Manhattan Cinderella Read online

  Manhattan Cinderella

  A Romantic Comedy

  Fairy Tales in New York Series

  - Book 1 -

  by

  Kate O’Keeffe

  Manhattan Cinderella is a work of fiction. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7970-6960-9

  Developmental editor: Celia Kennedy

  Copy editor: Karan & Co. Author Services

  Cover design by pixelstudio

  Copyright © 2019 Kate O’Keeffe

  Also by Kate O’Keeffe

  Cozy Cottage Café Series:

  One Last First Date

  Two Last First Dates

  Three Last First Dates

  Four Last First Dates

  Wellywood Romantic Comedy Series:

  Wedding Bubbles

  Styling Wellywood

  Miss Perfect Meets Her Match

  Falling for Grace

  Standalone titles:

  The Right Guy

  One Way Ticket

  I'm Scheming of a White Christmas

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek at The Right Guy

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “How could you have done this? You silly, silly girl!”

  Her screechy words reach my attic bedroom, making my ears prick up. My ghastly stepmother—whom we’ve aptly named “stepmonster”—is directing her venom at my kid sister.

  I snap my laptop shut and barrel down the spiral staircase to the kitchen. The scene is as I imagined: Cece, my fourteen-year-old sister, is cowering against the counter, our stepmother standing over her, brandishing a fistful of clothes.

  My eyes dart between the two and back again. “What’s going on, Sylvia?” I ask in a level tone, not wanting to enrage the beast any further.

  Our stepmother glares at me through eyes rimmed with enough eyeliner to paint the Sistine Chapel’s ceiling black. Her platinum blonde hair is in stark contrast to the severity of her black haute couture, her lips painted an appropriate blood red.

  Warm, caring mother-figure, Sylvia Tremaine is not.

  “Oh, your lovely sister and I are having a little chat about this,” she waves the clothes in the air, “aren’t we, Cecelia?”

  The knot of tension already formed in my belly grows. I shift closer to Cece, acting as a human shield against the daggers Sylvia continues to throw out with the skill of a trained assassin. “Cece? Are you okay?” I quietly ask.

  She doesn’t look at me, choosing to keep her eyes cast firmly down. Uh-oh, that’s not a good sign. My sister is the brave one, the one who isn’t afraid to stand up to Sylvia. I glance at the clothes in Sylvia’s hands.

  She knows.

  “Is there anything I can help with?”

  “Short of convincing your sister to be less of a lying, cheating criminal, I don’t know,” Sylvia scoffs.

  I grimace at her words and look at my sister. Still studying the floor, Cece’s not giving anything away.

  “Ask her what she’s been up to. Ask her where she got that new top she’s wearing, those earrings, these.” Sylvia waves the clothes in the air again and then slaps them on the counter, making both Cece and me jump. “Ask her what I found in her bedroom while she was at school today.”

  I press my lips into a thin line. I don’t need to ask. I know what Cece’s been doing. She’s been “acquiring” new items for her wardrobe for months, ever since Dad left.

  Since he left us with her.

  I know why she’s doing it. It’s her form of rebellion against our dad for leaving us, against our stepmother and her dreadful daughters who have taken over our home, against the complete changing of our lives. Any pop psychologist worth their salt could tell you that. I’ve tried to stop it, of course I have. What kind of a big sister wouldn’t? Being eight years younger, Cece’s navigating the assault course of puberty without a mom or a dad to guide her through. I was lucky. I had my parents’ support when I ran this gauntlet. Not Cece. She needs me, pure and simple.

  But now that Sylvia’s found Cece’s stash, the cat’s well and truly out of the bag, and it’s roaming around in a pair of Louboutins, looking for a defenseless little mouse to torture.

  When I don’t respond, Sylvia says, “Your sister has been caught shoplifting, Gabriella. One of the mothers called me and told me all about it. Not surprisingly, she doesn’t want her daughter to be friends with Cecelia anymore. She said she’s a ‘bad influence.’ Isn’t that interesting, Gabriella?”

  I shoot Cece a look that says, “I told you this would happen,” but the last thing I’m going to do is throw my sister under a New York City cab. I’ll be damned if I’m going to let the likes of Sylvia Tremaine come between us.

  I know I’m hanging onto the last thread of a lie when I begin, “Look, Sylvia, I’m sure there’s been some sort of misunderstanding—”

  Sylvia laughs. It’s short, sharp, and dripping with her closely-held disdain for us. “There was absolutely no misunderstanding when she was caught red-handed by this girl’s mother. She’s just lucky the police weren’t involved. You can’t save your sister, not this time. Cecelia has made her own bed. She deserves what’s coming to her.”

  Panic grips my chest. “What are you going to do?”

  “It’s clear she’s associating with some over-indulged children who think the law doesn’t apply to them. So, for starters, I’m going to pull her out of that expensive school of hers.”

  Cece is stricken. “No! You can’t do that.” There’s desperation in her voice.

  “Oh, I most certainly can. With your father out of the country and uncontactable for weeks on end, I’m in charge. Need I point out that legally I’m your mother?” Her smile is smug, and I have to clench my hands behind my back to control the urge to slap it off her face.

