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

The silence in the Grand Drawing Room following Catherine’s sobbing exit was heavy enough to crush a lesser woman.

At the far end of the room, sitting in a wingback chair that looked like it cost more than the GDP of a small island nation, was Grandfather Sinclair.

He wasn’t a withered king; he was a shark in a three-piece suit. He held a cane topped with a silver lion’s head, his knuckles white as he gripped it, but his posture was rigid, impeccable. His eyes—cold, hard, and devoid of the gold warmth that Damien’s held—were fixed on Aria.

He looked at her neon green feathers. He looked at the black lace gloves. He looked at the defiant tilt of her chin.

”You,” the old man said, his voice a low, dry rasp that carried perfectly across the room. ”You chased away a woman with actual breeding to make room for... that?”

He gestured vaguely at her outfit with his cane.

”Damien. Explain. Why is there a highlighter standing on my Persian rug?”

Damien opened his mouth to reply, his expression dark, but Aria beat him to it.

Aria clapped her hands together, beaming with delight.

”Grandpa!”

The word echoed off the vaulted ceiling like a gunshot.

Grandfather Sinclair froze. His mouth hung open slightly. ”What did you call me?”

”Grandpa!” Aria repeated, walking toward him with the confident stride of a favorite grandchild, her feathers fluttering manically. ”Oh, Damien didn’t tell me you were so... spirited! Look at you, shouting and banging your cane. It’s good to see you still have energy at your age.”

She stopped right in front of him. She leaned down, inspecting him with wide, concerned eyes.

”But you seem a little confused. That wasn’t a guest. That was the help. Didn’t you see her dress? Beige polyester? No guest of the Sinclair family would wear something so basic. I tipped her for the tea service.”

Grandfather Sinclair sputtered. His face turned a shade of purple that clashed horribly with the room’s beige aesthetic.

”That was Catherine Montgomery!” he roared. ”She is a board member of the Opera! She was the woman chosen for this family!”

Aria gasped, pressing her gloved hand to her chest. She turned to Damien, her eyes wide with fake horror.

”Honey,” she whispered loud enough for the old man to hear. ”I think... I think his eyes are going. He thought that beige girl was your fiancée? Oh, this is tragic.”

She turned back to the Grandfather, her voice dripping with sickly-sweet pity.

”Grandpa, have you seen an optometrist lately? Cataracts can be very tricky. They make everything look... blurry. That explains why you think my dress is ’a highlighter’. It’s actually High Fashion. I wore it specifically to stimulate your optic nerves. Bright colors are good for cognitive function.”

”Cognitive function?!” The Grandfather tried to stand up, but his knees shook with rage. ”I built this empire! I am not senile! I am furious!”

”Of course you are,” Aria soothed, reaching out to pat his hand on the cane. ”Anger is a very common symptom of... advanced maturity. It’s okay. We understand. Sundowning can be tough.”

She looked at Damien.

”Darling, maybe we should get him a glass of warm milk? Or is it time for his nap? He seems cranky.”

Damien was leaning against the marble mantelpiece. He had a hand covering his mouth. To the untrained eye, he looked like he was deep in thought. To Aria, the slight shaking of his shoulders revealed he was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe.

”Grandfather,” Damien managed to say, his voice thick with suppressed mirth. ”Aria is... concerned for your welfare. As the new Matriarch, she takes her duties very seriously.”

”Matriarch?” Grandfather Sinclair looked like he was about to have an aneurysm. ”She is no Matriarch! I did not approve this union! You married an... influencer! A scandal! Without my permission!”

He pointed a shaking finger at Aria.

”This marriage is a farce! It is invalid in the eyes of this Trust! I will cut you off, Damien! I will freeze the assets! I will not let this... woman... sit at my table!”

The air in the room grew cold. The comedy vanished from Aria’s face, replaced by the steel of the ”Black-Belly Queen.”

She stepped closer, invading the old man’s personal space until she was looming over him in his chair.

”Invalid?” she repeated softly.

She reached into her neon clutch. She pulled out the folded Marriage Certificate she had carried since the police station.

She snapped it open and held it in front of his face.

”State of New York. Signed. Sealed. Registered,” Aria said, her voice icy. ”I am Aria Sinclair. I own 50% of everything your grandson owns. And since he owns this family’s future... that means I own a significant stake in your comfort.”

She lowered the paper, staring into his watery, furious eyes.

”You can freeze the Trust, Grandpa. You can threaten the land lease. But let’s be real. Damien built the empire that pays for this heating, this staff, and that very expensive cane you’re holding. The ’Old Money’ dried up in the 90s. If you cut him off... who pays the bills?”

She tilted her head.

”Diana? Lucas? They can barely pay their own credit card bills.”

She patted his hand again, gentle but firm.

”So, let’s skip the threats. You’re going to let us sit at your table. You’re going to eat your soup. And you’re going to be nice. Because if you aren’t...”

She smiled, and it was the smile of a shark that had just smelled blood in the water.

”...I might decide to redecorate this room. Beige is so depressing. I’m thinking neon pink.”

Grandfather Sinclair stared at her. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked at Damien, waiting for his grandson to intervene, to reprimand this insolent girl.

Damien just pushed off the mantelpiece and walked over to Aria. He wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her flush against him, his hand splayed possessively over the neon feathers.

”You heard her, Grandfather,” Damien said coolly. ”She’s the lady of the house now. I’d listen to her. She has a very short temper.”

He checked his watch, dismissing the patriarch entirely.

”The rest of the vultures are still arriving. We’re not staying for this.”

Damien turned toward the arched doorway where a line of uniformed staff stood waiting invisibly against the wall.

”You,” Damien pointed to a footman. ”Take our bags to the East Wing.”

”Yes, sir,” the footman stammered, rushing forward to take Aria’s small clutch and Damien’s coat.

”Come, Aria,” Damien said, guiding her away from the fuming old man. ”Dinner isn’t for another hour. I’ll give you a tour of the grounds.”

They walked out of the room, leaving Grandfather Sinclair alone in his beige mausoleum.

He gripped his cane until his knuckles cracked.

”Grandpa,” he muttered, the word tasting like ash. ”She called me Grandpa.”