The Wife he threw Away (Claire and Lucian) novel Chapter 151

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY-ONE CLAIRE’S POV

The drive to the hospital felt endless, even though Nathaniel was speeding through half the city.

Even with the traffic parting faster than usual once people recognized the emergency lights escorting one of the Sinclair & Co vehicles ahead of us.

It still felt way too slow.

I sat rigidly in the passenger seat, my phone clenched tightly in my hand while I tried to steady my breathing.

Nathaniel hadn’t tried forcing conversation during the drive. He knew better.

Still, every few minutes, he glanced at me briefly, checking. Grounding.

“We don’t know how bad it is yet,” he said carefully at one point.

I stared ahead, unmoved by his attempt to reassure me. “They said she’s unconscious.”

“That doesn’t mean-”

“I know what it means.”

The words came out sharper than I intended, but Nathaniel didn’t react.

After a moment, his voice lowered slightly.

“Claire.”

I closed my eyes briefly.

And immediately, I saw Margot again outside the courthouse, watching me.

Hesitating, like she had been standing at the edge of a decision she hadn’t quite made yet.

“It’s nothing that can’t wait.”

My chest tightened painfully.

Something about that sentence felt wrong now.

Terribly wrong.

By the time we reached the hospital, several people from Sinclair & Co were already gathered outside the private emergency wing.

The atmosphere was tense in that uniquely restrained way professionals handled panic. Associates stood in clusters speaking quietly. Phones rang constantly. Assistants moved quickly through the halls.

No one looked calm.

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And somehow, that frightened me more.

Margot Sinclair was the kind of woman people assumed would survive anything.

Nathaniel placed a hand lightly against my back as we entered the building together.

The fluorescent lighting inside felt too bright.

Too cold.

A few people turned immediately when they saw me.

I barely registered them.

My attention caught instead on the tall man standing near the far wall speaking quietly with one of the

doctors.

Professor Mason Grant.

I recognized him immediately from photographs I’d once seen in a legal magazine feature about influential academic figures and their spouses.

He looked exactly like I imagined Margot’s husband would.

Composed, tall, sharp.

But exhaustion dragged heavily at him now.

When he noticed me approaching, he straightened slightly.

“Claire Moreau,” he said quietly.

Not a question, but instant recognition.

I nodded immediately. “Professor Grant.”

“Mason,” he corrected gently.

There was no stiffness in him despite everything happening around us.

Only fatigue. And fear, carefully disguised beneath it.

“I’m so sorry,” I said softly.

For a second, something flickered across his expression- pain.

“She spoke very highly of you.”

The words caught me off guard.

I stared at him briefly.

Mason gave smiled at me faintly. “More than highly, actually,” he admitted. “I don’t think I’ve heard her

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admire someone professionally the way she respected you.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

Because Margot rarely spoke sentimentally.

Not aloud.

Not directly.

And suddenly I hated that I had assumed she never felt things deeply simply because she didn’t display them openly.

A movement near the chairs beside the wall drew my attention.

A teenage boy sat there stiffly, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor with the rigid stillness of someone trying very hard not to fall apart.

Margot’s son.

He looked so much like her it almost hurt.

A younger girl-perhaps eight or nine-slept curled against an older woman nearby, her face pressed into the woman’s shoulder while one small hand still clutched the sleeve of a sweater far too tightly.

The sight hit me unexpectedly hard.

I had never imagined Margot belonging to softness.

And now I suddenly saw evidence of it everywhere.

Mason followed my gaze.

“Elliot refuses to go home,” he said quietly.

The boy immediately looked away when he realized we were speaking about him.

Pretending strength.

Pretending composure.

Very much his mother’s child.

“And Lily finally fell asleep about twenty minutes ago.”

His voice nearly broke on the last part.

Nearly.

But not quite.

Nathaniel stepped slightly aside to give us space while Mason rubbed tiredly at his jaw before speaking

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again.

“She’d been working obsessively these past few weeks,” he said. “More than usual.”

Something inside me tightened.

“She said she was close to finishing something important.”

My pulse stuttered once.

Immediately, my mind flashed back to:

the courthouse.

the hesitation.

the look in Margot’s eyes.

“It’s nothing that can’t wait.”

No.

It absolutely hadn’t been nothing.

A doctor finally approached us a few moments later.

Everyone straightened instantly, regaining alertness.

The doctor’s expression told me everything before he even said a word.

“Mrs. Sinclair sustained significant injuries,” he said carefully. “Severe head trauma, multiple fractures, internal bleeding.”

Professor Grant’s jaw tightened visibly, his palm lifting to his temple before he could stop himself.

“She underwent emergency surgery successfully, but…”

The pause felt endless. “She’s currently in a coma.”

The hallway seemed to go completely silent.

“All we can do right now,” the doctor continued gently, “is keep her stable and hope the swelling decreases over the next few days.”

Hope?

Just hope?

Professor Grant nodded once slowly, seemingly absorbing the information with a great deal of restraint while his son, Elliot, finally looked down sharply, both hands clenched together so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

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I suddenly couldn’t breathe properly.

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Margot had protected me so fiercely and I barely noticed how much she had been carrying herself.

Eventually, one of the nurses quietly allowed immediate family and close associates brief access near the ICU observation area.

I stood beside the glass window staring inside at the woman who had once seemed utterly indestructible.

Machines surrounded her, monitors blinked steadily beside the bed, keeping her alive.

And Margot-always sharp, composed, untouchable Margot- lay completely motionless beneath white sheets.

Fragile. For the first time ever.

Nathaniel joined me after several minutes.

“The police think it was brake failure,” he said carefully.

I felt something cold settle in my chest. My stomach clenched.

Brake failure.

I stared through the glass again, a hundred thoughts racing through my mind.

The collapse at the mansion.

The timing.

The secret Margot never got to tell me.

My heartbeat slowed sharply.

Margot Sinclair did not lose control easily.

And for the first time-

I wondered if someone had wanted her silenced.

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