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

Zoe rounded the corner, her eyes fixed on the heavy double doors of the ICU at the end of the hall.

She never made it.

A hand shot out from the shadows of an open doorway. Long, elegant fingers wrapped securely around her upper arm, yanking her sideways with terrifying, effortless strength.

Zoe let out a startled squeak as she was pulled out of the brightly lit hallway and plunged into absolute, pitch-black darkness.

The heavy door clicked shut behind her, plunging the space into shadow. The sharp, sterile scent of industrial bleach hit her nose, instantly overpowered by the intoxicating, expensive aroma of Tom Ford cologne and leather.

She was in a janitor’s supply closet.

And she was firmly pinned against the metal shelving.

A warm, solid body pressed against hers, trapping her between the shelves and the door. The oversized Saint Laurent jacket she was wearing slipped off one shoulder.

”I was literally just about to text you,” a low, amused voice purred in the dark.

Zoe’s breath hitched. Her PR panic evaporated, instantly replaced by a flush of heat that rushed straight to her cheeks.

”Kai Vane, what are you doing?” Zoe stammered, her face burning as she felt the hard lines of his chest pressing into her.

Kai leaned in, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below her ear. He smirked against her neck.

”I told you before. You should just call me Kai,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. ”Or Daddy. Really, anything that makes you wetter.”

Zoe’s brain completely short-circuited.

Before she could re-focus her mind, Kai’s hand slid down her stomach, bypassing the hem of the jacket. He didn’t hesitate. His long fingers ventured directly between her thighs, finding the damp heat waiting there.

He pressed the heel of his hand firmly against her center, his thumb finding her clit right through the sheer, delicate lace of her underwear. He rubbed it, applying a slow, agonizingly perfect pressure.

Zoe’s head fell back against a box of paper towels with a sharp gasp.

”Fuck,” she swore, the word tearing out of her throat as a violent shudder wracked her body. Her knees buckled, but Kai’s thigh pushed between hers, holding her up, his hand relentless in its rhythm.

She was melting into a puddle. The dark closet was spinning, the friction sending white-hot sparks of electricity straight through her nervous system.

”Kai,” Zoe moaned, her hands flying up to grip the lapels of his t-shirt. She tried desperately to cling to a single thread of logic. She was a professional. She had a job to do. ”Wait... I need... I need to warn Damien. The... the internet...”

Kai didn’t let her finish.

He tilted her chin up and took her lips in a deep, consuming kiss.

He swallowed her words, his tongue sweeping into her mouth with a dominant, addictive heat that completely obliterated the outside world. Zoe moaned into his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as his hand worked its magic between her thighs.

The TikTok conspiracy, the paparazzi, the impending wrath of Damien—all of it vanished into the heavy, lust-soaked haze of the supply closet.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the door, a very different kind of performance was taking place.

Bella Vale was absolutely thriving.

She stood in the main corridor leading up to the VIP wing barrier, holding a portable ring light that cast a flawless, angelic glow over her tear-stained, makeup-free face.

She glanced down at the screen of her phone.

1.2 Million Viewers.

Her follower count had literally ticked up by a million in less than an hour. The dopamine hit was better than any drug on the market.

’Aria thought she had won? Aria thought bagging a billionaire made her untouchable? Please. Damien Sinclair had always been notoriously cold. He was probably just using her to piss off his stuck-up family, and the second the novelty wore off, he was going to toss her aside like yesterday’s trash.’

”Thank you guys so much for the support,” Bella sniffled into the camera, playing the grieving, concerned sister to absolute perfection. ”It’s just... it’s so hard. We’re so worried about her. After seeing that drone footage... we just want to make sure she’s safe from him.”

She fed the TikTok conspiracy theory directly to the masses, watching the comments section explode with #SaveAria hashtags and red flag emojis.

Standing right beside her, Lucas Sinclair looked somber and heroic. He looked directly into the lens, his jaw set.

”Aria and I have a complicated past,” Lucas said, playing the ’worried ex who still cares’ role flawlessly. ”But no woman deserves to be treated like a prisoner. We’re here to get her out.”

”Wish us luck,” Bella whispered, ending the stream with a dramatic, tearful sign-off.

The second the red ’LIVE’ icon vanished, her sad expression morphed back into a smug, arrogant smirk. She handed the ring light to a trailing assistant and gestured for the small pack of paparazzi—who had bribed their way past the lobby desk—to follow them.

Bella and Lucas marched down the hall, ready to play the tragic heroes breaching the castle walls.

They turned the corner into the ICU corridor.

Standing in front of the heavy glass doors of Room 1 were Damien’s private military contractors. They were massive and heavily armed.

”Let us through,” Lucas demanded, puffing out his chest for the cameras flashing behind them. ”We’re here to see Aria Sinclair. She needs her family.”

The lead guard didn’t blink. He didn’t speak. He simply unholstered his weapon, the matte black metal of the Glock gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and pointed it directly at Lucas’s chest.

Lucas froze, the color draining from his face.

”Hey!” Lucas shouted, his voice cracking. ”You can’t—!”

He took half a step forward.

That was his mistake.

The guards moved with terrifying, brutal efficiency. Two of them lunged forward, grabbing Lucas by the lapels of his designer jacket. They lifted him entirely off his feet and slammed him face-first into the drywall with a sickening crack.

They pinned him there, twisting his arm painfully behind his back, their guns raised and trained on the screaming paparazzi.

”Get back!” the lead guard roared.

The flashbulbs went wild, capturing the violence in real-time.

”Oh my god!” Bella screamed theatrically, throwing her hands over her mouth, playing it up for the cameras. ”They’re attacking us! Help! Damien Sinclair’s men are attacking us! Help her!”

The noise—the screaming, the shouting, the thud of Lucas hitting the wall—echoed loudly in the sterile hallway.

Behind the barricade of guards, the heavy, frosted glass doors of the ICU slid open.

The chaos in the hallway died instantly.

Damien Sinclair stepped out.

He wasn’t wearing his suit jacket. His white dress shirt was wrinkled, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his silver hair a chaotic mess from running his hands through it. He looked exhausted, drawn, and pushed entirely past the brink of his sanity.

But his golden eyes were wide awake. They burned with a feral, homicidal rage as he looked at the paparazzi, at the screaming Bella, and at his nephew pinned against the wall.