After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 35: The Cost of a Life

The Rolls Royce Phantom idled at the curb of Studio 4, looking less like a car and more like a land shark waiting for its meal.

Aria stepped out of the studio gates, still wearing her street clothes but carrying the heavy emotional weight of the morning’s filming. When she slid into the back seat, the cool, conditioned air hit her like a balm.

Damien was there, as promised. But he wasn’t on his laptop this time. He was holding a thick manila folder, his expression grave.

"Hungry?" he asked, though his eyes didn’t leave her face.

"Starving," Aria lied. The adrenaline from her confrontation with Bella had faded, leaving a hollow pit in her stomach. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere private," Damien signaled Ken. "The Tea House on 5th."

The Tea House was an establishment that catered to the city’s power players—politicians, tycoons, and people who needed to discuss felonies in hushed tones. They were ushered into a private tatami room, shielded by rice paper screens and the sound of a trickling bamboo fountain.

Damien ordered a spread of sashimi and tea without looking at the menu. Once the server bowed and retreated, sliding the door shut, the atmosphere shifted.

He placed the manila folder on the low table between them.

"Dr. Marcus Evans," Damien said, tapping the cover. "Chief Psychiatrist at St. Mary’s. The man who signed your mother’s death certificate."

Aria stared at the folder. Her hands, resting in her lap, clenched into fists.

"And the man Bella hired to diagnose me as ’paranoid’," Aria added softly. "He has a history of being flexible with his ethics."

"He has a history of being expensive," Damien corrected. He opened the folder, revealing a spreadsheet filled with highlighted transactions. "My forensic team traced the payments you flagged from the Vale Entertainment accounts. They were disguised as ’consulting fees’ for a shell company called ’Blue Heron Holdings’."

He slid a photo across the table. It was a bank registration document from the Cayman Islands.

"Blue Heron is registered to a maiden name," Damien said. "Lydia Laurent."

Aria picked up the photo. Her fingers trembled slightly.

"Lydia paid him," she whispered. "She paid him $500,000 the week my mother died."

"And another $200,000 last month, right before you were... scheduled for your breakdown," Damien noted.

Aria felt a chill that the hot tea couldn’t dispel. In her past life, she had always assumed her mother died of a sudden, aggressive heart condition. It was what her father told her. It was what the doctors said. But now, seeing the numbers in black and white, the truth was staring her in the face.

You don’t pay a heart specialist half a million dollars under the table unless you’re buying a diagnosis. Or a corpse.

"It wasn’t a heart attack," Aria murmured, her voice shaking with suppressed rage. "She poisoned her. Lydia poisoned her, and Dr. Evans covered it up."

She looked up at Damien, her emerald eyes swimming with tears she refused to shed.

"She killed my mother for a title, Damien. She killed her so she could be Mrs. Vale."

Damien reached across the table. He didn’t offer empty platitudes. He took her hand, his large thumb rubbing over her knuckles, grounding her.

"We have the financial trail," Damien said, his voice low and lethal. "But it’s circumstantial. A good lawyer—even Julian—would struggle to prove murder based on a wire transfer from ten years ago."

"So she gets away with it?" Aria asked bitterly.

"No," Damien said. "We need the man. We need Dr. Evans to flip."

He squeezed her hand.

"I have a team tracking him. He’s nervous. He knows Lydia is under investigation for tax fraud, and he knows that if she goes down, she might drag him with her to cut a deal. He’s currently hiding at a safe house in the suburbs."

Aria looked at him. "You found him?"

"I find everyone, Aria," Damien said simply. "We’re going to pay him a visit. Tonight. Julian is preparing an immunity deal. If Evans talks, he walks. If he doesn’t..."

Damien’s eyes darkened, the gold turning to molten slag.

"...then he learns that the Sinclair legal team is the least of his problems."

The server returned with the food, breaking the tension. Aria pulled her hand back, wiping her eyes quickly.

She looked at the sashimi. It was fresh, delicate, and expensive. But her appetite was gone, replaced by a cold, burning determination.

"Eat," Damien commanded gently, picking up his chopsticks. "You need strength for a hunt."

Aria picked up a piece of tuna. She chewed mechanically.

"Damien," she said after a moment. "Thank you."

"For what? Doing my job as your partner?"

"For believing me," Aria said. "Most husbands would think their wife is crazy if she accused her stepmother of murder based on a gut feeling."

"You’re not crazy," Damien said, pouring her a cup of tea. "You’re observant. And you’re angry. Anger is a very clarifying emotion."

He looked at her, his gaze intense.

"And besides... I know what it’s like to have family who would sell your blood by the ounce."

It was a rare glimpse into his own past—the ruthless Sinclair succession war that had left him scarred and solitary.

Aria looked at him. Really looked at him. Beneath the tailored suit and the terrifying reputation, he was just a man who had survived his own hell.

A sudden urge to repay him—not just with a contract, but with something real—bloomed in her chest.

"Damien," she said suddenly. "Tonight. Before we hunt down the doctor... let’s go back to the penthouse."

"Why?" Damien asked.

"I owe you a debt," Aria said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "Remember the herbal decoction? The ’Dragon Bone’ sludge I forced down your throat?"

Damien grimaced. "I’m trying to forget. It tasted like a wet basement."

"I promised you a real dinner to make up for it," Aria reminded him. "A home-cooked meal. Just us."

Damien studied her face. He saw the shadow of grief from the files, but he also saw a desire to connect, to pivot from the darkness of the investigation to something lighter, even for just an hour.

"You cook?" he asked skeptically.

"I’m amazing," Aria lied, conveniently forgetting that her ’cooking’ in the asylum had been limited to reheating soup on a radiator. "Trust me. It’ll be a meal to remember."

Damien sighed, but the corner of his mouth lifted.

"Fine," he relented. "But if you burn the kitchen down, Clause 9 doesn’t cover arson."

"Deal," Aria grinned. "Now finish your fish. We have groceries to buy."