The Billionaire's Brat Wants Me

"It's a boy."

The words came softly from the doctor, muffled behind the haze of fatigue and relief that filled the delivery room. Helen Moreau's hand gripped Charlie's, trembling with a mix of awe and exhaustion.

"A boy…" she whispered, barely above a breath, her eyes bright despite the pain. "What… what shall we call him?"

Charlie's lips curved into a rare, unguarded smile. He looked down at the tiny, wailing infant swaddled in blankets, and for a moment, all the weight of his responsibilities seemed to vanish.

"Lucien. Lucien Davis. My son," he said, voice steady and proud, as if proclaiming a victory that belonged not just to him but to the Moreau legacy.

Helen nodded, reaching out to brush the fine hair from her newborn's forehead. "Lucien Davis Moreau… it's perfect."

That was many years ago.

---

Three years later, the quiet hum of the nursery was broken by the soft patter of small feet. A little girl had joined the family — Val. Celestia Valentina Moreau. Bright, curious, and already showing signs of a mind that refused to be ignored.

Those first years passed in the blink of an eye. Lucien went from a doting, if slightly jealous, older brother to a boy who was beginning to assert his own independence. He learned to walk, talk, and toddle around the house with growing confidence, always under the watchful eyes of his parents — and with occasional sneaky glances at his baby sister, who somehow seemed to already steal a portion of the attention he thought was his alone.

By the time Lucien turned seven, he had developed a sharp sense of order and a touch of pride in his little accomplishments. It was during one of these moments, as he carefully lined up his blocks in the living room, that he noticed his four-year-old sister crawling toward them… "Cel… why are you grabbing my towers?" he asked, trying to sound stern but failing to hide the annoyance.

Val, unaffected by his sulk, glanced over her shoulder with that early spark of brilliance in her wide eyes. "Because your tower is crooked, silly."

Charlie, observing from the doorway, allowed a small, pleased chuckle to escape. "She definitely has your eyes, but she's got my wits," he murmured to Helen, whose hands were full adjusting Val's little dress.

Lucien, however, felt the first faint tug of something he wouldn't understand until much later: comparison. His father's pride, always so freely given to him, now seemed to have a benchmark. And that benchmark… was his sister.

---

By the time they reached school age, the differences had become harder to ignore. Lucien, with his charm and easy laughter, gravitated toward music. The piano at home, a grand instrument that Helen adored, became his sanctuary. But even here, he could never quite escape the shadow of expectation.

One afternoon, he stood in the living room, fingers hovering over the keys, and said softly, "I want to study music. Not… not business."

Charlie's face darkened. He had been expecting this moment, yet when it came, it was like a dagger through every dream he had silently held for his eldest son. "Music?" he barked, pacing. "Music? Do you know what this means, Lucien? You're Moreau's firstborn! You're supposed to inherit, to command, to lead!"

Helen rose from the piano bench, hands spread in protest. "Charlie… he's just a child. Let him find his passion."

"Passion?" Charlie's voice echoed, sharp and cold. "Passion is for those who have no legacy to uphold! If he cannot uphold it, then perhaps…" His gaze flicked toward Val, who watched silently from the doorway, "perhaps I'll have to ensure someone else can."

Lucien's heart sank. The piano, once his refuge, became a reminder of his father's disappointment. That day, Charlie had done the unthinkable: the piano, Helen's beloved grand piano, was ordered out of the house. Helen had cried, and Lucien had felt the first heavy weight of familial disapproval settle on his small shoulders.

---

Time passed, and Lucien began to rebel quietly. Music became a secret joy, hidden behind schoolwork and social events. Parties, fast money, late nights — these became the escape mechanisms he leaned on to avoid the constant comparisons. He was charming, confident, and outwardly unbothered, but inside, a quiet ache followed him everywhere.

Val, meanwhile, thrived. Bright, analytical, unflinching. She devoured knowledge, excelled in every subject, and gradually became the embodiment of everything Charlie wished Lucien could be — all while remaining a three-year-younger sister.

"I don't think I'll let them attend the same university," Charlie said sharply, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the window. "Do you see how fast Val is catching up to your son?"

Helen's eyes narrowed, her voice tight with disbelief. "My son? You've got to be kidding me, Charlie."

Charlie's jaw tightened, a cold edge in his voice. "No, Helen. I'm serious. I can't have people questioning the Moreau legacy. Not that it matters what you think, I make the decisions here."

Helen scoffed, stepping closer. "Decisions? You mean control. You're letting your obsession with appearances dictate our children's lives!"

Charlie's hand gestured vaguely, dismissively. "Call it what you will. I can't risk it. Not with the way your daughter is… progressing."

"Progressing? You're practically punishing her for being talented!" Helen snapped, her fingers tightening around her bag. "And what about your precious son? Do you think he can't handle a little competition?"

"Competition?" Charlie's tone was icy. "Don't play games with me, Helen. This isn't about games. It's about legacy. And if people think my firstborn—your son—can be outshone by… that girl…" He didn't finish, the words heavy in the air.

Helen's lips pressed into a thin line, her voice low but cutting. "Fine, Charlie. If this is how you're going to be… then you can have Celestia all to yourself. I'll take care of Lucien."

Charlie's eyes flicked toward her, unblinking, but he said nothing.

And in that silence, the unspoken truth settled over the room: Val would grow under her father's sharp expectations, and Helen would turn her attention entirely to Lucien.

Unknown to them, Val and Lucien were pressed against the doorframe, silent observers. Val's heart sank, guilt flickering in her eyes. She glanced at Lucien, expecting anger or bitterness, but instead saw a faint, understanding smile. Even in his own hurt, he was there for her.

Lucien whispered, almost inaudible, "It's not your fault."

Val nodded softly, a mixture of relief and sorrow washing over her.

---

Lucien's teenage years were marked by this same tension. He inherited his father's pride and charm, yet recognition never followed him in the ways he yearned for. Every achievement felt muted, every compliment weighed against the shadow of expectations he couldn't fully meet. Val, meanwhile, became the personification of their father's vision realized—sharp, capable, precise—but even as she excelled, she never drew the warmth or affection she craved from her mother. Success was a constant, cold companion; love and approval were luxuries that seemed reserved for others.

"Why do you get it all?" he muttered one evening to Val as they worked on a project for school. She shrugged, unaware of how it stung him. "I just… do what I can."

He would remember that line for years, bitter and sweet all at once.

---

Now, in the present, Lucien sat in his office, phone still in hand, staring blankly at the screen. The conversation with Mr. Benjamin lingered in his mind, the deal already made, though its full implications had yet to settle.

The memory of the childhood divide pressed against him — Val excelling at every turn, him constantly falling short of expectation, the piano thrown from the house, the whispered warnings, the cold indifference. All of it had led him here, to this fragile moment of ambition and opportunity.

He muttered under his breath, barely audible even to himself, "I'll show him… I'll show Dad I'm better than Celestia."

Back in Gray & Milton, the sun outside continued to cast its warm glow. But in the heart of Moreau Dynamics, shadows of the past stretched long, and the weight of expectation, sibling rivalry, and parental approval loomed over Lucien like a storm yet to break.

Somewhere, in the quiet corridors of power, one truth remained: who was truly to blame for what was about to unfold — the father who demanded perfection, the mother who adored but could not protect, or the son who carried the legacy unevenly?

Time would answer that.

---

To be continued...