Page 142 of Knotted By my Pack

He pauses. And then, like he’s doing us all a favor, he turns to the youngest in the group. “Would you care to tell the town who paid you?”

The Beta stands, reluctant. His voice is cracked from hours without water. “It was Vance Development.”

The room erupts. Gasps. Shouts. Swearing. Some people stand. One woman near the front clutches her purse like it’s a shield.

Cora stays perfectly still.

I step closer to her. Elias and Noah tense on either side. This isn’t just politics anymore. It’s exposure. It’s blood in the water. Why is he doing this now?

Lockwood holds up his hands like a man begging for order, though he’s not fooling anyone. “We will conduct a full investigation into these claims, and if there is any merit?—”

Cora’s voice cuts him off. “There’s merit.”

Silence.

She steps forward, eyes burning. “My bakery was targeted. My storefront was destroyed. I was terrified. And I have reason to believe that this was not only sanctioned by corporate interests, but actively covered up by this office.”

Lockwood turns red.

“I’m not here to cause more chaos,” she continues. “I’m here to fix it. This town needs leadership that isn’t bought. That won’t sell off our harbor or destroy small businesses to line their pockets.”

She gestures to Noah.

“I am endorsing Noah Callahan as a candidate for assistant mayor. He’s one of us. He’s stood in this town every day and fought for it. Now we fight for him.”

The crowd shifts. Eyes widen. Someone claps. Then someone else. A few stand. Lockwood tries to speak, but the mic cuts out. It’s chaos in the best way.

Real change, right in front of us. He takes a few steps back, motioning at his guards, before leaving. The prisoners are removed shortly after.

Cora turns, face blank with adrenaline and exhaustion. We surround her immediately, creating a wall. It’s instinct now. Pack behavior.

The applause is short-lived.

“You expect us to believethiswasn’t orchestrated?” someone shouts from the middle of the crowd.

Another voice follows. “This smells like damage control.”

The energy shifts fast, suspicion rolling through the room like a storm front. Eyes swing to me. Not Cora. Not Noah.Me.

An older woman in the front row lifts her chin. “Isn’t that Alec Vance’s son? The one behind the harbor resort? The one who’s been sitting on millions while our fishermen drown in bills?”

Murmurs of agreement. Accusation. Bitter heat rushes under my skin.

“I’m not a part of that anymore,” I say, loud enough to carry. “I’ve cut ties with my father’s business.”

“Convenient timing,” a man near the back mutters. “So what, you vandalize the bakery, buy your way back in with a few sweet words and a mayoral endorsement?”

“I didn’t vandalize anything.”

“Youfundedit,” someone else spits. “Your name’s on the damn permits.”

“I pulled the permits!” My voice cuts across the noise, sharp, raw. “I pulled them. I stopped everything. The resort deal, the expansion, all of it.”

There’s a ripple. Doubt. But louder than that: disbelief.

“They’re still building,” Fiona says. Her voice is crisp and brutal from where she stands halfway down the aisle, arms crossed over her cherry-red windbreaker. “Don’t act surprised, Julian. I was at the bluff yesterday. Backhoes. Concrete. Fencing. And not a single sign that construction was paused. So either you’re lying to us, or they didn’t listen to you at all.”

That hits like a blow to the gut.