One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 141: Chapter 141

Snow had fallen overnight—just enough to blanket the world in a soft, deceptive silence. But inside the Whitaker household, there was anything but peace.
“Where’s the wrapping paper?”
“The baby spit up in the manger!”
“Who hid the turkey behind the kale?”
Arielle stood at the epicenter of it all, coffee in one hand, crying toddler on her hip, and a sprig of mistletoe somehow tangled in her hair. The scent of cinnamon rolls mixed with burnt toast and faint panic. It was 8:14 a.m. on Christmas morning, and both sides of their extended family were crammed under one roof for the first time ever.
Chaos reigned.
Damien’s father was already three eggnogs deep and arguing with Arielle’s mother over the correct lyrics to "O Holy Night." Their eldest had used up half a roll of tape trying to wrap his sister’s gift—badly—and their middle child had decided now was the perfect time to try lipstick. Bright red. On the dog.
Damien, to his credit, was trying to install batteries into a toy kitchen set with the concentration of a bomb defusal expert.
Arielle took a deep breath.
“Merry Christmas, darling,” she murmured to herself, deadpan.
By midday, things had escalated.
The gingerbread house collapsed.
Damien’s sister burned her hand on a curling iron and insisted on wearing an oven mitt for the rest of the day “in protest.”
Someone—still unidentified—swapped the salt and sugar canisters, leading to tragically savory cookies and an over-sweet glazed ham.
And Damien’s grandmother kept cornering guests with a slideshow on her iPad titled “My 72-Year Romance With Harold,” which included footnotes.
Still, there were moments.
Like when Arielle’s dad put on the Santa suit and accidentally scared the toddler, then soothed him with a whispered lullaby that quieted even the most skeptical cousins.
Or when Damien caught Arielle under the real mistletoe and kissed her like no one else was in the room.
Or when the kids lined up to read their entries from the family vow book, most of them involving vague promises to "eat less glue" and "not hide the baby’s socks." Every vow was met with applause, laughter, and the kind of love that fills cracks too deep for words.
Later, after the wrapping paper avalanche had settled and the dishes were stacked in chaos-defiant towers, the fire crackled and the noise dulled to a hum.
Arielle curled up on the couch, exhausted, baby asleep on her chest. Damien sat beside her, one arm stretched across the backrest, his thumb absentmindedly brushing her shoulder.
“That was...” she began.
“A mess?”
She laughed. “A beautiful mess.”
He nodded. “Our mess.”
Her eyes softened. “Remember when we used to dream about quiet Christmas mornings?”
He kissed the top of her head. “Now we dream about making it to bedtime.”
They clinked their cocoa mugs.
From the hallway came a sudden shriek of “WHERE ARE MY PAJAMA PANTS?!” followed by maniacal laughter.
Arielle sighed, leaning into Damien’s chest. “Next year, let’s go to a cabin in the woods. Just us.”
He grinned. “You’d miss this. All of this.”
She smiled sleepily. “Maybe.”
They sat in silence for a while, the twinkling lights casting soft shadows across the room, their hearts full—not because the day had been perfect, but because it hadn’t.
Because imperfection meant life.
It meant family.
And love, messy and loud and beautifully flawed, had filled every corner of their home.