After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law

The lock on the VIP holding room door clicked with a finality that echoed louder than a gunshot in the silent room.

Aria sat on the white leather sofa, engulfed in layers of black-and-gold silk. The Consort Li costume was a masterpiece of historical accuracy, which meant it involved three under-robes, a heavy outer coat, a stiff obi-style belt, and enough embroidery to weigh down a small horse.

Damien was still kneeling in front of her, his hands resting on her knees. The heat radiating from his palms seeped through the thick fabric, branding her skin.

”Fix me,” he had said.

Aria swallowed hard, her heart hammering against the stiff collar of her dress. ”Mr. Sinclair, I can’t treat you effectively while I’m wearing twenty pounds of imperial brocade. My range of motion is... limited.”

Damien’s golden eyes darkened. He stood up, towering over her, and then leaned down, placing a hand on the back of the sofa, caging her in.

”Then take it off,” he suggested, his voice a low rumble. ”Or do you need assistance? I’m told I have excellent fine motor skills.”

”You have excellent destruction skills,” Aria countered, trying to keep her voice steady. ”If you rip this costume, the wardrobe mistress will cry. And I hate making nice women cry. Unlike you.”

Damien smirked. He reached out, his long fingers finding the intricate knot of the silk belt at her waist.

”I don’t make women cry, Aria. I make them scream. There’s a difference.”

He tugged the knot.

The heavy belt loosened, the tension releasing instantly. Aria let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. The outer robe fell open, revealing the slightly thinner, blood-red under-robe beneath.

It was intimate. Dangerously so. In her past life, she had never let a man get this close. Lucas had tried, of course—clumsy, drunken fumbling that she had always pushed away, saving herself for a wedding night that never came. Damien stripped her layers with the precision of a bomb disposal expert defusing a live wire, and for the first time, Aria felt the terrifying thrill of surrender.

He slid the heavy outer coat off her shoulders, letting it pool onto the floor like a puddle of ink.

”Better?” he asked.

”Lighter,” Aria whispered, her voice barely audible.

She shifted, patting the space next to her on the sofa. ”Sit. If you want the headache gone, I need access to your neck and shoulders. And unbutton your shirt. I’m not ruining a $5,000 dress shirt with oil.”

Damien obeyed without a word of protest. He sat down, discarding his jacket and undoing the buttons of his shirt with practiced ease. When he shrugged the shirt off, Aria had to actively remind herself to breathe.

His torso was a landscape of lean muscle and pale skin, marked by the faint silver scars of his past. But it was the tension that drew her eye—the way his trapezius muscles were knotted tight as steel cables. He was in agony.

Aria reached into her bag, retrieving her needle kit and the oil. She didn’t have time for a full acupuncture session, but she could do a targeted pressure release.

”Lean back,” she commanded.

Damien let his head fall back against the top of the sofa, exposing the long, vulnerable line of his throat. He closed his eyes, his eyelashes casting long shadows on his cheekbones.

Aria moved to stand behind the sofa. It was safer back there. Less eye contact. Less chance of doing something stupid, like kissing the pulse point jumping in his neck.

She warmed the oil in her hands and applied it to his skin.

”Elena annoyed you,” Aria stated softly, her thumbs digging into the base of his skull. She felt a massive knot right at the Fengchi point.

”She talks too much,” Damien grunted, wincing as Aria applied pressure. ”And she thinks she owns me because our grandfathers played golf together.”

”She thinks she owns you because she loves you,” Aria corrected, her fingers working rhythmically. ”Or at least, she loves the idea of being Queen to your King.”

Damien opened one eye, looking up at her upside down. ”Jealous?”

”Professional curiosity,” Aria lied smoothly, pressing harder. ”Does it hurt?”

”Yes.”

”Good. It means the blood is flowing.”

For ten minutes, the only sounds in the room were the hum of the air conditioner and Damien’s ragged breathing. Aria worked with a ruthless efficiency, breaking down the lactic acid and tension that had built up during the confrontation with Elena.

Slowly, the furrow in Damien’s brow vanished. His breathing deepened. His shoulders dropped two inches.

