One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 201: Chapter 201

By the second week of expansion, Elena's inbox was a battlefield.
Investor emails. Brand partnership pitches. Interview requests from culinary magazines. A national talk show slot. And beneath it all—rows of numbers and risk projections blinking coldly at her from Noah’s latest growth model.
The bakery she had poured her soul into, once defined by instinct, sweat, and late-night prayers, now felt like it was being digested by the machinery of success.
She stood at the window of the upstairs office, watching the queue outside stretch past the corner. The fall air was crisp, leaves swirling in tiny golden whirlwinds at people's feet. A young couple in matching sweaters shared a cinnamon swirl, giggling. A grandmother pulled her grandson closer, pointing to the pastries in the window like they were treasure.
Moments like these reminded Elena why she started this.
But the emails kept coming.
“Did you see the proposal from SweetCrate?” Noah asked from behind her.
She turned. He was holding a tablet, eyes calm, voice even—but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. Always so careful not to push too hard.
“I did,” she said. “They want to white-label our items and sell them in airports. Pre-packaged. Vacuum-sealed.”
“It’s visibility,” he replied. “Revenue. Distribution.”
“It’s also the opposite of who we are.”
His mouth pressed into a thoughtful line. “I know. But what if who we are is evolving?”
She exhaled slowly and returned to the desk, brushing her fingers over the old family photo that sat beside her keyboard. Her mother in a flour-dusted apron, arms around Elena and Matteo.
“I want to grow,” she said. “But not if it means becoming flavorless.”
Downstairs, Camille was losing her mind.
“Who rearranged my prep station?” she barked, tossing a measuring scale onto the counter.
Matteo raised a brow. “Noah,” he said, unbothered. “He said something about optimizing foot space.”
Camille’s nostrils flared. “If he so much as touches my copper bowls again, I will flambé him with a torch.”
She turned, nearly colliding with Noah himself, who was balancing two trays of ingredient samples.
“Hey,” he said, carefully setting the trays down. “I need your approval on these nut blends for the seasonal biscotti.”
Camille looked at him like he’d just offered her a spreadsheet as dessert.
“Do I look like someone who quantifies biscotti?” she snapped.
Noah didn’t flinch. “You look like someone who wants this kitchen to function at its best.”
“Oh, I function just fine without corporate algorithms,” she snapped. “We’re bakers. Not bots.”
There was a charged silence. Then, with shocking calm, Noah said, “Then let me prove I’m not trying to change the soul of this place. Just… give it room to grow.”
Camille narrowed her eyes. She didn’t say yes. But she didn’t say no, either.
Later that night, while the ovens cooled and the staff trickled out into the evening, Camille found Noah still at his workstation, typing notes into a planning app.
“Hey,” she said.
He looked up. “Hey.”
She slid a small plate across the counter. Two of her new dark chocolate espresso biscotti. “Taste. And be honest.”
He blinked. Took one. Bit. Paused. “It’s… dangerous. Like something you'd eat before doing something you shouldn’t.”
Camille snorted. “Exactly the vibe.”
Their eyes met. Something sparked. Recognition. Friction. Curiosity.
“Want to help me test the batch at midnight?” she asked, half-smirking.
Noah hesitated. “You’ll yell at me.”
“Probably.”
“Okay.”
He followed her into the warm pulse of the kitchen, into
flour-dusted rebellion and something unspoken—stirring, rising, tempting fate.