The Velvet Room Conspiracy: Chapter Fourteen
Velvet Silence
Charlie
The lounge is quieter than usual tonight, though no less opulent. The air hums with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of expensive glassware, and soft music notes drift from a concealed speaker. Velvet drapes and shadowed corners give the space a curated intimacy, but beneath it all, something feels off, like the moment before a curtain rises.
I find Katherine seated at the end of the bar, her presence impossible to ignore. She doesn’t wave or smile but watches as I approach, her crimson lips set in a faint curve, her red hair in a tight bun.
“You’re on time,” she says, lifting her glass but not taking a sip. “I expected you might hesitate.”
“I figured you’d prefer punctuality.”
Katherine stands, adjusting the cuff of her blazer. “Come with me. The event isn’t held on this floor.”
She doesn’t elaborate. I follow her past the bar, through a side corridor concealed behind a partition of smoked glass and textured wall panels. There’s no signage, no obvious doorway—just an unmarked section that blends seamlessly into the architecture. She taps a hidden panel on the wall, and with a muted click, part of the wall slides open to reveal a private elevator.
I step inside beside her, trying not to show how tightly my nerves coil. There are no labeled buttons on the panel, only a sleek touchpad that glows faintly under her fingers. She enters a code without looking, and the doors slide shut.
We begin to descend.
The silence in the elevator is absolute. Even the hum of the machinery feels muffled, as though we’ve stepped outside the regular bounds of the building. There are no floor indicators, just the smooth, upward pull that seems to go on too long.
“How far up are we going?” I ask, my voice even but laced with caution.
Katherine doesn’t look at me when she answers. “Far enough.”
I glance at the walls, wondering if cameras are watching, or if someone like Wes is tracking the elevator’s movement.
When the elevator finally stops, the doors open into a softly lit hallway. The lighting is warmer than I expected—golden, inviting—but the marble floors and gilded fixtures whisper of something colder underneath. There are no windows or signs. Just curated silence and a waiting corridor.
“This way,” Katherine says, stepping out. “You’ll want to see how the real events are run.”
Before Katherine leads me farther down the corridor, I pause and glance at her, careful to keep my tone even. “Do you happen to have a phone charger?”
Katherine turns, one brow arched. “Why? Planning to check your social media?”
“Just want to make sure I didn’t miss any important messages.” I try to sound casual, but her gaze is sharp, like she’s deciding how much of my question is really a question.
Without a word, she walks to a mirrored counter along the hallway wall and slides open a drawer. She pulls out a slim charger, one of those sleek, travel-sized ones, and hands it to me. “You won’t get much of a signal up here. Things tend to go quiet the deeper we go.”
I take it, pretending not to read into how she says it.
As I plug my phone in, the screen lights up, then floods with missed notifications.
9 missed calls. All from Jules.Texts, too.
Where are you?
You’re not answering. This isn’t funny.
Charlie, I swear to God—Pick. Up. Your. Phone.
The unease already curling in my stomach twists tighter. I tap the screen off before Katherine can see more, but her gaze lingers on me.
“Everything all right?” she asks, too lightly.
“Just my cousin,” I say, slipping my phone back into my pocket. “She gets… intense.”
“Mm,” Katherine hums. “And what does your cousin think you’re doing here?”
The question is pointed but I don’t answer. I text Jules back quickly
I’m alive at the Velvet Room. Hide Bianca’s journals that are in my apartment.
I didn’t wait for a response.
Instead, I shift gears. “Has a woman named Bianca Kincaid ever come through here?”
That gets her attention.
Her polished expression slips—only slightly, but I catch it. A brief flicker of recognition, maybe. Or fear.
“Bianca,” she repeats, slower this time.
“She was a journalist,” I add. “Freelance. She may have asked around about the Velvet Room.”
Katherine’s lips tighten, just a fraction. “Well. That would explain a lot.”
“What do you mean?”
She exhales through her nose, then smooths the hem of her jacket. “Let’s just say journalists don’t make it far here. Not if they’re asking the wrong questions.”
My pulse thuds louder in my ears. “Did she come to an event? Did you speak to her?”
Katherine’s voice cools. “If I knew everyone who passed through these halls, I wouldn’t have time to run the place. But if someone like her came poking around?” She tilts her head. “She wouldn’t have lasted long.”
I don’t know what that means, but it isn’t good. My hand tightens around the phone in my pocket. I’m afraid I’m already too far inside to back out now.
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© 2024 Scarlett Witherspoon. All rights reserved. This story is protected under copyright law.