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Young Adult Books for Women

Bestsellers Ongoing Completed
Her Jealous Game: My Fight for Truth

Her Jealous Game: My Fight for Truth

My life was perfectly on track. A full scholarship to Yale, loving parents, and the SATs were just another stepping stone. I had my best friend Brittany and boyfriend Kyle by my side, seemingly there to support me through it all. Then, I died. And snapped awake, gasping. The horrifying memories of my past flooded back: a SAT cheating scandal that ruined my family and led to their deaths, and my own demise. I was back, exactly one day before the SATs, staring at the faces of those who would betray me. I desperately tried to change my fate, fleeing the hotel and establishing an alibi. Yet, the nightmare unfolded again. I was arrested, framed with planted evidence-a fake earpiece, forged transactions, a look-alike at the test center. My ironclad alibi vanished when the cafe's security cameras mysteriously 'fried.' My parents were shamed, my father physically attacked. How could this be happening? Every attempt to escape only tightened the net. My supposed best friend, my boyfriend-they were the architects of my ruin. The proof was overwhelming, irrefutable, yet entirely false. Was I truly powerless against this meticulously crafted conspiracy? But amidst the despair, a single, overlooked detail on the 'evidence' hoodie sparked a desperate hope: the absence of a tiny, silver thread I' d sewn into my unique raven patch. This time, I wouldn't be a victim. Feigning illness to buy critical time, I would unravel their monstrous lie and reclaim my future.
My Second Death, My Second Chance

My Second Death, My Second Chance

I died once trying to be a hero. It was after high school graduation, at Brad Thompson' s notorious "End of the World Bash" lake party. I warned everyone about the spiked punch and Brad's predatory nature, but my girlfriend Tiffany scoffed, and my childhood friend Sarah, blinded by her crush on Brad, turned away. They went, everyone went, except me. Later, Sarah blamed me for ruining her shot with Brad; one rainy Tuesday, she found me and ended my first life with a knife. Then, I woke up, gasping, back in my high school bedroom, reliving the day Brad would announce his party. I wasn't dead. But then I saw Sarah in the hallway. She remembered everything too. And her already dangerous obsession with Brad had intensified, chillingly so. "This time, I' m going to be by Brad' s side. No matter what," she whispered, a promise that sent shivers down my spine. I tried to avert disaster, to warn everyone away from that party, but Tiffany broke up with me for being a 'buzzkill.' Brad' s jock friends cornered me, forcing me to attend. I desperately tried to record Brad admitting his punch was spiked, but they caught me. Brad had his goons lock me in the boathouse, just before the cops raided. But instead of being safe, it was worse. Sarah pointed at me, claiming, "He' s the one who brought the spiked punch!" Tiffany and Brad quickly corroborated her lie. I was arrested, charged with felony drug distribution, for something I had fought to prevent. My childhood friend, now my accuser, was willing to destroy my life to preserve her twisted fantasy with Brad. Her obsession was a cancer, eating away at her humanity, and I was caught directly in its malignant path. Was this second chance just another slow, agonizing death, orchestrated by the very person who ended my first? My confiscated phone might hold hidden fragments of truth. Could those damaged recordings be my only proof, my sole hope to prove my innocence and change a grim fate once more?
Honors Night, Unscripted Drama

Honors Night, Unscripted Drama

The Annual Honors Convocation. My valedictorian speech was a triumph, the applause warm, my parents’ faces beaming with pride. I had given it all to academics, and this was my moment of glory. My future felt bright, endless possibilities stretching before me. I was ready to step off that stage and into a new chapter. But then, Mr. Davies, our notoriously strict history teacher and the school’s champion of discipline, called me back. He held up a small, cream-colored envelope, sealed, for all to see. He announced, amplified by the microphone, that it was an “admiration note” found in my textbook – a clear signal of an uncomfortable public exposé he intended to make. My stomach dropped, recognizing the careful calligraphy. Ethan. His son. Mr. Davies, oblivious, believed it was *to* me, not from him, and he was about to weaponize it. He forced me to read the heartfelt words aloud to the entire horrified audience, watching my parents wilt in their seats, threatening my participation in the prestigious National Mock Trial Championships if I didn't identify the "irresponsible" writer. The bitter irony choked me. Here was the man who constantly lauded his son’s “focus” and “discipline,” preparing to publicly dismantle the very young man who wrote these tender sentiments, all while making me complicit. How could he be so utterly blind? How could I possibly navigate this moral tightrope without betraying Ethan, or completely derailing my hard-earned academic future? Just as the suffocating pressure threatened to break me, a quiet, resolute voice cut through the auditorium’s stunned silence. “Stop.” Ethan Davies rose from his seat, pale but unyielding. He was about to shatter his father’s carefully constructed world, and radically redefine my own, with a confession that would flip the entire narrative on its head.
A Daughter's Defense: They Were Heroes

A Daughter's Defense: They Were Heroes

My deskmate, Elara Vance, was a walking contradiction: weaving grand tales of designer clothes and exotic family trips to Zurich, yet she dressed in rags and carried the undeniable scent of neglect. I' d silently endured her outlandish fantasies and the awkward pity they stirred, until one tension-filled day, my patience completely snapped, and I brutally screamed across the crowded school hallway, "What is it, Elara? Are your parents dead or something?" The raw grief that instantly crumpled her face, followed by the shock of her fist connecting with my jaw, silenced the entire room, but the real storm was yet to come. Weeks later, news tore through our high school: Elara Vance, the girl everyone mocked, had mysteriously secured a full-ride scholarship to Yale, a feat that struck everyone, especially the popular clique, as utterly impossible. The internet exploded, fueled by vicious social media posts from school bullies, rapidly branding her a "Yale Scammer" and launching a horrifying campaign of doxxing and vile harassment that escalated far beyond high school cruelty, becoming a public digital execution. But as the online mob screamed for her digital demise, I was haunted by the memory of her tear-streaked face and that primal, anguished cry that day in the hallway: "They're heroes!" That desperate, defiant plea didn't fit the narrative of the pathetic liar I believed her to be, leaving me with a chilling, unsettling confusion. A sickening wave of guilt began to consume me, the realization hitting hard that I had played a part in unleashing this brutal, unprovoked attack on her. I knew then, with a desperate urgency that superseded everything else, that I had to find Elara Vance and finally unearth the true, devastating story behind her lies and the mysterious heroism of her parents.