One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 45: Chapter 45

The invitation arrived on thick, embossed cardstock, its gold-leaf details catching the morning light like something sacred. Arielle stared at it across the breakfast table, her fingers wrapped tightly around a cup of green tea.
Rosebridge’s annual Philanthropy Gala. Attendance: mandatory for the PTA’s featured members. Which included her, as of last week’s vote.
Damien lowered his newspaper slowly. “You don’t have to go.”
She gave a tired smile. “I do, actually. Unless I want them to say I’m hiding.”
He leaned forward. “Let them talk.”
She exhaled. “We’re not fighting this with silence. You said it yourself—we show up.”
Damien’s jaw tightened. “Then we show up together.”
The ballroom was a cathedral of glass and glitter. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen constellations above polished marble floors. Waiters in white gloves offered flutes of champagne and miniature truffle bites. Classical strings whispered through the air.
Arielle entered on Damien’s arm, a vision in midnight blue silk that wrapped around her like armor. Her hair was swept into an elegant knot. The room fell silent for a breath, the orchestra pausing mid-measure.
All eyes turned.
Whispers hissed behind manicured hands:
“She actually came?”
“Who invited her?”
“Look at him—he’s never looked at anyone like that.”
But Damien only had eyes for her. He guided her through the crowd with the confidence of a man walking into his own kingdom.
They were halfway to the center of the room when a voice slithered through the golden light.
“Arielle.”
She stopped.
It was Helena Draycott.
The name alone turned stomachs. Former socialite. Failed fashion house owner. And one of Arielle’s most difficult past clients—before Arielle had married into power.
Helena wore a venomous smile, her dress dripping with sequins like a serpent’s skin.
“I must say, I was surprised to see your name on the list.”
Arielle kept her voice even. “I’m sure you were.”
“Last I heard, you were baking muffins for charity. Quite the leap to champagne galas.”
Arielle’s jaw flexed. “It’s called growth, Helena. You should try it sometime.”
Helena leaned in. “Careful, dear. This room runs on pedigree. Not pity.”
Arielle didn’t blink. “Then why are you still begging for relevance in it?”
Helena’s smile shattered.
Damien stepped forward, his voice calm, lethal. “Is there a problem here?”
Helena turned, caught off-guard by how close he’d moved. “Mr. Lancaster. I was simply welcoming your wife.”
“With that tone?”
“Surely, you misunderstand—”
Damien’s smile was surgical. “I’ve never misunderstood a threat. And I’m sure you remember what happened the last time someone crossed a line with me.”
Helena swallowed hard.
Damien wrapped an arm around Arielle, steering her away. “Let’s not waste breath on ghosts.”
The moment they left Helena behind, the crowd shifted. The orchestra resumed. New conversations sparked. But the narrative had already changed.
At their table, Arielle finally exhaled. “I wasn’t going to let her ruin tonight.”
“You didn’t,” Damien said. “You destroyed her with elegance.”
“I just told the truth.”
He raised her hand to his lips. “Which is why it cut so deep.”
As the gala unfolded, Arielle found herself surrounded by unexpected allies. A designer she’d once advised thanked her for a bakery recipe. A banker’s wife shyly asked for parenting tips. Even the event director whispered, “We need more women like you.”
And for the first time, Arielle realized—this wasn’t just survival.
It was reclamation.
That night, as the gala lights dimmed and the world outside spun on, Arielle danced in Damien’s arms beneath a ceiling of stars.
Not as someone’s scandal.
But as her own story.