After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 188: You Can’t Tap a Black Card for Street Meat

Walking out of the front doors of St. Jude’s Hospital completely unnoticed was a surreal experience.

The paparazzi were swarming the barricades, their camera lenses trained fiercely on the VIP elevators, entirely focused on catching a glimpse of Damien Sinclair.

When Aria and Damien strolled right through the automatic sliding doors, the press didn’t even spare them a fraction of a glance. To the bloodthirsty media, they were just a depressed-looking data entry clerk in a beige trench coat and a slightly overweight, middle-aged man in a tragic mustard-yellow argyle sweater.

"This is amazing," Aria whispered as they hit the sidewalk. "I feel like a ghost. I could commit a bank robbery right now and nobody would look twice."

Damien did not share her enthusiasm.

He was rigidly dodging pedestrians, his shoulders tense under the padded fat suit. He was a man used to the Red Sea parting whenever he entered a room. Being bumped into by a teenager holding a skateboard, and then by a woman pushing a double stroller, was severely testing his patience.

"People are entirely too close," Damien gritted out, side-stepping a puddle of questionable origin. "Why does no one respect personal space?"

"Because you look like a suburban dad named Greg who just bought a lawnmower, not a billionaire," Aria giggled, reaching out to seamlessly intertwine her fingers with his. "Relax, Greg. Let’s spend a little time being normal people."

Damien looked down at their joined hands. The deep, habitual scowl on his face softened just a fraction. He tightened his grip on her hand, pulling her slightly closer to his side to shield her from the rush hour foot traffic.

They walked for a few blocks.

As they approached a busy intersection, the distinct, greasy, mouth-watering aroma of roasted nuts and grilled meat hit Aria’s nose.

She stopped, her eyes lighting up as she spotted a silver, battered hotdog cart parked near the corner.

"Oh my god," Aria gasped, dragging Damien toward the cart. "I know this stand. I used to come here all the time."

Damien looked at the metal cart with mild revulsion. "You ate meat from a sidewalk?"

"Don’t be a snob," Aria scolded gently, pulling him up to the curb. She looked at the steaming grill, a wave of nostalgia hitting her. "When I was sixteen, Lydia cut off my allowance. She said I was ’old enough to learn independence’. Which was just code for ’I want to spend your allowances on Bella’s new hobbies’."

Damien’s jaw hardened, his golden eyes darkening at the mention of the abuse she had endured.

"I had to get a part-time job at a café three blocks from here just to save money for acting classes," Aria continued, her voice soft as she recalled the grueling hours. "I used to buy a hotdog from this exact stand for lunch because it was three dollars and it kept me full until dinner. It was my favorite part of the day."

Damien looked from the hotdog stand back to Aria. The murderous, protective urge to buy Lydia Laurent’s life and slowly dismantle it piece by piece flared violently in his chest.

He stepped up to the cart, gently squeezing Aria’s hand.

"Two," Damien ordered the vendor, his voice surprisingly soft. He looked down at Aria. "With everything?"

"Everything," Aria beamed, her heart swelling at his instant validation. She leaned against the cart like a seasoned New Yorker. "Extra onions, please."

The vendor, a gruff, heavyset man with a thick beard and a stained apron, grunted. He quickly assembled the hotdogs, wrapping them in crinkly foil paper, and handed them over.

Aria took hers eagerly, immediately taking a massive, undignified bite. The snap of the casing and the rush of mustard and onions tasted like pure heaven.

"That will be eight dollars," the vendor grunted. "Inflation."

"I have it," Damien said smoothly.

He reached into the top breast pocket of his argyle sweater, sliding two fingers in to retrieve his wallet. With the practiced, effortless grace of a man who owned the city, Damien whipped out a matte-black titanium Centurion Card.

He moved to tap the limitless, ultra-exclusive credit card against the vendor’s greasy little Square reader.

Aria’s eyes went wide. She nearly choked on her hotdog.

She lunged forward, her free hand violently smacking Damien’s wrist down before the card could make contact with the plastic reader.

