After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 20: A Masterclass in Villainy

The lights on the set of The Empress’s Shadow burned hot, mimicking the stifling heat of an imperial summer. The crew moved in hushed silence, sensing that the air had shifted. It wasn’t just a film set anymore; it was a coliseum, and the lions had been released.

Aria sat on the Dragon Throne, her black robes spread around her like a pool of ink. She wasn’t looking at the camera. She was looking at her nails, currently painted a deep, oxblood red. She sat with a languid arrogance that made the throne look like it had been built specifically for her spine.

"Action!" Spielberg yelled, his voice cracking slightly with anticipation.

The scene began.

Bella, kneeling on the floor in her white robes, looked up. Her eyes were red—real tears this time, fueled by the humiliation of the morning.

"Consort Li," Bella recited, her voice trembling with righteous indignation. "You have the Emperor’s favor, but you do not have his heart. Power built on fear is sand. It will wash away."

It was a good line. In the original script, Consort Li was supposed to rage at this. She was supposed to throw a vase, scream, and look unhinged, proving the Saintess right.

Aria didn’t scream.

She laughed.

It was a low, throaty sound, devoid of humor but full of dark amusement. She stood up slowly, descending the steps of the dais one by one. The heavy silk of her costume rustled like dry leaves warning of a fire.

"Sand?" Aria repeated, stopping inches from Bella.

She reached out, grabbing Bella’s chin with her thumb and forefinger. Her nails dug in slightly—not enough to mark, but enough to force eye contact.

"You speak of sand, Little Saint," Aria purred, improvising the rhythm of the lines, letting the character’s soul bleed into her own. "But you forget where sand comes from. It comes from mountains that have been ground down by time and pressure. I am not the sand. I am the mountain."

She leaned in, her face filling the camera frame. The kohl-rimmed intensity in her emerald eyes was terrifying.

"And you? You are just a weed growing in my shadow. You think your purity makes you strong? Purity is brittle. It shatters."

Aria released Bella’s chin with a shove that sent the other woman rocking back on her heels.

"The Emperor loves your tears because they make him feel like a god," Aria whispered, her voice dropping to a register that the boom mics had to strain to catch. "But when the kingdom burns... and it will burn... he won’t look for the woman who cries. He will look for the woman who can hold the torch."

She turned her back on Bella, walking toward the camera with a stride that ate the distance.

"Cut!" Aria snapped herself, breaking the fourth wall before the Director could. "Next scene. I’m bored of this one."

For three seconds, there was absolute silence on the soundstage.

Then, the crew erupted. The cameramen were exchanging looks of disbelief. The lighting technicians were grinning.

"Cut! Print! Check the gate!" Spielberg screamed, looking like he’d just seen a religious vision. "That was... that was terrifying! The improv! ’I am the mountain’? Genius! Writers! Rewrite the script! Give her more lines!"

Bella sat on the floor, forgotten. She looked around, waiting for someone to praise her vulnerability, her tears. But no one was looking at her. They were all looking at Aria.

Aria walked off the set, the heavy robes feeling lighter now that she had vented some spleen.

Damien was waiting by the monitors. He held out a bottle of water—opened, of course.

"You changed the dialogue," he noted, handing her the bottle.

"The original lines were weak," Aria said, taking a long sip. "Consort Li isn’t insecure. She knows she’s the villain. She owns it."

" ’I am the mountain’," Damien quoted, his golden eyes gleaming with something that looked suspiciously like pride. "Arrogant."

"Accurate," Aria corrected.

She looked over at Lucas, who was standing by the craft services table, watching her with a gaze that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t hate anymore. It was a sick, twisted fascination.

"Your nephew is staring," Aria murmured.

Damien didn’t even turn his head. "Let him stare. He’s realizing he threw away a diamond to pick up a piece of glass. Regret is a slow poison. I intend to let him drink the whole bottle."

Aria smirked. "You’re cruel."

"I’m efficient." 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

Damien checked his watch. "Wrap it up. We have a dinner reservation."

"Dinner? Again?" Aria groaned. "Clause 9 doesn’t cover dating, Mr. Sinclair."

"It covers nutrition," Damien countered smoothly. "You look pale. And I have a meeting with the Board of Directors tomorrow. I need my wife to be in top form to scare them."

"Fiancée," Aria corrected automatically.

"For now."

Damien took the empty water bottle from her hand. His fingers lingered on hers.

"Go get changed, Aria. Leave the costume. But keep the attitude. It suits you."

Thirty minutes later, they were back in the Rolls Royce. But this time, Damien had dismissed Ken. He was driving himself.

He turned the car onto a private road that led up into the hills overlooking the city, away from the bustling restaurant district.

"Damien," Aria said, clutching her seatbelt as he took a curve too fast. "Where are we going? The restaurant is the other way."

"Change of plans," Damien gritted out.

Aria looked at him sharply. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The smooth skin of his forehead was beaded with sweat, and the furrow between his brows—the one she had smoothed out earlier—was back, deeper than before.

"The noise," he rasped, his voice tight with pain. "It’s back. Worse."

Aria realized with a jolt that the day had been too much. The press conference, the studio lights, the confrontation with Elena, the noise of the crew... his sensory overload had been building silently like a pressure cooker.

"Home," Aria commanded instantly. "Drive home. Now."

"Can’t," Damien gasped. "Too far. Won’t make it."

He swerved the car toward a gated driveway that appeared out of the darkness. A massive, modern glass house sat perched on the cliff edge, isolated and dark.

"Safe house," he explained breathlessly.

The car screeched to a halt in front of the door. Damien stumbled out, clutching his head, his vision blurring.

Aria was out in a second. She rushed to his side, grabbing his arm to support him. He was heavy, his body shaking with tremors.

"Lean on me," she ordered.

They stumbled into the dark house. It smelled of dust and disuse. Damien collapsed onto the nearest sofa, a groan tearing from his throat that sounded like an animal in a trap.

"Aria," he gasped, his hand reaching out blindly. "Stop it. Stop the noise."

Aria climbed onto the sofa with him, not caring about propriety or contracts. She straddled his waist, her hands flying to his temples.

"I’m here," she whispered. "I’ve got you."

She pressed down on the acupoints.

But this time, the pain didn’t vanish instantly. Damien thrashed, his back arching. His tolerance was fighting her.

"It’s not enough," he choked out. "Deep... deeper."

He grabbed her hips, his fingers digging in bruisingly hard, and pulled her down until her chest was pressed against his.

"Skin," he demanded deliriously, his golden eyes blown wide and unseeing. "Need... skin contact. The clothes are blocking it."

Aria’s eyes widened. According to Granny Shen’s teachings, fabrics could indeed dampen the transfer of bio-electricity in severe cases. He needed direct meridian contact.

She looked at the man writhing beneath her. He was powerful, rich, and terrifying, but right now, he was just a man in agony. And she was the only cure.

Aria made a choice.

She reached for the buttons of her blouse.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice trembling but determined. "Okay, Damien. Hold on."