Chapter 1: Bloom

 Aria

6 Years Later

Elena screams, startling me into a scream and we both scream.

It’s high-pitched and chaotic, echoing off the tiled walls of the bakery and startling a poor elderly man in line holding a croissant like it’s suddenly turned into a weapon.

“This bakery has a Michelin star, y’all!” Elena shouts, and for a moment, I just blink at her, unsure if I’ve heard right.

The room explodes into cheers. Applause rings out like confetti, bouncing between display cases and hanging plants. My staff starts yelling my name, whooping and whistling. Someone starts clapping in a rhythm like it’s a football match. My heart is racing. I can’t feel my legs.

“What?” I whisper, looking down at the notification Elena’s shoved into my hand. The words Michelin Guide and Joie Du Sucre are right there on the screen. Real. Unmistakable.

“Elena,” I breathe, “we did it. We actually—”

“We freaking did it!” she screams again, throwing her arms around me in a tackle-hug that nearly sends us crashing into a tower of raspberry tarts. “Your bakery has a freaking Michelin star!”

Someone—probably Hugo—yells, “SHE’S THAT GIRL,” and before I can get my bearings, I’m being lifted into the air by said man mountain of a sous chef.

“Hugo!” I laugh, my feet kicking in the air. “Put me down! The tarts!”

“You’re a star, Chef!” he grins as he twirls me around.

My cheeks ache from smiling. My heart feels like it’s going to burst. For a split second, the whole world smells like caramel and vanilla and fresh espresso, and I am the girl in the spotlight.

All around me, people I love—people I built this dream with—are clapping and hugging and beaming. Marta, who’s been with me since the beginning, dabs at her eyes like the proud kitchen mama she is. Jamal is already live on I*******m, shouting, “Tell ‘em you knew us before we were bougie!”

It’s pure joy. Raw, ridiculous, unforgettable joy.

“My mother is going to scream when I tell her,” I murmur, wide-eyed.

“She’s going to faint,” Elena laughs. “We have to celebrate. Trip! Club! No—wait—a sleepover with wine, trashy films, and too much ice cream.”

“Tonight?” I ask, laughing through the shock still fogging my brain.

“Yessssss!” she sings. “Why delay happiness? We’re young, we’re hot, and now we’re culinarily legendary! It’s giving ‘main character energy,’ babes.”

I smirk, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t know... maybe because you’re hosting that charity gala tonight?”

Her jaw drops. “Shit. I almost forgot.”

“Almost,” I say, giggling.

She fumbles with her oversized designer tote like it’s suddenly swallowed her entire life. “I gotta run! Need to glam up, grab my heels—meet you and Adrian there, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll clock out and change.”

As she practically somersaults out of the bakery, still buzzing with leftover excitement, I lean against the counter and let the moment settle into my bones.

A Michelin star. Eight years ago, I was a girl with shattered dreams and a suitcase full of rage. Now, I have a bakery that smells like heaven, a staff that feels like family, and a best friend who drags me to charity galas and celebrates every win like it’s her own.

Maybe this is what healing looks like. Slow. Sweet. Layered, like one of my mille-feuilles.

—

The apartment above the bakery is small but perfect—high ceilings, warm light, and the constant scent of sugar in the air. I rush up the narrow stairs, already halfway out of my apron, my phone buzzing nonstop with congratulatory texts.

I step in front of the mirror and let the quiet hit me.

The emerald green dress waits on its hanger like a promise. I run my fingers over the satin, remembering how long I debated buying it. “Save it for something special,” I’d said.

Tonight is special.

I slip into the dress and let it hug every curve. My caramel skin glows against the jewel tone, and when I pull my curls into an up do, leaving a few strands to frame my face, something shifts in the mirror.

I don’t look like the girl from Blackwood anymore.

My eyes—light brown and too honest—stare back at me with something steadier, something stronger. That girl ran. This one built a home.

There’s a honk outside. Adrian.

