After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 134: Guilty as Charged

Aria’s thumb pressed the play button.

The screen of Bella’s phone flickered, showing a shaky, zoomed-in view of a dark alleyway. The timestamp in the corner read 11:45 PM.

On screen, Lucas Sinclair was pacing nervously, his collar turned up against the wind.

A moment later, a woman stepped into the frame. She had bright red hair, a tight leather skirt, and a faux-fur jacket.

Damien leaned in, his golden eyes scanning the pixelated figure with the clinical precision of a predator.

"Pause it," Damien commanded.

Aria tapped the screen.

"It’s not Chloe," Damien stated immediately, pointing to the frozen image. "The height is wrong. Chloe is five-ten; this woman is barely five-five. And look at the back of her neck."

Aria squinted. Just above the collar of the faux-fur jacket, a dark, intricate tattoo of a butterfly was visible on the woman’s skin.

"Chloe’s skin is completely clear," Damien confirmed. "And she definitely isn’t Sasha or Veronique. She’s nobody. Just a random agency worker."

Aria groaned, slumping against the marble counter. "You’re telling me I broke into a Barbie Jeep for a dead end?"

"Play the audio," Damien said. "Let’s hear what my idiot nephew is buying in dark alleys at midnight."

Aria hit play again, turning the volume all the way up. The microphone on Bella’s phone wasn’t great, picking up the wind and the distant hum of traffic, but Lucas’s whiny tenor cut through the noise.

"Did you bring the paperwork?" Lucas asked on the video, holding out a thick manila envelope.

The redhead snatched the envelope, flipping it open with her thumb to thumb through a stack of hundred-dollar bills. "Yeah. Signed and notarized. Standard NDA. I didn’t see anything, I didn’t hear anything."

"Good," Lucas sounded frantic, running a hand through his hair. "Because if anyone finds out... if this gets to the press... my career is over. You understand?’

The redhead snorted, pocketing the cash. "Relax, kid. Your secret is safe. But next time, bring actual tissues. You ruined my silk blouse with your snot."

The video cut out.

Silence descended upon the kitchen.

Aria stared at the black screen. Then, she looked up at Damien.

"Therapy?" Aria whispered, her lips twitching as a laugh bubbled up in her throat. "He was cheating on Bella... to get unlicensed, extremely expensive therapy from a sex worker?"

Damien pinched the bridge of his nose, dragging a hand down his face with a heavy, profound sigh. The secondhand embarrassment was a physical weight in the room.

"He’s officially cleared from the suspect list," Damien gritted out, looking like he wanted to disown his own bloodline. "He’s too pathetic to pull off a heist. He couldn’t even steal a napkin without crying about it."

Aria burst out laughing, leaning against the island for support. "Oh my god. Bella thinks he’s a mastermind player, and he’s actually just paying women to aggressively validate his feelings."

Damien watched her laugh, but his expression didn’t lighten. He stood rigid, his shoulders tight. The cold, impenetrable ice wall he had built this morning was fully intact.

"So," Damien said, his voice flat and businesslike. "What do you want to do with it?"

Aria looked at the phone. It was the ultimate revenge button. With one tap, she could ruin them both.

"No," Aria decided, tapping the screen to lock the device.

Damien raised an eyebrow. "No?"

"I’m in my villainess era," Aria explained, sliding Bella’s phone across the counter. "But I’m also in my tax bracket era. The Empress’s Shadow premieres in three weeks. The studio has invested millions in PR. If I leak this, Lucas becomes a laughingstock, Bella spirals, and the internet boycotts the movie because the male lead is a mess."

She tapped her fingernail against the marble.

"A boycott tanks the box office. And I have a twenty percent equity stake in this film. I am not losing millions of dollars just for the petty satisfaction of watching Lucas cry on TMZ."

She looked up at Damien, her emerald eyes sharp with capitalistic pragmatism.

"I’m choosing profits over petty revenge. We keep this in the vault for personal extortion later."

Damien stared at her.

The silence stretched, heavy and awkward. He looked at her—at the oversized t-shirt hanging off her shoulder, at the messy hair, at the lips he had kissed last night, the same lips that had whispered those three world-shattering words.

I love you, Damien.

He forced his gaze away, his jaw clenching. He took a step back, putting physical distance between them.

"Smart," he said curtly, turning toward the coffee machine.

Aria frowned. The shift in his demeanor was jarring.

"Damien," Aria said softly, stepping around the island.

He stiffened, keeping his back to her.

"What’s wrong?" she asked, reaching out to lightly touch his forearm. "You’ve been acting weird since I woke up. Are you sure you aren’t mad about the elevator?"

Damien closed his eyes. The light touch of her fingers burned through his tailored suit sleeve. He wanted to ask her. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders and demand to know if she remembered what she said. But the fear of hearing ’Remember what?’ kept his mouth shut.

He turned around.

"Nothing," he lied smoothly, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur.

He didn’t give her a chance to ask anything else. He closed the distance between them in a single stride, wrapping his hand around the nape of her neck and pulling her up.

He kissed her.

It was deep, desperate, and overflowing with the things he couldn’t say. He kissed her to shut her up, his thumb stroking her jawline, pouring all his unspoken yearning into the connection.

Aria made a soft sound of surprise in the back of her throat, her hands fluttering up to grip his lapels, melting instantly into the heat of his mouth. Her confusion dissolved, replaced by the dizzying rush of his sudden affection.

When he finally pulled away, they were both slightly breathless.

"Get dressed," Damien murmured, his forehead resting against hers for a fleeting second before he forced himself to step back.

He turned and walked out of the kitchen, leaving Aria staring after him, her lips tingling and her mind completely scrambled.

"Men are so confusing," she sighed, shaking her head.

She turned back to the counter and reached into her Louis Vuitton bag, pulling out her phone. The screen was completely black. It had died somewhere between her fifth tequila shot and her table dancing last night.

She grabbed a charging cable from the kitchen drawer and plugged it into the island outlet.

The little white Apple logo appeared.

Aria turned to open the fridge for some orange juice.

Bzzzz.

Bzzzz.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzz.

The phone vibrated so violently it began to shimmy across the smooth marble surface, threatening to launch itself onto the floor.

Aria slammed the fridge shut. "What the..."

The screen was a cascading waterfall of notifications. It was moving too fast to read. Instagram tags. Twitter mentions. Missed calls.

99+ Unread Messages.

She snatched the phone up, her stomach dropping.

She opened her texts. The top message was from Zoe, sent two hours ago.

[Zoe: CALL ME IMMEDIATELY. HOW ARE WE GOING TO SPIN THIS???]

Below the text was a link.

Aria tapped it. Her browser opened, loading a page that made her blood run cold.

It was TMZ.

The headline, printed in bold, obnoxious red letters, screamed across the top of the screen:

GRAND THEFT MATRIARCH? Sinclair Bride Caught Breaking Into Co-Star’s Pink G-Wagon!

Aria stopped breathing.

Directly below the headline was a crystal-clear, high-resolution photograph.

It showed the parking lot of The Rusty Anchor. It showed the pink vinyl G-Wagon. And it undeniably showed Aria Sinclair—her face flushed, laughing hysterically, clutching a glowing iPhone—being hauled out of a sunroof by her ankles by Zoe Chen in a silver slip dress.

Aria stared at her own legs kicking in the air on the internet’s biggest gossip site.

"Oh my god," Aria whispered into the quiet kitchen. "I am going to jail."