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

The soup course was cleared away by silent footmen, replaced by a fish course that looked like it had been plated with a protractor.

The silence in the room had shifted from shocked to oppressive. Grandfather Sinclair, having recovered from the initial assault of the ”Damien Face” dress, decided to reclaim control the only way he knew how: by boring everyone to death.

”The Sinclair legacy,” Grandfather droned, cutting his sole meunière with mechanical precision, ”is built on stability. It is built on the bedrock of respect and tradition. We do not chase trends. We do not... tweet.”

He shot a withered glare at Aria.

”We endure. The Trust was established in 1920 to ensure that no single individual could compromise the integrity of our holdings. It requires a steady hand. A serious mind.”

Aria nodded politely, though her eyes were glazing over. She sat straight in her chair, the stiff gold brocade of her dress acting as a corset, keeping her posture perfect.

”Fascinating,” she lied.

Beside her, Damien shifted. He wasn’t eating. He was leaning back in his chair, one arm draped over the back of hers, his fingers idly playing with the zipper of her dress. He looked bored. Lethally bored.

”Grandfather,” Damien interrupted, his voice lazy. ”We know the history. We own the building the history is housed in. Get to the point.”

”The point,” Grandfather snapped, ”is that I need to know if your... wife... understands the gravity of her position. She treats this family like a content farm.”

He turned his cold eyes on Aria.

”Tell me, Miss Vale. What exactly do you bring to this table? Aside from scandalous fashion choices and a loud mouth?” 𝘧𝓇ℯℴ𝓂

Aria opened her mouth to answer—to deliver a prepared speech about her 20% stake in Vale Entertainment and her brand value—when she felt it.

A hand.

Damien’s large, warm hand slid under the heavy tablecloth. It landed on her knee.

Aria froze. She looked at him from the corner of her eye. He was staring straight at his grandfather, his expression one of polite, attentive boredom. But under the table, his hand was moving.

It slid upward, the rough calluses of his palm grazing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. The gold dress was heavy, but the skirt was wide enough to hide everything.

”Well?” Grandfather demanded. ”We are waiting.”

”I...” Aria cleared her throat, her heart kicking against her ribs. ”I bring perspective, Grandfather. The market is changing. Tradition is valuable, but stagnation is death.”

Damien’s hand went higher. He found the hem of her lace panties. He hooked a finger under the elastic.

Aria’s breath hitched audibly.

”Are you unwell?” Catherine asked from across the table, hope brightening her eyes. ”You look flushed.”

”I’m fine,” Aria choked out, grabbing her water glass. ”Just... passionate about the market.”

”Passion,” Grandfather scoffed. ”Passion is for poets and poor people. We need pragmatism.”

Damien turned his head slightly toward Aria. A ghost of a smirk played on his lips.

”Answer him, darling,” he murmured. ”Tell him about your pragmatism.”

As he spoke, his finger slipped inside her.

Aria dropped her fork. It hit the china with a loud clatter.

She squeezed her thighs together, trying to trap his hand, but he was too strong. He pushed her legs apart effortlessly, his finger curling inside her wet heat, finding the rhythm he had established in the bathroom not long enough ago.

”I...” Aria gasped, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the edge of the table. ”I believe... in leveraging assets.”

”Assets,” Grandfather repeated, unimpressed. ”What assets?”

Damien’s thumb circled her clit. He wasn’t being gentle. He was teasing her, pushing her right to the edge of a gasp, then stopping, then starting again. It was maddening. It was electric.

”My... brand,” Aria managed to say, her voice dropping to a breathless whisper. She locked eyes with Damien, silently pleading with him to stop—or to never stop. ”My brand is... highly engaging.”

”Speak up, girl!” Grandfather barked. ”Stop mumbling! Do you have no conviction?”

Damien twisted his fingers inside her.

”I have conviction!” Aria yelped, her back arching off the chair.

Lucas, sitting three seats down, stared at her. He saw the flush spreading down her neck. He saw the way her chest was heaving. He saw the way Damien’s shoulder shifted with a subtle, rhythmic motion.

Lucas dropped his head into his hands. ’They’re doing it. They’re literally doing it right now.’

”I intend,” Aria continued, her voice trembling as she fought to keep her composure, ”to merge my influence with the Sinclair reputation. To create a... a climax...”

Damien pushed deep.

”...a synergy,” she corrected frantically, ”that maximizes our reach.”

She bit her lip, hard. She was close. Too close. If he touched her one more time, she was going to scream in the middle of the fish course.

Damien seemed to sense it. Or maybe he just enjoyed the torture. He withdrew his hand slowly, dragging his knuckles against her one last time before resting his palm innocently on her knee.

Aria slumped in her chair, dizzy.

Grandfather Sinclair looked at her. He saw the flush, the breathlessness, the wide, dilated eyes.

He huffed.

”Well,” the old man grunted. ”At least you seem to take the matter seriously. You look terrified. Good. You should be.”

Aria let out a shaky laugh. ”I am... very respectful of your power, Grandpa”

She looked at Damien. He picked up his wine glass, taking a slow sip, his eyes dancing with dark amusement.

”You did well,” Damien whispered to her, leaning close so his breath tickled her ear. ”Very articulate. Considering.”

Aria reached under the table. She found his hand on her knee. She dug her nails into his wrist, hard enough to leave a mark.

”You are evil,” she hissed.

”I’m bored,” he countered. ”And you were looking a little too comfortable.”

He kissed her cheek.

”Eat your fish, Mrs. Sinclair. You’ll need the energy. The night isn’t over.”