How Have New York Times Top 10 Books Changed Over The Decades?

After the SAT, I come across a post online. Someone posts, "If you could make a choice all over again, which major would you choose this time?" The comments are filled with people wishing they had chosen a different major. They all have their own regrets. One response stands out from the rest. "I would choose literature. That way, he and I wouldn't have missed out on the four years we should have spent together because of that unwanted baggage." I chuckle and am about to scroll past when I suddenly notice the profile picture and username. They are identical to those of my childhood sweetheart, Winter Andersen. I click into the profile. Everything matches her current account exactly, except that the age is ten years older. My heart sinks to my stomach. This has to be her ten years in the future. No wonder I am the only one celebrating when we are admitted to the same major. No wonder she zones out for so long after seeing my best friend, Simon Brown, receive his acceptance letter from the literature department. It turns out I am the unwanted baggage responsible for so many of her regrets and disappointments. Since that is the case, I quietly press "Accept" on the admission offer written entirely in a foreign language. I shall end this mistake ten years ahead of schedule.

A month before the SATs, I, Jenny Reid, could see my score. Literally. It was just floating right above my head. But there was a catch. Every time I cracked open a prep book, my score would drop by ten points. But if I skipped a day of school? It jumped right back up by ten. So, I played the system. For a whole month, I barely lifted a finger. And on the day of the test, the number glowing over my head was a solid 1560. When the scores finally dropped online… I'd scored a 500. And the 1560? That was my little sister Patricia's score. My parents lost it. As punishment, they got me a grueling night-shift job at a local electronics factory. That first night, a bunch of guys I'd never seen before cornered me in the parking lot and beat me half to death. Fading in and out of consciousness, I heard my sister's voice right by my ear. "You just had to one-up me, didn't you? Thought you were so smart… but you never figured out I was the one controlling that number over your head." The truth hit me like a physical blow. The score had been her trick all along. I opened my eyes—and I was back. One month before the SATs. The number above my head read exactly 1300. "Hey," my sister said, all fake sweetness. "Want to study together tonight? We can go over the practice tests." I looked at the stack of papers in my own hands. Without a word, I pulled out my lighter and set them on fire right there in the driveway. "Exams are coming," I said, watching the flames. "I'm not studying." My score ticked up to 1310. My sister's face was this perfect mask of disappointment, but the second I turned away, I caught the sly smile she couldn't quite hide. She had no idea… the real performance, the one I'd been rehearsing just for her, was finally about to begin.

During the long National Day holidays, I planned a Golden Highlands trip for the whole family. I even booked tickets for a luxurious train ride so we could enjoy the scenery. But on departure day, my husband and son vanished. I called my husband. I could hear an airport boarding announcement in the background. My voice trembled. "Where are you?" He panicked and mumbled that the company had an emergency before hanging up. I tried calling again, but the line was busy. The next day, he posted an update on his social media. In the photo, he stood beneath the snowy peaks of Wintercrown with one arm around his old love while the other held our son. The caption read: [If we had been a little braver back then...] A friend commented: [Where is your wife?] I stared at his reply: [She's sick and resting at home.] Three expired train tickets sat on the table as my eyes welled up with tears. A decade of marriage. A pack of lies. It was time to bring it all to a close.

When my husband learns of his first love's death, he jumps from the cruise ship where we are spending our honeymoon, ending his life. Only then do I realize he has never gotten over Clara Levine. Reborn back to his teenage years, he resolutely lets go of my hand and walks toward his first love. I watch them leave together, then turn and walk away. From that moment on, our lives become nothing more than two parallel lines that will never meet. Ten years later, we run into each other at a banquet in Oceanus City. He has become a rising star among the elite, with Clara appearing on his arm, intimately holding onto him. When he sees me accidentally wander into the banquet, he can't help but give me advice. "Stop obsessing over me. Even if you wait for me for ten years, I still won't fall in love with you." I ignore him and pull my son out from the corner where he's sneaking cake. His eyes suddenly turn bloodshot as he grabs my hand tightly. "How dare you try to make me jealous on purpose? Didn't you say you would only love me for your entire life?" he says.

When American engineer Evan Hart arrives in Rome, he expects worn stones, ancient architecture, and a chance to quietly rethink his failing marriage. He doesn’t expect Livia Moretti—the enigmatic archivist whose fragile intensity pulls him into a slow-burning, dangerous affair he never meant to start. Livia is brilliant, secretive, and a little broken… and Evan can’t stay away. But when he finally tells his wife Leah he wants a separation, she collapses, claiming she’s been diagnosed with a devastating neurological disease. Overnight, Evan’s guilt becomes a trap. Then Livia disappears without a trace. Anonymous photographs of him and Livia arrive in the mail. A stranger begins watching his apartment. And Leah—sweet, steady Leah—starts behaving in ways he can’t explain. When Evan finds hidden documents and photographs connecting the two women in his life, he follows a clue to a remote coastal village, where he learns Livia once lived under a different name… and may have been running from something far darker than heartbreak. As Evan digs deeper, he uncovers the edge of a conspiracy built on identity, memory, and manipulation—one determined to keep its secrets buried. Someone is pulling strings. Someone is rewriting the truth. And someone wants Evan to stop asking questions. Caught between a wife he no longer understands and a lover who may not be who she claimed to be, Evan is forced to confront the one question he never thought to ask: If the women in his life are wearing borrowed identities… then who has been shaping his? In a story of seduction, deception, and emotional obsession, All the Names She Wore explores the dangerous terrain between love and control—and what happens when the truth becomes the most terrifying lie of all.

The three heirs of the Whitman family all claimed to love me. But their way of loving me was to keep me hidden. Alexander said New York's financial reporters were too aggressive and that making our relationship public would only put me in the middle of a media frenzy. Nicholas said people in the investment world were vicious gossips and he was afraid I'd become a target, so he never brought me to his partners' gatherings, private clubs, or holiday receptions. Leon said his music career wasn't established yet. Once he had a stage that was truly his own, he would acknowledge me in front of the whole world. I waited four years. This changed when Lillian Grant walked into their lives. Alexander walked her down the red carpet at the Manhattan Art Foundation gala. The next day, every entertainment outlet ran the same headline: "Eldest Whitman Heir Appears to Go Public with New Romance." Nicholas brought her to an investor reception, where his partners called her "the future Mrs. Whitman" right to my face. Leon was the most direct. He played a song at a twenty-thousand-person concert and told the livestream camera, "For the most important person in my life." The jumbotron cut to Lillian's seat. The day after the livestream. Alexander set a folder on the coffee table. "You're twenty-five now. We think it's time you had a life of your own." Nicholas continued, "This man comes from an ordinary background, but he has a stable job. He's been divorced once and has no children. " Leon slid the photo in front of me, smiling with the same easy warmth as always. "We've already met him for you. He's more than a good match." I didn't argue. I just picked up my phone and called the Whitman family attorney. What they didn't know was that the family trust Grandfather had established before his death made one thing perfectly clear. Whoever I chose would receive that twenty-seven percent block of voting shares and become the true power behind the Whitman family.