One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The morning sun filtered through the thin curtains of the cramped two-bedroom apartment, golden light touching the chaos of Arielle Summers' world. Toys were scattered like landmines across the living room floor, and cereal bowls balanced precariously on the edge of the couch. The air buzzed with the clamor of eight distinct, demanding voices.
"Mama! She took my pink socks again!"
"He’s in the bathroom and I really have to pee!"
"Where’s my other shoe?"
Arielle, her dark hair hastily twisted into a bun, stood barefoot in the kitchen, frantically flipping pancakes while trying to read the text message blinking on her cracked phone screen. It was from her manager, typed with her usual harsh tone:
"You’re already late. If you’re not here in 30, don’t bother showing up at all."
Her heart clenched. The clock above the fridge read 7:16 AM. She should’ve been out the door ten minutes ago.
"Alright, team!" she called out, forcing a cheeriness she didn’t feel. "Operation Breakfast Blitz, let’s go, go, go!"
Eight sets of feet scrambled across the floor. Arielle bent to help little Zoey with her tangled curls, wiped jam off Eli’s cheek, and found Tyler’s missing shoe inside the cereal box. Her body ached from the lack of sleep—four hours, tops—and her mind was already bracing for the double shift ahead.
She kissed each of their foreheads as she herded them into the neighboring apartment, where Mrs. Rosita—a retired nurse and honorary grandmother—watched them during the day. Arielle was forever in the woman’s debt.
"You’re an angel," she whispered to Rosita, handing over the baby bag and a baggie full of hastily folded bills.
"You’re their angel, mija," Rosita replied, eyes warm. "Now go—don’t let that boss of yours breathe fire today."
Arielle sprinted out the building in scuffed sneakers, her waitress uniform clinging to her in the humid city air. The bus she needed was just turning the corner.
"No, no, no!" she yelled, leaping into the street with a desperation only single mothers knew. The bus slowed. She banged the door with her palm, breathless. The driver frowned, but let her on.
She slumped into a seat, ignoring the judgmental looks. Her mind drifted as the city blurred by—the failed relationships, the sleepless nights, the bills overdue. But more than that, the night she never forgot. The one that changed everything.
The night of passion in a Vegas hotel suite, when she'd thrown caution to the wind. No names, no strings, just hunger and heat. And from it? Her children. All eight of them. Her miracles.
She’d never seen him again. She hadn’t even tried. What could she say?
"Hey, remember me? I’m the woman from that night. Surprise! I had eight of your kids."
She snorted to herself. Impossible.
The bus screeched to a halt. She ran the last two blocks to the diner, pushing through the back door just as her manager, Carol, raised her clipboard.
"Thirty-two minutes late," Carol snapped. "You’re on thin ice, Arielle. Customers don’t wait for broken clocks."
"Understood. I’m sorry. Won’t happen again."
"You said that last time."
Arielle didn’t argue. She tied her apron, plastered on a smile, and stepped into the breakfast rush. Table 3 needed coffee. Table 5 was complaining about cold eggs. Table 7—was that man actually snapping his fingers at her?
Her stomach roiled with quiet fury. But she bit her tongue, smiled sweetly, and refilled his cup. She needed this job. No matter how demeaning.
The hours dragged. Her feet burned. Her smile became a grimace. The tips were terrible today—no one appreciated service anymore. She spilled a soda on a teenager’s lap. Carol hissed threats about writing her up.
By 3 p.m., Arielle’s body begged for rest. But her shift wasn’t over.
Then the door chimed.
A group of men in sleek suits walked in, their presence like a wave of cold power. Arielle barely glanced up—until one of them caught her eye.
He was tall, sharply dressed, with a chiseled jaw and piercing silver-gray eyes that cut through the room. Her stomach twisted. He looked… familiar. Too familiar.
No. It couldn’t be.
She ducked her head, pretending to clean the counter.
"Excuse me," he said, his voice sending a tremor down her spine. "Can we get a table for four?"
Arielle looked up, their eyes met—and time collapsed.
Him.
Her one-night mystery.
Damien Kingston.
Billionaire. CEO. The man who unknowingly fathered her children.
And he didn’t recognize her.
Her hands trembled as she handed him a menu.
"Of course, sir. Right this way."
She prayed he wouldn’t see the resemblance.
She prayed harder that he would never, ever find out.
But fate, as always, had other plans.
And the clock was ticking.