After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 190: Here Comes the Hobo’s Bride

Aria peeled herself off Damien’s chest. She smoothed down her frumpy beige trench coat, adjusted her mousy brown wig, and plastered on a bright smile.

"Oh! Hi! A brochure would be lovely!" Aria squeaked, stepping out from behind the faceless mannequins. "We are so sorry! We were just... checking the lighting! From the street view! We want to make sure the tulle really pops under the evening streetlamps. Right, Greg?"

She elbowed Damien hard in his padded ribs.

Damien cleared his throat. "Right. The lighting."

The consultant, whose nametag read Penelope, blinked slowly.

"I see," Penelope said. "Well... are you currently shopping for a gown?"

"We are!" Aria chirped, linking her arm through Damien’s. "We’re newly engaged!"

Penelope’s eyes dragged over both of them. She did not understand how this frumpy, bland woman had secured a ring and she was still single.

"Right this way," Penelope sighed as she gestured toward the main floor.

The boutique was a stunning, sprawling sanctuary of white silk, ivory lace, and crystal chandeliers. It smelled of fresh lilies and expensive champagne.

Aria wandered toward the nearest rack, running her fingers over the pristine fabrics. Penelope hovered nervously, holding her clipboard like a shield, clearly expecting Aria to have the fashion taste of a wet mop based on her current outfit.

"This A-line is lovely," Aria murmured, examining a bodice. "But the Chantilly lace applique feels a little heavy for a spring ceremony. Do you have anything in an Alençon lace? Or perhaps a silk Mikado? I prefer a structural, architectural silhouette over a soft tulle."

Penelope stopped in her tracks. The condescension instantly vanished from her face, replaced by genuine, shocked professional respect.

"You know your textiles," Penelope breathed, setting her clipboard down on a side table. "I actually just received a custom Oscar de la Renta sheath in Mikado silk this morning. It’s exquisite."

In a matter of minutes, Aria and Penelope were chatting away like long-lost friends, entirely bonded by the language of high fashion. They moved deeper into the store, pulling out stunning, breathtakingly expensive gowns.

Aria touched the delicate embroidery of a Vera Wang ballgown. It was ethereal.

As she looked at the cascading white silk, a sudden, unexpected pang of melancholy pierced straight through her chest.

She and Damien didn’t have a wedding. They had signed a piece of paper, legally binding their lives together. There was no aisle. There were no flowers. There was no moment where he looked at her in a beautiful white dress and promised her forever.

Aria swallowed hard.

’It’s fine,’ she fiercely convinced herself. ’I have the man. I don’t need the party. Weddings are just performative capitalism anyway.’

"Would you like a fitting room?" Penelope asked eagerly, holding up the Oscar de la Renta. "We can try these on right now."

"Oh, no," Aria said quickly, stepping back from the racks. She forced a bright, dismissive laugh. "We don’t have the time tonight. And honestly, I don’t even have the wedding details finalized yet. Plus, Greg is right here. It’s bad luck for the groom to see the bride in the dress before the wedding!"

Damien stood a few feet away, silently observing her.

He didn’t miss a single micro-expression. He saw the way her smile faltered when she touched the white silk. He saw the subtle, longing drop of her shoulders. And his sharp, photographic memory had already cataloged the exact designer, cut, and size of every single gown that had made her eyes light up.

"I’m going to borrow the ladies’ room real quick," Aria announced, desperate to escape the suffocating sea of white tulle before she got emotional.

Penelope pointed her toward the back, handing Aria a sleek business card. "Call me when you have your details! And come back without him next time!"

"Will do!" Aria laughed, disappearing down the hall.

The second the restroom door clicked shut, Damien stepped up to the main counter.

"I want the Vera Wang ballgown," Damien stated, his voice low. "The Oscar de la Renta sheath. And the cathedral-length lace veil."

Penelope blinked, staring at the frumpy man who was suddenly speaking to her like he owned the building.

"Sir, those are couture pieces," Penelope said gently, adopting the tone one uses with a delusional child. "The total for those items exceeds eighty-five thousand dollars. We require a fifty percent deposit just to hold them."

