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❧ what happens in vegas stays in vegas ❧

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The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room, but Amalie hardly noticed. She leaned heavily against the bathroom counter, her hands gripping the edges as though the cool marble could anchor her to reality. Her tangled hair clung to her damp skin, a stark contrast to the hollow, pale reflection staring back at her in the mirror. Her eyes were sunken, dark shadows lingering beneath them—ghosts of sleepless nights.

Katherine hadn't come home. No surprise there. Amalie knew exactly where Katherine was: wrapped around Mason Lockwood, playing him with the effortless ease of someone who had done it a thousand times before. Katherine was always out, always manipulating, seducing, and controlling whoever happened to be useful at the moment.

Amalie was used to her absence. But last night...last night had been different.

She splashed cold water onto her face, hoping it might shock her back into some kind of clarity. Droplets fell from her chin into the sink, breaking the quiet in tiny, repetitive echoes. But the fog in her head didn't lift. exhaustion clung to her, deep in her bones, a heaviness from last night's torment. The voices—the ghosts—they had been relentless.

She swallowed hard, leaning forward again, her knuckles turning white as she gripped the counter. She felt fragile, like if she let go for even a second, she'd break apart.

From the reflection, she saw movement behind her

Ana stood in the doorway, her arms crossed, that perpetual air of teenage nonchalance hanging off her, though there was something else in her expression today. Concern, maybe. It was subtle—Ana wasn't the sentimental type—but Amalie knew her well enough to catch it. The ghost leaned against the doorframe, messy curls framing her face.

"You look like shit," Ana said, blunt as ever, though there was no malice in her voice. Just observation.

From the corner of the bathroom, Max appeared, lounging against the wall. His leather jacket hung off his shoulders casually, as if he had just wandered in from some '90s alt-rock gig, always too cool to care but too restless to leave. He was flipping a coin between his fingers, a habit that always surfaced when he was uneasy. Max rarely showed emotion—at least, not in the way that seemed genuine but there was an unspoken tension in the way he stood now.

"She's right," Max added, his voice lower than usual. "Last night wasn't exactly your finest moment."

Amalie let out a bitter laugh, though it came out more like a rasp, her throat still raw from crying. "Yeah," she muttered, "Thanks for the reminder."

Ana and Max exchanged a rare moment of silent agreement between them. Normally, they bickered like siblings, their constant banter a fixture in Amalie's life. But today, even they were quiet.

Ana stepped forward, her arms still crossed, head tilting slightly as she studied Amalie's reflection. "It was bad, huh? Worse than usual?"

Amalie exhaled slowly, the grip on the counter loosening as she met Ana's eyes in the mirror. "It wasn't just bad. It was...too much. I couldn't stop them. I couldn't even move."

Ana's face herself softened, the usual sarcasm slipping away. "They're getting louder," she said quietly, more to than to Amalie.

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair, his usual smirk replaced with something more serious. "That's what happens when you live in a town like this. Everyone dies in some awful, violent way, and guess who they all flock to? The only person who can hear them."

Amalie turned the faucet off, the water dripping abruptly cut off, leaving the room in an uncomfortable silence. She straightened up, pushing her hair back from her face, but her hands were still trembling, and the weight of it all sat heavily on her chest. "I'm so tired of this," she whispered, mostly to herself. "They're never going to leave me alone, are they?"

Ana leaned against the sink beside her, a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. "Probably not. But hey, it's not like we're going anywhere either. You'll always have us around." A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, soft and reassuring in its own way.

Max crossed his arms, giving her a half-hearted grin. "As much as we drive you crazy, we're better company than those other freaks, right?"

Amalie managed a weak smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah. Lucky me."

She pressed her palms against the counter, grounding herself, her mind still buzzing from the weight of last night. The voices had receded to a murmur, but they were still there—always there—whispering at the back of her skull. But something else had started to stir within her now, not the anger she had felt before, but something more mischievous. If she wanted to mess with Stefan, maybe it didn't have to be direct. She didn't need to destroy his life...just disrupt it. Just enough to make him feel a little off balance, to remind him that nothing is ever completely within his control.

