The ball is over. The gown is rags again. Cinderella is back in her room, one glass slipper still on her foot. She has until dawn to decide: return the slipper and forget, or find a way to tell the prince who she really is. Her stepmother has already locked the door.

She hears a knock at the window. It is not a bird. It is not a fairy. The figure outside holds something that glints in the moonlight — and they are not smiling.

Cinderella's stepsister has always been the loud one, the cruel one. Tonight she asks to speak alone. She admits she was wrong. She says she is leaving and will not come back. She leaves a small box on the bed. Inside is a single key and a note: 'The east wing. You were never meant to stay in the kitchen.'

Cinderella follows the key. The east wing has been sealed for years. The door opens. The first thing she sees is a portrait — and the face in the portrait is her mother.

Modern-day. Cinderella runs a small design studio. A major client wants to meet — in person, at their headquarters. She arrives in a borrowed blazer and her best shoes. The meeting goes well. Too well. The client offers a partnership. Then they ask her to stay for the gala that evening. She has nothing to wear. She has no date. She says yes anyway.

At the gala she runs into someone from her past. They are holding two glasses of champagne. One is for her. They say, 'I've been looking for you. We need to talk about your mother's company.'

Cinderella has been sent to the market to fetch pumpkins. She finds the perfect one — round, orange, sitting alone at the edge of a field. The farmer says it is not for sale. It is cursed, or blessed; he is not sure. Anyone who takes it, he says, will have one night of magic. Just one. She buys it anyway.

That night she carves it. The seeds spill onto the table. They spell a word. She leans closer. The word is 'run.' Then the candle inside the pumpkin goes out — and when she lights it again, the seeds have rearranged.

Cinderella has written a book — her story, from the ashes to the palace. The publisher loves it. The launch party is tonight. She is at the podium when she sees a face in the crowd. It is the fairy godmother. Or someone who looks exactly like her. The woman mouths two words: 'Don't sign.'

After the event, Cinderella finds a contract on her desk. Page 47 has a clause she has never seen before. It grants the publisher rights to her name, her likeness, and 'any derivative narratives.' She picks up the phone. The fairy godmother — if it was her — has left a number scribbled on a napkin.