Author's note: It is strongly recommended that you read part one of Lovesick Toxicity before starting part two. I tried writing a recap, but it ended up being longer than the chapter. If you're reading this as a standalone, you'll probably be able to follow along and figure things out. You can also message me if you have any questions.

At the end of Part One, Elena left Mystic Falls to go to her Uncle John, who can't enter the United States because he's a notorious con artist and ran into trouble with the government. When Elena was a kid, Uncle John, knowing that Elena would encounter trouble later on in life, taught her a few things. How to hot-wire cars; how to pick a lock; how to shoot a gun; how to pick-pocket…to name a few. Damon, who wanted nothing to do with his father's business, sacrificed his future to keep Elena safe. Elena is on the run from her biological family (Russo's of Chicago and Giovanni's from New York) and she's on the run from the man who's seeking revenge for the death of family members (Domenico Moretti) and happen to sell her out to the cartel (Marco Reyes). Part two starts four years after the events of part one.

Four Years Later

Cassandra Bellanova holds up a champagne glass, trying to keep her hands steady. Her face, so adept at being poked and prodded to retain its original shape had the unfortunate opposite effect. However, that being said, she was well-intentioned, despite the comments regarding the fit over her white satin dress the week prior. "To the future Mrs. Destin Bellanova, may you bring the family many babies and many years of happiness."

Weird, but I keep my impeccably white smile plastered on my face. "You are too kind, Mrs. Bellanova," I giggle lightly, taking a sip only when she does. I hand the champagne flute to a server. "I can't drink too much before the wedding."

One of Destin's sisters' boos, which makes me laugh. His sisters and I always got along well. Claudette and Fleur both have with curly auburn hair, are about six inches taller than me, and have been modeling in Paris and Milan since they were fourteen. Both love pink wine and 90's romantic comedies and neither mind telling off their mom. "Ma!" Fleur yells from behind a changing divider. "Stop talking babies, you'll make Phoebe run for the hills before she says 'I do'"

Fleur finishes changing and pops out from behind the barrier in a pale yellow strapless, floor-length satin bridesmaid dress that I did not pick out, though being the model she is, even in the tacky dress, Fleur looks gorgeous.

"Call her mom, Phoebe, not Mrs. Bellanova," Fleur admonishes. "You're family, or you will be in a matter of hours."

I stand in my white silk robe with the word, "Bride" stitched on the back. "I think it's time to change."

Claudette squeals. I strip out of my robe and do my best to put on as much of the dress as I can without help. When I step out, Claudette and Fleur help with the hundred buttons on the back.

"Oh," Cassandra gasps. "You are perfect."

"She's not a doll, Ma," Fleur chastises from behind my back. "These buttons are a bitch."

"Fleur, language!" Her mother shouts.

I can feel Fleur roll her eyes. Claudette stands back and looks at the dress. She squints, her face telling me everything I need to know. I look like I'm marrying someone with mutton chops in exchange for eight cows.

"It's definitely church appropriate," she says, searching for something positive to say.

"Did you go back in time to the eighties to find this dress, Ma?" Fleur asks. "Is Phoebe marrying John Cusack instead of our brother?"

"I wouldn't say no to John," I joke. "I like this dress," I lie, smoothing my hands over the bodice.

"Puffed sleeves, pearl buttons, white satin, and literally no skin showing," Claudette observes. "My brother got the virginal bride he always wanted."

"Dad demanded, you mean," Fleur corrects.

"Fleur!" Cassandra admonishes.

I stand in front of a floor-length mirror. I play with the high neck, my ring glimmering in the mirror. Fifteen carats, diamond cut, with smaller diamonds lining the band and it matches the earrings he gave me as a wedding day gift. I open the red leather square case and put the diamond drop earrings on, and make sure my hair is slicked back in a bun, not a stray hair out of place. Cassandra stands behind me, tears in her eyes. "Are you upset your parents can't make it?"

I shake my head and grasp her hand. "You're my family now."

"Oh, dear," she says, clutching her heart. "I can't cry before the ceremony."

"Destin doesn't deserve Phoebe," Fleur remarks, walking over to the mirror. "He managed to convince a Sunday school teacher, who volunteers at the House of Hope in her spare time, to marry him. I'm still in shock."

I smile sweetly and shrug a shoulder. "I love him, it's that simple."

I take a sip of water and fan myself with my hand. "I need some fresh air before we leave for the chapel."

