The Velvet Room Conspiracy: Chapter Seven
The Underground Labyrinth
Charlie
The walls seem to close in as I descend the narrow staircase, the cool air presses against my skin. The dim lighting casts eerie shadows, and each step echoes too loudly in the oppressive quiet. My mind races. What kind of man builds something like this under a lounge? Wes isn’t just a businessman—he’s something darker. Someone who trades boardrooms for back alleys, handshakes for silencers.
Bianca’s face flickers in my mind. She’s been missing for weeks now. This place—the secrets hidden beneath The Velvet Room—feels like the answer I’ve been dreading. The kind of place where people disappear without a trace.
The staircase leads to a tunnel. No, a labyrinth. Twists and turns stretch endlessly, the reinforced steel walls and concrete floors are clinical and cold. It’s designed with purpose. This isn’t just for moving people or goods; it’s an escape route or an underground prison. What kind of empire does Wes truly run?
I press forward, my heart hammering. Every turn looks identical to the last, the air growing heavier with each step. Then I see it: a door, solid and imposing, with a keypad next to the handle. I press my ear against it, straining to hear anything. Silence. My fingers hover over the keypad, my panic rises, but then I notice it’s ajar.
I slip inside, and my breath catches. It’s a command center. Monitors line the walls, displaying surveillance feeds from every corner of The Velvet Room—VIP lounges, hallways, even the main bar area. All under constant watch. My eyes dart frantically from screen to screen, searching for something, anything. Bianca’s face. A lead. A clue. And then—
A throat clears behind me.
I freeze, the sound slices through the tension like a blade. Slowly, I turn and it's not Wes.
The man leaning against the doorway is tall and broad-shouldered, his calm demeanor making my skin crawl. His cap hides most of his light brown hair, but his hazel eyes sweep over me, sharp and unhurried. Bruises shadow his skin, and blood streaks his knuckles—some dried, some fresh. He has tattoos up his arms, and wears a snug T-shirt stretched over muscles that suggest he’s no stranger to violence. A gun rests casually on his hip, its polished metal gleams faintly. He doesn’t need to draw it; the way he stands tells me he’s already in control.
Is this what Bianca encountered? My stomach knots as my heart pounds. I lift my chin and force myself to meet his gaze.
“Well, this is interesting,” he says, his voice low and almost amused. “You’re not supposed to be here,” he says in a thick southern drawl.
I swallow hard. “I—uh—”
He cuts me off with a sharp look, his gaze lingers on my disheveled dress and bare feet. “Half-naked, sneaking around. You’ve got some nerve.” He steps closer, his presence forcing me back a step.
“I…” My voice falters, frozen under his scrutiny.
“Let me guess. You’re Wes’s newest complication. Typical. Fucking Wes.” He shakes his head, muttering, “Secret door in the bathroom? Terrible design choice, don’t you think?”
I nod slightly, my eyes flicking to the gun at his side. Ex-military? Hitman? Assassin? He’s not just following orders—he’s executing them. An executioner.
“I’m Charlotte Winslow,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel. “And you are?”
His hazel eyes flick over me again, taking in every detail. He doesn’t move for a moment, then crosses his arms. The blood on his knuckles catches my attention again, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“Grant. So, you’re another one of Wes’s strays.”
“I met Wes. He didn’t ‘find’ me.”
“Spare me the details. I’ve seen his type before. Clueless. Reckless. Not too bright. They always have one foot out the door. But you have one foot in.”
“I’m not reckless—” I start, but he raises a hand, silencing me with a single motion.
His smile is cold, almost pitying. “Sure. And you just stumbled through his bathroom door? Did you think he wouldn’t notice?”
Raising my hands, I edge toward the door. “I made a mistake, okay? I’m leaving.”
He steps aside just enough to make me think I have a shot at escape, but then he tilts his head toward the chair in front of the console. “No, Charlotte Winslow. You’re not leaving yet. Sit.”
His tone is calm, not threatening. He doesn’t need to scare me—he’s already in control.
I sit, my pulse pounding. He takes a chair from the corner, flips it around, and straddles it with an ease that makes the blood on his hands even more unsettling.
“You’re not like him,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
“Who, Wes?” He shakes his head, smirking. “No. I’m not. He talks, persuades, and gets people to do what he wants with words and charm. I don’t have time for that shit.”
I swallow hard. “So what do you do?”
He leans forward, resting his arms on the back of the chair. “Whatever needs to be done.”
The blood on his hands draws my eyes again. Crimson streaks his knuckles, bruises blooming beneath the skin. My stomach churns. Did he hurt someone? Or worse—is this what happened to Bianca?
I lift my chin, forcing confidence into my voice. “It was a mistake. I’ll leave.”
“You stumbled in a locked room full of surveillance monitors, and you think you can just walk out? Where are your manners?”
“I have none. I just got lost. That’s all.”
He doesn’t react and just leans back while tapping his fingers against the chair. “You’re looking for something,” he says finally, his tone flat.
This is my chance. He might know something, especially if he monitors the cameras here.
“Someone,” I correct, the words slips out before I can stop myself. My pulse quickens as his gaze sharpens.
“Who?” he asks, his tone flat, almost bored.
“Bianca Kincaid. She’s my friend. She’s been missing for weeks, and this was the last place anyone saw her.”
For the first time, his expression shifts. A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face before disappearing. “You’re not the first to look for answers here, and you won’t be the last.”
“Do you know where she is?” I press as my desperation grows.
“Even if I did, what makes you think I’d tell you?” His voice is flat, unfeeling.
Grant leans back in his chair, his fingers taps against the frame in a slow, rhythm. His hazel eyes lock on mine, and for a moment, it feels like he’s sizing me up—measuring how much trouble I’m worth. Then, he exhales sharply, a low, humorless chuckle escapes his lips.
“You know what I hate?” he says, his tone cold, almost conversational. “Complications.”
Before I can react, his hand moves. His fingers curl around the gun at his hip, the polished metal gleams as he pulls it free in one smooth motion.
My heart slams against my ribcage, panic grips me as his eyes narrow.
And then—black.
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© 2024 Scarlett Witherspoon. All rights reserved. This story is protected under copyright law.
I'm really enjoying this story. Are you only publishing it here or is it a published novel? I would totally buy the novel!