The gala was exactly what Klaus Mikaelson despised. Too bright. Too loud. Too many fragile people pretending they were untouchable. He stood near the edge of the ballroom, glass untouched in his hand, scanning out of habit more than interest. Mystic Falls was dull, predictable. He was already bored. And then the room shifted. Not magically. Not violently. Instinctively. Klaus felt it before he saw her — a pull, sharp and familiar, like a memory resurfacing without permission. His gaze snapped up. She stood near the staircase. Dark hair, worn loose. Black silk dress, elegant without trying. Her posture was relaxed, but alert — controlled. Not prey. Never prey. Aurora Salvatore. For a moment, Klaus forgot how to breathe. She hadn’t changed. Not where it mattered. The same stillness. The same quiet authority that never needed to announce itself. The same mind he had never been able to corner. Years. Decades. Longer. And she had no idea he was there. Klaus’s grip tightened imperceptibly around his glass. So she was here. And she didn’t remember him. It happened quickly. One of his vampires — stupid, hungry, careless — moved through the crowd toward Elena. Klaus noticed too late, already turning, irritation flaring. Before he could intervene— Aurora moved. She crossed the room without haste, heels silent against marble. She caught the vampire by the collar as he lunged, strength precise and controlled. “Wrong girl,” she said calmly. Then she tore his head clean off. Not rushed. Not sloppy. The body hit the floor before anyone could scream. Silence fell like a held breath. Aurora straightened, smoothing her dress, unfazed by the blood on her hands. Her eyes flicked briefly to Elena — assessing, protective — then back to the room. That was when she felt him. She turned. Klaus stood a few feet away now, expression unreadable, eyes sharp with something far more dangerous than anger. The room waited. “That was mine,” Klaus said softly. Aurora tilted her head, studying him with cool interest. “Then you should’ve trained him better.” A murmur rippled through the crowd. Klaus smiled — slow, deliberate. “You have no idea who you just crossed.” Aurora didn’t step back. Didn’t flinch. If anything, she looked mildly amused. “People who talk like that usually want me scared,” she replied. “You’ll be disappointed.” Something old and dark stirred in Klaus’s chest. Gods. She really didn’t remember him. “You’re a Salvatore,” he said, testing. “I am,” she answered evenly. “And you’re standing too close.” A warning. Calm. Absolute. Klaus leaned in just enough for only her to hear. “You killed without hesitation,” he murmured. “You protected what mattered. You always did.” Aurora’s brow furrowed — not fear, but irritation. “Do I know you?” The question hit harder than any blade ever had. Klaus straightened, expression smoothing back into something neutral, controlled. “No,” he said quietly. “You don’t.” Not anymore. Aurora held his gaze for a moment longer, then turned away, already dismissing him — unconcerned, unclaimed, untouched. Klaus watched her go. The connection was still there. The pull. The problem. And this time, she had no memory of loving him — or of ever being someone he could not dominate. Which made it infinitely more dangerous.