After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 218: Gaslighting the Gaslighter

Amidst the chaos of police radios, shouting guests, and boots stomping through the main lobby, Aria and Damien slipped entirely unnoticed through the hotel’s labyrinth of service corridors.

They navigated the fluorescent-lit back hallways until they reached the metal doors of the subterranean loading dock.

The cool night air hit them instantly.

Idling quietly by the curb of the back staff exit was a blacked-out SUV. Standing flawlessly at attention beside the rear passenger door was Richard. His suit was perfectly pressed, his posture rigid and professional.

Dangling casually from his right wrist was a stainless-steel police handcuff. The metal chain connecting it to the other cuff had been cleanly snapped in half.

Richard smoothly pulled the car door open for Aria.

"Good evening, Ma’am," Richard greeted. "Traffic is a bit heavy out front, so we will be taking the designated alternate route."

Aria turned to Damien. She reached out, giving his hand a firm squeeze.

"I’ll message you when I’m ready," Aria whispered, her eyes locking onto his.

Damien’s expression softened instantly. He pulled her flush against his chest, wrapping his hand around the nape of her neck, and captured her lips in a deep, searing kiss that was over far too quickly.

"Okay," Damien murmured against her lips, reluctantly letting her go.

Aria smiled, sliding into the backseat of the SUV. Richard closed the door, hopped into the driver’s seat, and the vehicle peeled seamlessly away into the dark city streets.

Damien stood there for a long moment, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, watching the taillights disappear until the car was completely out of sight.

Damien spun on his heel. He walked briskly down the block, crossing the street toward a small, warmly lit storefront. It was a quaint, quiet little bakery. The air inside smelled heavenly—a rich, intoxicating blend of melted butter, vanilla bean, and spun sugar.

Damien pushed the glass door open, the small brass bell above his head chiming softly.

An elderly woman, wearing a flour-dusted apron and a sweet, grandmotherly smile, emerged from the kitchen beyond the main counter.

"Good evening, sir," the old woman greeted warmly, wiping her hands on a towel. "What can I get for you?"

Damien already knew exactly what he needed, but his golden eyes drifted over the brightly lit glass display case. It was filled with delicate, perfectly piped fruit tarts, towering slices of red velvet cake, and rows of colorful, pristine macarons.

He knew Aria loved sweets, especially anything with strawberries. He made a mental note to bring his wife back to this bakery later.

"I need a coconut chiffon cake," Damien requested. He offered the elderly woman a polite, overwhelmingly handsome smile that made her blush like a schoolgirl. "The whole cake, please."

It was Diana’s absolute favorite. Growing up, it was the exact cake he usually bought to appease her whenever she threw one of her neurotic tantrums.

"Of course, dear!" the old woman beamed, carefully boxing up a pristine, fluffy white cake. "Special occasion?"

"You could say that," Damien hummed smoothly.

He tapped his sleek titanium card against the reader, completely indifferent to the price. The old woman expertly wrapped the stylish, branded bakery box in a beautiful silk ribbon and handed it over the counter.

"Have a wonderful night, sir," she waved. "Come again!"

"I will," Damien promised, stepping back out into the cool night air.

He walked the single block back toward the hotel’s main plaza. The flashing red and blue lights of the NYPD cruisers painted the street in chaotic, strobing colors.

He could already feel a migraine brewing on the horizon.

Damien approached the massive, swarming crowd of press, police, and onlookers from the rear. At the very center of the media circus, illuminated by the harsh, glaring brightness of a dozen camera flashes, sat Diana Sinclair.

She was in her wheelchair, weeping beautifully into a tissue.

"We were always so close growing up," Diana sobbed to a reporter holding a microphone. "When our mother committed suicide shortly after he was born, I had to—"

Diana’s tragic monologue was abruptly cut off.

Camera lenses swiveled away. Microphones were yanked back. The crowd gasped. The sea of reporters and police officers parted like the Red Sea.

Damien glided through the opening, his perfectly tailored suit completely unruffled, holding a stylish bakery box.

Diana froze, her mouth hanging open. She hadn’t even noticed he had arrived until the cameras abandoned her.

"Diana?" Damien asked, his voice projecting clearly over the stunned silence of the crowd. He tilted his head, his face a flawless mask of mild, brotherly confusion. "What are you doing out here? I’ve been looking for you."

The press pool exploded.

"MR. SINCLAIR!" "DAMIEN! OVER HERE!" "ARE YOU ALIVE?! WHERE WERE YOU?!"

A dozen of Damien’s elite operatives seamlessly materialized from the crowd, forming an impenetrable human barricade to keep the screaming reporters from rushing him.

Damien completely ignored the shouting press, looking directly at his sister. He pretended to have absolutely no idea what was going on.

"I didn’t tell you where I was going because I wanted it to be a surprise," Damien said smoothly, raising the bakery box slightly for the cameras to catch. "I had to wait for the baker to finish making your favorite coconut chiffon cake. I wanted to cheer you up after you hurt your leg."

A collective, audible swoon rippled through the crowd.

The cameras flashed wildly.

The narrative shifted in a microsecond.

The terrifying Demon King was definitely misunderstood; he was just a loving, caring brother going out of his way to buy his injured sister a pastry. He was a bit scary, sure, but underneath it all, he was incredibly sweet to the people he cared about.

Hearing the crowd’s immediate adoration for him, Diana quickly realized her act was rapidly falling apart. She scrambled to save face, forcing a relieved, watery laugh.

"Oh, Damien!" Diana cried, playing along desperately. "I was just so worried! I suppose... with all our family trauma, my paranoia just got the best of me! It was just a silly misunderstanding!"

Damien wasn’t going to let her have a happy ending.

"Please, do not take my sister too seriously," Damien addressed the reporters, his voice ringing with compassionate sorrow. "She struggles with a severe, untreated drinking problem and has been mentally unstable for years. She enjoys pulling these extreme, disruptive pranks on the authorities for attention."

Diana’s jaw hit the floor. Her eyes widened in paralyzing horror.

The crowd’s pity for her instantly evaporated, replaced by harsh, judgmental murmurs and snapping camera shutters.

"A drinking problem?" one reporter whispered loudly to another. "Every rich family has a nutjob, I guess." "Isn’t she too old for pranks?" "She’s lucky her brother is so understanding and patient."

Diana sat in her wheelchair, utterly, completely, and publicly humiliated on national television. She couldn’t say a word to defend herself without proving his point about her mental instability. She was trapped.

Over the deafening noise of the crowd judging his sister, a single reporter screamed at the top of his lungs from the back of the barricade.

"Mr. Sinclair! What about your mental state regarding your wife’s tragic situation?!"

Damien stopped.

He slowly turned toward the reporter.

"That’s the other thing that held me up, actually," Damien announced.

He looked directly into the nearest camera lens.

"I got a call from the hospital. My wife just woke up."