One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 58: Chapter 58
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Rain soaked the city that afternoon—gentle, steady, cleansing.
Inside the Lancaster townhouse, warmth bloomed from the kitchen oven. Arielle had sent the kids off with Damien for the afternoon so she could finish organizing the attic. The old boxes had become more than clutter—they were quiet invitations from the past, beckoning her closer.
She dusted off a wooden trunk marked ‘Westwood – Personal.’
Her breath hitched.
It wasn’t her handwriting. And she’d never seen it before.
Kneeling, she opened it. Inside: yellowing letters. Dried flowers. A cracked porcelain music box.
And beneath it all—an old photograph.
She sat back, hard.
It was her. Or at least, a girl who looked too much like her to be coincidence. About four years old. In pigtails. Sitting between a man with sandy hair and a woman with deep brown eyes.
On the back of the photo: "Lena and Thomas, with little Ari – Summer ‘96."
Ari.
Her nickname.
Her throat tightened.
She took the photo downstairs and sat at the kitchen table, staring.
Damien returned soon after, kids in tow. He took one look at her face and stopped.
“Ari?”
She held the picture out silently.
He sat beside her, gently. Studied it. “Your parents?”
“I think so,” she whispered. “They called me ‘Ari.’ My foster files never mentioned names. Just a fire. And that I was found in a shelter two months later.”
He reached for her hand.
“There’s more,” she said. “Letters. One from someone named ‘R. Valen.’ Signed every time with the same phrase: ‘Forgive me. I couldn’t stay.’”
Damien’s brow furrowed. “A relative?”
“Maybe.”
She looked at the photo again.
“I want to find them. Or what’s left.”
He nodded. “Then we will.”
That night, she lay in bed, the photograph pressed between her palms.
Her childhood had always been a blur—a half-forgotten dream. Her memories began with institutional beds and plastic trays of food.
Now, suddenly, there was color. Summer. Sunlight. Love.
Who were Lena and Thomas?
Why had no one told her they existed?
She rose in the dark and returned to the attic, this time looking for more.
She found a faded teddy bear. A music box. A hospital bracelet with her name—Arielle Westwood—and a birth date that matched.
She wept.
Quietly. Fiercely.
Then she called her lawyer.
“I need access to sealed juvenile records. And every foster placement file from 1996.”
Damien stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said gently.
She smiled through tears. “I know. But this—I have to start it myself.”
He stepped forward, cupped her face.
“Then I’ll wait at every corner. Every door. Every shadow.”
She nodded.
The photo was tucked into her journal that night.
It no longer felt like a piece of the past.
It felt like a compass.
Inside the Lancaster townhouse, warmth bloomed from the kitchen oven. Arielle had sent the kids off with Damien for the afternoon so she could finish organizing the attic. The old boxes had become more than clutter—they were quiet invitations from the past, beckoning her closer.
She dusted off a wooden trunk marked ‘Westwood – Personal.’
Her breath hitched.
It wasn’t her handwriting. And she’d never seen it before.
Kneeling, she opened it. Inside: yellowing letters. Dried flowers. A cracked porcelain music box.
And beneath it all—an old photograph.
She sat back, hard.
It was her. Or at least, a girl who looked too much like her to be coincidence. About four years old. In pigtails. Sitting between a man with sandy hair and a woman with deep brown eyes.
On the back of the photo: "Lena and Thomas, with little Ari – Summer ‘96."
Ari.
Her nickname.
Her throat tightened.
She took the photo downstairs and sat at the kitchen table, staring.
Damien returned soon after, kids in tow. He took one look at her face and stopped.
“Ari?”
She held the picture out silently.
He sat beside her, gently. Studied it. “Your parents?”
“I think so,” she whispered. “They called me ‘Ari.’ My foster files never mentioned names. Just a fire. And that I was found in a shelter two months later.”
He reached for her hand.
“There’s more,” she said. “Letters. One from someone named ‘R. Valen.’ Signed every time with the same phrase: ‘Forgive me. I couldn’t stay.’”
Damien’s brow furrowed. “A relative?”
“Maybe.”
She looked at the photo again.
“I want to find them. Or what’s left.”
He nodded. “Then we will.”
That night, she lay in bed, the photograph pressed between her palms.
Her childhood had always been a blur—a half-forgotten dream. Her memories began with institutional beds and plastic trays of food.
Now, suddenly, there was color. Summer. Sunlight. Love.
Who were Lena and Thomas?
Why had no one told her they existed?
She rose in the dark and returned to the attic, this time looking for more.
She found a faded teddy bear. A music box. A hospital bracelet with her name—Arielle Westwood—and a birth date that matched.
She wept.
Quietly. Fiercely.
Then she called her lawyer.
“I need access to sealed juvenile records. And every foster placement file from 1996.”
Damien stood in the doorway, arms crossed.
“You’re not alone in this,” he said gently.
She smiled through tears. “I know. But this—I have to start it myself.”
He stepped forward, cupped her face.
“Then I’ll wait at every corner. Every door. Every shadow.”
She nodded.
The photo was tucked into her journal that night.
It no longer felt like a piece of the past.
It felt like a compass.
End of One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- Chapter 58. Continue reading Chapter 59 or return to One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- book page.