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

A few minutes passed.

The doors clicked open behind Zoe.

She stepped aside, letting out a breath of relief as a young man walked in. He was holding a digital recorder and a notepad.

But Zoe’s relief evaporated in exactly three seconds.

The young reporter, whose name badge read Toby, was wearing a sheer, patterned silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He took one look at Damien sitting in the dim, moody lighting of the suite, and Toby’s entire body seemed to...come alive.

’Oh my god,’ Zoe thought, her soul leaving her body. ’He’s gayer than a Broadway musical.’

”H-Hi,” Toby breathed, walking toward the glass table. He completely missed the chair and bumped his thigh into the armrest before clumsily dropping into the seat. His eyes were wide, tracking the broad, muscular line of Damien’s chest visible beneath his buttoned collar. ”I’m Toby. I’ll be taking over.”

”Excellent,” Damien said, his voice a deep, impatient rumble. ”Let’s begin. I have somewhere to be.”

”Right. Yes. The interview,” Toby squeaked. He fumbled with his recorder, turning it on. He completely ignored his notepad. He leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the glass table, his gaze dropping to Damien’s lips.

”So, Mr. Sinclair,” Toby started, his voice dropping into a husky, entirely unprofessional register. ”Running a global empire... it must require an incredible amount of... stamina. How long can you usually go before you... finish a project?”

Zoe’s jaw dropped.

Damien, however, didn’t even blink. He assumed this was some modern, psychological Vanity Fair ice-breaker designed to profile his work ethic.

”Sinclair Corporation operates on long-term objectives,” Damien answered with deadpan, corporate seriousness. ”I don’t stop until the objective is fully satisfied. If a negotiation is complex, sometimes it takes all night. Sometimes days.”

Toby’s breath hitched audibly. ”All night. Wow. Just... relentless.”

”Consistency is key,” Damien agreed, adjusting his cufflink.

Zoe buried her face in her hands. ’He has no idea. He literally has no idea what is happening.’

”And when you’re negotiating,” Toby pressed, licking his lips and leaning even closer over the table. ”Do you prefer to be... in control? Or do you let your partners take the top position?”

Damien frowned slightly, considering the business strategy.

”I prefer to dictate the terms from a dominant position,” Damien answered smoothly, completely oblivious to Toby practically hyperventilating across from him. ”But a successful partnership requires flexibility. If my partner has a strong foundation, I’m willing to adapt and let them ride out the deal.”

Toby let out a soft, whimpering sound. His notepad slid right off his lap and onto the floor.

”Right. Flexibility. God,” Toby whispered, fanning his face with his hand. ”Okay, just... off the record. For the readers who really want to know the deep, personal details... how big is it?”

Damien’s brows furrowed in genuine confusion. ”The Sinclair portfolio? It spans three continents and—”

”No,” Toby interrupted, his eyes dropping straight to Damien’s lap. ”Your dick.”

The room went dead silent.

Damien stared at the young reporter. The corporate mask cracked, realization finally dawning as his golden eyes darkened into lethal slits.

Zoe didn’t give him a chance to react.

She grabbed a heavy, crystal drink coaster from the table and launched it like a frisbee.

Smack.

It hit Toby square in the center of his chest.

”OUT!” Zoe shrieked at the top of her lungs, pointing at the door. ”YOU ARE DONE! EVACUATE THE PREMISES IMMEDIATELY!”

”But I have follow-up questions!” Toby protested, clutching his chest. ℴ

”I will call HR! I will call the police! I will call your mother!” Zoe threatened, advancing on him. ”Get out!”

Toby scrambled out of the chair and bolted for the door, leaving his notepad behind.

Zoe slammed the door behind him, leaning against it and breathing heavily. ”This is a cursed room. We are in a cursed establishment.”

Damien pinched the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, heavy sigh of pure exhaustion. ”Ms. Chen. If the next person who walks through that door is not a professional, I am leaving.”

”I know, I know,” Zoe groaned.

A minute later, a sharp, authoritative knock sounded at the door.

Zoe opened it cautiously.

An elderly man in a sharp tweed suit stood there. He had grayed hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and a deeply apologetic expression.

”Mr. Sinclair. Ms. Chen,” the man said, stepping inside. ”I am Arthur Pendelton. The Senior Chief Editor of Vanity Fair. I cannot express enough my profound apologies for the... disruptions. The staff involved have been dismissed for the day. I will be conducting this interview myself.”

Zoe nearly wept with relief. ”Thank you, Mr. Pendleton. Please. Sit.”

Arthur sat down, pulling out a sleek digital recorder and setting it on the table. He looked at Damien with pure, journalistic professionalism.

”Mr. Sinclair,” Arthur began, his tone serious. ”The internet is currently a firestorm of conspiracies. There is drone footage showing your wife, Aria Sinclair, falling from a vehicle on the East River bridge. The prevailing narrative—fueled by millions of online observers—is that she jumped to escape an abusive marriage. What is your response?”

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

Damien leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped loosely together. He looked directly into Arthur’s eyes.

”My wife did not jump,” Damien said, his voice low. ”She was attacked.”

Arthur’s pen paused. ”Attacked? By whom?”

”Obsessed fans,” Damien lied seamlessly, feeding the cover story. ”Aria’s rise to fame has been rapid. Unfortunately, it attracted a fringe group of dangerous stalkers. They ambushed her at a supermarket. They bound her, blindfolded her, and forced her into that van.”

Damien’s jaw tightened, the memory of the pursuit flashing in his golden eyes.

”We pursued them. When they realized they were cornered on the bridge, they shoved my wife out of the moving vehicle to stall my security detail.”

Arthur looked genuinely shocked. ”My god. That is horrific. And the perpetrators?”

”The police are investigating,” Damien stated coldly. ”But let me be absolutely clear. The people on the internet creating fan-cams and conspiracy theories are fools, weaponizing my wife’s trauma for likes and hashtags.”

Damien turned his gaze slightly, looking directly at the small, blinking red light of the digital recorder as if he were staring down the entire globe.

”The public sees me as a ruthless CEO,” Damien continued, his voice thickening with a raw, undeniable emotion that made Zoe’s throat tight. ”They call me the Demon King. Let them. I am entirely indifferent to my own reputation. But my wife is the single most important thing in this universe to me.”

He unclasped his hands, resting one palm flat on the glass table.

”I would burn this city to the ground to keep her warm,” Damien vowed, the absolute sincerity in his voice shaking the quiet room. ”I would dismantle my own empire brick by brick if it meant saving her a moment of grief. The idea that I would ever hurt her, that she would ever need to escape me... it is the most insulting, deeply ignorant lie ever spun.”

Arthur was silent, captivated by the raw, bleeding devotion of the man sitting across from him.

”How is she now?” Arthur asked softly.

”She is recovering,” Damien answered, a rare, heartbreaking softness touching his features. ”She is the strongest woman I have ever met. She is my wife. My queen. And I will wait by her bed until she opens her eyes, no matter how long it takes. And when she does, she will return to her career stronger than ever. End of story.”

Damien sat back, the interview concluded on his terms.

Zoe stood by the door, tears streaming silently down her cheeks, her hand covering her mouth.

It was the most beautiful, devastating confession she had ever heard. The internet wasn’t just going to be silenced; they were going to be weeping.