One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 90: Chapter 90

The headlines hit the newsstands before the sun had even risen.
“QUEEN OF HAVEN: ARIELLE BLACKWELL’S TRIUMPH.”
“FROM GRIEF TO GLORY—HOW ONE WOMAN RECLAIMED AN EMPIRE.”
“Arielle Blackwell Crowned Titan of Industry.”
Screens lit up in boardrooms and beauty salons alike. Her photo—elegant in a navy dress, her hand raised in a quiet wave outside Haven Tower—was everywhere. She looked poised. Powerful.
But the real Arielle sat in her bathroom, head in her hands, as the shower ran hot and loud behind her.
She hadn’t slept.
Not because of fear this time—but because her body had simply refused to rest. Her mind was a carousel of faces, files, decisions, and tiny voices that called her Mama every morning with hungry yawns and sticky fingers.
Her reflection looked like a stranger.
Was this what victory looked like?
Later that morning, she sat through another two-hour strategy meeting, nodding, speaking when necessary, every gesture precise. The loyal few were with her, and the board had calmed—for now.
But her hands ached from clenching.
Her smile was porcelain.
The weight of expectation pressed on her ribs like iron.
After the meeting, Isolde found her in the hallway outside the executive suite, heels off, back pressed against the cold wall, eyes shut.
“You look like hell,” Isolde said quietly.
Arielle gave a breathless laugh. “You’re kind.”
“You should rest.”
“I can’t.”
“You have to. Burnout doesn’t wear a crown. It wears a hospital bracelet.”
Arielle finally opened her eyes. “They think I’m unstoppable.”
“They’re wrong,” Isolde said. “You’re human. And that’s what makes you worth following.”
That evening, Arielle made it home just in time for bedtime.
Elijah had fallen asleep with a book on his chest. Jonah was building a spaceship out of socks. Iris had glued glitter to her pillow and declared it “enchanted.” And Lily—the youngest—ran into her arms the moment she stepped through the door.
“Mama!” she giggled. “Did you win today?”
Arielle smiled. “Yes, baby. I did.”
“Are you tired?”
“Very.”
“Then I will sing you a song!”
She hummed a messy, perfect melody into Arielle’s neck. And for one long, golden moment, everything else fell away.
But when the kids were tucked in, and the lights were low, Arielle stood alone in the hallway.
The silence was crushing.
She walked into the master bedroom—their bedroom—and sat on the edge of the bed that still smelled like him.
Damien’s watch still sat on the nightstand.
His favorite hoodie was folded at the foot of the bed. She wore it some nights, though she would never admit it aloud.
She whispered, “I’m holding it together, love. Barely. But I’m doing it.”
The tears came quietly. No sobs. Just exhaustion bleeding through the cracks.
The next morning, Patrice arrived to find Arielle already reviewing documents.
“You didn’t sleep again, did you?”
Arielle didn’t answer.
Instead, she handed Patrice a document. “I want this new maternity policy drafted and presented by next week. Paid leave. Childcare support. For every branch. No more excuses.”
Patrice smiled. “You’re rewriting more than business, you know.”
“I’m rewriting the rules.”
“And what title would you like in the press release?”
Arielle looked up, eyes burning bright.
“Just call me what they already are.”
“Queen of the Empire?”
Arielle chuckled softly. “No. Just ‘Mother of the Storm.’”
Outside, the world roared with applause.
Inside, a woman rebuilt herself again—and again—without anyone noticing the cost.
But the throne was hers.
And this time, she hadn’t inherited it.
She’d earned it.