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

Aria didn’t even turn on the lights when she entered the guest suite.

She dropped her bag onto the plush carpet. She didn’t look at the sprawling, imported canopy bed or the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the glittering Manhattan skyline.

She just kept walking until her bare feet hit the cold marble tiles of the en-suite bathroom.

Her hands were shaking as she hurriedly undressed. She stepped into the glass-enclosed rainfall shower and blindly smacked the chrome lever all the way to the hottest setting.

The water crashed down on her instantly.

It was scalding. It hit her skin like liquid fire, turning her shoulders a violent, stinging shade of pink, but Aria couldn’t feel the burn. She stood perfectly still under the torrential spray, watching the water swirl down the stainless-steel drain.

Aria’s knees buckled.

She slid down the slick marble wall, her back scraping against the tile until she hit the floor. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms tightly around her shins, and buried her face in her wet arms.

A choked, ragged sob tore its way up her throat, echoing loudly in the steam-filled enclosure.

It was too much. It was all simply too much.

For the past few months, Aria’s mission had been so clear. It had been simple: get revenge on Lydia for murdering her innocent mother.

But sitting under the scalding water, her entire reality was fracturing into a million jagged, unrecognizable pieces.

Geneviève Orpheus.

Aria squeezed her eyes shut, but the tears leaked out anyway, mixing seamlessly with the shower water.

She thought about the five years of hell she had endured in her past life. She remembered the suffocating stench of bleach in the asylum. She remembered the feeling of starvation gnawing at her stomach until she hallucinated. She remembered the brutal, freezing isolation of her cell, the bruises left by the orderlies, and the terrifying, hopeless moment when she had drawn her final breath.

She had endured all of that agony believing she was the tragic victim of a greedy, gold-digging stepmother.

But today, the Frenchman had rewritten the entire script.

Her mother wasn’t a tragic, victimized saint who had been murdered by her husband’s jealous mistress.

’Was that why I was brought back?’ Aria wondered, her chest heaving with silent sobs. ’Did the universe resurrect me just so I could find out that my entire existence is the collateral damage of a cartel long-con?’

A bitter laugh bubbled up in her throat, catching on a sob.

A part of her genuinely wished she had never gone digging. Ignorance was bliss. It was so much easier when the world was black and white—when her mother was the hero, and Lydia was the villain.

Aria wrapped her arms tighter around her legs, feeling incredibly small in the large bathroom.

She had no one to talk to about this. And the one person in the entire world she should have been able to talk to, the man who was supposed to be her safe place and her partner—had betrayed her trust.

She was alone.

Aria sat on the floor of the shower for a long time, letting the hot water beat down on her until it slowly began to run lukewarm, and then freezing cold.

The icy spray shocked her system, dragging her spiraling thoughts to a sudden, jarring halt.

Aria slowly lifted her head.

She stared at the wet marble wall in front of her. Her crying had stopped. The hollow, agonizing grief in her chest was slowly beginning to recede.

’Wait a minute,’ Aria thought, her brows pulling together into a deep frown.

She wiped the water from her eyes, her mind kicking back into gear.

Why was she taking the word of a French cartel member as gospel?

The Vipers hated Geneviève. Of course they were going to paint her mother as a manipulative, evil succubus who ruined their glorious leader.

But what if that was only half the truth?

What if the Vipers had altered the narrative to make themselves the victims? Geneviève Orpheus wouldn’t have just stolen a Key and fled across the Atlantic for no reason. Maybe she had truly wanted a normal life? Maybe she had wanted to protect her daughter?

’There has to be another side to this story,’ Aria realized, a newfound surge of determination pushing the exhaustion out of her muscles. ’My mother’s side. What exactly does this key open? And why was it worth doing all that she did?’

Aria shut the shower faucet off.

She stepped out of the glass enclosure, grabbing a thick, plush white towel from the heated rack. She dried herself off with brisk movements.

Aria marched into the bedroom and unzipped her bag. She pulled out a pair of soft, loose-fitting grey sweatpants and a black hoodie.

She stood in front of the full-length mirror, staring at her own reflection. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, her wet rose-gold hair hanging in messy, dark ropes over her shoulders.

Geneviève was dead. Lydia likely would tell the same story the Vipers told, and not easily too.

There was only one living person on the entire planet who knew the truth about what happened in Paris. There was only one person who knew exactly who Marcel Martin used to be.

Raymond Vale.

Or rather...Marcel Martin himself.

If Aria was going to figure out what the key was, she needed to interrogate her father. She needed to help him remember. She needed to help him get his memories back before she loses him too.

Aria took a step toward the door, but then she froze.

Her hand hovered over the brass handle.

She didn’t know where Raymond was, only that he was in a safe house somewhere in the city.

Aria’s jaw clenched tight. She closed her eyes, letting out a long, deeply frustrated sigh into the empty room.

If she wanted to see her father, she had no other choice.

She was going to have to go downstairs and face...him.