Chapter 1 – The Velvet Mask

A hush fell as Isolde Wrenleigh stepped from the sleek black Town Car onto the marble steps of Velvet. The night air brushed her cheeks, stirring her confidence and her nerves. Each note of bass and distant laughter pulsed through the walls. The doorman, tall and silent, nodded imperceptibly. His gesture said more than words ever could.

This is it, she thought, smoothing the crimson silk of her dress, letting the gown’s perfect fit settle on her frame. A single step closer, and she would be walking into her sister’s last world.

The door swung shut behind her. Warmth and atmosphere swallowed her whole: soft candlelight, velvet drapes cascading from ceiling to floor, mirrored alcoves lining the walls. Patrons mingled with private murmurs, champagne flutes held high everything was luxe and deliberate. Every breath she took muddled high-end cologne, sandalwood incense, and something darker promise or threat. It was intoxicating. Hard to tell which.

A waiter appeared beside her, placing a tall wine glass in her hand. She lowered her gaze. The merlot-red liquid sat deep and thick. She lifted it and inhaled: hints of black cherry, oak… but something home-brewed whispered underneath. Her chest tightened.

Across the room, a man in charcoal leaned against a mirrored pillar. He didn’t speak, didn’t move his gaze alone cut through the crowd, landing squarely on her.

Dorian.

She steadied herself with a breath, repeating the name in her mind. Not yet not until she was safe.

The waiter offered a polite bow and slipped away. She sipped the wine cautiously, palate alert, searching its warmth. No bitterness, no burning. But she wasn’t convinced.

She cued her phone with a silent tap. Unknown: Don’t trust him.

No name. No emoji. Just words. Was it Dorian? The stakes felt suddenly higher.

She moved through the space as if she belonged, gliding past tables and guests, eyes alert. She had memorised these steps: join the crowd, appear confident, look nowhere near lost. Inside, adrenaline fueled her.

A calm male voice greeted her at the bar. “First time, Ms. Vale?”

She turned. A stranger. Dark hair, tailored suit, neat tie. Safe. Neutral.

“First time,” she answered smoothly. “And yes, I’m new.”

He poured himself a scotch, nodding at her drink. “Your wine merlot? Too dark for this place. Most people drink something lighter.”

She followed his direction. “Is that your advice?”

He shrugged, lips curving. “Or observation.” He took his drink. “Be aware of what tastes off.”

She straightened, voice low. “Thank you.”

He watched her for a moment, then nodded, stepping away. She exhaled.

He warned her. Good. Some here were illusions. Some watchers.

Behind her, footsteps echoed. A tall man in charcoal moved like smoke. A closer look: sharp jaw, dark hair perfectly styled. He sounded the room with attention. Even from here, he radiated power.

She slipped her phone into her purse. Unknown: He’s watching you.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. She was meant to be seen. All of this was part of the act.

A hush fell as a woman in black gloves passed her, ushering her down a side corridor. The air crawled cooler. The muffled jazz heavy behind closed doors.

“Ms. Vale,” the woman’s voice was quiet, clipped. “Mr. Blackthorn will see you now.”

An electric spike. She nodded once. Followed her.

Velvet’s concealed engine thrummed around her: hushed voices, rustled fabric, concealed threats. The door they entered was ornate blackwood and brass inlay. The woman tucked a soft bow and slipped away.

Inside, the room was intimate walls draped in burgundy velvet, low-light sconces, thick carpet underfoot. A decanter of wine sat on a side table, along with two empty glasses. The jazz came through raised volume, soft but present. Candle flames flickered, casting dance-like motion across the walls.

She set her purse on a chair. The door clicked shut.

A man in charcoal stepped forward only more defined in shape and intensity. His eyes found her.

“Ms. Vale,” he said. Voice low, authoritative. “I’m glad you came.”

“Yes.” She swallowed. “Thank you for seeing me.”

He crossed to her, each step meticulous. “You’re under the impression this is an audition.”

She fixed her gaze on his. “Is it?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Something like that.” He gestured at the decanter. “Please, drink.” His gaze flicked to the wine.

She lifted the glass. “This is your recommendation?”

He paused. “Merlot, aged twelve years. Tested. Safe.”

She traced the lipstick rim, half-smiling. “Tested by who?”

