One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 123: Chapter 123

Morning sunlight spilled across the nursery floor, gilding the crib and casting long, lazy shadows on the soft rug where Arielle lay with her newborn nestled against her chest. The gentle weight of her daughter’s breathing grounded her in a way nothing else could—not the constant pain in her side, not the haunting echo of the doctor’s words, not even the memory of the test results still waiting like a sealed fate inside her phone.
It had been a week since the homecoming.
A week since chaos painted itself across every wall of their home, and love quietly held it all together. A week of sleepless nights, of whispered lullabies, of tearful laughter and silent, sharp pain that woke Arielle from even the deepest sleep. The wound beneath her rib still ached. Her body, though stitched and bandaged, bore memories deeper than skin.
But she had made it through another sunrise.
She kissed her daughter’s soft curls and whispered, "We’re still here, baby girl. We’re still fighting."
Downstairs, the rhythm of family life had resumed its imperfect beat. The twins were in the middle of a dramatic argument over whose toy dinosaur could fly, while their older sister tried to mediate like a tiny therapist in a princess dress.
Damien moved like a man possessed—half-chef, half-bodyguard—pouring cereal with one hand while catching a sippy cup mid-air with the other.
Arielle watched from the stairs, hand on the banister for balance. Her body was a betrayer of will, slow and stiff, but she was determined. She made it to the kitchen just as the toddler ran past her legs, shrieking with joy.
“Careful!” Damien barked instinctively, catching sight of her. “You should’ve called me. You shouldn’t be on the stairs alone.”
“I need to move,” she said, taking a careful seat. “I need to feel like myself again.”
He placed a cup of tea in front of her. “You don’t need to prove anything to anyone.”
“I do,” she said softly. “To myself.”
Later that afternoon, Arielle sat with each of the children one by one, starting with her eldest daughter, Zoe. They painted together on the porch—watercolors on cheap paper. Zoe asked quiet questions.
“Did it hurt? The surgery?”
Arielle didn’t flinch. “Yes. But pain is sometimes part of life. It reminds us we’re still here.”
“Will you have more babies?”
A pause.
“I don’t know, sweetheart. Probably not.”
Zoe nodded, more serious than a girl her age should be. “That’s okay. You already have a whole zoo.”
They laughed. But something healed in that moment. Not everything. But something.
With the twins, healing took a different shape.
They curled up with her on the living room carpet, building Lego castles and narrating battles between dragon queens and talking pillows. They didn’t talk about the hospital. They didn’t ask questions. But every time one of them bumped into her stomach, they froze.
“I’m okay,” she’d say. “Really. Keep going.”
Eventually, they stopped flinching.
Even the toddler, who had taken to following her around the house like a tiny shadow, began to laugh more freely. He brought her apples. Left his favorite blanket on her chair. Once, he even pressed his small hand against her scar through her shirt and whispered, “Better?”
She had cried for hours that night.
One afternoon, while Damien took the older kids to the park, Arielle stayed home with the baby. The quiet was unnerving at first. But soon, it became holy.
She laid on the couch, her daughter sleeping against her, and let herself drift—not asleep, not fully awake, just floating. Her phone buzzed nearby. A message from her doctor: Follow-up scheduled for tomorrow. Blood panel confirmed. Will discuss next steps in person.
She locked the phone.
Tomorrow could wait.
Today, she let herself exist in the arms of something tender and slow. Her daughter’s breath. The hum of the ceiling fan. The way the house seemed to exhale with her.
That night, Damien brought her tea and climbed into bed beside her. They didn’t speak much. He read emails while she scribbled in her journal. But their fingers were always touching—his brushing the inside of her wrist, hers curled lightly around his.
“I feel… different,” she said after a while.
He looked at her.
“Not just physically. Inside. Like I’ve been broken and reassembled, but some pieces didn’t fit the same.”
“Maybe that’s how healing works,” he said. “You don’t go back to who you were. You become someone new.”
“Someone stronger?”
He kissed her knuckles. “Always.”
In the middle of the night, their newborn cried. Arielle stirred, but Damien beat her to it. He scooped the baby up gently and began rocking in the chair by the window.
She watched him from the bed, tears in her eyes. Not because of pain. Not because of fear.
But because even in this new, uncertain normal—there was beauty.
Love, stubborn and imperfect, still held them here.
Still held them together.
And tomorrow, they’d face the diagnosis. But tonight? Tonight was about surviving the storm and choosing joy anyway.