The Velvet Room Conspiracy: Chapter Twelve
Power Isn’t About Money
Charlie
The bar is steady, but my hands aren’t. I’ve only been bartending for a few days, which is barely enough time to learn the basics, let alone feel confident working in a place like The Velvet Room. Every pour, garnish, and order that isn’t just a simple whiskey on the rocks sends a thread of doubt curling through my chest.
I know the regulars can tell. They watch me with amusement and mild impatience, waiting for me to slip up. Some comment on it, others smirk like they’re enjoying my struggle.
It pisses me off.
But not as much as the man watching me from the other end of the bar.
Wes says nothing. He doesn’t need to. His presence is enough.
I swallow hard, wiping my hands on my apron before forcing myself to walk toward him.
“Come with me,” he says, turning toward the hallway.
I hesitate for half a second, glancing back at the bar. “I still have a shift—”
“Not anymore.”
I press my lips together but don’t argue. Instead, I follow him past the booths. When we reach his office, he pushes the door open and waits for me to enter before shutting it behind us.
I cross my arms, leaning against the desk. “I assume this isn’t just about giving me a break.”
Wes moves behind his desk, retrieves a small, sleek, black recording device, and sets it on the desk between us.
“You’re bartending a private event tonight,” he says, his voice as smooth as ever.
A prickle of unease runs through me. “I just started, Wes. I can barely keep up out there. Why not send Adam?”
“He’s off tonight.”
I blink. “Then send someone else.”
Wes exhales slowly. “Because I have a special task for you.”
I shake my head, pushing off the desk. “I’m not a spy, Wes. I’m barely a bartender.”
“And yet, you’re the one I’m sending.”
I clench my jaw, staring down at the recorder. “Who’s the client?”
A pause. It’s short, but I notice it.
“Peter Bradley,” he says.
I wait for more, but he doesn’t offer it.
I meet his gaze. “Who is he?”
“Just do what I ask, Charlotte. I’ll tell you more after.”
This isn’t just a task—it’s a test.
I collect the recorder, rolling it between my fingers. “And if I get caught?”
“You won’t.”
I exhale sharply, slipping the device into my apron pocket. I should push him for answers, but I know I won’t get them. Not yet.
I turn toward the door, but Wes’s voice stops me before I reach it.
“Charlotte.”
I glance back.
“Be careful.”
I don’t answer. Still, the words sink into me, settling in my ribs. What am I getting myself into that Wes tells me to be careful? What happens if I’m caught?
I don’t know what I’m walking into.
But I have a feeling it’s more than I signed up for.
The space is quieter than the main floor of The Velvet Room, but the energy is heavier. The lighting is lower and more intimate, and someone has arranged the furniture for deep conversations and deeper pockets. A few men in crisp suits gather there.
I scanned the room, my pulse kicking up as I recognized one of them.
Peter Bradley.
I know very little about him, just that Wes wants me here, listening. If Wes cares, then Peter is dangerous in ways I don’t yet understand.
I square my shoulders and step behind the bar.
It’s smaller than the main bar, stocked with top-shelf liquor, and the glassware is pristine. The setup is easy enough. But it doesn’t make me less aware that I’m over my head.
I move swiftly, finding my rhythm—bitters, sugar, whiskey over ice, and the aroma of orange as I twist the peel. The steady motions help me concentrate on something other than the weight of the recorder in my pocket.
I don’t look at Peter, but I listen.
His voice cuts through the low hum of conversation, smooth and measured.
“…It’s about longevity,” Peter says, swirling his whiskey. “Everyone here has money. Power. Influence. But they don’t have security. That’s what I’m offering.”
The man across from him hums in agreement, tapping his fingers against his glass. “And you think you can provide that?”
Peter smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Of course I can. I don’t just put out fires—I prevent them before they start.” He leans back slightly, letting the weight of his words settle. “Fixers like Wes? They clean up messes, but they don’t change the game. I’m offering something permanent.”
The other men exchange glances. One of them, a heavyset man with graying hair, speaks up. “Permanence is expensive. And politics is… messy.”
Peter chuckles, shaking his head. “Not if you play it right. The problem with men like Wes is that they operate in the shadows. It works—until it doesn’t. One wrong move, one bad debt, one slip of the tongue, and suddenly, their whole world can crumble.”
My stomach tightens. Peter isn’t just looking for The Velvet Room’s clients. He’s positioning himself as something bigger.
Politically bigger.
Another man speaks, voice lower, more cautious. “And you think running for office will make you untouchable?”
Peter lifts his drink, taking a slow sip before answering. “I think it’s a step in the right direction. The right seat, the right influence—suddenly, favors don’t come with a price tag. They’re just part of the game. Power isn’t about who has the most money. It’s about who can make the rules.”
The room is quiet for a moment. Then, the gray-haired man nods. “And you think you can win?
