I slide the needle through for the final hem stitch and then shake out the fabric to check how it looks. It's slightly off somehow. Maybe if I add a contrasting bit of cloth here.… I consider the piece as I run through the possibilities.

As usual, I've turned to fashion and design to help me cope with the emotional turmoil of the last couple of days. No matter what happens, I know I'll never stop creating. It's too deeply ingrained in me, too much a part of who I am.

Hmm. Maybe the jumpsuit I'm working on needs some kind of shadow element to pull it together.

I bring up the design in my heads up display and start making adjustments, testing out what I think might look good. Sometimes I have to tweak the original design on the fly as I start to actually work with the materials. I sigh as I finish making the adjustments, looking at the fabric spread across the floor. It's something to keep myself busy, to keep my mind off everything.

I'm not completely successful.

The stupidest part about all of this is that I can't stop thinking about the prince. My Prince Charming. There’s a niggling voice at the back of my mind that keeps insisting that I'm missing something, that there was something familiar about him.

I need to focus on something productive right now rather than allowing myself to keep running in mental circles, driving myself insane with what could have been.

I will. Never. See him again.

I need to accept that fact, no matter how harsh it may feel.

I hear a loud knock at the front door.

Who could that be? We don't really get a whole lot of visitors, especially not this late. I don't get up.

Stepmother doesn't like it when I answer the door. Probably thinks I'm embarrassing since I usually spend my time in jeans and sweatshirts. Unlike everything else she doesn't like me to do, this suits me just fine.

If I wore any of my designs around her, she'd probably find something wrong with them out of spite and destroy them just like the dress. I'll stay in my jeans, thanks.

I keep an ear cocked to what's happening out there as I continue to work, figuring I'll find out soon enough. I hear the clicking of shoes walking towards the door, and then a gasp.

Why would she be gasping?

She had to have let whoever it is in...

The door opens quickly.

"Prince Herne!" I think I hear Stepmother exclaim. "Oh, what an honor! Please, do come in!"

Herne, a prince? What is he doing here?

"Thank you, ma'am," I hear a familiar voice say, then the sound of multiple pairs of footsteps entering the foyer.

Prince...Herne? The combination of the title and the name triggers something. A confused jumble of memories collides in my mind.

The man from the park...the way he touched me, his broad shoulders...those eyes.

His voice.

The same voice from the cotillion.

Could it be?

My heart gives a hard thump as I sit there, frozen in place.

I don't know what to do.

"Girls! We have company!" I hear Stepmother call out, the urgency and command in her voice clear even as she tries to disguise it in fake sweetness. "Please, why don't you and your men follow me to the parlor? I'll have refreshments brought out."

The simpering rubs me the wrong way. I wonder how Prince Herne feels about it.

Prince Herne.

"Prince Herne," I whisper to myself.

Is this real?

"You are too kind," I hear him murmur. "I would like to speak to all of the young women in the house, if you don't mind. I am here to solve a mystery, if you will. Or at least find an answer to a question."

I hear them start making their way to the living room.

"Well, of course! My daughters should be here any moment. Girls!" This time the call is sharper, her true self peeking through.

"Coming, Mother!"

"Yes, we're coming!"

I hear my stepsisters furiously bickering as they scurry to the living room.

"Ah, here they are," Stepmother says. "My lovely daughters. Prince Herne has something to ask you, my dears." It's unsaid, but the warning in her voice is clear. They’d better give the right answers.

"Thank you for receiving me on such short notice," I hear that smooth, deep voice say. It sends shivers down my spine even from rooms away.

That's the same voice that murmured to me while expert fingers touched me, caressed me.

While he moved inside me.

I force myself to focus on what he's saying.

"You see, one of my guests at the cotillion forgot her shoe—this one here to be exact." The rustle of tissue paper. He must be unwrapping it. "I'm attempting to find the owner of the shoe. Perhaps you might know who it might belong to?"

He has my shoe.

I rise to my feet, feeling my heart start to race.

Me.

He's here looking for me!

"Oh, that shoe is mine!" I hear one of my stepsisters exclaim. "I've been looking all over for it! I don't know how I could have lost it! Thank you so much for returning it to me!"

"What she means is that it's my shoe," her sister counters in a sweet voice, a thread of steel going through it.

Of course they would stab each other in the back.

"Well, my sister was ever so gracious to lend it to me that night," her sister retorts, the sweetness dripping from her voice like poison.

I feel anger start to rise up inside me.

No.

I stride to the door, determination in every step. I won't let them do this. They won't ruin everything for me this time.

As I reach the door, Stepmother appears, her face hard.

"Where do you think you're going, you little brat?"

"He asked for every young woman in the house," I retort, trying to walk around her.

But I underestimate the lengths she'll go to hurt me. It's a mistake. I cry out as she shoves me back into the room. I'm not ready for it and I stumble back, shocked at the physical blow.

She closes the door quietly, making sure it doesn't draw attention.

I hear it click shut. And then the sound of the lock engaging.

"No," I gasp, rushing towards the closed door and trying the knob. "No!" This can't be happening!

"Far be it for me to doubt a lady's word," I hear Herne say. The words are polite, but there's a clear warning in his tone. "But I do believe neither of your feet could fit in this shoe."

"Of course they could!"

"We have very dainty feet!"

I can’t believe the absurdity of that claim. Do they think he doesn't have eyes?

A long pause.

"I believe the shoe belongs to someone shorter. And more...slender," he says gently, but firmly. "Are you certain you have no idea to whom it might belong?"

"I can prove it!"

"Let me try it on!"

They're still trying to convince him? While I'm stuck here?

I cry out in frustration, smacking the door with my palm as I rest my head against the cool surface.

Anger and helplessness war inside me, tearing me up and leaving me raw.

I know life is unfair. But it can't be that way all the time!

Am I destined to always lose out on everything?

Can't it go my way at least once?