One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 20: Chapter 20

The Kingston estate had always felt like another world.
Gated, polished, sprawling. The kind of place where whispers vanished into thick carpet and truths were hidden behind crystal chandeliers.
When Arielle first stepped foot on the grounds again, it wasn’t as a stranger. But not quite as a welcome guest either.
The butlers bowed. The chef nodded politely. The housekeeper avoided eye contact.
And the eyes that followed her through the grand halls weren’t all kind.
Damien had arranged everything: two nannies, three tutors, security detail, and a private wing for the children. The walls were freshly painted, toys handpicked by designers, custom furniture built to match each child’s temperament.
But Arielle noticed it immediately.
The coldness.
This wasn’t a home.
Not yet.
She could feel it in the way the maids stiffened when she entered a room. In the way voices hushed as she passed by. In the silence that lingered too long in the dining hall, like a ghost pressing against her spine.
Hazel asked the first night, “Why does that lady call you her?”
Arielle blinked. “Who?”
“The one with the pointy nose and the scary shoes.”
Arielle smiled weakly. “I’ll talk to her.”
She didn’t.
Because it wasn’t just one woman.
It was the entire legacy echoing through those halls.
The next morning, Arielle found a jewelry box on her vanity. Inside was a letter.
Typed. No signature.
"You're not the first woman to warm his bed. But you’re the only one foolish enough to bring eight anchors with you."
She folded the note slowly.
And set it on fire in the sink.
She didn’t tell Damien.
Not because she was afraid.
Because she knew this was a battle she had to fight herself.
Every dinner, she smiled. Every hallway, she held her head high. She asked names, remembered birthdays, left thank-you notes in corners where no one thought she’d notice.
But the walls still whispered.
That she didn’t belong.
That she was temporary.
That she was a mistake.
Lily had her first meltdown three days in.
“I hate this place!” she cried, fists pounding the floor.
Eli followed two days later. “Why can’t we just go back to the old apartment?”
Arielle had no answers. Only promises she hoped she could keep.
Damien noticed.
“You look exhausted,” he said one night.
“I am.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
She laughed softly. “You think this is about proving something?”
He stepped closer. “Then what is it about?”
She looked at him. Tired. Proud. Fierce.
“It’s about surviving a house built to break women like me.”
The next day, Damien made a change.
He canceled half his meetings.
He walked Arielle through the halls with his hand in hers.
He introduced her. Officially. Repeatedly.
“This is my wife,” he told the chef.
“My wife,” to the driver.
“My wife,” to the senior housekeeper with the stiffest spine.
He said it so many times the walls had no choice but to hear it.
But not everyone could be silenced by titles.
Late that night, as Arielle walked past the eastern corridor—the wing that used to house Damien’s exes, business guests, and sometimes shadows of his past—she heard them.
Two voices.
Whispers.
“She’s a problem.”
“He’ll get tired of her. He always does.”
Arielle didn’t flinch.
She stepped into the hallway.
Their eyes widened.
“Good evening,” she said, with a smile that could slice.
And walked away.
Because she wasn’t here to win approval.
She was here to build a home.
And no ghost, gossip, or bitter remnant of the past would stop her.