I pick up the skirt and slip on the Vans I wore here, not wanting to walk to the terrace in heals. "Do you want me to go with you?" Claudette asks. "You need someone to pick up the back of your skirt."

I turn around and see the bustle trailing on the floor. She's right, I do need her. I nod, "That would be lovely. Thank you, Claudette."

We walk out of the lavish Presidential suite with Claudette holding up the back of my dress. "You know, I still can't believe you're marrying my brother. You have met him right?"

"A time or two, yes," I joke.

"Well, since meeting you, he stopped spending his days smoking weed and whoring it up. Now he's actually contributing to the family empire he directly benefits from. Dad is so pleased, I'm surprised he didn't endorse the eloping Destin wanted."

"He wants a big wedding," I smile, turning toward her. "And so do I."

She shakes her head, disbelievingly. "You are an angel."

We pass Destin's connecting suite on our way to the rooftop garden, where we both stop after hearing loud moaning and banging. I hesitate but Claudette grabs my wrist, just above the diamond-encrusted, white gold Rolex Destin got me as a one-month anniversary gift. It doesn't really go with the wedding dress, and Fleur asked me to take it off for the wedding, but I like wearing it. The pointed sleeve of the dress covers it up nicely. "Don't," Claudette warns. "It's probably one of the groomsmen."

"Oh, Destin!" We hear someone scream.

"Fuck!" He yells back.

I pound on the door, then realizing our keys are the same I turn toward Claudette who wears a stressed look. "Phoebe," she says. "It's bad luck to see the groom before the wedding."

"Give me the key," I demand through gritted teeth.

She shakes her head, just as several expletives escape whoever is in that room with my fiancé. "You're so good for him," she argues. "Once you have kids, he'll stop. I know it."

"How long has this been going on?"

She gives me an innocent shrug. "That night you and Fleur came over when he was held up at the office, he was with someone and you knew it, huh?"

Looking pained, she hands me the key. "Please forgive him. We need you."

I put the key in and open the door. Destin's ass flexing as he pounds into the wedding coordinator is the first thing I see. "Destin?"

The bastard doesn't even turn. He finishes inside the girl who helped me pick out a wedding cake before seeing me at the door. "How could you?" I scream, tears building up behind my eyes. Destin scrambles off Sandy, who clutches the sheet to her chest. Claudette turns and curses, not wanting to see her brother's Johnson hanging out for all to see. He swiftly grabs his tuxedo slacks and puts them on. "Baby, this isn't what it looks like."

I stride over and slap him across the face, hard. "Really? Cause it smells like sex, it sounded like sex, and it certainly looks like sex! You fudging cheater!"

He winces. "Baby, that hurt!"

I push him and it feels really good. "On our wedding day, Destin? Really? You couldn't wait a few more hours?"

"What did you expect? You're a virgin. You said you wanted to wait until marriage. I have needs, baby. I told you that."

He did, after our third date when I told him I wanted to wait.

"When I said that I wanted to wait, that meant I expected you to wait too! Is it so much to ask that you remain faithful? Is this what our marriage would've looked like?"

The former college football player looks scared, brown tendrils fall over his eyes. "Would've? You're not going to marry me?"

I take him in, standing there with half his clothes on, thinking I'd still marry him after he's been screwing around behind my back. Do people really think they can just walk all over me? "No," I sob. I'm so inconsolable, Claudette has to wrap her arms around me and seat me on the couch.

"But everything is paid for. I have family that flew in from the states to see us married in the Loire Christ Cathedral," he pauses a stressed look on his face. "Baby, my dad is going to kill me."

"Maybe you should've thought of all of that before giving into temptation," I yell. I didn't see Sandy leave, but I'm glad she's gone. I can't look at her right now.

Destin runs over to me, falling to the ground. He's on his knees before me, clutching the skirt of my wedding dress. "I am so sorry, baby. I know what I did was wrong and it will never happen again. Once we're married…"

I shove him off me and get off the couch. "We're not getting married. You ended it the moment you stuck your…" I pause, shaking, tears streaming down my cheeks. "… thing in our wedding coordinator."

He grabs the hem of my dress, crying and I think their real tears. "You can't go. Please, Phoebe. My family loves you and I'll never find anyone like you again."

"I never want to see you or your family again," I say, kicking him away from me.

