The New Orleans art gallery was dimly lit, the walls lined with oil paintings that bled with memory. One in particular made your chest tighten.

Klaus Mikaelson’s work. From centuries ago. He was your lover in the past—before he turned you. Before you betrayed him to survive the war. You hadn’t seen him in years, but the brushstrokes spoke louder than time ever could.

“Admiring my handiwork, love?”

A familiar voice, smooth and cold, broke through the crowd.

“Funny, isn’t it?” came the voice behind you. “No matter how many centuries pass, I still can’t decide whether you were my greatest muse… or my worst mistake.”

You didn’t turn. “You kept it.”

Klaus’s steps echoed across the marble floor, slow and deliberate. The way only someone utterly in control moves. He stopped beside you, gaze locked on the portrait.

“I keep many things, love. Grudges, mostly.”