Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 47

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 47**

**Chapter 47**

**Norah’s POV**

As the taxi sped through the city streets, the world outside morphed into a blur of colors and shapes, a chaotic tapestry that mirrored the turmoil within me. My mind, however, was a storm of tangled thoughts, each one more furious than the last.

Katarina’s face flashed before my eyes, hauntingly familiar, a ghost of my own reflection. Damian’s reckless bravery, risking everything for a cause that felt increasingly distant. And Lucien—his sweet, complicated lies wrapped around my heart like a vine, choking the breath from my lungs.

“Take me to a hotel,” I instructed the driver, my voice devoid of emotion. I craved solitude, a sanctuary where I could gather my scattered thoughts, where I could breathe without the weight of the world pressing down on me.

Upon entering the hotel room, I was greeted by the sight of a pale, haunted woman in the mirror. It was as if I was looking at a stranger. There, in the depths of my own eyes, I saw Katarina staring back—her smile, her mouth, the very essence of her being woven into my own.

A wave of nausea crashed over me, and for the first time in my life, I found myself loathing the face I wore. It felt like a betrayal, a constant reminder of everything I wished to escape.

My gaze fell upon the scissors resting on the desk. I picked them up, the cold steel biting into my fingers as if it were alive. Lucien had often told me how much he adored my hair, the way it cascaded down my back like a waterfall of silk.

Liar.

The thought ignited a fire within me, my grip tightening around the handles of the scissors. With a swift motion, I pressed the blades against my long, flowing hair. The sharp click of the blades echoed in the silence, a promise of change, but then I hesitated.

Why should I alter myself because of a liar? Why should I destroy a part of me for anyone else’s lies?

With a surge of defiance, I hurled the scissors onto the floor. They clattered against the tiles, a sound that reverberated through the emptiness of the room.

Suddenly, my phone rang, shattering the stillness like glass. It was Sophie, her voice shaky and urgent. “Boss! You need to come back to the studio—right now!”

“What’s going on? Calm down and tell me!” I urged, trying to keep my own voice steady amidst the chaos in my mind.

“We don’t know who did it! This morning… the studio entrance is drenched in red paint! The walls… they’re covered in horrible words! Reporters are everywhere—it’s a mob!”

Eleanor. She was far from finished with me. “I’m on my way,” I replied, my heart racing as I hung up.

When I arrived at the studio, the scene was worse than I had feared. The air was thick with the acrid stench of cheap, fresh paint, a nauseating reminder of the chaos that had erupted.

The once-pristine white walls of the studio had been defiled with dripping red slurs—“Whore!” “Slut!” “Homewrecker!”—each word a grotesque scream that clawed at my insides.

A throng of reporters crowded the street, their cameras flashing like ravenous eyes, eager to capture every moment of my humiliation.

“There she is! Norah Hawthorne!” one shouted, his voice cutting through the din.

“Miss Hawthorne, do these accusations hold any truth?” another called out, relentless in their pursuit of a scandal.

“Are these the real reasons behind your success?”

I pushed my way through the crowd, my expression a mask of ice, every ounce of my being focused on maintaining my composure.

With bold, furious strokes, black devoured the red. Gold traced the shape of thorns, a striking contrast against the darkness. The same red became a single drop of blood on the chest of a black thornbird, a powerful symbol of resilience.

When I stepped back, a fierce, golden-trimmed bird emerged from the crimson flames, its wings spread wide, adorned with thorns like armor—defiant and unbroken.

The crowd fell silent, the noise of cameras clicking frantically filling the void.

I tossed the brush aside and turned to face the reporters, a fire igniting in my belly.

“You wanted a statement?” I gestured toward the wall, my voice ringing out clear and strong. “There it is.”

“They called me a whore, a slut, a homewrecker. They tried to bury me in shame, to obliterate everything I’ve built.” My voice sliced through the silence, sharp and unwavering. “Here’s the truth: I didn’t steal or cheat. I forged this with my own hands. Every design I’ve created was meant to empower women—not to appease anyone else.”

“If pursuing my dreams, defending my dignity, and reclaiming what’s mine makes me a ‘slut’ in their eyes…” I spread my arms wide, embracing the label. “Then so be it.”

“Do you want to see me crumble? To beg for mercy?” My voice rang out, clear and challenging, echoing off the walls. “Well, this ‘slut’ is back. I’m going to live louder, rise higher, and shine brighter. I’ll stand above you all—in my highest heels—and I’ll dance. And when I do, you’ll have no choice but to watch. Because no matter what you say… I will never, ever fall again.”

With that, I turned my back on them, walking into my studio, the door slamming shut behind me, sealing off the noise and chaos.

Let them talk.

I had work to do.