Lucien Van Alstyne returned to the bakery every Friday.
At first, the townspeople said it was a phase. Then they said it was a scandal. And finally, they said nothing at all—because it became clear to everyone in Roselake:
Lucien Van Alstyne was smitten with the baker's daughter.
But Maya still couldn't understand it.
Why her?
She was quiet, plain, barely able to hold a conversation without stammering. She spent her days kneading dough and her nights caring for her aging grandmother. She wasn't glamorous like the women who graced Lucien's social circles.
And yet, he kept coming back—with warmth in his voice, softness in his eyes, and questions that made her feel like she mattered.
"Do you ever dream of leaving Roselake?" he asked one evening, as they sat on the wooden steps behind the bakery, sharing a cherry tart.
Maya hesitated. "Sometimes. When I was younger, I wanted to see the mountains. Or Paris. But now... I don't know. I think I'm needed here."
Lucien was silent for a moment.
"You always put others first," he said quietly. "Even when no one notices."
She smiled, brushing a crumb from her skirt. "It's easier that way."
"But you deserve more than easy."
The way he said it made her heart stutter.
After that evening, Lucien became more than a customer.
He helped her grandmother carry her groceries. He offered to repaint the bakery's faded sign. He even brought her books—worn, leather-bound stories of love, strength, and women who found their voices.
One night, he left a single white camellia in the bakery's mailbox.
No note. No explanation.
Just the flower—pure, elegant, and meaningful.
Maya looked it up.
Admiration. Faithfulness. Perfected beauty.
She pressed it between the pages of her journal.
Spring arrived early that year.
The bakery thrived, filled with laughter and warmth and customers who suddenly remembered Maya's name.
"You've changed," her father said one morning, eyeing her with curiosity as she added rosewater to the almond pastries.
"Have I?" she asked.
He nodded. "You glow."
It wasn't makeup. It wasn't fashion.
It was the feeling of being seen.
But not everyone was pleased.
At the Roselake Charity Gala, held in the city's grandest ballroom, whispers followed her like perfume.
"Is that the bakery girl?"
"She's with Lucien?"
"What's he even see in her?"
Maya stood frozen in a soft lavender gown—borrowed from her cousin, a size too big—trying not to let the murmurs pierce her.
Lucien appeared beside her, wearing his usual black. He didn't flinch at the stares. Instead, he laced his fingers with hers, pulling her into the spotlight without fear.
"You belong here," he said under his breath, his eyes holding hers.
She wanted to believe him. She really did.
But as they danced, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was a mistake in his perfect world—a smudge on a clean painting.
After the gala, she pulled away.
Just slightly.
She smiled less, spoke less, delivered bread instead of letting him visit.
Lucien noticed.
One day, he came into the bakery and didn't ask for pastries.
He asked for the truth.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked softly.
"No," she whispered, avoiding his gaze.
"Then why are you hiding from me?"
Maya looked up at him, heart heavy. "Because I don't fit. Not with you. Not in your world."
Lucien stepped closer, voice low and steady. "You don't fit because you weren't meant to blend in, Maya. You're meant to change the world around you. Just like you've changed mine."
She blinked, startled.
"I was cold. Closed off. Until you walked into my home with your flour-covered hands and changed everything." He paused, then added, "Let me stay in your world, Maya. Not the other way around."
That night, she opened her journal.
Pressed between the pages, the white camellia was still there.
And for the first time, she allowed herself to believe she was more than a background character.
She was the heart of her own story.