The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 17

(Frida’s POV)

The last customer left over an hour ago, and the bakery has settled into that soft hush that follows a long day. The ovens are cooling, the scent of sugar and butter still clinging to the air like a memory that refuses to fade. I move through the space slowly, methodically—wiping down the counters, sweeping up the fine trail of flour that always seems to find its way into the corners.

Usually, this is my favorite part of the day.

There’s comfort in the rhythm of closing—the clean slate it promises. The quiet that feels earned.

But tonight, the quiet feels different. It hums with something unspoken. Something alive.

Every movement feels slower, my thoughts drifting where they shouldn’t. No matter how I try to focus on the cloth in my hand, on the soft scrape of wood against tile, my mind keeps returning to him.

Alexander.

It’s ridiculous, really. I hardly know him. Two conversations. A handful of looks. And yet, his presence lingers like the faintest scent of coffee on my skin.

I pause by the glass display and catch my reflection in the faint glow of the overhead lights. My face looks the same—tired but content. But behind my own eyes, there’s something I don’t quite recognize.

His gaze flashes through my mind again: calm, steady, and yet uncertain in the smallest way, as if he was unaccustomed to feeling unsure. There was restraint in him—discipline woven into every breath—but beneath it, something else. Something fragile.

The clock on the wall ticks past six.

I turn the chairs onto the tables, one by one. The scrape of wood fills the silence. My hands are steady; my pulse isn’t.

Every small sound—the broom, the lock on the cash drawer, the soft hum of the refrigerator—seems sharper, more present, as though the world itself is holding its breath.

By the time I dim the lights, the bakery feels smaller, almost intimate. Shadows stretch across the tiled floor, and the last gold of daylight paints the glass jars on the shelves. I stand at the front window for a while, staring out at the dusky street. A couple passes by, laughing, their fingers entwined. The sound fades quickly, but it leaves something behind—an ache I can’t quite name.

I wonder what he’s doing right now.

Maybe he’s home already, in that sleek apartment high above the city, where everything is quiet and nothing is out of place. I imagine him standing by a window like this, coffee in hand, the skyline at his back. I imagine the way he looked when he left yesterday—composed, yes, but there’d been something softer in his eyes. As though he’d taken a piece of this place with him.

The thought makes me smile before I can stop it. Then, quietly, I sigh.

When I finally turn the sign to closed and lock the door, I linger a moment longer, staring into the dim interior. The warmth of the ovens is fading; the scent of bread will vanish by morning. But tonight, instead of emptiness, I feel anticipation—like the world is holding a secret it hasn’t told me yet.

The air outside is cool against my skin. I pull my coat tighter and start walking home. The streetlights hum softly, and puddles from the afternoon rain shimmer beneath them. My footsteps echo down the quiet street, slow and even.

It’s a short walk, but tonight it stretches, time unfolding differently. The city feels more alive—each sound sharper, each breath deeper. The florist’s shop is closed, its window dark except for a single vase of lilies catching the streetlight. The bookstore next door still glows faintly, one lamp left burning. Familiar, ordinary places. They’ve always made me feel safe. But tonight, safety feels smaller than it used to.

I keep walking. The night smells faintly of rain and woodsmoke. My thoughts drift to him again—how strange he looked, standing in the warmth of my bakery, surrounded by cinnamon and sugar, yet somehow belonging there more than he should have.

When he smiled—really smiled—it had been brief, unguarded, and it had undone something in me I didn’t know was locked.

That’s what lingers. That small, unspoken recognition.

When I reach my apartment, I climb the stairs slowly. The old wood creaks beneath my feet; the hallway smells faintly of paint and dust. I unlock the door and step inside.

It’s small, but it’s mine. Warm. Safe. The pale walls glow softly in the low light. A few plants stretch toward the window. The shelves are cluttered with cookbooks and mismatched mugs. A life built from simple things.

I hang my coat, light a candle on the table, and watch the flame flicker to life. The scent of vanilla fills the air. It’s such a small ritual, but it feels grounding—something that reminds me who I am when the day ends.

I pour myself tea and settle by the window. Outside, the street is quiet. The lamplight pools on the wet pavement. A lone car passes, its headlights sweeping briefly across the glass.

I cup my hands around the mug, absorbing its warmth.

And then, without meaning to, I remember.

His voice—low, deliberate, careful with silence. The way his hand brushed mine when he passed me his cup. The look in his eyes when he said I’m glad I came.

That moment had felt small at the time. But now, in the stillness, it feels enormous.

It isn’t just attraction. It’s not infatuation either. It’s something quieter—an undercurrent. A feeling that hums beneath the surface, fragile but persistent.

Maybe it’s foolish. Maybe it’s just the echo of something I’ve been missing.

But it feels real.

I take a sip of tea that’s already cooling. My gaze lingers on the candle flame, the slow dance of it.

He’d carried himself like someone used to being in control of everything around him. Yet there were moments—fleeting, but there—when that control slipped. When I saw something raw in him, something almost lost.

That’s the image I can’t shake.

I rest my forehead lightly against the cool glass of the window. The city stretches out in front of me—quiet, endless, full of stories I’ll never know. Somewhere out there, maybe not far, he’s looking out at the same skyline.

The idea that he might be thinking of me too—it shouldn’t matter as much as it does. But it does.

The candle flickers beside me, and I let the silence settle deeper.

I’ve spent so long building a life that’s steady, predictable, safe. I told myself that was enough. That wanting more was dangerous. But tonight, the safety feels smaller. My world feels… bigger. Wider.

I smile, quietly, to no one but myself. I don’t know what this is, or if it will last beyond this fragile, uncertain beginning. But for the first time in a long while, I don’t feel afraid of not knowing.

The tea has gone cold. I set the cup aside and blow out the candle. Smoke curls upward, delicate and slow. The faint scent of vanilla lingers.

“Maybe tomorrow will surprise me again,” I whisper.

The words are soft, half a prayer, half a promise.

I pull the blanket over my shoulders, watching the lights blur through the window. My heart beats slow, steady, alive.

And for the first time in years, I don’t fall asleep thinking about what I’ve lost—

but about what I might find.