One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 63: Chapter 63

The Westwood estate loomed before Arielle like a memory she’d never known she possessed. Ivy curled around carved columns. The scent of aged oak and crushed grape hung in the air.
It felt like trespassing into her own story.
Josephine walked beside her, offering silent strength as Arielle took her first steps inside the ancestral home. Wooden floors creaked with dignity. Chandeliers glistened. Portraits lined the hall—some of strangers, some of a young Lena, smiling in her wild youth.
Arielle paused before one painting of a boy seated at a grand piano, dark curls framing his serious eyes.
“That’s him,” Josephine said.
“Him?”
“Your brother. Half-brother.”
Arielle stared. “Lena had another child?”
Josephine nodded. “After the fire. When she believed you were gone. She met someone in France—a composer. Brief, intense love. His name was Gabriel. They had Julian.”
The name hit her like a chord struck too hard.
“Julian Westwood?” she asked.
Josephine’s lips curved. “Yes. The concert pianist.”
Arielle stumbled back into a chair. “I’ve heard him play. He’s... famous. He’s the youngest to headline at the Salzburg Festival.”
“And he doesn’t know about you.”
Silence stretched between them.
Later that afternoon, Arielle sat in the music room. Dusty sunlight streamed through the glass ceiling. A grand piano waited in the corner like a sleeping beast.
Josephine had invited Julian for dinner.
“He doesn’t know?” Arielle asked again.
“Only that there’s someone Lena needed to see before she could tell him the full truth.”
Arielle’s hands were trembling when the door opened.
He entered like music—tall, lean, in a dark coat and scarf, his hair wild from the wind. His eyes were storm-grey.
She stood.
He looked at her.
Then to Josephine.
Then back.
He blinked. “You look like her.”
Arielle took a breath. “Because I’m her daughter.”
Julian froze.
“She had a daughter,” he whispered. “She said she was gone. That grief was a wound that never healed.”
“She thought I died.”
He approached slowly, disbelief and awe circling his expression.
“Do you play?” he asked, gesturing to the piano.
Arielle shook her head. “I bake.”
He smiled. “Close enough. Art. Senses. Creation.”
Dinner was cautious. Polite. Measured like the first movement of a symphony.
But by dessert, something softened. Laughter escaped. Stories unfurled. Shared memories of Lena.
And then, Julian stood.
He went to the piano.
“This piece,” he said, “was the first one I ever wrote. I called it Memory of Someone.”
He looked at Arielle.
“I think it was always for you.”
He played.
And she cried.
That night, Julian gave her a signed program from his first concert.
“To Arielle,” it read, “my sister. Found at last.”
She held it close.
Family, once lost, now came in unexpected notes.
And Arielle was learning how to hear the music of belonging.