The Wife he threw Away (Claire and Lucian) novel Chapter 322

For one terrible second, the entire world seemed to go silent.

Then the questions came faster.

“Claire! Did you sleep with your professors?”

“Were your academic achievements bought?”

“Is that how you became a successful lawyer?”

I watched them through the glass as the cameras continued flashing, and microphones crowded together.

And every face seemed hungry for an answer.

I didn’t understand.

I had never slept with a professor.

I had never traded anything for my grades.

I had worked for every achievement I had, often while worrying about how I would pay my next bill. I had spent nights studying until my eyes burned and gone to classes exhausted.

My career was one of the few things I had built entirely for myself.

And now, strangers were shouting accusations about it as though my life were just another scandal they had been waiting to consume.

My hands began to shake.

“How do they know you’re leaving?” the driver muttered, more to himself than to me.

But I barely heard him.

The car began moving forward, even as reporters surged toward the entrance, shouting my name.

I pressed my back against the seat, struggling to breathe.

This couldn’t be happening—not again. Not after everything.

Not when I had finally begun to believe that my life was becoming mine again.

I looked at the cameras flashing outside the window, and a cold realization settled over me.

Someone had made sure the questions would be waiting for me before I even reached work.

Whatever was happening, it wasn’t an accident.

By the time our car reached Sinclair & Co., I had almost convinced myself that the reporters outside the Dhark mansion were the worst of it.

I was wrong.

There were reporters outside the firm, too.

They weren’t nearly as many as there had been at the mansion, and certainly not close enough to surround my car the way they had surrounded me at the gates.

Sinclair & Co. was still Margot Sinclair’s territory, and no matter how hungry they were for stories, everyone knew better than to treat her establishment like a public spectacle.

The security guards kept the entrance clear. The reporters remained on the pavement beyond the gates, where they shouted questions at anyone who looked remotely important.

Unfortunately, I was important enough.

“Claire! Is it true you slept with your professors?”

“Did you exchange sexual favors for better grades?”

My hand tightened around my phone.

I wanted to get out of the car and demand to know who had given them those questions. I wanted to ask who had decided that my academic achievements were suddenly open to public debate.

Most of all, I wanted to know who was responsible for this.

Instead, I waited until the driver opened my door, stepped out, and walked hurriedly the entrance without looking back.

I had learned the hard way that reacting to the media rarely helped. A frown could easily be interpreted as guilt, silence as an admission, and a perfectly reasonable response could very well become a headline that would follow me for weeks.

So I wouldn’t give them anything. Not today.

The moment I entered the building, a receptionist hurried toward me.

“Good morning, Ms. Moreau.”

“Good morning.” I barely slowed down. “What’s going on outside?”

She hesitated. “I think you should speak to Daniel.”

That was not the answer I wanted.

I found Daniel Reyes in the conference room, standing beside the television mounted on the wall. Jonathan sat at the table with a stack of documents in front of him, while Laurel was typing something on her laptop.

All three of them looked up when I entered.

Daniel’s expression softened. “Oh, Claire.”

“What the hell is going on?”

Nobody answered immediately.

My eyes moved to the television, where a news segment was playing, and beneath the presenter’s face was a photograph of me.

My stomach dropped.

The headline read:

EXCLUSIVE: FORMER CLASSMATE CLAIMS TOP LAWYER SLEPT WITH PROFESSORS FOR GRADES.

For several seconds, I couldn’t make sense of the words.

I told myself I must have read the wrong thing. So I read them again. And again.

“What is this?” I whispered. “What in the world is going on?”

Daniel reached for the remote and muted the television.

“Claire, sit down.”

“No.” I stared at the screen. “What is this?”

My temper was rising unusually. Perhaps it was my hormones. Or perhaps that’s what happens when you see a disgusting lie about yourself, making headlines.

“It’s a rumor that’s been circulating since this morning,” Daniel explained.

“A rumor?” I turned toward him. “Someone is accusing me of sleeping with professors for grades, and you call it a rumor?”

“Because that’s exactly what it is—an accusation from an anonymous source.”

“Then why is it on television?”

“Because the media has decided it’s a story.”

I laughed, but there was nothing humorous about it.

“A story?”

My eyes returned to the television. A photograph was now displayed on the screen.

It showed me sitting in the front passenger seat of a car. A man was behind the steering wheel, his face partially visible. But I recognized him immediately.

Professor Williams.

He had taught one of my courses at university.

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