The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 11

(Frida’s POV)

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was white.

Morning light spilled softly through the thin curtains, touching everything it could reach—the wooden floor, the chipped table by the window, the bouquet waiting there like a secret she hadn’t decided how to keep.

The roses glowed in the early light, their petals pale and perfect, the faintest blush of ivory at their hearts. For a long moment, Frida didn’t move. She only stared, her breath quiet in the stillness.

She should have felt unsettled. Violated, even. A reminder that he could step into her world whenever he wished, that the boundary she’d tried so hard to draw between them was nothing more than paper.

But her first thought wasn’t fear.

It was: They’re beautiful.

The words escaped her before she could stop them, a whisper swallowed by the light.

She sat up slowly, the sheets sliding around her legs. The floor was cool beneath her bare feet as she crossed the small space to the table. The roses greeted her with their soft fragrance—clean, faintly sweet, nothing like the heavy perfumes she’d smelled on the women at the dinner.

Frida reached out, brushing a fingertip over one petal. Silken. Alive.

A smile tugged at her lips—uninvited, fragile, and fleeting.

Then she caught herself and pulled back, heart pounding.

This was foolish. Dangerous. He had sent them without asking. A message wrapped in beauty, but a message nonetheless. She should throw them away—take them down to the dumpster behind the bakery and forget they ever existed.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the vase. But she couldn’t do it.

Instead, she moved them to the kitchen counter, where the sunlight could find them. They looked strangely at home against the worn wood and chipped tiles—out of place and yet, somehow, exactly right.

As if they belonged here.

As if he belonged here.

Frida shook the thought away, pressing her lips together.

By the time she reached the bakery an hour later, she had convinced herself she was fine. She’d even rehearsed excuses in her head. If Molly asked, she’d laugh it off. If a customer noticed, she’d shrug. Just flowers, nothing more.

But she hadn’t been able to leave them behind.

Wrapped carefully in paper, the bouquet came with her—tucked under her arm like something fragile, something she couldn’t bear to lose. She placed them in the back room, out of sight, though she knew they were there. Their quiet presence steadied her as she tied on her apron and began the day’s prep.

The bell above the door jingled earlier than usual.

Molly breezed in, cheeks pink from the morning air, curls bouncing under her knit cap. “Morning! I brought the new cocoa shipment. Thought we could try it in the brownies—”

Her voice stopped mid-sentence. Her gaze had landed on the roses.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, dropping her bag onto a chair. “What do we have here?”

Frida felt heat climb up her neck. “They’re just flowers.”

“Just flowers?” Molly arched a brow, circling the bouquet like a detective. “These aren’t grocery-store daisies, sweetheart. These are serious flowers. Imported, expensive, and extremely intentional.” She leaned closer, sniffing dramatically. “Mmm. Smells like money.”

Frida rolled her eyes, but her hands twisted the dish towel too tightly. “I didn’t ask for them.”

“No,” Molly said softly, her teasing tone fading. “But we both know who sent them.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to taste.

Frida turned away, busying herself with lining baking trays, her movements sharper than necessary. “It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly. “I’m not… I don’t want anything from him.”

“Then why did you bring them here?” Molly asked, voice gentle but pointed.

Frida froze.

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Finally, she murmured, “They’re… pretty.”

Molly sighed, shaking her head. “Pretty can be dangerous, Frida. Just… be careful, okay?”

“I am careful.”

“Mm-hmm,” Molly said, but she let it go, turning back to her work.

The morning rush began soon after, and the bakery filled with noise and motion—steam hissing from the espresso machine, laughter, the smell of butter and sugar. For a while, Frida lost herself in the rhythm of it all.

But she kept glancing toward the back room. Toward the roses.

They waited there, silent and steady, like a heartbeat she couldn’t ignore.

By midday, when the crowd thinned, she found herself carrying them out front. She set them on the counter under the pretense of brightening the space. But when the elderly couple who came every Thursday admired them, when a teenager asked if they were for sale, when Molly gave her that knowing smirk—Frida’s chest tightened with something dangerously close to pride.

They weren’t for sale.

They weren’t for anyone else.

They were hers.

And though she told herself again and again that she should be angry at Alexander’s intrusion, she wasn’t. Not really.

Because the flowers didn’t feel like control.

They felt like a whisper.

A question left on her doorstep.

And deep down, she knew the answer she wanted to give.

The rest of the day passed in fragments. She smiled when she needed to. She worked. She laughed at Molly’s jokes. But every time she passed the counter, her hand brushed the ribbon. Every time the scent of roses drifted through the sugar and cinnamon, warmth bloomed in her chest.

When the last customer left and Molly waved goodnight, the bakery fell silent again. Frida lingered long after closing—wiping already spotless counters, resetting trays, anything to avoid the ache of quiet.

But the scent of roses clung to the air, soft and persistent.

Finally, she gave in. She wrapped the bouquet carefully once more and carried it home through the cooling streets. The paper crinkled softly against her chest, the city lights flickering like distant stars.

Her apartment was dim when she entered. She set the roses back on the table beside her bed, where the morning light had first found them.

Their pale petals glowed faintly in the dark, luminous and fragile.

Frida sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in her lap.

“This is foolish,” she whispered to the silence. “Dangerous.”

But she didn’t move them.

Instead, she slid beneath the covers, turning toward the flowers as though they could keep the night away.

The faint scent of roses filled the air—soft, comforting, impossibly alive. Her eyes drifted shut, and for the first time in years, her dreams came easily.

Because even if she would never say it aloud, part of her already knew the truth.

She cherished the flowers.

She cherished the man who had sent them.

And that terrified her more than anything else.