Cinder's Wolf: A Shifter Retelling of Cinderella (A BBW Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling Book 2) (3 page)

“
I
t’s almost ten o’clock
, honey. Aren’t you going to join us for breakfast?” Lucille asked.

Dressed like a couch from the eighties, with shoulder pads and hair big enough a pigeon could roost in it, Lucille Miller loomed in the small doorway to Cynthia’s basement bedroom and office space. When she was a teenager, Cynthia had found her stepmother’s tragic fashion sense and overbearing interest a refreshing change from her absent father and even more absent mother. Then she grew up.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Cynthia said, her tone contrite. “Do you need any help with the dishes?”

Lucille lowered her nose and gave Cynthia a knowing look. “Better take care of your own messes first, sweetie.”

Cynthia gritted her teeth. Every part of her room was perfectly clean, from the recently vacuumed white carpet, to the clothes organized by brand in her closet, to the tightly rolled sweaters in her drawers. Only her bed was unmade, but she had just gotten out of it. Not that Lucille cared. Unfortunately, her father’s will left all of the money to Lucille, which meant if Cynthia wanted to be able to live in the city and fund her company, she had to make some sacrifices. Like living with the best-dressed sofa in Manhattan.

Lucille hovered in the doorway before closing the door behind her.

Only after Cynthia was sure she had heard Lucille’s stupid kitten heels click all the way upstairs did she settle into her office chair in front of her computer to answer her morning emails. She bypassed the few with notices from her bank and clicked on the third one down.

From: [email protected]

Subject: Coworking Space Agreement

Cynthia,

As you know, I have unorthodox feelings about rent, but I still like to be paid. Remember how.

Robin Loxely

Loxely Coworking Office Space

At the corner of her monitor, the date blinked.
February 29th
.

Shoot. Rent
was
late. A first for Cynthia. Even though Robin had the weird request of always being paid on the last day of the month, usually she was nothing but punctual. Cynthia fired off a short reply, made a note, and zoomed through another ten emails.

The picture they painted wasn’t a bright one.

All major sales metrics were down for the month, and their bank account may as well have been a shoebox under her bed for all the cash it held. Boxes & Broom needed cash if they wanted to survive more than two months. And that meant an investor. There was also probably some tweaking to be done on the business model itself, but getting enough funding would take priority.

Her breakfast alarm went off, making the pink plastic rabbit ears on her phone case vibrate. Cynthia closed her windows and headed upstairs. Eating with Lucille always left her feeling dirty, so she would shower and brush her teeth after breakfast instead of before.

When Cynthia arrived in the kitchen, breakfast was already in full swing. Their live-in cook had whipped up omelets and stacks of gluten-free, carb-free pancakes. Her two stepsisters, Reagan and Christine, were picking at their plates on one side of the pink-veined granite island. On the other, Lucille sat, cutting up her omelet into microscopic-sized bites and eating none of them.

Cynthia jumped onto the long-legged stool, and Lucille, Reagan and Christine all swung their attention her way like a pack of underfed meerkats.

Reagan, the older stepsister, spoke first. “Sleep well, Cinders?”

“Yes, thank you.” Cynthia flinched. Reagan only ever called her by her last name when she was feeling prickly. Which, unlike her mother, wasn’t actually that often.
Who peed in your cereal this morning, Miller?
Cynthia thought.

Christine, the youngest and a star flute player at Juilliard, brushed a ringlet of brown hair out of her eyes as she quietly scarfed a pancake. Her coloring was the only natural one out of Cynthia’s stepfamily.

“Christine, please eat like a woman, not like an animal,” Lucille admonished, stabbing a sliver of pancake so hard her ceramic plate clanked.

Christine stopped eating, her cheeks puffy with pancakes. She met her mother’s stare and swallowed slowly, which was the closest the shy girl would ever come to rolling her eyes.

Satisfied that Christine was sufficiently corrected, Lucille crossed her silverware over her still-full plate to signify she was done eating. “So, we’ve received an invitation.” She paused, probably expecting Cynthia and company to squeal in excitement.

Normally, Reagan would’ve shot Cynthia a meaningful look at this point. Instead, she stared blankly at the fridge.

