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

”So, you really think they are Vipers?”

Aria took a slow sip of her iced matcha latte, the green liquid stark against the pristine white marble of the kitchen island.

She was already fully snatched for her morning talk show appearance. Her rose-gold hair had been blown out into voluminous, flawless waves, and her makeup was perfected for high-definition cameras. She was wearing a tailored, white blazer dress that screamed unbothered billionaire’s wife.

Sitting directly across from her, Damien was dressed in a sharp, bespoke charcoal suit, a dark tie knotted perfectly at his throat. He took a sip of his black coffee, his golden eyes fixed on the iPad resting between them on the island.

”None of their story makes sense,” Damien stated.

He slid the tablet across the smooth marble toward her.

”Their aunt has worked minimum-wage retail jobs for the last twenty years. She has zero assets,” Damien explained, tapping the screen. ”Yet, they both spent their formative years attending L’Institut de Valmont in the French Alps? The tuition alone is a quarter of a million dollars a year. They are staying in a suite at Sinclair Tower that costs more per night than their combined annual salaries. Do you really need more evidence? It’s a classic, heavily funded intelligence cover.”

Aria looked at the digital dossiers on the screen. She scrolled through the timeline, her manicured fingernail tapping thoughtfully against the glass.

”I agree with you that it’s highly suspicious,” Aria conceded, pushing the iPad back toward him. ”But there’s a glaring hole in your theory, Damien.”

Damien raised a single eyebrow, leaning back in his chair. ”Enlighten me.”

”Their accents,” Aria said simply.

Damien frowned. ”What about them?”

”I’ve taken years of extensive dialect and vocal coaching,” Aria explained. ”Jade is twenty-four. Leo is nineteen. If they grew up in France and spent their entire childhoods at a European boarding school, they would have a French lilt. It’s unavoidable.”

She picked up her matcha, swirling the ice with her straw.

”I spent weeks on set with Leo,” Aria pointed out. ”He speaks in fluent, effortless Gen-Z slang. His palate placement is entirely American. Maintaining a flawless, localized accent twenty-four-seven without a single slip-up? Not dropping a consonant when you’re tired, or letting a vowel drag when you’re overly excited? That requires intense, exhausting, active concentration.”

Aria shook her head. ”Leo never slipped. Not once. It’s incredibly strange to me that they supposedly grew up in France but sound like they just walked out of a California mall.”

Damien stared at her, his jaw tightening.

”Some people are highly trained to mask their origins, Aria,” Damien argued. ”Cartel sleeper agents are molded from a young age to blend in perfectly.”

”Damien, please,” Aria sighed, running a hand through her hair. ”This whole cartel sleeper-agent conspiracy feels like a massive, paranoid leap. What if they just have a shady, grifter past that has absolutely nothing to do with me? Maybe they’re just broke frauds scamming their way into luxury hotels.”

Damien set his coffee mug down.

He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the marble island, his eyes locking onto hers with intense, piercing scrutiny.

”You are having a hard time believing the evidence,” Damien diagnosed bluntly, ”because your emotions are clouding your judgment.”

Aria bristle. ”Excuse me?”

”You like the kid,” Damien pointed out. ”He follows you around like a puppy. He buys you coffee. He flatters you. You have a blind spot for him because he plays the innocent, harmless fanboy so well. It is a manipulation tactic, Aria, and it’s working.”

”It’s not a blind spot!” Aria defended, her cheeks flushing slightly. ”I’m just trying to be logical! Yes, they are lying about their wealth, but jumping straight to ’they are highly trained cartel spies sent to monitor me’ requires a leap of faith without hard proof!”

Damien didn’t argue with her.

”You want hard proof,” he murmured quietly.

He swiped out of the background check dossiers. He opened a separate file folder that Ken had sent after the dossiers.

There was only a single line of text in the document. It was a hyperlink.

Damien clicked it.

He turned the iPad around and slid it back across the marble toward her.

”Watch,” he commanded.

Aria looked down at the screen.

It was a muted, grainy, black-and-white security camera feed. The angle was high, overlooking a dark, rain-slicked, narrow alleyway.

Aria watched as a heavy-set man suddenly sprinted into the frame. He was moving frantically, constantly throwing terrified, panicked glances over his shoulder as he ran. He was gasping for air, stumbling over debris until he hit a towering brick dead end.

He was trapped.

The man spun around. Even without audio, the terror radiating from his body was visceral. He collapsed hard onto his knees on the wet asphalt.

He began begging. He raised his hands in desperate prayer, weeping hysterically. In a frantic bid for his life, the fat man ripped a watch off his wrist and threw it onto the ground. He dug into his pockets, pulling out thick wads of cash and throwing them into the puddles, pleading with whoever was off-camera to take everything he had and spare him.

For five seconds, the man wept on his knees in the empty alley.

And then, a figure emerged from the shadows.

Aria leaned closer to the iPad, her heart suddenly hammering against her ribs.

The figure was slender and dressed in full black, head-to-toe. And they were completely masked, a dark balaclava obscuring their entire head.

The person stepped into the dim glow of the alleyway streetlight and raised a handgun, aiming it squarely at the head of the fat man begging for his life on the wet pavement.

The fat man stared down the barrel of the gun.

But then, the man looked past the weapon, locking eyes with the person behind the mask.

Aria saw it happen. The fat man’s expression shifted. The blubbering, pathetic terror completely vanished from his features, instantly replaced by a look of profound, jaw-dropping shock.

He recognized the person.

A split second later, a muzzle flash illuminated the grainy camera feed.

The fat man jerked backward, collapsing lifelessly onto the wet asphalt.

The figure slowly lowered the gun, standing completely still over the bleeding body. Then, the figure raised a gloved hand, reaching up toward the edge of the black balaclava.

Aria held her breath. Her eyes were wide, completely glued to the screen as she leaned in even closer.

’Pull it off,’ Aria thought frantically, her pulse roaring in her ears. ’Take off the mask.’