One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The second Arielle stepped into the break room, her knees buckled. The stainless steel counter, once her battlefield for prepping orders, now became her anchor as she leaned on it for balance. The smell of burnt coffee and old grease clung to her uniform. Her hands were still shaking from Damien Kingston’s unexpected appearance.
What was he doing here? Why now? After all these years, all those sleepless nights and terrifying bills and dirty diapers—he walked in, looking polished, powerful, and utterly unaffected by the chaos he unknowingly left behind.
She’d been nothing more than a flicker in his memory.
She braced herself, splashed cold water on her face in the tiny mirror above the sink. Her reflection stared back—exhausted eyes, smudged eyeliner, dark circles she didn’t have time to conceal. This wasn’t the woman he remembered, she was sure. If he even remembered her at all.
The bell chimed again from the front, Carol’s voice ringing through the hallway.
"Arielle! Table Seven is waiting!"
She took a breath, adjusted her apron, and marched back out. Table Seven had turned into a circus.
Damien and his companions sat in their booth, suits immaculate, their conversation low and sharp. Arielle approached with practiced calm, not letting her gaze linger too long on Damien. But her hands trembled as she poured their coffee.
"Ma’am," one of the younger men sneered, looking down at his sleeve where a drip of coffee landed, "do you pour like that for all your customers or are we just lucky today?"
"I apologize," Arielle said tightly. "Let me get you a napkin."
He scoffed. "I think you should get us a new waitress."
Arielle opened her mouth, ready to defend herself—when Damien raised a hand.
"It’s fine," he said, not looking at her. "Let’s not start the day with a lawsuit."
Her face flushed. It wasn’t the insult—it was the fact that he didn’t even recognize her. Not a flicker of memory in those cold gray eyes.
Not after that night.
Not after everything.
The tray slipped in her hands. She managed to steady it—just barely—before it fell. But the soda glass tilted.
Right onto the arrogant man’s tailored lap.
"You clumsy little—"
"Enough!" Carol stormed over, eyes blazing. "Arielle, kitchen. Now."
In the kitchen, Arielle stood like a child being scolded. Carol paced in front of her, hands flying.
"I told you—you’re replaceable! That’s it. I’ve had enough of your excuses, your messes, your drama."
Arielle’s voice cracked. "Please, Carol. My kids—"
"Your kids aren’t my problem!" Carol barked. "Get your things. You’re done."
The words echoed in Arielle’s chest like a gunshot. Her hands dropped to her sides. Her feet refused to move.
Fired.
She walked back into the breakroom in silence, eyes burning, shoulders sagging with the weight of failure. She opened her locker, pulled out her cheap canvas bag, and stuffed her apron inside.
As she passed through the diner, the world blurred. She didn’t look at Damien. She didn’t dare.
Outside, the sun had disappeared behind thick clouds. The city suddenly felt colder.
She walked. No destination. Just walked, wind tangling her hair, exhaustion curling into her bones. Her phone buzzed in her pocket—Rosita. She answered, barely breathing.
"Mija? Everything alright?"
Her voice cracked. "I lost the job."
A pause. Then Rosita’s voice, soft and strong. "Then we find you another. One door closes, another opens. You’ve been through worse, Arielle. You’ll get through this too."
Arielle sat down on a park bench, the sound of honking cars and rushing pedestrians fading as her world narrowed to a single truth:
She had eight children depending on her.
And she was now, completely, desperately unemployed.
The clock was ticking.
Again.