The Girl Who Loved to Bake

Chapter 1: The Girl In The Tower

The air in the tower was thick with the scent of lavender and dust, it was a constant reminder of the life I’d lost. It wasn’t the lavender itself that was oppressive, but the memory it evoked: a garden, bursting with vibrant colors, the scent of honeysuckle and jasmine swirling in the summer air, my mother’s gentle hand guiding mine as we picked fragrant blooms. Now, the scent clung to the dusty air, a mocking echo of a life stolen.

Sunlight, filtered through the grimy windows, cast long, skeletal shadows across the stone floor. It was a place of silence, of solitude, of endless echoing emptiness. The tower was a prison, a cold, gray stone monument to my misfortune.

I was a prisoner here.

Locked away by a man whose face I couldn’t even remember.

He had taken everything from me: my freedom, my family, my laughter. I had been locked away for years, the reason a blur of anger and fear.

It was a cruel, calculated act, a twisted game of power.

But I had survived.

I had learned to find solace in the smallest things: the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the fragrant steam rising from a pot of stew, and the warmth of the kitchen as I baked bread. It was a small comfort in this desolate existence. It was a reminder that even in this dark place, I could create something beautiful, something nourishing.

My strength, however, was a facade.

Beneath the surface, I was crumbling, a fragile vase held together by a thin layer of hope.

I had always been a solitary soul, finding comfort in my own company. My parents had been kind, but their deaths in a carriage accident when I was young left me with a deep-seated fear of relying on anyone.

I had learned to be strong, to carry my burdens alone. And then he arrived, the White Knight, a beacon of light in the darkness. He rescued me from the tower, his kindness a balm to my wounded heart. I was grateful, but also wary. I had learned to trust no one, to expect only pain.

He was everything I had ever dreamed of: strong, handsome, kind.

He was also a knight, a protector, a savior.

And he saw me as someone to protect, someone to save.

He didn’t see the strength within me, the resilience that had kept me alive all these years.

And I was just a damsel in distress, a fragile bird he had rescued from a cage.