The next morning began not with royal duties, but with quiet investigation. Finding the address was not easy.
Anastasia had tried asking directly once, only to be met with suspicion. So this time, they were careful. Questions were woven casually into conversation. Small details gathered here and there. A name mentioned. A street remembered. A passing comment from their mother, Lady Beatrice, about "an old loyal worker who never complained." Piece by piece, the path formed.
By noon, Cinderella and Roselin stood at the edge of a modest neighborhood far from the grandeur of the palace.
"This should be the place," Roselin said, checking the note in her hand.
Cinderella nodded, though her heart beat faster. They approached a small workshop tucked between two aging buildings. The sign above the door was faded, almost forgotten. Inside, the sound of fabric being cut echoed softly.
A man stood bent over a table, carefully measuring cloth. His clothes were simple. Worn. Too worn for someone who had once managed a thriving business.
Cinderella stepped forward. "Excuse me… are you Mr. Harwin?"
The man looked up, adjusting his glasses.
"Yes, I am," he replied cautiously. "How may I help—"
His words stopped. His eyes widened.
"…Miss?" he whispered, as if afraid the moment might break.
Cinderella smiled gently. "It's me."
For a second, he simply stared. Then emotion rushed across his face. "Miss Ella…!" he exclaimed, stepping forward with disbelief and joy. "You've grown… I almost didn't recognize you."
Roselin smiled softly at the scene.
"It's been a long time," Cinderella said.
Mr. Harwin straightened quickly, suddenly self-conscious. "Please, please, you must not stand here. This place is too small for proper conversation." He hurried to gather his things. "Come, come with me," he insisted warmly. "My home is nearby."
They followed him through narrow streets until they reached a small but tidy house. It was simple, but everything was clean and carefully arranged.
"Please sit," he said, almost nervously. "I never imagined I would see my master's daughter again."
Cinderella looked around quietly. This man… her father's most trusted secretary… was living like this. Working for little pay. Yet he still carried loyalty in his eyes. And in that moment, she realized something important. Their business had not truly ended. It had only been waiting.
Mr. Harwin hurried about his small home, placing cups on the table with slightly trembling hands.
"Please, allow me to bring something," he insisted. "It has been so long… I should at least—"
"Sir," Cinderella said gently.
Her voice stopped him. He turned, noticing the seriousness in her expression.
"I did not come only to visit," she continued softly.
Something in her tone made him pause. Slowly, he set the cups aside and took a seat across from her. "I see," he said, folding his hands. "Then tell me, Miss. What brings you here?"

Cinderella took a small breath. "I want to reopen my father's business."
Silence filled the room.
Mr. Harwin blinked, the words settling slowly. "…Reopen?" he repeated, almost disbelieving.
"Yes."
He leaned back slightly, his brows knitting together.
"Miss… after your father passed, everything fell apart," he said carefully. "Suppliers withdrew. Investors lost faith. Workers had no choice but to leave. It was not just a business closing… it was a collapse."
Roselin watched quietly as Cinderella listened without interruption. "I know," Cinderella replied.
"But knowing and rebuilding are different things," he added. "Do you understand what you are attempting?"
"I do," she said calmly.
Mr. Harwin studied her. "This is not a small task," he continued. "It requires capital, connections, trust… and strength to face failure."
Cinderella's fingers tightened slightly over her dress, but her voice remained steady. "I am not alone."
He raised a brow.
"I have my sisters," she said. "Anastasia and Drizella. They have supported me from the beginning. They will continue to do so." A faint warmth entered her expression. "We are building this together."
Mr. Harwin looked at her for a long moment. The girl sitting before him was not the quiet child he remembered. There was certainty in her now. And something else.
Resolve.
"…Your father always said," he murmured slowly, "that the strength of a business is not in its gold, but in its people."
Cinderella smiled faintly. "Then let us gather the people again."
He let out a soft breath, as if releasing years of hesitation. "Very well," he said finally.
Cinderella's eyes widened slightly.
"I will help you," he continued. "I may not have much, but I still have experience… and connections."
Roselin smiled, relieved.
"And," he added with quiet determination, "I will reach out to the old employees. Those who are willing, those who still believe… I will bring them back."
Cinderella's heart swelled.
"We can start small," he went on. "No need for grand beginnings. Just honest work." Then he gave a small, almost stubborn smile. "And until your first sale, I will work without pay."
Cinderella's eyes filled instantly. "Sir… you don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupted gently. "For your father. And now… for you."
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. "Thank you," she whispered.
They spent the next few minutes discussing practical steps—names, locations, who might return, what tools could still be found. Finally, they stood.
"Come to the palace tomorrow," Cinderella said. "We will gather there and begin properly."
Mr. Harwin nodded.
"I will not fail you."
As they stepped out of the small house, Cinderella felt something new take root inside her. Not just hope. But the beginning of something real.
Back at the palace, the atmosphere carried a different kind of tension.
The five remaining candidates had been summoned to the grand hall for an "important announcement." The words alone had stirred excitement like a spark in dry grass. Silks shimmered as they arrived one by one, each dressed carefully, each carrying quiet hope.
Some whispered about the second trial.
Some wondered if a final decision might come sooner than expected. All of them believed this moment could change their future.
At the far end of the hall, Adrien stood near the tall windows, his reflection faintly visible in the glass. For once, he looked nothing like the composed prince the court admired. He looked… troubled.
His hands were clasped behind his back, but his fingers kept tightening unconsciously.
"How do I say this without hurting them?" he murmured.
Rowan stood beside him, calm as ever.
"By telling the truth," Rowan replied.
"That truth will disappoint five families," Adrien said. "Five daughters who came here with expectations. Hope."
Rowan glanced at him. "And lying would disrespect all of them."
Adrien sighed, running a hand through his hair. "This feels less like a declaration and more like a battlefield."
"You are choosing honesty," Rowan said. "It is rarely the easier path."
Before Adrien could respond, soft footsteps approached. Anastasia. She stopped a few steps away, her presence quiet but grounding.
"You look like you are about to face execution," she said lightly.
Adrien let out a small laugh. "It feels similar."
She stepped closer. "You are not taking something from them," she said gently. "You are giving them clarity."
Adrien looked at her.
"They deserve honesty," she continued. "And respect. If you speak sincerely, they will feel it. Even if it hurts at first."
Rowan nodded slightly, as if silently agreeing.
Anastasia met Adrien's eyes, her voice soft but steady. "You are not a cruel man. Trust that."
Something in her words settled his restless thoughts. The noise in his mind quieted. He took a breath.
"You make it sound simple," he said.
"It isn't," she admitted. "But you can do it." There was a brief pause. Then she added, almost playfully, "And if everything goes terribly wrong…"
Adrien raised a brow.
"I will be nearby," she said. "Ready to rescue you."
He smiled. "Thank you."
Without thinking, he pulled her into a tight embrace. For a moment, the world outside the hall did not exist. Just certainty. Just warmth. Then he stepped back, determination returning to his eyes. It was time.
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SIDE NOTE: Poor prince, a slap or two won't matter right?!
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