Revenge amnesia upgraded to his brother novel Chapter 96

**The Goodbye That Never Reached You and My Life Chasing 96**

**Chapter 96**

**Norah’s POV**

The night dragged on, each minute stretching into an eternity, and sleep eluded me like a ghost.

Thoughts spiraled in my mind, a chaotic whirlwind of names and events: Lucien, Eleanor, the relentless cops, the ever-watchful media—it was all a disastrous tangle.

Finally, the rain ceased, and dawn crept in, casting a dull, grey light across the sky. It resembled the pallid underside of a fish, lifeless and still.

I couldn’t linger any longer; remaining idle felt like a slow death.

With a determined push, I rolled out of bed, every muscle in my body protesting. The tension coiled within me like a tightly wound spring, and I felt every ache as I stood.

I shuffled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face repeatedly, hoping to jolt my senses awake. The icy droplets were shocking, invigorating, if only for a moment.

Staring into the mirror, I took in the dark circles framing my eyes, but beneath that fatigue, my gaze burned with resolve.

I snatched my phone from the counter, scrolling through my contacts until I found Madame DuBois’s private number. My heart raced as I inhaled deeply, pressing the dial button.

The phone rang three times before her voice sliced through the silence, crisp and alert. “Who is this?”

“Madame DuBois, good morning. It’s Norah Hawthorne,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady despite the tension in my chest.

There was a pause, thick with unspoken thoughts. I could almost feel her calculating my worth. “What do you want, girl?” she finally asked, her tone devoid of pleasantries.

I cut straight to the chase, skipping any trivial small talk. “The donation—ten percent of Thornbird’s online revenue for next year. I want to discuss the specifics. In person. You choose the time and place, and I will be there.”

A heavy silence followed, and then she replied, “Tuileries Garden. The café near the fountain. Nine o’clock. Don’t be late.”

The click of the line disconnecting felt like a gunshot in the stillness of the morning.

I dressed quickly, donning a sharp black suit that felt like armor against the world outside.

As I drove through the awakening city, Paris seemed transformed—its beauty overshadowed by an undercurrent of danger.

After parking, I walked toward the café, the sound of my heels echoing on the pavement, stark against the morning’s quietude.

Madame DuBois was already there, as expected. She sat at a table near the window, her presence commanding.

Dressed in a striking deep blue Chanel suit, her silver hair was pulled back meticulously, not a single strand out of place. She cradled a delicate coffee cup, appearing like any other affluent woman enjoying her morning.

Yet, her eyes told a different story. They darted around the garden, sharp and observant, missing nothing in their sweep.

I approached her table, taking a seat without waiting for an invitation.

At first, she didn’t acknowledge my presence. But then, she placed her cup down with a sound that was both precise and final.

“You didn’t request this meeting just to discuss a donation,” she stated, her voice low and gravelly, slicing through the air. “Cut the crap. What do you really want?”

I appreciated her straightforwardness—no games, no pretenses.

“I need your help,” I said, laying everything bare. I recounted Eleanor’s betrayal, how she was framing Lucien, the manufactured evidence, and the looming shadow of the Veyron family that hung over us all.

Madame DuBois listened intently, her expression inscrutable, a mask of calm that revealed nothing.

When I finished, she picked up her spoon and began stirring her coffee, the spoon moving in slow, deliberate circles.

“Why,” she asked, her tone cool, “should I help you? What’s in it for me?”

I had anticipated this question and had prepared for it.

Reaching into my bag, I retrieved a folder—the proposal I had labored over throughout the night.

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