The Wife he threw Away (Claire and Lucian) novel Chapter 135

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE EVA’S POV

I didn’t rush things. There was no reason to.

Chaos belonged to people who had lost control.

I hadn’t.

I sat in front of the mirror, the room quiet around me, the sun rays spilling in from the windows just enough to illuminate the room and highlight every detail of my reflection.

I studied my face the way an artist would study a blank canvas.

Not with emotion, but with intent.

The makeup brushes were already laid out on the vanity in front of me, aligned, clean, and precise. I picked one up, slow and careful. Then I began.

A shadow beneath my left eye first-subtle, uneven, layered carefully until it resembled something organic. Not something dramatic, not something theatrical, but something believable.

Good.

As an actress, these skills came in handy.

I tilted my head slightly, assessing the black eye I had just created.

Then I moved to my cheekbone- a faint discoloration, soft blending.

Enough to suggest impact, not exaggeration.

I leaned in closer, narrowing my eyes at my reflection in the mirror.

Almost there, but not yet.

Then I lifted my hand.

The bruise there was very much real.

A faint, purple mark along my wrist, just below the palm.

That was Lucian’s doing.

The moment he stopped my hand from striking his face-fingers tightening just enough to hurt.

I traced it lightly with my thumb, a small smile forming on my face.

Not everything had to be fake.

That was what made it convincing.

The door opened without ceremony, almost immediately I set the brush down.

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Camilla.

Of course.

She stepped in with the quiet but annoying familiarity of someone who had spent too many years in a house that was never hers.

Her eyes moved automatically- as was her habit and routine-until they landed on me.

Then she stopped. She stilled completely, in fact.

“Madam… what happened to your face?” She asked, her tone rising slightly with concern. Genuine

concern.

But doubt appeared beneath it almost immediately.

I didn’t answer at once. Instead, I turned slightly in my chair, giving her a clearer view.

I let her see it. Let her process it.

“I know Master Lucian would never-”

“Stop.”

Camilla closed her mouth.

I turned fully then, meeting her gaze with something colder.

“You shouldn’t speak about things you don’t understand.”

Her expression shifted-not into fear, but into something far less convenient.

Conviction.

“I understand enough,” she said quietly. “I’ve been in this house long enough to know the kind of man he

is.”

I let out a small, almost amused breath.

“Is that what you think this is?” I asked. “A matter of understanding?”

Camilla didn’t answer, so I continued.

“You’ve spent your entire life here,” I said, rising slowly to my feet. “Cleaning, watching, listening. Convincing yourself proximity is the same as importance.”

Her jaw tightened.

Very good.

It meant I was being heard.

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“And what has it given you?” I added lightly. “A lifetime of service to people who will never see you as anything more than help.”

That should have ended it.

For most people, it would have.

But Camilla didn’t step back or even lower her gaze like a common housekeeper was supposed to.

Instead, she looked at me and spoke.

“Mrs. Claire never had to pretend to be someone she wasn’t.”

The silence that followed sharpened.

I tilted my head to the left.

“How interesting,” I said. “You think this is pretending?”

She didn’t waver.

“You can paint your face all you like,” she replied. “It won’t make it real.”

For a moment, I was taken aback.

The nerve of a lowly housekeeper to speak to a star like myself in that manner.

This was all Lucian’s fault!

“You speak very confidently for someone so… replaceable.”

Camilla’s expression didn’t change. “I’ve watched that man for years,” she said calmly. “He doesn’t love halfway.”

A pause.

“And he never stopped loving her.”

Claire.

Of course.

Everything in this damned house came back to her!

“Beauty fades,” Camilla continued. “Noise fades.” She added, her gaze hardening just slightly.

“But character-” She paused. “That’s what stays.”

I took a step closer, slow and controlled.

“And where exactly do you think that leaves you?” I asked softly.

Camilla didn’t answer that.

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Instead, she moved to another topic.

“Claire is on the news now,” she announced. “For all the right reasons.”

Smirking lightly, she added, “You’re about to be on it for the wrong ones.”

I studied Camilla for a second longer.

Then I leaned in just enough for my voice to drop.

“You think you matter enough to speak to me like this?”

Her breath hitched- barely, but I saw it.

Good.

“When I’m done with them…” I continued, letting the words settle slowly, “I’ll deal with you too.”

I straightened.

And just like that, the conversation was over.

Camilla didn’t respond again.

She had already said everything she believed in that dumb, uneducated head of hers.

My assistant arrived ten minutes later; early as always.

She paused briefly when she saw me, her eyes scanning my face, then my posture, then the room. Assessing the situation.

“Pack only what I need,” I said, already moving toward the wardrobe.

She nodded immediately, and started working at once.

Clothes came off hangers so easily and efficiently, jewelry cases closed, essential items were gathered without questions.

She knew better than to question me.

“Ma’am,” she said carefully after a moment, “there’s already some media presence outside.” My

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