WAR OF HEARTS ↠ KOL MIKAELSON [1]

2:07

| THE STAND:
CHAPTER SEVEN |
(a/n: Rhea's dress above)

Rhea had just secured the second earring when a knock echoed against the bathroom door.

"Rhea," came Tristan's voice, his tone caught between concern and exasperation, "you've been getting ready for two hours. I don't mean to—"

The door opened before he could finish.

She stood framed in the golden light of the vanity mirror, wrapped in elegance and wrath. The silk of her gown clung like smoke to fire, dark and gleaming, her expression set like carved marble. Tristan had always found her magnetic—dangerously so—but tonight she looked divine. Untouchable. Almost cruel in her beauty.

"I'm ready," she said flatly, sliding her old clothes into a bag with clinical precision. Her eyes didn't meet his. Her voice didn't fool him.

She wasn't ready. Not to go down there. Not to play this game. Not to stand beside him as if what bound them wasn't blood and betrayal.

But he didn't argue.

Very few men dared argue with Rhea Monroe, and after the spectacle she made earlier—forcing his hand, humiliating him in front of the council—Tristan wasn't keen to provoke her further.

They descended the stairs in silence. Below them, the hall was alive with glimmering figures and laughter too polished to be real. Servants swept through the crowd with champagne flutes, and as they passed, one tapped a crystal glass to signal the room's attention.

Tristan moved to take Rhea's hand, but she shifted away like his touch might sear her.

"I'm here for one reason, Tristan. Don't make it complicated."

A flicker of irritation crossed his face, but he quickly mastered it, replacing it with his well-worn mask of charm. As they stepped into view, the atmosphere shifted—conversations slowed, eyes turned. The leader of the Strix had arrived.

"Distinguished friends," Tristan began, voice warm and commanding, "welcome. It's rare we're able to gather like this—one night, one room, among true equals. And tonight, I have the pleasure of welcoming someone quite special... Marcel Gerard."

Polite applause followed as Marcel stepped forward, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. He hadn't seen Rhea yet. She was glad. That would only complicate things further.

"Thank you," Marcel said, voice steady. "I'm honored. Thank you."

Tristan's smile sharpened. "Of course, before we tell Mr. Gerard all our secrets, there's one small matter to settle. A test of sorts. A demonstration of value."

Marcel's brow lifted in confusion. "That's funny. I seem to recall you knocking on my door."

A chuckle rippled through the crowd. Tristan didn't flinch. If anything, his amusement deepened.

"You'll find, Mr. Gerard, that something quite dear to you has gone missing over the course of the evening..." He gestured subtly. "Your daylight ring."

Marcel's gaze dropped instinctively to his bare hand. His jaw tightened.

"The test is simple," Tristan continued. "Identify the thief. Reclaim what's yours. Though, I'd wager the prize won't be easily surrendered. We are, despite appearances, a violent sort. Win, and you join us. Fail..." His smile cut sharper. "You greet the dawn."

Rhea studied Marcel's face as the crowd murmured around them. She saw the brief flash of worry—but also the steely resolve beneath it. He wouldn't beg. Wouldn't break. She admired him for that.