The Billionaire's Brat Wants Me Chapter 115: Perfect, Always

Tuesday morning.

Or, more accurately—the beginning of the end.

Finals. First sester. The beginning of the stretch every professor had been warning us about since orientation—like so doomsday prophecy that wasn’t one cataclysmic event, but a slow grind stretched over days. Paper after paper, test after test. A marathon, not a sprint.

Val and I dragged ourselves out of bed earlier than usual, groggy but still managing the usual routine: brush, shower, dress, argue briefly about whether my tie was crooked (it was), and then head to campus.

By the ti we reached our lecture hall, the atmosphere was already different. Quieter. More tense. Students hunched over notes in the hallway, muttering formulas, dates, and last-minute definitions like prayers.

We found our seats, and I started arranging my pens, calculator, ID card—the essentials. Val, anwhile, dug into her bag like she was looking for treasure.

I blinked as Val pulled out her little compact mirror and the shiniest tube in existence. She flicked it open like she was about to go on stage.

"What’re you doing?" I asked, already dreading the answer.

She didn’t even glance at , just tilted her chin, all concentration. "What does it look like? Lip gloss."

I stared. "Now? Really? You’re about to take an exam."

"Yes, now." She cut off with a casual shrug, dabbing carefully along her bottom lip. "If I did it at ho, you’d have whined about being late. This way, we’re here on ti and I get shiny lips. Everybody wins."

I groaned. "That’s not—"

But she leaned in, close enough for to catch the faint vanilla scent of the gloss, and whatever I was about to say died in my throat.

She knew. Of course she knew.

I opened my mouth, closed it again, and leaned back in my chair. "You know what? Fine. Do your thing."

"Thank you," she said sweetly, though the smirk curling at her lips told she was enjoying herself.

As she leaned closer to the little mirror, her hair sliding over one shoulder, I noticed a couple of guys two rows ahead glance back. Then another at the side. Subtle, but not subtle enough.

I should’ve been used to it by now. She was... well, Val. Hot. Gorgeous. The kind of girl who could turn heads just by existing. But no matter how often it happened, sothing inside still tightened every ti I caught guys staring.

I tried to ignore it, focusing instead on my pen, but then her voice pulled back.

"So?" she asked, mirror lowering. "How do I look?"

"Uh?" My brain lagged a second behind.

"My lips." She tilted her head slightly, eyes bright, almost challenging. "How do they look?"

For a second I stared too long. At her lips. At the way she pressed them together softly, like waiting for approval. Then I looked up into her eyes—clear, steady, locked only on . That was the thing. Dozens of eyes on her, but hers always on .

And just like that, my chest loosened. I smiled. "Perfect."

Her grin broke across her face instantly, bright enough to outshine the stupid classroom lights. "Thought so." She tossed the gloss back into her bag like she hadn’t just thrown completely off balance.

I leaned back again, pen rolling between my fingers. Even with the eyes of half the room wandering in her direction, the truth was simple. She only ever had eyes for .

Every ti I rembered that, the tension eased. The whispers, the stares, the hungry looks—they didn’t matter. Because at the end of the day, she’d still turn to , still beam when I said one word.

Perfect.

And sohow, I was the only one who got to call her mine.

---

The exam started a few minutes later.

Papers passed down the row. Chairs creaking. That tense silence that always cos with the first test of finals.

A few minutes in, the room settled into that focused hum — the only sounds were pencils scratching and the occasional page flip. I kept my head down, trying to be serious, but curiosity won out. I glanced over, not for the first ti.

I bit back a laugh. If anyone walked in right now, they’d think she was the type who lived and breathed rules and structure. No one would believe she was the sa girl who tried to argue that asking for a birthday cake counted for "being a good girl."

She’d paused, pencil hovering above the paper, eyes sowhere past the margin. Not panicked. Not blank. Just... thinking. That tiny crease between her brows, the one that showed up whenever she was working through a problem in her head, was there.

I hadn’t ant to, but the words slipped out, quiet enough not to bother anyone. "You good?" I whispered.

Her head snapped back, then she gave a little nod. "You?" she mouthed.

I mouthed back, "Yep," but my answer was half for show. The other half went sowhere quieter, where my brain kept cataloguing the little things — how she chewed her lip when she computed, how her foot bounced once for each option she ntally ruled out. I watched her, because watching her calm like this made the rest of the world seem like background noise.

She set her pencil down for a second, eyes skimming the problem, and then—like soone flipping a switch—her features smoothed and she bent over the page again, confidence poured into every mark. It’s weird how serious she got in monts like that. No gloss, no show, no Val-the-chaos-queen. Just focused, efficient, brilliant Val. If you’d never seen her before, you’d swear she was born in a study cubicle.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding and turned my attention back to my sheet. My pen moved easier after that; the questions felt smaller. She had this. I knew she did.

