Available as an EPUB via major ebook retailers (Amazon, Apple Books, Kobo, Google Play) and often included in Colleen Hoover box sets. Check your local library’s digital collection, too.
Because Finding Cinderella is a short, fast-paced novella, you can maximize your immersion by tweaking a few digital settings:
For new readers, the Hopeless series is an excellent entry point into Hoover's work. For existing fans, Finding Cinderella offers a delightful and essential piece of the puzzle.
Mara Hart had no romance in her life, only routine. At thirty-two, she cataloged ebooks for a small independent press in a cramped apartment above a laundromat. Her days were spent correcting metadata: titles, author names, ISBNs, covers. At night she read other people's mercy—love, grief, triumph—while her own life hummed in grayscale.
Months turned into a year. The novella receded from the press's front page and settled into a quiet shelf on the internet. Mara's inbox still collected letters. The Near-Miss Club met on occasional Sundays in a park, and Elias sometimes played for them. Mara and he found small, rugged joys: thrift-store scavenges, morning trains, shared playlists. They traveled once to a coastal town to return a lost shoe to an old woman who'd found it in a market and kept it as a talisman. The woman cried when they gave it back and said, "It held something I didn't know how to keep."
In "Finding Cinderella: A Novella of Hopeless Romanticism," we embark on a journey to explore the often-overlooked aspect of Cinderella's story – the desperation, the longing, and the hopelessness that define her existence. This novella presents a unique interpretation of the classic tale, delving into the psychological depths of Cinderella's character and exposing the darker emotions that simmer beneath her seemingly cheerful facade.
(Book 2.5) – The novella focusing on Daniel and Six.
“I’ve been looking for you my whole life. I just didn’t know it until I found you.” — Daniel, Finding Cinderella
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Mara filed the emails in a virtual folder called Cinderella. She did not forward them. Her job was order, not miracle. Still, each message tugged at her. Their small details—the sound a woman made when she laughed alone in a kitchen; the exact brand of tea that reminds someone of a grandmother; the way a man in a navy coat held a subway pole with white-knuckled calm—began to feel like threads. She started to suspect the novella wasn't simply read. It was a kind of compass.