Bite Me!
Copyright© 2026 by Megumi Kashuahara
Chapter 3: Seoul
The problem with arriving in Seoul at 6 AM was that paparazzi apparently didn’t sleep.
Luna spotted them through the car window the moment they pulled up to the private terminal—a cluster of photographers with telephoto lenses that could probably see into her soul.
“How did they even know which flight?” She slumped lower in her seat, fumbling for sunglasses.
“Your label likely informed them.” Lucian peered out with the fascination of someone who’d never seen modern Seoul. “Good Lord, is that building shaped like a spaceship?”
“That’s Dongdaemun Design Plaza. And stop looking so obviously touristy.”
“I am a tourist. I’ve been asleep for 50 years.”
“Well, hide it better. You’re supposed to be a sophisticated French businessman who travels all the time.”
The car stopped. Through the tinted windows, Luna could see the photographers mobilizing, cameras already firing.
“Ready for battle, moon babe?” Lucian’s hand found hers, squeezed once.
She wanted to shake him off. Instead, she took a breath. “If you embarrass me, I’m leaving you at the hotel.”
“If I embarrass you, you’ll have to explain where your boyfriend went.”
“You’re not my—”
But the driver was already opening her door, and the noise hit like a wall. Camera shutters. Shouted questions in Korean. “Luna! Luna, who is he?” “Is this your boyfriend?” “How long have you been dating?” “What does your label think?”
Luna stepped out with practiced grace, her sunglasses already in place, her face arranged in the pleasant-neutral expression she’d perfected over years. Lucian emerged behind her, and she felt rather than saw the attention shift.
He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread. The morning light caught his sandy blonde hair, his sharp jawline, the effortless way he moved. When he reached for her bags—both his small one and her enormous suitcase—the cameras went absolutely insane.
“I can carry my own bag,” she hissed in English.
“I’m aware.” He hefted them easily, one in each hand. “But I’m playing the devoted boyfriend, remember? Now smile and let me be chivalrous.”
She wanted to kick him. Instead, she smiled.
They made it to the waiting car with Lucian’s hand hovering at the small of her back—not quite touching, but close enough the cameras would think they were. The second the door closed behind them, she shoved his hand away.
“Devoted boyfriend,” he said cheerfully. “That’s me.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
Seoul passed by the windows in a blur of neon and glass. Lucian pressed his face to the window like a child, taking in skyscrapers that hadn’t existed in 1975, digital billboards that covered entire buildings, and—
“Is that your face?” He pointed to a massive advertisement featuring Luna’s perfectly airbrushed image promoting some skincare brand.
“Don’t look at it.”
“It’s rather difficult not to. You’re 40 feet tall.”
“It’s called advertising.”
“It’s called unsettling.” But he studied the image with that too-intense focus. “They’ve smoothed away all your character. You look like a wax figure.”
“That’s the point. Perfection sells.”
“Pity. I prefer the version that threatens me with axes.”
Luna refused to acknowledge the small flutter in her chest. “Just wait until you see the hotel. Try not to compel anyone.”
“I make no promises.”
The hotel suite was exactly as ridiculous as Luna had feared—and exactly as necessary. Penthouse level. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Han River. A bedroom with a bed roughly the size of her entire French château. And most importantly, private elevator access and security that would keep the paparazzi at bay.
Lucian walked straight to the windows, taking in the view with an expression Luna couldn’t quite read.
“The last time I was in Asia was 1890,” he said quietly. “China. Everything was different then. Older. Now...” He gestured at the gleaming cityscape. “It’s like stepping into the future.”
“You are stepping into the future. 135 years of it.” Luna dropped her bags, already exhausted. “Bedroom’s mine. You can have the living area.”
“How generous.”
“You don’t sleep anyway, you said.”
“True enough.” He turned from the window, surveying the suite. “Though I may need to acquire some soil from my homeland for proper rest.”
“You sleep in dirt?”
“I sleep in a coffin filled with French soil. There’s a difference.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“That’s traditional.” He opened his small bag—inside was exactly 1 change of clothes and what appeared to be a very old book. “Besides, you’re one to talk. I counted 17 bottles in your skincare bag.”
“That’s a 10-step routine, not a dirt nap.”
“Tomato, tomahto.”
A knock at the door interrupted their bickering. Room service—breakfast Luna hadn’t ordered but her label probably had. The server wheeled in a cart laden with traditional Korean breakfast, plus Western options, plus what looked like enough food for 6 people.
Lucian tipped him with what appeared to be a very old French franc note.
The server stared at it, confused.
“That’s quite valuable,” Lucian said cheerfully. “Collector’s item. From 1887.”
“Lucy!” Luna grabbed modern bills from her purse, pressing them into the server’s hand with an apologetic smile and rapid Korean explanation. The moment the door closed, she whirled on him. “You can’t tip people with antique money!”
