After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law

Chapter 243: Bedazzled Bug

The subterranean Sinclair Corporation garage currently looked like a high-end, multi-million-dollar chop shop.

The two-hundred-thousand-dollar armored SUV that Aria and Richard had used had been stripped down to its bare chassis. The plush leather seats had been ripped out. The dashboard was completely dismantled, exposing a chaotic nest of multicolored wires. Even the reinforced door panels lay discarded on the concrete floor.

A team of six highly specialized, sweating Sinclair engineers stepped back from the wreckage, wiping grease from their hands.

The lead engineer swallowed hard, looking toward the shadows at the edge of the garage.

"It’s completely clean, Mr. Sinclair," the engineer reported, his voice echoing nervously in the cavernous space. "We swept every inch. We ran RF detectors, electromagnetic scanners, and physical tear-downs. There are no hardwired transmitters, no hidden microphones, and no GPS trackers. The vehicle wasn’t bugged."

In the dim light, the sharp, glowing cherry of a lit cigarette flared brightly.

Damien exhaled a thick cloud of grey smoke. He stepped out of the shadows, his bespoke suit jacket missing, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

"Leave," Damien ordered softly.

The engineers didn’t need to be told twice. They packed their diagnostic tablets in record time and practically sprinted for the service elevators, leaving the garage dead silent.

It was just Damien.

And Richard.

Richard stood at attention near a concrete pillar. His dark suit was immaculate. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back. He radiated the calm, terrifying stillness of a man who had long ago stripped himself of unnecessary human emotions.

Damien took a slow drag of his cigarette, his golden eyes locking onto his top operative.

Damien’s mind was a supercomputer, rapidly processing the variables. If the SUV wasn’t hardwired with a bug, then the listening device had to have been carried into the cabin. Aria had been wearing a hospital gown and nothing else. She was clean.

Which left Richard.

Damien knew Richard. He had recruited the man himself. Richard was an orphan. A ghost in the system. He had absolutely zero family ties, no romantic partners, and zero friends outside the Sinclair operative network. He didn’t gamble. He didn’t have vices. He was fundamentally un-bribable and completely immune to blackmail.

Richard wouldn’t betray him.

Which meant Richard had made a blind mistake.

"Walk me through it," Damien commanded, his voice low. "Every single second from the moment you arrived at the subterranean parking lot of St. Jude’s."

"Yes, sir," Richard replied instantly, his tone mechanical and flat. "We arrived at the hospital. Mrs. Sinclair realized a live stream from the room was impossible due to the paparazzi perimeter. She spotted a target of opportunity: a civilian escorting an elderly patient in a wheelchair."

"Jade Evans," Damien supplied, his eyes narrowing slightly through the smoke.

"Correct, sir. Mrs. Sinclair required the patient’s hospital gown for her broadcast. She gave me a directive to act as a honeypot. I intercepted Ms. Evans to create a blind spot for Mrs. Sinclair to breach the civilian vehicle."

Damien leaned against the hood of a nearby sedan. "You distracted her."

"I initiated physical contact, sir," Richard clarified without a single ounce of embarrassment or pride. "I kissed her against the trunk of her sedan. It provided a ninety-second window. Mrs. Sinclair successfully secured the garment and returned to our vehicle."

"And then?"

"Ms. Evans was flustered," Richard continued. "Before she departed, she handed me a pen."

Damien froze.

The cigarette stopped halfway to his mouth.

"A pen," Damien repeated, his voice dropping into a register so dark and cold it bordered on absolute zero.

"Yes, sir. It was a handcrafted, novelty gel pen topped with a pink feather. The barrel was coated in rhinestones," Richard stated, reciting the details with photographic accuracy. "Ms. Evans had written her personal cellular number down the side in glitter glue."

Damien stared at his operative.

The puzzle pieces slammed together in his brain.

’Who the fuck gives a man a pen immediately after a make-out session?’ Nobody. It was bizarre. It was absurdly specific. It was the perfect, unassuming Trojan horse.

Damien knew he wasn’t wrong to suspect her. Jade Evans wasn’t a clumsy, starstruck woman. She had used Aria’s own honeypot distraction to seamlessly plant a live microphone directly into the breast pocket of the Sinclair Matriarch’s personal bodyguard.

"Where is the pen, Richard?" Damien asked softly.

Richard didn’t flinch, but a microscopic shift in his posture revealed that the terrifying reality of the situation was dawning on him as well.

"I disposed of it, sir," Richard answered.

"Did you dispose of it," Damien took a slow, measured step forward, "before or after you entered the cabin of the SUV with my wife?"

"After, sir. I tossed it into a municipal trash bin outside the hotel."

Damien closed the remaining distance between them in two strides.

THWACK.

The backhand was so blindingly fast and so powerful that the sharp crack of the impact echoed like a gunshot through the underground garage.

The force of the blow snapped Richard’s head violently to the side.

Richard didn’t stumble. He didn’t raise a hand to defend himself. A thick, bright drop of crimson blood instantly welled up at the corner of his mouth, trailing down his chin where the skin of his lip had split against his teeth.

Without a single second of hesitation, Richard dropped to his knees on the oil-stained concrete. He kept his back perfectly straight, his hands resting on his thighs, his chin bowed in total submission. He didn’t offer an excuse.

"I failed, sir," Richard stated, his voice steady despite the blood dripping from his chin. "I allowed a foreign object from an unvetted civilian into close proximity of Mrs. Sinclair. It was a lapse in judgment. I am ready for my punishment."

Damien stood over the kneeling giant, his chest heaving, his golden eyes blazing with homicidal fury.

He looked down at the operative who was supposed to be his absolute best. The man who had let a simple, uninteresting woman manipulate him with a cheap kiss and a craft-store accessory.

Damien took a deep breath, forcing the violent surge of adrenaline back down.

"Aria likes you," Damien stated coldly, staring down at the top of Richard’s head. "My wife thinks you are a good bodyguard. And that affection is quite literally the only reason you are breathing right now, Richard."

Richard bowed his head a fraction lower. "Thank you, sir."

"Find the pen," Damien commanded, his voice a low promise. "Rip through every municipal trash bin on that block until you recover it. And Richard?"

"Yes, sir?"

"The next time you fuck up," Damien promised, the ice in his tone freezing the air around them, "and my wife is put in danger because of your stupidity... I will not use my hand. I will put a bullet directly between your eyes."

"Understood, sir."

"Get out of my sight."