One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 81: Chapter 81

The morning sun poured like molten gold across the city skyline, brushing Haven Corporation’s glass tower with a soft amber glow. Inside the marble-clad boardroom on the top floor, tension hung like smoke in the air—heavy, stifling, expectant.
Arielle stood in front of the grand double doors, her hand resting briefly on the cool metal handle. Her reflection stared back from the brushed steel—a woman both familiar and foreign. Her hair was swept into a low chignon, her lips painted in a muted power-red, and her tailored navy suit hugged her figure with understated authority. But it was the eyes—dark, steady, burning with silent purpose—that gave away the storm she had weathered.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and pushed open the doors.
Inside, the room fell into sudden silence.
Twelve board members sat around the curved obsidian table, each cloaked in bespoke suits and guarded expressions. Some leaned back with amusement, others stiffened in surprise, but all watched her like hawks circling prey.
"Good morning," Arielle said, her voice calm, even.
No one responded.
She walked slowly to the head of the table—Damien's seat. Her heels clicked softly against the marble, a rhythm that echoed like a war drum in the otherwise hushed room. The men—and lone woman—tracked her movements with a mixture of curiosity and concealed disdain.
She stopped behind the leather chair. "As you know, Damien Blackwell, your CEO and my husband, has been missing for over four months. In his absence, Haven has suffered instability, infighting, and operational drift. Effective immediately, I am stepping in as Interim Chief Executive Officer."
Gasps. Scoffs. One outright chuckle.
Mr. Whitaker, the silver-haired head of international development, leaned forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Mrs. Blackwell, with all due respect, you are not on the executive team. You have no legal standing."
"I hold sixty percent of Damien’s voting shares and full proxy authority in his absence," Arielle replied, sliding a stamped and signed document across the table.
Whitaker scanned the paper, his lips thinning. Others murmured.
"This is outrageous," said Mrs. Linton, the COO, her clipped voice sharp with disdain. "You’re a housewife, not a CEO."
Arielle smiled faintly. "That housewife kept three children alive, managed Damien’s medical team during his recovery from the accident, and reorganized his private portfolio without losing a cent. But by all means, continue underestimating me. It makes my job easier."
Silence settled like dust.
She pulled out the chair and sat, placing a black notebook in front of her. "Let’s begin."
The next two hours were brutal.
Questions fired from all sides—some tactical, others personal. Arielle fielded each with composed intelligence, her answers peppered with data she had memorized from Damien’s archives.
At one point, Mr. Yuen, the CFO, tried to trap her with a liquidity ratio she corrected before he finished his sentence.
Another time, Linton tried to insinuate she was emotionally unstable due to her recent pregnancy loss.
Arielle’s voice barely wavered. “I lost a child. I held her in my arms. Do not mistake grief for weakness. It only sharpens the blade.”
An uneasy ripple passed through the room.
She continued.
Slide decks. Financial forecasting. Upcoming mergers. Lawsuits she already knew how to dissolve.
By the time the meeting adjourned, even Whitaker watched her with something akin to wary respect.
As the board filed out, a few paused near her chair. None dared say much. One man nodded. Another muttered, “Impressive.”
When they were gone, Arielle allowed herself a moment of stillness. Her hand trembled slightly as she lifted her glass of water.
“Not bad for a housewife,” came a voice behind her.
Mason.
Damien’s loyal friend and former security chief.
She turned. “You were watching?”
He stepped into the room. “I never left.”
She studied him—his ever-watchful eyes, the way his hand hovered near his belt as if expecting violence. “You think I can do this?”
Mason didn’t hesitate. “I think you already are.”
She exhaled slowly, the tension of the morning draining from her limbs. “I need to clean house, Mason. I need to find who betrayed Damien. I need to keep this company afloat and raise our kids and—”
“You don’t have to do it all today,” he interrupted gently. “One battle at a time.”
Arielle’s jaw tightened. “They don’t stop coming.”
He looked at her, long and hard. “Neither do you.”
Later that night, after the children had fallen asleep and the walls of the penthouse stopped echoing Damien’s absence, Arielle stood alone in his study.
His scent lingered faintly—cedarwood, ink, and something softer, like midnight air. Her fingers trailed across his bookshelf, stopping at a leather-bound journal.
She opened it slowly.
His handwriting was uneven—raw from his last weeks before vanishing.
‘If anything happens to me, protect the children. Take the company. It’s always been you I trusted with it. You know how to build an empire with love.’
Tears slipped down her cheeks.
In that moment, Arielle knew: this wasn’t about filling Damien’s shoes.
This was about building something of her own.
In heels.
And with fire in her veins.