One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 147: Chapter 147

It started with a dress.
Arielle stood in front of the full-length mirror in their island bedroom, holding it up to her body. It was the same one she’d worn on their second anniversary—white linen, soft, loose-fitting, with embroidered detailing along the hem. Back then, it had draped like a breeze over her curves, flirted with the shape of her hips, and cinched just right at the waist.
Now, it clung differently. Or maybe she was just different.
She let it fall over her shoulders, smoothing it down slowly. The zipper wouldn’t close.
Her fingers paused at the halfway mark. She stared into the mirror, lips pressed tight. The room around her blurred.
Damien walked in carrying a basket of folded laundry, whistling quietly. He stopped when he saw her reflection.
The silence stretched.
“Still beautiful,” he said simply.
Arielle didn’t respond. She turned slightly to the side, examining the soft pouch of her belly, the faded line that ran below it. Her once-taut arms now carried the quiet story of sleepless nights and newborn cradles. Her breasts—heavier, marked with silvery trails of change.
“I look… tired,” she whispered.
“You are tired,” he said, walking toward her.
She shook her head. “I don’t look like me anymore.”
Damien gently set the basket down, then stepped behind her. His arms encircled her waist, his hands resting just above her hips.
“You look like the woman who survived,” he said softly. “The woman who gave our kids life. Who stayed when her body wanted to give up. You look like my Arielle. And I don’t want the before-you. I want this one. Right now. As you are.”
Tears burned behind her eyes. “You don’t have to lie.”
“I’m not,” he said, lowering his mouth to her shoulder. “Let me show you.”
He slowly turned her to face him, stepping back just enough to see her fully. His eyes never left hers as he reached out and unzipped the dress.
It slipped down, pooling at her feet.
She stood in her underwear, trembling—not from cold, but from the vulnerability that wrapped around her like fog.
Damien knelt.
Not to worship her like a goddess on a pedestal—but to honor the war she’d waged.
He kissed the line across her stomach. The spot where stitches had once held her together. The tender stretch where their daughter had pressed from within. The curve of her thigh that had borne so many sleepless nights holding crying babies.
“You see flaws,” he whispered. “I see evidence.”
He stood slowly, cupping her face in his hands.
“Your body,” he said, “isn’t broken. It’s sacred.”
She sobbed quietly, the dam breaking in the safety of his touch.
“Let me remind you,” he murmured.
He guided her gently to the bed, never rushing, never demanding. Every touch was reverent. Every kiss a poem of healing. He worshiped her not with lust—but with gratitude, awe, and love.
And when their bodies finally joined, it wasn’t for pleasure alone—it was for reclamation. For her to feel whole again. For her to remember that beauty lived in resilience, not perfection.
Afterward, she lay wrapped in his arms, their breaths still mingling in the hush of the afternoon.
“I don’t feel ugly right now,” she said softly.
“Because you never were,” Damien whispered.
She tilted her head to look at him. “Even if I never look like before?”
He kissed her forehead. “Before doesn’t matter. You’re more you now than ever.”
Outside, the world glittered. The ocean moved in rhythm with the wind.
And inside, Arielle let the mirror reflect something new.
Not perfection.
Not the past.
But the woman she’d fought to become.
And the love that had never stopped seeing her.