  At twenty-two, I can leave at any time. Sylvia has no say over me. But Cece? She’s stuck here, at the mercy of our living stepmonster. She can’t simply pack her bags and leave. She’s well and truly stuck, at least until Dad gets home. Whenever the heck that will be.

  “Dad won’t let you do that,” Cece protests. She turns to me, her eyes flaring. “He won’t, will he, Gabby?”

  “Your father isn’t here, though. Is he?”

  I know what I need to do. I square my shoulders and lift my chin. Here I am, Sylvia, your little mouse. Do your worst. “Don’t pull Cece out of St. Martha’s. Give her another chance. Please. I’ll make sure she stops, and I’ll take the punishment, whatever you see fit.”

  Sylvia turns her evil glare on me. “You’d do that for your sister?”

  “I would. I will.”

  I search my brain for something that would appeal to her sense of importance. I land on my job. Sylvia manages her two daughters in a band called the Pop Princesse
s. I’ve been her assistant for months, the promise of being a Pop Princess dangled in front of me like a large, juicy carrot. “I could do more for the band. Run errands, help Kylie and Britney with whatever. Anything you want.”

  “You’re already my assistant.”

  “I could do more around the penthouse?” I’m getting desperate now.

  She taps her chin. “Keep talking.”

  “I don’t know. I could cook?” I’ve never cooked in my life, other than toast, which I’ve got down to an art. But, I can learn. I’ll do whatever I need to for Cece. Lioness and her cubs and all that.

  Sylvia waves my suggestion away with her hand. “I’m going to let the housekeepers go. They’re no good. You can take over the household chores.”

  “But-but we’ve had Lior and Carl forever,” I protest.

  “It’s up to you. St. Martha’s or doing a little more around the place, to help out your dear stepmother.”

  It’s hard to believe that Sylvia Tremaine gets to a term that includes the word “mother.” She is nothing like our mother. She’s like the total opposite. She’s the anti-mom.

  “I’ll help out more.”

  “Well, it seems to me we have an . . . agreement. But Cecelia? Any false move on your part and it’s bye-bye to that precious school of yours. Understand?”

  Cece nods and then I hustle her out of the kitchen and up the staircase. As I place a foot on each step, that knot of tension grows and grows, settling low in my belly.

  There’s no escaping now.

  Chapter 1

  Gabriella

  Once upon a time in Manhattan, I lived in a huge mansion with my hideous stepmother and her two frightful daughters.

  Queue the violins, please.

  Abandoned by my father, my stepmother makes me work my fingers to the bone. While I sit alone, I pray my prince will come and rescue me . . . and you know the rest. We all do.

  But seriously, this is twenty-first century Manhattan. No one is buying this.

  So, okay, here’s the deal. Yes, my dad took off a few months back, and yes, thanks to a sticky trust fund situation and a kid sister who needs me to stick around, I’m forced to live with my stepmom and her daughters.

  But that part about waiting around for a “prince” to come and rescue me?

  No.

  Freaking.

  Way.

  I don’t need to be rescued, and I sure as heck don’t need some “prince.” I’m going to make it happen on my own. Me, Gabriella Jane Davis. Besides, I’m a New Yorker, and while my life might not exactly be a fairy tale right now, I’m sure as heck working on it.

  “Cece, if you don’t hurry up, you’ll be late for school. Again.” I stuff a collection of books into my kid sister’s backpack and zip it up.

  Cece rolls her eyes at me as she clips her navy-blue necktie in place. The formality and femininity of her private school uniform contrasts with my worn out, practical Levi’s, sneakers, and T-shirt combo. I know that being dressed like this I look like the undervalued, overworked pop band minion I am. But I’ve learned the hard way it’s so much better to fly under the radar around here.

  “Gabby, what does it matter if I’m late? It’s not like I learn anything useful there, anyway.”

  “Don’t say that. You’re only fourteen, and you need a good education.”

  Yup. I hear it. I sound like I’m her mom. Which, even though I’m only twenty-two, I guess I have been since our own dear mom lost her battle with cancer four years ago. And, thanks to Cece’s “pleasant surprise” status when our parents were told they couldn’t have any more children, I guess I slotted into the role well enough.

  But I don’t want to think about all that right now.

  Cece throws me a look as she buckles her black patent leather shoes. “You’re telling me I need a good education? This is the advice from Gabby Davis, College Drop-Out?”

  The label stings, but we both know she has a point. Dropping out of NYU to pursue a career in music doesn’t exactly feel like the best decision I’ve made. But today, I have high hopes that decision is about to pay off.

  “That’s an entirely different situation, Cece, and you know it.”

  “That’s not what Dad said, Gabby. He said you were throwing your life away and that—”

  I put my hand up to stop her. I don’t need a lecture from a fourteen-year-old. “Yup, I remember. But you being late isn’t about me.” I land on the perfect tool of persuasion. “And anyway, if you don’t try hard at school, you’ll have to stay here with them.”

  Cece sneers. “Fate worse than death.”

  “Exactly.”

