One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 23: Chapter 23
You are reading One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband ---, Chapter 23: Chapter 23. Read more chapters of One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband ---.
The estate was too quiet.
Which usually meant something was either about to explode—or already had.
Arielle stormed into the solarium, barefoot, wearing Damien’s oversized hoodie. Her face was flushed, her hair tied in a messy bun that screamed she hadn’t had sleep, peace, or coffee.
Damien looked up from the files spread across his tablet. “Let me guess. Noah broke another window?”
“No,” she snapped. “But your idea of ‘discipline’ makes me wonder if you think parenting is the same as running a corporate boot camp.”
He sat straighter. “Excuse me?”
“You gave them a spreadsheet, Damien. A literal spreadsheet. With color coding.”
“It’s called structure.”
“It’s called tyranny when it starts with ‘6:00 AM – Wake up. Brush teeth. Make bed. No exceptions.’”
He blinked. “Children thrive on routine.”
“They’re not stock portfolios. They’re kids.”
The argument escalated from there.
Over breakfast menus.
Over school choices.
Over bedtime.
Over Damien’s insistence that Hazel be put in an advanced gifted program when she still counted on her fingers.
Arielle snapped, “You’re not listening to them. You’re controlling them.”
“I’m giving them the best!”
“You’re giving them you.”
The room froze.
Damien’s jaw clenched.
Arielle crossed her arms. “You don’t have to make them mini-Kingstons to prove you’re their father.”
“And you don’t get to act like you’re the only one who’s raised them,” he shot back.
“I am the only one who’s raised them.”
Silence.
Painful. Sharp.
Later, Damien found her sitting on the back terrace, legs pulled to her chest.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said quietly.
She didn’t look at him. “Didn’t you?”
He walked over, sat beside her.
The sky was painted in dusky lavender. The twins chased each other on the lawn, their laughter echoing faintly.
“I’m scared,” he admitted.
Arielle turned.
“I don’t know how to do this. I can’t undo the years I missed. I can’t make them love me the way they love you.”
“They don’t need you to be perfect. They need you to show up.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
And in that quiet moment, the tension gave way to something warmer.
A heartbeat shared.
That night, Damien helped Lily with her math homework.
No laptops. No assistants. Just pencils, erasers, and patience.
Arielle read bedtime stories. Damien did the voices.
They tucked each child in together.
Then stood in the hallway, not quite ready to separate.
“Still mad at me?” he asked.
“Still think kids should operate on spreadsheets?”
He smirked. “Touché.”
She turned to go, but he caught her hand.
“I meant what I said. I’m not perfect. But I’m here.”
She looked at him.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. Or polite.
It was hot with tension. Years of longing and fury and need.
When they pulled apart, breathless, she whispered, “Then show me you’re here.”
And Damien did.
Which usually meant something was either about to explode—or already had.
Arielle stormed into the solarium, barefoot, wearing Damien’s oversized hoodie. Her face was flushed, her hair tied in a messy bun that screamed she hadn’t had sleep, peace, or coffee.
Damien looked up from the files spread across his tablet. “Let me guess. Noah broke another window?”
“No,” she snapped. “But your idea of ‘discipline’ makes me wonder if you think parenting is the same as running a corporate boot camp.”
He sat straighter. “Excuse me?”
“You gave them a spreadsheet, Damien. A literal spreadsheet. With color coding.”
“It’s called structure.”
“It’s called tyranny when it starts with ‘6:00 AM – Wake up. Brush teeth. Make bed. No exceptions.’”
He blinked. “Children thrive on routine.”
“They’re not stock portfolios. They’re kids.”
The argument escalated from there.
Over breakfast menus.
Over school choices.
Over bedtime.
Over Damien’s insistence that Hazel be put in an advanced gifted program when she still counted on her fingers.
Arielle snapped, “You’re not listening to them. You’re controlling them.”
“I’m giving them the best!”
“You’re giving them you.”
The room froze.
Damien’s jaw clenched.
Arielle crossed her arms. “You don’t have to make them mini-Kingstons to prove you’re their father.”
“And you don’t get to act like you’re the only one who’s raised them,” he shot back.
“I am the only one who’s raised them.”
Silence.
Painful. Sharp.
Later, Damien found her sitting on the back terrace, legs pulled to her chest.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he said quietly.
She didn’t look at him. “Didn’t you?”
He walked over, sat beside her.
The sky was painted in dusky lavender. The twins chased each other on the lawn, their laughter echoing faintly.
“I’m scared,” he admitted.
Arielle turned.
“I don’t know how to do this. I can’t undo the years I missed. I can’t make them love me the way they love you.”
“They don’t need you to be perfect. They need you to show up.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
She leaned her head on his shoulder.
And in that quiet moment, the tension gave way to something warmer.
A heartbeat shared.
That night, Damien helped Lily with her math homework.
No laptops. No assistants. Just pencils, erasers, and patience.
Arielle read bedtime stories. Damien did the voices.
They tucked each child in together.
Then stood in the hallway, not quite ready to separate.
“Still mad at me?” he asked.
“Still think kids should operate on spreadsheets?”
He smirked. “Touché.”
She turned to go, but he caught her hand.
“I meant what I said. I’m not perfect. But I’m here.”
She looked at him.
And kissed him.
It wasn’t soft. Or polite.
It was hot with tension. Years of longing and fury and need.
When they pulled apart, breathless, she whispered, “Then show me you’re here.”
And Damien did.
End of One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- Chapter 23. Continue reading Chapter 24 or return to One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- book page.