”The noise is gone,” he whispered, sounding almost drunk on the relief.

”You’re welcome,” Aria said, wiping her oily hands on a tissue. ”Now, put your shirt back on. My break is almost over, and I need to—”

Before she could finish, Damien moved.

He reached up, grabbed her wrist, and pulled.

Because she was standing behind the sofa, the angle was awkward. Aria stumbled, half-falling over the back of the couch. She landed with her chest pressed against the top of the leather backrest, her face inches from Damien’s upturned face.

He didn’t let go.

”Payment,” he rasped.

”I accepted the shares as payment,” Aria gasped, her pulse skyrocketing. ”And the dress. And the triple salary.”

”That was for the public,” Damien said. His gaze dropped to her lips. ”This is for me.”

He surged up.

This kiss wasn’t like the one on the roof. That one had been a performance—violent, showy, designed for the lens.

This one was slow. It was heavy. It was a tasting.

Damien’s lips moved against hers with a languid, terrifying confidence. He tasted of mint and danger. One of his hands tangled into the hair at the nape of her neck, careful not to dislodge the ruby pins, while the other rested on her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin.

Aria froze for a heartbeat, then melted. She couldn’t help it. She was a virgin playing a game she didn’t know the rules to. The man was a masterclass in seduction, and she was a student who had skipped every class. She parted her lips tentatively, and he deepened the kiss, a low groan vibrating in his chest against hers.

It felt... real.

Knock. Knock.

”Miss Vale?” Ken’s voice came through the door, sounding apologetic but urgent. ”Director Spielberg is asking for you. They’re ready for the monologue scene.”

Damien broke the kiss, but he didn’t pull away. He rested his forehead against hers, his breathing heavy.

”Five minutes,” Damien growled at the door.

”Yes, sir!” Ken retreated instantly.

Aria pulled back, her face flushed, her lips swollen and red. She looked like a woman who had just been thoroughly ravaged.

”My lipstick,” she whispered, touching her mouth. ”You ate half of it.”

Damien smirked, wiping a smudge of red from his own lip. ”It tasted like cherries. Not bad.”

He stood up, grabbing his shirt. He buttoned it swiftly, transforming from ’Lover’ back to ’Executive Producer’ in seconds.

”Fix your face, Mrs. Sinclair,” he said, adjusting his cuffs. ”You have a scene to steal.”

Ten minutes later, Aria walked back onto the set.

She had reapplied her lipstick, but there was a flush to her skin that makeup couldn’t hide. Her eyes were bright, almost feverish. The heavy outer robe was back on, but she felt different inside it. Less like an actress playing a role, and more like a woman who held a dangerous secret.

Lucas was waiting by the craft services table, holding a bottle of water. When he saw Aria emerge, he stopped mid-sip.

He saw the swollen lips. He saw the slightly disheveled hair. He saw Damien walking a few steps behind her, looking relaxed and satisfied in a way that made Lucas’s stomach turn.

Jealousy, cold and sharp, pierced Lucas’s chest.

He walked over to her, blocking her path to the set.

”Aria,” Lucas hissed, his voice low. ”You... you have no shame.”

Aria stopped. She looked up at him, her expression bored. ”Excuse me, Nephew?”

”Don’t call me that!” Lucas snapped. He glanced at Damien, who was talking to the Director, ensuring he was out of earshot. ”You and him... in the dressing room... do you have any self-respect? He’s using you! He’s a monster who buys people!”

Aria laughed. It was a light, airy sound that grated on Lucas’s nerves.

”Lucas,” she said, stepping closer until she was in his personal space. ”You spent two years dating me, and you never once looked at me the way he does.”

She reached out, patting his cheek with a mocking gentleness.

”He’s not using me. He’s obsessed with me. And honestly? It’s exhausting being worshipped. You wouldn’t understand.”

She brushed past him, her silk robes flowing behind her.

”Now move. The Queen is working.”

Lucas stood there, frozen, watching her walk away. He crushed the water bottle in his hand, the plastic cracking loudly.

He had thrown her away like trash. But seeing her now, glowing and powerful... he realized with a sickening lurch that he wanted her back.

And he would do anything to take her from Damien.