Blurb：
A ghostwritten love letter scandal rocks Lantern Hill Regional High! When a pale pink confession appears on the bulletin board, an anonymous ghostwriter's secret side business is exposed. With Vice Principal Thompson demanding answers, Conrad Roth shockingly claims the letter was for him. Discover the tangled web of secrets between the ghostwriter and Conrad Roth—ex-best friends turned cold war rivals. Why would the meticulous, rule-following Conrad Roth take the fall? Dive into this high-stakes young adult drama filled with tension, betrayal, and unexpected alliances. Perfect for fans of academic rivals, secret identities, and emotional high school sagas.
Content：
§01The first time I saw the letter, it was a ghost.
A pale pink rectangle pinned to the felt of the main hall bulletin board, stark against a sea of monochrome flyers.
My ghost.
My death warrant.
My breath snagged in my throat, a sharp, painful thing.
Around me, the morning rush of Lantern Hill Regional High swirled on, oblivious.
Lockers slammed.
Sneakers squeaked.
Someone laughed, a sound so carefree it felt like a physical blow.
But all I could hear was the frantic, panicked drumming of my own heart against my ribs.
All I could see was that letter.
Pale pink, linen-textured stationery.
I’d ghostwritten dozens of assignments for half the senior class—essays, lab reports, poems for English class.
But I only used that specific paper for one type of job.
The lucrative one.
The one that paid a dollar a word.
Love letters.
And that one, hanging there for the entire student body to see, wasn’t signed.
A tremor started in my hands, a cold wave of dread washing over me.
This wasn’t an accident.
This was a weapon.
Aimed directly at me.
“What’s everyone staring at?” Sadie’s voice, bubbly and bright, cut through my haze.
She followed my gaze, her cheerful expression melting into a small ‘o’ of surprise.
“Whoa. Someone’s brave.”
I couldn’t speak.
My tongue was a dry, useless weight in my mouth.
The crowd around the board was thickening, murmurs rising like steam.
I saw Conrad Roth near the front, his posture ramrod straight, a frown creasing his brow.
My ex-best-friend.
My ex-desk-mate.
The architect of the cold war that had defined my senior year so far.
His eyes swept the crowd, and for a terrifying second, they locked with mine.
There was no recognition.
Just the same cool, dismissive judgment he’d worn for the past month.
Then, the sea of students parted.
Vice Principal Thompson stood there, his face a thundercloud.
He marched to the board, his sensible shoes making no sound on the linoleum.
He tore it down.
That single sheet of pink paper.
He held it up, his voice booming across the suddenly silent hall.
“Whose is this?”
No one answered.
The silence was absolute, heavy.
Vice Principal Thompson’s eyes scanned every face, lingering on the known couples, the flirts, the rebels.
“I will ask one more time,” he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Who wrote this?”
My hand, slick with sweat, tightened on the strap of my worn backpack.
This was it.
My entire fragile world—the cafeteria work-study that got me lunch, the ghostwriting that paid for my brother’s medication, the academic scholarship that was my only ticket out of this town—was about to shatter.
I took a half-step forward, the words “It was me” forming on my lips.
It was better to confess than to be found out.
But before I could speak, a voice cut through the tension, cool and steady.
“I don’t know who wrote it.”
Every head turned.
Conrad Roth.
He stood a little straighter, his expression unreadable as he met the Vice Principal’s glare.
“But I know who it was for.”
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Thompson narrowed his eyes. “And who would that be, Mr. Roth?”
Conrad’s gaze flickered to me again, just for a fraction of a second.
Then he looked back at the Vice Principal, his face a mask of calm indifference.
“Me.”
§02
The word hung in the air, electric.
Chaos erupted.
Whispers turned into a roar of speculation.
Conrad Roth?
The guy who timed his lunch breaks with a stopwatch and color-coded his study schedule?
The guy whose idea of a wild Friday night was reorganizing his bookshelf?
It was unthinkable.
It was perfect.
He was the last person anyone would suspect, which made him the most believable person of all.
I stood frozen, a bizarre mix of terror and a strange, unwelcome flicker of gratitude washing over me.
He was saving me.
But why?
Our friendship hadn’t just ended; it had been systematically dismantled, piece by painful piece, by his own hand.
It started the month before, in the cafeteria line. I was juggling three trays, a side hustle I’d picked up to earn a few extra bucks.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Conrad’s voice, sharp with disapproval, had cut through the lunchtime chatter. “This is inefficient and no different than cutting in line.”
Download the Novellia app, Search 【 906371 】reads the whole book.
The End