The Billionaire's Brat Wants Me - Chapter 97: The Things You Do for Love

Chapter 97: The Things You Do for Love

By the time we got home, the sky had already deepened into that grayish blue that meant evening wasn’t far off. The apartment was still, carrying the kind of quiet that waited for us to fill it.

Duchess was the first to greet us. Not in the way most pets would. No tail wagging, no eager rush to the door.

She padded out of the hallway with the unbothered grace of a queen who tolerated our existence, gave us a slow blink, then continued her royal stroll past the living room like she had business elsewhere. Typical.

Celestia slipped out of her shoes and dropped her bag by the couch before sinking into it like her bones had been carrying the weight of the entire day. I set the keys on the counter, watching her melt into the cushions as if she’d claimed the whole space for herself.

“You said okay,” I said finally.

Her head tilted against the couch cushion, brows pulling together. “Uh?”

“To Avery,” I clarified.

“Oh. That.” Her tone was flat, like the topic wasn’t worth a wrinkle in her thoughts.

I leaned against the armrest, arms folded. “So what—you really plan on being friends with her?”

She snorted softly, turning her face toward the back of the couch. “Nope. I just wanted her to shut up.”

The honesty was blunt, and for a second, I wasn’t sure if she was joking. But then she gave a little shrug, as if that explained everything.

“So that’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it.”

I stayed quiet, staring a little too long. She shifted under my gaze and sighed again. “What?”

“You knew the longer she talked, the more pissed you’d get.”

“Exactly,” she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “So I ended it. Efficient.”

I shook my head, a quiet laugh leaving me. “Only you would call that efficient.”

She turned her head at last, eyes gleaming. “You’re welcome.”

I shook my head, sitting down beside her. For a few minutes, the room was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the faint sound of a car passing outside. I let the silence stretch before I brought up what I knew she didn’t want to hear.

“And Marina?”

Her body tensed. Just slightly, but enough. She hugged a pillow to her chest, pressing her chin into it like it might shield her. “What about her?”

“Sooner or later,” I continued gently, “you’ll have to confront it.”

Her eyes darted to mine, then away, like she wanted to deflect without words. “Or later,” she muttered, voice muffled against the pillow.

I let out a breath. “Val…”

She didn’t move.

“She’s still my friend,” I continued quietly. “And I do feel bad. I’m not pressuring you—I just… can’t pretend it doesn’t matter.”

Her fingers tightened on the pillow. “I know.”

“I’m not asking you to—”

“I know,” she cut in, a little firmer this time.

She shifted, pushing the pillow aside and standing. Her steps were slow, restless, carrying her a short circle around the living room before she stopped. She didn’t look at me when she spoke.

> “I can’t share you.”

The words came out soft but final, the kind that didn’t leave space for argument.

I sat up straighter, watching her. “I understand.”

This time she looked at me. Really looked. Her eyes held something sharp and fragile at the same time, something I couldn’t name.

“No,” she said, barely above a whisper. “You don’t.”

Her gaze lingered, just long enough to make my chest tighten. The moment shattered like glass swept under a rug.

I opened my mouth, but before I could answer, she blinked quickly and looked away. “I’m hungry,” she said, her tone suddenly light, almost airy. Too light. “What should I make for dinner?”

“Val—”

She walked into the kitchen, opening a cabinet like nothing had been said. “What about Pasta? Or Rice?… Soup?”

“Val—”

She pulled open the fridge, her head bent low so I couldn’t see her face. “Or maybe something with chicken. Or eggs.”

I knew exactly what she was doing.

Dodging. Burying the words she didn’t want me to touch.

I leaned back into the couch, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Pushing her now wouldn’t work. Not when she’d already thrown up walls.

So I let her list off possibilities like she was reading from a cookbook no one asked for. Let her rattle on about sauces and sides while her voice tried to sound steady.

“Dinner first,” she said at last, closing the fridge with a little more force than necessary. She turned, her smile quick and practiced, not the real kind. “Then… maybe we’ll talk.”

I nodded, even though I knew “maybe” meant not tonight.

And for now, that had to be enough.

