SINDERELLA

Author's Note:

*I'm testing out a new story under a new penname. Keep in mind, this is a rough draft. Please leave your comments and suggestions, I look forward to reading your feedback and using it to make this modern Cinderella fairytale retelling better. Thank you and enjoy reading!*

P.S. This book is rated 18+.

ASHTEN

The man beneath my heel is crying again.

Not from pain—I know pain, and this isn’t it. The pressure I’m applying to his chest is precise, calculated. Just enough to make him feel small without causing actual damage. Wesley is crying because he’s convinced himself he’s in love with me.

They always do.

“Please,” he gasps, his voice cracking. “I need to see you again. Outside of here. Just coffee, or—”

“Your session ends in three minutes, Wesley.” I shift my weight slightly, watching his eyes flutter closed. The glass beads on my corset catch the low light, scattering amber across his face. “I suggest you use them to collect yourself.”

“But I love—”

“You don’t.” My tone is professional, almost bored. I’ve had this conversation a thousand times. “You love how this feels. There’s a difference.”

Through the sheer curtains, the sky is beginning to lighten—that soft purple that comes before true dawn. In three minutes, this session will end. In five, Wesley will be gone. In ten, he’ll book his next appointment, and we’ll do this dance all over again.

It’s always the same.

The New Orleans humidity creeps through even Spellbound’s expensive air conditioning. The session room feels close, intimate. Candles flicker in their holders, casting shadows that move like living things across the burgundy walls. Outside, the French Quarter is beginning to stir—delivery trucks rumbling over cobblestones, early risers heading to work, the city shaking off sleep.

Inside, men with a lot of money pay me to walk all over them.

Literally.

“Time,” I announce, stepping back smoothly. My stilettos—patent leather, six inches, sharp enough to look dangerous but practical enough for hours of work—click against the hardwood as I move to the small table where I keep a towel and water.

Wesley sits up slowly, running his hands through his disheveled hair. He’s objectively gorgeous; tall, built, dark brown hair that probably costs more to maintain than most people’s car payments. Exactly my type, at least on paper. His face is blotchy now, eyes red-rimmed, but in another hour he’ll be back in his corner office downtown, making seven figures and pretending this place doesn’t exist.

And I’ll still feel nothing.

“When can I see you again?” He’s already reaching for his phone like a man possessed. Which, technically, he is.

“Check with reception.” I hand him his shirt, brisk but not unkind. “I’m fully booked for the next several weeks.”

“I’ll take whatever you have. Anything.”

The desperation in his voice is familiar, almost comforting in its predictability. This is what makes me the most requested provider at Spellbound, the reason I’m booked solid months in advance.

Men don’t just desire me. They fall for me. Obsessively, completely, inevitably.

It isn’t magic, exactly. More like amplified charisma, an inexplicable pull that hooks into something primal in the male psyche and won’t let go. Some call it a gift. I call it a curse disguised as a cash cow.

“Reception will find you something,” I say, opening the door. A subtle dismissal. Or maybe it isn’t so subtle.

Wesley hesitates, clearly wanting to say more. His arousal is obvious, straining against his slacks. He’s well endowed. I can tell even from here. Part of me wants to drop to my knees, take him in my mouth. I’d enjoy it. But that would only dig the hooks in deeper, and there’s a fine line between obsession and ending up on a true crime podcast. So no. The session is over. Fantasy time is done, even if the spell isn’t breaking the way it should.

The moment he leaves, I lock the door and sag against it, letting the professional mask slip. My feet ache, my shoulders are tight, and I’m done for the night.

“Knock knock, princess.” Tre’s voice comes through the door, warm with amusement. “I know you’re having your post-session existential crisis in there.”

Despite myself, I smile. “I’m not having an existential crisis.”

“You’re leaning against the door like a Victorian heroine. I can hear it in your voice.”

I open the door to find Tremaine—Tre to everyone who knows her—leaning against the doorframe with an amused expression. Her pink hair is pulled back in a neat bun, makeup still flawless even at this hour. She’s wearing wide-legged trousers and a silk blouse that probably costs more than most people’s rent.

