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

Aria walked down the main staircase, still wearing Damien’s oversized sweatpants and dress shirt. She had intended to go back to the room and sulk about the dead-end investigation, but the estate had erupted into chaos.

Servants were sprinting through the hallways carrying massive arrangements of white lilies. Footmen were hauling cases of champagne up from the cellar. A team of florists was currently arguing with a team of lighting technicians in the foyer.

It looked like a wedding. Or a very expensive funeral.

Aria stopped a maid who was rushing past with a stack of linen napkins.

”Excuse me,” Aria asked. ”Is someone... dying?”

”Oh no, Madam,” the maid squeaked. ”It’s the Gala. Mr. Sinclair ordered it an hour ago. The ’Sinclair Harvest Charity Ball’. It’s tonight.”

Aria blinked. ”Tonight?”

”Yes, Madam. Invitations were sent via courier to friends and the local board members. It’s... very last minute.”

The maid rushed off, looking terrified.

Aria stood there, a slow smile spreading across her face.

’Charity.’

Of course.

She had threatened Grandfather Sinclair in the library last night with the fact that the Family Trust hadn’t donated a dime since 2015. If she leaked that to the IRS, he was toast. So, in a panic to cover his paper trail before Monday morning, he was throwing a frantic, impromptu charity event to dump 15% of the annual income into a tax-deductible hole.

”Tax fraud really is a great motivator,” Aria whispered to herself.

She walked toward the ballroom.

Inside, Alfred stood in the center of the floor, barking orders at a catering manager.

”No, no!” Alfred waved a clipboard. ”Tradition dictates we serve the Aspic of Pheasant. And the string quartet will play strictly Bach. We do not want... excitement. We want dignity.”

”We want people to actually have fun,” Aria’s voice cut through the noise.

Alfred froze. He turned slowly. When he saw Aria in her baggy loungewear, his nose wrinkled.

”Mrs. Sinclair,” he said stiffly. ”This is a closed planning session. Mr. Sinclair wishes to handle this personally to ensure the... integrity... of the event.”

”Grandpa is doing this because I scared him,” Aria corrected, walking up to him and plucking the clipboard out of his hands. ”Which means this is technically my party.”

She scanned the run-of-show document. Her eyebrows shot up.

”Alfred, this isn’t a gala. This is a hostage situation. Three hours of speeches? Boiled goose? A harpist named ’Mildred’?”

”It is traditional!” Alfred sputtered, reaching for the clipboard.

Aria held it out of his reach. She pulled a pen from the catering manager’s pocket.

”Tradition is boring. And if we want the elite to actually donate money—which we do, to cover the tax gap—we need them drunk and happy, not bored and bloated on goose fat.”

She started crossing things out with aggressive, dark strokes.

”The goose is gone. Replace it with the wagyu sliders and the truffle risotto spoons.”

”Sliders?” Alfred looked faint. ”Finger food?”

”Rich people love finger food, Alfred. It makes them feel relatable. Next, the music.” She scratched out String Quartet. ”Get a jazz band. Something with a saxophone. We want ’Great Gatsby’, not ’Titanic’.”

”Mr. Sinclair will never approve—”

”Grandpa isn’t wearing the pants in this house today,” Aria said breezily. ”I am. Literally.” She gestured to Damien’s sweatpants.

”What are you doing?”

Diana stormed into the ballroom, holding a dress bag. She looked frantic. ”Aria! Stop bothering the staff! We have four hours to get ready, and Grandfather is already hyperventilating about the guest list.”

”I’m fixing the menu,” Aria said, handing the revised clipboard to the catering manager. ”Do everything I circled. Ignore everything else. If Alfred complains, well, ignore him, he doesn’t call the shots around here.”

The manager looked at Aria, then at Alfred.

”Yes, Ma’am,” the manager said, and ran off to the kitchen.

Aria stepped closer to the butler, her smile sharpening into something sugary and lethal. ”And Alfred? If you breathe a word of these changes to Grandpa before the guests arrive, I’ll ask Damien to ensure you spend the rest of your mundane life living under a bus stop. Do we understand each other?”

Alfred paled, his composure cracking. ”Understood, Mrs. Sinclair.”

”You can’t just take over!” Diana shrieked. ”This is a Sinclair event!”

”And I’m a Sinclair,” Aria reminded her. ”Look, Diana, I’m doing you a favor. If we serve boiled goose, you’re going to be the one listening to Mrs. Vanderbilt complain about her digestion all night. Do you want that?”

Diana paused. She shuddered visibly. ”She does complain. Endlessly.”

”Exactly. I’m saving your evening.” Aria turned back to the room. She pointed at the massive floral arrangements. ”Those lilies? Too funereal. Break them up. Mix them with the black roses from the conservatory garden. Make it moody. Make it sexy.”

”Sexy?” Alfred whispered. ”It is a harvest ball.”

”It’s 2024, Alfred. Sex sells. Even in charity.”

Aria clapped her hands.

”Alright! Get your heads out of your asses, people! Perfection won’t build itself! We have four hours to turn this mausoleum into a party. I want the lighting lowered, the music louder, and the champagne flowing before the guests even get through the door.”

She turned to Diana, stepping into her personal space. Aria lowered her voice, tapping into the one thing she knew Diana loved more than her brother.

”Diana, I need an expert. Someone with... refined tastes to handle the bar. Go to the cellar. Pull the best and strongest bottles you can find. And feel free to ’quality test’ the ’85 reserve on your way up. We can’t serve swill, can we?”

Diana’s eyes lit up with a desperate sort of gratitude. ”I... yes. I suppose I should supervise the selection.”

”That’s the spirit.”

Aria looked around the ballroom. It was still stuffy, but the energy had shifted. The panic was gone, replaced by a frantic, modern urgency.

She smiled.

Grandfather Sinclair wanted to play games with money? Fine. She would show him how to spend it.

”Now,” Aria muttered to herself, turning toward the exit. ”I have a party to crash. And I have absolutely nothing to wear.”