One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 202: Chapter 202

The morning the protests began, Elena woke to thirty-seven missed notifications, a string of confused emojis from Matteo, and a terse message from the property manager of the new location: “You may want to get down here ASAP.”
By the time she arrived at the corner of Fifth and Alder, the new Sweetheart Bakery franchise site was surrounded by a picket line of local vendors and community activists. Hand-painted signs read: "No Chains on Main," "Keep It Local," and "Don’t Bake Us Out."
Camille leaned against the food truck across the street, arms crossed, chewing sunflower seeds like a gunslinger waiting for someone to draw. Noah stood beside her with a clipboard and furrowed brows, looking like he’d rather be facing a firing squad than the line of angry protestors.
Matteo met Elena on the sidewalk, tugging off his cap. “Apparently, a local baker we outbid for the lease stirred everyone up.”
Elena’s mouth went dry. “We’re not a chain.”
“We are now,” Matteo said quietly.
Inside the shell of the new bakery, tension curled like smoke.
Camille paced. "This is what I warned you about. You scale, you compromise. People start to see you as the enemy."
Noah, holding a draft of their community outreach plan, kept his voice steady. "We can fix this. We host an open-door event, offer vendor collaborations—feature their products, not replace them."
“You think a branded hashtag will undo years of gentrification anxiety?” Camille snapped.
“I think sincerity will,” he replied.
Elena raised a hand. “Enough.”
The room stilled.
She looked at both of them. “You’re both right, and both wrong. We’re not here to bulldoze. We’re here to contribute. But this isn’t just about cookies. This is about trust.”
Camille opened her mouth, then shut it.
Elena sighed. “Matteo and I will handle the press. Noah, Camille—you two work on the vendor integration proposal. Together.”
Camille recoiled like she'd been asked to babysit a feral cat. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
They began that afternoon in strained silence.
Noah set up at a folding table, laptop open, spreadsheets ready. Camille arrived with a coffee and no patience.
“Don’t you dare make a pie chart,” she warned.
He smiled faintly. “I already did. It’s flavored with community engagement.”
Despite herself, she chuckled. “Fine. What’s your plan?”
He turned the screen to show a map of nearby businesses. “We offer shelf space in our shop for local artisans—jams, teas, spice blends. Co-branded items. Revenue split. A bakery that lifts the block instead of eclipsing it.”
Camille leaned in. “Huh. You’re not as soulless as I thought.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “That sounded dangerously close to a compliment.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
As the hours passed, friction became rhythm. They sketched menus together, laughed over naming ideas (“Ginger Roots” for a local zine-featured ginger syrup, “Grain & Grit” for the local flour mill), and somewhere between sarcasm and strategy, a strange camaraderie started to rise.
When dusk fell, they sat on milk crates behind the shop, eating bánh mì from a street vendor.
“You ever think we’d work like this?” Camille asked, licking chili sauce from her thumb.
Noah shrugged. “You scare me a little less now.”
She smirked. “Just wait until you reorganize my pantry again.”
There was a pause.
Then Camille added, softly, “You’re not what I expected.”
Noah glanced at her, eyes thoughtful behind his glasses. “Neither are you.”
Meanwhile, Elena stood under the harsh lights of a local radio station, live on-air with a host known for dismantling gentrifiers with surgical precision.
“So tell us,” the host said. “How does opening a high-end bakery in a lower-income neighborhood help this community, rather than hurt it?”
Elena didn't blink. “We’re not here to replace. We’re here to partner. Every loaf we sell here uses flour milled locally. Every seasonal jam comes from vendors within three miles. And this Saturday, we’re opening our kitchen to a rotating ‘bake share’—giving community bakers access to our space, tools, and shelves.”
There was silence. Then the host leaned back. “You brought receipts.”
“I brought proof,” she said, voice steady. “Because Sweetheart was built by people who had nothing but each other. We’re not here to steal. We’re here to share.”
Saturday arrived.
The protest signs were replaced by handmade chalkboards announcing “Neighborhood Bake Day!”
Crowds flowed in—curious, skeptical, then smiling.
Noah and Camille manned the community table. Camille offered samples of the local honey-miso cookies she baked with a neighborhood beekeeper. Noah ran QR code cards linking to each vendor’s backstory.
The line outside doubled.
By noon, the gruff man who’d led the protests approached Elena. “You’re still a chain,” he said.
“Maybe,” she replied. “But we’re your chain now.”
He cracked a reluctant smile.
That night, after the shop closed, Camille and Noah remained behind, rinsing trays and finishing inventory.
“You did good,” she said, voice quieter than usual.
“So did you.”
She handed him a tray of espresso bark she made just for the event. “This one’s yours.”
He looked down at it, then up at her.
“I’m starting to think you don’t hate me.”
She stepped closer.
“I don’t,” she murmured. “But don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my rep.”
Their eyes held for a long, charged moment.
Then Camille brushed a smudge of flour from his cheek, and walked away without another word.
Noah stared after her, heart thudding, not entirely sure what had just risen between them.
But it smelled like cinnamon.
And maybe, just maybe, the start of something warm.