Peter smiles. “With the right backers, of course. And we all know elections aren’t won at the polls. They’re won in rooms like this.”
A slow murmur of agreement ripples through the group.
I keep my movements smooth, pouring another drink, pretending to be uninterested. But my mind is racing.
Peter doesn’t just want influence.
He wants political power, and if he gets it, he’ll be more powerful than Wes.
This isn’t just business. It’s war.
By the time Peter stands to leave, my head is spinning.
He lingers at the bar for a moment, then reaches into his pocket and slides a crisp hundred-dollar bill onto the counter.
He taps the edge of it once.
“Tell Wes I said hello.”
My pulse stumbles.
I nod once, silent.
Peter holds my gaze for a beat longer before smirking and walking out the door, his men following behind.
The room is suddenly too quiet.
I don’t move until the door clicks shut.
Finally, I let out a slow breath, pressing my palms against the bar to calm down.
The recorder in my apron pocket is still running.
I don’t know what I just stepped into.
But I know one thing—Wes will have a lot to explain.
I don’t go straight to Wes after my shift. I need to pull myself together to process what I just heard.
Peter isn’t just trying to poach clients. He’s trying to replace Wes entirely.
He wants legitimacy, power that isn’t tied to money or secrets but to influence. He’s playing a long game, and if he wins, men like Wes won’t just be irrelevant.
They’ll be expendable.
When I reach Wes’s office, my heart is steady, but my mind is racing.
I don’t bother knocking.
He’s behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, a tumbler of whiskey untouched beside him. His laptop is open, but he isn’t looking at it. His focus shifts to me the second I step inside.
“You have something for me?” His voice is calm, but his eyes are already sharper than usual.
I shut the door behind me and step forward. “Yeah. I do.”
I reach into my apron and pull out the small recorder. I set it on his desk and pressed play.
The murmur of Peter’s voice fills the room.
Wes’s expression doesn’t change initially. He listens as Peter lays out his plan—the need for longevity, stability, and political power.
But then Peter says it.
“The problem with men like Wes is that they operate in the shadows. It works—until it doesn’t. One wrong move, one bad debt, one slip of the tongue, and suddenly, their whole world can crumble.”
I barely register the moment when Wes snaps.
His chair scrapes back as he stands abruptly, its force knocking against the desk. His jaw clenches so tightly I think he might break his teeth.
I’ve seen Wes irritated and annoyed, but I have never seen him this angry.
He presses his hands against the desk, breathing slowly, but it’s clear he’s trying to rein it in.
I don’t move or speak. I wait.
Finally, he exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair before looking at me.
“What else?” His voice is lower now but taut like a thread stretched too tight.
I swallow, steadying myself. “He’s building a future. He doesn’t want to compete with you, Wes. He wants to eliminate you.”
Wes’s fingers curl into fists for half a second before he forces them to relax.
His composure is slipping, but he doesn’t want me to see it.
“He’s an idiot,” Wes mutters, shaking his head. “He thinks running for office makes him untouchable? That he can play both sides?” His lips press into a thin line. “That’s how people get killed.”
The words send a shiver down my spine because he isn’t talking in hypotheticals.
I shift my weight, crossing my arms. “So, what are you going to do about it?”
Wes lets out a sharp breath, running a hand over his jaw. For the first time, he looks at me like he doesn’t have a plan.
“What do you think I should do?” he asks.
The question throws me off.
Wes doesn’t ask for opinions. He doesn’t ask at all—he commands.
I hesitate, and his gaze sharpens. “You were in the room, Charlotte. You heard what they said. So tell me—what’s the move?”
My pulse picks up.
I could say the obvious. We should send a message and crush Peter before it’s too late. But I don’t because I don’t condone that behavior. I’m better than that. Instead, I meet his eyes and say, “Let him think he’s winning.”
Approval flickers across Wes’s face, and I feel like he gained some respect for me.
“Let him feel untouchable,” I continue. “Let him think he’s ahead. He won’t see it coming when you pull the rug out from under him.”
Wes exhales slowly, tilting his head. “And you think I should just… wait?”
“Not wait. Set the trap.”
Silence. Then, a slow, dangerous smile curves on his lips.
“Smart girl,” he murmurs.
I hold my ground. “I’m serious, Wes. If you go after him now, he’ll spin it. He’ll make himself look like a victim, and that’s exactly what he wants. Politicians need enemies. Don’t make yourself one—not yet.”
He watches me for another long moment. Then, finally, he nods.
“You did good tonight,” he says.
I don’t know why that sends heat curling through my stomach.
I clear my throat. “So what now?”
Wes picks up his whiskey, finally taking a slow sip. When he sets the glass down, his expression is back to composed.
As if he never lost his cool in the first place.
“Now, we wait.”
But there’s something in his tone that tells me Peter Bradley has no idea what’s coming for him.
And neither do I.
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© 2024 Scarlett Witherspoon. All rights reserved. This story is protected under copyright law.