Novel & Cerita Pursuit To Perfection

Freya wondered. “So, she’s like that female lead in romance novels who leaves behind her privileged life to work for the man she loves,” Geneva remarked. "Classic." Freya turned to her assistant, eyes narrowing. “Geneva. This isn’t a story of a girl who gave up everything for her one-sided love.” With conviction, Freya added, “This is a story of a perfectionist woman who searched the ends of the world to find love, only to find it right under her nose!”

Emerald's words were like a cold water poured out on his head, shuddering as he listened to them. However, that didn't deter him from his purpose. Nothing can discourage him. Emerald for one year, actually two years, did all she could do to have his heart. It's now his turn to pursue her. And no matter how long it will take and whatever price he has to pay to have her heart back he was willing to do it. "Then, just forget the past and think that we have only met now," Clayton suggested. "And this time, I'll be pursuing you."

I didn’t dare to make eye contact, knowing that meeting his gaze would only make the night more unbearable. Frederick was a strict and overbearing perfectionist. He despised any sign of imperfection, especially in front of his business associates and friends. He couldn't stand it when I fell short of his high standards, even in the smallest ways. His suffocating attitude was the reason I had left home before I even turned eighteen.

" I lied. I didn't tell him that in that moment under the chandelier, what I actually thought was, 'What a shame. I haven’t even had the chance to enjoy life yet.' Sure enough, Ethan’s head dropped, overcome with shame. Convinced he loved me, he drowned in regret for everything he had done. I soothed him gently, "The past was over, and we should part on good terms." Nevertheless, Ethan clung desperately to the idea of keeping me. He dragged his injured leg just to buy me my favorite chicken pot pie. However, my long-time habit of eating too fast left me with a painful ulcer in my mouth. He brought me a bright yellow designer purse in the shade I’d once adored. Now, just the sight of it sent

she said. The silver-haired man stood beside her. “Yes.” “They’ve accepted imperfection.” “Yes.” She was quiet for a long time. Then asked the question that had been building in her mind for months. “Is that what we missed?” The man considered it carefully. “Yes,” he said. “Perfection requires control.” He looked at the projection. “Balance requires trust.” She didn’t respond. Because she understood the difference now. Too late to build the old world again. Just in time to live in the new one.

“We sell it. All of it. The public wants a fairy tale, so that’s what we’ll give them. Photos, kisses, handholding, the whole charade. If we’re in a room together, we look like a couple that can’t keep their hands off each other. No exceptions.” The corner of his mouth twitched, like he was amused. “You sound like you’ve done this before.” “Crisis management is my speciality,” I shot back. “This is just another crisis with better lighting.” He didn’t argue, which was somehow worse. “Rule Two,” I continued, grabbing a pen from the desk and writing the words down like I was drafting a contract. “Consistency. No slips. No contradictions. If you say Paris was our first trip together, then Paris

I said with a small sigh of defeat. He glanced at the book in my lap with the tiniest of smirks. "Okay, goodnight," was all he said before disappearing down the hall. I clenched my jaw. My eyes wandered over the drawing again; it was honestly hard to look away. The Goddess' eyes seem to stare into your soul and steal your breath. I thought back to what Xavier said and that tingling need started to return. It was something I'd felt before but everything I usually did only made it worse. I had no idea how to actually make it go away except to wait it out.

There was no reason for me to be angry since the conversation went well, a little too well but still I’m angry. Anybody who knows me knows am a perfectionist, there shouldn’t be any flaws in my plans or projects. Because if there’s even a slight error I go berserk. It’s like a thing I was born with I’m not a perfectionist because I love precision. I’m a perfectionist because I don’t survive mistakes, Perfectionism isn’t ambition It’s defense and I don’t leave room for error. People like me don’t get margins! I notice disorder before I notice anything else. It’s like seeing a chair pulled out too far with the need to correct it or a stack of papers misaligned on the table, or maybe Someone’s

“Just what kind of perfection does that particular doll falls into?” He asks, with a bit of jealousy in his voice and tone. For being the perfectionist that he is, he sure will find anyone as his rival when the word perfect is attributed to that person’s characteristic. Most especially if that compliment comes from the Supreme being to whom he needed to please. He needed to be noticed with all of his worth. For all else, his life and the one that he cares about so much more than anyone and anything lies within the palm of his hands. “Let’s shall see about that.”