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❧ an internal battle is the worst kind of torture ❧

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Amalie stretched lazily under the covers, her body sinking deeper into the soft bed as she propped herself up against the headboard. The morning sun streamed through the lace curtains, casting a warm glow across the room, and filling it with a peaceful stillness. She took a slow bite of toast, savoring the rare sense of quiet that wrapped around her like a blanket. On her lap, a tray was perched, laden with breakfast—coffee, eggs, fresh fruit. For the first time in what felt like forever , there was no chaos, no pressing danger, just this moment of calm.

Across the room, Katherine stood in front of the mirror, running a brush through her long, dark hair. Every movement was precise and deliberate, as if even this small act was part of her carefully constructed image. Katherine was always perfectly in control, never missing a beat, not even in the privacy of their shared space. Her beauty was sharp and effortless, and her presence filled the room with an unspoken tension—one Amalie had grown all too familiar with over the years.

Amalie sipped her coffee, her eyes drifting toward Katherine's reflection. She watched her for a moment before speaking, her voice casual but laced with curiosity. "So," she asked, breaking the silence, "what's the plan for today?"

Katherine paused mid-brush stroke, her dark eyes meeting Amalie's in the mirror. "We're going to the wake for Mayor Lockwood," she said smoothly, as though the answer were obvious.

Amalie raised an eyebrow, setting down her coffee cup. "A wake? For the mayor?" Her tone was less concerned, more bemused. Wakes weren't exactly her scene—too many overwrought emotions, too many people mourning the dead while she herself could see the dead. Death didn't mean much to her.

Katherine's lips curled into a sly, knowing smile. "Yes. Mason will be there too," she added, her eyes flicking toward Amalie with a pointed gleam. "But let me be clear: don't talk to him."

Amalie's expression darkened immediately, her scowl forming before she could even think to hide it. She leaned back against the pillows, arms crossing over her chest. "Mason?" She repeated, the disdain clear in her voice. "Why would I want to talk to that idiot? He doesn't know an ass from his elbow."

Katherine, still brushing her hair, smirked at the sudden shift in Amalie's mood. "Are you jealous?" She teased, her voice laced with amusement, knowing how to needle Amalie when she wanted to.

Amalie scoffed dramatically, rolling her eyes as she pushed the tray aside. "Jealous? Of Mason?" She muttered as she swung her legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through her tangled hair. "The guy's an idiot. Just because he's a werewolf doesn't make him special."

At that moment, Ana—who had been lounging in the armchair by the window, an invisible observer to Katherine—snorted loudly. "He really is a moron," she muttered, though her voice was dripping with her usual disinterest. Ana, who had died in the 80s at the ripe age of seventeen, had been haunting Amalie for years now. Dressed in attire from that decade, with chipped black nails and a perpetually unimpressed expression, Ana was more of an observer than a friend. Still, her dry commentary kept things interesting.

Amalie's lips twitched into a faint smile as she glanced toward Ana. The ghost had a way of saying exactly what Amalie was thinking, but with even less care for politeness. Katherine, of course, couldn't see or hear Ana—an oversight that often made for entertaining moments—but Amalie was used to that by now.

"Mm-hmm," Katherine hummed, clearly unconvinced by Amalie's protests. She set down the brush and turned back to the mirror, applying a coat of lipstick with practiced ease. "Mason's useful, though," she said, her tone casual. "And he's kind of in love with me. You can't blame the poor guy. They always fall for me eventually."

Amalie let out an exaggerated sigh, standing up from the bed. "I don't care if he's got a shrine to you in his basement," she muttered, stretching her arms overhead. "He's still a moron."

Ana raised an eyebrow and smirked. "Watching him trip over himself for Katherine is hilarious, though. Puppy dog ​​eyes and everything."

Amalie stifled a laugh at that, but didn't respond. Katherine, still blissfully unaware of Ana's presence, continued without missing a beat, her attention still on herself in the mirror. Ana had a sort of detached curiosity about Katherine—she didn' t like her, but she didn't hate her either. It was like watching a particularly entertaining soap opera, one Ana was stuck in whether she liked it or not.

