One Night Stand, Eight Surprises: Pampered by My CEO Husband --- - Chapter 97: Chapter 97

It was a box she had almost overlooked.
Tucked away behind stacks of blueprints and archived contracts in Damien’s old office closet, the wooden container had no label. Dust had settled thick on its hinges. Arielle pulled it free only because she was looking for old financial records—but what she found instead stopped her cold.
Inside were envelopes. Dozens.
Each one addressed to her, to the children, or to no one at all.
Handwritten.
Dated.
Unsent.
Arielle sat cross-legged on the office rug, the box in front of her like a relic unearthed from a lost kingdom. Her hands trembled as she lifted the first letter.
To Arielle—dated one month after Lily’s birth:
“I don’t say this enough: You are magic. Watching you hold our daughter is like watching the world reset. You’re exhausted, and still you smile. Still you sing. I don’t know how you do it.
Some days, I feel like I’m failing at everything. The company, fatherhood, being your partner. I get scared. What if I let you down?
But then you look at me. Just one look. And suddenly, I remember who I’m supposed to be.
If I never say it again—thank you for being the woman who chose me. Who stayed.
—D.”
Arielle pressed the page to her lips, her eyes burning.
One by one, she read them—letters written after every major family moment, every private storm. Some were raw confessions. Others were tender, detailed recountings of joy.
One was addressed to Elijah:
“You’ll be a better man than me. Smarter. Kinder. You already are. You won’t realize how much I admire you until you’re older. But I hope you do. I hope you never forget that you were my first miracle.”
To Iris:
“You see the world in colors I don’t even know the names of. Please never dull your shine for anyone. Especially not for me.”
To Jonah:
“Quiet isn’t a flaw, son. It’s a power. You don’t have to be loud to be brave. I see your strength, even when you don’t.”
To Lily:
“If I’m not around when you learn to ride a bike or fall in love for the first time—just know I wanted to be. I dreamed it. Every night. I already love the woman you’ll grow to be.”
That night, Arielle gathered the kids in the living room.
The fireplace crackled softly. Rain tapped against the windows.
“I found something,” she said, voice barely above a whisper.
She laid the box in front of them.
And one by one, she read the letters aloud.
There were tears. There were long silences. There were moments when one child clutched another without a word.
Elijah bowed his head. Iris wept quietly. Jonah curled into Arielle’s side, and Lily—though too young to understand—reached out with soft hands and wiped her mother’s tears.
They didn’t speak for a long time after the last letter.
But something had shifted.
The grief didn’t vanish.
It bound them tighter.
Arielle looked at her children—their father’s eyes in different shades, his stubbornness in different voices.
“We’re still his,” she said. “He never stopped loving us. Even in silence.”
The box of letters stayed on the mantel after that.
A sacred reminder.
That love, when written but unread, could still change everything.