One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 13: Chapter 13

The envelope sat on Damien’s desk like it had teeth.
Unopened.
Mocking.
He’d returned from a late-night dinner with investors and found it waiting—no name, no greeting, just the words: PRIVATE – FOR D. KINGSTON ONLY stamped across the front. The handwriting was familiar.
Quinn’s.
That alone was enough to raise alarms. Quinn was careful. Loyal. Brilliant. And he didn’t make a move like this unless it was calculated—and potentially explosive.
Damien stared at the envelope a full five minutes before touching it.
And when he finally did, it was with the kind of precision a surgeon uses before cutting into flesh.
The paper tore cleanly.
One page inside.
One truth that shattered seven years of silence.
DNA Paternity Match: 99.998% – D. KINGSTON | ELI SUMMERS
For a full minute, Damien didn’t breathe.
His fingers tightened around the page, knuckles whitening, but his face remained still. Composed. Cold.
He read the line again.
Then again.
Each repetition burned a new layer of disbelief into ash.
Arielle Summers had his child.
No—children.
She had said eight.
Octuplets.
Damien stood slowly, a tremor in his hand as he placed the page flat on the desk. The air in the room grew razor sharp, slicing through the stillness. A storm boiled in his gut.
Fury.
And something worse—
Fascination.
Quinn was waiting outside, pale and still, knowing the exact moment Damien would summon him.
The office door opened.
“Inside,” Damien said.
The words weren’t loud.
But they were lethal.
Quinn stepped in.
“You knew?” Damien asked.
“I suspected.”
“You went behind my back.”
“I needed to be sure.”
Damien’s jaw ticked. “And now that you are?”
Quinn didn’t flinch. “You need to know the truth before anyone else does.”
The tension in the room could crack bone. Damien paced to the window, then back again, his rage carefully tethered.
“She works here. She sits ten feet from me. Every day.”
“I didn’t think you’d miss it for long.”
Damien turned slowly. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Quinn was silent.
“Why the fuck didn’t she tell me?” Damien roared, slamming a fist against the glass wall. It shuddered but didn’t break.
“Maybe she was protecting them,” Quinn offered quietly.
Damien’s glare was pure venom. “From what? From me?”
Quinn didn’t answer.
Because the silence said enough.
The next morning, Damien arrived at the office before sunrise. No tie. No entourage. Just fury wrapped in a tailored suit. The building felt colder. His thoughts louder.
He didn’t summon Arielle.
He needed to watch her.
She arrived at exactly 7:44 a.m., same as always. Hair pulled back. Lips glossed. Poised. Controlled.
She smiled politely as she passed his office.
And he almost lost it.
Because how could she pretend? How could she stand there with that goddamn photo of his child on her desk, look him in the eye, and act like he was just another billionaire boss?
He watched her fingers as she typed.
Her eyes as they flicked from screen to screen.
The way she bit her lower lip when concentrating.
Memories bled back like blood from a reopened wound.
The way her mouth had tasted.
The sound of her moan when she whispered don’t stop.
The curve of her spine as she arched into him.
He gripped the armrest of his chair.
If she thought she could hide this from him forever, she was wrong.
So fucking wrong.
At noon, he left.
No warning.
No schedule.
He drove himself to a gated neighborhood forty minutes outside the city. He didn’t ask for directions. He didn’t call ahead.
He followed the GPS coordinates Quinn had found for him. He parked across the street from a modest two-story home. Faded shutters. Bike on the lawn. A sagging mailbox.
And toys—dozens of them—scattered across the yard.
Then he saw them.
Kids.
Lily. Hazel. Eli.
They ran like him.
One of them shouted and his voice cracked the same way Damien’s had at that age.
He stood there, frozen, as if the earth had shifted beneath him. A neighbor passed by and gave him a suspicious look. He got back in the car before someone called the cops.
But the damage was done.
There was no unseeing it.
No denying it.
Those children were his.
That night, he didn’t go home.
He stayed at the office, pacing the floor, sipping whiskey that barely touched his pulse.
Anger curled beneath his ribs.
But so did something else.
A hunger.
To know them.
To touch what was stolen.
To hold his son. His daughter. His legacy.
He sat down and opened a blank document.
He typed two words.
Custody Inquiry.
Then he erased it.
Then typed again.
Private Investigator – Arielle Summers.
Because the truth was out.
And Damien Kingston was done waiting.