After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 31: Taming the Untamable

The Sinclair Ranch was not a farm. It was a kingdom of green rolling hills, dense pine forests, and white-fenced paddocks that stretched as far as the eye could see.

Aria stepped out of the helicopter—because of course Damien Sinclair didn’t drive three hours when he could fly in thirty minutes—and took a deep breath. The air here was cleaner, thinner. It smelled of sage and freedom.

"You own all of this?" Aria asked, shielding her eyes from the rotor wash as the helicopter powered down.

Damien walked around the nose of the chopper, wearing casual riding gear that somehow made him look even more imposing than his suits. A fitted black henley hugged his chest, and his riding boots were scuffed with the kind of wear that suggested he actually used them.

"I like space," Damien said, placing a hand on the small of her back to guide her toward the main lodge. "In the city, the noise bounces off the glass. Here, it dissipates."

"Is that why you brought me?" Aria asked. "To shout into the void?"

"I brought you because you looked bored destroying my nephew," Damien replied dryly. "And because I promised you a challenge."

They bypassed the massive timber-and-stone lodge and headed straight for the private stables. The structure was nicer than most people’s houses, with heated floors and mahogany stalls.

A stable master was waiting for them, looking nervous. He held the lead rope of a massive, pure white stallion. The horse was a monster of muscle and rage, rearing up and striking the air with its hooves. It was blindfolded.

"Sir," the stable master shouted over the horse’s snorts. "He’s in a mood today! I wouldn’t recommend riding him. He threw two trainers this morning."

Damien stopped, crossing his arms. He looked at the beast with a calm, appreciative gaze.

"Aria," Damien said. "Meet Ghost. He hates everyone."

Aria approached slowly. The horse sensed her and pinned his ears back, snapping his teeth. He was beautiful and terrifying—a creature of pure instinct.

"He’s in pain," Aria diagnosed instantly. She didn’t need to touch him; she could see the tension in his flanks, the way he favored his left side.

"He’s not injured," the stable master argued. " The vet checked him yesterday."

"Not physical pain," Aria corrected. "He’s anxious. His Qi is knotted in his liver meridian. He’s overstimulated."

She looked at Damien. "Take off the blindfold."

"Miss, that’s dangerous—" the stable master started.

"Do it," Damien commanded.

The stable master hesitated, then reached up and yanked the blindfold off.

Ghost screamed, his eyes rolling wild. He lunged forward.

Aria didn’t flinch. She stepped into the danger zone, raising her hand. But she didn’t strike him. She opened her palm, revealing a small sachet of dried herbs she had crushed in the helicopter—lavender, chamomile, and valerian root.

The scent hit the horse.

Ghost froze. His nostrils flared, inhaling the potent, calming aroma. The wild rolling of his eyes stopped. He lowered his head, sniffing Aria’s hand with a loud, wet snort.

Aria smiled, scratching him behind the ears. "See? He just needed a drink. Metaphorically."

She grabbed the saddle horn and swung herself up in one fluid motion. The horse danced beneath her, testing her weight, but he didn’t buck.

Aria gathered the reins, looking down at Damien. The sunlight caught her rose-gold hair, turning it into a halo.

"Well?" she challenged, a mischievous glint in her emerald eyes. "Are you coming, Mr. Sinclair? or are you afraid I’ll leave you in the dust?"

Damien stared up at her. The sight of her controlling the beast that no one else could touch did something visceral to him. It wasn’t just admiration. It was a deep, possessive hunger.

He signaled the stable master to bring his own horse—a massive black Friesian named Omen.

"Run if you want, Aria," Damien said, mounting his horse with practiced ease. "I enjoy the chase."

Meanwhile, in Paris.

The ballroom of the Hotel Ritz was a sea of diamonds and designer silk. A string quartet played softly in the corner, masking the sound of gossip.

Lydia Laurent—Mrs. Raymond Vale—stepped onto the balcony, closing the glass doors behind her to shut out the noise. She was a woman of timeless, icy beauty, wearing a silver gown that fit her like a second skin.

She lifted her phone to her ear.

"Stop crying, Bella," Lydia said, her voice low and pleasant, contrasting sharply with the venom in her words. "You sound like a dying seal. It’s unattractive."

"Mom!" Bella sobbed on the other end of the line. "You don’t understand! She humiliated me! She made me fall in the mud! And the internet... they’re calling me ’The Fallen Saintess’! Even Lucas is looking at me differently!"

Lydia took a sip of her champagne, looking out at the Eiffel Tower.

"Lucas is a boy," Lydia dismissed. "Boys are fickle. You lost his attention because you looked weak. Aria didn’t beat you because she’s smarter, Bella. She beat you because she stopped caring about being ’good’."

"She’s not Aria anymore," Bella whispered, sounding terrified. "Mom, she’s... she’s different. Her eyes... they’re cold. She knows things. She took all of her mother’s jewelry. She stripped the house."

Lydia’s hand tightened on the champagne flute. "She took the jewelry?"

"Everything. Even the sapphire choker you like."

Lydia’s expression didn’t change, but the glass in her hand shattered. Champagne and blood dripped onto the balcony floor.

She dropped the shards, not even wincing at the cut on her palm.

"She thinks she can take back her mother’s kingdom," Lydia murmured, staring at the blood. "How quaint."

"Mom? What do I do? Damien Sinclair is backing her! I can’t fight him!"

"You don’t fight a wolf, Bella. You lure it into a trap," Lydia said coldly. "Dry your eyes. Fix your makeup. I’m cutting my trip short."

"You’re coming home?"

"Yes," Lydia said. "It seems I left a weed in my garden. And weeds need to be pulled out by the root."

She hung up the phone. She looked at her bleeding hand, then brought it to her lips, licking the blood away.

"Aria," she whispered into the Paris night. "You really are your mother’s daughter. And we both know how her story ended."