Tre has always had expensive taste. My father loved that about her.

My stepmother is only five years older than me. She ran operations when she was married to my father, and now we’re co-owners. Business partners. It should feel stranger than it does, but grief makes for odd bedfellows. She’s damn good at what she does, which would be easier to resent if the business didn’t depend on it.

“Wesley?” she asks.

“Proposed coffee. Again.”

She sweeps into the room, settling gracefully into the leather chair near the door. “Proposals aren’t so bad, you know.”

“Don’t start.” I move to the velvet chaise and sink down, already working the straps on my stilettos. The relief is immediate. “We’ve been over this. I don’t date clients.”

“Wesley isn’t technically a client right now. His session just ended.”

“Tre.” I drop the first shoe, then start on the second.

“I’m just saying, you’re twenty-eight years old, you’re gorgeous, successful, and you haven’t been on an actual date in—”

“I date.”

“When? Between the hours of ‘Never’ and ‘Not happening’?”

I flip her off, which just makes her grin. She doesn’t get it. Dating is complicated when you can’t tell if someone actually likes you or if they’re just caught in your gravitational pull. Besides, I tried the relationship thing once. It didn’t end well.

“Is there a point to this conversation,” I ask, massaging my foot, “or are you just here to critique my life choices at the crack of dawn?”

“Both. But mostly I wanted to tell you that Crystal called out. Family emergency.”

I frown. Crystal is one of our regular providers. Reliable, professional. She never calls out. “Is she okay?”

“Her sister’s in the hospital. She needs to fly to Atlanta.”

“Of course. Tell her to take whatever time she needs, and we’ll cover her clients.” I mentally review the schedule. “What does she have coming up?”

“Just one tonight. After Hours session, already paid.” Tre pulls out her phone, scrolling. “Client’s been seeing Crystal bi-weekly for about four months. Clean record, always professional, tips well.”

After Hours sessions are our VIP tier—more expensive, longer time slots, extensive background checks required. They run until dawn, which means more intimacy, more trust. More risk.

I don’t usually take clients I haven’t vetted myself, especially not for After Hours. Call it a control thing.

“Can’t Belle or Rowe take it?”

“Both booked solid. Zel’s got two sessions already tonight.” Tre looks up, one perfectly shaped eyebrow raised. “Unless you want to cancel on him?”

I should say yes. I should let her cancel, send the guy a gift certificate, protect what’s left of my sanity after a long shift.

But Spellbound has a reputation for a reason. We don’t cancel on clients except for genuine emergencies, and we certainly don’t leave VIP appointments hanging. My father built this place on reliability. Even if that means I occasionally have to be reliable when I’d rather be unconscious in my bed.

“Fine,” I hear myself say. “Send me his file. I’ll take it.” I’m already running through my mental checklist, resigned to my fate.

“Nine tonight.”

Perfect. Twelve hours to sleep, set up the room, and steel myself for an all-night session with someone else’s Jonathan.

Just another Tuesday at Spellbound.

Tre stands, pausing at the door. “Ash?”

“Yeah?”

“Your father would be proud of you. The business, everything you’ve done with it.” Her voice goes quiet. “I know I don’t say it enough.”

Something tightens in my chest. Three years, and she still talks about him like she has the right. Like she didn’t—

I cut the thought off before it can finish. Some things are better left buried with him.

“Thanks,” I manage.

After she leaves, I stand alone in the session room, watching dawn paint the New Orleans sky in shades of pink and gold. Somewhere out there, the city is waking up. People are starting their normal days, with normal problems and normal dreams.

And I’m here, about to sleep through the daylight so I can spend tonight helping some stranger feel something real. In a place built on fantasy. Using a gift that only creates fake love.

My phone buzzes.

Rowan: Breakfast at Cat Fae Café? Belle’s buying.

At least this is real. My friends, orange cats in fairy wings sharing one brain cell between them, gingerbread coffee that knocks you out better than melatonin. The good stuff.

I type back: Give me an hour.