Curiouser and curiouser…

It must’ve been something about last night. They had gone to Tavern in Tribeca together as usual. Pounded an unhealthy amount of Tequila shots, as was usual for the one night a month Cynthia allowed herself to unwind. Then…

Realizing that the girls weren’t going to be her perfect studio audience, Lucille continued, “Unfortunately, it’s going under the guise of a business function, but I’m sure that there will be plenty of eligible young men. There was a bit of a mix up with the mail, so I just received the invitation today.”

Cynthia mouthed “eligible young men” at Reagan. Reagan always appreciated Cynthia’s takes on Lucille’s ridiculous attempts at an “upper-class affect”. Now she didn’t even crack a smile.

Lucille kept babbling, “I’ve made appointments for all of you at Tailored. You’ll need to order masks as well.”

“Masks?” Christine asked, confused. Unlike Reagan and Lucille, she hadn’t taken the jump from middle class to god-forsakenly wealthy well.

Lucille slid the invitation to the center of the table. “Take a look, honey,” she said.

Lucille believed Christine’s inability to assimilate into the Manhattan elite was due to some flaw in her mental health instead of the simple fact that assimilation would mean leaving her practice room.

Cynthia was just about to protest the whole thing when a flash of gold-embossed type caught her eye. She stopped the invitation mid-slide and scanned it before pushing it along to Christine.

A prickle arched up her spine. “Rex West,” Cynthia mouthed under her breath.

“Pardon me?” Lucille asked.

Cynthia ignored her. Rex West was one of the richest men in Manhattan, and he always managed to secure the best stocks and the highest percentages of hot, new start-ups. Theoretically, he was exactly what Cynthia’s company needed, but in reality, Cynthia avoided sharks like him since her time in Silicon Valley. Men that powerful were used to owning things, and if you weren’t careful, they ended up owning you.

But where there were sharks, there were little fish, too. If Cynthia snagged even a couple of investors, she could run a funding round for a million dollars or two and get enough working capital to last another year and fix the company. And finally move out of the basement.

“Cynthia’s name is on the invitation,” Christine mumbled. “Are you sure we’re allowed to come?”

“Oh, they’ll let us in as long as we’re dressed the right way and with the person the invitation was addressed to,” Lucille said. “That reminds me… Reagan, when you go to Tailored, make sure that Christine doesn’t get anything black. This is a ball—not a flute concert. You’ll help pick something respectable for Cynthia as well. Nothing too short.”

Cynthia was long past being insulted by Lucille’s tendency to talk about her as if she weren’t there. Although it
was
weird Reagan wasn’t sticking up for her. If anything, Reagan was nodding in agreement, her small hoop earrings swinging.

Once it was clear Lucille was done, Reagan raised her index finger. “Actually, I think it would be better if Cynthia didn’t come.”

“What?” Cynthia’s stomach twisted. “The invitation is in my name.”

Reagan ignored her, tilting her head in the same haughty manner Lucille often did. With her swarthy Italian complexion and catlike brown eyes, she pulled off regal princess much better than her mother did. What the hell had gotten into her?

“I don’t think that would be possible,” Lucille said. “There are some things that are just rude. And crashing a party without the person the invitation was addressed to is one of them.”

“Oh,” Reagan said. “There are some things that are just rude.” Finally, she turned her brown, fierce gaze on Cynthia, her dark lips pursed. “Like, for example, sleeping with your stepsister’s date.”

Oops.

C
ynthia’s
whole face scrunched in apology. Donovan—that had been the doofus’s name. More memories of last night’s alcohol-fueled haze followed.

She had brought Reagan to the Tavern, a hot new bar with communal tables hewn from reclaimed wood and drinks served in mason jars, with the intent of setting her up with Donovan. Unfortunately, as the night wore on, Reagan’s sharp wit had eaten Donovan for lunch. The poor lunk had practically fallen into Cynthia’s arms, seeking someone to kiss his battered ego and make it better.

Cynthia, like a fool, had brought him home, assuming that Reagan would rather have no one than an idiot. A sentiment her stepsister had often repeated loudly on their morning brunches.

“Oh,” Lucille said, scandalized. If the fluttering of her over-mascaraed eyelashes was anything to go by though, she was actually secretly pleased. “I see. Yes.”

