Chapter 7
SEVEN
KAI
The hotel conference room feels too small for the five of us—me, Luca, Michael, Min-ho, and Harry Vox perched at the head of the table like he's judging a talent show.
Tasha's pacing in the corner, tablet in hand, but this is Harry's show.
He called the emergency meeting first thing this morning, right after the overnight numbers came in.
My phone's been buzzing nonstop with notifications: clips from last night's show exploding on every platform.
#Kuca is trending globally. Fans dissect every frame like it's a crime scene.
I sit rigid in my chair, arms crossed, trying to ignore the way my mind keeps flashing back to that damn shower yesterday. Luca through the fogged glass—water trailing down his chest, over his tattoo dipping low on his hips. His cock stirring just a little when he caught me looking.
My pulse jumps before I can stop it, and I shove the image down, hard. Hate is easier.
Luca's across from me, slouched into the chair as if he doesn’t want to be awake this early—platinum hair still tousled from whatever he did last night, hazel eyes half-lidded.
He hasn't said a word since we sat down, but I feel his gaze flick to me every few seconds.
Probably deciding how to make this worse.
Harry clears his throat, leaning forward with that shark smile. "Last night was gold. Pure viral gold. Streams up 28% overnight. Your album is climbing the charts—jumped five spots on Billboard already. The fans are eating up the tension. But we're not stopping there."
Michael leans back, grinning. "Hell yeah. These two are hot together. Tiktok's on fire."
Min-ho nods, his expression thoughtful but engaged. "Yeah, the energy was insane. I saw some edits this morning; they're syncing the throat hold to remixes. It's pulling in new listeners, too. But what's the push, Harry? We're already trending."
Harry's eyes gleam. "Exactly. Trending isn't enough. We need sustained heat. Which means taking Kuca off-stage. Fake date. Show the world there might be something real brewing outside the spotlight."
I stiffen.
Luca does, too—his slouch straightens just a fraction.
"Fake date?" I echo, voice sharp. "We're already selling the lust on stage. Now you want us to pretend off stage, too?"
Harry nods like it's obvious. "Small things at first. Be seen together in public. Dinner at a hot spot—Luca's hand on your back as you walk out. Laughing through a restaurant window for the paps. Touches that look natural, intimate. Let the rumors build. Fans will go wild speculating if it's real."
Luca snorts, crossing his arms. "Yeah, because nothing says 'romance' like forcing two guys who can't stand each other to play grab-ass for cameras."
Harry's smile doesn't falter. "Hate each other?
That's the spark. The enemies-to-lovers fantasy sells. We can even work that angle if you prefer, stage some fights for the cameras, but you can’t stay away from each other.
.. And it's in your contracts—clause 14.
2: cooperate with promotional activities as directed by the label. This is promotion. Pure and simple."
Michael whistles low. "Damn. Fake dating? That's next-level crazy. But hey, if it boosts the charts, I'm in. Just don't make us third-wheel your 'dates.'"
Min-ho leans forward, his voice steady but with that dry edge he gets when he's weighing in.
He locks eyes with Harry first, then glances between me and Luca.
"Hold up. I get the strategy—fans love the drama.
But we're talking real-life fallout here.
Homophobic trolls are already in the comments.
If we amp this up off-stage, it could get messy for Kai and Luca.
You got a plan for that, Harry? Or is this just 'boost the numbers and deal later'? "
Harry waves a hand. "We've got PR on it. Statements ready if needed. But the upside? Massive. Tour sales spiking. Merch flying. Eclipse back on top."
I clench my jaw. The narrative would be easy to lean into—even if my brain's still stuck on Luca's naked body under that steam.
"This is bullshit. I can barely tolerate him on stage. Now you want me laughing at his stupid jokes through a window? Like we're actually...what? Falling for each other? We're already adding tour dates in Europe. This is insane. I don’t think I could be convincing even for the cameras off-stage."
Luca's eyes meet mine—they look darker, those green flecks nowhere to be seen.
He holds my gaze a second too long. "Feeling's mutual, Jung.
I'd rather eat glass than pretend to like you off-stage.
But hey, if Harry's twisting the contract knife, guess we're both screwed.
So fall in line like the perfect little bitch you are. "
I roll my eyes and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. He doesn’t deserve a response to that.
Fucker. I could say a lot worse about him than that.
Like he’s a perpetually late fuck boy—not that I’ve seen him with girls or guys that aren’t his terrible on-and-off girlfriend. If anyone’s a bitch, it’d be her.
