After Rebirth, I Became My Ex's Aunt-in-Law-Chapter 230: The Devil Wears Cashmere

The grand lobby of Sinclair Tower had been transformed into a brutal reality TV elimination room.

The glass revolving doors had been locked down. Only women whose names appeared on an ultra-exclusive digital list were allowed through the secondary security checkpoint.

Ken stood near the metal detectors, looking like his soul had vacated his body. His eyes were dead, hollow voids as he waved a TSA-style security wand over a woman with a PhD in neurobiology, checking her for concealed weapons.

"Arms up, please," Ken muttered, his voice devoid of all human joy. "No sudden movements."

Fifty feet away, seated like an empress on a plush, emerald-green velvet sofa, was Diana Sinclair.

She was draped in a tailored cream pantsuit, her legs crossed elegantly. A pair of chic, oversized Celine sunglasses shielded her eyes, perfectly hiding her judgmental eye-rolls. In one hand, she held a crystal glass of sparkling water with a twist of lime; in the other, she held the fates of dozens of highly educated, utterly desperate women.

She was absolutely basking in the power. It was intoxicating. Watching women with Ivy League doctorates grovel on the Italian marble for proximity to her brother was her favorite sport.

"Next," Diana commanded, taking a delicate sip of her sparkling water.

A woman in a sharp red dress scurried over, taking a seat in the single, uncomfortable chair positioned directly across from the sofa. She nervously pushed a sleek, matte-black shopping bag across the glass coffee table.

"Ms. Sinclair," the woman greeted breathlessly. "It is an absolute honor. I brought you a small token of my appreciation. It’s the new seasonal Chanel flap bag. I know how much you appreciate fine craftsmanship."

Diana didn’t even lean forward. She just peered at the bag from behind her dark lenses.

"How thoughtful," Diana purred. She snapped her fingers. An operative immediately stepped forward, swiping the Chanel bag off the table.

The woman beamed, thinking she had just secured the bag—literally and figuratively.

"Thank you for the tribute," Diana said smoothly, adjusting her sunglasses. "Consider it a tax for wasting my time. You’re dismissed."

The woman’s smile shattered. "W-What? But my resume—"

"Your resume is as cheap as your bribery tactics," Diana sneered, waving a manicured hand. "Remove her."

Two massive men in black suits stepped forward, gripping the woman by her elbows and dragging her out of the lobby as she shrieked in protest.

"Next!" Diana called out, unfazed.

A young, highly intense woman took the hot seat. She didn’t offer a gift. She leaned forward, her eyes burning with manic intensity.

"I am the perfect candidate for Mr. Sinclair," the woman blurted out instantly. "I know everything about him. His net worth is currently fluctuating around 42.6 billion, adjusted for the Tokyo merger last week. He prefers his coffee black, single origin. He works out at 5:00 AM, and his resting heart rate is—"

"Security," Diana interrupted, holding her hand up like a stop sign.

"Wait! I have an Excel spreadsheet of his daily caloric intake!"

"You are a terrifying stalker and a liability to my family’s security," Diana said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Eliminated. Throw her out the back door."

The woman was hauled away, screaming Damien’s Forbes stats into the echoing lobby.

Diana sighed, signaling to a passing waiter to refill her sparkling water. She was getting bored.

"Ken!" Diana shouted across the lobby. "These candidates are pathetic! Is this the best the one percent has to offer?!"

Before Ken could answer, a commotion erupted near the front revolving doors.

"LET ME GO! I AM CARRYING HIS SPIRITUAL CHILD!"

A disheveled woman, wearing a wedding veil over a graphic tee, burst through the barricade, dodging an operative. She sprinted toward the velvet sofa, her eyes wild.

"Diana! Sister-in-law!" the crazy woman screamed at the top of her lungs, waving a crumpled piece of paper. "Tell them to back off! I am Damien’s real wife! Our souls were married on the astral plane during the last lunar eclipse! I must take care of you! It is my wifely duty!"

Diana stared at the woman, her jaw dropping slightly.

"Oh my god," Diana whispered, genuinely fascinated by the magnitude of the delusion. "You are completely insane."

Four operatives descended on the "secret wife" like a pack of wolves, tackling her to the ground. They picked her up by her arms and legs and carried her out of the building like a battering ram, her shrieks about lunar eclipses fading into the Manhattan traffic.

Diana let out a sharp, amused laugh. The desperation was top-tier entertainment.

"Alright, let’s thin the herd," Diana announced to the remaining twenty women waiting anxiously behind the velvet ropes.

Diana reached into her Prada bag and pulled out her iPad.

"This is the fainting test," Diana declared.

She unlocked the screen and held the iPad up, displaying a standard, high-definition paparazzi photo of Damien wearing a bespoke three-piece suit, stepping out of his Aston Martin.

A collective, breathy sigh rippled through the line of women. Several of them fanned their faces.

"Okay," Diana muttered.

She tapped the screen, swiping to the next image.

It was an unauthorized, highly illegal, never-before-seen photograph she had secretly snapped of Damien years ago. He was shirtless, emerging from the estate pool, water slicking down his eight-pack abs and the V-line disappearing into his low-slung swim trunks. He looked like a wet Greek god.

THUD.

A woman in the front row literally collapsed, her eyes rolling into the back of her head as she hit the floor.

THUD. THUD.

Two more women followed, their knees buckling under the sheer hotness of the JPEG.

Diana snapped her fingers at the operatives. "Clear the bodies."

The guards moved in. They grabbed the unconscious women by their ankles or arms and began dragging them across the floor toward the exit.

"Careful!" Diana shrieked, pointing her sparkling water at them. "You’re scuffing the Italian marble with their heels! Lift them higher!"

The herd was sufficiently thinned.

"Next," Diana sighed, slouching back into her velvet throne.

A young woman nervously approached the hot seat.

She was clutching a pristine, cream-colored resume file to her chest. She was dressed in a highly professional, incredibly modest, beige skirt suit that fell exactly to her knees. Her hair was pulled back into a sensible bob.

It was Jade Evans.

Jade sat down on the edge of the chair, her knees pressed tightly together. She looked terrified, her eyes darting to the operatives still dragging a fainted woman out by the doors.

"G-Good afternoon, Ms. Sinclair," Jade stammered, offering a shaky, polite smile. She held out her resume with both trembling hands. "My name is Jade Evans. I have extensive experience in—"

Diana didn’t take the resume.

She lowered her oversized Celine sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, fixing Jade with a cold, agonizingly slow, up-and-down visual sweep.

Diana slowly pushed her sunglasses back up.

She dramatically brought a hand up to her mouth, opening her jaw wide in an exaggerated, highly theatrical, completely fake yawn.

"Wow," Diana deadpanned, her voice dripping with unapologetic disdain. "Looking at you actually makes me want to go to sleep."

Jade froze, the polite smile shattering on her face. "E-Excuse me?"

"Boring," Diana stated flatly, waving her hand in a dismissive shooing motion. "Next."

"But my qualifications—" Jade tried to interject, her face flushing a deep, humiliated red.

"Next!" Diana shouted over her.

Jade swallowed hard, blinking back a sudden sting of tears. She quickly stood up, clutching her rejected resume to her chest, and scurried away toward the revolving doors.

Diana took another sip of her sparkling water, entirely unbothered by the trail of shattered egos she was leaving in her wake. She needed a cold-blooded woman to help her terrorize Aria, not a vanilla bean.