Novel & Cerita Grace Not Perfection Book

I begin, “there was a woman who thought love was supposed to hurt. Who thought she had to be perfect to deserve happiness. Who thought she’d lost everything.” Grace blinks at me with those serious eyes that remind me so much of Lucas. “But then she learned something important. She learned that sometimes you have to lose everything to find what really matters. That sometimes the person you think you’re supposed to be isn’t the person you’re meant to become.” The timer goes off. The bottle's ready. I retrieve it, settling back with Grace who immediately latches on, her little hand curling around my finger.

My voice echoes in my own head, dread clawing its way up my throat. I know this place. The cellar. His cellar. “Fucking Elias,” I whisper, my voice cold and filled with venom. Grace, of course, stands at the center of it all. That smug twist on her perfect lips. So poised. So manipulative. And so utterly foolish. She doesn’t realize what she’s dealing with. She doesn’t know Elias the way I do. But I remember.

"But for the record." "For the record what?" "Every woman I've ever actually admired started over at least once." She pointed the fork at me. "The boring ones, the ones who had it easy and kept it easy, I've got nothing to say to them. It's the ones who burned it all down and walked out of the fire with a suitcase that I want at my table. So." She shrugged. "Welcome to the table." My eyes stung. I looked at the floor. "You're going to be okay, you know," Grace said. "Not today. Today you look like roadkill. But eventually."

“You are?” “How could I not be? He’s nearly perfect, you know. I don’t suppose any woman truly deserves him. I certainly don’t. I’m aware of all the mistakes I’ve made over the years, Grace. We’ve discussed them, I’ve apologized and explained, and he has forgiven me. Perhaps you might consider doing so yourself one day.”

Paul said with a bit of urgency over the accelerating movement below. Grace doesn't answer but also doesn't do what Paul says. It wasn't that she didn't want to, Grace just couldn't bear to see Paul's face which must have looked very sexy full of sweat moving on it. The man must look so perfect, while he must look so messed up.

Within seconds, the vibrant petals shriveled, and it life sucked dry. My chest throbbed with the now familiar feel of adrenaline. "See?" Grace’s tone was flat. "That part, you’re perfect at. Natural killer." The words stung, but I didn’t let it show. Instead, I flipped to the page for the main reason I started all these. Healing. The hardest one yet.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out a small, leather-bound book—cream-colored, the title embossed in soft gold script—The Perfect Wife: Grace in the Eyes of Society. She extended it toward me with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “You should read it,” she said simply. “Memorize the key chapters, practice the rest. It’s a useful guide. All Kingston wives have studied it. Including me.” I didn’t move, just stared at the damn, thick book.

Before she could finish, her assistant wheeled Laila out of the operating room. The three of them immediately surrounded her, too caught up to hear the rest of what Healer Petra had to say. And my body? It was tossed aside, left in the cold morgue like nothing. A wave of sorrow washed through me. No one cared about me when I was alive, but I couldn't believe that even now, after I was dead, no one bothered to claim my body. Did I really not deserve to be loved? I had already given in over and over again, always trying to please everyone. I didn't ask for much—I just wanted Mom, Dad, and Simon to love me a bit more.

They drop half an inch. Sad. Yes. The specific sadness of having let something go that you carried so long you'd stopped noticing the weight. It doesn't feel like relief yet. It feels like the first morning after a long fever breaks — clean, strange, the body not quite sure what to do with the absence of heat. Intact. That word again. I keep returning to it. I came home from Elena's wedding intact, and I woke up intact, and the word keeps presenting itself like something I'm only now learning to apply to myself without qualification.

Their innocence glowed in the low lamplight—tiny fists curled, soft cheeks flushed, little breaths humming like small miracles. And just like that… her entire world steadied. She stepped closer, brushing her finger lightly across the cheek of the nearest baby. He squirmed, sighed, and settled again. “They’re so perfect,” she whispered. “Yes,” Mrs. Grace said. “Just like their mother.” She swallowed, eyes stinging again—but this time with something different. Something softer. “They deserve better than what I can give right now.” “They deserve you,” Mrs. Grace corrected. “And you? You deserve peace. Whatever form it comes in.”