Katherine, finishing with her lipstick, turned back to Amalie, her smile playful. "Jealous or not, just don't talk to him. He's useful, and I don't want you messing that up."

Amalie groaned, running a hand through her tangled hair. "When have I ever messed up one of your little plans, Katherine?" She replied with a mock expression, knowing full well that their history was littered with moments where things hadn't exactly gone according to plan.

Katherine arched an eyebrow, her smirk deepening as she sauntered over to Amalie, her eyes gleaming with playful arrogance. "I'll be keeping an eye on you," she said, her voice low but teasing.

"Yeah, yeah," Amalie muttered, though she couldn't stop the faint smile that tugged on her lips. Despite their constant power plays and manipulations, there was a bond between them, one that had been forged through the years together. It wasn't love—not in the traditional sense—more like respect for each other that kept them tethered together.

Ana, sitting cross-legged in the chair, made a dramatic winding motion with her finger. "So much drama," she deadpanned. "I swear, I could be watching Days of Our Lives instead."

Amalie bit back a laugh, glacing at Ana with a dry smile. "Trust me, this is way more entertaining."

Katherine's eyes narrowed slightly, her lips parting as if she'd caught the tail end of Amalie's comment. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Amalie said quickly, her smirk returning. "Just talking to myself."

Katherine gave her a long, speculative look, as if deciding whether or not to press the issue. After a moment, she shrugged, her interest already shifting back to her own reflection as she made her final adjustments. The moment passed, and the game between them continued, each knowing the other's moves before they made them.

Amalie shook her head, leaning against the bedpost, her gaze shifting between Katherine and Ana. This had been her life for years now—waking up in a bed and breakfast with a centuries-old vampire who toyed with people's hearts for sport, while a snarky ghost offered a running commentary on everything from the sidelines.

And the day hadn't even started yet.

###

The Lockwood house loomed ahead, its grand façade bathed in the soft glow of lanterns that dotted the grounds. The air was thick with the somber hush of a wake, where low murmurs and polite condolences swirled under the cover of night. Katherine strode toward the entrance with her usual confidence, heels clicking against the stone steps. Amalie followed a few paces behind, her eyes scanning the building's exterior. Wakes were always like this—full of grief, secrets, and just enough tension to keep the room on edge.

As they neared the door, Tyler Lockwood appeared, looking far more composed than Amalie had expected for someone whose father had just died. His face lit up with a smile of forced politeness as he spotted Katherine—or rather, who he thought was Elena.

"Hey, Elena, thanks for coming," Tyler said, his voice warm as he reached out and took Katherine's hands in a gesture of gratitude.

Katherine, ever the actress, slipped effortlessly into her Elena persona, her voice soft, her expression tinged with sympathy. "Of course, Tyler," she said gently, giving his hands a reassuring squeeze. "I'm really sorry about your dad ."

Tyler nodded, clearly grateful. His gaze shifted toward Amalie, standing just behind Katherine with an amused smile barely curving her lips.

"And who's this?" Tyler asked, his brow furrowing slightly as he glanced at Amalie.

Katherine's reply was smooth, her transition effortless. "Oh, this is Amalie. She's one of my cousins ​​​​​​​from out of town." She leaned in, as if confiding something more intimate. "She's a little shy. "

Amalie shot Tyler a quick, practiced smile, though there was nothing shy about it. She wasn't about to blow Katherine's cover, but she certainly wasn't shy. Not in any world. She kept her lips pressed together long enough to convey Politeness, her eyes darting past him, eager to get inside.

"Nice to meet you," Tyler said with a quick nod, stepping aside and gesturing for them to enter. "Come on in, guys."

With that simple invitation, the invisible barrier that had kept them at bay lifted. They crossed the threshold, stepping into the Lockwood mansion's warm, dimly lit foyer. The low hum of hushed conversations filled the space, mingling with the scent of polished wood and roses. Amalie's eyes swept over the room, taking in the black-clad guests who murmured soft condolences, the flickering candlelight casting shadows on the elegant décor. It was a scent of restrained sorrow, of people performing grief rather than feeling it.