“Why not? It’s worth more.”
“Because it’s WEIRD. You’re supposed to be a normal businessman!”
“I’m a 450-year-old vampire. Nothing about me is normal.”
“Well, fake it!” She grabbed her phone from her purse—a mistake. The screen lit up with notifications that made her stomach drop.
New Messages: 127
“Oh no.” She sank onto the sofa, scrolling with increasing horror.
Lucian moved behind her, reading over her shoulder. “That’s quite a lot of attention.”
“That’s quite a lot of speculation.” Luna’s fingers flew across the screen. Articles. Social media posts. Fan forums. All dissecting every frame of last night’s red carpet appearance, every angle of this morning’s airport photos.
“Mystery Man Identified as French Art Dealer—Sources Say”
“Luna Dating Foreign Businessman: Label Confirms Relationship”
“Who Is Marquis Lucian Rochefort? Investigation Continues”
“Wait, they found your name?” Luna looked up, panicked.
“Apparently. Though the details are...” he leaned closer, reading, “ ... entirely fabricated. Art dealer? I dabbled in painting centuries ago, but hardly—”
“This is bad. This is really bad.” Luna kept scrolling. The comment sections were worse. Supportive international fans mixed with angry K-fans, racist commentary about interracial relationships, think pieces about cultural betrayal, speculation about her “real” identity, accusations of her “forgetting her roots”—
Lucian plucked the phone from her hands.
“Hey!”
“You’re spiraling.” He held it out of reach—easy, given his height and her exhaustion. “And you’re doing that thing with your lip again.”
“Give it back!”
“No.” He pocketed it. “You need breakfast, you need to breathe, and you need to stop reading what strangers think about your life.”
“Those strangers are my fans! My career! My—”
Her phone—in his pocket—began buzzing insistently. Lucian pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and his expression shifted.
“It’s someone called Mrs. Choi. She’s video calling.”
“Don’t answer—”
He answered.
Mrs. Choi’s face filled the screen, her expression somewhere between jubilation and fury. “Luna! Where have you—who is that?”
Lucian turned the phone so both of them were visible. “Good morning, Mrs. Choi. I’m Lucy. We met briefly at the event.”
“Sir Rochefort.” Mrs. Choi’s eyes narrowed. “We need to talk. All of us.”
Luna grabbed the phone, propping it against a decorative vase so they could both be in frame. “Mrs. Choi, I can explain—”
“Explain? Luna-ssi, do you have any idea what’s happening right now?” But Mrs. Choi wasn’t angry. She was excited. “This is the most attention you’ve gotten in 6 months! Your name is trending in 12 countries. The event photos have been shared millions of times. Brands are calling about couple endorsements!”
“Couple endorsements?” Luna’s voice went up an octave.
“The narrative writes itself: Korea’s sweetheart finds love with sophisticated foreigner. It’s Romeo and Juliet! It’s—”
“It’s fake!” Luna burst out. “Mrs. Choi, he’s not my boyfriend. He’s a ... a friend who agreed to escort me to 1 event.”
Mrs. Choi’s smile didn’t waver. “Then make him your boyfriend.”
“What?”
“Fake it. We need to control this narrative before the media spins something worse.” Mrs. Choi pulled up her tablet, tapping rapidly. “I’ve already made reservations for tonight—Mingles, that new fusion restaurant. Very romantic, very high-profile. The press will be notified of your location. You’ll have dinner, hold hands, look happy. Thursday we’ll arrange a shopping date in Gangnam. Maybe a walk along the Han River at sunset—”
“No.” Luna stood, pacing. “No, no, no. Mrs. Choi, this is insane—”
“This is business. Luna, your album drops in 2 weeks. This attention is gold. We’d pay millions for this kind of publicity.”
“But it’s not real!”
“Neither is your stage name, your age, or half the things we tell the press.” Mrs. Choi’s voice turned harder. “This is the entertainment industry, Luna. You know how this works.”
Lucian had been silent through the exchange, watching Luna with that unreadable expression. Now he leaned forward, speaking directly to the screen.
“Mrs. Choi, might I have a word?”
“You’re the boyfriend?”
“I’m the friend who’s about to become the boyfriend, apparently.” His smile was charming, but Luna could see the calculation behind it. “I’m happy to help Luna with this ... arrangement. But I’ll need certain accommodations. Privacy, for one. Complete discretion regarding my personal affairs. And—” he glanced at Luna, “—assurance that Luna’s wellbeing comes before publicity.”
Mrs. Choi’s expression softened marginally. “You care about her.”
“She kicked me les roustons within 5 minutes of meeting me. I’m either madly devoted or masochistic. Possibly both.”
Despite everything, Luna almost laughed.
