I never thought a stack of dusty old books could make me feel like I was walking a tightrope over a pit of vipers—but here I was, elbow-deep in first editions, whispering Yeats lines to a piece of parchment that wasn’t even mine. The Potomac Prep library was empty, the air humming with the kind of silence that makes your heartbeat feel deafening. I loved it here, loved the smell of parchment and polished wood, the way the shadows danced off the shelves when the moonlight snuck in through the arched windows. But tonight, the silence had teeth.
I tucked the latest completed commission back into my bag. Isabella Rossi wouldn’t know it, but she had just received a letter that made my stomach twist with equal parts pride and guilt. The letter had flowed perfectly, each sentence designed to make her feel like someone was seeing the poetry in her every small gesture. But the truth was, the letter was from me—or rather, my hand, ghostwriting the affections of some oblivious boy who would never truly appreciate her.
I sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear, and tried to ignore the nagging worry at the back of my mind. Mom’s medical bills were stacking like a ticking bomb, and my college fund wasn’t going to cover her prescriptions without me finding some… supplemental income. And this little “business” of mine, the secret letters I wrote for classmates too shy to speak their hearts aloud? It was thriving.
Thriving… until a shadow detached itself from the shelves behind me.
“Eleanor Vance.”
My body froze mid-step, the pen I had just set down hovering in the air. William Ashford, the senator’s son, the human embodiment of privilege and smoldering menace, was leaning against a shelf like he owned the entire library. His dark eyes glinted with amusement, scanning me like a cat examining a particularly juicy mouse.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I managed, forcing my voice steady.
“I didn’t,” he said smoothly, stepping closer. “But I saw that.”
He held up his phone, displaying the photo he had just taken: me, hunched over a first edition of Yeats, pen scratching across a card in the dim lamplight. The letter hunter of Potomac Prep, charging fifty to five hundred dollars per confession of love.
My throat went dry. My fingers curled around the pen like it was a lifeline. “That’s… not what it looks like,” I said, though I knew he didn’t need an explanation.
“Is it my imagination,” he asked, tilting his head, “or are you actually crying over someone else’s love life?”
I blinked. He wasn’t laughing, exactly, but there was that dangerous glint of knowing. Of understanding something I hadn’t even dared whisper to myself.
“I—It’s… complicated,” I muttered.
He smirked, pulling a check from his jacket pocket and tossing it onto the table. It landed near my hands, fluttering like a guilty bird. “I need three letters. Three letters for Isabella Rossi.”
I almost dropped my pen. I stared at him. “You want me… to write to her?”
“Yes.” His tone was casual, as if he were ordering lunch. “Every word must seem genuine. Every line must resonate with her soul. And naturally, it must reference her favorite Yeats poems. Which, I assume, you know far too well.”
I shook my head violently. “I can’t. I… I—she’s—she’s someone I care about. I can’t…”
His eyes darkened slightly, but he didn’t smile less. “You can. Because if you don’t… your mother’s health insurance renewal next month? Consider it in jeopardy. And I wouldn’t want your college future compromised, either.”
I swallowed hard, realizing my options were vanishing faster than the moonlight in the west window. William Ashford didn’t just know how to corner a girl—he owned the whole field.
I forced myself to nod, heart thudding like a war drum in my chest. “Fine. Three letters. But—” I hesitated. “They’ll be perfect. Because if they’re not…”
He raised an eyebrow. “Because if they’re not, what?”
“Because if they’re not… I’ll never forgive myself. Not for her, not for this.”
He smiled then, and it was like watching a shadow grin at you before swallowing the light. “Good. That’s the kind of sincerity I like. Now, the first letter is due by Friday. I’ll expect drafts for my approval. And Eleanor?”
I looked up at him.
“Do not fail me.”
As he disappeared into the stacks, leaving only the faintest whisper of expensive cologne behind, I realized with a sinking heart that I had just signed up for a game I couldn’t lose—but might not survive. Every word I wrote would be a lie. Every line a bridge between my secret heart and someone else’s oblivious desire. And the biggest secret of all? William Ashford had already seen everything—and he was playing his own game.
I exhaled shakily and tucked my pen back into the bag, staring down at the pale lamplight across the library table. The night had just begun, and Potomac Prep’s deadliest game of hearts was about to start.