Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother (Norah and Lucien) novel Chapter 217

Chapter 217

Norah’s POV

Three months went by in a rush.

Lucien’s gunshot wound on his stomach had been stitched up, and the stitches were out. His ribs had healed enough for him to walk on his own, though he still had to be careful with big movements.

My hand, thanks to the nerve healing treatment, no longer shook when I picked up a pen to sketch. I could hold a glass of water by myself and button up my shirt.

Everything was moving in the right direction.

The day we got discharged, the sun was shining like crazy.

Lucien took me to the Left Bank of the Seine, to an arts area made from old factories turned into studios.

The car stopped in front of a building covered in ivy, with huge floor–to–ceiling windows.

He opened my door and held his hand over my head to shield it. His voice was still a little weak. “Norah, your place to fight is yours to step into. Logistics,” he paused, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth that made my heart jump, “that’s on me.”

I looked at him but didn’t say a word. I just took a deep breath of the crisp autumn air mixed with the scent of the river and stepped inside.

The studio was bright and roomy, with a high ceiling. Exposed brick walls, simple white display stands, and sleek worktables gave the place a unique vibe.

Irina and Katarina rushed over as soon as they saw me. Sophia and Emily were back, too.

There were also a few top–notch pattern makers and embroiderers I had hired from other studios in Washington with large paychecks.

Everyone’s eyes were bright, buzzing with the excitement of seeing me again and the eagerness to get started.

I took off my coat and walked over to the biggest worktable in the center. It was already covered with clean white fabric, with all kinds of tools and little fabric swatches neatly set out beside it.

I slipped on a custom–made glove, soft leather mixed with simple black lace on my right hand.

This glove protected my injured wrist but still let me do the fine work I needed.

“Meeting time.”

Half an hour later, a small, invite–only preview event was held in the studio’s gallery. The crowd was made up of top editors from elite fashion media, respected critics, and a handful of high–end buyers.

Chapter 217

I stepped into the center of the gallery, soft spotlights casting a gentle shine on me.

There were fewer than thirty people in the room, but it was dead quiet.

Every single pair of eyes was fixed on me.

“Thanks for taking the time to come. There’s no new product today, just a small teaser.”

I lifted my right hand a little. The black lace glowed under the lights like a delicate web. “One week from now, at the Paris Opera House, Thornbird and Nightingale are teaming up for a special big show. The theme is…”

I paused, slowly moving my eyes across every curious, waiting face in the crowd. “Imperfectly Perfect.”

A soft wave of whispers moved through the audience. Some started talking quietly to each other.

“The past few years haven’t been easy for me or my brand. Scars, breaks, disappearances, rebuilds. A lot of people asked, can Norah Hawthorne still design? Can Thornbird still fly?”

I raised my right hand, still wearing the lace glove, and slowly curled it into a fist, then loosened it again. The movement was slow, the joints stiff and a bit stubborn.

“This hand couldn’t even hold a pencil before. It’s covered in scars. The nerves are like broken wires; sometimes they stop working, sometimes they hurt, reminding me how imperfect it is.”

I lowered my hand. “But now, I want to tell everyone, including myself, that scars aren’t flaws. They’re the special marks life leaves on us. They’re stories. They’re signs of strength. Imperfection isn’t a shame, it’s the raw, strongest place you reach after fire, ice, tearing, and healing.”

“True perfection isn’t about being spotless. It’s about having the courage to pick up the pieces after you break, and with honesty and bravery, put them back together. Let the cracks become the paths where light comes in.”

“One week from now, at the Paris Opera House, I’ll tell a story through three collections, about scars, tides, and coming home. Stay tuned.”

After I finished, there was a short, quiet moment, then the room burst into clapping.

I caught the shine of respect and interest in the eyes of some older critics.

I knew the first step was a win.

The buzz and eagerness had been sparked.

When the press event ended, the media and guests slowly left.

Once the studio door shut behind them, I rushed back to the main workspace and pinned the design sketches I had prepared long ago all over one whole wall.

Three sets of keywords were boldly written on a huge whiteboard:

Scars, showing the dark times when I was betrayed, hurt, my right hand damaged, secretly pregnant, struggling on my own.

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