Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 70

**TITLE: The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 71**

**Norah’s POV**

The rain had finally ceased, leaving a serene stillness in the air.

The scent of damp earth wafted through the outskirts, a reminder of nature’s cleansing touch.

As we approached the grand château, its classic architecture loomed above us, imposing and magnificent.

“This is it?” I breathed, my heart racing as I gazed up at the enormous façade. My stomach twisted into knots, a mixture of anxiety and anticipation flooding my senses.

Earlier at the hotel, an envelope had awaited me, its contents cryptic. No name was inscribed—only an address, a time, and my name, Norah, written in elegant script.

Lucien, sensing my trepidation, squeezed my hand reassuringly. “Don’t be scared, Norah. I’m here.”

Yet, despite his comforting words, I could see the worry etched in his eyes.

Damian had just been arrested. A call like this? It felt all too much like a trap, a sinister game we were unwittingly stepping into.

As we exited the car, men clad in black stood sentinel at the entrance, their faces devoid of emotion, their presence intimidating.

We had barely set foot outside when a figure beckoned us down a long, dimly lit hallway.

At the end of the corridor, we entered a sitting room where a man reclined on a lavish sofa, exuding an air of nonchalance.

Draped in a deep violet velvet robe, the collar open at his throat, he looked almost ethereal.

His features were sharp, bordering on the surreal, and his amber eyes glinted with a hint of danger, a predator sizing up its prey.

A cigar smoldered between his fingers, the smoke curling around him, adding to the enigmatic atmosphere.

As our eyes met, he extinguished the cigar and rose to greet us.

“Welcome, Mr. Constantine. Miss Hawthorne,” he said with a smooth, almost mocking tone.

He gestured for us to take a seat, and an aide promptly placed a tablet on the table, pressing play.

The screen flickered to life, revealing Damian.

He was being forcefully shoved to the ground, his face streaked with snot and tears, desperation etched in every feature as he begged for mercy.

The sight was gut-wrenching—the sound of his pleas reverberated in my ears.

I instinctively turned away, nausea rising within me.

Lucien’s grip on my hand tightened, his expression unreadable as he absorbed the horrifying scene until it finally came to an end.

“Happy?” the man inquired, his voice light, as if discussing the weather rather than a man’s suffering.

I remained silent, my heart pounding in my chest. He began another video.

This time, it was Eleanor—proud Mrs. Constantine—on her knees in a stark, cold warehouse.

Her hair was disheveled, makeup smeared, her dignity stripped away.

She looked directly into the camera, reciting an apology with chilling precision.

“Eleanor Constantine, apologize to Norah Hawthorne for the fire at Bramblebird studio. I will pay to rebuild it. I beg her forgiveness.”

When the video concluded, a heavy silence enveloped the room, thick and suffocating.

“Norah—or should I say… Nono?” the man interjected, his tone casual yet unsettling.

Nono.

Only my parents had ever called me that.

My head snapped up, shock coursing through me. How could he possibly know?

Lucien instinctively positioned himself in front of me, his body tense, a protective barrier between me and the threat.

The man smiled, a predator’s grin. “Easy, Mr. Constantine. I merely believe we can collaborate more closely.”

“Eleanor and Damian are small-time players. For true revenge, you need a formidable ally.”

He stepped around the table, closing the distance between us. “Someone like me. Mateo, heir to Carlos Vega.”

His gaze pierced through me, as if he could see every fear, every desire. “I can reclaim every penny your parents lost. I can dismantle the Constantine Group. I will ensure that everyone who harmed you kneels before you.”

“All for a small price,” he added, his voice oozing with charm.

I rose to my feet, icy determination coursing through me. “No. My revenge is mine alone. I don’t need your assistance.”

My life is my own. I refuse to relinquish it again.

His smile faltered, and with a sharp clap, men in black seemed to emerge from the shadows—ten, maybe twelve—guns trained on us.

We were ensnared.

“Nono, you still don’t grasp the situation,” Mateo said, his tone low and dangerous. “Here, I dictate the rules.”

The man beside him raised a pistol to my head, and I felt a cold wave of fear wash over me.

I locked eyes with Mateo, his perfect yet cruel visage igniting a fierce battle within me—fear clashed with anger.

In a swift motion, I acted.

I seized the gunman’s wrist, twisting it downwards with all my strength.

He yelped in surprise, the gun clattering to the ground.

I ducked, narrowly avoiding another grasp, and before they could react—

—the gun was in my grip, aimed squarely at Mateo.

“Tell them to lower their weapons,” I commanded, my voice wavering but resolute.

All eyes were on me, even Lucien’s, filled with a mix of disbelief and admiration.

Mateo froze, his hands rising slowly in surrender.

“Careful, little girl,” he murmured, a hint of amusement in his voice. “You might hurt yourself. Do you even know how to use that?”

With a decisive motion, I racked the slide, the sound crisp and clear in the tense atmosphere.

I did. My parents had taught me how to handle a gun when I turned eighteen.

He sidestepped, and the ashtray shattered against the wall.

In retaliation, he yanked my hair, throwing me back onto the couch with brutal force.

“Bitch! You dare?”

He tore at my blouse, the stench of sweat and smoke making me gag.

Black lace peeked through the ripped fabric.

“Slut,” he spat, reaching for me—

“Stop.”

The word sliced through the tension like a knife.

Mateo crossed the room in three swift strides, delivering a powerful kick that sent the guard crashing against the wall.

The man crumpled to the floor, groaning in pain.

“I was just… teaching her for you, boss—”

Mateo seized him by the collar, unleashing a barrage of punches.

Again. Again.

Each hit landed with brutal force, choking cries filling the air as blood stained the carpet beneath them.

He didn’t relent until the man lay limp, utterly defeated.

Then he retrieved a silk handkerchief, wiped his hands clean, and discarded it on the guard’s face.

“Get him out of here. Now,” he ordered, his voice icy and devoid of emotion.

Two men rushed in, dragging the unconscious body away, leaving silence in their wake.

The metallic scent of blood hung heavily in the air.

I curled up on the sofa, clutching my torn shirt, trembling uncontrollably.

Mateo turned his attention back to me, his expression unreadable.

I instinctively recoiled, my heart racing.

He looked down at me, a mixture of curiosity and amusement flickering in his eyes. “Scared?”

I forced my voice to remain steady, despite the turmoil within. “That? Not enough to scare me.”

I stood tall, meeting his gaze with defiance. “Just curious about your… methods. Those paints. Are you ready?”

A spark of surprise lit up his features, followed by a hearty laugh.

“Nono, you really are… entertaining.”

“If you’re so eager, let’s play. How about a bet?”

**Chapter 72**