One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 145: Chapter 145

The storm rolled in like an unexpected guest—uninvited, unwelcome, and impossibly loud.
Arielle was the first to notice the shift. The air had thickened, its sweetness turning to weight as clouds churned overhead, swallowing the golden island sun. Birds flew lower. Waves licked the shore with more urgency. The silence before the first crack of thunder wasn’t peaceful—it was watchful, like something ancient was about to awaken.
By the time the first sheet of rain hit the villa roof, the sky had turned slate-gray, streaked with bursts of lightning so bright they lit up the rooms like a camera flash.
“Okay, kids,” Damien announced, trying to keep his voice upbeat, “everyone in the main room. It’s time for an adventure.”
The children rushed in with wide eyes and squealing excitement, dragging pillows and blankets behind them. Arielle was gathering candles from the shelf, steadying the baby on her hip. The generator buzzed to life, humming low beneath the crackle of the approaching storm.
By the time the wind truly began to scream, the villa was dark save for the flicker of flames and the glow of flashlights under blanket forts. The windows trembled. Rain slammed against the walls in rhythmic fury.
And inside—tension.
Not the life-threatening kind. But the slow, quiet kind that settled over everyone’s shoulders.
The kind that knew secrets had been spoken by firelight the night before.
The kind that grew in rooms too crowded with memory and not enough space to run.
“Is the island gonna break?” their youngest whispered.
“No,” Arielle said gently, smoothing his curls. “It’s just wind and water having an argument.”
He giggled. “Like you and Daddy?”
Even Damien laughed then, a short bark of sound too close to truth.
They built a nest of cushions in the center of the floor and piled into it, children in pajamas and mismatched socks, Arielle with her head on Damien’s shoulder, arms curled around the baby. The middle child brought out her sketchpad and began drawing monsters with lightning hair. The eldest read aloud from a battered adventure book, giving each character a different accent.
But as the storm howled louder, the tension thickened.
Arielle caught Damien’s eye once. He looked like he wanted to reach for her. To say something. But not in front of the kids.
So she did instead.
“Let’s play a game,” she said, voice light. “Something silly.”
Their son lit up. “Silly like what?”
“Silly like... marshmallow cheeks!”
“What’s that?”
“You stuff your cheeks with marshmallows and try to say words.”
The baby started laughing before the game even began.
Damien disappeared into the pantry and returned with half a bag of mini marshmallows, looking sheepish.
“We were supposed to make s’mores tomorrow.”
“They died for a good cause,” Arielle quipped, and the kids howled.
Marshmallows flew. Laughter filled the villa like the best kind of music—unrehearsed, off-key, and perfect. They tried to say movie quotes with mouths full. They made up songs. They built crowns out of blankets and dubbed Damien “Sir Daddy of the Storm.”
And slowly, as the laughter grew louder than the rain, the tension bled out of the walls.
Arielle leaned into Damien without thinking. He caught her hand.
She didn’t pull away.
Later, when the kids were finally asleep and the thunder had dulled to murmurs, they sat on the back steps under the overhang. Watching the world drip and breathe again.
“That was…” Damien began.
“Exactly what we needed,” she said.
He looked at her. “Are we okay?”
She was quiet for a long time.
“I think we’re learning how to be.”
He nodded.
Lightning flashed far away, silent now.
And as the storm receded, Arielle rested her head on his shoulder again. Not because everything was fixed. But because storms, even emotional ones, passed.
And what remained—the quiet after—was where healing truly began.