Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 105

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 105**

**Chapter 105**

**Norah’s POV**

It was finally happening. Eleanor had arrived, and not just by herself. A swarm of reporters trailed closely behind her, cameras at the ready, their anticipation palpable.

“Norah Hawthorne! You shameless whore!” she bellowed, her voice slicing through the air like a knife. “I know you’re in there! Lucien is a wanted man, and you just can’t wait to jump into bed with another man, can you?!”

The reporters surged forward, their excitement a tangible energy, as if they were a pack of sharks catching the scent of blood. Flashes from their cameras erupted like fireworks, illuminating the dim hallway where I stood.

Eleanor’s intent was clear: she wanted to capture me half-dressed, tangled in the sheets of a cheap hotel room with some nameless man. She craved the world to see Norah Hawthorne as nothing more than a broken woman, unraveling at the seams the moment a man walked away.

I approached the door, my heart racing as I peered through the peephole. Eleanor’s face was a mask of triumph and contempt, twisted with a satisfaction that sent a shiver down my spine.

A smile crept onto my lips, a calculated gesture meant to unnerve her.

With a deep breath, I smoothed down my dress, lifted my chin defiantly, and swung the door open.

My gaze met hers coolly, then drifted past her to the eager reporters, their eyes wide with expectation.

“Mrs. Constantine,” I said sweetly, “your husband is dead. Are you feeling lonely? Is that why you’ve come to a place like this—for comfort?”

The smugness on her face vanished, replaced by a look of shock that quickly morphed into fury.

I stepped closer, allowing my eyes to roam over her expensive black suit, taking in every detail, before returning to her face.

“Oh, how unfortunate,” I sighed, feigning pity. “You’re not exactly in the prime of your youth anymore, are you? I doubt many men are lining up for a body that’s already dried out.”

“You—!”

Eleanor’s face flushed a mottled purple-red, her rage bubbling just beneath the surface, threatening to explode.

In a blind fury, she raised her hand, swinging it toward my face with the intent to strike.

I stood my ground, refusing to flinch.

But before her hand could make contact, a strong grip caught her wrist mid-air.

Mateo stepped in beside me, positioning himself between us, his presence a solid wall of protection.

His fingers tightened around Eleanor’s wrist, just enough to elicit a gasp of pain from her lips.

“Mrs. Constantine,” Mateo spoke, his voice calm yet laced with an icy edge, “clearly, no one has explained to you that my woman is not someone you can lay a finger on.”

With a flick of his wrist, he released her, and Eleanor stumbled back, shock and fear flickering across her features.

“You?!” she exclaimed, her voice a mix of disbelief and horror, as if she had encountered a ghost.

Mateo didn’t even spare her a glance at first. He shrugged off his jacket, draping it over my shoulders with a casual grace, then wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me close against him, a display for every camera that stood witness.

Only then did he lift his head, his cold, arrogant gaze sweeping over the reporters and onlookers.

“I don’t care who you are,” he drawled lazily, “or who you work for.”

“I’ll say this one more time: Norah Hawthorne is under my protection.”

“Anyone who dares to lay a hand on her…” His eyes narrowed back to Eleanor, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper, “I’ll ensure the entire Constantine Group pays the price.”

Days later, Mateo kept his promise.

Under the banner of “demanding justice for my woman,” he arrived at the Constantine estate with a small army of bodyguards and a convoy of sleek black cars.

As the convoy rolled up, the staff of the old mansion turned pale, their faces draining of color.

To them, it must have looked like the mob had come to collect on a long-overdue debt.

The butler and house staff were thrown into a frenzy, and Eleanor had no choice but to step out and confront him.

Dressed in full mourning black, she clung desperately to the image of the lady of the house, but the fear and fury blazing in her eyes betrayed her.

“Mr. Vega, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice tense and filled with suppressed rage.

Mateo lounged casually on the sofa in the main sitting room, one leg crossed over the other, exuding an air of confidence that was almost mocking in enemy territory.

“It’s quite simple,” he replied, a smirk playing on his lips. “I’m here to get justice for my woman.”

Eleanor’s expression darkened further, her anger palpable.

“Nono was frightened,” Mateo continued, his tone shifting to one of disinterest. “She’s not feeling well and needs rest. I thought I’d borrow a guest room. I’m sure you won’t mind, will you, Mrs. Constantine?”

He left her no room for refusal.

I sensed what he was doing and pressed a hand to my forehead, allowing my shoulders to droop in a show of exhaustion.

“Teo… my head is spinning. I’m going upstairs to lie down.”

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