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

The Sinclair Ancestral Estate wasn’t a house; it was a monument to old money and generational judgment.

Massive iron gates swung open to reveal a winding driveway lined with ancient oaks that cast long, imposing shadows. At the end of the manicured tunnel sat the main house—a sprawling Neoclassical mansion of white limestone, towering columns, and endless rows of sash windows that seemed to be inspecting Aria’s fashion choices from three hundred yards away.

It looked like a museum where laughter went to die.

Aria stepped out of the black sedan.

Against the backdrop of austere stone and perfectly trimmed ivy, her neon green feather sundress didn’t just pop; it screamed. She looked like a radioactive parrot that had crash-landed at a funeral.

”It’s hideous,” Damien noted, buttoning his suit jacket as he stepped out beside her. ”Grandfather is going to hate it.”

”Good,” Aria beamed, adjusting her sunglasses. ”I aim to displease.”

She looked up at the massive double doors. They were already opening.

A woman swept down the stone steps. She was beautiful in a severe, expensive way—wearing a cream cashmere set that cost more than a luxury car, her dark hair pulled back in a chignon that was tight enough to lift her face.

It was Diana Sinclair. Damien’s older sister. Lucas’s mother.

She completely ignored Aria.

”Damien!” Diana cried out, her voice pitching up into a breathless, girlish register that was deeply unsettling coming from a woman in her forties.

She threw herself at him. She didn’t just hug him; she latched onto him. Her hands flew to his face, cupping his cheeks, pulling him down so she could inspect him.

”Oh, my poor darling,” Diana cooed, running her thumbs over his cheekbones. ”You look so thin! Have you been eating? Is the city air poisoning you? You look exhausted.”

She began to fuss with his tie, smoothing his lapels, her hands lingering on his chest. It was intimate. Too intimate. It was the kind of touching reserved for a lover, or a very, very confused mother.

”I’m fine, Diana,” Damien said, his voice tight. He didn’t push her away—likely out of ingrained habit—but he stood stiffly, his eyes flickering to Aria as if to silently call for help.

”You’re not fine,” Diana insisted, leaning her head against his shoulder. ”You work too hard. You need to come home more often so I can take care of you. Remember how I used to brush your hair when you were little? You loved that.”

Aria watched from three feet away, feeling a vein in her temple twitch.

’Bro-con,’ Aria diagnosed instantly. ’Stage Four. Terminal.’

It was a specific type of rich-girl pathology. Diana, having lost her other siblings in the succession war and having a disappointment for a son, had poured all her emotional energy into her ”perfect” younger brother. She didn’t see him as a grown man with a wife; she saw him as her personal doll.

Diana continued to stroke Damien’s arm, completely oblivious to the neon-green supernova standing next to him.

”I had the chef prepare your favorite,” Diana whispered to him. ”And I made sure your room was aired out. I put lavender on your pillows myself.”

”That’s enough,” Aria said.

She stepped forward, her heels clicking loudly on the pavement.

She walked right up to the tangled pair. She didn’t go for Diana’s arm. She went for the gap between them.

Aria physically wedged herself between Damien and his sister. She turned her back to Damien, facing Diana, effectively blocking the woman’s access to his chest.

”Sister-in-law!” Aria chirped, her voice dripping with aggressive sweetness. She grabbed Diana’s hands—the ones that had been fondling her husband—and shook them vigorously. ”It is so good to see you! You remember me, right? Aria? The girl your son cheated on countlessly?”

Diana blinked, stumbling back a step as she was forcibly detached from her brother. She looked at Aria as if a talking slime mold had just accosted her.

”You,” Diana said, her lip curling. Her eyes dropped to the neon dress. ”Good heavens. What are you wearing? Did you lose a bet?”

”It’s called fashion, Diana. Look it up,” Aria smiled, not letting go of Diana’s hands. She squeezed them tight enough to be uncomfortable. ”And thank you so much for airing out our room. That was so thoughtful of you. Damien loves lavender. I use it on him all the time.”

She emphasized ’I use it on him’ with a knowing, heavy pause.

Diana’s face went rigid. ”Lavender is for relaxation.”

”Oh, we find it very relaxing,” Aria said, widening her eyes innocently. ”Especially after... vigorous activity.”

Behind her, Damien coughed to cover a laugh.

Diana ripped her hands away, wiping them on her cashmere pants as if Aria were contagious.

”You are vulgar,” Diana hissed. She looked past Aria to Damien, her eyes filling with wounded tears. ”Damien, how can you let this... this thing stand there and insult me? I am your sister!”

Damien stepped up behind Aria. He placed his hands on Aria’s shoulders—the bare skin exposed by the sundress—and pulled her back against his chest. It was a clear visual signal: She is with me. You are outside.

”She’s my wife, Diana,” Damien said, his voice cool and final. ”And she’s right. The dress is the latest season. You should update your subscription to Vogue.”

Diana gasped. Betrayal washed over her face. Her baby brother was defending the neon invader.

”I see,” Diana whispered, her voice trembling. ”The city has ruined you. Grandfather is waiting in the drawing room. He is not as forgiving as I am.”

She spun on her heel and marched up the stairs, her spine stiff with rage.

Aria watched her go.

”She’s going to poison my food,” Aria noted.

”Likely,” Damien agreed, his chin resting on the top of her head. ”But you handled her well. The ’vigorous activity’ comment was a nice touch. I think she stopped breathing for a second.”

”She was petting you,” Aria grumbled, leaning back into him. ”It was weird. She looked like she wanted to mount you.”

”She means well,” Damien said, a hint of genuine affection softening his tone. ”She’s the only one who protected me when we were kids. She thinks even now she has to be my shield.”

”Well, the bar has been raised,” Aria said, turning to fix his tie, which Diana had crooked. ”I own you now. And I don’t share my toys.”

Damien caught her hand, kissing the palm.

”I’m not a toy, Aria.”

”Right, you’re not a toy, you are my toy. Thank you for the correction,” she teased. ”Now come on. Let’s go give your grandfather that heart attack I promised.”

They walked up the stairs together, the neon feathers of Aria’s dress fluttering in the gloom of the entry hall like a warning flag.