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

The sun had set by the time the Rolls Royce returned to the Sinclair Penthouse, painting the sky in bruises of purple and gold.

Zoe had requested to be dropped off at her own apartment first. ”I need to edit this footage before I pass out,” she had said, clutching her camera bag like a newborn. ”And honestly, your building’s security guards look like they eat people. I’ll take a rain check on dinner.”

Aria rode the private elevator up alone. When the doors slid open, the penthouse was quiet. The lights were dimmed to a warm, amber glow that softened the sharp, modern edges of the furniture. The smell of truffle and roasted garlic hung in the air, rich and inviting.

Damien was waiting for her.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the city lights. He had discarded his jacket and tie, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He held a glass of dark red wine in one hand, the crystal catching the light.

He didn’t turn around when she entered.

”Ken tells me the Vale Estate is now echoing,” Damien said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through the silent room.

Aria walked in, clutching the small wooden box of her mother’s journals to her chest. She kicked off her combat boots by the door, wiggling her toes in the thick carpet.

”It has better acoustics now,” Aria replied, walking over to the kitchen island. ”I left them the beds. I’m not a monster.”

Damien turned then. His golden eyes swept over her—the leather jacket, the messy rose-gold hair, the flush of adrenaline still high on her cheeks. He looked at the wooden box in her arms, then at the ruby ring on her finger.

”You look like a bandit,” he noted, a ghost of a smile touching his lips.

”I prefer ’repo woman’,” Aria corrected. She placed the box gently on the counter. ”Did you order the food? I’m starving. Looting is cardio.”

Damien gestured to the dining table. It was set for two. ”Sit. The chef prepared lobster risotto.”

Aria didn’t need to be told twice. She sat down, and Damien took the seat opposite her. He poured her a glass of wine—a vintage that probably cost more than the moving trucks she had hired.

For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence. Aria was ravenous, the events of the day finally catching up to her metabolism. Damien ate slowly, watching her with that intense, unblinking gaze that usually made her nervous, but tonight felt oddly grounding.

”You mentioned Lydia,” Damien said suddenly, cutting through the quiet.

Aria’s fork paused halfway to her mouth. She lowered it slowly.

”I did.”

”Lydia Laurent,” Damien mused, swirling his wine. ”The socialite who climbed from a secretary desk to the mistress of Vale Entertainment in three years. She’s currently in Paris, charming the European elite.”

He looked at Aria, his expression darkening.

”She’s dangerous, Aria. Raymond is a greedy fool. Bella is a spoiled child. But Lydia? Lydia plays the long game. She won’t scream and cry when she comes home to an empty house. She’ll smile, and then she’ll try to kill you.”

Aria looked down at the ruby ring on her finger. She remembered how Lydia had smiled at her in her past life—a sweet, maternal smile while she signed the papers to have Aria committed to the asylum.

”I know,” Aria whispered. The temperature in the room seemed to drop. ”She’s the one who taught me that a knife hidden in a smile cuts deeper than a sword.”

She looked up, her emerald eyes hardening.

”But she underestimates me, Damien. She thinks she broke me years ago. She thinks she can just threaten to lock me away in some dark hole and I’ll crumble like I did when I was a child.”

Aria took a sip of wine, the liquid courage settling her nerves. She couldn’t tell him about the asylum—that hadn’t happened in this timeline—but the trauma of it bled into her voice regardless.

”She forgot that seeds also grow in the dark.”

Damien stared at her. He saw the shadow in her eyes, deep and old, layered over with a steel that fascinated him. He realized then that he wasn’t just protecting her. She was a creature of the same darkness that lived in him.

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His skin was warm, his grip solid.

”When she returns,” Damien said, his voice low and lethal, ”she will find that the locks have been changed. And there is a wolf guarding the door.”

Aria’s heart skipped a beat. She looked at their joined hands.

”Is that Clause 2?” she asked softly. ”Protection?”

”No,” Damien said. His thumb brushed her knuckles, right over the ruby ring. ”That’s personal.”

A shiver ran down Aria’s spine. The air between them thickened, charged with the same electricity that had been there in the safe house.

”Finish your dinner,” Damien murmured, withdrawing his hand but holding her gaze. ”You have an early call time tomorrow. And I have a company to run.”

Aria nodded, picking up her fork again. But the taste of the lobster had faded, replaced by the thudding of her own heart.

After dinner, Aria took the wooden box and retreated to the guest room. She didn’t argue about sleeping arrangements tonight; she needed space to process the day.

She sat on the bed and opened the box.

Inside were leather-bound journals. Her mother’s handwriting. Photos of a happy family before Lydia arrived. And at the bottom, a small, velvet pouch.

Aria opened it.

It was a key. Old, rusted, and heavy.

She frowned. She didn’t recognize it. There was no tag, no note. Just a key that looked like it belonged to a door that hadn’t been opened in decades.

’What did you leave me, Mom?’ she wondered.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand. It was the secure black phone.

A text from Damien. He was in the next room, probably ten feet away, but he was texting her.

[The Wallet: Sleep well, Mrs. Sinclair. Don’t worry about the noise. I took a pill.]

Aria stared at the screen. He took a pill? He hated the pills. They barely worked. He took it so he wouldn’t have to ask her for a ”treatment”—so he wouldn’t compromise her after such an emotional day.

He was giving her space.

Aria felt a lump form in her throat. She typed a reply.

[Aria: Goodnight, Damien. Thank you.]

She turned off the lamp, clutching the mysterious key in her hand.

Outside, the city slept. But in Paris, a phone was ringing.

And Lydia Laurent was about to pick up.