Amalie let out a slow breath, turning to Katherine with a raised brow. "So, what's the plan?" She asked quietly, though her gaze was already roving the room for familiar faces.

Katherine's eyes narrowed, scanning the room with the precision of someone always looking for her next move, always calculating. "I'm going to find Stefan," she said, her voice low enough that only Amalie could hear. "And avoid Damon, obviously." She rolled her eyes, the name alone enough to exhaust her. Then, her gaze shifted back to Amalie, a playful glint in her eyes. "And you? What are you up to?"

Amalie's eyes flicked toward the catering table, a sly grin tugging at her lips. "I'm going to get some food."

Katherine chuckled softly. "Of course you are."

Without waiting for a response, Amalie turned on her heel and made a beeline for the table, her gaze already settling on a platter of delicate hors d'oeuvres. As she reached for a cracker topped with brie, a familiar voice cut through her thoughts like a dull blade.

"Ew. A wake? How depressing ."

Amalie froze mid-reach, her hand hovering just above the tray. She shot a sideways glare toward the source of the voice, her irritation flaring. Max was lounging beside her, his tall, lanky figure slouched in that careless way only ghosts could manage . His worn leather jacket and perpetual chuckle hadn't changed in the years since his untimely death. He exuded an air of sarcastic disinterest that grated on her nerves more often than not.

"Max," she muttered under her breath, low enough for only him to hear. "Must you always show up at the worst possible times?"

Max grinned, his expression smug as he leaned closer, ignoring her frustration. "I'm just saying," he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Why are you at a wake? That's the last thing I would expect from you. Wakes are horrible."

Amalie rolled her eyes, snatching the cracker from the tray and popping it into her mouth. She chewed deliberately, forcing herself to stay composed. Max was always there, a specter of annoyance hovering at her side, whether she wanted him or not. He 'd died in the 90s, the victim of a werewolf attack, his gruesome end ensuring he was one of the many ghosts that clung to her like unwelcome shadows. Unlike most of the spirits that haunted her, Max didn't seem to have a single unfinished task—just a penchant for sticking around to irritate her.

He grinned wider, clearly enjoying himself. "Seriously, though. Who picks this as a way to honor the dead? Black suits, bland food, and all these sad faces? It's a little pathetic."

Amalie clenched her jaw, resisting the urge to respond further. She wasn't in the mood for Max's commentary, not with half the town watching. Instead, she picked up another canape, her gaze scanning the room in search of a distraction.

"Touchy today, aren't we?" Max teased, sidling closer, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "Let me guess: you're really here to stir up some trouble. And I thought I was the bad influence."

Amalie's lips pressed into a thin line. Before she could bite back a retort, a presence next to her made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. The air around her thickened, the room seemingly holding its breath as though the universe itself recognized the arrival of Damon Salvatore.

"Well, well, well," Damon's smooth, drawing voice cut through the air as he sauntered over to the table. "I don't think we've met before." His sharp blue eyes flicked over her, sizing her up. His tone was casual, but the suspicion beneath it was palpable. "And yet, here you are. At the mayor's wake. Funny how that works."

Amalie didn't bother hiding her irritation. She turned to face him, her expression hard, her gaze cold as she met his assessing stare. "I'm not here to make friends, Salvatore." She popped another hors d'oeuvre into her mouth, deliberately dismissing his presence as a minor inconvenience.

Damon arched a brow, clearly amused by her bluntness. "Touchy, aren't we?" He stepped closer, crossing his arms as he studied her with renewed interest. "So, what's your story, hmm? I know most people in this town...but you?" His smile was sharp, cutting, as though he could already taste the unraveling of her secrets. "You're not on the guest list. And trust me, I'd remember you."

Amalie's fingers curled into a fist at her side, her jaw tightening. She set her plate down with more force than necessary, turning to face him fully. "Let's skip the games, Damon. I'm not interested in whatever this is." Her voice was flat, her eyes dark with contempt. She hated the way he looked at her, like she was some puzzle he couldn't wait to solve. But she wasn't a mystery for him to unravel.