—

Dinner smelled like the kind of thing that made restaurants jealous—garlic, lemon, something rich and slow that curled in the air. Pans glistened, counters lined like a battlefield of culinary triumphs.

I leaned against the doorway. “Show-off.”

Her lips curved, eyes flicking up from the pan. “That’s called skill, husband.”

“Skill,” I echoed, stepping closer. “More like sorcery.”

By the time we sat at the table, the apartment felt smaller, warmer—her food filling the air.

Val set her fork down and watched me take the first bite like it might be an official review.

For a moment the tension that had been tightening my chest all day loosened at the edges. The food was a small, domestic magic trick.

“How’s the food?” she asked, still watching.

I smirked. “If this is poison, it tastes incredible.”

She gasped, hand to her chest. “Poison? Really?”

“Kidding. Chef’s kiss,” I said.

She pouted, but before I could laugh, the bite betrayed me—I coughed and choked.

She was instantly there, glass of water extended like we’d rehearsed this a thousand times. Up close, she looked dangerously small—fierce, slightly annoyed, but careful.

“Drink,” she said, more mother than Brat for a second.

I swallowed the water and set the glass down. She watched me for a beat, eyes softer than her voice.

“No more jokes for at least five minutes,” she declared.

I looked at her, really looked — at the crease beside her nose when she concentrated, at the way a shadow darkened under her eyes from the strain she carried. She was small in a way no one else saw. The worry in her eyes over something as small as me choking was ridiculous, and yet it landed like thunder

“Okay.” I kept my voice quiet. “No more jokes.”

She took a bite and chewed slowly, like she was timing herself. I followed her lead, taking a few mouthfuls, letting the conversation simmer.

Then the question slipped out, quiet, testing, soft. “Do I really have to make up with her?”

I froze. “Uh?”

She folded her hands in her lap and pushed her lower lip out into the pout that never failed to get me. “I mean… I don’t really need a friend. I’ve got you. You’re my friend, my best friend, my older brother, my boyfriend, and my husband, rolled into one.”

The list came out of her like a litany, earnest and almost defensively sweet. There was none of her mischief in it — no playful glint, no silly sarcasm to cloak it. She said it plain and open. I could tell by the way her hands trembled a little at the edges that she meant every word.

I reached across, warming the back of her hand with mine.

“Val,” I said quietly, “you don’t have to.”

She stared at me for a beat and then sighed. “Ugh, the things you do for love.”

My chest eased, the corner of my mouth lifting. “You mean it. You’ll make up with her.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I’ll try. No promises though.”

The relief that passed through me was ridiculous, small and warm. I chuckled, the surprise at the sound made her look up.

“One would think you like her more than me with how you’re smiling,” she teased.

I laughed, quick and high, and she rolled her eyes until her grin cracked.

“Okay, okay,” she said, wiping her eyes. “No more laughing, or you’ll choke again.”

“You sound responsible,” I teased.

She shoved my shoulder lightly. “I mean it,” she said, suddenly serious. The casual armor dropped for a heartbeat and the truth was there, solid and blunt. “I don’t want to lose you.”

The weight of her words settled quietly, comfortably, between us.

“Yes ma’am,” I said, because that felt right. She shook her head, amused and weary, then went back to her meal.

She dove back into her meal, chewing with purpose, as though each bite pushed the conversation further away. I watched her for a moment — the way the light caught the gold in her hair, the faint smudge of sauce at the corner of her mouth that she pretended not to see — and then I turned my attention inward.

I chewed, swallowed, and let my thoughts wander the usual dangerous paths: Marina’s hollow smile in class, Trent’s silent withdrawal, Avery’s awkward attempt at civility. The list was a low drumbeat at the edges of my day. But opposite me, Val was chewing, honest and soft and real. Her promise — the one she’d made a few hours ago about not letting things get to her — sat like a talisman on the table between the plates.

Maybe she would make up with Marina eventually. Maybe she wouldn’t. But she’d said she’d try. That was something.

And I thought—maybe this was enough.

For tonight, at least.

Everything else could wait.

—

To be continued…

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by AiKurou