Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother (Norah and Lucien) novel Chapter 192

Chapter 192

Lucien’s POV

The deal was done.

I watched Norah.

No triumph lit her eyes–only a deep, resonant weariness, as though the negotiation had drained her completely.

She gathered her things without a single glance in my direction and turned away.

The sharp, clear click of her heels on the marble floor cut through the sudden silence.

Each step felt like a final period to whatever remained between us.

Nothing was left now but business.

The door closed.

Silence fell. The conference room stood empty. Alone.

I leaned back into the leather chair, loosened my tie, and lit a cigar.

Smoke filled my lungs, the familiar numbness spreading through me–a fleeting escape from the frustration coiling deep in my chest.

But it couldn’t touch the raw, grating discomfort of watching her walk away. Again.

Fifty–five percent.

I had agreed.

A ludicrous concession.

And yet, as I’d watched her calmly dissect market data, lay out her terms with razor clarity, her eyes burning with that queenly fire when she declared she deserved to stand on my level… something stirred in me.

Once again, I was captivated by the fierce light this woman carried.

A sharp, hot needle of jealousy followed–not toward a person, but toward the brand she fought so fiercely to protect.

I had expected tears.

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Finished

A scene.

The weaponized vulnerability she once wielded so effortlessly.

But she gave none.

She had simply, calmly, dismantled me using my own methods.

Annoyed, I stubbed out the cigar and stood.

The Paris night beyond the glass was cold and indifferent.

I didn’t return to the apartment, nor to the manor.

Instead, I told the driver to take the car along the Seine.

The river flowed like a streak of spilled stars beneath the bridges.

I rolled down the window, letting the icy air rush in, trying to freeze the turmoil churning in my head.

My phone glowed.

A message from my assistant.

Sir, pressure on Nightingale has been fully lifted, as instructed.

After leaving, Miss Hawthorne went directly to Thornbird Studio. Has not left.

I stared at those words for a long time. Finally, I told the driver to start the car. Even if it was just to see her from a distance–one look would have to be enough.

Thornbird Studio stood as a lone beacon in the deep night.

I parked in the shadows across the street, a voyeur wrapped in darkness.

I watched Irina leave, then Katarina.

Soon, only the light in Norah’s office remained.

She was still working.

She always forgot everything when she worked–time, food, herself.

I remembered her stomach problems.

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Chapter 192

The memory of her curled tight and pale was a needle straight through my chest.

I picked up my phone, thumb hovering over the screen.

I nearly told my assistant to send food.

But instead, I called my private chef.

“Prepare a stomach–soothing sandwich and hot milk.

Deliver it to Thornbird Studio. Anonymously.”

I hung up and closed my eyes.

Finished

The image of her in the boardroom–calm, powerful, utterly mesmerizing–clashed violently with the memory of her resolute back as she walked away.

Norah, what do you really want from me?

Then my phone rang.

Norah’s name flashed on the screen.

I steadied my voice and answered. “Irina…”

Her voice was thin, strained with pain. “I don’t feel well… my stomach…”

Her stomach.

The old problem.

My mind went blank.

Every pretense of calm shattered.

“Are you alright?” I heard the tremor in my own words.

Silence stretched on the other end. Then, the call cut off.

She’d dialed the wrong

number.

She meant to call Irina.

She was alone there, in pain.

I was out of the car and running before I’d fully processed the thought.

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Chapter 192

I kicked open the door to the studio lounge.

She was curled on the cold floor, trembling slightly.

That proud face was now pale with helplessness.

My heart clenched so tight I couldn’t breathe.

Finished

In three strides I was there, gathering her from the floor and laying her on the sofa. She felt so light. And cold.

“Eat.” I shoved the sandwich and milk into her hands, my voice a command.

She opened her eyes.

Surprise and resistance flashed when she saw me. “What are you- I don’t need-”

“Shut up!” I nearly roared, fear sharpening my words. “When your stomach hurts, you rest! Do you think you’re made of iron?!”

My anger stunned her to silence. Her eyes reddened.

Damn it.I hadn’t meant to shout. I was just… scared.

I looked away, awkwardly nudging the food closer.

She watched me for a stretched moment.

Then, she took it.

She ate slowly, hesitant bites, like a wronged kitten.

As color gradually returned to her face, the fire in my chest finally subsided.

I went to the storage cabinet, reached to the top shelf, and found the stomach medicine she always used. I poured water and brought both to her.

She didn’t take them immediately–only looked at me.

We didn’t speak. The hurt, the schemes, the betrayals–for that moment, none of it mattered. My eyes held only concern.

Finally, she accepted them.

After taking the medicine, she curled on the sofa, spent, and fell asleep.

Her breathing was shallow, her brow still furrowed.

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“…Don’t be scared, my darlings… Mommy’s here…”

My hand froze.

Mommy?

My eyes

locked on her pale, sleeping face. The faint silvery lines on her lower abdomen… her intuitive care for the pregnant Daisy… the call labeled My Little Stars… shards of clues connected like a lightning strike. A vague yet staggering conjecture exploded through my chaotic thoughts.

I stood frozen, staring, unable to believe it, yet feeling a terrifying clarity.

I didn’t wake her. I was afraid of the truth.

Slowly, I sank to my knees before the sofa and gently touched her furrowed brow.

Then I walked out, closed the door, and sat outside the whole night. Peering through the crack at the woman who held a secret that could shatter everything, I dialed the investigator.

“It’s me. Investigate Norah Hawthorne. I want all her medical records from the moment she left Paris for Washington, three years ago. Every hospital, every clinic. Focus on… gynecological and obstetrical records.”

A pause on the other end.

“And,” I added, my voice cold as steel, “any marriage records for her and Mateo Vega. Any country, any jurisdiction. Fast. Cost is no object.

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