One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 137: Chapter 137

It arrived without fanfare.
No courier. No signature. Just a plain white envelope slipped into the mailbox, wedged between junk flyers and a baby magazine Arielle never subscribed to. She pulled it out absentmindedly, balancing the rest of the mail in one hand while adjusting the baby on her hip.
The envelope had no return address.
The handwriting on the front was elegant. Almost old-fashioned. Ink that bled slightly into the fibers of the paper.
To Damien Whitaker. Private.
Her steps slowed.
There was no postage stamp. Someone had delivered it by hand.
Arielle stared at the name. At the word Private. A subtle chill traced her spine, unwelcome and irrational.
Except… she wasn’t sure it was irrational.
She set the baby down in the bassinet and moved to the kitchen. The rest of the mail she dropped onto the table. But not the envelope.
She turned it over in her hands. The seal was wax. Deep burgundy. Embossed with a single letter:
L.
She didn’t recognize it. Not a family crest. Not a brand. Just… an initial.
Part of her wanted to wait until Damien returned from his quick store run. But the rest of her—scarred, protective, quietly strong—needed to know what had been slipped into her home addressed to her husband.
Arielle broke the seal.
The parchment inside was thick. Luxurious. Expensive.
The words, however, were what turned her blood to ice.
Dearest Damien,
I’ve watched from a distance, always respecting your space. But seeing you now—with her, with children—it brings back everything we buried.
Do you remember our nights in Milan? The rooftop in Madrid? I still have the scarf you tied around my eyes. The one you whispered promises into.
I kept silent all these years. But I can’t anymore. There are things you should know. Things she deserves to know too.
We were more than a fling. You knew it. I still know it.
I need to speak with you—in person. Just once. You owe me that.
I’ll be in town for one week. I’ll wait at the Black Fern Hotel, Room 602. No name. No pressure. But no more secrets.
Yours, L.
Arielle didn’t realize her hand was shaking until the letter slipped from her grasp.
The baby stirred. Somewhere in the house, the laundry buzzer went off. But the sound came from far away, muffled beneath the roar building in her chest.
She read it again.
And again.
Every word tightened around her lungs. Not because she didn’t trust Damien—but because of what wasn’t said. The years of silence this woman hinted at. The intimacy. The certainty. The ownership.
We buried.
You owe me.
Arielle closed her eyes, breath trembling. Her instincts warred with her reason.
This could be nothing. A delusion. A lie.
Or it could be something else entirely.
When Damien walked in twenty minutes later, his arms full of groceries and his smile wide from having scored the last jar of organic baby carrots, he didn’t see the letter at first.
He saw her face.
He stopped cold.
“Ari?”
She didn’t speak.
She just handed him the parchment.
His brows drew together as he read. She watched every twitch of his jaw, every shift in his eyes.
He finished. Lowered it slowly.
“I don’t know who this is,” he said, his voice quiet.
Arielle folded her arms. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never been to Milan? Madrid?”
Damien sighed. “Years ago. But never with anyone. I traveled for work before we met, you know that. I don’t remember anything like this.”
“She sounds like she remembers everything.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It could be someone trying to cause trouble. We’ve had trolls before. Journalists. Obsessed fans—”
“She mentioned the scarf,” Arielle whispered.
He looked up.
“You tied one around my eyes once. In Spain. The first time we said ‘I love you.’”
Damien paled.
“That wasn’t a story I ever told anyone,” she continued, voice cracking. “And that scarf? It’s still in my drawer.”
He dropped into a chair, stunned. “Arielle… I swear, I don’t understand this.”
She wanted to believe him. Every fiber of her did. But the letter felt like a ghost—real enough to haunt, vague enough to doubt.
“I need you to find out who she is,” she said. “Before she finds us.”
Damien looked up, guilt and confusion storming behind his eyes.
“I will.”
But Arielle wasn’t waiting.
As he sat there, lost in thought, she quietly snapped a photo of the letter. Then she tucked the original into her journal.
Whatever truth lay behind the velvet words of L, she would find it.
For herself.
For her children.
And for the man she almost fully trusted again.