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

The morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains of the Master Suite, but for once, Aria didn’t want to wake up and conquer the world. She wanted to burrow under the duvet, build a nest of pillows, and stay there for three to five business days. The bed was too comfortable, a cloud of high-thread-count cotton that smelled faintly of cedar and Damien, making the prospect of leaving it physically painful.

She tried to pull the blanket up to hide from the light, but her hands throbbed in protest. The cuts, worsened from her aggressive rummaging at the herbalist’s shop, were stiff and sore beneath the gauze Damien had applied the night before. It felt like her fingers were encased in cement.

”Don’t use your hands,” a deep voice commanded from the edge of the bed.

Aria peeked one eye open.

Damien was sitting there, fully dressed in a crisp white shirt and dark trousers, looking disgustingly awake. He held a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a tablet in the other, already scrolling through the morning’s financial reports like a machine.

”I need to stretch,” Aria grumbled, her voice thick with sleep. ”I feel like I wrestled a bear.”

”You wrestled an unethical pharmacist,” Damien corrected, setting his tablet down. ”Same difference. Though the bear probably would have been more polite.”

He stood up and walked around the bed. He didn’t look like the ”Demon King” who terrified boardrooms and paralyzed crime lords. He looked... soft. Or as soft as a man made of granite and expensive tailoring could look.

”Up,” he said, reaching down to pull the duvet back. ”We have a schedule. And unless you plan to attend the board meeting in your pajamas, we need to move.”

”I’m on strike,” Aria declared, trying to wiggle back into the pillows like a stubborn caterpillar. ”My hands are injured. I can’t work. I can’t even hold a spoon. I’ll starve. Tell the board I died of hunger.”

”You won’t starve,” Damien said, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. He scooped her up effortlessly into his arms. Aria yelped, instinctively wrapping her legs around his waist to steady herself.

”Damien! Put me down!”

”No. You have morning breath and bandaged hands. You need to wash up. And since you currently have the dexterity of a kitten wearing mittens, I have to assist.”

He carried her into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind them. He set her down on the cool marble vanity counter, standing between her knees.

The proximity was instant and overwhelming. Aria was wearing a silk slip that barely covered her thighs, leaving her legs exposed to the cool air and his wandering gaze. Damien was all heat, cologne, and overwhelming masculinity.

”Open,” he said, picking up her toothbrush. He had already put toothpaste on it—perfectly centered, of course.

Aria blinked. ”You are not brushing my teeth. That is a line, Damien. A weird, dental line.”

”Would you prefer to do it yourself and reopen your stitches?” Damien raised an eyebrow, holding the brush like a scalpel. ”Open.”

Aria opened her mouth, her face turning a bright, humiliated pink. ”This is ridiculous. You’re the CEO of a multinational conglomerate. You shouldn’t be holding a toothbrush. ”

”I’m multitasking,” Damien said, gently brushing her teeth with a focus that was entirely unnecessary for dental hygiene. ”I’m also admiring the view.”

His eyes flickered down to her legs, lingering on the curve of her calf, then back up to her eyes. The mirror behind them reflected the absurdity of the scene: the powerful tycoon meticulously grooming his disheveled wife.

Aria choked on the toothpaste foam. ”You’re a pervert.”

”I’m a husband,” he corrected, rinsing the brush. ”Spit.”

He washed her face with a warm cloth, his touch incredibly tender. He traced the line of her jaw, his thumb lingering on her lower lip, wiping away a stray drop of water. The domesticity of it was terrifying. It was too sweet. It made her chest ache.

”About last night,” Aria whispered, her hands resting uselessly on his broad shoulders. ”The ledger. What are we going to do?”

Damien’s expression shifted. The warmth remained, but a wall went up behind his eyes.

”I gave it to Julian,” he responded smoothly. ”His forensic accountants are tearing it apart. It’s boring, legal work, Aria. Paper trails and tax codes. It will take weeks to decode the shell companies.”

”But Lydia—”

”Lydia is in Paris,” Damien said, leaning in until their foreheads touched. ”Let the lawyers handle the snakes. You have a bigger problem closer to home.”

”What?”

”Bella,” Damien said. ”Zoe is downstairs, shaking with rage. Apparently, your sister has been busy on social media while we were playing detective.”

Aria groaned, dropping her head onto his shoulder. ”What did she say? That I’m a witch? That I eat puppies?”

”Close,” Damien chuckled, his hand sliding up her thigh, causing her breath to hitch. ”She posted a photo of a ’Get Well Soon’ basket filled with detox tea. She’s implying your hand injury is from a botched plastic surgery procedure. Or rehab. She’s claiming you’re in a discrete facility in Switzerland recovering from a ’breakdown’.”

Aria’s head snapped up. The ”Black-Belly Queen” was back.

”Rehab?” she hissed. ”Oh, she is going to pay for that. That affects my endorsement deals. She’s messing with my money.”

She tried to hop off the counter, but Damien held her in place.

”Where are you going?”

”To get dressed! I have to go to the studio! If she wants to talk about ’procedures’, I’m going to give her a live demonstration of a face-lift. Without anesthesia.”

Damien smirked. He leaned in, brushing a quick, teasing kiss against her lips—just enough to make her toes curl, but pulling away before she could deepen it.

”That’s my girl,” he whispered. ”Go get her. But first...”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small velvet box.

”Earrings,” he said, opening it to reveal stunning diamond studs that caught the bathroom light. ”To match the ring. If you’re going to start a war, you should sparkle.”

Aria looked at him, feeling the weight of the diamonds and the weight of his care. ”You enjoy this, don’t you? Feeding me ammunition?”

”I enjoy watching you shoot,” Damien admitted. ”Now go. Zoe is eating all the croissants, and if you don’t hurry, Ken will start crying about his carb intake.”