Chapter 2 – Unseen, Unsaid

The morning sunlight felt stifling. Not enough darkness in it, not enough concealment. Isolde flicked a glance at her reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror of her East Village flat. The lingering night’s makeup clung to her lashes, and fatigue peeked behind her eyes. She wiped it away, hard. One week of Velvet had drained her mentally, physically, emotionally. And yet…the club’s mystery clung tighter.

She drew a deep breath and forced herself to let it go.

Her phone buzzed again. Message from Unknown: Did you see her? She’s real. You’re not imagining it.

Her pulse spasmed. The memory lingered porcelain skin, pale rose lipstick, the perfect familiarity in those eyes: She existed.

She touched her necklace Vivienne’s. The pendant’s cold weight grounded her.

Ignore the warning. Push ahead.

Silence answered her defiant thought.

Her apartment was compact and pastel warm but frayed around the edges, like her own scraped confidence. Ballet posters from the Royal Academy lined the walls. A small sofa faced a battered coffee table where a folder lay: “VIVIENNE WRENLEIGH Velvet Club Records.” She pulled back its flaps. Loose prints spilled out: black-and-white photos, maps, a hand-drawn timeline. Her sister’s case was getting real.

A knock at the door rattled her focus. She grabbed a thin cardigan and went to open it.

Her handler Midnight, the code name she’d been given stood with an unreadable expression. He was late thirties, formal British suit, polished veneer. His eyes held storm clouds.

“Evening,” he said, slipping inside as she didn’t offer.

“Morning,” she countered.

He closed the door, standing stationary. “You walked through Velvet like a cat who knows where the red dot hides.”

She closed the folder. “I’ve got what I need.”

He eyed the bag. “A necklace and paranoia? Hardly enough.”

“Someone there knows my sister,” she said softly. “She spoke Vivienne’s name.”

Midnight’s eyes flicked. “You approached the woman?”

“I didn’t but she found me. Knew my real name.”

He folded his hands. “That’s too close. You’re stepping in a minefield.”

She backed toward the table. Her shirt shifted; Dorian’s card bulked in her pocket. She stared at it, damning. “But I’m in deeper. Deeper than ever. And yet…”

He interrupted. “And yet you don’t know half the game.” He leaned forward. “Tell me: what happened last night? Who is Dorian Blackthorn?”

She exhaled. “He’s Velvet’s owner. Thinks I’m a plaything if I let him.” She waved the necklace. “He tested me. He’s offering what appears to be cooperation.”

Midnight’s expression didn’t change. “Cooperation with murderers, blackmailers…who knows.”

She straightened. “Someone inside Velvet is tracking both of us. Calling, texting warning.”

He stared, then exhaled slowly. “This goes far higher than a private club. I want you out. Tonight.”

She squared her shoulders. “I’m not leaving yet.”

He hesitated. “Stay safe.”

She flatly nodded. “Always.”

He left. Door clicked behind him.

Velvet glowed in contrast to her flat opulent, sensual, threatening. She arrived early and slipped inside the loop of security: masks, biometrics, wine bar. She handed her invitation card the photo barely of her and they let her in.

Once inside, she drifted toward the bar. The same stranger was there, polishing glasses.

“You returned,” he said, tone soft.

She nodded. “Shows you care.”

“Caution,” he corrected. “But I do care.”

He slid her a flute of pale pink prosecco. “Something lighter.” He paused. “Midnight called it last night…Caution.”

She took the glass. Their eyes met: unwavering. “I have to do this. I’ll only stay long as I feel safe, assured.”

“And you feel safe now?”

“Safer.”

His gaze flicked toward a back curtain. Intentionally taut. “Don’t trust everyone inside.”

She tracked his glance. “Including him?”

The stranger bit his lip, eyes sharp. “Especially him.”

Before she could reply, a footfall behind her.

“Ms. Vale.” The voice smelled of whiskey and power.

She turned Dorian stood there, mask in hand. His gaze was laser-aimed. “You didn’t stay out very late.”

She set her glass on the bar. “I left. I said I would.” She pulled her posture up, gaze unwavering. “Good evening, Mr. Blackthorn.”

“Good evening.” He stepped closer, subdued hawk-silent. “Do you want tonight’s menu public or private?”

“Public.”

He nodded and walked away. The stranger at the bar watched them both.

Later, again through the secret door. Same room. Decanter on table. This time the air smelled like vanilla and warm wood.

