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

The double doors to the ballroom swung open, unleashing a blast of saxophone music and the scent of expensive perfume.

Aria stepped into the light, her arm looped tightly through Grandfather Sinclair’s. She was beaming—a smile so bright and triumphant it could have powered the estate for a week. Beside her, Grandfather Sinclair looked like he was being marched to a guillotine, his face a mask of stiff, aristocratic misery.

”Smile, Grandpa,” Aria whispered through her teeth, waving at a cluster of board members with her free hand. ”Everyone is watching. You don’t want them to think you’re unhappy, do you? It might affect the stock price.”

Grandfather Sinclair forced the corners of his mouth upward. It looked painful.

”You are a menace,” he muttered.

”I’m a delight,” Aria corrected.

They descended the short staircase into the crowd. The reaction was immediate. The room rippled with whispers.

”Look at that,” a socialite murmured. ”He’s escorting her. He never lets anyone touch him.”

”She must be the favorite,” another whispered back. ”He’s practically beaming at her. I told you, she’s the new Matriarch. He has already approved.”

Aria soaked it in. She steered the old man through the crowd, stopping to accept compliments on the ”modern” menu she had forced into existence. Waiters circulated with wagyu sliders on silver trays, and for the first time in Sinclair history, people were actually eating.

”This is... undignified,” Grandfather hissed as a jazz trumpet solo hit a high note. ”Finger food. Loud music. It’s a circus.”

”It’s a party,” Aria said. ”And look, no one is leaving early. You’re welcome.”

Her eyes scanned the room, ignoring the guests to look for the one person who mattered.

She found him near the East entrance.

Damien.

He was standing by a pillar, dressed in the same black dress shirt and trousers he had worn to the library, his hair slightly windblown. His focus was elsewhere, which made her frown. He was scanning the crowd, his head moving in sharp, jerky motions. His chest was heaving, as if he had just run a marathon.

Aria smiled, a wave of warmth hitting her when their eyes met.

But then her brows furrowed. He wasn’t smiling back. He looked... frantic? His eyes locked onto hers, and for a second, she saw raw, unadulterated panic. He started shoving his way through the crowd toward her, ignoring the people trying to greet him.

’What’s going on with him?’ Aria wondered.

Before she could process it, a shadow fell over her.

”Mr. Sinclair,” a smooth, cultured voice purred. ”What a lively gathering. You certainly know how to surprise us.”

Aria’s smile vanished.

Lydia Laurent stood there. She was wearing blue—an elegant dress that was cut low in the back and long-sleeved. She held a glass of champagne, looking every inch the perfect, glamorous socialite she pretended to be.

Aria stiffened. Her grip on Grandfather Sinclair’s arm tightened instinctively.

Grandfather Sinclair looked down at Lydia. He frowned. He didn’t recognize her. To him, people outside the top 1% of the tax bracket were essentially invisible static.

”And you are?” Grandfather Sinclair asked, his tone dripping with the kind of dismissal only ninety years of wealth can buy.

Lydia’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second, but she recovered. ”I am Lydia Laurent. Raymond Vale’s wife.”

Grandfather Sinclair stared at her blankly. ”Vale? Ah. The... entertainment people.”

He looked away, clearly bored. He didn’t know who Raymond Vale was specifically, and he didn’t care. When he realized she hadn’t moved, he frowned.

”Why are you still standing in front of me?”

Lydia flushed. She wasn’t used to being looked down on like this. She felt incredibly small under his dismissive gaze.

Diana tightened her grip on her glass, her eyes darting to Aria with a flash of malice.

”I see she’s forced her way to your side,” Lydia said, her voice dropping to a sympathetic coo to cover her embarrassment. ”Aria always did have a talent for... imposition.”

”She has my arm,” Grandfather Sinclair corrected irritably, trying to shake Aria off. ”Like a leech. And she is currently cutting off my circulation.”

Damien was getting closer. Aria could see him in her peripheral vision, moving like a shark through water, his eyes darting to every waiter, every guest, looking for threats she couldn’t see.

Grandfather Sinclair, finally realizing the connection, turned back to Lydia.

”Are you the mother?” he asked, gesturing vaguely at Aria. ”Because if you are, you have a lot to answer for. This girl has no concept of dignity.”

Lydia laughed. It was a mocking, ugly sound.

”Heaven’s no,” Lydia said, placing a hand on her chest. ”I am her stepmother. I tried my best, Mr. Sinclair, but you know how it is. Bad blood is hard to bleed out.”

Aria bit her tongue to keep herself from clapping back. She was curious to see exactly what Lydia was up to. Why come to the gala? Why try to curry favor with Grandfather Sinclair?

”Bad blood?” Grandfather huffed. ”She certainly wasn’t raised properly. Running around in pajamas. And the blatant disrespect for her seniors. Someone should have taught her better.”

”I agree,” Lydia sighed, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. ”But her mother was... difficult. A neglectful parent, really. Always running away. Always hiding. Poor Aria never stood a chance with a woman like that raising her. It’s no wonder she turned out so... unstable.”

The air in the immediate vicinity seemed to evaporate.

Aria released Grandfather Sinclair’s arm.

Smack.

The sound cracked through the ballroom like a whip.

The jazz band stopped playing. The chatter died. Every head in the room turned.

Lydia stumbled back, clutching her cheek. A bright red handprint was already blooming on her pale skin. She stared at Aria in shock, her mouth open.

Grandfather Sinclair looked shocked as well. He stepped back, putting distance between himself and the violence.

Aria stepped forward, invading Lydia’s space until they were toe-to-toe. Her face was calm—terrifyingly calm. Her emerald eyes were dry.

”You want to talk about bad blood, Lydia?” Aria asked, her voice low but carrying in the sudden silence.

She looked at the woman who she was certain had poisoned her mother, stole her life, and tried to gaslight the world.

”A glorified whore who abandoned her own daughter to save face is not qualified to comment on anyone else’s parenting skills.”