Spotting the honeymoon bag he was supposed to take to the limo near the door, I grab it and walk out, trying not to glance at my engagement ring. When I get to the lobby of the hotel, the valet hails a taxi and in my wedding dress, I ask the driver to take me to Waterloo station.

I get strange looks at Waterloo station with my wedding dress, but I don't care. I purchase a ticket to Paris on the Eurostar in cash and while waiting for it to depart, peruse a magazine stand. Looking at my watch, I realize I don't have a lot of time, so I just buy a bunch of magazines to entertain me on the long ride and a coke before making my way to the platform.

On the train, ignoring the stares, I walk until I find the right private compartment and open the door. "Fucking took you long enough," Sandy mutters the moment the door slides shut behind me. Jumping off the chair, she gives me a hug. "You're acting is genius, you should go pro."

"I was so worried that if I looked at you, I'd blow my cover," I laugh. "Please tell me you're able to cut me out of this dress. I probably have a rash from all the polyester."

"I still can't believe the Cassandra Bellanova didn't realize Valentino label you sewed in was a fake."

"Tell rich people something is vintage and they'll believe anything," I mutter.

Sandy takes scissors and cuts the bodice and I can finally breathe again. Standing in underwear, I put on the jeans and tee I packed in the honeymoon bag and toss the dress in the trash bin. "Did you bag the gifts?"

She nods and points to the overhead compartment. "As much as I could carry."

"You used them to tip the right people, right?"

"Yup, the items I couldn't carry were taken by everyone else. Jared's already put the three-thousand-pound espresso maker on Ebay."

"He earned it as your assistant."

"You gonna tell me your real name? We screwed over one of the wealthiest families in Britain. I feel like I should know the girl that took on this whale of a job," she asks.

"First of all, they're from Nebraska, not Britain. Brits are skeptical of Americans and New Money. Second, you know the rules of a job. I highly doubt your name is Sandy Summers."

"No," she laughs. "But it has a nice ring to it, right?"

Sandy's petite, curvy frame was perfect for the job. Being a college football player, I knew Destin couldn't resist the body of a cheerleader. "They paid you in cash today, right?"

She opens up her purse and takes out a thick envelope, waving it around. I smirk and plop on the couch next to her. Taking out my computer, I load the spreadsheet and analyze it while Sandy pops open a bottle of champagne she stole from the bar of the reception that never happened. Because Sandy handled the wedding, she dealt with payments and deposits. A cheap wedding dress, fake flowers, and a chef from outside Paris, that happened to moonlight as a stripper meant we pocketed most of the wedding cost. Anything we knew we couldn't get away with, we had the family pay for it directly. The deposit for the hotel and the ballroom was done through the Bellenova family accountant, who gave me some decent investment advice. Little does he know, I invested four months into his employer's kid.

After looking through everything, I take the offered plastic cup of champagne and lift it up in the air. Sandy lifts her cup in the air too. "To the virginal Phoebe Moreau, the brains behind the longest job I've ever had to pull."

I take a drink and chuckle. "I forgot," I say, reaching into my honeymoon bag, I pull out the tennis bracelet Destin gave me for my fake birthday. "I owe you for that time in the pub after the match."

She takes it and clasps it to her wrist. "You mean when I kept Destin from finding out you were fucking that hot rugby player in the bathroom?"

"Yup," I draw out.

"I still can't believe he thought you were a virgin."

"His dad wanted Destin to marry a pure virgin, otherwise he never would've approved of me. Plus, I knew Destin would up the wedding if he knew he couldn't get in my pants so quickly. Just by saying I'm waiting until marriage, the timeline of our engagement went from a year to one month."

"Girl does her research."

"For a job this big, I had too."

"Okay, let's do this."

During the train ride, Sandy and I split everything 70-30, which means I keep the multi-million dollar ring and watch and she keeps most of the cash and all of the gifts, considering I don't have the ability to sell everything.

Once everything is settled, Sandy gets off at a station in Northern France, while I ride through. I relax in the car and read through magazines I bought earlier. Suddenly, the cover of one of the magazines catches my eye.

It couldn't be.

It is.

I've been so wrapped up in this job, I haven't been paying attention to American news. It's a picture of Damon Salvatore, wearing all black, carrying an umbrella to protect him from the Virginia downpour. I recognize Mal and Santi, standing close to him. The headline reads, Multi-Billion Dollar Real Estate Mogul Giuseppe Salvatore, Dead. The article details the unknown causes of his death, but mainly discusses his son, Damon Salvatore, taking over his father's business. "Preferring experience over education, Damon Salvatore has been working for his father's company, Salvatore Investments, since he graduated high school. One of Damon Salvatore's greatest contributions to his father's company was his purchase of the Port of Mystic Falls, which introduced Salvatore Investments company to the import/export business."

