My Client's Former Best Friend | MEANIE/MINWON

Chapter Two.

There is nothing worse than an actor turned screenwriter. Mingyu scowled at the melting ice cubes in his empty glass. Correction: there is nothing worse than a party for a stupidly brilliant actor who turns out to be a stupidly brilliant director AND screenwriter.

Mingyu ordered a refill. It was an open bar, after all.

The Bonne burst with A-listers, B-listers, and some C-listers who hadn't been caught by the bouncers yet. They clumped together like teenagers at a school dance, too self-involved and cliquey to interact in other social spheres. In the corner lurked the directors, none of them on speaking terms with each other or their former actors. The suits-agents, publicists, and producers-networked the hell out of everyone. They popped from group to group, using casual acquaintances as currency for entry and leaving a cloud of business cards in their wake.

In the midst of it all, beside the vaguely ostentatious ice sculpture of himself and surrounded by a steady stream of jealous well-wishers, lounged the host and honored guest, Na Youngsuk. To live in LA, hell, to live in the world, and not recognize Na Youngsuk, was a social faux pas on par with going barefoot in a public restroom. There hadn't been an Academy Award-winning film in the past ten years that hadn't had Youngsuk's hand in it as actor or producer. Studios had been on his case for longer than that to get him to write and direct. The one that had finally succeeded was media conglomerate Xu Enterprises, and the patriarch himself, business mogul Xu Yiming, stood beside Don Youngsuk, accepting his congratulations with a triumphant smirk.

Xu Enterprises. Not strictly a production studio-that would be too simple for Xu Yiming. A dangerous business man, he had a hand in every type of business imaginable. It was even rumored the man owned the Internet. While that rumor had yet to be confirmed, it was common knowledge Xu Enterprises owned half the hotels in LA, including the one they were in. To have Xu Yiming attend in person meant that Na Youngsuk had achieved a level of stardom few could attain. Hell, Mingyu was related to the guy and that hadn't stopped Xu from firing him.

Mingyu threw back his whiskey and was about to order another when a flash of dark hair turned his head. He squinted, feeling the eighth drink in the back of his eyeballs. There, across the room, climbing the white staircase to the second-floor balcony, was the reason he was here.

Wen Junhui, multi-millionaire, Oscar winner, media sensation, and fashion icon whose Chinese love ballad CD had been the first foreign language album to hit number one on the American pop charts. He had the look of a romance hero: strong musculature while being lean, angular, and handsome. He was an enigma, a mystery, a shadowed Lothario, entrancing and utterly unattainable.

He also happened to be Mingyu's former best friend and, for the night, Mingyu's date. Or, rather, Mingyu was his date. All Mingyu knew was that, after not speaking to him for over two years, Junhui had sent him an invite to the party with a note saying, "This is a matter of life or death."

The writer in Mingyu, long dormant, had stirred at the challenge. He'd dusted off his tux, combed his hair, and shown up-only to discover Junhui was nowhere to be found. Now that he'd spotted the bastard, there was no way Mingyu was letting him get away.

He abandoned his glass on the bar, wobbling as he slid off his stool. He shoved his way through a crowd of B-listers, ignoring their protests, never taking his eyes off Junhui.

Junhui disappeared.

Mingyu blustered with open-mouthed indignation. He made a dash for the stairs, busting through a group of anorexic teen actresses like they were dry twigs. On the far side of the teenagers, he ran headlong into a pair of ultra-fake, permanently perky boobs.

"Kim Mingyu," said a shrill, surprised voice from behind the boobs.

He wilted.

His chase had been impeded by a tall, thin woman in a plunging mauve dress, her equally mauve lips scowling at the sight of him.