The Billionaire's Brat Wants Me

I had no idea what was happening over at Moreau Dynamics. Whatever storms were gathering there, whatever decisions were being set in motion… all of it was outside my line of sight. My week had been smooth, productive, almost deceptively calm. And honestly? I wasn't thinking about Lucien, or Charlie, or anything remotely connected to that company — except for Val of course.

Because i had something else to deal with.

Trent had called earlier in the afternoon, his voice carrying that strange mix of annoyance and hesitation he got whenever he genuinely needed help but didn't want to admit it. He only said there was "a little issue," nothing serious, but could I swing by after work? He didn't disclose details, which, in Trent-language, meant the details were either embarrassing, expensive, or both.

So the moment I wrapped up at the office, I packed my laptop, sent Val a quick text letting her know I'd be home late, and made my way to the parking lot. She replied instantly, a simple: "Okay, love. Don't stay out too long." No suspicion, no worry. She trusted me—trusted us—in a way that always made something warm settle in my chest.

The drive out of Gray & Milton's district was smooth, the city easing into that early evening lull where the noise dipped just enough for my thoughts to stretch. The sky was sliding into a gradient of soft gold and ash-blue, the kind of view that normally quieted my mind. Today, though, the silence only carved out more space for me to wonder what exactly Trent had gotten into.

Knowing him, it could be anything. A bad business decision, a personal dilemma, or—God forbid—another half-baked investment he forgot to tell his financial adviser and best friend about… meaning me.

I sighed, merging into the main lane that led toward his place.

Whatever this was, it wasn't minor. And it definitely wasn't one of his usual "fix this before my father notices" moments.

But in that moment, all I could think was:

I hope this isn't something that will blow up in my face too.

---

Trent's place was lit up when I pulled into his driveway — warm lights spilling across the paved stones, that familiar look of "I've been staring at my laptop for hours and I'm losing my mind" practically radiating from the balcony windows. I killed the engine, grabbed my jacket, and headed inside without knocking. Trent never minded; if anything, he complained when I did knock.

He was already at the dining table when I walked in, sleeves rolled up, laptop open, spreadsheets everywhere. The moment he looked up, the relief on his face was almost dramatic.

"Thank God," he breathed. "I was two minutes away from throwing this laptop off the balcony."

I dropped my keys on the counter. "So you're telling me Cole Capital Group's Executive Director of Business Development can't handle a simple projection model?"

He shot me a flat look. "Very funny. Sit your financial genius ass down."

I smirked, pulled out the chair next to him, and angled his laptop toward me. A wall of numbers blinked on screen, and instantly, I understood the problem. He was trying to rebalance their long-term investment schedule for one of the subsidiaries — but Trent had a habit of making "creative" assumptions that had no business being in a spreadsheet.

"You shifted the inflation rate why?" I asked, eyebrows raised.

Trent rubbed the back of his neck. "Because it looked nicer that way?"

I stared at him.

He sighed. "Okay, okay, because I panicked. The board meeting is next week and I don't want to look like an idiot."

"You won't," I said, scooting closer and pulling the laptop fully in front of me. "You just can't pretend math bends to your will. It doesn't."

"Well, it should," he muttered.

I snorted. "That's exactly why CCG has financial analysts."

"And that," Trent pointed at me, "is exactly why I called you. I trust you more than any of those guys."

"Flattery won't save you," I murmured, fingers already flying over the keys. "But noted."

He leaned in beside me as I corrected his formulas, rebuilt his assumptions, and reran the simulations. The numbers adjusted smoothly, the graph normalized, and the projection finally stabilized into something that wouldn't get him murdered at a board meeting.

Trent whistled. "You make it look so easy."

"That's because it is easy. You just complicate the hell out of it."

] "Again — rude."

I gave the screen a tap. "You're welcome."

Trent groaned dramatically. "Thank you. You absolute lifesaver."

"You're dramatic," I fired back.

He shoved my shoulder lightly, and we both laughed. That was the thing about Trent, even in the middle of work stress, he somehow made everything feel like a casual hangout.

Once the last model recalculated, he pushed the laptop aside and exhaled.

"Okay… crisis averted." I leaned back in my chair, hands behind his head. "Now that that's handled, can we talk about something real?"

Trent arched a brow. "Like what?"

"So," I drawled, "when are you going to get married?"

He groaned instantly. "Nope. Absolutely not. Skip."

"No skipping. Answer."

] "Kai—"

"Trent."

He dragged his hands down his face. "Why do you sound like Marina when you say my name like that?"

"Because I want answers," I said, folding my arms.

Trent slumped. "I'm not avoiding marriage, okay? I just… I don't want the familiarity to kill what we have."

I blinked. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously." He gestured wildly. "Look at us, man. We're good. We're great. Why tempt the universe?"

I stared at him. "Look at me and Val."

He gave a short laugh. "It's different."

"How?"

Trent raised a finger. "Because Celestia is head over heels in love with you."

"So is Marina with you."

He hesitated. "Yeah, but Marina's love is like—" he searched for words, then snapped his fingers, "—she'd dive into a burning building to drag me out alive."

I snorted. "That's… oddly specific."

"I'm not done," Trent said, lifting a finger. "Meanwhile, Celestia? Celestia would walk straight into that burning building with you, look around, realize there's no way out, then lock the damn door herself and say, 'If we're going down, we're going together.'"

I stared at him.

He shrugged. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"…that's exaggerated."

"But true," he shot back. "You two are inseparable. Everyone can see it."

