One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 161: Chapter 161

It started with a locked phone.
Damien stood in the hallway outside Malik’s room, holding the device like it was a live grenade. His son had changed the passcode again, and after the third attempt to unlock it failed, Damien’s patience crumbled.
“Malik!”
The door opened a sliver. Malik’s face, half-shadowed, peeked through. “What?”
“Come here. Now.”
Malik stepped out slowly, earbuds slung around his neck, eyes calculating. “What’s up?”
Damien held up the phone. “Want to explain why I can’t access this?”
Malik shrugged. “It’s my phone.”
“It’s your phone on my plan, in my house. You know the rules.”
Malik’s jaw tensed. “The rules are ridiculous. I’m sixteen, not six.”
“You live under my roof, you follow the rules. No secrets. No locked phones. No sneaking out. And definitely no parties unless we approve.”
Malik crossed his arms. “Maybe if the rules didn’t treat me like a prisoner, I wouldn’t need secrets.”
Damien’s voice dropped. “Watch the attitude.”
“No,” Malik snapped. “I’m tired of being watched like I’m one mistake away from ruining my life. Maybe I want space. Maybe I want to make my own choices.”
“Not if those choices involve sneaking out at night to meet God knows who.”
Arielle’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Boys? Let’s take a breath.”
But neither man moved. The air pulsed with stubbornness.
That night, Malik’s silence spoke louder than any shouting match. He kept his door locked, headphones in, light off.
Three days later, he received the text: Party. Saturday night. No parents. You in?
He stared at it. The smart choice was obvious. But so was the need clawing inside him—the need to feel like someone who wasn’t just Damien King’s son.
He typed back: I’ll be there.
Saturday night came cloaked in heat and thrill. Malik slipped out through the garage, hoodie pulled over his curls, phone buzzing in his pocket. Music pulsed through the woods outside town, lights flickering like fireflies around the old, half-abandoned lake house.
Inside, teens danced, drank, kissed. Someone handed him a red cup. He took it.
He laughed too loud, stayed too long, texted no one.
Until a fight broke out in the kitchen.
A glass bottle shattered.
Police sirens wailed.
Damien stood at the front door at 3 a.m., robe on, face stone cold.
A cruiser parked outside. Malik stepped out, eyes red, lip cut. One officer nodded respectfully to Damien. “We thought it best you hear from us first, Mr. King.”
Damien said nothing, just stepped aside.
The silence between father and son felt like a wall with no door.
The next morning, Arielle found Damien alone in the study, staring out the window.
“You’re too hard on him,” she said gently.
“He broke every rule.”
“He’s looking for something,” she said. “And maybe it’s not control. Maybe it’s trust.”
Later that day, Malik entered the study, expecting more scolding. But Damien didn’t yell. Instead, he set the phone on the desk.
“I’ve removed the lock. From now on, you’ll earn the privacy you want. But not by lying.”
Malik looked stunned. “You’re not grounding me?”
“Oh, you’re grounded,” Damien said dryly. “But not because you went to a party. Because you didn’t trust us enough to tell us what you needed.”
For the first time in weeks, Malik didn’t look away.
“I’ll do better.”
Damien nodded. “So will I.”
And somewhere in that small truce, they began to rebuild.
Together.