All Chapters of Tangled In Velvet : Chapter 41 - Chapter 50

Rain pelted the slate roof of the lakeside house, casting soft percussion against the high windows. Dorian stood to one side of the door, gun drawn, while Penelope monitored the screen that showed a solitary figure in the entry camera feed.A woman.Late sixties, perhaps older, draped in a floor-length charcoal coat and a grey lace veil that obscured her face. Her hands were gloved. Her presence is calm. Too calm.“Do we open it?” Penelope asked, her hand hovering over the digital lock.“She used your real name,” Dorian murmured to Isolde. “Not your alias.”Isolde stepped forward. “Do it.”Penelope tapped the screen. The door gave a soft click.The woman stepped inside without hesitation, movements fluid like someone long accustomed to silent rooms and darker entrances.Isolde stared at her. “Who are you?”The woman removed her veil.Her face was like cracked porcelain, still beautiful in a severe, brittle way. Cheekbones sculpted, mouth thin, eyes iron-blue.“My name,” she said, “is

The cab screeched to a stop at the curb of Fifth and 61st. Isolde didn’t wait for change. Her heels hit the pavement hard, her breath a ragged rhythm between adrenaline spikes.She bolted toward the marble façade of Dorian’s building.But the moment she crossed the street, she knew something was wrong.Unmarked black sedans.Red and blue lights bouncing off glass.Cameras.Security swarming.And standing just behind the velvet cordon, flanked by two federal agents Dorian Blackthorn.His suit jacket was undone. His hands were bound behind him with silver cuffs.He looked calm.But his eyes searched the crowd like a man being buried alive.“Dorian!” Isolde shouted, pushing forward.A uniformed officer grabbed her by the elbow. “Step back, ma’am.”“I need to speak with him he’s being set up ”“Step. Back.”Then her name.“Issy.”Dorian’s voice, low and frayed, cut through the chaos.She met his eyes. And in that moment, she saw it all.Not fear.Resignation.Like he knew this had been c

Rain swallowed the city.It poured like it had a grudge blurring headlights, veiling streets, turning every surface into glass. Isolde’s coat clung to her shoulders, soaked despite the canopy she ducked under near the service entrance of The Silhouette, a dive bar known for its silence, anonymity, and one ex-journalist who owed Dorian Blackthorn his life.She adjusted the scarf across her mouth and stepped inside.Low lighting. Jazz bleeding through vintage speakers. A lone bartender polishing a glass with the absent focus of someone waiting for trouble. Good.Isolde crossed to the booth in the back. Her fingers trembled against the encrypted drive inside her coat pocket. It was warm to the touch like it pulsed with its own heart.A familiar voice beat her there.“You’re late.”Mikhail Trent sat in the corner, laptop open, cigarette curling between two knuckles. His once-glossy byline had turned into shadow-market exposés after Velvet blacklisted him. He didn’t look surprised to see h

The world woke up in flames.Across screens and newsfeeds, the Velvet files unfolded in brutal clarity streamed recordings from inside the club, unredacted bank statements linking high-profile politicians to secret transactions, timestamped dossiers marked CONFIDENTIAL – ARCHIVE USE ONLY.Isolde watched it all from a bunker beneath an abandoned gallery in Berlin.“…former Prime Minister’s son confirmed on the Red List ”“…Velvet files link seven oil executives to staged disappearances ”“…Interpol has issued a joint statement with U.N. intelligence ”Vivienne sat cross-legged beside her, face pale, watching her own silhouette flicker across the news in looped footage from her final night on Velvet’s stage.Isolde reached out, took her hand. “It’s not just you anymore.”Vivienne’s voice was hoarse. “But it started with me.”Penelope’s voice came through the encrypted feed: “We have a problem.”Isolde snapped to attention. “What is it?”“The Handler vanished. Her safehouse was empty whe

The green light blinked on.Isolde’s breath caught.Across from her, Vivienne sat upright, flawless under studio lighting an image sculpted for the camera, but vibrating with barely restrained fury. She wore a black silk blouse, collar high, wrists bare. No jewelry. No mask. Her hair was pulled back in a simple twist, her only adornment a velvet ribbon blood red.The journalist sat opposite. A cool, calm woman from BBC Global, with a reputation for neutrality that had made her the safest option.“We live in three, two…”A beat of silence.“…Vivienne Wrenleigh, thank you for joining us. The world has seen your sister’s recordings. I heard rumors. But tonight, it hears you.”Vivienne nodded slowly. Her voice, when it came, was sanded with fire.“I wasn’t stolen all at once. I was invited. Seduced. Groomed.”Isolde flinched off-camera. Dorian, standing behind the tech booth, stayed stone-faced.Vivienne continued, gaze direct.“They promised art. Exposure. Power. Velvet was never just a