One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 167: Chapter 167

It should have been a dream come true.
Amara had landed the lead in the spring musical—Juliet, in a bold, modernized production of Romeo and Juliet. The announcement had echoed down the school halls like wildfire. Her drama teacher had practically wept during auditions.
“You are Juliet,” he’d said. “It’s in your bones.”
Everyone clapped. Everyone smiled.
Everyone except Amara.
Inside, a war had begun.
The first rehearsal was a disaster.
She forgot her lines. Tripped on a stage block. Her throat tightened every time she stepped toward center stage. Her partner, a senior named Milo with devastating dimples and the confidence of a Broadway star, tried to improvise around her hesitations, but the gap in energy was glaring.
By the end of the second rehearsal, the director pulled her aside.
“Amara… you okay?”
She forced a nod.
“You’ve got the talent, sweetheart. But it’s like you’re afraid to take up space.”
“I’m just nervous,” she said.
“Nerves I can work with. Fear? That’ll eat you.”
She didn’t tell anyone at home.
Not even Leila, who would’ve understood.
She practiced quietly in her room, whispering monologues under her breath like spells she wasn’t sure she could cast.
But it wasn’t the lines that haunted her.
It was the gaze. All those eyes in the crowd. All that silence, waiting for her to deliver something beautiful.
And the thought that she might fail. Might choke. Might become another forgettable lead who almost made it.
Arielle noticed it.
The way Amara lingered after dinner. The long stares into her soup. The nervous tapping of fingers against table edges.
One evening, after the others had drifted to their rooms, Arielle knocked.
“Want to talk?”
Amara bit her lip. “It’s stupid.”
“Stage fright?” Arielle guessed.
Amara looked up, startled. “How did you—”
“Because I’ve seen it. I’ve lived it. You think I was born giving speeches on global stages?”
“You make it look easy.”
Arielle smiled. “That’s the trick of stage lights. They hide the sweat.”
That weekend, Arielle took her to an empty community theatre downtown.
The doors creaked like ghosts. The seats smelled of dust and stories.
Arielle stepped on stage.
“No lights. No audience. Just me and you.”
Amara blinked. “What are we doing?”
“We’re taking your fear by the hand.”
They began slowly.
Arielle gave her exercises. Breathing. Vocal warmups. Pacing. Visualization.
She taught Amara how to feel the ground beneath her feet like roots.
“Fear lives in the future,” Arielle said. “It asks ‘what if.’ But presence? Presence just says ‘I am.’”
They practiced every night. In the living room. In the garden. Once even in the grocery store aisle, reciting Shakespeare between cereal boxes.
And slowly, Amara began to bloom.
The night of the preview performance arrived.
Backstage was chaos. Costumes fluttered. Lights blinked. A headset squealed.
Amara stood in the wings, hands trembling, heart pounding.
Then she saw her mother.
Arielle was in the front row. Calm. Steady. Eyes full of faith.
Amara closed her eyes.
She heard her mother’s voice echo in memory:
“You don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be brave.”
The curtain rose.
She delivered her first line with a breath like thunder.
By her third scene, she was Juliet.
By the final monologue, there were tears in the front row.
The crowd erupted. A standing ovation.
Later, in the dressing room, surrounded by roses and congratulations, Amara saw the text from her mother:
“You took up space. And it was beautiful.”
Amara replied with a photo of her smiling, sweaty, eyeliner-smudged face.
“I did it. I was seen.”
And for the first time in a long while, she didn’t just believe in herself.
She believed in her voice.