Damon chuckled slightly, his amusement giving way to something more serious. He leaned in slightly, his eyes narrowing. "You don't belong here, and I know it. If you don't want to tell me who you are.. . " His voice dropped, his tone hardening. "I'll find out anyway."

Amalie's blood simmered at his arrogance, a flare of anger rising in her chest. She hated this. The way the Salvatore always seemed to assume they could pry into people's lives without consequence. And Stefan? He'd been worse. He'd taken everything from her and discarded her like she was nothing. She felt a familiar wave of bitterness swell inside her.

Her eyes flashed with anger as she met Damon's gaze. "You think you can intimidate me?" Her voice was low, dangerous. "You think you're clever because you've got a few party tricks up your sleeve?" Her lips curled into a cold smile. "I'm not scared of you. Or your brother."

At the mention of Stefan, Damon's expression shifted, his blue eyes flickering with curiosity. But he quickly masked it, replacing it with his usual smug detachment. "Funny you should mention Stefan," he mused. "He does tend to leave an impression . Not always a good one."

Amalie felt a sharp pang at his words, memories flashing through her mind—Stefan's cold, unfeeling gaze, the way he'd drained her of everything, leaving her nothing but a hollow shell.

Before she could reply, Max, ever the master of ill-timed interruptions, chimed in.

"Yikes, the tension between you two," Max drawn, lounging against the wall beside her. "You two should really work this out. It's getting awkward."

Amalie shot him a murderous glare, willing him to shut up. She couldn't exactly have a conversation with a ghost in the middle of a crowded room. But, as usual, ignored her, continuing with his usual smirk, loving every second of the tension he could sense between her and Damon "Honestly," Max said, grinning at Amalie. "If you keep glaring like that, he might actually think you care."

Amalie clenched her jaw, forcing herself to ignore him. Max wasn't helping—he never did—and his sarcastic remarks only stoked the fire simmering beneath her calm exterior. She needed to focus on Damon, not on the ghost whose sole purpose seemed to be irritating her at the worst possible times.

Damon, of course, remained oblivious to Max's presence, but he wasn't blind to the change in Amalie's demeanor. His eyes flicked between her clenched fists and her tight smile, curiosity deepening in his gaze. There was something in her anger, in the way she pushed back without hesitation, that intrigued him. She wasn't like the others—wasn't like the usual suspects who tiptoed around the Salvatores, either drawn to their power or afraid of it. No, she didn't seem afraid at all, and that made her dangerous.

"Touchy subject, I take it," Damon said, his voice softening just slightly, as if testing the waters. "Stefan, I mean. You seem to know him...and me, which is strange for someone who just got here ."

Amalie narrowed her eyes, her patience fraying at the edges. She could feel Max's gaze boring into her from the sidelines, but she shoved his presence to the back of her mind. She wasn't going to let Damon dig deeper. Not here. Not now. Not when the ghosts of her past were closer than ever.

"You don't know a damn thing about me," she snapped, her voice cold as ice. "And Stefan? Let's just say he's not exactly the saint you think he is."

Damon's expression darkened for a split second, his easygoing smirk faltering as he processed her words. "Oh, trust me," he said, his voice low, barely a murmur. "I'm well aware of that."

There was a moment of silence between them, thick with unspoken tension. Amalie could feel the weight of Damon's gaze on her, his curiosity palpable. He wanted answers. He wanted to know who she was, why she was here, and how she fit into the tangled web of Mystic Falls. But she wasn't about to give him anything.

Max, meanwhile, watched the exchange with gleeful fascination, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. He leaned closer to Amalie, his voice dripping with amusement. "This is fun," he whispered. "I'm betting five minutes before he starts praying into your tragic backstory."

Amalie clenched her teeth, resisting the urge to tell Max to shut up. She couldn't afford to slip, not in front of Damon, not with so much at stake. Instead, she forced herself to stay calm, to focus on the conversation at hand.

Damon's gaze flickered to the crowd around them, his expression momentarily shifting to something almost casual, as if he were letting the conversation go. But Amalie wasn't fooled. She knew how Damon operated. Their curiosity was a mask for something darker, something far more calculated. They always wanted to know the game, to understand every piece on the board.

But Amalie wasn't a piece to be played