CHAPTER 177: _ FINALLY, A PLAN

If Sierra planted one, the footage must have an upload trail, a metadata fingerprint. If Heidi can find the exact moments the file was transmitted, timestamps, IP signatures... someone who knows systems could trace it. But who at the Castells estate knows digital footprints? Mrs. Castell’s maids? The house’s surveillance? The nanny? Or the girl herself?

Pfft... not that they’d help her anyway.

That leaves her with one more key thing; Witnesses. Only one person aside from Heidi and the four bitched knows anything: Junie. But Junie is still in the labyrinth, or trapped someplace she can’t reach. Junie’s a lifeline she can’t yet pull. Her other friends; Andre, Helena, Jia, and Val only know what she told them about the situation, but none of them saw the planting. Still, they will stand with her if given a banner to rally under. Maybe that’s enough. The pack moves in numbers.

Security footage... The Castell manor eats privacy for breakfast. There are cameras in the hallways, in servants’ quarters, possibly in bathrooms too—if this is true, then footage will either convict Sierra or be ridiculously void. But Mrs. Castell likely controls most of those angles. And if she’s in Sierra’s pocket, she can bury anything.

Corvin’s ledger. He loves procedure. If the teachers also voted for Val over Heidi, perhaps they were influenced by whispers. Who planted the whispers? Who benefits from them? Who stood against her? Answers point to one family: Sierra’s. But again, she needs proof. Mrs. Castell probably called the school and informed them not to give the title to that "filthy Heidi girl"?

Heidi leans back on the mattress, watching the ceiling tiles as if they might open and pour answers like rain. Her mind keeps snagging on the same painful, tiny fact: she did not get the title. Her peers knew; they voted for her. They saw what she was. They chose her. But the teachers, the adults, the ones who talked into microphones and made decisions chose otherwise. They preferred Val. Why? Because Val is pretty, pliable. An easier narrative to sell. Because Heidi’s teeth and claws do not fit in brochures.

Does that mean she has to eat shit as a sacrifice for growth?

Her wolf clicks its teeth inside her mind. "So they fear you. They crown whom they can control. Predictable."

"Sometimes predictable is forgiving," Heidi replies, but it tastes sour.

She thinks of the crowd in the auditorium, the two boys who stand out in a sea of beige. Andre’s honest grin, and the plant-boy’s soft eyes. She remembers Val’s victory smile, sincere and bright as a mirror. Heidi’s throat tightens with affection. Val deserves the win because Val is kind and fierce and would carry it honorably. Heidi would have worn it differently. Maybe with less sash and more as a weapon, but that doesn’t make the loss any lighter. The teachers’ betrayal is a cold thing to swallow.

She could scream. She could throw Morgan’s phone against the wall. She could run out to Mrs. Castell’s parlor and exactly where the glass smashed, throw herself across the marble and demand justice. Those things would be dramatic in that telenovela sense and satisfying in the moment. But drama is a moment. She needs results. She needs leverage; she needs the kind of quiet, patient malice that moves chess pieces with velvet gloves.

She pads to the small desk under the window. Night has laid itself thick over the estate. The sky is a deep bruise, and the moon, like some white coin, hangs just out of reach. The phone vibrates in her pocket. She fishes it out and Morgan’s wallpaper stares back at her: a photo of him as a child, hair too long, toothy grin. For a moment, Heidi is hypnotized.

She almost brings the phone up and plants a wet kiss on the screen when her wolf pipes up. "Aw... adorable."

Argh, dammit! What the hell is she about to do?! Heidi shakes her head, snapping herself out of the spell of the bond, and decides to try the number Andre gave her, thumb hovering over the swipe to call.

The thought that she’s in a manor filled with wolves stops her.

"Oh, that’s right." She clicks her fingers and tries typing a message anyway, fingers clumsy with adrenaline.

Andre, Group chat? Please add me. She sends and waits. Nothing will ping back. The wolves, for all their bravado, are scattered across phones and patched signals like fishermen mending nets.

Being without Junie gnaws at her again. She sees Junie’s face in the dimness: younger, fierce with experience that didn’t belong to such a small body. Junie needs saving, and she is behind on that debt. All of this—Sierra, the phone, the title, the bonds, threads back to that gaping hole: Junie. Heidi’s chest tightens with the obligation she can’t seem to untangle from survival.

"No time for wallowing," the wolf chides. "Make lists, move. The universe loves momentum."

"Universe can fuck off," Heidi says aloud, and the profanity makes her grin because it feels like defiance.

She moves anyway and begins to write.

First, evidence reconnaissance. She draws out a plan on a scrap of paper; four columns of small, neat handwriting. Each one is a step, each step a way to collect or make evidence.

Sierra’s circle reconnaissance. She will be visible, false-normal, a sheep among wolves. Attend the family breakfast if one is arranged; pretend to be compliant. Observe body language, overhear declarations. Record anything suspicious. Morgan’s phone will help because it has extra storage and a burner SIM. She can hide it in her sleeve, cough into her hand like a real kid, pretend to be a housebroken forced daughter who sometimes makes mistakes.

House staff loyalty mapping. Mrs. Castell’s maids, cooks, drivers—someone will be discontented or leaky. They keep secrets in palaces like stray coins. A quiet bribe, a warm smile, subtle offers to listen could pry loose facts. But bribes are a luxury she lacks; favors and the promise of protection under the Bellamys hold more currency here. If Morgan has influence—or if Andre can find someone at the school sympathetic to underdogs—they can trade favors.

Witness consolidation. Collect statements from everyone who saw the fight, who saw Sierra with a phone, and who can confirm timelines. The Moon Blessed survivors trusted her once. If she can get Val, Helena, Jia, Andre, the plant-boy, and a few others to write statements, even if unsigned, the weight of numbers will tip perception. It’s a start.

She writes in the margin: Do not rely on arrogance. Her wolf rubs its muzzle against the paper in an imagined gesture of approval.

Next: immediate moves for the weekend. Val promised to come by; that’s a bridge to an ally with better social mobility. If Val can be in the house as a guest, she offers plausible cover—two girls thrown together in misery. Val is also fire. Her presence will shift the tone in small ways: Mrs. Castell may not be able to treat her with the same venom when an outsider might be watching. Visibility is a shield.

Heidi’s fingers tap the wood of the desk. She is painfully aware that the Castells’ house is not her amphitheater. Out here, a pack name is as sharp as a blade. The club of influence holds the keys and the fences. If she wants to rise, she needs a ladder made of more than raw spirit.

She thinks of the pack structure: Alphas and their bloodlines, the Bellamys looming like carved wolves—Tobias’s children with their inheritance of authority, and the Council that glazes the edges with law. Power in packs is rarely benevolent. It is an engine that grinds what it doesn’t need into dust. She can be ground. Or she can learn to sharpen into an edge the engine will fear.

Her mates... that’s the answer.

Her wolf was right. The Moon Goddess gave her all the necessary tools to fight this war. Yes, it’s time to accept it. It’s time to embrace the bond and start using them as they had used her.