One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 11: Chapter 11

Damien stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows in his office, watching the city breathe beneath him. Tall buildings bathed in morning sunlight, streets buzzing with ambition. But his mind wasn’t on the city. It was on the woman sitting just outside his door.
Arielle Summers.
The name meant nothing to him. But the presence—her voice, her posture, her guarded eyes—tugged at something that did. Something old. Something buried beneath seven years of power, pressure, and a parade of forgettable faces.
He turned back to his desk.
The enhanced background check hadn’t yielded much more. Previous employers. Rental history. One emergency contact—an older woman named Rosita Vega. No known relatives. No father listed for the children. No marriage records. No lawsuits. No scandals.
But there were gaps. Small omissions. Lines too neat, too perfectly spaced.
He didn’t like it.
And he especially didn’t like that every time she looked at him, something in him stirred. Not desire. Not yet.
Memory.
Arielle felt the shift before it was visible. Damien had grown quieter, but more focused. His instructions were crisper, his emails shorter. He rarely asked questions—but his silences lingered longer, weighted with scrutiny.
She could sense his eyes on her sometimes, even when her back was turned. It wasn’t inappropriate. Not quite.
But it was intense.
And dangerous.
“Ms. Summers,” he called one afternoon. “Inside.”
She entered his office, tablet in hand.
“I need you to reschedule Friday’s meeting with Pierce Global to Monday. Book the boardroom for 9 a.m. And find me the call logs from this quarter’s vendor partners.”
“Of course.”
She turned to leave.
“Arielle.”
She froze. He rarely used her first name.
When she turned, his expression was unreadable.
“You’ve done well so far,” he said. “Adapted quickly.”
“Thank you.”
“But I can’t shake the feeling I know you.”
A pause.
“I’ve been trying to place it.”
She forced a smile. “Maybe from the job fair?”
“No. Earlier than that.”
Her breath hitched.
“I used to travel a lot. Business, parties, conferences. I remember faces. Yours is familiar.”
She looked away. “I worked as a waitress. Maybe we crossed paths.”
“Where?”
She gave a name. A real place. One he could confirm, if he chose.
He nodded slowly, but the spark in his eyes didn’t dim.
“You were blonde then,” he murmured.
Arielle’s blood ran cold.
He remembered.
Not her name. Not the night. But the face.
“I was,” she said, voice tight.
He studied her for a second more. Then returned to his desk.
“You’re dismissed.”
She turned and walked out with careful steps, her head high even as her knees shook.
In her seat, she exhaled slowly.
He was remembering.
Piece by piece.
She had bought time—but not much.
And time, she knew, was running out.