One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 79: Chapter 79

The ballroom shimmered with cold elegance—marble floors, gilded chandeliers, and a press wall lined with every major media outlet’s logo. Outside, protesters and supporters roared in equal measure. Inside, Arielle stood beneath the stage lights, their heat competing with the fire already blooming in her chest.
She wasn’t just here for Damien.
She was here for truth.
And for every woman who’d ever been told to stay silent.
Cameras clicked.
Reporters murmured.
The board of Damien’s company sat in the front row, their expressions tight, guarded. Investors had pulled out. Stocks had dipped. The rumor mill hadn’t slept since Damien’s disappearance—and his alleged involvement in a secret offshore experiment had sent headlines into a frenzy.
And now she stood here, the wife of a missing CEO, the target of whispered slander and whispered pity.
She looked out over the sea of expectant faces and drew a breath deep enough to ground herself.
Then she stepped to the podium.
“I’m not here to defend a man incapable of defending himself,” she began, voice calm but clear. “I’m here to remind you who he truly is.”
A ripple moved through the audience.
She raised a hand, holding up a photo.
Damien—smiling in a hospital bed, bruised, weak, but alive. It had been taken only three days ago, hours after they’d pulled him from Lucien’s transport convoy in Iceland.
“I won’t sugarcoat it. Damien was taken. Tortured. Drugged. His company used as a shield for another man’s greed. And while some of you panicked—selling stock, pointing fingers, hiding behind NDAs—he was fighting to stay alive.”
Gasps erupted.
She stepped forward.
“You call yourselves stakeholders. But what you hold isn’t just shares or percentages. You hold responsibility. And silence won’t protect you from the truth.”
Someone in the third row stood. “Is it true you forged company documents to cover for your husband?”
Arielle looked him dead in the eyes. “No. But I did break into a classified facility and nearly died doing it—just to find him. So if you want to prosecute something, start with that.”
Laughter broke out. Scattered applause followed.
Her voice softened.
“I’ve been a mother. A wife. A woman buried in tabloid lies. But today, I stand as something else—someone unafraid.”
She took out a folder and dropped it on the podium.
“Evidence. Emails. Codes. The full truth of what Lucien Varga did—and how deep it goes. All of it. I’m releasing it to the public tonight.”
Shock.
Outrage.
Cheers.
Her spine stayed straight.
“Because hiding truth never protected anyone—it only delayed justice.”
After the speech, the room exploded with sound.
Reporters surged. Questions flew. People who had once doubted her now looked at her with something like respect—something sharper than sympathy.
Arielle walked through the crowd, no longer ducking cameras.
Outside, the protesters had quieted. Someone began chanting her name.
Inside the limo, Étienne waited. He handed her a glass of water.
“You’ve changed the game.”
She nodded, gaze locked out the window.
“I didn’t come to play. I came to win.”
He passed her a phone. “Call came in during your speech. They want a full interview. Primetime. International.”
She hesitated.
Then took the phone.
“Book it. But not until Damien’s well enough to sit beside me.”
Back at the recovery compound, Damien was awake again.
Weaker, but himself.
She stepped into the room, set the news clip of her speech playing on the screen.
He watched, silent.
Then smiled.
“You always did look good in the spotlight.”
Tears pricked her eyes.
“I only learned how to stand there because
you always believed I could.”
He reached for her hand.
“And you didn’t just stand there, Arielle. You burned.”