The private investigator’s report was thin, but it was enough. Sarah Mitchell, the twenty-two-year-old girl whose life I had helped ruin, was working the graveyard shift at a grease-stained diner in New Jersey. The report also mentioned she was sleeping in her Honda Civic parked two blocks away.
Guilt, cold and sharp, twisted in my gut. But unlike before, I didn't let it paralyze me. I used it as fuel.
I rented a nondescript sedan, leaving my flashy pack car in the garage, and drove across the bridge. The diner was a neon-lit sore in the darkness of the industrial district. Rain slicked the pavement, reflecting the flickering 'OPEN' sign as I pushed through the heavy glass door.
Sarah was behind the counter, wiping down a laminate table. She looked exhausted. Her uniform was too big, and dark circles bruised the skin under her eyes. When the bell above the door chimed, she looked up, her customer-service smile firmly in place.
Then she saw me.
The rag dropped from her hand. She took a step back, hitting the coffee machine with a clang. "Ms. Nelson... please. I don't want any trouble. I haven't said a word to anyone."
Her voice trembled, and the scent of her fear—acrid and sour—hit my nose. She thought I was here to finish the job Cyrus had started.
"I'm not here to cause trouble, Sarah," I said, keeping my voice low and steady. I walked to the counter, keeping my hands visible on the Formica surface. "I'm here to apologize. And I'm here to ask for your help."
She blinked, confusion warring with terror. "Help? You got me fired. You humiliated me."
"I know," I said, meeting her gaze without flinching. "I was lied to. I was told you were seducing Cyrus. I was told you ordered the champagne."
Sarah’s face crumpled. "I didn't! I told you that night! The order came from the Alpha's email. I was just doing what I was told. I thought we were reviewing the merger documents!"
"I believe you," I said softly. "I know now that it was a setup. But I need to prove it."
Sarah hesitated, biting her lip. She looked around the empty diner, then reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a cracked smartphone. Her fingers shook as she tapped the screen.
"I kept them," she whispered. "I knew... I knew something felt wrong when Jasmine showed up at the hotel right before you did. She looked too happy."
She slid the phone across the counter. On the screen were screenshots of emails.
*From: Cyrus Hall
*To: Hotel Services*
*Subject: Room 304 - VIP Setup*
*Body: Champagne on ice. 12:30 AM. Do not disturb.*
"Look at the timestamp on the bottom," Sarah pointed, her nail chipped. "The email was sent at 4:00 PM. Cyrus was in a meeting with the Elders then. He doesn't even have his phone during Elder meetings."
"But Jasmine has his passwords," I finished for her, the pieces clicking into place with a sickening precision. "She sent this. She ordered the room. She set the stage."
"And this," Sarah swiped to the next image. It was a log of a deleted calendar invite sent to Sarah’s work account, instructing her to bring the merger files to the hotel room. "She deleted it from the server after I was fired, but I back up my phone to my personal cloud every night."
I stared at the glowing screen. This was it. Proof that my 'jealous outburst' had been carefully engineered by my best friend to discredit me. Jasmine had moved me across the board like a pawn, sacrificing Sarah just to take a piece of my sanity.
"Send these to me," I said, pulling out a thick envelope of cash I had withdrawn earlier. I slid it across the counter. "This isn't a bribe. It's severance. Get a hotel room, Sarah. Get a hot meal. When I take them down, you’ll get your reputation back. I promise."
Sarah stared at the envelope, tears spilling over her lashes. She nodded, tapping 'send' on the images.
I walked out of the diner into the rain, the digital evidence burning a hole in my pocket. The cool air felt good against my heated skin. I sat in the rental car, listening to the rhythmic *thwack-thwack* of the windshield wipers, and stared at my phone.
There was one number I hadn't dialed in two years.
My thumb hovered over the contact: *Drew - Big Brother*.
Cyrus had slowly isolated me from my family, planting seeds of doubt, claiming they didn't respect his authority, that they looked down on us. I had chosen love over blood. I had been a fool.
I pressed call.
It rang once. Twice.
"Elena?"
His voice was deep, familiar, and laced with immediate, sharp concern. He didn't ask why I was calling at 2:00 AM. He didn't ask if I was okay. He just said my name, and the sound of it nearly broke the dam I had built around my heart.
I gripped the steering wheel, forcing my voice to remain steady. I couldn't afford to be the little sister who needed saving. I needed to be a partner in war.
"You were right," I said. The words tasted like ash, but I forced them out. "About everything. Cyrus. The pack. All of it."
Silence stretched on the line, heavy and pregnant. I expected a lecture. I expected anger.
"Where are you?" Drew asked. His tone had shifted. The warmth was gone, replaced by the steel of the future Alpha of the Silver Pack.
"I'm safe," I said. "But I need help, Drew. I have evidence of embezzlement, infidelity, and sabotage. But I need to verify the digital trails before I make my move. And I need political cover."
I took a breath, watching the rain blur the neon lights of the diner.
"I need the forensic accounting team," I said, my voice hardening. "And I need the Hansens."
There was a pause, and then the sound of movement on the other end—fabric rustling, the click of a lamp.
"The team is already being assembled," Drew said, his voice grim and resolute. "Valeria is calling her father now. Just say the word, El, and we burn it all down."
I looked at the diner one last time, thinking of Sarah shivering in her car, and then at the dark horizon where the Black Moon Pack territory lay.
"Get the jet ready," I whispered. "I'm coming home."