“Here,” Dorian said, gesturing to the chair. He poured two glasses, sliding one toward her.

She accepted. They sat, silence circling them.

“Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.

She stared at her glass. “To keep me safe tonight? Yes.”

He nodded as if satisfied. “More than safe. I arranged an escort for you after car waiting at side entrance.”

It was the first time he admitted care. Her chest fluttered. She looked at him.

“Why?”

He paused. “You stumble into danger, Ms. Vale.”

“And you think I’ll…”

He interrupted. “Watch it?” His gaze pierced. “Yes. But more than that.” He loosened tension in his jaw. “I don’t want you hurt.”

She softened and met his gaze. “Dorian…”

He leaned back. “Why are you really here?”

He didn’t need to ask. Her breath tamped; words fought.

She spoke: “To debate my sister’s fate. To hold someone responsible. And to survive Velvet by sunrise.”

He set his glass down. “You’re in deep. I warned you.”

She looked at him. “You haven’t left yet.”

He didn’t respond.

A server slid a drink in for Dorian. He sipped, then tossed it aside.

“He’s here,” Dorian whispered. He turned. They both saw her through the curtain: pale skin, precise collarbones, old-money posture. The woman from Chapter 1.

Isolde stiffened.

Dorian’s gaze darkened. “You know her?”

She shook her head.

He stood. Moved around table.

“Isolde…” he said softly. “She’s not a greeting.”

Footsteps behind them the server leaving.

The woman stepped forward onto the platform of lamplight.

She lifted her mask, revealing perfect features, ice-blue eyes her past mirrored in steel.

She inclined her head. “You must be Isolde.”

Her voice was crisp. Formal. But familiar wrapped around a memory.

Isolde’s heart slammed. The woman’s smile dared her to deny their connection.

“Why are you here?” the stranger whispered, lips near Isolde’s ear voice low, almost intimate.

Isolde’s legs trembled. She couldn’t speak.

Dorian moved to stand between them but hesitated.

The stranger took another step forward. “I’ve come for you.”

Isolde stared at Dorian, mouth dry.

And as silence swirled, Velvet’s shadows closed in.

Isolde’s heart thundered in her ears. Velvet’s electro light beat beneath the muted lamplight. She swallowed, words stuck in her throat. The stranger’s presence pressed close, world-narrowing.

Dorian stood at her side, like a shield she didn’t ask for but might soon need.

“Who are you?” he asked, voice hushed but steely.

The woman lifted her chin. “My apologies for startling you…Isolde Rein?” her emphasis sharp “but I thought you recognized me.”

Isolde drew in a sharp breath. Rein. She flinched. This stranger knew her exact real name. “You…you don’t belong here.”

“Quite the opposite,” the woman replied, voice honey-laced steel. “I’ve attended Velvet’s circles far longer than anyone ‘Ms. Vale.’ And I know you more personally than you’d like.”

Dorian’s posture stiffened further. His gaze flicked to Isolde for permission. Her eyes remained wide, resolute. Let him listen, they said.

“Dorian,” Isolde said, tone low. “This is not part of my infiltration plan.”

“I suspected as much,” Dorian said, examining the stranger. “Explain.”

The woman smoothed her gloves. “I’m Penelope Hart.” She paused, watching Isolde. “We grew up together London, 5 Elm Tree Crescent.” Her voice cracked with nostalgia. “Middle school musicals, family soirées…”

A tremor hit Isolde. A life she left. A name she’d buried. Embarrassment, fear, longing all flickered across her face.

Dorian’s jaw flexed. “Why are you here?”

Penelope’s pale eyes narrowed. “I track people. Patterns. I found you Vincent’s intel ring, some whispers about ‘Ms. Vale.’ The invitation card I intercepted it. I paid enough. I always get my answers.”

Isolde’s heartbeat raged. She swallowed thickly. “What do you want?”

Penelope folded her arms. “Answers. About Vivienne.” She looked at Isolde’s necklace. “About Velvet. And about us you thought I’d fade.”

Her words sounded like accusations.

Isolde’s throat throbbed. “I…I didn’t think you’d come here.”

Penelope shook her head. “You erased me changed your name, flew to New York. Gone. I thought you were dead or worse.”

Isolde pressed her hand over her heart, feeling the necklace there. “Pen? I couldn’t ”

But Penelope spoke before she finished. “Your invitation said ‘new beginnings.’ But you didn’t mean New York. You meant new name. Ms. Vale. A mask.”

