Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 16

Chapter 16

I remained silent, my gaze fixed on the corner of the design table as if searching for answers there.

It was an invitation, embossed in gold—a symbol of prestige and challenge. The official dinner for Paris Haute Couture Fashion Week wasn’t merely a glamorous event; it was the very first arena where I would have to prove myself after returning. The flashing cameras of the media, the scrutinizing eyes of my competitors, and socialites like Camille Moreau would all be watching closely, ready to judge the comeback of “Thorn Creative” under the harshest spotlight.

I exhaled slowly, steadying my nerves. “Lucien, I’m not interested in your yacht,” I said firmly, pulling away from him. My fingers instinctively reached for the sketches of the “Rebirth” collection spread across the table—this was my shield, the culmination of all my effort and passion.

But a stack of drawings alone wouldn’t be enough to bring my vision to life.

I grabbed my phone and moved toward the floor-to-ceiling window, the city lights of Paris shimmering beneath the darkening sky. One by one, I called every high-end atelier I had previously worked with, places I trusted to help me realize such intricate designs.

“Miss Norah, I’m sorry, but our schedule is fully booked this year…” came the first rejection.

“Ms. Hawthorne, your concept is brilliant, but to be honest, this design might be impossible to execute with current techniques…” another voice said hesitantly.

“We won’t be able to take your order, unfortunately…”

Each call ended with a polite refusal. Then, on the last call, just before the line went dead, the manager whispered, “Norah… you’ve crossed someone powerful this time. Be careful.”

I knew exactly who that was.

Camille Moreau.

That woman had exploited her connections in the fashion world to block every door in my path.

For a fleeting moment, I considered asking Lucien for help.

But no.

The place he had taken me to earlier boasted the best craftsmen and tools in Paris, and with their support, these obstacles would vanish easily.

Yet I couldn’t keep relying on him for everything.

This was my fight, and I was determined to win it on my own.

Without looking back at Lucien, I gathered all the design sketches and headed straight back to the studio.

By then, most of the staff had left for the day; only Sophie remained, quietly sorting through fabrics.

She looked up, startled to see me.

“Sophie, looks like it’s just us now. Want a strong cappuccino to keep us going?” I offered with a small smile.

“Why not?!” Sophie replied with a bright grin.

Later that night, the studio was filled only with the soft hum of the sewing machine and the occasional sigh of frustration.

The most challenging part of the “Rebirth” main gown was its shoulder structure—a complex combination of uneven cuts and an innovative suspended support system.

Sophie and I worked tirelessly, stitching and ripping apart fabric again and again, the floor littered with scraps, but still, the effect I envisioned eluded us.

Suddenly, the studio door creaked open quietly.

Lucien stepped in, carrying two paper bags, the aroma of food wafting behind him.

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