One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 120: Chapter 120

The sterile scent of antiseptic hung heavily in the hospital room, intermingling with the faint trace of jasmine from the flowers someone had left on the windowsill. Machines beeped steadily, their rhythm a lullaby of life as the morning light filtered through the half-drawn curtains. The world outside continued in oblivion—cars humming, birds chirping—but within these four walls, time had slowed to a painful crawl.
Arielle stirred.
Her eyelids fluttered with effort, lashes damp with sweat, and the harsh fluorescent lights overhead blurred into streaks of white. Her body felt foreign—aching, drained, broken in places she hadn’t known could hurt. But she was breathing. She was alive. And the very act of being conscious felt like a rebellion against the agony that had tried to consume her.
She opened her mouth to speak, but her lips were parched, cracked from hours of unconsciousness. The room around her slowly sharpened, the blur clearing into forms—shadows she recognized not just with her eyes, but with her soul.
Damien.
He was seated beside her, face buried in his hands, broad shoulders shaking with barely contained emotion. His hair was disheveled, the collar of his shirt stained with tears or perhaps blood—she couldn’t be sure. But he was there. And when he finally lifted his gaze and met hers, the storm in his eyes turned into a flood of relief.
"Ari... Arielle?" His voice cracked like a boy’s, raw and desperate.
Her fingers twitched, seeking his hand. It took all her strength, but she managed it. Damien clasped her hand instantly, pressing it to his lips. His breath was uneven, trembling against her skin.
“You came back to me,” he whispered. “You came back.”
Before she could respond, another voice broke the spell.
“Mama?”
It was their eldest son, standing just inside the doorway. His small hands clutched a worn stuffed giraffe, and his eyes were wide with a blend of fear and hope far too adult for his young age. Behind him, Damien’s mother guided him gently forward, tears glistening in her eyes.
Arielle tried to smile. It came out broken, more a wince than anything else, but it was enough. Her son ran to the bed, clambering up carefully, and laid his head on her arm as though afraid she might vanish again if he blinked.
“I missed you,” he whispered.
“I missed you too, baby,” she rasped, her voice hoarse and dry.
The doctor entered then, clipboard in hand, flanked by two nurses. The room went still, every breath held in anticipation. Damien straightened, his body taut like a bowstring.
“How is she?”
The doctor looked at Arielle, then at Damien. “She’s stable now. The surgery was successful, but… there are complications.”
Damien flinched.
Arielle tried to sit up but groaned. The nurse gently helped elevate the bed instead. The doctor walked closer.
“Your body suffered significant trauma during the delivery. Your uterus ruptured. We were able to stop the bleeding, but there’s extensive scar tissue. We’ll monitor it closely, but…” He hesitated.
“But what?” Damien’s voice was sharp.
“She may not be able to carry another pregnancy safely.”
The words sliced through the air like a guillotine.
Arielle froze. Her heart squeezed painfully. A part of her had suspected it—felt it deep in her bones—but hearing it aloud made it real.
Damien turned to her, eyes searching. “We have our babies. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”
She nodded, tears slipping down her temples into her hair.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Also… there’s something else. Something we didn’t expect. It showed up in your bloodwork.”
Damien stood. “What is it?”
“I think we should talk in private,” the doctor said, glancing at Arielle.
“No.” Arielle’s voice was stronger now. “Tell us.”
The doctor hesitated, then finally said, “There’s an anomaly in your hormone levels. A rare condition, possibly autoimmune, that may have been triggered by the trauma. It’s… unusual. We’ve sent samples for further testing. We’ll know more in a few days.”
Arielle nodded, her mind already spinning. But before she could ask more, her baby began to cry from the bassinet beside her bed.
Damien reached over and lifted their newborn daughter into his arms with practiced ease. She quieted instantly in his embrace.
Arielle watched them, her heart aching and swelling at once. The storm had nearly taken everything—but here they were. Alive. Together.
The room emptied gradually, leaving just the three of them.
Damien placed the baby in Arielle’s arms and then climbed onto the bed beside her. They lay there, tangled in wires and IV tubes, but also in something far stronger—love.
“I thought I lost you,” he whispered against her hair.
“I thought I lost myself,” she whispered back.
And there, in the quiet aftermath of chaos, they clung to each other, two broken halves slowly beginning to heal.
Later that evening, long after the last nurse had done her rounds and the corridor lights dimmed to a sleepy glow, Arielle lay awake, unable to sleep. The soft weight of her baby against her chest grounded her, but her thoughts kept drifting. Back to the surgery. To the pain. To the whispering fear that lingered under her ribs.
A knock at the door startled her. Damien was asleep in the recliner by the window, arms crossed, head tilted at an awkward angle. The door opened quietly.
It was her sister.
“Sophia,” Arielle breathed.
Sophia rushed in and wrapped her arms around her carefully. “You scared the hell out of me.”
They wept in silence, the kind of tears that cleanse. That make room for new breath. New strength.
“How bad was it?” Arielle asked finally.
Sophia hesitated. “They weren’t sure you’d make it. Damien wouldn’t leave your side. Not even for a second. He practically dared the surgeons to fail.”
Arielle closed her eyes, letting the tears slip free. “I don’t feel whole,” she admitted. “Something inside me feels… empty.”
“You nearly died. Give yourself time to feel again. The storm passed. But you’re still standing.”
They sat together quietly until the baby stirred. Sophia took her niece gently while Arielle reached for her journal from the bedside drawer.
A page fluttered open.
It was blank—she had meant to fill it during pregnancy.
With trembling fingers, she wrote:
I survived. But survival isn’t the same as living. Not yet. But I will.
Damien stirred awake to find Arielle writing, hair messy, face bare, eyes glassy—but breathing. Alive. He moved to her side, kissed her temple.
She leaned into him, and for a long moment, they didn’t need words.
Outside, the storm was over.
Inside, healing had just begun.
The next morning, sunlight stretched softly across the room. A nurse brought in the older children one by one, their faces tentative until they saw their mother awake and smiling faintly. Arielle reached for them, arms shaking but open.
Her middle child ran to her first, pressing kisses to her cheeks. “You’re warm again, Mama.”
Her eldest laid a protective hand on her shoulder, as if to anchor her in place.
Even the toddler climbed up to the edge of the bed, whispering, “No more sleep-sleep, Mama?”
Arielle let herself cry.
Not from fear. Not from weakness. But from love so overwhelming, it cracked something open.
Damien stood beside them, silent. Watching. Remembering.
FLASHBACK – Damien’s POV
He had sat frozen in the waiting room, blood staining his sleeves. A nurse had tried to clean him up, but he barely registered her.
“Why is it taking so long?” he had barked at every clock tick.
When the doctor emerged, pale and serious, Damien thought he was about to die himself.
“She lost too much blood. But we’re trying. We’re trying everything.”
He remembered the taste of metal in his mouth—his own bitten tongue.
In that moment, he made promises to every god he didn’t believe in.
If she lived… he’d be better. Softer. Stronger. Whatever she needed.
When they told him she made it… Damien had sunk to his knees and wept.
Now, watching her smile weakly at their children, those promises pulsed inside him like a second heartbeat.
A nurse returned, quietly whispering something about the test results from the bloodwork being delayed. The samples had been sent to a specialized lab—out of state.
Damien’s jaw clenched.
“What aren’t they saying?” he murmured to himself.
And somewhere deep in his gut, he knew—the storm wasn’t truly over.
Not yet.