The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 6

(Frida’s POV)

The laughter and clinking glasses followed Frida out into the night like echoes she couldn’t quite shake.

She pressed the heavy door shut behind her and leaned against it, her breath coming faster than she realized. For a moment she stood there, eyes closed, her pulse hammering in her ears.

The air outside was cool, touched with the faint sweetness of roses and freshly cut grass. A light wind caught the edge of her hair, brushing golden strands against her cheek. It smelled like rain and summer evenings—clean, open, alive.

She hadn’t realized how suffocating it had felt inside until she stepped out here.

The garden stretched wide before her, the kind of place that existed only in fairy tales and magazines. Lanterns hung from iron posts, glowing amber and gold. Marble paths twisted through sculpted hedges. Roses bloomed in regimented rows, their petals glistening silver beneath the moonlight. In the distance, a fountain whispered softly, the sound blending with the night.

Frida stepped forward slowly, her heels tapping against the stone. The midnight-blue dress—Molly’s borrowed courage—swished lightly with every movement. It was beautiful, yes, but it wasn’t her. It clung to her like an idea she wasn’t sure she could live up to.

She wrapped her arms around herself, her fingertips brushing the soft fabric at her elbows. The voices inside still rang in her head: smooth, practiced laughter, casual cruelty hidden behind polite smiles.

She could feel their eyes even now. Who is she? Why her? What does he see in someone like that?

Frida exhaled shakily. “I don’t belong here,” she whispered to no one.

“Escaping?”

The voice came from behind her—low, controlled, and immediately familiar.

Her breath caught.

She turned.

Alexander stood a few steps away, half in shadow, half in light. The glow from a lantern caught the sharp lines of his face, carving him into something unreal. He looked less like a man and more like a secret—too composed, too beautiful, too still.

The sight of him out here, away from the glittering crowd, was disarming. Inside, he’d been untouchable, a master of the world around him. Out here, he seemed human. But somehow that made him even more dangerous.

“I—” She faltered, clutching her arms a little tighter. “I needed air.”

His gaze didn’t leave her. “I thought as much.”

Frida forced a small, uncertain smile. “You have quite the world in there. It’s… a lot.”

“It usually is,” he said softly. “My world tends to fill every room.”

The quiet honesty of that almost made her smile. “At least you’re aware.”

His mouth curved faintly—not amusement, exactly, but acknowledgment. “Awareness doesn’t make it easier to bear.”

The wind stirred between them, carrying the faint sound of music from the open windows above.

Frida looked down, the moonlight catching on her pendant. “I don’t belong in it.”

Alexander’s footsteps sounded faintly against the gravel. He came closer, stopping a few feet away. “You’re wrong.”

She let out a short, incredulous laugh. “You saw the way they looked at me.”

“I did.” His tone was sharper now, his eyes darkening. “They look at everyone that way. It’s a sport for them—dissection disguised as interest.”

She glanced up, startled by the heat in his voice.

“They were born to hunt for weakness,” he continued quietly. “They confuse cruelty with power.”

Frida shook her head. “And yet you live among them.”

“Because I built what they feed on.” His answer came so easily, so coolly, that it made her pause. “The difference,” he added after a moment, “is that I never let them touch the parts of me that still matter.”

“And what parts are those?” she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

His eyes caught hers and held. “You’d be surprised.”

Her heart thudded hard. There was something about the way he said it—low, deliberate—that made the night feel smaller around them.

“You don’t know me,” she said quickly, as though distance could protect her. “You don’t know where I come from, what I’ve done, or what I’ve lost.”

“I know enough,” he said, his voice almost too soft. “I know you left a life behind to start again. That you built something out of your own hands. You rise before dawn, work until your arms ache, and still find joy in what you create. You feed people’s happiness one pastry at a time.”

Her breath caught.

“I know,” he went on, stepping closer, “that you’re not impressed by the things that impress everyone else. You don’t look at me and see power or headlines. You just… look.”

Frida’s throat tightened. “You talk like you’ve been watching me.”

“I have.” His honesty was disarming, his voice as steady as the night air. “Since the moment I walked into your bakery.”

She blinked, words failing her.

He tilted his head slightly. “You have no idea how rare that is, Frida. To be seen—not as a name, not as a transaction, but as a person.”

A flush crept up her neck. “Why me?”

His jaw flexed, and for the first time she saw something crack through his composure—a flicker of truth. “Because you don’t want anything from me.”

“That’s not true,” she said quickly, though her voice trembled. “I wanted you to like my pastries.”

He smiled then—barely. “You succeeded.”

Her laugh came out unsteady. “That’s not fair.”

“I never promised to play fair,” he said, and for a heartbeat, the air between them pulsed like something alive.

When his hand moved, she didn’t stop him. His fingers brushed hers lightly, tentative at first, as though he were asking permission. The touch sent a shock through her, electric and disorienting.

She should have stepped away. Every instinct told her to retreat. But she didn’t. Her hand stayed where it was, caught between his warmth and her uncertainty.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured.

Her laugh was barely a breath. “That’s easy for you to say.”

Something flickered across his face—something she’d never seen in him before. Not control. Not confidence. Fear.

“You think I’m not?” he asked quietly.

Frida blinked, startled. “You?”

He looked down briefly, then back at her. “I’ve faced rivals, governments, entire industries. But you…” He drew in a slow breath. “You terrify me.”

She froze. “Why?”

“Because you remind me what it feels like to want something real.”

The world seemed to still around them. The fountain, the music, the distant laughter—all faded until there was only the two of them, the fragile space between one heartbeat and the next.

Then the door burst open behind them.

Light spilled out, voices carried into the night. A group of guests stepped onto the terrace, champagne flutes glittering. A woman in diamonds cast a sharp glance toward them, her mouth curving into the faintest smirk.

Frida jerked her hand away as though burned. The sudden loss of his touch left her cold.

Alexander straightened, the steel sliding back into his posture. In an instant, the man she’d glimpsed—the one with warmth and fear and honesty—was gone, replaced by the mask the world expected.

“Go,” he said softly.

Frida’s chest tightened. “What?”

“Before they make you a story,” he murmured. “Before I let them see what they shouldn’t.”

She hesitated, every part of her screaming to stay—to ask what he meant, what he wanted. But her body moved before her mind caught up. She gathered her skirt and turned down the path, her heels whispering against the stone.

The further she walked, the quieter the laughter became. The lantern light faded until all that was left was moonlight and roses and the echo of his voice.

She didn’t look back.

Because if she did, she wasn’t sure she’d ever walk away.