Chapter 294
Aria’s POV
A hand touched my shoulder. Devon had somehow gotten past the bailiff, had made his way to my side despite the chaos. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, solid and real, a reminder that not everything in my life was burning down.
"Your Honor," Ms. Reeves said into the shocked silence, "I believe we have more than enough for the jury to reach a verdict."
The judge nodded grimly. "Indeed. This court is in recess until tomorrow morning, at which point closing arguments will be heard." He looked at my father and Victoria with something like disgust. "Take them both back into custody. And someone get me the court transcripts—I suspect the defense just made our case for us."
As the bailiffs moved to escort my father and Victoria out, they passed within inches of me. My father's eyes found mine—red-rimmed, desperate, still trying to play the victim even now.
"Aria," he said, his voice cracking. "Please. Tell them I didn't—that I was manipulated—"
"You killed my mother," I said softly. Calmly. "And you don't get to ask for my help. Not now. Not ever."
His face crumpled. Victoria, overhearing, turned to spit one last venomous comment: "You think you've won? You think destroying your own family makes you some kind of hero? You're just like your mother—cold and judgmental and so convinced of your own righteousness that you can't see—"
Devon stepped forward, his presence enough to cut her off mid-sentence. He didn't touch her. Didn't threaten. Just looked at her with the kind of cold fury that had built empires and destroyed rivals.
"Keep talking," he said quietly. "Please. Give me an excuse."
Victoria's mouth snapped shut. The bailiffs pulled them apart, leading them toward separate holding cells, and I watched them go with a curious numbness.
I'd thought this moment would feel triumphant. Instead, I just felt... tired.
"Come on," Devon said gently, his hand at the small of my back. "Let's get you out of here."
He guided me through the mob of reporters, his security team materializing to form a protective corridor. I heard questions being shouted—"How do you feel?" "Do you think they'll both be convicted?" "What would you say to your father?"—but Devon's broad shoulders blocked most of it out.
We made it to the car. I collapsed into the back seat, suddenly dizzy, the adrenaline of the past two hours crashing through my system all at once.
"Easy," Devon murmured, one hand cradling the back of my head as I leaned forward, trying to breathe. "You're okay. Just breathe."
"I think I'm going to be sick—"
He had a bag ready—of course he did—and held my hair back as I dry-heaved into it, my body purging everything it couldn't process emotionally. The stress. The horror. The toxic cocktail of satisfaction and revulsion at watching my father and Victoria destroy each other in open court.
When I could finally sit up again, Devon produced a bottle of water from somewhere and a cool cloth. He wiped my face with a gentleness that shouldn't be possible from a man with so much blood on his hands.
"Better?" he asked.
"Not really." I took a shaky sip of water. "Devon... did I do the right thing?"
"What do you mean?"
"Turning them in. Letting it get this far. Watching them..." I gestured helplessly back toward the courthouse. "Tear each other apart like that. Is that justice? Or is that just... revenge?"
Devon was quiet for a long moment. The car pulled away from the curb, heading toward home, and he stared out the window at the passing city.
"I think," he said finally, "that justice and revenge aren't as different as people want to believe. They both require someone to pay. They both demand consequences. The only real difference is whether the punishment is sanctioned by law or carried out in darker ways." He turned to look at me. "Your mother deserved better than to die slowly, in agony, betrayed by the people who should have protected her. If watching your father and stepmother face consequences for that gives you closure, then yes. It's justice."
"And if it doesn't?"
His jaw tightened. "Then we'll find another way to give you peace. But Aria..." He took my hand, threading our fingers together. "Them destroying each other? That's not on you. You didn't make your father marry his mistress. You didn't force Victoria to poison anyone. You just refused to let them get away with murder. If they can't handle the consequences of their own choices, that's not your burden to carry."
I leaned my head against his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. "I want to go home."
"Yeah," he said, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. "Me too."
---
The verdict came down two days later: guilty on all counts for both William Harper and Victoria Ross Harper. First-degree murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and a litany of related charges that would keep them both behind bars for the rest of their natural lives.
I wasn't there to hear it. I couldn't face another day in that courtroom, watching my father's empire crumble while cameras documented every moment. Devon attended on my behalf, sitting in the second row with his phone on silent, ready to call me the moment the jury returned.
When it finally happened, I was in the nursery. Sitting in that rocking chair by the window, one hand resting on my still-flat stomach, talking to the baby who couldn't possibly hear me yet but who I needed to talk to anyway.
"Your grandfather is a murderer," I said quietly, watching dust motes drift through the afternoon sunlight. "And your step-grandmother helped him do it. And your half-aunt—if we're being technical about family trees—is going to prison for trafficking and obstruction of justice." I paused, feeling the weight of that legacy. "You're going to grow up with this story following you. Harper heir, Kane descendant, born from scandal and wrapped in tragedy."
My phone buzzed. Devon's name flashed on the screen.
"Guilty. Both of them. Life without parole."
I stared at the words until they blurred. This was it. Justice. Closure. Everything I'd fought for since finding my mother's diary and realizing the truth.
So why did I feel so hollow?
Another text: "Coming home. Be there in 20."
I typed back: "Okay."
Then I put the phone down and went back to talking to my unborn child.
"But you know what? You're also going to grow up with a mother who fought like hell to protect the people she loved. And a father who..." I smiled despite everything. "A father who's an absolute mess but who's trying so fucking hard to be better than the man who raised him. And that counts for something, doesn't it? That we're trying?"