Cynthia tried to mime an apology, but Reagan’s expression was as stony as the garish granite countertops. She decided to focus on Lucille instead. “You won’t be able to get into the party without me. You’d be thrown out.”

Lucille frowned.

Reagan ignored them both. She had brought out her sleek Samsung Galaxy and was tapping away at the screen. Lucille raised her over-plucked eyebrows, clearly about to admonish her for bringing a phone to the table, when it began to ring, the ringtone buzzing harshly in miniature speakers.

A woman picked up. “Reagan?”

“Hi, Rose,” Reagan cooed. “You’re still working for Mr. West, right?”

“Yeah,” Rose said. “Why?”

“I just wanted to let you know there’s been a mix-up. He sent tickets to Cynthia Cinders at our address instead of Christine and Reagan Miller. Not a terrible problem, but obviously, we don’t want to make a scene about it at the party.”

“Oh my gosh, of course,” Rose said. “Should I have a courier send you over the correct ones or…?”

“No,” Reagan said breezily, shooting a toothy smile at Cynthia. “We’ll just get them at the door
.
”

“Great,” Rose paused, “and uh, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t let Mr. West know about the mix-up. I’ve already messed up enough and if—”

“Oh no,” Reagan said, a hand fluttering to her chest with high-drama sarcasm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you so—”

Reagan hung up before Rose could add an extra so and folded her hands on the table triumphantly. “I think that settles it.”

Lucille looked uncomfortable; surely, in her ideal world, Cynthia would’ve simply never been invited to the party at all. Still, after a moment, she shrugged and said. “Well then, I suppose it does.”

But Reagan wasn’t done. In the past two years, she had really surpassed her mother in terms of manipulation, but usually, she used her trickster ways for Cynthia’s benefit. “Maybe if you cleaned the whole house, we might be able to work something out.” Reagan smiled quickly, barely flashing her front two teeth. “Couldn’t we, Mother?”

Christine stood up and cleared her place before fleeing the kitchen silently.

Lucille ignored her and looked at Reagan, frowning. Cynthia was sure she was debating which would be worse—to have Cynthia rifling through their things when she cleaned them or to not torture her further.

Damn.

Before Lucille could take away her chance to go to the ball, Cynthia said, “Of course, I’d be happy to help out.”

“Fine.” Lucille wrinkled her nose, a feat considering the amount of Botox her face’s nerves had endured. “But if it isn’t done to my satisfaction, then we won’t let you tag along with us and,” she held out a knobbly finger, “you have to promise that you won’t embarrass us when you come. No more of this one-night stand nonsense.”

Embarrass them? Cynthia fought a smirk. Lucille wouldn’t know a fashionable dress if it bit her in the ass. Reagan was a little bit better, but her habit of causing trouble meant that half the rumors Lucille blamed on Cynthia were really Reagan’s doing.

Fucking Reagan.

Cynthia glared at her.

Reagan raised an eyebrow, which only pissed Cynthia off more. She had never mastered that ability. Whenever she tried to raise an eyebrow, she just looked startled.
Ugh.

But then, as it always did, Reagan’s smile gentled, and Cynthia’s scowl followed suit. Her eldest stepsister was a terrible loser, but a not a half-bad winner. In her mind, this trick was probably a retaliation of proportionate response.
Take my guy. I’ll take your tickets.

Truthfully, Cynthia couldn’t really blame her. Technically, she had broken the girl code, all because of the way her stupid sex system worked. Once a month, Cynthia allowed herself a break from her marathon work sessions to pick out a non-threatening muscle head from the bar. She had tried giving up sex altogether, but her libido revolted and murdered her productivity.

But because she kept a strict policy of no rollovers on her one-bang-per-month quota—her life wasn’t a discount cell phone-company after all—she had gotten a little desperate last night. And as a result, she had left Reagan alone at the bar with her cast-offs. If Reagan left her behind, she would’ve been equally pissed, just not dastardly enough to do something like
this
about it.

All in all, Cynthia would’ve been more impressed than anything else—except she really couldn’t afford to spend time cleaning the house. There was so much work to do with Boxes & Broom. But on the other hand, her company couldn’t afford not to go to the ball either.

“Cynthia, honey,” Lucille whined. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes,” Cynthia said, folding her hands in front of her on the counter so they wouldn’t clench into fists. “That all sounds just fine.”