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

The executive floor of Sinclair Headquarters was currently operating under DEFCON 1.

The air conditioning was set to a crisp sixty-eight degrees, but Ken was actively sweating through his bespoke suit. He stood outside the heavy glass doors of the CEO’s office, clutching a clipboard like a shield, watching the chaotic waiting area with wide, traumatized eyes.

Inside the office, Damien Sinclair was sitting behind his massive mahogany desk, radiating an aura so dark and lethal it was a miracle the potted plants hadn’t withered.

His head was pounding. A sharp, rhythmic spike of agony drove itself into his left temple with every beat of his heart. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of Vanax, shook three pills into his palm, and dry-swallowed them.

It didn’t help. The pills dulled the nerve pain, but they couldn’t cure the underlying cause.

Damien picked up his phone. He opened his text thread with Aria. The cursor blinked mockingly at him.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

I’m sorry I left. He stared at the words. Too weak. He deleted them.

Are you feeling okay?

Too casual. He deleted it.

Do you remember what you said to me?

Absolutely not. He deleted it with frantic speed, his jaw clenching.

”Sir?” Ken’s voice cracked slightly through the intercom. ”The next candidate is ready.”

Damien didn’t look up from his blank screen. ”Send them in.”

After firing the last night-shift executive assistant for daring to block Aria from entering the office, Damien had stripped the HR department of their hiring privileges for the C-Suite. He refused to let another incompetent, arrogant gatekeeper anywhere near his floor. He was handling the interviews himself.

Unfortunately, the job posting for ”Executive Night Assistant to the CEO of Sinclair Corp” had attracted a very specific, highly delusional demographic.

The heavy glass doors swung open.

Candidate number four walked in. She was wearing a skin-tight, fire-engine red bandage dress that barely covered her assets, paired with clear stripper heels. She smelled overwhelmingly of vanilla body spray.

”Hi, Mr. Sinclair,” the woman purred, sauntering toward the desk with an exaggerated hip sway. ”I’m Tiffany. I am very good at taking dictation. And I’m willing to work... overtime.”

Damien didn’t even lift his head. His eyes were glued to his phone screen as he typed out another message: I miss you.

He deleted it.

”Next,” Damien stated, his voice a flat, deadpan monotone.

Tiffany stopped, her pout dropping. ”But sir! I have great... skills! And I saw your TikTok edits! I can fix you!”

Damien hit a button under his desk.

Two seconds later, the doors opened and two massive security guards stepped in. They grabbed Tiffany by the elbows and hoisted her up.

”Wait! I love toxic men!” Tiffany shrieked as they dragged her backward out of the office. ”Call me!”

The doors clicked shut.

Damien rubbed his temples. ”Ken. Next.”

Ken ushered the next woman in. Candidate number five. She was dressed more appropriately in a pencil skirt and blouse, holding a leather portfolio.

She stepped into the office. She looked at the expansive view of the city. Then, she looked at the man sitting behind the desk.

Damien finally looked up. His silver hair fell across his forehead, his golden eyes cold, sharp, and devastatingly beautiful in the afternoon light.

The woman stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. She took one shaky breath, her eyes rolling into the back of her head, and collapsed like a felled tree, hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud.

She had literally swooned.

Damien stared at the unconscious woman on his floor, then he looked back down at his phone.

He typed: I need to see you. He deleted it.

”Ken,” Damien called out, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. ”Clear the floor.”

Ken rushed in, looking like he was about to burst into tears. He grabbed the unconscious woman by the shoulders, awkwardly dragging her toward the door.

”Next,” Damien commanded.

Candidate number six walked in. She immediately started babbling.

”Oh my god, your eyes are even more golden in person, I read your Forbes interview and I just think we have such a deep spiritual connection, my tarot reader said I would meet a silver-haired king today and here you are—”

”Get out,” Damien said, looking at his keyboard.

”But we are destined!”

”Security,” Damien sighed.

The guards returned, peeling the crying astrologer away from the doorframe.

Damien slumped back in his leather chair. This was a nightmare. He was surrounded by idiots, his head was splitting open, and his chest felt like it was trapped in a vice.

”Sir,” Ken’s voice came through the intercom again, sounding completely exhausted. ”Candidate number seven.”

”Okay,” Damien muttered.

The glass doors opened.

A young woman stepped into the office. She was wearing a sensible, slightly oversized navy blazer and carrying a neat stack of printed resumes. She looked nervous but determined.

She took two steps into the room.

It was Leo’s sister. The girl from the parking garage.

”Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair” she greeted, the blood draining from her face. She clutched her resumes to her chest like a shield.

Damien paused.

He looked up from his phone.

He couldn’t do this anymore. The Vanax wasn’t working. The distractions weren’t working. He was sitting in a tower interviewing fangirls when the only woman he actually wanted to see was his beautiful wife.

Damien stood up abruptly. The heavy leather chair rolled back, hitting the wall.

Leo’s sister flinched, taking a step backward toward the door. ”I’m sorry! I’ll leave!”

Damien ignored her completely. He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged it on. He picked up his phone, shoved it into his pocket, and walked out from behind the desk.

He strode past the terrified girl without even acknowledging her existence.

He pushed the glass doors open, stepping into the reception area where a dozen other hopeful candidates were sitting in tight dresses, reapplying lip gloss.

”Ken,” Damien barked, not breaking his stride as he headed straight for the private elevator.

Ken jumped to attention, dropping his clipboard. ”Sir?”

”Interviews are over,” Damien announced, hitting the elevator call button. ”I’ll do the rest tomorrow. Or never. I don’t care.”

”But... sir! The candidates!” Ken gestured helplessly to the waiting room full of eager women.

The elevator doors pinged open. Damien stepped inside, turning to face his panicked assistant.

”Tell them to go home,” Damien said coldly as the doors began to close.

The steel doors slid shut, cutting off the chorus of disappointed groans.

Ken stood in the middle of the reception area, alone. He looked at Leo’s sister standing frozen in the CEO’s office, and then at the dozen glaring women on the sofas.

Ken let out a long, broken sigh that came from the depths of his soul.

”Ladies,” Ken announced, plastering on a painful, professional smile. ”Thank you for coming. Please take a complimentary Sinclair Corporation pen on your way out.”