One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 52: Chapter 52
You are reading One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband ---, Chapter 52: Chapter 52. Read more chapters of One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband ---.
The scent of brown sugar, citrus zest, and caramelized ambition filled the air as the ribbon fluttered outside Whisk & Flame. Arielle stood inside the threshold, staring at the bakery she had built from dreams and defiance.
It was opening day.
The front line of customers stretched down the block—neighbors, curious onlookers, influencers clutching their phones, and loyal patrons from her old rental space. Camera crews lurked at a distance, eager to capture either triumph or tragedy.
Arielle took one last breath before stepping behind the counter.
By 10 AM, chaos bloomed like whipped cream under pressure. The espresso machine sputtered mid-latte. A batch of croissants collapsed. Her head baker nearly fainted from the heat.
But Arielle kept smiling.
This was her battlefield.
Then Jenny came running from the kitchen, face pale.
“Arielle,” she whispered. “You need to see this.”
In the prep room, the back refrigerator—stocked for the next three days—stood open, humming weakly.
Everything inside was spoiled.
Berries had gone soft. Custards curdled. Butter bled into pools of yellow.
Arielle stared, stunned. “How—?”
Jenny swallowed hard. “Someone reset the thermostat. The door latch was... forced.”
Sabotage.
It didn’t take a genius to guess who.
Across town, Maison de Fleur—the boutique patisserie run by Gwendolyn Blake, a cutthroat pastry queen known for sugar and spite—had suddenly announced a “pop-up tasting event.” One scheduled at the exact same time.
Arielle had once refused to sell her a recipe.
This was the result.
Jenny bit her lip. “Should we cancel?”
Arielle turned slowly, her voice low but firm.
“No. We bake.”
With half her ingredients gone and the crowd growing impatient, Arielle pivoted.
The menu changed.
She ripped down the pre-printed list and scrawled new items in chalk:
Vanilla Pear Crumble Tarts
Carrot Chai Muffins
Spiced Cornbread with Honey Butter
Emergency Cinnamon Knots
The oven roared to life. She moved like flame—swift, precise, unstoppable. She sliced, stirred, folded, dusted. Sweat dripped down her spine. Her arms burned. But her resolve only grew.
At one point, Liana popped her head in from the front, eyes wide. “Mommy, everyone’s filming you.”
Arielle barely looked up. “Good. Let them watch a woman work.”
By noon, the air outside was thicker than a pastry glaze. A local food critic showed up unannounced. Instagram foodies posted reels showing “the unstoppable Arielle Lancaster reclaiming the kitchen.”
Lines grew longer.
The menu kept changing. What they lacked in prep, they made up for in authenticity.
Every item that came out was born of adrenaline and artistry.
Arielle didn’t bake to impress. She baked to survive.
To reclaim.
And people could taste it.
By late afternoon, Damien showed up—tie loosened, sleeves rolled, and an unreadable expression.
He walked past the line, stepped behind the counter, and without a word, rolled up his cuffs and began wiping counters, refilling trays, refastening display tags.
She looked at him mid-frost.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I heard there was a war.”
“There was.” She pushed a tray into the warmer. “We won.”
At closing, Arielle finally sat down. Her apron was stained with batter and success. Her hair clung to her neck. Her hands were trembling.
Liana brought her a cupcake.
“Mommy? The old lady with the silver cane said you have hands like magic.”
Arielle bit back tears.
Later that night, as she closed up and turned off the lights, a small envelope waited on the counter. Unmarked. Slipped through the mail slot.
She opened it.
Inside was a photo.
Her as a child.
In someone else’s arms.
On the back, scrawled in ink:
“It’s time to know where you come from.”
She clutched the photo to her chest.
Not fear. Not panic.
Just... readiness.
It was opening day.
The front line of customers stretched down the block—neighbors, curious onlookers, influencers clutching their phones, and loyal patrons from her old rental space. Camera crews lurked at a distance, eager to capture either triumph or tragedy.
Arielle took one last breath before stepping behind the counter.
By 10 AM, chaos bloomed like whipped cream under pressure. The espresso machine sputtered mid-latte. A batch of croissants collapsed. Her head baker nearly fainted from the heat.
But Arielle kept smiling.
This was her battlefield.
Then Jenny came running from the kitchen, face pale.
“Arielle,” she whispered. “You need to see this.”
In the prep room, the back refrigerator—stocked for the next three days—stood open, humming weakly.
Everything inside was spoiled.
Berries had gone soft. Custards curdled. Butter bled into pools of yellow.
Arielle stared, stunned. “How—?”
Jenny swallowed hard. “Someone reset the thermostat. The door latch was... forced.”
Sabotage.
It didn’t take a genius to guess who.
Across town, Maison de Fleur—the boutique patisserie run by Gwendolyn Blake, a cutthroat pastry queen known for sugar and spite—had suddenly announced a “pop-up tasting event.” One scheduled at the exact same time.
Arielle had once refused to sell her a recipe.
This was the result.
Jenny bit her lip. “Should we cancel?”
Arielle turned slowly, her voice low but firm.
“No. We bake.”
With half her ingredients gone and the crowd growing impatient, Arielle pivoted.
The menu changed.
She ripped down the pre-printed list and scrawled new items in chalk:
Vanilla Pear Crumble Tarts
Carrot Chai Muffins
Spiced Cornbread with Honey Butter
Emergency Cinnamon Knots
The oven roared to life. She moved like flame—swift, precise, unstoppable. She sliced, stirred, folded, dusted. Sweat dripped down her spine. Her arms burned. But her resolve only grew.
At one point, Liana popped her head in from the front, eyes wide. “Mommy, everyone’s filming you.”
Arielle barely looked up. “Good. Let them watch a woman work.”
By noon, the air outside was thicker than a pastry glaze. A local food critic showed up unannounced. Instagram foodies posted reels showing “the unstoppable Arielle Lancaster reclaiming the kitchen.”
Lines grew longer.
The menu kept changing. What they lacked in prep, they made up for in authenticity.
Every item that came out was born of adrenaline and artistry.
Arielle didn’t bake to impress. She baked to survive.
To reclaim.
And people could taste it.
By late afternoon, Damien showed up—tie loosened, sleeves rolled, and an unreadable expression.
He walked past the line, stepped behind the counter, and without a word, rolled up his cuffs and began wiping counters, refilling trays, refastening display tags.
She looked at him mid-frost.
“You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I heard there was a war.”
“There was.” She pushed a tray into the warmer. “We won.”
At closing, Arielle finally sat down. Her apron was stained with batter and success. Her hair clung to her neck. Her hands were trembling.
Liana brought her a cupcake.
“Mommy? The old lady with the silver cane said you have hands like magic.”
Arielle bit back tears.
Later that night, as she closed up and turned off the lights, a small envelope waited on the counter. Unmarked. Slipped through the mail slot.
She opened it.
Inside was a photo.
Her as a child.
In someone else’s arms.
On the back, scrawled in ink:
“It’s time to know where you come from.”
She clutched the photo to her chest.
Not fear. Not panic.
Just... readiness.
End of One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- Chapter 52. Continue reading Chapter 53 or return to One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- book page.