“By me.”

She paused, feeling the weight behind his words. “Very reassuring.”

He approached, stopping just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him. “Tell me why you’re here.”

She held his gaze. “Some people disappear. My sister is one of them.” She lifted a pale gold necklace. “She wore this when she vanished.” Her hand shook. She dropped into a chair.

He watched. Unreadable. Then nodded once. “Velvet attracts the lost.” That word lost hung between them as she swallowed.

She took a breath. “I’m here to find her.”

Another unspoken truth: she meant to tear this place apart.

He circled her chair. “What did she do? Why here?”

“She was… working.” She swallowed again. “For Velvet.”

He blinked, expression hidden in candlelight. “We don’t have employees.”

“She was beyond paying clients. She had access.”

He folded his arms. “A privileged few do.”

Scar.

“Who.” Her stare cracked.

He straightened. “You shouldn’t be searching for what belongs to others.”

Silence.

She raised the necklace. “Then help me.”

He leaned forward. “Why should I?”

She met his gaze. “Because whoever I find will likely be dead.”

The room fell colder. His jaw tensed.

She softened: “I’m not afraid of secrets.”

He examined her like a case file. “You should be.”

He stepped back, eyes flicking to the decanter. “Drink it.”

She hesitated.

He lowered his voice. “I’ll taste first.”

He poured himself a glass, lifted it, mouth moving in silent toast. Then he drank eyes never leaving her. She waited. Then sipped.

It burned in all the right ways. Not poison. Not drugs.

He spoke again. “Tomorrow evening. Same decanter, same chair. We start again.”

She swallowed, voice level. “I’ll be here.”

He nodded. Tipped his glass. “Good night, Ms. Vale.”

The door opened. He slipped out, leaving her heart pounding and her mind racing.

She walked through Velvet’s main floor, melting into the crowd. Every corner felt alive with watching eyes. As she passed under a chandelier, she froze.

A woman stood in a muted alcove soft hair, porcelain skin, eyes that recognized her immediately. The woman’s lips curved into a slow smile and she whispered, loud enough for only Isolde:

“Welcome home.”

Isolde’s pulse jolted as recognition hit her: the woman had known her before Velvet, before false identity when she was exactly herself.

Isolde’s breath caught.

The woman’s voice was smooth posh, refined, familiar in the way a dream from childhood lingers behind your ears. She stood with her gloved hands crossed in front of her, lips stained a pale rose, and posture as if she belonged not just in the room but above it.

“Do I know you?” Isolde asked, keeping her tone neutral.

The woman’s eyes gleamed, though she made no move closer. “Not by this name.”

Ice crawled under Isolde’s skin.

Not by this name.

She glanced quickly over her shoulder. No one else seemed to notice. A pair of men in tailored suits were arguing softly at a distance. A server passed by, silver tray held steady. Dorian was gone. The woman remained.

“I’m sorry, you must be mistaking me for someone else,” Isolde said carefully.

The stranger tilted her head, the smile unfading. “Mm. No. I never forget a face especially not one tied to a ghost.”

A beat passed. Two. A third.

“What ghost?” Isolde asked.

“Vivienne,” the woman said quietly.

Isolde’s blood turned cold.

Before she could move or speak, the woman stepped back, vanishing behind the velvet curtain that hung beside the hallway entrance. By the time Isolde followed fast, heart racing the corridor was empty. Silent.

No doors. No footsteps.

Just silence and the echo of her sister’s name.

Isolde stood there for several long seconds, shaken. Vivienne. Someone inside this club knew her sister. Not just of her. They knew her.

It wasn’t just the necklace, or the files she suspected existed, or the shadowy men in corner rooms. It was more. Vivienne had been seen. She had mattered. Maybe she still did.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for her phone inside her clutch.

Another message awaited her.

From Unknown.

“You’re not safe here yet. But neither is he.”

Isolde’s throat tightened. The words pulsed on the screen, cold and unmistakable.

She slipped the phone away and turned slowly back toward the grand lounge. Laughter echoed. Music played. Velvet continued around her decadent, composed, and darkly veiled.

But she knew now: the club wasn’t just dangerous because of Dorian Blackthorn or the secrets in its walls.

It was dangerous because someone was watching both of them.

And they already knew who she really was.