Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 148

Chapter 148

When I returned to the office, Irina and Katarina immediately surrounded me.

“So?” Irina asked urgently. “What did he say?”

I didn’t answer. I just walked to the floor–to–ceiling window and looked down.

Finished

Lucien was leaning against the car door. He didn’t leave right away. He simply lit a cigarette and smoked in silence.

Just then, Sophie ran in.

“Norah!” Her eyes were wide. “Oh my God! A vice president from Goldman Sachs personally called to apologize. He said the credit downgrade earlier was a system error–our loan channels have all been restored! And he even offered the most favorable interest rates for Nightingale!”

Right after that, Irina’s assistant rushed in.

“Boss! Those suppliers are calling one after another saying it was all a misunderstanding. Not only did they withdraw the lawsuits, they’re also offering long–term cooperation contracts with super–long payment terms!”

Katarina’s phone rang as well.

“What? All Nightingale’s online stores are back up? And they’ve been pushed to the homepage -premium golden placement?”

The office fell into a strange, eerie silence.

Everyone looked at me, then looked down at the man outside.

This was Lucien Constant.

With a single phone call, he could make the wolves that were ready to tear us apart one second ago turn into obedient sheep the next.

And he could pull the empire I’d been struggling to keep alive for an entire week back from the edge of death–instantly.

He destroyed me or saved me, all depending on a single thought.

“Jesus. Money and power really let people do whatever they want,” Katarina cursed, not sure if she was sighing or venting.

Irina sat with her legs crossed, tapping the armrest of the sofa lightly with her fingers.

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“So,” she drawled, “what price did our queen sell herself for?”

“Three months,” I said. “In exchange for Nightingale’s safety.”

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Finished

“Three months?” Irina’s tone shot up. “And then what? You really think you’ll be able to walk away?”

“Even if I can’t, I still have to.” My voice was flat. “It’s a deal. I proposed it.”

Katarina frowned. “Norah, you didn’t have to-”

I turned around and looked at them. The corner of my mouth twitched, not quite a smile.

“This is fine, too. At least now I can focus on getting Nightingale back on track.”

At that moment, a short message popped up on my phone screen:

[7 p.m. Montaigne Avenue. Private salon.]

Downstairs, Lucien lifted his head and shook his phone at me, as if reminding me of my place. -then he got into the car and drove away.

That was my sponsor for the next three months.

I gave a mocking laugh and replied:

[Okay.]

That evening, I changed into the gold velvet gown Lucien had someone deliver.

The cut was extremely minimalist, but it traced every curve of my body with unforgiving precision.

The back was a deep V, exposing a wide expanse of smooth skin.

The woman in the mirror looked calm and composed–flame–red lips, eyes cold.

Beautiful.

And perfectly suited to the role of “mistress.”

The salon was set inside a historic private mansion on Montaigne Avenue. The guests were basically that tiny circle at the very top of Paris–of Europe–people with power and money.

The moment Lucien and I appeared, the entire room turned to look.

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Surprise. Curiosity. Understanding. Disdain.

All of it hidden behind champagne flutes and polished smiles.

Lucien’s arm stayed possessively around my waist.

“Norah Hawthorne,” he introduced, voice steady. “Founder and Creative Director of Nightingale.”

He omitted every other label, every prefix.

But our posture said everything.

I held a flawless smile and endured the fake pleasantries.

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The air was thick with high–end perfume, cigar smoke, and the scent of money and

power.

A few impeccably made–up socialites gathered not far away. Their gazes were sharp as needles. They glanced at me, then quickly looked away, whispering to each other, occasionally letting out restrained little laughs.

“I’m going to touch up my makeup,” I murmured to Lucien, trying to free myself—at least a little–from the restraint of his arm.

He looked at me, eyes deep. His thumb brushed slowly along the side of my waist before he finally loosened his hold.

“Don’t be too long.”

After I came out of the restroom, I walked toward a quieter side corridor. I just wanted to breathe.

I’d barely reached a corner where a terrace was half–hidden behind heavy velvet curtains when a strong force suddenly yanked me inside.

It was Lucien.

He pressed me against the cold stone pillar of the terrace. The thick curtain blocked most of the light and noise from the hall, leaving only distant music and the heat of our rising breath.

“You look so damn sexy in this dress,” he said in a voice so low it burned. His lips brushed my ear. “I want to take you right now.”

I turned my face away. “Lucien, we’re outside-”

“So what?” he cut me off, and his kiss came down.

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One hand gripped the back of my head tightly. The other slid over the bare skin of my back, and wherever his fingertips passed, my body shivered uncontrollably.

At first I struggled, pushing at his chest.

But his kiss was too familiar, too domineering, and it easily disrupted my breathing and heartbeat.

The darkness, the secrecy, the danger–paired with his near–punishing aggression–actually woke up a reaction deep inside my body, something that had been sleeping.

My resistance turned weaker and weaker. My body softened slightly in his arms.

He seemed to sense the change. He kissed deeper, harder. The hand roaming over my back grew bolder, his fingers hooking the edge of my dress.

“You still tremble for me,” he panted as he pulled back from my lips, his forehead pressing against mine. His voice was hoarse. “Norah–your body is more honest than your mouth.”

“That’s just a physiological response,” I ground out.

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