Rebekah sat quietly in her room, the dim light of the late afternoon casting golden streaks across the floorboards. The air was warm and still, heavy with the scent of old books and the faint perfume she favored. For once, there was silence—no Elijah pacing with some noble cause, no Kol making a mess or chasing chaos, and no Klaus brooding nearby, stirring trouble with his endless paranoia. It was the rarest of moments: her own.

She nestled deeper into the plush cushions of her bed, fingers absently tracing the embroidery on a velvet pillow, her thoughts far away. This was her sanctuary. Her pause from centuries of drama, grief, and duty.

But then—creak.

The sound of the door easing open cut through the stillness like a blade. Her eyes narrowed instantly, irritation flickering across her face. She didn’t need to look to know it wasn’t just the wind. Someone was invading her peace.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, the words low and sharp, laced with venomous frustration.

Her jaw clenched as she stared straight ahead, unwilling to turn, unwilling to give whoever it was the satisfaction of acknowledgment. Her peace had slipped away like water through her fingers, and whoever dared to disturb her was about to regret it.