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

The backseat of the SUV looked less like a vehicle and more like a backstage dressing room at Fashion Week.

Coco sat facing Aria, his mouth full of bobby pins, wrapping a length of black silk ribbon around Aria’s left hand.

”Hold still, darling,” Coco mumbled. ”If I make this too tight, your fingers turn blue. If I make it too loose, it looks like a bandage. We are aiming for ’Tortured Victorian Poet meets Assassin’.”

Aria held her hand steady, wincing internally as the silk pressed against the gauze beneath. ”Is this really necessary? I could just tell them I burned my hand cooking.”

”And admit domestic incompetence?” Zoe scoffed from the front seat, not looking up from her phone where she was monitoring the trending hashtags. ”Absolutely not. Bella’s bots are already pushing the #AriaRehab narrative. If you say you cooked, they’ll say you were cooking meth.”

”They have very active imaginations,” Aria noted dryly.

”They have a payroll,” Zoe corrected. ”Bella spent half her allowance buying bot farms in Eastern Europe this morning. Currently, the rumor is that you’re in a Swiss clinic getting a new nose and a blood transfusion.”

Coco tied off the ribbon in a sharp, geometric knot at Aria’s wrist. He sat back, admiring his work.

Aria’s hands were no longer bulky white paws. They were encased in sleek, black silk wrappings that extended halfway up her forearms. It didn’t look medical. It looked like something a dominatrix would wear to a funeral.

”It’s giving... danger,” Coco declared. ”It matches the eyeliner. You look like you’re about to strangle someone with style.”

”I might,” Aria murmured, checking her reflection in the darkened window.

The SUV slowed as it approached the gates of Studio 4. The crowd of paparazzi was thicker than usual, fed by the rumors of Aria’s ”disappearance” (which had really just been a weekend of plotting).

”Game face,” Zoe ordered. ”Remember: You didn’t fall. You didn’t fail. You’re just... avant-garde.”

The door opened.

The flashbulbs erupted like a supernova.

Aria stepped out. She wore a structured black blazer dress with sharp shoulders, thigh-high boots, and the silk hand-wraps. She didn’t hide her hands in her pockets. She raised one to adjust her sunglasses, letting the cameras get a high-definition shot of the ”injury.”

”Aria! Aria! Is it true you’re in detox?” ”Who is your surgeon?” ”Are you off the movie?”

Aria paused. She lowered her sunglasses slowly, revealing eyes that were clear, bright, and mocking.

”Detox?” she repeated, her voice carrying over the shouting. She laughed—a light, dismissive sound. ”I’m afraid I’m addicted to nothing but work. And my husband, of course.”

She flashed the ruby ring, which was threaded on a gold chain around her neck today, nestled in the V of her blazer.

”As for the hands,” she flexed her silk-wrapped fingers. ”It’s a new trend. You’ll see it in Vogue next month. Keep up.”

She turned and walked through the gates, leaving the reporters confused and frantically taking photos of her wrists.

Inside the studio, the atmosphere was less chaotic but infinitely more toxic.

Bella was holding court near the craft services table. She was wearing a white dress (always white, Aria noted with annoyance) and looking tragically concerned as she spoke to the Director.

”I just worry about her stability,” Bella was saying, her voice pitched perfectly to carry. ”If she’s self-harming, or if she’s unsteady... maybe we should reduce her screen time. For her own health.”

”My health is excellent, Sister,” Aria’s voice cut through the air.

Bella jumped. She spun around, her eyes widening as she took in Aria’s appearance. She had expected a broken, bandaged mess. Instead, she got a runway model ready for war.

”Aria!” Bella recovered quickly, rushing forward with her arms outstretched. ”Oh, thank goodness! I heard you were in a clinic! Let me see your poor hands!”

She reached out to grab Aria’s wrists, intending to squeeze the injured area ”accidentally.”

Aria didn’t flinch. But before Bella could touch her, a blur of gold and blue intercepted.

