LOOK INSIDE Cinderella Is Faking It

Chapter One

Delilah

MY EYES WERE trained on the clock while Parker caught his breath, face pressed against my neck. Every hot gasp fanned out moist against my skin, but I couldn’t push him off just yet, so instead I ran my fingernails over his back in circles, up and down, which had him humming in delight. I’d worked out early on that he needed exactly three minutes to cool down after climaxing and he liked my nails on his skin as long as I didn’t scratch him.

Two minutes down.

I watched the seconds tick tick tick past, ignoring the ache in my hips from his cold weight pressing down on me. Usually, I wasn’t that jumpy. Sometimes the cuddling afterwards was the best part. But I had places to be and people to convince that I was employable. 2-minutes-52. 2:53. 2:54.

“Thank you,” I whispered and kissed the top of his floppy brown curls, “that really calmed me down.” Not really, but I wasn’t going to tell him that while he was fumbling my breasts, I’d been going through potential interview questions in my head. 

What kind of culture was I looking for? Well-structured with a team that works together to make the students’ well-being and academic development a top priority. 

Why did I apply specifically at Truman Academy? Because it had a great extracurricular program focused on culture and arts, and as an avid reader, I would like to work for a school that values and fosters a love for literature. 

Why did I leave my old school in the middle of the year? - Why did I leave my old school- Why did I- yeah, at that point I’d faked my orgasm, so I could get ready.

“See? I told you I could take your mind off the interview for a bit.” Parker stole a quick kiss from my lips and smiled down at me, his brown eyes all golden honey in the late afternoon light.

Okay, maybe one more minute. “Thank you.” I drew him back to me for a longer kiss, sighing as he finally pulled out of me and lifted his weight off my aching hips.

“You’re going to ace the interview, babe.”

“I’ll do my best.” The problem was rarely the interview itself. I was great at those because I could talk about English lit for hours. He just didn’t know that, because I usually didn’t even get this far, and I hadn’t told Parker why I’d been fired from my last job. That had happened like two weeks before meeting him and it had been too early for that kind of conversation. I seriously hadn’t expected to get an interview at Truman Academy - which was one of the most prestigious private schools in the country - but I’d been desperately applying to every single job opening, and they’d replied. 

Parker disappeared into the bathroom to take care of the condom and I swung my legs out of the bed, jumping back when Fitzwilliam tried to hook his claws into my calves. “Goddammit,” I mumbled. He hissed at me, then scurried back into the shadows under my bed. That cat was a demon sent from hell, but he had been returned to the shelter so often that this was his last shot. And no matter how many times he’d bite me, I was not letting them harm a hair on his huge, gray body. Once I had a steady income again, I might have to invest in a cat whisperer though. My ankles could only take so much.

“You look great,” Parker slung his arms around my waist from behind as I studied my very safe black jeans and white blouse combo. I’d add the blue blazer later, but I’d sweat through it on the overcrowded subway if I put it on now. Everyone would be coming back from work, sweaty and exhausted, and I had to look presentable like the day had just started. No pressure. I hadn’t done anything with my hair, just letting the blonde bob frame my face. The whole look screamed I’m a safe choice. I won’t cause trouble. Maybe the red lipstick was a bit much, but it was my lucky shade. You could claw Ruby Woo from my cold, dead hands.

“Thanks,” I sighed and shot another look at the clock. I had to go in less than ten minutes. My stomach dropped as the anxiety clawed up my neck. I shouldn’t even bother going. It was going to be yet another bust.

“How about I stay, and we grab pizza when you get back tonight? On me. It’ll either be celebratory or commiseration pizza.” He pressed a kiss to the back of my head.

Commiseration pizza. Great. Amazing. Loved the idea. “Okay,” I said, voice wavering, and turned out of his hug to grab my bag and double-check its contents. I was a big believer in bags-within-bags. So, I had a blue pouch for pens, a pink pouch for emergency meds and band-aids, an orange polka dot pouch for cereal bars and chewing gum… I slid my notebook in between, alongside the folder that contained copies of my resume and references.

***

“I’M SURPRISED YOU didn’t apply sooner. Why make the switch from public to private school now?” Principal Baker was a large man with a soft face and a big smile that put me at ease within two minutes of walking into his old-school office. The office itself helped too, with an oak desk and dark wood bookshelves behind him, aesthetically ticking all my boxes. This was, however, the first time he even remotely asked about my employment history instead of my teaching style, and my heart was ready to leap out of my chest. It hammered painfully against my ribs. 

