Chapter 9 Dinner Drama & Dangerous Handsomeness
Arielle stumbled slightly as she stepped into the dining room, arms still overloaded with grocery bags and designer indulgences from their mall trip.
She set them down carefully, like bombs waiting to detonate, and took a deep breath.
Okay. Deep breath.
Act normal.
Act normal.
But internal monologue? Totally fried.
Oh my God, why am I alive in this body? Why do I have four ridiculously handsome sons following me like obedient puppies?
Why is the youngest looking at me like he knows every thought I’ve ever had?
And—oh no. Don’t let this be the moment I realize I’m officially…
falling for my own husband in this stupid, stupid body.
She peeked at Darian, who was already clearing the table silently, giving her a side-eye glance that screamed: “Mom, you okay? Or are you gonna faint again?”
Do not faint. Do not faint. Do not… look at Rhett’s biceps under that fitted sleeve. Okay, okay. Look away. Don’t think. Focus on food. Focus on food.
Rhett, ever the troublemaker, leaned casually against the wall, eyes flicking toward her with a smirk that Arielle was sure was designed to ruin her composure.
He’s definitely doing this on purpose. I know it.
Zayden was calm, calculating. He took the seat across from her, placing a water glass down with surgical precision. Emrys sat closest to her, arranging the napkins like he was preparing for a fashion runway instead of a meal.
Stop. Stop everything. I’m supposed to be panicking, not starring in an interior design commercial.
The doorbell chimed. That must mean the fiancées were arriving. Arielle’s stomach twisted.
Oh no. Premium chaos is escalating.
Two footsteps approached—one polite, the other… poisonous.
Clara Bennett entered first, smiling like she had been practicing politeness in front of the mirror all morning.
Okay. Smile. Nod. Act casual. Don’t vomit inner panic.
Then came the second, the one whose aura could cut steel—sharp, cold, evaluating, clearly plotting to ruin her life. Arielle’s brain short-circuited.
Warning: hostile environment detected. Deploy inner acting skills. Activate smile protocol. And do not make eye contact with Zayden’s shoulder.
Dinner began. Small talk, polite conversation, subtle tension. Arielle juggled plates and thoughts like a circus performer. Every glance, every side-eye, every polite “pass the salt” felt like a battlefield.
Darian gently placed a plate in front of her. “Here, Mom. Careful with that.”
Oh no. He just touched me. Calm down. Calm down. Not melting. Not hyperventilating. Keep composure.
Rhett, of course, couldn’t resist teasing. “Mom, you’re balancing that like a pro. You’re probably stronger than me.”
Stop it. Stop praising me. My ego cannot handle this right now. And why does my body feel like it agrees with him???
Zayden cleared his throat. “Clara, the roast is on this side.”
Noted. Everything is being micromanaged. And I’m panicking.
Emrys leaned over, whispering: “You look good tonight.”
WHAT?? DO NOT—do not think about compliments from my own son body—NOT NOW—THIS IS PANIC MODE.
Arielle tried to focus on food, but it was impossible. The fiancée tension, the subtle son teasing, and her transmigrator brain were combusting into full-on chaos.
And then… the man arrived. Lucian Cross.
The sound of his footsteps made the room shift. Arielle froze.
Wait. Is this…? Could it be…? Is this the first time I’m noticing that my husband is…
ridiculously… impossibly… handsome?? Those shoulders.
That chest. Those abs… hiding under a perfectly tailored suit but STILL IMPOSSIBLE TO HIDE.
I—I—okay. Breathe. Pretend nothing. Act casual.
Pretend you don’t want to faint.
He glanced around the table. Neutral. Cold. Controlled. Arielle tried to sit upright like a professional model of composure—but inside, her transmigrator brain was screaming:
PREMIUM CHAOS! PREMIUM CHAOS! HOW DID I GET HERE?!
Dinner continued. Fiancées reacted:
Clara Bennett: polite, careful, occasionally smiling like she was still testing the waters.
Poisonous fiancée: icy, silent, measuring every movement, clearly taking notes on Arielle’s reactions.
Meanwhile, the sons subtly protected her: Darian guided her chair into place, Rhett blocked a fiancée’s too-close approach, Zayden discreetly monitored conversation cues, Emrys whispered strategy advice.
Am I supposed to be enjoying this? My own sons taking care of me like this? WHAT IS HAPPENING?
Arielle took a sip of water, trying to convince herself she wasn’t swooning.
Step one: survive dinner.
Step two: maintain dignity.
Step three: do NOT stare at Lucian’s absurdly perfect jawline.
Step four: somehow avoid poisoning by fiancée number two.
The night was only beginning, and Arielle realized: being a transmigrator in a CEO novel with four gorgeous sons and dangerous fiancées was exhausting—but also kind of… fun.