My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 125

Chapter 125 The Book From Freshman Year

“Are you going to stare into that metal box all day, Petrova?”

The voice broke through the chaotic noise of the B-wing corridor. I jumped, my shoulder hitting the edge of the open locker door.

Trent Lawson leaned against the beige cinderblock wall two feet away. He held a lacrosse stick in his right hand. He wore his letterman jacket, the blue and gold fabric stark against the sterile hallway. He offered a cruel, sharp smirk. A few of his teammates lingered behind him, watching the interaction with bored amusement.

“Excuse me, I said. My voice sounded thin over the surrounding chatter.

I moved to block his view of the top shelf, but I was a second too late. Trent’s eyes locked onto the matte black package sitting in the shadows of my locker. He saw the dark green velvet ribbon.

“What is that?” Trent asked. He took a step closer, invading my personal space. ‘Did Steinmann leave you a present? I heard he lost his mind in the science wing yesterday. Is the billionaire trying to buy your silence with expensive jewelry?”

“The box contains study materials, I lied. I kept my tone flat and even.

Trent laughed. The sound carried a harsh, mocking edge. Study materials wrapped in velvet. Right. Everyone knows he uses you to keep the principal off his back. Do not mistake a PR prop for actual affection, Petrova. You are just a convenient shield.”

‘Move, Trent.”

I am just offering a reality check,” he continued. He tapped the end of his lacrosse stick against the linoleum floor. ‘Guys like Steinmann do not fall for charity cases. They buy what they need and discard the rest. Open the box. Let us see the payoff.”

“I said move.”

I did not wait for his compliance. I reached into the locker. The package felt heavy in my hands. I shoved the wrapped box deep into my canvas backpack. I grabbed the thick strap, pulled it over my shoulder, and slammed the metal locker door shut. The latch engaged with a loud, ringing clang.

I turned my back on Trent and his laughing teammates. I pushed my way through the crowded intersection. My chest felt tight. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs. They thrived on an audience. They turned private moments into public currency. I refused to let their eyes touch the package in my bag.

I bypassed the cafeteria double doors. I ignored the crowded outdoor courtyard. I headed straight for the north stairwell.

The administration closed the roof access doors last winter. Students avoided the north stairwell because it led to a locked, dead end. It smelled of old floor wax and stagnant air. It offered complete isolation.

I pushed the heavy fire door open. The metal hinges released a quiet groan. I stepped onto the concrete landing and let the door click

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Chapter 125 The Book From Freshman Year

shut behind me. The thick walls muted the school noise. The silence wrapped around my shoulders, offering a necessary, immediate shield.

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I climbed up one flight of stairs. I sat on the cold concrete step. The weak gray daylight filtered through a small wire-mesh window above

the landing. Dust motes danced in the pale beam.

I set my canvas bag between my knees. My chest heaved with deep, uneven breaths. My hands shook. I reached into the main pocket and

pulled the package free.

I placed the gift on my lap. The matte black paper felt thick and expensive. It lacked the glossy, cheap shine of store-bought wrapping. He folded the corners with precise, sharp creases. He did not use tape. The dark green velvet ribbon held the entire structure together.

I pinched the loose end of the velvet ribbon. I pulled.

The knot gave way. The dark green ribbon slid across the black paper and pooled on the pleats of my uniform skirt. I laid my hands flat

on top of the package.

He claimed me in the hallway outside the chemistry lab. He pinned Julian Hayes to the lockers and proved his raw jealousy. He brought me to his private sanctuary overlooking the city skyline. I accepted the reality of his feelings. I accepted the burning devotion in his gaze. But this package carried a different kind of weight. This package sat in my locker on a specific date I never shared with him.

I peeled the left flap of the black paper back. I peeled the right flap back.

The heavy paper fell away. A book lay in my lap.

It did not possess a glossy, modern dust jacket. A pale green cloth binding covered the thick spine. Faded, stamped gold lettering spelled out the title. The corners of the cover looked worn and soft from decades of use. A faint, distinct scent rose from the pages. It smelled of dried vanilla, dust, and old binding glue.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

The breath stalled in my throat. I stared at the faded gold letters. I traced the rough cloth with a trembling finger.

My mind snapped back to a specific Tuesday in September. Freshman year. Mrs. Gable’s English Literature class.

‘I want a book that defines how you view the world,” Mrs. Gable announced to the room. She stood at the front chalkboard, holding a piece of white chalk. “I want you to explain your choice to the class. We will start with the front row. Harper, please stand.”

Harper Vance stood up. She smoothed the front of her designer uniform skirt. “I chose The Great Gatsby,” Harper said. Her voice carried a practiced, airy confidence. “Because the parties represent the tragic beauty of wealth and the pursuit of the American dream.”

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