That quiet certainty made oddly calr than any revision guide ever could.

---

By the ti we turned in our first paper, the air in the hallways felt lighter, buzzing with relief and complaints in equal asure. So kids walked out grinning like they’d conquered the world, others looked like they’d just survived a war.

Now, the cafeteria was no different—louder, if anything. The place was alive with finals talk: who guessed the last question, who left half a page blank, who swore the professor had it out for them.

Val and I squeezed into our usual spot, trays between us, as the din swirled all around.

She was humming. Fork in hand, swaying lightly in her chair as she stabbed a piece of chicken and popped it into her mouth like she was on so variety show.

I watched her for a beat before blurting, "How do you even do it?"

She froze mid-chew, narrowed her eyes dramatically, then swallowed. "Do what?"

"You know." I gestured vaguely with my spoon. "Get high scores. Every ti. Like... consistently. You’re mostly... you know—"

Her eyes narrowed, head tilting. "Mostly what?"

I cleared my throat. "Mostly... uh... not the type who—"

"Not the type who what?" she pressed, lips curving like she’d already won.

"I didn’t an—" I tried, but she leaned forward, eyes wide with mock offense.

> "You were about to say sothing. Spit it out, Kai."

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Trouble. You’re mostly trouble. The fun kind, sure, but still trouble. Not the kind people think aces exams."

Her fork clattered to the tray as she gasped dramatically. "Trouble? You’re calling trouble? I’ll have you know I’m a serious academic weapon."

I bit back a grin. "You hum while eating fries, Val. That’s not academic weapon behavior."

She blinked once, then broke into a giggle that made half the cafeteria glance our way. I couldn’t help but smile too—because as usual, she got exactly where she wanted.

Her laughter lingered, soft and smug, before she poked at another fry. A beat passed, her gaze flicking to , sly and deliberate.

"So," she said casually, like she wasn’t about to drop a bomb. "What about my ring?"

I blinked. "What ring?"

"My ring," she repeated, as if I was the one being slow here. "The one you basically promised when you called your wife yesterday. I’m never forgetting that, Kai."

I choked on air. "That wasn’t a promise—"

"Oh, it was," she cut in smoothly, pointing a fry at like it was evidence in court. "You don’t just go around calling a girl your wife if you don’t an it. That’s legally binding in my book."

I stared. "In your book?"

"Yes. It exists. It’s very official. You just don’t get to see it." She leaned back with a satisfied grin.

I groaned. "Val—"

She tilted her head, eyes widening as her voice slipped into a soft whine. "Kaiii. Don’t backpedal. You can’t give the best line ever and then pretend it didn’t happen."

I pinched the bridge of my nose. "It wasn’t a line. I was making a point."

> "Exactly. And the point was: wife."

"That is not what I—"

"Wife," she repeated firmly, lips curving into a victorious smile. "I win. Where’s my ring?"

I groaned and dragged a hand down my face. "Val, you can’t just—"

"I can just," she cut in sweetly, eyes sparkling. "And I did. You called your wife. That’s a vow."

"A vow?" I repeated flatly. "You’re unbelievable."

She gasped dramatically, one hand to her chest. "Wow. So first I’m trouble, and now I’m unbelievable. Keep digging, Kai. See where that shovel takes you."

I gave her a look. "You’re twisting my words again."

She shrugged, popping another fry in her mouth. "Maybe. But you know I’m right."

I leaned back, exasperated. "You’re not getting a ring."

Her lower lip jutted out instantly, a perfect little pout weaponized against . "So I’m not your wife, then?"

I groaned, because I knew right then I’d already lost. "Val..."

She leaned in, eyes wide, milking it for everything it was worth. "So I’m not?"

I shook my head, half-laughing, half-defeated. "Fine. You win. I’ll get you a ring."

Her face lit up instantly, like I’d just promised her the world. "Really?"

"Not today," I warned, pointing a fry at her like it was a sword. "But... yeah. I’ll get you one."

She grinned, bouncing just slightly in her seat, so pleased with herself it was ridiculous. "Good. Because you already said I’m your wife, and I’m never letting you take it back."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. Watching her glow, her whole mood brighter than the cafeteria lights, I knew I’d made the right call—even if she’d cornered into it.

Troubleso. Chaotic. Stubborn to the bone. She could twist words like knots and trap in every one of them.

But even with all that—no, maybe because of all that—she was perfect. My perfect.