Cinderella’s Glass Collar -

It was not heavy. That was the cruelest part. A metal collar would have weighed her down, reminded her of its presence with every sore muscle and aching joint. But the glass collar was light as a whisper. She would forget it was there—until she turned her head too fast and felt the sharp lip of the clasp graze her throat. Until she tried to lift her chin at the dinner table and heard the faint ting as it struck the wooden back of her chair. Until she cried, and the tears slid down the smooth curve of the glass, pooling in the hollow of her collarbone like rainwater in a gutter.

“Then what will?” Cinderella asked.

“I cannot. Only you can.”

In the kingdom of Verance, every servant wore a collar. It was the law. The material varied—tarnished brass for the kitchen maids, splintered oak for the stable hands, braided rope for the field workers. But for Cinderella, her stepmother, Lady Tremaine, demanded something special. cinderella’s glass collar

So Cinderella raised her hands—rough, red, honest hands—and wrapped them around her own throat. Around the glass. She did not hesitate. She squeezed. It was not heavy

The next morning, Lady Tremaine found the keyless lock and the pile of glittering dust on the hearth. She opened her mouth to scream—but for the first time in years, Ella was not there to hear it. But the glass collar was light as a whisper