Midnight Rella

Midnight Rella

The huffing and panting of a young bachelorette echoed in the palace’s night air as she ran from the prince. The clock struck midnight. She left behind her bedazzled Air Jordan 1s—one still sparkling on the marble steps. Her corset was crooked, and her bubble skirt? Atrociously short in the back but just long enough in the front to keep the aunties from reporting her.

The prince chased after her in his nicest church shirt and slacks. His shiny dress shoes—probably from DSW—clicked aggressively down the steps. "Ayo, wait up!" he yelled, breathin’ heavy, watchin’ her try to flee like she wasn’t halfway outta breath herself.

Her small braids were thrown into a messy bun, ends curled like she was halfway to a soft launch. Rella was no stranger to a hit-it-and-quit-it—but in this case? Nothin’ even got hit. Not really, anyway. Midnight came quicker than the prince. She chuckled in disbelief as she continued to sprint.

She shuffled down the marble steps, dragging her feet like a zombie. Huffing, puffing, clearly outta shape. Maybe even breaking a little sweat—cute sweat, though. If only she had brought her Stanley Cup for hydration.

She ran—well, more like dramatically limped—all the way home.

She made it back to her small yet oddly endearing two-bedroom house—the one that cost as much as a liver on the black market. Rent was gentrified. Trauma was free.

She lived there with her two stepsisters, Braelynn and Jayda-Nicole, and her evil stepmother, Karen Schade. Her dad had the nerve to remarry before he died from a lavender incense overdose. Karen swore burning it twice a day would cure high blood pressure. It cured his pulse entirely.

After that, life turned real basic. Real depressing. She was stuck cleaning and cooking like some unpaid intern for her dirty stepfamily.

Braelynn and Jayda-Nicole acted like the two bad cousins nobody ever wants to invite to the cookout. You know the type—loud, entitled, always beefin’ with somebody on Facebook, and the kind who bring store-bought food in Tupperware and swear up and down they made it themselves.

Luckily, they didn’t recognize her at the prince’s ball. And how could they? Her makeup that night was beat to the gods. Snatched. Flawless. Lashes so long she couldn’t see her haters—or anyone else. She could’ve been legally blind and wouldn’t have known.

But the real drama started when Prince Kairo launched a full-blown search across the Kingdom of Winston. The only clue he had? That one bedazzled Air Jordan 1. Well—that, and one secret tactic he kept tucked in his back pocket...

One by one, Prince Kairo searched the Kingdom of Winston, knockin’ on doors and disturbingly interrupting women mid-bonnet and skincare routine. He looked good enough to ruin lives—tan skin, curly fade, the perfect smile—and the exact energy of a man who says 'grand rising' but ghosts by noon.

After a grueling eight-hour search—longer than an Amazon shift with no bathroom break—he finally stumbled upon the very last house in Winston.

He stared at the underwhelming but decent-sized two-bedroom house. Not royal, but not broke either. He steeled his resolve to find his shawty—ahem, his lady. With his iPhone in one hand and his secret weapon in his back pocket ready to go.

He rang the enchanted door device. The Ring video camera rang its enchanting ding-dong sound.

A crackly voice echoed through the magical video doorbell. "Who is it?"

"The Prince of Triad," Kairo replied, adjusting his Gucci belt. "I’ve come in search of my boo."

Inside, Karen Schade gasped so loud she choked on her green smoothie. This was it—the chance for one of her daughters to trap the prince and finally level up to soft life.

"Hol’ up one minute, please," she said sweetly through the door, then immediately dropped the act and whipped out her phone.

She texted the family group chat: "AYO! The prince here. Get down here NOW. Dress nice. AND DON’T YOU DARE WEAR NO bonnets!"

Upstairs, you could hear the chaotic scuttle of Braelynn and Jayda-Nicole throwin’ on Fashion Nova, shavin’ armpits, and arguing over whose butt looked fatter in their dresses. Unfortunately, they were both delulu and their butts were flatter than their personalities.

Down below, tucked away in the walk-in closet under the staircase, Rella stirred from her nap. She blinked, confused. "The prince?" It was a groggy, half-asleep question that escaped her lips. Her nails clicked and clacked as she checked her 200+ unread messages—one of them being the family group chat.

She clutched her invisible pearls, heart racin’, as she read the text.

She wanted to see him again. She needed to. It was love at first 'Walk' challenge. And his hip sway? Unholy. He had rhythm, respect, and rizz. He was the triple threat to the hearts of women.

As Rella rushed to pull herself together, her stepsisters came trotting dramatically down the staircase in their finest sundresses. (And every woman—and even man—knows the power of the sundress. The official declaration of summer and life-long unplanned accidents.)

Prince Kairo stood waiting—light-skinned, skin glowing even in the daylight. This man needed a Maybelline commercial. His hair was faded on the sides, with long black curls up top. Dark green eyes that could hypnotize, and a smile so straight and perfect, even braces felt jealous. What woman doesn’t fall for a perfect smile?

As Braelynn and Jayda-Nicole descended the stairs in their milk maid dresses, their mother, Karen Schade, gave them a sly nod of approval—like a proud, obnoxious dance mom.

The girls bowed dramatically before the prince, each striking their best "you know you want this" pose—eyelash flutter, hip tilt, the whole routine.

