One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 121: Chapter 121

The hush of dawn clung to the hospital corridor as Damien stepped out of Arielle’s room, the quiet tap of his shoes on linoleum echoing down the sterile hallway. He needed a moment to breathe, to think. He had spent the night cradling their daughter and watching Arielle sleep, listening to the fluttering cadence of the monitors that tethered her to the fragile thread of life.
But inside that silence, questions screamed.
Her body had been through hell. The ruptured uterus. The blood loss. The hormone anomalies. And now, a second doctor—this one from the internal medicine unit—had called for a consult. They were waiting for lab results from a rare autoimmune panel. The attending physician had warned Damien gently: if this rare condition was confirmed, Arielle would have to face a lifetime of managing her health differently.
He leaned against the cool wall and raked a hand through his hair.
“I just got her back,” he murmured under his breath.
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts. “You look like hell.”
It was Gabriel, Damien’s younger brother, holding two cups of hospital coffee. He offered one without ceremony.
Damien took it, grateful. “That’s because I’ve been there.”
Gabriel leaned beside him. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s alive,” Damien said quietly. “But they don’t know if her body will recover the way it should. And that bloodwork…”
Gabriel waited, patient.
Damien shook his head. “She’s strong, but I don’t know if she’s ready to hear everything yet.”
“She’s tougher than both of us combined.”
Damien gave a humorless chuckle. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of. She’ll push too hard. She’ll pretend she’s fine when she’s not.”
As if summoned, Damien’s phone buzzed with a message: Arielle is awake and asking for you.
He bolted.
Arielle sat propped up in the hospital bed, her arms full of baby. A nurse adjusted the IV line as Arielle whispered lullabies into the infant’s soft hair. Her voice was faint, like a breath against glass, but her eyes held the fire of someone who refused to be broken.
Damien approached slowly, his throat tightening at the sight of her. She looked pale, far too pale, but alert.
“You left,” she teased. “I was going to write you up for abandonment.”
He smiled, leaning down to kiss her forehead. “I got you coffee. But I drank it.”
“Rude.”
The nurse chuckled as she exited, leaving them in the warm hush of morning. Damien took a seat beside her and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
“How are you feeling?”
“Like a truck hit me. Then reversed for good measure.”
They both laughed, but it didn’t last. The truth was heavier than the moment could hold.
“I spoke with the doctors again,” he said slowly.
She stilled, her arms instinctively tightening around the baby. “And?”
“They want to keep you a few more days. There’s still some internal swelling. And the tests… They’re waiting on some more information.”
“I want to go home.”
“Ari—”
“I’m not staying here. I can’t. I need my bed. My kids. I need you next to me without an IV pole in the way.”
Her eyes were glassy now, but her jaw was set. Damien recognized that look. It was the same look she wore when she decided to open her first clinic. When she refused to cancel her wedding after her mother’s stroke. When she chose to keep their second baby despite early complications.
Fragile? Maybe.
But she was also a storm.
“I’ll talk to them,” he said softly.
The next day, after much debate, tears, and compromise, the hospital reluctantly discharged Arielle with strict conditions: limited mobility, in-home nurse visits, and regular monitoring. Damien signed every waiver with a hand that trembled just enough to betray his confidence.
Back home, the world smelled like cinnamon and warm linen. The house had been cleaned, prepared by their family. Fresh sheets. Soft music. A crib in their bedroom.
Damien helped Arielle out of the car, careful of her stitches. He supported her all the way up the steps and into the house, where their children waited with homemade cards and cautious joy.
“Mama!” they cried.
She cried, too.
Damien scooped her into his arms before she could collapse from the emotion, guiding her to the couch as the kids clung to her like lifelines.
Her eldest son showed her a picture he drew. It was her, wearing a cape. A stick-figure superhero with the words: My Mama Wins.
That night, while the house slept, Arielle lay awake. The painkillers dulled her body but not her mind. She could still feel the echo of the doctor’s words:
Your uterus is compromised. Future pregnancies would be extremely high risk.
She turned her head. Damien was lying beside her, one hand resting protectively on her hip, his breathing steady. He looked peaceful—but she knew better. She saw the sleepless shadows beneath his eyes.
In the silence, the truth surfaced: this had changed her. She didn’t know what the future held—not with her health, not with this mysterious hormone anomaly. And she was scared.
But she wouldn’t break.
She reached for the notepad beside the bed and began to write.
To My Future Self:
You’re scared. But that’s okay. You’re allowed. Being fierce doesn’t mean being fearless. It means standing anyway. Keep standing. Even when your body says stop. Even when you bleed. Even when the future is fog. You are more than your pain.
You are still you.
A creak broke the quiet. Damien stirred and looked at her.
“Can’t sleep?”
“Too many thoughts.”
He sat up, reached for her hand. “Share them with me. Let me carry them too.”
So she did. She told him everything: her fear of being fragile, her terror of the unknown. Her guilt for needing help. Her sorrow for her changed body.
He listened. Never interrupting.
And when she finished, he kissed her palm and whispered, “You don’t have to be fierce alone.”
In the days that followed, the in-home nurse noted steady recovery. Arielle moved from the bed to the couch, then out onto the porch. The children gathered around her like satellites orbiting their sun.
But the doctor’s call still hadn’t come.
Each day that passed without answers built a quiet tension in the air. Damien hid his worry behind work emails and school drop-offs. Arielle journaled obsessively, pages filled with hopes and what-ifs.
Then, on a Thursday morning, the phone rang.
Damien answered, voice tight. “Yes, this is Damien Lockhart.”
Arielle sat up, heart pounding.
“Okay,” Damien said slowly. “You’re sure? I see. Yes, thank you.”
He ended the call.
“What did they say?” she asked.
He looked at her, a storm behind his eyes.
“They found something,” he said. “And they want us both to come in tomorrow.”
The chapter ends with Arielle standing—slowly, shakily—on her own two feet.
Damien rushes to support her, but she raises a hand.
“I’ve got this,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.
And she does.
Even in fragility, she stands fierce.