After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 68: Black Card of Mass Humiliation

The Sinclair Penthouse was quiet, save for the rhythmic click-clack of Zoe Chen typing on her laptop and the soft hum of the air conditioning.

Damien had left an hour ago for a meeting at the office, leaving the two women alone with a bottle of champagne.

Aria sat on the velvet ottoman in the living room, wearing a silk robe and focusing intently on her right foot. She was painting her toenails a shade of deep, oxblood red.

"Okay, listen to this one," Zoe said, kicking her feet up onto the coffee table. "Vogue Paris just ran a piece titled ’The Anatomy of Possession: Why Aria Sinclair’s Neck is the Hottest Real Estate in Fashion.’ They’re calling it ’subversive’."

Aria blew on her wet polish. "Subversive? It was a hickey, Zoe."

"It wasn’t just a hickey," Zoe corrected, spinning her laptop around to show a graph. "Celestia’s stock is up 12% overnight."

Zoe leaned forward, her expression shifting from PR shark to best friend.

"But seriously. The photos? That wasn’t acting."

Aria paused, the brush hovering over her pinky toe. She capped the polish and set it down.

"It wasn’t acting," she admitted softly.

"So..." Zoe wiggled her eyebrows. "The ’Business Partnership’ has merged assets?"

"Zoe."

"I’m just asking! You told me this was a contract. You scratch his back, he destroys your ex-fiancé. But the way he looks at you? That man isn’t looking at a business partner."

Aria looked out the window. "He’s... complicated. He has demons, Zoe. Real ones. Not just the corporate kind."

"And you’re the exorcist?"

"Something like that." Aria touched the faint, tender spot on her neck where the bruise was hidden by her collar. "He protects me. And I..."

"You’re down bad," Zoe diagnosed, grabbing a strawberry from the fruit platter. "It’s okay. He’s hot. He’s rich. And he hates all your enemies. That’s the holy trinity of husband material."

Aria laughed, sipping her champagne. "He also has a family."

"Don’t we all."

"No, Zoe. You don’t understand." Aria’s smile faded. "Their butler came by this morning. The ’Sinclair Elders’ have summoned us. Mandatory attendance. This weekend."

Zoe choked on her strawberry. "The Elders? You mean the dusty old vampires who live in that gothic castle upstate? The ones who haven’t been seen in public since the 90s?"

"The very same," Aria said grimly. "They threatened to revoke the ground lease on Sinclair Tower if we don’t show up. They want to ’inspect’ me."

"Inspect you? Like a horse?"

"Literally," Aria responded. "They hate everything born after the year 2000. They hate actresses. And they definitely hate that Damien married one without their permission."

Zoe set her glass down, her eyes narrowing. "So, we’re going to war."

"We are going to war," Aria agreed.

She stood up, carefully walking on her heels to protect the polish.

"His grandfather hates ’gaudy, modern’ fashion. He thinks women should look like upholstery. He specifically requested I cover up."

"Gross," Zoe wrinkled her nose.

"Exactly," Aria grinned, a dangerous light entering her eyes. "So, I plan to wear something so modern, so expensive, and so undeniably ’gaudy’ that he has a stroke before the soup course."

"We’re going shopping?" Zoe smirked.

"We’re going shopping," Aria responded.

———

The boutique district of the capital was a sanitized paradise of marble sidewalks and salespeople who judged your net worth by your shoes.

Aria and Zoe walked into Maison Du Ciel, the most exclusive couture house in the city. Aria was wearing oversized sunglasses and a trench coat, hiding her identity for the moment.

"We need modern," Aria told the sales associate, a woman with a severe bob cut who looked like she hadn’t smiled since the recession. "I want the runway collection. The pieces the critics called ’too much’."

"Right this way, Madame," the associate said. She didn’t need to see a card; Aria’s posture alone—the bored tilt of her head, the dismissive way she held her purse—screamed ’unlimited budget’.

They were browsing a rack of electric blue and hot pink dresses when a shrill, familiar voice cut through the air.

"I said I want the VIP room! Do you know who I am?"

Aria froze. She pulled down her sunglasses.

Across the store, standing near the accessories counter, was Bella. She was flanked by two of her "squad"—minor influencers who lived off her crumbs. Bella looked haggard. Her "Survival Star" tan was peeling, and she was trying to cover it with heavy foundation.

"I apologize, Miss Vale," the manager said smoothly, his tone polite but firm. "But the VIP room is currently reserved for a private client."

"I am Bella Vale!" Bella screeched. "I am the face of... well, I was the face of Celestia! I have three million followers!"

"And zero contracts," Zoe whispered to Aria, snickering.

Aria stepped out from behind the rack.

"Hello, Sister," she called out. "Shopping for a consolation prize?"

Bella spun around. Her eyes widened with hate. "Aria. I should have known. You follow me everywhere."

"I got here first," Aria said, walking over.

"You think you’re so special," Bella hissed, stepping close. "Just because you tricked Damien into marrying you. But wait until the Elders eat you alive. Lucas told me about the family gathering this weekend. His great-grandfather hates actresses. He’ll chew you up and spit you out."

"Sounds like you weren’t invited," Aria countered.

"You—!" Bella raised her hand, then dropped it, remembering the last time she tried to slap Aria. Instead, she grabbed a dress from the rack—a neon green feathered monstrosity that was exactly the kind of ’gaudy’ Aria had been looking for.

"I’m taking this," Bella announced to the manager, clutching the dress like a weapon. "Wrap it up. Put it on my account."

The manager looked uncomfortable. He tapped a few keys on his tablet. "Miss Vale... your account was... flagged. By the IRS."

Bella paled. "What?"

"Declined," the manager whispered, loud enough for the entire store to hear.

The silence in the store was delicious. Bella’s friends took a synchronized step away from her.

"That’s impossible!" Bella shouted, pulling out another card. "Try this one!"

"Declined."

"This one!"

"Declined."

Aria sighed. She walked up to the counter. She pulled out the Black Centurion Card Damien had given her. It hit the glass surface with a heavy, metallic thunk.

"I’ll take the dress," Aria said calmly. "And the shop."

"The... shop?" the manager blinked.

"Close the doors," Aria commanded. "I want a private session. My friend and I have a lot to try on. And I prefer not to shop with the insolvent."

She turned to Bella.

"You can leave now, Bella. Unless you want to apply for a job as a mannequin? You’re certainly stiff enough."

Bella stared at the black card—the symbol of unlimited, untouchable wealth. She looked at Aria, who was glowing with wealth and power.

She burst into tears and ran out of the store, her friends trailing behind her like confused ducklings.

Zoe raised her phone camera, snapping a photo of Bella’s retreating back.

"And... posted," Zoe grinned. "Caption: ’Card Declined. Dignity Declined.’ "

Aria smiled, turning back to the racks of neon and sequins.

"Now," she said. "Let’s find something that screams ’I am the future, old man, and you are just history’."