Cinderella and Her Three Knights

Ella’s POV

I learned early that survival wasn’t about being strong.

Invisible girls didn’t get blamed. Invisible girls didn’t get sent away again. Invisible girls learned how to fold themselves smaller, quieter, easier to ignore.

“Ella, breakfast!”

Mrs. Keller’s voice echoed down the hallway like it always did—sharp, impatient, already tired of me before she saw me. I slipped out of bed and smoothed my shirt automatically, tucking loose strands of hair behind my ear. My room smelled of bleach and old socks, the orphanage’s signature scent. The blankets were thin, the sheets rough, but they were clean. And they were mine.

That was enough.

Downstairs, the cafeteria buzzed with noise—kids shouting, chairs scraping, someone laughing too loudly. I grabbed a piece of toast and a mug of lukewarm cocoa and took my usual seat in the corner. Eyes down. Mouth shut. Existing without taking up space.

“Ella, you’re late for your morning chores.”

I wasn’t. I never was. But rules here weren’t about time—they were about obedience.

“Yes, Mrs. Keller,” I murmured.

My days were predictable. Comfortingly dull. Floors to scrub. Windows to wipe. Inventory to check. Leaves to sweep outside. Nothing exciting. Nothing dangerous. Nothing that made my heart race.

I told myself I liked it that way.

By mid-morning, I was on the trail behind the orphanage, collecting fallen branches for firewood. The woods were quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t demand anything from me. Here, I could breathe without watching my back.

Then I heard it.

A sound—low, strained. A groan.

I stopped walking.

For a second, I told myself it was an animal. That would have been easier. Animals didn’t complicate things. Animals didn’t pull you into choices that could change your life.

But when I stepped closer, I saw him.

An old man lay on the rocky slope, half-hidden by ferns. His coat was soaked through, his face pale, lips tinged faintly blue. His hands trembled as his eyes fluttered open—and closed again.

Fear hit me all at once.

“Sir?” My voice cracked despite my effort to keep it steady. “Can you hear me?”

No answer.

I stood there, frozen, my mind racing with reasons to leave. I wasn’t supposed to be here alone. I didn’t know him. People like me didn’t get involved.

But I also knew something else.

I knew what it felt like to be left behind.

I dropped my bag and knelt beside him. “It’s okay,” I said quickly, like saying it might make it true. “I’m here.”

His breathing was shallow. Uneven. I pressed my hand lightly to his chest, feeling the frantic flutter beneath my palm. Too fast. Too weak.

I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over him, rubbing his arms to warm him. “You’re not alone,” I whispered, more for myself than him.

His eyes opened again—gray, sharp, startlingly alert despite everything. He tried to push himself up and failed with a hiss of pain.

“Don’t…help me,” he croaked.

I shook my head. “You’re hurt. And I’m not leaving.”

“Who…are you?”

I swallowed. “Someone who doesn’t want you to die out here.”

The words surprised me with how fierce they sounded.

Calling 911 felt unreal, like I was stepping into someone else’s life. The operator’s calm voice clashed with the panic buzzing in my head. I explained as best I could, hands shaking, eyes never leaving his face.

When the paramedics arrived, relief flooded me so hard my knees nearly gave out.

“I’ll ride with him,” I said before anyone could tell me no. “He doesn’t have anyone.”

I didn’t know why I said that.

Maybe because I saw myself in him—alone, stubborn, resisting help even when he clearly needed it.

In the hospital, I waited while nurses asked questions I couldn’t answer. Name? ID? Family contact?

“I…don’t know,” I admitted. “I don’t think he has anyone.”

One nurse looked at me skeptically. “You’re his guardian?”

“I am—for now,” I said quietly.

I stayed. Because leaving felt wrong. Because walking away would make me the kind of person I was afraid of becoming.

I told myself he was just a lonely old man. Someone forgotten. Someone bitter and sharp because the world had left him behind.

That story made it easier.

Hours passed. Then the air changed.

The hospital doors opened and a group of people walked in—suits, earpieces, clipped voices. They moved with purpose. With authority. With the kind of confidence that didn’t ask permission.

I stood and tried to step closer.

“Excuse us,” one of them said, already blocking my path.

Then the hospital director appeared, followed by several doctors. Security formed a wall as the man I had rescued was moved—carefully, urgently—toward the VIP wing.

I stood there, heart sinking.

This wasn’t a man with no one.

This was a man with power.

The TV in the lounge flickered on.

“Breaking news: Henry Blackwood, chairman of Blackwood Continental, missing for hours, now confirmed at City General Hospital…”

I felt the world tilt.

Henry Blackwood.

The name hit me like a physical blow. My hands went cold. My chest tightened. The image on the screen—older, composed, unmistakable—was the same man I’d found in the woods.

I had rescued a billionaire.

I left the hospital quietly, my thoughts spiraling. I hadn’t meant to cross into a world like that. People like him didn’t notice people like me. And when they did, it was never accidental.

The next morning, a sleek black car pulled up to the orphanage.

Two men in suits stepped out.

“Ella Monroe?”

“Yes.”

“You are requested.”

Leather seats. Tinted windows. An engine that hummed with quiet power.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“That’s not for you to know.”

As the city blurred past, one thought settled heavy in my chest:

My invisible life was over.

And whatever came next—whatever world I was being pulled into—it wasn’t going to be gentle.