Morning light spilled through the thin curtains, warming the small kitchen. The air smelled faintly of yesterday's cleaning and the garden's damp soil. Anastasia rubbed her eyes and peeked at the cupboards.
"We don't have enough eggs for breakfast," Drizella said, checking the pantry.
"No eggs doesn't mean no breakfast."
Lady Beatrice said while fanning herself in dinning table. Her tone was neutral, almost bored, like this was someone else's problem entirely.
Cinderella glanced at Anastasia, worried. "We can make something else?"
Drizella groaned. "I want something that looks like bread! Or pancakes! Or cake! Or anything sweet!"
Anastasia thought quickly. She counted what they had: a small bag of flour, a few dry fruits, leftover milk, some honey, and a pinch of salt. She smiled quietly.
"Give me a minute," she said.
Lady Beatrice raised an eyebrow. "Anastasia, I don't think we—"
"Trust me," Anastasia interrupted.
She worked swiftly, mixing flour, milk, a little honey, and some chopped dried fruits into a simple batter. Then she poured it onto the pan and let it cook slowly over the fire. The smell was surprisingly pleasant.
"Smells… nice," Drizella said, peeking over her shoulder.
"Better than nice," Anastasia said lightly, flipping the last piece.
"Just wait."
They sat together, plates steaming, and took their first bites. The food was soft, slightly sweet, and filling—nothing like anything they'd had in the palace kitchens.
Drizella's eyes widened. "This is amazing! How did you—?"
Anastasia smiled and shook her head.
How could she forget this recipe, after all this was her go to breakfast while her mother was busy pampering her sister.
"Just… an old recipe I remember." She kept her thoughts of the modern world to herself, not needing anyone to know how easy she'd made it.
Cinderella clapped softly. "I've never had anything like this in my life."
Lady Beatrice shrugged, sipping her tea.
"It will do." She didn't offer more praise.
After breakfast, they cleared the plates and packed a small basket for the market. Lady Beatrice stayed behind, adjusting her chair and glancing through some papers. She had no intention of helping—she never did.
The girls followed Anastasia down the road, baskets in hand. The morning sun was bright, warming the earth and making the streets of the village glow.
Merchants were setting up their stalls: baskets of fruit, fresh bread, vegetables, and herbs. The smells made everyone's stomachs rumble again.
Anastasia moved slowly, scanning the market for what they needed for the day. She had made their breakfast on the fly, but she knew they would need vegetables, grains, and some small treats for later.
She planned quickly, making mental notes about which stalls had the best produce, which vendors were honest, and which items could be combined to stretch their ingredients.
Cinderella skipped happily, pointing out flowers and small pastries. Drizella tried to haggle loudly with the vendors, drawing small chuckles from passersby.
Anastasia kept them on track, moving efficiently but casually, so no one suspected she was quietly thinking like a chef, a manager, and a planner all at once.
And in the back of her mind, she reminded herself: every little success she had today kept them safe, fed, and happy—without anyone knowing that she was quietly bending the rules of time and knowledge to make it all work.
The market grew louder as the sun climbed higher. Voices overlapped, coins clinked, and the smell of fresh cloth mixed with spices and dust.
Anastasia slowed near a fabric stall, her fingers brushing instinctively over folded bolts of cotton and linen.
That was when they heard the argument.
A young woman stood at the stall, holding a roll of pale blue fabric. Her hands trembled, but her voice did not.
"You promised this price yesterday," she said. "I measured my orders based on it."
The merchant crossed his arms.
"Prices changed this morning. Take it or leave it."
"I already took orders," the woman replied, jaw tight. "If I don't deliver, I lose customers. If I buy at this price, I lose money."
People slowed to watch. Some whispered. Most moved on.
Cinderella stopped completely.
The woman took a breath, then did something unexpected. She unrolled the fabric and began explaining calmly how much cloth each dress would need, how many dresses she had promised, and how much profit the merchant would still make even at the old price. She spoke clearly, not angrily. Numbers, not emotion.
The merchant hesitated.
Anastasia smiled faintly.
After a long pause, the merchant sighed. "Fine. But only this time."