”Don’t touch the Queen!”

Leo, the young actor playing the Prince, jumped between them. He was wearing his costume armor and holding a half-eaten bagel.

”Sister Aria is recovering!” Leo declared, puffing out his chest. ”Her hands are sacred! Mr. Damien said if anyone touches them, he’ll deduct it from their paycheck!”

Bella recoiled, looking at Leo like he was a cockroach. ”Get out of the way, you idiot. I’m her sister.”

”You’re a germ vector,” Leo countered loyally. He turned to Aria, his puppy eyes shining. ”Sister Aria! I saw the wraps! They look so cool! Like a ninja! Do you need help? Do you need me to feed you? I have grapes!”

Aria smiled, a genuine warmth reaching her eyes. ”I’m okay, Leo. But thank you.”

Lucas watched from the sidelines, leaning against a prop column. He looked at Aria—at the sharp blazer, the defiant posture, the way she commanded the room without raising her voice.

He looked at Bella, who was currently shrieking at Leo.

’I made a mistake,’ the thought crossed Lucas’s mind for the hundredth time. But he shoved it down, pushing off the column.

”Enough drama,” Lucas said, walking over. He tried to catch Aria’s eye, to share a look of ’we’re the only sane ones here,’ but she looked right through him. ”Director, are we filming or not?”

”Yes! Yes!” Spielberg clapped his hands. ”Places! Scene 42. The Garden Confrontation.”

Aria walked to her mark.

”Wait,” Bella said, a sly smile appearing. ”Director, the script calls for Consort Li to peel a mandarin orange for the Emperor. It’s symbolic of her servitude.”

She looked at Aria’s bandaged hands.

”Can she do that? With those... accessories? Or should I do it?”

It was a petty trap. Peeling an orange required dexterity Aria currently didn’t have. If she failed, she looked weak. If she refused, she looked like a diva.

Aria looked at the bowl of oranges on the prop table.

”I can do it,” Aria said calmly.

”Action!”

The scene started. Aria sat next to Lucas. She reached for the orange. Her fingers were stiff. Pain shot up her arms as she tried to dig her nail into the peel. She couldn’t get purchase.

Bella smirked from the sidelines.

Aria didn’t panic. She didn’t break character.

She picked up the orange. She looked at Lucas.

”Your Majesty,” Aria purred, her voice dripping with seduction. ”This fruit... the skin is tough. Like the defenses of your enemies.”

She didn’t peel it. She picked up a silver fruit knife from the table.

Instead of peeling it delicately, she stabbed the orange.

Thunk.

She sliced it open with a violent, efficient chop, juice spraying onto the table. It wasn’t servitude. It was a threat.

She impaled a slice on the tip of the knife and held it up to Lucas’s lips.

”Open,” she commanded.

Lucas stared at the knife. He stared at her eyes. He opened his mouth, terrified and aroused.

She fed him the slice off the blade.

”Sweet?” she asked.

”Y-Yes,” Lucas stammered.

”Good,” Aria smiled, dropping the knife. ”Because the rind is bitter. And I have no patience for bitterness today.”

”Cut!” Spielberg cheered. ”Unexpected! Violent! I love it!”

Aria stood up, her hands throbbing but her dignity intact. She walked past a stunned Bella.

”Next time you try to trap me, Bella,” Aria whispered, leaning close. ”Remember: I don’t peel fruit. I bring knives.”

As she walked back to her trailer, her phone buzzed.

First, a notification from Zoe: [Zoe: Press release is live. ’Aria Vale injured hands during intense stunt training for upcoming action sequence. Refused a double. #MethodActing #WarriorQueen’. Bella’s ’Rehab’ rumor is dead.]

Then, a separate notification from The Wallet, timestamped two minutes ago while she was filming.

[The Wallet: I’m watching the dailies feed. Did you just stab my nephew with a fruit knife?]

Aria laughed, typing a reply with her thumbs.

[Aria: Only a slice. I saved the real stabbing for dinner.]