Isolde turned to Dorian. His expression was unreadable but solidarity shone in his eyes.

Dorian cleared his throat. “Penelope, whatever your history, this is Velvet. Not a family reunion. If you have information help her. But if this is personal, step away.”

Penelope studied him for a long moment then met Isolde’s eyes. “I’ll help but I want something in return.”

“Fine,” Dorian said, cool. “But keep it professional.”

Penelope inclined her head, eyes sliding to Isolde. “I know who sent those texts. And why. And it isn’t Dorian Blackthorn. It’s not Hyde Industries.” She paused. “It’s you, Ms. Vale.”

Isolde froze. Her mind whirled. She reached for her wine, clinging to composure. “You’re wrong.”

“I’m not,” Penelope said. “Anonymous got codes off your burner phone. You pinged Velvet security system. You alerted Dorian’s guard dogs.”

Silence. The music’s distant thrum echoed in the hush.

Isolde met Penelope’s gaze. “I never pinged security. Not like you think.”

She glanced at Dorian his jaw clenched. She’d lied to him about texting him vague lies. He didn’t know any of this. Now he did.

Penelope sighed. “Then someone’s twisted the trail. You. Whoever you are.”

Isolde swallowed again. Penelope stepped back. “I’ll help because I care. Because I know what it’s like to be erased. But I don’t save people who run away. So…”

She held Isolde’s gaze. “You tell me everything starting now.”

Isolde looked between her old friend and the man who kept her safe but didn’t yet trust her. She drew a slow breath.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “But there’s someone else here someone overseeing the club someone who’s…”

Penelope’s pale eyes glinted. “The silent alum, I know. He’s the owner. Not just a patron. A billionaire with more secrets than missing women.”

Isolde nodded. “He’s…Dorian.” She glanced at the man himself. “And he doesn’t know everything I’ve done. Not yet.”

Penelope watched her. “Then why not tell him?” She raised an eyebrow.

Isolde straightened her shoulders. “Because I’m not sure I can trust him with those facts.”

Penelope shrugged. “Screw the old lies,” she said. “Truth’s pulling me deeper than any mask.”

Dorian cleared his throat. “She’ll answer for answers in return.”

Penelope turned to him. “I have information. Security footage from Archive Room C.” She flicked her wrist. “Your associate flicked it off YouTube eight hours ago it’s gone now. But I saved what I could.”

Dorian’s jaw clenched. He looked back at Isolde. “Is this why you’re still here?”

Her fingers trembled on the table. “Yes.” Her voice cracked. “Because I need her sister’s name…from Velvet’s records. And I can’t do that alone.”

He paused, measuring her. Then exhaled, voice low. “Time begins now.” He looked at Penelope. “Send it tomorrow. Through guard channel.”

Penelope nodded. Then turned back to Isolde. “Start talking.”

They retreated to a plush dark-blue velvet booth. The stranger moving aside, they sank into softer chairs.

Penelope reached into her handbag, pulling a small tablet. She flipped it open, screen glowing with a recent live-feed clip: a woman’s back in Archive Room C long dark hair, blue dress.

Isolde’s breath hitched. Small hands slipped the tablet forward. They watched replay frames of a woman rifling through folders. Then camera shifted black silhouette of someone approaching.

Isolde recognized herself. Or someone close: A friend of Vivienne’s, according to the slip in her file.

Penelope whispered, “You didn’t send a drone there did you?”

Isolde shook her head fiercely.

Penelope frowned. “So if not you…someone’s fuelling investigation. Possibly another woman with blood ties. A journalist? A rival?”

Except there were only two people in Velvet tonight who knew Vivienne’s necklace and her story and had motivation. Isolde and Dorian. And neither had staked a camera in the Archive. Unless…

Her fingers shook. Penelope watched her. “Who?”

Isolde looked at each of them. Then looked down at the necklace hanging over her chest. “Let me find out.”

As they sat in uneasy alliance, the door to the back room swung open and a server entered, chilling silent, mask gleaming under lamplight.

He carried a velvet-lined box. No words just presence.

Penelope and Dorian looked up at the same time as Isolde reached for it.

Inside: The exact necklace she wore another one, identical held in black silk padding, with a note taped beneath.

For Ms Vale. A gift from someone who keeps your sister’s promise.

Isolde’s blood ran cold.