Her mind shifted to Elena Gilbert. That name alone brought a smirk to her lips. Elena was Stefan's Achilles' heel, his humanity wrapped in a perfect little bow. Elena had no idea how tightly she held the Salvatore brothers in her grasp. And that made her interesting.

Ana must have sensed the shift in her demeanor because she raised an eyebrow. "You've got that look again. The 'I'm about to do something interesting' look. What's going on in that scheming head of yours?"

Amalie glanced up at her reflection, her voice calm but decisive. "I'm going into town."

Max blinked in surprise, pushing off the wall. "Going into town? After what happened last night? Are you—"

"Not to pick a fight with someone," she interrupted, her voice cool. "Not directly."

Ana crossed her arms, her expression intrigued. "So, what are you planning then?"

A grin flickered across Amalie's lips. "I think it's time to make some new friends."

Max let out a low whistle, leaning against the doorframe. "Friends, huh? Since when are you the social type?"

"I don't need friends," Amalie replied, her tone casual. "I need leverage."

Ana's grin widened. "Leverage, huh? And whose world are you planning to shake up?" She asked, even though she already knew the answer.

Amalie's thoughts drifted toward Jenna Sommers, Elena's aunt. She was vulnerable, unsuspecting. The perfect target. She could get close to Jenna, get into her life, her house. And from there, watch everything unfold. It wasn't about ruining Stefan's life, just nudging it out of place, sowing a little chaos, seeing how far she could push things before they unraveled.

"I'll start with Jenna," Amalie said, mostly to herself. "She's overwhelmed, dealing with Elena and Jeremy, completely unaware of what's going on in this town. She'll be easy to charm."

Ana raised an eyebrow. "Jenna? You're going for the innocent bystander route?"

Amalie shrugged, still smiling. "She needs a friend. Someone to trust. I'll just make sure that someone is me."

Max chuckled under his breath. "This should be entertaining."

Ana tilted her head, considering. "So, what? You'll be her shoulder to cry on? Make her think you're her new best friend?"

Amalie's smile deepened. "Maybe. Or maybe when she realizes the world she's living in, she'll need someone to help her make sense of it. I'll just be there when her world starts to crack."

Ana gave a slow nod, impressed. "Alright. Just don't forget—Stefan's not stupid. If he catches on, you'll have more than just a few bruised egos to deal with."

"I won't let him catch on," Amalie said, her voice firm. "Not until it's too late."

With that, she pushed herself away from the counter, the weight of her plan setting in. It wasn't about revenge or tearing everything down. It was about the game, about pulling at the threads and seeing what would come undone.

Stefan had once taken her life without a second thought. Now, she was going to step into his world, make herself at home, and see how much mischief she could stir up—starting with the people closest to him.

A little fun. A little chaos.

And Stefan wouldn't even see it coming.

###

The neon lights of Las Vegas flickered against the warm desert night, casting vibrant hues of pink and gold over the crowd pouring into the casino. It was 1954, and the city pulsed with life, its heartbeat an intoxicating mix of jazz, laughter, and the soft rattle of dice across velvet-covered tables. Amalie, just nineteen, walked at Stefan's side, her dark curls falling in perfect waves around her face. The fitted red dress she wore clung to her every curve, the chandelier light catching the sparkle of her earrings as they swayed with each step.

Men turned their heads as they passed, their eyes lingering too long, while their wives gripped their arms tighter, glacing at Amalie with suspicion. She noticed, but it didn't matter. The only person who held her attention was Stefan.

"Do you always attract this much attention?" Stefan asked, his voice smooth and teasing, his lips curving into a half-smile as he glanced down at her.

Amalie felt a flutter of nerves, ducking her head shyly as her eyes swept the crowd. "I think it's you they're looking at," she replied softly, her voice barely audible over the hum of the casino. "Not me."