I slip on my heels and grab my clutch.

—

Adrian looks like he stepped out of a GQ cover shoot. Black tux, statement cufflinks, and a perfectly dishevelled wave to his hair. His signature sass is alive and well the second I slide into the passenger seat.

“Look at you, emerald goddess,” he drawls, whistling. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me a husband.”

I snort. “I live to please you.”

He grins. “Mission accomplished.”

As we drive through the glowing London streets, he gives me the latest gossip—who’s showing up tonight, who’s getting divorced, who’s pretending they’re not—but I barely register any of it.

I’m too full.

Full of pride. Full of disbelief. And just beneath that, full of something I don’t want to name. Something that aches a little.

The past has a way of sneaking up when your guard is down.

“You okay?” Adrian glances over, his voice softer now.

I nod. “Yeah. Just... everything’s changing. In a good way. It’s just a lot.”

He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You deserve every ounce of it.”

—

The gala is held at the Kensington Royal Hall, one of those places that practically drips old money. Crystal chandeliers hang like inverted galaxies above us, casting golden light over the navy and cream decor. Elena’s touch is everywhere—elegant, timeless, dazzling.

The air smells like roses, perfume, and ambition.

We make our entrance, and the cameras click. My name is whispered. People congratulate me on the star, on the success, on how “gracefully” I’ve risen. I smile, I pose, I sip champagne. It’s a dance I’ve learned well.

Adrian and I flirt our way through the crowd, dodging matchmaking mothers and snide remarks about “self-made” women from people whose trust funds do more work than they ever will.

Still, I float.

“I’m going to the ladies’,” I tell Adrian as we finish our second glass of champagne. He nods too engrossed in the discussion of the stock market he is having with Jake Blackwood –yes that Blackwood.

—

The hallway is quiet, a blessed reprieve from the chatter and clinking glasses. I take my time, letting the noise fade behind me as I freshen my lip gloss and adjust a stray curl in the mirror. I hold in a laugh as I listen to the girls in the bathroom discuss the men in the room down the hall. There are going to be in the bathroom for long because everyone who’s anyone showed up today.

When I step out, I nearly trip over a tiny boy in a tuxedo.

“Oh! Sweetie—are you okay?” I kneel instinctively, scanning his face. Big hazel eyes stare back at me, wide and scared. His bowtie is crooked. One shoe is untied.

“I—I can’t find my daddy,” he whispers.

“It’s alright, darling. You’re not in trouble. We’ll find him.” I offer a gentle smile. “What’s your name?”

“Theo.”

Before I can say more, a voice rings out behind me.

“Theo?! Theo!”

The boy lights up. “Daddy!”

And then I freeze.

Because I know that voice.

Eight years may have passed, but I’d recognize it anywhere.

That voice once promised me forever.

And then he appears.

Damien Von Adler.

Taller. Broader. His tux perfectly tailored. A shadow of stubble on his jaw. His once-boyish face now cut from marble, but those blue eyes are exactly the same.

He scoops up Theo, holding him close, murmuring reassurances. The scene should be touching—should be sweet—but all I can feel is the world tilting beneath me.

Because that is his son.

And this is the man who broke me.

His eyes meet mine.

And for a second, everything goes quiet.

The music. The champagne. The years between us. It all collapses into this moment.

“Aria,” he breathes, like my name is a prayer.

I can’t speak.

Theo tugs at his sleeve. “She found me, Daddy. She was nice.”

Damien’s mouth twists into something like a smile. His voice is soft. “Thank you.”

I nod, because I don’t trust my voice. My throat is thick with memory.

The way he once whispered “I love you” into my hair.

The way I threw my suitcase together with shaking hands.

The way I left without ever looking back.

And now, here he is. With a child.

A child who would’ve been born that same December.

My chest tightens.

I turn before I shatter. Walk past him. Past the echoes of who we were. Past the boy who once held my heart and the child he never told me about.

I don’t look back.

I’ve already done that once