The Velvet Room Conspiracy: Chapter Eight
The Problem I Can’t Fix
Chapter 7 | Table of Contents | Chapter 9
Wesley
The office door slams behind me, reverberating like a thunderclap. Grant doesn’t flinch. He’s leaning against my desk, arms crossed, his face unreadable, blood still crusted on his knuckles. His calm is infuriating.
“She fainted,” I say, my voice sharp enough to cut glass. “She passed out cold because you decided to wave a gun around like a goddamn maniac.”
He raises an eyebrow, nonchalant. “She wasn’t supposed to be there.”
“That’s your defense?” I take a step forward, barely stopping myself from grabbing him by the collar. “She wasn’t supposed to be there?”
Grant shrugs, pushing off the desk to stand. “She wasn’t hurt.”
“She wasn’t hurt because I got there in time. And do you know why I had to ‘get there in time’? Because you couldn’t keep your damn head on straight.”
Grant’s hazel eyes narrow, his jaw tightening. “She shouldn’t have been looking for trouble.”
“And you shouldn’t have pulled your gun!” The words burst out of me, the force making him take a small step back. “She’s not one of your targets, Grant. She’s under my protection. Or did you forget what that means?”
He looks away, but it’s not guilt I see in him—it’s defiance.
Grant exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Your secret door, your whore, your mess.”
My hand slams onto the desk, the sharp sound snapping through the room. “Don’t pin this on me. You’re supposed to manage situations, not turn them it into a goddamn disaster.”
Grant glares at me, the tension crackling between us. “I handled it.”
“You didn’t handle it,” I growl, my voice low and venomous. “You escalated it. She could’ve been hurt—or worse. And if that happened—” I stop myself, the thought searing through me. “You’d be cleaning up something no amount of bleach could cover.”
If she’d died… The fallout alone would’ve been catastrophic. The press, the scrutiny—it would’ve destroyed everything I’ve built. And her. The thought of her lying there, lifeless, makes my chest tighten in a way I can’t afford to think about.
His gaze flickers briefly to the floor, but it’s not enough. I take a steadying breath, turning away to keep from doing something I’ll regret. My hands ache from clenching them so tightly, but the anger keeps bubbling, rising, refusing to dissipate.
I grab my phone from the desk, scrolling through the surveillance footage. There she is, her bare feet hesitant on the cold steel staircase. The soft glow of the monitors catches her face in the command center. She wasn’t panicked—she was focused. Determined.
What the hell were you looking for, Charlotte? This is more than just finding her friend.
“Get out,” I say over my shoulder, my voice cold and final.
“Wes—”
“Now.”
Grant hesitates but leaves, the door clicking shut behind him. The quiet is suffocating, but it’s better than dealing with his excuses. I replay the footage again, the image of Charlotte slipping through the door, down the staircase, moving like she belonged there. Like she wasn’t terrified of what she might find.
I drop into the leather chair behind my desk, my phone still in my hand. She’s relentless. Curious to a fault. And now she knows more than I ever intended her to.
I press the heels of my palms into my eyes, trying to push the frustration away. She’s not just a liability anymore—she’s a threat, who knows too much.
And yet, I can’t bring myself to hate her for it.
That’s the problem.
She fainted, and I caught her. And for a brief second, I didn’t care about the fallout or the danger. I only cared that she was breathing. And that’s a problem I don’t know how to fix.
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