Chapter 1

The crumpled piece of paper felt hot in my pocket, a secret I didn't ask for but now had to keep. It had been slipped into my locker between third and fourth period, a folded-up sheet of notebook paper with my name, Chloe, written on the front in a handwriting I didn't recognize.

I should have thrown it away. I should have never opened it. But curiosity is a powerful thing, especially when you're a high school junior who spends more time with textbooks than with actual people.

The bell for fifth period was about to ring when Ms. Albright, the principal, stopped me in the hallway. Her eyes, sharp and always searching for something to disapprove of, landed on the corner of the letter peeking out of my jeans.

"What is that, Ms. Davis?" she asked, her voice low and tight.

"Nothing, Ms. Albright. Just a note."

"A note?" She held out her hand, palm up. "Let me see it."

I froze. It wasn't a choice, it was a command. My fingers trembled as I pulled the letter from my pocket and handed it over. She unfolded it without a hint of apology, her eyes scanning the lines quickly. I saw her lips purse, her expression hardening into a familiar mask of stern disapproval.

She didn't read it aloud, not then. She just folded it neatly and tucked it into her own pocket.

"My office. After school," she said, before turning and walking away, her heels clicking on the linoleum floor like a ticking clock.

For the rest of the day, a knot of dread sat in my stomach. But when the final bell rang and I walked the long, quiet hall to her office, a tiny part of me felt a strange sense of relief. At least this would be private. A lecture, a warning, maybe a call to my parents. It would be bad, but it would be contained.

I knocked on her door.

"Come in," she called.

The office was exactly like her: organized, cold, and intimidating. Every award and plaque was perfectly aligned on the wall. She sat behind a large mahogany desk, the letter placed squarely in the center.

"Sit down, Chloe."

I sat in the chair opposite her, my hands clasped in my lap.

She let the silence stretch out, a tactic she used to make students uncomfortable. Finally, she tapped a perfectly manicured finger on the letter.

"I've read this," she said. "It's... poetic. Overly emotional. Exactly the kind of distraction that derails promising students."

I didn't say anything. I just stared at the letter.

"The Parent-Teacher Meeting is tomorrow night," she continued, her voice taking on a new, more official tone. "I believe this letter presents a perfect teachable moment. A real-world example of the pressures and distractions young people face."

My blood ran cold. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, leaning forward slightly, "that you will be reading this letter aloud. For everyone. The parents, the teachers. They need to understand the kind of things that can pull a student's focus away from what truly matters: their grades, their future."

I couldn't breathe. The room felt like it was closing in.

"No," I whispered. "You can't do that. It's private."

"It was passed on school grounds," she countered smoothly. "That makes it a school matter. And I am making it a community matter. This isn't a negotiation, Chloe."

I started to panic, my mind racing. "Please, Ms. Albright. I'll take any punishment. Detention, suspension, whatever you want. Just please don't make me read it out loud."

It was a plea for mercy, a desperate attempt to keep my private humiliation private. But I wasn't just thinking of myself. I was thinking of the boy who wrote it.

"Punishment?" she scoffed, a small, cruel smile on her face. "This isn't about punishment. It's about education. It's about setting an example." She picked up the letter again, holding it between her thumb and forefinger as if it were contaminated. "And frankly, the young man who wrote this needs to be taught a lesson too. He needs to understand that actions have consequences."

She looked me straight in the eye.

"So, after you read the letter, you will tell everyone who wrote it."

A wave of nausea washed over me. It was worse than I could have ever imagined. The demand was so outrageous, so profoundly unfair, that a bitter, hysterical laugh almost escaped my lips. She wanted me to publicly shame the author of the letter.

The irony was so thick I could almost taste it.

Because she had no idea. She sat there, so smug and so certain in her rigid worldview, ready to make an example out of some anonymous, love-struck boy.

She had no idea that the boy she wanted to publicly humiliate, the boy whose heartfelt words she was about to use as a weapon, was her own son.

Ethan Albright. The school's star athlete, the valedictorian, the perfect son of a perfect principal. The boy she held up as the gold standard for every other student at Northwood High.

He wrote the letter. And she was about to destroy him.