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

The privacy partition of the Rolls Royce was up, sealing them in a cocoon of silence, but for Damien, the noise hadn’t stopped.

It was a phantom sound—a high-pitched, drilling whine that bored into his temples. It didn’t matter that they had only been inside the museum for twenty minutes. The gala’s ”Starfall” theme—thousands of fiber-optic lights pulsing against midnight velvet—had been a direct assault on his sensory processing.

He sat rigidly in the leather seat, his eyes closed, his hand gripping the armrest so hard the leather creaked. The ”Demon King” mask he had worn so effortlessly for the cameras had shattered the moment the car doors closed.

”Damien?” Aria whispered.

She didn’t touch him. She knew better. When he was like this—when the overload was peaking—touch could feel like a burn.

”Don’t,” he rasped, not opening his eyes. ”Just... wait.”

”I’m not touching you,” Aria said softly, shifting closer without making contact. ”But I’m here. Breathe with me.”

She began to breathe in a slow, exaggerated rhythm. Inhale for four. Hold for four. Exhale for four.

Damien focused on the sound of her breath. He forced his lungs to match her cadence. Slowly, marginally, the white-hot spike in his brain dulled to a red throb.

When the car glided to a halt in the underground garage, Damien didn’t move immediately. He waited until Ken opened the door.

”Clear the route,” Damien ordered, his voice tight. ”No staff. No lights.”

”Already done, Boss,” Ken murmured, his face grim.

The ride up to the penthouse was silent. When the doors opened, the apartment was pitched in total darkness, per Ken’s advance instructions.

Damien walked straight to the living room sofa and collapsed. He didn’t bother with the bedroom. He just needed to stop moving. He tore at his bowtie, ripping it loose, and unbuttoned the top of his tuxedo shirt, gasping for air.

Aria moved through the dark like a ghost in her liquid silver dress. She didn’t turn on a lamp. She navigated by memory and the faint city glow from the window.

”I’m going to apply pressure,” she announced softly, standing behind the sofa. ”Fengchi point. Base of the skull. Ready?”

”Do it,” Damien groaned.

Aria’s thumbs dug into the tense muscles of his neck. She pressed deep, finding the knotted meridian that was blocking the flow of Qi to his head.

”You pushed too hard,” she scolded gently, her voice a low hum in the darkness. ”You’re still recovering from the neurotoxin. Walking into a room full of strobe lights was reckless.”

”Worth it,” Damien gritted out, wincing as she hit a trigger point.

”We were there for barely fifteen minutes, Damien,” Aria countered. ”And now you can’t see straight.”

”I made my point,” he rasped. ”Suffering is temporary. Ownership is permanent.”

Aria sighed, but she didn’t stop. She worked her way down his shoulders, her strong fingers breaking up the tension. Slowly, Damien’s breathing evened out. His head fell back, resting against the cushion.

”Better?” she whispered.

”Yes,” he murmured.

He reached up, blindly seeking her hand. She gave it to him. He pulled it over his shoulder, pressing her palm against his chest, right over his heart.

”Stay,” he commanded weakly.

”I’m not going anywhere. I still have to get out of this dress. It’s basically glued to me.”

”I’ll help,” Damien offered, though he didn’t move.

”You can’t even lift your head, old man,” Aria teased. ”I’m going to get some water. Do you want some?”

”Ice,” Damien replied.

Aria squeezed his hand one last time and walked toward the kitchen, the silver dress rustling softly in the dark.

As soon as she was out of earshot, a harsh, muffled buzz cut through the silence.

It came from the pocket of Damien’s discarded tuxedo jacket, draped over the arm of the sofa.

Damien’s eyes snapped open. The lethargy vanished instantly, replaced by a cold, predatory alertness.

It wasn’t his personal phone. It was the heavy, encrypted burner phone they had recovered from the dead Ghost in the cottage. Kai had returned it to him secretly just before the gala, warning him that the decryption had triggered a remote beacon.

Damien sat up, ignoring the throbbing in his skull. He reached into the jacket pocket and pulled out the device. The screen glowed with a single incoming message.

[Incoming Encrypted Message]

He opened it.

Sender: UnknownMessage: ”The Ghost is offline. You have his hardware. Keep it. It contains the ledger of your mother’s sins. But know this, Little Bird: If you open the file named ’Orpheus’, you don’t just bring down Lydia. You bring down the roof.”

Damien stared at the text. His blood ran cold.

Little Bird. That was what Aria’s mother used to call her. He had seen it in the journals Aria had recovered.

The Vipers knew who she was. They knew she was involved. And they were threatening her directly.

”Damien?” Aria’s voice called from the kitchen. ”Sparkling or still?”

Damien’s thumb hovered over the screen. He looked at the kitchen doorway, where Aria’s silhouette was framed by the faint light of the refrigerator. She looked happy. She looked victorious.

She didn’t know she was hunting a cartel that killed without hesitation.

If she saw this text, she would charge in headfirst. She would try to open the ’Orpheus’ file immediately. She would put a target on her back that he couldn’t block.

No.

Damien made a choice.

He deleted the message. Then he powered the phone down and shoved it deep into the hidden compartment of the sofa armrest.

”Still,” Damien called back, his voice steady. ”And bring the painkillers.”

Aria walked back into the room, carrying two glasses. She handed him one.

”Who was buzzing?” she asked, sitting down beside him. ”I heard a phone.”

Damien took a sip of water, his golden eyes unreadable in the shadows.

”It was Kai,” he lied smoothly. ”He’s currently barricaded in a bathroom at the Ritz. Apparently, he invited two different ballerinas to the same afterparty and didn’t realize they were sisters until five minutes ago. He’s asking for a tactical extraction.”

Aria rolled her eyes, a small smirk touching her lips. ”He’s hopeless. Tell him to stay in there.”

But then she studied Damien’s face. She sensed a shift in him—a tension that hadn’t been there a moment ago, something sharper than the migraine. ”Is everything okay?”

”Everything is fine,” Damien said. He set the glass down and reached for her, pulling her onto his lap. ”The headache is fading. But I have a new problem.”

”Oh?” Aria rested her hands on his shoulders, distracted by his touch. ”And what is that?”

”You,” he growled, his hands sliding up the slick fabric of her dress. ”You’re still wearing this dress. And I have very little patience left.”

He kissed her, hard and demanding. It wasn’t just passion; it was a distraction. He kissed her until she forgot about the phone, until she forgot about the gala, until the only thing she could focus on was his hands on her skin.

He would protect her. Even if it meant lying to her.

”Medical necessity?” Aria gasped against his mouth as he found the zipper.

”Absolutely,” Damien promised, pulling her down with him onto the sofa.