“Fine.” Mrs. Choi nodded. “Dinner tonight at 8. Dress formally. Show affection but keep it tasteful. And Luna—” her expression turned serious, “—I know this isn’t what you wanted. But trust me. This could save your career.”
The call ended.
Luna stared at the blank screen, feeling like she’d been hit by a truck. Then she turned to Lucian, who was still sitting on the sofa looking perfectly composed.
“Did you just agree to be my fake boyfriend?”
“I agreed to help you maintain your career while keeping your privacy intact.” He stood, moving toward her. “There’s a difference.”
“This is insane!”
“This is your world, moon babe. I’m just visiting.”
“Don’t call me—” Luna grabbed a throw pillow from the sofa and hurled it at him. He caught it one-handed. “This is your fault! If you hadn’t been so charming at the event—”
“Me? You’re the one who made me attend!”
“You offered!”
“Because you clearly needed help!”
“I didn’t need THIS kind of help!”
They were standing close now, both breathing hard—well, she was breathing hard; he was dead and didn’t need to breathe. His eyes caught the light from the windows, reflecting it back like a predator’s.
“One week,” he said quietly. “Play pretend for one week. Let your label have their publicity. Then we return to France, you hole up in my château, and we go back to our mutually antagonistic cohabitation.”
“One week.”
“One week.”
“And you keep your fangs to yourself.”
“I make no promises.” But his smile was softer now. “Besides, you’re wearing me down, remember? Soon you’ll be begging me to bite you.”
“I will NEVER—”
“We’ll see.”
Luna grabbed another pillow. He was gone before it hit where his head had been, his laughter echoing from somewhere in the suite.
She slumped back onto the sofa, pillow still in hand, and stared at the breakfast spread cooling on the cart.
Fake boyfriend. Public dates. Playing lovers for the cameras.
With a 450-year-old vampire who made her want to commit violence and other things she refused to examine.
“I should have stayed in Seoul,” she muttered.
But even as she said it, she felt more alive than she had in months.
Six hours until dinner, and Luna was having a crisis.
Not about the restaurant. Not about the paparazzi. Not even about the fact that her entire career now hinged on convincing Korea she was madly in love with a 450-year-old French vampire.
No, she was having a crisis about what to wear.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, staring at the 3 dresses laid out on the bed. “I’ve performed for 70,000 people. I’ve done award shows. I’ve walked red carpets in couture that cost more than cars.”
“And yet you’re paralyzed by dinner attire,” Lucian observed from the doorway.
Luna spun around. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to watch you hold up the black dress 4 times.” He entered uninvited, studying her options with the eye of someone who’d seen fashion evolve over centuries. “The red one.”
“The red is too obvious.”
“The black is too safe. The blue washes you out.” He picked up the red dress—a silk number that hugged in all the right places and had cost 3 months’ salary back when she was a trainee. “Wear this. Make them stare.”
“I don’t want them to stare.”
“Liar.” He draped the dress over her arm, his fingers brushing hers. “You’ve spent your entire career making people stare. Tonight’s no different. Except this time, I’ll be the one staring back.”
Heat crept up her neck. “You’re insufferable.”
“So you keep saying.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “For what it’s worth, moon babe, you could wear a bean bag and still be the most beautiful woman in Seoul.”
He was gone before she could throw something.
Luna looked down at the red dress, felt the silk slide between her fingers, and tried to ignore the flutter in her chest.
This was pretend. An act. A business arrangement.
So why did choosing a dress for him feel so terrifyingly real?
Two hours later, Luna emerged from the bathroom in full armor.
Hair swept up in an elegant twist. Makeup dramatic but precise—smoky eyes, red lips to match the dress. The silk draped across her body like liquid fire, the slit riding high enough to be daring without being scandalous.
She looked like Luna. Perfect, untouchable Luna.
Lucian stood by the windows in a black suit that probably cost more than her dress, despite looking like it had been tailored in 1920. His hair was styled back, his usual Versailles aesthetic modernized just enough to pass for contemporary. When he turned and saw her, he went completely still.
“Well?” Luna’s voice came out steadier than she felt. “Will I do?”
“You’ll do.” His voice was rough. “Christ, you’ll more than do.”
Something in his tone made her brave. “Is that a compliment, Lucy?”
“It’s a warning.” He crossed to her in 3 strides, stopping close enough that she had to tilt her head back to meet his eyes. “Every man in that restaurant is going to want you. And I’m going to have to sit there pretending I have any right to be the one across from you.”
“You don’t,” she whispered.
“I know.” His hand lifted, hovering near her face, not quite touching. “But for tonight, we’ll both pretend I do.”
The moment stretched between them, fragile and electric. Then his phone buzzed—the car service, waiting.
The spell broke.
“Time to perform,” Luna said, stepping back, rebuilding her walls.
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