The Wife he threw Away (Claire and Lucian) novel Chapter 170

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY EVA’S POV

Listening to the fire crackling from across the massive marble fireplace was a unique kind of therapy

Everything around me was elegant and controlled.

Exactly the way I liked it.

I sat cross-legged on the cream-colored sofa with Margot Sinclair’s file spread open on the glass table in front of me.

Claire’s phone rested beside it.

Claire Moreau.

Margot Sinclair.

Lucian Dhark.

All of them had become so exhausting lately.

I flipped another page of the file.

Victim testimonies, timelines, connections.

Notes were scribbled across every page in Margot’s sharp handwriting.

The woman had been thorough- annoyingly so.

My eyes scanned another page before stopping on a familiar name.

Elise Sinclair.

I stared at the first photograph paperclipped to the file.

Elise at twenty-one. She had always had that innocent beauty about her.

Bright, radiant, ascending too quickly.

I remembered how directors started mentioning her name constantly back then.

The tabloids called her “Hollywood’s newest gem.”

I remembered how actors and writers spoke about her like she was something precious-something

rare.

How producers suddenly wanted her instead.

How people started comparing us.

I had hated that, more than anything.

Another picture sat beneath the first one.

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Elise afterward- after all the articles about her sleeping her way to the top had exploded.

After I had renounced and condemned her publicly and others followed.

After all brand endorsements stopped coming in and no studio wanted her on any project.

She looked… destroyed. Pale. Ruined.

I couldn’t help but smile a little.

Better.

Much better.

People exaggerated these things too much-public humiliation, scandals, maybe a few destroyed

careers.

It was nothing but collateral damage.

Necessary inconveniences.

People survived disappointment every day.

So what, if you lost your long-term career?

Find a job in another industry!

Sometimes, the sky isn’t truly big enough for all of us to fly.

I leaned back against the sofa.

Margot Sinclair was just a crazy woman, who mistook persistence for intelligence.

Delusional.

The problem with women like her was that they believed morality made them powerful.

It didn’t.

Influence and control made a person powerful.

And fear.

And unfortunately for Margot-

she had gotten too close to understanding that.

My fingers slid across another page.

Then another… and another.

So much information- enough to become beyond dangerous eventually.

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Even if I destroyed this file tonight, Margot Sinclair was the kind of woman who would spend years rebuilding it.

That thought irritated me immediately.

A coma clearly wouldn’t be enough anymore.

I gathered the entire stack calmly before rising from the sofa and walking toward the fireplace.

No hesitation, no anger.

Just cleanup.

The flames swallowed the papers one after another.

I watched in utter satisfaction as victim testimonies curled black at the edges.

Photographs disappeared.

Years of evidence slowly turned into ash.

I watched silently until the final page vanished beneath the fire.

Then my phone buzzed softly against the table, and a memory surfaced immediately.

The police.

Days earlier.

I opened the door with practiced elegance and smiled softly at the two detectives standing outside.

“Ms. Sterling?” one of them asked.

For one dangerous second, my heart stopped beating completely.

Then instinct took over and my expression softened immediately, into a mixture of confusion and fragility.

Perfect.

“Yes?”

The detective glanced briefly toward his partner before looking back at me.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions.” He continued. “Ms. Sterling, may we come in?”

“Of course.”

I stepped aside gracefully so they could walk in, while I motioned toward the sitting area.

“I assume this is about Margot Sinclair?” I asked lightly.

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The detectives exchanged a glance.

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“Actually,” the older one corrected gently, “we’re here regarding the structural collapse at the Dhark charity event dedicated to the late Elena Dhark.”

Interesting.

“Oh.” I tilted my head slightly. “But what does that have to do with me?”

“You were living in the Dhark residence at the time.” He stated.

I smiled faintly. “Right. Of course.”

The younger detective softened visibly as he took a seat.

“I’m sorry about everything you’ve been through publicly, Ms. Sterling.”

I lowered my eyes modestly.

“That’s very kind of you, detective.”

He sighed.

“Unfortunately, men in power sometimes behave very differently behind closed doors.”

I let the silence linger just long enough before offering a wounded smile.

“Lucian and I had… disagreements,” I admitted carefully. “But I truly don’t want to worsen things for him.”

The detectives visibly warmed toward me after that.

God, people were so predictable.

“Did you notice anything unusual during the event?” the older detective asked. “Anyone who might’ve

had motive to harm Ms. Moreau or Ms. Sinclair?”

I folded my hands together in my lap.

“No.” Then I added softly, “though Margot Sinclair wasn’t exactly beloved.”

The older detective looked up immediately.

“She was an unpleasant woman,” I continued smoothly. “Arrogant and aggressive. Her firm has stepped on too many people over the years.”

I sighed, feigning pity. “It wouldn’t surprise me if someone held resentment toward her.”

“And Claire Moreau?” the younger detective asked.

I shrugged my elegant shoulders. “I don’t think Claire was important enough personally to be targeted.”

That wasn’t a lie.

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Claire wasn’t important enough.

Not compared to me.

I crossed my right leg over the left. “Honestly, I believe both incidents were probably accidents.”

The detectives remained silent, so I continued gently:

“Lucian had taken over many arrangements for the event shortly before it happened. It’s possible mistakes were made during setup.

It wasn’t an accusation.

Just implication. And implication was always much more effective.

The older detective nodded slowly while taking notes.

And just like that, the conversation shifted exactly where I wanted it to.

If they had ever suspected my involvement, their suspicions had vanished.

Because I appeared even more innocent than Elise Sinclair in her prime.

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I returned my attention back to Claire’s phone resting on the table beside me as the memory slowly

faded.

Unlocking it had been embarrassingly easy.

Her birthday too predictable.

I scrolled slowly through her messages.

Boring work updates, conversations with Nathaniel Vale.

Then photos.

My expression tightened as I scrolled.

There were too many pictures of Claire smiling lately.

Too many moments of peace.

Too much rebuilding and growing and thriving.

Then I noticed something else.

Calls.

Several recent ones from Lucian.

Interesting.

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