"Are you insane?!" Aria panic-whispered, shoving his hand back toward his chest. "You can’t tap a Black Card for street meat! You’ll blow our cover!"

Damien blinked, genuinely confused. He looked at the card in his hand. "It’s legal tender. It pays for things."

"It pays for yachts, Damien!" Aria hissed, glancing nervously at the vendor, who was now staring at them with heavy suspicion. "Put it away! Just use cash!"

Damien looked at her as if she had just asked him to barter with a live chicken.

"I haven’t carried loose paper currency since 2014, Aria," Damien informed her, insulted by the very premise.

"Well, I don’t have any!" Aria whispered back, frantically patting the empty pockets of her beige trench coat. "I packed my purse in the weekender bag! Ken took it back to the penthouse!"

The vendor cleared his throat loudly.

"Hey," the vendor barked, crossing his arms over his apron. "Card reader is working fine. Tap it or give me cash. I got a line forming."

"One moment, please," Aria offered a tight smile.

She turned back to Damien, her eyes wide. "Call Ken. Have him send Richard or one of the guards with a twenty-dollar bill."

"Fine," Damien sighed.

He reached around to his back trouser pocket, right beneath the padded fat suit, to grab his phone.

His hand met flat, empty fabric.

Damien paused. He frowned, his brow furrowing as he patted his other back pocket. Empty. He checked his front pockets. Empty.

The blood slowly drained from Damien’s face.

Aria watched him patting himself down, her stomach dropping. "Damien. Where is your phone?"

"It’s gone," Damien stated, his voice dropping into a disbelieving monotone.

He remembered a guy in a Mets hat who had purposely bumped his shoulder two blocks ago.

The untouchable Demon King of New York had just been effortlessly pickpocketed by a petty street thief in Midtown Manhattan.

"Oh my god," Aria gasped, clapping a hand over her mouth. "I forgot to tell you never to keep your phone in your back pocket!’

"Someone stole from me," Damien whispered, the sheer, unadulterated shock of the violation paralyzing him.

"Hey! Buddy!" the vendor shouted, slamming a pair of metal tongs down on the cart. "I ain’t got all day! You paying or what?"

Aria turned back to the vendor, holding up her half-eaten hotdog defensively. "Sir, there’s been a slight misunderstanding. My husband was just robbed. His phone is gone."

"Yeah, right," the vendor sneered, his eyes narrowing with pure New York cynicism. "The classic ’I got robbed’ routine. You took a bite of the food! You ate the merchandise! Pay up, or I’m calling the cops, you broke street rat!"

Aria carefully placed the bitten hotdog back down onto the metal edge of the cart, raising her hands in surrender. "Okay, look, we don’t want any trouble—"

Damien snapped.

He stepped forward, slamming his palms flat onto the metal cart.

"You will speak to my wife with respect," Damien roared, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that promised absolute ruin. His golden eyes burned into the vendor’s soul. "I could buy this cart, this entire street, and your pathetic, miserable life with the spare change in my couch cushions. You will close your mouth before I permanently close it for you."

It was a phenomenal, blood-chilling threat.

But it was coming from a man wearing mustard-yellow knitwear and smudged reading glasses.

The vendor didn’t even flinch. He just rolled his eyes.

"Oh, yeah? You gonna buy my life, sweater-vest?" the vendor scoffed loudly. He looked past Damien’s shoulder and raised his hand, waving frantically at the sidewalk. "Hey! Officers! Over here! Got a couple of freeloading crazies threatening me!"

Aria’s breath caught in her throat. She gripped Damien’s hand tightly, rubbing her thumb in soothing circles over his knuckles, desperately trying to pull him back from the edge of committing a felony.

She slowly turned her head.

Walking down the sidewalk, adjusting their utility belts and looking highly unamused by the disturbance, were two uniformed NYPD beat cops.

Aria stared at the approaching blue uniforms, nervously biting her bottom lip.

’Shit’.