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

”Chin up. Higher. No, look arrogant. Yes, like you just bought the building and evicted everyone.”

Aria sat in the high-backed salon chair, forcing her neck to remain stiff as Coco worked with the intensity of a bomb disposal expert. The dress—the liquid silver Versace—was already on, pooling around the chair like spilled mercury, but the transformation wasn’t complete.

”The hair needs to look wet,” Coco muttered, massaging a high-gloss gel into Aria’s rose-gold locks. He combed it back severely from her face, letting the ends cascade down her back in slick, controlled waves. ”We are going for ’Siren emerging from the ocean to drown sailors’. It has to be sleek. Irresistible.”

He moved to her face. He didn’t use the usual heavy contour. Instead, he used a metallic, pearlescent highlighter that made her skin look like it was glowing from within. He lined her eyes with a sharp, silver graphite kohl, winging it out until her gaze looked piercing.

”Lips,” Coco commanded.

Aria parted her lips. He applied a clear, glass-like gloss over a stain the color of bitten berries.

”Perfect,” Coco breathed, stepping back and misting her with setting spray.

Damien was leaning against the vanity, checking his watch. He had been ready for twenty minutes, looking infuriatingly perfect in his midnight-blue tuxedo.

”Are we done painting the masterpiece?” Damien asked, his eyes lingering on the exposed line of Aria’s throat.

”Art takes time, Mr. Sinclair,” Coco sniffed, packing his brushes. ”And this? This is the Louvre.”

Aria stood up. The dress clung to her, heavy and cool. She looked in the mirror. The wet-look hair, the glowing skin, the liquid silver dress... she didn’t look like herself at all.

And right there, gleaming under the diamond necklace, was the purple bruise Damien had left.

”It’s very... prominent,” Aria noted, touching the mark.

”Good,” Damien said, walking over to offer his arm. ”Let’s go make a scene.”

The Celestia Launch Gala was held at the Modern Art Museum, a glass cube structure that glowed against the night sky. The red carpet was a frenzy of flashbulbs and screaming fans.

When the Rolls Royce pulled up, the noise level spiked.

Aria stepped out first.

The reaction was immediate. The ”wet look” styling combined with the liquid dress made her look otherworldly. She didn’t wave; she just walked, her movements fluid and confident. She looked like she had arrived to own the night.

Damien stepped out behind her, his hand instantly finding the small of her back, his fingers resting on the bare skin exposed by the plunging neckline.

”Look at the neck!” a photographer shouted. ”Zoom in on the neck!”

The flashes concentrated on her neck.

Aria felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she kept her expression cool and unbothered.

”They noticed,” she murmured to Damien, not moving her lips.

”I intended them to,” Damien replied, guiding her past the reporters. ”Smile, Mrs. Sinclair. You’re the most beautiful and expensive thing here.”

They reached the end of the carpet, but instead of entering the main hall, they were ushered through a side archway marked MEDIA LOUNGE.

This was the staging area—a sleek, white-walled room set up specifically for the promotional campaign photoshoot before the talent joined the party. It was chaotic, filled with assistants, stylists, and a massive set piece in the center.

”Aria!”

A man bounded over. He was tall—almost as tall as Damien—with sun-bleached hair, a tan that spoke of endless summers, and a smile that probably had its own agent. He was wearing an unbuttoned white silk shirt and low-slung trousers.

It was Erik Vane. Kai’s cousin. The underwear model.

”You must be the Goddess,” Erik grinned, grabbing Aria’s hand and kissing it before Damien could intervene. ”Kai told me you were scary, but he didn’t mention you were blinding.”

Damien stepped forward, physically body-checking Erik away from Aria.

”Erik,” Damien growled, his voice dropping to a temperature that could freeze nitrogen. ”I see you’re still allergic to buttons.”

Erik blinked, looking up at Damien with a flash of recognition and immediate panic. ”Damien! Uh, Mr. Sinclair! I didn’t see you there.”

