One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 200: Chapter 200

The scent of cardamom, burnt sugar, and something exquisitely buttery drifted through the open windows of Sweetheart Bakery, teasing the morning fog that still clung to the sleepy city streets. Inside, beneath the soft golden lights and the old beams of the bakery's renovated ceiling, Elena Hart stood behind the counter, brushing specks of flour off her black apron with more pride than vanity. This was her kingdom—reborn.
Three months ago, Sweetheart Bakery had nearly closed its doors for good.
Three months ago, Elena had nothing left but debt, broken ovens, and a dream stitched together by muscle memory and grief.
Until the City Bake-Off happened.
The televised event had seemed like a last-ditch effort, a desperate hope for publicity. But Elena’s signature honey-thyme brioche had not only won the competition—it had gone viral. Interviews followed, orders exploded overnight, and people traveled across districts just to taste the bread that made a nation cry.
Now, the bakery was bustling with energy, yet Elena's feet remained firmly on the ground. Success was fickle. Fame was even more so. If she didn’t scale wisely, it would all collapse again.
"Matteo!" she called toward the back, her voice cutting through the morning playlist that hummed low in the background. “Did the contractor confirm for the second oven?”
Matteo—tall, broad-shouldered, with a smudge of ganache on his cheek—poked his head out of the kitchen. "He said Friday. And yes, I threatened his soufflé recipe if he reschedules again."
Elena grinned, though her mind was already skipping ahead to the spreadsheet open on her iPad. Revenue projections. Payroll. Wholesale flour contracts. The bakery needed someone to manage the business side before the passion became a prison.
That was when Noah stepped into her life.
He arrived five minutes early for his interview, though the way he hovered just outside the glass door made him look like he was deciding whether or not to enter another universe. Slim, neatly dressed in charcoal slacks and a cream shirt, he had the quiet energy of someone who preferred data to conversation.
Elena watched him through the display case, where strawberry-lavender tarts gleamed under the glass like edible jewels. He finally stepped in.
“Hi,” he said, voice soft but sure. “I’m here to interview for the assistant role.”
“Right on time,” she said, offering her hand. “Elena Hart.”
He shook it. His palm was cool, fingers delicate but firm. “Noah Reyes.”
They sat at the bistro table near the front window, the morning sun catching flecks of cinnamon floating in the air. Elena glanced at his resume, then back at him. “So… marketing strategy for a chain of indie bookstores, then freelance finance consulting for a vegan ice cream brand. Interesting mix.”
“I like helping small businesses grow without losing their soul,” he said simply.
Elena paused. That answer landed deeper than it should have.
She leaned forward. “What do you know about bakeries?”
“Only that the best ones make people feel like they’re home. Also, croissants should never be chewy.”
Elena laughed.
Noah smiled—shy, lopsided, the kind that looked like it didn’t visit often. “And that your honey-thyme brioche reduced a food critic to tears on national television.”
“That too,” she said, her heart easing.
By afternoon, Noah was hired. By evening, he had reorganized their inventory system and proposed a loyalty program with a soft-launch strategy.
Camille, the head chef, narrowed her eyes at him. "Looks like corporate has arrived," she muttered.
Noah didn't respond. He was busy measuring foot traffic patterns.
The first real test came a week later.
The bakery was set to partner with a boutique grocer uptown, but the delivery terms were punishing, and the cost of packaging had doubled due to a supplier glitch. Elena was ready to pull the plug.
"Wait," Noah said, entering the office where she was furiously scribbling margin losses.
He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "What if we offer the grocer an exclusive flavor—limited run, with a markup? Same dough base, just different inclusions. It justifies the price, and they get bragging rights. We can batch it without changing much in production."
Elena blinked.
He handed her a napkin with rough cost projections. His handwriting was tiny, meticulous.
She stared at him. “How did you—”
“I ran the numbers while Camille was yelling at me over how I organized the walk-in freezer.”
She chuckled. “You okay with being yelled at?”
Noah gave a small shrug. “I’ve survived boardrooms filled with ego and bad coffee. This is better.”
It was late. The bakery was quiet. Matteo had gone home, Camille had stormed off muttering about ‘chefs being replaced by spreadsheets,’ and the city outside was cloaked in a moody mist.
Elena and Noah sat side by side on the counter, legs dangling like teenagers, eating leftover croissants.
“You don’t talk much about yourself,” she said.
“I’m more of an observer.”
“You love pastries?”
“I do.” He glanced down at the croissant. “When I was a kid, my mom used to work night shifts. I’d stay at my grandmother’s, and every Friday, she’d wake me with a warm pastry and coffee milk. I used to think all good things in life started with butter.”
Elena smiled softly. “And do they?”
“I think so. But now I’m learning it also takes guts, debt, and apparently the ability to survive Camille’s rage.”
They both laughed.
A beat passed.
“You’re going to be the reason this bakery becomes a legacy,” Elena said quietly.
Noah looked startled. “That’s… a lot of trust.”
“I have a feeling about people. You believe in this place. I see it.”
Noah turned his head slowly. Their eyes met. The bakery around them felt like a cocoon—sugar and steam and dreams stitched together.
“I do,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I really do.”
Outside, a light drizzle tapped against the glass. Elena slid off the counter and turned off the last of the lights, the soft whirr of the refrigerators the only sound left.
She turned back. “Come in early tomorrow. I want you to taste our test batch for the exclusive flavor.”
“I will,” he said, not moving.
As she locked the door behind her and stepped into the night, she smiled to herself.
Sweetheart Bakery was no longer just hers. It was theirs. And this was only the beginning.