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

Thirty minutes later, The Rusty Anchor was no longer a dive bar. It was Aria Sinclair’s kingdom.

She was standing on top of a booth, swaying slightly in her heels, holding a bottle of Don Julio 1942 like the Statue of Liberty holding the torch.

”Listen up, peasants!” Aria shouted over the bass drop of a Megan Thee Stallion remix.

The room, packed with sweaty crew members and drunk actors, cheered.

”This round is on me!” Aria announced, gesturing wildly with the bottle. ”You know why? Because my husband is rich! Like, super insanely rich and handsome! And he’s so hot! And he’s got a big dick! Huge! He’s incredible in bed and he is going to rock my world tonight!”

She punctuated the statement with a violent, enthusiastic thrust of her hips that nearly sent her toppling off the leather seat.

The bartender began lining up shots as the crowd roared approval.

Aria slid down from the booth, stumbling slightly. She found Leo doing a TikTok live in the middle of the aisle and joined in, twerking against a barstool with a dedication that would have horrified the Sinclair Elders. Leo cheered, panning the camera to catch her bad angles.

She scanned the dance floor.

Zoe was there. And she wasn’t alone.

The tequila had done its job. Zoe Chen was currently locked in a heated embrace with Kai Vane. They weren’t just dancing; they were dry humping, Kai’s leg hooked firmly between hers, his mouth devouring hers.

Aria stumbled over, wedging herself between them.

”No!” she yelled, trying to pry them apart with her free hand. ”Bad idea! Red flag! Stop it!”

Kai just laughed, steering Zoe away from Aria’s grasp like she was a minor annoyance. Zoe didn’t even look at her; she was too busy trying to climb him like a tree.

”Fine!” Aria shouted after them, swaying as she gave up. ”But don’t come crying to me when he breaks your heart!”

She turned back to the bar, slapping her Black Centurion Card onto the sticky wood.

”Another round!” she told the bartender. ”For everyone! Even the lighting guys! They work hard!”

She took a shot. Then another. The room started to smear at the edges, the lights trailing like neon ribbons.

She turned back to the dance floor.

The spot where Zoe and Kai had been was empty.

Aria blinked. She squinted, swaying. ”Zoe?”

She spun in a slow circle. She saw Leo doing a keg stand. She saw the Director weeping into a basket of wings. But she didn’t see the silver slip dress or the electric blue hair.

”Traitors,” Aria slurred, patting her pockets for her phone. ”Abandoned. Ghosted. Left for a man. Typical.”

She needed the bathroom. Or fresh air. Or maybe a burger.

She stumbled away from the bar, navigating the crowd by bouncing off people like a pinball.

She bumped into a warm, solid body near the hallway to the restrooms.

”Whoa there, sweetheart,” a voice said. ”Steady on.”

Aria looked up. It wasn’t Damien. It wasn’t a friend.

It was a man in a wrinkled suit with a lanyard hanging around his neck. One of the producers—a guy whose name she couldn’t remember, but who always lingered a little too long near the dressing rooms. He smelled of stale cigarettes and mint gum.

”I’m fine,” Aria muttered, trying to step around him. ”Just... gravity. It’s strong tonight.”

”You look tired,” the producer cooed, his hand settling on her waist. It felt slimy. ”You’ve had a big week. Maybe you need some fresh air. My car is right outside.”

”I have a car,” Aria said, pushing his hand away. ”I have a big car. With guards. Big guards. Like... refrigerators in suits.”

”I don’t see any guards,” the producer chuckled darkly, looking around the chaotic, crowded pub. He moved closer, his body blocking her path, boxing her in against the wall. ”Come on, Aria. Let’s go discuss your... future career. I have a script in my backseat you’d be perfect for.”

He grabbed her arm. His grip wasn’t gentle. It was firm, guiding her forcefully toward the side exit.

”Let go, asshole,” Aria said, her voice slurring but her eyes flashing. ”I said no.”

”Don’t be difficult,” he hissed, his fingers digging into her bicep. ”You’re drunk. You need someone to take care of you.”

Aria planted her feet, ready to scream, ready to use the needles in her hair, even if the room was spinning.

But she didn’t have to.

A massive shadow detached itself from the wall near the door.

It was her driver. The bodyguard Damien assigned to her. He moved with a speed that defied his size.

One moment, the producer was dragging Aria. The next, a gloved hand the size of a dinner plate clamped onto the producer’s shoulder.

”She said let go,” the guard rumbled.

The producer turned, sneering. ”Back off, pal. This is private—”

CRACK.

The guard didn’t argue. He didn’t negotiate. He drove a fist into the producer’s stomach, folding the man in half like a lawn chair. As the producer gasped for air, the guard grabbed him by the back of his collar and threw him—physically threw him—through the open side door into the alleyway trash.

The guard turned to Aria. He straightened his suit jacket.

”Mrs. Sinclair,” he said, his voice calm, as if he hadn’t just assaulted a man. ”The car is ready.”

Aria blinked, swaying slightly. ”You... you hit him. That was cool.”

”He touched you,” the guard stated. ”Mr. Sinclair has standing orders regarding people who touch you.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek black phone. It wasn’t hers. It was his.

The screen was lit up. The call was active.

”It’s for you,” the guard said, holding it out. ”He wants to know why you aren’t answering your phone.”

Aria stared at the device. The name on the screen simply read: COMMAND.

She swallowed hard, the alcohol buzz sobering slightly into cold dread. She reached out with a trembling hand.

She took the phone.