After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 161: Women Dropping Like Flies

The private VIP suite at L’Étoile was designed to be an intimidation free-zone. It was dripping in emerald velvet, gold-leaf accents, and the soothing, ambient scent of roasted espresso and lavender.

It was a beautiful room.

Waiting by the coffee table was a young Vanity Fair journalist. She was dressed in a trendy, oversized beige blazer, holding a glowing iPad, looking eager and prepared to ask hard-hitting questions about the East River bridge incident.

She looked up when the doors clicked shut.

Her eyes landed on Damien.

He stood there in his midnight-blue Tom Ford suit, radiating the kind of dark, lethal power that usually came with a warning label. His silver hair caught the dim, moody lighting of the suite. His golden eyes—blank, cold, and entirely devoid of human empathy—locked onto her.

The journalist’s brain executed a hard, violent reboot.

Damien opened his mouth, his voice a deep, resonant, impossibly smooth baritone.

"Good afternoon."

The journalist blinked. A vibrant, terrifying shade of crimson flooded her cheeks. She opened her mouth, let out a tiny, high-pitched wheeze that sounded like a deflating balloon, and literally crumbled.

Her knees gave out, her iPad clattered against the thick Persian rug, and she folded into a heap on the floor, completely unconscious.

Damien didn’t even flinch.

He slowly turned his head to look at Zoe. His expression was a flat, deadpan mask of absolute judgment, his golden eyes clearly asking, ’Is this the peak of modern journalism?’

Zoe, hovering near the door, stared at the body on the floor in sheer disbelief.

"I... I literally don’t know what just happened," Zoe stammered, frantically waving her hands at the maître d’ standing just outside the glass partition. "Stretcher! We need a stretcher!"

The maître d’ rushed in with a busboy, hauling the limp, blushing journalist out by her armpits.

"Take a seat, Mr. Sinclair," Zoe sighed, dragging a hand down her face. "I am so sorry. They’re going to send someone else in. Just... try to be less terrifying?"

Damien sat down in the plush velvet armchair, looking profoundly annoyed. "I was trying to be polite."

Three minutes later, the doors opened again.

A middle-aged senior editor marched into the suite. She was a hardened veteran of the publishing industry, wearing a severe black pantsuit, a chunky statement necklace, and a scowl. She looked like a woman who ate publicists for breakfast.

"I must apologize for my junior’s lack of professionalism," the older woman announced briskly, not looking at Damien yet as she organized a leather notepad on the table. "She must have skipped breakfast. Blood sugar issues are rampant in this generation. Now, let’s get straight to—"

She looked up.

Across the low glass table, Damien was rapidly losing his patience. He was only doing this ridiculous dog-and-pony show to protect Aria’s acting career, and every second he spent in this cafe was a second he wasn’t at the hospital with his wife.

He let out a heavy, irritated sigh.

He shifted his weight, leaning back into the plush chair. As he moved, the bespoke fabric of the Tom Ford suit stretched taut across the terrifying breadth of his chest and shoulders. He reached up, running a large, elegant hand through his freshly washed silver hair, pushing the unruly strands back from his forehead, exposing the sharp, aristocratic cut of his jawline.

The senior editor stopped mid-sentence.

The pen slipped from her fingers, rolling across the table. Her jaw actually dropped, her eyes locked onto the expanse of his chest and the strong column of his throat.

"Mother of pearl," the older woman whispered to the empty air, her severe professional facade disintegrating into absolute, unadulterated thirst. "They didn’t make them like that in my time."

Zoe choked on her own spit.

"Excuse me?!" Zoe snapped.

The woman blinked, violently shaking her head to snap herself out of her trance. She cleared her throat, her face flushing a dark, blotchy red. "Right. Sorry. Yes. Please, let’s all sit down." 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

The maître d’ silently entered the room, placing three crystal glasses of ice water on the table before scurrying away.

"Now, Mr. Sinclair," the editor began, her voice trembling slightly as she gripped her notepad. "Regarding the events on the bridge—"

Damien reached forward and picked up his glass of water.

The ice clinked musically against the expensive crystal. Condensation dripped down the sides of the glass, pooling against Damien’s long fingers.

The senior editor stopped talking. She watched him.

Damien parted his lips, bringing the rim of the glass to his mouth. He took a slow, deep swallow. The rhythmic, mesmerizing bob of his Adam’s apple against the strong, tanned column of his throat was devastating.

He lowered the glass.

A single, rogue drop of water spilled from the corner of his mouth. It tracked a slow, glistening path down his pink lower lip.

Damien brought up his thumb and slowly swiped the drop of water away.

To Damien, he was only drinking water, but to the senior editor, it was a fatal blow.

The older woman let out a soft, whimpering sigh. Her eyes rolled completely into the back of her head.

Thud.

She pitched forward, sliding right out of the velvet armchair and hitting the thick carpet face-first in a dead faint.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" Zoe shrieked, jumping up from the sofa.

Damien frowned, looking down at the unconscious woman near his expensive Italian leather shoes. "I didn’t even say anything this time."

"Can you stop serving face for five seconds?!" Zoe yelled, gesturing wildly at his jawline. "You are dropping bodies, Mr. Sinclair! Literally!"

"I drank water, Ms. Chen," Damien said, his tone flat, though a spark of genuine annoyance flashed in his golden eyes. "Should I dehydrate for the sake of the interview?"

Zoe stared at him. She looked at his hair, his eyes, the way his suit fit him like a second skin. She realized, with a sinking feeling of utter despair, that asking Damien Sinclair to "look ugly" or "unappealing" was scientifically, genetically impossible. He was a walking thirst trap engineered by the devil himself.

Zoe spun around and stormed toward the VIP suite doors, throwing them open.

"Maître d’!" Zoe screamed into the chic, quiet cafe. "The senior editor collapsed! We need a straight male reporter! Please let them know we need the straightest man they have!"