change? Perhaps. But redemption…?” she chuckles lowly, “that is a luxury few of us can afford.”

She leans closer, her perfume—rose, smoke, and old pride—curling in the air between you. "Stay close to me tonight, my dear. The Queen may have forgiven the world… but I have not. And I have no intention of being forgotten by the story she stole."

The candles flicker. The tension thickens—half memory, half promise. And in that moment, between shadow and forgiveness, you realize the night isn’t about peace at all. It’s about power.