  She takes a step closer to me. “It won’t be long now, will it? I mean, when Dad comes home, things will go back to how they were, right?”

  The hurt in her eyes has my chest tightening. I want to wipe her pain away, to protect her however I can. “Of course they will. Everything will be fine.” My nod is too enthusiastic, my tummy twisted in a knot.

  I know the truth. Things will never be the same again. We said goodbye to the life we once had when Mom died. Losing her, losing her love, her laughter, well, it destroyed our little family unit. It destroyed Dad, too. Leaving us at the mercy of his new wife is simply the last in a long list of the ways he’s abandoned Cece and me.

  Father of the Year? That would be a big, fat “no.”

  Cece’s shoulders drop. “Until then, we’ll be stuck here with Cruella de Vil and her rodent daughters.”

  I press my lips together to suppress a laugh. It’s the perfect metaphor for Sylvia Tremaine, although Cruella de Vil is probably kinder to puppies. In her eyes, Cece and I are simply the stepdaughters she didn’t expect to have to deal with when she fell for our dad’s millions, err, I mean, charms.

  Yeah, on top of it all, she’s that type of woman.

  I hold Cece’s school bag out to her. “Look, Dad’s last text said he’s coming home soon, right? He’s doing so much better, and his heart meds seem to be doing the trick. We just have to trust him.” I’m saying this to myself as much as to my sister. “Trust” and “Dad” are not two words I use in the same sentence a whole lot.

  She takes the bag from me and flicks her long, silky, dark hair over her shoulder, a genetic gift from our mom we both share. “I’ll believe it when I see it, Gabby. He’s been gone forever.”

  I open my mouth to defend him but close it again. Sure, I may be old enough to look after myself, but Cece’s just a kid—even if she thinks she’s not. As our one living parent, Dad should be here with her, not secluded in some ashram in the Andes, no matter how important his doctors told him it was to de-stress his life.

  Cece searches our room before she leans toward me. “And anyway,” she says in a hushed tone, “you’re getting us out of here soon, right? You’ve got The Plan. Because without it, we’re back to either waiting for Dad to come back or for your trust fund to kick in.”

  I grasp my hands behind my back and force a smile. “We won’t have to wait for the money. In fact, today could be the day that my plan begins to fall into place. We’ll be away from her soon, I prom—”

  “What are you two gossiping about when you should be working?”

  I flinch, shoot Cece a look, and steel myself as I turn around to face our stepmother, the force that is Sylvia Tremaine. “Good morning, Sylvia. It’s another gorgeous day,” I say lightly. When it comes to Sylvia Tremaine, my motto is always not to go poking the beast, particularly a pre-caffeinated one.

  She harrumphs in response as her cold stare shifts from me to Cece. “Have you done your chores, Cecelia? You know you can’t go to that school of yours until you have.”

  “Yes, I’ve done them.”

  Sylvia twists her mouth into a questioning pout. “Are you absolutely certain?”

  Cece juts her chin out. I shoot her a warning look. Sometimes my kid sister is a whole lot braver than me—and when it comes to Sylvia, that’s not ever a good thing. “Yes. I’m certain.”

>   I hold my breath.

  “Really?” Sylvia’s thick lash extensions give her eyelid muscles a workout. “You’ve made Britney and Kylie’s beds? Cleaned up after their breakfast? Sent the laundry to Hilda?”

  “I, err—”

  “I’ll do it for her,” I say in haste.

  “Will you now? What about all your chores, Gabriella?”

  “Almost done.”

  Sylvia’s eyes rove our bedroom. I know she’s looking for something to complain about. Finding nothing, she harrumphs once more. It’s one of her favorite responses. “Come and see me when you’re finished. I have errands for you to run.”

  “Yes, Sylvia,” I reply.

  With nothing else in her armory, she throws us one final disapproving glare before she turns on her heel and sweeps out of the room.

  Cece lets out a puff of air. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “Just do the chores next time, okay? I can’t keep covering for you.” I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “You’ve got to go.” I pull her in for a quick hug. “I’ll pick you up after school.”

  “You don’t have to. I am fourteen, you know.”

  I ignore her protest. Cece is the reason I’m still living here, and neither of us can afford her getting in any more trouble. “I will see you there. Now go!”

  As Cece disappears out of the room and down the spiral staircase, I glance in the mirror above the chest of drawers. I slather on some lip balm, the sum total of my makeup routine for the day. I blink at my reflection. My mom’s green and gold eyes stare back at me, reminding me of another time, another life. A life when our stepmonster and her spawn were nothing but strangers to us.

  I let out a sigh. There’s no point wanting something that’s gone.

  I work my way through the girls’ rooms, making their beds, collecting plates and cups, and hanging up the clothes they’ve left strewn across the floor. Usually, Sylvia and her daughters are snoring their heads off this early, but today’s different. Today’s important—for them and for me.

  “Gabriella! Have you not finished yet?” Sylvia’s voice echoes down the hall.

  “One second!” I put the dishes into the dishwasher and run back up the creaking stairs to my room. Hurriedly, I scoop my hair up into my usual high ponytail and collect my purse from my bed.