One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 41: Chapter 41

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft glow across the spacious master bedroom of the Lancaster estate. Arielle stirred beneath the silky sheets, the warmth of Damien's usual embrace notably absent. She blinked slowly, disoriented by the silence. Normally, the soft sounds of the children laughing or Damien murmuring low into his phone greeted her. But today—there was nothing but stillness.
She reached over to the other side of the bed, her fingers brushing against the cold linen. He hadn’t come back to bed.
A low hum broke the silence. Her phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand, the screen glowing with a stream of notifications. She hesitated, a knot forming in her stomach. Something didn’t feel right.
She grabbed the phone, unlocking it with a swipe. The screen exploded with chaos—her name trending on social media, news apps flashing her face with dramatic red headlines, her inbox flooded with unread messages from contacts she hadn’t spoken to in years.
A headline caught her eye:
> "ARIELLE LANCASTER: FROM RAGS TO MISTRESS? DARK PAST EXPOSED!"
Her heart stopped.
With trembling fingers, she clicked the article. It unfurled like a horror novel.
“Before marrying Damien Lancaster, CEO of Lancaster Holdings, Arielle was nothing more than a cafe waitress and suspected mistress to multiple wealthy men. Sources reveal a dark, manipulative past, including a potential scandal involving her adoptive father’s business collapse...”
Arielle dropped the phone.
Her breath hitched violently as she stood on shaky legs. The room spun for a second as the weight of betrayal—the invasion—crashed into her like a tidal wave. Her past, twisted and manipulated, now the world’s spectacle. She stumbled toward the bathroom, splashing cold water on her face, gripping the marble counter.
Calm down, she told herself. Breathe.
But the mirror reflected more than water droplets. It reflected the old wounds the article had clawed open. Years of clawing her way up from poverty, of being judged, underestimated, labeled.
And now, this.
“Arielle?”
Her head jerked up at the sound of Damien’s voice. He was leaning against the doorframe, still dressed in a perfectly pressed black suit, tie undone at the neck. His gray eyes, cold and calculating to the world, were stormy now—focused on her.
He stepped in, closing the door behind him, then crossed the room with that quiet intensity only he possessed.
“You saw it.”
She nodded, unable to speak. Her throat burned.
“I should’ve stopped it before it reached you.” His voice was low, laced with restrained fury. He reached out to tuck a damp strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sorry.”
Arielle’s eyes shimmered, but she didn’t let the tears fall. Not yet. “Who would do this?” she rasped.
Damien’s jaw clenched. “Someone powerful. Someone desperate.”
He pulled his phone out and handed it to her. On the screen was a paused video. “I wanted you to see this first.”
She pressed play.
The video was grainy but clear. A boardroom. A group of executives sitting in tense silence as a man in a dark blazer stood in front of them.
“Damien Lancaster’s wife is his greatest weakness,” the man said. “We leak this dossier, and watch the empire bleed.”
The video ended.
Arielle handed the phone back slowly. “That was a board meeting.”
Damien nodded grimly. “Someone recorded it secretly. One of my allies. The man speaking is Gregory Shaw—Chairman of the Eastern Investment Alliance.”
“I don’t even know him.”
“You don’t need to. He knows you threaten his control over me.” Damien stepped closer, his hand resting at the curve of her waist. “He thinks you’re a pawn. He doesn’t realize you’re the queen.”
Her chin trembled. “He dredged up things that weren’t even true. And the ones that are—he twisted them into shameful narratives.”
“He’ll regret it.”
There was something terrifyingly quiet in Damien’s promise. Not loud rage, but cold precision. She knew that tone. It meant war.
Arielle looked up at him. “Do we respond?”
“Yes.” He cupped her face gently. “But not yet. Let them think they’ve drawn blood. Then we strike back—with everything.”
She nodded slowly. “I want to fight too.”
Damien’s smile was small, but fierce. “I wouldn’t want to do this with anyone else.”
—
Later that day, the whispers had become roars.
Reporters camped outside the Lancaster estate gates. Online forums flooded with opinions. Some defended her; many tore her apart. Even her bakery’s business profile saw review bombs. The world was watching, and it wasn’t kind.
Arielle sat in her office, surrounded by flowers that no longer calmed her, silence that no longer soothed.
Then came the worst part.
Her mother called.
“Sweetheart,” the older woman whispered through the phone, “why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“There was nothing to tell. That’s not me. Not like they say.”
“I know. I believe you.” Her mother hesitated. “But your father... he’s... he’s upset.”
Of course he was. Her adoptive father had always carried pride in his clean image, even when his business collapsed due to betrayal from his own partner.
Arielle ended the call with numb fingers. Another thread unraveling.
That evening, she stood outside on the balcony as the city lights twinkled below like indifferent stars.
Damien joined her quietly, offering a warm mug of herbal tea. She didn’t speak for a while. Neither did he.
Then she whispered, “What if our kids see this one day? What if they believe it?”
Damien turned her toward him. “Then they’ll see how you held your head high through it. How you didn’t break. How their mother was stronger than the lies.”
That night, as they lay in bed, Damien held her tighter than usual.
“I’ve put security on the kids’ school. I’ve ordered a cyber-investigation team to trace the leak,” he murmured into her hair. “By morning, we’ll have a list of everyone involved.”
“What happens after that?”
His breath tickled her ear. “We burn the bastards to the ground.”
Arielle didn’t smile. She didn’t laugh. But in Damien’s arms, with the scent
of war and jasmine around them, she finally closed her eyes.
And slept like a woman ready to reclaim her narrative.