Page 18 of If The Shoe Fits (A Howlin’ Good Fairytale Retelling #2)

chapter seventeen

A fter a round of cheers goes up around the entire ballroom as Bethany exits the area where the shoes are waiting for the next person to come try them on.

I am so proud of her, I can’t help it when a tear escapes my eye.

Wulfy notices and his tender smile warms my heart as he wipes it away with his thumb and touches the teardrop to his lips.

The ballroom is abuzz as more students line up to take a chance, and I admit I am even more nervous now.

Wulfy remains plastered to my side as one by one they try the slippers.

“They don’t fit anyone else yet. Only Bethany, that sweet girl,” Agatha reports to me, and she is gnawing her lip.

“Well, the likelihood they would fit anyone here was always slim to none. I am just grateful they fit one person,” I reply.

My gaze drifts around the ballroom, taking in the glittering decorations, the soft glow of the twinkle lights, and the buzz of excited conversation.

My eyes land on Bethany, standing in the middle of a small crowd. She’s smiling.

Really smiling.

And for once, she doesn’t look like the shy, nervous girl who usually hides behind her textbooks.

She’s surrounded by Witches, Warlocks, and even a couple of Shifters from class, all of them chatting animatedly as if she’s the star of the evening.

Good for her , I think to myself, a warm sense of pride and happiness starting to take root in my chest.

This little experiment, the glass slipper theory, is shaping up to be a true teaching moment.

Watching my students engage with it, seeing them reflect on their intentions and choices, it’s everything I hoped for and more.

And apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so.

A handful of students have already approached me, asking if I’d consider offering more classes on Magical Morality as part of the Academy’s curriculum.

The idea has my mind spinning with possibilities. I’d have to talk to Wulfy about it, of course, but it’s definitely something worth exploring.

Speaking of the hunky Werewolf, where is he?

I glance around the room, expecting to see him standing nearby, his commanding presence impossible to miss.

But he’s not here. He must have wandered off while I was chatting with Agatha.

Just as I’m about to go looking for him, a sharp screech cuts through the air, followed by a collective gasp.

The sound of feet shuffling quickly out of the way fills the room, and my head snaps toward the commotion.

“What the—” I begin, but the words die on my lips.

My breath catches, my hand flying to my mouth as I take in the scene before me. My whole world tilts on its axis.

There he is. Wulfredo Tremayne.

But he’s not alone.

He’s got his daughter, the self-proclaimed queen of the Academy, Miss Cyndi Tremayne, by the elbow. And he’s pulling her—*relentlessly*—to the front of the line.

Cyndi is dressed spectacularly in a baby blue ballgown covered in thousands of crystals that catch the light with every reluctant step she takes.

She looks like something out of a storybook—elegant, polished, and utterly snotty.

More wicked than this Witch that’s for sure.

“But Pop , I don’t want to do this! It’s stupid!” she whines, dragging her feet like a petulant child.

Wulfy doesn’t falter.

His grip on her elbow is firm, his face a mask of determination.

“Cyndi,” he says, his voice calm but unyielding, “I have been neglectful in my role as a father, but I promise to do better from now on, daughter of mine.”

The students nearest them fall silent, their whispers dying as they watch the scene unfold. I can feel their eyes darting between Wulfy, Cyndi, and me, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife.

“Pop, Professor Troy hates me!” Cyndi whines again, her voice dropping into a theatrical whisper that still manages to carry across the room.

“You know how she’s made fun of me for not having a mom. And how she gives me more work than other students!”

The words hit me like a slap, the sheer audacity of the lie making my cheeks burn. I glance around, and the shock is palpable.

Students exchange wide-eyed looks, some of them covering their mouths to stifle gasps.

This is a scene I want no part of.

My pulse is racing, my instincts screaming at me to step back, to let this play out without me. But then Wulfy speaks, and his words pin me to the spot.

“Stop it right now,” he growls, his voice low and full of authority.

The room goes deathly quiet.

“You and I, and everyone else here who is acquainted with Madora Troy, know that is simply not true, Cynthia.”

Cyndi freezes, her eyes darting up to meet her father’s.

“And,” Wulfy continues, his voice softer now but no less commanding, “if you insist on spreading lies about one of the most honorable people in this Academy, then we’re going to have an even bigger problem than we already do.”

Cyndi’s cheeks flush a deep crimson, and for once, she looks utterly at a loss for words.

“Now,” Wulfy says, his golden eyes glowing faintly as he guides her to the slipper display, “try the slippers on.”

His voice is low, firm, and undeniable.

The room holds its collective breath, all eyes on Cyndi as she hesitates, glancing nervously at the glowing glass slippers.

For the first time all evening, the confidence she usually wears like armor seems to falter.

She looks up at Wulfy, then at me, her mouth opening and closing like she wants to protest but can’t find the words.

Finally, with a huff, she bends down and reaches for the slippers.

And I can’t help but wonder—what will they reveal about her?

I bite my lip and watch as the typically hoity and proud Cyndi steps forward in her pale blue gown, which I admit is a marvelous color on her with her blonde hair and sapphire eyes. She bites her lip and sits, attempting to slide her foot into the slippers.

They don’t fit.

She focuses, tries again, using a different angle.

But no matter how hard she tries to force them on, the shoes will not bend or grow to match her feet.

Cyndi hisses and stomps, then in a fit of anger I should have seen coming, she lifts her other foot, which is clad in a seriously spiked stiletto, and she brings it crashing down on the glass slipper, shattering it into a million pieces.

The entire ballroom gasps—and my heart is hanging on tenterhooks.