One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 42: Chapter 42

The media frenzy had metastasized overnight into a hydra of speculation, opinion pieces, and social media “think threads.” Some questioned Arielle’s character, others dissected the Lancaster marriage with disturbing intimacy. As if their private love story was public property.
Damien watched it all from the glass wall of his office on the 67th floor of Lancaster Tower. The city pulsed below like a breathing organism, blind to the storm it had become part of. He stood still, hands clasped behind his back, sharp in a tailored charcoal suit that reflected the minimal morning light.
Behind him, his assistant, Natalie, stood tight-lipped, clutching an iPad.
“The press conference begins in fifteen minutes, sir,” she said carefully. “We’ve been advised to cancel or reschedule.”
Damien turned.
His eyes were steel. “Who advised that?”
Natalie swallowed. “PR, legal, and the external consulting firm. They said it might escalate things further.”
“Good. Then they’ll escalate.”
She gave a silent nod and disappeared to finalize the preparations.
Damien turned back to the city. Somewhere out there, Arielle was watching. And if there was one thing he knew about his wife—it wasn’t the lies that broke her. It was silence.
He would not be silent.
The media room at Lancaster Holdings had never been this crowded.
Every seat was taken. Press from national and international outlets crowded the walls. Cameras were stacked three rows deep. Phones lifted into the air like worshipers at a digital altar.
Everyone had seen the articles. Everyone had an opinion. But no one had heard from Damien Lancaster. Until now.
The doors opened.
And he walked in.
The noise died instantly. He walked with the assured grace of a man who did not doubt his power. Behind him, the company’s media liaison, legal head, and Natalie followed like shadows.
He took the podium alone.
Silence reigned for ten seconds.
Then—
“My name is Damien Lancaster.”
Another pause.
“And today, I am not speaking to defend my company.”
He let the words settle.
“I’m speaking to defend my wife.”
A ripple went through the room.
“Over the past twenty-four hours, my wife, Arielle Lancaster, has been subjected to a vicious, coordinated attack against her character. Anonymous sources. Unsubstantiated claims. Deliberate distortion of her past in an attempt to discredit her and destabilize me.”
He looked into the camera. Not at the reporters. Into the lens.
“Let me make something perfectly clear. I met Arielle when she was working three jobs. Not because she was weak—but because she was strong. Because she was taking care of her family. Because she refused to let poverty define her. She earned everything—everything—through grit, talent, and unshakable dignity.”
A few reporters tried to whisper into their mics. Damien raised his voice, slicing through them.
“She did not manipulate me. I pursued her. She did not beg for status. I offered her my name, and she refused it three times before saying yes. You don’t know her. You know stories. Fiction written by cowards who wouldn’t last a day in her shoes.”
He exhaled slowly.
“And as for the claim that she’s a ‘distraction’ to my empire—let me correct the record. Arielle is my empire’s foundation. Her integrity inspires our company’s ethical policies. Her courage shapes our community programs. She is not just the woman I married. She is the reason I became a better man.”
A stunned silence.
“I will be pursuing criminal charges against those responsible for the leaks, as well as civil damages for defamation. If you are involved, even indirectly, you should prepare your legal team.”
Click. Flash. Click. Flash.
“And lastly,” Damien added, voice dipping an octave, “if you ever try to tear down the mother of my children again, you will not be facing a press release. You will be facing me.”
With that, he stepped back.
The room erupted. Reporters shouted questions. PR tried to cut the feed.
But Damien was already gone.
Arielle had watched the broadcast from her bakery’s back office. Alone.
The moment he said her name, her fingers clenched around the teacup. By the time he declared her his foundation, tears blurred her vision.
He hadn’t just defended her. He had rewritten her narrative in front of the world. Not as a liability. But as a legacy.
Her phone buzzed. Dozens of texts poured in—from old friends, journalists apologizing, even anonymous strangers. One simply said:
> “Your husband? That’s a king.”
She laughed, shakily, wiping her eyes.
The front doorbell chimed. The bakery had opened late today, and now her team stood watching her like curious children.
“M-Mrs. Lancaster?” her sous-chef whispered. “The line outside wraps around the block.”
“What?”
“They saw the press conference. They’re here for you.”
Arielle walked to the front window. And stared.
There were families. Women in designer coats. Teenagers with their phones out. Elderly couples. All standing in line for her cinnamon rolls and almond croissants—but mostly, for her.
They waved when they saw her.
Her knees nearly gave way. Her manager caught her elbow. “You okay?”
Arielle nodded, voice cracking. “I’m more than okay. I’m seen.”
That night, Damien returned home to find the lights in the nursery on.
He entered quietly. Arielle sat in the rocking chair, one of their twins asleep in her arms, the other already curled in the crib. She looked up at him, love and exhaustion shining in equal measure.
He said nothing, just knelt in front of her and pressed his forehead against her knee.
She ran her fingers through his hair.
“I saw what you did,” she whispered.
“You’re my wife,” he said simply. “My heart doesn’t beat for headlines. It beats for you.”
Tears slipped down her cheek. “They tried to write me out of our story.”
“And I rewrote the ending,” he murmured.
Together, they stayed like that, a quiet king and his queen, while their kingdom exhaled—and began to believe again.