The wind wrestled with my hair as I drove, wild and relentless, carrying with it the scent of pine and damp earth. The aroma of the nearby forest filled my lungs thick and grounding a reminder of how close I was to home. My senses, sharper than most, caught every detail: the hum of distant traffic, the rustle of unseen creatures, the faint metallic tang of rain in the air.
My spotless white Mini glided down the road toward New Orleans my birthplace, my beginning, and the one place I had avoided for far too long. Somewhere within its narrow streets and hidden corners lay the answers I'd been searching for.
The city greeted me like an old photograph unchanged, untarnished by time. The cracked sidewalks, the familiar smell of coffee and bourbon, the faint echo of music spilling from the Quarter everything was the same.

My new apartment stood just outside the heart of the city, a glass tower catching the glow of the streetlights. Modern. Cold. Exposed. I slammed my car door and crossed the lobby, where an elderly woman sat behind a desk, her eyes as sharp as her posture was frail. After collecting my keys, I rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor.

Apartment 165 waited at the end of the corridor, its glossy white door gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The silver numbers looked as though they were trapped beneath the surface fixed and unmoving. I turned the key, and with a soft click, I stepped inside.
The apartment smelled of new paint and polished marble. It was minimalist white walls, glass fixtures, untouched furniture. A blank canvas for a life I hadn't yet lived.

After unpacking the last of my things, I found myself restless. Sophie Devereaux worked nearby, and if anyone knew what had changed in New Orleans since I left, it would be her.
The bar was warm and crowded, filled with the low murmur of conversation and the clinking of glasses. Sophie stood behind the counter, laughing at something a sharply dressed man said. I slid into the seat beside him.

"Well, if it isn't Sophie Devereaux," I said, smiling.
The man turned, his eyes assessing. "Hayley? What are you doing here?"
Confusion flickered through me until realization hit he thought I was my sister.
"That's not Hayley, Elijah," Sophie said softly.
Elijah. The name struck something deep inside me a story I'd heard in whispers. Elijah Mikaelson. One of the Originals.
"I suppose Hayley never mentioned she had a twin," Sophie added, sensing his shock.
"I'm Holly," I said, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you."
"Elijah," he replied, offering a polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
I turned back to Sophie. "Do you know where I can find my little witch?"
Davina. My little witch.
Sophie hesitated. "Well..."
"Sophie," I warned. "Don't."
"You have to promise not to get mad," she said, her tone careful.
"Sophie Devereaux," I snapped, "just tell me."
"She's in the French Quarter," she blurted out.
My stomach dropped. "The French Quarter? As in the vampires' territory?"
"Yes," Sophie said quickly, "but Marcel isn't ruling anymore."
"That's worse. Who took over?"
"Klaus."
My pulse stilled. "Klaus... Mikaelson?"
She nodded.
I laughed once — sharp and humorless. "Perfect. Just perfect."
"What are you going to do?" Sophie asked, concern flickering in her eyes.
"What am I going to do?" I repeated quietly. "I don't know. What would you do if your mate promised to protect someone you love and then broke that promise?"
Sophie looked away, silent.
I rose from my seat. "Here's the thing about karma," I said, voice low. "It's like a rubber band stretch it too far, and it'll snap back hard."
I started to walk away when Sophie's voice stopped me.
"Holly, wait."
I turned, frustration simmering. "What now?"
"If you go," she said softly, "you'll see Hayley."

The words hung heavy between us. For a moment, I couldn't breathe. My sister. Here.
But why, of all places, would Hayley be living among vampires?