I leaned back, letting his words settle, then shook my head with a small smile. "Maybe. But that doesn't change anything. Marriage doesn't kill love, Trent. People kill love by refusing to grow it."

He was quiet for a moment.

I added, softer, "Marina loves you. More than you think. You're not going to lose anything by getting married to her. If anything, you're actually going to gain something stronger."

Trent didn't look at me right away. Instead, he exhaled long and deep. "You know… sometimes I hate how you make sense."

"Occupational hazard."

He finally chuckled, shaking his head. "Alright, alright. I'll think about it."

"That's all I'm asking."

He nudged me again with his shoulder. "Anyway… enough about my existential crisis. What about the Meridian Development Initiative? How's that going, since you and Celestia are basically corporate enemies?"

I smiled. "Trent..."

] "What?"

"Val said something the other day." I paused, letting the memory play in my head. "No matter what happens… family comes first."

Trent blinked. "Wow."

"Yeah."

He smirked. "See? Inseparable. I told you."

We both chuckled softly, the ease settling back into the room. Trent leaned forward again, flipping his laptop open.

"Alright," he said, tapping the screen, "help me find more things I can pretend I didn't ruin."

I laughed and pulled the laptop closer again.

Numbers. Calm. Familiar.

But my mind… not so much.

Because while Trent and I combed through projections and spreadsheets, I couldn't shake the sense that somewhere else — unseen, untouched by any formula or financial model — things were shifting.

Changing.

Faster than any of us realized.

And whatever was happening out there… was already on its way to us.

---

By the time I left Trent's place, night had fully settled, folding the city into its usual hum of headlights and tired engines. The drive home was quiet, almost contemplative—just enough space for the last of Trent's words to circle my mind before finally fading into background noise. Whatever tension the day had held, whatever numbers we'd fought into submission, it all loosened the moment I pulled into the driveway.

Inside, the house carried that familiar warmth—soft lighting, settled air, and the faint scent of something herbal Aline must've brewed earlier. Duchess padded into view first, her tail swaying like she was debating whether to greet me or make me work for it. She chose the latter, flicking her ear and pretending she didn't care until she rubbed herself against my leg.

Aline looked up from the kitchen counter, her expression gentle as always. "Welcome back, sir."

"Thanks, Aline," I said, setting my keys down. "Where's Val?"

"She went upstairs a few minutes ago. I believe she heard your car pull in." Her words carried that respectful calm she always had, a tone that somehow made even simple information sound like reassurance.

"Alright. Thank you."

She nodded once, and Duchess followed me a few steps before losing interest and wandering off, probably in search of food or a more suitable throne.

Upstairs, the hallway lights were dimmed, the kind of soft glow Val liked in the evenings. I pushed open our bedroom door, expecting to see her sprawled on the bed or flipping through another one of her planning notebooks, but the room was empty. My jacket came off as I scanned the space—no sign of her by the window, none at her vanity.

"Val?" I called lightly as I crossed to the bathroom.

I opened the door. Lights off. Empty.

I turned back around—

Hands slipped over my eyes from behind.

Warm. Soft. Familiar.

A smile rose before I even breathed her name.

"Guess who it is?" Her voice was bright, playful, threaded with that little lilt she used when she was feeling mischievous.

I made a show of thinking. "Hmm… is it… Santa?"

She giggled immediately—a small, melodic sound that pressed right into my chest. Her hands fell away, and I turned to face her.

She stood there barefoot, hair loose, expression soft with that warmth she saved for moments like this. "How was work?" she asked, reaching up to brush something from my shoulder even though nothing was there.

"Long," I said simply.

She stepped closer, her fingers slipping to the first button of my shirt. "Go take a shower," she murmured, slowly undoing it. "Then we'll have dinner."

My hands hovered at her waist, not quite holding her, just resting there. And maybe it was because Trent's voice was still echoing somewhere in the back of my mind, or maybe it was because looking at her right then felt like stepping into a reminder of everything stable in my life—whatever the reason, the question slipped out before I filtered it.

"Would you…" I hesitated, and she paused at the third button. "Would you walk into a burning building with me?"

Her head tilted almost instantly. That slight, curious angle that always made her look even more impossibly lovely. "Uh?" A tiny pout formed—subtle, confused, and entirely her.

I couldn't help it, I smiled. Just the way she looked at me, with those glinting, ever-playful eyes, told me everything I needed. She didn't have to answer. I could see it. Feel it. If there were no way out, if the world backed us into a corner, yeah, she'd probably walk right in with me. And I'd do exactly the same for her.

"It's nothing," I said softly. "Don't worry about it."

She narrowed her eyes a little, not in suspicion, more in that Are-you-sure? way she had. "Mhmm. If you say so."

Then she went back to unbuttoning my shirt, her movements slower, almost thoughtful, like she was reading between lines I hadn't spoken aloud.

When the last button slipped free, she smoothed the fabric down my chest before stepping back. "Go on," she said with a small smile, "before the water gets cold."

I brushed my fingers over her cheek as I passed—just a brief touch, more instinct than intention—and made my way into the bathroom.

The soft click of the door behind me marked the shift into quiet, and as I set the shirt aside and turned on the water, Trent's earlier words drifted back, not loud this time, just lingering.

You two are inseparable…

Maybe he was right. Maybe we were ridiculous. Maybe we were something else entirely. But standing there in the soft bathroom light, listening to the shower warm, I couldn't bring myself to care what label anyone gave it.

Whatever this was—whatever we were—it was ours.

And that was enough.

---

To be continued...