Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 125

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 125**

*Amélie’s POV*

—

The moment I stepped into the dimly lit arena of the private fight club, the air crackled with a tension that felt almost palpable. The manager, with his overly sweet smile, greeted me with a tone that dripped with insincerity. “Miss Veyron, what an honor.”

I cut him off, urgency lacing my voice. “Where’s Luen?” I had no patience for his empty flattery.

He shifted uneasily, his eyes darting toward the soundproofed VIP ring. “Mr. Constantine… he’s in a mood. Been in there almost three hours.”

I followed his gaze, my heart racing as I took in the scene before me.

Inside the ring, Luen stood in nothing but black training shorts, his bare skin glistening with sweat—a sheen that hinted at something darker. Was that blood?

Three men lay sprawled on the canvas, their bodies slumped against the ropes, groaning in pain. Luen was relentless, a predator cornering his prey, unleashing a flurry of rapid, brutal punches on a fourth opponent. This wasn’t merely sparring; this was a man channeling his fury into every strike, attempting to reshape his rage into something more manageable.

His back was turned to me, but I could see the tension in his muscles, each one coiling and snapping as he unleashed his fury. Sweat cascaded down his spine, glistening in the dim light, while his hair clung to his skin, dark and disheveled.

The atmosphere around the ring was thick with danger, the air hot and stifling as I stood there, transfixed.

Watching him sent my heart racing, a wild rhythm that echoed in my ears. My mouth felt dry, and I could hardly breathe.

This was the man I desired—raw, unbridled power. A feral creature, a wounded lion caught in a cage.

And I was determined to be the one to tame him. It had to be me.

Finally, the last fighter tapped out, and the referee rushed in to intervene. Luen stood there, chest heaving, each breath a laborious task. He bent forward, hands on his knees, sweat dripping from him in sheets.

I took a moment to steady myself, inhaling deeply before making my way toward the glass. I tapped lightly, my heart pounding in anticipation.

When he turned to face me, the wildness in his eyes evaporated, replaced by a chilling disdain that cut through me.

He looked right past me, grabbing a towel and roughly scrubbing his face before striding toward the locker room without a backward glance.

As I watched him retreat, frustration bubbled within me, and I dug my nails into my palms, trying to quell the storm of emotions. Why?

I am Amélie Veyron. I get what I want. Always.

I am the Veyron heiress, the daughter of an arms dealer. I am the only one who can stand beside him.

And what is Norah Hawthorne? A nobody. An orphan!

Why does she hold his heart? Why does she unravel him like this?

Jealousy and hatred twisted in my gut, making it hard to breathe.

—

I forced myself to take a few calming breaths, engaging in idle chatter with the manager until the coast was clear. Once I felt the moment was right, I slipped away toward the locker room.

The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, stepping into a dimly lit space that reeked of sweat, testosterone, and whiskey. Empty bottles lay scattered across the floor, remnants of a night gone too far.

There he was, sprawled on a large leather couch, one arm thrown over his eyes, a towel carelessly draped across his hips.

He was drunk, utterly out of it.

My heart raced in my chest. This was my chance.

I knelt beside him, my hand trembling as I reached out. “Luen?” I whispered, my voice barely above a breath.

He didn’t stir, merely mumbling a name, slurred and thick. “Norah…”

Her again!

Rage surged through me like wildfire. I was on the brink of grabbing a bottle and hurling it against the wall.

But then, a thought took root in my mind. My father’s words echoed in my head: Take what you want, Amélie. Nothing is given.

Leaning closer, I whispered into his ear, “Luen, tell me. Who do you love?”

He frowned, his arm shifting slightly. “Norah…don’t go… love you…”

My heart hardened, turning to stone, then flooded with a cold, sharp hatred.

Good. He was too far gone to discern reality from his drunken fantasies.

I stood up, quietly locking the door behind me.

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