Chapter 1: The Golden Boy’s Knife

Ivy.

“You know, if Noah smiles any harder at that camera, his face is gonna crack like cheap ice,” Maya muttered beside me, popping a handful of overpriced arena popcorn into her mouth. “I give it six months before that pretty jaw needs Botox.”

I elbowed her without looking away from the jumbotron. “Maya. Not here.”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone with a brain cell knows. Noah Reed is a narcissistic, backstabbing prick who’s been using you as a doormat since day one. I hate him, Ivy. Like, deep-down, burn-his-jersey-and-salt-the-earth hate. And if he hurts you one more time, I’m going full feral on his sorry Alpha ass.”

“Tell her she’s right.” Nyx—my wolf—whispered in my mind. “That golden boy’s wolf probably rolls over and plays dead every time his ego needs stroking.”

The Chicago Thunder arena pulsed around us, thousands of fans roaring in that bone-deep way only werewolf packs could manage. The scent of sweat hung thick in the air. I tugged Noah’s oversized jersey down over my thighs, the number 19 burning against my skin like a brand.

“He’s under a lot of pressure,” I whispered back, the same defense I’d given a hundred times. “This investigation nonsense has him on edge.”

Maya snorted so loudly the guy in front of us turned around. “Pressure? Babe, the only thing pressuring Noah is his own ego trying to fit through the door. He’s been treating you like trash for years.”

The second-period buzzer sounded, and the post-game interview was starting on the massive screens. Noah stood under the bright lights in his Thunder gear, hair still damp, that golden-boy smile locked firmly in place. The reporter shoved a microphone forward.

“Rumors have been swirling about leaked team strategies ahead of the playoffs. Any comment on the league’s investigation, Noah?”

The arena quieted just enough.

My stomach twisted.

This question again. The league had been suspecting that Noah leaked team strategies ahead of playoffs, but it wasn’t possible. Noah wasn't many things, but fraudulent wasn't one of them.

Noah’s grin didn’t waver. Not at first. Then he let out a soft, disappointed chuckle. “Look, I hate to say this on live television, but loyalty’s a rare thing in this league. When the woman who’s been by your side for years starts getting too close to the wrong people… things slip.”

My blood turned to ice. My eyes shot wide.

What the fuck is he talking about?

The reporter blinked. “Are you suggesting—”

“Ivy Carter,” Noah said, voice steady and sorrowful, like he was delivering a eulogy. “She had access to the team’s restricted areas. I trusted her. And now my team’s paying for it.”

The jumbotron cut to a blurry still image—me near the media control hallway weeks ago. I’d only gone there to drop off Noah’s forgotten lucky charm. But on screen, under dramatic lighting and slow zoom, it looked damning.

The arena erupted.

Boos rained down. Phones lit up. Someone nearby shouted, “Traitor bitch!”

Maya shot to her feet like a rocket. “That motherfu— Noah Reed, you pathetic, ego-inflated piece of shit! I knew it! I’ve hated that golden retriever-faced liar since he first smiled at you!” She grabbed my arm, her sharp nails digging in. “We are leaving. Right now. Before I climb that screen and rip his throat out. I’ve been telling you for years he’s garbage, Ivy. Garbage!”

I couldn’t breathe. My vision tunneled on the screen as Noah kept talking, painting me as the bitter, jealous girlfriend who’d sold out his career for attention and rival pack payoffs. “I loved her,” he said, eyes glistening on cue. “But ambition makes people do ugly things.”

He loved me.

Past tense.

The words hit harder than anything I’d felt in years. Four years of late-night pep talks, defending him against trolls at 3 a.m., canceling my own grad school applications so I could travel with his team. All of it erased in ninety seconds of prime-time television.

Maya was still ranting as we pushed through the crowd. “I hate him so much it physically hurts. The way he’d call you crying about ‘pressure’ and you’d drop everything? While he partied with sponsors? He’s a user, Ivy. A manipulative, status-obsessed user. And I swear on every moon, if he—”

Security started pushing through toward us. Maya wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Touch her and I’ll make sure your pack smells like burnt fur for a month, assholes. And tell Noah Reed his fake-ass charm won’t save him when I’m done!”

We barely made it to the concourse before my phone exploded. Notifications. Death threats. Screenshots of Noah’s interview trending with #IvyCarterExposed and #ThunderTraitor. My vision blurred with hot tears, but I forced them down. Not here. Not where cameras could catch the “guilty” girlfriend crying.

“Maya,” I choked out as we ducked into a side hallway, the air thick with stale beer and damp concrete, “he didn’t mean it. He’s scared. The league’s been investigating him—”

“Stop defending that asshole!” Maya spun me to face her, her dark eyes blazing with pure contempt. “I hate Noah Reed with every fiber of my soul. He’s always been selfish. Always. He threw you under the bus because he’s cornered, and you were convenient. Loyal little Ivy, who never asked for anything. If I see his face again, I’m spitting in it. Or worse.”

My phone rang. Noah’s name flashed on the screen.

I answered before I could stop myself. “Noah? What the hell was that?”

A pause. Then his voice came out cold. “The PR team’s handling it. Just… lay low. This’ll blow over if you don’t make it worse.”

“Lay low?” My voice cracked. “You just called me a traitor on national television!”

“You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I had to protect the team. Protect us.” He sighed, like I was the exhausting one. “Look, I’ll call you later. Don’t talk to anyone.”

The line went dead.

Maya stared at me, arms crossed. “If you cry over that waste of Alpha genes, I’m disowning you and adopting a raccoon.”

My entire life had revolved around Noah Reed—his schedule, his moods, his dreams.

Now I was the villain in everyone else’s story.

We slipped out a side exit into the chilly Chicago night. Snow flurries danced under the streetlights. My phone kept buzzing. League statements. Reporters. Strangers calling me a whore, a spy, a pack traitor.

Then the arena screens outside lit up with highlights from the post-game chaos.

Tyler Vane.

The Hockey Devil.

The feed showed him in brutal clarity—six-foot-five, his tattooed muscle and barely contained violence—slamming into Noah during what should’ve been a breakaway chance. The hit was vicious, legal but savage, sending Noah crashing into the boards with a sickening crack. Tyler’s eyes glowed with that feral Alpha gold as he stood over him, teeth bared, while the crowd lost their minds.

Commentators screamed. “Vane’s done it again! This rivalry just went nuclear!”

Security dragged them apart. Noah clutched his shoulder, glaring murder. Tyler didn’t even look at the cameras. His gaze swept the stands like he was searching for something.

For a split second, those cold eyes seemed to lock onto the exit where we stood.

Maya whistled low. “Well, shit. The Devil just painted a target on your ex’s back. And something tells me you’re about to be collateral damage in the world’s ugliest pissing contest.”

My heart hammered as the replay looped in brutal slow motion, Tyler’s massive body dominating the screen, the violence raw and personal. Whatever war had just ignited between them, I could already feel the heat of it licking at the edges of my shattered life.