Chapter 45
Aria’s POV
As the taxi pulled into traffic, I scrolled through the attached documents, each page fueling my rage. The transfer had occurred while I was still in college, devastated by my mother's death and too trusting to question my father's handling of her estate. The betrayal cut deep—not just my father's actions, but the years of lies, the casual way they'd brushed off my questions about the property.
"This is unforgivable," I whispered, staring out at the passing city lights. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms. This wasn't just about a house anymore. This was about honoring my mother's memory, about standing up to the people who had systematically erased her from our lives and stolen what was rightfully mine.
By the time the taxi pulled up to the Harper mansion, I had moved beyond shock to cold, calculated fury. I paid the driver and strode up the steps, my mind clear despite the rage coursing through me.
They would answer for this—all of them. Starting tonight.
I burst through the front door of the Harper mansion, not bothering to greet Elsa or announce my presence. I found them all in the living room—my father, Victoria, and Scarlett—enjoying a seemingly pleasant family evening without me. The sight of their comfortable domesticity only fueled my rage.
"How could you?" I demanded, my voice cutting through their conversation like a knife.
My father looked up, his expression shifting from surprise to annoyance. "Aria, what are you talking about? And where have you been all day?"
"The Hampton beach house," I said, advancing into the room. "Mom's house. The one she specifically left to me. How dare you transfer it to her?" I pointed accusingly at Scarlett, who had the audacity to look confused.
Victoria set down her teacup with deliberate calm. "Aria, dear, you're clearly upset. Perhaps we should discuss this when you've calmed down."
"Don't patronize me," I snapped, reaching for Victoria's tea and deliberately spilling it onto her lap. The hot liquid splashed across her pristine white dress, and she leapt up with a shriek.
"Aria!" My father's voice boomed as he rose to his feet. "Have you lost your mind?"
"No, but apparently you have," I shot back. "That house was mine. Mom wanted me to have it. It was in her will!"
Victoria dabbed at her dress, her face twisted with fury. "William, I will not tolerate this behavior in our home."
"Our home?" I laughed bitterly. "This was my mother's home before you slithered your way in here."
The sharp crack of my father's palm against my cheek silenced the room. I staggered back, more from shock than pain. He had never struck me before.
"You will apologize to Victoria this instant," he commanded, his voice cold with anger.
I touched my cheek, feeling it burn beneath my fingers. "No," I said quietly. "I want my house back. The beach house belongs to me, not Scarlett."
Scarlett, who had remained silent until now, stood up with tears glistening in her eyes. "Aria, I didn't know—"
"Save your crocodile tears," I interrupted. "You've been stealing from me since the day you moved in. First my father's affection, then my boyfriend, now my property? When does it end, Scarlett?"
"That's enough!" my father shouted. "The beach house is a family property, and I decided it would be better utilized by Scarlett. You have your own apartment in Brooklyn, while Scarlett needs a place to entertain friends and build her social network."
"Build her social network?" I repeated incredulously. "Mom left that house to me. It was legally mine."
"It was in my name as trustee until your twenty-fifth birthday," my father corrected me. "Which means I had every right to reassign it as I saw fit."
"But my friends like going there for parties," Scarlett interjected, her voice small and pleading. "It's perfect for summer gatherings, and I've already planned several events for the social season."
I stared at her in disbelief. "You think your parties are more important than my inheritance? Than my mother's memory?"
"Aria," my father's voice had that warning tone I knew too well. "You're being selfish. You don't even like socializing. You have your own apartment. What would you do with a beach house except let it sit empty most of the year?"
"That's not the point!" I exploded. "It's mine! Mom wanted me to have it! She loved that house—we spent every summer there before she got sick. It's all I have left of her."
"You're making a scene over a house you barely visit," Victoria said dismissively. "Meanwhile, Scarlett is actually using it to benefit the family's social standing."
"I want it back," I stated firmly, looking directly at my father. "Transfer it back to my name immediately."
My father's expression hardened. "No. And if you continue with this behavior, you can forget about any inheritance, including your mother's trust fund that's currently supporting that little company of yours."
The threat hung heavy in the air. Without my mother's trust fund, Stellar Impressions would struggle to survive. Devon's offer flashed through my mind—ten million dollars would certainly give me independence from my father's financial control.
"Is that really how you want to play this, Dad?" I asked quietly. "Using Mom's money as leverage to control me?"
"I'm not controlling you," he retorted. "I'm preventing you from making irrational decisions based on sentimentality rather than practicality. The beach house is better suited to Scarlett's needs right now."
"Fine," I said, my voice deadly calm. "Keep the house. Keep the money. But remember this moment, because I certainly will."
As I turned to leave, Victoria clutched her stomach dramatically, drawing my father's immediate concern.
"Darling, are you alright?" he asked, all attention shifting to her apparent distress.
"I'm fine," she gasped unconvincingly. "Just... the shock of Aria's behavior. And the tea was so hot..."
My father guided her to the sofa, his arm protectively around her shoulders. "Rest here, love. I'll get you some water."
I caught Victoria's eye over my father's shoulder, and the flash of triumph in her gaze made my blood boil. She had won this round, turning my father against me once again with her performance.
I left without another word, slamming the front door behind me.
Back in my Brooklyn apartment, I paced the living room, too agitated to sit still. The walls were covered with photographs of my mother—her smile, her elegance, her warmth captured in dozens of frames. She had been gone for five years, but the pain of her absence felt fresh tonight.
I pulled out the files Garrett Morgan had sent me earlier, spreading them across my coffee table. Property records, medical reports, phone records—all painting a disturbing picture of the months leading up to my mother's death.
The timeline was damning. Victoria had apparently known and been close to my father even before she became my mother's personal assistant. Soon after, she managed to secure a position as my mother's private aide. Three years later, she was promoted to Public Relations Director at Harper Group. It was around this same time that my mother was diagnosed with a rare disease.
Victoria then openly ingratiated herself with my father, offering "support" during this difficult time. She became increasingly present in our family life, slowly inserting herself into every aspect of our home. By the time my mother entered hospice care, Victoria was practically living at our house, supposedly helping manage the household while my father focused on my mother.
What was most suspicious was how methodically she had positioned herself - first as an acquaintance of my father, then as my mother's assistant, then as a company executive, and finally as the "compassionate support" that my grieving father couldn't resist. Looking back, it seemed less like a series of coincidences and more like a calculated plan.
And then there were the strange inconsistencies in my mother's medical records. Sudden deteriorations after periods of improvement. Missing medication logs. A nurse's note expressing concern about "unauthorized visitors" during late-night hours.
Nothing definitive, nothing I could take to the police. But enough to fuel my suspicions that Victoria had hastened my mother's death to clear her path to my father's fortune.
I looked up at the largest photograph on my wall—my mother on the deck of the Hampton beach house, her hair blowing in the ocean breeze, her smile radiant despite the illness that was already consuming her. She had loved that house, had spent her final summer there, gazing at the ocean and telling me stories about her college days with Marianne Blake.
"I won't let them take everything from you," I promised her image. "Whatever it takes, whatever I have to do, I'll make them pay for what they did. All of them."