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

The line rang once. Twice.

Diana frowned, pulling the phone slightly away from her ear to check the glowing screen.

It was late, but it wasn’t that late. Vittoria was an Italian millionaire; she operated on international time zones. Surely, she wasn’t already asleep?

On the third ring, the line finally clicked open.

”Pronto?”

Diana blinked, completely thrown off.

The voice on the other end of the line was a deep, gravelly baritone wrapped in a thick, authentic Italian accent. It was undeniably male.

Diana held the phone back to her ear, maintaining a stunned silence. Why was a man answering Vittoria Rossi’s personal cell phone at this hour?

’A secretary,’ Diana quickly rationalized, rolling her eyes. ’Of course. Vittoria is exactly like my baby brother. She’s such a dedicated workaholic that she probably fell asleep at the office, and her assistant is handling her calls. They really are perfect for each other.’

”Pronto? C’è nessuno?” the man repeated, sounding slightly impatient. (Hello? Is anyone there?)

Diana cleared her throat, shifting her posture to project her most authoritative, old-money aristocratic tone.

”Can you hear me clearly now?” Diana asked crisply.

”Yes,” the man replied, a hint of amusement entering his voice.

”My apologies, the signal must be poor on my end,” Diana lied smoothly. ”I am currently in commute. May I please speak with Ms. Rossi?”

”No,” the man responded bluntly. ”She is already asleep. Can I take a message?”

Diana thought she was right. Vittoria was asleep at her desk.

”Yes, you may,” Diana responded. ”Tell her to give me a call first thing in the morning. Let her know it is Diana. Diana Sinclair.”

There was a brief pause on the line.

”Sinclair?” the man asked. The casual boredom in his voice instantly sharpened. ”Are you related to Damien Sinclair?”

”Yes,” Diana beamed proudly, adjusting her cashmere shawl. She loved the effect her family name had on people. ”He is my younger brother.”

She fully expected the man to immediately start gushing over Damien.

Instead, the man’s voice spiked with excitement.

”Wait, wait, wait,” the Italian man interrupted her. ”You’re his sister?! Tell me, was the wife actually faking it? That audio leak? Is it AI? It sounds real, but the timing is unbelievable.”

Diana’s proud smile instantly fell.

Her perfectly arched eyebrows knitted together in revulsion.

What on earth was this man talking about?

Diana’s entire digital footprint consisted of a private, highly curated Facebook account that she used exclusively to judge the floral arrangements of rival charity galas and post blurry photos of wine glasses.

All she knew was that hearing Aria’s name brought a hot, acidic taste of bile to the back of her throat.

”Okay. Please let Ms. Rossi know I called,” Diana snapped, her tone dropping to absolute zero. ”Good night.”

”Wait—”

Diana hit the red End Call button.

”Unbelievable,” Diana muttered, tossing her phone into her Prada bag in disgust. ”The professionalism of staff these days is entirely nonexistent. Gossip-obsessed idiots.”

She crossed her arms, fuming for the rest of the agonizingly slow commute.

Eventually, the SUV pulled into the private, subterranean garage of Sinclair Tower.

The two operatives stepped out. One remained by the vehicle, while the other effortlessly and respectfully lifted her out of the SUV.

The operative escorted her all the way up to the penthouse. He navigated the dark, quiet living room with practiced ease, bringing her directly into the sprawling master guest suite. He even helped her maneuver into the en-suite bathroom to freshen up, keeping his gaze respectfully glued to the ceiling tiles, before finally assisting her into the plush, king-sized bed.

Diana absolutely hated it. She hated the indignity of being manhandled. She hated feeling weak. But she had to admit he was flawlessly professional. He didn’t make eye contact, he didn’t speak unless spoken to, and his hands were strictly business.

”Will that be all, Ms. Sinclair?” the operative rumbled, standing at attention by the open door.

”Yes. Leave,” Diana dismissed him with a flick of her wrist.

Once the door clicked shut, Diana finally let out a long, exhausted sigh. She leaned back against the mountain of silk pillows.

She was dressed in a delicate, ivory silk nightgown with French lace detailing. Resting on her lap was the squashed, ribbon-tied bakery box.

Diana opened the box. The coconut chiffon cake was completely smashed into the side of the cardboard from when Damien had violently slammed on the brakes.

She didn’t care.

She grabbed a silver fork from the guest suite’s mini-kitchenette, poured herself a generous glass of vintage Bordeaux from the room’s private stock, and aggressively dug into the ruined cake.

As the sweet, toasted coconut and rich buttercream hit her tongue, her sour mood slowly began to lift.

”Three weeks,” Diana murmured to the empty room, taking a sip of wine. ”I have three weeks in this house.”

She reached over to the nightstand, grabbing her sleek, silver MacBook. She flipped it open, the screen illuminating her face in the dark room, and perched her designer reading glasses delicately on the bridge of her nose.

If she was going to be living under the same roof as Aria, she needed an ally. And according to Elias, she needed a full-time, live-in caretaker to help her walk.

Diana opened her browser and navigated to an ultra-exclusive, invite-only domestic staffing portal. It was a highly secure site utilized strictly by the one percent—billionaires, royalty, and old-money dynasties looking to hire discreet, elite talent.

Her acrylic nails began to click-clack rapidly against the keys as she drafted the job listing.

It was an absurdly pretentious, highly demanding ad. She required impeccable medical credentials, a background in elite physical therapy, absolute discretion, and a willingness to be on-call 24/7. But she also listed the astronomical salary, the platinum benefits, and the location: The Sinclair Penthouse, Manhattan.

She hit ’Post’.

She didn’t even have time to take another bite of her smashed cake before the notifications started rolling in.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

The response was instantaneous and overwhelming. People with literal Ph.D.s, specialized trauma doctors, and elite celebrity nurses were flooding her inbox.

Diana smirked, scrolling through the desperate applicants. She wasn’t an idiot. She knew exactly why a doctor of physical therapy from Johns Hopkins was applying to be a glorified babysitter. They all wanted proximity to Damien Sinclair. They wanted access to the Demon King.

She clicked on the very first application that had popped up.

The applicant’s name sat in bold, crisp letters at the top of the screen: Ms. Elena Sterling.

Diana paused. She lowered her wine glass, the fork hovering halfway to her mouth.

’Elena Sterling.’

Diana stared at the name. A faint, ghostly whisper of recognition brushed against the back of her brain. The name sounded incredibly familiar. Had she met an Elena Sterling at a charity gala? Was it a high-end fashion designer? An old acquaintance from boarding school?

Diana narrowed her eyes, squinting at the screen, trying desperately to place it.

Ping. Ping. Ping.

Three more applications popped up in rapid succession, bumping Ms. Sterling’s profile further down the screen. One was from a former Royal Navy medic, and another was a highly-rated concierge doctor from Beverly Hills.

The fleeting sense of familiarity vanished instantly, completely swallowed by the overwhelming, addictive rush of having absolute power over these highly educated professionals.

”So many desperate little climbers,” Diana chuckled darkly, taking a large bite of her cake.

She took a sip of her Bordeaux, her eyes glinting with a vicious, petty excitement in the glow of the laptop screen.

She was going to interview them all. She was going to hire the most loyal, ruthless nurse she could find. And together, they were going to ensure that Aria’s next three weeks in this penthouse were an absolute, waking nightmare.