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

The exit of Studio 4 was a gauntlet of flashing lights.

Since the release of the 8K ”kiss” footage and the disaster at the Vale Estate, the paparazzi swarm had doubled in size. They weren’t just looking for scandal anymore; they were looking for the Queen.

Aria stepped out of the security gates, her bandaged hands hidden deep in the pockets of her oversized coat. Ken walked beside her, using his shoulder to clear a path, but the microphones were thrust into her face like spears.

”Miss Vale! Miss Vale! Is it true you made your sister kneel on set?” ”Aria! How is Mr. Sinclair recovering from his food poisoning?” ”Are the wedding rumors true? When is the date?”

Aria stopped. She looked at the reporter who asked about the date—a young woman from a major tabloid.

”There is no date,” Aria said, her voice clear and carrying over the shouting.

The crowd gasped. Was she announcing a breakup?

Aria smiled. She reached up to the neckline of her coat and pulled out a long gold chain. Dangling from it was the massive ruby ring, catching the streetlights and glowing like a drop of suspended blood.

”There is no date,” she repeated, letting the ring rest against her chest, ”because we are already married. Damien Sinclair isn’t my fiancé. He is my husband.”

She let that detonate. The reporters went into a frenzy, shouting over each other.

”Husband? When?!” ”Why the secret?”

”Because,” Aria said, lowering her voice so they had to lean in, ”some things are too precious to share with vultures. Now, if you’ll excuse me, my husband is waiting.”

She slipped into the waiting black sedan (a replacement for the totaled Rolls Royce) and slammed the door.

Inside, Damien was watching her with a look of intense satisfaction.

”Husband?” he noted, the corner of his mouth tilting up. ”I thought we were keeping it vague for the ’will-they-won’t-they’ factor.”

”I got bored,” Aria shrugged, tucking the ring back under her shirt as she buckled her seatbelt. ”And Bella hates it when I have things she can’t have. Being Mrs. Sinclair is the ultimate ’thing’.”

”Possessive,” Damien murmured, signaling the driver. ”I like it.”

The car didn’t head toward the penthouse. It drove deep into the Old District, a maze of narrow streets, neon signs, and shops that smelled of dried squid and incense.

They stopped in front of a dilapidated shop with a faded sign: Zhang’s Traditional Herbs.

”This is the place?” Aria asked, looking at the dusty jars of dried seahorses in the window.

”Kai traced the chemical signature of the neurotoxin,” Damien explained, checking his gun in its holster. ”The base compound is a rare root found only in the Yunnan mountains. Only three importers in the city carry it. Two are legitimate hospitals. This is the third.”

”Stay behind me,” Damien ordered as they got out.

”No,” Aria said, stepping in front of him. ”This is a pharmacy, Damien. You speak bullets. I speak poison. Let me handle the negotiation.”

She pushed the door open with her shoulder to spare her hands. A bell chimed softly.

The shop was cramped, the walls lined floor-to-ceiling with wooden drawers. The air was thick with the smell of ginseng, sulfur, and something sharp and metallic.

An old man sat behind the counter, weighing dried mushrooms on a brass scale. He didn’t look up.

”We’re closed,” he grunted in Mandarin.

Aria walked up to the counter. She didn’t speak. She simply reached into her pocket with a stiff, bandaged hand and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper.

She slapped it onto the counter.

”You’re open,” Aria said in perfect, fluent Mandarin. ”And you’re going to tell me who bought five kilos of Gelsemium elegans last month.”

The old man froze. He looked at the paper, then up at Aria. His eyes narrowed.

”I sell tea,” he lied. ”Get out.”

”You sell death,” Aria corrected. She reached over the counter, her fingers clumsy in the gauze but determined, grabbing a jar of dried roots. She opened it and took a deep sniff. ”Aconite. Processed with ginger to hide the toxicity. Illegal.”

She grabbed another jar with her other hand. ”Arsenic sulfide. Labeled as ’Realgar’ for skin conditions. Lethal if ingested.”

She slammed the jar down, wincing slightly at the impact on her palms.

”You’re not a healer, Old Man. You’re a butcher. And you sold a neurotoxin to a woman named Lydia Laurent.”

The old man’s hand slid under the counter.

Damien moved faster than thought. He drew his gun and leveled it at the man’s head before the old man’s fingers could even touch the panic button.

”Don’t,” Damien advised calmly. ”My wife is talking. It’s rude to interrupt.”

The old man swallowed hard, staring at the barrel of the gun. He slowly put his hands on the counter.

”I don’t know names,” the old man rasped. ”She paid cash. A woman. French accent. She wore a veil.”

”Lydia,” Aria confirmed. ”What did she ask for?”

”She wanted something... quiet,” the man whispered. ”Something that looked like a heart attack. But then she came back. Two days ago. She wanted something faster. Something for contact.”

”The notebook,” Damien growled.

”She paid double for the delivery system,” the man admitted, sweating. ”I just mixed it. I didn’t ask who it was for.”

Aria leaned in, her eyes cold.

”You’re going to give us her order history. Every purchase. Every date. Every chemical.”

”I don’t keep records!”

”You do,” Aria said, pointing to a ledger tucked behind the register. ”Because you’re greedy. And you need leverage in case your clients turn on you.”

She grabbed the ledger, her bandaged fingers struggling for purchase before Damien reached over and took it for her.

”Grab the hard drive under the desk too,” Aria told him. ”Kai will want to see this.”

As they gathered the evidence, the old man stared at Aria with a mixture of fear and confusion.

”Who are you?” he asked. ”You know the Old Ways. You smell like... the Sect.”

Aria paused at the door. She looked back at him.

”The Sect is gone,” she whispered. ”I’m just the ghost they left behind.”

She walked out into the night.

Damien followed her, holstering his gun and carrying the ledger. He looked at her profile—sharp, fierce, and unyielding.

”You speak Mandarin?” he asked.

”I speak many things,” Aria said, sliding into the car. ”Drive, Ken. We have a receipt to decrypt.”

Damien watched her. He realized he didn’t know his wife at all.

And he couldn’t wait to learn the rest.