All Chapters of Tangled In Velvet : Chapter 51 - Chapter 60

The elevator didn’t stop at the lobby.It descended far below it.Steel and silence wrapped around them like a coffin. Dorian stood on Isolde’s left, Penelope on her right, her eyes hollow, jaw tight.She hadn’t said a word since the chip had changed hands.Only nodded.Only obeyed.The Host stood like a conductor in front of them, humming softly. The tune was elegant Mozart? Bach? She wasn’t sure. But it made her skin crawl.The floor display blinked past L1… L2…By the time it hit L5, Isolde gripped the rail to keep steady.She could feel the city vanishing above them. With it, everything that felt safe, even in danger.Then the doors slid open.Not to stone.To velvet.Not metaphorical, not poetic.Literal.A hallway lined entirely in bloodred velvet and gold fixtures stretched before them. Golden light bathed the carpet in warmth that felt like the opposite of mercy. Masked guards flanked the passage, each dressed like they were born into wealth and had only just killed to keep it

The tribunal chamber at City Hall felt colder than the wind outside.Glass walls revealed a skyline blurred by gray rain, but inside, the silence had a pressure of its own: dozens of reporters, dignitaries, victims, and Velvet sympathizers filled the rows in watchful anticipation. The judge’s podium loomed like a guillotine, flanked by marble pillars and old symbols of justice.But all eyes were on her.Isolde stood at the far end of the aisle. Alone.Not Dorian. Not Penelope.Just her.Her fingers tightened around the manila folder she carried smoke-stained, ash-flecked, still warm. Inside it was the original reel from the Archive. And the page bearing Laurent Blackthorn’s name.Her shoes clicked softly against the chamber’s floor as she approached the microphone. Every step sent shivers up her spine.Behind her, cameras flashed. Livestream feeds lit up. Her name Isolde Wrenleigh trended online.The woman who infiltrated Velvet.The liar. The sister. The witness.She reached the podi

The old wine bar above Velvet was quiet, boarded up under the guise of renovations. Inside, the lights were low and the air tasted of dust and endings.Isolde stood in the corner booth, the same one where they’d first met. Her fingers rested on the polished wood table, gaze pinned to the entrance.Penelope arrived late.She stepped in like she owned the silence, sunglasses still on, hair twisted into something too severe to be effortless. But her heels hesitated on the floorboards.“You called,” she said coolly, sliding into the booth.Isolde didn’t waste time.“Where were you when the file vanished?”Penelope didn’t blink. “Asleep. For once.”“No,” Isolde said softly. “You were on your private server. The logs don’t lie.”Penelope’s lips twitched. “Logs can be forged.”Isolde slid a flash drive across the table.“This one wasn’t. You accessed the vault twelve minutes before the breach.”A long silence.Finally, Penelope removed her glasses.Her eyes were tired. Older than Isolde reme

The press pass was outdated, Penelope's name printed under the long-defunct Hudson City Chronicle but the guard at the service elevator barely glanced. The badge, the coat, and her voice: confident, clipped, and razor-sharp.Isolde followed close behind, black blazer zipped to her throat, hair slicked back in a severe twist. Dorian brought up the rear in a crisp gray suit that cut across the shimmer of rooftop security like a knife.“Security scanners in place,” Penelope murmured. “No weapons allowed. But information? Still lethal.”The elevator clicked upward.They didn’t speak.Each floor brought them closer to Vale.And the moment.The rooftop was transformed with gold floodlights, live jazz quartet, velvet-draped bars, and panoramic skyline glittering beyond. Guests sipped champagne and murmured beneath the sharp trill of violins.At the podium near the edge stood Lucien Vale. The city’s chill kissed his silver cufflinks.“We have two hours before the speech,” Penelope said, scann

The doorman didn’t ask questions. That was part of why Dorian had chosen this place.Upper West Side. Twenty-second floor. No cameras in the hallway. Keypad entry, biometric override, and a name on the lease that wasn’t hers.Vivienne Blake now Celeste Vaughn stood in the middle of her new apartment with one suitcase and a shoebox full of burned memories.Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city. It sparkled like a postcard, a world she hadn’t walked in freely for over a year. The living room was blank, sterile clean lines, ash-gray furniture, untouched marble countertops.Freedom felt a lot like absence.She dropped the suitcase by the door, heels echoing against wood. Dorian hadn’t accompanied her. He’d handed her a thick envelope earlier that morning, documents, new ID, apartment codes and said nothing except: “You get to choose now.”She hadn’t seen her sister since the fallout. Isolde hadn’t come to the Archive debriefing. She hadn’t come to the hospital either. Vivienne wasn