Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 57

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 57**

**Chapter 57**

**Norah’s POV**

The screen of my phone flickered to life, revealing Katarina’s face, contorted with a fury so intense it felt as if it might shatter the very pixels that formed her image.

For a fleeting moment, the world around me faded into silence, as if time itself had paused to witness the impending chaos.

Then, like a coiled spring released, she lunged forward, a primal scream erupting from her throat, raw and unrestrained.

She was a whirlwind of nails and disheveled hair, a tempest of humiliation and rage directed squarely at me.

Irina, positioned beside me, moved with the effortless grace of a predator sizing up its prey.

She stood her ground, unwavering and composed.

With a casual flick of her leg, she extended it toward Katarina.

Katarina’s reckless charge met its end as she stumbled forward, crashing onto the plush hotel carpet, her body a chaotic jumble of limbs and discarded silk sheets.

The breath whooshed from her lungs, leaving her gasping like a fish out of water.

Desperately, she scrambled backward, clutching a crumpled bedsheet to her chest as if it were a lifeline.

Her cheeks bore the marks of her emotional turmoil, blotchy and tear-streaked, the artfully applied makeup now reduced to a tragic canvas of smudged colors.

“Norah Hawthorne!” she shrieked, her voice cracking under the weight of her outrage. “You wouldn’t dare—”

“Why wouldn’t I?” I interjected, my tone deceptively calm, a stark contrast to the chaos surrounding us.

I raised my phone higher, ensuring she could see the ominous red timer ticking down on the recording.

“You have ten seconds to get yourself dressed. Otherwise, this little performance will be broadcasted live. To every media outlet, every gossip blog, and every fashion insider across three continents.”

Irina let out a low, disinterested sigh, her gaze drifting to her perfectly manicured nails as if the unfolding drama was merely an inconvenience.

“If you’re so desperate for fame, Katarina, we can certainly arrange a much larger audience for you.”

The color drained from Katarina’s face, replaced by a deep, mottled purple that spoke of her growing dread.

Defeated, she moved with frantic, jerky motions, yanking her discarded gown over her head with trembling hands, a marionette whose strings had been cut.

“What do you want?” she finally spat, breathless and glaring, her bravado faltering under the weight of her predicament.

From the shadows near the balcony, Lucien emerged, now fully attired, his presence a solid wall of authority beside me.

His eyes, when they settled on Katarina, were as cold and unyielding as glacial ice, devoid of any warmth or sympathy.

“Did you really believe you could deceive me, Katarina? That cheap perfume you doused yourself in—did you think it could mask the unmistakable scent of Eleanor’s scheming?”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, the sound sharp enough to make her flinch.

“You dangled my mother’s supposed ‘lead’ like a carrot, whispering secrets in my ear while you dutifully reported every reaction back to her. And Eleanor? She sat back, relishing the spectacle, hoping Norah would witness enough, feel enough, to walk away for good.”

He took a step closer, and Katarina instinctively shrank back, as if the very air between them had thickened with tension.

Then, unexpectedly, she released a high, broken laugh that resembled a sob more than anything else.

“Then I’ll pick two! Go ahead! Ruin me! But you’ll get nothing from me!”

“Will we?” Lucien’s voice was barely a whisper, yet it sliced through the charged atmosphere like a knife.

He stepped closer, a panther circling its cornered prey, his presence looming over her.

“You seem to forget that I possess resources far beyond a mere phone camera. Did you really think I haven’t traced every ruble your dear brother funneled through that shell account in Zurich? The laundering file from last month is particularly… detailed.”

The last remnants of defiance evaporated from Katarina’s body.

Her shoulders slumped, her knees buckled, and she crumpled to the floor, a heap of expensive fabric, resembling a broken doll.

“I’ll talk,” she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips, choked with despair.

She gulped for air, lifting her head to meet Irina’s gaze, her eyes pleading with a final, desperate shred of pride.

“But the deal stands. I want Chanel.”

Irina arched one perfectly sculpted brow, intrigued.

“Done.”

She shot me a look that spoke volumes—a silent reminder that the game was far from over.

Her lips curved into a sly smile. “But we’ll be watching. You’d better ensure you earn it.”