The Billionaire’s Curvy Blossom

CHAPTER 12

(Alexander’s POV)

Sleep didn’t come.

I’d turned off the lights hours ago, but by three a.m. I was still staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between each shallow breath. The penthouse was silent, the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful but suffocating. Outside, the city pulsed with restless life—sirens wailing somewhere far below, tires whispering over wet asphalt—but none of it touched me.

All I could think of was her.

Frida.

The way she had looked that night in the garden—unsure, but unafraid. The sound of her voice when she’d said my name, hesitant, like she wasn’t sure she should. Every detail of her lingered in my mind: her hands dusted with flour, her eyes steady even when her pulse betrayed her.

I told myself to stop. To let her go. That I had no business thinking about her. A man like me didn’t think about women like her.

And yet, when the first gray light touched the skyline, I was still awake—heart beating too fast, already waiting for a day I knew would undo me.

By seven, I was in the office.

The building’s glass walls reflected the sunrise in sharp, unforgiving lines. I had built this place to be untouchable: all steel, silence, and precision. But today it felt like a cage.

Emma, my assistant, followed me in, her usual poise tempered by caution. “The briefing papers, Mr. Knight. The board meets at nine.”

I nodded without looking up. “Leave them.”

She hesitated. “Would you like coffee?”

“Yes.”

When she left, I pressed my thumb against the folder’s edge until it hurt. The sting was grounding—real, at least. Pain, I could quantify. This… ache that defied reason, that blurred the line between desire and madness—that I didn’t understand.

When the board meeting began, I buried myself in numbers. Market growth. Projections. Margins. The words rolled through the room in steady, practiced tones. But behind every syllable, I saw her hands shaping dough. Heard the faint chime of a bakery door.

I had never been so distracted in my life.

“Mr. Knight?” one of the directors prompted. “Your opinion on the merger timeline?”

Half a dozen faces waited. In the polished table’s reflection, I saw only my own mask staring back—composed, calculating, a man in control.

“Proceed,” I said.

They nodded and continued, none the wiser. Only Emma’s gaze flicked toward me, faintly uneasy. She knew something was wrong, though she would never ask.

When the meeting ended, I stayed seated. The others filed out, their footsteps fading down the hall. The silence that followed was thick and airless. My temples ached.

By late afternoon, the façade began to crack. I signed papers I didn’t read, nodded through conversations I didn’t hear. My mind drifted to the same place again and again—her bakery, the glow of warm light on her skin, the scent of sugar and bread and peace.

I checked my phone too often, each time without reason. There was nothing there. There never was. Still, I couldn’t stop.

When Emma stopped at the door that evening, she hesitated. “Goodnight, sir. Try to rest.”

Rest. The word almost made me laugh.

I stayed long after the floor had emptied. The city sank into dusk, and the skyline burned gold before the light bled out completely. Below, the windows of a thousand lives flickered on—families, laughter, warmth.

All the things I had traded for power.

I’d told myself for years that control was freedom. That solitude was strength. But now, standing there, surrounded by everything I’d built, I felt the sharp edge of the truth.

None of it mattered.

Because somewhere in that endless sprawl of lights, she existed. And the world felt unbearably small without her in it.

When I finally went home, the penthouse was colder than usual. I poured a drink and left it untouched, the amber liquid catching the city’s reflection. I stood before the window, tracing the rim of the glass with one finger.

I could almost see her. Not truly—but in my mind, she was there. Moving through her bakery, wiping flour from her hands, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The faint sound of her laughter blurred into the hum of the city below.

I set the glass down. My reflection wavered in the darkened pane.

Every part of me said to stop. To forget. To let her keep her quiet, ordinary life untouched by what I was.

But reason no longer had any power.

I closed my eyes and breathed in slowly. For a moment, I could almost feel her near—the steadiness she carried even in fear, the calm that made something inside me unclench.

I wanted that calm.

I wanted her.

The thought landed with the weight of a confession.

I turned from the window and crossed the room. My footsteps echoed on the marble—too loud, too final. The keys waited on the counter where I’d left them, catching the light. I stared at them for a long time, the cool metal a line between restraint and surrender.

Was I really doing this?

I didn’t plan. I didn’t weigh risks or headlines or damage control. I had built an empire on calculation—but this wasn’t about logic anymore. This was instinct. Hunger. The quiet, undeniable pull of something I couldn’t name.

I picked up the keys.

For one breathless moment, I stood still—caught between everything I had and everything I suddenly wanted. Then I turned off the lights.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft hiss, and my reflection stared back at me—suit immaculate, expression calm. But inside, something fundamental had shifted.

As the elevator descended, the city rose up around me, glittering like a thousand tiny promises.

I didn’t know what I would say when I saw her. I didn’t know if she’d even want to see me.

But for the first time in my life, not knowing felt right.

Because I was done fighting it.

I was going to her.