After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 64: A Shark Tank in Sequins

The double doors to the Grand Ballroom of the Modern Art Museum didn’t just open; they were pushed wide by liveried staff to reveal a galaxy made of glass and light.

It was the Celestia Launch Gala, the most exclusive event on the social calendar, and the theme was "Starfall." The ceiling had been draped in midnight-blue velvet studded with thousands of fiber-optic lights, mimicking a summer sky. Centerpieces made of spun sugar and raw diamonds glittered on every table. It was a room designed to make ordinary people feel small.

But when Damien Sinclair stepped onto the mezzanine landing, the room itself seemed to shrink.

The chatter—a dull roar of mergers, acquisitions, and old-money gossip—died instantly.

Aria stood beside him, her hand resting lightly on his tuxedoed arm. The liquid silver Versace dress caught the overhead chandeliers, rippling like mercury down her body. She was an anomaly here. To the elite of the capital, she was a ghost, a rumor, a scandalous actress from a second-rate family who had somehow snared the most dangerous man in the city.

They didn’t know her. But they certainly saw her.

"Breathe," Damien murmured, his voice a low vibration against her side that only she could hear. "They smell fear. Don’t give them a drop."

"I’m not afraid," Aria whispered back, her chin lifting.

They began to descend the grand staircase. It was a slow, deliberate walk. Damien moved with the lazy arrogance of a predator entering a pen of sheep. To his right, business tycoons who usually spent their days begging for five minutes of his time were suddenly finding great interest in their champagne flutes, intimidated by the dark, possessive aura clinging to him tonight.

But it wasn’t Damien they were staring at.

It was the mark.

The vivid, violet bruise on the slope of Aria’s neck, framed arrogantly by the cascading Celestia sapphire necklace, was a scream in a room full of whispers. It was primitive. It was possessive. It was a brand that said, ’Look, but don’t touch. She is occupied.’

Whispers rippled through the crowd like a wave.

"Who is she? The Vale girl?" "Is that... a bruise?" "Good heavens, look at his hand. He’s holding her like he thinks someone is going to steal her."

Aria felt the weight of their judgment. In this world, she wasn’t the "Scarlet Queen" of the internet; she was an outsider. A trespasser.

"Mr. Sinclair."

A woman intercepted them at the bottom of the stairs, effectively blocking their path to the main floor. She was an older socialite, draped in heavy emeralds that clashed with the blue theme, wielding a cane topped with a silver lion’s head.

Mrs. Juliet Vanderbilt. The self-appointed gatekeeper of "Old Money" society. She had known Damien since he was a boy, which gave her a boldness few others possessed.

"Juliet," Damien acknowledged, his tone polite but cool. He didn’t bow. He didn’t smile.

"It has been too long, Damien," Juliet said, her sharp eyes darting immediately to Aria. She looked her up and down, lingering on the liquid silver fabric that clung to every curve. "And you’ve brought... a guest. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced."

The slight was subtle but sharp. You are nobody.

"My wife," Damien corrected, his hand tightening on Aria’s waist. "Aria Sinclair."

"Ah, yes. The actress," Juliet said the word as if it were a synonym for ’contagious disease’. She stepped closer, invading Aria’s personal space under the guise of inspection. "You are certainly... brave, my dear. Wearing such a... spirited dress to a Celestia event."

She reached out, her gloved finger hovering near Aria’s neck.

"And oh my," Juliet’s voice dropped to a theatrical whisper that carried to the nearby tables. "You seem to have injured yourself. Did you fall? Or is that some sort of... allergic reaction to the diamonds?"

The circle of socialites nearby leaned in, hiding their smirks behind fans and crystal glasses. They expected the little actress to flush, to stammer, to cover the mark with her hand.

Damien’s jaw tightened. He moved to step between them, ready to eviscerate the woman verbally, but Aria stopped him with a subtle pressure on his arm.

I got this.

Aria smiled. It was a smile that didn’t reach her eyes—a smile that was all teeth and danger. She didn’t retreat. She didn’t cover the mark. Instead, she reached up and brushed a stray lock of hair back, exposing the hickey even more.

"Mrs. Vanderbilt," Aria purred, her voice sweet as poisoned honey. "It’s not an injury. It’s a statement."

Juliet blinked, taken aback. "A... statement?"

"You see, in the modern world, passion isn’t something we hide behind closed doors and shame," Aria continued, her voice gaining strength. "It’s something we celebrate. My husband..." She looked up at Damien, her gaze turning molten, playing the role of the obsessed wife to perfection. "...is a very passionate man. I wouldn’t want him any other way."

She turned back to the older woman, her expression shifting to one of pity.

"But I suppose, in your generation, passion was something you only read about in novels while your husbands were ’working late’ with their secretaries. I prefer a more... hands-on approach. It’s much more honest, don’t you think?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Juliet turned the color of a boiled beet. She opened her mouth to retort, but closed it. There was no comeback. To deny it would be to admit her own marriage had been a loveless arrangement—an open secret in high society that no one dared speak aloud.

"I... well," Juliet stammered, clutching her cane. "I see."

She turned and evaporated into the crowd as quickly as her dignity would allow.

Damien let out a low, dark chuckle. "You just killed the matriarch of the Upper East Side in under sixty seconds."

"She was standing in my light," Aria shrugged, though her heart was hammering against her ribs.

"Dance with me," Damien commanded softly.

He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled her past the stunned onlookers and onto the empty dance floor. The string quartet, sensing the shift in the room’s energy, switched from a polite minuet to a sweeping, dramatic waltz.

Damien’s hand claimed hers, his other hand splayed wide across her bare back, skin on skin.

"They’re all watching," Aria whispered, looking up at him.

"Let them," Damien growled.

They moved. It wasn’t the stiff, practiced dancing of high society. It was fluid and intense. Damien didn’t just lead her; he moved with her, a dark planet orbiting a silver star. When he spun her out, the silver dress flared like a blade. When he pulled her back in, she landed flush against his chest, the impact knocking the breath out of the onlookers.

He leaned down, his lips grazing her ear.

"You held your ground," he murmured. "I thought I would have to step in."

"I told you," Aria whispered back, her hand tightening on his shoulder. "I don’t need you to fight my battles. I just need you to stand with me."

"I’m standing," Damien promised. "And I’m not going anywhere."

The song ended, but neither of them pulled away. They stood in the center of the ballroom, a kingdom of two, surrounded by a sea of sharks in sequins.

Damien looked at the crowd, then back at her. The boredom was back in his eyes, but beneath it was a simmering heat.

"I’ve made my appearance," he said. "The campaign is launched."

"The speeches haven’t started," Aria reminded him.

"I don’t care about speeches," Damien said, taking her hand and pulling her toward the exit. "I care about getting you out of this dress. It’s magnificent, but I prefer you without it."

"Damien!" Aria hissed, scandals flashing before her eyes. "People can hear you!"

"Let them hear," he said, pushing through the double doors into the cool night air. "Let them write about it. "