"They're jealous," Stefan replied smoothly, his voice dipping lower. His hand slid possessively against her lower back, the heat of his touch sending a ripple through her body. "I don't blame them."

Her heart skipped at his words, pride blooming in her chest despite herself. She cast him a quick, sidelong glance, catching a fleeting moment where his green eyes softened, admiring her in a way that made her stomach tighten. But as quickly as it came, it vanished, and his attention returned to the path ahead.

They wove through the casino, the air thick with the smell of expensive cigars and the muted clink of glasses. Finally, they stopped at a high-roller table, where men in sleek suits sat beside women draped in pearls, each glance carrying the weight of hidden intentions. Stefan pulled out a chair for Amalie, his movements graceful and deliberate. As she sat, she felt the weight of the eyes on her—men grinning, women sizing her up.

"Lucky man, Stefan," one of the men across the table said, his cigar hanging lazily from his lips.

Stefan, unfazed, offered a charming smile, his eyes glinting. "Luck's never had much to do with it."

Amalie felt a rush of heat rise to her cheeks, but she kept her head down, her lips pressed into a faint, polite smile. The smoke and laughter around her seemed distant, a dull buzz at the edges of her mind. All she could focus on was Stefan—the way his hand lingered on the back of her chair, the occasional glance he threw her way that sent a shiver down her spine.

She leaned toward him slightly, her voice hesitant. "Do you gamble often?"

Stefan's smile deepened, his eyes never leaving the table as he tossed a few chips onto the green felt. "Only when I'm certain I'll win." He winked, his confidence infectious. "And tonight, I'm feeling very sure."

For hours, Stefan controlled the room, his every move precise and measured. His bets were deliberate, his charm magnetic. Amalie watched, transfixed, as he commanded the attention of everyone around him, all while never truly breaking away from her. Ever so often, he'd lean close, his breath warm against her ear.

"Are you enjoying yourself?" He asked, his voice casual, but there was something beneath it, something possessive.

Amalie nodded, though her voice came out softer than she intended. "Yes, very much."

"You don't seem convinced," Stefan chuckled, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, sending a thrill down her spine. "If you're bored, we could always leave."

Her pulse quickened at the thought, her heart fluttering beneath the weight of his gaze. "I'm not bored," she said quickly, her voice breathless. "I just...I've never been anywhere like this before."

His smile darkened, a slow, almost predatory curve to his lips. "Stick with me, and you'll see a lot of things you've never seen before."

As the night drew on, the casino buzz began to fade. They left hand in hand, the cool desert breeze a welcome contrast to the heat inside. Amalie's mind raced with thoughts of the evening, but more than that, it raced with thoughts of Stefan—the way he made her feel as though she were the only one that mattered. She reveled in it, the sense of safety and power he seemed to give her.

When they arrived at their hotel, Stefan closed the door behind them with a soft click, the noise of the city falling away like a distant memory. Inside, the air was still, heavy with unspoken words.

Stefan moved toward her, his steps soundless against the plush carpet. "You were quiet tonight," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her.

Amalie sat on the edge of the bed, her pulse quickening. "I didn't want to...interrupt. You were doing so well."

Stefan's fingers grazed her cheek, soft at first, before trialing down to her neck. "You could never interrupt me, Amalie," he murmured, his eyes dark and piercing as they met hers. "In fact, I like it when you speak . I like hearing your voice."

She felt a blush creep up her neck. "Do you really mean that?"

He leaned in closer, his lips brushing the delicate skin of her throat. "Why would I lie to someone as beautiful as you?" His fingers tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You know you're beautiful, don't you?"

Amalie's breath caught in her throat, her mind spinning. Under his gaze, she felt like she was the only woman in the world, like everything about her mattered. She nodded, her voice barely a whisper. "I—I do."

A smile played at Stefan's lips, soft but with an edge of something dangerous. "You're mine, Amalie, aren't you?"

"I am," she breathed, the words falling from her lips before she even knew what she was saying.

