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Young Adult Stories

His Bet, Her Ruin, Their Reckoning

His Bet, Her Ruin, Their Reckoning

5.0

The icy water stole my breath, a final, burning cold consuming me as I sank into the dark lake. The last thing I saw was my Harvard acceptance letter, a cruel joke on the grass. Yesterday, that letter was everything, the key to saving my brother, Liam. But that was before Noah Vance, the school bully, destroyed my life. It began with his chilling "mind-reading" trick. He cornered me before the exams, his smirk unwavering as he revealed things only I knew, like Liam' s urgent need for a bone marrow transplant and our family' s crushing medical debt. He proposed a bet: if he got into an Ivy League, I' d be his personal assistant for three months. If not, he' d pay for Liam' s surgery. Desperate, I agreed. I aced my exams, and the call from Harvard brought a wave of relief. Then I saw the public scoreboard: my perfect score, and right below it, Noah Vance, with the exact same perfect score. It was impossible. He and his friends dragged me into the shadows. "Looks like I won," he sneered, his face inches from mine. There was no money for Liam; only the bet. They held me down. They broke me. Not just my spirit, but my body. The next days were a blur of pain and shame. I couldn' t tell anyone. Then the hospital called: Liam had a complication, an infection. Without funds, they couldn' t operate. He died two days later, and with him, a piece of me. I walked to the lake, the Harvard letter in hand, feeling nothing but a profound emptiness. How did Noah Vance, a slacker, get a perfect score? The water closed over my head. Then, I opened my eyes. I was in my bed, the sunlight streaming in. My best friend' s text buzzed on my phone: "You ready for the last day of hell before exams?" I was back. Back to the day before the bet, before everything. A cold smile spread across my face. This time, Noah Vance would not succeed.

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The Charity Case Dare: Her Sweet Revenge

The Charity Case Dare: Her Sweet Revenge

5.0

Sarah Miller had one shot: Northwood Academy, a world away from her cramped apartment and her dad' s pain-ridden reality. As a scholarship kid, navigating the gilded halls felt like walking a tightrope, especially with queen bee Tiffany Vanderbilt and her "Legacy Crew" constantly reminding her she didn' t belong. One evening, sweeping the school theater, I froze, hearing voices from the green room. Tiffany' s voice cut through the silence: "Chad and Brittany are useless… Ethan, it has to be you." My blood ran cold as I listened to them plot the "Charity Case Dare" -a twisted game where golden boy Ethan Hayes would wine and dine me, make me fall for him, then publicly break my heart right before graduation. It wasn't just bullying; it was a calculated psychological operation, a sport for their amusement. They wanted to see me weep, utterly destroyed. Their words, "charity case," echoed like a brand. Every petty cruelty, every snicker, now made sickening sense. How could people born with every privilege, every advantage, be so casually, viciously cruel? Didn' t they have souls? Was I just a disposable pawn in their endless pursuit of twisted entertainment? The injustice burned, a bitter bile rising in my throat. They thought they had me trapped, a helpless animal in their cruel game. But they were wrong. I wasn' t going to be their victim. I would play along, I would weaponize their arrogance, their resources, and their monstrous scheme. And when the final curtain fell, they wouldn' t know what hit them.

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Beyond Fair: A Daughter's Escape

Beyond Fair: A Daughter's Escape

5.0

My mother, Karen, a high school principal, enforced a chillingly twisted version of "fairness." It demanded that if I, Sarah, her academically gifted twin, received anything, my less-inclined sister, Emily, had to get the exact same. This rigid, oppressive equality dictated every aspect of our lives, from grades to family trips. When my SAT score of 1550 dwarfed Emily' s 950, Mom's response was swift and brutal: we would both attend a local community college. My mental health, my severe depression diagnosis-all dismissed. When I finally dared to protest, begging her to consider what a gap year or an ill-suited college might do, her facade cracked. With a terrifying burst of rage, she grabbed the hot coffee pot and hurled it. Scalding liquid seared my arm, the sudden agony echoing years of insidious abuse: forced underperformance, hidden self-harm scars, and moments of utter abandonment, all justified by her twisted "fairness." My sister, Emily, merely smirked, validating the cruelty. This wasn't simply unfair; it was a profound, suffocating sickness, a delusion my mother wielded as a weapon, and one my sister benefited from with chilling indifference. How could a parent inflict such systematic psychological and physical torment, all while proclaiming "good intentions" and "fairness"? The lie consumed me, pushing me to the brink. Shattered, terrified, and with my arm throbbing uncontrollably, I fled instinctively to the apartment building rooftop, the familiar precipice of my despair. But this time, amidst the piercing cold and the overwhelming sense of abandonment, I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I hadn't touched in years: my estranged father. It was my only hope for escape.

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