CINDERELLA AFTER MIDNIGHT: THE PRINCE'S PRIVATE WISH

At twenty-seven, Ella Vane had stopped believing in rescue. Rescue was for girls who owned something worth stealing.

She owned a black dress, a borrowed pair of glass slippers, and a talent for making rich men look beautiful without letting them touch her.

The invitation arrived at midnight.

THE MIDNIGHT BALL. NO NAMES. NO MASKS. ONE WISH GRANTED.

At the bottom, stamped in silver, was a warning: COME BEFORE THE LAST CHIME OR THE PRINCE WILL CHOOSE ANOTHER BRIDE.

Ella should have burned it. Instead, she put on the slippers.

The palace rose from the city like a secret someone had dressed in stone. Inside, chandeliers floated without chains. Every guest wore a crown except the women who had come to be chosen.

Prince Julian stood beneath the clock.

He was not handsome in the soft way of portraits. He was sharp, dark-eyed, and furious enough to make desire feel like a dangerous profession.

His gaze found Ella instantly.

“Who invited you?” he asked.

“Your desperation.”

His mouth almost smiled. “You have a reckless mouth.”

“And you have a kingdom bleeding through its wallpaper.”

That changed him.

He offered his hand. She did not take it.

“Dance with me,” he said.

“Ask properly.”

The music stopped. One hundred masked guests turned toward them.

Julian lowered his head. “Please.”

Ella placed her palm in his.

The moment they touched, the palace lights died. A red thread appeared between their wrists, winding once around his hand and twice around hers.

The prince inhaled as if she had kissed him.

“Impossible,” he whispered.

“What is?”

“The slipper chose you.”

A bell rang above them. The first chime.

The queen stepped from the balcony, white as a drawn knife. “Remove her.”

Julian pulled Ella behind him. “You said the curse was broken.”

The queen looked at Ella’s feet.

“No,” she said. “I said the last Cinderella was dead.”

The second chime began.

Ella’s glass slipper filled with blood.