”Hard to miss,” Damien said dryly. ”Kai told me you were the talent. I assumed he was joking.”

”Hey, I’m a professional!” Erik protested, though he took a cautious step back. ”And we’re family, right? Sort of? By extension?”

”Don’t push it,” Damien warned. ”And stop touching my wife.”

”Right. Wife. Got it,” Erik raised his hands in surrender.

”Okay, okay! Places everyone!” The photographer, a famous eccentric named Marco, clapped his hands. ”The light is perfect! I want passion! I want heat! Erik, Aria, on the set!”

The set was a chaise lounge made of black velvet, positioned in front of a branded Celestia backdrop.

”Erik,” Marco directed. ”I want you on the lounge. Aria, you’re the predator. Straddle him. He should look like he’s dying for you.”

Aria froze. She looked at Damien.

Damien’s jaw ticked. A vein in his temple throbbed.

”Straddle him?” Damien repeated, his voice dangerously soft.

”Yes! It’s art!” Marco shouted. ”Erik, shirt off! We need skin against silver!”

Erik shrugged his shirt off, revealing a set of abs that looked airbrushed. He sat on the lounge, patting his lap nervously as he glanced at Damien. ”Uh, Damien? Just so you know, this is purely professional. I like my fingers attached to my hands.”

”Then I suggest you stand up,” Damien muttered.

He walked onto the set.

”Mr. Sinclair?” Marco asked. ”You’re in the shot.”

”I’m rewriting the shot,” Damien said. He looked at Erik. ”Move.”

Erik looked at Damien’s face. He saw the murder in the golden eyes. He saw the way Damien’s hand was twitching toward a fist.

Erik stood up immediately. ”You know what? My hamstring feels tight. Cramping up. Ouch. I should probably sit this one out.”

He practically ran off the set, grabbing a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

Damien sat down on the black velvet chaise. He spread his legs slightly, looking up at Aria with a dark, challenge-filled gaze.

”The photographer wants passion,” Damien said, his voice carrying in the silent room. ”He wants you to straddle the subject.”

He patted his own lap.

”Well?”

The crew watched, holding their breath. This was unscripted. This was live.

Aria looked at him. She saw the jealousy, the possessiveness, and the absolute refusal to let another man touch her.

She smiled.

She walked over to him, the liquid silver dress rippling. She straddled his lap, her knees sinking into the velvet. She placed her hands on his shoulders, leaning in until their faces were inches apart.

”You ruined the casting,” she whispered.

”I upgraded it,” he corrected. ”A photo of me is priceless.”

Marco didn’t stop them. He was snapping photos frantically. ”Yes! The tension! The ownership! Look at him! He looks like he’s going to devour her!”

Damien’s hand slid up Aria’s bare back, gripping her neck, his thumb pressing over the bruise he had left there.

”Kiss him!” Marco screamed.

Damien didn’t wait for the cue. He pulled Aria down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was so raw, so hungry, that half the room looked away in embarrassment while the other half couldn’t stop staring.

It wasn’t acting. It was a public claiming.

When they finally broke apart, Aria was breathless, her lipstick smudged, her eyes shining.

”Perfect!” Marco cheered. ”We have the cover!”

Aria stood up, smoothing her dress, though her legs felt a little shaky. The flashbulbs were still going off, but the moment felt private, stolen.

Erik, who had been watching from a safe distance near the catering table, buttoned his shirt halfway and raised his champagne glass to them.

”That’s my cue,” Erik grinned, completely unbothered. ”I’m going to go find the open bar before the rest of the sharks arrive. Great shot, by the way.”

He winked at Aria and sauntered toward the double doors leading to the main gala, disappearing into the party.

Aria laughed softly, shaking her head. ”Everyone you know is so chaotic, Damien.”

”They’re annoying.” Damien’s hand rested protectively on her waist. ”Shall we go greet your adoring public?”