Chapter 6 – The Gilded Trap

Rain pounded the city outside, drumming against tired windowpanes. Isolde sat at her small kitchen table, eyes fixed on the early coffee that had gone cold. Dawn fingers slipped across the city skyline through thin curtains. Vivienne slept curled on the sofa, safe but strained.

Across from her sat Dorian and Penelope. The dossier lay open torn-out pages, blurred surveillance footage, VIP lists.

Isolde whispered, “Dominic Wade… Client Six‑Two. He paid for the show.”

Dorian nodded. “High roller. Room 42 at mid‑town Marriott last month; extravagant booking.”

Penelope tapped a worn touchscreen somewhere between file and floor. “He’s meeting someone tonight. Velvet business. Could be lead.”

Isolde rubbed her temples. “Then that’s where we go.”

Dorian closed the dossier, voice gentle but firm. “Tonight at Velvet. We make the trap.”

Isolde swallowed, meeting his gaze. “We’ll need witnesses, press.”

Penelope’s smile was predatory. “I have friendly contacts in investigative media. They’ll bite.”

Dorian looked at Isolde. His warmth contrasted with velvet darkness. “Are you ready?”

She inhaled: For Vivienne…

“Yes.”

That evening, Velvet shone like a gilded stage. Golden lamps dripped warmth on ivory marble, velvet curtains, and silent watchers. Isolde stepped inside with Dorian and Penelope watchful, resolute.

Penelope whispered, “The trap’s set.”

Velvet’s host greeted them with brittle civility. “Mr. Blackthorn. Ms. Vale. Enjoy your evening.”

Isolde nodded but her attention stung at every masked face. They felt like predators circling.

They took their place at a table near the stage, vantage unobstructed. The spotlight dimmed as evening guests flooded in wine glasses clinked, laughs fluttered.

A waiter offered Dominc Wade a seat he slid to a velvet chaise in front, masked, confident. He puffed cigarette smoke and regarded them through the crowd.

Isolde clenched her fingers, laptop open discreetly streaming a live feed to Penelope’s press contact.

As Wade whispered into his phone, Penelope slid a whispered text across her lap: “Ready.”

Isolde’s voice trembled as she leaned toward Dorian. “He’s here.”

Suddenly, velvet curtains parted and the host flicked on formal lights.

“Welcome, nights of privilege and privacy await,” he boomed. “But tonight revelations.”

Whispers passed.

Isolde’s pulse thudded.

Wade’s smirk faded as host continued: “Mr. Wade, we have your signature performance…on stage now.”

He snapped a figure into spotlight behind Wade: an envelope dropped at Wade’s chaise.

Velvet quieted a hush of power and fear.

Wade’s hand shook as he opened the envelope. Host watched.

Isolde leaned in, breath held.

Wade uncovered a series of photographs his meeting with Vivienne forcing her into the steel trap, rope bindings, stage lights.

Wade’s face paled behind his mask.

Host spoke: “Mr. Wade, do you deny involvement? The camera tests matched files. Explain before we release to press.”

He gestured to Dorian and Isolde’s laptop screen, now broadcasting the evidence to those waiting.

Gasp from audience behind them. Some stood. Phones in hand.

Wade lunged from his chair He ripped off his mask revealing sharp features. “They manipulated us Violent lunatics!”

Velvet security rushed in dialogue sharp:

Security Captain: “Stay where you are, sir!”

Wade: “They set me up!”

Dorian (rising): “Mr. Wade this is your chance to tell the truth.”

Wade: “The host knew They used her. For prestige, for twisted art.”

Penelope shouted: “Record every word!”

Isolde: “You hurt my sister.”

Wade: paused, throat tight, then hissed: “Not intentionally.”

Host slammed the microphone down. “Security remove Mr. Wade.”

He was dragged offstage amidst chaos. Phones flashed. Velvet’s pristine image cracked before their eyes.

Lights dimmed. Dorian rose, tense.

Dorian: “Isolde Penelope come.”

They followed him down the side corridor, toward his private office.

Penelope: “Press is contacting us.”

Isolde: “He denied involvement.”

Dorian’s expression was tight. “We take depositions.” He stepped into his private elevator.

Private Office

Inside the office, he closed the door.

Isolde: “He doesn’t deny scenes happened.”

Penelope: “He didn’t say he murdered or kidnapped.”

Dorian glanced at their faces. “He’s scared. That says something.”

