Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 100

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 100**

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**Chapter 100**

“This is the spot Mrs. DuBois wants us to use as our hideout,” Lucien remarked, letting out a heavy sigh that seemed to echo through the tacky love hotel room.

As I surveyed the surroundings, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of disbelief wash over me. The room was drenched in a gaudy aesthetic—pink lights casting an unsettling glow, cheap velvet draping the furniture, and a heart-shaped mirror awkwardly positioned on the ceiling, reflecting our unease.

“Honestly,” I muttered under my breath, “no one would ever expect you to be in a place like this.”

Lucien responded with a humorless huff, a sound that carried a weight of resignation. “That’s the only upside to this whole ridiculous situation.”

With a sense of urgency, I reached into my handbag and retrieved the folder I had risked everything to obtain. My heart raced as I handed it to him, the gravity of the moment settling heavily between us.

“This is what Eleanor intended to use against you at the funeral,” I stated, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Lucien slid the papers out, his eyes scanning them rapidly, a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. Inside, the contents were damning—photos of him with men who bore an unsettling resemblance to Middle Eastern militants, their faces obscured but the implications clear. The folder also contained a weapons-deal contract, complete with what appeared to be his forged signature, alongside a list of numbers that could easily ruin his life.

“Pathetic work,” he declared coldly, his tone devoid of any warmth. “But dangerous enough for those who are eager to believe it.”

He tossed the folder aside, yet the intensity in his gaze remained sharp—ice over a blade, ready to strike.

But I wasn’t finished.

“Lucien… I found something else as well.”

With a deliberate motion, I placed a small black leather diary into his hands. The moment his fingers brushed against it, I noticed a tremor—a flicker of recognition ignited in his eyes as he spotted the gold-stamped initials K.C.

He opened the diary to the first page, and I could see his expression shift as he began to read.

“Today is our third wedding anniversary. I told Frank I’m pregnant. He held me like a child—laughing and crying all at once. He said this is God’s greatest gift to him. He said our baby will be the happiest little one in the world.”

Lucien’s breath hitched, a shaky exhale escaping his lips.

“No,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “My father hated me. He called me a bastard more times than I can count…”

The pain in his voice was palpable, and I watched as he shut his eyes, as if trying to block out the memories that threatened to consume him.

I instinctively squeezed his hand, offering my support.

“Lucien, none of that was real. You know Eleanor has kept him drugged for years.”

He took a long, shuddering breath and nodded slowly, the tension in his body easing just a fraction.

“I took him back to his study that night,” he began, his voice steadier now. “That’s when Eleanor showed me a confession—she claimed my mother had embezzled money and run off with another man.”

“I almost believed her,” he admitted quietly, his eyes distant. “The police seal was there. Reports. My mother’s signature.”

His jaw tightened, the memory clearly still fresh and painful.

“But the moment I saw the signature… I knew.”

He lifted a finger, tracing an invisible shape in the air, as if trying to conjure the memory back to life.

“When I was a child, my mother taught me how to write my name. She said a signature is a promise—and promises can be stolen. So she taught me how to hide little marks inside it. Tiny strokes only I would recognize. Her signature always ended with a ‘y’ that curled slightly to the left. And there was a unique counter-curve, a small flourish… but it was missing.”

“Business at the company isn’t good. Frank is getting angry. He yelled at me again today.”

As he continued to read, the tone shifted—the writing became messier, shakier, as if fear had seeped into her very hands.

Lucien paused on one of the last pages, the ink pressed so hard that it left indentations on the next sheet.

“Frank has changed. He stays out all night, and that perfume never leaves his clothes.”

“Today, Eleanor came to see me.”

“She told me she is pregnant with Frank’s child.”

“What should I do?”

The page ended abruptly, leaving a haunting void.

Everything that followed had been torn out—clean, violent, final.

Lucien stared at the jagged edge of the ripped page, his fingers trembling around the diary as if he were cradling the last vestige of his mother left in this world.

I placed my hand over his, a gesture of solidarity.

“We’ll find the rest,” I whispered, though deep inside, a chilling truth settled in my bones: Eleanor had ensured those missing pages remained buried.

Yet, she had underestimated us before.

And this time, she had no idea how close we were.