One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 53: Chapter 53

Rain tapped softly on the bakery windows as dawn pushed through the gray skyline. Arielle stood at the counter, sleeves rolled, flour-dusted hands coaxing dough into soft, perfect rolls. The bakery was quiet save for the low hum of the ovens and the occasional hiss from the coffee machine.
Behind her, the bell above the door jingled.
She looked up, expecting Jenny.
It was Damien.
He wore jeans—rare. A dark hoodie. And over that... a tan apron. Her apron.
Arielle blinked.
“I had a meeting,” he said casually, walking in like this wasn’t the strangest thing he’d ever done, “but it got canceled. Thought I’d come by and help.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You mean help by drinking the fresh espresso and offering unsolicited architectural critiques?”
“No,” he replied, stepping behind the counter. “I mean help by actually baking.”
She laughed. “Damien, you’re the CEO of a billion-dollar empire. You once burnt instant oatmeal.”
He pulled out a folded recipe card. “And now I’m going to make chocolate scones. With orange zest.”
Arielle blinked again. “You wrote that down?”
“I Googled. And then I called your mother.”
She covered her mouth to stop from laughing.
He washed his hands. Tied the apron tighter. And followed her instructions step by step.
It was awkward.
Flour on the floor. Batter in his hair. The rolling pin clattered once. But Damien Lancaster—the same man who once intimidated international boards with a single stare—was standing in her bakery, covered in powdered sugar and grinning.
Jenny arrived an hour later, paused mid-step, and blinked at the scene.
Damien looked up from kneading.
“Good morning.”
She looked at Arielle. “Is he... sanctioned to touch the mixer?”
“He is,” Arielle replied. “For now.”
Photos were taken. First by Jenny. Then by a regular customer. Then by a delivery driver.
By noon, the internet was ablaze.
#CEOinAnApron trended globally.
Photos showed Damien dusted in cocoa powder, helping Milo crack eggs, his arms around Arielle as she guided his hands piping cream onto cupcakes.
One video captured him spinning Liana in the air and placing her on the counter beside a tray of cookies. Another showed him sneaking a bite and feigning innocence when Arielle slapped his shoulder.
People online went feral.
> "Find me a man who kneads dough and defends honor like Damien Lancaster."
> "If this man ran for president in that apron, I'd vote twice."
> "I don’t know what smells better—those scones or that man."
At lunch, Arielle cornered Damien in the back prep room.
“Why are you doing all this?”
He shrugged. “You once said you wanted people to see us for who we really are. Not just what they think we are.”
“And you think people seeing you in an apron will help?”
“I think people seeing me helping you tells a better story than me buying another press release.”
She leaned in. “You know, there are easier ways to seduce me than proving you're emotionally available in an apron.”
“Too late,” he murmured, wrapping his arms around her.
He kissed her flour-dusted cheek.
“Besides,” he whispered, lips brushing her ear, “you’ve never looked sexier than you do covered in dough and fury.”
She smacked him with a dishtowel.
They laughed.
By day’s end, sales had tripled. New customers lined up just for a selfie. Reporters requested interviews. The local newspaper ran a headline:
> "Damien Lancaster Kneads Dough, Hearts."
That night, curled up on the bakery’s window seat, Arielle scrolled through photos of the day, her head resting on Damien’s shoulder.
“I think,” she said softly, “you just made this place impossible to forget.”
Damien kissed her hair. “Good. Because I never want anyone to forget how this started. With you.”
Outside, the rain had stopped.
Inside, everything was still warm.