The Velvet Room Conspiracy: Chapter Nine
Smoke and Mirrors
Charlie
“Charlotte.”
The voice pulls me from the haze, low and familiar. My eyes flutter open, my head pounding like a hammer hitting a stone. Wes’s face sharpens into focus, his expression balancing on the edge of concern and irritation.
“Charlotte,” he repeats, softer this time. “Are you okay?”
I push myself upright, the silk sheets clinging to my skin. My limbs feel weak, my throat raw, and every movement feels sluggish, like I’m underwater. “What… happened?” The words scrape out, barely audible.
“You passed out,” Wes says, his tone steady but with a flicker of something colder underneath. “We had a few more drinks last night, and then… well, you didn’t exactly make it to the bed on your own. Scared the hell out of me.”
The words hit, but they don’t land. Drinks? It’s all wrong. Flashes of memory crash through the fog—the steel walls of the tunnel, the unflinching stare of Grant, and the gun. Its gleam cuts through the haze, sharp and metallic, lingering in my mind. My chest tightens as I try to make sense of it, each piece jagged and refusing to fit.
“No,” I murmur, shaking my head. “That’s not what happened.”
Wes steps closer, crouching slightly. His cologne drifts toward me.
“What do you mean? We were at my suite drinking. Maybe a little too much. Next thing I know, you’re out cold.”
“That’s not true.” The words snap out before I can stop them.
“I wasn’t drinking. I was—” The words stick in my throat. Was I really about to confront him about the secret door, the monitors. Grant and the gun?
Wes watches me, his brow furrowing slightly, but his voice stays calm. Too calm. “Charlotte, relax. You’re safe now.”
Safe. The word feels like a trap. Everything about this feels too vivid to be a dream.
“Where am I?” I demand, forcing myself to stand despite the wobble in my knees.
His calm voice is the same one you’d use to soothe a startled animal. “I brought you here instead. Figured you could use a change of scenery.”
“A change of scenery?” I glance around the apartment. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen—elegant and extravagant. The city skyline sparkles outside large windows, illuminating a huge bedroom. Every detail speaks of wealth and power. A place meant to impress and intimidate. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m impressed. This isn’t the suite where Wes brought me. It’s his private space. A place for someone he wants to keep close—or keep controlled.
“Wes, I wasn’t drinking. I went through that door in the bathroom. You know, the one that leads to a goddamn underground tunnel with surveillance cameras.”
His jaw tightens. For a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face—annoyance? Worry?—but it’s gone before I can name it. “You were drunk,” he says slowly. “You imagined it.”
“I didn’t imagine anything! I was there, Wes. I met someone—Grant. He pulled a gun on me. So tell me, who is Grant to you?”
He pauses in the doorway, resting his hand against the frame. His voice is quiet. “No one you need to worry about… unless you get in the way again.”
The silence that follows is louder than his words. I don’t speak. I can’t. His gaze lingers for a second longer before he turns and leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.
I drop onto the bed, my legs trembling too much to keep me up. The gun flashes in my mind again, its distant presence a reminder of how close I came to the edge. Grant could have killed me. The memory of his steady gaze, his bloodied knuckles, and the gun flashes in my mind, too vivid to dismiss. He could have ended it all right there. But he didn’t. Why?
Whatever Wes is hiding, I’ve stumbled too close to it now. And there’s no going back.
While Wes is gone, I sink onto the plush velvet chair near the window, my fingers skim over the armrest, as my mind turns to Bianca. She would have seen this for what it is: a gilded cage. Bianca was fearless, always diving headfirst into danger, and now she’s gone. She trusted me to find her, and here I am, alive but stuck in Wes’s web. I can almost hear her voice urging me on, her relentless drive pushing me to keep digging. I won’t let her down. Whatever Wes is hiding, I’ll find it. And when I do, I’ll make sure the world knows.
The thought steels me, and I look around the apartment. One of the handles turns easily under my hand. Unlocked. Either he was careless, or he didn’t think I’d dare to snoop.
Inside, his office feels both chaotic and calculated. Papers are scattered across his desk, next to a locked laptop and an abandoned whiskey tumbler. Shelves line the walls, filled with books on finance, politics, and law.
I sift through the papers on the desk. Financial records. Contracts. Receipts. All meticulously detailed but meaningless to me. I open a drawer, flipping through files, my hands trembling. Nothing connects to Bianca—or anything substantial.
Then I see it—a folded letter, tucked under a file. The envelope reads Wesley Remington. My pulse quickens as I unfold it.
Wes,
Thank you for exposing my piece-of-shit husband. The check should cover your fee. He deserves everything coming his way.
Signed, Gloria Barrett
The letter has a check clipped to it, made out for an obscene amount—$ 100,000. The name hits like a punch. She’s Simon Barrett’s wife. The disgraced politician whose career imploded in scandal—embezzlement, affairs, hush money. His fall was brutal, dragging his family down with him.
Why would Gloria want to destroy him? The press painted her as the loyal, devastated wife, who was now broke. But this letter tells another story. She wasn’t a victim. She was the architect of his downfall, and Wes was the one who made it happen, and she must’ve used the embezzled funds for herself.
I stare at the letter, my mind racing. This wasn’t just revenge. It was a calculated move, but why go to Wes for help? What kind of business is he running? How many lives has he dismantled like this?
The sound of the front door closing jolts me. Wes is back.
I fold the letter carefully, placing it exactly where I found it, and slip out of the office. My pulse hammers as I settle on the living room couch, feigning calm as his footsteps approach.
He steps into the room, and his gaze flicks over me. “Feeling better?”
I nod, forcing a smile. “Much better.”
His eyes linger for a moment before he nods, satisfied. He doesn’t know. For now, I’m safe. But my thoughts race, the letter, and check burned into my memory. Gloria Barrett. Simon Barrett. And Wes. Whatever this is, it’s bigger than I imagined, and this could be the story that topples New York’s elite.
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© 2024 Scarlett Witherspoon. All rights reserved. This story is protected under copyright law.
Hello.
Another serial writer.
Exciting!
I can’t wait to read what you’ve written. I’m going to finish this post and then check it out.
I had my book on Amazon. I pulled it and now with the new regime, I’ll be boycotting them come national economic blackout day on Feb 28.
I’m releasing Contrivance, chapter by chapter, for free to readers here.
I have two more books in editing and one I’m writing now that are all part of the same series.