Damon never wanted to work for his dad, but I'm sad for Giuseppe. He loved my biological mother and protected me when I was a kid. I may not have forgiven him for abandoning me in my hour of need as a teen, but I was always appreciative of what he did for Isabella. I'm sad that he's gone and that Damon, like me, is an orphan. I may hate Damon, but it doesn't mean I'm unable to differentiate between the Damon I knew in elementary school from the Damon I knew in high school. When Grayson and Miranda argued, Damon was there for me. I did care for him for a time, I'll acknowledge that. Even Uncle John loves Damon, though after I filled him in on events that occurred before I left the states, I wouldn't be surprised if Uncle John has a hit out on Damon.

Reading the article is like a punch in the gut. I haven't looked at a picture of Damon and have refrained from googling him since I left Mystic Falls four years ago. From the Miami International Airport, I flew to meet Uncle John in Seoul and helped him with an investment job.

Uncle John does not know how to turn off the charm. He's always entertaining and always thinking twelve steps ahead of his opponent. I traveled with him until he was arrested and put in a Thai prison. He considered my ability to get him out of said prison as a sign that I'm ready to go out on my own. I pointed out that being seen together also puts a target on our back. He agreed. Last I heard, Uncle John is in Russia. He calls me from a secure line every now and then, but the last time I heard from him was six months ago and I'm starting to worry.

I haven't touched the trust money, currently building interest in a Swiss bank account. I have no desire to and because I'm doing fine running jobs, I doubt I'll ever need to access it. I toss the magazine with Damon on the cover in the bin and make my way out of the train and into the station. Phoebe's personal belongings are in London, but I no longer need them. The passport and ID, I kept. My phone and purse and pictures of fake family members are at the hotel, with Destin's family.

I stand still and listen. Between the noise of the station and chatter of travelers, I hear something. Someone's following me.

Uncle John told me to trust my gut. I've gotten better at that throughout the years.

A man in a trench coat and plaid tie. His eyes have been on me since I left the train. It's one of Marco's men. I recognize him from a pub in London and a football game in Birmingham. I pull my real phone out of my back pocket and casually snap a photo, pretending I'm taking a selfie. I was planning on staying at my apartment in Paris, but plans have officially changed. I walk down to the end of the train, losing myself in the crowd before getting back on. From the train, I purchase another private compartment and slide in. Beneath my honeymoon bag, I have a separate secret compartment with my passports, cash, a few guns, and phones. I take out a gun, load a magazine into the gun, and a silencer. Uncle John did love taking me to the range and I got good, very good.

I sit and wait. Marco has been following me since I got to Seoul. The man isn't stupid. No matter how many times Uncle and I tried to lose his men, he always found me. The longest stretch of not seeing his employees was six months. He wasn't kidding when he said his stretch was far. Unfortunately for him, I do manage to lose them long enough to get away. His men are merely there to remind me that I'm being watched.

I take out my computer and add the photo of this guy to my list. He's the same one that spotted me in Zürich, so I line up his photo next to the other one I took. How do I know he works for Reyes? I didn't notice it when I was seventeen, but I picked up on it after meeting enough of his men. They all have a tattoo of a curved R on their right ring finger. Reyes doesn't because it's Reyes and he doesn't do anything he doesn't want to. Also, he's the head of the cartel so I doubt he needs any signifying mark on his body.

The irony of everything is that I'm technically dead. No, not Viviana Elena Giovani, she's already dead, but Elena Gilbert. It happened shortly after I left Mystic Falls and the death was so much like how I died the first time. Car crash. The car blew up any remains. I was somehow found to be photographed behind the wheel.

The accident did a couple of things. It got the Russo and Giovanni family off my back and it also gave me anonymity. Reyes didn't get the memo, or he didn't believe it. As long as I don't enter the US, my picture won't be flagged. Considering there's a whole world to explore, I'm not stressed about it. The only time I've missed Mystic Falls is thirty minutes ago when I looked at a picture of him standing by his father's grave alone. Other people were there, but I know that look. His defensive stance said more than what a picture could capture. He's flipped the switch. The Damon I thought I knew is officially gone.