As a writer stuck in a mindless, never-ending, infinite loop of writer's block, Elena Gilbert HAS to write the draft of her next chapter. Or else her editor will kill her. Legitimately. It's up to her to locate a willing vampire to compel her to wri...
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"Do you hate me, Jer?"
He looks at her straight in the eye. Without even so much as an ounce of regret.
"I'd do it again to protect you."
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"Mom, you have to compel me!" cries Elena impatiently. "Or else my editor would ... and he will kill me!"
Isobel looks up from her plate of steak, sighing in exasperation at the stubborn set to her daughter's jaw. She always hated that Gilbert nature. Out of all the things she could have inherited from her father. "Elena, sweetheart, we've talked about this—"
"I haven't written a single page in weeks!" Elena snaps, hysterical as she paces back and forth and back and forth, feet scuffing against Grandpa Chester Gilbert's Persian Rug.
Hearing the commotion, John pokes his head from the kitchen door, hands full with a steaming hot casserole. He swerves out of Elena's way, placing a kiss upon Isobel's head who in turn smiles at him.
"Elena, not the carpet please." Her father chastises softly, peeling oven mitts from his hands.
"You hear that?" The familiar sound of her ringtone echoes through the house. "I've been ignoring his calls because I don't have anything to present!"
Setting down her warm mug of blood, Isobel fixes her daughter with a stern look. "I've told you this before and I'm saying it again. No ."
Elena meets her glare head-on. It's unnerving how she shared such a face with their ancestress. She even had her glare and the fire in Katherine's eyes down to a T.
It breaks her heart Elena would have to alter her appearance for the rest of her life because of a family curse.
The door to the Gilbert home swings open. Jeremy closes the door upon his entrance, eyebrows taut in a frown. He surrenders his car keys to the key holder with a tired roll of his shoulder.
"What's wrong?"
He looks at Elena's threatened posture shifting to Isobel's impassive look and the steam of John's casserole twirling in the air. His food-deprived stomach gurgles at the sight. The impeccable dish calls to him.
