My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy novel Chapter 164

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Chapter 164 Crying On His Closet Floor

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The glossy photo paper shook between my cold fingers. I stared at the image. The fourteen-year-old girl in the gray knit sweater looked small. She looked lost in the massive Crestview Prep library. She looked like a ghost haunting the edges of a world built for the affluent

elite.

I traced my thumb over the edge of the paper. A harsh voice from four years ago echoed in the quiet space of the closet.

“That sweater looks like it came from a dumpster, Harper Vance whispered. I remembered her walking past my library table, flanked by her wealthy friends. “Maybe the school hands them out with the free lunch program.”

“Leave her alone, Harper,” another girl giggled. She probably does not own a mirror.”

I remembered keeping my head down. I gripped my yellow pencil. I shrank into the wooden chair. I spent my entire high school career believing I was a ghost. I believed I was invisible to everyone but the bullies.

I was wrong.

He saw me. He watched me from the dark corners of the campus.

The realization hit my chest with the force of a physical strike. The scattered puzzle pieces of the last four years snapped into place. They formed a picture I never possessed the courage to imagine.

I set the photograph inside the cardboard box. I picked up the small block eraser. I pressed my thumb over the blue ink star drawn in the center of the rubber. The faint smell of synthetic rubber brought the sophomore history classroom back to life.

“Miss Petrova, Mr. Davis called out. His sharp voice cut through the hum of the classroom air conditioner. “Can you define the primary cause of the labor strikes in the textile industry?”

“The lack of safe working conditions, sir,” I answered.

“Correct. Try looking up from your desk next time.”

My face burned with hot humiliation. I pressed my pen into this exact eraser to keep my hands from shaking. I drew the crude star. I heard a heavy chair scrape the floor two rows behind me. I felt an intense, burning stare on the back of my neck. I dropped the eraser in the B-wing corridor between third and fourth period. I retraced my steps, but I never found it. I assumed a janitor swept it into a trash

bin.

The janitor never touched it. Ryder picked it up. He kept it.

A fresh wave of shock rolled through my veins. The memory of our recent library study sessions surfaced in my mind. The round wooden table in the back corner. The deep scratches in the wood. The carved star near the edge of the table.

Why are you staring at the desk?” I asked him weeks ago. I tapped my pen against a chemistry textbook. “You need to memorize these

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Chapter 164 Crying On His Closet Floor

chemical bonds.”

‘I am focusing, Raisa, Ryder replied. He traced the deep, carved star in the wood with his long finger. “I learn better when I have

something to ground me.”

I stared at that carved star for hours while I lectured him. The carving was not random vandalism. It was a monument. He carved the shape into the wood because he carried my blue ink star in his pocket.

I placed the eraser back into the box. I reached for the white index card.

Junior year. A windy Tuesday afternoon in the center courtyard. A sudden gust of wind ripped a stack of biology flashcards from my

hands. The thick papers scattered across the pavement.

“Watch where you are walking, charity case,” Trent Lawson sneered.

He kicked the scattered papers with his heavy, expensive shoe. He stepped right onto a card detailing cellular division.

“Please, I begged. I dropped to the wet concrete, scrambling to collect my hard work. ‘Do not step on them. I need these for the

midterm.

Trent laughed and walked away. The wealthy students walked past me. They did not stop to help. They ignored the scholarship student

crawling on the ground.

I missed one card.

Ryder found the missing piece. He recognized my cramped handwriting. He did not throw the card away. He brought it home. He hid it in the dark, treating my biology notes like a priceless artifact.

The fake dating arrangement was not a random transaction.

A month ago, Trent Lawson cornered me in the cafeteria. Ryder intervened. He dropped the silver VIP tickets on my open textbook. We drafted the rules on college-ruled paper later that afternoon.

“We set clear boundaries,” I told him in the chemistry lab. I wrote the rules in blue ink. “No touching unless people are watching. No forced interactions outside of school hours.”

“Whatever you want, Petrova, he agreed. He signed his name without hesitation.

I believed he chose me because I sat nearby. I believed I offered a convenient shield to protect his academic standing.

The contract was not a shield. It was a bridge.

He used the lie to cross the massive canyon between our worlds. He needed an excuse to stand near me. He orchestrated the tutoring sessions. He knew the chemistry formulas. He understood covalent bonds before I even opened the textbook.

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