Perfectionist Book Novels & Stories

“You don’t seem like the perfect choice for Ava.” I turned to her, arching a brow. “And what does that mean?” She shrugged. “She’s… steady. She cares about things that aren’t measured in numbers or power. And you… well, you like control.” Andrew snorted. “In other words, she’s not the type to just fall into your world and let you have your way.” Something in me bristled at that. Janice continued, her voice softer this time. “But love isn’t about perfection, Logan. It never is. If you want her, you have to accept that first.”

Mine had already drained away, replaced by something colder, heavier—worry. My thoughts spun as I stared out the window. I couldn’t keep clashing with him like this. That ridiculous book, The Perfect Wife, flashed through my mind—its chapters on handling dominant men. Softness. Vulnerability. Subtle rebellion. A woman with fire, but without the flames. Sweet enough to draw in. Dangerous enough to chase.

Unknowingly, I let out a sob and he opened his eyes, surprised go find me crying. Yes, I was still the weak, emotional, fragile girl. No matter how much I try at the end I always end but breaking down. And this time, I was feeling like giving up on everything. I just hated myself, my life. How could I blame someone else for my miserable condition, when I was the one, who was a problem. I was trying to see something in this mob life which was far from possible, an optimistic ray, I thought if was present deep inside everyone but they refused to dig in to find it. I had imagined how everything would be perfect, once I could see a made man change into a gentleman. I thought maybe Enzo could bri

he said, and his response made me speechless. I couldn't believe he hated me this much, his mansion had twelve bedrooms, and he only got four children. "So, what is your answer, Ms. Corteza?" He asked. "Well, it was quite a deal, but I don't think I can do that; I will never leave my son here with you knowing you are a heartless man, Mr. Pritzgold," I said, and I could see a mocking smile on his face. "I knew it was a stupid idea to think you could be a better person if you want to, but I was so wrong, and talking with you was a big mistake; you are hopeless," I added.

To concentrate on learning rather than enjoying foolishly. From the way he arranged his office and cabin, to his handwriting and drawings, to the way he dressed and carried himself… I wasn’t sure before, but now I could tell… Raven was a perfectionist. Things that didn’t go his way, according to his standards of excellence/perfection, pissed him off.

Another line formed. Slower this time. More deliberate. IT WAS PERFECT Her chest tightened. “Perfect for what?” A flicker. Then— CONTROL The word landed like a weight. Of course. That again. Always that. “You call that perfect?” she asked. No immediate answer. Then— NO CONFLICT NO LOSS NO ERROR Her breath caught. “That’s not perfection,” she said. “That’s absence.” A pause. Longer this time. The glow dimmed slightly— then surged back. Stronger.

Her brow bent slightly as she put her silverware down, chewing slowly. "Do I... act normal?" He tilted his head. "What do you mean?" "The way I act now- it there anything lacking that would," She bent her mouth like she the words tasted sour. "Embarrass you?" He looked at her for a moment, perplexed. Here was a person restrained and at times mechanic, asking for perceived flaws. A realization struck him that she was a type of perfectionist; the type that existed so effortlessly that it had slipped past his notice.

I am usually quick at writing my narrative once I have all my research in place, but somehow I feel that the materials that I’ve collected to write Toby’s story aren’t enough. It has been two years since my last published book. I know everyone is worried. They can’t wait to sell another book. But for them it’s only about the money, for me it’s about the story. I am a perfectionist. There is no way I would let a book be published unless I feel that it’s truly finished and that I don’t need to add anything further.

As certain as the turning of the week. That was who she was. Down to her very letters. Each page arrived in Ana’s flawless hand—straight, deliberate strokes that never seemed to hurry, never seemed to betray fatigue the way his did. Nicoli’s ink always told on him. Blots where he had gone too fast. Pressure marks where he had pressed too hard. Lines that slanted when his thoughts ran ahead of his pen. Ana was his opposite. A perfectionist, down to the smallest mercy of presentation. Sometimes he could see it plainly: a section rewritten, the script suddenly too neat, the spacing too perfect, as if she’d copied an entire page over rather than let him receive anything careless. It must have ta

It was a shame to push myself so hard, but I saw no other way to go about it. Especially with this dragon shifter problem. I thought about the one who approached Colby while he was outside. Colby was smart to strike a deal with him. It was a great way for us to one-up the coven and hit them where they least expected it. My next blast came easily. I was trying to let go of my perfectionism, not wanting to let it overwhelm me. Perfectionism was a blessing and a curse. It helped me push for more, but it also held me back at times. I couldn’t move onto the next step or goal, too caught up with trying to rectify my mistake.