Damien reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out his wallet and seamlessly slid the matte-black titanium Centurion Card across the glass counter.

It hit the surface with a definitive, metallic thud.

Penelope stared at the Black Card. Then, she looked up at the sweaty, slightly overweight man in the hideous sweater.

Her eyes widened in absolute horror. She slowly backed away from the counter.

"Sir," Penelope whispered, her voice trembling. "I don’t know whose card that is, but I am going to have to ask for a matching ID. If you found that on the street, I highly suggest you—"

Damien didn’t argue. He pulled out his sleek, black New York State driver’s license and dropped it flat on the glass next to the credit card.

Penelope leaned in.

She read the name.

Damien Cassius Sinclair.

All the blood instantly drained from Penelope’s face. She looked at the ID. She looked at the Black Card. She looked up at the man standing in front of her.

She peered intently at him, then her eyes widened in recognition.

It was him.

The Demon King of New York was standing in her boutique.

Penelope began to hyperventilate. Her hands flew to her chest, her mouth opening and closing like a suffocating fish. "Oh my god. Oh my god. You’re... you’re..."

"Breathe, Penelope," Damien ordered, his voice slicing through her panic. ’And please don’t faint,’ he added in his thoughts.

He leaned over the counter.

"My wife and I are currently conducting undercover corporate research," Damien lied smoothly, not breaking eye contact. "Sinclair Corporation is evaluating the viability of the Manhattan bridal sector for a massive acquisition. You are currently part of a blind audit."

Penelope gasped, her hands shaking violently. "A-A blind audit?"

"Yes," Damien confirmed. "And as of this exact second, you are bound by a verbal non-disclosure agreement. If you breathe a word of this to the press, to your manager, or to your own mother, Sinclair Legal will ensure you never work in this hemisphere again. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Sinclair! I understand! Total secrecy!" Penelope saluted him.

"Good," Damien said. "Run the card. Hold the dresses under the name Mrs. Sinclair."

With hands trembling so badly she could barely hit the buttons, Penelope ran the titanium card. She shoved the receipt and the card back across the counter, looking like she was moments away from fainting.

"Thank you for your business, sir!" she squeaked.

Damien tucked his wallet back into his argyle sweater just as the restroom door opened.

Aria walked back out, adjusting her trench coat. She walked up to the counter, entirely oblivious to the transaction that had just occurred.

She looked at Penelope.

The consultant was standing at rigid, terrified attention behind the register. She was pale as a ghost, sweating profusely, staring straight ahead with a wild, manic smile plastered on her face.

"HAVE A WONDERFUL EVENING, VALUED CONSUMER," Penelope shouted like a robot.

Aria blinked, taking a step back. "Uh... are you okay, Penelope?"

"HAVE A GOOD DAY. GOODBYE."

Aria frowned, turning to look at Damien.

Damien grabbed her elbow. "Time to go, darling."

He marched her out the front doors of the boutique and back out onto the chilly sidewalk.

The moment the glass doors closed behind them, Aria spun around and smacked Damien hard on his arm.

"What did you do?!" Aria demanded. "She looked like she had just seen the grim reaper!"

"I didn’t do anything," Damien defended, his face a mask of perfect innocence.

"You threatened her!" Aria accused, narrowing her eyes. "I leave you alone for two minutes!"

"Why are you assuming I threatened her?" Damien sighed, rolling his shoulders beneath the itchy sweater. He looked up and down the busy avenue, the fatigue of the chase finally settling into his bones. He wanted his bed. He wanted to take this fat suit off and throw it into an incinerator.

"Let’s just go home," Damien groaned. "I’ve had enough of the lower class for one lifetime."

"It’s not over yet," Aria reminded him, pointing a finger down the street.

Damien slowly turned his head, following the direction of her finger.

Sitting on the corner of the busy intersection, illuminated by a flickering, depressing fluorescent bulb, was a grimy, graffiti-covered bus stop shelter.

"No," Damien whispered, pure, unadulterated horror dawning in his golden eyes.

"Yes," Aria cackled, grabbing his hand and dragging him toward the public transit line.