After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 132: Serving Face But Losing Lunch

The private elevator to the Sinclair penthouse was an engineering marvel. It was designed to shoot up eighty floors in under forty seconds, smooth as silk and quiet as a whisper.

Unfortunately, it was not designed for a woman who had just consumed half a bottle of Don Julio 1942.

Aria was still dangling upside down over Damien’s broad shoulder, her silver Jimmy Choos kicking lightly against his chest, when the G-force of the ascent hit her stomach like a wrecking ball. The chaotic energy evaporated in an instant, replaced by a cold, clammy sweat that broke out across the back of her neck.

"Damien," Aria said, her voice entirely devoid of its earlier playful slur. "Put me down."

"We’re almost there, Mrs. Sinclair," he rumbled, his hand resting securely on the back of her thigh. "You can walk when we’re in the bedroom."

"Damien, I am not joking," Aria gasped, her hand gripping the back of his shirt. "Put me down now."

The sheer panic in her tone made him freeze. His reflexes were instantaneous. He swung her down, setting her on her feet just as the elevator chimed, passing floor forty.

Aria didn’t even have time to steady herself. She swayed, clamped a hand over her mouth, and lunged for the far corner of the pristine, mirrored elevator.

She threw up.

It was neither demure nor mindful. It was a violent, wretched expulsion of expensive tequila and pub snacks, right onto the polished floor.

Aria collapsed to her knees, coughing, her hair falling into her face. She waited for the disgust. She waited for the cold, pristine CEO to step back, to call a biohazard team, to look at her with the revulsion she felt for herself.

Instead, a warm, heavy hand gathered her hair at the nape of her neck, pulling the rose-gold strands completely out of the danger zone. Another large hand flattened against her back, rubbing slow, soothing circles between her shoulder blades.

Damien had dropped to his knees right beside her, the knees of his expensive sweatpants pressing directly into the splash zone without a second thought.

"Let it out," Damien murmured, his voice incredibly soft, devoid of any judgment. "I’ve got you."

Aria heaved again. When she finally finished, gasping for air, the humiliation crashed over her like a tidal wave. The alcohol stripped away all her defenses, leaving only a raw, overemotional wreck.

She burst into tears.

"I’m so gross," Aria wailed, hiding her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking with loud, tragic sobs. "You’re going to divorce me!"

"Aria, look at me," Damien coaxed, gently trying to pull her hands away from her face.

"No!" she sobbed, curling into a ball. "I ruined your fancy elevator! I smell like a frat house floor! You’re a billionaire, Damien! Billionaires don’t stay married to girls who puke in their elevators! You’re going to leave me for a supermodel who only eats celery and exhales rosewater!"

A deep, rumbling chuckle vibrated in Damien’s chest. He found it simultaneously hilarious and deeply, profoundly endearing.

"I hate celery," Damien promised, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the floor entirely.

He carried her out of the elevator as the doors slid open to the penthouse, kicking off his ruined loafers in the foyer.

"Put me down, I have to clean it!" Aria cried, squirming weakly in his arms. "The Matriarch cleans her own messes! Give me a mop!"

"The Matriarch is going to slip and crack her skull," Damien corrected, carrying her straight into the master bathroom. "The staff will handle it. Stop wiggling."

He set her down on the edge of the massive marble vanity counter.

Aria sniffled, wiping her eyes, smearing her mascara into a dramatic, tragic raccoon mask. She looked down at herself. Her leather jacket was stained, her jeans felt tight, and she felt utterly pathetic.

Damien moved with quiet efficiency. He stripped off her leather jacket, checking the inner pocket. He pulled out the phone in there, setting it safely on a high shelf away from the sink.

He grabbed a washcloth, running it under the warm water.

"Chin up," he instructed softly.

Aria tilted her head up, her lower lip trembling. Damien gently wiped the smeared makeup from under her eyes, smoothing the warm cloth over her pale cheeks, cleaning the sweat from her forehead. His touch was so tender it made fresh tears prick her eyes.

"You’re not mad?" she whispered, her voice tiny.

"I’m not divorcing you over Don Julio, Aria," Damien said, a fond smile touching his lips. He tossed the cloth aside and reached for her toothbrush, applying a dab of mint paste. "Open."

Aria opened her mouth obediently.

Damien brushed her teeth with the focus of a surgeon. Aria sat on the counter, her legs dangling, humming a soft, disjointed tune as the electric toothbrush buzzed against her teeth.

When he finished, he helped her rinse and wiped her mouth with a soft towel.

"There," Damien said, stepping back to grab one of his oversized black t-shirts for her to wear. "All clean."

He tried to turn away, but Aria grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands, refusing to let him go.

She looked up at him. Her eyes were huge, glassy, and completely unguarded. She pushed her lower lip out in a dramatic, exaggerated pout.

"What is that face for?" Damien asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I was a brave patient," Aria slurred softly, tugging him an inch closer. "I didn’t bite the toothbrush. I want a reward."

Damien froze.

He stared at the woman sitting on his counter. She was messy, drunk, and wearing his clothes, but looking at her pout, Damien felt something completely foreign happen to his body.

A faint, unmistakable dusting of pink spread across the bridge of his nose and the tips of his ears.

The Demon King was blushing.

"A reward," Damien repeated, his voice suddenly a little hoarse.

"Yes," Aria nodded solemnly. "A kiss."

Damien let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. He couldn’t say no to her if his life depended on it.

He leaned in, cupping her jaw. He pressed his lips to hers. It was impossibly sweet—a lingering, soft press that tasted of fresh mint and profound affection.

Aria giggled into the kiss.

Damien pulled back, thoroughly charmed, his chest feeling tight. He picked her up off the counter and carried her into the bedroom, depositing her in the center of the massive bed.

He pulled the heavy duvet up over her shoulders, tucking her in securely. He poured a glass of water from the glass jug on the nightstand and helped her sit up just enough to drink it.

"Drink all of it," he ordered gently.

Aria drank obediently, her eyes already fluttering shut as the exhaustion of the day finally dragged her under. She handed the empty glass back and slid down into the pillows, pulling the duvet all the way up to her nose so only her eyes were visible.

Damien set the glass down and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp.

"I love you, Damien."

Damien’s hand stopped inches from the lamp switch.

The world tilted on its axis. The air vanished from the room.

He turned his head slowly, looking down at her. His heart was suddenly beating so hard it physically hurt his ribs. He had waited to hear those words. He had fantasized about them.

"Aria?" Damien whispered, his voice cracking, raw with sudden, desperate hope. "Do you mean that?"

There was no answer.

Just the soft, rhythmic sound of a light snore.

Damien stared at her sleeping face for a long, agonizing minute. The hope in his chest shattered, dissolving into a heavy, sinking ache.

She was blackout drunk. She didn’t even know what she was saying.

Damien dragged a hand down his face, a bitter, self-deprecating smile curving his lips.

"Of course you don’t," he whispered into the dark room. "It’s just the tequila talking."

He turned off the light, leaving himself in the dark.