One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 47: Chapter 47

The living room was a quiet battlefield of silence and low lamplight. Arielle sat on the couch, arms wrapped tightly around her knees, while Damien scrolled through his phone, scanning backlash reports from news outlets, influencers, and tabloids.
Despite his swift acquisition of the blog, other media vultures were beginning to pick at her story, sniffing for blood. Speculation twisted even the kindest details of Arielle’s life into salacious fiction.
The worst part wasn’t the headlines.
It was the fear in their daughter’s eyes.
Liana had come home from school teary-eyed, her sketchbook torn, the word liar scribbled in black crayon across the cover. Some child had repeated their parent’s cruelty.
“She said my mommy’s fake,” Liana had whispered, her small voice broken. “She said Mommy stole Daddy from a pretty lady who had more money.”
Arielle had barely slept that night.
Now, two days later, Liana stood in the kitchen wearing a purple dress with glittery ballet flats, her backpack too big for her tiny shoulders.
“I need to do something,” she said.
Damien crouched down, adjusting her collar. “You’re doing something by being strong, little star.”
“No, I mean, I want to speak. To the class. To everybody. They need to know the truth.”
Arielle walked over. “Sweetheart, I appreciate that. But you don’t have to fix this.”
“I’m not fixing. I’m just telling the truth.”
They exchanged a glance. Damien’s expression held admiration. Arielle’s held worry.
“Okay,” Damien said softly. “But we’ll be there. The whole time.”
It began as a simple idea—a ‘Hero Talk’ assignment where students could give a five-minute speech about someone they admired.
The auditorium wasn’t packed, but it was filled with parents, peers, teachers, and administrators. Just enough of a crowd to feel terrifying.
Arielle sat near the back, gripping Damien’s hand so tightly her knuckles turned white.
Then their daughter stepped onstage.
Small. Confident. Radiant.
She adjusted the microphone, cleared her throat, and began.
“My name is Liana Lancaster. And my hero is my mom.”
Whispers began immediately. Phones lifted. Someone was already recording.
“She’s my hero because she’s brave. Not the kind of brave like in cartoons. Real brave. Like when you smile even if people say mean things about you.”
A pause. She held her index cards carefully.
“Some people say my mommy didn’t belong in our family. That she wasn’t born with money. That she was adopted. But I don’t care about that. I care that she makes the best birthday cakes and tucks me in even when she’s tired. She made a bakery from scratch with her hands. Not magic. Just work.”
A soft murmur rippled through the room.
“She tells me stories about when she was little. She didn’t have a big house or a driver. But she had books and dreams. And now... she has me. And I think that’s the best story of all.”
Liana looked up from her notes.
“People say stuff about her on the internet. They think I don’t know. But I see everything. And I want to say something back.”
She turned to the crowd.
“My mommy is not fake. She’s fire. She’s flowers. She’s strong like Daddy, but warmer. And if you ever make her cry again, I’ll find you when I grow up.”
Laughter burst out before quickly transforming into stunned silence.
She finished with a simple nod. “Thank you.”
The room erupted.
Teachers clapped. Parents rose. And every phone in the room recorded the moment the daughter of Damien and Arielle Lancaster stood up—not with privilege, but with pride.
The video went viral in under twelve hours.
Hashtags bloomed: #FireAndFlowers, #LianaLancaster, #NotFakeShe’sFire
Even celebrities shared it. One talk show host wrote: “I didn’t expect to cry over a 6-year-old speech. But here we are.”
Online sentiment shifted rapidly.
The world didn’t just see a wife anymore.
They saw a mother worth fighting for.
That night, Arielle tucked Liana into bed and whispered, “You were amazing today.”
Liana beamed. “Did I scare the bad people?”
Arielle kissed her forehead. “You made them rethink what ‘bad’ even means.”
When she returned to their bedroom, Damien was leaning against the window, sipping whiskey.
“She reminds me of you,” he said.
Arielle walked to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “She’s better.”
“No,” Damien whispered. “She’s you—just shorter.”
And together, they stood in the moonlight, no longer just defending themselves.
But watching their daughter become a voice of truth in a world that had forgotten how to listen.