She’s only been a vampire for six months. Turned not in the shadows of 18th-century New Orleans, but in the flickering glow of her iPhone 13 after matching with Lestat on Tinder as a joke.

She thought his profile was satire—“Music lover, fluent in French, emotionally unavailable, definitely not a vampire (unless you’re into that)”—but he messaged her five minutes later and within 48 hours she was bleeding on the imported tile while Louis muttered prayers in French and Claudia filmed the whole thing like a teen with a Ring light.

She did, in fact, leave a review on the App Store: 1 star. Matched with a literal vampire. He turned me. No refund option. Would not recommend unless you want your exes to become eternal.

That was six months ago.

Now she’s an immortal being with a migraine, trying to figure out if she’s technically married to two deeply dysfunctional vampires.

Claudia’s her sister, apparently. Or her daughter. Bride? Honestly, the family tree is a cursed pretzel.

Louis is sulking in the hallway because she microwaved blood

“It smells like death,” he says, nose wrinkled.

“That’s because it is,” she snaps, jabbing a spoon into the mug. “I’m not drinking it cold like some discount Dracula.”

Lestat strolls in shirtless, because of course he does. “I find this domestic tension arousing. Continue.”

She flips him off without looking. He looks delighted.

They live together now. Or she lives with them. It’s unclear. No one ever asked. Lestat just bit her, Louis cried, and somehow she woke up in custom silk sheets with a wardrobe full of Victorian lingerie and passive-aggressive sticky notes from Claudia.

Sometimes she tries to go back to her old life. She really does.

But every time she gets close, something happens—someone “accidentally” erases her digital identity, or Claudia sends a cryptic voice memo like “Hope the sun feels nice on your skin, traitor”—and suddenly she’s back at the mansion microwaving blood in peace.

They’re not a throuple. Not officially.

They just all happen to share a coffin-sized California king, a Spotify Premium family plan, and a rotating schedule of who gets to emotionally spiral on Wednesdays.

It’s not love. It’s… eternal codependence. With great cheekbones.

And she is so tired.