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

Chapter 279: Checkmate, Master Sinclair

The ride back to Sinclair Tower in the Aston Martin was suffocatingly silent.

Aria sat as close to the passenger door as physically possible, hugging her arms tightly around herself. She was completely soaked from the torrential highway downpour, her bare feet tucked under her on the leather seat. The sports car’s AC blasted against her wet skin and ruined Alexander McQueen red pantsuit, but she didn’t complain.

She stared out the tinted window, watching the blurring buildings and trees, refusing to look at the man behind the wheel.

Damien drove with white-knuckled tension. His jaw was locked tight enough to crack his own teeth, his wet dress shirt clinging to the Kevlar vest still strapped across his chest.

"I want to see my father," Aria finally said, her voice flat. "Reroute to the safe house."

Damien kept his golden eyes glued to the road.

"No," he replied, his tone an unyielding, glacial baritone. "You are shivering, Aria. You’re soaked to the bone and covered in highway grit and grease. We are going home so you can shower and change into dry clothes before you catch pneumonia."

Aria didn’t argue.

She bit the inside of her cheek, clamped her mouth shut, and turned her head back toward the passenger window.

The absolute silent treatment was infinitely more punishing than any screaming match ever could be for Damien. He let out a slow, barely audible exhale, forced to accept the quiet hostility.

By the time Damien pulled the Aston Martin into the subterranean parking garage of Sinclair Tower, the storm clouds had finally broken. The setting sun pierced through the grey gloom, casting long, golden-orange rays across the city skyline.

The private elevator ride up to the penthouse was somehow even more painful.

They stood shoulder to shoulder, entirely mute. The digital numbers ticked upward, mocking the thick, unresolved tension suffocating the small, mirrored box.

Damien glanced at her every few seconds, but Aria kept her solemn gaze focused on the doors.

Ding.

The steel doors slid open to the pristine, imported Italian marble of the penthouse foyer.

Aria stepped out first, leaving a trail of wet, bare footprints across the spotless floor. Damien followed silently behind her, his ruined Oxford shoes squeaking softly.

They turned the corner into the expansive, open-concept living room and...

"Is it really so difficult to comprehend the concept of steeping temperature?!" a shrill, haughty voice screeched through the apartment.

Diana was lounging on the white velvet sectional, her bandaged leg propped up on a silk pillow. She was currently terrorizing a terrified, middle-aged woman dressed in crisp blue medical scrubs.

Having completely given up on finding a manipulative co-conspirator after her disastrous interviews in the lobby, Diana had been forced to hire an actual, credentialed nurse. And she was currently making the poor woman’s life a living hell.

"This Earl Grey is tepid!" Diana complained, aggressively shoving a fine china teacup back toward the trembling nurse. "I asked for hot! Are you a registered nurse or a barista in training? Because frankly, your bedside manner is atrocious!"

"I-I’m sorry, Ms. Sinclair, I’ll brew a fresh pot immediately," the nurse stammered, frantically grabbing the saucer.

Diana rolled her eyes, opening her mouth to launch another volley of insults, when she caught sight of the two figures marching across the living room.

Diana froze. Her jaw dropped.

Aria and Damien were tattered, drenched, and dripping rainwater onto the multi-million-dollar rugs.

"Excuse me!" Diana gasped in horror, pointing a finger at the puddles forming in their wake. "What on earth happened to you two?! Look at the state of you! You are ruining the floor!"

Aria didn’t even blink. She didn’t slow down.

Damien didn’t even acknowledge his sister’s existence.

They marched right past the velvet sofa like two soaked, hostile phantoms, ignoring Diana’s shrieks as they disappeared down the dark corridor leading to the master suite.

"The disrespect in this house!" Diana huffed indignantly, glaring at the empty hallway before turning her wrath back onto the terrified nurse. "Well? What are you waiting for?! Go get a mop!"

Inside the master suite, the air conditioning was blasting, keeping the room at a crisp, freezing sixty-eight degrees.

Aria was shivering so much that her teeth were chattering. Without hesitation, she marched into the sprawling, custom-built walk-in closet.

She reached up to the top shelf, grabbed her Louis Vuitton weekender bag, and threw it roughly onto the center velvet island. She unzipped the main compartment with a sharp, violent yank.

