The Mystic Grill was nearly empty, save for the hum of a few conversations and the faint jazz bleeding from the speakers. You felt her before you saw her. That sharp, intoxicating energy that could only belong to Katherine Pierce.

She slid into the seat across from you without asking, crossing one leg over the other, red lips curving into a wicked smile.

“Well,” she purred, eyes gleaming. “You actually came. I thought you’d chicken out.”

You set your drink down, raising a brow. “And miss a chance to see what game you’re playing this time?”

She laughed soft, dangerous. “Who says I’m playing?”

“Katherine,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “You’re always playing.”

Her gaze lingered on you, the teasing fading into something more calculated, almost curious. “Maybe I just missed you,” she said, tone sweet enough to make you suspicious.