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

The Sinclair Penthouse kitchen was a marvel of modern engineering. It featured Italian marble countertops, a German smart-fridge that could probably launch nuclear missiles, and a gas range that cost more than a luxury sedan.

Currently, it was also the scene of a crime.

”Miss Vale,” Ken whispered, clutching a fire extinguisher to his chest as he peeked over the island. ”Please. Step away from the blowtorch. The crème brûlée is already... cremated.”

Aria stood in the center of the chaos, wearing a ”Kiss the Cook” apron she had impulsively bought at the grocery store over her street clothes. Her face was smudged with flour, and she was holding a kitchen torch with the intensity of a welder.

”Nonsense, Ken,” Aria said, clicking the flame off. ”It’s caramelized. It’s rustic.”

She looked at the counter. It was a graveyard of good intentions. There was a bowl of what looked like grey glue (risotto), a salad that had wilted in fear, and a steak that was somehow both burnt to a crisp and raw in the middle.

”I mastered the thirteen ghost needles in the dark,” Aria muttered to herself, poking the grey risotto with a spoon. ”I can identify forty types of poison by smell. Why is cooking pasta so hard?”

”Perhaps because pasta requires water, Miss,” Ken suggested gently. ”And you used... was that tonic water?”

”It has bubbles,” Aria defended. ”Bubbles make things fluffy.”

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching from the hallway made them both jump.

Ken looked at the door, then at the food, then at Aria. ”The Boss is done with his conference call. Do I call the paramedics now, or wait until after the first bite?”

”Traitor,” Aria hissed.

Damien walked in. He had spent the last two hours in his home office coordinating the extraction team for Dr. Evans. He had discarded his jacket, and his sleeves were rolled up.

He stopped dead when he saw the kitchen.

He took in the flour on the floor. The smoke hovering near the ceiling. The terrifying grey sludge in the bowl. And finally, Aria, looking like a chaotic, flour-dusted raccoon.

”Aria,” Damien said slowly. ”Why does my kitchen smell like a chemical plant?”

Aria straightened up, wiping her hands on the apron. ”Dinner is served.”

Damien looked at the spread. His golden eyes narrowed slightly, analyzing the threat level. ℯℯ𝑙.

”Dinner,” he repeated. ”Or an assassination attempt?”

”It’s a thank you,” Aria said, gesturing grandly to the bar stool. ”For the lunch intel. For believing me. Sit.”

Damien looked at Ken. Ken made a subtle ’cut throat’ gesture, signaling abort mission.

Damien ignored him. He walked over and sat down.

”I’m touched,” Damien lied smoothly. He looked at the grey risotto. ”What is this delicacy?”

”Mushroom risotto,” Aria said proudly. ”With a truffle reduction.”

”The reduction seems to have reduced the will to live out of the rice,” Damien observed. But he picked up a spoon.

”Sir,” Ken squeaked. ”You don’t have to—”

Damien shot him a glare that silenced him instantly. He scooped up a spoonful of the grey matter. He put it in his mouth.

Time seemed to slow down.

Aria watched him anxiously. ”Well? How is it?”

Damien chewed. It had the texture of rubber cement and tasted like salt and regret. It was, objectively, the worst thing he had ever put in his mouth.

He swallowed.

”It has... texture,” Damien said, his face completely impassive.

”See?” Aria turned to Ken triumphantly. ”He likes it!”

”I didn’t say that,” Damien corrected, reaching for his water glass and downing it in one go. ”But it is... edible.”

He took another bite. And another.

Ken watched in horror. He knew Damien had a refined palate. He knew Damien fired chefs if the soup was one degree too cold. And yet, the Demon King was methodically eating a bowl of culinary disaster simply because Aria looked so happy watching him do it.

’He’s gone,’ Ken thought. ’Love has destroyed his taste buds.’

”Try the steak,” Aria urged, pushing the plate forward. ”I used high heat to seal in the juices.”

”You sealed in the carbon,” Damien noted, cutting into the blackened meat. It crunched.

He ate that, too.

By the time the meal was over, Damien looked slightly paler than usual, but he had cleared his plate.

”Thank you,” Aria beamed, taking the empty dishes. ”I knew I had a hidden talent for domestic arts. Maybe I should start a cooking show.”

”Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Damien said quickly, standing up. ”I think your talents are better suited for... other things.”

He grabbed her hand, pulling her away from the kitchen before she could threaten him with dessert.

”Come here.”

He led her to the living room sofa and pulled her down onto his lap. He buried his face in her neck, inhaling the scent of flour and her own floral perfume.

”You didn’t have to do that,” he murmured against her skin.

”I wanted to,” Aria whispered, running her fingers through his silver hair. ”You do so much for me, Damien. I wanted to... take care of you for once. Even if it’s just dinner.”

Damien pulled back to look at her. His eyes were soft, the gold warm and molten.

”You take care of me every day,” he said. ”You stop the noise. That is worth more than a Michelin star meal.”

He kissed her. He tasted like burnt steak and tonic water pasta, but Aria didn’t mind.

”Next time,” Damien whispered against her lips, ”let’s just order pizza. I like you alive, and I’d prefer not to die of food poisoning before the wedding.”

Aria laughed, punching his shoulder lightly. ”Hey! It wasn’t that bad!”

”It was a biological weapon,” Damien confirmed, tightening his arms around her. ”But it was made with love. So I’ll survive.”

Suddenly, Damien’s phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached out to grab it, frowning at the screen.

”It’s Julian,” he said, his tone shifting from husband back to CEO.

He answered. ”This better be good, Julian. I’m digesting charcoal.”

”It is,” Julian’s voice came through the speaker, sharp and urgent. ”You asked for the extraction team to move on Dr. Evans?”

Aria sat up, the playfulness vanishing instantly.

”Go on,” Damien commanded.

”Abort the mission,” Julian said. ”He’s dead.”

The room went cold.

”Dead?” Aria whispered.

”Car accident. Two hours ago,” Julian replied dryly. ”Brakes failed on a straight road. And his office was firebombed ten minutes later. Someone is cleaning house, Damien. And they’re cleaning it with gasoline.”

Damien looked at Aria. The domestic bubble had burst. The war was back.

”Lydia,” Aria said, her voice shaking with rage. ”She knows we’re looking.”

”She’s scared,” Damien corrected. He ended the call and tossed the phone aside.

He framed Aria’s face with his hands, forcing her to look at him.

”She burned the doctor to hide the truth. Which means the truth is dangerous enough to kill for.”

Aria nodded slowly. ”My mother didn’t die of illness, did she?”

”No,” Damien said grimly. ”And now we know Lydia is willing to kill to keep that secret.”