CHAPTER 5
1081 Words
(Frida’s POV)
The dress felt like borrowed courage.
Frida stood before the mirror, smoothing the midnight-blue fabric over her hips, almost not recognizing the woman staring back. Her hair—normally tied up and dusted with flour—fell in soft waves around her shoulders. A faint tint of rose on her lips, a whisper of mascara.
She looked… elegant. Almost like she belonged in Alexander Knight’s world.
Almost.
Her hands trembled as she clasped the small silver pendant around her neck. It wasn’t expensive, but it was precious—her mother’s, given to her the day she left Sweden. A reminder of home. Of who she was.
Remember who you are, she told herself. No matter what happens tonight.
A sharp knock startled her.
“Open up, Cinderella!” Molly’s voice sang through the door.
Frida let out a nervous laugh and opened it.
Molly froze, eyes wide. “Oh. My. God.”
“What?” Frida asked, already blushing.
“You look—” Molly pressed a hand to her heart. “Like a Swedish movie star. Like you belong on the red carpet. He won’t know what hit him.”
Frida shook her head, embarrassed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I’m not! The hair, the dress, the soft ‘don’t-mess-with-me’ glow—you’re perfection.”
“Molly,” Frida protested, though her lips curved despite herself.
Molly grinned. “Do you have everything? Desserts?”
Frida gestured to the boxes neatly stacked on the table. Inside: the airy cardamom mousse, the lingonberry tartlets with glossy chocolate, and the vanilla-glazed kanelbullar. Her best work—fragile pieces of herself, wrapped in parchment and ribbon.
Molly peeked inside one box and whistled. “If he doesn’t fall in love with you after this, I will.”
Frida laughed weakly. “You’re impossible.”
“And you love me for it.” Molly winked, then softened. “You’re nervous. That’s good. It means this matters. Just remember—he’s a man, not a myth.”
Frida bit her lip. “Sometimes I’m not so sure.”
⸻
By the time the car pulled up to the address on the black card, Frida’s nerves were a storm.
She pressed her forehead to the cool window, watching as the tall iron gates swung open silently. Beyond them, a sweeping drive curved through manicured gardens, golden light glinting off fountains and marble statues.
At the end of the lane stood a mansion. No—an estate.
Columns, balconies, stone walls washed in light. The kind of place that belonged in history books or glossy magazines, not in the same reality as her.
Music drifted faintly from inside—strings and piano, smooth and poised.
The car stopped. A valet opened her door, and the cool night air brushed her bare shoulders.
She stepped out, clutching the boxes of pastries as if they could anchor her to something real.
Around her, guests swept past in glittering gowns and tailored suits, voices bright with champagne laughter. Diamonds sparkled under the entry lights. Cameras flashed as luxury cars purred up the drive.
Frida’s pulse pounded in her ears. She didn’t belong here.
Then a low voice cut through the noise.
“Miss Andersson.”
She turned—and there he was.
Alexander Knight stood at the top of the marble steps, a black suit perfectly tailored, his presence effortless yet commanding. He didn’t need to raise his voice. The world seemed to quiet for him on its own.
Their eyes met, and heat flushed her cheeks. “Mr. Knight.”
“Alexander,” he corrected softly, descending the steps toward her.
The crowd seemed to part without anyone asking.
When he reached her, he took the pastry boxes from her trembling hands as though they weighed nothing. “Allow me.”
Frida swallowed. “Thank you.”
“You came,” he said, his lips curving slightly. “Good.”
Something in his tone—calm, certain—made her chest tighten.
⸻
Inside, the mansion was even more breathtaking.
Marble floors gleamed under chandeliers that looked like frozen starlight. Portraits in gilt frames watched from the walls. Servers moved with practiced grace, trays of champagne glinting in their hands.
Frida clutched her small clutch bag like a shield.
Alexander leaned close, his breath warm against her ear. “Stay with me.”
The words steadied her more than she wanted to admit.
As he guided her through the crowd, conversations quieted, eyes followed. She could hear the whispers ripple through the glittering room.
Who’s she?
That’s not his usual type.
Alexander Knight never brings a date.
Her cheeks burned. She wanted to shrink into the marble floor.
But Alexander’s hand brushed her back—light, reassuring—and she kept walking.
They stopped at a long dining table set with silver and crystal. At its center stood her desserts, already arranged by staff with meticulous precision. The mousse shimmered pale gold, the tartlets gleamed like rubies, the buns glowed under the chandeliers.
Frida’s breath caught. They looked beautiful.
Alexander followed her gaze. “Perfect,” he said quietly.
Her chest ached at the simple word.
⸻
Dinner was a blur of luxury and conversation she could barely follow. Men spoke in shorthand about markets and mergers, women traded names of islands like accessories.
Frida sat beside Alexander, silent but alert, her nerves thrumming. She didn’t know where to look, how to sit, what to say.
Whenever she faltered, he steadied her—a quiet comment only she could hear, a hand resting briefly on the table near hers, a glance that said you’re fine.
When dessert was served, the room changed.
Conversation paused. Forks lifted. Then came the murmurs—soft, surprised, delighted.
Exquisite.
What is that flavor?
Unforgettable.
The words floated around her, but she barely heard them. Her eyes were on Alexander.
He took a bite of the mousse, slow and deliberate. His expression didn’t change at first—then his gaze found hers, something sparking there, sharp and quiet.
“Exceptional,” he said, his voice low enough that only she heard it.
Her breath caught. “Thank you.”
He studied her for a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “Thank you—for saying yes.”
Frida froze.
Because in that moment, she realized—this dinner had never been just about dessert.
It was about her.
And she had no idea what she’d just stepped into.
- Writer
