Chapter 7 Cinderella's stepmother

She didn't knock. She pushed open the double doors to Estelle's suite-her old suite.

The room was a flurry of activity. Bright lights, hairspray, the chatter of a styling team. Estelle sat in the center of it all on a velvet chair, looking like a porcelain doll.

Her mother, Eleanor, stood nearby, barking orders at a maid. "The diamond choker! The Vinson family sent it. Get it!"

Eleanor turned and saw Alice. Her face fell.

"What are you wearing?" Eleanor demanded, her nose wrinkling. "You look like a crow. It's a Gala, Alice, not a funeral."

"It's the only dress I have," Alice said calmly.

Estelle looked at Alice in the mirror. Her eyes widened in mock surprise. "Oh no! Alice! I completely forgot to order you a dress. I've just been so swamped with the charity planning."

Her voice was sweet, dripping with synthetic syrup.

"It's fine," Alice said. "I don't need your charity."

Eleanor stepped forward. "Well, since you're here, make yourself useful. Help your sister with her shoes. Her back is sore from all her cello practice."

The room went silent. The stylists paused, combs hovering in mid-air.

They wanted the former heiress to kneel at the feet of the new favorite. It was a power play. A public humiliation.

"She has hands," Alice said. "And a dozen maids."

"Do as you're told!" Eleanor snapped. "You learned how to take orders in prison, didn't you? Use those skills."

Estelle pouted, extending a foot. "Please, Alice? My back really does hurt."

Alice looked at the shoe. A Jimmy Choo stiletto, encrusted with crystals.

She looked at Estelle's smug face.

Alice walked over. She knelt.

Eleanor and Estelle exchanged a triumphant glance. They thought they had broken her.

Alice picked up the shoe. She held it in her hands. It was delicate.

"This heel looks loose," she said loudly. "It might be dangerous."

She gripped the heel and the sole. Her hands were strong. Three years of scrubbing floors and lifting crates in the commissary had given her grip strength they couldn't imagine.

She twisted.

Snap.

The sound was loud in the quiet room. The heel broke off cleanly in her hand.

"Oops," Alice said, standing up and dropping the broken pieces on the floor. "It broke. Guess it wasn't made very well. Just like your story."

Estelle shrieked. "My custom shoes! You did that on purpose!"

Eleanor lunged at Alice, her hand raised to strike. "You spiteful little wretch! You're just jealous!"

Alice didn't flinch. She stared straight into her mother's eyes.

"Go ahead," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Hit me. Do it. I'll walk downstairs with a handprint on my face. And when the reporters ask, I'll tell them exactly who did it. 'Stafford Matriarch Abuses Freshly Released Daughter.' That's a headline, isn't it?"

Eleanor's hand froze in the air. Her chest heaved. She looked at the stylists, who were watching with wide eyes. She knew she couldn't do it. Not with witnesses.

She lowered her hand slowly. "Get out. Get out of my sight."

Alice turned her back on them. As she walked to the door, she heard Estelle sobbing about her ruined outfit.

Alice smiled. It was the first time she had smiled all day.