The woman bowed slightly, relief flooding her face. "Thank you. You won't regret it."
When she left, Cinderella was still staring.
"That was… impressive," Cinderella said softly.
Drizella blinked. "She didn't cry or shout. She just talked until he gave up."
Cinderella nodded. "She knew exactly what she needed. And she wasn't afraid."
They walked on, but Cinderella kept glancing back at the fabric stall.
Anastasia waited until they were a little farther away.
"You know," she said lightly, "Your Father used to do that too."
Cinderella looked at her. "Do what?"
"Negotiate. Calculate. Plan ahead." Anastasia gestured around them. "He wasn't just selling cloth. He understood people."
Cinderella's steps slowed.
"There's still his old fabric and textile business,"
Anastasia continued carefully. "The contacts. The storage. Some ledgers. It's not gone. Just… sleeping."
Drizella wrinkled her nose. "Businesses don't sleep. They die."
"They rest," Anastasia corrected. "Until someone wakes them."
Cinderella stopped walking.
Anastasia turned to face her. "You could learn," she said gently.
"Start small. Observe. Help at a stall. Understand fabrics. Prices. Customers. One day, you could take it over properly."
Cinderella's eyes widened in panic.
"Me? No, no. I can't. I don't know anything about business."
"You can learn," Anastasia said simply. "You already notice things. You're patient. People trust you."
Cinderella shook her head quickly. "I'm not like Father. Or that woman. I'm not brave."
Anastasia didn't argue. She just smiled. "Bravery isn't loud."
Drizella crossed her arms. "She'd probably apologize to customers for charging them."
Cinderella laughed weakly, then looked down. "It's too much responsibility. I don't want to fail."
Anastasia softened her voice. "You don't have to decide now."
Cinderella nodded, relief clear on her face. "I don't think it's for me."
They moved on, buying vegetables and thread, the market noise swallowing the moment.
But later, when they passed another stall selling dyed wool, Anastasia noticed Cinderella slowing again. Her fingers hovered just above the fabric, eyes thoughtful. She listened closely as the merchant explained quality differences to a customer. She asked a quiet question. Then another.
Cinderella didn't say anything more about business.
But the idea followed her like a loose thread, invisible yet impossible to ignore, tugging gently at her thoughts as the market bustled on.
They returned home as the sun leaned low, baskets heavier and feet tired. The house welcomed them with quiet familiarity.
Anastasia set the vegetables aside, Lady Beatrice was still glued to the same place without any comment, and Cinderella began preparing a simple dinner while Drizella hovered, occasionally stealing ingredients and being chased away.
Dinner was calm. Soup, bread, soft conversation.
Cinderella spoke about the market stalls she liked. Lady Beatrice listened absently. Anastasia watched them all, storing the day away like pages in a book.
Afterward, everyone drifted to their rooms.
Drizella closed her door and leaned against it, breathing out slowly. The room felt smaller than she remembered, but warmer too.
She lit a small lamp and began rummaging through her old shelf, pushing aside ribbons, broken pens, and dusty notebooks.
One thin book slipped out and fell open.
She froze.
Her diary.

Drizella picked it up carefully, as if it might bite. The cover was worn, corners soft from use. She sat on the bed and flipped through the pages.
Poems written in uneven ink. Short stories about brave girls, clumsy heroines, and imaginary kingdoms where laughter mattered more than crowns.
She laughed quietly at one poem, then stopped.
I forgot I wrote like this, she thought.
Some lines were silly. Some surprisingly honest. She remembered the days she'd written them, hiding the book under her pillow, afraid someone would tease her. Afraid they'd laugh and say it was useless.
Her fingers traced a page. "I wanted to be something," she whispered to the empty room.
The lamp flickered. Dust danced in the air.
Drizella hugged the diary to her chest, feeling a strange ache bloom inside her.
Nostalgia, warm and sharp at once. Maybe she had changed. Maybe she'd grown clumsier. Louder.
But these words were still hers.
And for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel foolish for that.
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SIDE NOTE: Since the story is changing its not going to only about romance. It's about finding yourself either in your world or other. Just be you 💓
If you like my story then give it a star and share it with your friends, this will help me to keep motivated and write new stories.