After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 205: He’s a Wife Guy

Damien was exactly thirty minutes late to the most important executive board meeting of the quarter.

He didn’t care.

He didn’t even rush.

He took powerful, measured strides down the glass-paneled corridors of Sinclair Headquarters, his bespoke suit jacket unbuttoned, radiating a dark, suffocating aura that had junior analysts literally pressing their backs against the walls to clear his path. They kept their heads bowed, offering hushed, terrified greetings that he completely ignored.

Ken walked briskly at his left flank, holding a sleek iPad loaded with the meeting agenda, while a massive, heavily armed security contractor flanked his right.

In Damien’s hand was a stark white paper cup from the obscenely expensive artisanal café down the street. It contained a double espresso—black, bitter, and strong enough to strip paint.

He pushed through the heavy double doors of the main conference room.

The entire room instantly scrambled to their feet. Twenty highly paid, incredibly powerful executives stood at attention, a synchronized scrape of chairs echoing against the mahogany paneling.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair," they chorused, the underlying fear in their voices completely palpable.

Damien walked to the head of the massive, glossy table. He didn’t sit immediately. He set his coffee down and looked at the terrified faces staring back at him.

"I apologize for my lateness," Damien stated, his voice a flat, deadpan baritone completely devoid of actual remorse. "A prior engagement took longer than I anticipated."

From halfway down the table, the Senior Vice President of Acquisitions, a middle-aged man who apparently possessed zero survival instincts, offered a tight, sycophantic chuckle.

"No apologies necessary, sir," the VP joked boldly. "If anything, your delay gave us all a little more time to perfect our presentations."

Damien’s golden eyes snapped to the man.

The cold, dead silence that followed was heavy. Damien simply stared at the Vice President, his expression so blank that the temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.

"Then there should be absolutely zero mistakes in your presentations," Damien said softly.

The smile violently slid off the VP’s face. He swallowed hard, a bead of nervous sweat immediately forming on his brow. All around him, the other executives shot him lethal, side-eyed glares. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth?

"Sit," Damien commanded, dropping into his high-backed leather chair.

The room sat.

The meeting commenced, and it was a grueling, high-stress parade of end-of-month reports. The executives, despite the aggressive air conditioning blasting from the ceiling vents, were visibly sweating through their silk and Italian wool.

They kept darting nervous glances at the head of the table, desperately searching for a nod, a frown, a microscopic twitch of approval—anything to gauge if they were about to be fired.

But Damien’s handsome, stoic face betrayed absolutely nothing. He sat like a beautifully carved marble gargoyle, staring dead at them.

The female executives at the table, however, were operating on an entirely different wavelength.

They were dressed in their sexiest, most form-fitting corporate attire. Subtly unbuttoned silk blouses, pristine blowouts, and flawless, glossy manicures. They had all watched the news. They had all seen the press junket. As far as the world knew, the current Mrs. Sinclair was a tragic, comatose vegetable hovering on death’s door.

In their calculating, opportunistic minds, the position of the future Mrs. Sinclair was about to open up. They were actively auditioning, trying to catch the Demon King’s eye, practically pre-ordering their Vera Wang wedding dresses in their heads.

Damien didn’t even notice they existed.

His hands were below the edge of the mahogany table, entirely focused on the matte-black iPhone resting in his lap.

He opened his iMessage thread with Aria. It was completely empty. He had sent her a phone a few hours ago, and she hadn’t sent a single text.

His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

Did you eat?

Damien stared at the draft. He frowned. It sounded too maternal. He aggressively hit the backspace button.

Are you bored? Do you want me to come home?

He gritted his teeth. Too clingy. It made him sound desperate. He deleted it.

He didn’t want to come across as overbearing. He wanted to give her space. But the urge to demand a photo of her just to verify she was breathing, was a physical ache in his chest.

Sitting in the chair directly to Damien’s right, Ken was taking meticulous, rapid-fire notes on his iPad. Ken kept his face perfectly neutral, fully aware that Damien wasn’t paying attention to the presentations at all.

"Next," Damien muttered blindly, deleting another drafted text.

A nervous young man stood up from the far end of the table. He was a newly promoted prodigy, but he looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. There were heavy, bruised bags under his eyes, his tie was slightly crooked, and his hands were shaking violently as he inserted a mini thumb drive into the advanced holographic projector.

"G-Good afternoon, Mr. Sinclair," the young executive stuttered, a sheen of panic sweat coating his pale face. "My presentation today covers the potential expansion opportunities for Sinclair Media within the entertainment sector."

He clicked a button. A massive, high-definition graph appeared on the screen behind him.

"Specifically," the young man squeaked, his voice cracking, "the potential acquisition of Vale Entertainment."

Damien didn’t look up from his phone. He was typing: Do you like the phone? He deleted it.

"Following the... uh... recent scandals involving the Vale family," the prodigy continued, stumbling over his words, "fifty percent of Vale Entertainment is now available on the open market. The majority of their top-tier talent and executive board have jumped ship, leaving the infrastructure ripe for a hostile rebrand."

The young executive paused, swallowing audibly.

"However, the remaining fifty percent of the shares were quietly acquired yesterday morning by a foreign entity. Specifically, the Rossi Group. Owned and operated by Vittoria Rossi."

A low murmur rippled through the boardroom.

The executives exchanged wide-eyed, conspiratorial glances. Everyone in the high-stakes corporate world knew Vittoria Rossi. She was a brilliant, razor-sharp Italian CEO, a trailblazer among women in a cutthroat, male-dominated industry.

But more importantly to the gossips in the room, she was Damien Sinclair’s infamous ex-girlfriend from his university days in Europe.

The board members leaned in, vibrating with tension. Would the Demon King engage with her for the deal? Would old sparks fly?

The young executive wiped his forehead, nervously outlining the pros and cons of initiating contact with the Rossi Group to secure the remaining shares.

Damien heard absolutely none of it.

Vittoria Rossi’s name didn’t even register in his brain. The entire Vale Entertainment presentation was functioning as white noise.

He was entirely checked out, glaring at Aria’s empty chat thread, but then...

A blue bubble finally popped into the empty thread.

It was a media file.

Damien stopped breathing.

The loading circle spun for a fraction of a millisecond before the 4K video thumbnail rendered in absolute, crystal-clear perfection on his screen.

It was an image of Aria.

She was sitting on their pristine white silk sheets. She was completely, flawlessly naked. Her rose-gold hair cascaded over one bare shoulder, and both of her hands were buried in the messy waves, pulling the strands back to aggressively thrust her perky, flushed chest directly toward the camera lens.

Her pale skin was literally glowing in the afternoon sunlight. Her emerald eyes, heavy-lidded and sultry, were staring straight through the digital display.

Damien’s heart slammed violently against his ribs. The air in his lungs completely left. The shock of the image paralyzed him, locking his broad shoulders into stone.

Beneath the mahogany table, his tailored slacks tightened at the crotch. His eyes were wide, staring at the thumbnail of his wife on her knees.

With a slightly trembling thumb, he pressed play.