Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 58

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 58**

**Chapter 58**

**Norah’s POV**

The countdown to our independent showcase had begun, and with only a few days remaining, the atmosphere in the studio was thick with a palpable tension. It felt like the moment before a storm, charged with an electric energy that hinted at both excitement and impending chaos.

Every inch of the space was a testament to our frantic preparations—sketches pinned haphazardly on walls, vibrant fabric swatches scattered across tables, and garments in various states of completion draped over chairs like silent witnesses to our labor. The aroma of strong coffee mingled with the scent of sweat and dreams, creating a heady mix that fueled our ambition.

Sophie approached me, her hands tightly gripping a roll of site plans, her face a ghostly shade of pale. She looked as if she had just emerged from a nightmare.

“Norah, are you absolutely certain about the venue? The abandoned opera house?” she asked, spreading the blueprints on the worktable with a sense of urgency. “The lighting grid is rusted beyond repair. The sound system? It’s practically a relic from the last century. And the rigging… it’s all rotten. We’re taking a massive risk.”

I gazed at the images of the dilapidated building, the once-majestic structure now a mere shadow of its former self. Chunks of plaster hung precariously from the ceiling, and the dome was a ghostly skeleton of shattered glass and rusted iron.

Yet, beneath the layers of decay, I could still sense the remnants of its grandeur, waiting to be reborn.

“That’s precisely the point,” I replied, my voice steady despite the turmoil within. “I want them to understand that Thornbird doesn’t need a pristine gallery. We’re here to create beauty from the ruins, to show that art can thrive even in the most desolate of places.”

Just then, Irina burst into the room, a whirlwind of energy, flanked by a team that moved with an air of quiet efficiency. She had brought along her top production manager, a renowned sound engineer with a reputation for miracles, and two publicists so persuasive they could sell ice to a snowman.

Dressed in expensive sweatpants and her hair haphazardly tied in a bun, Irina commanded the room with the authority of a general leading her troops into battle.

“If we’re going to do this,” she declared, her eyes scanning the chaos around her, “we’re not merely making a statement. We’re igniting a war.” Her gaze locked onto mine. “Let Eleanor and Katarina’s commercial stunt be the opening act. Our show will be the main event—the one that leaves them breathless.”

Just then, my phone buzzed on the table, a jarring interruption to the moment.

The screen illuminated with a message from an unknown number, but deep down, I already knew who it was.

Katarina: *Eleanor isn’t finished. She’s tipped off fringe protest groups and the press. They’ll be there on show day. Watch your back.*

I read the message, a chill creeping through my veins as the blood in my body turned cold. I quickly called Sophie over, and we pored over the contingency plans once more, our minds racing with possibilities.

**Show day was a whirlwind of controlled chaos.**

The once-ruined opera house had been transformed into a spectacle of light and shadow.

Lighting towers sliced through the darkness, illuminating a long, narrow runway that seemed to stretch into infinity.

The air was electric with anticipation, thick with the scent of ozone from the fog machines that swirled around us like ghostly apparitions.

I was making my final rounds, checking the lineup of models, when a familiar voice broke through the clamor, calling out my name.

I turned to see Damian, sitting in his wheelchair, a massive bouquet of blood-red roses cradled in his lap.

His gaze met mine, filled with an exaggerated devotion that warmed my heart.

“Norah,” he said softly, his voice a soothing balm amidst the chaos. “You look… absolutely incredible tonight.”

Our staff, mostly oblivious to the true nature of our plans, watched the exchange with a mix of curiosity and admiration. I noticed a few of them soften, visibly moved by the tender moment unfolding before them.

“Good luck,” he said, extending the bouquet toward me. The roses were intoxicating, their scent overwhelming yet delightful. “No matter what happens tonight, you will always be the best in my eyes.”

I accepted the flowers, noting how the thorns had been carefully filed down, a thoughtful gesture.

“Thank you, Damian,” I replied, allowing a small, private smile to grace my lips. “Please wait for me in the VIP lounge after the show. I have something important to share with you.”

His face lit up with a hopeful glow. “Yes! Of course, I’ll be there.”

By eight o’clock, the opera house was a cacophony of excitement, filled to the brim with fashion editors, buyers, influencers, and critics, all nestled in the crumbling velvet seats that had seen better days.

The buzz of conversation crackled in the air like a live current, electrifying the atmosphere.

Then, the music began—a deep, rhythmic pulse that resonated through the very bones of the building.

The spotlights flared to life, illuminating the runway in a blaze of brilliance.

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