One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 56: Chapter 56

The estate was too perfect.
Floral hedges trimmed to mathematical precision. White-gloved servers moving like shadows. Crystal teapots and gold-rimmed china laid out beneath parasols. Arielle felt like she’d stepped into a trap disguised as a magazine spread.
The invitation had come last week—an exclusive Ladies’ High Tea hosted by Victoria Langford, widow of a political mogul and Regina Holloway’s longtime ally. Arielle had debated attending. But curiosity and diplomacy won.
Now, seated at the far end of the table surrounded by designer perfume and weaponized smiles, she regretted it.
“Darling,” Victoria purred, “we’ve been so curious. You’ve had quite the year.”
Arielle offered a polite smile. “It’s certainly been transformative.”
Another woman sipped tea. “You must be exhausted—fighting Regina, starting a bakery, defending... less fortunate parents.”
“Rising above,” another chimed. “It must take so much effort.”
Their tone was honey-dipped acid.
Victoria leaned in. “What’s it like, truly? Building a life from... nothing?”
Arielle placed her cup down. “I didn’t build it from nothing. I built it from survival. Which is far more lasting than inheritance.”
Silence.
Then a laugh. Brief. Chilly.
Victoria sat back, clearly annoyed. “We simply worry that someone in your position may not understand what this school—this circle—requires.”
There it was.
The mask slipping.
“You mean people like me don’t belong,” Arielle said softly.
Victoria’s smile was razor-thin. “If the scone fits.”
The ambush came in the form of a casual mention.
“A friend of mine,” one woman said, “came across a rather... unflattering juvenile record linked to someone named Arielle Westwood.”
Heads turned. Lashes fluttered.
Arielle’s body went cold.
She didn’t flinch. “And your friend just happened to be sleuthing through sealed court records?”
“Oh no. It was mentioned in a tabloid archive. A youth center placement. Something about theft.”
The room smelled of roses and blood.
Before she could reply—
The sound of a car pulling up.
A hush.
Damien appeared.
In a black tailored suit. No warning. No announcement. Just Damien Lancaster, in all his terrifying composure.
He walked up to Arielle’s seat, placed a hand on her shoulder, and smiled with deliberate calm.
“Ladies,” he greeted coolly. “I’m afraid I need to borrow my wife.”
Victoria’s brows shot up. “Mr. Lancaster, this is a private—”
“Yes,” he interrupted. “Private enough to be discussing sealed juvenile records?”
He looked around, voice smooth but lethal.
“I assume you’ve all cleared your own skeletons before casting stones?”
No one spoke.
He helped Arielle up.
“By the way,” he added before turning, “we’ve purchased the Langford estate’s development rights. So if the neighborhood seems noisier soon—it’s probably just progress.”
He escorted Arielle to the car in silence.
Once inside, she finally exhaled.
“You didn’t have to come.”
“I always come,” he said simply. “And I don’t like when vultures peck at what’s mine.”
She turned to look at him.
“I can fight my battles, Damien.”
He met her gaze. “I know. But sometimes, it helps to know your husband brought an army.”
That night, she baked lemon scones.
The same kind served at the tea.
Except hers weren’t bitter.
And she mailed a box—with a handwritten recipe—to every woman at that table.
No note. Just the taste of what real grace looked like.