“I love the energy teachers bring to public schools,” I replied, hoping my smile didn’t tremble too much. The interview had gone amazing up until now. Baker and I agreed on so many things, and it was refreshing to talk to someone in school admin, who actually valued cultural subjects, not just STEM and sports. Teaching here, I could actually show students how much of a difference the written word made on a personal and cultural level, instead of dragging through the curriculum to make sure everyone somehow got passing grades.  “I went to public schools myself and I’m beyond grateful for my teachers’ commitment over the years. Sometimes, however, as a teacher, it feels like that energy isn’t reciprocated. In private schools, there’s a sense of community and shared identity that goes beyond school sports.”

“I agree,” he nodded, “at Truman, we want everyone to feel like they are part of something bigger. Many of our alumni stay in touch with each other and with the school because of that.” His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall. “I would usually ask you if you have any questions for me, but I’m afraid we’ve already been talking longer than anticipated. I’m attending an event tonight, actually hosted by one of our alumni.”

“Of course, thank you for taking the time to meet me,” I replied, getting to my feet when Principal Baker stood.

“I must thank you, especially for coming in during your summer break.” He’d mentioned how the position had already been filled, but then the other person had to drop out due to health concerns. “If you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to email me.” He motioned me towards his office door.

“Thank you,” I replied and shook his hand goodbye, making sure to add just enough squeeze to convey that I may be short, but I was not too weak to take on a bunch of high schoolers.

“We have yet to hear back from all your references, but once we do, I will be back in touch with further steps.”

Smile. Smile. Smile, Delilah, goddammit. “Great,” I breathed. I nodded. I smiled. I turned and waited for the door to his office to shut between us, before I bolted down the hallway. I shouldered past some guy in a suit and into the girls’ bathroom. I barely made it into the stall before my lunch wrap came out the same way it had gone down.

Of course, I’d never stood a chance.

Of course, they hadn’t heard back from my references yet, because it was the middle of summer. 

Of course, I had to go through the best interview of my life just to be shot down with one sentence.

When the sour retching stopped, another sound broke through my thoughts. Sobbing. And not mine for a change. I straightened, knees wobbling, wiping my mouth with soft, multi-layered toilet paper that I didn’t even splurge on myself, before flushing down my misery and stepping out of the stall.

The uncontrollable sobs belonged to the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, gracefully tall, blonde hair swept into an intricate updo, body clad in a dark blue gown that cascaded down her body in layers of tulle and beads. Her skin was covered in red splotches though, and her breathing hiccupped through the sobs.

“Hi,” I whispered as I stepped up to the sink next to her, “do you need help?”

“No. I just- I can’t. I can’t.” A bitter laugh broke through her crying, and she pulled a handful of paper towels from the dispenser. A whole pile of them already lay crumpled in the sink before her. She blew her nose while I rinsed my mouth out, my own panic fading in the face of someone else in distress. “Do you? Need help?” Her voice was so hoarse, I hardly understood her.

“Not unless you know someone hiring an English teacher,” I replied, trying to sound more light-hearted than I felt.

Her pale blue eyes, rimmed in red, raked over me, then dropped to her own getup. We were so not dressed for the same occasion. “Did you just get fired?”

“I actually just interviewed here, but I won’t get the job,” I replied, watching her breathing slow as her attention shifted to our conversation. I knew that feeling so well. When your heart raced, and your lungs ached, and your brain was caught in its own spiral - and it was so hard to snap out of it if nobody was there to help you. I could distract her a little. “I was fired a few months ago, so this sucks. Hence, the throwing up.”

“Hence,” she mumbled, gasping another laugh, “you really are an English teacher.”

“Well, not right now.” I shrugged and pulled out the polka dot pouch from my bag. “Gum?”

“Yes, please. Have you ever had an anxiety attack? Because I feel like I can taste it.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling.” I dropped an Orbit into her open palm and watched as she started chewing and leaned back against the wall, eyes closed. Her mascara had run down her cheeks and her glowing foundation had gotten wiped off the tip of her reddened nose, but she was still gorgeous in the way that only rich people could afford. Not due to surgery. Just… enough sleep, expensive skin care, someone to pluck your brows into a shape that matched your face. (Hers were high arches.) We shared similar enough features, blonde hair, blue eyes, round face, but if she was Barbie, I was Polly Pocket. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Not unless you can get me out of here.” She didn’t open her eyes. “Unseen.”

“The hallway looked pretty empty. I think there was just one guy. Do you want me to go check?”

“No, it’s fine.” Her head snapped back up and she wiped the tears from her lashes with another paper towel. “There’s photographers outside, and I was able to avoid them on the way in, but now the event planners are swarming around like bees, and they want you to get photographed.”

I hadn’t seen signs of either just an hour ago, but that probably didn’t mean anything. Principal Baker had mentioned an event. I just hadn’t thought twice about it being held on school grounds. It made sense in relation to my last answer though. Allowing alumni to make use of Truman’s gorgeous gothic buildings during summer break? The courtyard alone would make a beautiful backdrop for wedding pictures. “You sure that you don’t want to go to the event? Because you look amazing. It would be a waste of a beautiful dress if you went home now.”

