Chapter 285: I Don’t Want To Think About It

Aria groaned, kicking the silk duvet off her legs in frustration.

It was 4:12 AM. She was lying flat on her back, staring blankly up at the dark ceiling, incapable of falling asleep.

Her lower abdomen throbbed with a vicious, dull ache. Day two of her period was always a relentless nightmare. She had ditched the pajamas entirely, currently tossing and turning in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of black cotton underwear, clutching a pillow tightly against her stomach.

But honestly? The cramps weren’t even the worst part of her night.

"Ew," Aria whispered into the dark, cringing into her mattress.

Her brain, completely unprovoked, had just forced her to imagine Diana Sinclair and Richard hooking up.

It was the ultimate ick.

Sure, they weren’t exactly ancient. Diana was in her mid-forties and Richard was probably around that age too. But she knew both of them personally and imagining them getting freaky in the dark felt exactly like accidentally walking in on your high school principal.

’What do they even talk about? Do they have pillow talks? Does Richard keep his earpiece in during the deed? Does Diana critique his technique like she critiques everything else in this world? Wait...do they love each other? Or is it just sex?’

Aria pulled a pillow over her face, muffling a groan of disgust. She had no idea why she was even thinking about it. She did not want to know.

They were sneaking around in Damien’s penthouse. They were having a secret, midnight rendezvous right under Damien’s nose. If Damien knew his sister was sleeping with his best operative, he would... actually, Aria had no idea what he would do. Maybe he’ll support it?

Aria rolled onto her side, pulling her knees up to her chest as a fresh wave of cramps hit her.

She wouldn’t have suspected a thing if she hadn’t lived this life once before.

In her past life, Diana had been the undisputed center of Damien’s universe. Because he was so protective of his sister, Damien had assigned his best operative to be her bodyguard. Richard.

In this timeline, because Aria had married him, the priority shifted. Aria got Richard.

But the nexus event was the same.

Two years from now. 2026.

The bodyguard who got Diana pregnant wasn’t just some random. It was Richard. It had to be Richard. And it was because of that exact, hushed-up pregnancy that Damien’s life was going to implode.

Aria remembered the news coverage from her past life. It had dominated the cycle for months. Diana had suffered some kind of severe medical emergency while pregnant. Damien, prioritizing his sister over everything else, had thrown her into his car and sped toward the hospital.

In his rush, he had plowed his car straight through a blockade of climate protestors.

Three people died. Vehicular manslaughter.

Damien had been dragged into a publicized murder trial. The Sinclair stock had plummeted. The empire had been pushed to the brink of ruin. But Aria had died in the asylum before the outcome of the trial was announced, but she had a feeling that it wouldn’t be in his favor.

Aria lay in the dark.

If she exposed Diana and Richard right now, maybe the pregnancy would never happen. The medical emergency wouldn’t happen. The protestors would live, and Damien would never go on trial for murder.

Should she stop it?

Aria bit her lip, debating the morality of playing God. Erasing a potential child from existence felt dark, even for her. But then again, Diana was a fundamentally terrible mother. Look at Lucas. He was a damaged nightmare because of how Diana raised him. Did the world really need another child subjected to Diana Sinclair’s brand of parenting?

Aria let out a long exhale, rubbing her temples.

She didn’t have a shred of concrete proof that they were sleeping together right now. Just a timeline from a past life and a highly suspicious 3 AM visit.

And frankly? As she stared at the numbers on the digital clock—4:28 AM—Aria realized she simply did not have the bandwidth to be the morality police.

Damien’s murder trial was a 2026 problem.

She had a massive, life-or-death 2024 problem.

Tonight.

Her family’s company was going up for closed-door auction tonight, she was broke and without an invitation. She didn’t have time to worry about Diana’s secret sex life or future disasters. She needed to secure her mother’s hidden money, and she needed to do it soon.

Aria reached across the bed to the nightstand, grabbed her iPad, and pulled it under the warm covers with her.

The bright screen illuminated her face in the dark room.

If she was going to do this without Damien, she needed a proper fake identity. She opened a blank digital canvas on her drawing app.

She started a mood board. She needed a name, a killer aesthetic, and an unbothered, filthy-rich personality. She needed to look like an elusive European heiress who inherited a shipping empire she didn’t earn, with the exact kind of nasty attitude of a woman who would sue a barista for getting her oat milk latte order wrong.

Aria tapped her stylus against the screen, an excited smirk curving her lips as she began to furiously curate the perfect vibe for her new alter ego.

She dragged and dropped a photo of a vintage, jet-black Saint Laurent power suit onto the digital canvas. Next went a picture of a wide-brimmed black hat, the dramatic kind that screamed, ’I am attending my wealthy husband’s funeral and I am definitely the one who poisoned his soup.’ She added a pair of large, opaque Tom Ford sunglasses that covered seventy percent of the wearer’s face, and a slash of blood-red lipstick.

"Okay, name," Aria muttered, tapping her chin with the stylus. "It needs to sound like I own a yacht and a very aggressive Doberman."

She typed out Sloane. ’Yes. Sloane Kensington.’ It tasted like old money, generational wealth, and zero patience for the working class.

She added some bullet points for the character’s backstory. Sloane Kensington didn’t do small talk. Sloane Kensington communicated primarily through exasperated sighs, tipped entirely in hundred-dollar bills, and looked at men like they were a mild inconvenience. She was an elusive, reclusive British-French heiress who lived in a chateau and was only attending this auction to buy a media company because she was bored of buying horses.

Aria giggled, kicking her feet happily under the warm silk covers.