Chapter 245
Aria's POV
After watching the police car drive away with my father inside, I stood frozen on the steps of the Harper mansion. My hands trembled. I had just turned in my own father for murder. The weight of that truth settled into my bones, making each breath difficult. The mansion behind me suddenly felt alien—no longer a home but a monument to decades of lies.
I needed to move, to act. The company would already be feeling the aftershocks. My fingers felt numb as I called for a car.
During the ride to Harper Group, I stared out the window but saw nothing. My mind raced between moments of cold certainty—he deserved this, justice for my mother—and waves of nauseating doubt. What had I done? Was this really what Mother would have wanted? The rational part of me knew the answer, but another part, the little girl who once adored her father, ached.
My heels clicked against the marble floor as I entered the Harper Group building. The security guard looked up, recognition flashing in his eyes before he quickly averted his gaze. His discomfort was palpable. The first of many reactions I would face today.
The moment I stepped into the elevator, my phone erupted with notifications. I flinched at the sudden noise. Breaking news alerts from TMZ, Page Six, and every major outlet dominated my screen: "HARPER MEDIA MOGUL ARRESTED FOR WIFE'S MURDER," "FAMILY CONSPIRACY UNCOVERED AT HARPER GROUP," "CEO WILLIAM HARPER FACES LIFE SENTENCE."
My stomach clenched. I leaned against the elevator wall, suddenly light-headed. I'd known this would happen, had prepared for it, but seeing the headlines—my private pain transformed into public entertainment—made me feel physically ill.
By the time I reached our floor, the office was in disarray. Employees clustered in corners, their voices creating an anxious hum that died immediately when I appeared. Eyes darted toward me, then away. Anna, my assistant, rushed toward me, her face drained of color, tablet clutched so tightly to her chest her knuckles were white.
"Ms. Harper, it's everywhere," she whispered, her voice cracking as she swiped through Instagram and Twitter feeds. "#HarperScandal and #MurderMogul are trending nationwide. Clients have been calling non-stop since 6 AM."
I swallowed hard, feeling the panic rise. Not here. Not now.
"Conference room. Ten minutes. Get everyone," I managed to say, my voice steadier than I expected.
Inside my office, I closed the door and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. My heart hammered against my ribs. Breathe in. Breathe out. I allowed myself exactly thirty seconds of naked fear—hands gripping my desk until my fingers hurt, eyes squeezed shut, breath shallow and quick—before forcing myself to stand straight. I smoothed my skirt with shaking hands, applied a fresh coat of lipstick without looking in the mirror. I couldn't fall apart. Not when everyone was watching.
The conference room fell silent when I entered. Thirty pairs of eyes tracked me as I walked to the head of the table, each gaze holding some mixture of curiosity, pity, and apprehension. I could feel sweat forming at the small of my back, but I kept my expression neutral, chin lifted.
"The news reports are accurate," I began, grateful that my voice didn't betray the churning in my stomach. "William Harper was arrested last night. But this is a family matter, not a company crisis. Our work and professional capabilities remain unchanged."
Sophia stepped forward, projecting analytics onto the screen. Her eyes kept darting to me, checking if I was okay. I gave her an almost imperceptible nod.
"The negative coverage shows a coordinated pattern," she explained, her voice taking on a professional tone that helped ground me. "These weren't organic stories—they broke simultaneously across six outlets, with identical information about Victoria's testimony."
"Calvin Reed's office just emailed," a designer interrupted, glancing at her phone with wide eyes. "They want to 'pause our collaboration pending further developments.'"
The room erupted in worried murmurs. Reed Group represented twenty percent of our revenue. I felt a cold trickle of dread down my spine. This was just the beginning.
My palm hit the table before I realized what I was doing. "Enough!"
The sharp sound startled even me, but it worked. When silence returned, I found my resolve hardening. This was business. I could handle business.
"This is what we're going to do," I said, outlining our strategy: client managers authorized to offer additional 15% discounts to retain key accounts, PR team to prepare an official statement distancing the company from family matters, and Anna to investigate the source of the media leaks.
"We are professionals," I concluded, looking each person in the eye. "Act accordingly."
Two hours later, Anna found me staring out my office window. I hadn't moved in twenty minutes, lost in thoughts of my mother, trying to imagine her reaction to all of this.
"Someone paid to make this happen," Anna reported, her voice low. "My contact at the Times says an anonymous source provided police photos and Victoria's testimony excerpts to six major outlets simultaneously. Even more concerning," she lowered her voice further, "someone paid a six-figure sum to ensure the story remains trending for 72 hours."
I turned from the Manhattan skyline, a chill running through me. "Who would do this? Who could do this?"
Was Scarlett retaliating for exposing the truth? A competitor seizing an opportunity? Or someone with deeper motives I couldn't yet see? The thought that someone was orchestrating this made me feel even more vulnerable.
My phone buzzed constantly with messages from the social circuit. Each notification made me wince—fake concerns thinly veiling excitement about fresh gossip. I scrolled past them, anger building with each disingenuous message, until Ryan's simple text appeared: Whatever you need, I'm here.
I pressed my lips together, fighting a sudden, unexpected urge to cry. His sincerity provided a moment's warmth in an otherwise cold day.
Then came the emails: three clients suspending contracts, including Reed Group's formal notification. I stared at the screen until the words blurred, my throat tightening as the financial implications registered. People's jobs were at stake—people who had nothing to do with my family's sins.
When Devon's name appeared on my screen, my heart skipped. I hesitated before answering, straightening in my chair as if he could see me.
"Need me to do anything?" His voice was low, measured.
I'd sworn to handle things independently. Pride told me to assure him I had everything under control. But the walls I'd built were cracking under today's pressure.
"Perhaps..." I started, hating how small my voice sounded. I cleared my throat. "Could you contact Calvin at Reed Group?" The admission of need left me feeling exposed, yet strangely relieved. I wasn't alone in this.
"I'll handle it," he replied simply. Four words that somehow made me exhale for what felt like the first time that day.
I was reviewing our remaining client list, trying to ignore the headache forming behind my eyes, when my phone rang again—Caroline Hayes's name lighting up the screen. Puzzling, since we barely knew each other.
"Aria darling!" Her voice bubbled with enthusiasm that felt jarring against my current state of mind. "I've made a decision—I want you as my bridesmaid this weekend in the Hamptons!"
I blinked, my exhausted brain struggling to process her words. "This weekend?"
"I've always admired your style and grace," she continued, seemingly oblivious to my confusion, "especially how you handle yourself in difficult situations."
She paused. "Plus, Noah adores you."
Devon had mentioned just days ago that Noah and Caroline were still arguing, not planning an immediate wedding. Something didn't add up. I sat up straighter, a feeling of unease replacing my exhaustion.
Before I could formulate a polite refusal, Caroline breezed on. "I'll bring the bridesmaid dress to your office tomorrow afternoon. I've already ordered it in your size—it'll be absolutely perfect!"