The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 4

(Frida’s POV)

Frida stared at the black card on her kitchen table as if it might detonate.

It gleamed faintly under the warm kitchen light, silver script catching every flicker of motion. Elegant. Understated. And heavy with meaning.

Tomorrow. Seven o’clock.

It had been hours since Alexander Knight handed it to her, and still she couldn’t quite believe it was real.

She’d tucked it into her apron pocket after he left, pretending she wasn’t thinking about it. But the moment she got home, she’d pulled it out again—set it on the table like a dare.

Now her tea sat cold beside it. The cinnamon bun she’d brought home for dinner remained untouched.

She told herself she was sensible, practical, grounded. But her mind wouldn’t stop spinning.

Dinner. In his world.

And he hadn’t asked—he’d assumed.

Her phone buzzed. A message from Molly.

Molly: So… have you tried on your gown yet, Cinderella?

Frida groaned, typing back:

Frida: I haven’t even decided if I’m going.

The typing bubbles appeared immediately.

Molly: YOU ARE.

Frida: It’s insane. I can’t just walk into his world.

Molly: Girl, he invited you. He wants YOU there. Not just your pastries. Don’t chicken out.

Frida: He doesn’t want me. He wants dessert.

Molly: Oh honey. He wants both. Trust me.

Frida tossed her phone onto the couch, cheeks warm.

She began pacing the small apartment. Two rooms, secondhand furniture, a kitchen that always smelled faintly of flour and sugar. It was cozy, safe—exactly what she’d needed when she moved here a few months ago.

But staring at that silver-inked address, she realized something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safety suddenly felt small.

⸻

The next morning, Molly was waiting for her at the bakery, hands on her hips like a drill sergeant.

“Well?” she demanded. “Did you pick an outfit? Did you polish your glass slippers?”

Frida scowled, hanging her coat. “I told you, I haven’t decided.”

“You haven’t decided?” Molly gasped dramatically. “Frida, do you even know who you’re baking for?”

Frida frowned. “You know who he is?”

Molly leaned across the counter, lowering her voice as if the croissants might be listening. “Of course I do. Alexander Knight. Billionaire investor. Owns half the skyline. Every article about him reads like a fairy tale—or a warning.”

Frida blinked. “A warning?”

“Depends who you ask,” Molly said, grinning. “He’s brilliant, ruthless, and—” she paused for effect—“single.”

Frida’s stomach flipped. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“To you, maybe. But to the rest of us mere mortals?” Molly shrugged. “He’s the holy grail. And he invited you. Not some five-star pastry chef. You. Our cozy little Swedish baker.”

Frida groaned, rubbing her temples. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re terrified,” Molly said simply. “But maybe this is exactly what you need. A door opening. Something bigger than this place.”

Frida looked around Sweet Haven—the gleaming counters, the scent of cinnamon, the morning light pooling across the floor. This bakery was her world. Her refuge.

“I left Sweden because I needed safety,” she said quietly. “To breathe again. To start over.”

Molly’s tone softened. “And you did. But maybe, Frida… maybe it’s time to see what comes after safety.”

Frida didn’t answer. But the thought followed her all day.

⸻

That evening, after the bakery closed, curiosity won.

She opened her laptop.

Typed Alexander Knight.

The screen filled instantly—articles, interviews, glossy photos.

The Billionaire Who Turned Steel to Gold.

Alexander Knight: The Man Who Buys Empires.

Portland’s Most Elusive Bachelor—Who Is He, Really?

Image after image appeared: Alexander at a gala, tuxedo crisp and perfect. Alexander stepping out of a sleek car, cameras flashing. Alexander on a yacht, sunglasses shielding his expression.

Always composed. Always untouchable.

Frida’s stomach twisted. What am I even thinking?

She was a baker. A woman who still double-checked grocery prices and patched her own apron. She didn’t belong in that world of glass towers and glittering parties.

She closed the laptop too quickly, the screen going black with a soft click.

⸻

The next day, she threw herself into work. She kneaded dough until her arms ached, piped frosting with near-military precision, and kept the ovens full from dawn to dusk.

But distraction only lasted so long.

At noon, Molly swept in with a garment bag over her shoulder.

“What’s that?” Frida asked warily.

“Insurance,” Molly said, hanging it on the coat rack. “Because I know you. You’ll overthink until it’s too late. And I refuse to let that happen.” She unzipped the bag with a flourish. “Tada!”

Inside hung a simple, elegant dress. Midnight blue, knee-length, soft shimmer in the light. Classy, understated—like Frida, only… bolder.

Frida’s throat tightened. “Molly…”

“Don’t even start,” Molly said firmly. “It’s not too fancy, but it’s perfect. You’ll look like yourself—just, you know, the version of yourself who doesn’t panic around billionaires.”

Frida ran her fingers over the fabric, heart aching a little. “I can’t let you—”

“It’s a rental,” Molly interrupted. “No big deal. Consider it an investment in your courage.”

Frida gave a weak laugh, blinking fast. “You’re too good to me.”

“I know,” Molly said, smiling. Then her voice softened. “You can do this, Frida. You deserve to be seen. Not just by him—by anyone.”

Frida nodded, unable to speak.

⸻

That night, her apartment smelled of cardamom and chocolate.

She’d spent hours testing recipes, searching for something that felt like her. She finally settled on three: airy cardamom mousse, chocolate-dipped lingonberry tartlets, and her signature kanelbullar—this time with a glossy vanilla bean glaze.

By midnight, her counters were dusted in sugar, her creations lined up neatly, her dress hanging near the door like a promise.

She stood there for a long time, staring at it.

What am I doing?

She didn’t go to dinners with billionaires. She baked pastries, paid bills, and tried to keep her heart quiet.

And yet—

She could still hear Alexander’s voice.

You’ll say yes. You just haven’t admitted it yet.

Her chest tightened.

She turned off the kitchen light and crawled into bed. But sleep never came.

When dawn painted the sky pale pink, the dress was still hanging in the living room, waiting.

By seven that evening, she would have to choose.

Stay in the safety of her world.

Or step into Alexander Knight’s—and risk everything.