After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 94: Grandpa’s Favorite Granddaughter

Aria walked toward the library, the heavy midnight blue velvet of Diana’s stolen gown swishing silently against the marble floor.

She felt good. Dangerous. The dress fit her better than it had ever fit Diana—mostly because Aria had the spine to carry the weight of it. She caught her reflection in a massive gilt mirror hanging in the corridor. The dark fabric made her skin look luminous, and the vintage cut gave her an air of untouchable, old-world authority.

She stopped. It was too good not to document.

She reached for her clutch, intending to grab her phone, but her fingers met empty silk.

"Damn," she muttered.

She had left both her personal phone and the secure line charging on the nightstand back in the East Wing.

She sighed at her reflection. It was a shame. She even had the perfect caption ready: "Something borrowed, something blue. #VintageDior #FindersKeepers"

Diana would just have to see it in person to scream.

She reached for the brass handle of the library door, intending to retrieve her husband, but the door opened before she could touch it.

Grandfather Sinclair stepped out. He looked annoyed, adjusting his cufflinks as if he had just touched something unsavory.

Aria peered past him into the room. It was empty.

"Where is Damien?" she asked, not bothering with a greeting.

"Gone," Grandfather Sinclair grunted. "He has no patience for legacy. He said he was going to find you."

Aria frowned. ’He wouldn’t know where I was,’ she realized. ’I was busy raiding Diana’s closet. He must have assumed I went straight to the ballroom’

"I suppose I’ll meet him there, then," Aria said, turning to leave.

"Wait."

Grandfather Sinclair stopped her. He blinked, his watery eyes narrowing behind his spectacles as he finally really looked at her. He didn’t recognize the dress—Diana had likely buried it in the back of her closet twenty years ago—but he recognized the silhouette.

Conservative. Dark. Expensive.

"Finally," the old man grunted, leaning on his cane. "You look... proper. Acceptable. It seems you are capable of learning, after all."

"I aim to please, Grandpa," Aria said, giving him a small, shark-like smile. "I figured the neon was a bit much for a Sunday."

"It was an eyesore," he corrected. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a slim, cream-colored envelope. He held it out to her.

"Take it."

Aria looked at the envelope. She didn’t take it. "Is it a birthday card? You missed it by a few months."

"It is a check," Grandfather Sinclair said, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial rasp. "For fifty million dollars. Cashier’s check. Untraceable."

Aria raised an eyebrow. "That’s a very generous wedding gift."

"It is a severance package," he snapped. "Take the money. Leave this house. Leave my grandson. Go back to whatever gutter you crawled out of and live like a queen. Fifty million is more than you will ever see in your lifetime."

Aria laughed. It was a light, airy sound that bounced off the high ceilings.

"Oh, Grandpa," she sighed, stepping closer and patting his arm. "You really are funny. Fifty million? That barely covers my shoe budget for the quarter."

She gently pushed the envelope back toward his chest.

"Besides, I can’t leave Damien. He’s obsessed with me and I’m obsessed with him. If I walked out that door, he’d just burn down the city until he found me again. And think of the paperwork involved in a divorce. We didn’t sign a prenup."

Grandfather’s face reddened. "You are arrogant."

"I’m comfortable," she corrected.

She hooked her arm through his.

"Now, since we’re both dressed and ready, why don’t you escort me to the ballroom? It wouldn’t look right for the Matriarch to walk in alone."

"I will do no such thing!" he sputtered, trying to pull his arm away. "I am not escorting you—"

"You are," Aria whispered, leaning in close. Her voice dropped the sweet facade, turning razor-sharp. "Because we both know that I have a very big mouth, Grandpa. And the IRS has a very active tip line."

Grandfather froze. The fight drained out of him instantly.

"You wouldn’t," he wheezed.

"Try me," Aria smiled, patting his hand resting on his cane. "It would be best for you to stay on my good side. After all, who knows what other deep-rooted family secrets I know?"

She wasn’t referring to anything specific—she was bluffing—but the terror in his eyes told her she had hit a nerve. The Sinclairs had closets full of skeletons, and he was terrified she had the keys to all of them.

"Fine," he hissed.

"Excellent." Aria began to walk, dragging the reluctant patriarch along with her. "And don’t look so sour. You’re going to love what I’ve done with the place."

"What you’ve done?"

"I took your advice," Aria said brightly as they neared the ballroom doors, where the sound of a jazz saxophone was drifting out. "You said the family needed tradition, but the guests needed... vitality. So I fixed the menu. And the music. Maybe the women really should start making the decisions around here. You men seem to get so bogged down in the boring details."

She squeezed his arm.

"Smile, Grandpa. We’re making an entrance."

The footmen threw open the doors. Aria swept into the ballroom with the head of the Sinclair family on her arm, looking every inch the queen who had just conquered the kingdom.

Meanwhile, in the East Wing.

The door to Damien’s bedroom was locked, the room inside was silent. The bed was made—freshly replaced by the efficient staff.

On the nightstand, next to a crystal carafe of water, sat a sleek, matte black smartphone.

It was the encrypted device Damien had given her, designed to look like a standard flagship model but built with military-grade security. Next to it lay her personal phone, screen dark.

The secure phone lit up in the darkness, the vibration buzzing angrily against the wood.

Incoming Call: The Wallet. Missed Calls: 24

The screen flashed again.

New Message from The Wallet: Where are you? Pick up the phone, Aria. Don’t go downstairs.

The screen went dark, the warning unread in the silence.