After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 121: Mr. CEO is a Coward

The blue light of the laptop screen was burning a hole in Damien’s retinas.

It was 3:00 AM. The city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows was a grid of silent lights, but inside the penthouse, the only thing moving was the cursor on Damien’s screen.

He stared at the spreadsheet.

Row 412. Shell Company. Zurich. Row 413. Offshore Trust. Cayman Islands. Row 414. Private Equity. Singapore.

The data was a labyrinth. It was a mess of numbers and names designed to hide the truth, and for the first time in his career, Damien couldn’t find the pattern. He usually thrived on this—the hunt, the puzzle, the kill. But tonight, the rows were blurring together into a headache that felt like a nail being driven into his left temple.

"Fuck this," he whispered.

He closed the laptop with a snap that sounded too loud in the quiet room.

He rubbed his eyes, the heels of his hands digging in until he saw stars. The migraine was back, a lingering reminder of the sensory overload from the day and the stress of the last forty-eight hours.

He opened the nightstand drawer quietly. He shook two Vanax pills into his palm and swallowed them dry.

He looked at Aria.

She was still asleep, sprawled on her side of the bed, hugging a pillow. Her hair was a chaotic mess of rose-gold waves, her lips slightly parted. She looked peaceful.

Damien stood up. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the dresser and his lighter. He slipped his hand into the pocket of his discarded trousers on the chair, retrieving a small, black velvet box he had moved there from the safe earlier that day.

He walked to the balcony door, sliding it open with practiced silence, and stepped out into the cool night air.

The wind hit him, biting through his thin t-shirt, but he welcomed it. He lit a cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs, letting the nicotine settle the tremors in his hands.

He leaned against the glass railing, looking down at the city he supposedly owned.

"If we had done it my way," Damien thought, the smoke curling from his lips. "We would have the ledger by now."

He should have ordered the team to pick up the three women—Sasha, Chloe, and Veronique—the moment the theft was discovered. A few hours in a soundproof room would have yielded the truth faster than this tedious digital forensic hunt.

Aria had argued for caution. She wanted to protect them. She was worried about tipping off the Vipers.

"They already know," Damien murmured to the wind.

Lydia wasn’t stupid. Subtlety was a waste of time when the enemy was already at the gates. And if his methods meant the women became collateral damage later? He didn’t care. They were pawns. He would burn the whole city to keep Aria safe.

"Softness gets you killed."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the velvet box.

He flipped it open.

Inside sat a diamond. It wasn’t modern or flashy like the rocks celebrities wore. It was an antique cushion cut, set in heavy platinum with sapphires hidden in the band. It had belonged to his mother—the only woman in the Sinclair family who had ever had a heart, before the estate crushed it out of her.

It was a ring meant for a love match. Not a contract.

Damien stared at the stone, the moonlight catching the facets.

He had planned to give it to her. Not tonight, maybe. But soon. He had thought about doing it in Paris, under the lights of the Eiffel Tower, or maybe just over breakfast when she was wearing his shirt and eating toast.

"You’re a fool," he muttered to himself.

He looked back through the glass door at the sleeping figure in his bed.

Aria had signed a contract for power and protection. She had agreed to a partnership to save her life and destroy her enemies. She had forgiven him for lying because he was a "good husband"—a useful one.

But love?

She had never said it. She had moaned his name. She had clung to him. She had trusted him with her body and her secrets. But she had never asked for forever.

What if she says no?

The thought terrified him more than anything.

If he asked her to be his real wife—to tear up the contract and sign a marriage license that wasn’t just a business deal—she might look at him with pity. She might say, ’Damien, we have a deal. Don’t make it complicated.’

Or worse. She might say she’s leaving once the war is over.

"You face down cartels," Damien whispered to the smoke curling from his lips. "You blackmail billionaires. You break bones without blinking. But you’re afraid of a twenty-year-old girl."

He was a coward.

He was the CEO of cowardice.

He snapped the box shut. The sound was final.

He couldn’t risk it. Not now. Not while her life was in danger. If he asked her now, she might say yes just because she needed his protection. And he didn’t want gratitude. He didn’t want obligation.

He wanted her. All of her. Freely given.

And until he could guarantee her safety—until he could burn the Vipers to the ground and hand her the keys to her mother’s mystery—he didn’t deserve to ask.

"Win the war first," he told himself, shoving the ring deep into his pocket. "Then beg for the girl."

He finished his cigarette, crushing the butt into the stone ashtray.

He waited for the smell of smoke to fade from his skin, shivering in the cold, before he slid the door open and stepped back inside.

The room was warm. Aria hadn’t moved.

Damien walked to the bed. He climbed in carefully, trying not to dip the mattress. He slid in behind her, wrapping his arm around her waist, pulling her back against his chest.

She stirred, making a soft, sleepy sound. She shimmied backward, seeking his heat instinctively.

"Cold," she mumbled.

"I’ve got you," Damien whispered.

He buried his face in her hair. He held her tight, anchoring her to him.

He was a fake husband. He was a coward.

But for tonight, he was the one holding her. And that would have to be enough, for now.