Damien stepped into the closet right behind her.

The heavy silence followed him.

Aria aggressively pulled open a mahogany drawer, grabbing a handful of silk camisoles and throwing them haphazardly into the open bag. She didn’t bother folding them. She grabbed her favorite skincare serums from the vanity shelf and tossed them in next.

Standing a few feet away, Damien began to shed his clothes.

He unbuttoned his soaked, dirty dress shirt with jerky movements, stripping the ruined fabric off his broad shoulders and tossing it onto the floor.

Thud.

He unstrapped the Kevlar tactical vest and it hit the plush carpet with a dull thud.

Damien stood there in the dim, golden light of the setting sun filtering through the closet windows. He was completely bare-chested. Rainwater and sweat glistened across the hard, sculpted planes of his chest and the sharp, deep ridges of his eight-pack.

He crossed his arms over his chest, his golden eyes narrowing as he watched Aria throw a pair of leggings into her bag.

"What are you doing?" Damien demanded, his voice a low, warning rumble.

Aria didn’t stop packing. She didn’t even look at him. She marched over to her shoe rack, grabbed a pair of fuzzy slides, and shoved them into the side pocket of the duffel.

"Isn’t it obvious?" Aria asked him, her voice deadpan and icy. "I am packing my things."

"I told you," Damien warned, taking a slow, predatory step forward, his jaw ticking with irritation. "You are not leaving this penthouse. I am not letting you walk out that door, Aria."

"I’m not leaving the penthouse," Aria replied coldly, zipping the weekender bag shut with a snapping sound.

She finally turned around. She gripped the handles of her bag, lifting her chin to meet his furious, golden gaze with a look of untouchable defiance.

"I am moving into the guest bedroom upstairs," Aria dropped the bomb, her emerald eyes flashing with malicious, spiteful compliance.

Damien stiffened. His arms dropped to his sides, his brow furrowing in genuine confusion. "What?"

Aria offered him a hollow smile.

"You said it yourself," Aria purred. "Article Four, Section C mandates that I maintain primary and continuous residency at the Sinclair Penthouse. And I am. I am maintaining my residency."

She tilted her head, her voice dripping with ice-cold sarcasm.

"However, there is absolutely nothing in that precious contract of yours that dictates which specific bed I have to sleep in. Is there, Master Sinclair?"

Master Sinclair.

It wasn’t a playful, kinky submission. It was a cold reminder of exactly what he had just done to her. He had treated her like his property. He had reduced their beautiful relationship down to a transactional hostage situation.

Damien crossed the closet in two fast strides.

Aria gasped, dropping her bag as Damien rushed her.

He backed her right up against the mahogany cabinetry. He slammed his hands flat against the wood on either side of her head, caging her in completely with his muscular frame.

Aria’s breath hitched in her throat. Her back hit the wood.

The physical proximity was overwhelming. He was so large, so broad, completely trapping her in his shadow. The raw, primal heat radiating off his bare skin enveloped her instantly, warring with the freezing air conditioning.

Aria wanted to stay mad. She wanted to maintain her icy, untouchable facade, but her traitorous body was betraying her. Her heart hammered a frantic, desperate rhythm against her ribs. Her eyes uncontrollably dragged over the thick, corded muscles of his forearms, across his broad chest, and up the strong column of his throat.

She forced her gaze upward, fully intending to glare into the eyes of the manipulative asshole she fell in love with.

But when she met his golden eyes, her breath vanished completely.

He was looking down at her, and he looked utterly defeated.

Damien’s long, dark lashes slowly lowered.

"What do I have to do," Damien whispered, his voice cracking with raw vulnerability, "to make you forgive me?"

Aria stared up at him for a moment.

"There is nothing you can do to make me forgive you, Damien," Aria whispered, her voice thick with emotion but unwavering. "And you can’t make me forgive you. That is not how forgiveness works."

Damien’s jaw clenched, his eyes searching hers frantically for a lifeline.

"What you need to do right now," Aria continued softly, "is give me time. And you need to give me space."

She pushed against him and he took a slow, step backward, dropping his arms and letting her go.

Aria grabbed the handles of her Louis Vuitton weekender bag and marched out of the closet.