After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 202: Take My Generous Job Offer

Damien’s cold gaze settled on the thief like a guillotine blade waiting to drop.

The man scrambled backward until his spine hit a rusted support beam. He was hyperventilating, his eyes darting frantically between the heavily armed operatives and the terrifying billionaire looming over him in the shaft of dusty sunlight.

"Please," the man begged, his voice cracking into a pathetic, high-pitched whine. "I didn’t know! I swear to God, I didn’t know it was you! Have mercy, please!"

He dug his trembling, dirt-caked fingers into his jacket pocket and pulled out the sleek, black iPhone. He held it out with both hands, shaking so violently the phone vibrated in his palms.

Diego stepped forward and snatched the device, wiping it down with a microfiber cloth before stepping back into formation.

"There is a profound satisfaction in working for a wage," Damien began, his voice a chilling monotone that echoed off the walls of the warehouse. "When you earn your money, you maintain your right to dictate your own life."

He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his leather shoe crunching against the grit on the concrete.

"But when you steal," Damien continued, "you forfeit that right. You place your life entirely into the hands of the person you stole from."

The thief sobbed, pressing himself harder against the metal beam. "I’m sorry! I’ll never do it again!"

"I agree," Damien said softly. "But I think you should experience the satisfaction of earning an honest wage. At least once in your miserable life."

Damien stepped directly into the man’s personal space. He lifted his right foot and pressed the sole flat against the thief’s face.

The man let out a muffled yelp.

"Clean it," Damien ordered, his voice dropping into a terrifyingly soft register. "And I will pay you one hundred dollars."

The thief froze, his eyes crossing as he looked at the leather pressed against his nose. "W-What?"

Damien shifted his weight, pressing his foot harder into the man’s face. The heel dug ruthlessly into the man’s cheekbone, grinding the cartilage of his nose against the hard leather.

"Lick it," Damien commanded.

The man let out a strangled, humiliated sob, but the suffocating aura of murder radiating from the men surrounding him left him no choice. He would rather do this than die.

He opened his mouth. He pressed his tongue to the expensive leather.

The taste was instantly revolting. It tasted of stagnant alleyway puddles, motor oil, and the sour, acidic grime of the city streets. The man gagged, his stomach heaving, tears of pure degradation streaming down his cheeks.

"Show some enthusiasm," Damien lectured coldly, pressing his foot just a fraction harder, forcing the man’s head back against the steel beam. "You don’t get paid for sloppy work in the real world."

The man squeezed his eyes shut and diligently dragged his tongue across the toe of the shoe, cleaning the muck and the invisible residue of the rat off the leather. He coughed, his tongue feeling raw and abused against the grit, his jaw aching from the angle, but he didn’t stop until the tip of the Oxford gleamed.

Damien finally pulled his foot back, setting it on the concrete.

The man collapsed forward onto his hands and knees, hacking violently, spitting bitter saliva onto the floor to get the foul taste out of his mouth. His nose throbbed with a dull ache where Damien had bruised it.

Damien nodded to Diego.

Diego reached into his pocket, pulled out a crisp, newly minted one-hundred-dollar bill, and let it flutter to the floor. It landed right next to the puddle of the man’s spit.

Damien reached up and slid his dark, polarized Tom Ford sunglasses back onto his face.

"Congratulations, your first honest income," Damien stated.

He turned on his heel and began walking toward the rusted metal doors to leave.

The thief stared at the hundred-dollar bill. A wild, hysterical wave of relief crashed over him. He was alive. He had survived. He grabbed the money with a trembling hand, letting out a wet, gasping laugh.

But the laugh died in his throat.

He realized some of the operatives weren’t following the billionaire out the door.

Shwing.

The unmistakable, metallic sound of three ASP tactical batons violently extending echoed through the warehouse.

The thief scrambled backward, his relief instantly flash-freezing into absolute terror as the three massive guards advanced on him.

"Wait!" the thief screamed, his voice tearing at his vocal cords. "Mr. Sinclair, please! Don’t kill me! I have a wife! I have a little daughter!"

Damien paused just inches from the threshold.

He didn’t turn around. The morning sunlight caught the sharp, aristocratic line of his jaw.

"If you truly cared about them," Damien stated, his voice flat, "you would have found honest work."

He didn’t spare the man a single glance.

"Break his hands," Damien ordered his men. "He doesn’t need them if the best use he has for them is stealing."

"NO! PLEASE! GOD, NO!"

Damien stepped out into the alleyway, the heavy metal doors swinging shut behind him.

The deafening, agonizing screams that erupted from the warehouse were instantly muffled by the thick steel.

Damien stood in the alley, completely unbothered.

Diego pushed through the doors a moment later, holding the phone.

Damien stripped off the latex surgical gloves, tossing them into a nearby dumpster, and took the device. He stared down at the dark screen.

"Find his wife and daughter," Damien instructed, not looking up. "Relocate them to a smaller city. Chicago or Seattle. Set the wife up as a mid-level cleaner at one of my corporate branches. Ensure she gets full medical benefits."

Diego nodded, pulling out a tablet. "Yes, sir."

"Fund a full scholarship for the daughter to attend the best public school in their new district," Damien added. "Provide them with a modest, two-bedroom house and a vehicle."

"Understood," Diego said. "What is the narrative for the relocation?"

"I don’t care what story you weave," Damien said coldly. "Just make sure the mother is thoroughly convinced that her husband is dead."

"Right away, sir," Diego said, immediately pressing his earpiece to bark the orders.

Damien looked at the stolen phone in his hand.

With a sudden flick of his wrist, Damien hurled the device directly at the brick wall of the alley.

It hit the masonry with explosive force, shattering into a dozen pieces of sharp glass and twisted metal, raining down onto the asphalt.

From the lead SUV, a young, eager operative sprinted over to the wreckage. He dropped to his knees, expertly sifting through the debris until he plucked a tiny, custom-made microchip engraved with a microscopic Sinclair crest from the carnage.

A few minutes later, the young man jogged over to the Maserati, pulling a sleek, brand-new, matte-black iPhone 16 Pro Max from his tactical vest.

Damien, already sitting in the plush leather backseat of his car, rolled the tinted window down.

He took the new phone. The screen immediately lit up, his encrypted data securely transferring.

"Fast," Damien noted, giving the operative a rare, approving nod. "Good work."

The young operative beamed, lighting up brighter than the sun itself, looking like he had just been knighted by the King of England. "Thank you, sir!"

Damien rolled the window up.

Diego slid into the driver’s seat, handing Damien a pack of sterile, antibacterial wet wipes. Damien took it, meticulously scrubbing the sole of his expensive leather shoe until the remaining residue of the warehouse floor was completely gone.

He tossed the dirty wipe into a small bin, disinfected his hands and leaned back against the plush headrest, checking his Rolex.

"To the office, Diego," Damien commanded. "I’m late for my meeting."