WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

THE ONE WHERE THEY WENT TO THE MIKAELSON BALL

The Mikaelson Ball — Mystic Falls

The chandeliers overhead shimmered like constellations torn from the heavens, suspended mid-fall above a ballroom soaked in glamour and ancient power. Crystal decanters gleamed like polished diamonds on silver trays, the blood-red wine inside nearly indistinguishable from something far more illicit. A delicate symphony of violins floated across the air—sweet, slow, and sharp enough to slice skin if one listened too closely.

The Mikaelsons never did anything without spectacle.

And tonight, spectacle bled from the walls.

The grand staircase that crowned the ballroom was draped in roses the color of spilt blood, their petals freshly enchanted to never wilt. Magic pulsed faintly beneath the surface of the room—subtle glamour spells that brightened skin tones, sharpened jawlines, silenced mortal instincts. The house practically breathed, bewitched to seduce and subdue in equal measure.

Because when you invited half a town of humans into the lair of predators, appearances were everything—and a single misstep could turn an elegant waltz into a bloodbath.

But Rhea Monroe was no human.

She was flame incarnate.

And as she descended the staircase, all eyes were drawn to her like moths to fire.

Her gown—deep emerald green—moved like liquid shadow with every step, clinging to her frame like a whispered sin. The silk shimmered under the candlelight, the color catching the gold with every motion. Her curves were sculpted and unapologetic, her long waves pinned delicately into loose curls that spilled over one shoulder in a fashion both regal and temptress-like. Around her neck, resting just above her collarbone, gleamed a single black opal stone. A dark gem with a hidden fire.

A gift from Kol.

Delivered that afternoon in a velvet box with a handwritten note.

Wear it and try not to start a war.

Rhea had read it with a smirk.

She planned, very deliberately, to ignore that particular request.

At the bottom of the stairs, the air thickened with magic and intrigue—and Kol was waiting.

He was dressed in charcoal gray, his suit cut to perfection, the fabric catching just enough sheen to render him otherworldly. He was the picture of elegance and menace—a predator disguised as nobility, all charm and teeth, leaning against the banister like he hadn't spent the last ninety years sealed in a box.

But Rhea knew him better than anyone. She saw it in the slight tension in his shoulders, in the flicker behind his eyes.

He looked up—and saw her.

And just like that, the tension vanished.

Replaced by the most unholy grin she'd ever seen.

"You look edible."

The words slid from his mouth like a sin too sweet to resist.

Rhea raised a brow as she reached the last step, smile slow and teasing. "Don't get ideas," she replied, voice sugar-laced with poison, "Not in front of the appetizers."

Kol laughed, stepping forward. His hand extended with old-world grace, but his eyes—those impossible eyes—were already devouring her.

"Too late for that, love."

He brought her hand to his lips, brushing his mouth over her knuckles. Not a kiss. A claim.

And the moment they touched—every head in the room turned, even if they didn't know why.