Harry claps once, standing. "Good. Glad we're aligned. Tasha's got the first 'outing' scheduled—dinner tonight at a hot spot downtown. Paps tipped off. Keep it light. Touches. Smiles. Sell the 'might be.' Questions?"
Michael shrugs, grinning. "Nah. This'll be fun to watch."
Of course he feels that way, he’s not the one being forced to fake it.
Maybe if I were the joking one of the group, I wouldn’t be forced into this by a stupid clause in a contract that I didn’t even pay attention to when signing with the label.
Who would? Promotional activities don't exactly scream fake dating your bandmate, and Harry is probably pushing the bit a little far.
Min-ho shakes his head, but there's a small, reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Just don't let it blow up in our faces, guys. We're a band, not a soap opera. But if it helps the music...fine. I've got your backs either way."
Harry nods, satisfied. "That's the spirit. Meeting adjourned."
He sweeps out, Tasha following with a sympathetic glance back.
The room goes quiet. Michael stands first, clapping Luca on the shoulder. "Good luck, fake boyfriends."
Min-ho lingers a second, catching my eye. "You okay with this?"
I force a nod. "Have to be."
He squeezes my arm once—solid, reassuring—then heads out with Michael.
Luca and I are left alone. He pushes to his feet, hands in his pockets, that cocky mask slipping back on. "See you at dinner, sweetheart. Try not to look like you want to kill me."
I roll my eyes. "No promises."
He walks out without another word.
I stay seated, staring at the table, the shower image creeping back in uninvited. Water beading on his skin. That faint stir of interest when he saw me looking.
How am I supposed to fake date someone I can barely stand…when I can’t stop thinking about him naked?
The SUV’s back seat feels very similar to a trap the second the door closes behind us. Tinted windows, leather that feels butter soft beneath my hands, and Luca—too close, thigh brushing mine when the driver pulls away from the curb. The partition’s up. Privacy glass. No escape.
He’s in dark jeans and a fitted black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the feather tattoo on his lower arm on display, silver chain necklace glinting against his collarbone.
Hair still perfect from Crystal’s work earlier, that platinum blond catching the passing streetlights.
He smells like cedar and something sharper—cologne he probably slapped on last minute. I hate that I notice.
“Nice ride,” I mutter, staring straight ahead. “Cozy.”
Luca snorts, stretching one arm along the back of the seat so his fingers dangle near my shoulder. “Don’t get excited, Jung. I’m not planning to make out with you in the back of a car for the paps. Yet.”
I turn my head just enough to glare. “Hilarious. Keep your hands to yourself.”
He smirks, letting his fingers brush the back of my neck—light, easy, gone in a second. “Relax. Harry said small touches. Not full-body groping. Though you did stare pretty hard in the shower yesterday, so maybe you’d like that?.”
Heat floods my face. I snap my eyes forward again. “I walked in on you. You were naked. It’s called peripheral vision.”
“Peripheral vision doesn’t usually make someone’s cheeks go that red.” His voice drops, teasing but edged with something darker. “Or make them stand there long enough to get a good look.”
“Fuck off, Luca.”
He laughs—low, easy, the sound vibrating through the small space. “See? That’s the energy we need tonight. Snarky. Tense. Like we’re barely keeping it together. Fans eat that shit up.”
I clench my jaw. “This is ridiculous. We’re not actors. We’re singers. And you’re the worst possible partner for this.”
“Feeling’s mutual,” he shoots back, repeating the same words as earlier, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—something almost tired. “Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else, too. But hey, at least the food’s supposed to be good. Silver lining.”
The car slows as we approach the spot downtown—glass walls, string lights on a patio out front, the kind of place that screams “candid celebrity sighting.” Paps are already clustered outside the entrance, cameras ready.
Luca straightens, mask slipping into place. “Showtime. Try to pretend you might like me.”
“Big ask,” I mutter.
The door opens. Flashes hit like gunfire. Luca steps out first, all effortless charm—a wave to the crowd, followed by a quick grin. I follow, forcing my expression neutral. He falls in beside me, close enough that our arms brush as we walk toward the entrance.
Inside, the hostess leads us to a corner table by the window—perfect sightline for the street. We sit. Menus appear. The waiter vanishes.
Luca leans back, scanning the room. “So. What do we talk about on our first fake date? Favorite colors? Childhood trauma?”