All Chapters of Tangled In Velvet : Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

The video had gone viral before the third glass of wine had even settled on Penelope’s trembling hand.She watched it play on repeat in the Velvet control room, the slick LED monitor casting pale blue ghosts across her face. Dorian’s voice. Isolde’s too. Then Vivienne, shaky and raw, her testimony spilling into the world with the weight of unspoken history.Everything they’d exposed: the Archive files, the masks, the bodies, the boardroom deals was now beyond the velvet curtains. It lived online. Forever.Penelope sat in the hush after the storm.Even Velvet’s walls felt stripped. The heavy curtains seemed thinner. The chandeliers hung just a bit too low, like lowered eyes after a betrayal.She exhaled. One hard, jagged breath.Footsteps echoed behind her.Dorian entered, his coat still damp from the night air, his collar turned up like armor. He didn’t say a word as he approached, just dropped a manila folder on the table beside her.Inside were statements. Public, legal, corporate.

The sea breathed in long, mournful sighs, as if the whole coast remembered.Cornwall stretched in hushed, grey elegance before her. Fog rolled like silk down the cliffs, and the Atlantic whispered low beneath her bare feet on cold, worn stone. Dorian’s estate rose behind her half-forgotten ruins restored into a house of solitude. Ivy threaded up the brick. The windows blinked gently in the light, as if still unsure they were allowed to reflect the sun.Isolde stood alone, arms folded across her robe. No makeup. No mask. Just salt in her lungs and something strange blooming deep in her body.The wind tugged at her hem, lifting it in soft swells. The old slate path beneath her led to the cliff’s edge where jagged rocks gnawed at the sea, where gulls circled like silent witnesses.Her stomach clenched again not in fear. Something else.Something quieter. Stranger.She pressed her hand against it as if she could reason with the feeling. Her body had been restless for days now. Not sick, n

The safehouse was barely lit. A sliver of dawn crept through drawn blackout curtains, painting the concrete walls with a dull, gray sheen. The hum of old pipes overhead was the only sound, save for the occasional creak of Dorian pacing behind the frosted-glass partition.Isolde sat on the narrow mattress in the corner, fingers still trembling around the old leather-bound ledger Elias had given her.She hadn’t slept.How could she?Elias had sealed himself in a room filled with explosives to give her time. To give her this.She glanced across the dim space. Dorian stood shirtless at the window, back turned, muscles taut with something more than exhaustion. Rage? Guilt? She couldn’t tell anymore.“You haven’t said anything,” she whispered.He didn’t move.She stood. “Dorian.”“I’m thinking,” he said without turning.“No,” she said quietly. “You’re disappearing.”He exhaled hard through his nose, then turned toward her.His eyes were dark. “Do you understand what this book is, Isolde? Th

Isolde barely registered the moment the woman vanished. The masked observers, the judge’s final gavel, even the bark of orders from the bailiffs blurred under the thrum in her ears.Everything felt too loud and too slow.Dorian’s hand found hers beneath the table. Cold metal cuffs still wrapped his wrists, but his fingers anchored her with quiet, unshakable pressure.Then movement.Federal agents swarmed the courtroom, cloaking Dorian and Vivienne with tailored shields of authority. Isolde was ushered through the service corridor, back doors only judges and corpses passed through.No press. No exit through the lobby. Just silence and marble and government-grade secrecy.They were funneled into a black Suburban with tinted glass and no plates. Penelope was already inside, typing furiously on a laptop mounted to a rigged power bank. Her hair was half-pulled back, eyes sharp with something new, maybe fear. Or awe.“Was that her?” she asked.Isolde nodded, sliding in beside Vivienne. “She

The room smelled like paper and light. White walls. Clean wood floors. No velvet. No shadows. Just voices. Dozens of them. The exhibit wasn’t permanent. It moved from city to city, curated by a team of journalists and survivors who had once worn masks for different reasons. Now, they wore none. Isolde stood near the far wall, beside a display case containing one item: A single black velvet mask, trimmed in silver, with a red teardrop beneath one eye. Stage Seven. Her mask. People passed by, whispering. A few recognized her. No one approached. Vivienne had begged her not to disappear again. Not to vanish back into silence. So she didn’t. She wore her name now. All of it. Isolde Wrenleigh. Survivor. Whistleblower. Witness. And behind her, the door opened. She knew the steps. Didn’t have to turn to know. Dorian. He said nothing as he joined her. She glanced sideways. The suit was navy today. No tie. His scars had faded, but not gone. Neither had hers. “You’re late,