A single knock sounded at the office door.

Voice whisper: “You made mistakes.”

No footsteps just echo.

They stared.

Dorian: “Who’s there?”

Silence.

Then a red envelope slid under the door no names.

Inside: A single poker chip velvet‑red, engraved: Stage 7 – Your Move.

Isolde’s breath caught.

The red poker chip glinted ominously in Isolde’s hand small, smooth, velvet-textured around the edge. She traced the engraved words: “Stage 7 – Your Move.” A symbol of power, prestige…a taunt.

Dorian closed his fist around hers. “They’re playing games,” he said softly, moving to his sleek desk. Under the dim light, equipment hummed security feeds, encrypted lines, closed panels. “But we can’t respond on their terms.”

Penelope leaned over the desk. “They know we’re onto them. Stage 7…that’s Velvet’s private penthouse code. They’ve baited us into their inner sanctum.”

Isolde turned the chip in her fingers. “So what do we do?”

Dorian tapped his finger thoughtfully on the desk. “We go there but when they aren’t watching. That chip is our invitation.”

She glanced at him. Invitation or trap?

He met her gaze. “We decide the stakes.”

They crouched around a small monitor showing Velvet’s internal floor plan. Penelope highlighted a passage leading from Stage 7 to the private rooftop suite a path with minimal camera coverage and strategically placed emergency exits.

Penelope: “We can enter during the black‑out window midnight to 1 AM feed looped, cameras frozen.”

Isolde: “We’ll need evidence, documents, or at least whatever that chip leads to.”

Dorian: “And if it’s a trap, I’ll be right beside you.”

Isolde exhaled, nodding. “Then we move at midnight.”

Dorian escorted Isolde back to her flat with a protective calm, far from the velvet sheen and flashing cameras.

Penelope lingered, scanning the city skyline, her phone in her palm. “I’ll pre‑alert friendly press just in case.”

Dorian slipped a hand behind her ear. “I’ll need eyes inside too. No surprises.”

She fluttered her lashes at him. “I know.”

They parted, drenched last word in whispered promise and something like relief.

Back at Velvet, soft footsteps echoed as they slipped inside through an unsecured back entrance. Penelope controlled the security feed while they moved, blending into shadows cast by sculpted darkness.

They found the door marked 7 – Private Suite. It stood dimly lit from beyond.

Dorian slipped the velvet chip into a subtle slot above the card reader it glowed green. The lock clicked.

They moved inside.

The suite was sumptuously dark mahogany, velvet, plush carpets. One heavy sliding door led deeper inside. On an ornate pedestal beneath soft lighting sat a black box.

Dorian approached, exhaled, and opened it.

Inside: a single photograph and a keycard.

Picture: Vivienne, younger, smiling with someone unknown her arm around a hand resting on Wade’s shoulder.

Keycard inscription: “Access – The Archive.”

Penelope whispered, “This is going deeper.”

Isolde swallowed.

A soft click reverberated Door slid shut. Lights dimmed.

A voice hissed through hidden speakers: “Do you know what this costs?”

They froze.

From behind the sliding wall, a man emerged into calm, theatrical glare: Velvet’s elusive host, mask glinting beneath the dim suite light.

The host tilted his head.

Host: “Entertain my guests?”

The host’s mask gleamed as he stepped forward no panic in his poise, just theatrical calm. Velvet’s air felt suffocating.

Dorian tightened his grip on Isolde’s hand. Penelope positioned herself near the door.

Host: “I do admire initiative.” He surveyed the black box. “Interesting choice The Archive keycard.”

Isolde met his eyes, steady. “We need answers.”

He sighed, as if disappointed. “Answers don’t come without a cost.”

Dorian’s jaw hardened. “We’re not paid performers. We’re not here for your game.”

The host inclined his head slightly. “Everything is a performance here, Mr. Blackthorn. You tried to reduce it to a transaction.”

He stepped forward, voice low and measured. “Consider this your standing invitation perform well, and we might have something…worth negotiating.”

Without warning, he triggered a soft click behind a panel in the suite’s wall, a hidden recording device slid free.

Penelope (quiet): “They’re recording us.”

Host (smirking): “I would be shocked if we weren’t.”

Isolde looked between them, resolve hardening. “Then we perform the answer. Right now.”

The host clapped once camera lights blinked on within the suite.

Host: “Very well. Let the final act begin.”