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

The lock on Diana Sinclair’s bedroom door was insulting.

It was a simple, vintage tumbler mechanism—the kind of lock that kept out polite people, not a determined sister-in-law with a bobby pin and a deadline.

Aria knelt on the plush runner of the hallway, listening for footsteps. The coast was clear. The staff were too busy hyperventilating over her ”Wagyu Slider” menu change downstairs, and Diana was presumably in the wine cellar ”quality testing” the inventory as ordered.

Aria slid the pin in. Twist. Click.

The door swung open.

”Too easy,” Aria whispered, slipping inside and closing the door behind her.

If Damien’s room was a masculine sanctuary of leather and cedar, Diana’s room was a beige purgatory. Everything was cream, ivory, or eggshell. The curtains were heavy silk, the carpet was plush enough to lose a shoe in, and the air smelled of potpourri and repression.

”Live, Laugh, Loathe,” Aria muttered, scanning the room. ”It looks like a showroom for people who are afraid of colors.”

She walked to the massive vanity. It was cluttered with framed photos. Aria picked one up. It was a picture of Damien receiving an award, looking bored. Next to it was a picture of Damien on a horse, looking bored. Next to that was a picture of Damien graduating, also...looking bored.

”We get it, you love your brother,” Aria said, setting the frame down face-down. ”Get a hobby.”

She found exactly one photo of Lucas, tucked shamefully in the back corner behind a perfume bottle. It showed him as an infant, but he wasn’t being held by his mother. He was being held by a teenage Damien.

Aria knew the story from her past life: Lucas was the result of Diana’s one night of rebellion and too much wine. The father was unknown, so they gave him the Sinclair name, but Diana had rejected the ”mistake” instantly, leaving him to be raised by nannies.

”No wonder he’s so desperate,” Aria murmured, putting the photo down.

Then, she saw it.

A larger, black and white frame.

Aria picked it up.

It was a family portrait, taken on the front steps of the estate maybe around twenty-five years ago.

In the center stood Grandfather Sinclair, looking exactly as miserable and terrifying as he did today. But surrounding him wasn’t a normal family.

There were seven children.

Six boys. One girl.

The girl—Diana—stood in the middle, wearing a frilly dress, clutching the hand of the smallest boy.

The small boy was Damien. He couldn’t have been more than four years old. He looked tiny, solemn, and cute with messy silver hair—a stark, genetic anomaly that stood out violently against the ink-black hair of his sister and the five brothers looming over him.

”Aww,” Aria cooed, tapping the glass over mini-Damien’s face. ”Look at you. Plotting world domination before you could read.”

But then her eyes drifted to the other five boys. They ranged in age, all dark-haired Sinclairs.

Aria paused. She remembered the headlines from when she was growing up. The ”Sinclair Curse.”

Eldest Heir Dies in Skiing Accident.Second Son Lost at Sea.Tragedy Strikes Sinclair Estate: Hunting Mishap Claims Third Son.

The media called it bad luck. Looking at this photo—at the hard, cold eyes of the Grandfather standing behind his ”heirs”—Aria realized it wasn’t luck.

”Six boys enter, one boy leaves,” Aria whispered, a chill running down her spine. ”It wasn’t a curse. It was a tournament.”

The police never investigated. The coroners ruled them all accidents. Because when you have Sinclair money, you don’t commit murder; you just have ”tragedies.”

Damien survived this. He survived them.

”No wonder he’s insane,” Aria muttered, putting the photo back. ”Trauma explains the personality. But it doesn’t excuse the beige decor.”

She turned to the closet.

It was a walk-in, naturally. Aria flipped on the light switch.

”Jackpot.”

Rows of designer gowns hung in plastic bags. Most of them were pastel, safe, and boring.

”No. No. Too ’Mother of the Bride’. No.” Aria flipped through the hangers rapidly. ”Come on, Diana. You must have one dress that doesn’t scream ’I volunteer at the library’.”

Her hand stopped at the very back of the rack. A heavy, dark garment bag.

She unzipped it.

Inside was a gown of midnight blue velvet. It was strapless, with a structured bodice and a skirt that flowed like ink. It was dramatic. It was regal. It was completely unlike anything else in the closet.

The tags were still on it. Vintage Dior.

”You bought it,” Aria guessed, pulling it out and holding it up against herself in the mirror. ”But you never had the guts to wear it. You knew you couldn’t pull it off.”

She smiled. The velvet caught the light, shimmering almost black.

”It’s perfect.”

Aria stripped off Damien’s oversized shirt and sweatpants, leaving them in a pile on the beige carpet. She stepped into the gown.

It fit. A little loose in the bust—Diana was more... enhanced—but nothing a safety pin couldn’t fix. The dark blue velvet made her skin look like porcelain. It was sophisticated, dark, and commanding. It was a dress for a woman who survived the cull.

”Thank you, Sister,” Aria told her reflection.

She looked around for shoes. She found a pair of silver Jimmy Choos that were a size too big, but she stuffed the toes with tissue from a shoebox.

”Improvise, adapt, overcome,” she muttered, wincing as she took a test step.

She grabbed a silver clutch from a shelf to complete the look.

Before she left, she walked over to the nightstand. She grabbed a notepad and a pen stamped with the Sinclair crest.

She wrote a note in her sprawling, confident script.

Diana,

Borrowed the blue. It looked sad in the closet. Don’t wait up.

XOXO,The Matriarch

She stuck the note to the mirror with a dab of Diana’s own red lipstick.

Aria unlocked the door and peeked into the hallway. Empty.

She slipped out, the velvet skirt swishing silently around her legs. She felt like a spy. A very well-dressed spy.

She checked the time on her phone. 5:00 PM.

The guests were arriving. The jazz band was setting up. The wagyu sliders were being plated.

”Showtime,” Aria whispered.