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

The headlines the next morning were not kind to the Vale family.

[TAX FRAUD? Lydia Laurent Under Investigation After Stepmother-Daughter Showdown!][The Queen Reclaims Her Crown: Aria Vale Recovering Stolen Heirlooms is the Energy We Need in 2024.][Who Wore it Better? Spoiler: It Wasn’t Lydia.]

Aria scrolled through the articles on her phone while Coco, her stylist, aggressively pinned a wig onto her head.

”Honey, you didn’t just spill the tea,” Coco said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as he adjusted a gold hairpin. ”You smashed the teapot, ground the porcelain into dust, and snorted it. The internet is worshipping you. I have three designers begging to dress you for the premiere.”

Aria smiled at her reflection. ”Only three? I must be slipping.”

She was back in the Master Dressing Room of Studio 4. The air here was lighter today. The suffocating tension of being the underdog was gone, replaced by the crisp, efficient atmosphere of someone who held all the cards.

”And look at this,” Coco tapped his own phone screen, showing a paparazzi shot of Lydia leaving the police station, looking haggard and hiding her face. ”The ’Ice Queen’ melted fast. Rumor has it the IRS froze her personal accounts at midnight. She can’t even buy a croissant right now.”

”Good,” Aria said simply. ”Hunger builds character. Isn’t that what she used to tell me when she locked me in my room without dinner?”

Coco paused, a flicker of genuine sympathy in his eyes. ”You really went through it, didn’t you, Boss?”

”Ancient history, Coco,” Aria stood up, smoothing the black silk of her Consort Li costume. ”I’m not looking back. I’m looking at the call sheet. What’s the scene?”

”Scene 42,” Leo’s voice chirped from the doorway.

The young actor playing the Crown Prince bounced into the room, holding two iced coffees. He offered one to Aria like a tribute.

”Morning, Sister Aria! It’s the ’Tea Ceremony of Submission’. The Saintess has to beg the Consort for forgiveness to save the Emperor’s reputation. It’s... kinda intense.”

Leo looked at Aria with big, puppy-dog eyes. ”Also, Lucas is in a mood. He threw a script at a PA this morning because his coffee wasn’t 190 degrees exactly.”

Aria took the coffee. ”Thanks, Leo. And don’t worry about the Emperor. He’s just realizing his crown is made of tin foil.”

The set for the Tea Ceremony was claustrophobic—a small, ornate pavilion surrounded by artificial rain.

When Aria walked onto the set, the chatter died down instantly. Director Spielberg nodded at her respectfully.

”Miss Vale. Ready when you are.”

On the other side of the pavilion, Bella was kneeling on a cushion. She looked terrible. Even the heavy layers of stage makeup couldn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes or the tremor in her hands. The ”Nation’s First Love” looked like she hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours.

Lucas stood in the background, arms crossed, glaring at the floor. He refused to look at Aria. The shame of his uncle’s threats was still fresh.

”Action!”

The scene began.

Aria sat on the raised dais, looking down at Bella. In the script, Consort Li was supposed to be smug. But Aria played her differently—she played her bored.

”Pour,” Aria commanded, her voice soft but absolute.

Bella reached for the teapot. Her hand shook so badly the porcelain rattled against the cup.

Clink. Clink. Clink.

”Cut!” Spielberg sighed. ”Bella, watch the trembling. The Saintess is scared, not having a seizure. Reset.”

Bella flushed, her eyes darting to the crew members who were whispering.

”Take two! Action!”

”Pour,” Aria commanded again.

Bella poured. The tea sloshed over the rim of the cup, staining the white tablecloth.

”Cut!” Spielberg rubbed his temples. ”Bella, focus. It’s just tea.”

”I can’t!” Bella snapped, breaking character. She slammed the teapot down. ”She’s staring at me! How can I work when she’s looking at me like that?”

”Like what?” Aria asked, raising an eyebrow. ”Like I’m waiting for you to do your job? It’s called acting, Bella. Try it sometime.”

”You took everything!” Bella screamed, standing up. The facade of the innocent sister finally cracked, revealing the spoiled brat beneath. ”My jewelry! My room! You even took the curtains! Mom is crying in a hotel room because of you! How can you be so heartless?”

The entire studio went silent. The cameras were still rolling.

Aria didn’t stand up. She didn’t shout back. She simply picked up the cup of tea Bella had managed to pour.

She took a sip.

”The jewelry belonged to my mother,” Aria said calmly, setting the cup down. ”The room belonged to my mother. Even the curtains were chosen by her. I didn’t take anything from you, Bella. I just took back what you stole.”

She stood up slowly, the black robes flowing around her like smoke.

”And as for your mother crying in a hotel room?” Aria smiled, and it was the smile of the Demon Consort. ”Tell her to save her tears. She’s going to need them for the indictment.”

Bella let out a choked sound of rage. She lunged forward, hands raised as if to scratch Aria’s face.

But before she could make contact, a figure stepped in between them.

It wasn’t a bodyguard. It was Lucas.

He caught Bella’s wrists, holding her back.

”Stop it,” Lucas hissed at Bella. ”You’re embarrassing yourself. Look around! Everyone is watching!”

Bella looked up at him, betrayed. ”You’re defending her? After what she did to us?”

”She won,” Lucas whispered, his voice hollow. He looked at Aria over Bella’s shoulder. There was no love in his eyes anymore, only a fearful resignation. ”She has Damien. She has the law. We can’t fight her like this. Just... do the scene, Bella. Before we both get fired.”

He shoved Bella back onto the cushion.

”Sit down,” Lucas ordered.

Bella stared at him, stunned. Then, she crumpled. She sank onto the cushion, her shoulders shaking with real, silent sobs.

”Rolling!” the Director shouted, sensing the raw emotion. ”Keep going! Use it! Action!”

Aria sat back down. She looked at the weeping woman at her feet.

”Good,” Aria improvised, slipping seamlessly back into character. ”Now you know your place, Little Saint. The floor suits you.”

She picked up the tea again.

”Now pour. And don’t spill a drop.”

Bella poured. She was crying so hard she couldn’t see, but fear—fear of Lucas, fear of Aria, fear of poverty—steadied her hand. She filled the cup perfectly.

”Cut! Print!” Spielberg cheered. ”That was visceral! The tension! Amazing!”

Aria stood up and walked off the set without a backward glance.

As she reached her trailer, her phone buzzed. It was a text from Damien.

[The Wallet: I hear my nephew finally grew a spine, only to use it to submit to you. Disappointing, but efficient. I’m picking you up for lunch. My team traced those shell company payments you flagged. They lead to a Dr. Evans.]

Aria stared at the screen. Dr. Evans. The psychiatrist Bella used to fake Aria’s diagnosis... and the same doctor who had attended to her mother in her final days.

Right. The mystery of her mother’s death.

She texted back:

[Aria: Pick me up in 10. And bring the file on Dr. Evans. It’s time we found out who really signed my mother’s death certificate.]

She put the phone away, her hand brushing the ruby ring on her finger. The fun on set was over. It was time to go back to the real war.