After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 180: Paparazzi Arts and Crafts Hour

Bella stared at the clear plastic bin sitting on the folding table, clutching her phone as if Zoe had just asked her to surrender a kidney.

"I can’t just stop broadcasting," Bella argued, her voice dripping with offended entitlement. "My fans are literally praying for her in the chat right now! I’m providing a public service!"

"Phone in the bin, Bella. Or turn around and walk out the front doors," Zoe threatened, her expression flatter than a paved road. "I have all day."

Bella’s eyes narrowed into a venomous glare. She looked at the six heavily armed mercenaries standing behind the table, realizing very quickly that her usual temper tantrums were not going to work on men who looked like they enjoyed breaking legs for entertainment.

With a dramatic, put-upon sigh, Bella aimed the camera at her face one last time.

"I have to go, guys," Bella sniffled, squeezing out a single, Oscar-worthy tear. "Security is being... very restrictive. But I love you all. Keep Aria in your thoughts."

She ended the live stream, locked the phone, and dropped it into the plastic bin with a loud, aggressive clatter.

"There," Bella snapped. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Zoe smiled thinly.

She turned her attention to the small pack of paparazzi, who were already loudly grumbling and clutching their heavy DSLR cameras protectively against their chests.

"This is a violation of the First Amendment!" a burly photographer with a neck tattoo shouted, pointing a finger at Zoe. "We have a right to document this! The public needs to know what’s going on!"

"The public doesn’t need high-definition photos of a woman on life support," Zoe shot back seamlessly.

She reached under the folding table and pulled out a stack of yellow legal pads and a handful of sharpened No. 2 pencils. She began slapping them onto the table in front of the furious press pool.

"Here," Zoe announced, gesturing to the stationary. "This is where your true journalistic skills will finally shine."

A camerawoman stared at the yellow paper, absolutely baffled. "What the hell is this? Are we supposed to sketch the photos?"

"I’m sure you’ll do a fantastic job with the shading," Zoe deadpanned. "Feel free to draw some extra tears on Bella’s face. It’ll save her the effort of squeezing them out."

Bella gasped in outrage, but Zoe ignored her.

The paparazzi erupted into a chorus of furious complaints. Zoe watched them throw their little fits as she contemplated. If she restricted them entirely, they would go back to their newsrooms and write vicious, speculative hit pieces about Damien Sinclair silencing the truth. She needed them placated. Just a little bit.

"Alright, listen to me!" Zoe shouted over the noise, holding up a hand. "I am a reasonable woman. I understand you need your exclusive. So here is the compromise."

The shouting died down to a resentful murmur.

"I will take the photos and videos," Zoe stated, tapping her own chest. "I will capture the cast paying their respects. And the second we are done upstairs, I will AirDrop the media file directly to your devices before you leave the lobby. You get your scoop, and I get to ensure none of you ’accidentally’ trip over a ventilator cord. Deal?"

The paparazzi exchanged reluctant glances. The conspiracies surrounding Aria Sinclair was currently the biggest pop-culture phenomenon on the planet. They couldn’t walk away empty-handed.

"Fine," the neck-tattoo guy grumbled, gently placing his ten-thousand-dollar camera into a plastic bin. "But the lighting better be good."

"It’s a hospital, not a Vogue cover shoot," Zoe rolled her eyes.

She stepped back as the mercenaries went to work. It was a rigorous, highly intrusive TSA-style checkpoint.

Director Spielberg grunted loudly as a guard commanded him to remove his belt and his loafers.

"Are we visiting the President of the United States?" the Director complained, holding his pants up with one hand while a guard ran a metal detector wand down his inseam. "This is ridiculous! I have a pacemaker!"

While they fussed and complained about the inconvenience, Zoe’s gaze drifted to the back of the group.

Leo and Coco stood together, completely silent. Leo was picking at his cuticles, his bucket hat pulled low over his eyes, looking genuinely sick to his stomach. Coco, usually a vibrant explosion of color and sass, was pale and uncharacteristically quiet, clutching a small, tasteful bouquet of white roses.

They were terrified for Aria. They were the only humans in the group with an actual pulse.

"Clear," the lead guard rumbled, stepping away from the line.

"Follow me," Zoe instructed.

She led the group into the massive VIP elevator. It was a tight squeeze. They and two giant security contractors crammed into the mirrored box.

The doors slid shut. The elevator began its smooth, rapid ascent to the top floor.

The air inside the cabin was incredibly tense. Lucas was sweating. He kept tugging at the collar of his black turtleneck, his eyes darting nervously toward the floor indicator display above the doors.

He leaned slightly toward Zoe, lowering his voice to a frantic, dry whisper.

"Hey," Lucas stammered. "Is... is my uncle up there right now?"

Zoe looked at Lucas with thinly veiled, absolute disgust.

"No," Zoe replied coldly.

Lucas literally deflated. The rigid tension in his shoulders collapsed, and he let out a loud, pathetic breath of pure relief, reaching up to wipe a bead of sweat from his forehead.

"Oh, thank god," Lucas muttered under his breath.

Standing right next to him, Bella watched the entire exchange through the reflection in the elevator mirror.

She looked at Lucas. She looked at how visibly, embarrassingly terrified he was of his own uncle. It was pathetic.

And then, Bella’s mind drifted to Damien Sinclair.

A dark, incredibly twisted realization bloomed in Bella’s chest.

’I latched onto the wrong Sinclair,’ she realized.

Lucas was the discount version. A placeholder. Damien was the King.

And right now, the King was dealing with a wife who was essentially a vegetable. He was vulnerable. He was grieving. What if he just needed a soft, understanding, healthy woman to comfort him during this tragic transition period?

Aria had tortured her so much these past few weeks. It was only fair that Bella leveled up and stole her husband in return.

’If she’s really brain-dead,’ Bella thought, her eyes glittering as she watched the elevator numbers climb, ’someone is going to have to take care of him.’

Ding.

The elevator slowed to a smooth halt.

The heavy steel doors slid open, revealing the pristine, heavily guarded VIP wing. Six more mercenaries stood at attention in the hallway, their hands resting near their holsters.

A triage nurse stood behind a small podium, holding a stack of laminated lanyards.

"Welcome to the VIP Intensive Care Wing," the nurse said, her voice hushed and professional as she handed out the visitor passes. "Please wait in the lobby area just ahead. Doctor Thorne will be out shortly to brief you all on Mrs. Sinclair’s... condition."

Bella adjusted her designer dress, pasting her tragic, sympathetic frown perfectly back into place.

She was ready for her close-up.