The CEO's Midnight Remedy novel Chapter 403

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Aria’s POV

I nodded, not trusting my voice. Then I straightened my shoulders, smoothed down my charcoal gray suit, and walked into the courtroom to face the man who’d murdered my mother.

The courtroom was packed. Every seat filled, standing room only at the back, the air thick with anticipation and the rustle of expensive clothing. I kept my eyes forward as I walked down the center aisle, refusing to look at the faces tracking my progress.

But I couldn’t avoid seeing them forever.

My father sat at the defense table on the left, flanked by two lawyers who probably cost more per hour than most people made in a month. He’d lost weight since his arrest, his expensive suit hanging slightly loose on his frame. His hair, once distinguished silver, seemed grayer now, thinner. He looked… diminished. Human in a way he’d never allowed himself to appear when he’d ruled over Harper Group like a feudal lord over his fiefdom.

Victoria sat at the second defense table, her lawyers arranging documents with the kind of busy efficiency that probably meant they didn’t have much of a defense. She’d maintained her appearance better–hair perfectly coiffed, makeup expertly applied, a demure navy dress that screamed innocent victim of circumstance.

But her eyes, when they met mine, were hard as flint. And in them, I saw no remorse. Only fury at being caught.

I took the witness stand, raised my right hand, swore to tell the truth. The prosecutor–a sharp–eyed woman named Katherine Reeves who specialized in high–profile cases–approached with a tablet and a smile meant to put me at ease.

It didn’t work. But I appreciated the effort.

“Miss Harper,” she began. “Can you state your relationship to Elizabeth Harper for the record?”

“She was my mother.” My voice sounded stronger than I felt. Good.

“And can you tell the court about your mother’s health in the months leading up to her death?”

I took a breath, forcing myself to remember. To be clinical. To treat my mother’s suffering like evidence rather than the worst period of my life.

“She started getting sick about four months before she died,” I said. “At first, it was just occasional nausea. She thought it was stress from

work. But it got progressively worse–vomiting, severe abdominal pain, fatigue, hair loss. Her doctor diagnosed it as acute gastritis,

possibly brought on by stress.”

“Did her symptoms follow any particular pattern?”

I nodded. “They got worse after meals at home. She’d be fine when we ate out, or at my apartment. But whenever she ate something

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prepared at the family house…..” I swallowed hard. “She’d be sick for hours afterward.”

“Did she ever express suspicions about the cause of her illness?”

I pulled out my mother’s journal–admitted as evidence weeks ago, but still difficult to hold. “She kept a diary in her final months. May I

read from it?”

At the judge’s nod, I opened to the page I’d bookmarked with trembling fingers.

“September 10th, 2021,” I read aloud. “The nausea is unbearable again. I can’t keep anything down. William brought me soup this morning

-Victoria made it, he said, a special recipe to help settle my stomach. But an hour after eating it, I was violently ill. I’m starting to feel

paranoid, but… why do I only get sick after eating food from her? Why does William insist I eat it when I’m clearly reacting badly?

Unless…” I paused, the next words sticking in my throat. “Unless the illness isn’t accidental. Unless someone wants me too weak to

question what’s happening to my company, my family, my life. But that’s crazy. Isn’t it?”

The courtroom was utterly silent.

“September 28th,” I continued, flipping ahead. “I don’t think I’m crazy anymore. I think I’m being poisoned. I think-” My voice broke. I couldn’t read the next part. Couldn’t say out loud what my mother had written in increasingly shaky handwriting about her suspicions, her fear, her desperate attempts to document what was happening to her in case she didn’t survive.

Ms. Reeves took the journal gently from my hands. “Thank you, Miss Harper. That’s enough.”

She turned to address the jury, holding up the journal. “The defense will no doubt claim this was the paranoid delusion of a sick woman. But the medical examiner’s report, conducted by independent pathologists at Miss Harper’s request, tells a different story.”

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