He brushed her hair aside, exposing her neck, his lips hovering just above her skin. "I'll take care of you. You trust me, don't you?"

"I do," she whispered, closing her eyes.

The moment his teeth grazed her skin, she sighed, tilting her head to the side. She had grown used to it by now—the bite, the sensation of him feeding. It didn't hurt anymore. It felt intimate, like something they shared, something that connected them in a way no one else could understand.

But tonight was different.

Stefan's grip tightened. The feeding lasted longer than it ever had before. Amalie's fingers clenched at the bed sheets, her body growing heavier with every passing second. "Stefan," she whispered, "that's enough, isn't it?"

There was no response. His mouth stayed latched onto her throat, drinking deeply, too deeply. Her heart began to falter, each beat slower than the last, her breaths turning into shallow gasps.

"Stefan?" Panic crept into her voice, weak and trembling. "Stefan, stop..."

But he didn't stop. Her limbs felt numb, her vision blurring as the realization hit her like a blow to the chest. He wasn't going to stop.

As her body slumped against the bed, her mind slipped into darkness, her world narrowing into nothingness. The last thing she saw before her eyes fluttered shut was Stefan's face, no longer warm and adoring, but cold and distant, the predatory fully unleashed.

She had trusted him. Believed him.

And now she was dead.

Or so she thought.

Hours later, Amalie's body stirred. Cold, lifeless moments before, now her fingers twitched, and her eyes fluttered open the pale light of dawn creeping through the curtains. She gasped, her body jerking as though waking from a nightmare. Panic still clung to her, but as she looked around the room, she felt different—more alive than she had before.

And then she remembered.

Katherine. Katherine had compelled her to drink her blood. Not long ago, just in case. "Just a precaution," Katherine had said with that knowing chuckle.

Amalie touched her neck, the skin still sensitive, but healed. She wasn't dead. Not fully. Not yet.

###

Amalie sat at the bar in the dimly lit Mystic Grill, fingers tracing lazy circles around the rim of her drink. The muted chatter of the crowd, the clink of glasses, and the occasional shuffle of pool balls all blended into a dull hum around her, but she wasn't listening. Her mind was far from the dimly lit bar, caught in the inescapable grip of old memories.

It had been nearly sixty years, but the night Stefan killed her still hung in the shadows of her thoughts, a memory too sharp to fade.

The cold air of that Las Vegas hotel room and the low hum of the city filtering through the open window came rushing back to her. She could still feel the chill of the night air, the smell of blood lingering on her skin. Amalie had woken up gasping, her vision swimming as she clawed her way back to consciousness. Confusion and hunger wrapped around her like a vice as she lay in a sweat-drenched tangle of sheets, her hand instinctively reaching for her throat where his fangs had pierced her skin.

But there had been no wound, no pain. Just the hollow realization that Stefan had drained her dry, leaving her for dead. She had believed every lie he'd whispered—trusted him, loved him—and when he took her life, she had been nothing more than a pawn in whatever cruel game he was playing.

Her throat tightened at the memory, and she shifted in her seat, trying to shake it off. The night had changed everything.

She remembered stumbling out of the hotel room, her legs barely holding her up. Panic had set in, her body surging with newfound power and a bloodlust she didn't understand. In the hallway, a cleaner—a woman in her late fifties— had been humming softly as she wheeled her cart toward Amalie's room, oblivious to the danger she was walking into. Amalie hadn't realized what was happening until it was too late. The hunger, raw and all-consuming, had taken over.

By the time Amalie came to her senses, the cleaner's body lay crumpled on the floor, her body soaking into the cheap hotel carpet. The horror of what she had done hit her like a wave, but it was too late. The blood was still fresh on her lips, and the woman's lifeless eyes stared up at her.

That's when Katherine found her.

Amalie had once thought Katherine's arrival was a coincidence, but she knew better now. Katherine Pierce never left things to chance. She had been watching, waiting, knowing Stefan would be the one to break Amalie. He had done the dirty work, and it