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

”Wait,” Aria said, holding up a hand. She walked over to the thick glass window of the ICU and peered through the blinds, looking down at the street level.

Even from four stories up, the flashing lights of the paparazzi swarming the front entrance of St. Jude’s were blinding. They were clustered around the barricades like a pack of feral, highly caffeinated hyenas waiting for a scrap of meat.

Aria turned back to Damien, gesturing to her own frumpy, beige trench coat and mousy brown synthetic wig.

”Damien, think about it,” Aria reasoned, crossing her arms. ”Your wife is supposedly lying in that bed, fighting for her life. If the paparazzi somehow manage to photograph you putting a random woman into the back of your Maybach, they are going to think you are cheating on your dying wife.”

Damien paused.

”Fine,” he sighed. ”I’ll have Richard pull the SUV to the front to pick you up.”

”No,” Aria shook her head. ”If they follow the plates, the gig is up. I need to go deep into my role.”

She adjusted her itchy wig with a look of profound determination.

”I’m taking the bus.”

”You are not taking the bus,” Damien said, his voice flat.

”It’s the perfect cover!” Aria defended eagerly. ”Rich people don’t take the bus, Damien. Therefore, the press will not be looking at the bus. The M15 is a liminal space. New Yorkers actively avoid making eye contact on public transit. I’ll be invisible.”

”Aria, you were almost killed,” Damien gritted out, stepping toward her, his jaw ticking. ”I am not letting you wander the streets of Manhattan and board a public transit vehicle alone.”

”Send some of the guards,” Aria countered. ”Have them wear hoodies. It’ll be fine!”

”I said no,” Damien stated, leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. ”If you are taking the bus, then I am taking the bus.”

Aria looked him up and down.

He was wearing a bespoke, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His silver hair was impeccably styled. He radiated wealth, power, and the kind of aggressive, high-definition good looks that actually made people stop breathing in the street.

”Damien,” Aria laughed dryly. ”Dressed like that? Are you insane? You stand out like a diamond in a landfill.”

Damien frowned.

The Devereaux Twins and their team of terrified assistants were currently packing up their makeup cases, zipping up their heavy black duffels.

”Amara. Amina,” Damien called out.

The twins snapped to attention instantly, dropping a palette of setting powder. ”Yes, Mr. Sinclair?”

”Make me bland,” Damien ordered, gesturing vaguely to his own face.

The twins exchanged a look. Their dark eyes lit up with thrill. Usually, they were paid millions to enhance beauty. Being ordered to destroy the most perfect face in the world was the ultimate challenge.

”Sit,” Amara commanded, pointing a makeup brush at the plastic chair.

Damien sat down, shedding his suit jacket and unbuttoning his collar.

Aria pulled her knees up to her chest on the edge of the hospital bed, eating the last piece of Dubai chocolate and watching the show with pure, unadulterated glee.

The twins went to work.

They started with the skin. Amina applied a heavy, sallow foundation, trying to dull his natural, healthy tan into something sickly. Amara grabbed a dark contour stick and tried to draw heavy, exhausted bags under his eyes. They even tried to aggressively brush his eyebrows downward to give him a severe, unappealing unibrow.

Five minutes passed. The twins stepped back, panting slightly.

Damien looked at Aria, his face completely deadpan. ”Well?”

Aria burst out laughing. ”You look like a GQ model doing a ’gritty’ editorial shoot for a high-fashion magazine. It didn’t work. You’re still hot.”

Amara let out a frustrated groan, snapping a makeup brush in half. ”His face is resistant to sabotage! It’s impossible to make him ugly!”

”We need to alter the silhouette,” Amina decided, her eyes narrowing as she dug furiously into a massive costume duffel they had brought. ”If we can’t ruin the face, we ruin the body.”

She pulled out a thick, padded undershirt; essentially a high-end fat suit torso and tossed it at Damien.

”Put that on under your shirt,” Amina ordered. ”And wear this.”

She held up a hideous, mustard-yellow, thickly knit argyle sweater that looked like it had been salvaged from a thrift store bin in 1994.

Damien looked at the sweater with pure, unfiltered revulsion. He looked at Aria.

Aria gave him a double thumbs-up.

With a heavy sigh, Damien slipped the padded vest on over his dress shirt, instantly adding forty pounds of synthetic bulk to his midsection, completely obliterating his V-line and his abs. He pulled the itchy, mustard-yellow sweater over his head.

”Okay,” Amara said, throwing a pair of wire-rimmed, smudged reading glasses onto his face and violently messing up his silver hair until it stuck up in wild tufts. ”Stand up.”

Damien stood up. He turned to face his wife.

Aria slapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking violently as she completely lost her mind laughing.

He looked like a ridiculously wealthy, insanely handsome silver fox who had just decided to let himself go and cultivate a premium, high-quality Dad Bod. The wire glasses only made him look intensely intelligent, like a hot college professor who graded papers at a craft brewery.

”I hate to break it to you,” Aria wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. ”But you look like a rich DILF.”

The twins collapsed into the chairs, completely devastated.

”We failed,” Amina whispered dramatically, burying her face in her hands. ”Our careers are over.”

”Hey, don’t feel bad,” Aria chuckled, sliding off the bed to pat Amara’s shoulder affectionately. ”He’s unrecognizable enough.”

”Alright,” Aria started, looking at Damien. ”Now we need a stand-in for you.”

Damien reached up, pressing a finger to the discrete comms earpiece hidden beneath his messy silver hair.

”Ken,” Damien ordered softly. ”ICU Room 1. Immediately.”

Less than thirty seconds later, the glass doors slid open.

Ken walked in, looking completely exhausted. He was holding an iPad, tapping a stylus against the screen.

Ken stopped.

He looked up from his iPad.

He looked at Damien, barely able to recognize him. He looked at the Devereaux twins, who had suddenly sat up straight, their dark eyes locking onto Ken like a pair of starving wolves spotting a wounded deer.

Ken had exactly the same height as Damien, but a slightly slenderer build. He wore the exact same brand of bespoke, charcoal suits. If you put a good wig and sunglasses on him and viewed him from thirty feet away through a swarm of flashing cameras...

Ken slowly took a step backward toward the door.

”Sir?” Ken squeaked, his voice cracking with terror. ”Why are they looking at me like that?”

The twins didn’t give him a chance to run. They descended upon the screaming assistant with setting spray and contour brushes, dragging him ruthlessly toward the makeup chair as the perfect sacrifice.