“I can’t. I just can’t. There’s too many people. It’s too much. I don’t- I just-” Her voice hitched as another bout of panic hit her.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to,” I shot out quickly. God, I had not seen myself talking a random stranger through a panic attack when I’d gotten out of bed this morning. “We can just hang out here until the event is over. I have snacks and I have Netflix on my phone.” 

She picked at her skirt and sniffled. “Cordelia Montgomery,” she said after a moment and stretched her hand out for me.

“Delilah Edwards,” I replied and shook it, a little less energetic than with the principal. Cordelia seemed like she needed a bit of a soft touch.

“Delilah, do you want this dress?”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s an Elie Saab dress, costs around fifteen grand,” Cordelia said as if that made more sense than her question. She shook her head at my quizzical stare and inhaled deeply. “Would you please switch clothes with me? I can probably get out of here if I look like a teacher.”

Before I could fully compute her outlandish request, my brain latched onto the logistics of it. “You’re way taller than me. I don’t think that would work.”

“Can we try? If it works, you can keep the dress.”

Now the $15,000 detail clicked. This woman was ready to part with fifteen grand worth of designer tulle just to get out of this event. She either had the worst case of social anxiety I’d ever seen, or she was rich enough for that to be pennies. Possibly both. “Wouldn’t you prefer to just wait it out? You can wear the dress some other time.”

“Please. I just want to go home.”

I recognized that tilt in her words. The one that begged people to understand that even though it seemed irrational, your brain wasn’t able to handle a situation. I hadn’t seen myself ending the day in a designer dress either, but considering how most social situations threw me for a loop, I couldn’t deny Cordelia’s request. “Okay, we can give it a shot.”

Ten minutes later, Cordelia’s ankles poked out from the bottom of my jeans, and the buttons of my blouse strained against her chest, while she stood behind me, lacing me tighter into her dress. It was the heaviest thing I’d ever worn, and it swished over the bathroom tiles, but even just seeing my upper half in the bathroom mirror took my breath away. I’d never regretted wearing a plain dress to prom until this moment. The way the dress curved around my body hid my usual box shape. It hugged the dip of my waist and flowed over my hips in a stunning blue wave.

“Done.” Cordelia clapped her hands. The second she’d been able to button my jeans, her shoulders had relaxed and a bright smile had unfolded on her lips. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you, I feel…” I let out a long breath.

“I know. I love the dress. If I could, I would wear it at home, on my sofa, watching TV. Actually, I did that yesterday.” She grinned at my reflection over my shoulder. “Do you want to know the best part?”

Her hands snaked around my hips, and I tensed, but then they disappeared into the folds of the skirt. “No way! It has pockets!” I pushed my hands into them the second Cordelia’s were gone. Best. Dress. Ever.

“Here, you should take this, too. It’s not worth much, but I bought it specifically to match the dress.” She took off her necklace and dropped it into my hand. It was gold with a single blue pearl pendant that had rested in the dip of her collar bone.

“Thank you,” I replied, mentally weighing the cost of a cab home because I was not taking the subway in a ball gown. The necklace alone would probably pay for that because it sure didn’t feel like costume jewelry when I fastened it.

“Can you give me a two-minute head-start?” Cordelia smiled and backed towards the door. She’d washed off her ruined makeup, and looked younger now, just around my age.

“Of course,” I nodded, “I’ll just keep looking at myself in the mirror for a bit.”

“Hey, Delilah?” I winced. The words too close to that goddamn song. Cordelia continued, unfazed: “Thank you so much. I hope you get that job.”

My insides tightened again. I’d just forgotten about that whole thing. “Thank you. Get home safe.”

Cordelia disappeared from the bathroom, and I sighed and took my phone out, just to see that I’d missed two calls and three texts from Parker, asking how it had gone and what kind of pizza I wanted. I texted him back to apologize and told him that I’d be running late, and that I wanted Hawaiian pizza - as if I’d ever ordered any other kind. Just because he didn’t like pineapple, didn’t mean I’d change my mind anytime soon. 

I took around 60 pictures of myself in that dress before leaving the bathroom and angling for the exit. A tall redhead with a headset stood in the middle of the hallway, clipboard hugged tightly to her chest. That would likely be one of the event planners Cordelia had mentioned.

“Okay Joey, if she’s a no-show, that’s everyone,” she barked into her headset before her attention landed on me, “halt, I got eyes on her.”

Eyes on me?

“Ms. Montgomery.”

Oh no. Right dress, wrong person. “No, no, I was just leaving.”