One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 142: Chapter 142

Arielle had forgotten what silence sounded like.
Real silence—not the hush that came after the kids finally fell asleep, or the rare stillness of a quiet morning before breakfast. But this—this was different.
Waves lapping against white sand.
Palm fronds swaying in a breeze that carried salt and sunlight.
Birdsong that didn’t sound like car alarms or city gulls scavenging.
She stepped out onto the sun-warmed porch of the beach villa, the wooden planks beneath her feet smooth from years of waves and sun. The breeze lifted her robe slightly as she stared at the impossibly turquoise water just beyond the sloping path of shell-lined stones.
It took her a moment to believe it was real.
“Happy birthday,” Damien’s voice came behind her, low and warm.
She turned, stunned.
“You…” she shook her head. “You did not plan all this.”
“I absolutely did.” He held up a glass of fresh juice and grinned. “No kids for two hours. Your mom and my dad took them shell hunting. You’re stuck with me.”
Arielle blinked.
Then laughed.
“You flew our entire family to a private island?”
“Technically, we flew them here. I just arranged the details.”
She walked toward him slowly, barefoot, the robe fluttering behind her like wings. “Why?”
Damien placed the juice down and cupped her cheeks.
“Because this year tried to break you,” he whispered. “And you didn’t just survive it—you made it beautiful.”
Her throat tightened. Her hands found his, fingers lacing slowly.
He leaned forward, forehead to hers.
“You deserve peace. Stillness. Celebration.”
Arielle swallowed hard. “And this is all mine?”
He smiled. “All yours.”
The day unfolded like a dream.
After breakfast on the veranda—complete with coconut pancakes and the kids attempting to serenade her with off-key birthday songs—Damien led her down to the shoreline where a cabana waited.
There were gifts, of course.
But it wasn’t the necklace, or the handwritten letters from the kids, or the surprise painting her middle daughter made of “Mommy as Queen of the Ocean” that undid her.
It was the hammock strung between two palms. A white linen blanket. And a book she’d mentioned once, years ago, that Damien had somehow remembered.
She curled into it, rocking gently, while Damien brought her chilled mango slices and pressed a kiss to her shoulder every time he passed.
By midday, she’d fallen asleep.
And when she woke up, the tide had risen.
The light was golden.
And Damien was in the shallows with their son perched on his back, their daughters splashing nearby, their laughter ringing like wind chimes.
Arielle watched them from her perch, tears stinging her eyes.
That night, after the children fell asleep—sunburned, sugar-filled, and utterly exhausted—Damien led Arielle down a moonlit path lit with lanterns.
There, on a stretch of sand surrounded by candlelight and a canopy of stars, sat a table for two.
“Too much?” he asked.
She shook her head slowly, taking it all in. “Just enough.”
They ate barefoot. Laughed like teenagers. Shared a bottle of wine. Talked about dreams they hadn’t dared voice in years. She told him about the poems she’d started writing again. He told her he was thinking about writing a children’s book inspired by their kids.
Then he stood.
Held out his hand.
And they danced.
Barefoot in the sand.
No music. Just waves.
She rested her head on his chest. He breathed in the scent of her skin, salty and sun-kissed.
“I don’t need perfect,” she murmured. “Just this. This kind of day. This kind of peace.”
Damien kissed the top of her head.
“You’ll have it. Not just today. Always.”
She looked up at him.
“Even if the storm comes back?”
He nodded, eyes steady.
“Then we’ll build stronger shelter.”
And in that moment, beneath the constellations and the lingering heat of the day, Arielle felt something inside her unlock.
Not joy exactly.
Not even hope.
But certainty.
That even when the shadows returned—and they would—she would have love beside her.
And that would always be enough.