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Young Adult Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Unloved Daughter, Unbreakable Spirit

Unloved Daughter, Unbreakable Spirit

After three years away, the day finally came: my parents and little sister were coming home. My heart pounded with a desperate hope, imagining the hugs and loving welcomes I' d missed. But when they arrived, their eyes went straight to my doll-like sister, Brittany, leaving me, Chloe, standing invisible in the doorway. "You' ve gotten so… big," my mother, Sarah, stated flatly, her gaze making my simple clothes feel cheap and ugly. Brittany' s innocent-sounding jab, "Mommy, she looks like a country girl," was met with my dad' s chuckle and my mom' s tired smile, twisting a knife in my chest. What followed was a slow, agonizing realization: I wasn' t a daughter, but a utility. My hands bled from endless chores, yet my mother dismissed it as "attention-seeking." I overheard my father declare my future: stuck in our small town, running the family store, "good enough for her." Then came the slap-a public humiliation, a burning sting on my face for a spilled candy jar worth mere cents. Their casual cruelty overshadowed any physical pain, confirming I was nothing more than a nuisance. My grandmother, the only warmth in my world, held me as I sobbed. "Some people are just not meant to be in your heart," she whispered, her words a bitter truth. I tried again, making my mother a birthday cake with my own saved money, only for her to call it "ugly" and knock it to the floor, shattering it-and my last vestiges of hope. The final blow came when my mother accused me of theft, hitting me so hard my head throbbed, while my father stood by. Then Brittany ran in, crying over a scraped knee, and their immediate, doting concern made it sickeningly clear: her minor discomfort outweighed my brutal reality. Why was their love so conditional, so utterly, devastatingly absent for me? Why did their concern instantly shift to a superficial scrape while my pain was invisible, dismissed, or even caused by them? How could a family be so blind, so callous, to its own child? The answer solidified with chilling clarity: I was done trying to earn a love they would never give. That night, I started tearing up every academic achievement, every proof of my efforts, a quiet declaration of war: I would not be their victim.
Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 1

Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 1

by MAXIME DU CAMP, of the French Academy OCTAVE FEUILLET OCTAVE FEUILLET'S works abound with rare qualities, forming a harmonious ensemble; they also exhibit great observation and knowledge of humanity, and through all of them runs an incomparable and distinctive charm. He will always be considered the leader of the idealistic school in the nineteenth century. It is now fifteen years since his death, and the judgment of posterity is that he had a great imagination, linked to great analytical power and insight; that his style is neat, pure, and fine, and at the same time brilliant and concise. He unites suppleness with force, he combines grace with vigor. Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lo (Manche), August 11, 1821, his father occupying the post of Secretary-General of the Prefecture de la Manche. Pupil at the Lycee Louis le Grand, he received many prizes, and was entered for the law. But he became early attracted to literature, and like many of the writers at that period attached himself to the "romantic school." He collaborated with Alexander Dumas pere and with Paul Bocage. It can not now be ascertained what share Feuillet may have had in any of the countless tales of the elder Dumas. Under his own name he published the novels 'Onesta' and 'Alix', in 1846, his first romances. He then commenced writing for the stage. We mention 'Echec et Mat' (Odeon, 1846); 'Palma, ou la Nuit du Vendredi-Saint' (Porte St. Martin, 1847); 'La Vieillesse de Richelieu' (Theatre Francais, 1848); 'York' (Palais Royal, 1852). Some of them are written in collaboration with Paul Bocage. They are dramas of the Dumas type, conventional, not without cleverness, but making no lasting mark.
Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 2

Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 2

by MAXIME DU CAMP, of the French Academy OCTAVE FEUILLET OCTAVE FEUILLET'S works abound with rare qualities, forming a harmonious ensemble; they also exhibit great observation and knowledge of humanity, and through all of them runs an incomparable and distinctive charm. He will always be considered the leader of the idealistic school in the nineteenth century. It is now fifteen years since his death, and the judgment of posterity is that he had a great imagination, linked to great analytical power and insight; that his style is neat, pure, and fine, and at the same time brilliant and concise. He unites suppleness with force, he combines grace with vigor. Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lo (Manche), August 11, 1821, his father occupying the post of Secretary-General of the Prefecture de la Manche. Pupil at the Lycee Louis le Grand, he received many prizes, and was entered for the law. But he became early attracted to literature, and like many of the writers at that period attached himself to the "romantic school." He collaborated with Alexander Dumas pere and with Paul Bocage. It can not now be ascertained what share Feuillet may have had in any of the countless tales of the elder Dumas. Under his own name he published the novels 'Onesta' and 'Alix', in 1846, his first romances. He then commenced writing for the stage. We mention 'Echec et Mat' (Odeon, 1846); 'Palma, ou la Nuit du Vendredi-Saint' (Porte St. Martin, 1847); 'La Vieillesse de Richelieu' (Theatre Francais, 1848); 'York' (Palais Royal, 1852). Some of them are written in collaboration with Paul Bocage. They are dramas of the Dumas type, conventional, not without cleverness, but making no lasting mark.
Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 3

Monsieur de Camors -- Volume 3

by MAXIME DU CAMP, of the French Academy OCTAVE FEUILLET OCTAVE FEUILLET'S works abound with rare qualities, forming a harmonious ensemble; they also exhibit great observation and knowledge of humanity, and through all of them runs an incomparable and distinctive charm. He will always be considered the leader of the idealistic school in the nineteenth century. It is now fifteen years since his death, and the judgment of posterity is that he had a great imagination, linked to great analytical power and insight; that his style is neat, pure, and fine, and at the same time brilliant and concise. He unites suppleness with force, he combines grace with vigor. Octave Feuillet was born at Saint-Lo (Manche), August 11, 1821, his father occupying the post of Secretary-General of the Prefecture de la Manche. Pupil at the Lycee Louis le Grand, he received many prizes, and was entered for the law. But he became early attracted to literature, and like many of the writers at that period attached himself to the "romantic school." He collaborated with Alexander Dumas pere and with Paul Bocage. It can not now be ascertained what share Feuillet may have had in any of the countless tales of the elder Dumas. Under his own name he published the novels 'Onesta' and 'Alix', in 1846, his first romances. He then commenced writing for the stage. We mention 'Echec et Mat' (Odeon, 1846); 'Palma, ou la Nuit du Vendredi-Saint' (Porte St. Martin, 1847); 'La Vieillesse de Richelieu' (Theatre Francais, 1848); 'York' (Palais Royal, 1852). Some of them are written in collaboration with Paul Bocage. They are dramas of the Dumas type, conventional, not without cleverness, but making no lasting mark.
One-Cut Queen

One-Cut Queen

My name is Eli Vance, and in my world, everything has a price. I lived in a small, sagging house that perpetually smelled of stale beer and disappointment, a stark contrast to the academic potential I desperately cultivated. Every cent I secretly earned from doing other kids' homework was a deliberate step away from a future my parents had already planned for me: a grueling factory job. My younger brother, Cody, was their sole focus, their "lottery ticket," and his mediocre athletic career consumed every last ounce of their hope and meager funds. Then, one evening, they finally showed me attention-enough to deliver their verdict. "You're sixteen now," my father grunted, avoiding my gaze. "The plant is hiring full-time," my mother chimed in, her voice sharp, "You can quit school. We need the money for Cody's gear and his camp fees." My heart turned into a cold, hard stone in my chest as their words extinguished my last flickering hope for a different life. "What do you have? Books?" my mother sneered, dismissing my intelligence, my ambition, everything I was. My father sealed it with a flat gaze: "You'll do what you're told," effectively erasing my future to fund a pair of football cleats. The suffocating injustice burned a hole within me-this town, this school, my own family; it was all the same oppressive system. They saw me as a burden, a cost, a ready-made sacrifice, but I refused to accept that. How could they demand I relinquish my education, my only path to escape, for a futile dream that wasn't even mine? I couldn't fight my parents head-on, not yet, but watching the cafeteria manager's blatant favoritism, I knew exactly how to break a smaller, visible cog in this unfair machine. The battle for my freedom, and my future, had just begun-a ruthless, calculated game where I would stop at nothing to change the rules.
His Bet, Her Ruin, Their Reckoning

His Bet, Her Ruin, Their Reckoning

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.