The Billionaire CEO Betrays his Wife: He wants her back-Chapter 228: Hard on both sides

Later That Afternoon – Jury Holding Room

The door clicked shut softly behind them as the twelve jurors returned to their private room. For the first time since the trial began, none of them spoke right away. freewebnσvel.cøm

The fluorescent lights buzzed softly above. The silence was not one of boredom or indifference, but of weight.

Juror #3, an older man with glasses and a meticulous notepad, tapped his pen but didn’t write. "Sixteen times," he finally said. "That’s not impulse. That’s... something else."

"But something else doesn’t mean murder," countered Juror #8, a middle-aged woman in a green blouse. "Not the kind they’re charging her with. Not cold-blooded. Did you see her? She was reliving it—every single word."

Juror #11, a soft-spoken young man who had barely spoken all day, leaned forward. "She didn’t even try to make herself look good. That’s what got me. Most people would try to justify every step. She owned it."

Juror #5, a woman with sharp eyes who had once worked in a shelter, nodded slowly. "It’s survival. That’s what it sounds like to me. And that baby... if he hit the child..."

That hung heavy in the air.

No one had forgotten that moment when Maria’s voice cracked, and she said, He hit my baby girl. It wasn’t just the words—it was the way she said them. With a kind of quiet, hollow rage that made you want to shield her.

Juror #1, the foreman, ran a hand through his hair. "We’re not supposed to decide anything yet. Not until all the evidence is in. But... she’s not what I thought."

"I thought she was manipulative," whispered Juror #4, a young woman who had been skeptical since day one. "Now I think she’s just... exhausted. She looked like someone who’s been holding her breath for years."

Another silence.

Each juror sat with their own ghosts—abusive fathers, unreported fears, children left in dangerous places because of desperation or shame. Maria’s story had rippled across their own.

"I’m not saying she’s innocent," Juror #3 finally said, quieter now. "But I am saying... I don’t think this is the story we were sold."

Someone sniffled.

"I need a break," said Juror #9, standing and pacing the room.

Outside the Jury Room, the prosecution team looked anxious. They had seen it too—how the tide shifted during Maria’s testimony.

And in the back hallway, Ethan leaned against the wall outside Maria’s holding room, reading the body language of the jurors through the glass.

He turned to Rafael, who had just arrived.

"They’re not seeing her as a killer anymore," Ethan said quietly. "They’re seeing her as human."

Rafael nodded. "Then the truth is doing what truth does."

—-

Professor Arlen made sure Steve reported to the hospital before daybreak. It was early morning when the nurse tapped gently on the doorframe.

"Good morning. We’re ready for Phase Two," she said softly, as if not to wake the quiet stillness in the room.

Mara nodded and stood from the bedside chair. She stretched her fingers before brushing a hand across Steve’s forehead. He stirred.

Stefan entered the room next, carrying two coffees and a bag of warm pastries, setting them down silently before taking his usual place near the window. He didn’t say much these days, but Mara could feel him watching—not just Steve, but her, like he was constantly trying to understand something he couldn’t name.

Steve blinked, adjusting to the light. "Morning," he said hoarsely.

"You ready?" Mara asked gently. He gave a single nod, more brave than enthusiastic.

The nurse smiled kindly. "Today’s a little more intense. We’re introducing the neural resonance serum, which should trigger regenerative signaling across the spinal receptors. You may feel tingling, warmth, and some fatigue. Maybe memories surfacing. It’s all part of it."

Steve took a deep breath, then looked at Stefan. "You sure about this part?"

Stefan stepped forward and crouched beside the bed, his voice low and steady. "We’ve tested it a dozen times. You’re strong enough."

Steve nodded again.

The nurse prepped the IV line while Mara reached for his hand. "You can squeeze," she whispered.

He gave her a tired smile. "If I pass out, you’ll still hold it, right?"

"Of course."

The serum entered his bloodstream slowly—clear and faintly iridescent. Steve inhaled sharply and closed his eyes.

They all waited.

Minutes passed.

Then Steve flinched—his legs moved, just slightly. A muscle spasm. Another twitch.

The nurses made notes, calm but focused. "Good," she murmured. "It’s responding." Mara watched, stunned.

Steve’s mouth opened slightly, eyes still closed. "I feel... weird," he whispered. "You might feel like... a memory," Stefan said. "The serum activates dormant pathways. Sometimes, the brain responds emotionally."

Steve’s breathing changed. Slower. Softer. "I remember... the lake," he said quietly. "The dock. Dad threw me in to teach me to swim."

Mara’s heart clenched. That was over a decade ago.

Steve gave a small, strangled laugh. "I hated him for that. But then he jumped in after me... held me up until I stopped panicking."

Tears touched the corner of Mara’s eyes. Stanley had walked in quietly sometime during the procedure. Now he leaned against the wall, arms folded, jaw tight, watching his little brother relive pieces of a past they’d all put in boxes.

"You’re doing great," Mara whispered, brushing her hand over Steve’s hair.

"I feel cold," Steve said softly.

Stefan stepped closer, placing a blanket across him. "That’s part of it. You’re fine. Just ride it out." Another flicker of movement in his legs. Stronger this time.

The nurse’s eyes lit up. "That’s neural signaling. His body’s responding." Mara brought his hand to her lips and kissed it. "You’re coming back to us," she whispered.

Steve didn’t answer—his breathing had slowed, drifting toward a deep, healing sleep. But his hand, still wrapped in hers, held on a little tighter.

Day Three of Trial – Mid-Morning

The court had just resumed after a brief recess. Maria was no longer on the stand, but she sat beside Ethan at the defense table, pale and visibly fatigued. Her hands were folded over her lap, clenched just tightly enough to hide the tremble.

Ethan stood, glancing once at the judge, then at the prosecution table. "Your Honor," he began, his tone cautious but charged, "with the court’s permission, the defense would like to call a witness... not previously listed."

Visit freewe𝑏nov(e)l.𝗰𝐨𝐦 for the 𝑏est n𝘰vel reading experience