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

The pneumatic doors of the M15 local bus hissed open with a dramatic, squealing groan.

Aria skipped down the rubber steps onto the pavement. She turned back toward the brightly lit, packed cabin, waving enthusiastically at an older woman sitting near the window.

”Good luck with the gallbladder surgery on Thursday, Brenda!” Aria yelled cheerfully over the roar of the bus engine. ”Don’t let them cheap out on the anesthesia! Ask for the good stuff!”

”Thanks, sweetie!” Brenda waved back. ”Tell your husband to take some Pepto!”

The doors slapped shut, and the bus roared away into the Manhattan night, blowing a warm gust of exhaust fumes over the curb.

Aria turned around, a massive, triumphant grin on her face.

That grin vanished the second she looked at her husband.

Damien had stumbled out of the bus behind her and was currently braced with both hands against a brick building, his head hanging low.

His face was entirely devoid of color, an alarming shade of pasty green visible even under the terrible, sallow foundation the Devereaux twins had applied. Sweat beaded on his forehead, sticking his messy silver hair to his skin.

He was breathing in shallow, ragged gasps, looking like he was five seconds away from violently throwing up.

”Damien?” Aria asked, her voice dropping its playful edge. ”Are you okay?”

”A man,” Damien choked out, his voice a hollow, traumatized rasp. He slowly lifted his head, his golden eyes wide and haunted. ”A man... coughed directly onto the back of my neck.”

Aria clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle a snort.

”He didn’t cover his mouth, Aria,” Damien whispered, sounding genuinely, profoundly horrified. ”He just opened his mouth and expelled microscopic droplets of biological warfare into the shared atmosphere. And then... a teenager touched the pole I was holding. His hands were sticky.”

Damien shuddered. The forty pounds of synthetic fat suit strapped to his torso shifted awkwardly under his mustard-yellow argyle sweater as he gagged.

”I need a shower,” Damien wheezed. ”I need an acid bath.”

Aria couldn’t hold it in anymore. She burst into a fit of cackling laughter, bending over and slapping her knee. The untouchable Demon King of New York had just been completely and utterly destroyed by a ten-minute ride on the MTA.

”It is not funny,” Damien glared, though he didn’t have the energy to muster any actual heat behind it. He swayed slightly on his feet.

”Oh, it’s hilarious,” Aria giggled, stepping up to him. ”Come here. Lean on me. The hotel is only a mile away.”

Aria stepped to his side and grabbed his arm, slinging it over her shoulders.

Aria was a solid foot shorter than him. Damien was entirely dead weight, his mysophobia apparently shutting down his motor skills. And worse, he was wearing the massive, padded fat suit.

Aria strained under his weight, practically buckling sideways as the synthetic foam of his dad-bod padding squished aggressively against the side of her face.

”Holy shit, you are heavy,” Aria grunted, wrapping her arm tightly around his waist to keep him upright as they began to hobble down the sidewalk.

”Don’t put me down,” Damien muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the pavement to avoid looking at the pedestrians passing them. ”If I touch the sidewalk, I will die.”

”Your enemies are honestly working way too hard,” Aria cackled, hauling him forward step by agonizing step. ”If they really wanted to assassinate you, they just needed to trap you in a subway car during rush hour and sneeze in your general direction. You’d just spontaneously combust.”

It took them almost thirty agonizing minutes to cover the mile. By the time the towering, illuminated glass facade of Sinclair Tower came into view, Aria was sweating through her frumpy beige trench coat, and Damien looked ready to flatline.

They stumbled through the revolving doors into the pristine, climate-controlled sanctuary of the lobby.

The moment their feet hit the imported Italian marble, three men sitting in the lounge area instantly snapped their heads up.

They were dressed in casual, understated clothing but their posture was unmistakably military. They were Damien’s elite undercover security team, permanently stationed in the lobby.

The guards took one look at their terrifying boss, who was currently slumped over Aria’s shoulder, looking pale, sweaty, and tragically thick around the middle.

Panic flashed in the operatives’ eyes. They stood up immediately, moving to intercept them.

But they were professionals. They couldn’t blow Damien’s cover in the middle of a crowded hotel lobby.

”Excuse me, ma’am!” the lead guard called out, pitching his voice to sound like a friendly, concerned civilian as he rushed over. ”Oh my goodness, does your husband need some assistance? He looks terribly ill!”

Aria’s eyes lit up with absolute delight. She leaned fully into the bit.

”Oh, thank heavens!” Aria gasped theatrically, doing her best distressed-housewife impression. ”Thank you so much, nice young strangers! My poor husband ate some bad street meat! He has a very delicate stomach! He’s prone to the runs!”

Damien’s head snapped up. If looks could kill, Aria would have been vaporized on the spot.

”Help me get him to the elevators, boys!” Aria ordered brightly, ignoring him entirely.

The three mercenaries, biting their cheeks to keep from smiling at their boss’s utter humiliation, smoothly flanked Damien. Two of them took his weight off Aria’s shoulders, supporting him by his arms.

”We’ve got you, buddy,” the lead guard said, barely containing a snort. ”Just breathe.”

Damien leveled a glare at the guard that promised a swift, painful demotion the second he got out of the fat suit, but he let them haul him toward the private lift.

Aria trotted behind them.

They reached the elevator bay. One of the guards subtly swiped a hidden keycard, and the brushed steel doors of the private lift slid open immediately.

They gently dumped Damien inside.

”Thank you, kind citizens!” Aria beamed, stepping into the elevator. ”Your mothers raised you right!”

”Have a good night, ma’am,” the guard choked out, stepping back to let the doors close.

Damien slumped back against the mirrored wall, running both hands over his face, looking utterly and completely defeated.

Aria leaned against the opposite wall, peeling the itchy brown wig off her head with a sigh of relief, letting her rose-gold hair tumble down her back.

”We survived,” Aria smiled, looking at him.

The elevator doors were an inch away from closing completely.

Suddenly, a manicured hand shot through the narrow gap.

The safety sensors beeped loudly, and the heavy steel doors instantly reversed, sliding all the way back open.

Aria froze, the brown wig dangling uselessly from her fingers. Damien went completely rigid against the wall.

A young woman stepped briskly into the private elevator.

It was Jade.

She didn’t look up immediately. She was looking at her phone, hitting a button to send a text.

”Sorry, sorry, just trying to catch this one before it goes up,” Jade murmured politely.

She turned around to face the front of the elevator, slipping her phone into her pocket. She glanced over at the two people sharing the car with her.

She looked at the sweaty, slightly overweight man in the mustard argyle sweater leaning against the wall. Then, she looked at the woman in the frumpy beige trench coat holding a dead-looking brown wig in her hands.

Jade didn’t recognize them. The Devereaux Twins’ magic, combined with the sheer, frumpy tragedy of their outfits, rendered them entirely unrecognizable.

Jade offered them a bright, perfectly pleasant smile.

”Good evening,” Jade said politely.

Aria stared at Leo’s sister. She slowly looked over at Damien, whose jaw was clenched so tight it looked ready to shatter.

’Shit,’ Aria thought.