CHAPTER ONE: The Velvet Shadow

CHAPTER ONE: The Velvet Shadow

Harry DuBois carried himself like a man who never stumbled. At six-foot-four, with a tailored suit hugging his shoulders and a low, velvet voice that seemed to stroke the air, he was the kind of man people whispered about long after he’d left the room.

“Mr. DuBois,” the bartender greeted as Harry crossed the dimly lit lounge. The clink of glasses and soft notes of a trumpet hung in the air, brushing against the red velvet curtains. Everyone knew him. Everyone admired him.

But admiration was a mask. Masks had cracks.

Naomi, his sixteen-year-old daughter, spotted him from a corner booth where she was sketching in her worn notebook. “Dad, you’re late.” Her tone was casual, but her eyes searched his face, like she always did, checking if tonight was one of the heavy nights.

Harry offered a faint smile. “Meetings ran long. You holding down the fort?”

“Always.” She smirked, closing the notebook before he could peek. Naomi was the one person who could disarm him. Yet even with her, he kept walls so tall they scraped the ceiling of their lives.

The following week, Elena Rivera walked into DuBois Fine Arts & Jazz Lounge like she did been born for the stage. Fresh from New York, with all her ambition and warmth wrapped in a silk scarf, she was tasked with curating the revival series — an ambitious celebration of Black art, poetry, and music.

Harry noticed her before she spoke a word.

“You must be Mr. DuBois,” she said, extending a hand. “Elena Rivena. I have heard so much about you.”

“Good things, I hope.” His voice carried a low timbre that made her hesitate. She nodded, smiling, but there was something flickering in her gaze like she had already begun peeling back the first layer of his armor.

They discussed logistics, including schedules, artists, and sponsors. But under the practical words, tension simmered. The way Elena leaned in when she spoke. The way Harry’s eyes lingered, against his better judgment.

Later that night, Naomi cornered her father in the office.

“You like her,” she said bluntly, arms crossed.

Harry froze mid-paper shuffle. “She is a business partner.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m Beyoncé.” Naomi tilted her head. “Don’t shut this down, Dad. You’ve been… lonely. I see it.”

“Naomi...”

“No. You always say the past is the past, but it’s not. It’s like a shadow following us everywhere. You deserve… something real again.”

Harry’s throat tightened. Naomi didn’t know the whole truth. She couldn’t.

Days blurred into late nights, rehearsals, and art installations filling the lounge with new life. Elena’s presence became inevitable, her laughter, her stubbornness, her way of challenging Harry when he tried to retreat.

One evening, after the last musician had packed up, Elena lingered in the candlelit lounge.

“Harry,” she said softly, “why do you always feel like you are halfway out the door?”

He leaned on the piano, shadows etching his sharp features. “Some doors are better left closed.”

Her eyes narrowed, searching him. “Or maybe you are just afraid to open them again.”

Silence stretched. The air thickened. For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the city outside. Then Harry’s velvet voice dropped lower.

“Elena… if you knew the things I have buried, you wouldn’t ask me that.”

She stepped closer, close enough for the scent of her perfume to blur his thoughts. “Maybe I’m not afraid of your shadows, Harry. Maybe I’m exactly what you need to face them.”

For the first time in twenty-five years, something inside him shifted. A crack in the mask.

But shadows have sharp edges, and the past does not stay buried forever.

The first Saturday of the revival series brought a different kind of electricity to DuBois Fine Arts & Jazz Lounge. The walls pulsed with rhythm, canvases lined the entryway, and poets rehearsed their verses in whispers that floated like secrets through the air.

Elena stood near the stage, clipboard in hand, her dark hair pulled into a loose bun. She radiated energy that was part business, part dreamer. Naomi, perched at the bar with her sketchbook, studied Elena from afar.

“She’s got you moving, Dad,” Naomi teased when Harry passed her a glass of ginger ale.

Harry grunted. “She’s organized. That’s all.”

Naomi arched an eyebrow. “Organized and pretty.”

“Naomi.”

“What? I’m just saying.” She grinned, but Harry shook his head, unwilling to give her the satisfaction.

Across the room, Elena caught his eye. For a moment, it was just the two of them in a crowd of fifty, the hum of anticipation fading into silence. Harry looked away first, adjusting his cufflink like armor.

Later that night, after the performances had ended and the last applause had melted into memory, Harry found Elena still standing near the stage. She was running her fingers along the edge of the piano, humming softly to herself.

“You stayed behind,” he said, his voice low.

“I like to linger,” Elena replied. “This place feels alive, even when it’s empty.”

Harry leaned against the piano. “Most people rush out when the music ends.”

“Maybe I’m not most people.” She tilted her head, her eyes catching the soft light.

He studied her, torn between intrigue and the instinct to retreat. “Careful with words like that. They will make people wonder what you are hiding.”

Her smile faltered, just slightly. “We all hide something, don’t we, Harry?”

The way she said his name unsettled him like she already knew parts of him he did buried.

Before he could answer, Naomi’s voice echoed from the back. “Dad! We are ready to lock up.”

The moment snapped. Elena gathered her bag, but as she brushed past Harry, her hand grazed his arm. The touch lingered longer than it should have.

That night, alone in his office, Harry opened the bottom drawer of his desk. Beneath neatly stacked contracts and old receipts lay a faded photograph. A woman with warm eyes and a smile that had once lit up his world.

His thumb brushed the edge of the picture, and the old wound throbbed like it had never healed.

Elena’s words echoed in his head. We all hide something.

Harry closed the drawer, locking the past away. But the cracks were widening, and he knew it.