Prince Kairo nodded politely and took a seat in the living room, the bedazzled Nike Air Jordan in hand like it was the Infinity Gauntlet. Time to test the foot.

The oldest, Braelynn, went first. She shoved, stomped, and wiggled her foot like she was tryin’ to fit a size 9 into a size 6 with no ankle shame. The shoe didn’t budge. He shook his head slowly, disappointed. "Next!" he said curtly.

Then came Jayda-Nicole. She daintily lifted her foot—pinky toe flexed for good luck—and slipped it in. To everyone’s surprise, the shoe fit.

Prince Kairo blinked. Confused. Suspicious. That foot ain’t footin’ like it should.

With a calm voice and an arched brow, he asked: "Is there no one else in this household who might try this slipper?"

Karen Schade jumped in faster than a tweet from Twitter. "Skibbidy."

He blinked. "What?"

She smiled. "Skibbidy. No one else." She bowed respectfully with a devious smile.

He nodded slowly, with the kind of reluctance that said, "Why you always lyin’."

Prince Kairo stood from his kneel, put the Air Jordan down, and pulled out his folding fan like a final weapon. "Well then… you won’t mind one more test to prove you’re the one I’m lookin’ for."

Jayda-Nicole froze. Sweat glistened on her forehead like she was being audited.

"What test could possibly involve a fan?" she asked, voice shaking with fear.

Suddenly, music erupted—like the ancestors themselves had hit AUX. The prince’s knight, Sir Jermaine of Gen Z, held up his iPhone. On the screen? Spotify Now Playing: “Boots on the Ground” by 803Fresh.

With a ridiculously smooth flick of the wrist, the prince SNAPPED open his handheld fan—and broke into a TikTok line dance to "Where Them Fans At."

Jayda-Nicole didn’t know what to do. She wasn’t cultured enough for this. "In the clurb, we all fam," they say. But this? She was NOT part of the fam club. Not even remotely.

She popped her hips, tried to follow the rhythm—but her attempt looked like one of those inflatable tube men outside a used car dealership. Chaotic. Winded. Disrespectful.

It was embarrassing. Truly.

Prince Kairo winced like he caught "the ick" himself. His suspicions had been right. He shook his head slowly, full of irritation. How dare this woman think she could fool him.

Then—he heard something. Muffled giggles.

He turned his head. The sound was coming from around the corner, near the foot of the stairs closer to the entrance of the house. A tiny door beneath the staircase caught his eye. He stepped closer, placing a hand on the knob. Slowly, he turned it—and opened the door.

There, under the stairs, lay Rella.

On her stomach, kicking her feet in the air, scrolling TikTok with her earbuds in. She looked up. Froze. Then blinked twice like her screen glitched.

"Ohhhh no. Not like this."

She scrambled up, hair tangled, socks mismatched, bonnet hangin’ on like it had beef with gravity. "This was supposed to happen when I had my lashes on! Not while I’m crusty and in SpongeBob pajama shorts!*"

Prince Kairo smiled, amused, and Rella pointed at him like he was a setup from the universe. "Don’t smile at me like that—you don’t know the war I been through in this house."

Then under her breath: "Lord, if this a test… send the wig and the gloss too."

She wasn’t hiding. Not really.

It’s just... it was easier being down here. Quiet. Out the way. She’d spent so long being ignored, stepped over, and laughed at, she figured why bother showing up at all? If she stayed in the shadows, maybe no one could disappoint her there. But deep down, she still wanted to be seen. And for once… chosen.

Without saying a word, Prince Kairo knelt and gently placed the handheld fan in her hands. Then he smiled.

"What you listenin’ to?" Eyes green as grass twinkled with a mischievous smirk. "Now how ‘bout you show me your moves next, shawty."

He guided her into the living room, their hands gently holding one another’s.

Still in pajama shorts and a bonnet, Rella stepped forward, slightly tilted her foot, and slid it into the bedazzled Air Jordan. Perfect fit. Like fate, but with better arch support.

"Wait here. Don’t move," she said with a huge smile. You could see the excitement in her eyes.

She ran back to her closet and, just minutes later, returned with the matching pair. She slid them on like she was born in royalty. The room went silent. Even the air got jealous.

Fan in hand, she stepped into the center of the living room.

Then she popped OFF.

The line dance. The hip pops. The wrist flick. Fan snappin’ with precision and grace. She moved like "that girl." Classy, elegant, and a little toxic. Just his type, of course.

Prince Kairo joined her without hesitation—from the line dance, to the Harlem Shake, to a crisp Nae-Nae that nearly brought a tear to his eye.

In that moment, he knew—she was the one. She was the one he was searching for—his wifey.

As for the step fam?

Braelynn, Jayda-Nicole, and Karen Schade stood frozen, salty, and shook. But it was too late.

They were sentenced to forever get called out on TikTok Lives, banned from every cookout, and forced to work customer service for a petty Virgo-run business. No PTO. No breaks. And no more government assistance from the Kingdom of Winston.

And so, Rella got her prince, but more importantly she got to be chosen and was finally seen.

And as they danced into the night, fan poppin’ and love locked in, one thing was clear—this wasn’t your mama’s fairytale.

THE END.