𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘 ⚜️ ELIJAH MIKAELSON

[ The Confrontation ]

CHAPTER 43
[ New Orleans, 2013 ]

Georgia stepped through the door, closing it softly behind her. The moment she was out of Elijah's sight, her breath left her in a slow, unsteady exhale. The weight in her chest remained, heavy and suffocating, pressing against her ribs like a cage she had willingly stepped into.

She had done it. She had left him there, dying and begging for mercy.

And yet, as she walked down the empty corridor, as her heels clicked against the cold stone floor, she didn't feel triumphant. There was no sense of satisfaction, no cathartic release, no rush of justice served.

Just silence. Just emptiness.

Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers curling into her palms as if she could physically hold herself together. She had expected this moment to feel different. She had thought that when she finally stood over him, when she delivered her carefully calculated revenge, she would feel powerful.

Instead, she felt like she was unraveling.

Her skin still burned where he had touched her, his fingers gripping her waist, his breath against her lips, the desperation in the way he had held onto her. She could still taste him, still hear the way his breath had hitched when she bit his lip, still see the exact moment realization dawned in his eyes—the betrayal, the disbelief, the pain.

And worse, she could still see the regret. That was what haunted her most. Not the anger, not the shock, but the regret, because he had meant it.

Every word.

He had thought of her when he tore Marcel's heart from his chest. He had believed he was saving her. Protecting her. That was the most twisted part of it all—Elijah Mikaelson had ruined her life in an attempt to spare her from the very pain he had inflicted.

And some part of her still wanted to believe that if things had gone differently, if fate had been kinder, they could have had more time. That there was a version of this where he hadn't done what he did, where they had found a way to love each other without it ending in ruin.

A version of herself that might have forgiven him.

But not this one.

This Georgia—the one who had lost her sister, who had lost Marcel, who had clawed her way back from the abyss of grief with nothing but vengeance to keep her standing—she could never forgive him. Her pace quickened, as if she could outrun the ache in her chest, as if she could leave behind the ghost of what they had been. She had always known that loving Elijah Mikaelson would destroy her. She just hadn't realized how much of herself she would have to bury in order to survive it.

The cheers were deafening, they tore her from her thoughts as they rang through the compound like a battle cry, a chorus of bloodlust and triumph as the crowd reveled in the fight before them. Georgia had expected it—had known this would happen—but still, something about it made her skin crawl.

She could hear the sickening crunch of bone, the heavy thud of bodies colliding, the growls of something ancient, something primal. Marcel had Klaus on the defensive, his strikes brutal, relentless. Kol wasn't faring any better—already swaying, already faltering as venom spread through him like wildfire.

And still, the crowd cheered. Kol stumbled, blood slick at his throat from the bite, barely able to hold himself upright. Klaus lunged, striking hard, but Marcel dodged with ease, his movements too fast, too precise. He was winning and he knew it. Marcel caught Klaus by the throat, shoving him back with enough force to crack the stone beneath their feet.

Georgia moved.

With nothing but a flick of her wrist, a pulse of raw, unseen energy erupted from her, slamming into the space between them like a violent force of nature. Marcel was thrown back, his grip ripped from Klaus as he staggered, momentarily unbalanced. Klaus barely caught himself, his chest heaving, his golden eyes flashing with something unreadable.